Vivian Thomlinson Short Story.............................................................................................pages

The Fall

Alissa Blalock

Sunlight shimmered through the treetops, splashing a warm green light upon Kate as she rode easily along the travel-worn lane. Several lengths behind, an armed escort rode at a reserved pace, keeping her within sight. She cast a glance over her shoulder, bringing her silver mare to an extended jog as she shifted in the saddle.

“I’m going to ride ahead!” she called back, and Ardis lifted a hand in acknowledgment. “I’ll meet you at the spring!”

“Yes, Majesty!”

Grinning, the young queen spurred Diamond to a gallop. Muscles rippled beneath the mare’s smooth sterling coat. They hurdled around a bend in the road, iron-shod hooves thundering upon the solid earth as they vanished from the guards’ view. The wind was cool against Kate’s face, and her golden braid streamed behind her as she gave Diamond her head.

They tore through the forest on hurricane wings, moving as one creature. Suddenly, a hare darted from the underbrush; with a snort, the mare violently spooked. Kate cried in alarm as she was flung from the saddle. The world went dark.

“What do you mean ‘The Queen is missing’?”

King Connor’s voice was cold and hard as he faced the Captain.

“Her Majesty wanted to ride ahead to the spring,” Ardis reported grimly. “We were less than a mile away, and the trail was open, so I allowed it. But when we arrived at the spring, she was not there. We found Diamond another half-mile up the road. There was no sign of the Queen.”

Terror squeezed Connor’s heart in a death grip; his breathing became shallow and rapid.

“Do you have any idea what may have happened?” he asked hoarsely. Ardis shook his head.

“No, Your Majesty. Diamond showed no sign of injury, and we found no indication of an abduction.” He paused, then pressed forward. “Your Majesty, I take full responsibility. I never should have let the Queen ride ahead without me. This is my fault.”

Connor released a tight breath.

“Assemble the King’s Guard and saddle my horse. We leave within the half-hour.” ***

Icy raindrops dappled Kate’s face, drawing her into the present as a pounding headache pierced the thick haze of unconsciousness. The roar of encroaching thunder drew an involuntary shudder from her slim frame. Slowly, she eased herself upright, wincing at the pressure in her skull, and peered upward at the darkening skies. Smoldering clouds overcast the forest in a heavy gloom, blotting out the sun which had only hours before cast a warm amber light.

“Diamond,” she whispered hoarsely. She prayed her mare had escaped the storm. Quashing the rising nausea, Kate struggled to recount her final moments in the saddle. Diamond was not a nervous horse; whatever had charged from the brushwood must have been utterly terrifying to send the mare into such a panic.

The air was cold as it funneled through the valley, bending the towering trees to its will. Another rumble shook the earth, and Kate flinched as nameless terror gripped her in a stronghold. Her eyes filled with tears, and she huddled against the damp earth, slowly rocking back and forth in a desperate attempt to recreate Connor’s comforting embrace while the storm closed its iron fist around her. ***

“Your Majesty, please! I beg of you – return to the castle! We will continue the search!” Ardis shouted over the howling winds, pivoting his horse in a tight circle. Connor shook his head doggedly, dark hair plastered by the drenching rain. “No!” he objected. “I must find her, Ardis! I will find her!”

He put his spurs to Eclipse’s ribs, and set the horse to a gallop. ***

The storm worsened.

Kate sobbed silently, unable to control her frayed emotions. Her entire body ached, and though her earlier fog of confusion had cleared, she still felt completely lost. She knew the road was somewhere overhead; in the darkness, it was nearly impossible to determine how far into the ravine she had fallen. Beneath her, the waters of the Whitestorm River raged and foamed against bordering boulders, driven by the chaos in the skies. Lightning split the shadows, accompanied by a deafening roar, and Kate cried out in terror. ***

“Ardis!”

The Captain reined his mare to a standstill, her iron-shod hooves slipping in the sludge.

“Aye, Sir?” he called, peering at Connor through the blinding rainfall.

“Where did you say you found Diamond?”

“Here on the road, a half-mile past the spring.”

Connor frowned, mulling the information. He nodded.

“Divide your men. Keep searching near the spring and where Diamond was discovered; I’m going to double back.”

“Your Majesty –”

“Ardis, I know you are trying to amend what has happened and protect me. But we have a lot of ground to cover, and every man must do his part – even me. Especially me! Kate may be your queen, but she is my wife.”

Ardis hesitated, then nodded. He himself was not married, but he had watched as Kate and Connor evolved from two frightened children married as strangers into a powerful couple who ruled their kingdom with grace and benevolence. He knew Connor would do anything to protect his young queen.

“Very well,” he said, turning his mare away and shouting instructions to the Guard.

“Ardis.”

“Sire?”

“Do not blame yourself for something you could not have foreseen.”

A weight lifted from the Captain’s shoulders. The guilt was not gone, but as he saluted his response and watched Connor gallop back the way they’d come, he felt a surge of determination.

I failed my king once today … I will not fail him again. ***

“Kate! Kate!”

Wearily, she lifted her head against the icy downpour as she huddled at the foot of the embankment. Her ankle throbbed, and a numbness had settled into her very bones. With a shaky breath, she curled her hands into the damp earth and attempted to rise; the sharp pain in her ankle sent her tumbling back into the mud and moss, a branch tearing harshly at her face as she fell. Groaning, Kate dragged herself upright, lifting a hand to touch at the fresh gash across her right temple. Blood and sludge smeared her fingertips.

“Kate?” Connor’s shout was desperate as he searched blindly through the darkness. “Kate, if you can hear me, please answer, Love!”

“Connor!” she cried hoarsely, exhausted voice ripping at her aching throat.

He checked his horse to a sharp standstill, rising in the stirrups. Rain drenched him through the heavy wetness of his cloak; beneath him, Eclipse was steaming in the deepening night.

“Kate?”

“Down – down here! In the ravine!”

Connor swung from the saddle, dropping the reins as he raced toward the edge of the road, heavy muck sucking greedily at his boots.

