Canto

Today, much like every other day, has been awful.

I flop down on our bed and stare at the familiar crack that runs from the corner of the door frame to the center of the ceiling. Wouldn't it be amazing if the whole thing collapsed, burying me in the cold but loving embrace of concrete and stucco? It would be much better than one more day in this run-down shithole of a Community.

I wonder if mages further west have it better? Supposedly Wrendrop is the softest on its citizens since it’s the furthest from Perishing, but considering the vitriol I collected today, I doubt it. 

Now that I've completed my education, or as much education as the Huntsmen think we require, I've been plugging my way through all the so-called career options on offer. So far, the kitchens kicked me out, the custodial team decided I'd be better suited elsewhere, and Records and Reception laughed when I applied. Apparently I have a reputation around the base as a “mouthy little rat,” and no job that involves so much as looking at a Huntsman wants anything to do with me.

But since my options are to either make myself useful or become a permanent blood bag, I'll keep plucking away until I find something tolerable. 

Today was groundskeeping. Turns out I do not have a green thumb, and when the head gardener spotted my subtle attempts to encourage the patchy grass to grow with a little magic, I thought she was going to sprout an extra head and bite my arms off with it. The hour-long lecture she gave was bad enough, demanding to know what I thought I was doing, hadn't my mother raised me better, she should turn me over to the Huntsmen right now. 

It was a weak bluff, but the threat hung between us, between my dirt-stained hands and her cheeks tinged gray from her angry flush. Then she shook her head, mixed the magic-blackened soil into the compost until the grains were so integrated you almost couldn't see them, and dismissed me.

It's fine. I have no real affinity for growing things. I'm starting to think I have no real affinity for anything. At least, nothing that stunted life in the Wrendrop Community can offer.

I want to do magic. Feel the rich spiral of it down my veins, burn my skin with its power until I'm flayed raw. I was born with the ability to shape the world, and my flesh feels tight and uncomfortable under these rules and regulations. I'm not suited to silence, to keeping my head down, to clean hands and blunted teeth. Let me tear the world apart. Let me rebuild it better than ever before.

But that's why Mages are here, I guess. Someone thinks we're too powerful to be allowed.

There's only one job that would let me actually do magic, but since it involves going to Perishing, leaving my mother, and enchanting only the things the Huntsmen want enchanted, well, I'd rather bury myself in the Community’s garden and rot.

The crack along our ceiling doesn't change, hasn't changed since before I can remember. My fingers pick and pluck along our bedspread, and I wince when they encounter the hole Mother and I have both been ignoring for weeks. I know it's my fault—I kick and toss in my sleep, which isn't great for the longevity of our blankets, but neither of us want to face the commissary to have it replaced.

The commissary is run by the Huntsmen and is one of the few places where they actually interfere with our business on the day to day. They don't trust us to dole out our own goods and needs, so one of them is always on duty. They're stingy at the best of times, meaning most families have lengthy strategizing sessions before making requests.

Mother and I both hate it. She's a terrible communicator and tends to talk around a point, which irritates the ever-loving fuck out of the Huntsmen. And I notoriously do not have the patience. We're both lucky that the only regular times we have to deal with the Huntsmen are the bimonthly blood draws. I'm sure the Huntsmen are also pleased with this arrangement.

The hole in the blanket is now big enough I could put my head through it. And half its stuffing lies in gnarled puffs everywhere but inside. I glare out the window where the gray stone walls kiss the sky. Pink and orange halo around them, tinging all the lingering clouds with gold. Mother will be home from Records within the hour, and the commissary will close. Nights are cold and uncomfortable enough without a great big hole in the blanket.

I roll out of bed with a sigh and bundle the blanket in my arms like a tumbleweed. The walk to the commissary isn't far, and I pass groups of my neighbors chatting happily, eating together on the lawn with plates of food smuggled from the dining hall, enjoying the last of the day's warm air. A few people nod and wave, but no one calls me over to join them.

