May Writing Challenge: Wheel of Time

[Sean *]

It's writing challenge time! To enter, just post a ficlet (300-4000 words suggested) in this thread. When the voting for this month's OTM winners comes around, a voting poll will go up for this as well.

The Challenge: Write a story involving Hammel characters during any other period of history, in any other culture. This can be prehistoric times, ancient civilizations, the Arabic caliphates that preserved Greco-Roman culture after the fall of the Roman Empire, the Industrial Revolution, anything but modern times, so nothing after 1999, for a firm cut-off.

The rules:

• Characters must be in Hammel canon, but the ficlets are, by the very nature of the challenge, not canon.
  
• Entries must be more than 300 words.
  
• You can enter no more than three ficlets. Any ficlets posted after the original 3 will not be considered for voting. If you want to post more, however, have fun.
  
• Story entries must be titled.

[Carter Chevalier]

Never in Passing
London: 1886

A young lord. A twin – the oldest by seventeen minutes. He had taken to the streets of London after the impending end finally caught them; his father had passed, and in this country – this city – of all places. Of course, they had ventures there. The Chevalier name carried a fair share of weight around Europe. But the pressure mounted in his mind as he thought of exactly what his father’s death meant. Not simply a life without a father who cared for him. Everything he had and everything he controlled was firmly settled on Carter’s shoulders.

Seventeen minutes.

They had every intention of rushing back to Paris – back to where he preferred to settle – but the journey was long. And there was no way he could handle such a thing with a sober mentality. The presence of life in a tavern amidst the snowing night was practically a beacon of hope.

Stepping inside, the Chevalier made no move to shrug off his coat. Because it mattered. Every other inch of what he wore expressed his wealth. His taste. The decrepit dark coat concealed enough to leave him unscathed. The room wasn’t necessarily empty; a sprinkle of lonely, drunk individuals scattered the room. He took a seat at a table away from everything else. Alone.

A glass was placed in front of him, and his bright eyes settled on the liquid in the glass. “I didn’t ask for anything.”

“You didn’t need to.” A woman. Carter looked up at her; dark hair, bright eyes. Clear blue. Her accident was ingrained with the culture. His clearly wasn’t.

Carter stared back at her for a time. Watching her. Wondering if she recognised him somehow. If someone there in that place knew who he was, and if she’d been sent to serve him for that particular reason. But there was no light of recognition in her eyes. Slowly, the Chevalier reached for whatever coin he might have been carrying.

“Save your money.” She replied quickly, the corner of her mouth pulling into something of a small, genuine smile. “You look like you need it, so it’s on me.”

Carter eyed her curiously as she raised an eyebrow towards him, as if challenging the scrutinising gaze he was giving her. His eyes crossed along her form slowly, and she didn’t flinch. When he caught her eyes, she was still challenging him with that expression. Tilting his head to the space across the table, he twitched his eyebrows up once. “Sit.”

“I’m working.” She declined simply, her tone sounding amused.

“I’ll pay you more than what you’ll likely earn in a year.” The Chevalier pointed out, though he wasn’t used to having to do so. Still, the expression on her face changed to one of humoured disbelief, and she exhaled a laugh at what he was propositioning. And for the first time, he laughed too; “Not for that, just-”

“I finish when we’re empty.” She stated, matter-of-factly. As if challenging him further; “I doubt you’ll still be here.”

Carter’s eyes narrowed on her, his hand raising to run the line of his hair idly. Ensuring its perfection. But it was always perfect. “Do I at least get your name?”

Her grin was practically intoxicating.

“If you’re still here.”

He waited for an hour in the same seat once she walked away, staring at the empty glass the moment he finished it. She never came back to get it. She never looked at him again; at least, he didn’t catch her doing so. After that hour, she glanced out to try and find him.

And he was gone.

She scoffed at the fact. Of course he left.

When the doors finally closed, she threw a shawl over her shoulders to at least try and combat the cold night air. She didn’t mind the snow in her hair. Stepping past and into the adjacent alleyway, her eyes caught sight of something bright.

Blonde.

And she laughed. “Didn’t think to wait inside?”

“There are few things I wait for.” He admitted, pushing away from the wall he leaned against as he stepped towards her. The turn in his nose was evident, his tone shifting to something somewhat disgruntled; “Even less in such distasteful company.”

“Ever the charmer, I see.”

“Besides,” The Chevalier rolled his shoulders in a shrug, offering her a knowing grin; “You said it needed to be empty.”

“And a listener, too.” She quipped back. Standing before her, Carter's eyes seemed drawn to the flecks of white in her hair. Too cold to melt, but still a distraction nonetheless. “It’s snow.” She pointed out, her smirk evident again.

His gaze shifted and caught her lips briefly. “I can see that.” He replied, raising a hand to brush the flakes out of his own hair. “It doesn’t bother you?”

“No.” She replied simply. “I’ve always loved it.” And something about it always seemed to catch her attention. “Like… A stroke of a brush to the touch.” She offered idly. Within that brief moment of silence, he caught her eyes. She gave him a new found type of conviction in tandem with the gentle connotations of her words – the kind he'd never experienced before. Within that break, he felt the urge to lean in. The magnetic draw. But the moment passed, and he caught himself. So when all he replied with was an amused sound – somewhere between an agreement and a groan – she thought to offer more. “Rya.”

“Rya?”

“My name.”

Carter raised his eyebrows in disbelief, “Your parents named you Rya?”

She breathed a laugh, reaching forward and patting his shoulder lightly as she moved to brush past him; “I named myself Rya.”

Carter let her pass, even going so far as to stepping back and shifting his shoulder out of her way. Though as he did, he felt a clear rush of disbelief. A Chevalier moved for no one. Especially a woman. He watched her move, his hands securing themselves into his pockets.

“I’ll see you tomorrow night, blondie.” She offered, raising her hand and waving in his direction over her shoulder. Never looking back. Never needing to.

Carter – not to be stereotyped in such a way – immediately called out to her within the growing distance; “What makes you think I’ll be here?”

“I don’t think,” She didn’t miss a beat, “I know.”

[Koty Hura]

***Warning***
Please skip this entry if you are sensitive to dark situations or those involving implied death.

Hura-kiri

Pearl Harbor, 1941

Many of the other pilots were excited. Some were fanatically so. There was glory to be had in stopping the American air threat before it could reach the homeland.. To others it was at least justified and honorable because the Americans had no business poking their noses into the business of the other side of the world. Koty, though, hadn't singed up for this. He'd been fully prepared to fight for his country, sure. To protect his family and their honor.. but to slaughter people like dogs? To attack them unannounced and unaware like this? There was no honor in this for him. No pride, no accomplishment. This was not a fight, it was a slaughter.

So it was with less excitement than apathy that Airman Koty Hura began his descent toward the quiet harbor below. Within minutes there were sirens blaring so loud that he could hear them even from the cramped cockpit of his plane, over the roar of the wind outside and the engines of his entire squad screaming. Too little, too late. There was no chance that the Americans would avoid substantial casualties. This was like shooting fish in a barrel. No challenge. No fight. Just a slaughter.

Except that some of these westerners were adept at what they did.. and as Koty clicked off the safety for his single massive bomb, he heard anti-aircraft flac canons start firing. No matter, it was still too little too late. They could destroy every single plane in the air and still only cause a fraction of the damage they would suffer. A command came over the radio. Weapons free. With the click of a button, Koty's bomb was away. It joined the shower of identical devices careening toward the panicked harbor below. Koty merely sighed. There was something wrong with all of this. If only people would take the time to understand. Self-preservation sometimes needed to take a back seat to morals and ethics.. No matter now. Even if Koty was bound only by duty and not honor, he was still bound. He had no choice.

