Spirits

Samhain was a trial. Because Samhain was really spirits.

Samhain had always been spirits and probably would be spirits forever. One had depended on the other and now they occupied the same space. Samhain without spirits was a recurring party people concocted and shared. Their version of it was celebratory and elaborate: Costumes of every day animals and people were worn, and costumes of imagined creatures and inanimate objects and fairy tale characters were worn. Strangers dispersed sweets to small masses, sometimes delicious and longed-for sweets, sometimes disappointing and stale ones. Pumpkins were forcibly removed from their homes and carved into, then stuffed with fire. Corn suddenly inhabited every grocery store and supermarket and kitchen counter and front step decoration. Wreaths of frothy corn stalk silk twisted around door knockers and on front gates. The favoured diet was mostly artifical flavours. Parents forgot school night curfews and set small monsters loose in the dark. It was like a traumatic re-enactment of an initial incident once a year.

Elijah liked almost all things about Samhain, and only a few things did he dislike enough to wish they could skip it.

Elijah’s family believed in Samhain. There were four of them to believe in it: his father, Zeke, his mother, Celeste, himself, the eldest child, and Kieran, his youngest brother, who was almost as charismatic as their father and would have been twice as much trouble if he’d been the same age. It was for the betterment of the world that Kieran lived and loved the life he had inside their family’s home, in a cottage in rural New York that hunkered down between ridges of clotted forest.

This family believed in spirits.   

Elijah knew all about spirits. Celeste had told him about them, and still told him about them, laughing in between telling, to banish his fear. She said, there’s another one today; it followed your father home when he temped it. You must keep it a secret. Who knows how many people would want one if they knew? The spirit would be a victim of disease, or of an accident, or of someone else, or of themselves. Sometimes, Elijah never found out what made them a spirit, and often he didn’t know. His father traipsed about with the spirit until he decided it was time to sell- and then he traipsed in the direction of the international market and the spirit, bound, traipsed with him until he found a buyer.

Time for the cleaning game. Celeste sometimes woke Elijah this way. Quickly, in the bedroom.

Then she would take Elijah to her bedroom that she shared with Zeke and he would see the dumping ground his father had made of it. Dozens of candles sounded by and ocean of matchstick packets, and then the upturned objects or the sheets twisted into different shapes that Zeke did not have the ability to create, or currents of cold air that fluttered book pages in very specific parts of the room. Zeke was stretched out or folded or curled in the middle of it sometimes, with the spirit’s fingers lingering on him, or sometimes in the middle of a shower, forgetting it all anyway.

Elijah did not believe it was a game, but he did help. Celeste liked to talk and sing and he would listen to her. When she was done talking or singing, and he was done listening, he felt no more uplifted than he had when they’d begun.

Don’t worry, Eli, my love, Celeste would say, and run a finger down his nose. There will be more fun games soon. It is nearly Samhain.

That only meant the games got more dangerous.

More dangerous for everyone, but mostly for Kieran.

Kieran was everything irritating and dazzling about Zeke, if it had been left in the oven a little longer and gotten darker and harder and smokier. He was condescending and curious, he was explosive and reserved, rapturous and vitriolic. Sometimes there was snow in May, in the woods, and it darkened the sky and weighed on the cottage and turned every pale woodland creature into its own ghost, and then the sun blazed over the hillocks and speared the trees and glazed every surface with fire.

Kieran was very much like May.

Kieran was just as involved with spirits as Zeke. Elijah had always known that this was why he was their parents’ favourite. The spirits that found him, that he found, that he discovered and called and caught, were more tragic or grand or hateful or glorious than Zeke’s, and most catastrophic.

So Elijah worried.

Sometimes the spirits frightened the strays Zeke brought home from others towns and set them to racing across the property in destructive frenzy. Sometimes the spirits drove the birds around them mad so the trees warbled and screamed. Sometimes hundreds of insets would drop dead in the garden and the grass would be crunchy for days. Kieran’s spirits were moved on quickly, and he rarely called them home. Kieran could go months without even seeing a candle, but sometimes he fell asleep with one when the power went out, or when Celeste forgot one on the kitchen table and Kieran napped in the next room over, or Zeke left a tea light in a lantern on the porch, where Kieran was resting. Or when they carved jack-o-lanterns for Samhain.

Elijah had known for a long time that it was the fault of the jack-o-lanterns, and he hated their smiling faces for it. The sight of candlelight shaped like a toothed grin made his skin prickle. He found the remains of their severed smiles and stuffed them back in just to stop the light, but it was not the light. Elijah wasn’t sure what difference the candles made, only that they made calling the spirits possible.

Celeste drew her own calendar to stick to the fridge and crossed off the days to Samhain, to show the boys how close it was.

Don’t worry, Kieran, she said often at this time. Your father will be home by Samhain. He would never miss it. Eli, where is your smile? Don’t worry. See, less than two weeks left.

Elijah saw. It was many nights for Kieran to summon a spirit. There was no smiling. The closer they got to Samhain, the heavier the skin the mushroomed beneath his eyes.

What treat do you want most for Samhain this year? Celeste asked as she separated a pumpkin’s innards.

Starbursts, Keiran said.

Sleep, Elijah thought.

The nights got tumultuous, and Elijah was certain there would be spirits. Elijah moved put the bowl streaked with pumpkin pie batter in the sink before Kieran got the chance to lick it and Kieran threw an incredible hissy fit over it.

I will have to make another one anyway, Celeste said. Soon, so it is fresher when your father comes home. Kieran, you can lick the bowl. This one we can all share, just the three of us. Why don’t you go outside? Adventure.

They went outside. They did not adventure. Kieran was thinking of what kind of adventure they could have in their sprawling woods (all of the woods were their woods, according to Kieran, because he said so). But Elijah did not want to spend time around his brother or spirits or both. He had been around his brother even when his brother was not awake, looking for candles that burned or had recently been burning, watching his brother in his first few hours of sleep to see if there would be spirits tonight.

Kieran had a tea light in his room that night when Elijah looked inside. Elijah blew it out, dumped the wick in water, and tossed the candle into the bin. Then Elijah found two more candles, one in the kitchen, and one in his mother’s bathroom, and tucked them into the garbage as well. There were no new spirits, but he watched Kieran for another hour before he considered sleep.

There was sun the next day, enough to melt the snow and make the boys squint. They shovelled the driveway and made snow angels in the middle of the road that ran through the wood. There was an unprecedented gathering of foxes far away, tumbling and mottled like a pile of autumn leaves. They did not immediately run when Kieran and Elijah shuffled toward them. They amended their wild ways to see who could get closest to the foxes before they were startled.

I want the white one, Kieran said.

The white one was insubstantial. Looking at it was complicated, because Elijah was not entirely sure it was there. It was there, but not all of it, as spirits were not all there at once. Elijah knew that if Kieran wanted it enough, then it was an entirely possible thing to acquire for him. He imagined what the house would look like with this spirit in it, and every other spirit that caught Kieran’s attention. He said, That’s the most boring one.

No it isn’t. All the others are red. You don’t know what boring is because you’re boring. Kieran burst out of hiding. The upset foxes darted away before the upset snow even settled. Kieran chased them until his blue coat was indistinguishable from the pale shapes of distant trees.

