9 Tales From Elsewhere 9 Read online

  Beneath the ship the wind began to tear at him, dragging him this way and that, trying to unhook him and carry him away to god only knows where. His night-shirt was plastered to his back and water sluiced over his face. As he stretched towards the next ring, his foot lost purchase and slipped from under him.

  As quick as it had come, the storm disappeared. He saw it raging on around him, but found himself in a bubble of calm. The once-fierce wind was now soothing; it was crooning into his ears. It was telling him how nice it would be just to unhook himself and let go, to fall, and fall and fly and float through the air. It told him he could be happy again.

  When he came to, he had unhooked all of his limbs except for his right hand, where the face of the mudwyrm peeked out from between two leather straps. At first he was dazed, still hearing the sweet melody of the wind in his ears, but then he felt a stab of panic as he realised how close he had come to falling into the clutches of the sky. Gritting his teeth, he swung himself towards the next ring and, grunting as he went, he swung hand-over- hand across the undercarriage of the ship. The roar of the storm was terrible as thunder broke across the landscape of dark clouds and the air cracked and rippled with fury. Still it tugged and ripped and prodded at him, trying to knock him from his perch, but the boy had the fear of the truly damned behind him, and he swung on regardless.

  Now that old bastard Bydawell was sat up on the other side of the ship, mug of cocoa with a liberal dollop of rum in it, swathed in his blankets and his powdered wig still. He was watching the storm through the service hatch, thinking of the idiot street boy and wondering what he must look like splattered on the ground so many leagues below. When who should pop his head over the lip of the hatch but our jack? Half mad with fear, teeth chattering fit to burst, hair drenched and numb from head to foot. He takes one look at Bydawell, in his wig and his makeup and his stupid expression of shock and bewilderment plastered over him. He laughs. He laughs a laugh to wake the dead, the wild cackle of the truly insane. So Bydawell, in his stupid bloody get up with that gormless expression still on his face, gives him the heel of his boot right in the middle of his nose and watches him fall away into the rolling, seething mass. He’s still laughing that mad laugh, and that terrified, hysterical sound dances through Bydawell’s brain long after the boy has disappeared.

  Died? Well, there’s hundreds that would say so, would say it’s just the whisperings of a few mad old skysailors to prove he’s still about up there, and all logic and reason stand with them, but I tell you there’s more wisdom in whisperings than you’ll find in your books and I’ve heard enough that’s got me convinced. But I promised you a sequel and a sequel you shall have. You ask Ada for that brown bottle up there behind the bar, it’s the best of the best, and we shall all have a sip to keep the monsters at bay, at least until the sun rises.

  Now you can talk to me all you want about barometric gear and navigation orbs, but a good ship simply ain’t a good ship without a decent skyseer aboard. Now I’m not talking about a minor guildsman who knows his way around a few charts and is a dab hand at sums in his head. I mean the real deal, someone tuned in to the great up there, lets it through to speak to him in dreams and trances. That’s what really saves a ship from the worst of it. If your seer keeps sending pigeons back to the guild for a second opinion, jump ship and find another, that’s my advice.

  Now Bydawell finds himself promoted to a new ship, The Kestrel, yeah, you’ll have heard of that one, I wager? Aye, it’s where they say it all started, but we know better don’t we lads? It started on The Standardwing, but a pestilence like that always spreads.

  Now no-one knows what really happened on the kestrel, only that it keeps happening, but I’ve read reports right up to the night in question and the rest I think I can fill in. cheers lads, your health.

  Now isn’t that just the stuff of the gods? No other pub in the town’s got a drop to touch it.

  So The Kestrel may have been a fine, big old vessel, but as, I say, you need a good seer and theirs wasn’t worth a pint of piss. No natural talent, just book learning and a hell of an addiction to smoking that moss that grows on barrels of Samson’s oil. Still, he sends back regular reports and all seems well enough. But then a few months out, right, he slips into a trance and doesn’t come out from it. He’s never done anything like that before, no-one thought he had it in him, strictly a chart- jockey, they thought. So all we get is his assistant trying to interpret his mad warblings, poor soul.

