‘Will you give me your daughter now, the swanlike one to be my bride, to set the kettle in my homestead, make the fire glow warm and bright?’ His eyes glittered darkly, his white teeth flashed between his lips.
Kommi sighed and looked toward me, where I sat yet by the fire. My swanlike daughter never paused in her labours, as the swift needle flew, but I had dropped my work in the basket even as the visions grew. I could not cry out, ‘No, never! Never will you take our gentle daughter, take her from our happy home,’ for Kommi was already nodding, hand out to the korppi’s wing. ‘You have won my swanlike daughter for your own fireside. Keep her warm and keep your kettle ever full of healthful food.’
The blush of blood grew on her cheek then, my rosy one so near the fire. Knew she would be going soon, amid the tears of family and friends, into the sleigh of the raven, into the arms of Kojo’s son. How many days was it we were still with her? Hard to tell, so full of tasks—there was the bridal gift to manage, all the linens she would need. Salted meats, dried fruits, grain—all to make a larder full. Came the day, all too swiftly, when the sleigh pulled up outside, took away our swanlike beauty, took her from our family hearth. Tears were shed by me, by sisters, even servants cried that day. Empty was our home thereafter, as if the fire had been put out, as if the baking lost its savour, as if the birch twigs lost their scent.
I was in the sauna then, on the longest, darkest day when the visions came again, showed me the fate of the snow-white one. The löyly rose up, whispering softly, told a tale I would not hear: How my lovely swanlike maiden rode with the raven away from here. They had only crossed the river when the wandering eye of my daughter saw the footprints of a dog in the snow, running away from their trail. Kojo’s son grinned at her, nodded to the twisting track. ‘Better far if you were to follow little flop-ear’s small footprints than to follow Kojo’s son.’ My unequaled maiden said nothing back, only drew the furs close about her, sank but lower in the sleigh.
When they crossed through the far stand of birch trees, just upon the small hill’s rise, there the wolf’s loping prints crossed the white expanse of snow. The korppi stretched his lips across his snow-white teeth, ‘Better far if you were to follow the path of the lone wolf than to follow Kojo’s son.’ My lovely daughter, swanlike beauty, said nothing back, but drew the furs more tightly around her, shed no tear, but sank into the sleigh’s shadowed depths.
They had climbed the final ridge, the cottage of Kojo’s son in view, when the ambling tracks of the bear met their runner’s path. The raven-headed one showed his teeth again, his black brows drawn together. ‘Better far if you were to follow Otso’s way, tread behind the honey-paw, than to meet your death in the raven’s haven, in the home of Kojo’s son.’ My swan, my lovely one, shed a single trail of tears, but no sound did she make as the sleigh slipped ever faster down the ridge. The horse plunged along, his breath like smoke, as if he were on fire with some inexhaustible flame.
My own throat was less sanguine. I moaned aloud in pain and sank to the wooden floor. No löyly now; the vision receded, but I knew what I would have to do. I could not save my swanlike beauty, I could not save that special one, but knew I must go at once, to find the truth, to find the vision realized. I threw on my clothes and called for Matti, called for my oldest son—Kommi was away that day, in the woods, out a-hunting, or surely he would have shared the wild journey across the snow. Matti swiftly harnessed our old mare, while I wrapped myself in furs and climbed up on the creaking sleigh. Forward we raced, as fast as our poor mare could go. The snow fell harder and faster, the swirling white blocked my sight until further visions arrived, enchanted my sorrowful eyes.
There was Kojo’s son reaching for the ancient warder hung on the wall in bitter times, yet still shining, sharp to bite. His Grandfather’s sword he took from the high beam of the cottage, whispered to the war-time blade, ‘Do you hunger for soft flesh? Do you dream of blood for spilling?’ We both could feel the sabre’s answer, that it dreamed of red hot blood, that it hungered for warm flesh. I could not cry out, make a sound, as Kojo’s blade began its journey, whistled through the winter air, and bit the gentle skin of my swanlike one. One part for the swampland, one part for the raven, another for the wolf, and one more for the river; a final part, the worst of all, was left behind for me. The tender breasts of my lovely white-haired child, who would never nurse a child as I had nursed my special one, would never cradle her lover’s head, cruelly made a gift for the mother of the swanlike one. Kojo’s son, with homely skills, gentle kneading, careful measure, made for me a golden pie. No fish in this pie, but sweeter meat, flesh of my broken heart.
