Part One: Santana
Chapter One: The Gathering
Moments before Our Lady Maeve awoke that morning, on the pale sands outside Port Yuma, an unusual thing occurred:
Two adults in plain, bright clothing and matching white capes — and chrome fox masks over their faces — appeared out of nowhere, lying down in a shallow depression in the sand nearby. They curled around one another as if they’d been sleeping there all along.
I. Our Lady Maeve
Our Lady — that’s how She was to be addressed.
Never simply Maeve: Maeve was long ago and far away. No, She was the monument from which that poor girl Maeve had fallen away like scaffolding:
Our, because She belonged to the world.
Lady because people will always be desperate to know where they stand. And where they stood, with Our Lady Maeve, was: ever so slightly below.
They elevated Her because they simply could not help themselves. People needed something to believe in, and She was what they chose. She knew this, if nothing else.
Well, and one thing more: There was someone atop Our Lady. Lying quietly, breathing barely at all. They had an air of alertness, muscles twanging, ready to react. They didn’t seem to mean Her any harm.
They were wrinkling Her gown.
And it occurred to Her, as she contemplated opening Her eyes, that were there harm to be had, it would be better to have someone between Oneself and it. Even if it meant they were technically atop One, perhaps.
There were tiny bells sewn to the person’s outfit, but they barely tinkled. They didn’t train just anybody to be that still anymore — and where would you go to learn skills like that?
Nowhere lovely. The person on top of Her seemed to be a pretty scary individual, given the evidence.
All the better.
The person breathed in, suddenly, became somehow twice as taut, in a single tiny jerk. They must have been asleep, too, She thought.
It was curious. What would a being like this dream of? Tactics. Weapons, most likely.
“I’m Queene Death,” the person whispered in a monotone. “I have no memories to speak of, but I trust You with my life.”
Our Lady Maeve took stock a moment.
“I feel it as well,” She agreed, “And so I thank you for your protection. You’re too kind, Queene Death.”
The name wasn’t as odd on Her tongue as She might’ve imagined. Queene Death snickered.
“I don’t think I’m too kind, actually.”
“Is there an active threat? I can’t see anything,” She whispered, muffled by their chest.
“…It’s because you’re on top of me,” She clarified helpfully after a moment. When Queene Death laughed it sounded like a crow. K-k-kkkk.
“I’ve been assessing. I think we’re good.”
In one muscular, fluid movement, the person was up and helping Our Lady. In the time it took to get to Her feet, a few notable things happened.
First: This helpful person, apparently named Queene Death, was wearing a horse’s skull as a mask. It covered their face completely. (They never, ever took it off. Our Lady was somehow certain of that.)
Second: They also wore what was clearly a long maroon wig, playing on the sea breeze in a rather poetic fashion.
Third: There was a sea breeze for it to play on poetically.
They were standing on a beach, Her bare holy feet in the sand — and the sand, in turn, all in Her copper curls and golden dress.
Queene Death’s chic black uniform and razor-clawed gloves were simply beribboned with wee silver bells. So their prey would know to run, Our Lady suddenly knew.
(The best One could do with the memories was try to grab them as they went past. The tiny flickers.)
Definitely a scary individual. But the bond was real — as plain as where a nose would have been on their face.
“You’re my guardian.”
Like an angel, Our Lady thought. Like a terrible angel.
“Your protector.”
Queene said it with both pride and authority. Our Lady smiled. Presumably Queene Death smiled.
A rather poignant moment, two rebels against the world with only each other to depend on. A tremendous feeling, She thought — just the two of them, against the world.
This tremendous feeling was interrupted almost immediately by the two or three others reviving nearby. She didn’t bother to register much more than details.
There was a dirty little boy with twigs in his hair — who became a bearcub for a moment, right before Her eyes. His joy in the act was infectious. The cub was roly-poly, falling over its own feet.
Further away, a pair of adults rose who had been curled around one another, rather than stacked, like Herself and Queene Death.
They were wearing white capes — and, creepily, matching chrome fox masks.
“I feel rather naked without My mask,” Our Lady laughed, to no reaction.
The strangers put hands to their chrome fox faces and nodded. It was true that She and the boy were outnumbered, without masks, but at least the child’s face was covered in dirt. All she had was her naked face, with them looking at her like that.
“We are the Dreamers of the Night,” the fox-faces began explaining, and then abruptly bailed out of whatever they were going to say next.
“I’m God,” Our Lady said, ever so casually, “And this is Queene Death.”
