Beneath Ceaseless Skies #136 Read online

  His face was quiet and calm, without its usual warble of irritation. That constant semi-scowl Tsani had always talked about was gone. It filled Sagraille with a sort of peace, a knowing of herself; that calm expression on his face.

  “Gentility. Last Standard of the Spark,” Tsani mouthed, whispering. In awe?

  The two of them looked towards Temple. Neither had seen a Banshi before. Fa had failed. Tsani took a step forward; Sagraille pulled her back. The girl struggled, tears welling. Hurogi’s eyes opened, breath leaving him in a sigh, starting towards the Banshi that’d been his friend without flinching.

  “Leave, little-Tsani,” he said. “I can see in you the desire to heal, to confront a thing you’ve wronged. That is good, but you have done no evil.

  “This was coming for many years, I think. I should have seen it. We should have seen it. We quiet the pain of the world and this is mine to still. My place to calm. Not yours, though we would grow greatly with your strength. You must learn outside of us, as I learned before I came.”

  His bandages began to unwrap from his arms, slipping into his hands, spinning tighter and tighter circles till they strained together like horse-length swords emerging from his fists. The flesh they’d covered was bruised, scarred, ripped. Deep ridges ran over the skin, slicing the natural flow of veins into barely functioning bulges. In places the meat beneath was discolored, almost peeling. It looked like pain. He smiled.

  Sagraille knew that smile.

  “Each act in life, each solitary thing, delivers strength,” he said. “I drink tea, and take of its heat. I cry, and learn from tears new ways to move. I witness the world, and have in me the strength of it to spare, suffusing me.

  “I am the dawn and twilight, I am the oak and the willow and the coi and the carp, and of my strength I cannot help but give. That is what it means to be one of us, to be beyond true suffering - for a time—to give until it consumes. Kurtana. This is why Fa hated you, young and powerful. You’ve not learned that sorrow is also a dance. That giving is beauty; that your pain is not your own to covet close. Nor is it ugly. You are burdened by your sorrow, Tsani- dear. I am buoyed by it. Watch.”

  The Banshi-Fa roared, multicolored limbs of cloth and tongues of paint lashing at the frosty night. The two mountains of the pass loomed, Temple’s light casting them like judging giants above the scene. Hurogi began to run, bandage-blades poised forward. Each step like twenty; feet not quite touching the ground so much as courting it. He was in the air, or was the air lifting him?

  “I am Kurtana,” his whisper carried through the dirt, in the perspiration of the air. It was written like a signature; drawn like a picture. Sagraille saw him in that instant with her Eye.

  Fa had taught him like a sister. He’d come to the Temple a soldier out of war and never left. Learning, instead. When he was made Kurtana, they had danced together, hand in hand, between the trees of Wais. She’d bandaged his arms for the first time; soothed the burns caused by sorceries. What would never heal she helped him hide, and ease.

  His soul was focused, shaped into a spear of wood and fire, steel and water; persuaded together with whispers. Lashed together with an aging will. He would not survive this. She would kill him, or he would take his life, before his balance left him. She had brought him balance. He wanted to rage at Tsani, for being proud, a catalyst of pain. But he didn’t. There was no hate in his heart.

  Neither of them turned away from him as he met the Banshi, dancing one last time with his Fa. Cloth and fire, sound and stone, clashed between the mountains, but it was not like before. None of her wildness escaped his strength. Everywhere she thrashed, his hands met, his feet danced, his voice struck. Hurogi quieted her with his passions, shrinking her in circles till the Cousins rose to his aid. Tsani sang a whistle-song that caught the air like windchimes and rose-petals dancing. Sagraille thanked her for it; she was shaking.

  They watched till the dawn, when the smoke and dust finally settled. Exhausted, they turned away and began to walk. Tsani’s hand gripped hers gently, squeezing it, pulling Sagraille forward in a way without force. Towards the gray hills of Ghol they walked, towards home, and her heart ached. Remembering the first time she’d traveled to them, the first time with Mours. Through the dark and through the days. She watched it again, through the Eye, and it hurt.

