Border, KS

Siobhan’s hand hurt a little bit, but it was totally worth it. Letter jacket went down hard, falling to the ground in shock and pain as his hand went quickly up to his nose. “I think you broke my nose, you bitch!”

“I did not, in fact, break your nose.” Siobhan responded calmly, as she turned around to the inevitable group of advancing douchebros coming to defend one of the herd.

“Won’t look as good when we break yours.” One of them growled, taking a step forward until Siobhan held up one black nailed finger. They paused, looking at her in consideration.

“You’re not going to touch me, and I’ll tell you why.” She said before they could challenge the assertion, keeping her hands on the reins of the conversation. “Right now, we can all walk away and chuckles here walked into a door. We fight and a couple of you are going to get hurt too, and teachers will have to get involved.” Siobhan gave a small, almost feline smile. “And everyone will know which ones of you got your asses kicked by a girl. Hell…I’ll call the newspaper.”

The assorted jocks paused to consider this, glaring at her. Siobhan shrugged, looking unconcerned as she looked down at her nails, hiding the shaking of adrenalin and fear in the motion. “You’ll win cause there are six of you, but some of you are going to have to explain how a girl who barely makes five foot two broke noses and arms.” She gave a little bit of a shrug as if it didn’t care either way. It was just another thing to do, like eating lunch or ignoring Algebra; or at least that is what she was desperately trying to project.

It was the calculus of pride, and after a few moments they finished their sums. They grabbed their friend and walked away, glaring at Siobhan. One of them even made the “I’m watching you” motion by pointing at his eyes and then at her, bless his thuggish heart.

When the crowd had dispersed and Siobhan was alone with Antigone she slumped back against the lockers, working the shakes out of her arms. Antigone had tears standing in her eyes, but she reached out to squeeze her sister’s hand.

“I hate new days.” Annie said after a moment.

“Yeah, me too.” Siobhan agreed. “Well, let’s go make more good impressions, just like dad says.”

They both turned back to the main entryway, where a large group of girls was waiting for them with arms folded. They stood with deep expressions of consideration on their faces, as if weighing and measuring what they saw.

“Balls.” Siobhan swore.

“So I understand you have two daughters and a son? Which school are they going to?” Marshal Alexander asked as Walter settled himself into the man’s office. It was the largest in the station but not excessive, and kept neat with what Walt now knew was a military precision. Framed pictures sat in regimental rows on the desk, and the walls held a diploma as well as a USMC honorable discharge certificate and a picture of a young African-American man in Marine uniform with lance corporal insignia standing next to a man that even Walter recognized as General Lewis “Chesty” Puller, legendary Marine.

“They’re going to Eisenhower.” He explained, as he looked at the picture.

“It’s a good school.” Bill offered with a smile and a nod. “I’m a graduate myself, as is my nephew.” He grinned when he noticed Walter’s eyes on the picture.

“I’m sure they’re making good impressions, as always. Tell me that isn’t you with Chesty Puller?” Walter asked, looking back to the Marshal as if to count the gray hairs in his beard. They were not rare in the short hair.

“Hell no, how old do you think I am that I was a Lance Corporal in Korea? My father.” Alexander said fondly. “Couple of years before I was born.” He settled back and looked at Walter. “So. United States Army, Special Forces, Ranger. Retired after 20, and joined the Kansas City PD. After almost 3 years you applied for this job. We don’t get a lot of people moving from the big city to our humble little stretch of occupied northern Oklahoma, Major.” The way he said it made it a question.

“Kansas City was good, but we needed a change.” Walter said simply, shrugging. “With their mother gone I thought they could use a place closer to some family. Their grandparents live here, and their mother was from here.”

Alexander blinked. “Who was it, if you don’t mind me asking. We’ve gotten bigger but there’s enough small town left here I might have known her.”

Walter shrugged. “Doesn’t hurt me any. Rhiannon Aquino, her parents are Filip and Tianna Aquino; they’ve got a farm out near the state park.” At that Alexander blinked again in apparent surprise, speechless for a moment.

“Annie Aquino was your wife? Well all the gods and little fishes, I didn’t expect that.” The Marshal said with a chuckle and a shake of his head. “She couldn’t wait to get out of here and see the world. And now her kids are back.” He gave a little laugh again. “She was a feisty one. Your girls must be a handful.”

Walter smiled wryly. “They certainly can be.”

Things went downhill almost immediately. Arrayed in long rows at the entrance to the school were seniors, boys and girls, in letter jackets and cheer outfits. That alone would have made Siobhan roll her eyes, as that much civic pride oozing from every spray tanned orifice couldn’t be healthy. Siobhan was pretty sure it caused it caused cancer of the common sense gland. Not that most of these people had it, she suspected.

