A Higher Power and Other Stories (2nd ed.)

By Geoff Hart

A collection of the 17 fantasy and science fiction short stories and one longer piece that I published before 2012. Newly revised and improved.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Geoff Hart
• Release date: Nov 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9780987913012

Geoff Hart

Geoff Hart has reputedly been telling tales (sometimes ending up in considerable trouble thereby) since he was 6, but took many years to realize he could earn a living at this trade. Since 1987, he's worked as a technical writer and scientific editor for IBM, the Canadian Forest Service, and the Forest Engineering Research Institute of Canada. Since 2004, he's been a freelancer, and only occasionally stops complaining about his boss. Geoff has worked primarily as a scientific and technical editor, specializing in authors who have English as a second language, but also does technical writing and French translation. He claims to have survived at least two bouts of leading or managing publications groups with only a minor need for ongoing therapy. A Fellow of the Society for Technical Communication (STC, www.stc.org), he has published 400+ nonfiction articles on communication, and spends an altogether unreasonable amount of time mentoring colleagues. His training is in plant ecology and plant physiology, which continue to fascinate him. In his spare time, he has committed three SFnal novels and a short story collection.

Book preview

A Higher Power

Frank: Come quick. Graverobbers.—Jake.

The letter was short, to the point, and postmarked Shady Valley. I called Mom to cancel dinner, and set about packing my bag.

The first time I’d seen the sign for Shady Valley, several years back, I’d assumed it was advertising a cemetery or rest home. I was half right. From a distance, the town seemed identical to the other picture-postcard, white-clapboard towns whose church steeples and American flags dot so much of the northern New England landscape—the kind of place where nothing more exciting than the 4 PM freight train should ever happen.

Of course, normal can be awfully subjective.

Most hikers would have returned to the main road after spotting the biohazard signs. Someone distracted by weighty matters might pass without noticing the signs, as I did that first time, but down the road a mile or so, they’d run into dense stands of deformed raspberries that were gradually reclaiming the old dirt road despite occasional passes by a Postal Service truck or UPS. Start threading your way through the wickedly curved thorns and you developed a newfound appreciation for the rasp part of their name, and most would give up at that point, preferring not to share their blood with those long, thirsty thorns. But I was stubborn even by my family’s standards, distracted by my search for a suicidal friend, and they say that God watches out for drunkards and fools. I eventually escaped the raspberries, skin largely intact, without once thinking Briar Rose.

Like I said, I was distracted.

The road had sauntered onwards beneath the forest’s shades, where not even the raspberries seemed willing to grow. In hindsight, I was fortunate those shades were slumbering in the summer sun and that I’d stepped briskly on my way to find Dolores. That briskness got me within sight of the town before darkness fell, and it’s why I didn’t become one of the several misunderstandings buried downslope from the tavern.

Now, a few years later, the shades waved as I passed through the trees and the dusk gathered ’round me like Bela Lugosi’s cloak as I came within sight of Jake’s tavern, quiet and empty as a church between holidays at this time of day. Residents of Shady Valley slept late, and never woke before sunset.

I found my favorite table already set, promising ample reward for my exertion. Even before I’d clumped up onto the broad porch and begun beating road dust off my jeans, the heavenly smell wafting through the open kitchen window caught me by the nose, and Circe herself had never set a trap half so enticing. Dying’s said to do unfortunate thing’s to one’s taste buds, but you’d never know it by Jake; like most of the town’s haunts, his essence lingered on, and that essence harbored a powerful desire to cook for someone who could appreciate it.

Any good cook’ll tell you the key’s in the ingredients, and Jake’s free-range chickens nicely suit my prejudices concerning animal husbandry; if I want grain, I’ll eat it myself and spare the chicken the labor. The chickens graze out back, down the long hill of the graveyard, where they stalk luminescent grubs that crawl up from the ground around moonset after the citizens have made their way back into town. I didn’t mingle with most of the townsfolk, as they’d never really welcomed me into their cold hearts, but they made live and let live their watchword, if you’ll pardon my splitting a few idiomatic hairs.

