InkStains January (6 page)

That first clash of their weapons shatters,
albeit it briefly, the glass veil that separates this mortal city
from those unmortal things. It’s only a flash, less than a
heartbeat – less than a breath – less even than the crack of
lightning that explodes in sympathy.

The warriors slip off the
rooftop, out of the rain, and into another realm. The greedy bored
things that had watched most closely, surprised and overwhelmed and
woefully unprepared. The manipulative little shits screech
inhumanly as immortality is stolen from them by the impossible
weapons of two impossible warriors meant –
destined
– to destroy each
other.

The warriors don’t get a
lot of time in the other world before their own pulls them back,
but they do a lot of damage, they spill a lot of blood, they send a
powerful message:
Do not meddle in mortal
affairs
. The humans may be made of weak
flesh and brittle bone, but they can be devious and dangerous and
deadly, even facing things that cannot die. Do not meddle in mortal
affairs, or risk the truth of your own mortality.

In higher realms still, things even greater
notice – and smile.

14 January

The fog came in ahead of the morning sun,
just as the prophecy foretold, but only a handful of people knew
about such future prospecting. The strong, solid, most likely
scenarios were always kept locked away in underground bunkers,
hidden libraries, or terribly well-guarded fortresses. But Mr.
Jones understood immediately. He had been waiting, counting down
the days, anxious and excited and even a little bit giddy. He had
read the signs, such that they were, and he had seen one of the old
books.

It was gone now, behind lock and key, safe
from public awareness, but Mr. Jones wasn’t interested in saving
the world.

He got into his off-road, high-tech Land
Rover, a beauteous and luxurious vehicle he’d acquired in
preparation for this day. The roads were still only lightly used.
The way was clear. He drove carefully, not hitting other drivers,
some of whom must surely have read the same omens. There had been a
gathering of crows the night before, floods in three corners of the
map, snow in the north, other signs more disturbing. He obeyed
every rule of traffic, the lights and speed limits, yielding rights
of way, signaling before every lane shift.

He left the radio off and
drove in silence. A copy of
Rolling
Stone
lay in the passenger seat. A bottle
of water trembled in the console between.

Finally, at the appointed place, Mr. Jones
pulled off the road. Yes, he was a little early, but still
surprised to find himself alone. There had been indications. Anyone
could have seen them.

He didn’t much like the idea of being alone,
but he was resigned to it.

Mr. Jones switched off the engine to conserve
fuel. He rolled down the window. A light, moist breeze drifted
across the lot. It amazed him, that he was alone here to be part of
this, that he may in fact play a role. But there were other places,
surely, like this one, where the same sacrifice might be made.

He glanced often at his watch, but time
became putty. He got hungry, but ignored it. He opened the bottle
of water, though he knew he should have saved it. Eventually, the
time drew nearer. With fifteen minutes remaining, Mr. Jones climbed
out of the Land Rover, locked it, armed the alarm, and began the
final leg of his journey, the last steps.

He waited at the entryway until some random
teenager with keys showed up and let him in.

There was no display. Release day, yet they
were relegated to a stack of other new releases, one boy band among
rock legends, jazz sirens, pop beauties, and movie soundtracks.
Five interchangeable kids stared at him from the front of the CD.
He took it to the front counter.

The girl there frowned when she saw what he’d
taken to her. Her nametag said Kerri.

“
Are you sure?” Kerri
asked.

“
Someone’s got to,” Mr.
Jones told her. He paid with cash. He said he didn’t need a bag. He
carried the disc to his Land Rover, unwrapped it in the front seat,
and popped it in.

At first, there was silence. Then the first
note exploded from the speakers. Then the world blew up, and all
life on the planet was lost.

15 January

To the very edge of the ocean, the forest
burns. To the place where the trees reach the beach, where the sky
touches the earth, where the water endlessly, ceaselessly, erodes
the land. The smoke is thick, struck through with eddies of barely
breathable air, but even that is hot and stark and tainted. The
fire crackles and cackles, screams and roars, rages with
uncontained fury. It consumes the leaves and the trunks and the
bushes and the underbrush.

From the very edge of the forest, a girl
escapes, coughing and choking. Two, three steps onto the sand, and
she stumbles. She falters. She falls.

On the ground, panting, heaving, coated by
soot and ash, still she claws at the sand. She pulls herself toward
the ocean.

Her clothes were white, if ochre now, her
flesh pale, her hair a deep brown and her eyes a brilliant green.
She’s in tatters, barely alive; she’s run a long way. She’s tired.
But she’d not defeated.

Fire reaches the edge of the forest and
scorches the sand, but advances no further. In the flames, a woman
stands, her hair red and her eyes red, her white clothes much like
her sister’s. She stands at the edge of the tree line. She, too,
has been running a long way.

The girl in the sand looks back and
smiles.

“
I hate that smile,” her
red sister says.

“
You’ve never been fast
enough to catch me.”

“
I came close.”

“
No, actually, you
didn’t.”

In this place where fire burns through the
forest, where sky and ocean touch the shore, two of their other
sisters approach, each wearing white, or variations therefore, one
with pearl eyes and flowing blonde hair, the other’s eyes like the
sun and hair very nearly blue.

Always, the four of them, chasing and teasing
each other, passing threats but also gifts.

“
We’re not
alone.”

“
We were never
alone.”

“
There are other
powers.”

“
The humans?” Red asks,
still standing in the flames. “I can destroy them all.”

“
As can I.”

