IGMS Issue 27 Page 4

  "But isn't he Death, Oma?"

  "No, Gisela dear. Just a child of the mountain and the sea." She sniffed. "What have you been burning? Old clothes? Sausages?"

  The Salt Man held out his arm. Oma Solberg looked horrified.

  "I've bound him with the Undying Link," said Gisela. "I learned it from one of your books, Oma."

  "Oh, Gisela! Herr Salzmann, I ask forgiveness for my granddaughter's foolishness."

  The stern pale figure inclined its head. "Forgiveness in return for young Frau Solberg's relief from pain. Kindness for kindness is part of the Law. Perhaps this is a good way to end."

  "End? What are you talking about?" said Gisela.

  "I cannot do what you ask, but no mortal can break the Undying Link. Therefore I must serve you until the child is born."

  Gisela went cold. "What child?"

  "The one you carry, of course, Frau Solberg. The one who will be my end."

  The room spun. But Gisela hadn't fainted at her first sight of Hartwin's mangled leg, and now she managed to stand straight and reply with only the slightest tremor in her voice. "Nonsense. Why would you know something like that before I would?"

  "I see lives. The one inside you shines both like you and like the man."

  "His name is -- was Hartwin." Gisela's tears spilled over. The Salt Man stood up. He loomed over her by at least a foot.

  "Don't touch me!"

  He stopped, and bowed. "As you command, Frau Solberg. Perhaps this is another kindness. The child's first tears will taste all the sweeter, after I go without any for so long."

  Gisela stood with her hand pressed to her stomach. She couldn't feel any life stirring there. To have Hartwin's child, with Hartwin gone . . .

  The Salt Man had to be lying. Could he lie? Her plan had seemed so simple: detaining Death long enough to plead for Hartwin's return, offering as much as her own life in exchange as he demanded.

  But Oma Solberg, who'd welcomed her when the rest of Hartwin's family had eyed her askance, said that the Salt Man wasn't Death. If that were true, she'd trapped a creature from one of the Marchen told to children, no more threatening than a kobold or an elf. The pale stranger's look of confusion as Oma Solberg pushed the soup bowl toward him only strengthened the impression. Surely the End of All Things wouldn't look so bewildered when confronted by a spoon?

  "Eat, Herr Salzmann," said Oma Solberg. "Nothing with a belly can go long without food in it."

  "But this is not tears."

  Gisela hesitated, then stirred a heaping spoonful of salt into the broth. "Now try."

  He stuck a finger into the bowl. Gisela had to demonstrate how to use the spoon. She caught Oma Solberg's amused look and guessed what the old woman was thinking: If the Salt Man's prediction was true, she'd welcome the practice in teaching helpless beings how to eat.

  A tear slid down Gisela's cheek.

  The Salt Man, intent upon his task, didn't look up when Oma Solberg led her from the room.

  Gisela woke convinced that the events of the previous day had been a nightmare. She opened the door to find the Salt Man still sitting in the same chair.

  "Oh. Have you been sitting there all night?"

  He stood up. "No, Frau Solberg. The weise, alte Frau said that you would need a fire. She showed me how to keep it alive."

  Sure enough, a rejuvenated fire crackled on the hearth. Gisela's cast-iron skillet sat amid the flames. Gisela noticed the blackened lump resting inside it.

  "Ah… what is that?"

  "A sausage, Frau Solberg. For you to eat."

  Gisela rescued the pan. "No one's going to be eating this. Unless you like charcoal?"

  "I would not know. The weise, alte Frau called it a sausage."

  "Oh dear." Gisela went to the stone crock in the corner of the kitchen and scooped up a bowlful of sauerkraut. "Try that. It's salty."

  "I cannot drink that."

  "You don't drink sauerkraut. You eat it." She ate a spoonful herself by way of demonstration. He followed suit. His eyes widened, and he dug in with relish.

  Gisela, on the other hand, left the room when her stomach gave a sudden twist of revulsion. Not at the Salt Man. At the smell of sauerkraut, which she'd always loved. Her stomach knew what her heart denied. The Salt Man was right.