Jake, who’d appeared out of nowhere while I’d been woolgathering, set the chicken before me. He’d garnished it with the mushrooms that grew in the cellar, where a visiting urban restaurant critic unfamiliar with country hospitality and the notion of respecting your host now rested eternally after some injudicious remarks about the cuisine. He’d never filed that story, but the mushrooms surely benefited from his subsequent tending.

Jake stepped back and let me tuck in just enough to take the edge off my hunger. Frank, we need a big favor. I nodded and saved a drop of gravy from a lonely trip to the floor with a quick swipe of my tongue. You got my letter, so you know what’s been happening.

I swallowed another savory chunk of chicken and some of the pale, oddly shaped potatoes he grew out back. "Let me guess—strange things’ve been seen in the graveyard."

Jake smiled politely; the joke probably hadn’t been funny the first hundred times I’d essayed it either, but he was polite to his guests. No, not since the Hansens last summer. Nice family, though they’d been pig-ignorant about the warning signs and kept right on picking raspberries until after dark. Fit right into our little community once they’d gotten used to being deader than liberalism in America.

Jake chewed his lower lip. Someone’s been digging up the graves and taking us away. The Hansens lost their daughter last week.

That sat me up straight. I met his gaze, bland and innocent and expressionless as only dead eyes can be. He’d known how hard the news would hit me; little Becky was a pleasure to babysit, and seemed to know instinctively which patches of berries were safe for the living to eat. I could imagine her parents’ distress. So you’ve got a body snatcher.

We tried asking Friedrich, but he still won’t let us anywhere near. Friedrich had moved to the county to make a reputation painting pastorals, and instead stumbled into his destiny. Now he does work that’s been favorably compared with the illegitimate offspring off Edward Gorey and Norman Rockwell, with a dash of Hieronymus Bosch thrown in for good measure. He sells more than enough paintings for more than enough money to live the life of a country squire, albeit a reclusive one. Happy though he was to include the townsfolk in his work, he kept his benefactors at arm’s length with a garden full of garlic, silver bells garlanding the scarecrows, and rowan hedges surrounding his house.

And Greta?

He shook his head disapprovingly. She respects his privacy too much to intercede on our behalf, verbally or through more effective means. His thin lips puckered as if he’d just sipped wine vinegar while expecting a nice Bordeaux. "I warned her those perversions would harm her magic!"

I kept a straight face, not wanting to choke on such fine chicken and become more than just an honorary citizen. Greta and I had occasionally done our best to impair her magic, and in a town of de facto necrophiliacs, even the most open-minded had some difficulty with Mundane dating behavior. You never heard it to your face, as they all scrupulously minded their own business—but every now and then someone let their mask slip. Pondering, I chased the chicken down with a long swallow of Sam Adams draft.

Jake, I don’t know that I can help. I’m not a cop or anything; I don’t even write good detective fiction.

Understood. But the problem’s quite beyond us. We hoped that more natural efforts would work where the supernatural options have failed.

No promises, but I’ll certainly head down to the cemetery in the morning, suss out what’s going on, and report back. Would you pack me some breakfast and a thermos of coffee? Jake smiled altogether too quickly, squeezed my shoulders with those cold hands, and left me to enjoy my meal.

I’ll skip the obvious line about how well I slept that night, and where is none of your damn business.

***

Next morning, yawning and wiping sleep from my eyes as I walked, I made a point of stopping by the verdigrised statue of Ambrose Bierce. I tacked ’round that old lexicographer and curmudgeon with a wink and a smile, hung a left and beat upwind along Main Street, and paused to pay my respects to Edgar Poe for good measure, rubbing his broad forehead the way a Buddhist might rub the belly of a Buddha statue. I left him gleaming brazenly behind me in the morning sun. It’s a ritual obeisance I make every trip in the hope it’ll attract some of their saintly attention to my writing. Respects duly paid, I stopped by the tavern to grab my breakfast, then made my way downhill past fat, lazy chickens pecking drowsily at the sparse vegetation.

