---

The Settlement

by WC Dunlap

They file out into the predawn chill before the rest of the settlement is awake. Cloaked by a thick fog and the still darkness of a waning night, they carry shovels and picks. Despite the high collars and low hats that conceal their faces, their attempts at anonymity are wasted. I recognize them instantly through the frost of the kitchen window, their layers of clothing stitched by my own hand or those of my brethren.

I see you Reverend John Able, Matthias Smith, Thomas Gore, William Roe and Matthew Surgeon. And God sees you too.

They are silent in their duties, barely even looking at one another. Their breath visible in heavy puffs that quickly condense into white frost, as they pound the hard, frozen earth. They dig deeper, until the ground cracks, and still farther until they hit bone. It is hard work and it takes an hour before the first body is pulled up.

They pull up three this time, quickly stashing them away before their minds can register name or memory. They stuff them into sacks that do little to conceal the shape of a human body and hastily refill the holes, haphazardly replacing wooden crosses, markers and other mementos from the living to the dead. Why do they even bother with the funerals now? They drag the bodies away before the sun cuts the horizon.

Our meat for the week.

Matthew enters shortly after, somber from the sacrilege he’s forced to perform. He discards his great coat and peels away the layers as I pour his bitter morning brew. His wife and child still asleep, exhausted from empty bellies and the cold—we have but an hour to ourselves. I sit next to him as he sips, staring straight ahead into the fire. One hand grasping the cup, the other gently on my thigh. Slowly he begins to rub, his movements hesitant, even shy at first, but progressively more intent as he takes the last sip. By then his fingers are pressed firmly against my groin. I guide his rhythm now, one hand clasped around his arm, the other working his fingers in the perfect motion. Just as I am about to moan, he places thin, rough lips over my mouth and kisses. Abruptly, he rises and throws a cloak across his shoulders. He beckons and I follow. We fight against the wind, towards the woodshed.

It is freezing but our bodies are boiling. We enter discreetly, but as soon as the door closes he is on me, pulling my skirt above my thighs while I unlace his breeches. I wrap my dark legs around his goose-pimpled pink flesh. His fingers trace the scars on my back—from when they broke me as a child—to the outline of the brand that signifies my servitude. But his cold calloused hands offer little comfort, so I move them gently to my breasts.

It is only now that he speaks. “Dear God, I love you Abiona,” he gasps as he enters me.

They called me Abigail, but it is in these moments that Matthew acknowledges my birth name, the name taken from me when I was but a child. It has been our secret since I sprouted breasts and hips. “Abiona,” he’d whisper in my ear as he tickled my sides. “Abiona,” he hummed when he first kissed between my thighs. It did not take long for me to understand that seducing an Abiona was decidedly more titillating than an Abigail.

I don’t answer but he doesn’t expect one. Instead, I close my eyes and press my hips closer into his. After minutes of desperate pumping and deep moans that carry across the icy, dry day, our morning ritual ends quickly enough. His seed spent, he kisses my face, my neck, my breasts and rubs the length of my body.

“This is wrong,” he says in between caresses. He glances back at the house, where his sleeping wife and son must be awake by now, our morning absence too familiar to question where we are.

There’s nothing I can say to assuage his guilt.

He begins to sob now, and it is then that I realize that his guilt has nothing to do with the mad and frigid woman that shares his bed. It is the digging and the meat and the awful thing he is forced to do for the survival of our colony.

Cannibalism is a far greater sin than adultery.

We both seek relief from our sins through these insalubrious couplings. I roll my hips until he stiffens once again. We take our time now, slowly sating a hunger much easier to satisfy than the one in our bellies. Somewhere in between my own bursts of pleasure I shout, “I love you, Matthew,” but it is a lie.

A slave can no sooner love their master than a sheep could love a wolf.

---

We are called to the church at noon, the ringing bells forcing us from our wretched, hungry homes. Shapeless mounds of stiff and frozen wool walk solemnly through the town center and towards the cross, the symbol of our inchoate new world. Only the sick and dying, too weak from starvation, do not join and there are plenty of those. Out of a settlement of one hundred, barely half fill the church.

I stand with the servants in the back near the door, every new entrance hitting us with a frozen blast that tears through rags and sets deep into bones. Twelve huddle together for warmth—seven women, five men, all taken from the comfort and bounty of our homes to this desolate place. Forced to forget who we are, to serve these weak and pitiless people.

We stand apart from the white servants, their sentences of servitude voluntary and significantly shorter than our own. They too are relegated to the back of the church, but they huddle to the right while we—their darker brethren—occupy the left of this unimpressive wooden box they call a house of worship.

As an elder, Matthew sits in the front row with his wife and child. He holds my gaze before his wife notices, his longing replaced by her beastly, hard hatred.

There’s nothing you can do to hurt me anymore, Betsy Surgeon, I have your man.

I stare back with the defiant insouciance of the oppressed, until I am nudged by Moses.

“Abi,” he cautions, “You play too much.”

I assure you Moses this is no game.

Beautiful, blue black Moses, towering over the entire congregation, but as docile as a cow. Moses wasn’t stolen, he was sold—by his own people—for reasons I can only guess. He’s been Moses ever since, rejecting whatever name given to him at birth, serving with a quiet obedience that is easily mistook for complacency.

“You don’t worry about me, boy,” I snap back and he is silenced.

The bibulous Reverend John Able takes the pulpit, cheeks ruby from the cold and the whiskey oozing from his pores. I can smell it, even from the back. His morning disguise discarded now for a dusty, moth-eaten Black suit and white preacher’s collar.  But he cannot escape his shame. He struggles to hold his head high, to face his congregation, knowing the abomination he condones.

I see you Reverend John Able and God sees you too.

Speech slurred with liquor, he begins, “t-the meat will be d-distributed in the town square. Portions will be d-determined by size of the household. Please send a single repre-repre … a s-single person to collect your s-share.”

“We know fool preacher!” someone shouts.

This has been the routine for the past 6 weeks. But the meat is rotten and it’s making too many sick.

The Reverend grows irate, “well, what you don’t know Mr. Dods—I heard you, I know that was you—is that t-this morning was the last. T-there is no more meat! Nothing left! So t-there!”

The church erupts in curses and cries. We servants simply stand by and watch as the useless Reverend John condemns his congregation, “No, not in God’s house! You watch your mouth in God’s house!”

“What about England?” someone asks.

“They’ve sent us here to die!” shouts another.

The Reverend holds up his hands to calm the congregation. Swaying, he steadies himself against the pulpit. “No, no, no never,” he stutters, “N-neither King nor God has abandoned us. Re-reinforcements are due in May! Like Job we must s-simply wait this out. T-this trial of our faith, of our f-fortitude!”

“Save your drunken sermon, preacher!”

“You’ve condemned us to hell!”

These people aren’t in the mood for the word of God, if the gods ever spoke to them at all.

The voice of Betsy Surgeon rises above the din, “and I will make them eat the flesh of their sons and their daughters,” her rare moments of coherency marked with an eerie religious fervor. It is not long before all eyes are on her, “And everyone shall eat the flesh of his neighbor in this siege.” But Betsy Surgeon speaks only to her husband, “you said if we did this thing, this horrible, sinful thing, we’d last the winter. You said redemption would come with spring. But if we die with this awful crime on our souls, surely we will burn in God’s hottest hell.” Each word is a dagger slicing into Matthew, the only one who looks away. She turns to the congregation now, “how do we meet our savior with this evil on our conscience?”