Dozens of explosions shook the entire island and the skies alike as many of the bombs hit their marks and detonated. Koty's plane jerked and shuttered as the concussive waves passed by and screamed their fury at everything for miles. None heard their cries louder than the ships and crewmen below. As ordered, Koty and his squad banked right and made a wide three-quarter circle, losing altitude for a strafing run to take advantage of the chaos the bombing run had undoubtedly caused. There were fewer AA guns now, but some still desperately tried to save what was left of the American fleet. They were headed for one of them now.. The rat-a-tat of machine guns drown out everything else and Koty's soon joined the symphony of destruction.

But it was short-lived. Suddenly a disturbingly cold sensation accompanied vertigo and an all-too-sudden change in direction. Even the sound of the machine guns was drown out by a deafening ringing tone. Koty glanced left.. half of his wing was missing.. there was a red mist on the glass of his canopy. Daylight shining in through dozens of ugly holes.. His uniform already staining a muddy red color. No feeling left. Just that deathly cold. There was no escape now. No way out. No way back. No atoning for this. They'd meant to slaughter these men like dogs and he'd been bitten.

Koty himself found no honor in this death. No glory. It seemed.. unnecessary. But there could still be honor for his wife, his family. Koty had been defeated, and like his ancestors there was only one way to preserve what little of his honor was left. As his vision faded fast and the cold took a back seat to numbness, Koty aimed what was left of his plane toward the dogs that had bitten him.. He felt no anger, no resentment.. he couldn't even bring himself to blame them. Duty required that he did what he was told and common sense dictated that they do what they could to prevent it.

A second round of ringing and vertigo.. Koty's vision tinted red.. Half of his canopy missing. No more feeling, no more cold, no more numbness. Nothing but blue above, blue below, and the fast-approaching grey iron stern of a ship. Another blast of vertigo, vision tinted darker red, the ship now taking up all of Koty's vision and approaching too fast to comprehend..

Fade to black.

[Joshua Bernstein]

Peasant Crusade

1096, Germany

Content warning: this story concerns the real life massacre of Jewish people by crusaders.

---

Although young, Sean Neville was a skilled physician. Gifted, some said, although he didn't take that view of it. He rather attributed his abilities to a studious nature and excellent teachers. Both his father and then later Robert Hopkins had passed on their knowledge to him.

He was a peaceful man by nature as well as nurture, not the sort to take up arms on a whim. Even had he been the younger son of a noble house, unable to inherit land, the promise of land won through battle would not have enticed him.

He was, however, a religious man. The Pope himself had promised blessings for those who went to the Holy Land, and although that in and of itself was not motivation enough, the truth of the matter was that he knew his skills would be needed. This knowledge was all the more pressing when Peter the Hermit began to rile up the local mendicants, proclaiming that Jesus himself had come down to him.

Men and women he had known since infancy, youth he had grown up with, all were drawn to Peter. His concern increased with his tally:

Malachai Roen, a merchant from the East who had settled here when Sean was but a boy, along with his fast friend Zachary Bishop. Kamillia Engel and Gregory Mackenzie. Rhea Hartman, who had arrived from Africa only a few years ago and taken a new name upon her baptism. Brooke Llewelyn, whom many believed touched in the head but others said was a prophet.

He had to go. His medicinal knowledge was needed.


The march to the Holy Land was difficult even within the borders of christiandom. There were few enough supplies among the followers of Peter, and no welcome from those whose territories they passed through. The handful of knights who had joined with the peasants were themselves poor, having buried themselves under mountains of debt to Jewish moneylenders just to afford armor and weapons and horses.

Each stop was accompanied by pillaging, stealing from fellow (poor) Christians for survival, and being preyed upon by slavers who saw opportunity in the unruly mass of men and women and children making their way from home.

Sean was uneasy. He was not a thief, and many of the people being pillaged needed their food and supplies to live. They had children, infants, the elderly and diseased who relied upon them and were being deprived. And yet the crusaders likewise had children and infants born along the way, and needed food they didn't have. He prayed that the drought and famine that had so plagued Europe and encouraged the poor to join the crusades as an out would end soon, allowing those whose homes they ravished to rebuild and feed their families.


That was the ambiguous.


But then Peter was joined by one count Emicho.

Sean could barely stand to be around him and his thoughts, full of greed and contempt for other people as they were. His mental shields seemed to barely keep him out, even when surrounded by the myriad thoughts of tens of thousands of mendicants.


News of the count's persecution of the Jews outpaced his march, and the Jewish communities in their path offered bribes and pleas; the Emporer Henry IV issued a proclamation against this unexpected war against the Jewish citizens of his country, and most of the local catholic hierarchy condemned it.

To little effect.

Emicho and his minions denounced their detractors as being in the pockets of the Jews, doing their best to tarnish them in the eyes of those who followed them. It was, perhaps, not a difficult feat; the peasants were both ignorant and desperate, and the Jewish population was generally wealthy. Coveting would have been too strong a word to use for the destitute crusading masses; they had so little even of what was necessary for survival.

But covetousness was precisely what Sean saw in Emicho's twisted mind. He recoiled from the knowledge of the murder and mayhem the count had already inspired among the Jewish communities his party had passed. He couldn't allow his friends to join in with this sort of wanton, thoroughly un-Christian destruction.

"The Holy Roman Emperor forbids it," he explained to Rhea over dinner.

She looked skeptical. "And yet we are to go convert non believers far and away in another country."

He tried again with Brooke. "Forced conversions are against the will of God, and the Church."

"Everyone knows it's the end of the world coming."We all saw the signs right before we left," she reminded him, referencing the meteor shower and lunar eclipse that had inspired so many. "It's only helping them, to convert them before the world ends and they have no choice but hellfire."

"It's not right, the Pope himself said we were needed to help in Constantinople." He argued with Gregory.

"And we cannot get there without supplies," Gregory reasoned.

By the time of their arrival at Worms the young physician felt hopeless. Each night he prayed for guidance, for a change of heart from Emicho, for the crusaders to refuse to follow him any longer.


Anything at all.

Unfortunately, the crusaders arrived at Worms along with mass hysteria. Even Sean wasn't sure who first claimed that the Jews had poisoned the wells, but the rumor flew through the town like wildfire swelling the ranks of the crusaders with outraged locals. This was to the detriment of their Jewish neighbors; the locals knew which homes to beat down, without searching for the mezuzah on the doorframe.

Sean had no power to stop the ensuing massacre. Families were dragged from their homes and slaughtered; age and gender were no shield against the murderous rage of the peasants.

No amount of psychic training had prepared the physician for this. The fear and pain of helpless victims and the fury of men and women whipped into a frenzy of revenge and fervent belief so strong that even the imprications of the church elders couldn't stop it, it was all so overwhelming. He wanted to do something, anything, but he couldn't even prevent Zachary Bishop, whom he'd known for years, from shaking him off and joining the mob.

Another Bishop, the church elder kind rather than one merely named Bishop, put a temporary halt to the carnage by offering the surviving Jews refuge in his palace. Sean breathed a sigh of relief as the Bishop's forces staved off the crusaders and escorted their Jewish citizens to safety.

