For vitamins and greens, wild roses are edible, petals, hip and leaf, as well as their cousins, raspberry and blackberry. For protein and fat, the abundantly available acorn can be made palatable if soaked in a running stream to release the tannins. Skunk cabbage, queen annes lace (wild carrot), dandelion, and burdock all have nutritious starchy roots that will help give you much needed energy to survive the long days lost in the wilds.

You, me, and a hatchet survived.

( or: You, me and a rucksack against the zombie apocalypse.)

”He calls me a princess, all the time, but I just absolutely can not accept certain sub-par levels of quality. It can be better. And why not make it better?” Sidney whipped her hands around as she spoke, took a sigh and settled her hands again in her lap, tightly clasped.

”Ok, lets take a pause there. Notice what you are feeling. I noticed you slouched slightly when you said ‘all the time‘ — what happened there? I want you to trace that feeling in your body.”

Sidney’s therapist pressed her lips and showed an intent but soft gaze. Her measured expression was framed by a flamboyant red bob and punctuated by a pair of lime green cat-eye glasses. Her therapists name was Amina and she was a veteran therapist at the institute. Besides that, Sidney knew nothing more, despite having asked many times about her life. Session 32 and every ‘and how are YOU doing?’ had been met with a dismissive, ‘oh, well, we are here for you today, Sidney.’

Sidney tried to focus inward, prying her mind away from Aminas distracting colour choices, settling her focus in on the slump. There was a slump yes, but also a tightness; her clenching jaw and hands, her adductors gripping at her knees in a deadlock, and now that she was thinking about it she noticed her toes were curling up as well. “Actually, I notice everything is tight except my spine. My spine feels weak and lifeless.” Sidney’s eyes bulged slightly, noticing an unswept pile of red hairs and dust just below the radiator along the yellowing wall.

”Good, now I want you to follow that feeling. See where it takes your body.” Amina set the pen down and sat upright in her seat, drawing her legs in to make more space for whatever Sidney was going to do next.

“Uh, what now? Follow my spine?” Sidney looked up at her overly tattooed therapist, looking at the lime green frames and unsettling neck tat but not her eyes. She shifted in her seat, the cushions suddenly feeling like it had been stuffed instead with gravel.

Amina flicked her eyes at the clock. Just a flick. She hoped Sidney didn’t notice. “Yes, feel your spine and move your body to where you think your spine wants to go. Keep track of that feeling, princess, what does it feel like when you are witnessed and perceived as being fussy, your preferences not important but histrionic and self important, your tumult with every day life being a hassle for the people around you? What does it to to your spine? Where does your spine want to go?” Amina was almost floating above her seat now, her quadriceps bulging slightly through her cat hair dotted slacks.

Sidney tried to compute what was happening, she felt a welling of frustration spring up inside her. What on earth does her spine have to do with the fact that her husband calls her a princess? she thought about the money ahe was paying for her sessions and fought her desire to walk out the door.

What did her SPINE want to do?

It wanted to slither. Yes. It wanted to slither to the ground. Sidney’s elbows creaked open, her jaw clanked. Her knees snapped and popped as she followed her sacrum off the chair, slipping down onto that filthy floor, her new tweed skirt bunching up as her legs begrudgingly acquiesced to her spines will. To the ground. Her head rested finally, eye to eye with that hairball of dust and fluff — below the radiator where no one but her would ever see.

She wanted to scream.

Amina sensed this, “Do it, Sidney. How does it feel to let your spine take over? Show me!” Amina gripped the leather arm rests.

Sidneys eyes bulged again, then she did let it out. She screamed. It started as a crackle in her throat but soon was shaking the glass in the windows, deflocking the birds in the oak outside, turning the heads of the nurses in the halls, and finally, used up all the breath in her lungs as well as all of the tension inside of her body. She melted into the dirt and dust, indifferent to it for the first time. Her hands and feel unfurled, lotus palms and soles. For a moment she thought she was going to cry but instead she began to laugh.

