Free Short Stories 2013 Page 3

  "Has he this power?"

  "It may be. The garda have sealed the control box into a safe. I think that Friar Julian is not a man who allows such things into the gods' house unless he has some measure of control over them."

  Niku straightened, and looked at Fada with a surety he did not entirely feel.

  "Boiko will find the frequencies. I will repair this organ for the gadje. You will bring the frequencies—in three day's time."

  "Three days!"

  "Three days," Niku said firmly. "By then, she will have her voice."

  "And if it does not?"

  "Then there are still seven days left for my brothers to build their device."

  A bell rang somewhere in the Abbey, and they fell silent.

  Niku then took Fada by the arm and brought him to his feet.

  "Come, there is something else you should see."

  #

  "More treasure, Brother," said Fada, overlooking the tables in the North Transept. “Do they know what they hold, these gadje?"

  "I think not," said Niku. He stepped over to a particular table and held his hand over that object that had so concerned him. "What do you think of this, Brother?"

  Fada stepped up beside him and considered the thing with a critical eye.

  "I think that it ought to be destroyed. Of course, they don't know how."

  "That would be my guess. It ought not to be sitting here where it can work mischief. Will you take it, when you go?"

  "It's best, I think," said Fada, and reached into his pocket, producing a muffling cloth, in which he wrapped the thing, before slipping it into a pouch and sealing the top. "That will keep it."

  "There is also," Niku said, reaching carefully into a glass cabinet, "this."

  Fada pursed his lips in a whistle, and held out his hand.

  Niku shook his head.

  "You must do another thing for me, Brother. You must sell this at good terms—bargain hard!—and bring me the money, when you return with the frequencies.”

  Fada frowned.

  "Money?" he asked, doubtfully, as who would not? The Bedel did not have much to do with money.

  "Money," Niku said firmly.

  Fada shrugged and accepted the little figurine, wrapping it also with care and stowing it in an inside, padded, pocket. Then, he looked about.

  "Brother, I will stay here until the door opens, and then I will be gone. What will you?"

  Doubtless more of the collection would find its way into Fada's pockets, but that hardly gave Niku a qualm. What the Bedel found belonged to the Bedel. It had always been so.

  "I will go back to the organ," said Niku.

  "Should I come?"

  "I think not."

  Niku embraced his brother.

  "Go safely," he said.

  "We will not leave you alone," Fada said, and hugged him hard

  * * *

  Ponnor was at the organ every waking hour, and Friar Julian suspected, every hour that he ought to be sleeping, too.

  The man's diligence shamed Friar Julian—and how much more shame would he feel, he wondered, if Ponnor did restore the organ?

  When he had first come to Godsmere Abbey, as a boy, he had an elder brother—one Friar Fen. Among the many pieces of wisdom Friar Fen had given his young brother was this—that priests have no honor, for they must always, and first, do everything in their power to serve, without fault, the gods and their consorts. And then they must serve, without fault, those who needed their care the most.

  It was not honor, then, that prompted Friar Julian's search of the file cabinets, table drawers, and bookshelves, looking for the key to the constable's safe in the nave.

  Surely, he had once had it; therefore, he must have it still. He had given his word, that he would free Ponnor, should he succeed in repairing the organ. Given his word, in this house, where the gods allowed no man to sin.

  Late in the night of the second day—or, more accurately, early in the morning of the third—he found it—stuck to the back of the top drawer of his desk. He gripped it in trembling fingers and went out to the nave to test it.

  It was only after he stood in front of the safe that he recalled that the police had also applied a sealant, and had taken care to warn Ponnor of its danger.

  And for that, he had no answer.

  "Friar Julian?"

  He started from a doze behind his desk and looked up to find Ponnor in the door. His heart took up a hard, sluggish beat that made him feel ill.

  "Yes, my son?"

  "It is done," Ponnor told him, black eyes fairly sparkling. "She sings again."

  The words—it seemed as though he had heard the words, but lost their sense immediately. The organ—what?

