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My Final Gift

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By Sandra Rokoff-Lizut

The surgeon softly murmurs
that I’ll doubtless live a day or so
and bids my two grown daughters
to leave and get some rest.

I’m busy dying faster.

Willed my remains to science; can’t
stand those phony funeral flowers.
Vodka and V8 in the fridge.
The old dames next door can
go over and drink a final toast.

I’m willing my body to close down.

Rent on the apartment
is due in two days time. If
my girls get a move on, they can
clean the whole place out by then.

And — when my daughters leave to take a nap,
I’ll just wrap up my soul and slip out.

Sandra Rokoff-Lizut is a retired educator, and a children’s book author, printmaker and poet. Her work has appeared in various publications including Illya’s Honey, The Bicycle Review, Wilderness House Review and others.

Peeking Through

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By Stephen Mead

A dream of morning glories & ivy,
the house, an interior jungle
right to the ceilings, and still,
this is happiness:
the leafy vines with small sky parasols
all good as Jack’s stalk-magic
without a giant coming down …

In other slumbers buildings
are hurricane-bashed, & the highest floors
feel quaking earth. Elevator gates freeze
as not unknown beings meet with the intimacy
of another’s stubble against this ear,
these lips, like a ssh, & suddenly
there’s a scene-shift.

Go to speak but the language is wrong.
In the bowels of that station it is hard
to connect to just the right train.
When not locomotives then there are buses
or boats to navigate, but when without a license,
driving is by rote & one’s speed is fear.

Next comes dad’s peonies in close-up
placed on my mother’s desert-colored headstone.
In the first grade the last day of school
I gave a bouquet to my teacher.
Ants, as necessity, pushed open the pink bunches,
covered her desk, and I cried.

Rain fills the glass jars my father has placed,
such blue and rose reflections,
but his weathered hands are steady,
are sure as the bowling pins he used to set,
getting a nickel apiece, and hitchhiking home safe.

Ah, but that was another time & I wake
to this fan’s summer hush,
wishing, wishing.

Stephen Mead is a published artist, writer and maker of short-collage films and sound-collage downloads.

1961

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By Ricky Garni

In the photograph, I am pointing at something just to the left of the photographer.
Whatever it was, is gone now. It either died or moved or changed into something
completely different. If I were to go back to that exact spot (and I know where it is, right
near the mango tree in the backyard) and were I to point in the same direction, what
would I be pointing at? Something that will die or move, or change into something else.
Perhaps it will change into what it was when I pointed at it the first time. Perhaps it was
someone I loved, and they loved standing under the mango tree.

Ricky Garni was born in Miami and grew up in Florida and Maine. He works as a graphic designer by day and writes music by night. COO, a tiny collection of short prose printed on college lined paper with found materials such as coins and stamps, was recently released by Bitterzoet Press.

The Resurrectionist

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By Tom Miller

Franklin Montane waited while Gabriela Martinez, executive vice president and head of programming for the network, drummed her glossy red fingernails on her desk and stared past the brothers into an Art Deco mirror on the opposite wall. Franklin and his younger brother, Richard, looked over their boss’s perfectly sculpted hair, through a floor-to-ceiling window, and into a cloudless blue southern California sky. They had just pitched the return of “Visigoth,” the hit series they had created and produced until its seventh and final season finished just over a year ago.

“So Lucas’ movie career didn’t take off as he’d planned,” said Gabriela, referring to Lucas Harte, the muscular actor who played Theoderic on the former show.

“He only landed one role,” said Franklin, who did most of the talking for the duo. “He was the beefy fiance who was hindering the course of true love between the two main characters. His performance was described as ‘wooden’ and the film tanked at the box office.”

“I remember that,” said Gabriela, who now leaned back in her plush, leather office chair. “I can’t say I was entirely displeased. I was miffed he didn’t come back for an eighth season when the show was still at the top of the ratings.”

Franklin nodded without saying anything. When the boss relaxed, it meant that she had made her decision. Any further attempts at persuasion would only bias her against the proposal in front of her. As he waited, Franklin detected the subtle note of Gabriela’s perfume. He was not sure how to describe it, but it made him think of an older Sophia Loren, whom Gabriela resembled.

“OK,” continued Gabriela, “let’s say hypothetically that I did want to bring Lucas back. There’s still a huge problem. Theoderic died on the finale. And he didn’t just die, but he was beheaded, roasted on a spit, his body eaten and his bones burned. I remember thinking at the time that it did not seem like an ideal way to end a television show.”

“Lucas wanted us to kill him in a way that would scotch rumors of a possible return,” said Franklin. “We tried to make his death as noble and heroic as possible. He held off five hundred Roman soldiers by himself and enabled Fritigern to escape and win at Adrianople. Rome was never the same after that. In doing so, Theoderic also saved the life of Hilda, his love interest, and their unborn child.”
“Still, I remember how many angry emails the network got because of that,” said Gabriela. “You’d think we’d murdered somebody’s brother.”

“Rich and I got a couple death threats,” said Franklin, “but in the end, it accomplished its goal. Nobody ever asked us or Lucas about the possibility of Theoderic returning.”

Gabriela, ready to think again, scooted forward in her seat, set her elbows on the desk and rested her chin on folded hands. “So how do you propose to bring him back?”

Richard, who was spare with words but always quick with ideas, finally spoke. “We reanimate him in a druidical ceremony.”

“Reanimate him from what? There isn’t any of him left.”

Franklin provided a more detailed explanation. “About twenty-five years have passed since Theoderic died. Tensions with Rome remain. After Rome sacks a Visigoth border village and kills all the inhabitants, people begin to long for their hero of old. A local woodworker carves a perfect replica of Theoderic out of an ancient, mammoth tree, and the priests bring it to life.”

The brothers hoped to see Gabriela’s thin lips curve upward in a toothless smile, but as she leaned back in her chair again, her expression remained neutral. “So it’s a fifth-century version of Pinocchio.”

The Montanes looked at each other and each exhaled a long, slow breath. They had feared a Pinocchio parallel, and their boss’s facile, devil’s advocate mind had immediately seized on it. Franklin tried to salvage the idea. “We could have a master stone mason sculpt him from granite.”

Gabriela briefly considered the change but soon shook her head. “It’s not just the Pinocchio thing. It’s the whole idea of magic. We never had any magic on ‘Visigoth,’ which was one of the things I really liked. Theoderic rose from his position as a humble farmer not because of some cheap spell or charm, but because of his hard work, courage and intelligence. Magic just seems like lazy writing.”
Franklin saw his brother’s eyes begin to blaze at this suggestion. For the last two weeks, Richard had brainstormed ideas for the show’s return, and both brothers had stayed up very late during the last couple nights honing the best idea into a detailed proposal. Richard had a high tolerance for criticism except when the word “lazy” was involved.

Franklin moved to stave off his brother’s impending eruption. “With all due respect, Gabriela, I think our scenario is a lot more plausible than a quick incantation or a prayer to the gods. I mean, unless we want to make Theoderic’s death a case of mistaken identity — which would be lazy writing and also extremely lame — there has to be some element of the supernatural here.”

Gabriela looked over the Montanes’ shoulders again into her artsy mirror. With the second finger of her right hand, she smoothed one of her perfectly shaped eyebrows. “I get what you’re saying,” she said, “but the whole reanimated statue thing just doesn’t feel right. It’s not unique. It’s not authentic.”
Franklin looked at his brother and had no trouble reading the thoughts behind his thinly masked expression of exasperation. There was no such thing as an authentic return when the person in question has been cooked, eaten and digested. He decided to try another direction. “Authentic is going to be tough on this one, Gabriela. We do have another idea, though. It’s an entirely new show, called ‘The Hun,’ where the action focuses on Attila’s campaigns into Europe. We could bring Lucas back as the grandson of Theoderic and Hilda who fights to protect his homeland from the new horde.”

The savvy executive whose programs had put the network on top of the ratings quickly nixed the idea.

