third level issue 5

8/2/2019 Third Level Issue 5

1/46

The Third LevelThe Third LevelThe Third LevelThe Third Level

IssueIssueIssueIssue 5555

Spring 2010Spring 2010Spring 2010Spring 2010

http://quiver.knox.edu/thethirdlevel/http://quiver.knox.edu/thethirdlevel/http://quiver.knox.edu/thethirdlevel/http://quiver.knox.edu/thethirdlevel/

EEEE----mail: [email protected]: [email protected]: [email protected]: [email protected]


2/46

Table of Contents

As Red as Blood Krista Ahlberg, 2011

The physician shudders with something akin to revulsion as she leaves the babys

nursery and doesnt know why, for surely there is nothing revolting about this, the perfect

child.

Poems: Amaterasu, Kali, and Hieros Gamos Ashley Atkinson, 2012

See, look into the mirror,

your skin is not melting,

and your kimono is

not scraping against your heart

The Thrill of the Hunt Owen Kerschner, 2011

Three humans ride towards the trees from the east, and I can smell their magic from

where I stand. I observe them with yellow eyes from the edge of the trees as they

approach along the ancient Olgart road.

The Ferryman Makenzi Crouch, 2012Astrid opened her eyes and stared up into the blackness of her cabin. Somethings

wrong, she thought. Unfastening the straps holding her in her bunk, she pushed off the

bulkhead and floated to the comm panel.


3/46

Ahlberg 1

As Red as Blood

Krista Ahlberg

Born on a cold winter morning, her mother clutches her to her breast and calls her Snow

White, in the hope that she will be as pure and white as the new-fallen snow. And with a doting

mother and a loving-yet-oblivious father, she is.

The court physician worries about the child because she never cries, but instead looks up

at her with eyes of wonder, eyes so dark a brown that they bring to mind the chocolate that has

lately come from Spain. The physician shudders with something akin to revulsion as she leaves

the babys nursery and doesnt know why, for surely there is nothing revolting about this, the

perfect child.

*

At the age of five, when her mother dies, Snow White still does not cry. She knows she

should, but she cannot summon the tears to her eyes. Her father wraps his arms around her and

soaks the shoulders of her dress with his tears, but she only looks solemnly over his shoulder.

*

The physician, invited to the funeral with the rest of the household staff, sees this solemn

look and glances away quickly.

Soon after the death of the queen, the king falls ill. The doctor comes to treat him, but

there is no physical wrong in him that she can see: indeed, he is still young, not much past thirty

and, the doctor cannot help noticing, still as handsome as he ever was.

But he will not eat. He has sunk into a despair so deep that she can barely manage to

force broth down his throat. She comes every day, and as he drinks his barley broth or she feels

his forehead for a fever, he looks at her as if she is the only thing holding him up, keeping him

alive.

And so it is on the day he clutches at her arm as she turns to go and says doctor, she sits

on the edge of the bed and tells him to call her by her given name, though no one has used it in

nigh on a dozen years.

He says it as if it is a flavor he is savoring, and still he holds her by her wrist as though

she might float away on a passing breeze if he does not. No one has ever looked at her like that,

she thinks, and so the next time she comes she does not tie her hair up in a ribbon but lets it fall

free.

She does not think of what she is doing, trying to attract a king, and that mere weeks after

his wifes death. She is careful not to think about it. And when the day comes that he sits up in


4/46

Ahlberg 2

bed and kisses her, she pushes all thoughts of mourning and fidelity from her mind and leans in

and kisses back, just to feel his warm arms come around her and to be safe again, for the first time

since childhood to have no worries or cares. This is what she has. This is who she is.

*

Snow White is six years old when her father marries his physician and tells her, She is

your mother now.

But this woman has blond hair, not brown, and looks at Snow White with lips that are

pinched, not smiling. No, she can never be mother.

*

For her part, the new queen watches Snow White watching her and thinks, There is

something wrong with that child. But she cannot think for long, because there is a line of well

wishers waiting to give her gifts and congratulations, and she does not know what to do with her

hands or her mouth.

She settles for a half smile and clasping her hands over her stomach before quickly

lowering them, though surely no one can see, no one can tell the existence of the human being

growing inside her.

But still she jumps out of her skin when the last person in line, a wrinkled old woman

who barely reaches the queens shoulder, puts her gnarled hand upon her stomach and says ah,

before handing her a gilt-framed mirror swathed in lace. She wants to recoil, but her husband is

smiling and reaching out to the woman to embrace her, explaining in quiet tones that this is his

godmother.

She forces a smile to her lips and kisses the womans weathered cheek, and her present is

the first the queen looks at that night after they have all been moved into her antechamber.

It truly is a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, she realizes once she removes the lace that

binds it, like none shes ever seen. She hangs it on the wall above her dressing table and thinks

nothing amiss until the day it whispers as she leans in to powder her face: You really are, you

know.

She lets out a strangled screech and jumps back, upsetting her chair. Then she cautiously

leans in again.

I am what? she asks shakily, barely above a breath.

The fairest of them all.

*

She knows she is not the fairest of them all, cannot be, shouldnt be. She must wear

glasses to read fine print, her hair is not the blond of cornsilk bathed in summer sunshine but of


5/46

Ahlberg 3

dusty wheat, and her hands are almost as large as those of the king. But the mirror insists, and she

knows that a mirror like this does not lie.

*

Snow White sees the new worry in her stepmothers face, a worry that swells along with

her belly. Snow White is too young to know about the ways of men and women, and yet she

knows. And the stepmother sees Snow White look at her growing stomach and turns away,

always turns away with a strange look on her face. Her own mother loved her, Snow White

knows, yet this new mother does not. She will only love the creature that comes out of her.

*

But the creature does not come. Eight months after the wedding, the queen goes to bed

and the midwife, the new physician who has replaced her, comes to her and gives her teas steeped

with mugwart and cool lavender-drenched cloths to place on her forehead. And yet despite all

this, the baby is born still.

Perhaps it was not meant to be, her husband whispers as he brushes her damp hair off

her forehead and kisses her. Perhaps it was never meant to be.

His words do not console her. The only thing that does is the mirror, later, alone in her

room, saying You are still the fairest of them all.

*

Snow White grows up obstinate. The knowledge that her stepmother does not love her

taints any obedience Snow White might have had. When she is ten years old, she stops speaking

to the stepmother altogether. Soon, she will not even submit to the embraces of her father, and, as

she grows older, her obstinacy turns to rebellion.

A princess is not supposed to climb out of her bedroom window and down the trellis in

the middle of the night to wander through the woods. But she finds solace in the darkness, solace

she cannot find anywhere else. In the dark, no one can see her. She can be anyone she wishes to

be, anyone but herself.

A princess is not supposed to talk to boys she meets in the woods either. Boys with eyes

that glow like firelight. For the fire, as she knows from observation, consumes all it touches. And

yet, perhaps she would like to be consumed by this boy with eyes that follow her, this boy that

seems to know her. Maybe if she lets him consume her, she will at last begin to feel, as she has

not since the death of her mother, eight long years ago. To feel what the stepmother does not give

her, can never give her. To feel that she is worthy of being loved.

And so when she is fourteen she lifts her skirts to him there on the forest floor. Her heart

beats hard in her throat as his kisses her cheek and then her neck. This is the moment, she thinks,


6/46

Ahlberg 4

the moment I finally become. But what she thinks to become she does not know. His lips against

her neck turn to teeth, and she feels a sharp pain that makes her clap her hand to her throat. She

can feel her pulse beneath her fingers, and when she brings them away, her blood shines milky

silver in the moonlight that streaks through the trees. And he smiles at her, blood dripping off the

teeth she suddenly sees are sharp. She scrambles to her feet, ripping her dress on a protruding root

and runs, never looking back for fear that she will trip and then that hot, looming presence will be

on her again.

She hides under her blankets that night and makes sure her windows and her door are

latched. She never sees the boy again, but that does not change anything, for she knows what he

was.

In the morning, she finds the blood, dried on her neck, and when she wipes it off, finds

beneath two puncture holes that gape at her sinisterly until she thinks to hide them under her silk

scarf from Paris. A rejected present from the stepmother, relegated to the back corner of her

wardrobe, it fills its purpose now.

With her wounds hidden, Snow White can at last begin to think. In all the time that she

hides away from the world, she has read many books, books of lore and of fantastical creatures.

She knows of the mating habits of griffins and the properties of unicorn horns. She knows when

dragons prefer to hunt and why fairies sometimes eat their young.

She knows that those who are vampire-bit will soon become vampires themselves.

She begins to have difficulty falling asleep at night. She lies awake past midnight and

awakes with a start at dawn. The times of falling asleep and waking grow closer together until she

does not sleep at all.

