Chapter 1: The Alley

 

            No one saw the hand that tore through the wall between worlds in the alley between the Fertilizante Paraíso warehouse and the Exportações do Cometa offices because it was one a.m., just after witching hour ended. No one heard the howl of despair that rent the air, nor noted it began as something no throat on earth could produce and twisted itself into something human by the end. Water splashed and abandoned cardboard rustled as the almost-human figure staggered toward the dim light of the street, its legs and back bent under a burden that wasn’t physical. The figure stumbled into a broken crate and pitched onto its knees. It dropped its forehead onto the wooden slats and whimpered. “Why here? I don’t want to go here. I want to go home!” Sobs shook its body. “Why don’t you take me back? I don’t understand!” The head lifted toward the cloudy black sky. “I can be loyal! I’ll repent if you want! I’ll do anything!” The figure choked on its own sobs. “Why won’t you give me what I want? I don’t ask for a kingdom. I don’t ask for a throne. I don’t ask for rank or subjects.” Its head bent to the battered crate again. It whimpered, “I just want to go back to where I was, back at the beginning. Is that so much to ask?”

            Silence answered.

            “I just want to go home.” Tears fell and sobs shook its body until it slid off the crate and landed in the stagnant alley water. Shudders ran down its back, but each was weaker than the last until its body stilled and silence again owned the night.

​

            Later, two men in khaki uniforms and peaked caps walked past the alley as the clouds briefly parted and the full moon above threw its dim glow over the city. One of the men stopped. “Azevedo, what’s that?”

            A click shook the stillness as the other ignited his flashlight. The beam played over a stout, medium-brown person sprawled over the ground. The light caught a flat, hairless, chubby-cheeked face twisted into a mask of agony. Azevedo said, “It’s a man, Silva. God in heaven, look at his face.”

            Silva stepped into the alley. “Is he naked?”

            Azevedo’s light played over a bare leg. “Sure is. Looks like he’s had a bad time.”

            Silva lifted his own flashlight and unsnapped the holster at his side as he advanced.             “Good God!”

            Silva’s hand darted to his pistol. “Azevedo? What’s wrong?” His hand gripped the pistol butt as his thumb hovered over the hammer.

            Azevedo’s limp mouth moved. “Silva…they’re not there.”

            “What’s not there?”

            Azevedo pointed with a shaking hand. “His man parts. They’re not there. There’s nothing there.”

            The person on the ground opened its puffed, red-rimmed eyes. Turning its face away from the glare, it asked in a silvery voice, “Who’s there?”

            Silva glanced over at Azevedo. “Are you all right, sir? What happened to you?”

            “I’m not sure. I thought I broke through the wall. I thought I’d be home.” The voice quivered as its throat tightened. “…But I’m not. I’m here. In between. I don’t even know where between.”

            Silva frowned. “You’re on Rua Marcilio Dias. Where’s your home?”

            The words forced themselves through a cramped throat. “Far away. Very far. I thought I’d get there. I don’t know what to do now.”

            The officers glanced at each other. Silva asked, “What’s your name, sir?”

            “Ulocim.”

            “That the first or last name?”

            “Just the name.”

            “And the family name?”

            “I… don’t have a family name.”

            Silva shook his head. “You okay, sir? We can help.”

            The pained face turned toward him. “Why would you?”

            Silva shrugged. “We’re the police. If you need help, that’s what we’re here for.”

            “It is?”

            Silva blew through pursed lips. “That’s the way it’s supposed to work.”

            “Huh.”

            Silva squatted to meet Ulocim’s eyes. “Sir, something happened to you. You’re looking rotten, and you’ve been crying. Why don’t you come with us? We can take you down to the station house, talk about what happened, let the doctor take a look at you.”

            Azevedo added. “And I think you’ll need some clothes. What happened to yours?”

            “I’ve never worn them.”

            Azevedo shook his head. “You must be cold there.”

            “If you say so.”

​

            Silva closed the interview room door. “Day shift said he slept like a baby. Must have worn himself out crying. So, Doctor. What’s the word?”

            The doctor checked his notebook. “They haven’t been removed. There’s no scarring or other indication they were ever there. But he doesn’t have any indication of female genitalia either. Otherwise, he seems to be quite ordinary, as far as a basic exam shows. Ordinary pardo or a light preto on the outside. Normal pulse, temperature, reflexes. He seems healthy. For his mind, you’ll need a psychiatrist.”

            Silva scratched his chin. “We really need one? I don’t think the city’s going to spring for that.”

            The doctor nodded. “I think so. He’s not normal, mentally. He’s just… off. When I walked in, he was bending and twisting his leg in all kinds of ways. He said it was because he’d never had one before. When I said I was going to listen to his heart, he had no idea what I was talking about. And he kept babbling about some wall he broke through.”

            “He was doing that when we found him.” Silva glanced back at the interview room. “I checked his name against the usual lists. Nothing for his name or his description. Nobody’s looking for him.”

            “What now?”

            Silva puffed out some air. “Well, I’ll try questioning him again, see if he makes more sense this time. If I can’t learn anything useful, we’ll send him to a shelter. We’ve got no reason to hold him.”

            The doctor tapped his pen against his notebook. “I’m wondering if he’s a Caipira from out in the jungle. That would explain why he gawks at everything, only has one name, and doesn’t worry about clothes. If he is… some of those tribes way up the Amazon get up to some nasty stuff. Maybe he broke the rules and had to run before he got eaten or something. Or maybe they didn’t like his… physical peculiarities. Someone like that might end up here in Rio.”

            “Surely  Macapá is more likely?”

            “But Rio de Janeiro is possible.”

             “Maybe. Thanks, Doctor. Good night.” He turned and entered the interview room where Ulocim sat tugging at the sleeve of its cheap brown suit and watching how the fabric shifted.

            Silva sat down. “Mister Ulocim… Mister Ulocim! I’d like to check a few more things.”

Ulocim looked up. “Fine.”

            Silva rubbed his badge. “You still say no one hurt you? No crime was committed against you?”

            “No.”

            Silva nodded. “All right. This wall you broke through. Where exactly was it?”

“Everywhere.”

            Silva paused. “I see. And you thought you’d be home after you broke through. Where is home?”

            “Shamayim.”

            Silva glanced at the ceiling. “That’s nowhere I’ve heard of. Let’s try the other end. Before you broke through that wall, where were you?”

            “Gehenna.”

            “Is that up in the jungle?”

            “No.”

            Silva sighed. “Is there anyone looking for you? Anyone you can stay with? Family, friends?”

            “No. I’ve never had any family. And I lost all my friends when I broke through the wall.”

            Silva smiled. “Well, there’s a shelter I can take you to. You can stay there until you get back on your feet. Unless you have somewhere else to go?”

            Ulocim nodded. “I do. Someone told me the story of Oxteep once. It did what I did, broke through the wall and landed here. And here, somewhere in here, it found someplace called Tserkov Svyatogo Dimitriya Svyatogo Sveta. And inside there, it found a way to go home. That was about one thousand seven hundred orbits after the cursed prince. Can you tell me how long ago the cursed prince died?”

            Silva scratched at his temple. “Prince? Pedro II died back in 1891, forty-odd years ago.”