That night two candles burned in Kieran’s room, as though to make up for the candle Elijah had thrown away before. Elijah could see the beginnings of trouble on his brother’s pinched face and blew out the candles, then stamped on them until he ground wax into the rug. Then he shook Kieran awake, then tore away the duvet, to make sure. Kieran woke up shrieking.

Zeke appeared one day before Samhain. His car trampled the icy blue frost in the driveway, and the ruddy leaf litter under it. Elijah heard him before he saw him. His voice had taught the car’s engine how to rumble, and so they were both deep and loud. Zeke cursed the cold weather and the premature winter and called for the boys to help him unload the car. Elijah could tell some of them were Samhain presents, which were nice, but beside his father there were spirits, also bent over them, and the sight of them made him cross. Kieran’s joy, for he was always cheerful in their father’s presence, was much more attractive, and made Zeke love him more, and worsened Elijah’s mood. He watched Kieran show his father the hole a raccoon had made in the shed the week before, and he watched his mother hand Kieran the pumpkin pie bowl, and he watched Zeke introduce Kieran to the spirits from afar, and he watched terrible ideas occur to Kieran.

Celeste called Eli into the living room in the evening, after they’d made themselves heavy with pie. She’d set out cups of hot cocoa and tea and a coffee for Zeke. Kieran had unwrapped and played with and ranked every Samhain treat Zeke had brought home for them and was looking into a very strange one that Elijah had to squint at to see properly. It hurt his eyes a little. He saw a marble, mostly, but he had the impression that whatever it was was bullying him into seeing a marble. When he looked at it sideways it was the impression of a marble, and a book, and a boat, and Kieran looked at it with little discomfort and did not even mind the spirits that bent over him to touch it. For people like Kieran and Zeke, it was no discomfort at all at to look into it. It was a spirit thing.

Celeste handed Elijah a present that was not from Kieran’s pile. You can both have your gifts now, not just Kieran.

The gift was a set of chess pieces, more beautiful than any chess set he had seen before. Every piece looked like it had been made of ice and like breathing on it would destroy it. It was lovely and entirely what Elijah liked and he wanted to cry, and he wanted a sibling who did not sleep and call spirits who could look at this spirit thing and love it like he did. He did not have a sibling like this, so he took his present to his room and stayed under his blanket instead.

He’s tired, Zeke said to Celeste. Look at those eyes. We’ll leave him some pie.

Elijah woke up on the morning of Samhain.

His first thought was to find any lit candle and dispose of it. His second was to check on Kieran first, in case even more immediate action needed to be taken. His third thought, and the one that superseded the others, was about the black-pit feeling inside him, and about how much he did not want to look at Kieran’s face, and about what he’d wanted before he fell asleep. He did not get out of bed. He warred with himself in bed, and so he did not have to leave it.

Kieran might be sleeping and summoning a spirit right now. It might be dangerous. Too bad. It might hurt Kieran. Too bad. Kieran might realize that sleeping with lit candles was dangerous. Good.

Elijah pressed his ear into the pillow, but he did not sleep.

After another hour, he jerked out of his half-sleep state. The world was dark and dizzy with adrenaline. It was silent, and for a moment Elijah was sure he’d gone deaf. Then he pulled the duvet off his head and every muted sound returned.

There was one sound, less muted. It did not sound like Kieran, but Kieran was the closest and most disastrous source of most noise, and so the moment that followed the sound filled Elijah with the certainty that Kieran was hurt, required help, and that it only sounded strange because Kieran was in the primal state of experiencing pain or fear.

Hating everything about this night, Elijah got out of bed and went down the hall.

The brothers were not to enter one another’s rooms without permission, and Kieran hated when Elijah did, but Elijah hated when the spirits entered his room. He hated the spirits. He hated that he was afraid to open the door to one right now.

Elijah turned the light on.

Kieran had all the anatomical difficulties of a marionette. Joints looked improperly positioned, and bones assembled with poor instruction. He moved only slightly, fingers flapping as though he was trying to shake out what was in his head, or gesture at something else that was already there. Elijah did three checks of the room, then looked back to his brother. The damage must have already been done, but he could not see where it was. Kieran’s mouth parted and strained, as though he were in pain. He might have been. Elijah knew it happened sometimes. The ghostly ball Zeke had brought home with next to Kieran’s elbow.

Elijah nudged Kieran, who did not wake, and said, quietly, you did it again, Kieran.

The noise came again. It was not Kieran, and now that Elijah could see Kieran’s mouth not making the noise while it echoed in his ears, he felt foolish for thinking it might have been his brother. Sometimes the spirits wandered away, but Kieran could not tell why they did or didn’t. It was a guessing game. Sometimes he only saw what they left behind, but not the spirits themselves. He hoped that it was a secret, if he couldn’t see it, and that it would not wander so far Zeke could not find it, or that it might wander far enough that no one ever found it and the spirit never harmed a thing.

Elijah followed the noise out of Kieran’s room. He left the light on.

Which was why he could see Celeste so clearly, in the purple nightgown Zeke had bought her, looking very solid, and holding something that was not.

The child in her elbow was pale, as death, or china, and perfect as a doll. But Elijah knew that it was alive, and also knew that it was not the same kind of alive as himself or his mother. This was a new kind of alive, the kind he was sure only his brother or father could manage. Or maybe only his brother.

The child, who was already part of the family, smiled at Celeste, who cooed back.

Your brother, Eli, Celeste said. Elijah’s shock meant his brain caught up to his ears late. She was not talking about Kieran. He was furious for a second, that he had got his wish, and that it was not at all what he wanted. He had wanted someone like him.

Where’s your smile? Celeste put Elijah’s hand on his new brother’s face. The child did not feel like a spirit, but Elijah knew the truth. Don’t wake Kieran yet. He must be exhausted.

Art by Anonymous

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Good Intention

There’s no secret to voudun magic. This is all it is: bits of mud, smears of blood, spit, hair, fingernails, cornstalks. But also every day objects. Thimbles, needles, handkerchiefs, straps from backpacks, shoelaces, dried plants, scented candles. Objects have no power themselves, only what we give them. It all comes down to intention. Grandmere made them what they were, and sometimes made people what they were. But her clients made themselves victims.

This is what Grandmere says.

Voudoo can be terrible work. What I do, at least, and I dislike it on the best days. There are things in Grandmere’s world that are terrible company, that I can hardly stand to be near, to associate with, and there are things required of voudoo magic that I often wish I did not have to do. Grandmere refers to the things I do as reinforcement of the capitalist monopoly on voudoo. It’s a necessary monopoly, she reminds me. Voudoo pays the bills. Voudoo puts food in my mouth. So I make do, and I try to care for those that I can.

The mud could be reused. Magic stuck to clay in a way it did not with mud, and so the mud because something new. It was shapeless except for one leg. I rolled it between my hands and stretched it gently. It needed a hipbone, and another leg to keep it company. I held the image in my head of a faceless man. I was not to know what person it would become- only Grandmere would know.

The magic had to know what it was, and Grandmere had to know what it was and who it was. When I was younger, I likened her to a funnel. Channeling the magic into one place. Rather, she was a pen, I’d realized eventually. I shaped the mud as vaguely as I could and wished good fortune into it. All the good fortune would not stop Grandmere if she took to the mud doll herself, but good fortune might make them reconsider before they spoke against her, or pause for breath before they said something they would quickly regret.

