Amok: An Anthology of Asia-Pacific Speculative Fiction (10 page)

“It’s the Sorcerer.” The first Candelario gathered in the nearby refugees.

Elbow to elbow on top of a rusted Volvo, the sisters—in matching black pantsuits—stood together regally, the copper bell from Saveliy’s Superette dangling from the middle one’s extended manicured fingernail. Saveliy wondered just how much they had confiscated from his shop, but before he could call out, the crowd pushed ahead, and the orators continued.

“Or the Sea Witch,” added the second, filing away at a nail.

“Whichever one He/She wishes to go by,” yawned the third.

Perched above the crowd, the Candelarios, in their five-inch heels, seemed imbued with an air of authority on the matter. Either it was that or their impeccable make-up and perfectly-styled hair, now straightened out into heavy bangs and long tresses—extra-notable after an evening spent outside in the uncivilised patches of mountain wilderness.

Saveliy, less daunted by the sight of the triplet transsexuals, was the first to pose a question. “What does He/She want exactly?”

The second Candelario shrugged. The other two scratched at their noses.

“The Witch? She comes around every so often. But then—” The second Candelario paused as her sisters joined her in unison—“She’s kind of unpredictable.”

“What should we do?” said someone in the crowd.

“How much time do we have?” said someone else.

“Why has no one come to help us?” said another.

“These are all good questions.” The first Candelario smiled. “Why don’t we ask the Sorcerer?”

Just then a voice resounded from the bottom of the mountain, or within it, or above it. It was hard to tell because the sound seemed to fill the space all around them. It was a beautiful voice, feminine and rich and unmistakably Hispanic in origin.

“My dear,” reverberated the voice, but in that lovely Spanish way.

Saveliy, instantly entranced, and confident of addressing the Sea Witch as such, climbed onto the roof of a dented Corolla. It was strange, but he felt as if he knew Her, perhaps from a past life. It was as if every woman he had ever loved and forgotten were calling out to him in that voice. And though Saveliy had long since abandoned any mystical notions, it was an impossible thought to ignore. He craned his neck, surveying the valley for a sight of the lovely sorceress, who he imagined as forcefully tall, with rapid dark hair crashing in a devastating flourish at her bone-slim ankles—skin the colour of seashells and eyes literally magnetic, flecked with gems—a body of precious metal and ancient ore.

“Goddess,” he exhaled, but did not get a chance to complete the thought, as he was knocked from the roof of the car by a powerful wind, a force that somehow missed the rest of the townspeople gathered round in expectation.

The Candelarios, non-plussed, their hair unperturbed, assumed a mutual expression of seasoned disinterest, and everyone followed suit.

The wind then scooped up Saveliy, bringing him down past the valley, beyond the elongated beach, until he was right over the edge of a 210-foot drop of exposed and craggy sea floor. His arms waved, as if he were flying.

The crowd watched in open curiosity as he grew tiny, now so far away as to appear like nothing more than a speck of dust, before falling silently into the canyon. No one gasped as he was picked up, with his top half seeming to hang lower than his bottom, and dropped once more. Neither did they cower away in fear as he was lifted, half of him now as loose as a rubber band, and dropped again. Nor did they cover their mouths or hide their eyes as he, or at least part of him, was retrieved from the canyon in slow motion, and dropped for the very last time. No one asked aloud or privately wondered why it was Saveliy, of all townspeople, to be swept away and then pulverised like a flower.

The air felt easy with completion and peace. The pines blew wistfully. Everyone felt safe in the presence of the Sorcerer Sea Witch, who, from the sound of crackling branches, was just now emerging into the clearing from the trail.

§

The mountain of water remained, enclosing the valley village. Many of the townspeople moved on, anticipating a tremendous flood, though some simply sought a freer and more exciting life, as all who stayed had to have their goods flown into the valley. Some tourists flew in, as well as journalists for National Geographic, but over time it became more and more difficult to find the valley, and eventually it was omitted from the map altogether.

