Untold

Poetry & Fiction

A Child's Heart

Alec Kocherhans

Fall 2023

The Doctor started off the check-up like he was doing a sales pitch, almost like he was trying to convince us to buy a new car. But we weren’t in the business for a car.

He was selling us a heart for our newest son.

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A Child’s Heart

Alec Kocherhans

The doctor started off the check-up like he was doing a sales pitch, almost like he was trying to convince us to buy a new car. But we weren’t in the business for a car.

He was selling us a heart for our newest son.

Donny was born 20 days before we spoke to this specialist. This one being a specialist of the heart. There were specialists for all sorts of organs, because there were many organs for sale. I recalled how my sister replaced her poisoned liver with a synthetic one, eliminating any need to check up on her drinking habit, which had only gotten worse in the months following surgery. Luckily for her, her new organ would last longer than she would. My friend Joseph replaced his right eye after a particularly devastating car crash where he had rear-ended a truck. With how much each car was damaged it was a miracle he didn’t have any more serious injuries. Despite the costs of a new car looming over him, the medical professionals at the Martillo County Hospital convinced him that if he could see, he could get a job. And if he got a job, he could pay for a new car.

The sales doctor prepared charts, X-rays, and statistical diagrams for me and Lillian to pour through. The papers were pinned to beige tackboards with brass pins, easily removable if we wanted to take a closer look at any of them. The sheets of paper never did much to convince me that replacement surgery on our son’s deformed heart would be necessary. No, they told me things I already knew.

Our first son Ryan had an elective heart transplant when he was born three years earlier, and we were still reeling from the costs—the thought of another purchase was nearly too much to bear. I had poured over documents like these for days and days in the weeks following his birth. Lillian, my wife, had expressed her feelings on the matter then, and it's hardly likely that she would have changed now.

“The best hope for the future, Devan.” she had said, as she sat in the passenger seat while we were driving back from yet another regular, unnecessary checkup for Ryan. “That’s what we have to give him, the real synthetic thing. How can we pass an opportunity like this up? We can’t leave him with a real heart, they’re too fragile.” She looked out the window away from me. I knew what she was talking about. Her father had passed away only months before Ryan’s birth from a heart attack, leaving her and her sister Jessie grieving. He was avidly against any modification’s or “gobbledygooksurgeries.” She wasn’t wrong, his heart was fragile.

She had turned back to me, tears burning in her eyes. “Jessie called me while we were both at the office, new transplant hearts just aren’t doing it anymore. We need something better. If we find out one day that he’s dead from a heart attack in his twenties it won't be my fault, it will be yours.” And with that, the conversation was over. Who could argue against the words of a grieving daughter? Perhaps a replacement really could have saved him.

Lillian’s words still echoed in my head from all those years ago. I had done as she wanted. It put us in the hole, but Ryan would never have heart trouble in his natural life. This time around I wasn’t so certain I wanted to be so accommodating considering our finances. I was set on doing a heart transplant with a real heart, nothing more. Lillian’s grief wasn’t going to convince me two times in a row. The only thing that almost swayed me wasn’t Lillian at all. It was the doctor, specifically his eyes, gleaming at me. The doctor’s eyes, and his smile.

The doctor wore a white lab coat, a simple, uninspired black undershirt, and blue latex gloves, despite the fact that he was not performing any surgeries today that I knew of. He held a clipboard filled with our son’s information. He never looked at the board though. He was too preoccupied with me, his eyes following me as I stood up from my blue-cushioned hospital folding chair to inspect the chart from a closer distance. I unpinned a document describing different payment plans, one for installment payments, and one describing the likelihood for donations from people unfortunate to pass away in car accidents, or who had recently acquired a synthetic organ and had passed away.

“It’s a real miracle, getting such a good deal,” he said. “We can only hope one pops up! I’d be happy to put it to good use.” He looked at me with a full grin, obviously captivated by the prospect of another organ to sell landing in his office. He seemed so cheery for a topic this depressing.

“What a waste,” I thought. “Spending as much money as you would on a new car on an organ that only ends up benefiting you for a few weeks. It's tragic. Unnecessary really.” Luckily, Ryan’s heart would last a long time. At least any father could hope so. I shook the thought of the doctor prying my son’s heart out of his chest after a fatal accident. His imagined smile would be stained into my thoughts for hours.

It's only after pinning the documents back on the board that I turned and realized that there was a reason the doctor’s eyes were so captivating. They weren’t real. Two synthetic eyes were gazing at me. They were laced with microscopic wires, sending signals from the light they gathered down tubes and into the brain. From my seat they looked regular, a hint of blue from normal eyes. But up close they were strange. Wrong even. The blue shaded irises were dazzlingly pure. They looked almost too clean, too smooth, almost as if pure acrylic paint was plastered on to eliminate any variability in color.

His eyes stayed peeled open as I returned to my chair and read yet another pamphlet handed to me. I only felt fear when I looked at the doctor, and I would be lying if I said it didn’t sway me. I couldn’t feel his enthusiasm; that couldn’t be passed through something so synthetic, could it?

After leaving the room to discuss our options with Lillian, I saw her eyes too. They were real. Even after looking away at an X-ray and looking back at me they were still there. Her brown, imperfect irises, dimly glowing despite the news we had endured over the last few days. But, despite her eyes and their splendor, they didn’t shine on me. Their gaze, their splendor, shone somewhere else, somewhere past me, back into the doctor’s office. She longed to be there, to bring Ryan there, to make him whole. It's there that I think the idea was cemented. She had a focus that, though I tried, I couldn’t shake. And she would hold onto it despite everything. Despite me.

We walked to the car, through the sliding glass doors of the hospital. I noticed that Lilian was still carrying some papers. We had been given pamphlets and papers on previous visits, all of which were at home. Whatever she was holding God only knew.

“Probably just something she forgot to grab the first time,” I thought. “Or just something else.”

* * *

As we were driving back through our neighborhood, Lillian stared out her passenger window away from me. We hardly talked while in the car anymore, usually because she would sit in the back seat with Ryan, trying to get him to talk or interact. He always required some extra care, even on short trips across town. I would elect to sit back with him instead of driving, but that usually resulted in Ryan crying ceaselessly. He wanted his mother, not me. It must have felt awful, having that responsibility. Perhaps if I had talked to her more...

But there was no talking, no crying even. Donny was still in the hospital, and he would stay there until we decided what to do next.

Outside Lilian’s window, I could imagine she was looking at the neighborhood children, as she did frequently. Our neighborhood was generally full of rich families. All their children had robotic pieces. Some only chose to replace the eyes because their child had been born blind. Or they would replace a pancreas because their child was born with diabetes. However, many replacements, like we had done with Ryan, were elective, only preventing a future possibility for a disease. And who could really blame them? Who wouldn’t give their child a way out from heart disease? Or Blindness, or diabetes?

While pulling into the driveway of our home, our next-door neighbor Marvin got up from his poppy garden surrounding his front porch and walked toward us.

“Devan!” he said. He had a way of elongating odd syllables in order to sound more friendly, though it only made him sound drunk, even when he wasn’t. “I hope the checkup went well. Finally getting that heart?” He looked at me expectantly. Lilian didn’t bother with him like I did. As soon as I parked, she went inside without a word.

“Actually no, at least not yet.” I said, “There are a lot of things that go into a decision like this, especially when finances are so tight you know?”

He looked at me, still in his expectant way, almost as if he didn’t hear me. “I sure hope you do, Devan. What an engineering marvel! I couldn’t sleep at night if my kids didn’t have hearts. Real strong hearts, that’s what they need.” He quickly looked down the street, almost as if he was expecting someone to be watching him from down there. He looked back at me and gave an insidious smile. “She wants a heart, doesn’t she?” The question caught me off guard. I hardly knew why it was his business what we chose to do with our child.

“Marvin, that’s really not your concern, it’s my kid.”

