IGMS Issue 9 Page 14

  Then he heard something -- a rumble, a growl, an endless, breathless roar. A beast with a voice like thunder. Benjamin ran toward the sound, which grew closer and louder. Out in the fog there appeared two patches of light that Benjamin knew were the beast's burning eyes. Those eyes shone impossibly bright, and cast before them great white beams.

  A breeze parted the fog. Away across the plain, Francis stood with his feet planted and his sword held ready.

  Benjamin yelled, "Francis!"

  If Francis heard, he gave no sign. His gaze was fixed on the rapid approach of the monster. Francis called to it, "Hear me, fiend. I am Francis -- son of Michael, whom you slew. I have come to exact vengeance for my father. Look upon my sword and tremble, for I have never been defeated by mouse or beast. Now, face my wrath!" He charged, his sword held high as he screamed, "For Michael! Michael and Kingsburrow!"

  The beast drew nearer. It was gigantic, bigger than an owl, a hundred times bigger, bigger than anything Benjamin could have ever imagined. It bore down on Francis. Then the mists rolled in again and smothered Benjamin. For a time he saw nothing. Finally, he spotted two blurry red lights that faded in the distance as the beast sped away.

  Benjamin dashed to where Francis had stood, but Francis was gone, vanished. Benjamin staggered in circles, seeking him.

  It wasn't until much later, when the fog melted to nothing, and the clouds blew away from the moon, and the moon shone down on the earth, that Benjamin slowly realized, with an uncomprehending horror, that the ground beneath his feet was red.

  Benjamin, desolate, dazed, wandered away, only vaguely aware of the soft squelching that his boots made each time he took a step, and of the bloody footprints he left behind him. He thought: Francis. Oh, Francis, why? You were a great mouse. You would have been a good king. I would have followed you.

  Finally Benjamin halted. A familiar object lay just before his toes, though his confused mind took a moment to grasp what he was seeing.

  A sword. Francis' sword, yet unbroken.

  From somewhere behind Benjamin, there arose a low roar. Benjamin knelt quickly and snatched up the sword, then whirled, terrified, clutching the hilt to his chest. His breath came fast and shallow.

  But he saw no blazing eyes, no beams of light. There was only the wind, picking up now, gusting across the plain.

  The monster was gone. But the fear remained, and would remain, Benjamin knew, for so long as that beast was out there. That ghastly and unnatural thing that could crush a mouse flat.

  Benjamin studied the sword -- the sword of Francis, that had vanquished the terrible owl, and had brought ruin upon the vile rats of Westburrow. Then Benjamin knew what he must do. He could not let Francis' death be for nothing.

  Benjamin was the only mouse around for a hundred miles. He raised the sword above him and said, "Francis . . . I . . . I'll go back to Kingsburrow. I'll tell them what happened here, how heroic you were. I'll make them see. I will raise up such an army of mice as this world has never seen, and I will return here, and find some way to destroy that beast forever. I . . . I am Sir Benjamin, knight of Kingsburrow . . . and I have sworn."

  Blood & Water

  by Alethea Kontis

  Artwork by Nicole Cardiff

  * * *

  Love.

  Love is the reason for many a wonderful and horrible thing.

  It was the reason I lived, there in the Deep, in the warm embrace of the ocean where Mother Earth's crust spread and gave molten birth to the world. Its soul was my soul.

  Love is the reason she came to me in the darkness, that brave sea maiden. I remember the taste of her bravery, the euphoric sweetness of her fear. It came to me on wisps of current past the scattered glows of the predators.

  The other predators.

  Her chest contracted and I felt the sound waves cross the water, heard them with an organ so long unused I had thought it dead.

  Help me, she said. I love him.

  The white stalks of the bloodworms curled about her tail. We had a common purpose, the worms and I. We were both barnacles seeking the same fix, clinging desperately to the soul of the world. Their crimson tips brushed her stomach, her shoulders. They could feel it in her, feel her soul in the blood that coursed through her veins. I felt it too. I yearned for it. A quiet memory waved in the tide. I was a maiden, too. Once.

