Set in the world of the Dark Ability. A short story featuring the early days of the assassin Galen.

I could barely stand. Fire seemed to burn through my legs making them weak, a sensation I recognized from the last time Isander tried to poison me. I had no idea what he hoped me to learn this time.

“How do you feel?” He stood with his back to me, facing the small ceramic basin. 

I saw the shock of white hair and the top of his ears and wondered if the poison made my Sight fail me. I struggled to make my jaw work. “Pain. Fire.” I took a shuddering breath as my flesh boiled. “Undo this, Isander,” I begged.

Instead, he turned and walked from the room. 

My legs buckled, finally giving way from pain or weakness. I collapsed to the wooden floor in a heap. New pain surged through my body where it struck hard wood, but not enough to overwhelm the agony burning through my body. 

Horror washed over me as I recognized the poison. Srirach. Tasteless. Odorless. No wonder I had not recognized it in my wine. As far as I knew, no antidote existed.

Forcing myself up onto my arms, I crawled toward the cabinet on the far side of the room. This was a test, I decided, and I needed to pass; Isander had no reason to kill me, at least not yet. If I could reach the cabinet, I could find Isander’s stock of herbs, could try and delay the effect of the poison that now burned my blood. Then I could find Isander and beg with him to reverse the effect of the srirach.

But when I reached the cabinet, I was too weak to pull myself up. Through the glass, I saw the rows of vials and jars, each tantalizingly close but each just far enough out of reach. With one final surge, I tried again to stand, but failed, collapsing again to the ground. This time, I hit my head. Pain blackened my vision before I passed out.

***

When I awoke, I had memories of the pain that had burned through me, but no longer felt the burning that once worked through my body. I rested on a small cot—my cot, I realized—and the room was darkened with shades covering the windows. My tongue felt thick and strange. Muscles seemed cramped and achy, but not as they had before I hit the ground.

I heard something moving near the edge of the room and struggled to lift my head. Isander stood there, again in front of a basin, though this time facing me. 

“You recognize the plant?” he asked.

“Srirach.” Somehow I managed to make the word with my mouth, in spite of the fact that my tongue seemed to rebel against me. 

I had hoped for more of a reaction from him but, as usual, Isander enjoyed disappointing me. I do not know what I expected of him—perhaps regret, perhaps shame at how I had suffered—but I got nothing but his stare. 

“Are you certain?” he asked.

I felt certain of nothing, but remembered with painful clarity the way my body had betrayed me. From my lessons with Isander, there were only a few poisons that worked like that. Of course, I should not have survived if poisoned by srirach.

Isander waited for my answer; he would say nothing until I decided one way or another.

“How?” I had unstopped the wine bottle. I had poured it into the glass. If any could have been poisoned, it would have been Isander.

This time, he smiled. “The glasses. And just a tiny amount.”

“But I chose them,” I said. He nodded slightly and with a sickening horror I understood. He had poisoned them all. “But you…”

“You think this the first time I have felt the effects of srirach?” he asked. “If you are to treat the effects of these plants, then you should know firsthand what to expect.”

“But there is no antidote.”

“No? Then how is it that you live?”

I did not have the answer to that. “What is it?” I pushed myself up from the cot. A wave of dizziness and nausea worked through me as I sat. When he didn’t answer I knew it to be another sort of test; as far as I knew, at least this time my life was not at stake. “Holly oak? Teln berry?” They both had healing properties and counteracted many of the poisons I had been introduced to during my time with Isander. He still didn’t answer. “Milk thistle? Carrom leaves?” I closed my mouth as a sudden urge to vomit struck and leaned back on the cot.

Isander stepped over to me. His hands ran over my face as he examined me, turning it roughly, forcing my mouth open and checking my neck. Satisfied, he let me go. So different than the last healer I had apprenticed. I often wondered what would have become of me had I not been exiled from Elaeavn.

“Srirach is almost always fatal,” Isander started. 

I recognized the tone; what he said now was important and he expected me to remember. If I didn’t, the next time the test might be more severe. 

“Victims suffer painful spasms and paralysis, though their mind remains clear. A truly horrid way to die.”

“Why?” I asked. “Why would anyone ever use something like that?” Though I no longer felt its effects, the memory of the srirach still felt painful. My training taught me to help others, not harm them. Why would Isander teach me this?

At first, I was not sure if Isander would answer. “Victims must truly be deserving of such brutality.” 

Could anyone ever truly deserve such a fate? 

Isander took a step away from the cot. I opened my eyes and watched him. His lined face tightened and his pale green eyes focused. 

“Surprising that a plant so easy to acquire can be so dangerous. Thankfully, few can recognize it, though the leaves are quite distinctive. The stalk must be cracked before the liquid at its center can be drained.” Isander held a plant up for me. It had a woody stalk and wide brown leaves.

He handed the plant to me and I took it cautiously before trying to crack the long stalk. It bent but did not break.

“You must score the edge of the stalk first.” He demonstrated by drawing his knife along the edge of the stalk. Then he pressed slowly until there was a soft crack. He turned the plant over and a single drop fell to the floor. “Very little can be harvested per plant. Another reason srirach is often overlooked. But, as common as it is, few agents counteract the effects of srirach. Usual healing agents for poisoning such as holly oak and teln berry are ineffective. A combination of two parts milk thistle, one part teln, and three parts red angerer stalk can work but combining them is often difficult and must be exact to be effective. Tchinth extract, warmed and mixed into wine or water is effective, though finding tchinth is usually too difficult and expensive.” He looked down at me, an opening for questions. When I had none, he went on. “I used narcass. Only fresh leaves are effective against srirach. I just so happened to acquire a supply recently.”

I remembered seeing them. The leaves were a spotted brown with streaks of crimson running through. They smelled sickly sweet and had sharp edges. I had thought the narcass simply another poisoning agent and felt a flush of surprise that those leaves had saved my life. Perhaps that was Isander’s real lesson.

Isander turned to the door and started out of the small room. “When you can stand, you will travel into town. I need paper and ink.”

He did not wait for my answer. 

I lay back on the cot and sighed. The lesson for today was over.

***

I reached the village Wesvin by evening, not daring to wait until morning. The sun dipped toward the horizon as I approached and a cool wind gusted out of the north. 

The walk from Isander’s farm to the village served the purpose of clearing my head as well as rebuilding the strength in my legs. I wondered how long I would feel weakened by the srirach though decided not to ask. I suspect that was another lesson Isander wanted me to learn first hand.

As I walked, I was surprised to discover that Isander had been right about srirach. Gifted by Sight from the Great Watcher, I had never noticed how prominently the plants grew along the side of the road, though I had never truly looked—or known what I was Seeing—before now. A particularly dense thicket grew near a copse of trees right on the outskirts of the village. Long thorned holly oak grew nearby. Growing wild like that made it look so harmless. I shuddered as I remembered the effects. 

The village lay in the midst of a small valley. The wide Narahn River flowed through the village as it made its way toward the distant ocean, though I wondered how many in Wesvin knew the river eventually emptied into the sea. I passed the small farm sites on the outer edge of the village and hurried as quickly as I could, wanting to acquire Isander’s paper and ink before shops closed for the evening. I patted my small pouch where I held empty vials for the ink, making certain they were safe. If they were damaged, I did not have enough coin to purchase new glass.