Shady Valley’s small cemetery housed only about a hundred citizens, and they tended their homes meticulously; the grass shone green in the morning sun, interspersed with a million twinkling jewels of dew, and the night-blooming flowers that swaddled the graves had nearly finished their morning retreat belowground. As the sun rose higher, a stillness fell upon the world, disrupted only by the chickens, but crickets cricketed in the deep grass outside the fence, and cicadas began shrilly tuning their fiddles as the air warmed.

I passed by several freshly excavated graves and inspected the crushed grass where some vehicle had parked. That being the limit of my rudimentary investigative skills, I made my way over to the ancient oak that held the kids’ tree fort, and climbed into its sheltering leaves to escape the sun. I settled in, pushing aside a small heap of bones they’d been gathering for some school science project, and booted my laptop so I could get some work done while I waited. The work went slowly, and breakfast was a dim memory by the time an engine cleared its throat and announced its presence on the steep grade below the cemetery.

Through the leaves, I watched an old Ford pickup approach the gate. As the engine choked and died a long and lingering death, a tall, thin man in a neatly pressed black jacket emerged, stretching mightily. I saved my work and slept the laptop, grateful for an excuse to escape my writing. I stuffed the computer into my backpack, then glanced back at the gate. The newcomer removed his jacket, folded it carefully, and laid it carefully on the vehicle’s front seat. That done, he cracked his knuckles and surveyed the grounds from behind the pickup’s door. Preparations complete, he pushed the door shut with a rusty squeal, rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, and took a shovel from the bed of the truck. Throwing the shovel before him, he hopped the fence with enviable grace, then bent to pick up the shovel. At the first row of graves, he pulled a notebook from his pocket, recorded something with a flourish, and pocketed the book and pen. Then he made his way to Lars Hansen’s grave; I’d babysat Becky there often enough to pick it out, even by day and through the leaves. He took one last look around, then began digging industriously.

I dropped down from the tree and hastened over, spotting the clerical collar only once I’d drawn close enough for my shadow to fall across the fresh-turned sod. He looked up, alarmed, and his sweaty face paled. I smiled politely, crossed my arms, and waited as he backed hastily away from the grave and rummaged beneath his shirt. Triumphantly, he removed a large silver crucifix and waved it in my face—a natural precaution under the circumstances. When I failed to flinch, he tucked it hesitantly away again inside his shirt, the color returning to his face.

I smiled, hoping we could do this the civilized way, and stuck out my hand. My name’s Frank.

Father Michael, he replied, crushing my hand.

I recovered my hand with alacrity, trying not to wince. Forgive me for seeming critical, Father, but you’re digging in a friend’s grave, and I suspect he’d take that amiss. I’m sure we’d both appreciate an explanation of what you’re doing here.

Scowling now, the priest looked me over more closely. I should think it’s obvious. I’m disinterring your friend.

Now why would you be doing that? Lars and his wife weren’t Catholic, and they were decently and properly buried here, according to their wishes.

The priest examined me minutely before replying, lip curling. "Buried, yes, but decently and properly? No, not them, nor any of the rest of the poor souls in this cemetery. Are you aware that here, the dead rise to walk again by night?"

"Of course. But what business is it of yours? They harm no one."

Evidently, he’d been expecting another answer. He spun his mental wheels a moment, pondering and discarding several replies, then all at once the clutch engaged and he regained his momentum. It’s abhorrent. The dead must rest in peace, and it’s my duty to see that they do so. So I’ll ask you to leave me to my work.

I can’t do that. On impulse, I grabbed his shovel and, having taken him by surprise, pulled it from his grasp. Leave my friends alone. Do your work elsewhere. I was so pleased with myself that I relaxed. Big mistake. The priest swung a roundhouse blow that came out of nowhere and clipped me a good one on the ear. I dropped one way, the shovel dropped another, and the ground, not to be outdone, rose up to meet the both of us. As I lay there, ear ringing, he stepped over me to collect the fallen shovel.