  "Friar? Will you come?" Ponnor held out his hand.

  He sent a prayer to the gods and their consorts, and rose from his chair, willing shaking knees to support him.

  "Of course I will come," he said.

  He sat on the bench, placed his feet on the pedals, and rubbed his cold hands against each other. Ponnor stood next to the organ, at his left, and he was pulling a much folded sheet of paper out of his pocket, which he unfolded onto the wood, and smoothed with his palm.

  "Here," he said. "This is a song that I write in celebration of her voice. If you will play this, Friar? I will stand --" He looked over his shoulder and pointed, seemingly at random, "there."

  "Even muted, that will be far too close for the safety of your ears, my child."

  Ponnor gave him a wide grin, his eyes seeming, in Friar Julian's judgment just a little too bright. But, still, the work he had put in to this, the hours of labor and the several nights short of sleep—such things might push a man to frenzy, especially if he labored in a house of gods.

  "Please, you will play this?" Ponnor asked again.

  Father Julian had long planned what he would play, should the organ ever be repaired, and it grieved him, a little, to cede pride of place to an inept bit of music scribbled onto a grubby sheet by --

  By the man he had lied to, and was about to betray.

  Friar Julian picked up the paper, running his eye over the notes.

  "Of course, I will play this first," he said.

  * * *

  Niku hurried to the front of the organ, pushing the stops into his ears as he did. When he reached the place Fada and Boiko had determined to be the best, he turned into the sound, and deliberately relaxed.

  It was, he thought, a very beautiful thing, this organ. It had been a good thing to do, to repair the blower that had been broken in the quake, and reseat the pipes that had been shaken loose. Very simple repairs. A child could have made them.

  Well. Whatever happened in the next few heartbeats—and Boiko himself warned that the outcome might not be happy—he had done well here. This was a deed the memory of which he would wear like a star upon his brow, when he passed to the World Beyond.

  Beneath the floor, he heard the blower start.

  He heard Friar Julian shift on the bench.

  Niku closed his eyes.

  The first note sounded, flowed into the second, the third, ascended to the fourth --

  Niku felt a jolt of pain, a burning along his throat, he gasped, his hand leaping to the spot . . .

  The organ went on. The skin of his throat felt normal, save for the roughness of the scar under his fingers.

  Friar Julian played on to the end of the little piece of music Ezell had composed from Boiko's frequencies.

  There was a small pause, as perhaps Friar Julian adjusted the stops.

  The organ burst into song; a wild, swinging music that had much in common with the music the Bedel made for themselves, when there were no gadje to hear.

  His feet twitched into a half-step. He laughed at himself, realized that his ears were ringing, despite the stops, and stepped away from the organ.

  * * *

  Friar Julian frowned at the scrap of music Ponnor had left, his eye moving over the lines. There was something—a progre
ssion, a linkage of line and tone . . .

  It was, he understood suddenly, a test pattern; a technical exercise, and no music at all.

  He smiled, pressed the blower key, and the mute, and placed his fingers on the keys.

  The pattern completed, he paused only to set the stops, his hands moving on their own, surely, no shaking now, and he leaned into the keyboards with a will

  He had planned . . . For years, he had planned to play the stately and glittering “Hymn of Completion,” which celebrates unions of all kinds, but is most particularly played when one man and another have chosen to pledge themselves to each other for the rest of their mortal lives.

  What flowed out of his fingers, however, was not the structured elegance of the “Hymn,” but the provocative and lusty “Dance of the Consorts.”

  Friar Julian closed his eyes and allowed his fingers to have their way.

  He came to an end, and lifted his fingers from the keys, listening to the final reverberations from the pipes. He sighed, his heart full, and his soul healed.

  "Friar?" a voice said, very close to his left elbow.

  Hearing it, his soul shattered again, and when he turned his head to meet Ponnor's eyes, his own were filled with tears.

  The other man smiled.

  "I am sorry that I will not be able to stay and hear the rest of the great music," he said. "My grandmother calls me."

