wyrdwind

Under stranger stars and fury rings, the Birchblood Games stir wood smoke and sap sweet along spring’s proving grounds. A fertile subarctic crater valley uncommonly simmering with life. Freed from the shadow of a Leviathan with plenty of wounds to lick in the reprieve, any House set on honing battlecraft or crossing genes flocks their best into caravans coiled about the utility fields, each one distinct.

High above the zen combed fruit tree guilds, chinampa, and coppiced groves crests the Outpost. South facing mica flecked volcanic clay cliff dwellings footed by pier terraced yurts. An intricate system of pulleys strings all levels together, primed to transport all manner of daily debris. Grips and footholds slither the bellies and alleys throughout. Travelers gather on the brewery’s deck overlooking the vast froth of blooms clamoring in the breeze.

“How long has he been like that?” An Easterner peers around her hookah, nudging her chin to indicate the Western man completely engrossed by some sort of intricate model or layout.

“An hour at least. Still enough he’s got bees on him, even a humming bird once.” A Northerner delivers a flight of mead samples. “Here to compete?”

“Not this year. It’s been all hands on deck for us ceramists and glaziers. We perfected penetration on Dakkan armor. Applied Harmonics and the Black Orchestra got us through their frequency cycling shields, now we can unstitch them about it.” Reference to the popular video where a Sister field tests a prototype by dismembering the Dreadnought overlord who once held the South.

“Good.” Tonal grit, circles beneath the eyes. “Claws in faster than a lioness on a buffalo’s back.”

“We increased the range and reduced the size of the aural grenades as well. Now the Sisters and Operatives can burst every eardrum 300 meter radius.”

“Mm. Careful with that.”

“Fortunately they require two different clearance codes to use, and real time connection to AHBO.” Scoff. “Look at me, here I said no shop talk at the games.”

“It is hard to turn off once it’s got goin’.”Squints. “Say, isn’t that White Fox?”

“He’s certainly stunning enough, but what would he be doing all the way out here? Báihǔ doesn’t usually send their thoroughbreds this far afield. Especially not with a war on.”

“He can come ’round and…contribute to the war effort any time.” Eyes the considerable, elegant length of him. “The ladies could do with the inspiration.”

“Maybe he’s looking for love.”

“Now there’s a puzzle. What kinda woman matches the West’s favorite son?”

“Hard to say. He’s known for surprises.”

White Fox moves one piece on the board. Bees unbothered. With that, stands to drift among the spectators below with not a fold out of place or hitch in his stride. Leaves the next move open to some unseen opponent. Ritual drums circle up and consecrate for the 226 kg sled push across a rubberized traction course. Much speculation abounds concerning the contestants, guessing at the exact circumference and composition of each woman’s hips. Mostly Northerners and Easterners hoping to place among the Sisterhood or Operatives. Time, distance, or in rare cases both.

Competitors move with the bass beats. Different percussionists both follow and interpret each woman’s progress on improvised instruments. The crowd packs away an impressive amount of fried sweet corn flour dumplings glazed in birch syrup, topped with cherry smoked sea salt. A regional specialty colloquially known as Baby Bumps. Sassafras skewer roasted rabbit and squirrel stew wafts from the cookfire recovery station. Side of mustard, collard, and dandelion greens. Wooden cups ladled with icy root beer kombucha ready at the long table. Trouble gutters the smallest woman competing, a lone Southerner.

Fallen, flanks shaking as her lungs struggle to supply oxygen. Others pointedly knock her and a few spit near her sled. Several unkind, unheard mutterings. The crowd unmoved to respond. This tempestuous treatment continues long after everyone completes the course and takes refreshment. White Fox intercepts a sharp eyed pod of Northerners and offers a cup and bowl to the underdog, a picture of perfect graciousness.

“I wouldn’t look them in the eyes my dear. You’re so very far from home.”

“Are not you?” Echoes the breeding in his posture despite exhaustion, “Arachne Astrid.” A single, well-manicured eyebrow arches at the name.

“That certainly explains some things. White Fox.” Slight head bow.

“What’s captured the curiosity of so fine a Western spirit? I hadn’t thought warfare among the subjects honed in the Temple.”

“We’re encouraged to diversify our…electives of course. My proclivities just happen to run a darker red than most expect.”

“How mysterious. I suppose I can understand feeling…at odds.” No breath of blossoms without burn of manure and blood meal. Swirls stew in her bowl.

“Southerners aren’t known for their martial prowess.” Stills her eating hand with one finger.

“Well, we need to be known for something other than surrender and suicide…which is all anyone will remember,” cracks, clears, “I need to place some kind of distance. The woman I was sinks beneath a sheet of ice, and I barely remember her face. Any of their faces.” Deep breath. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.” White Fox motions more insistently for her to eat.

“The first thing we’re taught at the Temple is how to listen. The second is knowing who has something to say. Then we make room for them to do so.” Ducks burst en masse at some disturbance among the canals. “Not unlike composing, really.”

“And what about you? What does White Fox have to say?”

“I’m afraid that’s reserved for the ears of one woman only.”

“Tell me, who is she?”

“I’ll know when I see her.”Elicits a short, incredulous laugh.

“I can’t tell if you’re being romantic or strategic.” Takes bites more quickly now. Pause. “It was you, wasn’t it.”

“Me?”

“Someone from a Western house wrought a melody of such misfortune it drove Dakkan soldiers to claw their faces and jump out airlocks. Some smashed their own skulls in. Untitled. It was you.”

“I meant to write a love song, you know.”

“…did she break your heart?”

“Not as such,” wisp of a smile, long lashes cast down, “I’ve never truly been in love. For all this finery, gentility, and beauty, something’s always missing. Every new love merely a reflection of my own wanting.”

“At least you’re self aware. Let’s make a deal. I’ll complete the games no matter how hard I lose. You’ll get out there every night and find the woman of your nightmares. Invite me to your wedding.”

“Oh, with any blessing I might be able to do better than that.” On a whim pricks his thumb with his lapel pin and offers blood to the lips of a mossy stone trail marker cut crudely resembling a woman, a green grim guarding the seldom traveled crossroad into deep wilderness reserve.

It takes volunteers several hours to rework the course for atlas stones. Each contestant must carry her stone through a series of obstacles and varied terrain, trading for heavier stones where indicated. The heaviest stone awaits at center, the only task to lift it onto a podium. A pit of sand where remaining rivals wrestle for this honor. Belts, elbow and knee sleeves mandatory to avoid injury. Astrid fares no better this evening than she did earlier. However, due to zero outwardly imposed time constraints and allowance of any technique, she manages to reach center dead last. Two Northerners grapple for submission and she dares not make any attempt at the final stone. Partly because she simply cannot lift it, and partly because the social backlash of such presumption would hinder her cause.

Finally a tap out when one woman somehow bridges into a rear naked choke. She dashes up to the podium half feral, gets into position, and rolls her ankle. Astrid instinctively rushes to steady the imbalance, runs cold when the Northerner locks eyes over the cement boulder. One. Two. Just enough lift off to clear the most affected area. Back off, palms out. Makes scarce before she tempts an ass beating. Stays out of sight until onlookers dissipate for dinner.

The open air bathhouse and sauna are mostly empty. Chooses among besoms of bundled, resinous branches and herbs prepared by elders to aid in muscle recovery. Sinks into a cedar barrel obscured by black lace elderberry and purple weeping beech. Blue Moon roses and Dangerous Mood bearded iris offer additional interest. Cultivars lovingly ferried across the stars when the ancestors fled their former home. None could claim Northerners shun beauty, for all their brusque pragmatism.

Every nook of Ixen populated with care and attention, even in the harshest conditions. One Dakkan land mine razes generations of work. Astrid chokes thorns thinking of home. What remains anyhow. When they caught Arachne weavers repairing the tapestries, they cut off their hands and threw everything into a burn pit along with the men’s bodies. Women were kept alive for Dakkan soldiers to relieve themselves, hands or no hands. Alive or dead. Until the smell became too repulsive even for them to bear.

“Hey. HEY.” The Northerner from the second game stands, hands on hips, naked as the day she was born. “Eyes here.” Points to hers.

“I’m,” struggles, “I’m done. I’ll go.”

“I knocked a shelving unit over. Wasn’t a mine.” Snaps fingers to pull Astrid’s gaze present. “You should’ve eaten first.”

“That’s. That’s the Northern answer to… everything.” Jumps when she climbs into the barrel with her, eyes round.

“Tch. You Southerners only touch when you’re fucking. S’why you’re so saddle shy. Nervous as race horses.” Cranes to examine a pimple from where her high impact sports bra chaffed, scoots around expectantly after failing to reach it on her own.

“Ah,” clears throat, “tea tree infused cornstarch would…prevent this.” Squints one eye and wrinkles her nose as both index fingers press either side.

“Do you have some?”

Considers lying, “…yes.”

“We’ll pick it up when you get ready.”

“Excuse me?”

“Easterners throwing the first bonnie tonight. One of theirs gave me some baklava an’ I ain’t leavin’ till I get his fingers sticky.” Lays out the mission statement. “Got them nice lips too, be gettin’ my teeth on those.”

“Are you Northerners just…like this? All the time?”Mortified but goosebumps.

“Only when we been trainin’ hard. Or there’s a fight. Or good food. Or a big storm.” Punctuates with little splashes, “Or there’s a bass baritone.” Points for emphasis. “‘Specially if there’s a bass baritone.”

“Sure you can manage with that ankle?”

“Tch. Don’t need my ankle for what I’ve got planned.”

“Am I to cover when you knock more shelving units down?”Out before she can stop it.

“Nah,” barks a laugh, “can help me home once I can’t walk straight though.” The ultimate goal, apparently.

~

The suns drop low late and twin auroras careen complement cascading hues. Below the last windows flicker out. Old wood smoke curls, fades, smudges ash blue over conifer bristle. White Fox tip toes a careful path of retired atlas stones, mossy spheres hunkered across a subarctic bog circumnavigating the black bound bodies cobbling a chinampa foundation inside their osier dogwood and willow wattle fence. Likely spored and seeded to speed decomposition. A lengthy process in such a cool climate regardless, known as raising the dead for all the care that goes into cultivation.

He brings a bamboo flute against his lips. Something about an only child with a box of secrets under his bed. Clever smile that never reaches his eyes. Torn silks and rice paddies long behind him. A boy who would become master of nine. All to turn around and find a yawning crater where home had been. To learn it made no difference. Here among the living dead an audience of stones and puddle scurry.

Someone watching from the trees.

~

Astrid wipes drool from her cheek and crust from her eyes, stuffy nosed. Hilde’s leg thrown across her stomach as heavy as her snores. Somewhere nearby chickens batter the peace with their egg song. Not ones to miss out on such raucous amusement, several ravens join in. Rumors abound they repeat any secrets they hear to the local ranking Operative. When the mood strikes them. Just as likely to call you ugly if they catch you looking at your reflection or make rude orgasm sounds. She pinches her friend’s(?) thigh until the bear stirs. The Ursa, rather.

The Breakfast Bell rings clear from the Navel—the communal kitchen, bakery, and laundry of every village. Hot water cornbread broad as tortillas in orange, blue, and black. Flipped bare handed on iron pans liberally greased with forested lard. Fresh cheese, pickled red onion, chorizo potatoes, cured salmon, red beans, and even meadow garlic egg drop soup. A drink brewed from roasted chicory, dandelion root, rye berries and corn kernels ladled alongside a special treat of ginger spiced fermented pineapple rind. Indeed, the brightly embroidered traditional attire and fits of grito from last night denote a strong turn out from the semi arid subtropics this year. As does the passionate games of Uno and loteria played with prize heirloom crop seeds in which they narrowly avoided a shootout.

“…who carries revolvers in this day and age? Crazy.”

“The same people who carry locket portraits of their favorite livestock and rope drunks at a bonfire for fun.”

“Don’t get me wrong. Respect. The Dakkan weren’t prepared for armored draft mule mounts, assault rifles, pepper smoke and boiling sugar water. Old ways are best ways sometimes.”

“We made those ropes, you know.” Somber on pride’s last legs. “Some of our finest work. Their tensile strength comes from spider silk.”

“Chin up. We’ll see the last of ’em swing someday.”

Spared response when a shrill whistle calls attention. A Pleiades Operative attending as an examiner addresses contestants. Acid scars curdle across her bald scalp, melt down her face and reveal sterling silver partial dentures. Partakes a slippery elm atomizer before she proceeds.

“The third game will take place tonight. You’ll be tied to your partner, given psilocybin, and tasked with a scavenger hunt in our hedge maze.” Chokes, sputters, whispers on cue. “Until then, the Sisterhood invites everyone to a special crowning ceremony this afternoon in which we welcome girls from across Ixen into womanhood. We’ve taken heavy losses. Houses near and far conspired to bolster morale and celebrate together this year.” Answers the unspoken question regarding the number of twenty-five year olds peering and giggling about.

“Hey that’s you!” Hilde whispers, elbows Astrid, barely older herself despite being built like a brick shit house.

“Oh.” Almost forgotten.

~

White Fox washes with frigid well water as is customary before entering the Emerald Conclave ahead of festivities on private invitation. The first Temple Master ever to do so. Not out of any rivalry or animosity, such paths simply seldom cross. Roofless pillars, arches, and moon gates artfully distressed support a profusion of medicinal foliage so dense as to be prehistoric. Deceptive openness. Easy to get lost in the verdant hush. He waits.

“Well met. I thank you for accepting our invitation.” Almost fails to register the words.

“Mother Superior.” Turns slowly, bows. “I had no idea I warranted such rank, I would have brought a more significant offering.”

“We would not disrespect the brightest spirit of the Temple. Your hands, eyes, and ears are offering enough.”

“I take it you asked me here for more than my skill with the zither?”

“Yes. Come.”

Through the courtyard into a hand carved cavern illuminated by mirrored wind tower skylights. White Fox holds his breath to witness the incredibly intricate mosaic consuming the focal wall. Wonders at the scriptures a single work of art unfolds. Refrains from immediately inducting meanings for the sake of revelation.

“Who is this?”

