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The Gift
An ailing stranger seeks shelter from a storm. ~2k.
An ailing stranger seeks shelter from a storm. ~2k.
The rain began in the late afternoon, a light drizzle sweeping down the plains. Moira, who had just finished hanging out the laundry, shook her fist good-naturedly at the sky.
“Storm’s coming,” she told Brid as she passed back into the farmhouse. Together they herded the ponyta into their stables, secured the oran berry bushes with thick sheets of burlap, and latched the storm windows tight.
By evening, the drizzle had become a downpour. The farmhouse rattled in the shrieking wind. Power had gone as soon as the storm started in earnest, but Moira and Brid had already prepared candles. Now it was just nigh on midnight, and a crackling fire warmed the living room. Moira hummed to herself as she turned a page in her book; Brid’s knitting needles clacked in time to the beating rain.
On the rug, their growlithe Puca raised her head and began to growl.
“What’s wrong?” Moira said distractedly.
In answer, Puca barked, high-pitched and perturbed.
“It’s just the wind, sweetie,” Moira said, but she allowed herself to be led down the hallway to where the wind was knocking at the door—
No, Moira realized with the beginnings of a frown. That was a real knock—ta ta ta, tapped without any particular rhyme, as if the knocker had given up all hope of an answer.
Moira sashed her night robe tightly and cracked open the door. She winced as a whip of cold, wet air lashed across her face. The night beyond was terribly dark, but as her eyes adjusted, she made out the outline of a man in front of her. He was tall; it was impossible to say anything more, as the rest of him was hidden in the depths of a shapeless coat. A gray hat was jammed low on his head, and his hands were sunk deep into his pockets. The small stretch of skin that showed between his hat and collar was bone-pale.
Please, he said. Moira didn’t know how she caught the word, spoken so softly, over the roaring gale.
He looked like a bad omen. He also looked sopping wet. Moira didn’t need more than a moment to make up her mind. She opened the door wider and waved him inside.
The sudden warmth almost toppled him. He swayed on his feet, but at the last moment steadied himself against the wall.
At Moira’s feet, Puca growled, low in her throat.
“Puca—” Moira began chidingly. The stranger turned to look down at the growlithe. Their gazes locked for several seconds. Then Puca whined and tucked her tail behind her legs.
“I’m sorry about Puca,” Moira said. “She’s usually fine with strangers. Sniff him, Puca, say hi—” But Puca had retreated down the hallway, leaving her alone with the stranger.
Some guard dog, Moira thought, amused. “I’m Moira. And you’re—”
“Moira?” Brid’s voice boomed down the hallway. She joined them a moment later, her eyes wide. “Company, at this hour? Are you a trainer?”
“No,” said the stranger. The low baritone of his voice belied his frail and hunched appearance, but the voice itself was ragged with fatigue. “Not a trainer. I lost my way. And then—the storm—”
“Well, you’re lucky you stumbled into us,” Brid said. “We’re the only glimmer of civilization for the next several miles.”
“I am . . . grateful,” the stranger managed in a low rasp. He’d shut his eyes. Even in the dim light of the hallway, Moira could see that he was shivering.
“Let’s get you warmed up,” she said. “Some cider should do it. We still have a few jugs, don’t we, Brid?”
“On it,” Brid said and vanished for the kitchen.
Which left it to Moira to coax the stranger down the hallway. She tried to take his coat, but he shied away like a skittish ponyta, clutching the folds more closely to himself.
Poor tramp, Moira concluded. She left him his coat, though the sopping fabric couldn’t be helping with that shiver. He followed her slowly, hulking but oddly silent in his steps. Brid had already started the cider. The scent of cinnamon and apple brightened the house.
In the kitchen, the stranger lowered himself stiffly onto his seat. He grasped the mug Brid offered him with both his hands, still covered by the trailing edges of his sleeves.
The light was better in here and in it Moira could see that even beyond the wet and cold, the stranger did not look well. His skin had taken on a sickly purple-gray pallor. Moira could practically feel the questions bubbling up on her wife’s lips, but Brid held her tongue as the stranger finished his drink.
“You must not trouble yourselves about my condition,” the stranger said suddenly, as if he’d heard their thoughts. “It is incurable.”
“Your condition?” Ever the doctor’s daughter, Brid leaned forward. She had never met a medical diagnosis she didn’t want to know down to the last detail. “Can I ask what it is?”
The stranger hesitated. But before Moira could kick Brid under the table and make her retract the question, he spoke.
“I was . . . poorly made. Born from the haste of greed, which thinks only of the now and not of the long years that follow.”
He seemed on the verge of saying more but caught himself and buried his gaze in his emptied mug.
Lung cancer, Brid mouthed knowingly.
“Want some more cider?” she asked aloud.
“I could not—” The stranger made a heroic attempt to stand. “I have already imposed upon you. I must—”
“Sit back down and let me make you a second mug of cider,” Moira finished for him. “Yes, just like that. Why don’t you check the egg, Brid? It’s past the hour.”
Brid acknowledged her dismissal with a quick peck to Moira’s cheek. She padded out of the room on slippered feet.
“The egg?” the stranger rasped, as Moira heated more cider.
“Yes,” she said, hoping some conversation might stop him from flinging himself back out into the storm. “We run a small daycare here, and tonight, by all signs, one of our eggs is due to hatch. We’re both a bit worried about it, though. Do you know much about hatchery?”
“My—personal experience is limited.”
