By Lucas Barreto Beverley. My Twitter.
-
'Modir'
The microcosm of the maiden's eyes glares limpid glass light at me
Singing waters bloom down into stark white hair,
Billowing upon her tender skin from a rocky scalp.
The wake of her hair, wisps of tresses twirling
As she hums a song of thunder.
The slow, heavy words seep from lips that swirl in wind and sky.
Her verdant stole whispered with the rambling meads,
caressing the brimming foam of the stole's hem.
High was the stirring stew of the maiden's lifting locks,
A cloud dripping down into the deep green basin below.
She stained the clouds hoary and cool with her tears,
Spears of pale, delicate light that darted through her firmament-eyes
Her song ended with the sound of twinkling eddies in cascade,
To the bright applause of the sparrows flitting to and fro
In chorus.
-
The Holmgard Saga Chapter One
History's wheel turns, the Weave twists, and the song begins.
The Rushk tribe shambled around the dias of the temple to hear the elegy of their own destruction. With the strumming of a gusli, the temple courtyard sounded like an ancient memory of sadness, as invisible as the subterranean steampools that hissed beneath Holmgard town.
Young Irsa plucked her fingers along to the tune of a gusli, mouthing nonsense lyrics as if composing for her mother, the skald Miroslava. She knew her mother would commemorate the fallen, and even on such short notice, and she would do it from her soul. Mama had spoken even the oldest poems that way..
The Rushk wore sombre clothes and sombre faces. Too many of their young men laid exposed to the brackish grey haze that had been blotting their skies for the past season. Despite the misery, Mama would intone their eulogy.
Irsa's brother Erik raked a hand through his short, dirty-blond hair. "The crowd is thin," Erik murmured, nearly to himself. "What does it mean?"
"That the tribe is in shock," Irsa remarked to her brother. "Or already packing. I think everyone knows what's coming." To Irsa, the low turnout rhymed with all these conclusions. Her singer's ear was tuned to find the rhymes in the riddles, something she prided herself in. Even so, her big brother didn't respond, instead staring with blank blue eyes at the empty pyre. Erik was always too preoccupied with his duties to answer riddles, or even recognise that the riddles were there; with each chore he took upon himself, people dumped on him three or four more. Erik never minded the extra work, though it never failed to frustrate Irsa when Erik 'Workhorse' Orelov was only around a few hours a day. Bad enough Ivan spends all his days with the battle-brothers, Irsa thought, reflecting on her eldest brother's duties that kept him from her most days. All that's expected of me is to keep my head down at the loom. Her eight-year-old sister tugged at her sleeve, breaking her concentration. And babysitting Siggy, of course.
"Why do they all look so ti-uwd?" Siggy said.
Irsa rolled her eyes. "You tell me, Siggy," she said. "Why do they look tired?" Why am I the only one here who thinks for herself? She could at least guess.
"It's a funeral, Sigunn," answered Erik. "People have died. We're remembering them." Erik bowed his head as the drums began; Irsa did too.
"Is Ivan back?" Siggy whispered. Erik didn't respond. Neither did Irsa.
Lyres twanged over the plaintive cry of guslis. Mama stepped up to the Temple of Perunn's stone dais and bowed deeply before the empty pyre, cascading her fine blonde hair around her knees. Her formal blue dress bore silvery threads winding and curving like rivers, collecting at the navel, chest, and neck's nape to form intricate knots sewn as birds in flight. Miroslava turned to her audience and plucked a run on her gusli, its half-moon shape cradled in her arms. An ethereal melody ensued:
"A tumultuous storm sobbed upon the plundered plains of Fallowfell." Mama's voice rose with sadness alongside the drums. The same war-storm clamoured above her; Irsa closed her eyes and thought she heard the war-cries of the gods in the thunder, felt the shedding of their blood in the rain. The sky's violence pounded steadily to the drumbeat and the skald's rhythm. "A brotherhood in steel ringskin sank into the mud there." She strummed a low chord from her gusli. Then she struck it, twice, thrice. Streams of steam lashed around the dais, and bird calls punctuated the strings. The tuning of Mama's gusli gave the music an almost mythic sound, as if Alkonost the bird-goddess had composed this song before humans drove out the faeries. "Thus is woven the Weave of the world, for our lives are but the weft threading through the warp of time. Ravens swirled like doomful clouds: an unkindness over the cruel Khei warlord, an unkindness over the Kunyaz we knew as Sveitskati Skensson. The Khei warlord raided Rushkland without pity, and so horns called up the battle-brothers of Holmgard- bold druzhyna on foot and on horseback, glittering in ringskin- to charge into the dusk.
"The ringskin breakers raged across the dead field, borne by the roar of war. The Graced Ones cast a shimmering shield over the charge of the cavalry, yet the Khei shot them down first. The faces of those battle-brothers were as sharp and bent as those of the grimstead ravens swirling in the bleeding sky. Men scattered, spears shattered, shields clattered." Thunder drummed, and Irsa heard a battle-horn. Seething rain with a smell of brimstone thrust from the sky, and for an instant Irsa thought it was the blood of the gods. "Fed was Fallowfell; druzhyna dropped like seeds, irrigating a dark harvest with their blood."
