This continues The Letter, from May’s newsletter.

Or all that was written for anyone to see. Nor had the unknown reader looked for more; the paper showed no sign of exposure to a flame. Underneath the message about her son, written parallel to the other lines, Dagmera had used the juice of onion to convey other information. I sat in the bright sunlight of the small courtyard of my practice rooms, the weight of the words revealed by heating the paper dragging at my mind. I should tell the Princip what my correspondent had overheard, and yet I did not want to.

The King speaks of war, she had written. Only to my lady the Queen, in private, and he has told her to say nothing. He did not see me kneeling at a chest when he burst into her rooms, cursing his grandfather and swearing battle against Luivich and the Casillard.  I was sent away, and have sworn to say nothing, although my lady the Queen said his words were only frustration. That is all I know. 

Dagmera, my informant, waited upon the queen of Varsland. Words spoken in frustration could harden into resolve—and if the king of Varsland threatened war against the city that was the northern hub of the Casillard trading confederacy, then the Princip needed to know.  So did the Casillard council, both here and in Luivich.

One response would be calm and faceted, no doubt already planned for after the war fifty years past. One would be volatile.

Two years ago, Varril, Princip of Ésparias, had lost his wife and unborn child to a disease I had no treatment for, beyond controlling fever with willowbark and cold compresses. The contagion had brought on her labour early, the child born dead. She succumbed less than an hour later. Their loss had been hard enough, but that Jelte, their older son, had survived should have been a blessing.

I had thought the boy would die. His red rash was no worse than others, but his fever had risen and he had been unable to keep the infusion of willowbark down. We had stripped him, washed him with water chilled with ice. Then his screams of pain had begun, his hands clutching at his head before convulsions wracked his small body. I had told the Princip to expect the worst.

Jelte had lived, but he could never be Princip after Varril. Slowly, his body had recovered. He could ride his pony again, throw a ball, climb stairs with ease, balance and strength restored. But not his mind. The five-year-old who could read and add and subtract and play a basic game of xache was now seven. He could still read short words, and count to twenty. But xache had been set aside for simpler games. Nor could he follow directions beyond one or two steps.

I saw him once a month, sometimes more, at his father’s request.  “Surely it is just a matter of time?” Varril argued. “An injured limb needs exercise to return to its full abilities. Is it not the same for the mind?”

It wasn’t. I could heal Dagmera’s son’s shoulder. I couldn’t heal Jelte’s mind. At some level, the Princip knew this. It fed his anger, deepened his grief and pain. War with Varsland would give that anguish and rage an outlet.

A quiet cough made me look up. “Hælwitha? May we consult?” One of the medical students, taking some of the easier cases under my supervision. I nodded, holding up a finger to indicate I’d be with him shortly. Then I read the letter again.

Swearing battle against Luivich and the Casillard. I considered this, weighing options. Not against Ésparias, but against a city and a trading confederacy. Perhaps the first to hear this news shouldn’t be the Princip, but my brother.

 ~

 “Your informant is reliable?” The question wasn’t from Cenric, but from Kirt. I’d decided there was no point in speaking to my brother privately. He’d tell Kirt anyhow—not because they were lovers, but because Kirt was Leste’s representative on the Casillard council. I trusted de Guerdián’s diplomatic skills would guarantee he would not reveal to Mariss bé Berge, head of the council both in Ésparias and across the confederacy, that he had heard this news before she had.

“She is,” I confirmed, and briefly explained why. Kirt nodded, his brown eyes slightly narrowed and one finger tapping against the arm of his chair.

“Luivich,” Cenric said. “This results from last year’s meeting, I presume.”

Every few years, one or two representatives from each port town that was part of the confederacy met to discuss everything from new merchants applying for membership to the appropriate share of the cost of dredging a harbour. While the guild of traders and merchants that had become the confederacy had begun in Casille, the site of these large meetings varied. Sometimes the issues—like the fishing rights in the Smölvann —were of greater interest to the northern ports, and so the meetings were held in one of the towns on that sea. Luivich had held the last, the previous summer.

“Varsland’s envoys agreed to the fish quotas,” Kirt said. “The negotiations were heated, sometimes, but in the end it seemed everyone was satisfied.”