            “Eighteen and ninety-one? What does that mean?”

            “You know, 1891. Anno Domini one thousand eight hundred ninety-one.”

            “Oh. I guess it’s been a while. I hope it’s still there. Things decay so fast here.” Ulocim stood and stepped toward the door.

            Silva reached over and laid a hand on Ulocim’s chest. “Hold on. Where are you going?”

            “To Tserkov Svyatogo Dimitriya Svyatogo Sveta.”

            “And where’s that?”

            “I’ll find it. I have to.”

            Silva shook his head. “Sir, I’ve never heard of that place you mentioned, but the name sounds foreign to me. It’s probably a lot further than you can walk.”

            “What else can I do? I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

            Silva laughed. “Mister Ulocim, I think you better stop worrying about a place that might be on the other side of the world and start thinking about where you’re going to sleep tonight and what you’ll eat. One step at a time. Try getting a job, and you can work up to a trip to wherever that place is.”

            “But I want to go home now.”

            Silva waved a hand. “At least wait until you have some idea where to go. Alberto can give you somewhere to live until you can get back on your feet.”

            Silva led Ulocim out and toward the front door. As they left, a conversation ran back and forth between two detectives down the corridor, just out of their hearing.

            “It’s the weirdest thing. I’ve never heard this name on the criminal grapevine before last night, and suddenly half the hoodlums in the city are looking for this guy with a foreign name.”

            “What’s the name again?”

            “Uul-ow-kim.”

​

            As evening gathered, Ulocim followed Silva along a street where overgrown, untidy trees marched along the sidewalk to a building that had been a tiny factory. A carelessly plastered crack spread across most of the front wall. For once, Ulocim didn’t gawk at the streets and buildings around it. Instead, it flexed its fingers in sequence, closed its hand into a fist, and opened it again, endlessly repeating the same moves like a small child playing with a new toy.

            They ambled past the propped-open door and over to the thirdhand counter that was the sign-in desk. In front of it stood a short man, pink-skinned but tan, in a navy suit fancier than the neighborhood called for with a pale turtleneck under the jacket. His high forehead rose under a carpet of hair that couldn’t decide if it was blond or brunet, while under his broad nose not quite enough hair to be called a beard spread over his chin. The man’s relaxed limbs and back shortened him a bit, but he didn’t slouch; he stood with the curve of a snake’s back, equally ready to rest or strain as the circumstance arose. He spoke with a foreign ring to the man behind the counter. “Two hundred twenty-six milreis. That ought to get a few beans in the pantry, eh?”

            “Louis, where’d you get all this?” the long-limbed man behind the counter asked. His inch-long brown curls bounced back and forth with his dark brown head.

            Louis tapped his new fedora. “Just finished a lucrative contract. I got some time off and a bonus.”

            Alberto counted the money again. “Time off, eh? Where’d your boss end up?”

“The boss got talking to a pretty branco when we arrived and is off doing the dinner and dancing bit. Now how about we go out and get some feijoada and catch up?”

            “Alberto!” Silva called.

“What have you got for me, Silva?” Alberto turned back to his companion. “Sorry, Louis, got a customer.”

Silva yanked Ulocim’s arm, and Ulocim stumbled the rest of the way in. “This is Ulocim. No last name. We found him on the street yesterday, and he’s got nowhere to go.”

Alberto nodded. “Got it. Mister Ulocim, you’ll have room eight. I’ll need you to answer a few questions and go over the rules.”

Silva waved. “I’ve got to get back to my duties. Good luck, Mister Ulocim.”

            After a short discussion, Alberto ran upstairs to check on the room, leaving Ulocim with Louis. Each watched the other and strained for something to say.

            “Why do you sound different than everyone else?” Ulocim said at last.

            “I’m French,” Louis replied.

            “French,” Ulocim echoed. Its forehead twisted. “French… Yes, the lines. I could never keep track of the lines.”

            Louis scratched at his neck. “What are you talking about?

“The lines. France, China, Assyria, Natchez… They draw the lines, then they redraw them again and again until the name inside dies, and a different name and set of lines encloses that spot. I’m glad I don’t have to worry about it. Only one line where I come from.”

“Only one border? What island are you from?”

            “Gehenna.”

            “Doesn’t sound Portuguese. You from the Pacific? You don’t look it. Or is that some Indian language from out in the jungle…” Louis’s head twitched as something clicked inside. “You mean the Gehenna?”

            Ulocim’s head bobbed.

            “Burning sulfur pits and everything?”

            “You think of it that way.”

            Louis leaned a little further back. “As a tenant or a landlord?”

            Ulocim glanced down. “I would have said landlord for a long time. But I’m not. There aren’t any landlords there. Just some tenants who are a little more powerful and a little less miserable than the rest.”

            “You… doing a lot of business these days?”

Ulocim looked out the door. “I don’t know. Only the higher-ups get news. Nobody ever tells me anything.”

Louis’s finger tapped against the counter. “So… how come you’re here? Don’t you have lost souls to whip or something?”

“I got so sick of everything there… so tired of being kicked around and miserable… I… I wanted to go home. So I tried.” It shoved a palm out. “I broke through the wall.”

“You what?”

Ulocim shoved again. “Broke through the wall. Pushed my way out, and ended up here.”

Fire in the Belly

A Stella Baker, Aviatrix Adventure

 

 

Chapter 1: A Crack

 

The man pressed the handkerchief over his face as he contemplated the opened doors at the end of the cinderblock-walled hall, where the new void threw its slight orange light across the lunchroom. Despite the danger, he had no choice but come inside for the phone. Rumor was those lucky stiffs on the New York force had radios that could receive and send in every car. He shuffled into the administrative office, noting the files on the secretary’s desk that might never be dealt with and the outhouse-sized principal’s office at the back as he picked up the candlestick phone. He lifted the earpiece and twisted the dial.

“Hello, dispatch? Officer Ulani checking in at Millard Fillmore Elementary. Arrived at,” he pushed the olive drab sleeve of his uniform shirt back from his watch, “Eight oh-seven. Nothing to report…” He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, it’s still there… No, nothing’s on fire. Not yet. We got any idea about the danger? ...Could you find out? I’ve got to go inside to report, and I’d like to be sure I won’t get fried. Or gassed. And God knows what else is down there. When can the fence guys get here?” He waited while the phone explained. “I know it’s Sunday! But doesn’t this qualify as an emergency? …Right, right. I’ll check in again at ten.” He dropped the earpiece back on its cradle. He stepped back and leaned out into the hall to check the orange aura at the end, and added, “Unless something happens before then.”

He locked the school’s double front doors and trudged past the flagpole, across the road, and to the dingy black Model A sedan with a scratched-up white star on the side. He stepped past the open passenger door, tossed himself on the seat, discarded his peaked cap, and sat back to watch the school. For once he wished he smoked, he’d at least have something to occupy his hands. Four more hours of this until his shift was over.

He leaned forward to check the road. Nothing stirred on the end that disappeared into the koa forest backdropped by the local volcano. On the end that snaked down toward the beach, two figures silhouetted against the deep red tropical dusk walked toward him. He slapped his cap back on his head and shoved himself out of the car.

