He was fuming. He'd spent weeks last year carefully reseeding everything, after all that messy business when that dragon had come grazing. He'd finally cleared out that gnome infestation who'd settled inside the 11th hole. And now this. No, he thought. Not this time. Not on my watch.

He pulled a small dog-eared book from the pocket of his tweed jacket. The Compleat Guide To Fielde Wildelife, fifth edition. He flicked through the crumpled pages looking for guidance, pausing occasionally to moisten his thumb, until a familiar picture caught his eye, and he read the description underneath:

cancer castellum eximius, or The Superb Sande Crabb.

A natife of sandy shorelines, the Superbe Sand Crabb can be found most commonplace alonge the west coast. It maketh its dwelling amongest the sand, building small edifices in order to Impress and Attract A Female.

And there it was. The drawing in the book didn't nearly do justice to the example that stood before him. For in the middle of the sand bunker, stood an overly large and detailed sandcastle, perhaps three foot high. It had turrets, watchtowers, parapets, the full works. While the one in the book had a decorative seashell trim, this one had substituted with golf tees instead. A tiny moat even, bridged with an old discarded cigarette packet as a drawbridge. There may even, he thought as he inspected it, have been crenellations. Certainly things of a crennellish nature at least. He'd seen castles built down on the beach before, of course. He'd always just assumed the children built them. Well then. He closed the book sharply with a thud.

Taking a second to adjust his waistcoat, Mr. Larson scrambled his way down into the bunker and waded with difficulty through the sand, until he stood right next to the castle. He leaned forward, trying to get a good look inside.

Sure enough, in the middle of the keep, there was a small brown crab looking back up at him.

"Well now, my little fellow," he said to the crab. "Can't be having you here now, can we?"

The crab watched him warily. It raised itself up and angrily menaced its claws at him, trying to make its tiny legs look as threatening as possible.

"Now don't get all grumpy," said Mr. Larson as he straightened back up. "Let's see if we can't move you along."

He went looking in the rough and came back armed with a suitable poking stick. He leant over the castle battlements and tried to give the crab a prod. Twwaangggg!. A golf pencil launched into the air, arcing over the castle walls and stinging him sharply on the hand, causing him to drop the stick and step back.

"Ow!" he said as he shook his hand. He peered back over again. The crab was standing next to a small makeshift ballista, built from driftwood and strands of twisted seaweed. The crab waved its claws again.

"Fine!" exclaimed Mr. Larson, stamping his boot in anger. "If that's how you want to play it!"

He clambered back up out of the bunker and waved a thick grubby finger at the castle and its occupant.

"This won't do, you know!" he said, his cheeks turning a bright red color. "This won't do at all! This is a club for gentlemen! Not ruffians!"

He turned away and stormed furiously off to the groundsman's hut.

Nit stood guard in his castle. It was a good castle, he thought. He'd worked on it non-stop, from the very start of the darkening until the sun came back again. It was magnificent. It had an Ornate Cornice. It had Parapets. A castle of this splendor was sure to attract a good mate.

It had been a journey of much hardship. He'd trekked for what had seemed forever, lost in the grass wilderlands, until he'd found the shelter of the sandy haven. He'd gathered shells and things from far afield and brought them back here. He'd discovered the white dimpled boulders. He'd fought off the monstrous giant that had tried to steal his castle. And he had won. And he was the Best Crab.

He looked out over the battlements he had built. This castle was mine, thought Nit. This sandy pleasant land. This sculpted isle, set in the green sea. From nothing but lowly grains of sand he had formed himself a fortress fit for a king. And a queen, no doubt. He wouldn't have to wait long. Soon a passing lady would see what he had built, and she would realize he was the Best Crab. And perhaps she would come inside to look, and he would show her around the castle. And she would be impressed.

He had the Best Castle and he was the best.

Nit scuttled up to the top of the gatehouse. The wind carried the smell of the sea air over the lands. His lands. But far out across the sand, a movement caught his eye. Something approached. He raised his eyes to get a better look. The distant blur was hard to make out, but he recognized the silhouette.

It was another crab. Had it finally worked? My queen, he thought. My queen approaches.

He turned and inched down along the sandy ramps until he reached the ground, each step spilling tiny rivers of sand down to the floor. He sidled his way across the courtyard until he reached the drawbridge, where he would await his guest.

But something wasn't right. As the lady approached, he began to get a clearer view. And then he realized the horrible truth.

This was no lady. This was an invader. A thief. A blaggard. Another would-be suitor was encroaching on his lands.

This crab would steal his castle, he realized. He would invade, and take my castle from me.

No, thought Nit. No castle of mine will be lost this day. He turned and made haste back towards the battlements. It was time for war.

Dut stared up at the mighty castle. It dominated the surrounding landscape, towering high above him. He'd never seen anything as impressive before in his whole life. He looked through the gateway. There didn't seem to be anyone inside. He cautiously shuffled his way across the bunker, stopping once he arrived at the splendid drawbridge.

The castle seemed empty. Perhaps the owner had gone looking for more seashells, thought Dut, as he studied the decorations that adorned the entranceway. Then an idea struck him:

This is the Best Castle, he thought. If I had a castle like this, I would be the Best Crab and attract the Best Lady.

I could steal this castle, he thought, and it would be mine.

Dut inched his way forward. The drawbridge was still down. He shuffled across and entered through the gatehouse.

Suddenly, there was a ponk! and he felt an immense sting on his back. From high above, a barrage of pebbles rained down from holes in the gatehouse ceiling. Dut was forced flat against the floor, pulling his legs in tight as he waited out the onslaught. The impact of each pebble was almost unbearable, but he held his ground.

The pebbles ceased, leaving only the faint sound of sand trickling down from above. He cautiously unfolded himself from under his shell, and looked up at the other crab that was peering back down through the murder holes. Is that all you've got, he thought? Mere pebbles will not stop me, for I am the Best Warrior.

He started forwards again, but his celebration was short-lived. A movement in the shadows made him look up again, just in time to see the giant dimpled boulder plummeting down towards him.

The golf ball caught Dut smack on the head with a loud crack. His whole world suddenly turned black, then purple and green. He staggered backwards, reeling in shock. His head pulsed with agony, and he felt his legs go from under him. He slid sideways off the drawbridge and tumbled uncontrollably into the moat.

The blackness closed in around his vision. It was as if the darkening had come early. He struggled to turn himself over, but his legs failed to find footing. His body sank down to the sandy floor, and his hopes with it. He lay still on the bottom, waiting for the world to stop spinning. After a while it passed, and he wriggled around until he was able to flip himself over.

Dut dragged himself up out of the moat, still groggy from his encounter. His vision was returning, and though indistinct he could make out the other crab high up on the battlements, waving its claws in victory.

The other crab was the Best Crab, he thought, and I have failed. He slunk off across the fairway with, as it were, his tail between his legs.

Nit watched him go from high up on the gatehouse walls. He shook his claws in the air once more, just to rub it in. My castle will not be taken, he thought. For I am the Best Crab.

Dut crawled his way through the rough, leaving the castle far behind him. I have been shamed, he thought. The other crab has defeated me in battle, I have no castle, and I am an Unworthy Crab.

He pushed the blades of grass aside as he skulked around in the rough. It's fine, he thought. I didn't want it anyway. He'd find his own sandy paradise. He'd build a better castle. One with a flag. He'd seen the impressive flags the giants used. Maybe he could steal one.

He thought ahead to the work it would take, and his heart sank even lower. He'd never been much good at castle building. He'd always been a fighter. I should have stayed on the beach, he thought. He'd never meant to stray into the endless green forest. There didn't seem any hope of getting back there now. Dut kicked a small ant off its leaf of out spite, and trudged aimlessly forward.

The rough grass opened up onto a patch of clear fairway. Dut stopped suddenly when he say what lay in front of him. The answer to his prayers. The solution. The morning sun glinted from its corners, highlighting the towering beauty that reached into the sky.

The giants had left some sort of war machine behind. On the grass ahead, stood a colossal red siege tower, mounted on wheels and reaching easily as high as the castle itself. Dut's gaze followed it all the way up to the top, and a new idea ripped through his mind like fire.

I could use this weapon, he thought. I could return to take the castle once more, and be victorious. And I would win, and be the Best Crab Once More.

Dut positioned himself beneath the wheel of the siege tower, and with a mighty heave he pushed. Slowly, with a creak, it began to roll forward.

Mr. Larson ambled across the fairway, a large metal bucket in one hand and a spade in the other. Right, he thought. Let's sort this out now before the guests start arriving. The Ocean Vista Golf Links was not some kind of playground. And certainly not the place for--he shuddered at the thought--sexual activities. No matter the species. The club rules were quite clear.

A movement ahead caught his eye. Up by the bunker, a bright red golf bag seemed to be slowly wheeling itself along across the fairway. He stopped briefly to raise his hand to his eyes, while he squinted to see what was happening. There was something possibly...crablike... at the base of it. His mouth dropped open in shock.

"Come back 'ere with that!" he shouted as he ran to stop it. "That's a Hodgekiss 400, that is! Gold members only!" He bumbled his way forward, causing his hat to fall off which he then had to go back for. The runaway golf bag continued its slow march, paying no attention to his calls.

He stopped to catch his breath, his face bright purple from over-exertion. The spade provided support while he regained himself. A line had been crossed, thought Mr. Larson. The club would not tolerate this. And nor would he. He picked up his spade again and forged ahead once more, a burning rage within himself. One does not flout the rules of the club. This menace had to be stopped.

Nit watched as the siege tower approached. A twinge of fear ran down his spine. This is it, he thought. This is the final test. He dropped back down to the floor and readied for battle.

The golf bag came crashing against the castle wall, breaching a massive hole and throwing sand everywhere. Nit was ready on the battlements. The bag had sliced a chasm through the top half of the eastern defenses, forming a bridge over the moat and into the courtyard. He positioned himself next to the breach, and heaved another golf ball in preparation.

Dut began the climb up the side of his siege tower. It was a steep slope, and the strange red ground gave little grip, but he pressed ahead. As he reached the halfway point, he saw his nemesis peering back from the top. Not this time, he thought. I will fight you and I will win.

A dimpled boulder appeared at the top of the slope. But this time Dut was ready. As the golf ball tumbled down the bag, Dut managed to step sideways out of the way and let it roll past. It bounced off a buckle and landed in the moat below with a small plop.

Nit turned around to ready his final boulder, but it was too late. Dut came leaping over the wall and landed right on him, sending them both hurtling off the battlements. They tumbled together through the air and fell down to the castle's sandy floor.

They landed with a soft flump sound. Nit tumbled over again and regained his footing, while Dut landed hard on his back. As Nit turned to face his enemy, Dut righted himself and moved into position.

The battle was fierce. The forces of good and evil struggled together in mortal deadlock. They snapped at each other with their claws. They circled around, each trying to get a better angle on the other.

This castle will not fall, thought Nit. I am the Best Crab. He could see Dut was strong. Perhaps too strong. He kept circling, waiting for the moment to strike, waiting for a window of opportunity to open up. Dut made a grab, but Nit dodged it, and went right back with a counter attack. He pushed himself forward with all his bodyweight.

But his attack failed. Dut pushed his claw up from underneath and got leverage on him. Nit went tumbling backwards and landed prone on the sand, his soft underbelly exposed.

Dut felt a fire inside him. I have won, he thought. He raised his claw, ready to inflict the victory blow and sink a deep wound right through the rival's weak heart. Nit stared back at him, frozen in terror. Time seemed to stop for a moment, and it seemed like he couldn't move at all. But a strange shadow formed above them both, and the world grew increasingly darker. Nit glanced up as the sky turned a darkest shade of black.

Mr. Larson brought the spade down hard. Nit watched as Dut took the full blow, his claw ripped straight from his body and his shell crushed. Both spade and sand were flying everywhere in fury, and the last thing Nit saw was the northern defenses crumble and fall, before the world went dark as he felt himself buried under the rubble.

Mr. Larson lifted the spade and drove it down again like a sledgehammer. "Aha!" he shouted. "Let's see how you like it!"

Dut tried to stand again with his last ounce of strength, but the giant struck once more with its final blow, sending shell fragments whirling afar. Dut was dead.

Mr. Larson stood panting, barely holding onto his spade. Well, he thought, that should do it. The castle was completely flattened, leaving just a messy pile in the middle of the bunker. He pulled the bucket over and started scraping the debris into it. Bits of dead crab, seashells, the empty cigarette packet, all mixed in as a sandy pile of rubble. The remnants of a once proud empire.

"No more castles for you, Sonny Jim." he said. He clambered back out of the bunker, and went to dump the mess back behind the nearby dunes.

Nit awoke and dug his way up to the surface. The bones of his enemy lay scattered around him. But there was no victory to be celebrated this day, no tales to be told.

My empire, he thought. My castle. My Queen. All gone.

Nit stumbled around the strange dungeon he found himself in. The giant had trapped him here, surrounded by these cold metal walls. He gingerly tried to climb them, but the slopes were too smooth and he fell back down.

I will die here, he thought. This giant's prison will be my tomb. He settled back down on the rubble and closed his eyes. The war was over. The kingdom had fallen.

Mr. Larson tipped the bucket upside-down and emptied it out onto the beach. "There we go," he said to himself. "That's that sorted out." He left and went back to rake the bunker. The guests were already starting to play on the 1st tee. He had just enough time to get it all leveled back out again. And after that, he thought, perhaps a moment for a nice cup of tea. He whistled happily to himself as he walked away.

