“Who approaches the Gates of Faerie? What is your intention here?”

The archway looms tall over me, energy blurring and snapping in response to unseen currents. I am terrified, but I step onto the platform, facing the terrible beauty that is the Gatekeeper. I’ve thought long and hard how to present myself. I cannot use my own name for fear it will be heard, but if I name myself correctly, they may still let me pass.

“I am Lys Vardi.” I am desire, searching safety in a long-forgotten world.

I hold the thought fiercely underneath my words. I hope my interpretation will be enough to satisfy both questions. Faerie law is capricious, but it relies heavily on intent and will. If I am to live there, I will need both.

“Do you come willingly, knowing that a price must be paid to enter?”

They don’t tell you the price before you agree, but it is understood that you will not be asked for something you cannot offer. I have heard that the price can be a gift if you let it, that the keeper reads your heart and offers you what best pays for what you seek. I have also heard that it is a curse, one designed to break visitors so that the Faerie world can remain untouched.

“I do.”

I tremble, hoping that whatever the keeper reads in my heart is enough to allow me entry. It’s the only place I can be safe, ironic though that thought might be.

“Stand forth.”

I step up to the edge of the Gates. This is the moment where I will be made or broken. Even fear of what I will be asked to give is not enough to budge me from my path. There is nothing I would not give to escape. The Gatekeeper studies me for a moment, and I hold my breath, not quite meeting its eyes, not quite able to look away.

“In payment, you will complete a quest. Find the Lost Wolf.”

Surprise jerks my head up and I stare into its golden green eyes. I’ve never heard of anyone being given a quest as the price. A voice whispers in my head, and one massive taloned claw pushes me through the portal as I struggle to keep it from overwhelming me.

“Good luck, Seeker of the Guardian. Your path will not be easy, but you are worthy.”

I am suspended as a vortex of air streams about me. Gestures spill from my hands as I fight to stabilise myself. Vaguely, I hear the gong that symbolises the end of the minute, but the air does not abate. I add the words of the spells in my head, leaving ritual communication far behind as I fight for my life. Now I am glad that I practised casting spells without the verbal component. I’m not certain if speaking aloud after the gong has sounded is acceptable, but I don’t want to find out.
I manage to calm the raging vortex and my feet touch the ground again, only to have a pillar of fire spill over me, melting the ground out from under me. I calm this too, only to find myself encased in a torrent of water. I am ready now for this, and when I am done, for the earth to rise beneath me, and I calm them before they can smother me.

There is a hand on my shoulder, and a voice cries in my ear. “You’re done. Open your eyes. Let it go.” But I can feel the swelling of something else, coming down at me like an avalanche. I know that if I open my eyes now, I will be safe, I can avoid the coming danger, but I will never again be able to claim it. The pause gives me a chance to think again, and the full impact of my situation hits me. The gong only sounded once, so I know that no god has chosen me. I’ve failed. My heart sinks.

If I open my eyes now, if I let go of the experience, I will go home, a failed mage candidate. If I keep going and fail, succumbing to the impending doom, I will die. If I stay and face the challenge and win, I will still be forced to go home as a failed mage candidate. There is no other option. I was not chosen, and I will have to bear that for the rest of my days. The best path for me is to open my eyes and retreat to safety. But I can’t bear to face this kind of challenge and run.
I wait, screwing my eyes closed against someone trying to force them open. I hear a whisper at the back of my mind, like the caress of a feather. Tricksters luck be with you, little one.

And then it hits and I’m conscious of nothing but the great weight of the world upon me. I can hear every person in the arena as if they were in my head all at once. Some are terrified for me, some are avidly hoping I die, that something more interesting happens, some that I just snap out of it so that they can go on with their big day. Someone is still trying to force my eyes open, not realising that it’s too late.

The elders are up and talking and gesticulating wildly. The entire amphitheatre is in an uproar, drowning each other out in sound. And in the midst of it, a spot of quiet. Two gypsies sit still, in the centre of a ring of protectors. The old woman looks inwards at me and smiles. ‘How’re ya doing, dearie? I be thinkin you need a little help, na?’ I can’t think how to respond, to let her know that it’s part of my test, that I can’t be helped. She smiles again ‘I be thinkin you jest forgot how to ground. That ain’t helping nothing.’ I think desperately that I can’t possibly ground with all that’s happening in my head. How do I shut everyone out? How do I focus on a spot of quiet when there isn’t any?

Then my attention is drawn by the man next to her. Somehow, I can’t hear his thoughts. I can’t hear anything from him, and the harder I try, the quieter it gets. It clicks in my head that I can use that to ground, and slowly, slowly, I begin to regain my composure. I focus harder to block out more of the ambient static, and for a moment I can see how he has created his shield, and then with a pop, I am free of the noise inside my head. The stadium is still overflowing with noise, but the only thoughts in my head are my own.

Success.