“Envoys, perhaps, but not the king, it would appear.”  My brother brought his hands together, interwoven fingers pointing upward. “But what has precipitated this, all these months later?”

“At a guess, a poor fishing season last year,” Kirt said. “The contract was made long before the pilcod had begun their autumn run. The possibility of that was discussed, and there were mitigations written into the agreement. But if the fish were scarce—” He shrugged. Part of my mind noticed that even that movement was graceful. There were moments I couldn’t help envying my brother.

“Luivich will have taken the greater share, and Varsland’s revenues will have suffered.” Cenric’s lips tightened. “The Forsittë must be told.”

“So must the Princip,” I said. Cenric’s eyes flicked to meet mine, and then away. A muscle tightened in his jaw. He knew what Varril might do, with this news as an excuse. Our cousin—we shared a great-grandfather, but before that our bloodlines had met and blended many times—had always been impulsive. A family trait, it was said, one that sometimes missed a generation or two. When it did appear, though, it was generally outgrown by the time the person was in their fourth decade of life. Varril was thirty-six. He’d had a wife and a newly-born son when he’d been chosen as Princip, and had shown every sign of the expected transition into a thoughtful, reasoning leader. Until two years ago.

“Tell Mariss bé Berge and the Princip by all means,” Kirt said, the words clipped. “But Luivich is closer to Varsland’s wrath than Casille, or even Abertabh. Word must be sent to them immediately.”

“It should come from the Forsittë,” Cenric said. “Except…”

“Except what?” He sounded hesitant, even for my brother.

“She is not in Casille. She is not even in Ésparias.”

“Who is her delegate?”

“No one person, but a committee of three.”

“So triple the time to make a decision,” Kirt snapped. “Are they all at least in Casille?”

“I believe so. I will send for them.” Cenric rose, going to the sideboard where writing supplies were kept. Kirt was lost in thought, or calculation. I stood to join my brother, reaching for the candle kept to melt the wax for the seals. Our backs were to Kirt. Cenric folded the first note, addressed it, handed it to me to seal. Then a second. “Give them to Pietar,” he said. “Tell him they must be delivered at all speed.”

Two notes. But— “You?” My lips formed the word, without sound. He nodded. I cocked an eyebrow, asking a silent question.

He glanced at Kirt. Of course. Cenric was intelligent, conscientious, more than competent—but he was also cautious, both as a merchant and a man. Or so I had thought, until Kirthan de Guerdián had come to live with us.  There would already be talk, questions of influence arising less from their business partnership than their personal one–and my brother was too good a merchant and guildsman not to consider motives, in any transaction, even an intensely private one. De Guerdián’s apparently flexible morals were a subject of gossip and speculation, whispered or loud, depending on who spoke and how much wine or ale had been consumed. Cenric was well aware of what was said. I guessed he had hoped no decisions of any importance would need to be made in the Forsittë’s absence, and asked to have his appointment kept quiet.

Kirt’s stillness had the feel of calculation to it, a man weighing the importance of what he had just learned. He had, I thought, heard our murmured exchange, or noted the two letters and reached his own correct conclusion. But, standing, all he said was, “I shouldn’t be here when the deputies meet. Send to Ferrand’s inn when it is appropriate for me to return.” He sounded unperturbed. He had, of course, his own secrets, even–or especially–from my brother..

“Kirt,” Cenric began, then stopped. HIs expression was the one I saw when he studied records from guild meetings or the business accounts. “Take Audun with you. Water his wine,” he said, “and yours. We may need your thoughts, later.”

“A de Guerdián does not water his wine. I will limit myself to one glass, perhaps two. Ferrand’s best, of course.” He smiled at Cenric before taking the stairs up to the bedrooms. His steps sounded on the ceiling, his voice calling Audun’s name. Then an unintelligible conversation, and two sets of feet going down the stairs that led to the kitchen.

“I’ll ask Pietar to have the fire built up,” I said. The night was damp, almost cold: the two people who would travel to us would be glad of warmth and a hot drink when they arrived. Spiced, warmed cider would be appropriate, comforting without clouding judgement.

I’d ask for pastries, too, I decided, as I went in search of our steward, letters in my hand. Something told me this would be a long night.