“We ask for forgiveness, every day and every night,” Matthew responds, “that is all any of us can do.”

“God is punishing us!” Betsy shouts, “for this sin, husband, and others.”

Matthew continues to stare straight ahead, but Betsy’s cries are echoed and the fury of the congregation rattles the windows like no winter wind.

“P-please, we all a-agreed to this,” Reverend John pleads. “And w-we h-hoped it would be enough. I-I’m sorry, but it is n-not!”

“What about the sick and the dying?” comes the question, anonymous and inevitable, finally spoke aloud. The church is suddenly still.

Reverend John frowns. “Surely you d-don’t suggest…“

Matthew stands now, eyes downcast, voice solemn, “We pray for the recovery of the ill,” he begins, “I check each and every one of them on a daily basis, administering what care I can, knowing each one afflicted was hand-selected for this journey, to establish this colony in the name of our sovereign, King James I. To suggest otherwise is to commit treason and I assure you there is no greater sin.”

Reverend John nods eagerly in agreement, “Yes, yes, listen to the doctor!”

Matthew steps up to the pulpit, “This is not the time to turn against one another. We need each other now more than ever.” He speaks with earnest, but the congregation is not convinced.

“We cannot survive without food!”

“Send hunters into the woods again!”

“The woods! The woods!” they cry.

Matthew sighs, “you know as well as I that we cannot spare another soul to those savages. Anyone who goes into those woods is as good as dead.”

“They are starving us out!”

Of course they are.

We servants watch in silent judgement as the free men and women of this settlement, these indomitable conquerors, confront their mortality. Desperation flies like spittle from angry dry lips, landing on the frost bitten pink and peeling cheeks of a desperate and dying people.

“The elders are cursed. England is cursed,” they howl and the flimsy structure of the church sways with rage. I would be amused except my own survival is tragically tied to these people.

Matthew struggles to maintain his composure, displaying a poise that few in this situation would be able to maintain. I admire him for that, but it isn’t enough.

I sigh with reluctance and step away from the others. I close my eyes and begin to pull from the earth. There are creatures there—deep and thriving— content, controlled, focused, calm. I snatch that, feeling it first through the soles of my feet, tingling, and I will it forward. Up through my shins, to rest momentarily in my knees. I buckle slightly, reach for the wall and remain upright. It is moving through my thighs now, settling in my groin, erupting bursts of pleasure, but I push it forward. It swirls throughout my womb, flowing into my gut, spinning, and I resist the urge to retch. Up, up now, through the throat and out through parting lips, it blows from my mouth and into the room until my body is concave and my chest is emptied. And when I open my eyes again it is silent, except for the whistle of the wind.

Moses frowns and steadies me with one strong arm.

“What…?” he asks, but I ignore him.

When Matthew speaks again his voice is several octaves deeper, channeling the calm that I’ve given the room. All mouths are closed, all eyes are on him.

“The situation is dire. I will not deny that.” He is comfort now, he is strength. “The council of elders will re-convene and we will find a solution. The survival of this settlement and the survival of our loved ones,” he looks to his son now, “demands it.”

There are murmurs of doubt, but for the moment the mob is appeased.

Satisfied, Matthew nods, “I ask that you all depart to your homes now. Send your servants to collect your meat, eat sparingly and await our update. We will survive this winter!”

---

We servants line up to receive our share of meat. At least here there is equality, each household given a share determined by the size of their respective families. The cut of meat is more hierarchal. Elder households receiving their choice cut first, the rest left to barter over the scraps. Matthew is the settlement doctor and so I am one of the first in line, behind Sissy—Reverend John’s servant.

“My master ain’t gonna eat no organ meat,” Sissy complains, her voice high pitched and whiney. Like me, she was taken as a child and had to learn the language and ways of these people. We all wear our masks, but Sissy has affected a child-like demeanor and way of speaking. Each syllable grates my ears. She is as ridiculous as her master.

“I’ll take it then,” I step forward, tired of her screeching.  “Matthew Surgeon, family of 3, one servant.”

Butcher Thomas Gore nods and pushes Sissy aside. “One liver, two kidneys then.” He hands me the organ meat in a bucket covered by a thin icy cloth.

This will last but a fortnight, and only if we fast every other day.

“Gimme that thigh meat then…” I hear Sissy haggle as I push through the line.

I look up and there is Moses waiting patiently for his turn. He looks my way, but I avert my eyes and continue forward. He steps out of line and follows me.

“You’re going to lose your place, Moses,” I say as his footsteps fall behind me. His long strides quickly bring him to my side.

“This is more important.”

“More important than food?” I snort, “Moses, you are a fool.” He swings in front of me and reluctantly I stop. I look up several inches into his piercing dark face. “Boy, you better move.”

“How long you been able to do that, Abi?” he asks.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Why you so difficult?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Now that there are no more bodies but the living, who do you think they will come for first?” I don’t answer so he continues, “they will not kill their own. No matter how close they are to death’s door. Not until there is no other option. Us. They will come for us.”

He is not wrong.

“I don’t plan on being anybody’s food,” I answer.

“And what about the rest of us?”

I shrug, “good luck to you,” and push pass Moses towards the only hope for freedom that I know.

---

I can tell from the plumes of smoke coming through the chimney that the fire is too hot. Wood, like food, is scarce, but I am grateful for the heat when I enter from the cold. Young William Surgeon, twelve years and nearly a man, sits by the hearth restlessly flipping through a book. His mother rocks in her chair, Bible laid across her lap, eyes closed.

The hours pass painfully as I move about the small home in the fulfillment of my chores. Cleaning and salting the meat, dividing it into portions to last the next few days. My hands rub and tenderize the crimson flesh. Blood clots underneath my nails, my fingers stained red. The smell is both wild and familiar. This was a person and I prepare it for feast as if it were a hog.

This whole time Betsy Surgeon has been in contemplation, her lips silently reciting verse. Her rocking more intent with each passing moment. It is never a good thing when Betsy Surgeon gets too deep in prayer.

“Hallelujah!” she shouts and I jump at the sound. “Therefore fathers shall eat their sons in your midst,” she stands now, wagging her finger at some unseen assailant. I back against the wall. “And sons shall eat their fathers,” she moves forward, her voice growing in fervor, “and I will execute judgements on you all!” She lunges for the meat, racing towards the fire, tossing handfuls against the hearth and into the flames, “This is sin, sin, sin!” she shouts.

“Dear God, not again,” sighs William as I wrestle with his mother, restraining her arms in an attempt to salvage our only food. But when Betsy Surgeon is filled with the Holy Spirit not even my kicks and slaps will slow her down. She grabs a cleaver and swings wildly for my head.

Reluctantly William stands and helps me to subdue his mother. She is left to slump on the floor, her bloodied hands grasping her heart and staining her dress. She hollers now in maniac despair.

William ignores her, snatching the remaining pieces of meat from her hands. He places them back on the table before turning and slapping me across the face.

I stagger backwards.