While she lies in her bed unsleeping, she probes her incisors with her tongue, feeling

them grow sharper day by day, until one night a drop of blood wells on her tongue when she

touches it to her tooth. She swallows the blood, feeling it slide, saltily and tasting of metal, down

her throat, and finds that she likes the taste of it. It makes her feel alive as nothing has in a long

time.

The sun that greets her in the mornings hurts her eyes and seems more like a curse,

though the farmers call it a blessing. She keeps her curtains shut all day and deigns not to go

outside. From her reading, she knows what would happen to her if she does, and though she does

not value life, she is not eager to see what death would have in store for one such as she.

Surprisingly, she is not disgusted or afraid of what she has become. She likes the taste of

the word on her tongue almost as much as she likes the taste of her own blood. Vampire. At last


7/46

Ahlberg 5

she can put a name to who she is. Not Princess. Not Snow White. Not daughter without mother.

Vampire. She smiles, alone in the darkness of her room.

Her skin grows parchment pale and her lips plump, hungering for the blood their color

mocks. Food has no appeal for her anymore. She pushes away the sharp cheese and sweet pears

she used to love. She tells the cooks to make her meat rare and tries to ignore the worried looks

her father gives her as she tears into the pink and bloody steak.

But she cannot ignore the looks the stepmother sends her, looks not of worry but of fear,

and a strange determination.

*

There is something wrong with that child, the queen thinks across the dining table, as she

has times too numerous to count over the years. Something very wrong. And as time passes and

the child grows yet stranger, refusing to come out of her room for days at a time, her lips growing

red as though stained by blood, the queen comes to the realization that something must be done

about her and that she is the only one to do it.

Her determination strikes her like a fever. On the evening ten years exactly from the day

she became queen and received the gift of gifts, the mirror, in response to the query she has

practiced for years in the secret of her room, denies her her only lifeline.

Who is the fairest of them all? asks the queen.

And the mirror, instead of replying, You, my queen, as is its wont, says, You are most

fair, my queen, but the other lady of your house is fairer still. Snow White is fairest of them all.

It cannot be. It cannot be. Snow White is barely fifteen, pale and withdrawn, with hair

and lips too stark to offset her pallor nicely. The child is wrong, all wrong. The queen has known

this for years, and now she takes away the only solace of a life of unreal dreams and unfulfilled

expectations, of a husband who was near until the baby died, then went away forever, no tiny

hand to hold in hers and no one to love and be loved by, save this cold piece of glass and gold

which now betrays her. Everyone, everything betrays, falls short. There is but one solution,

realizes the once-doctor now- queen, alone in her room, sprawled on the floor, her skirts all about

her, her hair in disarray and face streaked with tears. If Snow White does not live, she cannot be

fairest. Snow White must die, to bring the world back to where it belongs.

*

Snow White can make do at first on nearly raw meat that still holds some memory of

blood flowing through its veins. But soon that, even with the occasional sampling of her own

blood, does not satisfy.


8/46

Ahlberg 6

She takes to once again sneaking out of her bedroom window and down the trellis when

the world is dark and silent, this time not to escape but to hunt. She finds that she is fast, faster

than the rabbits and badgers that inhabit the wood. As she sucks from the open wounds, blood

that is not her own gushing down her chin and over her hands, at last, at last, her hunger is

satisfied, but only for a time. Soon she begins to crave not the sweetly diluted blood of the

innocent forest creature, but a drink more noxious and all the more intoxicating.

She begins to assess the risk of taking this human or that, this stable boy or that ladies

maid. Who would miss them, who has family, friends, a sweetheart? Finally, she settles on the

huntsman, he who brings in the meat for their table. She knows he lives alone and rarely talks to

anyone. No one will look too closely into his death. But it is these same attributes, unbeknownst

to Snow White, which make him so attractive to someone else.

*

The queen thinks of how to kill the girl. She thinks the forest the best place for it. The girl

went there often enough in earlier days, before she took to shutting herself up in her room. No

one will think it unnatural that she became lost there and died of starvation or exposure.

The queen knows she cannot kill the girl herself, much as she would like to, to satisfy this

perverse desire she has to see the girls heart, to discover at last whether she is truly human. She

begins to look around, to discover who she will enlist to do her bidding. She sees the huntsman

one day, drawing water from the well in the courtyard, a brace of rabbits hung on his belt. The

blood streaked across his tunic belongs to him, and he to it. There is nothing out of the ordinary in

the huntsman going into the forest and coming back smeared with blood.

She calls him to her private chambers, not the audience chamber, for she knows she looks

far more imposing against the black velvet hangings that border her mirror. He looks frightened

when she makes her proposition, and stutters, The-the princess? But at her imperious nod, he

straightens and salutes, though he is shaking visibly.

She hands him a silver box, intricately wrought with designs of leaves and flowers, which

she has picked from the treasury. Bring me back her heart in this box, she orders, and smiles at

the shudder that wracks the huntsmans body.

After he has gone, she wonders when the change happened, when it was that she ceased

feeling joy at anything but anothers pain.

*

Snow White waits for the huntsman in the courtyard at twilight, where she has seen him

come before after a days hunting. He comes out of the castle and goes straight to the well, raising

a bucket of water and rinsing his face with it. Snow White watches him, half concealed in the rose


9/46

Ahlberg 7

walk. He is a large man, and his blood will flow thick. Her stomach twists in bitter delight at the

thought.

She had thought of how to approach him. She thinks he is an honorable man, and it is

better to play the innocent girl than the seductive young woman this time.

She taps him on the shoulder. Good sir, she says in her most girlish voice, I think I

saw a young deer enter the woods not long ago, and it looked injured. Will you accompany me to

find it?

For a moment, she watches the play of emotions on his face. Relief wages battle with

horror, until he sighs, and takes her hand, as if she is but a child, and leads her into the forest.

She cannot remember the last time someone touched her. The stepmother never has, and

her father not in years. The servants do not come near her and she has no friends. She has

forgotten the comfort to be received from the touch of another human. Well, she thinks wryly,

from a human, anyway. She does not suppose that she can be considered human anymore.

They reach the clearing in the forest where everything changed forever, and Snow White

takes her hand from the huntsmans gently. She did not know that she remembered how to be

gentle. And this time, when she looks at him, she sees not the blood coursing through him but the

depth of sadness in his eyes, and she turns away, knowing that she cannot kill him. Not him. Not

this man.

Princess, he calls her, and she says, No, for that is not what she is, not anymore, not

ever. She looks into his eyes and sees something inside him break, and then he tells her of the

stepmother and how he must kill her and bring her heart back to the castle.

She knows she should be angry, should be furious, but she only feels tired, as she has not

felt since the change occurred. She feels as though she could fall asleep.

Maybe we can help each other, she says to the huntsman, placing her hand on his arm,

and tells him to sit still. He may be a huntsman, but she is fast, and when a wild boar comes

snuffling through the clearing a quarter hour later, she pounces, biting down on its neck with that

swoop in her belly that she has come to equate with happiness.

The huntsman watches in amazement and not just a little fear as Snow White takes his

knife from his belt and slits the boar open, but he does not move. She reaches into the gaping,

steaming center and pulls out the heart, clutched in her fist, and hands it to the huntsman.

Give this to my stepmother, and it shall please her, Snow White says, and he never

doubts her, this huntsman, but turns away, then looks at her one last time.

I wont be back, she assures him, and turns also, to finish her meal.

*


10/46

Ahlberg 8

The huntsman delivers the heart to the queen, and when he has left the room she removes

it from its silver prison and holds it in her hands. She has missed the feel of organs beneath her

fingers. She brings it closer, examining it. Something does not look right about this heart. But as

it nears her face, she breathes in deeply, and the scent of fresh-spilled blood reaches her nostrils.

Suddenly, an insatiable need comes over her. She has heard that when one eats the heart of a

thing, one gains some of its power. She would like to gain control over the girl at last. She calls

for salt for curing and prepares the heart herself, then sits in the dining hall where she has sat

through so many fine banquets as queen, and there devours the heart of her stepdaughter. The

blood is red on her napkin and the corners of her mouth and she feels sure that, at long last,

balance has been restored.

*

Snow White knows that the stepmother is not a stupid woman, that sooner or later she

will realize she has been tricked. But even as she knows this, Snow White cannot summon the

will to move from her spot in the clearing. The darkness grows around her until it is black as

pitch, and it is only then that Snow White rises to her feet, aiming them away from the place she

has lived all her life, a place that has never been home, and into the heart of the forest.

