eM:I-elle, A Techno Fairy Tale. Part 1: There Was... (Chapter 3)

eM:I-elle, A Techno Fairy Tale.

Part 1: There Was...

Chapter 3

Written By Ivan Overmoyer

Illustrations by Ross Chirico

Copyright (c) 2014, All Rights Reserved

 

(Don't know what's going on?  Start from the beginning!)

Down past where red mosses grow,

O'er the cleary waters,

Lies an oasis where I go

To see the one I love.

           A simple melody, Cabel sang softly. His voice high and reedy, he thought, not suitable for song, but he could not stop himself, and so the music came timid from his mouth.

Sand lies on the grassy shores,

'Round oasis waters,

and there sits the one who pours

her heart to only me.

           This last line came quieter than the rest, and with a grimace. It had pronounced better in his thoughts. Another sheaf of insulage grass he pulled from the roof beams, fragile and damp and flecked white with mold and musky dust smell. Last of the rotted sheaves. He dropped it past the edge wall and listened for the plak of it landing on the mulch pile below. Allowed himself to stand, feet wide on thin beams, hands to back, craning face-up and gazed on the plates, six-sided, forming the ceiling so high above.

          Judging the sun strength from above it was perhaps mid-day. He thought this and his gut grumbled the affirmative yes, it was time to eat. Down he went, balance over sloping roof beams, grip ladder and climbed jaunting down rung by rung until soles hit solid ground.

           “Was that her new poem?”

           Cabel jumped at the voice unexpected. The young girl behind him, blanket-wrapped, barefoot and dirty, her eyes questioned his, bug and new and dark brown. Pressure left his chest. “No, Tamarind. Those were my own musings.”

          “What about? I barely heard.” She stood rock-still, not even a shiver in the frigid air of the day.

          “Nothing important,” Cabel replied smiling. A bundle of rag sat lumpy by the house wall, his fingers snagged the knot at the top and he lifted it next to a stone, then sat. “Come, Tamarind, share my lunch.”

          The shroud of blanket, wrapping girl, stepped lightly to the stone and sat by Cabel, waiting for him to untie. The sack held bread and pig cheese, both he broke and gave pieces to her, waiting patiently by him.

          “There was a new poem, you said.” A bite of cheese, a bite of bread.

          “There was,” replied he, “there is.”

          Another bite of cheese, another bite of bread, dull flavor mixing textures on her tongue. “Where is it?”

          “In my father's house.” He ate quiet and slow, the way he imagined the poet must.

          “Why didn't you bring it for me to see?”

          “One does not carry treasure when he works.”

          “Why not?”

          “It could be damaged, or lost.”

          “When can I see it?”

          “When I am not so busy.”

          “But when will that be? You've not given me a reading lesson in six days.”

          “I don't know,” sighed Cabel. “I have food to make up. I will try soon.”

          A silence.

          “Cabel?”

          “Mm?”

          “Is it hard?”

          “What?”

          “Working for food.”

          And Cabel thought, bread and cheese tongued in his cheek. Houses of Shady Grey drifted foggy through his thoughts, the roofs, the walls, the doors, the people... men and women and their children, farmers, hunters, builders and cleaners, crafters and servers... and the poet. She dwelled long on his mind, and he smiled. “I don't work for food, I work for the village. We all do. The food is thanks.”

          Tamarind furrowed brow. “But you need it to live.”

          “Then I am lucky I am liked.” His meal finished, Cabel wound sackcloth to his arm and stood as the door from the house opened. A woman, mouse-brown of hair wisps reaching from underhood looked timid from inside.

          “Cabel,” said she, “your work is finished?”

          Head tick-tocked side to side, “no,” he answered. “I've yet to put on the new thatch.”

          “Ah. Is Tamarind bothering you too much?”

          He smiled, again tick-tocked. “No. I like the company.”

          A single breathless nod. “Good then. I go townward, on errands. Tamarind, stay with Cabel, and do as he says.”

          “Yes Mum.”

          “I'll report your work to Smith before I return.”

          “My thanks,” with a bow.

          A nod and off down path, clutching cloak in one hand and basket in other. Cabel started around the hovel's side and gathered up two large baskets stuffed with reed grasses. Well-practiced ease, he slung them each over a shoulder and walked no-handed upward, rung by rung till feet met roof board. The baskets he set side by side and went to work. A moment later and the faint creak of barefoot girl up ladder met his ears. Wordless, the child began taking sheaves of thatch from their baskets and laying them as Cabel did on the roof's crosspieces.