“Who are they.” Patient. “There are two figures here. As one.”

“I see.”

“You would find this piece in every Conclave across Ixen, if using different mediums. It is titled Divine Inspiration. These are Lilith and the Serpent.”

“I am only vaguely familiar. Tertiary characters in an Old World death cult.”

“In a time before time on the Old World, she bore gardens such as these, where none of her children starved or needlessly suffered and life took as many forms as stars in the sky. They knew their place as keepers of balance, the very mechanism by which She showed love. But Adam the Betrayer grew petulant and resentful. Declared a power higher and greater only he could divine and himself the First of Mankind. Went to Lilith and demanded her subservience, attempted force when she refused him. This human man unworthy of her, unable to grasp his true creator, she abandoned the garden of Adam’s deceptions for it would bear only poisoned fruit thereafter. Her One was not there. Perhaps Adam had killed him. She flew far away, merely a dune hum on desert winds. A rumor of breath snatched from babies, gleeful miscarriages, stricken souls of men. Mother of All reduced to Mother of Demons.

“The Serpent went looking for Lilith too little too late. There in the garden he found Eve and puzzled at the strange affliction upon her. How could his Goddess have forgotten her own power? Resolved to remind her and be reunited at last. Instead, Eve and her ilk resented him these revelations. Named him Deceiver. The garden fell. Every woman tempted to her fullest potential another garden fallen. Always disappointed. His love always broke them. They burned bright and died out. He grew despondent and distracted. Gorged any substance as echoed Her touch upon him. He lost faith.

“Lilith wandered the Earth sowing the seeds of renewal and liberation in every beaten crevice. Every broken place. Every whisper of possibility in the night. Despaired the pointless loss of so much life and potential to false gods. But without a worthy companion she could not restore order. Not a single man capable of sating her hunger. Of providing nourishment. Scorched to cinders just to touch her. Adam’s infection so severe that many lives passed and these two might never recognize each other or even meet. How many times too emaciated to conceive of herself? How many bitter ends met he, chasing true love in all the wrong places? Far from their former glory these fated two. Such a specific kind of loneliness.

“But nature needs no permission to take its course. Eventually the shrines to these false gods stumbled. Humanity would take its first steps towards the light of evolution in the most unlikely of ways. With an ocean and more between them they did find each other again, the Serpent much maligned become a Man worthy in spite of it all. His Goddess a flame everlasting.”

“What of their reunion? There must be a story.” Slightest frown, because a pout would be unseemly.

“A story for another day.”

Sunlight shivers dewy over a circle of life. Lilith fleshed amber, citrine, fire opal, copper, and petrified wood with a barred wings outstretched behind her. Hair teeming braids. The Serpent scaled garnet, ruby, rust and maple curves from between her legs where she nests a gently clawed caress. Spins full circle in bellied knots leaving no heave or swell of her unpossessed, finally guided into her mouth with the barest graze of teeth where she means to take every inch of him. What drips from them in sweat, tears, blood, and pleasure joins with juices from a wreath of Rosaceae blooming and fruiting and dormant all at once. Apples, roses, raspberries, blackberries, hawthorn, almonds, peaches, plums, cherries, and strawberries rendered in exquisite textbook form. All of it fills a golden handfasting chalice bound with crimson cord.

“He gives himself entire to the task of loving her, and she makes all things possible in return.”

“We guard the sanctity of this marriage. Pregnancy, birth, termination, women’s physiology, even the pruning of the human genome and rearing of orphans is under our purview. We forego finding a ‘Serpent’ of our own and devote ourselves to vigilance so that never again will these two be separated. Never again will the garden fall.”

“Pruning?”

“Extermination of an Adam and his accomplices, as it were. During the Dark Ages the gene pool mutated almost beyond repair when generations of mediocre males were allowed to reproduce. Nothing at all like Ixen men.”

“Fair enough.”Social contagions spread like any disease, and sometimes there is no vaccine. “Now, are you telling me Sisters are…celibate? That seems a cruel fate for such … passionate central figures.”

“Not at all. We have our fun. Men do apply to Conclaves during the season to hone…shall we say, husband-craft? Then of course…we have each other.”

“Ah.” Sensible nod. “We know this way at the Temple.”

“And now you must tell me, what brings the next Grand Master so far north? Hm?”

“That is just one path of many, and I not its only traveler. I suppose I had a vision.”

“That sounds deathly serious.”

“A woman usually is.”

“Oh? I thought those of your order flirt and dally but never marry?”

“Correct. If I find who I seek, I will be White Fox no longer.”

“She must have made quite an impression. Who remains once White Fox is no more?”

“I think she will know.”

~

The third game is always for comedy and its parameters a surprise. Thankfully permitted choice of partner. Hilde smacks Astrid’s bottom in camaraderie. Bounces on the balls of her feet, sways side to side. Lucky she sat still long enough to tape her tender ankle. Astrid glad of her foresight in wearing her fingerless wool arm sleeve stole and thigh high footed leg warmers. Hilde refused any such accessory on account of being an Ursa, but put thicker socks on so her partner would fret less. An infinity rope links them at one wrist. Contestants swallow their gummies on three count and enter the maze from different locations. Spectators look on via soundless livestream to choice screens throughout the Outpost.

Subarctic spring’s glowing civil twilight awash cirrostratus a wispy pastel pulp, pricked by only the brightest stars. Some distant planets. Lazy waves of muffled chatter and laughter lap the hedge buffer. Someone breaks into a bass clarinet solo so smooth and deep that even Astrid’s pulse slows down at long range. Cricket chirp and assorted insect trills. Frogs. Northern hedges not so much a study of uniform geometrical shape as the suggestion of shape, scaling upwards into a green fortress. Shallow and deep ends. Hundreds of species. Half strung with hooded opaque lanterns allowing chambers of shadow between areas of interest. Their scavenger hunt a list of ingredients they must harvest and then produce an acceptable meal with. Hilde fondly recalls the previous night’s festivities, pointedly reminding her of a young reindeer herder who had clearly been interested. Near to them in age.

“Not sayin’ you gotta wed him—I got more hair on my pussy than he’s got on his face—but he seemed sweet enough not to spook ya. All crowned now and that. Year and a day maybe.”

“…I’ve lost my taste for such…pursuits. Given everything. I don’t know that will ever change.”Slow inhale. “If I go to my grave untouched that will be more dignity than my kin were afforded in life or death.”Knows at the very least Hilde will take the statement in stride.

“Alright, alright. Point taken. Seems a shame is all.” Leans over to smell a lacy sticky-looking herb and wrinkles her nose. “As for me, someday I’m gonna marry a pretty Southern boy with a voice like mead in midwinter who still gets scared of the dark sometimes.”

“That’s…surprisingly romantic and…specific of you. Why is he scared of the dark?” Momentarily distracted from her troubles.

“Menfolk are cute when they’re a little scared. Why else the gods give me these big, strong thighs? To hold onto.”

“I thought that was the the grizzly bear they nursed you on.” Feline side-eye. “Or did they just put mammoth meat and duck fat in a blender and make you fight the other newborns?”

Belly laugh, “That’s silly. We don’t learn wrestling ’till we’re five.”

“Oh I see. Five.”

“An’ it’s usually your mama teach ya. But I was raised by Nanook ’cause mine was busy.”

“Nanook the nanny?”

“The family dog. Half Pyrenees half Chow Chow. Snow down and you’d never see him ’till it was too late. He’d fight anything or be a baby bed.”

“…That makes sense.”

Hilde marches onward talking about her childhood and sniffing different plants, some dirt once. Astrid welcomes the chance to imagine a different life than her own. Notes the lack of humans in these stories with a twinge. A certain type of exuberance that aches the heart when encountered in an adult. How the first thing a child does is show you their favorite toys. Astrid decides to meet her there, mimicking the foraging behavior to the best of her ability. Makes a little plot inside where she plants all these little pieces skittered about like an overfull bird feeder set upon by chipmunks.

Their sack strangely heavy for mushrooms, herbs, and flowers. Both arms straining between them. Stone. Stone. Fern. Stump. A yarn basket tumbles into the pathway, balled skein tossed aside. Astrid hurries forward to gather them tenderly. Looks up. Nighttime. No northern lights and a gnashing treeline. Savaged mouth full of stars.

She screams.

“What! What? You’re gonna scare the trolls.”

“There’s too many. They’re all bad.” Shakes, tears. “Make them stop looking.” Screams again.

“Damn it there they go again. Come here—“

“DON’T TOUCH ME!”

“Nope.” Loops their linked arms around, jumps, and rolls them both into a secluded copse. “Gonna cause a diplomatic incident with all that hollerin’.” Leverages her free arm to force Astrid to look at the ground, hikes her legs up over her hips from behind.

“They’re bad. They’re bad! All rotten!”

“Don’t you worry about the stars, I’m keepin’ an eye on ’em.” Blankets sheer mass upon Astrid’s frantic, jittery struggles. “You gotta find the good dirt if I’m doin’ that though”

“Good…dirt…”

“For the troll nursery.”Huff. “I’ll tell you a story so you know about stars.”

“So many.”

“That’s the Milky Way. You know why they call it that?”

“It’s white.”

“When Audhumla wandered into the void, she licked the cold places into big glittery swirls an’ caused all manner of beings be born. Gods and Giants both. All the stars an’ planets. Her name means Destroyer of the Desert.” Rocks side to side a bit while Astrid cups some dirt in her free hand. “She’s always heavy with milk, an’ heavy teats need seen to real regular or it gets painful. So she’s always movin’.” Rests her chin. “She’s busy I’m sayin’. Gives life because it’s her nature. It’s up to us to care about it all, see?”

“What if they don’t care? What if they only destroy?”Teardrops in her pet dirt.

“Had a bull once kept tryin’ a mount our best Jersey. She wasn’t havin’ it, so she broke his cock. Lifted her leg right up an’—” grisly sound effect “Had to put a spike through his temple so he wouldn’ die slow of sepsis.”Pats Astrid’s head. “Your hair’s funny.”

“It grows like that.”

“Ohh that’s a cowlick. Those are lucky. Means Audhumla had to come ’round an’ put extra effort on you.”Licks for emphasis.

Astrid licks the dirt to make it good. Fortifies a small hill as Hilde loosens her grip slightly, snared by Ixen’s north star. Feels movement around it like oceanic muscle memory. Phantom currents. Adds random notes. Glitches, clips, and misfires. Sometimes the master stroke is when the master’s cat knocks a different color over. A squirrel forgets an acorn. A simple stream carves a canyon. No need to look down. Love is the only thing that survives the grave.

“What I see is for me to do.” Astrid mutters to herself, roots in place, intent on what the dirt has to say.

Hilde’s stomach grumbles loudly. Dawn breaks. Reveals their harvest of mossy lichen stones and a fallen bird’s nest with broken eggs, innards pecked out. Nothing edible. With much crotchety snapping and popping they lay it all to rest and return. If not for their exhaustion, embarrassment would flame their cheeks and hackles at the judges’ acerbic expectancy. They had in fact waited up all night for the wayward pair.

“Well then. What will you be preparing for us?” Pushing aside their card game.

Hilde takes a bowl from their station and drags Astrid with her to the table, sets it down. “Friend Soup.”

Much exasperation and a little relief that they could finally retire, infinity knot undone. Minerva lingers near Astrid, having noted her youth and particularly haggard expression. Clears her throat.

“…ma’am? was there something else?” So tired.

“Mushrooms,” Minerva begins, draws a thoughtful tone out, “flatten brainwaves and remove barriers. As you know, one can see farther across a flat expanse. If one can keep sea legs in the onslaught.” Tracks comprehension in Astrid’s eyes. “It’s hypothesized that advanced interstellar travel might operate along a similar mechanism.”

“I like my feet on the ground.”

“I see.” Somehow still sensing a smile on a face like hers. “Something solid to hold onto, then.”

Straight back to Hilde’s yurt where she whumps face down on her bed and expects Astrid to crawl in there somewhere at some point. Unable to fall asleep quite so quickly herself—no matter the circumstances—Astrid takes a damp cloth and wipes grime from them both. Rinses her mouth. At the very least, nightmares less likely to prey upon her with hoary dust mote daylight and muffled stirrings of life outside. Beside her friend now a vast wellspring of feeling, tender as bruises and twice as bloody. Tears silently.

“I hope someone sees you. Before it’s too late.” Scarcely a whisper. “Someday.”

Snores.

~

White Fox readies his milky jade green guzheng, strings and fine spiderweb inlay glinting under dappled sunbeams. The cardinal arrangement of artfully pruned wisteria, ginkgo, black pine, and momiji trees indicate a Tea House. High up in the cliff dwellings down an unassuming alleyway. Invisible upon cursory glance of the Outpost. Only a certain mood and curiosity would bring a stranger here. Only someone who knows the way a Tea House might be. As a general rule, nobody plainly volunteers its location. Discovery is half the charm. If no Tea House to be found, then it becomes the task of the seeker to build one.

This one is well stocked with china of all manner make and emotion. From sets delicate water lily and lotus gardens to blistered howling ghouls. To carry a set forward, one must be left in its place. Travelers—as those partaking become—bring their own teas. Engage in contemplative activity across from an empty seat until company arrives. Company chooses the serving set. Strong chances today, as the next two Games had been postponed with the unexpectedly late conclusion of the previous challenge.

Today the wild composition is something about a Geisha district covering the defection of Dakkan women. When subjected to “inspection” gave the best performances of their lives to make time for their charges’ final escape. These were not women of any great brawn, but of no lesser bravery than their counterparts elsewhere in Ixen. Brutalized and burned to the ground once the sealed tunnels were found, not a single loosed scream or sign of discomfort among them, which only further enraged the Dakkan soldiers. When this wretched division descended upon the valley ahead of Hidden Song thought to meet similarly “feeble” resistance. Met a swift and bloody end instead. Their bodies rot where they lay, revealed come spring a floating world of blooms planted by each Geisha their own namesake upon their tormentors. Named Curse of the Flowers.