There was nothing of special note here, but for a small movie-house called Chandel’s Cinema, in which nightly (and nights lasted a lot longer here, with the mountainous horizon obscuring much of the sun’s path), the movie-house’s namesake would set up a projector at the edge of the cavern, pointing the lens at the curtain of sea. The few inhabitants would take a late dinner and stroll, Spanish-style, through the canyon—which had bloomed into half-desert, half-botanical garden—stopping to rest with their blankets and arms around one another to watch the show. The wonderful thing about it was that wherever you happened to be sitting, whether on the mountain, or on the desert floor, or even in the valley somewhere on your lanai, the curve of the ocean made it seem as if the film were being projected just for you.

About Ailia Hopkins

Ailia has lived in Louisiana and O‘ahu and New England, yet tends to find herself anywhere there’s karaoke. Although this is her first published story, in 2011 her Kafkaesque take on a classic campfire snack earned Honourable Mention in an edible literature contest. You can probably guess the recipe behind the Meta-S’mores-Phosis, or just hit her up on Facebook
www.facebook.com/ailia.hopkins
.

Kitsune

KZ Morano

~ Japan ~

I woke up with a cold sensation on my chest where the warmth of her fur had been. The curtains ballooned and shrank in a ghostly dance. I inhaled the perfumed cloud that she had left behind and stared into the empty darkness of my room until my eyes hurt.

I padded towards the window just in time to catch one last glimpse of her, silhouetted against the black watery sky, her face turned towards the moon. I shut the window then jumped into bed, placing a pillow on my ears to muffle the haunting echoes of her ululations until they were diminished to a mere phantom of a sound.

I knew she did it on purpose… waited for me to wake up and watch her leave… I knew too that come morning, some guy’s gonna end up in the news—dead, disemboweled. Jealousy filled me. I couldn’t bear the thought of another man providing her with a kind of pleasure I could never give. I should’ve listened to my father. “Choose your wife well. You might end up with a vixen clothed in woman’s skin.” Wise words from a wise old man.

Memories pervaded the air—still damp and heavy with the scent of her passion. We met in the small village. I had been younger then—awkward and completely unremarkable. But she was a different thing. Walking barefooted on the rice fields, she smiled at me, turning the full force of her feral beauty on me. A ‘hello’ stuck itself somewhere in my throat. But she flipped her hair, so rich and red and rare, and asked if I was going to offer her a ride. Barely waiting for an answer, she hopped into my car in her typical fox-like grace.

She studied me with such unabashed curiosity. When the car vibrated into motion, she smiled. A fang gleamed… smooth, pearlescent… I asked her why she was out there walking all alone. And she said she’d been waiting for me all along. My face reddened. And she giggled prettily, the sound rolling from her throat like bubbles. And just like that, I knew I wanted her in my life. I asked her to marry me that same spring. She laughed and said ‘yes’ in her sweet straightforward fashion. We kissed and the ponderous limbs of cherry blossoms wept, their fragrant pink tears falling on our heads.

She loved with a kind of fierce intensity that I would often find myself wondering if it wasn’t just some elaborate trick. Sometimes, I would catch her staring at the moon as if it were the face of some old lover. At the back of my skull, there was this nagging terror that someday, she’ll wonder why she had allowed herself to be tamed and drawn into the impeccable monotony that was my life. There were times when I wondered if I should’ve just taken a good village woman for a wife.

They say everything gets weary with time. And that spring, no matter how lovely, will eventually seek respite from its opulence and beg for the cold barren relief of winter to arrive. People change. My dreams got bigger. And just as she had willingly settled into a life of bucolic banality, I had begun aching for the city.

So I took her here, though she had at first begged me not to. The city swallowed her whole. Its sights, sounds, and the sheer hugeness of it all frightened her. The city was no place for a fox. I, on the other hand, revelled in its mad diversity… its curves and corners that I tirelessly explored as if it were my mistress.

Lost in my own pursuit of success, I failed her. One night, it became too much for her to bear and something inside her just broke. That was the night that she left, leaping out the window and out of my life with a kind of desperate desire. I ran after her, a thousand promises bursting forth from my lips. But she only looked at me through eyes bearing the wisdom of hundreds of years, her face as cryptic as the moon that she loved so much. People change… Reluctantly, I let her go. Every night, Tokyo’s city lights would wink at me like fireflies’ sex lanterns. And it would dawn upon me how lonely I am. And that I’m now free. But not really. I’ll always be bound to her just as she’ll always be bound to me.