The door to the commissary is rusty, and it screams when I push it open. It's missing a spring, so it also crashes shut behind me, making the empty shelf against the wall clatter. It used to be full of common-use items like soap and toothbrushes and toilet paper, but a few of the older mages managed to broker a deal to have those kept in the Community washroom. While it is nice that those supplies are always where you need them when you need them, it does mean a volunteer had to be appointed to haggle with the Huntsmen whenever stock runs low.

The Huntswoman behind the counter doesn't flinch at the slam, her eyes trained on the magazine in front of her. I've never actually held a magazine, given that timely news of the world outside our walls is doled out in the same manner as toilet paper and blankets, but I've seen the Huntsmen reading them enough to recognize the thin pages and splashy colored pictures. I'd love to steal one someday, just to see what people without magic consider important enough to commit to print.

I heft my blanket onto the counter, its bulky fluff giving a soft thump that finally has the Huntswoman lifting her head. She blinks at me like she's never seen a mage before, then at the blanket. “What?” she demands peevishly.

My bones grind as I humble myself, clasping my hands against my chest and inclining my head at a perfect twenty-degree angle. “Good evening, Ma'am. I was hoping we could get a new blanket.” 

She grunts and stands, stretching her arms above her head and cracking her neck. She rests a hand on the hilt of the void-black mageblade at her side, and I refuse to flinch as she flicks the blanket open and inspects the hole.

“Veins and Vipers, kid, what did you do to it?” She whistles low as she holds it open with white, long-nailed fingers. “I thought we fed y'all enough. You been eating the stuffing?”

She's trying to make a joke. They do that sometimes, when their limbs are loose and they're well sated with blood. It's gross and patronizing, but better than the alternative.

“No,” I reply as neutrally as I can.

Her mouth twitches, as if she's irritated I didn't laugh. She glances up at me, this time with narrower eyes. Her scrutiny must find something sour, because the blanket falls from her hands. “You're Calliope's brat.”

Do people over the age of eight still classify as brats? I thought I left that behind a decade ago. But I bite my tongue and simply nod.

Her glare turns into a sneer. “Figures. You're the scrawny rabble rouser that can't decide if it's a boy or a girl, right? And Calliope gets all whiny if anyone refers to you as either or.”

“I have decided,” I say, the words slipping out stiff and stilted. Boy and girl are words that have never held much meaning to me, and I feel increasingly distant from the connotations of either. I am just…Canto. Just me. I'm a mage and I'm exhausted, and honestly that puts me in enough groups for a lifetime.

“Whatever.” The Huntswoman disappears through a door behind her table and comes back with a neatly folded blanket, the fabric a pristine white that it'll never be again. “Doesn't matter to me. Don't talk to you enough for it to matter. You might wanna tell your Mama to quit nipping at heels if she doesn't want to get stepped on, though.” A thoughtful look crosses her face. “Ah, might be a bit late for that.”

I take the blanket from her hands with delicate purposefulness so I don't accidentally snatch it and beat her over the head with it. Thinly veiled threats are a fact of life here. Half the time I assume the Huntsmen think it's playful banter. 

I give her a curt bow and disappear back into the dusty twilight. 

When I get home, Mother is there, quivering on the porch with her hands gripped around her usual ratty, spiral-bound notebook. When she sees me her shoulders visibly relax, and a smile breaks across her round face. “Canto!” She calls, loud enough that the few neighbors still out on the paths turn and squint at us. “You're home so late!”

I know that tilt in her voice. She assumes my late return means my job went well today. I doubt she noticed the blanket missing from our bed, let alone the one I have bundled in my arms. She fusses over me as I enter the house and dump my burden on the mattress. 

“I went to the commissary for a new blanket,” I say as I lean down to unlace my boots. I scowl when I notice the shoelace has gotten weak in the middle. Yet another thing I’ll need to replace sooner rather than later.

Her gaze sweeps over me, and I know her mind is calculating every angle of what that means, every movement of my expression. My mother doesn't care much to adjust herself for the whims and attitudes of other people, but she's shockingly good at reading me. “Oh, Sweetheart.” She sits on the bed next to me and wraps her arms around my shoulders. We both collapse backward and stare at the crack in the ceiling together, like we're stargazing. “We'll find the right fit soon enough.”

