Rider

The Chimera Mountains were intimidating up close. They were larger, darker and more deadly-looking than E’Ryn had gleaned from eavesdropping at the Warrior’s Table each night as she served them dinner.

She shifted the straps of the haversack. It was filled to the brim with choice cuts of Herd Beast. The theft would only be discovered during preparations for supper that night, and the connection made to her only when she did not arrive for duty at the kitchen. By then, the deed should have been done, and she would be out of their reach. Forever.

The way to Warriors’ Entrance was relatively easy. Other than a brief encounter with a large black serpent, the ancient footpath was deserted. The steps to the Entrance were worn with the passage of generations of Aspirants. 

Reaching the Rookery Mount had taken a fair amount of climbing up a narrow carved stair, and she was glad, not for the first time, for her grandfather’s training. She was barely out of breath, although the muscles in her thighs and calves were warm.

She could hear and smell the Hippogryff colony a good ten minutes before she arrived at the Warriors’ Gate. Her heart had quailed at the loud, fierce cries. Thankfully, Grandfather’s voice was more insistent. She ran through his Beast Lore in her mind, taking large breaths of  hot, humid air in time to her steps up the inside of the Rookery Mount.

She crossed through Warriors’ Gate and paused in awe at the sight. A hundred or so adult and young adult hippogryffs sunned themselves on the narrow ledges that lined the immense cliff walls of the vast hollow mountain.

“Your task is to present yourself. You will find a place, on the Mount floor, and you will wait.”

E’Ryn knew that this was contrary to what the Warriors taught. Their way was dominion and force. Grandfather was adamant that the Elder Ways were truer to the Bonding.

Seated, cross-legged in the dust, with her bond-offering in her lap, E’Ryn applied herself to the Quietening that Grandfather had taught her. Bringing her heart and her breath into perfect harmony, she lost herself.

Before long, E’Ryn became aware of stillness. The noise in the Rookery had abated, and there was near silence. It was so quiet, she could hear the wingbeats of the Hippogryff as it alighted some distance away, and could clearly discern the foot falls as it approached her. 

Her heart thrilled. Gaining composure, she took a deep breath and opened her eyes. Its mind brushed hers, and knew her.

“What seek you, child?” The voice was unexpected as it was beautiful.

“A noble steed, Great One.”

“You are not the usual Aspirant.” There was some humour in the golden eyes.

“I am not, Great One. I have been schooled in the Elder Ways.” There was a great rustling of feathers and stamping of feet at her response.

“Then I suspect we shall deal well. Rise. Mount. The sky is ours.”

©Kim Magennis 2016

5oo words

Earthwalker

 Photo Source: Flickr.

The soles of the Earthwalker's feet were a rich ochre, a shade lighter than the rest of her velvety red-brown skin. Idran noticed them a day after their small party started the Crossing.

Her homespun gown was a concession to her human companions. These People seldom wore more than brief loin cloths, and the occasional beaded collar which denoted their complex social ranks. Ever since First Contact, and their curious conversations with the Xen Team, they had adopted the robes. When asked for the reason for the change, they were surprised. Of course they would honour their guests by making them comfortable, and by sharing in their cultural modesty.

After that first encounter, the Xen Team appeared to have been assigned to a single Crew, and they never interacted with any other individuals. Every one of the seven members of their Crew quickly acquired Universal Standard, and thereafter only ever used it to communicate amongst themselves, as much as the Xen Team were able to ascertain.

"We camp here tonight, and leave at dawn."

'Here' was a barren crust of a salt pan in the burning heat of the Small Desert. The three member Xen Team were protected from the worst of the heat and any dehydration by their Smart Suits. The Earthwalker, exposed as she was to the ferocious heat, was relaxed and none the worse for their twelve hour trek across the sun-seared and wind-scoured land. She had only sipped sparingly from her water gourd, and had set a demanding pace that the Xen Team were challenged to match.

They pitched their tents and in the failing light lit a small camp fire. The Earthwalker ate a sparse meal of Travel Bread, as the Xen Team consumed their auto-heating space packs.

As had become the custom, over the three preceding nights of their journey, Charis, Idran and Girn questioned the Earthwalker about the practices and beliefs of the People. She had been open and forthright, sharing the nuances of mating, through to the intricate rites of death and interment. The host of Elemental Spirits had been discussed and compared to the ancient human pantheons, and governance and social structure explored.

