A Free Story Sampler
from
Third Person Press

Three stories from

Undercurrents
Airborne
Unearthed



Compilation © Third Person Press 2012
Cover Artwork © Nancy S.M. Waldman
“Winter Bewitched” first appeared in Undercurrents, published in 2008
“Mind Drifter” first appeared in Airborne, published in 2010
“Mud Pies” first appeared in Unearthed, published in 2012
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What readers say about Third Person Press anthologies...
"The 14 short stories [in Undercurrents]cover every genre from laser blasting space opera to murder mystery ghost stories to Twilight Zone-esque creepers....Many of the writers found surprising ways to use the title of the collection as a theme in their tales."
~ Ken Chisholm, Cape Breton Post

“I'll be buying the next one in the series...just because the stories are darn good! If you are a fan of great short stories, especially those with enchanting otherworldly themes, you won't be disappointed in this one.”
~ A. Mandadi, Amazon 5-star review

“Airborne contains ghost stories, vampire fiction, future-gone-wacky tales and traditional hard-core science fiction...There’s no lack of fascinating stories in this book, with contributions from first-timers and seasoned pros.”
~ Elizabeth Patterson, Chronicle-Herald





Table Of Contents
Title Page
Reviews
Winter Bewitched
Mind Drifter
Mud Pies
End Matter
“Winter Bewitched” is from Third Person Press’s first anthology, Undercurrents. You can find the links to purchase any of our anthologies at the end of this free sampler, or by clicking to www.thirdpersonpress.com

Winter Bewitched

by Sherry D. Ramsey


We were six days out of Salabad when we crossed the sudden border into winter. One moment the air was warm and dry blowing down from the steppes, and then a frigid breeze sprang up, a rime of frost appeared on the trail ahead, and the sky darkened to the colour of yesterday’s gruel.
I reined in the mare to slip my warm Surcyian cloak over my head, and Gemmin scampered ahead. When his paws hit the frost he turned back, a look of unmistakable dismay on his feline face. Three leaps took him from the ground to my shoulder. He kneaded his long toes into the collar of my cloak as a lock of my hair blew over the crown of his head, giving him a comical auburn topknot.
Enchantments, Jalia, he nuzzled into my ear, in a tongue few mortals would have understood. Gemmin was most comfortable conversing in the words he’d taught me, the language of the strange, inaccessible place of his birth.
I nodded. “A witch, a curse, the usual sort of thing,” I told him. “If you can believe tavern tales told by a half-drunk barkeep.” We were still in the steppes, and at least another fortnight’s travel from the higher altitudes where snow might normally be expected.
Jalia wrote it down? Gemmin asked.
“Of course I did. What kind of scribe lets a good tale go to waste? At any rate, a frosty ground means we’ll have to find lodgings for tonight, whether we can afford it or not. I doubt we’re still being pursued. It was only the price of a meal, after all.”
Jalia beckons trouble always, Gemmin chided me, his whiskers and hot breath tickling my ear.
“I do not,” I retorted, trying to nudge him off my shoulder without taking my hands from the reins. “You know what happened wasn’t my fault.” I sighed and shrugged, but Gemmin would not dislodge.
Instead, Gemmin snorted delicately. I knew what he was thinking. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to get ahead. I called it bad luck; Gemmin ascribed it to bad planning. I twitched the cloak tighter around my shoulders and we rode in silence until the glow of street torches gleamed through the trees ahead. It was none too soon. The further we advanced into the eerie, unending winter of Aleram, the colder the wind nipped.
It seemed the weather was keeping folks at home, and the inn had rooms open. Curious about the curse, I ate with little attention to the thin, lumpy stew and unblushingly sent Gemmin to eavesdrop on the nearby conversations. He’s a great talent at pretending to do inconsequential, catlike things while he’s really on a more complicated mission, and few folk notice that—while he is certainly catlike—he is most certainly not a cat.
Spoke of the witch, he told me later, when we were ensconced in a great featherbed under arching whitewashed beams, he curled up on the pillow beside me. How to bring the end of the winter.
“Are they hatching a plan?” I asked, because I wasn’t certain I’d want to be in town when a pack of local oafs confronted a witch who had the power to control the weather. “Why hasn’t the Keliph done anything?”
Gemmin yawned widely, the sides of his rough pink tongue curling past dagger-sharp teeth. I hoped he’d retain his cat-form tonight. Gemmin never meant to frighten me, but sometimes his dreams caused an involuntary shapeshift. I didn’t enjoy waking to the companionship of a giant spider or many-toothed, otherworldly beast.
No plan. Empty talk. Keliph’s fault, but too proud to admit it. So folk think.
They were probably right. Back home in Minstoke he would have been called “Duke,” but in any language the peerage wasn’t noted for its humbleness.
Gemmin blinked sleepily and dropped his head down to nestle on his paws. Keliph’s offered reward, he added.
“Really? How much?”
Not enough.
“Humph. Since when are you in charge of the purse strings?”
Magic involved. Jalia is no sorceress. Jalia should do what Jalia does best. He closed his eyes, ending the conversation.
I said nothing more, since Gemmin is more likely to keep to his comfortable form when he’s not agitated. He’d transformed into some terrifying things since we’d met. Fortunately, I could tell it was still Gemmin by looking to his eyes. Eyes are intrinsic, unchanging, he’d told me once to reassure me. Forms alter, eyes remain. I shivered despite the press of woolen blankets. It unnerved me when he shifted, whatever the circumstance.
There in the dark after Gemmin’s breathing had settled into the steady rhythm of sleep, the idea of assisting the Keliph rattled around in my brain for a time. True, I was no sorceress, had no magical power to command, but I did have Gemmin.
Exactly what Gemmin is I’m not certain. I suspect he belongs to a cadre of supposedly mythical creatures called cawnnin. He has the shapeshifter’s gift, and a few others besides. I hadn’t guessed, the day I found him near death and used my meagre healing skills to save him, how much I would come to value his companionship. The business of the day, however, was to find out more about the Keliph, the witch, and the perpetual winter she’d called down. I pondered what might persuade her to change her mind. If a winter could be witched, after all, it could be unwitched. And I’m a great believer in persuasion.
In the chill morning we set off for an audience with the Keliph.
The Keliph’s house was a grand three-storey affair, but the drooping silk trees that flanked the entry, their leaves curled tight against the cold weather, lent it a forlorn look. The Keliph received me after only a brief wait.
“Well-met, Scribe Jalia,” he said in a voice like flawed silk. He offered a florid hand. It was chill to the touch, which wasn’t a wonder as the whole mansion was cold. He had unpleasant eyes, yellowish and bulging, like ripe berries on a bead tree, but his manner was warm. He glanced once at Gemmin, who sat like a stone carving at my feet, only the tip of his twitching tail revealing any life. “I fear I have no scribing work for you at this time.”
I smiled. “It’s not scribing I’ve come about,” I said. “I’m enquiring about your misunderstanding with a certain witch.”
He lowered himself heavily into a brocaded divan and drew his brows together under his turban. “Looking to write the tale down, are you? I’m not keen to have this story recounted about the countryside.”
“Not at all, your Grace,” I replied. “I’m not only a scribe. I’ve solved more than one difficulty for payment in coin; whether by quill or by blade, it makes little difference to me.”
“Ah.” He crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head to consider me. “A common mercenary, then. You don’t look the part, if I may say so.”
“That,” I said, crossing my own arms in mimicry, “is because I am not so common as you might expect—and neither are my methods. You have heard, perhaps, of Lady Serling of Dow’s missing sapphire necklace?”
His eyes widened at that. “You retrieved it from that—that was you?”
I smiled slowly. “Would you care to tell me about your difficulty with the witch?”
“I’d hear your price first,” he countered.
“What would you think fair to rid your land of winter’s curse?”
He thought for a moment, taking his time. “Twenty gold Surcins,” he said finally. “Thirty if you can expel the witch from Aleram for good.”
It was a rich sum, but I kept a serene face. “Five in my hand before I leave today, on the undertaking that I will make my best attempt,” I suggested. “Whether I meet with failure or success. If I succeed, the five may be counted toward the total fee.”
“Done.”
I settled more comfortably in my chair. “And now, your Grace, please tell me the tale from start to finish.”
Alas, it was not as interesting as I’d hoped, and in only one respect original. The Keliph’s nephew (who was also his ward) was enamoured of, and wished to marry, a maiden of the middle class. The Keliph forbade it; the boy rebelled. The Keliph put him in confinement. Then came the twist in the tale. The maiden in question turned out to be a witch, threw a curse of perpetual winter over the entire country of Aleram in retaliation, and retreated in high dudgeon to a cottage in the nearby foothills. Now the Keliph’s citizens were near to an uprising and faced the spectre of starvation if they couldn’t put in crops soon.
When he finished, I raised an eyebrow. “If you’ll pardon my frankness, your Grace, you are in a pickle.”
Gemmin made a sound that could have been a sneeze, but to my practiced ears was a laugh.
The Keliph sighed and tapped two fists together distractedly. “I know.”
“You won’t consent to the marriage?” I pressed.
The Keliph leaned forward and stared at me earnestly, the whites of his eyes as transparent as half-cooked egg. “I would, now. Danzeyn’s useless. But I won’t appear to have been forced into it. When an elephant is down, even a frog will kick him. Every knight with ambition would be raising an army to try and take my seat. For a bent copper piece, I’d send a troop of men-at-arms to slay the hag.” He sighed. “But even if they succeeded, that would likely bring down the wrath of any number of her coven sisters, and we’d be worse off than before. I’ve had dealings enough with witches to know they stand together.” He sat back slowly, shaking his head. “Oh, no, whatever’s to be done must be by subterfuge.”
The door to the room opened and a blonde woman stepped inside. She was finely dressed in an emerald velvet cloak, her head circled by a matching green silk rolled scarf. A double strand of pearls hung from the sides of the scarf in a graceful curve below her chin. “I’m off to the noon market, Feydin,” she said, then caught sight of me. “Oh, good day. I apologize, I did not realize you had a...guest.”
“My wife,” the Keliph said stiffly, “Emeraude, Keliphas of Veliyor. The Scribe Jalia.”
She nodded, barely registering my face, I could tell.	Giggles wafted in through the open door, and a shrill of “Emmy? Are you coming? All the best silks will be picked over by the time we get there.”
“Good day, then,” Emeraude said to the room in general, and followed her friends. She didn’t close the door behind her.
The Keliph’s lips were pressed together in a thin white line, so I asked, “May I consult with your nephew?” I wanted those twenty gold coins. They would see us comfortably through the next few months. Of course, thirty would be even better, but I had to know more before I’d feel at ease engineering the witch’s exile.
The Keliph shook himself, then sighed. “I suppose. He’s quite well, I assure you. Simply sulking.”
I hastened to reassure him. “Oh, I suspect no maltreatment. I should like to question him about his personal knowledge of the witch when they were...close.”
“Very well, then.” He pulled a long braided cord and a servant appeared in the doorway. “Take Scribe Jalia to see young Danzeyn,” the Keliph commanded. He nodded to me. “I’ll instruct my bursar to pay you the five Surcins before you leave,” he said. “And I trust I’ll hear from you soon.”
I followed the servant down a long corridor hung with varicoloured silks, carrying Gemmin to keep his insatiable curiosity in check. Our path led up a double flight of stairs. It wasn’t exactly a tower, but it was the topmost floor.
The servant unlocked one of the heavy oaken doors with a silvery key. “Scribe Jalia to see you, Master Danzeyn, at the request of your uncle.” He stepped back to let me pass.
The shades were drawn, throwing the room into murky shadow. The mournful echo of a lute hung in the air, as if a song in progress had been beheaded when the door opened. A heavy sigh followed.
“If you’ve come to write down my songs, it won’t do you any good,” a quiet voice said from the depths of a shadowy corner. “They’re for one set of ears alone, and if she can never hear them, no-one else shall, either.”
“Songs, Master Danzeyn? No, I haven’t come about your songs. I’ve come about the mess you’re in, and how we’re going to get you out of it.” I allowed Gemmin to leap down from my arms. Then I crossed to one of the windows and threw open the curtains. Dust snowed down around my head, but I ignored it, looking around instead for my quarry.
He sat blinking on the floor, slouched back against the wall with the lute cradled on his lap. Not a bad-looking lad, if you discounted the face as mournful as a cow’s and the shaggy hair that begged for a good barber. His clothing, while not as dusty as the draperies, was bedraggled and wrinkled. I settled myself in a worn velveteen chair near enough to him that we could speak in low tones. Gemmin sniffed tentatively at Danzeyn’s boots.
“So, Danzeyn.” I regarded him for a moment. “I had no idea you were a bard. Your uncle was remiss in not mentioning it.”
He pulled a face. “My uncle discounts my talents. He thinks I should be learning the running of his estate, as befits his heir. He is childless, as you may know.” He turned his face to one of the windows and squinted into the chill grey sky. “I have no interest in such things. I appreciate my uncle’s generosity, but I believe I would die being tied to a plot of land. I long to be free, to take my words to the folk of this land and others. Shirina understood that.”
I nodded sympathetically while my mind raced. I’d had no idea Danzeyn was a possible heir to the Keliph’s title.
“Tell me about Shirina,” I prompted.
He strummed a few notes on his lute in answer, and sang;

Shirina takes the garden
Like a knight upon the field
And her stunning grace and beauty
Are the weapons that she wields
Her lips so soft and red they put
The blushing rose to shame
Her eyes so blue the azure sky
Should bow before her name
Her golden hair outshines
The nodding head of daffodil
But on her iv’ry brow descends
No hubris or ill-will
For she is gracious on the field
As charming as a queen
My heart is vanquished, and my lance
stands awed before her mien.

