BeneathCeaselessSkies Issue007

  Issue #7 • Jan. 01, 2009

  “Snake in the Glass,” by P E Cunningham

  “Sand-Skin Man,” by K C Shaw

  For more stories and Audio Fiction Podcasts, visit

  http://beneath-ceaseless-skies.com/

  Snake in the Glass

  P. E. Cunningham

  “Therese, my favorite customer, look what I’ve got for you!” Marchand the peddler clambered up onto her kitchen chair and plopped his pack down on her table. He plunged his hands into the pack’s canvas folds and drew out a double fistful of gems. “Each cursed—blessed! Blessed, I mean—with a special gift. Only a mistress of magics such as yourself has the talent to tap their energies.”

  Therese eyed the gems, and the dwarf, doubtfully. “I know you, Marchand. If these stones had any worth, you’d have sold them already.”

  “But they’d make a pretty necklace—oh, never mind.” Dropping both the jewels and the pitch, he pulled out a set of small, aromatic sachets. “Herbs! Herbs for brews and potions, fresh from the exotic lands beyond—”

  “I grow my own, Marchand.”

  “How about fresh bones? I know you don’t favor the dark arts, but a good mage can always find use for—”

  “These are chicken bones, Marchand.”

  “They are? That thief of a trader! Next time I’ll bring you his bones. Ah! Here’s a needful item.” He displayed a woody tuber. “Calca root? I know you don’t grow that around here.”

  “Let me see.” Therese took the tuber, tapped it, sniffed it. Marchand had a point: calca didn’t grow this far north. If it were real, it would expand the length and depth of her visions. If not—well, she could always make soup from it. “I’ll take this. What else do you have?”

  Emboldened by victory, Marchand practically upended his pack. Therese bore his spiels with well-honed patience. Along with the crystals and the lotions and the so-called magic rings, the little swindler occasionally got his hands on something truly magical. There was little enough magic left in the country, after Lord LeKestra’s cleansing.

  She selected a book—nonmagical; she just enjoyed reading—and a few stalks of shadegreen from Marchand’s wares. Shadegreen, ground and brewed, could freshen dry goats and cows, and sometimes milkless mothers. That much she could do, at least, for her neighbors in the simple village where she’d taken refuge, and not catch LeKestra’s watchful eye.

  She wondered sometimes—only idle musing, mind—what she would do if presented with real strength or means to make a difference. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a magic sword in there. Even an enchanted dagger would be nice.”

  “You don’t want weapons. Weapons cause trouble. In the wrong hands they get you killed.” A mouse scurried behind the walls of Therese’s cottage, and Marchand flinched. Even a lowlife peddler such as himself risked LeKestra’s sting. “Are you sure we’re secure here?”

  “Of course we’re secure. LeKestra’s got more on his mind than this backwater.” Like hunting the rest of us down. “Don’t worry, Marchand. If someone were planning an uprising, I’d tell you. I know it would mean fat profits for you.”

  “Dear Therese. You’ve been a good friend to me, and a valued customer. One who keeps her mouth shut about her sources. That’s why I saved this for you.”

  Marchand rummaged deep in his pack and brought out a crystal ball, about the size of a head of lettuce. Therese bit down on a groan. Did he honestly think —

  No, wait. Something writhed within the glass—long and slim and serpentine. She leaned in closer, then abruptly recoiled as the flash of scales registered. “Gah! Get it away!”

  “What?” Startled, Marchand nearly dropped the ball. He fumbled frantically and managed to fumble it intact and unchipped to the table. He set it at a safe distance from the both of them. “Is it dangerous?”

  “I’ve no idea.” Therese shuddered. “I just don’t like snakes.”

  “Really?” Marchand said, with a little Oh, is that all shrug. “But it’s powerful. Magical. Can’t you feel it?”

  Of course she could feel it. Now that it was out of the pack the snake flailed against the glass like a thing alive. Like a soul fighting for survival. Abruptly it stopped and fixed her with a stare like molten emeralds. She could almost taste its desperation.

  Without taking her own wary eyes from the snake, Therese said, “Where did you find that ... thing?”

