Hept said, “I was taking stored grain to the mill. My horse spilled me into the river. I either climbed out—or someone pulled me out. I woke and could not walk.” She showed him the bloodstain on her skirt. “Only now did I find the strength to crawl to the road.” She felt her dress pocket for the vial with the lotus flower inscribed. But the Rappahannock had it now, taking her last chance to set things aright, should they go wrong. She could only hope.
He helped her onto the horse and led it back toward the mill. As she swayed, still sapped by the River God, she tried to plan.
The rider had come up the road that Bess was supposed to go down. If Bess had been caught she might depart from the story she should be telling them. Ammon might not have followed her instructions. Mosby’s men might kill Ammon—they had shot Yankees before in retribution for the execution of their men. She could try to steal this man’s horse and find them quickly, but she might not have strength to ride.
Then the mill came in view. Hept’s wagon was still there.
Her horses were tied to a post, along with others. The four men who stood around the wagon, illuminated by a lantern, fell silent as she approached. The man leading her horse said, “I found Mistress Hawthorne down the road.”
A tall one cut a wedge of tobacco and shoved it into his cheek. “I blacked Newell’s eye for shooting at you, ma’am.”
“I told you I wasn’t shooting at her,” Newell said.
“Hard news about your cousin,” said the first man.
“He’s dead!” Bess cried. “He run outta air in that cedar chest with them clothes.” Bess covered her eyes and said, “I’m so sorry.”
Hept’s voice quivered. “No.” She put out a hand to the man who led her horse, and he helped her down. She leaned on him for assistance and approached the wagon, seeing that the tarp was thrown back. The cedar chest was open. The folded sheets had been unpacked. Ammon lay in the box, not breathing.
Hept clutched the side of the wagon with one hand. Her other hand explored her empty pocket, though she knew the lotus flowered vial was gone. Her body spasmed with sobs. “Why?”
“You have our sympathies,” said a smaller man, who stood across the wagon, studying her. “When this man separated from his unit, we assumed he was a Yankee agent. But since your woman told us that he is your cousin’s husband, it is clear that he simply deserted and sought your farm. He killed one of ours, and we would have tried him for that. But he is gone. Since we have an interest in pursuing Yankee agents, but no interest in pursuing Yankee deserters and their relatives, we needn’t trouble you more.”
She shut her eyes and put her forehead against the wagon.
The men mounted up. She heard their horses’ hooves as they galloped back through the ford. Bess hugged her and cried against her. “I should of knowed better than to put him in that chest. I should of told you not to.”
“No.” Hept sobbed. “I am responsible. He drank from an elixir that took him into the realm of Osiris. My poison—my potion to bring him back—it is in the river. Without it, he is under the power of the Lord of the Dead.”
Hept rocked against Bess.
Bess took Hept’s wrist and said, “Let’s go back home and get some more of that potion. You can save him.”
Hept shook her head. “Osiris took him. We had minutes, not hours.”
“We just got to give up? Hell’s bells, Miss Hept! Can’t you make some more?”
Hell’s bells?
Hept’s head snapped up. Her eyes locked on Bess.
Bess said, “What?”
“I am injured. Quickly, help me into the wagon.”
Hept lay against Bess as the wagon jostled down the road that ran along the river. “Here,” Hept said. “I think it is here.”
Bess twined her arm under Hept’s and they staggered up and over the bank. There, to one side, Hept saw the shoulder-high stand of purple flowers, some pressed flat. Hept fell upon them and ripped the blossoms from the stalks.
Bess said, “You know them’s poison, honey.”
Hept stuffed her pocket full of the sweet scented blossoms.
Back at the wagon, Ammon lay on his side in the chest. “Push the chest over!” Hept said.
“There’s too many things in the way!”
“Shove them out!”
Bess released the catch on the wagon’s gate and shoved at their possessions, which spilled over the edge and clattered into the road.