That should have been the end of that. The Jews had claimed sanctuary, and this along with the Emporer's orders ought to have been enough to save them.

It wasn't.

For a week Emicho and his followers whispered insidious messages against those taking refuge in the palace. The rumors that had sprung up at the beginning of the crusaders' stay in Worms were repeated, and the Bishop's devotion to his religion questioned. Why would he prefer to shelter unrepentant murderers and non-believers, if they hadn't paid him to help them. Could it truly be considered sanctuary, if it was gained through bribes?

Sean did his best to combat these statements, to uproot the seeds of prejudiced hatred planted unsuspectingly in the minds of his fellows. But eight days after the Jews had taken refuge within the Bishop's palace, the mob broke in.


Sean refused to join, but nothing he said or did could halt the ensuing massacre. Those who survived only did so by accepting conversion at threat of death. Any who resisted were slaughtered, or in some desperate cases killed their own children and themselves to avoid the savagery of the crusaders. Even the strongest mental shields couldn't keep despair and terror from hammering at the physician's skull. He sagged inside his makeshift tent, clutching his head as his temple throbbed with a pain that couldn't match the misery occurring within the palace.

When it was over Rhea sought him out. "One of them stabbed the Bishop's nephew!" She spat, shaking her head at the memory of this ingratitude.

Sean inhaled through his nose, but only asked, "and does anyone within the palace require assistance?'

Rhea shrugged. "There's assistance needed everywhere."

Sean pushed himself to his feet with a ragged sigh. He could do nothing for the dead, but he suspected that the people forced to abandon their faith at the hands of violence would sport a few wounds he could heal. The crusaders he had journeyed with would have to make do with someone else; he wouldn't be going on, not after this.

The servants and underlings of the Bishop Adelbert crept about the halls, heads lowered and faces solemn. They pointed the physician in the direction of the chapel, informing him in hushed whispers that this was where the Jews had been gathered. They had been engaged in prayer when the mob had broken in, and the chapel was a convenient location for baptism of those afraid enough of death to convert.

But the new converts were not to be found there. Perhaps they had returned to their homes for the moment; he was sure that they would have to come back to the palace to collect the dead. The tiled floor was slick with the blood of hundreds of people, almost an entire community wiped out in one act of evil.

Sean closed his eyes as tears welled up in their corners, but the image of lifeless infants clasped in their dead mother's arms and of wrinkled men and women holding hands in death were seared into his mind.

Here was no life, only death.

Or so it appeared if one used only the five normative senses. But a spark of mental life flared up, tugging at the corner of his own mind. Someone in the room was alive.

Barely. The flame of life wavered, flickering in and out feebly. There was little enough thought beyond pain and darkness, but it was there, and Sean's eyes flew open. He picked his way through the bodies, willing himself not to notice each individual as he passed them. Sorrow would overwhelm him, otherwise, when he had no time for that. Someone here needed him.

Eventually he found the source of life. Another young man, close to his own age, one hand flung protectively across a girl who couldn't have been more than sixteen. His chest rose and fell in a shallow, unsteady rhythm. Sean gingerly lowered himself beside his patient, untying the scrip from his waist. Herbs and poultices were difficult to keep fresh on a march such as the crusaders had undertaken, but he had done his best to replenish his supplies at each stop notby pillaging, but by an understanding of where each plant grew. Sometimes his fellows had brought him plants they knew he needed, and some of those he knew to be stolen. But he wouldn't shun such gifts when they were so desperately needed, and now they could be the only hope for life that his patient had.

The patient's injury was immediately obvious, a jagged slash mark across his throat oozing blood. Death was the likelier outcome even with a physician's care, but Sean had to try. To do nothing would be as grievous as those who left the mugged man along the side of the road in the parable about the Good Samaritan.

The first order of work was to stop the bleeding. However long the injured man had been here, it was already a miracle he hadn't bled to death. Sean was certain there wasn't much more time. Once the bleeding stopped then he would have disease to worry about, infections from the wound or from a weakened immune system.

As he worked to stabilize his patient he prayed, large hands grabbing the needed bandages and gauzes and herbs with practiced ease. If there was any mercy in The Lord, he hoped it would pour out upon this injured man through him.

For hours he knelt beside his unknown patient, praying and healing. When the new converts and those who worked within the palace came to clear away the bodies, he worked. When his work became apparent to those within he was provided with a room. A monk who served under the Bishop lead him there, and later returned with more supplies.

He remained for another week, while his patient drifted in and out of a conscious state. The blood loss had almost been too much for him, and as Sean had suspected an infection had taken root. But the man was young and had been healthy before calamity had befallen. His health would be poorer now, if he survived. Throat wounds made breathing difficult in he best of times, and any illness that restricted his ability to breath would be more perilous now.

Eventually his patient awoke. Sean hesitated to say he was recovered; he would suffer for the remainder of his life from his wound, and he would continue to require a change of bandages for awhile yet. But he was conscious, and he would likely survive for the time being.

Sean was on the other side of the room, but he heard the mental stirring and put aside the poultice he was grinding and rushed to the bedside of his patient.

"Shhh." He warned, pressing a finger across the man's mouth as it opened with a wince of pain. "Don't speak. You'll have time later to try, but it will only break open your wound if you do so now."

The patient winced again, leaning up against his elbows and squinting up at the unfamiliar face in transparent confusion. Sean could hear the swirl of thoughts, pain from his injury and fear and grief from the memories of the event that had led to this situation. He caught a name along with an image of the dead girl he had found his patient with. Talia, a younger sister.


Sean patted the other man's shoulder sympathetically. He had a younger sister, and although she and he didn't see eye to eye on all matters, he couldn't imagine how he would feel if she were murdered. Her fiancé, Colin, was a knight of some renown, and he would do his best to protect her, but he was preparing to take part in the crusades himself.

"Are you thirsty? I know that drinking will hurt, but I have no other way to quench thirst." He apologized, leaving the bedside to find the jug of water he kept full to the best of his ability. He had done his best to give the other man drink and broth while he was unconscious, but it had been difficult. He had to be ravenous and parched.

The other man nodded slowly, accepting the jug with shaky hands. The pain of swallowing caused him to falter, and only Sean's hands steady against the clay kept it from crashing to the floor.

"I'm sorry I cannot do more for you," he said ruefully, "but I've done what I can, and I'll stay here awhile longer to help you recover your full strength. My name," he added, "is Sean. You're Yoshua Ben Raviv, yes?"

The man hooded his eyes, gazing with suspicion at his savior.

"I won't give that name to anyone who asks." The physician placed the jug on the floor carefully. "And nobody else knows it. I know because I'm one of the blessed."

That was what the church said, and he had no reason to doubt it. His ability to read minds, and Zachary's ability to sense the presence of spiders! and other countless unexplained abilities were considered a divine blessing. Even the non-believers were aware of this; Sean's statement was clear to Yoshua.

"If you think loudly at me then I'll know what you mean to say. It's fortunate for both of us, since you shouldn't talk, not yet. And you might not ever be able to speak again," he warned, his voice full of sympathy.

Yoshua dropped back against his pillows mournfully.

---

The crusade left Worms without Sean. No amount of cajoling from those he knew could persuade him to continue on that path.

"If we were truly doing the work of God then would we leave murder in our wake?" He asked, shaking his head sadly at the memory of what had transpired there, memories enhanced by the trauma Yoshua had inadvertently shared throughout his recovery. He would never speak of those memories unless the other man desired; if he never did, Sean couldn't fault him.