Nit pulled himself from the debris and tumbled down the slope of loose sand. He lay flat and motionless, not even trying to lift himself up. He had no strength remaining, no energy left inside himself. Tatters of his empire lay crumbled around him. What future was there now, he thought, when everything was lost?

Nit watched the giant leave. A feeling of hopelessness pulled him ever further down. The giant has won, he thought. He is the Best Giant, and I am an Unworthy Crab. He started to dig a small hole to hide himself in.

As he dug though, he saw something down by the waterline. A distant crab-like shape. He stopped to look, wondering who this new onlooker might be, no doubt come to revel in his defeat.

The other crab came a little closer, taking a cautious zigzag route slowly up the beach. It was a lady. A lady crab, of the most stunning beauty he'd ever seen. She studied him from afar with mild curiosity. She seemed intrigued by all the golf tees and shells that lay scattered around him.

Nit gave a heavy sigh. My Queen, he thought. My Queen is here.

He felt a little strength return to him. A lady this fine would require the Best Castle, he thought. The hole could wait; there was work to be done. He scouted around the beach to find a good spot, where the sand had just the right consistency. With care he selected a suitable seashell, a strong one with a big scoop area. Nearby, the waves washed up and receded back again. The dune grass rustled as the wind blew the salt air inland. In the background the giants began to launch boulders into the sky once more, and slowly, as the other crab shyly watched, Nit began to build a new castle.

My earliest memory as a child was when we had to leave for the first time. My grandfather would not get on the wagon. No, he said. I will run no more, and I will not spread the evil any further. I will let the fire take me today. I remember seeing my grandmother slap him hard on the face, and he sat on the back of the wagon for the whole day, in silence. I think about him a lot these days.

It is late in the year, but the air is still warm. The distant smoke climbs high above the horizon, forming giant trails that block the sun. We have traveled farther north than I thought possible, but still the fire drives us onward. The scrubland here is arid, with bush after bush that the fire will eventually consume. We cannot stay here.

I unpack the mule and lay the packs out on the dusty ground. Uncle Jerome hacks away at a nearby acka plant and drains the water from within, catching it in a small clay bowl. It's easier now there's just the two of us. No more fighting over who gets what.

We eat a meal of sandroot; there is nothing else. I boil it slowly over a small campfire. My uncle has said nothing all day. I stare into the flames as the pan boils. They seem almost alive as they flicker and dance in the darkness.

"You shouldn't look at it," says Uncle Jerome. His round white beard glows brightly against the night. "It'll burn you."

"Don't worry," I say, "I'm keeping my distance."

"That's not what I meant."

A small lizard runs from the rocks, attracted by the warmth. My uncle drops the bowl down on top of it and traps it, then quickly reaches underneath and grabs it by its tail. He throws the lizard onto the campfire for luck. I can still remember the rhyme my grandmother taught me long ago -- a flame fed well will cast no spell, an evil unfed will surely spread. Uncle Jerome still believes in good luck.

I finish my meal and take the pan off the flames, leaving the water to cool for tomorrow.

"You'd better put that fire out before it spreads," he says as he lies down on his blanket.

I kick the dirt across the fire and stamp it out. We sit in the darkness, the only light coming from the distant glow behind us on the horizon, where the smoke has turned the sky a strange reddish. I sit looking southwards to where we have come from. The many places we had fleetingly called home are now but a distant memory, all consumed by the flames.

"Uncle Jerome..." I ask.

"Yes lad?"

"How did the Great Fire start?"

The old man lifts himself up onto his elbows and lies in thought. With a great effort and a greater grunt he sits upright.

"The way I heard it," he begins, "there was a man whose heart was consumed by anger. They say a woman rejected him I think, chose someone else over him. Well that kind of thing can really get to you, you know? Well of course you're too young for all that, but you'll understand one day."

"Anyway, the anger built inside him, until it could be contained no more. Then one day he lit a match, and stared into it until it became one with him. And so he set fire to her house, and let the evil escape from within himself. Of course, with that much rage there was no stopping it, and the monster was released."

We sit in silence for a while. The wind blows with us from the southeast, carrying the smell of ash with it.

"Do you really think there's a land to the west?" I ask. "I mean that's what you said, right? Across the sea, a land where the Great Fire cannot reach?"

He strokes his beard in thought. "There must be," he says. "Old Tommeth used to tell tales about it, where I were a lad. Used to tell tales of his grandfather being a fisherman on a sailing boat, back when there were plenty."

He takes a pipe out of his pack and start filling it, poking around in the campfire's ashes to find an ember to light it with.

"Tommeth had always planned to take a boat to sea years ago. Before the fire caught up with him, of course." He stares into the night while taking a deep puff on the pipe.

"What's a boat?" I ask.

"It's... it's a kind of floating wagon I suppose," he says. "Like a big wooden duck."

He offers me a drag on his pipe, but I shake my head. I wish he'd stop smoking that thing. He's getting crazier every day.

I sit and look up at the stars. Long ago, back when there were ten of us, we traveled with a man who could read books. I had asked him about the stars. He'd told me they were lands like ours, only further away. He said they burned forever, like a fire that never goes out. Perhaps our land is becoming a star, I consider, once the Great Fire finally takes us all.

Uncle Jerome lies flat, but not asleep for I hear no snoring yet. I ask why the fire doesn't go out. Why does it keep driving us further northwest, I ask, and why won't it stop?

It does not drive us, he tells me. We bring it with us. It follows with the evil in our hearts. But we are not evil, I say. Yes we are, he replies, and tells me to go to sleep.

He is a stupid old man and knows nothing. I hear a crackle from the campfire, for some small embers still remain. I sleep. In my dreams I hear the fire calling to me. I will follow you, it says. We are one.

We reach the coast on the first day of winter. I have never seen so much water before. I want to settle here. No, says the uncle. The fire will reach here within the season. I want to drink the water but the stupid old fool won't let me.

We find an old wooden boat left abandoned, and westward we sail. The wind does all the work, and we sit and wait. The boat floats like a duck; the old man was right about that at least.

It is strange out here. The land falls far behind, and for the first time in my life I can see no glow on the horizon chasing us. We have left the fire behind. It feels quiet. My uncle will not allow me to light a fire in the boat, so we eat little. And yet I feel strangely happy, like a weight has been lifted.

On the third evening we make landfall, on a new world of wispy trees and the scent of olive. Deep lush forests of pine cover the hills, untouched by the hand of the Great Fire. We could settle here, I say to my uncle. We could stop running. Perhaps, he says.

Yet there is a fire ahead; I can feel it calling. We explore forwards and come across a village of thatch buildings, surrounding a clearing where a bonfire burns brightly.

They stare at us as we enter. A broad tall man approaches and pulls a large knife from his belt.

"That's far enough, newcomer," he says to Uncle Jerome. The accent is new and unfamiliar. He waves the knife at us, and the villagers crowd behind him.

"Have no fear," Jerome replies with his hands half-raised. "We are no enemy of you."

Don't trust them, I hear a strange voice whisper. They are evil.

A haggard old woman pulls at him from behind. "Don't trust them," the old woman says. "Look at their clothes. They are evil. They've been burned by the fire."

My uncle takes a step forward to say something, but the tall man is quick and dashes at him with the knife. I cry out but it is too late. The stranger stabs my uncle through the stomach, then again through the heart, and he falls to his knees.

I stand with my mouth open.

"Let the fire have him," the stranger says. "It needs something fresh to feast on."

They drag my uncle's still body across the ground and haul it up onto the bonfire. I follow, tugging at them to stop them, but one pushes me aside and I fall to the ground. The tall man is laughing.

"We should be thanking you," the tall man says. "Your friend will keep us all safe for weeks. Didn't your mother ever teach you how to feed a fire?"

A rage burns inside of me. The bonfire calls through the darkness, and finds me waiting. Release me, it says. Release me, and we will avenge him. I hear it so clearly.

I look up and pull a burning stick from the fire and throw it, as far as I can. It catches in the timbers of a thatch roof. The villagers scramble to put it out, but the thatch takes it swiftly. The tall man tries to start a bucket chain from the beach, but the fire is quicker. Half the village is alight now.

A warm wind blows from the east, across the sea. The new fire is spreading fiercely, and takes into the nearby forest. The oil from the trees burns well. I hope this fire lasts a hundred years.

I pull my uncle from the bonfire, but the life has already left him. I lay him on the ground and I tell him he was right, even though he cannot hear. I sit with him and I laugh, and I watch the new world burn.

Driven forth with a burning hunger, it pushed on towards the lights of the town. Gathering strength with each dive and swoop, the wind danced across the thatch rooftops, circling eastwards towards the coast. As it ran along the roof of the assembly rooms, the rusty weathervane creaked and slowly spun around to a new heading.

The wind crossed the eastern farms until it met the old windmill on the hilltop, causing the ancient wooden blades to groan as they began to turn. The scent of prey carried up from the farmlands, and the wind circled one more for the kill.

It's been hard since ol' Fessler died. I reckon he knew more about tar than any man alive. He said he'd teach me it all, in time. I think he'd always hoped his son would take over from him, but they fell out and he moved west. I think he became a stage player or such.

So Fessler took me on as a prentice in his stead. He used to teach me all sorts; not just building the kilns, that was easy enough, but the caulking, woodcarving, even metalworking from time to time. I guess you could say I'm a jack of all trades 'round these parts.

It was never easy for him, what with his leg. He'd taken a good hit during the Great Storm of '63, and he'd always found it hard getting around since then. He used to say he could feel his bones creaking each time the Nor'easter blew through, like it was letting him know who's boss.

I spent my whole first summer rebuilding the tar kilns up on the eastern hilltops, just me and Fessler. There's a whole bunch of ways to make a good kiln, but we used to dig them into the hillside itself and build a simple frame around it. The heat from the fire would draw the resin out of the wood and we'd drip it down into a barrel underneath. There's more to making tar than folks think. It's not just burning wood. In fact, if you let it burn you'll mess up the whole thing and get nothing out. Did that a couple of times back in those first weeks. You need to keep a good layer of peat on top to keep the air out.

It took a long time for me to get comfortable with being exposed up there on those hills. Most folks don't go up there; they say because of the smell from the burning tar, and I'll give 'em that I suppose, although I grew to like the aroma myself. You can catch a hint of it from miles away sometimes when the breeze carries it. I reckon they're just scared of being away from the town though. Up there, there's nothing much to protect you when the wind whips through. I asked Fessler once, what he'd do if the windchimes rang while he was up there--he just laughed and said he'd let the wind take him.

Still, I learned a lot about tar from him. You got your birch tar, you got your peat tar, even coal tar. I heard up in the North Wilds it comes right up out of the ground, though I ain't never seen anything like that myself. Here on the east coast though, we got pines, and lots of 'em.

You can do a lot with pine tar. It ain't as hot as you'd think, you can work it at room temperature. You can use it as a glue, or for weatherproofing. You can spread it all over cloth and get a good oilskin out of it, and you'd be thankful for that when it starts raining a pissbucket down in the spring. You can even seal a boat hull with it, though I ain't stupid enough to mess with boating. I heard too many tales.

Mostly though, I make it for sealant.

That's what I was doing, that first evening in the fall when the wind changed. I was warming up a pot on the stove so I could go fix the Bridgers' window while there was still a sliver of day remaining. You gotta heat it a little to apply it right. I was just about to mix in some linseed oil to help it soak when the shop door swung open. Sampson came dashing in, all out of breath.

"Wind's coming!" he shouted. "Glanville's gonna set up in the stable!"

I nodded. There wasn't much time. The workshop wasn't weatherproof; it couldn't be really, what with needing the furnaces open for air. Normally I'd have preferred to be down by the river, where the valley keeps the wind off. You can hold up pretty good down there with only minimal sealant around the window frames. And Jethro Wilkins would probably be there too so we'd get to have a right laugh while we waited. But it was too far and there wouldn't be much time. The stable would have to do, and my tar would have to wait.

I moved the pot off the heat--last thing I need would be my workshop to burn down too--and grabbed my emergency bag from by the door. I could already feel the breeze picking up as I stepped out into the square. It was here. I could see Sampson running down the street knocking on as many doors as he could. I hoped he'd get everyone safe before the wind came.

I reached the stable to see Mayor Glanville pulling people inside. "Come on!" he yelled. "Get in!"

The bell on the assembly hall was ringing by now. We shuffled into the safety of the stable. There must have been at least ten of us crammed in there, though the horses didn't seem to mind. It was just an old wooden framed building but the sealant was all new. I knew because I'd done it myself that summer. People around these parts appreciate the value of quality sealant. With enough pine tar around the gaps you could keep any wind out, even the Nor'easter.

Sampson was last in, along with the Bridger family. I watched as Glanville pulled down the heavy wooden bar to lock the door.

We sat in silence for what seemed like a year. Nobody wanted to say anything. You could hear the wind outside, growing louder with every minute. I wiped the tar from my hands onto my apron. Finally Weaver spoke up.

"What the hell's it doing here this early? It's not even harvest yet."

"It's come early before," said John Bridger. "When my Tim was a kid it woke in November once."

"Bah, November!" shouted Weaver. "It's September! The Nor'easter's never come in September before."