But they were also shouting “Go home, Freshman!” Because they want to be here more than you do? She thought, before mentally adding Can sophomores go home too?

And then one of them reached out and grabbed Antigone’s backpack by the strap. “Hey there, Freshman. On second thought, you can stay.”

Siobhan watched her sister’s eyes go wide. Annie didn’t do well with randomness like this, she knew; it threw her sister’s plans into disarray. The fact that plans always went into disarray was precisely the reason Siobhan tried to never use them. She rounded just in time to see her sister’s eyes go wide.

“We’re sophomores.” Antigone said, her voice quiet. Siobhan could barely hear it over the crowd’s asinine chanting. She could tell that the older boy hadn’t heard it, so she decided to get involved.

“We’re sophomores.” Siobhan repeated, her voice louder and more commanding. Letter jacket looked up at her, and sneered. He had a thin face but a bulky build, and looked like he was used to getting his way. In a very real way Siobhan hated him from buzz cut to tennis shoes.

“Then why haven’t I seen you around?” He asked.

“Because, amazingly, some people actually move to this crap-hole.” Siobhan responded stridently. “Which, while it is mind-boggling, isn’t exactly complex.”

“Go away, little sophomore.” The man responded, turning his eyes to Antigone. “But you stay, we need more pretty girls here, since Lacey doesn’t put out.”

That comment drew a reaction from five girls—two cheerleaders, Antigone, Siobhan, and a girl who was presumably Lacey. Some of the dudebros looked embarrassed by their friend, Siobhan thought, but no one did anything. Some didn’t look embarrassed, and actually gave him a fist-bump with his free hand.

“Really, we’re going right to rape culture, on day one?” Siobhan asked challengingly, reaching forward and grabbing the older boy’s wrist where it held Antigone’s bag. Annie just looked mortified by the whole situation, and the eyes she turned to Siobhan were both grateful and sad. As if she knew how this would play out.

“Goth queen, there aren’t any teachers around right now.” Letter jacket said with a grin that said he thought he was invincible. “Listen, maybe you think just because I’m a nice guy, I won’t hit a girl, but keep on fucking walking, or else I will.” Siobhan was tempted to comment on his grammar, but then he reached out a hand and put it on Antigone’s waist.

“That makes two of us.” Siobhan said, as she slugged him in the nose.

Antigone Richards checked her outfit carefully, making sure that everything was precisely ordered for maximum effect. Free spirited, but not too free spirited. Approachable, without being dumpy. Obviously caring, but without too much care being obvious. It was a delicate dance, and she had carefully applied the lessons she learned from the last time they had moved. And the time before that. And…well, never mind.

Their new school, Dwight D. Eisenhower High School, was just on the outside edge of walking distance, which was ideal. Close enough that she could walk but far enough away she would have plausible excuses if there was something she didn’t want to do, and wouldn’t likely be caught if she needed to ditch with a group of friends. Not that she liked ditching, but it was a calculation.

“Stop calculating.” Siobhan said, rolling her eyes. Antigone matched it, huffing a bit. She thought Siobhan came too close sometimes to the mind-reading twins were supposed to have.

“I just want it to work, Bonnie.” She said with with a sigh, which drew a sympathetic nod and then a shrug. Her sister looked down at her black blouse and frilly black skirt, and shrugged.

“It’ll either work out or it won’t.” Siobhan offered, less with zen like calm then casual acceptance. They passed through the last neighborhood before the school, nice homes that looked like they could have been out of central casting, and crossed the street to the school.

DEHS was in a very old style, all red brick and white plaster windows and arches. Honest to God arches on the center of the building, an impressive clock tower. They had been there a few days before to register for classes, but it was still impressive.

“I found out the clock-tower is closed.” Siobhan said with a sigh, shaking her head. “I’ll have to find somewhere else to smoke.”

“Shooting fears?” Antigone asked, drawing a nod from the raven haired twin. “Lame. But you don’t smoke.”

“I’m thinking about picking it up, for my image.” Siobhan answered. Antigone didn’t respond but kept walking up to the top stair, and the large doors. She stopped at the threshold, breathing in deeply to calm herself.

Unbidden, Siobhan reached out to take her hand, and squeezed it. “Ready?” She asked, their little ritual the same at every school they had been at. Antigone nodded.

“Ready.”

And they entered the battlefield of high school together.

Walter wrapped an arm around whatever had hit him, even as the momentum carried them both to the floor. Before he hit the floor he had his pistol out and pointed down while he assessed the situation, and the person in a subduing headlock. And it was a person, it turned out, a young man with his hands cuffed behind his back. A group of people came over to him while he put his pistol away, one of them an older African American man.

