After the long drought, the townsfolk living in the valley were happy for a little rain. But as it ceaselessly fell, their world turned gray and damp. The rain kept falling, turning the dust to mud that slid down the hills and covered everything. It filled the lakes and rivers and burst their banks. The townsfolk called for help. They threw together sandbag berms and evacuated the lowest areas. As the floodwaters rose higher, they retreated to their roofs, watching the brown water churn beneath them. When nobody came to save them, they marshaled their boats and saved each other.
When she arrived, the ranger warned her that the trail behind the cabin was dangerous. She spent the whole trip heeding his advice. But the trail sat like a stone in her mind. On the last day of her trip, she packed a bag with water, snacks and other supplies. She set out. The trail was steep, and long, and there weren’t any rest stops, but the hills were beautiful, and the trees eventually gave way to a hilltop clearing with a stunning view. She watched the afternoon sun sink over the valley and knew she’d made the right call.
The peace conference was held in Jotunheim. Eager to impress, the Frost Giants set the table up in their most picturesque, snow-covered forest. They filled it with ice crystal chandeliers lit with a thousand candles. Then the guests arrived. The Elves complained that the site was too cold. The Humans that it was too cramped, and the Dwarves that it was too bright. This is historically known as the beginning of the Great Alliance. History also records the deaths of the lead ambassadors, and the newborn alliance’s war against the Giants. In Jotunheim, it’s called “The Meeting of the Whiners.”
Each night the mist would roll in, shrouding the little fishing village. The boy would wake up early, and be out at first light, disappearing into the cool air before the morning sun burned it away. He would go down to the shore and watch the boats pull out. The mist made their shapes fuzzy and indistinct, and his imagination replaced them with dragons and leviathans. He would return home after the boats left, usually to a lecture from his parents to get his head out of the clouds. At eighteen, he left home and became a successful fantasy artist.
He owned a stall in the Palace Square selling souvenirs and snacks to tourists. He’d inherited it from his father, and it was in a prime location, facing the famous Golden Gates. He’d worked at the stall since he was a child, and spent sixty years looking at the baroque patterns in the gilded iron. But he’d never been inside. Eventually, he passed the business on to his own sons. The first thing he did in his retirement was buy a ticket for the Palace Garden tour, finally able to see what was on the other side of the gate.
Every turn of the seasons, the goblins migrated to new foraging grounds. It was a raucous procession that trampled fields, knocked down trees, and reshaped the course of rivers. When human settlers arrived, they tried to put a stop to the migration. They built wooden palisades. the goblins went over, and sometimes through them. Stone walls fared no better. The militia met with disaster and hired adventurers did worse. Finally, the humans built a road. The goblins happily used it, sparing their new farms. But they still had the stray curious goblin poke their head through the door. Or wall.
When the little sprite found the whispering gallery in the Faerie Queen’s hall, she took full advantage of it. Sprites are tiny, quiet creatures that flit their way through life avoiding larger fae. They don’t have any political power. But by some forgotten architectural design or enchantment, she could whisper and the Queen’s petitioners would hear her as though she were standing on their shoulder. The sprite used the spot to spread dissent and mock the Queen, making her supplicants struggle not to laugh during audiences. The Queen sought her execution, but the sprite was tenacious and difficult to catch.
He knew he should keep Pancake inside. But the little ginger cat looked so insistent, and meowed so piteously as she scratched at the backdoor, that he relented and let her out. He was worried sick the whole time she was out. There were sightings of hawks and even a coyote in the neighborhood. He imagined her being carried off in airborne talons or in a beast’s jaws. It was a relief when he heard Pancake scratching to be let in again. He opened the door and she sauntered in carrying the largest feather he’d ever seen in her mouth.
Disgusted with the world, he set himself up in a little cabin in the woods. He dug his own well and grew his own food. He even made his own his electricity, which he maintained for emergencies and a few creature comforts. He withdrew from civilization. He spent his time walking the woods, doing the constant upkeep that kept him fed and warm, and just enjoying the quiet rhythm of his days. He told himself he didn’t miss humanity. He told himself he didn’t need anyone. And he never learned the difference that he could have made if he’d stayed.
The skeleton paced the hallway. Reanimated by dark magic, they struggled to remember their former life. Unable to concentrate on anything else, they searched the ground for some clue: A scrap of clothing or a piece of jewelry, maybe. The skeleton shambled through the corridors hoping something would jog their memory. From high above, the necromancer’s vampire lieutenant watched the pitiful display. “Why do you do that to them?” He asked. “I saw you put that one together from a random bone pile.” The necromancer shrugged. “Programming animation is my weakest skill. At least this way they’re moving and angry.”
“Skeleton – French anatomical engraving” by liverpoolhls is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.
My very short story collection, The Mountain’s Shadow is available now from Amazon and Smashwords!
Hugh J. O'Donnell 