  And he tells us that they’re caught in a thick fog that shouldn’t be there. Back at the guild, the skyseers can’t get a fix on their position but they know there shouldn’t be a fog there either. So one of them enters a trance and we get that message, the same one we get every time:

  “Jack-A- Falling is abroad, who will he meet in his descent?”

  And from the whisperings, and the reports, and, god help me, the pictures too, I think I can hazard a guess what happens next. Up on the bridge an Officer, maybe Bydawell himself, is looking out into the fogbank, just an ocean of grey with nothing to be seen for miles. Then he sees a shape. It’s a pinprick of blackness against the gloom. It’s impossible to discern its size, shape or distance but a feeling of dread has gripped his spine already and won’t let go. As it grows nearer he begins to hear it, then they all do. It’s that laughter, the mad cackle, the fear-driven mirthless shriek that haunts his dreams. They all hear it. It’s not just in the wind it’s in their brains, screaming around their skulls. The shape is drawing nearer, it’s a man or a boy. A boy with hooks on his hands and spikes on his feet. A boy flailing desperately, falling through the clouds. Only he isn’t falling downwards, he falls straight for them, and the laughter grows louder at his approach. Maybe Bydawell drops to his knees, maybe he prays, maybe he even feels remorse. We don’t know. Nothing would or could have saved him then.

  One final drink boys and then it’s time for the off. Cheers. I see your friend can’t hold his liquor, out like a light. Never mind, it’ll be light soon and there’ll be a cart to take him home.

  What’s that? What is he? No way of knowing that, friends. But again, I’ve got some ideas.

  When I first set down in the desert, out west, this was, when I was young like you are now, we took on supplies from a tribe that had a town around the only clean source of water for miles. When we arrived, we were told that they were at war and were preparing for a battle. This was news to me, because everything seemed calm and peaceful. The women gathered water and fed infants and the men sat around smoking long pipes and playing dice with our boys. When the battle came we all went to watch. There was a man we’d not seen before, decked out in feathers and blue paint, this mask on his face with huge eyes like an owl. Another man in a horned headdress entered the crude arena, drums were beaten and people chanted as they wrestled. Our man threw his opponent, ripped off his mask and the crowd erupted, leaving the other to slink away. This was their war. Certainly put ours into sharp relief with thousands dead compared to a friendly wrestle. Of course the loser was killed but we didn’t learn that ‘til later, I’m not convinced entirely he wasn’t in the stew we had that night. We learned that the man was a champion, not just of the village, but of the desert itself. He lived alone in a hotel where he fasted and prayed and the ancient landscape gave him visions and insight. We were told that every few years, a single young child would be sent out into the desert with nothing to protect him from the sun, and only a single water skin, never to be seen again. This pleased the desert and the desert gave the champion the strength to win, see? We asked what the desert did if they didn’t make the necessary payment. They were suddenly still and quiet.

  There was a time, our guide said, but they will not speak of it. Instead, they showed us drawings they had made on animal hide. The owl-faced man was in the village, surrounded on all sides by the dead and by huts with burning thatch.

  You ask me what Jack-A- Falling is? I say the sky took itself a champion. I say it got tired of all our airs
hips and balloons and dirigibles, all our talk of “conquering” it. I say it demanded respect and found a vessel who could force it from us. I say it demanded sacrifice and knew how to frighten us into giving it what it wanted. I say it worked.

  Whoops, lad. Watch it, you’ve spilled your drink there. Never mind.

