Forgotten

One Deirdre Graves looked down at the nearly melted patch of snow under the spreading pine tree next to the Forest Service lookout building and frowned. The storm that had brought the snow to California’s San Bernardino Mountains was already almost three weeks in the past, and, according the calendar that hung on the wall of the wildlife research station that had become her home, it was now December first. The warm sun beating down on her head gave a lie to the date, but that was Southern California for you. It might be comfortable and mild now, but more storms were sure to come eventually…which meant Deirdre had a decision to make, one she really couldn’t avoid for much longer. Should she stay here in her mountain refuge, or head for the lowlands to look for survivors? That same question had passed through her thoughts dozens of times already. It had been easy to push the decision aside as late summer gradually shifted into autumn, because the mild weather had held and she had no real place to go. Surely she was better off staying where she was. More than two months in, and no djinn had found her yet. Deirdre didn’t know whether those murderous elementals had decided there were no humans left in these mountains, or whether they were busy exterminating the rest of humanity and would get around to the few stragglers in outlying areas when they felt like it. Neither prospect was very reassuring. Even though she’d seen no sign of any activity — animal, djinn, or otherwise — on her hike up to the lookout, she still held a shotgun in one hand, both chambers loaded. It could probably knock down a bear, and maybe make a djinn think twice about coming after her. Could you even kill a djinn? Deirdre had no idea…and really didn’t want to find out. A cool wind blew down from San Gorgonio Peak, fresh and clean and scented with pine. If she had to spend the rest of her life alone, she supposed she could have ended up in a much worse place — like her university’s desert research station out near Borrego Springs. Temperatures over a hundred degrees nearly year-’round and no air conditioning? No, thanks. Now that she was safely among the trees once again, the tension that took hold whenever she went to the lookout — which was quite exposed, sitting on the edge of an open, rocky stretch of land — began to leave her body. It was one thing to tell herself that there wasn’t anyone or anything around to give her trouble, and quite another to feel comfortable with being so exposed. This had been her third trip to the fire lookout post; she was probably tempting fate by going up there so many times, but she kept hoping against hope that she might find some evidence to prove she wasn’t the only human being left in the world. The horrible fever known as the Heat had killed almost everyone, and those few who were left had been systematically hunted down by the djinn. She didn’t consider it outside the bounds of possibility that she might very well be humanity’s sole survivor. It was very quiet in the woods today. Usually she could hear birds twittering on the branches above her, sharing their gossip, only going quiet when a hawk circled far overhead. Now, though, as Deirdre made her careful way between the pines and the fir trees, the only sound that came to her ears was the soughing of the wind in the pine branches. She’d always thought it a beautiful sound, but now it seemed mournful to her, as if the wind itself wept for the world’s losses. Halfway back to the research station was a spot she’d found some weeks earlier, a secluded pond in its own little hollow, with a small sandy beach and the forest clustering around on all sides. She liked to go there and watch the clouds drift overhead as they reflected in the water, to see the wind ripple over the surface of the pond. Why there weren’t any houses near that secluded meadow, she wasn’t sure. It seemed like an ideal spot, especially since having a pond or a creek or a stream on your property generally increased its value. Deirdre had thought it would be good to stop by the pond today, to try to find some solace in the beauty of the quiet, out-of-the-way spot. Just a few minutes to breathe deeply and do her best to forget the empty world she’d seen once again from the fire lookout station, a world that no longer had any place for her in it. Not for the first time, she reflected how appropriate her name had turned out to be. The cause of her sorrows might be very different from that of her Irish namesake, but it seemed her destiny had proved to be just as unhappy. No, she hadn’t caused a war or been caught in a conflict between a mighty warrior and a jealous king, and yet she had to wonder if that long-ago Deirdre’s losses could ever measure up to her own. Doing her best to push that gloomy thought aside, Deirdre came down out of the woods and began to walk toward the water’s edge. Before she’d taken more than a couple of steps, however, she spotted something very out of place in the green landscape. A few yards from the pond was a splash of bright, gaudy color, what looked like several yards of discarded silk fabric in a bold scarlet shade. A curtain from someone’s house, one that had somehow been blown here by the wind? That was the only explanation she could think of for why something so out of place would be lying by the pond. Possibly, but how could it have come here? The weather had been strangely mild lately, with hardly any wind. She took several cautious steps toward the shimmering red cloth, then a few more. Now she stood only a few feet away. Her heart leapt into her throat when the bundle of fabric moved, rolled over. Staring up at her was a man. Bright blue eyes caught hers. “Help me,” he whispered. Amaal al-Tariq had done his best to make good use of his exile in the mountains. He’d left the furnishings in the house he had been given alone for the most part, since the place had been decorated with a thoughtfulness he was not sure he could match. However, he had amused himself by creating a wine cellar in the basement and stocking it with the vintages he most enjoyed. He had explored the woods around his new home, and had even — shudder — taught himself to fish, although he threw all of those he caught immediately back in the water. Boning and gutting fish was not high on his list of enjoyable pastimes, especially when he could conjure any fully prepared meal he wanted with a snap of his fingers. Such things came easily to his kind. However, these activities had begun to pall as the days and then weeks passed, a situation of some concern. After all, if he was already tired of these simple pastimes and bored with himself in so short a span of time, what on earth was he supposed to do with the endless centuries of his future existence? It had