Issue 46 (Sept. 2015)
The doctor told Kane Araki it happened that sometimes, in extreme circumstances of weather or diet, a Japanese man or woman might spontaneously sprout a set of wings.
A whisper of excitement echoes through the cave, or what I think of as a cave. She is coming, the minghun broker is coming, I hear or perhaps feel, like soft butterfly wings brushing my face. I strain to catch a glimpse of one of the others I know to be around me, but it is difficult to see faces. A flash of sleeve, whether plain or fancy, or a pale hand laid briefly on my arm is more likely.
He peers into the rough hole, dabbing at his brow with a damp handkerchief. The shovel has found every large stone in this 3-square foot area. Beating down on the two of them is the early summer sun, but he, much older than his companion, feels it a lot more, especially in his knees and the middle of his back.
She squats down easily, inspecting the rough sides of what looks like an overgrown divot in the grass. At only twelve years old, she has much experience with the central New Jersey soil and rock in her mother’s backyard. With nimble, dirty fingers she retrieves a stone, rolling it over as if it signals some clue they need.
Lellianeth, Lady River, her name—from a time when names were fewer and meant more, and were beautiful as the world she was born into. Your name, the old lore said, held your history, and could lead you back to yourself if ever you lost your way—and she felt, oddly, that somehow she had.