Dark Horses: The Magazine of Weird Fiction No. 30: Dark Horses Magazine, #30

By Wayne Kyle Spitzer

dark horse
/ˈdärk ˈˌhôrs/
noun
1. a candidate or competitor about whom little is known but who unexpectedly wins or succeeds.
"a dark-horse candidate"

Join us for a monthly tour of writers who give as good as they get. From hard science-fiction to stark, melancholic apocalypses; from Lovecraftian horror to zombies and horror comedy; from whimsical interludes to tales of unlikely compassion--whatever it is, if it's weird, it's here. So grab a seat before the starting gun fires, pour yourself a glass of strange wine, and get ready for the running of the dark horses.

In this issue:

THE SEEING TONGUE
J. Boyett

A RANDOM ACT OF KINDNESS
Stephen W. Chappell

BERLIN BUNKER 1/BRING ME HIS HEAD
Douglas Kolacki

OSRIC, FRIEND OF THE SHEEP
Isabella Boyd
X-RAY RIDER (PART ONE)
Wayne Kyle Spitzer

IN THE SPIRIT OF THE WENDIGO
Bill Link

PIONEER
Nicholas Woods

TIME AND THEN
Mary Jo Rabe
SOS
Raelyn Giansanti

TIME SLINKY
Bob Freeman

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hobb's End Press
• Release date: Jun 29, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224551064

Wayne Kyle Spitzer

Wayne Kyle Spitzer (born July 15, 1966) is an American author and low-budget horror filmmaker from Spokane, Washington. He is the writer/director of the short horror film, Shadows in the Garden, as well as the author of Flashback, an SF/horror novel published in 1993. Spitzer's non-genre writing has appeared in subTerrain Magazine: Strong Words for a Polite Nation and Columbia: The Magazine of Northwest History. His recent fiction includes The Ferryman Pentalogy, consisting of Comes a Ferryman, The Tempter and the Taker, The Pierced Veil, Black Hole, White Fountain, and To the End of Ursathrax, as well as The X-Ray Rider Trilogy and a screen adaptation of Algernon Blackwood’s The Willows.

Book preview

THE SEEING TONGUE

J. Boyett

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The peasant girl covered in eyes seemed uncomfortable sitting upon the wood floor of the Temple of the Watch’s antechamber, and it occurred to Shavroe that she might have an eye protruding from one of her buttocks—it would be like sitting upon a boil. So he offered her a fine cushion, filled with down and not straw. He doubted that a girl like Ragweed (that was her name), a peasant, and an Echo and abomination to boot, had ever sat upon a real cushion.

He wished that she would relax so that he could; his position demanded a display of confidence. With Harzgrat gone on his weeks-long errand to the capital city Gracil and back, young Shavroe was in charge. He had to maintain the tone of the place. Better, raise it; Harzgrat was an undeniably powerful Mage, but his uncouthness often shocked Shavroe’s well-bred sensibilities.

Shavroe turned to song as a way to soothe the cursed peasant girl, and to soothe himself as well. As he sang and played upon his lute, the eye on her shoulder focused upon him. The others, including the three in her face (the usual two, plus one that swelled from her cheek), were mostly closed. Their lids sometimes slid open and the unfocused pupils peeked out sleepily.

Fine music was something he missed, down in this southern backwater of Pigs’ Reach, two islands down the Matsuon Archipelago from his home in Gracil. Harzgrat favored the jangly music of peasants; a peasant himself (he had the same dark hair and complexion as Ragweed, unlike Shavroe’s ginger coloring), he would actually stand up and dance a jig, as if inviting dusty traveling players into the Temple’s courtyard wasn’t bad enough. He would even sing with the peasant housekeeper Mops and her young brat, Bramble. At such times Shavroe kept his face wooden, and averted his eyes. None could deny Harzgrat’s gifts, and it was easy to understand how he had risen so far above his humble origins. But when he was learning spells and farsight and the secrets of the Unseen Blow, could he not also have learned table manners and elocution and the hierarchy of the arts?