They pushed the chest onto its side and tipped Ammon into the bed of the wagon. Hept hovered over him, rolling him onto his back. She grabbed a handful of Dead Men’s Bells and stuffed them into her mouth. Her eyes watered as bitterness flooded her. She chewed.
“Oh, Miss Hept,” Bess said. “I hope you know . . .”
Hept swallowed a measure of death’s astringent. Her breathing quickened. Her heart shuddered. The world dimmed. She descended slowly.
Darkness. Standing in the boat, moving slowly onward. Fireflies gathered before her, illuminating the two bearded men who framed the entryway, groaning under the impossible weight of the sandstone crossbeam. Fireflies flared into fire, filling the corridor between the men, their names scribed on their foreheads.
By instinct, not sight, she tipped Ammon’s lips to hers. They were cold. She kissed him. The bitter juice dribbled down his throat. She must give enough. Just enough. So cold.
Lit by flames, the bearded one named Right of Heart said, “He is here.” Hidden of Heart said, “He must be judged.” Hept stepped from the boat to the landing. Heat, as from a furnace, pressed against her. Scalding tears streamed back, tickling her earlobes.
She said, “He is mine.”
Through the flames, the passage opened into the judgment hall. Heads of gazelles, horns pointed downward, dangled on ropes. Chained in the far corner, to her right hunched Ammit, the devourer, who glared, the rictus grin of his crocodile teeth grinding, one lion’s foreleg working rhythmically, claws scraping the stone floor.
On the dais, above the throne, the stone proclaimed, “Osiris, Master of Hades, Earth and Tanen.” Ammon stood on the topmost step before the throne, a stave across his shoulders supporting the hanging brass basins of the balance.
In the wagon, she kneaded Ammon’s cold lips with hers. A sob wracked her. Too much juice poured over his tongue.
Before Osiris, she sank to her knees, but did not avert her gaze. She put forth her hand. Blood dripped onto her fingers from the roof above. “He is mine, Lord. Into your hands I trusted him and now retrieve him.”
The rumble of the god’s words reverberated in her bones. “He will be judged.”
Tears slid from her face to Ammon’s. She was bidding him farewell, into the realms.
Osiris’ gaze impaled her. She gritted her teeth against the pain. “He is not yours, Great Osiris. He belongs to The One God. And by the favor of The One God, he belongs to me.”
Still, she kissed him. A knot in her throat tightened for all the warm kisses that he might never return.
From the top step, Ammon raised a hand toward her. “Hept, love. It’s too late. Save yourself.”
She broke the kiss. “Live!” she whispered to Ammon. “Live, Ammon. Live, Creator of Paths. Live, Hidden One.”
Osiris said, “Begone, woman. You have no place here, wretched wanderer of the ages.”
She stood, straining under the weight of His gaze. She struggled to step forward, oppressed by the might of His dominion. Her foot found the bottom step. She heaved forward. Sweat ran freely. Step by step, she climbed. Blood welled in her eyes. She stood on the top step. She reached for Ammon’s hand, draped over the stave. He withdrew his hand.
“Ammon. If you are attempting to save me, do not. I have no wish to live, except for a life with you.”
Tears dripped from his eyes. “I f
eel it—I know this is hell. There is no hope for me. You died for me in the stables and I won’t let you die for me again.”
Osiris roared. She turned her back to Him.
She knelt before Ammon. “Osiris has no authority over you, who belong to the One God, through me, unless you yield authority.”
Osiris’ voice thundered. “Your wish for death has led you here, unworthy servant of Thutmose. You cannot deny your flesh to the jaws of Ammit. Run to him now and find the oblivion that you seek.”
Ammit growled from the corner and lunged upward, yanking his chains taut. Osiris had spoken truly. She could find death in those jaws. If she gave herself to the beast, the One God would not save her in this realm. She teetered on the top step, her world focused on the knives of the devourer’s teeth.
Ammon said, “Hept?”
She could not let Ammon die.
