by T. L. Bodine
It didn’t work.
Sonia snatched the satchels from his arms and gave him a hard push. He fell face-first into a furry vibrating wall. He heard Laurel snicker. Sighing, he climbed awkwardly up onto the cat’s back. He buried his hands in the cat’s neckfur. He felt Sonia leap up behind him; she sat side-saddle, one thigh pressed against his buttocks, one arm hooked around his waist, the satchels situated in her lap. She patted the cat’s rump with her other hand, and it sprang to its paws and stood at attention.
Ahead of them, Laurel pulled Evangeline up onto the gray-and-white cat. They rode it around them in a slow circle, a bit like a cavalry general surveying his troops before the final charge, and stopped behind the ginger tabby. She called out something in faerie-language and the cats, as if on cue, started forward at an even, shambling pace.
Grudgingly, Adrian had to admit that Sonia had been right about the cat. It was much more comfortable than the carriage had been. The constant vibration of its purring was distracting, but not unpleasant, and it moved with a languid stride that seemed more like gliding than walking. Adrian hardly felt the paws touch the ground. After a few dozen steps he gradually began to loosen his death-grip on the cat’s neck fur and sit up straight, digging his knees into the cat’s sides for fear of sliding off. Sonia’s hand stayed, calmly, on his side; her fingertips brushed his hip.
“Better?” She asked, leaning over so that her chin brushed his shoulder.
“Cats where I come from aren’t nearly this well-behaved.”
“They aren’t always here, either,” Sonia said. Her breath was warm in his ear. “Evangeline has a gift. Things listen to her.”
At either side, the town center gave way to more farm-land. A sign at the edge of town read Swaggering Spider Inn. The building beyond the sign was a surprisingly normal-looking two-story white house. Light flickered from the inside in a rich orange glow that Adrian supposed was firelight, either from a fireplace or candle chandeliers. Maybe both. Outside, hanging paper lanterns lit up a courtyard furnished with maybe a dozen tables. The lanterns flickered different colors — blues, greens, purples — and cast their multi-hued light over the tables like a tiny, captive aurora borealis. Faeries sat at these tables, and other figures that Adrian couldn’t quite make out from the distance. Many of the tables had bottles on them, and everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time. The Swaggering Spider was starting to look like a much better offer than it had sounded.
Evangeline clicked her tongue and the cats moved, turning away from the tavern and down a thin dirt trail. The trail wove its way past a pasture and into a small copse of trees. There, set away from the road at an angle that would make it invisible to anyone who wasn’t really looking for it, was a small house. It, like some of the buildings in town, was built mostly of river rock and mud, with branches sticking out at odd angles from amidst the mortar. The whole structure leaned slightly to the left, and the roof seemed to have been shingled in sod dotted with wildflowers. A chimney rose up from the high end.
Laurel stopped her cat at the foot of the stone-lined walkway and hopped down, helping Evangeline down alongside her. Hands entwined, they made their way up to the front door — which was perfectly round, so it was hard to say whether it tilted to one side or the other — and after fidgeting with the knob a moment Laurel opened the door and the two of them stepped inside. Their cat jumped up onto the roof in one bound, curled itself around the chimney, and began to doze.
Sonia slid off of the cat and took Adrian’s hand. He didn’t climb off so much as ooze sideways until his feet found the ground. His eyes locked on the cat on the roof. Overhead, the sun burned fat and orange, coming dangerously close to the horizon.
“Come on,” Sonia said, resuming her prior grip on his elbow. “Night’s coming.”
“Not if we hurry,” Evangeline said, pushing the door closed behind them.
