Fantasy Magazine, July 2010

Fantasy Magazine Issue 40, July 2010 Table of Contents Perhaps this is Kushi’s Story by Swapna Kishore (fiction) Violets for Lee by Desirina Boskovich (fiction) The Seal of Sulaymaan by Tracy Canfield (fiction) The Stable Master’s Tale by Rachel Swirsky (fiction) Author Spotlight: Swapna Kishore Author Spotlight: Desirina Boskovich Author Spotlight: Tracy Canfield Author Spotlight: Rachel Swirsky About the Editor © 2010 Fantasy Magazine www.fantasy-magazine.com Perhaps this is Kushi’s Story Swapna Kishore Elder Sister places pebbles to mark people in her sand village. She pats walls in place. She smiles in her know- it-all way as if to remind me that it is she who will marry the headman’s son and decide what our tribe does—all because she was born an hour before me. When she stands back to admire her work, I kick it in. “Younger Sister, why?” She gives a mournful look. “You hadn’t posted guards,” I mock. “A city is more than fields and huts and granaries.” “Hmmm.” She flattens the sand and drags a twig to sketch a new plan, this time including watch towers. She cups her hands around moist sand to shape buildings again. I hate it when she doesn’t fight. She will take time to build anything worth kicking, so I turn to the Maasa river. The pebble I throw skims over the flat blue water, touching the surface once, twice, three times before it sinks. The air smells of river spray and fresh grass and ripe wheat—too peaceful for me. My dreams have soldiers flashing swords and cities full of buildings and the sounds of song and dance. In my dreams, I rule people. My hand is moving to my bosom, as if that will stop the buzz of things I crave, when I notice Tribemother watching me. I straighten up; I do not want her to suspect anything. Tribemother’s face is so thick with wrinkles I never know when she is frowning. She must be over a hundred years old, because no one remembers her as young. They say she knows everything that can be known. They say she reads minds; at times like this, I worry it may be true. Yet I have not done anything wrong. Not yet. “Younger One, Elder One,” she calls out. “Come, I will tell you a story about a different tribe.” Elder Sister looks up. “Are they like us?” I had been about to ask, can we beat them in war? *** Tribemother’s stories are stickier than glue. When I was five and heard her story about a mountain bear, I smelled raw flesh on its breath, and felt coarse paws on my arm. Its teeth were barely a hand-span away from my face when I blurted out that I would return Elder Sister’s wooden doll to make it go away. But right now, any story is good because it will stop me from imagining other things. Elder Sister and I squat near her. “This is the story of an orphan healer apprentice, Kushi.” Tribemother pauses to peer at us. “She was almost eight years old—like you girls—on the day the gods tore the sky open.” *** Kushi was pulling out a medicinal plant wedged between rocks when the valley went dark. Thunder boomed in the air. The sky, blue a moment ago, was angry with black clouds. Alarmed, she ran towards the hut cluster. The men had rushed from the farms, some still holding hoes; the women gathered, babies dangling off their hips. Everyone—men, women, children—stared at the sky. The clouds split and the skies tore apart to expose an eye-burning white light. And down floated a bright purple feather. A feather gifted by the gods? Excitement tingled in Kushi. She had always assumed the stories to be ways to cheer younger children. Was it true, then, that the gods sent feathers to select leaders whenever the tribe was in trouble? Five hundred years ago, Khenpo, a feather- selected, foresaw an earthquake and made the tribe migrate just in time. And two centuries later, another chosen leader, Rigpa, averted a major split in the tribe by enforcing new laws for marriage and inheritance. But why did the gods send a feather now? Food in the valley was sufficient even if not abundant. People were almost content. Kushi glanced at the headman Yeshe; his face was stiff with tension. The feather hovered over a group of young boys who whooped and jumped to grab it. Then, boom! The skies sealed shut, the clouds vanished, and the feather shot into the hands of Bataar. Kushi’s stomach lurched. Bataar? How could the gods select a boy who snatched bread from younger children, cheated in games, and slept during nightwatch? Bataar raised his hand, fingers clutched around the shiny purple feather. “Behold the feather of the gods,” he shouted. Everyone looked stunned. Some