“Kate!” Among the shadows, he saw movement. Breathing a long sigh of relief, he dropped to his knees at the edge of the precipice, headless of the cold, wet earth. “I’m going to get a rope from the saddle.”

“Alright.” Kate’s voice was distant; she was losing her battle against pain and the elements.

Connor rose, and raced back to Eclipse’s side. From his sodden saddle bag, he grabbed the coil of rope. Returning to the ravine, he looped the rope around the base of a massive tree, and with quick hands secured it in a knot.

“I’m dropping a line,” he cautioned before sending the rope tumbling into the darkness. “I’m coming down now!”

Taking hold of the coarse cording, Connor began working his way downward. Each step was slow and cumbersome as he struggled to keep from sending a mudslide onto the girl huddled below. Finally, his feet touched solid ground, and he knelt beside Kate’s vulnerable form, gently touching her shoulder. With a sob, she flung herself into his arms. Her hot tears penetrated his already-soaked tunic as he held her tightly, inhaling the faint scent of the lilac water she had used in her hair that morning. Several long moments passed before Connor finally dared lift his dark head to shout upward.

“I’ve found her!”

The cry echoed through the forest as his men relayed the message. Connor gently cradled Kate’s battered face in his rough hand as he studied her exhausted features in the gloom.

“You’re hurt.” “I’m fine,” she protested hoarsely, but Connor was already using the hem of his cloak to clean away the blood and filth. “W-where is Diamond?”

“Diamond is home, warm and safe in her stall.”

“Is she injured?”

“No, Love; she is frightened, but unharmed.”

Connor tied the end of the rope around Kate’s waist and rose, only for her to shake her blond head in protest when he attempted to help her stand.

“My ankle. I-I think I wrenched it in the fall.”

Connor ran his hands down her lower leg, pausing when he reached the swollen joint. With a hiss, Kate jerked away. He bit his lip, then began to untie the rope and tether it around himself, scooping her into his arms and standing. Kate clung to him, ankle throbbing, and buried her face in Connor’s shoulder. There was a flicker of torchlight above, and a moment later, a shadow appeared from the overhang. “Your Majesties!” Ardis cried, dark eyes widening as he saw the small figure cradled in Connor’s arms. “Is the Queen hurt?”

“Her ankle is sprained. Are there more with you?”

“Aye, Sir; Brandon and Giles are here.”

“I have tied one end of a rope round a tree, and the other round myself. You’ll have to take up the slack and pull us; I cannot climb and hold her.”

“Aye, Sir! Giles – hold the torch; Brandon, you and I shall draw them up. Steady now; the Queen is injured.”

“Aye, Captain.”

The rope went taut, and soon, strong hands were helping Connor to scrabble awkwardly up over the precipice, his feet on solid ground once more. Kate was shuddering violently in his embrace, her teeth chattering from the numbing cold, and the remainder of the King’s Guard had joined them, forming a protective huddle around the young monarchs. “Someone find her something dry,” Connor commanded, and a moment later a spare cloak was produced from a saddlebag and wrapped around the trembling queen. He transferred her to his Captain’s arms and remounted Eclipse, shifting in the saddle before Ardis lifted her up into her husband’s protective embrace.

“John, Brandon – ride ahead and ensure that everything is ready for our return. I want the healers present to examine Kate’s ankle, and a hot bath drawn in our quarters for her.”

“And Diamond,” Kate called out in a trembling voice. “Be certain that Diamond is blanketed and has been fed a hot bran mash.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” John saluted, and they pivoted their horses, spurring them to a gallop.

Connor rearranged the cloak cocooning Kate, then gathered up the reins and turned Eclipse for home as the King’s Guard fell into formation around them, Ardis and Giles in the lead as their torches pierced the heavy darkness.

*** “Are you certain you should be doing this?” Concern filled Connor’s voice as Kate clung to his arm, hobbling awkwardly down the stairs. “It will be no trouble having breakfast brought to our chambers again.”

“It is only a sprain,” Kate reminded him, gingerly descending to the next tread. “And it has been two days; one can only sit and sew and read for so long before their mind goes numb from boredom. I must get out or I shall explode.”

Connor set his jaw, but resolved to nodding agreement. He escorted Kate slowly to the Great Hall, and waited for her to catch her breath – and regain her balance – before helping her cross the massive room to the breakfast table. After settling her at her seat, Connor slid into his own chair and reached for a slice of fresh

bread. They ate in silence; during the summer season, many of the lords and ladies who shared the daily meals retreated to rustic residences out in the countryside to escape the heat of the Capitol until cooling temperatures and the lure of the Autumn Hunt drew them back to urban dwelling. “Since you’ve had your fill of sewing and reading,” Connor gently teased as he set his cup aside, “how are you intending to entertain yourself today?”

“I was hoping to sit in the rose garden for a time,” Kate replied. “I’ve been wanting to do some sketching as well.”

“That sounds quite pleasant.”

“What is on your docket?”

“I’ve a meeting of the Counsel at near-noon, and then eventually I shall need to review the ledgers and then be fitted for a new suit of chain mail.”

“That sounds … entertaining,” Kate attempted to sound encouraging.

“I would be more than happy to trade schedules.”

Kate giggled, choking on her ale. “I’m afraid I must decline your offer, Good Sir,” she laughed. Suddenly, the doors to the antechamber opened, and Ardis entered the hall, crossing the flagstone floor with quick, even strides before coming abreast of the table.

“Your Majesties,” he nodded respectfully to Kate, then saluted Connor. “We believe we found the creature that caused the Queen’s accident. The men have brought it to the courtyard.”

“Why all this fuss for a hare?” Kate questioned, taking a bite of cheese.

“We discovered a set of tracks near the ravine, Your Majesty. But they were not those of a common hare,” Ardis replied.

“What do you mean?” Connor asked, frowning. “What is it?”

“We don’t know.”