  Every time Gisela coaxed her unwanted prisoner into trying a new food, or dressing himself in Oma Solberg's late husband's clothing (Gisela wouldn't let him touch Hartwin's), she saw herself doing the same for her child. Sometimes it was a girl, sometimes a boy, but it always had Hartwin's loving eyes. And soon she couldn't help but think of it daily. Her breasts ached. Her body thickened. People soon noticed that she was with child.

  They noticed the Salt Man, too. Every day he became more solid, more visible. Oma Solberg commented on it first.

  "You have color in your face, Herr Salzmann! And you look like there's a body in those old clothes of Heinrich's now."

  At first, when he followed Gisela to market, carrying cheeses and charms for her to sell, people had made comments about her odd shadow while looking straight through him, not even seeing the items he carried. Now Volkburg knew him as Menno, Gisela's simple-minded cousin, come to help the young widow during her pregnancy.

  Oma Solberg had scolded her for calling him simple-minded. "He's older than either of us, older than the mountain itself. He's not the village idiot, Gisela! He knows things we can't begin to understand."

  "He doesn't know how to tie his own shoes, Oma,"

  "I do now," said the Salt Man, holding out a shod foot as evidence.

  "But they're on the wrong feet," Gisela pointed out. "Oma, how else would you explain the strange man in my house? You know the things some people said when Hartwin married me and not a local girl. A simpleminded cousin is, well, innocent."

  "He is that," said Oma Solberg, and Gisela felt another pang of guilt.

  "Fourteen," said the Salt Man from his place by the window.

  "Fourteen what?" said Gisela, puzzled.

  "People crying outside in the street today. Yesterday it was twelve."

  "Children?"

  "Not all. Frau Muller, Herr Hoffman, Herr Schmidt --"

  "The blacksmith? Crying in front of everyone? I can't believe that."

  "I have worn flesh for too long. Tears fall with no one to gather them and make them part of the earth and sea again. There are too many tears in the world."

  "Nonsense." Gisela shook her head. "You're telling me that you stalking people like a carrion crow somehow makes the world a happier place? I don't believe that."

  "Someone must gather the tears."

  "I don't believe that either."

  Oma Solberg said nothing.

  Summer turned to autumn. Gisela's step got heavier. She sat down more often to rest and stretch her aching back, letting "Menno" do the actual marketing instead of just carrying her purchases. She had to admit; now that he'd learned the concept of money, he did it well. No one cheated him. Not out of fear, though. No one crossed the street to avoid him now. In fact, it looked like people sought him out, greeting him with a handshake or a hug. Gisela was forced to realize two things: The people of Volkburg, who'd always borne injuries, bitter winters, and hunger with grim determination, now cried at burnt porridge. The butcher wept while slaughtering cattle. The minister sniffled over his sermons.

  And the Salt Man's touch lessened that sadness, however briefly.

  The somber pall over Volkburg deepened, and Gisela's time drew near. Oma Solberg explained the concept of birth to the Salt Man. His look of shocked incomprehension made the old woman smile for the first time in weeks.

  The baby arrived with the first snow: a perfect, healthy girl with her father's eyes. When her first cry rang through the little cottage everyone, even the Salt Man, smiled.

  But little Ruth didn't stop crying.

  Gisela's heart broke to hear her, but no amount of rocking, soothing or songs from either her or Oma Solberg could quiet her. Gisela cried too, in sy
mpathy.

  "Give her to me," said the Salt Man.

  Gisela held her sobbing daughter closer. "No. You said that her tears would mean the end of you. I've done enough wrong to you already."

  "Frau Solberg, as long as I wear flesh, people will grieve without stopping. This is part of the Law, like giving kindness for kindness."

  "It's not kindness to kill you!" Gisela had to shout to be heard over her child's heartbroken screams.

  "Your child will cry forever."

  "Take my tears, then. A mother's tears must mean something."

  He shook his head. "You may hold her, Frau Solberg, but let me take the child's tears."

  "Gisela," she said.

  "Your pardon, Frau Solberg?"

  "Call me Gisela. Please. Tell me, will it . . . will it hurt?"

  "I don't think so, Gisela."

  Gently, the Salt Man touched the newborn's cheek. The tip of his finger glistened with tears. Little Ruth stopped crying at once.

