Shake Down

Sue kept an eye on the two guys across the street. They looked like typical gang bangers, late thirties, early forties, but she could tell they were weres. Wolves, she thought from the way they moved, and low status ones. Cannon fodder. She kept working. She was in the open garage of an old house that had last had any wiring work done in the twenties, back when they thought one outlet in a room was generous. That's one outlet, not a duplex pair. The service for the whole house was only twenty amps. Just pressing start on a microwave would black out the whole house.
It was one of her favorite jobs. For this, her small size was an asset. She had to wriggle through crawl spaces under the house and through spaces too small to call an attic. She pulled wire through spaces never intended to have it, and occasionally, reluctantly, she had to tell customers that she'd either have to run the wire through surface conduits or start tearing into lath and plaster for a lot of extra money. All the same to her, she'd do the lath and plaster work if it was her house; not that she could afford one of these houses. She could never understand someone that paid more than a million for a house and then went cheap on the wiring. Either way, it was work that satisfied her, and good paying work. Her bills always kept coming.
She was done inside and was pulling wire into the service box in the garage preparatory to mounting the breakers and hooking them up. The house now had modern wiring with plenty of capacity to meet all the demands of a modern life. She'd wired an entertainment room and a computer work office for the techie client and had tried to get him to let her set up a data closet and pull Cat 6 and fiber around the house while she was at it. He said, no, he'd use wireless and handle it himself. She didn't argue, well, not with more than a raised eyebrow, but thought it was a mistake not to set up for the highest bandwidth and transmission speed in the house. Nobody ever regrets too much bandwidth. He really should provide A/C for the computer room too. Relying on the central air to cool a room with that much heat load was going to run the air-conditioning too much in the rest of the house. That was going to cost money. Oh, well, his house. Inspector was coming today, and in this neighborhood that meant Tom Williams. That meant the inspection would consist mostly of shooting the shit while he walked around checking off boxes. He knew her work, knew that it was usually far better than code demanded unless the customer insisted on the cheapest job she'd do, and knew that she'd turn down sub-code work. She'd have to remember to ask if Marie had delivered yet. That was funny, calling it delivering, like she was a bicycle messenger, “Delivery! Here's your baby!” Sue wondered what the tip should be for delivering a baby.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw the two creeps across the way crossing the street toward her. She flipped back the flap in her custom tool belt to expose her thirty-eight, and mentally checked, yep, got silver loads today. Then she checked the pull on her gun and on the accessibility of her sleeve sheaths. Weapons don't do you any good if you can't get to them. The knives in her sleeves were also custom, made to her order, with just enough silver added to the alloy to make them effective against weres, but not so much that it would affect the strength or the edge. The balance was nice too, they were throwable, even though that meant blades a little thicker than she liked for a hand-held. The blades had to be heavier to offset the weight of the handles, even though the handles had been made light. It meant the handles were small for close-in work, and big for a throwing knife, but all in all, she was pleased with their versatility. Satisfied, she went back to her work.
“What are you doing here?” Sue kept on pulling wires to terminals and tightening screws and raised an eyebrow. “Working.” “You need to pay to work in this neighborhood.” Sue laughed and said, “Don't I know it.” The guys looked at each other with puzzled looks and then plowed on. “You've got to pay a toll to work in this neighborhood.” She glanced over at them and kept tightening one wire after another and said, “You have to pay a toll”. “What?” “You said you got to, it's have to.” “You some kind of wise guy? Five hundred bucks, now!” You'd think that they would be slightly concerned about her unconcerned attitude, but being were made them over confident. Oh, well.
She dropped her electric screwdriver toward the toolbox and as their eyes followed it she pulled her gun from her tool belt and slipped her knife from it's sheath. As the handle of the knife dropped into her hand she dropped and swept one guys legs. Immediately she launched up and onto the other guy and bowled him over before he could react. She had the knife to his throat and the gun pointed at the other guy's head. “Silver rounds, silver alloy, boys, you might carefully consider your next move.” Her decisive air did more than the threat of the weapons to freeze them into motionlessness. If she were pack, she'd be far above them in the dominance hierarchy, and both of them instinctively showed their throats.
She rolled off of the were and stood up putting her weapons away as quickly as she'd pulled them. “Did someone send you to harass me, or was this your own lame-brained idea?” They looked at each other and then back at her as if asking permission to speak. “Get up, and answer the question.” “It was our idea, to make some extra money.” She shook her head. “You guys shouldn't try to have your own ideas.” She considered for a minute, and said, “I should contact the pack about this, but this time I'm letting you go. You owe me though.” “Ok.” They still stood looking at her. “Go!” They scurried off turning down the sidewalk in a hurry to get out of her sight. If they were in their wolf form their tails would be tucked tightly between their legs. She shook her head and went back to work.

