Short Story of the MonthJanine Donoho

What Would Nefertari Do?

2009-11-16T09:09:00.000-08:00

In a barely controlled plummet, Ella slides down the pebbled slope of Deir-el-Bahri into Valley of the Queens. Wetting parched lips, she ingests Egyptian dust. El braces into a stop as a pertinent thought surfaces. Could it be that an iota of Nefertari infuses this grit? Even in the desiccating heat, goose flesh rises along her neck and arms.

Of course, her husband calls such ideas 'cheeky', for Ella has become the queen of quip. After all, her husband insisted on embedding three children and his ex into the bedrock of their marriage. Ah, the joys of second wifedom. Thus El's sass often equates with survival. Her husband sends a harried look her way, his regard urging her onward. She complies, yet the notion of Nefertari's dust grips her still.

Once known as the most beautiful, in a blatant bait-and-switch, this queen serves as a mainstay for Egyptian tourism. For Nefertari has never been part of the country's exhibits. After all, thieves nicked her mummified body long before state-sanctified tomb robbers unearthed the crypt. The closest El might ever get to the great queen is by inhaling her molecules.

Irreverent laughter bubbles. Ella loses her balance, landing hard upon her backside. A cloud of white dust too fine to be called soil envelops her. Her bruised tailbone recalls its recent proximity to the spine of the skinniest donkey she has ever seen. The poor creature hauled her like so much freight to the ridge above this site. How its scrawny hindquarters managed her lanky body... Then her husband Stone grips her upper arms to tug her to her feet.

"You all right, El?" Shadowed by his bush hat, Stone's face tilts toward her.

"Right as rain on the Nile," she mutters. Her black boots appear to be as ancient as the Queens whose crypts line this valley. "Come on, we'd best hurry or we'll miss our tour."

Nefertari's Tomb. El would walk barefoot over the Sahara to experience this. In fact, she practically has done so if you discount a lengthy ride on the camel's back. Once they reached their Berber tents, she and Stone shucked their boots to race up the dunes for sunset...but that was Morocco. This is Egypt.

"I still can't believe we had to pay so much for a half hour jaunt through a dead woman's crypt," Stone says.

El rolls her eyes. "A Place of Beauty, Stone, that's what the ancients called it. You know the tomb's closed to regular tours. We're supremely lucky to have a chance to tour it at all."

"Thanks to your connections with local Egyptologists."

She agrees. Claiming archeological kinship has few benefits in this world, however viewing Nefertari's Tomb atones for multiple slurs against her profession. Their male guide meets them at the entryway. He is a distant cousin to the archeologist El has corresponded with for over twenty years. They exchange pleasantries, but the young man correctly interprets where her interest lies. He waves them in with a laugh.

Ella descends three-thousand years into the underworld. Assaulted by decay, earthquakes, looters, the evaporated sweat of tourists and, yes, greed and stupidity, this place speaks to her. The escort's heavy cologne finally dissipates, overwhelmed by history. El gives into the tugs along her spine and separates from the men. Let Stone enjoy the guide's chatter; she knows this tomb nearly as well she does herself. She came to internalize the experience.

Flanked by goddesses Nekhbet and Wadjet, El embraces eternity. God of the underworld and all living, regal Osiris guides her, a reminder that no one dodges the final bullet. Osiris' skin looks even darker against his white garb. He holds flail and crook with a relaxed, but sure, grip.

"I'll bet you never sided with spiteful children against your wife." His stern aspect agrees.

Ella's gaze slides over eight columns of text: Chapter 94 of the Book of the Dead. There Nefertari reaches for a gameboard and plays for her soul. El nods in sympathy. "A woman's game for certain."

Men's voices along the corridor make her conscious of lapsed time. El glides down eighteen steps, then pauses by a Djad-pillar. Nefertari offers bowls of milk to Isis flanked by Maat and Nephthys--what El's students would identify as a 'fem thing'. Glyphs of protection, life, duration and fortune whirl around her. Power brushes her as she catches up with Stone and their escort.

Stone gives her a look. "You okay?"

"I'm among goddesses. What more could I want?" She watches as the attendant draws him away, then falls into study of Isis-blood figures.

In this form, Isis encompasses womanhood, fertility and creative strength. Without fecundity, there would be no civilization, no generations, no children. El rubs her flat belly, where her inadequate uterus resides. Dark as menstrual blood, Isis sustains the world no less than those phallic Djed-pillars.

She lingers with a heron on the banks of the Nile. The water bird acts as phoenix, rising from its ashes. Death and resurrection. The irony of a crumbling wall upon which protective symbols reside makes El smile. She fiddles with her wedding band, yet another symbol. Finally Ella reaches the goddess Neith, who aids Nefertari in her adjustment to death. Evidently wardrobe counts. El gets a potent sense of Neith's obvious concern for the queen.

"We all benefit from kindness now and again," she whispers.

It must have empowered Nefertari, too. She bears a cloth hieroglyph as a gift to Ptah, chief god of Memphis and designer of the male body. No slouch here, Nefertari takes obvious pleasure in her appearance, sporting a glorious headdress, eye shadow and earrings. El ruefully ponders her own dusty and much-worn travel gear. Kohl and mascara insist on melting off her face.

"Even Hathor and Isis can't keep me looking fresh," she murmurs. Then the two goddesses stand before her--love, humor and joie de vivre personified. El blinks and the goddesses recede into frescos. Hathor tenderly embraces Nefertari. Best friends.

El looks to where Stone waits, head bowed to hear the guide's words. Can a man, even a beloved husband, ever take the place of girlfriends? No. Still a husband should choose his wife over others, right?

With bittersweet nostalgia, she steps into the final chamber. Here, Isis dominates. Holding hands with Nefertari, the two cross into the next world. The dead queen inhales immortality in the form of an ankh. Ankhs swirl, filling Ella, too. Spirit. Life. Breath. She tilts her head to view starry, starry skies of immortality. Unexpectedly, her eyes blur with tears.

Stone's voice recalls her to the present. "El? Our guide needs us to vacate the premises. We're out of time."

Out of time. "Really? Because I feel I'm synchronous for the first moment of my life."

Still she follows the men into North African heat, which pummels her back into the present. After Stone proffers their escort a hefty portion of baksheesh, they set their sights on Hatshepsut's Temple. The edifice looms, a great Pharaoh come to naught due to a stepson's jealousy. Ella totally gets that. Covetous stepchildren can make life hell. She settles her floppy hat and tightens the drawstring. Looking down, she sees her tundra colored pants now matched the seared landscape. When Stone tries to dust her off, she stops him. "Never mind. Just consider it camouflage."

He shrugs and turns his golden gaze to the temple. "Wow. Impressive."

"I suppose. Although the boys' tombs one valley over definitely have ego aggrandizement down to an art." In fact, Ella finds all male Pharaohs to be egocentric and arrogant to the nth degree. Even Hatshepsut had to play at being a boy to get anything done. After her death, her stepson either flattened her works or overlaid them with his own heavy hand.

Boys! Only Nefertari gained ground when it came to equivalency. Her likeness in Abu Simba was the same size as her beloved Ramses. No other wife in Pharaonic history received such high praise. El admits to being charmed by this departure from the norm. Ramses' actions seem to personify his love for his wife--on the level of Solomon's song to his dark lover or the exquisite Taj Mahal in India. However El also recognizes the historical inaccuracies of such quaint interpretations. In this case, Nefertari was only one of five official wives and a glut of concubines. From El's perspective, just one meddling ex-wife can be disastrous. Imagine the plotting between four sanctioned, but scorned, wives and all those wannabes! It boggles the mind.

As they enter Hatshepsut's Temple, shivers raise her nape hairs despite the oppressive morning. "This is early March. Imagine summer here!" Stone complains.

Inadvertently, El's gaze searches the rocky floor for signs of massacre. Either the sun's brutal touch or locals have scrubbed the area clean. She guesses the former. The only modern Egyptians who exert themselves to clean public places are Coptic Christians, the equivalent of India's Untouchables, and they cannot keep up with the trash in Cairo. Still the aftermath of violence remains, a miasma of comprehension and memory. She steps closer to Stone.

"Doesn't have the grandeur of the King's Tombs, does it?" he says.

"How can it? She was only a woman. And Tuthmose III, her stepson, obliterated her from memory. Remember the red granite obelisks in Luxor?"

"The ones sheathed in masonry?"

"Yep. Those were hers until Tuthmose scrawled his hieroglyphs over them. She ruled well for twenty years, then he erased her."

"Yes, but the men's tombs..."

"I prefer open sky like this, don't you? It gives me a greater sense of connection than mountain tunnels." She cranes her neck and pivots.

"I don't know, El. The Pharaohs' paintings..."

"I know, I know. Grinding precious and semi-precious materials to paint onto rock lends glamour. But come on, Stone. Even you have to admit an eggplant-headed guardian doesn't exactly strike fear into your heart."

He laughs. The strong column of his neck triggers a purely sensual response even after a quarter century of marriage. "Leave it to you to notice the murky and truly odd."

"Just call me El the Obscure," she jibes. Bitterness colors her words.

"Too bad the kids couldn't join us," Stone continues.

Not. El thanks all the tomb guardians, the eggplant guy, too, that none of them made this trip. That El enticed their father to travel outside the United States, much less to a Muslim land, yielded months of references to her evil influence, their sly knives aimed at her back.

Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm: for love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the grave: the coals thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame.

Why Song of Solomon comes yet again to mind mystifies her. It strikes a heart chord--like Hatshepsut's Temple.

Long ago, as a young archeology student working two jobs while taking community college courses, El would have considered committing any number of crimes for this trip. Yet Stone has made it happen. His sons spurned his generosity, having imbibed racism at their mother's breast. Ah, Layla, Stone's adulterous wife of seven years. The woman's physique reminds El of mother archetypes--round and hung with breasts to feed the world. In other words, the opposite of El's efficient planes. Once again, she thanks the godesses for his sons' xenophobia.

"When we get back, we'll have to have the kids over. El, you can make ethnic dishes to set the mood." Stone is nothing if not magnanimous.

Molten rock presses her throat as she pictures her lovingly prepared meals gulped without thank-you or by your leave. Locusts would be more circumspect. "Or we can order pizza."

Her husband chuckles. "You're a real card, El."

She tilts her head to get a better view of Osiris, multiples of whom line Hatshesut's Temple as pillars. One winks in the dazzling sun. "Not really. You see, Stone, I'm done with them."

The sun beats the god's profile to a dull glow before her husband asks, "Done with whom?"

"Your sons and their meanness." She moves into the shadows for a closer look at the relief.

"What are you talking about?"

She meets his confused look. "Oh, you know. The dull jibes, the social cuts, their treatment of me as a second-class citizen. Those things. And I'm most certainly not cooking for them. Talk about casting pearls before swine."

"Now El, you know they're just being loyal to their mother..."

"You mean the unfaithful wife who made you question their paternity? Even as you slogged through the jungles of Viet Nam? The one who dropped her babies at our doorstep and only claimed them long enough to receive child support? Despite them living with us most of the time." Regardless of how much I loved them and wanted to be loved in return?

"Well, damn, El, what bee got under your bonnet?"

"Blame it on Ra, god of the sun, if you want. However, please don't dismiss this as another feminine aberration. You've sloughed off these grown men's spitefulness as boys-being-boys and loyalty-to-good-old-mom. I'm your wife, Stone, and have been for over twenty-five years. I've honored you and been faithful as an old hound. Now I'm telling you I'm done with being a scapegoat for your sons. And be warned, I'm not letting you off so easily anymore."

At his mystified look she shakes her head. "Look at where we are? Have you taken in nothing of Hatshepsut and her history? Her stepson mutilated her shrines, her statues and her reliefs, despite her ruling well and justly."

"So that's what this is about? An ancient tiff between a mother and stepson?"

"No. You've heard nothing I've said. This is about love, Stone. And the loyalty of a husband to his loving wife. I'm tired of being treated as a Pharaoh's wife, half-sized and never equal. I want what Nefertari had. No more being stoic."

Looking askance, he says, "Okay."

She dips her head and absorbs not Hatshepsut, but Nefertari. Serene, brilliant strategist, and to her husband, pleasing above all others. Of course, Nefertari passionately loved Ramses, too. El lifts her head and catches Stone's quizzical look, then steps toward him. Slipping her arms around his muscular torso, she rises onto her toes to plant a lingering kiss on his lips. After the briefest of hesitations, he brings her closer.

When he comes up for air, Stone asks, "How much more do we need to see before heading back to the hotel?"

In answer, she offers an enigmatic smile and leads him deeper into the temple. Of course, he follows.

Hustle & Flow--Doggy Style

2009-10-03T09:04:00.000-07:00

Shadowy hounds flow over the landscape, dodging the bones of earth arrayed sharply against them. Vicious in intent, downed pines reach jagged fingers toward them. Scant fur and lean muscle, they leap, twist and rush. Joy made flesh. Speed incubated from bumpy, stumbling birth until their eyes navigate celestially to stars both bright and dim. Pack is life. Joy, joy, joy.

Rabbit freezes, a choice based on success, then lingers a moment too long by one snout, by one long-legged stride. Squirrel dashes up a tree to find a leaping maw awaiting it. Rounding on the ground dweller, the astringent slap of sagebrush smells of bliss. The heated rush of blood exhilarates, offering energy for the next chase. No cry, no foul.

Descendants of brother Wolf and sister Coyote, whose ranges bump against theirs, they, too, howl at the moon. Long muzzles balance an overfull orb reflecting upon insubstantial noses. Liquid eyes of cave-deep topaz, they gaze with ardor at the one who offers a temperate cave, fragrant and yielding. Lolling tongues and clever canine smiles show teeth that shred and crush. They circle, collapse with a sigh, then roll onto tapered backs, offering dewclaws and well-padded hare's toes to the heavens.

Ryan's Widow

2009-09-12T10:25:00.000-07:00

A drunk killed Ryan Wenslau one blue-mooned night in October. The driver, whose vehicle jumped the curb at the Kwick Stop, gushed careless tears reeking of scotch. Meanwhile the pint of French vanilla, which the landscape architect had purchased for his wife, seeped creamy droplets over the edge of the pavement. Flash frozen in the moment, his widow did not cry.