Matti urged on our true-born mare, and the cottage appeared too soon before us. I wanted to cry out, to stop the sleigh before we arrived, before the smoking chimney smiled, before the open door laughed. I could not wait until the sleigh came to a shuddering halt, but threw off my furs and leaped from the seat, could not stop my searching eyes. It was the wind that brought my tears, not the trail of vivid red. It was the smoke from the stone-set hearth that made the stinging water fall. It was not the crimson table, it was not the steaming pie, it was not the cruel mind that left the fork and mug for me, to taste the final piece of my sweet one, burn my mouth on golden crust.
No, it was the single lock of white hair, streaming from the kettle’s rest, caught unwary in the battle, left behind to cheer my eye, to break my heart, to bring me relief. I caught it in my grieving hand, wrapped it round a mother’s fingers, caressed my dear child one last time. The raven had flown, would never return either, skim the woods and darkened swamps alone. Three days, I knew, I would lay there crying, three days now until my death, three days to mourn the beauty of my gentle swanlike one. Never more would she return, never more to warm our hearth, farewell to our swanlike beauty, lost forever, now a part of field and stream, bird and mother, but no more seen.
The Band of Straw
and Silver
Andrew Reid
From: Tales of the Fox and Fae
No-one could say for sure how the stranger made her way onto Lord Robert’s estate, but the instant she was through the gates there was no denying her. Tall and skinny, her mess of red hair tamped flat by a ridiculous straw cap, she swaggered around as though she owned the place, telling jokes and dirty stories and eating everything she could get her hands on. If there was one thing that everyone remembered her for, it was her endless capacity for food. That she’d spent half the day in the kitchens was bad enough, her grubby shirt-sleeves all floury from grabbing at the loaves as they passed her, but when she got wind of the feast to be served in his Lordship’s honour, there wasn’t a hand or word that could stay her from the great hall.
And so it was that the stranger came to meet Lord Robert, striding right up to the high table with her too-big kilt pulled right up showing off a pair of bone-white calves and feet so dirty it was as if they had never seen a shoe. No-one save Lord Robert himself heard what passed between them as she leaned over his shoulder to pull a leg off the finest bird to ever grace a table, but his answering laugh was heard well enough by all. An extra chair was fetched and the stranger fell to in the highest of style.
Now, as the evening drew late and the drink flowed faster, the revellers fell away and only the Lord and his closest friends remained, and among them was the stranger. The songs they sang grew quiet and subtle, and their stories turned to the queer and the uncanny. And the more serious and urgent the whispered warnings were that passed back and forth across the table, the more the stranger mocked them. Her laughter sounded high and bright above them, and as quickly as she had been given welcome the men’s hearts turned as one against her. Eventually, even Lord Robert could not stand it.
‘Will you not share the joke with us if you find it so funny yourself?’ He asked.
‘I will, my lord, although I doubt it’ll please you.’ The stranger wiped her eyes and fixed the men gathered with a clear a
nd sober eye. ‘These stories might be enough to scare a baby in the crib, but I expected a man your age to be made of sterner stuff.’
His Lordship bristled at the remark, but did not rise to it. ‘I might have said the same were I a stranger here myself,’ he said, ‘but there are places around here where no man dare walk even by the light of day.’
‘Well, I am no man,’ she said, ‘and I walk where I please. Name this place and I’ll see it conquered.’
Sharp glances passed amongst the gathering at such a bold claim, but Lord Robert paid them no heed. His gaze never wavered from the stranger’s face, and when he spoke again his voice was low and hard. ‘Out to the west of here, where the cliffs rise up from the beach, there is a cave that no-one has ever entered. Walkers on the hill above it sometimes say they hear things: sometimes music, often laughter, and - most chilling of all - the sound of a hammer set against an unearthly anvil. There are wee folk there, stranger, whether you believe it or not.’