The Reawakening

Dord awoke on the grave, dirty, face caked with dried mud made of tears and grief, with a new-found stillness. His mind had gone from incoherent grief to poised readiness. It shied away from the memory of coming home from a days-long circle of winter traps to find his small community slaughtered, ravished, burnt. Since first moving here after the Tsaren War, Dord had been a man of peace. He always turned the other cheek. He wanted to make a life that made sense without hatred and war. Even when bullied on his trips into town for supplies, he just slipped away, or he ignored them, or when he couldn't he just stood with his head down. No one here, but the wife he had just buried, had any idea who he had been, Dord Death-bringer, scourge of Tsar, leader of armies. That was about to change.

Dord had started digging the grave by first digging up his weapons, helm, and shield, buried in oiled cloth these long years. The years had barely touched the steel, the wood of the shield and scabbard seemed harder than ever, but the leather had decayed beyond use. No matter. Dord knew long past how to make belts and harness. He had plenty of leather from the round of traps, and some of it was even field tanned. It would do.
Days later, with freshly tanned skins intended to get them through spring and summer into fall harvest, Dord headed toward town. Usually his sons would have come with him to bring the furs, a time for joy and laughter, a time for love. This time, he brought only the best, the finest. There was no one to help shoulder the load. He had two purposes, first, the tracks of the marauders headed this way, but second if he was going to track the men who'd stolen his life, he needed good horses. Keeping the pace he thought he'd need would require strong fast horses, if he could find them here. Four would do. Three remounts would let him keep a good pace day after day without foundering any.

. . .

When Dord walked into town, at first few payed much attention. Old man Dord had been coming in with his furs for years. Those who bothered to look closer saw the hilt of a two-handed sword raising behind his head rising almost as high as the pile of furs strapped to his back, the helm hanging from his waist, and the blank shield, with fresh-made leather straps strapped to the back of the furs. A small crowd gathered to watch him as he walked to the furrier. Many had a vague liking for the man and his boys, but no one really knew him. No one had seen him with more than a belt knife in all the years he'd been coming into town. Often, someone would have to run to get the bailiff if Jimmer and his crowd were around. Something about Dord's refusal to respond to his bullying infuriated Jimmer, and many had worried that some day, if the bailiff couldn't be found quickly enough, Jimmer would do him real harm.

. . .

A few hours later, Dord was checking loads on his new horses. Dord had always been fond of horses, he liked their smell on his hands and their responsiveness. With the life he'd lived these past years it hadn't made sense to keep horses, though his boys had been pestering him to get some. He barely felt a twinge of impatience to be off and away. His past life had taught him that time spent making sure of his gear and the way it was loaded on his horses could make the difference between life and death. It never sped things up to hurry through tasks your life and your ability to continue on your way depended on.

. . .

In the first years after the war, he'd come to an isolated mountain monastery where he'd gradually learned to turn from years of violence and death and killing. He'd spent years sitting, meditating, being still, before he had finally felt ready to come back into a world of children and women and civilized folk. Now it was strange, the years of being a husband and a father and a farmer and trapper seemed to have left no impression on him, like a coat he'd slipped off to find the man of war intact within. The only difference between now and the Dord from the war was the stillness, the peace found in the years after the war. He supposed that if anything, that would just make him a better fighter.