“I’ll come at once,”

“May I come, too?” Kate asked. “This creature has caused so much grief; I must see what they have discovered.”

Connor hesitated, then nodded and took her into his arms. Carrying Kate, he followed Ardis from the Great Hall and into the morning sunlight, descending the steps and crossing the courtyard to where a squadron of the King’s Guard stood encircling a shapeless huddle upon the cobblestones. Connor eased Kate to stand beside him, and Ardis nodded for his men to withdrew.

The creature was massive – nearly as large as the hounds sitting proudly at their handlers’ sides. Gleaming fangs protruded from lips drawn back in a snarl. The paws were adorned with long, curving claws. Eyes, lifelessly wide, glowed a hideous hue of blood-red. Coarse fur was matted and missing in patches from its scrape with the hounds. Foam still dripped from the gaping mouth, pooling upon the stones.

“What is this monster?”

The Peanut Farm

Stephen C. Dahlbo

Rufus knew that God’s greatest gifts and mankind’s most brutal sins lay buried hidden side by side just below the earth’s surface. He’d been digging in the dirt and praying for seventy years. Rufus also knew why the population of our small town had doubled with the arrival of a large funeral procession. It was a twenty car caravan ushered into the cemetery dutifully following behind an angelic white Hurst.

Whether the occupant in the shiny silver casket was God’s servant or the Devils disciple was debatable. Half the crowd had come to watch retired Sheriff Arthur Miller peacefully laid to rest. Everyone else was there to make certain that he became an everlasting and permanent slave of the grave.

“A Lot of fuss about nothing.” Rufus took off his tattered straw hat and frowned at me. “The man’s dead-that be an end to it.”

July meant that the heat in north Texas was in full bloom. The city crowd had listened to the longwinded eulogy and the legendary tall tales portraying Sheriff Miller as a modern day hero while comfortably sequestered inside an air-conditioned church. Now they were standing outside and wilting like delicate spring flowers under a hot and unforgiving summer sun.

“So if that’s an end to it why are we still here?”

“To see which of those wannabe’s be the new sheriff.”

“Is that some kind of a riddle, Rufus?”

“No riddle. Look at da hats. First one puts his back on he be the honcho.”

Sometimes I wondered how Rufus survived in a world that so often seemed to pass him by. “Miller’s successor will be decided by a special election, Rufus.”

“May be an election the votes they be counted already.”

And then there were the times that I wondered why I bothered to doubt his wisdom. Something that even those who disliked him rarely did.

Rufus Cox had been called numerous names in his lifetime mostly the ‘N’ word but no one had ever called him dumb. He had an uncanny way of seeing things that others would not and always to their detriment. The locals had a few choice names for me too. How a fourteen year old white boy had ever come to be adopted by a sixty year old black peanut farmer whom I called ‘grandfather’ had them all puzzled. The answer was simple. No one else in town had offered shelter to a dead widow’s unruly son.

“This here gravesite mumbo-jumbo it be the worst part of it all, Kevin.”

I had heard the same criticism after every funeral regardless of race, creed, or color. Rufus would always explain that most folks are tricked into believing that ashes to ashes and dust to dust was literal scripture and not just some paraphrased explanation served-up for an impatient society looking for a simplified explanation of life and death.

“People be ignorant, Kevin. Don’t know the difference between a cultivated rose and a prickly pear

flower. A dirty daisy or a dandelion. Damn sure don’t know the difference twix a good soul and a bad one. Mother Nature and Mankind they both be devilish tricksters.”

Cotton, like most small towns, had reinvented itself more times than a born again Christian and like the children’s nursey rhyme, the locals were intertwined as tightly as the people in a church symbolized by the interlocking fingers of a child’s small hand. There had always been a mixture of red and white, black and brown, and in the beginning they had simply called the whole of it Texas in 1860.

Of course when the quite noise of a lonely wind was inevitably replaced by the shrill sound of a train whistle what some people called progress others would label The Dawn of White Supremacy. One-hundred and sixty years later Cotton was probably no better or worse off than most rural communities. The great racial divide lived mostly in the big cities.

The young women approaching us from the other side of the cemetery was certainly no local and she was made even stranger by the microphone and recording devises that she was carried. When Rufus saw her cameraman following closely behind he caught on quickly smiled broadly and put his gold teeth on full display.

“It must be a proud day for you and your community?”

“How that be Missy?” The smile never left his face even when he spoke.

“A native son one who served with both pride and dignity as the first black sheriff ever elected in this County will soon become the first African American laid to rest in the City Cemetery. A great day for the community.”

“Sometimes it be better to choke on the truth than swallow the lie.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What Rufus is explaining is that Sheriff Miller hoodwinked or outright stole from most black folks in this County and spent the rest of his time hiding behind his badge. For the record the first black man buried in Cotton is resting peacefully just on the other side of that barbed wire fence.”

The smile was now gone. Rufus frowned at me tipped his hat to the Lady and walked away.

In late summer despite the sweltering heat the appearance of thousands of snowy white fiber plants in the fields around the city of Cotton created the illusion of snow with the noticeable exception of our small peanut farm. The dirty green-brown vegetation visible above ground is admittedly an eyesore. The peanuts actually hide their true identity by growing underground alongside many of the Cox family secrets. I hurried to catch up with Rufus as he left for home

“You stepped in it now, boy. No reason for you to talk to that woman about cemeteries and such, Kevin.”

“Maybe people should know about the peanut farm?”

“Gossip get you in trouble every time. Silence-it be golden.”

It was almost dusk when Rufus finally broke his own silence and joined me on the front porch of our mobile home but the peace between us was shortlived. Our solitude was interrupted with the arrival of a large white van emblazoned with ‘Channel 8 News’ in bold red letters on the side panel. It was followed by a sinister looking black SUV.

“You’re a hard man to find Mr. Rufus Cox. No mail box and no sign on the gate. Lucky for you investigative reporters don’t give up that easily.” There was something disturbing about her smile.