The house was small, cozy and sparsely furnished. It smelled woody and fragrant, some combination of herb smells that Adrian couldn’t quite make out. Beds were built into the walls, little cubby-holes with lumpy mattresses and old, threadbare blankets. A round kitchen table, surrounded by three chairs, stood in one corner, and Sonia deposited their bags on top of it. A fireplace dominated most of the opposite wall; beside it, firewood sat in a neat pyramid on the floor, a bucket of kindling beside it. There were shelves on the walls, like in Sonia’s cabin, but no jars of smoke on them. The floor in front of the fireplace was covered by a large, plush rug that looked like it had been woven together from braids of soft multi-colored fabric. There was a stack of pillows and blankets on the floor, as though someone had planned a sleep-over, and a number of bags rather like the ones he had packed for the journey.
Finally, Adrian found his voice. “You’ve all said something…about avoiding the Darkness, or something?” He said. “I…don’t quite understand what that means.”
“Well, we could all sit around in the dark and listen to you scream,” Laurel replied, and knelt at the fireplace, feeding a bundle of kindling into it. “But that’s more Sonia’s deal than mine. So we figured we’d make you comfortable at least for the night.”
Evangeline, standing beside her, rose up on her toes to pull what looked like a sprig of herbs from the mantle. She raised these to her nose and smiled, then handed a few to Laurel as she rose to her feet beside her, dusting off her bare knees.
“I don’t —” he started, feeling very much like a broken record, for his tune hadn’t changed much since his arrival in Dreamland. “How?”
“Balefire,” Sonia explained, patiently, as the fire began to sputter to life in the fireplace. “Ritual fire, imbued with magic. Now, hush. We have to hurry.”
The three faeries formed a circle around the fireplace, grasping hands; they recited an incantation, in their faerie-language, and each in turn threw a handful of herbs in the fire. They burned sweetly, like incense, and the fumes filled the cottage with thick, intoxicating odor, like the smell Adrian had first scented in the house magnified a hundredfold. Outside, the sun began to dip under the horizon. Adrian felt a thrill of uncertainty, fear for the upcoming night, the uncomfortable sensation of being an uninvited participant in a ceremony he had no place within.
The chanting broke off, suddenly, and the room was filled only with the sounds of the fire, the thick, woody smell of wildflowers and sandalwood. “Adrian, come on, inside the glow of the fire.”
He did as he was told. The chain of hands broke as he entered, and everyone seated themselves in a lopsided circle, sprawling comfortably on the rug. He took a blanket and drew it close to him as he sat down, prepared to ward off the dark things in the night.
Outside, the darkness fell, swiftly and suddenly. The last vestiges of sunlight disappeared entirely from the surface of the earth as blackness blanketed everything, pouring through the window and through the cracks under the door, filling the house — filling everything, except for the ring of orange glow that surrounded the fire, protecting its inhabitants. Adrian, who had tensed preemptively for the onslaught of darkness, found himself cowering inside his blanket, wrapped like a huddling child, and his face burned with shame. He looked to Sonia, for some sort of explanation.
“Balefire,” she said, again, and smiled, “is fed with wood and herbs — but also with creative energy. It has amazing protective abilities, but you must maintain it.”
Evangeline spoke up. “For centuries, your kind have borrowed the properties of the Balefire, although they don’t realize who it was that gave them the idea.”
“You look confused.” Laurel leaned back, comfortably, resting on her elbows and gazing thoughtfully at Adrian, inspecting him. “Let me see if I can explain. Imagine that you are primitive man. It’s the middle of winter, and days are short, and nights are long and cold. The only thing that can keep you from dying of cold is the fire; it brings you warmth, and food, and light, and pretty soon the fire becomes central to your entire life, to your society. Your whole village gathers ar
ound it, huddled together in the warmth, and you make a celebration of it. You sing songs, and tell stories and jokes, and dance around the fire.”
“It was the fae who introduced your kind to the idea.” Evangeline picked up seamlessly from where Laurel had left off; she sat next to the green-haired faerie, and her fingers were absently stroking the other’s hair back from her face. “When our worlds were closer, and there was free trade between the realms, and your kind was not so jaded by its cleverness — we taught your most primitive ancestors how to unlock the magical properties of fire, and it became the defining feature of your society. We borrowed your dreams and gave you some technology — fair trade.”