“But it's her kid too!” he sneered back. “I’d trust her more than you. I've never seen you walk around with that oaf of a child you have right now; I’ve only seen her with him. He can hardly walk around the neighborhood without falling to the ground in some sort of fit. What do you know about children?” Stunned, I looked down. Ryan, who was just over three, had some kind of intellectual disability. We didn’t really know what was wrong with him, but he never spoke. He never made eye contact either. He was difficult to deal with. Particularly for my wife. After our investment for his heart, she had high expectations. I was glad to have a child at all. She had to be around him more, on our drives and whatnot, so maybe she did know more about him...

“What do you know about it!” I snapped. “You’re not the child’s father, I am; and I know Ryan! He’s perfect!” My face felt like it was being flushed with something warm. I hadn’t yelled like this in ages. “Stay out of our family business, it's not yours to meddle in.”

Marvin leaned further over the hedge, staring straight into my eyes. “She talked to me yesterday, about your kids. You were at work, and she talked to me.” He smiled. “She’s a brilliant woman, she knows what’s best for her kids. Whatever happens, I'd say let it happen.”

“What?” I asked, perplexed. “What did she say?” He started walking away, despite my insistence. “What did she say!”.

He turned back toward me, and grinned. “She wants what is best for her new son. That oaf of yours is really dragging you down. I’d agree with her quickly, if I were you.” And with that he strode back to his garden of poppies, leaving me more puzzled than ever.

“Curse your dang poppies” I said, but he had already gone.

* * *

Dazed, I stepped through the front door of the house. Lilian never talked to Marvin, did she? Not that he knew of at least. And what had he said about Ryan? That he was dragging us down?

“Fool, that’s all he is, a fool,” I said to myself.

Stepping into the living room, I noticed that Sarah was still here with Ryan. She sat cross-legged on the brown futon, with her signature pigtails whipping around as she tried to make Ryan laugh. Her face was absolutely covered in freckles. Something about them mixed with the hair made her seem like an authentic cowgirl, though we lived in the suburbs and the nearest patch of good green land was miles away.

Ryan was sitting on the floor in front of her, laughing uncontrollably, not looking at her, but smiling, nonetheless. His blue eyes were only visible for a moment when he looked behind him while he wiggled back and forth on the ground. This was more interaction than he normally would have with me and Lilian, but this was typical for Sarah. She had mastered taking care of him. When he screamed, she would let him go, when he would pull on her hair, she wouldn’t make a fuss. Sarah looked up at me, only just noticing that I’d entered the room.

“Mister Evenston! I got Ryan to look at me today, he looked at my eyes!” She had jumped up from the couch in an instant, pigtails whirling around once again as she bounded toward me. She was nearly 18, and she was taking childcare classes in her online high school. My son was a perfect opportunity for her to “practice her capabilities” and “develop patience” as she said. Really, I think she just liked raiding the pantry whenever she wanted, and who could blame her. She lived in a shady neighborhood and had reached out to a few months prior. Since then, she had come over almost every day for at least a few hours while Lilian was at the office, sometimes even when we didn’t need her.

“He looked into my eyes! He might have even said something! I don’t know what, but it sounded like some sort of baby word.” She looked back toward him, grinning almost obnoxiously.

“Now maybe this is what me and my wife need,” I thought. “Some real joy in this kid. In our kids. Doctor’s visits never leave me as happy as how Sarah looked. Wasn’t that the goal of all this?”

“Whatever happens, I’d say let it happen” Marvin’s words echoed to me. What was he even talking about?

“Mister Evanston?” Sarah said, confused. I didn’t realize she had still been talking. She had the tendency to ramble, oftentimes without an audience. Ryan was sometimes the audience, but he hardly gave feedback about when to shut her mouth.

“Oh, sorry,” I said, “It's been a long day, with the hospital visit and all. What was it that you said?”

She gave a short hop and continued, obviously excited. “Ryan looked at my eyes! Oh, and your wife came in a little bit ago. She didn’t seem like she was in the best mood, so I didn’t bother her. I heard her moving some things around in the kitchen, and then I think she went upstairs? You might want to go check on her.”

“I’ll go do that.” I said, still distracted. Since Lillian had gathered something from the kitchen, it was safe to assume she was Grabbing food. Beelining towards the bedroom with snacks and sweets never spelled good for the rest of my day. Another bad mood, nothing to be done about that, for the moment anyway.

I thanked Sarah, she gave Ryan one last goodbye wave, and she headed out the door. She had been such a blessing. Through the last few weeks especially, with hospital visits, not to forget Donny’s actual birth, she was a life saver. Lilian had taken everything harder than I had. She had given birth to the kid after all. I had only been watching as Donny came into the world, and I watched while Donny was whisked away to be tested for every known disease under the sun. It only took a few minutes for the doctors to come back and inform us that the lining of Donny’s heart was abnormally thin. For now, they said, it won’t cause any problems, but in a year or so the chances of a tear would increase dramatically.

I heard a whimper from behind me. I spun around to see Ryan still sitting in front of the futon.

“Maybe I’m going crazy, I forgot you were here.” I said as I picked him up. He still didn’t look at me. I didn’t think that Sarah was lying about his eye contact, but I’ve never seen him look into my eyes. Something about him didn’t have that basic instinct the rest of us did. A bit odd, but I still loved him.

“She wants what is best for her new son. That oaf of yours is really dragging you down.”

I walked down the hallway and carried Ryan to his room. Both walls were covered in framed photos that Lilian had taken and printed in the first year of Ryan’s life. One from when we went to the bowling alley for the first time as a family, one from a boat ride in Lake Superior, even one taken a few minutes after his birth, eyes closed. She had stopped taking photos around a year back, back when his odd behavior became more noticeable. I didn’t see the big deal. He was just a kid. He’ll probably grow out of it.

“She’s a brilliant woman, she knows what’s best for her kids.” Marvin’s echoed once again.

I looked down at Ryan. He was looking up at the light streaming through the hallway door. Probably not the best thing to stare at, but it was a start. I shook my head and went over to his bright green crib and placed him in it. It had rocket ships and stars stitched into the fabric. “Spacey, just like you kid!” I spoke, trying to lighten my mood. I handed him a bright green rattle, and immediately he made all sorts of giggles and pops. That would keep him entertained for now, it usually did.

“See you, space cadet.’’ I said, leaving him in his room.

I walked to the bottom of the stairs that led up to mine and Lillian’s bedroom. I could hear that the T.V. had been turned on. Often, she would watch the new medical dramas where specialized surgeons would perform elective surgeries on countless individuals. What was intriguing about it was that it would follow the lives of some of these people, showing how rich they were, how healthy they were, how popular they were. I was convinced these people were being sponsored to live these ways purely for the sake of the show. It was convincing though, and Lillian ate it up.

“Even at home we can’t swap topics. Why have peace of mind for even a moment when you could be thinking about surgeries and doctors instead?” I said to myself.

I couldn’t handle a conversation right now, not when she was blasting that nonsense. She would want to talk, but that would have to wait, at least for now. She was in no place for a real conversation. Better no resolution than a shouting match. I walked over to the living room, still cluttered with various plastic toys. I’d pick those up later, after I cleared my head. It was still only midafternoon, so I decided to take a walk and clear my head. Maybe when I got back Lillian would be in a better mental state. Locking the door behind me, I headed down the driveway into the pleasant springtime neighborhood.

END OF PART ONE.

Mosquito Bite

Sydney Holt

Fall 2023

You’re like a mosquito bite
You’re all I can think about, and not in a good way
Itchy and raised and red to the point I’m ready to carve you out of my skin no matter what
But I’ve had mosquito bites before
And I know on some level that t will stop itching
Stop hurting
And leave nothing behind
I just have to sit on my hands and wait
But I still scratch and scratch and scratch until I’m bleeding
And instead of plain skin I’m left with a scar
And the worst part is that you weren’t even the one to make me bleed

Storyboarding

Leah Hamby

Before I was even in preschool, my mom gave me a book of fairytales. I couldn’t read it at first, but the colorful pictures of the rabbits and mermaids kept me interested regardless. When I finally learned to read after stumbling through new words in my kindergarten class, coming home and uncovering the hidden meaning of those fairy tale images was my first order of business. It made me feel independent. There I was, reading this massive book all by myself, no mother in sight.