Mama's expression grew intense and her gusli-playing picked up a fast, rhythmic tempo, the swaying high and low of chords like swords flashing through the darkness. "Thralled by the battle-din, Sveitskati and his sons charged into the black morass, and sank into darkness as the Khei unleashed their arrows. As Sveitskati and the battle-brothers drifted into a final dream, they glimpsed the Weave, twisted and snarled and sublime all at once.
"Only one returned." The skald's mellifluous voice cracked. "The druzhyna mage Stanislav slipped through the dread arrows, as quick and deft as a heavenly wind. Ivan, his battle-brother, released him from his oaths and bade him tell the story to his mother. Stanislav beat his chest, begging not to leave Ivan's side, but the young druzhyna hefted his shield and said, 'when all else has failed, I trust you to survive and strive. Thus is woven the Weave'. Steadfast Stanislav rode off with the twin treasures of time and trust, Ivan's final gift. Though Ivan stood fast against the Khei, the brave, foolish boy was trampled into the earth. So ends the valorous fate-thread of Ivan Halldirovych Orelov." Tears poured down Irsa's pale cheeks as she gazed on Mama's stoic, stricken face. Erik turned away. "What were the boy's thoughts before his mortal severance? Was he scared? Did he have faith in his battle-brother? Did he think of his mother?" Mama's blue eyes quivered. "On this, no verse or history will say.
"Naught but ravens linger on the deadness of Fallowfell, their shadow twisting as they Wander the greyness above. Naught but their starved cries ring above the blood-sown fields. The endless Wandering begins for the soldiers and battle-brothers of Holmgard… and for the mighty Kunyaz and his sons. Thus ends the tale of how the men of Holmgard were killed at Fallowfell."
Torchbearers lit the symbolic pyre, and per Rushk custom, the Holmgarders clapped and praised the poem. All Irsa could feel was a deepening pit in her stomach. Ivan is dead?
Irsa's father, having returned from the anointment ceremony inside the Temple, set a leathery hand on the girl's shoulder. She looked up to his brown beard flecked with grey, his warm brown eyes fixed on the pyre without wavering. Ivan is dead, Irsa thought. Mama is our Kunyaza now. And Papa's our Kunyaz, chief of the tribe. How different it all is.
"Cheer for your mother, little cubs," Papa said. The youths cheered themselves hoarse, each trying to outdo the other in memory of Ivan. Mama, meanwhile, solemnly joined her family. Halldir Olegovych Orelov had been chosen Kunyaz by a makeshift council of elders the hour before, and Irsa could understand why: he was a sturdy man who cared for people above glory, unlike pugnacious old Sveitskati. It only happened because of Mama. She was up all night in vigil for Ivan, the first to hear Stanislav's report. I wouldn't be surprised if she talked those old goats into electing Papa.
"What will happen to us?" Erik said to Papa. Something croaked in his throat; he glanced at his little sisters. "What will we do without the druzhyna? W-without Ivan?"
Halldir kissed his son and wife. Gripping his oak staff of office, he climbed onto the raised stone dais of Perunn's holy place, and said to his people, "The battle-brothers are dead. The Graced are dead. The Kunyaz is dead. None of this changes the fact that the Khei are riding west- and Mother's mercy, we can no longer fight.
"The choice was never ours. We must flee to the empire of Astorium- to the capital city of Chrysikon." Groans and protestations rang, amid a burst of steam. The crowd had become much larger, and Irsa noticed more and more people streaming out of their homes into the courtyard. As the Temple of Perunn sat in the town centre, and Holmgard was not a particularly big town, Irsa did not doubt that every able Holmgarder was present.
Irsa shook her brother's arm and said, "Erik, what does he mean? We have to leave home? For how long?"
Papa did not flinch at the outcry. Erik didn't either, and suddenly Irsa felt embarrassed for the tears running down her cheeks.
"The druzhyna have sacrificed themselves for us," the Kunyaz declared. "It must be for something greater than the things we own. I believe we can make a good life in Astorium. If we sail to Chrysikon, if we become Astorians- we'll know the laments of the faded aren't yet echoes in the aether."
Irsa listened to the wind; it howled like the weeping of widows. The pines, spruces, and cedars encircling the town bent under the wind's raking fingers but never broke.
"Holmgard town is lost," Papa continued. "This home is no more." The Rushk of Holmgard tried to mask their sobs as sighs. Siggy and Korstein cried, which made it hard for Irsa to resist. "But… I have found that home is not the things you hold dear: it is the people you hold dear. It is the land where we stand. It is the bond of tribe and family."
All the fear and doubt in her heart trickled away as she drank in his smiling brown eyes- but then the Kunyaz returned, beating his staff on the podium. "Men and women of Holmgard: I have stated my case, and- deferring to Rushk common law- I now put it to you. Will we sail to Chrysikon?" The Holmgarders raised their hands slowly, one by one. Siggy tried to raise her hand, but Irsa put it down. Over half the adults in the village voted 'yes' with surprising swiftness, leaving no room for debate. Irsa watched the town's eyes weigh Papa down like the heavy red cloak on his shoulders. "Thus is woven the Weave." Papa walked among his tribe. "Holmgarders, we are Chrysikon bound. Pack up your carts and your sea-steeds: we leave tomorrow morning."
