Altered America (12 page)

             
Unlike its relations with its ghosts, Godston’s relations with the native Croatans had been mostly friendly.  Thonir and his crew raided along the coasts of rocky Ireland, Britain, and Normandy, never locally—a policy that kept a storm-tossed ocean between their enemies and their homes.

             
It took Eleri two days to split the planks for her “clinker” ship.  She began overlapping and nailing them into place over a temporary keel made of red clay.  A quarter of the hull was finished when she went to her bench bed.

             
Her mother’s shriek woke her.  On the table lit by the serpent’s red glow, the canvas sail was shredded, the mast broken, the planks splintered, and the clay keel lay in pieces.  The roguish ghosts had come unbidden in the night and undone Eleri’s shipbuilding.

             
“How can I finish in time?” she wailed.  “The dark moon is only three days away.”

             
“Warhelm?” her mother asked.

             
Eleri sighed.  “The knots in his knuckles hinder his doing such delicate work.”

             
“Bring Synaur here.”

             
“But he’s not a carpenter.  And he’s blind.”

             
Her mother waggled her head.  “He sees with his fingers.  Make a plank or two, and we will copy them.  You must do the ceremony this dark moon.  If we wait until next month, the ghosts will destroy Godston, as they did your ship.”

             
“And if Synaur won’t come?”

             
Her mother hawed and pointed at the door.

             
Eleri found Synaur sharpening a pole to use as a seed planter.  She explained her problem.  Without a word, he put aside his whittling knife and picked up his laurel walking stick.  She took his arm (the bicep hard as a stone under his woolen shirt) and walked with him along the path to her cottage.

             
He was eager to help, but not as nimble-fingered as her mother, who made two planks to his one.  But with practice, he became faster and cut himself less and stained fewer planks with his blood.

             
Eleri rebuilt a quarter of the hull on a new clay keel during the day, and after a quick supper of beer and mutton—their only meal—they continued working.

             
Her mother lit ginseng root, filling the cottage with pungent smoke that made them cough and their eyes water.  “We’ll have to suffer it,” she said.  “The herb will ward off the ghosts, but I fear I have not enough to last all night.”

             
“Maybe,” Synaur said, “Briamursk could charm the spirits and keep them in Godston.”

             
“Synaur and I will continue to make planks while you’re gone,” Eleri’s mother said.

             
So Eleri trotted to town and told Briamursk how he must use his music.  She returned home to find her mother working alone in the fire serpent’s subdued light.  Synaur lay on a bench, asleep with a bear rug thrown over him.

             
“We will take turns,” her mother said.  “He was loath to stop, so I put sleep on his head.”

             
In the morning, the two women woke Synaur and lay down to rest for a few hours.  He walked home and returned in the afternoon with venison backstrap and wheat bread and green silk for the ship’s sail.  After eating, Eleri began piecing together the deck and rowing benches, her mother sewed the silk into a square, and Synaur whittled a stout mast.  Work continued through the afternoon, the evening, and again most of the night.  They took turns sleeping and finished the dragon ship just after dawn on the first day of the dark moon.

             
All morning and afternoon Eleri fasted and rehearsed the ceremony of sending the dead onwards.  Since the serpent could only reincarnate if none of its ash was lost, her mother insisted they hold the rite inside the cottage, not outside where a gust of wind might sweep the limestone altar clean.

             
When night finally came, Eleri wove her hair into a single long braid then trudged alone under a moonless sky to Godston, her throat tight with grief.  She told Briamursk to come play his flute at the edge of Bellow Woods.

             
Grim-faced, she returned to her cottage, and red-eyed from crying, she chipped away the clay while Synaur held the ship aloft.  Eleri then guided his hands so the keelless ship with its tiny oars and unfurled green sail was set gently on a long slab of polished sandstone.

             
When she heard Briamursk’s provocative reed flute and knew the ghosts swirled outside their cottage, Eleri pulled the serpent from her mother’s oil lamp, and with Synaur again holding the ship aloft she threaded the snake under the long ship as a living keel.  Uncoiled, the serpent tested the air with its slender tongue and stretched its head above the bow in a proud, dragon-like pose.