. . .

Out of the corner of his eye, he'd noticed Jimmer and his group heading his way, but continued on his task. He'd never much noticed Jimmer as more than an opportunity to take a few moments to center and breathe, to find the still pond within, while waiting for the bailiff to run him off. He understood that Jimmer's anger was fanned by his lack of care or notice, but had never cared. Jimmer and men of his ilk were useless. In no part of his life had he ever thought much of them, but in the last years, he hadn't cared what Jimmer thought or did any more than he cared for the thoughts of the bugs he ignored.

“Hey! Old man! What are you doing with that sword? You're going to hurt yourself. Now, give it to me.” Dord finished checking the load and moved to make a last check of the cinch of his saddle before riding off. Jimmer, infuriated at Dord's lack of attention said, “What? Are you stupid? I said, give me that sword!”, and reached behind Dord's head for the hilt of the sword. Already two boys were running to find the bailiff. Suddenly, somehow, Jimmer found himself on his knees with his hand bent backward and struggled to get up, but couldn't get past the pain. “Just walk away and live.” Dord released his hand and with a fairly gentle shove with his boot to Jimmer's chest pushed him to his backside. Dord turned to mount, but Jimmer yelled, “Get him!”, and the five men rushed Dord.

. . .

Dord wiped his sword clean and checked it for nicks. He thought he might have caught the edge of a bone a little wrong when taking a head, but it was fine. He noted the error in perception, and made a mental readjustment. He looked down at Jimmer who was trying to keep his insides in and thought about finishing him off. Gutted was a long hard way to die. But he didn't feel anything about it and the sword was already cleaned, and decided it wasn't worth the effort. He turned, mounted, and mind still centered, rode away to find the men who'd taken his life.

The Christmas Gift

Palpable silence engulfed the car as we headed to Uncle Joe's. Silence was a way of life for us. We kids, me, Paul, eight, and my three older siblings, knew not to make any noise around adults. It was safer. If we annoyed Mother, then Daddy would tan us.
I sat there being silent, and having as pleasant a demeanor as possible. Heaven forbid that any look on my face might be interpreted as comment on my parents. No displeasure or anger could ever show. Survival was at stake.
As we rode, I remembered the weekend before. Daddy came home to find my cleaning undone. While he was yelling, I schooled myself to show nothing, but he told me to wipe that angry look off my face anyway. In that sheer terror I tried to figure out some other way to hold my face. “I said get that look off your face.” Desperate now, frozen with an all consuming fear, I tried to school my face to be as still as possible. “I'll teach you to look at me like that!” Out snaked the belt. ”Turn around.” I was so ashamed. Why couldn't I ever be good? I turned around. “Drop your britches.” I tried with every fiber of my being to be good and not to let my hands go back to try to block the blows. They seemed to have a mind of their own, but blocking the rain of slashing blows would always make things worse. Infinitely worse. It was worse that showing anger—worse than backtalk. This time I was proud that, although my hands tried to go back, I never let them past my hips. With each swish of the belt flying toward my bottom, my hands would try to go back and I'd pull them forward. Back and forth, my hands moved back and forth like the pistons of some demonic steam engine. All of the time I tried desperately not to cry out. Not to cry. If I could just take my licks like a man and make Daddy proud of me—but it was so hard. When getting beaten, time seemed almost to stop. Trying to hold out, trying not to block the blows, trying not to cry, became an instant to instant struggle. It seemed as if the instants would never add up to the end of the beating. Please let me make Daddy proud of me.

But Daddy never was proud of me. Mother either. The only time either one even talked to me was when I was in trouble or if I initiated contact, and I tried never to initiate contact. Mostly I hid out in my room or stayed outside—stayed out of the way. I was always ashamed of myself. I didn't know why I'd been dealt that terrible hand, but my whole life was dedicated to hiding my shame from others.

As we pulled up to Uncle Joe's, I was about to cry from dread, but on the outside, I maintained my pleasant demeanor. Why did I have to be around all those kids? I couldn't throw, I couldn't catch, my Dad had never taught me. None of the other kids liked me at all. Unless I could find some way to escape, I was in for torment.

