“What ARE the Wilds? Every Nocturni’s seen it; every Nocturni’s heard it, and none of us can say we know.
From what’s been gathered, it is an unkempt and sunless world, ruled or once ruled by a race we call the Predecessors. They were the first to tame aether, the first to craft Keepings, and they gave us the Gift long ago, so that we might serve as their soldiers in a war against our former kind.
Yet however powerful these Predecessors might be, they aren’t the ones overriding our instincts. They aren’t the ones who speak to us in our deathsleep. No. By every account, by our oldest members, this voice, hidden in all of us, is the voice of the Wilds itself. And make no mistake: that voice belongs to a world that’s dark, and violent, and bestial.
If we listen to its Call, it will have us be the same.”
“Report: The Predecessors.” Court Inquisitor Aisha Lakhani, October 17th, 1993
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Crash!
Harriet sprints through the foyer, floorboards creaking under her shoes. The dead rabbit flops as she rushes to the kitchen, its feet pinned together. The space has an acrid smell, its stove fire blazing, plates with butter and cornbread biscuits laid all across the table. Harriet shoves them all aside to make room for her kill, eyes glittering as she smiles down at Pa’s knife.
Pa’s knife. Her face shines in the steel’s reflection. It’s almost too heavy for her, but she’d never think of letting go. She doesn’t notice the woman, bent over a washbasin, with similar red hair but wiry eyes, until she’s marching towards her.
“H-Harriet?” Ma crudely folds the blue coat in her hands. “Wh-where’d ya get that-”
Srrrrrkk! Ma gasps as Harriet slices the rabbit’s back, digging in with her fingers and pawing the skin open like a wet sock.
“Ah… wash it, Harriet, wash it! Ya’ll get all sorts of-”
“Let the kid have fun, Ida.” William leans against the wall. “Ya can always clean it after."
“Harriet ignores them both, biting her tongue as she tugs the rabbit’s skin off its feet.
“William…” Ma twitches. “Where’s Billy? Ya left him outside with a gun?”
“He’s seven. I was shootin’ possums at half his age. We’ve got… Ida?” His brow furrows. “What’re ya holdin’?”
There’s too long a pause. Ma tries to fill it by speaking too quickly.
“Nothing.” She nods to herself. “I-it’s nothing.”
“Show me.”
“I-I was jes’ about ta put it away-”
“Show me.”
Harriet shrivels. Pa’s using that voice, the voice that only comes out when he doesn’t get home until late at night. Ma quickly unravels the garment, but Harriet barely gives it a glance. Gold buttons, a stars-and-stripes patch.
A thick black ink stain lingering above the shoulder.
Ma hides behind it as her husband rises. “What did you do?” His knuckles squeeze. “What did ya FUCKIN’ DO!?”
“I was writin’ letters! It spilled! I-I’ll get it off, William, I promise! I’m doin’ everythin’ I can-”
“That drawer shouldn’t even be fuckin’ open!”
“I’m sorry!”
Harriet hunkers down, pressing herself against the table. The air around her starts to chime. She saws at one of the rabbit’s feet, shoves the charm inside her pocket.
For luck.
Pa grits his teeth. “Have ya any idea what I’ve done in that uniform? What I could still do!?”
“I know, I know!” Ma’s eyes dart to Harriet, then back to Pa. “B-But please, not in front of-"
“What were ya doin’ there, Ida? Playin’ one of yer tricks? Fuckin’ around!?”
“I WASN’-”
“Lookin’ fer the goddamn pelt!?”
Ida freezes. The house goes quiet. Even Harriet can feel the air grow stiff. Pa stands still for a moment. But then those deep blue eyes alight.
And he lunges for a broom.
"WILLIAM!” Ma retreats to the counter. “PLEASE!”
“YOU FUCKIN’ CUNT!”
“PA, PA, PA!” Harriet steps in front of him, dangling the half-skinned rabbit. “Look, look, I-”
She screams when he slams his hand in her face, shoving her into the table. Cornbread biscuits roll around while Ma lifts her hand and sobs.
“WILLIAM!!! STOP-”
Harriet curls into a ball, covers her ears. The thrashing grows muffled, then distant, then turns to whispers. There’s nothing to hear but the windchimes. Windchimes, and her own breath.