“
They brought with them
four horsemen.”

“
Only four?”

“
Powers.”

“
Powers that will, in the
end, lead to their own destruction.”

“
There can’t be only
four.”

“
There are only four of
us,” Red says.

“
You know that’s not
true.”

‘
We’re the only four that
matter.”

“
But I’ve seen the
horsemen. They can go nowhere without my knowing, and I tell you,
they are five.”

“
And there are other
Powers.”

“
You’re not listening to
me.”

‘
Four, five, what
difference does it make?”

“
Oh, the four are terrible,
each alone and certainly together, but the fifth horseman – he’s
something extraordinary.”

“
We’ll outlast them all. We
always do.”

“
Do they have
names?”

“
Do we?”

They laugh, a sisterly conspiracy. Against
the horizon, the setting sun paints the sky in all their
colors.

“
The fifth horseman is
dangerous. I fear him.”

“
I don’t,” Red
says.

“
You don’t know
Fear.”

“
Not true. We drink
together.”

“
They bring more than just
the horsemen. They bring Muses. Fates. Godlings and shadows and
demons.”

‘
I’ve seen the
demons.”

‘
You’ve seen the demons of
the land,” says the pearl-eyed sister. “You should see what lurks
in the deep. The size of them.”

Then Red asks a question that leads to a
length of silence. “Have they brought Death?” When she is certain
no one wants to answer, Red answers for them: “They have, haven’t
they?”

“
Well, there’s the
horseman.”

“
They do have
names.”

“
And is one of
them...?”

“
Yes,” she says. “Yes, damn
it all, yes.”

“
Don’t forget the
fifth.”

“
Quiet, girl. We have
bigger concerns.”

“
Death cannot touch
us.”

“
Yet you
tremble.”

“
So do you.”

“
I don’t deny
it.”

“
Should we do anything this
time?”

“
Why?”

“
We could – I don’t know,
teach them, maybe?”

“
It’s already too late.
They’ve brought these things into existence, and as always, these
things will die with them.”

“
You’re
heartless.”

“
So are you.”

“
I might take one as a
lover.”

“
I might seek their
Death.”

“
Nonsense. Death can’t
touch any of us, least of all you.”

“
I just realized. You’re
afraid.”

“
I admit it. They brought
that, too.”

“
What else?”

“
What else is
there?”

“
Love. Hope.
Courage.”

“
Yes, of course, all those
things and more. Every time. Why would it be different
now?”

“
The fifth
horseman.”

That exasperates all of the sisters. Their
conversations are always short. They say their goodbyes and
exchange hugs and promises, but the truth is they can hardly stand
each other. Family holds them together, and love, and even trust,
but each has her own life to live.

The Seasons slip over each other as time
passes – another four sisters, though they are closer and only
rarely interact with their older sisters.

The girl with the brown eyes walks through
her forests, far from the waters, high in the mountains and across
plains until she reaches a certain rock.

There, she feels closest to her mother,
though in fact she can be no closer than she ever is. She sits
against the rock and says, though there’s no one there to speak to,
“I love you, mother, but I am afraid.”

Her mother doesn’t answer; but if she did, it
would be to say, “You should be.”

As the sisters sits, she closes her eyes.
Sleep comes swiftly, and with it dreams. She rarely dreams. She
hasn’t in an age. In the dreamscape, she strolls through gray
canyons of glass and brick, where the humans have – or will –
congregated. Packed together so tightly, they are easy picking for
the horsemen, who ride unseen among them, strikingly randomly and
wantonly.

There’s Disease, and its affects are bad.
There’s Famine, and it spreads itself widely across the earth.
There’s War, bigger and bigger with every passing millennia.
There’s Death, ever present, ever grinning, who will live only for
as long as they are humans.

The Fifth Horseman rides alongside her as she
watches the human scenes moving past at unnatural speeds, to kill
and suffer and die. It makes her weak. Indeed, as the humans grow
stronger, she and her sisters will suffer.

“
We don’t suffer,” she says
to the Fifth Horseman.

“
That’s an old way of
thinking,” he tells her.

“
You’re a new one,” she
says.

“
I’m with you
now.”

“
You’re a
Nightmare.”

“
So I am.”

“
Therefore, none of this is
real,” she says. “It’s a manifestation of my fears.”

“
I’m worse than that,” he
tells her.

“
How so?”

“
I facilitate the creation
of your fears. Everyone’s fears. It’s not enough that you dream
them. They must be made real to have any power.”

“
You are a
Power.”

He grins. “One of the great ones.”

She wakes with a start. Much time has passed,
not just nights or months or years. The things in her nightmare,
they are already beginning to be real.

In the end, the humans will destroy her
mother, her sisters, and her. There’s no escaping it, unless maybe
she and her kin, the elements, can turn their hearts against
humankind.

But she cannot find her sisters.

16 January

The letter arrived without a return address
and without a postmark, though it did have Air Mail stamped
prominently on it. Don took his time opening it. There were other
things in the mail – a book he’d ordered, the phone bill – and he
didn’t think he knew anyone overseas. He felt no real urge to tear
into the letter, but shortly after dinner he got around to reading
it.

Donny,

Your presence is requested. Please don’t
respond by post, but in person.

It was written in a neat, looping style,
feminine though he couldn’t be sure. An airline ticket was
enclosed, and several few hundred dollars – almost a week’s pay. It
wasn’t a lot of money, but the destination, Paris, was far away and
a place he’d never been.