Faerie Apocalypse

by Franks, Jason;

  11. The Sea City

  on the Plains

  Presently he came upon a river of some pale, opaque liquid, as the dog-man had said that he would. He followed it to the edge of the forest and then waded out into a sea of grass. In the distance, rising from that vast green ocean and sunken below the vaster blue sky, stood a great and luminous place that could only be the Sea City on the Plains. He struck out towards it.

  Although it was quite dry, the city appeared to have grown in some briny deep. Its buildings were curved and gelatinous, with walls that breathed and fluoresced. The doorways and windows were valves and sphincters. Nettled members on the domed roofs waved lazily in the breeze.

  The denizens of the Sea City were tall and narrow and soft-boned, with bleached white hair and pastel-hued skins. They moved with an easy grace and spoke amongst themselves in quiet, sibilant voices. The folk welcomed the mortal into their homes with unconditional love and undisguised curiosity, and they gave him refreshment and a place to rest. They bathed him and brushed the tangles from his hair and beard, and, when he felt he was ready, they took him to the palace to treat with their queen.

  The throne room was vast and sumptuous. The walls of the chamber glowed pink, and the braziers that hung from the ceiling gave off a blue haze that was more fragrance than smoke. The guards were armed with halberds that appeared to be entirely ornamental.

  The Queen of the Sea City was soft-featured and gentle. She was not so much dressed as swathed in feathers and silk. Her jewellery seemed to be as much a part of her flesh as her clothing. The throne upon which she reclined was as much divan as chair; as much a pet animal as a furnishing. It sighed and purred as it arranged itself beneath the Queen, accommodating her every shift in posture.

  “You have sought an audience with us,” said the Queen. The many rings she wore chimed as she fluttered her fingers. “It has been granted.”

  The mortal lowered his rucksack to the mother-of-pearl floor and went down onto one knee. “Thank you, Majesty,” he said.

  “Speak your plea. We are listening.”

  The mortal looked up without rising. “I have no plea, Majesty.”

  The Queen of the Sea City canted her head. “What purpose, then, this audience?”

  “I had merely wished to behold you.”

  The Queen’s smile broadened. “We are delighted,” she said. “Why, pray tell, would one come all this way just to look upon us?”

  “I am seeking the most beautiful thing in the world.”

  “What a charming notion!” said the Queen. “Are we, then, the fairest thing in the world?”

  She was, he supposed, a perfect example of Rubenesque beauty...but to his eye, accustomed as it was to heroin-sapped supermodels and hunger-maddened actresses, she was simply fat.

  “Your Majesty is fair indeed,” he said.

  The Queen’s smile flickered and then faded. “Oh,” she said. She frowned, and hunched, and withered. The fabrics that draped her abundant flesh fell in upon themselves, and the rings spilled from her fingers.

  Without raising his head the mortal surveyed the room, looking to the courtiers and servants and guards. They stood around the divan on which their Queen had once reclined, tears gathering in their eyes and pooling at their feet. The Queen’s garments settled. Her throne slumped and shook.

  Only one of the guards could meet his gaze. “Go,” it said, its voice catching in its throat. The halberd hung useless and loose in its fingers. “Just go.”

  The mortal found that a ring made of purple metal had come to rest beside his rucksack. He put it in his pocket and took his leave.

  12. The Magus

  Though he thought himself trudging in a new direction, the mortal soon found himself back in the Sinewed Forest. The fleshy trees twitched and bled around him, and the pig-birds hid in the boughs. Gravity wavered drunkenly, and the milk-grey river frothed and surged when he came near to it. The vegetation itself seemed unwilling to touch him, receding to afford him passage.

  After some hours, the river ran clear and the fluctuations in gravity became fewer and gentler. The flesh-trees gave way to elm and beech, oak and pine.

  The mortal walked on, consuming the last of the goat-jerky as he went. He wondered where next he would find sustenance, in this Land where the strangeness of the vegetation and the unpredictable sentience of the beasts prevented him from foraging or trapping or hunting.

  Night fell, and the mortal took shelter in the crook of a tree. He had known this Land would be a strange and dangerous place, but he had expected the danger would be such that he could overcome with wits and derring-do. He knew his quest would be tragical as well as comical. The mortal had believed that death and mayhem could not trouble his companions if he had none, and so he had made a point of traveling alone. But to this point he had found no opportunity for derring-do, and death and mayhem followed him yet.

  He had seen death and mayhem before, of course, but that was in wartime. Justified or not, it was expected and impersonal. The things he had seen and done in the theatre of conflict were, at least in part, the consequences of history and culture and politics, but here, walking the Land of his own volition, whatever befell those around him was solely his responsibility.

  The mortal tried to banish such musings by imagining his goal. What would his chosen queen look like? Would she be dark or fair; short or tall? What colour her eyes? What fabric her dress? Would she be an earthy nature sprite, or an alien creature, glamorous beyond human comprehension?

  The mortal could not find it in his imagination to picture her. All he could manage was a list of possible attributes, and when he combined them they always transformed into the image of his wife. His wife: so dowdy on their wedding day; so pale on the hospital bed where he had lost her, as well as their tiny, blue daughter.