Amina looked down at Sidney, unable to hold back her grin. “Oh my god, you did it!”

Therapist and client laughed together. The wall of rigidity shattered— session 32 was a breakthrough. Sidney let her fuss and bother go. Not for good. But, this moment of acceptence and relaxation became a touchstone, a reference point she could come back to when the toast was burnt, the grammar was off or the sheets were wrinkled.

(estherflowers — i love your challenges! Your writing is so smart and fun.)

Like 9/11, or the JFK assassination, everyone remembers where they were when it happened. It's been almost two decades since then, the unfathomable twist in our story; The Coup.

I remember it clearly.

A svelte woman with business shoulder pads and a power suit glistened on air, “Great news citizens! Our country has been liberated from tyranny! True patriots everywhere are rejoicing in the streets, tasting the sweetness of freedom.” The woman smiled brightly among the crowds of people, all red, white and blue. “John, let’s show clips from across the nation,” the top left corner of the screen flashed crowds of celebrators, reeling from city to city; New York, Philadelphia, DC, Miami, Boise, San Francisco, and it continued. She waved her hot pink tipped hand towards the screen, “As you can see every corner of this great country is celebrating the take over, or rather, the ‘taking back’ of our country. From the tyranny of corrupt politicians into the hands of true patriots.” As she clapped and cheered along with the crowd she brightened at the appearance of a hollering, white, blue-eyed man.

She beckoned him towards the camera, then placed her hand on his shoulder, lightly, so as not to smear the red and white stripes painted on his body. His manic smiling face was encrusted with white paint in the shape of a star and framed by a blue clown wig. This ensemble was finished with the American flag worn as a loincloth. The newscaster began to interview him, but my focus drifted inward.

I was in the ‘Grizzly Den Diner,’ a favorite stop along highway one, coming back from a hunting trip deep in the mountains. I was sitting at the chrome trimmed counter between a wooden sculpture of Bigfoot and an older gentleman wearing a tweed blazer and sporting an impressive comb-over. I noticed his body freeze as the newscaster rejoiced, a forkful of eggs floating inches above his plate, losing their steam.

A soft murmur broke out as people tried to confirm what they were seeing. The man in tweed regained his senses and called out to the server, “Lilly, what is this rubbish? Put it on the other news network… let’s see what THEY are saying.” He pushed up his glasses and settled into his seat, crossing his arms and drawing his brows. Eggs forgotten.

Lily commanded the TV set to turn to the public network as she polished a glass, “TV, play public station eleven.”

A square-rimmed, buttoned-up broadcaster appeared, “The terrorist organization True Patriots are threatening media outlets across the nation. Their demands include reporting only the quote-on-quote, ‘truth’, or else ‘grave things may occur.’ When questioned about what the ‘truth’ is they are referring to, their response was, and I quote, ‘whatever high commander, Reverend Michael D. Bray, says.’ The free press is refusing to respond to terrorist demands at this time. We are waiting on our White House correspondents …”

An eruption of noise; chair legs scraping linoleum, the din and clatter of silverware on ceramic.

Panic.

I watched one of the young families bundle up their two young children and head quickly out the door, tossing a wad of bills at their table. One of the bills fluttered into a kid-sized puddle of ketchup, George Washington’s face painted red.

Lily tried to take control, “Now listen up everyone, this does not mean you can’t enjoy your meals. Just calm down and act normal, now, we got nothing to be afraid of, for heavens sake. This will all be over before you can fry an egg. C’mon now.” She picked up a chair that had tumbled over and calmly tucked it under a nearby table. Some people were hungry for reassurance and followed her lead, “Sit down now, yes, that’s right. Nobody panic, have some grub! We’ve got a turkey club up… here you go.” Lilly started bringing out all of the orders that had piled up on the warmer.

Tweed coat piped up, “I don’t get it. Lilly, what does it mean? What’s happening?”