The pair reached the pool of light under the single lamppost outside the cinderblock front of the school. They looked like siblings, with the same pink plus sun complexion, blond hair, and sharp features. Both even wore silver jewelry, a watch for the man, a necklace with what appeared to be a three-bladed airplane propeller for the woman.  But the man’s simple tan shirt above his khaki shorts clashed with the woman’s bright red Aloha shirt with its palm-leaf pattern.

The man waved as the woman kicked the road dust from her sandals and brushed off her khaki skirt. The man said, “Hello, officer?”

            “Yes, sir?”

            “I’m Mister David Patterson.” He jerked a thumb toward the school. “I teach at Millard Fillmore Elementary over there.” He gestured at the woman. “And this is Miss Stella Baker, my uh… uh… Well, I don’t want to say ‘girlfriend’ after just one dinner…”

The woman broke in. “Date.”

            Ulani nodded. “What can I do for you, sir?”

            “One of my roommates gave me a message that school was cancelled indefinitely, but it didn’t say why. I can’t get ahold of anyone, so Miss Baker suggested we walk over and see what we could find out. Do you know anything?”

            Ulani felt the woman’s eyes boring into his badge. “Ah, yessir. See the color?” He pointed at the pale orange glitter in the second-story window. “A crack opened in the lunchroom. All the way down to the lava. No one’s allowed inside.”

            David hung his jaw at an odd angle. “A volcano? Really? I know this is Hawaii, but I was here at four o’clock on Friday, and everything was perfectly normal.”

            Ulani shrugged. “Janitors were here late Saturday. Everything was fine then, too.”

            Stella squinted at the shifting glow. “In less than a day? With no warning at all? I’m no expert, but I don’t think it works like that.”

            “Don’t sound right to me either,” Ulani said. “But that’s what happened.”

            Stella stepped to the side, her gaze still on the window. Her keen green eyes narrowed. She sidestepped again.

            Ulani asked, “Something wrong, Miss?”

            Stella sidestepped a third time. “Not sure. The reflections in the glass don’t change no matter how much I shift. I’d think they would…”  She cocked her head. “Hang on for a minute. I won’t go inside.”
           They watched as she walked a full circle around the school, looking in at every window. When she got back, she grabbed a stick and drew in the dirt. “Here’s the main school building, two hundred feet by one hundred.” She added two smaller rectangles. “Here’s the extensions on the back, thirty by fifty. And the lunchroom is here, and this size.” She scratched a rectangle in the center.

            Ulani pointed at the shapes in the dirt. “You got all that in three minutes?”

            Stella flicked the pendant around her neck. “I have to navigate when I fly; this sort of thing gets to be second nature. So at the exact center of the lunchroom, at the exact center of the building, is our crack.”

            Ulani lifted his cap to scratch his head. “Meaning what?”

            “Well, could be two things. Number one, a coincidence amazing enough Ripley’s may or may not believe it. Number two… humans like things nice and symmetrical. If someone made that crack inside somehow, that’s where they’d put it.”

            David glanced up and down the road. “That’s silly. You couldn’t drill or dynamite your way down without wrecking the place, and you certainly couldn’t start in the lava and dig your way up. And if someone put it there, why do it in an elementary school, of all places?”

            Stella rubbed her narrow chin. “I don’t know. Maybe somebody went to this school and hated it? Maybe there was something underneath the school they wanted? Or…” Her finger traced meaningless shapes in the air. “If you could make a crack like that and wanted everyone to know, a public building would be a good place.”

“But an elementary school?”

“Easier to get inside than city hall.”

            Ulani blinked. “So maybe we’ll get some kind of demand next? ‘Restore the kingdom or we make a new volcano where Honolulu is,’ something like that?”

            Stella shrugged. “Could be, I’m just talking out of my hat here. But if that is what happened, we’ll probably find out very soon.”

            “My superiors may want to talk to you.”

            Stella reached into her shirt pocket and extracted a business card. “You can find me at the pier.”

            “The Pier Hotel?”

            “No, passenger pier six. I have to live out of my plane till the check clears for my last contract. Sikorsky S-38. Orange paint job. Says ‘Lily’ on her side.”

            Ulani wrote it all down. “Thanks. We’ll get in touch if we need you.”

            Stella turned to David, who was watching the magma glow play across the second-floor window. “Well, now you know. What next?”

            David shook his head. “Oh man, this is going to be a mess. I guess I’ll head on home and go to bed, better rest up before everything hits the fan.”

           

            The next morning, Stella called the Roman Roads Club and found there were no pending contracts she might get, then called the bank and found the people she’d flown kept their money at a small bank in Kansas, and the check still hadn’t cleared. She bought a morning copy of the Island Crier from a paperboy and settled back at a dilapidated lunch wagon to read and eat her meager breakfast. After she went through the comics page, she flipped to the editorials and struggled not to spit out her pineapple juice.

            The letter to the editor read,

 

I made the crack in Millerd Fillmore Elementary School. I can make as many cracks as I want. the Wa’a Hotel, Madison Docks Co, and Alaea Hotel will pay me 10000 unless they want their businesses ruined. Payment details will follow.

The Magma God.

 

            Stella managed to swallow her juice. “Oh, this is not good. A couple hotels, that’s bad but survivable. The Madison Docks Company… if he disrupts their operations, even temporarily, that’ll close half the port and drag every business on the island down with it. Better tell… no, the cops read the paper, they must know. Is there anything else I can do? Been twenty years since I did any rockhounding, and I don’t know squat about igneous rocks, let alone volcanos. Who might know something? Who might have some answers about volcanic cracks?” Her fingers snapped. “Of course! The professionals!”

            She changed from skirt and sandals to slacks and boots, retrieved a folding bicycle from her plane, and pedaled up the mountain roads until she reached a plank building the size of a large house. A neglected, plant-choked sign stood out in front.

 

  Hawaiian Volcano Observatory

Annex 12

United States Geologic Survey

 

            No one answered her knock, but the door wasn’t locked, so she entered and called, “Hello?”

            There was a desk for a receptionist, but no one sat behind it. As she dithered, a door in the back opened, and a man carrying a too-large armful of binders shuffled into the room. Stella said, “You look overloaded. Could I carry a couple of those?”

            The man, who was neat as a pin and not much thicker, replied, “Please!” and paused while Stella slid the top two binders off. He led the way to a file room, where he opened up a big cabinet and tucked everything inside. “Thanks! So… um… who are you and why are you here?”

Stella stuck her hand out. “Miss Stella Baker. I thought you might be able to answer some questions about the volcanic crack that opened under Millard Fillmore Elementary. I assume you’ve heard about it? Mister…”

            “Appearson. Sydney Appearson. No, I hadn’t heard a thing about it.”

            “It was in the paper.”

            Sydney puffed air through pursed lips. “I haven’t seen a newspaper in two days. Doctor King took some odd readings on the mountain, and we’ve been working night and day to find out if it’s something to worry about.”

            “Something weird under the mountain? I wonder if that has something to do with the new crack.”

            Sydney closed the cabinet. “Beats me, I’m just a file clerk. Even Doctor King’s only a geologist, not a volcanologist.”

            Stella settled into a chair. “Great. Well, you must know some about volcanoes.”

            “A little.”

