Phoebe North - Strange Creatures

I couldnt decide whose book this was

And then I realized I wrote it for

The girl I never was,

The boy I almost wasnt,

And the person who survived them both.

I dedicate this book to myself.

(Does that seem bold to you? Vain?

Do you wish Id given it to you instead?

Fine. Here. Take it.

I wrote it for you, too.

To show you that if you live through this,

Then someday you can tell the story

Youd hoped your whole life to find

Every time you turned a page.

Bring it to me then. So I might tuck myself in

With your book. Yours.

My storys been told. Im done with it

But the world can always use

More books that are honest, strange

And true.)

I knew he was in danger

because he was both the egg

and the one who cracked it

Jessica Fisher

EVERY MORNING ANNIT woke at dawn, while the two moons were still low against the horizon. Alone, she built her fire from the wood shed gathered the evening before. Alone, she ate her meager breakfast, scraped her plates clean, dressed. There had been a time when shed worn steel, a time when twin swords had dangled from her leather belt. If her men had doubted she had the strength to don her surcoat and arms, they never mentioned it. Speak ill of the Emperata, they whispered to one another, and shell cut off your tongue.

She had never cut off a mans tongue. That had been petty gossip. But shed cut off other things.

Now, no more armor. No more swords. The only weapon she carried was a small stone shed found the evening before in the creek bed out back, tucked now into her pocket. The only armor she wore? An old tunic, secondhand and patched. A pair of mens trousers shed found in someones trash bin and her old familiar dragonscale boots. They were her only finery, and theyd been a gift from her brother, a long, long time ago.

She walked through the village, as she did every day. Today she was alone again, as usualuntil she wasnt. A small boy walked quietly beside her.

The boys hair was a disaster of black snarls. He kept his eyes down as he walked, although on occasion his gaze would dart up to ascertain that the old woman hadnt gone far. But in fact, the old woman kept pace with the child, matching stride to barefoot stride.

I shouldnt take you past the village edge, the old woman said at last, as they neared the squalid row of mud-and-thatch houses at the end. Your mother wouldnt like it.

Annit had been here for fifteen years, at least. She knew every face, had lived here long enough to see some of the babies grow up to have babies of their own. Shed even made a friend or two, like Ijah, the silversmiths only son, who occasionally traded her a spell for a cookpot or a spoon or some other useful trinket. But she didnt recognize the wide set of this boys eyes or the growl that graced his lips when he replied, Yaint taking me anywhere. I take myself.

The corner of the old womans mouth quirked upward in a smile. You do, she agreed. Cant argue that.

And so, Annit began to climb a zigzag path up the side of the mountain, and as she went, she let the boy follow behind.

Had she ever been so young, so determined? Must have been, once. Her body bore the scars of it. But now she had only shadows of feelings, and none of them mattered. Now she lived a quiet lifea life without hurt or insult. There was no crying. But there was no hot passion, either.

And once, she had lived a life full of passions. Those vicious arguments with her brother. The spilled blood of a battle, and the celebration that came after. The music of a beautiful girl on a summers day. The taste of wild mead on their lips as they joined their bodies together, their lives together, in the days before Annit had made an exile of herself. It had been inevitable. One cannot remove so many body parts without consequences. She knew that, and so she had accepted her fate willingly, and without hesitation.

And yet she found it pleasant now, after all these years, to have company. The boys breath was a steady pulse, joining hers as the air grew thin and they drew close to the top of the mountain. It was on the far side that the old woman found it, her cairn, swaying against the cliffs edge.

The pile of stones was enormousstanding nearly twice her height, stacked narrowly at first, and then growing wider, like an enormous egg. And like an egg, it had one smooth side. No instrument in this world could cut a rock or carve a piece of lime with such intention. Now Annit walked to the objects far edge, feeling over the cliff face for the hole she knew would be there. This close to the structure, she could hear a faint hum on the aircould taste the metallic twang of electricity. It was magic. Hers. But not only hers. Reaching out, she slipped the small stone into the gap. It fit as if it had been carved precisely for this purpose, though she knew it had been shaped by the river. By the water. By the inevitability of time. She stepped away, joining the boy on the paths edge, crouching low beside him in the grass there, looking at the cairn. Her head was cocked to one side as she considered.

No, she said softly. Its still not right.

What izzit, anyway? he asked. She laughed a little, a dry, rattly laugh, and shook her head.

You might call it a beacon, she said. She stood. She was looking at it from every angle now, her eyes tracing the smooth edges. There were no holes left in the cairn. Every stone had found its place. It calls out to other beacons across the world. There are two others. Theyre meant to work together. My first love built one, on the shore of the Crystal Sea.

And the third? asked the boy, wrinkling his nose. She turned to look at him, at the serious face beneath so much dirt.

My brother, she said.

The two of them were quiet for a moment. Perhaps the boy was thinking about his own brother, if he had onewhich he probably did; these village girls whelped children like they were puppies. But if that was the case, the boy said nothing about it. His face was merely a mud-stained, determined mask.

Dtheirs look the same as yours? he asked. Annit let out a scoff.

No, she said, a little too sharply. She wasnt used to speaking to children. She wasnt used to talking to people, reallybut especially children. Magic isnt like a knife or a spoon, where one design works best. Their beacons would be of their own making. I have no idea what theirs look like. She fell silent, realizing, perhaps, that shed been too harsh with him. When he answered, it was in a hard voice, too.

And wot dthey do? he demanded, standing now, as she had. These beacons? He came closer to the cairn, closer to the cliffs edge. That wild hair had begun to stand on end in the presence of so much magic. He lifted a hand. Almost, but not quite, touching the beacons smooth wall.

Oh, Annit said, and she let out a sigh. Its supposed to crack open the eternal truth, and then rip a hole in the universe.

The boy turned, his hand still raised, and looked at hereyes like the dots on the bottom of a pair of wide, wild exclamation points.

Dont worry, she said grimly. Now she reached out, too, and put her hand against the cairn. She closed her eyes so she could better feel the hum of their music. Her own music. Her lovers. Her brothers. The three songs were almost, but not quite, a chorus. The notes were off-kilter, off-key, and worsesomething was still hidden there. Some truth was still occluded. She said, I built it wrong. It was meant to be magic, but theres no magic here.