The server put her hand on the man's shoulder, “It’s gonna to be alright, Mr. Green, this is America. Just go home after you finish your coffee and stay inside a while. Watch the news. Things will get back to normal. Like the man said, the special reserve is going to set it right. They are being called in right now. And if that fails, we have allies around the globe; no one is going to stand for a coup in America. There’s never been a successful coup and there never will be.”

Mr. Green looked relieved, “Okay, Lilly, if you say so.”

The broadcaster continued in the background. I tried to listen over the rabble, “…Sources say that all leads related to the Reverend and the True Patriot Movement had been destroyed months before the attack.”

Despite myself, I let Lily convince me. I wanted her to be right. I took a bite of my sandwich. Tweed coat and I sat quietly, munching our food as the world fell apart.

I’m thinking about that moment when Xan waves his hand in front of my eyes, “Hello, anyone home?”

I blink and shake my head out, “Oh my gosh, I was in another world,” I straighten my spine and take a breath, getting reacquainted with the present.

“Ah there you are! Now, drop whatever you were thinking about and focus on food. I got a granola bar, Twinkies, ugh, crushed up potato chips…” Xan begins rifling through his provisions pack, all sweat and dirt. He lifts his brow and eyes me, a smirk catching his cheek.

“Okay, okay,” I cock my head and contemplate these options, “You know, as soon as this is over I am planting a vegetable garden.” I reach over, “hand me a goddamn Twinkie,” I grab the plastic wrapped industrial food item between my thumb and finger, like picking up a stranger's dirty sock.

We are perched on limestone boulders, a sea of crisp green sword ferns spreading below us in all directions. Towering Douglas fir, sitka spruce and cedar provide a cool and comforting shield from the sun. The rainforest here managed to survive decades of fires, thanks to the skyscraper trees and leeward slant of the Olympic range. The peaks hijack every eastbound cloud; a geological shakedown for moisture. Still, the haze of burning forests, cities and towns loiters across the entire region like an unwanted guest.

“We’ve got at least six more hours through these woods. The king-all-father himself should be sleeping soundly when we arrive at the camp. The hardest time to wake someone is during their deep sleep cycle. We should arrive just in time!” Xan’s excitement animates his whole body as he speaks.

I give Xan a wry look and reach into my pocket, “We are going to need some help getting there,” and I pull out two blue powder pills, displaying them on my palm next to some golden crumbs still stuck to my fingers.

“Oh no, no, no! I don’t need that,” He flaps his hand at me, looks away. The medusa pills. Drugs like these have become mythologized, used only for the most important missions, like this one. Yes, they make your eyes bug out and your face look crazy, but they work.

I blow air in a chuckle, “You want to do everything from your own damn muscle. Take the pill, Xan. Or am I going to have to save your ass later?”

“Peggi— you, my love, are very convincing,” he reaches out, palm up. I gingerly place one tiny pill onto a smooth patch of skin between calluses. He flips it up in the air and catches it on his tongue, swallows. I bug my eyes out as it sails through the air, but, he catches it, looks at me like its nothing, “We’ve been resting long enough, let’s go fry that authoritarian fuck!” He propels his body with his arms, swinging his feet over the massive fern just below, landing gently on two feet.

I take one more breath of rest, eyes softening on the beauty of a nearby Sitka spruce adorning garments of soft moss, and then leap off the boulder, landing in a squish of soft mud, “Let’s do it.”

We start down the ravine, light feet, making use of low branches to swing through denser parts of the understory. The pills soon act to make our bodies feel feather light, making our efforts feel invigorating rather than draining. Senses primed, we feel, smell, taste and see with utter clarity. I feel my mind clear, too.

As we weave through the forest I begin to reflect on the mission.

Xan and I are going to assassinate the Emperor of Everything, as he is now known, Reverend Michael D. Bray, leader of the military coup that drowned international trade and communications, split the country into wards of isolation, outlawed history, burned books. He is the one that Shepherded America into the age of unstoppable fire, runaway climate change, and endless war. Among his crimes are innumerable deaths, all in the name of his brand of ‘freedom.’

The whole plan started with Xan.