Her eyes fixate on the rabbit, bundled on the floor, staring at her with a non-existent eye. She reaches for her knife and crawls up to it. Slices open its belly and starts dressing the guts out. She’s gotta do it right. Pa wants her to do it right.
The ground rumbles when Ma falls, but Harriet only tells because the cut-out organs jingle. She snatches a cleaver from a nearby cabinet, lifts her hand, stares down.
If she does it right, he’ll be happy.
She’ll be quiet.
Things will be well.
In a single clean motion, she chops off the head.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“AH!”
Harriet inhales, and blinks her eyes. Her breath turns frosty around her. She listens to birdsong and the whistles of the pines. Only then does she remember.
She’s here. Dressed in camo. A gun in her hands.
Gone from that place by a hundred years, and four thousand miles.
A deer stands in front of her, female, trembling as she watches the barrel of the gun. Harriet studies her for a moment, unsure how she found her, unsure how she even got here. But looking into the doe’s face, she can’t hurt it. Can’t squeeze the trigger. She just wants to reach out.
“Hey.” Harriet moves slowly. “I-”
But the doe’s already gone. Thundering through the woods, huffing through its maw, and leaving the stunned vampire well behind her
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Loch Tummel, Scotland
March, 2004
Five Months Before the Reeve’s Assassination
“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me.”
The choir rings through the church’s tight, wooden walls. Shepherding a solemn faithful as they file out of the pews.
“I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind but now I see.”
Harriet slowly shuffles forward, caught between a manically praying woman and a man hobbling on a cane. Like most of this logging town, the churchgoers are old, calm, quiet. Workers of lost industries, too stubborn to follow the world on. That’s why she chose to hunt here. Somewhere distant, and natural, where she could escape the city’s unending youth, and put her feet on real ground.
She dares to look up at the stained glass rendition of Christ. His face bores down on her, open and austere, and she burrows back to her folded hands. It’s the 6AM service, just at the cusp of dawn, but she had to risk it. Not because she intended to listen to the pastor’s sermon - the windchimes were more enthralling - but because she can feel Him, in this space. Something eternal, like her.
Something that would never leave.
Yes, she’s old-fashioned. Yes, it’s a little culty. And yes, for the record, Harriet does believe in dinosaurs. But let the other Unbound mock and jape. She knows what she feels when she listens to the windchimes closely, or studies the swirling patterns in the altar’s wood. Him. And how could He not be real, when she’s standing here? Breathing and living at a hundred-and-sixty.
A walking miracle.
“The Lord has promised good to me,
His word my hope secures.”
She shuffles through the communion line, contemplative, barely aware. She tries to envision Him as a… perfect ball of light, half-closing her eyes. But a hand falls over hers, forcing them open.
“He will my shield and portion be…”
Dark fingers, uncalloused and clean. Placing in her palm a piece of bread, dipped in wine.
“The Blood of Christ, shed for you.”
“... As long as life endures.”
Stunned, she looks up. It’s a young man, close to her apparent age, dressed in a simple button-down and tie. His dark hair is short, his skin olive, his voice neither Scottish nor English nor anything she’s heard, but still full. Still warm.
But it’s not his voice that’s frozen her. It’s his eyes. Rich and bright like sheets of gold. Burning with a fire she can’t begin to describe.
He smiles awkwardly, glancing at the bread, back to her. When it’s clear she won’t move, he reaches down, and raises her hands for her. She’s held firm like that until the Sacrament’s in her mouth, and then he brings them back down, gently.
“Christ is with you. Go in peace.”
She barely whispers. “A-Amen.”
“The earth shall soon dissolve like snow,
The sun forbear to shine.”
The crowd presses on Harriet, and she’s pushed forward, hustling to the pews while looking furtively back. He’s already serving the others. With a kind, genuine smile.
“But God, who called me here below…”
It’s only when she’s turned around, deep in God’s house, that he starts watching her.
“... will be forever mine.”
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Harriet shuts off the shower, and sighs with the steam. Another dreamless sleep before another wakeless night. The suite’s bathroom is cramped, which makes drying an elbow-bashing, wallpaper-scratching chore. But Harriet doesn’t really mind. She’s used to tiny rooms.