“Too derivative,” she said. “I’m predicting some major backlash on that one. No, if we’re going to bring Lucas back, it needs to be in the same role. I suppose you’ve got a point about the authentic part. Let’s stress unique over authentic.”

Franklin glanced again at Richard, who was looking down into his lap so that his laser glare would not burn a hole in their boss’s body. Franklin knew what his sibling was thinking — let’s see you come up with something better, Ms. All-Knowing V.P.

Franklin sought to convey this thought in a more respectful manner. “Got any ideas?”

Instead of sliding forward in her chair and searching for an idea that would never come, Gabriela responded at once. “Remember that show ‘Knight-Errant’? This was probably about seven or eight years ago.”

“I remember the show,” said Franklin, “but Rich and I were trying to get ‘Visigoth’ off the ground and we didn’t watch a lot of TV.”

“The main character was a guy named Sir Geoffery. Like Lucas, the actor was ready to wind down the show, so he fell off a cliff into a two hundred-foot gorge after saving the king in what was to be the final episode. That was the final scene — Geoffery was falling through the air to his imminent death.”
“That’s easy,” said Richard. “Create a prehistoric bird to save him.”

Gabriela pointed at Richard. “I know — obvious answer, right? Except, that wasn’t what they did. The whole next season had Geoffery falling through the air in real time, while parts of his life flashed in front of him. It was a series of flashbacks. In the finale, Geoffery realized something that he had buried deep within his subconscious — that he was a descendant in the line of Pegasus, the winged horse. As soon as he figured this out, Geoffery activated wings he never knew he had and flew himself to safety.”

“Ridiculous,” said Richard.

“True, maybe a little,” said Gabriela, “but it had flair. Sir Geoffery and his new wings were back on top of the ratings. I remember the guy who conceived the idea did the same thing for a couple of other shows.” She moved forward in her chair and snapped her fingers as she searched her memory. “He had an unusual name.” She tapped her forehead. “Cambridge … no, Cobalt … no — Cerulean. Cerulean Meeks — that’s it. People in the biz started calling him The Resurrectionist. Find him.”

With all but his narrow face covered by his hot dog costume, Cerulean Meeks waited for traffic to approach as he stood outside of Fran’s Hot Dogs. The fabricators of the hot dog suit had discovered a material so heat retentive that NASA should be using it to insulate astronauts during their space walks. While his cheeks only glistened in the summer Tennessee sun, the rest of his body dripped with sweat inside the suit. Yet, as potential customers approached, Rue embarked on a vigorous impersonation of John Travolta in “Saturday Night Fever.” One car actually slowed, turned into the gravel drive and stopped at the window of Fran’s tiny hot dog stand.

After successfully luring a patron, Rue decided that it was time for a reward. He lifted a thirty-two ounce Styrofoam cup from a spot on the ground where the gravel had eroded and was now just a small square of hard packed dirt. He closed his lips around the straw and let the ice water revive his dehydrated flesh.

With his free hand, Rue waved at cars as they passed, but this was not enough for Fran, who had finished with her recent customer. “I don’t pay you to wave,” she called out the drive-through window. “You get paid to dance. You couldn’t attract a hungry bear in here with just a wave.”

Rue held up his cup as if to show that he was not loafing but refueling for the next round. Fran looked as if she was about to ask him to reimburse her for the cup when Rue turned toward oncoming traffic. He set his cup back down on the dirt and commenced his Gangnam Style routine that rarely failed to draw at least a horn honk.

The results exceeded his expectations. A shiny, silver Lexus pulled into the drive. Rue saw two men in their late forties or early fifties in the front seats. He figured they were good for a four dog order, maybe even six.

Instead of pulling up to the ordering window, however, the Lexus parked in front of a pair of wooden picnic tables that Fran had set up for eat-in customers. The two men emerged from the car and walked not toward a waiting Fran, but to him.

The visitors had enough similarity of feature — the same long, straight nose, the same pointy chin, the same mop of thick, unruly hair — for Rue to conclude that they were related. One of the men — the older one, if Rue’s perception was correct — was a couple inches taller than the other one. He took the lead and looked straight at Rue, while the other man lagged behind and took in everything about the scene except Rue.

“Are you Cerulean Meeks?” the taller one asked Rue.

“Yes I am,” Rue replied. He could feel Fran’s impatient eyes boring through him from her position inside the stand. “Are you hungry for some lunch today?”

“Maybe,” said the man. “My name is Franklin Montane, and this is my brother Richard. We were wondering if we could talk to you for a few minutes.”

Franklin held out his hand, and Rue shook it through one of his mustard-colored gloves. Over the brother’s shoulders, he saw Fran pointing at him with a pair of tongs.

“I’m working right now, but if you talk to that lady —” Rue pointed behind them toward his boss in the window — “you might be able to work something out with her.”

When Franklin turned around Fran’s dour expression transformed into a smile. “I’ll see what I can do,”
he said and walked toward the eager frankfurter vendor.

With his brother gone, Richard seemed to size up Rue, as if they were about to engage in a medieval joust. Rue felt self-conscious in his hot dog outfit. “Who are you and what do you want to talk about?” asked Rue as the silence became more uncomfortable.

“We’re writers and producers from Hollywood,” said Richard. “We hear you have a special talent for bringing people back from the dead.”

When Rue heard the word “Hollywood,” he felt a sharp pain in his gut as if someone had reopened an old knife wound with a razor blade. He remembered leaving the town six years ago, a financial and professional failure. His sister lived here in Tennessee and had offered to squeeze him into her small house along with her husband and three children. He overstayed his welcome just long enough to land a job as a crossing guard at a local middle school, as well as the first in a series of fast food jobs. He thought he had left Hollywood, with its pressures and expectations, behind for good, but now it was here right in front of him. “I wrote a few good scenarios that people liked,” he said.

Franklin returned from his negotiation with Fran. “She said we could have you for ten minutes. But I hope you’re hungry, brother. I had to buy twenty hot dogs.”

Rue always admired the way Fran seized her opportunities. The three of them walked over to one of the picnic tables, the siblings taking one bench while Rue sat down in the other.

“I’ll get right to it since our time is limited,” said Franklin. “Do you know the show ‘Visigoth’?”
“I’ve heard of it but I’ve never seen it,” said Rue. Since he moved out of his sister’s house, he had in fact not watched any shows because he did not own a television. He had found it impossible to enjoy a program because his mind was always analyzing the dialogue, the characters, the plot, and thinking of ways in which he would do it better. Only when he read novels could he give himself over to the author’s creation and get lost in the story.

The Montanes scanned the area for a few moments as if to find the rock that Rue had been living under. Franklin continued. “The main character died in the final episode last year. We want you to bring him back.”

A dream that Rue had long ago suppressed now flashed again in front of his eyes. He was accepting an Emmy and then an Oscar for Best Screenplay. Superstars took pay cuts to act in one of his movies, and critics praised his subtlety and perception.

Rue shook his head, both as an answer to the Montanes and to clear his mind of these poisonous aspirations. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t do that anymore.”

“You’re the only person that can help us,” said Richard. “When our boss suggested that we find you, I took it as an insult to my own creative abilities. Then on the plane ride, I read over your reanimation scenarios. I had to admit — and this is not easy for me — that you’re the best.”

Richard paused and Franklin picked up the thread. “The guy we’re trying to bring back was cooked, roasted, eaten and burned. We proposed to reanimate a sculpture, but our boss shot down that idea.”

“The Pinocchio parallel,” said Rue.

“Exactly,” said Franklin. “She wants something with as little magic as possible. Something unique.”
Like an all-star shortstop reacting to the crack of the bat, an idea immediately occurred to Rue. It was as if his subconscious mind had taken on this problem many years ago and was finally free to release the solution into the world.

