As the warmth of the sun woke him to his fifth day on the island, Baxter felt a new sense of vigor. He had worked hard the past two days. A dozen hammers, twenty boxes of nails, four hatchets, two axes, twenty coils of braided rope, and the remains of an empty wooden crate seemed meager enough possessions, but it still took him an entire day to tote them piece by piece to the clearing. He had worked hard that day and had eaten very little, though thankfully he now had a plentiful fresh water supply.

The next day he had spent finding food. Eating the slimy remains of small crabs had sustained him during his first two days, but they were less than appetizing when eaten raw. Scouring the jungle had provided a great pile of coconuts and several different varieties of bright purple fruit. Some were tastier than others, but they all seemed edible. During the day he spied several species of large birds, all of which seemed unable to fly. He tried chasing two of them, but they were swifter through the jungle undergrowth than he was. He did however discover one of their nests, and within it two speckled eggs larger than his fist. He ate both of them raw, but determined to make a pot of some kind so that in the future he could boil or fry them.

The little lake in the middle of the jungle, perhaps one hundred yards long and almost as wide, was so clear that it was difficult to judge just how deep it was. Swimming within the crystal water were numerous fish and a few large turtles. It had formed in some kind of crater, probably volcanic, though the cool water indicated that there was no thermal activity below it at the time. There was a lip that ran around the edge, several feet above the water that would make it impossible to climb out of, with only a single exception. At the end closest to the ancient ruins, a set of stairs carved into the rock, descended down into the water.

The ruins were obviously man-made and resembled the remaining parts of old world Sumir, especially Donnata, rather than the reptilian constructions of Birmisia. A forty by sixty foot platform was raised some ten feet above the forest floor, reached on all sides by a dozen stone steps. Upon this platform were six thirty foot tall pillars and the bases and broken pieces of forty two more. There were also hundreds of pieces of broken stone that must have once come from a roof. Huge vines and tree roots were growing across the base and up the pillars, partially obscuring it. There was no mistaking that it was once a temple. The broken stonework was uniform enough, that Baxter reasoned it could be pieced together to form at least the walls of a shelter, though it would be a great deal of work.

Getting up from his sleeping place on the temple platform, he descended the stairs to the ground and then stepped down into the cool waters of the pool. Washing himself and his clothes without taking them off, he was in the water long enough that he started shivering. Climbing back out, he found a warm sunny spot in which to rest as he dried off. He wanted to explore the rest of the island, or at least the part of it on which he found himself. There had once been people here. Perhaps there still were. Primitives no doubt, but were they friendly or not? Before he could embark upon that task however, he had to set up enough food for at least a couple of days.

Baxter started by collecting more coconuts and more of the fruits that he found most tasty. The large and plentiful fish in the lake captivated him. But how to catch them? He had rope and toyed with the idea of somehow making a net, but set the idea aside as too time consuming. He could make a spear though. Almost all of the shoreline was easily accessible and he could launch spears from above the water. Cutting down a sapling tree, he trimmed it and then sharpened its tip using his hatchet. Using it to spear a fish was more difficult than making it. He followed the schools of fish along from the lip of the lake and threw his spear again and again. He didn’t hit anything and on the fifth throw, the spear drifted away from the edge of the water and he was unable to get it. He quickly went back to work crafting another spear.

Rather than risking his second spear, Baxter determined to find an easier spot to fish. He started through the jungle in the opposite direction from where he had found the lake, following a similar but different small stream through the forest. Several hundred feet from the lake, the stream widened to eight or ten feet and became less than four inches deep. Here Baxter found not fish, but crustaceans. Crawfish with red shells that were nearly as big as most lobsters, swam through the shallow waters. There were also fresh water mussels, but he left them until he had a pot to boil them in. The crawfish retreated to holes in the bank, but when he stuck his hand in one of the holes, the little beast clamped onto his finger and he was able to pull it right out.