One of the ‘perks’ of Harriet’s specific curse - the one that gives her the special, matter-bending powers - is that she can never sleep in the same place twice. Not the same mattress, or bed of a car, no, it’s down to the soil. The radius fluctuates, but after decades of testing, she’s narrowed the average down to 1.16 miles. Why? Who knows! The only person she could ask is long dead. So she’s taken to drifting, flitting between hotels before anyone can stop and notice her.
Harriet shakes her hair like a dog, content to let air handle the rest, and slips into her camouflage shirt and trousers. They’re both a bit too big for her slim frame, but that’s everyone else’s fault. The mortals keep getting taller. She leans her rifle against the wall (Remington 700, Canadian issue, .308 Winchester rounds), and lifts her backpack, thick with hunting licences, local contracts, and other government-stamped bundles of trash. They don’t even let her walk around with a handgun anymore.
Not that their rules ever stopped her.
All prepped, Harriet checks herself in the mirror. Greying skin. Mild light in her eyes. That ever-constant face of complete exhaustion. Good enough. She’ll pass. Not like there’s a Reeve out here to enforce anything. She’s about to turn around when she spots a little vial on the counter. Scowls. It’s a gift from Janet.
L’Oreal brand mascara.
“Come on, at least once.” She’d been told. “Don’t you want to look prettY? Do you think it some sort of POISON?”
Why does Harriet need to look pretty? She’s never given an answer. Janet was a noblewoman, in a past life, and if she spends too much time with the Unbound, she gets into these… moods. But maybe Harriet can humour her, just tonight. It looks easy to put on. And it’ll help hide the curse, make her look a bit more like all the other…
…the…
… the other….
There’s a light ringing in her ears, and Harriet abruptly shakes her head. Her tongue reaches for her gums and pierces itself on her canines. Right. She doesn’t have time to dally.
If her fangs are poking out like this, it means Harriet’s hungry.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“Ma, MA!” A little boy shouts in a thick brogue. “Stephanie’s got cooties. She kissed some’un at school. She’s GROSS!”
“NAHHHH!” A girl shouts back. “Darrel jes’ said ‘at so he - JAMIE!”
A toddler bolts from the table, waddling through the hotel restaurant with a stolen cookie in his hands. His sister charges after him, tackling them both into the old, crusty carpet, right in front of Harriet. But rather than cry from his injury, the toddler begins to laugh. The sister joins him, then their brother, then their parents at the table. Their hollers so loud they reach across the hall.
Harriet takes a step back, a hand on her heart. With each raise in volume, she winces a little more. Eventually, it becomes unbearable, and she starts marching through the hotel before-
“Waaaaaaaaiiiiittt.” Harriet freezes as a wrinkled hand grasps her. “Kin our lil’ ‘untress nae eat breakfast first?”
“M-Missus Fossaway!” Harriet turns to face a wizened old woman, noting the soft-boiled egg in her hands. “That’s, uh, mighty kind of ya, but I ain’t-”
“Nonsense. Git ‘ere!” Fossoway practically slams Harriet into a seat, setting the plate down. “Don’t matter what ye think, I can never let a guest go unfed. You’re a Yank, ye understand.”
Harriet laughs awkwardly. “Aha, y-yeah. But… been a long time since I went back.”
“Ah, the heart stays by its roots. Ye ken who’s comin’ up to help this week? Me own Sasha. Grandkid, ‘member?” Fossoway sets down a glass. “All that blether ‘bout movin’ to Glasgow, ‘real living,’ but she still scurries back ‘ere come Easter.”
Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.
Harriet chuckles and shrugs, trying not to make a sour face as she watches the glass fill with orange juice. She’ll drink and eat, of course. But, well, Nocturni aren’t supposed to have… people food. Burns up too much aether to run a functioning digestive system. So when it has to come out…
She winces. Not gonna be pretty.
“An’ ye ken, for her sake, gotta ask…” Fossoway pulls back Harriet’s attention. “Ye got any secrets for keepin’ ye skin?”
Harriet blinks. “Wh-what?”
“It’s those city girls and their standards. Sasha gets so anxious ‘bout, heh, gettin’ wrinkles.” Fossoway waves a hand over her face. “I ken, she’s young, but I told her about ye. With ye lookin’ the way ye look, thought ye might ‘elp her.”
“O… oh.” Harriet’s nose curls. “D-Do I… really look that young?”
“Course,” Fossoway beams. “Been comin’ up to Loch Tummel for, what, twelve-some years now? An’ ye don’ look a day over twenty!”
