JULY 12. 4:04 PM.

Jerry and Michael were already in the shed, and they were arguing as usual. 

“Why do you always have to be so negative all the time?” 

Michael bit into his meatball sub, squeezing the sides so tightly that I traced the flying glob of tomato sauce flying through the air. His teeth chewed on the hunks of meat in between buns of white bread, biting into the brown stained with sauce, some getting into his beard. “Awl I shed wash he probably doeshn’t dream ‘bout anything.” He swallowed. “What’s your deal?” 

Jerry’s face was equally as red as the tomato sauce. “Why do I have to be so negative–?” He turned to me. “Laura. Back me up here–” 

“Hi, Laura,” Michael interrupted. 

Jerry closed his eyes for a solid four seconds. Keeping his back to Michael, he ran a hand through his balding blond hair, pressing the palm tight against his pale forehead. It reminded me of an ironing board smoothing out the wrinkles on a crusty t-shirt. Jerry opened his eyes. “As I was saying–” 

“What’s up, Mike?” I responded. 

Jerry stomped his foot against the ground. “Fuck! Fuck! God fucking… would you just let me get one fucking word in? I swear to God, I’ll–” He was interrupted again as Mike dropped his sub to the floor, striding over to Jerry in two efficient steps, then using his own boot to crush down on Jerry’s stomping foot. Before Jerry could yell any further, Make clamped a hand over Jerry’s mouth, smearing a little sauce on Jerry’s round face. Mike held up a finger to his own mouth, shushing him.

I looked at Mike’s alarmed expression, then towards the window of the shack. 

The supply shack was about the size of a small garage. Big for a shed. Huge for a shed out here. Definitely fine enough for our purposes. It was made of pieces of rusted tin, hammered together to form four walls once painted a deep green. An automatic light hung outside the small door on the far side of the room, though its bulb had been removed long ago. The wall facing the street had small windows near the ceiling, allowing some sunlight to drift onto the concrete floor. The floor sloped downward against that same wall, more cracks and warps contributing to the dirtstained concrete until it reached a near vertical angle, stopping when it reached the very foundation of the wall. 

We waited in silence, Mike slowly removing his hands away from Jerry’s face. I crept over to the corner, grabbing a roll of paper towels from the carpenter’s table. While I scooped up the splattered sandwich, Mike creaked the door open. We all collectively grimaced, covering our dark-adjusted eyes. A gust of wind blew the short black hair on his forward, plastering it to his pale forehead. It tickled his beard, still stained with tomato sauce. Underneath his red baseball cap, his brown eyes scanned back and forth, then he stepped outside, inching the door shut behind him. 

Jerry leaned in to whisper: “I’m just saying, Laura, don’t you think Bob here… like, don’t you think he dreams?” 

“Stop talking, Jerry,” I replied, my eyes glued to the door. If I could will my ears to perk like an animal’s, I would.

He finally shut his mouth. 

We could hear Mike walking outside, his feet echoing off the driveway. He walked once around the shed, then paused at the door. He began to open it, his shadow spilling into the unilluminated room, then stopped, apparently reconsidering. He closed the door again, walking once more around the shed. I even heard him walk down the driveway, towards the street out front, before finally returning, definitively closing the door shut behind him as he re-entered the shed. 

Mike took a toothpick out from his green-gray duck chore coat, jaw flexing as he chewed on the tip. 

I gently placed the sub remains inside a trash bag, then tied it shut, setting it down next to the door so no one would forget to take it with them later. 

Jerry appeared unfazed. “Anyway,” he continued. “I was just saying that I think Bob, here–” 

“I thought we agreed on Stewart,” Michael grunted. 

“Fine. Stewart. Don’t you think he dreams?”

I looked at Stewart’s operating table. The shiny metal slab took up most of the room, sitting on locked wheels and holding up the body of the comatose man. He had deep brown hair, parted to the right. Stubble had grown over his tan face, and his narrow eyes darted frantically around his surroundings behind closed eyelids. I moved closer, shifting his body a little away from the edge of the table. Recoiling as I got near his diaper, I turned my nose away. 

Moving as quickly as I could, I took a syringe from my left pocket, and a vial of clear liquid from the other. I poked the needle through the lid, filling the syringe to the brim. I tapped the side, the metal plinking against my fingernail, as I cleared away the excess drips. Nodding to Jerry, he wordlessly crossed over to my side of the table, recoiling at the smell, too, as he held down Stewart’s arm to keep it as still as possible. Mike handed me a cotton ball dipped in isopropyl alcohol, and I swabbed the skin over a twisting, blue vein. Leaning in close, I sunk the needle into the skin at an angle, letting the tip enter Stewart’s bloodstream. 

I looked at Jerry and Michael as I drained the needle into him. “Isn’t the whole point that he does dream?” 

Jerry wrung his hands. “THANK YOU!” 

Michael rolled his eyes. “I meant, I don’t think he’s conscious of his dreams. Like, isn’t there a whole study that says you always dream when you sleep, but you pretty much never remember the majority of them?” 

“What difference does that make?” Jerry spluttered. “If he’s dreaming, he’s dreaming! I swear, you’re just disagreeing with me because it– it pleases you to be nihilistic. You always have to have the opposite opinion of me. Like, Laura, I think Stewart’s dreaming of a field of butterflies, and Michael…” 

“I think he’s experiencing what it’s like to be in the womb. Just some floating spirit not even aware of what the hell’s going on.” Michael finished. A shadow crossed his face. “But I’m not a nihilist.” 

I slid the needle out and placed it in a water basin. Then I picked up the copy of the Bible sitting on the shelf by the rusting metal door. I whacked both of them on the head with it before they could react. 

Jerry rubbed his head. “Hey!” 

“One of you needs to change his diaper. I did it yesterday.” 

Jerry and Mike looked at each other. They held out their hands for rock, paper, scissors. Mike was rock, Jerry was scissors. 

“Best of three?” Jerry tried. Mike shoved a clean diaper into his arms. Jerry sighed. He snapped on a pair of medical gloves and covered his face with a mask. I reached into the sink, squirting dish soap onto a yellow sponge before carefully running it over the needle. I kept the water pressure at a low, wishing again that I had access to better disinfectants. Michael fished his smartphone out of his pocket, turning the volume down to one before selecting an app that was playing the news. 

Over the quiet trickle of running water, I could just barely make out the reporter’s voice coming out from the phone’s speaker. “More bodies in Jordan as alleged border disputes with The United Arab Emirates escalates to an unprecedented–” Mike swiped, switching to a different news station. “--Twenty-three Texas school children dead in Tentuskiville shooting–” Swipe. “--Kremlin officials deny ethnic cleansing allegations made by six members of the U.N. Security Council in regards to the Russian controlled state of–” Swipe. “--Refugees escaping in droves as more of the Mediterranean coastline is swallowed by rising sea levels. When asked if any cities in the United States would be made sanctuaries, the president responded–”

Mike stared at his reflection in the black screen of his phone. Jerry sniffed, eyes frozen on Stewart. He whispered something under his breath. 

“What?” I asked. 

“Piece of shit,” He said again, a little louder. Jerry threw the diaper into the bag, then laid trembling hands on the edge of the operating table. “Piece of shit!” He started shaking it violently, cheeks flushed and eyes rimmed with red. 

“Jerry!” I shouted. Mike and I locked eyes, and we rushed to Jerry’s side, tackling him to the floor. Jerry was still thrashing violently, teeth gritted and palms sweating. Mike squeezed his arm around his mouth, trying to stop him from making any noise. 

“Shh!” He hissed.

I held Jerry’s other arm down, pressing it against the cold, uneven concrete floor. Then he kicked his foot, hitting the leg of the table. It began to roll across the room, down a steady downwards slope. 

We immediately dropped Jerry, rushing to intercept the speeding table. I grabbed its side, grunting as I tried to keep the metal slab with the heavier man on top from sliding any further. Mike dashed to the other side, pulling it with his arms. Stewart’s body slid precariously to the edge, almost rolling over on top of me. I reached my arms up, steadying the man. We rolled the table back into place, Michael edging Stewart back to his position in the center. 

This time, it was my turn to check outside. 

The sun beat down on me as soon as I stepped out the door. I squinted, trying to see anything past the glare of the day. Even though the sun was low in the sky, there were no houses to block it from blinding me. I began to slowly circle the shed, looking around me at the miles of the same old overgrown, abandoned development project. It was the outline of a neighborhood, with sun-stained sidewalks, cracked driveways, and empty foundations. There were no cars, though. No wires, no telephone poles, streetlamps, houses, or thankfully, people. The shed itself sat on an identical lot filled with weeds and scattered bushes. My guess was that this belonged to someone before the land even started development. And it was still here after. 

