Emmy

Sunlight crept through the cracks in the shutters. Emmy buried further into the pile of blankets on the hard floor, shivering against the cold. Then she realized: hard floor? Cold?

This was not her bed.

Emmy jerked upright, fronds cascading over her shoulders. She blinked, taking in her surroundings. It was dark. Her sandals were by the door, parallel with the wall as always.

The scarred female was still in her bed.

Pressing a hand to her head, Emmy frowned. Material—a bandage. How?

Memory flooded back. Zecha.

The cloth came away in a stiff clump of dried blood and frayed edges. A bad job, Emmy thought, lips pulling in a soft smile, but at least he tried. She struggled to her feet, winding the bandage around her hand. She turned to the bed.

The creature nestling between her sheets was pallid, the rise and fall of her armored chest shallow. At least she didn’t die in the night. That would have been hard to explain…

The acrid stench of the female’s unwashed body caught in the back of Emmy’s throat. She reached across, throwing open the shutters. The salty tang of sea air flooded in with morning light. Emmy took a few deep breaths, willing the stink to leave.

‘Now,’ Emmy said, ‘let’s see how your wound is healing.’

She exposed the female’s gash. Already it looked better. It was red, now ringed with bruises that stood in sharp relief against her yellow skin, but the stitches held firm. Considering the depth of the puncture, she’ll have a deep scar. Emmy gave a gentle snort. I don’t think she’ll mind.

She traced the white web of scars that covered every part of the female’s skin like cobwebs. They even crossed the top of her plucked head. What did she do to deserve such torment? Emmy wondered. A flash of the hag upstairs and her walking stick made Emmy shudder. Perhaps not a lot...

She pulled the covers up, then threaded her talons through the female’s chipped horn crest. Her skin was warm, but not alight with fever. Emmy clucked her tongue. A good sign.

Trying to ignore the thump in her head, she dressed and went to the shop. The memory of dirt and blood curdled in her throat. She had a lot to do before she could open the apothecary. And she had to open every day except templeday, and that only came once a week.

But as it turned out, she didn’t have a lot to do at all.

Emmy noticed two things. Firstly, the floor sparkled. Secondly, Zecha was propped against the shop door, his head bowed in sleep. A dagger rested on his lap.

‘Zecha?’ Emmy asked.

He didn’t stir. Emmy repeated herself, loud enough to send Krodge into a fury.

Zecha jumped, dagger poised to strike. As he found his bearings, his eyes went from wide with fear to crinkled with sheepishness.

‘Oh.’

He looked from the weapon to Emmy and back again, then sheathed it with a blush.

‘Good morning,’ he said, as if the circumstances were entirely ordinary. ‘Did you sleep?’

‘I did.’ Emmy shook her head. ‘You didn’t need to stay.’

‘I couldn’t leave,’ Zecha said. ‘I couldn’t rouse you. And after I cleaned, I couldn’t find your keys. If I’d left, anyone could have walked in.’

Emmy folded her arms, but a smile pulled at her mouth.

‘Well, thank you,’ she said. ‘That was very kind.’

‘It’s okay,’ Zecha replied with a lopsided grin.

Emmy raised an eyeridge.

‘Why did you come back?’ she asked. ‘I remember the knocking at the kitchen door, then I saw you and then...’ She shrugged. ‘I woke up this morning.’

Zecha stretched his arms wide, their muscles flexing.

‘I had a feeling the old crone wouldn’t be happy,’ he said. His face twisted. ‘I came back to make sure you were alright—and I’m glad I did.’

Something shifted in Zecha’s face. There was a new fire in his eyes. Emmy shook her head, turning away. They had danced this dance many times.

‘No, Zecha,’ she said. ‘I’m not leaving. Not yet, anyway.’

Pouting, Zecha folded his arms.

‘We could go anywhere,’ he said. ‘We could hop on a boat and just leave. Althemer, Mellul, Haelog, Linvarra...’ He threw up his hands. ‘Anywhere would be better than this place.’

‘It’s not that simple,’ Emmy said. ‘I can’t leave Krodge. Without me, she would die.’ This was true, but also a lie. Emmy would happily let the crone rot in her bed. But Bellim, as unwelcome as it made her, was an ironic safe-haven. At least here, the folk knew enough not to kill her, since she had the apothecary’s knowledge. That was her only saving grace. ‘And anyway,’ she continued, pushing that thought aside, ‘who knows what we could sail into? You know the Masvams prowl the seas, not to mention the danger from Valtat slave ships. We could leave our lives here and sail into something much worse.’

Sensing defeat, Zecha let his arms hang loose.

‘I know. I just… I wish things were better.’

Emmy patted his shoulder.

‘Maybe one day we can be who we are. For now, we put up with what we have.’