Then his inner voice screamed the promise that he had made to himself all those years ago. Never again! “I’m sorry that you wasted a trip all the way out here,” said Rue, “but no, I’m not going back.”
Fran walked out of the back door of the stand carrying two plastic trays filled with hot dogs. “Here are your dogs,” she said. “Just come around to the window if you need condiments.”

“May I ask why?” Franklin asked Rue. “You could make a lot of money if you did this, and you don’t look too comfortable in that suit.” He picked up a plain hot dog from its cardboard container and took a bite of the bread and meat.

As Franklin chewed and Richard took a couple dogs to the window to add mustard and relish, Rue considered refusing the request for an explanation and getting on with reality. But when Richard returned to the table, Rue decided that he might find more understanding among these fellow writers than he had among his so-called friends after he had left Hollywood.

“You can’t imagine the frustration I felt,” he began. “I was developing these resurrectionist scenarios that people raved about, but then when I tried to write complete screenplays they went nowhere. How could I be so good at the one thing and not the other? I mean, I had a great reputation, and I had the entree. People were excited to take a look at my work, but it never clicked.”

“I can’t tell you how many times we’ve had projects rejected,” said Richard.

“I realize it’s a subjective business,” said Rue, “and I stuck it out for years. I wrote and pitched fourteen screenplays, none of which ever got the slightest nibble. I’d invested my money in a couple of promising restaurants both of which took a sharp downward turn once they’d received my funds. I decided it was a sign that I should leave.”

ranklin swallowed the last bite of his first hot dog and slid another cardboard container in front of him. “I’m not going to give you some rah-rah speech about how you should never give up, never surrender. But I will say this. Rich and I have read your scenarios. They are outstanding. Maybe you can’t write a full episode, but you can bring characters back from the dead with a skill that has never been seen in Hollywood before or since. The dimensions of your talent may be narrow, but it’s a talent nonetheless. I’m not asking you to come back and conquer Hollywood. I’m begging you to use your God-given abilities to bring back a character that means so much to us and the viewing public.”

Rue wiped a bead of sweat from the bridge of his nose. Even while sitting motionless at a picnic table, perspiration continued to ooze out of his pores. “How much money are we talking about?”

“You get five thousand dollars for just agreeing to attempt this for us,” said Franklin. “I’ve got a contract in the car to that effect that Gabriela Martinez, executive VP, has already signed. If we like your material and want to use it, you get one million dollars.”

Rue was glad he was not eating a hot dog, because he would have inhaled a frankfurter into his trachea after hearing that figure. “That’s in the contract too?” he asked.

“It is,” said Franklin. “If you agree, Ms. Martinez wants to meet with you in two weeks.”

“That’s not a lot of time. I’ve never even seen the show.”

“We’ve got DVDs of the entire series in the car,” said Franklin, “but really, I think you just need to watch the final episode. The rest of the show is your typical fourth-century warrior stuff — battles, honor, justice, fawning women — that sort of thing.”

“Rue darling,” called Fran in her mock-sweet voice, “it’s either time for you to get back to work, or your friends need to purchase some more product.”

Rue pondered the effect of one million dollars on his current life. He promised himself he could just do this one job, get in and get out before the obsessive dream of Hollywood glory could take hold. While the money after taxes would not bring lifetime financial security, it would at least allow him to escape from the stifling hot dog suit. The rest of his body, and not just his face, would experience the sublime feeling of airflow during working hours.

“Why don’t you buy ten more hot dogs,” said Rue. “I want to read over the contract before I sign.”

Two weeks later, Franklin led the way into Gabriela’s office with Richard behind him and a dapper-looking Cerulean Meeks between them. While Franklin had never known his boss to mix business with pleasure, he also knew it would not hurt to have Rue look his best. Even in a hot dog suit, Rue’s intense blue eyes could mesmerize whoever they beheld. With a new suit and a teeth-whitening treatment paid from Franklin’s own pocket, however, Rue’s looks approached those of the actors who brought the written words to life.

Introductions were made, smiles displayed, seats taken. In his left hand, Rue held four stapled packets of paper that contained his mental labor of the past two weeks. When Richard had asked for an overview of his scenario, Rue had politely declined. The work was complete, he had promised, and he did not want Gabriela to draw any preconceived notions from even a stray facial expression or inadvertent tone.
Franklin was about to initiate some prefatory small talk when Rue spoke. “Ms. Martinez, thank you for inviting me here today.”

“Please, call me Gabriela.”
Franklin and Richard shot each other a sidelong glance. It was usually years before Ms. Martinez became Gabriela to a supplicant. The striking eyes must have had a superb initial effect.
“Thank you, Gabriela, and please call me Rue.” The Resurrectionist distributed copies of manuscript to each of the people in the room. “This is the scenario that I created for Theoderic’s return. It’s not that long, so I suggest we each take a few minutes to read it, and then you can tell me what you think.”

“Sounds good,” said Gabriela, whose eyes immediately began to scan the paper. Franklin doubted that the script in front of him could possibly live up to the expectations that preceded it, but he felt the anticipation that he often did when he read the first sentence of an accepted novelistic masterpiece.

FADE IN:

1 EXT. ITALIAN PLAIN — DAY

From above, we see about five hundred Roman soldiers gathered around a fire over which something is roasting. The soldiers are lounging, drinking, and making merry.

CLOSE UP: The soles of two bare feet rotate in a counterclockwise circle.

A COOK, short and fat, turns the handle of a roasting spit. We hear the squeak of metal on metal as it slowly spins. In the background, a blurred head sits atop a spike.

The COMMANDER, a hairy, muscled man still in his armor, approaches.

Commander
The men are hungry, cook. When will they be able to feast on the flesh of Theoderic, Rome’s greatest enemy?

cook
Soon, my lord, soon.
While the cook waits, he sharpens the carving tools he is about to use.

As day turns to night, fires are lit. Feasting and revelry continue.

2 ext. italian plain — day
It is the morning after the extended party. Most of the soldiers are still sleeping, but a few are beginning to stir, moaning as they rise.

3 int. commander’s tent
The commander wakes up next to his naked MISTRESS. He slowly removes her alabaster arm from his broad, bronzed chest.

commander
Marcus, bring me my pot!
MARCUS, in his early twenties and wearing servant’s clothing, appears holding the commander’s chamber pot.

commander
It’s time to expel this wretched Goth from my system.

The commander takes the chamber pot and disappears behind a curtain.

4 ext. commander’s tent
Marcus waits patiently outside the tent. The commander, holding the chamber pot, appears and hands the pot to Marcus.

commander
Marcus, do something for me before you dispose of this. Take Theoderic’s charred bones and whatever else may be left of him and throw him into the privy first. Toss this on top. The other men can also give our former enemy a similar present before we head for home.

marcus
Excellent idea, my lord.

5 ext. italian plain — day
The commander clicks his heels against his horse and the Romans head out. The camera pans over the smoking remains of Roman fires and comes to rest on the privy, which is now just a mound of dung.
A SQUIRREL scampers down a nearby tree and picks up an acorn from the base of the tree.
The squirrel looks around, wondering what to do with his newfound treasure.

SQUIRREL’S POV
The squirrel watches the last of the Roman soldiers leave the campsite.

FULL SHOT — ITALIAN PLAIN
After one more look around, the squirrel scrambles over to the dung heap and buries the acorn.

6 the dung heap
Days and nights pass in rapid succession. During one of the days, the skies darken and there is a torrential downpour.

Time begins to pass even more quickly. Snow covers the ground then melts. The former Roman privy is once again a seamless part of its surroundings, except for one single difference. A new plant has shot up out of the ground and has now grown taller than the grass.

years later
Time moves even faster now. During the time lapse photography, we see the oak tree grow taller. Leaves appear and disappear as the seasons and years pass. As the trunk thickens, animals rest in the shade of its branches. A house is built nearby, and children climb the tree and frolic beneath its canopy. The house is abandoned and disappears, but the tree remains.

the present
The rush of time stops. A caption at the bottom of the screen reads “NORTHERN ITALY, c. 491.” The trunk of the mighty oak is so thick now that most men could not wrap their arms entirely around it.