Eight months later the widow Wenslau's best friend, Keesha, confronted her. "Ryan's dead, Justy. Weep for your loss and release his ghost."

Justine allowed the elegant Keesha to pummel her with bony-fisted advice before wondering aloud, "Why is my inability to cry such a problem for you?" With her toe she dislodged a chunk of bark from the path they meandered. The pungent smell of cedar exploded from the sodden wood.

Keesha sneezed, then rifled through her pockets. "Damn, no tissue."

Ryan's widow plucked an embroidered handkerchief from the pouch of her sweatshirt and handed it to her companion. Instead of accepting the linen, Keesha batted it away, saying, "Look at you, woman. All you do is work, come home, and collapse. God knows what you eat, if anything. You don't look like you sleep either. I'm really worried about you." Then Keesha snatched the cloth from Justine's nerveless fingers and swiped her cheeks, where tears changed her rich complexion to Belgian chocolate.

Hollowed by a sorrow at odds with the spring winds off the Cascade Mountains, Ryan's bride stuffed her hands into her pouch pocket. "I'm sorry, Keesh. I can't cry. I can't mourn. I can't move beyond his leaving me." And that it was my fault.

A sob escaped the taller woman as she threw herself into Justine's awkward embrace. "Damn, Justy! Don't you know I've cried enough for both of us? I loved the man, too."

"I know." She patted the fleece protecting her friend's lean back.

Justine and Ryan had designed this wetland garden for Keesha. They planted last autumn, before the accident tore Ryan from the fabric of their lives together. Justine's gaze wandered through the composition of plants. With dull eyes her regard flitted over the forms the way Justine now skimmed the veneer of her life.

Buds shrouded the pussy willow. Silvery hairs covered each shoot, more like rabbit than cat feet. Beside arrowhead-shaped leaves of Wapato and next to the willow, cattails fanned from the mud. Weeping willow fronds brushed starry flowers of death camas. For a moment Justine flowed toward their lush embrace until she dammed the current of her thoughts. Such musings bore her too close to the dread precipice. The ghostly smell of French vanilla roiled her belly.

A trench near the extended driveway to Keesha's house yawned open. Ryan died before they could finish the planned bamboo hedge. Last night, as Justine prowled the abyss between sleep and wakefulness, the ditch of her memory stretched into a gaping wound. Like beckoning and dirt-encrusted arms, roots twisted from the sides. Standing water, infinitely deep, reflected her spectral image.

For what else was she, but the ghost Ryan left behind?

The bereaved.

Dispossessed.

The desolate one.

In her dream that wasn't a dream, the furrow looked so like the grave where she buried her husband that she woke with a howl of anguish. This morning, her throat hurt. Still Justine shed no tears.

Keesha withdrew from her arms. Wiping sloe eyes with an edge of her sleeve, she said, "Damn, girlfriend. I can't even walk with you anymore without coming apart."

She brushed static tresses of Justine's hair from her shoulders, where the auburn curls clung like needy children. "Look at you. Green Depression-era glass. That's what your eyes remind me of. You're so brittle, I'm afraid you'll break if I bump you too hard." She drew Justine's hands into her own. "Your fingers feel like ice. I can practically see through them. Come on, Justy. I'm fixing us some hot tea."

In truth, arctic ice filled Justine. Blue crystals clogged her veins. Shards had lodged in her heart on the night she sent Ryan for ice cream and he never returned. Now glaciers moved within her, dragging through once living flesh and leaving behind a furrowed wasteland.

Keesha steered her toward the gouged earth, where the transplant of bamboo for a privacy curtain remained unrealized. A mound of rich soil, backfill for the ditch, eroded along one end--silent reminder of the fallow stages of Justine's great undone. She noted with relief that the walls of the channel didn't resemble her nightmare. Instead galvanized metal from the salvage bin in town girded the sides.

Like grief, unchecked bamboo invaded its surroundings. Bamboo's rhizomes hastened along the earth, sprouting culms every few centimeters. The giant grass inevitably overcame any native planting.

As the widow hopped across the gap, she made the mistake of glancing into the pit. Moisture from the recent downpour puddled along the recessed surface. Her reflection wavered in potholes filled with what resembled liquid mercury, at once fatal and lustrous. A drowned rat lay on its side there. The distended body forced its legs into improbable angles.

The sight of the lifeless rodent stole Justine's concentration, triggering a misstep on the slick mud. Her feet slid as she scrabbled for purchase on the metal sheeting. She plunged into the rat's deathtrap, landing on hands and knees directly over the inert creature. Dead eyes stared into hers. Dry eyes, lacking any spark of life, indicted her for a wasteful death. Something struggled for release in Justine's chest, tore its way into her throat. Sharp as rat's claws, it ripped a keening plea from her. She recognized her cry as the wail of a banshee. No amount of Keesha's oolong tea could calm her.

That night the mourning bride lay on her couch with an afghan over her legs. She huddled between shadow and light until the rat appeared. He shed a red haze of anger like fur; a life lost because of her unfinished business. Sharp teeth flashed in a snarl.

Murderer.

She awoke with her heart pacing the dirge. Blood roiled in the space behind her ears. Justine stumbled to the entrance hall where she shrugged into her heavy coat and rubber boots. Ryan's pajamas, in which she slept, folded against her body like a cocoon of warmth beneath the jacket. From his workbench in the basement, she took her husband's halogen light and attached a hundred-foot extension cord. She loaded their work truck, the one with the R & J Landscaping logo on the drive's door, and backed it from the garage before driving to Keesha's garden.

Rain sheeted down, carried from the south by Chinook winds. Like the night, time registered as a backdrop to her deed. An obscure phantom, Justine slogged through sucking mud. An automaton, she gathered tools from the truck. Thunderous rain masked any sounds from the neighborhood dogs and provided a white noise that worked in consonance with the static in her head.

She lit the lamp, powering it from a connection in the truck cab, then carted load after load of topsoil to the trench. At some point she cast off her sodden coat. As the pit filled, the deluge turned to mist and in the artificial glow, the strip of raw ground resembled a morass. Justine queued pots of bamboo along the tract while black stalks wept. Ryan and she had salvaged these plants a year ago from the renegade offshoots of their neighbors. Barriers made an immense difference with bamboo--and sorrow.

She knelt in the mud. Ryan's drenched pajamas clung to her. Her body heat converted rainwater to steam, which arose in a haze that eclipsed her vision. Methodically she removed each plant from its pot, trimmed it, and placed it in a prepared hole. She chanted to herself: don't crowd the roots; provide the canes with a firm surface. Zigzagging the plants for natural effect, she moved down the line.

As torrents cascaded over her face, she knotted her hair into an untidy mass at her nape. But water collected at her crown, too, producing a watershed for her lower body. Half blind from the wetness in her eyes, she reached for each pot. Her planting refrain altered.

"I'm sorry...I'm sorry...so sorry..."

Finally she groped for a container that wasn't there. In the gray light of morning, no bamboo remained to be sown. Justine turned her head to gaze along the expanse traversed throughout the night. Leafy fronds transformed the sullen gash into a miniature forest. A dog barked from behind a slatted fence along the driveway. The rain stopped. Salty water doused her face. She knelt in her victory garden.

Standing to one side and clutching the bulky lapels of her terry robe, Keesha gazed in wonder at her. "You're crying. You're finally crying."

Justine Wenslau stumbled for the shelter of her friend's arms.

Dragon's Mount

2009-08-06T14:01:00.000-07:00

Padma's cottage nestled in the verdant saddle between Kishar Peak and Nyana Escarpment. To greet this day as she did most others, Padma left her sleeping lover to steal outside and into the ancient redwoods that dominated the landscape. From above her, Kishar exhaled, carrying air tempered by Padma's herb gardens along with heady conifer resins. After stretching and making her abeyance to mountain, sky and earth, she perched comfortably in a tree's crotch. Mellifluous cries of neenie birds welcomed her. Fibrous bark had accumulated in this, her favorite seat. Shredded by tree dwellers, the natural cushion reminded her of gorilla hair. Mt. Kishar easily supported such unlikely and extravagant diversity.

Padma stretched again, then poured a measure of her breakfast mead onto clover shaped sorrel scattered among the tree's knees. Slanted rays of apricot sunlight barely warmed her, yet her shiver came from another source. Her gaze ranged to the valley below, where autumn leaves colored the canopy in reds shading to gold.

Valley dwellers, and those beyond, named Padma's residence World's Edge. Tales of sleeping dragons and other fantastical creatures abounded in their fireside stories. Yet those in need of Padma's blessing braved their storied fears to trek the distance to her. Courage firmly in hand, they left with herbal remedies and perhaps a seer's ramblings. A few chosen ones stayed longer. However, on this particular morning, after a night of love, no one demanded more from her than she was willing to give. Only the expected, and unwelcome, movement in the valley spoiled her repose. She chose to leave the way open to the incursion. This promised to be a trying day after all.

From above and behind her roost, her longtime lover kicked bark and needles as he descended to her roost. His loose-limbed gait spoke of satiety and slow awakenings. Propping himself across from her with his back supported by corrugated bark, he gave her a long and heated perusal. Then he handed her a hard roll with yellow cheese along with a ripe pear from her larder. After pushing back her unmanageable tresses and kissing her cold nose, he moved to her much warmer lips. She offered her goblet of honeywine.

"Must you desert me? It's cold abed without you." He pulled his outer furs closer and sipped.

She shrugged, then bit into the pear. "Morning calls. What would you have me do?"

"Stay in bed." The skin around his eyes crinkled with humor as she nestled her bare feet into his midriff.

Whinnies from below sounded closer, lifting on the lucid air in a peculiar clarity. Shod hooves on rock rang with a metallic clatter. These were no native beasts. The smile leached from his face. His poet's gaze sharpened. "He comes after all. I'd hoped we might..."

She sighed and withdrew her toes from his warm center. Pushing away from the trunk, Padma landed with feline economy on the pine needle and sorrel carpet. Her belted robe encased her, falling around her toes. "You must choose."

"Me? I know my own mind. This choice falls to you, love." He moved to her side.

Her gaze took in his much-loved features and tousled hair. Nearly of a height, their shoulders touched. "I desire to continue as we have thus far. Marriage is not an option."

Tension flexed his jaw and long fingers curled. "I am a prince of the realm. As such, I must produce an heir."

"Then produce one. We love. That is more than most have."

His gaze softened. "Yes, but for me to keep you as my only love, we must wed."

Her gaze moved across the valley, where light glinted through the leaves and off the armor of his father's oncoming entourage. "I cannot."

"Cannot? Or will not?"

She shrugged and held her silence. A puff of air from Kishar's Peak agitated her trailing robe as a column of knights broke free of the mixed forest. Far below, the golden canopy whispered of deep snows to come. Even from here, her senses picked up the rustle of discarded foliage and scents of leaf mold. Turning, she asked, "You would attempt to force my hand?"

He grasped her shoulders, then pulled her into his embrace. Nuzzling an ear, he whispered, "Not I, but my father, the king."

Padma squeezed her eyes shut against a hot wash. Inhaling his scent, she whispered, "Then, in fact, you must choose. With whom do you stand? Me--or your father?"

At any other time, his look of astonishment would have made her laugh. Not so today. "He is my father."

"Where does that leave us?" At his ruptured expression, she again peered at the scene unfolding below. The king's honor guard, knights fit for both exhibition and combat, rode onward. However, the pikes and foot soldiers behind them gave her pause. This overwhelming show of force displayed an intent to coerce. The king obviously misjudged what he faced. She considered a fog of confusion or trees that closed the way. She deemed it too late for either, though.

Setting her shoulders, Padma breathed in the invigorating scents of her haven, then turned to face her lover--one last time. "Choose."

"Padma, I love you! You know this to be true. But he is my father..."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Then you must go to him."

He shook his head in disbelief before firming his jaw. "Why are you so adamant? Would wedding me be so horrible?"

She dipped her head, refusing to meet his gaze. "I will not marry you--or any other. My existence is here." A warmer breeze lifted her hair, reminding her of deep earth and molten metals.

With a cry somewhere between child and raven, he turned away. The neenie birds lifted from the trees. A fall of needles accompanied their exodus. The thud of a destrier's hooves matched the pace of her heart as her lover departed. Shoulders slumping, she undid her tie and let her loosened robe settle in sky blue waves about her feet. Raising her head, she viewed the world through the gilded auburn of her hair. Then she pressed her feet earthward, rooting deep within her sanctuary. Sky clad, she awaited what came.

In that drift of eternity between what is and what comes, Padma delighted in the ancient dreams of redwoods. She spilled over rocks rounded by eons of water, then immersed herself in dens of wolves, bears, and gryphons. An infinity of realities filled her until the alien metallic tickle engaged her again.

The king cut a fine figure, although his rigid nature showed in facial lines, sharpness of gaze and hand heavy upon the reins. Perhaps acceding to his son's privacy, he kept his regard on her face rather than acknowledging her nudity. She nodded to him, then looked to her lover. "You have told him of my wishes."

"Of course."

His wretched expression set her resolve as she turned her attention to the father. "And yet, you come. Do you really believe threats or even weaponry will change my mind?"

The king's restive stallion half-rose onto his hindquarters, only to be curbed by cruel bit and harsh seat. "This serves as a show of respect, Lady. Nothing more."

"Even if I tell you I refuse your son's suit?"

"He must wed and provide our lands with an heir."

She shrugged. "I do not stop him."

Irritation crossed the king's face. "He will not wed anyone but you."

"Ah, there lies the crux. For I will not marry. Furthermore, any child made by our union stays with me."

Unclenching his jaw to speak, the king said, "I take it other blandishments will hold no sway, either."

Her heart stuttered as she shook her head. "How could it, when love does not?"

"Well, then. That leaves only force. I would we had another way. Once you come to our lands, I'm sure you will awaken to the possibilities. We are known for our refinements along with the beauty of our domain and vigorous trade."