I open my eyes. Behind the heads of the people hanging over me, I can see faint glowing shapes in the air. One of them drifts forward and I hear her whisper.

Well done little one. You’ll find your place yet.

She raises an indistinct hand at me in a gesture of honour.

Until we meet again.

The whisper is repeated again and again as the rest of them fade out. There is a divine chuckle and I turn my head to see a noble leaning idly against a pillar nearby. “I’m dying to see what you do next.” No-one else responds to his words, so I ignore him for the moment as I try to sit up. I feel like I should hurt, but the aches are in my mind alone. I push away the hovering official. “I’m fine, really.”

The laugh graces my airspace again and I slash a repressive frown at the noble, who I’m pretty sure is actually the Trickster in disguise. “I’m fine.” He strolls over, barely veiled amusement leaking out of his eyes. “Yes dearie, you’re fine. You just had the full force of the immortals running through you and you’re still alive. That’s pretty fine by any standards.” He winks at me and pulls me to my feet. “Now go pretend to be a quiet little mouse so we can move on to the next part of the game.”

The officials pull me away and I go quietly, walking into the elders’ circle with a feeling of growing dread. I know what’s coming and I try to brace myself.

“You have been rejected by the gods. You are not fit to be a mage.”

It hurts more than I thought it would, and I can feel myself start to tear up. “However, you have also shown yourself to have a dangerous aptitude for magic, and you have learnt more of the craft than any other student here. What say you others? How shall we proceed?” Hope sparks in my heart, in equal parts with fear. What madness is this?

An elder steps forward. “It would be prudent for us to discuss other methods to limit her influence. I suggest that the elders consider her death or exile.” My mind goes blank in shock for a moment before the disbelief kicks in. What is this? Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a movement – the variations for quiet and for good, both quick and concealed – and do my best to follow the hasty suggestion.

Another elder steps into the middle to face my aggressor. “She has studied hard and should not be punished for her error in judgement. Let her go home.” I want to scream and shout and rail at them. I didn’t make any mistake! But I would rather be sent home than killed or exiled. I hold my tongue and bow my head slightly, trying to look for any other signs.

Help comes from an unexpected quarter as one of the onlookers pipes up. “Isn’t there any other choice? You say she’s worked hard at her studies and learnt more than any other student. Maybe she can stay at the school and tutor the others?”

The chief elder raises his hands for silence and the conversations stop. “My dear, you have been silent while we discuss your fate. What say you?” I look up at him, hardly daring to believe that he’s giving me a choice. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my secret advisor giving me the gestures for safe and house. I’m assuming he’s trying to tell me to ask to go home. Which is what I want to do anyway. But I want to make sure they can see I’ve thought this through. It doesn’t hurt for them to see that I am rational and obedient.

“It is not my place to choose my fate. But if I had the choice, I would prefer not to be killed or exiled.” There is a little chuckle at this and a few people relax at my subservient tone. “Home has little appeal to me after studying to be a mage. But staying at the school to teach – while giving my life purpose – would be too much of a reminder of what I might have had. Right now, in this moment, all I would like is to go home and grieve the end of a dream with my family.”

He deliberates for a moment and then gestures around at those gathered. “What say you? Let us send her home to recover gracefully and make the most of her life.” There are a couple grumbles from those who seemed to think I deserved a harsher punishment, but on the whole it’s a positive response. “Are any opposed?” I assume that my critics will step up here, but all of them step back into place in the circle, and as far as I can see, accede to his decision.

“Very well then, my dear. Take your place in the stands with the others who have been passed over, and we will continue. I am sure your family will be glad to have such a dutiful daughter returned to them. Blessings be upon you.” With that, he turns and heads back to his seat. One of the officials standing next to me gestures towards the stand and I follow him mindlessly, reflecting on the signs from my secret ally as I left. Good again, and the sign for warding off danger. Was that a signal that I had done well, or a warning that I was still in danger?

The rest of the ceremony goes without a hitch, after everyone finally settles down. I look for the gypsies, but they are gone from their seats. I sit in a daze until we are released and wait for the seneschal and the cook to find me. Cook fusses over me, checking that I’m still ok, as the seneschal watches. But while my mind had been open, I had felt the strength of his emotion, seeing me struggle, looking for ways to help me regardless of the risk to himself. As Cook leads us away to find a cart to take us home, I briefly catch him in a hug and whisper “thank you” to him. He tenses, but makes no comment.
​
Finally, we are stowed in a cart bound for home, and I can sink back and let the day roll through my thoughts. Well. Qualification Day. Not at all how I’d planned this day to go. But my heart is lighter than I would have expected for the events of the day. I have failed my heart’s dream. My life is possibly in danger, and I’ve dishonoured the family – who will not soon let me forget it. But I have felt the flow of true magic. And maybe, just maybe, I will get to feel it again. An ethereal kiss brushes my cheek and I slip into dreams to the sound of laughter.

