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  The Alderdrache turned again to face Dahk’ra. “Come, little one. It is time we returned to the mountains where you may continue to heal in peace.”

  The great black dragon spread his wings and took to the air with a single powerful downward stroke. Dahk’ra stood and stretched, testing her damaged wing. She looked down at Callen and nodded.

  “Thank you again, Cal’len, for your kindness. You should count yourself blessed; few humans live to see my father, the Alderdrache, much less possess one of his scales. It is a great gift he has given to you.” Dahk’ra then stretched her wings wide and took to the air as well, somewhat shakily at first, as her father circled high above.

  Callen stared upward, watching the dragons until they were mere specks in the sky. She looked down and saw Seba’an’s scale at her feet. The size of a large dinner plate, it was dark black, so dark in fact it made her feel like she was falling down into an abyss when she looked too closely. Steadying herself, she reached down and picked it up. It was surprisingly smooth and slightly warm to the touch. Remembering the words of the Alderdrache, she turned and went into the cottage, the door swinging open for her.

  “Where have you been?! Did you contact the Council yet? You have to act now, stupid girl, before the dragon regains its strength!”

  “Papa, please!” Callen cried, tears welling up in her eyes again. “I have a gift – the scale of a dragon, given to me because of the kindness I showed to Dahk’ra.”

  “Bah! You’re a fool, Callen, just like your mother! Keep that worthless piece of dragon-filth away from me.”

  “But Papa, it’s magical – I can feel the warmth of energy pulsing through it. Just look at it, please,” she begged.

  “I SAID KEEP IT AWAY FROM ME!”

  Ignoring his protests, she knelt before the figure of her father and, reaching through the web of shadows, placed the scale in his lap. The blackness of the scale eclipsed the surrounding shadows and the black wizard robes her father wore, seeming to drain them of their darkness. A ripple of energy washed outward from the scale and over Callen. Startled, she looked up and found the corner containing her father’s chair was no longer draped in shadow, and she could see him clearly. She gasped as she looked at her father and saw the dark, eyeless sockets of a skull looking back at her from under his cowl. The black robes were tattered and his skeletal fingers were curled around a scroll held at his side.

  “Papa?” asked Callen tentatively, though she knew he would not answer. Callen shuddered; he must have been dead for years! For as long as she could remember, her father had stayed in his chair in the corner by the fire, ever since the death of her mother, ten years ago!

  I don’t understand; if he’s been dead for so long then why did I hear his voice?

  Her eyes fell to the scroll held in the dead wizard’s hand. Her father had been a ruthless man, inflicting his will on others whenever he could. She reached out and took the scroll, jumping slightly as the bony fingers crumbled. Unrolling it, she recognized immediately that it contained a curse – one of her father’s specialties. Scrawled across the top of the page were the words The Undying Will. Callen unrolled the scroll and read the beginning of the curse:

  ‘Designed for those who desire to extend their power beyond the grave, to ensure their instructions are followed. The energy required to cast this curse is immense and will almost always cause the death of the spellcaster. Curse should only be used by those who are near death or no longer have reason to live. Once cursed, the person who has been targeted will continue to hear the voice of the spellcaster and be compelled to follow their commands. The target will be under the illusion that the spellcaster lives on, and disobedience will cause the subject to experience great remorse and feelings of guilt…’

  Callen couldn’t read any further and clenched the brittle parchment in her fist, sending a shower of fragments to the stone floor. Her father had obviously cast this final spell just before his death, cursing his own daughter and inflicting his will upon her from beyond the grave. The curse had persisted until she had placed Seba’an’s scale in his lap.

  The Alderdrache must have known. He must have seen Papa’s true form when he looked through the window.

