Uchronia: An Anthology of Alternate Histories & Alternate Worlds

By AURELIA LEO

Uchronia: An Anthology of Alternate Histories & Alternate Worlds features twenty cosmic, uncanny, and macabre fantasy and science fiction stories.

A marine navigates close quarters in his wheelchair and the threat of joblessness due to mechanical men. Gremlins battle a bounty huntress in the Weird Wild West. When the Soviet Union invades Mexico, a U.S.-Mexico war veteran rallies Samalayuca refinery workers to fight back. Onboard the Current of Eagles, a disabled Native-American pilot confronts prejudice and radio warfare. You are a lone radio jockey after the apocalypse.

Curated by award-winning editor Zelda Knight, this collection of reprints will transport readers to diverse retrofutures and realms beyond their imagination.

FEATURING:

Dennis Mombauer
Krystal Claxton
Tyler Bourassa
H.R. Boldwood
Rhidian Brenig Jones
Victor H. Rodriguez
Jamie Ryder
Rachel Brittain
David Castlewitz
Lawrence Dagstine
C.W. Blackwell
Pedro Iniguez
KC Grifant
Dale Carothers
Wendy Nikel
I. Punti
Nicole Givens Kurtz
Gregory L. Norris
Matthew Maxwell
T.C. Mill

• Language: English
• Publisher: AURELIA LEO
• Release date: Mar 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9781954541160

AURELIA LEO

Established in 2016, AURELIA LEO is PRIDE BOOK CAFÉ's independent, Nebula Award-nominated, BSFA Award-winning publishing house for diverse genre fiction, namely romance, mystery, thriller & suspense, horror, science fiction, and fantasy.

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Uchronia

Uchronia

AN ANTHOLOGY OF ALTERNATE HISTORIES & ALTERNATE WORLDS

DENNIS MOMBAUER KRYSTAL CLAXTON TYLER BOURASSA H.R. BOLDWOOD RHIDIAN BRENIG JONES VICTOR H. RODRIGUEZ JAMIE RYDER RACHEL BRITTAIN DAVID CASTLEWITZ LAWRENCE DAGSTINE C.W. BLACKWELL PEDRO INIGUEZ KC GRIFANT DALE CAROTHERS WENDY NIKEL I. PUNTI NICOLE GIVENS KURTZ GREGORY L. NORRIS MATTHEW MAXWELL T.C. MILL

Edited by

ZELDA KNIGHT

Table of Contents

Newsletter

Retrograde

By Zelda Knight

Short Synopses

In the Festival Tent

© Dennis Mombauer

Heartless

© Krystal Claxton

The Wizard of the Woods

© Tyler Bourassa

In the Shadow of Fire

© H.R. Boldwood

The Tribute

© Rhidian Brenig Jones

Scripto Inferior

© Victor Rodriguez

Shadows at Dawn

© Jamie Ryder

SORROW

© Jamie Ryder

REGRET

© Jamie Ryder

REPRIEVE

© Jamie Ryder

REVELATION

© Jamie Ryder

PENANCE

© Jamie Ryder

End of the World Talk Show

© Rachel Brittain

Tickie-Tockers

© David Castlewitz

A Better Life

© Lawrence Dagstine

Hell on the High Plains

© C.W. Blackwell

The Revolution Engine

© Pedro Iniguez

A Dusty Arrival

© KC Grifant

A Slow Inoculation

© Dale Carothers

A Song to Charm the Beasts

© Wendy Klein

The Last Night of Pangea

© I. Punti

Los Lunas

© Nicole Kurtz

The Colossus at Blue Sea

© Gregory L. Norris

A Fifth World

© Matthew Maxwell

The Passion of Her Sleep

© T.C. Mill

About the Editor

About the Contributors

Newsletter

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Uchronia:

An Anthology of Alternate Histories & Alternate Worlds

© 2022 Zelda Knight (Limited)

All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written consent, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles, reviews, and so on. This is a work of fiction. Any semblance to persons, names, characters, organizations, places, events or incidents is the product of imagination. Any resemblance to the aforementioned is otherwise purely subliminal influence from an alternate timeline.

www.aurelialeo.com

ISBN-13: 978-1-954541-16-0 (ebook)

ISBN-13: 978-1-954541-17-7 (paperback)

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Previous Publications:

Los Lunas © Nicole Givens Kurtz (Tales of the Talisman #4, 2007)

