HOME NEWS WHO ARE WE? WEBZINE ARCHIVE MAILING LIST FREE ISSUE / SURVEY FORUM SUBMISSION GUIDELINES CONTACT COPYRIGHT			The webzine is closed. This is its final edition. The Archive will be accessible indefinitely.     Sorcery & Science Magazine September 2005   Nuptials Short Stor by Bonnie R. Schutzman Life and Death Poem by Vittoria Cupaiuolo The Guide Short Story Cheryl Mills Darkly Through The Light Waters Short Story by Michael Merriam Bountiful Harvest Short Story by Elizabeth Boyce   You can read the webzine in pdf format , and/or save a copy to your hardrive and read it offline or print it out and snuggle up with hot cup of your choice. If you don't have Acrobat Reader, download it here for free.       A few words from the crazy creator   Welcome to the fourth edition of Sorcery & Science Magazine! First, I'd like to thank all of you who have encouraged this fledgling webzine and me to continue my work, and second I'd like to thank all those readers and writers out there who have contributed to the webzine, either through submissions or readership. It's almost magical how every time before the next edition is due, I get just enough great stories to make it. And this time is no different. The theme this time seems to be life and death, but for the life of me I didn't ask for a theme. I won't reveal too much, only enough to say, you have some interesting, touching stories ahead of you. Please feel free, as always, to comment either via e-mail or on the boards. Sorcerous Regards, Jessica Taylor (Publisher and Editor-in-Chief)     Nuptials By Bonnie R. Schutzman   The meat knocked at the door, asking to be let in. "I must be on the fire soon, or I will not be cooked in time for the wedding," the meat told the old woman. "Come in, make yourself at home," said the old woman. The meat galloped to the fireplace and impaled itself on the spit. The spit began to turn. Before long, juices dripped and sizzled in the coals. The smell reached the old woman's nose. "It is well that the meat came early," she said. "But now I must have bread to go with the meat, and I am too feeble for baking." There was a knock at the door. It was an ear of corn. "I must be on the fire soon, or I will not roast in time for the wedding," the corn said. "Come in, make yourself at home," the old woman said. The ear of corn reached back into the snow and gathered another ear. The two ears lay down side by side at the edge of the flame, where the heat would roast them evenly. "This is all very well, but still I lack bread," the old woman said. There was a knock at the door. It was the beer, a fine full tankard icy cold from the snow. "Am I in time for the wedding?" the beer asked. "Enter, enter, the wedding is soon," said the old woman. "But still there is no bread." The beer staggered to the table and foamed happily in the tankard. The old woman rubbed her hands. "What will I do for bread? It grows late, and the bridegroom will be hungry." The old woman sat in her chair. She waited for a knock, but no bread came. The meat sizzled and dripped. The beer foamed. The corn roasted silently. The smell of the meat and the corn and the beer filled the house. There was a knock at the door. It was a tall man dressed all in black. "I have come for the bread," he said. He took his sickle and reaped the old woman. The meat and the corn and the beer celebrated the wedding together.   Would you like to write a review of this story? Read the Review Rules first! Review this story!   Back to Index       Life and Death By Vittoria Cupaiuolo   Time’s name is Eve. I’ll be her trillionth daughter. Today, curved and supple Circumstance enfolds me. Events feed in, and I send out My messengers, ribonucleic (Re)actions to zip up to causes, such as eyelids, earlobes, tongue. Tomorrow, these strong walls will Press me out, but for now… I can’t unfist this bumpy, veiny cord Of double-helixed Days and nights.   Would you like to write a review of this poem? Read the Review Rules first! Review this poem!     Back to Index       The Guide By Cheryl Mills   I take the scroll from Seraphim and read “John: cure for cancer, year 2026”. I'm given a vision of him in his fourth grade science class, small in his desk behind the hulking book he’s propped upright in front of him. He's using it as a shield from the assault of Mr. Aladeph, who is the image of a mad scientist himself with his wildly curly mane and a lazy eye barely hidden behind large framed tinted glasses. “Are you just dumb, boy?” John shrinks in his chair, wishing he were anywhere but here right now. No, he’s far from dumb, but more of Mr. Aladeph’s berating and he may just behave that way. It is much easier to sit still, mouth closed, than to argue with his enraged teacher. John is turning away from science under this man’s tutelage, and I see that an immediate intervention is necessary to keep this boy on his path. My burden is unequaled on earth. I know, but I cannot tell; with limitations that are heartbreakingly restrictive, I must guide those who have lost their path. Or have been shoved from it like my dear John. I wish I could come into the classroom and whisper in John’s ear, “You love science because the field needs you. Don’t listen to the dark man that’s been placed before you, he’s a mere guardian put here to deflect your brilliance and you must overcome his barrier to reap your reward, a reward entrusted to you for benefit of all mankind.” If I were an angel, perhaps John would hear me as a thought within his own mind. But I am human, and am capable only of human acts. Running into a class full of nine year olds to tell a boy that he will one day discover the cure for cancer will only make me look crazy, and help John naught. So I do what I can for this young man. God has not given me knowledge without power, and I am able to arrange funding for a Science Fair in this boy’s small town. I know that John will create a successful entry for the fair, and along with his Grand Prize and First Place Ribbon, he will meet a new mentor who gives him the encouragement that his science teacher cannot. I walk through the Hall of Records in my sleep. Angels guard the scrolls that contain the written directives of our lives; I am unable to take them at will. I stroll among the tall endless shelves, an eager student of the great library. The angels don’t need me. I need them. My onus comes from my own soul, and I cannot run. Entrusted with another scroll, another soul, I awake to continue my journey. I find her alone on a bench in Windmere Park, belly swollen, head bowed in her hands. I know her struggle better than she does now, but I can’t approach her with the solution. She’s barely nineteen and loves this child so much. Her thoughts center on how she might be able to raise him alone, but I know what lurks in the back of her mind. The child within her needs her now, but as of the day he is born others who