Philippine Speculative Fiction Volume 1 Read online

  She nodded, raising a weary arm to her forehead and making the sign of homecoming.

  “Do you feel like you’ve wasted your life?” she asked him, as the caravan bearing everything they had amassed lumbered into the city.

  “Nothing is ever wasted,” the butcher’s boy told her.

  They made their way to the house of Melchor Antevadez and knocked on his door. A young man answered them and sadly informed them that the wizened artisan had died many many years ago, and that he, Reuel Antevadez, was the new Maestro du Cosas Ingravidas.

  “Yes, yes. But do you still make kites?” Maria Isabella asked him.

  “Kites? Of course. From time to time, someone wants an aquilone or—”

  “Before Ser Antevadez, Melchor Antevadez, died, did he leave instructions for a very special kind of kite?” she interrupted.

  “Well ... ,” mumbled Reuel Antevadez, “my great-grandfather did leave a design for a woman named Maria Isabella du’l Cielo, but—”

  “I am she.” She ignored his shocked face. “Listen, young man. I have spent all my life gathering everything Melchor Antevadez said he needed to build my kite. Everything is outside. Build it.”

  And so Reuel Antevadez unearthed the yellowing parchment that contained the design of the impossible kite that Melchor Antevadez had dreamed into existence, referenced the parts from the list of things handed to him by the butcher’s boy, and proceeded to build the aquilone.

  When it was finished, it looked nothing at all like either Maria Isabella or the butcher’s boy had imagined. The kite was huge and looked like a star, but those who saw it could not agree on how best to describe the marvelous conveyance.

  After he helped strap her in, the butcher’s boy stood back and looked at the woman he had grown old with.

  “This is certainly no time for tears,” Maria Isabella reprimanded him gently, as she gestured for him to release the kite.

  “No, there is time for everything,” the butcher’s boy whispered to himself as he pushed and pulled at the ropes and strings, pulley and levers and gears of the impossible contrivance.

  “Goodbye, goodbye!” she shouted down to him as the star kite began its rapid ascent to the speckled firmament above.

  “Goodbye, goodbye,” he whispered, as his heart finally broke into a thousand mismatched pieces, each one small, hard, and sharp. The tears of the butcher’s boy (who had long since ceased to be a boy) flowed freely down his face as he watched her rise — the extraordinary old woman he had always loved strapped to the frame of an impossible kite.

  As she rose, he sighed and reflected on the absurdity of life, the heaviness of loss, the cruelty of hope, the truth about quests, and the relentless nature of a love that knew only one direction. His hands swiftly played out the tether (that part of the marvelous rope they had bargained for with two riddles, a blind rooster and a handful of cold and lusterless diamante in a bazaar held only once every seven years on an island in the Dag’at Palabras Tacitas) and he realized that all those years they were together, she had never known his name.

  As she rose above the city of her birth, Maria Isabella took a moment to gasp at the immensity of the city that sprawled beneath her, recalled how everything had begun, fought the trembling of her withered hands, and with a fishbone knife (that sad and strange knife which had been passed from hand to hand, from women consumed by unearthly passion, the same knife which had been part of her reward for solving the mystery of the Rajah Sumibon’s lost turtle shell in the southern lands of Diya al Din) cut the glimmering tether.

  Up, up, up, higher and higher and higher she rose. She saw the winding silver ribbon of the Pasigla, the fluted roofs of Lu Ecolia du Arcana Menor ei Mayor, the trellises and gardens of the Plaza Emperyal, and the dimmed streets of the Mercado du Coristas. And Maria Isabella looked down and thought she saw everything, everything.

  At one exquisite interval during her ascent, Maria Isabella thought she spied the precise tower where Lorenzo du Vicenzio ei Salvadore, the Stargazer, must live and work. She felt the exuberant joy of her lost youth bubble up within her and mix with the fiery spark of love she had kept alive for sixty years, and in a glorious blaze of irrepressible happiness she waved her free hand with wild abandon, shouting the name that had been forever etched into her heart.