Zecha’s grin returned, though its sparkle had dulled.

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘You’re always right.’

Beckoning him to follow, Emmy led him to the rear door.

‘Stay safe today, Zecha,’ she said. ‘Try not to get into trouble.’

‘No promises,’ Zecha replied.

Before he left, he reached out an arm. Emmy offered her own. Zecha grasped her bicep and she did the same to his, squeezing each other in a traditional Metakalan goodbye.

Releasing her, Zecha slipped through the gate and disappeared. Emmy exhaled and closed the kitchen door. Inside, Krodge banged anew.

But a new noise diverted her attention. There was scratching at the back gate. A head of unruly brown fronds appeared, seen through the slats, and then disappeared again. Emmy touched a claw to her temple. Of course.

Curly-fronded Kain, the youngling with unruly brown fronds, skipped into the rear yard. Like all younglings, they were neither male nor female. Their father Leeve, a dark-skinned male with a permanent glower, followed behind. He trailed his cart into the yard. It was laden with wood, chopped by his wife the day before.

‘Morning greetings, Leeve,’ Emmy said.

Saying nothing, Leeve piled the wood in a small lean-to as Emmy fetched the weekly payment.

When she returned, Leeve was watching as Kain kicked a row of her precious plants. As she saw leaves fly from her bindlewart bush, Emmy’s nostrils flared. Her neck scales rose.

‘Stop that!’

Kain blanched and ran to Leeve’s side, clutching the hem of his coarse over-tunic. With narrowed eyes and tight lips, Leeve reached for his payment.

Emmy passed him the coins, five bickles, and an extra cren for Kain, the payment she had given every week since Leeve had first come around, peddling his wife’s wood.

Leeve accepted the payment but plucked up the red cren and turned it over in his hand. He looked at her from under his drawn brows, and Emmy swallowed. There was something in his eyes that spoke of anger, of disgust. It was a look Emmy was used to, since she was a Moon Rogue, therefore not worthy of courtesy.

In a swift movement, Leeve launched the cren at Emmy.

The coin bounced off her armor and clattered to the ground with a dim clink. Leeve glared anew through his tangled fronds, then lifted Kain onto the wagon.

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Emmy wrenched the discarded coin from the ground. She turned it over in her own hand. She brushed the pad of her talon over the hole in its center. I’ve given Kain a cren every week for as long as I remember, she thought. Why not accept it now? Because I spoke sharply?

As Leeve pulled the cart away, Kain stared at Emmy with tearful eyes. Emmy pursed her lips. It was too early to tell, but she suspected Kain would manifest as male when they came of age. That was unfortunate. Gendering was difficult, but at least life gave more possibilities when you became female. Except for Emmy, of course, but she was used to being the exception to every rule.

The father and youngling’s words carried over the wall as they moved to the next shop.

‘The Moon Rogue shouted at me, Poi,’ Kain whined.

‘Yes, she did,’ Leeve said. ‘Stay away from her. She’s poison, Kain. Poison. We won’t accept any more charity from her.’

Emmy’s back stiffened. Her tail grew rigid. Moon Rogue. That was what they all said.

‘Run away, it’s the Moon Rogue!’

‘Tainted! Tainted!’

‘She’ll never make it to the Light!’

Emmy stormed into the kitchen and slammed a pot on the table. It was a lie, designed to frighten younglings into doing what they were told. Emmy cast handfuls of grain into the pot and fetched water. As far as she could see, she was no different from anyone else, except for her colors. But her difference painted her as an outsider, something to be tolerated because there was no other apothecary in Bellim, and folk needed their medicine.

They even held her at arm’s length when they called her to visit the sick. She would tend to the cases of eyepox in younglings, trying her best to preserve their sight, and they would still keep away. They didn’t hesitate to call her when the wasting disease, Breathstealer’s Plague, came upon one of their elderly, or when the Lurking Death brought a whole household to its knees. But equally, they would not grasp her arm in greeting. They would allow her to cross their threshold but not as a friend. They would pay her in coin but never in thanks.

No. Underneath the knowledge Krodge had given her, Emmy was still a Moon Rogue. She was not welcome in the temple of Nunako. She was not welcome in the Central Circle, when pageants were performed, or to watch the bright explosions of fireworks lighting up the night sky.

Moon Rogues were evil. They were tainted, forgotten by the goddess. That was why Emmy looked so strange, purple and blue like a bruise. If it wasn’t for Krodge, the town would have nailed her to a stake and let the gargons pluck out her eyes. It was also why Krodge had taught her ‘lessons’ every day for so many cycles.

Emmy slammed down the water jug and snorted.

Some days, she wished she was a Moon Rogue. If she was, she could punish them all by sucking out their spirits, or whatever it was Moon Rogues were supposed to do. She could have her revenge on Krodge, finally give her what she deserved.