It was rather dreadful. Danzeyn had a decent singing voice, and his fingers made no missteps on the strings of the lute, but a lengthy apprenticeship to an established bard would do him no end of good.
“It’s obvious you love her dearly,” I said gently, avoiding critical comment on his composition skills. “It must have been a terrible blow to discover she was a witch.”
He leapt up, eyes blazing. The lute tumbled to the floor with a twang of protest. “Shirina is no witch! She has nothing to do with this plague of a winter, and she hasn’t a vengeful bone in her body. I’ve told my uncle so endlessly but he turns a deaf ear! And I’ve no duty to listen to such accusations from you, whoever you are! Out! I’ve no more to say to you!”
He stood with a quivering finger pointing to the door, his face suffused with a horrid purple. I nodded and stood to go. Inwardly, I cursed the Keliph. Why hadn’t he told me that Danzeyn clung to this belief? Gemmin stalked ahead of me with his tail at a haughty angle. The servant must have been standing close enough to the door to overhear Danzeyn’s outburst, as it swung open at my approach.
I stood indecisive in the hallway for a moment. Should I speak further with the Keliph? I thought not. There was little else he could tell me at this point. I should have to go to the source of the problem: the witch, Shirina.

§	

Gemmin was angry. Already Gemmin said, Jalia is no sorceress, he muttered in my ear that night. Jalia should do what Jalia does best.
“I don’t think it will be dangerous,” I said, “not the first time I go to see her, anyway. Look, she either truly loves Danzeyn, or she wants to marry him for his title. Either way, she’s likely to listen to someone who wants to help mend the rift, don’t you think?”
Gemmin growled. Trust not witches.
“I didn’t say I was going to trust her,” I said. “I said I was going to talk to her. Anyway, you’ll be with me.”
He made a snuffling noise that I’d come to recognize as his laughter. Witches do not fear me. ’Twas a witch who left me as you first found me.
My heart clenched; that meant bloody, battered, and near death. I shook off the memory and tickled him under the chin, something he tolerates only when the two of us are alone. “Not all witches wield that much power. We’re just going to talk to her. All right?”
He turned his back on me and lay down on the quilts. Through his fur, I could see the scars from his last encounter with a witch. I felt a stab of guilt about what I might be asking of him.

§

I easily obtained directions to the witch’s cottage, although I sensed people making warding signs behind my back as I walked away. Gemmin hung back, constantly straying from the path and then catching up to me distractedly. I refused to pick him up and carry him. It was probably exactly what he wanted.
In due course we reached the cottage. It looked pleasant enough—no rotting timbers or walls leaning askew. Just a neat and tidy house, in good repair, with an herb garden nestled inside the gate. I turned to give Gemmin an I-told-you-so look, but he’d disappeared into the underbrush again.
There was a gate bell, which I duly rang. The curtains at a front window twitched, and then the door opened to reveal Shirina.
At this distance, I couldn’t make a judgement on her beauty, but the golden hair Danzeyn had mentioned was in evidence, twisted in a long plait that hung over one shoulder.
“Yes?” she asked, in a voice that was not at all hag-like.
“My name is Jalia, a scribe,” I answered. “I’ve come to speak, if you will, about Danzeyn.”
She frowned. “Do you bring a message from him?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “I’ve been retained to try and find a resolution to this situation, hopefully to the satisfaction of all involved.”
Shirina stepped outside the door and closed it behind her. Her full sherwal trousers billowed in the wintry wind, and her long-sleeved crimson tunic curved open in the front to reveal a bright yellow comis beneath. Her feet, below the sherwal, were shod in red silken slippers. It was not exactly winter garb, but she didn’t seem to notice.
She folded her arms over her chest. “Can you convince the Keliph to set Danzeyn free and offer his blessing to our marriage?”
“I’m not sure what I can do just yet. That’s why I’m here to speak to you.”
“Why would the Keliph hire a scribe? Do you plan to write down my tale of woe and profit from it?” Her voice was as cold as the frozen ground beneath my feet.
“I doubt it,” I said honestly. “The Keliph would like to see this matter resolved quietly.”
She cocked her head to one side. “And without damage to his pride, I’ll wager.”
I risked a grin. “He did mention something of the sort.”
I felt Gemmin rub up against the side of my leg, but Shirina took no apparent notice of him.
“Come inside then, and we’ll talk. But I make no promises.”
“Fair enough. Neither do I.” Gemmin was close at my heels as I followed the witch inside.
The cottage was warm, thanks to a fire that crackled in the hearth. If it was conjured by magic, it cast heat as efficiently as the real thing. I glanced around, curious about the interior of a witch’s abode. The walls were cleanly whitewashed and the air pleasantly heavy with the scent of the dried herbs hanging like bats from the ceiling. Shirina seated herself on a chair next to a small wooden table and gestured me to another. A long-haired calico cat appeared from another room and hunkered down in the doorway, its gaze fixed unblinkingly on Gemmin.
I began, “I visited Danzeyn yesterday. He spoke fondly of you.”
“How was he?” she asked, but it seemed a perfunctory question.
“Melancholy,” I said. Up close, I could discern the beauty that had moved Danzeyn to commit love poetry. Her eyes, though, seemed hard. “He makes no move to leave the rooms to which the Keliph has confined him.”
“The Keliph,” she spat suddenly, “is interested only in having an heir for his estate, so that his greed can extend even after his death. He cares little who or what he damages to attain that goal.”
“Danzeyn seems to have scant interest in the prospect of such an inheritance,” I said carefully.
She pressed her lips together as if she regretted her outburst. “Scribe,” she said, “I did not invite you in here to dance a verbal raqs beledi with you. Do you have an offer from the Keliph?”
I sighed. “Not really. I came to see if you were open to bargaining. The people of Veliyor, in fact all of Aleram, are nearing desperation. Food stores are running low, and it’s obvious no crop will grow in this winter.”
She smirked. “And the Keliph is concerned for his people? Concerned for his own hide, more like, if they rebel against him for getting them into this mess.” The calico cat leaped up on the table next to her mistress and sat down. Shirina stoked its back with long fingers.
“I don’t wish to harm the people of Aleram. The Keliph forced my hand,” she said after a moment. “Tell the Keliph that I will consider lifting the winter curse for the sum of five hundred gold Surcins. I will accept them only from your hand, Scribe Jalia, or the Keliph’s own.”
I sat silent for a moment, because my throat had gone dry at her words. Five hundred gold Surcins! The Keliph would never pay such a price, I thought, even if he had such wealth at his fingertips.
“And what of Danzeyn?” I said finally. “Shall I take any message to him for you?”
She shook her head. “If he doesn’t bother to lift finger nor voice to be released from his confinement and come for me, I owe him nothing. Not a message, and certainly not my heart. Five hundred gold from his uncle is all I require now.” She and the cat stared at me without emotion, two sets of green eyes equally inscrutable.
“Danzeyn refuses to believe that you are responsible for the winter curse, you know,” I said, but if I hoped to shame her into any further response I was disappointed. She merely shrugged.
“Then I shall relay the message,” I said, standing. She didn’t move to see me out.
At the bottom of the cottage steps I bent and picked Gemmin up, stroking his fur as I walked slowly down the path. Shirina’s attitude puzzled me. If she’d been in love with Danzeyn, it hadn’t taken much to wither that love. And if she’d only been interested in his prospects, five hundred gold was paltry by comparison.
I shook my head. Men! Hadn’t Danzeyn been able to look into those eyes and see the coldness there, colder than the winter that had settled on the land? No, instead he’d written poetry about them—
Her eyes so blue the azure sky should bow before her name.
But Shirina’s eyes were green, as green as her calico cat’s.
I stopped suddenly, clutching Gemmin, who mewled in protest. When I looked down at him, he winked slyly. So he’d come to the same realization as I. Eyes are intrinsic, unchanging.Therefore the green-eyed witch was not, could not be, Shirina. Who was she?
I started walking again, quickly now. I needed time to think.

§

First thing the next morning I went back to see the Keliph. He had travelled into town to meet with the Merchant’s Guild, but his wife the Keliphas Emeraude agreed to see me. I was led to a sumptuous apartment overlooking the frost-blackened back garden, where the Keliphas was in the process of having her blonde hair curled with heated tongs by a long-suffering maid. Emeraude regarded me with the ghost of a frown and slightly pursed lips for a moment, and I hastened to assist her.
“We met briefly yesterday, when I was in conference with your husband,” I reminded her. “He’s retained me to try and convince the witch to lift her winter curse.”
“Ah, yes,” she said, obviously relieved. “And have you spoken with her? This cold weather is indeed a curse! My poor hands are chapped, and just look at the state of the garden! The jasmine should be blooming now, and this deep frost will be the ruination of the walnut trees.”
To say nothing of your people going hungry, I thought. “I did speak with her yesterday, but did not learn much. I came to ask your husband something. He mentioned in passing that he’d had other dealings with witches, and sounded none too pleased about them. Do you know what incidents he meant?”
She did not visibly start at my words, but the colour drained from her cheeks, leaving them pale as the frost on the ground outside. She shook her head.
“I am not privy to all of my husband’s dealings,” she said evenly. “Witches? I cannot imagine what my husband would have to do with witches.” She glanced down with distaste at Gemmin, who was sniffing around the hem of her gown. “Is that all you wanted to ask? I am due at the Lady Miriam’s for tirazi.”
“Yes, that’s all. Thank you anyway, your Grace.”
I left her brushing at imaginary cat hairs and snapping at her maid about a minuscule spot on her gown. “Either she knew exactly what I was talking about, or she’s had her own dealings with witches, Gemmin,” I murmured to him when we were out in the frosty air again, “or I’ll eat my best quill.”
He mewled at my feet and I bent and picked him up.
She smells of witchcraft, he agreed, then went on smugly, Gemmin always says, Jalia should do what Jalia does best.
I stopped walking and glared at him, not caring if anyone saw. “Why do you keep saying that? I’ll write it all down when we get back to the inn, but I can’t do it right here.”
Writing is not what Jalia does best, he said, although she is very good at it.
I started walking again, holding Gemmin close to let his warm fur keep the chill wind from my hands.
“Then what, may I ask,” I said finally, struggling to keep my voice even, “is it that Jalia does best?”
He had the audacity to purr, snuggling up against my chest as I strode towards the inn.
Jalia gets people to talk, he said simply.
It would have given him too much satisfaction if he’d stopped me in my tracks with that, so I kept walking. But his words rang true. People told me things, whether they meant to or not. I thought furiously while I marched back through the town, and by the time we’d reached the inn, I had a plan.

§

Gemmin didn’t approve.
She is a witch. She will suspect, he argued.
“She didn’t say anything about you when we visited her the other day,” I rejoined. “The cat took more notice of you than she did.”
She will be angry. All you have is a suspicion.
“I know, but I don’t care. We need that gold.”
Jalia is suddenly very mercenary.
I sighed. “Oh, all right. If you must know, I can’t bear to think of all these people going hungry. And the real Shirina must be in trouble—where is she? I feel like I have to help.”
Gemmin climbed up on the small desk in our room and batted at my cheek with a soft paw. It is not a bad thing to have compassion.
“Humph. I thought you’d call it a weakness.”
If not for your ‘weakness,’ Gemmin would be dead.
I stroked his fur. “I didn’t do all that much. Some healing salve, a little care, that was all.”
Jalia knows that is not true. He settled on the desk with a very human-sounding sigh, curling his tail around his body like a pashmina. This is not what Gemmin intended. He meant that the Keliph and the witch should talk, he said. But Gemmin will help.