Her body throbbed with the drumming of her heart. Her lips crushed against his again. Holding the kiss, she said into his mouth, “Live. Even if I do not. You must live.” His lips sucked at hers. The bitterness of the flowers became sweet.
She screamed and cast the stave of the balance away from Ammon. The brass basins and wood clattered down the steps. “He cannot judge you. You do not belong to Him. I sent you here before your time. Run! Live!”
He ran. But he grabbed her hand and pulled her after. At the bottom of the stairs, her feet, of their own accord, sought the void that Ammit offered. Ammon jerked her forward, catching her in his arms as her legs collapsed.
He scooped her up and ran through the fiery corridor. Osiris rained curses on them. They ran past the bearded men. Right of Heart and Hidden of Heart entreated, “He must be judged.”
Ammon leapt into the boat and shoved away from the shore. He lay with her under a canopy of reeds and enfolded her in his arms.
Her lips parted from his.
“No,” he murmured. “More.”
“Wait.”
She spat the flowers out.
Then she gave more.
Hept opened her eyes. It was daylight, somewhere along the edges of her vision, but was dark and cool, here, lying in Ammon’s arms. His heartbeat was strong against her.
From somewhere, Bess said, “Miss Hept. You gotta wake up.”
“Where am I?”
Ammon said, “In a wagon.”
Bess said, “I stretch the tarp when I seen you wasn’t gonna answer me and I seen you need to be alone. You got to get ready now so we can reload the wagon.”
Hept reached back and groped behind her. The cedar chest was there. The sealed crock filled with gold was there.
“Just take us home, Bess.”
“But we got to get our butter churn and our spinning wheel.”
Hept sighed against Ammon’s chest. He laughed.
“Bess, I am comfortable here in the dark.”
Ammon reached over her and unhooked the corner of the tarp. He folded it back. From just above the bank of the Rappahannock, the sunlight slanted down on them.
The Year in the Contests
The biggest change for the L. Ron Hubbard Writers and Illustrators of the Future Contests this year was our decision to take electronic submissions, starting with Quarter Two. Details can be found at
www.writersofthefuture.com/submit-your-story
www.writersofthefuture.com/submit-your-illustration.
In news, the latest Pirates of the Caribbean movie is based on Contest Judge and Lead Workshop Instructor Tim Powers’ book On Stranger Tides and is due out this summer.
One of our newest Illustrators of the Future judges and a past winner from 1991, Shaun Tan, won an Oscar for his short animated film The Lost Thing. He also won the 2010 Hugo Award for Best Professional Artist as well as the world’s largest prize designed to promote interest in children’s and young adult literature and in children’s rights, the Astrid Lindgren Memorial Award for 2011.
Writers of the Future winner Patrick Rothfuss’ second book, The Wise Man’s Fear, hit the #1 position on the New York Times bestseller list. His first in the series, The Name of the Wind, was also a New York Times bestseller. Both books are based in the world created for his winning Writers of the Future volume XVIII story, “The Road to Levenshir.”
Writers of the Future winner Jo Beverley’s latest book, An Unlikely Countess, debuted on the New York Times’ bestseller list.
Three of our Writers of the Future winners are on this year’s Nebula ballot: J. Kathleen Cheney, Eric James Stone and Aliette de Bodard. Published Finalist Nnedi Okorafor is also on the ballot.
Writers of the Future Contest Judge Robert J. Sawyer received a Hugo nomination for his novel Wake. One of the episodes of Flash Forward, the series based on Sawyer’s novel, was nominated for a Best Dramatic Presentation—Short Form Hugo.
Writers of the Future Contest Judge Mike Resnick received a Hugo nomination for his short story “The Bride of Frankenstein,” published in Asimov’s Science Fiction.
Illustrators of the Future Judge Bob Eggleton was nominated for a Best Professional Artist Hugo.