Or it might do no good, and I was only giving Grandmere the instrument of their pain.

I had finished both legs, hipbones not included, when Grandmere’s client screeched down the driveway. The driveway was really just a long piece of land that had been cleared of only the most disruptive flora. The tired still bit over small, savage bushes. The car he drove said he did not have time for this rubbish, or any rubbish, and he would be taken to speak to the manager. When he pulled to a sudden stop a few feet from me, throwing dust over my hands and the doll, he climbed out of his car. He slammed the door as though a good slam would be just good enough to solve all his problems. His white shirt said he’d like to know how I could make it up to him, and his expression said he wasn’t leaving until he could speak to the most important member of staff because didn’t we know who he was?

His name was probably Greg, or James, or Harold or something. I couldn’t remember all of Grandmere’s clients, but I knew more or less why he was here.

“There’s a tree over there,” I said as he squinted at the house. He was pacing a very short distance, craning his neck to see around the sides of the house, looking over me as though I might have an armada in my back pocket. I didn’t need one. If he’d come to argue with Grandmere, he’d already lost. I clarified, “You can park in the shade. S’cooler.”

Probably-Greg patted his pockets. He didn’t seem to have heard me, though I’m sure he did. He pulled out a packet of smokes and a lighter, then barked in his throat and replaced them in his pockets. I wasn’t sure yet exactly what he wanted, or how I was to help him, if I was. I was sure he wouldn’t listen, anyway, so I waited for him to tell me. I began work on an arm, where I always wanted to describe the inside of an elbow, or the dip in a bicep, as though I were someone specific. I refused my hands and rolled out the most generic forearm I could muster. Sometimes this made no difference. Grandmere had once whispered the common cold over another doll, and it hadn’t mattered that the doll was a woman. It was a man that was admitted to the hospital that night with terrible cold symptoms.

Probably-Greg, who might have been an entrepeneur of some sort, or, I imagined, a bank manager, gave up and rounded both corners of the house, though he didn’t go far. His posture became increasingly dissatisfied.

His shoes were polished, I noticed. I didn’t know anyone in this town who kept their shoes polished unless they also kept them under plastic. A wide face, I thought, as I flattened out the round ball of the head. I’d tried skinny before, and the doll had become recognizable. His rings were polished too. I wrapped some weed around the stomach of the doll. It had recently been living, which was good enough for Grandmere.

“That’s barbaric,” probably-Greg said suddenly.

I glanced at him, then returned to my task. Grandmere would know if I were slowing down, though I would not tell her. I only had so much time. I wondered if it were for the man before me. But she’d warned me he would be by later. Timing was not her strongest suit.  “What is?”

He pointed at the mud doll. It was as recognizable as a brick wall. I could not think of the antonym of distinction, but I held the idea in my head as I molded and rolled. “That. Becoming an accessory to murder or- or torture. Suffering.”

Knowing Grandmere, and knowing her clients, it was unlikely he’d never done anything to cause harm or suffering to someone else. His naivete was nice, though. I always enjoyed, maybe a little cruelly, the way Grandmere’s clients organized the world in their minds before they worked it out. I didn’t respond. I had a doll to finish, and he’d come early. If it was supposed to be for him, Grandmere would be wanting it finished soon.

Mercy, I wished for the doll. Turn back. Leave.

I was not allowed to say these things to clients. I could feel probably-Greg’s eyes on the top of my head as I worked. Fingers neck, and a mouth. I put the shape of probably-Greg’s mouth out of my head so I did not accidentally condemn him. He was probably already condemned, but it was always worth trying. That was what the warning was for. And because Grandmere would have rather had the money than the ruined doll.

“Don’t you know what those are for?” probably-Greg said. It was filled with disgust. I could imagine he probably used the same tone when his secretary misremembered his coffee order. “How can you make those?”

Very easily. I’d been making them a long time and I was quite good. Possibly better than Grandmere. “If I don’t, she will. You haven’t paid her, by the way. You have to.”

“Pay? Not until she fixes it.” He grit his teeth. His nostrils flared. This level of aggression was unfamiliar to him. Grandmere could do that- bring out the worst in people. She said that really, they brought out the worst in themselves. They tied themselves into knots until they frayed and you could see rot in the fibers. “I wanted her to want me. Not to follow me around like a fucking dog!”

Grandmere’s clients never cared whom they were talking to when they were in this kind of mood. “She provided exactly the service you asked for. If you wanted something else, you should have asked for something else,” I told him. It wasn’t his fault entirely. He just should have been smarter. He should have asked for an antidote, something to fall out of love. “You’ll regret it if you don’t pay. She’s being generous allowing this warning.”

One hand of fingers was finished, but as if a storm had rolled over the house, I felt something crackling on the back of my neck. My stomach twisted. Grandmere’s eyes saw much farther than you’d think. She would know before probably-Greg got into his car that he’d refused to give her what she was owed.

“Your payment was due two days ago,” I said. This was my last attempt, and saying it, I knew probably-Greg would not hear it. Finishing the doll seemed to happen in fast forward. There had been a breeze a minute ago and it died down so abruptly it was as if someone had pressed pause. I looked at the shadows under the doll’s brow. There were no eyes there, but the point was there could be. If Grandmere knew who it was, then all the client could hope for was that the mud might melt quickly and end their punishment. This doll was not for probably-Greg, but that only mean Grandmere already had one for him. In my mind’s eye a familiar narrative played out: Grandmere held her sewing needle over a candle flame until it was hot enough to sear, and then carefully drew a line of pricks down a doll’s back.

Probably-Greg looked suddenly dismayed by the finished doll in my hands, though he was still angry. He kicked the rim of one of his tires. There was a layer of dust and beneath that, a mirror finish. I saw my face distorted in it briefly. There was mud on my cheek and a bit of cornstalk in my hair, and some silky fluff on the front of my shirt. I looked a little tired, but mostly like I didn’t care. The doll in my hand flopped.

“What’s she going to do?” probably-Greg asked. He held onto his anger desperately. I saw it as the final wall between himself and the fear. “If she isn’t going to fix it, I want a refund.”

The feeling of ozone around us increased. I couldn’t be sure probably-Greg felt it, but I knew what Grandmere’s gaze felt like. She was probably in bed, nowhere near a window. She didn’t need to be to know exactly what was happening. I carefully drew a circle in the dust, all the way around myself, with a knuckle. The magic was precise and this was just small protection in case it did not know where to go. Grandmere always said it was no business of the magic to determine who was innocent, and that I must protect myself.

“Madame does not do refunds,” I said, finishing up the circle. My knees and back were beginning to hurt from kneeling here so long. “She gave you the fix you asked for. If you want another solution, she will require more payment.”

Probably-Greg bristled. For a moment, greed and his innate sense of justice overpowered his instincts of self-preservation. “She sold me a terrible solution the first time- I am unsatisfied. I want to know how she’s going to make up for it. I am owed recompense-“

This, Grandmere heard. I knew probably-Greg would not make it inside his car before the punishment was upon him. I had failed to hustle, again. The magic rose, like a tide coming in suddenly and powerfully. It was at Grandmere’s bidding, and happy to do as she asked. I had probably also willed mercy into the doll she was holding, but it was not enough. I put my doll down. I’d been unsuccessful again.