"So how does one become an Earthwalker?"

There was a long pause, during which the Earthwalker sat, cross legged on the ground, eyes downcast, completely still.

"My apologies," Charis began, uncomfortably, "if it is secret knowledge, there is no need to answer. We mean no disrespect."

The Earthwalker remained, for a long moment in silence and immobility. Finally, raising her large alien eyes she stared at each of them in turn.

"Forgive me." Her voice was husky, and raw with emotion that did not match her calm face. "It is not forbidden."

"If it brings you pain to talk of it, we would rather remain ignorant." Idran's voice was gentle.

"Agreed," Girn and Charis chimed as one.

The Earthwalker took a deep breath.

"To know how an Earthwalker is made, you need to know why she exists." She stared, again, at each one of the Xen Team members in turn.

"In spite of our simplicity, our People are an ancient race. We roamed space and considered ourselves advanced, we ruled our sector of the Universe. But we were foolish. We abused our Planet. Just as we faced oblivion, She intervened.”

The Xen Team stirred. Up until this point, no mention had been made of a previous civilisation, and the preliminary surveying had gathered no evidence of any large scale industrialisation, let alone interplanetary travel.

“Our Planet began to convulse and, in natural disaster the Old World was destroyed. Whole cities were swallowed in sink holes, or destroyed by fire, ice or water. Billions perished, but millions more survived.”

She paused again. To the humans’ chagrin, a steady stream of tears had begun to flow down her cheeks, leaving tracks that shone in the flickering firelight.

“It took a mere ten revolutions around Sol to reduce the People to savagery. Our Mother stirred again, and She gave the People Her Earthwalkers. Only those places that admitted Her Rule under the guidance of an Earthwalker survived. Those that did not, perished in nature’s chaos and destruction. Each Village has an Earthwalker to hold the rule of the Mother, to keep Her laws and ensure Her People prosper. Earthwalkers are made, not born.”

Girn frowned, “Made?”

“The Mother will show you.”

With that, she stood and walked to her tent.

“Made? Initiation? Training? There has never been talk of an Earthwalker school.” Charis was thoughtful.

“I am more interested in the apocalypse scenario. Do you think there is any chance that any technology survived?” Idran rubbed his ungloved hands against the cold. “It is getting late, we need to turn in. Tomorrow is going to be another long day.”

Before the sun had risen, the small party had eaten breakfast and packed their tents. Quickly, the small white sun burned in the relentless blue-green sky.

They trekked across the baked earth until the sun reached its zenith.

The Earthwalker stopped in her tracks at the head of the small column, her arm held out, as if to restrain them.

“Pause!” her voice was loud and excited. “We need to stop here.”

They caught up to her and gathered around her as she pointed to a spinning column of sand in the hazy distance.

“Our Mother has spoken.”

Hunkering down on her haunches, she drew the others close to the ground.

“Watch. You are honoured beyond your comprehension.”

The twister snaked towards them across the desert. It gained momentum and bulk as it sucked up particles of golden brown sand.

The air howled as the finely focused column of dust and air drew to a halt a thousand paces away.

They watched as the tornado suddenly collapsed in on itself from the top of its funnel, leaving a heap of golden brown sand. The silence was as deafening as the roar of spinning air had been.

“Come.” The Earthwalker had risen and was striding towards the pile of sand. The Xen Team scrambled to follow.

The Earthwalkers tunic fluttered on the ground, as she stood in front of the mound with arms outstretched. They arrived just in time to hear her call “Sister, come forth, you are fondly received.”

The pile of sand shifted, and a slight, golden brown form emerged. The sand fell like water around her feet, the woman stepped into the embrace of the Earthwalker. The embrace lengthened, and with a sudden gust of wind, the Earthwalker dissolved into red-brown sand, and blew across the desert.

©KimMagennis 2019

Bedfellow

The force field had held through the storm, protecting the small hut from the worst of the wind, hail and rain. Morning finally broke with a battle-weary silence and a watery light.

Ruahan stirred on her modest cot and froze.

Her feet and lower legs were immobilised.

Cautiously raising her head off the pillow, she peered into the gloom towards her legs.

Her vision was snagged by the shredded door.