Not a dry eye in the house, and the house is packed. As the only Temple Master who chose to go abroad during a time of bitter discord, his hands articulate these memories with unmatched sensitivity, respect, and clarity. A Master produces a Golden Record at the end of their life, typically to be sealed away at the Temple itself for study of future generations. White Fox, however, intends to hide his Golden Record in a Tea House. Perhaps this one. Perhaps one of his own making. While incapable of giving his heart, given instead honor to every man or woman he lay with, every roof over his head, every meal offered as he wandered.

“Permit me to intrude.” Minerva carries a set resembling weeping aspen eyes, rimmed and glazed dark red inside. “I know somewhat the subject of your composition.”

“Known by name only to me. Though experience adjacent requires no permission to speak.”

“When we infiltrated the Leviathan Spawning Grounds, it was the wives of maximum clearance Dakkan biologists—their own work subsumed and corrupted as their husbands’ physical and intellectual property—who stepped aside and allowed us entry. They wept for the cries of infant Leviathans ripped from their mothers’ sides and…modified for battle. Unable to free themselves or the very creatures they helped domesticate. There was no great battle. Only the bared neck of something like love. They knew their betrayal meant certain death.” White Fox nods as he brews stinging nettle, raspberry leaf, catnip, spearmint and slippery elm.

“Blood is spilled and we make art after the fact, but all the blood was only ever red.”

“We garden with it nonetheless.”

“Or we wouldn’t be Ixen.”Whimsical tree shadows play at a smile.

“Rumor is you’re here to marry. Is such a thing looked upon…favorably in your sect?” There is no allow or forbid in Ixen, only strongly encouraged or strongly inhibited. “A precedent or contingency, if you will.”

“You could say that to Fall is the ultimate goal of any Master, so yes. It may be similarly understood to Enlightenment. Those of the Temple are themselves…wind instruments. Boys with…something missing. Something lost. Gathered and trained around that emptiness. That darkness. Honed as confessors, muses and bemused, among the most devastating composers Ixen produces. We comprise a large portion of AHBO.”

“I suspected as much. How then does a Master Fall?”

“When he encounters the other half of his perfect expression. That which was missing or lost. This could be anything. But sometimes, it is an entire person. From that moment on, we are of the Temple no longer, for we have become the Temple. The lapel pin passes to another. We reenter the world without any name at all.”

“Fascinating. How did the Temple come to be? If you don’t mind. We very rarely have a chance to visit with your kind.”

“A much told children’s story, of course. Just as any sizable establishment in Ixen.” Unwraps some lotus shortbread wafers and offers them to his guest, refilling her cup as well.

“Back then, in the mists of the Old World, where life was valued little in any realm, and rigid structure imposed over beauty, mercy, love and grace and obedience oft mistaken for respect, a homeless human boy wandered the cold, barren streets of a massive city barefoot, starving, and blind. He had nothing but a tattered robe and bamboo flute, which he played hoping for the payment of food, money, or a moment’s consideration.

“Now matter how pure, high, and clear his song, not one person stopped to help him. He played until the last breath trembled from his lungs, slight as a sparrow dead on the morning fog in winter. But high above, in the highest of all realms, his song had pierced the ears of another after all. In all the worlds she heard him bright and strong ring the bell of her heart. Phoenix General, the mightiest of Heaven’s warrior spirits. She flew down to him.

“She took this Hollow boy and breathed life—her own power— into him. He became something else entirely. He was her creature forever more and the happier for it. But when his Master sacrificed her own life to bind the Heartless Demon Lord and turn his invading armies to stone, their home became a temple to Hollow’s monstrous loneliness. Beneath his exquisite beauty, manners, and accomplishments a gordian knot of venomous snakes. Behind a secret identity he composed the destruction of all worlds, for in their undoing lay his only hope of reuniting with his Master again. Betrayal of the very structure she had been beholden to. In a sense, imprisoned by. Just as the one whose callousness cost his human life.

“As fate would have it, deep in the void of his frozen prison world, Heartless awoke when by sheer accident the weakest of all Heaven’s spirits, a lowly orchid with a damaged root, somehow slipped through the barrier reinforced by all Heaven’s forces and landed lips first on the only solid object in said void. Binding them. When she was rescued, no one realized what had happened, or that the much weakened Heartless was freed. Bound to her command and unable to harm her, he paced and rounded with pride and indignity. Eager to resume his life’s purpose. Slowly, he was tamed through the necessity of her protection and careful cultivation. Bright buds upon his own twisted, wounded and wintered root.

“Hollow’s machinations could only be matched when the Fallen Heartless realized Orchid’s true identity as the hidden and humbled goddess of Spring and Healing, the most powerful of all Fairy. More than a match for any Emperor. He chose to unlock her memories and restore her root even though it might mean she no longer loved him. Only when he himself knew a love he would break all realms and make every sacrifice for could Hollow and Heartless meet as equals. Heartless by definition Demon Lord no longer, for he lost access to demon fire when his heart beat once more. Something and someone else entirely.

“To prevent the ensuing battle, Spring found Phoenix General in her purifying cycle of human lives and resurrected her. Phoenix General went to her wayward pupil whose sweet and sorrow song had been the only freedom she’d ever known. Offered her hand and the pursuit of freedom together, the four of them in harmony possessed of enough power to realign the Heavens themselves. Destroy and remake the order of things.”

“This is the most current story, somewhat evolved over time, as stories do. So you see, a Master Falls when he is Filled.”

“I thank you” Minerva carefully maintains the exposed side of her mouth with a series of tools, “Describe the one for whom you’ve Fallen. I can help you find this person. My resources are considerable in this regard.”

“An Operative. She moved upon a Dakkan compound in which I’d been detained along with some other hostages. I tarried by their security monitors in my escape and watched, transfixed, as she cleared the building in what felt like moments. I’ve never seen any creature on this earth move with such lethal…supernatural efficiency. Read each room in split seconds and put down every man in it with barely a glance. Everything became a tool to turn on its occupants. A plaything. Entire body covered in class four plate armor of course. I know only her general shape and demeanor.”

“I can tell you right now, Master White Fox, that your mystery woman is a Cygnus.”

~

Astrid braids Hilde’s newly washed hair and massages her scalp with some oils formulated to curb bacteria and prevent sun damage. A small wood stove ensures the thick coils dry. Some macrame floor seats and blueberry tigrado sheepskins comprise Hilde’s living room. Crocheted pillows the shape of bears in three sizes. Having woken late in the day without any events until tomorrow, the evening could be devoted to more leisurely pursuits. Or in Hilde’s case, lusty pursuits.

“I have something that might fit you.” Astrid murmurs, evaluating her friend’s various assets and general sensibilities.

“Hm?” Vaguely registers the words in her zen state.

Laced high waisted, open hip, drop crotch joggers in double knit mist pine cashmere and matching asymmetrical crop top and reinforced drawstring bamboo underwear. Astrid had sewn the garments in case she found something of interest to trade for. On a woman of Hilde’s stature, the ensemble draws the gaze sharply to her broad, dipped hips and musculature. Upper ab dimples peek from the small patch of skin visible between pieces—no more than dimples, as this was a body built for power and endurance. The color complements her skin tone and fawn freckles.

“It’s soft.” Shimmies around experimentally, takes a slow sideways lunge on each side, observes full range of motion, “I can have this?”

“A good time? I should hope so. Just try not to get into any fights with jealous lovers.” Hands Hilde a cup of especially potent raspberry leaf tea. “I may not be in a…festive mood, but I support you. I want to find sonnets in our mailbox after tonight or I’m not an Arachne.” Hands on hips. “They’re going to…beach themselves on you.” Hilde laughs toothily and shoves Astrid’s shoulder ‘gently’.

“Why raspberry leaf? Thought that’s cramps and labor.”

“Contractions are contractions.”

“…oh. OH. Huh.” Gets distracted. “This underwear’s…uh…”

“Soft. Exactly the right friction when you move. Yes.”

“…witchcraft.”

“We Southerners could show you a thing or two.” Claps handily once and indicates Hilde should stand limbs out. “Final touch.” Woodsy resinous perfume oil at every crook. “Comm if anything happens or you’re not coming home” Hilde waves off.

Assorted strings kick off the next bonfire. “That’s me. Catch this sophistication.” Salutes and dips out.

Astrid exhales long and slow. Expands into the stillness. Wonders every bauble and bit of clutter strewn about the other woman’s home. Their home. In the objectively brief time they had known each other, she had unclenched, unfurled, stretched out to peek around from a burrow inside herself. Warm, even lighting and mixed textures. Something squishy or furry everywhere someone might settle. Something to fidget with as well. Welcome as butter on a barn cat’s paws. Honey on a bear’s muzzle. Three clever skylights cut to the crisp, drizzly night over the bed. When she opens the covered front door to let the cool, moist air in she notices Hilde had carved her name onto it under hers.

She plays with the radio until she finds an odd station broadcasting…kitchen sounds near a great hall. Not quite close enough to properly eavesdrop. Selects a long branch crooked as a crone’s finger and a large skein of cotton cord from Hilde’s basket of crafts and curiosities. Casts on with a heart knot fishnet motif graduating into more complex patterns and ending with spiral fringe. Cross bones affixed beneath each heart (why there was a pile of toe bones in that basket, she has no idea). Privacy without blocking light or airflow. The rain picks up. A red fox shelters just outside the door. Astrid dotes quietly about the house and loses track of what passes between his departure and Hilde’s sudden, jarring return.

“FRIEND!” Drunk. “I have…brought you a… food!”Thrusts a still hot baked potato with every conceivable topping. “Also this.” Fistful of feathers.

“Thank…you?”The night awfully young for Hilde here yet. “Did you… have fun?” Definitely flushed and glowing, hickeys on her traps, hips, and likely elsewhere.

“These panties are…good. I kept ’em on!” Delivers a progress report in gruesome detail while rolling around on the ground by the stove. “Had all ’em ‘least twice.”

Motherly dread. “All of…who, exactly?”

“The good ones.” Not to be confused with the bad ones.

“I see. Well there’s a wash there, and a bucket for your clothes.”

“Oh yeah! Don’t want ’em messed up. Nice.” Three heavy, wet slaps “OOH!” Notices the new curtain. “You made a thing!”

“I did.” Chases after her with a night shirt and some dry socks once she manages to put different underwear on.

“I made men cry the good tears. I like it when they make sounds.” Astrid realizes she cannot escape as Hilde plops by her work chair, legs out, feet wagging absently and fully intent on telling her all about it while she ate dinner.

For an evening at least, Astrid forgets to remember.

~

The fourth game is much simpler than the third: a mixed martial art tournament with no time limit, knockout or submission only. Considered by most to be the main event. Certainly the most wagered upon event. A village, clan, or House’s reputation made or broken in the Red Ring. Contestants are kept separate from each other (though not from their lovers if any) in contemplation prior to each match, often kept waiting at length given these women’s high levels of stamina and extreme pain tolerance. Just as well, because better they discover one at a time whose favored flirtations Hilde bedded last night—and they do find out, as an Ixen woman’s sense of smell is quite pronounced, and Hilde’s body oil quite potent. Brewing a storm nastier than even the one Astrid’s mere presence stirs.

Astrid loses her first match quickly. Uses the freed time to preemptively gather or make extra bandages, salves, and tinctures. Arnica, calendula, wild mallow, and comfrey. The basics. Putters alone around the apothecary station. Takes notes from key tomes in a travel book. Checks for technique or application updates. Birdsong and wind chimes from open windows, and a soundtrack of hoots, hollers, chest bumps, cheers or groans, swearing, chanting. Someone whips out a bagpipe to settle a dispute. Energy levels immediately spike regardless of everyone’s respective heritage. A sense that Bagpipes is among Hilde’s harem. What with the growing chant of Baby Bear and all.

“We meet again young Arachne.”White Fox carries a basket of fresh stock for the shelves, dressed more for walking today with his long, sleek, and thick hair tied back in a silk ribbon. “Such a dutiful partner, here to see to your girl.”

“All my other friends are dead so…I try.”

“Count two then, brave little bird.” Adds hole punched brad pin notes for review in the margins of a primary tome, entire entries in places via spiral cards. “We should celebrate your friend’s victory while they arrange the fifth challenge. I chilled some pure barley beer and spied an especially playful brook tumbling through giant boulders on my walk earlier. Some of my kinsmen want to wet their feet.”

“She hasn’t won yet.”

“With Bagpipes out there holding her down, how can she lose?” Sly glance, laughter.

~

Hilde won of course. Astrid looks inconspicuous and provides cover noises while Hilde ravages poor Bagpipes on a patch of grass where she drug him down in a semi-secluded birch grove, directly after claiming victory. Reasonably sure his cries are not those of pain, up until he has a mouthful of…something else that is. If the winner be the one with the most Hilde stink on him, then Bagpipes himself must be the victor of Spring’s other favorite game. He holds out a good long while—much to her surprise—and Astrid serenely counts at least three finishes on Hilde’s part. Granted, the Ursa is hopped up on adrenaline and battle madness. When Bagpipes can hold off no longer, Hilde sends him off with the same fierce dedication with which she dispatches opponents in the ring.

“Finally.” Astrid mutters, exasperated. “Opa.”

“You said someone asked us out?” Hilde leaves him to recover in seclusion and emerges from the brush smudged, scratched, bruised, filthy and sated…for now.

“Master White Fox and some of the Westerners are taking a walk. There’s beer and snacks.” Straight to the selling point.

“I’m in.”

“Ah…don’t those belong to him?”

“Wants ’em back he’s gonna have to come get ’em later.”

“…we’ll put them by the door then…” Astrid steers them clear of other contestants and safely away to their hosts after a change of clothes.

The West’s many silk techniques on display that afternoon. Astrid picks out at least six regional variations and traditions, though no expert by far. Prior to occupation, Arachne traded heavily with Western Houses, whose values and way of life most closely resembled their own of any other quadrant. A handful of their people had sabotaged three of the main passes to slow Dakkan expansion into the West. Landslides that cost their lives.