As the only intact forest this side of the Rockies, we had a few tattered refugees join us from the South. Xan was one of them. When I met him he could barely breathe for the smokey journey he endured through the coastal rubble. I helped him the best I could. Despite his fierce eyes and liberal sense of humor I thought he would die.

But, like me, he is a survivor. He just kept showing up, everyday, trying to get better.

We were lucky to have him. Anyone considered a part of the ‘intelligentsia’ had been culled years before; the Reverend was adamant that God would heal us, not doctors, and definitely not scientists. “I saw what was coming,” Xan explained, “patients stopped listening to my advice flat out; people became downright hostile. Almost like a wave of protest, patients would book appointments just to tell me I didn’t know anything, that the only prescription worth anything was prayer. So, I grew a beard and packed a bag, forged the ID of a recently deceased patient and assumed the identity of a lifelong janitor. Skipped town and drifted. I could have helped others do the same but,” and this is where he would always tear up, “I was afraid.” He was determined to right that course. To be brave for everyone.

It was at a full moon meeting when he confided in us about his true intentions. “I didn’t just come up here for the fresh air,” he looked around the circle, trying to catch eyes with each of us, “I came here to end him. In Reverend Bray’s capitol he sits pretty in a palace full of opportunity for a hit,” Xan looked almost child-like huddled under his woolen blanket, cross legged in front of the fire. He let the words hang around him, giving us a chance to make our judgements. Someone gave a “huh,” others shifted around uncomfortably, waiting for more details. Well, I thought, it wasn’t like we all hadn’t already considered it. The problem was that the security was impossible, his cronies fully brainwashed. And, none of us wanted to spill blood.

I spoke up, “Well, we’ve been living in these woods and keeping eyes on Bray for a long time now. I can tell you that he is always guarded and keeps a close watch on everyone around him. We have yet to see a weakness.” I shook my head and opened my palm, letting my hand drift out, like letting go of a wish from a dandelion seed. But then, an idea took root in my mind. I started seeing the potential. “But,” I pointed my finger out, “if we could kidnap and convince a few of his guards into sharing some intelligence, we could do it. We have a few long-banned substances that could really help with convincing.” And I looked at everyone, met their eyes individually to gauge confidence in the idea. Some skeptical furrows, some brows raised with excitement, “Remember, Bray sometimes leaves his palace, right? We saw that happen before. We just had no idea why or where he was going or for how long. If we could get a hold of that information I think we could take him out.” More skeptical looks; I sighed, “I was a therapist, remember? I know how to push mental buttons, get into peoples heads. With a little help I bet I could convince at least one of them to pass on information.”

Xan piped in, “And if that doesn’t work, we can always bribe them with free therapy sessions,” Xan slow punches my shoulder. We all giggled at that, enjoying a moment of absurdity.

All except for the usual naysayer, Skeena. As wise as she is, Skeena tends to disagree with everything at first. She crossed her arms and shook her head slowly, her wild grey bun of hair swaying with the movement. Her voice was stern, “You weren’t there, at the public executions. These men are brutal. They have no soul left. If your drugs and whatever else you’re planning to do doesn’t work, and I can’t see it working, then we are going to have to kill them. Then it is just a matter of time before they are going to come looking.” She looked me up and down, “I don’t see a killer here in front of me, I see someone swept along by the dreams of her rosy-eyed lover.”

I blinked slowly and tensed my lips before replying, “I wasn’t there but the executions were broadcast on every station,” I straightened my back, “Of course I know that they are horrible, but these are also human beings, not monsters. You should know this, Skeena, most of those people are just trying to survive, like all of us.” I gestured around the circle, “These soldiers are doing whatever they have to do to keep their families alive. They aren’t all soulless.”

Xan got up from his seat, placed his tea on the flat rock we’d rigged as a table, “Skeena is right, though.” He brushed my shoulder with his hand. “We will have to be completely sure about whoever we target.”

Skeena moved her hands to her hips, her eyes blazed in the firelight, “That isn’t what I meant and you know it. No matter how careful you are it doesn’t make up for the fact that it is a stupid idea. You will get yourselves and possibly all of us killed by those demons.”