I’m unquestionably more a lover than a fighter, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t written about my share of donnybrooks. Some of it had rubbed off. I tackled him as he leaned towards the shovel, taking him down and landing on top, and before he could so much as gather the breath to sputter, I wrenched his left arm up behind his back, pulled him to his feet, and marched him back to his truck. I wasn’t in a particularly good mood, and he made most of the trip on tiptoe to preserve his arm. At the truck, I opened the door with my free hand and thrust him in, knocking his jacket onto the floor. He got back on his feet in a hurry, glaring like he was going to come right back out at me. Ear still throbbing, that was the last thing I wanted, so I assumed a pose I’d seen in a Jackie Chan flick and practiced for far too many hours in front of a mirror.

"Uh uh. I didn’t expect a priest to swing on me, but if you make me, I’ll break your face, Father." For added effect, I rotated my leading hand about my wrist, ending up with the palm facing outwards. It looked silly as hell, but when you look that stupid yet still appear confident, people naturally assume you know what you’re doing.

For a moment he seemed ready to call my bluff, then abruptly thought the better of it. With only a parting glare to tell me what he thought of my future prospects, he settled himself on the seat, slammed the door, and wrenched at the ignition. With a consumptive gasp, the engine fired, the wheels sought and found purchase in the grass, and the truck spun in a half circle before speeding off. I slumped, greatly relieved. You learn to bluff remarkably well when you play poker with the dead, but the priest’s punch had been solid, my ear was really starting to bother me, and the closest I’d ever been to any talent at the martial arts was when I was standing in the autograph line at the FantAsia festival, waiting for Jackie Chan to show. Pausing only to retrieve my backpack from the tree, I headed back uphill. My ear was beginning to throb.

***

That night, Mayor Johnson called a town meeting. As a transient, I had no vote, and being a Mundane pretty much got me the cold shoulder anyway from most of them—though you could protest with some justice that even those who didn’t shun me could hardly give me a warm shoulder. I sat with my back against Jake’s bar and an ice pack pressed ineffectually against my ear, while the debate raged on about what to do. The proposed solutions tended to revolve distressingly around the theme of lynching, but nobody had a solution for the three small flaws in their plan: First, the priest only ventured near town by day, when the townsfolk lay sleeping. Second, even if he did relinquish any trace of sanity and arrive at night, a priest had certain native protections against the townsfolk. Last, but perhaps most serious, not a one of them had the faintest idea of what a lynching entailed, let alone the desire to harm anyone.

Tough talk notwithstanding, a bunch of folk as decent as these ones weren’t yet sufficiently desperate to do what was necessary. If they hadn’t been that sort of people, Greta, Friedrich, and I would have joined their ranks during our first visit. Yes, there were a few rotters among the dead, but even dead people are still people, and mostly pretty reasonable if given half a chance.

At some point, I fell asleep, and woke as dawn began touching the sky and the townsfolk trooped back to their resting places. Jake had packed another breakfast, and I took it with me when I returned stiffly to my tree to await the priest. I hadn’t doubted for a minute he’d return, any more than I’d doubted that I’d be there to meet him. But although I’d half expected reinforcements, I hadn’t expected the green and yellow car with the flashing lights. This time, the priest leaned smugly on his truck and let the state policeman do the talking.

I appraised him calmly across the gate; a bit of beer muscle around the waist, but the biceps that bulged large as my thigh as he levered himself cautiously over the fence gave me pause. I swallowed hard, hoping he hadn’t noticed, and put on my best game face. Morning, officer. How can I help you?

He looked me over closely, trying to figure whether I was really the kind of man who’d attack a priest. But even unshaven, I didn’t look to pose much of a threat, so his riot-stick remained in its belt loop, and I relaxed ever so slightly.

Father Michael claims you assaulted him yesterday while he was carrying out his duties. I assume you know your Miranda rights, but do you have anything to say before I cuff you? He rested a large, calloused hand on his handcuffs.