The survivors of Holmgard set to it. Each family packed its goods into long canoes; there were many waterways in the massive continent called Chrononys, and there were many canoes. They kept in their pockets smaller valuables like amber brooches, crafted idols of deities, opal pendants of the All-God who created existence, and combs of seashell. Halldir and Miroslava insisted they take only light valuables because their journey would be long and they needed to leave immediately, so the Rushk abandoned the elk and marten pelts that were their trade wealth. They stuffed bushels of grain and potatoes, fishing nets, animal feed, and tenting into the horse-drawn carts the merchants were generous enough to make public, and clothes and tools and supplies into canoes they carried on their shoulders. Some sentimental families hid fine instruments and exquisitely dyed tapestries and rugs in their sea-steeds. Irsa reserved the bottom of her pack for her family's quilt, a lovely piece of weaving Mama deemed too bulky to take (she decided to devote the space to her gusli). She left behind all her toys and dolls for this quilt; Miroslava's mother, another Irsa and a woman of many talents, had woven the quilt over the span of her lifetime. Locked in its threads was the cyclical and vibrant history of their ancestors, the squares alternating between the stories of saints and the deities, the beauty of the old legends rippling through long, interweaving patterns like strands in an iris- all woven within the encompassing sphere of the All-God's Eye.
After a sleepless night, Holmgard tribe took up the weight of their old world and set off south to their new one.
As Papa looked back on his old town, Irsa knew that that look was the biggest mistake he would make as chieftain. He saw the cosy wattle-and-daub houses arranged like shaggy merry-makers dancing around the campfire of the marketplace. He saw the marketplace, once thriving with the sound of merchants singing praises for their fine pottery and textiles, the colour of rich dyes and robes from Astorium, the mixing scents of jasmine and cumin and myrrh- all now a scrap heap of stalls and boxes broken in the rush. He saw the proud long-hall, gilt with silver and rubies and spiralling runes at the roofs, once echoing with the laughter of druzhyna. He saw their modest fields of wheat swaying in the breeze, so close to the autumn harvest that many fields still shone gold. He saw their wooden stave temples, sturdy walls still bearing the masterwork murals of saints and gods like storm-lord Perunn, high-voiced Alkonost, merciful Mokosh, and just Tiwaz. He saw the taverns, the bakeries, the shipyards, the libraries, the schools, the gardens, the fisheries, the butcher shops. Each Rushk kept their own favourite place in their heart; even the piss-reeking tanneries caused a familiar sort of ache, for Ivan had managed one with his druzhyna brothers. The volcanic spring and the keening breeze played a lament as the migration turned toward exile.
-
Excerpt from 'Escape'
Jin, Lenny, and I walk silently down to street level. The boujee side of Bastion's nightlife awakens as we pass by, flashy signs for clubs and restaurants and tattoo parlors humming and thrumming in a neon haze. Between it all, the four stone columns of Harman's Bank towers above it all. Each of the columns is titled 'the Pillars of Bastion' and has a list of prominent Bastioners, from architects to hedge fund managers to city councilors to police chiefs. Jin likes to joke that he goes to Harman's Bank just to inspect his hit list.
The neon jungle springs to life around us, the blare of fast cars and the shrill echo of clubbers on their way to the next party interspersed with the omnipresent howl of sirens, only ever getting closer. Us three younguns wearing sunglasses at night may not quite blend in with the club-rats (especially not when Quincy rolls right up to us grinning and flashing a thumbs up), but this is still our city, and no one troubles us by the way we walk. Breaths rise like a creeping heat within me, and before I know it, the Pillars of Bastion are looming over our heads like a lion hunched in wait for prey.
"Hollup," I say. I rush my bike to an empty bike-stand and clip on a U-lock. The last thing I need is for some rando to pinch my trusty Ranger. Tragically, Jin and Lenny are already striding ahead of me, pushing the glass doors open while I sprint behind.
The whole scene explodes at once when Jin blasts his Glock into the ceiling. The gunshot resounds like the bark of a Rottweiler through an empty alley. "This is a robbery!" Jin shouts, jumping onto the horrified teller's desk. No security guards, and only a handful of witnesses; Lenny picked the right joint.
"Flat on your stomachs, people!" Lenny commands. The five tellers and six remaining customers immediately do as he says. He aims his airsoft rifle at the main teller. "You, lady: fill these bags with money, 'hostpaste'."
"Just be cool and no one has to be victimized," I say, trying to make my voice as calming as possible. It doesn't work so well through the muffle of my face mask. "This is the bank's money, not yours. They're insured for this kind of mess. Let us do our business, and we'll be out of yours."
My spiel has less than its desired effect thanks to Jin's prowling menace. Maybe giving him the gun was the wrong idea. At least Lenny is on board with my method, keeping cool and collected as he walks the tellers to the vaults. We're on a timer, as I don't doubt that the silent alarm was triggered the second we came in, and our bluffs will be called.
Not Jin's, though; Jin never bluffs. "Yo, Bosu!" he yells after Lenny. "Finish the loading in three minutes or I start blasting."
The incandescent lights glaring throughout the vaulted ceiling makes my head spin. Seconds stretch into minutes, and there's still no sign of Lenny. My sweat-drenched face mask clings to my face like a wet animal, and my breaths come out ragged. "Come on, you greedy bastard," I whisper. Can't lose my cool in front of the hostages. I spot a little kid huddling with her parents in the corner. I kneel to her level, peeling off my mask and sunglasses so she can see my face. "It'll be alright, baby. You're gonna go home soon. We'll be real quick, okay? Just be cool. Just be cool." The more I repeat myself, the less I believe it. I can hear the sirens getting closer and closer, and the ex-Yakuza beside me is only getting angrier and angrier.