As I got older, that book was taken from the shelf less and less often, but it had already done its work. I breathed fantasy, and I inhaled my junior high library’s section on it. If a book had a dusting of magic, or the faintest whisper of a dragon’s roar, I had already snatched it from its place. By the second month of school, the librarians had my student number memorized.

I read about infinite worlds, each more fantastical than the last. With rose-tinted glass adorning every wall of my mind, the room I was standing in began to seem bland. I was no witch or warrior. There was no Hogwarts letter or prophecy with my name on it. It seemed to me that I was stuck in the one world without magic.

And, well into college, I still am. But now I have more appreciation for what has been done without magic. Monuments were built. Wars were won, nations created, treaties signed. All through people like me—and maybe with a little luck. If that can be considered magic, then ten year old me would be elated. Regardless, I am pleased to share a history with people who created legends without incantations or spells.

I want to join the ranks of the people who have forged their own way through this magicless world of ours, as someone willing to create the narrative of their own life without paper, pen, or wand. So, I think I’ve reached my “storyboarding”: the amount of stories it takes for a child to want to write their own.

A Woman's Rebellion

Kassie Monsen

Chapter 1

24 September 60 AD

Boudicca stood from her heavy oaken chair when Ronan’s even and colorless voice reached her. “He’s gone, Queen Boudicca,” the Druid said. Her feet clicked against the stone floor. She paced across the cold room shaking her head.

She met Ronan’s eyes. They were brown, swirling in the darkness of well-known death. “Thank you for your efforts.” Her voice broke as she whispered. Her eyes drifted to the curved stones of the floor

ispered. Her eyes drifted to the curved stones of the floor. She turned away from him and leaned against the door. Could she take the step inside and have her future decided? Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind, “Be strong. Iceni women are strong.” Her mother’s blue eyes were inches from Boudicca’s freckled nose. Those words left her mother’s mouth again and again. Boudicca’s small eyes looked past her and watched the fading shadow of her father. Her mother’s words haunted her memory ever since. Boudicca pushed her hip and shoulder into the door. A metallic and pungent smell filled her nostrils. She placed her hand over her nose as she fell against the wall.

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A Woman's Rebellion

Kassie Monsen

Chapter 1

24 September 60 AD

Boudicca stood from her heavy oaken chair when Ronan’s even and colorless voice reached her. “He’s gone, Queen Boudicca,” the Druid said. Her feet clicked against the stone floor. She paced across the cold room shaking her head.

She met Ronan’s eyes. They were brown, swirling in the darkness of well-known death. “Thank you for your efforts.” Her voice broke as she whispered. Her eyes drifted to the curved stones of the floor

ispered. Her eyes drifted to the curved stones of the floor. She turned away from him and leaned against the door. Could she take the step inside and have her future decided? Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind, “Be strong. Iceni women are strong.” Her mother’s blue eyes were inches from Boudicca’s freckled nose. Those words left her mother’s mouth again and again. Boudicca’s small eyes looked past her and watched the fading shadow of her father. Her mother’s words haunted her memory ever since. Boudicca pushed her hip and shoulder into the door. A metallic and pungent smell filled her nostrils. She placed her hand over her nose as she fell against the wall.

Scrunched-up cloths covered in blood were scattered across the stone floor. Her eyes moved from the cloths to the bed.

Her husband was laid out on the bed. Light from the candles flitted across his wounds. They stood stark against his paling skin. The bruises slid across his arms, black, blue, and purple. Red slices gaped open, cleanly, and she wished she could see them as scars. The slashes ran parallel to each other and red leaked from them. She forced one foot forward, then another until she reached his bedside. His beard had become unkempt, the cost of war. “Oh, Prasutagus.” Boudicca ran her fingers through his graying hair. She moved to sit on the edge of the bed. Her hand landed on a moist cloth. She gasped and clasped it in her fist. Bringing it into view, she dropped it on the ground. It was a bloodied cloth used to clean him. The last bit of his life was in the cloths laying around the room.

Her hand was imprinted with blood, his blood. She looked back at her husband’s face. Could he really be gone? She had lost one more family member to the conquering wrath of Rome. Boudicca gripped his hand in hers, her fingers slid over every callous—she knew each one—they felt different now, their warmth gone, faded.

His cold hands left her empty. What was she to do? What was left for the tribe? Would Rome let them rule? Or would Rome conquer them as they did so many other tribes? Would they let the girls have their inheritance? This was her daughters’ kingdom. Their birthright! What was going to be their fate?

Boudicca stood and looked around the room. She wanted to cover him before her daughters were brought to her. She found a blanket, patched and worn, piled in a heap, and lifted it onto his body. “What is going to happen to us? You know I don’t trust Rome. How could you trust them?” She pulled the blanket tight. “The Romans brought your end, too.” A blush brushed her cheeks. How could she be foolish enough to talk to a dead man?

She stepped away from the bed and sat on the floor. The life she knew was over. She wouldn’t have the kingdom; her daughters would. She had no claim to the kingdom. She was not Prasutagus’s blood, just his wife. She lifted her eyes to the sloping roof. What was she going to do?

Scuttling outside the door made her raise her head. She slid away from the door and got to her feet. She straightened her sleeves. It has to be Brig and Eislyn. She had to be strong. Her mother had been strong to the end, so she would too.

The door opened and a Roman centurion, Cyrus Marcus Severillus, strutted inside. His beard was a little more prominent, probably an effect of being married to an Iceni woman. Boudicca’s eyes narrowed. He was her oldest daughter’s friend’s father. How dare he disturb me. How dare he interrupt my solitude. She inched closer to the bed. She needed more time with Prasutagus, away from the prying eyes of Rome. She kept her eyes centered on the Roman, she wanted him to know she was not afraid.

“Come, m’lady. Tribune Atticus Flavius Drusillus requests your presence.” He gestured toward the door.

“I’m mourning my husband and do not wish to be disturbed,” she said. Tribune Drusillus was the one who brought Prasutagus home. How could he now pull her from her duties? “Or is that not the duty of a Roman wife?”

Cyrus shook his head. “Of course, he knows. This is an urgent matter.”

“I do not care how urgent it is. I’m mourning.” She stepped forward. “And I do not wish to be disturbed any longer, leave now.”

Cyrus shook his head. “He won’t like this. Not at all.”

“Good. I’m not trying to please him.” Boudicca shook her head. “Please go.”

Cyrus bowed his head and whispered, “So be it.” And left

She exhaled after the door closed. Rome was constantly trying to take everything she held dear. First her mother, then her tribe, and now her husband. She forced breath out of her lungs, then into them. They expanded and retracted, pulling her soul with them.

She kept to the walls and circled the room. Each corner of the room sang in memory. She birthed her daughters in this room. She argued with Prasutagus here. She cried at the death of their son here. She stopped by their vase, a beautiful druid masterpiece. It had a small base, but a large belly. The red meshed with the black Triskele symbol. A reminder of the ever-progressing and moving life she led. Prasutagus gave it to her the day they agreed to marry. She ran her fingers across its edge. He had given it to her to show he did not care that she came from Druidic history. At the time, the Iceni were being watched by the Romans; rebellion had been brewing. They chose Prasutagus to rule in cooperation with them. The Druids scared the Romans, they did not understand them. Prasutagus choosing her as his wife was daring, but he didn’t care what Rome thought then.

Her eyes drifted to his body. Together they ruled, had two daughters, and lost a son. She may not have loved him, but she loved the life he gave her. Well, until he left them to the Romans. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Images of blades flashed, and druids fell. “How could you side with Rome? You’re Iceni. You were supposed to respect and honor the druids, not kill them.” She paused. “They’re my people, my family."

Rome had caused pain after pain and heartache after heartache, and he had picked them. She remembered the Roman blade that pierced her mother’s breast, the fear of hiding for weeks in the forest, and now the shell of her husband. She slammed her hand against the wall. Wasn’t that enough?

The Romans. The Romans were responsible for Prasutagus’s death. They had asked him to bring their people to fight in Mona, to stop the Druid uprising. She had begged him not to go. They had convinced him to help bring the end of the Druids. The end of her own people. “How could you?” She yelled at his body. A shiver finally shook her body. A cold breeze drifted through the room.