Curling her toes deeper into the soil, she said, "I will not go with you. It would be best if you leave now."

He looked at his son and shook his head. "I did not believe you, but see you spoke only truth. Is she truly the only one you will have?"

"She is my heart."

"Well, then." The king nodded to his commander, who in turn signaled the troops. They urged their horses toward her.

Holding her hands up to stop them, she cried, "I warn you but once more. Leave me to my mountains."

The men halted, looking again to their king for direction. With a steely look, he ordered, "Take her now."

Padma raised her arms and called, "Guardian Kishar, entity of this forest and those whom he defends--first and most beloved. Arise. Join with me to meet these forces seeking to divide the land from its essence."

With an inhalation of sulfur and molten heat, Kishar responded. As he always had, and always would, Kishar arose to protect land and goddess, who were in fact one and the same. The ridge behind her lifted, reforming into what myth and lowlanders named 'dragon'. Her gaze lowered to link again with her lover's. His disbelief changed to terror. Still, she held the way open for those who chose to live another day. Many did not. Warhorses bucked and screamed their distress, leaving many of their riders in the volcanic soil to be churned into blood and chips of bone. The lucky ones escaped the first blast even as Padma held a barrier of cool air around her lover.

Not so the others who encroached upon her divinity. They burned. The onslaught of dragon fire was merciful and their screams died away quickly. She maintained eye contact with her lover as those around him expired. She allowed herself only this outlet for her empathy and grief. Thus the morning passed. Finally, when all wrongdoing had been scoured from this sacred place and the air cooled to an acceptable level around her lover, she released her shield.

Kishar landed, then dipped his head in abeyance. She stroked his oddly silken muzzle. "Go with joy, most beloved. Fly this day until the setting sun requires your return."

With a bound that shook earth and trees, Kishar took flight. Crying his joy, he arrowed toward the sun. Padma watched until even with her long sight, he presented no more than a tiny dot of movement. Then her gaze returned to her former lover.

The scorched zone around him left him dazed. No words shaped his confusion--or horror. Clothed again in her robe, Padma made her way to him. Her bare feet tread what was left of his father and his father's useless forces. Only cooling ashes remained.

Standing at his stirrup, she smelled the fear sweat of both sidling horse and rider. The man's white-rimmed gaze barely recognized her and she wept as she placed a hand over his at the pommel. "You must go now and never return. Stay on the downward path. The return way is blocked to you. Tell any who ask about this place that a goddess and her guardian abide here. Only those free of malice and greed may approach."

In his eyes, she read denial. "You made your choice. Go before sunset, when Kishar returns. Go."

To make his an easier choice, she turned away and walked back to her cottage. Padma knew when he finally turned his horse away. Tears running down her face, she opened a corridor for his swift departure, then closed the egress behind him.

At sunset, Kishar returned. In his original form, he stood in the doorway to her kitchen. Tall and altogether beautiful, he awaited her invitation. She met him there. Brushing night-dark hair from his face, she kissed his lips, then trailed her hands down his arms to intertwine their fingers.

"Come, most beloved. We have until the sun's rise to reacquaint ourselves with each other. Make haste so that we lose not one moment more."

Padma left the cottage doors and windows open. Nothing unfamiliar marred the intimacy of her mountains.

Smith & Wesson

2009-07-13T13:54:00.000-07:00

Tess chooses the gun for its ugliness. Its repulsiveness comforts her. She insists there be no nuance between this weapon and its true nature. Unlike a human menace, the gun offers no expensive dinners while presenting an attractive facade. The Smith & Wesson tenders no pretense of interest in her character of her body of work either. This translates into a respite from the inward spiral of her thoughts, which she sorely needs.

For this rendezvous with the gunsmith, Tess has refused to bathe or perfume herself. Neither has she plucked her unruly brows, shaved her legs or girded herself in mascara and silk. She ignores the gunsmith's attentive look. Let him see her for what she is--what she has become.

Before she purchases the handgun, Tess procured a concealed weapon permit. This involved a background check and finger printing. Even though the sheriff's deputy gave her industrial-strength wipes to remove the ink, her fingers still feel tacky. Of more import, she feels culpable for deeds yet to be committed. Tess studies the relentless directions that come with the gun.

READ THE INSTRUCTIONS AND WARNINGS IN THIS MANUAL

CAREFULLY BEFORE USING THIS FIREARM.

A tremor runs through her. Did her actions precipitate the professor's attack? Was it the clothes she wears, her wild hair, her favorite essential oils or a cascade of do-me pheromones over which she has no control? As though she raped herself. If she practiced Catholicism like her geographically distant friend Sheila, she could confess to her bizarre guilt. But Tess is not Catholic. She does not come clean.

NEVER PLACE YOUR FINGER INSIDE THE TRIGGER GUARD

OR ON THE TRIGGER UNLESS YOU INTEND TO FIRE.

She faces the gun vendor, a retired lawman, in her oldest jeans, a loose and paint-spattered sweatshirt, her hair drawn back into a ponytail with a face free of artifice; this from a woman who approaches clothing as wearable art. Tess has ever been a woman who eats, breathes and dreams color and form in context of light and shadow. To be severed from her passion makes her understand the rage and terror of the newly blinded, paralyzed or deafened. Yet in this deep camouflage, she gains a neutral look from the man, thus her skin does not crawl.

She raises her chin and tenders the cash. Heart in throat, she carries the case to her Subaru. Backing out of his driveway with the false aplomb of a good citizen, she drives a quarter of a mile to the first turnout and pulls over. Head against the hot steering wheel, she tries without success to swallow nausea. Finally she throws the door open and struggles from the car, barely in time to splash her scant bagel and cream cheese breakfast onto the rocky ground. Supported by her hands where they grip her knees as her ribs heave for air, she remains earthbound.

The Montana sun tries to beat her into submission. Finally she straightens. Tess notes the grandeur of her surroundings with a new detachment: vast mountains young in geological time, the wild river paralleling the road, and Ponderosa pines supporting an endless sweep of sky. Instead of saturating her with beauty, the splendor conspires to make her feel tiny and vulnerable. Yet the glory of Montana has laid claim to her from the beginning.

City grown, she arrived unprepared for natural predators, much less for the unnatural ones. Mountain lion, coyote, bear--even yellow jackets and hornets lurk in shadows. She tried to protect her young cat Rafael, a nocturnal hunter himself, but he defied her and refused to come into the house. Tess called and called to him. She heard the bell on his collar, placed there to protect birds as Raphael slunk through bunched grasses around their cabin. That night, she dreamed his last run toward home, then awoke to the celebratory yips of coyotes, their sign of a successful hunt. He was a predator's first victim.

Tess returns to her car and opens the gun case. The 9 mm Smith & Wesson Sigma winks. Sleek and deadly with no natural wood to soften its intent, it beckons. She feels no need to stroke it, simply clenches the manmade handle and lifts. She leaves the empty clips in the box. Turning toward the river, Tess snugs her hands around the grip as she was taught in the handgun safety class. Her diaphragm tightens as she realizes how well the gun fits her hands. She quickly pulls the slide back and releases. If she loaded a full clip, the action would have stripped a bullet from the magazine and ejected it into the muzzle. Sighting down the barrel at a log, she squeezes the trigger until it gives with a click. Unlike some semi-automatics, the Sigma requires equal pressure each time. When Tess fires it, she makes the decision to do so--each time.

ALWAYS BE SURE OF YOUR TARGET

AND WHAT IS BEYOND IT.

Like the Sigma, the nurse who helped her with the rape kit tolerated no-nonsense--a kindness in itself. She refused to counsel Tess either way when an officer asked if she intended to press charges. As artist-in-residence at the local college, Tess has considered applying for a soon-to-be-vacated position. Before the incident, she thought she might put down roots here and make art worth keeping. Now she cannot stomach the idea of endless chance meetings with her assailant, his smug, I-gave-you-what-you-asked-for looks and smirks...

She pulls the trigger. Click. An unsatisfactory nothing happens.

Before Rafael, Tess' cats have died of old age. After he goes missing, she allows her grief and distraction with four-legged predators to obscure the threat to her. Who will take the word of a transient artist over that of a much-published and married professor?

As it turns out, no one. A colleague, a tenured professor in his own right, counsels her against bringing charges. 'The kiss of academic death' he calls her intent. When she looks into nationwide cases of rape, Tess learns about the low rates of conviction, about victims who suffer relentless bullying. Evidently her cat learned the hard way and so does she. Of course, she still lives.

Tess grasps the gun's slide and draws it back before releasing it again. She aims and pulls the trigger. No bullet discharges. 'Bang' coalesces in a cartoon balloon over the muzzle. A grimace stretches her face and she realizes anew how long it has been since she smiled. Or laughed. Or felt safe. Or clean. With new determination, she strides back to her car and replaces the gun in its case. She slips behind the wheel and heads for home.

Tess pulls onto the primitive road that leads to her cabin. Isolated and snug, this cottage suggests a perk during her yearlong residency. She lives five miles from the hamlet grown up around the college. As she eases into the circular drive, contrived to allow a snowplough to navigate the space in winter, she sees her easel, forlorn and unused these last weeks. The framework stands in a copse of evergreens. Since the attack, she rejects her art as an outlet. Her abstinence suddenly strikes her as arrogant, an act of self-persecution.

Brewing a pot of spiced plum tea, she leaves the gun case on the table. She knows she needs to take it to a near-by slope littered with stumps and practice her technique. For now, Tess decides to take her pain, her chaotic emotions, and her need for revenge into her art. She gathers a newly stretched canvas and a basket of paint supplies, then heads for the easel. Late afternoon light fills the air with an illusion of sanctuary as she sets up.

No sooner has she done so than the jingle of a tiny bell penetrates her conscious. A flare of hope stirs; after all she saw neither fur nor claw of her lost Raphael after that night. She trains her eyes to penetrate the golden light and arrests her urban impulse to rush forward.

Thus Tess waits as a coyote, spare yet densely furred for the coming winter, crosses the clearing below her cabin. Slanted rays pick up tones in his coat and amplify them until he seems a creature of pure light. Mid-clearing he pauses, one dainty foot held as though en vogue. He turns his lupine head and smiles, all tooth and tongue. Then he shifts smoothly into a hunter's trot. Rafael's bell jingles in his gut.

Tess briefly considers her gun. Yet a bullet will not bring back her cat. Lack of righteous anger shocks her. Who will avenge Raphael if not Tess? Yet she knows this specific predator eats only to survive. Easy prey is simply that; Coyote takes no more than his due. Unlike the two-legged sexual animal, who garbs himself in chic rags and comes uninvited. She closes her eyes and goes still.

USE THE CORRECT AMMUNITION

FOR YOUR PARTICULAR PREY.

Tess lets the vision permeate her. In broad swirls, she superimposes the rapist's face over Coyote's. A suite of paintings takes form, personification of the violence and cruelty Inherent in sexual terrorism. She envisions the speculation that will occur during her one-woman show and later, when her work is hung at the school. Few factions embrace gossip as thoroughly as bored academics.

With a toothy grin all her own, Tess realizes that revenge takes many forms. Tomorrow she will return the Smith & Wesson to the dealer. She picks a brush with a 9 mm diameter. Then, wishing an affliction of hairballs on the coyote, she dips bristles into acrylic paint the crimson hue of retribution.

A Fairy Safe World

2009-06-02T09:28:00.000-07:00

"The fan is called Figures. Hand-painted color on gold paper by Ren Xun. A fine example of late Qing Dynasty."

Ann whirled to face the speaker, who had positioned himself uncomfortably close to her. "I didn't hear you come in."

Slightly taller than her very average height, the man bowed. "Miss Gavin? I was told you have an artifact you wished to have examined." Mud brown eyes as slanted as a gazelle's studied her. He did not blink.

"And you are?"

"Dr. Zi." Another bow as with an odd cock to his head, he kept his gaze on her throughout. A suspicion of mirth burnished his eyes.

"Yes, Dr. Zi. There's a relic I hoped you'd recognize." Too on the nose? She slipped her handbag free.

"Please." With an expansive gesture, he drew her attention to two ornate chairs in the spindly fashion of 17th century France. A matching table teetered between them. The furniture seemed out of place in 21st century Singapore, especially when one considered the country's English colonial origins. Still, Ann paced to the chair and sat. Slim Dr. Zi perched opposite her, legs crossed and arms folded at his forearms. He resembled Tenodera aridifolia sinensis, the Chinese praying mantis. Ann stiffened her resolve. While all the mantises were carnivores, it was the female who ate her mate-inflagrante delicto-in the act.

Ann plunged into her spiel. "My great aunt died two months ago. Had I known of her illness, I would have come sooner." For a moment, sorrow derailed her. Then her gaze fastened on the improbably curved nails of Dr. Zi's fingers. She swallowed her grief and redirected herself.

"You have to understand-I only visited her twice here in Singapore. So imagine my surprise when the will was read, leaving all her possessions to me. Along with the inheritance was the interesting proviso that I take up residence in her home."

Her gaze fixed on the doctor's spiked sideburns. His hair had been blunt cut to cover the tips of what-looked-to-be quite pointy ears. While his hair length matched hers, his blue-black sheen made her silvery blonde appear pale as sun-bleached wood. She wrenched her gaze from this alien trait.

"My consulting firm has its main office in Seattle, Washington. I'm a biologist, specializing in risk assessment. So I really don't see how I can accept my great-aunt's proposal. Thus I've decided to sell her holdings." Ann fidgeted with the straps of her carryall.

Dr. Zi spread extremely narrow hands. "I must apologize, Miss Gavin. I do not see how I can be of assistance. My specialty is bronzes with a focus on the Six Dynasties through Tang. Certainly not real estate."

Heat flooded Ann from chest-to-face. "Precisely. For while my aunt gave me freedom to sell, she expressly forbade me to leave behind one artifact."

Now Ann delved into her bag, extracting a swathe of Shantung silk. She slipped her purse to the floor as she secured the parcel on her lap. The bundle displayed a tendency to slide off her linen skirt. Ann studied the lustrous gray silk against the teal of her lap.