are more able to guide him must raise him. I sit next to her, unfolding the newspaper I’d carried beneath my arm. She straightens, clears her throat and gives me a weak smile. I smile back and let the flyer fall from between the pages, landing on the bench between us. She starts to retrieve it for me, halting mid-way to read the advertisement for open adoption counseling. “May I keep this?” she asks. “Sure,” and I shrug as if it means nothing to me, but I am euphoric to be able to plant signs for my charges, give little nudges where necessary to keep the world aligned in it’s intended direction. This young girl will never know my name, and although she will continue to struggle with her decision, as all young mothers in this situation do, I know that she will be quite proud of her little boy on the day he is Inaugurated as President of the United States, and she will finally know with certainty that on this all important day in her life, she made the right choice. It is silent in the Hall as Seraphim and Cherubim assist a soul to set his record on a scroll. I am no intrusion. They don’t notice me as I gaze upon the exquisite glow of their countenance. I wonder how I look to them. Do I bring my aging human form with me while I visit here? Can they see my graying hair, the lines that etch my face with years of earthly worry and pain? My first visit to the Hall was as a child. I walked the long corridors, accompanied by a lady I’d thought was the librarian. I tried to ask her a question as such a young man in a strange place would, but she put her finger to her lip to shush me. I joined her there many times throughout my childhood, but there was never a conversation between us until I was seventeen. She met me in the third row of scrolls, the one I favored on most nights. At seventeen, I didn’t know what this place was, but with what I know now, I figure it must be the row where my own record is kept. She looked at me as if to say, “Follow me,” not a word exchanged but I understood. I walked out the substantial golden door of the Hall behind her, into a field of the greenest grass I’d ever seen, dotted with tiny yellow flowers, bright orange butterflies a striking contrast to the depth of the azure sky. “You’ve been chosen.” “What?” I was dreaming after all, the same dream I’d had for over a decade. My mother told me that most people experienced a recurring dream throughout their early years, and that it’s often a young soul yearning to return home, to heaven. Was my librarian telling me it was my time? “What?” I say again. Brilliant, I finally have a voice here and all I can mutter is the same word over and over again. She places her hand on my arm, and says she wishes she could tell me more, but that it is time for my first lesson and suddenly I’m back in the Hall, and she’s gone. Not the third row this time, now I’m way to the right, probably a hundred layers of scrolls between me and the third row. My mind is still trying to decipher the words, you’ve been chosen, when the first person (person?) I’ve seen in the Hall beside the librarian approaches me. She’s beautiful, more lovely than any of the girls I’ve seen at home, long flowing auburn hair and eyes more emerald than the meadow outside the golden doors of the Hall. Her dress is not white, not really cream, either; I can only describe it as light. She pulls one of the mysterious scrolls from the shelf to my left and hands it to me. I hold it, not sure what to do with it. She reaches out and tugs on the ribbon holding the rolled up parchment together, and sensing what she wants me to do then, I unfurl the paper and read: “Michael: save Rebecca from drowning, 1963.” I’m unsure of what I’m reading, dubious of why I’m reading it. I look to my beautiful companion, the question in my eyes. Her lips do not move, but I hear her whisper, “Guide”. I wake, shaken by the turn my familiar dream has taken. I know Michael. He has been my best friend since grade school. Rebecca could be the girl from our class, not a beautiful girl, but pleasant, and very close friends with my girlfriend Susan. So it was surprising and all too familiar when the phone rang that afternoon and it was Susan on the line, asking me to join her and some others at the river for an unscheduled party. “Bring a friend,” she said. Of course, Michael accompanied me that afternoon, and without my saying a word about what I knew, he fulfilled his destiny to save Rebecca’s life. The events of that day cemented in my mind that I had been chosen, given a gift and an obligation that I could not refuse. And so went my days, standing to the side of events that unfold around me, knowing the part I play in making them come off as scheduled but being nearly invisible to the participants. I was just Joe, and it never occurred to anybody that I was anything more. My body is aging quickly, and I am no longer able to be of quick assistance. Missions trickle in where once there were floods, and I am grateful for the rest. I lay my tired body between the cool sheets of my bed, and sleep. I am back in the Hall when the paramedics haul my stiff body to the morgue. The medical examiner’s report claims that I died of coronary disease, but it is of no consequence to me now. I still have work to do, as I walk alongside the little boy with questions and wonder in his eyes as he gazes upon the rows and rows of scrolls. He starts to ask me something, and I put my finger to my lips to quiet him. He’s not ready yet, I determine. I am librarian now, and I will walk with our new guide until the time of his first lesson.   Would you like to write a review of this short story? Read the Review Rules first! Review this story!     Back to Index       Darkly Through The Light Waters By Michael Merriam   Cassie McGowen had grown quite accustomed to odd experiences since moving into her aunt and uncle's aging Victorian-era home. Still, discovering Uncle Richard having tea with a creature from her darkest nightmares startled her. "Cassie," her uncle's voice broke through her shock, allowing Cassie to tear her eyes from the squat creature. "Do you need something?" She swallowed, glancing toward the monster again before she answered. "It's just," Cassie hesitated. "It's--" "Storytelling night," Richard finished. Cassie nodded. Since moving in, storytelling night had become a part of her after-hours education. Lydia and Richard Lowery considered music, myth, and tale as important as any of the traditional subjects Cassie studied during her final year of high school. Richard turned to the thing seated in front of him. "Do you mind if we finish this later?" The creature set the teacup it held in one clawed hand on the table. With a smile Cassie thought looked more like a grimace, it pushed itself up from the chair. "Of course not," it croaked. "We can continue our conversation at a different time." Cassie's nerves tingled as the thing