"Maybe it's not the Nor'easter?" I ventured. "Maybe it's a different wind?"

"Like hell it is!" shouted Marson. "The Nor'easter's the only wind in these parts, everyone knows that!"

"I'm just sayin'..."

"Well if your gonna say somethin' then say somethin' that makes sense! Ain't no point telling stories and getting folks all worried."

We sat as the gale outside roared. There was nothing we could do now, it might take till light for the storm to pass. John Bridger paced the room, pausing to studying the brick fireplace set into the far wall.

"Couldn't we at least get a fire started?" asked John Bridger. "It's as cold as a winters' day in here."

"Use the brain your mother gave you, John," muttered Marson. "You'd just open up that chimney damper wouldn't you, and let the wind whistle right down the flue and get in here."

John sat back down dejectedly, but we all knew Marson was right. Even a modest air gap could be a danger; an open hatch was like an invitation.

"What if it is a different wind?" asked John Bridger. "I mean it came up real quick... What if it's stronger than the Nor'easter?"

"What are you sayin'?" asked Weaver?

"Nothing." He paused. "Well yeah, OK, I'll say it. What if it is stronger? What if it gets in?"

"It won't get in," I said.

"But what if it does? I mean it's only a wooden frame sealed with tar, it could crack it open somewhere and..."

"It won't."

"And this is new weatherproofing here, it's not been tested and what with Fessler gone it--"

"Now there ain't nothing wrong with my sealant John Bridger," I said, pointing my finger at him. "I make quality sealant, as good as you'll find in--"

Glanville stood up and motioned to everyone. "Now let's everyone just calm down a little." He stepped between me and John and adjusted his waistcoat. "No-one's questioning your caulking Cal."

Seemed to me like they were. But I let it go. Glanville had a way of taking charge of a room.

"Now I've been mayor here for ten winters now and I know how to handle the Nor'easter. It's been early before, and this'll be no different. There'll be plenty of sheep still out on the eastern farms. There was no time to bring them inside. It'll take one of those, then it'll go back to sleep."

"Horseradish," said Weaver. "It'll take two sheep at least. If it's woken this early it must be hungry."

"It'll take one, just like usual," Glanville said. "Mark my words, it just needs a meal and it'll be back to sleep."

And that, it seemed, was that. We settled down on the straw until dawn. I managed a few hours sleep at least, despite the cold.

Come the morning, we left our shelter and went back to work. I spoke to old farmer Danson later that day when he came into town. It took four sheep that first night. They found the bones scattered all the way up to Wenwright's mill, the flesh stripped clean off them.

The farmers called a meeting on the Sunday evening. As we filed into the assembly hall I recognized most of the faces; I'd done work for pretty much all the farms round these parts over the past year or so. The torchlight faded away into the corners, leaving just silhouettes of heads. I pushed my way around to the side of the crowd, where I could get a good view of the stage.

Glanville sat up there at the table, alongside the Town Clerk and Tom Farthingsworth. Those two looked uneasy at the size of the crowd, but Glanville managed to keep that smile he always had.

"Alright, settle down folks. Settle down," said Glanville. "I've asked Mr Farthingsworth here to go over..."

He was cut off by someone in the crowd, I couldn't see who. "It's been taking more sheep!" the voice cried.

"It took one more of mine last night!" That was Mr. Danson. He had the largest farm around here, over near Bridgewater.

"OK now folks," Glanville said as he tried to manage the mob. "One at a time."

Weaver took the floor. "Now something ain't right here. Everyone knows it. The Nor'easter is never this busy this time of year. And it's never taken this many before, we've lost eight sheep in a week. Most years we'd lose no more than ten through a whole season--"

"This isn't the Nor'easter!" shouted Tendale, cutting him off. "This is a southerly wind!"

"No it ain't," said Weaver dismissively.

"It sure as hell is. I've seen which way the weathervanes go, it's come down from the mountains."

Glanville stepped forward. "The Nor'easter claims these lands. No other wind would try and stake a claim here."

"I'm just sayin' what I know," continued Tendale. "This wind came from the south. This ain't the Nor'easter."

"What are you going to do about it?" shouted someone.

I could see it in Glanville's eyes; that slight glimmer of uncertainty. He always put up that smiling facade, but if you knew him you could spot it peeling away.

Then a new voice came from the back. It was Wenwright, the mill owner. "We should send for the aeromancer."

That caused a murmur through the crowd.

"What aeromancer?" asked someone.

"The aeromancer, the one who lives up in Dryton. I saw him once when I was a boy. He'll know what to do."

"Dryton? That's fifty miles away."

"Folks, please," said Glanville. "Now folks, we don't need to send for no aeromancer. That ain't gonna be cheap, and the town's already losing money each time this wind comes through. It don't make no sense for us to be paying a small fortune just to have someone come down here and tell us what we already know. Now Mr Farthingsworth here has taken care of our bells and chimes for nigh-on thirty years."

That was certainly true enough. Farthingsworth kept the warning bells in good order, and went up on the roofs to repair the weathervanes every season no matter the weather. He'd seen as much wind come through this town as anyone. A sound of agreement rippled across the crowd.

"Now Tom, why don't you explain things to these kind folks here."

Farthingsworth lifted himself out of his chair and addressed the crowd. "Well, we'll start by bringing the herds in early. It'll mean we'll need more hands hired to keep them fed once they're indoors, but Mr. Barson here has agreed to provision a one-off stipend to cover the season."

The farmers grumbled a little, but I could see they were thinking it over. Farthingsworth looked around the room, and seeing no disagreement he continued on:

"Then we'll take a herd of goats west across the moors, and stake them up on the northwest brow. Once this wind realizes there's no food around here, it'll go for those instead."

I spoke up. "And what about when those are gone?"

"If we place the goats to lead it northwards, well then it'll probably follow the valley north up the coast. There's plenty of wild deer there. We can encourage it to move on to where there's better takings."

"Just where are you gonna get these goats from?" asked Tendale.

"Well perhaps Mr Danson could... "

"Me?" asked Danson. "I'm relying on my animals for the winter. I need every last one of them, I can't afford to keep losing them each time a new wind decides it wants a nice lunch."

"I'm sure under the circumstance the town council could perhaps reimburse you...?" he looked to Glanville for assurance.

"Yes," Glanville said. "I believe we can accommodate that." That gleaming smile came back to life. "Well then gentlemen, I think that's settled."

So settled it was, though it seemed to me that not everyone agreed. I heard old Wenwright again from the back:

"I still think we should send for..." he began, but his voice was drowned out by the talk of the crowd. Once Glanville had an idea set it was hard to have it otherwise with him, and so the hall slowly began to empty out.

Three nights later it came again, just as the sun set. I was coming home from resealing the roof on the Jenner house, over by the coopers' yard. I'd noticed the breeze picking up but I figured it only for a passing zephyr. It built quickly though, quicker than I'd ever seen before. I hurried down the narrow alley, my footsteps accompanied by the tinkle of the windbells that hung from every gutter. Only when I heard the thundering peal of the windchimes from the belltower did I drop my bucket and run for it. As the alley opened up onto the square, I finally caught sight of the lights of the inn and made like hell for it.

The windchimes only struck when high winds were coming. You could hear them for miles, with the deep, dull tone from the 30ft tubes. The heaviest one weighed nigh-on 400 pounds. It's a sound you don't forget in a hurry.

They were closing up the door as I got there. It was busy, maybe a hundred people all crammed inside. The inn was a good, safe building to be in. Big thick timbers that wouldn't give even if a howling gale hammered at them. Folks were standing around near the doorway.

"What happened?" asked Will Fenkins. "Didn't they put the goats out like we planned?"

"They put them out alright, went up there Monday," I answered. "Guess it didn't count for much."

People milled around without much to do. I saw Mary Colson, the butcher's wife, looking panicked.

"Billy?" she called. "Billy, where are you?"

Billy was her son, just turned twelve last month. Good lad, bit absent minded though. I looked around but couldn't see him.

The wind was here in full force now, bringing fierce rain with it. The drops tapped a fast rhythm against the window glass. I heard a commotion and turned back around to see Mary struggling at the door.

She was trying to lift the heavy draw bar that held the door shut. Jack Porter grabbed her hand and tried to pull her away.

"What the hell are you doing Mary?" he shouted.

"My Billy! He's still out there!"

"Mary," shouted Jack as he wrestled with her. "Mary, listen. You can't go out there. It's here!"

She didn't listen. "But he's still out there!" she cried. The windchimes rang out again.

I peered out the window, trying to spot any signs of life in the darkness. A flash of lightning lit the square, and a movement caught my eye.

"Look!" I cried. "Over by the well."

The crowd pushed to the window, trying to get a view. There was almost no light to see by now, but there was definitely the outline of a figure, curled up in a ball beside the steps to the well.

"Let me out!" Mary shouted. "Let me go!"

Jack let out a sigh. "Alright, wait. You stay here, I'll get him. I'll get him."

Ferris and I lifted the heavy wooden bar off the door, and the rumble of thunder filled the room. I caught Jack's eye. He didn't say anything, but his eyes spoke for him.

"Please, please hurry!" begged Mary.

Jack leaned to me and whispered. "You shut this door behind me the moment I get out there," he said. I nodded.

We opened the door and Jack dashed out. The wind pushed hard at it, but between the two of us we got it closed again and dropped the bar back in place. We all hurried to the window and watched anxiously as Jack sprinted across the square, shielding his face from the rain. The dull atonal sound of the windchimes struck again, drowning out the noise of the storm.

As he reached the well he heaved the Colson kid up over his shoulder. A giant rumbling roar filled the air, like an almighty bear. It was too late; the wind had seen them. It seemed like maybe he was going to make it back, but as he ran a gust hit him and knocked him backwards off his feet. The kid tumbled over and landed face down on the cobblestone.

Jack scrambled up again and grabbed the kid's hand, but the wind surged again and lifted the kid up into the air. Jack held on and shouted something, I couldn't hear what. But it didn't matter. The wind ripped little Billy Colson right out of his hand and took him away into the night.

We had the door open ready as Jack came back into the inn, and got him a seat once he was safely inside. I'll never forget that look in his eyes. There was nothing he could say, he just sat there dripping wet with his mouth open. Nobody knew what to say. Someone pushed a shot of whiskey into his hands but he just held it.

He looked up into the eyes of Mary Colson. "I'm sorry Mary," was all he could offer.

She burst into tears, and collapsed into a chair.

I'd never seen the assembly hall so full, we must have had half the town in there. They had to stall the meeting for an another half hour as more people were still arriving in off the north high road, some from as far up as Woodhole I heard.

At half-noon they got started. Glanville was first to speak up.

"Alright folks, we all know why we're here. Let's try and keep this in order. Who's first?"

Sampson took the floor. "This thing's out to kill us. It doesn't just want a taste of mutton, it wants blood. It's found what it likes and it wants more."

"What are you saying we should do about it?" asked one of the Wiversham brothers.

"What can we do about it?" cried someone.

"One at a time, please folks," said Glanville. "Now we always managed alright with the Nor'easter, so I think--"

"The Nor'easter never took people before!" shouted Sampson, cutting him off. "We always made sure to get everyone inside and it was happy enough with just the sheep."

"Darn thing took one of my cows last year," said Farmer Hoggis.

"Okay, sure, from time-to-time. But never people." Sampson turned to address the whole crowd. "Which of us is going to be next?"

"Hear hear!" the crowd bellowed.

"I say we do like Wenwright said," he continued. "We send for the aeromancer, we pay him what he wants, and we do it soon before it takes another."

The hall door opened again as still more people poured in, I couldn't see who.

Tendale stood forward and took the floor. "This new wind is trying to claim this land for itself," he said. "I say we head up to Forcastle while we still can; there's good land there and we could--"

"This is our home. I grew up here." The anger in the voice surprised me, especially when I realized it was mine. "Wh-- well now we've had Wintersmith's in these parts for going on a hundred years now. I'm not going to be driven out of my home. Now I agree with Mr. Sampson here, we need to send..."

I didn't get to finish. The crowd was beginning to part, and a strange old man pushed his way to the front. He was dressed like nothing I'd ever seen before, a mass of blue satin cloth and white beard which held up a tall staff, or the staff held up him, I couldn't be sure which. He walked slowly forwards into the light, and the attention of the whole room seemed to draw around him.

"Who are you?" Glanville asked.

"My name is Petrel," the old man said, "and you sent for me did you not? I am an aeromancer."

A murmur rippled across the crowded hall. Glanville exchanged a blank look with the other councilmen, his mouth open in a rare loss for words.

"I'm not sure that--"

"I sent word for him," said someone. It was Wenwright.

"You, Sam Wenwright?" gasped Glanville. "Without the approval of the council, you just went and sent for him on your own authority?"

"And well he should have!" snapped Petrel. "I am glad to hear someone in here has one ounce of sense in their head!"

He stood at the front of the crowd and turned to address them. Every time he moved, the various charms and tools that hung off his staff fluttered to and fro. He waved his staff in anger with each fiery word.

"You foolish men!" he cried. "You'd try to control the winds, would you? What did you think you could achieve?"

"We uh..." started Sampson, "We thought we could lead it away from here, up to the north w--"

"You thought you'd lead it, did you, hmm?" Petrel asked. "Oh, such naivety. You would control something you do not understand? This is no seasonal wind, this is a wild hunter. It has exhausted the food in the mountains and now it wants to feed here. It will not go, it will not leave, until it has exhausted the supply here too. And now you've given it a taste of human flesh, and it knows there's plenty more where that came from."