The road led along the river and curled into town. A strange twin masted fishing vessel pulled into the dock as I approached. Faded red and green paint along the sides should have told me its origin, but having only been apprenticed to Isander for a year, I did not know enough about such things as I should. The ship’s captain, a thick armed man with strange tattoos worked onto his arms and face, glanced at me a moment before dismissing me as he turned to another man of his crew. The other man had a shorn head. He held a faded set of chains in his hands. A long scar ran across one cheek. A heavy silver hoop pierced through his left ear; the right was missing. They argued for a moment before the scarred man grabbed a coiled rope from the deck of the ship and tossed it toward the dock, hopping off the edge of the ship and tying it to the dock.

I reached the small strip of stores lining the river’s edge. A few appeared still open, though most of the noise I heard seemed to come from the tavern near the end of the street. The tavern made me think of Brin, one of the few people in Wesvin I considered a friend. Likely she would be working tonight. Music drifted out of an open door and the scent of roasted meet and fresh bread overpowered the stink of fish I smelled along the water. My stomach rumbled and I realized that with my poisoning—Isander’s lesson—I had missed lunch.

I looked longingly down the road, deciding that I would stop for something to eat before returning to Isander once I acquired his supplies. It did not matter to him how late I returned, only that I was successful. 

Stopping at the store I needed—a small building with a peaked roof and a pale yellow sign that had long since lost its lettering—I tried the door only to find it locked. 

My delayed recovery had kept me from reaching Wesvin in time.

I sighed, debating whether I would return tonight or simply wait here until morning. Already I knew what I had to do; Isander would not be pleased my recovery precluded my ability to acquire his supplies. 

I was drawn toward the tavern by the music and the smells. Inside, a flutist stood near the back wall playing a buoyant melody while a man playing a strange stringed instrument strummed along with him. A fire crackled along the side wall in a massive stone hearth, pushing back the growing chill of the evening air. Nearly a dozen rough-hewn tables already looked occupied. Some people diced while others simply dined and drank. Four men played darts along one wall and I overheard them arguing over how many dronr were at stake; it was a game I would have enjoyed if not for the fact that my Sight gave an unfair advantage. 

I found a small table along the side and out of the way and dropped into the chair. A waitress made her way over to me. She had an easy smile and bright blue eyes. Golden hair ran in curls down her back. 

“Galen,” she said as she approached. “Does Isander know you are here?”

I had known Brin almost as long as I had been in Wesvin. When I got off the small trawler heading upriver, she had been near the docks buying the day’s catch off local fishermen. She had guided me to his house outside of town, knowing him only as the local healer. She was a friend, possibly my only one.

I shook my head. “He sent me for supplies.”

She glanced at the table and saw that I was empty handed. “Success?” 

“A test, I think. And no success.” She laughed but it didn’t reach her eyes. Instead, I Saw the fatigue there, the way her jaw clenched just a bit as she spoke. “Sit for a moment, Brin,” I suggested.

As I spoke, the captain and two of his men came into the tavern. They scanned the place, the man missing the ear sneering as he glanced to the dirt floor and the small bar. The captain shoved the other man forward. Thin and sharp eyed, he moved with a lithe sort of grace telling me that he knew how to use the short sword strapped to his waist. When he reached a table in the corner, he only had to glare at the pair of men dicing there before they grabbed their tankards and dice and moved. The captain looked over and saw Brin. He tapped the scarred man on the shoulder. A dark smile came to his face.

Brin sighed. “Back to work,” she said. Though I was no Listener, I recognized the reticence in her voice. “I’ll get you dinner and your first drink. After that it’s on you.”

“And a room?” I asked.

She smiled and this time it did reach her eyes. “What kind of test did you say this was?” 

The worst kind, I thought but did not say. 

“You can stay in the loft for free. Father won’t mind.”

“You mean you won’t tell him.”

She tilted her head and leaned toward me. I pretended not to notice the soft scent of lavender clinging to her skin. “Like I said—he won’t mind.”

I laughed, finally feeling better. Brin had the effect on me. Unlike others in Wesvin, the color of my eyes and the height declaring I was from Elaeavn did not bother her. As long as I had known her, she had asked no questions about my past, although she knew that only the Forgotten left Elaeavn.

“Don’t worry, Galen. Whatever else Isander does to you, know that the Great Watcher looks over you.” She tapped me on the shoulder and headed toward the bar.

***

I sat in the stable loft and shifted on the dusty wooden surface while trying to get comfortable. My legs remained stiff and sore, though I didn’t know if it was from the walk into the village or whether there was some delayed effect of the poisoning. At least my stomach was full. The roast and carrots Brin had brought me were nothing like the food I usually ate with Isander; Brin’s cooking had flavor.

After bundling some loose hay together, I lay down and rested my head. Sleep did not find me easily. I struggled with what Isander taught me, not knowing whether the lesson had been simply understanding the effects of the poison or whether he intended me to learn about the cure. With Isander, I was never certain.

It had been different when I still lived in Elaeavn. There, I had apprenticed with Jeilla, a healer of such skill I suspected she forgot more than I would ever know about healing. When I had been exiled only Jeilla had not abandoned me, instead sending me to learn from Isander. Without Jeilla’s guidance, I don’t know what would have become of me.

Just as I started drifting into sleep, I heard a soft cry instantly hushed. Blood pounded suddenly and my heart raced. Before knowing what I was doing, I leapt from the loft and crept to the door of the stable.

Outside, the night was dark. Only the light of the half moon shone. Without my Sight, I don’t think I would have seen them.

The captain and his men made there way down the street and away from the tavern and back toward their ship. The smaller man walked in front while the man missing an ear was in the middle. He seemed to be carrying something. Or someone, I decided. The captain followed behind them, eyes scanning the street.

Pulling the door open just enough to slip out, I padded as silently as I could manage down the street. Knowing Wesvin, I followed them down a side street, drifting between buildings, always careful to make sure that I kept them in my Sight.

As I pulled even with them, I nearly stumbled. 

The man missing an ear carried Brin.

It didn’t take my Sight to know she was injured. But with my Sight, I saw more than I wanted. A deep rip in her dress revealed a gash across her stomach. A long cut along her arm told me she had fought back. As I watched, her head lolled toward me and our eyes met. Her nose had been bloodied and her lip split. She shook her head slightly, warning me off. 

I started forward with the same impulsivity that had led to exile from Elaeavn. 

“The lady looks like she needs help,” I said, stepping out of the shadows. “I am a healer and can—”

The captain spun as I spoke. His dark eyes assessed me quickly. Close up, I saw that he was heavily muscled. Even though I stood at least a hand taller, he probably outweighed me significantly.

“This does not concern you,” he said. 

The other two had stopped and turned. Brin’s eyes looked at me and, though she tried to hide it, they begged for help. I Saw in her face that she didn’t think I could.

“She doesn’t need help?” Foolishly, I had stepped closer. Born of Elaeavn, I had the speed and grace of most of my people, but even I couldn’t do much against three experienced fighters. 

The smaller man laughed darkly. “Oh, she be needing help.”

The captain shot him a look. The small man said nothing more, but the wide smirk on his face told me all that I needed. 

“Why don’t you just let the lady—”

I didn’t see what happened next. The captain moved with amazing speed for a man of his bulk. When his fist slammed into my stomach, I was unprepared and bent over as my breath was knocked from me. He kicked at the same time, sending me spinning away. Brin moaned and then I heard laughter.

“Want me to finish him?” the smaller man asked.