Heartless © Krystal Claxton (Fantastic Stories of the Imagination #224, 2015)

Hyperion & Theia: An Illustrated Anthology (Volume One: Saturnalia) (2017)

Mystique: Lesbian and Gay Fantasy Romance (2020)

Uchronia: Alternate Histories & Alternate Worlds (2020)

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Editing by Zelda Knight

Cover Design by The Cover Collection

Book Design by Guild Graphic Design

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Printed in the United States of America

Second Edition:

11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

Retrograde

BY ZELDA KNIGHT

2022 has been a year of reflection. I started my small press in 2016, and nearly seven years later, I thought it was a perfect time to look back at the smaller anthologies that came out from AURELIA LEO: Hyperion & Theia: An Illustrated Anthology (Volume One: Saturnalia) (2017), Mystique: Lesbian and Gay Fantasy Romance (2020), Uchronia: Alternate Histories & Alternate Worlds (2020).

Each has its own unique charm and unusual backstory. Hyperion & Theia holds the special place of being the very first anthology I put together for publication, introducing me to wonderful authors. I intended Mystique to be an anthology series of LGBTQIA+ sci-fi & fantasy short stories, with two of the original works finding new life here.

Uchronia is, in fact, the second edition of a rather tumultuous anthology project. Originally conceived as two separate retrofuturistic anthologies of short speculative fiction (Gaslandia: A Dieselpunk Anthology and Hex Gunslinger: A Weird Western Anthology), it only came to fruition years later as a unified set.

An amalgamation of different anthologies put out by my press, this second edition of Uchornia samples some of the very best fiction I’ve had the pleasure to read, edit, and publish over the years. Finally, I wish to thank Italian illustrator Marga Biazzi and French artist Stefan Paris for licensing their gorgeous work in the previous iterations of this concept.

Enjoy your sojourn into these wonderfully weird, diverse, and queer alternate histories and alternate worlds brought to you in Uchronia!

March 13, 2022

Louisville, Kentucky

The United States of America

Short Synopses

In the Festival Tent © Dennis Mombauer: A demonic circus delivers a haunting finale.

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Heartless © Krystal Claxton: The Shebeast lurks in the forest and pulls at heartstrings.

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The Wizard of the Woods © Tyler Bourassa: Three women conspire to break an oath with a wicked witch.

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In the Shadow of Fire © H.R. Boldwood: The Herculaneum Scrolls reveal the role of ancient aliens.

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The Tribute © Rhidian Brenig Jones: A handsome tribute is chosen to serve the King and his Prince.

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Scripto Inferior © Victor H. Rodriguez: A Roman warrior and a warrior turned slave venture into the territory of a Queen of ancient Egypt.

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Shadows at Dawn © Jamie Ryder: Two cowboys track dark magic in the Wild Wild West.

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End of the World Talk Show © Rachel Brittain: You are a lone radio jockey after the apocalypse.

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Tickie-Tockers © David Castlewitz: A marine navigates close quarters in his wheelchair and the threat of joblessness due to mechanical men.

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A Better Life © Lawrence Dagstine: A wife, and mother, flees her abusive home in the Galilean cluster and finds refuge on Hermes.

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Hell on the High Plains © C.W. Blackwell: A magical huntress clashes with a demonic force.

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The Revolution Engine © Pedro Iniguez: When the Soviet Union invades Mexico, a U.S.-Mexico war veteran rallies Samalayuca refinery workers to fight back.

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A Dusty Arrival © KC Grifant: Gremlins battle a bounty huntress in the Weird Wild West.

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A Slow Inoculation © Dale Carothers: An adventurer who craves notoriety is consumed by cosmic horrors.

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A Song to Charm the Beasts © Wendy Nikel: Her enchanted flute charms the beasts, but can it bring her husband back home?

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The Last Night of Pangea © I. Punti: Pangea, a floating country, awaits the final strike by Continental soldiers.

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Los Lunas © Nicole Givens Kurtz: As the rainy season descends on Los Lunas, a terrible prophecy is fulfilled.

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The Colossus at Blue Sands © Gregory L. Norris: Colossal war robots trap military specialist in a government lab within the Cyan Desert.

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A Fifth World © Matthew Maxwell: Onboard the Current of Eagles, a disabled Native-American pilot confronts prejudice and radio warfare.

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The Passion of Her Sleep © T.C. Mill: A woman encounters an ethereal beauty at a peculiar gala.