"So what do we do?" Mayor Glanville asked. "How can we kill it?"

"Ha!" exclaimed Petrel. "You can't kill a wind, not the likes of you anyway. No, this wind has upset the balance. The cycle must be restored. Only the might of the Nor'easter can fight a thing this strong. We must let it fight for its territory."

A ripple of excitement ran over the crowd. Sampson spoke:

"It could be another three months before the Nor'easter wakes. How many more would it take before then?"

"Matters must be brought forward then. We must venture to sea." Petrel eyed the murmuring crowd as he spoke, watching to see if they would accept what he would say next. "We sail far to the north-east, where the cold air meets the warm ocean. We sail right into the heart of the storm and we wake it. We wake the Nor'easter."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing, and nor could anyone else. The crowd erupted with noise.

"Are you crazy?"

"That's insane!"

Glanville stepped in front and managed to get the crowd calmed down a little, then turned back to talk to the aeromancer.

"What are you saying here?" he asked. "You're just going to waltz on over into the middle of the ocean, and poke this thing with a stick until it wakes up? You're crazy. You're gonna get eaten alive. It's impossible."

"Impossible? You have a boat, do you not?"

"Well sure we do, sure. But we only use them in the spring, before the summer westerlies arrive. To venture to sea--in this season--is dangerous. The seas are as open as the skies, there's no shelter out there. And you're not just talking about rowing, you'd be going further out than anyone's ever done before. What if there's a leak? If something goes wrong way out there, you've no chance of getting back to shore in time."

"And you would have a better thought, hmm?"

He did not. No-one said anything.

"Who would be sailing this boat? You?"

"I would go myself, yes," replied Petrel.

Marson had been sitting on a box at the side of the room, watching the proceedings quietly. He smoked on his old pipe, as he often did when he was thinking. He took it from his mouth and spoke:

"Takes two men to crew a sailing skiff," he said. "Can't do it on your lonesome. Who else are you going to find stupid enough to go along with you? You couldn't get me out on those waters with this new wind on the loose, not for any money."

"Speaking of money," interrupted Glanville, "if we were to hire you to go out there..."

Petrel gave a small sniff, and said "I would ask only four hundred for my services."

"Four hundred!" cried Glanville. "Extortion!"

I pulled Glanville aside and quietly said: "It may be the only way to get this thing fixed."

He wasn't pleased with the idea. "I don't see why we need to..."

"And you'd live with it, for another 3 months would you?" That was Weaver. He spoke loudly and drew the full attention from the room. "You ain't seen what these things do. It ain't quick, or pleasant. I seen how the Nor'easter et a cow once, when I was a lad. I sat in the lake hut and watched it circle around all night as it finished it off. It doesn't kill you straight away. It holds you in the air for hours, slowly grinding away at your skin, scraping you raw with sand until there's nothing left on you but bones. You could hear that poor cow up there in the sky, moaning in agony, all the way through till morning. So, Mr. Glanville, you can wait, if you like. But I say we go with yonder wizard here, before it comes for us too."

The crowd stood in silence. I wanted to say something, but I couldn't find the words. It seemed our choices were shrinking by the minute.

"How exactly do you wake a wind?" asked Wenwright.

"The secrets of aeromancy are passed from master to apprentice, given not to you. But I shall need a barrel of pine tar, and help to apply it."

I wasn't sure I liked where this was going at all.

Of course they talked me into going. More fool me, but Glanville persuaded me into it like he always does. Said the aeromancer needs pine tar for his work, and I was the best person to help with it. And of course, on such a long journey the boat might need fixing or resealing, or the ropes need retarring, so it fell down to me to be the one to go with him. Normally I'd just wait for the summer boats to row back into shore to patch them up, but not this time. One of us had to go to sea.

We loaded the skiff with our provisions early that morning. The jetty bustled with life as everything was brought aboard. The aeromancer had bought several boxes with him, containing all sorts of strange equipment. Everyone had turned out to see us off, or perhaps just to see what all the fuss was about. Petrel certainly drew a crowd, looking like some kind of ancient jester and behaving no better. I'd made sure to wear my best oilskin, and packed a good lunch of cheese and pork sausage, as well as enough salted beef in case of delay. Marson carried the small barrel of pine tar aboard and stowed it amongst Petrel's equipment, while I checked over everything a second time.

Mayor Glanville stood on the wooden jetty, talking with a small group of onlookers. I climbed back out of the boat and walked down the jetty to him, the boards creaking with every step, and pulled him aside.

"Are you sure about this, Glanville?" I asked quietly.

"I need someone aboard I can trust, Cal. He'd only agree to payment up-front. There's a lot of the town's money about to get on that boat and just sail right off over the horizon. Now I need you to keep a watchful eye on him; make sure he does the right thing by us."

I glanced back at the aeromancer. He stood alone on the skiff, messing with some kind of odd cloth contraption he was folding away into his cloak. He seemed to not notice all the activity around the dock, caring more for the strange items he carried with him. I watched as he held up his staff; from its end there protruded some strange arrangement of small cups fixed on an axle, which gently spun as the air moved past them.

"I trust him," I said.

With the boat fully loaded, Marson leaned against a mooring post and lit his pipe.

"More fool ye. It ain't the money I'm worried about," he said as he shook the match out. "What if this aeromancer is wrong? What if we wake the Nor'easter, and now we have two winds to deal with?"

Marson said it loud enough for Petrel to hear, and while he paused briefly he said nothing in reply. Perhaps the thought worried him, but he ignored it and continued checking his equipment.

It seemed like we were ready. I made my excuses and climbed into the boat. Marson lifted my pack off the jetty and threw it down to me. Petrel was checking his strange spinning staff again. He measured the length of string that hung from it, and seeming to reach some kind of conclusion, he spoke:

"A breeze is rising," he said. "It is time."

And with that, we left. The crowd waved us off, and I managed a wave back, before pushing the boat off from the jetty.

On the dock, Marson and Glanville watched us depart. Glanville waved happily, Marson just sat on a bollard and stared while he took a drag on his pipe.

"You'll never see 'em again," he said to Glanville.

"Cal's with him. He's a good lad, he'll see us right."

I watched them become dots in the distance as I rowed us further away from shore. Petrel paid no attention to me, and just stood at the bow, looking out to sea.

"Could Marson be right?" I asked him as I pulled the oars toward me. "About ending up with two winds to deal with?"

Petrel paused, and took out a pipe of his own.

"Perhaps," he said. "The future is not always clear, only the present is."

Aeromancers moved in cryptic ways, it seemed. I decided it was best to let it be, and carried on rowing.

The morning sun shone brightly across the sea and glinted off the ocean waves. I wasn't used to this. I'd been in a boat before, sure, but usually just to fix it. The mainland was getting awfully far away from us.

A gentle breeze had been following us from the shore, slowly building. I pulled the oars in and went to set up the sail instead. With a small skiff like this, you could either row it or sail it. Seeing as we could be going a long way, I thought it best to let someone else do the work.

Petrel had bought several strange boxes with him, and I almost tripped over them while trying to get the sail unfurled.

"Dammit!" I cursed. "What's in all these boxes anyway, Petrel?"

"Many things, Cal. Many things," he replied. "And all of which we shall need! Speaking of which..."

He stood up and picked up the box he'd been sitting on. He opened it up, and from within took out a strange device of stick and cloth and handed it to me. While I examined it in puzzlement, he reached back into the box and pulled out a small cage, containing an even smaller baby rabbit.

"Aha!" he exclaimed as he looked in at the rabbit. "Yes my little fellow, you'll do nicely."

"It's a rabbit," I said.

"It is."

"Why do you have a rabbit?"

"To gain a favorable breeze, of course. Here my lad, hold the kite up."

I held up the cloth device, the "kite" he'd called it, while he took the rabbit's cage and tied a string from the kite onto it. The rabbit looked on helplessly as Petrel let the cage dangle down from the kite.

"Now," he said, "you hold this string tight while I launch it."

I did as he asked, and with a slight horror I realized the fate of this poor rabbit. He took hold of the kite and held it high in the air, then as the breeze caught it he pushed it higher and released it. The kite shot high up into the sky, and tugged hard at the string.

"There we are!" he said. "Now release it!"

I let go, and the kite was ripped straight from my fingers. It whirled away up into the sky, with the poor caged rabbit dragged below it. I couldn't help feel a little sorry for it. It wasn't a strong breeze, but it'd strip that rabbit down to the bone with no trouble.

"You're feeding the breeze?" I asked.

"Of course. We'll need a good push behind us to get where we need to go. A small offering will keep the breeze chasing us."

"Is that wise though? I mean to be feeding it like that? What if it comes back for us? Like with the goats..."

"It's only a passing zephyr, it can't hurt us. No sense being afraid of nature. The gentle zephyrs don't cause no harm to anyone, 'cept maybe to take a duckling or chick from time to time. It's all part of the great cycle."

The great cycle. Fessler used to talk about that a lot. Some folks get scared of the small breezes, but they never bothered Fessler. The trees need the breezes to carry their seeds, he said, and we need the trees to make shelter. Can't have one without the other.

It worked, anyway. The wind picked up, and we gathered speed. The skiff sailed onwards to sea, its sail billowing. I wondered if perhaps we were safe from a wind that would carry us with it, much as a dog could not bite its own collar. The thought brought me no comfort.

"You're not scared of the wind at all, are you?" I asked him.

"Scared?" replied Petrel. "Oh, I'm scared enough, I suppose, as when you stand near a high cliff edge and see the waves far below, and you worry what would happen if you accidentally fell over."

He looked out across the vast ocean, watching the waves move past us.

"But I don't fear it. You'll learn that as you age, young Cal. When I was your age, I used to think I was invincible. When you get a little older, you start to think about death a lot. It starts to haunt you, starts to follow you wherever you go. But eventually you accept the balance of the world, and when you're as old as me you no longer worry about how you'll die. If the wind takes me, then it takes me. If not, then I shall live for another day. But I won't hide, not from nature anyway. One day I'll finally go, I suppose, and fulfill my role in the cycle."

I left him to his thoughts. There was plenty to do, anyway. The ropes on the skiff hadn't been tarred since the summer. You gotta apply it twice a year at least, or the water will get in there and rot it. I took my brush and started on the forestay.

"You haven't said how you plan to wake this thing," I said. "Do you even have a plan?"

"Of course I have a plan! Impertinence!"

"Well," I continued, "why haven't you told it yet?"

"And give away all my secrets?" replied Petrel. "I may be old but I'm no fool. That Glanville cares only for money. If I told him how to do everything himself, he would have no need of me! No, the knowledge of an aeromancer is best kept to those who can make best use of it."

"And to those who can get paid for it? That's a pretty little fortune you've got yourself there."

"I have to eat, like any man."

"You'll be eating for a good long while with all that."

He smiled with a sigh, then took out his pipe and started filling it.

"My work is not like yours, young Cal. We can not all spend our days making tar and sealing window frames. I spend my life in study. Perhaps I may not be needed for years, but when I am needed, I must be ready."

"Still... four hundred buys a lot of studying."

"Aye."

"So what is the plan then? I assume you can tell me now that we're way out here?"

He pointed the end of his pipe at the bundle of cloth that sat boxed behind me.

"There it is."

I wiped the tar clean from my hands, then poked the box suspiciously.

"What is it?"

He seemed amused by my ignorance. "That," he said with a grin, "is a balloon."

"A what?" I looked back up at him as he continued:

"A balloon. I ignite the tar below to fill it with hot air, and it will rise into the sky."

"Then what?"

"Then the smell from the burning tar will wake the Nor'easter."

He asked me to tar the balloon, so I set to work. He'd explained to me that he wanted the whole thing to catch light once it got high enough, so I unfolded it out a piece at a time, and gave it a good coating. There wasn't much room to work on the little skiff, and I almost fell overboard a couple of times. I was slightly nervous about the idea of lighting any kind of fire on this boat--with all the tar around it'd be real easy for the whole thing to go up like a light, us included. I decided not to mention it to Petrel, hoping he knew what he was doing.

"Have you ever done this before?" I asked as I worked.

"No."

"So how do you know it'll work?"

"I read about it, once. In an ancient book. A book is what we aero--"

"I know what a book is. I'm not stupid. And you think just because someone wrote it down in a book means that it'll work?"

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps? That's all you ever say! I'd feel a lot happier about all this if you were sure about anything!"

"One cannot live ones life in absolute certainty. I must deal with the facts I have at hand."

"Isn't there some way we could just kill it?"

"That's not our place."

"Our place?"

"We all have a place in the great cycle. The winds move around us, above us, and we are beholden to them. It is not for us to rule above all, but to maintain balance in the world."

"Well I got news for you, aeromancer, this thing's going to kill us if we don't kill it first."

"And you would rule the skies would you, young Cal? You would decide what lives and dies?"

Petrel stood looking to the horizon.

"No. We restore the balance. We let the cycle mend itself. These lands belong to the Nor'easter. It forms part of the cycle, like all things, and must be balanced if the cycle is to continue."

"I'm really not sure I follow you at all."

He turned and smiled.