The house appears on the edges of her vision when the first pale streaks make their way

across the sky and she moves toward it. It is small and empty, and cobwebs lay thick upon the

stairs. Stains from torchlight and tallow make sinister designs on the walls and the rushes upon

the floor are filthy and sparse. She would think the place abandoned if not for the seven dinner

settings on the table, complete with food. She has heard of these men who are not men, who live

alone and mine the diamonds that lie on her stepmothers throat and the emeralds that adorn her

breast.

She thinks that they will be home soon, for it is nearing dark, and that, as with the

huntsman, it is best to act the part of the lost innocent child that she is not, for though she is lost,

innocence was never hers.

So she climbs the stairs, ducking her head at intervals, and finds seven beds ranged along

the wall. She chooses the one farthest from the single window, which she is sure to cover before

lying down to begin the guise of sleep.

It is not long before she hears the rhythmic slam of booted feet on hard packed earth, and

then the door opening and the rumble of gruff voices so different from those she has heard her

whole life.

She feigns sleep as the noises climb the stairs to her, and she must fight a smile when all

noises stop, and she knows they have seen her.


11/46

Ahlberg 9

A child, says one.

A beautiful child, says another, his tone more awed than the last.

How did she get here? asks another, surely voicing the question they all feel.

She pretends to start awake, and then clutches the blanket to her chin as she looks round

at them all. They are as she thought: half-men, dwarf-men. She has nothing to fear from them,

and yet she pretends.

Oh, Im so sorry, she says, and weaves the pitiful tale of her stepmothers jealousy and

attempt to kill her. They crowd around her, this one touching her knee through the blankets, this

one her elbow, as if to offer comfort.

You will stay with us, says the one who spoke first, and his voice is decisive and the

others nod. We too are misunderstood by your kind, says the one with the brown beard. And he

pats her leg before drawing away. The rest follow. We will let you sleep now.

And thus begins Snow Whites time with the dwarf-men. They do not understand that she

does not need to sleep, but she lets them think she must, for she still must hunt if she wishes to

survive. She could kill the dwarves, she knows, but the non-human men have no appeal for her.

She goes back to the unknowing forest creatures, the fawns and the rabbits, and bites her own

wrist when things become too much.

She can hardly keep track of all of the little men, and so she does not try. There is the one

who does most of the talking for them all, who is their leader, and she addresses him when she

must, smiling at the others when their brows draw too close together, and she knows they are

thinking suspicious thoughts about her.

Every morning when they go off to work in the mines, he tells her not to go outside and

not to let anyone in, and she thinks that these not-men who have taken her in must be a bit stupid,

but she nods and smiles and simpers as she must. Of course she will not go outside during

daylight, for she is still not eager to taste the feasts of hell.

*

The queen is always cold, and cannot summon back the warmth she felt as the warm,

still-bleeding heart of her stepdaughter eased down her throat. She has avoided talking to the

mirror in the two weeks since the deed was done, because although she wants, no, needs to hear it

say she is the fairest of them all, she knows that waves of guilt will come crashing down upon her

then, to beat at her brow and worry her temples. And then who will be fairest? Certainly not she.

But one day she cannot withhold any longer, and stands before the mirror in her bedroom

and asks, Mirror, Mirror, on the wall, whos the fairest of them all?


12/46

Ahlberg 10

And the mirror, wanton traitor that it is, replies Although you are most fair, my queen,

the one with skin as snow and lips as blood, who dwells across the forest with the dwarf-men, is

fairer still.

And the queen screams and bangs her fists upon the mirror, willing it to change its

answer, but it cannot break, cannot change. The guilt does not come after all, only a greater anger

and a greater belief that the girl must die. She is unnatural; she must be. How else did she survive

the huntsman and the perils of the forest?

The queen knows that she cannot tell another soul about this. The king has been more

distant still since the disappearance of his only child, and lying beside her at night sighs, and

looks toward the wall. No, everything she does must be done in secret, by herself. She finds the

ancient books of medicine that she never used while she was still a physician, thinking them

foolish and outdated, but now she pores through them carefully, and finds that what she hoped for

was true. Among these books of medicine are several books of spells, and soon enough, the queen

finds the answer she seeks: poison.

And so in the afternoon, she walks to the orchard, carrying a basket, intent on finding the

richest, reddest apple in the place. She climbs a tree in the middle of a row, first removing her

shoes and stockings and bunching her dress up above her knees. She picks twelve apples before

finding the most beautiful one of all. She turns it in her hands. It is strange, she thinks, flashing

first white, now red as she twists it from side to side, and it is mesmerizing.

She brings it close to her face and breaths in the smell of crispness, of sun and leaves and

bark. Funny, she thinks, how the smell of apples never changes. She closes her eyes, feels her lids

fluttering, and is transported back.

She stands on this same ladder, skirts pulled up and tucked in at the waist where the

fabric is already pushed out by the baby that will never be. She stands like this, smelling the

apples and feeling the sun on her arms, and hears the voice of the king calling. This is in the early

days of their marriage, when she is still accustomed to calling him king. She feels his hand on

the back of her calf, barely brushing, gentle, and looks down at him.

He smiles up at her and she smiles back, placing the apple she holds in her basket before

climbing down the ladder carefully and joining her husband. He takes the basket from her arm

and places it gently on the ground. Your feet are bare, he says.

I know, she replies and then he sweeps her up in his embrace, kissing her forehead and

then her mouth.

I love you, he says.


13/46

Ahlberg 11

The remembrance of his voice, his words, his love runs through her like a shock as she

stands on the ladder, so far away now from that memory and the people in it. She gasps and

almost drops the apple, the perfect tool of her revenge, but catches it just in time.

She prepares the poison first. Thistle bark and rue, saffron and wolfsbane, and others she

has never seen or even heard of before. She holds the apple in the kitchen tongs and dips the red

side in, careful not to mar the perfect, translucent white half. How came this apple to be? She asks

herself, but cannot answer, intent on her task.

When the apple has soaked up all the poison it can, she sets to work on the other potion

she has devised. A disguise, for surely the girl will never speak to her as she is now. She takes on

the appearance of a crone, and wraps her now gray and wispy hair in a cloth before going before

the mirror one last time, to tell it, I will be the fairest of them all. She realizes the ridiculousness

of this statement looking as she does, but decides not to care.

*

Snow White lies on her back upon the floor of the dwarves dining room, looking up at

the cobwebby ceiling. Her dress will pick up the muck from the boots the dwarf-men refuse to

take off and the dust that has accumulated in this house over the years. They have asked her to

clean it, but she does not know how, nor does she wish to learn. She wishes only to lie on her

back and sleep, but that is one thing she cannot ever do.

A knock comes at the latched door. For days, Snow White has wished for just such an

occurrence. The dwarves tell her she must not let anybody in, and yet Snow Whites stomach

twists with pleasure and her mouth waters at the thought of true blood at last, thick and true. She

has not eaten in days, depressed by the monotony of robin and raccoon. This passing traveler may

be the solution to her desire.

Who is it? she calls in the sweetest voice she can muster.

Merely an old woman selling apples, comes the reply.

An old woman is not as good as a strapping huntsman in his prime, but she will do.

Come in, Grandmother, says Snow White, and goes to unlatch the door.

There is something wrong with this old woman, Snow White knows, but what, she cannot

tell. And the apples she sells are so red, so luscious, as red as the blood that flows trickling from

veins. She thinks that she could eat these apples, though she has not tasted human food for

months. The old woman holds up a strange apple, far more beautiful than the others. This apple is

Snow White, half as white as snow and half as red as blood.

And yet she hesitates, for though it looks like blood, she knows it will not taste of it.


14/46

Ahlberg 12

The woman senses her hesitation, but misinterprets it. Here, dearie, Ill bite from the

white half, and you from the red. And yes, it is appropriate, this way of doing things, for Snow

White is now steeped in blood, and this old womans blood will add to it soon enough.

And so she takes the bitten apple from the old womans hand and raises it to her mouth

and bites a chunk out of the red half. It is too heavy, too sweet, and she sucks in a mouthful of air,

trying to rid herself of the taste. As she breathes, the apple catches in her throat, sticks there, and

she cannot move it one way or the other. A little air seeps in around the edges of the apple, but

not much, and were she human, she would surely suffocate.

She tries to draw in breath, and feels the apple lodged in her throat. She feels a pressure

in her lungs that creeps upward, past her pale hands clutching her throat, past the impenetrable

fruit, to her head. She feels dizzy and before her eyes the vision of the crone swims. She smiles

hazily and for a moment Snow White thinks she looks familiar. Of course, she is familiar.

Snow White feels weak. The apple trembles in her hand and she remembers suddenly

how many days she has gone without feeding, why the floor has lately seemed the best place to

be. She watches the apple fall, and then she is falling too, the floor crashing into her cheek and

hip.