The innkeeper starts to laugh, but Harriet’s expression breaks.
Twelve years?
Already?
But then Harriet catches the innkeeper’s gaze, and forces a laugh. “Ahahah, yer too kind, Missus Fossoway, yer too kind. But I promise! Ain’t no secret! Don’t touch those cosmetics with a ten-foot-pole.” It’s hard to keep the weight from her voice. “G-Guess ya could say…”
If Fossoway noticed, others have too. It will only grow more stark next year. And that means she can’t come back to Loch Tummel. Not for a long time.
Time this lovely, dying little town didn’t have.
“... guess ya could say I’m jes’ lucky.”
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Loch Tummel hosts two pubs. One’s right by the union office, filled with the same type. Ironically, Harriet fits in better there. She’s far from well-versed in politics, but as an Unbound, memorising labour disputes and workers’ songs is practically a requirement. She can tell them she’s a student of history, listen to old men reminisce about the strikes she once attended.
But feeding from them is another question, and for that, she looks to the Gilded Swan. Old-style, local whiskeys, no natural light. Always swarming with tourists and travellers, the kind of folk looking for a good time, and whose stories don’t stick around.
A watering hole, for all of them.
So the location’s good, but picking the target? Even more important. Harriet leans on the wall, searching the faces. Winning them over will be easy; she knows how she looks. Could honestly layer herself in deer guts and there will still be someone in their forties who will slobber all over her.
From there, it’s like a recipe. They’ll start with some small talk, she’ll repeat a few words in her ‘silly accent’, they’ll saunter to the washroom, and she’ll walk out by herself. Simple, safe. The process works.
The problems come up when Mr. Forty-Something’s had a little too much to drink, and now Harriet’s injecting six shots of Saint Giles’ Smoky directly into her aether stream. Or he’s anaemic, and she didn’t notice, but when he conks out they’ll have to call the hospital. Or maybe, if the night’s really special, Mr. Forty-Something picked up a little more than something on his last trip to Thailand, and now Harriet’s mouth is going to be littered with sores until her aether can fucking purify it.
So… targets. Choices, choices, choices.
That’s when she spots him. Sitting alone on some stool in the corner. Half-sipping his gin, half-watching a rugby game.
The guy from church. He’s still wearing the same goddamn tie.
Harriet walks across the bar lithely, swiping a pint from someone who ought to pay attention better. He turns as she nears, his gaze focused on her eyes as she sits down. Not her chest.
That’s a good start.
“You, uh…” Her mind blanks, and she gestures awkwardly with her hand. “... ya go ta church often?”
He smiles, leans back. “When I can. But in places like this, not always. They don’t always serve my sect.”
She squints. “Yer Catholic?”
“Orthodox,” he replies. “I’m from Cyprus.”
Cyprus? Ain’t that some kind of fruit? But she quickly corrects her scowl. “Shit,” she forces a chuckle. “I’m pretty far from home, too.”
“I noticed.” He glances at her outfit. “Do you always go to church dressed like that?"
“I was huntin’.”
“Could have wiped your boots.”
“God invented worms. Don’ care a lick if we come ta Him muddy.” Harriet sips her drink, makes a face. So sour. “‘Sunday dress’, that’s bandit talk. Wanna make ya feel bad so they can sell ya clothes an’ take yer money.”
“Bandits?”
“Scammers.”
He holds up his tie. “And is there something wrong with buying nice clothes?”
“Depends on why ya buy ‘em.”
He shifts his head. “They look nice. Formal, polite. It shows that I want respect.”
“See? Want, without earnin’. Manipulation.” Harriet leans forward. “It’s a mask.”
“What if it’s not for the respect of others? What if I’m dressing like this so I can respect myself?”
“Yer self-respect’s pretty weak if it needin’ fancy clothes.”
“But it was strong enough for you.” He sips, leaving Harriet with a befuddled expression. After a moment, he smiles. “So… you hunt. Deer, I presume?”
“Y-Yeah,” she nods. “Government contracts me. Populations get outta control in these parts. Ain’t got no natural predators.”
He laughs. “Other than us, right?”
“I don’t usually eat ‘em,” she laughs back. Then she stops, licks her lips. “... it’s a good job. I like it. Lots of walkin’, lots of woods. An’ I’m really good. Been shootin’ since I was six.”