Qualification Day! My heart sings for joy. I’ve passed all the theory tests, so it’s only the practical demonstration that will be required, once we are opened fully to the divine stream of magic. I have learnt all the forms that I could find, even those that are deemed too complicated for beginners. I am confident in my ability to manage divine energy, no matter which god claims me. Even with the barest trickle that is all we can access without a god, I have proven the top of my class in every aspect of magic.

A thought whispers through my head, and I push it away as I have every other time. I will be chosen by a god. I have been devout all my life, preparing for this since I was first able to understand that what the priests did was magic given to them by the gods. I have prayed to every known god, not to request or pledge, but just so that they know I am here.

There are hundreds of us here today, preparing furiously, praying to the god they wish to serve, or just waiting until it’s all over and they can go home. Not everyone wishes to be pledged to a god, but the income that their families receive while they train can be a deciding factor for some poor families. My parents could have cared less. They have their two perfect children already. A son to carry on the family business, and a daughter to marry off to the highest bidder.

They will come for the celebrations tomorrow if – no, when – I succeed, to publicly applaud my success and to wish me a happy birthday. Technically, my birthday is today, but it was registered the next day to avoid ill omens. Happily for me, otherwise I would have been too old to pledge. The rules are strict, and perhaps I should have said something, but this is my one chance to be something different in a world that calls for conformity. Only the mage priests and mercenaries are allowed to travel the world and study magic. I cannot fight to save my life, but I have an aptitude for book learning, so a mage priest it is.

Ah, the horn has sounded. Time to begin. I shiver in excitement. It’s so close I can taste it! I join the stream of children and near-adults flowing into the amphitheatre, give my name to a dark hooded priest and clamber up to the assigned mechanical chair. They are designed so that they can lift the occupant away from the rest of the crowd and into the central arena for the pledge.

While the others are still being seated, I practice the variations on the acceptance pledge that name and honour each god. Most pledgees will give the standard address, but I wish to honour the god that chooses me by showing how much I have learnt and how much I can be capable of in their name.

CLANK! The first chair is away.

I watch the crowd as the others are called, quickly performing the cantrip for clear vision so that I can see the other side of the amphitheatre as if they were right in front of me. The others’ pledges hold no interest for me this day. I spy the house seneschal and the cook, sitting in our family’s box, supporting me in my family’s place. I feel a moment of crushed hope that my family might have turned up to surprise me, but it is enough that they are there. The seneschal, though he is not particularly affectionate, has spent more time raising me than my father. He was the one that helped me apply for magehood. And the cook saw in me her long-lost daughter, cooing over my achievements with such delight that even my treasured brother and sister were jealous. They are my real family.  

I know they will not be able to see me wave, so I move on to looking at the rest of the audience. There are all kinds of people here today. Nobles, farmers, peasants and beggars alike – even mercenaries attend. Noone is barred from entry, and all are entitled to a share in the feasts. Anyone is allowed to sell their wares in the city and make purchases that would be forbidden normally. The only restriction is that here, on this day, there are no feuds or warfare allowed. Those that wish to supply weapons or skills may attend as spectators and purchasers only. The mercenaries complained at first, but they were quick to realise that they could make contacts outside of their normal reach. After all, what is one day without income to a potential year’s worth of noble employ?

As I scan the rows, my gaze hooks on a spot of colour I didn’t expect to see. No-one but gypsies and the forest people wear green. Technically, they are allowed to be here so long as they do not break the peace. But they usually have nothing to do with cityfolk. Law enforcement are far more likely to target them with suspicions of wrong-doing, and more likely to punish without a full investigation.  Part of it is that they do not care for our laws, which makes them dangerous. Part of it is that they have a reputation for magic and evil-doing. And part of it is that they are more free – in thought, speech, movement and living – than any of us can hope to be.

There’s no way they would be here for a candidate, since gypsy folk disagree with our notions of magic and gods, boycotting it on principle. Not to mention that anything they need they can create for themselves from the forest, or hire someone to deliver. The mystery intrigues me.

As I study their faces, I realise there is an old woman sitting in their centre. All of a sudden she catches my eyes as if she can see across the intervening distance just as well as I can, breaking out into a big gap-toothed grin. The man sitting next to her turns as if she has spoken, though her lips don’t move. He looks directly into my eyes. Part of our study is to read people, so I can tell that the woman is thoroughly satisfied with herself for spotting me amongst the others, but all I can read from this man is a cool sort of recognition, as if to say ‘Oh, that one.’

My chair wobbles as the seat next to me clanks out of its spot, and the distraction is enough to knock my already-shaken attention out of the spell. It’s no use me casting it again, because I will be next to go up, so I sit and gather myself. I focus on my breathing as I have been taught. I ground and centre to the point of divinity and settle myself solidly on the chair.
Once I am calm, I allow myself to look around. I watch as the pledgee on the platform takes his sheaf of grain and steps off towards the others who have been chosen. There are only a handful of people this year who have not been selected, and all of them look relieved to be there.