When she can move again, can place her arms and climb to her feet, the crone is gone and

a hollow laugh is in her ears.

She walks haltingly to the door and pulls it open, thinking only of finding blood to drink,

to ease the apple down her throat. Twilight has arrived without her knowing and she stumbles

through the dusk, hearing the skittering of small animals and thinks, anything, even a squirrel will

do. But the pressure is rising behind her eyes again, the ground coming up to meet her once more.

The dwarves find her there, lying face down outside their front door, when they return

from the mines. She hears their voices all around her, but she cannot make her voice create any

sound but a thin hiss, cannot even open her eyes. They fashion for her a glass coffin and lay her in

it, arranging her carefully, not afraid to touch her now in death.

And so she lies in her coffin in the middle of the woods, not dying, no, but not truly

living either. But then, she thinks, she was never truly living.

*

The queen thinks to be exuberant when she stands before her mirror and asks Who is the

fairest of them all? and it answers her While Snow White lies still as death, you, my queen, are

fairest. She thinks to feel completed, but she does not. She feels just as empty as before, and

tired, so tired. She takes to her bed, and though the king tries to comfort her, he shows none of the


15/46

Ahlberg 13

tenderness he did in the orchard so long ago, and his words do not heal, but wound deeper. And

so she lies in her bed, fairest of them all, and waits for the judgment she knows will come.

*

Snow White lies still until the day she hears a voice unlike the gruff ones she has become

accustomed to near her coffin. This voice is clear and sweet, and holds the promise of blood as

rich as the apple was lacking. This voice belongs to arms that lift the edges of her coffin, there in

the deepest clearing of the woods, where no light ever shines.

She feels warm breath upon her face, but cannot lift her eyelids to see, and then she feels

strong arms under her shoulders, lifting her, and a sharp jolt as she is set down again higher up.

The jolt moves something inside of her, and suddenly she is able to choke up the apple that has

kept her prisoner for these long days and weeks. She breathes in, finally tasting the air sweet and

tangy with the moss on the trees and the sweat of the man before her.

She opens her eyes to find herself atop a mule, looking into the astonished face of a man

with dark hair. His eyes are blue, bright blue, and she can see a flush in his neck and cheeks that

means blood, means nourishment, means life and death.

He laughs, a short, deep bark, and strides to her, taking her in his arms and kissing her.

And yet this human contact, the first she has had in months, does not carry the comfort that the

huntsmans grasp did, nor even the shallow care that her fathers embraces used to display. He

crushes her to him, letting out a shuddering breath that feathers through her hair. She can feel the

desperation in his touch and his voice as he says, At last, at last. This man is hot and cold,

passionate and perhaps cruel, but she thinks that none of it is truly for her. After all, who is she?

She knows she does not deserve the love he ardently expresses to her, because there is no

love, only hot passion and cold fear, and one will be exchanged for the other before long. And so

she smiles into his neck as he holds her, dry tongue tracing the points of her teeth, positioning

them as he talks of how grand their wedding will be.

She has always thought that she would like to be queen.


16/46

Atkinson 1

Poems: Amaterasu, Kali, and Hieros Gamos

Ashley Atkinson

Amaterasu

Amaterasu,

do not dismay,

warm wise woman of the Sun,

your sake-satiated siblingswill not drunkenly run through

your rice paddies anymore.

Your stone shrines will remain

clean and pure; your palace

will not be defiled with

Susanoos excrement again.Your brother will listen

when you, the eldest sister,

cry, No!

And the men from across the sea

will listen to you when you say

that the people of Hiroshimaand Nagasaki are innocent,

that they only listened to

the emperor, and that he

does not represent you.

Put the image

of a skinless horse

out of your mind.Your handmaidens,

still weaving in their innocence,

will remain safe.

And the modern weavers, when

they wake up in the morning

of August 6th, 1945,

wont have to see the sun

completely overshadowed

by a bomb.

Amaterasu,

Goddess of the silken robes,

do not hole yourselfin a cave.

There are no soldiers

or American admirals yet

forcing you

or your Sun children


17/46

Atkinson 2

to become like them,

power-hungry, land-hungry,

human-hungry.

See, look into the mirror,

your skin is not melting,

and your kimono is

not scraping against your heart,your dry and parched under wear.

Dance, lets dance,and laugh that at least excrement

helps things grow.

Amaterasu,

black-haired beauty,you must be there

when your children

cry out for mizu

in their strangled voices,

caught in barbed wire,

gulping black rain,their bones stunned into ash.

You must be the Sun.

When the people do not believe

that life will grow for seventy-five years,

you must will the bud to peak its headby peaking your own head out of this cave.

You must tell them that eventually

there wont be any more lumps

or soot or blasts or waxingor waning bodies.

You must tell everyone,

so come out of that cave

and into this sunless land.


18/46

Atkinson 3

Forbidden Truthsfor Kali

I.

Goddess, look me in the eye!

I am the Tantric devotee,

the one who challenges youto loll your tongue at me,

to wave your bloody cleaver

in my hot-breathed face.

Take me, rape me,

drink blood and wine until

you know not the difference.

You are the ultimate form of

pancatattva, the five forbidden truths,

and I will conquer this artificial world

through you who is denied.

Your nude black body, your hair entangledwith severed arms, your necklace of smiling skulls,

your fangs dripping blood;

these all inspire me to conquer you.

I think you must be coming.

I hear the scraping of your sword,the thumping of a corpses heart.

How these cremation grounds

taste of earthy souls and erect penises.

Human fluids are steaming, pulsing inside you;these oozing wounds have become your cosmetics.

How your anklets ring in the silent death

that is this night, echoing in my blood-filled

heart. You whisper, death is my desire.

II.

I cannot look you in the eye. I refuse

to see your fangs and your tongue, now rolling

over my body. Hot breath overcomes me,and I do not wish for anything but you.

III.

Listen, as she drunkenly dances

over my corpse-like body.

Listen, as she thrusts herself


19/46

Atkinson 4

into me, demanding death.

Listen.How her anklets ring!1

1The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna.


20/46

Atkinson 5

Hieros Gamos

Even before the advent of cuneiform, priestesses took part in Hieros Gamos, the sacred marriage

between the land and sky, between the female and male, between the Goddess and God. Some stillhonor this tradition.

She can see him running now

with his hair of grass disheveled,

the warmth of his breathhunting for her insides.

He moves alongside the elk,listening to its blood rushing,

and pulls out his chiseled dagger,

aiming for the heart, swift.

The rushing blood soon on his hands,he smells its soul leaving its body,

asks the elk for its blessing of the harvest.

The sacred, sacrificial animal of Beltane.

Prancing hooves, furry antlers,

he has become the hunter,after he understands

the hearts of the hunted.

He sprints through the forest,

blending, honoring, becoming.

She is decorated with blueberry paint andsymbols sacred to the Goddess.

A labyrinth, a shedding of consciousness.

Two triangles intertwined,

the essence of Hieros Gamos.

She scents her hair with the musky dusk,

and dances around the Maypole in celebration.

She is to become the full-fledged priestess tonight,

overcoming trials of dagger and chalice.

He approaches, hot and pulsing.

He stalks the sacred bed, readyto join the animals in their sacred rituals.

They feel the Earth caving to their demands.

She shivers as the berry paint smears into her.She feels the wind push out and in,

the horns gently grazing her in pleasure.

She feels the world ripple and tear,making way for the new spring.

She is the Goddess tonight,

and he is the God.


21/46

Kerschner 1

The Thrill of the Hunt

Owen Kerschner

Three humans ride towards the trees from the east, and I can smell their magic from

where I stand. I observe them with yellow eyes from the edge of the trees as they approach along

the ancient Olgart road. The male is a fighter; he carries a sword imbued with flames and he

carries himself erect, eternally ready for attack. The larger female leads with a quiet strength and

bears a longbow and many enchanted tattoos, whose effects are too tightly bound to her for me to

discern beyond their mere presence. The third one, though, is a smaller, frightened female she

stinks of Primal Chaos. She is a Chaos Mage; there can be no mistaking the signs. Chaos Mages

are able to bend the unearthly essence of the worlds beginning to their will, whether to injure

creatures, transform objects, or move from place to place in an instant of insanity.

The humans risk much in coming this way. Humans call this forest the Madwood because

the stench of Chaos is thick in this place, where human Chaos Mages once warred with other

mages and accidentally imbued the land itself with the twisted energies of raw creation. Here the

trees might bend down and spear you on thorns and branches as sharp as my fangs or a random

flare of power twist an ordinary animal into a chaos mutant. Most human maps dont even record

the Olgart road anymore because it runs straight through the Madwood; to enter it is to court

death or worse. Even so, there is no place I would rather be. Unlike the humans, I welcome the

danger, for I am well suited to overcoming it.