  She rose to her feet and gathered up the scale of Seba’an, clutching it to her breast and feeling the warmth that permeated the object. She looked down at her father’s remains and felt… nothing. All the years of abuse, both when he was alive and after she was cursed, had left her empty. But now she was finally free – free to live, work and love as she chose, without the harsh voice of her disapproving father, echoing from beyond the grave, trying to control her. Closing her eyes, she muttered a prayer asking the ancients to protect Seba’an and Dahk’ra, and then she silently thanked the Alderdrache for his gift, as hot tears streamed down her face, a mixture of both joy and sorrow.

  ***

  About the Author:

  An avid reader of fantasy and science fiction novels all of my life, I live with my family in the rural hills of Kentucky along with our four cats. When not acquiring ferocious felines for my wife’s plan of world domination (cat armies are terribly hard to train), I enjoy spinning stories from the wisps of magic around me.

  Follow me online at:

  https://www.theguardiansapprentice.com

  https://michaelradcliffe.wordpress.com

  https://www.twitter.com/Alderdrache

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  Counting Blessings Along the Horseshoe Canyon

  by Sharon E. Cathcart

  Copyright © Sharon E. Cathcart, 2011

  Originally published in Around the World in 80 Pages

  In September 2006, I took advantage of an opportunity to visit Albuquerque, New Mexico. Along with investigating the city proper, I went to Horseshoe Canyon to photograph the pictograms and petroglyphs left there not only by the Anasazi peoples but, to my surprise, the settlers. That visit inspired this story.

  “Get you back in the wagon, Hattie.”

  Her husband’s voice was harsh.

  “Yes, Mister Johnson.” Her voice was listless.

  “Told you to call me Dan’l, gal. This ain’t your fancy East coast parlor.”

  No, it wasn’t, Henriette thought as she dragged herself away from the ancient carvings. She was fascinated by all of the symbols carved into the rock walls of the arroyo. Horseshoe Canyon, it was called. Her husband, Daniel Johnson, had plans to turn his now-ragged herd of cattle into a vast empire here in the New Mexico gulch. He’d scratched his own name amongst the ancient symbols.

  Johnson’s promises of wealth and prosperity had impressed Henriette’s father so much that he’d essentially sold her in marriage.

  “He’s a solid man,” Papa had said. “You, with no prospects to speak of now, should count yourself fortunate. It’s all arranged with the parson for tomorrow.”

  Counting, indeed, just as Papa was counting on his share of profits in the ranch; Johnson had given him a deed the day the betrothal was sealed. In the saloon, of course.

  Henriette swiped a hand across her reddened brow. If Mama were still alive, she’d have spoken up. Instead, Henriette was in a wagon train from Cincinnati to this strangely beautiful place. Her fair skin was sunburned, her pale hair dry where it was uncovered by her hat. Johnson had given her an enormous calico sunbonnet after a while; she eventually gave in and donned the horrid thing. Likewise the plainstuff dress that Johnson deemed “ a sight better than them furbelows.”

  He was rough ... callous. He was also nearly twenty years her senior and clearly though himself quite the fellow for getting the hand of the “uppity” twenty-three-year-old.

  She looked despairingly at her roughened hands as she climbed up next to her husband. Her gloves had worn through some time ago. Johnson mocked her over them anyway.

  “You’re gonna be scrubbin’ clothes on a board with lye soap, Hattie. Ain’t no call to be worryin’ about your hands.”

  “I don’t suppose, Mister Johnson, that you could call me by
my proper name?”

  “Don’t sass your husband, gal. I ain’t going to call you a fancy name like that. You’re Hattie.”

  God, how she hated him. She especially hated the nights when he would roll over in the wagon and do what he called his “manly work” -- always without preamble. No kisses or caresses for Daniel Johnson. Henriette lay still during those times, grateful for their brevity. Now that she’s seen the stone pictures around Horseshoe Canyon, she was determined to pretend she was one of them when Johnson came to work. Not a real woman, just a stone image.

  “Thought I was gettin’ a better bargain to wife,” he complained as the oxen shambled along in the wagon traces. “You’ve said hardly anything since the weddin’ and you won’t call me by name.”