Shavroe wanted to give the girl a truly fine performance; he doubted Ragweed had ever heard a true singer, much less one who had been invited to perform at court. He closed his eyes and lost himself in the music. Soon he had all but forgotten her—joyfully he tripped his voice up and down the scales, in contrapuntal complement to his fingering of the lute. The song was a modern arrangement of a hymn to the first mountain frost, from The Songs of Green Needles.

When at last he opened his eyes, his voice and fingers almost faltered. He had expected to find Ragweed rapt and awed at the poetic vistas he had opened for her. Instead her one open eye looked bewildered. Shavroe couldn’t speed his tempo artificially—the artist in him wouldn’t allow it. But he set the lute aside when this song was done. Naturally, one bred to peasant music would not be able to follow the arabesques of really fine work. And, of course, the words of the song were in the Old Tongue, from before even the Age of Queens. Ragweed probably could only understand one word out of five. Less, what with his vocal stylings.

Don’t be frightened, he said. Hearing herself addressed, Ragweed closed the eye on her shoulder and opened the three on her face.

Mages don’t like Echoes, she said.

Among we Mages who serve the Kingdom, there is no obligation to feel so. No statute, no code, no command. I assure you, I feel only pity for the Echoes.

Ragweed gave no hint whether she thought pity to be an appropriate sentiment. Looking at the watchful tumors peppering her body, Shavroe found it hard to imagine how it could not be.

The rain pounding on the roof drowned out the surf. The raging storm was the reason Mops had insisted Ragweed come inside. When the peasant girl had rung the chime to beg for food, she had probably hoped to be asked in out of the wet. But she surely hadn’t expected a private audience with the Mage. Although Mops had toweled her off and given her a dry robe before presenting her to Shavroe, she still had a bedraggled look. That only set off a certain stoicism, which seemed to almost elevate her above her natural station. Tempered by suffering, Shavroe thought.

She said, Can you cure me?

Her tone took him aback. It was not supplicatory or hopeful, but matter-of-fact. She wanted an answer, yes or no. If it was no, she was wasting her time.

He picked his words carefully, not wanting to give her false hope, but not wanting to downplay his own abilities, either. I may be able to ameliorate the symptoms. But no man can ‘cure’ a woman of being an Echo, because that is not a disease. It is simply part of Creation’s design. At least, it is since the days of Xylac, here in Matsuon. As for what the world might be like outside Matsuon, no one knew or cared. That was why the Temples of the Watch lined the eastern coast of the archipelago: to keep a watchful eye upon the west, where the rest of the world lay, and assure that it never again encroached upon or infected the Kingdom of Matsuon, Fastness of the World’s Edge.

What does ‘ameliorate’ mean, Excellency?

There is no need to refer to me as ‘Excellency,’ said Shavroe, without trying to hide the pleasure he took in being so addressed. Um. ‘Ameliorate’ means to improve. To make better.

Ragweed looked dubious, but also as if this vague assertion was worth sticking around for. For a while, at least.

The lids of the open eyes were drooping. No doubt she was overwhelmed by the stateliness of the Temple, regardless of what Shavroe might think of its meager merits. Mops shall find a corner for you and lay out some bedding, he said. You may rejoin her.

Ragweed obeyed, ducking her head in a quick bow. Her deference touched him.

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It wasn’t as if he needed Ragweed to recount her life story; Mops, a plump and jolly gossip, managed it quite well. Next morning, when she came to his chamber to serve him breakfast and attend to his linen, instead of letting him leave as usual she held him in place with her chatter.

Oh, she’s a sad one, began Mops cheerfully as she threw open the casement looking onto the sea and tossed Shavroe’s futon onto the ledge, clipping it there, to air out. The clean ocean tang filled the room. Born in the next village—I never saw her in my life till after the change had begun and the eyes started popping up all over her body. Once that started her father didn’t like to have her about, you know, and so she was often from home.