            Stella leaned back against the desk behind her. “What would you say if a crack down to the lava opened up at the exact center of a building in less than a day, but nothing came out?”

            “I’d say that’s impossible.”

            “Well, offhand, I’d say that too. But it happened anyway.”

            Sydney walked out of the file room and blew a piercing whistle. The man who shuffled out of a back room in response was underdressed in a golf shirt and jeans, notably tall, and his hair was chopped off very close to his head. “What is it, Syd?”

            “Doctor Dallas King, this is Miss Stella Baker. She has a few questions about the crack under the school.”

            “What crack under what school?”

 

            Some time later, Dallas rested his chin on his interlaced hands. He said, “And you’ve seen this crack?”

            “Through a window.”

            Dallas looked up at the ceiling. “And there wasn’t anything burning, nothing that looked burned, no strange black rocks spreading over the floor?”

            Stella shook her head. “Nothing I saw. The floor was clean, except for the crack.”

            “That is not natural. If magma pushes up to the surface, it’s under tremendous pressure, and when it reaches the surface, there’s no longer anything to contain the pressure, so it will be released as energy.” When Stella’s brow furrowed, he added, “To put it simply, you shouldn’t have a crack with magma at the bottom, you should have a new volcano.”

            Stella tapped a finger against the table. “So I was right, and this is some artificial happening, presumably done by this man who calls himself, ‘the magma god.’”

            “Most likely. The caveat I’d add is that volcanos are the complex product of powerful, unpredictable forces. They’re known to do freakish things.”

            “Like what?”

            “Creating lightning. Geysers that erupt like clockwork. Surges of invisible gas that kill a man while leaving the man next to him unscathed.”

            Stella smiled. “Ah, sort of like when a tornado tattoos a man with dirt from a quarter mile or leaves one house untouched when it levels a neighborhood. I’m from Illinois,  tornados are our local freakish disaster.”

 “Fair enough. Any other questions?”

            Stella bit her lip. “Actually, yes. If secondhand information about the crack isn’t much good, why don’t you grab some of your gear and go take a look?”

Icy Craving

A Stella Baker, Aviatrix, Adventure

 

Chapter 1: Big Trouble

 

It brushed a pine sapling aside as it walked, not heeding the breathtaking tableau of snow-laden crags with bands of snow-flocked conifers. A moose rounded the nearest bank of trees, bellowed, and fled, but drew not a twitch of reaction. A humming orange dot crawled through the sky in front of the ever-shifting gray clouds, but it glanced that way for only an instant. For it, nothing existed except the cold and the hunger.

            The dot of orange sank in the sky and grew into a gawky plane like a canoe slung under a twin-engine biplane with a double tail. The flying boat dropped further and turned a lazy circle around the frozen, snow-covered expanse of a big lake. It came in low, slowed until it barely clung to the sky, and touched down.

            The plane’s thick aluminum belly cut a long furrow in the snow as it rocked and pitched against the frozen surface. At last, the plane’s motion ground into stillness and the propellers stopped. The canopy swung up and the winter gear-swathed figure in the pilot’s seat said, “See? Told you I could do it.”

            A gust of wind pushed a shower of snowflakes past. The figure in the other side of the cockpit said, “Yes, you can land. But can you take off?” It brushed a stray flake off the Royal Canadian Mounted Police insignia sewn above the Corporal’s stripes on the sleeves of the baggy parka.

            The pilot patted the control yoke. “Amundsen’s group did it in their North Pole expedition back in twenty-five. And that was with a Wal. Lily’s got another six years in aviation advances.”

            The Mountie looked back at the wings. “Really? Doesn’t look like a newer design. Looks more like something from back in the war.”

            “Nah, Sikorsky built their first S-38 ten years after, in twenty-nine.”

            The Mountie hopped out and sank up to his ankles in the loose snow. He shaded the fur-rimmed goggles over his eyes as he searched for the barely perceptible ridge where the thick snow covering the lake’s frozen surface joined the thick snow covering the shoreline. A burst of fierce wind passed, and the airplane shifted. “There it is,” the Mountie said, “C’mon, we can unpack the snow-cycle later. I want to find out what ‘big trouble’ has Constable Benton so worried. In the meantime, you’d better get warmed up. Only chance you’ll get from here all the way back.”

            “If they’ll be okay with it,” the pilot replied.

            “It’ll be fine. Everybody’s big on hospitality around here. Keeps you alive.”

            The pilot climbed out of the cockpit. “Anything I should know about etiquette?”

            “Naw, they don’t worry about it much.”

            The pilot reached up and slammed the canopy, walked around the plane once, then followed the Mountie toward shore.

            The Mountie reached the upward slope that marked where the water ended and shifted the goggles from his face, uncovering a pair of voluminous pewter pupils, well shielded by bushy eyebrows. He pushed back the hood to reveal tiny ears and close-cut dark hair. He pulled the red and black checked scarf down from delicate cheekbones that were almost comically mismatched with his sturdy chin. He took in the four low log structures in front of him as he waited for the pilot to catch up.

            “Is something wrong?” the pilot asked.

            “Wrong?” the Mountie replied, “What do you mean?”

            The pilot slid one hand under the ushanka’s ear flap, lifted the fur hat off, and shook out a mane of loose blond hair. “They haven’t come out to see the plane, George.” She pulled the scarf down from thin lips. “They must have heard us, and a remote place like this, they’ve probably never seen a plane before, especially up close.” She pushed her goggles up from keen green eyes. “Usually, I can’t beat the kids away with a stick. But here… nothing. You sure they’re in there?”

            George looked back at the village. Smoke rose from three chimneys. “Think so, Stella. Let’s have a look.”

            Stella wrestled the flap of her coat back far enough to check the leather pouch on her right hip and the metal shape it surrounded.

            As they approached the village, the change of angle revealed a figure standing on the slope above in the shelter of some trees. It held a rifle wedged under its arm and stared at the horizon, never sparing a glance for them. A single figure shrouded in a moose robe emerged from behind a building, clutching a rifle to its chest as though the weapon was a freezing child. George waved.

            The new-fallen snow crunched under the figure’s moose-hide boots as it advanced. Even behind the slits of the snow-goggles, fear shone from his eyes. He barked something at them and waved at one of the doors. George asked three different questions in a language that wasn’t European, and each time the man only repeated his command and waved at the door again. Finally, George shrugged. “I guess we go inside.” They stepped toward the door, and the man turned back to his vigil.

            Stella looked back at the sentry. “Don’t you speak their language?”

            “Sort of. I do speak Cree, but a different form of it from far east of here. I can get by in a pinch, but it’s Constable Benton that speaks the local dialect. And the headman, Etchemin, speaks French.”

            Stella squinted back at the guard. “Do they normally post sentries?’

            “Most of the tribes don’t. Especially not in winter. Might have something to do that ‘big trouble’ that got Benton worked up. Sure would help if he’d file a report once in a while.”

            The door creaked on old hinges.

            The smell hit them first, the smell of too many people cooped up too long in a small, windowless building with no running water. Just after the woman in the corner reflexively reached for the ancient rifle next to her, every eye in the packed room bored into them. The only man in evidence had a rifle within arm’s reach, although at his advanced age he probably couldn’t lift it.