I turned my head and Saw the edge of his sword as he started to unsheathe it.

“No. Leave him to me.” 

The captain kicked me again and again. It happened so quickly that I became numb. Eventually the pain became unbearable. Curled as I was on the ground, I could do nothing to protect myself from the barrage of blows. 

“Darrl!” someone hissed.

There came another kick, harder than the others, and then nothing. 

I don’t know if he thought me dead, only that I was certain I hadn’t moved for some time. The pain I experienced throughout the day seemed to paralyze me completely.

I tried to open my eyes. My vision swam as my Sight failed me. The men stood only a dozen paces away but it might as well have been leagues for all the good I could do. 

Blood trickled out of my mouth and nose. Pain worked through my gut. A distant part of my mind assessed my injuries just the same as I had been trained to do when someone came to me. With as much force as he’d punched and kicked me, I suspected internal bleeding. If I began coughing up blood, I would know for certain. If not, I might survive.

But Brin would not.

They made their way toward the ship talking in hushed voices. Or maybe that was my damaged hearing. 

“She’ll fetch quite a few talens downstream. Girl like this? I know someone in Eban who would spend plenty.”

“Quiet!”

“You know she will. That lip will heal. They won’t care about the others…”

Their voices grew more distant. Much longer and they would reach their ship.

I understood now why they had taken Brin. Not for personal enjoyment, though that would have been just as awful. No—they intended to sell her as a courtesan, a forced companion. A prostitute.

I tried to move but once again my body failed. I coughed and managed to open my eyes to look. No blood. At least I might live.

I stared down at the ship, watching as they dragged Brin over the dock and beneath their deck. As she disappeared from view, she once more caught my Sight. I saw fear and resignation on her face as she realized no one could help her.

***

An eternity seemed to pass before I managed to slowly stand. There would not be much time before the ship departed and disappeared from Wesvin altogether. I limped into the shadows as I considered my options.

Returning to the tavern and waking Brin’s father might work, but I was not certain about the delay. Now that she had been abducted, I didn’t doubt they would pull up lines and sail downstream. One of the men had mentioned Eban; once they reached the massive city, any hope of Brin’s return was gone. The local constable might help, but how much time would be wasted convincing him?

That left me.

I didn’t know how I could rescue her. Against those three, I was outnumbered. How many more men did the captain have on the ship? But if I did nothing, she would be lost, sold into prostitution.

Anger clouded my mind. That these men dared lay a hand on Brin burned me in a way the srirach could not. That they thought to abduct her? To force her into prostitution? 

I knew then I would do whatever I could to stop them.

I hurried along the road with seething rage. A distant and calculating part of my mind already knew what I sought. I found the thicket of trees in spite of the darkness. The patch of srirach stalks was as I remembered. I grabbed them, careful to pull the entire stalk, taking a fistful with me. Turning back to the village, I glanced at the holly oak growing nearby and decided to take that as well. I might need the healing properties.

By the time I returned to the village, the ship was already starting to pull away from the dock. The scarred man and the swordman stood on the deck of the ship. There was no sign of the captain or Brin.

Crouching near the closest building, I pulled a small knife out of my pocket and scored the stalk as I had seen Isander do. I considered what I had to collect the liquid in; all I had was the small empty jar of ink Isander had sent me to refill. That would have to do. I cracked the stalk and dripped the liquid srirach into the jar. I repeated the same on the remaining stalks until there was enough liquid in the jar for what I needed.

The only question I had remaining was delivery. Srirach was odorless and tasteless, but I had to somehow get it onto the ship. I could not do that from where I stood on shore. I gripped the now empty stalks, feeling helpless. If only I had some way to reach them from here.

My legs shook. A dull pain roared through my body. When I finally could rest, I knew it would overwhelm me. For now, I needed to suppress the sensation. At least I had holly oak. Tearing off one of the leaves, I tucked it quickly into my mouth and chewed. Some of the pain began to lessen. Holly oak might hasten my healing, but what I really needed was its other effect—deadening the pain. 

As I peeled off another leaf, my hand brushed against one of the long thorns. A dark idea came to me. I might not be able to darts like other men, but there was a game I could play. And the stakes were Brin’s life.

I worked quickly. Taking the now empty srirach stalks, I twisted one of the holly oak thorns to act as a tip and then dipped it into the liquid srirach. I made a half-dozen such darts and then jogged along the road, following the river. 

The ship angled toward the center of the river. The holly oak leaf had refreshed me, clearing my Sight. The two sailors—slavers, really—still stood on the deck of the ship. The scarred man held the wheel, steering the ship toward the center of the river. The other man stood watch, staring out across the river.

When I reached the shore, I took careful aim and flung one of my darts. 

It sailed wide.

I made a slight correction and threw another. This time it sailed true, sinking into the scarred man’s thigh. His eyes went wide and he tensed a moment before dropping to the ground. The wheel twisted as he fell. Wasting no time, I flung another dart just as the smaller man turned to look at why his companion had fallen. I took small satisfaction how it stuck into his neck. He twitched and fell to the deck in a heap.

The ship moved downstream, drifting slightly toward shore. I ran alongside. I had only three of my darts remaining. Hopefully only the captain remained below deck. 

I reached a rocky outcropping and knew this would be my only chance. I jumped, praying to the Great Watcher I could reach the ship, though not expecting him to listen. What I did now went against all the teachings of my people.

I landed on the deck and rolled, colliding with the scarred man’s leg. Pushing away from him, I crawled to my knees. His eyes were still open and blinked, the only part of him that moved. He deserved the fire burning through him. The other man lay on his stomach, eyes closed. The dart in his neck had pierced the artery there as he fell and blood pooled around him. I felt ashamed that I regretted the way he died. He should have suffered. 

A small stair near the stern descended below the deck. Gripping my remaining darts, I took the stairs as quickly as I could. The effect of the holly oak leaf faded and pain started working through my stomach and lungs. Each breath was painful.

Only a single lantern glowed. The air stunk of sweat and sewage. A single closed door blocked the end of the hall. Two other doors along the small hall opened into what appeared to be containment rooms. Shackles hung from the walls. I understood the chains the scarred man held when they first arrived at the village.

Ducking into the rooms, I Saw they were empty. That left the closed door at the end of the hall.

When I reached the door, I pushed it open.

I Saw everything at once by the simple lantern light glowing on the table. Brin lay sprawled across a bed, hands chained over her head. Her dress was thrown up nearly exposing her hips. The captain stood behind her, preparing to have his way.

“I said leave me—” He cut off as he looked up to see me. 

I didn’t wait for him to finish and flung one of my remaining darts. 

The ship heaved as I threw and it went astray. The captain lunged at me. 

Again, I was surprised at how quickly he moved. He reached me before I could ready another dart. 

This time I tensed, sliding out of the doorway. He went barreling past, lunging into the hall. I tossed another dart but again it missed, this time sinking into the wall just above his head.

Only one dart remaining. Without the darts, I didn’t think I could overcome the captain.

The ship struck something and we both lurched from our feet. 

Behind me, Brin moaned. I glanced to see if she was all right. When I looked back, the captain had lunged toward me again. His hands reached my throat and slammed my head back and into the wall. He squeezed my neck with amazing strength. The distant part of my mind calculated my likelihood of survival as miniscule. 

With one last kick, I swung my hands and the remaining dart jammed into his shoulder. Again I prayed to the Great Watcher, this time that there was enough poison on the dart to bring down the captain.