She moved to stand behind the bed. She couldn’t look at him. To look at him, brought reality, pain, and sorrow. Her life, her daughters’ lives, were forever altered. She had stood by his side for thirteen years. She had obeyed his shameful rules of cooperation with Rome. Was it all for nothing? They hadn’t protected or helped him when it really mattered.

Footsteps drew her attention, and the door opened. The soft, uneven footsteps of her youngest and the steady footsteps of her oldest entered the room. “Mother?”

Boudicca walked over to them, her two girls, Brig and Eislyn. “Mother? Is that Father?” Eislyn pointed to the covered mound on the bed.

She nodded and guided them towards the bed. “Yes."

Eislyn’s tender heart brought Boudicca’s breath tight in her throat. Her green eyes traced her father’s outline and her freckled forehead creased, then a tear crested her eyelid and a wave crashed down her cheeks.

Boudicca smoothed her curly, tawny hair. “All will be well.”

Brig turned to Boudicca and met her eyes. “I want to see him.”

Boudicca gulped. Of course she did. “Lift the blanket,” she replied.

Brig stepped up and lifted the blanket. Gasping, she threw it back down. Boudicca knew there was nothing she could do to end their horror

Eislyn tightened her arms around Boudicca’s waist. Brigantia stepped back and turned to her mother. “Mother, how could the gods let a good king like Father die?”

“It wasn’t the gods, Brig.” She breathed out. “The Romans killed Father.”

Brig’s dark blue eyes turned from her mother. Her gaze settled on the blanket mound. “I hate them,” she whispered.

Me too! Boudicca thought to herself. “I know, Brig. I know.”

"We need Father!” Brig screamed. “I need Father!” She threw her hands out, hitting Boudicca. “They didn’t need him!” She pounded her fists against her mother’s side until she sank to the ground. “They didn’t need him.”

Boudicca pulled Eislyn tight to her body and placed her hand softly on Brig’s shoulder. “Girls, we must be strong. We are Iceni women. We are strong.” A soft touch on Boudicca’s shoulder caused her to turn from her daughters. Another touch brushed against her hand. She closed her eyes and breathed in the scent around her. The metallic smell of blood faded for a moment and daisy filled the gap. “Mother,” she breathed. She stood straighter. She could endure as long as she needed; she had her mother.

Is that smell daisies?” Brig asked.

"Yes, it is.”

Eislyn smiled. “I like daisies.”

“So did your grandmother.” Boudicca extended her hands, “Come girls, can’t we be strong like my Mother, for Father?"

Eislyn ignored her hand and sagged against her, but Brig met her eye. “I’ll be strong, for Father.”

The flames of the candles, nearly stubs, were dying, making their shadows grow. Eislyn pulled away from her mother’s body. “Me too, Mother. I’ll be strong, too.” Her head turned to the mound, “for Father.

Boudicca pulled Eislyn’s tear-stuck curls off her cheeks. “Come girls. It has been a long day.” She lifted Brig to her feet.

They leaned against her as they made their way through the hall to their room. She left them to the care of the slaves. A headache poked at the front of her forehead. She wandered through the hall. Thoughts of the future scourged her mind. What was she to do? What were the Romans going to do?

Sandals slapped against stone. Romans. Why were they staying in her home? She groaned to herself. She looked for an escape, a nook, a hole, a place to hide. Nothing appeared. She straightened her shoulders and continued forward. If she couldn’t escape, she would look the part of a queen.

She turned a corner and the tall, muscular figure of Tribune Drusillus greeted her. His dark, golden hair was short against his head and his jaw was clean-shaven. He reminded her of a young boy; Iceni men grew their beards long. “M’lady, I was hoping to find you. We have an urgent matter to discuss.”

“Do we?” She continued past him

He followed her down the hall. “But m’lady, it’s about your husband’s will.”

She stopped. “He didn’t have a will. I would know.” What was he talking about? How was he the same man who had been Prasutagus’s friend? How could Prasutagus lie to her? She sighed. He’d done it before. She glared at the Tribune.

“Not a written one, at least by him, but as we carried him home, to you, he told us what he wished.” He stopped in front of Boudicca. His large build blocked her from moving away.

Her fingers patted against her thigh, and she met his big, bright hazel eyes.

He pulled a scroll from his tunic. “He gave half this kingdom to your daughters and the other half to the Emperor, Nero.”

He couldn’t have. He wouldn’t have. He wouldn’t do that to her, to their daughters. Fury began to swell in her veins. “He wouldn’t have done that. You must be mistaken.” She was trying to think. “How do I even know if this is his will?” The Romans regularly lied.

The Tribune frowned and took a step toward her. He bent his neck to look her in the eye. “You think I lie? I have proof!” He flashed the scroll in front of her eyes. “What of my friendship with your husband?”

“That does not make you my friend.” Boudicca’s mind was burning. “By what law is it bound? Iceni or Roman?” She would not obey a will bound in Roman law and the Romans wouldn’t obey their law

"So, we are at a standstill. You know I won’t authorize a document allowing Rome to rob my daughters.” How could they think she would comply?

"We will take it one way or another.” He took a step back and rested his hand on his sword hilt

She took a step closer, “You think I’m frightened?”

“How many of your kinsfolk have I killed? Don’t think you’re an exception. I put down the rebellion that installed your husband as king. I will do it again, if I need to.”

“I’m not frightened, not of you, and not of Rome.” She turned and walked down the hall.

“You can walk away now, Boudicca, but I will be here tomorrow and the next day and the next. I will stay until I am able to accomplish the will of my friend, your husband.”

Boudicca didn’t turn. She walked faster. How dare he not call me by my title! She rested her head and shoulders against the door of the vacant room that was now hers. She opened the door and slammed it shut. “How dare he!”

She fell face first onto the bed. Rome was taking what rightfully belonged to Brig and Eislyn. It wasn’t hers to take, but it was hers to defend. She rolled over and closed her eyes. Darkness overwhelmed her vision until she saw the glint of the moon off the sword of the Roman who killed her mother. She saw Prasutagus’ body, two large gaping wounds standing against his white skin. “Agh!” She threw a blanket off the bed. She looked to the heavens and cried out, “Why? Why have you given me this?”

She thought of the druid vase and the symbol on it. Life was continuing whether she wanted it to or not. Unknown images spiraled through her mind. Villages on fire. Her daughters defiled, crying in a heap. A vial filled with poison. Were these moments destined to occur? Could she stop any of them?

She couldn’t let Rome take everything!

Thoughts collided and fought in her mind as she undid her bodice and slid out of her skirt. Fatigue swelled throughout her body, through every muscle, from her neck to her shoulders to her back, until it reached her toes. She pulled the pillow under her head and closed her eyes, forcing the images from her mind. She wanted blackness. She wanted to see and feel nothing.

Chapter 2

“Brig?” Eislyn’s soft voice reached her ears. “Are you still awake?”

Brig rolled over and groaned. “What?”

“I’m scared.” Eislyn whispered

“Scared of what?” Brig sat up and looked through the darkness at her sister.

“What’s going to happen now that Father is dead?” Eislyn’s voice barely filled the air.

Brig patted her sister’s shoulder and muttered, “I don’t know. I believe Mother will figure something out, though.”

Eislyn’s eyes glowed in the darkness. “Are you sure?”

Brig shrugged. “Eisy, I can’t be sure about things like that.”

She nodded. “I know. I just thought maybe you could be.” She sighed. “Brig, I don’t want to bury Father.” She pulled the blanket to her nose and nestled deep in it. “Once he’s buried, it really is over.”

Brig burrowed down into the blankets, too. “Eisy, I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I do know that everything will be ok. We still have Mother.”

Eislyn nodded. “I know.”

The sisters slid close to each other, and their warmth filled the blankets. “Brig?”

“Yes?”

“Nothing.”

Brig rolled her eyes. “Goodnight, Eisy. We need our sleep. Tomorrow will be a big day.”

Eislyn whispered. “Goodnight, Brig.”