She was wrong about the guards but she wasn’t wrong about the risks.

I had wanted to wait to do the mission until we had recruited at least one person connected to Bray’s inner circle. We had only just started our spy network when we got word that Bray had begun planning an ‘extermination’ of the forest witches, hoping to hang a few of us for the Christmas celebrations.

We had to act. When Charlie told us the news he said we had seven days to plan before Bray would be returning, using the old highway. He gave us the location of the overnight camp. This was our last chance.

~~

We take another short break at a beach formed beside an elbow in the river. The water still looks turquoise from glacial silt, like it did years ago. The crunch of river rocks under our feet are barely audible against the singing waters. The sun, a spark of orange in the sweaty haze, is hanging low. We unlace our boots and bob our red swollen feet in the waters, resting our rumps on a bone white trunk.

I muse, stretching out my toes, “Ever since the coup I’ve felt like… like my world has gotten so much smaller, like the continents have spread impossibly apart, went to a different dimension, even.” I glance into Xan’s eyes, “it really feels like no one else exists anymore.” Xan watches me back, considering my words. “We’ve trained for this for so long, but I barely remember what it was like before.”

The water kindly absorbs our fatigue, rivulets of sensation curl around my body, through vessels and bones, through my tongue and scalp. I breathe and close my eyes.

Xan speaks gently, “We need to focus on the present. Just remember, there may still be books out there, people alive who remember. We will find them. Either way, this is our chance to reinvent what it means to be human; it’s never going to be the same as it was.”

I consider his words as we pack up, set out again, trailing the river. I let the weight of that idea anchor my mind to his sense of hope; we can reinvent what it means to be human.

As we get closer to the camp we divert from the river and skirt to higher ground on the other side of the highway. We do this a mile out to avoid detection from their scent hounds. From this vantage we can get a good look at the camp layout and see where the guards are posted. We can even track the scouts in the forest from their torch light.

“Remember, we have folks on the inside so don’t murder anyone, killer.” He gives me his side eye, winks.

We planned the ambush nearest to the new moon; with help from the medusa pills our night vision will be able to adjust quickly. We can see them, but they can’t see us.

I tighten my boots, double check each weapon hold, finally, I reach into my satchel and bring out the ultimate weapon. I unfurl the necklace from its velvet nest, six pouches of dreaming powder dangle from the leather braiding. I look up to Xan; the soft look of his eyes reminds me that this might be our last moment together. I gently hook a stray strand of hair back behind his ear, move to my knees and bring the necklace over his head to rest the pouches along his chest. I place a hand on his heart and lean in; a deep and beautiful kiss sends fire through our bodies, and for a moment we forget everything that happened, and let go of everything that will.

“Let’s go.”

Xan drops first, his arms perfectly tuned for the descent, clasping rock holds and ginger steps, he silently clears the ridge and moves towards the gap between the guards. He will take care of the front line, my mission waits within the golden tent.

When I reach the edge of the camp Xan has already snuffed out the torches; I easily avoid detection. I have about 90 seconds before someone comes to relight them.

Bray’s tent is at the center of camp, obvious even in the dark night with its weave of gold, silk, and beautiful wools, fine materials mined from the catacombs of department stores, hidden well within the sea of rubble.

I stalk along the dirt track between tents, my charcoal rubbed skin blending in with the shadows, and I approach the back of the tent. I have to stop myself from marvelling at the rich and impossible textures, the beautiful glint of gold, like stars against the shadows. I steady my heart again.

My knife is drawn, I cut a slit, peek through a moment first before stepping inside.

I hear a deep snore rumble through the air. Crouched, liquid, I glide towards the head of the bed, a cot of suspended canvas over a sturdy bamboo frame. Lush blankets and fluffy pillows envelope the beast. His face is tilted upwards, his crown sitting heavily on his brow, a manicured beard lines his chiselled jaw. My heart wants to escape the cage of my ribs. I avoid panic; I have a task.