             
Drawn like fireflies to the serpent’s radiant red light, the ghosts swarmed down through the roof hole, the thatch around it blackened by smoke from hearth fires.  The women came with their hair adrift as if floating in the sea; the warriors banged their shields with swords.  They abbreviated their size to that of sewing needles and gathered on the ship.  Many manned the oars and began rowing.

             
Tiny Briamursk tucked his flute under his canvas belt and held the side rudder.  He stared straight ahead, not looking up at Eleri.  She took off her linen dress and stood naked.  She began chanting, her voice hoarse with grief.  Synaur stood with his face tilted upward, listening.  Her mother began thumping her deer-hide drum.

             
The serpent rippled and lengthened into a circle, biting its tail high over the ship.  It brightened and became plumed with red flames, a ring of fire.  The bottom of the ash hull smoldered then burst into snarling flame.  Gray smoke rolled up to the thatch, bounced, and swirled out through the roof hole.

             
The ghosts danced or rowed; Briamursk pulled out his reed flute and piped a giddy tune.  The wood burned quickly and its smoke carried the ghosts away with Briamursk going last.

             
Eleri choked and stopped chanting, her vision blurred by tears.  Sobbing, she turned and leaned against sturdy Synaur, who held her.

             
“He was my only childhood friend,” she whispered.

             
Her mother took up the chant and drummed until the fire smoldered into ash.  Eleri swept these, while hot, off the smooth sandstone slab into a clay bowl.  Her tears were mirrors, each carrying Briamursk’s reflection as they wet the ashes.  Using both hands, Eleri offered her mother the funeral bowl.

             
Then Eleri put on her dress and woolen cloak and walked Synaur through the moonless night to his farm.  Both were too tired to talk.  She, filled with warm affection for him, knew in time she would love him as her husband.  True, four was the number of completeness but so was eight, twice four.  Their farm would easily feed six children.  And her mother would come to live with them and teach her grandchildren more than farming.  She kissed Synaur’s cheek before she left him at his door.

             
At home Eleri found their cottage lit by a tallow candle.  Her mother’s movements were spritely, so she knew a tiny serpent lay curled and new born in the clay bowl.  Godston would endure.

             
Her mother, laughing, held the serpent up for Eleri to see.  Its head shone with immature light.  Because Eleri had thought of Briamursk as her tears watered the serpent’s ashes, it had his face.

End of the Rainbow

by Dusty Wallace

              Cereal boxes, team mascots, cartoon characters; leprechauns are everywhere. They’re often shown sliding down a rainbow towards a pot of gold with a big smile on their face. It’s a lie. A story concocted by leprechaun elders and spoon-fed to a population of naive humans. It’s taken those bastards a half-millennium to shed their bloodthirsty image. They’ve brought their prize from the Highlands to the Heartland: St. Louis, Missouri. This is where I put an end to it all.

             
“Malto, just give up,” I say standing over his bloodied body with my sword resting against his nape. Crimson rivulets meander down his scowling face.

             
“You’ll have to kill me,” he whimpers. Leprechauns are prone to whimpering when injured. “While I’m alive the stones will never belong to the elves.”

             
“Okay, you’ve convinced me.” I press my weight against the sword and sever his carotid artery. To his credit he doesn’t scream. He probably knows how much I would enjoy that.

             
The moment was five hundred years in the making. That’s how long it’s been since my ancestors braved the high seas and tossed the philosopher’s stones into Mount Oblivion, on what’s now known as the Canary Islands. Hundreds of elven lives were lost on the voyage thanks to an outbreak of St. Anthony’s Fire. Paintings from the era depict our people scratching at their skin until it turned from blistery red to necrotic black and eventually rotted away. Others went mad before the worst symptoms appeared and threw themselves to the mercy of Poseidon.

             
Elves lived peacefully in the forests of Scotland until the fourteenth century. Outsiders were largely unaware of our existence. We had nothing of value to them; no natural resources, no precious gems, no kingdom to conquer. Even the Vikings left us in peace. Of course, they thought we were messengers of Odin and I suppose my ancestors thought it wise not to correct them. It was the philosopher’s stone that changed everything.

             
According to elven scrolls a young scientist named Merlin first discovered the properties of the rocks from which Elves built chimneys. No, not
that
Merlin. This scientist was an excommunicated priest whose theories about genesis got him the big papal boot. Rather than beg forgiveness, he journeyed to elven forests to continue his studies on natural selection. If he hadn’t been distracted by a few odd-looking blue pebbles, today’s Christians would be trying to eliminate
Merlinism
from textbooks.