  But not so much as it had before, Tsani’s hand in hers. The girl’s quiet calm, ruffled and dirtied but still as present on her as a wave. Hurogi, Fa, Mei. They were Kurtana. And so was Tsani.

  Copyright © 2013 Christian K. Martinez

  Read Comments on this Story on the BCS Website

  Christian K. Martinez has been known to disappear into his own mind for weeks at a time in search of faeries, D&D campaigns or just to dream. On one such occasion he moved from California to New York just in time to meet the blizzards. His short fiction can be found in AlienSkin, Bards and Sages Quarterly, Jabberwocky, Every Day Fiction, and multiple times previously in Beneath Ceaseless Skies. He can be found online at dayswithaknight.com.

  Read more Beneath Ceaseless Skies

  WALKING STILL

  by C.T. Hutt

  This is a song called Duncan and Brady

  It’s always called Duncan and Brady

  It always has been called Duncan and Brady

  It always will be called Duncan and Brady

  It’s about two guys

  One guy’s name is Duncan

  The other guy’s name is Brady

  -Tom Rush

  The Shiner Man’s covered wagon walked across the desert on six metal legs. Duncan Bismuth, as the fella was named, sat atop the clanking apparatus and did his level best to convince his mule to walk a straight line. The animal, which went by the name of Belch, was at least as drunk as his master. Between the two of them, they cut a pig’s tail across the prairie on their way to a shallow little town called Gunshow.

  It took the three, man, mule, and walking wagon, longer than it should have to close the distance, probably because they stopped a few times to ask directions of a cactus. The Shiner Man mistakenly considered himself well ahead of schedule due to the fact that his pocket watch was six weeks broke. Their tardiness was noticed by no one, ‘cause no one expected them to arrive. Nevertheless, they were greeted at the county line by a skeleton hanging off a sign at the crossroads leading to town.

  “Hello there, mister,” the Shiner Man said to the corpse. “Ain’t this the road to Gunshow?”

  Being dead and all, the skeleton said nothing, but a hand painted sign hung around his neck read “MOONSHINER.”

  “Oh, I see. Bad luck, old chum.”

  Belch hee-hawed mournfully at the bones and sidled on down the road.

  When they got to within spitting distance of the town, two horsemen rode up to meet them. They were rough-looking boys with three-day beards and scatter guns, obvious guards. The Shiner Man rubbed his bleary eyes with a free hand and pulled back the reins with the other, bringing Belch to a whinesome halt. The wagon stumbled a few more steps and collided with the mule’s ass before stopping.

  “Good day to you, boys, have I arrived in Gunshow?”

  The two guards looked at each other, then at the wagon, then back at each other.

  “Grude,” said the first. “Just what in the hell kind of carriage is this?”

  “I don’t know, Pillow, but it sure is ugly as shit.”

  Pillow sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose. “It smells like a still. Don’t it?”

  Grude smiled a crooked smile and nodded. “It sure does.”

  “Boonwaller County is dry, you know that don’t you, mister? You have any idea what Sheriff Brady does to moonshiners in these parts?”

  The Shiner Man tipped his hat back and twitched his moustache. He jumped off his seat and rapped the side of the wagon with a long handled cane. Presently, an elaborate banner unfurled which read Professor Bismuth and Company Miracle Elixirs.

  “You see?” he said. “No trouble, gentlemen. I’m just
an honest entrepreneur looking for a market.”

  Pillow and Grude laughed and grinned coyote grins. “Who in the hells is your company then? I only see one of you.”

  Belch hee-hawed and glanced back at them. The Shiner Man winked in turn.

  “Smile and play games as you like, stranger, but if this thing is a still, you’re libel to hang,” Pillow said.

  “You and your jackass,” agreed Grude.

  The Shiner Man tsk-tsked and Belch hee-hawed, offended. “Why, sirs, you surprise me with such harsh implications. Professor Bismuth and Company’s Restorative Tonics contain oodles and tons of the finest components and healthsome compounds ever assembled.”

  “Yeah?” said Pillow, “Like what?”