Not if it’s a case of my word versus the word of a priest. I pushed my hair away from my ear to reveal the bruise, just beginning to turn that exuberantly unpleasant yellow-and-black, spoiled-banana color. "But the truth is, he attacked me when I tried to stop him from digging up my friend’s grave."

The Sheriff nodded. He mentioned something about that, but then, you really don’t have any right to be interfering with a priest, do you?

"Rights are the point, aren’t they? The Hansens and most of the townsfolk here aren’t Catholic. I don’t mean to be telling you your business, but if he can’t prove their families asked him to dig them up, I’m wondering what right he’s got to be here."

The cop nodded, albeit reluctantly. You’ve got a point. Give me a minute, son. He returned to the truck to see what the priest had to say, and a brief, heated argument ensued. The argument ended with the priest back behind the wheel of his truck, glaring out at me with an unhealthy flush that boded ill for my prospects in the afterlife. The cop drove off with a polite tip of his hat, but the priest’s face promised I hadn’t seen the last of him. When both vehicles had driven out of sight, I hurried back uphill. The cop’s visit had suggested a solution.

That night, I asked Jake to take Mayor Johnson aside. It was obvious she wanted nothing to do with me, but a politician’s a politician, and she put on her best public face.

Ma’am, I know how I can fix things, but I’ll need your help. Here’s what you have to do…

As I explained, a broad smile spread across her pale face, and when that smile reached critical mass, she chuckled right out loud. Shaking her head, she produced a pen and paper from her briefcase and dashed off a quick note on the town letterhead, and for good measure, slapped me on the back hard enough to stagger me. Then she bussed me on the cheek and sent me off for a good night’s sleep. I didn’t resist; I’d be up early tomorrow, and I hadn’t slept all that well last night, what with my ear and all.

***

Next morning, feeling more rested, I headed off towards the city at the best speed I could muster on a borrowed mountain bike several sizes too small. Hours later, knees still aching, I returned in a discreet black sedan, accompanied by an inconspicuous individual in a cheap suit. We pulled up behind the truck and a rust-eaten red Firebird with a gold lightning blaze, fat tires, and a wide spoiler just as Father Mike was beginning to slide ropes dangling from a portable engine hoist under Lars’ coffin. Two burly, sweating youths who’d been assisting moved threateningly towards me, then subsided at a sign from the priest. My antagonist frowned as I stepped out of the car, bicycle clips still clamping sweaty blue jeans to my legs, and balled up his fists as if he were readying himself to belt me again. My ear ached, remembering, and I made sure to stay well out of reach—and a step beyond.

You’d best quit while you’re still at liberty, young man. I’ve cleared things with the county, so this time no police will interfere. And if you persist, my two companions can make a more persuasive case for your departure. He glanced defiantly at my companion, a short, balding man whose complexion suggested he’d spent more time driving a swivel chair than working outdoors.

My companion stepped forward. Father Michael Alway?

Yes. And you are?

I have a warrant for your arrest. The priest’s jaw dropped faster than if I’d proven the Pope was secretly a Unitarian. My companion brandished a badge that flashed in the sunlight, making sure the priest got a good, clear look at the seal. Are you going to come willingly, or do I have to call in reinforcements? I’d expected a pair of handcuffs, but instead, he drew a sheaf of folded paper from his coat pocket. The priest unfolded the paper, read its contents with increasing consternation, and blanched as he reached the punchline. He looked up at my companion, raised a finger in protest, then abruptly wilted.

Wise choice. My chauffeur nodded smugly, and retrieved the papers from slack fingers. You two youngsters—you have a driver’s licence between you? They nodded, mystified by the exchange. Good. Go home. As for you, Father: follow me back to town in the truck.

He turned to me and clapped a hand on my shoulder, reaching up to do so. Thanks for your help, Frank. We’ll get this matter resolved.