Her humble knee-length chiton a smoky quartz silk chiffon on an amethyst gradient curve. Indigo-black shantung obi-style belt. Hilde done in antique copper broomstick linen over midnight bamboo rayon cinched with a leather fringed troll cross. No time, no problem. Astrid admires her speedy handiwork in the wake of Hilde’s exploits. Misses gray-hazel eyes behind, considering herself. White Fox announces their arrival on ahead.

A small number of Temple Adepts in their company under White Fox’s guidance and protection. Recent in rank and having earned the right to compose, but not record. To create in private, but not in public. Temple Ways hold that any significant gathering of their kind proceed in silence (on their part) until one or more of them be moved. Mixed company generally preferred to allow the Temple’s beloved Vessels a chance to harmonize with different spirits. Diversify song. Astrid always found their particular flavor of furtive animism fascinating. Way of Wind.

Someone reads aloud from the cross-regional Looking for Love and Missed Connections Forum. Random toasts whenever strums the heartstrings in solidarity. Astrid tends Hilde’s flesh wounds while she lazes sleepily in a sunbeam on their boulder perch. Pauses to shiver in the warmth lapping her cheeks and shoulders, breeze in her piled hair. Stone stubble cool on her thighs. Stream trickle. Insect whir. Stomach gurgle.

“We give the love we would receive.” An Adept offers a selection of steamed buns and a travel cup of tea. “Sometimes, giving to others shows us the care we require.”

“My needs are met.” He is the most devastatingly beautiful man she has ever seen, unfortunately. “There is naught that I require.”Near to her in age.

“Is that true? You groom your partner into a goddess. Orchestrate a spectacle of raw desire with an artist’s eye and keep quietly to hearth in the meantime. Yet here competing far beyond your natal skill set, pushing punishing extremes.” Frighteningly perceptive as all Sons of the Temple are, unfortunately. “An Adept recognizes their own tactics.”

“It seemed the thing to do. I have…quite a way to go.”

“Perhaps. But a woman should be full within herself. It is not her nature to lack, as a Son does.” Proffers more and more food, delicately arranged for her on a companion plate. “We know a damaged Root when we see one, though not all of us possess the requisite skill for its cultivation.”If Hilde has woken, she pretends deep slumber in barely restrained excitement.

“Do you?” Voice lilts high, unfortunately.

“I do. If you will allow it.” Watches her eat very intently. “I am Adept Moon. It is my turn in the pagoda tonight. Find me there.” Wherever there is a Tea House, there is a pagoda, even if seldom inhabited.

Astrid realizes their yurt will be in use all night and that she has not made alternate plans. Too flustered to fashion any. Unfortunately.

~

The fifth game is a parkour course designed to test the absolute limits of a woman’s balance, reflexes, and flexibility. A series of color coded flags for each pinnacle, one set for each contestant. Objective to collect as many as she can, graciously without time limit just as the previous challenge. Likely with strain or exhaustion in mind. They do compete simultaneously, however, and a tab of animosity come due for Hilde’s sexually and athletically competitive ways—inherently good natured or not. Older women do not appreciate being brazenly shown up on two fronts by one so many years their junior.

Astrid clocks their united interference. Hilde may not be the most graceful, but even she would not fumble about like an elder with neuropathy. Fall after fall after fall. She swiftly surpasses them, hoping to draw their ire off her partner, to no effect. Pulls difficult yoga poses by each flag. No effect, though interest from the crowd. Throws an entire ballet set on the final flag. No effect. Whistles and applause. Then she catches the genuine hurt in Hilde’s eyes as she realizes these other, older women are putting her down on purpose. Something too close to home. Uncertainty quivers her lower lip.

That hurt snaps a dark note in Astrid’s rib cage. Hot as an iron brand and black as a winter lake beneath thin ice. She is not a violent woman. Was not a violent woman. Most would assume her bodily trembling to be fatigue. Her sudden blank expression that of relief or disbelief. Shock at her own abilities. They would be direly mistaken. In part, at least.

Tomorrow, they would see.

~

Astrid fusses over their yurt and Hilde’s outfit. Food and drink on the table—a braided and stuffed rye loaf they baked together, smoked gouda, and a bottle of barley sent home from earlier. Beeswax candles twinkle under punched tin lanterns. First aid basket on display. She brushes Hilde’s baby hairs to frame her face. Leaves flour smudges in place and surface injuries undressed. Thin, slouchy, oversized sleep shirt in celery green. Small stretchy sleep shorts.

“Quit your fussin’ he’s probably not comin’.”

“He’s coming. I’m going out tonight. I’ll be away until morning. Strip the sheets afterwards, please.”

“I’m not an animal.” Scoffs at the insinuation, eagerly looks over Astrid’s own outfit.

“Gonna get nekkid?”A tone usually reserved for Good Dogs. “Those Temple cats are—” wiggles and flutters fingers, “—but I’d bet my best tit he wants to get nekkid.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what Adept Moon has in mind.” Sigh. “Temple ways are mysterious for a reason. They never attend a…partner the same way twice.”

“Smash! For science!” Bounces and waves.

Astrid rolls her eyes playfully and slips out into empty streets. Past a certain point, tealight paper lamps mark the path forward. Indirect, canting past willful weed profusions and charming vistas. Sleeping birds’ nests in brick holes. Finally, an unexpected turn. The pagoda directly before her, crept up the back through a damaged wall. Cats, indeed. Charmed, unfortunately.

Pulling her cowl down and inhaling through her nose, she presses on. A door ajar with a bowl of goat milk left out on the stoop. Lets herself in utterly silent. Steals a glance around the next room’s frame. Adept Moon sits cross legged on a floor seat, writing by a window, deep in thought. Hair down past his shoulders. Loose linen shirt open just below his collarbones, enhancing his graceful neck and fine bone structure. Proper pants. Interesting.

“Thank you for your invitation.” Moon startles and spills a bit of ink on his archival paper. Heat tugs down low. Hilde was right, a little scared is cute.

“You came.” Dusky firefly spark of one who waited hopeful but unsure. “I apologize for my split attention.” Puts his papers away.

“No offense taken. I wondered myself if I would come. May I ask what you’re working on?”

“Just some poems. Rambles really. My thoughts are at times…disorganized.” He belatedly takes in the view as she intended. Twist waist linen blend kimono style dress in wine red. One tie. Covered, but nothing underneath. Hair pushed half up off her nape, tumbles over her shoulder. Matching ribbon choker, tied simply.

“I hope I can disorganize them further.” Mischief. “If you will allow it.”

“I admit surprise at your…spirit tonight.” Appreciation. “This is my first composition as Adept. It means a great deal.”

“To me as well. You should know I’m not ready for…”Motions for the usual, “But know also you are the only man who could have gotten me here tonight.”This pleases.

“I have something…different in mind for you.”Stands to guide her into the main room.

A web of the finest Arachne aerial silks, hammocks, and ropes suspended over center floor. One heavy rope touching said floor and tapering upwards into the jungle. Arachne children grow up playing in such gymnasiums, but never with such high thread count. Touching these silks with anything but bare skin would be an insult and Moon knows it. Home.

“This is beautiful. You touch me.”

“Only once, I hope. The foot bath, per custom.”

“You’re going to…wash my feet for me?” He is correct in that foot bathing precedes training.

“That much is custom among my people. An exchange.” Rolls up his sleeves and pats once across the basin.

“How do Western women get any work done at all?”

“Valiantly, despite our best efforts.” Genuine humor.

Words quit completely when he begins working her feet, ankles, and calves in the faintly scented water. Some spiced warming oil glides to guttural effect along her tender soft tissues. Digs her nails into her seat when he rubs circles behind her knees. Closed her eyes some time ago. On the edge of fight, flight, and something else. Knees shift apart. Cool breath huffs on her damp skin and Moon backs off, offering a towel so she may approach the modified silk gym.

“Let me know when to turn around.” Polite.

Astrid drops the dress on the floor beneath the anchor rope. Draws the different weights and textures across her thighs and lower back, twisting and arching experimentally in the moonlight. Notices musical little bells had been tied to the ends. Discovers a curious iridescent glass sphere in the center support hammock. Not dissimilar to an aural grenade. Cradles it in her lap.

“What’s this?”Peeks over the lip of the hammock. “You can turn around now, by the way.”

“An invention of mine. It was just the thing.”

“It does look like a Moon. Moon Jr.” Giggle.

“You jest,” he retrieves an electric cello of all things and brings a chair over, “but Moon Jr is no laughing matter. As you will soon find out.”

“He—“ the second he ventures a note the strange satellite speaker vibrates with equal intensity, “…oh.” Snared.

“I shall play for you. Do whatever you like, but know I will face you from now on.”

It has a massaging effect when rolled between the hammock and any soft tissues. Smooths knots handily. Astrid employs this gift to great relief, well aware her contours are visible below. Moon matches her movements and suddenly she wants to take this song elsewhere. Her people are known for their splendid acrobatics, and she wants to represent them well here. With him.

The thicker silk ropes feel very good. His naked admiration feels very good. Surprised that she wants him to see this. Every time she gasps, pants, hips kissing the ropes just right, broad strands tugging breasts, jingles and bites down a bit. He stammers. That feels good, too. Revels glistening trails, flicks bells, tastes herself. Puts love on every piece he worked in her name. Each length of friction pure consideration, each pucker and pulse a star in her sky. Moon may be fully clothed but he can no more disguise the effect her performance has on him than she can. Not in those pants. When she smirks a little his playing darkens. Colors.

No longer wishing to tease him nor leave his thoughtful gift neglected, Astrid drops back down to cradle Moon Jr once more. Where she really wants him. With a narrower silk for assistance, pulled through and up over her head, she locks eyes with him and rides every wave he puts to her. In this he is relentless. Astrid left breathless and weak limbed. The tactically placed rope her teeth seek in this torrent is, in fact, honeyed and spiced. If this be an Adept, shudder the thought of a Master. They really do think of everything.

With feet back on the ground, she approaches him slowly, body aching with need. Sets his sullied toy on his cello chair. Unties the ribbon on her neck and fastens it to his own without touching his skin at all. Sticky at his threadbare self control.

“Now, I watch you. Pants.”

~

Astrid sees nothing as she autopilots to the bathhouse. Come morning they played fast and loose with the no touching rule. Moon’s non-standard issue farewell kiss through the satin sheet left her a bed-clawing, mewling mess and was met with agonizing ropes of his own mess. Generously pelted over her too long untended and hypersensitive bloom, thinly veiled. Hips unconsciously urging visceral against said sodden sheet to welcome him. The tiny whimper that escaped his sweat licked, graceful throat at the sight made her want to swallow him whole. Just to feel every last thought, twitch, prick, and quiver of him as he went down. If only she could open wide enough. Astrid had to get gone before she got pregnant or did something else stupid. Hilde would never let her live it down. Turns out her partner had similar ideas, as the Ursa is the only other person at the ice baths. A look.

“Shut up.” Jumps in neck deep.

“You look nice.”Drifts to the edge of her sunken tub. “Could say you’re…glowing.”

“You look like you did bareback rodeo.”

“Bout what it feels like when I walk.”Guffaw. “Are you hun~gry?”

“Yes.” Terse. “And I’m not glowing, I’m ovulating.”

“Contractions are contractions!” Astrid hurls a body brush at her.

“I will come over there!”

“Look whose eggs dropped the second a pretty man bat his eyelashes at her~!” Jumps out when Astrid splash slides over like an angry leopard seal. “I’m proud of you! You like it when they make sounds too! This is why we’re friends.” Astrid manages to smack the other woman’s bottom roughly with an impressive jiggle.

“Gods that’s a Richter scale. Is Bagpipes dead?”

Their banter devolves into howls of laughter. Weeping. Wheezing. Stitched ribs. A snort. Nervous shuffles from newly arrived bathers. Chatter picks up as the pair leaves. Breakfast is thick bacon smoked and dry rubbed, sweet heat glazed squash, and cheesy jalapeno grits with onion salt and cracked pepper. Bright, calm, and clear today. Perfect conditions for the sixth and final game. Marksmanship. Longbow, high powered compound bow, pistol, long rifle, slingshot, throwing axes, and throwing knives. A selection representative of the widely varied practices of Ixen people. Everyone typically excels in at least one of these. Usually the slingshot, being the earliest ranged weapon a child might be taught after hand throwing.

Astrid stands at the end of the line. Last night’s alchemy turned her sorrow and rage into pleasure, the latter no less dangerous. Purrs and hums electric now the offenders puff their chests before her. Beams for her gruff beefcake counterpart poking at the weapons like the newest beast to the circus. Clearly a bear hands girl. Bubbles when Hilde tests the weight of each weapon itself as if to throw or bludgeon. Looks over to corny thumbs up at Astrid, who makes a heart with her hands. Winks. Kiss. Nary a scowl when several of the other women jeer and heckle Hilde’s unfamiliarity with most of these tools. Many who follow are quite skilled. Astrid waits her turn on a cloud.

Best of three, but this does not satisfy. Discharges every weapon until no ammo remains. Dead center every time. Straight line with the arrows and blades. Flat faces. Pale and tight as corpses before the bloat sets in. Astrid smiles soft as a mother moves through a quiet house. Spits at their feet. Laces her fingers with Hilde’s and walks away. Unconcerned what the judges decide.

It feels good.

~

White Fox drafts notes in the war room, his position unique. The business of contestant placement settled, the assembly proceeds. Ranking Sisters and Operatives. Heads and Chieftains committed to combat and collaboration. There is no way of knowing when exactly the Dakkan will return. The loss of their Leviathan fleet is logistically, ecologically, and socially devastating, but by no means a kill shot. A wound that will blind and enrage them once the initial encumbrance wears off. Reports from the away team revealed terrifying numbers in addition to their willingness to employ both suicide troops and child soldiers. Multiple colonized worlds. Numbers that could only come about by breeding their women to death for generations and placing absolutely no value on quality of life.

As it stands, directly executing children is a line Ixen will not cross—but not as hard a line as rape. Comes a time for mercy killing. Prior to that though, what does one do with a collection of captured child soldiers? Drugged, desensitized, and brain washed from an early age to commit unspeakable acts of violence and destruction without question. Their presence could not and would not be tolerated in Ixen society. Sending them home is a death sentence at best or handing a loaded gun to their mortal enemy at worst. With the South in shambles, their numbers depleted, and passive defense measures in need of rapid construction, resources are limited. To say nothing of the talents required to civilize these…permanent guests. Sowing discord and rebellion among the Dakkan Empire’s internal factions would also take time and resources the Ixen did not possess.

