We live in a small cottage that grows very much like we do: mostly on the inside. Cozy living chambers and a small storefront facing the street.
At the moment we are parked in a very proper corner of wealth. Manicured lawns. Good schools. A library shadowed by the church. A town green surrounded by cute shops.
I wandered into the store three years back in a college town, probably by accident. I was two semesters into grad school, and so lost that the woman behind the counter offered me an apprenticeship on the spot. I’ve been here ever since: a grateful pupil, learning craft and retail from the woman I call my mistress, my teacher, my mentor. She has kind eyes that glitter when I ask about her past, and flood when I ask what she sees when she scrys.
I stare out the window, past the displays, and I practice seeing the truth of the world. Your world. Mine. There’s a thin glamour on the streets. Things are fine, things are good. That’s what a lot of people like to tell themselves. They overlook the rot as it tiptoes further.
The darker, dirtier reality is: there’s a war on. It’s been raging for a long time. If you’re willing, you can see the craters in the pavement. The sky that never cleared after summer fires; light falling piss-yellow and dimmed. It’s a hellscape out there, as much as a pleasant everytown.
Truth wars. It’s why we’re here. We’re profiteers of a sort, hawking what’s needed for the fight. There’s a vanishingly small number of people who manage to see what’s in our windows. We have few customers, even as the wars keep raging.
We have few customers. Never none.
I am rearranging the sweets in the back when they arrive: three young men, pleased with themselves for being so, so smart and so, so brave. I mean, here they are. As if they expect applause.
I smile, exactly how I would smile if I wanted them to be welcome.
I know who they are. They want Brutal Honesty, a giant mace of a thing, a heavy cudgel, but with enough sharp edges that it slices deep as it crushes. The world is a zero-sum game for them; they want to win, not lose. They want to win more than anyone else, and that means leaving devastation in their wake.
They jostle each other like puppies as they come to the counter. I’m not allowed to send them away empty handed. Not if they ask for my help.
I want to scold them. Rub their noses in their own smallness. But I am an apprentice, obliged to hear my mistress in my head, saying honesty is best absorbed with love, like antibiotics with dairy. Iron with a handful of raisins. I try to lovingly sell them on other wares.
Diving Honesty that hurtles, inevitable as gravity. I show them how it aims with graceful intent, a whirling human form that straightens to enter the surface and plunges deep. I tell them how it is fallible, how sometimes it fucks up with a spectacular splash. I thought that might make them laugh. Instead they shake their heads. The one on the left sneers, as if he would never.
I try Dragon Belly Honesty that finds the single missing scale above a heart, the one place where a small truth can enter, past even the thickest armor. I thought they might be swayed by the dragons. When I tell them about the patience and pure heart that make the arrow fly, they laugh. Not with joy or relief.
Something sharp, says the tall one, so I bring over the needles and a burnished skein. Conductive Honesty. Takes practices to get the stitches right, tie things down without lumps. But oh, what flows, point to point, a jolt of insight traveling fast as fiber optics. We’ve spent years inventing ways to lose the least amount of energy, heat, heart, as it races.
I see the thinnest one shifting, like the gravity of the planet where he’s lived his entire life is unfamiliar, and a bit much for his bony limbs. My eyes locked to his, I offer them each a sample of the Stuttering Honesty we baked this morning. Crumbs, of varying weights and chew, but once swallowed they must come out again, changed by your digestion. They catch on the way out, they are hard things to bring up. But if you are determined, everyone will be relieved when you spit it out. You’ll be proud of the finished process and your efforts, I promise.
No takers. They smell nasty, says the tall one.
I show them the seeds I have growing under a warm lamp. I show them the blank cardstock waiting to soak up limitless words. I show them the gauze bandages that could save lives on the battleground.
The silent one with the weasel face wanders to the shelves. Takes down the Venomous Honesty. They most closely resemble bees, if bees were small snakes. Brittle Truth in their scales and wings but constantly twisting; black swarms who refuse to reflect light. They’ll worm their way into you, unforgettable, their poisons creative and colonizing.
When that jar is removed, it triggers a door, swinging open to reveal an arsenal of our most intricate wares. I can’t refuse them any tools, even if they choose weapons. These ambitious boys found us, they came to us. My mistress has strict policies.
Beautiful, says the tall one, hefting a broadsword, filigreed at the hilt, more refined than the club the weasel grabs. The thin one likes simplicity. He finds himself holding a two by four with nails. Low class, effective.
They’ll all have similar impact—damage is damage, unless you are lucky or sadistic enough to distinguish the finer points.
They are so pleased with themselves I want to cry.
Not so fast, I say, as they move toward the door.
I make them queue at the register. The payments are modest, as my mistress insists.
I press a small disc into each of their palms, which burrows into their flesh, all but hidden unless you know to look. They grimace as if their back teeth are vibrating. A different discomfort for each, so that when they compare notes, they can decide it was imagined.
Do we need licenses to use these? the weasel asks.
I can’t keep them from you, I say, but no, I won’t give license or training. Sorry.
My voice breaks. That seems to please them, and they tumble into the street like fat bears, clumsy and deadly.
That night over dinner my mistress asks about free samples I included with today’s purchases.
Reflection, I say. I grafted a small bit where they can easily reach. It’s there, waiting. If they ever choose to use it, clarity will shine back at them, for better and worse.
I don’t say: I hate them, for refusing to look, for letting my best magic sink beneath skin.
Reflection. Brilliant, my mistress says, and means it. I look at my own palm, the mirror that lives in it.
Shana Ross is a new transplant to Edmonton, Alberta and Treaty Six Territory. Qui transtulit sustinet. A Rhysling nominated author, her work has recently appeared in Augur, The Fabulist, Haven Spec, The Deadlands and more. She prefers walking in the woods to social media, and budgets her time accordingly.