men shook their heads; some women muttered. “Indeed,” said someone with marked lack of enthusiasm. Yeshe glanced at his deputy, Nawang, and then waved for silence. “Tribesmen! We are blessed that the gods have chosen Bataar though he is yet a tender ten- year-old. I will be honored to teach him so that I can hand over when he is wise enough.” Relieved cries of “Well spoken!” erupted all around. Bataar bowed stiffly. “I look forward to my rightful place,” he said haltingly. “And to learning whatever I need.” “Already he speaks wisely,” someone whispered. But Kushi could only stare at Bataar. He lowered his face, as if overcome by a sudden humility, but he was peering from under his eyelashes, and to Kushi, it seemed his face gleamed just as it did when he squashed a beetle or pinched babies to make them cry. Her skin crawled. *** Within a few days, everyone was commenting on how Bataar had changed from a disobedient, stubborn pest to a model student who earned wholesome praise from the deputy headman, Nawang. And though Yeshe refused to comment on Bataar’s progress, Bataar stuck his feather in his headband to remind people that he had been chosen. Kushi remained wary. Once, when gathering herbs in an isolated spot, she saw Bataar swoop down on a squirrel. Laughing, he threw it far into the gulch; then he mumbled to his feather. He held it near his ear, nodded, and grinned. Kushi, crouched behind a rock, felt cold all over: the feather seemed to approve his action. Yet, in front of everyone, Bataar acted gentle and controlled. Was the feather teaching him to pretend? That evening, she told Healer Bolormaa what she had seen, and added, “Should we tell Headman Yeshe?” “No.” Bolormaa frowned. “Yeshe knows Bataar is pretending, and is looking for ways to refuse handing over. But the boy has managed to fool everyone else, even Nawang.” “If I tell everyone what I saw—” “Bataar is older, and chosen by the gods. No one will believe you. They remember how you scratched his face and said he hit Papo.” “He did hit Papo.” Surely Bolormaa hadn’t forgotten that? “Yes, but now Papo sticks to Bataar like a tail, and behaves like Bataar is a god. People will say you are jealous or possessed by an evil spirit.” Kushi shuddered. The only time she had seen her tribesmen handle a possessed girl had been terrifying— the girl’s screams as the spirit was beaten out of her still pounded Kushi’s ears. But the thought of Bataar leading the tribe was even more frightening. So she went to Yeshe’s hut. “Headman, Bataar tortures and kills squirrels,” she said. Yeshe sighed. “Maybe the gods will give him wisdom and compassion.” “They are making him worse.” Kushi’s voice sharpened with anger. “That’s heresy,” Yeshe said. “And you can’t prove it.” Kushi squirmed. They wanted proof—she would get it. As an apprentice healer, Kushi was busy all day, but whenever possible, while gathering herbs, she chose the mountain slopes and ravines where Bataar went in his spare time. Light-footed and agile, she trailed him without rustling anything. She watched him maim and kill small animals while speaking to his feather. Sometimes he threw his head back and laughed like a jackal. Yet Bolormaa or Yeshe ignored her reports. One day, Bataar caught a lizard and ripped open its stomach with a sharp stone. He scooped its dripping entrails and held them in the air. “Yes!” he shouted. “Yes!” Then he wrapped them in felt and punched the air with his fist. His face shone with excitement. Kushi ran to Bolormaa. “So,” Bolormaa said, irritated, “the boy wrapped the entrails instead of flinging the animal to its death. So?” “His face twisted in an ugly way—” “Don’t follow him if it frightens you,” Bolormaa snapped. “And don’t bother Yeshe—knowing about another dead creature won’t make a difference.” *** Men and women danced and took swigs of beer from their gourds. Stew bubbled in cauldrons. It was the winter-begin day, the last festival celebrated before ice sealed off the passes. The elders had struck a good bargain with the nomads while bartering spare grain for ploughs and tools, and everyone was happy and relaxed. Kushi sat with the other children, breathing in the lovely smells, and imagining life in lands where people ate so well every day. Soon she would grow up and become a healer. She would marry. Her children would never feel as lonely as she had felt because she was motherless, though, of course, Bolormaa had been a kind foster mother and teacher and— “Healer!” Kushi jerked out of her daydream.

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