I wasn’t as paranoid as Mike. I elected to only walk around the shed once. In the far distance, beyond the concrete nothingness, I could see the grove of trees where we parked our cars, though the vehicles themselves were hidden from my line of sight. If anyone had heard our noises, they were either hiding over there, or they weren’t here at all. There was no possible way to sneak up on us in this place. 

That didn’t stop us from being careful. 

When I came back inside, Jerry was still on the floor, hugging his knees. He looked tearfully at Mike and I. “Is he still asleep?” 

I approached the operating table. Stewart’s eyes were still closed, still rapidly moving underneath his eyelids. I walked around, gently gripping his head as I used my other hand to lay two fingers on his neck. I nodded to Mike, who raised his arm, checking his watch. I felt the thumping of Stewart’s heart, and I closed my eyes, counting in my head. Jerry drew in a long breath, then got up, moving towards the basin, where he picked up the needle, holding the bottle at the ready. 

The watch beeped. Mike looked up at me. 

“Thirty-nine BPM. Still asleep.”

Mike breathed a sigh of relief. Jerry slumped over, holding his head in his hands. 

I pulled up a stool, releasing a long exhale through my nose. I sat down, letting my shoulders sag. Even as my posture relaxed, I couldn’t help but let my head trail up, looking past the operating table with the still-asleep Stewart, past Jerry, who was lying on the floor and staring straight up at the water-damaged ceiling, and past Mike, who was finishing putting on the diaper. My eyes fell past all of them and onto the space just above the doorway to the shed, to the message scrawled messily in red paint. The one I forced myself to look at every single day.

WE ARE BETTER OFF WITH HIM ASLEEP. 

JULY 12. 7:33 PM. 

I muttered a goodbye to Mike and Jerry, then I started the four block walk to my car. Even though it was past seven, it was still ninety-six degrees out.  I rubbed sunscreen on my face as I walked, shoes slapping against the sidewalk pavement. My arm brushed the dead bush that lay at the end of the walkway to the shed, then I turned right, onto the street. Cicadas drowned out the sounds of the birds in the trees. I looked behind, and saw Jerry leaning against the shed wall, brushing a sweaty strand of hair out from his face. Even though we both had nightshifts, he wouldn’t leave for at least another thirty minutes. It was important to stagger our departures. 

The sun wasn’t radiating light over the abandoned lots anymore. The gray shade of the evening permeated the empty development project, now. My shadow, split into two, blackened the already black concrete. I reached into my purse, feeling the cool lenses of the sunglasses tossed inside. Even when I was here in the middle of the day, I never liked wearing them out here. The dark tint felt like it was hiding someone. Crouching in the bushes, waiting for me to be all alone. A someone that had somehow walked all the way out here to the center of nothingness, avoided all of our regular checks outside, whose purpose was to keep themselves impossibly hidden, watching us. Waiting. 

Our cars were scattered around the lone patch of grass amongst the oak trees. Mike’s black SUV, my own white sedan, and Jerry’s shining metal cybertruck. Real inconspicuous. 

I opened the driver’s side door to my own car, turning the key in the ignition and immediately switching on the AC. I closed the door, waiting outside as the car cooled. Whatever hellish temperature it was out here, it was always going to be twenty degrees higher in the car. My phone rang, and I immediately picked it up. 

Mike’s voice sounded tired. “Ready to keep going?” 

“Put me on with him.” 

“Alright.” I heard shuffling, and then Mike said, sounding further away: “Go ahead.” 

I tried to put on the calm, reassuring voice I used with the residents at Shady Grove. “Hi, Stewart. Can you hear me?” 

There was no answer, as expected. I heard his quiet breathing through the speaker. Mike must’ve placed the phone pretty close to his face today. As if the centimeter difference to his brain would make matter. I thought it would be best to make it seem like we were having a normal conversation, even if it was one-sided. If he could hear me in there, it would be good to establish a relationship of trust. 

“You’re speaking to Laura, right now. Are you having a pleasant dream?” 

I let my question hang in the air. Sandwiching my phone between my shoulder and ear, I fished out a cigarette, putting it in my mouth as I got out the matches. The first one was a dud. I dropped the spent match on the ground, digging it in with my heel, then realized what I had done. 

“Shit.” I kneeled down, trying not to get my uniform dirty. 

“Laura?” Mike’s voice was still far away. “All good?” 

“Yup. Yeah, Mike,” I said, grabbing the match from the grass. I opened the door, sliding into the driver’s seat as I flicked the match into a plastic bag tied around the gear stick. Connecting the call to the vehicle’s bluetooth, I started pulling out of my parking spot.

“Stewart,” I continued. “I ask about your dream because I wanted to talk to you about something called lucid dreaming. Do you know what that is? Instead of the foggy memory of your dream after you wake up, you can become aware of the dream while you’re… well, while you’re in it.” 

I backed out onto the road, swinging a left and accelerating. “And some people who lucid dream, like, who realize that they’re dreaming while they’re still in the dream, can actually control what happens in it. So you could do whatever you want, Stewart. You could fly. You could relive your childhood memories.” I checked my rearview mirror. “You could even talk… um, you could even talk…” 

I heard Mike breathe through his nose. “Laura, this isn’t going to work.” 

“Isn’t it worth trying?” I asked. 

“We’ve been doing this every single day. Aren’t you getting tired? God, I mean, I can hear it in your voice. What was that?” 

“It’s just hard, okay?” I snapped, not meaning to sound as irritable as my tone came out, but it’d been a long day, and it was just getting started. As usual. “This whole thing is crazy. Excuse me if it's a little hard to spit out.” 

Michael didn’t say anything. I mentally chided myself, watching the abandoned lots give away to the sight of the groundlevel freeway. We couldn’t let cracks form. Not now. Not after so long, and so little time left. 

I let ourselves sit in silence for a little while. The truth was, we had no idea if any of this was getting to Stewart. We thought that Stewart’s brain activity was normal. A patient in comatose might be able to hear communication from the outside world, depending on if their brain was still functioning as intended. It was impossible to tell for Stewart, except for the fact that he was still alive. Yeah, I could get basic tools like syringes from Shady Grove, but nothing close to something like an MRI machine. 

As I entered the highway, Mike’s voice resonated through the car. “Are we going to talk about Jerry?” 

 “What’s there to talk about?” 

“You know what.”

“It’s an emotional job, Mike.” 

“No, you get emotional. Jerry–”

“Excuse me?” I said, looking wide-eyed at the phone symbol on the car screen. 

“I didn’t mean it like that. I just mean, your behavior around this– mine, too– that’s normal. We’re bound to get a little stir-crazy from time-to-time, but we keep going, y’know? But stir-crazy is one thing. Going ape-shit on the guy that’s supposed to stay asleep no matter what is another.” 

I watched the light get lower in the sky as mist began to settle on the road. Luckily there were no cars around, but I found myself thankful that I had actually gotten my ass to the mechanic last week to get my low beams fixed. My talk with Mike was beginning to feel like a conversation I had with one of the residents. I forced my voice to be patient. “I’ve seen what we’re giving him in action. If a fraction of that is enough to lull a crazy old bitch to a gentle nap, Stewart wouldn’t wake for the end of the world with what he’s getting.” 

“It’s not just that. What if someone heard?” Mike replied. 

“Who’s going to hear?”

“You never know. Besides–” 

His voice said something loud, maybe urgent. But… what was that? There was something on the road in front me. A pair of white lights, two pinpricks much too small to belong to a car. They stared at me in the other lane as I loosened my foot on the gas. They shone through the fog, piercing through the rolling haze like the sun entering a cave. But this was cold. My eyes were unable to blink as I shivered uncontrollably. Stings of pain began to blot out my vision, tears streaming down my face. I felt the groans of the highway underneath me as I entered the lane separation, the vehicular concrete clawing at the hot rubber of my wheels telling me to turn back. 

The lights were eyes. Terrible, blinding eyes, the result of two needles taken to thick black construction paper and held in front of a brilliant lantern. And the fog was crawling into my car, tendrils of it seeping through the miniscule gap in my windows, foggy fingers groping from within the depths of the air conditioning vent, pure, frosty terror creeping from the crack in my windshield. My fingers burned with cold, feeling frozen to the steering wheel. But my arms slowly turned it. Creeping towards the black silhouette with the white eyes with sickening odyssean lust. 

The black silhouette was crouched, eyes boring into mine. Not even my very, very close headlights could illuminate their features. But I could see their current height well superseding my car. At least six feet tall. Like a shadow manifest. A cold, black shadow. The sky without stars. 