In The Attic

David M. Simon (@writesdraws)

Image by Jean-Louis SERVAIS from Pixabay

Mom and dad didn’t freak out until the third kid disappeared. The first one, a little girl, happened on the far west side, nowhere near us. The second one was a boy in the next city over, even farther away. The third one, though, was a kid from our neighborhood, a seven year old boy named Gusty. His name’s really Augustino, but everyone calls him Gusty. We all know him. My brother Jimmy goes to school with him. He lives right here in the Hawthorne Park Estates, same as us.

Hawthorne Park Estates sounds all fancy, but it’s so not. Just a bunch of one-story apartments connected side-by-side around courtyards that are more crabgrass and dirt than grass, and there’s six courtyards altogether, plus a pool that’s closed half the time because the water keeps turning green. I’m making it sound horrible, but it’s not a bad place to live. There’s a ton of kids that live here, so there’s always someone to play with. In the summer we would leave the apartment in the morning and not come back until supper time, and mom and dad never worried about anything happening to us. At least not until Gusty disappeared.

Dad woke us up early the next morning, before he left for his job at the machine shop. He sat us down at the kitchen table. Mom was already there, wearing her scrubs, with a cup of coffee in front of her. Me and Jimmy figured we must be in big trouble, because school had let out a week ago, so there was no reason to get us out of bed. Jimmy was ten and I was twelve, so we usually stayed home by ourselves, no babysitter. It was my job to keep him out of trouble.

“What’d we do?” Jimmy blurted out. He’s a tough kid, but I could tell he was on the verge of tears. As far as I knew, we hadn’t done anything lately to get in trouble, but you never know.

“You didn’t do anything, honey,” Mom said.

Dad stood behind Mom, his hands on her shoulders, and she looked up at him, covered his hands with hers. “You guys heard about Gusty,” he said. We both nodded. “Until they figure out what happened, I’m going to ask the two of you to stay in the apartment with the door locked. Your mom and I can’t afford to miss work, so we have to trust you to do as I say and stay in. I’m serious.” Dad looked at me with that death stare I usually only got for punching Jimmy. “Josh, you’re in charge, but that doesn’t mean be a dick to your brother.”

“You can watch as much TV as you like, and there’s plenty to eat in the fridge,” Mom said. “Boys, until we know what happened to Gusty and those other kids, you’re going to have to humor us and stay inside. The other parents in the Estates are telling their kids the same thing. And it wouldn’t hurt to get a head start on your summer reading.” Jimmy and I snuck a glance at each other when Mom said that, but to our credit, neither of us snorted. They both looked scared, which I think made us a little scared. It did me, at least.

And that was it. Ten minutes later Mom and Dad were out the door on their way to work. Jimmy and me each got a bowl of Peanut Butter Captain Crunch and settled in for some extended Nickelodeon watching. That lasted until lunch time.

“Josh, I’m bored!” I was surprised Jimmy’d lasted as long as he did. “Can we play attic ball? Please?”

We have a trap door to our attic in the hallway between mom and dad’s bedroom and the one me and Jimmy share. There was a string that hung down, and when you pulled it the door swung open, with a ladder you could unfold to the floor. Here’s the thing. We were not, under any circumstances, allowed in the attic.

Which of course just made us want to check out the attic. We’d been sneaking up there when our parents weren’t home for a couple of years. It was big, the entire length and width of the apartment, and it was jam-packed with all kinds of stuff, because it was really the only storage we had. Dad had a box of old Playboys up there that we regularly thumbed through. Everything was jumbled together and stacked to the rafters, with little paths between the piles. That made it perfect for a game we had invented called attic ball.

Attic ball worked like this: We started at opposite ends of the attic, each with a tennis ball (nobody in our family played tennis by the way, we found them in the courtyard). The rules of attic ball were simple. Sneak around in the semi-darkness—there were a couple of small, dirty windows that let in light—and try to nail each other with the balls. That’s it. That’s the whole game. There was no scoring involved, and it usually ended when Jimmy got pissed at me for hitting him in the head and sulked down to our room, threatening to tell dad, even though we both knew he never would. We usually played it on rainy summer days while mom and dad were at work, but since we weren’t allowed out of the house, I quickly agreed to a game.