Another wolf lopes up beside me and bows his head in deference. Greetings, Tamna, he

says with his mind. The scouts have returned. The twisted-bear-talon-prey is worthy of the Hunt,

though steadfast in its course. It ignores our harrying and runs here. Luna will float high when it

arrives.

I lift my muzzle high, still observing the humans. The Chaos Mage draws it here. The

danger to the humans is great, but their presence may prove a mixed boon to the Hunt. We will

not deny ourselves the opportunity which the humans presence grants us, but for their sake and

ours the prey dies this night. Go now and rally the pack, I inform him. He bows his head and

turns to leave, but hesitates and looks back at me.

If it reaches the humans..? he begins to ask. My eyes flaring wide, I turn and snap my

jaws at him with a snarl, cowing him.

If it reaches the humans, cub, then we catch it andkill it before it reaches the Chaos

Mage and gorges on her raw power. If we fail in that, we will die with the humans. Now GO, I


22/46

Kerschner 2

growl. He runs back to the rest of the pack with his tail between his legs while I turn back

towards the human trio. He is young and ignorant, but some things should be obvious even to

cubs. It is well for him that Darthra is his mother and not I, else I would do more than merely

rebuke him. He will learn or he will die and be howled to rest like any fallen pack-mate. The

humans still confuse me, though. Why would they risk bringing a Chaos Mage through the

Madwood? I raise my eyes to gaze upon Luna. She hangs low in the sky, and darkness hides half

of her silver form. Though my wolf form is ill-suited to laughing, I feel the urge to do so. To

think that humans look upon Lunas radiance and think only to call her the Moon! How little of

her nature is in that word. I and my pack will use the strength which Luna gave us this night, and

we will praise her with the blood of our Prey. I turn back into the trees and run back to the bulk of

my pack.

When I arrive, the whole pack is present. Twenty werewolves bow their heads to greet

me. My mate Keldor approaches me and we nuzzle briefly. He knows as I do that greater shows

of affection must wait, for now at least. Parting our heads, his eyes meet mine as the pack clusters

around us.

Darthras cub grows anxious, Tamna. He fears, and his fear nearly consumes him.

Keldor says.

What would you have me do? I ask him irritably.He is old enough and strong enough for

the Hunt, but we all fear when we are cubs. The Hunt will cure him of that soon enough.

Keldor bares his teeth at me with a growl.His fears will be his death this night, but you

lead us. He reveres your prowess, your cunning, your hunting-guile. Your assurance can put him

at ease long enough for him fight, andthen he will be cured of his fears.

No! I snarl at him.I will not coddle him; he is not a helpless human newborn. He will

lose his fear in battle against the Prey.

But this prey is larger than any Ive seen, Keldor counters.If he fears it, he will die.

Then we will howl him into Lunas embrace. I turn to the rest of the pack and speak to

them all with my mind. Tonight we hunt a mighty foe, a Chaos Mutant of rare size and power. I

turn to face the cub, ignoring Keldors cold gaze. Once again the cub is cowed by me, and I speak

to him so all can hear. Tonight you shall hunt with us, cub, and under Lunas light you shall name

yourself with the blood of our prey. He bows his head and the rest of the pack and I howl to Luna,

singing of the glory of the Hunt. We finish our howl and I speak to the whole pack. There are

humans here in the wood. They draw the Prey to themselves, for one among them is a Chaos


23/46

Kerschner 3

Mage. This gives us the advantages of surprise and ambush against the prey, and we will use

both.

The assembled werewolves look among themselves, some uncertain, some pleased with

my tactic. Darthra, the cubs mother, is not pleased, and locks eyes with me.

This is folly! If the prey eats the Chaos Mage it will grow and mutate further, and one

pack may not be enough to take it down. What if it leaves the trees and finds a human town? How

many would die before we find enough packs to kill it? she says.

I snort in anger, but I do not bare my teeth or growl, for her question is apt and deserves

an answer. We have the speed to kill the prey before it gets close to the Chaos Mage and the

strength to hold it back from her. But even if we falter, the other two humans have their own

battle magic, and they can delay it long enough for her to escape or for us to end its life. I will

approach them about fighting together. Now let us run to meet them and ready our ambush!

As one we turn and run swiftly back toward the human party. We run as Luna has blessed

us to run, far faster than any Wolf. Our swiftness lets us hunt well. As we run, I lead and the rest

form a wedge behind me, much as birds might fly. The effect is small, but may be enough to let

us get to the humans faster. The trees fly towards me and by me as I dodge to either side of them.

While I run, my mind wanders. The cub shows promise, but his fear disgusts me. No werewolf

should fear their prey. We are the mightiest creatures in the land, blessed of Luna and tasked by

her with hunting the most dangerous of magical beasts! Fear is for young cubs, prey, and humans.

Why fear pain or injury when we can heal most wounds in moments? I growl quietly as I run. The

cub will hunt, the cub will fight, and the cub will survive with no more help than any other

member of the pack. He must. He will not fail, not like my son

My mind ranges back to another time, another hunt. My own son was ready to earn a

name in Lunas eyes and become an adult in the pack. We faced a smaller Chaos Mutant, a

fanged horse with spines sprouting from its hide. I was certain that we would kill it with little

effort, but we were a new pack then, just Keldor, my son, and another mated pair. I insisted that

my son lead the charge, and as he sprang towards it he shifted into his hulking war form with

ease. But I erred. It extended its spines in less time than the flap of a humming birds wing,

impaling my son in a dozen places. In that instant both I and my son were frozen in fear, and in

the next moment it snapped its head around and cleanly severed his head from his neck.

The rest of us were able to kill it easily enough by biting through its spines and slashing

its eyes, but my son was dead because of fear; his fear of death prevented him from fighting back,

and my fear of his death made me hesitate. We howled his soul to rest in Lunas embrace, but I

knew that I had made two mistakes. I had made him attack alone before anyone else instead of


24/46

Kerschner 4

together as a pack, and I had let fear paralyze me. I vowed to never again let fear overcome me,

and never again to indulge such pride during the hunt. I shake my head as I run and I smell that

we are nearing the humans. After a moment, I come to a stop and the pack stops behind me.

Where does our prey approach from? I ask my nearest scout. He shows me the images of

terrain and landmarks along with a glimpse of the prey itself, and I understand which direction it

is from us. I nod to him and address the whole pack.I will speak with the humans while you take

positions around the preys line of approach. Cub, you will fight with Keldor and me. The rest of

you know your groups. Go. They all move with haste, their forms blurring with the speed of their

passing. I lope over towards the humans at a far slower pace. I see that they have stopped and

dismounted in a small clearing. The male looks up and sees me approaching and draws his sword.

My flesh flows and changes and in a heart beat I stand on two legs in my human form, continuing

my walk without breaking stride. The males eyes widen and he lowers his sword slightly, though

suspicion still clouds his eyes.

Kithara, we have company, the male says in a deliberately calm voice. I see that

theyve drawn a circle around their small camp site. It smells of protective magic, likely a ward

against physical force to act as a barrier against any mutants which might wander their way.

Chaos, though, is always shifting, always changing. A ward will give them a few precious

moments, but no ward can last for long against Chaos.

The leader female stands and faces me, and I stop a few feet away from the warding

circle. Name yourself and your business with us, she says. She lowers her hand to one of her

tattoos, ready to tap its magic with a touch.

I nod in return. I am Tamna, werewolf and pack leader. I would speak with you of a

mutual foe and how we might oppose it together.

We can defend ourselves just fine, werewolf, the male says as he sheathes his sword.

The female Kithara turns to look at the male in anger. Be reasonable, Jenric. The

werewolves know the Madwood and its dangers better than us. She turns once again to face me.

We would also be glad of any help you could offer us. Who or what is this enemy you speak

of? she asks.

I nod. My pack and I have been stalking an unusually large and swift Chaos Mutant. Not

long after we began, the beast started running in this direction at full speed for no reason we

could determine. Today I spotted your group and smelt the Chaos magic of that one, I say as I

point to the smaller female. Her power draws it to her like a moth to the flame, save that this

moth feeds on flame. We intend to ambush it before that can happen.


25/46

Kerschner 5

Kithara glances towards the Chaos Mage, who huddles on the ground looking and

smelling terrified. Kithara turns back to face me. What do you intend to do then?

I point towards the preys direction of approach. It comes from there, and will arrive

within the hour. We mean to ambush it, kill it, and feast upon its heart before it gets within fifty

feet of your companion. We would appreciate it if you would join us with whatever combat spells

you possess. Kithara nods slowly, considering my words.