  Old Jack’ll never stop falling, but all we can do is try not to be in his way in his descent, just like the seers keep saying. To do that, we need sacrifice. Now the brass would never countenance it, of course, but what they don’t know, and what keeps them alive, certainly won’t hurt them. Us old sailors have to watch out for our own. Best to keep the sacrifices coming, best to source them from amongst the land-bound and only take as many as won’t be missed. The young work the best, that’s always been the case. Gotta feed them out the hatches and into the open sky to keep it happy. Keep its champion away. I’ve still got the same job as ever lads, still sitting out front with the sign-up sheet, still waiting for young ones to come up and sign their lives away. They never knew what they were getting themselves into then, and they still don’t. I’m still the warning sign you would do well to heed.

  How’s the brown stuff hitting you lads? You all seem away with the fairies. Never mind, it’s light out, and there’s a cart outside.

  THE END.

  TRAVELER by Lacie Carmody

  The stars went out one by one.

  The labyrinth fell dark, the shrubs that cut the paths stood too high to climb or see over, and morphed into solid black walls while a night, deeper than any I'd experienced enveloped the skyline. The thorns and the leaves the wall bore were too sharp to allow for navigation by touch and my hands and arms were already bleeding and bruised from the earlier trials the maze had provided. I needed more time if I was going to make it to the end of this thing. Ironic, considering I was a time traveler. Not that I've ever referred to myself as such, I'm a traveler, nothing more.

  This was a contest for those of us that could bend the rules and move from era to era, slowing down or speeding up clocks when we saw fit, pushing boundaries that many of my colleagues felt designed solely to keep us at heel. Ours is a serious skill if abused. I had never taken advantage of my powers, but I knew there were those amongst the ranks that had taken it upon themselves to rewrite history. They saw themselves as vigilantes and had traveled back to destroy wicked men before they could perform acts so terrible, they forever marred mind of the world. But even cruel men earn their places in history and if nothing else, serve as reminders for the inhumanity capable from one man to another. With their destruction, all that remained were unsteady balances between decades and paradoxes requiring repair by our elders, the Time Keepers.

  Such acts could not go unpunished, but those of us who did not participate had not expected the punishment to encompass the entirety of our ranks.

  Now, we were bound to twenty-four hours in a linear sequence; find the metronome in the center of the labyrinth or face expulsion from the ranks.

  When the rules had called for traversing a labyrinth, my challengers and I had assumed it would be one requiring us to jump from one period to the next. When revealed to us that it was a physical maze the collective gasps and pleas for mercy and forgiveness had assured me; I was not solely fearful. I hadn't begged for mercy, but that seemed silly now. Instead, I'd erred on the side of pride. I should have humbled myself, asked for a pardon, but that was how life was sometimes.

  Cloaked in darkness the labyrinth closed in around me. I was blind and with each wayward step, the path grew more treacherous. I could not use the walls to guide myself, and the stones that formed the walkway were too jagged for me to detect a pattern. Panic rose in my chest, tightening like a vice that threatened to get the better of me. Failure seemed imminent and with it a forfeiture of my powers-a return to a normal mortal existence.

  I'd rather die.

  The wind brushed around me, swooping down and pushing me forward. I caught my breath and stilled the tears streaking the mud and grime caked on my face. Laughter gurgled in my throat, a sound so unfamiliar, seconds passed before I recognized my voice. The wind would be my guide and would either lead me to my destination or my demise.

  I closed my eyes. There were traps to worry over, and the prospect of predators but staying put meant certain failure, and would make me an easy meal for anything that happened to be big and hungry. Without the furious search for light my hearing became centered, my nostrils flared, every scent painting a picture in my mind. I swallowed the lump that had risen in my throat and moved forward on unsteady legs.

  The labyrinth was quieter now, the trill of my heartbeat rhythmic, each thud against my chest meaning one more step forward. There had been fifteen of us when the test had begun, and I tried not to think about how many of us could remain. Even though it had only been a few that bore guilt and had broken the rules, the balance was damaged too severely to punish merely those involved. No, this was a lesson for the collective-something to make certain we knew our place. Our powers were gifts lest we view them as our rights.