  The Shiner Man threw out his hands in an artistic flourish and began dancing and shuffling around. He bumped a lever on the wagon with his hindquarters that started a record spinning on a phonograph.

  “I’m glad you asked. It’s got Jessum squeezings, coriander, peyote leavings, and salamander. Saw grass, blue grass, laudanum too, swamp gas, sea bass, ballyhoo. Fifteen secret herbs and spices, mixed by dangerous dee-vices! Distilled and brewed and served up cold, it fixes the sick and renews the old! No malady can long withstand it, ‘cause that’s how Professor Bismuth planned it! Your natural vigor will enhance, you’ll sprout a ramrod in your pants! So come on gents and don’t delay, buy your-self a jug today!”

  His speech delivered, he stood there panting, dripping sweat, and still holding up his hands in a dramatic pose. The record skipped a few times before petering out.

  Pillow fixed Bismuth with a suspicious gaze and leaned over to Grude. “Is he addled, you figure? Why in the hells does he talk like that?”

  “I don’t know, but it sure is irritating. Speak plain, huckster. Does this bug-looking doohickey make booze or not?”

  With another flourish, the Shiner Man produced two mason jars filled with clear liquid. They were so cold that a frosty film of condensation covered their surface. It was a hot day, and both guards looked on the offering with hunger in their eyes.

  “‘Booze’ is a peasant’s word, my good man. Not fit to describe our company’s fine line of medicinal refreshments. But, I suppose if you fellows aren’t thirsty, I could just pour these out and move along.”

  Grude shook his head and reached out to take one of the jars. The Shiner Man moved the frosty jar away from his hand and flipped a little switch on his belt with one elbow. The top of his top hat flipped open like a trashcan lid; the underside read “10 Bucks a jug.”

  “We ain’t got to pay you to make sure you ain’t breakin’ the law.”

  The Shiner Man frowned and dropped his airs. “No one drinks for free. Ten bucks a jug, no exceptions.”

  They grimaced and growled, but paid just the same.

  Minutes later, Grude started a staring contest with the far horizon and Pillow began talking philosophy to his horse. The Shiner Man left them to their business and coaxed Belch onward into town.

  * * *

  The Mayor of Gunshow, Bartleby Volstead, glowered at the streets over the banister of his office’s grand porch. He admired the heady miasma of sobriety hanging over his borough like a dry cloud. The fog was his, and it smelt just fine. Satisfied that all was quiet, he turned his attention to the day’s newspaper. He leaned back on his chair and scanned the articles for telltale signs of dissent.

  His daughter and unwilling secretary, Vera, stood under the umbrella by him. Her hands were wrapped around a red portfolio. Her sun goggles revealed nothing.

  “Are those the election numbers?”

  “The revised ones, yes.”

  He wagged a finger at his offspring. “‘Refined’, child, ‘refined’. What are the results?”

  She didn’t dignify him with a sigh. “You won with one hundred percent of the vote.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, it appears that even your opponent voted against himself.”

  Mayor Volstead nodded and went back to his paper. “That’s the way democracy works. Dynamic mathematics and proper oversight give the people the results they need.”

  Vera tried to stop herself from hissing but didn’t succeed.

  “What are you mad about? You’ve got a job for another four years, and this town full of weak willed peons gets the leadership they require to live correctly. Why, without a steady hand at the helm, Boonwaller County would be overrun by bootleggers, rum runners, booze barons, and other sundry scofflaws. What’s the problem, dear?”

  She looked toward the sky and tried to recall a time when she hadn’t wanted her old man to drop dead. No such recollection came to mind. “Aside from your venality, Sheriff Brady arrested my fiancé this morning... again. I assume at your direction.”

  “Oh? Whatever for?”

  “Riding an unshod horse.”

  “I see. Well, dear, the law is the law.”

  “While he was sitting indoors, eating breakfast.”

  Mayor Volstead waved her off. “How many times must I endure your malcontent before you accept a better stationed par amour? The good sheriff for instance...”

  Vera grimaced. “I’d rather eat my dress, thank you.”

