Magazine Beneath Ceaseless Skies 152 (pdf)

Issue #152 • July 24, 2014

“The Topaz Marquise,” by Fran Wilde

“What Needs to Burn,” by Sylvia Anna Hiven

For more stories and Audio Fiction Podcasts, visit

http://beneath-ceaseless-skies.com/

Beneath Ceaseless Skies Issue #152

THE TOPAZ MARQUISE

by Fran Wilde

The man waiting outside my studio three days before the

new year was dark with travel, his cloak ragged and mud-
stained. The gray hollows around his eyes and beneath his

cheekbones proclaimed his business. Even so, I feared I would
be robbed before our exchange ended.

“What are you selling?” I held the heavy brass key in my

hand like a weapon, refusing to unlock the studio door. Beyond

the thin wooden barrier, a rough amethyst the size and texture
of a shelled walnut waited on my cutting tray to be improved.

The man before me could never enter that room.

“A gem,” he said. His accent put a flat country note to the

‘e’. A fleck of spit remained on his lip, white foam against
cracked red flesh. “From the Valley.”

I held out my free hand. The wretched man placed into it a

large wad of linen. Still, I doubted his claim. Valley gems were

plentiful in rumor and rare in reality. A good jeweler learned to
trace a gem’s origin before he made a purchase he couldn’t

profit from later. I owned my shop and the studio above it, in a
tower within the city walls. I wasn’t about to make a bad buy.

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I peeled the linen back, the gray of its outer layer revealing

a white underside. Within the nest of fabric lay a large yellow

topaz, cut in the old style.

“My dear man,” I said. “This is no Valley gem. It’s neither

ruby nor sapphire, diamond, nor emerald. This is topaz, or
citrine. And, worse, it doesn’t sing. I’m told Valley gems sing.”

But I kept hold of the stone, and the man noticed.

“Two gold graeli,” he said. “The topaz will sing for the right

jeweler.”

I flipped my hand over, fingers curled around the topaz

and its wrapping. Made as if to hand it back to him. “Not
interested.” I reached the brass key towards my studio door.

“Thirty silver.” His voice broke.
“I will give you twenty,” I said. The man was desperate. I

was certain I could cut the old topaz into three more popular
shapes and sell each for that much, or more.

My day was starting off fine, and when Lise, my assistant,

arrived, it would get better still. I pocketed the topaz and drew

a purse from my sleeve. The man’s fingers shook the coins
together as I counted them out.

What a marvelous stone. I imagined it transformed to a

brooch or a ring. A pair of drop earrings. Glittering in the

perfect setting: bezel or clutch, wrap or pin...

The man was staring at me, as if awaiting a response.

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“You shouldn’t linger,” I said quickly and waved him away.

“The local sheriff comes around often.”

As the man shuffled down the narrow stairs to the street

outside my shop, I unlocked the studio, closed the door

carefully behind me, then hurried to my workbench.

By the time Lise arrived, I had the gem cleaned of the

wanderer’s grime. She opened the door with a clatter, her own
key swinging from a black ribbon around her neck, and

bobbled a basket of crullers from the baker, nearly dropping
them. Morning light filled the studio and lit Lise’s orange-red

hair like a nimbus. She laughed when she saw the topaz. “Oh! A
marquise! Don’t see many of them anymore.”

“They’re out of fashion, yes, but look at the color.” I was

training her to be more than an assistant. She had a good eye

for ornamentation, and for how much a client was willing to
pay.

As Lise looked, the light passed through the topaz, which

was very large, thirty carats, and threw a dappled yellow cast

over her cheeks. Her eyes seemed tinted with jaundice in the
glare of the gem. I dropped it on my workbench with a clatter.

“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I was thinking if I planned to cut the stone, it

would be well to do it now, before Chambers comes.”

“You finished his order?”

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“Not yet.” Chambers was my best customer. He could not

use the more venerable jewelers, but his lady loved new

baubles. Better still for me, his money far exceeded his taste.
His latest commission was a gold bracelet, cast in the shape of

a naked woman. I had completed the wax model but needed his
approval to continue. The carving, in thick maroon wax, sat on

my oak worktable, in the shade where the sun would not melt
it.

Lise looked the figure over. The woman’s fingertips

touched her toes where the clasp would go. Her arching back

formed the curve of the bracelet. Flowing hair covered her
breasts and hips. On her face, I’d carved a look of mild ecstasy.

I ducked my head to focus on the topaz, so that Lise would

not see me blushing. Though the hair was long and would be

flaxen in the final work, I’d realized too late that the face I’d
carved on the bracelet was Lise’s own.

When she put the bracelet down without reaction and

continued moving about the studio, straightening things, I

breathed more easily. She wasn’t one to look in a mirror, so she
likely hadn’t noticed.

Lise went to open the shop, while I began to mark the

topaz with my grease pencil. No one would buy a marquise

nowadays, and few would want a stone so yellow, despite the
perfection of the facets. Large gems were all but out of fashion

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in the city. A few heads of state from the outer kingdoms still
wore them when they visited, but they could get away with

garishness. Our city, with its thriving port, set the style for the
surrounding kingdoms. That settled it. The marquise topaz

would make two perfect trillions and a baguette. Earrings and a
pendant, at least. Someone’s lady would be very happy.

The shop bell rang below, and Lise greeted a customer.

When the bell chimed again, I heard her singing, though I

couldn’t make out the words. She sang when she’d sold a piece.
How exquisite. Lise had grown as good at coaxing purchases

from clients as I was at shaping wax and jewels.

I prepared my diamond saw, making sure there was

enough tension on the blade to cut the gem cleanly, then lifted
the topaz once more to the light.

...
“What are you doing, sir?” Lise’s voice cut through my

thoughts. I lowered the gem. “Chambers comes in an hour.
Don’t you want lunch?”

She held out a wrapped sandwich. I saw that the morning

light I loved so much had changed to the bright angles of noon.

The topaz, uncut, sweated in my hand.
“What have you been doing all morning?” Lise asked

again. I could not answer her. I had no memory of doing
anything besides preparing the topaz. I took the sandwich—

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cheese and a slice of beef on a thick rye bread—in my free hand
and crammed my mouth full.

Lise looked at me strangely, then pulled me to the table

where we often took our lunches together to talk about the

shop. “Won’t you sit and eat?”

I chewed and sat. The topaz fell from my hand to the table.

I swallowed. “I was going to cut it. Into three.”

“You have been working too hard,” she said and patted my

hand. Her touch made me jump. After the cold facets of the
gem, her fingers felt like fire. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“No my dear, I am the one who must apologize.” I put my

hand over hers and held it there for perhaps too long.

Below the open window, the baker greeted Chambers with

merriment and a crude joke. Chambers returned the jest in

kind and both laughed. Then my client’s riding boots clattered
on the stairs.

