Tropes: Time Travel

Watercolour: we spent summers travelling to the beach.

My interest in time travel began when my birth-family arrived in Australia as immigrants from the Netherlands. The first place where we lived was a migrant hostel outside Sydney. We children mostly noticed differences. The English language of course. The food. What the hell is this orange stuff? Pumpkin? But that’s cattle food. And what is vegemite? it’s horrible. Nothing like apple butter.

And the bush. Walking along the dirt road to our house block at midday, there was no shade. The thin vegetation let the sunlight burnish right through it. The only living creature we saw that day was a snake sunning itself on a sandstone slab protruding above the road’s surface. A venomous brown, in suburbia. My father said to stamp on the ground to scare it away. The landscape seemed very alien.

Adults noticed the seeming backwardness of the new country. There was not a decent cup of coffee to be had, for instance. Schooling was 30 years behind European education, many parents thought when they took their kids to the migrant hostel’s school. Most of the breadwinners, having their European qualifications downgraded, could only get laboring work.

A common complaint was that we had traveled back in time.

But the primitive building code enabled a lot of families to live on a house block and build their own accommodation. Many children saved shoe leather by going to school on bare feet. And if you lived in the outer suburbs, it was cheaper to buy a week’s supply of fruit and vegetables at Paddy’s Produce Markets in central Sydney and carry them home in a hessian sack, than getting stuff piecemeal at the local shops.

The existence of tropes as a category of themes tells you there’s nothing new in fiction. But I’m cruisy about using a conventional theme, if I can do something new with it, time travel as an immigrant having prepped me.

Though I’ll tell you right now that I won’t be sitting through the 700+ movies that apparently use time travel as their theme. Wikipedia has a nice page on Time Travel in Fiction listing the main sub-tropes of time travel generating a manageable list of things to read/watch.

From all the above, and without having to watch anything, I gather that what I’ve been writing into is the time-slip sub-trope.

Fiction: Half Shaman, 20

The Last Thylacine, Thyal’s Totem

AZ, Ship to Shaman

I’m at the end of my tether. “What is the fucking thing you want to know?” I snap.

Simmon half-rises. The warriors rise with him. Their blades now wink and shine.

Mongoose backs right up close to me. “Hold onto me somewhere,” he mutters. I grasp his belt where it snugs his lower back.

“What’s the thing you most want to know?” I say again. I hear myself being strident.

Crow answers me. “Something big happened on Earth, maybe to Earth in the years before our people left. The Ark-Ship’s journey was meant to last seventy thousand years. It was made a generation-ship. The Earth-born are right about that.”

Simmon calms. Perhaps in response to hearing that he is believed to be right about something. He settles. “Start me off?” he says.

Crow again. “The Ark-Ship arrived in its orbit around Lotor a very short time after leaving Earth. The settlers’ stories agree that an emergency in the Ark-Ship began almost immediately, a struggle within the Ark-Ship’s communication system. The only supposition that makes any sense, some say, is a struggle between the ship’s computer and an entity that had secreted itself onboard.

 “Ten percent of prospective settlers were bundled into ten shuttles and sent down to Lotor’s surface. Individuals were picked randomly, torn from their families, and arrived very confused. They had to begin to save themselves from Lotor right away. You can imagine why the stories from that time lack detail,” Crow says to the rest of us.

She takes a breath and tells the rest. “The Ark-Ship carried thousands of living, breathing, aware people but there has never been any news other than toward the end of Soowei’s life, when the ship promised her that it would return to fetch its people off-loaded onto Lotor. Then it left the Procyon System to go regenerate somewhere without disturbance.” 

Simmon laughs, albeit shakily. “Let me let me let me try some math now,” he says. “Have I have I have I still got my math in me?”

No one interrupts. Half of what Crow just told is new to me. I look around. Loads of people look distracted, suggesting that we are all trying to piece the new information into the story we have all known since childhood. We will need Crow to tell us what is known of Soowei’s last days.

“The Ship of Fools gets waved,” Simmon says. “We’ll say that’s Earth Year Twenty. There’s quite a number that have gone before us, because the EMBers are not stupid, they don’t get involved except in a proven technology.”

He wears such a crafty expression that I set Soowei’s story aside and concentrate on Simmon’s. I catch Earth Year Twenty. The rest makes no sense.

He continues. “But when we arrive on Lotor, it is as if we are the first. Except that the ship we wake up in is a rusted piece of junk that obviously has not moved for a hundred years. We EMBers do our dashing around and get data-waved back to Earth. I learn the hard way that a data-waved brain returns to its original state. Meaning, no information from here went back to Earth that way. I was still a fool and signed up for a second experiment.”

“Where were you in Earth Year Minus Fifty?” I say, ignoring everything else. We don’t have the time.

“Ha ha ha,” Simmon says. “It’s the fucking Little Shaman. Well-studied in math. What else did they teach her? Fucking shamans. I was a fool to trust them.”

“You owe me for all the worrying I’m doing,” I say. A preposterous piece of reasoning, I see from the raised eyebrows around me. I have to control myself not to laugh at Mongoose’s crestfallen expression. He does try to save me from having to worry. I squeeze his hand. “Well?” I demand of Simmon.

“I wasn’t born yet,” he says.

“You would’ve studied about those times at school,” I say.

He laughs again, a rickety rackety chuckle. “You’re asking me about the data-waving monster himself.”

He appears to try to explain data-waving by waving his arms around. I’m nearly sick imagining how, with every move, with every rattling sound, he’s not just coming apart but spreading his illness around.

“A few changes on Earth after his arrival, I can tell you,” he says. “Bad for me is that Lotor bled the info right out of my brain as well as every other Earth-born brain wandering into her clutches.”

“I’ll tell you how it works, Jeb. Just you.” He leans forward. “A thousand thousand Earth Years ago Lotor lost her engineer. I like to imagine that he escaped the bitch. Leaving her in orbit around Procyon B, he took her bio-engine capability and waltzed around the galaxy for a good while before settling. Somewhere out of sight but never out of Lotor’s mind.”

He stops. Sways forward. I suspect him to be gathering the last of his mad strength to lunge forward. I pull at Mongoose to move us backward. Puma tenses.

Simmon giggles. “You have two hundred Earth Years missing from your precious lore, Crow. Earth Year One, the idiots at Procyon Products do a deal with the government of the day. They data-wave a shipload of Life Lottery winners to Lotor. And Lotor, when she smells the bio-silver on them, takes them all within. From that point she knows her engineer is on Earth.”

Uncle Puma says nothing. Red-tail is silent. Can I trust them to see what’s coming?

“When Lotor gets round to me, I promise her the fucking Ark-Ship so she can fetch her engineer. But I promise her before I know that the ship is away regenerating. So I’m in a fix. Then I discover that Lotor intends me to drive the ship. I am not a shaman or engineer. So I am in a worse fix. None of the shamans I bring to Lotor are who she wants. The Ship returns from its regeneration jaunt and I discover the hereditary crewing system. Things get worse and worse for me and Lotor starts searching for the hereditary captain herself. Before too long the settlers have only the one remaining shaman.”

He looks up, glares into me.

Well-water, we call the color of his eyes.

“Do you trust me?” he asks.

A blue glow pierces me. Simmon falls away or I fall back. A guillotine cleaves me front from rear, side from side. I expect pain. There’s no pain. I expect to see blood, a lot of it. There’s no blood.

Then there is pain. My arm burns. It’s on fire. My arm, my red-hot arm falls off. No, it only flops about because my nerves scream, twist, twangle. The amulet burns.

I choke. “The ship, it signals!” I manage not to shout.

Mongoose helps me to fall down gently. He shoves the edge of his hand between my teeth. “For the pain,” he says, kneeling beside me. Pain cringes and curdles and claws invisible pieces out of me. Mongoose doesn’t have to look for Thyal, he’s already with us, crooning. “There now, my pretty. There, there.”

With them sheltering me, I concentrate on not gnashing down on Mongoose’s hand. The Ship sends me fifteen elements. AZ. I gasp as more elements claw through me. Dash dash dash dash dash, dot dash dot dot, dot dash, dash dash.

“Eider.” I splutter through spit, past Mongoose’s hand.

Eider, I recognize her smell, folds my fingers around her pencil. I make the marks. I don’t feel where. Dash dash dash dash dash, dot dash dot dot, dot dash, dash dash. Representing the Great Meridian, I have time to remember. The ship knows we journey along it?

A hot needle-tip punches a dot on the inside of my eyelid.

I scream. “My eyes!” Three dots. Red-hot cools to bright blue. A tattoo? I want to rub my eyes, rub the pain away.

Thyal catches both my hands in his one. “There, now. There, now.” Mongoose’s tears splatter on my face. I want to laugh. My strong brave Mongoose cries when I hurt. The blue line pulses and lengthens. Someone near me groans.

I hear a mug of tea slopped. Feel a wet cloth being laid over my eyes. Blessed coolth. I sigh. “That’s good, very good.” I don’t know if they hear. Three sets of veins angle up from a main artery. My mouth shapes words. “It’s a leaf.” Dark spots form on a lower edge, like drops of dew. Or beads. The ship floods me with fear. “Bad beads. Keep away,” I mumble. “The ship says.”