I always started at the far end of the attic, and Jimmy near the trap door. That day I decided to hunker down and stay put, waiting for Jimmy to advance. He took the bait. I could hear him with every exaggerated step he took trying to be quiet, bumping into boxes, dragging his shoes. At one point I even heard him shush himself. When he got close I jumped up and beaned him right in the forehead.

Maybe it hurt a little, maybe he had too much sugary cereal that morning, but instead of calling me a turd and threatening to tell, Jimmy screamed, put his head down and tackled me. He caught me right at the waist and drove me back against the wall, and then right through it.

It turned out the wall separating our attic from the one next door was nothing but particle board, and the combination of age, water damage, and the shoddy workmanship that dad was always complaining about had weakened it. When the dust cleared and we sat up from where we had landed, we were in our next door neighbor Mrs. Pulaski’s attic. And there were what seemed like hundreds of eyes looking at us.

“Josh, what the fuck,” Jimmy said, and scooted over next to me. Usually I would have reminded him not to say that, mostly because if he said it when we were alone there was a better chance of it slipping out around our parents, but if ever there was a what the fuck moment, this was it.

It was dark in Mrs. Pulaski’s attic, same as ours. We were surrounded by what looked like dozens and dozens of little kids standing perfectly still, their eyes wide open. We finally climbed to our feet and approached the closest one, a girl in weird, old fashioned clothes. I got up the nerve to reach out and touch her, holding my breath the whole time. “It’s a doll,” I said, and started breathing again. “A lifesize doll.”

Jimmy laughed, even though it sounded more than a little fake, and poked her in the nose. “They’re just dolls,” he said, looking around. “Man, what is Mrs. Pulaski’s deal?” Mrs. Pulaski had been here when we moved in, but we didn’t really know her. She was about a hundred years old, and drove a giant, ancient car that dad called a classic and mom called a clunker. She mostly kept to herself, except to come out and yell when a ball hit her window. She always confiscated the ball. She probably had a pretty good collection by now.

Yes, we should have quietly left Mrs. Pulaski’s attic and gone back home. I knew we didn’t belong there. It should come as no surprise that we did not. Now that we knew that they were just oversized dolls, we started checking them out. They were dressed as cowboys and pilgrims, as princesses and storybook characters, as kids from different countries and different time periods. They looked very old. I was fascinated, spending long minutes staring into the glass eyes of each one, feeling their dusty clothes. Jimmy soon went off on his own.

“Josh! Josh! Holy shit, Josh, come’ere!” Jimmy was calling me in a strangled whisper from the other side of the attic. He was backed into a corner, hard against the rafters, pointing at something laying on the floor.

Jimmy had found the missing boy and girl. Their hair was neatly combed, but their skin looked weird, like it was pulled too tight. Mrs. Pulaski had dressed them like her dolls, in old, ragged clothes. She had sewn their mouths shut. She had stitched their eyes open.

Jimmy fell over crying, face against the dirty floor. Then his eyes seemed to open extra big, the tears stopped, and he pushed his ear hard against the plywood. He mouthed, listen, and waved for me to join him.

I didn’t hear anything at first, but when I repositioned my head, and did my best to settle my own heartbeat pounding in my ears, I heard her. Mrs. Pulaski. “Stop squirming, young man.”

“I have to go to the bathroom!” Gusty’s voice, through phlegmy tears. I glanced at Jimmy and I could tell he recognized the voice, too.

“Go ahead and piss yourself, you little brat. I’m not untying you. In a little while I’m going to give you some juice, won’t that be nice? And then you’ll go to sleep, and that will be that. Now sit there and shut up while I get everything ready.” I could hear Gusty sobbing through it all.

“We have to do something,” Jimmy said. He wasn’t crying any more. Now he looked mad as hell. Gusty was his friend. “Let’s call dad.”

“We can’t,” I said. “We’re not supposed to be up here, remember? We can’t call the police, either. They’ll wanna know how we know, and we’re breaking and entering right now. We need to rescue Gusty ourselves. We need an army or something.”

Jimmy stood up. “We have one. Come on.”