And she sees the future?

Aye. You’d think a knack like that would bring more benefits. But she can’t ask a question that might do her any good. Can’t ask, say, Where will the next big silver mine be discovered?, and then beat everyone to it. Has to be a question about somebody or something nearby. That she can see. She used to eke out a life by selling her services. But with each vision she gets an extra eye, and the food you buy with such coin is bitter to swallow. Not that she always gets coin at all. Folks are slow to pay when they mislike her answers. And there’s no one to make them pay, no matter what the answer, because there’s few who’ll stick up for an Echo. Folks call them abominations, and I suppose that’s what they are.

Shavroe frowned. She has many eyes, but surely not as many as if she lived on nothing but fortune-telling.

Mops made an unconvincing show of being reluctant to continue the story: "Well, you know, there are other ways a young girl can earn bread. One way, anyway."

Ah. He blushed.

It broke one’s heart to think of how she was used by the lads and the grampas in this string of villages. There aren’t any other whores near Pigs’ Reach, not ones who do it regularly, and so she got plenty of work. But there’s no guarantee of getting paid for that, either. And the more she was used, and by the more men, the less likely they were to feel right about paying full price.

Did her, um, attributes repel such suitors? Her eyes, I mean?

"Well, not much at first, Master, because as I said there weren’t many options. But as time went by more and more of the things sprouted, because she would pick up a few extra hunks of bread with fortune-telling. And, yes, as she grew more eyes, fewer men wished to visit her crossroads. And then, well.... When those eyes appear they do it any old place, and some of those places aren’t ideal for a whore. When men have paid for a body they like to give certain things a good squeeze. And those extra eyes of hers may be abominations but they do pop the same as usual ones."

Shavroe’s stomach rocked like a boat in a storm. How horrible, he gasped. Could these men not restrain themselves?

Oh, Master, a man before a naked girl is like a pig after truffles, you know that. Mops paused in her work. Less chattily, more earnestly, she said, I bathed her, Master. When I brought her in. Saw her bare as a winter elm. A sight that would have raised tears if an old woman like me still bothered crying. Hideous eyes befouling her body. Rubbed raw, some of them, from those filthy rags she wore, which I burned. The worst was the burst ones, red shriveled and scarred, smushed by the hasty lust of men. I suppose it hurts when one of the extra eyes gets smashed just as much as if you or I were to get a thumb in our own. Can’t you help her, Master? I know she’s an abomination. But she never asked to be an Echo, I can promise you that. And Master Harzgrat is always going on about how you had the finest tutors in Gracil.

True, although Master Harzgrat didn’t mean it as a compliment. The youngest of four children and the only male, Shavroe had been given the best of everything. He drew himself up. I shall do my best, he intoned.

But you can’t ... well ... cure her?

No, I cannot. Shavroe felt impatient at Mops’ disappointed look. No one could cure an Echo, unless he were more powerful than Xylac Woman-Hater, which had never happened in history, nor even in legend. When a Mage practiced the craft of magic, he drew energy from the numinous field created by the network of all living things everywhere—that field was so vast that a Mage could theoretically level a mountain without a noticeable drain on any individual life form’s essence. The energy cost was so widely distributed that it was for all practical purposes zero. Centuries ago, Xylac had wrought a spell to try to lock women out of such thaumaturgic transactions altogether, within the borders of Matsuon. The spell had been massive—according to legend, winter was particularly long that year, because for the first time a Mage had pulled enough energy from the numinous field to have a perceptible effect upon it. That probably was not true, but it still must have taken an incredible amount of power.