And so they parted ways, Sean to bring Yoshua to his manor so that he could continue caring for his patient in a safer place, and the peasants toward Constantinople and their own deaths at the hands of the Seljuk they meant to subdue.

When Sean learned of the near total destruction of the forces he had joined he was saddened, of course, by the loss of lives. There had been children amongst that group, and the true instigators had been Emicho and Peter. But he was glad that he has turned aside, at least. And although Yoshua was unable to speak, he was a constant friend, always there when needed.

A good sprouting from the evils of men.

[Joshua Bernstein]

The Anarchy

1160 ,England

-----

Refugees had flooded into Hammel Abbey after the destruction of Winchester. Peasants and tradesmen whose homes were destroyed in the fires, Benedictine monks and nuns who had been forced to disperse to other locations after their convents were razed to the ground. The fighting between King Stephen and the Empress Maud was a force of destruction and lost lives, all the more unfortunate against a backdrop of men crossing the seas to fight in the ongoing crusades against the Saracens.

The Jewish population in England was not a large one. It was difficult to maintain a community on moneylending alone, which was what the law effectively limited them to: no ownership of land was allowed, no trades could be practiced, no farming could be done. Medicine and money were enough to make a small community wealthy but precariously positioned, particularly as the people who took out loans were never well pleased whenever it was time to collect. There were some whisperings of Jewish ritual murder of Christian children, but nothing that resulted in the successful mob justice seen in Worms in the late part of the previous century. The authorities of England managed to protect their Jewish subjects there, at least.

Still, the position of the Jews in England was not yet one of fear of inevitable death. The massacres that would be carried out in Norwhich and York were a few decades away, and the expulsion of the entire Jewish population from English shores wouldn't occur for another century.


So although it wasn't unheard of (Jewish generosity had, in fact, helped to fund the building of Hammel) it was at least unusual for one of the refugees to be a Jewish youth. He was easily distinguishable by his yellow hat, not yet enforced through law but merely through custom and culture.

Yoshua was, for his part, grateful to the abbey for allowing him refuge. The abbot, Father Claude, was a congenial older man whom the local population claimed was blessed beyond human measure. All sorts of miracles were attributed to him and to his abbey.

The master of novices, one Brother Robert, had proved of great help to the refugee youth. Hat aside, Yoshua was the same age as so many of his novitiates, and his fatherly spirit was always stoked by youth in need. Fortunately, Yoshua didn't require much. A place to stay and sustenance until he could return to Winchester safely.

And companionship.

he was a garrulous young man, effusive and expressive and, once he was safe within the confines of the abbey not at all cowed by the necessity of fleeing his home. He was curious about life within the abbey, and about the practices of the Christians, and willing to talk with anyone.


This was why Robert assigned Sean to accompany their guest. So after Vespers, once his duties were attended to, the novice monk joined the Jewish refugee. Yoshua would sit in the orchard beside the tall Irish youth, swinging his legs and picking at blades of grass as they conversed. He didn't find money an easy profession, he admitted, not like his father who was so excellent at it. He had thought about moving to Poland, perhaps, because he could practice a trade there. But he would have to learn a trade, and he might be too old now. He was, after all, seventeen.

As their companionship grew, so too did Yoshua's affection for his newfound friend. This was, to say the least, uncomfortable; Sean was another man, and a Christian one at that. A Christian one who was in the process of dedicating his life to his faith.

Affection mingled with an ache of indescribable yearning for a reality he knew couldn't be. During his stay he reveled in those accidental touches, brushing shoulders or hands as they talked.

But eventually Winchester was habitable again, and his family sent word.

"I've cherished this time together," he began as they stood among the orchard they had spent so many hours within.

And Sean cut off his farewell with a kiss.

[Joshua Bernstein]

The Teteria

966, Al-Andalus

---

Cordoba's status as a hub of medicine had been growing for some time, and the reign of Al-Hakam II had only cemented this reputation. The Caliph was a supporter of science and knowledge, passionate about philosophy and logic and astronomy and mathematics, and desiring to spread his interest and knowledge.

He had thousands of books (some said hundreds of thousands) and the men and women in his employ were the brightest minds of the age. People traveled far and wide to invest in the flowering of knowledge under Al-Hakam II.

Yoshua and his lover Sean were both considered Dhimmis, a state not quite equal to the Muslim population they lived among. But the Caliphate was tolerant at worst, and Al-Hakam II treated all of his subjects well. Yoshua certainly had more freedom in Al-Andalus than he would have received in any of the Catholic states, and he and Sean could openly proclaim their relationship in Cordoba, where such sexual and romantic liaisons were not uncommon. Al-Hakam II himself had only taken male lovers up until the need for an heir presented itself, and he and his father both kept male harems.

Neither Yoshua nor Sean would have kept a harem even had they been Caliphs rather than a historian and a physician. Sean had come all the way from Catholic Ireland to study medicine under the Andalusian intellectuals, leaving behind a younger sister. Yoshua had been born and raised in Cordoba, and flourished in a society that admired knowledge and those who sought it.

The couple lived within the Jewish quarter of Cordoba; during the day Yoshua taught at one of the famed universities established by the current ruler while Sean tended to his patients, and during the evenings they frequented the relaxing and intimate Teteria.

This was how they had chosen to spend their current evening together, nestled close beside one another on low seats. The interior was dimly lit and opulently decorated, with brightly colored cushions tossed about the room and ornately carved mirrors and statuary along the walls. The aromas of a variety of teas and herbs mingled in a heady mixture that only increased the sensation of decadence. Rose petals were steeped within the teas to heighten the pleasure, a delicate addition Yoshua was fond of.

While the two men sipped their tea a third man wearing a khil’a appeared. Yoshua raised an eyebrow at the elaborate robes. Neither he not Sean were poor, not even with the burden of the juzya levied against them, but the newcomers robes were of a style worn by favorites of the Caliph.

"Do you mind if I join you?" The man flashed a smile at the couple.

Yoshua returned the smile and nodded in reply. He enjoyed meeting new people, and although Sean was not as effusive he too was friendly and enjoyed company.

"Please, sit! I'm Yoshua and this is Sean."

The man lowered himself onto a teal cushion across the table from the pair. "I am Stefan."

Stefan was neither a Muslim nor a Jewish name, and two pairs of eyebrows rose in tandem at this introduction.

"Your dress..." Josh began.

Stefan swept a hand across his chest as a slave girl swept up to offer him a selection of teas. "Ah! I live in the palace, actually." He laughed at their stunned faces, only answering the unspoken question when the server had left with his order. "I was born in Wallachia. It's not uncommon for those of us in the palatial harem to be foreigners. Even Jafar was abducted, though not from so far afield as some others."

Yoshua mouthed the words abducted, turning questioning blue eyes upon Sean. His lover wrapped one arm about his shoulder protectively.

"Jafar, that's the Sultana? I'd heard..."

"Oh, yes. Al-Hakam isn't so enamored of women, but she's a clever one. She found she could incur favor this way. Enough favor to get him into bed with her. She's the only concubine whose succeeded there." A wyr smile lit his lips, and Yoshua wondered what Stefan was thinking. Was he jealous that he could never have the level of esteem and power that came with producing an heir for the Caliph? Was he upset that he had been abducted and forced into slavery, as luxurious as it certainly was?

"And you're treated well?" Sean's query was almost a statement. Yoshua's anxiety for the well being of the man he'd just met was assuaged; it was evident that Sean's telepathy was here an aid, and Stefan was content with his position.