We hurried back into our own attic and back down the ladder. We left the apartment, even though we weren’t supposed to. We were on a mission. We went from door to door, every apartment where a kid lived. They were all tired of being cooped up, plus they knew Gusty, they played with him. They were ready for war. By the time we gathered in front of Mrs. Pulaski’s door, there were ten or fifteen of us, armed with baseball bats, golf clubs, even wooden sticks. Ellen Miller had a big wooden spoon.

I knocked on the door, then knocked again when she didn’t answer. Mrs. Pulaski finally pulled aside the curtain in the window and frowned at us, but when she opened up the door she was all smiles. “Yes, dear? What can I do for you?”

I was pissed off, and I was feeling brave thanks to the group of friends behind me. “Give us our friend back. Now.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, dear. Why don’t you all run along now.” She was still smiling, but it looked like it was hard for her. She tried to shut the door, but I stuck my foot in.

“You took Gusty. Give him back to us, and he better not be hurt.” I heard a chorus of agreement behind me, some shouted yeahs.

I also heard police sirens in the distance, and I looked back at my friends. “I called the police,” Ellen said. “I figured we could use the help. That’s why I only had time to grab this.” She held up the spoon.

“Fuck off, you little brats!” Mrs. Pulaski screamed. That’s when we rushed the door.

It turned out the old lady was stronger than she looked. Five kids finally sat on her while she kicked and cussed at us. By the time the cops showed up most of the fight was out of her, and we had Gusty untied. After he told the police what happened (Mrs. Pulaski had lured him into her apartment with the promise of chocolate chip cookies), me and Jimmy did the same. I didn’t care any more about getting in trouble. I wanted them to know what we found in the attic. Those parents deserved to know what happened to their kids.

All of the balls Mrs. Pulaski had taken were in a basket by the door. We took them on our way out.

Me Savoring a Thirty-Year-Old

Joseph P. Garland (@JPGarlandAuthor)

Image by IGOR STADNYK from Pixabay

June Team Showcase

Marian L Thorpe‘s eighth and final book in her historically inspired speculative fiction series Empire’s Legacy, Empire’s Passing, is out in paperback and as an ebook. (Empire’s Daughter is the first part.) She has numerous titles available; they can be found at her aptly-named website, MarianLThorpe.com  or at Books2Read. Marian’s short story On Shining Wings is included in the anthology Historical Stories of Exile, published by Taw River Press.

Renée Gendron‘s Frontier Hearts is a Western historical romance set in the late 1800s in the District of Alberta, Canada. The series follows a variety of romantic leads as they arrive and thrive in Prosper, Alberta. Each book involves a different romantic pair, a mystery, and plenty of historical details to take you back in time to the Canadian Western frontier. Jaded Hearts. Golden Hearts. Silver Hearts

The Nearer Realm Tales is an epic fantasy romance series that combines humour, mystery, adventure, and romance. Each book features a strong cast with many recurring characters.  A Gift of Stars: Book 1 The Nearer Realm Tales is available for pre-order on Amazon.

Renée’s Heartened by Sport is a series of humorous amateur sports romances. Each novella features a new setting, sport, and romantic dynamic: Seven Points of Contact. Two Hearts on the Backspin:  Three Volleys to Love.

David M. Simon has published The Wild Hunt: Novella 2 of The Wild Hearts and Hunts Duology (Part 1 is Renée Gedron’s Ninth Star) as well as Trapped in Lunch Lady Land, a middle-grade fantasy adventure.

Louise Sorensen has contributed to numerous anthologies that are available on Amazon, and is the co-author, with Misha Burnett, of Duel Visions.

Joseph P. Garland, as J.P. Garland, has done some editing and republished his romance Coming to Terms. Several excerpts from the book have been included in prior issues of the review. His Becoming Catherine Bennet is available on KU and also on Audible.com.  (First Chapters.) He has also adapted his AMBR submission of a few months back involving Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy entitled “Mr. Darcy’s Regrets” from June 2023 into a novella entitled The Omen at Rosings Park, also available on Kindle Unlimited and as an Audiobook on Audible.com. He has also started a newsletter and those interested in getting on the mailing list can contact him at JPGarlandAuthor@DermodyHouse.com. He has also published the pieces from AMBR in something called A Compilation.