            The old man stood. The big mouth under his mass of wrinkles gaped, but it was a moment before he found his tongue.

            “Corporal George McLeod and…?” he said in badly cracked English.

            Stella smiled. “Miss Stella Baker, aviatrix.”

            The old man stared at her outstretched hand for a moment and said, “Glad you’re here.”

            “Etchemin?” George asked.

            The old man shook his head.

            “Constable Benton?”

            The old man shook his head again.

            George said something in a non-European tongue. The two drifted into a corner and as they talked endlessly, the same words bubbling up again and again in slightly different arrangements.

            Stella stamped her feet and pulled close to the iron stove that looked at least a thousand years old. The crowd in the room left her what was probably a good spot; she’d visited many societies around the world and knew the usual courtesies for a guest. 

            But Stella was used to being the center of attention when her machine arrived in some out of the way place where planes were little known, and it bothered her the people packed in the lodge had barely given her a glance before they resumed their aimless milling. She told herself it was nothing to worry about, but it still nagged at her. She tugged her heavy gloves off and shoved them in her pockets. George and the old man endlessly talked back and forth. She groped inside her coat until her fingers closed around a bar of Swiss chocolate and slid it out. Every child’s eyes pivoted toward her. None of them said a word; they just stared at the object in her hand with blank faces. Stella looked at them, then at the chocolate bar, then back at the children. She broke the bar into pieces and handed them out.

            The first boy to take one accepted the little square and sniffed it. He cautiously licked it and winced. He stuffed it in his mouth anyway. As Stella watched his eyes, she recognized something the dullness had masked before. She rose from her seat and stepped over to the corner. “George, can I talk to you for a minute?”

            “I’m busy here, is it important?”

            “Yes.”

            George sighed and explained to the old man. He turned to Stella, “What is it?”

            “Has anybody mentioned the food supply yet?”

            “No, why?”

            Stella glanced over her shoulder. “These people are hungry. Getting towards starving.”

            George bit his lip. “Are you sure?”

            “I’ve been all over Africa, and all over Asia. I know what a hungry child looks like. And they’re scared. Very, very scared.”

            “That’s come up. I’m still trying to get the details; we keep talking past each other.”

            “What, the language thing?”

            George ran his thumb over his fingers. “That’s part of it. But mostly… well, I can follow him okay for a while, and then he veers off into theology and loses me. I’m not up on these people’s mythology, and it seems to be very important to whatever ‘big trouble’ Constable Benton wanted help with.”

            Stella pulled her gloves on. “Okay, keep trying. I’ve got some canned goods that should help.” She ducked through the door. As the wind hit her, she slipped the ushanka back on her head. “Chicago in December is too cold for mortal man, Chris? Cuz, that’s amateur night.” One of the sentries loomed up behind her. She pointed at the plane. “Going to fetch food.” The man spun his left hand around in a circle. “No,” she said, following it up with a shake of her head. When she turned toward the lake, the man caught her shoulder. He slid the snow goggles from his eyes and shook his head urgently. Stella paused to run the whole matter through her brain. The man made a gesture that probably meant danger. Stella pointed at the plane, made the “eating” gesture, and pointed at the man.

            His eyes brightened with comprehension, but then they clouded under an internal battle. At last, one side of the battle, probably the hungry one, won out, and he nodded. He held up his fists, his right hand still clamped around the rifle, and mimed running. Stella gave him a thumbs up and jogged as fast as her natural caution and winter gear allowed to where the plane waited under a light scattering of snowflakes. She clambered up to the top, wrestled the hatch open and climbed in. At the bottom she banged each valenki in turn against the metal grating that ran up the middle of the floor, knocking the snow into the space below.

            She poked through the boxes in the back until she found the one with “emergency rations” scrawled across the front in surprisingly elegant letters. She wrapped her arms around it and heaved it up, then pushed and shoved and grumbled as she forced the box around the machine parts that took up most of the cargo bay, up the short ladder, through the top hatch, and down over the wings. When the box finally rested on the lower wing, she wiped her forehead, growled, worked her arms underneath, then lugged it back towards shore.

            As she passed the man on the way back, the box’s contents rattled against each other. His stance relaxed its grim intensity for a moment but then snapped back. Stella recognized something from her father’s war stories, something she’d seen herself a time or two. The hard, relentless focus that came of being the last line of defense against… something.

            The sentry didn’t move to help, but Stella wrestled the box all the way to the lodge. She propped the door open with a boot and heaved her burden until she dropped the box next to the far wall and it rang like a shattered bell. When she lifted the lid, the momentary lighting of every face warmed her far more than the ancient stove did.

            She sat down and watched everyone, from those who opened cans and poured the contents into a pot, to those who played with them, to those who examined the labels closely and pondered what “corn” was.

            At last, George rose from his seat in the corner. “Stella, I’ve learned everything I can. I need to get the snow-cycle from your plane now. After that, you can head back.”

            “Right.” Stella pulled her gloves on and slipped her ushanka back into place. She tucked her hair under the ear flaps as she followed him outside.

            “So, what did you learn?” Stella asked as they walked toward the plane.

            George grimaced under his parka’s hood. “What a mess. As best I can tell, Constable Benton and Etchemin went north two days ago. They took the four best hunters in the village with them, everyone loaded for bear. They haven’t come back. I think they were looking for the devil.”

            “The devil?”

            “That’s what they’re worried about. That’s why they sent for the Mounties in the first place.”

            Stella shielded her face against a blast of wind. “Their devil or our devil?”

            “I wish I knew. This is all I’ve got.” He opened a little book, and pointed to a particular entry:

 

Wen-dee-goh (n): the devil

​

            George tucked the book away and continued, “But they’re scared to death of it. That’s why everyone’s staying in the village.”

Spring brings new life. It’s the time of love and weddings

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Feet of Clay

 

           

 

 

 

 

 

The woman’s shaking hands sought the fresh-baked loaf in the brick oven, but instead touched the prized iron bread pan, which drove her fingers back without drawing a noise from her throat or a change to her glum expression. She pulled out the loaf on the second try and dropped it on the haystack of loaves that already threatened to spill off the oak table. She drew a haphazard measure of flour from the barrel, then mechanically worked it into the water and an old piece of dough. Spots of flour peppered the yellow snood that covered her deep brown hair, her ruddy face, the ruff around her neck, the red woolen bodice that clung to her broad shoulders, her apron, and the orange skirt that brushed against the slate floor.

            The door behind her creaked, sparking no response. A girl of perhaps ten in all blue with a brilliant brass perched dove livery pin on her breast tiptoed in. “Rebecka? Becka?”             The baker kneaded away at the dough. The girl waved a hand in her face and said, “Rebecka?” again. When she got no reply, she reached over and yanked the baking dish away.

            Rebecka blinked. “Agnes?”

            “Please, talk to me. You were there for me when my father died. Now I want to be here for you.”

            Rebecka stared at her flour-caked hands. “What is there to say? The Yuan vase is gone. So no matter how much I love him, Master Inwood will marry Danyell to someone else.”

            “Maybe the constable will find it.”

            “Maybe. In a year or so when it’s too late.”

            Agnes squeezed her face into a fake smile. “Or maybe tomorrow.”

            The dough squeezed through Rebecka’s clenched fingers. “No. Not tomorrow.”

