Kythia awoke to the sound of trumpets announcing her father’s departure. She grunted and sat up abruptly, stretching stiff muscles. She had wished to speak with her father, Sir Farlan, before he and his knights left the castle to assist their fellow countrymen in battle. Kythia knew that if more troops weren’t sent to help Queen Jocunda all of their kingdom of Naranth would be overrun by the power-hungry Rylions. Still, she wished her father had had time to plead her cause to her mother, Lady Amaria. Amaria wanted a daughter who would embroider tapestries, regally order servants to do her bidding, and wear elaborate gowns of silk and brocade. Kythia herself wanted to be a hero, someone portrayed in tapestries. She wanted to wear mail and carry a sword, and save all of Naranth. All Sir Farlan wanted was for his family to be content, and therefore it was always easy to enlist his help in halting Amaria’s next lecture. Kythia stood at the battlements, clutching a bow expertly in one hand Kythia sighed; now there was no prolonging the inevitable tirade. Her mother had caught her on her palfrey, tilting (or trying to) at a quintain. The poor horse was bewildered and jumped at the slightest sound. Amaria had let out such an unladylike war cry as to spook the horse, meant only for pleasure, into throwing its passenger, and the glint in the noble lady’s eyes threatened hell to pay. Kythia stood, wincing as her sore limbs stretched, and limped to the five-foot-tall mirror that had been her thirteenth birthday present. She tossed her waist-length hair, admiring the way the auburn tresses caught the light, then, grimacing, reached for the forest-green gown that supposedly brought out the color of her already striking hazel eyes. Although the dress was stunning, she knew she’d look better in armor. * * * That morning (after the lecture at breakfast) Kythia endured dancing lessons, then embroidery—two of her most hated activities. Nothing was worse than what came after the three-course midday meal, though: fittings. She was making her appearance at court in April, as did every other fifteen-year-old of high blood. The only pleasant part of this trip would be meeting with Queen Jocunda. The Queen was everything Kythia wished to be. She was a warrior, yet could be a proper, beautiful lady when she wished. She was a superb horsewoman and the heroine of every ballad. Meeting her would be wondrous. Kythia was suddenly brought back to reality as the beautiful aqua-colored gown, her mother’s choice, was draped over her slim shoulders. She sighed and resigned herself to an eternity of measurements and servants’ gossip. “Did you hear that there’s a chance of the Rylions attacking near here?” “Oh, that’s not true. You know that Sir Farlan would never let them past him.” “Word has it that battle was just a diversion, and their real motive is to take this castle and the lands around it.” Kythia had heard this theory several times, and had yet to believe it. It would be exciting, though—trumpets blaring, banners waving just beyond the window. Oh, glory maybe Queen Jocunda would even lead the rescue . . . That was odd. Kythia was sure she had just heard trumpets, even war cries. She shook her head, trying to clear it of what was obviously her imagination. Then her mother, Amaria, dashed into the room and cried that, yes, there was a Rylion attack and the knights were gone, fighting miles away! This time, the gossip was correct. That was when panic broke loose. Serving women shrieked and ran about. Villagers had already begun to enter the castle, the safest place around. Kythia maneuvered through it all, trying to reach the battlements. Her heart hammered; her hair flew out of place as she, still in her fine gown, scrambled to where she could help defend her people and her home. She couldn’t let her mother and servants die or be captured. As she ran, she issued orders for vats of hot oil, bows and arrows, and as many spears as they had. She grabbed a boy about her age and gave him a message to take as quickly as possible to the nearest estate: “We’re under attack, and the men are gone. Please, help.” * * * Kythia stood at the battlements, clutching a bow expertly in one hand and felling the enemy below as fast as she could fire. She’d secretly learned archery as a child, and was a fair shot. The most stalwart of the servants, men and women, assisted her, and the rest were huddled with Amaria in the most protected rooms. Load. Fire. Watch her victim fall. Load. Fire. Kythia worked herself into a rhythm. She shut her mind to the screams of those she killed in self-defense, although she knew they would haunt her dreams. A pain-filled shriek forced her to look beside her. One of the gossips that had been fitting her dress had fallen, struck by a deadly arrow. Blood spurted from her, showering the cold stone wall. Kythia