I rose and put the topaz on my workbench, covered in its

linen wrap, and gathered up the wax model. It was my custom

to greet Chambers at the door.

“I can’t stay,” he said. “Very inconvenient, all these

approvals.”

I understood completely, but Chambers’s satisfaction was

a fleeting thing. Well that I had required his approval, as
Chambers shook his head almost at once.

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“It’s not wrong,” he said. “But it’s not quite enough.” His

hands shaped curves in the air. “And her hair is never

completely down. Can you change that?”

I said that I would, and invited him to return in the

morning.

Lise asked leave to visit her father in the afternoon, so I sat

in the shop in her place, sold two pairs of gold earrings to a
dowager, and worked on the wax model.

* * *

The next morning, I returned to the shop from my

apartment across town, taking the stairs to the studio two at a
time. I’d re-carved the wax figure for Chambers’s bracelet so

that the breasts were gloriously revealed and the figure’s hair
was coiled in an ancient style atop her head, with tresses

streaming down the back and over her hips. Even in dark wax,
the result was some of my favorite work to date. I was eager to

see how it looked in the light.

Lise met me at the door, her cheeks and eyes puffy.

“Is your father worse?” I asked with great concern, for the

man had been bed-bound of late.

She shook her head, no. It took me as long to pry the

reason from her as it did for me to pull the key from under the

wrapped topaz in my pocket. I hadn’t realized I’d taken it home
with me. As I opened the door, she said, “You can’t ignore

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dreams around the ill and dying.” Her eyes filled; tears
wobbled but did not spill.

She’d been crying all night. “I was kneeling, my hands and

feet bound with fine gold wire, and a cloaked man tried to carry

me off. I kicked my feet and the wire turned to hair, so I broke
loose and ran towards the sound of your voice. But—” her

words trailed off until she gathered herself. “The ground was
sharp, littered with shattered amethysts. The shards cut my

feet. I turned to fight the cloaked man and saw you across his
shoulders, bound and stilled. That topaz was stuffed in your

mouth.”

She shivered and I took her inside, into the light-filled

studio. I made her tea myself, though all I had was a dark
oolong from the coast. Lise said oolong was not the kind of tea

a woman needs after a long cry, but she made do.

“There is a simple explanation,” I said while my mind

scrambled for words to calm her. “Your father can no longer
walk. You are afraid for him. You tied this fear to the gems we

have on hand in the workshop, nothing more. See?” I held out
the amethyst.

She nodded, but would not touch the stone. After a

moment, she added, “I am fine now, sir. I see there is nothing

to fear.”

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Before she could calm herself fully and get to work,

Chambers knocked on the door. Lise spilled her tea. I reached

for a rag to wipe it up and found myself using the linen
wrapping that had cradled the topaz. The gem was no longer in

my pocket. Where could I have dropped it? I checked the stove,
the sink, even the kettle. All the while, I knew Chambers was

waiting beyond the door

“Whatever is the matter?” he blustered when I finally let

him in.

When I explained, he pointed at my workbench, where the

topaz sat. “It is a lovely stone. How much are you asking for it?”

“I had thought to cut it into three. I will do that today and

price it.”

“Please let me know when you have done so. Stones of that

color are so rare, and it matches my lady’s hair.”

I rather thought Chambers’s lady’s hair was more the color

of dishwater, but I didn’t say so. Lise hiccupped at the table
and buried her face in her teacup.

When I showed Chambers the wax model, the light struck

the fine lines I’d carved in the figure’s hair and the soft curves

of her breasts and belly. “Imagine this in gold,” I said, tracing a
line with my finger.

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“Move those tresses, the more the better,” Chambers said,

waving his hand lower. “I don’t need to approve that last bit.

When will it be ready?”

“I can carve again today and cast the bracelet tomorrow.”

Then I would cut the topaz. “We’ll have it polished by evening.”
I had three other baubles to finish besides. I’d lost too much

time to the topaz. The new year was a popular time for the
exchanging of fine gifts.

“Very good. I’ll see myself out,” Chambers said. “Though

you may want to look to your locks. A man’s been lingering

outside your shop of late.” He gestured with his chin towards
the window, then strode through the door, snapping a pair of

leather riding gloves against his hands.

I leaned out the studio window to see if I could discern

what Chambers meant. Even from a floor up, the smell that
greeted me was unpleasant: unwashed hair, perhaps rotting

leather. The man leaning against the wall below was the same
who sold me the topaz the morning before. I ducked my head

back inside and turned to Lise.

“I don’t want you going out of doors alone, not with that

fellow lurking.”

She went to the window. “I see no one.”

When I joined her, I saw she was right. The man was gone

and the street below the shop was empty. Perhaps Chambers

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was playing a prank on me. The ruse felt too obvious for
anyone else. Nonetheless, I put my arm around Lise. She

shivered. “Your dream is not real. No one will carry you away.”

She smiled and leaned against me for a moment, warm

like the sunlight. “Thank you. Now let me open the shop.”

“And I will cut this stone.”

Lise’s smile was gorgeous in the light. I had noticed before,

but now her eyes captivated me. They were brown, speckled

with gold flecks, much the same color as the gem on my
workbench. Her eyelids were swollen and red from all the

worry about her dream and, more than likely, about her
father’s declining health.

She blinked once and shook herself, as if from a spell, and

turned from me, before looking back over her shoulder. “You

won’t fall asleep again?”

I shook my head. Not to worry.

As she left, I went to the topaz and again prepared my

diamond saw. The cutting marks I’d drawn with the grease

pencil the day before were gone. I grumbled, suspecting they’d
been wiped off when I lost the stone from its wrapping, and

bent once more to my work.

...

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Lise found me in the same position, hours later. Her

concern weighted her voice. “I couldn’t tear you from it,” she

said. “And, sir. Your arms.”

From fingers to elbow, each arm was covered in grease

pencil markings; some clumsy, some elaborate geometries. I
quickly wiped them clean.

“You said it sang to you of strands of gold; of the perfect

setting,” Lise said.

Her words made no sense, but neither did the lost hours. I

shivered in the warmth of the day. Beyond the window, in the

square, I saw a familiar figure in a tattered cloak. Suddenly, I
wanted to escape from my studio and the chill that hung over

it. “Let us get lunch by the river,” I said. “We will make a
special day of it.”

Lise’s mood changed at the mention of an adventure. She

clapped her hands and went to get her cloak. I gathered some

things as well. We locked up studio and shop and passed a
wonderful hour by the river. When we finished our meal, I took

her hand and kissed it. Her cheeks colored pink. “Sir,” she said.

“Call me Marcus, as I call you Lise.”

At these words, she paled. “You said that in the dream!”

She started to rise from the riverbank. I caught her arm and

held her tight.

