…lost in darkness and distance.

There’s hardly a memory I have from my childhood that cannot be, in some way, associated with Star Wars. When I was five years old I had my first job – harvesting blueberries in mid September in central Maine. I remember this because I lost my Han Solo action figure in the endless blue and brown ocean of berry shrubs. I was paid fifteen dollars (a fortune for a five year old in 1980) for filling up two buckets, a job that, because I had much better things to occupy my time, like playing with my Star Wars action figures, took me nearly the entire day to complete. I remember the exact amount of my modest restitution very clearly because I had used the money to buy myself a toy x-wing fighter, the space ships flown by the Rebel Alliance. My first memory of going to the movies was a drive-in showing of The Empire Strikes Back. I lost my virginity on Star Wars bedsheets. I was reprimanded in the Army because I had to see the midnight showing of The Phantom Menace, the first of the contentious prequel movies, and I overslept the next morning. My divorce to my first wife was as amicable as a divorce can be, the only only thing that I reserved for myself in writing was my collection of over four hundred Star Wars action figures. Star Wars taught me everything I needed to know about morality, honor, love, and redemption, and did it in a far more enjoyable framework than church or school.

For most of my life I had kept this obsession hidden from everyone but my closest circle of friends and sometimes even from them. I’ve always tried to blend in to the crowd, to remain unnoticed, a vestigial defense mechanism from my harrowing high school years. So it was not without a small degree of fear that I decided to “out” myself publicly and join the 501^st Stormptrooper Legion, the premier adult Star Wars costuming organization.

The Legion was founded in 1997 by Albin Johnson, a Star Wars fan with enough talent and skill to create his own Stormtrooper costume in his garage. What started as a small group of friends is now a multinational charity organization with over 4000 members worldwide. And each of these members has a highly detailed and screen accurate fan made costume. I had seen them before, grown men and women, dressed up as Stormtroopers and other bad guys from the Star Wars movies, and had secretly envied them, even as I made fun of them with my friends. Even though I didn’t think of myself as the kind of person who would dress up and attend conventions (I’m married, I don’t live in my parent’s basement, and I am only moderately socially awkward), I still wanted to join because nothing seemed cooler to me than dressing up as a Stormtrooper. If you are familiar with Star Wars, you know what a Stormtrooper is, and even if you’ve been hiding under a rock since the mid 1970’s or you’re a visiting dignitary from another planet, you’ve at least seen those ubiquitous white-armored shock troopers of the Empire on pop-culture posters, games, t-shirts, and countless other merchandise available at nearly every store on Earth. They are the most iconic of the Star Wars characters. They are the face of the franchise, and I wanted to be one.

The costumes, as it turns out, require a lot of work and skill to construct and are not cheap. It took me over six months to put my costume together. During that time I had to learn how to form plastic, wire cooling fans, rivet metal, nylon and plastic, use a glue gun, solder, sew, and make boots. My Garrison Liaison Officer spent a week looking over high-res photos of my uniform from every conceivable angle to make sure I qualified. In the costuming world we are the elite, yet even within the Legion there’s an unspoken hierarchy. The do-it-yourselfers, like me, are looked down by a handful of troopers who have the cash to blow on top-of-the-line gear. Costuming in the 501^st is an expensive hobby – for all my penny pinching, my costume still cost me nearly a grand. But some of these guys have outfits that cost as much as my car.

Once completed and approved however, I got my official ID number – TK9839 – and my first opportunity to showcase my new armored alter-ego at the All-Con science fiction convention in Plano, Texas. Unlike most conventions, this one is not dedicated to one particular obsession, like comic books or Star Trek, but is an aggregate of all types of nerd fetishes, a yearly Mecca for internet shut-ins who, rubbing their eyes from the intensity of the sun, brave the outdoors for their annual offline weekend of socialization with other human beings. I imagine a boys-on-one-side-of-the-gym-and-girls-on-the-other, middle school dance kind of awkward atmosphere as I arrive at the Expo Center.

It’s a cool morning, not cold enough to see my breath but the sun is low and the shadow I cast in the parking lot is a long and blue. It seems to be laughing at me as I get out of my car and haul out the three 30 gallon plastic containers it takes to hold my all my costume parts – you don’t belong here! They’re all gonna laugh at you! I put on my armor slowly, all three layers snapped, velcroed and strapped in place, compulsively checking myself in my car’s side mirror to make sure I’ve got it all on right. The last thing I want is to have a strap hanging out, or something on backwards, only to be put in my place by a spectacled acne-faced loser. The Expo Center is pretty small, compared to other sci-fi conventions I’ve been to. There’s not much of a crowd yet either, I got here early to avoid the added anxiety of finding my way around in a throng of con-goers.

I strap on my boots and give myself one final armor check. Ready. Deep breath.

There is only a small line at the receptionist desk. The guy in front of me is taller than I am and he’s wearing a brown sweater, a multi-colored knitted scarf, a red velvet coat and a fedora. He’s speaking to the receptionist in a terrible Cockney accent. I’ve never seen the show but I don’t doubt he’s supposed to be someone from Dr. Who. I’m joined in line by a group of three girls, two of whom are way too loud. The only quiet one, dressed as a black samurai, is a plain looking girl with a slouching posture. I can’t tell what the other two – the obnoxious ones – are supposed to be. The skinny one is definitely some anime character. She’s wearing a lime green bikini with a cartoonish skull on top of her head and enormous pink fuzzy boots. The other girl is a plump little round thing with a red sweaty face, dressed like a nineteenth century Midwestern housewife in a blue floral dress, a lace apron and a white bonnet (think Mrs Olsen from Little House on the Prairie for those of you old enough to remember that show). She’s carrying a frying pan.

