wyrdwind

Under stranger stars and fury rings, the Longest Night looms over the living half of Ixen’s face. If everything changes then nothing does and in star systems here or star systems there, nobody comes to the family table in their right mind or strictly sober. Months of planning and subterranean electromagnetic rail guarantees only some guests show up on time.

Seismic tremors stutter opaline backlight piping. Achy hinges protest the unseasonable onslaught little louder than a nightengale floor, overpowered by the wailing winds cleaving Nanny Pass. Fogged windows obscure much of the glittering arctic expanse outside, cast riotous in the final departure of twin suns and not to be seen again until spring. Lights cut completely. The coccyx cart bucks to a dead stop punctuated by several heavy thuds.

Notten comes up for air with the lights, wiping his mouth slowly along his forearm. Barely out of breath. Looks nowhere but the spread directly before him: second daughter Kore of Arachne House, this time. She pulls the cloth from her clenched jaw and attempts to wick up the sticky, glistening mess between her thighs. Pool of linen and down puffed kimono on dark red wool velvet upholstery. Tattoo snaking radiant from her navel. Weekender bags sprung open, water running, plate of fruit teeming with maggots, a lamp in the window, faceless reflection of—

“Last stop. Shall we go in together or do you need a distraction?”

“Distraction,” she half laughs, “we both know how this will look.”

“I’ll sort the bags at least.”

“Don’t let my sister see you.”

“Astrid’s here?”

“This is the first time in at least a hundred years that anyone from the southern cradle has seen the Cygnus Hold, much less entered it. Everyone who’s anyone is here.”

“How…festive. I’ll leave you to gird your loins,” tosses her the copper flask he nicked from her luggage.

“You’re not going to…cover up?” Careful, looks no further than his jawline.

“This is covered.” Flashing teeth as he drapes his scarf and steps out.

The deeply inset courtyard thrashes in torchlight, massive whale bone arches strike an echo of the first longhouse built in the north after Landfall. Still standing. No ornament. Elongated snow mounds flank the narrow path, rows equidistant. Some smaller than others. Notten stares straight ahead. Shadows slink and scamper between ribs. Watchful white noise swells behind him. Behind, a mound sits up. All of them. Fresh red on a simple single wide door. A hot wave thick with chatter and rhyme dueling decompresses into the stark beyond.

“Get in and shut the door! Shit.”

As much as one never knows what to expect from one Hold to the next, Notten takes pause. The hollowed obverse of a medium mountain with a geometric atrium ceiling and possibly the largest deposit of rainbow obsidian to date, remainder of it left in place but for purely cosmetic excavation and polishing. More whale bone carved to mimic wood grain provides interior structure and scaffolding. Several arterial tunnels curve out from the dining hall. At least five languages being spoken in the room and members of Houses far afield as Black Dunes. An empty table spans the length of the room, or rather many smaller tables faceted together for the occasion. Mahogany and ebony. A significant relationship with the tropical Houses, then. Likely longstanding given signs of age and meticulous repair.

“I thought I recognized that hircine odor!”Abruptly clapped on the back and pulled into a half hug. “How the hell are you?” Mishka, heavy accent.

“Better than these barnacles you call hands,” Notten picks an offending digit, “last I saw you were finding yourself on a fishing boat, but I see you’ve convinced some poor woman to marry you.”

Gruff laughter, “Don’t be ridiculous, I married the captain.”

“He lets you catch his fish with those?”

“Come here talking about catching fish with a mouth like that.” Dabs Notten’s lips with a handkerchief, swatted away.

Another seismic tremor. Lights out. Heavy silence. Then clearing throats, diaphragmatic breathing, shuffling feet, whispers, prickles on the back of his neck, fingers in his hair—Lights on.

“WITch’s tits!” “Dios mio!” “Kuso!” A murmuring.

Their numbers doubled in the dark. The northerners have arrived. Silence again, frenetic as insects in lamplight. Eyes casting for alternative exits. Just the one. Risk deeper or risk the choke point. Key Houses notably unconcerned. Notten edges himself and Mishka towards a particularly inconspicuous grotto— one of many such pockets by design it seems— just in time as a scar-faced old woman well into her 200s strikes her cane on the floor to address the crowd. Granny Ursa.

“Well I thought I’d be dead before I saw the likes of all you in one place again,” gestures with a knuckles adorned eagle’s paw of a hand from under a chunky knit mammoth shawl, “but instead I’m blind and still on the hook for yuletide babysitting.” A smile pangs Notten’s face.

“She doesn’t let anyone touch your room, you know,” Mishka whispers.

Hail Merry

“For the uninitiated, we northerners celebrate the darkest day a little differently. There will be no food until a full 26 hours has passed, and no sleep. Yes,” sigh, “you may drink. And sing. We honor our ancestors who came here with nothing, naught to fill their bellies but song. Lost under migrant stars. You all know the story.” A shot of vodka.

“But Gran~ny,” one of the teens right on cue, just recently old enough to participate, “we haven’t heard it yet!” A trio draped everywhere but the seat of a small couch, two more from across the room rushing over to fill the opening.

“We…we haven’t either,” brave soul from a southern a capella quartet, “—ow, hey.”