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“It was a dream, and you are young enough to let them

shape you still,” I said. “Do not fear.” But her shoulders shook

and I held her tighter. We walked back to the studio like that,
for all the city to see.

My heart skipped when Lise reached up to brush her

smooth fingers across my scarred and calloused fingertips.

When we reached the studio, the ragged man was nowhere

in attendance, but the studio door was swung wide and my

worktable had been turned upside down. Drawers were pulled
askew; soft solder wire and old lost-wax molds lay scattered on

the floor. The wax model lay undamaged beside the
workbench.

The rough amethyst, a bag of gold casting beads, and

much more were gone. I reached into my pocket and touched

the topaz. I was glad I’d taken it with me.

“I will have to get more gold to finish Chambers’s

bracelet,” I said, trying to remain calm for Lise’s sake.

“I can go,” she said. We had a standing arrangement with

the local pawnshop and they kept a bit of casting gold on hand
to sell us. “But we have nothing to pay them with.”

“Let me cut the topaz now. I’ll send one of the trillions

with you to the pawnshop. That will cover costs until Chambers

pays for the bracelet.”

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In the wreckage of the studio, I found my diamond saw

and prepared once more to cut into the marquise, near the

crown of the thick yellow gem.

When I came to on the floor, Lise was shaking me and

crying. “Marcus, please!” She saw my eyes open and sobbed.
“You were cold! I heard a noise like the diamond saw’s hum, or

a song, and then everything went sideways and when I came to,
you were cold.” She pointed at the topaz, still in my hand. “That

gem does not want to be cut!”

“No,” said a voice from the door, thick with a sick man’s

phlegm. “It is a stone of the Jeweled Valley, and an old one. I
parted with it cheaply when I was starving and I will have it

back. The gem is unsafe with you.” The cloaked man advanced,
dark in the evening shadow. “It must be placed in a proper

setting, or it will ruin all who touch it.”

I had enough strength left to grab my torch from my

worktable and fire it, holding it before me, Lise, and the topaz.
“You are lying. Part of Chambers’s prank.”

The man eyed the torch. “I thought you a proper jeweler,

but you have no skill with Valley jewels. You must return it, or

set it in my presence.” He held out an old book, wrapped in
fouled leather. Gold wire crisscrossed the cover, terminating in

six clawed bezels that grasped at air and two more that still
held glittering gems. The book had been gloriously jeweled

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once, until someone pried each stone loose for barter or sale.
Or so Chambers would have liked me to believe.

“Tell Chambers to leave off these games. And go away. I

own this topaz, and will use it as I like.”

“I know no Chambers,” the man said. He tucked the book

away in his cloak, and reached for me. For the topaz.

The torch was of the new kind, a gas mix in a canister. It

had a hand crank that let me adjust the fuel, which I now threw

hard forward. A blue flame burst forth and the man leapt back,
but not in time. His cloak caught, and the grease within the

cloak as well. He ran shrieking down the stairs and into the
evening gloom.

I comforted Lise as best I could, and we shared a drink

from a bottle of good red wine that I’d put up for emergencies.

She was too shaken for me to leave her, and I worried the
sheriff would take the topaz from me. Instead, we bolted the

door.

Lise began to whisper, her eyes locked on the topaz. “You

do not think we should get rid of it?”

Her concern touched me. But as I thought of the topaz, as I

felt again its smooth facets against my fingertips. I saw once
more what the gem could become. “Why give Chambers the

satisfaction?”

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“You still think this is one of Chambers’s jokes?” Lise

turned to me.

“How could it be otherwise?”
“Why would he risk slowing your progress on the bracelet

for a prank?”

Indeed, why would he? I hadn’t thought of that. What a

smart girl. About the bracelet too. I needed to finish that. “Let
us see what I can make of it. Chambers will pay handsomely for

pretty gems.” I poured her more wine.

“Chambers would pay even more for a cursed gem. It

would be popular with his guests.”

Lise had a better head for business than I’d realized.

My client’s cabinet of curiosities was renowned and reviled

within the city. I nodded. “The topazes I cut and set will be

more startling than any misshapen bones in a glass case, more
beautiful than Chambers’s nightshade butterflies. And three

‘cursed’ stones are better than one.” I envisioned the gold
Chambers would pay for the earrings, for the pendant. I

stroked Lise’s hair and sipped my wine. “We could make our
fortune on this gem.”

Comforted, she leaned on my shoulder and I kissed her

hair, then her cheek. She put her arms around my neck and

hung there. I picked her up and carried her to a cot at the back
of my studio that I used when I worked late.

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I had apprenticed hard for many years to learn my trade

and still more building my reputation. I’d never had much

money to spare on women. Lise knew as much as I did when it
came to what happened that night. But we were well pleased

with ourselves. The moonlight shone yellow on our bare skin,
tumbled in the sheets of the cot.

I thought I heard singing. Lise swore it was my voice. For

the moment, I was too happy to care. The outside world was

outside, and we were one within.

Thus restored, I woke to moonlight, with new ideas for the

topaz, and new ways to cut it. A way to set it that made my
heart pound.

I laid out my files and my gold bezels, preparing.

Sharpened my diamond saw once more.

I could swear on the russet hair of my dearest love that the

gem sang to me that night as I lowered the saw to its facets.

* * *

It was Chambers who pounded the door down the next

afternoon. My eyes opened to a ragged man bent over me, his
hands clutching at my chest. At Chambers’s roar, the man dove

through the window, his hands empty. I heard a crash far
below, then the baker’s shout and the sheriff’s whistle.

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And so it was Chambers who discovered me naked in my

own studio. I lay dazed below my workbench, in a congealing

pool of blood.

Lise, my darling Lise, lay curled in a ball on the cot’s sun-

yellow sheets, her eyes frozen a pale amber. She breathed, but
it was a raspy sound. I could see no mark on her. I followed her

gaze back to my own body. She stared at my chest, at the gem
set there, deep into my flesh, beating like a heart.

“Marcus,” she whispered. “The topaz.”
And I felt it, in me, singing. My veins pulsed with its

rhythm. I knew I could never cut it away.

* * *

Chambers has found a buyer for the shop and the studio,

for I will never make trinkets again. Lise tends me when

Chambers doesn’t have an audience arranged. There are many
who wish to see the jeweled man.

As for me, I am happy with my saws and pliers, with my

gold wire. I have inlaid gems across my arms and torso, using

any local jewels that Chambers can find. I favor yellow stones
like chrysoberyl, spinel, and tourmaline, though these do not

sing to me.

On days when my skin scars and hardens around the

newest bezel, Lise brings gauze and salves from town.

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“Is it not beautiful?” I ask her. I watch my body sparkle in

the sunlight of our room.

“It is beautiful,” she answers. Her fingers trace the gems.

Her eyes meet mine, filled with tears that do not spill. While

she can no longer hear the topaz, she can see its measured
pulse.