‘I’ll see it before I believe it,’ she said. ‘In fact, if you’ve got a smith who’ll spare me a hammer, I’ll make sure to test their fairy anvil with a belt from some good strong iron.’
As the stranger finished speaking a great wind picked up, and all the men cowered behind their hands as every candle in the hall guttered and went out. Out of the darkness there came laughter, and a voice that was the sound of a thousand voices all talking as one.
Come, stranger. Come and test our anvil. Come and stay forever.
There was a long moment of silence and darkness, as no-one dared to move from their seat to re-light the candles. Lord Robert’s voice sounded mournful in the gloom. ‘Don’t go, stranger. By all that’s holy I beg you not to go.’
‘Nonsense.’ The stranger set her cup down on the table with a thump. ‘It’d be rude not to go now. Didn’t you hear? I’ve been invited.’
It only took two steps into the cave for the world outside to disappear. The stranger walked across the threshold whistling a tuneless little ditty to herself, the blacksmith’s hammer dangling from her wrist on a leather loop and her hat pressed firmly down upon her head. What had been daylight was smothered instantly, as though a velvet curtain was dropped behind her to block the sun completely. The stranger ignored it, just as she ignored the strange blue-green light that rose unbidden to take the daylight’s place, and strode on into the cavern.
As she went deeper the weather-worn rocks were replaced by a high walled tunnel lined with close-fitting stones, each one held in place only by the force of contact with its neighbours. The stranger’s whistling echoed oddly, the notes changing as they came back to her, becoming ever more discordant the deeper she went. The stranger, for her part, ignored them.
Finally, after an age of walking, she came to a wide, circular chamber that was built around a massive furnace, the chimney soaring up overhead and vanishing into a black void so vast and so complete that the stranger half-expected stars to wink at her from it. And there, basking in the algae-green glow of the furnace’s eldritch fire, was a massive anvil. Its silver sides gleamed as though wet in the firelight, and each surface seemed to bulge with the shine of a mirror. The stranger stepped up to the anvil, hefted her hammer, and struck. The note that sounded when the hammer landed was so loud that even the stranger could not ignore it. When she opened her eyes and peeled her hands away from her ears the note had died and she was surrounded.
Long-fingered hands grabbed hold of her at hand, foot, wrist, and ankle. Wide-toothed grins leered at her, and all around there was laughter, high and cruel and utterly free of humour. The sea of bodies parted to admit one of their number through, an oval-faced monster of savage beauty whose emerald eyes were lidless and eternal.
‘We did not think you would come,’ it said, and the others echoed the words as it spoke, their voices whispering like wind through tall grass. The monster’s lips lifted in parody of a smile. ‘We did not expect … stupidity.’
‘I had to come,’ said the stranger. ‘I wanted to ask a question.’
The smile vanished. ‘Ask it.’
‘How did you hear me in that hall? This cave doesn’t go inland, as far as I can tell.’
‘You called our name.’ The monster reached up and tapped at a silver crescent that lay along its brow. ‘Our last smith made this for me, so that I would always hear mention of us.’
‘And does that work for everyone that wears it?’
The monster’s eyes narrowed, and the hands that held the stranger gripped her impossibly tight. ‘You will never leave here,’ it said.
‘As long as this hat is on my head, I will,’ she said.
‘Done!’ The monster snatched the cap from the stranger’s head, and the instant it was off the hands that held her were empty. In a flash of fur and teeth, the monster was thrown onto its back and the silver band dragged from its brow. Voices cried out from every corner, but their cries came far too late. The fox darted amongst them, too agile for their hands to grip, and what few fingers reached it flinched away in horror as it swung the blacksmith’s hammer, hung lopsided from its mouth on the loop of leather. ‘Stop it!’ The cry went up and was carried off on the sea of voices, but the effort was in vain. With a leap over the last of them and a whirl of her tail, the fox was out of the chamber and away.
