Emmy

‘Emmy, I need your help. Please!’ Zecha cried.

He pushed his way into the shop. He laid the body on the ground. She was Linvarran, by her colors—green armor and yellow skin. Her blood was red, like anyone’s, and pooled on the clean floor.

Emmy shook her head.

‘What have you done?’

The pool of blood crept outward in a crimson arc. Emmy clenched her fists. I’ve told Zecha a thousand times not to include me in his disasters!

She glared at him, but it didn’t matter now. He grabbed her forearms, his claws like vices.

‘Emmy, please,’ he said. ‘I found her in the Wailing Woods. She’s been stabbed, but I think she’s still alive. Please, help!’

Emmy stared at the body of the young female. Her age could have been anything from twelve and newly gendered, to forty cycles or even more. Her limbs were well-muscled, the sort of muscles servants got from scrubbing pots and hauling rocks. But the female was short, which gave her a stocky appearance. Her face was crisscrossed with enough scars to speak the unspeakable, of torment and a life not worth living.

Emmy shook herself from Zecha’s grasp. His expression fell.

‘Emmy, please!’

Her eyes met his. She stared into the red pools. She sighed. I can’t escape from this one...

‘Alright.’

Her heart could never turn Zecha away.

Emmy dropped to her knees. Blood soaked her tunic as she held the palm of her hand to the female’s mouth. She was still breathing. Just. Fear closed Emmy’s throat. Regardless, she exposed the wound: she had been stabbed through the ribs, right near her heart.

The female’s yellow skin was covered with uncountable bright scars. Blood wept unendingly from the deep gash. It had the almost diamond shape of a knife. Emmy schooled her breathing and dug deep in her memory, trying to remember all Krodge had taught her about wounds near the heart. Krodge had knowledge others didn’t, of the placement of the organs in the body. She had travelled the world, learning everything she could from different folk, imbibing their medical ways. Krodge even said she had cut into the chests of dead folk, but Emmy wasn’t sure if that was a gruesome truth, or a wicked lie to frighten her.

‘All right, Zecha,’ Emmy said slowly, pulling off her apron, ‘Take this. Hold it against the wound.’

Zecha’s eyes widened and he shook his head, but Emmy thrust the cloth into his hands and pressed it to the slice. The female didn’t flinch.

‘Don’t take it off until I tell you.’

Emmy slipped under the counter, keys jangling. She unlocked several cabinets, claws flying across the shelves. She crushed the ingredients—bindlewart, juice of the arra fruit, a cornucopia of herbs—to concoct a well-rehearsed healing paste and tried not to consider the futility of it all. She should be left in peace to die, Emmy thought. But Zecha has no sense, so here we are…

She fell to her knees at the female’s side again. Gesturing for Zecha to withdraw the sodden apron, she thrust the concoction into his hands.

‘Cover it,’ she said.

Giving him no time to argue, Emmy ducked off to retrieve her stitching box.

By the time she returned, the bleeding had lessened. Emmy motioned for Zecha to slide back. From the box, she withdrew a glimmering knife, a thick fish-bone needle, and a roll of thinly-pulled animal guts. Sixteen she may have been, but she had the skill of someone twice her age—or more. It’s the only gift Krodge ever gave me…

She threaded the needle and, with the greatest care, used the knife to cut away the ragged edges of the wound. Then she set to work, passing the fish bone and hair through the skin in a practiced cadence. Her hands tingled with a strange coldness, the same as they always did when she was healing. She’d never spoken of it to Krodge, but it was always there. A secret, knowledge for her alone. If she asked and found that all apothecaries and healers felt this same odd sensation, it wouldn’t be anything special. For Emmy, it being special gave her something Krodge never could. It gave her a thin sliver of self-satisfaction, of pride.

The wound stitched tight, Emmy tied the gut-thread and sat back. Her hands warmed. Her work was likely all for nothing, she thought. The female might already be dead... Even so, she leaned to check her breathing, surprised when warmth ghosted her palm. Emmy pressed her tongue into her cheek and raised an eyeridge. Well, there you have it. She’s alive—for now.

‘Will she live?’ Zecha asked, his brown skin pallid.

‘I don’t know,’ Emmy answered. When Zecha’s face fell, she relented. ‘You got her here in time, so it’s possible.’

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‘Good.’

Zecha exhaled, and cycles fell away from him. He had a thin face, a short horn crest, and muscular arms most males did not possess. His armor played against the darkness of his skin, shimmering like a coat of amber jewels. Zecha railed against what males were supposed to do. He always had. He balked at cookery and sewing, he hunted—and in fact was the best shot with an arrow Emmy had ever met. As a youngling, Emmy had struggled to make friends, but had gravitated to Zecha’s strangeness. Similar in age, neither accepted, they became outcasts together.

‘Well,’ Emmy said, placing her tools on the counter, ‘alive or dead, I can’t leave her here. Help me carry her to my room.’

‘My hands are filthy,’ Zecha said.

‘Mine too,’ Emmy said, one corner of her mouth rising. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

Emmy took the female’s torso. Zecha took legs. Together, they edged their way to Emmy’s bed.

When they placed her on top of the mattress, Emmy tutted. The creature stank.

‘I’ll have to wash her,’ she said.

Zecha ran a hand through his thick fronds. Their straw paleness grew streaked with healing paste.

‘And I should go,’ he said. ‘The sun’s down and I’m not supposed to be on the street.’

‘Why were you out so late, anyway?’ Emmy asked. ‘You know it’s not safe.’