Probably-Greg looked down at his legs. The doll in my hand was going to melt soon. Only the fine layer of dust on it was keeping it dry enough not to stick to my hand. The underside of my fingernails was brown. Probably-Greg slapped one of his legs. When that did not work, he slapped the other. Over and over, his hands cracked against his thighs. His knees were beginning to quiver. His back hunched as it realized his legs would not be supporting him long.

Probably-Greg leaned heavily against his shiny car. He looked a little ill. His eyes searched the doll quickly to see what had been done to it, but again he was not quick enough to grasp what was happening.

“What has she done to me?” he demanded.

He squeezed his hands into fists so tight his knuckles looked like a spine.

“You won’t be able to walk soon,” I guessed. Grandmere had a cruel sense of humour. “You will never be able to run away from the woman you’ve made love you, ever again.” He would forever need her help, and she would forever love him. At least, part of her would, the part Grandmere’s magic could reach. Not that one part that belonged only to her. He and she would forever be stuck with one another.

This fate swept over probably-Greg’s face swiftly and catastrophically. I was pricked with familiar guilt. I felt I was never not-guilty, there were only days when I forgot how much of a role I played. This was my eternity, though, trying to warn Grandmere’s unreliable clientele away from their own eternities. If I could only stop failing.

Probably-Greg lurched toward his car. He probably had a couple minutes to make it inside before he could no longer hold himself up. Grandmere would leave his feet functional for as long as it took him to accelerate out of here. Then he was his own problem.

I stood up and followed probably-Greg to the driver’s side. I knew he would not let me help him into it, so I shut the door after him. I left a muddy streak on the door handle. Probably-Greg sweated and shook as he jammed his keys into the ignition.

“Fuck you. Fuck the both of you,” probably-Greg spat. “Witches.”

If only it were both of us. The power was all Grandmere’s. I had nothing but good intention. 

Art by Jenna Barton

Text by Lucie MacAulay

St.York

There was a movement, a brief one, where people wanted to call it The New World. It was short lived because everyone knew, right away, that to call it The New World was to acknowledge that there was an Old World, and no one wanted to remember that. If we didn’t say After, there didn’t have to be a Before.

But there was. The world had been edited viciously, pared down, pieces cut out, reformed to put new protagonists at its forefront. Kill your darlings. And the ones left over weren’t darlings. What was left over was a world as focused and sharp as a knife, made of horsepower and adrenaline and streets glazed by street lamps and headlamps.

It would have been my place once, because I longed to live in this kind of world. If I were a car, I’d be the car swerving around the corner in a chase scene, bellowing at the top of its lungs, and this was the place for that now. But I didn’t feel on the inside the way anything outside of me looked anymore. Apparently I looked the same though, because someone recognized me.

“Holy shit. Cole St.York? Cole St.York, no way!” There was a hand on my shoulder that only stayed attached to an arm because I swivelled before I had my butterfly knife fully out of my pocket. The person attached to that arm must have been inoculated to jumpiness by exposure, because he didn’t look stung at all. His gaze instead said he loved me and everything about my drugs-sex-and-rock-and-roll lifestyle. “Holy shit. Oh man. Man. I thought you were dead. I’m so glad you’re not dead. St.York is alive- yes! Do you have it? Where is it? Please tell me you’ve still got your guitar.”

No guitar. It didn’t have the mettle to survive in the new world. I was surprised this guy did. He looked delicate, like he might crack if you dropped him on the ground. He looked like he needed casing. I probably looked like casing, with the puncture scars on my wrists and my military jacket. I looked quickly at his neck, where his pink skin covered his veins neatly, healthily. I let go of the butterfly knife in my pocket. “Nope.”

“You could easily find a new one. You’re still playing, right? I’ll be so crushed if you say no, man, you don’t even understand. There’s some great places you could play. You got a band, still? What happened to the rest of them?”

Dead, probably. I said, “dead, probably.”

His face didn’t like that. His mouth moved on ahead anyway. “Yeah, well. Music survived, so whatever. You can find a band. Hey. My buddy drums.”

Music had survived, so the musicians survived with it. There wasn’t a lot of choice in this sleek, efficient world, but there was a bassist (Raymond), and a drummer (Juliet). No one on keyboard, but I still played. Raymond came up with bass lines slowly, but once he did, it was angry and carnal; the poverty of the sounds coming from my guitar was never so obvious. It was perfect. The music we made was better than anything I had played before, because everything was flavoured with aftermath, and miles away from recovery. Everyone wanted a reminder that they’d come close to going, and instead they’d stayed, and this music scraped like we’d scraped along, and reminded the people of the little victory of being alive.

Gigs helped the nights blur together, and the more they blurred, the faster time passed. Inside the venues, we waited for the techies to set up our instruments, except Raymond, who handled his bass alone, and then we played and played. It was easier to pretend we were in the Before, and that it hadn’t happened yet and might never. There was less variation in the audiences, fewer people and not a chance at seeing someone older, but if you looked at the light long enough, you couldn’t even make out faces.

Outside of the gigs, the world was irrevocably changed and wouldn’t let us forget it. We’d leave Juliet to meditate or sleep or whatever in the apartment. We went to find food, and new venues. Sometimes we sat on the hoods of cars in the business district, expensive cars that businessmen had driven and were never coming back to. We pretended not to notice the changes in our city. Abandoned cars rusted and slowly sank on their flat tires. Gardens were overrun and the houses behind them all dark, all the time. All the schools had been repurposed or left alone. I hadn’t seen a kid in ages. I hadn’t seen a grey hair in years. The only ones on the street were young, strong, cruel, rich, fit, intelligent.

There were the leftovers, too. Leftovers lived in boxes in coolers on street corners. The sellers sat on the sidewalks next to them, no calling out, no needing to entice people. People were enticed, by their own desperation and need for survival. They paid for and scurried away with a box of leftovers, which was always in black glass, and sweating with condensation.

Raymond looked at the boxes, and the sellers, every time. He looked, always, unable to accept himself if he didn’t. I looked and then looked away. I counted them until I lost track, and I tugged the hem of my sleeves down over the puncture marks. When I got home, sometimes I opened them up again, just to remind myself there was blood under there. My veins worked fine.

I hadn’t had the taste for meat in years.

I didn’t want Raymond to know, but I guess I wasn’t very invested in hiding it either. He held my eyes for a moment after he caught a glimpse of my wrists. Some days, I felt my veins throbbing, when my heart was pumping at its regular speed. I wondered if he could see it, when we were wrapping out our equipment. He shut his case and picked it up without locking it. His bass almost slipped out before he fumbled it back into the case.

I’d never been aware of my veins before, but now it was like sediment sat in them. A little weight in each wrist and elbow where there hadn’t been any before.

Juliet waited behind the stage after one of our gigs, arms crossed, as a couple of techies unplugged and de-rigged. Her expression was pacific the way the ocean is pacific over a trench. Only her fingers digging into her arms were really losing it. “We thought you were Turned.”

Well that wasn’t my fault. Assumptions. I grabbed a bottle of water. “That was your mistake.”

“Hey, St.York,” said Victor, who had been managing us (mostly following us) since he found me on the street a few months ago, “you need to get some leftovers into you.”

There was no world in which I would eat the leftovers.