“In that case,” She kicks a chair out as Báihǔ House finishes lighting a series of candles produced after the previous blackout, affixed to their host gift of brass holders, “we begin where First Landfall leaves off. The first wave brought the best and brightest to Ixen high off a golden age, whose scientists seeded the cradle of life making all of this possible. Left a series of encrypted beacons behind them to guide any who followed. Things didn’t quite go to plan.”

Notten box steps a roster of acquaintances and contentious former bedfellows around the perimeter, tethered as a leaf on a stream’s surface. Shifting temperatures and acoustics near each hallway. Bedrooms, library, bathhouse, kitchen. He stops. A kitchen keeps more secrets than any other room in a Hold. For those who wait.

“The second wave fled during World War III. Morana and Scheherazade snuck off the rear of a five-way battlefront, disguised as trash barges. Heavily modified of course. But just as they could make off clean, some mouth-breathing jarhead chose that moment to do his job and flagged their vessels. Scrambling to bullshit their way through a series of increasingly irate hails, they finally floored it, so to speak.”

Early in the break fast preparations. Even the humble, traditional meal expected come tomorrow would take the span of the evening to organize. Small children, pregnant women, and the bed ridden all on separate feeding schedules besides. Having worked the kitchens himself, Notten knows the best gossip simmers once several more bottles of spirits depart the shelves. Give Granny Ursa a chance to hit stride.

“Turns out some dictator’s trophy wife was not only aboard, but directly responsible for coordinating exodus efforts. He was…disinclined to let that slide. Rather see her dead than free, making him lose face, all that. Spare no expense. Now these ladies had a real problem because even though they squeezed about twelve hours distance between them and their pursuers, they couldn’t risk being followed and couldn’t lower their guard to enter cryo. It looked to be a long, rough ride. Then…a distress signal. A third ship desperate to intercept them: Chang’e.”

Elbows and glances as younger crowd members recognize the name of Ixen’s manufactured moon. Some adults fold doves over their hearts. Laced fingers. Heads on shoulders. Frankincense, balsam, and cedar smoke scribes a wide berth between bifocal light palettes. Southerners loosen stance only slightly. Easterners serve tea in silica flake black porcelain, roughened with sand for grip. Great care taken to mimic their host’s domestic environs. Heads of House thumb leather sashes studded with engraved bullet casings—remnants of the Old World. The tea wafts pine top, juniper berry, mint and honey.

“Some small voice convinced our wary captains to slow down. Call it instinct. Intuition. Their unexpected sister vessel carried mostly youths and children—many girls who’d been left to die or drown at birth and raised in secret by the lowborn women who found them. Some livestock and plant starts. A group of illiterate farm wives had managed to commandeer the lightweight warship with the help of their best sons, who served as translators. Chang’e could not make such a journey under her own power. Instead she pleaded that Morana and Scheherazade each take half her hold. In return, she would sacrifice herself to waylay their adversaries. You see…Chang’e was a bomb.”

Round eyes and mouths for a round noun. If their moon were currently in phase, no doubt several tremulous lines of sight cast her way. Such a feat certainly within the realm of possibility. Features echoed in the faces of her children across many Houses. The blood of a story bears out in bone conduction no matter generations passed. Notten’s face is not their face, nor anyone’s here. His once warm low notes ice in his marrow. Two burls where his heart and voice should be. He tallies empty cups. Fingers in his hair. Something in the corner.

“She punched well above her class that day. It took much doing down to the wire, but the mothers made it work. Half would sleep, half would live the life of star sailors in shifts. Those who set out on the journey would not be those who arrived. Three generations stayed the course, the third elders upon arrival. Made Second Landfall by the skin of their teeth in suboptimal conditions, right there at Grace Point. Many winters upon them and many a hollow bellied night before a joint expedition between the Librarian Corps and the Sisterhood revealed their existence to the outside world.”

With dishes piled on a tray, Notten follows the nearest apron down to the kitchens. Mixed evergreen garlands from the overwintering groves below the arctic circle bustle from arch to crevice, windowpane citrus dangling at staggered lengths. Both an enameled ten chamber masonry stove and an intricate knotwork network of induction coils set pace for the Hold. Turbines behind antiqued brass vents siphon hot air into the upper levels. Puff quilted wool bags maintain stock pot temperatures off direct heat. He takes up at the stream-style washing station running off into a reed bed filtration system in the greenhouse. Busies while listening in on a crew at the long counter.

“They’ve not gone snooping yet. Like to shit their pants.”

“See more’n a few ’bout to go opposite end.”

“Bet they stuffed themselves beforehand tryin’ a coast.”

“That’s a tails crew problem, we’re heads.”

“Herself in her…study?”

“Far as I know. Can’t put the right question to the right body she ain’t afoot. But then, they ain’t lookin’ too hard.”

“Southerners with sense enough not to keep knocking the devil’s door?” Scoff.

“Hey now, we’ve knocked a few in our time.”

“Only to put coins on sockets. They invite him to tea.”

“Now she’s invited them to Longest Night. We’re meant to move past this, somehow.”