7 ext. horizon of the italian plain
We see a ragtag contingent of Roman soldiers appear on the horizon. They are walking toward the tree.

8 At the great oak
A ROMAN GENERAL, wearing a once luxurious red cape that is now soiled and tattered, dismounts his horse and takes shelter from the bright sun under the oak tree. His two lieutenants, BRANDUS and CRUICIAN, also the worse for wear, join him.

ROMAN GENERAL
Are the Franks still pursuing us?

brandus
They have left off, sir, and are allowing us to limp back to Rome.

crucian
Will we regroup and campaign against them next year?

roman general
That will be up to the emperor, Crucian, but if he asks my opinion, I will advise against it.

Brandus
Do you not think we will be strong enough to defeat them, sir?

roman general
We are still strong, Brandus, but our enemies are many. We have pagans attacking us from the east as well as the west. If we are to campaign, I will suggest that we go east.

crucian
And what will become of our western flank, general?

roman general
The Goths are still a powerful force that stands between us and the Franks. We will let Clovis expend some of his strength on those barbarians before we decide to attack.

brandus
A wise idea, sir.

roman general
Now I trust the report from the rear guard, but I would feel better if we were a little closer to Rome before we made camp. Tell the men to be ready to move out soon.

brandus and crucian
Yes, General.

full shot from under the oak tree — italian plain
Through the overhanging branches of the oak tree, we see the remnant of the once mighty Roman army disappear in the horizon opposite from which they came.

9 at the great oak — night
Darkness has fallen, and the night is silent. The wind begins to pick up, and the oak leaves rustle in the strong breeze. Lightning flashes in the distance, and thunder rumbles.

It begins to rain, slowly at first then harder. More distinct lightning bolts hit closer to the oak tree, as if it is the bull’s-eye in a game of lightning darts played by the gods.

Finally, one of the bolts smashes into the tree. The great oak shudders. The lightning has ripped the tree in half vertically. The severed half falls away from its still implanted twin, slowly at first, and crashes to the ground.

10 close up — inside the great oak
Inside the trunk of the tree, we see THEODERIC, his eyes closed, but his torso still rippling with muscle even after his long hibernation.

close up — theoderic’s face
From an expression of peace and serenity, Theoderic’s blue eyes pop open, alert and wary.
quick cut to black screen

Franklin looked up after he had read the last word. Rich was also finished, and he raised one eyebrow, soliciting his older brother’s silent opinion. In response, Franklin glanced at Rue, who was staring down at his lap, waiting for the critique to begin. Across the desk, Gabriela was still immersed in concentration.

Franklin imagined producing the scene that Rue had written and continuing the show. Having Theoderic sprout from the waste products of his own flesh might draw some jeers from the entertainment press, but the unique reincarnation would draw a buzz. People would gather around the water cooler at the office the next morning and the comments would fly: “Did you see ‘Visigoth’ last night?” “How crazy was that?”

“That was ridiculous!” “I can’t believe Theoderic is back!” People would love or hate the scene, but the show would be back, and back in a big way.

Gabriela lifted her eyes from the script. Franklin had known her for long enough that he could usually predict what she was going to say even when she was trying to keep her expression neutral. In this case, however, her face was truly a Switzerland between East and West.

“The script still seems a bit raw to me,” was the first thing she said.

“Sorry,” said Rue. “It’s been a while since I’ve written anything. I’m out of practice.”
“The scenario is not realistic in the least,” said Gabriela.

“Theodoric was as dead as a person can be,” said Richard. “Total realism was not an option.” Franklin knew that his normally restrained brother felt compelled to defend a fellow creator before Gabriela shot down the script.

Gabriela nodded and, resting her chin on a hand, pondered Richard’s comment. “You’re right,” she said.
The executive then broke into a wide smile and Franklin could feel the tension start to drain from his body. “I love it,” she said. “The Earth itself returns Theoderic to life not only because the people need him, but the planet itself requires his return. And the Franks as the new enemy. Opportunities for new characters, new storylines.”

“Only one small caveat,” said Richard. “The Franks defeat the Visigoths in 507, and after that, the Visigoths are about done in Gaul.”

“By my calculation that gives Theoderic sixteen years to do his thing,” said Gabriela. “Plenty of time for us to get several more good seasons out of him.” She leaned back in her chair. “Cerulean, you’ve done it again.”

Franklin looked at the triumphant man sitting next to him. He expected to see joy and excitement from a man who had just earned a million dollars and resurrected not only a fictional character, but his own Hollywood career. Instead, Rue looked as if he were admiring distant mountains from his back deck. He loved the view, but he had no intention of climbing the peaks.

“More than that, Rue,” continued Gabriela, “I want to give you the opportunity to stay in practice as a screenwriter by offering you a salaried position here at the network. There may be some projects from time to time that I’d like you to get involved with, but other than that, you’re going to have total creative freedom.”

Franklin was shocked by this sudden offer of employment. Screenwriters were usually only as valuable as their next script. Almost no writers existed who enjoyed the benefit of getting paid whether they produced work or not.

Franklin patted Rue on the shoulder. “Congratulations, Rue. It looks like you’ve worn that hot dog suit for the last time.”

Rue’s expression did not change, nor did he reply. Franklin assumed that it was from that shock of having success thrust upon him so suddenly and completely.

Six months after his victorious day in the office of Gabriela Martinez, Rue lowered a basket of tater tots into the sizzling, golden peanut oil. This was the first batch of tater tots to fry at the grand reopening of Fran’s Hot Dogs. Beside him, Fran, now his co-owner instead of his boss, arranged hot dogs on the new, spacious grill.

After opening its doors only five minutes ago, the new restaurant with eat-in dining room — no longer a mere shack — had attracted three customers through its glass and metal doors. It did not quite match the return of “Visigoth,” which aired to an audience just shy of Super Bowl size, but it was still a good beginning.

Rue had no regrets about turning down Gabriela’s generous offer. When he had accepted the job of reviving Theoderic, he had promised himself that he would not get sucked back into the vortex of Hollywood’s enticements. Maybe his ability to mold complex characters and craft genuine dialogue would improve if he accepted the secure position at the network. Maybe he would finally live up to the creative potential that his numerous reanimation scenarios portended. Then again, maybe the work he so carefully polished would still be seen as “raw.” Maybe after two or three years of writing scripts that would never be shot, Gabriela would approach him and suggest an extended sabbatical to help him find his voice. Even a writer with a salaried, secure position was only as valuable as his future work.

Some acquaintances had questioned his avoidance of a risk that so few people ever got a chance to take. To these doubters, Rue would smile and respond, “I invested in two restaurants that failed, yet I’m now again in the restaurant business. I don’t think you can say that I’m averse to a little risk.”

In reality, Rue had never thought of his partnership with Fran as a risk. He had worked with Fran for two years and learned that the woman had ample business acumen. She had a great feel for the market and for what her customers wanted. She made a great tasting hot dog at a fair price and always received outstanding reports from the health inspector. Rue had no doubts that Fran would succeed and he considered his investment as safe as a U.S. Treasury bond. He would not only be a financier in the new enterprise, but he would also be an active participant in its success. Fran had promised to initiate him into the ancient mysteries of the frankfurter. She also had no problem with him keeping his job as a crossing guard. He did not need the money anymore, but he still enjoyed seeing the kids who depended on him for their safe passage to and from school.

Another customer walked through the door, and Rue went to the register to take his order. Behind him, Rue heard Fran wrap and bag two hot dogs with graceful efficiency and present them to a waiting customer.

The man in front of Rue wore a uniform shirt that had two patches sewn to it. The patch on the right read “Dawson’s Plumbing” and the one over his heart listed the man’s name as “Dennis.” He ordered a Tater Dog Basket, and Rue gave him a drink cup and took his money.