          “You have been practicing your letters, yes?” Cabel inquired as he bound the sheaves.

          “Yes,” Tamarind replied. “And I taught Mum as well.”

          Cabel flinched. “Your mother wants to learn?”

          Little shoulders bobbed. “I don't know. She was just curious, I think.” Another sheaf laid by its brothers. “But she liked Fiddler of Grasses when I read it and she asked me of the letters, so I told her how you showed me to read them. She said not to show Smith, or to speak of it to him.”

          “Ah...” The word left as a laugh. “Wise words.”

          A pause in talk. Another sheaf. “Why should we not tell Smith? Do letters upset him?”

          Cabel leaned back from his work, elbows resting on knees. “Smith's mind... works in numbers. Letters distract and confuse him. A man who does as he cannot allow that.”

          The girl thought. “But Mum said I shouldn't even let him know I am learning them. Why?”

          “He may not understand that others don't live with numbers as he does.”

          “Can't we just tell him?”

          Cabel sighed. “Have you ever spoken to him?” Her head slowly shook. “I thought not. You should do as your mother says.”

          They worked long in the day laying sheaves over meager roof, binding to the beams, going over letters and their sounds. The sky grew dark and Tamarind's mother returned, smell of smoke and food issued from the smoke hole soon after. The girl was called inside and bid Cabel farewell as light rain started to fall. The warmth and must of the smoke comforted him in the droplets falling around him. Work finished. Clambered down wet rungs, slung baskets bound by rope over one shoulder, ladder over other. It was a long, hard trek home to his own meal. He sang softly through the mist.

          Bango, come see! A beetle I've caught, a beetle! Corner of the room, a pile of rags, rump of an ilvi stuck out tail flailing. Back feet scraped stone floor, Senegal dragged out his catch, a black beetle skull-sized and struggling silent in his jaws.

          Bango flopped her flat feet forward, away from trying to get her sister to wrestle, nose-holes woofing at the shiny black carapace. Pretty glistenbug, sparkle and shine! Excitement electrified her tail. There might be more! Where found you it?

          Under pile, yonder, Senegal replied, the beetle sluggish scraping to escape his jaws.

          Bango leapt into the pile thrashing cloth around her slinky middle. I want one! I want to see it sparkle in the sun!

          Senegal watching, tossed his catch a little and regripped with teeth, carrying the bug off to a quiet corner. Tested carapace with his jaws and felt it give, spiky legs gently pricking tongue, taste bland and empty. Oh, but the curious nerve, it burns...

          Do not eat the beetle, Senegal.

          Dropped the prize suddenly, like a guilty dog, looking around to see who had caught. Voice in his head, ancient and wise... Mother Critter? Eyed the bug crawling blind across stone.

          Senegal, you know better.

          He was by Mother's box, mistaken its slats for a room corner. Looked up guilty, saw long ears peek over the edge. But wild moss pigs eat the beetles, why not us?

          And are you a moss pig?

          I am not...

          Grow you tired of her writings?

          No, but-

          You wish to grow sick?

          No...

          You will leave the beetles, you will leave the meal.

          Yes mother.

          No more from the matriarch. Ears sank below the rim of the box and Senegal slunk to a quiet spot to mope off his humiliation. By the box, beetle took out aftwings and buzzed to air, spiraling confused to the wall, away and found itself sudden and unexpected tangled in short brown hair.

Wordless, Emielle's hand raised, closed cagelike around the insect, pulling it from her head and around to her eyes, like waking from a dream. “Oh, hello.” A glance around the room, and the Ilvi in her lap squirmed from lack of ear-fondle. Next it jumped back to floor as the poet's crossed lap unfolded, walked, disappeared through cloth-covered door.

          Monk grunted to himself, disturbed from his nap. Plod across floor to underchair, finding young Senegal already there. Snort. Young one, what troubles you here?

          Slowly opened eyes, logi in low light. Mother Critter held chosen words for me she did. A scolding scalds.

          Shivery spine and a tiny hiss. I'll give you another if you pun at me again, whelp. Half turned away, then pause. Wait, the Mother Critter had words?

          Hard ones, she did. But Monk already bouncing away, calling for his brother. Awakened in his hidey hole by Monk's frantic cries, Mung unfurled and climb-squeezed through dry-rot wood and plaster, up into the main room. Out in the open he shook dust from fur and yawned, stretching front feet luxuriously.

          Monk, what excites you so? Almost midday it is.