My turn.

The chair clanks and groans its way up to the centre platform. I step off and pause for a second, mind blanking as my eyes close. My hands move automatically into the initial greeting, and I breathe a sigh of relief for the hours spent drilling the forms until they became second nature. Now it is time for the test. To the audience who don’t know the forms, it will look like a minute of silent meditation with a few odd hand gestures.

But this is the most intense test we will ever have to face. We are not allowed to speak or open our eyes until the gong is sounded to confirm that we have been either chosen or rejected. We are only allowed to move or respond using the ritual formations. No-one has died in the test since it became mandatory for all initiates to undergo the theoretical training before the test. But there’s always the worry that you might be the first.

So. You come to us as supplicant.

Who are you, to even dare to think you are worthy?

What do you offer to such as us, little one?

These voices sound nothing like I imagined the gods to sound, but I race to find relevant responses to answer them. A hand swept out and down with a bow of the head – I am your servant. One hand reaching out in supplication, the other hand rising to the brow, palm out covering the eyes – I seek to learn from your magnificence. And lastly, a variation I found obscured in a book hidden in the library; right hand palm down over my heart, left hand palm down over my power centre, both sweeping up to meet at my third eye and out in front of my chest, palms up as if to suggest a book – I give all that I am to you, to fill me with your wisdom.

A beat, a breath upon my face. Then. A laugh.

Oh my, a clever one. Whatever are we to do with you?

This sounds more like what I was expecting, and my hand stutters in recognition, accidentally forming the sign for the Trickster. I hold my breath, hoping that I haven’t messed up. Nothing happens for a moment more, and then I feel a pressure on one shoulder and a whisper tickles my ear.

We are going to have such fun, my dear.

I involuntarily try to inhale in surprise, the only thing stopping me from making a noise the fact that I’m already holding my breath.

Leave the poor girl alone, trickster. See who she would prefer before you go pawing all over her.

The feminine voice sounds at once like the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen and the sound of a hundred hounds baying at the scent. My fingers twitch again, without my control, forming the sign of the Huntress.

It seems you are well versed in the theory of the priests.

But can you hold all the power of creation in your mind?

My fingers flick, identifying both of the speakers. I’ve given up on being surprised now. What more can I do but continue as I’ve begun. My hands fly into response. You honour my teachers. I am ready to be tested. And before I can stop them – an obscure gesture that I only learnt as a joke – do your worst. My heart stutters, and I can feel my face heat. What have I done? Only my training keeps me on my feet.

All at once, I feel the ground drop away, and the air rises around me. Someone is laughing, great peals of laughter that lift my heart, and there is a sound like an entire forest come to life to attack an intruder.


...
Originally published in Volume 4 , issue 6 of The Australia Times Fiction eMagazine.

This is the end. I’ve finally found my soul mate, and we’re going to die to a horde of ravening shadow-beasts. Figures. I never thought I would be able to find someone who’d understand my gift, let alone share it. And for that someone to be a strong and capable warrior, allowing me to stand on my own two feet at his side, is an indescribable feeling. I’m certain that we will die here today, but if it’s at all possible, I will try to ensure that he has a chance to escape. It’s the least I can do for the one who showed me that I was not just a weapon, but a beautiful and vibrant woman, with the right to be loved.
 
I am crouched and ready to spring, the man coiled at my back. The horde is growing restless. As soon as one of them breaks, they will descend on us with force. All I have is a spear and my gift. He doesn’t even have a weapon - he fights with his fists. I have a vague hope that if we can kill enough of them in the first flush of battle, we can push through one flank and outrun them, but it is a futile hope in the face of the swarm that surround us.
 
There, the break in the standoff - the drop of water that breaks the dam. The first of them leaps at my face, and I burst upwards and thrust my spear through its open mouth. I spin the staff, throwing the beast off even as it dissolves back into shadow, and then I’m ducking and dodging and weaving between attacks. I am lost in the throes of bloody war, and my heart revels in the dance. In the moment, there is only the joy of doing what I was born to do. Each movement is calculated and efficient, yet graceful. In my quiet moments, I hate that I am this way, but as much as I try to supress my nature, I am fluent in the art of battle. Skilled in the rhythm of killing. As is the man behind me.
 
It’s a strange and wondrous feeling to know that he’s guarding my back, as I am shielding his, deflecting those that try to get between us, killing those in front of us. There is a bittersweet enjoyment in this. This is the fight of my life, and regardless of our peril, having him with me is a pleasure. We move in perfect synchronisation, each of our movements flowing around each other. Never before have I been so connected to another. If only we could capture the beauty of the song our bodies create in this glittering moment.
 