slouched toward her. She told herself she would be safe; after all, her uncle sat nearby. This did little to ease her growing discomfort as the creature approached. It stopped when it drew next to her, its amber eyes locked on her own. Cassie suddenly realized she was being judged. She pulled herself straighter, forcing herself to remain calm as she maintained eye contact. It smiled, showing a mouthful of uneven green teeth. "It is an honor to finally meet you, Lady McGowen." It gave her a low bow, and then turned to her uncle, "Richard, a pleasure as always." Her uncle nodded to the creature, who turned and walked toward the shadows in the corner of the room. There came a sound like the rustle of bird wings and the monster shimmered out of sight. "What was that?" Cassie asked, still looking at the spot where it had vanished. Richard smiled up at her from his chair. "'Who was that?' would be proper question." "Okay," Cassie said. "Who was that?" "His name is Gimlingris ap Murrginlar, called Gimlingris of the Bloody Sword among his fey brethren, though this was not always the case. Once he was known as Defender of the Dawn." "I can see the Bloody Sword part; he's scary looking, but it's hard to imagine him as Defender of the Dawn." Richard Lowery sighed. "He was not always as he appears now." Cassie smiled to herself. The opening her uncle presented proved too good to pass up. "So, what's his story?" "Pour us tea Cassie, and I will tell you a tale." Cassie poured the tea, and seated herself across from her uncle. Richard took a small sip as his eyes became distant, gazing upon something only he could see. Cassie edged forward in her chair. "Hear then the tale of Gimlingris ap Murrginlar," her uncle began. # When the people of the old world sailed across the sea to the new one, they brought along not only their physical possessions, but their beliefs as well. As these people settled into an area, their beliefs took root into the earth and grew. Such was the case with the fey, who traveled across the ocean with those who still held to the old ways. Wherever those folk would settle, the Fair Ones would set up their shining courts and take guardianship of the land. You might ask, and rightly you should, about the native spirits, those who dwelled in this land before the coming of the old world fey. This rarely presented a problem, for unlike their mortal counterparts, who warred and slew with reckless abandon, the old world fey desired more than anything to protect and preserve the works of nature. They worked well with the native Manitou and Canotila, and if the native spirits did not understand the Fair Ones' need of royal courts and strict tradition, they did understand their love of the trees and waters. The natives accepted them as kindred, and the two sides existed together with only rare occasions of tension. It came to pass that a band of Fair Ones set up their court at the place we call Minnehaha Falls. This band, though small, set about defending their adopted lands with a will, protecting it from those dark creatures who followed them across the sea, and from the ill-favored spirits who already dwelled here when they arrived. They strove, along with their native kindred, to keep the trees and waters free from blight and disease brought on by the constant press of mortals. This court was favored by the Fates with two great Champions. Twins they were, brother and sister, a blessed thing among a race whose births were few, and fewer still as the ages passed. First born of the twins, Gimlingris ap Murrginlar was handsome of face and strong of arm. His golden hair fell down his back, bound tightly at the nape of his neck, and his piercing amber eyes could look into another being's soul. Battle-Captain of the host, he bore in his right hand the blade called Myflindar, Light of the Dawn, forged by the last mage-smith. Gimlingris stood first among his people in contests of might and strength and first among his people to come to grips with creatures of darkness when they grew overly bold. Among the court he was called Defender of the Dawn. Fairest of the fair was the younger twin, Rhyania ferch Murrginlar. Her beauty shone like the moon in its fullness. Her silver hair hung near to the ground, her pale blue eyes captivated any who looked too closely into them, and her voice held the sound of spring breezes through new leaves when she sang. She carried with her the harp named Iflydirali, Voice of the Stars, crafted by the Tuatha themselves and given freely to her ancestors. Rhyania stood first among her people in contests of song and ballad and when she bent her will upon the harp to unleash its magic none could resist, for it was a Tuatha harp. Among the Court she was called Flower of Starlight. Ah, but fairer yet was one who dwelled in these lands before the Shining Court came to its shores: The Spirit of the Falls. She bore not the golden hair and elegant features of those of the Fairy Court, but pale blue skin, with eyes the color of midnight and a long fall of raven hair tumbling down her back. Her laughter held the delicate tinkling of water over stones, and all held her in high esteem, for her grace and kindness extended to all spirits of the land, be they old or new, light or dark. Loved she was by all, and loved most of all by Gimlingris, Defender of the Dawn. Many a day and many a night the two spent, Gimlingris near her waters, deep in conversation, or conversing with light touches, as only those who love true can. Yet never did they speak of joining as one house or making vows of eternity. Though Gimlingris loved her with all his being, he was a member of the Shining Court and they still held to their old ways. Such vows between the two races of spirits were forbidden. Rhyania watched her brother fall deeper for the beautiful water spirit with growing apprehension. She knew the laws of her people. She knew the penalties for breaking such laws. If Gimlingris were banished for his forbidden love, the Court would lose its Champion--and more, she would lose her brother. So Rhyania tried to interest him in her friends among the ladies of the Court. She implored her brother to make a worthy and advantageous match with one of them. Gimlingris simply smiled, treated the various ladies his sister paraded before him with correct courtesy, and politely refused all of their tokens of affection. One day it passed that another of the Court noted the beauty of the Spirit of the Falls. Arifildare, the Laird's son and heir, became fascinated with the water spirit, so much so that his every thought became bent upon her. Now, while it was forbidden for members of the Shining Court to exchange life vows with the native spirits, dalliances were another matter. Such casual relationships were common among the old world fey. The young might spend many hours with many different partners before making vows of eternity and