“You must be Major Richards.” He commented, with more amusement then reproach in his voice. The man was older, probably in his mid fifties, with laugh lines around his eyes and a strong face that Walter thought looked equally at home in sternness or in laughter.

“Yes sir.” He responded easily, pulling himself and the young man to his feet. The prisoner was white, with crazy hair, bloodshot eyes, and the teeth of…well, a meth addict. One of the cops in uniform had the decency to look sheepish as he reached out to take the prisoner.

“Booked it from booking?” Walter asked with a little bit of a laugh, drawing a nod. He shook his head, before he looked back to the tall black man. “Marshal Alexander, I take it?” He asked, holding out his hand. The man had strong features, a clean shaved scalp and a neat goatee with threads of silver running through it.

The other man took it in a firm grip, and shook it. “That’s what they tell me. But I’ll make you a deal, in this den of civilian luxury.” He had an easy smile, and Walter liked that. “I’ll call you Major, if you call me Top.”

Walter looked him over for a moment, as if examining for fault. “Army?” He asked hopefully.

Alexander snorted. “Hell no, I wanted to actually fight, not just talk about it. Master Sergeant William Alexander, USMC. Oorah.” He barked, and Walter made a show of rolling his eyes.

“Well, I suppose even a Marine is better than civilians. Its a pleasure to meet you, Top.” Walter said with a smile.

“Welcome to the Border, Major. Why don’t we talk about your new life in my office.”

With a last low purr from the engine, Walter glided his motorcycle into the last open employee parking spot at the Border Police Department building, in the Old Market district of downtown. Built of old brick, it claimed to still have pieces of it dating to the founding of the city in the 19th Century. Having ridden over them and kept his spleen in line only through sheer force of will, Walter believed it.

He pulled the key out of the Harley-Davidson Iron 883, the only personal purchase he had made out of years of bonuses and the money that his wife had left him, and set the kickstand. With a fond stroke to the whiskey colored body, he steeled his nerves and walked into the building.

The Border PD was headquartered in a large, old building that seemed to have been designed by someone from 1932 who wanted a medieval castle. On the cheap. It has turrets, for God’s sake… Walter thought as he walked in, although covered in climbing ivy they didn’t look particularly stable.

The front room was pleasantly modern, save for the gleaming wooden floor he had no doubt someone had to spend a lot of time polishing, and hoped it wouldn’t be him. He’d done his time cleaning things with toothbrushes, and had no desire to repeat them.

The rest though looked efficiently new. Laptops on desks, people working efficiently. He knew it was a surprisingly small force for a city the size of Border, which measured almost 110,000 and the sixth largest city in the state. So they had to work efficiently, doubly so because he’d never heard of the city until he’d met his wife.

Walter stepped up to the information desk, and gave a smile. “Hello.” He greeted the desk sergeant. “My name is Walter Richards, and I’m here to see Marshal…”

“Look out!” A voice behind him cried. He felt something impacting his shoulder, and instinctively turned to grab it, reaching into his jacket for his pistol.

By himself, Walter Richards would eat quietly and quickly. Probably microwave eggs and enough coffee to kill a horse. As it was he had fresh scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast ready for his children when they woke up for their first day at a new school.

He had to remind himself that no plan survived contact with the enemy, and then to remind himself that it probably wasn’t healthy to think of his children as the enemy. It started when Siobhan came down, dressed like a schoolgirl from an Edgar Allen Poe story, poured herself black coffee in a mug so large it should have been a vase that he hadn’t even known she had, and stared at the food like it was an alien substance. Her hair, rich and dark like her mother’s and dyed darker still, hung over one of her eyes in an artless tousle of the loose waves it tended to when she didn’t straighten or cut it. He was in the process of gesturing to her to partake of the bounty of his efforts when Antigone came downstairs. She was dressed like a flower child, showing way too much stomach, and proceeded to start making herself multi-grain toast, primly declaring it to be all she was going to eat. She had her hair back in a simple ponytail, rich mahogany tumbling down her back like her mother’s had years before. Both girls had her tan skin, thin features, and hazel-green eyes–although Siobhan’s seemed to hold more of the dark gold brown, while Antigone’s had more of the green of summer fields.

Walter was finishing his coffee, and despairing of the twin facts that it did not have Irish cream in it and the food was not going to get eaten, when his son Ryan shuffled down the stairs. He looked like…well, a skater boy.