took a moment to kneel beside her servant and gently close the eyes of the old woman. Kythia’s dress was ripped and hanging off one shoulder, the height of impropriety. Her hair was loose and tangled and tinted with soot. Her face was streaked with sweat, blood, and dirt. Yet Kythia was beautiful, wild and willful, standing in the battlements and crying out against all who defied her. She grinned; Lady Amaria would swoon with shock to see her daughter like this. * * * After it was all over Kythia sat in her spacious apartments and thought about the entire incident. They had won; serving women and one noble girl had held their own against a troop from the greatest army in the realm until proper warriors could be summoned. Perhaps an angel was with her, watching over her; perhaps it was just pure luck. Anyhow, she
Fantasy
A Bird’s Prophecy
The kingdom of Raja Bhaskarendra was administered by governors, who had many powers in their own provinces. The office of the governor passed from father to son, as did the crown of the king himself. One of these governors was Raja Dhaval. His son Venky was the pride and joy of his life. One fateful day, Dhaval came across Venky as he sat under a tree, looking up at its branches and uttering strange sounds that did not belong to any human language. As the governor approached, there was a flap and flutter of wings and several birds flew away. “Oh Father, you have frightened them away!” Venky said reproachfully. “They were telling me about the great ocean—that blue expanse under the sun, all day long.” “But how can you know that, son?” Dhaval asked. “The birds do not speak our language.” “Yet I understand them,” Venky said. “I can talk to them as if I was one of them.” As the years went by, Venky’s powers did not lessen. He grew into a youth blessed with wisdom and courage as well as a supernatural power—the ability to talk to the birds. All the people declared Venky a worthy heir to follow in his father’s footsteps. But one black day, something happened to turn the old chief’s anger against his son and cause him to leave the land of his birth in sorrow. While Venky was waiting on his father at the table one evening, Dhaval pointed at the birds seated on the windowsill, chattering animatedly. “Tell me, my son,” he asked, “what are those birds saying? I have never known them to be so noisy before.” He spoke to the little birds circling the terrace Venky lowered his eyes. “If I answer your question, Father, you may get angry.” Naturally, this reply only made the governor all the more curious. He persisted and at last, Venky told him, “They are saying that one day, our positions will be changed. It will be you who will be waiting upon me at this very same table.” As soon as the governor heard these words, he was filled with wrath, for what could such a prophecy mean but that one day, his son would rise against him? “Traitor!” cried the old man. “Would you betray your own father? Leave my home and never let me see you again!” And in spite of his protestations of loyalty and devotion to his father, Venky was forced to say goodbye to the home he had known all his life. He left as a poor man with nothing but the clothes on his back. He managed to get taken as a new member on a ship bound for Sri Lanka. Over there, Venky continued his journey on foot across the countryside with a heart ready for adventure. Before long, he entered into the grounds of the king of those areas. As he drew near the gateway, he heard the sound of sawing. An army of woodcutters was felling the trees that stood in the palace courtyard. But that wasn’t all. To Venky’s astonishment, he saw that the sky around the palace was full of birds whose shrill cries fell ceaselessly upon his ears, forcing him to shield them with his hands. A royal servant nodded to him. “Ah stranger, you may well try to shut your ears, but it’s useless. Not only outside but also inside the palace, we are assailed with this incessant noise. It’s enough to drive a man out of his mind. The king is at his wits’ end to know how to get rid of this plague.” At once Venky realized how he might be able to help the royal household in their time of trouble. He asked for an audience with the king. A valet led the way through the long galleries where sparrows beat their wings against the paneled walls and across the terrace where the ladies of the court vainly tried to converse with each other above the never-ending racket. The king was on the terrace as well, his chin gripped in one bejeweled hand, in an attitude of deep despair. “Excuse me, your Majesty,” Venky began. “I think I may be able to rid you of this feathered curse that has fallen on your palace.” At once, the king’s face brightened and a gleam of hope flashed in his eyes. “If what you say is true,” he declared, “your reward will be great. But how will you accomplish