            “That doesn’t sound like you. There’s always hope.”

            Agnes stretched her arms out. Rebecka shook a swarm of white specks from her hands, and the two hugged. When they parted, Agnes looked over the flour down the front of her livery and said, “It was worth it.” Rebecka slid the baking dish back.

            Agnes winced, “How long can you keep this up?”

            Rebecka slapped some flour from her hands. “I’ve got to do something.”

            Agnes waved her hand at the pile of loaves. “What’s going to happen to all this?’

            Rebecka stared into the dish until she said, “The poor can always use some bread.”

            Agnes ran a finger under her ruff and examined the wet it picked up. “At least let me open the door and get some air in here.”

            Rebecka pushed up her snood and wiped the ample sweat from her forehead. “Go ahead. Is it any better outside?”

            “Yes, been trying to rain for the past hour.” Agnes pushed open the door, and the early spring air swept in the smell of earth, growth, and rain. Across the dubious gravel road, past Master Upton with his beautiful legs resplendent in his Venetians and silk hose, rose a splendid house in ancient brick, with the new upper floor in half-timber. A little further down the almost-empty street, a very tall woman in green walked with a girl in blue she overtopped by at least two feet. The girl pointed at the sky, and the woman nodded. The girl pointed again, and the woman nodded again.

            Rain poured as though a divine bucket had overturned. Master Upton sprinted into his house. The other two dithered among the pounding drops.

            Agnes shouted, “In here!” and waved them in.

            The small girl scurried for cover like a mouse, reaching the kitchen in three heartbeats. Up close, she was perhaps fourteen, haggard enough for a woman much older, and shorter than Agnes. Her dark, hollow eyes blended with her hollow cheeks and drawn mouth. Someone so inclined could count all the bones in the ragged pink hands that clashed with the lush, fashionably auburn curls atop her head.

            The other woman slipped through the door. Her pale pink, spidery fingers caught the strands of chestnut hair that had come loose in the run and tucked them back into place. She turned her liquid brown eyes to her companion and said, “Skade, I’m afraid we’ll have to go hungry a while longer. Next time I insist I can read the sky better than you, be a dear and kick me.”

            The small woman spoke with an odd sing-song lilt to her voice. “Yes mi- Sybil.” Her gaze wandered through the kitchen until it intersected the pile of loaves and locked there.

Sybil’s skirts squelched as she curtsied. “Very kind of you to shelter us. May I ask who our hosts are?”

            Agnes shuffled in place. “This is the Cely house. I’m Agnes Gorst, one of the maids. That’s Mistress Rebecka Cely, the daughter of the house.” She pointed to Rebecka, who kneaded the dough without responding. “I’m sorry, she’s usually better… I mean she’d normally… I’m afraid we’ve had some troubles today.”

            Skade stared at the pile of steaming bread. Her hand reached toward the nearest loaf as though some force compelled it. Sybil said, in a voice barely a whisper, “Courtesy to the host” as she reached over and touched Skade’s arm with just a hint of pressure, raising two glints of gold from her hand.

            Agnes twitched. “Madam. Your companion is smaller than anyone in the house, but I think we may have something dry you can borrow. Can you come with me, please?”

             “Ah, thank you.”

            Agnes led Sybil through the sitting room, where the master sat with a book in his lap staring at nothing and the mistress swirled a mug of ale, weighing and reweighing the benefits of the stupor it would bring. They stopped on the stairs, and Agnes turned and said, “I’m afraid we don’t have anything that would fit you. I just wanted you to know your secret’s safe with me.”

            Sybil’s eyebrows arched. “Secret?”

            “You’re not who you’re dressed to be. Not with those rings.”

            Sybil ran her finger over the raised harp on her signet ring. Her mouth stretched into a bow. “Indeed I’m not. I could probably come up with some story to give you, but secrets are such a dreary bother. I am Sybil Trevor, the Baroness of Seis. My companion is my maid, Skade of Oslo. She’s off today and finds it difficult to enjoy herself, so I dressed down to give her some encouragement.”

            “Oh.” Agnes had no idea what she’d expected, but it wasn’t this.

            Sybil said, “Now perhaps you’ll answer a question for me. You said you had troubles today. Your mistress is staring at nothing while she bakes enough bread for an expedition to the new world. Everyone else is wandering about in a daze. What’s happened?”

            Anges bit her lip. “Oh, I’m sure my lady has better things to do than worry about our troubles.”

            “I doubt it.”

            Agnes pulled in a deep breath. “Well, you see, it’s the vase.”

            Sybil blinked. “Vase?”

            “Yes, the family owned a vase made of Yuan, which makes it very valuable to certain men who collect pottery. Mistress Rebecka was engaged to Master Inwood’s son Danyell in a love match. Master Inwood is an ambitious man that wants to make expensive matches for his children, but he’s also a pottery collector, and there’s only ever been enough Yuan in England to make six or so vases. So he let Danyell marry the woman he loves in exchange for our vase.”

            “Very simple and straightforward arrangement. What mucked it up?”

            A note of excitement crept into Agnes’s tone and built as she spoke. “Well, see when Master Colkins, he’s the steward, got up this morning, he’s always first up, he went into the music room and saw the vase was gone! Some thief stole it last night, and now the wedding’s off, and poor Mistress Rebecka is heartbroken.”

            Sybil tapped her lip. “You called the constable, of course?”

            “Of course.  But nobody saw anything, so what can he do?”

            “And it was kept in the music room? Could I see?”

            Agnes brightened. “You think you’ll find something?”

            “I don’t know. But if there’s something to find, that’s the place to look.”

            “I better ask the master. Can I tell him about…”

            Sybil smiled. “I don’t see it’ll do any harm.”

            Agnes led Sybil back into the sitting room. Master Cely sat in exactly the same position, his book open to the same page.

            Agnes curtsied. “Master Cely, this is Lady Seis. She wants to help. Can she see where the Yuan vase was kept?”

            Neither his body nor his lips moved. “Uh.”

            Agnes waited for something more. When she got nothing, she shrugged, curtsied, and said, “Thank you, sir.”

​

            In the kitchen, the pile of hot bread swelled larger and larger in Skade’s eyes as the smell of heat and crust filled her nose. Unbidden, one hand edged toward the nearest loaf, trembling as it dreaded to reach its destination.

            Sybil said, “Skade?”

            Skade snapped bolt upright. “Yes bread! What are your orders?”

            “Skade dear, I know you’re better than that. You mustn’t let mere bread distract you from more important things. Now come, I need your knowledge.”

 

            The door whined as Master Colkins pushed it open. “This is the music room.”

            Sybil hadn’t taken in the small room with its single window and stenciled linen wall hangings before her gaze snapped to the ornate wood box on legs. A keyboard nestled in an indentation, and a river meandered through a green countryside inside the raised lid. “What a lovely set of virginals!” She touched the case. “Are they Italian? How old? They look well kept.”

            Colkins pointed to a corner. “The vase used to be there.” He shifted his finger to the window. “He got in here. I found the shutters open this morning.” He moved to a far corner. Agnes and Skade watched from the doorway.