Of course. Frankly Im relieved that we wont be facing a mutant by ourselves. Never

can tell what they can do, after all. Until they do it, of course, Kithara responds.

That always makes the Hunt exciting though. Of all the kinds of magical beasts in this

land, none are as satisfying to kill as Chaos Mutants. I must go now to see to my pack so we can

be ready for the prey, I say as I move to leave.

W-what can I do? a quavering voice says behind me. I turn around to see the young

Chaos mage standing uncertainly. Its my fault that were even here, and I want to help.

I regard her quietly, appraising her. How skilled are you in wielding Primal Chaos,

Chaos Mage? I ask bluntly.

She winces at my question and looks down. Ive only been able to do it for a week or

two, and I havent used it often. I dont know much about it, but I want to learn how to control

chaos so I dont put my family at risk. The only place I can learn more about chaos is the

Multiversity, and this is the fastest way there from my village. She lifts her head high in

defiance. I may not know much, but Ive used chaos to defend myself before, and I wont let my

big sister get hurt because of me!

Weve been over this, Beth! Kithara interjects, looking the smaller girl square in the

eye. Im the oldest and its my job to keepyou safe. You should stay here in the warding circle

while Jenric and I go to fight this thing with the werewolves.

No! I want to help! the Chaos mage begins, but I cut her off.

Enough. Kithara is right. If you have little control over your power, then you risk all our

lives in using it. Unless the battle is lost and your wards are pierced, the best thing you can do is

stay here where you should be safe. If the worst should happen, though, you should try to channel

your magic into fleeing from the beast. You might be able to wound it, but it is a being of chaos

and may be unaffected or even healed by your attempt. Now I must go, I say as I turn and bound

away, shifting back into my wolf form as I go.

I look to the sky as I run, and I see Luna floating high. She tells me from her place that

the prey will arrive soon, if my scouts estimates are correct. I wonder at the stubbornness of the


26/46

Kerschner 6

Chaos Mage, Beth. She cares deeply for Kithara; the smell of love on her was quite strong. I hope

that she does not become reckless and attempt to wield chaos in this battle, but I know that the

lure of Chaos calls to Chaos Mages. They are drawn to it, and they cannot help but want to use it.

Few Chaos Mages live long enough to enjoy old age, and all too many fail to learn caution from

their early failures. Every chaos spell they cast is a calculated risk, a gamble that they will be

strong enough to keep the raw forces of creation in check long enough to bend them to their will

and change things to better match their desires. Losing that gamble means pain and possibly death

as chaos tears through their bodies, transforming flesh into sharp rock, or poisonous jelly, or

nearly anything imaginable.

I reach Keldor and the cub, and I survey the rest of the packs positions and the site they

have chosen. Before I can comment, I hear the preys unearthly wail. It is close, very close. I

crouch down by my mate, ready to pounce as soon as the prey appears. I listen for its approach,

and I hear it coming towards us with unbelievable speed. As it approaches, the trees begin to stir

and move; one tree slowly melts into a violently red pool of liquid, while another tree near me

bursts into purple flames and begins to bend in our direction. The power of Chaos in the prey is

causing the trees to stir! We cant afford that distraction; half the pack might get killed trying to

split their attention between the prey and the forest. I call out to the rest of the pack with my

mind.

Fall back to the humans! I scream. They do not hesitate or question me. We all turn and

run with Lunas speed back to the human camp. Within moments of our reaching the clearing we

all come to an abrupt stop, reverse our facing and shift into our combat forms. My flesh ripples

and my bones pop as I grow to stand on two large paws. I stand fully nine feet tall when erect,

but I drop to one knee, readying myself to pounce. I hear Beth squeak in fear as she sees twenty

one werewolves preparing for battle, and I hear Jenric unsheathe his sword and say a word to

light it on fire. I can smell the spells of lighting and ice in Kitharas tattoos, as well as a dozen

other spells waiting to be unleashed by her touch. A tense moment passes before the prey zooms

into our view. It vaguely resembles a bear, but larger and much more gruesome in appearance. It

stands twelve feet tall at the shoulder, with two separate jaws sitting side by side on its face, and

its sickly purple hide is bereft of fur. At least a dozen tentacles sprout from its body, each tipped

with a jagged blade of bone and all whirling.

We pounce on it, stopping it with our sheer numbers. It shrieks in rage and shakes itself

powerfully, knocking me and many others of us off. One flies into a tree and is impaled on

spines of living metal, while I go flying into the humans ward and impact it as though it were a

stone wall. It becomes briefly visible, flashing dark blue and red in a spider web pattern at the


27/46

Kerschner 7

point where I hit it. I fall to the ground and I can see that the cub and a few others still cling to the

beast, using its own tentacles as anchors while they tear into it with fangs and claws. I can hear

Kithara behind me tapping a tattoo and beginning to chant a spell. She stretches out her hand and

a beam of icy blue magic shoots out of it and into the preys eyes. Its eyes freeze solid as I watch,

and it rears up in pain. I leap back onto it and repeatedly bite at one of its tentacles at the roots. It

takes several bites, but I manage to sever it. Moving to the next tentacle, this time I grab it before

it can fall to the ground and I jab the jagged blade into the Preys own flesh. The cub has done

much the same, and moves to sever a third tentacle. A fiery gash appears in the preys hind leg,

and I can see from the corner of my eye that Jenric has joined the fray, dancing around its rear

and nimbly dodging the swings of its tentacle-blades. The prey howls and flails its remaining

limbs wildly, stabbing Keldor and several others deeply. I see one of my pack-mates decapitated,

while four others fall off of the prey and lie writhing in pain, Keldor among them. Enraged, I dig

into its flesh directly and tear and slash at it to open its wound larger.

An arrow of golden lightning pierces the preys side mere inches away from my head. I

briefly turn to see Kithara pulling back on the string of her bow and another arrow appearing. She

fires again and pierces a tentacle which would otherwise have stabbed another of my pack mates

in the neck, burning a hole through the tentacle and causing the blade to droop uselessly. The

prey leaps fifteen feet into the air and lands on the edge of the humans ward, the force of its

landing once again knocking werewolves off it while also causing the wards to flash under the

strain of the impact. This time I manage to dig in tightly and avoid being thrown off, though I can

see from my position on its back that Beth looks oddly resolute rather than terrified. Jenric runs

forward to stab his flaming sword through the prey and buries the blade almost to the hilt in the

preys flesh. It screams with a sound reminiscent of a pig squealing and a rabbits death-scream

and pushes itself off of the ward. Jenric pulls his blade out of the prey effortlessly just as Keldor

leaps high into the air, pouncing on the prey and biting its right foreleg. It bites him with both

maws and shakes him viciously before tossing him twenty feet away from itself. Keldor just lies

there, barely moving. The prey must have wounded him deeply for him to not ignore the pain and

rush back into the fray.

The cub is thrown off again along with his mother Darthra, but he sprints beneath the

rearing prey and leaps upwards, his jaws clamping around its throat. It tries to swat him off but its

forelimbs are tied up fending off five other werewolves. The cub holds on even as it shakes its

head violently and as it rolls onto its back, crushing several of our number beneath its bulk. They

remain on the ground when it rolls back up again, stunned but alive. Two thirds of the pack is

now dazed or severely wounded, and several are already dead from its fury. I hear Beths


28/46

Kerschner 8

strangled cry. Turning to look at her, I see her spread her hands to either side, drawing roiling

Chaos out of the land itself. She thrusts both hands towards the prey, sending a coruscating wave

of acid, bone shards and ichor into the preys side. A new tentacle grows from the point of

impact, and stabs Jenric through the thigh, but he severs it with his sword and moves to extract

the blade from the wound. Looking stricken, Beth turns her gaze back to the beast, which once

again lunges for the ward. This time the ward begins to crack; it will surely fail with one more

blow. Kithara continues to shoot her golden arrows while another of my pack-mates has his heart

stabbed out of his chest by a tentacle-blade, and something in Beth seems to snap. Beth screams

in utter fury, and crosses her upraised arms before her. The ground rumbles and dirt flies

everywhere as a massive bronze thorn erupts into being beneath the prey, impaling it. The prey

collapses to the ground crippled as a hole as wide as its head has been torn clean through its gut.

The cub takes advantage of this opportunity to bite the preys neck repeatedly, severing

its head within moments. As he does this I tear off the beasts final tentacle and it thumps to the

ground dead. The few of us who are not dead or grievously wounded continue to tear into it, just

in case it is merely playing at being dead. We tear its corpse into thirds and finally howl our

triumph to Luna. Victory! And the cub proved himself the master of his fear, just as I told Keldor

he would. Wait. Where is Keldor and where is the cubs mother? I look around and see that

Keldor still lies where he fell. His chest rises and falls slowly. I leap over to him and examine his

wounds. Some are very deep, but even now I can see his flesh knitting back together thanks to

Lunas greatest gift. We can heal from nearly any wound, save those inflicted by silver, Lunas

sacred metal. I kneel close to Keldors face and he opens one eye to look at me.