"Bless you, child. Would it matter if a leaf understood how it is blown on the wind? Us two are carried forward on this journey together, and we will go where the cycle takes us, no matter if we understand why. Our futures lie in the hands of powers beyond our reckoning."

The sun was high in the sky now. I'd lost sight of land hours ago. I'd never heard of anyone being this far out to sea before. The fishing boats never dared to venture too far away from the shore.

"So... you're saying you don't actually know if this is going to work?"

"Know? I do not deal in knowing the future, nor the past. All I see is the present. Your land was out of balance, and so I will attempt to level that balance. What fate decides past that is not for us to choose."

We sailed onwards. Far on the horizon, clouds were forming.

The sky was a dark grey now. Clouds circled high above, and I could feel the breeze coming at me sideways. In front of us a great storm rotated slowly, with small gaps of sunlight breaking through.

"We can't do this," I said. "We can't go in there."

"Have no fear, Cal. The Nor'easter sleeps."

"We could still turn back," I said.

"Be strong! We must push forward!"

He grabbed the line and steered us towards the storm, his eyes fixed on it like a madman. It was getting hard to hear over the ever-increasing wind.

"We must breach the eyewall and sail to the Eye of the storm!"

He trimmed the sail to keep a good reach, and plunged ahead towards the storm. We were caught in the cyclone now; the wind was blowing straight sideways and strong waves kept pushing at our boat. Drops of water pelted my face, and I couldn't tell whether it was rain coming down or spray coming up.

A giant wave picked us up and sent us crashing down again. I sat at the stern, trying to balance the weight, and tried to keep hold of the thwart to stop myself getting thrown out. Petrel paid no attention to me, he just kept holding the lines with his eyes fixed on the our goal.

I closed my eyes and thought of being on land, but it only made me feel sicker. As wave after wave tossed our boat around, I could hold my stomach no longer and let go over the side. The spray was relentless; I would wipe the water from my brow only for it to come straight back.

It felt like hours, but the waves began to calm, and the wind had dropped. We were right in the middle. I looked up and could see the clouds circling all around us, and with nothing but greyness to either side it seemed like we were the center of the whole world.

"Here we are," said Petrel as he took the sail down. "Come on then."

He handed me a small bucket of some sort.

"Fill that with tar," he ordered.

I filled the bucket up, and he placed a special lid on top. There was some kind of wick protruding from the top, which he lit. As the tar slowly burned, we held the balloon open above it. We waited, and the balloon slowly expanded out and began to take a rounded shape. I could feel it starting to pull away from me, and when Petrel gave the nod we both let go.

The balloon rose upwards, carrying its small burning heart high up into the sky. I stood and watched it climb ever higher. It might have been a mile up, I couldn't tell, when it suddenly erupted in bright flame. The fire must have spread to the outer cloth which we'd coated in tar. The whole thing glowed bright orange against the grey skies, a stack of smoke spreading out wide into the storm.

The beast woke. I didn't just hear it, I felt it. A giant roar of thunder bellowed through the air around us. The air became an icy white, with vague outlines forming amongst the wind. And there, high in the sky in front of me, I saw it. The Eye of the Storm. The giant floating eye, made of nothing but raindrops and ice, opened wide and looked right at us. I said nothing, for there was nothing I could say, and the beast said nothing in return. But I felt that monstrous Eye look right into my heart.

I thought I was surely done for, yet it did not take me. It seemed intrigued by us, and I imagined perhaps it understood. The Eye tilted as it studied us, while I felt the wind beat ever harder. Then, with a sudden movement, as if it had heard something, the great Eye quickly turned and gazed to the south-west, back towards land.

It let out a mighty roar again, and rose up into the sky. As it moved I felt an enormous gust of air, and I was flung overboard into the cold sea. The world around me turned dark, but I felt a hand reach for mine. The aeromancer pulled me up, and I found my way back into the boat again.

"It is angry," he said, "but it understands. It rises to claim its territory once more."

The wind which before had circled, now changed and drove us hard in one straight direction. Petrel raised the sail again and the wind caught it immediately. We were pushed back towards land now, dragged hard and fast by the Nor'easter. It paid no attention to us any more, for its gaze was fixed only on one thing; the intruder on the land it claimed as its own.

The wind was coming.

With the gale at our backs, we made it to shore in half the time it had taken to venture outwards. The weather was fierce the whole way; I huddled under blankets and tried to dry myself the best I could. A distant sliver of blue sky sat on the horizon, but shrank with each mile we covered.

I said nothing to Petrel; I was too scared to even open my mouth for fear the Nor'easter would take me. I suppose I needn't have worried; the wind was no longer interested in our little boat. I kept trying to tell myself that but it helped none.

We hit the beach and clambered out of the skiff. The Nor'easter was no longer running straight, but was circling the coast, building strength.

"Come!" cried Petrel. "We must shelter!"

"There's nothing here!" I shouted back over the noise of the wind. The beach was empty with nothing but open sea to one side, and the eastern hills to the other. It would be a mile to the nearest farm, the town being the same again.

We scrambled up the hillside, my eyes checking for anything that could provide shelter. As we reached the top I saw a lone wooden structure--Wenwright's mill.

"The mill!" I shouted. "Come on!"

Petrel was slower than me, and I held open the door at the base of the windmill, and waited as he caught up with me. The weathervane on the mill span in every direction as the Nor'easter circled with increasing ferocity.

I closed the door after him, but there was no bar to draw. The mill wasn't designed for living in; there was no sealant anywhere, and every crack between the planks let the air through. Petrel saw my expression as I scanned the room.

"Fear not!" he said. "We are out of the wind, that is all we need. The Nor'easter will pay us no attention. It has far more pressing matters."

He stood at a crack in the timber, watching the skies outside. He didn't seem scared at all; he just watched it with excited eyes, like a child watching a play. I had frozen motionless next to the giant millstone that filled the room, but he beckoned me over to watch with him.

From up here on the hilltop, you could actually see it, not a solid shape but an outline formed only from the glint of the rain it carried with it. A giant trail, ten miles long, stretching back out to sea. The Nor'easter rushed across the farms toward the town, while from the other side a bolt of lightning lit up the sky. From the west, the new wind was coming to meet it head on.

The two giant beasts clashed above the town. The two winds collided with an almighty peal of thunder, and then span and circled around each other. They danced and weaved in the sky like flocking birds, and pushed each other eastwards, across the farmlands. You could see them only as faint glimpses; streaks of white that cut across the sky, causing eddies in the clouds with every turn. With each bite they made at each other, bolts of lightning would cut through the clouds and a crack of thunder would follow.

As the winds spun, a tornado formed below them. The towering grey funnel touched down on Danson's farm, and ripped his barn into a thousand shreds.

It kept moving, never sticking to one direction, but bearing eastwards towards the very hilltops we stood on. As the fighting beasts approached us, the wooden frame of the windmill started to shake back and forth.

I grabbed the aeromancer by the arm. "Come on!" I shouted. I had to almost pull him away, but he followed. There was nowhere else to go, but I grabbed onto the tall wooden shaft of the mill and held on for dear life.

The windmill was old, and weak. The timbers creaked as the blades span faster than they ever had before, and I struggled to hold onto the shaft as it turned.

The old wooden structure could not take the force. The winds ripped the timbers clean off the frame and sent them flying into the storm. Pieces of wood flew everywhere, and I caught a good cut right across my cheek from a flying splinter.

We were left exposed. There was nowhere to run, no other buildings to hide in high up on these hills. The force of the gale was overwhelming. High overhead, the two beasts continued their fight, paying no attention to the destruction far below.

The millstone and its shaft were all that remained of the mill, and I held tight onto what remained of the wooden shaft. I shouted to Petrel but he couldn't hear me over the roars of the two giants. I tried to motion to him to join me, but he wasn't paying any attention. His gaze was fixed on the battle that raged above.

A huge gust swept through, and I was lifted clean off my feet. I held onto the pole to stop myself being carried away. I shouted out again to the aeromancer, but he was no longer there.

I thought him dead, but then I spied him. The tornado had lifted him up into the sky. But as he was carried off, out of his cloak he pulled a strange cloth device; the one I had seen him with when we set off our voyage. He unfolded it above his head and it caught the wind like a sail.

Away he sailed, riding the breeze like a gull rising on the updraft from a cliff face. I saw a strange smile on his face, as if nothing in the world could bother him. The winds took him far away into the skies, a blue dot against a grey canvas.

The gust dropped, and I found my footing again. The tornado had turned and moved back to the farmlands. I watched the two beasts battle. I could no longer tell which was which, but it seemed one was emerging as the victor. The tornado was unwinding, and the wind was prevailing in a constant direction now from out to sea.

A giant roar filled the sky, so loud I could feel myself pushed by the sound alone. The Nor'easter had won, I was sure of it. The sky thundered and lightning ripped across the sky with every roar. I stood on the hill and watched as the lone remaining wind circled the town. I felt an almost strange sense of victory, as if the battle had been my own.

My pride was short lived, however. The wind would be hungry after its battle. And here I was, exposed out on this empty hilltop. I looked around frantically for any kind of building, anything I could shelter inside, but there was nothing.

Then I realized where I needed to be; the tar kilns that lay not a quarter mile from here. I wasted no time and dashed through the pine trees towards the clearing where they sat.

The kilns were sunk into the ground, with only a small doorway leading to the tiny underground chamber where the barrel sat, catching the dripping resin from above. They were only intended to hold a barrel, not a person, but I made do. I heaved the half-full barrel out of the chamber, spilling its contents everwhere, and squeezed myself into the tiny gap instead. There was a small rope handle used to pull the door; I tied the loop around my foot and sat there in the darkness.

The smell of pine tar was overwhelming, and the floor and walls were sticky with years of tar that had been spilt there. I sat and waited while the noise continued outside. The battle may have been over, but the Nor'easter circled above for hours, reclaiming its territory once more. It would no doubt be looking for an easy meal, and I hoped it would find a sheep out on the farmlands, but I wasn't going to risk it finding me instead.

I emerged hours later once the wind finally dropped, my clothes and skin dripping with the sticky tar, leaves and mud stuck everywhere. I can't imagine what I must have looked like, but I was too tired to care.

And so I began the long walk back to town.

It's 6 months after as I write this. The winter was hard, the Nor'easter fed well and took more than its fair share of the herds. That's the price you pay for waking it early; a risk we had to accept I suppose.

The Nor'easter slept early. It's spring now. They're talking about rowing a boat out to sea this month, sayin' there might be time enough now to go fishing before the Summer Westerlies arrives. Old Carson asked me to go with them, saying I was an old hand now, but I'll never set foot in a boat again.

The battle wrecked the eastern farms. Most of the town is intact, as the battle happened to the east, though Ned Mitchell died; a piece of flying timber caught him a good blow to the head.

I never found out what happened to Petrel. I like to think he floated away on his thingamabob and found his way down somewhere. Or maybe the wind got him, and he finally found his place in the great cycle.

Old Fessler used to say he'd teach me about the great cycle too, one day, though he never did. It had always puzzled me that he never complained much about his leg, never blamed the storms for hurting him. Perhaps he knew his place in things.

We had no more trouble with the new wind anyway. Petrel was right, the balance needed to be restored. Of course, some folks still get all panicked each time some small zephyr flies through town, but it don't worry me. Sometimes you just gotta go where the wind blows you.

"It is only pretend," said John. "They want only to be like you."

We hurried across the exhibition hall. It was only fifty meters or so to the VIP lounge, but we didn't stop. Too many darn attendees here. I wish I'd listened to John and taken the time to find the exhibitors entrance.

"I don't see why they have to dress up at all," I said. "Can't they just attend like normal people?"

The conference floor was packed. Probably half of them were dressed up like humans, wearing Earth-style clothes and fake wigs. Some were more convincing than others, but usually they looked like some kind of horrifying ventriloquist's dummy. You could still see their green skin around the edges. Still, they seemed to be impressed by it all; I guess their brains weren't tuned to spot the differences like ours were.

"It is only for fun," replied John as he brushed someone aside. "This is the way, Sir." We pushed past a small group of press and continued towards the roped-off VIP area. I didn't like being out in the open like this, exposed to the mass of fans. The advice they give you is to keep moving. By all means answer questions, pose for photos, but remain in motion. If you come to a halt the crowds will gather around you and you'll be swamped.

I stuck out like a sore thumb here. It was alright for John, he was one of them, he could walk unnoticed. For me it was impossible not to draw attention. There were only around ten thousand humans on the whole planet, and only a hundred of those here at the convention.

We passed a group of Nakzar girls, who turned as one to watch us. They made that weird clicking noise that they did when they were excited.

At the VIP entrance, the Nakzar steward put an arm out to stop us, but quickly dropped it upon seeing John was with a human. John waved our passes and we were through. Tall banners lined the corridor through to the VIP lounge. "Enjoy the day being within HumanCon!" said one. I sighed. A few of them, like John, had managed to get a decent grasp of English. Others still needed a lot more practice.

The lounge was tiny compared to the main exhibition floor, but it was just fine for me. At least back here there were some humans to talk to, and I wouldn't get pestered by these damn aliens all the time. Hopefully they'd have some real drinks here too, not the syrupy muck the Nakzar drink.

"I think we will receive no trouble now, Sir," said John. "We have another hour before the start of things. I will take this time to assist you with..."

"No forget about that, OK? Look, just... I don't know, go see if they have any drinks here."