As she pondered the ferocity of the assault to have caused that damage, she became aware of the yellow eyes curiously watching her.

“Food?” The telepathic link stroked her mind.

100 word stories
©KimMagennis 2016

Interview

“Why don’t you tell me about yourself? Who is Mary?”

“I,” the words tumble through my mind. Things I’ve done? No! I am not defined by them. They are outside of me. Not part of me. Not any more.

“Don’t,” that also isn’t right. I did. A lot of times. A flush of shame, a memory of fear washes through my skin. I sweat. Like I did that time. All those times.

“Know,” how I got here, why I did what I did. What I thought I’d achieve.

I look down at my handcuffed hands, folded demurely in my lap.





100 word stories

©Kim Magennis 2016

Farmer

Picture Source www.wallpapersworldbd.blogspot.com

Harvest was always a bittersweet time for H’rald. Contemplating the results of a full growing season was inclined to both gratify and humble him. Looking at his latest crop, neatly stacked in a mere five stasis crates, it occurred to him that it was a paltry return for the expense of yet another year of his precious life force.


Admittedly, the early days of uncertainty intrinsic to Farming had been mitigated by the innovations that New Science had brought, but it still was a personally expensive way to contribute to the Greater Good.


As much as he loathed it, he knew he reeked of obsequious anxiety when the Crop Committee arrived to collect his offering. It was only when all the paperwork had been completed and stamped, and they had expressed their corporate satisfaction, that he was able to look at their official valuation: Fifty thousand galactic credits. H’rald only realised then that he had been holding his breath.


He was safe from the Debt Hounds for another year, with enough to get the highest quality seed for the new season. And enough to let his field lie fallow for the optimum fifty days. Even enough to get the best fertiliser for the transplanting of his precious seedlings.


Ten days into fallow, H’rald ordered and paid for his new seed. It arrived, by courier, in its special anti-contamination containers, with its certificates of authenticity and all its New Science guarantees.


Preparing and loading the seed trays was his favourite part of the process. Each tiny pearl of life was gently inserted deep into the rooting compound, with a single drop of precious ichor, and then the trays were placed under the germination lamps.


His daily visits to the germination chamber were, to him, his most sacred pilgrimage. As H’rald watched the tiny nubs of life crest through the rooting compound, he had been preparing his field. By the time the seedlings were ready for transplant, it was in prime condition.


Although it was not necessary, he always followed the ancient rituals of his Caste when it came to the night of transplanting. He ended his five day fast with a feast of traditional dishes, redolent with the herbs and spices of his childhood. His utilitarian bathroom was transformed with the light of handmade candles and the bath was filled with a frothy mix of modern minerals and ancient herbs. He lay, submerged in the waters, allowing his recording of the ancient chants to draw him into a deep state of meditation.


Emerging from the water, he dried off, and walked, naked, to the already prepared transplanting chamber.


Standing in the centre of the now sealed glassiform tube, he felt the fine spray of decontaminant and anaesthetic on his skin. The thin mechanical arms of the transplanter emerged, making swift their incisions and insertions. A spray of sealant finished the process.


That night, he dreamed of the burrowing of roots, the emergence of leaves, and the fruiting of exotic life-giving vines.


500 word stories


©Kim Magennis 2016

Angels among us

Photo Source: www.hereisfree.com

Anton wiped a marginally cleaner, gloved hand across his dusty visor. The darkness was creeping across the sky as the red dwarf sun sank below the ravaged horizon. His team had managed to locate and recover at least fifty indigenous remains during the thirty-six terran-hour daylight period. They needed to return to base. Night was wont to fall quickly and savagely on Tengri.


Three terran-hours later, the five of them sat at the cramped table in the mess hall of their cruiser. They had all been processed through the decontamination chamber. Tom had cloaked the ship, activated the shield, and was serving up a brown stew of unidentifiable lumps. “The last of the protein mix”, was his apologetic comment.


“Thanks, Tom.” Sarah sounded as tired and dispirited as the rest of them.


“A whole five-day, and we still have not found sign of him.” Gimbol’s forehead creased in frustration.


“Are we sure he was even here, Anton?” ever cynical, Dobra voiced what they had all thought as they had moved tonnes of rubble in their search.


“The last signal came from the site, not more than six Tengri days ago. He was here.”