The line moves quickly and the receptionist calls me forward. I hand her the tickets I paid for online and she hands me my badge. It’s a weekend pass hanging from an orange NOS lanyard (NOS is a brand of energy drink and they are sponsoring the event). She puts a neon-green piece of tape around the barrel of my gun, after making sure it’s made of resin and not a functioning firearm, and reminds me that there’s a 501^st meeting in an hour. Mandatory for all club members (what would they do if I didn’t show up?). I thank her and take the elevator up to the main floor.

Inside the elevator are two sheriffs in brown khakis and smokey bear hats. I wonder why they need law enforcement here. These seem like the most docile people to ever converge in one place. I look down and notice their pistols are tagged with the same green tape. Their unit patches on their shoulders say “EUREKA COUNTY SHERIFF.” I feel like an idiot when I realize that’s from a TV show on SyFy. These two are really just costumers but they look every bit like legitimate officers. They’re tall, well-muscled men who could no doubt slam me bodily to the ground if I were to step out of line.

Upstairs I see a lot of Star Wars costumes. Stormtroopers, Biker Scouts, Royal Guards, and more. I see the 501^st official booth (no one manning it at the moment) with it’s banner advertising membership benefits (JOIN THE EMPIRE!) and informational brochures. I look around and start to silently panic. I don’t know anyone here. I don’t know what to do or where to go. What is my job here? I know the Legion hosts events and they members to help set up and organize them, but I don’t know when or where they are. Not finding answers to my questions I decide to walk the halls and just look around.

The main floor is starting to fill up with costumers. I see video game characters; pirates; anime girls in sailor outfits; girls with cat ears, tails, and claws; anime guys sporting brightly dyed, spiked hair with enormous cardboard swords (now would be a good time to mention my unconditional disdain for anime – I’ve always thought it was juvenile, poorly written, ineptly animated, cringe-inducing garbage). There’s a giant blue phonebooth being set up in a corner and guarded by an entourage of bescarfed and sweatered men. Dr Who again. I roll my eyes underneath my helmet. Nerds!

About fifteen minutes before the 501^st meeting is set to begin I meet an older couple who call themselves Dr. and Mrs. Livingston Forrester. Their unique costumes immediately catch my eye so I stop to talk to them. They tell me their style is “Steampunk,” a mix of Victorian Era clothing with steam powered retro-futuristic gadgetry, a kind of steroidic Jules Verne. Dr. Forrester is a short man, with long grey hair, a mustache, and a dark complexion. He’s decked out like a Victorian big-game safari hunter, with a pith helmet and giant blunderbuss rifle (he gives his occupation as Applied Paleontology) and his wife, a pale skinned but healthy looking blonde, whose hair is just frosted with grey, has on a corset and a top hat, complete with aviation goggles. She tells me she is a writer – “Dr. Forrester’s biographer, to be precise.”

After chatting with the Forresters about their Steampunk philosophy (it’s a way of life for them), I decide I’ll have to look into it more. Mr Forrester (I learn that’s not his real name) tells me that they incorporate the Victorian ethics into their everyday life. I jokingly ask if those ethics include colonialism and social Darwinism. “Ethics is probably the wrong word,” says Mrs Forrester. “It’s more like Victorian ’sensibilities,’ really. Their sense of propriety and aesthetics”

I listen to them talk about Steampunk with a moving passion. They call it “retro-futurism” – the future as envisioned by the past, filled with strange flying machines, fantastic steam-powered mechanical gadgets, and people who speak with eloquent faux-British accents. I look around and see a lot more Steampunk outfits. I see pirates, mechanics, and military officers, all with characteristic retro-futuristic flair. I find the booth for the local group, the Airship Nocturne. I take a flier, and head for the 501^st meeting room.

On the way I’m stopped by two men who want a picture with me. They compliment my armor and ask if I’m a member of the 501^st. It’s a little strange and uncomfortable, but also somewhat exciting. As a stormtrooper, I expected to blend in with all the other troopers here, but they seem to be MIA – I’ve only seen a handful of them and we are getting an awful lot of attention from the “normals” walking around. They snap their picture posing with me and I hurry along.

The meeting is being held in the Willow Room, one of the larger sized rooms on the mezzanine. It’s already almost full and I feel like I’m late. I’m not sure what to do. Everyone seems to be talking in small groups, but I don’t know anyone so I wait. There are plenty of chairs, but nearly half in attendance remain standing (including me – it is next to impossible to sit down in Stormtrooper armor). There’s tables arranged in the front of the room and the Texas garrison officers are seated there, talking to each other, looking over papers, and checking their cell phones. The 501^st and garrison flags are positioned, crossing each other, behind the VIPs. A sign by the door reminds us to take off our helmets so we could all get to know each other on a more personal level. Twenty minutes after the meeting was scheduled to start, the Garrison Executive Officer calls us to order. He’s dressed as a Clone Trooper from the shitty Star Wars prequel movies. The officers introduce themselves one at a time (there are at least ten of them – Garrison XO, GML, Armorer, PR Liaison, half a dozen squad leaders and a merchandising officer) and then they get down to the serious business of running an adult costuming club.

A female officer, the North Texas squad leader I think, calls out one of the guards in the back for having his helmet on, telling him that it is “regulation” to remove it for the meeting. We all turn to look at him. He looks around, presumably to see if everyone is, indeed, sans headgear, and, realizing that he’s the odd one out, finally capitulates and takes off his helmet. He apologizes sheepishly and tells us he prefers to be behind the mask, he’s not like the rest of us “pretty boys.” I can see why. The poor kid is afflicted with an Old Testament, wrath-of-God kind of ugliness. Like he not only opened the Ark of the Covenant, but he pissed in it for good measure. His cheeks are so deeply pockmarked that they look like cheese graters and he has a plague of acne so severe that even his pimples have pimples.