“I don’t care if she kills you, you are never to lay a hand on my mother.”

The door swings open and Matthew enters, his son’s slap still fresh on my cheek. He looks from me to the boy, but says nothing.

“Father,” greets the boy.

“Son,” answers the father.

“Jesus!” Betsy wails.

“Hush wife,” Matthew sighs, “The sinner does not need to be reminded that he is in hell. William, clean up your mother. Abigail, with me.” He grabs my arm and snatches me from the house.

“Abigail, Abigail!” Betsy shouts as I am dragged outside by my master, “I am the mistress of this house. I am!”

Matthew slams the door behind us, his hand wrapped tightly around my arm.

“You’re hurting me,” I whisper and he lets go.

We huddle close to the warmth of the house, close enough to hear William leading his mother to her chair.

“William hit me,” I say.

Matthew only shakes his head, “why do you agitate her so?”

I lean against the house and close my eyes against the cold.

“We’ve come to a very difficult decision,” he tells me, “Really there is no other choice. I need you to understand that. Do you believe me, Abi?”

“If you say there is no other choice, then there is no other choice.”

He nods, “thank you my Abiona,” he strokes my arm now, the same arm he yanked and squeezed just moments ago. “If you will help, you will be safe.”

“I am free in two years,” I say.

“You will not live two weeks unless you agree to this.”

“I am pregnant,” I say.

He pauses.

Inside the house I hear a chair smash against the wall.

“Did you hear me, Matthew?”

“I think hell heard you,” he finally responds, “but there are more important things to think about right now.”

He begins to tell me of the evil thing I must do, how they trust me and will follow, but it must happen tonight. All I hear is the fading of freedom.

---

“Do what you’re told,” he tells me, “And you might survive this famine.”

So I choose Sissy Able first and head back out into the freezing, fading day. Leading her into the stables, the warmth of my flesh emanating calm and security, and so she follows like cattle. Four men, nearly starved and willing to do anything to survive, meet us at the stable door.

I see you Matthias Smith, Thomas Gore, William Roe and Matthew Surgeon. And God sees you too.  

Despite my touch, it takes only a moment for Sissy to understand.

I block the door as she turns to run, but she is quickly subdued. Two of the men wrestle her to the ground and stuff a rag into her mouth. Another pulls her arms behind her back.

Reverend John stands aside, watching from a corner, both hands clutching the neck of a bottle. He closes his eyes and recites a prayer as they bind his once faithful servant. She’s served this man since she was eight-years-old.

I stand in the doorway unable to move so Matthew pushes me back.

“Go now,” he urges. “You do not want to see this.”

I face the terror in Sissy’s wide eyes.

They hang her from a hook, strip off her clothing and throw cold buckets of water across her bare, freezing flesh. She is able to spit out the rag and screams now. No words, just the ear splitting shriek of an animal brought to slaughter. She looks to me, her eyes questioning why, but I have no answers so she is left with her own explanations as she continues to struggle.

They beat her now, punching her until she is still, hanging limp from a hook like a sow. Someone jokes about tenderizing. Butcher Gore reaches for a knife.

I step forward, but Matthew blocks my way.

“Abigail, go.”

I turn from the sight of Sissy’s lifeless body to face him, but he is unable or unwilling to meet my eyes.

“Better some of us live than all of us die,” he states. “We’ll need two more this day. One at a time, spaced an hour apart.” When I just stare back he laces his fingers between my own. “Tonight,” he whispers, “the woodshed. Let us be together again and forget this ugliness.”

He thinks I want his affection, but it is his power that I need.

The barn door is slammed in my face. I peak through the crack and watch as a knife is slid across Sissy’s throat and she is turned over to bleed out into a bucket. It is only now that the shock turns to sorrow, rising from the blood soaked dirt that marks Sissy’s barbarous death. And I realize what I’ve done.

I reach for the barn door, but it is bolted from the inside so I kick and claw. Chunks of wood begin to fly as I tear through with bare, bleeding hands.

“Matthew control your girl!” comes a voice from inside, which only fuels my rage.

I spit and curse, ready to slaughter these men where they stand or die trying—until a thick hand is clasped against my mouth and I am dragged into the trees.

---

Moses presses me against a tree trunk, his black eyes boring into me with judgment. Drained, I struggle in vain against his grip.

“They will kill you too, fool girl,” he whispers, “You can’t trade her death for yours. What is done is done.”

“Yes!” I shout back, “I did it! I brought Sissy to them and now I must bring two more! And tomorrow I will season and roast them and serve them as if they were beasts until there is no more and then they will take me too. So let them just kill me today.”

I do not ask, but command, “Let me go!” and he drops his hands. I slide to the ground as the sobs overwhelm me like waves—those waves—so long ago. I cry now for a mother I will never see again, the village that I loved, the people that cherished me. For the girlhood stolen on a ship. For the liaisons with a man who would have me call him master and facilitate murder in his service. I cry for a life where I am forced to toil and manipulate, to deceive and murder simply to survive. It is only when my chest can shake no more and my stomach is emptied of its sour bile that I am able to speak.

“Now what will you do?” I ask Moses.

But he just shakes his head.

“I had no choice,” I tell him.

He slides down beside me. “I think you, Abiona, have many choices. And they know it too. Why do you think they chose you to do this thing?”

“Because I am my master’s lover. He wants to save me … and his baby.”

Moses twists his lips, “You believe that?”

No. I never really did.

“Your power is not here,” he places his hand between my thighs. “At least not in the way you think it is.” I back away, but Moses only laughs, a sound filled with bitterness, “Relax, there’s nothing between your legs that interests me. I always knew you were special. I could feel it. You proved it in the church today. The others, they don’t know what to look for. But I do. I told them you would help.”

“Like I helped Sissy?”

“You are strong,” he continues, “You almost tore down a door with your bare hands. And I know you can influence things. Emotions. And maybe other things too.”

“I can barely help myself.”

Moses shakes his head in response, “You are wrong. My mother was like you. Very powerful, highly regarded. She had many husbands, but no children, until me. She wanted a girl, but the gods saw fit to give her a boy. Perhaps they were cursing her. There is always a price to pay for power.” He lets that sink in before continuing, “I learned many things sleeping on that mat at my mother’s feet. I watched her conjure, cure and curse. But as a male I could not be initiated into her sect … ” His voice trails off. He is miles and a decade away.

“Why did they sell you, Moses?” I ask.

He turns to me now, “if you must know, they found me with my lover. We were both so young. All we knew was that it had to be hidden. She killed him, but I shamed her—probably since birth. My fate would be a lifetime of suffering so they brought me to the coast.”

“I see,” is all I can say.

“Abiona, are you ready to end our suffering?”

I shake my head, “I am no witch.”

“Call yourself whatever you like.”

“Sometimes it doesn’t work.”

Moses nods, “You are untrained. I do not know much, but perhaps some of what I do remember can help you unlock the rest, if you are on our side.”

I respond honestly, “I am always on my side.”

“Well, let us side with you then.”

I agree.

And just like that I have an army.

---

The night is late when I return. Betsy and William have already retired. Matthew sits by a dying fire. His body is still and for a moment I suspect that he too is asleep, but then he rises. He places trembling hands on my shoulders. I wait for him to break, to collapse into my arms, drag me to the woodshed to find comfort between my thighs. But that time has passed and power has shifted—if it ever moved at all.