It took him almost an hour to start a fire, but once he did Baxter was able to cook his crawfish in the coals. That night he feasted for the first time since his arrival, reveling in the taste of fresh fruit, crawfish, and toasted coconut.

Then next day, he put aside more food than he could consume in a day, and even managed to spear two fish. He also recovered the lost spear which had floated to the southern edge of the lake. On the day after that, his seventh on the island, using his shirt as a satchel to carry his food supplies, he started off in the direction of the crawfish shallows, but determined to explore as much of the island as possible. He had a hatchet tucked into his belt and carried an axe in hand.

Isaak Wissinger bent down and picked up a paper from the street. At least he was still able to do that. Many of the people he saw passing him on the street seemed barely able to lift their own feet. He was still in the ghetto of Zurelendsviertel. He had been unable to get out. During the past eleven months, Wissinger had been forced to use the money that his guardian angel had given him to buy scraps of food. She had been right. When push had come to shove, the other Zaeri had helped themselves and their families, and not the famous writer they knew of, but didn’t really know.

The angel had not come back since that night. If Wissinger had not had the money to spend on moldy bread and mysterious meat, he would have thought that he had dreamed the whole thing. Of course there were also the stories. Stories had come into the ghetto from the outside world—stories about a mysterious woman. A blond woman had attacked Neuschlindenmacht Castle, burning it to the ground, though nobody knew exactly how. A powerful witch had fought and killed a dozen wizards of the Reine Zauberei on the streets of Kasselburg. A blond sorceress had freed hundreds of Zaeri prisoners held in a work camp and had killed or frightened off a company of soldiers guarding them. Wissinger carefully listened to the stories without adding his own experiences. There was nothing to indicate that these stories were about the same woman, or that they were even true. But Wissinger believed them.

“You’re thinking about me right now, aren’t you?” asked a sultry voice right by his ear.

Wissinger jumped. The woman was back. He looked up and down the street and realized that there was no one else to be seen. This was unusual. It was almost mid-day. He looked back at her. Yes, it was the same woman. She was dressed at least this time. Sort of. He tried to think where her black corset and leather pants would be everyday dress, but could imagine no such place in the world. She tossed her hair back and then took a pose with her chin held high, like a statue.

“Um, you’re back,” he said.

“Oh my. Here I was told that you were the greatest writer in Freedonia, and this is your introductory line?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Well now you’re just being thick,” she said. “I came back for you. You were supposed to be gone, out of the ghetto and to the coast at least.”

“I couldn’t get out. The Kafirite, Kiesinger, the one who smuggled some Zaeri out for money. The day after you were here, I mean in my room, he was arrested. He wasn’t arrested in my room, he was arrested… wherever they arrested him, but no one else took his place. There was no one else who would help, to smuggle me out.” Wissinger stopped speaking and realized he was out of breath.

“Relax lover. We’re leaving now.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“Wait. We have to go back to my room.”

She smiled seductively. “What a wonderful idea. I thought you might be more welcoming this time.”

“No, it’s just… it’s the middle of the day.”

“Yes?”

“Well, um… I… Aren’t we in a hurry?”

“You’re the one who wants to go back to your room.”

“I have to get my book.”

“What book is that?”

“My book. It doesn’t have a title yet. It’s about life here. It’s hidden in the wall.”

“Then let’s go get it.”

Wissinger led the woman down the cobblestone street to his apartment building and upstairs to his room. His building had been a fine middle class apartment twenty years earlier. Now it was rapidly falling apart from neglect. Holes had appeared in the walls and the floor. In one spot just outside his apartment door, he could see completely through to the floor below. In a way this was all fortunate. The crack in the wall next to the loose board, behind which he hid the tools of his trade, didn’t look out of place. Removing the board, he pulled out the tablet and pencil.