“So it fulfils you?” He swirls his glass. “Gives you a sense of purpose?”
“Pfft, I dunno about that. Shootin’ is shootin’. Why, what do you do? Stocks?”
“Business. I’m in tech.”
Harriet snorts. Seems like everyone’s in ‘tech’ these days. “An’ does all that tech jes’ fill ya up with a ‘sense of purpose?’”
“As a matter of fact, yes. I… feel my best working.” He sets his glass down. “Sure, it’s nice to have holidays like this, but… imagining something, something that helps people, and watching it spring to life in your hands. It's beautiful. Inspiring. It feels right.”
Harriet finds herself staring again, and not because Nocturni have to remember to blink. Something in the man has… changed. His voice is more booming, his movements more graceful. And his eyes, almost suns.
Blazing in a smogless sky.
“... Ya know what? Since yer gettin’ all… filly-sophical,” she stumbles on the word. “ What ya said, ‘bout beauty? That’s how I feel, when I’m shootin’. Like everything’s right.”
The man’s expression shifts. That vigour from before has vanished. Replaced with something rigid. Calculating.
“No. No, I don’t think you could feel that way. In fact, I doubt you ever have.”
Something rises in Harriet’s throat. She scowls. “Why not?”
He looks into her eyes. So intensely, so certainly, that she’s instantly caught on guard.
“With this, I can build.” He taps his head. “But guns create nothing. They exist to destroy. Just like you, Harriet. Just like you.”
Her spine tingles as he rises, throwing a designer coat over his shoulders. “W-Wait!” Harriet springs up, as he storms past. “How do ya know my-”
But the strange man from Cyprus is already gone.
And Harriet suddenly wishes that she could openly carry her Remington.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The forest is lonely at night. Beyond the calls of crickets and hoots of owls, Harriet hears nothing but her own footsteps. The Remington sits coldly in her hands; she’s not generating the body heat that could keep it warm.
There’s a faint glow in her eyes as she scans the trees. Aether sharpens her senses, just like it curls her claws and makes her fangs peek out. If someone flashed a torch her way, she wouldn’t exactly look human. But in the woods, that’s okay. There’s no fear, no pressure.
The deer can handle a monster.
Grass crunches in the distance, making Harriet lift her rifle. She’s been following the scent, checking the tracks, and when she crests the hill, her eyes grow wide. It’s a doe - the doe, from before. She’s picking carelessly through the rocks. Lazy, unfrightened. If she heard Harriet, she’s not much disturbed. These deers’ knowledge of humans goes as far as the tourists who give them food.
The creature pauses, lifts her head. Staring right into the vampire’s eyes.
Harriet feels that same tug of conscience from last night but, pushes it down, presses her rifle to the cheek. The town wants this, not her. And more will be born, more will replace her. Deer die all the time.
It can’t feel.
She places her finger on the trigger.
It’s not a person.
Windchimes start ringing in her ears.
Hungry. She feels hungry. Not just for aether, screaming always in the back of her skull, but in her stomach, like a human. She remembers her mouth, watering. The taste of berries on her tongue, the satisfaction of swallowing meat. Where is this coming from? Why is this happening?
Soon, the windchimes aren’t alone. They’re joined by puffy, pure white clouds. Slowly swarming her vision. Slowly pushing the deer away. Slowly making the hunger grow stronger…
… and stronger…
… and stronger…
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
1864
Summertime
The squirrel hurries down from the branches, mesmerised by the many, many acorns piled below. He doesn’t stop to ask who left them there, or why they’re so stacked. He just starts shoving them in his mouth, hardly noticing the rope until he’s already dug in his ankle.
Slllllllck! The squirrel starts twitching and thrashing, as he’s hoisted up four feet in the air. Acorns fall back to the forest like marbles. The rope pulley holding the squirrel high creaks against a branch.
Suddenly, excited grunts, shredded leaves. To the squirrel’s eyes, a giant is running towards it, everything upside down. Their eyes are desperate, their mouth salivating, and their mane a mess of red. The squirrel squeaks fervently when the giant cups their hands around it. Slowly petting the critter’s head, shushing him, humming to him. Coarse and bony fingers linger around his neck.