Jin shoots another bullet into the ceiling, and the six hostages scream frantically. "L!" he calls, rage building in his voice. "Tick-tock!"
Replacing my mask and glasses, my head starts to swim again just as Lenny comes out with three full duffel bags. He's staggering like he's drunk, and I can see a huge goofy smile past his face mask. Crisis averted. The sirens echo against the clubs now.
"You and me, T," Lenny slurs to me, greed and adrenaline addling his speech. "Check for dye packs. Come on."
We get on our knees and open up the bags. Everything else fades around me as I drink in the sight of thousands of dollars- millions, maybe- lined up in neat green rows like a well-ordered park. I snap myself out of it and start digging around for a dye pack.
"I know she put one in there on the sly," Lenny mutters, rooting through his bag like a starving dog through trash. "Can't sneak past me. I'm too 'perskeptic'."
The sirens turn to wailing just as soon as I find what I'm looking for: a small red rectangle taped to Ben Franklin's pudgy green face. This little thing would've turned our payday into blood money.
"Gotcha, sucker!" Lenny declares, waving around another dye pack. "Help me with the last one, T."
"L?" I say, my ears twisting to the encroaching sirens. "We gotta go."
"I'm not done yet, fam!"
"I-I mean, we gotta go now." But Lenny is already rooting through the third bag, murmuring to himself. "J, time to bounce!"
"That idiot just passed us by!" Jin howls. I look up from Lenny in time to see a baby-blue Impala sputtering past the bank's facade. Glimpses of blue and red dart through the pillars, and the sirens shriek like birds of prey. Jin charges the door with the de-dyed duffle over his shoulder, and I'm not far behind. "Kuso! Orite kudasai!"
I crumple at the thunder of a flashbang. My sunglasses fall off in my tumble, leaving only an all-encompassing whiteness burning through my eyelids. When I recover, I see heavily-armored police officers storming the bank's steps, with real assault rifles locked and loaded. I instinctively throw my dye pack through the shattered doorway; it sticks onto a cop's faceplate and erupts in a scarlet blossom, coating him and his friends in red paint. Lenny catches on quick and chucks one dye pack into the fray, then another.
"Hustle, homies!" Lenny cries, shuffling beside me like a bag of rocks. He opens fire with his airsoft rifle and the cops duck out of the range of a plastic toy. Our taxpayer money at work, right there. A plume of smoke bursts below us, blending the neon reds and blues and greens with a dim grey haze. I let my airsoft rip while Lenny loads another cartridge.
I'm fit to cry when I see Quincy pull up with the puffing blue beast of a jalopy. I ditch my sunglasses and face mask, feeling home free. Quincy pushes open the passenger door while Lenny hollers, "Did you stop for lattes, fool?!"
"The fuzz was all over, fam, I couldn't get in!" Quincy protests. "Wait, y'all wanted lattes?"
"Shut up, 'fam'," Jin snarls, throwing his duffle bag in the trunk and taking the passenger seat. Lenny clambers into the back. I hold back for a moment. "T! Put some muscle in that hustle!"
I look back to my Ranger. That stubborn hunk of titanium has been with me since high school, and if I leave it now, the cops will no doubt confiscate it as evidence. "I gotta grab my bike!" I rush back towards the dazed, paint-splattered cops and my Ranger. Will it even fit in the back? I push the thought out of my head; I am not leaving this bike behind.
As I'm fiddling with the U-lock, I hear Jin's trademark growl: "Drive."
"Are you crazy?!" Lenny says. "T's our boy!"
I look back in time to see Jin's Glock pressed against Quincy's head. "Drive," he repeats. The Impala's sawed-off muzzle bellows frantically as smoke spews from its exhaust. Scarlet neon lights sparkle against its sleek blue finish as Quincy shifts it into gear.
Before I can strap on my helmet, a cop's rough hand pulls me from my Ranger, thrusting me to the concrete and scattering my rifle to pieces. You bastard; that was a quality airsoft! I narrowly twist my head away from a stomping boot, and swing my U-lock into my assailant's hip. He recoils and I'm able to leap onto my feet, delivering a savage uppercut with my heavy metal lock to the cop's jaw. He draws his pistol, but I hook the U-lock over his hand and jerk the gun to the ground, where it discharges violently. I knee the pig in the groin and hop onto my Ranger, pedaling like all hell while fumbling on my helmet and jamming the U-lock in a side-pocket that is blessedly empty of cash. But the car is gone. I gotta hand it to Lenny: the Impala can really move when it wants to.
I can't go the way my fam went. The Police Department lies halfway across the route, a risk Lenny was willing to take- but not one I am. I dip right into a dingy alleyway, finally heading away from the ambient wail of sirens rattling through my skull. Barks clamor and crash along the fenced alley walls, behind them the patter of canine feet. The dogs are coming closer. The duffle bag chafes my back, slowing my movement. It's only a matter of time.
Without thinking, I leap off my Ranger without releasing the handlebars, using my weight and momentum to swing the bike like a bat- directly into the bounding body of a huge German Shepherd. The dog collapses with a whimper, and I feel a glimmer of pity flit through me, until I see the other police dogs loping after her baying for blood. My blood. I keep pedaling.