Below, the hall of Chambers’s home echoes with the beat

of metal doorknocker against wood. I shiver. On days like this,

I am not fit to entertain an audience. Chambers has so far said
it amuses him and his lady to have me as a guest, even when he

must turn the curious away. They are kind hosts.

But this day, a man has come to their door to sell, not to

see. My room faces east for the best morning light and
overlooks the front steps. I hear the conversation. I see the

gleam of facets nestled in linen.

“It sings,” the man says.

Chambers often buys me gemstones, but he turns this man

away. “We want nothing more of you.”

I lean against the glass, my skin crisscrossed with gold in

the light. I trace the barest hint of a song in the air and

remember the last gems on a leather-bound book.

As the ragged man leaves, heels dragging loud in the

gravel, I mark which way he goes.

Beneath Ceaseless Skies Issue #152

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on the BCS Website

Fran Wilde writes science fiction and fantasy. She can also tie
a bunch of sailing knots, set gemstones, and program digital

minions. Her first novels will be published by Tor in 2015. Her
short fiction has appeared or will appear in venues including

Asimov’s, Nature, and the Impossible Futures anthology. Her
poetry has appeared in The Marlboro Review, Articulate, and

Poetry Baltimore. She holds an MFA in poetry and an MA in
information architecture and interaction design. She is a 2011

graduate of Viable Paradise and attended Taos Toolbox 2012.
Visit her website at

http://franwilde.wordpress.com/

Beneath Ceaseless Skies

Beneath Ceaseless Skies Issue #152

WHAT NEEDS TO BURN

by Sylvia Anna Hiven

The first thing Ephraim Wood did when I met him was

save my life. This was about a minute before he shot me.

Fickle man, that.

My horse had dumped me and Shadow a few hundred

yards outside town and then slumped onto the ground and

died. I would have cursed at the stupid animal, maybe kicked
its carcass too, but I hadn’t had a drop of water for two days

and I was pretty much dying. Plus, I figured he done good,
since instead of serving us as breakfast to the poison-fanged

mustangs who were on our tail, he’d dropped us where
someone might find us.

Ephraim Wood happened to be that someone, and he

happened to have a full water skin.

“Drink,” he said, pushing the skin against my cracked lips.
The water was gritty, the red desert sand gnashing against

my teeth, but I didn’t care. I would have swallowed it all if it
hadn’t been for Shadow lying next to me, just as parched.

“My man,” I croaked to Wood.

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Wood pulled the water skin away and looked at my

companion. His gray eyebrows jutted together in distaste

beneath his hat. “He’s a savage.”

“That may be, but he’s my savage.”

Wood considered for a moment. Then he kneeled and

tilted Shadow’s dusty face upwards so he could put the water

skin to his mouth. By the time Shadow came to, blinking his
black eyes against the already relentless morning sun, I had

managed to stand up on shaky legs.

“Where you fellas traveling from?” asked Wood, snatching

back the water skin from Shadow.

“The desert,” I said.

“And where you fellows going to?”
“Someplace wetter.”

Yeah, I admit, I was being smart. I probably should have

shown some gratitude, with him saving our lives and all. But

Shadow and I had been stalked by the sand-devil’s creatures
for days. My horse had died. I didn’t like the pretentious tilt of

this man’s hat, and I didn’t like the worn holster on his hip,
neither. So I wasn’t feeling courteous much.

“Well, that over there is my town.” Wood gestured towards

a cluster of buildings a few hundred yards away that I hadn’t

seen through the oily shimmer of the desert air. “I’ve got two

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wells full of water, and stronger stuff at the saloon. Got women,
too. You’re welcome to all of it.”

That sounded mighty welcoming, I thought.
That’s when our savior drew his revolver and shot me in

the thigh.

* * *

By the time Wood found us and took us to his town,

Shadow and I had been in the desert for at least a fortnight.

The world had stopped being a nice place a long time ago, and
sanity had started to drain out of me like water from a rusted

bucket. Back in the desert, nothing looked right—the horizon
appeared closer than it was, the sun looked like the flat face of

the sand-devil laughing down at us from the sky. The landscape
was all straight lines, and still, things looked crooked.

But limping into Wood’s town was worse. It was all

crooked there—buildings sagged as though they’d been built

against their will, and the sand whined beneath the scrape of
our boots like we were hurting it just by walking on it. When we

came into the saloon, which was occupied by a couple
drunkards and a too-old, too-wrinkled saloon girl, things got

quiet. Wood had the chubby bartender pour us each a drink in
greasy glasses. He kept the revolver on us.

“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Sullivan. Utah Sullivan.” I was bleeding onto the floor.

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“And the other one?”
“Shadow.”

Wood’s gaze slid over the tattoos on Shadow’s arms. “He’s

a pureblooded barefoot? Does he have the magic in him?”

“Magic?” I downed my drink to buy time and gather my

thoughts, but when the whiskey burned down my throat, I

couldn’t come up with anything but a feeble denial. “He’s just
my man, is all.”

Shadow had the magic, alright. He was the reason why

we’d not gotten eaten by the things in the desert. The things

that always loomed at the edge of our vision—all those
creatures that had twisted hot and scorching and mad when the

whole world went dry—none of them came close since Shadow
had joined me. Shadow hadn’t given them a chance to. He’d

said God sent him to save my soul. I found that rather amusing,
seeing how we were already in a place crisper than hell and

there wasn’t much of a difference to be made. But I hadn’t
minded the company.

“I shot you,” said Wood.
“I reckon you did,” I said.

“It’s not personal. I just need you to have a reason to stick

around. I’ll make sure your wound is tended to, as long as you

do me a favor. You and your barefoot, that is.”

“What sort of favor?”

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“We can talk about that tomorrow. You fellows are tired.

I’ll bring the doctor tomorrow, too.” He glanced at Shadow.

“Unless your man can heal your leg, of course, and save me
from having to bother.”

“I done told you, he’s not that sort of barefoot,” I said.
Wood’s gaze hardened. “Well, that might change by

tomorrow. Things tend to look different when you’ve tried to
sleep through a night with a bullet in your leg.”

Wood got us a room above the saloon and then took his

leave. The crammed little room only had one bunk, and

Shadow immediately tossed his roll on the floor. He always did
that—claiming his place beneath me. Then he started to dig in

his pack. He had lots of weird things in there. Blackened bones,
pig bristles, things like that. Didn’t exactly look like God’s

instruments to me.

“You been shot bad,” he said. “I’ll heal you.”

“No, Shadow. That’s what he wants. It’s a test.”
“Test for what?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t reckon we should play into his

hand.” I examined the aching welcome-gift in my leg. The

bullet hadn’t hit any important place, really, but it still hurt like
hell. “If I stop the bleeding for now I can last until morning,

and when the doctor has gotten the bullet out, we’ll see if we
can’t get out of this.”