  When a powerful wind took the kite to sudden new heights, when Ciudad Meiora and everything below her vanished in the dark, she stopped shouting, and began to laugh and laugh and laugh.

  And Maria Isabella du’l Cielo looked up at the beginning of forever and thought of nothing, nothing at all.

  And in the city below, in one of the high rooms of the silent Torre du Astrunomos (where those who had served with distinction were housed and honored), an old man, long-retired and plagued by cataracts, sighed in his sleep and dreamed a dream of unnamed stars.

  JAY STEVEN UY ANYONG

  THE COWARD’S QUEST

  Jay Steven Uy Anyong has been a roadie on a Hello Kitty mall tour, sold miniature Space Orks to underage children and successfully convinced an American to keep up with house payments while in the middle of an earthquake. His roleplaying game articles have appeared in Seeker magazine. An active member of the Alliance of Eclectic Gamers and Interactive Storytellers (AEGIS), Jay is often found holding pen and paper roleplaying games for newbies.

  “The Coward’s Quest,” Anyong’s first published short story, concerns the Coward of Silver Vale and a Mysterious Stranger TM who tries to convince him to undertake a quest to Save the World TM.

  THIS STORY, LIKE many, many other stories before it, begins in a quiet little town. Why a little town, you ask? Because every one knows that a good fantasy story always starts in a small, little-known town, where nothing exciting happens and the old people are still talking about that last time that a sheep got away last year. And that’s exactly where we’ll start.

  Or maybe just outside of one.

  It was one of those nights, when most people prefer the warmth of a fire and the company of friends rather than be stuck outside. The weather was rather depressing, a constant, if light, rain making little puddles on the road. A small wagon with a creaky wheel trundled along, not bothering to avoid any of the puddles, much to the consternation of the hitchhiker sitting in the back amongst the vegetables.

  “Are we there yet?” The hitchhiker asked irritably, pulling his robes tighter around his shoulders to ward off the cold. He was old and tired, and being out in the rain isn’t the kind of thing people want to do in their dotage.

  “Nearly, sir,” The wagon driver answered. “It’s just around this hill.”

  “Good.” The old man looked at his ring and gave it the necessary mental command to activate its magic. The ring glowed slightly before a small magic rune manifested, hovering in mid-air over the band. At last, he had found the man he was looking for. Things were finally going somewhere.

  He looked up, seeing the lights shining through the windows of the sleepy, boring town. The old man smiled in spite of himself. No matter how cliché, one finds heroes in small places like these. It was part of the formula, heroes come from tiny towns and farmsteads, and villains automatically come with their very own castles and armies.

  “I’ll be getting off here,” he spoke, digging into his pocket to take out a gold coin and flipping it at the driver. “Thanks again for the ride.”

  The driver caught the coin and looked at it curiously, before his eyes grew wide with the realization of how much was in his hand. “Think nothing of it, good sir!”

  The old man grunted as he got off, threw his pack over his shoulder and brushed off a few lettuce leaves that stuck to his cloak. He watched as the driver shook the reins, and the shaggy old nag tugged the wagon onwards in the rain.

  “Why couldn’t you live your life that way, Aranas?” The old man spoke to himself. “Of all the lives to be born into, it had to be the bearer of bad news.” Aranas smiled wryly as he began to walk to his destination, a quaint little tavern in this lit
tle town.

  It was a squat building of stout wooden construction, and would have been rather unremarkable, much like the rest of the dreary old town, had it not been for its name: The Rosy Barmaid. Nobody knows where the name came from, but everyone immediately knows that they’re there the moment they see the sign hanging over the door. I’d go into further detail, but I’m trying to appeal to a majority of audiences here. Perhaps in private.

  Aranas reached the Rosy Barmaid, glad to at least have a place where he can sit down comfortably, get dry and maybe find the person responsible for saving the world. Not a bad deal after having to sit through several days of being entrenched in lettuce and listening to a man talk to his horse about his wife’s problems in the bedroom.

  He had barely entered when an attractive young lady walked up to him. The woman wore a rather revealing outfit, showing off her shapely form and her smooth skin. She also had a mischievous grin as she looked him over.