"I need to know why my aunt insisted upon me keeping this piece." She raised her gaze to meet the spark of interest in Dr. Zi's.

When she made no effort to open the parcel, he prodded, "May I?"

Ann handed the packet to him, overcoming an acute reluctance. Unused to the glacial chill of air-conditioned Singapore, she blamed her shiver on the unnatural coolness. After all, she had no proof of Dr. Zi's true nature-not at this point.

The administrator set the bundle on the table between them. With something akin to reverence, he unwrapped the silky envelope, one corner at a time. When the bronze lay before him, he released the most imperceptible of sighs. "Ah."

He cradled the object, whose diameter extended beyond his palm by an inch. Its scalloped edges looked frivolous given his severe lines. Ann's attention snagged again on Zi's nails, yellowed and thick as a bird-of-prey's talons.

"What you have here, Miss Gavin, is a bronze mirror. It is from the Tang Dynasty and made between 618 and 906 A.D."

"A mirror?"

A tight smile arrested Dr. Zi's lips. "For all their many accomplishments, the Chinese did not discover the European style of fabricating mirrors. Most were made from brass, a copper and zinc alloy. Bronzes of copper and tin were used for works of art, such as this." He turned the disk over, revealing the burnished backside. Fluid designs of bounding lions and mythical birds leapt into relief.

"The ancient Chinese used mirrors to set fires for ceremonies, for cooking, and science. Adepts collected dew for elixirs of immortality. Mirrors have long been held to have magical properties," finished Dr. Zi.

Ann twisted her hands in her lap. "There's something else."

The curator lifted his brows in a polite expression of anticipation. She met his gaze with as much sanity as she possessed. "There's something--someone--trapped in the mirror."

Alarm flitted across his face and curtailed the hysterical giggle rising within her. She swallowed.

"Indeed?" His patronizing look nettled. Yet he waited.

"Yes. But I can see that you don't believe me." She reached for her mirror. Dr. Zi balked. Ann drilled her gaze into his eyes.

With obvious hesitation, Zi relinquished the mirror. Relief nearly swamped her. She figured she might win in an outright tug-of-war, but why test the theory?

He cleared his throat. "I am certain the Asian Civilization Museum would be very interested in acquiring this piece, Miss Gavin. With or without its resident spirit."

His sly jab confirmed her suspicions. She folded the silk over her mirror. "I do not intend to sell, Dr. Zi. My gut-instinct tells me that you know more about this piece, yet choose to keep your own counsel. I will not deal with a person who withholds information." She regarded him with the same coolness she did corporate terrorists.

For the first time since meeting this man, Ann saw diffidence in his look.

He held his hands wide, as though an expansive gesture would calm her reservations. "But all I know are legends! No more than smoke on water."

She folded her hands over the wrapped mirror. As often occurred at the bargaining table, her silence placed the other participant on the defensive. Zi's facade of indifference fell away, replaced by vigilance.

"Old legends have it that at one time, the world of mirrors and humans were linked. While specular beings and mortals differed in form and color, they lived in harmony. Humans came and went through mirrors as through any other door. But Mirror Beings dreamed of conquest." His eyes took on a musing aspect.

"One night they invaded Earth, disrupting the universe. Only through the Yellow Emperor's magic were they defeated. The Emperor..." Zi grimaced, "cast a spell. He compelled the mirror beings to reflect images of humans who appeared at the doors to their realm.

"The spell was not meant to last forever. Some predicted it will weaken and the mirror people will again set forth in conquest." He flecked nonexistent lint from one sleeve.

The calmness of Dr. Zi's account made Ann's stomach roil. She retrieved her purse. A chance look at the curator from beneath her lashes allowed her to see cunning hunger flick across his face. By the time she raised her gaze, he wore an expression of urbane pleasantry.

She stood, glad for the cut of her jacket, which allowed it to slip over her skirt without coaxing. Showing only strength to this creature promised the greatest benefit. In Dr. Zi, she recognized an implacable foe.

"Thank you for your time." She withheld her hand.

He offered a slightly deeper bow than when they met. "A pleasure." He held both hands out, framing a business card between his fingers.

Ann mastered her repugnance and accepted his token. She slipped it into the shallow pocket of her featherweight blazer before moving past him toward the door.

"I do hope you will contact me if you wish to sell, Miss Gavin."

She noted the me. How quickly he reneged on his affiliation with the museum. "Actually, I, too, prefer to be addressed as doctor." Surprise flitted across his face.

Walking across the vestibule, then through the museum's entryway, Ann's heels connected with the marble floors in a staccato rhythm. Yet Dr. Zi's footsteps had produced no sound.

She stepped into the high humidity and excessive temperature of Singapore in August. Turning left, she proceeded down Armenian Street toward the church of St. Gregory the Illuminator. Pacing into the lush garden, Ann followed the sidewalk running the perimeters of the structure. She aimed for a stone bench shaded by branches. Ann sank onto the seat, grateful for the unyielding support. In an attempt to regain equilibrium, she contemplated white statuary and gravestones. Birdsong, exotic and so beautiful it brought a lump to her throat, wove a capsule of melody around her. From the corner of her eye, she observed an amethyst flash as a young woman settled beside her. Silken layers in shades ranging from palest lavender to darkest purple floated onto the seat. Heady scents of tropical flowers lifted her spirits.

"I wasn't sure you'd be able to meet me," Ann said.

"Nor was I."

The two women traded conspirators' glances. A slow smile formed on the plush mouth of the newcomer, whose Asian beauty never failed to make Ann's head reel. They reached across the distance and clasped fingers, Ann's warm and earthy, her companion's yielding and petal-like.

"I think it was a success," Ann said. She recounted the conversation between herself and the enigmatic Dr. Zi.

Her friend gazed at the statue of a beautiful nymph. "I find it of interest that he failed to mention other, less pernicious uses for mirrors."

"Such as?"

"Brides appreciated having mirrors flashed upon them for good luck. Humans often wore them suspended from their waists by a silken cord. Thus the mirrors protected them from evil spirits-even after death. Such a possession allowed them to dwell comfortably in the afterworld."

Ann nodded. "Our mirror didn't affect Dr. Zi at all. But your folklore does remind me of more current studies. Did you know mentally unstable individuals often attack mirrors? They rarely harass pictures of natural settings."

"Ah. How interesting."

For a time they meditated upon what they had learned. Then the amethyst woman said, "I believe a most fortuitous opportunity will present itself in four days. Yue Lan begins then."

"Why will that help us?"

"During the Festival of Hungry Ghosts, the curtain between worlds thins. It may be our best opportunity."

Ann heard the distinct echo of last chance. "Perhaps I'll invite the interesting Dr. Zi to my aunt's house for a special dinner. Say this Sunday?"

Her comrade's hand flinched within her grasp as she whispered, "The day the festival begins."

"Yes. I see no reason for you to involve yourself at this stage. You are more vulnerable to Zi than I am."

The fairy trembled before dabbing her forehead and upper lip with a silken edge. She shook her head. "No. I cannot abandon you or our mutual friend to the machinations of Zi. Let me help devise a ritual for transformation. Please, friend Ann."

Ann conceded, albeit with great reluctance. "Orchid, I do not like putting you in such danger."

The other smiled. "Your aunt was correct in her assessment of you. No truer friend could we have found." The pearly skin of her face looked translucent.

"Go now. You must conserve your strength. I will speak with you again tomorrow."

Oddly reticent, the American woman kept her eyes on the statuary as Orchid fluttered from the bench. A subsonic pop! and Ann knew she was alone. She levered herself from the bench and strode through another gate. Walking up the street, her plans overlaid the street bustle until, as she neared the National Museum, aromas from the food court reminded her of her very human need for nourishment.

That night Ann settled onto a cushioned bench in her great-aunt's garden courtyard. Her silk caftan whispered with each movement. At her back, the stone mansion blocked the din from the facing road. Here the supple hoop-hoop from an apricot-plumed bird twined with the voice of a miniature waterfall. Abundant magenta bougainvillea with tiny white tubes of flowers surrounded her. Bee-eaters and lilac-breasted rollers, aerial acrobats of the bird kingdom, swooped through the dusk to capture their evening meals. A pair of fairy bluebirds alighted on a mimosa branch above her. Yellow petals floated to the bench, releasing the sweet scent of joy.

From the corner of her eyes, she saw the camellia by the backdoor briefly shape itself into a graceful woman, tall in a scarlet wrapper. Winging this way and that, tiny birds dressed the nymph's ebony locks. Ann knew from experience that if she looked directly at the shrub, she would see only a splendid bush cloaked in red flowers. As Ann waited for the full moon to rise above the garden, she flattened a sheet of heavy parchment over her lap.

From memory, she recited, 'To you, my dear niece, I entrust my most solemn burden and greatest delight, the water sprite Mi Fei. Trapped within the bronze mirror for the last millennium, she begins to weaken. I fear she will expire without again tasting freedom.

'Although I have striven to release her, all attempts have failed. The deed must be done by the wizard whose spell ensorcelled her. Only now, as I lie dying, do my tangle of inquiries yield fruit. I located the evil adept Zi. He has found employment with the Asian Civilization Museum here in Singapore as, what else, but a doctor of antiquities! Was I not much diminished by my disease, I vow I would force his hand and release my cherished Mi Fei.

'But, alas, I cannot. And so, dearest niece, the onus falls to you. More capable hands I cannot envision.'

Ann flexed her long fingers, muscular and callused from her active lifestyle. "But will I be able to do this?"

Silver light glanced off the reflecting pool at the base of the waterfall, recalling Ann to her current task. Always one to prefer action to meditation, she surged to her feet. At the water's edge, she opened the folds of silk that shielded the mirror and slipped the disk into the lagoon at its deepest point. Perching on a convenient rock, she waited for moonlight to work its magic.

With startling ferocity, a cyan beam cut through the water, setting up a flash of response from the mirror. Plants rustled with what Ann could only describe as anticipation. Light solidified into a graceful arc that adopted the form of an exquisite young woman. A continuous fall of water cascaded from her translucent garb. Her charming face assumed a look of delight as she fixed upon Ann.

"My friend! You have returned!"

"I have news, Fei." She sketched the details of her progress.

The projection of Mi Fei listened intently, all the while shaping silvery forms from the water pouring off her hands: fish, birds, tiny dragons, and creatures that Ann recognized only from myth. As Ann wound down, the water fairy met her gaze. "I've invited him for dinner. He'll be here on the first night of Yue Lan."

A shiver of water undulated from the fairy's intricately dressed hair. "So soon! Yet it has been a millennia..."

Ann leaned toward her. "I depend on you to help me develop plans for your release. We need a primary strategy along with alternatives."

"And our allies?"

"They will help refine the scheme."

Like a wave reaching its peak, Mi Fei stilled for a moment. Then she began shaping the potential means for her escape.

Early evening on the first night of Yue Lan promised to be clear and dry. Pounding rain had dissipated into shimmering curtains of steam. Ann dressed herself as a beguiled American Miss, supposedly under the spell of Zi's virile presence. Along with helping in her grooming, no mean feat, her partners fixed the meal.

A tunic over a long skirt, both mallard green, made her feel both graceful and foreign. Makeup erased her freckles and widened her green eyes. With a wry glance in the mirror, she wondered if this night would be her undoing. Or was her reflection a mirror being mimicking her expressions, as Zi had said? She trembled. Either way, nothing in her past prepared her to play Scheherazade to Zi's King Shahryar.

A woman floated into the mirror's reflection. Ann turned. Having had trouble getting her tongue around He Xiangu, Ann called this spirit by the flower she carried in her hand. "Lotus."

Dimples and the light in Lotus' eyes belied the formality of her traditional gown and ornate tresses. "We have everything prepared. I thought I might help with your hair." Delicate eyebrows lifted as a graceful hand stroked Ann's short crop. "Or perhaps not."

Ann ran her fingers through her locks. The light gave off a golden sheen. "I keep it short for fieldwork. Doesn't exactly peg me as a vixen, does it?"

"Never mind. To Zi's jaded tastes, you will prove very exotic fare. All you need do is entice him to eat the dosed food and drink. The more he imbibes, the better for all."

A chill overtook Ann. "Lotus, I do not want to kill this guy."

The other woman swept her hands in denial. "Zi is no man. But rest assured, I have great knowledge of herbs. His death is not our objective. Instead, we must make this form he inhabits an extremely uncomfortable home. However, I have an idea that will put your mind to rest."

From an overlong sleeve, Lotus drew Mi Fei's prison. Now dangling from a braided cord, the mirror swung from Lotus' hand until she secured the binding around Ann's waist. The flat plate rested low on Ann's belly.

"Turn the mirror over, thus, within range of Zi. You will find he has no reflection."

Ann gulped, then blurted, "But I see you in the mirror."

"Because I wish for you to see. Zi, by his very nature, does not have that choice."

Orchid, in her violet gown, swept into a deep bow behind Lotus. "Immortal One, friend Ann, the wizard comes."

Lotus clapped her hands as she glided into the dining area. "Places, my dear ones. Places! He must suspect nothing."

Blurs of amethyst, ruby, and gold combined as three fairies hurried through the sliding doors, which opened onto the courtyard. Lit by red candles, the garden flickered with an otherworldly aspect in keeping with both the festival and the occasion. A pot of joss sticks as tall as Ann burned along one end of the pool. Lotus' insistent touch pulled Ann from her survey.

"Come, Ann. You must be made aware of your weapons."

Facing the low table, Lotus indicated two dishes and a pot of tea. "These you do not touch. Zi, on the other hand, must eat and drink."

"Like I could swallow anything."

Lotus smiled. "I myself prefer powdered mother-of-pearl and moonbeams. But for Zi, each bite of food and each sip of drink makes him more vulnerable."

In need of distraction from what seemed to be a mob of hamsters racing around her belly, Ann perused a unique centerpiece devised of cake and flowers. She touched the base. "Charcoal?"

Lotus flashed her dimples. "Very auspicious."

The gong at the front door rang and Ann jerked. "Great."

Lotus framed her face. "You know all depends upon you."