          Bounce twist, jump circles around his brother. Mother Critter awakes! Wee ones must be named soon!

          So fast Mung's front paws moved to scramble they slipped and chin hit floor. Senegal uncurled, looked to Bijou. Too young are we to understand the excitement?

          Bijou peered from his vantage at the two ilvi running about, scratching at Mother Critter's box. It must be, he answered.

          And Terak, woken by commotion struggled out of her shirtsleeve and plodded sleepy to where Monk and Mung danced. And what happens here, older nonaps?

          As Monk clawed wooden sides Mung bounced his paws, sniffing the wee one's nose. Mother is finished her feeding the kits. They go on written word today, and they will choose their names.

          And we can take the overflow! Monk with his head stretched back, down the boxside.

          Yes. For this the Starchaser sacrifices a book. A rare delicacy for the likes of us.

          A book? Terak yawned. Never tasted one of those.

 

          Senegal perked his head and Bijou leapt from his table, the only oblivious was Bango, still rooting the ragpile for beetles. Monk clawed over the top of the box, pushing his shoulders in. And for that they come. Typical. The kits, curled and sleeping tucked safe in Mother Critter's crescent moon tummy. Two striped brown and grey, one fluffy brown, the last shiny black. Mother looked sleepy up to Monk's inquiring rose. She thought nothing to him, her eyes half closed, contented and tired. Monk's tongue flicked over his nostrils. Rest yourself, Mother. I only come to look. We wait upon Emielle for their names. And Mother Critter rested her head again.

          As the youngsters gathered slowly around the box Mung plodded to the twitching ragpile. Buried his head inside where Bango fought fiercely with her tail, dragged her out by the scruff of her neck. Let go! I'm snakefighting!

          You're tailfighting. Now come, this is important. The babies will be named.

          And why should I care?

          You will have new siblings to look after. Also there is a book in it for us.

          Suddenly stopped struggling. A book?

          Now sit still. Plomp on the ground, and she sat straight as Mung ordered, but tail still flicked about.

          Monk lifts his head, looks about the room. Where comes the poet? These new youngsters need their food.

          Wordless Mung leapt up and out of the room. Through curtain door and wallhole he went and turned head to sniff the wind. Horizon drear and grey, rocky flat but for the town far downhill. He smelled before he saw her bundled figure sat on a low boulder overlooking the valley. Her must and dusty cloth danced to him on the wind and tickled his nose with its comfort familiarity. He bounded for her over scrub, rock and dirt, slowing to stop at the rock upon which she sat, and his rump it dust as he straightened upright by her side.

          Eyes wide blue at nothing, clear of all but hair that blew in breezes around her face. She only moved to plop a friendly hand between Mung's ears. A sigh, they shared. What troubles you, Starchaser? He knew she could not hear him like his brother and sisters did. She was not built like they, not privy to their bickerings, their games, their little world. Yet somehow he knew she would answer. She always did, in time. A long while they sat and the babies and Mother Critter and their imminent feast gnawed at the back of his mind but still he sat, waiting as her fingers scritch-scritched at his fur crown.

          “Something's changed, Mung,” she murmured after a moment, and what words he understood he cocked his ear to listen. “Something's different, and I fear what's changed is me.” She sighed. “I think I may have lost my touch, if such is what I had.”

          Inclined his face to move her fingers to a better spot. A touch you have. You feed us well.

          “I keep productive for you, your brothers and sisters... I have to keep you fed, but I feel there's such limited supply.” Head leaned back, eyes to the CitySky. “And all the books you bring me cannot seem to rekindle the fire, as grateful as I am. I use the same words over and over... how to avoid shallow cliché, when my reserve dwindles so.” A rueful laugh and renewed scritching for Mung's batwing ears. “I often wonder how it tastes to you. Do you get bored with my tired words? Is the taste as bland as I imagine?”

          Mung stared, his head cocked.

          “And for how long I've been here, this house on this hill, living on what charity I can trade for verse... I would trade books but none will take them, be they treasure or trash.”

          The Odann are a strange bunch, they are. They know not worth when they see it.

          “Oh Mung,” she whispered... “What am I doing here?” Her eyes closed and he could feel her trying to remember, felt her mind straining against the wall it had built itself to protect her. And Mung reined in his own memories for fear that they would leak into hers. He knew she had seen the empties from him the other night, and he could not put her through something like that again. He had to protect her. Instead he thought of the kits curled tight against Mother's bosom, and nuzzled her knee. Broke from her thoughts she looked down into his expectant eyes.