“Come on, Ry, save me from throwing all this food out.” Walter said hopefully. Ryan looked at him through bleary eyes, his medium brown hair hanging shaggy over his eyes in the only haircut he allowed himself to have. Walter watched as his youngest child, the one that took after him the most, shoved a handful of bacon in his mouth before the fourteen year old grabbed his skateboard and walked out the door.

The only thing the two girls could seem to agree on was rolling their eyes at their brother, before they too exited. Walter was left staring plaintively at the eggs before he scooped them all into a tupperware container to take to work, and exited his house.

The Lady of Ravens, the unknown Queen and the black feather in the field of white, lay in slumber. She dreamed and she did not dream. She saw. She did not understand, but she knew she held within her the kernel of understanding, the seed corn of wisdom. Some day it would sprout and she would reap a harvest of wisdom, but that day was not come yet.

She saw men and not-men around her, and knew that they would die. Some she would help die, some she would assist others in helping. But she counted the toll of the dead and knew she would count more. These were not times where the counters would be bored, or where they could afford to be lax in their duties. She knew she would take up that duty.

She watched the man whom the rain did not touch walk to the girl who would know the way. She wanted to go to them but she knew she had a duty to complete, and that nothing would be accomplished if all did not work. She looked down and saw that in her small hands she held a scythe that was not a scythe. She knew its purpose, for it mirrored hers and both could acquire virtue only through perseverance. So she was determined to persevere, no matter how difficult it was for her.

The final few moments of her vision were red, and strangely peaceful.

The Lady of Ravens, the black feather in the field of white, awoke while the air was still thick with darkness. She watched the first hint of sunrise before she stood up and walked to open the door. She would let her sister think that she got the first shower, as normal.

The High Priestess, the hidden and unknown light who was not yet seen in the day, lay in slumber. She dreamed, and yet she did not dream; she saw, and yet she did not see. She did not understand, but she did not understand in a way that she knew meant that one day she would understand. And wish she had not.

A cemetery baptized in rain, always in rain. Gray in sky, in stone, in spirit and in thought—pervasive grayness all about. But she stands as a specter of white, of hope and thought and dream. She stood out, and she was envied. But she was also unseen by so many, and that broke her heart.

A man walked through the crowds, unseen. He wore black and white, and his eyes were shrouded in darkness. He gently parted the rain like gauzy curtains, stepping through without concern. She couldn’t tell if it was because the rain wouldn’t dare to bother him or if it was because he was no longer subject to things of this world.

She stepped over and took his hand, leading him to one of the graves. The headstone had no name, only a date. She saw it now but knew she would not remember it upon waking. She took the hand she held and leaned down, placing it on the dirt there.

“Inside?” He asked, his voice an indistinct but familiar rumble.

“Only from inside can you reach the outside. Only by going down can you come up.” She told him seriously, the words resonating with parts of her that were far more ancient than the youth of her form.

“Only through darkness can the light be found.” He agreed with a sigh, as he knelt down and climbed effortlessly into the grave. She watched him go, her heart shattering like a crystal glass dropped to the uncaring ground.

The High Priestess, the hidden and unknown light, awoke into the light of the sun that welcomed her like a sister. Moments later she was roused again by the familiar knock on her door, and she pulled herself out to seek the first shower.

The Marshal, who was not yet the marshal, lay in slumber. He dreamed, and he did not dream; he saw, and he did not see. Seeing and unseeing swirled around him like the mists drifting off a lofty mountain peak, shadowing the heights.

He held her for so short a time. He saw her in his arms, like it had been, and then she was gone. His room was empty, the walls blank. No pictures where they should be, only strange writings. He started to look at one of them more closely, but then he realized why they looked so odd. He was hanging from the ceiling, suspended upside down by a rope around his left ankle. His right leg crossed it at a jaunty angle, and he thought it was probably for comfort.

He started to reach for the rope, but in a moment it was gone and he was right side up. He thought his room was the same, before he realized it had in every way been turned to a giant tree stretching up to the sky. He hung from it suspended by the neck and wrists. He expected it to choke him before he realized he was already dead, and in realizing that he was alive once more. The tree stood on a low hill, or perhaps was the low hill, looking over a whole verdant world. Every bloom was a part of the tree, and the tree was a part of every bloom. In a moment he understood every part of their connections, and knew he would never remember them. The whole world all coming together, a thousand places and names drawn together into one place. The tree. The corner of creation.

The Border.

He would hold it in his hand, between life and death, and fire and ice. He would know its secrets for a time, and he would decide what to do. Worlds would hang in the balance, as he hanged, and he would choose.

The Marshal, who was not yet the marshal, awoke. Sunlight crept in through the window with the sunrise, teasing like a lover’s caress on his cheek. He almost felt her again, before he rose and put on his pants.