Juliet pushed me into the wall hard. My shoulder blades stung. I handed my guitar off to someone who would treat it more gently than I was. “Where the hell are you going to get leftovers? I know you- you’re not going to pay for them, Cole. So what? Is it going to be one of us? Do we have to drive you out? Do we have to make you leftovers before you do it?”

“There won’t be much of you for leftovers if you don’t let me go, tiger,” I said. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not looking to make you a meal.”

There was a microphone within grabbing distance of Juliet. Victor and Raymond’s presence might have been the only thing preventing her from grabbing it and swinging it at me with full force. She shoved me back again as she stepped away, like an extra precaution. Even in this sleek world, everyone was taking precaution. No one wanted to be edited out. “If you die, we have to find a new guitarist. And you’re good. But not good enough I won’t kill you if you try to make leftovers out of me.”

I said, “Again. Don’t flatter yourself.” Juliet let me go, with a smile that conveyed much more of the opposite of a smile. Raymond’s expression was more pitiful and hostile than any of Juliet’s words, somehow. I thumbed at the veins throbbing in my forehead and swallowed down my hunger.

The survival rate had suffered for seven years before it started looking up. In the first month of that seven years, a third of the population died in a whirlwind. Everyone was breathing their last breath before someone could even tell them they were sick. Every newsfeed warned us to watch our veins, and if they stood out too much, or began to turn grey, like the skin of a corpse, we were sick. No one advised going to the hospital. No one advised anything except staying away from the infected so you weren’t infected yourself.

The ones who didn’t die right away became hungry. You’d never heard so many people complain about hunger, or seen them so desperate for food that their mouths were ringed with grey and they were vomiting beside the roads. It had been weeks since I’d seen Jared, months since I’d kissed him, but I’d been hungry since. Exposed. Everyone was exposed and the hunger was just taking root.

The first to feed found out what that dead third was for. Some cultures ate their enemies to acquire their strength or abilities. Our culture aped them. Survival came in the form of leftovers. It was eat the dead, or become one. We’d found the cure, and it was us.

Seven years since the outbreak, and we were coming back finally.

If I weren’t sick, I wouldn’t have noticed that Raymond was too. I wandered into the kitchen for a meal I knew I wasn’t going to find in the fridge for the fourth time that day and ran into Raymond, leaning against the counter, looking at the fridge and thumbing his wrist. He licked his lips.

I watched Raymond throw up after a set. Sometimes the hunger did that. Made you hungry enough to turn on itself. “Attractive,” I said as he slumped over the bowl.

Raymond lay his cheek on the seat and gave me a smile that said everything opposite of a smile. “You do it prettier, St.York?”

“I think it’s getting you faster than me.”

Raymond shook his head a little, as much as he could with it still pressed to the seat. His lips were grayish. “You just think you’re invincible. Rock star problems. Get some leftovers, would you?”

I was having a hard time believing Raymond would suggest this. “You said you knew a kid once who became leftovers. You said your sister-”

Raymond retched. His eyes were open but I could tell he thought they were closed. For a moment, they weren’t seeing anything. “Those leftovers are just leftovers. No one’s coming back for what’s in those boxes. They don’t have a chance anymore. You do.”

“Do you think guitarists make more than bassists, Ray, really? How much money do you think I have?” I sat down on the floor, between the toilet and the sink. It was cramped there. I couldn’t move out of Raymond’s line of sight when his eyes focused again. “If I had that money, I’d be taking you out for a meal. You’re the one who deserves it, between the two of us.”

Raymond scoffed. A little of his colour had returned. A vein still throbbed in his neck. “That logic doesn’t work here anymore, St.York.”

Our next gig came four days later, at a club Raymond and I had scouted. I showed up and ate two burgers and some Kraft dinner, and chased it with three bottles of water and a shot. It would never stop the hunger, but it would stop the nausea for a while. I gasped a little when I’d finished drinking.

Victor and Juliet didn’t look at me until I’d finished. They looked anywhere else as they set up the drum kit. Someone had brought out Raymond’s bass, but someone was also setting it up for him.

“Where’s Raymond?” I asked, taking a step toward the bathroom.

Juliet looked savage as she seized her drumsticks. For a moment, I thought she might run someone through with them. The guy setting up the bass looked away. Victor carefully reached into his bag, resting on an amp. His voice was efficient, all the emotion edited out of it. “He wanted you to have this.”

He handed me the black glass box. Warm to the touch with all that was left of Raymond. 

Art by Chiara Bautista

Text by Lucie MacAulay

What We Find In the Trees

It always seemed plausible that Greg Miller was from somewhere else.

I knew him back when I used to draw. I had several sketchbooks of different paper, though I didn’t know what the difference in the paper meant. The grain was smoother, the paper absorbed more ink- were they meant for being covered with watercolour waves or inked faces or gesso or charcoal or what? In the end, I drew animals. Digging, flying, leaping, burrowing, looming, lunging, tearing. Sometimes I drew them with faces. Mostly I didn’t. I went through my pens quickly. They either ran out of the ink or I pressed on them so hard the nib broke and drawing became scraping the ink out over the paper.

I wanted a pen I wouldn’t break, or a pencil that wouldn’t smudge. I had more than a few pages where the ink of my pen had run through and dictated the content of the drawings on several subsequent pages. One became a constellation, to accommodate for the blot. One became an animal with black tunnel eyes. One became a black-eyed susan.

Greg liked to look at my drawings. And in exchange, he showed me where he liked to climb trees. He showed me the tree he particularly liked in the field of crab apple trees on the way to school. When I closed my notebook, he gestured me over to the tree and pointed up. He said, “That’s why I climb this one.”

Up the tree, the light was immediately inconsistent and unpredictable, like an animal’s dappled pelt, if the animal were in motion. It seemed to shift even when there was no wind to move the trees. Every shadow might have been a vehicle for a small tree-dwelling creature to move undetected from one spot to another. The bark had deep lines, as though each piece of it had been stuck on the tree very loosely, and a few good tugs would de-nude the whole thing. It was a satisfying tree to look at. Maybe that’s what Greg was feeling when he climbed into its branches. Satisfaction.

“And I found you this,” Greg said. It was a pen, with a nib so sharp I almost didn’t see it. I held it in front of my face like it was evidence and I a crime investigator of sorts. I knew before I pressed it to my notebook page that it would never run, and that the nib wouldn’t break. Drawing with it looked more like I was gouging a layer of the paper away to reveal the black underneath.

“Quality find, Miller,” I said. “Where did you find it?” He usually found things in field, or by roadsides, or outside shops (though he always tried to return those, if they originally belonged to the shop) or other places where you wouldn’t expect a sixteen year old boy to be. I knew this because I’d known Greg for a while, and I knew that he, embarrassingly, wasn’t embarrassed by the things most sixteen year old boys were embarrassed by, like walking through fields on the way to school, or marching into a shop with what was possible misplaced or stolen goods. He was honest like that, and just hadn’t figured out that at sixteen, no one expected honesty, and girls our age (and boys) didn’t appreciate it. He was good and reliable, and everyone at this age was trying out adrenaline-steeped hormones and thought the best way to deal with the trouble they brought was with more adrenaline and hormones. If he were a car, intelligent businessmen or practical parents would drive him. But sixteen year olds want Mitsubishis they can wrap around trees, never mind that it would take a specialist and a lot of money to repair them.

