As the Moon Climbs

I stood under a lamppost, its flickering light turning the street into an empty off-tempo night club. A tiny old man in front of me was hunched over smoking a cigarette, pointed ears sticking up through his white hair. He smelled like a barn.

“They’re gonna kill me,” he said.

“Who?” I asked.

“Phobetor’s gang. The Mares.” His eyes glowed softly.

“What’d you do?”

“Punched one of ’em and ran.” He sighed. “She hit her horse. I couldn’t stop myself.”

I shrugged. “I’ll protect you.”

“You?” A laugh shook his wiry body. “You’re just a Dreamer. Don’t know why I’m even talking to you.”

“There you are, Tom,” a voice rasped from across the street. A scarred, emaciated woman appeared, dressed in rags and riding a tall black horse. Her savage grin exposed sharp teeth.

“Leave him alone,” I said.

She cackled and raised a crossbow, firing at Tom. With a thought, I deflected the bolt, then lobbed a ball of energy so big it knocked her off the horse.

“You’re lucid,” Tom gasped.

I grinned and gave him a thumbs up.

The train from Munich to Zurich only ran once a day since the fighting had escalated. Armored rail cars scouted first, removing bodies from the tracks or stopping the train to disarm explosives. The five-hour trip was now three times that long. Still, it was safer from rebel attack than driving or flying.

Angela remembered a beautiful journey through forests and valleys and meadows full of golden wildflowers. The windows of the car had been removed and replaced with bulletproof siding, so the only light came from halogen lamps bolted to the ceiling. She shifted her plasma rifle to one hand and used the other to stifle a yawn.

A blast tore through the shielding, knocking the car sideways off the track.

“Plasma grenade!” someone shouted.

Angela’s dropped rifle flew, but she was strapped to her seat as the vehicle tumbled down a hill. Through the gaping hole made by the explosion, she watched sky turn to ground and back again.

Her last thought was, The flowers are gone, and then so was everything else.

Connor heard the wailing before he saw its source. Thinking someone was in trouble, he veered off the path and toward the river, branches slapping his arms as he ran. He reached the edge of the tree line and saw the scene clearly, drawing back in alarm and falling on his rump.

The riverbank was lined with women wearing pale dresses, their long fair hair floating around their heads as if they were underwater. At first only one of them keened, a loud, eerie call that made Connor’s skin crawl, but then the others joined until an unearthly chorus of shrieks and cries echoed like the music of the damned.

“Saints preserve us,” he whispered. “That many of the bean sidhe in one place… the king must be dead! Or the bishop!” He steeled his nerves and stood. “I have to warn the village!”

He stumbled back to the path and ran off.

Soon, the keening stopped. One of the women cleared her throat.

“That was good, sisters,” she said. “This concludes the test of the emergency banshee system. See you again next year!”

“Ragnarok is coming.”

Mani frowned at his sister, Sol, as she handed him the reins of the sun chariot. “How do you know?”

To his surprise, she blushed. “My, you know, hasn’t started.”

Mani stared at her blankly.

“I’m pregnant,” Sol said.

“How is that possible?” he shouted, startling the horses, Alvakr and Alsvid.

Sol tucked a strand of hair into her braid. “Remember Glenr?”

“Your husband? I thought he was dead. Were you hanging around Valhalla?”

“Yes. No.” She sighed. “Yes, he’s dead, no I haven’t been to Valhalla. The dead can’t make babies anyway.”

“So then?”

Absently, Sol stroked Alsvid’s neck. “Glenr has this descendant, Glen—”

“Ugh, save the story,” Mani interrupted. “We’re telling Odin right now so he can warn the others.”

“But what if it’s not a girl?” Sol asked. “If it’s a boy, then—”

“We’re not taking that chance. Come on. The moon will be late tonight.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way.” Sol stepped back. “Hati, he’s all yours.” Behind her, the giant wolf bared its fangs and leaped.

“Welcome back, Giselle,” Randy said.

Giselle groaned. “Sorbet. Now.”

Randy handed her the lemon ice to cleanse her palate. Prophecy by glossolalia always left a weird taste in her mouth; this time it was cigarettes, whiskey and blood. She much preferred visions or dreams or automatic writing, but the choice wasn’t hers to make.

“So,” she asked between licks, “what did I say?”

Randy and Dan looked at each other, then off in different directions. Dan coughed.

“Well,” he said.

“You were singing,” Randy said.

Giselle froze with the sorbet halfway to her mouth. “Singing? What?”

Dan consulted his netbook. “Um, ‘Not to Touch the Earth,’ ‘Riders on the Storm’ and ‘The End.’ All by the Doors.”

“So was I channeling divine karaoke or…?”

“Seemed legit,” Randy said. “I’m no analyst, but sounds like we’re looking at presidential assassination and some kind of apocalyptic scenario.”

“Jim Morrison was a mystic, you know,” Dan said.

“Peachy,” Giselle muttered. “Next time, remind me to have him sign my bra.”

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