  Friar Julian shook his head.

  "I bargained in bad faith. I cannot release you."

  Incredibly, Ponnor's smile grew wider.

  "I think you are too hard on yourself," he said, and extended a large, calloused hand. "Come, let us celebrate this lady and her return to song."

  Friar Julian hesitated, staring from hand to face.

  "Did you understand what I said?" he asked. "It's not in my power to release you."

  "That!" Ponnor said gaily. "We will see about that, I think! Come, now, and walk with me. We will test this thing. Let us go together down the street to the tavern. We will drink, and bid each other farewell."

  "I tell you, it is impossible!" cried Friar Julian.

  His wrist was caught in one large hand, and he came to his feet, reluctantly, and Ponnor's hand still holding him, went out of the niche and into the nave, where the day visitors and the laymen, and all of the friars, stood, their faces bathed in wonder.

  "Was that," asked a woman wearing a flowered apron, "the organ?"

  "Julian?" said Friar Anton. "Is it—I thought I heard . . . "

  "You did hear!" Ponnor answered, loudly. "Your organ sings again! Soon, Friar Julian will come back and play for you all, but first, he and me—we have business to conduct."

  No one questioned him, least of all Friar Julian, the music still ringing in his head. The crowd parted before them, all the way down to the day-door.

  Friar Julian came to his wits as the sun struck his face, and he pulled back.

  "You will be struck!" he cried.

  "Not I!" Ponnor declared. "What a beautiful day it is!"

  That was so, Friar Julian saw, the sun smiling cheerfully upon the broken street, and the children playing Find Me! among the piles of salvage.

  Halfway down the street, the bright red sign of the saloon mere steps ahead, Friar Julian exclaimed, "But you're out of range! The chip should have activated!"

  "You see?" Ponnor grinned. "You have kept your word! The gods of the house would not let you sin."

  A miracle, thought Friar Julian. I am witness to the movements of the gods.

  Dazed, he followed Ponnor into the room, and allowed him to choose a table near the door.

  "Sit, sit! I will fetch us each a glass of blusherrie! A special day begs for a special drink!"

  The friar sat, and glanced about him. The hour was early and custom was light. Across from him a dark haired man wearing a hat sat alone at a table, nursing a beer. On the other side of the door, near to the bar, a young woman with red ribbons plaited into her black hair, black eyes sultry, sat by herself, an empty glass on the table beside her.

  "Here we are!" Ponnor returned noisily, placing two tall glasses of blue liquid in the table's center, as he sat down in the chair opposite.

  "We will drink to the lady's restored health!" Ponnor declared, and they did, Friar Julian choking a little as the liquid burned down his throat. It had been a long time—years!—since he had drunk such wine.

  "We will drink to the wisdom and the mercy of the gods and their consorts!" he cried then, entering into the spirit of the moment.

  They drank.

  "We will drink to fond partings," Ponnor said, and they did that, too.

  Father Julian sighed, surprised to see that his glass was nearly empty. He felt at peace, and more than a little drowsy.

  Across the table, Ponnor set aside his glass and rose.

  "I leave you now," he said. Father Julian felt his hand lifted, and blinked when Ponnor placed a reverent kiss upon his knuckles.

  "Enjoy your sweet lady, sir," Ponnor said, and was gone, walking briskly out the door.

  At once, the man and the woman at the single tables rose and followed him out.

  That was odd, thought Friar Julian, and sleepily raised his glass for another sip of blusherrie.

  "Hey," said a rough voice at his side. Friar Julian blinked awake and smiled sleepily up at a man wearing an apron. The barkeeper, perhaps.

  "Yes?" he said.

  "What I wanna know," the man said, looking down at him with a thunderous frown, before is whose gonna pay for them drinks."

  Friar Julian sat up straight, suddenly and vividly awake.

  Money! He had no money! Ponnor --

  "The guy with the mustache said you'd pay for them, too," the barkeep said, using a blunt thumb to indicate the two single tables, now empty. "We ain't the church, here, see? You drink, you pay."