“Goddam Thorian. What was he doing here, of all places?” Sharven groused.


“He was under cover. Need to know, and we don’t. We are just the stiffs to recover his body.”


“What if we don’t find him?”


“Then we need to nuke the site. Destroy all biological evidence.”


The cruiser trembled.


“Bloody avians! How can they even see us?” Dobra wiped dribbled stew from the table.


“Tom, try the electro-magnetic dampening field.”


The assault ceased.


“We will lay the nukes tomorrow, and head back to HQ before dark.”


They waited for the pale red daybreak to head out to the site. The land buggy bounced across the endless plains of rubble. As with every morning so far, the neat rows of recovered bodies had been removed, with no sign as to who had taken them and where they had gone.


Anton had set the last charge when a high pitched whine penetrated the thick skin of his helmeted exo-suit.


“Anybody else hear that?” Sarah sounded shaken.


“Regroup at the buggy. Now.” Anton’s tone brooked no argument.


Dobra was the last to scramble into the protective shell of the land buggy when the ground at the centre of the search site erupted.


Above the vast cloud of dust a huge, leather-winged avian dipped into view. It appeared to be dragging something from the rubble in its extended hind legs. Moving at an impossible speed towards the buggy, it looked, for all the world, like a fantastic dragon. It swooped down in front of the small battered vehicle, dropping its load, and veering sharply, it flew off into the distant. It took the stunned crew a few moments to register what had happened. Anton leaped out of the buggy, running awkwardly in his suit to the crumpled heap.


“It’s Thorian. Quick. Help me get him loaded. He is alive.”


500 word stories


©Kim Magennis 2016

Blood Moon

Source: GoodFreePhotos

It was the night of the Blood Moon. Tanith felt a stirring of unease. The Unseen were gathering, in force.
She could feel it.
When she had been an infant she had been reduced by their amassed energy to frantic cries, which her
parents failed to comprehend. The priests and healers had proclaimed her sound of body but strange of
mind. They prayed and burned incense.
Standing by her window, she stared out over the Fen. Mist swirled in the moonlight. It coalesced and
dissipated, creating fantastic shapes. The other crofters had barricaded their doors, muffled their windows,
and bright fires burned in their chimneys.
She alone watched, hidden in the dark.
Time had taken the edges off her memories: the loss of her precious daughter, the bitter fading of her
angry husband.
Distracted by her reverie she was brought back by the advance of a rider. It flowed over the uneven
puddles as if they did not exist. Transfixed, she watched its form take shape in translucent light a few
paces from her window.
The ghostly mount pawed the ground, the horseman stood in his stirrups, holding out a hand to her.
“Little Sister, it is Time. Come Home.”
200 word stories © Kim Magennis 2018

Hunter

Source: Wikipedia Commons

She swooped, on dream-borrowed wings between the red and gold canyon walls. The up-thrust and cross-draft of the localised air currents brushed against her feather tips. She allowed herself to surrender to the thrill of her flight. Her talons tightened on their load.
“Goshawk, target is 30 seconds away, keep to current heading and current speed.”
“Copy, Austringer. Maintaining current heading and speed.”
Drawn back to the task at hand, she could see her target crouched on a raft, riding the churning water
along the narrow canyon floor.
“I have a visual, Austringer.”
“Copy that, Goshawk. Proceed with caution.”
“Copy, Austringer. I’m going in.”
She stooped to ten meters over the heaving river. The craft grew larger in her view. It bobbed and twisted in the unruly waves. Dropping another five meters she eased down over the raft.
“Locked on to target.”
She kept abreast of the raft and its dissident occupant for just long enough to match its speed and drop another four meters.
“Incendiary device deployed.”
Her talons released their burden and she shot up into the air, up and back along the path of the raft. Five seconds later, a vast flame flower bloomed on the water.
200 word stories © Kim Magennis 2018