  "No, it didn't hurt her at all. I think she's happy."

  "I meant you . . . Gisela protested, but the Salt Man had already touched the finger to his lips. Gisela held her breath.

  And the Salt Man stood there, staring at his finger as though he'd never seen it before.

  "You're, ah . . . still here," said Gisela at last.

  "Yes," he said, sounding puzzled. He held out his wrist.

  "The Undying Link is gone. But you're still here," Gisela said. She knew she should feel relieved, but instead an overwhelming gloom swept over her. Ruth's cries started up again, and redoubled.

  "No, he's not, said Oma Solberg over the din. She, too, was crying. "The Salt Man is gone. That's just Menno."

  "But . . ." said Gisela.

  "I wore flesh for too long. I broke the Law. Forgive me." Menno, who had been the Salt Man, trembled.

  Gisela had never seen him cry, but now tears streaked his face.

  Gisela kissed her daughter, handed her to Oma Solberg, and kissed the old woman's cheek. "Danke," she said, and went to stand before the former Salt Man.

  "You had no choice. I didn't mean to trap you. I only wanted Hartwin back. Can you ever forgive me?"

  "You have shown me nothing but kindness, Gisela. If giving you my forgiveness is kindness in return, I give it freely."

  Gently, as she would have for Ruth, Gisela wiped the tears from his cheeks with her thumb. She saw the look of shock on his face, then on Oma Solberg's as the tears touched her lips.

  Then all was salt and darkness.

  A salt-white, black clad figure haunts the town of Volkberg. Mourners see her face briefly, feel her touch on their cheeks before she vanishes and life goes on. Some call her the Salt Widow, although her touch is gentle. Only one person now living, an old man with a grown daughter, knows the reason for the name. When asked to tell the story, he turns away, his eyes bright with tears.

  And when the Salt Man weeps, the widow comes to him.

  In the Fading Light of Sundown

  by Nancy Fulda

  Artwork by Julie Dillon

  * * *

  The sun hung low and red beyond the island, and Tobis' boat was sinking. Brackish water slopped through widening cracks in the frame, glistening in the sunset. Welts rose where the spray soaked past his leathers.

  With a snap like thunder, another live-wood plank split from the hull. Tobis ripped his gaze from the jutting topple of cliffs that was his goal. He placed ungloved hands against the timber on each side, willing it to hold, but the endless slap of salt-poison waves had leeched all strength from the wood. Cut off from the nourishment of the mainland, it could no longer maintain the shape his thoughts demanded. The strained timbers gave a weary groan.

  If the boat lost cohesion, Tobis knew, the poisoned water would kill him before he could swim to shore.

  He had not spared much thought for death, these past decades, although he supposed at his age one ought to. Dying itself didn't scare him much. But to have gathered his courage . . . to have finally begun the journey he had contemplated every sunset for twenty years -- and then to die without ever setting foot on the island . . . Now that would be unbearable.

  Salt-poison spray blew across the bow, stinging where it touched Tobis' face and hands. He tugged the brim of his hat and gripped the bailing bucket one-handed. The fingers of his free hand kept contact with the live-wood, urging it to grow.

  Perhaps the boat, cut off from the soil, was able to draw sustenance from Tobis' body. Perhaps it was just dumb luck, but the boards held.

  Tobis' muscles ached when the rough ocean waves at last turned to glimmering ripples of sunlight near the island. He steered around a stony bluff and let the current drive the boat into the shallows.

  When he could make out the shadows of stones beneath the glare on the water's surface, Tobis leapt from the collapsing boat and pulled it to shore with both hands.

  The bow sprouted roots before the stern cleared the water. Milky tendrils shot from the planks, scrabbling like sightless worms at the soil.

  Ruthlessly, Tobis shoved the boat farther ashore, snapping the tender roots and sending up sprays of gravel. The boat collapsed into a jumble of planks, creaking and groaning, desperate for sustenance. Roots coiled piteously, grew thicker, and clawed into the dirt like the grasping fingers of a mortally wounded soldier.

