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kleenexwomanAngel
The day of the Transformation, Illya woke up in a room filled with light. In the bathroom mirror, he looked like an ikon, halo’d and winged. His gun had become a sword, and when he pulled it out of the holster it burned with a pale light.
The streets of New York seemed to burn away under his feet, and he found himself striding over skyscrapers, taking steps that made him soar through the sky. Soon, he would report to a tweedy Yahweh smoking a pipe and scribbling in the Book of Life…but now, the sun and sky surrounded him.
Michigan
Illya likes Michigan. It reminds him of home. It’s nearly May, and there’s still snow on the ground—just like in Kiev, summer’s three months of bad sledding. The factories that litter Detroit remind him of the factory his grandmother used to work at, when she’d come home late at night, her overalls stained with grease.
Best of all, he likes the trick he’s learned to navigate its geography. After the mission is over, he teaches Napoleon to trace its rivers and highways and place its cities, guiding Napoleon’s fingers in the winding patterns of the land over his palm.
Shamash
Eight small candles in the window, lighting up the snow. THRUSH agents still in the house. How clever, Illya thinks, to make the signal something nobody would ever think of as unusual, not in this town. His hands are going numb, his fingertips already tingling. The agents will stay inside all night, and he’ll freeze out here. He can hear the sound of laughter inside. The last night of Chanukah is always a party, everyone invited.
A small hand places the shamash in the middle of the menorah—THRUSH has left. Illya wiggles his fingers in relief and heads inside.
The Throne of the Yule King
Despite nasty rumors to the contrary, Illya thinks the island of Summerisle is most hospitable. He can’t think of a Christmas night more pleasant—a comfortable seat in front of a roaring fire, a hot mug of mulled cider between his hands.
“Yule,” the landlord’s lovely daughter—Willow—corrects him, and she pours him another tot of cider. “Christmas is not for us. We celebrate the feast of Yule, here.”
“What’s the difference?” Illya asks, and frowns when she laughs. “We don’t celebrate either where I’m from,” he explains, “and in America they call it both. It’s a disgusting orgy of capitalism, no matter what the name is.”
“Yule has nothing to do with their god, or presents,” she says. She settles herself next to him, and raises her own cup. “Wassail.” After they drink, she continues her explanation. “It’s a celebration of the sun. On the darkest night of the year, we begin feasting and drinking…and tomorrow morning, we gather to offer our sacrifices to the sun, so he’ll come back.”
“How charming,” Illya says, and swallows the rest of his cider. He glances out the window. The green is festooned with lights, and in the center is a great fir tree, hung with lanterns and shining ornaments. “And the tree?”
“The throne of the Yule King,” Willow says. She smiles. “Your friend,” she adds, nodding to the tree outside, under which Napoleon is engaged in a snowball fight with a group of laughing, rosy-cheeked maidens.
Both agents had been included in the great Yule Feast that evening. During dessert, a cake studded with fruit, Napoleon had bitten down on something hard—a silver coin. When Willow had spotted the coin on his plate, she’d stood up and announced to all and sundry that the Yule King had found his tribute. Napoleon was to be treated as though his word was law for the rest of the evening. Naturally, he’d promptly selected the comeliest of Summerisle’s young women to attend on him.
“He’s having a very good time,” Willow says. “That’s good. He should be happy until the sunrise.”
“Why?” Illya asks. “What happens at sunrise?”
Instead of answering, Willow leans over and presses a kiss to Illya’s cheek. “I think I might go join them,” she says. As she leaves, it occurs to Illya to wonder at last precisely what kind of sacrifices the gods of Summerisle prefer.
The day of the Transformation, Illya woke up in a room filled with light. In the bathroom mirror, he looked like an ikon, halo’d and winged. His gun had become a sword, and when he pulled it out of the holster it burned with a pale light.
The streets of New York seemed to burn away under his feet, and he found himself striding over skyscrapers, taking steps that made him soar through the sky. Soon, he would report to a tweedy Yahweh smoking a pipe and scribbling in the Book of Life…but now, the sun and sky surrounded him.
Michigan
Illya likes Michigan. It reminds him of home. It’s nearly May, and there’s still snow on the ground—just like in Kiev, summer’s three months of bad sledding. The factories that litter Detroit remind him of the factory his grandmother used to work at, when she’d come home late at night, her overalls stained with grease.
Best of all, he likes the trick he’s learned to navigate its geography. After the mission is over, he teaches Napoleon to trace its rivers and highways and place its cities, guiding Napoleon’s fingers in the winding patterns of the land over his palm.
Shamash
Eight small candles in the window, lighting up the snow. THRUSH agents still in the house. How clever, Illya thinks, to make the signal something nobody would ever think of as unusual, not in this town. His hands are going numb, his fingertips already tingling. The agents will stay inside all night, and he’ll freeze out here. He can hear the sound of laughter inside. The last night of Chanukah is always a party, everyone invited.
A small hand places the shamash in the middle of the menorah—THRUSH has left. Illya wiggles his fingers in relief and heads inside.
The Throne of the Yule King
Despite nasty rumors to the contrary, Illya thinks the island of Summerisle is most hospitable. He can’t think of a Christmas night more pleasant—a comfortable seat in front of a roaring fire, a hot mug of mulled cider between his hands.
“Yule,” the landlord’s lovely daughter—Willow—corrects him, and she pours him another tot of cider. “Christmas is not for us. We celebrate the feast of Yule, here.”
“What’s the difference?” Illya asks, and frowns when she laughs. “We don’t celebrate either where I’m from,” he explains, “and in America they call it both. It’s a disgusting orgy of capitalism, no matter what the name is.”
“Yule has nothing to do with their god, or presents,” she says. She settles herself next to him, and raises her own cup. “Wassail.” After they drink, she continues her explanation. “It’s a celebration of the sun. On the darkest night of the year, we begin feasting and drinking…and tomorrow morning, we gather to offer our sacrifices to the sun, so he’ll come back.”
“How charming,” Illya says, and swallows the rest of his cider. He glances out the window. The green is festooned with lights, and in the center is a great fir tree, hung with lanterns and shining ornaments. “And the tree?”
“The throne of the Yule King,” Willow says. She smiles. “Your friend,” she adds, nodding to the tree outside, under which Napoleon is engaged in a snowball fight with a group of laughing, rosy-cheeked maidens.
Both agents had been included in the great Yule Feast that evening. During dessert, a cake studded with fruit, Napoleon had bitten down on something hard—a silver coin. When Willow had spotted the coin on his plate, she’d stood up and announced to all and sundry that the Yule King had found his tribute. Napoleon was to be treated as though his word was law for the rest of the evening. Naturally, he’d promptly selected the comeliest of Summerisle’s young women to attend on him.
“He’s having a very good time,” Willow says. “That’s good. He should be happy until the sunrise.”
“Why?” Illya asks. “What happens at sunrise?”
Instead of answering, Willow leans over and presses a kiss to Illya’s cheek. “I think I might go join them,” she says. As she leaves, it occurs to Illya to wonder at last precisely what kind of sacrifices the gods of Summerisle prefer.