  “Say Grandpa,” she licked her lips. “You look like you could use a nice little girl like me to get you all warm again.” She winked.

  While she was rather attractive, Aranas chafed at her use of the term ‘Grandpa’. “Sorry, Miss…?”

  “Call me Maylee, Grandpa.”

  He gave a condescending smile. “Maylee then. I’m sure that your services are… exquisite, but I’m looking for a man.”

  Maylee blinked.

  “What?” Aranas raised an eyebrow.

  “I’m sorry!” She said, holding a hand up to cover her laughter. “I didn’t, I mean, I wouldn’t have expected… Well, maybe Benson over there might be interested…” She waved off to a rather burly looking man reclining in a far table dressed as a milkmaid.

  Aranas gave her a flat stare. “That’s not what I meant,” he sighed. “I’m looking for a certain Garret, the Coward of Silver Vale?”

  “Oh, him!” Maylee smiled as she tossed her hair back over her shoulder. “Why didn’t you say so sooner, Grandpa?”

  “I was trying to.”

  She dismissed that statement with a wave of her hand. “Garret should be around here somewhere. He’s always here. Never says much, just sits down and mopes. Still kind of cute though, even if he’s perpetually depressed.”

  “Considering his reputation, you’d be surprised that he hasn’t hanged himself,” Aranas said as he looked around.

  “I guess,” Maylee agreed. “I’d go look for him in the darker corners of the place. If there’s a place to mope, then it would be the darkest side of the tavern, right? Anyway, I gotta go Gramps, the night is young and the men are horny.”

  True enough, within the smoke-filled and noisy common room of the Rosy Barmaid, there sat a man. He sat in the manner of moody men, hunched over and brooding, holding his mug in one hand, his dark eyes staring intently at the fireplace.

  Aranas recognized the Coward immediately and was about to walk towards him when the door opened behind him, the sound of the rain outside drowning out the patrons voices, all of them turning to look at the new arrival. It was a tall man wearing an elaborate black cloak, standing just inside the doorway, eyes scanning the room.

  The stranger cleared his throat. “I am looking for a man called… George,” he announced, his eyes narrowing.

  “Ah!” A large man with a full beard stood up. “That would be me. Come on over and have a seat.”

  The mysterious stranger nodded, and walked over to George’s table. With that over and done with, the rest of the Rosy Barmaid’s patrons got back to drinking and chattering.

  Things like this happen all the time. The mysterious strangers are a perfectly legitimate enterprise working for the Council of Wizards. They travel to various towns, finding the various “chosen ones” for different tasks, and do anything to make their marks take the job. It’s happened enough times that the villagers don’t really care much about it anymore. Besides, as long as the stranger doesn’t come looking for sandy-haired farmboys named Luke, they know that it’s not a big deal.

  Aranas shrugged and looked over at the corner to where Garret sat. Aranas had waited a long time for this, and he was not allowed to fail. Garret had gone through a lot since the Silver Vale, and Aranas was certain that he would not pounce on the idea of having to go through it again.

  Aranas had barely reached the table when Garret spoke. “The table’s taken, Grandpa. Go away.”

  The older man’s eyes narrowed at Garret. “Brave words, Coward.”

  “Are you trying to pick a fight, old man?” Garret glared at Aranas.

  “Perhaps I am, if beating you to a pulp will calm you down and make you listen to a geezer like me.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Some of your time,” Aranas said. “And a chance to speak with you without having to resort to manly theatrics.”

  “Manly theatrics?”

  “Perhaps I wasn’t too clear with that phrase,” Aranas said dryly. “All this macho posturing is unnecessary. Is this the result of your years of isolation?”

  “Heh,” Garret smiled for the first time. “You’ve got a point. Now, who are you? You obviously know who I am, so I’m at a disadvantage.”

  “My name is Aranas, of the Wizard’s Council,” the old man replied, pulling a chair to sit down in front of the Coward. “I’ve come here to seek you out, Garret.”

  “Wonderful,” Garret said, setting down his beer. “I’ve been out of the business for years. This world doesn’t need heroes anymore.”