In addition to Shaun Tan, award-winning science fiction and adventure artist, Dave Dorman, and Illustrators of the Future winner from 2002, Robert Castillo, became Illustrators of the Future judges.
For Contest year 27, the L. Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future Contest winners are:
First Quarter
1. Brennan Harvey
THE TRUTH, FROM A LIE OF CONVENIENCE
2. D. A. D’Amico
VECTOR VICTORIA
3. Ryan Harvey
AN ACOLYTE OF BLACK SPIRES
Second Quarter
1. Patty Jansen
THIS PEACEFUL STATE OF WAR
2. Ben Mann
UNFAMILIAR TERRITORY
3. Van Aaron Hughes
THE DUALIST
Third Quarter
1. R. P. L. Johnson
IN APPREHENSION, HOW LIKE A GOD
2. Geir Lanesskog
SAILING THE SKY SEA
3. Keffy R. M. Kehrli
BONEHOUSE
Fourth Quarter
1. Patrick O’Sullivan
MADDY DUNE’S FIRST AND ONLY SPELLING BEE
2. Jeffrey Lyman
THE UNREACHABLE VOICES OF GHOSTS
3. Adam Perin
MEDIC!
Published Finalist: John Arkwright
THE SUNDIAL
For the year 2010, the L. Ron Hubbard Illustrators of the Future Contest winners are:
First Quarter
Vivian Friedel
Scott Frederick Hargrave
Erik Jean Solem
Second Quarter
Meghan Muriel
Irvin Rodriguez
Dustin D. Panzino
Third Quarter
Frederick Edwards
Joey Jordan
Nico Photos
Fourth Quarter
Gregory J. Gunther
Fred Jordan
Ryan Downing
Our heartiest congratulations to all the winners!
May we see much more of their work in the future.
NEW WRITERS!
L. Ron Hubbard’s
Writers of the
Future Contest
Opportunity for new and amateur writers of new short stories or novelettes of science fiction or fantasy.
No entry fee is required.Entrants retain all publication rights.
ALL AWARDS ARE ADJUDICATED BY PROFESSIONAL WRITERS ONLY
Prizes every three months: $1,000, $750, $500
Annual Grand Prize: $5,000 additional!
Don’t delay! Send your entry now!
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br /> To submit your entry electronically go to:
www.writersofthefuture.com/submit-your-story
E-mail:
[email protected] To submit your entry via mail send to:
L. Ron Hubbard’s
Writers of the Future Contest
PO Box 1630
Los Angeles, California 90078
WRITERS’ CONTEST RULES
1. No entry fee is required, and all rights in the story remain the property of the author. All types of science fiction, fantasy and dark fantasy are welcome.
2. By submitting to the Contest, the entrant agrees to abide by all Contest rules.
3. All entries must be original works, in English. Plagiarism, which includes the use of third-party poetry, song lyrics, characters or another person’s universe, without written permission, will result in disqualification. Excessive violence or sex, determined by the judges, will result in disqualification. Entries may not have been previously published in professional media.
4. To be eligible, entries must be works of prose, up to 17,000 words in length. We regret we cannot consider poetry, or works intended for children.
5. The Contest is open only to those who have not professionally published a novel or short novel, or more than one novelette, or more than three short stories, in any medium. Professional publication is deemed to be payment of at least five cents per word, and at least 5,000 copies, or 5,000 hits.
6. Entries submitted in hard copy must be typewritten or a computer printout in black ink on white paper, printed only on the front of the paper, double-spaced, with numbered pages. All other formats will be disqualified. Each entry must have a cover page with the title of the work, the author’s legal name, a pen name if applicable, address, telephone number, e-mail address and an approximate word count. Every subsequent page must carry the title and a page number, but the author’s name must be deleted to facilitate fair, anonymous judging.
Entries submitted electronically must be double-spaced and must include the title and page number on each page, but not the author’s name. Electronic submissions will separately include the author’s legal name, pen name if applicable, address, telephone number, e-mail address and approximate word count.