But it cannot last. The horde rises and falls, but still more of them pour towards us, and finally, with the snap of my spear, the moment ends. Behind me I feel him stumble. I am out of weapons, out of ideas - there is only one last thing that can save me now. Ironic to think that my curse will extend my life, however briefly. Even as I feel the shiver of his change, I fall forward into my own shadow form, and the dance begins anew, more intense than ever. This form is lithe and strong. It comes at great cost, but the rewards are many. Each move is filled with power, with efficiency, and the horde fall before my claws and my teeth. At my back, I sense the power of his great new form, killing the enemy with powerful swipes of his paws. It seems that even in different forms, the rhythm remains between us.
 
We dance for what seems an eternity, until our movements slow, our reflexes dulled. One weapon finds its mark in my side, then another and another, but I fight on, moving on instinct alone. Blinded by pain and exhaustion. And still they come. Unending, unchanging, the enemy swarms us without mercy. The blur of the dance has become a haze of exhaustion, and I am swinging wildly at anything that approaches me. Until suddenly, they stop coming. They still encircle us, their numbers seemingly endless, but they are frozen, watching us. Any other beasts would have left a wall of corpses, but shadow-beasts dissolve back into the shadows they were created from when they are killed.
 
To our right, the circle opens, and a new beast approaches. One of their kind, but larger than any of them. Then I see the signs. This is one of us. A shadow-form. As I realise this, the beast convulses, shifting into human-form – a wild-eyed female, clad only in a loincloth. I transfer into human-form in response, anticipating a verbal confrontation. She taunts us, but we don’t respond. She sneers and throws down a challenge. “Defeat me, and I will let you walk away with your lives.”
 
“No deal. You’ll simply have your minions attack while we’re distracted with you.” She giggles, an eerie counterpoint to the waiting army. “They will not interfere. After all, what use is a leader that cannot win a fair fight?” Funny, I can tell she was lying about letting us go. But she’s genuine when she says that the challenge lies in defeating us without help. Not that we’ll be much of a fight. We’ve been battling for what feels like hours, and both of us are severely wounded. But this may give us a better chance of survival than continuing to engage the horde, so we agree. And just like that, the fight is joined.
 
She is a masterful opponent, and we are weakened and slow. Regardless, we beat her down. As he pins her to the ground with the bulk of his bear-form, a rumble travels through the watching masses, and we look at each other in desperation. I ask her to provide us safe passage. “You gave us your word that we would be free to go.” She laughs hysterically. I see the intention in her eyes, and before she can form the words, I lunge forward, shifting instantaneously, and rip out her throat. As I watch her die, the horde stills into absolute immobility. Both of us leap up and to the side, putting our backs to each other, facing down the creatures before us. I feel a tension in the air unlike any form of battle fever I’ve experienced, and I wonder what new horror this heralds.
 
A ripple goes through the ranks in front of me. From the tensing of the bear behind me, I assume it has travelled through the whole ring. Suddenly, one of them changes, shifting before my very eyes into a panther, resembling my shadow-form in almost every manner. This starts a chain reaction, and the entire horde in front of me shift. When the flurry of shadows stops, they are in my form. I can feel a pressure in the back of my mind, as if there were a thousand voices whispering to me all at once.
 
Directly to the side of me, the beasts are panthers up until a clearly delineated line. From there they are in the form of bears. They seem to have split almost perfectly in half. I relax slightly, and the voices come into focus, almost drowning me in sound. Then they stop, as if someone raised a hand for silence, and as one, they bow, one leg stretched forward, one curled back, head down. Only one remains standing, stepping forward and meeting my eyes.
 
“We welcome you, master. Command us as you will. We are Legion, bound to your bidding until parted from you by death. If your death is at the hands of another, we will pass to them. But if you are to die a natural death, we will be released to wreak havoc on the world.”
 
The shock has shifted me back into human-form, and I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn and look into his eyes. He whispers, “Marry me.” All else falls out of my mind. It’s too much, and I can feel myself start to lose consciousness. I collapse into his arms, almost crying from pain and fatigue, but I manage to get one word out before the darkness claims me, “Yes.”


...
Originally published in Volume 2 , issue 7 of The Australia Times Fiction eMagazine.

It’s a cold night out, with the wind tossing my hair wildly and blowing leaves and sticks into my face. I’ve been visiting my mother’s great-grandmother, so I have a little time before I will be missed. Legend has it that she stole the life from her daughter and her daughter’s daughter so that she could live longer. It’s true that she’s been alive for a lot longer than is normal. Some say that it’s her herb-craft that helps keep her young. She has treated almost everyone in the village at some point. Some say that it is witchcraft and she casts spells in the dead of the night to preserve her beauty. Some even whisper that it is the devil in her, keeping her young to trap us into wicked ways. And well they keep those thoughts quiet – most everyone in the village would laugh them out of the community if they tried to hold to those beliefs. We have seen the devil, and it was not our Granny.
 