"I know. I won't screw up." Please, oh, please!

"I will be here when you need me." She nudged Ann toward the front door.

Ann rubbed her hands over her tunic and composed herself. As she swung open the heavy teak panel, a cacophony of sounds invaded: high-pitched Asian voices, firecrackers, and children's shrieks. From down the street, the singsong of Chinese opera drifted. Ann focused on the creature before her.

Taller and narrower tonight, Dr. Zi looked self-possessed in a dark tunic and trousers. His unnaturally bright eyes transfixed Ann.

It must be quite a trick to keep his suits fitting, the way he stretches and shrinks for each occasion. She fingered the mirror hanging from her waist to regain control of her galloping heart.

"Please, Dr. Zi, won't you come in?"

With a slight bow, he did just that. In the entry hall, he glanced around himself. "Very nice. A fine amalgam of European and Chinese cultures."

"Yes. My aunt had wonderful taste." Ann led the way into the dining area, where steam from the chafing dishes permeated the air. "May I offer you a cocktail?"

"I do not drink liquor."

Ann heaved a sigh of relief. "Great! Neither do I. Perhaps you'd prefer to sit for dinner, then?" She swept her hands toward the table.

Zi pulled his gaze from the garden. "I see you keep with the Chinese traditions of this festival."

"I do try."

As he walked sedately toward the table, Zi said, "I must say, I found your invitation quite surprising, Dr. Gavin."

Ann smiled at his use of her honorific, then signaled for him to seat himself. "Why is that?" She sank onto her knees beside him. The closer to see you, my dear. The mirror bumped against the flat of her belly.

His heavy eyelids lowered as he captured her in frank appraisal. "A beautiful American woman. Well-educated and, obviously, a dutiful niece. I did not expect you to contact me for such a-liaison."

She swept her lashes down, fiddling with the bronze mirror. Luckily, she did not have to dredge up a blush. Zi needn't know anger fueled it. He leaned toward her, tilting his head to peer into her eyes. At that moment, Ann flipped the mirror. Where Zi's face should have been reflected, she saw the ceiling's dark beams. A small gasp escaped her before Ann turned the mirror toward her lap.

"Ah, and demure as well. Who would have expected such traits in a contemporary American woman?"

"Who'd have thought?" She peeked from beneath her lashes and noted the look of complacency on Zi's face. Pressing on, she reached for a ladle. "May I serve?"

"I would be honored."

She spooned hefty servings of the two dishes Lotus had indicated onto Zi's plate. As she scooped rice into his bowl and placed it before him, he had the nerve to pinch her wrist. Checking for ripeness? she wondered.

Instead of skewering him with her chopsticks, she withdrew in a more decorous way. Standing, she moved to the other side of the table. From this safer distance, she poured him a cup of the special tea. Even she had to admit his plate looked and smelled enticing-or would have if she had one drop of saliva in her mouth.

Ann raised her eyes to meet his gaze. He nodded to her plate. "You will join me?"

Another blush lit her face. "Of course." She decided to serve herself tiny amounts of the same dishes he had, just to throw him off any odor of deceit. Around the drug-laced beef and duck, she spooned tofu-based fare. Finally, they faced each other with chopsticks poised. "I do hope you enjoy these dishes. Local friends of my aunt shared the recipes with her."

His eyebrows lifted. "I am quite interested in preparation. Perhaps you will divulge your technique? After we have enjoyed the results of your efforts, of course."

Ann wanted to kick herself. Hopefully, the imaginary instructions would not become an issue. "Sure."

Rapt, she watched as Zi selected a large chunk of duck. When the meat was midway to his mouth, she heard a whoosh! behind her. Zi cocked his head.

"How fascinating!" He set his chopsticks along with the untested food onto his plate. Coming to his feet in a boneless move, he headed for the backdoor. Ann forced herself to breathe.

"He's going to pulverize us," she muttered as she, too, clambered to her feet.

Dr. Zi stood silhouetted for a moment in the courtyard light cast by the lanterns and candles. "How truly amazing," he murmured before stepping into the garden.

Ann hurried to catch up, acutely aware that not one bite of doctored food or one sip of the herbal drink had passed his lips. Fear's frisson raced down her vertebrae. She overtook Zi beneath the mimosa. The whir of tiny wings pulled her attention to where Zi's regard had settled. Backdropped against a lantern hovered a bird half the size of Ann's palm. She stood on tiptoes to get a clearer view. Once she did, an audible breath escaped her.

"Indeed," he agreed.

Eyes widening in horror, Ann watched as Zi reached toward the exquisite being, who fluttered within easy range. Obviously transfixed in horror, the creature's translucent wings shed a prismatic rainbow. Her delicate nakedness brought tears to Ann's eyes. As Zi's index finger, capped by a lengthy curved nail, edged toward the fairy, Ann took action. Channeling all the concentrated terror of the sprite, Ann gave Zi a mighty push. The pixie twinkled, then shot into the darkness.

Zi whirled on Ann. "You stupid, clumsy female! What have you done?" He practically hissed his disgust.

While every instinct in her gibbered for her to act meek and apologetic, Ann could no longer subjugate her true self to this-this monster. She crossed her arms over her chest, one foot beginning to tap an ominous beat. "I won't let you to hurt her."

Zi's eyes narrowed. "Won't let? You saw her."

"Of course."

"How...unexpected." Zi drew himself up, looking thinner and more sinister by the moment. Adrenaline pumped through Ann, a sparkling stream that washed away any pretense of playing the fool.

She stepped toward him. "It's what you do, isn't it? You like to molest nature. Torture natural beings in unnatural acts."

In the candlelight, Zi's eyes took on the deep glow of hot coals. "Stupid human. What do you know of power? It is the only elixir that does not lose its sweetness."

Ann took another step toward him. "But it does corrupt, doesn't it, Zi? And you do need more all the time--like any junkie." Contempt bit off the last word. She gripped the mirror at her waist. "How many have you imprisoned? How many have died, their lives ripped from the earth or water or air they nurture and require?"

Zi's head bowed. His shoulders quaked. He looked positively contrite. For one heartbeat, Ann wondered how defeat of this fiend could have been accomplished so easily. Then Zi rocked back on his heels and let loose his mirth. Black laughter rolled over her, numbing her to all possibility of sunlight and green shoots breaking from the earth. She took one step backward, then another and another, until granite met the back of her knees. She had reached the rockery enclosing the pond. By then, Zi wheezed to a halt. Wiping tears from his eyes, he looked at her.

"I must credit you with giving me the best laugh I have experienced in-oh, at least two millennia. For a human, you are very droll."

Ann snatched a bamboo pole from the yielding ground near the pond. She lifted the lantern from one end and dumped it onto the damp loam. The flame sputtered out. Hefting the staff, she glared at the sorcerer. "It seems to me you'd have learned a lot more at your advanced age."

Zi glided toward her, chopping the distance between them in half. He tilted his head. "Why do you say that?"

"You still haven't learned not to piss off a woman." She dropped into fighting stance and fixed Zi in her line of vision.

Faint as a breeze, a voice spoke in her ear, "Wait."

An ugly smile twisted Zi's face. "Not martial arts? How utterly quaint."

"Hardly. Self-defense. YWCA." If nothing else, he looked briefly confused. Acronyms will do it every time.

She flexed her knees as Zi moved closer, then stopped. With a snick, he pulled a gleaming blade from one sleeve. Absinthe lit the glowing edge. "Give me the mirror, Dr. Gavin, and I'll let you live." The rich purr in his voice enunciated his lie.

"Right. But I have a better idea. Why don't you slip that pig-sticker between your ribs. I'll call the ambulance. I promise." She ground her teeth together, before taking a deep breath and finding a more relaxed center.

"When we free the mirrors, drop and tuck."

Ann wished they would get on with it. Her initial adrenaline rush began to subside. She felt less invincible all the time. Zi moved close enough for Ann to whiff a sulfurous odor drifting from his robes.

"Smells like you're overheating, Zi." She flashed her teeth in a show of bravado.

As the tableau etched itself into her mind, the whisper of foliage in her aunt's garden swelled into a roar. Ann forced herself to maintain eye contact with Zi, but peripheral vision detected when each of the nymphs burst into view. Behind and to one side of Zi, Lotus shimmered into sight. With a swirl of gleaming silks, each sylph uncovered the polished metal she held. As the light from each one reflected off the others, images reproduced. A refractory feast to the eye built into a blinding flash. Zi reeled, giving a screech very much like a cougar's enraged scream.

Lotus commanded, "Now, Ann!"

Ann dropped to the ground and tucked. All those childhood years of training for The Bomb came into play as she covered her head with her arms, doing everything but kissing her butt good-bye. A dynamic weight hit her side, followed by a colossal splash. When she could again breathe, a breathless quiet filled the court. Ann peeked between her fingers to find herself surrounded by the hems of her allies' frocks. She stumbled to her feet, then lowered her gaze to where the others looked.

She expected to see a chagrined, properly chastised Zi sitting in the lagoon. Instead in the deepest part of the pool, where lantern light failed to penetrate, Ann saw a murky haze. The sensation of watching a volcano erupting at the bottom of the sea filled her with a sense of danger.

Lotus, at her right, said, "Ann. Give me the mirror."

Hands clumsy with shock, Ann struggled to undo the knot holding Mi Fei's mirror to her waist. "I can't untie the cord," she ground out, all the while riveted to the scene developing in her aunt's water feature. Malevolent red pulsed in the depths.

Lotus slipped a tiny pair of gold scissors from one pocket. She snipped the tie. Ann still had her fingers engaged with the knot. When the weight of the mirror pulled free from the cut end, Ann nearly fumbled her catch. Lotus caught her forearm in a velvet grip.

"No! Release her into the water."

Uttering a rude protest, Ann did. The mirror of Mi Fei slipped into the pool with barely a ripple. As one, the fairies stepped back, Lotus pulling Ann with her.

"Now what?"

Lotus gave her an enigmatic smile. "Watch and learn, little sister."

Ann did. In the time it took for a bronze mirror to settle onto the bottom of a pond, nothing happened. Then, in the words of her aunt, who'd been raised in Texas after all, all hell broke loose.

The scent of ozone filled the air. A geyser of water shot straight into the air, well above the roof of the house. Instead of tumbling back into the basin, as physics dictated, the water began rotating. Building up speed, the pillar became a funnel, what Ann would call a waterspout. Except this spout began to pull the glowing red at its base into the column.

A screech more physical than vocal filled the garden as red mixed with silver water, which diluted first to a faint pink, then rosy silver. With a final roar, the water conduit surged upward before shrinking into itself. As the top of it lowered to eye level, Ann noticed the bronze mirror pillowed at its apex. Then the fountain slipped beneath the surface of water. With only a twinkle or two, the mirror drifted toward the bottom.

Ann slumped onto a poolside rock with a soggy plop. "Whew! That was wild."

No sooner had she sat than cool fingers settled over her shoulders. She leapt to her feet with a strangled cry. Tinkling laughter met her response. Ann looked into the gray-green eyes of Mi Fei, who bowed her head before speaking.

"Please, sister, forgive me for startling you so."

"Fei! You're not transparent anymore." Ann clasped the nymph's fingers with her own.

"As you see." An ecstatic smile swept over her face.

Ann leaned over the water and perused the depths with caution. Water dripped from her nose. "What happened to Zi?"

Lotus answered. "He has returned to his world--on the other side of the mirror."

"For good?"

"I believe so," said Lotus.

Mi Fei bowed low, her long hair combing the surface of the water. "How can I thank you, Immortal One?"

Lotus brushed away her thanks. "Do not allow yourself to be lured into the realm of the mirror people again, younger sister."

"This I can promise."

Lotus gifted her with a graceful nod of her regal head. She faced Ann. "You acquitted yourself well, my human sister. I do not look forward to your departure." Palpable sadness gathered the fairies closer.

She glanced into each of their faces, but only for a moment. Formidable beauty can daze lesser beings. "Well, in fact, I've been thinking about that."

Ann began wringing water from the hem of her skirt. "I've accepted a job offer from a colleague at the Zoological Gardens. It seems they've been looking for someone with my expertise for some time."

Ann slanted a look at Lotus before offering a crooked smile. "They happen to have a number of water features in the park. I thought perhaps Fei would be happier in one of those than in this cramped space. Much as I'd love to have my own water sprite," she amended.

Embraces tender as pollen enveloped her. "You are a good friend," Fei whispered.

Ann glanced at the assembly of sprites and one Immortal. "Someone has to make the world safe for fairies."

Power Surges

2009-05-07T09:09:00.000-07:00

A muffled scream pierced Zorah's contentment. She practiced her yoga breath and focused. Nothing.

Be your body--be your mind--be your breath.

"Ren, did you hear that?" She peered across the top of her Volkswagen and made eye contact with her friend.

Meager streetlight bunny-hopped over Renata's silver hair and peaceful face, then fandangoed along her Tai Chi staff. Ren must have forgotten to turn up her hearing aids after class. This keepsake came courtesy of the ex-husband, a man whose only eloquence had resided in his fists.

Beyond the weak circle of light, another truncated cry followed a man's guttural rumble. Zorah dropped her gear onto the hood, then hurried toward a dim alley. With a sweeping glance, she realized they were the only ones left on the street. As usual. She forced herself to halt.

Pause--observe--wait--move

As her teacher's internal voice counseled her, she assumed Mountain Pose. Stenches of urine, vomit and garbage roiled from the alleyway. Only the sparsest of light illuminated her surroundings. The staccato slap of Ren's shoes preceded her friend. Zorah dug a penlight from her fanny pack, then shined the beam into the manmade canyon.

"Hell's Bells," she said.

In prime Ren mode, her friend blazed by her. Heart thudding, Zorah drew level again. Together they closed on the brutish man whose bulk dwarfed the slight girl pinned beneath him. Mouth and nose covered by one massive paw, the girl's terrified gaze met Zorah's in mute appeal.

Clawed feet--spring-tension legs--

unyielding pelvis--fluid arms.

"Fire! Fire!" Zorah yelled, then waded into action. Grasping the man's scruff with both hands, Zorah yanked him off the child. Adrenalin gifted her with necessary strength. Her bad hip twinged.