These “Dreamers of the Night” did not react at all to Her revelation, which was obnoxious, but they retained the upper hand.
Those masks and capes could hide a lot of danger, She thought, and, How long has One been so paranoid?
The dirty little boy approached cautiously across the sand, holding out arms as if to keep his balance, hopping over river stones. Our Lady Maeve smiled, sympathetic to his plight.
“It’s to keep the animals inside, isn’t it? You have to be careful.”
The little boy nodded, meeting Her gaze for a moment before he was a sudden Sparrowhawk, circling upwards in a widening gyre.
He drew Her eyes, and those of the various Mask People, away over the Sea. A shining, golden boat with white sails was heading for the shore.
II. The Bard Thomas
On this same early morning, the Bard Thomas awoke to the handsome face of a scruffy young sailor, which was a promising start.
Less intriguing was the terror in his own fast-beating heart: he must have awakened from a real nightmare.
The dashing and unreliable Bard Thomas had broken and forgotten hearts all over the Chain. His gifts were musical and magical. He had a kinship with fire — and danger.
He could be manipulative, even callous, but ultimately he just wanted to be liked. His schemes had a way of working out, for him if not necessarily everyone involved. He had a generous heart — once his own wants were met — and a streak of empathy that sometimes embarrassed him.
These were the things he knew about himself.
The sailor was facedown, as was Thomas, on the golden deck of a slim wooden schooner. Adrift in the silence and early morning light, Thomas was almost inclined to stay where he was.
Sailorboy awoke then, and smiled cheerily. Thomas grinned back.
“I don’t know about you, mate, but we must’ve done some damage last night. I don’t remember a thing! Not my name, not yours, nothing.”
The sailor had no memory either.
“I’m a sailor, and I think we’re friends, but that’s all I know. I recognize your face, though.”
That sounded correct.
“Well, that’s me. What a delightful mystery!”
“Let’s head inland and see if we can find some help,” the sailor suggested, more awake now. “This doesn’t need to be a problem.”
As if responding to the sailor’s wishes, the drifting boat turned itself and began speeding toward land.
There were meat and fruit pies in the boat’s hold. After some consideration, the sailor and Thomas decided to eat some.
The sailor made a point of noting they would pay the ship’s owner back, later.
“Sure,” said Thomas, in good humor. “Yeah, for sure. I like how you’re such a good guy.”
The young sailor grinned.
There was no way Thomas was going to worry about a few pies when he was starving and adrift at sea, but he liked that the sailor cared.
“It’s amazing — I know nothing,” Thomas said over their meat pies. “How relaxing that must be for me. I wonder if someone put the whammy on us, eh?”
“I don’t know anything either,” the sailor said, then remembered something else. Unmistakable love lit his face suddenly, like the Sun coming out. “Oh! But there’s a woman I need to find. Red hair and a golden gown.”
Thomas shrugged at that. “I feel like our love lives can wait, actually. We need to be looking for land.”
The sailor shrugged in turn.
“You’re a Bard,” he said offhandedly. “The Bard Thomas.”
“Thomas… Tom? Tommy? Oof. No, Thomas — that’s me. I’m the Bard Thomas.”
“Can you remember anything at all, Bard Thomas?”
Eyes darkening, he shook his thick dark hair.
“Nothing worthwhile. The memories are…”
“Like sparks coming up from a fire. Fast and bright, but gone.”
Thomas nodded, holding the sailor’s gaze until his cheeks reddened.
“Nicely put,” the Bard said, eyes warm. “That’s exactly it.”
“Are we friends, do you think? The other us?”
The Bard in red considered it, seriously enough.
“Yeah, I think so.”
They both liked the idea.
“I think so too,” said the sailor. “I bet we laugh a lot.”
Thomas smiled, holding his gaze, and turned to the Sea.
“I think we should head for that big thing in the water,” he said, pointing at a shape. There was, in fact, a large thing in the water.
As if by magic, the little boat began racing toward the thing, whatever it was.
“Good little boat,” Bard Thomas gushed, caressing the golden wood like it was alive.
Blue cornflowers bloomed under his touch, ending after a few moments in a rain of petals onto the deck.
He didn’t notice.
As they came closer to reaching the large thing, they began to realize they were looking at one end of a six-lane highway overpass, toppled onto its back in the water so that the steel skeleton of the road jutted up into the sky.
“A concerning, not to say postapocalyptic, sight,” Thomas rumbled portentously. “Highways don’t usually do that. Boats don’t act like this, either. What brave new world is this? Are we on the Planet of the Apes?”