His last wife would have been here too, had he not executed her. What was it this time? Oh yes, she didn’t fully appreciate his genius, evidenced by her suggestion that perhaps he could spare some of the books on medicine and science. He was as brilliant as Einstein, she was made to confess, he didn’t need books.

I blow a puff of sleeping dust over his face, I listen for a moment. His breath is steady, still. I reach into my satchel and pull out a carefully crafted tincture, a concentrate of old growth forest mushrooms and Stim-ex. It tastes like a dirt and rot martini, but it works quickly. I bring my hands to his temples, focus.

My hands grow warm, then a faint red glow from my palm illuminates his cheeks; I take a deep breath.

A soft white ribbon of light spontaneously connects between my hands, surrounding the emperor's head— he awakes. His eyes widen in terror as he realizes what is happening.

A choking voice, “Witches! Greselda, where are you?”

I whisper back, “Shhh. You killed her, remember?” I send a surge into the folds of his mind, showing him the pain she felt when he betrayed her.

He shudders, gasps again, managing only a whisper, “Doona? Doona!” His closest friend and ally had stayed at the palace.

“Doona is not here, scum.” I spit the words at his struggling ego.

“You can’t steal my mind, witch. I am Emperor of Everything, Sole Genius of the land,” he coughs, “the sire of all children…” I send another surge, the fear and disgust that was felt when he took his ‘wives,’ funnels through his body, he calls out again, “it is god’s will!”

“Your echo chamber of grandeur is over. You will know what you really are.” My eyes fall back as the energy in my hands pulses again.

Just then someone approaches the tent, “Sir? I heard something. Are you ok?”

A cyclone of grief, the stabbing pain of betrayal, bloody fear, and the heavy despair of every orphan he created, every widow, each forlorn parent holding the limp bodies of children, the collective pain of each family he broke channeled through my heart into his.

A final surge. “Your eminence?” The guard pushes through the tent door, gun drawn. It is too late for me to recoil, my body is electrified in place, my mind melded. He leaps towards me, trying to pry my hands away. But it is too late.

The emperor’s body spasms and contorts, he gasps desperately before going limp, helpless against the new feeling of grief and loss.

Finally, his furious ego has drowned.

The guard looks confused as the Emperor’s eyes bead with tears and begins to sob. I whisper to the guard, “You have nothing to fear now,” and I grab another pinch of sleep dust and blow a puff into his face. The guard drops, unconscious.

The emperor brings his hand to his heart, looks at me with wet eyes and a jagged breath. He can't seem to find a word to utter.

“You’re welcome.” I say, and I leave his bedside.

I peek through the slit I had made, first just a slight crack, then when I see a pile of sleeping guards and Xan’s bemused smiling face I pull it wide and step through. He whispers, “Sounds like it worked, then?”

I nod. The light from my hands fading, we sneak out of the camp, into the woods and across the river. Finding a mossy nook a few miles in we make camp together, completely exhausted.

Xan wraps me in his arms and we’re gazing at the stars through reaching branches when he says, “Peggi, I probably would have just killed the guy.”

I laugh, “Well, he definitely would have deserved that. But... we will see what happens. If he fucks up again, we can do it your way.”

“I got a granola bar, Twinkies, ugh, crushed up potato chips…” Xan’s riffling through his provisions pack, all sweat and dirt. He lifts his brow and eyes me, a smirk catching his cheek.

“As soon as this is over I am planting a vegetable garden.” I reach over, “hand me a goddamn Twinkie,” I grab the plastic wrapped industrial food item between my thumb and finger, like picking up a strangers dirty sock.

“We’ve got at least six more hours through these woods. The king-all-father himself will be sleeping soundly when we arrive at the camp.” I give Xan a wide-eyed look, “We are going to need some help getting there,” and I pull out two blue powder pills out of my jackets zip pocket.

“Oh no, no, no. That shit?” Xan is a purist. He flaps his hand at me, looks away. The medusa pills.

I blow air in a chuckle, “You want to do everything from your own damn muscle. Take the pill, Xan. Or, am I going to have to save your ass later?”