He squeezed harder, crushing my throat.

And then the strength left his hands. 

He fell away, crashing into the back wall of the ship. 

I did not watch him. If the dart failed, I would not survive much longer anyway. 

Turning back to Brin, the first dart I had thrown pierced her dress near her stomach. 

“Brin?”

I ran to her and grabbed the dart, pulling it away and tossing it to the ground. 

“Brin?” I repeated. Already I feared there would be no answer, that the srirach had taken her ability to speak. 

She coughed. “Galen?” 

A moment of hope worked through me. Unmindful of propriety, I shifted her dress and looked for a puncture wound, but saw nothing. Carefully, I double-checked but still did not find any sign of the dart piercing her skin. I allowed myself to relax briefly. The dress had caught the dart, protecting her.

“Where do you hurt?” I asked. I worked to remove the shackles holding her wrists to the bed. 

When they were off, Brin sat up. She looked past me and into the hall toward where the captain lay dying. “What did you do?”

“What I had to.” 

“Is this,” she began, looking up at me, “is this what Isander teaches you?”

“Not this. Isander would have me heal them next.” After what I had done to save Brin, I wondered if Isander would teach me any longer.

She watched my face, looking at me with such concern I wondered whether she Read me. “Oh, Galen…” She leaned close. The scent of lavender was gone, replaced by the stink from the captain and his men.

I handed her a holly oak leaf. “Chew this.”

Brin took the leaf and placed it into her mouth, chewing it slowly. I waited until her strength returned before starting out of the ship. She slid past the captain, bare feet sliding along the wall so she didn’t come into contact with him. As she reached the stairs, she turned to me. “Is that what you will do?”

I frowned.

She pointed to the captain. “As Isander would do. Will you heal him?”

I looked down. The captain blinked up at me. I thought of the healing agents Isander had taught me, the reversing agents necessary for srirach. The holly oak could delay his death, perhaps long enough to prepare an antidote. And I knew how he suffered, knew the agony burning through his body, the way his flesh felt like it practically boiled. 

When I looked back at Brin, I saw concern in her eyes. Still, I could not get past the way her lip had been bloodied, the large rip of her dress with blood staining the borders, the memory of the captain preparing to violate her.

“No,” I said. 

***

I sat in front of the small fire, strangely feeling no warmth. Instead, I felt numb. 

My stomach ached, though it was a distant sensation, dulled by the effect of the holly oak I chewed. I wondered if I should feel remorse. Intentionally taking a man’s life with my knowledge of healing, purposefully going against the teachings of the Great Watcher, should leave me feeling different than the emptiness I felt. Unlike when I had been banished from Elaeavn, this time I could not claim an accident. 

Standing next to me, Isander watched me. Pale green eyes watched me for reaction. When he finally broke the silence, it was as if he had Read my fears. “You think the Great Watcher frowns upon what you did?” 

I blinked, thinking of Brin’s face, bloodied and bruised, the way the captain prepared to rape her. If the Great Watcher could allow that to happen to Brin, then I did not care whether I had his favor. “I think the Great Watcher has already judged me.” 

Already exiled from Elaeavn, now I truly was one of the Forgotten, cursed to spend my days away from the blessings of the Great Watcher.

“Perhaps you have not yet been judged,” Isander answered. “Perhaps you have been placed here with a different purpose. Have you considered that you served the Great Watcher through your actions?”

I took a deep breath, surprised by Isander’s reaction. I had expected disappointment, perhaps anger. During the walk back to his house, I had even feared that he would no longer teach me. I felt unprepared for sympathy.

He sat down next to me. Compassion deepened the wrinkles on his face. “You understand now?” 

I looked over at him. His voice had taken on the tone of a lecture and I knew what he said now would be important.

“Understand what?” 

He shook his head. “I had not expected you to learn so soon. We have spent all our time on healing, but do you know why srirach would be used? How someone could deserve such a fate?”

All at once I understood the real purpose of his lesson. 

There was no doubt in my mind the captain and the others deserved their fate, deserved the brutality of srirach. A part of me truly hoped they suffered. 

Isander watched me for another moment and then nodded. “Good. Tonight you will rest. This should help,” he said, setting a steaming cup on the floor in front of me. I did not bother to ask what he had put into it. “Tomorrow the lessons continue.”

As he left, I shivered in spite of the heat of the crackling fire, uncertain whether I could handle another lesson like this one. But I knew, had I not learned this lesson, Brin would have been lost. 

Finally, I took a drink from the cup. I would need to be ready for tomorrow’s lesson.

Read more with Galen in book 1 of The Sighted Assassin: Binders Game

Erryn looked down at the merchant, unable to look away from the twisted hands and wrinkled face, sunken sockets filled with rheumy eyes, an expression that seemed at once so familiar and somehow foreign at the same time. A few wisps of grey hair slipped out from beneath the raggedy shawl she wrapped around her head. As thin as she appeared, Erryn thought she might simply blow away in the wind gusting through the Bracken Market. 

“How much for my hair?” she asked. One hand gripped the long red tail she had tied before coming down to the market. The other remained stuffed into the pocket of her traveling dress, now worn and faded, crusted with dirt from the journey. She gripped the locket she held within the pocket so tightly that she knew its imprint would linger on her palm.

Instead of answering, the old crone tottered around to the front of the table. Erryn could practically hear bones creaking. One leathery hand stretched up toward her hair. Erryn suppressed a shudder when that hand brushed against her neck. Dry and scaly, she imagined flesh flaking off where she touched her.

“Lovely,” the woman whispered. Her voice wafted on the wind before blowing away on the wind.

“How much?” If what Erryn heard about the crones was true, she should have enough, but barely. She pulled away from the woman and forced herself to face her. Standing opposite her, Erryn smelled decay. Death. 

“What is it that you request?” The crone turned away, creaking back to the other side of the table to take a seat on a weathered stump.

Erryn hesitated. For as long as she had considered coming to the Bracken Market, she had never hesitated. Now that she finally forced herself to come, now that she stood before one of the crones, her mouth felt thick, as if her tongue did not want to work.

She squeezed the locket in her hand again. Pain and the memories of Larand finally gave her the strength she needed, if not the courage. Erryn pulled the locket from her pocket and let it dangle from the woven golden band before the crone’s milky eyes.

“Can you bring him back?” Each word felt forced, but now that she held out the locket, she had to continue. Now that the offer was made, she would not stop.

The crone took the locket in bony fingers and then sucked in a soft breath of air. Her body seemed to tremble. She leaned forward, practically falling across the table, as she strained to see the locket. “How long has he been gone?” she asked. One finger caressed the front of the locket.

Erryn resisted the urge to jerk back, fearing the crone might smear the drawing. The picture was all she had left of Larand, the only thing, other than her memories, of his face. Yet, pulling away meant interrupting the bargain. The one warning she knew to heed was to avoid interrupting the bargain.

“N-not g-gone,” Erryn stammered. “Almost dead. The Wasting.” Tears welled in her eyes as she remembered what he had looked like just before she had left to make the long trek to the market. The way his skin had sunken, pulling tight across his bones, flesh drying and leaving him nearly a husk of the hearty and hale man he once had been. 

The crone flicked her eyes at Erryn and then back to the locket. “How long have you traveled?” 

“Two months.”

The crone released the locket. It hung limply from Erryn’s hand.

“Two months. You do not even know if he still lives.”

