Malika

Malika traveled slowly away from the fallen dragon. For several days she veered further and further north, making her way through forested hills, her rage seething. On the horizon ahead, ash and smoke billowed high into the air, drifting to the east. Her land, her country - or what remained of it - had become her destination. Marked by the subtle orange glow of hellish flame, she knew its devastation reflected her temperament.

Periodically, she wished Aldreal could carry her back home, so she wouldn’t have to walk. Her shoes had been made for throne rooms, not hillsides, and already their soles cracked and split. At least I wasn’t wearing heels when this all started, she thought in her gloom.

Mysterious child, what were you? She sneered, her disgust rising each time she thought of what she’d seen. That girl terrified her like nothing she’d ever encountered. Malika rested, sitting on a fallen tree trunk half covered in gray-green moss. Recognizing a mushroom, she picked it and nibbled.

Nothing about the child resembled Miranda, yet Aldreal had seemed so sure she was with the dragon. After having put distance between them, she now wondered if some magic had been performed. Malika knew little of dragons, for they were rare, locked away in a time before her time in a conflict between demons and dragons.

The mushroom slimed her mouth and throat, tingling her taste buds like mint, and she inhaled through her mouth to pull the emanating vapors into her lungs. Malika’s mind shifted, recalling the unearthly child, then her demon/glitter glider minion, then the other world, the Making Place. John. Mana tingled her fingertips, then evaporated. Magic had been disrupted, but the psychedelics began to take hold.

Half-lidded, her eyes lost focus, seeing other worlds, remembering, remembering…

***

Aldreal shifted size again, capering along the back of her chair, crooning. Malika tolerated his exuberance, much like an oversized cat with wings at the moment. For once, he was silent, and she focused on her guest.

The two couldn’t appear much different. Malika wore an emerald green dress that billowed at the hips, shimmering under a light layer of frilled lace. It left her shoulders bare, but two darker green gloves covered her arms to just above her elbows. Borne by a golden chain, a pendant of emerald centered on her bosom, and a matching crown of light gold filigree perched on her hair.

Greg, on the other hand, wore a three-piece business suit, slate gray with plastic cufflinks and a black tie over a red shirt. Slicked to the back of his head, his hair came short to the base of his neck, well trimmed like his beard. Today he wore short reading glasses as he pulled out some papers from what he’d called a “briefcase.”

“What are you selling, Mr. Greg?” she asked.

“Mr. Greg? Is that how we’re doing things now? I’m offended!” he said, mockingly placing his hand above his heart. “You took this job fair and square. It could have been Naomi’s.”

“You said I could be queen. Not her. Why is she horning in on my land? This was not part of the deal.”

“It’s all in the terms and conditions here, nothing is out of place. I’m surprised you remember the deal. Being so proper you are these days.” Greg coughed. “Now you want a break.”

“Yes.”

Greg shook his head. “Well you see, that was never part of the deal. Never part of the deal at all. When I brought you here, I promised you and your sister-”

“Enough of that shit, Mr. Greg. You’re a horrible father. I don’t want your scraps.”

“You don’t want to share either now, do you? Shut your mouth, the adult is talking,” his tone couched a smoldering annoyance and subtle anger. Malika opened her mouth to rebut, then closed it, reconsidering.

“Now, this is your signature, isn’t it?” He pointed at one of the sheets and thrust it to her. She rolled her eyes and nodded. “See, you didn’t read the fine print. I said you could be a queen, not the only queen, and I want what’s best for my children.”

Malika looked incredulous. “Mr. Greg, you are fucking ridiculous. She can’t do half of what I’ve done for this land. That’s why I-”

“That’s why she needs a chance to learn. You’ve earned a break.”

“Earned a break?!” Malika yelled, slamming her palms on the table and stood up. Aldreal jumped off her chair and cowered behind it, shaking. “She’s been mustering the Tai against me, my people are up in arms, and-”

“And they want change, Malika. You need a break,” Greg reaffirmed sternly.