“Well…their men sing real sweet. I could be persuaded.” Thighs clap together lewdly.

Notten drifts out on their raucous laughter before they clock him. Sure enough, dueling renditions of “Greensleeves” kicked off in the great hall, unraveling into whichever melody, rhythm, or rhyme weft and warped by each quadrant. Waves in a sail. He reads arcs in the mantels as navigating a Hold is half augury at the best of times, and dread House Cygnus certainly not that. Even with a seven fold poetic cipher lifted off Kore’s inner robes—which must return without notice—the seeker must already possess intimate understanding of what they seek.

“Face me, boy.” Granny Ursa’s cane hooks his shoulder, not a request.

“How—“

“The hole in the song. Left me tonging a sore tooth for eight years.”

“I meant no disrespect in leaving.”

“Think I don’t know that? Let me see you.” Surprisingly strong hands evaluate, “You’re too skinny.”

“Haven’t been very hungry.” She heaves a gravelly sigh at that.

“Sit. There’s one lesson left to teach you before I leave this world.”

“Granny, you’ll outlive us all.”

Ursa Notten.” He swallows hard at inclusion of the surname, “We say a man is given life twice. First by his mother, and second by his woman. If that woman be his lover also, it is not well he survive her.” Her tone steady, no stranger to loss she, “No one loved my daughter better.” Lets that settle, “I pulled you from that room, and even though you ran away—“

“I wasn’t strong enough—“

“—It’s never been your job to be strong, boy. Don’t interrupt me. Even though you ran away, you should carry the name Ursa until you find another.”

“There is no other.”

“There must be, for your sake. If there’s any man could be born thrice, it must be you. I forgive you for taking your gift away.” Notten’s breaths hitch shallow and without suitable response, he reaches over and plucks her chin hair. “Ow! You shit!”

“Were you saving it? Was it lucky? Should I make a wish?”

“Get out of here!” Grumbles, goosed for his sass while he slinks off towards a trail of red splatters down a pocket tunnel lit only by recessed sconces.

Unseen until that moment. Chill draft from somewhere secret below. Conversations bend distance in crepuscular curves and keyholes accentuated with ceramic coating as if a great nautilus shell. A mountain’s inner ear. Faintly a lullaby tonguetips closest of all. Laps out of reach each time he tries to grasp its shape. So long striving that the wall of candlelight, musty body heat, spicy resin, terroir, and pine tar slaps air from his lungs. Then he sees why.

Morrigan’s Mantel. Skeleton cyclone scores the cavern, dismembered creatures minute to mega reworked into new, grotesque compositions. Unhinged jaws and knife scribbled orbital cavities gape and howl into nothingness. Red silk beading threads spin false flesh from thousands of needles. Millions. Suspending them all. Dead leaves plasters false skin. Red wax dribbles and drizzles the cracks and creases. Bark and pine scales struck with black feathers form burnt legions eating away from within. Stained and sealed floor where many must have been butchered. Cocooned at the epicenter is patient zero, the corpse of Morrigan herself cast in black resin scabbed over. Her tools laid out in front of her.

Three Librarians tend the piece, their ranks directly proportionate to how much skin bears their labyrinth tattoos—no two alike. Kore the clear junior in this assembly. Notten joins the group. Last grain of sand in the hourglass. Flip.

“That’s a full house.” She clears her throat for her first big assignment, “So you must be here to learn how the war ended. First you’ll hear the story of Commanding Operative Skeleton Keys, for every empire grasping beyond its means plants the seed of its own destruction, and the architecture of peace once disturbed is not so pretty.”

Everyone churns and huddles together. Determined to tough it out for new information, every House united by nausea, nosiness, and burning curiosity. For Notten the three years preceding the treaty but blurred sunswallows splitting wine murk bottom in a river of forgetting.

“For fifty years the Ixen people secretly deterred and visited misfortune upon heralds of the Dakkan Empire. We hoped they’d find our planet too unlucky to persist with their expedition into the Deadzone. For a brief moment, it almost worked. Then they scrounged mere pebbles of Cursed Ore and their insatiable greed brought an entire fleet of living ships to our skies. A mining operation.

“Several of the Houses in the southern quadrant thought to present themselves as a united front so that civility and diplomacy might deescalate the situation.” Sip of spiked tea. “That didn’t happen. When the first Leviathan bore down on us, it blackened the sky. Just one warship of a number we cannot fathom. Enough for the Dakkan to have conquered multiple star systems.

“The first suspected use of a skeleton key coincides with the Chief Librarian of House Arachne implementing the Voynich Protocol. Just before the library entered two hundred year lock down, suffocating anyone left inside, encrypted data was sent directly to House Cygnus. When that ship returned to breeding grounds, death was aboard. Cascading whalefall rained blood, bone, and viscera on any planet in gravitational proximity to a Leviathan. Political unrest festered wherever they lay. The Dakkan grabbed at shadows.

“Four more southern libraries fell before the next suspected skeleton key found its way to House Cygnus. The Dakkan didn’t think better of pressing a species whose specialty is biology. When death visited again, this time they grabbed at each other. Gums pulled back, skin tightly withered, drool crusted mouths, green flashes behind hollowed dark eyes. They ripped each other apart, literally. The contagion spread wherever they failed to burn the bodies, its long incubation period lulling them to a false sense of security ensuring maximum devastation. Suddenly, their vast numbers sputtered out. Rattling away in their throats.