“Peggi— you, my love, are very convincing,” he reaches out, palm up. I gingerly place one tiny pill onto a smooth patch of skin between his callouses. He flips it up in the air and catches it on his tongue, swallows, “We’ve been resting long enough, let’s fry that authoritarian fuck!”

We start down the ravine, light feet, making use of smooth branches to swing through denser parts of the forest understory. We are on our way to capture and kill the Emperor of Everything, leader of the military coup that drowned international trade and communications, making it possible for the rise of an authoritarian regime.

“Ever since the coup I’ve felt like, like my world has gotten so much smaller, like the continents have spread impossibly apart, went to a different dimension, even.” I glance into Xan’s eyes, “it really feels like they don’t exist anymore.”   Xan watches me back, considering my words. We are taking a break, enjoying a cold foot soak in the river. The water absorbs our fatigue beautifully, rivulets of sensation curl around my body, through vessels and bones, through my tongue and scalp.

“We’ve trained our whole lives for this but I barely remember what it was like before.” I take a breath and look into the sweaty haze enveloping the canopy. A crow is studying us.

Xan ignores my ponderings, “We need to focus on the present. There may still be books out there, people alive who remember what was in the books we lost. This is our chance to reinvent what it means to be human.”

I consider his words as we trail the river, let their weight anchor my mind to the present.

We divert from the river and skirt to higher ground on the other side of the road. We do this a mile out to avoid detection from their scent hounds. From this vantage we can get a good look at the camp layout and see where the guards are posted. We can even track the scouts in the forest from their torch light.

“Remember, we have folks on the inside so don’t kill anyone.” He gives me his side eye, winks. “I know Charles is in that camp.”

“I don’t care about Charles being there!” I shake me head and laugh at the jab, “Im not an amateur, Xan. I can deal with that meat head another day.” I take a deep breath, pushing aside the thought that there may not be another day. If we make a mistake.

What if it doesn’t work?

We planned the assassination on a new moon; with help from the medusa pills our night vision will be able to adjust quickly. We can see them, but they can’t see us.

I tighten my boots, double check each weapon hold, finally, I reach into my satchel and bring out the ultimate weapon. I unfurl the necklace from its velvet nest, six pouches of dreaming powder dangle from the leather braiding. I look up to Xan; the soft look of his eyes reminds me that this might be our last moment together. I gently hook a stray strand of hair back behind his ear, move to my knees and bring the necklace over his head to rest the pouches along his chest. I place a hand on his heart and lean in; a deep and beautiful kiss sends fire through our bodies, and for a moment we forget everything that happened, and let go of everything that will.

—————

“Let’s go.”

Xan drops first, his arms perfectly tuned for the descent, clasping rock holds and ginger steps, he silently clears the ridge and moves towards the gap between the guards. He will take care of the front line, my mission waits within the golden tent.

Xan has already snuffed out the torches here, I easily avoid detection. I have about 90 seconds before someone comes to investigate.

The Emperors tent is woven in gold, silk, beautiful wools, fine materials mined from the catacombs of department stores below the seas of rubble.

I stop myself from marveling at the rich and impossible textures, the beautiful glint of gold, like stars against the shadows. I steady my heart again.

My knife is drawn, I cut a slit, peek through a moment first before stepping inside.

I hear a deep snore send a rumble through the air. I am crouched, liquid, I glide towards the head of the bed, a cot of suspended canvas over a sturdy bamboo frame. Lush blankets and fluffy pillows envelope the beast. His face is tilted upwards, his crown sitting heavily on his brow, a manicured beard lines his chiseled jaw.

His last wife would have been here too, had he not publicly executed her. What was it this time? Oh yes, she didn’t fully appreciate his genius, evidenced by her suggestion that perhaps he could spare some of the books on medicine and science. He was as brilliant as Einstein, she was made to confess. Her acting skills were not as astute as some of his other yes men.

I bring my hands to his temples, focus. My hands grow warm, then a faint red glow, now palms illuminating his cheeks; i take a deep breath.