It shows me good places in the city, with good people. There is a couple with two children who are working a food garden. Five girls care for a vine-covered patio. Eleven men, all shapes and ages and sizes live in a set of higgledy-piggledy block-like rooms, ladders connecting them with every roof a garden. The ship tells me to fetch all these people. 

A rose-tinted tower sits in the armpit of the main thoroughfare and the vein nearest the Field of Dreams. The food is there, in the walls. Squiggles, that are the mountains that are our destination, blossom at the end of the bisecting straight-as-an-arrow thoroughfare.

With round Greek script punched out pointillist style into my eyes, my poor eyes, the ship orders three signals to be sung. It sets the days. I must not miss them. Gravitational forces rule it.

The blue fades from me. I am so tired that I fall through rock and earth straight into a den. An animal with a long, tawny, striped back jumps in after me. Thyal, I think fuzzily. His heavy soft paws heal my eyes. I rest.

Fiction: Half Shaman, 17

The Meridian

Mongoose Totem

When we set off this morning the red star was at its apogee and the sky was wine-red. The sky now is cobalt blue with the yellow sun overhead.

A woman called Vulture carries the front of the stretcher and Puma carries the rear; they are the eighth pair today. Thyal, the old shaman, and Simmon, the Earth-born and learner Grey Wolf, walk behind us.

“You’ve said nothing about the north-south Meridian yet, Grey Wolf,” Puma says.

I understand now why my uncle is taking a turn at carrying. He intends to question the learner Grey Wolf as if off-handedly, whilst carrying, and keeping his attention on the troop for any trouble that might be brewing. Probably he hopes that Grey Wolf has forgotten Lithe and Limber also available for the troop.  

“Never in all my journeying had I a reading for it and now I walk along its path?” Simmon says. “I’m wondering what else you haven’t told me.”

Chief Puma laughs. “We’ve traveled it for years, pushing further north every visit.”

“Have you been to the Yellow City, Grey Wolf?” Vulture says.

I understand that the Yellow City is a topic introduced to distract the Earth-born. That Vulture is part of the group managing him.

“The mythical Yellow City?” he says.

“Mythical? Did you hear anyone wondering where we’re going?” Vulture says. 

Simmon tries to placate her at the same time as he tries to increase his knowledge. “Are there any other fixed points along this Meridian?”

Does anyone else hear the hunger in his voice, I wonder.

“We’ve seen as far as the mountains,” Puma says.

Simmon snorts. I understand his frustration. Puma nearly always answers Simmon without giving any concrete information. If that’s what Simmon is here for, he’s getting a wafty picture.

Vulture laughs. “Mountains are hard to shift around, even by Lotor.”

Ahead of us all, a thing skims across the desert, right to left. I don’t have a hope seeing what it was, it went so fast. I start to exclaim but no one else even remarks.

No one else saw it. There was no sound.

I grab hard onto the stretcher. I’m blind and deaf when a vision takes me. My mouth suddenly dry, I stare into the direction I last saw the thing, for the after-image. Do not wonder how.

Its opposite-color shape, when it builds to its most detailed, reminds me of pictures of the ship-to-surface shuttles the settlers arrived on. A conviction grows in me that we are meant to travel to the Ark-Ship using that very vehicle.

Another image blooms in my moist pink mind, and overwrites the fleeing wrong-color vehicle. A shuttle’s titanium carapace lies in the path of one of the lava-like flows that are the planet’s waste extrusions. The lugubrious voice of the Shaman School’s geologist echoes in my mind. “Such wastes harden by contact with the air.”

There’s no difference between the two shuttles except that the second one, according to the vision, is a carapace. A shell. I’m nearly gibbering with fear and no one notices? Mongoose, I need you.

How will we escape without an engine? Without controls?

I must have asked. The shuttle rises from an explosion of rainbow-colored stars. Maybe it is the Universe that knows all the answers.

Sound resumes. Breathy conversations and jokes sound up and down the column while all their hard-walking feet shirr along the clay path. The stretcher creaks in the rhythm of the carriers.

When I open my eyes I see the desert and the sky. The people walking in front. Vulture’s dark hair, plaited in a queue that falls down her back. My hands. I release my hold on the stretcher.

I can’t stop the tremble in my voice. “The shuttle is over-rimed with stone.”

The least number of words with which to tell people about the shuttle, and about me having that vision right then.

“What did she say?” Simmon says.

“Don’t you worry, young Shaman,” Vulture says. “We carry our stone-working tools wherever we go.” She skips a little step, shaking me on the stretcher on her shoulders. The tools in her pack clink together. She understands me fine.

“I don’t believe how you indulge her!” the would-be Grey Wolf says. “Why am I still with this damned group? Walking with you to your end?” He makes it a frustrated question but I wonder right away whether that’s what he is doing.

Is he trying to steer us toward a hidden Field of Dreams, or a maw over the next slope?

When nobody says anything, he tries again. “I came along to help you. Point you in the right direction.”

There’s a silence again that’s finally broken by Thyal changing the subject. “It’s a solid rim we walk on, young Shaman. Once a division between two countries: Forest and Field.”

“Wasn’t that in the time that Lotor romanced the flying horses?” Vulture says lightly. “I have always wondered where in the Universe those poor creatures came from.”

“Don’t be taken in by these romantics, Jeb,” Simmon says. “Lotor’s captive Moerans bred the flying horses.”

Winged horses with impossible skin patterning, some with black spots on bands of white and rainbow lozenges, some with white spots on bands of black cut with a harlequin’s red-and-green diamonds prance through my mind. They fly from one domed peak to another in a jumble of stone domes and rounded heights.

“They live in the Bone Mountains now,” I say, mindful that if Lotor sent me this flash, it might be that Simmon, Earth-born, is helping the planet locate me.

“It is said that the Moerans never achieved the wings,” Puma says. “The Moerans came from a planet orbiting the red star, Shaman Jeb, and had to flee when their world became uninhabitable. Is that not so, Grey Wolf?”

“I am floored by your unexpected knowledge,” Grey Wolf says. He grinds his teeth.

Vulture chuckles. “That has always been an Earth-born resentment. That we of Old-Earth know as much as they. And why not in this case? Telescopes were invented hundreds of years before the Ark-Ship left Earth, early enough for any astronomer to see the star’s transformation.” 

What is Vulture trying to elicit with her story about telescopes? Then I realize. Vulture is using the before the Ark-Ship left Earth phrase to find out something. What? Keep your ears flapping, girl.

Vulture adds my seeing into her story. “When Lotor set one of her diminishments into motion, the pegasee resisted and retreated, living now only in a few mountain fastnesses.”

“And scattered their genes to avenge their tribulations,” Simmon says. “Genes such as formed the feet of the fauns we met, Jeb. It’s a terrible thing to do to your descendants. Why the sympathy for the flying horses?”

Vulture hardens her voice. “The horse genes are remnants from a time when Lotor’s landscapes held many incompletely formed creatures. How well did you say you know Lotor?”

I want to know that too, how well Simmon knows Lotor. At the Shaman School, the teachers said that where Earth’s Nature evolved toward diversity, Lotor’s Nature went the opposite way. Lotor developed all her inventions toward similarity before forcing them to meld again with her. After a time she would start over elsewhere on her crust.

Lithe and Limber arrive for their turn at bearing the stretcher. The changeover is made with some muttering. Instructions? News? Questions to ask? Lithe puts his load onto the back end of the stretcher and changes with Puma, who takes up Lithe’s pack. Limber and Vulture do the same.

Instead of dropping back, or speeding up to join the front, Puma and Vulture keep their positions. Puma walks behind Lithe. Vulture walks in front of Limber behind the old Shaman, who walks behind the Wolf.

I understand from all that, that Uncle Puma intends pushing Simmon for any useful knowledge.

“The Earth-born idea that the settlers are against them has always bothered me,” Puma says.

“I’d rather be sitting down with a skin of wine making the rounds,” Simmon says. “You people are so stubborn about that. I call that prejudice on your part.”

“Prejudice?” I say, surprised.

Puma laughs. “Every single one of you Earth-born are Lotor’s children. Earth worked out a new way, we don’t know how or what, to send people to another planet. You arrived as patterns and Lotor reconstituted you.”

Long silence.

Simmon turns and walks backward looking at us all. “I still call it prejudice. The Ark-Ship may have sustained you through your journey, on recycled matter from Earth, but since your arrival two hundred years ago, you’ve been growing crops in the Lotor ground. Eating Lotor. How are we different?”

He looks at me, at the meat-eating sand alongside, at me again.

I see him calculating distances. He stops. Not realizing his strategy, Thyal steps around him. “Jeb, your mother was Earth-born, a scientist,” Simmon says.  

Now there are only Vulture and Limber between him and me.

“I just don’t believe that you prefer to stay with these primitives,” he says. He eyes Vulture.

I see him deciding how he’ll set her out of his way. She will die if he touches her.

I swing down from the stretcher and gripping onto their clothes, I step by both Lithe and Puma.