  “We don’t need a hero,” Aranas said. “We need a Coward.”

  The fireplace crackled as the two men regarded each other in stony silence.

  “I thought we were going to stop with the manly theatrics,” Garret pointed out.

  “Sorry,” Aranas gave a sheepish grin. “Force of habit.”

  “There’s no point in sending me off on some fool’s quest,” Garret said. “I failed the Silver Vale, remember? There’s nothing left of it now, nothing but charred rock and ghosts of the dead.”

  “Don’t you ever get tired of telling that story?” Aranas asked. “I thought that after the first few thousand times, you’d get over it.” It irritated him to see Garret this way. Garret was the Hero of Silver Vale, the man who single-handedly stopped an invasion by another country by feats of valor alone. That Garret was a cunning general who rallied his troops into frenzy, bestowing them with boundless courage.

  “Well, I didn’t,” Garret said. “There’s no glory in being a hero.” Garret refused to look the Wizard in the eye, instead fixating on his beer. “I didn’t care for the land, or the title, or even the money. After it was over, none of it meant anything. I couldn’t do it anymore, not after what happened to them.”

  “Your companions?”

  “All of them,” Garret said quietly. “Think about it old man. Take a moment to think of how it feels to be me? When I turned aside the Tullaran invasion, how many people marched to their deaths that day?”

  “Those men chose to march under your banner,” Aranas’ voice was tinged with annoyance. “You’re an arrogant man if you think you made that choice for them, Coward!”

  “But if I didn’t fight in the invasion, then the Silver Vale would have still lasted,” Garret reasoned. “I fought the first war for politics, Aranas. I watched my companions die to keep a boy on the throne, and his widowed mother to care for him.”

  “You fought because you knew it was the right thing to do,” Aranas reminded him. “It was what you felt in your heart of hearts. And you followed it.”

  “And what now? That conviction is gone, old man. It crumbled the night I watched my companions die. They suffered alongside me, fought for me and the cause I called them to follow. I abandoned them the second time around.”

  “I understand your grief, Garret,” Aranas said. “But destiny is not done with you yet.” The old man’s eyes glowed with an eerie green light.

  “You can’t intimidate me that easily,” Garret sneered. “If you think showing a few pyrotec
hnics and pretty sparkles is going to make me leave my beer, and my chair, then you’re dead wrong, old man.”

  “I’m hardly showing you this as a cheap trick,” Aranas replied, his voice icy cold. “I am not a mere hedge magician or medicine man, Garret. I can see where destiny leads the lives of men.”

  Garret flinched slightly. “If you can see so much, why don’t you deal with the problem then? Why do you need me?”

  “Because your destiny lies in finding the Incarna,” Aranas said. “Something no other man stands a chance at doing.”

  “Incarna?”

  “The manifestations of the virtues,” Aranas said.

  “I know that!” Garret snapped. “But they’re stories. The Incarna aren’t real! If they’re here, then that only means that the gods have called for the Sundering.”

  Aranas merely looked at the Coward.

  “You’re kidding,” Garret blurted. “I refuse to believe that the Sundering is going to happen. Where are the signs? Aren’t we supposed to see strange omens all over?”

  “Are you blind?” Aranas asked. “Look around you. Even in this tedious backwater town, the Council has been set in motion.” He gestured to George and the other shadowy stranger. “He is being sent to protect a town near the Crimson Falls. There, he will fail.”

  “What?”

  “He will fail,” Aranas repeated. “But his death is necessary — a woman lives in Crimson Falls and she will see his courage. He will die, but her potential will be unlocked.”

  “So that’s it? You’re sending agents to fill people’s heads with illusions of grandeur to get them killed?” Garret was appalled. “Forgive me if I’m even less eager to help you out now, old man.”

  Aranas smiled. “Ah, but you see, Garret. Here is where you come in.”

  Garret glared at the old man. Just what was the Wizard planning? Garret was a fighter; comfortable with a sword and honest dealings. Even after working with Wizards before, he could never bring himself to trust magic. It was too easy, too many loopholes.