§
We arrived at the witch’s cottage early next morning. Gemmin, riding my mare and looking exactly like the Keliph except for the wrong colour eyes, rode up the trail while I skulked through the surrounding woods. I found a spot where I could see the witch’s front door when she came outside to speak to Gemmin.
Gemmin rode the mare into the yard and waited. The door of the cottage opened and the witch stepped outside, smirking.
“So you’ve come, high and mighty Keliph,” she drawled.
“As you say,” said Gemmin.
“Come to beg me, or come to pay me my due?”
The horse shifted uneasily, but Gemmin did not dismount. “You told the scribe five hundred gold. Come, Shirina, is that fair? Five hundred gold, and a country ruined, because I wouldn’t let Danzeyn marry you?”
The witch was intent on her visitor now. I crept through the trees toward the back of the cottage, and saw exactly what I’d hoped—the sloped hatch that led to a root cellar. I concentrated on moving silently toward it across the frost-hardened ground, but I could still hear the conversation at the front.
“That might be reason enough for some women, Keliph. Although I’ve never set much store by men myself. No, for me it’s a matter of honour.”
“Is it honourable to hide behind another’s name and face, when in fact your dispute with me has nothing to do with Danzeyn—or the real Shirina?”
I held my breath. This was where Gemmin and I were taking the biggest risk. After a pause, though, the witch answered.
“So you know me, Keliph? Fair enough. Five hundred gold was not our initial bargain, I’ll admit. But was your treatment of me fair? I provided you what you asked, in good faith. And you refused to pay my fee. Now you are living with the consequences.”
I was easing open the root cellar door now, hoping that the hinges were well-oiled. Still I strained to hear what Gemmin would say. This was the tricky part of the script, because while deduced from what I’d observed and been told, it was still guesswork.
Gemmin lifted his voice in anger. I made a mental note to compliment him later on his acting ability. “I refused to pay, witch, because your magic did not work!”
I couldn’t hesitate any longer since I had no idea how long the argument might continue, or when the witch might begin to suspect our deception. I trod carefully down the mouldering earthen steps and into the dank cellar.
It was dark, but some sunlight followed me down the stairs. A glint in a dim corner drew me straight to it, a stray beam of sunlight catching golden hair, and I hurried over. She was dressed in muddied blue sherwal and emerald green tunic, bound hand and foot. She was also gagged and possibly bewitched, because the eyes that turned to look at me were fogged and unfocused.
But they were blue. Blue as an azure sky.
“Shirina?” I whispered.
She nodded slowly.
“I’m going to get you out of here,” I said, “but we have to be quiet.” I cut the leather straps that bound her feet and hands, and waited until she nodded again before I undid the gag. I didn’t want her screaming.
She was unsteady on her feet and leaned on me for support, clutching my cloak as we struggled up the stairs and out into the watery sunlight. I led her as silently as possible toward the nearby copse of trees, listening for the voices of Gemmin and the witch.
“—a fair offer,” Gemmin snapped.
“I have little concern now for what you consider fair,” the witch answered. “I know I cannot trust you, Keliph of Veliyor. My price is set. It will not change.”
The witch turned on her silken heel to end the conversation just as Shirina and I dodged into the trees. Two things happened then.
Shirina caught sight of the witch, still wearing the girl’s own face, and gasped, “Oh, she shouldn’t wear red with my complexion!” And her blue sherwal trousers, caught by the breeze, billowed like a flag announcing our presence.
The witch screamed with rage. It was followed by a sharp sentence in an arcane tongue, and in an instant the wind pushed up against us with the force of a tide. The air filled with dizzying snow and flailing branches. Shirina gasped and fell, almost dragging me down with her, but I stayed upright and pulled her back to her feet.
Through the snow-filled air I saw Gemmin leap down from the back of my horse and run toward the witch, shifting to a huge furred shape as he ran. The witch, too, changed, letting go of her guise as Shirina. I caught a glimpse of curly brown hair, but couldn’t take the time to watch the transformation. I pushed through the trees and the howling wind, pulling Shirina behind me, but we made little headway. I whistled for the horse, trying to move us closer to the trail so the mare would see us.
Then I heard a squeal that stopped me in my tracks. I’d heard the same noise the day I’d first found Gemmin, although the battle was over and everyone else dead or vanished by the time I’d located the source of the sound. I’d hoped never to hear it again, but there it was. Gemmin was in trouble.
I pushed Shirina into the questionable shelter of a tree and fought harder to reach the trail. The mad swirl of snow ahead outlined two figures, one writhing on the ground while the other stood over it. A few steps closer, and I could make out the crackle of golden light surrounding the twisting form of Gemmin, shrunken back to normal cat-size. The witch had him magically pinned to the snow-covered ground.
“Stop!” I commanded, stepping out of the trees and onto the trail. My racing heart felt too big for my chest.
“Why should I?” screeched the witch. She was taller and older than she’d been as Shirina, and more imposing. “You tried to trick me!”
“I tried to level the field by taking that poor girl out of the equation,” I shouted above the wind, anger making me bold. “If you and the Keliph have a business disagreement then take it to the magistrate. It would not be in your interest to have Shirina come to harm in your keeping.”
“The Keliph!” she spat. “He tried to ruin me, spread the word that my magic was weak.”
“And so you were right to wreak vengeance upon every inhabitant of Aleram?”
She turned narrowed eyes on me. The golden beam imprisoning Gemmin did not waver. “What business have you to interfere?”
“The business of anyone who would rather see justice done than the innocent suffer,” I said. “You turned the Keliph’s personal difficulties to your own purposes.”
“He cheated me and threatened violence. Said he’d petition the Emperor to outlaw witchery if I, or my sisters, pressed the matter further. I couldn’t do anything openly.” Her eyes flicked toward the wood, where a flash of Shirina’s sherwals showed through the snow. “I saw a chance and took it.”
I shook my head, gaining confidence. Perhaps Gemmin was right, and getting folks to talk truly was what I did best. “But now you’re stuck,” I said. “Let Gemmin up, and let me help you settle this with the Keliph.”
She snorted. “If you had any influence with him, you’d have brought me my five hundred gold.”
“No. That was not a fair offer. That was extortion. You could probably imprison the three of us now, but it won’t get you any further toward a resolution. Let us go. I can sway the Keliph to meet with us, and settle the debt that started this mess.”
The witch glared at me, but she looked tired. “Why? What can you do?”
I risked a grin. “I can do what I do best.”
“And what’s that?” She didn’t look entirely convinced, but she withdrew the energy that had incapacitated Gemmin. Slowly he gathered his paws under him and pushed up to sit, shaking his head.
“Get folk to talk,” I said, reaching down to gather him up. He nodded at me and I knew he hadn’t been injured. “And write things down.”

§
The Keliph may or may not have been surprised by the note I sent round to his house the next morning. I asked an audience with him, his wife, and Danzeyn, and advised that he should have my fee ready.
There was a general stir in the air when we arrived, I in my best tunic and cloak, Shirina bathed, rested, and wearing clean clothes, and the witch, whose name I had discovered was Iliasta, keeping close behind me. She still wore her crimson tunic, and I had to agree with Shirina’s assessment that it suited her nut-brown hair and tanned complexion better than it had Shirina’s guise.
That stir was nothing compared to what happened when we were shown into the Keliph’s morning-room. Danzeyn and Shirina leapt into each others’ arms like two lodestones. The Keliph’s eyes bulged alarmingly at the sight of the witch Iliasta and he let loose an involuntary bark of indignation. The Keliphas Emeraude narrowed her eyes and sat down abruptly on a velvet daybed.
“Keliph, I believe you know my guest. Keliphas Emeraude, Mistress Iliasta.”
The Keliph had found his tongue. “Scribe, I don’t know what you think you’re doing—”
“Pardon me, your Grace, but I am saving your face, your country, and quite possibly your life. If you don’t want to sit quietly and listen, perhaps you’d like to read what I have to say instead.” From my satchel I pulled a sheaf of parchment. “The whole sorry tale, as I have deduced it, is told here, and I have several more copies that I’m quite certain will bring a fair price in Jiuri and Harberdin, to say nothing of the rest of the Empire. Folk are always in the market for a good story. Especially folk with an abundance of coin and visitors.”
He glared at me.
“Ah, yes,” I continued, “you wanted this settled quietly. Then here is the crux of the tale. You retained the services of Mistress Iliasta and then refused to pay her fee when you thought she had not fulfilled her part of the bargain. She retaliated by taking advantage of your personal difficulties with Danzeyn and Shirina to force your hand. You were too proud to speak to her, whether you thought she was actually Shirina or knew her real identity. Iliasta has admitted that she acted rashly, and you have let your pride blind your judgement. You are both in the wrong, but the people of Aleram have had to suffer for it.”
“I’ll not be lectured by a snip of a girl,” the Keliph began, but he was interrupted by a shrill question from his wife.
“What sort of ‘services’ did you purchase from this woman, Feydin?”
The Keliph pursed his lips and said nothing.
“I believe he requested her help in begetting an heir,” I said bluntly, and all eyes turned to Iliasta. She nodded briefly.
Danzeyn’s eyes grew very wide.
“Not that way, you goose,” I said. “He purchased a spell, or a charm, or a potion.”
“Well, it didn’t work,” the Keliph retorted. “Unless Emeraude is extremely talented at keeping secrets.” He threw a glance at his wife, who flushed.
“That remains to be seen,” I said. “I’ve made inquiries; Iliasta has an excellent reputation for her skills in that particular area. However, there is no evidence that your wife is with child. Which caused me to wonder why.”
“My deduction,” I continued, setting the parchment sheets down on my lap and smoothing them, “is that the Keliphas has, in fact, no interest in bearing a child. She is quite engrossed in the many interests she indulges with her friends; exploring the latest fashions, visiting the market, taking tirazi. I speculate that, to the end of remaining free from maternal encumbrances, she retained the services of another witch.”
A glance at Keliphas Emeraude’s burning cheeks told me my arrow had flown true. “That is why Iliasta’s magic did not work. It was countered by another just as strong. A stalemate, so to speak.”
The Keliph turned and glared at his wife with a gaze so heated I would not have been surprised if she had burst into flames. But he was a Keliph after all, and he had his pride. He transferred his gaze to Iliasta.
“How much would you accept to settle our debt,” he said, his voice very even, “and to lift the winter curse?”
She hesitated only a moment. “The amount of our original agreement,” she said. “Scribe Jalia has helped me see that the curse was...ill-advised. I have retracted it.”
“Very well. I will have my bursar settle with you—both of you—before you leave here today. Scribe Jalia,” he took a deep breath and pointed to the parchment on my lap. “Will you agree to surrender all copies of that to me? With your undertaking not to create any more?”
“Of course, Your Grace,” I said. “I believe fifteen gold Surcins is the balance owed, since naturally I am not asking Iliasta to exile herself from Aleram.”
He nodded. “And now,” he said, flicking his gaze toward his silent wife and then back to me, “If that concludes our business—”
I kept my seat. “One more thing, if I may.”
His jaw clenched, but he nodded.
“Those two,” I said, tilting my head toward Danzeyn and Shirina, who still stood with arms defiantly about each other. “There won’t be any further impediments to their marriage, I assume?” I grinned at the Keliph. “I haven’t put their story to paper yet, and I’d like to know whether it’s to be a tale of love thwarted or love triumphant. Folk all over the Empire and beyond will clamour for the tale, either way, but I like to be able to keep my tales true—after a fashion. Of course I’ll change everyone’s names, to protect the...innocent.”
The Keliph wasn’t ready to return my smile—he still had his wife to deal with—but he managed to give in with good grace. “Oh, you may give them a happy ending, Scribe Jalia,” he said. “In fact, you might stay until after their wedding, since I understand Danzeyn wants nothing more than to travel the Empire as a wandering bard. He can do so with my blessing. You’d make a fine travelling companion for a young couple, I’d wager.”
“Mmm. We’ll see,” I said.

§

Wanting no encumbrances of our own, Gemmin and I left Veliyor just after dawn broke the next morning. The rising sun was warm on our backs and the ground beginning to soften, but Gemmin rode on my lap nonetheless. His battle with Iliasta had left him tired.
“Thank you again,” I said, taking the reins in one hand so I could stroke his fur with the other.
Gemmin needs no thanks, he said. Gemmin hasn’t saved Jalia’s life yet.
The old curmudgeon. I knew damn well he stayed with me out of more than just a sense of obligation.
“Oh, not for that,” I said airily. “I knew you’d help me with the witch.”
Then what?
“For reminding me what I do best,” I said.
He kneaded his paws into my leg, perhaps a little harder than was absolutely necessary, and settled down to nap.
Ahead of us, sunlight dappled the road, and in the distance, I heard birdsong like laughter in the air. The winter, unwitched, had fled, and spring surged to take its place.