          You care for us, Starchaser, and we for you. And she smiled and he felt a small hope that she had heard him blossom in his belly, one last look to the horizon she gave and the light peeking under the great CitySky before she stood, started back to her leany shack with ilvi eagerly in tow.

          Back inside they went to see the congregation round Mother Critter's wooden box, Matriarch now sleeping. And Emielle smiled, animals parted to let her through while Mung took place next to a fidgeting sister. Poet knelt by the box and gentle, slow, reached inside and one by one removed four babies, laid the new long bodies over arm. She turned, set them one by one, side by side on her blanket bed. A glance round and she chose her book, which she had tried so hard to read since Monk and Mung's return. A quick flip through and she set the book open for the kits as the older ilvi gathered slowly round.

          Fluffy brown crawled forward first, tender claws dragging weak body forward to the new smell. Reaching page the young female scraped paper with claw, working toward what word smelled sweetest. Emielle assisted, turning page for the new muscles just learning to scratch, until finally stopped, turned snout to meet the hunted letters. Emielle leaned forward, read, then careful with pen point tore the word from its page.

          Waness

          A timid lick, and picked paper up by tongue with slow mealy-mouthed chewing. The next forward was grey and brown, one of two male twins. Two pages scratched by before the word was found.

          Infoo

          The second twin came next, sensing a word on the same page.

          Bitroot

          And lastly small and black, runty male, scratched by page after page until finally.

          Twem

          As younglings digested their first word, Emielle took the book to Mother Critter, nudged her with knuckle till she gently woke. “Here Mother. Eat your fill. You no longer share with four.” Book placed open in Mother's box, a sleepy sniff and pages tore out with teeth.

          The poet turned to find kits surrounded by ilvi, sniffing curious and licking secrets into their ears. She knelt, closed her eyes, listened. Will they understand us? Not yet, they've eaten but one word. When will they eat more? Their bodies must get used to it first. They've only just been weaned from Mother's meditation. Will they join us to eat the book? Eek! Twem just licked my nose! The younglings gathered round the weaned kits grunting and dancing and investigating. Monk looked on, bug Mung distracted, saw the poet smile, eyes shut.

          Mung, his brother noticed, What troubles you here?

          A look or two between the poet and Monk, and Mung saw that his brother didn't see, perhaps didn't understand. Nothing.

This month's featured artist is Ross Chirico.  You can view more of his work at his website, www.chiricodesign.com.  (If you've been to Rochester NY, you may have already seen some!)

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The Beating Of Her Luminous Wings, Chapter 1

         

Written By Ivan Overmoyer
Illustrations by Nikki Leeper
Copyright (c) 2014, All Rights Reserved


Chapter 1

           Dr. Wallace lived alone ever since his wife had passed. Having retired in his old age to a small house out in the country, he spent his days in quiet solitude, gardening or walking in the woods, communing with nature. Often he would read, and sometimes he would write. He often wrote letters to friends he had met in his younger days, or to his children, who had all long ago moved away to have lives of their own.

           He would go into town every few days for the few provisions he needed to survive and couldn't make himself. He would catch up with his acquaintances, maybe stop for a conversation over coffee, go to the post office and take care of some of his other errands and then go home. Most of his evenings were spent reading poetry.

           He thought frequently of his wife and of the life they had shared, making a home in a small town after the war, setting up a small family practice and, eventually, starting a family of their own... They'd done well for themselves, and despite the occasional argument had had a long and happy marriage. When she grew sick in her old age he'd stayed by her side, loving and caring for her as best he could, ever the faithful husband. Often he dreamed of her, still beautiful in her old age, floating in through the open bedroom window like a ghost or an angel, smiling upon him as her long white hair hung in the air about her as if in water. The window would fly open and in she would come, alighting down next to him to embrace him in his sleep.

          This was his dream. He never once imagined it would actually happen.

Strictly speaking, it didn't. Not exactly, anyway. But, one night in midsummer, somebody did come through his window, much like in his dream but louder, and with more broken glass, thumping painfully into his bed's footboard as she hit the ground.

          He jumped and, with a surprised yelp, inadvertently tossed the volume of poetry he'd been reading by lamplight several feet into the air, catching it a moment later as it fell back into his hands. His head roared with adrenaline as his eyes flicked from the shattered window to the broken glass scattered across the floor, and his jaw flapped in useless shock for a moment before he was finally able to speak. “What in the hell was that!?” he finally exclaimed, crawling over the covers. As he did so, he saw his unexpected guest sit up and shake the glass shards out of her short, feathery white hair.