I didn’t like cars in general. Which is why Greg and I walked together.

“I found it in the tree,” Greg said, adjusting his backpack straps. He was the only boy I knew who actually wore both straps, securely, instead of just the one.

“In the big one?” He didn’t seem to realize this wasn’t something you could just say to people our age. He was this earnest with everyone, and I didn’t know how to tell him that maybe he shouldn’t mention to our classmates that he was regularly up in a tree.

He smiled with his whole face. It was a smile you saw as much around his eyes as in his mouth. “That one, yeah.”

“That’s something. I wonder who left it there. How do you find these things, Greg?”

“I go looking for them. It’s an effort. Like your drawings. Can I see?”

I twisted my bag around halfway, because I did only wear it on one shoulder. I skipped through my drawings to the most recent ones. When he looked at them, his face looked truly interested, not interested for the sake of flirting, or for the sake of assessing. He didn’t pretend or criticize anything.

“I like this one,” Greg said, pointing at one of the pages in my sketchbook as we walked. It was one of the animals with human faces. I drew the human faces with as much detail as I drew the animals, so every crease was visible, every hair in the eyebrows, every slanted cheekbone. They looked strange and disturbing, which I knew because they tended to disturb people in my class, but Greg liked the details.

“Thanks,” I said, closing my book.

The pen stayed with me for a while, until I almost forgot there was a time before I was using the pen. This sounds like ages, but two weeks can be an eternity at sixteen. I forgot too that Greg gave it to me, his tree-find, until I was using it in class and he was speaking. We had Mr.Baird for Introduction to Anthropology, Psychology and Sociology. He liked to assign us helpful readings and not go over them, though he said the material would be on the advanced placement test. In that class, the seats were arranged like a horseshoe, so Mr.Baird could lecture us from the middle. Greg sat perpendicular to me, five seats down, with his bag between his feet, his elbows on his desk, and his back pressed to the back of his seat, every time. Every other seat that contained a boy in it smelled like Axe body spray. Greg didn’t smell like anything.

We were reading Lord of the Flies, because apparently that was a wealth of knowledge in IAPS. Mr.Baird asked a question, some boy responded, girls tittered, and Greg said, seriously, “I don’t think it would be the same if they were all girls. There’d be more talking and working things out, probably. I think the point of the story is that they’re boys, and what they think of as masculinity is a handicap here.”

The girls tittered louder. The boys guffawed. People exchanged knowing looks. Not because the answer was wrong- it was right. My stomach squirmed, like I was watching someone trip in the hall or talk with something in their teeth. Why had no one ever explained to him that if he just wasn’t so sincere, there would be no tittering or guffawing? Why didn’t Greg just figure it out for himself. He didn’t seem bothered by the girls or the boys, or even seem to notice them. He held his book open and addressed Mr.Baird directly with a serious expression.

He always had that expression in class.

We walked to school next Tuesday. Greg showed up when I passed his street and said, “Draw anything new? Pen still good?”

I didn’t get out my sketchbook, because he hadn’t asked to see it. If he wanted to see it, Greg would ask. “It’s the Arthur of pens. The once and forever ruler of writing Albion. It’s Excalibur. Kings seek it. Magicians have visions about it.”

“Good,” he said, sincerely pleased. “Hey, I found something else in that tree.”

“Cool. What?”

“It doesn’t have anything in it,” Greg said, handing them to me. He had to be right, because the eggs weighed nothing at all. It was like they held ghosts, or they’d already been cracked open and abandoned, except that there were no cracks or punctures. They weren’t speckled. Instead they had a pattern on them like the veins of a leaf. I tried to commit them to memory, so I might sketch one of my animals with faces emerging from one later.

“Did you find them in a nest? They must have come from some bird,” I said. Greg shook his head. “Maybe something hid them in the tree because it thought they were food.”

Greg gave me one of his full-face smiles, using all the muscles of his face. I had thought a couple times about putting that face on the head of one of my animals, but my sketchbook had been stolen before, and peeked at, and ridiculed, and now I knew never to draw in it anything that I couldn’t stand to expose to tenth-graders. And walking into school with Greg Miller was an entirely different thing to drawing his face.

People still stole my sketchbook in grade ten, only this time it was the boys and they didn’t do it as loudly. They just picked it up and turned the pages and hoped I would struggle. But I’d learned already that struggling only made it worse. Adoption a cloud of boredom around you made it tolerable. I didn’t even mind their stupid, smirking faces anymore. I said, “Bored already with your own life, Elias?”

“You look like you’re bored with yours,” Elias said. He did recognize some faces, but they were drawn in an ugly sort of style that could only mean I was mocking the people I drew, and no one liked our phys ed teacher, or the substitute that came in to teach math when Ms.Ziliotto was gone. He still found the animals strange, but he’d told me that before and already knew I wouldn’t rise to it. There was nothing to set off here.

“Well A plus plus,” Elias said. I could tell he really did like the drawings, even though he’d never say it.

I just took back my sketchbook without saying anything. That was the trick that I was so proud of learning, that it was best to say nothing, to make them think I wasn’t even bothered enough to answer.

Greg continued to find things in the tree. I hardly ever saw the tree, because unless Greg was walking with me and drew attention to it, I forgot that we even passed it on the way to school. I was thinking about other things, like keeping my soccer uniform dry in a mesh bag I stuffed under my raincoat on the way to school. My sketchbook would survive. I kept plastic bags in my backpack to wrap around my sketchbook, ever since I’d run home in the rain with one once and found have of the pictures bled into inky clouds.

Greg appeared with an umbrella. “You’re going to get wet,” he said, as he hoisted it over us. It didn’t cover us both completely, so his left shoulder became instantly damp. His backpack was still on both shoulders, and part of it was getting wet. I wondered if he’d put his homework in a plastic bag. It seemed a very deliberate and Greg thing to do.

“I never remember umbrellas exist,” I replied. “I didn’t even know it was supposed to rain. I don’t check the weather. Thanks. Were you up in the tree?”

Climbing the tree in the rain, despite how dangerous it might be, also sounded romantic and like a day dream and therefore entirely like something Greg would do.

“Yep. Look at this.” Greg pulled something out of his pocket, the size of a leaf.

It wasn’t a leaf. It was the thickness of the bark on the tree, but it wasn’t bark either. I’d only seen scales like that on reptiles, but not in that colour. It was iridescent, and the longer I looked, the more colours I saw. It gave me a feeling in my stomach, like the sort of primal feeling you get when you’re looking at something you know instantly is a predator.

I didn’t remember that scale, really, until the end of the day. This was because I spent most of the day feeling sorry for Greg. In IAPS we were meant to share one of our childhood memories that made us feel sadness at the time. We were later going to reflect on how it made us feel now, but first we had to sit through thirty-one students reading aloud stories of losing pets or walking past “hobos” on the street. Greg’s one-paragraph story informed the class of a friendship that had broken up because of distance, and the way losing that girl told him that things don’t last, and how he wished he’d known she was going to leave so he could say goodbye properly. He didn’t say it for sympathy. He meant it. Which is why, by the time he was done, there was more snickering than I’d ever heard in our classroom. It took four full minutes for Mr.Baird to get us to move on.

I died a little in my seat, watching and listening. If Greg heard the commotion, you couldn’t tell. He sat back in his seat and waited for Holden, beside him, to speak.