Four between us.

Simmon hesitates.

He’s not able to force his leading foot to the ground. His expression of craft becomes consternation. He only now realizes the nature of his discomfort? I’m so so sorry for him for what is to come. 

The rear half of the line stops higgledy-piggledy.

Limber drops the front of the stretcher, pulls Vulture back and steps by her.

“Jeb,” Simmon says. “I beg you. You’re my last hope. Save me from Lotor. Let me come home with you.”

I feel sick. Icy and hot in short order. I sway.

But if I give in to the nausea roiling at the bottom of my gullet, the meat-eating sand will jump up my vomitus and I too will be lost.

“You want that we all die too?” Thyal says, sharply for him.

I see he is talking to me. I’m shocked out of my fugue. If I fall, who will drive the shuttle, is what he means.

Writing: With What Rules …

Whales by Rita de Heer, embroidered with Colourstreams Silks
on silk scrap background

After I was involved in a discussion on what constituted clangers, and disagreed, I decided to write a story in the mode that was held to be okay. See what it felt like more than anything. See if any sense could result …

Aile cast her eyes across the inn room. Hoping to catch the thief at his work, she aimed them for his face. Twould be good if at least one forced a couple of his teeth to spring for the relative safety of the steak sandwich he’d stolen.

Gusting with laughter, the rest of the patrons sent their hands a-clattering on the tabletops. The applause was that strong, that long, that numbers of armless hands rolled from the table entirely disenchanted.

They had to be rescued, sorted, relieved from dustballs picked up from under the furniture, and restored to their rightful owners. The work of fae. Lordy lordy, do expect a few misses. They’re not paid near enough.

The thief laughed unbridled and so lost his gains … a sandwich that was still only crammed into his gob, not swallowed, not masticated, not yet bitten off or even partitioned. Fearing his pretty teeth might lose their battle with Aile’s eyes, he sent her a thought by way of his ear-jacked aerial. Would she hear his by talk? The way his eyes talked of love with his eye lashes batting shyly and his head cocked just so?

He got his eyes at the smithy, cheap rubbish his mother said. How will you ever get a girl’s unbridled interest? I need you off my hands. His eyes took offense and went back to where they came from.

His second set he worked for all the night hours of six days at the dove house. The girls, as always, were utterly enamoured with his technique. But their hearts were not what he wanted, he told them. Go on. Out with the rubbish, said the madam, throwing her eyes after him for she enjoyed a strongly-built back.

He tried his best to make her eyes work for him. But his lashes would’t have her lashes, and those eyes ended up being glanced back into the dove house, through an open window, for old time’s sake.

His third set must be made to last, he knew. Everybody in the town had lost their patience, lots of broken bits, patents, patterns, cowpats and patty cakes to fall over if he wasn’t careful. Being eyeless as well, don’t you know? He applied to the cloisters with his desperation in tow, having had to dig deep within to find it.

With him wounded in mind as well as body, the monks laid him in a cell to be assessed by the head himself. Calm yourself, oh sightless sinecure, they said. The head has worked here many a year without its body incorporated. It’s a choice you too can make though we will find it difficult to perform our miracles from a blind. Still, we are a charitable institution and will always work with a given.

Meanwhile, back at the hostelry, Aile reeled in her eyes by hand. Their thin-stranded wires coiled by her feet. She fished their control unit from a nearby soup. So much for their reputed flight. Of steel and ebony her eyes were made in a cave where the dwarves weren’t all that fussy about their justified desserts. They cared more about how they were paid.

That ‘how’ became Aile’s target. She grabbed an ill-conceived idea, with wings barely longer than a falconet’s and sent it to the breakfast table to sort her thief’s unregarded losses. Fleeting back to her in numbered send-packets, she swept them into her snood and slipped out the door. The monastery stood downhill, a slide not too hair-raising.

Her beloved thief heard her coming, glorious, victorious. I’m on my way-ay-ay!!!

Would he welcome her with a hair-flick tossed randomly into the crowded cloister for every mad monk to scrabble up from the floor or would his cowlick long enough to torque around her finger do her justly?

I don’t know, he cried. I suffer from malaise, inept-time-management and lassitude. I wish she would just carry me off. The sunset beckons for it captured that clause. Different to when the red coat lived in the Arctic and it still had ice and he still had his elves and missus. He gave out presents when you needed it and I’ve run out of mine. First I lose my eyes, then my nous, then my presence. What will I do?

Yoo-hoo, my love. Let’s be about it, thief of my heart. Aile waltzed into the cell and sweeping the thief from the bed—she plucked a round-eyed gaze from the attendant—she set her lover on his feet. Come with me my torquing clown my glaze-eyed gorget glass-eyed geegaw. The world is oysterishly beautiful.

The monkish eyes fit the thief remarkably well. He stared owlishly into the future she described so eloquently. Oysterishly? I think not, my aileron. My work is here, with my ineptitudes taken care of by management. I understand that they will whip me if I so much as drop a bundle. Apparently, I’m better at cards than every-other sharp in residence.

My new home’s clangers will control my torpors, lassitude, laze and make them episodic. Permutated with episode, epistle and episo they will finally give me an epilogue. Look for me in the cemetery, my love, on the day when you too come a-burying.

.

Fiction: Half Shaman, 14

The Automatic Transponder

By the time I climb up onto the new mushroom-shaped platform, about twice the diameter of the previous one, Ant has organized a couple of people to stand by at the top. One of them smiles gently. One of them smiles fiercely. The gentle one is big, older than us. A twin, all the way to his smile, stands behind him. “Lithe and Limber we are, Shaman.”

The fierce one is as young as Ant and Mongoose and me. They help me to my feet, gentle and fierce, and I walk toward the center of the platform. About a dozen and a half—I count quickly—quite a lot more than the four more people that Ant said there would be are camped around a central depression.

The fierce one and the gentle one release my arms and I, feeling hemmed in by being suddenly among so many, make for that space.

Set foot on it. A knife hacks into my arm! “Aa-eeehhh!” My arm screams. Knife blade worries at my bone. Pain! Pain! I scream. Jerk back. Too late. I fall.

Men, women, boys, friends surround me. They reach for me. Hold me. Shout. I see their mouths move. There’s pandemonium in slow motion. I do not hear. Pain only is talking and I didn’t even sing for it.

But it all reminds me. I sob. Yes. There’s a patterning in the pain. I clench my jaw. Be quiet. Use your senses. The stabbing repeats stab, stab, stab.

I gasp. “Signal,” I press out between my teeth.

I see Lithe, his face near mine on the glassy ground. “There’s letters! I gasp. Sob. Scream into him. “There’s a signal!”

Lithe shouts behind him. His twin pulls someone forward. “A signal. Ready to write?”

I blurt dashes and dots into the dark between Lithe and me, and the other inking her arm writing them there. Each of the elements—is what the Head Shaman called them—draws a blade down a screaming nerve or stabs me to my arm bone. Dash dash dash dash dash, dot dash dash dot, dot dot dot dot, dot dot.

It seems finished. I start to relax.I gasp.More ….”

Knowing what’s coming I swallow my screams. Just gasp. Sob, maybe. Dash dash dash dash dash, dot dash dot dot, dot dash, dash dash.

Slightly different than the first sequence.

At the end I feel broken inside. Though there’s no blood. No torn skin. No wounds except for my pride again. I’d hoped to be a normal person. My hopes, gone again. A spectacle I will be.

“Ha!” Simmon says. “She’s a sensitive? It’s probably the transponder niggling her.”

“And you know that how?” Uncle says. He sounds dangerous.

I want to crawl away. Hide.

Ant steps in the way of all the interested onlookers. Mongoose lets me cry on him for a minute. They both help me to sit up, crossed legs. Ant stays on his feet. His leg is a tree I lean against. Mongoose sits half in front of me, my knee against his back. I cradle my poor left arm. It throbs, so sore still. Mongoose gives me the corner of a sarong-wrap to blow my nose. 

Simmon chuckles. “This platform was made by glassing, meaning a starship fused the sand into a landing pad before touchdown. I believe the girl was hit by the automatic transponder cached in the pad’s center. Lotor, because she will always be hungry for alien machinery, wears away at the foundations. Hence the undercutting.”

“Why?” Uncle says. 

Simmon doesn’t hear or he ignores Uncle. “I’m amazed that the transponder still works. It signals the geo co-ordinates out into near-space where any arriving spacecraft can read them, and organize their touch-down accordingly. My mates and I dropped dozens all over the planet just after we arrived. This one will be one of the fixed points along the Great Parallel.”

Uncle snarls. “Give us the scientific detail.”

That gets Simmon’s attention. He stares round the circle.

“Scientific detail,” he repeats as if he doesn’t believe the Earth-born know anything about science. He proceeds to tell us in simplified ship-speak. “Tells us where we are on the planet’s surface. Zero Phi stands for Zero Latitude, another word for the Equator.”

“An equator is an equalizer?” Limber says. Rumble from a couple of other people wanting to know, too.

Simmon smiles like he is vindicated. Like he knew we’d not cope with science.