  What was there to say? Johnson boasted that he’d taken his annual bath the day they married. He could read, write and figure but had no use for refinements. Henriette knew that he saw her as a trophy that he could turn into a workhorse, and her own father was happy to see it happen.

  Henriette looked at her husband, trying to keep the disapproval from her face. He had taken off his shirt; his red Union suit top covered his chest and one suspender strap had fallen down his arm. He needed both shave and haircut; on his head he wore something that was a hat in name only.

  “Daniel,” she ground out miserably.

  “That’s more like it, gal,” He cuffed her shoulder so hard that she winced.

  Henriette could not help thinking of another man called Daniel. One who was handsome and refined. One who was clean and well-dressed. One who, before he died of a cancer no one knew he had, had asked to marry her. One who had been the first to do his “manly work” with Henriette -- but with gentleness and care.

  She could only hope that Mister Johnson’s figuring abilities were poor when she gave birth to the other Daniel’s child in this harsh, new place.

  ***

  About the Author:

  Books by internationally published author Sharon E. Cathcart provide discerning readers of essays, fiction and non-fiction with a truthful, powerful literary experience. To learn more about Sharon and her work, visit her web page at: https://home.earthlink.net/~scathcart1964/sharonecathcart or her Facebook fan page at https://www.facebook.com/sharon.e.cathcart

  ###

  Eve & Ian’s New Love Life

  by Cynthia Meyers-Hanson

  Copyright © Cynthia Meyers-Hanson

  While sitting close to a window in a dimly lit coffee shop, my real estate mentor doled out unexpected advice. Karen worked most days with her husband, and I just dropped a potential bombshell into our dialog, which explained her counsel. My instigation started with a single question, “Don’t you feel suffocated being twenty-four seven with your partner?”

  “You know, at first, I thought we’d constantly get on each other’s nerves but it’s working out.” She sighed then sipped her lukewarm coffee as if it suddenly turned steamy hot. We’d been awaiting our client for a half hour; she wasn’t late. Karen and I met early to talk strategy; my coworker took her role as my leader seriously.

  After a brief awkward silence, she added, “My first husband and I may have divorced if we dared work together!” Karen never mentioned her first marriage before that very moment. I was pretty sure no one in our office suspected that Ray and she were not celebrating their thirtieth plus wedding anniversary last month; during that party, not one real estate associate asked how long they’d been united. We all assumed their children were born of their union but she quickly informed me that only their youngest kid shared his last name. “Ray took such good care of us after our unfortunate event that my kids called him dad from our wedding day on; I’m fine with that!”

  By the look in my eyes, she must have realized that her statements caused confusion. I wondered what unfortunate situation occurred quickly deciding it must have been a divorce from her first husband. Plus, I wanted to know more about how Ray became her new spouse and her other children’s father. Before mumbling and bumbling my questions, Karen revealed more details. “My first husband and I married young. My mind never fully wrapped around why he chose me because he had a ‘virtual harem’ around him- daily. When he singled me out for marriage, I felt so honored and privileged.” She giggled like a star stuck schoolgirl. “I hated his best friend because Ray invited my spouse out for drinks most Fridays after work, which turned into partying to the wee hours of the morning.” She blushed, again, which struck me as odd, “I despised that fella- my first husband’s friend!”

  “Why did you stay with a party animal?”

  “We started having babies right away. I felt sure he’d mature from that experience and drop Ray. His friend was a confirmed bachelor with different interests; armed with that notion, I prayed they’d go their separate ways over time. My delusion included looking for hints that they were drifting apart. Family life seemed to be changing my husband for the better; at least, I hoped so! “

  “Were you right?” My rhetorical question escaped my mouth.

  “Not in the way that I hoped or imagined.” Her eyes clouded over as if she fought tears. “Drifting and growing apart better explains his change but my naivety kept me from seeing the truth- clearly. Emotionally, he left me instead of his bachelor ways.”