exchanging tokens of love. So the Laird's son reasoned since Gimlingris and the Spirit of the Falls spent so much time together, yet there could be no possibility of Gimlingris taking her as his life partner, she must be open to such dalliances. With this idea set firmly in his mind and her beauty haunting his being, Arifildare, son and heir of the Laird, set off for the falls. He found her bathing in her pool. As he looked down on the Spirit, his desire for her grew. Why should Gimlingris be the only one to know her embrace? he thought to himself. I am the Laird's son, any of the ladies of the Court would be grateful to receive such attention. Arifildare did not understand that such casual dalliances did not happen among the native spirits. When one of their kind gave their heart, they gave it only once and-- forbidden or not--she had given hers to Gimlingris long ago. When she refused Arifildare, he became angry, and in anger forgot himself. Powerful was Arifildare's magic and this magic he turned on the gentle Spirit so she could not refuse his desires. Then he left her to cry her sorrow upon the rocks. When Gimlingris came to her again he found her quiet and withdrawn. Gently and patiently he tried to coax the reason for this sudden change from her, but she refused his overtures. Distraught, Gimlingris sought among the native Canotila, those small tree spirits who saw all, for the reason why his love was so sad, so suddenly. These small spirits loved the Spirit of the Falls dearly, but what could such small things as they do against one as powerful as the Laird's son? Nothing, nothing at all. But now Gimlingris came among them, he of the Shining Sword, whose heart spoke clearly to them of his love for their Lady, and they told him what they had seen. At first Gimlingris' blood burned and he started for Court to call Arifildare out to duel, but after a moment's thought he changed his course back to the falls. Once there he sought his love. At first she refused him, but his gentle voice and open heart brought her to him, and he held her close as she cried out her pain. Deep into the night they sat together, each seeking comfort in the other's presence. By night's end the Spirit extracted a promise from Gimlingris not to seek revenge. The Spirit did not want to see the Fair Realm torn apart, for fear all they had worked so hard to preserve would be lost to darkness. Gimlingris swore to her, though reluctantly, he would not seek the Heir's head, but only on condition that should Arifildare come to her falls again she would summon him. The Spirit agreed and Gimlingris worked a small summoning charm, setting it on his love so she could call him should the need arise. The days passed, as did the weeks, and in their turn the months. The Spirit of the Falls slowly healed of her hurts, though any who thought to look closely could see something amiss. She still extended her grace and friendship to all, light or dark, but many could see her spirit was diminished. Most thought she pined for her love, Gimlingris, who was gone from her side more and more because of the increasing conflict among the Shining Court and their dark counterparts. But some knew the real reason, try as she might to hide it. Eventually the knowledge passed into the wrong hands and in time all knew the Spirit's secret. She carried within her the child of Arifildare, Heir to the Laird of the Court. This news proved most unwelcome at the Court and when the Laird questioned his son, Arifildare swore the Spirit had bewitched him. Though few believed Arifildare, this was all the proof the Laird needed to come to the decision he desired. He could not allow the heir of his heir to be born out of the Court and out of kind. No, his son would pledge to one of the Court ladies and this indiscretion would be taken care of. Since the first born child inherited by custom, the Laird would not allow this half-breed child to be born. News travels on swift wings in the Fair Realms, and ill news travels swiftest of all. Within the hour, word of the Laird's decision reach Gimlingris. He abandoned his patrol and came straightaway to the Court, determined no more insult would be heaped upon his love by his own people. He stood before the door of the audience hall, hands upon its golden handles, when his sister Rhyania stopped him. "Please," she cried. "Please do not defy the Laird. I beg you, as your sister, do not set yourself against the will of the Court." "What would you have me do?" he asked. "Would you prefer I stand silent and allow this ill to pass?" "I do not know!" she shrieked, tears flowing down her cheeks. "Why? Why could you not stay away from her?" Gimlingris smiled sadly at his sister, whom he loved more than any, save one. He placed his hand upon her cheek and wiped away the tears. "I thought you of all would have understood why." "If you defy him, he will banish you," she whispered. "I know." Rhyania looked up at Gimlingris, eyes still bright with tears. "The scandal will surely destroy the Court." Gimlingris nodded. "I suppose it might." "And we will be left without a Champion to protect us, and I without a brother." Rhyania hoped this last would sway him from his course. "I'm sorry," Gimlingris said. He hugged his sister, then stepped past her into the audience hall. With one look he realized every member of the Shining Court, from the proudest noble to the humblest hob, stood inside the hall. The Laird of the Court looked up sharply as Gimlingris strode into the hall. He smiled to himself. Here, he thought, stood the answer to his problem of how to bring the Spirit of the Falls before the Court without bloodshed. He would send his Champion to fetch the Spirit. She would trust him and the other spirits would let him pass unchallenged, for they knew him well, and would believe he meant no ill. Gimlingris, he knew, would do as his rightful Lord ordered. His oaths demanded such. The Laird smiled and greeted Gimlingris warmly. "Gimlingris, you've come just as the Court needs its Champion." Gimlingris stopped at the foot of the throne. He knew in his heart what the Laird meant to command of him. "I fear my Lord may ask too much of me." "Nonsense," the Laird said. "It is a simple thing, a mere trifling for one such as you. I would have you bring the Spirit of the Falls before us." Gimlingris shook his head. "No, my Lord, this is a thing I cannot do. I would beg you reconsider your course of action." The members of the assembled Court gasped. Never in all the long years had anyone directly refused the Laird. It was unheard of, an insult to their traditions and oaths. Several nobles began shouting, demanding punishment for such insolence. Others stood quietly, waiting to see how the struggle between their Lord and their Champion played out. The Laird raised his hand for silence before turning back to Gimlingris. "You would refuse me? Must I remind