“The Dakkan Empire sat down to peace talks that drug on, and on. Still under the illusion we possessed a central government. During this time they implemented every underhanded means they could to locate Skeleton Keys. Eventually, her husband was forced to trade himself for the freedom of child hostages. When they realized his wife had no intention of revealing herself, they executed him publicly and defiled his corpse. House Heads engaged at the table stalled for time as death took wing once more. Only a handful this time. Carefully selected targets dispatched with such precise, artistic brutality that that the facade came close to shattering. We had not openly acknowledged their dealings, and they not ours. Both parties played pretend at the table waiting to see who’d break face first.

“After letting them steep in cold sweat, Cygnus Morrigan revealed herself as Skeleton Keys, and confessed author of the grisly murders. Ixen denounced her an extremist rebel with no ties to our ‘government’ and Dakkan demanded her execution as the price of peace. Before that happened, her daughter Cygnus Mara arrived to claim Right of Ritual Combat for dishonoring their House—which no one had heard of prior to that day—and armed with two knives apiece, mother and daughter fought to the death. Thus Cygnus Mara became the youngest Head in modern history.

“Dakkan wiped all mention of Ixen from their databanks, which they were inclined to do anyways as to the outside galaxy it appeared as if they’d simply run into a perfect storm of Bad Luck. They’d never again cloud our doorstep. In return, we would never mine Cursed Ore nor allow any others to do so, which we pretended was a big ask. It’s been five years since the treaty went into effect, and so far the Dakkan Empire—if indeed it still qualify as such—has kept its word.” A short bow, polite applause.

“How many skeleton keys are in play?”

“Three, potentially.”

“Does Cygnus Mara have them now?”

“We don’t know. It’s important that we don’t know, because then we can’t say. If we can’t say, the Dakkan can’t be sure, and they should be kept wary.”

That chill draft again, slaking Notten’s chest and dispelling some viscosity in the room. Guests finish paying respects in as seemly a fashion they can muster and beat retreat. Notten approaches the centerpiece to inspect the coins in place of Morrigan’s eyes, stamped in an unfamiliar language.

“Good eye.” The senior Librarian peers over his shoulder. “They read ‘all gold is fool’s gold’ and ‘count the cost’ respectively.”

“We govern from the ground up, and the lower center of gravity always throws its opponent.” Not for nothing widower of an Ursa, “The Dakkan were afflicted with a disease we’ve developed immunity to.”

“Just so. The Old World was a rare jewel among worlds, uniquely rich with variety of life. Librarians aren’t just tasked with safeguarding the project of humanity, because every plant and creature on this earth is also who we are.” Intricate topography lines half his head, “A Chief Librarian trains their whole life to know the right hands for a skeleton key. Prays it’s never necessary.”

“Things got pretty dark there for a minute, didn’t they?”

“They did. They might still. Luckily, we have her to remind us.”

“She’s beautiful.”

“Oh we know you like an older woman,” Kore comes near, feeling her ginger spiced liquor, “but before you go finding another lap to warm yourself on and lips to drink life from, there’s a mantel up the way you might enjoy.” A loose reference to northern wedding vows.

Once, it might have pricked a nerve. Tonight Notten lets her tempt him aside to the wisp of a lullaby. Fingers in his hair.

Interrupted by yet another seismic tremor. A dizzying shift in air pressure. Even belly down and hips deep in preoccupation Notten hears the retching upstairs. An explosion. Keeps grip while Kore’s shuddering bucks wring out. Commotion, barking orders. Lets her slide down real slow.

“For—for fuck’s sake what now?” A small alarm chimes from her clothes, checks it and throws them on hurriedly. “I have to go. Head count. Something happened.”

“I’ll make myself scarce.”

Kore pauses and looks back for the last time. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, however long it takes. You deserve to be happy.”Gone.

In her wake a silence recedes from some shoreline he never reaches. Inside. The world skews such high resolution it seems a stage he could shut the lights off, walk away from, enter the next room. Beyond. Notten trails after the ruckus and downs several abandoned shot glasses along the way. Many guests of a certain age caught in trembling undertow at the all too familiar detonation. Dakkan mines. Mixed quadrant teams bypass those seized with trauma to assess damages—none to the heart of the Hold itself—and pivot on locating and sealing affected extremities. Top priority goes to active threats, encroaching elements, securing food stores, the vulnerable or injured, and aftermath in that order.

Notten catches a little kid trudging out into the chaos, “Hey, where’s your mom?”

“I don’t know.” Doubt knits his brow looking Notten over, which is fair. “Can you help?” Any port in a storm.

“Ah, sure.” This or discovery. “What’s wrong?”

“Over here. Come on.” Grabs a judiciously selected wad of clothing and tugs.

The den at the very end of a domestic hall had collapsed to partially reveal a network of smaller tunnels. More children on the other side, several meters up and peeking through cracks in the boulders and debris.