A lowing rumble floods the narrow alley, then the screech of tires. I peek behind me to see a police motorcyclist burning rubber on my trail, his ivory-white bike roaring like a demon. I take a deep breath. You can do this, Theo. Bullets whizz behind me and the roar turns into the sound of inferno. I jump my Ranger onto the wall, defying gravity for two seconds while taking aim at the moto-cop. The friction keeping me horizontal gives out. I launch my back wheel into the moto-cop's head and remount as his motorcycle topples onto his leg. As I listen to his groans, I pray that I didn't just become a cop-killer. No time for remorse. Just ride.
I emerge onto the other side of the alley, shook up and roughed up but in good enough shape to ride. It's more than I can say for Lenny, Quincy, and Jin; it's not long until I come across the smoking blue jalopy, its tires popped by a spike-trap laid across the road in front of the Queenland PD. Cop cars are already swarming the wounded Impala. I stop in my tracks despite the danger, in disbelief of what I saw. I never thought it was even possible Lenny could be caught; he was always so crafty and resourceful, it just didn't seem real. "Don't be a dumbass, Lenny," I whisper. Much to my relief, he surrenders without a fight, and Quincy and Jin follow suit. I thump my heart in their direction. "I'll be back for you, fam."
I look for an escape, but the cops have the streets locked down tight, and sirens ring like the howling of a hunting pack. I'm in their territory now. My eyes wander to the staircase next to me leading to the roof of a condo. I carry my bike up the steps as fast as my aching legs will let me, and soon I'm staring at the blinking neon chaos below. The fluorescent river that is the highway at night lulls me into something of a trance. Each car has one or more people in there, just trying to shuffle through existence in their own unique way. I remember that I'm one of them, that I'm no different, just another little ant on an ever-moving river; it's a good thing to remember, I think. Helluva life I'm stuck in. Might as well live it.
The crack of splintered concrete bare inches from my feet interrupts my meditations. A helicopter thunders to my position, a sniper leaning out the door lining up another shot. I'm reminded of my mission and pedal harder than I've ever pedaled, building up a head of speed to hit a piece of plywood leaned against the railing.
It's not a perfect ramp, but it's enough to get me airborne. The full moon lights my path as another bullet bursts open the concrete roof. I breeze along all serpentine, dodging shot after shot. Wind buffets my body as I jump to a third rooftop, the duffle bag sloshing along my back; this time, my velocity is sufficient to carry me there without a ramp. God bless Bastion's shitty overcrowded condos. My heart drops into my stomach when I look at the next condo, two or three floors shorter than the one I'm sweating on and nearly five floors shorter than the only other building abutting it. No escape. The whooshing blades of the chopper hum over me.
I need to get out of here. I need to do something stupid, something crazy. My eyes drift to the condo's powerline overhanging the highway, and I come up with my stupidest, craziest idea yet.
I unlock the crossbar of my U-lock, holding it in one hand and the U-shaped shackle in the other. I surge to the edge with the devil at my heels, hooking the shackle over the power line. As the electricity literally vibrates through the carbon steel, I start to feel extra grateful we decided to go with insulated rubber gloves. My tires leave the roof. I lock the crossbar back into place and hold on with both hands as I zipline down to the shimmering vein of the congested highway. A bullet sings behind me, ranging far off the mark thanks to my insane velocity. I slide further down and spot a massive train of flashing, wailing cop vehicles that is causing the traffic jam. Somewhere among them is my fam; I imagine the faces of Jin, Quincy, and Lenny pressing against a squad car's window, cheering me on as if it was the end of the movie.
A sound like an angry hornet blasts shrapnel into my helmet. My steady glide becomes bumpy and rough, and I look up in horror to see my carbon steel U-lock half-shattered from the bullet's impact. The crossbar wiggles off the shackle, taking me with it tire-first on top of a SWAT van. The jolt of impact rattles my bones, but I have no choice but to keep pedaling through the traffic jam. While the helicopter whirs in the distance, I hear no more potshots, and I assume the sniper has been ordered to avoid collateral damage. The only thing worse for the BCPD than a fugitive bank robber is a lawsuit from an aggrieved driver.
I detect the SWAT van slowly maneuvering through the traffic in the side-view mirrors I'm wheeling past, flanked by three motorcycles. The van gives two stuttered wails, and the moto-cops start weaving through the traffic in my direction as it takes a right onto a side road. I jump onto a slope-roofed Ferrari and ramp it to the side of a truck to dodge one of the moto-cops. He twists his head to follow the maneuver and ends up careening out of control, slamming into the back of a Jeep. I spin my Ranger to face the next moto-cop, throwing the remains of the crossbar right into his helmet. His bike collapses, and the third moto-cop screeches to a stop before crashing into his buddy's trashed ride. The SWAT van's sirens are fading away as I pedal on. I can't believe my luck!
Then a door swings open into my path and before I can hit the brakes, it sends me flying. My precious, gorgeous, one of a kind Ranger lays between me and an obese middle-aged lady with a tacky bob lurching out of her minivan. She has a peace sign on her ill-fitting t-shirt despite being the meanest Karen I've ever come across.
"I'm makin' a citizen's arrest!" Karen bellows. "Freeze, hood-rat!"
"Now that's uncalled for," I protest, inching closer to my bike. "Bank robber, grand larcenist, sure. But 'hood-rat'? No shot."