been so much better in the penthouse he had taken for his use in downtown Los Angeles. From there, he could see a vast swath of Southern California — all the way to the shimmering Pacific Ocean from one side of the rooftop apartment, and out to the snow-capped mountains of the San Bernardino range from the other. Now those very mountains were more like his prison. One could not complain about the beauty of the place, he supposed, but there was also nothing here to entertain himself. In Los Angeles, he could explore the empty museums and decide which of those priceless works of art might look better on his own walls, or wander through the once-bustling stores and help himself to any items he thought might be useful or amusing. But there was certainly nothing like that in the closest town to the house he must now call home. That town was once called Running Springs, and while the setting was picturesque enough, it did not offer much in the way of Picassos or hundred-year-old wine. Why the elders had even decreed that this must be his home, Amaal was still not certain. He had been given this property long before his brother Omar stirred up all that trouble by kidnapping Malik al-Mazin’s Chosen, so Amaal was fairly certain the elders hadn’t selected this secluded mountain spot as any kind of punishment for his participation in that particular debacle. Besides, Malik had gotten his revenge, killing Omar in a battle fought with their elemental powers, so one would think everyone should consider the matter settled. Amaal had mourned his brother for a time, mostly because that was the thing to do, and not because he thought the world had suffered any great loss because of his death. Blood ties were not enough to make him overlook Omar’s numerous flaws. Indeed, he had thought to himself on more than one occasion that the world was probably a better place now that Omar was not in it. Still, it was in general a sad thing to lose a brother, even one as despicable as Omar. And today — well, today had turned out fine and bright and blue, giving no hint that winter was on its way, save perhaps the patches of snow that gleamed in the sun on the highest peaks above him. Amaal had taken to walking in the woods, mostly because he did not have much else to do with his time. It was at least somewhat diverting to observe the birds and the various flora and fauna, although at this time of year there were no wildflowers to pick, and he did not know whether any of the berries he spied on the various bushes were edible or not. A djinn could manage poisons that would fell a human, but at the same time, he saw no reason to give himself a stomach cramp. He’d ventured farther to the east than he had gone so far, not for any real reason, except that he had not yet explored this part of his territory and he thought he might as well get a better sense of all the lands that were his. The closest djinn was miles and miles away in a place called Claremont, so he knew he had no reason to worry about anyone trespassing on his property, knew he could roam freely through the woods. After walking for a few miles, Amaal came upon a small clearing with a perfect oval of a pond in its center. The water looked very clear and clean, showing the pond’s sandy bottom. In the summer, this might be a good spot to bathe; not quite the same as the sparkling swimming pool that had been installed in the rooftop deck outside his late, lamented penthouse, but better than nothing. He might have been a fire elemental, but that did not mean he didn’t enjoy a good swim on a warm day. As he stood there, looking down at the shimmering surface of the pond, a strange malaise suddenly swept over him. He put a hand to his stomach, wondering if perhaps he had eaten something that didn’t agree with him, although any kind of sickness was exceedingly rare in a djinn. His heart began to hammer in his chest, and almost before he realized what was happening, his legs had given way beneath him and he had fallen to the ground, face down in — luckily — the grass that surrounded the pond, rather than on its narrow, sandy shore. A strange shaking overtook his limbs, and the world seemed to spin around him. Am I dying? he thought. The irony of expiring here, in the middle of nowhere with no one to know of his passing, was not lost on him. But no, a djinn could not simply drop dead for no reason. A mortal wound might lay him low, but he had suffered no such blow, had taken no injury on his walk. It was as if this dreadful weakness and sickness had descended out of the clear blue sky. A rustling in the grass told him something was approaching him. With a great effort, he raised his head to see what it was. He had expected to see a deer, or perhaps a coyote or even a bear. However, his eyes met those of a young woman who stood a few feet away. Her sun-streaked light brown hair blew around her face, which was surprisingly lovely, with regular, delicate features. In one hand she held a shotgun, but she clutched it by the barrel and didn’t appear very comfortable with the idea of using it. Even so, for one mad moment, he wondered whether she had shot him. No, that was impossible. He had heard no report from the gun, which should have boomed off the surrounding trees. Besides, while a shotgun blast might level a human, it certainly couldn’t incapacitate a djinn to the point where he could barely lift his head from the ground. She was human, so she had to be immune. How she had managed to survive out here in these mountains for so many weeks, Amaal didn’t know, but he had more pressing issues on his mind. He hated to ask for assistance from a mortal, but he feared he had little choice. “Help me,” he whispered. The weakness of his voice shocked him, but at least he’d been able to form the words. Her slender fingers tightened on the gun, pale against the blued steel. Otherwise, she didn’t move. “Who are you?” “My name is Amaal.” Her eyes narrowed. He noticed that they were a clear, piercing aquamarine blue, quite the most arresting eyes he had ever seen in all his long life. “What’s the matter with you?” “I — ” Good question. The problem was, he had no idea what was wrong with him. Never before had he felt so ill, so helpless. Djinn were not supposed to feel this way. It was humans who suffered from illness and disease, who led short, brutish lives filled with all kinds of pain. “I don’t know,” he managed to whisper. “I was walking, and then I began to feel ill.” A strange sort of comprehension seemed to pass over the young woman’s face. Some of the rosiness left her cheeks, even as her eyes widened and she gripped the shotgun, now raising it so it pointed directly at him. “Oh, my God,” she murmured, although it was clear she had not intended those words for his ears. “It works.”