I feel he belittles us with his attitude. “In Shaman School we had a ball on a stand to look at, with a map of the Continent and the Ocean painted on it.” I tremble with all their stares on me.

Mongoose squeezes my hand. I continue. “Over the top of land and sea were lines that help us navigate, which are imaginary out in the field. The way Simmon tells it, all along the widest part of Lotor runs an imaginary line called an equator. The signal names it Zero Phi. Simmon calls it an abbreviation.” I snort. “With fifteen elements? That’s double the ship’s call sign.”

“You learned your lessons well, Little Shaman,” Simmon says.

Now I’m furious. I rise to my feet.

Straightaway all around me there’s a physical shifting that I ignore. I trust Mongoose and I trust Ant. “Who isn’t little compared to you? A long end of rope to hang yourself with, my father would’ve called you.”

A couple of people snort, possibly recognizing the saying from their own fathers. I bite my lips to stop there. Before I tell my people what he is, he’s got to be made to tell us why he follows us.

“How can she be a shaman with all that screaming and crying?” someone says.

I don’t know his voice.

“She has a hurt we can’t see. Are we fools to continue with her when it is a matter of life and death? Will she even live long enough herself?”

Ant laughs. “Listen to the Jackdaw! If somebody gave me in my childhood that totem to learn from, do you think I wouldn’t have earned another by now? You think it isn’t a matter of life and death to her? Do you even know what she had to do to join us?”

I sit down and tune out.

Ant starts to tell how I escaped before he and Mongoose could rescue me.

I plan what I will say next.

When Ant is finished, I kneel up to get a little height. “Yes. I cried and I screamed. You all heard me,” I say. I stop. I’m telling them what they already know.

Mongoose squeezes my hand again. He gets me out of my nerves.

I plan what else to say. “First the Ark-Ship talks into me. Then, apparently, an Earthborn gadget talks into me. They both have signals with many elements that have got to fit into the little amulet in me.” I massage my arm where the amulet still throbs.

“It feels like I get burnt, stung, stabbed and cut all at the same time. My nerves scream at me. I scream at you. But look, no wounds.” I bare my arm and show them my harpy eagle tattoo. “No blood. I’ll probably get used to it. Maybe even to the point of not screaming, so I don’t frighten people.” I look at Jackdaw. “And maybe—I won’t know till I ask—the Ark-Ship can fix its signal so it doesn’t hurt me.”

The fierce one who greeted me springs forward and slides to me on his knees. “I’ll gladly help with the singing for that, Shaman Jeb. I’m Meerkat, forever honored that you sang my totem to discover the ship.”

Someone in the people-shadows sneered. “Pff. Meerkats. Always the song and dance.”

“Thanks, Meerkat,” I say. I take a deep breath. Might as well get it all out. “I am only half the Shaman you need. But I… I thought I’d come along because I worked out how to talk to the Ark-Ship and …”

Simmon cuts in at that point. “You heard her, she’s only half the Shaman you need. But Lotor … Lotor needs all of her. I followed you to offer you a whole job, Jeb.”

His interruption is so preposterous that I am not the only one with my mouth hanging open. The only sound is the soughing of sand in the wind scouring at the base of the platform. Both Mongoose and Ant also rise, and move nearer. They squeeze me between them.

Small protective moves, but I see people taking notice. There’s a murmuring to and fro. I know so few of these people, I can’t see who thinks what. Are there really people here who think I should take Simmon’s offer?

“Thyal?” Uncle says. “You have some words on this?”

I don’t believe it. Uncle is one of them? But he came to fetch me!

An old man with just one whole arm rises from the group seated to Uncle’s left and seats himself between Uncle and me.

“I am Thyal, Shaman Jeb,” he says, nodding at me. “Forever studying the Thylacine totem. I assign totems in this troop, and teach their recipients the way to carry themselves as Totems.”

He lifts the stump of his arm. “Ihave no amulet. I’m a one-armed Shaman useless for what you’ll be good at. Together we are well-suited to the task.” 

Oh. I break out in smiles from the relief. “I’d like that.” Thyal has put my worries to rest on a couple of counts.

“Jeb, these people live in the past.” Simmon says. “How many have they lost due to that fatal flaw? You don’t want to be among them when Lotor starts to take an interest in nomads now that she has finished with the towns. If we leave now, I can have you in the laboratories by daylight. New set of friends. People who’ll appreciate you for being of your mother’s line.”

I want to be scathing. Why would I listen to him? But … how does he know about my mother? What does he know about her? What does he mean, the laboratories? I clench my hands together in my lap. I don’t want eye contact with Simmon and I stare beyond him to the back of the crowd.

Out there where a raised hand waves to and fro. A woman there is trying to get my attention? She’s got it.

She pulls her black hair, plaited in one long braid, forward over her shoulder. A red ribbon is threaded through. She points my gaze to another woman, nearer to Uncle and Thyal, dressed all in black. Then she points out two men standing quite near to Mongoose. All have their hands resting on killing knives worn cross-wise in their sauger-hide belts.

I understand that she heads the guard squad and is showing me them at the ready. I smile a little.

The woman winks.

“Earthborn laboratories tend to be underground,” Thyal says, confirming my suspicions about Simmon’s offer. “The wisdom for that, it is said, are Lotor’s frequent re-arrangements of her landscapes.”

“You’ve got that right, old man,” Simmon says. “The very reason you’ve just lost seventeen shamans. The remaining Shaman School has fallen, I’m told. Have you noticed how often Lotor re-arranges its surface when the shamans are near to solving the problem of reaching the Ark-Ship?” He laughs. “What do you say to the fact that you’re the only one of your kind remaining, Jeb?”

He gets up. He stands swaying from side to side. He could be drunk or he could be trying to hypnotize me. Won’t do him any good. I’m not susceptible.

“A pretty packet of news that lit a fire cracker under me,” he says in a dreamy tone. “Wherefrom will you learn the rest of your tricks now? It’s clearly useless even thinking about it. Better to say goodbye. We won’t have far to go because Lotor will open a door anywhere.” All short statements delivered in that same dreamy tone, timed to coincide with the swaying.

“Don’t even joke about it,” Uncle says.

“I was joking?” Simmon says. He looks at me and takes in my awareness of his strategy. “Oops,” he says. “Of course I was joking. Though I do believe that about the Shaman Schools. And I believe this puma already knew it too. That must be why you and your buddies came to fetch her? You went away without her, what was that about?”

He describes Uncle with the puma-totem. Did he hear us talking? I don’t at that moment recall when Mongoose and Ant and I discussed the chieftainship. Whether Simmon had already caught up with us and we didn’t hear him.

Simmon scratches his forearm. Quite a large flake of skin springs loose and falls to the platform, from where the breeze picks it up. Uncle sees it too. He sees that I watch him track the flake over the side and away.

He remembers what I remember. But he shakes his head. It’s too soon, he mouths.

I hope he means it is too soon to tell anyone about Simmon’s affliction because Simmon hasn’t yet said why Lotor wants me.

Mongoose strokes my arm to stroke my worries gone. “The bastard will get what’s coming to him.”

I’m afraid. Simmon suffers from the Earthborn disease. Whoever touches him will die, the settler-born the quicker. My father died not long after he lay down with my sick mother. How many will Simmon try to take with him?

Fiction: Half Shaman, 13

Ant’s Idea

I can’t make a mistake on this. Simmon’s forearm skin is a mosaic of skin flaps, which when shed, become the infectious flakes fluttering from the doomed person every move they make, if they are not fully contained by their clothes.

The settler-kind die within days, and though Simmon’s DNA pattern is straight from Earth and the Earthborn believed themselves to be immune to the skin-sloughing disease, they just take longer to die.

Simmon seems to be following us. Why? And he carries a rolled up, darker-than-night life-suit in his bag, with its insides likely littered with skin-flakes and so as infectious as he is. Though it needn’t be that he intends to hide the life-suit from us.

“Yon Earthborn is in a hurry to catch up with Uncle,” Ant says while he and Mongoose reorganize my seating.

“Alliances … change,” Mongoose says between paces, when we get going again. “How come … he doesn’t know …. that?”

“Ha!” Ant explodes a little. “Haven’t they just? Good … that tonight … we are … with eight.”

Does he mean four more people waiting? The group doubles.

“Let’s walk a bit, Ant,” Mongoose says.

“Suits me, brother.”

When his breathing is back to normal, Mongoose jiggles his end of the front of my seat. “A lot to think about, Jeb.”

“Yes,” I say. More than anything I want to be me for a minute. Simmon has joined Uncle. They are way ahead. “If you could’ve heard the times at the school someone told me to mind my tongue, you would be laughing now to hear me so silent. What I mean to say …” I collect my thoughts. “It’s hard being around friendly people while trying to be someone else.” I hurry on. “When I haven’t had any kind of practice being a shaman.”

“When I heard you trying out the different voices up in the white cell,” Ant says. “I thought, there’s a girl my age still learning her place in the Great Project, the same as I am still learning my place. That’s when I decided to stick around in the group around you, Shaman Jeb, to help you. Like, be part of your support group. If you’ll have me?”