I pushed the image of her away… Visions of her standing by the window… her delicate vulpine features illuminated by the moon, her tails—all nine of them—fanned behind her back in flaming tongues of red and tangerine. A tail for each century she had lived… a tail for each century she had waited in the fields… Nine centuries of waiting for love to come her way… Nine centuries of waiting to become human… And after a few years of marriage, I turned her into this…

I’m the monster. Not her.

I tried my best not to miss her. Because that’s the only time when she would come… It’s been a while since she last snuck into our apartment and slept in my arms. During those moments, I would cling to her and inhale her out-breaths as if it were the last air on earth. Salty sweat and damp fur and the coppery smell of someone’s blood—a scent that was uniquely hers.

She would sob, remorseful… trembling with self-loathing… I would hold her in my arms, telling her that it’s alright… that we could start again. We would make love and I would taste them on her skin… her men. Sometimes, I’d wish that she’d just do to me what she did to them.

At times, I worry that she might never come back… But then she spent nine lifetimes waiting for me. So I figured, I should wait for her a little longer.
Kitsune… come to me.

About KZ Morano

KZ Morano is a writer, a beach bum, and a chocolate addict. She writes anything from romance and erotica to horror and dark fantasy. Her first published story is "The Baobab" in
Popcorn Horror Presents
published in August 2013 by Popcorn Horror. Her recent works include "The Other Child" in
Ugly Babies: the Anthology
by JWK Fiction in October 2013 (reprinted in
Blood Reign Literary Magazine
December 2013), “Wooden Lips” in
Cellar Door: Words of Beauty Tales of Terror Volume II
, “Fireworks” in
Off the KUF Volume II
and “The Old Man’s Tree” in
Blood Reign Lit Mag
issue #1. Several of her stories will also be appearing in various forthcoming anthologies such as
Bones II
by JWK Fiction, Dark
Fairytales Revisited
by Horrified Press and
High End Flash Fiction Anthology
by Leodegraunce.

She blogs at
theeclecticeccentricshopaholic.wordpress.com

Twitter: @kzmorano

The Volunteer

TR Napper

~ Vietnam, Thailand ~

“[Kill them. Kill them all.]” The voice whispered in his ear, insistent.

Aran murmured his reply. “Soon.”

He lay prone on the boulder, high on a ridge overlooking the deep green jungle. One side of the ridge fell sharply to the ocean below. The sun pulsed from a cloudless azure sky, the air thick with heat. Sweat trickled down his forehead, into his eye. Aran blinked it away. He should have worn his environment mask. Too late now, the target was well within range; Aran couldn’t move and give away his position. Fortunately his chillcloak was functioning, absorbing the heat and releasing cooled air onto his body, keeping him conscious.

The group straggled in a line down the narrow beach below, half a mile away. Seven of them, their outlines hazy in the shimmering heat. They looked like just another Vietnamese refugee family fleeing the conflict in the north. But Aran’s regiment was hidden in the valley beyond, and command didn’t want any witnesses.

He whispered. “They don’t look like combatants.”

The voice—metallic, rasping. “[They are
Viet Minh
.]”

“One looks like a grandmother walking on a cane.”

“[They are an espionage unit.]”

“They’re using grandmothers now? I guess that’s some sort of close-combat pulse cane?”

“[Just follow your orders, corporal.]”

The Cochlear-Glyph implant behind his ear went silent. But he knew they were there, waiting for him to act, monitoring his vital signs and movements. Listening to his orders, looking for any unorthodox chatter between him and his squad.

The scout squad of five was spread amongst the boulders. Behind them the regiment was preparing for a surprise push into the south. Three thousand shock troops, one hundred mobile rail-cannons, even a plasma array. It was a bold manoeuvre, along the beaches of Da Nang and into Hoi An. His squad was linked together through their implants, able to hear every word, every murmur, every expletive each other made. They weren’t given wider comms access than that. Command didn’t trust the volunteer squadrons, they thought they’d warn the enemy or send out the truth about the war onto the freewave.