“We need three more by the morrow, Abigail,” he says, “They trust you so bring them. If not for me, than for your baby.” He turns then and retires to bed.

My own sleep is restless as I lie against the cooling hearth. Sissy’s cries, her naked body, the blood pouring from her neck…It takes hours pass before I settle into a light sleep and then I am woke by a hand on my hip.

I freeze at the touch, wondering if Matthew would be so bold as to claim his comfort while his wife and child sleep under the same roof. But it is not Matthew’s touch. The hand is lighter, smaller and I suddenly realize that it is young William rubbing my buttocks, his agrestal manhood yearning.

“Father says I can have you when I’m ready,” his breathe heavy in my ear, his body pressed against my back, “he says you will teach me when I’m ready,” he kisses my neck, “well, I am ready.”

I do not move as he presses me close, grinding against the layers of clothing. I shut my eyes and feign sleep. His movements grow frantic as he claws my belly and breasts, his hands as hungry and desperate as his pumping. Eventually there is a soft gasp and a sticky wetness spreads across my skirt. He lies there for a moment longer before pinching my nipple and returning satisfied to his bed.

This is madness.

---

“Bury me.”

It is morning and I find Moses chopping wood. I carry two shovels and the trauma of yesterday.

“What?”

“I’ve been here half my life,” I explain, “but I do not know this land. This place is foreign to me and I cannot save anyone in a void. The secret is in the earth.”

Moses hesitates, “Yes … you will eventually learn to command nature. My own mother could raise the grains or call the locusts. But she did not learn this in a day.”

“There is no time. I am to bring three today.”

Moses just stares straight ahead.

“We must move forward,” I plead, “If we are to survive this, I need to know this land. And I need to know it now. I cannot, will not live like this anymore.”

“I would be killing you. You cannot breathe underground, Abi, and neither can your baby. If you do not suffocate, you will freeze,” he shakes his head, “are you so eager to abandon us?”

“I promised you that I would not, but this must be done—now! I feel it. As for the baby … you said yourself there is always a price to pay for power. Bury me. If they cannot find me, they will be forced to find another way to herd their cattle. But by then I will be ready.”

“We are already on alert.”

“Then there will be a struggle,” I say, “and we will be killed anyway, unless I find a way out. I could make you do it, but we have been forced to do too much already.” I push a shovel into his hands. “Please. Trust me. At least as much as I trust myself.”

“This is madness.”

“It is,” I agree.

And together we dig.

---

There is a lot to learn from the earth.

First, I learn that there is air. After the last shovel of dirt is thrown over my face, I find it. It is in the soil and my entire body takes it in. Every inch of my flesh is able to breath and it is not long before the tightness in my chest is relieved.

Then, I learn that there is life. Beneath the crust of frozen ground, where the dry, cracked land gives way to deep red, nourishing soil, an entire world is living and dying, listening and learning, welcoming me. Earth worms and beetles, tree roots and seeds, waiting for the warmth of spring to erupt, but surviving nevertheless. They wiggle through my fingers and toes, slide against my thighs and buttocks. They study me with a cautious curiosity, darting from one part to another, until they know me by name.

“Abiona!” they shout.

And then they begin to speak.

Their voices echo through the soil and I hear them with ears, nose, lips, belly and limb and respond with the same. My own words form from thought into vibration and they respond. It is a cacophony as they all begin to chatter at once, each eager to tell me their tale. Epic tales of lives lived so long I can scarcely comprehend or the short-lived riddles of those extinguished mere moments after their birth. But there is no regret, simply a pure and enduring thankfulness to have existed at all.

They teach me many things.

They thank me now for the nourishment as my womb’s blood begins to flow through clenched thighs and into the ground. I hear the laughter of a child, a wild spirit, dashing away, filled with unbridled energy and joy. They are elated to meet her and they assure me that I will know her one day too. They drink my tears and give me comfort. They assure me that she is not gone, only traveling, but she will be back.

They ask of Sissy’s sacrifice and grow sad when I explain it was one she did not intend to give, but they do not judge. They forgive me and so I am able to forgive myself. Sissy too is there in the earth, becoming something else. Greater or smaller, but alive. Perhaps I will know her again too. I owe her much.

They complain about the bodies, pulled from the ground where they danced and feasted with them, only to be robbed. I tell them of the cold and the hunger and explain why it was necessary for us to dig up and eat our dead. They accept this too, with no judgment, understanding all things eventually devour all things. It is nature. It is cruelty and it is mercy.

There is community here and a natural co-existence not determined by master and slave, but harmony and balance. There is death and loss, but sorrow is soon relinquished to birth and renewal.

This is freedom.

“Now you get it, girl!” There is one voice, clearer than the others and I ask it to come closer. It is familiar, almost human, old but not ancient. It comes to me as a beetle, crawls up my thigh and nestles in that warm space where leg connects to hip.

“Hello little sister,” it says wiggling close.

“Hello.”

“What took you so long?”

“I am a slow learner.”

“And there is still much to learn. Tell me your story,” it demands.

And I begin, not with a shackled journey across a great sea in a large ship, but with the birth of a third daughter to a second wife in a once prosperous village lulled to sleep each night by ocean waves beating against coral rocks.

When I am done the beetle is sullen.

“You need a teacher?” it tells me.

“Yes!”

“And you need refuge?”

“WE need refuge,” I correct.

And I feel it smile.

“Go back then and gather your people. We will send help.”

---

Moses buried me deep and it takes hours to dig myself out, even with the assistance of my new friends. Air rushes into my lungs and I choke for several painful minutes. I stuff snow into my mouth, letting it melt down my dry throat, until I have the strength to pull myself to my feet.

The settlement is as silent and frozen as ever. Plumes of smoke puff through chimneys, candles burn in windows, but none venture into the black and frozen night. I make my way to the stables, slipping in silently and unseen. Dull moans of misery greet me.

I have been gone too long.

Bodies striped of flesh and organs dangle from hooks. Others lie chained and alive, missing limbs, wombs cauterized but rotting nonetheless.

Butcher Gore works furiously on one, chopping at the joint, stripping away any diseased flesh, hanging what is salvageable. The ground is a pool of mud and blood, feces and urine. The stench unbearable. Matthew inspects the living-–chained and conscious, forced to witness the slaughter of their own. Black bodies and white bodies, shackled together in despair.

“This one has some sort of infection,” Matthew notes absently. “The meat may be tainted.”

He turns at the sound of Thomas Gore’s limp body hitting the ground, his neck slit from ear-to-ear.

For Sissy.

I drop the knife. Matthew only stares.

“Hello, Matthew.”

“You-you been gone three days,” he stutters. “We thought you were dead.”

“No,” I answer. And it is the most powerful word ever uttered.

I pull gently from the earth, seeking the tree roots, deep and unyielding. It flows easy now and so I bind Matthew’s feet with little exertion and step around him.

“Abi, you made it!” Moses exclaims as I unshackle his arms and legs.

“We both did, brother. Help the others.”

Together we unchain the other living servants, releasing those too sick or dissected with merciful hands. Matthew stands throughout it all, a paralyzed witness to the beginning of his end.