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Shadow found some strips of cotton fabric in his pack and

handed them to me. “Back to the desert?” he asked.

He sounded neutral, Shadow, when he said that. He

rubbed the scar on his left arm. He hadn’t told me where he got

it, but I knew from the crookedness of the wound it was from a
unicorn’s horn. The scar was pale, like a sliver of the moon on

his dark skin. That’s how long he’d been in the desert until I
came along—long enough to collect scars and have them fade

over. So yeah, he wasn’t neutral about going back to the desert.
Not one bit.

As I wrapped my leg, I sighed and glanced out the dusty

window. “Feels like a toss-up to me, Shadow. At least out there,

we know what’s waiting. This fellow here—he feels just as evil
as the dry beasts. Only we can’t see his claws.”

* * *

When I woke, I found the bullet between my wound and

the makeshift bandage. The flesh was already closing where my
body had spit it out. I pulled off the bandage and cursed a

colorful tirade at Shadow, although I knew it wasn’t his fault.
People with the magic can’t help it sometimes. Things just

happen around them, though they might not want it to.

“Well, there goes your cover as an ordinary fellow,” I

warned Shadow. “That man tested you, and I’m afraid you just
passed.”

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Shadow sure looked miserable. You’d think from his

troubled expression that he’d stabbed me in my sleep rather

than healed me.

Wood stood at the foot of the stairs as we walked down

into the saloon. He asked how we had slept, if we’d eaten
anything, and then invited us to stroll down the main street

with him. All the while he kept his revolver aimed at my
kneecap. Wasn’t that mighty civilized.

My wound was healing up by the minute, but it was still a

nuisance to walk on that leg. I struggled to hobble along with

Wood. Through the pain I noticed the town buildings shrinking
away from us as we passed by, as though they were scared of

the man in our company. There was no wind, neither. Like it
didn’t dare to blow.

“Well, Utah Sullivan, I gotta confess something,” Wood

said. “I lied to you yesterday.”

“About the doctor, I guess?” I said.
“We got a doctor. And woulda let him tend to you, too,

only it looks like it’s not needed.” He glanced at my leg. “No, I
lied about something else. Or twisted the truth, rather.”

We’d arrived at the central square of the town. In the

middle sat a well, and a few folks were gathered around it. They

scattered as we approached, like ants escaping a boot heel.

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Wood walked up to the well and started to crank the lever.

“See, we do have two wells,” he said, grabbing the pail. “Only

they’re empty.”

He poured the contents out on the street. All that came out

was a trickle of sand.

“Well,” I said. “This is the desert. Not much water around

since the dry devil came.”

“The dry devil.” Wood tossed the pail on the ground.

“Believe in that, do you?”

“I’ve seen his servants. He gets into everything. Including

the earth. Everything bows to him eventually.”

“Not everything.”

Wood looked past me, over my shoulder. I turned around.

Shadow stood there, scowling, meeting Wood’s gaze.

“Your barefoot isn’t bowing,” Wood continued. “He’s

different. Different than the salamanders that turned to

dragons, and the horses that grew fangs. Different than you
and I, too.” Wood shifted his gaze to me. “He fixed your leg up

in his sleep. By accident. Can you imagine what he’d do if he
tried?”

“You know it don’t work like that,” I said, tired of the

charade. “Barefoot magic don’t make things happen. It just

opens possibilities.”

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“Well, I need him to open me a possibility.” Wood spat,

ejecting dirty tobacco onto the dusty ground. “I need him to

find me a Fishgirl.”

“Say what?”

“A Fishgirl. It’s a creature of magic. Like the dry beasts

that brings the desert. Only she doesn’t bring sand. She brings

water.”

I took my hat off and scratched my greasy scalp. I was

confused. And it wasn’t just from blood loss. “I never heard of
such a thing.”

“I’m sure you hadn’t heard of horses with a taste for meat,

neither, until you got into the desert.” Wood pointed at Shadow

with his thumb. “I had me a fellow like yours once. He died last
year. He’d always sleepwalk into the desert, and return with

scratches and wounds, not remembering how he got them. But
once he remembered something. A canyon with clear blue

water, and a girl swimming in it with a tail like a fish. He said
water just flowed from her. And he brought back this.”

Wood opened his clenched fist. In it lay something sparkly.
“I haven’t seen many fish in my days,” I said, leaning

closer. “But that’s a fish-scale, I reckon.”

Wood snatched his fist closed. “My barefoot died before he

could find that canyon again. So your man will have to find the

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Fishgirl. I need her to water my town back to life and keep my
people alive.”

My leg ached, and I was tired, but I still mustered enough

strength to cross my arms and glare at Wood. “You do know it’s

a mighty big desert out there. Lots of crags and canyons. I can’t
guarantee—”

“Oh, don’t you worry. He’ll find her.” Wood met my glare

with a calm look. “Or I’ll shoot you in the other leg.”

* * *

Wood found a horse for Shadow. It was a scrawny thing,

barely in better shape than our own horse that still lay drawing
flies in the desert.

“She might last you a day or two,” Wood said as we walked

to the edge of town, Shadow reluctantly following us. “Better

than going on foot the whole way.”

“Thought you didn’t know where this canyon is,” I said.

“I don’t. But my man was in the desert for nine days. I

don’t imagine it’s around the corner.” Wood stopped. He

looked Shadow in the eyes. “The dry is getting closer. Sweeping
in from the edges, crawling up from the earth. It’s been waiting

and it’s growing impatient. This town doesn’t have nine days.
And that means, your fella here doesn’t have nine days neither.

I’ll hang him from the saloon rafters if you don’t get back with
that Fishgirl in a week.”

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He patted his holster for effect and shoved the reins into

Shadow’s hand. Shadow didn’t say anything. But he got up on

the horse.

“What way?” he asked Wood.

Wood shrugged. “Whatever way your magic says,

Barefoot.”

Shadow looked at me with exasperation. He didn’t want to

go—didn’t believe he could find whatever he was being sent for,

I gathered. But I didn’t know what to tell him.

“You’ll be alright, Shadow.” I gave him a pleading, go-on-

now sort of look, because dammit, I didn’t feel like getting bit
by another bullet.

“I’ll go, Utah Sullivan,” Shadow said. “But it’s not for this

town that I go. It’s for you.”

Then he kicked the horse into some sort of lilting trot,

taking off into the desert.

When Shadow was out of earshot, I turned to Wood. “I’ve

not known that man for long. He got no loyalty to me. What

makes you think he cares to come back? He might just go on
his merry way now that he ain’t got your gun pointed at his

back.”

“Didn’t you hear him just now? He’ll be back. As you put it,

he’s your damn savage.”