          Before he could reach the foot of the bed she was up again and stumbling across the room, clearly struggling to keep anything that vaguely resembled a sense of balance. As she skittered across the room, all he could really make out was a head of messy white hair above some kind of tattered white cloak with a furry collar before she slammed into his dresser, not quite knocking it over but still pushing it several feet. She bounced off of it and veered toward the floor lamp. “Oh, no no no no no DON'T-” he reached out a hand to stop her but it was already too late. The lamp knocked into the wall, crushing the shade and shattering the bulbs with a noise he thought was a bit louder than it ought to be, and the room flickered into darkness. There was a thump followed by something sliding against the drywall, and then silence as Wallace finally made it to the edge of the bed. He swung his feet down toward his slippers, then stopped himself and picked them up instead. He shook them over the edge of the bed to make sure they were empty of glass. Nothing came out, so he slipped them on carefully and stood up, trying to calm his pounding heart. He could hear somebody groaning as he went across the floor, crunching occasionally, to flip on the light switch.

          She was an impish girl, pale skinned with feathery white hair that stuck out haphazardly around her head. Under her odd cloak she wore a sleeveless dress that hung about to her knees made of some silvery material he didn't immediately recognize, with a cloth belt around her waist and a small pair of shoes that matched her dress. She was holding her head and wincing.

Still shaking, Wallace looked from her, to the dresser, to the window, then back at her, trying in some small way to figure out what had just happened. He tried going through it step by step, but the only two steps he could think of was “Reading Ogden Nash's “The Smelt”' and “Girl Crashes Through Window for No Apparent Reason.” Of course there was no correlation between the two, and the more he tried to find any the more he realized it was a pointless endeavor. And at any rate there was now a girl sitting in a mess of broken glass on his bedroom floor, possibly with serious head injury. He did his best to collect himself and recall his medical training. “Are you alright?” he said, reaching down to help her up. “How are you feeling?”

          She looked up at him as she took his hand and he flinched almost imperceptibly when he saw her eyes-- they were a very dark blueish grey, almost black. It was a little shocking, but in light of recent events it was something he could handle. She looked up at him like a stray cat, fearful, but still willing to accept assistance. “Confused, mostly,” she said. He pulled her to her feet and her cloak rustled.

          “I meant physically,” he said. “Do you feel dizzy? Nauseous?”

She stumbled again and he caught her. “Something like that,” she muttered.

“Come on,” he said, guiding her carefully to the door and turning the light off after them. “Let's get you downstairs.” He closed the door as they left the room. There was nothing he could do for the bedroom now, but if he could keep moths and bats from getting into the rest of the house, he would. He walked her slowly down the stairs and into the kitchen, guiding her carefully through the darkness, supporting her with an arm around her back.

          “Where am I?” she asked as they reached the base of the stairs.

           “Uh oh,” he murmured. “You experiencing memory loss?”

           She shook her head and winced. “No, I just don't recognize this place,” she said. “Should I be?”

           “Well I don't know about should,” he muttered. “Do you remember how you got here?”

           “You mean aside from...” she gestured vaguely upward.

           “Aside from the window, yes.” He sat her down in a chair next to the kitchen table and turned the lights on low.

          “No.”

          “So you are experiencing memory loss.”

          “Yes but I think that happened before I hit my head.”

          Wallace blinked. “What?”

          “I don't really remember anything before coming through the window,” she explained.

          “Oh. So... you remember breaking through the window, but nothing before that?”

          She shook her head and winced again. “Ow... no, no I remember I saw the light through the window, and... and going for it...” She trailed off, nodding slightly.

          Wallace couldn't tell if she was confused or not. Certainly what she was saying didn't make a whole lot of sense, but she sounded as if she was thinking clearly. Maybe she was remembering a vivd hallucination? He shook his head. There were more pressing things to attend to at the moment. He fetched a pen light from a nearby drawer and placed a gentle hand on the top of her head, turning her face up toward him. “Try to hold still,” he said. He clicked the light on and no sooner had he pointed it into her eyes than she snatched it from him with a delighted squeak.

          “Ooh, that is lovely!” she exclaimed, staring into the little light and tapping at its lens.

          “Hey! Do you mind? I need that!” He snatched it back from her.

          “But...” He held it out of her reach.

          “Please control yourself, I'm trying to help you.” She looked up at him pitifully, her big grey eyes staring dolefully into his. He sighed. “You can have it back when I'm done.”