“Aren’t you that Hollywood writer guy?” asked Dennis. Rue had refused an interview with the local paper that had been seeking information about his recent Hollywood adventures, but they lived in a small town and word spread without the help of media.

“That’s me,” said Rue. “I wrote a few little bits for various shows.”

Dennis asked if Rue had ever met the stunning female whom one magazine had just named “The World’s Sexiest Woman.”

“No,” said Rue. “I can’t say that I’ve had the pleasure.”

After realizing that he would have no vicarious contact with The World’s Sexiest Woman, Dennis lost interest in the conversation. His face assumed a dejected look, as if Rue had squirted a hated condiment on an otherwise perfect hot dog.

“How do I look?” asked a female voice.

Rue turned to see Andrea, the cheery twenty-one-year-old woman who was now the new dancing hot dog. The suit, freshly cleaned of Rue’s dried sweat, concealed Andrea’s lithe figure but accentuated her large brown eyes and sparkling smile.

“You look a lot better than I did in that suit,” said Rue.

“Looks to me like there’s going to be a large rush here shortly,” said Fran as she handed Dennis his food. “Now get out there and do your thing. I want that parking lot full in half an hour.”

“Will do,” said Andrea as she headed out the door.

As Fran spread more hot dogs on the grill for the expected rush, Rue got some fries going and grabbed a damp towel to wipe down the counter.

When he looked out the front window again, Andrea was already by the road doing the “Whip and Nae Nae,” as she had called it during her interview. While Rue did not know whether this was one dance or two, he enjoyed watching somebody from the next generation update the moves of his old character. Andrea seemed to have the energy and enthusiasm to continue nonstop through the dinner hour. Compared to her, Rue’s disco steps were the lackluster gyrations of a tired man.

As two cars, lured by Andrea’s spectacle, pulled into the parking lot, Rue felt a new energy surge through his veins. The rush came not from the achievement of Hollywood and fortune, but from a feeling of contentment. He had not rejected Gabriela’s generous offer because he feared failure, but because he preferred the peace and serenity that life in this small Tennessee town offered him. He had pulled out of the rat race to enjoy the simple pleasures of connecting with regular people and providing them with quality hot dogs. Rue headed back to his register, ready to serve the new customers and knowing that he was right where he belonged.

Tom Miller has published several stories in literary magazines such as Red Fez and The Wordsmith Journal.

The Knowledge of the Queen: Chapter Three

By Posted in Knowledge of the Queen 4 Comments

By Juan Ersatzman

The Knowledge of the Queen is a serial novel, debuting with chapter one in January 2016 and slated for release chapter by chapter over the coming months.

Chapter One
Chapter Two

Chapter Three

The new king’s good reputation was short-lived. Presented with a crown and with sovereignty, Hiram found himself freed of the limitations imposed on his behavior by his traditionalist father. Within months, the nobility were noting signs that Hiram’s exemplary conduct at the time of his father’s death had been nothing more than a ploy to solidify his popular support. That it had done so left Hiram’s critics unable to publicly criticize or confront the king, for fear of the people’s anger.

At first, the unease was the fear of that situation which befalls every monarchy; a playboy king. Hiram’s parties were lavish, his affairs were multitudinous and his attention to duty was lax, at best. The nobility, including his uncle, the Duke of Qift, saw to it that handlers were hired to hush up the king’s philandering — duties which included misdirection of the press, ensuring that the king’s rendezvous were discreet, and keeping his paramours quiet. These measures met with moderate and predictable success.

The result these efforts was an uncomfortable, and ultimately short-lived status quo. Once again, the precipitating event was sadly predictable; the king fell in love with Lumi Koderzaught, the young daughter of the Duke of Maltin. This was a source of great controversy and unease in the capital. The houses of Maltin and Trefen being both of the royal line, they had on occasion been rivals for the throne — most notably in the War of Succession, roughly eighty years before Hiram’s reign. Though that conflict was brief, the bitterness it engendered endured, and was perpetuated by a thousand subtle slights across the years. Invitations and notes of thanks forgotten, nobles left waiting in antechambers, rolls of the eyes and every other dagger of social practice available kept the anger alive, if not the memory of its reason. As noted above, the Duke of Maltin at the time of Hiram’s reign was at best a reluctant admirer of the king’s early efforts at good behavior, and a suspicious one at that.

Consequently, as the king’s hedonistic tendencies grew unavoidably obvious, Maltin’s criticism of the king became correspondingly harsher and more pointed, though never public. The only matter of any public note was the strange coincidence that the Duke’s beautiful, charming daughter Lumi seemed never to be at dances, dinners and social events simultaneously with the king. The natural — and true, according to Lady Koderzaught’s own diaries — rumor was that the Duke carefully arranged for the two young people never to be together. Clearly a political insult made under the pretext of paternal concern, it became clear that any paternal concern on the point would have been more than justified.

In the Spring of [date redacted], at the debut ball for the king’s distant cousin, lady Anida Knauger, the king committed an egregious violation of etiquette — arriving far earlier than expected, and entering the line for announcement out of proper order. He found himself in the queue behind lady Koderzaught. According to contemporary records, the king’s faux paus caused a temporary delay in proceedings while the Knauger domestic staff sought a protocol for lessening the indignities brought on by his majesty’s misstep. Through the delay, the king engaged lady Koderzaught in conversation, and appeared immensely affected by her charm.

–From A History of Trevendland: Chapter 3, “Hiram I, and the Dissolution of the Monarchy” by E. Kodrave

 

“Right,” The prophetess said, “well, then, that’s enough for one night.”

She reached behind the tree she was planted against, and drew out a thick, fur-lined overcoat which she offered to Marigold. When Marigold took the coat it was warm and dry, not like something lying in on the forest floor on a cold night.

Either failing to remark or disregarding Marigold’s astonishmen,t the prophetess reached back behind the tree and drew out a coat of her own.

“Not much,” she said, though not apologetically, “but they’ll keep us warm. Wrap up.”

At any previous juncture in her life, Marigold might’ve stopped to inquire about coats appearing from behind trees in the dark. She found though, that her mind had space only for a few questions, and that the origin of the coat didn’t warrant her curiosity.

“The others,” she started, “Harrison and Almira, and —”

The prophetess told her there was nothing they could do, but assured Marigold that Harrison and Almira, in particular, would be safe for the night, and that Marigold could sleep without fear.

Marigold took off her flannel shirt and jeans, bunched them into a grimy semblance of a pillow, and nestled into the overcoat. As she slipped away, she heard the prophetess, still sitting against the tree, overcoat slung across her knees, muttering to herself.

Sunday morning was cold. Gray light and frosty air that leaked in at the cuffs and the collar of the overcoat forced Marigold awake. Her eyelids were swollen and gritty with mucus. Her throat hurt, and her nose was congested. The wound above her eye ached and itched, and stung. Every time she moved, cold air flowed into her sanctuary, and her joints and muscles protested until the pain made her gasp.

Once, on an educational trip to the harbor in Tetidet with other Oneness Students, she had seen a shipping crate that had broken free of the crane unloading the ship. It had crashed down onto the pier from a great height. No one was killed, but the cargo itself had been ruined. When Marigold’s group visited, the day after the accident, workers had been unloading the ruined freight — luxury cars. The bedraggled metal messes that rolled out of the crate were recognizable, but dull, sagging approximations of their intended shape. In mind and body both, but especially in body, Marigold felt like one of those squashed-up luxury cars.

The prophetess was also asleep, propped against the tree with the overcoat laid over her whole body. She was snoring.

As soon as Marigold poked her head out of her overcoat, the snoring stopped, and the prophetess’s round head shot up out of the coat.

“DAMN!” she roared, startling Marigold, who gasped in terror and twitched one foot out from the protection of the overcoat into the cold.

“It’s cold!” hissed the prophetess, seeming surprised. “What the hell?!?”