The smile in reply was an even more certain indicator. Whatever qualms Stefan may have initially had about taking on a male lover were certainly gone now.

The slave girl returned with the tea, her perfume announcing her presence before she even became visible. She set a porcelain cup of steaming tea before Stefan, then silently disappeared once again.

"Sean is from Ireland." Yoshua patted his lover's arm affectionately. "He only came to Cordoba during a fight for succession of...I can't pronounce their name a properly," he admitted ruefully.

"Ruaidrí ua Canannáin and Congalach mac Máel Mithig." Sean supplied. "When the previous High King died his heir had also recently been killed," he explained to Stefan. "That was twenty years ago."

Yoshua sighed into the dregs of his tea, a smile of memory lighting up his eyes. "I remember when I first laid eyes on you, young and handsome and straight off the boat to learn medicine. A better practice than warfare, you said."

"And I still believe that," Sean replied solemnly. "Cordoba was such a different place from Dublin, I was glad to have you show me around and teach me the local customs."

Stefan hid his face behind his own tea cup as the couple reminisced, but no physical obstruction could prevent Sean from realizing his discomfort.

"I'm sure Wallachia to Al-Andalus was also a culture shock." He offered, trying to draw in their third companion.

"It certainly was," Stefan agreed between sips of his tea. "The luxury of the palace left me war struck when I first was brought there. But perhaps the nobility of my home country also live in such extravagance. I was only a farmer before. A pretty face can lift the fortunes of the meanest among us."

Yoshua was not certain that he would want to be abducted into a harem, but if Stefan was happier with that than on a farm in the country he'd been born in then who was he to say that was wrong?

"Tell us all about the palace. What is it like?"

Stefan shifted his cup to the side in order to lean across the table to whisper excitedly to his two new friends. "Well, the vizier...."

[Idalia Tsavaris]

The Path of the Warrior Maid
Greece 500 BC

Idalia stood at edge of the plains her dapple gray mare stood at her shoulder the reins looped loosely over her head. A slender sword at her hip Idalia fingered the dagger she held and looked out into the endless night over the valley floor where the dots of camp fires dotted the grasslands and held the promise of a warm bed following her scouting shift. Sha’machi threw her head to the wind as it changed and Idalia raised her eyes along with it. Her brown hair blew loosely back in the strong wind. Her garments were black as the night and she had pledged herself forever to the Goddess to protect this land. Idalia closed her eyes and took a deep breath and let her Goddess given gift touch her mind and heart. Ahead of them was fair weather, crops would do well.

Idalia reached out and touched Sha’machi’s shoulder to calm her and her eyes raked the skies. There was the faint hooting of an owl and Idalia swung herself into the saddle and continued along the border. The horse trotted along taking care of its hooves and passing over the smooth ground as a ghost. Suddenly Sha’machi stopped and the horse quivered nervously as it caught a strange scent. Idalia could sense it too. It was not right in this land. She knew the smell and the sense, for she had felt it once and Idalia drew her blade and drove the warhorse forward. She wheeled her horse and found the strangers as they moved. She sat on her horse blocking the strangers’ path. “You are not welcome here go back to whence you came.”

Sha’machi stamped a foot and reared showing off her dangerous hooves in warning as the stranger approached. All the while Idalia sat calm and collected on her back. The man stopped. “Great warrior, we are gentle merchants, but we fell among bandits. We seek passage through your lands to the Sanctuary.”

“The Sanctuary will see no man.” Idalia replied, “Leave at once, this land does not welcome you. Leave the land of the Amazons at once or insight the wrath of the Goddess.” Pity would not touch Idalia’s heart. No man’s feet should pass upon the plains, the plains were contaminated by his mere closeness to her. There were no women among them and she trusted no man.

“Have pity maiden,” the man said and got to his knees and lifted his hands to her pleading. “We only seek safe passage.”

“Return the way you came, there is a village a day’s walk.” Idalia drew her blade now and pointed with it back the way they came, out of the plains. The whistle of an arrow reached her ears and Sha’machi was in motion before Idalia could ask it of her. The man closest to her backed up quickly out of range of the hooves and Idalia’s eyes darkened as she realized there were far more than she had anticipated. They emerged seemingly from the plains, from cloaks covered with grasses. Idalia slew the first and a second. She and her horse moving as one through the fray. She was one against many, but Idalia was not afraid. She knew when she pledged to her Goddess that she may one day sacrifice her life for the protection of the Goddess’s women.

She would allow no man to defile this land, allow no man to defile the Goddess. It gave her pleasure to slay them as their deception was perceived. Sha’machi squealed as she spun attacking like a demon with hoof and teeth. A man rushed forward and dove under Sha’machi’s deadly hooves and struck her down. Idalia leapt clear of her mount and cut down the closest man to her. Abruptly Idalia let her sword rest and grasped the horn that hung from her neck and let it blow sending the call across the plains as fast as an eagle could fly.

Then with a cry she flew forward her sword an extension of herself. She knew she would have this day when she pledged herself to her Goddess and taken her vows. She would rather die than allow one of these foul men to pass her guard. Already, she knew more of her Sisters were racing in her direction. They would catch those that Idalia herself did not slay. Someone tried to grab her from behind. She felt the whistle of a blade by her neck, but what he did not expect was her free hand to grab her dagger and plunge it deep into his belly.

Idalia felt dirty having been touched by a man and she fought all the more ferociously. There were many of them, it seemed like there were twice more for every one she struck down. Idalia was starting to weary and yet she fought on. She knew them now for the bandits they were, as they fought like demons and it was clear their intentions in this land were not innocent. Should they have stepped into the Sanctuary they would likely kill the land with their foulness. At long last her adversaries forced her back. They swarmed her and grasped her arms and kicked her blade from her hand. Another man took a dagger in the eye before his fellow fought that from her as well.

Idalia eyes had been closed the whole time and she bit her teeth against the screams that were rising in her throat. They left her in a heap, naked and battered and bruised, her innocence taken and her vows broken. She crawled her way to her dagger. She was befouled by their touch and the Goddess she served would no longer see her. Tears fell from her eyes as she grabbed her dagger. She had only one choice. But she would not go and leave those to ravage the lands. She sliced her palm along the dagger and built her spell. The sounds of hooves were distant in her ears and she painted the dagger with her blood and spelled her curse upon it.

“Sister!” A voice cried and her Sister in the Goddess Ashira fell to her knees beside her. “Tell me Sister what has befallen you.”

Idalia drew a breath and would not look at her Sister. “Strangers of ill intent have come into the land. Sister, my heart and my vow broken. Take with you my dagger and allow me to taste their spilled blood. I have prayed to Athena that I may be a warrior to her.” With her curse spelled the blade stained red with her blood as her prayers reached toward Olympus. She plunged the bade through his heart and with a cry her curse set and her breath was gone.

Ashira watched her Sister with bitter tears in her eyes. There was nothing left for Idalia, not if her vow was broken. That which was sacred to the Goddess had been taken. Ashira closed her hands around the hilt of the dagger and felt the ferociousness of Idalia’s will as she pulled it free of her Sister’s heart. Ashira wrapped her Sister in reeds of grass, laid coins on her eyes and lit a fire to cleans her and send her to the Goddess praying for her. “You will be avenged my Sister.” Ashira then took the dagger and sheath and bound it to her belt before leaping upon her dapple gray mare and rode after the bandits who had killed her Sister. By dawn’s rising Idalia’s blade had its revenge.