“I will not stop you from seeking the revenge you deserve,” I say as I release the last of the captives. “There is harmony in that too. But if you desire to escape this place, meet me at the gates in quarter of an hour.”

“Where do you go?” Moses asks.

“I’m not sure you would follow me if you knew,” I answer and turn to my master. “Matthew, with me!”

And together we head home.

---

Betsy Surgeon paces the floor, as mad as ever. She recites the Lord’s Prayer—oh these praying monsters—clapping and kicking in-between cadences. Her little monster pokes at the fire, ignoring the antics of his lunatic mother.

Matthew enters first and there is relief from the boy, “Father, what has taken you so long …” and then terror as I step in from behind. He looks to me and then his father. “Father, what is this?” When Matthew does not answer, he turns to me, “You are dead.”

“No,” I say.

I turn to his mother who has grown still, her mind worlds away, dancing through her promised land. I place my hands gently on her shoulders, forcing her to look me in the eyes, “you must help me now, Mistress Surgeon.”

Slowly, she nods.

“Father, please. What is going on!” pleads the boy.

“Together now, Mistress Surgeon,” and we begin to chant.

“Therefore fathers shall eat their sons in your midst, and sons shall eat their fathers. And I will execute judgments on you all…” we recite over and over and it is not long before Betsy is twirling to the tune.

Matthew reaches for a skinning blade. William for the axe. And with each line they slice once another tearing through cloth and flesh, their faces contorted in pain, voices choked back in terror.

And throughout it all we sing, “Fathers shall eat their sons in your midst, and sons shall eat their fathers!”

Frail and under-fed, William offers little resistance and soon collapses, his screams finally unleashed and adding cadence to our hellish hymn. Matthew opens the boy wide, spilling entrails onto the floor. He kneels now and begins to eat the raw flesh of his first born with the voraciousness of the depraved.

I see you Matthew Surgeon and God sees you too.

It is only now that Betsy’s voice begins to waver, her legs tired of their jig. Her mind begins to clear. She sees her husband feasting on their child, her scripture a macabre prophecy fulfilled, and what little sanity left simply snaps. She begins to tear at her own flesh now, clawing strips of meat with her nails, stuffing bloody bits into her mouth until she is choke.

It is nasty business this subjugation of human beings. And so I leave the Surgeon family to their supper.

---

They are waiting for me at the gates, gathered together in solidarity, the Black and White indentured of this accursed colony. They mill around, uncertain of what to do next. The dead bodies of our captors lie strewn about—axes, hatchets and arrows from unseen bows, stick out of the corpses.

Let the survivors eat their own now.

“Why do you stand here,” I shout, “Into the woods!”

I rush into the darkness that surrounds us. The howls of wolves announce our entrance. The moon lights our path while the rustle of beetles leads the way. I follow, but I do not look back. Let those who seek refuge step behind me, but I will not compel the free.

It is not long before Moses, with his long strides, is by my side. I take his hand and squeeze.

A dozen cloaked figures step from the trees and surround us. There is a flash of doubt, their bows held high, faces concealed by night. But then she is there, wrapped in furs, a thick hood covering her silver braids. The moon illuminates the wrinkles of her light brown face and the whiteness of her teeth as she smiles. We do not speak the same language, but I hear her nonetheless. Her voice-—familiar, soothing—-her arms out-stretched.

Hello little sister. Welcome home.

---

Host Commentary

Matt Dovey

Khaalidah! Welcome back to the Castle!

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali

Ah, Thanks. I’m glad to be here.

 

Matt Dovey

So first off, would you like to introduce yourself for those listeners who may not have been around for your editorial run?

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali

All right. So, I came in… oh gosh… so much time has passed. I think 2019?  But I came in before that as a first reader, and also as assistant editor for a while before I took on the role of co-editor. I’m a writer, editor. And I’ve done some audio work.

 

Matt Dovey

It was about three years I think you’re at the helm. With Jen. 

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali

I think it was two

 

Matt Dovey

Two? Yeah, two to three years. It was a decent stretch. First up then, while the story is fresh in everybody’s heads, why choose this story, The Settlement by Wendy Dunlap.

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali

So if I’m remembering correctly, I read this story before it was completed. I think, I think that when they asked me to read it just for advice on my thoughts on the story and at that point, I knew that I wanted to publish it. If I’m remembering correctly, we did it for Artemis Rising

 

Matt Dovey

Number three. 

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali

Yeah.  And I thought the story was very powerful. There’s nothing like this out there. It was very raw and very thought provoking. And I just had to hear it, and also I knew right away who I wanted to do the narration as well, which was so exciting for me that she agreed to do it. Kimberly… 

 

Matt Dovey

Kimberly Taylor.

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali

Yeah. Is Trey Wiggins’s wife, and I thought she would be the perfect person to do it. And I thought for a while she was going to decline but she very graciously agreed to do that narration and I thought she was perfect.

 

Matt Dovey

It’s a very powerful tale as you say it’s very intersectional as well. 

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali

Yeah

 

Matt Dovey

You know, the intersection of power and race and survival and yeah, it’s

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali

So much so much. 

 

Matt Dovey

Yeah, it’s a lot goes into. Did you have a sort of stronger hand than normal in shaping it then, if you first read when it was unfinished?

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali

No, not at all. This was… I saw it like, nearly perfect when I read it. I can’t recall what um, what Wendy’s concerns were if she had any. What I do recall about the first time I read it is feeling cold while reading it.

 

Matt Dovey

It’s, it’s I mean, it’s only what? 6000 words. It feels like a novel’s worth of events and trauma. 

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali

It really does

 

Matt Dovey

Frankly, 

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali

It does

 

Matt Dovey

Yeah, it’s the, some of the stuff that I mean, it’s it’s very cinematic actually, I could almost imagine it being like an A24 kind of horror film. 

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali

I agree 

 

Matt Dovey

You know, Jordan Peele directing that would be an amazing, wouldn’t it?

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali

It probably would. I mean, it’s historical, and it’s rending. I mean, it’s just a very lush story. And for the most part, I’m not a huge fan of stories where, where we have to see people of colour struggling, because there’s so much already but I think what I enjoyed about this was that sense of hope at the end.

 

Matt Dovey

And that sense of shared humanity as they sort of go out and find the sort of First Nations people who were out there all along and everything

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali

Very much so

 

Matt Dovey

You know, That recognition of shared suffering and injustice almost. Yeah. Versus the sins of you know what people will say, Oh, this is necessary to survive. Well, why is it necessary that you survive given the sins you’ve committed? 

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

Exactly, exactly. 

 

Matt Dovey 

And It’s, you could really see that sort of the road to hell being paved with good intentions and how they had convinced themselves bit by bit that this was what they needed to do

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

What they were doing was right 

 

Matt Dovey 

And it must be right because it was necessary for *them* to survive and then surviving is surely what God wants. And so you know, if God wants it, then all must be forgiven and yeah, very much overtones of that of religious zealotry you get where people believe they are channelling God and therefore they are, they can’t go wrong and the actual words escaping me,

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

It’s a good bit of mental masturbation 

 

Matt Dovey 

Very much so and it’s very… That’s what makes it so good. Is that that evil is so familiar, so recognisable, you know, it’s not just cartoonish evil. It’s like you can understand how people get there, especially the world as it is now. 

