Кейт Форсит - Relics, Wrecks and Ruins - Anthology of Speculative Fiction Short Works

“Mr. Wainright,” I said, pulling my arms free from under his body, “I advise you to get into a chesterfield. We are about to take-off.”

We clambered up from the rug and flung ourselves into the armchairs. Through the window at our feet, I saw the Brotherhood wrench their horses around and flee in all directions.

“Dear God, it is happening! It is really happening!” Mr. Wainright said, the wonder in his voice almost matching my own.

We launched, the thrust pressing us back into the chairs. The power, the glory of it all closed my eyes for a second. My mind full of speed, trajectory, and a dizzying sense of freedom. I did not know where we were going but, for now, going was enough.

“Are you doing this? Is this you?” Mr. Wainright asked over the rising hum of acceleration.

I gathered all my strength and leaned forward to look out the window again. Below us the scattered Brotherhood dwindled into specks upon the shrinking lift-off grid. Too bad I could not see their faces.

“Yes, this is me,” I said and smiled.

On the day that could change everything for me, the sky roils in shades of grief and sorrow. Behind the fallen city, clouds curl into fists that pound the darkening sky and cracked earth. Crumbling buildings—broken teeth in a vast, voiceless mouth—throw purple shadows through warped glass and onto the cottage’s bare floor. Fine white dust billows before the storm, rushes towards the village that huddles between the sluggish river and tangled, regrowing forest.

The men of the house pace outside on the porch in the fading light. Their boots grate on sand; their coughs and muttered conversation are almost inaudible over a distant rumble of thunder. They will stay there until I call, for they are not needed for the birth of a girl nor the death of an old woman.

As the storm thickens, I instruct Maya, the elderly soul-bringer, to shutter the windows. Best to keep out any wind-borne toxins left by the long-vanished, unsouled civilization. New lungs should take their first breaths in a clean world; start fresh—as our people had so many years ago. After the collapse.

Lying on the bloodied bed, her traditional black shift high on her hips, Allody pushes back sweat-soaked hair and blinks blearily at me.

“Is it time, Soul-Master Jena?” the young mother-to-be whispers, her face drawn with the pain of a long labor.

“I’m not…” I resist the restless impulse to deny the title of soul-master or to shove bloody fingers through my short hair. I’ve done this a hundred times and more. I am twenty-seven. Young for the honor to come, but experienced enough to deserve it.

Maybe this will be the one.

My grandmother used to be a soul-breaker, like me. She never made it to soul-master. Perhaps this time I’ll finally earn the title. The title my grandmother deserved. Then I can finish her work. Show the Council how wrong they are.

“Yes, it’s time,” I say to Allody and check the baby’s crowning head. “One more push.” A pair of blue-metal scissors lies heavy in my hand. Heavy and sharp. The cutting of so many cords and souls has yet to dull their edge. Mine, yes. The scissors’, no. “Is your soul-bringer ready?”

Old Maya touches her forehead in a commoner’s sign of respect to a soul-master and shuffles back to her granddaughter’s bed. “I’m ready, Soul-Master Jena.”

I can’t let it pass a second time, much as I want to.

“I’m not yet a master.” I try to keep my voice steady and calm. “Still a breaker. Maybe soon, though. Perhaps…” I brandish the scissors; the symbol and tool of my office, “…the piece of your soul I break off so I can bind the rest to this little babe will elevate me to master and into the Council.” I give a tight smile. “We never know which soul-bringing and breaking will do it. Not until I cut the cord.”

Let it be this time, I pray silently. If breaking for this child paves my path to joining the Council, there is a chance the soul-masters will finally listen to me. Then we can save more people from this painful, unnecessary form of passing.

I shouldn’t have to replace one life with another. We have enough food and water to support bigger families.

All lives are of value, not just the newborn.

I touch Maya’s blue-veined hand. “I do hope it’s this birth. The family that helps a breaker to become a master is richly rewarded by the Council.”

“That’d be nice,” Maya agrees. “Nice to leave my grandbaby and her girl a softer path through this world. Softer than the one I had, anyways.”

It takes an effort not to glance around the small cottage, with its uneven walls and floor made of broken concrete. The storm winds whistle through gaps stuffed with rags and mud. A faint haze of dust, smelling of ancient, bitter death, swirls in the room. She’s right. Even in these times, under the too-careful governance of the Council, some have easier lives than others.