Marigold, pulling her foot back in, wondered again what was the worth of a prophetess who was being constantly surprised.
Or of a queen who didn’t know she was one. An account manager who turned out to be a queen. A hill girl who turned out to be a city woman.

“Of course,” she said, “why wouldn’t it be cold?”

The prophetess glared at her, but seemed to choose silence as the route of wisdom, allowing herself only a snort. Having begun to snort, she transitioned smoothly into clearing her throat and spitting.

Marigold winced at the prophetess’s manners, and eased upright, accompanying the movement with a self-pitying collection of moans and gasps, and taking care to keep the overcoat wrapped around her.

“Good god,” said the prophetess, “What are you on about? You’re young. Imagine being my age.”

Marigold felt a flash of irritation, but fought it down.

“Yesterday was hard,” she said, “and last night wasn’t great, either.”

The prophetess scrunched her face into a prune and sighed. The breath steamed out in front of her.

“You’re right, you’re right. Apologies.”

Marigold wasn’t sure what to say to that, and said nothing. Beyond the soreness, her stomach was empty and aching, and the air was stinging her exposed skin.

She fumbled with her makeshift pillow, disentangling her shirts, pants and socks. She made a brief attempt at dressing under the coat, but gave it up, and was obliged to pull on her clothes while standing shivering on top of the coat.

As she was dressing, Marigold noticed that the gray was beginning to subside. In all directions from their particular pool of shadows, Marigold could see patches where the early autumn sunlight cut through the forest canopy and painted leaves and branches white.

As Marigold was watching the woods, and buttoning up her flannel shirt, the prophetess reached behind the tree again, searched with her hand for a moment, then dragged a large backpack out from behind the trunk, solving the question of just where the warm, dry coats had come from the night before.

The pack was made of two leather bags, one huge and one moderately-sized, bound to a polished frame of dark-stained wood. To Marigold, the pack was very like the prophetess — antique, and peculiar, but effective.

The prophetess had begun to hum a lurching melody in a minor key while she unsnapped the smaller, upper compartment and fished out a battered copper kettle. Then, she turned back to Marigold, who was ashamed to find that she’d been staring, and raised a bushy eyebrow,

“I imagine,” she said, “that you’re as hungry as I am.”

Marigold nodded.

“Alright, then,” said the prophetess, “we eat, and once our brains have fuel, we think till our skulls split.”

It was as agreeable a plan as Marigold could have hoped for, so she tottered off, her knees creaking and ankles rattling in search of twigs and leaves to burn. She wasn’t inclined to go far, and didn’t have to. When she had filled her arms with sticks and verified by investigation that none of the leaves on the forest floor were dry fit to burn, she circled back and found that the prophetess had somehow filled the kettle with water, set out two tin cups and bowls and cleared out a bare circle of dirt for the fire.

As Marigold approached, the prophetess was fiddling with a short, cast-iron post with three notches in the shaft, and a curve like a shepherd’s crook on one end. At the tip of the crook was a smaller hook, which Marigold presumed was for the handle of the kettle. The prophetess pushed the straight end into the ground, got up, leaned her full weight on it, rummaged in her backpack until she produced a wooden mallet, pounded the post with the mallet, and — finally satisfied that it was solidly in the ground — hung the kettle from the crook end.

In the space beneath the kettle, Marigold assembled the fuel by habit, her fingers guided by memories her mind had forgotten. When she was done, the prophetess leaned in and struck a flame with flint. Marigold smiled. For as much as she’d lost of her heritage, she could still set a fine fire.

As the fire crackled and the kettle steamed, the sun’s rays turned from white to gold. Still, the air was cool in the shadows, and the women sat close to the fire, staring at the flames.

When the water began to boil, the prophetess roused herself from her reverie, wrapped a rag around her hand to fill the cups and bowls with water. Hanging the kettle again, she extracted from her mysteriously abundant backpack oats for the water, salt for the oats, and tea for the cups.

They ate ravenously, Marigold thinking that as much as her father’s spirit might’ve disapproved of her breakfast on Saturday, he would’ve applauded the prophetess’s choice for Sunday. It was everything her father had been; hearty, wholesome, and difficult.

With a congealed brick of oatmeal in her stomach, and the warm tea in her hand, Marigold’s thoughts turned from her stomach to her plight.
Clearly, so had the prophetess’s. She grunted, and said, “So. You’re the queen.”

“We don’t know that,” said Marigold, “not for sure.”

“How sure do we need to be?” asked the prophetess. “The amulet thinks so, you think so, I think so, all those nincompoops in Valeview seemed to think so—what more do we need?”

“The government, maybe?” hazarded Marigold. “I imagine they want a word.”

“Ah,” said the prophetess, “No. What they think doesn’t matter, because no matter what they think, they’ll do what they want, which is deny that you could possibly be the queen, say it wouldn’t matter if you were, denounce you, and try to have you killed.”

“Gosh,” said Marigold.

The prophetess shrugged. “You’ll get used to it.”

Marigold looked away into the woods. Shafts of sunlight shone on tree trunks and dappled the undergrowth and the carpet of matted leaves. The pinpricks of light shifted and danced in a meandering breeze that ruffled the leaves and needles affectionately on its way. The whole world seemed to be at perfect peace.

Despite the soothing tranquility of her surroundings, Marigold’s stomach was knotted, and her chest was tight. It hurt to breathe. The foremost thought in her aching mind was that after fewer than twenty-four hours of government pursuit, her body was a battered mass of aches and bruises, cuts and scrapes and scabs. She took a deep breath and tried to rediscover the courage she’d felt in the night.

“I don’t know that I will.”

The prophetess laughed, but did not smile. “Your choice, of course, but you’ll do one or the other: Get used to it, or die.”

Marigold clenched her teeth.

“You might not like to hear it,” said the prophetess, “but I’d rather you be angry than dead. Now—”

“If I’m the queen —” started Marigold, wheeling on the prophetess, and then said, “Get down!”

She dropped flat, and the prophetess, showing agility and reflexes remarkable for a woman of her years, flopped down beside her.

“Give me your gun,” whispered Marigold. “There’s someone in the trees.”

The prophetess rolled onto her side, and plunged a hand into the backpack. Marigold, eyes fixed on the woods, was surprised at her own response. It had been nothing but the faintest flash of skin and cloth in her peripheral vision, but instinct had risen from the past to put her on high alert. She eased her right hand back toward the prophetess.

The older woman was breathing loudly and fumbling in the backpack. Marigold felt her heartbeat running faster and faster, pressed against the ground, until the prophetess gave a satisfied sort of snort and pressed the gun into Marigold’s hand.

The weight was astonishing. It was a struggle for Marigold to swing the gun round and level it on the sunny undergrowth where she was convinced someone was hiding. Even when she managed it, she found that she held it steady — not from nerves, but from weight.

Her nerves, though, were taking part in the festivities. They blurred her eyes with tears, as she stared into the sunny foliage, some twenty yards distant, where she’d seen … whatever it was she’d seen. Now, there was no movement but the undulations of branches and leaves, swaying with the wind. The prophetess, having completed a complex maneuver to turn around and crawl up next to Marigold without raising her head, was muttering under her breath unintelligibly.

Marigold squinted to clear her eyes. Blood thundered in her ears, and throbbed through the scab on her forehead and the abrasions that now seemed to cover most of her body. The prophetess’s muttering was growing louder, commanding. A lock of hair fell across Marigold’s eyes, and tickled her nose.

“Crap,” she whispered, and taking the gun in her right hand, tried to brush away the hair with her left, without losing focus.

As she moved her hand back to the gun, three things happened in quick succession. First, Harrison — looking surprised and embarrassed — tumbled out of the thicket and crashed down with a yelp. Simultaneously, the prophetess swelled up from the ground beside her like a striking cobra, arms spread straight out from her sides, gibbering at a thunderous volume. Third, Marigold — first trying to swing the gun to cover the movement then trying not to aim it at Harrison, lost control of it. It slipped out of her right hand and as she tried to catch it, her grasping fingers landed on the trigger. The gun went off.