  The mortal awoke with the dawn, unrefreshed and sore from sleeping in the tree. He swung down and drank his breakfast from the river, for he had no more provisions.

  He was filling his canteen when he noticed a stranger standing on the opposite riverbank.

  The stranger was thin and weathered-looking, with slack blonde hair that fell to his shoulders. He was clad in torn jeans, work-boots, and a faded, tie-dyed Jimi Hendrix t-shirt. He wore a canvas kit bag slung over one shoulder.

  “Welcome to Fairyland,” the stranger called. He spoke with an Australian accent.

  “Thanks,” the mortal replied.

  The Australian skidded carelessly down the embankment to the edge of the river and, without hesitation, stepped onto it. The flowing water hardened beneath his boots, footstep by footstep, and he negotiated the river with no more effort than he would have crossed a tarred roadway.

  “Peculiar bloody place, this,” said the Australian as he set his boots once more upon dry land.

  “It is,” replied the mortal.

  The Australian shifted the kit bag on his shoulder and pretended to brush away the water, though his clothing was dry. “You’re a Pom, then?”

  “I’m an Englishman, yes.”

  “Thought so,” said the Australian. “It’s usually you Pommie bastards that come here. Most of the Gates are in your neck of the woods.”

  “I’ve heard there are several such portals,” said the mortal. “Which did you use?”

  “Made me own,” said the Australian.

  “You’re a magician.”

  “No shit, Sherlock,” said the magus. “Was it the walking on water or the trippy t-shirt that gave me away?”

  “Have you been here long?”

  “Yonks,” said the magus. “Don’t know, exactly. Time conversion’s fucken complicated.”

  “When did you leave the…the real world?”

  “November of nineteen-eighty.”

  “Twenty years. You must like it here.” The magus did not appear to be much ol
der than thirty.

  “Nuh, not really,” said the magus.

  “Do you like the people?”

  “Tell you the truth, I hate the fuckers.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Well, bloody…look at them. Immortal, these fucken fairies, but they’re so bloody fragile. So many fucken rules they have to follow. If they walk on the wrong grass or sing the wrong song, they just fall over and cark it.”

  “If you hate it here, why do you linger?”

  The magus sneered. “Well, it’s better than the old place, isn’t it?”

  “I see.”

  “So, anyway,” said the magus, who was now rummaging inside his kit bag, “I hate the fucken fairies, but you know what I hate worse?”

  “No?”

  “Tourists.” The magus withdrew a dull metal object from his kit bag. He slid the magazine into its housing with a motion that was both practiced and loving.

  “I don’t know if you ever seen one of these before,” the magus said. “You probably have ray guns or some shit by now. But in my day, young feller-me-lad, this was the best bit of blood and death that money could buy.”

  The mortal stood frozen as the magus swung the muzzle of the Uzi submachine gun towards him.

  The mortal raised his hands. The magus was ten feet away; there was nothing else he could do.

  The magus racked the Uzi and said, in a poor approximation of an American accent: “I know what you’re thinking.”

  The mortal stepped towards the magus. “Please don’t kill me.”

  The magus assumed a firing stance and drew a bead. “You’re thinking, ‘Does he know machines won’t work in Fairyland, or does he think the gun will fire?’”

  He took another step towards the magus.

  “Well, seeing as how I’m a magus, and I know all kinds of magic, you gotta ask yourself a question: ‘Do I feel lucky?’” The magus was having trouble maintaining the accent, in part because he couldn’t restrain himself from snickering.

  “Please. I’ve done you no harm.”

  “Well, do ya? Pom?”

  “Hello, master,” said a coarse voice from behind the magus. The Australian did not even have time to startle before a rusty cutlass blade separated his head from his neck. The head bounced onto the grass and rolled away.

  The dog-man lowered its weapon and kicked over the magus’ still-upright corpse. “Good morning,” it said.

  “Um, hi.”

  “I told you we’d meet again,” said the dog-man.

  “Indeed,” replied the mortal, looking from the magus’ corpse to the dog-man’s blunt and dripping blade. “Did you follow me?”

  “Of course.”

  “I asked you not to.”

  “No, you didn’t,” said the dog-man, “You forbade me to accompany you. Just as well, too.”

  “Just as well.”

  The dog-man grinned. “Well, my debt is paid.”

  “I annulled your debt when I freed you from the merchant.”

  “You annulled the debt of ownership,” said the dog-man, “but in so doing, you instated a debt of honour.”

  “Well, anyway. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.” The dog-man looked at the corpse and licked its chops. “You want some of this? There’s plenty for both of us.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Oh, well. More for me.” The dog-man rolled over the magus’ corpse and spread its limbs. “You can tell me the plan while I butcher and dress the carcass.”

  “I will continue to seek what I desire to find.”

  “Of course,” said the dog-man, lining up the blade of its cutlass with the joint of the magus’ left shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” said the mortal, “But I must continue alone.”

  The dog-man looked up at him.

  “Thank you for your aid. You saved my life. But, as you said, your debt is now paid. Please be on your way, and I’ll be on mine.”

  The dog-man’s grin faded. If it had worn a tail in its upright form, it would have tucked it between its legs.