A pair of arms grab me from behind. His heavy breathing and hot mass tells me this is probably Karen's husband. A ham-sized fist strikes my jaw, and Karen's face is redder than ever. "Shuddup, you-"
I break her nose with a headbutt and jerk my head back to hit my grappler in the teeth. I take off my helmet and use it like brass knuckles to knock Karen's husband down and out, then thrust my Ranger's titanium handlebars into Karen's gut. She keels over coughing and retching as I replace my helmet. "Put some respect on the name. I ain't a hood-rat: I'm Robin Hood." I cut my taunting short at the renewed peal of sirens, zipping deeper into the hostile thicket of traffic.
The SWAT van suddenly comes barreling against traffic, halting the crawling river of cars. They must've taken Acosta to 25th and rejoined the highway from there. With grudging respect, I admit the pig at the wheel knows this city as well as I do. The van spins 180 degrees and armored officers spill out of its open doors with shotguns and assault rifles to spare. I have no time to think, and no chance to slow down: I plow straight through before they can take aim, leaping onto a Lamborghini's sloping roof and ramping right into the yawning mouth of the van. Like a diving eagle, I tuck in and swoop through the vacant interior up to the panicking driver, then hurl myself through the front window with a prayer.
Shards of glass swirl around me like delicate little raindrops, translucent jewels soaring through the night air, catching the rainbow headlights in a blaze of glory. I stagger to my feet and realize the big bag of loot has finally kicked in for me, its quality material taking the brunt of the impact and preventing the glass from eviscerating me. My sturdy old Ranger has made it through a bit worse for wear, meanwhile I have a dislocated shoulder and some fun new bruises from my crash landing. I can't focus on my injuries now; the SWAT van is trundling toward me. I roll out of the way and mount my bike as the van collides with a concrete median in its vain attempt to run me over. The aborted attempt has effectively locked all lanes of traffic in a convoluted snarl, including the cops sent to get me, and I find to my surprise that I have a whole three lanes just to myself. Though I'm panting and wobbling through the motions, the constant adrenaline in my blood carries me through the final push.
As I cruise along the empty highway, I finally have an opportunity to reflect on every accident of fate that led me here. Had the cops at the bank stood their ground, they would've learned right quick only one of our guns were real. Had Jin not betrayed me, we would've been busted while I tried to fit my bike in the backseat. Had some city planner designed the Queenland condominiums to not cram as many people and buildings as possible, I would've been trapped in the den of the BCPD. Fear, greed, and corruption have been my allies every step of the way; if the 'Pillars of Bastion' are gonna be this dumb, they deserve to get ganked. The Park is barely a hundred feet away, just down the next exit.
And that's when I hear the strangest sound I've heard all day: raucous applause. What could these jokers possibly be applauding? I get my answer in the form of a bullet whizzing by my ear. From the corner of my eye I see a policewoman, storming towards me with her pistol drawn on a white Vigilante bicycle. Pure adrenaline floods my arteries as shot after shot cracks around my face. A bullet smashes into my duffle bag, knocking the wind from me and almost sending me sprawling. The cop aims her pistol once more, but a satisfying click tells me she's out of ammunition. I pivot around to face her and charge with the speed of a raging rhino. The cop reloads successfully and gets off a shot that smashes my pedal; it's only when I glance down that I notice it also tore through my left foot. The bike threatens to spiral and deliver me into the waiting maw of the law, but I keep charging. Just as my bike falls, I jump to the ground and, using the fall's momentum, I swing my bike like a bat into the cop's front wheel. The cop skids across the asphalt. I saddle the bike's right pedal and unstrap my helmet to my fist. She takes aim. I bash her to the ground, my helmet shattering into a million pieces off her own helmet.
The familiar whir of the helicopter spurs me to move. I coast down the exit ramp and into a grove of trees, and soon the searchlights melt into the autumn tree layer. My adrenaline rush subsides into a dull, throbbing ache throughout my body, particularly in my foot and shoulder. I dismount my Ranger and walk it down the path, abandoning my futile attempts to ride with one pedal. The sirens become a numb sound in the distance, an old lingering pain that can never truly go away- but fading with every agonizing step.
-
'Chrysalis' (published in Volition Magazine)
Humming soft, humming waves
Creature inside
Teeming life beneath the liquid
Writhing, striving; flashing, crashing.
Inhale
Exhale
I am a monster swimming in the summer-egg
Then I melt to goo,
Alive in my own destruction.
The walls are converging
Like breaths.
Inhale
I am smothered.
Exhale
I am released.
Strands of strains lace through my egg-film
Like heartbeats.
The home-shell radiates within
But I don't want to leave.
I want to curl in the warmth of my bed.
Yet my tendrils push.
Inhale.
Exhale.
It pulses me forth
And I press against the walls
Of my golden womb
And in the glory of the sun, I am like a kaleidoscope dragon
I stretch my shimmering wings to the light.
It is the first of days
When the monarch springs forth.
Time to claw out of my home-shell.
Time to burst like thunder.
-
Excerpt from Hannibal
The mountain grew.
Mont Blanc loomed above them as they advanced to the Alps. The Africans, accustomed to their granges and savannahs, had never seen a mountain so big. As it grew within their eyes, day by day enlarging, it grew within their minds and hearts. Great lumps distended in their throats. Worse still, Hannibal was making good progress; Ducarius had secured native guides all the way to the entrance of the Alps, and they marched fifteen miles a day effortlessly.
The mountain grew.