Turn back. Turn back. 

My vision cleared. I swung the wheel the opposite direction, almost snapping my arm with the force of my whiplash. The car squealed, and burning rubber filled my nose, making me gag. I slammed the gas, driving, driving. The fog was so thick. Mike was saying something, but the bluetooth was distorted. It cut off his sentences, leaving periods of silence intercut with hoarse, gasping breaths. 

“Mike,” I rasped, feeling like I needed to cough. “M–”

My car slammed into the broad trunk of a tree. My phone toppled from the cupholder, falling flat on the floor of the car and ending the call. My head slammed forward with the impact, hitting the steering wheel before my airbag activated. A shrill ringing filled my ears. For a second, I had to fight myself to stay awake. I could feel warm blood trickling down my head. I felt sick, vomit threatening to spill through my throat, simultaneously as my head throbbed. 

I sat up, ignoring the possible concussion I had sustained. I took a deep breath, slowly blinking to steady my vision. My windshield was cracked, well, even more than it already had been.  The hood of my car was crumpled like a tin can. 

“Fuck,” I whispered, stifling a sob. 

How the hell was I gonna afford a new car? My salary was already a fucking joke. I had bills to pay. Groceries to buy. And… 

Had that really happened? 

I turned the car off, not that it really mattered anymore. Pushing the airbag out of the way, I groped around the dark car for my phone. Picking it up, I ran my thumb along its shattered screen. At least it still turned on. I thought about what I would do next. As far as I knew, there weren’t any other cars on the road, and definitely no speed cameras. No one had seen what had just happened. I hung up an incoming call from Mike. Time to get out and ring AAA. 

I reached for the door handle, then stopped. There were noises on the roof of the car. 

They were loud, banging one after the other, in slow, rhythmic succession. It sounded like footsteps. I waited to hear them hop onto the back of the trunk, then onto the road. I even craned my neck, wincing at a bruise that had developed right below my ear. But I didn’t see them. In fact, the footsteps didn’t stop. They circled on top of the car. 

My heart began to pound, and I released my breath, not realizing I had been holding it. I absorbed every minute detail of my car. The white cushion of the airbag protruded from the steering wheel. An old coffee cup had fallen to the ground, cold liquid dripping onto the carpeted floor. In the back row was my black duffel bag, inside it was some extra vials of what we fed Stewart, and his IV bag. We planned to transition him to the drip diet once we got some more supplies. For now, we did our best by forcing blended food down his throat. Mike always had a crash bag ready if he started choking. 

I looked out the back window, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the perfect dark. Waiting to see whoever was on my roof appear on the other side. 

My phone rang. 

The blue lit up the entire car. I saw Mike’s name appear like a prehistoric blaze of fire. I gasped as the beating of my chest skipped a hundred years. I heard a tap and I looked and I saw the black silhouette of someone with white glowing eyes peering down at me perched on the roof of my car penetrating and looking into my head with curiosity and unknowability and something that felt like the cold pangs of hunger jab into the inside of my spine. My scream drowned out the phone’s ringtone and the stranger shot their head back. I heard a slam, saw my car’s roof crunch downwards, felt myself close my eyes. 

I knew it could only have been a few seconds later when I opened them. The phone was still ringing. I looked out the window. Nothing. I listened. The roof was quiet. Dazed, I groped around on the floor, taking a few tries before my trembling hands picked the phone up. I slid the answer bar to the right. 

“Laura? Laura, are you there?” Mike sounded panicked. 

I swallowed. “Y-” My voice came out too quiet. “Yeah. Yeah.” Instinctively, I felt my pulse. 

“Laura, I swear to god I fucking saw–” He cut himself off. “Wait, what happened? Are you okay? Did I hear something on your end? You hung up on me.” 

“Um… yeah.” I tried to keep myself calm, focusing on counting the pulse rate. “I got into an accident.” 

“Oh, my god. Are you okay?” Mike’s voice became flat. Neutral. “I’m going to need you to answer my questions for me, okay, Laura?” 

“Oh my god, Mike.” Ten over one hundred. “I’m okay.” 

His voice was calm, but stern. “Are you bleeding?” 

I checked myself again. Just the bruise on my neck. A scrape on my forehead that had already scabbed over. “No.” 

“Was there anyone else in the car with you?” 

“Mike! It was obviously just me!” I didn’t mean to snap at him. Again. I was on edge. The precipice of a razorblade. 

“I’m trying to get a clear picture, right now, Laura. That’s all. Do you feel dizzy? Is your vision blurry?” 

I blinked. “I think I have a small concussion. I’m okay, really.” 

He sighed. “No, you’re not. You need to get that checked out, right away.” 

“Mike! What the fuck happened? Why did you call me?” I squinted, trying to physically recall what happened before my accident with the man in the fog. “Did I hear you yell?”

He hesitated. “It’s probably nothing. I just… I thought I saw Stewart’s lips move.” 

I sat up in my seat. 

“Did you catch what he was saying?” 

“Laura, I don’t know. I don’t know what I saw. I’m more concerned about you.” 

“Mike. What did he say?” 

He took an even longer time to answer. When he finally did, I sat in my car for a long time, still by the side of the highway, watching the shadows. Counting numbers in my head. Thinking. 

“I thought… I thought I saw him mouth ‘help’.”

“Oh, my lady, my lady, my sweet Lady of Lerelei!” The Rosewood Knight called. 

The princess’s tower was made of a beautiful, sparkling white stone. A perfect circle of inlaid bricks, shining like a beacon in the Heartlands around them. They were the only structure not in ruins, unlike those hidden in the trees and grasses for miles around. This one was a work of art. It did not look as if it had been placed by man or marionette, but rather carved from a mountain, carefully chiseled to perfection. The mountain was gone, but the tower was not, and it would remain long after. Black, thorny vines accented the sides perfectly, as they curled around the lone structure. The pointed, purple tile roof began with a wide brim, slowly curving inwards until it ran with a smooth motion up to a point, where it held aloft a flag. On the fabric, a swan glided among the stars. Rose smiled. 

A balcony occupied the top portion of the building. Made of marble, its banisters curled tight and ran along the length of the platform, weaving in between the vines, which were growing dazzling white flowers. Everything about the tower was perfect, even in its overgrown state. The sun glinted off the whiteness, so he kept his eyes focused beneath his helm on the princess walking out onto the balcony. 

She parted a curtain of petals that hung in front of her doorway, and yawned. A nightgown covered her smooth, dark skin. Unbrushed, black hair was tangled around her bronze antlers. The lady of Lerelei smiled, white eyes widening. “Oh, my Rose! You have returned! I pray I sound unselfish with my words, but I had so wished it had been just moments later. The hour is early, and I should hate for you to gaze upon me so in my current state. My hair has not been tidied, my powders unapplied. I should hope you carry Sun-Bright words.”

The Rosewood Knight kneeled in the lush red summer grass. “Your complexion needs no powders nor taming, my Lady Lorenna. Even a love potion could not strengthen the way I thinketh you, for my love is already at its most powerful. I do indeed bring joyous news. VVitch is slain. No longer shall you need to remain in your spire. The land is untainted once more.” 

She spread her arms, spinning in a circle as she basked in the sunlight. After a moment, she paused, looking down at the Rosewood Knight. “Why, do I recall correctly that my Rose had two brave flowers accompany him on that valiant journey? Where might they be? I should like to give them my thanks. Think you a kiss each be an ample reward? Great treasuries of the realm?” 

His smile faded. “I have not seen sweet Lady Haera since I spilt the blood of VVitch upon the earth. Sir Brimeor… Noble Sir Brimeor’s death shook her, methinks.” 

The princess closed her eyes, vibrant blue tears sliding down her cheeks. “I had heard many a tale of his honor and courage. I hoped to gain the pleasure of knowing him better after your quest. I shall sing a song for him when the moon is full. Perhaps it will guide his spirit to rest. Tell me, good Sir, how did it happen?” 

The Rosewood Knight paused. “I would not burden you with the grizzen details. Know that it was quick. As for your ballad, I would humbly ask that you refrain from it. The Evermeadow does not partake in such archaic beliefs. They will retrieve Brimeor and bury him in his homeland.” 

Though Rose’s love for Lerelei was apparent, he thought that her gods derived power from belief. Her religion was an old one, and one which had overstayed its welcome. The Evermeadow and other places around the planet had already moved on, and it was high time that the Heartlands did as well. The Rosewood Knight didn’t blame Lorenna for practicing her beliefs, as he imagined there wasn’t much else to do in her situation. Ettiah of the Moon’s Blood was not a merciful god. If the Codex didn’t lie, as it had been written in the time when her religion was widespread, then blood sacrifices were not frowned upon. He wondered if Lorenna still practiced that, too. 