  Tobis kept on despite his exhaustion, pushing the sagging timbers past the tide line, beyond the contaminating reach of the salt-poison. When he judged he'd gone far enough, he sank, gasping, to lean his back against the splintered wood.

  "There y'are," he panted, patting the jumbled timbers like a beloved pet. "Eat up. You've earned it."

  The roots pressed deeper, and the live-wood began to draw nourishment. The planks thrummed with that ululating song that only Builders could hear. Before nightfall, in this fertile soil, the boat could rebuild itself into a galleon, or a mansion, if Tobis cared to stay with it and guide its progress.

  When his breathing eased, Tobis rose and dusted the grit from his palms, wincing at the overlapping welts where the salt-poison had touched him. Just as well his leathers had protected the bulk of his body; otherwise he'd be limping like an elder right now.

  He raised his face. Rough, warm sea breezes beat at him. Sounds swelled in his consciousness: rustling palm fronds; birds screeching along the cliff; the scrabble of crabs in the surf.

  Ah yes, he knew this place.

  His heart beat faster. He opened his eyes -- he had not been aware that he had closed them -- to find a gleaming obsidian spear tip hovering two inches from his nose.

  A harsh voice barked: "Builders are forbidden here! Take that abomination and depart. Or die."

  Tobis thought for one instant that the entire universe had slipped away, replaced by utter stillness. Then his heart thumped again, and he remembered to breath. It was not the spear that frightened him. It was the thought that perhaps he was mistaken. Perhaps, after all these years, he had come to the island only to learn he was a fool.

  He required all his courage to wrench his gaze beyond the rock-steady spear point and look, instead, at the scowling face of the woman wielding it.

  "Akinya," he whispered.

  She froze in astonishment and lowered her spear to view his face.

  "Tobis?"

  "I knew it!" he shouted. He knocked the spear aside and swung her around as if they were children again. His hat felt suddenly tight against his scalp. He ripped it off and threw it to the sea breezes, then held her at arm's length to look at her. "The scouts have been watching every day through their glass lenses. They said there was only one Caretaker left on the island. I knew it had to be you!"

  She was just as he remembered: Big-nosed and dark-haired, with a shaggy jacket of animal skins and boots made of rawhide. Not beautiful by most men's standards, but exceptional by his. Akinya. After all these years, his Akinya.

  His cheeks hurt from grinning too hard. Several heartbeats passed before he realized she was not
smiling back. She stood like a wooden pole inhis arms.

  "Akinya, what's wrong?"

  "You're a Builder, Tobis."

  He glanced to the shoreline, where the scattered planks of his boat had already raised themselves into a structure. The first questing sprouts were budding from knobs along the wood, following the pattern of his thoughts.

  "I can't help it, Akinya. The wood Awakens when I touch it. I can't not Build."

  "Then you belong with other Builders." Her finger stretched over the water. "Out there."

  Tobis looked across the channel, where the shagging skyline of the mainland glowed red in the sunset. Structure upon structure; living buildings that sprawled upward for twenty stories or more, with arched roots like massive pillars. There were so many constructs that the land could not sustain them. The oldest ones had toppled into rot. Tobis' boat, carefully hoarded and nourished for months before his departure, was the largest structure that could grow there now.

  "You're wrong," Tobis said gently. "I belong right here. With you. I wish I'd realized that sooner."

  The spear lifted to a threatening height. "You're talking nonsense, Tobis. We're not children anymore."

  "Perhaps not." He bent to lift a dead stick from the ground. The wood Awakened, writhing like a snake in his hand. Tendrils sprouted and twined around themselves into a lacework imitation of a flower.

  "Stop that!" She slapped the creation from his hand.

  As his touch had Awakened it, so her touch returned it to nature. The stick clattered to the stones, lifeless.

  Tobis couldn't keep himself from smiling. Her voice; her eyes; she was exactly the same. Even the offended dignity in her expression was familiar.

  "I love you, Akinya."

  Her lips parted in soundless objection. He had never spoken the words out loud before, not in all the years when they had raced across these cliffs as children. Not even on the day when he and Akinya had stared, astonished, as a piece of deadwood burst to life in his hand; when they had built a raft in a single afternoon and he had fled upon it to the mainland before the village elders learned what he had become.