Free Hush (Dragon Apocalypse) by James Maxey Page B

see through her clothes, her skin, her ribs and lungs, all the way through to the other side, where her hands were busily knitting something dark and cold. It took me a second to understand it was a little doll made of twigs and grass. She brought it to her lips and breathed into it.
    My own body suddenly felt warm.
    She stood the tiny doll in the palm of her hand and said, “Rise.”
    I rose, feeling as if unseen hands had taken me by the arms to help me stand. The world was askew, with my head lopsided upon my shoulders, until she adjusted the head of the miniature and my own skull rolled to right the world. I glanced down at the letters I’d written; they seemed very far away. My new body was a good foot taller than my old one. Sorrow looked tiny as I loomed over her. But despite our different statures, there was no question that she was the dominant entity in our new partnership.
    “Those letters,” she said, glancing at the sand. “Erase them.”
    I wanted with all my soul to disobey, but instead my left foot dragged across the letters, blotting out my pitiful attempt at communication.
    “You remember how to write,” she said, softly. “Perhaps you have other memories from your former life. I have no power to force you to forget them. But forget them you must, or your days will be agony.”
    I slowly shook my head. I could still say, “No,” at least.
    “Whoever you were, that person is dead,” she said, sounding defiant. “You had your chance at life, and you had your chance to move on to the abstract realms when you passed away. It’s your fault you’ve lingered and become fuel for my creation. I’m not to blame for the fate that has befallen you. I’m simply a weaver, a materialist who is able to sculpt lifeless matter into useful forms. Your soul no longer served a purpose; its energy was wasted on aimless wandering. I’ve done you no harm, ghost. Indeed, I’ve given you a gift; a few final days of purpose.”
    I again shook my head, “No.” The grinding sound of my coconut skull swiveling on my wooden shoulders was unnerving.
    She didn’t look directly at my face as she said, “You have no choice. In the morning, I shall take possession of a large quantity of manuscripts. I don’t trust the scoundrels of this port sufficiently to hire assistants to help move them. You’ll serve as my porter, as well as my bodyguard. Just as wood is tougher than muscle, so too are you stronger than a man, and impervious to pain. You will make a formidable warrior if needed. Fortunately, I’m not one who behaves recklessly. With luck you’ll never need to expend your energy in battle.”
    She walked off beyond the edge of my vision. I couldn’t turn my head sufficiently to follow her. She returned a few minutes later with a bundle of clothing. “Get dressed. You won’t pass for human, but in Commonground that’s not such a rarity. In this garb, you’ll draw less attention.”
    The paralysis that inflicted me vanished and I was able to take the clothes she offered. Unfortunately, my freedom of movement was decidedly limited. Any of the ordinary actions one might take while dressing seemed permissible, but when I wanted to wheel around and dash for the forest, my body proved deaf to my commands.
    The clothing was surprisingly fresh and clean. Given my resemblance to a scarecrow, I’d expected nothing more than rags, but there was little evidence that these clothes had ever been worn before. Perhaps she was as adept at knitting cloth as she was at molding steel or shaping wood. The pants were heavy wool; they no doubt would have been hot and scratchy if I’d still had skin. The shirt was even rougher; fabrics aren’t my specialty, but I believe it was woven from jute, more suited for burlap bags than clothing, though given the splintery nature of my new joints, perhaps the thick fabric was a good match. Heavy cloth gloves and sturdy leather boots hid my plainly inhuman extremities. The final touch was to