The meeting is dull. They talk about upcoming charity events, new officers, new rules, and there seems to be some anger among a vocal minority over the handling of a recent unauthorized merchandising run that resulted in several officers resigning from their posts. A man sitting two rows in front of me speaks up in a thick Texas drawl, demanding to know exactly what happened – the exact chain of events that led to the resignations. The garrison Commanding Officer stands up and tells him it is an internal matter and we all need to put it behind us. I see a few heads shake in disapproval. I’ve been enjoying dressing up in character so far, but not enough to take it this seriously. My feet hurt from standing around and I can’t listen to any more motions to amend the Star Garrison charter, so I duck out for a walk. By now the vendor area is fully set up and I want to get first dibs on some goods.

The merchant’s square in the Oak Room is the hub of activity and by far the most crowded area. The t-shirt stalls are particularly popular. Designs range from retro video games, to every variety of sci-fi movie and TV show, geek pop culture (BAZINGA!), and comic book logos. Farther in are the specialty shops selling obscure autographed photos (TOM TROUPE – PLAYED “AUGUSTUS” IN EPISODE 13 OF THE PLANET OF THE APES TV SERIES (1978) – $35.00). One of the smaller booths has bumper stickers and pins to display your geek obsession with phrases like “MY OTHER CAR IS A TARDIS” and “BEAM ME UP SCOTTY – THERE’S NO INTELLIGENT LIFE DOWN HERE!” are among the best that are offered. There’s a booth for Jordan’s Sabers, a company that sells unlicensed lightsaber replicas that deviate just enough, aesthetically, to avoid copyright violations. Despite their slick evasion of licensing fees, their cheapest item sells for just over three hundred dollars. To my surprise (and deep regret) there is only one vendor selling action figures.

The biggest attraction here is Neither Noir, a photostudio that specializes in costuming portraits. Not only is there a line waiting to be photographed, but they have also attracted a sizable group of spectators who are watching the costumers pose for the camera. I take a number and get in line. There are several people in front of me, but the line moves at an agreeable pace. The girl under the lights who is currently being ogled by the crowd is a pudgy little thing, dressed as Toadette, a minor character from the Super Mario video game franchise – a sort of feminized anthropomorphic mushroom. She seems to be devouring the attention and she makes a series of increasingly sexual poses. She has a youthful beauty despite, or maybe enhanced by, her sausage-like limbs and frank sexuality. The flash of the camera pulls out some repressed psycho-sexual deviance and the photographer reluctantly calls short her session before any decency laws are violated. She giggles as she steps out of the studio area and the next number is called. This new girl doesn’t fair as well under the lens. She’s a member of the Rebel Legion and is dressed as a Jedi Knight (for those of you who are unfamiliar with the Jedi Order, imagine a martial arts outfit with a laser sword). She’s a short girl, with thick glasses, a long face, and a drooping posture that gives the impression that she would look uncomfortable at her own birthday party. Her thin lips are pressed tight together and her brows are furrowed in concentration as she attempts several “action shots,” wielding her lightsaber with less grace than a newborn fawn, goaded on by the photographer who encourages her with allegations that each shot is somehow “Awesome!” or “Bad-Ass!,” occasionally offering up an, “Oh, I like THAT one!” as she stumbles through another pose.

At length it’s finally my turn. I take only one picture. Standing upright, stoically, I fancy myself like a grim-faced civil war soldier, posing for his daguerreotype to send home to his wife. The photographer is insistent that I do more, that I take some shots with my gun out and pointed at the camera like James Bond, or maybe lying down in the prone position, or something equally stalwart. I refuse. I’m terrified of looking stupid. The fear of looking like a complete tool overshadows any want for a dynamic picture, and ten minutes later I walk away with my somber antiquated photograph.

There’s a hush from the crowd and I turn to get my first glimpse of Slave Girl. Standing under the photographer’s lights she poses naturally, not awkward or overtly sexual, but with an easy and inherent grace. Her costume is Princess Leia’s slave outfit from Return of the Jedi, that metal bikini that leaves gloriously little to the imagination. Her costume is flawless, as is she. I sidle closer through the crowd and take full advantage of the tint provided by my helmet’s lens to get a good look. She has a Helenic beauty, an untouched elegance and simple, undeniable comeliness. She has a thin frame but large, well-formed breasts that signaled, deep inside the mind of every man watching her, that she is fully capable of providing nourishment to any number of our offspring. She stands with masterful confidence. She calls her entourage, two more girls dressed like her, in metal bikinis. I scarcely notice them. I watch her while she makes her poses (many more than anyone else was allowed to take, but no one complains) and the photographer, who was so animated and vocal before, is now snapping pictures in complete silence. She finishes and floats off stage. Sighing deeply, I move on. I leave the Merchant’s Square with a vintage Star Wars t-shirt, an autographed photo of a Star Wars extra, and my own 8 x 10.

Back at the 501^st booth there’s a large crowd looking to catch a glimpse of us in uniform. I make my way behind the booth where there’s some breathing room. There I meet “John.” He’s a Stormtrooper, but he doesn’t wear his helmet. Instead, he wears an Army Ranger beret. He tells me he’s authorized to wear it in uniform because he’s currently enlisted. He’s a tall, barrel-chested man with frosted grey hair. Looks to be in his forties. He goes on to tell me that he just got back from a tour of duty in Iraq and will be leaving again soon for Afghanistan. He has the loud, confident voice of a long-time soldier. We talk for a while. He gives me the low-down on all the internal politics, who to stay away from, who not to mess with. He warns me against making any costumes of “named” characters – characters that are unique individuals in the Star Wars universe. On official troops only one unique “named” character is allowed (only one Darth Vader per event, for example) and people fight over who gets to go. If you’re buddies with the XO or squad leader, you get the first slot. A newcomer like me would never have a chance. It’s far more “good ole boys” club than I had imagined. More troopers begin to show up. They are loud and boisterous and all clearly well acquainted with each other. I feel out of place so I slip back into the crowd for more sight-seeing.