* * *

Sherry D. Ramsey never expected to become an Internet geek. However, after publishing a web magazine for ten years, creating numerous websites, copyediting for the Internet Review of Science Fiction, networking with writer’s groups online, and becoming part of a writing community in Second Life, she fears it’s an inevitable conclusion.
When she’s not online, Sherry writes science fiction and fantasy, moderates her local writers’ group, and sometimes even spends time with her husband and two children. Every November she disappears into the strange realm of National Novel Writing Month and emerges gasping at the end, clutching something resembling a novel. Sherry is a member of the Writer’s Federation of Nova Scotia and SF Canada, and a founding editor of Third Person Press. Her stories have appeared in print, online, and over the airwaves. Visit her at www.sherrydramsey.com

“Mind Drifter” is from Third Person Press’s second anthology, Airborne. You can find the links to purchase any of our anthologies at the end of this free sampler, or by clicking to www.thirdpersonpress.com

Mind Drifter


by Julie A. Serroul


Jason ignored the pleas of his little sister as he let the screen door slam behind him.
Hauling his bike from the front lawn, he draped the towel he’d grabbed from the bathroom over his neck. He ran a few steps and leapt onto his ten-speed, his feet finding the already rotating pedals. He pumped faster to escape her cries.
“Jas! Jason! Please take me with you!” Cally yelled, the last words lost in a sob of desperation.
Without turning to look at her, he called, “Finish the dishes before Mom gets home. I’ll take you later.”
He didn’t want to look back. She’d have that look on her face that she always had now if he left her alone. He cycled harder, this time to burn away the guilt in his gut. He needed to get out for a while without her. She’s thirteen, damn it, she can be alone for an hour or so. As long as I make it back before Mom gets home from work, or else she’ll freak.
Lately, when Mom got mad he didn’t feel bad, or upset, he felt angry. A “need to punch a wall” kind of angry that scared him later when he thought about it. After all, Mom was just as upset about losing Dad as he was.
“Look after your Mom, she needs you now,” his grandmother told him when she left to go back to Halifax. Those words echoed in his head every time he felt like losing it. God, he wished Nan hadn’t gone home. She’d stayed for over a month after the funeral. Those first few weeks, even though they were all so sad and lost, hadn’t been as horrible as the weeks since Nan left.
His speed picked up as the pavement angled down. Devoe’s Garage loomed ahead so he did all he could to increase his velocity. Careening around the corner, he leaned forward and low over the handlebars, hoping to slick silently past the garage.
“Hey, shithead, I see you!”
Glancing over his shoulder, Jason saw Arnie Devoe walking away from the opened hood of a vehicle, rubbing grease from his hands and onto his coveralls.
“Stop! I wanna talk to you.”
Lumper MacDonald lumbered behind Arnie.
“Talk, yeah right,” muttered Jason. Squeeze his skull under the hood of that car, more like it.
Jason took the turn-off onto Gouthro Mountain Road, but then hopped off his bike and walked it down the dirt lane. He didn’t want a cloud of dust to show where he’d gone. He’d made it to the middle of the wooden bridge that spanned the brook when he heard the roar of Arnie’s truck up above on the main road.
Jason groaned. Arnie on his ass, just what he needed. He started to jog. It would only take the next curve or so in the road for them to realize he must have turned off. They’d be back. The entrance to the ball field seemed a half mile away, but he finally reached it and ran over to the line of trees.
He hid his bike under the drooping branches of a willow tree and started down the path to the brook. The way was well-worn from all the local kids heading down for a dip, although nobody was down there yet. The grassy bank sloped to the water’s edge, the grass mashed into a mucky mess even this early in the summer. The converging of several smaller brooks at this swollen section created an awesome swimming hole.
Jason passed by the popular spot, swatting the ragged end of the thick rope they all used to swing out to the middle, before letting go to plunge into the swirling reddish-brown brook water that was always fresh-off-the-mountain cold, even in late summer. He glanced back at the rope, swinging invitingly, but shook his head and edged along a narrow embankment, holding tree branches for stability. He was going to his secret spot, which is why he couldn’t bring Cally.
Navigating around the bend in the brook, Jason examined the foliage carefully until he found the tree with the large, black knothole. It looked like a giant cigarette had been extinguished in the tree’s flesh. Knotting his shoelaces together, he hung his sneakers around his neck with his towel and waded into the knee-high section of water.
Choosing his footing with care, he made his way across the slick, rocky bottom to the other side where another small brook poured into the bigger channel. The hidden junction widened out after a few feet. It forked a few more times and each time Jason stood in panic that he’d forgotten the way. But then one way would seem more familiar and he’d keep moving.
Finally, he came to the most difficult point, the place where he almost turned around every time, even though he knew where he had to go. The left side of the fork was bright, with wide, grassy banks, easy for walking, while the other was dominated by a fierce-looking, massive, ancient tree. Its branches and thick exposed roots nearly choked off the passage of the water and there was no embankment for walking.
Jason talked himself into picking his way toward the imposing tree. The water filtered through the tree’s limbs; he could hear it gurgling heartily. He entered into the dark shade cast by the tree and climbed with difficulty between the branches and roots. On the other side, his anxiety dissipated, as usual, and he felt the familiar tug of the deeper water beyond, as though it told him this way.
Rounding the next bend, he stood wet, sweaty and grinning at “his spot”. It lay before him like an oasis, a mirage. The brook came to a stop in a cul-de-sac of swirling water, creating an impossibly deep, quiet pool with a peninsula of soft white sand, shaded by tall elms on one end and basking in sunshine on the other. The concave top of a pearly white rock pierced the pool of water within hopping distance of the end of the peninsula.
As Jason sank into the powdery sand, he again marveled at its consistency—such an unlikely find for his Cape Breton home. Everywhere else along the brooks of Frenchvale you would find sucking, clay-like mud, rough gravelly dirt, or rounded brook-washed stones. The sun-exposed sand was hot on the soles of his feet, but after the cold walk through the water, it felt wonderful.
The memory of the first time he’d found this place, a couple of weeks before, came back. He’d been so excited he’d thought, “I can’t wait to show Dad!” His heart had constricted with the now familiar squeeze of pain as he’d remembered that he could no longer tell his Dad anything. He dropped his towel and sneakers on the sand and looked into the depths of the pool. Then he dove in.
It was cool, not cold like the rest of the brooks. Bobbing to the surface, his memories and pain washed away as he floated on his back, eyes closed, so peaceful, so quiet. He sensed the looming presence of the huge white stone, and flutter-kicked away from it. He’d go to the stone soon, but not yet.
Later, after a long swimming and floating session, Jason sat on his towel on the strip of sand, letting the powdery grains flow through his fingers. He thought again of how much his Dad would love this spot and his eyes filled up. He didn’t actually cry. He hadn’t cried since after that first week or so when he’d thought he’d never stop.
He blinked the moisture away and dusted the sand from his fingers, contemplating the white stone. The first time he’d jumped on it and sat down in the oddly form-fitting depression on its surface, he’d had what he thought was a bizarre hallucination. When he came out of it, he’d tried to stand, stumbled forward, and fallen into the water.
The next couple of times he dared to get on top of it, he had come to understand that it was not a hallucination caused by too much sun, but that the unusual white stone was responsible.
He found himself at the edge of the peninsula, not even remembering standing up. He tensed for the slight hop that would take him out onto the stone. When he landed, he lay down in the slight depression in the rock, an almost-perfect mold for his body. He concentrated on the gentle lapping of the water on the stone until he felt the slight humming of vibrations, almost imperceptible, begin beneath him. The now-familiar numbing sensation filled him and he sighed. His essence eased lightly from his body, with only a gentle tug—as simple as shrugging off a jacket. He floated above himself, examining his relaxed, slightly smiling face but not lingering too long on his skinny, lanky body. His Mom called him a long, lean eating machine, but he always wished he’d fill out into a stockier, brawnier frame like his father.
That disappointment couldn’t touch him now as he circled higher, looping around the pond, close to the treetops. The first couple of times he’d come out of his body he’d been scared and gone right back. But when he realized he could go back whenever he wanted, he began to enjoy the delicious feeling of freedom and flying. And he could fly. He could float or he could soar. Best of all, his usual dismal thoughts were replaced by other sensations—the breathless excitement of utter freedom, the giddy feeling of something else about to happen and a burning curiosity to explore.
The last bubbled up in him now and he found himself leaving the area where his body lay and exploring farther along the swaying treetops. It was so beautiful. Just when he began to worry about leaving his body so far behind, Jason saw the top of Devoe’s Garage, and the messy bits of mangled metal scraps, tires and car bodies splayed out around the surrounding lot.
Arnie and Lumper climbed out of the truck. Arnie slammed his door shut and, muttering, entered the garage through the open bay doors. Lumper shambled after him like a faithful hound.
Jason hovered in the shadows near the entrance of the garage, looking inside. He burned to follow them and hear what they had to say about his disappearing act. Maybe they would even reveal what he’d done to piss Arnie off. The known bully had never bothered him before the last few weeks.
The trouble was, he was afraid that he could be seen, maybe even recognized in this form. He’d never been able to see his reflection in the water back where he’d left his body, but the surface was hardly a perfect mirror.
A mirror! That was a great idea. He floated toward Arnie’s truck. He’d use the side mirror to test his visibility.
“I’m going, I’m going,” yelled Lumper.
Jason had time to swirl around to face Lumper about one second before the large teen walked right through him.
Dissipating and then reforming left Jason slithery with disgust. He swirled around once more to watch Lumper reach into the back of Arnie’s pickup truck to pull out a large metal toolbox.
He appeared unaffected by the experience of scattering Jason.
So they can't see me. Jason followed Lumper back into the darkness of the garage, hanging back a little to avoid a repeat of the unpleasant sensation of being dispersed into foggy bits.
“Where in the hell did you fuck off to?” growled an approaching voice. Arnie’s grizzled father, Hector, walked over to the teenagers.
“Got a call for some roadside assistance, but they cancelled,” Arnie lied smoothly, looking right at his father.
Hector’s eyes narrowed. He pointed at the car raised on a hoist nearby. “I finished rotating those tires. I’m getting cleaned up and heading home. Take it down and leave it outside for Mr. Collier to pick up. Then stay till close and lock up.”
Arnie crunched his eyebrows together. “I told you I felt a shimmy in the front end when I drove it. I don’t think Mr. Collier was having problems because the tires were wearing down unevenly, I want to take a look underneath—“
Hector jabbed his grease covered finger into his son’s chest. “Don’t fucking question me, you little shit. Move that car outside.”
Arnie looked down at his father’s finger before meeting the older man’s eyes.
Swatting his father’s hand away from his chest, he walked over to the table by the wall and grabbed a set of keys, his face tight.
Hector’s eyes widened and his body trembled. He turned away and stepped into the back storage room.
Jason, curious, drifted after him. Inside the room, Hector kicked at a column of tires repeatedly. He walked over to a cupboard and put his hand on the knob. He pulled it partly opened and then closed it. Pulled it partly open and closed it again. His face contorted with emotions.
What’s he doing? Jason wondered, drifting closer. He studied Hector’s twisting features. What’s he thinking?
And then, the slight sucking sensation he felt when he departed or entered his body pulled at his insubstantial form. Before he could even gasp, he was suctioned into Hector Devoe.
He stared at his grease-covered hand, splayed on the cupboard in front of him. He wanted so badly to reach inside for the bottle he kept hidden there. But he couldn’t. The doctor...he’d scared him. A wave of rage pulsed up from the dark pit in his gut. Fuck that doctor! And fuck that brat!
Hector stared at the door back to the garage. He couldn’t control that punk anymore. He thought he was so smart. The rage swept up from the pit once again. He narrowed his eyes. He hadn’t heard the sound of the hoist coming down yet. He’d told him to take that car down.
Hector strode over to the door and pushed it open a couple of inches.
That meathead Lumper was out having a smoke.
Arnie was under Mr. Collier’s car with the trouble light, working.
The little bastard. The little bastard is defying me again. Thinks he knows better.
Rage steamed up from the pit, heating his chest and numbing his brain.
Thinks he’s smarter than me.
There was nothing but the rage now, hot and white, his vision focused like a narrow tunnel on the lower half of his son’s body.
It was the coolness of the metal spanner against his warm skin that made him aware of it, not its substantial weight. He looked down at it, clutched in his meaty fist. He didn’t remember picking it up. He stared in surprise at the object he clutched.
What are you doing, a faraway voice called out in his head. What the hell are you going to do with that?