Some will vilify any who are different, or those that will help and require no payment. They are so bitter and twisted that they cannot understand simple kindness with no thought of reward. And often, they kill or drive out these people, little knowing they are harming the heart of their village with their actions. We have seen other villages fall that way. Once their first line of defence is gone, and their only chance of hope with it, the demons come among them to poke and prod and cause strife where there was none. And when the streets run red with blood, the devil comes among them and takes their lives one by one, until nothing is left but an empty village, and a cautionary tale.
 
Sometimes the little old women that live out by their lonesome and heal the village with herbs and kind words are indeed nothing but kindly old women, and sometimes they are witches, with the blood of the First Maidens running strong in them. These are the women that hold fast to the old ways, weaving the protection of their village with their blood. Our village is blessed with a matriarchal line that breeds true back to the eldest and firstborn of the First Maidens. Granny is the culmination of three hundred years of breeding, and is the strongest witch discovered so far. Which is why, when the devil came among us, we were not stricken. Our line held fast the doors of the village heart, and the devil was cast out from among us.
 
The fight was not without cost, however. My mother’s grandmother, and mine, were among the price paid, and I have been marked by the hand of blood. So it is now that the three of us hold the village, ruled by Granny. The price was too high, but still not enough. The devil has been thrown out, but there is a new enemy that we witches cannot banish. The huntsmen come to take our crops, our livestock and our forests. They say that they fight for a king in the north, and that it is their right to take these things from us. We know no king though. All we see is our hard work taken from us, our fields trampled, our children starving.
 
Granny has divined that there is only one way now that we can be saved. A gift must be given to the Forest Guardians, and they will protect us. How they will do this she will not say, or what gift must be given, but I have seen her look at me in sorrow when she thinks I cannot see, and I know it will not be long before she is forced to make a choice. I have heard tell of villages that disappeared forever from the world, held secret and safe in a pocket of magic, only to return once the world is made new. I have also heard tell of the price for this protection. The villagers must pay a blood gift to the Guardians, and if the gift is worthy, the protection will be bestowed.
 
Our world is ruled by blood, and the blood price is our religion and our culture. I have heard stories of lands far distant that pay the blood price, but they have been corrupted so that the price becomes meaningless, and they kill for money, for fear, for all of the vain and small reasons our minds could come up with. Not so here. Each of us is valued and treasured, and the blood price is not paid by the least of us.
 
Here and now, that price, the gift to be given, is me. I am strong in my own right, even before the full flush of my womanhood, and I have been marked as special. A mark as powerful as the hand of blood is a sign of high favour indeed. And it is this that makes me the perfect gift. But my mother will not agree. The villagers will make great protest, while secretly being glad it is not them. Granny will hesitate until we have no other choice, and even then, she will try to bargain. She cannot accept that this is my part to play. Maybe I could convince her, make her see. But by then it will be too late.
 
The time is now, and the place is in these woods, where I played as a child, where I grew and learnt at my family’s knee. I have made my peace, and I have not far to go now, to reach the place where I mean to proffer my gift. The very glade that I first glimpsed one of the Guardians, half a world ago, when I knew nothing but playing in the sun. Even now, as I approach the glade, a form begins to take shape in the clearing. It is the Wolf, who I have seen only once, but somehow, it is a sight more familiar to my heart than my own reflection. I find it ironic that he will be the one to take my sacrifice. Alone of all the others, he has no mate among the other Guardians. It was my dream that one day I would join them as his mate, as the protector of the forest and the village. But I grew up and realised that it was not to be so. Not for us mere mortals to be wed to such power.
 
As I reach the edge of the glade, I stop and gather my will to summon the other Guardians. As they shimmer into sight, I push away my fear and doubts, wipe away the regrets and unspoken goodbyes to my family. I begin to speak the formal words of gifting, asking for their help in return for the blood price, and they speak the response, asking why I approach them as sacrifice. I explain my value to them in the formal terms. There has been no record in the scrolls of a gifting speech for one touched by the hand of blood, however, so I have had to write my own words for this. There is a pause, a visible hesitation as they glance at each other, and I worry that my wording has offended them, but I hold my tongue. I cannot disrupt the ritual now.
 
Finally, one of them speaks. The Raven tells me my gift is too great for what I ask, and that I should go back and send another in my place. How do I explain to them that there is no other to send in my place? Regardless of all else, I will not allow someone else to die where I might be able to save them and prevent any further price to be paid. I summon every bit of fluency at my disposal. I tell them that I pay now not just for this event, but for the protection of my village far into the future, and that I am the only one that can pay the price. The others still hesitate, but one of them steps forward to stand in front of me. It is the Wolf, and my heart quickens to be so near to him. He tells me to be not afraid, and I have not the words to explain that it is not fear but excitement that stirs me. My consolation in this is the fact that his will be the last face I see.
 