Back out in the hallway I notice that attendance has multiplied exponentially. There’s far too many costumes rushing by for my mind to process. Jedi Knights. Umbrella Security guards. A devil on stilts. Video game characters. A man from the movie 300 with painted on abs. The Disney Princesses. A few Browncoats from the short-lived (but much beloved) Firefly TV show. I push my way through the crowd, past some of the smaller rooms that are used to host some workshop classes. I note the signs on the doors as I pass – “MOLD MAKING FOR BEGINNERS” – “PROPMAKING 101” – “HOW TO STEAMPUNK ANYTHING.” Some of them are standing room only. The crowd is suffocating and I wonder why they didn’t choose a larger building to host this event. I’m stopped by some teenagers who want a picture of me “arresting” their friend. I grab the boy’s arm and put my gun to his back. Cameras seem to come out of nowhere and people who I am sure don’t even know this boy are snapping up pics and suddenly I am mobbed with picture requests. I take a few more, all variations of the “arresting” theme, before I manage to move on.

I make my way down one of the less crowded hallways and a voice calls out from behind an open doorway:

“Hey trooper! Come here.”

I turn to see who it is and my heart stops: It’s Slave Girl. She’s sitting at a table as part of a panel for one of those workshops. I glance at the sign on the door. It reads: “CREATIVE COSPLAY” (cosplay means “costume play” but I despise that word so I use it here only this once for the sake of authenticity). I walk into the room, panic setting in.

“Hey, this guy’s being a creep, can you help me out?” She motions to the guy sitting next to her at the table. What the hell, I think, I can humor her. I take out my gun from its holster and grab the guy by the collar, pulling him up to his feet. In my most threatening, authoritarian voice, I tell the guy to get on his feet and come with me. He turns on me, fists clenched and face red with rage. I instantly realize that this is not a random photo op. These people do not want a cheesy, staged picture of me “escorting” this “creep” out of the room. No, this is for real. This guy is a genuine jackass and he’s harassing Slave Girl and I’ve been lured in here (under false pretenses I think) to deal with the situation. This is usually the time during a confrontation when I shut down and look for a way out, some kind of escape or some way to remedy the conflict. I was just kiddin’ man! Oh, my bad, I thought you were someone else! But I can’t think of a way out, and I don’t trust myself to try and talk down the situation. Instead, I drop my gun and move between the Creep and Slave Girl. My legs can barely hold me up and I’m suddenly conscious that the inside of my helmet is soaked with sweat and smells like a Bronze Age Turkish brothel. Creep eyes me up and down, probably wondering what kind of man is underneath all the armor. After a few agonizing seconds, he throws his hands up and walks out. There’s an audible sigh of relief, both from me and from Slave Girl and she walks over to thank me for my help. I tell her it was no problem and I’m always happy to help. Inside I’m ready to vomit.

Back at the 501^st booth word got around that one of our members had rescued a princess in distress. Somehow, they even know it was me. Creep got picked up by security and kicked out of the Expo Center, they tell me. I feel only a twinge of guilt about how it all actually went down, in my head, but I say nothing about it. There’s a party after the convention and I’m asked if I’m going to go but I make an excuse about needing to go to work early tomorrow so I can leave. I don’t feel comfortable socializing with everyone without hiding behind my costume, so I pack up my armor and drive home in my sweat soaked black undersuit.

By the time I pull into my driveway I have decided that “Nigel Ambrose von Edgecombe” is the perfect name for my new steampunk character.

The ash fall was heavier that morning than it had been for as long as Sun In His Eyes could remember. It was a bad sign, Turtle Woman told him. It had not rained for months and the ash piled up thick and dry, choked out the grass and left the forest floor dead and desolate, robbed the world of color, and had long ago stole the light from the sun, leaving only a faint orange glow behind the endlessly gray sky.

Sun In His Eyes wiped the tears from his face and put his spear down beside him before putting his knife to the dog’s throat. There was nothing else he could do for him, better death come quickly than to lie there in the ash, slowly dying. The ash was so thick it had covered up a small fissure in the rock and the dog had fell through it to the bottom, breaking his back. Sun In His Eyes worked fast. The neck was cut clean, his last breath bubbled out of his steaming throat and the blood ran out in a small stream, turning black as it flowed through the ash. He wept in great throaty wails, disturbing the silence of the ruin that fell from the sky, and buried his face in the dog’s snout. He looked in the animal’s eyes, savored the sour smell of its mouth, wrung his bloodied hands through its fur.

With a low growl in his throat the young man shook himself free of the animal, took his knife and cut open its belly. The dog’s entrails boiled out of the wound and Sun In His Eyes pushed his hand into the steaming carcass, found the liver and pulled it out. He set it aside and pulled off the dog’s skin. He had brought enough salt for the Soulless woman’s hide, but he had to use it on the dog. If he didn’t salt the animal’s skin, it would spoil. He cursed his failure. The Soulless skin was to be a gift for his mother. He cursed the Soulless woman for coming this way. Now he must content himself with taking only her eyes for Turtle Woman’s magic. He cursed Turtle Woman, who’s magic demanded a price. He thought the sacrifice she spoke of would be the life of the Soulless one.

“Magic always demands a sacrifice,” she had told him when he had come to her on his kheff.

“Then I will sacrifice the Soulless,” Sun In His Eyes said, putting his hands on his hips.

“There was one here two days ago,” Turtle Woman said, “to the north where the forest thins and the rocks grow thick.”

Sun In His Eyes knew the place, and it wasn’t far. He knew he could get there by midday tomorrow if he quickened his pace. “Just one?” he asked.

“One woman,” she said turning toward him slowly, “and her child.”

“A child?”

“A baby. Newly born.” Turtle Woman pulled some strips of reindeer off the fire and handed them to the young man. Her twisted old fingers hesitated for a moment on his hand. They were cold, like new frost and he shuddered at her touch. That made her smile. “I would have killed them but I knew you were coming.”