When the stranger returned to Lord Robert’s estate, she returned to uproar. That she turned up as naked as the day she was born, save for a freshly-woven cap of straw, was neither here nor there. There wasn’t a soul alive who hadn’t heard the sound of the smith’s hammer on the anvil, and there hadn’t been one among them that wasn’t sure that they would never see the stranger again. That she’d only lost her clothes was - all things considered - a minor point, and one easily fixed by some fleet-footed servants who saw her decent again before His Lordship could lay eyes on her. When he finally saw her, his face was as pale as a bucket of milk.
‘I never thought I’d see you again,’ he said.
The stranger winked. ‘I’ll bet you’re glad you didn’t wager anything against me.’
He bowed his head. ‘I’m sorry for letting you go. When I heard the sound of that anvil, I knew-’
‘Don’t even think about it,’ said the stranger. ‘In all honesty, it’s probably for the best that I went.’
‘Did you see them? Were they there?’
The stranger lifted a hand to her hat, as if to reassure herself that it was there. As she did, Lord Robert thought he caught a glimpse of silver in amongst the yellow straw. ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘For a while there, I was away with the fairies.’ She saw the lord’s shocked expression and waved dismissively. ‘It’s okay. You don’t have to worry about them anymore. Not that there’s a lack of other things to worry about, mind.’ She turned to go, then stopped. ‘Oh, I almost forgot why I came. I brought your smith his hammer back.’
The stranger handed over a hammer that was as different from the one she had taken as the sun is from the moon. It sat in the lord’s hand far heavier than it should have, and the storm-grey patterns on the surface of the iron head seemed to shift and gather with the promise of thunder. Lord Robert looked from it to the stranger and back again.
‘Aye,’ said the stranger. ‘It’s changed a bit since I took it. If I were you, I’d think twice before using it.’
‘This is a rare gift,’ Lord Robert said. ‘I don’t know how to thank you. Will you not tell me your name?’
The stranger laughed. ‘No, my lord, I won’t,’ she said. ‘But if you ever chance to find it out,’ she tapped her brow again, ‘I’ll be sure to hear you.’
From the Womb of the Land, Our Bones Entwined
AJ Fitzwater
From: Pacific Monsters
I was given to the world under a new moon, my kuia Oma told me. The eye of sky god Ranginui turned dark against me, allowing me to slither through the cracks made by E’s tale.
&n
bsp; That’s bullshit. If there were any cracks to slither through, it was between my mother’s fingers. Oma never spoke of her, except to say I was a daughter of Papatūānuku, the earth mother. More bullshit. People design their gods around the truth they don’t want to face.
But then, there’s E. The spine of Te Waipounamu. The beast that makes the South Island of New Zealand move. And they’re so real it hurts.
‘You gotta come back, Hineahuone.’ Aunty ‘Whina’s voice down the phone sounds like she’s right at my shoulder though there’s twelve thousand kilometres between Anchorage and Christchurch.
I scrub my face with one hand. ‘Auē. A seven point eight?’
‘You felt it.’
Of course, even all the way over here. Even with the restless Aleutian fault stroking my attention. My fingers are still numb.
‘Kaikōura is a mess, bubs.’
Geez, ‘Whina. I’m not a kid anymore. How long has it been for you? Forever, or yesterday?
‘Cracks metres deep, running for miles. Upthrust a couple metres high along the coast. But we got lucky this time. Only two dead.’
Only. As compared to the one hundred and eighty-five I let happen in the Christchurch 6.0.
Her sigh whines electronically. ‘It’s a warning. E’s moving. Three big ones in ten years, bubs. The Alpine Fault is next. The big one.’
‘You don’t know that. This isn’t nineteen eighty-two in Yemen.’ A lie, aimed to cut and trick her back into forgetfulness. Coward.
Her professor’s lecturer voice changes to a childish plead. ‘Te Waiponamu needs you. If your kuia was here—’
—I would have known what to do that September morning when multiple faults broke. My bones shiver as I remember the screaming, books falling on me, my useless fingers thrusting into the ground trying to make it stop, dear gods, STOP...
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