He didn’t know. He didn’t know why he held the spanner. He backed away from his working son. When his back met the door, he fumbled with the knob and stumbled back inside the musty- smelling back room.
Once inside he threw the spanner inside the column of tires and it clattered to the floor inside the tubes of rubber, out of his sight.
Were you going to hurt your own son?
Was I? Was I going to hurt my own son? It was the rage, it was the things inside his gut, he tried to rationalize with the voice in his head. Oh God. He gripped his forehead with one hand. Now I'm hearing voices.
He stumbled over to the cupboard and ripped it open, pushing aside boxes of rags and groping until his hand felt the smooth glass of the bottle. Pulling it out, he tore off the cap, and raised it to his lips with only a brief flash of the warnings of his doctor. Liver damage, permanent, biopsy—the words fled through his brain, but they didn’t hold as much fear in them as the thought of hurting his son and arguing with voices in his head.
He took a long, grateful swallow of the liquid that would cool the heat in his chest and push it back down into the roiling pit in his gut. It would quiet all fears, silence all voices, and keep him from hurting his boy.
Memories of some other times when he’d not stopped himself from punching, kicking, slapping his boy, his estranged wife, his old man—once he’d been big enough to give some back—all were drowned by the next swallow. He sighed in relief.
The alcohol loosened Jason from Hector’s consciousness and he pulled from the man’s body with a sigh of relief that echoed the alcoholic’s as he took another slug of the bottle.
Jason stared at the man as he slid down the filthy wall to slump against the base, cradling the bottle between his hands like a baby.
The soul-shaking horror of what he’d experienced inside the man’s body melted into pity. How could he not drink? With that festering pit in his gut, what else could he do? How else could he stop that impenetrable cloud of rage from smothering all reason? Thankfully he had heard Jason screaming to him and stopped.
Jason drifted away and paused at the door, which was now open a few inches.
Arnie peered in at the crumpled form of his father with anything but pity on his face.
Jason slipped through the partly open door, grazing against Arnie’s stiff form, and recoiling slightly from the look of pure disgust etched on the younger Devoe’s face.
He watched as Arnie closed the door quietly and then stared at the knob for a few seconds.
What was he thinking, Jason wondered, did he know what his father had almost done? Had he seen something?
The suctioning sensation began again, and Jason fought it for a moment, but curiosity got the better of his trepidation.
“Arnie?” Lumper’s voice pulled Arnie from his thoughts about his father’s pathetic weakness.
“What?”
“You need me anymore, or can I go down for a swim? Betcha some of the girls are down there by now.”
“No, go ahead. I’ll be down in a few hours, after we close.”
“Man, you were supposed to be off this afternoon. Your old man was supposed to close.”
“Nope, it’ll be me. Again.”
Lumper shrugged. “Okay, see you later.”
Arnie watched him walk away, resentment simmering. Lumper wouldn’t offer to stay. Not because he didn’t give a shit, but just because the kid was too stupid to give it a second thought. Not for the first time Arnie wondered if he was friends with Lumper in spite of that or because of it. Sometimes, lots of times, it was convenient.
He lowered the car with the hoist mechanism. He’d been right about it, looked like the sway bar was gone. He’d give Mr. Collier the bad news later. But at least he wouldn’t have to pay for a tire rotation he didn’t need, only to come back with more problems. Or worse, end up in an accident. Not that he really liked Mr. Collier—he was a sniveling wimp who sucked up to the old man. They shared a few bottles together, laughing and cursing and going on a few nights, keeping Arnie up, making him tired for school the next day. Of course, he was tired most days at school since his Dad made him work so much. Paid him less than minimum wage too, cheap bastard. Arnie felt the roiling in his gut of raw anger, but he smothered it. He went over to the speed bag he’d hung up in the corner of the office part of the garage and drummed on it, bare knuckled. He should tape his hands…he slipped into the rhythm of the bag and felt the anger simmer down.
One way to cool down, thought Jason.
Arnie grabbed the leather bag with two hands and froze.
What the hell?
“Fuck,” growled Arnie, striding back into the garage portion of the building and the cracked mirror hanging above the deep wash basin.
Arnie gripped the plastic tub and leaned in toward his reflection with a snarl. “I thought you were dead, old man. How’re you back in my head again? Get the fuck out!”
Jason began to recoil from Arnie’s mind. How the hell does he know I’m in here? Why’s he calling me an old man?
As Jason detached himself with a violent yank and floated backward, Arnie staggered. His broad frame moved closer to the glass and Jason floated toward the bright light of the outdoors. He was zipping out of the bay doors when he heard Arnie ask the mirror with a strained tone, “Jason?”
Terror pulsed through Jason as he fled over the treetops back toward his haven. Spotting his prone body he darted down but then paused to calm himself before re-entering. If you didn’t do it gently, it hurt. After a few moments of calming his fluttering nerves, he eased his insubstantial form back into his long skinny frame. As always it was several minutes before he regained control of his physical form. He thought about what just happened while he waited for full mobility.
How had Arnie known it was him? And who did he think it was at first, this—old man? Did he mean Hector? He did call his father his “old man”. His mind raced as he realized all that he’d learned while “occupying” the father and son. He understood both of them better than he wanted to, not only that pit of rage in their guts that made his own flashes of temper seem measly by comparison, but also things they knew. A lot of things they knew!
Jason sat up in surprise. A wave of dizziness and nausea swept over him. He held his head. That had never happened before. The excitement he’d just felt dissipated with the nausea, but as the icky feeling faded the excitement built back up. In his mind he could now see how to disassemble, clean and reassemble a rifle. He could clearly visualize the internal workings of a basic car engine. He understood that there was no money in the gas pump part of the garage business but that it was a necessary inconvenience…and so much more.
Some from Hector’s knowledge, some from Arnie’s—wow, Arnie knew a lot more about cars than his dad. Jason crouched in his effort to stand as a flush of dizziness struck. Arnie knew a lot more about running the business too. He had some really good ideas…
Jason once again felt the wash of fear that had coursed through him when Arnie felt his presence. He had to get home before Arnie caught up with him. He jumped back to the peninsula of sand, almost falling into the water as his legs shook unsteadily beneath him. God, how was he going to get past the garage without being seen? Pulses of terror raced through his body as he gathered his things and began the journey out of the brush.
When he emerged from the trees and headed over to the willow tree for his bike, he stopped. His bike was gone.
“It’s in the back of my truck,” said Arnie from somewhere behind him.
Jason felt like he was going to puke. He rotated slowly to see Arnie standing there, arms crossed over his chest. Arnie’s hands, forearms and face were latticed with scratches, some of them deep.
Jason’s heart thumped. After Arnie finished with him, he’d look much worse. He was too concerned about that to ask Arnie what had happened, but he was curious. He realized in that moment that his curiosity had gotten him here, staring at Arnie with no place to run.
“Come on, get in the truck, kid. You look like you’re gonna fall down.” Arnie started toward the truck which was sitting on the gravel road, one wheel of Jason’s bike visible in the back.
When Jason didn’t move to follow, Arnie stopped and turned around. “I’m not gonna pound you, if that’s what you think.”
Jason still couldn’t get his legs to move.
Arnie put his hands on his hips and glared at Jason. “Of course, if you piss me off…” he raised his eyebrows.
Jason walked stiff-legged to the truck. It was weird how Arnie called him “kid”. He was only a year older. Jason had always thought before that it was because Arnie was as big as a man, but now that he’d seen inside his mind, and Hector’s, he understood. Arnie was older.
Once they were both inside the truck, Arnie made no move to start it. He just sat with his hands on the steering wheel. “Look under the seat. I grabbed something out of my locker for you. I thought if I brought it, maybe I’d be allowed in there.” He looked down at the scratches on his arms. “But I guess not.”
Fingers trembling, and not knowing what the hell Arnie was talking about, Jason groped under the seat until he found a book. He pulled it out. “This?” he asked.
Arnie nodded.
Opening it, Jason found drawings of the white stone in his secret place. They were detailed schematics that had boxes of information pointing to various pressure points in the indentations in the stone. There were pages of information too, with titles like, “Astral travel” and “Preventing Host from sensing traveler”.
“You might want to read that one.” Arnie was leaning over his shoulder, reading. “That’s how I knew who you were. You…leaked some of your thoughts when you were freaked out.”
“Leaked?” Jason asked weakly.
“Yeah. The old man wasn’t very good at ‘occupying’ when he tried his shit with me. That’s how I figured out he was there. I saw—like a picture in my head—his cabin in the woods, the crazy white stone, a bunch of stuff before he screwed off out of me. I thought I was going nuts.” Arnie shook his head. “I went around for months thinking I was cracking up. You know, not enough sleep or something, waiting for some other crazy shit to happen.”
“Finally, I couldn’t stand worrying about it anymore, so I went into the woods looking for the cabin or the stone. If I looked for the stone, I got lost and the trees seemed to work against me.” Arnie held up his scratched arm. “I’ve hunted in these woods my whole life, but looking for the stone, I’d get turned around. Then, when I tried to find the cabin, there it was. And him, the old man, and his book.”
Jason realized he wasn’t afraid of Arnie at the moment, he was so caught up in the story.
“He’d been dead probably a week by the look and smell of him. This book was on the floor under his open hand, like he’d dropped it there. I just closed the bedroom door and left him in his bed. He was really old, I guess.”
“Did you try to find the stone again?” Jason asked.
“No point. The book says you only find it if it wants you to find it. The old guy figures it was his brain chemistry or something, some kind of match for the stone. But I don’t know, now that the stone picked you, I think it might be something else.”
“Like what?”
Arnie shrugged. “From what I could see in this guy’s cabin, Frank Talbot, was his name, he was a quiet, keep-to-himself, real smart kind of guy. Like you.”
Jason flushed. He had only a small circle of friends and was known as a “brainiac” by the other kids.
“Arnie,” Jason swallowed before bringing it up again, “when I, well you know, was in your head.”
Arnie flashed him a dirty look before staring back out the windshield.
“Well, you’re smart, really smart. You know it too. You know you’d do better in school if you didn’t miss so much time and if you weren’t so tired. And your old man—“
Arnie’s head whipped toward him again.
“Yeah, I ‘occupied’ him just before you. Anyway, he knows you’re smart too. It’s one of the things that scares him.”
“Nothing scares that bastard.”
“No. He’s scared. He’s scared you’ll graduate and leave him to run the garage alone. He’s scared of the alcohol because he’s…sick. He’s scared not to drink the alcohol, because it gets rid of the anger…” Jason trailed off because Arnie’s eyes were huge.
“He’s sick?”
“Yeah.”
Arnie stared out the window a while then started the truck. They were almost to the garage before he spoke again. “I know about the anger. It’s bad. I have it too, just like my old man.”
“No,” Jason dared to say. “Not like him at all.”
Arnie drove past the garage.
“Where’re you—”
“I’m driving you home. The book says the ‘Astral’ shit makes you real tired.”
Jason was emboldened by this kind gesture. “You’re not like him, Arnie. You can control it—he can’t.”
Arnie shrugged. “I control it most of the time. I’ve been losing it a bit with you lately.”
Jason noticed he didn’t apologize.
They pulled in to Jason’s driveway. His Mom’s car was there.
“Why? Why’d you get pissed at me?”
Arnie nodded at his mom’s car. “At first I felt bad about your dad dying, so I thought I’d talk to you about it. Your mom’s always so nice to me when she comes in to the garage.” Arnie rubbed his eyes. “I was going down to geek alley, uh sorry, to the end where you guys hang out. I overheard you whining to your friends about how your mom makes you do all these extra chores now, and look after your sister and shit. And I snapped, man. I just snapped. You may have lost your dad, but you still had a mother. An awesome mother. I wanted to smash your face in ever since.”
Still no apology.
Jason had felt a flash of anger when Arnie was talking, but thinking back to being in Hector’s head, he felt it evaporate. No wonder Arnie wanted to smash him. Hell, sometimes lately he wanted to smash himself.
“Thanks for the lift,” Jason reached for the door handle, but Arnie grabbed his arm.
“Listen. You’re okay, kid, but don’t ever try to get in my fucking head again.” Arnie applied pressure to his arm. “Got it?”
“Got it.” Jason climbed out, clenching his jaw.
Arnie chuckled.
Jason stared at him.
“You’re funny-looking when you’re pissed off.”
Jason flushed.
Arnie sighed. “This thing picked you, man. That’s beyond fucking cool. Do something worthwhile with it, why don’t ya? And…why don’t you drop by the garage in a couple of days with your mom’s car? It needs a lot of work.”
Jason raised his eyebrows. “Uh, okay. I mean, I’ll have to talk to Mom.”
Arnie waved his hand at him. “We’ll work out some kind of deal for the work.” He looked thoughtful. “There’s stuff I’d like to do besides work at the garage, you know.” This time Arnie turned red.
Jason knew exactly what he meant but he just smiled and said. “Okay.”
As he walked down his driveway, Jason thought about Arnie’s dreams of working on airplanes. He’d have to graduate for that.