Marigold was blinded, deafened, and felt a devastating blow across the bridge of her nose. The gun had recoiled from the shot, straight into the bridge of her nose. She dropped her head, clutched at her face, and rolled over onto her back.

The prophetess whooped and charged forward, unconcerned by the possibility that Marigold might’ve killed Harrison or herself. Marigold, her nose radiating pain, rolled back over to see what was happening.

Harrison had recovered his wits, and turned to run, but he’d taken no more than three steps before the prophetess was onto him. Leaving her feet, the old woman caught him in the back with a flying tackle.

She landed on top of him, swept up his arms behind his head, and planted a knee in the back of his neck before he had reacted.
Marigold scrambled to her feet, scooping up the gun with one hand and holding her face with the other. She staggered forward at the highest speed she could manage, driven by adrenaline, restrained by soreness.

“HOW DID YOU FIND US?” thundered the prophetess, dragging at Harrison’s arms.

“Ouch, ouch! Let me go! LET ME GO!” squealed Harrison, squirming and trying to wrench his arm free.

“Not just yet, you toad,” growled the prophetess, digging in the knee. She turned to Marigold. “I don’t trust him.”

“I saved her life!” said Harrison. “What have you ever done?”

“Oh, did you?” asked the prophetess. “You know as well as I do that —” She paused.

“Let him up,” said Marigold, wincing as blood trickled out under her fingers and rolled down her nose. “Let him up, take the gun, and we’ll talk.”

The prophetess pouted, and insisted on taking the gun before she was willing to let Harrison rise, extending and complicating the entire sequence significantly. When at last Harrison rose, dusting himself off, he and the prophetess glared at each other. She ostentatiously drew back the hammer on the revolver.

Marigold sighed.

“How did you find us?” she asked him, keeping a hand pressed to the bridge of her nose.

“You should ask her that same question,” said Harrison, “She shows up at a secret meeting, tells us she can’t prove she’s trustworthy, and five minutes later the building is burning and we’re under attack from all sides. She somehow miraculously escapes with — with you, and leaves the rest of us to our own devices.”

“Why exactly,” asked prophetess, “would you want me to stay and fight if you don’t trust me? And why would I arrange to have the meeting broken up, and lots of people hurt, and the building burned if I was planning to escape with Marigold?”

Harrison glowered.

“I think it’s obvious,” he growled, “you—” He trailed off. The prophetess raised a mocking eyebrow.

“Go on,” said Marigold.

“–you want her to trust you,” finished Harrison, lamely.

“Sure I do,” said the prophetess, “but I certainly wouldn’t have needed her to if I just wanted to kidnap or kill her. If you’re wondering how I found your ‘secret meeting,’ and the whole place ended up crawling with enemies, maybe it has something to do with how well you and your little insurrection club keep secrets.”

At this tactless suggestion, Marigold made an attempt to break in, but the prophetess stamped a foot and raised her voice.

“And of course I took the queen — sorry, took Marigold — and escaped. Were you thinking that it would be more trustworthy to keep her there, surrounded by assassins, when she’s already beaten half to hell? You’re either an idiot, or you’ve a lot to learn.”

Marigold bunched up a dirty sleeve, and wiped away some of the blood draining from the cut on her nose. She was beginning to tire of constant fear, of flight, of scrapes and cuts and bruises and rivers of blood gushing from her head. More than all that, though, she was weary of conversations she didn’t understand, and being spoken of like she wasn’t present. Harrison had paused to plan his response, and she cut in sharply.

“If you’re done fighting among yourselves about whom I can trust,” she said, “why don’t you answer the question?”

The prophetess nodded to Harrison, “Go on.”

“You, too,” Marigold told the prophetess, wiping at her nose, “You’ve been lovely, but I’m not altogether convinced I should trust either of you.”

Now Harrison smirked, and the prophetess sighed.

“How did you find the meeting?” Marigold asked the prophetess.

The old woman sighed again and rolled her eyes, before answering, “Magic.”

“Be serious,” said Marigold.

The prophetess’s eyes widened in anger. “I am,” she barked.

Marigold was taken aback. Harrison snorted.

“Just because you don’t believe in it doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist,” said the prophetess. “I tap into the powers of the earth and elements, and there’s no other word for that than ‘magic.’ I’m shown things and commanded by God, and that’s what it is to be a prophetess. Why is that so hard to believe? Because it hasn’t happened to you? That’s a laugh.”

Marigold felt incapable of marshalling a response to this onslaught, so she nodded, and turned to Harrison,

“How did you find us?”

“Magic,” said Harrison, and winked at Marigold.

Marigold, despite herself, giggled. The prophetess snarled, and raised the gun. Harrison ducked away.

“Stop!” Marigold raised a hand, and the prophetess lowered the pistol. Harrison straightened up, and asked, “Well, if she can just say ‘magic,’ why can’t I?”

“She said it sincerely. You didn’t.”

Now Harrison rolled his eyes. “Fine. I tracked your cellphone.”

The prophetess turned on Marigold, agape with indignation.

“A cellphone? You’ve been carrying a phone with you this whole time?”

“I — I — I guess,” stuttered Marigold, “I mean, I don’t — I didn’t — I don’t have reception here.”

“Oh, good lord!” groaned the prophetess, flinging a hand to her forehead, “you’ll be the death of us all.”

“GPS is by satellite,” explained Harrison to Marigold, “not cellphone tower.”

Marigold, the presumptive queen, found herself feeling like she’d laughed in a library.

“Give it to me,” ordered the prophetess, switching the gun to one hand (Marigold noticed that the prophetess seemed to have no trouble with its heaviness), and reaching out.

She took the phone, laid it across a thick root, adjusted her grip so she was holding the gun by its barrel, and used it like a hammer to crush the phone. There was a splintering and crackling, and a small shower of glass. The prophetess nodded to herself, and proceeded to bash the phone five more times for good measure. Then she got to her feet, nodded again, and kicked the remains off into the trees.

“Let ‘em find that,” she said.
It was true that Marigold hadn’t thought of her phone for a day and a half, but as the prophetess banged away at it, she felt a deep pang in her chest. She’d been proud when she bought that phone, with her own money from her own job. She’d taken picture after picture of the buildings in the city, of herself twirling her hair around her fingers in the mirror, of herself with friends on their way to dinner, of herself and her friends at parties she never wanted to go to, drinks in their hands, arms over shoulders. She never wanted to go, but she was almost always glad she’d gone.
She swallowed. Far away in Valeview, the church bell rang.

“I’m sorry,” said Marigold, biting her lip, and staring at the forest floor.

“Don’t be,” said Harrison, “It’s a good thing that I found you. And now I’ve told you how. Isn’t that enough?”

Marigold was careful not to look at the prophetess, “Yes,” she said, “Yes, that’s enough.”

“He saved my life,” she told the prophetess, who had begun to growl in protest. The prophetess pursed her lips and said nothing.

“Are you alone?” Marigold asked.

Harrison nodded. “I came alone, but I was just with the others this morning,” he said, moving into the shade, and rolling up the sleeves on his sweatshirt.

“Almira —” started Marigold, grimacing and taking another timid wipe at the cut on her nose.

“She’s safe,” said Harrison, “After the two of you disappeared, it was pretty much over. Everyone just left. The Kemizeze were gone as quickly as they showed up, and those guys with the guns left, too. We lost one, and the K lost one.”

“I’m sorry,” said Marigold, “As always, I guess, but also as always, I’m confused. Could you explain?”

“The K — Kemizeze — were the people in black,” said Harrison. “They’re some kind of anarchist death mob.”

“Oh,” said Marigold, disappointed to discover that death had found its way back into the conversation, and wondering what a ‘death mob’ might be.