She pursed her lips. “As you wish. My heart goes to his family, and to my dear Haera. May she return in safety.” Lorenna sighed, leaning on the railing. 

“My lady, I implore you to take care on the balcony. The fall is long and hard, and I would not wish you to be as broken as me in my attempts to gain your hand. Mine own shake in fear of your downfall. They tremble at the thought of your iridescent beauty, and your antlers as tall and elegant as the trees.” 

She laughed. Even the Rosewood Knight found it hard to put the sound into words. It was like the breeze from a cool summer rainfall, blowing gentle wind chimes. “Rise, my knight. What was more shocking than finding you climbing my tower at night for a visit, was that you stood up after your plunge into the rose bushes. It would make for a rather poetic end to your tale, would you not agree?” 

It was Rose’s turn to purse his lips, though the Lady Lerelei could not see beneath his helmet. “Let us hope that that end is far and long from this day, though mayhaps it would be a sweet death to gaze upon your features.” 

She blushed. “Let us speak no more of death. That is saved for the night, when Abyss laughs and the Moon’s Blood is fullest.” She held out her finger and a cardinal landed, singing a merry song. “It is a new day, and I must depart into my quarters to pray for Sir Haera’s safe return to me. I would bear you farewell, my Rose, if I did not know better.”

He gave a deep bow, grateful that his helm fit his head so perfectly. “I shall return on the morn, and the morn after that, and the one after that. I would defy a thousand lifetimes to win your hand, sweet maiden.” The Rosewood Knight stood up. He waited for a breathless moment. “I must confess… I am not so brave as you deem me so.” He walked back a few paces, so he could see Lorenna paused in her doorway, parting back a curtain of flowered vines. Rose had never been able to glimpse the inside of her tower. 

“Why, from your own speech, it sounds as if you fought VVitch on your lonesome. What is that, I wonder, if not bravery of the highest order?” 

“The night before, oh it shames me to say so, my princess, but on the night before I wept to the blackest of dreams! Black, awful dreams. Of treachery and trickery. What made my heart cry was discovering you at the center of this foulest of plots, my Lady Lorenna of Lerelei. Not as the plotter, oh no, you are far too kindly and innocent to be capable of that. You were the target. The planned victim of dark deeds done in the name of spite and greed. I fear…” Rose waited. “No. I darest not say.” 

She gasped, lifting a hand to her mouth. “Say it! Let it slip between your teeth. If I am in danger I must know from what or whom!” The cardinal took off with a small, annoyed chirp. 

The Rosewood Knight hung his sentence in the air for a split sentence, before uttering: “Filicide.” 

Lorenna’s expression tightened just as hard as her jaw. “You mean to say…? No. My mother would never do me harm. Never.” 

“I implore you, think on it, my lady. If the ruler of the greatest House Lerelei should have her daughter marry a mere vagabond knight, his house almost unheard of in the Heartlands, she would think great shame upon her family. If she cannot force you to join hands with someone else, there is only one other solution.” 

Lorenna Lerelei walked inside, yet her cold words hung in the air as if she were still on the balcony. “I have not agreed to marry you just yet, Rosewood Knight. I would think on that before choosing your next words the day next.”

He stood there, looking at his boots in the red grass. His breathing echoed as they came out of the metallic helmet. Angling his head upward, he stared at the sky, now violet with the sun having risen more. The breeze felt too warm. It annoyingly tugged at his cloak and made him sweat underneath his suit of armor. Like a streetwalker in prayer. With a sigh, he turned and walked to his steed, tied to an old fence post by a clump of dandelion trees. 

Windsoar was a marionette, modeled after a statzal, with powerful legs worked by bronze gears peaking above its hindquarters. Its hooves left weird prints in the soil, full of waving lines and surrounded by a checkered pattern. Its tucked wings were taken directly from the beast it was inspired from, consisting of a shimmering, insectile-like thin material surrounded by a black outline of exoskeleton that crept into the center like veins or tree branches. It snorted, the furnace inside Windsoar’s rib cage flaring, glowing red all the way to its nostrils on its snout, which puffed out hot steam. The Rosewood Knight had attempted to cover the slits in its wood-like body with metal plating, but each time the pressure had proved too great and he had been forced to remove it or suffer a marionette torched from the inside out. That would not do, as to his knowledge this was the only steed of its kind in existence. 

That would prove obvious to anyone who happened to look upon him as he snapped the reins, making lots of mechanisms to click into place and cause the mount to lift its head. Then it ran. It ran faster than any horse that could be found wandering the land. It thundered with quick precision. It never got tired, and although appearing as if it ate the grass, Rose found out that the vegetation burned inside its stomach, proving useless as it didn’t need food or drink. As it galloped, it spread its wings, fluttering them at such rapid speeds that it seemed as though the knight of the Rosewood was surrounded by a hypnotizing blur. Though its body was too big for permanent flight, it did glide off the ground for seconds at a time, pushing the wind in its favor to achieve greater speeds.

Windsor was much faster and more powerful than regular statzels, which his mechanical design was inspired by. Statzels roamed the Midnight Sea coast and outskirts of the Heartlands in herds, resembling horses with bug wings and gray skin. With Windsoar underneath and his blade, Last One, in his hand, Rose felt invincible. 

The landscape would not change unless he reached the Midnight Sea or crossed the rainbow mountains, Rose knew. Someone from the Evermeadow or Willowood would think it a hellscape of magnificence, he had once heard Lorenna say, as she looked at the crimson tallgrass and the odd grove of white dandelion trees. Their seeds filled the air, creating gray flocks against the purple sky, becoming invisible whenever a pink cloud blocked out the sun. If the seeds landed in the grasses, they would likely be smothered by the vegetation, unable to grow. The Rosewood Knight reckoned that was why there were so few of them fully blossomed, though he expected a forest of them would be unkind, to say the least, on his nostrils. 

Running beside him, a herd of enormous gray rabbits bounded against the ground, their noses twitching and ears flopping in the wind. Rose found himself wondering a lot why he hadn’t bothered to tame one of them, until he saw their barbed tongues licking sharp, yellow teeth. It was for the best, in any case. Rabbits got tired. Marionettes didn’t, and weren’t carnivorous, either. He gripped the hilt of his sword, though he didn’t expect them to go for the fast-moving target that he was. 

Finally, when the beams of light reflecting off his armor signaled midday, Rose arrived at his keep, just in time for lunch. One could hardly call this a keep. A real lord would choke on his mead laughing should they look at it, he thought bitterly. It was surrounded by a low wall of untrimmed hedges, easily burned, easily climbed through. The ground was filled with mud and dying grass, though he had ordered his castellan to have it paved, the ancient marionette apparently hadn’t gotten around to it yet, or maybe forgotten about it entirely. Potential attackers could possibly slip on the muck and break their necks, though it was not of much use for anything else, except for reminding him of his poverty. The structure itself was the worst part. He had found it overgrown and ridden with vermin, and it had not changed much since he had arrived. Try as they might, the Rosewood Knight and his castellan could not improve the top half leaning precariously to one side, the ivy growing like weeds in between the bricks, the rodents scurrying about from their hidden lairs.

Leading Windsoar into the stables he had built purely from the stems of the dandelion trees and his own sweat and blood, he swung the stall shut and was met by the Castellan. Peering outside from the peeling oak door into the keep, the Castellan resembled a stick insect, with plating the same texture as Windsoar, though painted silver, red, and gold to match Rose’s colors. He shambled outside, pressing two sets of hands together as the third pair folded behind his back. He wore a black velvet suit vest with a dark-red handkerchief and a golden pocket watch. It was the only set of clothing fit for a servant they had found that hadn’t been eaten by moths. A metal wind up key erupted from the marionette’s back, endlessly turning. Covering half of his face was a smiling, white marble mask. 

“My lord, words cannot describe my relief upon witnessing his safe return.” His voice came out echoey and scratched, like it came out of a tin can.. “Please, please, follow me! I have prepared proper sustenance for my lord. I imagine he is famished.” 

The Rosewood Knight stooped to enter the doorway. He didn’t know if he was abnormally taller than whoever had originally had it built or if they were really just short. He supposed it would have made no difference to them, or to the Castellan who had no such difficulties getting through, as his shoulders were always slightly hunched in any case. Feeling a disgusting taste in his mouth, Rose thought back to the cramped space of VVitch, but this memory vanished with the rumbling in his stomach. He realized he hadn’t eaten since he had entered the forsaken valley. Rose carefully took off his helm and started shoveling heaps of steaming rabbit stew into his mouth. It had taken a considerable amount of effort to kill one of the beasts, but after salting, the Rosewood Knight had enough meat to last him for at least a fortnight to come. He winced whenever the spoon touched his lips, but he kept eating anyway. The seasoned, chewy meat was almost enough to cover the taste of the metallic spoon.