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Wood tipped his hat and sauntered back into town. I

turned back to the desert. Shadow was a speck of bronze,

leaving a dust cloud in his wake. On one hand, I wished he
would hurry and return as soon as possible. On the other, I

wish he’d just keep riding into that blazing sun.

* * *

I couldn’t tell how may people lived in Wood’s town. I

didn’t see much folk on the streets. A few faces flashed by in

the windows, and they looked mostly the same. They had a flat
look to them, skin even with the color of the sand. It was like

the dry had crept beneath their doors and slipped into their
beds at night. Slipped into the very people themselves and

made a home right beneath their skin.

With nothing to do but wait, I took a seat at the bar in the

saloon. The barkeep filled a glass with whiskey.

“Hold up now,” I said. “I got no money to pay for this.”

The barkeep stared at me. It was the same empty stare I’d

seen from the townspeople behind their dusty windowpanes.

But he didn’t answer. Just kept polishing his glasses.

“This is Woodstown, and Wood’s fellas don’t pay here.” It

was the old saloon girl, standing on the stairs.

“I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I ain’t nobody’s

fella.”

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“Who are you kidding. He’s got you by your man parts

now.”

She looked much like the rest of the folk I’d seen. She had

some curve to her, and her hair had probably been blonde

once. Now it was an ashy color. Grains of sand sat in the
wrinkles of her skirt and laces of her corset. The dry sure was

trying to get into her, too, but her eyes weren’t all flat so maybe
she was fighting it off a little.

“You and your friend shoulda never come here,” she said

as she sat down next to me.

“I reckon there aren’t that many towns left, ma’am. We

thought you might have water.”

“Our well has given nothing but mud for weeks. We’re left

to the whiskey now. At least it makes for a pleasant death.

Might not burn so much when the dry comes and the devil
arrives with it to collect our souls.”

She was eyeing my glass. I pushed it toward her. She drank

it in one gulp.

“Wood seems to think my man can bring water,” I said.

“Some magical creature from a canyon someplace.”

“The Fishgirl. He tried to get Dogbait to find it for months.

That old barefoot tried, but he couldn’t do it, and the desert

killed him for his trouble.” She locked my gaze. Seemed her
drunkenness was gone. “Nothing can stand against the dry

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once it decided it wants you. It eats everything. People,
animals, towns. Everything has turned to dust by now. Or

turned to evil.”

“This town is still standing, ma’am,” I said. “You all are

still here. Wood is.”

“Like I said. Or turned to evil. Dust settles on everyone’s

souls sooner or later. I think it started to settle on you, too,
when you sent your friend out in the desert just now.”

She slid off the stool, more gracefully than I would have

expected. For a moment I imagined her in her glory days, in a

full saloon. Perhaps singing, definitely dancing. Definitely
enjoying all the eyes on her, too.

“What’s your name?” I asked.
She shook her head. “‘Ma’am’ will do just fine. But you

shouldn’t talk to me again. You keep your hatred for this place.
Hate it, so you can leave it.”

I didn’t see her again for a while after that. Or perhaps I

did, and she just blended in too well with the rest of the

townsfolk, going about their bland lives.

With no water in town, I drank whiskey for the next

several days. It should’ve killed me, drinking so recklessly. But
it seemed rules were different in Woodstown. It left me in a

state of constant fuzz where the world had round edges and
moved slowly. I slept some of the time, having dreams of

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vampiric mustangs with their hide splotched with blood. In
those dreams, the desert had turned black. The sky, the sand,

my soul, too. Everything.

My wound ached as if it missed Shadow.

* * *

After four days, Shadow returned. With magic, if I ever

saw any.

She sat strapped on Shadow’s back, her tail flapping in the

dry heat. She oozed water from her eyes, the corners of her
mouth. It beaded from her pores, too, and ran down her belly

and made her green scales glisten. The water was crystal clear,
and where a drop landed on the ground, a flower grew. A

flower. My jaw dropped at that.

Shadow looked tired. I don’t know what had happened to

the horse he’d left on, but from the way his legs trembled, I
guessed he’d spent at least a full day carrying the Fishgirl back

to town. He allowed two of Wood’s men to unstrap the girl
from his back. Then he walked into the saloon, not turning

around. I went after him.

“You found her,” I said.

“Yes.”
Shadow found a glass of whiskey that seemed to be waiting

for him on the counter. He downed it. That was a bit of a shock
—I had never seen Shadow drink before. I noticed he’d hung

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bone tokens from his belt and painted himself with protective
symbols. Twice as many as he’d put on himself when he was in

the desert with me. Seemed it hadn’t helped much. A claw of
some kind had slashed his left cheek open, and his arms were

scratched up real bad.

“Something chased you?” I said.

“Not me. Her.”
“What was it that came after you?”

“Everything.”
He looked at me. Who knew how old he really was, but

now he looked much older than when he’d left. Older, and
hurting. And that pain, it didn’t come from tired legs or

scratched arms. It came from deep inside of him.

“I rest tonight,” he declared. “But tomorrow, we go.”

“Don’t you wanna wait and see if that girl’s gonna bring

water like Wood says? Then we might be able to stay for a

while.”

“No. We leave, while we still can.”

I gathered that Shadow hadn’t slept for all four days he

was in the desert, and that perhaps he would come to his

senses once he’d gotten some sleep. Woodstown wasn’t a very
nice place to be, but I figured it would be slightly nicer if there

was water in the well.

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Shadow finished his drink and went up to our little room.

And me, well, I couldn’t help it. I went to see the Fishgirl.

Wood had taken her to the well. Two of his men were

rigging a chain with a harness so that they could lower her

down into the shaft. Wood himself stood to the side, staring at
the creature Shadow had brought.

She was the opposite of all the creatures in the desert. The

dry devil’s creations were all made from claws and bone, with

hard shells and rough angles. They had red eyes and razor-
lined maws spilling bloody froth. But this creature was soft and

limber, small and delicate. Scales covered her tail and arms,
leaving her belly and breasts bare. Her hair was stringy and her

mouth nothing but a slit, but her face was beautiful anyway—
pale and smooth like the surface of a pearl.

She still spilled water. Flowers sprouted up from the sand,

all around, in all sorts of colors. It was beautiful, but Wood

seemed mostly annoyed.

“Hurry with the harness,” he told his men. “I don’t like the

way she’s looking at me.”

She had eyes—big milky ones, and she sure looked around.

I didn’t know how much of a mind she had, but I guessed she
understood what was happening. Water still streamed from

every fold in her pale skin. It wouldn’t stop. I don’t know how—
perhaps it was from the way her eyes seemed to smile at

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everything—but I realized that she was doing it willingly. She
wanted to help.

“Why you gotta put her down in that hole?” I asked Wood.

“Why don’t you let her see the sun at least.”

Wood glared at me. “I want her to help the town,” he said.

“Not drown it. She’s a damn fountain. Gotta contain her

somehow, or who knows what’ll happen. This place might turn
into a jungle.”