Silence filled their darkness and soon Brig could hear the soft intake and exhale of Eislyn’s breath. She forced deep breaths into her lungs. In a matter of three days, their whole lives had been shifted. Brig looked at the wooden ceiling of her room and closed her eyes. Eislyn’s breath was even. She whispered, “Take care of our family.” She didn’t really know who she was talking to, but she hoped someone heard her pleading. She let the sound of Eislyn’s soft breathing soothe her into her own sleep.

26 September 60 AD

A knock brought Boudicca’s eyes to the tall door that guarded her from the outside world. Her slave, Reilynne, rushed to the door and opened it. Boudicca turned back to her mirror above her washstand. Her bright red hair fell down around her shoulders and stretched down her back. The faint light of dawn fluttered through the open window. Her breathing sped up, shaking her head she tried to keep her breathing even, in through her nose and out her mouth. Everything was changing and there was nothing she could do about it.

Reilynne came over to Boudicca and whispered, “M’lady.”

She turned to her, “Yes?”

“Your daughters are waiting for you.”

“Thank you.” Boudicca muttered.

Reilynne bowed and left the room. Boudicca’s eyes traced her figure in the mirror, again. The lines around her eyes and mouth had grown deeper in the last few days. She rubbed her forehead and turned away from the mirror. She walked to the door and, taking a deep breath, pushed it open.

Brig and Eislyn waited in the hallway, shoulders slumped and eyes on the ground. Boudicca touched their shoulders and pushed them forward. “Come on. Ronan is waiting for us.”

“Mother? Don’t think I can bear to see him.” Eislyn’s soft voice splintered. She grabbed her mother’s hand, squeezing the fingers until the tips began turning purple.

Boudicca bent to eye level. “You do not need to look if you don’t want to.” Eislyn’s grasp loosened, leaving tingling in the tips of Boudicca’s fingers.

“Eisy.” Brig came to her sister. “We need to see him, to tell him goodbye. We need to be sure Father makes it to the next world.”

Eislyn’s eyes moved to Brig’s. “I don’t care. I don’t want to see.”

Brig touched her sister’s arm and smiled. “Eisy, I understand that you’re scared. You don’t know what to expect. I don’t know either, but we must. We must show Father we love him.” She pulled Eislyn close to her. “Don’t you love Father?"

Eislyn nodded her head, vigorously. “I do love Father.” She paused and licked her lips. “I guess you’re right.” Eislyn took a deep breath and looked at Boudicca. “Mother, I do love him. I want to tell him that, but that’s all.”

Boudicca smiled. “You don’t need to do anything more than that.” She looked at Brig. Brig was a mirror image of herself. Her red braids fell down her back, ending at her hips. Brig’s cheeks were puffy, but her eyes glowed, anger ignited in her every movement. Boudicca reached out and squeezed her hand.

They stopped in front of the doors to the hall. Boudicca led them through the thick oak door. The hall was dim. The curtains were still drawn on all the windows. In the far corner, a lantern was lit. A hooded figure was stooped over a ghostly, white mound. Eislyn slid closer to her mother and Brig stopped moving.

The hooded figure lifted his head as he heard the doors close. Ronan’s eyes met Boudicca’s. Ronan bowed and his voice filled the still air. “Good morning, my queen.”

Boudicca moved closer to him and in a low voice said, “Thank you for coming, Ronan. I know it’s at risk to yourself.”

He muttered something Boudicca couldn’t quite hear and gestured her forward. She beckoned to her daughters. They walked to where King Prasutagus was lying. The girls stopped a few feet from the table, but Boudicca stood next to it. Ronan lifted the sheet from Prasutagus’s face. Eislyn rushed to Boudicca’s side and buried her face in the folds of her mother’s skirts. Brig stepped forwards carefully and set her shaky hand on her father’s face, fingering his beard. “Father,” she whispered.

Ronan pulled out his fey, a rod used to measure the body for the resting place. Brig and Eislyn turned away, not wanting to look at the rod and curse themselves. Boudicca watched Ronan with the fey, unafraid of the inevitability of death. The rod went over every part of the body, then Ronan set it down and leaned next to Prasutagus’s ear. He began whispering unintelligible words.

Eislyn lifted her face from the skirt and asked, “Mother? What’s he doing?”

“He’s giving Father’s spirit directions to get to the next world.” Brig muttered in awe. “I’ve heard about it, but never seen it.”

Eislyn nodded and leaned forward to hear the words Ronan was saying.

When Ronan was done, he slid the fey into his cloak and turned to Boudicca. “M’lady, I would stay but I mustn’t.”

She nodded and took his hand. “Thank you, my friend.”

He nodded and hurried out a side door.

A few moments later, the doors behind them opened. Romans rushed in, sandals slapping the stone as if hoping to catch Boudicca doing something she shouldn’t. “Queen Boudicca, I hope you will allow us to pay our respects.” Tribune Drusillus approached her.

“Of course.” She gestured him forward and looked to the door Ronan had just left through. She sighed. He was gone.

Tribune Drusillus walked over to Prasutagus’s body. “Are you going to burn him?” He looked at Boudicca, watching her closely

“No, we have a burial site picked just outside the hall.” She moved away from him. He was goading her. If they burned him, they would be following Druid tradition, which was not acceptable for a Roman allied king.

“Good.” He turned away from Boudicca and whispered as he passed, “Be ready for what’s coming; you won’t like it.”

A sad smile formed in the corners of Boudicca’s mouth. She knew everything was changing, but she wasn’t going to let Tribune Drusillus take everything, at least not without a fight. She hoped she was ready for it. Only a few hours were left until Prasutagus would be laid in the earth. Boudicca sighed, could she hold on any longer?

The sun glinted between the clouds. Rain waited in the air. Boudicca stood next to the pit waiting for it to swallow her husband. The devoted soldiers of Prasutagus, led by Angus Dewr-bryd, his general, carried him and set him in the earth. Their footsteps were slow and their faces emotionless. Brig and Eislyn stood next to their mother. They stood tall and kept their eyes on the soldiers as they lowered his shroud into the earth.

Tribune Drusillus stood off, keeping distance between him and the Iceni people. Boudicca looked around her and slowly moved from her spot. The Tribune’s eyes followed her. She looked at him, but he turned away. He was pretending to care, at least Boudicca thought so. She knew he couldn’t really care for Prasutagus. He could only care for the kingdom he was hoping to conquer.

The soldiers lifted shovelful after shovelful of dirt and covered the shroud. Boudicca stepped just behind the men and said, “To our mother earth, we lay our King. His spirit soars to the next world. He’ll watch over us, his people, and protect us.” She swallowed and looked towards Tribune Drusillus. “He would not want us to mourn. He would not want us to fear our future. He would want us to continue on, as we always have, to carry on the name of the Iceni.” The Tribune watched with his lips in a tight line. She turned to those gathered. “Let us do as he would want, let us be Iceni and not Romans. We are the Iceni and that is what my husband would want us to be.” The Tribune’s eyes narrowed, and his men gripped their hilts. Boudicca stared him down. She wanted him to know she was watching Rome.

She faintly heard him whisper to his men, “Not yet.”

As the last shovelful of dirt landed on the shroud, Boudicca turned to the people gathered. Some came forward and offered their condolences and gratitude for such a king. She watched as both Romans and Iceni began to leave. Tribune Drusillus waited for the last of the Iceni to leave her, then he walked over to her. “Tribune,” she said and nodded. “Thank you for coming.”

He nodded and placed his hand on the small of her back. “Please m’lady, I have a few things to talk over with you.” He guided her into a stand of nearby trees and in low tones began, “You need to watch what you say. Rome is always watching. Your people are easy to excite.”

“You’re referring to my speech.” She smiled. “Wasn’t it good?”

He yanked her closer to him and narrowed his eyes. “M’lady, it would not be in your best interests, or your people’s, to insult Rome.”

“Why? Rome insults us.” She looked straight into his blue eyes.

His grasp tightened. His knuckles began turning white. “We have the power, not you. Don’t make us cause more harm than necessary.”

“Too late.” She pointed to the fresh mound of earth. “You did this. My husband’s death is a result of your power.” She ripped her arm from his grasp. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a kingdom to preserve.”

As she left him, he said, “Do not underestimate Rome, m’lady.”