“He lives,” Erryn said, trying as she did every day to convince herself. 

The crone let out a slow raspy breath that smelled fetid and dry. “And if he does not? If I take the bargain to find him gone, and you only offer your hair?” 

Erryn swallowed. She didn’t dare move. She let the locket dangle where it caught the light from the overcast sky. “Please,” she begged, “I have traveled far. The market is—”

The crone cackled, cutting her off. “I know what the market is.” Her voice seemed suddenly stronger. She pushed back from the table and sat back on her stump. “For your hair, I can give you a lover’s draught. Find a different man of your choosing. Perhaps a luck charm. But two months of uncertainty?” She shook her head. Bones and dry skin strained against the sudden motion. “I will not take on that risk, not even for hair so lovely as yours.”

“I don’t want another man,” Erryn said. 

The crone cackled again. “Better a new man than a wasted one.” She twisted her head strangely and peered up at Erryn. “That is the offer.”

Erryn shifted on her feet, looking at the crone. 

When she didn’t answer fast enough, the crone waved a hand at her. The bargain was broken. Erryn had failed.

She turned and started away, feeling the weight of hopelessness come over her. With Larand wasting, she had done all that she could to carry on, to run the farm as he would. The children had helped, but they were too young and Larand too proud to let them. The crones of the Bracken Market were her last hope, the one place she promised him she would never go, a place where bargains could cheat even death, but a place where bargains rarely tilted in your favor. The crones had a way of stealing the bargain. Erryn had prepared herself for that, knowing that she would do nearly anything to return Larand to her.

Something grabbed at her wrist and she turned. The crone held onto her with surprising strength. Cloudy eyes stared at her and she pulled Erryn back to the table.

“I did not say I would not bargain,” the crone said.

Erryn shook her head. “I don’t have anything else to offer. Just my hair.”

“And yet there exists a problem with your position.” The crone’s voice cracked as she spoke. “Your offer is strong,” she said, motioning toward Erryn’s hair, “but you do not know if your man still lives. That places me at risk.”

Erryn felt her heart hammer. The crone still held onto her wrist, as if forcing her in place, forcing a bargain. “What do you suggest?”

The crone’s mouth turned in a smile that revealed yellowed and rotting teeth. Dry fetid breath pushed out the next words. “For such a trade as you suggest, the risk must be equal or I cannot trade.”

“I don’t understand.” Erryn knew the bargains made by the crones often went one sided. She had prepared for that, knowing that she had to open strong with her offer. From what she heard, hair such as hers should have been a strong offer.

“You last saw him two months ago,” the crone asked. Erryn nodded. “I will take two years for each.”

“Two years?” Erryn asked, feeling confused.

“Of your life.”

Erryn swallowed, her throat was suddenly dry. Two years to bring back Larand? What were two years of her life to have him for the remainder? Two years to have him there for the children? Two years for his health? 

She nodded. “I accept.”

The crone took her hand with those bony fingers and squeezed. Erryn felt a surge, a sense of weakness swirling about her, and a pulsing energy pass from the crone. 

“Wait…” Erryn started, suddenly realizing that she had forgotten something.

 The crone’s eyes, suddenly more clear, looked at her.

“For each what?” 

The crone smiled. “For each day that he was dead, of course.”

Erryn shook her head, counting the days she had been gone. The Wasting had already progressed far when she had left, but Larand still lived then. But she didn’t know if he still lived. What if he had died only days after she had left? How many years would be taken from her?

Erryn tried to pull back but the crone held her in a tight grip. “I don’t accept. I refuse the bargain.” 

The crone’s eyes softened and she stood straighter. Fingers no longer felt so bony as they gripped Erryn’s wrist. “But the bargain has been struck. Your man has been returned.” The crone tilted her head, the wisps of hair now darkening and filling in beneath the shawl pulled over her head. Wrinkles faded from her face. 

“But I didn’t know…”

The crone frowned. “You accepted the terms. You should not be too upset. The price was not so bad.”

Erryn swallowed again. Her throat felt parched, dry. The skin on her arms felt taught where the crone gripped her. She blinked. “How many?” she asked. “How many years?”

“He was gone but a fortnight,” the crone answered. “A reasonable bargain to be sure.”

Erryn felt her legs give way and she sunk to the ground. Dust settled up around her, coating her dress and legs. Nearly thirty years bargained away. Larand would return but she would not have that time to spend with him.

“At least you kept your hair!” the crone cackled. 

Erryn looked up, but she was gone, hurrying down between the tables of the Bracken Market, her back growing ever straighter, her steps moving ever more quickly, until she disappeared.

#

The return journey took much longer than two months. Erryn had not the energy she once had and each day she travelled less and less far. By the time she finally reached home, she had been gone nearly a year. In that year, she had lost nearly thirty.

Her bones ached as she walked, and her back had already started to gain the curve of age. The one time she had seen her reflection, she had nearly fainted. A face wrinkled and pale, hair already thinning, stared back at her. Not her face, at least not the one Larand would remember. 

The crone had not told her which years she had bargained; it should not surprise Erryn that she lost the remainder of her youth. 

When she finally reached their home, it was early evening. The sun shimmered in the sky, drifting toward the horizon. Erryn shifted the shawl she now used to cover her thinning hair, and paused outside the door, listening before knocking. Inside, she heard the children laughing as they wrestled. Her heart skipped a beat when she heard them, filling with joy. It nearly stopped when she heard the deep familiar sound of his voice, again so strong and full of life, so different than it had been when she last saw him. The smell of roasted meat and a burning fire drifted through an open window, a smell that nearly made her throw the door open to announce her return.

But Erryn reached for the door, hesitating. Would they even welcome her now? Gone a year, she had changed so much as to be practically unrecognizable. At least Larand was safe, the Wasting reversed. 

She considered turning back, returning to the market. Given enough time, she thought she could learn the secrets of the crones, make a bargain for youth, and then return home, restored as the woman who had left. But how long would that take? How many more years would be lost? 

No, she could not risk taking such time, not after what she had already lost. What remained she needed to spend with Larand, with her family, if they would take her back. That was the price of the bargain, a price she would honor. There could be no more cheating.

Erryn rested her head on the door, and, finally, she knocked.

END

Originally appeared in Time Streams: A Fiction River Anthology

Unstuck

Jason leaned against the old F150 staring at the night, unable to shake the fight with Rachel from his mind, the one she seemed so intent on starting. Moonlight prickled through the oaks he’d planted at the edge of his land and splashed across the paint remaining on the chipped black hood. He sighed as he slid down the edge of the brown paper bag, taking a long slow drink of bourbon straight from the bottle. At least it wasn’t the cheap stuff, the kind that burned when you swallowed it. This went down smooth. Already he felt his head swimming. 

Maybe Rachel would be better off without him.

He rocked his head back and stared upward. The full moon, as it seemed to do so often, frowned back at him, seeming to pass judgment. Stars faded into the darkness, as if the heavens themselves sided with Rachel. The rest of the sky looked just as bleak, clouds rolling in from the south, the threat of another August storm hanging in the air. It would be just his luck to get drenched. 

Not that it mattered. Not for much longer, anyway.

He sighed, taking another drink. He didn’t even like bourbon but it had been the only booze in the house, bought months ago when his brother-in-law visited, the kind Robbie—Robert now—said he learned to drink while in school out east. Jason had just thrown it in his truck on the way out, grabbing it off the shelf in the garage. If there was a night to drink, tonight was it. 