[Remle Boyd]

The Devil and Miss Boyd
1875/1923 ~ The United States of America
(inspired by the Devil Went Down to Georgia)
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

1923 ~

“I met the Devil once,” the old woman said as her maid carefully helped her into her bed.

“Really?” the young woman asked, a smile gracing her lips as she dutifully tucked her charge into bed and started straightening the room.

“Oh yes, years ago, back when I lived in Georgia. 1874 maybe?” the woman questioned herself.

“What happened when you met the Devil?” the woman asked, humoring the woman. Her employer’s memory came and went these days and anything that she wanted to remember was usually in the form of a fanciful story.

“Come closer dear and I’ll tell you…”

1875 ~

She’d almost been a southern belle once upon a time, back when her father was an affluent businessman steadily obtaining wealth and of course before the war. In a matter of months her father had gone off to fight for the ‘Glorious South’, been killed and his company ripped apart by the wolves that were his business partners. Her mother had succumbed to the stress and tossed herself off the roof of the house one warm spring day before any of the nearby house slaves could stop her. After that Remle watched as her father’s company was finally wrested from her control and she was only left with a small allowance and shipped to her grandmother’s house in a less agricultural part of Georgia. Of course her grandmother hadn’t lived much longer beyond Remle’s eighteenth birthday that but at least Remle had gotten to keep the old woman’s house.

A local church had unofficially adopted her into its fold and in exchange for food every week she would play the piano for the services. She had shown a lot of promise when she was younger and had genuinely enjoyed creating her own music. Over the last eleven years as she aged from a young lass of fourteen to a woman in her twenties, she had taken notice that the part of Georgia she now lived in was steadily growing more industrialized as the United States moved into a new era.

One day, as she practiced a variation of one of the hymns she had played several times she became aware of a man in a dark suit watching her from the doorway. Startled by his sudden movement her fingers slipped on the keys and she turned towards him with some irritation. “Can I help you sir?” she snapped.

“Ah, yes I was looking for the pastor, is he here?” the man in the dark suit leaned into the doorway of the church and looked around. Remle thought it was strange he didn’t want to enter but as she stepped away from the piano she noticed that his shoes were muddy and appreciated that he wasn’t willing to muck up the church floors. Remle thought he looked like a salesman.

“I’m sorry but the Pastor has stepped out for a few hours to make house calls, can I pass on a message?” Remle inquired.

“I suppose that would be okay,” the man frowned and fished into his pocket for a pristine business card. “My name is David Emery Ville,” he introduced himself, extending his hand in greeting. Remle stared at his name for a moment and back at him. “Call me D.E. for short,” he suggested.

One of Remle’s eyebrows disappeared into her bangs as she looked him over once more and then back at the card. “It says you’re a contractor, I’m sorry but there’s nothing around here that needs to be repaired.”

“Excuse me miss for saying so but I believe that that is the business of the pastor to tell me, not the church pianist,” D.E. informed her loftily.

“Fine, I’ll relay your message, the pastor will be here tomorrow at two,” she explained with a hint of irritation as she carefully tucked the card into her skirt pocket and watched as the man named “Devil” with the muddy shoes walked away. Her gut told her he was trouble but she couldn’t reason out why.

~*~

The next day Remle practiced as she always did, occasionally stopping to greet the people who came by and not surprised to see that Mr. Ville turned up again asking for the pastor. He did enter the church this time, though he looked uncomfortable doing so. The pastor greeted him warmly and ushered him into the office as Remle continued playing. An old African woman finally wandered in after a few minutes and approached the girl on the piano.

“Miss Remle you play the prettiest music,” the former slave sighed as she situated herself into one of the pews.

“Thank you Miss Ruth, how are you today?” the pianist asked politely. The old woman shrugged her shoulders noncommittally before answering.

“Better now that I’m sitting down. I’ve been working all morning washing dishes down at that fancy new hotel they just opened.”

“I hope the traffic won’t be so bad on Sunday,” Remle murmured as she started softly playing another hymn in case Miss Ruth still wanted to talk. The old woman only nodded and Remle continued to play. There were so many new things happening around their tiny church and attendance wasn’t necessarily rising. Miss Ruth often claimed it was because people were more concerned with earthly treasures than spiritual ones and the pastor chose to see it as sign that perhaps their church was missing something. Remle’s fingers soon picked out the tune of the hymn and began changing it, shifting it to a more upbeat melody. She was secretly thrilled to see Miss Ruth tapping her foot in the aisle.

Before she could go further with her musical idea the door of the Pastor’s office opened and Mr. Ville walked out tall and proud while the kindly pastor slumped behind him. “Are you sure there’s nothing that can persuade you? This church has been here for such a long time…” the pastor sighed, sounding old and frail.

D.E. Ville stopped himself from answering as he eyed the closely listening Remle and Miss Ruth. “Pastor, I’m a good man at heart, I’d really hate to see this church torn down because you don’t have the money to pay for the deed….you there…Miss Pianist, you’re pretty good aren’t you? Well I don’t look the part, but I’m a mighty good piano player myself. How about a contest? Tomorrow night at the new hotel, if you win I’ll grant the pastor the deed to the church property.”

The Pastor looked positively scandalized and Miss Ruth frowned so deeply Remle wasn’t sure if she’d be able to smile again. “Let me think about it,” she answered instead. With a triumphant look on his face, D.E. Ville inclined his head politely, told her when to meet at the hotel tomorrow night if she was so inclined and took his leave of the three church inhabitants.

“Remle, you can’t gamble like that!” the Pastor immediately argued when their company was gone. Miss Ruth still looked deep in thought. “It’s against God’s Holy Word!”

“Pastor, I’m sorry but doesn’t the Bible also say to help people if you’re able to? I have to at least try!”

“We’ll lose the church-,”

“We’re going to lose the church anyway! Thank you ever so much for the confidence!” Remle snapped as she stalked away from the piano and out of the church. Even if it was a sin she was going to the hotel tomorrow night anyway. She was going to win back the deed to the church!

~*~

The next night, dressed in the nicest dress she owned, Remle approached the hotel. She was shocked to see the church’s tiny congregation there, including the pastor. “Remle…I prayed for a long time after you left and I want to apologize for my lack of faith in you. I’ve known you since you were a small girl and your talent on the piano blew me away. I had thought at the time it was truly a gift from God…” he trailed off.

“To fight a devil that’s all you need,” Miss Ruth finished for him as she gently enveloped Remle into a hug and smoothed back her hair. “Now you go in there and show that man he doesn’t get to own our church.” She said as she shooed young Remle inside.

The hotel was massive and filled with people. D.E. met her in the lobby. “You look rather nice this evening Miss Pianist,” he smiled, not unkindly. “I do hope you won’t allow my win this evening to spoil any chance of a friendship later?” he inquired with a gaze that was far too lecherous for her liking.

“I’m terribly sorry sir, but I’m not interested in scoundrels,” she answered primly as she moved into the room and started making her way to the stage. She reached it just as D.E. strolled out from behind a curtain, an almost cruel smirk on his face.

“Ladies and gentlemen thank you so much for participating in this dueling piano event. As you know this is a recurring event in which people are welcome to challenge me, the current long-running winner. Tonight’s challenger is a local woman,” he indicated Remle who had just struggled up onto the stage amid some chuckles and watched her smooth her skirt. “Please be kind to her. Now, as many of you are aware I will start the competition and she as the challenger will answer with her own variation. Ballots will be cast and the winner announced.”