Harriet pulls, and hears a crack. The squirrel quickly stops squeaking, then stops moving, dangling from the rope. She starts taking quick, breathless laughs, before undoing the snare with a shaky hand.
Her clothes are tattered and full of holes, loose against her shrunken belly. Her freckled face is caked with mud, her hair a mess of tangles. But no matter her state, she almost weeps with joy. Meat. Real meat. Not mushrooms and nuts and berries.
With her kill tied around her waist, Harriet trots back to her hiding spot. Even the run exhausts her at this point, but tonight, that’s gonna change. She just needs to grab her gear. A filthy blue coat she throws over herself, betraying a black ink stain by the shoulder. And the gun. Pa’s gun. A Springfield Model 1855 muzzle-loaded musket rifle. Five-and-a-half feet long. Weighing a little under ten pounds.
But with each day, it feels heavier.
Harriet groans as she picks it up, weakened muscles screaming with exhaustion. But it doesn’t matter how much it weighs, or that the powder’s wet, or that she lost her last bullet. Harriet has to bring it.
The gun will keep her safe.
The gun will keep her living.
Harriet marches back to her cave, squirrel in tow. A chorus of windchimes follow her, louder than the coming thunder.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“Cuh-... keh…” She makes more tiny grunts, the most she’s spoken in days. “... rrrghh!”
She throws her flint onto the ground, leaning against the cave wall. She can hear the downpour of rain echo from outside, feel the damp rock seep into her clothes. The flayed squirrel lays skewered on the other side. Uneaten.
Her stomach rumbles. Harriet hisses a breath. Crawls back to her little pit and starts working the flint again. Come on, it’s been months. She hasn’t had meat since she ran out of powder. Can’t she just have anything FOR ONCE!
She gasps. One of the sparks catches, she sees a flicker of smoke. Harriet bends down, blowing with all her might, her hands folded together, almost in prayer.
“Keh-keh-keh…” Her throat seizes up whenever she tries to make sounds. “...nnnnnnn…”
She freezes. Her heart stops. The little trail of smoke fades away.
Leaving her with nothing but an empty stomach and a couple wet logs.
At first, Harriet just hugs herself. Throws Pa’s coat over her shoulders, and cries. But eventually the hunger consumes her grief, too. Meekly, she turns and studies the squirrel. The meat’s pink, and gamey, and juicy. But it’s clean. Nothing in the organs looked sick. It… it’s probably okay.
Just a little bite.
Harriet scooches forward slowly, checking the walls, as if someone might walk in and tell on her. After a frozen second, she pounces, shoving the squirrel into her mouth. It’s chewy and tasteless, every bite sending waves of juices from her mouth. But once she starts, she can’t stop. It goes down her mouth so easily. It’s so good. So good.
Her hands tremble as she bites deeper. The squirrel’s blood mixes with her tears.
For the next two days, Harriet has the runs. By the time she’s able to stand, she’s just as hungry, and all out of fresh water.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
She finds the stream at the bottom of a sun-baked cliff, azure waters still untouched by the dust and red rock all around her. The river’s roar is joined by countless cicadas. In the unyielding sunlight, it seems to glow blue. Centuries from now, with a degree in physics, Harriet would know this is glacial runoff, from the peaks of the Rockies she can see in the distance. But in the moment, with Pa’s Springfield shaking in her hands, it’s nothing less than God.
Harriet slings the rifle over her back and sprints, dunking her face deep. The water’s bitingly cold, fraying her nerves, but she wants nothing less. She cups her hands and takes massive gulps, stunned by its tastelessness, its purity. As she starts to strip and dunk her clothes in the current, she’s surrounded by a growing ring of brown. It reaches up to her knees
The chill brings her mind into focus. Cave. She needs to find a new cave. There’ll be fewer critters this high up, but she’s already seen juniper, other berries. They can hold her over for the few days she needs to-
She hears a crack and swings around. Pa’s Springfield is already raised, the sight nuzzled by her cheek. But the man she sees on the other end isn’t some trapper, or the Injun war bands she hides from. He’s got a straw hat, tired eyes, coveralls. From the calluses of his hands, raised in startled defence, she can tell he’s a farmer.
“H-... howdy there, lil’ girl. M-mind puttin’ that down?” He breaks into a shaky smile, his shrouded eyes never leaving the barrel. “P-Pa probably told ya not ta trust strangers, but… I-I promise I don’ bite.”