  "Yes, I understand," said Friar Julian, his heart sinking, thinking of the few coins left in the cash box, after the medical supplies had been purchased.

  Futilely, knowing they were empty, he patted the pockets of his robe. The right one was as flat as he expected, but the left one . . .

  Crinkled.

  Wondering, Friar Julian pulled out a bright blue envelope. He ran his finger under the flap, and drew out a sheaf of notes. Notes! Not coins.

  He offered the topmost to the bartender, who eyed it consideringly.

  "Hafta go in back to change that," he said.

  Friar Julian nodded.

  Alone, he fanned the money, seeing food, medicines, seeds for their kitchen garden . . .

  Something fluttered out of the envelope. Friar Julian bent and picked it up off the floor.

  It was a business card for one Amu Song, dealer in oddities, with an address at the spaceport. Father Julian flipped it over, frowning at the cramped writing there.

  The gods help those who help themselves.

  He stared at it, flipped the card again, and there was the word, oddities. He thought of the North Transept, the cluttered tables of worthless offerings there.

  . . . and he began, very softly, to laugh.

  Seven Miles

  by T.C. McCarthy

  Kostya held his breath. When the airlock door hissed open, the suit's scanner whined to life.

  "Clear," its voice chimed.

  "Come." He adjusted the incinerator straps, flicked off the safety, and angled his body so that he could squeeze out the narrow portal. Ludmilla followed, her tail between her legs. "It's clear, Ludy, another day of work. Up!" The sound of his voice made her tail go straight, wagging, and she moved to lead the way.

  Sadgorod lay far below, barely visible through the trees and undergrowth that had reclaimed the mountainside more than a decade ago. He knew the trees were a good sign -- that nothing had broken through while everyone slept in the bunker below -- but it was so empty. Quiet. The weeds and grass muffled his footsteps so that Kostya only heard the sound of his own breathing, and every so often the wind as it whistled over his exhaust
ports.

  "Numbskull." Vanya's voice crackled over the radio.

  "It's alright," said Kostya, "they didn't make it through, no sign of jamming."

  "Lucky for you. Doctor Kostya Popovich, last of the real egg-heads. You know I just love sending you guys into the city, it's like getting even -- but over and over and over. Every time you make it back to us I grin. Know why?"

  Kostya gritted his teeth, trying to stay focused. The pain was there again. It started at his right foot and washed up to his knee, making the right leg tremble as it threatened to give out like it had so many times in the past—a reminder of what he had been through and that he shouldn't have survived. "Crumbs" had eaten the flesh around his knee and it amazed the doctors that Kostya walked without a cane. His rescuers had decided to let the things eat until they finished, and then wait for them to roll far enough away to be flamed. They sparkled when they died. Crumbs' organic material burned off first until, eventually, the remaining metals crackled and glowed. Kostya knew why Vanya and the others hated him, knew his involvement with crumbs had put a target on his head, but he still wished he could wrap his hands around Vanya's neck and dig them through the folds of fat to strangle the man. On the other hand, a deep-down understanding -- that maybe Vanya and the rest of them were right to hate him -- kept his anger in check, prevented him from ever acting on violent fantasies. Well, maybe they weren't right, Kostya told himself, but they had a good reason nonetheless. One he understood. Only Ludmilla, the dog who had been his best friend for four years, seemed to like him.

  "O.K., Vanya, I'll play along," he said. "Why does it make you grin when I come back alive?"

  "Because then I get to send you out the next time, and don't have to start the lottery. Once you're gone, I'll have to send out innocent ones -- maybe even me -- and it won't be so fun. You bastards deserve to be pulled apart." Vanya coughed and a map appeared in Kostya's helmet, showing a suburb outlined in green. "Today you search sector seven. And on second thought, try to stay alive. We can do without you, but we need the dog, the next litters won't be trained for another month. Vanya. Out."