Remle noted that he didn’t mention her personal stakes and wondered if it was more for her benefit than his. Many of these people were unfamiliar faces, the congregation sat in the back, huddled in a group together, watching the proceedings with something akin to horror and the dredges of confidence.

“Do you have any words to share with the crowd?” her opponent finally asked solicitously.

“My name’s Remle, nice to meet you,” she stated simply as she sat down on her bench and lifted the lid to reveal the keys.

D.E. gaped for a moment at the laughter that had greeted her and stalked to his own piano. He started slowly as if to taunt her, a beat that wasn’t hymnal but not classical either. She watched him and listened. Soon, he sped up, an almost impossible rhythm; her eyes slipped shut, her hands slowly moved to a beat only she could hear. With a terrific, discordant crash D.E. finished and stood triumphantly over his piano to applause. Remle returned his intense gaze with a non-plussed one of her own. As her hand started mimicking his earlier slow tune she smiled.

“You’re pretty good old man, but sit down on your bench right there before I knock you off your feet.”

The hall fell silent as Remle imitated the man who would take her church, and de-house her family; adding all of her previous hymnal knowledge to the tune that wasn’t quite anything but pure sound. Her fingers flew across her keys with incredible speed and accuracy while the tune built louder and louder in the hall. The applause started before she’d even finished with a crash much like her opponent’s but more lyrical and glorious sounding, like the chorus to the Almighty himself. The applause continued for some minutes as D.E. stood there gawking like a fool.

Remle didn’t wait for the votes to be counted; they both know who had won. Reluctantly he reached into his coat pocket and withdrew the promised deed before reluctantly handing it over. Remle took it with a smile and inclined her head politely.

“Pleasure doing business with you sir.”

~*~

1923 ~

“I never did find out what happened to him after that…”

“The Devil?” the enraptured maid asked as she came back from a past that had not so long ago been their nation’s present. It was hard to imagine the hardships of Reconstruction when the “Roaring Twenties” were happening all around them.

“Oh yes, Miss Ruth said he went back to hell where he belonged but I THOUGHT I heard a rumor that said he made his way out to Texas, though I suppose it was just as hot there so he felt at home,” the now seventy-year old Remle recalled. “Are you going out tonight Percie?”

“Yes ma’am! Detective Ganders said he needed someone to help him out at a party tonight! He’s looking for a murderer!”

“Well, you’ve got a good head on your shoulder’s so stay out of trouble. You know, you’ve helped Detective Ganders solve most of his cases in the last year or so haven’t you?”

“Well, I suppose, but…it’s not really proper for a woman to be a detective and all,” Percie said quietly.

“Nonsense, you’d be a great detective, traveling the world solving murders and thefts...ask Detective Ganders what he things, maybe he’ll take you on as an apprentice.”

“Do you really think so ma’am?” Percie asked with hesitant awe.

“My dear, I beat the Devil in a piano contest, I am certain that you can be a detective.”

“Good point ma’am.”

And it was.

[Lani Hunter]

Homecoming
1975

Lani remembered his mother crying when that letter arrived for the nineteen year old Hunter. Then there was nothing she, or his father or Hammel could do. Lani himself had been numb, holding the thin sheet of paper over and over again his heart pounding in his ears. Then it had all happened so fast. There was no running for Lani Hunter this time. The telekinetic had weighed his options. The mob couldn’t protect him and his power made him a beacon for any tracker, he could have run, but he’d have been running forever. There was also the matter that the military got him away from his boss in one fell swoop. Done. So Lani’d reported and his whole world changed.

All of that felt like a distant memory as Lani hunkered down for the night with his companions and prayed that the bombs in the distance stayed distant. Lani’s eyes stretched to the endless black expanses of the canopy under which they slept. Compared to Vermont, Vietnam was a whole different planet, always hot, always wet, often painful. The telekinetic let his eyes close for a moment and haunted memories attacked his mind before the weight of weariness blacked Lani away from the world. In his mind he was smiling and hugging his family farewell from his two day leave before he left American soil for good. He was being reassuring and no one acknowledged the truth of the matter. None of them knew if they’d ever see each other again.

Lani opened his eyes for a moment and looked up at the canopy, he couldn’t see the stars from here. His fingers found the shape of the compass he kept in his breast pocket, just over his heart. Somewhere in this strange land was his best friend, his love. They had fought long and hard about this, Odion had wanted to come if Lani was, Lani wanted Odion to stay. The stubborn redhead went ahead and enlisted despite Lani’s protests and the decision was simple, if Lani went, so did Odion. But once they were cogs in the machine they went where they were bid to go. Lani because of the nature of his power was sent to the front lines and Odion was torn away from him when his skill at languages made him valuable elsewhere.

The soldier finally found a restless sleep his hand on his gun and his power stirring him at every shift in the wind and every change in the nearby gunfire. By the break of dawn those hard goodbyes felt like years ago and all he could do was keep moving on. There were quiet days and there were hard days. There were days when Lani led the line picking their way through the maze of mines that only Lani could see. There were days when everyone who started the day saw the setting of the sun the same day. There were days when the bloodshed and confusion bogged them down for several days and wounded died when the helicopters couldn’t reach them, the bodies of dear comrades and faithful friends were delivered home and the wounded were granted passage home and there was not one among the healthy who would not have traded places just to go home.

Lani had initially been foolish enough to think that Odion’s work took him farther away from danger, but one day an emergency message came from the camp where Odion was working. By the time Lani’s unit arrived on the scene there was devastation and the dead and wounded had already been recovered. Odion was not among those left behind to help restore the camp. For several heart wrecking weeks Lani didn’t know if Odion lived or died. Horrible fact was there was just a moment that Lani could spare a thought for his dear friend and then he had to focus on the days survival. It wasn’t until a letter arrived in Odion’s hand that Lani found the ability to sleep again. Lani had folded that letter and placed it close to his heart as well.

It seemed to stretch on for decades and it wasn’t until they reached a base camp in Laos that they were told that they were withdrawing. Soldiers embraced in celebration, no one cared if they’d won or lost, all that mattered was that they were going home. Lani took out his compass, dented, flecked with rust and well worn on the back, the inscribed letters were hard to see but he knew then he would be heading home.

Lani’s eyes squinted in the light as they landed. Yesterday they’d all been given the first proper shower in ages and fitted with new uniforms. It didn’t feel real to see the flat paved landing strip. How long had it been? A year? Two? Twenty? Just shy of two, Lani remembered. Caroline would be fifteen now, Lani himself was twenty one, Odion as well. He’d missed all of their birthdays, he’d written letters and had never been able to tell if they got there by the date he thought and they could only send mail as often as the helicopters could get to them and then the wounded took precedence over mail. The plane taxied to a stop and Lani felt a twinge of nerves. Grabbing his duffle Lani stood, smoothed his uniform and did his best to swallow any nerves.

He stood for a moment blinking in the harsh light and shading his eyes to look for someone, anyone he recognized. The soldiers and the civilians met and people were calling out names and loved ones were reuniting all around him and for a terrifying moment Lani couldn’t find anyone then, “Lani!” He barely saw Caroline before she threw herself into his arm. He dropped everything to spin her around almost unable to believe that he was holding her in his arms. His vision was blurry with tears as he hugged and kiss his mother. He didn’t want to let them go, it felt like if he released them then they would vanish like a dream.

“I’m proud of you,” his father said as he embraced him.