“I'm not sure we will,” I mumble, curling into her shoulder like I'm five again and I got in trouble at school for shoving another student into the dirt after he called me stupid. “If we can't find a place at this Community, they'll ship me off to another. Or worse, I'll get sent to Perishing and then there really will be no hope for me.”

I hate this life. This boring, stupid life, plotted out for me with barbed-wire fences and high stone walls. If I didn't have my mother, I would’ve eaten myself alive already. 

Mother smiles, and her hands find my hair. Her fingers part through the curls, and I watch my reflection in her golden eyes. I wish I had a clearer picture of what I look like. Of who I am. Instead of only being able to look inside at my mess of festering emotions and curdling thoughts.

“Maybe Perishing is the right place for you,” she says.

I pull away from her hands, unable to understand the gibberish she just spewed at me. “Excuse me?”

“You're so talented, Canto. You could do so much in the right place at the right time, with the right people.”

“Oh, sorry, I thought you loved me.”

She laughs, holding my face between her hands. Her black hair is longer than usual, hitting below her shoulders in smooth waves. I must have gotten my curls from my father, but I'll never really know.

“I do love you,” she says. “Which is why I know you're worth more than this life. I want you to have what I had as a child.” She rubs circles on my cheeks with her thumbs. “A whole city to run wild and free.”

There it is again. Mother's fictional childhood in her fictional city. When I was little, I thought she made them up to give me hope, to pretend there was a world for us on the other side of captivity. But I've long outgrown storybooks and monsters and gods. Fake things won't make this world more livable.

“Mother, please,” I say, leaning away from her soothing fingers. “Let's not tonight.”

She frowns at me for a long moment, then sits up. Her feet land on the ground with a thump as she stands and crosses over to our single toilet on the other side of the room, pulling aside the privacy screen. I watch as she lifts the back of the bowl and digs around.

“Gross—” I begin, but a moment later she stands triumphant and returns, kneeling in front of me and cupping our hands together. Hers are wet now with the tank water, and my nose wrinkles before I notice she has something sharp pressed against my palms.

She pulls her hands away, and I open mine, revealing a lump of…something. I pick it up and inspect it under the glow of our single bare ceiling bulb.

I needn't have bothered. The blood in my veins hums as I realize I'm holding a magical artifact, right about the size of my mother’s eye but with branching spines that might have once been some kind of filigree but have broken overtime. As I tilt it between my fingers, one of the spines pierces the pad of my thumb. A single bead of black blood slips across my palm.

“What is this?” I ask. 

She smiles, her excitement brighter than the lightbulb or the moon or the desert sun. “It was a pendant of my grandfather’s. And his grandmother’s, and her grandmother’s. Going back generations. They all folded their magic into it, gave little bits of themselves. Can't you feel it? Hundreds of years of mages in the palm of your hand.”

I can feel it. Like an electric shock needling its way up my arms, stinging through veins and arteries and capillaries. All my rivulets singing along, trying to find the tune. I have no idea how she's kept it secret for so long, because the hum of it is so clear and bright it makes me want to weep. 

Another spine pricks my finger and more blood oozes out, but I don't notice. All I want is to rip open my own chest and crush this thing into my heart.

“I want you to have it,” Mother says. “It's a piece of us. A piece of my childhood. A piece of—”

Our door splinters with a resounding crack, a fissure streaming from frame to floor like a continuation of the one on the ceiling.

Mother and I both startle, and she grabs my hands, eyes frantic as she looks between me and the door. “Hide it,” she hisses. “Whatever you do, do not let them take it from you.”

I don't know what's happening. I don't understand why the Huntsmen would break down our door. It’s unlocked. They can walk in whenever they want to, they can take whatever they need.

The only reason to break it down is because they think it’s fun. To ruin what little we own. To scare us.

The notion makes my hand tighten again, and without thinking, enchantment spirals to my fingers. My blood seeps into the trinket and I will it to stay hidden. Do not let the Huntsmen find you.

I can only hope it obeys as the door finally gives out and three massive Huntsmen burst into our house.