“If I lever any of these out, it could bring more down. It’s not safe.”

“No, not them.” Impatient and a bit surly. “Them.”

Little hands frantically wave him over to the largest hole. “Get ready!”

“For…what? What’s—“ A very fat and very recently pregnant cat slides through with much indignity, swaddled in a scarf.

Followed by three more cats, a goose in a diaper, a snake, ferrets, a fruit bat, a hairless rat in a sweater, and a Pomeranian. Lastly the kittens, which the little boy promptly stuffs inside his coat for warmth.

“Are you trapped? Where are you exactly?”

“Behind the greenhouse. Can you let us in?”

“He doesn’t know where the greenhouse is. We’re going. Close these holes.” Boss Boy marches back out through the main hall.

Granny Ursa orchestrates emergency arrangements. Bodies and blankets piling in, tiered hammocks strung up to keep pets and littles out from underfoot. The same hammocks used aboard second wave ships. Notten remembers nights spent in such a hammock newly wed overlooking mammoth steppes from a giant sequoia plateau, clay chiminea sculpted right there from soft silt hissing and burbling with a mouthful of pine cones, resinous greens and hard wood from the coppiced alder wetlands nearby. The hands that made it working braids into his hair. Dehydration turns tear ducts pebbled glass. Heat throbbing temples. Something cutting as a single vibrato violin string bisecting him.

The greenhouse through a kitchen door, really more of a greengrove. Without sunlight this time of year, broad spectrum crackle glass lanterns and gazing balls bask and pool along a network of black tiled streams. Citrus, guava, soursop, cherimoya, and even a pair of medjool date palms. Black pepper tree. Vanilla orchid. Treasures of the eastern and western quadrants. Steam scrolls across the composition. Where streams meet, a birthing pool in the center.

“There.” All business, this one.

“What are those tunnels back there? Where your friends are.” A rusty vault door disguised from plain sight in the stone, requiring considerably more force than a young child could apply.

“A secret. You wouldn’t fit in them anyways.”

The whole troupe scrambles out without so much as a thank you. “Why didn’t we just bring the pets through here?”

“No pets in the greenhouse!” Surround sound, eyed like someone who never lived indoors.

Just as they reach the exit, a tremor. Lights out. Emergency lock.

“Shit.” Not Notten.

“Do you just live like this?”Good a time as any to ask.

“The mountain’s loud sometimes. Daddy says it’s grandma getting out of bed.”

“Why does she do that?”

“Old ladies pee a lot.” Giggles, pocket lanterns click on, designed to imitate cold flames.

“That’s not what I heard.” Hushed tone. “There’s a monster. When the mountain shakes, it’s hungry.”

“That’s dumb! What does it eat? Rocks?”Dukes up, grandma vs. monster.

“Everything.”

“Why is it down there?”

“She gave birth to it.” Gasps.

“Don’t say her name!”

“I wasn’t!”

“Shhhh. Don’t even think it!” Bomb shelter quiet.

“Monster’s aren’t real.” Unlike dead grandmas.

Circled up instinctively near his legs one upping each other with faces and shapes. Notten regards Ixen’s wailing shrapnel rings shot cross the Milky Way, full bodied absent moonlight. They might have been this age by now.

“Guys you’re upsetting the new guy.” One rebellious tear down his numb cheek, Boss Boy spotted it.

“I’m just tired.”

Little Girl Grandma pauses, “Sometimes I cry in my bed and I don’t know why.”

“Does your heart hurt?” Specificity required for children, who may not know what sad means.

“No I just cry and I want to go home.” Tucks her knees up. “So I get in Grandma’s rocking chair.” The others nod sagely at reference to an object of power, not unlike the underside of a duvet. “Mom breaks things and yells. It’s so annoying. Why don’t grownups just cry?” Holds her lantern up to his face.

“You know…” Unexpectedly speaking for all grownups. “When she was young, your grandma carried both you and your mother. Before either of you were born.”

“Like a ship!”

“You could say that.” Picks a path forward. “Any bad things she felt then, your mother felt too even if she can’t remember. You felt them. Sometimes those feelings are buried so deep that they come out other ways. They make you…grow funny. Do things that don’t fit. Speak a different language than your children.”

“…is mom gonna turn into a monster?”

“No! No. Not like that. I’m saying,” pinches the bridge of his nose, “your mom might need you to show her how to sit in the rocking chair.”

Notten knows where to go. The children discuss the ramifications of this revelation while he feels around for an access panel. Boss Boy watches closely and produces a sticky screwdriver from one of an excessive number of pockets. Not to be outdone, the rest of them offer whatever is in their pockets along with aggressive emotional support. Someone safety pins a leaf to the thickest piece of clothing they can find, being his pants. Manual override releases their exit to applause. Scurry off. Boss Boy stands up straight to address him.

“There’s water and soap in the kitchen. You’ll feel better if you don’t smell.” Deadpan, unclear intentions.

“I’ve been taking care of myself much longer than you’ve been alive.”

“Adults say that a lot.” Not a drop of expression. “But you die.” Leaves.

“…what the fuck…” Promises to apologize to Granny Ursa and every orphanage attendant responsible for his upbringing.

