Excerpt From No One Hunts on the Ice Anymore

A story is told of a ship that sailed to hunt Morsu on the ice where the great beasts gather in winter. Aboard this ship was a young huntress who was said to be most skilled with a spear despite having been born with webbing between her fingers. She must have had excellent aim and a strong arm.

Every winter many thousands of Morsu gather in a place on the ice known to sailors, and in summer -- as ice melts -- they disperse. It is said that hunters once violated an ancient pact with those creatures: that people will seek prey only in times of need. Winter is a hungry time, to be sure. But if truth be told, that ship sailed not because of famine but because the hunters were idle and seeking sport, as hunters will.

Approaching as close to the ice as they dared, those hunters could not see the Morsu, but they could smell them. They could hear the growls, the grunts and the barks. Dropping anchor and setting a timber between ship and shore, the huntress led the way, stealthy, weapon at the ready.

People say that because of the size, the strength and the ferocity of the Morsu, they must not be stalked alone. They will burst through ice and attack from below. Tusks may impale limbs. No matter how silently hunters walk, ice may creak beneath feet.

The huntress gestured to a companion. She was pointing toward the head of a Morsu hiding, floating silent and white beneath the water. She speared it. Her companion wrapped it with a rope before it sank. Together they dragged it to the ship.

By the end of the day, so many Morsu carcasses were lined up at the edge of the ice the little ship could not hold them all. A hunter slit open the belly of one creature. Cold and hungry, hunters felt the need to fortify themselves for the journey home. They ate the liver raw and drank warm blood.

But home was not to be. Unbeknownst to them, the remaining Morsu pursued silent and white in the deep. Sailors did not see until too late. Morsu surged to the surface, hooking their tusks over the side of the ship, pulling it down. Caught unaware, the huntress threw a spear that went wide of its mark.

Their ship was taking on water faster than the sailors could bail. The ship foundered. It sank.

Sailors who fell into the icy water shivered. Their breathing slowed. They fell into that sleep from which one does not awake. Eyes tight shut against stinging salt water, the huntress anticipated the inevitable. However, the Morsu did not attack. They circled. They waited.

In the midst of the long winter when there was little light even during the day, the huntress had no way of knowing how much time had passed. She could not see, but she could hear. Bells. She heard the sound of bells ringing underwater. How could that be? Without thinking, her eyes fluttered open.

Surprised, she realized the salt water did not sting her sight. She was not shivering. An experienced winter tracker, the huntress knew those near death in deep cold paradoxically feel warm as though resting near a blazing fire. All around floated the bodies of her comrades. Those whose eyes were open stared unseeing.

She saw white spirits circling, approaching ever closer. The sound of bells continued to reverberate. If this was death, then it seemed gentle.

But those were not spirits she saw. As they drew near, she could see the Morsu, white bodies emerging from darkness. On the ice sheet their great blubbery bodies lumbered, but underwater they swam with grace as if flying.

One flew toward her so quickly the huntress did not have time to flinch. Bumping her hand with its nose, it examined the webbing between her fingers with quivering whiskers. Its tusks looked fierce, but its touch was soft. Several more drew near to examine her hands. It almost looked like they were speaking with one another. Again the huntress heard the sound of bells. She wondered: Is that what those growling, grunting, barking creatures sound like in the ocean?

She imagined that she could almost make out some of what they were saying: hands, one of them, one of us, what is it?

One butted her with its head, not hard enough to hurt. Another shoved her upward. How long had it been since she’d taken a breath?

Surfacing, she breathed, not the gasping breath of a person who has been underwater too long but a slow sigh ruffling the water in front of her. Floating in front of her face she saw white whiskers that appeared to be her own. Rolling to one side to hold up her hand, she saw a pale clawed flipper.

Excerpt From Fire is One Way to Harvest the Clouds

Apply today! Join our crews who serve to protect millions of acres within our forests. A firefighting career has multiple rewards, including work assignments in some of the most beautiful places in the world and friendships that last a lifetime. Preference given to individuals displaced by severe weather events. – Forest Service www.careers.un.org/forests 22 April 2177

The next day they shoveled. The day after that, Thirza's crew was charged with clearing trees on either side of the line. Finally she had a chance to demonstrate proper use of climbing gear and those saws. The inexperienced crew, however, couldn't cut fast enough.

Tapping her ear harder than was absolutely necessary, she said: "Hester, what's your ETA with that water? Over."
Hester's news wasn't good. Padilla had indeed located another water source, but it took longer to reach. Even worse, when the dragonfly pilots got there, they learned the local water commission had opened a dam so their farmers could irrigate crops. That lake was almost dry.