§

Jason watched the girl clutching her books as she walked toward him, head down. Despite the warm spring day, she wore a long-sleeved t-shirt and dark jeans. She was trying to be invisible. He heard her think that when he was in her head.
He thought back to floating into her room last night. He’d been drawn to her house, to her room. He hovered inside watching as she used a razor blade to make little tiny cuts on her arms and legs. Shivering, he’d entered her body.
Lisa trembled with delight as the pain slid deliciously through her. It felt so good to cut. Nobody at school would talk to her again tomorrow, except to mock her and push her and pull her hair.
She paused, blade over her skin, as a thought coalesced in her mind. What if I make a friend? A real friend. I wouldn’t need to hurt myself anymore.
“That’s stupid,” Lisa muttered out loud. “I suck at making friends.”
I’m going to make a deal with myself. If I make a friend, one friend, I’ll stop hurting myself.
She stared at the blade longingly, but the idea appealed to her more than the pain. She laid it on the table. “Okay,” she said, “if one person talks to me tomorrow I won’t cut myself tomorrow night.” Smiling, she started to get ready for bed.
Jason surreptitiously watched Lisa walk toward his locker. He waited until she was flush with him and then whipped around, colliding with her.
Books and papers flew everywhere, his and hers.
Lisa froze, waiting for the inevitable attack or laughter that happened anytime anyone else knocked her stuff out of her arms.
Jason smiled as he started sorting out their things. “Sorry about that.”
She just stood there.
“Aren’t you going to help me?” Jason looked up at her, eyebrows arched.
Trembling, she knelt and began grabbing her things, eyeing him warily.
“Oops, I think this is yours. Hey, aren’t you in my Biology class. Is your name…Lisa?”
Her eyes widened and she nodded. “Yeah.”
“Cool. Listen, can I walk there with you? We’re supposed to pick lab partners for the next assignment. Do you have a partner yet?”
Lisa shook her head no. Her cheeks flushed pink and a small smile pulled at her mouth.
Jason grinned, pleased with himself.
Since he’d been back to school, he’d helped a few kids. It felt good.
After school he was supposed to meet Arnie at the garage. He was catching Arnie up on school stuff and in exchange, Arnie was working on his mom’s car. Arnie was picking stuff up fast and his marks had already started to improve.
One night during the week and for four hours on the weekend, Jason worked at the garage, covering for Arnie and making the same crappy wages. But it meant some pocket money for Jason, which was nice, and some extra sleep for Arnie, which was cool. His mom was thrilled with how well the car was running.
Sometimes, after his shift, Jason would walk into the woods behind the garage and go right to his spot. He could approach from anywhere now and a footpath would open up for him and lead him right to the stone. He didn’t have to wade through water anymore. The stone was making it easier for him. Maybe it approved of his work. Or maybe it just looked forward to the Astral Travel more and more now.
Frank had written something about it in his journal. The stone seemed to respond to him more and more—as if they were bonding. Jason had his own theories. The fact that the stone had responded to more than one person made him think that he could find others who could use it too. He planned to try to take his sister to the stone in case it was genetic—if the stone let him, of course. He could tell her he was taking her fishing again. He’d taken her last weekend and she had loved it. His mom had given him a watery smile. Dad used to take them fishing all the time.
He told Arnie about it later at the garage when they were working on some math questions.
Arnie’s eyebrows knitted for a minute. “Why do you want to take other people there? You gonna form some kind of super-kid club?” He said it with a tone of bitterness.
Jason shrugged and dropped it, returning to the math question. He felt bad. Arnie was no doubt still stinging over the fact that the stone wouldn’t let him near it.
Later he visited the stone, standing a few feet away as it glowed invitingly. He wasn’t sure he wanted to bring others there anyway. It made him feel a little…jealous thinking about it. But he was trying to get over it.
He had an important theory about the stone. He thought about the fact that every time he entered someone’s mind he could not only leak information or thoughts to them, but when he left their mind he maintained all of their knowledge about whatever they had learned or observed during their life. He barely had to study at all anymore.
A society of people who could do that would learn faster, accomplish more, accelerating all progress in all disciplines. What he, and others like him, could do with the stone was limitless. There was only one thing that bothered him about these theories.
Were they really his?
Staring at the stone’s pearly sheen he decided it didn’t worry him all that much. Kicking off his sneakers he leapt across to land on it in a crouch.
It pulsed in response and he smiled.

* * *

Previously an Associate Editor with The Scriptorium Webzine for Writers, Julie Serroul is now one third of the editorial triumvirate that is Third Person Press.  Her writing floats around a couple of subgenres in the realm of Speculative Fiction, hovering often in the supernatural or paranormal. Her short stories have appeared online at The Writer’s Head E-zine and the Practically Creative Quarter, and her non-fiction articles have appeared in The Scriptorium Webzine.  Her short story “Sanctuary” won second place in the annual Conestoga Short Fiction Competition, and recently, her story “Letters to Mom” appeared in a magazine of dark urban fantasy called Cover of Darkness.
Julie now lives with her husband, children and yellow lab in a log home overlooking the Brasd’Or Lake, but spent most of her teen years swimming in and exploring the many branches of the Frenchvale Brook.  Although she found several beautiful, nearly mystical swimming holes, none had a pearly white stone that allowed her astral travel. Or, if so, she’s not telling…


“Mud Pies” is from Third Person Press’s newest anthology, Unearthed. You can find the links to purchase any of our anthologies at the end of this free sampler, or by clicking to www.thirdpersonpress.com.

Mud Pies

by Nancy S.M. Waldman


	Cure for End-of-Summer Malaise
	1. Comfrey root (dried, crushed)
	2. Squash flowers (summer, pref. crookneck, no leaves, must 		be fresh)
	3. Gooseberries (pref. over-ripe)
	4. Oil of lavender
		Ratio of parts: 1, 10, 30, .025
	5. [S/I] - usual amt.
	Preparation: Combine and mash into a paste; 3 gramme pot
	Usage: to be eaten on toast/biscuits thrice a day until first fall 		leaf is spied on the ground.
 
§
 
“Freesia, dear...one more small thing. The chokeweeds are doing just that to our nasturtiums. Do take care of them after you’ve finished in here.”
Mother exited the room with her trademark flourishes of scarf and skirt while Freesia turned to the chore at hand. She flipped through the concoction cards Mother had given her. Poultices, pastes, teas. All of them were familiar necessaries that commonly ran short in late summer.
No need to read the recipes.
By heart, by heart, I know thee by heart. The old, romantic tune played in Freesia’s head as she gathered materials and set to work in the relative gloom of the Concocterie. Today was Sunday, catch-up day, the only day when the family took no clients.
As she crushed, measured, weighed, compared, steeped, stirred, bottled, packaged and labelled, Freesia’s hands and arms moved through bright stripes—evidence of the sunny day showing through slatted shutters—splayed across the smoothed-by-use wood of the work table.
Your prison bars, Freesia Caliche. For indeed, she thought of herself as a prisoner to the family’s mission.
The Clan Caliche had seen to the ailments, unrequited desires and emotional irregularities of the people in the town for as long as anyone could remember. Bryony, Freesia’s mother, had learnt the concoctions, constructions, spells, divinations, ruminations, sacred songs, evocations, and agricultural requirements from her mother and great-aunts and had, in turn, taught them to her daughters, Freesia and Ivy—now young adults. Their dear father Frederic, who once would have contentedly tended to the chokeweeds, had passed on a long time ago.
The Calling. Bryony had told her daughters from the time they could listen that it was their born duty to be in service to the people. “We are graced with abilities and knowledge that others do not possess. The Calling is our life!”
With mortar, pestle and fierce feelings, Freesia crushed crystal chips to a fine dust, wondering what it would be like to enjoy a sunny Sunday instead of working.
And so it was as it always had been until a stranger came to Caliche Hills.

§

	Cremeweed Confections
	Juice of 5-6 cremeweed stalks, boiled and strained
	Charcoal made from the oldest Vinberry branches, crushed
	Histerberry nuts made into a paste thinned with early 			morning rainwater
	Ground chalk from the riverbank
	Combine ingredients
	Season with vanilla, honey and spices to taste
	Bake into cakes, cookies, tarts
	Indications: common cold, congestion, allergies
 
§

Ivy whined from her apple-green tent, “Freesia, I need you!”
Instead of running over to help, Freesia telepathically sent her sister a case of uncontrollable sneezes. It was only wishful thinking, as she did not possess the power to transmit such a malady with only a thought, but it made her feel better to ponder it. She was extremely busy interviewing each person in the queue of clients that stretched down the poplar-bordered path.
She directed those needing simple agricultural remedies to Ivy, more complicated divinations, charms, and talismans to Mother, and the rest—those needing the grounding and emotional healing—to wait at Freesia’s lavender tent.
After speaking with the clients, she offered them a Caliche’s Mud Pie. The renowned tarts were prepared from the finest chocolate made from cacao trees grown on their land. Freesia suspected that some customers came just for this three-bite-sized treat.
So far today, she’d sent four women and one man to her tent. She’d see to them after finishing the triage and in-between fetching everything for everyone. All this, after working the gardens for three hours before the first client had shown up. Truly, the work was never done.
“Freesia!” Ivy’s whine had turned into a squeal.
Let her solve her own problem for once. Freesia had finally arrived at the last person in line and she was determined to finish this chore before moving to the next. “How may I help you?” she said, reaching into her basket to get a pie.
“I would like to ask you the same question,” the man answered. Looking up, Freesia realized she didn’t know him. Most customers were townspeople with whom she was well acquainted. “I come looking for information.” His elongated vowels, common to the people of the Eastern Realms, were not unpleasing to her ears.
“You need a divination, then?” Freesia pointed to a line in front of her mother’s tiger lily orange tent. “Go to that one. You’re last for today, so it’ll be a wait.”
Though they called them tents, these were permanent structures covered in paisley tapestries woven from the wool of the sheep who’d fed off the grass grown from their soil. They were orange, the largest, then lavender, apple green, down to the smallest, forget-me-not blue. Lines of customers waited under awnings edged with long fringe. Inside, the magically-enhanced tapestries kept them cool or warm, as needed. This day the tapestries were rolled up on two sides to accommodate summer breezes.
The man glanced in the direction she pointed, but quickly turned back to her. While his body emanated cucumber cool, his eyes reminded Freesia of popping, roasting, coffee beans. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Rihlad Caliche.”
“Caliche?”
He nodded his head slightly. “We share the same name.”
“I–I’ve never met anyone else with our surname.”
“When I heard of your family and your vocation, I became curious. I hope you don’t mind me dropping by.”
“Could we be...are we...related?”
He shook his head slightly causing a thick, black curl to fall over his left eyebrow. That eyebrow, also thick and black, raised slightly. “Distantly, perhaps. But my family has lived far from here for generations.”
“I see. So, you don’t need a divination?”
He smiled and his eyes finally matched the relaxation of the rest of his body. “Do you perform the divinations?”
“My mother Bryony usually takes those.”
“Are you capable?”
“Well, yes…it’s just how we divide up the work.”
“Could I make my appointment with you instead?
“It will be hours, I’m afraid.”
“I am happy to wait. The day is beautiful and your land is exquisite.” He rotated a full circle, his arms away from his body, palms open as if he were about to hug someone. He took in the swaying poplars—three times their normal height—the waving, lime-green grasses on rolling hills beyond the tents, the riot of colour in the perennial beds. “May I look around?”
“Hmm. All right. If you stay in this part of the property. We can’t have people tromping through the gardens.” She immediately felt stupid having said this, as the man exuded gracefulness. “Sorry. I’m sure you’d be careful. It’s just...”
“I understand. You must have rules. Perhaps I could have a small tour later on?”

§

Freesia handed her customer—a woman beset by incapacitating headaches—a small spade inlaid with crystals and turquoise. The two of them sat facing each other, cross-legged, near the back of the lavender tent on a mound of loamy soil. Between them a pitcher of milky liquid waited.
“Dig,” Freesia instructed.
The woman hesitated and then jabbed the tool into the dirt. She met resistance, brought the spade up and tried again. She glanced up, looking for more instruction, but Freesia’s eyes were closed as she chanted. The customer went back to work and dug a cone-shaped hole as deep as her forearm. A bit of white showed itself at the bottom. She reached down, hooked a finger under it and tugged. The long, fleshy root resisted at first and then gave way, coming and coming until she could pull it with both hands. 	
“Uungh!” The woman fell back as it finally came free.
“Mother Earth!” Freesia boomed. “Uproot her pain!” She poured the contents of the pitcher into the hole. It bubbled and frothed violently and then subsided. Freesia scooped up mud, kneaded it between both hands until it became like sticky, dark dough. She reached over and sculpted it onto the woman’s forehead, jaws and neck, and then escorted her client to a cot in the blue tent.
“Rest and let it work. I’ll be back later to check on you.” Before walking away, Freesia added, “If you want to feel better forever, you might consider changing husbands.”