It is dead? he asks me with his mind.

I nod to him. Yes, it is dead. The cub latched onto its throat and severed its head.

He closes his eye. Good. I am glad that I was wrong about him. He opens both eyes and

looks at me intently.But you must go to the humans now. I will heal, though the deeper wounds

may take a few hours and I will surely need to sleep for the next week. Remember the cub as well,

for he has earned a name this day. I nod, closing my eyes tightly as I consider how lucky we

were. I stand and walk back to the human group, noting that their ward is now down. As I

approach, I pause by several of our wounded to be sure that they will live. Thankfully we

werewolves are resilient. Wounds that would slay a human or even a dragon twice over will slow

us down, but it takes a great deal to kill us. Even so, several of our number will never rise. This

prey was terrifically strong; it killed seven of our number, and came very close to killing nine

more. It would have succeeded in killing those last had they kept fighting and not retreated from

battle when they did. As I approach the three humans, I shift down into my own human form once


29/46

Kerschner 9

again, since humans are most comfortable when dealing with those who at least appear to be

human.

Hello again, I say. I thank you for your aid. We came very close to losing the bulk of

our pack in that fight, and your magic helped to prevent that loss.

Kithara bows her head. I am pleased that we were able to help. She turns to Beth with

an angry look. But that was still reckless! You lost control of the spell and helped the mutant!

Beth looks at Kithara in defiance. Yes, but my second spell helped to save your life and

the werewolves lives. Jenric would have died if I hadnt!

Oh, dont mind me; Ill be fine with a stronger healing spell, Jenric says as he limps

over, a minor healing spell having already stemmed the bleeding.

Beth looks worriedly towards Jenric. I she starts to say, but her eyes roll up into her

head and she collapses. Kithara catches her and Jenric moves to examine her.

Jenric grunts. Shes over exerted herself with that second spell. Channeling chaos

always takes a toll on the body, and shes not all that hardy of a girl. He continues to look over

Beth, turning her head both ways and checking her pulse. I think shell be fine with some rest.

We need to get moving again, but well need to keep a slower pace until she regains

consciousness and you can heal my leg. Kithara taps a round tattoo on her left breast and lays

her hand on Jenrics leg. The wound glows light blue and begins to knit together again, though it

is obvious that it will take several days to be fully healed.

I look at Beth and then at Jenric. We will stay with you until you are past the Madwood.

We must sing our dead to rest. Many of us also need to recover and it will take some time for us

to eat the prey, but we can still protect each other while we heal. I turn to face the remaining

thirteen members of my pack; fourteen, once the cub chooses his name. But naming can wait;

first we must honor the dead.

Hear us, oh Luna! Seven of our kin have fallen in your service. We beseech you, Luna, to

take them into your Silver embrace. Let them hunt with you across the sky! I direct my thoughts to

my pack, the humans, and to Luna herself. As I finish, the pack and I all howl to Luna. It is a

howl of loss, but also one of joy, for while our kin have fallen they live on in Lunas embrace,

while we live to hunt another night. I walk back toward the preys remains. The cub stands

proudly and without even a hint of fear. I shift into my war form and call out to the rest of the

pack with my mind. Friends! Gather here so we may honor this werewolf, no longer a cub but a

warrior blessed by Luna and proven in battle against a mighty foe. What name do you choose to

be known by, warrior?


30/46

Kerschner 10

He answers immediately, since he has thought of this day for many months and reached

his decision long before tonight.I am Morthan! he says. Darthra, his mother, nods her approval,

her eyes shining forth with pride at her sons achievement. I turn about to look at each pack mate

in turn who is still able to stand.Let Morthan be known as a member of this pack, and let us

declare it to Luna! We all howl to Luna, heralding Morthans name and entry into adulthood.

We finish our howl and then we feast upon our fallen foe. The taste of its meat changes

as I tear into it, shifting slowly as the last remnants of chaos still flow through its flesh. We gorge

ourselves, and even our wounded manage to hobble over and eat their fill. Mundane wolves can

go for more than two weeks without eating. Werewolves can go for more than a month, and a

meal this size could last us the rest of the season. I notice that Kithara has turned away from our

bloody spectacle to tend to Jenric and Beth. Well, humans are always squeamish around blood. It

takes us several days to finish eating the prey, but we walk with the humans during this time and

bring the many pieces of the carcass with us as we walk.


31/46

Crouch 0


32/46

Crouch 1

The Ferryman

Makenzi Crouch

Astrid opened her eyes and stared up into the blackness of her cabin. Somethings wrong,

she thought. Unfastening the straps holding her in her bunk, she pushed off the bulkhead and

floated to the comm panel. A small light flashed frantically at her; suppressing a yawn, she

stabbed at a button with her thumb. The comm squawked, and she waited for the static to clear

before speaking.

Beletari.

Youre needed in the ER, Commander.

On my way, she said and released the button with another squeal of static. Pulling a

clean jumpsuit from her locker, she wriggled into it and headed out into the corridor.

Though some complained about the lack of gravity aboard the freighter, Astrid liked it.

She found she could get around faster in zero-g than in Earth-standard gravity. Handholds lined

the walls in every corridor, and it was only a matter of moments to propel herself from one part of

the ship to another. It was as close to flying as the human race would ever come.

She soared down the corridor and jerked to a halt outside the engine room. Punching in

her code, she waited impatiently for the doors to hiss open.

Some of the crew liked to refer to the engine room as the ER. Many of them were junkies

of old-style Earth entertainment, and the name had caught on. Astrid somersaulted through the

door and braced herself against a railing overlooking the engines. The twin spirals glowed green,

pulsing comfortingly. The senior crewman below spotted her and spared a moment for a quick

wave before disappearing beneath the engines.

A slight frown on her face, the commander dropped down to the main level and swung

over to the spirals. This close, the hum of the engines became a roar, and she had to shout to be

heard.

She nudged the crewmans foot, and when he slid out from underneath the huge coils,

holding on to keep from drifting upward, she said, Whyd you call me down, Michaels?

Youd better take a look, Commander, he replied. Somethings hinky with the primary

stabilisers.

Astrid awkwardly slithered into the workspace beside Michaels and peered up into the

engine core. Give me your torch, she said, holding out a hand. Michaels handed her the light,

and she shone the beam up into the wiring, squinting. The engines running fine?


33/46

Crouch 2

Bit of a shudder when we jumped to hyperspeed, but the secondaries are handling the

extra strain.

So thats what woke me up. Astrid held the torch between her teeth as she reached up

into the circuitry and wiggled some wires. After a moment she slid out from beneath the engines

and pulled herself upright. She wiped the torch on her jumpsuit and handed it back to Michaels,

saying, Theres some loose wiring way up in there. Probably got knocked loose in that last storm

we went through. Might take awhile, but it shouldnt be too hard to fix, now that we know its

there. Get it done before that shudder becomes a problem; we cant afford to lose the engines

before we arrive planetside.

Commander?

Astrid turned to see a junior crewman. What is it, Solari?

Captain wants you on the command deck, sir.

Thanks, she said, pushing off the ER floor and shooting upward towards the railing.

Fix that shudder, she shouted over her shoulder.

*

Have you ever been out this way, Beletari?

Cant say that I have, sir. Astrid released the handgrip she had been using to keep

herself up against the wall and flexed her fingers. The motion set her drifting towards the middle

of the room, and she quickly reclaimed her grip on the handle.

Captain Jenkins looked down at the starmap pinned to his desk. It seems no one has.

Makes rescue ops difficult when no ones familiar with the planet. He ran his fingers through his

short grey hair and sighed. The Skinners have left this area alone until recently, but I doubt

everyone else has. Im sure I dont have to tell you that growing up on the borderlands can be a

bitch. He flipped a switch on the bulkhead. Studying the readout, he said, Were still several

hours away from planetfall. Id like to increase speed to four point five

Id recommend against that, sir, Astrid said quickly. Theres a shudder in the primary

stabilisers and until Michaels has it fixed, Id rather we didnt bump our speed up any faster than

it is now. The secondaries can deal with the problem right now, but I dont like to think what will

happen if we suddenly streak faster. That shudder may turn into something far uglier.

Jenkins tapped a finger against the switch, a pensive look on his face. How soon will the

problem be corrected?

She hesitated. Not sure, sir.

He shook his head. Well have to risk a slight increase, at least.