She sat up straight, seemingly satisfied with the arrangement, and as he returned the light to her eyes he could see her straining to keep her hands in her lap.

          Aside from their peculiar color, her eyes seemed normal, and as soon as he was satisfied that there was nothing wrong with them he straightened again (as much as his back would let him) and held out the pen light to her. She immediately brightened and snatched it up again, inspecting the light it emitted at every possible angle, cooing over it all the while. He regarded her for a moment, scratching his head, then took the opportunity to feel around her neck for any pain. As completely engrossed with the pen light as she was, she didn't even seem to notice when he applied pressure around her neck, so it was probably safe to assume that he wasn't hurting her. She was similarly responsive when he tested her reflexes with the handle of a table knife. If she was aware that her legs were jerking out at the knee seemingly out of her control, she certainly didn't care. Usually people jumped, even when they were paying attention to what he was doing. Apparently she was really into the penlight.

          “Well, you seem alright,” he said, putting the knife away. “Just a mild concussion, nothing too serious. I'm going to get you some Tylenol for your head.” He started to leave, then stopped. “Don't go anywhere, okay?” She looked up from the pen light at him and nodded, but then he saw her get distracted by the light fixture above the kitchen table. As a precaution, he shut the kitchen light off as he left, leaving her in the dark with her penlight.

          Dr. Wallace walked through the darkened house, still unsure if he was dreaming or not. It didn't feel like a dream (aside from the fact that he had been forced to recall some of his medical training in a fit of panic), but he could think of no other way to explain what was happening. But then, he hadn't even bothered to ask the young woman her name. She might be able to answer at least a few of his questions. Maybe.

          The sudden light as he flipped the switch in the bathroom made him squint. He shaded his eyes and felt his way to the medicine cabinet. It didn't take long for his eyes to adjust and he found the Tylenol with little difficulty. Then, as he turned to leave, he saw something strange outside the window. Indistinct movement on the other side of the glass. He squinted through his reading glasses, trying to make out some shape or form, anything to identify, but at this distance...

          He set down the bottle of Tylenol and leaned over the toilet, pressing his face up to the glass. He saw a multitude of tiny wings and tinier legs, fluttering and scrabbling at the window, fighting to get through a barrier their owners' little minds could never comprehend.

          Moths. Huh. That was a lot of moths. He didn't think he'd ever seen that many one place before. Odd. Just a weird night, he guessed.

He returned to the darkened kitchen, Tylenol in hand, to find the pen light glowing redly through the girl's cheek. She looked up at him when he turned the light back on, the handle of the penlight hanging casually out of her mouth.

          “Taste good?” he asked dryly, crossing to the cupboard to get a drinking glass. He heard a quiet “bleah...” behind him, making the correct assumption that she had spit it out.

          “Not as good as I thought it would,” she replied.

          “How did you think it would taste?” He filled a glass up at the faucet and looked up at the window to see more fluttering.

          “Well I don't know, but better than that...”

          More moths... He shook his head and turned around, water glass in hand. He set it on the table next to her and shook a couple pills out of the Tylenol bottle, setting them beside the glass. “Well, maybe these will taste better,” he suggested. She picked up one of the pills and scrutinized it for a moment before popping it into her mouth. “Wait don't-”

          Crunch.

          “...chew it. What- have you never taken Tylenol before?” She cocked her head at him, still chewing. “Aspirin? Nothing?” She shook her head slowly and he sighed. “You're supposed to swallow it whole with water.” He wasn't completely sure, but he was at least fairly certain that he'd never had to explain this to anyone before. Her white brow furrowed.

          "It's not bad...” she said around the medicinal powder in her mouth, “but it's not very good either.”

          He handed her the water. “Here, try washing it down with this,” he grumbled.

          She took the glass from him and sniffed at it before she started drinking. About halfway through the glass he handed her the second pill. “Now try to swallow this without chewing it,” he said.

          She lowered the glass from her lips. “Why do you keep telling me to do things?” she asked.

          “It's for your own good, I used to be a doctor,” he said, then paused. “You do know what a doctor is, don't you?”

          She snatched the pill out of his hand with a scowl. “Of course I do!” she placed it in her mouth, swallowed it with some effort, then drank the rest of the water. She smacked her lips a couple times. “You're right, that was much better.”

          “Where did you come from, anyway?” he asked finally.

          “What do you mean?” she continued.