“I checked and you own the property adjacent to the City Cemetery. I’d like to know more about why the first black man buried in Cotton is on your side of the fence. Care to explain?”

“Nope.”

Our inquisitive reporter was soon joined by several people exiting the SUV one of whom immediately took ownership of his surroundings. He ignored me completely and began speaking directly to Rufus.

“Mr. Cox, my name is Raymond James and I am your local Black Lives Matter representative. We’d like to offer our assistance in helping you to maintain and protect what we suspect may be a black historical site.”

“Nope”

“And may I ask why not? Surely you understand that now more than ever black history is important. We need to raise awareness especially in communities where prejudice and neglect still exist.

“Nope”

I knew that after three no’s from Rufus Cox you’re out. He made no additional allowances for anyone or any subject. In this instance Rufus simply smiled and walked back inside the trailer leaving me to deal with our uninvited visitors.

“Sorry but Rufus is not interested in history except for the kind he reads about in his Bible.”

“Then he surely lacks vision. He must learn that we are all either part of the solution or part of the problem.”

I was happy to watch as Raymond James and his entourage left but disappointed to see that the Channel 8 news crew had not budged.

“Pardon the pun but for me and mine we won’t stop digging until we find out who’s buried in that field.” Her smile was even more menacing than before.

“Try reading the Bible.”

“I was joking-I’m not really a religious kind of a person.”

I thought first about turning the dogs loose and just joining Rufus inside but I was curious to know how she might react to the truth. “I’ll loan you one. You’ll find some of the dates and the personal comments interesting.”

The Bible that I handed her and the tattered notes slipped between the pages told a 160 year old story. A chronical of life and death in and around Cotton for several generations. Maybe it was time that someone knew -maybe not.

Rufus likened the treasure that we called the peanut farm to one of God’s tender mercies. A place where people of color all colors could wait for safe passage. Some eventually moved on but others remained here without need or want for a marble marker or an ornate ceremony. Names and no-names alike rested beneath the soil covered by the same vegetation that had warmed and nurtured them while on this side of the divide.

They were most certainly not all a perfect people.

May ‘1867’ murdered wrong peoples soldiers planted deep.

October‘1920’ corn brew catch’d fire regulators planted deep.

December ‘42’ fancy woman (white) found dead planted deep.

June ‘1968’ pill pusher hung planted deep.

August ‘88’ aborted baby planted deep.

I had watched as the horizon changed from blue to orange and then dim from pink to purple before fading into darkness then I turned my attention to our inquisitive guest. Her face was illuminated by the porch light and she looked confused.

“Why all the secrecy?”

“Not secrecy -more like sanctity. What would we accomplish by digging up the past? In this case literally.”

“Don’t these people at least deserve a monument or something?”

“Maybe-but a lot of those get knocked or torn down.”

“It’s not the same thing. The BLM doesn’t terrorize or organize riots.”

“Rufus likens peaceful protests to sowing weeds and expecting everything to come up roses. After thirty nights of burning and looting I think that a lot of people would agree.”

“So we just sit back and ignore injustice?”

I’m not sure how long my grandfather had been standing in the shadows but evidently long enough for him to have formed an opinion.

“More slavery now than before, Missy. Mostly in places where people be sorrier than we be.”

“That may well be, Mr. Cox, but perhaps we should solve our own problems at home first.”

“The Bible says a kingdom divided against itself be laid to waste and a home divided against itself will surely fall.”

“And so what’s your solution?”

“The lord is most decidedly color blind. Me too.”

Part Two

The Desire for Help

Mason Marshall

The slick London cobble reverberated with the sound of Mrs. Pemberly’s anxious footfalls. They carried with them an air of urgency in their wake. If only her corset allowed her the freedom to quicken her already hurried stride, for the clacking of her boots had gained her the attention of many prying eyes, the commoners who so envied her family’s wealth and prestige. Her sister, Elena, likened them to starving vultures waiting to swoop down from their perch ofself-righteousness, talons ready to rip and rend until there was nothing left of their reputations.Mrs. Pemberly, however, was more inclined to see the good in people, but it became increasingly harder to see any light in those around her. She was an outcast, a pariah forced to deal with her problems and those of her husband’s, alone. Gossip did as gossip does and spread like a virulent plague infecting the minds of those she thought were in her corner until there was no one left but Elena, who would rather spend her time engrossed in her studies rather than consoling her sister.

“Off to find another doctor for that loony husband of hers, think this one will be any different”?

“The lass is ‘ell-bent on finding one that won’t recommend a bedlam, but I’ll bet you athruppence ‘ell be just like all the others.”

The Idle prattle of the older women passed Mrs. Pemberly’s ear like a sickening symphony and nearly stopped her in her tracks. “No,” she said under her breath, “let it go, Ida, let them talk; it doesn’t bother me, it doesn’t.” The older women were adept at weaving threads of lies and gossip, their fickle lives brought them no joy so they had to adapt new skills in order to satiate the monotony of their daily routines. Ida Pemberly should’ve been accustomed to the kind of pointless drivel spouted off by those venomous black widows looking to trap her in a web of falsehoods. Yet still it stung deep in her heart and made her body ache with guilt and frustration. The droning chime of the Elizabeth Tower resounded throughout Mrs. Pemberly’s body forcing her out of her thoughts. “The time, what was the time?” She frantically looked up to see that it was half-past 12 meaning she was officially late to her appointment with the enigmatic Dr. Engels. “Curse this constrictive corset.” She hiked up the hem of her finely tailored midnight blue dress; throwing away all shame and dignity as she dexterously wound and wove herself through the busy cobble pathway searching for 1510 Tarrant Street. “1507”, “1508”, “1509”, “1510!”