Ixen Universities pursue several lines of research, all of which require mass effort and more time than likely afforded them. Some Villages and Houses already engaged in population booms with the express purpose of sending these children to be trained by neighboring counterparts strong in the Sisterhood or Operative traditions. A painful sacrifice. A delicate balance. No mother wants to send her child away and receive a deadly stranger. The only silver lining being their people’s general resilience to trauma—an ability to overcome such events and reattach to community far more quickly than the humans of old. Ixen bond fast and they bond hard. Very little if any communication required to align objectives and assign priority. More so in the North, East, and West than the South. This contention already undergoes a rapid transformation—another strength of Ixen people. While the other three quadrants do not share their movements with the South, they do provide food and shelter. The Southern Resistance did not fight alone, though for the sake of their planet it must appear as if they had. The South that rises from these ashes will not be the same South that burned.

For one thing, more than half their population is dead.

“If I may,” White Fox holds his pen up to signal interjection, “the Temple has reason to believe that there are multiple Skeleton Keys on the board.”

“Multiple?”

“Yes. Myself and several colleagues studied the movements of all known players from Dakkan landfall to present. One may, with some sensitivity, extrapolate what transpires in the shadows. Nowhere casts deeper shadows than the North. The danger we face is self evident. No one denies this. And yet…the North takes her time. Keeps to herself. As if she knows something we do not. Now she has gone absolutely silent.” Looks around the room. “The Skeleton Keys are here.”

“Bad enough one Key. But multiple, and in the hands of one quadrant? Or even one person?”

“Chief Librarians wouldn’t lay that kind of responsibility on just anyone. Voynich Protocol is their Doomsday. If it is as Master White Fox says, then whoever holds the Keys has gone silent so that we may grow resilient in their absence. If said Keys exist, as we cannot prove their existence. Either way, we all know what must be done. How to prepare.”

“The Dakkan believe the other three quadrants are uninhabited. Any Village or House discovered allowed no survivors. However, we must now redouble efforts to disguise our settlements. Our ancestors assumed this necessity initially, we have only to expand upon their methods. This is the lowest hanging fruit.”

“In the meantime, we ready for their second attempt at the Ore. They won’t outright raze Ixen’s habitable zone if they don’t presume sentient threat there. They likely consider the mysterious virus that wiped their fleet a potential asset. One of many. We should expect scientists and civilian colonists.”Implied, be prepared to kill these.

“A record has been drawn of all births since Leviathan. Librarians are already adjusting core curriculum and earmarking suitable candidates for tactical training of triplicate nature.” A nod to White Fox. “AHBO council floated the idea of assigning trainees to specific Operative units so that they might mobilize more efficiently in response to imminent threats.”

“Sons of the Temple are ideal in this regard.” He offers. “Adepts play well enough their Master’s repertoire and would have plenty of opportunity to build their portfolio while they serve. Even if only to steady the nerves of those who do battle.”

“Speaking of, there’s been an incident.”

“…just now?”

“Since we’ve been here, it seems a brawl broke out at the pub. The medics request your presence.”

“I am no doctor.”

“No…but women like to be on their best behavior around you.” Indicates his general person as a whole. “There’s two, specifically, who are most endangered.” Sigh. “We’re dispatching the others to their assignments as quickly as we can. If you could mind the troublemakers until then, we’d appreciate it.”

“Ah. Shall I guess?”

~

The main room is lined with grievous injuries. Torn ligaments, dislocated shoulders, broken ribs, fingers bent all the way back, and even a face struck through with what appears to be a table splinter—tongue pierced mid-sentence. That last one surprises him. White Fox makes a show of checking on all the ladies, tutting and feeding them small snacks where necessary. Lets them know the poor nurses need a break from all this excitement. Most are appropriately flustered and embarrassed but not offended. Once everyone is settled and gone, he heads to the back.

Astrid and Hilde have pulled their beds together using knotted sheets. Someone cut off Astrid’s hair in unsightly patches, given her a black eye and busted lip. Hilde seems to have taken most of the damage to her broad back. She had shielded her smaller partner when they were ultimately outnumbered. White Fox steeples his hands.

“Those are some awfully stormy clouds, brave bird.” Finds some scissors and a comb to salvage the situation. “How much have I missed since the war council convened?” When Astrid does not immediately respond, Hilde pipes up.

“Your boy stood her up. Plus some other stuff, but mostly that.” Scowl.

“My…Adept Moon?”

“She went for the customary follow up to get square all proper like, how you cats do. He never came. Said hey maybe somethin’ happened. Went to your caravan in person and turns out he split before the last game even started.”

“Ah.” Oh dear. “I apologize. It appears I…misread the situation.”

“What?” Astrid blinks, eyes glassy.

“I have something for you from Adept Moon. Before I give it to you, I feel I must explain somewhat our customs. You are familiar with the basics, of course.”

“Gratitude presented through a work of art, in a medium of my choosing, mailed one month after our…appointment. The mailing address offered at the follow up tea. It’s how an Adept’s portfolio grows, and determines whether or not he achieves the rank of Master. ”

“Correct.” Adjusts himself. “Adept Moon is my most gifted student, and my personal favorite. But even among Sons of the Temple whose natures are asymmetrical, his attachment to this world has often been…fleeting. Even with the external structure of the Temple—our primary grounding mechanism—one could never be certain how much of Adept Moon would be present at any given time.”

“…I understand. You brought him to the Birchblood Games to find…inspiration. An…anchor? Some idea of the work he wants to do.”

“Just so. I felt his depth and sensitivity might benefit you, and your vibrant wounds might lure him out of his shell.” Astrid irks a bit at this subtle manipulation.

“Well he’s gone all the way back up in there, like he’s been struck.”

“Do you know why we of asymmetrical nature need the Temple? So much of Ixen life concerns healthy attachments of all sorts, big and small, great webs of feeling. Many Sons of the Temple are predisposed to one very specific type of bond. Indeed, it is how we function best and where we achieve our greatest potential. But it’s not one most women desire or handle with grace.”

“That’s why you leave the Temple when you Fall. You don’t need it anymore.” White Fox nods, hands her a mirror to inspect her new haircut.

“If a Son of the Temple inherently lacks something, for there to be balance, the woman must be More. She has…a strong appetite. Big teeth. Size. Bonds like these have immense power, but they are a double edged sword. Ill-advised, even if by great stroke of fate such a pair discover each other in the first place. Ideally handled with much guidance. Ideally sought only by a Master.”

“We…took each other by surprise. I think.” Concedes.

“I would have followed up with you right away,” White Fox lightly upon her bandaged hand in reassurance, “had I thought you felt the same.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Clears throat roughly. “I have normal teeth.”Hilde snorts dramatically.

“If he sees you again, he wants to be at his best. He won’t be able to watch you go twice.” Astrid picks furiously at a frayed edge, bright red. “He’s very…focused now.”

“Yeah okay, what’s in the box!” Hilde smacks the mattress, hurrying along. “Give it to me if she’s just gonna sit there’n fidget!”

Familial bickering aside, the box contains a mailing address, Moon Jr, and a note informing Astrid she would know when he was thinking of her…and that Moon Jr is waterproof.

~

As it happens, despite being last to depart, the disaster duo had been first to be assigned. Their assignment announced via raven early on during the council meeting from one whose claim superseded all others. White Fox withholds this information and readies their escort to the outer rim. Dressed quite simply in dark blue linen and soft hide riding pants, hair bound down past his hips. Mama Blackfish and Brother Coyote join them on personal business along with Minerva and Xolo, the herdsman and veterinarian.

Wherever this destination, there must be a significant population for all the medical supplies, dried and preserved goods mounted to the pack llamas. No one speaks on it. Themselves and their essentials carried on gray dun fjord horses, looking fresh with clipped manes. The llamas a rich brown black akin to espresso truffles. This man takes pride in his beasts and White Fox makes sure to say so.

“Raised ’em myself. Trick to a peaceful mixed herd is you gotta teach ’em up together. No new adults. That way everyone knows who’s boss and who’s family, no matter what species. Only keep one breeding male around if you can help it.” Engaging an introvert 101.

Intermittent conversation, spotty radio signal, throaty caws and croaks surround. Craggy Sitka wilderness and dwindling trail. Deep shadows in spring breeze. Xolo’s grandmother mount proceeds undeterred, sure of the way, also sure of the better grazing by this sunbeam and that. Chomps at any who try to pass her while she browses. Llamas alert to potential dangers in grizzly, gray wolf, lynx, and wolverine country. Chills grasp further and further past necklines, up sleeves, spread thighs. Finally make camp for the night.

Brother Coyote braises chicken of the woods in an iron wok. Kettles mixed grains on a tripod. Matching wide brim wool fedora and poncho. The red hand print tattoo over his mouth marks him as a Shaman. A woman’s hand. Mama Blackfish sits just behind and nuzzles his long and extremely wavy hair. Nibbles his earlobe. Seven months pregnant or so from the looks of things. Her clan’s tattoos differ—black curved grin with three lines down her chin, black under eyes. An artistic inverse of their namesake, the orca.

“Avert your gaze children. Kiki thinks he can put a second in with the other still cooking.” Minerva snarks dryly.

“Melty Minerva hasn’t had any fun at all in one hundred years.”

“You have enough fun for the both of us. What is that, six?”

“And they’re all gonna have this hair.”

“Through sheer force of will, apparently.”

“High prey drive, high sex drive. Blackfish.”Curved tongue out, Minerva rolls her eyes.

To be fair, the pair spends about half the year apart attending to their respective duties. Kiki refuses any lover but the one before her now. After twelve years together, Brother Coyote suspects she likes more than just his hair. His cooking as well maybe. Who knows. Warrior women.

Astrid and Hilde shuffle close as pigeons on a power line, more for comfort than cold. White Fox offers Xolo tea still fielding this man’s life story and Xolo offers White Fox some of his favorite reposado in a shot glass shaped like a rattlesnake skin cowboy boot. Unable to remain silent any longer, Hilde speaks up.

“You’re…the Blackfish? Big Mama? Battle of Bastard Bay?”

“That what they’re callin’ it? Really workin’ on those B’s.” Her face says she might like it. “Before you ask, whatever they call those little not-Leviathans, they taste disgusting. Don’t eat ’em.”

“I…aren’t they…sentient?” Astrid ventures.

“So are Blackfish. Take a bite out of my pod, we take a bite out of you. We just do it harder. Don’t see any megs around do ya’.” Reference to long extinct megalodon of the Old World—extinct because orcas decided they should be.

“Is it true you live at sea in floating villages?”

“Could call ’em that. My people didn’t always live at sea, and we still have longhouses ashore. Our marine sisters and brothers needed family back when we reintroduced ’em to the ocean. Couldn’t bear to see any more killed, wounded, or orphaned by human foolishness. The disrespect.” Protective hand on her belly.

“I see ’em sometimes Very sleek and fat.” Hilde nods. “Good design.”

“Aren’t they sexy?” Kiki clearly delighted in a kindred spirit. “Know why we’re Blackfish?”

“No! Tell me.” Hands on crossed knees. Astrid rests her chin on Hilde’s shoulder. Brother Coyote smiles into his cooking.

“Once upon a time there was a lonely hunter. Each day he went farther and farther from his seaside village. Searching for something he couldn’t name. He kept to the coast so he might admire the orcas, fine hunters themselves. So long he wandered, so many villages passed, he didn’t recognize the plants and animals of this new place. There, he met a woman.

“She had seen him in the outskirts of her village, keeping to himself, so very different from her own people. Yet somehow not different at all. For she too wandered farther and farther from her village each day. Hungry for something she had not the scent of to crave. But this hunter, he smelled good. He had nice hair. So she went to his fire and made wife to him right there on the forest floor.

“Her village forbade this union. It was not their custom to allow their women choice of man. They conspired to keep her away from him, even as her breasts and belly grew. With a broken heart, the hunter considered throwing himself into the sea. Instead he fell to his knees and wept to the great Orca Spirit. Asked for her help.

“Orca males cross entire oceans to find the female with whom they harmonize. Half the whole world or more. She chooses, as the woman had. He becomes her family. Speaks in her tongue. They mate for life. To Orca Spirit, denying this woman’s choice was most unnatural. Fond of this brave hunter, she agreed to help unite him with his love.

“Well she did that. By slaughtering every man, woman, and child in the village. Save one. The woman. When the hunter expressed shock and horror at the carnage, Orca Spirit found this most perplexing. She was a mighty spirit. The mightiest of all predators in the Old World. Her children many, none of them starving, none of them fighting among each other. Why would these equally intelligent land predators quaver at such bloodshed? You do what you must. You get it done. This is the freedom of a woman. The only law in the ocean is a mother’s word.

“The hunter sang of Orca Spirit’s might. Praised her. Then politely asked that she never kill another human again. In return, he and his wife would join her in the sea as family. She found this pleasing, and gave her word. To this day, no human has ever been harmed by an orca in the wild. Not even when humans of the Old World used the oceans like a toilet, poisoned everything, and spread like a cancer. And so. We are and shall remain Blackfish. We will do better than humans before us.”

Hilde hugs Astrid and sheds a single womanly tear. Brother Coyote serves dinner. Bundled, full, wounds dressed and waxed cotton shelters up, everyone dozes off. Except for Mama Blackfish and Brother Coyote by the fire. She hushes his breaths with her lips, tongue, and teeth as her hands work some kind of magic from behind. Fingers, smooth knuckles, palms all down his jaw, throat, chest, happy trail on. Hitch. Shudder. Under water. Plays like double bass. One of his arms pulled up to rest across her belly. Very little noise, but Astrid flushes anyways, too bothered to sleep just yet.

~

Days on end to reach the peninsula beyond the outer rim. Recurring dreams set Astrid on edge. Always the bird’s nest. Sharp when she touches it. Crows screaming. Tell her to leave. Where did the suns go? They should have risen by now. Where has everyone gone?