I don’t know what to say. Again. “Umm. Thanks. That’ll be good. Because I …”

Mongoose interrupts. He’s blushing again. “When the damned Lotor-born threw you out and you lay there crying and laughing, I would’ve jumped through the fence and picked you up if Lithe hadn’t held me back.”

I blush because he blushes. 

Ant laughs. “Look at the pair of you. Tsk. Tsk. Good thing Lithe was right there, Mongoose, my friend. You would’ve been slaughtered and where would Jeb be then?”

I shudder. I care about them so much already. How can that be good? 

“That danger is past,” Mongoose says. “Let’s sing. We’ll need teach you some words too, Jeb. You probably having had a fairly sheltered upbringing.”

We all laugh, probably about different things.

“This song is a rhythm for running, Shaman Jeb,” Ant said. “Pick up your left foot, right foot … is always the first part of a line. Here we go, running.”

Pick up your left foot, right foot, step high through the sands of Lotor’s hell,

“Pick up your left foot, right foot, step low over stone and mountain,  

“Pick up your left foot, right foot, step wide through gelid waters,

“Pick up your left foot, right foot, step narrow along the Great Meridian.”

“What’s the Great Meridian?” I say, jouncing in time to their beat.

Mongoose passes the question. “Ant?”

“Mm-mm. I just sing it,” Ant says. “I’m nearly always carrying a load. Pardon me, Shaman.”

“Only if you’ll pardon me for being what I am.”

“Has you there, brother,” Mongoose says. “I hereby decree … no more pardoning among us three. Jeb, your uncle is a Puma.”

A Puma? My feelings speed faster than light into an idea. I tremble. “He is a Puma-in-waiting?”

“I think you nailed it,” Mongoose says.

“A Puma will be a better chief than a shaman who is also the Ark-Ship’s Mouth,” I hear myself say.

“I see that,” Ant says.

“What?” Mongoose’s voice is scor with saw-edged emotions. He clears his throat. “I mean, why?”

“Much less confusion,” Ant says. “What the Ship says, not knowing the conditions on the ground, might be a lot different to what a chief would recommend?”

Mongoose doesn’t comment.

I don’t comment because I don’t trust my feelings not to overflow. What I know about a certain shaman, who also was a chief, was that he had a lot of advisers. What I know about these advisors is that they thought they were right about everything to do with the man’s life. The advisers had no kind of patience for the chief to have any kind of private life. And which meant that he hadn’t.

Mongoose grins with the corner of his mouth because I stroke his side with the back of my knuckles where I’m holding onto his shirt. I do not want to live the way that old shaman lived.

Ant continues. “Better to have any compromises made by way of discussion and a chief’s final vote than by Jeb alone, and her worrying.”

“I see what you see,” Mongoose says with unsteady breathing.

Ant chuckles. “Thought you would.”

Ahead of us, the new platform is now near enough that we can see a rag-and-rope ladder hurtling down the sloped cap of the mushroom-shaped formation.

“They lower the ladder to inspire us to speed,” Mongoose says.

“Such a way with words your Mongoose has, oh Shaman,” Ant says, laughing. “The mongoose goes chittering … oops … goes glittering to his … to his …”

Mongoose thumps Ant before he has a chance to finish. Probably good if I ignore all that. Don’t know what to do with it. Hints of … innuendo? If I go there, I’ll blush again.

Instantly business-like, Mongoose says, “Ant, you go first. I’d love it if you could break the mirror of expectation and old habits. I’ll be up as soon as I’ve picked up after the damned uncle still in his noble patrician mode.”

Ant glances over the pack and swag at the base of the ladder. “Yeah, we’ve got to train everybody out of that. I’ll talk with a couple more of the pack animals.”

I don’t see the Earth-born’s swag. He considers the life-suit is too precious to be left lying about?

Ant and Mongoose set my feet on the first rag-plaited rung of the ladder. My hands on the twisted rope sides. “Only one at the time climbing, Jeb.” Mongoose puts his hand over mine to hold me back.

Mm. Nice. Can’t call it accidental. But, realistically, who am I to hope? I saw five beautiful girls in the Yellow City dream.

Fiction: Half Shaman, 11

The Love-struck Loon

One of the young men drags the ladder into the shade of the platform, and rolls it up. When he sees how I’m looking at him, he drops his gaze quicker than a fish flicking its tail. He’s taller than me by about the width of my hand and he has smooth honey skin. His hair is straight and flops over his forehead.

I follow him under the mushroom’s cap to stand out of the sun.

He reaches up and bundles the ladder into a hollow carved into the underside of the cap. He moistens his lips.

It’s a catching move. I lick mine. It’s difficult in the dry desert air to keep lips feeling smooth. The mushroom stem is fibrous.

“The planet itself carved the cavity, Shaman. With sand and wind. I’m ….”

His voice shakes. His gaze slides away again though not before I see his eyes. They shine as with emotion?

I frown. How am I supposed to react? How can I ignore such a devoted expression? It can’t be for me.

“Hey,” he says. “I’m … Mongoose.” He pinches moisture from his eyes—with finger and thumb—and holds out his hand in one speedy move.

If he’s ignoring his emotions I must too. Hesitantly I take his hand. Despite the wet patch under his thumb, his hand slips round mine oh so comfortably. It feels like I’ve known him forever, that we are …. I get hot in the face, like I’m blushing. I try to swallow but fail.

The formality I had ready shreds in the breeze. Jeb is the name I prefer to be known by. I’m an idiot. “I’m … I’m … Jeb!” Like him I stumble through the two easy words. What’s wrong with me?

He grins as if commiserating. Handsome white teeth. He fingertip-touches my elbow bone. Rests his thumb on the inner pulse, a microsecond only. 

I’m gaping slack-jawed. Stutter. “What’s … what’s that about?” How can this be happening to me?

“I’m a loon for you, Jeb. Since I first saw you. Lithe held me back so I wasn’t killed. I wanted you to know so that you don’t misunderstand me. Because of what everyone will say. Teasing and such.” Hope flares in his eyes.

“I’m …”

I’m astounded I want to say. I start again. “A loon?” I lift my cloak to show him my lumpy shins. I push out my all but flat chest at him.

Mongoose smiles lopsidedly. “Eye of the beholder, Jeb.”

He slides his palm around my elbow. “All of us young people are counted as pack animals. Let’s get you harnessed up?” Bright sparkling teasing smile?

By the time he fits me with the smallest backpack in history, I know he made it especially for me and that he loves a joke. At the same time I’m certain that he totally means what he said about being a loon for me.

At my entry to my third year of study, the Head Shaman asked, “Will you do, or will you have your life done to you, Jeb?”

The most important thing anyone ever asked me. At the time I swore to being the hero in my life. How will that work now with a loon called Mongoose in the picture? My feelings swoop here and there like I am a harpy eagle drunk on cactus-wine.

What is not a wonderful feeling is the revolting way that my uncle strokes me with my once-upon-a-time birth name.

All parents wish beauty for their children. My parents knew from the beginning that my genetic inheritance might prevent beauty from gaining a toehold. I believe that they gave me that name so that I would know that I was beautiful to them.

My uncle judged me ugly. I was a child in the next room hearing him say it. My father told him he could leave, never to return, if he ever said it again. I hate my uncle now using my beautiful name. It feels as though he plans to trick me into being his creature. The Head Shaman sent him away and I want to, too.

***

Uncle walks in the lead; he carries a medium-sized pack on his back. The second young man follows Uncle, with a huge pack on his back. Mongoose placed me third in the line. He tails us with another large pack.

I use my boy-voice. “Call me Jeb, Uncle. I escaped by way of the black cell. Your Eagle follows me. I doubt that he had to come the same way, or that he was schooled on Lotor. I don’t trust him.” I didn’t mention my three-second micro-sleep dream though it was my long-time habit of dreaming that convinced the shamans to train me.

“Will you have a sip of water, Shaman Jeb?” Mongoose wedges a skin of water in the crook of my arm. “Pass it on. Ant will have one after you. Uncle maybe too.”

I almost laugh. He is a smart one, this Mongoose. I enjoy his joke tremendously and since no one is watching my face, I smile broadly. A small joke with many ramifications.

First, Mongoose named me Shaman Jeb, signaling by that that he accepts that name for me. Second, he introduced me to Ant and Ant to me. Third, he teasingly called the man who proved to be my uncle, Uncle, letting that man know that Mongoose will be watching Uncle’s interpretation of his relationship to me. Fourth, he communicated all that to Ant. 

I peer around Ant to see how Mongoose’s joke affects Uncle. Uncle marches as if he has a steel blade tied against his spine. Uh-oh. I don’t want him to take against me. I’ll need to relax him. I cast about for another joke. Or will a compliment do it?

“Thank you, Uncle, for the way you stopped Simmon from punching me back in the prison. He is quite impulsive.”

The tension in Uncle’s back relaxes a little.

“I’m still wondering how you worked the fence?” I say.

All three of them laugh. “Ant, take the front?” Uncle says.

He drops back to walk beside me. “That fencing is made to a settler-invented recipe. We use it for doors and panels.”

