James Scotson - Planets Falling

The door to the corridor leading to the house is ajar. An eerie, flickering, snot-green glow mocks me from behind it. I run forward, barely noticing Theo beside me. Theo throws the door open and my world completely dissolves. The corridor no longer leads to the house, because my family’s home is completely gone, replaced by a pile of sticks and smoldering ashes. I scream Eliza’s name and then the scene vanishes into a void that seems endless and hopeless. I don’t want to leave.

“Wake up Marksman, I mean, Amy.” Bets hovers over me looking ragged. Her hair hangs in greasy strands in her face. Her hunting cloak is covered in blood stains, mostly not her own I suppose. I jump up and begin searching frantically. “You found Eliza, right? Tell me that you found her.”

Bets looks genuinely concerned. In a gentle voice, she says, “Amy, no we didn’t find her. If we’d stayed to search much longer, we’d all be dead. I’m pretty sure they took her.” She spits into the grass.

My panic returns. “We’ve got to go back. She’s in the rubble — I know it.”

“No, Amy, she’s not. Theo, Samuel, and I searched the armory and the immediate area. No sign of her. If you ask me, I think those people and things were after you and your kid. Once they got what they wanted, they began to clear out.”

“Where are we? If you won’t go with me, I’ll go alone.”

Bets’ hard-ass persona returns. “First, we’re safe Marksman. And second, you’re not going anywhere. You’re not gonna do your kid any favors getting killed or kidnapped. Theo told me to watch you and that’s what I’m doing. Sit down.”

I try to stand. Bets pushes me down, fairly gently. Given that I have no bearings, I’d have no idea how to get back to town. Bets hands me a jar of some shine, which I sip with shaky hands. I feel as if I’m going to burst. “Bets, what’s happening?”

“The moon went dark. The town was sacked by some very organized marauders. The raiders were real assholes and burnt the west-side to the ground. They only killed a few folks — people that were in their way. They did steal a few young women — the Killin girls, the Bences, and the Mitchells. If we don’t get the girls back, they’ll likely get sold into the slave trade. Samuel has sent some trackers to find your baby and the girls and rescue them if possible. I’d say there were fifty attackers, most on horses with torches and some nice weapons. The attack was clearly directed on your compound and the armory. We thought they wanted the weapons. Instead they took your girl. Puzzling.”

“This has to be related to the disappearance of my father and Wenn. I just don’t understand. What about the rest of the townspeople?”

“Most opted to return to their homes if the houses were still there. A few folks, including those that lost their houses, have gone over to Millsboro. Millsboro sent a small squad of militia to aid us. Too little, too late, I’m afraid. Marksman, you have to know something about why they’re after you. Do you think it has something to do with what your father and Wenn did when they left town? Maybe an unpaid debt or a grudge?”

I’m too exhausted to be angry. “I’ve told you all a thousand times. My men were taken by force. They did not leave me and the baby intentionally.”

Bets rolls her eyes and takes a long draught from her water flask. “It’d be easier if you accepted the fact that they left you for profit and paid the price. Now we’re paying the price.” She throws her knife at a tree. It sticks in knot.

“Where’s Theo?”

“Theo, Samuel, and English are at the perimeter of the town searching for any activity. We’re still sworn to protect our citizens. They’re still there. And you’re here. Reality is, we can’t let you go back if you’re the danger.”

“So, I’m an outcast?”

“Maybe. Try to get some rest. Theo’ll be back soon and we’ll decide what our next steps should be.”

Hours pass. Bets gives me some jerky and unlevened bread, which I nibble and then promptly throw up. I sip a little water, curl into a ball, and recede into hell. I never thought of myself as a weak person. However, I can’t seem to find any strength inside. My mind is jumbling with violent, incoherent images — bodies, blood, brown stains, wild eyes, and, most strangely, the wicked grin of an unknown woman.

The thrum of Theo’s voice lifts me from my trough of despair. “Amy, honey, please wake up. We got to get moving.” My vision is blurred but it’s still clear enough to see that Theo’s completely spent. One thick hand is on my wrist and the other is bracing the small of my back. And I’m on the back of a horse, holding on with desperation. Consciousness fades again.

Oh damn. I’m having one of those dreams where I know I’m dreaming but unable to wake up.

I look down at my youthful, sixteen-year-old hands and realize that this is the terrible day all over again. I’m in the gardens working on a compost pile. As I turn the mass of leaves, steam rises into the sky. I always enjoyed this work, taking something so potentially vile — meats scraps, manure, straw, rotten fruit — and making it into rich, sweet-smelling, functional soil. The green creatures stir in the small wood plot beyond the meadow. They gesture to me. I put down my pitchfork and walk toward them. The little ones have never acted this way before. They’re agitated by something.

I follow them into a small clearing that we use to grow cold-weather crops — deep green lettuces, sweet onions, and strong garlic, mostly. Tiny shoots of green peek out of the dirt in orderly rows. Something’s amiss in one section of the field. The sprouts have vanished and the soil is mounded. A deep growl from the chaotic dirt pile stops me. I back off and gather three of my fellow students — muscular boys with shovels and pitchforks.

We run back to the area, where a pack of fifteen mangy wild dogs, fur matted with blood and moist, mud-like slime, are fighting over the rumpled body of some poor creature. We rush the mongrels, swinging our tools and shouting. All but one of the dogs scatters into the woods. The remaining scruffy animal hunches down, teeth bared, staring straight at me with angry, cataract-ridden eyes. I discover viscerally that I can see its mind; this is similar to my ability with the green beings. Whereas my green friends send benevolent images, this dog mind is blank but very hungry. It wants me next.

One of the boys yells and swings at the animal, his shovel hitting it squarely in the head. The dog yelps — its pain and unbridled fear searing through my skull. It falls on its side and the other boys pummel it to a messy, furry pulp. While gulping air and bending with their hands on their knees, the boys examine the pack’s victim. They freeze. Will, the largest, boldest of the boys looks at me with a mixture of horror and pity — an image that is all too clear in this relentless replay in my mind.

I run forward although Will tries to hold me back. I’ve spent the last ten years trying to forget the sight before me and yet it still plagues these damn dreams. I wish I could find an herb that erases the memory and lets me sleep peacefully. Shine doesn’t help. On the precious earth is the most woeful thing imaginable burned permanently in my mind. My mother’s splayed on the ground, dirt wetted to mud by her blood. Her face is flawless — her expression serene, happy. The remainder of her body is unrecognizable and indescribable. Her favorite blue dress is shredded and mucky with dog spit, blood, and fur. It seems the dogs were playing with it before we arrived.

I can’t scream, cry, or move. I drop to my knees and stare although I see nothing. Father arrives with Samuel and several other men. The sound of my father sobbing pulls me from my paralysis. I walk over to her, close her eyes, and stroke her blonde curls. This is where the dream deviates from the ones I have had at least weekly for my adult life. I turn from my poor mother to see another dog in the woods. This animal does not appear like the others. My little green friends are standing next to it, stroking its thick grey fur. Its eyes are wise, not wild. I realize it is not a dog but a wolf. I see an image of sorrow and security in my mind. The wolf is standing over a dog with its paw firmly on its back. The green ones are telling me that this will not happen again and that they are sorry. I’m the garden tender now. No time for grief. Your mother is proud of you and carry on … for all of us.