The boxy building was no bigger than a small flat and had been made from a warm and inviting smooth red brick that brightened up the row of dreary grey that it was crammed between, giving Mrs. Pemberly a sense of affability with the unfamiliar structure. However, upon entering the deceptively genial apothecary, all feelings of warmth and welcome were abandoned as soon as the bell above the door resonated throughout the cramped pharmacy. The dull beige wallpaper was peeling away in a desperate attempt to escape the accursed fate to which it was bound. And behind the long wood counter; which appeared to be just two large crates pushed together. There stood a towering wall of shelves and small drawers that stretched into the exposed paneling of the decaying ceiling. The drawers themselves were haphazardly placed into

their cubbies which seemed to be two sizes too big for the drawers themselves. The awful odour that filled the air, like a noxious miasma, was enough to make a sinner pray for mercy. It reeked of sulphur, so much so that Ida reached for her handkerchief bringing it close to her nose hoping to drown out the unpleasant smell with that of the lemon-scented rag, but to no avail. The thought of leaving crossed Mrs. Pemberly’s mind, that air of cordiality the red brick evoked from the outside was nothing like this bleak and rotting interior. Was this Dr. Engels worth his salt if he was working in a place like this? Mrs. Pemberly queried to herself as she waited for any signs of human life to make themselves known to her.

Just when she was about to reach for the handle of the tarnished oak door a pair of glassy eyes peeked around the corner of the precarious shelf. “What can I do ya for ma’am”, the man only spared her a mere glance before continuing to mix up a remedy of some sort with the multitude of herbs strewn about the front counter. He deftly crushed and ground them with his mortar and pestle, patiently waiting for her response.

“I have an appointment with Dr. Engels, I was told this is where he works out of, do you happen to know if he’s in or not?”.

The man behind the counter once again spared her only a sliver of his undivided attention, “You don’t look all that ill to me”

“Oh, I’m afraid you’re mistaken, the appointment is for my husband not for me.”

“And where might this elusive ‘usband of yours be then madam”, his interest was finally piqued and his inquisitive glare set fire to her ivory complexion.

Ida could only stand there agape and aghast at the sheer audacity of the man standing behind the counter. How dare he insinuate that I’m some delinquent, some, some ruffian thug looking to pilfer a horde of drugs for my own personal use. Does he even know who I am? The vicious thought surged through Mrs. Pemberly’s mind like a tidal wave that threatened to break her normally calm demeanor.

That dam of politeness could only withstand so much beratement and it was on the verge of crumbling, bringing with it all of the nasty thoughts she kept under lock and key.

“Due to the circumstances of my husband’s condition, he is currently housebound and could not make it here himself.”

“Engels does house calls ya know lass?” he responded with a tone most demeaning. Another crack forms.

“My husband, unfortunately, is in no state to see anyone, he’s even turned me away from our bedchamber.”

“Perhaps he’s grown tired of ya lass, ‘appens all the time, what’d you do, not provide him an heir in time?”

The frothing waters of the dam grow murky and dark, it’s only a matter of time before the stone walls are torn asunder by the fiery rage that Ida is trying so desperately to hold back.

“If Doctor Engels is not here simply tell me that and I will be on my way, I’ve no need to waste any more time here if he is not in,” Mrs. Pemberly says politely trying to regain her footing in this arduous conversation.

“He should be in the back lass, first door on the left.”

“Sincerest thanks for wasting what little time I already had with him when you could’ve just told me that originally”, she said in response exuding a most facetious tone in her voice. She hurriedly storms past the now dumbstricken man and in one swift motion she opens the door to Dr. Engel’s office and plops herself down in one of the crudely upholstered chairs, smoothing out the back of her dress as she does.

“Apologies for the sudden intrusion Dr. Engels but I’ve just had a rather unpleasant interaction with your apothecary and I’d very much like to get down to what it is I came here for.”

“Frau Pemberly I presume? Apologies for Everett, he is quite inquisitive but he’s a fine enough apothecary at least.” his German accent sounded muffled behind the thick grey beard that grew very full around his face.

“But at least you’re here now and you can go into further detail about what exactly is ailing Herr Pemberley. Tell me, when exactly did he start showing these signs of isolation and not acting himself?” He pulled out a piece of parchment and a pen as he patiently waited for Mrs. Pemberly to recount the events that led up to this moment.

Ida took a deep breath in, she had told this story many times before but no one seemed to listen, no one seemed to care, everyone thought her husband to be mad. Would Dr. Engels be the same? She pondered on that thought for a moment before she finally exhaled in an attempt to release all the worries swirling around in her head.

“It all began shortly after the funeral of my father-in-law, my husband was quiet throughout the whole thing, didn’t talk, didn’t cry, he just sat there in solemn silence. I’ll never know what he was thinking that day but I let him have his space, we all have different ways of mourning and I just assumed this was his way of honoring his father’s memory.”

“Was Herr Willaim very close to his father?” Dr. Engels interjected scraping his pen across the parchment.

“From what I’ve heard from his brothers and him, their relationship was a tenuous one, to say the least.”

“ How so?”

“Well being the youngest of six boys who are all vying for their tycoon father’s love and attention can be quite hard. Especially when you’re constantly comparing yourself to the others in your family who seem so much more successful than you.”

“He’s also the only son who renounced himself from the family business, essentially cutting all ties to the Pemberly name, and that included his stake in his father’s last will and testament.”

“It seems like Pemberly manor was quite a competitive household growing up, the boys always wanting to one-up another to prove themselves to their father, who only cared which one was best suited to lead the illustrious Pemberley Shoes.”

Mrs. Pemberly quietly watched as Dr. Engels scribbled something down on his piece of parchment.

“Please continue on. I’d like to go more in-depth about the symptoms that William has been exhibiting, other than the isolation and loss of appetite you had mentioned in your letter” Dr. Engels motioned politely for her to continue her story.

“Well,” she took a sharp inhale through her teeth “He claims that he sees a vision of his father, harassing him, berating him, saying just the most awful things, but of course

I see no such specter so it’s very hard for anyone else to believe, most doctors just label him mad and move on with their day.”

“Interesting, very interesting” Dr, Engels pondered to himself as though he only needed to reach out and grasp the solution to Herr Pemberly’s madness.