             
It was only a year after Merlin made his findings public that miners started showing up in the forest. There was no negotiating for land rights. The bastards forced the elven pacifists from their homes and took what they wanted. Once they had a fleet’s worth of cargo they’d set sail for Spain and be gone for a season.

             
One of those seasons proved to be their undoing. My ancestors took up picks and shovels left behind by the miners and started collecting the magic ore. Their own fleet set out for the Canary Islands—a mighty adventure for the woodland race, one they knew would cost lives.

* * *

              I sheath my blade and turn to the vault behind Malto’s desk—it’s five square feet of chrome-plated steel. Unlocking this safe requires a fingerprint and retinal scan along with a combination. Two out of three of those keys are lying dead at my feet. I’d have to visit Malto in Hell to retrieve the combination though.

             
Gandry, my partner on this quest, nurses a shoulder wound he received from one of the Green Knights, a glorified leprechaun henchmen. “Rodrigh, how do you plan on getting into that thing?” he asks. “That iron was enchanted by the druids themselves. Nothing short of sacrificing an infant is going to break that spell.”

             
“Challenge accepted, Gandry,” I reply with an insincere confidence. There were no infants around thankfully, or Gandry might have gone the easy route.

             
“I haven’t seen fairy dust in a while.” Gandry chuckles as I pull the string on a small burlap sack.

             
“Thermite,” I tell him. “But if you’ve got fairy dust then speak up.”

             
“Used all mine up getting women to fall in love with me,” Gandry says.

             
“Well, I always said the stuff was worthless,” I reply.

             
Thermite’s a tricky substance. It takes a very high temperature to ignite. Thank Odin for the internet. It turns out that common sparklers can do the job. St. Louis has a huge Mardi Gras celebration along the banks of the Mississippi so fireworks are easy to find year-round.

             
“Celebrating early?” Gandry asks as I retrieve the sparklers from my belt loop.

             
I let the heat answer for me.
WOOOOSSSHH.
The flames trace the perfect square of the vault. It remains unblemished.

             
Gandry’s smile fades. He attacks the steel door with his axe. Blow after blow until he drops the implement. He’s resting his hands on his knees and gulping for air. I can’t help but laugh.

             
“Feel better now old boy?” I ask.

             
“If I may speak freely, Lord Rodrigh... Go to hell,” he says with a chuckle that turns to a raspy cough.

             
“I think we’re gonna need some tougher tools,” I say. The two of us leave the house and head downtown for supplies and a snack.

* * *

              The leprechauns lived much like the elves for the better part of their existence. It was the discovery of the philosopher’s stone that awoke their insatiable greed.

             
The elves had packed their ships and slept early in anticipation of the morning departure to Mount Oblivion. That was the night that leprechauns and elves became sworn enemies—the leps had sent a single Green Knight to do the job. He approached the ship from the harbor’s opposite side via canoe.

             
Only one stone was stolen, but that was enough...

             
By the time we get back to his house, Malto’s corpse is already starting to stink. Gandry trades his axe for a sledgehammer while I drag Malto to the bathtub.

             
“Rodrigh, this isn’t the time for one of your fetishes.” Gandry’s belly shakes under the veil of his long red beard.

             
Popping open the industrial size can of Ajax I picked up at the hardware store, I bury Malto to his nose.

             
“That should keep his neighbors from noticing the stink. At least until we’re long gone,” I say.

             
Back in the office Gandry is already to work with the sledgehammer. Every inch of his four foot frame gets loaded into every swing. Within minutes the floor is covered with chunks of drywall and wood.

             
“Okay Gandry, I think you’ve done the job,” I say. The back of the vault is visible now through the caverns Gandry’s dug into the wall. I run the hook across the back of the vault and attach it to its own wire.

             
“Fire it up!” I yell out the window. The winch we attached to Malto’s escalade kicks into gear. The wire pulls tight. Dust snows down from the ceiling as the vault starts to budge. Sensing disaster, I make a dash for the door.

             
“Nice timing,” Gandry calls out as the two-story brownstone collapses behind me.