          “I... well you're not a local is what I mean.. At least, I've never seen you before. You obviously came here from somewhere and I want to know where that is.”

          “Well...” she reached up and scratched the back of her neck underneath her cloak. “I'm not sure how I can explain it.” She looked around as if for the first time. “Hang on, where am I?”

          “You're in Euclid, Pennsylvania and, more directly, my kitchen,” he answered.

          She silently mouthed the words as he finished them, slowly like they didn't fit on her tongue quite right (but that may have just been remnants of Tylenol dust). “Well where's that?” she said finally.

          “Pennsylvania?”

          “Sure.”

          “North America.”

          She shook her head. “Not following you.”

          “Alright, what's your home called then?”

          “Uh... The third tier, Olympian Valacia,” she said quickly.

          “And that is...?”

          A smile played at her lips like she thought he was joking. “Where else is there?”

          “I... don't know what you're talking about.”

          It took a few seconds for her smile to disappear as her predicament finally started to dawn on her. He felt bad, but at least they stood the chance of getting somewhere now. “Wait...” she said. “If I'm not... and this is...” she pointed at him. “Then who are you?”

          “Ed Wallace,” he replied. “Most people just call me Wallace.”

          She gripped the seat of the chair. “That's it??”

          “You expecting more?” He glanced at the window again. There were still swarms of moths beating themselves against it and wondered briefly if there were any coming in through the window upstairs. The girl was still talking.

          “Light-master and keeper of... of pills or something, I don't know!”

          “Well what's your name?” he asked, trying to sound a little more gentle. The poor girl was obviously distressed. It couldn't be good for her in this state.

          She looked forlornly up at him. “I'm Cosmia, maiden of moths,” she said.

          Wallace blinked. “Maiden of what?”

          “Well officially I'm a goddess, but nobody ever seems to call me that.” She slumped back in the chair. “And if I am where I think I am, well... it hardly matters now.”

          Wallace pulled a chair slowly out from the table and sat down, still staring at the girl, whose name was apparently... Cosmia? Probably a hippie child. A delusional hippie child. That might explain a few things, but... “How did you get here?” he asked cautiously.

          “I don't know,” she said. “The last thing I remember I was out dusting a cornfield... then next thing I know I'm flying around in the dark all confused.”

          “Flying, huh?” Drugs probably.

          “How else would I have gotten through your window?”

          Wallace looked slowly toward the stairs again. He had to admit that her mode of entry hadn't made a whole lot of logical sense, but... well that was just impossible. How would she have flown? She had to be lying, either that or there was somebody out there with a hang glider having a good laugh over all of this. The more he thought about it the more it seemed like some sort of elaborate prank. Well, it had to be. The only alternative was that the girl was crazy, and to set up something this intricate, and not realize the truth? Well, nobody was that crazy. He would check outside later, he decided, to see if he could find the ladder.

“Look,” he said with a sigh, “you've had a rough night, regardless of what happened. Probably the best thing for you now is to get some rest. Are you feeling any better?”

          She looked absolutely dismal, but she nodded. “My head doesn't hurt as much,” she said.

          “Good,” he said, standing up. “Come on, you can sleep in the living room, there's a blanket on the couch.” She got up to follow him out of the kitchen. As she turned, her foot caught the leg of the chair she was sitting on. Alerted by the sudden noise, Wallace turned just in time to see her stumbling over the chair. He reached out to catch her as quickly as he could and she grabbed onto his arm, clinging to him as if her life depended on it.

          She looked up at him, trembling as the back of the chair bounced against the linoleum. “Sorry,” she muttered.

          He pulled her back to her feet and she loosened her grip. “You're very accident prone, aren't you.”

          “Apparently,” she said with a bashful shrug. She didn't let go of his hand as he led her into the darkened living room, not even when he turned on a floor lamp. She lay down on the couch, pulling her cloak tightly around herself, and he threw an old knitted blanket over her.

          “I apologize if it's a little dusty,” he said.

          “Oh that's alright,” she replied. She sighed deeply and closed her eyes.

          “Now just try to relax and get some rest. We'll sort all of this out tomorrow.”

          She nodded, snuggling under the blanket. “Okay.” Wallace sat down in his recliner near the couch as she turned onto her side, facing the back of the couch. “Thanks for being so nice to me,” she said after a pause.

          “You're welcome,” he replied, picking up the previous day's paper from a side table. A few minutes later she was snoring softly.