  Patience.

  My answer was slow, deliberate. How much do you love him, little anemone?

  More than life itself, she answered.

  She had said the words.

  I had not asked her to bring the memories, the pain. There is no time in the Deep, only darkness. I could but guess at how much had passed since those words had been uttered this far down. Until that moment, I had never been sure if the magic would come to me. Those words were the catalyst, the spark that lit the flame.

  Flame. Another ancient memory.

  The hollow vessel that was my body emptied even further, pulling me to her. I held my hands out to her breast, and there was light.

  I resisted the urge to shut my inner eyelids to it and reveled in the light's painful beauty. It shone beneath her flawless skin like a small sun, bringing me colors . . . perceptions I had never dared hope to experience again. Slivers of illumination escaped through her gills and glittered down the abalone-lustered scales of her fins. Her hair blossomed in a golden cloud around an innocent face, a face I remembered. And her eyes . . . her eyes were the blue of a sky I had not seen for a very, very long time.

  She tilted her head back in surrender and the ball of light floated out of her and into my fingers, thin, white and red-tipped, much as the worms themselves. I cupped her brilliant soul in my palms and felt its power gush through me. So long. So long I had waited for this escape. I had stopped wondering what answer I would give if I should ever hear the words again, ever summon the magic. When the vessel was full, when my dead heart beat again, would I remember? Would I feel remorse? Would I have the strength of will to save her, to turn her away? Would I choose the path of the good and brave or the path of desperation and escape?

  She smiled at me over the pure flame of her soul.

  I was a coward. You will see him, I told her.

  I pressed her soul into my breast. The moment the light filled me I became her. I could see my body through her eyes - translucent white torso marred by jagged tears, blood red hair tossed up by the smoky vents and tangling about the worms, black eyes wide, lips parted in ecstasy.

  I could see him in the back of her mind, the object of her affection. He was tall and angular, with sealskin hair. There had been a storm and a wreck, and she had saved him. She had dragged him onto a beach and fallen in love with him as she waited for him to open his eyes. She had run her fingers through his hair, touched his face, traced the lines of the crest upon his clothes. He was handsome and different and beautiful. When he awoke, he took her hand in his and smiled with all his heart. And when he kissed her, she knew she would never be able to live a life without him.

  In that small moment, as the glow of her soul dimmed into me, her thoughts echoed inside me.

  She told herself it was worth it.

  Once the transformation began, the pain pushed all other thoughts out of her head. Water left her as suddenly as her soul had left her, her gills closing up after it. The pressure that filled her chest made her eyes want to pop out. She clamped her mouth shut, instinct telling her that she could no longer breathe her native water. She beat furiously with her tail, fleeing for the surface.

  Halfway there, the other pain began. It started at the ends of her fin and spread upwards, like bathing in an oyster garden. The sharpness bit into her, skinning her, slicing her to her very core. Paralyzed, she let her momentum and the pressure in her chest pull her closer to the sky. Part of her hoped she could trust the magic enough to see her to the surface alive. Part of her didn't care. It wished to die, and knew it could not.

  That price had already been paid.

  Her head burst
above the waves and she opened her mouth, letting the rest of the water inside her escape. Her first deep breath of insubstantial air was like a lungful of jellyfish. It was different from the shallow amphibious breathing she had done before, different when this was her only option. She coughed, her upper half now as much in agony as her lower half, not wanting to take that next breath and knowing that she had to.

  She lay there on the undulating bed that was once her home and let it heal her. She stared up at the sky until it didn't hurt so much to breathe, until her eyes adjusted, until rough hands plucked her out of the sea.