“Do not underestimate me, Tribune,” she replied. She walked away, eyes fixed on her daughters. I’m stronger than you think.

As she came back to the burial site, she brought her daughters forward to the mound of earth and together they knelt beside it. “Say any last words to Father you’d like.” She smoothed their hair. Their heartache was new. They hadn’t known death until now. She rubbed their backs and tried to forget her pain

Brig spoke first. “Father, I miss you. This is worse than any of the times you fought with Rome. We always knew you’d come back, but now you never will.” Tears dribbled down her cheeks. “I’ll make you proud, father. I promise.” She bent forward and buried her fingers in the dirt. With her face inches from the ground, she whispered, “Why, Father? Why did you go?”

Eislyn whispered, “I love you, father. I know you’ve made it to the next world. I hope you do protect us like Mother said. I’m sorry you never got to meet my new horse.” She dug her fingers into the dirt and hunched over. She began to sob. “I love you, Father.”

Boudicca’s tears came for the first time in days. She was going to miss him. She knew nothing would be the same. Rome had paid him his rites, but now there was nothing protecting them from Rome’s fury. He was no longer the buffer between Boudicca and Rome, and the gods knew she needed one. She had never agreed with the Romans. She wiped the tears from her cheeks. She was an Iceni wife. She was strong. She could not allow tears.

Brig sat up and looked at Boudicca. Streaks of mud-covered her cheeks where she had tried to wipe away her tears. “Mother, what are we going to do?”

“We are going to be strong and make Father proud.” Boudicca swallowed. “Brig, we have a lot of changes coming now.” She reached out and brushed her hand against Brig’s cheek. “Rome will challenge your right to rule and your inheritance. They want our kingdom.” She paused and turned to Eislyn. “You too, Eisy. Rome will not stop until they have everything they want. I don’t know what will come, but I know it will bring trouble.”

Brig looked at her and nodded. “Well, we’ll be ready then, Mother.”

Boudicca squeezed Brig’s shoulder. “You’re right. We will.”

Eislyn covered her face with her hands and slid into her mother’s side. “Mother, I don’t know if I’ll be strong enough.”

Boudicca pulled her forward. “Eisy, look at me.”

She raised her head and slowly pulled her hands away.

“You are tough. But the best part is that you will have Brig and me to help you be brave.” Boudicca gripped her hands and looked into her eyes. “We are mighty.”

Boudicca stood and Brig followed. She reached out and lifted Eislyn to her feet. “Come on, Eisy. We can do this.” She reached over to her little sister and wiped her tears away. “We are brave.”

Eislyn took her big sister into a big hug. “Thank you, Brig.” Drops of tears landed in Brig’s braids.

Boudicca knew her girls were tough and for them, she was going to fight. They deserved their kingdom and inheritance. They split from their embrace and Boudicca dusted them off; all their skirts were covered in dirt. Exhausted, they made their way back to the hall. Boudicca took the girls to her room. It had been a long day and they needed time to themselves. They needed sleep. Brig and Eislyn drifted off to sleep after tossing and turning. The slow rise and fall of their chests brought calm to Boudicca. For them, I could do anything. I would do anything. As she watched them sleep, she laid back, and quickly sleep overtook her.

Boudicca’s eyes opened. The evening sun drifted through the window. Eislyn and Brig were still asleep next to her. She slid off the bed. If she wanted to get ahead of Rome, she had to know what happened and what it meant. She had to find Angus. He would have answers. She pulled a cloak around her shoulders and hurried through the hall and out a side door. She lifted the hood of her cloak over her head and walked out into town.

As she walked through the scattered round homes and town buildings, eyes watched her, and whispers drifted to her ears. She passed one house, and a group of Romans was placing bets. She gasped and hid. She couldn’t let them see her. She didn’t know what Tribune Drusillus would do to her. She hurried between two houses, the smell of burning wood filtered to her nose. Panting, she stopped. What was her life coming to? She couldn’t even walk around her village without fear.

The markets were mostly empty. The small wooden stalls stood vacant, and passersby walked with their heads down. People stayed in or near their homes. She turned down a street and distinctly heard, “Can she handle Rome? Can she lead us?” She stopped. She couldn’t take another step. The dry grasses broke under her shoes, but the crunch was unheard. She had been their queen for thirteen years. She had stood by them and by their king. But they didn’t believe in her? Her heart beat loudly in her chest and her breathing grew labored. What was she to do? Slowly, she made her way through the huts, looking for Angus’s home.

She stopped in front of a small hut at the edge of the village. Trees billowed in the wind just past their home. A tall, thin woman came out the door. “Deirdre, is Angus at home?” She tried to forget the doubting whispers.

Deirdre looked up. “M’lady, what are you doing out here?” “I need to talk to your husband, immediately.”

She nodded and hurried inside. There was a scuffling and muted voices. Angus burst from their hut. “My queen, how may I be of service?”

“May we walk? There is something I must know.” Boudicca began walking from the home.

He hurried to her side. “What is it?”

“I must know, did my husband make a will before he went unconscious?” She watched his face. It would reveal just as much

He rubbed his hand across his face. “Yes, he did.”

Boudicca nodded. How could he? “Why didn’t you tell me when you brought him home?”

Angus shrugged. “I wasn’t sure what to say.”

She shook her head. “You didn’t think I deserved to know?”

“It’s not that. I didn’t know what the Romans were planning, and I didn’t want to spur you into doing something you’d regret.” He turned away from her, rubbing his thick beard.

She needed to know what he knew. If she was going to take on Rome, she had to know what she was up against. There was too much at risk. “Can you at least tell me what happened?”

He nodded, “When the king was injured, we knew we had to get him out and bring him to you. In his last conscious moments, he told Tribune Drusillus and me that he wanted the kingdom to be split. He wanted his daughters to have half of it. He thought if he gave half of it to Rome, then they wouldn’t harm you and the girls.”

 

“So, it’s all true?” She had been hoping the Romans were lying.

“Yes, he did it to protect you.”

“I don’t need protecting,” she snapped.

Angus shook his head. “Well, the king cared enough to try.”

Boudicca rolled her eyes, more at herself than anyone else. “I know he did.” She bit her lip. “What are we going to do about it? Rome cannot have the kingdom.”

Angus sighed. “M’lady, there’s more you need to know.”

Her breath caught. “What?”

“Shortly after King Prasutagus expressed this, he lost consciousness. When he did, I heard the Romans. They were explaining how they had no intentions of letting you keep any portion of this kingdom.”

“What?” She stopped walking and turned to him. “What do you mean?”

“They will not let you keep the kingdom. I don’t know what they plan to do, but you will not have the kingdom.” Angus looked her in the eyes. “M’lady, promise me you won’t do anything rash. You know your husband’s hands were tied up with Rome.”

She shook her head. “I can’t promise you anything. I made no agreements with Rome.” She pressed her fingers against her lips. “If they never intended to let me keep any of the kingdom, why did they tell me about the will?”

“I can’t answer that, m’lady. I’m sorry.” Angus shuffled his feet. “I promised your husband to keep you and your daughters safe, please don’t do anything to make that more difficult than necessary.”

She barely heard him. “Thank you, Angus.” She left him staring after her. Rome wasn’t going to let them stay and had never intended to. Boudicca hurried back to the hall. She was going to find Tribune Drusillus.

Flame and Dust

Leah Hamby

It is peaceful where I am. The grassy back of the hill emerges from the earth like a great whale, serene among the other hills speckled with trees around me. The rustle and sway of the grass sounds, a gentle contrast to my stillness.

Far away, on the horizon, a city burns. The warm light from the fire fills that corner of the sky, mixing with the blue of the moonlight. I am far enough away this time that I cannot hear the screams. Smoke curls into the sky, obscuring the stars that will become so rare in the future. It is 48 BCE, and the city of Alexandria is burning.

…

Nothing is happening in the place I wake up next. Well, nothing human at least. The forest is very busy. The leaves above my head block most of the sun’s heat, but that doesn’t stop the humidity from soaking me thoroughly. A little creature, something like a monkey, chatters above me before blinking at me with its bulging eyes and skittering away.