“Why would she be out here alone?” He wondered aloud. A solitary female not more than a days walk – he would have no trouble taking what he needed from her.

“Who can say? Who can say why the Soulless do anything that they do?” She let go of his hand and waved away his question as one would wave away a dog. “Their ways are not our ways. Do not try to understand them.” She walked to the edge of her hut and picked up a small turtle shell bowl. Her long gray hair clung to her face like wet grass and she reached into her pocket with those twisted fingers, like the roots of an ancient tree, pulled something out, and put it in the bowl. Sun In His Eyes listened to the sound of the fire and thought of the hunt while Turtle Woman dug through her medicine pouches. She pulled out dried leaves from one large leather bag, crushed them and dropped the flakes into the bowl, brushing her hands on her moss colored dress. She opened up a few more small bags and smelled their contents. Sun In His Eyes turned away from her and threw some sage into the fire. The hut smelled of fish and decay. Of old unwashed bodies.

Turtle Woman pulled a short, fat stick from out of the folds of her dress and sat down next to the young man. She mixed the bowl with her stick while she sang a prayer in low, quiet voice. Sun In His Eyes could feel its power. He closed his eyes and felt it run through him, just under his skin. The fine hairs on his arms stood erect as the magic washed over him and through him. He felt warm then cold, like someone had passed a torch over him. Her magic was strong. When she was finished with her prayer she spit into the bowl and continued to mix.

“You know,” she said at length, “killing the Soulless and mating with Half Tail is not the only path to becoming a man.”

“I know what you would say. My mother warned me about you. She told me to accept nothing but food and your blessing.”

She laughed a dry, voiceless laugh. “I am sure she did. You see, your father came to me long ago on his kheff, just as you are now. I made him a man, even before he killed for me. Your brother came to me as well. I would have liked to make him a man, like your father, but he was not for me. He has the spirit of a woman and he had no interest in me.”

“Would you try to make me a man like you did my father?”

Turtle Woman sighed. “No,” she said, “I am too old now. These fingers are too old and twisted to excite one so young and these wrinkled old breasts could do nothing to firm your manhood.”

Sun In His Eyes thought of Half Tail’s breasts and her small, slender fingers. He thought of her long blonde hair and how his mother would wrap it in braids and cover it in clay on their wedding night. He was the first to see Turtle Woman about mating with Half Tail and if he was quick, he would be the only one. The winter that saw the first ash fall devastated the tribe. Many children didn’t survive the cold and hunger, especially the girls. Sun In His Eyes was fortunate to have lived through it. Half Tail was lucky. In his small tribe, she was his only chance at a mate. They don’t see other tribes along the mountains as often as they used to, and those they do meet up with guard their women fiercely. Sun In His Eyes did not want to have to fight to steal a woman.

Sun In His Eyes let out his breath. “Which way was the Soulless heading?”

Turtle Woman didn’t answer. She was looking out the window of her hut, mixing her bowl. . “I was beautiful in my youth. Even in your father’s time, when I should have been nothing but a wrinkled old corpse, I was still beautiful.”

Sun In His Eyes nodded his head. He had heard she was, but looking at her with his own eyes he had a hard time believing it was true. She was called Turtle Woman because it was the turtles of the river that gave her her power, but if he didn’t know that he would guess it was because her darkening skin was tough and leathery and the hunch in her back looked like a great shell. Her mixing slowed and her jaw shivered like she was cold. She stood there for a long while, staring out into the blackness outside. Sun In His Eyes imagined that in her mind she was a young girl again, seeing lovers, laughing with friends. He wondered how old she really was. His grandfather said he knew her when he was a boy, and she was a grown woman even then.

“The world wasn’t always this black, boy. Do you remember?” She said, her hoarse voice barely above a whisper.

“Only a little,” he said, “I was given my name before the sky turned gray.”

“Yes… Sun In His Eyes… Not a name for a child who lives in these times.” Turtle Woman’s hands stopped. Her mouth moved, but she made no sound. Sun In His Eyes leaned closer to try and hear her. “The ash is falling so heavy now,” she whispered. He looked out the window. The ash fall was thick. Large flakes, as big as a man’s thumb fell quietly from the night sky.

After a while Turtle Woman moved from the window and was herself again. She finished her mixture and scraped it onto a small rabbit skin. It was dark green and thick like mud. She told him to take the eyes from the Soulless and cover them in the green mush for three days. Then, he was to eat one and Half Tail was to eat the other. This is the love medicine, the magic, that would make her his.

The ashes, he knew, would cover whatever tracks the Soulless woman left, but there was no helping that. With her trail obscured there was no reason to leave right at nightfall, so he slept the rest of the night on the floor of her hut. He slept deep and dreamed of the woman, of killing her and taking her eyes. He awoke at the first sign of the faint orange glow in the east. Turtle Woman was already awake, but she did not look at him. She sat on the floor, warming herself by the fire. Sun In His Eyes thanked her for the magic and for the food.

“When you come back this way,” she said, “don’t come to my hut. You will not be welcomed here a second time.” Sun In His Eyes whistled for his dog and stepped out, returning the emptiness to Turtle Woman’s hut.

Now, Sun In His Eyes cursed his foolishness. He should have known the Soulless would not have been a suitable sacrifice. They had no spirits, after all. They were empty, barren. He picked up the liver and ate it while it was still warm, before Dog’s spirit left it. The blood was dried on his hands now and he had no water to wash it off. His water skin was full, but he would need that for the long walk through the valley. He buried what was left of the dog’s body, tucked the hide under his arm, and continued north.

The dim colorless days and the nights, black as ravens feathers, seemed eternal. The wind roared down from the top of the mountains and, although it did not disturb the forest floor, it blew the gray powdered ash from the tops of the trees and here Sun In His Eyes saw color for the first time in days. The green tips of the enormous pines banded across a dove colored sky and the young man could not help looking up at it as he walked. More than once he stumbled on a tree root or walked into low lying branch. There was life in the trees. The birds had made nests among the squirrels and insects. He could see flowers, growing from off the branches themselves and large mounds of what looked like grass.