She notices the revolver, holstered by his hip. Very slowly cocks her rifle.
“Okay, okay! We’ll… we’ll wait fer yer dad then. That’s his clothes yer wearin’, right?” His face quickly contorts. “A-And ya know, jes’ ta say, w-we ain’t got no quarrel with a Union man. Rebs burned down our home, too.”
Harriet starts huffing her breath, trying to look big. But it doesn’t seem to work right, because the man’s expression only softens.
“Shit. Yer alone out here?” He starts searching the treeline, bewildered. “But… we left in March. If yer this far West, h-how’d ya survive the-”
“RAH!” The man quickly retreats back, but doesn’t run. Harriet was hoping to make more than a guttural screech, but even that tore through her throat.
“Easy, easy, I-... I ain’t gonna hurtcha.” He’s blinking strangely, his smile crooked. “L-look, our axle b-broke, but Fort Collins is only a day or two’s walk away. I can getcha there, I’ll come. They’ve got food, shelter, m-medicine. A-and my daughter can spare a few dresses-”
His words vanish. Her ears start to ring. Dresses. Dresses. Dresses.
“- nice and pretty.”
He wants her nice and pretty. He’s putting her in a dress. Why? Why? Why why why WHY WHY?
“Ya don’ have ta be scared. It’ll all-” He gasps as she swivels around, desperation in her eyes. “Wait, wait. WAIT!”
The water stings again as she leaps into it, hoping to match the current. But when her foot digs into the rocks, her eyes grow wide. It’s not coming back up. She starts thrashing wildly, bubbles rising from her lips. Standing’s impossible, everything feels so slick. Terror clenches her mind, freezes her nerves. And then, big hands. Gripping her waist, pulling her up.
“THERE!” The man gasps for breath, still holding her. “G-got me terrified-”
Harriet screams. Claws at his arms, bites at the air, squirms and wiggles and screams and screams and screams. The man pulls her forward, pushes her back, trying to do everything in his power to not drop her.
“No, stop, stop, STOP! I need-”
In her thrashing, she sees it again. The gun in the holster. He’s too busy trying to pin her.
With a kick, the man’s on his knees. With a twist, she’s holding the revolver. They’re both half-submerged when she lifts it to his head, water dripping down the barrel.
He doesn’t get a chance to speak. She instantly squeezes the trigger.
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Harriet opens her eyes, takes a breath, and screams. The deer’s faded eyes look back at her, darting wildly around, steam rising with each breath. Red mattes her fur, massive clumps stuck together, and through the lacerations in the flesh, Harriet can see bone. The doe leans against a rock, legs kicking helplessly.
Harriet reaches out to help her, but stops when she sees her hands. Bits of skin stick to her fingernails, somehow sharper, and aether glows across arms that are elbow-deep in red. Something metallic enters her mouth. She licks around her lips, and the taste becomes overwhelming. She can smell it all over her cheeks. Dripping down her chin. Blood. There’s so much blood.
But for a dying deer, there ought to be so much more.
She slowly walks back into a tree, falls to the ground. Her legs feel like jelly. Her arms won’t move. And at last, the worst, she no longer feels hunger.
Harriet lifts her hands, and starts hyperventilating. The forest, the stars, her skin, they all start fusing together. The windchimes are coming. She can hear them, in the distance. But they’re not coming fast enough.
“Harriet?”
Harriet screeches, and rockets back. She spots her rifle in the grass and pounces for it. But when the sights reach her eye, her heart plummets. A tall man’s standing over the deer, his face a mask of horror. He’s still wearing that goddamn suit and tie.
His hands are raised in defence, and his eyes never leave her rifle.
“Don’t!” Harriet keeps it levelled. “Don’t move. Don’t scream. Don’t do anythin’!”
“I-I’m not fighting,” he whispers.
“It’s midnight in the middle of the woods. Are ya fuckin’ stalkin’ me?”
“I followed-” He notes the flash in her eyes, cowers. “No, no, not like that! I was thinking about our talk, how I… God, Harriet. We should call someone!
“No!” She shouts, a little too quickly. Calms her breath to collect herself. “No. This is nothin’. This is fine. There ain’t shit ta explain.”