  “There’s others.” Marchand’s voice went sly. “I can get you one with something else, something more, well, lovable. I’ve noticed you don’t keep a familiar. How about one with a cat?” His eyes flicked in quick irritation toward the scrabble in the walls. “You could use a cat.”

  “I’m allergic.” The snake’s eyes bored into hers. Its expression seemed ... beseeching. Therese knew little and cared less about reptiles, but even she found that look odd.

  “But it is powerful magic, right?” Marchand persisted hopefully. “You can practically smell it. So some magic-worker’s going to want it.”

  “Someone else. Not me.” She broke the stare between them. “And no, I don’t want a different one. I don’t want anything to do with a kind of magic like that.”

  Marchand shrugged again. “Your loss. If you change your mind, however....” He scooped up the ball. The snake thrashed against the glass. Therese hid her eyes until Marchand restored it to his pack.

  “I won’t change my mind. But—have you been to the foothills yet?”

  “My very next destination. Is it oils you’re wanting? Calamix leaves? I know a man—”

  “So do I. He’s a mage named Yves. He lives in the mountains. I’ll bet he’d buy your snake. It’s the type of magic he enjoys.” A thin smile touched Therese’s lips. She’d never cared for Yves. “If not him, then friends of his. The dark arts don’t bother them.”

  “Well, they bother me. But a copper’s a copper. Or a silver. Or a slice of gold, eh?” He winked. The snake had looked more honest. “Anything you’ll be wanting? For on my trip back.”

  “Oh, all right. Fish oils.” They were fairly bland in spells, but made for a good meal. She’d been doing a lot of cooking lately. Even put on a few pounds. Frustration, probably. Not being able to openly practice her arts.

  At some point, someday, someone would move against LeKestra. But not Therese and her meager spells. She intended what life she had left be a long one. She shook hands with Marchand to seal their bargain, and paid him for her purchases. “Are you sure I can’t get you a cat?” Marchand said. “It doesn’t have to stay in the house. You can—”

  “No cats, Marchand. And no dogs, ponies, squirrels or raccoons. Definitely no more snakes.” She kept the table between herself and Marchand and the thing inside his pack. She could feel it rubbing at the edge of her senses. It left a smear of—oddly—hopelessness.

  “Fish oils. Maybe a few surprises. I’m good at finding things.” Marchand waved to her merrily, coins jingling in his purse. Therese let him get well down the street before she shut the door.

  I’m not sorry, she told herself. The thing was beyond me. Beyond my talents. Besides, I know how those things work. You buy it on a whim, then you put it beside your bed, and while you sleep it sucks the life out of you. I’m not putting myself into any form of danger, thank you very much. Dark arts and revolutions are for Yves and his cronies. Not me.

  Anyway, snakes are so ... icky.

  Absently she patted her stomach. Her gut was starting to swell against the fabric of her robe. Definitely putting on weight.

  A mouse scuttled beneath the floorboards. “Oh, do be quiet,” Therese snapped at it, and swept into the kitchen.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Once, in a happier, more secure lifetime, Therese h
ad slept with her doors unlocked, even in the heart of the city. After all, what thief would risk retaliation from even the lowest of conjurers? That was before LeKestra’s men swept through the streets, armed with their swords and their charms against magic. The clamor of battle and eruptions of power, and the screams, had been warning enough. While the soldiers busied themselves with the most powerful mages, those on the fringes, like Therese, had been able to make their escape.

  These days she slept lightly, with doors bolted and windows latched. And, when she had the makings or a sense of unease, with a low-level ward around her cottage.

  The ward woke her just after midnight. The shrill whistle in her mind jolted her upright. It was followed, in her ears, by the crash of the shutters, and a sharp cry of surprise. All around, mice darted for cover.

  Therese leaped from bed, her robe clutched about her. She snatched up a bag of blinding powder, then a knife. She’d kept both by her bedside since that night. If they’d come for her and her small sorry magics, they’d find her no easy kill.