            Sybil pried herself away from the virginals and glided over to the vase’s corner. She eased herself to her knees. “Well, there are some advantages to going about with no farthingale.” She poked around the spot for a while before she lifted a few rushes from the floor. “No useful marks so far. These rushes have been walked over too many times.” She brushed the rushes aside. “There’s a discolored ring on the floorboards here. Well, most of a ring. Is that from the vase?”

            Colkins nodded. “Yes, it sat on that spot at least since I entered the Cely’s service. That’s… almost twenty years now.”

            Sybil ran her fingers over the ring. “It even left an indentation. Rather heavy for pottery. Was there anything in it?”

            “Can’t say I ever looked.”

            Sybil backed a little and bumped against the virginals’ leg. “The ring is a good eight inches wide. How tall was the vase?”

            “About three feet.”

            Sybil poked at the keyboard. “Very well-balanced.” Her fingers tapped each key down an infinitesimal amount.

            “My lady, what about the vase?”

            “Oh! Well, three feet tall and eight inches wide… that might be heavy enough for the ring by itself. Do you happen to know how much it weighed?”

            Agnes shook her head, “No one ever tried to move it.”

            Sybil pressed one key and licked her lips like she was savoring a rare spice. “Do you happen to know the maker?”

            “Master Yuan,” Colkins replied.

            “No, of the virginals.”

            “Cockayme, I think.”

            “Hm. Skade, have you found anything?”

            Skade jolted out of her spot in the doorway, then scurried to the window and flipped the shutters back and forth as she wondered what to look for. Her mind drifted back to “Found the shutters open.” She swung the shutters closed and stretched on her tiptoes until she could drop in the shutter bar, then slipped out the knife at her waist and pushed it between the shutters until the point stopped well short of the other side. She slid the bar free, looked it over, opened the shutters, then checked their newly-exposed ends. “Mistress? I found something.”

            Sybil shifted back to her feet and glided over. “Yes?”

            “There’s no marks on the bar or the shutters.”

            Sybil paused to analyze the news. “Should there be?”

            “A thief pushes a knife between the shutters.” Skade mimed a knife thrust. “And works it.” Her imaginary knife quivered upward. “Until they lift the bar off.” She swung the shutters closed. “But if you did get a knife between these, it would scratch them. So a regular thief didn’t do it. But the… the other thieves. The …”

            Sybil ran a finger across the lines of the virginals. “The thieves that fancy themselves the aristocrats of their kind?”

            “Yeah, the snotty ones. They don’t use knives. They have special tools they make themselves and never let anybody see.”

            “Ah. And since there’s no marks, you think one of them was used here?”

            “Uh-huh.”

            Sybil tapped the bar. “So a master thief. Which fits with the way he left no traces in the room. But it is  helpful in a way. Fewer to pick from. Anything else?”

            Skade strained for a moment. “No. Nothing I can think of.”

Sybil looked over the shutters at the pounding rain. “Not much to go on, is it? There’s only one other thing to look at and… well, I think we can safely say that if there were footmarks outside, they’re gone now.”

Thunder rumbled.

            Sybil absently pressed a key, drawing a note like a harpsichord mixed with a little flute. “Master Colkins, what did this vase look like?”

Lion’s Skin

 

 

The man’s great size dwarfed the little bundle that dangled from his rigid, bloody hand. The setting sun sighed over him and his deadened companion as they trudged toward the eight-cubit stone wall that wrapped the village. Skins tanned the same color as the chitons that hung on their bodies and the olives in the trees proclaimed the men farmers. A few goats trotted in front of them, their voices and steps equally noiseless as their wide eyes endlessly searched the steep, rocky landscape. The big man looked back to check the silent, slump-shouldered shuffler was still there.

            As they neared the wall, two women walked out the sturdy wooden gate to meet them. The taller one strolled, while the other jogged in spurts as hope pulled her forward and fear pulled her back.

            “Well, Zethus?” asked the taller woman, “What happened? Didn’t you find him?”

            “We found him, Phaedra,” said the tall man through stiff lips. The other man sobbed quietly.

            She glanced at the bundle in his hand. “Is that?”

            Zethus closed his eyes. “All that’s left of Staphylus.”

            The other woman ran forward and grabbed at the bundle. Zethus jerked it away. “Theano, no, don’t look at it.” She caught a darkened corner. “Don’t look at it!” Zethus shouted. With the strength of anguish, Theano snatched the bundle. Zethus screamed, “By Zeus, don’t look at it!”

            Theano pulled the cloak open just enough. She dropped to her knees and clutched the little bag to her breast. Noises that were neither screams nor sobs bubbled from her throat. The other man stumbled forward and threw his arms around her.

            Zethus watched the couple, misty-eyed. Phaedra gently turned him away. “This moment is theirs. Leave them be.” She stifled a sob. “What happened?”

            “The lion. The lion is back. It found Staphylus, ate what it wanted, and left the rest.”

Phaedra’s eyes widened. “The lion? Are you sure? There are supposed to be some wolves-”

            Zethus’s lips stiffened. “It was the lion. We saw the tracks.”

            Phaedra glanced back at the couple clutching the bundle as though they might wrest the contents away from Thanatos himself. “But the lion was in Pylide last. When it’s done in Pylide, it’s always gone to Sozoe next.”

            “It’s here now.” Zethus looked back at the sobbing man. “Ask Maron, he’ll tell you.”

            Phaedra said nothing. Zethus shook his head and said, “Sorry. Let’s get them behind the wall before the lion decides it’s still hungry.”

​

            Sometime later, Zethus and Phaedra lay on a blanket next to the dying fire on the rough floor of Maron’s house. Maron and Theano sat together on the only couch, staring at the open door as though Staphylus might walk in.

            Phaedra touched the baby that clung to her bosom. “How long do you suppose it’s been here? I heard a cow and a few goats went missing recently.”

            “Does it matter?”

            “No, I guess not.” She rocked the baby.

            Zethus patted Phaedra’s shoulder. “You’re doing pretty good as a mother.”

            “I guess so. I just hope she doesn’t get hungry. I’d hate to disturb Theano.” Phaedra glanced up at the couple on the couch, their eyes at last closed and their bodies slumped. “Zethus, I think we should stay here tonight. This was too much for them, they’re not thinking straight. And if no one’s here to stop them, I’m afraid, they might do something… drastic.”

            Zethus gazed at his hands, still flecked with red from when he had scooped the scanty remains of Staphylus into his cloak. “How long is that bastard going to kill and eat whoever it wants? When is someone going to stop it? I’m half a mind to grab my bow and go kill the shit-eater right now.”

            Phaedra shook her head. “You’re not the first one to think of that, Zethus. Many men have hunted the lion, and most of them never came back.”

            Zethus threw a stick on the fire. “He was just a little boy!”

            “I know.”

            “It could have been our son.”

            Phaedra paused. “We don’t have a son.”

            “Not yet. What happens when we do? Should he grow up knowing the lion could eat him any time it wants?”

            “Well what can we do about it? If someone’s going to kill it, let the king send someone. A soldier or a hunter. Why should it be some farmer? Why should it be you?”

            Zethus snapped a sturdy stick and tossed it on the fire. “Someone’s got to bring that bastard’s skin back and show everyone it’s finally over. Why not me?”

            The baby shuddered.