“Had any of the doctors you’d been to before mentioned an affliction by the name of melancholia?” Mrs. Pemberly sported a puzzled look on her face as she tried to remember if any such affliction was mentioned.

“I don’t believe so, no, is this melancholia what you believe to be the source of my husband’s suffering?”

Dr. Engels nodded his head somberly, “It is my belief that William’s harsh upbringing caused him to be

very hard on himself as a child and that transferred into adulthood. After the death of his father, to try and deal with his grief, his mind manifested all of those terrible thoughts of unworthiness and it ended up forming into the visage of the one who instilled them in him, thus his sighting of his dead father berating him.”

Mrs. Pemberly looked at the man in front of her in utter bewilderment, “Is the human mind capable of such things?”

“It is capable of much more than that Mrs. Pemberly, I’ve worked with patients who claim they hear voices from angels and demons, those who cannot control what they say and end up blurting out obscenities against their will. The human brain is a fascinating machine, one that I am intent on discovering more about. Her look of bewilderment turned into one of silent contentment “And what is the best treatment for melancholia, in your professional opinion, and don’t even think about saying the asylum.”

“I wouldn’t dare mein Frau melancholia is actually one of the more treatable afflictions that I specialize in. In previous cases I’ve prescribed a soothing cup of chamomile tea. Plenty of sunlight, gentle singing, and or humming, like a lullaby for example. Most importantly though he needs your encouragement and support, let him know that you’re there for him and that what I doing is good enough, and usually, in about 2-4 weeks they start feeling like their old selves again”

Mrs. Pemberly was dumbfounded, was this disease that had plagued her husband so easily fixed?

“I know it sounds a rudimentary cure at best but trust me, you will see improvements in your husband’s mood if you follow my instructions.”

Was this it? Mrs. Pemberly thought to herself, was this really the cure that I’ve been searching for for so long? She didn’t know but what she did know is that Dr. Engels was the first doctor who truly listened to her story. The first doctor to talk to her, not at her, the first one to not recommend an asylum to “cure” her husbands ailment. She felt she could trust him as if he were a dear friend, and trust him she would.

“Ok” she said nodding her head tears welling in her viridian eyes, “I would like to begin treatment of my husband according to your prescribed method”

“Wonderful choice my dear, come I’ll walk you out and get Everett to bag some chamomile for you” Dr. Engels pushed himself off his worn leather chair and opened the door for Ida to the apothecary counter.

“Everett please grab Mrs. Pemberly two sachets of chamomile please.” Everett responded with a swish of his hand as he climbed a ladder to one of the higher cubbys. Whether it was the tears in her eyes or the happiness held in her heart Mrs. Pemberly now viewed the apothecary in a different light. She could see the beautiful blooming roses hidden in the dingy beige wallpaper. The room flooded with the warm afternoon sun bringing with it a calming serenity. The smell of sulfur that so bothered only moments ago was replaced with that of the fresh chamomile that Everett scooped into the sachets. Her mind was finally at ease she could rest assured that the one she loved was to get the help he’d been so desperately pining for all along.

Christmas Eve on Planet Earth

Carla Hardin

Your reclamation, then. Take heed!” Ghost of Christmas Past

The sleek hovercraft with blinking lights silently glided above the floor of the mountain valley piloted by a man whose thick white hair and clear blue eyes could be distinguished clearly through the cockpit windows. The craft sped along, guided through the narrow places by the deft handling of its operator. Forests of young firs swept down steep mountainsides, and small patches beneath the trees exhibited blackened undergrowth. It was midafternoon, but in less than an hour the winter sun would fall behind the peaks and bring shadowy forms to the valley.

When the pilot caught sight of a log house, he lightly touched the brakes of the vehicle, and the hovercraft slowed for the approach. A listing chimney made of rock and mortar rose from one end of the house and two venting pipes near it jutted through the pitched roof. The cabin yard was surrounded by a linked fence, and the enclosed area was spacious enough to include a storage shed, a latrine, and a hangar for the hovercraft. The man pressed a button on the control panel of the craft, and the gate of the enclosure swung open. He steered the craft through the wide entrance, zipped across the yard, and set the vehicle on the ground with precision inside the hangar. He reached for a computer case on the passenger seat before climbing out. Removing a cable stored in a compartment under the seat, he plugged one end into a port located on an exterior panel of the hovercraft. He stretched the cable to its full length before plugging the other end into a solar battery mounted on a pole.

He picked up the case and strode toward the cabin. A maze of solar panels stood in the yard, their faces upturned toward the sky. Before entering the little cabin, he stomped his boots and eyed the now-closed gate to be assured that it had latched correctly.

Once indoors, he removed the insulating outer layer of his clothing. The coffee maker sat on the wooden counter, clean and ready to brew a fresh pot. In the corner reserved for personal hygiene, he held a urinal while he emptied his bladder. He set the container on the floor and with the ice-cold water stored in an indoor cistern, he washed his hands and face. The ragged towel, though dry, smelled sour. He tossed it into the wicker basket of items to be laundered.

While scooping coffee into the brewing basket, the man argued with himself that making a second pot in one day was justified even in view of the dwindling supply of the bracing beverage.

“Well, it is a holiday,” he reasoned aloud.

While the coffee was percolating, he shoveled ashes from the fireplace into a wooden bucket and laid kindling for a new fire. He split the fir logs with a hatchet and added the splintered pieces to the growing

flame. The now-crackling fire was already sending out waves of warmth. The man stood with his back to the fireplace and looked approvingly at the cabin’s interior. The totality of furnishings consisted of a rustic table with two chairs, a recliner with faded upholstery and a broken handle, and a wooden platform with a mattress and disheveled blankets. In all aspects, the interior of the cabin was exactly how deer hunters of any era might have imagined it.

In all aspects but one.