you, Gimlingris ap Murrginlar, to whom you swore your oaths? Obey your rightful Lord." The Laird began to subtly draw upon the power of the oaths Gimlingris had sworn, trying to push Gimlingris in the direction he desired. "Gimlingris, I command you to bring the Spirit of the Falls before the Court." Gimlingris felt the Laird's magic descend around him, but still he resisted his Lord's will. "I'm sorry, my Lord, but I will not obey you in this. I will not cause harm to an innocent at your behest. I again beg you to reconsider your decision." "You have defied me twice Gimlingris, yet I shall give one more chance to fulfill your oaths." The Laird drew the full measure of his magic to him; it shone a deep purple, swirling around the Laird. Many of the lesser fey covered their eyes and cringed away. "No half-blood child conceived by witchery shall rule this Court. Gimlingris ap Murrginlar, Champion of the Court, Defender of the Dawn, bearer of the sword Myflindar, I command you to go forth and bring the Spirit of Falls before us to face our judgment." Gimlingris stood unflinching in the face of the Laird's magical fury. Gimlingris neither drew blade nor called upon his own magic to defend himself, he simply whispered his reply. "If a child has been conceived by witchery you should look to your own house for the culprit." For the third time Gimlingris defied the Laird. "I will not do your bidding, my Lord." "You will do as I command!" the Laird of the Shining Court thundered. The Laird reached with his magic and tapped into the power of the oaths. The Laird bent his will upon the oaths, creating a magical compulsion and setting it on Gimlingris. "You will do my will," the Laird softly said. Too late Gimlingris realized how far the Laird would go to see his will done. He tried to call upon his own magic, but the Laird proved too powerful for him. Gimlingris turned and walked slowly from the hall. He passed outside and made his way toward the falls. As he walked down to the water, the Spirit smiled up at him. Her smile quickly vanished as she realized her lover was bespelled. She moved farther into her waters. "You must come with me," Gimlingris intoned. His voice held no emotion, his words no inflection. She shook her head no and drifted away. "You must," Gimlingris repeated, his voice wavering. He took a step toward her pool, standing on the rocks near the edge. The Spirit of the Falls could see the battle he waged from within. She knew he could not throw off the Laird's magic alone. Making her decision, she flung a wave at the rock near Gimlingris' feet. When he tried to jump away his left foot slipped and he plunged in to the waters below the falls. Gimlingris came up sputtering. The Spirit wrapped her water around him, holding him firmly in place. She drifted toward him, her arms open wide. The Spirit of the Falls took Gimlingris in her arms and held him close. Slowly, carefully, she opened her heart and spirit to Gimlingris, showing him the love she held for him. No magic, not even the magic of the Laird, could resist something so pure. The compulsion binding Gimlingris fell away, leaving him free and in control of himself again. For a time they embraced each other, content to ignore their outside troubles. Finally, as the shadows grew long, they made their decision. The Spirit could not leave her falls. She was bound as tightly to the waters as an oak tree's roots bind it to the earth. They knew the Laird would never leave them in peace; he was too intent on protecting his lineage. Gimlingris would not be able to protect them forever, nor could the Spirit hope to defend herself for long. Eventually the Laird would be able to overwhelm them, either with his own magic or by sending enough of those loyal to him to take them by force. Their only course would be for Gimlingris to return to the Court and challenge the Laird. Gimlingris would confront him as the Spirit's Champion and life-partner. If he defeated the Laird, he would force him to vow to leave them in peace; if he could not defeat the Laird, their fate would be the same as if they waited for the Laird to come after them. As the darkness settled around them Gimlingris plaited his long golden hair. Binding it with leather near the nape of his neck, and again at the bottom of the braid, he cut the braid and offered it to the Spirit as a token of his devotion. She in turn drew up one drop of water from her pool. This she filled with a portion of herself so Gimlingris might know by its light she remained safe. The Spirit fashioned a necklace from vines and placed the drop of water on it. They spoke no words; their vows and promises to each other passed silently. When the moon floated high in the middle of the night sky, Gimlingris set off for the court. Gimlingris marched into the audience hall. The Laird stood before his throne, various nobles surrounding him, his heir at his right hand. Gimlingris stepped forward and called upon his magic, making it a challenge. The air shimmered green around him and the blade in his hand burned bright yellow. Gimlingris squared his shoulders and spoke the words of formal challenge. "I, Gimlingris ap Murrginlar, Champion of the Spirit of the Falls, bearer of the sword Myflindar, stand before the Court of Fylndinar and--as is my ancient right--demand satisfaction for injustices committed against my beloved." Silence reigned over the hall. When it became clear the Laird would not ask the question tradition required, one of the oldest members of the court, a noble called Tyrgrinar, intoned, "Whom do you challenge?" Gimlingris looked steadily at the Laird. "I challenge Fylndinar ab Illindor, Laird of the Court and Keeper of the Mysteries." The silence hung thick before the ancient nobleman spoke again. "What is the nature of the injustice?" "I seek satisfaction against Fylndinar ab Illindor for abusing the powers of his birthright. Before this very Court he used his magic to strip a member of the Court of his free will. He attempted to force me to do his bidding, though I thrice refused him and in no way threatened him with violence or magic. He used his power to attempt to force me to bring before him the Spirit of the Falls so he could destroy the unborn child she carries, a child sired on her under duress and by force of magic by his son and heir, Arifildare." Tyrgrinar turned to the Laird. "You have received formal challenge, witnessed by the Court." The old noble drew a breath. "Fylndinar ab Illindor, Laird of the Court and Keeper of the Mysteries, how do you respond?" The Laird looked deep into the eyes of Gimlingris. Death and an end of his lineage reflected in them, but he had no choice; if he failed to answer the challenge he was as good as admitting to Gimlingris' accusations. The Laird drew himself up straight while calling upon his own magic. The magic answered, swirling around him in a bright purple whirlwind. "I