A soft white ribbon of light spontaneously connects between my hands, surrounding the emperors head— he awakes. His eyes widen in terror as he realizes what is happening.

A chocking voice, “Witches! Greselda, where are you?”

I whisper back, “You killed her. Remember?” I send a surge into the folds of his mind, showing him the pain she felt when he betrayed her.

He shudders, calls out again, managing only a whisper, “No. No! Doona?”

“Doona is not here, scum.”

“You can’t steal my mind, witch. I am Emperor of Everything, Sole Genius of the land,” he coughs, “the sire of all children…” I send another surge, the fear and disgust that was felt when he took his childrens’ mothers.

“Your echo chamber of grandeur is over. You will know what you really are.” My eyes fall back as the energy in my hands pulses again.

A cyclone of grief, the stabbing pain of betrayal, bloody fear, and the heavy despair of every orphan he created, every widow, each forlorn parent holding the limp bodies of children, the collective pain of each families he broke channelled through my heart into his.

A final surge.

His body spasms and contorts, his gasps desperately before going limp, helpless against the new feeling of loss. Finally, his robust furious ego has drowned.

I lay my hand on his heart- his glassy eyes look at me, ghostly now. “You’re welcome.” I say as I leave his bedside.

I peek through the slit I had made, first just a slight crack, then when I see a pile of sleeping guards and the bemused smiling face of Xan standing by I pull it wide and step through.

The light from my hands fading, we sneak out of the camp, into the woods, past more dozing guards and across the river.  Finding a mossy nook a few miles in we bed down together, exhausted but our spirits replete.

Buffoon.

You're a blubbering pustule of vile festering nonsense,

Spreading hate-riddled sickness, toppling immunity defenses.

You are besmirching our land with your mystery drivel,

accusing innocents of evils, oh, why can't you be civil?

before you go spewing more rancid notions of truth,

stuff your face with herbal remedies, maybe some gin and vermouth.

Why not run 30 miles, take a sauna or bath,

take a pill, a vacation, hike a long path,

your so full of BS I can't wait for a bowel movement,

literally any change would be an improvement.

It is harder and harder to see beauty in humanity with my growing knowledge of history, of dictators, of kings. But, the more I learn about the natural world the opposite is true; it becomes even more exquisite.

This is no Pollyanna hot take.

I love it even with the tapeworms, mosquitoes and snarling cougars, the frigid starving winters and the parching desert heat.

Beauty; embodied within even the smallest organisms, spun throughout the intricate web of processes that causes life's' continuation, beauty is as fundamental to life as DNA. All it takes is an openness and time to see, to hear, to feel, to smell, to taste, and I am hypnotized, transcended.

Leaves moving like waves in the wind, or the mind altering fragrance of balsam poplar, pine pitch, or rose. The feel of moss underfoot, or against my cheek as I lie on the forest floor, eyeing mushroom gills and the dusting of spores in the leaf litter. Chanterelle forages and sweet periwinkle nectar, the invigorating chrisp of wintergreen berries. Witnessing pelican hunts, the bass notes of barred owl calls, or a bee snoozing inside a chickweed flower. We all know that these are beautiful things, but do we see them as divine? Sentient? Deserving? To be a true naturalist, to be in love with everything the earth holds is to also embrace the vile. The violence. I embrace the shadow side, because I see it is inseparable from the rest.

Mosquitoes, ticks, piranhas, grizzly bears, cougars; parasites and predators each play a supporting role in a functional ecosystem. It is not just the specific tone of a particular species that I love but the whole symphony of interrelating species, crucial for appreciating this gorgeous song.

This beauty offers transcendence; watch the slow movement of a snail, let her crawl across your page, onto your finger, feel her life, her curiosity. Say hello.

This is what makes me different, maybe even extraordinary; certainly, this appreciation of beauty is what gives my life juice. Perhaps through my art, for whatever it is worth, I will be able to illuminate for someone the hidden threads of beauty woven even in the shadows of life.