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

Uh Huh,

 

Matt Dovey 

I’ve SEEN people going that way.

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

And we, I think as human beings, we do have that conscience, but we also have that part of us that’s willing to find ways to justify what we’re doing, even when it’s horribly wrong.

 

Matt Dovey 

Yeah. We are, we’re very good at solving the cognitive dissonance by just lying to ourselves aren’t we? That what we’re doing must be okay. And it renders the humanity of that evil very well. And then yeah counterpoint it with I mean, ultimately, then, you know, the resolution comes from all the animals in the earth and from that connection back to nature, that discarding of that higher this idea that as God’s chosen people, we are above the rest of nature. No, you are still part of it and connected to him. It’s, that connection actually that saves them in the end, isn’t it? 

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

Yeah 

 

Matt Dovey 

So there’s layers and layers to it’s. It is so much more than 6000 words. 6000 words of novel sometimes and realise nothing’s really happened then you read 6000 words of that and you feel like you’ve come out of about a two hours cinemas throwing like we say… 

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

Yeah, 

 

Matt Dovey 

It’s increadible.

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

Yeah, Wendy, Wendy is a phenomenal writer and sort of fearless in her writing.

 

Matt Dovey 

Yeah, I mean, there’s a lot of stuff here that a lot of people would have shied away from or shown off screen and there’s just, it’s just presented. This is what is happening. You need to look at it, you need to watch it

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

Yeah, in a way it reminds me quite a bit of Octavia Butler’s writing and that she sort of lays out the facts and doesn’t offer an opinion about things and leaves it to the to the reader to decide what they think. 

 

Matt Dovey 

Yeah 

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

And I think that’s a gift to be able to write that way because we pour so much of ourselves into our writing, but to be able to put the words out there and just be naked and stark, and then sort of force you just pick a side. 

 

Matt Dovey 

Yeah, 

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

I think it’s brilliant

 

Matt Dovey 

To be able to challenge the reader so directly like that is, yeah, it’s a courageous thing to do, isn’t it?

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

Very much. Very much.

 

Matt Dovey 

So, how did you come to be involved with Podcastle initially, then you said you started as a first reader before sort of climbing the ranks? How did you get involved?

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

I’m gonna blame Rachel. Rachel K Jones. 

 

Matt Dovey 

I thought you might!

 

Both:

Laugh 

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

We met in a writing class, A Cat Rambo class, and have remained friends ever since. Gosh. I don’t even how long ago, probably seven or eight years now. And at some point, she was first reader over at Escape Pod and asked me if I might want to do it. And I was very hesitant. I was like, I don’t know if I’ll have time to. To read X number of stories. You know, I didn’t want to put anyone behind. I didn’t know what it would entail. The entire thing was just all brand new to me. But I did come on and I learned quite a bit while I was there, but at some point she left and became co-editor over at Podcastle and asked me to follow her which I happily did.

 

Matt Dovey 

And then sort of cuz she moved on quite quickly after she was only here for about a year. She described herself as being a rebound editor. After we had Dave and Anna for five years. And then yeah, it was Graeme and Rachel wasn’t it? And Rachel moved on sort of after a year. Was that about when you stepped up to be assistant? It was slightly before my time when you were assistant.

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

So I came on as first reader and I don’t I don’t know how true it is. But I feel like Rachel was kind of setting me up. So, like in my mind, I feel like she always had in her head that she was gonna leave that spot for me. I was first reading and I can’t recall if it was the first Artemis Rising? But I was like, Assistant, Assistant editor, I first I started off as Assistant Editor. But I think that she was sort of grooming me with Artemis Rising to like the more serious editing and I can’t remember if it was Artemis Rising one or two, but I sort of took the reins myself. And sort of guest edited that Artemis Rising and then suddenly she was leaving. And she wanted me or she and Graeme asked me to take her spot which I did happily but was, anxious about, because I know, I know what my weaknesses are and I didn’t want to mess it up mess up something that was already so good.

 

Matt Dovey 

Yeah, I feel those nerves. Yeah, there’s a history to this place and you know a responsibility to it, you know, you’re getting to bring stories to the world. You know, you shape the world when you present a story to it, don’t you? 

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

Absolutely. And the funny thing is, before any of that, like years prior to that I I’d written a book I’d self published and I decided I wanted to do more with speculative fiction. And I started listening to all these podcasts Clarkesworld and Escape Pod and Podcastle and I never for a second thought I would ever have anything to do with any of that, but like totally admired the work that was coming out and was sort of shaping my own writing. With all of this new literature that I was like listening to. I… I feel like I owe so much to all of these podcasts because I feel like they were sort of a gateway for me. And I’m sure a lot of writers would say the same thing. But like when I watch a programme or when I listen to a book or read a book. I am not just entertaining myself, but I’m also learning and I feel like I’ve learned so much. Not just listening but becoming a part of the podcast.

 

Matt Dovey 

Definitely. Well that leads on to the next question, I suppose. Really? Yeah. How do you think being at Podcastle or changed you?

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

I think that it made me a better writer for certain, but also I believe that I was much, much better or much more quickly able to recognise something that that could shine. And it also made me, it made me sort of look for more of the things that I’d like to see in writing, which is why I was such a strong proponent for bringing in more women and people of colour. At Pod Castle because I I felt like I wanted to help change the landscape of specfic.

 

Matt Dovey 

Jen said in her interview, obviously you were alongside each other for a couple of years. She said she thinks you are the person who changed podcastle are the most you gave her an edge and a fury and its mission to be intersectional and to sort of address paths publishing injustices. So did you sort of when you stepped up to be able to did you have that goal in mind already or did you sort of grow into it as you found your feet in the role?

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

Everything I did was intentional.

 

Matt Dovey 

Did you realise you could achieve it when you started though? Or did that realisation sort of dawn on you as you

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

What I realised is that we could all achieve that. And and that doing so was easy. All we had to sort of reach out on hand and actually look for more women and more people of colour. A lot of the people that we were able to publish, there’s Wendy, Eden Royce so many people I’ve, I feel like a lot of times their voices might not have been heard but these are these are phenomenal storytellers. And I felt like if I could open the door and invite people in that they would come and I think that happened. I think that there is a tendency to say you’re open to these, to, marginalised groups to say that you’re open, but your record doesn’t show that

 

Matt Dovey 

I think some markets go ‘Oh yeah, of course we’re accepting of it’ and think that is literally the very bare minimum. you’ve acknowledged it and then you make no effort, no outreach, no…Open attempt to redress unconscious biases and then they wonder, well, we’re just publishing what’s submitted to us. Why do you think you’re getting that balance of submissions though? People do not submit blindly. People submit consciously.

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

That’s exactly it yeah.

 

Matt Dovey 

So what sort of change or decision you made during your time? are you most proud of sort of anything you can still sort of see in our DNA? Do you think it’s that sort of drive towards that inclusivity or is there anything else you think you enacted?