Faithful to her training, Ren poised her stick for action. The golem of a man bellowed, then swung at Zorah, who dropped into an impromptu upward-facing dog. Renata thrust her staff into the fray. Screaming obscenities, the idiot cracked his head against the pole. With a satisfying thud, he dropped like an overripe pear.

"Who knew Swallow Dives on Water could be so effective?" Relief colored Ren's voice as she leaned toward the girl, who shifted into a crustacean-like scramble. The panic in the child's eyes held the ugly taint of shock.

Zorah straightened. She rubbed grimy palms against her yoga pants before reaching for the victim. Rather than respond in kind, the girl stumbled to her feet, then lurched from the alley. What clothes remained flapped behind her like broken wings.

Zorah gripped Renata's arms, whippet-thin and ropey with muscle. "Come on, Ren. We need to call 911 and the phone's in the car."

Ren fiddled with her hearing aids. Feedback whine pierced the darkness. Deep and lustrous, her shining eyes met Zorah's regard. "I don't think we'll be able to catch that child, but we'd better call the police."

Offering a tender smile, Zorah said, "Excellent idea. I'll stay with this cretin."

"Whack him a good one if he moves." Renata pressed her staff into Zorah's hands.

She nodded. Zorah bent to reclaim her flashlight, then checked the unnatural canyon. Despite the altercation, no windows showed signs of occupancy.

"Apathetic morons. They're probably treating this like a peepshow." Just to be contrary, she shined her light upwards. A watcher's eyes gleamed as he startled away from a grimy window.

Disgust filled Zorah's mouth with bitter juices. This entire neighborhood had become a cesspool. Even the building that housed the YWCA advanced at an alarming rate toward collapse. This used to be Hope's city center, rendered obsolete by three monster shopping centers and endless strip malls. Most likely that young woman, who had sported a bandanna top and butt-revealing shorts, worked in the Nude-Girls-All-The-Time! joint around the corner.

The last campaign to make this neighborhood fit for human consumption had failed miserably. The male-dominated council replaced bulbs in existing streetlights, but only those closest to the club. Apparently the councilmen worried that drunken patrons might trip over curbs and sue the city.

"Our taxpayer dollars at work." Zorah nudged the bulky attacker in hopes he would move. Then she could smack him with Renata's pole. Without the victim as witness, this predator would be back on the streets within the week, if not sooner.

"What passes for justice in this sick culture," Zorah muttered. Fifty-six years of cumulative anger surged. Her words tasted as dreadful as she suddenly felt.

Earth-powered legs--core-strengthened back--elongated spine

As Zorah extended into a standing forward bend, a plastic tube dropped from her fanny pack, which she insisted on wearing facing forward. She rescued the tube, then froze in contemplation. Superglue.

Flowing earth energy--coiling spine--

chest opening to sky--mind yielding to breath

The rapist moaned. Zorah's heart sped to a salsa beat, but not out of fear. Using Ren's stick for leverage, she flipped the slime ball onto his back. His cheap suit and fast-food physique encompassed all of the deadwood she had been forced to contend with during her productive life as mother, biologist, and activist.

In truth, the only predators Zorah valued lived in the dwindling wild: wolves, bears, mountain lions and coyotes among them. Those hunters took only what they needed to survive. They completed a necessary cycle. To her way of thinking, this urban denizen qualified as nothing more than toxic waste. Her gaze centered on the rapist's weapon of choice, which now laid across his pubic jungle like a purple slug.

Before she could change her mind, Zorah twisted off the top of the glue. Her foe stank of discount scotch and unwashed body. Despite his stench, she managed to empty the entire tube before Renata returned.

"I couldn't catch that girl, Zorah. Then it took forever to get through to the emergency dispatcher. How they dare call it quick response, I'll never know..." Aided by the penlight, her friend studied Zorah's handiwork.

Hands shaking, Zorah returned the Tai Chi staff to Ren. It's just nerves. My body's a combination lock. Find the numbers and unlock the strength. She breathed.

Ren crouched over the unconscious rapist. "Good grief, Zorah. What have you done?"

She swallowed, then firmed her jaw along with her resolve. "Only what was necessary. He needed a lesson. It won't kill him."

Ren flashed the penlight. "How?"

"Superglue. I had it to repair my yoga brick."

"And you...you glued his penis to his hands?"

"Yes. Although I didn't have much to work with on the left hand, so that's mostly stuck to his pubic hair."

"Oh, Zorah." Their gazes met as distant sirens pulsed.

A puckish grin creased the skin beside Ren's mouth as she stood. "Well, your remedy will certainly curtail his bad habits, don't you think?"

"Absolutely."

Then Renata tugged at Zorah's cold fingers. "Come along now, dear. It wouldn't do for us to be found here. I do hope that young woman can't identify us."

Walking as briskly as her stiffening hip allowed, Zorah snorted. "Are you kidding? We're women over forty in nondescript clothing. Exhausted by earning a living and child rearing. In other words, useless and aged. Invisible." The summation gave Zorah deep satisfaction.

"All right, then, dearest. You be Useless, I'll be Aged."

Zorah chuckled, discharging residual tension. As they approached the car, she pondered the uses of Superglue, none of which were specified in the fear-of-lawyers directions.

"Just think of what we could accomplish with a little glue, Ren. The incidence of domestic violence could drop like the Dow. Let's start with wife- and child-beaters. We can attach their hands to their own flanks until they pass courses in anger management."

Ren nodded. "And don't forget verbal abusers. For them we'll leave a straw-sized hole in their mouths until they complete therapy. It'll be dubbed the new Anger Management Diet."

As they reached the car, Zorah added, "Plus the ideal technique for elected officials who promise one thing, then do another. Our glue remedy will provide them with quiet time to reflect, commit and legislate."

"Perfect, my dear."

"What about miners of the Earth's resources!"

Renata cautioned, "Corporate owners only, please. The rest are simply trying to provide for their families."

"Fine. As long as we can fasten the CEOs to the wrong end of their tools of destruction." Zorah retrieved her gym bag from the car hood.

"Why not attach drug pushers to an IV of their poison?"

"And assault rifle advocates to barrels wedged into their mouths. Glue their sweaty fingers to triggers."

"Oh, and we need to deal with corporate pirates, too. Stick the evidence to convict them where the sun does shine."

"Domestic and foreign terrorists fastened to devices of annihilation. They'll be isolated, of course, so they maim only themselves," Zorah rushed to add before tossing her bag into the rear seat.

Renata nodded. "Bigots bonded to what they fear most. We'll need volunteer advocates of tough-love--"

"Gay-bashers attached to brawny gay athletes."

They offered each other a high five before climbing into the VW. Ren drove, leaving Zorah to contemplate a rosy future. As they zoomed past the police cruiser, she pictured legions of mature women in relaxed clothes and comfortable shoes, committed to leaving the lightest of footprints. They would flash each other enigmatic smiles that may or may not bare teeth, then harness their righteous anger.

She recognized the heat suffusing her body for what it was: a power surge.

For Love of Jonas

2009-04-04T12:26:00.000-07:00

I purely love my man. When I plant a luscious kiss on Jonas' firm mouth, a shiver of happiness shimmies from my neck to my toes. As usual, it's hard to stop once I start on him. Jonas still looks a bit peaked from his spell with the flu and all. Nothing a strong dose of my love won't cure. But we are gettin' low on supplies. I head for the door.

"Your Elly'll be back pronto, stud muffins. How 'bout I bake you a batch of sugar cookies when I get back?"

The rickety screen door slams behind me, drowning out any reply Jonas makes. I think I hear him call me baby cakes. That puts a smile on my face and a spring in my step. I pretty near launch myself off the porch into the blast furnace that signifies August in these parts.

Cicadas buzz in the afternoon. Their song shimmers over me just like those heat waves coming off the salt flats. Plumb airless it is. Five Appaloosas, two of them leggy colts, drowse under the lean-to in the corral. Only the sweep of their broomstick tails as they swat flies shows any life whatsoever. I suck in a searing breath. Aromas of horse and sage fill my nose, along with a hefty layer of alkaline grit. That sage smell, tangy under two months of summer dust, reminds me of Thanksgiving. Why, that's over three months away. I grin like a fool.

"Must be love." I drop sunglasses over my eyes.

As I reach Old Blue, a dark shadow ripples over me. Goose bumps pop up all along my arms and made my hackles stand on end. I whip off my hat and tilt my head back. Broad wings...small head. The bird hangs dark against the washed out sky.

I flap my hat and yell, "You irksome turkey buzzard! There's nothing for you here! Nothing! Now get!"

That damn vulture pays me no mind. Its presence knocks the peak right off my mood, though. I contemplate grabbing my varmint rifle and taking a few potshots at the bird. But it won't do to upset Jonas, not with his bout of sickness so recently behind him. That waxy look of his persists like fresh cow pies on the heels of your favorite boots. I whack my hat against my thighs before settling the Stetson back over my head, then hoist myself onto the cracked vinyl of the truck seat.

With no more than the usual grinding, Old Blue starts and shifts into gear. Once through the stock gate, I take the only road: a double grooved path that heads straight across the desert toward Lost Springs. Plumes of powdery dust trail me for the next five miles until I hit the interstate. Once the road smoothes out, I tweak the knob on the radio. Static fills the cab.

"Damned radio." I flip the knob to off. After a few experimental taps along the steering wheel, I break into song.

"Goodness gracious--great balls of fire!" My fine rendition carries me to the feed store in a record forty minutes.

Ma stands behind the counter at the cash register. I wave at her and call, "Catch you in a few, Mama. Let me grab what I need first."

It's busy enough that I know Ma won't be able to visit for a while. I nod to folks as I make my way through the old warehouse of a building, but don't take time to visit. Leaving Jonas alone rides me hard, especially after this morning's kissing and hugging. Still, it's good to snuff up the smells of leather and grains mixed in with a hint of wintergreen tonic. Even though Jonas and me've been hitched for near onto a year, this place means home. Anymore, I spend little time here. The things I do to preserve my love.

By the time I gather all my goods and loiter for a bit by the saddles, the crowd has thinned, except for the ornery group hanging around the front. I can see the sweat-stained crowns and drooping brims of their hats over the tops of show halters. The display hides me pretty well. Even so, the sight causes my feet to trip and my chest to tighten. Pure luck that I missed them the first time around. They keep drooling over the prize saddle, even though not one of them can hardly rub two nickels together. I fix my gaze dead center down the aisle, latching onto Lyle's long back. He's the hired man and safe enough. I follow him to the register.

At Harley's raucous laugh, my joy positively evaporates. From the corner of my eye, I see him leaning against a barrel of rawhide dog chews and cow hooves. A plug of tobacco bulges his cheek. I renew my efforts to ignore him and the rest of the deadwood. Soon enough I won't have that choice.

"Sorry, Mama. What'd you say?"

The tight curls on Ma's head hardly move when she jerks her chin in Harley's direction. "Those boys been giving you trouble, Elly?"

"They're all mouth. Words never hurt anybody."

"That's true enough. I just expected that Jonas would shut'em down before now, at least where you're concerned."

I shrug. "Jonas figures I can take care of myself."

"I reckon so. It's just that I hoped he'd show more...oh, I don't know...maybe more gumption. He ran with those boys for more years than I care to think about." Ma's regard fixes on me, giving me a powerful urge to fidget.

"How's your man doing? Haven't seen him since his spell with the flu. Heard you had some trouble with your pump, too." Mama's gaze turns worried as it touches on my bruised arms, then settles on the darker yellow and green one on my cheekbone. At least Jonas won't be laying angry hands on me anymore, not since I fixed him up so good.

"I mended that old pump myself. That's where I got these bruises." To avoid the sorrowful look in Ma's eyes, I fiddle with a snaffle bit on the counter. The shrink-wrap around it snaps and crinkles.

"You're looking a little wan, Elly." Ma's face brightens. "Now, could you be-"

"Don't go jumping to happy conclusions, Mama. No matter how much I might wish otherwise, I'm not pregnant. You promised not to be like my pesky in-laws."

"Now, honey..."

"And Jonas's just fine. Better than fine, actually. You know, I do believe that my nursing him through this sickness brought us closer together. It's like a second honeymoon, he's so sweet and attentive."

"No more talk about moving to Vegas?"

"Not a word. Guess he feels he has everything a man could want right here."

"Well, enjoy it while you can, baby. It'll be all too soon that he recalls his drinking buddies. God knows I never have been able to wean your daddy away from his." She gives a throaty laugh. "Not sure I'd want to either. Some of the sweetest loving I get is when he's making up to me for howling at the moon and shooting cans in the desert."

"Jonas isn't like that anymore. Says he finds my company pure bliss." I twist the brittle plastic cover on the bit until it gives a pop! "Sorry..." and push the broken package toward Ma. She's got a nifty shrink wrap machine in the back. Too bad all broken things can't be fixed that easily.

I decide to try for a little lightness. "Why just the other day, Jonas sat and visited with me while I put up this year's asparagus."

"The whole time?" Ma's eyebrows nearly reach her hairline. "Sounds like you've tamed the wind. You're sure he's recovered? You know, it might not hurt to have Doc MacBain look at him. That was a pretty nasty flu. Lost old man Chisholm to it."

"You worry too much, Mama. I'd be the first to know if anything's wrong with Jonas. I'm telling you, he's pouring all those high spirits of his into our marriage, just like it's supposed to be. If he's not getting around as fast as he used to, well, that's all right, too. Can't you just be glad for me?"

Ma's forehead puckers. "Of course I'm happy for you, baby. Just don't bind him too close. That man needs his freedom, just like you do."

I pat her hand, then lean forward to kiss her. "I know that. I love that man, Mama, so deep that I'd go crazy if he didn't feel the same. Now, I'd best be off. I need to pick-up some things at the grocer's. Where's Daddy anyway? I didn't see him out back. I'm running low on provisions for my work. He ordered for both of us last time."

"He's hauling hay today and tomorrow. Lyle's taking care of things around here."