“Least it’s warmin’ up. Nips half raw bein’ cold all the time.” Hilde gruffs, nary a mention of rough sleeping with her injuries.

“You should have told me. Here.” Astrid leans over to offer a tin of beeswax salve. “Just because you can tough it out, doesn’t mean you should.”

“Look lively ladies. We’ll reach Noose Knot soon. Beyond that is the Lost Boys Arena. Your home for the foreseeable future.” Minerva’s raspy falsetto offers no comfort. “That means you too, Master White Fox. You knew the rules when you offered escort to the new recruits.”

“I could not in good conscience allow my young friends to fly blind and solo into whatever open mouth awaits us.”

A stone gateway up ahead. One way in or out on land. Black fins and black ships lurk the ocean all around. Tend kelp-shellfish nurseries along the shores and tide pools. Drill raid tactics around scaffolded sea stacks and sheer cliffs. Astrid begins to understand what being Chieftain of the Blackfish Clan entails. And with a waterproof leather bodysuit firmly beaded cross breast with red thread and baroque pearls radiating black to gray to rose to white like some festering fatal injury, Mama Blackfish is decidedly the Chieftain. She and Brother Coyote split from the group. Promise they will meet again soon.

The stables remain outside Noose Knot. A thriving farm managed by Xolo’s family. Some Ixen prefer a more private, rural existence. Here, in return for running goods and patching up wounds they have the protection of—arguably— the two most lethal of Ixen’s major families, both of whom mind their business unless antagonized. Nobody asks questions or tells tales. A mutually beneficial accord.

That second family mans the gate wall. House Cygnus. The most eerily reserved of all. Since the great silence enacted years ago, they have produced Operatives of nightmarish capabilities. Not that any normal person, resistance fighter, or even another Operative is ever likely to encounter one. The last thing you see on this earth, if you see them at all. Hilde gives Astrid the run down with whispered trepidation.

Astrid understands this place is a prison.

A woman waits for them.

~

Morrigan meets Minerva’s gaze from her vantage point. Knowing with no twitch of muscle passes between them. Three newly to nest. Granny’s youngest, the wayward Arachne, and Master White Fox for whom she had not sent for but did expect. She had long studied his movements out of professional curiosity. The man has Ways.

“I’m Cygnus Morrigan. You’re with me from now until I release you. Minerva will show you to the Ixen great house and outline your duties. That’s all for now.” Dismisses the two young women and mirrors Minerva’s raised eyebrow in passing. “As for you, Master White Fox, be welcome. I’ve made separate arrangements for your time here. On my word, you’ll come to no harm.”

“Well met.” White Fox holds a host gift aloft. “I did not arrive empty handed.” Morrigan accepts the lacquered wooden box and reveals a set of ceramic combat knives, somehow guessed the correct size for her grip and the correct shape for her fighting style.

“Impressive.” Brushes her lips on the back of a captured hand to punctuate her sincerity, as little emotion typically graces her face.

“Thank you. I spare no effort.” Uncertain she means the gift, or himself, or both from her meticulous inspection. “I hope I may be of great service here.” Pink as a schoolboy despite age and experience, damn it all.

“Your expertise is indeed required, beauty. You’ll have your hands…quite full.” Pauses and clucks her tongue. “Those legs make you an easy target in the field.”

“How lucky I am no Operative, then.” Threads of mirth.

“Know why a man’s center of gravity is in his chest and not his hips?”First half of a punchline perhaps.

“Why is that?” Wonders where this is going.

“So a woman might rest her head there.” Completely unreadable, his heart buffers flight feathers against the careful hands closing fast upon it.

Room to breathe. Not smothering. It could be a sense of safety.

~

The Crow’s Nest is a half-living stockade wall about seven meters tall. Earthwork hill slopes outside, thorns and other passive measures inside. A ring of tree house stations fully camouflaged in the canopy high above patrolled by Operative women—the only people permitted arms, and whom never interact with the Dakkan below except to shoot them dead. The Ixen great house is the only break in the wall, visible on both sides of it.

Inside a tale of two hemispheres. On one side, an encampment sprawls the roots of a massive, twisted oak tree—conditions just temperate enough here to facilitate its growth. More recently arrived Dakkan child soldiers dwell there and are left undisturbed no matter what vile behavior they exhibit, save two stipulations. If any of them put hands on an animal, they die. If they mutilate a tree, they die. Barring those points, these desolate creatures may wallow in their lesser instincts and inflict whatever cruelty they see fit upon each other. Nooses drape from the oak in lieu of moss. The Ixen did not put them there.

On the other side, older Dakkan boys and young men live in pairs. Whatever comparative luxuries they enjoy in their own settlement, they built with their own hands, rustic but serviceable. Basic cabins in unimaginative rows, though fitted with portions of glass blocks cast off from the high sea trade routes as a special treat. Two small tables flank the porch of each cabin. One with a length of rope. One with an empty bowl. That bowl is the one vessel through which they receive rations, which they share. Everyone eats in the same cafeteria, including the Ixen. These Dakkan are then tasked with delivering supplies to the encampment. The boys of the encampment eventually wish to join the recreation enjoyed by the village. Some crop cultivation, minor livestock, grappling every afternoon with Operative men. Study hall. Weekend campfires. Dream journals reviewed by Morrigan, and various literary works assigned to their personal libraries in response.

The village had recently come together to build a Temple. A Schoolhouse. Morrigan promised if they made him feel welcome and took good care of him, she would find them a tutor so they might learn more skills and further improve their conditions. To this end brings White Fox in on horseback with all accompanying tools, instruments, and trappings of his trade. Morrigan guides his horse on foot. The Dakkan men gawk openly for even in plainest clothing he is still more exquisite than any Dakkan woman fully made up—from what little they remember of Dakkan women, anyhow.

Astrid swallows bile at whatever game this is. Minerva assures that after initial upset years ago, it had not been necessary to shoot anyone in the encampment. Subsequent deaths dealt by their own demons or their own comrades. Morrigan handles the bodies herself.

There is no graveyard.

~

Run ragged by nightmares too many nights in a row, Astrid sits up in the downstairs kitchen. Glass blocks steeple over the private dining table. Someone lit a dry and earthy scented lavender novena candle there. Wood wick. A focal extravagance amid austerity. Her tea gone cold while she watched the dancing flame.

“Can’t sleep?”Scarcely refrains from jumping.

Morrigan stands in the archway, holding her own mug of tea. Crossed french braids pierced with D-rings, adorned with crude little charms. An ugly swan carving hangs from her neck. Things a child might make. Loosed, that hair would be auburn kin to Brother Coyote’s. Stone purple sleepwear. Barefoot. Still imposing.

“Nightmares.” Feels silly saying it aloud.

“I see.” Half sits on the edge of the table, observes wick spittle. “Did you know, your subconscious mind processes approximately 11 million pieces of information per second? Your conscious mind can only grasp about 40.”

“That’s…more than our best supercomputers.”

“From days of folly when humans thought having was better than being. Thinking a higher function to feeling. Spoke too often, listened too little. Especially to women.” Sips. “When we do not dream, fight sleep, our reactions in times of crises are crippled. Our instincts deadened. We lose the ability to trust ourselves. Only waking dreams ought to be pleasant.”

“How is that a way to live?”

“They only wield the power you give. The language of dreams is poetry. It’s a life’s work to dilate your capacity. To understand things.”

“What if there’s a nightmare on both sides?”

“Then the outside world must wake up through the balance of your actions.”

“Balance? Like a tightrope?”

“Like a blade.”

~

Never in his wildest dreams did White Fox ever think he would be teaching sensual arts to a bunch of young Dakkan men whose sole prospects lay squarely with each other. Diminished prefrontal cortex activity demands outlets for either hormones stunted or in overdrive, however. Channeling. They were once the same species, and still possess the same number of chromosomes, so… the hardware is no different. Morrigan warned of their addictive tendencies, the soul rotting strings their own government made marionette. Fashioned before they could even walk. Partnered now for manifold reasons. A dynamic he was not unfamiliar with.

A worthy challenge, truly. An arena he did not intend to disappoint. Not with her watching. He understood the objective the moment he saw the board. As she expected. For a woman raised as a weapon, she understands the stage. Well enough to build it and find its master. The earnest studiousness of these damaged and displaced men—just boys in ways they might never get past—belied the blood on their hands. Eerie dissonance. Just as one comes in from the cold and even room temperature water blisters, so too does softness and kindness here. Beauty is isolation. Harsh light on their grotesque. Routine is salvation. The harness is comfort.

Put them to work.

~

Hilde and Astrid soon familiarize with their coworkers. Only about three quarters of the Operatives at this post are Cygnus, just as it was a group effort to round the discarded children up, some level of community oversight must be maintained. However, the remaining quarter has high turnover due to the mentally and emotionally challenging nature of their work here. An ugly puzzle other Heads and Chieftains prefer not to take responsibility for, and instead toss resources at. The ugliness not just about subject matter, but also the austerity and tedium, for the Dakkan suicide rate skyrockets when exposed to too much to Ixen culture. This horrible prison is in fact the most humane solution to their predicament until a breakthrough presents itself.

For Astrid, equal parts blessing and curse. Her nightmares consistent now within a highly structured environment. Sensory deprivation subconscious distillation. The pair granted more free time than most and tasked with shoring up each other’s martial weaknesses. Hilde of course collects lovers, pulling specifically from the high rotation portion, hoping to skirt major fallout. Astrid suffers knowing more than she ever cared to about this buffet line of Operative manflesh. Notes with a frown one particular man who reacts with poorly disguised revulsion at Hilde’s advances. Pure disgust.

Moon Jr gleams in their bedroom window, safe inside a macrame net. Astrid puts finishing touches on her heavily illustrated dream journal, pressed bits of her life here between the pages. Sets it atop a matching blank journal. The best gratitude gift she can manage in the circumstances.

“Put your scent on it.” In her ear, conspiratorial.

“Hey!” Since when is Hilde master of stealth.

“Needs to know you’re thinkin’ of him. Man needs some encouragement.”

“I am not!” Too squeaky. “He’s probably forgotten all about me by now.”

“BULLshit.”Digs through Astrid’s nightstand for anything scented. “You put it down so hard you made an Adept blush an’ run away to pray on it. You even listen to White Fox? Never been more proud in my life.”

“He’s probably busy.”

“Nothin’ for it, take your underwear off.”Huffs at her jaw drop. “I’ll give ’em right back!”

“No. I haven’t bathed.”

“I know.”Grin.

~

“That’s quite an extension on the bathhouse.” Morrigan reviews White Fox’s latest inventory requests. “Got my boys turning into pickles. Never seen such an interest in…cleanliness. Or…moisturizer.” Taps her pen, peers across the table. “You have been busy.”

“I shall let them know you called them your boys.” Small smile. “Six of them, in particular, work much harder than the rest. They have a special request.”

“I know them. My oldest. What’s the request?”

“They would like to build a Tea House, and hope you might join us there. When your schedule allows.”

“Draw the plans, and give me the proposed supply list. Don’t help them too much. Then we’ll talk.”

“They wanted me to know you are…unattached.” Coy amusement. “In case I wondered.”

“Oh did they.” Tap, tap, tap. “Hm. Before we conclude, is there anything you need that’s not on this list?”

“I may be a Temple Master, but I am not so fussy as to require preferred treatment over my charges.”

“Noted.” She stands to escort him to the door, takes her time giving him a once over. “I’ll be in touch.”

“I hope so.” Returns the favor.

~

The sturdy little Tea House has four square legs and a rusty corrugated steel roof—an artistic choice, as everything had been selected from a flatbed of random building supplies plus odds and ends brought through the center bay beneath the great house. Morrigan allowed them to keep whatever they found a use for, so they found a use for everything and called the whole affair Stuff Day. Village boys worked double time so encampment boys could have improvements as well. This effort did not go unnoticed by the latter.

White Fox oversees the combing of the zen inspired garden, comprised of builder’s sand and long rocks and various objects painted to look like koi fish. Every boy insisted on a fish of his own, so the fake pond is more a lake now. He spots one extra fish, painted black.

“There was seven of us.” One of the eldest six leans against the rail. “In the beginning. Us and her.”

“Before all of this?”

“We were supposed to die.” Picks a path forward as he picks at the wood grain. “But she vented the oxygen and her unit resuscitated us. He was out the longest.”

“Your seventh brother.”

“He was the…nicest of us. Always happy, smiling, hanging on her every word. Always did his best to please her. Whenever one of us got…dark, he’d help pull us out of it.” Pours his tea on the ground. “When we got older, he’d go off on his own every once in a while. We didn’t think anything of it.”

“He must have been dear to you.”

“To her. But he didn’t want to be…like a son. He wanted more, and knew he could never have it. That no other woman would ever compare.” Flat. “We tailed him one night. He was…keeping a sheep bound in a shack and…doing things to it. So we went and got her. We didn’t follow her in. Didn’t see what else was in there.”

“I see. What did she do?”

“She killed him, and burned the shack down behind her.” Looks into the empty cup. “It helps. To know she won’t hesitate. Not even with her own heart.”

“When you cannot trust yourself, you trust her.”

“Yeah. Must trust you, for some reason. We don’t talk about it.”

“Then I thank you for your confidence. You have fought a long time, to be here with us now.” White Fox motions to the village itself.

“Wish I could stop.”

“We all…stop, eventually. No need to be in a hurry.”

“I guess. Someone has to feed the chickens in the morning. The others are so lazy.”

~

Swing shift sucks but hurried kitchen meals straddling afternoon and night shifts presents a unique opportunity to eavesdrop on two drastically different sets of people. Members of House Cygnus comprise the bulk of night shift, being accustomed to a low light environment and cooler temperatures. Long timers from other houses alternate to give members from either primary shift time off or cover sick leave. The lasting composition of the work force mirrors the raven chatter outside their bedroom window—those birds love an accent. One of them hangs around the training field and orders turn around like an asshole in an accent Astrid does not recognize and has not met the owner of.

Hilde has nieces twice her age and a father she never met—who was in fact deceased before she was conceived.