Sir


34/46

Crouch 3

Thank you for your report, Commander. He pushed back to his desk and unpinned the

starmap. Rolling it up, he glanced up and added, I appreciate your diligence, Beletari, but you

look exhausted. You been getting much sleep?

Enough, sir.

Go get some rest. I dont need you until we land, but I will need you then.

But sir

He tucked the starmap back into its compartment. Now, Commander.

Irritated, Astrid returned to her cabin and strapped herself back into bed. The last thing

she felt before drifting off to sleep was the shudder of the engines.

*

She was awakened by a low, persistent beeping. When she opened her eyes, the light on

the comm was blinking at her. Something felt different, but she couldnt quite pinpoint what it

was, so she rolled out of bed and went to the wall.

Beletari, she said, her mouth dry from sleep.

Well be entering orbit in ten, Commander. Captain wants you on the command deck.

Roger.

Astrid released the button and opened a compartment below her bunk. She pulled out a

clear tube and shook it once before opening the top and drinking from it. Liquids were always

difficult in zero-g. She knew she probably shouldnt waste the water when she didnt really need

it; the freighter wasnt due to stop and restock for weeks. Feeling guilty, she closed the tube and

tucked it back into the compartment. Even on a borderlands planet like Zeta Circini, where

she had grown up, water had been plentiful; though she had been in space for years, she still

wasnt used to the idea of water as a precious resource.

As she pulled herself onto the command deck, Jenkins glanced up at her and motioned at

the chair beside him. She secured herself in the chair, pulling the belts tight.

Coming up on Cerberus, announced Crewman Edel at Nav. ETA five minutes. He

paused and looked back at Jenkins. We going into orbit, Captain?

Afraid not, Crewman. Were landing.

Yes, sir.

Ever landed a freighter before?

Only in simulations, sir.

Youll be fine. Mayer, we have any idea whats down there?

At Comm, Crewman Mayer shook her head. The lower atmosphere is a mess, sir. Its

interfering with our scans, but from whats coming through it looks like theyve taken a beating.


35/46

Crouch 4

Open a channel to the rest of the ship, Jenkins ordered.

Yes, sir, said Mayer. Whenever youre ready, sir.

Unconsciously, Jenkins straightened in his seat, prevented from floating upward from the

belts over his chest and across his lap. His fingers absently played with one of the buckles as he

spoke. All crew, this is Jenkins. Momentarily, well start our descent through Cerberuss

atmosphere. Secure your stations and yourselves for planetary descent. Jenkins out.

Mayer cut the channel and tugged her straps tighter. Leaning back in his chair, Jenkins

turned his head to look at Astrid.

Belt up, Commander. Its going to be a bumpy ride.

*

I hate bumpy rides, Astrid thought furiously fifteen minutes later, clinging to the arms of

her chair with all her might. As the boxy freighter plummeted through Cerberuss atmosphere, the

gravity on board began to increase. The added weight only made the jolting worse. Despite being

strapped in as tightly as was possible, she still felt as though she were being thrown about far too

much.I joined up to fly through space, not turn into a giant bruise. Her head aching, she forced

bile down when it threatened to rise up in her throat; she had seen crewmen lose it on planetfall

before, and it was never a pretty sight.

This is Jenkins. The captains voice filled the command deck, jumping slightly from

turbulence, and Astrid wondered when hed asked Comm to open the channel. Well be touching

down in a moment. Brace yourselves. Jenkins out.

As the freighter began to slow and grind out its landing gear, Astrid glanced down and

realised she had a bigger problem than turbulence: the edges of her belt were fraying. Oh, shit, I

thought I put in a repair order for that. The ship touched down, sending shock waves rippling

through the decks. At the impact, her belt gave way and she catapulted over Nav, hitting the

forward bulkhead and sliding to the floor as the ship slowly stilled.Damn gravity, she thought

angrily, and then groaned and sat up.

Commander?

Opening her eyes, she saw Edel standing over her. Yes? she managed, one hand to her

throbbing head.

You alright, sir?

She did a mental check before starting to get up. Think so.

Let me help you, sir, Edel said hastily, extending a hand.

The rest of the crew on the command deck were getting to their feet, moving slowly,

unaccustomed to the gravity. Only three-fourths Earth-normal, Astrid thought as she took an


36/46

Crouch 5

awkward step forward. All of those hours in the gym had barely prepared her for the discomfort

of walking.

Alright there, Commander? Jenkinss voice broke into her thoughts and she quickly

straightened.

Yes, sorry, sir.

Hows it look outside, Mayer?

Uh Mayer stabbed several buttons, a trickle of blood dribbling down her face from a

cut over her eyebrow. Radiations within tolerable levels, sir. Looks like they got hit about a

week ago. Theres not much left standing.

Whats the nearest city?

Looks like Hades, sir, Edel called. Styx is about the same distance in the opposite

direction, from what I can tell. Its pretty dark out there, sir.

Blimey, someone was having a laugh with their mythology, Astrid said. I hope the

names arent a warning. Anyone left alive out there?

Mayer shook her head. The scanner broke two days ago, Commander. No ones had

time to fix it yet. Theres no way to tell.

Well just have to go out. Beletari, come here. Jenkins pulled a piece of holo-paper

from his jumpsuit and unfolded it, beckoning Astrid to join him. She moved to his side and

watched as the map cycled through the main cities on Cerberus. I want you to take a team and

head to Styx, see if you can find any survivors. Ill take a team to Hades. If you find anyone,

bring them back here. TheLady Christina was supposed to get here yesterday, but we havent

heard from them, so Im assuming they got hit on their way. He refolded the holo-map and

handed it to his second in command. Until we hear otherwise, well operate as though the

Christina isnt coming. Once were done here, well move on to the next city, and keep moving

until weve covered the whole planet. Looking up, he said, Edel, Mayer, stay put. I need you

here in case the Skinners come back.

Edels head shot up. Comecome back, sir? Surely they wouldnt come back? Theres

nothing left.

Who knows why the Skinners do what they do? Jenkins looked tired. But I for one

would rather not be around if they do decide to come back, so pay attention and be ready to jump

planet and streak at a moments notice. Commander.

Astrid followed Jenkins off the command deck and down the hall. She wished Jenkins

hadnt brought up the possibility that a raiding party might return. Zeta Circini had been hit a few

times when she was younger, before anyone really knew anything about the Skinners. The border


37/46

Crouch 6

planets were used to getting hit. Pirates and smugglers and refugees from other planets came and

went and most of the time no one thought anything of it. And then the Skinners came. She

remembered walking home from school when she was twelve and seeing the smoke rising from

the settlement, remembered the green- and grey-clad man turning to face her as she scrabbled for

the energy weapon at her hip that hadnt worked for weeks but that her mother had insisted she

carry, hoping to deter any slave traders or pirates or anyone else she might encounter. Everyone

over eight knew how to use an energy weapon. No one protected you on the border planets.

The man had looked down at her from a height almost twice hers and had laughed, or at

least she had assumed it was a laugh, though it was hard to tell. It was high-pitched and bubbly,

but it whistled at the same time, and the sound was muffled in any case by the helmet that

concealed his face, which was painted in terrifying swirls of green and grey and black and made

Astrid think of fear. And when he stopped laughing and took off his helmet, she had wished he

or ithad left it on, because his face frightened her more than his helmet. His face looked like it

was made of dry, yellowed bone, with jagged pieces in places as though bits had been snapped

off, and there were strips of what looked like raw flesh hanging off the bone. He had no nose that

she could see, and his eyes were positioned far to the sides of his head, like a horses. He stood

there with his helmet beneath his arm and stared down at her, and after what had seemed like an

eternity to Astrid, he walked past her and away with a curious stride, and it was not until he had

faded away into the distance that she realised that his knees bent the wrong way.

She had run to the settlement, only to find it utterly destroyed. Her parents, everyone she

knew, were dead, their bones crushed, their skin shredded from their bodies. It wasnt until much

later that she put reports of the Skinners activities together with her own memories and realised

that the flesh on the face of the creature she had met could very well have belonged to her

parents. The Skinners had never come back to Zeta Circini. It was the early years of the war, and

Astrid could only assume that their strength had not been great enough, or the planet was not

important enough to them, for them to destroy the planet. But in all her life, there had never been

anyone she had hated so much as the Skinnersand there had never been anyone she had been so

afraid of.

Astrid shook herself out of her memories and discovered that they had reached the

skimmerhold. Several crewmen were already unbuckling the straps that held the skimmers in

place and were moving them out of the way. The skimmers, despite their names, were squat, ugly

vehicles, much like the freighter that housed them. Their battered hulls had once been w

third level issue 5

Documents