He walked in solitude for three days before reaching the edge of the valley. He hoped to clear the forest in only one, but the thickness of the ash fall slowed his progress. His first two nights alone were spent in fear, listening to the sounds of the balwolves in the distance, scarcely sleeping for fear that his fire would go out and the beasts would come for him. When he did sleep, he dreamed of the Soulless woman he was chasing, and the terrible price she would pay for his desire. He had never seen one of the Soulless before, but in his dreaming mind they were like animals, naked and vicious with large, vacant eyes and baring sharp yellow teeth. He thought of her continuously and with each passing day she grew more hideous and profane. He would satisfy his anger at the death of his dog, his rage at this insufferable ash choking the life from the world, and the despair of this crushing loneliness so far from home on this one woman. This stranger. This intruder into his people’s lands.

Even through the rush of the wind Sun In His Eyes could hear the sound of a stream running somewhere behind the field of rocks that opened up at the base of the valley. He followed the sound around the rocks, some twice as tall as a man. Here, the wind blew much of the ash off the ground and back into the sky. His grandfather told him the valley was carved from a giant rabbit, eating his way from the top of the mountain and these rocks were his droppings. The rabbit was named Mahmuten, and after eating his way down the mountain, he hungered not for food, but for a mate. But there were no female rabbits of his size and so Mahmuten, in frustration, spread his seed across the sky, creating the stars. Sun In His Eyes smiled at the memory of his grandfather telling him the story of Mahmuten when he was a child. He wondered if the children that he would have with Half Tail would ever see a star.

Sun In His Eyes climbed down a small cliff face, hurrying towards the sound of the rushing water. His water skin had been emptied the day before and he had spent the last night mad with thirst. Now his mouth was wet with anticipation. At the bottom of the cliff he found the river. He bent down and cupped his hands, filling them with the cold, stinging water. He drank long and deep. The water tasted like smoke, like burnt wood. It was dirty and stained his hands black but he still drank from it greedily.

He noticed the footprints while he was filling his water skin. They were small, no bigger than a child’s. They stopped not far from where he knelt on the opposite bank. She had stopped in the same spot as I had for water. The tracks continued north down the edge of the river. He walked quietly but quickly. His heartbeat quickened and he gripped his spear tighter. In the distance he could see a tiny figure walking slowly among the rocks. Sun In His Eyes went wide around her. There was a small ridge to her right he could use to drop down on her, trapping her between the ridge face, and a giant rock. Her only escape would be across the river.

Sun In His Eyes moved as swiftly as he could. He saw his footing through the blanket of ash on the ground. He felt the sweat bead up on his back and drip down the inside of his elk skin tunic. His feet made no sound as he ran, kicking up the gray powder. The valley was still and even the river seemed noiseless. He topped the ridge and knelt behind a small rock. The Soulless woman was walking slowly towards him, carrying a bundle of furs. Her infant child, no doubt. Sun In His Eyes was struck by her strangeness. She was small, he was sure she would only come up to his waist, yet she was fully grown. Her breasts were large and looked heavy and full of milk. She didn’t cover her breasts like the women of his tribe, even in this cold. Her stomach was thin, but carried the faint scars of child-bearing. Hair, smooth and as black as the rock he used to make his spear heads, surrounded her soft, slender face. The young hunter looked at her eyes. That is what he had come for. Pale green eyes, like the lichen that grows from the rocks – eyes that looked very much like his own.

Sun In His Eyes jumped down from his hiding spot, spear pointed at the woman. She screamed a high pitched noise, like the shriek of an eagle. The sound startled Sun In His Eyes, but he quickly came to and sidestepped to pin her against the ridge wall.

The woman was terrified, her eyes wide. She was shouting something in a language Sun In His Eyes did not understand, but he was captivated by it. It was high, like the voice of a child, and the words were soft, not harsh like his own guttural tongue. She sounded to him like a bird, chirping madly at the fox who has come to rob her nest.

“Twee ana inpè!” She pleaded, “Twee ana anlü! Ana anlü!”

Sun In His Eyes could not move. He stared at her. His palms ached and his legs seemed barely able to hold him up. He felt suddenly wretched and he did not know why.

The Soulless woman took advantage of his reluctance and she held up her bundle of furs. “Thay awaylo ha weena?” It sounded like a question to Sun In His Eyes. “Thay awaylo ha weena?” She repeated. She opened the bundle of furs and held out her baby. Sun In His Eyes could see it was dead. The strange creature laid the bundle down on the ground slowly, never taking her eyes off her enemy. She stood up and backed up to the wall. “Quenya ha weena,” she chirped breathless, “Quenya ha weena.” She started to coo softly, her throat making a sound like a tiny drum beating inside it.

Sun In His Eyes lowered his spear slowly and rested its butt on the ground beside him, and leaned on it heavily. She knew what I have come for, he thought. He looked at her. She was shivering, her eyes were wide with fear and she held on to the side of the ridge wall as if trying to invoke its protection. She was nothing like the stories the old men told of the Soulless ones. He wondered if the Soulless had their own stories. Stories of men like him. Tales told by mothers to their children to frighten them from wandering too far away. Don’t go into the valley, the monsters there will cut out your eyes.

They stood there for some time, each looking at the other. One, terrified, the other wretched. The ash continued to fall. Sun In His Eyes straightened, shook the gray powder from his hair and bent down to pick up the dead child. He carried it slowly to the whimpering woman, cradling it in his arms. He knelt in front of her, and laid the bundle of furs at her feet.

Standing up, he took one last look at the woman. The panic in her eyes had softened but she still looked up at him fearfully. At last Sun In His Eyes turned around, his head bent low, and began the long, solitary journey home, through the quiet desolation of the ash covered land.