The three intruders climbed into their respective vehicles, defeat plain in the slump of their shoulders, and drove off in a cloud of dust. I smiled, more than a little pleased with myself. I’d have to retrieve the bike later, and we’d still need to get Becky’s coffin back, but it was too late in the day and I needed a cool swim to shed the dust from the morning’s ride and ease my swollen knees. Besides, Dolores would be waiting impatiently. I hadn’t yet spent any time with her, and I had to share my triumph with someone.

Every spring, the uneasy truce between the lake’s warm lower and frigid upper waters is broken, and the warm waters return to the surface, carrying along whatever’s been lying on the bottom. Dolores, for instance. Dolores and I go way back—even before she broke off a longstanding affair with a mutual friend and ran off to do herself in at a suitably dramatic rural locale. At first, I’d tried to help her pick up the pieces, but had probably only added a few pieces of my own. While Clive went on to achieve some minor notoriety with his poems, Dolores took a hike in the hills, a few too many pulls at the bottle of Drambuie he’d left behind, a late-night swim in the lake, and a long voyage to the bottom.

Nowadays, she mostly broods away the seasons at the bottom of the lake, dwelling on the many failings of the human male, but when the seasons of her soul and of the lake move her, she bobs briefly back to the surface to see whether the world’s changed. If I’m there, we swim a while and talk over old times. I regale her with gossip, read her anything new that Clive’s written about her, and spend some quiet time together until she’s had enough of light and laughter. Each time, she claims to have forgiven him and to have forgotten, and sometimes she really does seem to mean it, but I’m never sure; it’s hard enough to figure what a live woman’s really thinking, and the dead always seem so damned sincere.

I lay dripping on a flat rock, letting the sun warm my bones, while Dolores basked in the shallows, watching the minnows nipping at her toes, long dark hair framing her pallid face and a half-smile animating her colorless lips. At length, she turned to me and broke the silence, voice like the whisper of a creek in late summer. What I don’t understand, Frank, is how you managed to get rid of the priest when he’d obviously gotten permission to do his work.

Well, I said, holding back a grin, I figured that if our problem was with holy forces, the solution had to be to invoke something stronger. You’re familiar with the old saw about the only sure things in life being death and taxes? She nodded gracefully. Well, most people figure that only the former will get you out of paying the latter, but as it happens, they’re wrong. You see, Uncle Sam doesn’t legally have to stop collecting just ’cause you’re dead.

She nodded knowingly; like the rest of the town, she’d been paying taxes on income from her various investments ever since the last census had included the townfolk in the tax base.

As it happens, our fearless leaders take a dim view of anyone who interferes with their tax collection. Needless to say, each citizen that got dug up was one less person on the tax rolls. All I had to do was point this out to the appropriate authorities, and the problem solved itself.

Author’s notes

I’d always wanted to write a Lake Wobegon–style story, only weirder. Then I had the image of the special free-range chickens, and poor old Dolores (who started life as Lenore, but dolorous is funnier) orbiting annually around the thermocline (tip of the hat to a long-ago course in limnology), and possibly a Spider Robinson flashback that suggested the punchline. Some day I’ll return to Shady Valley. I kinda like the people there.

The Distaff War

The chamber’s heavy wooden door burst open, striking the thick stone wall with a thud! that made Nanette jump in her seat and prick her finger badly. Stifling a reflexive curse by thrusting her wounded finger into her mouth, the young wife set her embroidery onto her lap, and carefully erased the scowl from her face. She looked up at her husband—for only he would have entered the room so unceremoniously—as the door rebounded soggily from the wall, coming to rest just beside his shoulder.

"Nan, love, there’ll be war!" His deep voice echoed from the stone walls of their small room.

Eyes flashing, biceps swelling the short sleeves of the jerkin she’d so carefully shaped to show off his muscles to best advantage, the tall, thickset man stood expectantly in the doorway. Her heart beat just a trifle faster despite her annoyance at his childish exuberance, and she breathed deeply and slowly through her nose, remembering those arms clasped around her. Belatedly, she withdrew the finger from her mouth. War, my husband? she wondered mildly.

War! The men of Fenwick spurn His Majesty’s offer to peacefully resolve the trade dispute, and our King has agreed to convince them at swordpoint. Do you know what this means?