He bends forward to me, but instead of taking my breath before I spill my own life-blood as the ritual demands, he breathes upon me, and I fall to my knees in front of him. I have lost my hold on the knife, but it no longer seems to be important. My mind is expanding, filling with knowledge I never thought to hold. As I fall through the stream of secrets explained, I realise what is happening. I will never know if my change took seconds, or hours, or months, but when I can see the world again, I raise my muzzle in a howl that shakes the treetops, and turn to look at my mate. He holds still, unsure of his welcome, and I move to him. Never again will I yearn for that which was beyond me. Never again will I be alone. From this moment forth, I can protect my people directly. This is what I was born to do. I nuzzle him gently, and then I turn and run. He gives chase, and we leave the others behind.
 
The knowledge in my mind now tells me that this was pre-ordained, that fate marked me and led me here. But that even still, the final choice was mine, and I could have chosen to let someone else be sacrificed in my place. The task would then have been passed on. To my daughter perhaps. Or to her daughter, or to one of the following generations. What might have been is irrelevant now, lost to the shroud of time. My gift was the ultimate sacrifice, given freely and willingly, and the reward was more than I could have ever expected.
 
It will take much learning to realise the full extent of what I can do, but even now, I can feel what needs to be done, and as we run, I perform the twist of will that takes us out of the world. One day, when the world is ready for us, we will return. Hundreds and thousands of years may pass, and yet we will stand guard and hold our people from the ravages of the world. In the shadows of the forest, we are running still. My Wolf and I.


...
Originally published in Volume 3 , issue 6 of The Australia Times Fiction eMagazine.

She’s never quite sure how she ended up next to the river that day, but it didn’t seem to matter in the grand scheme of things. Grandma saw to that. She wasn’t really anyone’s grandma, but everyone in the village called her that. As old women went, she was pretty strange. Old as she was, her hair was black as night, and in the sun it was blue and shiny and iridescent, like a raven’s wing. She’d been around for much longer than the 80 years she’d claimed, but that was one of the things you weren’t allowed to discuss about her. If questioned, all anyone would say is that she was waiting for something.
 
There were plenty of things you weren’t allowed to discuss about Grandma, but the one main thing that everyone in the village agreed upon was that you never, ever, played cards with her. Sinead knew this, but no one had ever explained why. The adults muttered sometimes around the fire about a young girl twenty years ago who had lost her fortune playing cards with the Raven, but if Sinead asked, they just gave her ‘The Look’.
 
She’d also learnt very early on that when adults gave her ‘The Look’ it was time to go. Even now, when she was almost an adult, almost one of them, they would turn it on her when she tried to join in. The children wouldn’t play with her anymore, and all the others around her age were too busy playing with each other in private places where she couldn’t follow.
 
Sinead was used to being alone, but that had never made the loneliness easier to bear. So when Grandma offered to tell her a story, she jumped at the chance. Especially when Grandma said she could ask for any story. Grandma knew such delicious stories. Rich and juicy, with bits that fell out the sides and bits that gave you a shock when you bit into them, with bits that warmed the heart, and bits that warned of the dangers of life outside the village.
 
There was one story she desperately wanted to know, and hadn’t dared to ask Grandma before. But Grandma had offered any story, and she was almost old enough to know anyway. So she marshalled her courage and her wits and asked Grandma to tell her the story about the girl who lost her fortune playing cards. Grandma stared at her for so long that she started to regret her choice. Finally Grandma sighed and shook her head. There was a price to that story, one that Sinead couldn’t pay. But Sinead refused to pick another story, and eventually Grandma told her that the price of the story was a game of cards.
 
Sinead was horrified. How could she understand the decision without knowing the story? Now Sinead, was not considered the brightest of girls, but she had instincts that had never steered her wrong. She thought and thought, turning over various ideas until she was satisfied. Grandma had waited patiently for her decision, and she could see now that the girl had something up her sleeve.
 
The bargain they struck was this. Grandma would tell her the story about the girl who lost her fortune, they would play a game, and then Grandma would tell her another story of Sinead’s choosing. Sinead made sure that Grandma swore that the second story could be anything, no further price, no chance to back out. Grandma was not convinced, but the chance to play, so long denied her, dangling within her grasp, was enough to make her careless. Besides, how dangerous could Sinead be? Everyone knew she was too simple to be a threat.
 
Grandma settled in to tell her the story of the girl who had dared to play cards with her. The situation was much the same as this one. The girl wanted to know something, and had bet that she could beat an old woman at a game of cards. She had almost nothing to her name, so she had accepted Grandma’s terms without thinking. She thought her fortune was her worldly assets, and she thought she had nothing to lose, so she was reckless. Her fortune for a story. And of course she lost. She never stood a chance.
 
What Grandma won was a lot more precious than a few measly possessions. The girl had given up her fortune, what some of us would call her fate or her destiny. She never had a chance to miss it. Grandma had warned her that her fortune would be collected at some time in the future, and advised her not to worry about it until it was time. The girl settled down with one of the village boys and made a decent life for herself. Over the next nine months, she thought to herself how well she’d done for herself, and scorned the idea that she’d wanted Grandma to tell her a story about how to obtain riches and wealth. She died in childbirth, giving the last of her life to a girlchild.
 