This had been the worst fight yet. And maybe the last.

After two years of marriage, the fights came more frequent. At first they were over simple things. Money, which they never seemed to have enough of, or his job. She always wanted him to do more for himself than just work in the factory, spitting out bolts and nuts at his spot on the line, coming home stinking of grease and grime—now he didn’t even bother to wash it off every day—maybe even take some night courses so he could move up. 

He knew what she was saying…that she wanted more than him. Maybe that was why she started in on him tonight, telling him he needed to “get unstuck”, whatever that meant.

And Rachel deserved better, deserved more than this little town, hidden on the prairie on the edge of nowhere. She deserved culture, deserved comfort, deserved…things he just couldn’t provide. Not here in Little Nord, North Dakota, and not on his income.

Jason sighed, taking another long drink.

He’d known that when he first met her, known that from the first time he saw her in high school, her dark hair flowing down her back, deep brown eyes catching his with an almost bemused expression, that she was out of his league. And somehow she didn’t care. She made sure to go off to college to study business up in Dickinson instead of all the way over in Grand Forks like her daddy wanted her to. Jason made the trip up every weekend, driving his rusty old pickup to campus, always feeling out of place even though she made a point of showing him off. And then, when she was done, she came back home.

Jason should have just let her go after high school. Maybe she would have been happier then. She could have found someone who deserved her.

It sure wasn’t him.

Tonight had been different. Tonight she brought up kids again. 

“How can we have kids if we ain’t got no money?”

“We’ll make it work.”

Make it work. No, he understood what she needed even if she didn’t want to admit it.

“Fuck!” he shouted, shaking the bottle at the judgmental moon. The only answer he got was the first cold drops of rain falling on his face.

Jason stayed there, drinking occasionally, letting the rain wash over him, soaking his t-shirt and jeans. Wind started picking up, blowing in with the storm. Even then he didn’t move.

Only when the clouds covered the moon did he decide it was time.

The door creaked mournfully as he opened it. He slid onto the long bench seat, the torn cloth long ago covered by a blanket. The air in the truck smelled like old pine, the faded air freshener hanging from the mirror twirling from the wind streaming through the open door. He gripped the steering wheel, clutching it between his hands and leaning back against the seat, bottle tucked between his legs.

Rain began pelting the truck, huge thick drops that slammed into the metal, like a drummer marching him to the end. Violent streaks of lightning ripped through the night, streaking almost to the treetops, and he jumped, thunder chasing quickly after rumbling the truck. 

“Hear you loud and clear,” he slurred. 

His head felt heavy but he had a moment of clarity; sleep this off and talk to her in the morning. Let her know that it was okay if she wanted to leave. Let her know that he understood.

Another bolt of lightning shot down as Jason finished off the bourbon. Then another. And another.

Soon there was a flurry of lightning strikes, all shades of blue and purples, colors he had never seen in lightning before. They seemed to flicker around him, and he felt the hairs on his arm rise, a sense of urgency growing. 

Most struck just over a nearby ridge. Damn if he would pass out before seeing why.

Jason fumbled with the clutch as he shifted the truck into drive, driving over ground toward the small rise. Lightning erupting in angry waves lit his way and thunder seemed to chase him. As he topped the rise, he stopped, not sure what the hell he was seeing.

Where the lightning struck, the ground below him was charred and glowed. Small fires burned, fueled in spite of the sheeting rain. Huge holes gashed the ground, leaving it looking as if the earth was splitting. 

He slammed on the breaks but momentum and earth sopping wet from the recent rains pulled him down toward the flames, toward where the lightning struck the ground.

Another bolt blinded him. 

He felt its energy through the truck. 

Thunder rumbled.

He was thrown violently, truck and all flung into the sky.

Somehow he was tossed from the cab, flailing against the rain and the night, everything blurring around him. He passed out when his face slammed into the soggy ground. The last thing he remembered was the taste of mud and the smell of oil.

#

Bright sunlight burned through his closed lids, forcing Jason to flicker his eyes open slowly. Dry grass rested against his cheek and he smelled the thick stink of oil somewhere nearby. His body ached as if he’d just spent the entire day in the saddle.

What happened?

Moments passed before he remembered: the drink, the storm, the truck. Rachel.

Damn. Somehow he was still alive.

He pushed himself slowly up and looked around. Last thing he remembered was sliding over the small rise in his truck. And then the strange lightning surge.

There was no sign of the ridge, no sign of destroyed earth, and no sign of his truck. 

Where the hell was he?

No truck meant walking. Already it was hot so he didn’t look forward to a long walk back to town. He staggered to his feet, boots stirring up dry dirt, as he looked for something familiar. His head pounded like he had been trampled by a herd of cattle and his mouth was dry, his tongue fuzzy and thick, and he tasted the dirt he had lain in all night. 

Not far in the distance stretched a line of trees, tall oaks with faded leaves, that he suspected signified the river that ran through much of this land. He couldn’t have driven much past the border of his land. Once back on his own land, he would be able to reorient himself, find a way back to town. 

He knew what he needed to do. It was time to tell Rachel to move on without him, give her permission to leave.

Jason staggered among the oaks and saw the river cutting through a shallow stream bed. With as much rain as they had been having recently, he was surprised to see how low it was. Hadn’t it been nearly flood stage?

“Hey!”

He looked up. A woman came walking along the river bed wearing leather pants in a strange cut that flared around her hips. A long sleeve shirt of grey and blue had sleeves rolled up over her forearms. A wide brimmed hat tilted on her head. Dark hair bound in a loose tail spilled out beneath. She carried a small box that she slipped into her pocket when she saw him.

“Yeah?” he said. 

She froze and frowned, her brown eyes narrowing. The expression reminded him of Rachel. “Are you okay?” she asked.

Jason pushed himself off the dry ground and managed to steady his feet. Dirt stained his palms and he wiped them on his jeans. He squinted against the sunlight, the pulsing in his head making it hard to think straight. “I think so.”

“Then why are you on my land?” she asked. She stood with her hands on her hips, and though she was tiny, she looked as if she demanded an answer.

“Your land?” he asked. His head felt thick and cloudy, but most of the riverbed was his land. He was too hung over to care, too hung over to make a big deal about it, and needed a ride back to town. “Can you get me back to town?”

Her eyes narrowed and she looked him over, staring at his sweat stained shirt and jeans before stopping and staring at his boots. She slid a step toward him, coming up out of the riverbed a little. “Which one?”

Jason shook his head, the question confusing him. How far had the lightning storm thrown him? “Little Nord,” he said.

Her mouth twisted in a bemused expression, her lips parting as if she wanted to say something, but cut off instead. “Come with me,” she finally said.

She started off, not waiting to see if he followed. She took him up to a small dirt road where a sleek grey pickup was parked, hood more sloped than any he’d seen, just a trace of dust coating the shiny paint. He recognized the Ford logo on the front, the same that had been on his, wherever she now rested. Jason hadn’t seen the new models but didn’t much care for them.

He popped open the door and climbed in and sat on a cracked leather seat. The truck had all the new electronics, lights and panels lining the console. Even though it looked new, it had the same smell to it that his truck had, a sense of age and character.

The woman saw his face and shrugged. “Yeah, sorry. Kinda of an older model. Doesn’t have all the newer stuff but she still runs good…” She shrugged again. “Besides, kinda hard to keep anything nice out near the field, you know?”