  I lost track of how long I'd been walking and for a while, believed I was alone. Gone were the eyes of beasts that had greeted me on the day or the sounds of birds chirping in the sky above. I knew other things moved around now, not friendly or timid like before.

  I was nearing the metronome and could feel the power emanating through the labyrinth for the first time. The title of Traveler would be mine to keep. I choked down the cry of excitement that threatened to give up my location, taming the ecstasy the power sent through my form but the familiar warmth and the feeling of home and safety that power brought meant tears of joy fell regardless.

  Then, as if to quash any sense of success, the wind shifted. The stench of blood and sweat assaulted my senses. My stomach lurched and I froze in my tracks. Hot breath burned my nostrils, and a growl echoed around me, shattering my focus. The cadence of my pulse picked up pace throbbing behind my eardrums painfully. My eyes flew open, scanning wildly. Finally, reason overcame fear, and I twisted my body, struggling into the high shrubs, the thorns tearing into my skin, tangling my hair and trapping me. Something sharp sliced through my calf, and something I would only later recognize as blood soaked through my pant leg.

  I waited for the attack, the feel of teeth and claws tearing at the shrubs to only to sink into my flesh knowing the jaws of the creature the keepers had placed in the maze would make the pricks of the thorns feel like a lover's caress.

  I waited, and waited, and nothing came.

  The creature was still present, even in the darkness I could sense its form, the methodical pacing back and forth, blocking my escape, the growls that pierced through my skull, ratcheting back and forth, throwing off my senses even more. The sound of claws clicked against the stone walkway. I stayed still- squeezing shut my eyes and holding my breath as blood from the thorns trickled down my arms and legs, fighting the urge to adjust my position.

  It felt like a lifetime had passed before it stopped moving and I was able to take in a breath. Sweat marred my vision and stung my eyes and in my flurry of fear and retreat, I nearly missed the way the growls transformed into words, assaulting my eardrums with each gravelly pronunciation.

  "Stripped of your talents and yet you made it this far," the creature said, its throaty pronunciation snarling the words more and more, making them sound unnatural and forced. "To think, I nearly missed you."

  "The rest who've gotten this far I've sent back," it snarled. "Fools-crashing through my home like the animals they are." It growled again, and I could feel the distance closing between us, "But not you, at least, not until the end." A tongue moved across my wounds, lapping at the blood, sending a sickening shiver up my spine. I wanted to pull further back or cry out but didn't dare risk upsetting it.

  "A traveler must be subtle in their movements. Even the slightest misstep could mean time's disruption, and that which is written must then be rewritten." I felt a jaw around my bloodied calf, felt the grazing
of teeth but not the clamping of teeth.

  I squeezed my eyes shut again, the scent of blood and flesh turning my stomach in knots, bile rising in my throat. The creature released me and left my leg intact save for the globs of drool staining my shredded pants but oddly soothed the wound. The smell of blood and sweat lessened. "Open your eyes child."

  My eyelids cracked, and though the darkness remained it had lessened. A faint blue glow now illuminated the labyrinth. Where the creature had stood now stood a man, I recognized as a keeper. I struggled from the bushes and fell to my knees, the bones cracking against the stone walkway before tossing down my head and arms. I bit my lip, suppressing the cry and stayed as deeply bowed as the ground permitted.

  The time keeper's hand lifted my chin, its eyes, no, not eyes but golden orbs peered through my form. "Though you still have much to learn, you showed something your counterparts lacked. Intelligence and willpower are rare amongst travelers’ child. Your peers abuse their skills and move uncaringly. Time is precious, and you have made yourself worthy."

  I wanted to say something, but my throat was dry and cracked, and my voice had gone away with the wind. The keeper pulled me to my feet towering over me, like a god I knew it was. Any sign of mortality or humanity was a memory his form had forgotten, whatever he was now left whatever he was before, a mystery.