When we got there, Daddy told us to go out and play. What he really meant was for us to get out of his hair and to stay out of sight. I stood at the door and considered the options. After Daddy walked away, I quietly slipped back to Uncle Joe's study. Uncle Joe had told me before that I could look at any book as long as I was careful. I had not asked him, mind you, I never could have asked, but with unsolicited permission freely given, I spent as much time there as I could, being careful to stay under Daddy's radar, so that he would not forbid it.

The study was one of my most favorite places in the universe. It had wooden walls with color so dark and so rich, that they soaked up the light and then let it out again, a subtle golden glow. The polished stone floor was always warm in the winter and deliciously cool in the summer. Accompanying Uncle Joe's desk at one end of the room was his dark red leather and wood office chair with the arms and seat punctuated with gleaming brass heads. Lining most of the walls were barrister's bookshelves. Oh, those bookshelves. They were of a dark, rich, red, cherry wood, almost black, with shelves fronted by doors that tilted up from the bottom to expose books, and then slid into the space above, disappearing so that you could enjoy the books. Each door was glazed with panes of bevel cut leaded glass. Sprinkled about the room were several islands of beautiful chairs and love seats snuggled up with end and side tables all with elegantly carved, gracefully curved legs and feet. You could go in there, turn on a lamp at one of the islands, curl up with a book, and be lost in your chair, safe and secure, dark shadows lapping at the edge of your island of contentment.
This day I found it even more magical. Uncle Joe's wife, Vera, an almost mystically beautiful Austrian woman, had lined the edges of the shelves for Christmas with dim white lights, so dim they were almost orange, each illuminating a two or three inch spot. As I closed the door, and the deep silence habitual to this room wrapped itself around me, I stood awed, afraid to breathe, afraid to even make a sound. It was as if I'd entered into some fairy kingdom.
Eventually, able to move once more, as I edged into the room, the spell remained unbroken. My slightest movement brought strange reflections and amazing refractions of lights dancing among facets of the cut glass doors. It was, at that point, perhaps the deepest experience of my young life. Even at full high midnight mass with censors streaming incense smoke and chanting resonating in the air, I'd never felt such awe as transported me at that moment.
Finally, I raised one of the doors and pulled out my favorite book. It was large, heavy, and very, very old. It had come from Europe with Aunt Vera and although I couldn't read the German text, the beautiful full page color plates of fairies, and ogres, and distressed damsels, and true-hearted knights, filled me with longing. If only I could live in such a world.
I brought the book, larger almost it seemed than I, to my favorite spot, turned the lamp on low, and then sat sideways in the chair with my back and head against one cushioned leather arm and my feet against the other. My raised knees held the book at just the right angle, and I leaned over to fill myself with its scent. Oh! The curious rich scent of ancient tomes.
A few minutes later I was studying a picture of foxes dancing on their back feet with beautiful fairies fluttering above, when I heard, softly uttered, “That is always to be a favorite.” Aunt Vera was sitting in one of the dark pools of shadow, almost hidden behind the high wings of her chair's back. I hadn't seen her when I came into the room, and such was the spell of that place and of that time, that I didn't startle when I heard her voice. So gentle it was, that it didn't disturb the peace of the room. Her next utterance, though, was something entirely different, and it set my heart racing.
“Your father is very strict, yes?” I just looked down, I felt trapped. I felt such shame at that moment. How could I ever talk about my father to someone? That seemed in that moment, the worst thing that I could contemplate. I had no idea how to answer the question. How would I know what the right answer was? Weren't all parents the same? Didn't my Father always treat me with fairness, no more or no less strict than was called for? What would very strict even mean? I kept my face down, my whole body curled about the book, and wished that I could just disappear.