“I will not step down from this.”

“Here, look at this other page,” he said, pulling another sheet from the briefcase. “Don’t you get tired of the dangers here? This place, this place here,” he pointed vigorously, “Is another world entirely. No Tai, no challenges to your throne. Don’t you want…peace? Quiet?”

Malika considered. Not having to worry about assassins and wars, and tweedy advisors angling for benefit. She’d wondered what it would be like before. Yet she bore responsibility now, for this realm and all the creatures in it. Her need for power would not let her shirk her duty. And yet…

“I can assure you your place here will remain, and you can visit as you need.”

Intrigued, she asked, “What is this place called?”

“It’s a little something I’ve whipped up. A new experiment I’m trying. I call it ‘the Making Place,’ where you can make new memories and a new life. Make it what you desire. Anything you want.”

“You made it?”

“That’s what I do, Malika. And now I’ve made ‘The Making Place.’”

Malika paced behind Greg’s chair, with Aldreal padding along next to her. Once, he scampered off to chase something only he could see, then brought back a small rat in one of his clawed hands. She shook her head, and he ate it happily.

“Nothing about you is simple, Mr. Greg. Why not Naomi? Let her have that as her queendom and leave me mine.”

“For once, you’re not in control, and it irks you, doesn’t it? I’m not really suggesting now. You’re going. It’s just a matter of acceptance.” Greg smiled, pushing a final piece of paper to her seat. “Sit down, and sign.”

“Fuck. You,” Malika forced through her clenched jaw. “Send Naomi.”

“Not very queenly of you, Malika. She’s already there, and you’re going too. Call it…my insurance policy.”

“Experiment, more likely.”

“True, I guess you could say proof of concept. Sign. Or be made to.” A pen clicked and Greg set it next to the paper.

“You’re not the bumbling fool I remember, Mr. Greg,” she said, struggling against the compulsion to sit, but sitting nonetheless. “Why are you doing this?” she whispered.

“Who’s more foolish, daughter? A fool’s follower or the fool himself? Don’t worry, you won’t remember any of this. It’s in the fine print.”

Malika whimpered as she picked up the pen, and signed.

***

Frantic licks woke Malika from her daze. She lay on her back, smearing crushed moss all over her dress. A pienkhu licked her fingers as they fell just above the ground, savoring what remnants of mushroom remained. Her head pounded, an aching throb at her temples that she rubbed to no avail. Miranda shooed the little rodent away.

Her rapidly fading vision remained only moments longer, and she fought to retain a memory desperately trying to vanish. Only the name “Greg” persisted. Even that almost fled, but she drew it in the dirt, fixing that memory in her mind as something not controlled by whatever else hid him from her. Who was Greg?

Miranda needed to be found, but Aldreal had led his queen astray. The fiery horizon hinted that she’d come closer to home, or the fire had grown, and she dreaded to think what remained of her queendom. If not for Aldreal, she may have died there too.

Why am I even heading home? I can see there’s nothing left. Nowhere to go, now, no plan to make. No hint of where to hunt for her daughter next. I am alone, she mourned, grieving for the loss of her daughter, her queendom, and even her treacherous demonic thrall.

Malika touched the sagging, torn cloth of her bosom, feeling where her left breast had been. She examined herself for the first time, seeing not a saggy mass of wrinkled skin, but the smoothness of a boy’s chest, perfectly formed. Whatever that child had done, it felt odd to be missing all the tissue yet be completely healed. Holding her hand there, she closed her eyes.

What did that child see in me? Why did she take my breast, yet leave me lopsided? She swallowed away the last of the mucus in her mouth containing the remnants of mushroom, their vapors long-gone. This too, she desired to rage against, one more injury against her pride.

“I’ve got nothing,” she said, dropping her hand. “I have only one place I can go,” she resolved to herself. Malika took a deep breath, and walked into the forest once more.