Rude, but not wrong. Notten wipes down with crisp snowmelt where he washed dishes earlier. Dimmed great hall. Sparse, sluggish clinks and numerous snores signal the twenty-six hour mark. Northerners are known pile sleepers, but tonight all four quadrants make pillows of any person close enough. Unmoored the edges he sinks as cold must beside a hearth it cannot enter. Descends the spiral corridor off muscle memory alone, Morrigan’s Mantel bites icy and ravenous in the dark. Crushing as a hadal zone. He freezes. His own heartbeat heavy in his ears. Blood slithers carotid, dredges subclavian, coils, constricts.

Something moving in the dark. Or Notten moves. Skitters, scratches, rats chewing. Wet feet. Wet hands. Wipes them, wipes them. Hot iron curdles his nose, sours his stomach. Burnt flesh. His toe bumps a body. Children’s laughter. Applause. He knows the bones are there. They’ll say it. They’ll say it. The name. Don’t turn around. Hurry. Every bone can be a funny bone when you’re god’s xylophone. Steam comes out sounds like screaming. Look. Look. Centimeters from his face. Look. Don’t need this skin anymore, she’s never gonna touch it again. Just some neat incisions and it’ll tug right off. When maggots, rats, ravens, and vultures strip him, will it feel like love?

Pursed breath on his cheek. Downy flush on his neck. Feather blade along his ear. Over there. Here. Notten’s hands on an instrument. Bass strings almost floor to ceiling. He knows them. The only thing he wants is to sleep forever, so a lullaby then. Takes all his strength to pull the notes. Floods reverberation an order of magnitude could wake the dead. Shake loose what wove creation. Feels the phantom song long gone. A door opens.

Another mantel harbors opposite a short walkway. Not so cavernous as the one preceding it. Directly ahead a pierced black mirror, webbed glittering from impact where a heart might be. Swaths of amethyst geode puzzled—or perhaps grown—to encompass most of the chamber. Fractured throughout a riot of light fixtures in every make and year affixed at bizarre angles up and over Notten’s head. Bulbs laser cut to contain small candles. Lost, broken, or discarded toys dating further back than he can recognize pirouette through the chaos, ballet in zero gravity. A few obsolete antique appliances with faces drawn on them. Blown glass ornaments. Copper wire lights and stone-shadow blue paint run leylines casting a false dimension over the entire piece.

Vagus nerve breathing, he holds a hand directly over a candle until it hurts. Each one until he reaches the small table before the mirror. Reasonably certain the saffron bun and mug of tea presented are not poison. Not particularly concerned if they are. Notten seizes the opportunity to take the last half of a pill from his back pocket. Grips white knuckled the marble edge.

“What took you so long?” Behind.

“FUCK—!“ Snaps around. “How long have you been there!” A woman.

“I’ve been here the entire time.” So still before now.

“You’re not resting with the others.”

“No.” Amusement upturns dark-bright eyes. “I was hoping to meet my thief.”

“How long have you known?” No point in denial.

“That there was a thief? The entire time.” Eight years counting. “That it was you? This moment.”

Meets her gaze long and sharp. “Really?”

“You lived.” Rises crossed legged from the floor. “I wanted to see how far you’d go. It was something to do.” Inky frayed baft-hawa muslin over a mixed motif gloved bodysuit tightly knit from thread-weight wool. “You didn’t have to keep coming at me so hard.”

“It was something to do.” Final smattering of tonal beads completes the camouflage. “I’m Notten.”

“Notten.” Tastes it. “That’s a name you gave yourself, isn’t it?”

“The other one was my father’s, so.”

“You lack symmetry, for a southerner.” Tilted inquisitively.

“You lack tact. My parents were True Believers.”

“Occupational hazard.” Shrug. “True Believers. The cult.” Not a question. “That’s…Imperfection is God, yes? Sworn against standard gene therapy.”

“Something like that. In the beginning.” Spills out. “Things got…out of hand from there.”

“My mother taught me about the last compound. How it fell.” Of all the topics to set her sights on. “All young Operatives must learn.”

“I’m at disadvantage. I didn’t realize one of the worst chapters of my life was standard schooling.”

“Only so that we know how to root out and exterminate an entrenched opponent in possession of brainwashed child hostages.” Something like comfort. “I always thought…the little boy who set that fire…he did it because he wanted so badly to live.”

“How are you so sure?” Open wound.

“It’s what I would have done.”

“People died in that fire.”

“People die.” Beginning to see who Boss Boy takes after. “None should expect to live at the expense of their children.”

“Who should make that call?”

“You did. That day.” She admires the hems of his shirt, incidentally cut of the same cloth. “And the Sisterhood found you and the others because of it.”

“Did it cause less suffering or more?”

“Well it caused this.” Takes him in head to toe. “I’m certainly not suffering looking upon it. Does he suffer before me?”

Acutely aware of her fully suited closeness. “Not anymore.”

“You’ll be wanting that thirteenth dose, I imagine.”

“Fourteenth.”

“Thirteenth. That last one was a placebo.” He huffs incredulously.