In the Festival Tent

© DENNIS MOMBAUER

The path opens before the men into a clearing, and even from the distance, they can hear the dissonant music of the great festival tent and see its heavy canvas light up in manifold colors.

Yunrum is their leader, and he marches first toward the tent, greeting the other townspeople on his way. They stand around the clearing awkwardly, as if they are waiting for a secret signal that the festivities have begun; as if they are waiting for permission to enter the tent.

All the adults of the town have gathered, even the old and the sick, and Yunrum’s group is among the last to arrive. The tent begins to open like a blossoming flower, reaching out with its ropes and tarpaulins like straggling masses of tentacles. Mouths open, tongues roll out, and a multitude of eyes watch the spectacle of the congregated town.

As always, there is hesitation, a long pause while the men and women muster their courage. Yunrum steps forward, summons a grin to his face and walks toward the festival tent. Ivory teeth shimmer above the entrance in front of him, framing a darkness that sparkles with fairy dust, occasionally flashing blurs of color like the wings of insects trapped under glass. See you inside, he says to no one in particular, and then moves through the opened jaws.

There is sound and smell and taste washing over Yunrum from all sides like so many rainstorms. Prayer wheels rewind themselves while chanting backwards, and bowls of ash begin to burn and slowly reform into logs. Yunrum wanders along the path in their ever-changing light; his shadow swallowed by the void on both sides.

His steps produce no sound on the soft ground, and as he looks down, he discovers that his feet have become shorter. He watches one of his toes vanish, then another one, until there is nothing left but stumps—and fascinatingly, this isn’t accompanied by fear or pain.

A will-o-wisp dances over the path in some distance, its eerie light shining back from the tent walls. In the distance, buildings are visible as gray outlines, and the path leads in curved turns and twists toward them. This isn’t Yunrum’s first time at the Festival of Dissolution, and he remembers the rules well: go through the right door and pleasure awaits, go through the wrong one…and you may get lost.

Big trees emerge out of the darkness on both sides of the path, their trunks much wider than Yunrum could encompass with his arms. Some of them have faces in their bark, others open into yawning clefts and crevices, radiating vacuity and the occasional drifting snowflake. There are whispers here, promises of strange things: I will make your hair grow back inside you, one of them offers, while others talk about helping him unlearn speech (movements, habits), taking his senses away, or emptying him out inside.

Yunrum’s legs have now vanished up to his shins, but strangely, his head doesn’t sink any closer to the ground. One of his hands sparks and crackles soundlessly, consumed by pale St. Elmo’s fire that dances around his fingers and lets his palm glow blue.

He raises the hand to his face, observes the spectacle of his fingers disintegrating into cobalt-colored explosions and heatless cerulean flames. The nails wither away like paper sheets in a fire, exposing muscles and bones in a soft, pleasantly tingling sensation.

Around Yunrum’s eyes, drops of a sparkling fluid begin to aggregate, running down over his cheeks and exposing stripes of white nothingness in their trail. The tree branches hold up mirrors for him to see, their tops overloaded with reflecting glass like overripe fruit.

Yunrum’s left arm has vanished up to his shoulder, his legs have become completely invisible, and his floating face is just a fragmented patchwork of skin and blankness. None of this hurts, and even though it is completely different from all the other times Yunrum has visited the festival, he lets himself fall into his Dissolution without fear.

He is turning transparent, a disembodied ghost covered with the remains of a man, and now his senses begin to unwind. Time stops flowing linearly and distorts his vision into an avalanche of dissociated impressions. Sounds lose all volume, smells crumble into their constituent particles, the taste buds in his mouth fire all together in a bizarre chorus, and his other senses gradually get away from him.

Yunrum cannot see the tent or himself anymore, just feel the indescribable sentiment of getting tinier and fainter, of being removed from this world until nothing remains of him anymore.

Heartless

© KRYSTAL CLAXTON

Ishould leave the man in the dark, face down on the dirt path where I find him. Entangling myself in the affairs of a Shebeast is high on my list of things to avoid. But the chance that he still lives draws me in. Grunting, I roll his limp form to rest on his back, my breath turning to puffs of fog in the chill air.

His heartstrings splay from the wound in his chest like delicate red ribbons. Drained of heat and color, his face is lifeless—handsome with amber hair and strong brow, but empty nonetheless. She left him here for dead.