Zecha looked at the scuffed toes of his boots. Fury rose in Emmy’s throat.

‘You were hunting again, weren’t you?’ she asked. Bashful, Zecha nodded. Emmy crossed her arms. ‘One of these days, you’ll get caught with that bow, and you’ll be tossed into a cell—or even killed!’

‘I know,’ Zecha said, his words soft. ‘It’s just...’ He raised his head, eyes ablaze. ‘I can’t understand why they won’t let me join the service. Just because I’m male doesn’t mean I can’t fight.’ His indignation faltered. ‘I keep thinking that if I practice hard enough, become good enough, they might change their minds...’

His knife-edge sorrow made Emmy’s heart ache.

He dropped his gaze again. Emmy laid a hand on his shoulder.

‘It isn’t fair, I know,’ she said. ‘You’re as good with a bow as anyone I’ve ever seen, maybe even the best. But that doesn’t matter to them. When they look at you, all they see is a male, and males don’t fight.’ She gave a soft laugh. ‘Just like when they look at me, they see a demon.’

Zecha placed a hand on hers. His claws were calloused from his bow.

‘You’re not a demon,’ he said. ‘You’re my best friend.’

Emmy found herself enveloped in a sudden embrace. She stiffened for a moment. Zecha was tactile, and Emmy was not. She never had been. It was hard to embrace others when they only touch she was used to was the strike of an open palm. However, she relented and returned the squeeze. Zecha wasn’t like Krodge or Bose or any of the cruel others. He was kind, and a true friend.

Emmy drew an arm’s length away and tipped her head towards the kitchen.

‘Use the rear door,’ she said. ‘You won’t be seen.’

Sorrow expelled, Zecha flashed a bright smile.

‘You really are my best friend, you know.’

Emmy planted her hands on her hips. Her lips quirked.

‘It’s not hard to be the best when I’m your only friend. Now, shoo. Be safe. And don’t trample my herb garden!’

Grinning, Zecha waved and slipped away like a wisp.

Returning to the shop, locking the door, Emmy stared at the new mess that shone in the moons’ light. A heavy thud grabbed her attention, and she closed her eyes. How long has Krodge been calling? She won’t be pleased…

‘Emena!’ the old female screeched. ‘Where is my tea?’

Each word was punctuated with a strike of her walking stick. Dust fell from the roof beams.

‘Coming, Madame!’ Emmy called, hurrying to the kitchen.

A haze of steam hung in the air. Emmy prepared tea. An expensive import from Mellul—a country far across the sea—it smelled of smoldering parchment. Emmy sliced hunks of bread and slabs of white cheese to accompany it, then journeyed up the creaking stairs.

She listened at Krodge’s door for a moment before she knocked.

‘Get in here!’

Emmy acquiesced.

Krodge’s tawny eyes were on her straight away. Her thin lips curled with venom.

‘What in the name of Nunako, Lady of Light, is going on?’ she snapped. For someone allegedly dying, her voice was powerful. ‘I’ve been listening to a commotion in my own home, wondering if I’ll be murdered in my bed. And where have you been? Ignoring the poor wretch who brought you up when others cast you aside! Come here!’

A scowl framed Krodge’s eyes, and her face was haloed by a tangle of fronds.

Though she knew what was coming, Emmy did as she was told. She always did. Setting the meagre meal by Krodge’s bedside, she approached, knelt, and waited for the blow.

It soon came.

Krodge brought her stick down on Emmy’s head with speed and strength that defied her age.

Stars danced behind her eyelids. Emmy’s knees buckled and her claws dug into her scalp. She didn’t make a sound. The pain ran in rivulets down her skull.

‘Inconsiderate little Moon Rogue!’ Krodge cried. ‘I’ve given you a home. I’ve given you a profession that will keep you for the rest of your life. You’re to inherit this place when I’m dead. And considering what insufficient morsels you bring to me, my death is close at hand!’ She jabbed a finger at the tray, though stopped short of toppling it. ‘You don’t understand just how much you need me! Once I’m dead, there’ll be no-one left to protect you!’

Emmy clutched her head, suppressing a groan as her sight returned. Through tears and blood, she stared at the creature in the bed. No-one left to protect her? When had Krodge ever protected her?

Krodge never admonished the bullies who called Emmy names. She encouraged the insults, joining in with glee. Moon Rogue, Moon Rogue! Go back to your hole and die! Emmy’s chest tightened. Her head burned.

She pictured herself snatching the stick from Krodge’s gnarled claws and driving its point straight through her dark heart. Shame and frustration filled her. She swayed on her knees, sucking in a hard breath.

Krodge glowered.

‘Get out!’

At that, Emmy fled.

Lurching to the kitchen, she leaned on the door frame. She clutched her head, her talons freshly red.

Then her ears twitched. Her brow furrowed. What’s that noise? Someone was knocking. This time, it was on the rear door. Still pressing her head, she crossed the kitchen. She lifted the latch.

It was Zecha.

‘Emmy?’ he asked. ‘What happened?’

His tone was soft, almost loving. Emmy lifted her hands from her head, staring at the blood.

‘She hit you again, didn’t she?’ Zecha asked. His lips were pursed into a thin line. ‘This is why we need to leave this place.’

The pain in her head muddled her thinking. Emmy tried to speak, but only a groan escaped. Her claws went back to her head. More warm moistness greeted her.

‘Come on,’ Zecha said. ‘Let’s get you cleaned up.’