Lani’s heart was so full and he didn’t want to let any of them go, but there was someone missing. Lani’s heart dropped like a brick. “Where’s—”

“I’m right here,” The familiar voice was like a gentle caress to the heart and Lani’s power and eyes found his redhead and Lani couldn’t have him in his arms fast enough.

“What are you doing skulking back there?” Lani asked tears spilling from his eyes like rain. If only, if only they could share their love freely. It would have been easy to make themselves ineligible but Lani didn’t want to do that. He was no coward and he could finally use his power to protect people.

Lani’s discharge papers were like lottery tickets in his hands and after staying a few days in Boston with his parents and letting his mother dote on him, he returned to Vermont with Odion. It was so strange to look around and see everything as it was before. Surrounded by familiar places and familiar faces, a safe place. Here in Vermont where the air was cool and the stars were brightly burning.

Overtime, Lani learned the extent of Odion’s injuries and over time Odion learned the extent of Lani’s. There were moments when Odion retreated within himself. Blue eyes open but unseeing. “It’s okay, it’s over, it’s over. It’s okay, you’re safe, I’m here,” Lani would repeat holding tightly to Odion until he came back to him, sometimes several hours later.

Nights were hard, Lani would often lurch into wakefulness his ears straining to hear the spattering of gunfire and the rumble of distant bombs. Odion would reach out in the dark and Lani’s nerves would shiver and his power would make the air quiver until Odion was able to calm him down. “It’s okay,” Odion would say, “I’m here, you’re safe.”

[Dr. Sean Neville]

The Afterlife

No moon that night, but a heavenly light
Shown on my face.
Still I thought it was odd there was no sign of God
Just to usher me in.

Boston 1925.

The house was large and opulently decorated, as was to be expected with the economic boon of the Roaring Twenties. So many had money to burn, and a well-to-do surgeon could easily provide for his wife and his adopted child.

The inhabitants of the house were popular; in fact, the surgeon’s wife was famous. She claimed to be a medium, able to communicate with the dead. Her séances were well-attended, and she had supporters across many social circles, including the great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. People wanted to believe, because doing so provided them with a sense of comfort about death and the limitations of life.

Additionally, her séances were sights to behold. Beyond the promise of communicating with the dead, there were flying objects, things that went bump in the night, glowing objects and people, and Margery Crandon had a tendency to conduct séances in the nude. Not all of them, but enough that men came from far and wide in hopes that any given séance would be a nude one. Her husband, the surgeon, often displayed nude photographs of her during the séances, even when she appeared fully clothed.

Sean Neville had traveled from New York to Boston to attend a Margery Crandon séance, although not because she might be nude. He could see nude women if he wanted elsewhere, and she was married. Rather, he came with a more noble purpose.

Margery Crandon’s séance had fewer admirers than usual. Although well-attended as ever, her guests tonight included members of the Scientific American Prize Committee – paranormal investigators intent on determining whether Margery Crandon had fleeced the nation.

The Harry Houdini sat to Sean’s right in the séance circle. Sean had attended one of the magician’s shows, years ago, when he had been a boy. The magician had hung upside down, before being locked in chains and lowered into a glass case filled with water. The Water Torture Cell, he had called it. At the time, Sean had not understood the science behind the trick, and he considered Houdini lucky to have lived, as had most of the audience. Years later, having studied medicine, and engineering to a lesser extent, he came to appreciate the finesse involved.

Sean never wanted to emulate the man, as much as he respected him. As it was, Sean was nearly a foot taller than the magician, and the thought of climbing into a milk can in chains before an audience caused him to cringe.

Still, it was an honor and a pleasure to sit beside him during this séance. To Houdini’s right was Margery Crandon herself, and to her right was her husband, the surgeon. Scattered throughout the circle were the remaining members of the Scientific American team, and to round out the rest were the few others, like Sean, who had made reservations to participate before the investigation had been announced.

To the excitement of some of the other men, Margery Crandon did strip down to her bare skin for the séance. Sean found this uncomfortable; Houdini found it frustrating. While the older man said nothing, his body language conveyed the fact that he found her behavior to be a cheap distraction and wholly unprofessional.

Everyone joined hands and the séance began.


Margery Crandon had not entered a trance. She certainly had not become possessed by a spirit or some other separate entity. She was fully in control of herself and her faculties.

Houdini suspected as much. While almost everyone else focused on the subtle glow which emanated from Margery Crandon’s chest, coupled with the production she made of being possessed, Houdini was focused on her legs beneath the table. He was sure that she had kicked the buzz box trigger.

She had. Much to Sean’s disappointment and Houdini’s self-satisfaction.

The rest of the séance proved equally disappointing. Her telekinetic feats were as false as her trance. She spoke to nobody; certainly she channeled no spirits from the Great Beyond. Occasionally, under the guise of achieving a better connection, she sat in the lap of one of those in their circle.

She tried to sit in Sean’s.

“I’m Catholic,” he informed her, as he tensed from the contact. He hunched forward to shrink the area of his otherwise sizable lap (sizable given his height and build). She moved from him to a different young man, far more eager than Sean was for the contact and the attention.

Sean had been raised Catholic, although he differed with the Church on several points. Those points were enough to have him excommunicated, if anyone knew. As such, he never confessed these sins, as he felt no contrition, and most certainly he would commit them again with no regrets.

Sean would say none of that in present company. Margery Crandon’s fake spirits failed to disclose those secrets when sharing spectral knowledge. Primarily, she revealed minor secrets about her husband, ones that provided no lasting damage to her reputation. Other secrets about her guests came from observation and educated guesses.

By the time the séance ended, Houdini felt vindicated and the other participants were split over whether Margery Crandon was the genuine article. Sean knew that he should not have raised his hopes before attending, but he had been unable to help himself; he had so desired to see her succeed where countless others before her had failed.

The men who found themselves attracted to Margery Crandon remained behind in the parlor, but Sean was quick to exit. He needed the ability to clear his head.

Outside, he took several deep breaths and sat down on the steps, resting his hands on his knees. He closed his eyes, but did nothing to mask his expression of disappointment.

Footsteps behind him caught his attention. Without turning around or opening his eyes, he said, “Mister Houdini, I want to tell you what an honor it was to sit next to you through this.” Slowly, he opened his eyes and craned his neck ever-so-slightly; Houdini was a short man, and Sean was so tall that, even seated, he need not look up to the same extent as when speaking to his own father.

Houdini took a moment to study him, the same way that he had studied Margery Crandon and her husband inside the parlor. “Do you believe in this?”

“No, but I was hopeful.”

Houdini nodded his understanding. “And your opinions after sitting through that display?”

Sean shrugged slightly. “She kicked the buzz box.”

Houdini nodded again, this time with approval. “You’re perceptive. Are you a magician?” Unfortunately, with his own prestige and schedules – including his time in Europe – Houdini was incapable of keeping track of every magician in the U.S., particularly not young, budding ones, new to the scene.

The younger man shook his head. “A psychoanalyst.” Technically, he was a psychiatrist, but the other term was more popular in the vernacular.

“An analyst?” Houdini shook his head to himself. “Did you lose someone recently?”

“No.”

“Then, if I may pry, what brought you here today?”

Sean did not reply immediately. When he finally did, his mouth remained shut. Instead, he reached out in another way, and Houdini felt an unfamiliar tingle in his brain, before clearly hearing words that the younger man had not spoken aloud.

I wanted to find more people like me.