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

I think that’s exactly it. I mean, I love good writing, and I love art. But I was very intentional about expanding what that looked like and what that meant. And that is absolutely what I set out to do. I know. For example, a lot of the encouragement and push that I received from Rachel K Jones to whom I am always going to be grateful was her need and desire to see more women in the industry. And I felt the same way. And I feel like we have to open doors for people. Doors were open for me. And I wanted to hold the door open for other people and I hoped, you know when I’d left that someone else would take up that mantle. And hold the door open as well.

 

Matt Dovey 

I noticed during while you were editor and Summer was assistant editor it felt like our approach to slush reader recruitment got much more deliberate and conscious instead of just opening applications. We were going out and going ‘Would you like to? would you like to?’ and we got you know, we had slush readers across continents and suddenly you know, we were picking from outside of that narrow Anglo-sphere to get those broader voices in the Castle. 

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

Yes. Definitely

 

Matt Dovey 

Which it works both sort of encouraging them, you know, getting people the experience they need and you know, the ability to, you know, get the publishing sort of experience and angle but also then for the stories you receive, you’re getting that broader range of reading. That you know is then how you broaden what you publish and everything like we say that conscious effort to change what you’re publishing and not just go ‘Oh we’re not getting the stories.’

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

That’s exactly it. I mean, I would email people and say, Would you write us a story? Wendy had not if I’m recalling correctly, she had not submitted, just submitted. I asked her for that. story. I asked her to submit to me. And I think sometimes that’s what it takes to let people know that their voices are welcome and that you want to hear them.

 

Matt Dovey 

Yeah, definitely. I mean, talking with Rachel Swirsky actually, in the first of these interviews, she said she used to do that and was you know and was pleased that we’ve kept that up and, you know, because that is, you have to be conscious and deliberate because that’s how you defeat the unconscious biases isn’t it?

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

Totally

 

Matt Dovey 

And it’s and trying to have that, you know, representation at all levels and everything. You know, I think since it was you and Jen, we’ve not had another male editor and we’ve always had editors in different time zones and different backgrounds. And so we’ve tried to keep that representation at all levels very deliberately.

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

Right.

 

Matt Dovey 

I mean it was Cherae that followed you was um, she wasn’t with us before was she? She was sort of hand-picked, you know, invited, please come in.  We didn’t want to just promote from within the ranks but you know, bring in those other voices, that other experience.

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

Absolutely.

 

Matt Dovey 

I mean, you know, I think it’s paying dividends. I mean, the award success would suggest it probably is. I mean we are up for the Hugo’s again, they’re not very far away now are they? And the Ignyte Awards are this month, I think as well. So you know, there are, there are direct rewards for it as well. As well as just the moral reward of, you know, seeing voices published that would not have been published before. You know, we published I’m trying to remember the name of the story now….We’ve published a story recently that was in full Creole accent. Oh! The Rocks on the Beach. I can’t remember what it was called now and it was about a month ago, but just absolutely wonderful voice and like 10 years ago, you couldn’t imagine a story like that being published anywhere in speculative fiction. 

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

Right, Right.

 

Matt Dovey 

But that broadening we’ve had you know, I mean Susan Palumbo now is doing brilliant work sort of writing in kind of her native Caribbean kind of language is fantastic.

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

I love it! I think I think we need to see more of that. I think when I was there, Maylan, Edwards. I think we published a couple of his stories.

 

Matt Dovey 

We’ve a lot of the ones he did in Shimmer, first, we re created. Yes.

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

And phenomenal narrations just phenomenal stories. He’s another one that’s absolutely awesome and has a very distinct voice and sort of cultural agency.

 

Matt Dovey 

Yes, this I’ve just managed to find it. It was episode 793 Dip and Roll by Celeste Rita Baker. You will absolutely love it. Derek O’neill on narrating is a joy. There’s so much energy and everything and there is Caribbean dialect, is a wonder. it was a original story as well. So you know, it’s literally one that wouldn’t be out there unless we had got it out there. You know, go yes, this is a story The world needs to hear. 

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

That’s right, that’s right.

 

Matt Dovey 

You know, we’ve not done Artemis Rising for sort of a few years as, you know, understanding of gender inclusivity has moved on but we did our indigenous magic special call last year and that had some 

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

Interesting! I didn’t know that. 

 

Matt Dovey 

Yeah, we did. I think it was last November ish October, November. We had a whole month where it was just stories of indigenous magic stories from outside that sort of Western understanding of magic. And so long as you had a connection to that culture, and you were representing that sort of cultures, indigenous magic and they have some really wonderful stories on that. So, I mean, 

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

Brilliant

 

Matt Dovey 

Some of them – go back and look at them because there were some brilliant ones. I think you’ll really like. So and again though it’s that I mean, it was a brilliant call. I mean Elenor and Shingai coming up that one is fantastic. But, you know, I can’t – the kind of call again to try and broaden the groups who were submitting

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

Yeah

 

Matt Dovey 

To try and….not just go “Yeah, of course you can submit’ but like make it this is for you. We want…We NEED that broadening of it. Because, you know, stories are how we shape the world. You know, we should be conscious and how we shape it. 

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

This is the truth, this is the truth.

 

Matt Dovey 

It’s, I think it’s in probably in the host notes. I have for the outro just this week, just gone actually. You know, we tell stories to the world about who we are, but we also tell stories to ourselves about who we are, and sort of shape ourselves through that and you know, how do you raise kids you tell them stories, you have fairytales, you have kids TV shows, you sit down and read a book with them. Stories are how we teach new humans how to be a human. You know, they are the most important part of being a human a whole lot in the whole understanding of outselves.

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

I think stories are our dreams.

 

Matt Dovey 

Yeah. And you can’t let that stuff happen by accident. You’ve got to be deliberate and conscious and recognise the power that you have when you’re a storyteller, or when you’re presenting a storyteller’s telling. You know, you’ve got to be responsible with that power, haven’t you. It’s

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

Absolutely! which is, which is, which is where that responsibility comes in as an editor I think because I mean, you do want to, to broaden things and and let more more voices tell their own stories, but it is an absolute responsibility, because stories can do just as much harm as they can good.

 

Matt Dovey 

Yes. And there’s been kerfuffle, in fiction speculative fiction recently about you know, a story got accepted by F&SF by a author with a very unpleasant past in a very fascist British party. And people go ‘why it shouldn’t matter about the person. It matters about the story.’ Yeah, but that stories come from the person who that person is, is embedded and baked into the story. And you can’t separate them. You know, art is an expression of the self. You can’t… I don’t believe you can absorb and, you know, read someone’s art without also absorbing and reading something of them. You know, you can’t separate the two people. 

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

I would agree. I’m not one of those people that are completely able to separate the art from the artist. I know some people say they can. And that’s not something I’m able to do. And I know that sometimes when I’m looking for a new book to read, sometimes I have to stop myself from actually like, looking at the author. I don’t want to find out anything. I don’t want to know about this person, right?

 

Matt Dovey 

They’ll have to police their social media, like you’re recruiting them.

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

Right, right. But I think it does matter. And for me, I don’t I don’t give my time or attention or money to anything or anyone that I think is questionable. But I think what’s what’s questionable is different from all for all of us. Right? So, I guess that’s how some people are able to make that separation. I’m not one of those people.