  “Don’t follow me again,” said the mortal, as gently and firmly as he could.

  The dog-man stared up at him, wide-eyed, mouth open. A barely audible whine escaped from between its thin, black lips.

  The mortal slung the magus’ abandoned weapon over his shoulder and turned away.

  The dog-man did not speak a farewell.

  13. The Inn

  The mortal walked on, for days or weeks or months—he could not properly judge how much time passed. He tramped through the endless forest, keeping the river at his right hand. He did not hunger, and the river served to slake his occasional thirst.

  When the weather changed it took him by surprise. He had become used to the constancy of the climate, to the unvaryingly fair days and the refreshingly cool nights. But now, as foliage thinned, the sky that showed through their bare limbs was pale and grey, and he felt a chill upon him. It began to drizzle, and, while it was not dangerously cold, his garments were soon wet through.

  How long had it been since he had taken a hot bath? Since he had slept in a bed? He was filthy and soaking and, best-case scenario, he smelled like a football sock that had never been washed.

  The mortal put his hands in his pocket and tried to walk faster in the hopes that it would warm him, but all he managed to do was to step into a puddle. The water soaked through his boot immediately and now the only part of him that was dry was a single foot.

  “Bedraggled,” said a bush, just a few feet beyond the puddle.

  He stopped where he was and lowered his hands to his sides.

  “You, sir, are bedraggled, if you don’t mind my saying it.”

  “You will forgive my surprise,” replied the mortal. “I have never been addressed by a shrub before. Or are you a bush?”

  “Neither. I am a fox.” The animal that emerged from the bush was indeed a fox: a fine, yellow-haired animal that stood with its two bushy tails erect and its nose high. “Tell me, mortal, what noble purpose brings you out in such miserable weather as this? What is it you seek?”

  “Right now, the only thing I want is somewhere warm and dry to get out of the rain.”

  “Then come,” said the fox, turning smartly and trotting away. The animal seemed to be dry enough, despite the sheen of moisture on its coat. “I know just the place.”

  The fox led him to an inn. It was a small, two-storey building, with a thatched and gabled roof. Smoke curled up from the chimney, and the glass in the windows shone with a welcoming yellow light.

  “Come,” said the fox. “They will be pleased to accommodate a traveller from the mortal realms. Dare I say it, they will not ask for any payment.”

  The fox trotted up to the door, where it stood up on its hind legs and operated the knocker with its forefeet. The mortal followed more carefully, the muddy ground sucking at his every step.

  The door opened and the fox slipped through, ducking past a creature that was barely three feet tall in its skirts. “Come inside, come inside, mortal man,” said the innkeeper. “Come stand by the hearth, before you take a chill.”

  He followed the innkeeper to the hearth. The fox did not tarry, but skipped away and disappeared through a door into what he assumed was the kitchen.

  The mortal stood by the hearth and warmed his hands. By the time the chill was gone, his clothing had dried out, as well. His hair felt frizzy on his head, but otherwise he was warm and comfortable.

  Including the innkeeper there were six tiny, wizened folk in the room, sitting upon the benches eating, or lounging near the fire. One of them wore a porter’s hat. Another stood at the far corner of the room, tuning an instrument that was a bit like a fiddle. The room was smoky, as if the chimney was too narrow, but he could not smell the smoke unless he sniffed in sear
ch of its aroma.

  Seeing him sniffing, the innkeeper came to him again. “Come, come, sit. I will bring you some dinner.”

  He sat at the table and presently the innkeeper returned, with a hunk of coarse bread and a chicken joint on a plate piled high with potatoes and vegetables. He thought it was chicken, anyway. It smelled delicious, and suddenly he realized he was famished. “Why, thank you,” he said.

  “Eat, eat,” said the innkeeper, so he did. The food tasted as good as it smelled, and when he was done he covered his mouth and belched and sat back from the table. While his mind was on his belly the fiddler started to play, and though the tune was merry it made him feel drowsy with contentment.

  He was feeling very comfortable now, and he closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair for a moment.

  Hadn’t he been sitting on a bench? He was no longer certain. He was definitely sitting in a chair now.

  When he opened his eyes he was convinced, for a moment, that the other diners in the inn were not tiny people at all, but ferrets and polecats and stoats, staring at him with glistening black eyes. But when he blinked they were as before: diminutive folk, enjoying the warmth of the fire and good food and friendly company. The mortal knew that he could not trust his senses, but he was far too comfortable to be disturbed by the revelation.

  A fellow across from him with a beard plaited into its hair raised a fine crystal decanter and said “Ho there, mortal, do you fancy a drink?”

  “No thank you,” he replied. “I cannot take wine.”

  “It is a very fine vintage,” said another of his tablemates, a youthful one in dress that was both striped and spotted. “But if wine is not to your taste we have ale, do we not?”

  “Oh, aye,” said a third, chubby little imp dressed in dungarees and fold-down boots. “And all manner of spirits. We have whiskey and vodka and mescal. We have Wyvern’s Kiss and Griffin’s Claw. We have shnkwer and bourbon and shine distilled from the freshest of moonbeams.”