Eseteij (A Storm-Dance poem)

Chorus
It comes, the wild storm.
It comes, it comes,
The wild storm, it comes.

Man
What, ho, is this
That churns the trees
And chills the air?

Chorus
The wild storm
It comes, it comes.
The wild storm, it comes.

Man
And what wonder is this,
The soft edging of the breeze?

Chorus
It comes, it comes.
The wild storm,
It comes.

Man
I must go to it, awe-of-all.
One foot I step
Forwards
Into what I have heard but not seen.

Chorus
Don’t go, don’t go;
The wild storm, it comes.
It reaches forth it find you.
Hide, and you will be saved,
Or else it will hold you
Until you are no longer man,
But beast
And the ocean and hills
Will mean no more to you
Than earth’s song
And earth’s pant,
For the wild storm, it comes.

Man
The winds have embraced me
Soft through with magic
No longer threads
Tiny arms, hands, fingers,
But a woven fabric
And the sinuous limbs
Of the liquid spell-stuff
That caress my skin.

Chorus
It comes, the wild storm.
The wild storm, it comes.
It comes with teeth and claws and sword:
Not a caress, but the whispered edge of a blade
Drawn from its sheath.

Man
But, O, how the wisdom of my forefathers
Has turned to ash.
There is nothing to fear
But the snapping and fall of branches in the gale.
Gladly, I go forward.
I find no danger here.

Chorus
Don’t go, don’t go,
The wild storm is here.
It rasps your skin and grows your claws
Sprouts fur and feather, twists your limbs
From square to round to inverse*
To a knot.
Can’t you see?

Man
Oh, God, I see!

Both
Eseteij!


About this poem

Why would the foremost expert on the most dangerous natural phenomenon in the world walk right onto the path of that phenomenon?

Magic storms with the ability to change humans into monsters plague the continent containing the country of Asebei. In the country's language, Abei, they're called eseteij in the singular, eseteijo in the plural. Defending settlements from these storms used to be little more than a hit-and-miss, with no one knowing why what they did work, or why it failed (as it invariably did, sometimes more than others).

Vjaited Roz changed all that when he invented a reliable defense against these storms that could keep entire cities safe. For this he is praised. Of course, he's also considered a madman, because the last thing he ever did was walk straight into a magical storm.

This Asebei poem, meant to be performed aloud, is about him.


*This line refers to the cursive form of the Abei writing system. Some characters have an overall round shape, others have an overall rectangular shape, while others cross themselves and are referred to as inverse. The line is saying that the man's form will be changed and, eventually, twisted beyond recognition

(This poem is in the same world as Aish of a Grey Lion.)

Anything For You

     I turned to Jacquie and tilted my head under the bright dressing room lights. “What do you think?” 

Her face fell. “Oh, honey. That colour is all wrong for you!”

My stomach sank. “What? No! I asked the woman at the counter! She did a skin test and everything!” I whirled back to the mirror and scrutinised my jawline. Sure enough, if I craned my neck up and tilted to the right, a line of orange traced my jaw from chin to earlobe. “What am I going to do?” I turned to Jacquie in a panic. “The formal’s in”—I checked the big old train station clock on the wall—“ three hours and I have a hair appointment and I have to get dressed and we have to drive there, and besides all that, I’m broke!” I buried my hands in my face and tried to pretend I wasn’t sobbing over makeup. After all, children in Africa were dying. Children in Africa weren’t preparing simultaneously for their senior formal and their first date with the love of their high school life, though, to be fair.

“Return it,” Jacquie said. “It’s the only thing you can do.”

“It’s opened!” I wailed. “They’ll never take it back! I’m broken! The whole evening ruined!”

Jacquie took me by the arm and marched me to the door as I waved the open tube of foundation vaguely. “You’ve clearly never seen me negotiate,” she promised as we climbed into the car. “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine. You know I’ll do anything to make this date perfect for you. It’s going to be fine.”

We waited as the shop assistant served three other people ahead of us. Finally, it was our turn.

“How may I help you?” the perfectly-coiffed woman with blonde hair piled atop her head and flawless makeup smoothing her cheeks asked.

Jacquie pinned her with a steely stare. “We need to exchange some makeup,” she said firmly, placing the tube down on the table.

The woman gave it a cursory glance and plastered a false smile in place. “I’m sorry, this has been opened. No returns on opened items.”

Jacquie plunked our ace down on the table: the list on store letterhead detailing the makeup the previous assistant had recommended for me. “In this case,” she said, “I believe you should make an exception. As you can see, the colour”—she squinted at the list—“Sharryn recommended for my friend is all wrong.”

The store woman glanced at me and I tilted my head obligingly, clearly revealing the line of orange along my jaw that we’d left in place for evidence. She frowned. “Well. I am sorry about this, and you can be certain that Sharryn will be reprimanded. In cases such as this it is sometimes possible to make an exchange, but I’m afraid you’ve purchased Hellfire foundation. Did you read the fie print?”