The Fishgirl didn’t protest when she was lowered into the

hole, the pulleys squealing. She looked upwards, her eyes large

and unblinking. I felt sorry for her, having to go down that pit.

Townsfolk gathered in the square, and they all peered into

the well, one after the other. I watched the commotion a good
hour, seeing their eyes widen at what Shadow had brought

them. Many ran to their homes, fetching large pails to carry
water with. I expected to see hope in their eyes, and perhaps

some wonder at this miracle creature, but all I saw was
desperation. That bothered me. On her behalf, it bothered me.

When I returned to the saloon, Shadow was sitting at the

counter again. Didn’t look like he’d even tried to sleep, with the

desert still dusting his clothes. Two glasses filled with whiskey
were in front of him. A cluster of empty ones sat next to them.

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I took a seat and slid one of the shots to me. Didn’t really

need another drink, but he needed it less. “That creature is a

spring,” I said. “From the gods, I reckon.”

“From God,” he corrected me.

“From God, then. My point is, she can save this town.

Maybe the whole damn world.”

“Didn’t bring her to save the whole damn world.”
His voice was clipped, and it frustrated me. “There are

innocent people here, Shadow. They need our help. But I think
they don’t know how to handle that Fishgirl right. I think she

might need our help, too, or things could go bad.”

“Can’t help both town and Fishgirl.” He looked at me

again, pleading and piercing at once. “Perhaps neither. Shadow
just knows how to help you. That’s why God sent you to me in

the desert.”

“God sent me to you so that you could drag me out into the

desert to die, when we’ve got water right here? God must not
realize that a desert doesn’t do much good to a man.”

Shadow didn’t pay me no mind, even though I was baiting

him—and his God—pretty hard. He put his glass down.

“Remember, Utah. At dawn, we go.”

But that night something took hold of Shadow. Perhaps it

was the dry finally getting to him, finding its way past his
barefoot magic.

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It made him sick. For hours, he retched and coughed in

the little room. Fever raged his body, flaring his tattoos bright

red. He cried. By the time dawn arrived, I knew there was no
way in hell we could leave as I’d planned.

* * *

I was no barefoot, and I had no special powers to fight

what wrecked through Shadow. The next morning I intended to
wait out Shadow’s illness at the bar, maybe strike up a

conversation with Ma’am to feel less of a helpless fool. But I
couldn’t stand the sound of Shadow upstairs. He wailed

through his fever, cried like a woman with a broken heart. It
pierced my eardrums like rusted iron nails. I took a seat

outside on the porch instead where I couldn’t hear him. And I
wanted to see the flowers.

The well had a nice patch of grass around it now. Tall,

moist grass, the sort my old horse loved to graze on when he

was still alive. Pretty flowers were growing, too. Roses and lilies
and tulips heaping over each other.

When the splendor of the flowers lessened to daisies, and

dandelions, and then droopy weeds, I grew suspicious. There

were still noises down in the well, and droplets still splashed
over the edge, but they came less and less. As the afternoon

passed, the grass around the well turned yellow and brittle-like.
The townsfolk frowned as they pulled up half-empty buckets.

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Eventually, they didn’t get anything but mud. Despite the
white-hot morning, I grew cold at the sight.

By the time that chilled curiosity got the best of me, and I

went to peer down the well, I knew I wasn’t gonna see anything

good. The sunlight shone down into the pit. At the bottom of
the well, on her back, lay the Fishgirl. She was still writhing,

but there was no water springing from her anymore. Mud
seeped from beneath her scales. Mud and grit. Even through

the layer of dirt that covered her face, I could tell that she was
frightened and confused, as if she didn’t understand what was

happening.

And it had only been one afternoon.

With my heart twisting uncomfortably at the sight, I

decided that I’d wait in the saloon, after all. Ma’am was there,

perched on a bar stool. She had a glass in front of her, but it
wasn’t whiskey this time. It was water, and she was using it to

clean the desert off her velvet shoes. Her face looked cleaner,
and her dress wasn’t so dusty anymore. The sequins around

her neckline even sparkled. I gathered she’d taken a bath,
gotten her clothes washed. Strangely though, it didn’t make her

look any better. Just made me see her wrinkles clearer, and
showed how old she really was.

“Your friend ain’t getting better, Utah,” she said.
“He’s strong, Ma’am. He’ll pull through.”

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“No, honey, he won’t.” Her words came out with pity, but

they had a sharpness to them. “The dry got into him, don’t you

see? Did it to Dogbait, too. I sat at his bed when he died. That
old man sounded just like your friend. He don’t have long,

believe me.”

“He’s a barefoot,” I snapped. “He can handle himself.”

“Being a barefoot ain’t gonna do him any good,” Ma’am

said. “His soul is damned now. You don’t go sacrifice a creature

like the Fishgirl to someone like Wood without paying the
price. Your friend shoulda known better. God knows why he

went and did something so foolish.”

“He did it to save this town. To save Wood, and the people

here, and you.”

She shook her head. “Do you see what this town is doing to

that girl? Do we look like we deserve saving? I told you days
ago that you shoulda left, while you still could. It was always

too late for Woodstown. Now it looks like it’s too late for you
and your friend, too.”

Then Ma’am turned back to her shoes and didn’t say

anything more to me. Above me, Shadow still wailed in pain.

Ma’am was right—Shadow should’ve known better. He

shouldn’t have to listened to Wood, or to me, or to God, even.

What purpose had he served, taking a magical being and giving

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it to a town that didn’t know how to handle her? Who was he
trying to save?

The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. Yeah, it was

true, perhaps I could have made a decent home for myself in

Woodstown. There was a bit of water, and other people, and
right here there was even a woman I thought I might be able to

grow fond of. But that wailing from above cut right through
that idea. Because what was happening out in that square just

wasn’t right.

I stood on the stairs for a while, just to hear Shadow’s pain.

Reckoned it would be easier to do what had to be done with his
cries ringing in my ears.

* * *

Wood was more than happy to find me a horse when I

asked him. He even supplied two saddle bags full of grub and
several water skins. My revolver was in one of the bags, cleaned

and loaded. He sure wanted rid of me.

“Guess it’s the least I can do for you who saved us,” he said

as he handed me the reins.

“Don’t think I saved you much at all,” I said. “Looks to me

like your well’s drying out.”

“The town will hold on.”

“But will she?” I shaded my eyes from the sunlight and

peered at Wood, but his leathery face gave no emotion.

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“If she dies, she dies,” he said. “We got lots of water out of

her. Bought us at least another few weeks. More time that we

had before, in any case.”

Don’t know if I would have been quicker at the draw than

Wood, but in that moment I would have liked to have my gun
at my side rather than packed up in my saddle-bag. “You

reckon it was worth it? That pretty creature dying for you to
have a few weeks?”