            Zethus wiped his hands against his chiton. “Phaedra, I’ve got no cousins because the lion killed my grandfather’s sister.”

            Phaedra sighed. “It killed my grandfather, remember? Just try to rest. Sleep is what we all need. We can worry about the lion tomorrow.”

​

            The next day, the village buzzed with activity by the time Helios peeked over the horizon. Zethus stumbled out of the house, his brain full of too much turmoil and too little sleep, and almost bumped into someone who said, “Zethus! Had you heard? The lion’s come back! Aias saw it, and remember how its lair was sealed with that boulder? Pyrrhus saw it was open.”

            Zethus pressed his lips together. “I heard.”

            A hairless man who bordered on old stepped into the middle of the village, raised his staff, and called in a voice like a hawk. Those who were up gathered around him, and those who weren’t peeked out their doors.

            “My people. I’m sure you’ve heard the lion is back. No one is to leave the walls for five days. After that, we’ll see what happens. Hopefully the lion will move on.”

Men and women tossed sickles and pruning hooks to the ground and shuffled back into the huts.

            Zethus strode over and pulled himself to full height, but the man gazed up into Zethus’s eyes without wavering. Zethus said, “Stay in the village five days, Eumenes? That’s it?”

            “If the lion can’t find men or livestock to eat for long enough, it’ll move along.”

            “That’ll take longer than five days.”

            Eumenes tapped his staff against the earth. “That’s as long as we can hide. There’s work to do in the groves and fields. If it doesn’t get done, we’ll starve when Persephone goes underground.”

            “People are going to die when the lion gets hungry.”

            “They always do. There’s no way to stop it.”

            Zethus bristled. “So send people to the fields and the meadows, and just let them die? Are we even safe here?”

            “Yes, we are.” Eumenes pointed at the stone bastions. “Our ancestors built those walls higher than the lion could jump.”

            “But we can’t just hide behind them and hope.”

            “What else can we do?”

            “We track down the lion and we kill it.”

            “The lion’s immortal. It was here before Hellen walked the land. You think you can kill it?”

            “By Zeus, I’m going to try.” Zethus turned to face as many of the huts as he could and shouted, “I’m going to find the lion! I’m going to face it! And I’m going to bring its skin back! Who’s with me?”

            Faces appeared in the doorways, frightened faces, cold faces, even hopeful faces, but one by one they disappeared again.

            Eumenes toyed with his ear as he spoke quietly. “Zethus, if you hate the lion so much, don’t deliver dinner to its doorstep. That’s all you’ll do.”

            “Someone has to do something.”

            “Zethus. The stories say no weapon can hurt the lion. You’ll be throwing your life away for nothing.”

            “I’ve heard the stories. But it’s been fifty years, and you know how stories grow.”

            Eumenes’ staff dug into the ground. “Then Phaedra will be a widow after three years.”

            “No. Phaedra will sleep with me every night under the lion’s skin.” Zethus spun on his heel and stormed into his hut. He flung open the chest next to the couch, tossed his spare chiton aside, and lifted out the big horn bow wedged between the opposite corners.

            Phaedra watched as he tested the bow, too wise to say anything. Zethus flexed the bow once more and nodded.

            A bearded face poked in the door. “Zethus? Are you really going to hunt the lion?”

Zethus set the bow against the wall and reached under the couch. “Yes, Biton. I am.” He slid out a bundle of arrows.

            Biton stepped inside. “You want some help?”

             “You want to come?”

            “By Zeus, yes. I’d be a rich man if that shit hadn’t eaten all my grandfather’s sheep. I owe it a lot. Maybe I can return the favor.”

            Zethus regarded the slight man whose sinews were reputed to be metal and whose aim was famed. “Get your bow, then. We start today.”

            “What’s the plan?”

            “We find a sturdy tree outside the lion’s lair. We wait there until it comes home, and then we shoot it until it dies.” He looked at Phaedra. “If it doesn’t work, we’re safe up in the tree. We wait until it leaves, and then we try something else.”

            “I like it.”

​

            As they walked out the village gate. Biton carried a single-curved bow, a contrast to Zethus’ double-curved one. Both wore quivers stuffed to the fullest.

            They marched straight for the lion’s lair, a place everyone knew, for the lion had no secrets. It feared nothing, walked where it pleased, and chased down whatever it spotted; no one and nothing could outrun it. On the way, they heard a roe deer rattle its alarm bark, then shriek in agony. Afterward, something called with a sound like a moaning titan. Neither man recognized the call, but that meant it had to be the lion. The lair, then, was empty. For the moment.

            Soon the lion’s cave gaped in front of them in a craggy rock face across a field of shaggy grass. The lion had uprooted and shoved aside the big slab that had taken six men to move in Zethus’s grandfather’s time. Apart from the lion, the place was ideal for grazing sheep. Several big stones and a huge oak stump stood at the center for the shepherd to watch from, three green olive trees spread their branches overhead for shade and snacking, and the cliff beyond loomed to keep the sheep from wandering, but it was messy and overgrown because no one, man or beast, dared go within ten stadia of it.

            “Well?” Biton asked.

            Zethus pointed. “I’ll take the tree closest to the cave.” His finger shifted. “You can take that one. Climb as high as you can, at least six cubits, but make sure you’ve got a good shot in any direction.”

            “Okay, then what?”

            “Then we wait. The lion’ll come back to its lair, but no telling when. I figure it’ll walk through the center of the pasture, cause it’s not afraid of anything. When it passes the stump, we start shooting, and we don’t stop until it’s dead.”

            Biton nodded grimly. “I like it.”

            As tall as he was, Zethus clambered up the lowest branches with ease. But his bulk worked against him then, and seven cubits up he found the tree’s branches choked any chance to see or shoot. He dropped down and switched to the third tree, where the sparser leaves opened shots in all directions, but the thinner branches and trunk trembled against his legs.

            Biton picked a branch four cubits up in his tree. Zethus hissed “Higher!” at him, but Biton called back, “Any higher and I can’t shoot!”

            And then they waited. Neither had anticipated how long a wait it might be. Both were hunters, but the difference between waiting for a deer to go past and waiting for one particular animal to go past hadn’t figured into their calculations. Helios’s chariot rotated the shadows from west to east in its track across the sky, but no movement, color, or sound betrayed the lion.

            Day succumbed to evening, and still the lion didn’t come. Soon night would settle, and shooting would be impossible. Zethus realized he’d outsmarted himself. The lion hadn’t obliged them, and now they had to walk back through the lion’s territory in something approaching complete darkness. But sitting in a tree all night would give them chills and cramps in exchange for nothing. Zethus whispered, “You win this time.”

Neither said a word during the journey back. Every shadow loomed large enough to hide a great cat, every rock whispered of a savage beast behind it. Every breeze rustled the leaves in a way that exactly mimicked footsteps. Once Zethus blocked Biton and gestured forward. They unlimbered their bows, nocked arrows, and crept toward the suspicious shape that stared at them from behind a tree. Both waited for it to move, bows drawn, as the moments dropped away one by agonizing one. Finally a cloud drifted off Selene’s chariot, and the light revealed an oblong rock on an earthen bank both had seen many times before. Zethus stifled a laugh at his own stupidity and saved it for later. They weren’t home yet.