I think I remember it. “Hemp fibers covered with sand and heated to make a kind of leathery paneling?”

Uncle nods. “The fencing is made in long zigzag strips that are mounted horizontally. The prison’s idea probably is that often a visual barrier is all it needs to keep people in place.”

“The Lotor-born? The fauns? You all? Kept in your places by a visual fence?” It seems wrong to me.

“The Lotor-born are programmed to gather in such a place when they tire of life on Lotor’s outside. The poor fauns could not be saved. The old one refused our help on all their behalf.”

I feel regret about the fauns. “You?” I meant what kept a bunch of settler-descendants from walking away?

“There was a certain young shaman who didn’t return to the Shaman School after her semester break three years ago, and as she hadn’t been accounted for among the losses since then …” He shrugged. “This was the only place not yet searched. We hoped. So you see, we went there for a reason.”

I remember how Uncle smiles with the corner of his mouth. There’s bad and good in his explanation. Bad news about the losses, though I already heard the rumors, and good for me that my people hoped to find me.

Mongoose, carrying a tall load, jogs past Uncle towards the front of our little cavalcade. He grins back at me. “Remember that they kept the really dangerous prisoners in the cells,” he says.

As laden as Mongoose, Ant slows enough that Uncle and I come level to him. Ant carries rice balls, each in its own cloth, along his folded arm.

“But you all?” I say. “On your way to the salt-mines?”

Uncle sets his jaws in that way he had when I was a child. Like I am still a little girl to him. He doesn’t explain. Or say anything else for that matter.

“We slipped away from the guards in bunches,” Ant says. He passes me one of the rice ball packages. “Mongoose and I stayed back to help Uncle rescue you. But you rescued yourself and I am over the moon with admiration.” He mimes over the moon by raising his shoulders—he’s got that load, his hands full—and rolling his eyes up to an ellipted octahedronal moon.

Huh? I never saw that satellite before. “Is that new?” I ask Ant not giving him the chance to say. “I suppose I could’ve missed seeing it while I was in the prison but not before that.” At shaman school we studied all the quadrants of sky. “An octahedron in a doughnut. Who’d plan a thing like that?”

Ant takes back the package and unfolds the cloth until it resembles a flower. Sets it back in my hand. “These rice balls have a center of ginger and soy.” 

Yum. My stomach rumbles. I accept the change of topic though I desperately want to know what happened to the fully trained shamans. And where we are going. And the satellite.

After I eat every last grain, I fold the cloth and store it in my pocket. Mongoose walks backward pointing a gadget at the sun, and reading something from the other end of it.

“What are you doing?” I’m looking for distractions. My feet hurt.

Fiction: Half Shaman, 10b

Creeping Desert (part 2)

I, Jeb, stopped with the reciting. Thought the next things, still too painful to even hear myself say them. Soowei’s father pushed her to the door like my father pushed me toward the door of his room.

My father gave me his serious words while he cut himself, then me, and held my wound closed after he transferred the amulet into me. What Soowei’s father called the chip? What Soowei thought the size of a groat pea, that same flat slightly rectangular object. Amulet is the Shaman word.

Then my father led me out. He shut his bedroom door between him and me because I wouldn’t leave. I heard him walk into my mother’s sick room. Heard her bed’s springs squeak from his weight. He was gone within days. I stood outside that door, hearing my mother hating my father, for leaving her to die alone beside him already dead. 

Uncle Puma, finding me so, took me to the Shaman School to get the right of it. To have the amulet transplanted from me into him, he thought. The Head Shaman sent him away. One hundred of the amulets came down with the settlers. Who knows how few still exist? The Shaman School once upon a time tried to keep track. It became too depressing.

I lift my attention from my high stepping. What is that thing ahead? The prison has squared corners and straight horizontal and vertical edges. This thing is a free form hump with a red glint on it. I slip slide a bit further, but slower. The hump rises out of the sand. It seems to have a stem. A mushroom?

There seems to be an insect on it, waving. I am so sleepy that I dream a micro-dream while I’m walking. The insect turns into the smiling man who turns into my uncle. He didn’t like me after the Head Shaman showed him the exit. My uncle raises his arm and waves forward a couple more of his kind.

I wake when a pair of young men arrive and take my arms.

“Sleeping while you walk,” says one. “One day you can show us how you do that.”

“Sure would help make night carrying more bearable,” says the other.

They are no older than I am. They help me to walk faster. My eyes droop despite the speed. Both of them talk at me, asking me things, but I am too tired to make sense of their words.

At the base of the mushroom they consult together and tie a cloth-plaited rope around me below my arms. One of the boys passes by me up a rope ladder. He and the smiling man pull me to the top of the mushroom.

“What’s it made of?” I ask.

The other young one smiles. I didn’t see where he came from. “It’s a glassed platform,” he says.

“Mm,” I manage to say. I crawl to a pile of swags. Let my eyes fall shut.

***

I wake but don’t open my eyes.

Near at hand I smell water, warm, in skins. Cooked rice folded and molded in rice cloths. The rice will be chewy, I remember from the past. Someone’s sweat permeates the blankets I lie on. The sand surrounding the mushroom to the horizon and beyond, smells of stale dried blood.

“It’s safe to open your eyes, Shaman Zjebella,” the smiling man says. I remember his voice.

I do open my eyes and see the fabric of a cloak tented over me. An open weave, it has a thousand starry squares of sunlight shining through it. In other words, it’s way past dawn.

Beside me, the smiling man smiles.

“Hello, Uncle,” I say.

When I last saw my uncle and my father hugging, my uncle was shorter by about the length of a head and neck, and not nearly as thin as my father. Their eyes were the same color. Dark staring cat eyes.

Uncle’s smile widens. “Glad to meet you again, Zjebella. Glad to start again. Be friends this time.”

He does something uncomfortable with my name. “There’s just you and me? I thought I noticed …?”

“The boys. They wait for us under-side. We have thirteen kilometers to travel to the next overnighting platform.”

“I’m quite thirsty,” I say. “Can you spare me some water?”

Uncle grins. “We dribbled a liter and a half into you while you slept, will you believe it?”

I lick my lips. My mouth and my tongue don’t feel dry. “I guess I can wait.” I know I sound graceless. I’m disappointed that it is Uncle I must tangle with first thing.

“There’s a hole down to the fundament of the platform for wastes,” he says out of his half-smile. “Clean water in a depression near it for washing. You should perhaps use the facilities before we go.”

Why does he think we can start over when he still behaves as if I am the ten-year-old he last knew?

There is nothing to do but to disappear beyond the sarong-wrap screening the facilities.

Washing my hands I see that my cuts and bruises have been dabbed with a yellow ointment. No memory of that attention either. I let my face and hands air-dry because my cloak is torn in several places and half-shredded everywhere else.

I shudder remembering the confines of the coffin-narrow slot. Settler-cut stones are never polished. There was never enough metal for files. Inert sand to rub over sharp edges to smoothe them is also lacking on Lotor. I search the platform for my slippers.

My uncle mimes throwing them over the edge of the platform. “Such rags, Zjebella. We’ll go quicker with you on bare feet. The planet will hardly have had a taste of you yet.”

That’s all you know, Uncle. Distant in my childhood, he seeks me out now? When I was a child, he talked about me as that overly dramatic girl child, hurting my father with his judgments. He forms the syllables of my name with smooth care and a loving intonation as if he now honors me. Does he think I’m stupid?

He points me toward the rag-and-rope ladder.

But I catch up the bottom of my cloak and tear off two squares. Folding them on a diagonal, I tie them around my feet, the long edges around my heels; the short angles folded over my toes and caught up in the tie-around. Then I climb down.

Uncle throws the folded screens and the swag I slept on over the edge; then follows me down the ladder. He twitches the ladder and the top of it comes loose and snaking down.

Fiction: Half Shaman, 10

The Creeping Desert

When I am a long way from the prison, though I can still see it, I can’t stop myself celebrating. “I’m out, out, out! Yes! I’m out!”

Capering on Lotor’s wide desert sands in my double slippers, I enjoy the night sky. At totem school I learned that Earth has a large natural satellite called the Moon. At night the Moon reflects the light of that system’s central star called the Sun.

Here on Lotor, the exploded superstar Procyon-A rules the night hours and so the desert sands are dark red. Some people think that whoever once lived on Moera, that star’s only planet, were Lotor’s first settlers. Others think that the Moeran people built Lotor.

How far have I come? The distance to walk is fifty kilometers. When my average speed might be four kilometers an hour that could take me twelve and a half hours. I look back. There’s a lump of rock on the horizon darker than night that I don’t recall passing. I’m disappointed that the prison still seems so near.

Speed when slide-footing in double slippers? What am I thinking? I’m starting to get quite thirsty. Later I’ll have water. When I catch up with the ones I’m going to catch up with. I don’t think as far as the other possibility though it lurks in my mind.

I look back again. Wait. What was that? I swear I saw something moving out of the corner of my eye. Darker than night. I blink. There’s nothing.

I’m slow. What if the ones I’m catching up to, leave before I get there? Stop looking back. I look at the slip-sliding tracks I’m leaving behind. No wonder I’m making hardly any progress.