The Castellan watched him carefully. “If I may be so bold… how did your travels fare? Did you vanquish the VVitch? I have heard not of Sir Brimeor and Haera.” 

The Rosewood Knight placed down his utensil and sighed. “VVitch is slain.”

The marionette bounced up and down in a circle, croaking, “Oh, well done, my lord! Well done indeed! I trust everything went according to plan, then?” 

“Yes,” Rose lied. He pushed his bowl away. “That’s as much gruel as I can stomach for the time being, I think. I am off to my chambers.” 

The Castellan bowed, removing the bowl from the plain table draped in a sad off-white tablecloth. “And what does my lord bid me do whilst he is in slumber? Trim the hedges? Feed Windsoar? Fetch your bandages?”

Rose waved his hand as he climbed the flight of small, spiral stone stairs, helmet in hand. “No, not for the time being. Perhaps you could finally rid yourself of that ridiculous mask, however.” It reminded him too much of her. The woman in the water. 

The Castellan wrung his free hands. “Would that I could, my lord, would that I could. I am afraid this fixture is too greatly secured. Removing it may damage my machinery.” His uncovered face was frowning, yet the mask was beaming.

Rose grunted, and continued climbing up the stairs. His room occupied the top of the small tower, crowning the already small keep. The ceiling beams were higher than that of VVitch, but not by a considerable amount. He cursed at the comparison, undoing the straps of his armor and sending them clunking onto the floor. A poor reflection of Tower Lerelei, indeed. He placed his helm on a small bedside table. Groaning, the Rosewood Knight soaked a washcloth in a small wooden bowl and placed it over his brow, flopping onto the mattress.

Through his pounding head, he thought back to Lorenna Lerelei. He had been younger when he first met her, though it wasn’t more than a few years ago. He had been more foolish, he thought, but still full of pretty words and vibrant songs. Mostly Rose remembered the flag flapping in the breeze. The princess yawning and exiting her tower room, the sunlight exposing her figure through her thin gown. Rose had thought she was blind, at first, beholding her white, wide eyes. She did, however, see him. 

“Why, if you are not the lady of most noble births, then I am kneeling in front of none other than White Swan herself. Though your beauty is enough to make any other wonder turn to ash in my eyes for a hundred years, doth you a name? I should like to continue about my travels and tell all I meet of this spectacular thing before me.” 

She giggled. “Why, my sweet knight, I am Lorenna Lerelei, of the smallest blade of crimson grass to the puffiest dandelion tree and the tallest mountain.” The Lady Lerelei gave a curtsey. “You have the honor of addressing the princess of the Heartlands. Oh, how I should relish in leaving this spire of mine to see you closer, but alas, it is not to be. My lady mother hath forbidden it so.” 

The Rosewood Knight stood up. “Then up to you, I shall go.”

Another laugh. “Good Sir, how doth I bid a stranger to mine quarters without even a name to utter? Speak, warrior! What are the Heartlands to call you?”

“I am but the humble knight of the Rosewood, my lady. Passing through these lands for glory and honor, as is the tradition for knights of smaller birth who have little to rule over.”

“Why, my Rosewood Knight, I am afraid I have played a poor jest on you. Just as I cannot exit my chambers, no one may enter. Should you walk the perimeter of this tower of mine, you will find no door nor entrance from which to open.” 

He felt cold. Rose was not fond of jokes. However, his composure was kept polite. “Very well. I passed many a plagued crop field and tainted water. Mayhaps these ever-barren lands have need of my presence for a time. If you so wish it, your house has my sword, through plight and strife.”

“You honor me, Knight of Roses. If you so wish, dark words and whispers fly with the wind, of a lichen shadow to the north. Indeed, ‘tis the reason why I am forbidden from leaving, so.” She looked around, slightly covering her mouth, as if just saying it would incur unwished ears. Her next words were barely more than a whisper, so much so that he had to tilt his brow upwards to better listen. “A foul sorcerer, by the title of VVitch.” 

The Rosewood Knight’s memories had somehow faded into dream. Pleasant at first, then diving deep into terrible nightmares. When he awoke, covered in sweat, the sun’s rays enveloped him through the broken shutters. Morning had come, but with no sleep, nor promise of matrimony on the horizon. 

3/10/24: American Fantasy is, at the time, a work-in-progress. 

CHAPTER ONE

Fiona Turner tilled the soil. The blade cut through dirt effortlessly, unaware of her knees digging into the ground, her arms pressed against its wooden handle. She was wiry. Brown skin made of freckles and bruises from making the stick made of metal bolts and sharpened iron. The prairie wind tried to untangle her canopy of red hair, and she felt a hand touch her scalp. 

Pa ran his hand through the color which was so unfamiliar to him. It was calloused and looked too big to be anything but tender, but whenever it came time to tame her curls, Fiona preferred his hand to Ma’s. Even though he didn’t know much about a lady’s needs, he always knew where to leave alone, so she could keep her loops of fiery orange, and where to tug gently, so he didn’t hurt her head bad. 

He looked around the field, now, bare and sad next to the pretty green and yellow of the grasslands around. “You’re not tilling straight,” he commented. “Remember to look up, so you can see where you’ve been. Dig deeper, too, so you break that hard dirt nice and good, now. If we do a good enough job, we’ll be able to afford that new horse to do most of the hard work for us. Remember that big boy I had an eye on? Up at Old Tuckers’ place? Well, he said if I had the coin, and no one else had bought it off him by then, it’d be all ours. What do you say, honey? Reckon we could swing to buy that beauty by the end of the season?” 

Ma didn’t get up from her chair. The porch shaded her too much so that Fiona had to really squint to see what she was thinking, and she looked like she was thinking that she was just about to finish another knitted scarf. Never you mind that it was spring, which on the prairie meant it might as well be high summer, and never you mind that it was ugly as all that was holy, but neither Pa nor Fiona had the heart to tell her. 

Pa sighed, wiping sweat off his brown, tired face. He ran his hand through a short, black beard, and patted Fiona on the back. “All right. Get back to work, Fiona, and I’ll do the same. No sense in talking about what’s wants if all we do is talk, you know what I mean? You’re doing good work today. Great. Just remember to till straight, okay? That’s how crops grow best.” 

Ma finally looked up from her needles. “Don’t get comfy out there, you too. I’ll be making tea soon. I just got lavender from town, and you know how the general doesn’t ever have anything remotely acceptable for high tea, ‘cept I went in there with you, Elijah, just yesterday, as you remember. Excuse me– except. Anyway, while you were off buying more feed, I had a look at the back, where that owner’s wife doesn’t want anyone looking too closely because she knows she can get away with hiding all the goods to herself. That’s where I found the lavender, and oh, the smell! You’ll just love it Fiona, and it may even get through to your father’s thick nose. I’ve made biscuits, and gotten the latest paper. A reward for– well, I just can’t wait.” 

“Sounds perfect, Mar.” Pa winked over Ma’s wrinkled face. She hated it whenever he called her that. Margaery or Ma, she’d say. Never Mar, or Marge, or Ettiah forbid Missus Turner. 

Fiona watched the Not-Missus-Turner scoop her knitting in one hand and lift the hem of her skirts in the other, heading inside. She loved Ma’s tea time, because she loved a break from the farm work even more. 

“Pa,” Fiona said, over a white porcelain cup with a handle too small for any finger to fit through, “Whenever we pass through Tucker’s place–” 

“Mister Tucker,” Ma reminded her. 

“Mister Tucker’s place,” Fiona amended, “Why do all the horses make weird noises inside the barn? Screaming, like they’re all worked up.” 

Pa choked. “More coffee, Mar?” 

Ma tightened her lips and passed him the pitcher, lifting it with skin so pale it was a wonder Fiona didn’t burn up in the sun like she did. While Ma wore a top with frill sleeves, Fiona was still in her brown overalls, covered with a layer of dust that Ma deemed acceptable after thoroughly brushing her off before she entered the house. 

“What?” Fiona asked, looking between her parents. 

“How’s your tea, dear?” Asked Ma. 

Pa looked like he was gonna say something, then changed his mind. “That’s a big question, Fiona.” He sized her up. “Do you reckon you’re ready for big girl answers?” 

She nodded eagerly. He thought for a moment. “Well, the horses are having a dance, you see. They dance with each other, two to a pair, inside that barn. That’s how Ol’ Tucker likes it. When they’re done, he gets new baby horses, and grows ‘em, just like the other ones, to sell to families just like ours, to help around the farm.” 