Read More

Flame and Dust

Leah Hamby

It is peaceful where I am. The grassy back of the hill emerges from the earth like a great whale, serene among the other hills speckled with trees around me. The rustle and sway of the grass sounds, a gentle contrast to my stillness.

Far away, on the horizon, a city burns. The warm light from the fire fills that corner of the sky, mixing with the blue of the moonlight. I am far enough away this time that I cannot hear the screams. Smoke curls into the sky, obscuring the stars that will become so rare in the future. It is 48 BCE, and the city of Alexandria is burning.

…

Nothing is happening in the place I wake up next. Well, nothing human at least. The forest is very busy. The leaves above my head block most of the sun’s heat, but that doesn’t stop the humidity from soaking me thoroughly. A little creature, something like a monkey, chatters above me before blinking at me with its bulging eyes and skittering away.

Waking up in a different place and time every day will always be disorienting, but I like to think I’ve learned to handle it well. Still on the ground, I turn my head to peer at and through the trees. I don’t remember ever having been in this place before, and there is no evidence of human civilization around me, so I’m not sure what year it is. Even if there were people, I might be hard-pressed to figure out a specific date. Of the places and years that I have woken in and know for certain, none of them have been past 2023 CE. My guess is that this is the current state of the world, and I’ve just been left to bounce around in its past. Always following, never allowed to walk alongside.

I’ve never been anywhere before 3475 BCE. The start of human civilization in its earliest forms was also my beginning. I have a formidable memory, but I can’t remember when I started. I was never a physical child; I know that much. A child in my position wouldn’t be able to learn very much about history or how to be human. It would have been very cruel to make me a child. I have that one mercy.

I roll from my back to my side, watching my hand disappear into the underbrush where my arm falls. A piece of bark digs into my cheek. There were times when I felt younger than I do now, when I was younger. Humans have the privilege of just counting the seasons to figure out how old they are. I would have to add up the individual days I’ve lived through. A tedious task to continue, had I ever started.

The climate and plants around me make me think of southern Asia, or maybe a remote part of South America. There are 5,499 years that it could be. The historian inside of me urges me to get up, look around, see what is happening. Surely there is something around here that I should be recording in my mind, witnessing. There is so much I have experienced, so much left to see, and time just keeps moving.

The human part of me wins out today, and I turn and fall asleep again.

…

My rest has dropped me back in Indiana, 1990s. After some walking, I stand outside of a familiar, white-washed building. The blue paint on the window edges is dingy and chipped. The falling sign on the front reads “White Hills Nursing Home.” I have someone to visit.

I step up the concrete stairs into the foyer. There is a small fish tank bubbling on a table in the corner. The woman at the desk looks up at me briefly before going back to reading her newspaper.

I approach the counter, and her eyes roll back toward me slowly, as if with great effort. “Here for . . . ?” She speaks tiredly.

“Linda Robinson.”

“Sign the paper, and it's back to the right,” she sighs.

The large room off the hallway behind the desk was long and beige, with a low ceiling and a place for a partition curtain across the center. There is a pervasive, stinging smell of antiseptic and not much in the way of decoration. The bleakness of the room is offset only by the mismatched rocking chairs and the soft sunset shining gold through the windows along the back.

She is sitting, looking out one of these windows, rocking back and forth, hands entwined in her lap.

“Hello Lin,” I greet, walking slowly toward her.

She turns to me, her hair and skin grayed from when I had last seen her. The sunlight catches in her eyes, intense blue-gray like storm clouds, just like they had always been.

“Jenny?” She calls for her daughter, eyebrows downturned.

“I’m afraid not, Linda.”

Even if she could remember me, she wouldn’t by now. No one ever remembers me—another constraint of my condition. Anything I’ve tried to do to change the course of someone’s life is reverted like it never happened. I am not meant to be part of anything. Memories of me or my actions are dabbed from the history books like undried ink.

I got to visit a few times when she was just a bit younger. I would always tell her the same thing: that I knew her from the 1920s, when we were both in Brooklyn, dancing and drinking and tripping through late-night streets, leaning on each other. She would scoff at me. I looked like I was in my twenties; there was no way I was alive in the twenties.

I would laugh and play it off like a joke, and she would be too desperate for company to question me too hard, and we would reminisce together about the past until sunset when an attendant would approach us and tell me that I had to leave.

This time, she isn’t fully there anymore. Still, I come for this. For her to have someone to talk to. Now she takes my mention of Brooklyn and clutches it to her chest with her frail gray hands. She talks and talks about her youth while I sit and listen. She tells me about the parties and the men and the dresses. About the music and lights and people she had around her. I listen to this, remembering, because I was one of the people around her.

I can’t tell her about the days that I wake up in 1920s New York and think of nothing except finding her. The days that I push into her life again, and she pulls me up to her small apartment to do my makeup without even knowing who I am. She was just that hopeful about the state of the world and the people in it. She’d let me borrow her green dress with the gorgeous sequin pattern and the beads lining the bottom that would chime as I walked; I always choose the same one. And we’d go to lawn parties and bars and the houses of people richer than us where we weren't invited. Linda loved to dance, so we danced until our feet ached, and got drunk, and slapped men’s hands off of each other, until eventually we stumbled home together. After that, we would lay on that ridiculous bright yellow couch of hers, and I would giggle drunkenly at her stories until the small hours of the morning when I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore. Then I would wait through another decade or millenia of days until I’d open my eyes in 1920s NYC and repeat it all over again.

I stay now until she falls asleep and leave on my own. Maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up with her in New York.

…

Zoroaster, Mani, Buddha. It would make sense that they would be some of the most important people for me to observe.

I did, for a little bit. I’ve been dumped into enough days during my existence that I was bound to run into them eventually. I listened to their ideas with some of their first followers and watched as others expanded on their teachings and practices. I’ve seen full religious nations rise and fall and scatter. I asked them questions about myself, and I received no answers. By the time I hit the meridian of history for the first time, I had gotten tired of it. I no longer sought them out.

I have been at the years 1 and 36 and all of the years in between many times. Israel is beautiful, where and whenever, but I have never enjoyed it. On those days when I’m there, when the beginning of Christianity is alive, I find an oak tree and sit under it, shielded from the heat of the burning blue sky. I sit there until I can justify falling asleep and waking up somewhere else. I do this now for every one of those people who could possibly explain my existence.

This Christ could be an incredible person, and I would still resent him. I could listen to him teach, perhaps find some meaning in his words that I haven’t found anywhere else. I could memorize his lessons and take them to the Nicean Council the next time that I’m there, just to see what they would do.

But eventually, I would have to ask. He might give me an answer, but there isn’t an answer that could explain it enough, that could justify it. And worst of all, he might not even know what I am talking about.

…

I am walking among the first Puebloans in what will be called Mesa Verde. The sun beats harshly, heating the clothes on my back. The streets bustle around me, the noise of footsteps and chatter fading to the background. I should be asking about them, what their names are, how they live, but instead, I’m looking at it. It seems to stare back at me from where it is carved into the side of a step.

At first I thought it was the Masons, or some Templar wannabes, or some other secret society that I haven’t yet made my way into. But no, this is different. Scratched into copper mines in Ur, written on a barrel on board the Santa Maria, held up on a poster in the parade where John F. Kennedy was assassinated. All the same mark. A Sumerian Letter, a simple, informal greeting, used between friends and family. I see it in places it absolutely should not be.

I had never considered that there might be someone else like me before. Could it be that the universe was that cruel, to give me someone who could understand me, but give us two different paths through time?

Was it even possible that I had met this person? Improbable, certainly, with all of the days that there have been in human history, that we would ever overlap. And there would have been no way to know. I never went around proclaiming my differentness; it would be impractical to expect someone else like me to do so.

And the letter. No one else in any of the places that it’s been has seemed to notice it. Am I the only one that can see it? Am I just delusional, having lost my mind after all this time?

After that day in Mesa Verde, I started looking.

…

I am in India, the early 2000s, specifically the National Archives. There is only a nigh-impossible chance that there is a book here on the Sumerian alphabet, and it's probably a fictional dissemination through cultures entirely unrelated to each other, but my mind is too cluttered thinking about it to do anything else but search.