  She was dragged across the deck of a ship much like the one from which she had rescued her lover, right before it had been crushed between the rocks and the sea. The man who had pulled her up clasped her tightly to him. He was covered in hair, more hair than she had ever seen in her life, and in the strangest places. It did not reach the top of his head, but spread down his face and neck and onto his chest. Perhaps it liked this upper world as little as she did and sought a safer, darker haven beneath his clothes. She reached out a hand to touch it, and he spoke to her. The sounds were too high, too light, too short, too loud. She did not understand them. His breath smelled of sardines. She ran a finger through the hair on his face, and he dropped her.

  She could not stand. Misery shot through her and she collapsed on the deck. Her hair spilled around her . . . and her legs. She stared at her new skin. It looked so calm and innocent, but every nerve screamed beneath it. Another man stood before her now, wearing more clothes than the hairy man, and he had shiny things on his ears and around his neck. His bellow was deeper than the first man's, but still as coarse and spiny, and still foreign to her. He crouched down before her and brushed her hair back from her face. He cooed at her. She touched the bright thing around his neck that twinkled the sun at her, and he grinned. His teeth were flat. She wasn't threatened. Braver now, she pulled at the necklace. He let her slide it over his head and put it around her own neck.

  He picked her up and carried her to a place that hid her from the sky and set her somewhere softer than the deck. He made light for her out of nothing, a red-orange glow that topped a lumpy white mass. He was doing magic to impress her. She liked this place and this man who worshipped her. He had given her a gift, and now he would take care of her. If only there was a way she could tell him why she was there. She was sure he would help her. Perhaps he could see into her heart and just know.

  The man removed his shirt, and she relaxed even more. He wanted to put her at ease. By looking like her, he would make her feel like she belonged. He took off the rest of his clothes and came up beside her. He patted her head, ran his hands down her hair. He touched her new skin. Still sensitive, she brushed his hand away. He put it back. She tried to push it away again, but he was stronger. She frowned. He smiled all those flat teeth at her once more. She wondered if she might have been mistaken. He moved to cover her body with his.

  The misery she had felt before was nothing in comparison. She inhaled the excruciating air and screamed a hoarse cry. She clawed at him, pushed at his weight on top of her, but she could not move him. Agony ripped her body apart again. A tingling sensation washed over her and the light in her eyes began to dim.

  Somewhere in that darkness, through the pain, she could feel his heartbeat. The emptiness in her cried out. He had something she needed.

  She reached up, pulled him to her, and sunk her pointed teeth deep into the skin of his neck. She drank him down, consuming his soul, filling the barren places inside her. He collapsed on top of her and still she drank, until there was nothing left.

  The door burst open and the hairy man entered. He pulled the naked man off of her. She knew he would be able to tell what the man had done from the blood between her legs. And he would be able to tell what she had done from the blood she now licked from her lips.

  "Siren," he whispered.

  She gasped. In her brain there was an avalanche.

  Words flooded her, images and thoughts, smells and sounds. Knowledge. She knew what it was like to love a woman and kill a man. She knew fire and rain. She knew how to sail a ship, this ship, and she knew the names of every man on the crew. She cried out again and slapped her palms to her head. She had taken the man's soul, and his life right along with it. She watched as the shafts of her golden hair turned deep red, filled with the captain's blood.

  The first mate had named her. He knew what she was. She was death, the shark, the thing to be afraid of. She lured men to their graves with her beauty.

  In one swift motion he pulled the knife from his belt. She did not flinch as he approached her. There was nothing left to fear.

  The knife swept down and split the captain's throat open, hiding the teethmarks in the cut. He stared deep into her eyes as he pulled a large ruby ring off the dead man's finger and put it on his own. The knife, streaked with what little crimson was left in the captain's body, he brandished at the crowd of men gathered at the door.

  "Eddie Lawless, what's goin' on?" the man in front asked. The men behind him whispered low, words like "magic" and "evil" and "witch" catching in her ears.

  "It's Lawson, Cooky," the hairy man responded. "Captain Lawson. And don't you forget it."

  "Yessir," the men mumbled. "Yessir, Cap'n."

  "Leave me," Lawson ordered.