Fiona put the cup down. It tasted like green apples. “Dancing? What would horses be dancin’ for? You know, Pa, I’m big enough not to think all your jokes are funny no more.” 

Ma broke into a smirk. “I see you getting your fill of those biscuits, young lady, and I want you to know it’ll be nothing but meatloaf and collard greens for you tonight.” 

“No desert?” Fiona complained. 

“Desert?” Pa asked incredulously. “That field look grown yet? ‘Fraid you’ll have to live with your mother’s tea parties and collard greens until I can spare coin for a new horse, much less an strawberry fruitcake  like it sounds you’ve been craving for.” 

Fiona helped Ma with the dishes– her red hair tied in a bun, Fiona’s hanging down, like always. Ma complained that it would get wet if she kept it that way, but Fiona stood her ground. Besides, if that replaced the weekly bath forced upon her, that was all well and good. As the ladies worked, Fiona watched through the window above the basin Pa back in the field, white shirt sticking to him, his big, muscly arms easily able to push the tool through the ground. Their property stretched for about two hundred acres, swirling around apple trees and over low inclines. Beyond the rickety, wooden fence marking the land as their own, a dirt road cut across the country, past Tucker’s place a few miles down, then towards the trading post, or what Ma called “town”. 

For twelve years, Fiona had called the farm home, and before that, well she hadn’t been out of her Ma’s belly, so she supposed she couldn’t reckon. Through the front porch and past Ma’s outdoor chair, the house was taken up by a small kitchen and pantry, where Fiona and her mother worked now, and a living area with a table to eat on and cozy armchairs for them to sit on and warm up by the fire, on the nights when it was really cold, and the wind rattled the windows and shook the walls. To the side was a staircase that led to Ma and Pa’s room as well as Fiona’s, where she got her very own bed, with a rug underneath and a dollhouse to the side complete with dolls. She wished she could live in the dollhouse– with a gabled roof, stone bricks, tall windows, and creeping, painted vines. 

That night, as Fiona lay in her nightgown, all cozy under her blanket, Ma sat next to her, a book open in her lap. It was one of the ones with pictures, thank goodness. A knight in shining armor held up a rose to a princess in a tower high above. 

“And they both lived happily ever after,” Ma finished eventually, closing the pages. 

“Ma?” 

“Hmm?” 

“Did you play with that doll house when you were my age?” 

“Why, yes. Why do you ask?” 

“You’ve been staring at it.” 

She smiled. “Have I? I guess I just got lost in my own head, that’s all. Don’t pay attention to me. A lady shouldn’t spend too much daydreaming, or else she’ll never wake up.” 

“But isn’t that what Pa does?” 

Ma looked sharply at Fiona. “Well, first off, Pa isn’t a lady, silly, and second, he always thinks about what's best for us. What’s best for you. That new horse? It’ll really be a big help around the farm, and help us grow more crops so we can sell more.” She gasped. “You know what?” 

“What?” 

“If he sells enough, maybe we’ll finally be able to get you your very own pony.” 

“A pony?” Fiona asked. “What do I need a pony for?” 

“Well, when I was your age, that’s all I ever asked my daddy for.” 

“Did you get one?” 

“Yeah,” She said, wistfully. “It was wonderful.” 

“Where is it now?” 

“Oh, honey, it passed away a long time ago.” Ma looked out the window. “It’s dark out. Time for you to go to sleep.” 

“Okay.” Before Ma closed the door behind her, Fiona piped up, “When do you think I’ll grow?” 

Ma smiled. “I wish you could stay my little baby forever.” 

“Ma!” 

“Oh, soon, Fiona, soon. Your father was a late bloomer, too. Okay, now, try to get some sleep. It’ll be more work in the field tomorrow.” 

Fiona groaned, pulling the covers over her head. When the door closed, she flipped over so her ear was pressed against the bed, trying its best to hear what was happening downstairs. Pa was plucking the strings on a gittern, probably humming the tune to some song from his country. Fiona imagined Ma swaying along to the music, in step with the cicadas and crickets outside. 

“She gone to bed?” Pa asked. He waited half a breath, probably as Ma nodded. “We’re doing all this for her, Margaery. Life won’t be so easy for her if, well…” Fiona thought he was gesturing to something. “We’re both doing our part to make the future a little bit brighter.” 

“I know, Elijah.” 

“That being said… life isn’t so bad, now, is it? We got a house, we got each other, we got our beautiful daughter.” 

Fiona heard the floorboards squeak as Pa pulled her into his arms. They slow-danced together for a while, saying nothing. Fiona stared at the ceiling. She imagined herself back in the field, pulling and tearing at the soil, loosening it. Her fingernails still had some dirt underneath them, and she chewed on them, spitting out the bitter dark stuff. 

The curtains shifted, and she realized her window was still open. Getting up slowly so her parents wouldn’t hear, Fiona tip-toed across the room, letting the carpet cushion the sounds of her bare feet. Reaching up to drag the fabric across the rod that kept them in place, she saw a group of dark shapes moving across the field. Coyotes. They sniffed and pawed at the ground, looking for something. Food, probably, but there was nothing to be had on the empty patch of land. When she slid her window shut, they all perked up, staring directly at her with eyes that glowed in the dark. Goosebumps ran down her arm. They looked at each other until the leader led the rest of the pack into the night. 

Downstairs, Pa said: “What say we do more dancing in the bedroom?” 

Giggling, Ma shushed him, and Fiona quickly got back into bed as they walked up the stairs. She shut her eyes, and dreamed about coyotes running through the woods. 

The next morning, Fiona got up when light broke through her window, as she always did. Pulling on her working clothes, she thudded downstairs, bleary-eyed and yawning. When she saw Ma sitting next to a table devoid of breakfast, and Pa pacing around the room, Fiona quickly sobered off her sleepiness. 

Pa stopped walking and looked at her. “Cow’s dead.” 

Fiona’s heart sank. She followed her father around the back of the house, where a large awning and a pen housed the remains of Delilah. It didn’t look much like a cow, anymore. Rib cages poked out of a red, chewed carcass. Crows pecked at the remains, beaks stained with the still fresh blood. Guts and other innards were strewn all across the pen, some that looked like dripping sausages hanging on the gate. 

Pa pushed aside the wet meat, it slapping to the ground as he pushed the gate open. Fiona turned away as he pushed his bare hands into the remains, sending the crows away with a squawk. He held out the bell that used to be gold-colored in his palm. “Didn’t make a sound.” 

Inside, he washed up in the basin. “Elijah,” Ma started. “Without that cow– I mean, it was producing three, four gallons a day. How are we to make that up before the harvest?” 

He pushed past her, face set in stone. Above the mantelpiece, he took down a big, wooden longbow. 

“Elijah!” Ma said again, as he stormed upstairs. She followed him, trying to talk as well as a person could hold a conversation with a rock. When he came back down, he held a quiver with at least two dozen arrows. “You don’t know where the coyotes went!” Ma said incredulously. 

Before he stepped out the door, Pa turned to Fiona. “Help your mother with the chores, then get back to work in the field.” And with that, he left without another word. 

Fiona turned to Ma. She held a dish rag in her hand, wrist against her forehead, eyes shut. “You heard your father. Come help me with the porridge.” 

When Fiona was back in the field, she looked at the crows, back to feasting on Delilah. The task seemed harder, impossible without Pa. Besides Ma, Fiona was the only living person for miles, working alone on moving dirt across the ground. The handle of the tiller rubbed against her palm, nowhere near as leathered as Pa’s. Splinters cut into her skin, forcing her to stop every few minutes or so to pick them out. She moved across the land, the house growing further and further away. Fiona was careful to watch where she stepped, to avoid leaving her footprints in the dirt she had just plowed. 

It was around lunchtime when she heard the hoofbeats. Riders were coming up the road, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake. She watched as they whooped and took potshots at a herd of grazing bison, jeering when the animals ran away before their arrows could take them down. The men all wore black and brown dusters, with wide-brimmed hats. Some carried crossbows, while the one at the front had a big sword in a scabbard. 

They stopped in the patch of road by Fiona. The man in front called: “You there! Miss, come here.” 

Fiona looked at the house again. There was no way to start running there without the men catching her. She held the tiller tight as she slowly approached the rider, squinting to see his face as the sun shone behind his tall frame. He had patchy, blonde stubble covering a scowl. His men had long, raggedy hair and beards. Their clothing was all fancy. Boots polished. One of them smiled at Fiona with black teeth. 

“Your father the owner of that farm?” The leader asked. He had an accent from up north. More refined, like he chose his words with great care.