Rumours of the Alpine inhabitants gestated from the Insubres, who held some wit in dealing with neighbour tribes. The Ligurians in the mountains, it was said, had filed their teeth to points, took no wives but the women they stole and ravaged, and subsisted only on raw meat. Carthaginian officers were quick to dispel these outrageous stories, assuring that the Ligurians were no different from the other tribes- but the tales were spread.
The mountain grew.
Everyone thought Mont Blanc was tall before. They had not known tall. Mont Blanc was like a crouching giant, white hair flowing down to its toes and spine. The paths were slippery with autumn slurry (which the men did not fail to notice). Flanking it were sundry foothills, crowned with snow-dusted foliage, each a giant on its earthen throne- God's teeth risen from the aether.
As Mont Blanc drifted clearer and clearer into view, a wildfire of chirping trepidation sparked across the ranks. The army came to a dead stop. Nettles of noise pricked Hannibal from all directions:
"There's no crossing that behemoth!"
"We will all die, I tell you, at the hands of those blighters the Gauls."
"My lord, how could you bring us to this fate?"
"We need to turn home, that's the only way."
"Please, Hannibal, please spare us!"
Hannibal sprang to the head of his army. "Compose yourselves!" he shouted, his command filling the cauldron of the sky. All were as still as sons before a fearsome father. "I've heard your reservations against action before, and I hear it now. I give you this reply: are you men?" His violent and fiery voice swayed like a thrashing surf, rising high and sinking low, riding the crimson tides of war itself. "I said, are you men?" He paced about. "What sudden fear is this among you who followed me from Iberia on our mission to destroy Rome and free the world? What fear among you who made your way over the Pyrenees and fought the wild tribes there? What fear among you who crossed the waters of the mighty Rhône to defeat those who waited drooling for you? Now when you have the Alps nearly in sight, when you are at the very doors of the enemy- you stop and falter?
"Well, then." Hannibal softened his tone, a mother coaxing her child to tranquillity. "What do you think the Alps are? They are nothing more than high hills. Do you think the Insubres flew over them in their retreat from Rome? No indeed, they climbed them as we must do. My emissaries have scouted those mountains and say it can be done, and furthermore have arranged a confederation of Cisalpine Gauls to fully quarter us upon our arrival. Are there not paths and foothills we may use to subvert the bluffs? Is not autumn still warm on our backs? So I state to you once again: are you men?" And his motherly voice turned deadly and low. "Because naught but mind's deceiving artifice can stand against men; not Gauls, not mountains, not gods.
"Such paltry peaks will never weaken our hardy knees. Such cold will not pierce our iron skins. Such hunger will not groan within our stomachs, though much food I've compiled to answer its wail. You all know me: I will march over those icy jaws, past the Ligurians and the slick thoroughfares- alone, if such is my lot- for when God asks, 'Are you a man?', I thrust forth my issue and cry 'Yes'! Thus the question is not if you'll traverse with me the edge of the Alpine daggers: the question is whether or not you are a man. March with me against this and any obstacle, and I shall know your reply."
* * *
The Barcids were trespassing in the jowls of the mountains. Through the foothills they tread, the crunching of ice echoing across serpentine valleys, its sound like sand beneath a pestle. They drowned in broad air, their own buffeting breaths heavier than blankets against their tracheas, terror slowing their progress faster than any mire- for the men heard voices.
Atop the hills, the Ligurians chatted and plotted loudly as the Barcids forged their path. They spoke spitefully, cursing and spitting upon their words for 'Carthaginians' or 'Africans'. At times, they would nip at some lagging company's heels, killing a few men and stealing a few mules, then flee when a larger contingent rushed to stop them. The Iberians joked that their voices bore more ire than their spears!
Like the fall of a precipice, all the paths fed into one: a gorge. It was a wider gorge than the ones before it, affording the army to form into a comfortable column. Ledges overhung the rock walls all the way through, and along them gaping holes like pockmarks. Shadows flitted through those caverns, always at the edge of vision.
"The Ligurians are men," young Mago boasted to everyone within earshot. "They eat bread, sleep nights, and feel fear. Blokes like us, you know." The Numidians had suffered an attack that day, but killed twenty Gauls and routed them without losing a single man. But Mago had seen the fallen tribesmen, their hulking frames, their petrified faces unsullied by fear. Mago hardly convinced himself.
At night, the Punics built their fires, roasted rare strips of goat and sheep over magnificent spits, sang songs of war which were as warm as the fires, and arranged brazen tripods and teams of goats which the Gallic guides had gifted them. They could not support the oxen over the Alps, so they gave them as gifts to Baal Hammon, Lord of lords and protector of Carthage. No wine went undrunk without first tipping a full cup as libation for their discrete gods. The men rejoiced, for they saw the Ligurians doing similarly, their bellies too full of food and fire to hunger for war.
Adherbal, master of engineers, approached Mago in his flowing white robe. That and his heavy paunch, bloodshot eyes, and sagging jowls made him look like a priest. "Would it not enhance to the beneficence of this offering," he said, tidily and officiously, as was his wont. "To sacrifice in the tradition of our motherland? Would not the holy fire find it welcome to engulf richer substances than mere goat-flesh?" Adherbal, devout to reason and even more devout to the gods of Canaan, further enumerated his logic: it would serve to reduce the strain on resources that so heavily burdened them, reprieve the warriors of an unwanted and wholly undue fatigue, position that fatigue so that it was good and proper, and humble not only the gods but the women. "In summation," he continued. "In efforts to combat overpopulation, I see no reason why we should not immolate half the camp's whoreson children as offerings to Lord Baal, on well-wrought stakes, as is custom in Carthage." The Barca clan had practised nothing of the sort in their time in Spain, thus Mago adamantly refused, going on to reproach Adherbal. The master engineer protested profusely, until Mago had his guards remove him. The engineer left with a flourish of his priestly white robe.