Old Magic

Source: Pixabay

The candle flickers in dusky light. Owl song haunts the air. He feels the falling night thrilling in his chest.
The pungent aroma of his offering floods his mind and senses.
Focusing on the flame, he reaches into it with his mind, and finding the portal-key, he flips it open. Light floods his workshop, illuminating the debris of a thousand spells. Quickly, he gathers his etheric self and steps through.
“Hello, Old Man!” Dylan’s bright young face smiles in recognition from inside the glass cage. “Let’s have your ticket, then.”
He hands his precious ticket through the small square, cut in the glass. Dylan snips one of the remaining blocks with a hand held device.
“You must be very happy, Old Man! Your Team looks to have a chance at the World Series, this year!”
He nods, fixing what he hopes is an amiable expression on his face.
Negotiating the darkened corridor, he is intercepted by the Burly Man. “Mr Merlin. Same deal, the score is on the card.” The strap of a bulging satchel and a small white square of card are pushed into his hand.
Looking down at the card he reads ‘Detroit Tigers – 9, Chicago Cubs – 3’.
200 word stories © Kim Magennis 2018

Affliction

Leru has a secret. She guards it, deep in her darkness. She is always vigilant to never expose it to those around her. All her conversations are guarded, especially with Ma and Da.
From childhood she has learned to communicate in generalities, so that she has trained her listeners to fill in the gaps to their satisfaction. The stories she tells, to hide her anomalous state, are simple and brief.
Fortunately, she has grown into a handy creature. Able to conjure elegant jugs, and delicate bowls from clay and glass, her products are highly valued, and she is protected from censure for her modest contribution to the Collective Consciousness.
The Village allows her a seat in a corner of the Tavern, where her silence during Sharing can be overlooked.
“Last night, I was visited by my Father Miso. He told me that the new crop should be planted in the northern fields. There will be Black Beetle this Spring.” There were murmurs among the gathered Community.
“My Aunt Dari concurs.”
The Village Scribe records the comments in his Book of Prophecy, along with the names of the speakers.
She, alone, is un-visited by the Dead, and has nothing to say.
200 word stories ©Kim Magennis 2018

Woodworker

Naime paused at the jamb of her cabin door. The early morning sun dappled through the brilliant canopy. A lung full of air confirmed that today was going to be a magnificent day.

Shouldering her rucksack, she drew the door closed behind her, allowing herself a loving stroke of the battered wood. She followed the faint path at a steady, comfortable pace, barely conscious of following the faint calling that tickled her senses.

Birds and insects trilled to each other across the gently rising land, the trees creaked and rustled in counterpoint. The sound of a small trickle of water was welcome. She paused and filled her water bottles in the stream. Back on her path, Petal-drifters and Blue-wings, followed her progress through the undergrowth.

When she reached the small, shaded clearing, Naime knew she had reached her destination for the day. A delicate Golden Wood Tree had fallen across the path. The smell of crushed White Flower bushes brushed her nostrils.

She knelt alongside the tree, and placed her brown hands on the pale, smooth trunk. Drawing air deep into her lungs, she began to hum, the long sweet note filled the air. The sound gained in volume, and rose in key and, opened in her mouth to an ecstatic ‘ah’.

Naime’s hands and head buzzed with energy. She continued her toning, focusing her attention on the tree beneath her fingers. Time ceased, the forest sounds blurred and faded. The energy shifted, and there was a large crack, as the trunk split in two, its entire length.

Nestled in the core of the tree were two, beautifully fashioned staffs. One male, one female. She lifted them reverently, and wrapped them in the special bag from her rucksack.

Her heart thrilled. She had her admittance fee to the Woodworkers’School.

300 Word StoriesãKim Magennis 2016

Dread

It all started with a vague sense of something being ‘off’. As Davidson sat at his desk, grinding through the morning paperwork, it casually brushed his mind. He raised his head and looked around the open plan office. Everyone else was head down, and the clatter of keyboards and buzz of printers masked subdued telephone conversations. From that moment, he had a growing feeling that he was being watched.

The next few days blurred into weeks and then months. The sensation had seeded in his gut, and was taking root. His sleep was disturbed with forgotten dreams, which left him with growing doom. He checked and double checked his work; he locked, opened and re-locked his front door; he became secretive and more withdrawn. He felt his colleagues and strangers watching him as he moved through his day. He hurried down deserted passages, on the verge of flight.

His first panic attack was a surprise. He fled his desk in a flurry of papers, locking himself in the toilet stall. He gasped, trying to draw oxygen into his lungs. His heart was pounding, his hands clammy and shaking. After ten minutes of focusing on regaining control of his breath, he emerged, white and drawn. The rest of the day dragged in agonising discomfort, until at last, the clock on the wall released him. He fled through the tide of homebound commuters to the safety of his tiny apartment, and hid.