In the twilight outside, a few of our neighbors look on in abject horror, and I wonder if this is the time someone will do something. But fear of pain and the learned idea of helplessness are powerful distractions, and they remain tucked in their doorways, unmoving.

“This one's enchanting,” one of the Huntsmen grunts, and he rips my arm upward. The pendant spirals from my fingers, and I watch in mute terror as it hits the floor with a ping and clatters away toward the wall. The Huntsmen don't even glance its way; they're too busy pinning my mother to the floor.

I don't know these Huntsmen. They're burlier and younger than our regulars, and a lot more eager to show their power. My mother isn't an overly tall woman, and none of us in the Community are what anyone would call fighting fit. This is overkill.

I try to wriggle out of my Huntsman’s grasp, but he leers at me, lifting me high enough and at a strange enough angle that if I fight him too hard, I'll dislocate my shoulder. “Careful there,” he says. “Looks like you've cut yourself on something.” He presses his mouth to my palm and licks the blood off. The cuts sting when his tongue passes over them.

The other two Huntsmen look positively bored. “Calliope Keer,” says the one who doesn't have his knee in my mother’s back. “You are under arrest, by order of Huntsmaster Jameson Pierce. We are here to escort you to Perishing immediately for trial and sentencing.”

“What?” I demand, trying to struggle as much as my trapped arm will allow. “On what charges?”

I'm not sure why I ask. It's clear the Huntsmen aren't either because all three laugh as if I've told the Federation’s most hilarious joke. The Huntsman holding my mother drags her off the floor and pulls her arms behind her back, smirk still on his face. All this needless aggression—it's all for show. It's all a game to step on things smaller than themselves and know that they'll only get praise for it. This is what Huntsmen are, from the lowest recruit to the Huntsmaster himself. Childish, gleeful, cruel.

I lash out with my other hand, catching my Huntsman off guard. He doesn't drop me, but he changes his grip, and I'm free to stretch out toward my mother. Before my hand makes contact, the Huntsman reels me back in, grabs me by the hair, and slams me against the ground. Once. Twice.

The world dissolves into mist, furry around the edges like moth wings. I'm not sure how long I lie there, but at some point, gentle hands reach out and roll me onto my back. My vision spots in and out of clarity, but I eventually recognize the face of the groundskeeper who scolded me earlier. Her expression has the blank neutrality of a person trying not to scream.

“Let me help you to bed, Canto,” she says, sitting me up. I stare around our little house, trying to make sense of things. There's the toilet, the privacy screen. Our splintered door, crowded by uncertain and cringing neighbors. The floor, blotted with ink-black bloodstains. Our bed with the new blanket still folded neatly on top. My mother's pendant lying where it fell.

My mother gone.

My ears ring, so I don't quite hear the wail that comes tearing from my throat, but I feel it. The groundskeeper practically carries me to the bed while I scream wordlessly, and she and the neighbors linger in uncomfortable pods until my despair becomes too much for them to bear. Only then do they filter out in guilty twos and threes while my fingers grab at the sheets where my mother should be, where she has been since the day I was born in this awful world.

When the groundskeeper finally leaves, my sobbing has leveled out to a gentle whine. My thoughts are a jumbled mess of anguish and confusion and loss. But eventually, after the night outside has become so pitch black it might as well be magic, all those emotions coalesce into all-encompassing fury.

The Huntsmen have taken a lot of things from me. The outside world. A sense of safety. Magic. They've made my life so small that finding a reason to keep living it has been downright impossible.

Now they've taken the only person left who matters.

I sit up. Scrub a hand across my mouth to wipe away the saliva and tears. There's nothing else here in the Wrendrop Community. Or in the Arachnida Federation. Probably not in the entire world.

But that means there's nothing left to be scared of.

I step over to the window and stare out into the blackened night. My foot hits something, and I bend down to scoop up my mother's pendant. I curl my fingers around it until my knuckles go gray. The spines prick my skin, and I smile.

I don't even feel the glass bite as I punch out the window. But when I drive the shards through the Huntsmen's throats, I'll make sure they do.