You can’t just say serious things, just because you mean them, I wanted to tell him. I didn’t think that was something that would ever change, when I was sixteen.

I remembered the scale later, when we were walking home. We shouldn’t have been, because I should have been at soccer practice, but it was canceled due to the rain and Greg was already outside the field with his umbrella and he was playing with the scale in his hand when we started walking. “How high up did you find that?” I asked.

He said, “A little higher up than the eggs.”

Greg continued to be sincere, and he continued to say things he meant, and at some point I wondered if our teachers disliked him, because they must have known that complimenting his work in front of our classes would just make the half-audible laughter inescapable. Our English teacher told him he was a sweetheart. Michele, coming up behind us as we were leaving, agreed loudly and meanly with our teacher.

I remember that as a moment when I was suddenly worried about whether or not I was a good person. I was furious about what Michele had said, and I vowed to never say something so horrible. But I was more furious with Greg than I was with Michele. For not grasping the easily acknowledgeable facts about high school. For not seeing, despite how obvious it was, that there was a point to popularity and that it was easily attainable. I was furious with him for the second-hand embarrassment. I knew I shouldn’t be, and for a moment I thought less of myself for my misdirected anger. It didn’t stop me wanting to tell him to just hold his backpack over one shoulder or wrinkle his pressed collar.

I caught up with Greg, one of those days, as he was walking to school. Which never happened, except when I was late to school and he was walking ahead, apparently. I walked beside him for a few minutes with the air around us sucking up the sound of my footsteps like a vacuum before I finally said, “Hi, Miller.”

Greg let the silence stretch out long and smooth before he spoke. His voice sounded far away and echo-y. “How’s the drawing going?”

The drawing was going well, as usual, so I said, “Peachy. It’s that pen. Like I said. Arthur’s pen.”

Greg smiled. Then the smile vacated his face. There was no bag on his shoulders. The silence slipped from smooth to sharp. The vacuum pulled words straight from my throat. “Go looking for anything today?”

Greg said, “No. But I found something anyway.”

I waited for him to explain what it was, or to bring it out of his bag, but there was no bag, and no explanation forthcoming. I considered asking him about it, but he’d never not shown me before, without my asking. I felt this might be the closest Greg would ever come to telling me not to ask him.

I showed him another animal I’d drawn, this one with scales like the one he’d found in the tree. I had to use green and blue pens for the iridescent shine in the scales’ ridges. It didn’t look like any animal that existed, more like the way I pictured an animal, except I couldn’t picture it fully, so it was more a picture of an idea of an animal.

“I like it,” Greg said, with complete sincerity.

Greg didn’t walk with me the next day. He didn’t come to school. Or the day after that. I drew a close up picture of the scale. The more I looked at it, the less it looked like tree bark. The more it looked like it wasn’t done with whatever animal it had come from, like the air was dissonant around it, like it was trying to go back to where it had come from.

Greg’s backpack hung on the doorknob when I left for school the next day.

The straps were perfectly even, like he’d just adjusted them for his shoulders, and it looked like it had been hung up in a tree for a year. There was a crust of dirt on it, and a green stripe that looked like the paste you got from grinding a leaf between your fingernails. There were twigs in mesh pockets and a long string of leaves stuck in the zipper. I picked it up and weighed it, but it didn’t feel like there was anything inside of it. If Greg was putting things like scales in it, though, it would be hard to tell. There might had been several scales in this bag. Or maybe it was done collecting things.

I tugged the zipper open, which meant tearing apart the leaves and scattering plant matter and small dirt clods. It was dirty business, really dirty, for finding nothing inside. There were some muddy streaks on the driveway where someone had scuffed their shoes. The muddy streaks made a path, and I thought about taking it. It was different to imagine something, and imagine truly doing it. When I imagined doing it, I imagined keeping the bag with me, taking its dirt onto my hands, and skipping school, and putting my own backpack down, and all the sensations that came with the day that would unspool if I followed the footprints.

I put the bag down inside the door. I had two days of school left before the weekend, and nothing to stop me following muddy footprints all over town if I wanted to. Soccer was finished for the season. I had time for this later. I moved the bag into the garage, to keep the dirt off the floors.

I got to school more quickly when I wasn’t walking with Greg. I sat in IAPS and listened to group presentations and everything was quiet as I drew animals with regular animal faces next to my notes.

We didn’t clean out the garage until recently, where I found the bag again. No footsteps to accompany it this time.

Art by Anonymous

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Between Me And The Sea

I always thought it would be a wave that would take me down. Down beneath the water. And when I saw the restless waters, I knew it would be soon. I have never been struck hard with the illness of fear, but then it was a potent and deadly as plague. It was a burden, like the top of a casket, prepared to keep me down and under. It was not infectious, because no one else looked away and considered leaving the shore.

“It is not like you to not eat,” Eiluned said to me. “All of this worry, it must be a terrible burden for humans. You should forget it. Haven’t you had all the saving you could want in one life?” She touched my cheek, as though it were still dark and warty, or as though I was still a child, though I hadn’t been for a long time. “You are the safest you could be here.” She laughed, which sounded like waves rippling and made me think of silver foil, and of the currents that spin under the water.

Eiluned looked exactly like a moonchild, which is what many of her kind looked like. They were all cut from the same cloth, made to look like the moon beneath the water. Her hair was more silvery than her skin, but they both made her luminous sometimes. Her kind were all moon-tinted, but I had seen them curl up in riverbeds, and their skin changed quickly enough I can’t tell that I could not tell if they were lurking or if they had truly gone.

The other faeries didn’t seem to care that I’d been left behind when the town moved. They weren’t very happy about it, either. They preferred the children with moondust hair and starlight eyes. I was as colourful as dirt, and my face had never looked innocently adolescent. It wasn’t just age that made me ugly to them. Their strange faces twisted with something like disgust when Eiluned tugged me into the water and combed my hair wet, or when she touched her finger to the space between my dark brows, or when she bit my fingertips. She liked to touch me, like I was a phenomenon that never lost its novelty.

I begged her just once to make me beautiful, when I understood faerie magic but was not appropriately afraid of enchantment yet. “Every other child that’s still here has hair like golden wheat and eyes like summer sky.” I opened my eyes wide, in case she had forgotten that they were only as lovely as flint. “Can’t you glamour me? Please?”

Eiluned grinned. She said, “A stór, you are already much prettier than you could be. You have never seen a corpse, no? You are much prettier than any corpse, I promise.”

Eiluned had dragged me out of the sea the night it had dragged me out. I had been tempted to let it, for a minute, when I realized my parents had left me in their haste to leave the town. It was only when the water took my breath away that I discovered I would rather live. It was poor timing, as I was clawing at the pebbled ground beneath a wave as it wrenched me away toward the horizon. Then Eiluned had plucked me from the water and kissed my salty cheek and told me I was too charming to let drown. I had thought for a while that I was charming. I had later learned that she had mistaken me for a charm, or something the water offered up to her, and she had reached for me because she would never refuse a gift from the ocean.

“Maybe they would dislike me less,” I said. I had seen the work of glamours. I had seen the small, weak glamours that turned wildflower to roses and pebbles to diamonds, and I had seen the glamours that transformed fish into dragons and trees into towers. “Maybe I would be better suited to live with them if I looked differently.”