A week later, the Supervisor’s Office created an island of light at one end of the darkened, empty workspace.

“The project has been running twenty weeks now, Brown. When will we see results?”

There was a buzz on Brown’s cell. Reading the message, he smiled. “As of 15 minutes ago. Davidson has self-terminated by jumping from his apartment window.”

300 Word StoriesãKim Magennis 2016

Tavern Keeper

Similarity in appearance ran strong in the McKinney Family. Terrence was the latest bearer of the rumpled brow, and square chin. Where his father had been cheerful, Terrence was taciturn. The Black McKinneys were considered a force to be reckoned with, and were known throughout County Tyrone for their stubborn independence.

“What can I do for you?” Terrence’s Irish baritone boomed from across the counter.

“Marian? Would you like a coffee?” The handsome man consulted his companion. The sun made lace shadows on the wooden surface. She smiled.

“Thank you, Lance, my love. That would be perfect.”

They took the table against the picture plastered wall. There must have been over two hundred snapshots pasted on the bland, teal wallpaper. Some were intensely hued and focused, some were grainy, black and white, others had the yellowed sepia of a different century. Lance and Marian browsed through them, pausing every now and then to point at some or other person, or garment, or pose.

Suddenly, Marian froze. “Look, Lance. That face. That’s you. And his partner. That’s me.”

When Terrence delivered the sturdy mugs of fragrant coffee, they pounced on him. Who were their doppelgangers, where were they from, where were they going?

After an extended pause, Terrence pleaded ignorance, and marvelled at the coincidence. Laughingly, the couple asked him to take a snap of them and the photo on Lance’s smartphone. Lance texted a copy to the Tavern email address “to put on the wall, too”.

Asking direction to nearby Loch Neagh, they finally left, happy and smiling. Watching them go, Terrence was profoundly disturbed. Going to the wall, he plucked off the photo. Turning it over, his Grand-father had inked ‘October 1936; Lance and Marian Graham, drowned Loch Neagh in boating accident,’ and then Grand-father had pencilled in ‘2016.’

300 Word Stories ©Kim Magennis 2016

Oenologist

Maister S’vren was a rigid grey apparition in his immaculate lab coat as he stalked between the long wooden benches of Bunsen burners and bubbling beakers. Burets dripped their concoctions into Erlenmeyer flasks, earnestly tended by his students and chemists. Conversations were brief and hushed.

Satisfied with his workers’ industry the Maister took the long flight of stairs down to the Cellar. He typed his personal code into the access keypad and submitted to the retina scan. The heavy metal doors rolled apart, allowing him entrance into the high-ceilinged cave that housed the Guild’s Fermentation Vats.

Walking the length of the darkened subterranean factory took a full thirty minutes. As he strode along the slightly raised metal gangway, the age of the installation settled heavily on his shoulders. These machines had been in service for the last three thousand years, producing the Multiverse’s most acclaimed and sought after wines.

Finally, he reached a small, shadowed door. Again the keypad, and retina scan, but this time he felt the distinctive tingle of a full body scanner. After a fraction of a second delay, the door popped open, released by the gigantic computer brain that monitored the entire forty floor facility.

Unsurprised or undeterred by the jumble of ancient, discarded cleaning equipment and materials, he walked to the back of the small room and opened a rusted metal cupboard door and squeezed through.

He was embraced by pitch darkness, and the smell of rich earth and oaken barrels. A single spot of mellow light painted a circle on the naked soil beneath his feet. It was just enough to allow a hint at the extent of the modest row of barrels. Taking a glow stick from the depths of his lab coat, he found his way to an ancient dusty wine rack. Twelve unlabeled bottles nestled on the wooden frame. He scanned the micro-coding embedded in their corks with the small tablet he took from his pocket. At the third bottle, the scanner shone golden yellow. This was the one.

Being careful not to jostle the precious contents, he wiped the bottle clean with a special cloth from his pocket and gently wrapped it to protect it during its transport. A special order from the Emperor herself.

He paused, briefly pondering the delicacies of politics and power. His place was not to question. He sighed, wondering who was going to die tonight.

400 Word Stories ©Kim Magennis 2018