  He shrugged. “Would you mind fetching me another iced tea, dear? Try not to spit in it this time. And send for Franks. That news buffoon has made another typographical error.”

  He passed her a glass full of ice cubes. She accepted it but didn’t hop-to.

  “Father,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “I hate you.”

  He waved her off when she said it, just as he always did. Like her mother, Vera had never learned her proper station. Mayor Volstead was confident that she would in the fullness of time.

  When she was gone, he turned his gaze back on his newspaper, but something else nagged at his attention: a peculiar clicking clacking sound and the occasional baying of some unfamiliar nag. He peeked over the banister again just in time to see a six-legged wagon skitter onto Church Street and out of view. A familiar stench hung in the air.

  “What in the precious hells is that?” he said.

  * * *

  Ema Blackwell, lone preacher of Gunshow, was a sight too young for the crow’s feet next to her eyes. She groaned through her sermon, using the same dirge-like cadence reserved in happier provinces for funerals.

  The congregation moaned and farted quietly through the service. They sang joyless old hymns and shuffled up to the communion cup for their weekly drink of apple juice. It was all they were allowed, due to town ordinance. Preacher Blackwell administered the draught, splashing dull drink over glum tongues ‘till the benediction was done. It was the same ritual this week as it had been the week before. Chances were good it’d be likewise in the week ahead.

  Before she sent her weary flock back into the world that made them so, she asked if there were any announcements: weddings, sales, or the like. An unfamiliar hand poked up in the back row. It belonged to stranger wearing long white vestments and a hierophant’s hat nearly as tall again as he was. Curiously, there was a ragged looking mule sitting in the back row as well.

  “Who are you?” Blackwell asked. “And why did you bring that animal in here?”

  “I prithee, never mind my acolyte. I’m just a traveling proclaimer spreading good cheer. If you’ll hear me, I’ll take it as kindness, my dear.”

  The crowd seemed to wake up. Blackwell shrugged and stepped to one side. The heretical figure moseyed up to the front of the hall and bowed low in old formal style.

  “Friends, neighbors, and kind folk of Gunshow, is there anyone here who suffers from a malady of the mind? An affliction of the body? Corruption of their very soul?”

  The gathering murmured, unsure of what to make of the man. He swirled his robes about and pointed at a bent old woman in the first row.

  “You there, good matron, can you not feel the years bearing down on you? Have you not wished in the watches of the night for some gods-damned relief?”
>
  The old lady, all spectacles and shaking hands, nodded and mumbled. The man walked up to her, cupped her papery chin in his hands, and gazed deeply into her rheumy eyes.

  “What are you doing?” asked Blackwell.

  “Working miracles, dear Preacher. Now then,” he said, producing a large glass jug from under his robes. “Drink some of this.”

  Without further pleasantry, he smooshed the crone’s lips together and poured a good knock of clear liquid down her throat. She sputtered and coughed, but before Blackwell could protest, the old woman was on her feet, back straight, hands reaching out toward the sky.

  “Amen!” she exclaimed.

  “Amen,” returned the congregation.

  The odd fellow tossed off his robes and hat and pushed the old woman into Blackwell’s arms.

  “Behold friends, the spirit of spirits will set your faith right! Your redemption’s at hand and the future looks bright. Why, even the gods will look down with delight! When sinners sip sauce full of white lighting light.”

  Folks all over were standing and cheering and rushing toward the pulpit. The Shiner Man quaffed a few gulps of the substance himself then spat a mouthful at a lit candle, sending a huge fireball over the crowd. When the blaze cleared he was holding up a parchment that read “10 Bucks a Jug.”

  When her congregation began filling the collection plate with silver coins, Blackwell recovered herself and ran up to the odd fellow. “I don’t know who you think you are, but you can’t sell hooch in my church.”

  He winked and held out his top hat. “Don’t worry, preacher, I’ll tithe you in for twenty percent.”

  Blackwell looked at the hat, then at the sad goblet of apple juice, then back at her suddenly cheerful congregation. Shrugging, she fished out a silver from her pocket and dropped it in.