          Wallace stayed there for a while, re-reading his paper in the dim lamplight and looking over periodically to check on the girl. When he was satisfied that she wasn't about to stop breathing he set the paper aside and went to quietly back into the kitchen. He looked around for his penlight but couldn't find it, and realized that Cosmia was probably still holding onto it.

          He picked up the chair she had knocked over and set it up next to the counter, where he stood on it and retrieved an old lantern from the top of the cabinet. It was a kerosene lantern, one of the relics his wife had kept around for sentimental reasons. He'd seen her use it once or twice on those occasions when the power had gone out in the middle of the night. He hoped it still worked.

He got down from the chair and sloshed the lantern around a bit. It still had some fuel in it. He grabbed a match from the stove and tried lighting the lantern with it. It sputtered to life reluctantly once he'd fiddled with the knob on the side for a bit, and he lowered the hood a little to keep the light low. He turned off the kitchen light and went to the door. With so many moths about he wanted to try to avoid attracting them into the house. He opened the door and slid through as quickly as he could, shutting it again as soon as he was through. Then, in the black night beyond, he opened up the lantern.

          Moths as far as he could see. From the side of the house to the edge of the forest, the air was full of soft, fluttering bodies, casting shadows from the lantern light onto each other and the surfaces behind them, covering the world in a roiling darkness. 

 

          Wallace stood in amazement at the insects around him. His jaw fell, but he quickly reconsidered as he felt a velvety wing brush against his cheek. He turned slowly, gazing up into the sky, only to see more of them scurrying above him. There were flitterings of white and grey and brown, the odd reds and blues and very occasional light green, but mostly white. Like her hair, he thought, then shook his head. No, that was crazy... she couldn't...

          Something was off, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what. What had he come out here for again? He had been so stunned by the sheer volume of moths that he had forgotten. His eyes led him to the side of the house. Ladder. That's right, he'd come out to try and find out how she'd gotten through the window. He looked up.

          There was his bedroom window, still broken open from the outside. Above it was the shear peak of the roof. She couldn't have descended from there into the window without a rope or something, and even then he would have heard her mucking about up there. Below the window was the wall, the side of the house, unmarred by a ladder. Well someone could have taken it... she couldn't have been alone in this. The yard was damp, the ground squishy. He walked, still in his slippers to the wall under the window. There were no marks on the ground, not even a dint on the grass from ladder or footprint. There was nothing.

          Wallace looked bewildered at the sky. “That... that's impossible,” he murmured. Where could she have come from? She had to have come from somewhere... he searched what little of the air he could see through the bugs for anything, a low hanging branch or a cable of some kind... anything that could reasonably explain how this girl... this “Cosmia” had come through his window.

There was nothing. He scrambled about the yard searching for any clue of anything... footprints, marks of a dragged ladder or scaffolding, or tire tracks from a cherry picker maybe. He searched all the way around the house in the mist and the moths twice by lantern light and found nothing but his own footprints, eventually collapsing breathlessly onto the wooden steps in front of the kitchen door. The lantern dangled from his fingertips. Moths danced in the air around it, occasionally bumping into the glass. One landed on his leg and crawled up his pajamas for a moment. A little white one, with a mane of feathery white and two leafy antennae by its dark grey eyes, its wings like a cloak of tattered cloth.

          Wallace put his hand in front of it and it crawled onto his finger. He lifted it up to eye level and it sat there, shaking with nervous energy for a moment before it fanned its wings and flew off again. He watched it go and disappear among its brothers and sisters.

          After a little while longer the lantern sputtered out, leaving him in the darkness. By starlight he could still make out the moths around him as his eyes adjusted. Crickets chirped in the distance and Wallace realized that he didn't know what time it was, but he supposed it didn't matter very much. He eventually stood up and went back to the house, leaving the serenity of the outside behind him.

          He left the lantern on the kitchen table and walked carefully through the darkened house. In the living room he clicked on the lamp to check on the girl sleeping on his couch. She was still there, sleeping soundly, though she had stirred since he'd left her there and she was now absently chewing on the blanket in her sleep. He put the back of his hand in front of her mouth to check her breathing, and felt it soft, warm and, more importantly, regular on his speckled skin. She was a pretty girl, he thought, almost angelic in a way. He felt a compulsion to ruffle her hair, but didn't. He went to the lamp and turned it off, then sat down in his recliner and pulled back the lever, leaning back as far as he could. In a few minutes he was asleep. 

Nikki Leeper is this month's featured artist.  Check out more of her work on her blog, on her Facebook page, and at behance.net.  

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(To Be Continued in Chapter 2)