A young man approaches me. I find myself surprised, since scholars who frequent national archives usually aren’t the types to seek out casual conversation. This one, however, seems chatty, perhaps an enthusiastic university student taken with the idea of being one of those people who keep the company of old books and articles. He tells me about how he is researching one of the rulers of the Heheya dynasty, and how his death impacted Indian ideas of the deification of rulers.

I was not with Maharaja Haihay when he died, but I attended the feast he held just a few days before. I could tell this student everything he needed to know to become one of the leading experts of his generation. In the brief moments between thought and speech, I want to.

I want to spit it at him. Here is another piece of useless information about someone you will never meet, who will never have any more impact on the world unless it is through the actions of someone else. Here is another fact that you can use to pretend that you can understand yourself by pretending to understand this person who will never be alive again to correct you. Here you go, take it.

You, with all your opportunity to keep the people around you, waste your time in a room full of nothing but dust. Go. Live. I am forced to be here, to do this. You are not.

I politely dismiss myself.

…

It was very cruel of the universe to make me a woman, and then put me in all the places in history a woman was not meant to be. I am currently hiding in the back of the British parliament, 1605, unfortunately conspicuous in my female figure and the dress I woke up in. Hopefully, the grand opulence of the high, gilded ceiling and the bright blue carpeting overshadow my presence. One of the members stopped me earlier, rudely questioning me about why on earth I was there. I stuttered something demure and submissive enough that he allowed me to move by him in the hall. He’s sitting in the front row and hasn’t seen me yet.

Right now, Sir Thomas Knyvet will have found Guy Fawkes, would-be terrorist, rigging the cellar with nearly two tons of gunpowder.

Someone slams the door into the wall, opening it. There’s yelling and the men all stand in a rush, a cacophony of questions and orders and overall self-importance. But there is also fear.

In the rush of people pushing through the narrow, dark halls, I see it again. The same letter, streaked haphazardly in the corner of a painting of Elizabeth I. I am caught in the torrent and pushed away, but still, the sight remains, seared into my mind.

…

It is 2023, a rare occasion when the world and I take a synchronized step. I’m in New York again, pushing my way through the busy foot traffic of the rush hour streets. I slip into a sports bar, escaping the press of people. It’s empty at this time of day, except for a bored bartender and the only type of people that frequent bars at noon. The green-topped stool that I sit on is tacky, in both of the word’s meanings. I can’t order anything—I never wake up with money—so I sit and watch the small TV hung in the corner of the room. Curiously, the channel has been switched from the typical sports coverage to a news broadcast covering a series of wildfires blazing through Northern California.

I watch this for a brief few seconds, wondering if I should continue back outside and see if there is anything more interesting happening in New York before I feel something in my chest freeze and sink like a dead body in a winter lake. Behind the woman with the microphone is a lone man. He is waving a white curtain, lit from behind by the fires he is surely standing too close to. On the curtain proudly stands the Sumerian Letter.

And, for once, I am in the right time, wrong place.

…

There is only one train from New York to Sacramento, and I do not have money to buy a ticket. I find myself running regardless.

My feet pound over and over, the streets of New York seem to stick to me, clutching, grasping at my chances. I find myself skidding into Grand Central Terminal, the gold, grandeur, and high, green ceiling familiar to me from my time with Linda, wandering in here past midnight just for the novelty of being in a train station and not planning to take a train. I have been awake now for 11 hours. I stop, the reality of my situation catching up to me. A plane would have been faster, but I’ve never had the ID necessary to fly. As it stands, I don’t have the money to buy any kind of ticket.

“Are you okay?”

When I turn, I face a middle-aged woman with blond hair and bright blue eyes. They seem to stare into me, right to all my fears and exhaustion.

“I’m fine,” I pant, catching my breath. She just looks at me, unimpressed. I say the truth, as always. “Would you believe me if I said I ran all the way here, just to realize that I don’t have a ticket?”

She looks me up and down. “Yes,” she says flatly.

I’m at a loss. She asks me where I’m going, and I tell her that I have someone in Sacramento that I want to see very badly, but have no way to get to them.

She crosses her arms and cocks her hips to the side, sighs, and hands me a ticket. I sputter, bewildered.

“Look kid,” she begins. I am incomprehensibly older than her, but I hold the ticket and my tongue. “You have someone you want to see. I have someone that I really don’t want to see. it works out. I’m visiting my crazy sister in Sacramento. She thinks she’s a psychic.” She rolls her eyes. “You take the ticket, see your boyfriend or whatever, and I can tell my sister that I met an angel or a spirit in need or what-the-hell-ever to get her off my case, ok?”

I nod, shocked speechless for the first time in a very long time. If I didn’t know better I would think that this woman was the psychic in her family.

“Go!”

…

The train ride takes three days and two hours, the most I have ever been awake for. I alternate between watching movies off of the screens of strangers, snapping my fingers right in my ears, and banging my head on the chair in front of me. My seat remains upright for the entire trip. Resting my eyes is not an option. By the time the train arrives at the station in Sacramento, I’ve started to fear that I fell asleep on the train and am dreaming. I keep going anyway.

I stumble from the station onto the street, briefly asking for directions before walking toward the fire. As I walk through the streets toward the orange and gray smoke spread across one side of the sky, I realize how unlikely it is that all this amounts to anything. In order for me to meet this other wanderer, we both had to have stayed awake long enough to find each other. If he is actually like me, and I haven’t been chasing the shadow of my own sad desires. The chances are minuscule. But so are the chances that we wake up on the same day in the first place. I’ve done this much already.

I blink harshly to get the sandy feeling of exhaustion and lingering ash out of my eyes and head. When I look around again I see some chalk on the sidewalk, leftover from some small children ushered inside by their mother because of the increasingly looming smoke on the horizon.

Shedding the jacket I woke up with, I grab a light blue stick and begin writing. I don the jacket again. The Sumerian Letter stands, like my own personal coat of arms, on the back. And I start running again.

…

Eighty-five hours now. I see the world in brief glimpses granted to me by my defiantly lowering eyelids. Gray street, red brick, red sky. It is difficult to keep moving, but that is the only thing I can do. I have no idea where the man with the Sumerian letter is, nor do I have a starting place. I can only keep moving. The more people that see me, the greater the chance that he will. I just have to keep moving. I harassed a reporter earlier. Jumping around in the background and yelling to the camera. A little longer, and I think I might have been arrested. I can’t run if I’m arrested.

I turn the corner, and I’m on the ground. There are hands on my arms, pulling me back to my feet. I open my eyes, dazed. Everything is blurry before the world pulls itself together around the face in front of me. A strong nose, downturned eyebrows, dark skin that reminds me of my times in Menelik’s Ethiopia, and wide eyes that I can see my reflection in. There are no wrinkles on his face, but it feels like there should be. The exhaustion I see there is familiar. “Is it you?” I breathe out.

He nods.

…

I don’t learn his name. Neither of us have one. He leads me to a nondescript brick building in a poorer part of the town. We pull ourselves up five flights of stairs, and he picks the lock to the roof access with ease.

We sit on the roof of the building, watching the fires spread farther into the sky. Neither of us lie down. It would be a tragedy to fall asleep now.

I learn that we have met before, one day in the City of Ur. He’d noticed me, purposefully average though I am.

“The way your eyes followed every movement before it happened. I thought, maybe, but when I turned to look again, you had already slipped away, and I couldn’t find you. I thought it was just my own optimism working against me, but I kept trying, anywhere I could think to leave a trace. And here you are.” We talk about everything. Every gripe.

“Do you think OJ did it?”

“Of course he did it!”

Every grievance.

“Did you see what they did in Argentina?”

“Yes.”

And every glory of our far too long lives.

“Were you there when Rome rose?”

“I was there for every single brick.”

No matter what was happening back in New York that the universe had decided that I needed to see, whatever assassination or writing of a historic piece of literature or other world-changing event, it could not compare to this. This melding of thoughts and words in the space between our bodies was worthy of all the attention of a thousand history books. You are the universe's apology to me.

When I wake up the next morning, we’re still here in California.