“It looks like you-”
“I said there ain’t shit!” She blinks a few times. “Listen, pardner, I’m askin’ the questions now. So ya better stop speakin’ riddles an’ start givin’ answers. Who the fuck are you?”
He stands there, frozen in thought, for what feels like an eternity. Then he finally lowers his arms, and lifts his head to her eyes.
“It doesn’t matter who I am.” He smiles. “Only that I can help.”
She looks at him like a frightened animal.
“At church, you seemed faded. Distant. Lost in your own world. It caught my eye, so I asked around. But every snippet I heard only made it sound worse. They talked of a girl who only comes out at night. Who carries a gun wherever she can. Who changes hotels as often as clothes, and avoids like the plague anything that could resemble friendship-”
“I ain’t like most people,” she hisses. “Don’ need houses an’ suits an’ any bleedin’ company. Ain’t that fine? Don’ I have a right ta live how I like!?”
“You say it’s how you like. But how can you be sure?” He looks at her sternly. “I don’t think you remember what you like and dislike. You’re just treading water.”
She grits her teeth, stays silent. Arms wobbling beneath the gun’s weight.
“Okay. You don’t have to agree. But prove to me that I’m wrong.” The man speaks softly. “You can’t spend your whole life hunting. What else do you do?”
Shooting range. Deathsleep. Staring at walls.
“Do you try to find friends?”
Only prey.
Harriet winces. “Wh-why should I? Friends go. People leave. Should I-I invest in a town that’s shrinkin’ every month? Visit a pub that’s a blink from shuttin’ down? Make friends when I know I’ll jes’ watch ‘em die? What’s the point?”
“Because it gives you connection. However small, however fleeting. That’s why you come here, right? To connect with the forest, with your gun, with nature. But we need more than roots and trees. We need each other.”
“I’ve lasted quite a long time doin’ things my way.”
“And look at yourself in the mirror, right now, and tell me you still feel human.”
Harriet looks down at her arms, faintly glowing with aether. It’s only through magic alone that the dead muscles are even moving.
“What the fuck do ya know about… connections?” She growls. “Yer a pup. Ya make computers.”
“I told you, I create. And in those creations, I save people.” He slowly moves his arm back, and Harriet brandishes her gun. But it doesn’t seem to faze him. They both know she won’t pull the trigger.
His hand settles down in the grass, then lifts. Leaving behind a small card that flashes in the light of the moon.
“Just like I think I can still save you.”
She sees the card, and scowls. “If ya think I’m gonna drop anythin’ an’ follow you-”
“You don’t have to accept. It’s an invitation.” He stands back up, gestures to the scene. “And I’ll tell no one about… this. As a show of my faith. Sometimes we need a knife. To crack open the shell, and see the pearl."
He turns around, ducking back into the trees, and Harriet slowly shimmies her way towards the business card. But it's written in Greek:
Πολύφρων
Διευθύνων Σύμβουλος
Σωτήριος Χρυσάνθου
“Wait! Why are ya doin’ this? Why do ya care?"
He doesn't turn. "Look for me, and I will find you."
And he's gone again. Leaving her with a card she can't read, and words she can't parse. Harriet studies them for a final time, and notes the symbol. Dark black ink that shadows the entire paper. A trident, with three bold prongs.
All upside down, so that they seem to be piercing her finger.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
1864
Summertime
She clicks open the gun and lightly shakes the barrel, until three bullets fall out. One after another. She rubs them against her thumb, presses them to her cheek. They stick to the blood on her face, her palm, her clothes. Like the bits of brain and bone in her hair, uncleaned. But it doesn’t matter. She curls into a ball, rocking slowly back and forth, watching the spinning wheel as she flicks the revolver’s cylinder.
Smith and Wesson, it reads in tiny font. The grip’s made of rosewood. It can hold half a dozen rounds.
The farmer’s corpse has snagged on a rock, just a little downstream. His arms are outstretched, and she can still see the bottom half of his jaw. No. Stop looking. Focus on the gun.
Smith and Wesson. Rosewood grip. Half a dozen rounds.
Tears start falling, but her throat’s too weak to sob. Instead, she makes light, wheezing sounds. Putting the grip to her forehead. Curling in, deeper and deeper. She can still hear his voice. See his eyes. NO! He’s not real. He’s not real.
Nothing’s real. Nothing but Harriet, the gun, and the wilderness all around her.
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