accept the challenge issued by Gimlingris ap Murrginlar." Tyrgrinar nodded. "As challenged you may pick the form of contest." The Laird quickly answered. "I chose a contest of magic. First to dominate and immobilize the other for a count of three and thirty claims victory." "Do you agree to the contest?" the nobleman asked Gimlingris. "I agree." "Very well," Tyrgrinar said. "I shall stand as judge for the contest. The defeated shall be banished from the Court for all time, in accordance with our laws." He drew upon his own magic, creating a circle of blue flames upon the floor, broken in two places so the combatants could enter. "Combatants, take your positions." The members of the court backed against the wall in an effort to give the combatants sufficient room. As Gimlingris and the Laird stepped into the dueling circle, the Laird stopped. The Laird turned to Tyrgrinar. "I invoke the ancient right of the Laird to name a champion to do battle in my stead." Tyrgrinar gave a slight bow to the Laird. "The judge acknowledges the right of the Laird to name a champion to do battle in his stead. Whom do you name as your champion?" Arifildare stepped forward. A feral look came over Gimlingris' face--he would enjoy destroying the heir in front of the Laird. The Laird's hand shot out, signaling his son to stop. The Laird turned to Gimlingris. "I name Rhyania ferch Murrginlar, Flower of Starlight, Champion of the Court, and bearer of the harp Iflydirali, Voice of the Stars, as my champion." At these words, Gimlingris' amber eyes widened in shock, and the court filled with whispered voice, surprised at the Laird's move. Rhyania, carrying her harp, stepped into the circle as the Laird stepped out. Tyrgrinar closed the blue fire around them. Neither would be able to leave until the duel was finished. Gimlingris stared at his sister, horror etched across his face. "Please do not do this sister, I beg you." Over her shoulder he saw the Laird, Arifildare, and several warriors leave the hall. Rhyania's pale blue eyes held no emotion. "Your actions would throw the Court into turmoil. Our enemies would see us fractured and strike us down in our weakness. I swore the same oaths you did, brother. If you have forgotten them, I have not. I will protect our people. I'm sorry, but I cannot let you destroy us, Gimlingris." Gimlingris reached into his magic, determined to defeat Rhyania, but he hesitated an instant too long and her fingers struck the strings. Rhyania plucked out the first few notes, and bent her will upon the harp's magic. Gimlingris struggled against the harp's power, but it was a Tuatha Harp, fashioned in a time forgotten even by the oldest members of the Court. Gimlingris, though powerful, could not match the magic of the harp. He stood rooted to the ground as Tyrgrinar counted out three and thirty. Rhyania stopped playing, and Gimlingris slumped to his knees, head bowed. "Gimlingris ap Murrginlar," Tyrgrinar said, "by the laws of our people you are banished from the Court and all of its adjoining holdings. You have until dawn to gather your belongings and depart, under penalty of death." With those words the old nobleman turned and walked out of the audience hall. "I'm sorry, Gimlingris," Rhyania said "So am I. So am I," he whispered. As the words left his mouth he felt the tugging of the summoning charm he had lain upon the Spirit of the Falls. He looked up and started for the door. "Hold," Rhyania spoke, strumming the harp strings once more. Gimlingris, his magic powered by his rising panic, resisted the Tuatha Harp, slowly pushing through its magic. He knew if he could remove himself from her line of sight, the harp magic would fail. He struggled toward the door. "Hold!" Rhyania repeated, strain in her voice obvious as she bent her will and the magic of the harp against her brother. Gimlingris pushed onward. Sweat poured down his body and his own magic whipped around him like a green thunderstorm. He took two more steps. He felt the pull of the summoning spell increase. He took another step, ignoring his sister's repeated command to stop. As Gimlingris reached the door, the summoning spell stopped. He looked down to the necklace the Spirit of the Falls had gifted him. He watch as the light in the drop of water faded, until finally the drop of water fell from the necklace to floor. Gimlingris threw back his head and howled out his misery. His cry of anguish and sorrow caused all within the Court to fall to their knees as the pain of it bored into their souls. It tore across the fabric of reality into the mortal world, where it frightened men and women out of their sleep, causing them to cling together in fear. Small children burst into tears and fled to the arms of their parents for safety. Animals hid in any place they could find, quivering at the sound of his sorrow. So great was the cry, so powerful the sorrow, the strings on the harp burst apart in Rhyania's hand, cutting her fingers to the bone. Gimlingris continued to scream. He screamed until his voice failed him and when he could scream no more he slumped to his knees. Tears flowed hot down his cheeks as his heart broke into too many pieces to count. When Gimlingris could scream no more, and no more tears would fall, when his heart shattered and fell away, its place became filled with something sinister and terrible: a burning hatred, so dark and bitter that his magic warped, and he changed into a different creature there on the floor of the audience hall. His golden hair fell out, replaced by a few thin brown wisps. His body contorted, twisting into a small squat shape. His nose grew long and his teeth pointed. Sharp talon-like nails sprang from his fingers. Only his amber eyes remained the same. Gimlingris looked up from the floor as the Laird, Arifildare, and a dozen warriors returned to the hall. Then did Gimlingris, once called Defender of the Dawn, take up the sword named Myflindar for the last time, and with it he slew those before him. Covered in gore, blood dripping from his sword, he turned to Rhyania. Gimlingris stepped toward her and she cowered away from him, clutching her bleeding fingers to her breast. Gimlingris dropped the sword on the floor of the hall. He looked once more upon his sister, whom he loved more than any, save one, and smiled sadly at her. Then Gimlingris ap Murrginlar turned and left the Shining Court forever. # Cassie McGowen swallowed hard as her Uncle Richard finished the story. She blinked twice and sniffed once. "That's horrible," she whispered. Richard rose and stepped to where she sat. He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Not all stories end with, '...and they lived happily ever after.'" She nodded her head. "I know, but--" she could not finish the thought. "It seems so terribly unfair, I know. Just remember, Cassie: his story isn't truly over." Richard paused before speaking again. "Why don't