“No,” Fiona lied. 

He raised his eyebrow. “Your mother, then?” 

Fiona didn’t answer. The man with black teeth looked at the house. “You left her all alone, little lady? Well, maybe I’ll go up and pay her a little visit.” 

He began trotting his horse forward, but stopped when the leader held up his gloved hand. “What’s your name, miss?” 

Fiona swallowed. “Eloise.” 

“Eloise. I don’t mean to give your father any trouble. The opposite, in fact. I have an offer that I think he’d like to hear. If you could tell us where he is, that would be much appreciated. If not, we’ll take a look around your home. See if your mother is more forthcoming. You know what that means, don’t you? Forthcoming?” 

“Ma teaches me,” Fiona blurted out, then covered her mouth. 

The man with black teeth licked his lips. “So, you do have a mamma, then.” 

“I– No!” Fiona’s mind raced. “I’m all alone. They went to town. I’m to look after the farm until they come back.” 

The leader regarded her with burning blue eyes. He got off his horse, tying the lead to a post. Even on the ground, he was at least two feet taller than Fiona. “They left you here by yourself? Forgive me, but I don’t believe that’s right. A young thing like you shouldn’t have such a large responsibility. Please, allow us to stay with you, just until your mother and father come back.” Even though he tipped his hat politely, Fiona knew he wouldn’t take no for an answer. 

“Boss,” another rider warned. 

“Fiona. Go inside,” Pa’s voice announced behind her. 

She turned. He had a coyote slung over his shoulders. Its eyes had rolled to the back of its head, and the tongue lolled. His bow and quiver were buried somewhere underneath the mess of fur and teeth. She looked back and forth between Pa and the men. Their eyes were scary, but her father’s eyes made her shiver. They were frightened. 

“Nice to make your acquaintance, Fiona,” the leader said. 

She turned and started sprinting towards the house. As soon as she stepped inside, Ma grabbed a hold of her arm, smooth, round fingernails digging into her skin. “Do you know those men?” Fiona asked. 

“Those are bad men, Fiona. Very bad men.” Ma shut the door, bolting it. Then, she started looking Fiona over. 

“Will Pa be okay?” Fiona asked. 

Ma peeked out the window, closing the curtains so the room was day-dark. Not black as night, but dark enough that the only thing Fiona could see were the beams of sun shooting out from the gaps the drapes left. There they waited. Fiona began counting on her fingers, as Ma had shown her. It was a good way to learn numbers, and even though she hated maths, When she reached the thousands, she wished she had that many digits, and stopped. 

There came a knock at the door. A single thud. Ma gasped and rushed to unbolt. She screamed when the coyote carcass came crashing onto the floor. Blood pooled in between the floor planks. Pa leaned in the doorway, breaths coming out in heavy gasps. 

“Damn…” He wheezed. “That thing is heavy.” 

Ma grabbed his jaw and turned his head, just as she had done to Fiona. “What did the Farlenn Boys want with you?” 

He sat down in an armchair with a sigh. Fiona began probing the coals inside the fireplace. Flames rose from the dead, crackling and lapping at the edges of the stone bricks. Their kisses left black soot on the sides. 

“They were trying to find the owner of the farm,” Pa finally said. 

“You’re the owner, ain’t you?” Fiona asked. 

He nodded. “And thank Ettiah for that. If we had to forfeit our wages to some higher up…” 

“What did they want?” Ma probed. 

Pa looked from her to Fiona. Something in his face had changed. He looked pained, like he was suffering from a bad tummy ache. When his jaw flexed, the black hairs on his face turned into an ocean, waves churning across, forming a frown. “They’re from Ashby Thelema.” 

Ma looked ready to explode. Her face was bright red, and her hands were clenched, fingernails digging into her skin. “What does that man want with you?” 

“Who’s Ashby Thelema?” Fiona asked, forming the name in her mouth as one would taste fried butter. 

“He knows who I am, Mar,” Pa said, ignoring Fiona’s question. “He knows who I’m married to.” He stressed the last line, like it was something Ma should consider. 

“Why didn’t he come to me directly? As a matter of fact, why did he send those men in his stead? He think he’s better than us?” 

Pa regarded her with a wry smile. “If he came in here and talked to you, you’d have sent him on his way having to drink from straws for the rest of his life.” 

Fiona giggled. She punched the air, giving it a real bruising before Ma and Pa continued speaking. 

“He thinks you’ll hear him out,” Pa said. “He put an offer on the farm.” 

Ma put a hand over her mouth. “Don’t even think about it.” 

Pa looked into his own hands. “Farlenn said they made the same deal to Tuck, too.” 

“This farm is your life! What’ll you do if you sign it away?” 

“They offered me a job, too, on top of the coin. It’s a lot of coin, Mar. It’ll buy us a new house. You can keep having your tea parties. What he’s wanting to give me isn’t just a pot of gold– it's a consistent source of income.” 

Ma whacked his hand with a ladle. “I know that! But Elijah… how can you trust him? You know what he’s done. How could you even think–” 

Pa rose, smacking the ladle out of her grip. Fiona took an involuntary step back. Ma flinched. “Look at the cow, Margaery! Look at the empty field outside! Look, before we could still sell some milk in town, I thought maybe, but now, I don’t know how we’re gonna make it! I don’t have enough help around the farm– certainly not enough to have a full harvest this year. This is the only…” 

His voice faded as Fiona raced up the stairs. Her eyes stung. She imagined herself back outside, the tiller in her hands. The ocean that was on Pa’s face became the farm. A field stretching into the horizon that was never ready as much as Fiona dug and tugged. Coyotes howled in the distance, and the men on horses howled with them. The hooves thudded against the road, getting louder, louder, louder… 

She lifted her face from her pillow. Someone was knocking on the front door to the house. Fiona got up, opening her bedroom door slowly so it wouldn’t creak. She peaked her head over the stair bannister, and saw Pa move to answer the door. She couldn’t see who was there, but the long silence told her enough. The coyote carcass had been moved, so its glassy eyes and lolled tongue looked up at Fiona as she waited for her daddy to say something. 

“I thought you said I had time,” finally grunted Pa. 

“Oh, you do,” came the voice of the rider with black teeth. “We just realized that it's a long, hard ride back, and–” he giggled. “ –as much as your missy seems to be in an accommodating mood, we thought we’d just inquire if you’d be so polite as to sacrifice your coyote, there. Looks plump as hell, and Ettiah if the boys weren’t looking at it like it was a streetwalker with her tits out on a hot day. Promise, we’ll be out of your hair.” 

Neither Ma or Pa said anything. The floorboards creaked, and the coyote started getting dragged across the floor. The man with black teeth poked his head into the den, grunting with effort as he pulled the creature. He sniffed the air, and it was almost as if he could smell Fiona at the top of the stairs, because he turned his head and grinned at her. 

She ran back into her room and shut the door. 

Hours went by. Fiona shut her eyes, but she couldn’t sleep. She pulled the covers over her head when she heard someone running up the stairs. Sweat trickled down her armpits. She could still see the black, rotting teeth smiling at her. See his purple tongue licking flaky, cracked lips. 

Fiona screamed when the covers were thrown off of her. Pa grabbed her arms, keeping her from pounding his chest. “Fiona! Fiona!” His eyes were wide. “I need you to come outside with me, now.” He didn’t seem to notice or care that Fiona had gotten dirt from her boots and work clothes all over the sheets.  

Fiona shook her head. What if the men were still outside? 

Pa dragged her by the arm, yanking so hard she thought it would come right out of its socket. Fiona thought she’d have to start digging her toes into the floor, when she noticed the lights outside of the window. They were in the upstairs hallway, so the glass faced the side of the house, in the same direction the road outside led. In the distance, beyond some tall trees, the sky should have been dark. It was dark, when Fiona had been forced out of bed. Now, when she looked, it was orange and yellow, and judging by the distance, it was coming from Tucker’s farm. 

She stopped struggling, and both of them raced outside, grabbing empty pails by the doorway. They ran down the road, both undeterred by the chilly breeze. “Faster, Fiona!” Pa yelled. 

As they got closer, Fiona could hear the sound of flames eating away at dry wood, coupled with horses screaming. She had never thought about animals being afraid– they were just animals, after all, raised for slaughter or milk, wool, or eggs– but when she heard the roof caving in on them, still trapped in the pens Tucker kept them wrangled up in in the barn, she understood for the first time their desperation. Fiona realized that animals feared death as much as anyone did. 

There was a pond next to Tuck’s house, and that was where Fiona and Pa dipped their pails into, trying not to spill any as they ran to the site of devastation. Fiona had never seen such a big fire. It licked the sky, consuming the barn so that it looked like a charred skeleton, throwing up screams and burning horses. 