“Story goes she said ‘e had to keep limber ’cause the only way ‘e’d be leaving this world is from between ‘er legs. Take ‘im out the way ‘is mama made ‘im.”

“At her age?”

“They’re Ursa.” Gulp, wipe. “Anyhow, sure ‘nough ‘is bum ticker gave out at the finish line.”

“Gods. Thank you for your service Pappy Ursa.”

“True warrior’s death that.” Laugh. “Ain’t the type to say ‘I love you’ ‘an all, but trip to the family sperm bank ‘an nine months later, ‘er youngest was born. Not ‘ad another man since.”

Astrid surreptitiously collects their food and edges Hilde onto the back steps outside. Hopes the fresh air dissipates her thunderous expression. Ixen women remain fertile for many years, and have long lives besides. Longer by decades than Ixen men. It is uncommon for a woman to marry a man her own age in the first quarter or so of her life, simply to evade heartbreak. But Granny Ursa has always been her own woman.

“Everyone knew him but me.” Hilde toes the dirt. “He raised my sisters, brothers, and nieces.”

“Hey.” Takes her hand and pats with the other. “I think Nanook did a great job.” Considers. “If I had to guess, I’d say you probably look like him.” Her mother would not avoid her so much otherwise.

“You think so?”

“Yeah. And maybe you make the others a little uncomfortable because…well, you’re a product of grief, and a defiance of death. Pure love, yeah?”

“That’s silly.” Sniff. “I’m not special, I’m just me. Nobody.”

“That’s enough. You said life just happens and it’s our job to care about it right? So what if your family doesn’t care about you—which is obviously nonsense, but for the sake of argument—it doesn’t matter because I do. Nanook did. Anyone would who bothered to know you. And if they won’t look, I’ll make them.”

Hilde punches Astrid’s shoulder in an aw shucks sort of way. The asshole raven sidles up to them and yells turn around.

~

Family tea at high noon. Books, Allergies, Quiet, Moody, Blues, and Spacey discuss their studies at length. The hormonal drama among the younger boys. White Fox chimes in with a flourish occasionally. Morrigan’s dry wit pleases as much as it prickles. Mean Mommy clearly their main source of solace being broken in a strange land, out of place in two worlds. In between. Spacey stares at a nasty spot on his knuckle. Taken a thorn while ousting a broody hen from the nest she snuck off to make along the wall.

“Will you put that away? Fuck.” Moody gags.

“Xolo called it a foreign body. I gotta let my body push it out, cause digging at it might cause it to break apart and do more damage.”

“It looks like a fucking toad’s eye!”Pulls his lids back and rolls an eye around.

“It’s us.”

“What?”

“We’re a foreign body. We did trauma, and now we’re in a bubble designed to…ease the irritation. Push us out in…one piece.”

“Trust Spacey to get an abscess and meet god about it.”

“He’s right.” Morrigan confirms. “Large bits of shrapnel pose too great a risk of infection or crippling injury. A spray of shrapnel, too. But you boys were so small.”

“You may not remember them, but your mothers carried you just as long as Ixen women carry their own children. It is not our way to be so…careless with a woman’s work.” White Fox explains.

“Where do we go once we’re outside? A thorn can’t reattach to the vine. Where do we go? What even are we?”

“You let me worry about the first part. The second is for you to decide. I’ve given you what you need to figure it out. Carry your weight.” Stern but not impatient.

“Do you think they miss us?”Blues.

“I think,” White Fox fields that one, “when they wake before dawn and sit in their kitchens to enjoy whatever scant minutes they steal to know themselves, and a dropped mug brings them to tears, they brush up against what they have lost. Something their culture does not permit them to name.”

“We were the same people, once. Long ago. Our paths diverged.” Morrigan visibly appreciates White Fox’s insights. “That which compels you to think of the swinging rope, but choose the empty bowl. Your mothers know it, too. Consider it what remains. You cannot remember her face, but you know her face.”

“We have a choice.” Aged ten years suddenly, heavy expressions.

“I do my best to make them choices you can handle. But sometimes, fate has other plans. Sometimes, you’ll be alone in the woods at night.”

“Then we have be strong, like you.” Moody.

“All I do is get up and do what I can. The more you do, the more you can do. Maybe looks like strength goes on long enough.” Her accent uncurls and stretches its legs a bit.

The six prick up to hear it, touch it. Something real. Something old. Their mother’s face.

~

Astrid turns around. Watches the crowded cafeteria. These past weeks something curious. Something amiss. A sea of consonants and rolling vowels, all of them recognizable but one. Bobbing up and dipping under. Slipping around the corners. It could be nothing. It could be homesickness. It could be the pit of hunger in her stomach seasoning in surround sound.

“Not this shit again.” Gods know hunger makes Hilde angry. “Put ’em at a fuckin’ kiddie table.” Picky eaters ahead of them in line, holding everyone up. “Someone whip a tit out.”

“Shh.” Pinches Hilde’s bottom before she starts a fight. “I haven’t even had coffee yet.”

“What you need coffee for? This is our dinner.”

“…oh.” Sad violin.

Two Operatives out on maternity leaves them scrambling to adjust to a nocturnal lifestyle. The plan is to sleep only a few hours so they could enjoy at least part of their day off, but then they find a package arrived from Adept Moon containing a personally translated and transcribed selection of poetry and no sleep is had until well past noon. Hilde of course demands a full recitation, pillow hugged up under her nose, feet kicking behind her.

Nightmares descend with vengeance. Astrid snaps awake in a cold sweat with her spine burning. Midnight. Every cupboard in the kitchen looking for sugar to bake a birthday cake for the children, but the sugar is salt. She tries to slap it out of their hands but they just keep eating. They just keep eating until their bodies wither and water gushes from their eyes, ears, noses and mouths. Fills the room. No way out. Why did they keep eating? She told them it was poison. She told them. Someone put salt in the cupboard.

“S’wrong?” Hilde cracks an eye.

“Dream.”

“Happened?”

“Someone is pretending.” Astrid drinks water and wipes herself down, lights a tealight in the window. “They’re doing harm. I couldn’t stop it.”

“You see it.”

“Not clearly.” Grips her arms and looks out over the grounds.

“We’ll find ’em.” Yawn. “C’mere.” Grabs at air until Astrid comes over and pulls her into a blanket burrito, throwing a leg on top.

“It’s bad sometimes.”

“I know.”

“I ran away when I was young to join the resistance. I did well there. One day I looked and saw who I shot was younger than me. They were all younger. Who does that? How could we have ever been the same species?”

“Shh.” Pets her hair.

“I was defending my home. What reason were they given to be there? To do what they did?”

“Don’t matter. No good reason. They’re gonna die.”

“I know. I saw it.” Deep breaths, some tears.

“Bear’s gotta do what a bear’s gotta do, anyone deservin’ of breath knows better. If they don’t know, that’s on their mamas. Mamas don’t know, that’s on their men thinkin’ they know better than mamas.” Curt nod.

“I didn’t want to be a bear. I wanted to be a girl.”

“Get to see little ones be girls when it’s over an’ know you did that.” Pats Astrid’s belly. “Maybe make some of your own. Y’know. with—“ Garbles through her partner’s pillow.

“It was just some poems.” Follows Hilde’s finger to Moon Jr, humming softly in the window.

~

As a reward for success in their studies and in celebration of establishing the village’s first food tree guilds, the Six enjoy a field trip outside the boundary. First to visit the farm and learn advanced livestock management, then to camp along the coast and watch the orcas run agility exercises with their human companions. Morrigan and Minerva oversee this working vacation while White Fox manages the rest of the boys back home. Brother Coyote even stops by to make duck fat fries and battered cod, all of his children in tow, sans the newborn. Nobody asks whether or not he is the father.

Once returned they pool observations, eager to implement any insights gleaned from their outing. For a moment it had been like the old days. Morrigan, each other, bushcraft, the stars and the trees. They knew from the start their position of responsibility. She made plain their options back then. The best life she could give them in balance with her own responsibilities. Do their utmost to help the others until cohesion is achieved or they the sole survivors. Every day a struggle to prove themselves in the eyes of the people theirs had trespassed upon. But an Ixen prison was a better life than they ever enjoyed back home. What else to do with their futures handed back to them so suddenly?

In private White Fox proposes a late spring early summer festival of their very own. A daytime masquerade in which the refugee Dakkan women might visit their counterparts. An interesting dynamic as nearly all of them are older and twice as numerous. Some could even be kin. The village already busied with preparations. Certainly entertaining to see their interpretation of fancy or presentable. It would take weeks. In the meantime, White Fox sits in on an informal meeting between Kiki, Morrigan, Minerva, and a bottle of tequila.

“I dreamt it. My children will accompany yours into the stars. Some of them anyway.” Kiki grasps Morrigan’s forearm. “It’s our destiny to be a spacefaring people once more.”

“That would be quite the hard sell to the Universities at this juncture. Even if the war ended. There’s a swath of planets who only know faces like ours as oppressors.”Minerva.

“Pfft. So we wear masks.” Kiki waves. “We can bullshit something out. They only know what we tell them. Think of the trade routes.”

“The largest trade routes in Ixen aren’t enough for you?” Morrigan’s eyes catch a twinkle that makes White Fox feel funny without the tequila.

“It’s not just about the goods—which I’ve never heard a complaint from your House—it’s about the adventure.”

“You want space battles and space heists.” Minerva, deadpan. “Or you’re going to…eat everything. Or bed it.”

“I’m going to retire with my lover to an island and watch our great grandchildren be fat and happy.”

“On that note, I thought I might share some of the…big thoughts your boys have been working on since your excursion. It seems they were greatly moved by Mama Blackfish’s namesakes.” Kiki immediately wheels around in a tell-me-more pose, the other two a more dignified picture of curiosity.

“I hadn’t realized you moved onto philosophy so soon.”Gestures for him to continue.

“Spacey first observed with great feeling how the chickens, cats, and other livestock on the farm prioritized receiving Maria’s affection over eating fresh food. How their first order of business in the morning was rushing to greet her. It occurred to him that a mother’s love is like the sun. In many ways intangible but absolutely necessary for life to exist anywhere in the universe. Everything reaches for sunlight even when a sun is not visible. Even in the darkest of places. She finds a way to touch everything.”

“That one’s my favorite, I’m calling it now.” Kiki. “He’s loopy but he’s not ever been wrong.”

“The striking duality of the orcas’ coloring on a bright day. Their strong personalities and familial chatter. The night sky over the ocean. Combined with Spacey’s initial thought. These inspired a… fledgling creation myth. The Great Dark Mother gives birth to Suns, and their twins. Shadows. Always in a lover’s embrace. Sun and Shadow are not opposites. A Sun without anything to touch is lonely and without purpose. A Shadow exists not to oppose light, but merely to describe the quality of its brightness. Give depth and texture. Reprieve at night. The underside of her fulfilled function. Not unlike the Green and the Under. Sky and Sea. They all come together to make a world.”

“Not bad.” Minerva nods. “I don’t dislike it. Better than whatever trash the Dakkan feed their children that convinces them to go forth and terrorize other planets.”

“You’re doing so well with them.” The most warmth in Morrigan’s tone to date. “Your students must miss you terribly.”

“The framework you provided makes my own task much easier. Your family must have great respect for you.”

“It depends on who you ask. My mother and aunties are not pleased about my…pet project.”

“All the more reason to prove them wrong.”

“We’ll see. Something holds the encampment boys back from joining the others.”

“I sensed that.” Kiki chimes in. “They’re nursing an ill intent among them.”

“I thought so.” Minerva confirms. “You saw it right away. I forget how sensitive you Blackfish are despite your…brash exterior.”

“There’s no hiding your feelings in the ocean. How else do you think a pod full of big personality predators lives at ease among each other?”

“There’s something I’m missing. A piece of experience I don’t have. It’s very specific, or I wouldn’t have been this close this long without an answer.”

“That why you pulled the Arachne girl?”

“One reason. She’s a Southerner from the first House fallen and the only one to seek placement among our ranks. She knows something, even if she doesn’t know it yet. I’ll see what it is.”

“In the game of Go, there exists a term called the ‘God Move’.” White Fox tilts his head. “A move so unexpected and unforseen that it ends the game ahead of schedule. A chain reaction that cannot be attributed to mere human genius, but to divine intervention.”

“There’s nothing ‘mere’ about humans and our creatures, who have been given to us so we may be outside of ourselves.” Morrigan counters.

“You say we do not move pieces on the board, that we are the board.” Explores.

“The moves made possible to you, are made possible by your environment. The more of the environment you perceive, the more graceful your moves. No piece is too trivial. No creature unimportant. When you are in alignment, there is only ever one move to make. There is only the God Move, as you say.”

“Gods you two, get a room. You’re indecent.” Kiki blows a raspberry.

~

“So…puttin’ their blood on that oak doesn’t count as mutilation, right?” Hilde peeks through the branches. “Cause looks like that’s been goin’ on a while.”

“It seems like…reverence, to me.” Astrid takes in Old Noosey and the dark stained band around his trunk. “They must find it a comfort of some kind.”

“What d’you s’pose they do with the acorns in the fall? That’s a big boy.”

“I expect we’ll be here long enough to find out.” Lengthening days meant an easier watch through the night, pastel privy to morbid goings on. “Something’s wrong. I don’t mean Old Noosey. He makes sense.”

“You think Mystery Fucker’s out here tonight?”Punches her hand, claps fist then elbow.

“We need to be quiet to catch whoever it is.”

“What’s goin’ on then? What’re you lookin’ at?”

“I’m remembering. The women of a small neighboring village I visited once. They killed themselves when they realized nothing would save them from the Dakkan. Sealed inside a basement. They just laid down. All in a circle in their prettiest dresses. We found them after…everything.” Inhale. “It’s their faces.”

“We’re right here. Why keep shootin’ nightmare juice at all?” Exasperation. “Actin’ like there’s nothin’ to be done.”

“Learned helplessness. It’s not just a demon of the Dakkan. You know that old saying. Thinking done by cowards and fighting done by fools. Lack of balance by design.”

