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had, she taunted Mrinda in a singsong voice, “Try to keep up, you silly thing!” The two reached the meadow and the young Deyant danced through the lashing grass and the flowers, toward the sphere, drawn as always to the creature inside.

  That slowpoke, she thought as she stood by the sphere. I wish she’d hurry up. She trembled with impatience, but soon the two sisters stood together, arms and minds linked. Deyant did not wait to complete the focus before she leapt inside, pulling Mrinda along.

  They arrived to instant terror because the baraata was fully formed. Its sharp teeth tore at her legs, ripped through her leather shirt as if it were gauze. Deyant, her fields in disarray, screamed and tried to focus as again and again the baraata bit. The she noticed the wicked thing was slowing, starting to fade, as Mrinda in her graceful way reached out to the point where the forest and the creature entwined, reached out and twisted the connection until it broke, and at last the monster vanished.

  The two were alone in the crumbling meadow. Deyant bled in a dozen places, and with some irritation realized that she owed her life to her slower and more careful sister.

  Memory broke as the creature grew weary of diversions. They took one step forward. Mrinda spoke very softly to herself and her God, while Deyant fought for control. Mrinda couldn’t save her this time. If what she’d said was true, Mrinda would no longer have that strength of fields. Deyant realized at last that it was not only the forest she fought—she was herself the enemy.

  Anger flared again as they looked at Mrinda, helpless where she stood at the edge of the wild blue meadow. Deyant kept herself a little more separate this time. When the monster reached out for Mrinda, this time she swiftly forced a halt.

  Once more memory floated before her, and Deyant held the monster still as in her mind she returned to her first summer in the forest, returned to yet another clearing like this one, inside another sphere where they held a young and fluttery thing with wings the color of the sunrise and eyes like stars.

  “Ah, la, little one,” Mrinda crooned as she stroked the soft wings. “Oh, Dey, can’t we just let this one go? Look at it, how can this sweet thing be dangerous?”

  Deyant’s heart sank as she looked into her sister’s imploring eyes, then at the tiny colorful beastie with its shining face and weak limbs. There was only one choice, and Mrinda knew it.

  “Pledged to defend the people,” she said. Mrinda turned away, would not watch as Deyant reached inside the utterly helpless creature, twisted the energy inside just so. The wee thing shimmered and vanished, leaving behind a slight glow and sadness thick as fog, so that the two girls found themselves in the inevitable dying meadow, each with tears chill on her face.

  Deyant returned to the present, and with a sob she snapped the link between the burning one and herself. She felt her spirit once more slide into her fallen body. The young monster collapsed into its own unfinished form. With her energy withdrawn, it became the lumpish thing it had been before, with only a dim and smoky flame.

  Slowly, carefully, as the thing screeched inside her mind, she reached into its fields, deep into a place only she could see. Careful now, she twisted, and the forest-spawn thinned into a fine line then vanished entirely.

  Deyant found herself lying on the ground looking up into Mrinda’s face. Her heart was still sad but she felt some peace as she studied her sister. Maybe I don’t have to lose her, Deyant thought. We still have all the time before, and maybe we can salvage something from this.

  Overhead Ki’rin shone golden now through the night. They watched as the cold, luminous blue faded from the trees and grasses. Already the meadow looked dull and lifeless, crumbling into dust.

  Mrinda took her sister’s hand. “Are you alright?” she asked.

  Deyant swallowed hard through the lump in her throat, and nodded. “Exhausted,” she said.

  Mrinda bent down and picked up Deyant’s cloak from the ground. Pieces of dead grass clung to the edges. She helped her sister rise and draped the cloak around her shoulders. “I’m so sorry, Dey. I never meant to let you down like this.”

  Deyant looked closely at her sister. Bright welts showed where the grass had burned, and Mrinda’s eyes were dark with pain. Why, she looks like a stranger, Deyant thought. She almost looks old. “It doesn’t matter, not now,” she said aloud.

  “But if I—”

  “No!” Deyant almost shouted. Then, in a softer voice, “Let’s go home. Please.” She reached out with her fields—slowly, carefully—and brushed Mrinda’s own with her concern. “If we don’t have this anymore…” Deyant hesitated. “Then we’ll have to find something else. You’re still my sister, after all. And I want…” She shook her head then chuckled. “I want to get to know you.” And she smiled an honest smile.

  Mrinda smiled back and took her hand. They started back along the path they could both see clearly, across the disintegrating meadow and through the ancient, crowded forest, the path that led home.

  * * * * * * *

  About the author:

  Jennifer’s childhood was split between Toledo, Ohio and rural Mississippi but, through dozens of moves and many different houses, she always carried notebooks full of stories she wrote for herself. Later she escaped her family and lived for several years on a communal farm in the Missouri Ozarks. She then moved to Tucson, Arizona where she worked in food co-ops, became a typesetter, and devoted many days and nights to political and community organizing.

  Over the years she submitted her stories to publishers, receiving responses that ranged from the usual form letters to casual encouragement to “Great story, but not for us.” Eventually she set fiction aside, discovered the Internet, wrote tech articles for magazines, and worked several years as a host and manager of various online communities.

  Now married and living in Colorado, Jennifer started reading ebooks and then heard about the bright new field of electronic self-publishing. She decided to roll out her stories, dust them off, and send them out into the world. She’s very happy to see them find new life at last.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page and Copyright

  Last Night – A Short Story

  About the Author

  Table of Contents