             
The can of Ajax turns out to be a waste of money. I can almost hear
911
being dialed by the nosy midwest neighbors. The winch pulls the vault through the wreckage and a car jack helps get it in the trunk.

             
“Step on it,” I say. “We need to be out of here in a hurry.”  Gandry lays into the pedal and the Escalade inches forward, laboring under the weight of the vault. “I said step on it.”

             
“If I may speak freely, Lord Rodrigh...” he starts.

             
“Save it,” I cut him off.

* * *

              The elves made it back from Mount Oblivion to the grisly welcome of slaughtered kinfolk. Entrails swirled around limbs on the forest path like garlands on Christmas trees. Near cabins, the disembodied heads of entire families watched over their former homes. Strange mushrooms grew on the forest floor, fed by the elven ichor.

             
In retrospect, it was more likely the European miners that spilled my forefathers’ blood.  But as they mourned and tried to rebuild, the legend of leprechaun wealth was spreading across continents. Less than a teaspoon full of the powdered mineral could transmute a metric ton of iron into gold. So the lone rock possessed by the leprechauns was more than enough to draw the ire of the elves.

             
Though they didn’t actually transport it in pots, an abundance of gold gave leprechauns the means to travel freely throughout the world. When the elves arrived in leprechaun country, all they found were empty huts. It was another hundred years before my ancestors disseminated around the world to an equal extent. The war between the races had been going on since that time. Instead of arrows and spears, the fight has taken place in the shadows, with secret governments pulling the strings of espionage. Several times we’ve been close to recovering the stone only to be side-tracked by bigger issues such as plague and war. Meanwhile, the leprechauns continued to amass wealth. Even the wars couldn’t stop their greed. The covetous little scurves used the philosopher’s stone to transmute base-metals into uranium which they sold to both the Russians and the Americans during the Cold War.

             
They thought they’d won by moving the most valuable element on Earth to the nondescript suburbs of St. Louis, but my kind never give up.

             
“Good to see you boys could make it,” Queen Myrna says as we exit the Escalade. She’s standing in front of an idling aircraft but all I notice is her long red hair and rosy cheeks. Gandry elbows my ribs, which helps me climb back aboard my train of thought.

             
“You two should be proud,” she says. “This moment is five hundred years in the making.”

             
“Yeah, I know,” I say with grin.

             
With help from a fork-lift we transfer the vault to the plane. Gandry buckles in beside the cargo and I take the co-pilot’s seat. Queen Myrna is at the helm and she knows what she’s doing.

             
She calls out over the intercom in her best flight attendant’s voice, “Attention passengers. Please fasten your seatbelts at this time. There will be no in-flight meals today nor will there be an in-flight movie. If you would like a hot towel or some peanuts please pass a note to the co-pilot and he’ll be sure to stick it up your ass.” We all get a good laugh from that one. Gandry laughs and wheezes and coughs and laughs some more.  Myrna has an interesting sense of humor for royalty.

             
The plane lifts off and the mighty Mississippi turns into a stream beneath us. Within an hour we’re crossing over the Appalachians, ant-hills from our altitude. Pretty soon it’s blue sky meeting blue waves out to the world’s end.

             
I catch some sleep. An elbow wakes me after what feels like only a minute, but it must have been longer because peeking over the horizon are the Canary Islands and I can feel my heart drumming in my throat.

             
“You ready back there, Gandry?” I have to yell over the engine.

             
“Ten-four,” he calls out. The switch is in his hand and he looks trigger-happy.

             
We make one practice approach to work out the timing. The second time we’re over the volcano Gandry hits the button.

             
“Geronimoooo!” he screams as the cargo door opens and the big chrome cube slides out.

             
The adrenaline makes everything look like slow motion. In the time it takes the vault to reach the boiling magma my mind shows me the centuries of suffering, from the arrival of Merlin to the death of Malto. I can feel the spirits of a thousand elves smiling down on me.

             
When the druid-enchanted iron sinks under the golden fire of Mount Oblivion a cheer goes up between the three of us.

             
“It’s over,” Myrna says. “It’s finally over.”

             
I look over my shoulder and Gandry is covering his eyes. “Don’t look at me!” he shouts. He’s crying. I keep staring and laugh with joy. “I said don’t look at me goddammit!” he screams. I start laughing harder. Soon the corners of his lips curl upwards and he joins me in a celebratory cackle.