Stomach fluttering with trepidation, I shook my head. She handed back the list and I skimmed to the bottom of the page. The usual disclaimers were there, indemnifying the store against skin damage, allergic reactions and so forth—and there, right at the end, in print so tiny I had to hold the paper an inch from my nose to read it, a final clause: Purchasers agree that along with any financial exchange the store sees fit to apply, all purchases of Hellfire products shall paid for with the irredeemable giving over of the purchaser’s soul. Purchases of Hellfire products are final, non-refundable, and non-exchangeable, except where a soul of greater value may be applied with the willing consent of the soul-owner.

Great. Where was I going to get a willing soul of greater value at such short notice? I pressed the list to my forehead and sighed. There was one option, of course… “Jacquie?”

“What is it? Why can’t you exchange it?” She peered worriedly at me, brown eyes wide.

My heart pounded. “You know how you owe me that favour?”

Her brow creased. “Well sure. But—”

“Would you be willing to do it for me now?” I said, cutting over her.

“Um, yes? I guess so. I don’t know how that will help, though.” She turned to the shop woman, puzzled.

The woman lifted a considering eyebrow at me.

“Well?” I said. “She’s willing. Hers is of greater value, isn’t it?” Of course it was; Jacquie was an angel. I, on the other hand, was self-evidently not.

The woman’s other eyebrow joined the first. “Yes.” She turned to Jacquie. “If you’ll just come with me, Miss, I’m sure we can get this all sorted out.”

“Um, okay?” Jacquie shot me a puzzled glance before following the shop assistant out the back.

I smiled and nodded encouragingly. “Thank you!” I called. “Thank you so much!” I couldn’t give up a date with Matt. He was the love of my high school life, after all. Jacquie would understand. Eventually.

The Wasporcist

I'm cheating a little today and posting this story because @lianabrooks and @clareswords were talking about it on Twitter last week, and agreed that it's one of my creepiest stories. A couple of people asked about it, so I figured I'd go ahead and post it for you, because why not. If you're keen, it's actually one of the stories in my anthology To Dust and Other Stories; you can find a blurb over on my website :) 

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Anyway. Sans further ado, The Wasporcist.

Today.

My ears won’t stop ringing. It’s been a week now—ever since Halloween, actually. That party was insane. I prob’ly shouldn’t have let that guy pour me a drink, even if he did compliment my outfit.

But anyway, the ringing. Every noise echoes in my left ear with a weird, computerized-voice-over effect. It’s especially bad in a crowd, since the echoes get so loud I can’t understand what anyone is saying.

I went to the doctor today. She says nothing’s wrong. I think she thinks I’m making it up.

Nov 8.

Ear ringing persists. It’s like the electricity in my brain is going mad, buzzing so loud I can hear it.

Will my brain explode, I wonder?

Day after yesterday.

The buzzing is so loud now I have trouble hearing anything else. At least it means I can’t hear things echoing.

First day of the rest of forever, in which I never hear again.

Have determined that my brain has been replaced with a wasp, and it’s mad at being trapped in my pitiful skull, hence continuous buzzing. Must see an insectologist or whatever they’re called to get it out.

Nov 13.

It’s Friday. I should have known that was a bad start. Insectologist, who is apparently actually called an entomologist, tells me that wasps don’t live in people’s heads. I told him I’m always an exception. He told me to call a shrink.

Had shrink. Didn’t work. Besides, I don’t need a shrink, I need a waspinator. I wonder what they’re called. Let me check.

Internet says exterminator. How dull. I vote in favour of waspinator. Let me go call one.

Nov 13, later.

Called. Booked. Didn’t tell the guy where the wasp was; just said ‘up there’ when he asked. Hope he comes prepared.

Another day.

Waspinator should be coming today, wootwoo. I am so SICK of this buzzing. I swear, the thing is driving me insane. Even Josh thinks I’m acting weird, and he’d know, he’s the King of Weird.

Oh, knock at the door. That’ll be the Waspinator. I’ll report back in a minute.

Later.

The guy looked at me like I was mad when I told him the wasp was in my head. “Too right it is,” he said. I think that was a little uncalled for. Still, I made him check, just to be sure. He shone a light in through my ear and said he couldn’t see anything that wasn’t supposed to be there.

Personally, I’m suspicious. I think if I looked in his ear I wouldn’t see anything at all. Ha. Idiot.

But seriously, what am I going to now? Who am I going to call?

…Who you gonna call? Ghost! Busters! Dun da-dun dun-dun.

HEY! That’s actually not a bad idea! What if it’s not a wasp? What if it’s, like, a demon who’s just pretending to be a wasp?

That’s so awesome I’m practically bouncing in my seat. Who do you call for demons, again? Exercise-thingies. What are they called? Oh yeah, exorcists. Right.

Snigger. Wasporcists. That’s what I need: a wasporcist. But I doubt that’ll be in the phone book. I supposed I’ll just try for a generic exorcist first.

I’ll let you know how it goes, diary-m’dear.

Even later.