I make you a cup of hot cocoa and we'll talk of more pleasant things." Cassie stood and followed her uncle from the little sitting room toward the kitchen. "Uncle Richard, may I ask something?" she said. "Of course." "Why did he call me Lady McGowen?" "I'm afraid only Gimlingris can answer your question, Cassie." Cassie sat quietly digesting this information as her uncle made two cups of hot cocoa. Cassie took hers and stood. "I'm really rather tired, uncle. I think I'll go to my room and lie down. Thank you for the cocoa." "You're welcome," Richard smiled at her. "Good-night, Cassie." "Good-night, Uncle Richard." Later, after she finished the last of the cocoa, Cassie sat in the darkness, looking out her window at the tangled garden below. She often did this when she needed to think. She stood to step from the window, then stopped when she saw a pair of glowing amber eyes regard her from the tangled brush below. She blinked and looked closer, but all she found were weeds rustling in the night breeze and the old orange cat that sometimes patrolled the garden. With a sigh, Cassie turned from the window and climbed into bed. That night she dreamt of amber eyes and dark-haired water nymphs.   Would you like to write a review of this short story? Read the Review Rules first! Review this story!   The Author Michael Merriam is a science fiction and fantasy writer, role-playing game designer, and poet. He lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota with his wife and cat. He is a semi-finalist in the L. Ron Hubbard Writers of The Future Contest, and a member of the Online Writers Workshop and the Twin Cities Speculative Fiction Meetup Group.   Back to Index   Bountiful Harvest By Elizabeth Boyce   The warrior guided his horse back home and pondered what the future might bring. The wind carried with it the crisp breath of autumn; an unexpected chill sent a shiver up Vidar’s spine. He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders and clucked his tongue, urging his horse to pick up the pace. It would be another day before he reached his destination. Vidar hoped he’d be there in time to help start the harvest. What a strange thing it was, to think about helping his father harvest the crops. Just two weeks ago, he’d been pressing the attack with the rest of Lord Roald’s cavalry. Vidar’s days then were consumed with thoughts of the immediate, staying alive being the foremost of those. Spring and summer had been a constant barrage of orders. Vidar and the rest of his lance had moved unceasingly for months, it seemed: feinting, flanking, pressing. Even their down time was filled with tasks: tending the horses, cooking, mending, tending the horses some more, burying the dead, until even sleep was accomplished only by command. The present campaign concluded, they'd all been sent home for the autumn and winter. The sudden leisure shocked Vidar's tightly-wound nerves. His first season in the military had been a strange mix of terror and camaraderie. He’d leaped at the chance to come home, but now, having had a week on the road alone with his thoughts, he already looked forward to the spring thaw and his return to Lord Roald’s side. While he'd not yet received a promotion, he had been given an official commendation for his exemplary service on the field of battle. Lord Roald himself had shook Vidar’s hand. His words still rang in the young man's ears; his chest swelled at the memory. “I’m glad you’re on my side, son.” The gold coin he’d received as a bonus, in addition to his wage, was sure to make Ma smile. Vidar thought of his mother’s smile, of his father clapping him proudly on the back. He imagined the hero’s welcome he’d have from his younger brothers and sisters. Not minding the early bite in the wind so much anymore, he clucked again, eager to be home. * * * He arrived at his father’s farm just in time for supper the following evening. A veritable herd of dogs spilled out of the barn and barked wildly. Their wagging tails sent up small clouds of dust and hay loosed from their hairy confines. Arne, the next oldest boy, swung down from a fencepost next to the kitchen. He ran towards the approaching horse just long enough to identify the rider, yelped in delight, and tore back to the house, shouting, “Papa! Mama! It’s Vidar, come quick!” The immediate response from the house echoed that of the dogs, as a passel of children and two harried adults swarmed around their returning kinsman. Vidar swung down lightly from the horse, and was thrown into the greeting he'd imagined. His mother embraced him, her face already wet with joyful tears. He hugged the younger ones, and straightened to look into his father’s eyes. The two men clasped hands; Vidar pressed the gold coin into his father’s palm. Then, his father did smile, and clapped the young man on the shoulder. “Good to have you home, boy. Good to have you home.” * * * Vidar’s father was not a man of words. He worked in silence most of the time, gesturing with his hands the tasks that needed doing, grunting occasionally to correct or affirm. His silence was deafening to Vidar, who had become accustomed to the thunderous noise of battle, and the endless clamor of camp. They harvested the grain, field after field, with scarcely a word passing between them. Vidar counted the days until spring. One day a strange thing happened. Vidar was lost in thought, lulled into a daze by the hypnotic swing of his scythe. He daydreamed, as he often did, of the past summer. His pulse quickened as he remembered slashing at the chest of an enemy infantrymen, the vision strengthened by the heavy arc of the scythe. The remembered smell of horse sweat and blood mingled in his nostrils with the dry aroma of the soil on which he stood. A strange sound startled him from the memory. He stopped and blinked. His father was looking at him expectantly; his father had spoken to him. “What was that, Papa?” “I said, what’s your plans, boy?” “Oh. I’m taking a cake to Grethe after supper. Mama’s baking one special.” “Courting already? Good. A boy needs a wife to make him a man. But I was thinking of your plans for the spring. I could use you here, for the planting.” Vidar wiped his brow and squinted into the midday sun. “I’m going back to the army, Papa. Lord Roald is expecting me. My lance—they need me.” “I expect I need you more than Lord Roald does. I can’t handle the farm by myself anymore. Not with my knees . . . and we've already apprenticed Arne to the farrier. You're the eldest. It's your responsibility.” Vidar squeezed his lips together and turned away from his father. He heaved the scythe and resumed his work. The anger in his chest drove him to swing fast and hard, over and over, exhausting himself to finish before his father. The army promised him an exciting life of glory and, if he did well, wealth. There was nothing for him here but dirt and poverty. He wanted to help