“And in trade?” Knows better than to put hands on a House Head before she directly initiates first contact, but makes certain the amber lights play nice with his wild angles. “I suppose I have a bit to make up for.”

Mara nods with respectful appreciation for his valiant effort. “If I ever take you to bed, you’ll be sober, and you’ll be willing.”

“…more obvious? I’m one of those things.”

“That’s wanting, not willing.”

“What’s the difference?”

“You’ll know it someday. Come.” Unpins the large triangle shawl from her hips and drapes the thick silver-beaded mohair over his shoulders. “What I require is information. My human trials are somewhat skewed, what with you horking down most of my trial doses.” Picks up the tin he dropped when she spooked him, places it inside her mantel.

“I do not hork.” Playful indigence. “I have a…condition.”

“Oh I gathered.” Slight smirk. “Most participants can’t get past the nightmares and heightened dreamscape. You’re at it like a swan to a lake.”

“Those are…normal, then?” Admittedly the word tumbles in his mouth.

“A key function, yes.”

This line of query continues as she guides him through the innermost corridor, running her fingers over this and that. The shawl lingers with her bodyheat and some spicy, earthy scent. He burrows into it a bit. Narrow stained glass windows depicting various fables and archetypes section off this fleet of facilities. Some darker than others. Darkest of all a sealed and shrouded series with jarring lack of detail. Operative training quarters. Mara looks past them.

Seismic tremor. Lights out. So much louder. A ball of insects drips off the stalactites and bursts over him. Bodily revulsion sets Notten wiggling and flicking at them with such vigor he fails to notice lights on again. Mara hurries over to assist.

“—get theM Off!”

“I’m on it, I’m on it. Let me get something real quick.” Retrieves an atomizer from across the hall, mists him thoroughly, and continues picking bugs off.

Notten steadies at her industrious grooming. She hums while she works. He brings his hands up to the light.

“There’s no bugs.”

“Oh my goodness, no.” Curls a lock through her fingers and feigns blowing a moth away. “That would be awful.” Stamps a job done on his temple with a kiss.

“What’s the mist for?”

“Smells nice.”

“You’re strange.” Pot, kettle.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said about me lately. Let’s get you that Ultraviolet.”

Maintains minor chatter and fiddles with some equipment. Fine tuning parameters. Humming. Books, notes, drawings, schematics, tools, odd bottles and stress trinkets on every available surface. Old cups. Makeshift bed in the corner. Children’s drawings tacked all over her open door. Smaller makeshift beds form an encampment near hers.

“I was right. It’s mycelial in nature.” Intense interest.

“Well spotted. It’s delicate business stabilizing these compounds in a non-lethal fashion. I’m the only one who knows the sequence, which is why you’ve gone…far afield to acquire what doses you have.”Catches a little yawn.

“You’ve adjusted it, but I’m an outlier.” Yawns also.

“Sometimes struggle is necessary to distill a thing’s true nature. To make the most of what it is.” Proffers the sugar stamped pill.

“Is that…a suburbs house?” Finishing touch.

“Where do you go when you can’t go home again?”

“Or when is a house no longer a home?”

“Ha.” Mara scoots up next to him. “Tell me something.” Draws one gloved finger across the vibrant, twisted scar roping his throat. “Is this why you make your lovers sing instead?”

Blood blooms everywhere his sympathetic nervous system puts roots. “Well you know. Loose jaw, tongue forward.” The responding strong, chesty laughter shivers through the room.

“No need to be shy about it.” Slaps her knee in mirth.

“I’m not shy. I’m just…fair.”

“You’re blushing. No wonder you’re such a favorite.”

Pattering feet before he can regain ground. The gang of children from the greenhouse hustle into the study, jingling all the way. Formation.

“We hid all the presents.” Boss Boy reports.

“Very good, Lieutenant. And the other matter?”

“They stopped fighting after the mine blew up, like you said.” Eyes Notten. “What’s Stitches doing down here?”Little shit.

“Notten is my personal guest.” Produces a much larger plate of saffron buns, clove freckled with orange soaked raisins. “I believe you’re all here for these. I am a woman of my word.”

“Fuck yeah.” Quite the mouth on Monster.

“Language.”

“Sorry ma’am.”

“You’re dismissed for the rest of the night.”

Boss Boy eyes Notten while the others leave first. Little Girl Grandma waves enthusiastically. The children turn a corner and seem to disappear down some sort of chute with their prize, holding onto each other as they go. One squeals sliding backwards.

“So are they, ah…” Notten clears his throat.

“Mine?” Knowing glance. “Not in the literal sense.”

“They seem fond of you.”

“As soon as they were old enough to understand, they felt…indirectly responsible for my being an orphan, and appointed themselves my personal support system.”

“You hide presents? Not just put them under a tree?” Steers from those choppy waters.

“We do. Big kids make lists all year and sneak around the Hold with bells tied to their ankles. It trains stealth at a young age. A chance to show me their skill as potential Operatives. I finalize the present selection of course.”

“You deputize children to spy on your own people?” Eyebrows up.

“You make it sound so nefarious.” Spiders her fingers at him. “It helps to remind the adults that not all surprises are painful, and that we can be agents of joy just as often as agents of doom.”