On a table pushed against the wall, a computer and monitor had been set up. A cable plugged into a port on the computer’s side was connected to a solar battery stashed beneath the table. An adjoining table held a microscope and a box of glass slides at one end; the remaining space was taken up with drives, headphones, two printers, a cellular phone, a camera, a two-way radio, binoculars, and a few folders stuffed with dog-eared papers. A shelf cut from a fir log hung unevenly on the wall above the tables; atop it a few books were propped while others were stacked. Parked before the computer was a wheeled office chair featuring an ergonomic back and arm rests. A green jacket lay balled up on the seat.

Sipping steaming hot coffee from a plain mug, he walked over to the table. Not unexpectedly he noted that he had an unopened message. Setting the mug on the table, he donned the jacket; the perimeters of the cabin were still bone-chilling.

Sitting down before the monitor, he stared a few seconds at the familiar heading: To Eben Scruggs, Planet Earth Reclamation Station 1523, from Jacob Martin, Humanity Rescue Mission HRM: A Peaceful Christmas Eve, Eb, and a brighter outlook for the coming new year! Eben smiled and began typing a reply. PERS: Same to you, Jake, though I should say a peaceful “designated” Christmas Eve. HRM: Yep. PERS: How are things? HRM: We’re having a few celebrations, but they’re muted and decorations are few—no trees or holly. Because the hab neighborhoods are integrated—believers, non-believers, Muslims, Jews, Hindu, whatever--everyone is careful not to step on toes. Mutual survival has trumped politics and religion. You get the picture. PERS: Yes, too bad this level of cooperation could not have been achieved on Earth. HRM: Indeed. The interminably long trip and the lifelessness of this place have forced all of us evacuees to strengthen our common bonds and cast aside crippling prejudices. Ironically, wearing pressure suits outside the habitats disguises much of what we used to hold against each other. PERS: And it looks as if you’ll be wearing them for the duration now. HRM: Pretty much. Despite the intermittent release of greenhouse gases, the atmosphere is still not livable. Scientists’ predictions a century ago were overly optimistic. Most are now saying a hundred years, maybe even a thousand, before the atmosphere and pressure equal that of Earth. The botanists and growers work diligently fertilizing the soil and planting seeds. Terraforming works, but it’s slow. The only thing keeping us alive is the regular supply missions between here and Earth. PERS: Right. HRM: So, what’s happening on your end? I’ve been getting some encouraging data. PERS: Yes, many of the biogeographic indicators and meteorological forecasts all point to a quicker recovery than expected. It’s been barely ten years since the evacuation, but the planet seems

to be bouncing back robustly. Even simple observations confirm this—an explosive growth in vegetation and forests and, thank God, the wild animal population. And here in the heart of the Pacific Northwest, fir forests are growing up where runaway wild fires once charred the ground, leaving it blackened and bare. Are you ready for this? Local meteorological data—moisture at the upper levels, very cold air on the surface--are forecasting snow for the higher elevations of the Cascades starting tonight. If it follows through as forecast, it will be only the third snowfall since the evacuation. HRM: Joe Franken at the NP station is reporting that permafrost is spreading on the tundra although we both understand that it will require another ice age to bring back the bergs and glaciers. Hey, more good news. Celia James at the San Diego station took a boat ride up and down the streets of the once submerged city. She said there’s been a dramatic drop in ocean levels along the Pacific coast though the east coast cities--Miami, Atlanta and New York—remain under water. The station managers and their work forces in the Midwest and High Plains are farming highly arable land and harvesting bumper crops. The canning factory at Mexico City operates 24/7 to keep a supply of food in constant transit to us here. The station managers in Asia are all saying the same thing—the earth can once again sustain life. PERS: Of course, this brings up the inevitable question, namely, when will evacuees be returning? You know I have very mixed feelings about this. HRM: I’m well acquainted with your views on the subject; we’ve had a few chats about the return. And I can appreciate your apprehension that Earth will again be ravaged by plunderers and politicians who willfully ignore scientific data. But Eb, I gotta say it. The human remnant here on Mars is merely existing day-to-day with only the hope and expectation of returning home keeping us going. This planet is inhospitable and alien. We, and I include myself, are merely waiting for the day that we can board that ship and return home to a planet with tall green trees and blue oceans. I know, I know—the water is not really blue, but you know what I mean. We are sick to death of dry, lifeless, red soil. I may have to eat my words later, but living marginally on this wind-blasted planet has chastened us and has created an urgent awareness that we all must be better stewards of Earth’s resources. PERS: You make a persuasive argument. I remain, unfortunately, unconvinced. HRM: Understandable. PERS: I fear that the GP turned me into an unforgiving cynic. After losing Chris and the girls, I just gave up wanting to live. And then the bitterness and self-loathing set in. I have to fight it every single day. HRM: You survived the pandemic. Perhaps that is where the guilt comes in. PERS: I was so busy with my work that I failed to get them moved out of the city to a quarantine camp. By the time I woke up to the threat, it was too late. Yes, I survived, but I am plagued by chronic fatigue. HRM: I lost my mom and dad, and they were sheltering at a camp. No one was safe, even in the camps. It truly was a global scourge. I was extraordinarily lucky not to be stricken. PERS: The Freestone vaccine saved the human race. Period. We were headed for the door marked “extinction.”

HRM: Perhaps. PERS: I’m smiling as I type this. I know you’re thinking your god had a hand in saving us from annihilation. I suppose that I respect your belief, Jake, for I was once a believer myself. HRM: Nor am I embarrassed to proclaim, even in the presence of cold-eyed scientists, that I believe the Almighty intervened to save mankind. But I’m also remembering your dad, a man of great faith with many followers. He was one of a mere handful of clerics to warn of the impending climate crisis and its threat to our existence. PERS: That was his last crusade, and he died thinking he was a failure in convincing believers that everyone was complicit in plundering the fragile ecosystem, that God expected humanity to care for his creation with wonder and respect. In a rare burst of sarcasm, I once heard him tell a crowd that the earth was not just another Disney World. HRM: Perhaps he would take some satisfaction in knowing that both Disneyland and Disney World are under water. PERS: Not very likely. He wasn’t as cynical as his son. That was his saving grace. HRM: Indeed, he was a genuinely good man. Changing the subject—what about that big white stag you told me about last time? PERS: He’s still wandering about the area. I used to see him only when I was out in the craft. Now he is coming up closer to the compound; he seems curious about my activities. I’ve studied him through binoculars. He is an unusually large specimen, completely white. I have yet to see a herd of deer or fawns. Perhaps he is keeping them away until he is sure that I am merely a benign forest creature. HRM: You a benign anything! I’m rolling on the floor! Merry Christmas, Eben, and a more promising new year for all of us. I’m like Santa—I have a lot of calls to make before morning. PERS: Then you better get on it, Jake. Take care, buddy.