his family, and the army presented the best opportunity for a young man of Vidar's low social standing to make a good wage. He would have to find a way to change his father’s mind. * * * “Ma? Could I talk to you?” “Of course, love, what is it?” She slid a log of bread dough into the oven, wiped her hands, and regarded her son. “What’s bothering you, Vidar?” “It’s Papa. He says he wants me to stay here next spring.” “His health is not what it used to be.” “I want to go back to the army, Mama. I will earn more money to send you. You will speak to him, won’t you? Help him see it would be best.” She shook her head slowly. “No, Vidar, it would be best if you were here. If you don't work the farm this spring, we'll lose our home before you can send us any money. Dreams are nice, son, but they don’t put food on the table.” Vidar’s shoulders drooped. “Did Grethe like the cake? Yeah? Good. She’s a fine girl. She’ll make you a good wife.” When he issued no reply, his mother patted his cheek fondly. “It’s not a bad life, Vidar. You'll see.” She paced the length of the small kitchen, pausing here and there to do a chore. As she wiped the table and chopped some apples, she expounded on the virtues of leading a simple life. The quiet lilt of her voice washed over him. He followed her figure with his eyes, his body naturally assuming a posture of attention. Though the voice was still his mother’s, he began to see his commanding officer, Captain Jorgen, striding through the room. Soon, his mother’s soft voice issued battle plans, told him where the enemy was weak. “Just do your best, Vidar,” his mother said. “It’s all I can ask of you,” finished Captain Jorgen. His fingers twitched. * * * The days wore on in monochromatic browns. The paled umber of the soil, the anemic amber of the grain, the dull copper of the leaves, they all weighed heavily on Vidar’s mind. Home became worse than a burden. His father was unrelenting in his decision, and his mother unsympathetic. Grethe had agreed to marry him, but even the promise of their marriage bed (to be erected in his father’s attic) held little consolation or joy. During one midday reprieve, Vidar took his sword into the barn to practice his forms. He spun in the clear place in the middle, his weapon singing through the air in flowing arcs. The disinterested bovine eyes peering at him from the stalls transformed into a circle of enthralled peers, cheering him on as he parried off the advance of a menacing hoe. He concluded the exercise, lathered in sweat, his fellow soldiers cheering his name, when Captain Jorgen stepped away from the crowd. “Well done,” he said, applauding lightly. “Thank you, sir,” Vidar replied, panting. “Your swordsmanship is greatly improved, and the other men in your lance look up to you. I foresee quick advancement for you this year.” “Do you really think so, sir?” “I do. Of course, there is the little matter of your returning to us. Lord Roald is quite beside himself with worry that you may not come back this spring.” Vidar licked the sweat from his upper lip. “I’m doing my best, sir. I’m trying. Believe me, there’s nowhere I’d rather be.” Captain Jorgen gave him a tight smile. “I know, Vidar. But try a little harder, will you?” * * * The harvest was finished; the air grew ever colder. At a celebratory bonfire in the village square, Vidar told Grethe she was marrying an army man. She smiled. He stared into the fire; the warmth of its energy fueled his determination. It radiated power. Soon, he promised himself, it would all be settled. * * * Before the first snow fell, one task on the farm still needed doing: plowing under the remains of the crop to fertilize the fallow fields. Vidar and his father took turns wrestling the plow while the other guided the horse. During one of his turns at the animal’s harness, Vidar thought pityingly on the creature’s fate. It was a good horse, strong and well-muscled. Such a piece of horseflesh would have done well in Lord Roald’s cavalry, but was instead fated to waste away working furrows into the ground. “I’m glad you’re on my side, son,” whispered Lord Roald’s voice. “I’m glad you will not have such a life.” Vidar began to plot the discussion he intended to have with his father. He would be respectful, but leave no room for argument. He would marry Grethe at the New Year, and return to the army in the spring. Yes. That was it--reasonable, but decisive. “Vidar! Watch where you’re going,” his father shouted. “What?” Vidar turned just in time to see the plow snag on a boulder embedded in the soil. The horse jerked and stumbled. The plow wrenched free of his father’s grasp and twisted to the side. His father, suddenly unbalanced, fell hard. Vidar heard something snap as his father hit the ground. “Papa! Are you alright?” The man groaned. Vidar, sure he’d broken a rib, helped him to his feet. His father retrieved a broken plow handle from the imprint of his body. Not a rib, then—worse. He glared at his son, then started to unharness the horse. “I’m sorry, Papa. I’m sure Grethe’s father will loan us his to finish. Shall I go ask? I’ll buy you a new one next year, Father. My wage'll be plenty, I’m sure.” “Your wage? What wage?” his father asked contemptuously. Vidar’s face flushed. “The army, Papa. My pay from the army.” “You’re not going back to the army, Vidar.” Vidar stepped in front of his father, squared his shoulders, and raised himself as tall as he could. “I am, Papa. I am a soldier in Lord Roald’s army, and that's where I belong.” In his mind’s eye, he saw Captain Jorgen nodding his approval. “It’s not going to happen, son, and that’s final. Stop this foolishness at once.” The way his father said “son” triggered something in Vidar. His father did not imbue the word with respect as Lord Roald had done. Red seeped into the edges of his vision. His nostrils flared as his breath noisily heaved through his nose. “I am, Father! I am going back!” “No you’re not, son." “I’m glad you’re on my side, son.” Vidar shoved his father with an autumn’s worth of pent up fury. His father stumbled backwards and fell, but did not hit the ground. Rather, Vidar blinked in surprise as the blade from the upturned plow erupted through his father’s chest. Lord Roald clapped him on the back. * * * Another summer ended. Soon he would be home, greeted by Grethe and their new son in the house that had been his father’s. He sighed. The money would be tight after paying Grethe’s father back for the new plow. It seemed there were some things—some duties—that could not be avoided. The farmer guided his horse back home, and tried not to ponder at all.   Would you like to write a review of this short story? Read the Review Rules first! Review this story!   The Author Elizabeth Boyce lives in South Carolina with her husband and two young sons.   Back to Index       All contents Copyright © 2005 by Jessica Taylor     Webmaster Privacy Policy Copyright