I step out of the slippers straight into the high-stepping gait. Right away I feel the sand begin to engulf me. I pick up the slippers. I’ll probably need them again.

The sand covers my feet with prickling with every step I take, and doesn’t fall off when I raise my feet at the end of a pace. The sand seems hungrier than the creep back in the black cell.

I stop. After divesting my left foot by wiping down it with my hand, I step back into that slipper. Wipe my wrist and hand with my other hand. My right leg in the meantime is covered to the knee. Off! Get off me! Slip-sliding it must be.

Can’t stop yawning. If I had a staff I would lean on it and fall asleep between two steps. My jaws crack and my eyes water. My eyelids want to fall shut. I sleep for two paces and dream. That darker-than-night thing follows me still. Shock! I almost fall!

I jerk awake. Manage not to fall. Slip-slide. Slip-slide. It will be useless to peer back to look for the thing. It’s a dream, right?

Open wide! My eyes. I stare forward. I want to run. I slow. I sleep. I dream. A crack opens down the darker-than-dark thing’s chest. A man climbs out and rolls up a suit, stows it in his backpack. It’s Simmon. Pale skin flakes flutter from his forearm. He’s following me.

I fall over, wake before I hit the sand. I jump up! Twirl and shake. Wipe! Down my arms. Wipe! Down my legs. High-step. Wipe my chest. My back! Get off me!

Slip-slide. Open wide! Smile, grin, be a clown. Think, think, think of a way to stay awake! And I need to stay ahead of Simmon. I don’t dare to look back.

Telling myself Soowei’s story should keep me awake. I know it so well I’ll be able to attend to my walking too. So, start. I take a deep breath.

“Soowei, as I understand it, was the child of the Captain then. They were of the first generation of settlers, dropped off on Lotor by the Ark-Ship. My father, telling me the tale, never gave him a name. “Don’t interrupt,” he said. “I have no time. The First Captain had no totem to teach his child. It was before the totem system, before the shaman schooling. Before we had any idea that we might need to hide what we were about.

“Soowei ran up the uneven blocky stairs to her father’s rooms. When she’d been a four- year-old making her pronouncements, he’d got a job as night watchman over the food stores. The rooms came with the job—daytime jobs only got you a place in one of the dorms. He taught her to never tell anyone her dreams but him, and only up there in their little rooms.

“She twisted with the stairs. They were so narrow that her satchel swung over the drop. She slept in the dorms now, but still joined him for her evening meals. For her birthdays, Father always cooked up something special. She was sixteen today and her mouth filled with saliva, anticipating what he had made. She’d wait with telling him the dream. Or she mightn’t tell him at all.

“Because how should you tell your own father that you saw him die? Her heart galumphed again, thinking of it. She almost tripped. The open, un-protected side of the stairs yawned to the dark ground below. She clung to the outer wall. There was no balustrade, which was one of Father’s ways of discouraging visitors. 

“She knocked, and lifted the door a couple of centimeters to swing it open. The door forever sticking on the floor was another discouragement. “Hey,” she said, sniffing for the birthday treat. Tea towel covered dishes stood on the kitchen bench. Chicken curry? She hung her satchel on the hook by the door.

“Come and sit down,” her father said. “Opposite me.”

The chairs faced each other along a longer side of the table. First aid paraphernalia was laid out on the place-mats. She saw it all at a glance. Two tourniquets. Two sets of bandaging. Two needles threaded. Two scalpels. A cloth and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. She felt the blood leaving her face. “What are we doing?”

“The thing we need to do before we celebrate,” he said. “The thing I’ve got no words for. First I have to hurt myself. Then I have to hurt you. You know I love you. My own little girl despite that the planet owns you.”

He didn’t sound sober. She glanced about, searching the various shelves for the liquor he might be sipping.

Then she noticed the glass by his elbow. Clear liquid. The rubbing alcohol? “What’s with the grog?” she said.

“Crutch. Helping to steel myself for what I need to do.”

He’d treated her as an adult from the minute she’d spoken the first of her other-wordly judgments. That’s what he called them, judgments. As if she made them happen.

She’d told him that Steed Gulle would break his back in a fortnight. It was before she could count. She’d named the days on her fingers … Monday again, Tuesday again … The same week she dreamed that Bessit Brown was growing a lump in her belly, not a baby.

She’d been twelve before she found a different name for them, if not where they came from before she knew them. Fore-tellings. They came from her unconscious awareness and who put such thoughts into that part of her? “So maybe you should stop drinking now so you’ll still be able to cut straight?” she said. “I’m going by the presence of the scalpels,” she said to his eyes searching her soul.

He slumped. “Yeah. All right.”

“Tell me why?” she said. “Why we’re doing this, and why now?”

Silence.

“You’re leaving,” she said. Which was the first part of the dream. “You haven’t told me everything yet, the things that I might be able to use to survive. Maybe do something with my life other than being in the thrall of the planet.”

“You dreamed it? And then thought it through?” He sounded surprised. They normally analyzed the dreams together.

“No one sleeps next to me in the dorm,” Soowei said. “No one will work alongside me. People are afraid of me. The only reason they don’t stone me is because you have power over their food. Why would I stay when you leave?”

He grunted agreement. “That’s my girl. Your mother and I were the first to jump from the ship-to-surface-lander. We lay down and made love. Yes, I would call it that even though we did it to win a bet. Pregnant from day one, who would’ve believed that?”

He shook his head at the long-ago mystery. “After we discovered how alive the planet is and how resistant to us settling on it, I was afraid for you. I’ve missed your mother more than I can say.”

“Sixteen years,” Soowei said.

“I only knew her for a year. You are feisty the way she was. I was her anchor like I’ve been your anchor.”

He gathered in his voice, though the walls were thicker than a hand’s length and no one else lived on this level. “Something is coming that I can’t save you from. The town committee got the news yesterday and are crying and weeping. A lot of them in the same situation as me, kids in the nominated age group.”

“What?” Soowei said.

He didn’t listen or didn’t hear. Didn’t even look at her. “All I can do is give you my chip. Make you known to the ship and so maximize your chances of surviving. Why it’s got to be done now! Before the announcement.”

“Surviving what?” She joggled his arm. “What?” 

He still didn’t say though he stared at her now. “The planet has ordered a round-up.”

“Lotor has ordered? How?” She heard herself being strident. Everything to do with the planet was important to her. How would she ever be her own person when she still didn’t know what Lotor could do to her?

“Her father got that severe expression on his face. His face was made for stern. Grey eyes. Grey stubble. Lank, uncared-for grey hair. “We know the planet can influence humans, because of you. There must be others. Someone who listens.” All her life he had sheltered her from the planet in every way he could think up.

Soowei stepped off a path sometimes, testing Lotor. The creep or whatever grew in that place always lay down quiescent before her, telling her that Lotor still knew Soowei.”

Slip slide, slip slide. My eyes feel so grainy I can barely see.

Keep at it. Each of my feet is in the air fifty percent of the time. My robe drags behind me, giving free rides to the sand. More and more collects at the frayed edge. I think I thought I could spread it on the sand to sleep on, but now I don’t dare.

The prison isn’t visible now even when I am up on a dune. That’s progress, isn’t it? I was going to stop looking behind me. Keep going with Soowei.

“Soowei made herself ask the next thing. “What’s a round-up?”

Her father frowned. “It’s all the towns sending all individuals of a certain age group to a certain place. They are never seen again. Even the guards that look after them aren’t heard of again. The planet tells its lackey to tell us that we are outstripping our resources.” He swallowed. “This time it is all young people aged fourteen to eighteen.”

Soowei perched on the edge of her chair. When had she risen? She felt faint. “We’re such a little population. Eight villages. If they are never heard of again it means they are killed, doesn’t it?”

During one part of the nightmare she’d felt herself in a frightened crowd, a claustrophobic crush. A reddish glow hung over them. People coughed as though the glow had dust in it. “I think the planet has been waiting to catch me.”

“Hush a bye baby,” he said. “A dream?” He held out one of the tourniquets. Showed her the place to tie it on his arm. Swabbed his arm with the rubbing alcohol.

“Nightmare,” she said.

“Tighter.” He handed her a table knife to slide under the bandage and twist it, to help restrict the blood flow. He took up a scalpel. Sliced into his arm below the constriction. Dropped the blade and gripped the wound together. “Ah!” He grimaced pursed-lipped.

Soowei swallowed. She wouldn’t feel faint. She wouldn’t feel faint. Her father prodded in his wound. The edges bled despite the tourniquet. 

“Got it.”

He laid the chip onto the bit of alcohol-sodden swab. Took up the needle. “Help me with this? With that?” He glanced toward his pocket-knife. He poked a hole into his flesh, into the opposite side of the cut. Drew the edges together with a knot. “Now.”

She pinched the thread together and inserted the knife tip. Pulled. Snap. Three times. Three stitches.

“Bandage,” he said.

She wound it round his arm. Firmly. It turned red straightaway he released the tourniquet. “It’ll do for now,” he said. He picked up the second tourniquet. “Roll up your sleeve, Petal.”