§

	Mud Pie Filling
	makes 400 - 500 tarts
	7 canisters cocoa powder
	3 canisters almond flour
	3 bottles honey
	1 tin sweetsache syrup
	3 jugs Spiced Tea mixed with 1 can soybean powder
	1 can chopped Caliche nuts
	To taste: salt, vanilla bean curd, candied violets (crushed), 		cinnamon
	[S/I] - usual amt.
	Pour filling into prepared shells; bake 24 - 30 minutes

§

Rihlad, true to his word, waited patiently the whole afternoon and Freesia, for once forgetting her fatigue, went to him after Mrs. Headaches had gone away a happy customer. “Mr. Caliche? Are you ready?”
“Please,” he said, “Rihlad. Would it be possible for you think of me as a friend instead of customer?”
“Perhaps. You want a tour, I take it, and not a treatment?”
“If you please.”
Freesia, happy to be done with cures for the day, found that she enjoyed showing off her home grounds, perhaps because she had never had the occasion to do it before. Rihlad’s eager attentiveness didn’t hurt. He asked hundreds of questions, not only about the land, her family and their Calling, but also about Freesia herself.
“What do you want to do with your life?” he asked, as they sat on a bench near the honeysuckle trellis, the air around them swamped with sweet scent.
“I—well, this,” she said, indicating the farm, the tents.
“So you are perfectly content?”
“No. Is anyone?”
“I don’t know. Though if you are not content, what is it that would make you happy?”
“I’m happy.”
“Happi-er, then.”
Freesia sighed at Rihlad's relentlessness. “I would like to have my Sunday afternoons completely free from responsibility.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes,” she said, feeling a bit defensive. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. I don’t understand why this isn’t easily attainable.”
“Too much work. And I have to do the bulk of it.”
“Why?”
“It’s just the way it is.” Freesia pulled a honeysuckle blossom from its stem and brought it to her mouth, tasting its sweetness.
“You get uncomfortable every time I ask you about yourself.”
“I—I just realized that I haven’t even offered you something to drink.”
“Ah, there it is again. That denial of self.”
“I haven’t been a good hostess. I don’t have many guests to entertain.”
“I noticed there’s tension between you and your relatives.”
“What?”
“Freesia, I’m sorry to be so forward, but it’s so obvious. I had nothing to do this afternoon but observe. On three separate occasions you and Ivy—is that your sister’s name?”
Freesia nodded.
“You and Ivy argued.”
“So?”
“What’s that about?”
Freesia sighed. “I’m tired all the time. We have too much work and Ivy tends to be lazy. She relies on me for things she should be capable of. Mother, too.”
While she spoke so candidly, Freesia admired the expressive arch of Rihlad’s eyebrows. “I let it get to me...in the heat of the moment.” She smiled slightly, waving her hand in front of her face. “Today there were a lot of hot moments! It’s just our way.”
“If you feel so overworked, why don’t you do something about it? You’re a grown woman.”
“It’s not so bad.”
“I see. Well, I have another explanation.”
“About?”
“Why you allow these issues to continue without doing anything about it.”
Her voice and body stiffened. “You don’t even know me.”
He continued unabated. “I observed today that your mother is controlling things.”
“Naturally. She’s our mother. She’s in charge.”
“To the point of using magic on you?”
“What?”
“She’s using magic to control you and Ivy.”
Freesia felt her ears heat up. “That’s ridiculous. She would never do that. Magic for what purpose? We have our hands full taking care of everyone else. We have no need of—no time to—” She looked into his eyes, leafed with long lashes. “Why do you think that?”
“While you were in the heat of battle with Ivy, your mother knelt and threw something to the ground. Curvy sticks or rods—”
“Petrified locust pods. She would have been using those in a spell for one of her clients.”
“While facing you? No customer around, Freesia. As soon as she finished and gathered up her seed pods, you lost all steam, turned away from Ivy and went back to work. This happened on three separate occasions.”
Freesia did not want to accept this information. She stood up. “I must go. I have chores to do.” She put out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Rihlad. Thanks for dropping by.”
“I have offended you.”
“Not really. I just know that you are mistaken. And, it has been a long day”
“Please don’t shut me out. It is our way in the East to be direct. I meant no harm and…I like you. It seems that you could use a friend. Might I be allowed to visit?”
Freesia felt flustered and didn’t know what to say. She had never had a friend outside the family, much less a male friend.
What would Mother think? That thought made her stiffen. Why shouldn’t I have a friend? Why should a mother object to that? Could she be controlling Ivy and me with our own magic? Could it be true?
“You would be welcome, Rihlad.”

§

	Calling Forth Faeries
	NEVER DO THIS EVOCATION WHILST ALONE!
	Where:
		Corner of the herb garden courtyard nearest the berry patch
	When:
		Dark of night
	Liquid ingredients:
		Icicle water from the previous winter
		Summer dew gathered from the jacoby plant
			Combine and pour into the smallest aspergil
	Dry ingredients:
		Pink Isling quartz, ground (1/4 dramme)
		Pink clover flowers (four-leaf plants only - dried, ground and 			prepared with S/I)
	Combine; distribute equally to 12 kadji dishes.
	Stack and wrap tightly for transport
	Gathering:
		Faerie nets, one for each person present
		Silk drawstring bags
	Method:
		Carefully move the garden orb and stand in its spot
		Place the dishes in a circle around the evocateur
		Expound the evocation as outlined in EV-5, page 323, while 			sprinkling the liquid over the dry
	Repeat as necessary
	Caution:
		Evoked faeries are often even more ill-tempered than usual. 		Wear protective gear.
 
§
 
The next day and the next and for all the days until Rihlad returned, Freesia tried to catch her mother casting spells on her or her sister. It turned out to be a difficult thing to disprove because when in the moment—fighting with Ivy or arguing with her mother or simply huffing off in disgust at being, yet again, told to do something that wasn’t fair—Freesia didn’t have the ability to observe the scene objectively.
Frustrating to be sure; however, just the awareness that it might be happening loosened Freesia’s mind from habitual patterns of thinking. She wondered, for the first time, what would happen if she refused to work when she felt too tired. She had no idea because it had never happened. Often she lost her temper, but always, she obeyed. Freesia began to realize that this might not be normal.
Rihlad had planted the seed that it might be possible for her to take control of her life. She wanted him to come back so that he might move this possibility along.
Her mother noticed the difference in her. “Are you feeling all right?” she asked one evening when Freesia didn’t get up immediately after having been asked to bundle herbs for drying.
“I’m fine.”
“Then why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Your eyes look feverish.” Mother placed a hand on Freesia’s cheek.
“I’m not sick.”
“Something’s wrong. Let me make you a soothing tea.”
Freesia shook her mother’s hand away and stomped off to the Herberie to do her work.

§

The next time Rihlad showed up, Freesia snuck him into the garden shed. She didn’t want her mother to know that she had a friend.
“I don’t have long. Thanks for coming back.”
“I don’t mind waiting for you. How are things going?”
Freesia told him of her frustrations.
“You believe me then?”
“I’m suspicious for the first time in my life.”
His face gave in to a slow smile. “What will you do?”
“Fight magic with magic, I guess.”
“Hmm.”
“What?”
“Maybe you should try talking to her first.”
“I never thought of that.”
“It might work. And it would easier than fighting.”
“I doubt it. I really do have to go now. I’m sorry.”
“I’ll wait for you to finish working. Am I trusted enough that I may wander around?”
“All right. But watch out for Mother. If she sees you, she’ll give you a tongue lashing.”
He laughed. “Or worse.”

§

Bolstered by Rihlad’s visit, Freesia gathered her resolve that evening. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Mother, things need to change around here.” Bryony glanced up from her embroidery only briefly, but Freesia had Ivy’s full attention. “I want us to close on Saturdays as well as Sundays.”
“Whatever for?” Mother didn’t look up.
“Excellent idea!” said Ivy.
“Because we are all overworked. I have no life. I’m exhausted all the time and need a day each week to get a little rest.”
Mother’s sewing plopped in her lap. “As usual, Freesia, you haven’t thought this through. If we cut back to five days a week, that will mean more clients and longer hours on the days we’re open. The amount of work is the same whether it’s spread over five or six.”
“Could we discuss it?”
“I like the idea,” Ivy repeated.
“Shush,” Mother said.
“No. We won’t.”
“What did you say?”
“We are grown women, Mother. Do not tell us to ‘shush’.”
“You’ve always been given to these outbursts, Freesia, but more so lately.” She put away her sewing and tossed her violet stole around her shoulders as she rose from the chair.
“Where are you going?”
“To make you a soothing, hot toddy. I’ve had enough of your sass for one night.” Bryony left the room.
Freesia, her brow furrowed, turned to Ivy. “Did I sound impertinent or thoughtless or...insane?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so either. She controls us, Ivy. I’ve only now realized it. We have to talk, because one way or another, things are going to change around here.”
When Bryony returned with the magicked beverage, her daughters had vanished.

§

“If I feel strongly about something,” Freesia said, “there comes a moment when—whoosh—my emotion disappears as if a flame has blown out. It’s happened all my life, so I assumed it was normal.”
She and Rihlad stood in the privacy of the Concocterie where Freesia felt free to talk. Rihlad had his back to her while perusing the floor-to-ceiling shelves of jars, bottles and vials.
“Stunning,” he said, turning to face her. “How very convenient for Bryony.” He walked to the work table and picked up the stack of concoction cards that constituted Freesia’s next chore.
“I must stop her! It’s not right.”
“How?” he asked, studying one of the cards.
Freesia took them from him. “Fight magic with magic. There must be a spell that can ward off all magic.”
“You’ve never run across one?”
She shook her head. “Never. But there are volumes of spells and potions we have no use for. We use the same magic over and over. People rarely show up with a complaint that we haven’t seen thousands of times. And, Mother keeps Ivy and me so busy that we don’t have time to do research.”
“I have time.” His eyebrows arched eagerly, and the earnest little heart in Freesia’s chest rose with them.

§

Freesia shouted at Ivy. “If you need Calming Tea, fetch it yourself!”
“But I’m with a customer and you’re up.”
“I’d be with a customer too, if you’d stop bothering me. Anyway, you’re up now.”
On cue, Ivy had come out of her tent. The sisters stood facing each other at the intersection just behind the green and lavender tents. Freesia, hands akimbo, feet spread apart, could, out of the corner of eye, see Bryony emerging from her tent.
“You lazy cow!” she said to Ivy.
“Why you self-righteous—”
As planned, both girls turned their heads at that moment to witness Bryony casting a spell. Their mother didn’t notice that they had stopped arguing. Her lips moved, while her eyes focused on her pods.
Watching her, Freesia realized that her mother didn’t seem upset or tense. She’s done this thousands of times before. All my life. Freesia turned her head and nodded at Ivy. They approached their mother just as she looked up.
“What—?” Bryony said.
“It’s over, Mother,” Freesia answered.
Bryony bent down and quickly gathered her locust pods, stuffing them in her pouch. “What?” she asked again, clearly confused as to why her daughters hadn’t calmly gone back to work.
Ivy spoke. “Your magic won’t work. We’ve protected ourselves from your interference.”
Mother regained her composure. “With what have you ‘protected’ yourself?”
“We are on to you,” Freesia said. “Agree that you will stop using magic to control us!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mother, we know,” Ivy said.
“We’re warning you,” Freesia said, raising her voice. “Cease and desist!”
Bryony looked around. It was late in the day. Most of the customers had gone, but those remaining had walked around the side of the tent to see about the commotion. “Girls, we’ll talk later. Go back to work. We have people to tend to.”
“Now. Tell us that you will stop using magic on us.”
“Or, what?”
Freesia glanced over at Ivy, who shrugged and then reached behind her back, pulling a willow limb out of her satchel. “Agree to our terms!”
Mother looked alarmed, but then her face clouded over and the storm erupted. “The sass! The nerve!” she yelled, striding closer to her daughters.
“Stay!” Freesia shouted.
By now, all the customers watched, including Rihlad, who had a huge smile on his face. He meandered through the small crowd, handing something to each person.
Ivy brandished her lithe wand and uttered the words she’d practiced: “Still the core~Move no more~Silent, static, and still o’er.”
Freesia winced. She’d said it wrong. “Ivy! It’s supposed to be ‘still and static’.”
“Amateurs.” Bryony’s eyes rolled, and then glazed over. Freesia knew her mother was about to hit them with something.
She and Ivy had cast a cone of protection around themselves from a spell Rihlad had found in the Olde Volumes. It had worked against Bryony’s initial magic, but there was no telling what kind of strong powers Mother had in her arsenal.
Bryony’s mouth moved.
Freesia reached deep into her commodious apron pocket for her next trick, the one she, Ivy and Rihlad had evoked the night before with great and delightful success. She pulled out a large, squirming silk bag.
Bryony’s eyes widened. Her mouth moved faster.
Ivy continued to brandish her wand, attempting to get the words right. “Do not move~Still your body~Static o’er the—”
Freesia lifted her hood over her head with one hand, while holding the roiling bag in the other, at arm’s length. She rapidly closed the distance between herself and her mother, just as Bryony exclaimed, “Uchilswak Selaswak!”—two words Freesia had never heard before.
Freesia yanked the drawstring of her bag and released the contents, saying simply, “Bother Bryony!”
Forty-five foul-tempered faeries descended on her mother. At the same moment, Bryony’s spell hit.
The heavy fabric of the tents lifted and slapped, the popular trees bent and swayed, the awnings pulled from their pylons and whipped in a sudden, violent wind. Heavy, hard, stinging rain fell. The bystanders screamed, cowered, covered their heads and ran away down the lane.
The first gust upended Ivy. She lay—stunned—in what was fast becoming a muddy paddock. Freesia, soaked to the skin in seconds, held onto the tent pole to keep from being swept away by the howling wind. She could barely see her mother through the deluge.
She tried to focus, to remember something, anything, any magic spell that might somehow stop this, but her mouth was dry, her arms sore and her brain scattered to the four winds—which all seemed to be blowing at once. She closed her eyes to the pounding rain and all she could bring forth was a childhood prayer: “Keep me safe, keep me calm, keep me, Goddess, from malice and harm.”
The rain stopped. Freesia opened her eyes, amazed that the storm vanished so suddenly. It seemed a miracle until she looked over at her mother and realized why. Bryony couldn’t keep the spell going. Faeries pulled her hair, pinched her cheeks, poked her eyelids, kicked at her ears, nose and lips and climbed under her clothing, doing lord-knows-what.
Freesia looked over at her sister, who was mired in mud, chocolate brown from head to foot.
Ivy nodded.
Turning back to her besieged mother, Freesia pulled out a packet of crushed clover pods mixed with pink quartz dust. She walked with mincing steps across the slippery ground to her mother’s side and flung the packet with a mighty flourish so that the contents coated her mother’s head and shoulders.
“Be GONE!”
And they were.
No more faeries.
No more rain or wind.
No more customers.
No more Rihlad.
The three bedraggled women paused in the silence and calm for a few long minutes. Then, Ivy struggled to her feet. Barefooted, because her shoes were stuck in the mud, she walked over and picked up a white card—one of dozens lying on the ground.
She read:

Grand Opening!
Rihlad Caliche
Magician, Sorcerer, Healer
Number 2, Towns Way
Reasonable Rates
~now you have a choice of Caliches~
 

§
 
Later, after they’d all bathed, rested and eaten a meal that they cooked together, the Caliche women sat around the kitchen table and talked.
The mud-smeared card lay in the centre of the table.
“I am a fool,” Freesia said. “How could I have let him trick me?”
Ivy patted her hand.
“Stop crying,” Mother said. “I take full responsibility.”
“No! I was the one who let him wander around freely. Who actually encouraged him to go into our archives and see our magical spells and potions. He’s stolen our magic. He even knows how much we charge so he can under-cut us! We’re ruined.”
Ivy said, “He couldn’t have copied all our magic, Freesia. That would take forever. He probably just—”
Fresh wails came from Freesia, “—took all the concoction cards that we use every day. The medicine that cures 95% of the ailments we treat!”
Bryony sighed as she rose to stoke the fire. “Freesia, you really must calm down.”
“Punish me! Banish me! I deserve it!”
“Stop.” The word cut into Freesia’s hysterics like steel to butter. “Listen to me, daughters. I will tell you what we are going to do.”
Ivy handed Freesia a handkerchief.
Freesia blew her nose.
Both girls looked at their mother.
“Nothing.”
“But—” Ivy said.
“But, nothing.” Bryony sat down and took their hands in hers. “I’m the fool. I, like you, worked all my life. I put my head down and just did what I was told. When I became a woman, I had my dear Frederic as my helpmate.” She stopped for a moment, her eyes focused on nothing, a slight smile showing. She shook away the memories and looked back at Ivy and Freesia. “I knew I had to educate my daughters well. But then your dear father died and all I had was what I’d always done: the work. I didn’t take time to think about you as people. I didn’t take time to think about the future.”
“And now our future is ruined!” More tears spilled down Freesia’s face.
“No. To the contrary. Now we will have a better future.”
“How?”
“First of all, we have a competitor. What will that mean?”
“We won’t have any customers,” Freesia said.
“You think the people we’ve helped all these years will simply turn away just because someone else opens a similar business?”
Ivy said, “I don’t think so. Some will be loyal to us.”
“Exactly. And if some go to this Rihlad character initially, what will that mean?”
Freesia looked up with red-rimmed eyes. “It—it will mean fewer customers.”
“Yes. And fewer customers means...”
“Less work!” Ivy shouted.
“Is that okay with you?” Freesia asked.
Her mother squeezed her hand. “Yes. Yes.” She took Ivy’s hand again. “What you did today, taking such a strong stand against me…it shook me out of a…a lifelong spell I’ve been under. If you were naive with Mr. Caliche—if that is his name—then it’s because you’ve had no experience in the world, or with men.”
“I’m not stupid.”
Mother smiled. “Certainly not. But that’s the thing about charming men. They can weave their own kind of magic and cause us to become silly and senseless. That’s why you need more experience. I’m thinking that a little travel would be good for you both. Perhaps, we can hire an apprentice…or two.”
Freesia looked at Ivy with wide eyes. More help? Less work? Seeing the world? Dreams come true?
Mother got up and started pacing. She tapped her forehead repeatedly. “Where was my head? What was I thinking? How can we hope to continue the work here if my beautiful daughters don’t find husbands and have families of their own?”
“But what about Rihlad?” Freesia asked, suddenly miserable again. “Over time, he could take all our customers. What if he ruins us?”
Mother started laughing. It was a deep rolling, belly laugh that went on and on. Without knowing why, Ivy started laughing too. Freesia couldn’t resist, and the three of them shuddered in unfounded glee until their sides hurt and coughing spasms made them stop.
When she could finally speak, Freesia said, “What was that about?”
“In all that I’ve taught you about this—” Mother expanded her arms and hands in a wave that included their world. “Our magic, our heritage, our riches. Did I forget to teach you what is the essential and necessary ingredient that makes all the magic work?”
Freesia’s mind flickered over everything she knew. The teas and rubs, mud packs and poultices, plants and roots and tendrils. The vineyards and wild weeds of the fields, the wool of the sheep who’d eaten the hay grown on the land, the fibres, the reeds, the flowers and beneath it all, the soil, and all that it held.
“It won’t work,” she said, calm for the first time all night. “He could have stolen every spell in our library, and it wouldn’t matter.” She looked at her mother, and then her sister with clear eyes. “The magic won’t work because he doesn’t have the source of our power: the ground we live on.”
They sat in reverent silence for few moments.
Then, Ivy said, “While it’s true that the soil is the main source of magic, there is also talent.”
Mother nodded. “True.”
“What do you mean?” asked Freesia.
Ivy’s voice became more confident. “You think I depend on you because I’m lazy, and maybe I am, a little, but the real reason is because you are better than I am.”
Freesia started to scoff, but her mother cut in. “There really is no discussion, Freesia. You’re gifted at discernment and insight and empathy whereas Ivy and I are more…skilled technicians. We have magic at our disposal, but you make it come alive. We rely on you, because you make better magic than we do.”
Freesia felt overcome. Her thoughts roamed wildly with the possibilities spread out in front of her. Rest, recuperation. Travel. Perhaps a husband and even children, someday. Finally, she thought of Rihlad. “You know Mother, Ivy and I delved into old volumes in the library that we’d never seen before. I ran across a few spells that I’d love to try.”

§

Two weeks later, a small box, beautifully wrapped, appeared at #2 Towns Way. Rihlad, happy to take a break from the never ending need to make more teas and potions, answered the door and took the gift from the courier. The accompanying card read,

	Dear Rihlad,
	
	While we do not approve of your underhanded methods, we—	your Caliche cousins—appreciate all that you’ve done to improve our lives and wish for you all that you deserve.
	
	No hard feelings,
	Bryony, Ivy and Freesia
	
	Inside, in sparkly tissue paper, nestled a Mud Pie. Rihlad’s mouth watered and he immediately tucked in, consuming it in one huge bite, instead of the traditional three.
 
§

	True Mud Pie Filling
	 - makes 1 tart
	2 T cocoa powder
	1 T boskbelle root flour
	5 tsp honey
	2 tsp maple syrup
	½ c. spiced tea mixed with 1 T fueque powder
	2 tsp chopped Caliche nuts
	1 heaping c. mud from the lake bank (east side)
	To taste: salt, vanilla bean curd, candied violets (crushed), 		cinnamon, [secret ingredient – unnecessary; it’s in the mud]
	Pour filling into prepared shell; bake 9 - 12 minutes; cool 	before eating
	
	Effects:
	1. Temporary, though at times acute, digestive complications
	2. Prolonged inability to lie
	Repeat as necessary.

* * * * *

Nancy S.M. Waldman writes speculative and mainstream fiction and is one of the three founders of Third Person Press. Her speculative stories can be found in Third Person’s first two books, Undercurrents (2008) and Airborne (2010). Her mainstream publications include The Nashwaak Review (2010) and The Men’s Breakfast (Breton Books, 2011). Nancy lives with her husband, Barry, in a brightly painted, 112 year-old house in Cape Breton. She loves to cook, make art, shoot photos, and garden, even if the soil isn't magical. Her writing website is at nancysmwaldman.com.

 
We hope you’ve enjoyed this small sampling of stories from our anthologies. There are many more to be found in the pages (and virtual pages!) of Undercurrents, Airborne, and Unearthed. Visit our website or any of the retailers listed below to find our books.

Undercurrents
The Speculative Elements, v. 1

The landscape of Cape Breton writing doesn’t necessarily begin at the Canso Causeway and end at the Cabot Strait. The fourteen stories in Undercurrents ply the literary oceans of time and space, possibility and imagination.
Inside are stories that ripple and swell with the unusual: fiddle-playing ghosts, malevolent cats, urbane vampires, and ordinary folks who have drifted into realms of the extraordinary.
Available at www.thirdpersonpress.com, www.amazon.ca/.com, www.smashwords.com, kobobooks.com, Coles, and other fine stores around Cape Breton Island.
~ in print and electronic versions ~



Airborne
The Speculative Elements, v. 2

Stories and poems that breathe unexpected possibilities into the atmosphere that surrounds and fills us. Take flight with these tales and explore what is always elusive: microscopic particles, airwaves, wind, space, sound, and spirit.
These talented writers—all with a connection to Cape Breton Island—share stories of timeless love, enchanted flight, punkish cybercrime, unexpected gifts of healing, journeys beyond imagining, past lives on Scottish Isles, the knock at the door you never want to answer, and much more.
Available at www.thirdpersonpress.com, www.amazon.ca/.com, www.smashwords.com, kobobooks.com, Coles, and other fine stores around Cape Breton Island.
~ in print and electronic versions ~



Unearthed
The Speculative Elements, v.3


Earth--the ground of our being, the dust from which we come, and to which we will return. Imagine what might arise from and disappear into the soil...what grows, what is buried, what teems unseen.
This collection, exploring the ends of the Earth and beyond, offers tales from the depths of darkness: zombies, vampires, murky unknowable worlds, underground prisons, malevolent spirits--to the lightest heights: earthen magic, little people, buried treasure and fantastical creatures! Dig in. These twenty-one stories will thrill, scare, surprise and delight.
Available at www.thirdpersonpress.com, www.amazon.ca/.com, www.smashwords.com, kobobooks.com, Coles, and other fine stores around Cape Breton Island.
~ in print and electronic versions ~


Also from Third Person Press

To Unimagined Shores
Collected Stories by Sherry D. Ramsey

What sorts of things wash up on unimagined shores? Hitch-hiking aliens. Kidnapped embryos. Victorian time-machines. Spaceport detectives. Itinerant scribes. Otherworldly companions.
The discerning beachcomber will discover even more curiosities on the pages within: physicists and journalists, wizards and apprentices, angels and devils, telepaths and aliens. The seventeen stories in this collection are by turns funny, tragic, light-hearted and serious, but all share this in common: they will carry you to distant shores of imagination, and, once there, show you things you hadn’t known before.
“Sherry D. Ramsey’s short stories are filled with vibrant characters, good writing, and thrum with humanity, even when there aren’t many actual humans in the story. Fans of speculative fiction should definitely check out To Unimagined Shores.”
~ Mark A. Rayner, author of The Amadeus Net and Marvellous Hairy.

Available in print and electronic versions from www.thirdpersonpress.com and your favourite online booksellers.

***

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