  "But sir, what about Cap'n --"

  "I am the captain," he told them. "You can collect the carcass later. Leave me now." He slammed the door in their faces.

  The mattress shifted under his weight as he sat down across from her. She did not want to look at him, concentrating instead on the ends of her new hair and the line across the dead man's throat.

  Lawson shoved the body onto the floor. "Siren."

  She looked up.

  "So. You can understand me then?"

  She nodded once.

  "Good." He pulled the sheet down and wiped his knife blade with it. "Understand this. I know what you are, what you need and what you do. If you do exactly as I tell you, I won't kill you."

  If she had known how to laugh, she would have. It was unsettling. She knew what laughter was, what caused it and why someone did it, but she didn't have the slightest idea of how to make her body perform such a feat. It was the same with the words - she could understand them, but she couldn't get her tongue around them and speak back. She would have laughed at the thought of this man killing her, for she would have welcomed death. But there was one task she had to accomplish before that happened. She had to find her lover.

  She nodded her head once more.

  "Excellent." He left the bed and went to open a trunk on the other side of the room. He rummaged through it for a moment, and then tossed a bundle of burgundy material into her lap. She stared at it, marveling in the slight difference between it and the color of her hair. She reached out and stroked its softness, drawing patterns on it with her finger.

  His chuckle brought her out of her state. "You have no idea what to do with it, do you?" He took her by the hand and gently eased her off the bed. "Come on, stand up."

  She placed one foot flat on the floor, then the other. Then she pushed up with all her might, locking her knees and propelling herself forward into him.

  He caught her before she hit the floor. "Whoa. Easy. You have to get your sea legs." He helped her balance enough to stay upright. Surprisingly, her feet held her without too much trouble.

  "Now," he said, grabbing the bundle off the bed, "you're lucky I have a daughter and I'm used to doing this." He spun her around so that she faced the wall. "Six years ago I only knew how to undress a woman." He pulled her hands up above her head and eased the material down around her. He moved her hair to one side so he could button up the back.

  "There." He turned her back around. "It's a bit large and it'll probably be a tad warm. But it'll keep the sun off you, and the . . . my . . . men away from temptation." He looked her up and down. "Not that they'll need much warning, mind. But you get enough rum into a
man . . .well . . .stranger things have happened."

  He looked down at the former captain's body. "You won't need to . . . eat . . . again for a while then?"

  She shook her head.

  "Right. Best if you only do it when I tell you." He shoved the knife back into his belt.

  Her eyes widened.

  "Oh, don't worry," he chuckled. "You're aboard a pirate ship, darlin'. If there's one thing we've always got more than our share of, it's blood."

  They encountered a ship three days later. From her sanctuary she heard blasts from cannons spread amidst the cries of men. She lost her footing when the ship lurched sideways, hooks pulling the losing ship close enough so that men might cross over. She peeked through the windows at the smoke of the guns, swords clashing as the blood flew.

  Lawson came back to her room when the battle had died down. He opened the door and threw a man at her feet. His clothes were ripped and his face was a bloody mess. Gray eyes looked up at her from the red-stained face and filled with terror.

  "No . . . oh, God, no" were the last words he spoke.

  His fear was intoxicating.

  She closed her eyes when she was finished and let the magic wash over her. She felt the pain this man had in the pit of his stomach. She felt his broken arm and nose. She felt the love he had for his young wife and small child. She knew his favorite food was strawberries. It wasn't just the blood she craved; it was everything. She needed the senses and the psyche, the emotions and the pain, the good and the bad. She needed his life, his soul.

  Rejuvenated, she tossed her hair back and peered up at Lawson. He cupped her cheek and wiped a spot of blood away from the corner of her mouth. "That's my girl." He threw open the door and kicked the man's body over the threshold. "There's your captain, men," he declared, eyeing each member of the newly vanquished crew. "Seems he got into a spot of trouble. Any of you want the same trouble, just cross me."