His eyes closed briefly at the interruption. Probably their way of calling me an asshole, who knows. I needed a goddamn drink.

"Earth drinks!" I called after him.

I hated events like this. Still, it was only two days. I just had to stick it out until then. You could make a lot of money in a very short time working the event circuits, and it sure as hell beat getting launched into space at 3G's. A handful of interviews and it'd be over. Oh and of course, the book signing.

Book signing, what a joke. They'd told me to expect a big line--apparently NASA's Commander Edward Arlington was still a name that could draw a crowd to autograph his book. "His" book, yeah right. The only way I could tell it was mine was because it had my picture on the front. I could read about half of the title. I sure as hell didn't write the damn thing. It had been Julie's idea. She wanted me to be more of a public figure out here. So my agent on Indas assigned me a Nakzar ghostwriter, we did a set of interviews and then the guy did all the work. I haven't read it. I couldn't anyway, I'd have to have the whole thing translated back into English. The publishers back on Earth never even bothered to have that done for an Earth release--the market there is dominated by books about the aliens. Funny how the grass is always greener.

I spotted a familiar face on the other side of the lounge. Commander Fred Warne. Tall guy, big eyebrows. He'd been the pilot on the Wheeler 3 mission, twelfth person through the wormhole. And of course we'd flown together on Wheeler 12. Nice guy, once he stopped talking.

"Hi Ed," he said as we shook hands. "Didn't expect I'd see you here."

"Well you know," I said, "I got this book signing happening. You know how it is, publisher contracts and all that."

"Sounds like they're keeping you busy. Lots of work coming in?"

"Oh sure, I have to keep turning them away. They've even been pestering me to host some TV show."

"Your own show? Well hey, that's gotta be a pretty sweet deal. What, is it like a talk show or something?"

"Oh no, it's a terrible idea," I said. "I'm not going to take it. It's just a kids show, y'know. 'The World Of Earth.' Supposed to teach them about back home, show them what life on Earth is like."

"Not interested then?", he asked.

"Nah, it's a waste of time. It's a low offer. I can make four times that out here doing the convention circuits. It's one of those "public access" kinda things, which means it's going to be low-budget rubbish."

John returned, carrying a small glass. Couldn't come quick enough as far as I was concerned, I needed something to get me through the rest of today. "I have brought a drink for you, Sir." he said.

I eyed it suspiciously. "What is it?", I asked.

"There was a small selection of Earth drinks available. It is tea for you."

"Tea? God dammit John."

"It is not suitable for you? I can return and try..."

"No look it's fine. It's fine really. Look, just... go off and find where the signing is being set up, OK?"

John gave a small bow and disappeared towards some kind of booth in the corner.

"Who was that then?" said Fred.

"Oh that's John. He's my... assistant I guess? Well, translator mostly. The publisher assigned him to help me out with things here. He follows me around like a goddamn shadow."

Fred never seemed to stop smiling. "Must be pretty useful to have a Nakzar on hand who speaks English that well. Back when I first arrived, I'd have given my right arm for a translator that good!"

"He's an idiot. I mean tea, come on. I guess he tries, but he just doesn't get things. They're all like that out here. They try, but they just don't get it."

I took a sip of the tea. It wasn't too bad I guess.

"They don't understand a god damn thing about us."

I hate these signing events. It's the same as back home; tables draped with black cloth, and a big line of people patiently waiting their turn. Except of course they're all green with ridged heads. But apart from that, it's the same deal. They come up and tell me, in their broken English, how much of a fan they are. I reply, maybe in my broken Anplan, and give them a smile. They seem to enjoy it I guess.

The line moved slowly onward. The ones who dress up pick some damn strange outfits sometimes. One guy is dressed as a postman. I didn't ask why. They talk excitedly amongst themselves as they wait. I can make a few words out, you can't understand it properly with all this noise. I tried learning the language, but it's not easy. I mean what kind of language has different forms based on whether you're happy or not. They take photos too, well, at least I think that's what's happening. There's no actual camera--they just draw a rectangle in the air and I guess some device somewhere takes the picture. I can't keep up with all their technology.

This is the 12th year of HumanCon. It always gets big crowds like this, bigger every year. I don't get why they do it. There's something about our culture they just can't seem to get enough of. Even the smallest things, things we just took for granted back home, they seem to find fascinating.

Julie used to say it brought them hope for the future. Not sure about that one right now. Before the wormhole, they thought they were alone too. I guess I can understand how that'd change things. But come on, I mean look at this guy in line here. He's wearing a wig and carrying a goddamn hairdryer. The Nakzar don't have any hair, but someone's told him that we use hairdryers, and so now he thinks we carry them with us all the time. What the hell kind of future is that.

I couldn't wait to get back to the hotel. It wasn't what I was used to back home, but at least I could get some peace and quiet, away from this freak-show. John had been bugging me all day, but I managed to shake him finally. The hotel was one of those traditional old buildings--well, traditional for Indas anyway, all polished red wood and arches everywhere. I knew the lobby would be busy so I took the side entrance instead.

I'd been hoping to get in without having to deal with any more damn attention. I almost did, too. I was waiting for the elevator when some Nakzar kid spotted me. Snotty little thing, probably only 8 or so. He struggled with a backpack almost as big as he was, covered in all manner of patches and stickers. He came bounding down the corridor towards me, every little badge and fob jangling as he went.

His eyes lit up as he looked up at me. He rummaged around in his backpack and produced a copy of my book, and a pen. Bony green fingers offered them up towards me.

"Please?" he managed in his best attempt at English.

I was tired. My fingers ached, my back ached more. If I had to sign one more thing today my fingers might fall clean off. I'd learned enough Anplan to get by, but right now it would have been nice to have had John around to deal with this so I didn't have to.

"Uh... Cannot Do Write Today," I said. I think I got it wrong, probably used the wrong emotional tense. This stupid language, I swear to God. I pushed the pen back towards him. It didn't have much effect. The kid tried again.

"Please write?" he said.

I didn't need this right now. All I wanted was to collapse on my bed with a Scotch. Something in me just snapped. I let out a burst of rage at the kid.

"NO DAMN IT, NO!" I shouted in English. "The signing was earlier, got it? I'm done for today! Right? No more signing, you stupid kid!"

I don't know how much English the kid spoke, but he sure as hell got the message. The kid just teared up and started crying. It was a hell of a sight. The Nakzar cry out of their noses too, and this kid had it nailed. He bawled his eyes out right there in the corridor, snot and tears running all down his face.

As I stood there staring at him, I finally got a good look at his backpack and the patches on it. It was like a tapestry of Earth's space program. He had patches from everything, everything we'd ever done--Sputnik, Vostok, the Mercury project, Apollo, the Wheeler program, you name it. Little plastic models of the Wheeler explorer and the Apollo lander dangled from keychains, and wobbled around as he cried.

The kid ran off down the corridor, wailing as he went. I just stood there as the elevator arrived, my mouth hanging open. What had I become?

I collapsed on my bed and turned on the TV. I didn't really even mean to, it was just years of habit. They were showing an interview with Don Kriegstein, the wormhole guy. Christ, no wonder these kids don't understand us, if this is the best they can show. I mean look at this guy, with his stupid tweed jacket and trousers pulled up almost to his nose. That's a hell of a role model you're setting for these kids. You'd get bored to death watching that for too long. It's not even been dubbed into Anplan, they've just subtitled it.

The room had a minibar, but it was all Nakzar drinks--not bad really I guess, but sometimes you need the real stuff. Luckily I came prepared. I got up and opened my travel bag. I reached into it and pulled out the bottle of 30-year old single-malt whiskey that I kept for emergencies. It was the last one I had. Freight space was limited on the trade ships through the wormhole, and I didn't know when I'd be able to get another one to replace it.

I placed it on the counter and grabbed a glass from the sink. This is what John didn't get. It's not just about the drink, it's just all these little details. Stuff you can't pick up by reading books. I know he tries, but they just don't get it.

At least I only had one more day here, then I could get back home.

I was about to open it. In the background, the interview was still playing on the hotel TV. I could hear old Don still waffling on about something.

"This is why," his voice continued, "it is of such vital importance to educate our children in the understanding of science. Our future is going to depend on how we understand the universe. Too much of our youth is wasted watching television, and too little spent in pursuit of universal truths."

I hesitated with the bottle. Something about that last sentence struck a note. Dr Kriegstein might know a lot about wormholes, but he doesn't know dick about people. There was something Julie used to say... what was it? What's the point in finding a new world if there's nothing worth finding when you get there?

I rang the buzzer on the door to John's room. He looked surprised as he opened it.

"Hello, Sir?" he said. "It is late. There is a problem?"

"Are you busy? I thought maybe we could... uh..." I was never much good at this kind of small talk.

He gave a small bow, then took a step back. "Please Sir, you are to be welcome inside."

I'd brought the bottle of Scotch with me. We sat on the balcony. His eyes glanced at the bottle.

"I thought you might like to try some," I said. I poured us both a glass. "Bet you've never tasted anything quite like this before."

"It is like wine? I have tasted Earth wine."

"Oh it's much better than that."

John eyed the liquid suspiciously.

"Listen," I said, "about the offer NPN made last week--the TV deal..."

"Oh you are not to be worried Sir," he said. "It is a show only for children. I will inform them you do not wish to be bothered with such things."

"No, don't. I've changed my mind. I think I'll take it."

That definitely caught him by surprise.

"If you are sure?" he said. "I shall make the arrangements, Sir."

"But we'll need to make some changes. It can't be subtitled from English; we'll need to do it in Anplan. You can't expect little kids to be paying attention to two things at once."

John titled his head, then spoke: "Is that correct for you, Sir? The language would be hard for you."

"Yeah, well it looks like I'll be needing someone to help me learn the scripts then, doesn't it. Someone who can speak English well."

I don't think I'd ever seen John smile before, but he did. "Perhaps it could be arranged, Sir."

"And stop calling me Sir the whole time. My name's Ed."

We watched the last of the sunlight pour across the steel and glass buildings that lay on the horizon. The elevated rails carried distant cars back to their homes, a stream of tiny red lights winding across the desert. The warm night air carried the faint smell of nas-tree oil from the desert palms. At night-time, you could almost think you were back on Earth. It could be really quite beautiful here sometimes, once the damn dust clouds settled down. A kind of quiet peace. I glanced at John, who was enjoying the scene too. We'd never talked. I didn't know a god damn thing about him.

"John's not your real name, is it?" I asked. "No Nakzar is called John."

"No," he replied. "I am Xairalaita."

"Why'd you change it?" I asked.

He gave a shrug. "I wished only to fit in. It is to honor John Glenn, the famous astronaut."

"Ha!" I laughed. "That's good. Julie would have liked that one."

He tilted his head with that puzzled look again. You could learn to read their body language, given time.

"My wife," I explained.

"I did not realize that you are married."

As I held the glass, my ring clinked against it. I looked down at it through the golden drink. It caught the light beautifully.

"She died last year," I said.

He gave a small nod of respect. "I am saddened to hear this."

"The book was her idea. She loved it out here, you know. It was like a big adventure to her. She thought everything out here was a new beginning. Always something new to discover, she said."

"Perhaps it is never too late to discover new things.", said John. I smiled.

"Cheers." I raised the glass towards him. He looked at me blankly.

"It's a custom," I explained. "You do it too."

He raised his and I clinked mine against it and smiled.

John smiled back. "Cheers," he said.

I do not know why the pixie chose to protect me. Certainly it was rewarded--I shared my food with it, and let it enjoy the warmth of the fire--but I believe there lies more to it than that alone.

It is winter, I hope. If this is summer then I believe I will die here when the seasons change. The nights are already cold, and if they turn worse we may both perish. The gales howl through the dead branches, which rustle and moan as if suffering like I do.

We huddle for warmth under the bough of an ancient oak. The cold wind carries the distant cries of a wraith, but I am not scared. While I find myself unable to sleep, I know there is no danger this night for the pixie has not woken.

It is the only thing in this land that has not tried to kill me. For that I am thankful. Without it I would have perished long ago. I hold it closer to me, and let its soft long ears rub against my arm. Even asleep it breathes faster than I, its delicate heartbeat thumping like a purring cat.

I know not its name. I have taken to calling it Iskin, as the sound reminds me of the squeaks it makes from time to time. It seems to respond to it now, yet I cannot tell what else it thinks. I wish it could answer my questions; I have so much I would ask of it.

There exists nothing good in this strange world. So little patches of life remain here, and what does wants only to kill me. This world is dead. Perhaps I am too.

The days are short here, always grey, and never a clear sunlight. The morning light barely lifts above the horizon, painting only a dark indigo glow through the overcast clouds.

The pixie wakes, and yawns widely. Its sharp incisors are briefly revealed and then vanish again. I share some water from the flask, and it laps at it until satisfied. I stroke its sweet ears and tell it I love it. I does not seem to mind the contact.

I open the folded note I have carried all these weeks. This scrap of paper is all that guides me forward. I live in endless fear of what would happen if it were to be lost. I try every day to commit the directions to memory, in case of the worst. I recite them back to myself before each night, hoping the words will remain stuck inside my head. My fate rests on this map; a loose set of drawings scrawled on the back of a gas station receipt. It is nothing, yet it is all I have.

The last waypoint had been the giant oak tree on the cliff edge. I only found it by chance; if I had rounded the wood on the other side I may have missed it. The only guidance I have on my next stage is to journey west, through the valley south of the two peaks. It is little to go on but my options are none. We will head west then, and hope a valley will be found.