Pa tackled Tucker to the ground, who was trying to run inside to save his animals. She kept throwing water at the flames, the heat pecking at her if she stood too close. Fiona stood away helplessly, splashing the thing with what little water she could hold in her bucket, most of it raining onto the grass before it even touched the fire. From the open doors, brown horses streamed out, turned red by the flames enveloping them. The smell of charred flesh filled the air, stinking so bad Fiona dropped her pail, clutching her stomach and vomiting. A pair of hands held her, holding her steady. It was Ma, her own bucket hanging from the crook of her arm. Fiona hadn’t even noticed she wasn’t with her and Pa. 

Black smoke choked the stars. Tucker sobbed on the ground while Pa kept fighting the fire. This went on for some time, until the fire brigade from town finally arrived, and started extinguishing the inferno. In the end, Tucker saved one foal and its mama. His farm was not so lucky. Pa ushered Fiona and Ma away. By that time, it was daylight out, and Fiona could see the ash streaked in Ma and Pa’s hair. She reckoned she didn’t look much better. She held Pa’s hand, and could only think about sprawling into her bed and finally going to sleep. 

Over the next two years, Tucker sold his farm to the men that had talked to Pa. The ones he said worked for a man named Ashby Thelema. Fiona saw them only once, when Pa followed suit. Their leader shook his hand and handed Pa an envelope he said he could give to the bank in town. Fiona and Ma watched the transaction happen from inside the house, until the rider with black teeth caught sight of them, and Ma shut the curtain. 

Pa accepted a job from them, too, and slowly, they began digging into the land around them. At first, Pa was just a man who held a pickaxe in his hand, beating the earth as it showed more and more of its rocky skin. They started away from their farm, so for a long time they were allowed to stay. Then, Pa was promoted, and he got placed in charge of the other men who had started to trickle in from the surrounding area, helping to widen the hole. He tried to explain to Fiona that they were making a quarry, which gave Ashby Thelema’s company things from underground that helped him build things. Fiona didn’t understand. She didn’t understand why Ashby wanted this land, and why they would need to move out soon. Pa was helping them, leading them, even after he had been given a large amount of money– enough to keep them going without crops to sell. 

One morning, Fiona was awoken by the sounds of men talking outside. She walked down the stairs, yawning. It was early enough that Ma hadn’t started making breakfast yet, and her stomach knew it. Still, her curiosity won over her hunger, and so she opened the door. Their front yard was destroyed. The men had moved on, and Pa was in the middle, swinging a pickaxe down with the others, tearing chunks out of the ground. Fiona had expected him to make her join him when they had first started the project, but to her surprise, the request never came. When she asked Ma, she said that the worksite was no place for a lady, and unless she was getting handed coin by Ashby Thelema himself, she was not to go near them. Still, Fiona was usually tasked with bringing the men lunch that Ma prepared every day. They were civil enough– they tipped their hats or muttered their thanks, and took the food without complaint, devouring it in just a few minutes. They drank so much from their well, that Fiona was afraid that they would drain it completely, although she supposed that soon it wouldn’t matter. When Fiona was done handing out the rations to all the men, she handed Pa his portion, and he’d thank her with a hug and his classic grin, then lean against his tool and start gnashing into the meal. All in all, it wasn’t all bad. Fiona still had to help Ma with cooking and cleaning, but it was less work than tilling the field. In her free time, Ma had given her some books to read, saying that every young lady should know how to read. Fiona tried once in a while to turn a page, but she always got bored and idly drew with pen and paper instead, or counted all the types of birds that she saw fly past her window. 

That morning wasn’t different from the usual routine, save for their new location. The road had been saved, with a tight tunnel running underneath it instead. A wagon she hadn’t seen before lay parked out front, and Fiona figured that they were going to have to finally leave. She would miss this house. She would miss the acres of prairie around them, and the groves of trees just beyond. It had made her sad to see the grasses slowly eaten by the quarry, and even though she knew it could only have been a matter of time until it reached the house, it still took her by surprise. Last night had been oddly quiet– no crickets, no coyotes. Fiona figured that must have been a sign that the work had gained a lot of ground. She wanted to punch herself for not realizing it sooner, although the more she thought about it, the more she realized even knowing wouldn’t have mattered. Pa had signed the contract, and from that point forward nothing could have stopped the project. 

Ma was probably upstairs, washing herself up in the “powder room”, as she called it. The light outside was still gray, but Pa and the men were at it like it was just past luncheon. The breeze felt nice, so Fiona leaned against the doorframe, taking in the sight. The men always cursed and told rude jokes with each other, which made Fiona giggle but Ma purse her lips. She had once marched up to them and told them to mind their manners in front of Fiona. They nodded courteously, but gave Fiona a wink. She had to cover her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Fiona listened intently to one particularly nasty joke about a sailor and a barmaid, before they noticed her and clammed up. She was tempted to tell them to keep going, but something about their uneasiness made her pause. 

They sculked off to the opposite side of the ditch, talking quietly amongst themselves. Fiona wondered if Ma had finally introduced them to her ladle when she had heard them say one too many foul remarks. Careful not to accidentally slide into the hole, Fiona left the porch, walking barefoot across the ground. She was sure that Ma would scold her for getting her feet dirty, but she wanted to say good morning to Pa, and confirm her suspicion. She was aware of how much taller she was than everyone else when they were in the ground. She had grown by a few inches since the fire, but should one of the men crawl out and stand back to back with Fiona, she still wouldn’t be able to match him in height. Her hair had grown wilder, almost as untaimable as Pa’s despite Ma’s best efforts. His black curls reached his shoulders, and his beard, while still short, was considerably bushier. The bronze antlers, which she had been so obsessed with when she was younger, were a little longer, sprouting from the top of his head in twin branches, splitting into smaller ones higher up. He rubbed his hand through them. They were still no taller than the length of his palm, but the first thing anyone noticed when they first met him. Fiona had watched as people’s eyelines started above Pa’s face, widening in surprise. 

Other workers hushed up when she walked by. One of them called: “Congratulations, girl!” before their friend shut them up. 

Fiona scowled at them. “‘Congratulations’? This just means we have to leave, and I don’t wanna.” It felt stupid complaining to the worker, who didn’t care about their house or had anything to do with the decision, but something about the way he had called out to her made Fiona irritated. 

He didn’t reply, and she hurried along, anxious to get to Pa. He was totally oblivious to everything that was going on, focusing on his hunched back and arms swinging the iron tool. Fiona looked at his calloused hands, gripping the wooden handle. They held it tight. Firm. Dirt lay underneath his cracked fingernails, but he didn’t seem to care. All that took up his reality in that moment was himself, that pick, and the ground beneath its beak. Chunks of rock flew up around him, the tool hitting the ground with a plink. Sweat pooled on his brow, spilling into his eyes, making it seem like he was crying. Fiona had never seen him cry, and it was strange to imagine him doing so. Whenever she did, she felt stupid for doing it, as if the water from her face could be better spent elsewhere. 

No other women worked at the quarry, but when Fiona was old enough, she thought she’d ask Pa if she could work with them. Her arms were skinny, but they knew how to handle tools, and she thought that even just a few weeks of digging like that would beef them up. She could just imagine Ma’s face when she came home one day with muscles as big as Pa’s. The thing Fiona didn’t want to admit was that it would give her an excuse to spend more time at the farm, or whatever would be left of it. With a rush, she wondered what would become of their things when they moved. Would she still be allowed to keep her toys? Their furniture? Then she realized that was probably what the wagon was for. 

Enough waiting. Pa didn’t even seem to realize she was there. She gingerly stepped into the ditch, careful to avoid sticking her feet into the sharper rocks. She brushed past some more of the men, and ran to Pa, wrapping him in a tight hug. She kissed him on the cheek, then drew back, sticking out her tongue in disgust. 

“Blahh. You’re filthy, Pa. Was gonna wish you a good mornin’, but maybe I’ll wait until you’ve had a proper bath first.” 

He laughed, setting down the pick. He made a show of brushing his cheek, then turned to meet her eyes. “Why, I’d have washed up if I knew you’d be up–”. 

Pa stopped talking. Fiona’s face felt cold. She looked into his eyes, and followed his gaze. He was looking above her eyes. She slowly reached her hands up, past her knots of curly, red hair, her eyes still crusty from sleep. She felt the place where her hair met, and felt a tough, round knot where her skin had been last night. The feeling was unmistakable. She had felt its same texture a million times when Pa  had carried her on his shoulders. She saw its older, mirror image staring at her now. 

Fiona was growing a pair of antlers.