 

Matt Dovey 

No. I mean, there’s so many things to read now. I mean, the, the choice before us is almost infinite in terms of the amount of time I’ve got left in my life versus everything I want to read. I’ve got the luxury of being able to pick and choose, you know, why wouldn’t I? It’s, you know, no matter how anodyne someone thinks their story is if they’ve got anti-semitic tendencies, you’re going to start seeing stereotypes creeping in, that they don’t even realise are there, and once you start seeing it, you can’t stop seeing it and, you know, stories are food for the soul. Why would I feed myself anything with ingredients like that?

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

Exactly

 

Matt Dovey 

What surprised you about editing at Podcastle that you didn’t expect going in? Or had Rachel cleared the path for you and prepared you properly?

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

I think that the biggest thing that I noticed was how many women were submitting, which was a lot more than expected. But mind you, I had been a first reader over at Escape Pod. So the demographic is a little bit different. And I think coming in I expected it to be the same. But it was quite different, the types of stories that came through which it should be I mean, it’s a different genre. But I was quite shocked to see how many women were there and, and the quality of stories. Phenomenal. I mean, I think that, I don’t know about the other Escape Artists podcasts, not that I’m comparing. But I thought that the demographic of people and the types of stories that were coming in at Podcastle or were pretty much top notch coming in the door I mean, we got some fantastic submissions. I can’t say I… I often saw something that was not good. You know, some things needed more work. Some things weren’t quite right at the time, but there was a lot of really, really good writing coming in.

 

Matt Dovey 

So, being a first reader is hard, because you kind of want to pass up about one in every two stories you read, because there’s something worthwhile on in so many of them. And it’s you get to put… Yeah, it’s just the competition now is so fierce and the quality is so high that yeah, these things do have to, they have to really hit the ground running they have to do so much right. But it breaks your heart sometimes because some stories are just… you can really see the core with them. The such a *great* idea there but it’s just not quite refined enough not quite chiselled away at enough to be in its best form yet. And it breaks your heart after banter back and go. This is great, but it’s just not quite there yet. When you know..

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

When I was there, we, we tried to not sent just the form rejection. We made an effort to say a little bit more about what we thought about the story and what worked and what didn’t work. And I know when I first started writing many, many, many years ago and I was quite awful. I think, at the time, I would submit things and I’d get farm rejections and it’s so not helpful if you’re trying to improve and develop as a writer, so that is something that we made a conscious effort to try to do while we were there to give more than just a line saying that they their story wasn’t accepted,

 

Matt Dovey 

Especially sort, of once it’s got to the editors level once it’s been bumped up. You know, there’s, there’s a good reason why it got bumped up. So to there’s gonna be a good reason why it couldn’t didn’t quite make the mark. And sometimes that is as simple as we just ran a story about this sort of thing a couple of months ago. It’s just rotten timing. I’m very sorry. But yeah, I think personal rejections are a very good way of, again, encouraging and shaping your submitting audience. Now, when you’re getting people who wouldn’t normally submit, you know, if you can give them just a little bit of encouragement, you can win a lot of loyalty, almost, I think and you know, make sure you’re gonna get more stories from them. While you were here? You were a co-editor, obviously working alongside Jen, and you’ve co-authored quite a few stories with Rachel, such as Regarding the Robert… Regarding the Robot Raccoons Attached to the Hull of my Ship. Um, what do you find the particular sort of strengths and benefits of working so closely with other people?

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

I think that’s a hard question to answer because I have always had the honour of working with people who were easy to work with. So it’s there’s never been a battle for me working with Rachel is a blast. Regarding the Robot Raccoons was an absolute joy to write with her. It was fun and there was no plotting or planning beforehand. We just jumped in and started writing letters back and forth to each other. It was pretty brilliant, I think. So, it was easy. Working with Jen and working with Graeme. Just so easy, Graeme with his very gentle demeanour. And Jen who like pretty much co-signed every crazy idea I might have come up with. *giggle*

 

Matt Dovey 

Kept you in line 

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali 

And Summer was just wonderful, wonderful.

 

Matt Dovey 

They are a Force, a force of nature…

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali  

They are in my stories, very much so.

 

Matt Dovey 

We are, hopefully, should have them on for the the final interview. They were never a full editor but they were the voice of the podcasts for so long. It didn’t feel right not to have them involved in these interviews as well.

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali  

Oh, Summer has to be absolutely.

 

Matt Dovey 

So hopefully a couple of months we’ll have one of them on as well for the final interview. What are you working on now that we can look forward to anything new Khaalidah shaped coming out into the world?

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali  

I’m working on a few things. Nothing I’m really going to talk about right now. Because I find I tend to talk myself out of things.

 

Matt Dovey 

Yeah, fair enough.

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali  

But I’m working on a couple of projects and we’ll see what happens in the next year or two.

 

Matt Dovey 

Are you ,do you think you might start stretching too long form?

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali  

I think definitely. I think that is absolutely the plan.

 

Matt Dovey 

Very interesting. Very interesting. Finally, then, what works would you recommend people read if they are interested in your stuff, get to know you a bit more? And then where can people find more about you from here?

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali  

Let’s see. I think the favourite story of mine that I read is Confession you can find it somewhere on these interwebs it’s also in the Best Of by Jonathan Strahan, I can’t remember which edition but I think that’s my favourite work of mine. I and I can be found well where can I be found? I do have a website but I don’t keep up with it. Twitter’s not Twitter anymore, right?

 

Matt Dovey 

I don’t know X? I abandoned it.

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali  

I’m still there but not a lot. I have a couple accounts elsewhere but I haven’t been o n social media all that much. I’m around.

 

Matt Dovey 

People really wanted to track you down they could find you somewhere. 

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali  

They sure can!

 

Matt Dovey 

It’s a measure their determination whether they can find you. It’s not as easy a question as it used to be when I started even doing these interviews sort of six, seven months it was like yeah, here’s my Twitter like, obviously everybody was on Twitter. But already now like is it Instagram? Is it blue sky? is it. Mastodon?

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali  

I’m still there, it’s open. So if I get any… you know, I open it up every couple of days. I don’t typically post anything but I am watching. I am on IG but, I mostly look and not post.

 

Matt Dovey 

I think that’s all you can really DO on Instagram anyways, it’s you can’t really develop a community there in the same way you could on Twitter

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali  

Yeah, I’m not a big content creator or anything like that. So, you’ll see some food and some cat pictures.

 

Matt Dovey 

I mean what else is the internet made for?

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali  

That’s it. That’s it. 

 

Matt Dovey 

That’s all I want out of it. Khaalidah, it’s been a delight having you back on. It’s been a  thoroughly fascinating and interesting conversation. Thank you so much for giving us your time. And for all the time you gave to the castle before, you know got us to where we are. 

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali  

Thank you for having me

 

Matt Dovey 

But I think Jen is much wrong when she said about how much you’ve sort of changed the castle’s direction and sort of made it what it is. You put the battle banners up and made it the fearsome place it is today I think. 

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali  

Let them keep flying.

 

Matt Dovey 

We certainly intend to. We are trying our best. Thank you ever so much Khaalidah. It’s been a real pleasure.

 

Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali  

Thank you. It’s great speaking with you.