But he had only partly succeeded. Most women, normal women, were indeed cut off from the ways of magic. But the Kingdom was sprinkled with freaks, in whom the repressed female magic came bubbling back up once their blood-tides commenced. It was not the clean, rational magic of Mages. The abominations’ magic was sometimes trivial, sometimes dull, sometimes terrifyingly powerful, but always wild. And it always cost the abomination, because the energy of the magic she practiced, voluntarily or not, was only partly drawn from the numinous field—some of it was drawn from her own life force. And that energy was not all directed in the way she intended (or in the way her gift intended, if it were not a voluntary action); some of it was projected outward, to act upon the world, but some of it was caught behind and echoed within her, redounding back and forth along the walls of her soul, mutating and changing, till it manifested in its own unpredictable way. Some Echoes might merely get a headache. For others, something like Ragweed’s eyes. Or something much worse. Many Echoes never survived the first manifestation of their true nature.

I cannot ‘cure’ her, he continued, because to be an Echo is not a disease. It is part of the nature of the world, at least here in Matsuon. I can no more cure someone of being an Echo than I can cure her of being a woman. Seeing the way Mops’ interest faded, he repeated the promise he’d made Ragweed: But I should be able to ameliorate her condition, at least.

What’s that word there, Master? The one that you should be able to do?

‘Ameliorate.’ It means to make better.

Ah. Mops shrugged. Well, that’ll be better than nothing, I suppose, Master. I know she’s an abomination, but still, she’s had a hard go of it.

Once she left, Shavroe stood at the open casement, gazing at the ocean. The Temple jutted out from the hillside, its back toward the sea. Remote paths through the forest led down and up the slope to its front. In the back were the living quarters and library. The hillside was steep enough that, while the front of the Temple was at ground level, the back beetled far above the ground on stilts.

He gave the ocean a quick scan with his farsight: nothing but a peasant fishing boat more than four leagues south, invisible to the naked eye. Officially, Shavroe was supposed to take a deep look across the sea eight times a day and twice per night; officially, that was the raison d’être of Temples of the Watch. But he was sure that the true, unspoken reason was to maintain a Crown presence in the remote northern and southern regions, at least on Matsuon’s western coasts. Not a peep had been heard from the Western Empire in over a century, and no military menace from that quarter in almost three. The odds that the Kingdom would be invaded on any particular day were laughable, which was why Temples of the Watch were not prestigious posts; Shavroe would be humiliated to find himself still here at Harzgrat’s age. It was beneath the dignity of a scholar like himself to fill his days with drudgery and busy-work, though he did not begrudge the Kingdom a quick daily look. That done, he made his way to the library to research Echoes and their plagues. Perhaps the chronicles left by former Mages would provide some clue, or perhaps even the half-mythic tales would give valuable hints. Already he was daydreaming about the impression his rescue of Ragweed would make—now the locals would see what a true high-bred was capable of. Perhaps he would even find a way to make those disgusting eyes disappear without a trace. He had never heard of anyone achieving such a thing, but what of that? Let his sisters make their witty, cutting remarks after he accomplished such a feat! And Ragweed would be quite pretty without those blemishes, for a low-born.

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From morning till late afternoon Shavroe pored over the scrolls. Now and then he lost himself in a local fable, or a charming snatch of rustic verse that had been saved from oblivion. In the main, though, it was a frustrating day. Blinking through the ache of his overworked eyes, he admitted that he was no closer to finding any treatment at all for the Echo’s curse. He glared at the motley collection of old clay jars stuffed pell-mell with dusty scrolls. Perhaps if his ignorant predecessors had ever put these works in some sort of order, his task might have been feasible!

Excellency?

He jumped, gave a little cry, and looked up over his shoulder at Ragweed. There was no door, and she was standing in the entrance. Shavroe cleared his throat and said, Yes, what is it?

Sorry to bother you, Excellency. I just thought.... Excellency, if there’s nothing you can do, I understand. And thank you for your trouble. But in that case I ought to be on my way.