The tablet was the type children used in school. He had started at the beginning and had used every page. Then he had turned it over and had written on the backs of each sheet, in ever smaller script as the pages had become scarce. The pencil was the last of a package of twelve. Oh, how he had wasted his pencils at first, insisting on a sharp point, whittling each one back with his knife. When he had gotten to the sixth one, he had stopped such foolishness. He let the lead become as dull and round as a turtle’s head and had only cut back the wood around it, when it, like the turtle’s head, had become hidden inside. That was all over now.

He felt the woman press against his back. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and licked the back of his neck. He turned around and kissed her deeply. She pulled him toward the cot, and he let her. He spent the last hour that he would ever spend on that horrible, worn, bug-ridden mattress making love to a beautiful woman.

“I don’t even know your name,” he said, as they dressed.

“It’s Zurfina.”

“Like the daughter of Magnus the Great?”

“Yes, exactly like that.”

“You’re not her, are you?”

“Yes. Yes I am.”

She slipped back into her boots and headed out the door. Wissinger stuffed his pencil in the pocket where he kept his penknife and tucked his tablet under his arm. A quick look around reminded him that he had nothing else of value. Quickly catching up with Zurfina, he followed her downstairs and out into the street. Even though the sun was still high, there was nobody to be seen. It was as if they were the only two people in the world. Down the street and around the corner, then down the main thoroughfare, they finally reached the twenty foot tall wooden gate to the outside world. It was standing open and the guards who had always been there were gone.

“What’s going on?” Wissinger asked.

“It’s just magic.”

Once outside the gate, they wound their way through the city streets of Gartow. It was much nicer here. The buildings were in repair. The shops were open. But here the world was just as devoid of life and humanity as it had been inside the ghetto. In no time at all they were past the edge of town. They stepped off the road and crossed the first field of many that filled the space between the city and the distant edge of the forest.

“Zurfina, how is it… oh… um.”

“What is it?”

“I just remembered that according the Holy Scriptures, Zurfina… that is the daughter of King Magnus, was burned at the stake.”

“Fine, I’m not her then.”

“But your name is Zurfina, isn’t it?”

“I’m tired of all your questions,” she said, stopping and glaring at him. “It’s been nothing but questions with you since I got here. What’s going on? Who are you? Can I be on top?”

“I’m sorry.”

“One more question and I’m leaving.”

“No. I’m sorry. No more questions, I promise,” said Wissinger. “Just tell me which way I am supposed to go.”

“That’s it!” she snapped, and with a flourish of her hands, she disappeared with a pop.

“I didn’t… that wasn’t a question… I phrased it…”

A sound drew Wissinger’s gaze to the sky. A flock of small birds flew overhead, twittering as they went. Then he heard the sounds of voices, and looking toward town, he could see people. A steam carriage chugged down the now distant road. It was as if the world had suddenly come alive. Dropping
to a crouch, he looked around to see if there was anyone close. He could detect no one. Staying hunched over, he made for the forest as fast as he could.

Cissy finished tying the yellow bonnet below Terra’s chin and stood up. The bonnet matched her cute little yellow dress. Where was the boy? He had been here just a moment before. It seemed so odd. Human children were almost unable to move when they were born, but by their second year, they were almost as quick and wild as lizzie offspring.

“Hyah!” shouted Augie, jumping out from behind the door.

Cissy threw her hands up, shaking them in mock fear. Terra squealed and then laughed, just as she

did every day when her brother jumped out at her.

“Now come,” said the reptilian, scooping up the girl, and taking the boy with her other hand.

“Where are you off to?” asked Mrs. Dechantagne, when they reached the foyer. She was still in her night dress, though it was well past noon.

“To the store. Yuah come too?”

“Not this time. I have a headache. I’m going to take a nap.” She looked down at the children. “You both look precious. Give Mama a kiss.”