I love coincidence. Got this mad phone call earlier that Josh took. Sounded like it was one of those sales calls, you know? The ones where they try to sell you a trip to Hawaii or insurance for your fish or something? Yeah. Those. But anyway, I was listening, and so I heard when Josh told the guy we didn’t need an exorcist.

I practically snatched the phone out of his hand, I was so excited. I mean, seriously? What are the odds?! So awesome. So anyway, exorcist—his name is Brad—agreed to come out. Says it sounds like it could be a demon. He gets situations like this all the time, he said.

Hmm. I wonder if there’s, like, a conspiracy of demons, all invading people’s heads as wasps? I wonder if Josh has heard buzzing lately?

I just ran out into the hall and asked him. He said he hasn’t. Bummer. No conspiracy after all. Oh well. I guess I’ll just wait for the exorcist.

Nov 20.

Exorcist is coming, exorcist is coming! I’m so excited. I hope he’s cute.

He should be here any minute now—oh, look, see? A knock at the door. I wonder if he knew I was writing about him coming, and that’s why he knocked now? I wonder if he’s been waiting at the door for, like, half an hour, just waiting for me to sit down and start writing so he could knock just as I wrote about—

I’m COMING, Josh. Sheesh. Let a person finish their sentence, will ya?

Urgh, better go before he comes in here and see this. No one’s supposed to know I’m keeping a journal. I’m only doing it ‘cause the shrink last year said I should. Not that I ever have anything interesting to write about.

Well, until the wasp-invading-my-brain thing.

Bloody hell, Josh, COMING. Right. See me go…

Tonight.

OHMIGOSH! The Wasporcist is totally that guy from the party, you know, the random one who poured me a drink? And he’s CUTE.

But yeah, ha, I told you it was a wasp-demon. Brad took one look and agreed. Said it was a pretty potent demon, though, so he’d have to come back a couple of times and have at it in bits—too strong to tackle all at once. Good thing I sold the car, exorcists aren’t cheap.

Mind you, why would they? With the work they have to do? No, thanks. Makes me shudder. I’m more than happy to pay someone else to do the dirty work. Especially if it means this infernal buzzing will stop.

Dec 2.

Sorry I haven’t written in ages, diary-dearest. I’ve been… occupied. Don’t tell Josh, but I think Brad—he’s the exorcist I wrote about last time, remember? —I think he has a crush on me. He’s come over every single day this week, usually while Josh’s at work. He brought me flowers, yesterday. Daisies. My favourite, not that anyone but you knows that.

Josh says he’s creepy. I dunno. He’s pretty cute. And I think the buzzing isn’t as bad when he’s around.

*scowl* Josh still thinks I’m making it all up. Idiot. I bet he wouldn’t even know what colours I like. (Green and purple, for the record.)

Anyway. Bed.

Dec 3.

I don’t have long, I’m going out to dinner in a minute with—oh, better not say, just in case. I’m sure you can guess. We arranged it this morning when he came over. And guess what he brought with him? Earrings, purple and green ones. He’s only known me for two weeks and already he knows more about me than stupid Josh.

Dec 6.

Brad is right. Josh is a dickhead. He’s been totally unsympathetic about this whole wasp-demon head-invasion thing, and keeps on ragging at me for the money missing from our bank account. It’s not like it’s that much; Brad is charging me less than half price, since the demon’s proving so hard to get rid of. And he told me at dinner the other night that he’s barely had any clients this month, and he had to negotiate with his landlord to pay double rent for December because he couldn’t afford to cover November.

…Maybe I should run away. I don’t mind being poor. And I know what it’s like to be so lonely…

But where can we go?

December nine, three nineteen pm. The moment of my momentous decision.

I’m doing it. Tonight. I’m going to sneak out of the house and I’ll meet Brad and he’ll take me away from here, away from all of this nonsense. The healing is almost complete, and he’ll take me away, and then I’ll be totally fixed, and he’ll never be lonely again, and everything will be wonderful.

It’s not like Josh will even care; he’s barely spoken to me since he found me sitting in the corner the other day doodling hearts around Brad’s name.

Okay, so that was a tactical mistake, but seriously, if he wasn’t such a jerk I wouldn’t be thinking of leaving.

No, not thinking, I am leaving. Tonight.

Oh, gosh, it gives me shivers just thinking about it. I’m so excited I can hardly wait! I wonder if Brad will mind if I’m early?

I’m going to go pack now, just in case. Can’t wait can’t wait can’t WAIT!!!!

 * * * 

Josh closed the document, throat burning, chest tight. “Yes,” he told the police officer standing behind him. “That’s her diary.”

“Well, you won’t mind if we take the laptop up to the station as evidence then?”

Josh shook his head. What difference did it make?

The officer gave him a sympathetic look. “I’m truly sorry. But your help—well, it might just make the difference between finding the killer and not.”

Josh nodded. Sure. Let them think he was a hero, if that’s what they wanted. He knew the truth. He’d lost her long before some psycho had torn her body apart in the woods behind the house, and even long before she’d gotten that stupid idea about the wasp in her head.

The psychiatrist had warned him she might never come back. He’d been stupid to hope.

And now his ear wouldn’t stop ringing.