"All their fucking crops are going to burn if we don't get some water here soon," Thirza said. "Over." Then turning her attention to one of the conscripts, she called out: "You’re never going to get up the tree that way! Here, let me show you how."

Shimmying to the treetop, Thirza could see a long way off. And what she saw was a cloud formed by moisture rising from the fire. Then she heard thunder in the distance, and a gust of wind set the tree to swaying. She sighed.

Tapping her ear, she conferred with Padilla, who confirmed identification of a flammagenitus cloud. "Perhaps you should evacuate. Over."

"I'll keep an eye on it. Over and out."

Her crew kept working, but when lightning started she ordered a strategic retreat. Safety first.

All the way back, it seemed like the fire was a predator stalking her crew. By jogging, they were able to outpace it, but just barely. Placing herself at the back of the group, Thirza kept counting heads. Someone stopped, bent over and panting. She grabbed his arm, pulling him along. “Keep moving!” Soon she recognized a landmark that meant they were getting close to camp. “We’re almost there!” A few minutes later, though, they heard a boom loud enough to make the ground shake. When they rounded a bend, Thirza saw a huge cottonwood had fallen across the trail carrying fire in its branches. Now there was fire in front of them, fire behind and fire to either side.

“Everyone, visors down,” Thirza ordered. “Get your … “

A branch as large as a small tree crashed to the ground almost on top of one of the conscripts. Helplessly, she watched as he ran screaming back the way they’d come, back into the fire. “No!” Thirza held out her arms, blocking those who tried running after their friend. “We stay together.” Then she turned to look again at the cottonwood blocking their path. “I just realized! Cottonwoods, they grow near water. Quick! Does anyone see a creek?”

“La!” She heard Samuel’s now-familiar Caribbean accent. “Over there!”

“Into the water! Let’s go!” Wading and splashing, Thirza led them to safety downstream.

Back at camp, she insisted on leaving immediately with a search-and-rescue team. Padilla, however, heard her coughing and insisted she see a medic. The medic diagnosed smoke inhalation and said was in no condition to go anywhere. He prescribed bed rest, hooking her up to oxygen.

"I am sorry. I am so sorry,” Hester said when she came to the field hospital later to see her friend. “There was no water."

"There was plenty of water." Thirza’s voice choked on the words. "It was right there over our heads, tons and tons of water in that cloud, and it never rained." After sitting silently for a moment, she took a deep breath of the oxygen. "Stupid thing is, someone died but I’m lying here and I can’t stop thinking about a dream.”

"A dream?"

"Yeah, that night in the transport. It was a voice ... “

“And what did the voice in your dream say?”

“It told me that fire is one way to harvest the clouds. I keep trying to figure out what that could possibly mean."

Excerpt From A Game of Tag

If you had been there when they found Claire, you would have seen her slumped against the wall near where she’d lost her house keys. The girl was still breathing. Her eyes were wide open, but they didn’t seem to see anything. Her face was tagged with the same signature she had painted over earlier.

The driver was shaking her shoulders, trying to get a response.

“Where’s the dead guy?” asked the boy with the bolt cutters, looking around.

The boy with the blue shirt was spinning in circles. “Mother fuckin’ … he was right here.”

“Claire,” the boy who owned the truck said, shaking the girl again. “Claire!”

Moaning, she lifted her hand to wipe at something she felt running down her face. Pulling her fingers away, she could see they were stained black and wet.

“It’s paint, Claire,” the boy with the bolt cutters said, kneeling beside her. “Someone tagged your face. Who did this to you?”

“Who? What?” Then some focus returned to her eyes. “I don’t remember … I felt faint and everything went black … and when I woke up, I was … I saw … “

“What did you see?”

“A light … “

“I’ve got a light, Claire,” the boy in blue said, holding out his cell phone.

“I saw a light … “

“Where’s the dead guy, Claire,” the driver asked. “Where’d he go?”

“He … he … “

They could see horrified realization growing in her eyes as she crawled like a crazed creature away from the wall. Grabbing her friend’s cell phone, she turned back where she had come from and aimed the light. They saw it. They all saw it.

“He’s there,” she said. “He’s right there.”

The body was gone, but there was a new painting in the building’s gallery: an old white man with bushy eyebrows and a full white beard. His face was tagged, just like Claire’s. And spray painted next to him was a message: Tag, you’re it!