“I’d never heard of these traditions and Ursa is one of your closest allies.”

“That’s because they were my first official act as Head.” Mara gathers some supplies and gestures for him to accompany her. “There’s someone you’re here to meet. Last stop, I promise.”

“Are you so certain of showing me your secrets? I am a thief.” Descending once more.

“Are you a thief, or are you just hungry? A strong appetite is a good thing. I can work with that.” Moon-sand beads glinting down her spine to scatter droplets over the sharp swell of her hips and thighs. “Besides, out of a sea of songs you could have played at my gate with hell at your heels, you chose my favorite.” Flourishing gesture.

“I could sing it, once.”

“Well, now I can sing it to you. When you need me to.” Airily simple, clean cut.

“What if my need is too great?” The hall rips wide into a vast underground cove. “Without song to put my mouth to, all I can do is eat, drink, or scream. What if once I start, I can’t stop? If it’s never enough?”

“After five years and thirteen trials, I think I understand somewhat of your needs. Not so unlike my own. We walked together down that road, if apart in the dark. We met them there.”

“Do you know what it’s like, being the only person in the world with a uniquely broken mind?”

“Looks between your ears to me.” Notten shoots her a look, Mara shrugs.

“That seems to be the problem, I’m afraid.” She bumps his shoulder with hers.

“Do you know what it’s like, to love so much that it makes you too terrifying for anyone to look upon?”

“I’m looking upon you just fine.”

“So broken you can bear me, perhaps.” Winks.

“Imperfection is God, huh?”

“We’re not born with symmetry. We make it.”

Bioluminescent creatures teem cauldron over calm, warm seawater. Mirror image. Round skylights bore through to the stars high above. Large, long burning candles mark the shore. A triptych grotto lined with star charts, transcripts, and designs under a pendant lamp. Mara pulls out a scrapbook of sorts and fluffs the pillows and blankets on a woven reed couch.

“You sleep everywhere but your bedroom.”

“I don’t like to leave her.” Mara hands Notten a buttered roll and more tea. “You’d better sit down. She’s doing her best to be polite.”

“Okay…” Draws the last syllable out suspiciously, eyes on Mara.

“Okay.” Laces her fingers through his on one knee once he finishes. “I know you’re not sleeping Fat Princess.” Lilts, tossed over her shoulder.

No mirror image in the water. An eye. One massive eye.

“Mara.”

“Notten.”

“What is that?”Eyes on Mara, still.

“Her name is Levee.”

“Short for Leviathan.”

“Yes.”

“A female Leviathan.”

“The last, as far as we know.”

“So all those tremors…”

“She’s calling out for others. Singing. We’ve done our best to ease her growing pains.”

“That’s metachrosis and bioluminescence.”

“Her whiskers hold electromagnetic charge as well.”

“Whiskers?”

Mara opens the scrapbook to sketches of Levee’s entire form. Akin to a catfish. Organically fused with lab grown starship innards via specialized mycelium. Solar sails fashioned to pierced hull spines. Her predecessors had appeared more in line with mutilated cyborgs than this shapely, graceful composition.

“Grandmother stayed her hand. Back then. Hatched Levee here.”

“Her very existence will be considered an act of war to…any number of worlds. Or empires.”

“I know. They’d demand her surrendered, contained, or killed.”

“You’re not going to let that happen.”

“No.”Mara kicks her feet. “Did you know, they’re sentient? They perceive the galaxy in a way we barely understand. Evolved to develop…symbiosis with their inhabitants.”

“Ultraviolet…comes from her, doesn’t it?”

“The fruiting body of a female Leviathan’s mycological network.”

Big breath. Levee blinks. Notten eases into his half of the couch. Considers.

“According to these drawings, she must exit atmosphere soon. She’s ready.”

“Ready, but still in need of guidance. Family. We’ve reinforced the pylons and she’ll just barely pass through the canal.”

“Like a human baby.”

Ultraviolet’s familiar twilight remiges buffer away whatever tension splints him upright. He wonders what Levee sees with an entire pocket universe refracted in her glossy pupil. Mara toes the heavier blanket up his torso from her end.

“We extrapolate the Dakkan Empire’s former expanse from the number of deep space messages we’ve received. Those other worlds may not know our names or faces, or even exactly where we are, but they know someone interceded.” Removes Notten’s shoes nonchalantly. “The Librarian Corps collects those issued by infant governments. But I’ve been casting net for the smaller ones.”

“They’re talking to us?”

“Talking. Praying. Wishing. My neighbor cuts my hedges without my permission. My pet died, please watch over it. Make my heart’s desire notice me. I want this toy. What’s your name? This is mine. Can we be friends?” Mara takes the scrapbook and begins another sketch.

“You’re going to take Levee out to see them? You’ve set…a constellation course. I saw it.” Notten traces tendrils from her messy bun, she quirks her head periodically to note his proportions.

“I am. She deserves to have a childhood, whatever that means for a being such as her. Born here, same as me.”

“The other Heads won’t be happy.” He yawns.

“I’m not asking permission.”

“Do we have time to answer them all?” Closes his eyes. “The wishes.”

“We have all night.”

© Jin 2024