She would never again hear him calling her by his nickname for her. If she cried she would be lost as well. She clenched her teeth against the sting of the blade. Looked away from her blood flowing.

Her father shoved something into the wound. The chip. It felt as big as a groat pea.

The sewing was almost unbearable. Five stitches. Ten holes. She was crying now. “More stitches than you got.” As if he hadn’t sewed himself up. She laughed, blubbering.

He slathered alcohol over the wound.

She managed to not cry out.

“There.” He’d bandaged her without her noticing. “Wrap the tourniquet over mine? Better not leave a trail.”

She knew exactly what he meant. Leave a blood trail and the planet will have you. “What will you do?” She asked him, dry-mouthed. Whatever he did, she already knew how it would end.

He wedged the scalpels and the needles in the wall. Places that he years ago had carved into the soft cement. “Chicken curry,” he said. “Your favorite.” Set the bowl in front of her. Put the spoon in her hand as if she was three again.

She laughed. It meant he’d shaped the tofu mix into little chickens. The only way he’d got her to eat the eternal tofu. Their town had six hens. They were far too precious to eat. The hens laid four eggs a day and Soowei had eaten approximately one egg in her life so far. Everyone was on the list.

“Got the satchel? Yes,” he answered himself, fetching it to the table.

She frowned. “You knew a long time ago this was going to happen? When you told me to take the satchel everywhere I went, to get people accustomed?”

“Ben Cloff takes size eight boots,” he said. “Take them. The planet shouldn’t know you among the rest.”

He never called the planet by the name the settlers picked for it. Glade. He figured it would have its own name for itself. Anyway it was wishful thinking they’d ever turn it into a glade.

“My leather gloves.” He put them in the satchel. “Same as the boots. Good for climbing the mountain. The flying horses live at the top. Could be they’ll help you. Food.” He put in three thick carrots and a round turnip. “Ben Cloff again, good gardener.” Last he put in his pocket-knife.

She made a sound of disagreement.

“I won’t need it again. I won’t be leaving the town. That way neither the town nor the planet will know what I did. The committee will shortly make the announcement and everyone will suddenly be busy dealing with that. You should go now, Soowei.”

He rose and she rose. He rolled down her sleeve. He hugged her hugging him. A big sob escaped her.

“Remember how much I love you, Soowei. And how much your mother loved you. If she hadn’t wrapped you in her shawl, the only thing not blood-stained, the planet might have taken you too. You lay in a little nest she made in the grasses. Go now, Soowei, my child of the swaying grasses.”

Fiction: Half Shaman, 9

Escape

… or I can pry out the one hundred and eighty cubes and build a staircase to the top of the door. It’s locked, of course. My target is further up. 

I set to prying out a brick, stepping high impatiently when I need to straighten to take a breath, before bending again to the knee-high intake aperture. I pull, push to and fro, shift, and shove at the only stone that shifted when I tested them.

Then I’ve got it out. Hug it to myself. Forget my stepping. Balance myself on one foot on that one stone and wipe creep from my feet. The second stone is easier. I take out the third, then the fourth.

Blessed stones! I am off the ground! I rest, leaning against the wall. The creep does not follow me up the stones. I can plan standing still.

I imagine one foot planted on the door lintel and the other on the stair yet to be built. I wonder how the lintel gets its strength? Will it hold me? What holds it up apart from the two mud-brick door jambs? It feels to be made of a row of doubles glued together by their wide flat faces. Directly above it is another such row. This one reaching past the first rows ends. Its ends are puzzled into the wall either side.

Mm. I prefer not to trust the lintel.

And anyway, why would I want to? There is no bricked-up air intake above the lintel. The door’s surrounds are mud bricks and were added later, they’re obviously part of the repurposing to transform the villa into a prison. Both the sidewalls above lintel height will have bricked-in air intakes, I hope.

I’m sure. The prison is a made-over settler villa. Every house I once knew had air intakes down near the floor.

I build the beginning of my stair against the sundown sidewall. Never in my experience was there movement by the guards into that direction. I’m quite hopeful there is no cell there. Besides, Simmon’s cell lies beyond the wall on the sunrise side.

I try to run up the steps with me not touching the wall so much that the stones slip from under my feet, me with them. When I fall, I must straightaway get the creeping bloodsuckers off me. Flick flick. Finally, I squash the ones I can’t reach by rubbing my back up against the wall.

Next try I fall again. I jump straight back onto my little floor. But, flick flick by the time I have got rid of most of the velvety little finger-things, some of them are already burrowing into me?

Uuh-uu-huh! I nearly have the horrors.

I have to weave their bodies between my shuddering fingers and pull the ghastly things out of the holes they made in me.

Have I got them all? I know I’ll have scars.

I can’t forget that to survive herself, Soowei was forced to watch a Field of Dreams consume her whole age group—when she was fifteen—all the young people of eight villages.

Rebuilding two ten-cubes wide is the plan forged on the spot. Consequently I have to make each step four ten-cubes high to get the stair to the level of the door lintel. I teeter up there, while I feel along the wall beside me for the bricked-in air intake that must be there. I can’t afford to fall again.

There it is. It’s not safe to cheer. I have to make do with feeling satisfaction that I guessed right. Happy. Pick and pry at the stone sticking out the most. I break another fingernail getting the stone from its seating.

Is it a cell through there or is it an office room? I peer through the gap. Gape.

A dozen candle flames sift light from the dark. I dredge a word from my memory. It’s a chapel. An old word for what is a mud-brick extension in the blind spot of the prison.

A prison chapel where once upon a time the Earthborn celebrated their special days and then disappeared from settler histories. They went into the chapels and didn’t come out.

Or should I say the Earthborn who did not take to totems or Shamans. “Or so it is said,” I whisper. My Earthborn mother took a totem and married my settler father.

The dark behind me feels almost friendly compared to the dark beyond the candle flames. Who keeps these flames going? It looks like it has been years since anyone has prayed here, there’s such a layer of dust.

I close my eyes. I can’t let the old suspicions get to me. I let the stones that I pick out of the wall fall into the chapel.

Squish splat.

They fall on a field of creep massing over the chapel floor. Below me, thick shaggy carpet-like finger-things stand to attention, so many that they are supported by each other. Can they smell me?

I feel sick and escape for a minute, imagining that I am already outside and walking. At night the desert is dark red with the red star’s light. Red sand as far as the eye can see. Who can I pretend to be for a single adventurous minute?

Stupid. What could be more adventurous than the place where I am right now, when adventure is what I’m always wanting? But why does adventure always have to equal to scrapes? No one else gets themselves into the kind of scrapes I manage. And if not scrapes, then flat lonely places.

I swallow all that down. I should be worrying about getting out. As usual I shudder at the responsibility. This time, as a result, I wobble on my stony stair to nowhere. Hole just isn’t big enough. Keep at it.

I lean side-wards loosening stones and pushing them through to fall into the chapel. The air intake aperture into this room is almost as wide as the room itself. Which in a special room, such as a chapel, was covered with a metal grill.

Very fortunately the grill is gone and the space is filled with ten-cubes about five rows high. I’m going to squeeze through. It’s a long narrow hole like a transverse-section of a coffin.

I could sleep here, between the two maws. The temptation blind-sides me and I relax without having to try. I sleep and dream. I’m walking, slip-sliding through the sand. There’s a platform ahead with people on it, waiting there for me. A Meerkat, a Mongoose and a Puma. The Puma is the smiling man, the one who seemed familiar. Then I remember him. The platform fades away and I wake in the slot.

The smiling man is my father’s younger brother! Very resentful at the time that I knew him. He’d expected to win the amulet. Had come especially. How will he be now, apart from smiling and trying to keep me young and dependent?

It’s still only a dream. I’m not there yet.

A whisper comes out of the dark beyond the candle flames. “My poor child.”

I teeter and roll out of the hole, feet first. Legs, hips slide down. I hang by my hands. Let go. Whip around to see. Who? What?

With my feet I search for the stones that I dropped this side. Balance up onto a couple.

I can’t see.

Then I can.

A bent figure shuffles forward. It’s wearing slippers and the creepy finger-things bend down for him to walk over them. “We should put those stones back,” it says.

It’s a very old man. “Stand on my back and I’ll hoist you up,” he says. “Climb into the hole and I’ll hand the stones back up to you. You’ll be safer in the prison than outside it.” He blinks and blinks.

Did I really hear an old Earthborn man telling me to get back into the prison? I decide that the wind from beyond the stars blew between my ears and I didn’t hear him. Stepping high, I sidle into the shadows.

I recall a floor plan I saw at Shaman School. At the back of a chapel, when sundown is at my left hand, there is often a foyer. There is, with a mountain more of slippers. I take two pairs, a smaller to fit into a larger. My feet, almost habitually in high-stepping mode, slide in gratefully.

There is a pile of hassocks as well, cushions to kneel on. Another of cassocks, gowns for a priest. Behind me the old man moans. I glance back. He’s lying on the creep. I ignore him. I have to ignore him. I take a dark robe to cover my father’s cloak.

I make for the back of the ventilation tower. I’m lucky again, there are no windows.