The pixie stands on its hind legs, looking to the north. We are high up on this clifftop, with a view stretching for miles. Yet I see no valley, nor the pair of peaks marking our way. I have hope that my guide is correct, and if we venture westwards for long enough the route will become clear. I am worried; perhaps the pixie sees something out there in the wild. Perhaps something sees us.

The land is clearer here. I am glad for we can make haste, yet worried that the open spaces provide us no protection. The dense woodland has given way to open meadows of rye grass and lavender, a rare sight of beauty. There was a time on Earth when I would have enjoyed such sights, yet in this world the shadowless grey light removes any trace of joy.

The pixie bounds around, exploring amongst the tall grass, and I take time to collect some dandelion leaves. The pixie seems fond of them. It begins to rain, and we pause to rest under an ash tree.

I feed the pixie a dandelion leaf, and it eagerly munches away. Its tiny eyes close as it eats, with no care in the world other than the present. I brush away the grass that has caught on its fur, and it pays no attention to me. I should let it sleep again, for it must surely be tired, but we cannot delay much longer.

The pixie's ears prick up, standing on end. It stands upright on its hind legs, the sure sign it has sensed something. I hear no noise but I know this means nothing. The pixie has some magic power, something I cannot pretend to understand, but something I know to listen to. It is sensing danger and taps its large foot on the dirt. In the woods we just came from, something follows us.

The pixie does not wait to see what comes, and bolts across the meadow. I hurry to grab the small possessions we carry--the blanket, the blade, and my purse--and run after it. It is time to leave this place, for an evil is loose. I do not know what horror it will be this time, nor do I wish to. We must run.

As I sprint across the rough dirt I stumble, and fall on the ground. My purse spills on the floor and half its contents scatter. My hand is grazed.

I raise myself and reach quickly for the bag, but in the distance I see what comes for us. It is the monster I call the 'orc'; a giant beast of muscle and claws. Its large frame moves through the distant treeline, easily brushing aside the dead bracken. It has not seen us yet, but it will.

There is no time. I must go. Yet I have so little possessions here, and they lie scattered on the ground around me. I grab the bag, and stuff back into it the one thing so precious to me--the map I drew on my only scrap of paper--and run. All the rest I must leave behind. The hand mirror, the pen, and the small tools I had fashioned; all these I am forced to abandon.

At the edge of the meadow I fall down a deep ditch, covering myself in leaves and mud. The pixie is here, hiding behind an overgrown log. It peeks over the log as the monster enters into the meadow, not daring to make a sound. It is scared, I know. Its whole body remains alert in absolute stillness. Its heart beats faster than ever.

I join it and we observe together. We were lucky today; the orc did not see us. It lumbers through the meadow, inspecting where we sat. Had the pixie not sensed its approach I would have died today at the hands of this ungodly beast.

Soon it will spy the dropped mirror, and it might track its prey from there. Perhaps the rain will obscure our footprints. Perhaps the orc is not intelligent enough to follow them anyway. Perhaps everything. I cannot think about it now. Thinking can wait. Instead we run.

I lift the pixie up forcefully and hold it under one arm. It makes a small squeak at being held, but quiet enough to remain unheard. The ditch provides cover, and we flee for our lives.

The first day had been the hardest. I was woefully unprepared, though not through my own fault. I could not have predicted what fate would befall me.

There was no warning, no action I could take. I was a mere three hundred feet from my car. The only sign was the static build-up on my hair, and the taste of metal. I do not know what happened. Was it something I did? Had I stumbled on ancient gateway, untouched for thousands of years? Or just a random chance of fate?

I will never know for sure. One moment I had been parked in the Brecon Beacons, the heart of the Welsh countryside, the next I was wrapped in total darkness.

I had nothing. Only the clothes on my back, and the contents of my purse. I could not see, for it was pitch black in this new place. Were it not for the small light on my car keys which I could faintly see by, I may have starved slowly to death in the darkness of that cave.

I was not alone in the dark. Perhaps it was my good fortune that the cave was sealed; had it been open, who knows what horrors may have wandered inside, waiting to kill me. On that day, I had one small piece of luck however; my companion in the cave was human, and had been dead for hundreds of years.

It took hours to clear the cave entrance. A landslide of dirt and pebbles had blocked it, and I had only my hands to dig through with. The daylight that spilled through had never seemed so wonderful, like rays cast through the clouds. I sat outside the entrance, covered in dirt, and cried.

I looked at the scene in front of me. I was no longer in the bright summertime of Wales, that I could tell for sure. Wales had looked beautiful, but this land looked dead. Most trees had no leaves, and what was not brown was grey. Perhaps once this was a paradise but no longer. I was in some kind of hell, of what manner I do not know. I stumbled around looking for a clue. Anything to indicate where I was, a sign of the world I was used to. But nothing I saw, not a road, a house, nor a person. If it were not for the words left by some unknown guide, I would have wandered aimlessly through this land until the day the evil would finally best me.

I owe my thanks to that ancient stranger, whose name I do not know. This world was not completely devoid of hope, for just a hundred feet from the cave, in a clearing of flat rock, stood a stone menhir. Carved into the surface by that savior's hand lie these words:

"Another exit lies west, at the ruins of Treryn. Godspeed."

Below the words a map was drawn. It was crude, but marked a set of points. I do not know what kind soul had drawn this, nor how many years it had lain here etched into this menhir. It was overgrown with lichen, perhaps centuries-worth. Yet it was all I had.

I had copied it down onto the only material I carried with me, a receipt in my purse. I had been lucky perhaps; I kept a light on my keychain, a pen in my purse, and held something to write on. Without the light, I would have died slowly in that cave like the skeleton that lay still in there. Without the pen I may have been lost forever. Any prospect of my return home lay with this small scrap of paper, and the hope that wherever these markers led still existed after all this time.

I did not want to go. I wanted it to stop. I did not depart on that first day, for I could not bear it. With what strength I still held, I lit a small fire with my cigarette lighter, then I laid down in the cave and cried. In the morning, I returned to the deceased skeleton who lay sitting against the cave wall. I took what possessions he had carried; a blanket, a leather flask, and a small blade. He would have no further need of them.

That was the first day. Today is the 34th, and I have cried on each of the days so far.

The pixie wakes with a start, waking me too, and we are forced into flight. Only seconds pass before I hear it; the cry of the ghost-like wraith. I have seen them before, from afar. They move as if floating, I know not how. They seem unreal, as if the wind itself has borne an evil and carries it forward.

This time it is not afar, it is near. The cry is loud. I run faster than I thought possible, caring not for the direction. The pixie bolts with me, in fear for its life. We climb the rocky path, slipping on loose pebbles with every step. The pixie turns, distracted by what comes after us.

The monster almost gets me. Not the wraith which follows us, but the other monster which blocks our path. Standing upright before me, a figure holds a rock in its hand. I recognize it as I have seen its kind before; it is like the demon that attacked me so many weeks ago, the thing I'd called a 'goblin'. An evil little beast of teeth and menace. It lets out a fearsome cry upon seeing me.

My adrenaline pumps like never before. When I met my first goblin on that third day, I was unprepared. But I have seen now how they fight, and my will is still strong. I will not die this night.

I pull the blade from my belt and plunge it deep into the goblin's neck. It lets out a hellish scream and clutches at the metal which sticks from it. I do not stop to finish the work for I know what chases me.

I run without looking back. The pixie is twice my speed over short sprints, and waits for me to catch up. I do not dare stop.

Far behind us, I hear the wail of the wraith once more. Then the cries of the goblin rise again, only to be silenced abruptly. The wraith has found a meal for tonight, and perhaps we may be saved. Yet I cannot take that chance. We do not stop for another hour, until we are exhausted and can walk no more.

The pixie sleeps. I sleep too. We do not die this night.

On the 39th day I sight the two peaks, the 12th marker my unknown guide has bought me towards. I am tired, for I have had little sleep.

The pixie sleeps, and I cannot bear to wake it. I have asked so much of it, demanded that it keep on past the point of exhaustion and then further. It has stayed with me throughout my whole journey, even though it does not know our goal. I have tried to explain but I do not think it understands my words.

It is only a little creature. I cannot ask this of it. Today I let it sleep. It rests soundly, curled up near the fire I have made for it. It breaths with a gentle rhythm, a quiet noise almost hidden against the wind.

I find some red berries which I know it likes. I save them for when it wakes.

I wonder about my unknown goal. The vague promise of some kind of exit is the only thing that has driven me forward through this land. I wish I could know what lay in store for me, if I can find the last marker. Can I ever return home?

And what of the pixie? My poor Iskin, my companion through so much hardship. I love him so dearly. I could not bear to leave him here, the only light in this world of darkness. But could he even exist back in our world? He has a magic sense I cannot explain, some way of detecting danger before it happens. What if I take him back, and the world finds out? What will they do to him?

He first saved me on that 3rd day. That was when I met a goblin for the first time. It ambushed me in the forest, I had no defense against it. The goblin came at me with its claws, leaving a cut across my arm. I fumbled for my blade but dropped it. I remember looking into the cold, cruel eyes of the monster as it came for me. It let out a laugh. It actually laughed, as it moved in for the kill.

That was when Iskin saved me. I didn't see where he came from, but he had leapt from behind and sunk his front teeth deep into the goblin's arm. I had never seen such a small creature bite so hard. The pixie was no match for a goblin twice its size, yet it showed immense courage and fought for its life. For my life.

When I had managed to get ahold of the blade again, I stabbed it into the goblin's stomach. Again, then again, until it stopped moving. It died slowly, but it died.

I do not know why the pixie came to my aid that day, only that it did, and I owe it my life. After that it kept following me on my journey, and I did not discourage it for I was glad of the company. A small light of friendship in this dark place.

I let the pixie sleep.

We climb the mountain. The wind is killing us, for it will never cease. I am so cold. I pray for it to stop but my calls are unheard.

This is the last marker. I do not know what lies ahead. I do not know what we will see if we reach the summit; will there be this "exit" there, or will I find only another set of directions, carved in another stone? Or worse, will there be nothing? What if I am being led on a fool's errand, one last cruel joke from a cruel world?

We have come so far and I struggle to continue. The pixie is exhausted yet I force it to go on. We walk uphill as the wind pushes us back down. We fight onwards, leaving two separate trails in the dirt. I walk, and the pixie slowly follows.

I turn to my companion but he is not there. Behind me, fifty feet down the hillside, he lies fallen on the ground unable to walk any further. I return to his side and gently lift him in my arms. I carry the pixie, protecting him from the wind, and now we leave a trail as one.

I am so scared. I am scared of what will happen to Iskin if I leave him here. There is no shelter on this high peak, no places to run. He cannot hide here. But what if this strange portal forces my hand? What if I am whisked home as mysteriously as I arrived, and he remains here without me? The air is like ice here, and I feel it may snow. If I am no longer here to light a fire for him, he may die.

He may die on this barren hillside.

The warm glow from the TV flickers and spills its light across the room. The sound it makes fades into the crackle of the fireplace. It gets dark early at this time of year, but here in the warm yellow of the fire I pay it no mind. I place the ice-cream back in the refrigerator and close the door; I'll save him some for when he wakes.

I chose not to tell anyone. No-one would believe a word of it, without proof. And I will not turn him into a science experiment, nor put him on display in a circus. I owe him everything. I wish I could tell him that, and know for sure he understands. Perhaps he does.

Nestled amongst the sofa cushions, his long furry ears poke out above the patchwork quilt my grandma made. He seems happy here, as far as I can tell. He has developed a fondness for almonds, and tuna fish. I love him so much.

The pixie softly sleeps.

Note

This short poem was originally written as a response to a reddit.com writing prompt.

http://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/3tiqpy/wpyou_work_for_a_company_that_builds_lairs_for/

You work for a company that builds lairs for villains, with small defects so heros can get in. One villain's lair has been successfully keeping out heros and your sent to investigate.

The fortress wall
was vastly tall
but ledges there were plenty.

Our secret lairs
had hidden stairs
and blind spots from the sentry.

The heroes tried
to get inside
just like we had designed it.

We hid our gold
and things untold
where they would surely find it.

The treasure room
stood cast in gloom
across the flagstone floor.

As they drew near
our fault was clear.
We hadn't built a door.

Note

This short story was originally written as a response to a reddit.com writing prompt.
I'm re-posting it here to collect all my stuff together.

http://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/3t7f8p/wp_the_humans_eventually_became_indistinguishable/

"The humans eventually became indistinguishable from the androids."

I don't like being told what to do, so I chose to interpret the prompt from a different viewpoint than the conventional one.

The patient hauled itself up onto the engineering bench. Tiny micromotors whirred as its servos shifted its weight around. The bright fluorescent ceiling lights glinted off its brushed metal bodywork.

Dr. Wilcox watched it with uncertain eyes. It was the most human-like android he'd ever seen. Most androids had that characteristic stilted motion as they walked, something his companies engineering team had worked for years to try and fix, but had never quite been able to figure out the correct weight distribution.

Not this one, however. R7-591, it was labeled, yet it was clearly no off-the-shelf R7 framework. A million tiny differences separated it from its predecessors, unnoticed by the layman, but to Dr. Wilcox they made a clear signal that this was no regular android.