The sounds of unseen things prowling in the night pull my attention to the surrounding woods. I give him one last glance, intent on finding my way to safety, and see a wisp of vapor escape his lips. He stirs and coughs. Alive, if by the tiniest margin.

Morning dawns as I drag him to my cabin, though he does not stir again. It’s cold inside, but a fire lights easily in the hearth, filling the single room with a smoky-sweet aroma. I lay him on my cot, wondering if She will know Her discarded man is in another’s bed.

With tender care and nimble words, I weave the torn flesh of his chest. I have seen this damage many times in my life, not inflicted by this Shebeast but by my mother. She’d consumed many a helpless wanderer. Most deserved such treatment. Some did not.

Shebeasts teach their daughters and sons alike and she’d thought to impart her many words to me. I left her and learned to weave. Learned to make the poultices I now use on the injured stranger. Learned the words to mend a broken heart.

In the after-dusk of the second day, as I sit at his side brushing my fingers through the locks of amber hair, his eyes open. Sea-green with flecks of gold, they watch me; his brow creased in pain. I withdraw my hand, mindful of the intimacy of such contact.

He focuses on the log beams of the ceiling. Silent tears blossom, making his eyes shimmer in the dim light. His chest shudders. His limbs shake. I fear that all of the remedies I learned have failed me—the knowledge atrophied from disuse. Perhaps he will die just the same, my efforts meaningless. At least if he passes I know the Shebeast won’t come calling for him. For some reason I think it’d almost be better to face Her—I’ve witnessed so many end this way.

With a shaky voice I try some words. They feel hollow but hold power in times like these. You’re not alone.

I say these three words over and over. They are not the keenest three words I know, but I fear anything stronger will put his fragile body into shock.

Eventually, he drifts back to sleep.

Why did you bring me here? His tone is laden with the bitterness I’ve endured the week since he’s regained voice.

You’d have died if I’d left you.

He’s too weak to move from my bed, though he watches me sit at the roughhewn table, preparing an oily liniment.

I have nothing to offer you. You can’t gain anything from keeping me, he says.

While it’s true that there are many cherished things to be gained from a man, I’ve no intention of taking one. I don’t expect anything from you. When you’re strong enough, you can go on your way.

He glares at me with such lovely eyes.

Do you remember where you were going before…?

He shakes his head, but I see he’s fighting to remember. Should have left me, he mutters. Should have died.

I kneel and tug at the dirty bandages crisscrossed around his ribcage as he sits in my chair staring out the cabin’s single window.

He bats my fingers away and folds his arms over his chest, trying hard to hide the grimace as his movement enflames the wound. He hasn’t let me tend the injuries in days—hoping, I think, to bring on the consumption. It’s difficult to work on him if he’s not listening to my words.

Where are all the other people? he asks, not sparing me so much as a glance.

In towns and villages, I suspect.

Do people often come this way?

Not often. I’m still stooped beside him, eyeing the filthy cloth.

Why would you live out here alone?

It’s safer.

He tears his gaze from the window to look at me. For the first time, there is no mistrust in his expression, though his brow is creased and his lips are pressed into a tight line. He searches my face for something.

I clarify, Safer for them.

His eyes snap to my mine.

Now that I have his attention, I find the words are hard to draw out. I say, You’re safe here. I swear.

He averts his gaze then unfolds his arms, letting me near enough to do my work. A fetid scent reveals itself underneath the dressing and I wonder: Is he just obeying? Or does he believe me when I promise not to hurt him?

He smiles. It’s small and lasts only an instant, but it’s worth the weeks of waiting because he’s smiling at me.

I remove the bandages from his torso. The swelling is gone and the redness manageable. There will be scars, but for the first time I believe he might survive after all. I can see the idea reflected in his face as he runs the flat of his hand over his mending chest.

You’ll be healed before you know it, I say cheerfully, knowing the positive affect such commands have, though the sentiment doesn’t make me feel cheerful.

Does the Shebeast know Her man is healing? That there’s something to be had if She comes to claim him? My mother always did. If he stays, I will have to face Her.

But I have trouble imagining a scenario where he might stay. Most don’t survive a Shebeast, even with help. He’s resilient. It’s that resiliency that will carry him into the world beyond my cabin and leave my house empty again.

I know many words—I could make him stay…

I remind myself that I’m not my mother.