With the pounding in his head, he wasn’t sure he heard her right. “Sure,” he answered, but knew plenty of ranchers with brand spanking new trucks pretty much every year. “Do you have anything for a headache?” he asked.

She grunted and shook her head. “Maybe when you get to Little Nord.” She said the town’s name with a smirk.

“Whatever.” He pressed his hands against his temples and closed his eyes as they started off, waves of nausea rolling through him as they drove.

“What were you doing out by Little Muddy?” she asked after they’d driven a little ways.

So at least it was Little Muddy River. Jason was beginning to wonder what had happened. “Dealing with regret,” he said.

The woman looked over at him. “Why out here?” she asked.

He sniffed and looked out the window. “Trying to find perspective. Make some hard decisions.” Time to let Rachel go, he knew.

She looked over at him. “It can’t be all that bad,” she said.

Jason shook his head. “You ever feel like there’s a part of your life you’re doin’ wrong and it’s easier to just go along and not make any changes?”

The woman watched him for a moment and shrugged. 

“Well…I’ve finally realized what needs doing.”

“Just because you don’t like your past don’t mean you can’t like your future.”

Jason leaned back and closed his eyes. “Are you some kind of therapist?” he asked.

She chuckled. “Just got common sense. No need to get stuck in time.”

Jason shook his head, thinking that sounded like something Rachel kept trying to tell him.

“So. What’s your name?” 

Jason didn’t even bother opening his eyes as they bumped along the dirt road. “Jason,” he mumbled.

The woman grunted, making it sound like a laugh. “Jason, I’m Mel. Where am I taking you?”

Mel? Probably short for Melissa or Melinda, but he didn’t know anybody by that name, especially not anybody that drove such a new pickup. 

Licking his dry lips, he rattled off the address.

She grunted again, as if confused, and punched it into the GPS. 

#

Jason finally managed to open his eyes when they reached the flat road. Dust blew across the road, billowing up into a great brown cloud that Mel just whipped through as if unconcerned. It wasn’t until they reached the outer edges of town that the wind settled. 

He knew right away that something was off.

Little Nord was a small town, barely more than two thousand people, most living their entire lives in the town. When Jason was a kid, he had once planned to get away from Little Nord, maybe go up over to Bismarck. But then he grew up and he and Rachel settled in. She never had the family problems he knew growing up, never had the father that hit her until he drank himself to death, the mother that never managed to get the strength to fight back, the release of his death freeing her to fuck her way through town. 

The only thing his family ever gave him was 200 acres of land outside town, handed down to him after his dad died, farmland that he was never particularly good at farming. The only thing he really loved was walking the land. 

The edge of town seemed to have changed overnight. Chuck’s service station, the old Amoco, once marked the south end of town before it broke out onto County Road 5. A small line of storage units stood across the street. Small houses lined the streets on either side, leading toward Main Street. None of that was there.

Instead, a line of rickety wooden buildings—nothing more than shacks—abutted against each other in a haphazard line that stretched for as far as he could see. He saw women hanging laundry on lines, kids running and screaming, a few elderly folks sitting on makeshift chairs and staring out at the road.

Only then did he see that the road narrowed from four lanes somewhere just inside the edge of the shacks. County Road 5 had never been four lanes. 

“Where are we?” he asked.

Mel glanced over at him, her brown eyes looking at him with bemused expression. “Where do you think you are?” she asked.

Jason stared at faces watching the truck as they passed, most looking as dead as he had every right to be. The road tore straight through the shacks, the horizon almost perfectly flat, steady wind blowing up dust all around, and knew this wasn’t Little Nord. Might be North Dakota, but no place that he had ever visited. 

Even though it was a four lane highway, no other cars drove along the road. Heat rose off the pavement. A faded sign in the distance rose above the tops of the shacks, the first break in the horizon, but he saw it was just a shut down service station, walls faded and crumbling, paint long since given up on. A few more of the wooden shacks, each bigger than the last, leaned against it before they finally ended.

“No idea,” he muttered.

Mel grunted again.

As they drove, the scenery started to change. Rough wooden shacks turned into ramshackle houses looking like palaces compared to the dumps they passed on the way in. Most were faded and run down, and in spite of the heavy rains they had been getting, grasses of the lawns burned and dry. 

The stench of oil on the air grew thicker. In North Dakota it was something you got used to, especially with the new excitement up in the northern part of the state, but he didn’t remember it as often in Little Nord. As they turned off the main road, he saw a plume of smoke rising somewhere to the north. He wondered where she was taking him.

Mel made a few quick turns before something triggered in his head. She was trying to take him home. But there was no way this place was his home.

Then she stopped outside a house. The small rambler was faded, once yellow paint now seemed nearly white, the glass in the windows across the front of the house shattered, huge shards still lying in the dead lawn out front. The driveway sloped upward toward a pull under garage, plastic roofing cracked and falling.

In spite of that, he recognized the house as his.

“What is this?” he asked.

Mel looked at him and snorted. “This is the address you gave me.”

Jason shook his head. This was and wasn’t his home. His home wasn’t new, but he kept it nice and neat, making sure the paint was clean and fresh for Rachel. The driveway hadn’t cracked and fallen into disrepair. Windows had been intact. Even his lawn was green, not burned and dead. 

What had happened here? What was this? 

What had happened to his home?

#

Mel smiled at him condescendingly. “This is Nord,” she said. “Not sure why you’d call it Little Nord. Don’t think its been called that in years. Probably not since the boom. Now its just Nord.” She shook her head. “Most of these houses were long abandoned, now taken over by squatters. Lucky ones live here.” She tipped her head slightly back toward where they came in. “You saw where the rest live. You go further on 5 and you get to Tarsten City, of course they sort of run into one another since the boom.”

Nothing she said made sense. “What boom?”

She laughed. “What boom. Christ, like you wouldn’t know!” Seeing his blank stare, she shook her head. “You don’t know?”

Jason looked up and down the street. Everything looked both familiar and yet foreign, as if time had run past him overnight, leaving his home tossed about in time. 

Mel rested a hand on his arm. “First there were the Bakken fields to the north,” she said. “Damn near destroyed Williston, before it finally exploded.”

Jason nodded. Ever since oil had been found there, everyone else had it in their mind that they would find a similar find. People came from all over thinking to strike it rich, filling places like Williston and Watford City to the north, turning them from a comfortable farms town into something different, something few really wanted as the tankers and water trucks and the people filled the prairie, all with everyone trying to make a better life. Even Bismarck got in on it, letting the oil companies keep leasing the land, so that everyone thought they had the same chance as the big companies. Problem was, no one did.

“Then the Remsan fields boomed in 2025. Probably all connected to Bakken really, but could never really get at the oil before then. We got laterals running from Tarsten almost all the way to Montana,” she said with a sense of pride. “As the workers moved in Nord became a migrant town and Tarsten exploded. Tried to keep Nord better cared for but….” She shook her head. “So if you’re from Nord, you should know that. Now tell me, Jason,” she said, turning toward him. “Where are you from and why are you fucking with me?”

So much of what Mel said didn’t make sense that Jason didn’t know where to start. “It’s only 2013,” he said. Somehow, looking down the street and seeing how rundown everything was, he knew it was not. 