Eiluned regarded me for a moment. Sometimes I was fiercely reminded of the differences between faerie and human faces; I could not tell at all what she was thinking. “It is interesting that you consider yourself to be the one they dislike.”

Eiluned took me swimming in the sea much later. And later after that, a body washed up onto the shore. There had been some kind of accident; I could see bone where there should have been hair. The bone was the same colour as Eiluned’s hair. The faeries turned the body over and looked at its swollen face. Then they set to work digging.

Later that day, the rest of the disaster arrived. The faeries danced around the wreckage of the ship as the sea pushed it onto the sand. They pranced around the bodies that followed. They looked particularly wild, and toothful, like wolves or foxes, as they knocked heels and toes against waterlogged limbed and faces. I’d seen them dance before and I would have turned away except that they very quickly began to dig.

Eiluned was not among the diggers. She drifted away from them, up the sand, and found me. She was out of breath with excitement, for dancing never tired her. I watched over her shoulder as the faeries turned over wet sand, and then the deeper, heavier sand of the beach, with their fingers.

I could see the shapes and sizes of the holes before they were finished digging. I asked her, “Why are they burying the dead on the shore?”

Eiluned walked her fingertips across my shoulders. My neck prickled as if from the cold. “Those that die at sea must be buried at sea. Or else the sea comes to claim them. Would you like to help?”

I shook my head. “I don’t like to see them dead,” I said. I watched the faeries’ quick fingers. “I think they might bury me one day. One day I might die in the water, and you will not be here. They would love to bury me.”

Eiluned stroked my ear, then my collarbone, then the part in my hair. “They will not bury you here. The sea already tried to have you and it does not. It’s not your place to die. And they have no interest in burying you otherwise. Do not worry.”

She raked her nails across one of my shoulders as she spun away. She danced between the piles of sand and the holes in the sand and left me to watch the faeries pile the bodies beneath the sand. I wondered where the boat had come from and if anyone would come here looking for it. No humans had returned to the town since the faeries moved in, and I did not know if a ship full of men would be enough to endow the previous human inhabitants with the courage to return.

It was only a few days later when the faeries dug a new grave. It was inland, between an ash and a hazel tree. I made a chain of grasses strung through the tops of acorn cups as I watched. I tried to imagine being put inside such a grave. Even in my fantasy, in which I was a corpse, I possessed the sight to watched dirt fall all around me and turn my vision dark. I possessed the ability to feel the sensation of many small tubers and rocks and sediment on my skin. At night, when I could not stop seeing the yawning mouth of the grave, I woke. It would be several more hours before the men came. I shook off the dream and wiped the cobwebs from my mind. My fingernails were dirty, as though I’d been the one digging. I reached out and touched Eiluned’s hair. “Eiluned.”

She was never far from me at night, though I do not think she ever slept. Eiluned turned over, and as she did, several stars winked, and a bird flew out from beneath the tangle of her hair on the ground, and new birds swooped down to investigate the insides of her elbows. Eiluned shook them off and waved them away. She dipped her fingers in the dewy grass and sucked them clean. “Do you not need sleep anymore?” she asked, and tapped my face, under my eye. “If you are truly afraid of the water, we can sleep even farther from it.”

I could hear the tide, and though it sounded aggressive, I was not frightened. The beach was a ways away, and now it seemed to me the water would have an even harder time reaching us over the many graves that had been dug and filled. “I’m not afraid,” I said. “I have something for you. I wanted to give it to you.” I showed her the crown of acorns and grasses. It was irregular, but anything would sit well on her perfectly shaped head. The acorns would not get lost in her hair, which is what I had been afraid of.

Eiluned crooned as she seized the crown. She donned it and brushed the sleek blades of grass. She looked at her fingers after, as though they may be cut from it. She looked very well in the crown. “What good is wheat-golden hair and sky-blue eyes when none of them have such finery?” she said. “They will all envy me. If you make yourself one, they may envy you too.”

“Do not tease me,” I said, which was the same as telling her not to breathe. She smiled at my foolishness, before I stole the smile with my lips.

She still smiled. “I hope you have more sense than your kind. There is nowhere you can take me where I could be your wife. When I am not near the sea, I am not as you see me here. If you planned to leave. I cannot.”

“I don’t want to leave,” I replied. I wanted to kiss her again; kissing was too new so far to be frightened of it.

“Then you will not,” Eiluned said. She kissed me next, and now I knew that she tasted like salt, as salty as the sea.

The men came and were not quiet at all about it. Their horses’ hooves beat thunder into the ground. They passed the grave and rode close to the beach. “Are they looking for the wreck?” I whispered to Eiluned.

She said, “They are not looking for their men. They know exactly where they are.”

I stood up and followed the horsemen down the street. Somehow, none of them had fallen into the grave on the land. Eiluned walked even farther, toward the water, and a few faeries trailed after her. They did not seem to care about the horsemen. The horsemen looked familiar. I had been sure I did not remember any of the people that had once lived here with me, but perhaps I was wrong. One of them saw a pile of wet wood the faeries had dragged up from the sand and had been turning into animals and insects and anything else to interest them. He spoke loudly; every other man turned to him. His voice sounded to me like he was used to shouting over wind. “They are still here. But not for long. It is clear we are still meant to be here.”

Several of his companions cheered. They sounded too few to fight the faeries back, but they had iron in their armour and faces drawn by loss. They turned their horses around, with their backs to the water, and talked of their right to their own dead as they walked back into town.

Eiluned stepped onto the sand and fiddled with the acorn crown, which sat crookedly on her head. I stood in the surf to fix it for her and tried to ignore the faeries around me. “I will cherish this until I die,” Eiluned said, very seriously.

“Are they here to take back the town?” I asked.

“They do want it back,” Eiluned said. “But it is too late. It is ours.”

The horsemen stayed, somewhere in the town, while the faeries and Eiluned prepared. The faeries brought the children away from the shore, and up high. Other faeries went to help dig the hole in the ground, circling the horsemen, who were too blind to see they had been surrounded. The faeries took up a song, and it was not merry at all, not like many of their songs I had heard before. Though I had heard this song before. I had heard laments when the people left the town.

“A stór,” Eiluned said, stepping back into the water. It licked her knees, then the tops of her thighs. She could not feel it, though she looked like a bedraggled child, and should have been cold. The faeries half-circled her. Eiluned pulled me close and kissed and bit my fingertips. “They will listen to you. You must keep them between me and the sea.”

The faeries did not take me away while they drowned her. She did not fight, but they held her down anyway. It took much longer than it would take a human, but the sea filled her up. I followed the faeries as they circled the horsemen and put Eiluned into the grave in the earth. She blinked as they threw dirt on her, and I could think only of the cold, gritty sensation of it in her eyes.

I was filled with too much horror at first to hear the sea rumbling. Then, for the first time, a faerie touched me. I was shocked into looking at him, and listening.

“You must find high ground,” he said, as the ocean crept up the shore, searching for Eiluned.

I could hear the horsemen, between the growing waves and Eiluned’s grave. They were laughing, and they would until the ocean pulled them out with Eiluned.

“She is not yours anymore,” the faerie said. So I let Eiluned go to the sea.

Art by Adam S. Doyle

Text by Lucie MacAulay