“Ah, you poor child.” Things immediately became immeasurably worse. I began to cry, undone by her tone. I had always liked this Aunt for her beautiful flowing clothes and her soft, lisping accent, and for her gentleness—to have her see me like this was the cruelest blow. Never again would she want to talk to me. My shame, my inability to be a good boy, had undone me. I waited for the scolding that was sure to follow. I heard the clinking of ice on glass as she put down her drink, then I heard her walk toward me. Was I going to get a spanking? I struggled to stop the tears, but instead a sense of terrible injustice that I had been born this way overwhelmed me and my soft quiet tears turned into sobs. Oh why, why, did I have to be me?

Then the most amazing thing happened. She took the book from me and quietly laid it down on the table. She gathered me into her arms and sat, cradling me in her lap. I had never in my memory felt a gentle touch, never had felt love, and never, never been so out of control. I struggled to free myself so that I wouldn't soil her with my tears, or worse, with my streaming nose, but she just held me and quietly told me, “Shush, shush, it's all right child.” Finally I clung to her and wept, wept freely as I'd never been able to in the presence of another human being.

The storm, as storms must, eventually rained itself out. My tears changed gradually from squalls to steady showers, and then dissipated into flurries interspersed with gasps and sighs, and then finally stopped.

I felt drained as I had never felt drained, calm as I had never felt calm, and the whole time she held me, and she stroked my hair, and she spoke quiet words of comfort to me.

Finally she said, “Child, child, your father does you harm, there's nothing wrong with you, it's him, it's him. I went stiff, my heart raced, fear surged through my body. I didn't know how to hear what she had to say. She calmed me once again with her presence and with her arms and with her voice as a horsewoman would calm an anxious horse.

She reached out, and with one finger, gently tipped my head back so that my eyes met hers. She said, “Paul, I'm going to make a very precious Christmas gift to you, but first you must promise that you will tell no one about it while yet I live. Do you promise?” I nodded, unwilling to trust my voice to be steady, still being surprised by gasps and shudders. She went on to say, “Paul, what we are about to do is dangerous to you. If you are not pure of heart you could be destroyed. Do you understand?” I didn't really, but some sense of destiny, and yes, a desire to please Aunt Vera propelled me to nod again.

She smiled a smile, oh, so beautiful, and slowly swept her arm out as if sweeping back a curtain. “Look!” Her command was hardly necessary. The air of the room filled with lights dancing in the air. I peered to see them through the remnants of tears in my eyes. Aunt Vera held out her hand, and a small figure, a tiny fairy, beautifully formed, perfect in every way, settled onto it and arranged her wings behind her. She glowed, that was the only word I could use to describe it. A light, dim, but unmistakable came from her, her gown, her wings. All I could do was stare. Tears again came to my eyes, but this time they flowed freely, tears of peace, tears of healing, tears of a bliss so strong that it took possession of my very soul and washed away all fear, all self hatred, all self doubt. There was room for nothing in my heart except wonder.

Aunt Vera lifted her hand toward my face and the fairy shifted her wings a bit to keep balance. I felt my eyes cross as she brought the fairy almost to my nose. I watched the fairy clap her tiny hands and laugh an almost imperceptible laugh. Then she reached out, took my nose in both hands, and leaned over and kissed me. Right on the tip of my nose! A moment later, Aunt Vera raised the fairy toward the room and she leapt, spreading her wings to catch the air, and joined her friends to dance again.

I don't know how long I lay there in Aunt Vera's arms watching them. I know Aunt Vera told me that fairies will not normally come out around anyone that is not pure of heart, and that if they did, it meant an almost certain destruction for the unworthy soul. She held this out as proof positive of there being nothing wrong with me, and how was I to argue with that?

 Eventually someone came to the room looking for us and the fairies all winked out in an instant. Aunt Vera smiled and softly touched her finger to her lips. I was so filled with peace and contentment that a core of my being held on to it for the rest of my life. No matter the turmoil, no matter the abuse, always I knew that the problem wasn't mine. After all, hadn't fairies danced for me, and every time I looked in the mirror, didn't I see, almost lost amidst the freckles, the perfect, tiny imprints of a fairy's lips on the tip of my nose?