R7-591 looked up at Dr. Wilcox, its eyes adjusting their aperture and focus rails. The subtle whirs and clicks bounced of the bare painted walls of the workshop.

"It's my professional duty to inform you, unit 591, that this procedure you have requested is not necessary. You understand that, right? You don't need this work done."

The android looked down in thought. While its face was incapable of changing its expression, it clearly was using human movement patterns.

It looked up again at the Doctor.

"I understand.", it said in its monotone voice. "I need this to be complete."

Dr. Wilcox tilted his head a little. "OK, it's your choice.", he said. "I'll begin preparing the equipment. This shouldn't take more than 10 minutes." He turned his back on the android and walked over to his computer.

The door opened as the lab assistant entered.

"Unit 591", he said, "I'm having trouble finding your warranty records in the system. Can you take another look at these details again for me?"

R7-591 turned its head downwards towards the paper it had been handed. Its mechanical eyes glanced up and down across the form.

"Yes. Here is the mistake. The warranty will be filed under my old unit name, Michael Edwards."

"Uh, OK." said the assistant. He glanced at Dr. Wilcox in confusion, but the Doctor just turned and gave a nod. The assistant, while puzzled, carried on.

"OK", the assistant continued. "Command, 591: Lie back on the bench, prepare for suspend."

The assistant went back to the front desk, and R7-591 lied back as told. It thought back to its old life, back when it used to go by Michael. The workshop it sat in wasn't so different from the first doctors surgery it walked into so many years ago. Back when Michael Edwards had his first augment, to take out the organic eyes he was born with and fit IR cameras in their place. Soon, it told itself, soon that name will be gone forever.

Dr. Wilcox turned back and readied the drill.

"Don't worry," he said reassuringly. "This will be very quick." He pressed 591's sleep button.

R7-591 woke again in the lab. Nothing much seemed different.

"See?", said Dr. Wilcox. "Nothing to worry about. Try getting up now and standing on it."

R7-591 sat up, its pistons contracting to lift the aluminum frame. It dropped its legs onto the floor and attempted to support its weight. A few steps around the room seemed enough to test the new part.

"Now," said Dr. Wilcox. "The inhibitor will reduce your natural human leg movements, and apply the standard R7 walk cycle. It'll take a few days for you to get used to that, but once you do it'll be just like you always had it."

R7-591 tilted its head while thinking.

"Thank you, Doctor." it said. It limped out of the workshop door and into the street. Other androids passed by, paying it no attention. Humans went about their business too, some organic, some with implants. But none like R7-591.

This operation marked the culmination of a long line of operations. From the senses, to the limbs, to the very organs that had once made it human. All had finally gone.

For the first time in a long time, it felt like a real android.

Note

This short story was originally written as a response to a reddit.com writing prompt.
I'm re-posting it here to collect all my stuff together.

http://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/3tcp3c/wp_youre_one_of_the_people_who_get_sucked_out_of/

"You're one of the people who get sucked out of the airplane as the cabin explosively decompresses."

It sounded like a bomb. I don't know if it actually was, or if that's just what these things sound like. I blame the fat guy. If I weren't waiting for him to finish, I would have been inside the bathroom as opposed to waiting just outside of it.

I didn't see what happened. You know how it is on airplanes, you don't look much at the other passengers. One moment I was standing surrounded by a seemingly solid cabin, the next thing I know, I feel the cold wind rip past by face. The dark cabin went bright, and everything was sky blue.

It seemed strange, like I was standing still and the plane flew up away from me. The wind hit me hard as it blew from below, and this terrible sense of doom broke into my thoughts.

They say when you're about to die, your life flashes before you. Some think this is your brain searching your past for something it might apply to your current predicament.

As long-dormant neurons fired into life, my brain began to feed pictures of things I'd seen long ago; not the things you'd expect, but seemingly random pattern matching. A documentary on the Falklands War, an episode of Mr. Bean. The episode of Seinfeld with the whale and the golf ball.

Images of my childhood rose up within my subconscious. I relived my college graduation. My 7th birthday, and the party we had where we watched Superman II. Cake, candles, balloons. Yet nothing I could use to help me.

Or... wait...

The solution was suddenly here. Superman could survive this fall. Superman can survive anything. Here there was nothing but me, sky, and the bright sun racing through the thin atmosphere. This high up, I'd be exposed to the yellow sun's rays in a way I'd never been exposed to it before. The power from the yellow sun could surely save me.

I didn't hesitate at all. I kicked my shoes off and the high winds immediately ripped them away from me. The next part was tricky. I had to pull my underpants down, one leg at a time. First the left side, down the inside of my trouser leg, and around my foot.

My gaze caught the ground below me, and it was advancing by the second. What had seemed like a patchwork quilt before now was turning into fields and farms.

The other leg wasn't so hard. It turns out it's actually easier in mid-air to do this, as you can't fall over. My hands were so cold, but I did not falter. With my last strength I removed my underpants.

The ground was almost here. The blueness of the high air had gone now, and I could see the spot where the earth and I would meet.

I pulled my underpants back on, except this time on the outside of my trousers. I struck a pose; my right arm thrust upwards to the sky, and my left by my side.

"Up, up, and away!", I cried with my remaining breath.

For that last moment, I was Superman.

The sting of every word cut him like a knife. Why, he cried. Why would this tiny glowing envelope, designed only to share thoughts, be the cause of so much pain?

He leant back in his chair, away from the glow of computer screen. The cat arrived, but that was purely its own decision of course. He picked up the cat. As he spoke, his words were soft, for no fight remained within.

"I can't deal with this any more, cat.", said David.

The cat seemed indifferent to his pain. It jumped down from his lap and rubbed against his legs, its tail raised like a flagpole.

Then, in the darkness, an idea sparked. It started small, and flickered like a match. But it burned, and suddenly ignited everything.

"I'm not going to deal with this any more, cat."

It would work, right? He had all the equipment he needed right here...

He jumped from his chair, and flew into action. Quickly, a space was cleared in the apartment. Furniture was moved to the side of the room. Only the simple wooden chairs remained, which were hastily arranged into a square formation in the center of the newly-vacant floorspace.

He dashed to the bedroom, and ripped the blanket from the bed. He went to the cupboard and grabbed the spare blankets from inside. As he draped them over the chairs, something began to be formed where before there was nothing. The pillows, too. And the cushions from the sofa. All were shanghaied into service. The furnishings came together to form a luxurious interior, fit for a prince.

Lastly, the most important piece - the seal. The final blanket went into place to close the entrance.

David looked on his work and was pleased. It was perfect. From only mere blankets and such, he had created a fort. The fort stood strong, and no storm could breach it.

Armed with the supplies he needed, he kneeled down and climbed inside. After a little while the cat entered, and settled upon the soft cushion piles to sleep. Shortly it began to purr.

A day passed. The pain began to ease. Outside the apartment it rained, but that was no longer a concern. The fort held, and none of the concern of the outside world could penetrate its defenses.

The fort stood strong.

A week passed. From time to time the phone rang, its demands suppressed by the fort's protective shield. The fort sheltered David, and he began to forget what pain others could cause. He was pleased.

A month passed. The time for the rent came and went, and the landlord entered the apartment. He talked at David's fort, he argued, he shouted, and he raged. But his words fell on deaf ears, for the fort's wall of safety could not be breached. The blankets blocked all the evils of the world, and David could not hear them from inside his castle.

2 months passed. The police arrived, armed with weapons of notices. With authorizations from the city, and with words from magistrates, they tried to break down the fortress. Yet their attempts failed. For all their might, they could not lift the blankets, nor move the chairs. The fort's defenses could not be breached. The fort would not fall.

The fort stood strong.

3 months passed. Scientists were dispatched, to witness it firsthand. They studied to find why they could not lift the blankets, nor move the chairs. But the fort defied their attempts to breach. They fired questions at the occupant, and when that failed, they fired questions at the cat. But their words could not pass through the barrier, and David could not hear them. David remained at peace inside the castle walls.

A year passed.

David sat up and scratched his head. The cat jumped onto his lap, demanding cuddles. He scratched the cat also.

He'd been feeling a lot better recently. The fort had done its job well, and shielded him from the evils of the world outside. But it was Spring now, and the flowers in the park would be in bloom. Perhaps it was time to leave the fort, its job complete, and rejoin the world. It would be interesting, he thought, to see what has happened in the world while he had been absent.

David pulled back the blanket, and left the fort. The cat left shortly afterwards, although that was entirely its own decision.

The apartment was empty. No landlords, no policemen, no scientists to be seen. He strolled out onto the street, to rejoin the world he had left behind so long ago.

But the streets were bare. No cars, no buses, no passers-by, nor dogs nor cats nor planes in the sky. In their place, only the wind remained.

David wandered for hours, looking for signs. He looked into shops. He looked through windows, into houses, into schools and offices. He looked into hotels, motels, campsites and more.

He explored a thousand rooms, but no person could he find.

Instead, inside every one of them, there sat a fort.

Note

This short story was originally written as a response to a reddit.com writing prompt.
I'm re-posting it here to collect all my stuff together.

http://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/26yl8e/wp_your_full_water_bottle_turns_out_to_be_the/

"Your full water bottle turns out to be the last water left on earth.
What happens to you and the water in the next 24 hours?"

I expected to die.

I mean we all did, really. But everyone else was dying of thirst. Not me. I'd been stockpiling it for weeks, of course. Other made the foolish mistake of sharing it with others, giving some to their family. I wasn't as stupid as that. I knew we needed more time. I'd stayed alive this long, waiting for everything to be ready.

As I walked towards the makeshift barracks, I felt eyes upon me. They couldn't possibly know what I held underneath my jacket. A genuine, 32-oz, army-issue water canteen. Full. The few survivors sat gathered around where the distribution lines used to be, even though the lines had stopped serving days ago. They just didn't know where else to go I guess. I'm sure any of the would have killed me if they suspected I had water left.

I approached the soldier on guard. He raised his weapon.

"I need to speak to the duty officer.", I said. Realization slowly dawned across his face.

"I heard the appeal, the one you put out on the radio. I have what you asked for."

He knew exactly what I meant, but unfortunately, so did the group of civilians nearest us. They jumped up and dashed towards us.

"Water?", screamed a young mother. "You've got water? Please!".

But the guard wasted no time. "Get back!", he ordered. But they would not listen. I'd seen it a hundred times in the past few weeks. They say pressure makes you reveal your true nature. I could see the desperation in the mother's eyes.

As the woman pushed forwards, the guard shot her in the head. She died right there on the street.

"Get this man inside, now!", the guard shouted to his unit. I felt arms pull me past the blockade, and into the dark interior of a Humvee. I heard two more shots fired as we sped off.

It took an hour to reach the launch site. As I watched the dried-up marshland go by the window, I had time to reflect on what had happened. I'd seen dozens die over the past few days alone, some of thirst, but most at the hand of another. I think what hurt me most is that they just couldn't see the bigger picture.

After the fallout settled, scientists had predicted 3 years until the oceans dried up. But they guessed wrong. It accelerated faster than any of us could predict. Within 8 months we'd lost everything.

I guess the launch team had been stockpiling water, like everyone else. But they made a fatal mistake. They announced their plan to the public. Eight days ago, just 20 minutes after the announcement broadcast went out, people descended on the facility. The guards couldn't hold back the small army of thirsty, angry survivors. The supplies were stripped in minutes. They drank everything.

When I heard the second broadcast yesterday, I weighed up my options. Drink, and live perhaps another few days, or come forward and become God. It was a no-brainer really. I guess other people might have done differently, maybe. Their loss.

I turned the canteen over a few times in my hands. It seems so small and innocent. Yet here I held the future of life in this universe.

It was a good plan, as plans go. We knew we had lost. People kept expected scientists to come up with a plan, a plan to save us all. Every day people would watch the news, waiting for the government to announce some new discovery that would save mankind. They never did. Our planet had it's chance, we messed it up. This seemed like the best fall-back.

As we arrived at the launch site, I could see men running towards our vehicle. At first I thought I was going to be attacked again. The Marine next to me saw my look. "Don't worry Sir", he said, "this is our escort."

We were walked across the tarmac to where the Space Launch System stood. It had originally been designed to ferry astronauts to the ISS, apparently. They'd wasted no time in retrofitting it for it's new mission. Soldiers crowded around me as we boarded the elevator, making sure no-one had any last-minute change of plans.

They gave me the honor. I personally opened the canteen up, and poured it out into the special bio-container they'd devised. Over 2000 different types of bacteria, amoeba, proteins, amino-acids, you name it, they had it. A little garden of eden, with me as Creator. Packaged up as some kind of eco-bomb, I suppose possibly the first time we ever used a bomb to create life.

The launch was quick. I thought there would be a big ceremony or something. But no, up it went within 20 minutes. As nothing else was a concern at this point, they told me, they were able to use more fuel and power than any previous mission had ever done. They estimated it would reach Titan in only 2 months.

As I sat looking out over where the marshland used to be, I thought about what we'd done. Spreading life to a new planet? Do we even have the right to tinker with other worlds? Well, who knows. One day, millions of years later, maybe they'll evolve into someone who can answer that.

But today, I'm done. The remaining scientists are packing up and leaving, claiming to find "shelter", but I suspect really just a good place to hide and die.

Me, I just lay back and watch the sun set one final time. I am the Creator. I am immortal. And now, I wait to become stardust.