  But it wasn’t a soldier or assassin trapped in the magical glow beneath her hearthroom window. Just a young man in muddy homespun. He clawed at the nimbus that had netted him, as if trying to rip through cobwebs. The tongue he cursed in was unfamiliar to her.

  He noticed Therese, and stopped struggling. His eyes jumped at once to her knife. In the language of the north he said, “Don’t kill me.”

  “You broke into my cottage. Why shouldn’t I?”

  “I tried the door. It was locked.” He shoved at the nimbus. It swallowed his struggles. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “I doubt if you can.”

  “Look, I know you have it. Just give it to me and I’ll go.”

  Therese folded her arms, without easing her grip on her weapons. “I think you’ll go anyway, down to the sheriff. Without it, whatever it is.”

  “Please.” The man stopped struggling. His eyes implored her. She had felt the impact of such pleading before. Recently. “You must have it. I followed it here. And I know you’re a witch.”

  Therese stiffened. “Who says I’m a witch?”

  He shrugged within the glow of net. “Your scent. You smell like magic.”

  Not a statement you’d get from the average farm boy. It seemed far too coincidental, but ... “This it. Would it be a snake encased in glass?”

  “Yes, yes! That’s all I want. Anything you want for it, I’ll pay you.”

  “Why? You’re clearly not a mage. What do you want it for?”

  “I have to have it back. I—” He clapped his lips shut on the sentence. Therese saw the struggle in his eyes. With words, with trust. Finally he slumped within the nimbus. “All right, curse you. I need it. That snake—it’s mine. It’s me.”

  Therese eased back a step. “Shapechanger?”

  “Until recently. Until that part of my self was ripped out of me. What you see is all that’s left.” His lips twisted into a sneer. His crumpled form on the floor blunted the effect. “You want to taunt me? Wave my stolen spirit in my face? Don’t bother. Just slit my throat. I’ve had enough of conjurers’ cruelty.”

  She wouldn’t have called it cruelty. Bias, perhaps. Prejudice and distrust. No one, it seemed, cared for shapechangers. The reasons lay buried in ancient feuds, and a wariness towards those who were different or even more different than you.

  But she’d never heard of this, sundering a shapechanger from his animal self. That would take a mighty magic indeed. A kind she hadn’t thought anyone dared use openly any more.

  “Who did this to you?” she asked.

  “I don’t know his name, or his reasons. I never even saw his face. I only know it was one of you.” He sank in upon himself, radiating defiance. He was trying, Therese realized, to coil.

  So young, so helpless. At her mercy. That realization brought an inward shudder. With a gentleness that astonished her, she told him, “I don’t have it. It left here with a peddler named Marchand.”

  “You’re lying. I tracked it to here—”

  “If your self were in this place, so close, wouldn’t you know it?”

  That silenced him. He glanced around the room. The tip of his tongue appeared, tasting the air. He turned his head to peer at her. “But you’re a witch. And it’s magic.”

  “Not my kind of magic. Anyway, I find snakes repugnant. No offense.”

  He growled something in his own tongue and flexed against the glow. Cautiously, against her better judgment, Therese crossed the room. The netted man stilled, his gaze now on her knife. She touched the blade to the glowing web. The nimbus split like a cocoon. She pocketed the blinding powder, but kept the knife ready as she offered her hand.

  The shapechanger ignored her proffered aid and stumbled to his feet. Instinctively she reached out to steady him. His skin was supple and warm to the touch. She’d expected sliminess, and scales.

  For a moment they both gaped at her hand on his forearm. He raised his eyes to hers. Whatever he saw there caused him to yank his arm away. He leaned against the wall to get his footing. “Well,” he said gruffly, “if you don’t have it, I’ll be going then. Sorry to have bothered you.”

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort. You’re in my home now _— that makes you my guest. Come, sit down and have a cup of tea. Perhaps a bite to eat as well. You look ghastly.”

  “I don’t need anything from your kind,” he spat, but the weariness in his eyes said otherwise. He didn’t resist when she guided him into the kitchen to a chair. She noticed how hungrily he peered at the walls, and the sounds of the scampering mice. “Well ... maybe a cup of tea.”