this?” Venky told the king about his ability to speak with the birds in their own tongue. “There must be some reason, Sire, why the birds are waging their shrill warfare with you.” He spoke to the little birds circling the terrace, uttering the strange sounds his father first heard under the tree. At once, the birds flew to his shoulder with excited chattering. The king could not understand any of it, but Venky understood perfectly “Why Sire, it’s really quite simple,” he said. “The birds are furious because you have ordered your woodcutters to chop down the trees in which they build their nests. If you stop this destruction, they promise they will plague you no more.” At once the king issued orders to stop the cutting. And no sooner had the last ax been laid to rest than from every nook and cranny of the palace, a huge flock of birds rose and soared out to rebuild their nests among the trees. From that day, not even one little bird ever troubled the king. True to his word, the king rewarded Venky with gold and a ship fully equipped and manned. Venky set sail in this ship and wherever he went, he gained wealth and wisdom. Yet he never forgot his old home and after ten years, he returned to his home shores. His rich ship with its golden prow anchored in his father’s province. Venky’s clansmen gaped at the magnificence of the ship and wondered which
Hermione and Leafy
“What should we play?” the little girl asked of her older cousin. The redhead stood and began walking up and down the bricks, using her arms for balance as if she were a tightrope walker at the circus. She furrowed her brow in concentration. “Sisters,” she said finally. The little girl beamed with pleasure. She was happy just to be at her hero-worshipped cousin’s house on this beautiful day when she did not have to go to school, this beautiful day with the purple wisteria trees in bloom. “Orphan sisters,” the redhead continued. “Our parents were explorers and they took us with them to go explore the jungle and they died out there, see? So now we’re two orphan sisters wandering around alone in the jungle. Trying to survive and find our way home.” She plopped down on the front steps with a self-satisfied smile. “My name’s gonna be Hermione; what about yours?” The little girl spotted a small green leaf in the driveway. “Leafy” she said. “Emma, that isn’t a real name. Why don’t you just be . . . Crookshanks or something?” “My name is Leafy.” “Ohhh, fine.” The redhead heaved a great sigh. Five-year-olds. “How old do you wanna be?” “Seven!” with an adoring gaze at her cousin. The redhead scrunched up her face, trying to think up the biggest age imaginable. “I’m thirteen,” she said decidedly. “Shh! You have to be very quiet. There are tigers” So that was that. Hermione stood, brushing off the back of her floral-print jeans, only suddenly the pattern was camouflage. So was her formerly pink hoodie. She ran through the grass with her body doubled over, beckoning for Leafy to follow. Despite their camouflage clothing and the green and black paint they had smeared under their eyelids, they were still fairly easy for predators to spot. And here in the very heart of the jungle, predators were everywhere. “What are we. . .” Leafy began. But Hermione said, “Shh! You have to be very quiet. There are tigers.” Leafy shivered with excitement. “Taahgers!” They stopped and ducked down in the tangled underbrush to rest and conspire. “It’ll be night soon,” Hermione whispered, flinching as a brightly colored bird flew uncomfortably low over her head. “We’d better build a fire to keep us warm and keep the wolves and stuff away, or we’ll be goners for sure. The matches Mom and Dad brought got wet in the swamp, but we can rub two sticks together. The trick is gathering the firewood without getting eaten.” The front door swung open just then, and a woman in jeans and a sweatshirt stuck her head out. “Alice, Emma, you guys hungry? I can make grilled cheese sandwiches.” “Yes, please,” said Alice. They could discover the previously overlooked sandwiches in their backpacks when the fire was built. “Me too!” added Emma. The woman went back inside. Hermione said, “Now, what we need is some strategy” but she stopped as she noticed her real-life sister reading on the front porch of the house. “Beth, you wanna play?” she offered. The girl, thirteen, looked up with a start. She had forgotten about the world outside of her book. “Oh, no thanks, sweetie.” The seven-year-old rolled her eyes, amazed at how anybody would want to read when nobody was making them; but before she could meditate on the mystery any longer, a sleek black panther leaped down at them from a tree overhead. “Watch out!” she shrieked to Leafy and, grabbing her hand, the two of them ran as fast as their small legs could carry them. Bethany Johnsen, 13Lindale, Texas Rachel Stanley, 13Seal Beach, California