The aroma of sweet ox-meat eddied to the heavens. The sacrifices completed, eight of every ten men- though the gorge was filled with enough fires for the full ten- repaired to their bedspreads in joy and fullness.
Two of every ten men, meanwhile, scaled the cliff-face with Hannibal and rested in the caverns. They had no fires as they patiently awaited first light, and thus could make no sacrifices to Melqart or Baal. Yet these were gods of the cities, belonging to the humans of Carthage and Phoenicia before it. The Alps were older. Hannibal felt closer to the ancient deities: horned Cernunnos and chthonic Endovelicus of his Celtiberians, or the primaeval Titans too lofty to ever commune with mankind. Atop the apex of the Alps, the mountain range appeared as Gaia's fingertips stretching to touch the body of her lover Uranus. The Pleiades could still be seen that night, and Hannibal took comfort in that, for it told that autumn had not yet spun itself into winter; he mused that the Pleiadean stars were the divine magnates of courts far surpassing the body of Uranus- yet there and then they were just cicadas blinking by, sequins in Nyx's mourning veil.
* * *
The gorge became thinner. The column slimmed itself so twenty at a time could march abreast, then soon to eighteen. The silence quickened.
As Hannibal expected, Gauls black in battle-dress crept to the edge of the cliffs, utterly silent. They followed the Barcids, and the Barcids followed them.
Last night, Hannibal had guzzled the Lord's fragrant wine and meat for himself. Rage and hunger bred within his belly all night, convulsing over the truancy of his dearest ward.
Ducarius peered at Hannibal. He had brought along the best warriors of the Insubres, all of them in ring-mail. "My men are all set, lord," he whispered. "I'd reckon yours are, too." He indicated the Libyan veterans behind the general, tall and fierce-eyed to a man, muscles tempered by years of war. "Let's whup 'em?"
"No." Hannibal's voice was quiet enough that he did not need to whisper. "It would be hasty. Lest we throw our ranks into confusion, we wait." Ducarius and the others agreed.
The young gods of the cities were not like the old Titans, who were distant and huge. Gods like Melqart and Baal were as small and petty as humans. When their mortal consorts slighted them- as Hannibal had- they sulked. And their sightless brood of rage and hunger sprung forth.
The gorge became thinner. The column slimmed itself so sixteen at a time could march abreast, then soon fourteen. The silence quickened.
The Ligurians flexed anxiously. Ducarius did the same. "We need to move…" Hannibal did not reply.
Baal Hammon was Lord. The Grace of Baal had to be reminded.
The gorge became thinner. The column slimmed itself so twelve at a time could march abreast, then soon ten. The silence quickened.
"Hannibal-"
The Lord of lords sent a wicked gadfly to Hannibal.
The Ligurians went to the boulders staked into the gorge's edge.
A sting pierced Hannibal's head; he grit his teeth as a wildfire of rage and hunger burned across his face- and his mind was laid low. The mountain Gauls were so numerous. The fall was so far. Any movement would cast his men into the warrens of Chaos. He could taste his sweat, feel a seizure ripple through his heart; pressure dammed his ears.
The gorge became thinner. Dark voids interrupted the stone walls as the Barcids went on. The cliffs cloaked them so none could see what lay beyond- but the men knew that nothing lay beyond. That they would see nothing forevermore if they walked into the voids. The prospect of darkness stretched its arms lovingly to the men at the edges.
Hannibal's thoughts grew into nothing but buzzing.
The boulders careered. They groaned down the slope, and up rose a bellow of ten thousand cracking fires from the floor. Then up rose a roar of ten thousand screams.
Javelins and slings rained upon the narrow train, rattling against their shields like heavy sleet. The stone outcrops pinned them in as they tried to form up, shackling them together. The missiles transfixed the war-cries of scores of men to their ribs. They aimed especially at the pack mules, who would buck and scream at the prick of javelins, dragging themselves and their handlers into the chasms. The stone floor caressed them. The swollen ranks, encumbered by their own numbers, could do little but hold fast.
As the spears of Gallic spleen thrust down and down again unto the Barcid train- Hannibal watched. He sweated through his garments; he stayed as still as his trapped men.
Ducarius stormed forth with his warriors. They closed the gap, plunging themselves into the thick of it; the Libyans (who had torn themselves from Hannibal's side) linked spear and shield and burst open the Ligurian line, shrieking, like a furious wind through muslin sheeting. The black stone-men spilt like a vein unto the gorge as the Libyan wedge widened and pushed, then sallied on to their prey, swaying cats in a savannah grass. Their claws lunged to the clansmen's legs then swept out and pierced their necks.
Ducarius' charge routed the Ligurian army. It routed them so thoroughly that many afterwards wondered why the charge was not ordered sooner. For that, they looked to Hannibal. But Hannibal had no answer. He still only heard the haranguing of his head's wicked gadfly.