From the day the child was born, they knew she was different. The girl made not a sound in the early years of her life, but as she grew up, the little one asked complicated questions that scared the adults who didn’t know how to answer her. She was odd in ways that the other children did not question, but would not accept. She was who she was, for better or worse, and it was nothing that they were interested in knowing. Grandma finished the story by winking and saying “You who were born and named for that mistake, should have known better than to bargain with me.”
 
As Grandma started to set up the game of cards, Sinead smiled. The young girl stood tall in front of the old woman and asked her to repeat what she had agreed to. Grandma was incensed, thinking she was trying to back out of the deal now that she knew what was at risk. But Sinead stood calm until Grandma realised how she had been tricked. Not once had the game in question been specified. In her hurry to play cards, they had only agreed that they would play a game. Grandma knew that she could still win most of the games known in the village, so she gave in with feigned ill-humour, secretly pleased at the girl’s temerity.
 
Sinead surprised her again by giving her the choice. Any game, within reason, that Sinead had a fair chance of winning. Grandma was stumped, and now it was Sinead’s turn to sit and wait for the decision while Grandma tried to figure out the catch. Finally a game was chosen and agreed upon. As expected, Sinead lost, though it was much more of a challenge than the old woman had expected.
 
Crowing her victory, Grandma tried to collect her winnings, only to realise that once again, in her eagerness, she had forgotten a crucial detail. No wager had been made on the game. Nothing won, nothing lost. Furious now, she turned on Sinead, who sat calmly and asked her if she was unsatisfied. At the expected reply, she proposed one last bargain. Thinking she knew what Sinead’s plan was, Grandma accepted the deal, after examining every word for the hidden catch she suspected.
 
After the story, there would be one further game played, of Grandma’s choice, which would wager Sinead’s fortune against a future story. She bargained high and low to have the game before the story, but on this Sinead would not budge. Confident that Sinead planned to ask for a story on how to beat her in the game, she relaxed, sure that this time nothing could go wrong.
 
Sinead took her time in preparing herself for this story, settling in as if for a long while. Finally, she was ready. “Grandma, tell me a story. Tell me about…” Here her eyes met and held those of the old woman steadily. The sleepiness had dropped from her eyes, the slowness gone as if it had never existed. Two identical sets of eyes bore into each other. “Tell me a story of the Raven.”
 
The two women, young and old, talked long into the night, and well into the next day. Once they had finished, they stood and bowed to each other before turning into ravens and flying off together into the woods. This tale is still told around the fire by those approaching adulthood. The children don’t understand and the adults refuse to speak about it. But sometimes, if you sit next to the river and ask your questions, two ravens will come to sit with you and tell you a story.


...
Originally published in Volume 4 , issue 3 of The Australia Times Fiction eMagazine.
Note: This was written in response to the following prompt: A lonely 20 year-old woman and a cheerful 80 year-old woman, and it begins by a river. Someone loses a fortune at cards, but it's a story about forgiveness and the main character has some questions to answer. Sinead commonly means God is gracious, or God forgave. 

I come back into my awareness, but this time I don’t have a body. I’m partway between energy and matter, spread through the net of matter that belongs to the soul in front of me.

​You’re not really Death, are you?
 
I AM DEATH AND LIFE AND GOD AND THE DEVIL. I AM ALL THINGS IN TIME. PRESENTLY, I AM IN THE FORM YOU EXPECTED TO SEE HERE, BUT I AM BOTH MORE AND LESS THAN THIS FORM. AND IN THIS MOMENT THAT SHOULD NOT EXIST, I WISH TO BECOME ONE WITH YOU. 

​Um, why?

BECAUSE - AS YOU WOULD PUT IT - I LOVE YOU. IN YOU I AM FINITE, IN YOU I AM CARNATE.

No, seriously, I'm a tiny insignificant human, why the hell do you want me?

YOU LOVE ME. IN YOU IS ALL OF CREATION, A NEW INFINITY THAT REDEFINES WHAT IT IS TO BE INFINITE. THE CROSSOVER POINT OF THE MOBIUS KNOT THAT IS THE UNIVERSE.

​Um...

OH, YOU ARE GOING TO BE DIFFICULT AREN'T YOU. THE TRUTH IS, YOU ARE HERE. ONLY YOU. NOONE ELSE COULD HAVE REACHED THIS MOMENT. NOONE ELSE WOULD HAVE DONE. YOU ARE BECAUSE YOU ARE.
 
Oh. I see.

​So now what?

NOW… WE DANCE.

Should I move? I’m kinda in you.

PERHAPS I SHALL JOIN YOU INSTEAD.

His body dissolves in a burst that disperses the matter I was still holding. Each of his neurons partners with mine in a dance as old and as new as time.