The implications were clear enough to banish any amorous thoughts; Nanette was young, and disinterested in such overtly political issues, but by no means naïve. I suppose it means that you’ll be leaving me for several weeks, having your body pierced repeatedly by uncaring steel or doing the same to some other poor innocent whose wife awaits him at home, and perhaps even dying a lingering death, far from me.

Thierry hesitated, plainly taken aback by her response. "Aye, it could well mean those things. Then he rallied strongly. But more likely than that, it’ll mean proving my loyalty and my honor on the bodies of other champions in individual combat. That can hardly escape the King’s notice, and that’s steering us a sure course to larger quarters, he gestured dismissively with his sword arm, brushing the door heedlessly aside as he did, and more influence at court. He eyed her appraisingly, and added words he’d learned would oft soften her resistance. Maybe even enough extra money to afford that child we’ve been talking about."

Nanette snorted, rejecting such obvious bait. She rose to her feet, and set her hands sternly on her hips. You’ve no need to prove your manliness to me, milord husband, and as for this room and our circumstances, I find both more than adequate for our needs.

Belatedly, she recognized her mistake, for an altogether different light now shone in her husband’s eyes. Gods! There are things worth fighting for more precious than trade.

Nan backed away in alarm, flustered by his sudden and—in hindsight—entirely predictable change of tack, and the chair caught her behind her knees. She sat down abruptly, twisting at the last possible instant to avoid her pincushion. Before she could rally her suddenly scattered wits, her husband had flung the door shut behind him, the echoes of its crash just beginning as he swept across the room and pulled her into his arms. Crushed against his chest, she felt herself borne towards their bed.

On the one hand, her anger, fueled by a growing fear of Thierry’s future prospects, made her push him away, futile though that struggle might be; on the other, she recalled with sudden heat that once her husband took it into his head to indulge in love-play, showing any more spirit would only fan his flames. So she relaxed into his arms, and remembering how he’d stood when first he entered the room, decided with not the faintest trace of reluctance to make the best of her situation. After all, there were more ways than a sword to disarm a strong man. She smiled contentedly to herself, and responded wholeheartedly to his attentions.

***

The next morning, a weary smile hovering on her face, Nanette found herself working in the kitchen beside her husband’s mother. Hélène had not been young when she’d brought Thierry into the world, and the years had been unkind to her while her son grew to maturity.

"Beau-mère, may we speak of something other than our work?"

The older woman gathered her lips into a pout, tried to look stern, and failed. The twinkle in her eyes gave her away. "Speak, ma jeune."

I’m worried about Thierry.

Hélène snorted. I can see from your face he’s been troubling you. She ignored the heat that rose in her daugher-in-law’s cheeks. Peace, daughter, I’ve heard the talk of war too. The lad’s father can speak of nothing else, though what an old warhorse like him thinks he’ll be doing escapes me. A roar of male voices from the great hall intruded on the peace of the kitchen. It seems the rest of the men are similarly afflicted.

"What can be done, Beau-mère?"

"Precious little, ma jeune, once men take it into their heads to forsake their proper responsibilities in favor of assailing each other with sharp metal."

Nan stopped the motion of her knife on the chopping board lest she inadvertently echo those words. Then I can do nothing but watch him leave?

"It’s our lot as women, ma jeune. You’re hardly the first to face this problem, though you’re fortunate that it’s come so rarely in our lifetime. After a time, you simply accept this part of what makes them so damnably different from us and say your prayers each night they’re away—for your man’s return, if he’s a good one; for him to fall valiantly on the field of battle so you can replace him if he’s not."

Nan let the knife fall, clattering, to the chopping board. Anger suffused her cheeks. How can you say such a thing? You know there’s no finer man than your son!

I know no such thing, my dear; remember, I taught the little hellion to use the privy, eat with his knife like any civilized human, and treat women with something approaching respect—though that took several unfortunate paramours to achieve. Seeing her daughter-in-law’s crestfallen expression, she relented. But, as you, I would do whatever I could to spare him death or worse over such a meaningless affair.