The Last Miracle of the Phylactery of Abd al Muti

I bought the old trinket on our last trip to Alexandria, from a run-down stall outside of a coffee shop. Not the Abu Oaf, the one we went to every morning with the mural on the wall of the Giza Pyramid and the menu in Arabic and English, but one I’d never been to before. I don’t remember its name. You and Dave had been fighting the night before and he hit you, knocked you down and tried to strangle you. I didn’t want to see your beat up face and have to make small talk over coffee with Dave and act like I didn’t know what happened, so that morning I made up some excuse and left before you came down from your room. I remember you gave me such a scolding when I got back about the dangers of a woman like me walking alone on the streets of Alexandria.

“How many times do I have to tell you, Brenda?” you said, looking at me from behind those sunglasses that you kept in your purse but only wore after he smacked you around. Sure, I knew it was dangerous, but I couldn’t stay. I left the mission and headed towards the sea. I walked past the rows of tan-walled mud-brick buildings with rust colored roofs and glassless windows. Their walls were cracked and the edges worn smooth from the never ending barrage of sand that slowly erases them. I ran my hand across one of the dirty shacks, felt its smooth, undulating surface, and thought of the two of us on our first trip to Egypt – before you met Dave, when your eyes didn’t sag and your mouth didn’t hang open lazily, when you rode your Cannondale and we’d eat lunch in the meadows behind the farmhouse. We would read the latest Man Booker prize finalists and imagine ourselves as enlightened feminists. You were Sarah then, not this languid fraud, wilting in Sarah’s skin.

It was near the beach that I saw it, an old souvenir stall, with its torn red canvas awning whipping itself in the salt water wind. The vendor was a big Egyptian man who wore a sun bleached Coca-Cola t-shirt and a pair of dusty Levis. He called for me to come over and see what he was offering. I almost walked right past without giving it a thought but a glint of the sun flashed off the little trinket and I got curious. That’s what it does; it gets into your head, they say. I asked the Egyptian to show it to me. He smiled, his full lusty lips parted under a wiry black beard, glossy with grease and sweat. He took a small glass vial off a peg with his enormous hands and held it out for me.

“You like?” he asked in a voice so deep that it sounded like he was speaking through a hollow log. A small ball of light glowed from inside the sea-green liquid that filled the ampoule and illuminated the merchant’s thick hands. Another vial hung around his neck on the end of an oily leather cord that nestled into the carpet of chest hair that escaped through the neck of his shirt. It was such a small thing, this trinket. The man told me it would make my wish come true. He dug them up from an old tomb out in the desert they say belonged to an ancient warlord they called Abd al Muti. These were his djinn. I thought he was making it up. A clever joke to tell the tourists so they would buy his little baubles. They were souvenir sellers, not grave robbers. But there was magic in it, he insisted. Enough magic left for one more wish.

I bought the trinket and wore it around my neck, like the big Egyptian. I meant to show it to you, but I could never get you alone, away from Dave and his constant scorn. A few days later the vial was gone. I lost it somewhere, back at the hotel or the mission, God knows where. It wasn’t until weeks later when we were back home in L.A., and our hair was starting to turn gray and the wrinkles were beginning to show, that I thought of that little vial. That was before an entire shipping container full of those things had been smuggled out of Egypt on a Russian cargo ship bound for the Port of Cortez, before they began showing up on eBay and Craigslist, before the hipsters started protesting the use of “consciously perceiving essences for the purpose of furthering personal interests,” and before the word “phylactery” would become the newest buzz word thrown around by the talking heads on cable news shows.

I didn’t tell you about the trinket right away. You had enough on your mind. We were growing old so fast and the doctors were running their tests and biopsies and hooking us up to machines of every kind trying to find out what’s wrong with us. The last two months we’ve lain here on these hospital beds and they still don’t know. They have their suspicions now, I bet. This place is overrun with wishes gone wrong. Women who wished for bigger breasts, wider hips, or skinnier waists. There’s a lot of men now in the ER who weren’t happy with their own anatomy, either. The problem with these djinns is they are only too eager to grant their wishes and they do it to appalling excess. I mean, look at us – how often do you encounter two women who have aged forty years in six months? And we’ll be dead before too long, I suppose. The thought is almost comforting now. I’m tired of this hospital with its white lights and the redolent of rubbing alcohol. This room is cold and bright and smells like death. Not the raw, real stink of decaying, decomposing death, but the chemical smell of people who don’t die, but clinically expire.

You always teased me for my fatalism, but there’s no way out of here for us, I know that now. I don’t know why you still hold on to that Bible. It hasn’t helped us any. But you keep praying for a miracle, even after we went to see that preacher you used to talk so much about, the one your mother always watched on TV. We scheduled a meeting with him a few weeks after we got back to L.A. and I finally confessed to you about the curse of the djinn. He smiled with his thin little lips and told us that there was no such things as curses and magic bottles. He told us if there was something wrong then it was because God was punishing us for something and we needed to confess our sins before him. He got me alone and asked me about my sexual sins. He told me that they anger God the most. He said it all with that thin half smile. Everything about him was thin. His eyebrows were wispy, ginger threads below his smooth, marbled forehead. He had the palest blue eyes and lashes so light you could barely see them. He looked unfinished, like a painting abandoned by the artist.

He seemed so eager for me to confess my sins and my heart sank when he sat down closer to me and put his hand on my leg. I knew I had made a mistake coming to see him – any man who’s called himself a “man of God” has been some kind of bastard or other and he was no different – a beast with a soul as unformed as his face. I could feel his fingers dig into my thigh, his tone was angry, inimical, and his eyes raged at me. I wanted to run but I was frozen there for a time, rooted in the seat in front of his desk. I looked away from him. I didn’t want to look at that unfinished face and see the want in his eyes so I looked around the room. I looked at the polished oak desk, the books on the bookshelf that stretched along the back wall, and down at the tan carpeting. I looked without seeing, like someone does when they’re deep in thought. I breathed quickly through my nose. I remember the room smelled new, like paint and sawdust with a trace of bourbon.