Sailorboy had clearly never heard of the film, but he was always one to yes, and. He pointed to the sky.
“Planet of Apes? Is there a planet of apes? Can we go there? I’d like to see them. Their little ape shops.”
The Bard Thomas had no response. Neither of them really knew if he were kidding. The Bard liked that part the most.
The boat sailed well around any wreckage in the water, curling herself through the waves and jumping their backs, until she was pointed right at the sands of a beach.
“Land ho!” Thomas shouted unnecessarily.
“There’s people ashore!” Sailorboy called from the front of the boat.
And so there were. Three adults wearing uniforms and masks, one child…
…And what do you know, a redhead in a yellow dress. Thomas was intrigued.
The boat sped up, pulled forward perhaps by the sailor’s sudden urgency to get to his love. She showed no sign of slowing as they neared the shore, still sailing directly toward the little group.
Before they could even attempt to stop her, the boat had slid up onto the beach itself. The others all jumped back, though they were in no real danger.
The scruffy, cheerful sailor followed Thomas down a rope ladder that tossed itself off the side. The name painted on the prow was Actæon.
“Thank you, boat,” the sailor said, in a hushed voice. Just in case the Actæon was listening.
She was.
Waist-high in the water, their legs dragged mercilessly — lagging so far behind they nearly tripped the men up. Thomas could hear the labored breathing behind him as they made their way toward the others.
They had just reached shore when a piercing scream echoed across the sand. It was the jagged, terrified sound of an animal being killed. It stretched out, impossibly long, and then shrilled out again in threnody. It was awful.
It was the sailor.
The sound was coming from the sailor behind him, his new friend, as he puked meat and fruit pies into the seafoam. The pain seemingly never stopped moving, twisting his muscles and bones around themselves.
He writhed in the sand, begging “Our Lady” to come and save him from this pain in one breath and begging Her to look away in the next. Begging the agony to end, one way or another.
The man seemed close to death, just within a few moments. A horse-skulled person leapt forward, unable to help. The redhead wrung her hands while the two fox-masked people cowered silently. Nobody was helping the man, so Thomas fell to his knees beside him in the tide. The poor Actæon thrashed herself against the sand in distress.
The surf was getting in the sailor’s open mouth and eyes, so Thomas pulled him up into his lap. Thomas’s red linen shirt and fine trousers were soaked, but he didn’t notice. He wasn’t really helping either, but at least he was there.
A hawk descended to the sand, becoming a young wildboy becoming a roly-poly bearcub and finally a young wolf, flickering between shapes unhelpfully. The wolf whined, clutching helpless claws in the sand.
The young sailor had stopped moving.
III. Holder Stone
Crunch-flap, crunch-flap, went Holder’s boots in the sand. Balaam hadn’t hesitated once on the trail — just walked, at his steady pace, in a single direction: due west. The Coast.
Her little bungalow was only about an hour from the beach, westward of which it wasn’t possible to go, so she knew she’d find them soon.
This amnesiac version of Our Lady Maeve would have the copper curls, the classic gold shift dress, the look captured by Her faithful in a million images — but Holder Stone reminded herself she’d have to treat Our Lady practically like a stranger.
It made Holder sad to think of her sister, locked away inside Herself like that. But they’d all be themselves again soon, she hoped.
No. Trusted.
And then they could figure out who did this — and stop them permanently from doing it again. She looked forward very much to closing this case.
That’s about when the screams started, out near the water. The sounds of Sailorboy dying were not something she’d heard a lot of times, but they also weren’t anything you could ever forget.
Holder started to run. Up a dune, breathing hard, losing a shoe. The Dreamers definitely had amnesia. No way they would have let Sailorboy walk on land otherwise.
“Get him in the water! Water, now!”
Stunned, they obeyed — rolled his prone, twisted body out into the surf.
As Holder drew closer, they huddled around him, relieved to see him breathing again.
Dreamers reassembled, she thought. After such long lifetimes. And not one of them knew who they were. Or how dangerous.
“You are my family. You’ve been reborn without your memories. We are all in danger. I can help.”
She waited, silently begging them not to make it difficult. They seemed to be relaxing after the horrible screams.
“Thank you for trusting me,” Holder said then, with genuine gratitude. “I wish this were easier. Let’s get on the boat.”
Thomas and Queene Death supported Sailorboy, still dazed and recovering, as Holder dismissed the donkey and led her family out into the water.
“We always agreed that if this happened, we’d ask the Dry Witches for help. We’re sailing to Santana. I’ll answer all your questions once we’re underway.”