Elaine Corvidae - Of Beechen Green and Shadows Numberless

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Cover Art by Linnea Sinclair

Of Beechen Green,

and Shadows

Numberless

by Elaine Corvidae

author of Tyrant Moon

Daniel awoke to the harsh buzz of an alarm clock that had existed long before the word ?digital?

became associated with such things. The window by his bed betrayed no hint of dawn, but the moon was

clear and bright as it rode low over the towering oak trees that surrounded the old farmhouse. It was

May, so the window was open-air conditioning hadn?t been invented when the house was built, and

money had never been available since for such frivolities. The cool air brought him the scent of dew,

damp earth, and growing things, and awoke him far more surely than the strongest cup of coffee ever

brewed.

The floorboards creaked under his feet as he walked to the single bathroom. He bathed quickly in the

claw-footed tub, and was still running a comb through his shoulder-length auburn hair as he hurried down

to the kitchen. The growl of Jonathan?s alarm sounded faintly from upstairs, and a moment later the

pipes in the kitchen walls started clanking as water ran through them.

The pancakes and cereal were ready by the time Jonathan tromped down the stairs, his book bag slung

over one shoulder and a surly look on his face. ?You?d better hurry before you miss the bus,? Daniel

advised and was rewarded with a silent glare.

Was I that way when I was his age? Daniel wondered, as if there was some great gulf in between. In

reality, only four years separated him from Jonathan?s sixteen.

Four years, and a hell of a lot of pain.

Jonathan disappeared out into the predawn gloom-it was an hour-and-half bus ride each way to school,

so he had to be at the end of their long driveway no later than six-thirty. Daniel washed the cereal bowl

and syrup-crusted plates in the sink; a dishwasher was something else the old farmhouse lacked, although

he dreamed of getting one someday. When he was done, he fixed a bowl of hot oatmeal and carried it

upstairs to Virginia.

She lay on the bed that had once belonged to their parents, and their grandparents before that, and their

great-grandparents before that. Although the room echoed with their absence, it had been the only one

big enough to house all the equipment that the doctors had sent home with her once she finally got out of

the hospital.

Virginia looked like a doll that had been broken then abandoned in the middle of the big bed. The arms

lying on the coverlets were like sticks, the hands twisted into claws cut short where the doctors had

amputated fingertips burned down to the bone. Even in the dim light of the bedroom, her scarred skin

looked shiny and plastic.

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