I was traveling to the mountains, he announces one day, after the cooler season gives way to daylight heat. He’s strong enough to leave me now. If he doesn’t stray into the woods, he might make it on his own.

I’ve grown accustomed to starting at every distant cry, at every snapped branch. She’s coming. I feel it. I force myself not to care. She isn’t here now. Right now he is filling the cabin with his soft voice, his brief smiles.

We talk about the village on the coast where he was born. I imagine him brought up by a kind, loving mother and perhaps aided by sisterly confidants or auntly advice. He never stood a chance against something like Her. Something like me.

I finally remember why I came here.

I ask.

There’s a village. I was offered work. His sea-green eyes are on me, watching as I sort herbs into bundles and position them next to clay jars on the wooden table. I’m a teacher. The mountain village hasn’t had a proper teacher in years.

It sounds like they need you. I shove a sticky clove into a jar and slam the lid on tight.

Yes. Some uncertain question rests in his posture, though I pretend not to notice.

Do you still want to go there? I ask.

He fingers the tendril-like scars hidden beneath the shirt I’ve given him as he considers.

I’ve grown so used to tending his wounds with salve and command that the words form unbidden on my lips, You’re stronger than you know.

I don’t think you’re half as dangerous as you think you are, he says. Only a few days have passed and the sunlight is growing warmer through the cabin’s window.

If you stay, I suspect you’ll find out. I shove the bundle against his firm chest.

You’ve given me enough. He hands it back.

I throw my hands up so that he must choose between keeping hold and letting the foodstuffs tumble out of the cloth sack onto the floor. He manages to gather it up.

He smiles at me, soft and warm, as he accepts the gift. I don’t want to leave you here alone.

I like being alone.

Do you? I can’t tell if it’s an accusation or a question.

When I don’t answer, he lingers.

You don’t owe me anything, I say.

I know.

You don’t need me anymore.

I know.

I open the door for him. As he looks from me to the outside world, I dig my fingers into my sleeves to stop them trembling.

I know he’ll be okay—I’ve seen him recover, seen his strength. He’ll be fine. If he leaves now, before She comes. But She’s taking too long to get here. I might have claimed him by the time She arrives. I’m fighting down all these words that I know can force him to stay, can make him mine.

He has to go now. Maybe just one more command? Go.

I watch him disappear over the crest of a soft, tree-speckled hill, violet mountains looming beyond. The fight to stay in my doorway after he’s gone causes the muscles in my legs to burn.

The Shebeast stands all red lips and half-exposed bosom at my door. She’s wearing a dress that hugs Her curvy, woman’s form, looking somehow both ravenous and fragile.

I have nothing for you, I tell Her, though Her piercing blue eyes bore into me just the same.

It was you, She says, as though She’s speaking to Herself.

I grip the door’s handle and wonder if I’ll have the power to shut Her out. I doubt it.

This time She addresses me, You inflicted the words for love on my man.

Alarm raises the hackles on my neck. I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Her eyes slide up and down my frame, impressed. Yes, you do. You stole his heart from me.

You left little heart to steal, as I recall. I’m stalling now.

There was worth left in him, a smirk, if he’d recovered.

Well, he recovered. And he’s days gone by now. I stole nothing.

Then why was he coming back to you this morning?

An icy chill crawls across my skin. What?

At first I thought he was returning to me. A wistful smile flickers over Her features. But when I tried to claim him, he told me he wanted you. She leans in, conspiringly. I’ve only heard tale of the command for love. You must tell me how you did it.

In my mind, I sift through memories of him for some hidden word I let slip. I wouldn’t. I’m unsure. I didn’t.

Her arched eyebrows bunch down, drawing a line over Her eyes that contrasts eerily with the smile still spread across Her painted lips. She runs a delicate fingernail along my collarbone as She leans into me. Now, don’t be greedy. You stole one of my toys. You owe me recompense.

A tingle radiates from Her touch, down. I want to answer Her question, but the words don’t form in my mind. I don’t know what I did.

Her smile melts away. Liar.

I only now realize how suffocatingly close She is to me. I’m not holding the doorknob any more—we’ve moved into the cabin.

You’re just the same as me. No better. I can see that you never cared for him, She says. I’ve let Her in and now I feel Her words slash across my chest.

I cared. I’m trying to ease away, but the table blocks my escape.

Then why haven’t you asked me where he is?