First Avenue was one of the most well traveled roads in the colony, at least on the east side. It stretched from Town Square to the small homes of Zaeritown, along the way passing the largest homes in Port Dechantagne—some deserving the title of mansion. Dozens of lizzie work crews were here, laying bricks on the roadways, pouring cement sidewalks, or installing little wrought iron fencing around the trees that were designated not to be cut down. Many of the lizzies stopped to stare at the female with two human children.

A large male who was pushing a wheelbarrow in the opposite direction from the Dechantagne children and their nanny, Cissy knew him only by his human name of Zinny, hissed “khikheto tonahass hoonan.”

“Kichketos tatacas khikheto tonahass hoonan?” asked Augie, looking up at Cissy.

“Talk hoonan,” she ordered.

“What did he mean you ate a human?” asked the boy. “Who did you eat?”

“I not eat… Cissy is lizzie. Cissy act hoonan. Tsass khenos khikheto tonahass hoonan.

Lizzie on outside Hoonan on inside.”

“That’s stupid,” said the boy. “You don’t act like a human. You just act like Cissy.”
She reached out a clawed hand and tousled his hair.

The inside of Mr. Parnorsham’s Pfennig store was crowded with patrons, both reptilian and warm-blooded. The proprietor, a bespectacled older man with very little hair who was shorter than Cissy, waved over the shoulder of his human customer as they came inside. Cissy walked the children through the aisles to the toy counter. It was a small twenty four inch square counter divided into six inch square compartments, each with a different type of toy. There were rubber bouncing balls, toy airships, tin soldiers, doll sized tea cups with saucers, and wooden dogs which could be pulled by a string. Augie immediately went for the red-coated tin soldiers, pulling them out one after another and comparing their poses.

“I wanna see,” complained Terra.

Cissy lifted her up so that she could see over the top of the counter. She picked up two of the soldiers and held them close to her face.

“Boy soldiers.”

The bell above the doorway rang again and another female lizzie entered pulling along two human boys by the hands. Cissy recognized Sanny, who had worked in the Stephenson home, working her way through the other patrons to the toy counter.

“Tsaua Sassannasanach.”

“Tsaua Ssissiatok.”

“Tsaua Claude, Tsaua Julius,” said Augie to the boys.

“Tsaua Augie,” they replied, not quite in unison.

The boys immediately started in on a conversation about the tin soldiers and the limited number of poses that were available for them.

“Did you see Angorikhas this morning?” asked Sanny quietly in the lizzie tongue.

“No, I didn’t see him today. I know who you mean.”

“They say he disfigured Szarakha and blinded one of her eyes.”

“Szarakha?”

“The Kordeshack maid; the one the humans call Sorry.”

“Why did he do that? And if he did, why is he still here?”

“You know why,” said Sanny. “Szarakha khikheto tonahass hoonan. And as for the why… you know the humans don’t care what happens to us.”
Cissy abruptly stopped the conversation with a wave of her hand, as she looked down to see the three boys paying careful attention.

“Inghaa nicta Cissy…” said Augie.

“Talk hoonan.”

“I won’t let anyone hurt you, Cissy.”

“Little child not to whorry. Cissy is fine.”

“I’ll punch that Angorikhas right in the goolies,” pronounced Augie.

“Yeah,” agreed Claude Stephenson, though his younger brother seemed less sure.
Cissy hissed mirthfully, partially at his sentiment and partially because she understood that he had no idea where the goolies might actually located on a male lizzie.

“I want the park,” said Terra. “Park, park, park! Let’s go!”

“Yessss,” acknowledged Cissy.

She bid farewell to the other nanny and ushered the children to where Mr. Parnorsham stood behind the counter. Augie had a tin soldier in his hand and when Cissy picked up the little girl to set her on the counter, she saw that one of the small red-coats was clutched in her fist as well.

“Two soldiers. Three Dillingdoe’s. Account.”

“Two toy soldiers and three cold bottles of Billingbow’s sarsaparilla and wintergreen soda water. That’s one mark fifty two P on the Dechantagne account,” said Mr. Parnorsham.