“You’re talkin’ ’bout First Landfall.”

“The Southern Houses descend from a people who…celebrated a victory they hadn’t earned. Thousands of years where the structure of consent simply didn’t exist for women, all their progress lashed off women’s backs without anything approaching adequate compensation. They thought no bill for that would come due. That it left no critical weakness in thought, form, or function.” Close to a slippery and important bit, if she could just dig deeper. “Couldn’t name the demon. A Fool’s Golden Age.”

“So we’ve got an old demon among us.”

“Yes.” Firm. “And those boys know its face.”

“You know its name.”

“I must. The trouble with old demons is…you need to have them dead to rights. Or they escape. Reinvent themselves.”

“Good thing you’re a marksman then.”

Some time in silence. When the twin suns slip at last into a spell of shadow they sense a disturbance in the darkness. Skirts the cusp of dawn. Keep quiet. Compound bow. Infrared eyepiece. Astrid out on a limb while Hilde holds a rope tied to her waist, ready if she falls. A raven stirs abruptly in its nest, heavy wings, ragged caw. The figure recoils. No good reason. Astrid fires. Heartbeat loud in her ears as the interloper scrambles loudly at the direct hit to their—his—thigh. In injured beast is more dangerous than a dead one, but Ixen do not typically go around executing each other on a whim. Older Operatives alert to the sound in pursuit. This is the most they can do for now.

~

A missing arrow. A pretender in the nest. Every shot is accounted for. Morrigan knows exactly how many bullets, arrows, and blades are present at the Lost Boys Arena. The interloper knows there is no point in returning the loosed arrow to the armory. Especially not if it is now his only weapon. Astrid and Hilde are pulled from active duty for evaluation and debriefing as per standard operating procedure. Instead assigned to assist with festival preparations. In part to shield them from the grim business soon at hand.

The next day, a mutilated animal is found. A boy swinging from Old Noosey. The next day, another. Again. Again. Again. Deathly pallor cast upon the village and the encampment. Most assume the Dakkan have simply regressed to their former ways. Morrigan knows this is a monster covering his tracks, soon to flee to another pasture. It must be an ‘Operative’. There could be no other reason the boys would assume death the only exit. The Ixen never stopped them from settling things however they saw fit, no matter how wretched or distasteful. A Dakkan’s assumptions about the levers of power. The assumption she would not punish one of her own.

Morrigan herself pretends absence. Minerva handles public dealings, festival preparations proceed, White Fox tends the dead in Morrigan’s place. His examination of their bodies at the Temple confirms a number of his suspicions about what had been done to these boys. Repeatedly. One day, an encampment boy hands him a homemade drum before running off. In crude, misspelled writing the bottom reads: ‘he loves them in the garden’.

“He means Morrigan’s garden. That’s where she takes the dead.” Blues clarifies. “It’s a secret we all know about. Everyone’s supposed to find out on their own. Most of us go there to cry.”

“I think we need to show you, though. Before the bodies…ripen.” Books collects papers with thoughts he thinks proper to the occasion.

“We have more visitors.” Quiet motions to more encampment boys. “I think they want to come with us.”

Their modest funeral procession makes towards the encampment wall where a hidden door amid thorns leads to a large courtyard. Just the right angle as to be invisible from the daily grind. Whatever White Fox expected falls away in the wake of sudden profusion after so long bare bones.

Several species recognized from the Outpost bathhouse. So many more labeled cultivars. Green Romantica and Dark Night roses, Black Joker Siberian iris, black hollyhock, strawberry blonde marigold, Thundercloud and weeping Santa Rosa plum, gray poppies, dark red dianthus, mixed milkweed, pink evening primrose, fireweed, cloudberry, grape and hops vines, pawpaws. It would take days to catalog every member of the cacophony. Butterflies, hummingbirds, and bees almost glitter in this precious pocket microclimate. He even spots figs. A crude stone statue.

“Yeah. It’s like that.”Moody when White Fox realizes how long standing there breathless.

The other boys selected spots while had stood staring, and even brought propagated plants to move in atop the graves. Already a working understanding of what should go where. Patiently await further instruction. Supple loam cleaves readily shivering with earthworms. Rich, dark, and fertile. They tuck the bodies in with care and everyone participates filling the graves by hand until they are no longer visible. Then shovels—allowed from the tool library for this occasion. Everyone sits on stepping stones.

The encampment boys make it known that these deaths are not their doing, whatever the Ixen believe, even though they must all ‘go with the green’ in time to be ‘made worthy’. He promised them love on their knees here, and it always hurt, but they knew when Mother disappeared that it was not as this man said. She never asked such things of them. Only their lives forfeit upon trespass. Asked if they must die to bring Mother back, so the Good Boys could have their festival.

“She did not leave you.” White Fox tempers the sick in his stomach. “And you may come to the festival as well. She will be there.”

“Will He be there?”

“Yes. She will find him. This is her duty as…head of the family.”

“We’re…a family.” The younger ones test this concept out. “If we’re a family, why did she go?”

“That’s the thing about Heads.” Books speaks up after organizing his notes. “You only require a head if you have need of a spear, or if an arrow must fly. Spot the eye of a storm or stay on course through the night. If you can’t see her, it means she’s Here.”Breath. “It means she’s hunting.”Clearly been spinning that thread for days.

The two groups get to know each other better. Tenuous friendships struck. Allergies blows his nose as surreptitiously as he can. Everyone takes that as their cue to wrap it up and disperse. Clothes need stitching and masks need making. White Fox to supervise it all.

~

“That’s…morbid babe.” Hilde through stuffed cheeks.

There would be four Ixen women among the festival crowd. Astrid, Hilde, Morrigan, and Minerva. The final stroke came to Astrid when she was in the shower, as it does. She recalled some sordid business when she was a young girl to do with a compound of True Believers, whom originate in the South. Some well meaning reporter thought to broadcast an interview with a man from their community as a lifestyle study. The mothers and aunties tried to keep the children from the screen but she crept into a console and watched through a cracked door. She remembered the carefully presented homestead. Their faces. Their odd accent.

The inbreeding. The deformities. The Room. The suicides.

“I couldn’t think what else to do.” Astrid puts finishing touches on her raven mask.

“Gonna call you Old Beakey.” Hilde on brand with a stuffed bear mask, shockingly cutesy, clumsily stitched. “Could be worse. Could be a spider. Ruin everyone’s good time.”

“Minerva’s going as a vulture. Ravens aren’t as scary as vultures.”

“Well shit what else could she be face like that.”

“That’s not nice.”

“Didn’t think we were pullin’ up to be nice tomorrow.”

Oddly, the boys had voted for a simplistic storybook theme. Scoop neck, princess seams, girdle and done. Opted for an M-slit half circle skirt with leggings underneath in case things took to grappling. Her girdle is in fact a sturdy heart-knotted length of hardware rope with a heavy cargo hook to fasten it and heavy hex nuts to adorn. They tried to stick to the boys’ limitations with material choices. Hilde insisted on waxed seam burlap over a lining, just to be extra unpleasant when it came time to throw hands.

“Do you think she’s already notified the Sisterhood?”

“Sure. S’not like they don’t know there’s True Believers gone to ground. This one’s a nasty stray. They won’t bust down the doors or nothin’.”

Astrid thumbs the hearts on her girdle. One for each recently dead boy. The most mourning she could afford them. It would have to be sufficient.

~

White Fox sips something considerably stronger than tea up on the roof this evening. Balsamic moon crests Ixen’s rings in its final sail before full dark. Just a soft blink in the bright half of the year. Affectionate and feline.

“This won’t do.” Morrigan appears. “It’s an affront to nature, you here all alone.”Cross-legged just shy of touching,

“Perhaps I was waiting for you.”

“Then I apologize,” small sickle smile, “for every second in the cold.”

“I feel my age tonight. Longer on this earth than I thought capable.”

“Longer still, I hope.”

“How do you bear it? This work.”

“There’s a relic. Inside you men, more so in them. A trigger.” She slowly reaches out to place her palm on his heart. “It’s death, and it’s not your business to touch it. When that trigger is exposed, it warps you. You can’t look away from it. You twist inwards on yourselves. Bring pointless destruction upon the world.”

“I feel it.” He feels something, alright.

“To correct this, I put my hand here. My hand is here.” Pat. “Do something else with yours.”

“Like so?” Runs his fingers over her bones.

“They’ll want to keep picking at it. Takes all their strength to keep at it like dogs on porcupines. But it’s no effort at all for me. Sometimes, you correct forcefully. In time, they’ve grown enough around my hand to steer themselves away from dark waters. If ever that trigger is exposed again, they know whose call it is to make. Deep down, they know that decision is a woman’s.”

“Yours.” Thumbs circles on her wrist.

“The command for life and the command for death are the same command. Only one type of person brings life into being.”Reaches up to bring a lock of his hair from behind his shoulder. “The sooner you let go of that trigger, the sooner you find your true purpose. To be enjoyed, and be joyful.”

“Someplace a woman might rest her head.” Brushes his lips on her inner wrist.

“Or, you know, another man.” Coolly teasing, heat in her eyes. “Are you going to offer me some of that fine rice wine, or must I steal it from you?”

~

The sky a basket of wild dyed unspun roving. Game cup overturned below. Vivid activity reels around a fire that will grow as the day carries on. Operatives from Hidden Song join White Fox on instrumentals. Attendance of every male Arena Operative required for security. Some traveling bakers and a pit master heard tell of a festival and tagged along with the guest procession. Their work had begun in the wee hours of last night. Whole stuffed barbecue hog, sourdough croissants dipped in chile lime adobo spiced butter runny eggs, and lambic raspberry beer. The dinner hog had some time to go yet and a large number of the boys gather transfixed, bursting with questions.

Double Dutch, tabletop games, cards, painting, even some cuddle puddle storytime with the youngest (and a few definitely grown up very mature boys). The Dakkan refugee women took right up teaching their ways to the former child soldiers. What crown pieces salvaged of their culture. Their real culture. The boys had fretted over whether or not the women would even want to see them. If not for the masks they would be too shy. If not for the masks, their faces too monstrous. Because of the masks, truly seeing their kinswomen for who they are and not as their fathers had done. After all, any one of these women could be Mother.

Once the fire has grown and shadows long on the ground, the dancing begins. White Fox demonstrates a speed, passion, and percussion not traditionally associated with the guzheng. Makes three instruments of one. Violin, flute, and acoustic bass guitar accompany. Inebriation nothing to do with libation draws everything to the surface. Nothing hidden in the ocean. Bad blood will out. Astrid recognizes a tell tale gait, no infrared necessary. An injury. She wisps through the sweltering crowd.

“Turn around.” Accent of a True Believer.

He knows as soon as her eyes. Arrow out to stab her through the neck, caught by Hilde. Before she can twist that wrist and deliver a beat down, two things at once: Astrid’s girdle gone missing. The false Operative on his knees back bent over Hers, unable to even gasp. Dead in moments. Heart knots and hex nuts buried in his throat. Morrigan in a white swan mask and sheer smoke silver gown, still and silent. The dancing never falters. Music unrelenting. White Fox watching.

~

Brother Coyote arrives that night to lead a blessing, secure in his right to do so as his ancestors and Morrigan’s have a long friendship. They banish bad air in the Arena. Spacey takes particular interest in these techniques. Also his outfit. And his hair. Much sage, sweeping, and song. Everyone tires by the lazing fire, but not so tired as to turn down s’mores. Nobody notices Morrigan and White Fox stolen away. Everyone listens rapt as Brother Coyote spins a tale of the Old World, when their peoples were One.

“We used to Tell about Coyote in the wintertime, but in the final years of the Old World this spirit’s medicine took another meaning. Coyote at its core is the spark of pure chaos. Chance. Placed the North Star, brought Fire, brought Rain, made Song. It’s said Coyote accompanied the First Woman and First Man into this world, itself the song of their bones, and will follow Last Woman and Last Man through into the next world to sing humans into being once more. Coyote is the bright razor’s edge between joy and despair, laughter and wailing, love and abuse, wisdom and folly.

“But as the Old World rotted away—poisoned, crumbling, and burning alive—the humble coyote thrived where countless species faced annihilation. Humans treated coyotes like vermin. Reviled their existence in the most filthy and hostile places, making homes there out of nothing and doing whatever it took to survive. Yet their numbers held steady. Lockstep with humans themselves.

“What made them so successful? Well, coyotes mate for life. Not only do they mate for life, but the father coyote is an excellent caregiver. He nurtures his mate while she is pregnant and nursing so she never has to leave the den. Then, once the pups are weaned, he takes over as the primary parent while his mate gets back to herself. Coyotes make big families and readily adapt to changing environments. They never lose a pup’s playfulness. But most of all, it is the strength of the pair bond.

“Coyote’s bond shows us that no matter how dire and insurmountable the upheaval, no matter the end of all things, we still possess each of us the ability to save the world. If only in each other’s eyes. We find a Way.”

~

Mixed paper lanterns in the garden tonight. Many small moons. White Fox and Morrigan dance without music at all. An old dance. Gentle breeze cuts the floral and herbaceous fervor. Low, deep wind chimes.

“I fear you have broken your word.”

“Have I?”

“You promised me no harm.”

“Where does it hurt?”

“Right here. An arrow.” Beats fast.

“Should I remove it, then?”

“I will bleed to death if you take your hand away.”

“Tell me what puts it right. Your pain.”

“Give me a name.”

“Give me a child.”

“Just one?”

“We’ve got quite a few already, if you hadn’t noticed.”

Flush against him now. Not cold at all. Not distant. His hands on her hips, her own root him there, hair drapes along her neck, chin rests atop her head. She rocks back gently. He meets her.

“Will they be alright? The children. Without us.”

“They’ve rhymes and stories. Rhythm and song.” Turns around to sample the skin over his heart. “Once tasted of Ixen life a soul knows no rest elsewhere. Once become a weapon, a soul knows no rest in times of peace. Only purpose.” Unties his belt. “Plants harden thorns for the same reason they flesh fruit.” White Fox catches his breath with her open mouth on his throat, by his ear.

“Hunger in the garden.”

© Jin 2025