“I should have known better,” Mel said, slamming the truck back into drive. “Shouldn’t ever have given you a ride, but damn if I’d leave you wandering on my land.” She shook her head as she muttered to herself. “Find a guy with dried blood in his hair and probably been drinking and I don’t call the sheriff. Serves me right,” she said. “Well, now I’m taking you to the hospital.”

Jason sat back, staring out the window blurring by. A dust storm kicked up, blowing dirt though the streets, obscuring the confusion somewhat. Something else Mel had said stuck with him, nagging at him.

“Those were your lands?” he asked.

“What?” 

She didn’t turn toward him as they headed back onto the wide road that had once been simple blacktop leading though Little Nord. Now it was four lanes and cracked. Signs dotted the road every so often, markers pointing toward Tarsten, a city that shouldn’t even exist. None of this should exist.

“Your lands?” he asked. The question felt important.

Mel nodded. “Everything along Muddy is my land. Why?”

Jason felt his stomach begin to flutter. “What did you say the oil fields were called?” he asked.

She glanced over, the look she was giving telling him that she couldn’t wait to just get him out of her truck. For some reason she wasn’t willing to leave him on the side of the road. “Christ. You’re full of strange questions. What were you drinking?”

Bourbon, but he didn’t say it. “You called the oil fields something.”

 “Remsan fields?” she asked. “Used to be Remco rigs all over. Tarsten was pretty much built on Remco money. Now Remco just leases the land. Easier that way. Doesn’t change who owns it.”

Remsan fields? Jason felt his heart leap and pound in his chest. “Where am I?” he whispered. “When am I?”

Mel laughed nervously. She stepped harder on the gas. “Maybe you haven’t noticed, but it’s 2038.”

Jason felt the world seem to spin around him. Assuming Mel wasn’t crazy, that would mean he should be fifty-one. Rachel would be fifty. 

If it didn’t seem so damn real, he would think this was just a dream.

Or maybe he had actually died when the lightning struck him, throwing him into the night. Maybe Rachel finally got the release from him she deserved.

#

“Jason Remsan died over twenty five years ago.”

Jason shivered hearing himself described that way as Mel looked at him with hard eyes tinged with hurt. She turned in her seat, angled in such a way to keep him in sight. Her left hand hovered on her thigh, ready to grab the door handle at any moment and leap out of the truck.

Jason had convinced her to pull off to the side of the road just as they crossed through what she called Nord and into the outskirts of Tarsten. The transition was sharp and marked by tall painted concrete walls, as if the planners of Tarsten had wanted to keep the people living in Nord out of their city. 

On the Nord side, the walls were covered with graffiti, swirls of color the only bright and vibrant thing he had seen since coming into the town. Just past the border of Nord, on the Tarsten side, the high wall was painted differently, painted all along the wall to look like flowing prairie dotted occasionally with oil rigs, as if hiding Nord from the people living on the Tarsten side.

Everything on the Tarsten side looked completely different. Businesses lined the wide street, bright flashing signs that looked more like flat screen televisions than store signs marked everything from groceries to liquor to home furnishings. There were stranger stores too, places that advertised Chipping and Augments. Even a huge sprawling building, each floor set off with darkly tinted windows, set off the road that looked like a hospital but had a sign for NanoCare. Beyond the main road, new houses stretched as far as he could see, green lawns well manicured, siding painted with blues and yellows and greens. On the road around him zipped cars that looked more like elongated bubbles. Few had logos that he recognized. He saw huge refineries in the distance.

“What do you mean dead?” he asked, staring out the window. 

Mel moved her hand closer toward the door handle. “I mean, as in no longer living. Gone. Exploded in a lightning strike, nothing but the charred remains of his truck found. That was when the Remsan discovery was made, when he was found. First it was natural gas, but surveyors eventually found deeper deposits of oil trapped in shale beneath that.”

Jason shivered, thinking back to the storm, of the flames burning in spite of the rain. Had the lightning been attracted to the gas leak or had that simply been chance? Somehow, he had gotten his wish, had died in that storm as he had intended when setting out that night. And yet…he had not died.

“What happened to Rachel?” he asked.

“Rachel?”

Jason nodded and turned back to Mel. Her brown eyes looked suspicious and hard, but familiar too. “Rachel Remsan,” he asked.

Mel’s eyes narrowed. “Did you know her?”

Jason kept his face neutral and nodded. “I know her.”

Mel looked down. “Well, she had a hard time after he was gone. Had to learn how to manage the gas fields, geologists and surveyors and even guys from Bakken all trying to convince her to sell.” Mel looked up and her eyes had changed, softened. 

Jason recognized the expression. 

“She was smart, though, had a business background. Got herself a good lawyer. Secured her rights and only leased them out when she was ready. Started Remco from the ground up.” Mel pulled herself up as she spoke, her eyes brightening.

Jason sighed. Rachel finally got to put her business background to use, finally had a chance to do something for herself. Better than that, she finally got away from him. It was like the lightning storm gave them both a gift.

After he sat there silently for a while, Mel fidgeting with the steering wheel, he managed to get the nerve to ask, “Did she remarry?”

Mel looked down. “Always said she didn’t want anyone that just wanted the land, not her, so she waited. I always thought she just never found anyone she could love as much as…Jason.” Her voice caught as she said the name.

Jason looked over at Mel and saw her as if for the first time. He saw the same dark hair, the same sharp cheekbones, the same eager brown eyes. This was Rachel’s daughter.

“How old are you, Mel?” he asked.

She tilted the hat on her head and her mouth tightened. “In case you didn’t notice, oil towns are mostly men. I get my pick and you’re not my type,” she answered. “I don’t go for the drunk and the crazy.”

“How old?” he pressed.

“Twenty four.”

Suddenly he understood why Rachel had been so angry that night—only last night to him. Not because she wanted to fight, but because she had something to tell him, something important. And he was too damn thick to listen.

“And those were your lands?” he asked.

“Damn…you really are messed in the head. Didn’t I already say that?” She shifted in the leather seat and looked to shift the truck back into drive. “Time to get you to the hospital.”

Jason reached across and held her arm back from grabbing the shifter. Her skin seemed to tingle when he touched it. “No. I’ll get out here.”

“Here?” she asked. “There’s nothing here but shops. Listen, Jason, I think you need some help. Besides, it’s supposed to finally rain today. You’ve got no place to go and you don’t want to get stranded out there.”

He tried to speak, but his voice caught in his throat, suddenly raw. Rachel had done it all without him—raised a daughter, started a company, hell, probably even helped build this city. Rachel had managed to have a lifewithout him. 

It hurt knowing that he had been right. She had been better off without him.

Seeing Mel, seeing the confident woman who was so much like her mother, made that even clearer. 

Jason smiled sadly, suddenly knowing what he had to do. The lightning strike had given him a gift, but not the one he thought at first. Maybe he could finally manage to do what Rachel had been asking him to do for years.

“You’ve given me plenty.”

As he climbed out of the truck, she looked back at him with eyes that were so much like Rachel’s. “Where are you going to go?”

Jason looked over the horizon, staring back down the road at what used to be simple County Road 5 and was now something more. The shacks of Nord stretched out like a wound across the land. Beyond that was the river, his land, where flames and a lightning strike had sent him here. There was a heaviness to the air, a hint of coming rain. Lightning flickered in the clouds rolling in. Thunder boomed, distantly. 

Jason Remsan was dead. There was no reason to change that now.

“Somewhere out there,” he finally answered, nodding away from town, only now able to do what Rachel had asked for years. Only now able to get unstuck.