Wood didn’t seem to be bothered by my tone. He just

gestured toward the east. “A few months before you got here,

we had a fellow come from the mountains. Said there was a
town still standing there. Even had a patch of grass and a

spring near it. Don’t know how much truth there was to it, but I
reckon that’s a good place for you to go.”

“Sounds as fair a plan as any,” I said, even though I

doubted very much there was a town with a patch of grass and

a spring left anyplace in this sorry mess that remained of the
world.

“Sorry about your barefoot. I hear he might not make it

through the night, from the looks of him.”

I stared at my scuffed boots. “I sure had hoped for a

different fate for Shadow. And for me. For all of us, really.”

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“Well, I’ll make sure Ma’am takes care of him, as long as

he lasts. And you be sure to wait until dusk to leave. No need to

let the sun get to you sooner than necessary.”

I tipped my hat to Wood. He tipped his back. It was, again,

mighty civilized.

I took the horse back to the saloon. I didn’t have much in

the way of belongings to load up, so all I had to do was wait.
This time, though, I waited in the little room with Shadow. I

forced myself to watch him as he slurred in delirium, sweat
running down the sides of his face, grit and sand coming out

his nose and corners of his ears and his mouth as he coughed. I
forced myself to watch because I had made that happen to him.

I had cracked him.

“Shadow,” I said, taking his hand. It was hot as coal. “Can

you hear me?”

He just moaned. I imagined it to be an affirmative. Gave

me a reason to keep talking, anyway.

“I need to tell you I’m sorry,” I said. “Sorry you found me

in the desert, sorry I took you here. And sorry I made you get
that Fishgirl. I ruined a lot of things, trying to help what

couldn’t be helped. What shouldn’t be helped. But it’s time to
make things right.”

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Shadow’s eyes were crusted shut with sand, and dust lay in

the fine lines of his forehead. I don’t know if he heard anything

I’d said.

Outside, dusk had just started to reach across the sky, but I

couldn’t wait any longer. It was time to go.

* * *

Tying Shadow onto the horse was easier than I thought.

The animal was docile from the heat and didn’t much protest

as I tied him onto its back, his limp head hanging off the side of
the horse’s neck.

When I went to get the Fishgirl out of the well, on the

other hand, things changed. The damn town changed.

At the well, the wince whined like an injured animal when

I began to turn it, and the little creature suddenly weighed as

much as a horse—like the well was holding on to her, wanting
to keep her down in its black belly. I finally hauled her over the

edge, her limbs slick and gritty with mud, and hurried to put
her on the wagon. She didn’t make a sound; she just blinked at

me with her milky eyes. Maybe she was too tired and dried out
to make a fuss. I sweated something mighty when I tried to

strap her in, the rope slipping and burning my palms like it
wasn’t rope at all I was holding but a blazing hot snake.

I hurried out of the square, the wagon squealing. There

were no movement on the street. Most townsfolk were

Beneath Ceaseless Skies Issue #152

huddling in their houses, their lanterns flickering behind the
window panes. I led the horse through town without being

noticed by a single soul. The houses and buildings sure noticed
though, and they didn’t like it one bit. They loomed, and their

shadows stalked us, twisted and dark and alive. There came
groaning sounds from the buildings—wood cracking, floor

boards splintering. But I didn’t turn around. I just tugged the
reins harder.

I don’t know if it was the proximity to the Fishgirl, but

when we’d gotten to the edge of town, Shadow came to. He

turned his head toward me and whispered my name. I tried to
catch his flickering gaze, and it steadied on me. He looked a

little like a rabid dog and a tired angel all at once.

“We’re going now?” he croaked.

“Yeah, Shadow, it’s time.” I patted his shoulder. His fever

was cooling, just a little. Or so I told myself. “You think you

remember the way to the canyon where you found the girl?”

“Didn’t matter the first time that I didn’t know. Probably

don’t matter now either.”

“Well I need you to take her back to that place. Take her

back, and keep her safe there.”

“You won’t come.” It wasn’t a question. He knew.

“I gotta stay, Shadow. I let you down the moment I asked

you to go get that creature. I betrayed her, and you, and all

Beneath Ceaseless Skies Issue #152

things good. I can’t undo that. I gotta pay the price, just like
Woodstown.” Ma’am’s words became my own. “Sometimes it’s

best to let burn what needs to burn.”

Through the caked dust on his face, and the tendrils of

dried mud too, Shadow smiled. It was a sad smile. “You’re a
good man. You won’t burn, Utah Sullivan.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Look around, my friend,” I said.

“The dry is about to pounce on this place. Things are about to

get pretty hot around here.”

“You might burn here, in the desert. But in the place where

it counts, you won’t. Told you God sent you to me for a reason.”
He pointed his finger to my chest. “To give you a chance to

cleanse that dust off your soul before the end comes. And now I
think you have.”

Shadow whispered something to the animal, words twisted

and unfamiliar that I couldn’t understand. But the horse

understood, and it took off at a trot, faster than I would have
imagined it could, stirring up a cloud of dirt like it had the dry

devil himself on its tail.

But the dry devil wasn’t on their tail. It was right there, on

the edge of town, with me. The further away the horse got, the
tighter the air became. It crackled in my ears.

Beneath Ceaseless Skies Issue #152

I watched Shadow and the Fishgirl disappear into the

waiting darkness, and to whatever fate awaited them beyond.

Then I turned toward Woodstown and went to face my own.

I reckoned the dry was mad with me for not succumbing

completely, body and soul and heart, but Shadow was right—I
felt a certain peace inside, knowing I had done at least

something right when I sent the two of them off.

Maybe we’d both done good, after all.

Read Comments on this Story

on the BCS Website

Sylvia Anna Hiven lives and writes in Atlanta, Georgia. Her
fiction has previously appeared in Daily Science Fiction,

EscapePod, Stupefying Stories, and more. Find her on Twitter
@brynnfarusiel.

Beneath Ceaseless Skies Issue #152

Beneath Ceaseless Skies

Beneath Ceaseless Skies Issue #152

COVER ART

“Kaybor Gate,” by Alex Ries

Alex Ries is a Melbourne- based illustrator and concept artist.
His artworks have been featured by publishers including

Clarkesworld Magazine, Pearson Education Canada, and the
Discovery Channel. He worked with THQ’s Bluetongue

Entertainment studio and contributed to four published titles.
His studies in diverse visual media such as painting, 3D

visualization, and film, coupled with an interest in biology
and real-world technology, have fostered an artistic style that

can not only accurately illustrate life from the real world but
fictional life as well. View his work at

www.alexries.com

Beneath Ceaseless Skies Issue #152

Beneath Ceaseless Skies

ISSN: 1946-1076

Published by Firkin Press,

a 501(c)3 Non-Profit Literary Organization

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