I can feel Her pull on my heartstrings. The muscles in my throat constrict as I fight against the compulsion to ask, Where is he?

She licks Her lips as She wraps one hand around my shoulder, holding me in place. Her attention is focused on the warm blossom of blood on my shirt when She answers, Oh, he’s very, very dead. Her eyes flick up to mine, and the painted smile returns, I made sure this time.

She expects my heart to collapse now. Her eyes narrow, intent on my chest. Her lips part. She’s holding Her breath. Something inside of me snaps…But it’s not my heart.

I say, You’re not very good at this.

Confusion tinges Her features.

You can’t just walk into my home and take my life. It takes finesse. Grace. Subtlety.

She releases my shoulder, edging back a step. I have you.

I laugh. You are the worst Shebeast I’ve ever seen.

A shallow scratch forms over Her high cheekbone. She tries to recoil into indignation, but I see through Her and I know the words to use. You couldn’t keep him. You can’t get to me. What can you do?

I—

I don't let Her get an edged word in, You what? Made him want you? Love you? Then why was it so easy for me to take him from you? You can’t even keep hold of one man.

I smile at Her, only because I want so badly to add insult to the injury I inflict when I say, Your mother must be so proud.

She tries to hide Her wobbling chin with a hand over Her mouth. Her other hand hugs tight around Her middle.

I ignore the burning scratches on my chest as I cut Her down and slice Her up. I’ve seen these words used before. Some of them are true. Many are not. It doesn’t matter, because She believes they are true. When Her tight dress is soaked in blood and Her tongue is tied, She retreats from my home, stumbling on the threshold.

I stalk out after Her, but as She flees for the woods, I turn in the other direction. Breathless, I run toward the mountains.

The path is narrow and lousy with overgrown weeds and tall grasses. Thinning trees cast erratic shadows in the failing light. I’m running at full speed, but my eyes search the grasses for his body. My heart pounds in my chest. If he’s beyond my saving, if he’s already gone…

I’m so intent on finding his broken body at my feet that I don’t notice when we’re about to collide.

My breath whooshes into my lungs as I come up short. He raises his hands to help stop my momentum and balances me.

He’s alive. Fresh scratches snake his neck and blood soaks the shirt over his forearm, but otherwise he’s fine. I press a palm to my chest, over my thudding heart, trying to catch my breath.

Hands wrapped around my shoulders, he asks, Are you all right?

His eyes are wide. The smell of sweat and blood mingle, and I feel moisture wicking into my shirt beneath his palms. He must have been running to meet me after his encounter with the Shebeast.

I nod as I gulp down air. I…thought you were…I thought She…

You’re safe. His words are steady, calming. I’m right here. Did She hurt you?

She tried, but I guess I was stronger.

He laughs, a hearty, rumbling noise alive with relief. I could have told you that.

I look away and he releases me. I silently wish he’d keep holding me even though I’m steady on my feet. What are you doing here?

His gold-flecked eyes watch me. I missed you.

You shouldn’t have come. She might’ve killed you.

He’s unconcerned. She can’t hurt me anymore.

I might kill you.

He almost shakes his head, leaving his face at an angle. Maybe. But it’s my decision to stay or go.

I thought you had someplace to be?

He brushes my cheek with warm fingers. I do. Come with me?

I look back over the unkempt path. Beyond the grove, swallowed by the dense woods, there is a cabin, small and alone. It was a haven once. I cannot imagine returning there now.

When I turn toward him, I shut my eyes tight, throw my arms around his chest, and squeeze. He holds me, gentle and insistent, pressing my face into his shoulder. I feel his heart beat beneath his skin.

I know it beats for me.

The Wizard of the Woods

© TYLER BOURASSA

The pain was something beyond reckoning. They’d all warned her, of course. Her mother, the other women in the village, and that crusty old witch whose breath was always beguilingly sweet. Their words, though, were nothing, like the moaning of the wind when compared to the actual experience of giving birth.

It was a burning, tearing pain. As if someone had her gripped by her sex and was trying to pull her apart like a bit of flatbread. She’d expected that pain; it made sense to her. What she didn’t expect was the horrible clenching pressure inside of her. Her insides felt like they were being squeezed and pressed to the size of a pebble. They promised that it would all be worth it in the end. That when she finally laid eyes on her child, she’d willingly go through such pain every day for the beautiful creature she’d birthed.

Yeli could only hope that they were right.