Laurel sat up, digging around in a satchel beside her, pulling from it a large, squat bottle of honey-colored liquid and uncorked it. She held it in both hands, a gallon-sized glass jug, and regarded it thoughtfully before taking a swig. She held it out to Evangeline, and continued for her, “Rituals, celebrations, holidays — all were celebrated around a fire. Well…this is the same fire, although the stakes are raised a little.”
“The Darkness,” Sonia explained, because Adrian was looking bewildered, “is a form of primordial night, the original blackness from which everything is born, the heart of chaos. The thing that can combat the Darkness — the only thing — is dreamlight. Either harvested from humans, or created by Balefire. As long as you stay within the warmth and light of the fire, you are protected from the outside.”
“Safe?” Adrian echoed, his voice empty. “You mean…there’s…all this time, there’s been a way to protect me, and you didn’t tell —“
She held up her hand, placating, and smiled. There was pain in her smile, but understanding also. “It’s not that simple, Adrian. It takes a concentrated effort on behalf of those involved. And…well, in big enough doses, it would be just as dangerous, if not a little worse, than the Darkness itself.”
“How…?”
“Ever hear of too much of a good thing?” Evangeline said, simply, and took another swig of the drink before passing it over to Adrian. “Now, hush, and enjoy. It’ll be a long while until you get to enjoy a night of firelight again.”
BALEFIRE
“Normally, the fire would be a little larger.” Evangeline pushed long strands of blue hair from her eyes, and looked around herself. “But we thought maybe a smaller fire would be easier to maintain, given that there’s only four of us.”
Adrian realized he was still holding a jug, and, to be polite, raised it to his lips and drank. A cool, sweet liquid trickled down his throat; it tasted like honey, and fruit, and wild flowers. It tasted like springtime would taste, if it were bottled. He swallowed it, and it burned all the way down his throat, hot, acidic, alcoholic. He grimaced, and passed the jug on.
“Faerie mead,” Sonia explained, taking the jug. “You don’t like it?”
“I’m not much of a drinker,” he said.
Sonia shrugged, taking a long swallow. “Anyway. The way this works, is each of us take turns, providing an offering to the fire, to keep it burning.”
“It’s not very efficient,” Laurel conceded. “But it is a whole lot of fun.”
“Who’s first?” Evangeline asked.
The others looked at each other. After a moment, Sonia shrugged. “I’ll go.”
“What are you going to tell?” Laurel asked, suddenly suspicious. “Not that awful ballad about the soldier and his wife, and that other lady’s baby? Because, I know it’s a classic and all, but every time I hear it I want to stab myself.”
Sonia glared at her. “I like that song.”
“I know you do,” Laurel said. “That’s the problem.”
“Well, fine.” Her gaze shifted to Adrian, and a slow smile curled the edges of her lips. “Here — I’ll tell a story about dreams, for our guest.”
Laurel wrinkled her nose, but did not complain, so Sonia started. When she spoke, her voice had a lyrical quality, as though she had a song in her heart that was straining to get out.
“When the world was young and all the races were new, fae and man lived in harmony. The faeries made their homes in the dark places, the unknown places, the forgotten places — where mysteries and dreams and hopes all dwelled. Mankind lived and worked alongside the faerie world, generally satisfied to leave them to their own devices. Sometimes a child would suffer from disease, or famine, or hardship, and the fae would feel its pain from the far side of the world and come to take them away to a place without such things. In their place they would leave a gift, sometimes — one of their own kind, or an item of faerie-make. But fae children are especially vulnerable to the pain and suffering of the rational world, and they rarely survived long under human care. Faerie gifts are too delicate a thing for the rough hands of men, and soon they would break.
“The practice of leaving changelings was abandoned, but the fae could never resist the cry of a child in pain. It rips through the very fabric of reality in Dreamland, and when a child’s innocence is extinguished, it shakes the very earth we walk upon.