I’ve seen him once since. I stood and watched a sermon from the back row, far from where his eyes could see me. It was some months later but I looked decades older and I don’t know if he would have recognized me if he had seen me. I saw him preach with tears in his eyes and felt the phantom of his fingers on my skin.

I never told you about what he did to me in that office. There was no need before but I want to tell you everything now. So I hope you won’t be angry with me, Sarah, but I saw that Haitian priestess, Madame Lola in San Diego. My memory of the city is all but faded now, but I’ll never forget that woman’s house. It was old and smelled of earth and sweat. I was led through a dimly lit hallway and my eyes burned in a haze of cigarette smoke. There were sounds of laughter and the artificial glow of television sets coming from some of the rooms I walked past. The room at the very end was different – it was brighter than the rest of the house. In the center of the far wall was a makeshift altar; two card tables covered in red silk cloth. Multicolored handkerchiefs hung from the front – yellows, blues, whites, and pinks. Reclaimed liquor bottles were arranged on the top of the dais, their labels peeled off and filled with some foreign fluid. On either side of the shrine were two palm trees and hanging from the wall was a National Geographic map of Haiti. In the center of it all was a portrait of the Christ pointing to his heart with his pierced hands. I looked at it all and was disheartened.

Madame Lola came in through a beaded recess in the wall. Her costume was gaudy and almost offensively stereotypical. I thought that this is what any ordinary middle aged white woman would think a Haitian Voodoo priestess would wear. She smiled at me and her white teeth flashed against her dark, inky skin. I let her perform her ceremony. I let her acolytes file in and surround me. I let them dance and chant and scream. I knelt down, closed my eyes and clenched my teeth as they emptied the bottles from the altar on my head. When it was over, Madame Lola told me, in a thick Creolic intonation, that she had banished the evil spirits and they would bother me no longer. I left as quickly as I could, without saying any “thank you’s.” I had already paid in advance.

You looked so much older when I got back from New York. Your hair was nearly all white. I suppose mine must have been too, but I had long since stopped looking in mirrors.

The very next day Dave left you. I went to your place to pick up some of your things and he was there, moving his stuff out.

“What are you doing?” I asked him, furious because I knew what he was doing.

He sighed and rubbed his glossy forehead. “God, what does it look like, Brenda?” he said in that abrasive Brooklyn accent, “I left Sarah at the hospital. I can’t do this anymore,” I just stared at him, incredulous. He sighed. “Come on, what do you want me to do? This whole thing’s just fucked up, you know? I can’t deal. She’d do the same thing if it was me.”

I told him he was wrong and he knew it. I told him you would stand by him until the very end. That you would be in the hospital room holding his hand the moment he took his last breath.

“Yeah, well, I guess I’m just a fucking scumbag, then. What do you want me to do, Brenda? What do you want me do?” He said that over and over again, looking at me with his arms out to his sides and his palms turned up shrugging his shoulders. I wanted him to leave you. I wanted him out of your life, as I always have, but it still made me angry that he would do this to you.

“I bet you had something to do with this anyway, Brenda,” he pointed his finger in my chest. He smelled like beer and rotting cabbage. “I know you’ve always liked her,” he smiled and leered at me, “yeah, you always liked her. You was always jealous of us. You was always trying to get her alone just the two of you. You – “

“And you were always beating her and putting her down every chance you got,” I said to him. You know it’s true, Sarah. He was always doing those things to you, as much as you deny it.

He just laughed at me. He told me it was all over and I could have you.

“You have no idea what you’ve done, David,” I said, my face tight and burning, “you took a beautiful person – the most beautiful person I’ve ever known – and you ruined her. You drained the life out of her and all I could do was watch her waste away.”

“Sarah wasn’t innocent here, Brenda. You know she –”

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare. Go to hell, David,” I said. There was so much more I wanted to say to him. I wanted to ruin him, to force him to understand what he did to you – what he did to me. But at that moment I wanted nothing more than to never see him again. Besides, I needed to get back to you. My hands shook and the tears stung my eyes as I left the house as fast as I could. That was the last time I saw him.

Dave’s sister came by the hospital the next day to tell us about his accident. You were in dialysis and all the machines made her uncomfortable so she would only talk to me. She told me that Dave fell backwards carrying a heavy box up the basement stairs and hit his head on the concrete wall at the bottom. He lost consciousness instantly, but it probably took several hours for him to die. By the time anyone got around to looking for him, it was too late. Given our circumstances, she said, the family would understand if we were unable to attend the funeral. Her voice was low and lazy and she sounded like she was telling me something mundane or giving me directions to the mall. She spoke as if the whole situation was a terrible inconvenience. I shouldn’t have – he didn’t deserve it – but I felt bad for him.

I saw the look in your eyes after I told you about Dave. It was a small movement, but I saw it. You cried at first, a little. But then you closed your eyes and your face softened. You exhaled long and deep, like you had been holding your breath underwater and had just come up for air. You looked beautiful again. I laid down next to you on the hospital bed and held your hand. You put your head next to mine and after some time we started to laugh. We giggled like little girls, whispering secrets to each other.

I remember the walk back to the mission in Alexandria after I bought that djinn. I held it in my hands – my young, soft hands. The sun was high above the horizon and I could feel its heat on my cheeks and my bare shoulders. The wind brought in the smells of the Mediterranean – the salt, the smell of fish and brine. The seagulls cried overhead, the shop vendors barked in the alleyways, and the palm fronds that shook in the breeze sounded like a chorus of whispering girls. I pressed the bottle to my breast and made a wish. I made a wish just like I would do if I was blowing out the candles on a birthday cake. Such a harmless little foolish wish, I thought. I wished that the two of us could grow old together.