Emmy mixed the grain and water so hard it slopped over the sides. She stared for a moment, biting her lower lip. She didn’t need to be a Moon Rogue to have her revenge on the crone. She could add a little sicklestem juice to her food, each meal another dose, and finish her off…

No. Emmy shook her head, hard enough to make her thoughts spin. She couldn’t do that. No matter what Krodge said, no matter what any of them said, Emmy was good and kind. She wouldn’t do harm, even to those who had harmed her.

She hung the pot over the fire and stoked more life into the flames. Once they roared, she pulled her long fronds until it hurt. The pain in her scalp was easier to bear than the pain in her heart.

Moon Rogue, Moon Rogue! Go back to your hole and die!

*

Several days passed before Bose showed his face again.

‘Is it true?’ he asked.

His hands were clasped over his heart as he stared.

Emmy kept her lips straight as she tipped creyhorn powder into a cloth bag. She was worn out from running to and fro from the shop to her wounded charge, for the injured female still hadn’t woken up. She had not the time, nor the patience, for any of Bose’s silly games.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said.

Bose huffed. He turned and rolled his eyes at his companions. They did the same, adding unimpressed clucks with their tongues.

‘Is it true,’ Bose said, intoning each syllable as if talking to a simpleton, ‘that you saved someone’s life?’

Emmy passed him the bag and folded her arms. She needed to have a word with Zecha. Who else had he spun the story to?

Bose accepted the bag with a simper. Emmy was deadpan.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘By the goddess! It’s been the talk of the town for days!’ Bose pulled himself to his full height, which was not particularly impressive—he was at least a head shorter than most other Metakalans—and tried to look down on Emmy. ‘I hadn’t been able to ask before, for my beloved Mrs Bose returned to me.’

Ignoring his preening, Emmy lifted a talon.

‘It’s true,’ Emmy said. ‘Now, please. A half-bickle.’

Bose threw the coin into Emmy’s hand and sneered. Payment accepted, she gestured to the door.

‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’m busy.’

Bose was silent. He flicked his red gaze over her with slow arrogance.

‘You may have saved a life,’ he said, ‘but you are still a beast.’

Emmy stiffened. She bit back tears.

‘Leave.’

With a victorious grin, Bose retreated in a whirl of skirts and robes.

The rest of the day passed with little conversation. Emmy couldn’t speak around the lump in her throat.

After her chores were done and the mistress was sated, she collapsed on her blanket pile. Not her bed. She didn’t even have the luxury of that. It had been given over to the scarred female, who showed no sign of being well enough to get u, and finally be out of Emmy’s fronds.

Staring at the ceiling, Emmy counted the cracks in the roof beams. Why did folk think they could treat her like an animal? It all came back to the same thing: because she was a Moon Rogue. Maybe Zecha was right. Maybe they should leave.

Her attention was caught by a thin moan. She sat up. The female in the bed stirred. Beyond caring for her wound, Emmy hadn’t given much thought to what would happen when she woke up. Now that life returned to her, reality bit, cold and sharp. What could she tell her?

She was spared the trouble, as the female settled again. Undressing for bed, Emmy peeled off her tunic, leaving just her undershirt next to her skin. She was about to remove her hose when the female stirred again.

This time she turned, groaned, and opened her eyes. They were deep and dark in the failing light.

Emmy froze. The female sat up and winced, settling one hand on her chest, over her wound, and the other on her plucked head. She turned. Their eyes met.

Emmy offered an arm—and everything fell to pieces.

‘Demon!’

The female sprang from the bed, leaping forward, grasping for Emmy’s throat. She missed. She slammed into the wall, turned, and dove back, striking Emmy’s jaw with an iron fist.

Pain erupting from the blow, Emmy stumbled, blankets coiled around her ankles. Shaking the blur from her eyes, she ducked as another punch came her way.

‘Please, calm yourself!’ she cried.

‘Moon Rogue! Tainted!’

White rage scalded Emmy like molten metal. No longer thinking, she struck out, landing a blow on her attacker’s temple.

It felled her.

‘I am not a Moon Rogue,’ Emmy screeched.

Banging erupted above them. Krodge. Emmy raised a hand to slap her victim, but the wretched creature scrabbled back, cowering.

‘No! Please! Sorry, I am!’

Sense returning, Emmy dropped her hand. Her indignation was cooled by stark realization.

‘No, I’m sorry,’ she spluttered. ‘I shouldn’t have… Here.’

She reached to help the female up.

Instead of taking the offered arm, the female burst into tears.

Emmy’s arm hung suspended as shame flowed through her. To make a female cry took something special, a cutting deeper than the knife that had plunged into this female’s chest. The female buried her face in her hands. Emmy’s throat tightened as she tried to think of something—anything—to say. Words eluded her.