  Therese put a kettle on the fire, careful not to turn her back. “What’s your name?”

  “Uh?” He dragged his attention away from the walls. “Oh. Philemon. Phil will do.” He tried to smile.

  “Philemon,” she said firmly. “I’m Therese.” She set an apple, a chunk of cheese, and a slab of bread before him. He thrust the bread into his mouth and tried to swallow it whole. After a bout of near-choking, he settled for chewing instead. Therese, who had gone through her own period of hunger and scrounging before the village took her in, refrained from scolding. “Now, Philemon, here’s how it’s going to go. I’m going to feed you, and we’re going to share a cup of tea. Then I’m going back to bed, and you’re going to sleep in the hearthroom. In the morning we’ll track down Marchand and see about getting your spirit back.”

  Crumbs flew as he made muffled noises of protest. Therese held up her hand. “Stop sputtering and listen. By now Marchand has denned for the night, no doubt in a noisy, smelly, and very public place. He has coins in his purse and he’ll want to spend them, so he definitely won’t be alone. If you go after him now, tired and weak as you are, you’ll be easily captured. I needn’t tell you what will happen then.”

  He swallowed hastily. “I can’t afford to wait—”

  “I know. I felt it when I touched you. You’re dying.”

  He went still as a cobra, searching her eyes. “Wasting,” he said finally. “Wasting away. It’s a lot like dying, but it takes longer.”

  “But it leaves us a little time, at least. You don’t even know which way he’s gone. I do. You eat, you rest, and in the morning we’ll go after him. He won’t be traveling very fast, not after the night I’m sure he’s having now. I hope you’re up for a hike.”

  Philemon considered, then curved his fingers around the apple. He rubbed his fingertips along its skin. “Why?”

  Therese quietly sipped her tea. Behind her cool facade roiled memories of screams and the stench of spoilt power, and the chafe of festering magic that dared not be worked in the open. Wasting away, indeed. “Because no one should have to die like that. Not even a snake, or a shapechanger.”

  “Oh.” He nibbled on the apple thoughtfully. After a while he said, “Thank you.”

  “Thank me when we’ve caught up with Marchand. He won’t enjoy parting with profits.”

  “He’d
better get used to it.” He took a bite and chewed. “The snake. Did you see it? Was it still—”

  “Quite lively.” She shuddered. He chuckled. She glowered at him. “Drink your tea.”

  Philemon applied himself to his meal without speaking again. While he ate, Therese made up a pallet for him in the hearthroom and rekindled the fire. Finishing, she looked up to see him leaning in the doorway, watching her. “You’re a good hostess, for a conjurer.”

  “You’ve been a polite guest, for what you are. So far.”

  “Hsst. I’m no threat, the shape I’m in. Or not in.” He tittered and took a step into the room. His legs wobbled. “You put something in the tea, didn’t you?”

  “You’ll sleep more soundly.” Therese took his arm and guided him to the pallet. “And so will I.”

  He spewed a weak hiss. “It’s the vipers, isn’t it? They give us all a bad name. I’m a speckled python. A constrictor. I don’t even have any venom—” He folded, and his body hit the pallet with a thump. He lolled on the sheets and snored softly.

  Therese gazed down at him, shook her head and thought, I am a fool.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The road to Yves’ hideaway followed a well-traveled trade route into the foothills. Therese was certain Marchand would keep to that road as long as possible. “He hates the woods,” she said to Philemon, with a nod at the trees that lined the road. “He’ll stay in the open, where travel is easy and potential customers pass on a regular basis.”

  “Are you sure he came this way?”

  “It’s the quickest route to the mountains. And the easiest, if he’s dealing with a hangover. We ought to catch up to him soon.”

  “We’d better,” Philemon growled. The food and rest had added strength to his stride and pertness to his tongue. “I can’t believe you didn’t buy me. The me in the glass, I mean.”

  “I told you, I’m not that kind of a mage. I do simple healing spells. I find lost lambs and children. I make crops and babies grow. What I felt from the glass—it frightened me. Not just because it was a snake.”