By the gods, girl! Relax yer cunny! If ye keep it clenched up all tight like that yer gonna suffocate this poor child o’ yours! Harna growled, then patted Yeli twice on the bone above her sex.

Listen to her, Larra whispered into Yeli’s ear. She’s seen more babes come shrieking into this world than you or I have seen setting suns, I’d vow. Relax yourself, then push. Your body and your babe will do the rest.

Yeli tried to focus on her mother’s voice and obey, as she’d done all her life. Her mother was always giving her commands in the form of carefully phrased advice that left no room for discussion. Larra had even set up Yeli’s marriage to the chieftain, ensuring her a position of power and authority in the village. All it cost Yeli was the occasional black eye and a bit of time on her back or knees as Garfang took his pleasure as a man.

Larra speaks right, girl. Juss relax and it’ll all be over soon, I’d vow, Harna said from between Yeli’s legs.

Yeli wanted to scream at them both, but she knew they were right. She was clenched up, she couldn’t relax and it wasn’t just the horrible pain. She was worried more than anything that she’d give birth to a girl and the babe would be given to the witch. The old pact must be honored, everyone said. The pact between chieftain and witch.

You’re almost there, Larra said.

Yeli grunted as she felt another contraction coming on. By all the gods it hurt. It hurt worse than when she’d put her hand in the campfire as a girl, or when she’d broken her leg and had to spend the summer watching all the other kids play. The pain was all consuming, like a burning sun tearing its way out of her.

She pushed as hard as she could. There was more pain, blinding, crippling pain, then she heard her babe wailing its greeting and there was only relief. The pain receded to a dull ache, and the absence of the tearing and pressure was better than any lovemaking she’d ever had.

Yeli saw Harna bite through the ropey thing that connected her to her babe, and she winced, expecting more pain, but felt nothing. Her mother frowned, and Yeli saw a look of sympathy cross Harna’s craggy old face. Is it a boy or a girl? Yeli asked.

Larra pulled Harna away, and the two of them spoke in hushed whispers. Yeli strained to hear but couldn’t make out what they were saying over the crackling of the fire. She looked at her babe, who was staring at her curiously from Larra’s arms. The child had brilliant green eyes that were shining back at her, and Yeli saw a bit of herself in that clear gaze. It was then that she knew the truth: it was a girl. With that realization something came to life deep inside Yeli, then hardened, giving her a strength she’d never had before, or if she did, it had been slumbering until this very moment.

Bring me my child, Yeli said.

Larra glanced at Yeli and gave what she must have thought was a reassuring smile, but only served to annoy Yeli.

Bring me my babe now or I will take her from you, and not be gentle as I do it, Yeli growled, and this time both of the women took note.

Larra turned to her daughter in surprise when she heard the commanding tone in Yeli’s voice. She smiled once more, then approached, holding Yeli’s babe in loose arms, as if frightened to hold it too close and be infected by its fate.

It’s best if you do not touch it, my daughter. A mother has a tendency to bond to her babe when she does, and this one is sworn to the witch. From the look in your eyes it would seem that you already know that, I’d vow, Larra said. Now, I’ll take it to Garfang and he’ll give it to the witch, as is the custom for the firstborn daughter of the chieftain. You’ll never have to touch it, my sweet, mother will take care of that.

Yeli frowned at her mother. You will not rob me of holding my child. You forced me into Garfang’s bed as you’ve forced me into doing everything else in my life, but you will not take my child from me. Yeli’s eyes snapped to Harna, who was slowly inching toward the door. Stay still, old woman. I have words for you as well, but first, my child.

Larra handed the babe to her and Yeli looked down at her child in amazement. Love welled up in her heart. A love such as she’d never known before, and in that moment she knew that she’d suffer all the pain in the world for this child, every day, again and again. A plan came to her, and she looked at the other two women in the room.

Hear me well, you two, Yeli commanded, and they did

The next evening, Garfang’s warriors were crammed into his feasting hall, celebrating the birth of his son and heir. He held the carefully swaddled babe in a massive arm, grinning down at it. You did well, Yeli. A boy on your first try! Garfang laughed and glanced at the witch sitting to his right. You were sure that it would be a girl, Malera! Perhaps you’re slipping in your old age!

Malera flashed Garfang a look of hatred, but he was too wrapped up in his child to notice. "It would seem so, Garfang. Strange, since I have never been wrong before. I’d like to hold the child, if you