“Basically, the embryo grows inside the egg. And as it grows big, at some point it starts to run out of air. A race begins, then. Break the shell or asphyxiate. For most hatchlings, you can tell they’re coming out when the egg starts to shake. But some are born defective—they don’t have the strength to puncture the shell. This egg’s been shaking for the last six hours, but not a single crack. If it doesn’t crack in the next few hours, well . . .”
Moira trailed off, grimacing.
Terrible. The stranger lifted his head. His eyes burned in the gaunt shell of his face. By some trick of the candlelight, they seemed to dance with uncanny purple fire. "Trapped in the vessel of your birth, alone and afraid and unable to break free. There is no greater horror."
"Yes," Moira agreed, when she had found her voice. His flash of intensity had startled her. "It’s terrible to imagine. But there's nothing we can do until a crack appears. A hatchling that can’t break its shell—well, it sounds cruel. But it’s unlikely to survive in this world for long, even if we helped it.”
The stranger’s sickly face paled further, the thick purple veins that lined his skin becoming more pronounced. He accepted a second mug of cider from Moira but didn’t drink.
Brid slipped back into the kitchen. “No sign yet. How about we make ourselves some cider too? It’s looking to be a long night.”
Moira frowned at her. “For me, maybe. Not for you. You only stopped sniffling yesterday.”
“I feel just fine.”
A brief battle of wills ensued.
The stranger broke it unexpectedly. “I have no way to repay your hospitality. No way but this. It is late, and you are weary. I will watch this egg of yours, and you will rest.”
"Kind of you to offer," Brid said with a nurse’s diplomacy, "but if anyone needs their rest here, it would be you, sir."
But the stranger shook his head. Some strength had found its way into his voice and for a moment he spoke like one used to command. “My condition will keep me from rest. I implore you, allow me this one thing.”
Moira and Brid exchanged glances. Brid shrugged.
“If you’re sure,” Moira said doubtfully. “Here, follow me.”
The egg was nestled in its incubator, still running off the house’s small back-up generator. As they entered the nursery, the egg rocked violently, but the shell remained pristine.
Poor thing, Moira thought, her heart twisting. Eight years in this business was long enough to witness any number of small tragedies, but repetition never seemed to take away their sting.
The stranger stared at the egg as if enraptured. He paid Moira and Brid no attention as they moved the room’s largest easy chair into position in front of the incubator and stuffed the chair with pillows—just in case.
“If anything changes, if you see any cracks, be sure to wake us,” Moira said.
The stranger nodded. He was holding himself very still, as if to conserve energy. The cider hadn’t cured his shiver.
“He’s badly sick,” Moira hissed to Brid as soon as the door was closed. “We need to get the doctor.”
“Dr. Hayes will be asleep by now and even if we wake him, he won't brave this storm,” Brid said practically. “Whatever’s ailing him will have to wait till morning.”
They retired to bed. Puca, who had apparently been sulking in the bedroom, yipped from under the covers. Moira waited until Brid’s breathing had settled, then crept back to the nursery.
The stranger was, amazingly, awake. He sat straight in his chair, his gaze fixed with terrible concentration upon the egg at the center of the room. Moira watched him for several moments, unnoticed. The intensity of his focus both impressed and unnerved her. At last, she shut the door softly and made her way back to bed.
She only meant to doze. But the drumroll of the rain soon lulled her into a deep and fitful sleep.
She was in an ocean—no, a tube, a tomb. She was choking; she couldn’t get out. Everything shattered. She stood on a great black shoreline, hurling imprecations at the storming sky. Images came faster and faster, insensible, a movie roll with each scene played simultaneously. It is what you do with the gift—
Moira snapped awake to morning sunshine and a high-pitched mewling from beyond the door.
“Love, wake up,” she said, giving Brid a shake. Without waiting for a response, she rolled out of bed and shuffled to the door.
Sure enough, a newly hatched eevee sat in the hallway. Moira’s heart swelled.
“You little fighter,” she crooned. “You made it after all.”
Crouching, she stretched out a hand to acquaint the newborn with her scent, but the eevee danced away. Continuing to mewl, it raced down the hallway on stumbling feet until it had reached the nursery.
The stranger lay motionless in his easy chair, his hat tipped down over his face.
So much for not being able to sleep, Moira thought, smiling. She’d call Dr. Hayes first thing and while they waited, she could make the stranger a hearty breakfast. A funny thing, that—she still hadn’t gotten his name.
The eevee crossed the room and began to paw at the hem of the stranger’s overcoat, mewling stridently.
A sudden doubt struck Moira, like a cloud blotting out the sun. In three long strides she reached the stranger’s side. He didn’t stir as she cautiously tilted up his hat. Beneath it, his face was gray and shriveled. When she held her palm in front of his mouth, she felt no air.
“Brid,” she said. And called it, louder: “Brid!”
A moment later, warm arms wrapped around her chest. Brid said nothing, but held her close. They remained that way for a long minute.
“We’ll bury him out back,” Brid said at last. “Under the birch.”
“If we had called—”
“That man was dying, Moira. He tried to tell us. At least he died in a warm house and not alone in the storm.”
The eevee took advantage of their distraction to clamber onto the dead man’s lap.
“Oh, don’t do that, sweetie,” Moira said, lifting it off. She held the eevee up to her face and then gasped. “Brid—”
The eevee looked back at her with the trusting curiosity of all things new to the world. But its eyes, which should have been brown, blazed with uncanny purple light.
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