After the screen went black, Eben leaned back in the chair with his elbows on the arm rests. He squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced.

“So they’re coming back early,” he admitted sardonically. “Swell.”

He stood and stretched. The coffee was doing its work—he felt a strong urge to urinate. After doing so, he placed the vessel on the floor. It would have to be emptied before he retired. He stuck his arms through the sleeves of the insulated coat and put on the gloves and woolen cap he had retrieved from a pocket. He bent to pick up the urinal and made his way to the front of the cabin. He flipped a wall switch before opening the door.

The flood lamp illuminated large snowflakes peppering the compound in a virtual white-out condition. Eben was momentarily stupefied as he stood in the doorway.

“Whoa,” he exclaimed at last. “I gotta get pictures of this!”

He walked swiftly through the flurries, his eyes blinking away the flakes that fell across his face. When he reached the perimeter, he poured the contents of the vessel under the fence.

“Once again, staking out my territory!” he announced to unseen wild animals.

Eben jogged across the snow, his mind absorbed with the prospect of getting some photos featuring a rare wintry backdrop. As he neared the cabin, he became aware of a movement at the edge of the darkness, just beyond the brightly lit area. He stopped and waited, his scientifically-trained senses alert to a possible revelation.

The white stag stepped into the light.

Eben inhaled and quietly blew the air through his mouth. The stag remained completely still and stared at the worried man before him. Eben, too, stood unmoving and pondered his situation. He had been correct in his estimation of the stag’s size, an estimation made at a safe distance he now reflected. A tall beast with an impressive eight points, its long, powerful legs would have had no trouble clearing the compound fence. Eben looked toward the cabin door, now an unattainable option, and quickly formed an alternate plan: He would remain still and wait for the stag to withdraw or, if it charged, he would drop to his knees and fall prostrate on the ground in a posture of submission.

Man and beast eyed one another as the snow fell in large, wet flakes. The forest was impossibly still and silent, like the tense drama unfolding in the yard. Eben shifted his weight to the other foot and straightened his aching back. Though the stag was some thirty feet away, he was relieved to note that its unblinking gaze was benevolent. “Just like Boots,” he reflected.

The remembrance of his children’s beloved beagle had crept unexpectedly into his benumbed heart. Momentarily ignoring his predicament, he squeezed his eyes shut and reopened them. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and resumed his immobile stance. Curiously, the stag nodded its regal head before turning and disappearing noiselessly into the darkness.

Eben took several deep breaths before he made his way on shaky legs to the door. Once inside, he became urgently aware that the tense encounter was necessitating a trip to the latrine. He reached for the illuminator that hung on a nail and ventured outside. He hurried across the snow-covered yard to the crudely constructed outhouse, the illuminator lighting his path. He carried no weapon to defend himself—he could only hope the beast had run away.

When he returned to the cabin, he paused outside the door and stomped the snow off his boots. Staring into the blackness beyond the flood-lit yard, he felt a torrent of bittersweet memories surging through his muddled senses and realized too late that he was powerless to block it. Slumping his shoulders, he surrendered to the pain. Anguished sobs racked his tall frame, shattering the primeval silence of the forest. Marshalling the remnants of his will, he subdued the runaway emotions, and the outburst ceased. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

“My dearest ones,” he murmured and opened the cabin door. He paused and then pulled it shut. He grabbed the axe propped against the wood pile and headed toward the gate. Outside the compound, he climbed the nearby hillside where young fir trees were thriving in the blackened ground. A few minutes later, when he passed through the gate, he was clutching the illuminator in one hand and was dragging a fir tree with the other. Once indoors, he filled a bucket with water from the cistern and set it on the floor. He lifted the tree and placed it in the bucket, allowing it to lean against the wall. Pushing the desk chair aside, he rebooted the computer and searched the online files.

He smiled when he found the never-opened folder.

Standing at the counter, he poured the last bit of coffee into the mug. He fed the dying fire a few sticks of splintered wood, waited for it to blaze, and fed it larger limbs. When it began crackling, he switched off the overhead light and pushed the recliner near the fire, positioning it in view of the tree. The decrepit chair could no longer recline, so he sat looking straight ahead. The computer, equipped with cutting-edge technology, was spinning seasonal carols in symphonic tones. He took another sip of coffee and set the mug on the floor, laid his head against the stained cushion, and closed his eyes. In time, his weariness and the warmth from the

fire lulled him into reverie where he felt himself tumbling through time to embrace a dark-haired beauty and two giggling sprites with clear blue eyes.

When Eben awoke, he breathed deeply the chilled air. His knees and feet were stiff, and he struggled to stand. He poked the burnt wood in the fireplace with a stick and laid in a fresh split log. It would take some time before the renewed blaze pushed back against the cold. He swallowed a couple of analgesic tablets with a few sips of tepid coffee. The fir tree propped against the wall was barely visible in the low light of the fireplace. The music file had long since closed.

For the second time that day, tears rose in his eyes and spilled onto his face.

“Peace on Earth,” escaped his lips in a barely audible whisper.

The snow showers were ending, and moonlight was breaking through the parting clouds. Miles away in a clearing, the white stag stood motionless, its head tilted and its ears erect. At last knowing, it bounded over the snowy field and fled into the sheltering evergreens.