"Well, give him my love and tell him I need my stuff, pronto."

As other customers congregate around the check stand, I edge away, but not before Ma says, "Come to dinner on Sunday. Bring a cobbler and I'll do the rest."

"I'll check with Jonas and let you know." I head toward the door. Steps snappy and chin up, I nod to the boys around the entrance and hope I look cantankerous enough to keep them quiet.

Of course, it can't be that easy.

"You're looking mighty fine, Elly," Harley says as he steps into my path.

The look in his eyes makes me want to scrub myself. "What do you expect, Harley? Got myself a real man at home."

The boys all chuckle. Harley's thick neck grows brick red. As I step around him and through the double doors, it promises to get worse. I feel his hot breath on my neck.

"Seems to me Jonas must be feeling pretty hen-pecked by now. Practically gnawing off his paw to escape. Ain't been in for a game for onto a month." His four cronies gather around him, effectively blocking both my escape route and Ma's view of the loading dock.

I give him a slow smile, the kind I saw Mary Jane Pitman give Jonas at the July dance. "Actually, he's feeling right satisfied." I let my words hang in the air for a moment until Harley's gaze oozes away. Sometimes it's pure fun to play with a rattler, even knowing there could be fatal consequences. "Your old poker game's as far from his thoughts as you are from mine."

The big man slants a glance at his cohorts. "That may be for now, little girl. But once he gets to hankering for some real company, he'll be in for another round." His voice drops and he hisses, "And next time I win a night with you, don't expect me to be a gentleman and bow out just because you're fragile in the head."

Heat floods my chest and flashes to my face. I blaze a hopeless glance through the windows toward Mama, still absorbed in other customers. Low and furious, I whisper, "I don't ever expect you to be a gentleman. That knack is completely foreign to your kind. But you'd best know that there's no way in hell Jonas would've stood by for you to collect on your bet. Or me either!"

"Don't count on it, Elly. All you'd have seen is the dust rising from the back of his pick-up truck. Even getting married don't drive all the sense from a man like Jonas. He was friends with us long before you strapped him into the saddle."

"That isn't sense you're talking, it's bluster. Jonas is smart enough to know a good thing when he's got it. Your ideas of love and marriage don't mean anything. They're fool notions based on a thing you've never had and never will have." Hoots of laughter from the boys crown my words.

"Be that as it may, little girl, I'll be stopping by later today. Jonas promised to help me break one of my colts before hunting season. He's late starting as is. And what about that cat of mine? You promised you'd have it for me over a month ago."

"That mangy old bobcat's done. I just forgot to bring it into town today. Jonas' good loving plumb put your old cat out of my mind." With that, I jerk my chin up and move toward the steps.

From behind me, their buzzing prattle splits into words. Harley says something like poor bastard and pussy-whipped. That gets my back up but good. I march over to Harley and stick my face close to his. The unholy gleam in his piggy eyes makes it hard not to flinch.

"I've had just about enough of your pissing and moaning, Harley. If you were ever Jonas' true friend, which I purely doubt, you'd be happy for him instead of acting as jealous as some old hog that can't get to the good scraps as fast as the shoats do. So maybe you'd best stay off our place until you can figure out whether you're coming or going."

Harley's eyes, redder than his face, squint up little and mean. “Well, Miz High 'n' Mighty, if you'd cut that boy some slack, you wouldn't have had to pull him off that Pitman girl last dance at the Grange."

I see red, so help me God. I step back and swing with all my might. My hand connects to Harley's face with a satisfying smack! Stings like a son-of-a-bitch, too. But Harley...well, it's purely worth it.

His hat flies clean off his head. Better yet, the chew that doesn't fly out of his mouth evidently makes its way down his throat. He doubles over, coughing and spitting. Fiery triumph blazes through me. When the hulking fool straightens and raises his fist, I don't even budge. It's not like I haven't taken worse from Jonas, and not so long ago either. Of course, I love Jonas. Sure as hell can't say the same for Harley.

One of his buddies, Mel I think it is, grabs his forearm. "Now come on, Harley. You don't want Jonas sore at you for hitting his wife."

I move in closer. "You just stay off our land, you hear me? And stay away from Jonas. He knows where to find you. If he wants to." With a final look of plain contempt, I storm off the loading dock and down the steps to my pick-up.

Blood sings in my ears during my trip to the grocer's. My muscles tremble and bunch, my teeth chatter. All the way home, I hardly miss that darn radio.

Finally I just can't keep it in any more. I holler, "Damn you, Harley, for a fool! And damn that prissy bitch, Mary Jane Pitman." I feel a little better after that.

When I pull into the yard, Old Blue skids and raises a rooster tail. With hardly a moment's thought for the goods baking in the hot cab, I burst from the truck and race into the house. "Jonas? I'm home, babe."

Light from the western windows glints off his hair where he sits at the kitchen table. I rush to his lap, snuggling in the way I used to do during our courtship. His hands brush against my back. I curl into the solid strength of his chest, rub my cheek against the thin cotton of his shirt.

What is it, baby? You're shaking like a leaf.

"It's that mealy-mouthed Harley. Going on about how I'm keeping you from the poker game. Why he even threw your stupid bet and that episode with Mary Jane in my face."

Old Harley never did know when to shut-up. You'd think by now he'd know you're the only one I need.

"You'd think so. But I finally had to put my foot down." I lean back against his relaxed hold and lift my face to search his eyes. "I told him to stay off our property and away from us."

I'm sure you did what had to be done.

"That I did." I slide an arm around his neck and place a lingering kiss on his lips before pulling away. My fingers nestle in the silky coolness of his hair. "I'd do anything to keep your love, Jonas, you know that."

No one knows better than me, baby cakes.

"Well, I'd best go rescue our groceries from the heat. I did promise to bake you some cookies, now didn't I?"

I spring to my feet as Jonas' hands slip from my waist with a reluctance I find purely reassuring. Partway to the door I pause as my gaze falls on Harley's bobcat, stuffed and ready for delivery.

"I'll have to do something about getting that damned cat to Harley, though."

I turn back to my man. The sun's rays caress his strong face and flash off his hair and eyes. His coloring isn't quite right. Still, the bobcat doesn't look nearly as lustrous. No doubt about it, Jonas far surpasses that cat. Nobody can say I didn't do right by my man.

Daddy's always telling me that taxidermy's an art. Jonas proves that.

Interdiction

2009-03-01T14:01:00.000-08:00

The outlaw Phoebe Jones gazed earthward through the view port in Helia's pilot station. Interdiction, the Fundamentalists called this total rejection of her. You're dismissed.

At odds with the big bang of her fury, strangling laughter arose. Responsive to the increased metabolic rate of Phoebe's impending hysteria, her ship's sensory controls flooded the cabin with overtones of lavender and ylang ylang.

Phoebe sniffed, then muttered, "Fundamentalist policy, my gluteus maximus. Helia's sensors may not register a saber-toothed tiger, but a retro predator has most definitely struck."

She eyed the defunct transistor circuitry that allowed her to make forbidden contact with Earth. Antiquated tech. She wondered if Fundies had spurned this inoffensive transmitter at first, too. Despite the steady temperature inside her cabin, Phoebe shivered. Unlike the laws of physics, you could choose to follow Fundie directives--or not. Tenacity was a trait for which she had been chosen; adherence to a theocracy was not. Edicts handed down by a vague deity made her stomach roil in the best of times.

"Not one of the good times, though, is it, Luna?" Her greyhound lifted mournful eyes and pressed her narrow head against Phoebe's thigh. As she stroked the hound's silky head, Phoebe's biobots, what she dubbed her little helpers, reduced the surge of hydrochloric acid in her stomach to a harmless level. She sent the bots a silent thank you.

"It's not like I didn't see this coming." A coppery taste filled her mouth. For Phoebe had glimpsed the onslaught of this criminal stupidity; first through the extrapolation of a disciplined mind, then via waking dreams. In a unique display of unplanned consequences, her biobots had learned not only to express dormant chromosomes, but to piece together odd bits of genetic materials into coherent structure. Now at random intervals, the dimension of time laid open to Phoebe Jones in panoramic second sight. The Fundies remained ignorant of this, although paradoxically, her new ability reinforced their case against her.

Eyeing her modest breasts, she admitted to being far less ambivalent when her bots switched off lethal genes. Unlike her grandmother's mother, Phoebe Jones would never develop metastatic breast cancer. Not that her bots would allow a cancer to develop anyway...

With a cleansing breath, she contemplated the view through her porthole. Shrouded periodically in rivers of dust along with natural cloud covers, her home world rotated within the same space she did. Earth--bright enough to hurt her eyes and desperately vulnerable to cataclysm. Neither dimensional warps nor wormholes kept her from returning. Her only barrier was an artificial ruling decreed by xenophobes, who awaited a one-sided Rapture--what Phoebe dubbed RDP, Recall of Defective Parts. According to her calculations, the recall could occur at anytime. Her solar activity monitors predicted as much. Not to mention the recent glimpses she has had into myriad futures.

Phoebe switched her field of view to diagnostic mode. Glaring red zones illuminated the gapping holes where ozone once protected her world's soft underbelly. A century of change had attempted to alleviate the problem. She herself had played a substantial role in rescuing terra firma during her rotation on the orbital space station Phaedra I. There Phoebe had helped design the global supergrid that now conducted both electricity and hydrogen fuel around the world. She thrilled when Phaedra II unfurled her solar nanopanels and harvested the first gigawatt of sun's energy, transferred by microwave to receiving stations on earth. That initial burst tipped communications offline for 48 hours. Yet infrared lasers solved the glitch and the power-to-payload ratio more than made up for the original outlay.

She flipped on the solar-enhanced scope. As Helia's orbit carried her over southeastern Eurasia, Phoebe caught a glimpse of that sector's fusion reactor. Along the coast, algae farms converted excess carbon dioxide from North American Global (NAG) and Sino-Indo Conglom (SIC) into biofuels. Not enough to counterbalance the output of those transcontinental bullies, who had yet to fully embrace the need to contain carbonization. In the 21st century, NAG and SIC's insistence on coal burning plants swamped any gains made by curtailing gasoline engine outputs for CO2 emissions.

Unofficially at least, the international definition for insanity had been updated. NAG's actions triggered the cascade of events that irrevocably drowned global coastlines, melted glaciers, and reduced the ozone to insignificant levels. Through their determined lack of effort, global weather systems had tilted into hyperdrive. For as mightily as geogineers strove, icebergs required time to regenerate. While worldwide sanctions finally forced both NAG and SIC to extract much of the carbon byproduct from their plants, mercury continued to persist in the environs--and kill. The torrent of damage had taken half a century to stabilize and only now had true recovery begun.

Yet here Phoebe sat in orbit while in Helia's hydroponics bay thrived a solution to the depleted atmosphere. Her plants had been perfected through years of research; each one capable of replacing ozone at astronomical rates. For three months now, this interdiction had banned not just her, but her botanicals, too. Another solar storm like the one six months ago could be Earth's death knell. A downbeat of utter rage and sorrow engulfed Phoebe. Her cabin responded with whiffs of bergamot, cedar and balsam to smooth her jagged edges.

Chiming alarms sounded as her ship navigated yet another field of debris; what was left of the Phaedra II space station. Phoebe consciously relaxed her clenched hands. Somewhere along this orbital path hovered the defensive satellite that had killed the station--and all hands on board. In the ultimate irony, those same hands had built and maintained the object of their destruction. She trusted in the crew's biobots to have cut their agony short; even biobots had limits to regeneration. Cataclysmic death remained outside the repair capacity.

"Am I next?" She buried shaking fingers into the rabbit soft fur at Luna's neck and took comfort from the dog's warmth. Through blurred eyes, the greyhound's fur took on aspects of a planet with continents of jet punctuating the underlying white. Black and white, which encapsulated the Fundies' view of this intricate and varied universe.

"How can they reject so much beauty? Why choose to be so limited?" Helia's bulkheads dulled the tone of her words, if not her anguish.

Phoebe's fingers trailed along tensile muscle to the hound's sides, where Luna's belly swelled with life. The puppies would evidently spend their early months on this ship, at least until Phoebe joined the colonists on Phaedra III. Despite riding the solar winds toward deep space, the crew on Phaedra III knew of this debacle. Phoebe's transmittal had reached them near the rings of Saturn. Their pleas for her to join them crammed her InComm. Yet she still needed to contact Zulfu. The Fundies had blocked every attempt.

Another swell of fury hit and when the biobots attempted to modulate her response, her internal snarl sent them skittering. Or it would have if biobots skittered. Phoebe rather visualized them in the flow and surge of her bodily rhythms. She touched the transistorized spreader rigged to her CommUnit and noted how worn one particular key was.

At long last Zulfu's face appeared, all silvered at the temples and tired eyes. Still he managed a smile. "Merhaba, love."

A tsunami of grief washed away hot anger. "Zulfu. Beloved." Her fingertips sent plasma ripples across the cool screen.

He closed his eyes and rubbed them. "I feared they'd vaporize your Helia and you with it."

"Not in this century. Besides, they know my countermeasures work only against space debris and small asteroids. I'm no threat."

"Not according to the Fundies."

Again swirling rage threatened to overwhelm her; she swallowed it like molten metal. "You know they're after you. According to this latest atrocity they call doctrine, you're contaminated."

A spasm clenched his features. "Well, if they understood even the most basic of nanotech, they'd realize I cannot have biobots and nano in the same physical environment."

"Have you been able to engineer a fix to your latest system crashes?" Even as she studied his face, she knew the answer. The old nanotechnology never had stopped crashing--much like those tedious computer programs of the 20th and early 21st centuries. However when systems crashed in living and breathing bodies, the results proved more problematic than a reboot.

A ping of warning made her clench. The Fundies had detected their connection. Given enough time, they would trace it to its source in the Anatolian sector of what had once been Turkey. Yet another paradox that the Fundies used sophisticated tech to find renegade scientists.

"Sorry, love. We need to break contact for now. We'll try again later," he said as his image faded.

