Ian M. Anderson

The child stood in the doorway waiting for her mother to respond. She'd heard the market-day sounds many times: In the predawn light, her mother's worn hands worked with cloth and thread, the calloused fingertips mending and folding. When her words were met with silence, she repeated them. "What?" "I've been at the water. The boy under the laurels needs a drink." Her cold toes squirmed on the dirt floor, she pushed away her black hair from a wet spot on her face, and she smoothed her dress. If her mother looked at her, she would make her wash. "Okay." She saw the work her mother did. Her mouth opened to ask a question, but she changed her mind. The rooster crowed, and she knew she would have to avoid him, maybe chase him with a stick before she fetched the water. She hurried. "Maria?" Maria paused, her arms wrapped around a clay pitcher. A breeze filled with sea-scent raised the curtain that covered their back door. It car...

"At first? Okay, sure. It was such a long time ago. War-braids. Plaits. And the helm that covered the head and cheeks. It came down over the nose, too. A long beard, like I said, plaited and dark. "I was little. I must have been six or seven because he stood by the stuffed animal hammock that hung in the corner. I wasn't afraid. He could've been a waxwork he was so still, but his chest rose and fell. It was as though he watched over my room, like he was on guard. "Sorry. Just now I remembered falling out of my tree house fort. You remember. How I sat behind the tree so my parents wouldn't see? Maybe I left out that my wrist had broken. I realize now that I was in shock, and the pain took awhile to come. But the fear was immediate. Once the pain came, I passed out. "The only fear I can say has been similar since is what I felt at my nephew's birthday party a couple years ago. Davy was more excited to turn eight than any boy I've known. I try...