“As the world grew older, the children came to learn pain at younger ages. The magic that stayed alive in human thought was replaced by rationality, science, steel and plastic and batteries. Children’s dreams grew weak, insubstantial. Fae kind suffered, and the Darkness came over Dreamland like a shroud. The fae fled to the cities and crowded around the few doors still open to the mundane world. The stragglers in the wild places — both fae and dream — suffered. Many died, many were twisted beyond recognition. Dreams became rare and valuable, and people began to steal them, hoard them. What was once the right of all folk became the privilege of those who could afford it.
“Misery overtook Dreamland, and it threatened to destroy it forever.
“But there was still a little hope. Children could still dream. Doorways to the human world remained open, and visitors would still come, and dreams would still be left, and the Balefires burned as best they could. There was still a little magic in the world, staving off the Darkness, and the fae clung to that magic and scraped a living in the glow of the fire for generations.
“Then he came.
“He was a dream, but he lived among the fae, and resembled them so closely, that most tended to forget what he was. He was powerful, more powerful than most dreams — vivid, but dark, born from nightmares, a dream forged from the pain of a child. He was handsome, once, and strong, and many believed that he would be a great hero for our people.
“He sought to cure the Darkness, forever. He hoarded the strongest dreams, and convinced them to follow him. They left for the edge of the world, where the Darkness festers, and during his absence the Darkness receded. The nights were not so long, the terror not so deep. A fire burned bright in the core of Darkness, fueled by the blood of dreams, but in the end the fire faltered. The Darkness twisted the survivors, perverted them into monsters.
“He still appears, sometimes, to steal away the dreams of children, to lead them to the end of the world, trying to rekindle the fire. They say he even creeps away to walk among the world of men, looking to steal children to dream for him, to fuel his fire.”
“What’s he look like?” Adrian asked, as soon as she had finished. The hair on his forearms stood on end. His heart leapt into his throat. “Where is he? What if that’s where Nathaniel — ”
“He’s not real,” Evangeline said, gently. “It’s a ghost story, to teach us not to be so greedy.”
“Are you sure…?”
Sonia gave his shoulder a little squeeze. “The story’s been around for a really long time, anyway. We all learned it as kids, from others who had learned it when they were young. Just a…what’s the word…fairy tale.”
“Oh.” Adrian couldn’t tell if he was relieved or disappointed. He was, however, undeniably drunk. The mead had been passed in a continuous circle during the story, and each time it ended up in his hands he’d taken a bigger drink, feeling more fond of it with every swallow. His body was warm all over and slightly
numb from the mead; a quiet, pleasant hum had taken refuge in his thoughts. The mead was already well over half gone, and he worried about what would happen if they drank all of it — but then another bottle had appeared, this one tall and thin and filled with some rich dark wine, and that was opened and passed around as well. Adrian realized he didn’t care so much about The Nightmare Man. He didn’t care much about anything, actually, and that felt very good.
“Well, Laurel?” Sonia asked, after everyone had drunk from the wine bottle. “I suppose you have something suitably crass, to liven our spirits?”
“Always.” She leaned back, cradling a bottle of mulled faerie wine, and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. Evangeline curled herself around Laurel’s body, limbs and wings entangled with her, head rested against her bosom, rising and falling rhythmically as Laurel spoke. “Once, when Faerie and human worlds touched, there was a man who despised the fae, and found them untrustworthy. He was especially disturbed by the tendency of faeries to steal away human brides or husbands, and was keen to stop the activity in any way he could.
“Every year, the faeries held a riotous ball, a masked carnival of drink, song, and dancing, just inside the border of the human world — so that humans could visit, and enjoy the revelry, without succumbing to the madness in Dreamland. One year, the man, who was a very important merchant in his society, heard that the carnival would be coming to his town, and decided it would be worthwhile to investigate. He made excuses to all his family, and, so no one would suspect, left town a few days earlier than the fair, then rode out to stay in the town that would be hosting the event.