‘I’m sorry,’ Emmy repeated. ‘I am, really!’

After several agonizing moments, the female revealed her puffy face. She kept her chin down.

Emmy held out her hand again. This time, the gesture was accepted. Emmy settled her on the bed and tried to smile. There was another moment of excruciating silence.

‘May I check your wound?’ Emmy asked eventually.

The female blinked, settling a hand on her chest.

‘O-okay,’ she said.

For the first time, her youth was apparent. Emmy placed her at around fourteen cycles, younger than herself. Emmy knelt before her and pulled down the neck of her tunic. While the gash was red and bulging around the stitches, none had torn. It was a miracle, really. Somehow, the blade had missed anything vital to life.

‘You’ll have a scar,’ Emmy said, ‘but the wound will heal.’

The female did not respond. She smoothed out her tunic’s neck and sat, stiff-backed.

Her youth swept Emmy’s ire away. She stood, trying to smile.

‘Would you like something to eat?’ she asked.

She received no reply except a blank stare, but the pools of shadow caught by the female’s jutting bones said enough.

Fetching bread and weak beer, Emmy returned. The female hadn’t moved, but her eyes brightened at the food and drink, and she drained the beer in one gulp. Emmy poured more.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

The female took another long drink, then shoveled a piece of bread into her mouth. Her first answer was incomprehensible. Swallowing, she tried again.

‘Charo,’ she said. ‘Charo, my name is.’

Reaching out, Emmy grasped Charo’s upper arm.

‘I’m Emmy,’ she replied.

Charo blinked and stared at the outstretched arm, before mirroring the gesture.

‘Not a Moon Rogue?’ she asked, prodding Emmy’s skin and armor.

‘No, I’m not,’ Emmy said, half-amused and half-exasperated. ‘I’m just…me.’

Releasing her grip, Charo plucked up more bread, picking at the crust.

‘Where I am?’ she asked.

‘Bellim,’ Emmy replied, ‘in Metakala.’

Charo’s words were strange, not quite what Emmy was used to. They were similar enough to be understood, though the inflections and word order were odd. Charo sat forward and rubbed her eyes with the heel of one hand.

‘Why here am I?’ she asked. ‘Thought…thought me I was dead.’

‘You almost were,’ Emmy replied. ‘My friend found you in the Wailing Woods and brought you here.’

Charo’s eyes widened.

‘A healer, you are?’ she asked.

Snorting softly, Emmy shook her head.

‘Not really,’ she said. ‘I’m just a lowly apothecary’s apprentice.’

‘A healer you should be,’ Charo said, her strange words filled with innocent conviction.

She sucked the crumbs from her talons. Then she looked at her abdomen again.

Emmy’s smile faded at the sight of her many scars.

‘What happened to you?’ she asked.

‘Stabbed,’ Charo replied. The word was flat. ‘Fell in the mud, I did. Couldn’t keep going. And…stabbed me, she did.’

‘Who did?’ Emmy asked.

‘My owner…’ Charo’s breath hitched. ‘Pulling her cart, I was, but me…tired. Travelled from Haetharro—far north, a country. Walking for weeks, pulling her along in that wheeled thing I was. Slipped. Couldn’t get up, and... Stabbed me, she did.’

Charo let the tunic fall and drew her arms tight to her sides, bringing her knees together. Emmy was silent for a moment as she tried to muster words of comfort.

‘You’re fine now,’ she said, the words tentative. ‘And you’re free. If your owner wanted you dead, she’s not coming back.’ Emmy’s eyes roved over the patchwork of scars and dents and slashes in Charo’s mossy armor. ‘You can go home.’

As soon as the word was out of her mouth, Emmy winced.

‘Home?’ Charo spat. ‘Home I do not have. Torn from home when just a youngling I was. And Haetharro? Never will I back there go.’ Her tone was venomous. ‘Ever.’

‘You don’t have to,’ Emmy said, her voice low with capitulation. ‘You’re free.’

Charo’s already drawn face tightened. She broke into thick sobs. Emmy clenched her fists. Her guts wrenched. She didn’t know what to do or what to say. Where was Zecha when you needed him? He was better at emotions.

Charo’s sobs emanated from something that cut deeper than Emmy could stand. The female curled into a ball and rocked back and forth, her tears soaking the too-large hose Emmy had dressed her in.

Needing to escape, Emmy stood.

‘I’ll make some tea,’ she said.

She hurried to the kitchen. She cleared the dishes, stoked the fire, and tried desperately to think of a story to spin Krodge. The crone’s banging had ceased, but that didn’t mean Krodge had forgotten. Emmy sprinkled the tealeaves into the pot and sighed.