Later. Did they have later? At the top of the Fundie purge lists were scientists like Zulfu, a nangineer with a failing circulatory system. He had installed nanotypes in himself to further his research and to gain more time to perfect his tools. He once told Phoebe that he felt as though he lived in a constant state of collapse. Yet the nanos did not stop working all at once, thus the functional nanos refused to let him die. Elementary biology told her that the perfect parasite kept its host alive indefinitely. For Zulfu that meant constant pain as his circulatory systems underwent repairs. Unlike biobots, who fostered cell growth and protein cascades, nanos used the equivalent of hammers, chisels and nails. Just the thought made her shudder.

Not long after nanos began to be used for critical cases and wealthy patrons who intended to cheat death, the vanguard of biotechientists like Phoebe had synergistically melded living cells with resident chemistry for the ultimate repair unit. When biobots were placed with raw nano, though, the equivalent of war broke out. The byproduct of those internal battles equated with a dead host. An unforeseen side effect occurred when, unlike nano, biobots developed an emotional bond with their hosts. Host. An empty word once biobots formed mutually beneficial relationships with the bodies they inhabited. The actual miracle of true symbiosis dwarfed the uninformed nonsense spouted by Fundies.

Why can't the Fundies believe their all-knowing deity would leave room for processes like evolution or symbiosis? The creator Phoebe put her faith in obviously relished diversity... Then the killer satellite hovered into view of her porthole.

As cold washed her gut and biobots followed, Phoebe decided the satellite looked nothing like a murderer. Yet space station debris told a different story--as did Phaedra II's final transmission. Now the dealer of death wobbled through space along an erratic path. She prepared Helia to change course and engage countermeasures as the satellite's strange motion registered.

Phoebe keyed her console. "Status of defense satellite?"

"All systems nonfunctional," Zulfu's voice, which Phoebe had installed as her ship's primary Comm, answered.

"Weapon systems, too?"

"All systems nonfunctional," the signal processor repeated with no trace of humor. Not Zulfu after all.

"So Phaedra was able to get a piece of it. Good." She maneuvered Helia toward the monster, its one red eye blinking in mechanical distress, and engaged the robotic arms at her ship's bow. Fueled by wrath, Phoebe ripped the satellite apart, then tucked each component into Helia's storage bays. The least this killer could do was provide her with extra parts and recyclable materials. Alarms clamored as she finished.

Phoebe did not depend upon devices to tell her what approached; she felt it in the rush and flow of her biobots. A century storm of cosmic rays swept over and through her. The bots switched to maximum strength in order to maintain her metabolism beneath the carnage left in their wake.

This was their raison d'etre--why biobots had been created. Without them, soft bodies could never have inhabited the solar system. Despite possessing the hardware necessary for space travel, for a century the high energy of lethal solar rays had grounded humans to Earth. Not anymore. Phoebe relaxed and let her bots do their magic. Blood thrummed in her ears and endorphins lulled her.

Luna recovered from the onslaught first. The hound lay flat against her padded deck bed and panted. By the time Phoebe became fully functional again, she registered that Helia's porthole faced earthward. Her ship's cameras had recorded what happened in the wake of the sun's emission. What Phoebe saw...what she saw...

Without intact ozone, the high-energy rays ignited the atmosphere. She could not bear to look directly at the glowing sphere through her porthole and instead turned to the recorded version. The horrific static and pops of a planet in its death throes permeated the cabin before she muted the audio. As atmosphere burned away and destructive beams hit the oceans, steam rose and obscured the view. Edges of continents disappeared beneath the smoke of all-consuming firestorms. Glowing bundles of lightning filled the screen, further obliterating what occurred along the planet's surface. Next would come adjustments in the Earth's tilt as ocean ballast changed to water vapor. Phoebe knew.

Hours later when all attempts to make contact failed, she plummeted into an altered state filled with visions from Dante's archaic Inferno. Fundies screamed and begged for mercy--no sign of ecstasy at their unexpected recall. Only Zulfu's face, his expression loving and open, gave her any sense of calm. She awoke to soft yips. Submersed in dreams of extinct terrestrial prey, Luna twitched and whiffled. Herbal scents drenched the cabin. Phoebe wiped her tight face, then stripped off her rank suit.

The biobots mediated her shock and self-medicated her with the equivalent of an endorphin drip. By now, violent megastorms along with lethal smoke and superheated steam completely obscured Earth. She caught hints of crimson fissures and maws--what could only be erupting volcanoes. Another audio survey gave her nothing but pings and crackles. Still Phoebe could not bring herself to go--or to stay.

Instead she drifted. Helia held her safe as any baby in the ship's uterus-like belly. Biobots initiated hunger and sleep cycles, then saturated her with adrenalin to force her to exercise. Her bots knew best.

In the end, it was Luna who tossed the lifeline when the dog's birthing process shook Phoebe from her stupor. While the biobots proved able process regulators, Luna depended upon her human for encouragement and a loving touch. Finally as Phoebe sank onto her heels and watched the greyhound lick the membrane from the last of six healthy pups, she registered the grunge coating her own nakedness. She offered Luna water. Afterward the new mother collapsed into a deserved rest. Phoebe quickly programmed the sanibots to recognize the puppies and clean only their waste, then headed for an overdue sonic shower.

Clad in a clean bodysuit that eased her skin's sensitivity to long journeys, Phoebe settled into her pilot's net. Beside her Luna sighed in contentment while mewling pups punctuated their cries with vigorous feeding. Phoebe unfurled Helia's solar sails and turned her ship from the dying planet. A trick of timing brought the blushing moon into view. Rosy light reflected the mother planet's death.

"Beautiful," Phoebe murmured.

Then she made a special request to her bots: restore the cluster of cells in her uterus to a normal environment. Within nine months she expected to be among her own kind. With a protective hand over her abdomen, she whispered, "Our child lives, my love."

Phoebe set her navigational systems to the outer solar system and Phaedra III. Helia executed a freefall pirouette and spread her solar wings. If anyone had been on earth to see, hearts would lift.

Borderlands

2009-01-30T20:46:00.000-08:00

Roots go deep in the Okanogan Highlands. They must, for life could not otherwise exist in this place bounded by scrubby sage and ravaged by extreme seasons. Fire and ice shape the land. The grande Ponderosas undergo constant attack from beetles, drought, and wild fires. Indeed, native pine seeds require a fiery ordeal to sprout, then must press forth against snows half as deep as I, Adalina, am tall. Yet despite these trials, the Ponderosa's ridged bark offers the gift of grace in a vanilla fragrance that intensifies throughout summer until the entire forest hums with it.

This high desert is nothing like the desert of my mamacita's childhood. She grew up in the red hills of Oaxaca, Mexico. Certainly, the Okanogan has no ancient pyramids. Yet, just as surely the Cascade Mountains that border our western river valley hold secrets as powerful, si?

Mi familia has been here long enough to speak English. Still, my dreams slip into Spanish. My three children are fluent in an American dialect that often leaves me puzzled. So although I write well in English, I offer this story in my mother's tongue. This I do to make a confession, si, but more importantly to protect others whose need is greater.

Like my mother before me, I am desert bred. Unlike her, I am educated. Norte-Americana schools taught me that besides molten rock spewed from volcanoes, immense glaciers once plowed this earth. These actions etched the way for a river so much wilder than its hermana, little sister, that its edges lapped the peaks. The frozen mountains left behind very little clay and the finest of sands we call moon dust, because of the way it puffs up when you step upon it--as though gravity cannot hold it. The soil is so porous that unless I add table scraps, fallen leaves and manure in fall, irrigation water pours through faster than the border patrol casts out a deportee. Without my help, the roots of tender plants foreign to this area will not survive.

With my children, I pour over world maps. Unlike them, I suspect that our native sunflowers have taproots that reach from here to Kerguelen Island in the Indian Ocean. This island lies where roots go through the center of our earth to emerge on the opposite side. I am told otherwise, but I like this idea too much to let it go.

My mother brought tomatillos, garlic, and chiles from her mother's garden in Oaxaca that I now grow in mine. The breads I bake come from Guadalajaran recipes of my father's birthplace. My family clamor for bollilo, Jalisco bunuelo and pan dulce, but mostly I prepare flat breads like telera and tortillas. I use a modern stove. Always I have frijoles de la olla--what North Americans call beans in broth--bubbling there. Always. My teachers told me not to use such powerful words as 'always' indiscriminately, but I do not. Always comes to me not by accident, but because of my belief in a future.

We live as far from the border of my youth as you can be in this northern nation--so far that we touch upon another country entirely. Those fenced miles that block out the sky are missing along the boundaries to Canada, though. Instead, we pass through gates somewhat larger than a galgo Espanol, a racing greyhound, must exit to reach the long track before him.

My man Ruiz, who calls me Leticia rather than the Letty of my Norte-Americana friends, once worked in other people's vineyards. Now we own our own land and grow our own grapes to make our baberra and sauvignon wines, richer than those from the lands of our fathers. The touristas, who drive through here on their way elsewhere, stop into our tasting room. Along with wines named for the grapes we grow, they buy my adobo, sweet pegoste from local apples, jalapeno jellies along with jalapenos en escabeche, salsas and bundles of dried chilies. To northwestern appetites, these condiments taste exotic indeed.

Before he joined the Air Force, my eldest boy Angel made me labels I can print out myself and glue onto the jars. My likeness is good, I am told, but the woman on the label surprises me with her innocent eyes. I am much more fierce than that and not so thin, I think.

In early spring, I go into the highland arroyos to pick wild asparagus, which I preserve for winter, but also sell at our local Farmer's Markets. This task is best done early in the day before the sun can beat the thoughts from my brain and edge them with copper. I wear a gaucho hat tied beneath my chin against winds that try to send my hat back to Argentina. Always I carry beans, tortillas and fruit with me to honor and celebrate our good harvest. Always, that word I am not to use, I bring more water than I need. Ruiz insists I carry a pistol; drug runners cross this border just as they do the other.

On this day, I wander a deep ravine. This one runs from los Estado Unitos into Canada. Or from Canada into the United States, depending on which way you travel. There are signs on barbed cattle fences to warn all visitors to report immediately to the closest border patrol should they find themselves on the wrong side of one place or the other. Immediately. Random fence posts with signs separate these two countries.

No intimidating wall with concertina wire, no menacing patrols or helicopters, no red-faced citizens with rifles, although border patrol does make an appearance--now and then. Often the guards ride sturdy mustangs gentled by people incarcerated in Colorado, 'colored red' in my native tongue. The mustang horse itself comes from early Spanish stock, another useful emigre.

Thus these highlands where I trek refuse containment, by either fence or armed guard. You must understand the vastness of this upland desert. The land is raw and beautiful, dangerous with rattlesnakes, puma, and bear. Coyotes prowl both steppes and forest, more recently with their bigger brother, el lobo. Together with hawks, eagles, and crows, they clean up road kill.

In such a natural place, color and movement warn of danger. That is how I come to find one old man, three women and five children in my arroyo. That and by their smell. You see, when you eat asparagus, it changes the odor of your urine. That alerts me first. Then, the billowing flags of their clothing lead me to them. The youngest boy tries to flee.

Should I feel fear? I do not. I recognize the hunted looks in their eyes. Despite being born in this country, I, too, have experienced this need for better choices--for a good life. The man is a mature hawk, all beak and purpose, his talons hardened by rough labor. The women's eyes, the eyes of those who will die for their young, stare into mine. We are mothers together in that instant. They wear head covers and robes, very beautiful with borders that carry no warning at all. Their pliable shoes are not good for this rocky land, pocked with puncture vine and pit vipers as it is. Knowledge of pursuit hollows their eyes and makes their cheeks gaunt. I do not need my gun; these are no vermin.

I hunker down as though to grind corn, then wrap my arms around my knees. "How long are you here?"

"We crossed in the night and stay long enough to move on safely," says the woman whose white hair peeks from her headcloth. Her skin is darker than mine, but her English better. She has the gnarled hands of a caregiver.

I look at their meager belongings, at the silky head of the baby burrowing into his mother's chest. Then I lift the edge of a beaded scarf, thrown in haste over their scanty meal. The remains of flat breads and mashed garbanzo beans dry in the parched air.

I say of the scarf, "This is very fine. Did you make it?"

The young mother nods. With a practiced shrug, I release the straps of both my canteens. I take a long draw, wipe the rim, then cap it and hand both containers to the older woman. She makes no pretense of refusal and accepts with dignity. I slip my mesh bag and hand her jars of beans, rice mixed with salsa, tortillas, and the cherries I intended for my meal. My mouth waters over the cherries, for I wait all year for them. However, I know where I can get more. These people are especially lucky today for I baked empanada last night and have Ibarra chocolate, too. They will need to eat the last quickly, before the heat melts it. To forego the gratitude I see brimming in the women's eyes, I squeeze the elder's hand, then leave.

I do not tell Ruiz of my encounter for fear he will be conflicted as I am not. He is a good man and proud of his citizenship. While I am no less proud, I see myself as a citizen of the world, si? All through the day and later that night, when my husband's warmth presses against my back, my thoughts buzz like mason bees swarming the red Oaxacan flowers in my garden. I can barely sleep. My mind dabbles with an imagined history for these people, these refugees. With more haste than usual, I prepare my family's breakfast and send them off to their day. Eager to learn more about the strangers, I leave for the arroyo before the sun rises above the highlands.

Alkaline dust fills my mouth with disappointment. They are gone. Only the diminished smell of their urine remains. A bouquet of sunflowers, those whose roots arrow deep into the earth, sits in my bean jar with just enough water to keep them fresh. Wrapped around the base is the scarf I admired. This bounty brings tears to my eyes.

I wear the bead-trimmed scarf for festivals and tell none of my friends where they can find another. I say only that a mother who hopes to give her children a future gave it to me. Ruiz and I live a good life. Our hands are callused, but not so much that we refrain from touching. We give back to our community, which I see as greater than this vast and wealthy country.

We are exotic blooms in this high desert. Like baby's breath, our roots go deep enough to reach the Kerguelen Island on the opposite side of the world. We simply need time to establish ourselves. While there are those who find this thought disturbing, such thinking sets my dreams free.