Then let’s stop the war!

Hélène laughed, a harsh cackle. And how would you propose to manage something that none of the men has yet achieved? Think you you can match your wits or strength against our king?

Why not? Perhaps no one has really tried! Then, a thought struck the younger woman. Her mother-in-law had to clear her throat twice to regain her attention. "I’m sorry, Beau-mère, something’s occurred to me. Then she laughed, suddenly relieved. Tell me, Beau-mère—on the battlefield, do you match strength for strength against a much stronger foe?"

Puzzled, the old woman hesitated. I’m sure I don’t know; I’m no warrior. But I’ve learned the occasional thing from hearing the breast-beating of those who are. I’d say no.

Exactly. Nan dabbed at her face with her sleeve, wiping at the tears that had briefly threatened to spill over. And neither shall we. We have other ways to disarm our men. Her face flushed at memories of the previous night, and of watching her husband snoring peacefully beside her afterwards. Here’s what we shall do...

Leaning across the table, she whispered in her mother-in-law’s ear. The older woman’s brows knit briefly in concentration, then as the whisper went on, her forehead unfurrowed abruptly, as much as the passage of years permitted, and a reluctant snort of laughter escaped her lips. Other women ceased their work at that sound, and as the two continued whispering, taking turns in their laughter, they gathered around. Soon, breakfast was hopelessly ruined—but the unrestrained laughter of women filled the kitchen.

***

Thierry had grown so absorbed in the preparations for battle that he scarcely noticed when Nan left their room before dawn and stole away from town; it might have been any other day of the year, her gone off with the other women to prepare for the men’s morning breaking of the fast.

Gritting her teeth in displeasure, Nanette reflected that before she’d taken on the role of wife, she might have considered walking the short distance to Fenwick. Now, though, her legs had grown soft from her sedentary life, and she opted instead to make the trip on the back of the priest’s mule. It wasn’t like she was stealing, she reassured herself; he’d often let her ride the beast as a child, smiling knowingly when she’d insisted on sitting astride like the men, rather than side-saddle in the way of women. In the pre-dawn dark, she let her half-asleep steed pick its own way over the rough roads that led to Fenwick. Half asleep herself, she rehearsed her plans, concentrating so hard that she only noticed the arrival of full daylight when her bladder, offended by the mule’s swaying progress, forced her to halt her travel and squat by the side of the road.

By noon, dusty and parched despite having drained her waterskin several miles back, she’d reached Fenwick. The guard at the gate, doubled since last she’d visited, testified to their neighbor’s preparation for war, and momentarily brought a frown to her face. But she managed a smile by the time she approached the gate, and the guards, seeing only an attractive young woman atop a disreputable animal, returned her smile and waved her past without question, though her style of riding prompted comments that would at other times have earned them an offended riposte. She rode on into town, kicking the mule’s ribs to goad it into a marginally faster pace. Reluctantly, it complied.

At a certain house, grown only slightly less familiar through the passing of years, she tethered her mount by the water trough and entered without knocking. Inside, a woman to whom she bore more than a faint resemblance greeted her with joyful cries and gathered her up in a hug to rival her husband’s. When they’d both recovered from that embrace, somewhat breathless and with happy tears shining on their faces, she wasted no time in revealing her mission. That erased the moment of joy, but laughter soon rang out in the room. Shortly thereafter, with only one lingering backward glance, Nanette remounted her mule and turned the placid beast’s face homewards. Recognizing the road that led to its manger, the mule quickened its pace. With luck, she’d arrive before nightfall.

***

Quiet cursing brought Nan out of a deep sleep, rescuing her from increasingly unpleasant premonitory dreams. She groaned, louder than she’d expected, as her previous day’s exertions made themselves felt; riding a mule was no job for a woman, every muscle in her body now chided.

Nan? You awake?

She gritted her teeth and ground at her eyes with her fists. Yes, beloved.

"Sorry. I hadn’t