Few faces could be more different from his supercilious, mocking sisters’ than Ragweed’s dull, stoic, three-eyed one. Yet somehow the look she gave him reminded him of theirs. Suddenly he realized why: the expectation of failure. Even if he couldn’t do anything about her eyes, her position was dire; she ought to be desperate for his protection, and it maddened him that she seemed not to be. Certainly I can help, he insisted. Feeling how she resisted believing him, he beckoned her inside, as if to prevent her from escaping. Come in, sit down.

The three eyes of her face flickered toward the cushion he gestured at, on the other side of the low table from him, and she hesitated. I’m not sure I should, Excellency. Strictly speaking, she was right: it would be very improper for them to sit at the same level. He should be raised on a small dais, or there should be a depression in the center of the room, as in the antechamber. But they were way out here in Pigs’ Reach. And if it was improper for her to sit before him like an equal, it was unimaginable for her to disobey him. She sat.

Now that he had her before him he was at a loss. Ragweed, he began, then hesitated. This was the first time he’d spoken her name aloud, and the feel of it in his mouth startled him. What was he doing chatting with this ridiculous peasant? Suddenly he felt ashamed.

Ragweed waited patiently. Apparently she understood the impropriety of prompting him.

He cleared his throat. Now, he said. I am quite sure that I shall be able to ... to improve your lot. You must be patient, is all.

Her face remained impassive; if anything, a grim knowingness sealed it off more than ever. All respect, Excellency. But, well ... it’s not as if I ever expected you could cure me. Not really. I only came knocking because it was raining and I was hungry. It was Mops who said you might be able to undo my curse. I told her nobody can cure a woman from being an Echo, but she went on about all the fine schooling you’ve had.

Shavroe’s nostrils and mouth both tightened. He sat up straighter and coldly asked, You presume to know what can and can’t be done by a Mage? You think so little of my ’fine schooling’?

For the first time Ragweed seemed unsure of herself. Not only the three eyes on her face but the two visible on her arms fluttered open in surprise, then immediately winced closed again. Maybe all her eyes had opened, and bare eyeballs had been painfully exposed to rough cloth; maybe the visual onslaught was simply too much. After a moment to recover, she slowly reopened her original two eyes, the ones under her eyebrows, and no others.

No, Excellency, she said. I don’t know anything about it. But you said yourself....

She seemed to be casting about for the proper words. Before she could articulate her half-formed objections, Shavroe cut her off: Well, then, perhaps you should stop doubting a man who plans to vastly improve your lot. I know what I said last night, but since then I have been researching the problem and my opinions may have changed.

You’re ... you’re really going to cure me, Excellency?

That brought him up short. Of course, he probably could not cure her. But these peasants proved incapable of understanding nuance, and viewed anything less than a miracle as a failure. And he was not willing to have this silly girl regard him as a failure. Besides, who was to say he couldn’t cure her? After all, it was true that he’d had the finest schooling in Gracil. Yes, he said.

She threw herself forward onto her hands, bowing her head. Forgive me, Excellency! I was only curious. I meant no disrespect.

Horrified, Shavroe watched her stoicism burn away like a dream upon waking. For a moment he had an inkling of her suffering as a phenomenon quite different from the travails of, say, Gladloe in the Song of the Western Shepherdess: not something that imbued the afflicted with dignity and strength, but something which stripped dignity and strength away. The unwanted insight shamed and repulsed him, and he sprang to his feet.

Now, now! he said. No need for apologies! You’ve not offended me, not at all, not at all. Only I have things to attend to.

And you can cure me, Excellency? Hastily she added, Or make my curse lighter, at least?

Of course. He would say anything to escape the onslaught of her terrible, unanswerable need. Anyhow, there must be some way to relieve her affliction. He’d go crawling to Harzgrat for help finding it, if that was what it took. But now, I really must go. I do have other duties. I’ve already given you all the time I can spare today.

All right, Excellency. I’m sorry, Excellency. As Shavroe hurried from the room she was still bowing her forehead to the floor in submission.

He rushed out onto the patio lining the back of the Temple and gulped down the