  “Besides the children, what kept you in that relationship?” My question dared to pry.

  “The same thing that keeps anyone woman, there!” She exclaimed as if being a female and married I already knew the answer.

  “Security?” My guessing game began, “Friendship?”

  Before I could continue, she interrupted nearly shouting, “Chemistry!” Realizing the coffee house audience tuned in on our dialog, Karen giggled with her hand covering her lips.

  After the buzz of other conversations resumed, she did- too. “The reason he kept me in check while giddy and off balance included his intimate talents. That’s why I hated Ray for keeping him out late; my husband came home too tired for a potential rendezvous with me.” She smirked and winked my direction. Just reliving memories of her first marriage brought out steamy thoughts hotter than her coffee, which Karen swallowed without burning her tongue.

  My observation arrived, “Your husband should have stayed home and acknowledged his obligations there- you and his growing family. Your two can’t really blame Ray! That’s worse than the cliché ‘the Devil made me do it.’ What about free will and self-control?”

  “That’s what Ray said when I confronted him one week-end.” She added, “During that conversation, he alluded to what I worried about!” She swigged her coffee as if it suddenly turned ice cold, “My husband used his best friend as his wingman and excuse to go out in search of other woman.” She hesitated before mustering up the courage to admit her next thought aloud, “The father of my children acknowledged multiple trysts when I finally confronted him! As you might have guessed, those two men parted ways because Ray failed to be my spouse’s confidant. That bachelor divulged the truth about the state of my marriage; he kept no secrets about my partner’s broken vows.”

  “Did you divorce the scoundrel?” I felt sure of an affirmative response but she shook her head no. I gasped, “Why did you stay?”

  “He promised to break his ties with his buddy and work on our marriage. The make-up sex added new meaning to great chemistry. I tried not to suspect other women honed his skills!” She added, “Soon, I discovered that my spouse’s only change in relationships was to breakup with Ray.”

  “How did you end up with Ray if you hated and blamed him for luring your spouse into unfaithful behavior?”

  “Something he said kept rolling through my mind especially when my husband and I shared intimacy.” She blushed then added, “He told me not to blame him because he was a bachelor and allowed to woo women. Some of the other things he said that week-end stayed in my short term memory banks as well. Ray’s exact words were, ‘I’m mad that my buddy used me to hurt a nice lady like you.’ That bachelor’s eyes shine
d so brightly that he captured my interest in a different way. From then on, I saw him in a new light.”

  “Over time, what that man said helped you break it off with your spouse?”

  “No, I was a devout Catholic; the possibility of divorce didn’t make sense to me. Instead, I prayed for healing of our relationship and monogamy on my partner’s part.” She giggled then announced, “God answers prayers in mysterious ways!” I felt positive her life changed for the worst- in spite of what her laughter suggested. I tend to chuckle when I’m in the most stressful times and suspected she did the same.

  “What happened?”

  As the morning became later and later, my eyes caught a trickle of sunshine entering through the nearby window; I hoped it foreshadowed a life changing event that freed her from her first husband’s spell while uniting her to Ray. I wondered how and when her perceived enemy converted to her best friend. It seemed as if that sudden ray of hope streaming in that pane of glass enhanced Karen’s tale while signaling better days ahead.

  Right then and there, Karen shed more light on how she finally separated from the entanglement of her spouse. “My husband drank a bit too much at a ‘business meeting’ then wrapped his car around a tree.” I gasped because no one in their right mind wants tragedy to harm other human beings. “While he was unconscious, I forgave him thinking this was his wake up call. It turned out to be his end.” She grieve for a few minutes as if the feelings of loss were fresh, “At least, I had one marriage full of fantasy bliss even if it was a bit of a delusion on my part!”

  “Isn’t your marriage with Ray wonderful?”

  “It’s easy, friendly, content, and full of goodness.” She added, “But, what it lacks is the same driving force that kept me with my first love- chemistry!”