“Personally,” said the prophetess, her pride sufficiently restored to rejoin the discussion, “I’m more interested in those ruffians who came busting in the front door shooting. I guess that’s how your man died?”

“No,” said Harrison, “and it wasn’t a man.” The prophetess shrugged.

“It was Nell, our look-out.”

His voice was dry and forced. Marigold gasped, and the prophetess’s face flickered. Marigold was remembering the slight form, crumpled in a moonlit gutter, the pool of blood beneath her head. Fine features, long lashes, still as in repose. Marigold’s head filled with a buzzing, and she couldn’t tell whether it came from her ears, her crushed nose or her mind.

“Good god,” said the prophetess. Harrison shrugged.

“She wasn’t so young that she didn’t understand,” he said, and pressed his lips unsteadily together again.

Marigold had known Nell, but not really. She had been a face of the village, one thirteen-year-old girl in a swarm, giggling and flirting with the village boys. Boys. Whose pale pimply face was Nell longing for as she died, Marigold wondered, what sad, shallow romance was her last thought? Or did she cry for her mother in those final moments? Least likely to Marigold, was the possibility that Nell died enraptured by visions of revolution.

“Ha!” said the prophetess, echoing Marigold’s thoughts, “Wasn’t so young she couldn’t understand what? Death?”

“She knew that there are causes worth dying for!” snapped Harrison.

The prophetess gazed at Harrison for a moment, opened her mouth as though to speak, and then her expression changed, and she said, “So the group that came through the door — any ideas?”

“None.”

The prophetess nodded, almost to herself, then said to Marigold, “These are the people who think they can help you.”

“Look,” said Harrison, “I know we looked bad …”

“Like a bunch of kids,” put in the prophetess, “a bunch of useless kids.”

“… but we’re improving. And, unlike the woods, we’ve got guns, and people, and walls and food.”

“… And I’ve got a spoonful of wit, and can actually aim my gun,” countered the prophetess, “which is worth the whole pack of you.”

Marigold shook her head, “I’m sorry,” she said to the prophetess, “I know your concerns, but I just don’t know how we could do this alone.”

The prophetess looked at Marigold for a long moment, her small eyes inscrutable, and then she nodded.

Having decided to trust Harrison and his rumored coalition, following him to the camp was a natural progression. It was a long hike through the woods, up the shoulder of the mountain where the forest wrapped around the west side of Valeview, and then up the steep slopes into dense pines. Marigold found that years of urban living had muted her ability to tell time in the wild, but she guessed that the walk was about three hours.

As they walked, Harrison explained himself to Marigold in a sort of breathless, quiet speech about his childhood on the plains, the son of a metalworker who worked on the machines, homes, and even horses of his neighbors. He told her about his selection as a Oneness Student, his initial wonder at being selected, and his gradual recognition of the inequity inherent in the program.

He spoke at length about injustice, and the corruption of the ruling class, and Marigold made small noises of affirmation, and took in his words in a vague sense without hearing the details. She was glad he was talking to her, and glad he didn’t expect her to talk. Behind them, the prophetess stumped along, gasping for breath and glaring.

Two times as they walked, they heard the ominous hum of aircraft, but the sound was distant, and they kept hiking.

It was about midafternoon by Marigold’s estimate when they climbed up onto a natural stair at the base of a cliff that ran along the side of the mountain like a wrinkle. The trees pressed in close to the stair, and stretched up beyond it, almost to the top of the cliff, so that the sheltered area underneath the ledge was almost impossible to detect from a distance.

To their right, along the course of the cliff, was an impassable crush of debris. Trunks, branches, roots, rocks and dirt formed a blockade as complete as a wall. Harrison turned toward it, and let loose a halting, crackling squawk.

There was a silence, punctuated only by indistinct bird sounds. Marigold stared at Harrison, and the prophetess stared at him rudely.

“Really?” she asked, and Harrison scowled.

“Let’s see you do better,” he snapped.

“Can’t,” said the prophetess, “which is why I’m not trying.”

She turned to Marigold, “The mountainfolk screech of entry.”

“Oh,” said Marigold, she bit her lip, “I — I don’t think I remember it, anymore.”

The prophetess scoffed, “Alright,” she said, “we’ll stay out here and listen to plains-boy yelp.”

Harrison shrugged, and took a deep breath.

“Fine,” said Marigold, “Fine! I’ll try.”

She took a deep breath, and let out a screech. It was a quiet screech, but it held the melodious rasp of her heritage. As the sound of her voice died away, a small section of the mound slid aside, revealing a narrow passage through the wall of debris. The hole was small, and dark. Branches stuck out from the walls, and bits of dead grass hung from the ceiling.

“Stay to the center,” called a muffled voice, “and move!”

They hurried in, Marigold first, bent over and scuttling through the passage. About ten feet down the tunnel, when the light from the doorway behind them was almost entirely obscured, Marigold’s hand, fumbling in the darkness, came up against a dead end. She stopped, but another section of the wall on her left opened again with a flash of diluted daylight. Marigold scrambled through the dogleg, and crawled another ten feet to daylight.

Marigold broke through, and straightened up into fresh air. The flat space at the base of the cliff was wider on the inside of the barrier, possibly through the efforts of the inhabitants. The cliff loomed to her left, and the wall of brush and earth curved around from behind to run parallel to the cliff on her right. Small huts, tents, and lean-tos were arranged in rows between the walls. From where she stood, Marigold couldn’t tell how far the space extended, but it was already enough to surprise her. A hundred feet away, in a wider-open space, a fire was burning. She wondered how it was she hadn’t smelled or seen smoke from the far side of the wall.

Just in front of them were four people, all armed, and strangely symmetrical. Two were men, two were women. Two were plains-dwellers and two were mountainfolk, one woman and one man each. Two — again, one man and one woman — held blackwood cudgels, and the other two had compact submachine guns slung over their shoulders. The equality of representation impressed Marigold as forced, and awkward.

“Welcome,” said the plains-man, stepping forward. Marigold clasped his hands and smiled. He bowed his head.

“Hail to the queen,” he said.

“Oh,” said Marigold, “Oh, um.”

“Hail to the queen!” echoed the other guards, in turn stepping forward to clasp her hands and bow. By the time the third guard was clasping her hands, Marigold, who didn’t know what else to do, decided she ought to bow her head in return. As she bowed to the fourth guard, a petite woman from the plains whose dark hands were warm and soft, she heard a rustle of tent flaps, and footsteps crackling through the crabgrass and gravel. When she looked up, Almira Hotchkiss was standing before her.

Almira was wearing dark clothes; ill-fitting, heavy-duty hiking gear that replaced her graceful curves with utilitarian androgyny. Even her baby bump was obscured by a heavy jacket. The golden waves of her hair were pulled tight into a pony-tail and a white bandage was wrapped around the place where she’d been struck the night before. Her eyes were red, and her cheeks flushed.

As at the market, Marigold’s mind turned to memories of Almira as the golden daughter of Valeview, fluttering her eyelids at an adoring future while skinny little Marigold burnt her tongue, gulping coffee to keep from inconveniencing anybody. She also remembered her own submerged satisfaction at realizing that years of tumult and exile had turned her into someone who knew bad coffee when she bought it.

Now, seeing Almira again, Marigold felt a deep surge of an emotion she couldn’t understand. Sorrow and anger and joy and relief welling up at once. She bit her lip as Almira approached.

“Hail to the queen,” said Almira quietly, clasping her hands and turning her eyes to the ground.

Marigold’s heart was racing, and she felt a wild urge to hold Almira, and weep into the shoulder of her coat. But she didn’t. She bowed, and looked up. Almira’s eyes were red from tears, but they were dry now. Almira’s gaze flickered to Harrison, and back to Marigold.

Marigold looked back at Almira, and for a moment they stood in stillness. Account manager and coffee girl, soldier and queen, daughters of mountainfolk.

“Hail to the cooking fire,” said the prophetess, pushing past them, “Provided any of you know how to cook.”