by Vance, Ramy
“They’re … they’re amazing,” I stammered.
“So I’ve been told,” she said. “When I first went blind, all I heard was how unique they looked, how beautiful I was because of these dead things in my skull.”
“You weren’t born blind?”
She shook her head. “I lost my sight in an accident when I was eight, and all the magic in the Seelie Court could do nothing to make them work again.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Can I ask what happened?”
“You can ask,” Sarah said, “but only my friends know what happened, and we are not friends. Not yet, and given your demeanor, I doubt ever.” Those words, as harsh as they were, weren’t said to hurt my feelings or insult me—they were just matter-of-fact.
“True, and I apologize for overstepping my boundaries. What happened to you when you were eight has little bearing on what’s happening now,” I said. “Just one last question: Did you know anyone here before the event? Either after the gods left, or during your time in the Seelie Court.”
“Humph,” she said. “That’s like asking an Australian if they know a George from Melbourne. The Seelie Court is—well, was a vast domain.”
“I know, but indulge me. Have you ever met anyone here prior to this event?”
“Other than Orange from my work at FSA, no.” And as if the little timer heard her “no,” there was a ding, indicating it was time to interview the next person.
Egg-Timers and Alibis
The next few interviews were a montage of useless information.
ME: So Orange, where were you at the time of the murder?
ORANGE: Cleaning up the kitchen after dinner.
ME: Strange. Isn’t that the abatwas’ role?
ORANGE: And pay them overtime? Do you have any idea what Oighrig End’s speaker fee was? Let alone renting this hall? I cut costs wherever I could.
DING!
ME: So Snap, Crackle and Pop, after the dinner, where were you?
ABATWAS: Answer in such a furry of high-squeaked noises that I can’t understand a word.
ME: OK, let’s try that again. Thumbs up for YES, do nothing for NO. After dinner, were the three of you together?
ABATWAS: Three thumbs up.
ME: Good. Were you cleaning up?
ABATWAS: One thumb up, two nothings.
ME: OK. Crackle, why were you cleaning up when your two friends here were doing nothing?
CRACKLE: Gestures that the other two were sleeping.
ME: Orange said he cleaned up because he didn’t want to pay you guys overtime.
ABATWAS: Thumbs up, and then the three of them rub their thumbs and forefingers together—the universal gesture for penny-pinching.
DING!
ME: Remi, did you see anything?
REMI: Nope. I retired as soon as after-dinner drinks were done.
ME: Went to bed?
REMI: Straight to it.
ME: Anything else I should know?
REMI: Nothing comes to mind.
DING!
ME: Jarvis, did you join them for dinner?
JARVIS: Sadly, no. I prepared Mr. LaChance’s clothes for the next day and retired at around 7pm.
DING!
ME: Freol Garfum, where were you after the dinner party ended?
FREOL: (Silence)
ME: Mr. Garfum?
FREOL: (More silence)
ME: You don’t speak, do you?
FREOL: (Even more silence)
DING!
My last interview was with Jack the giant, and I swore that even if he admitted to killing the professor, I’d proclaim him innocent just for saying something other than that he was in bed.
“And what about you, Jack? Where were you? And please don’t say you were in bed,” I started to ask the giant, but stopped when I saw what hung around his neck.
With him seated, I could actually see the giant up close. While I had noticed something around his neck before, I hadn’t seen what it was. Now I saw it: a single silver chain as thick as a thread of silk. At its end were two heavy, intertwined silver rings.
The size and obvious weight of the rings should have been enough to snap the thread on which they hung, but I knew the thread would never break under the weight of the rings.
They would never break under the weight of anything in this world or any other.
But that wasn’t something I could deal with now. Now I needed to finish my questioning. “Jack,” I repeated, “where were you?”
Jack let out a sigh so heavy it literally blew my hair back, and gestured that he had been sleeping.
“Can anyone corroborate that?”
He shook his head, but his eyes lit with a thought. He gestured for me to follow, and took me to the stairwell leading to Deirdre’s room. There he took two steps up, showing me how he literally was too large to climb up.
Talk about an O.J., gloves-don’t-fit-the-hand alibi.
Wind-Downs and What’s Next
My interviews were straightforward enough. When it came time for me to be questioned, most of what people wanted to ask me had already been asked and answered.
Why did I attend?
“To support my friend.”
How was I able to purchase the tickets?
“I’m rich. And no, it’s none of your business how I got my money.”
Had I ever heard of Professor Oighrig End before?
“Is the fact that I practically fell asleep during his lecture answer enough?”
Perhaps the most original question came from Orange, who asked me in that vile tone of his, “How do you like being friends with a changeling?”
My answer was to flip his orange wig off his head. The bald skull beneath was a crimson, blood red. He quickly picked up his mangled wig and put it on his head. “If—if you weren’t a girl and a human, I’d kick you out of the building and into the snow, you … you …”
“That’s enough,” Sarah said, and guided by Tiny, she walked over to Orange and helped put his wig on, which given the professional relationship they had, she did with surprising dexterity. “Ms. Darling, I think you owe Orange an apology.”
“OK,” I said, watching the orange rag wiggle back and forth on his head while he adjusted it, “I apologize.”
“Thank you,” Sarah said, taking Orange’s hand to guide him away from me.
“Sorry, one last question …”
“Your interview is over,” Orange said, spittle spewing out his lips.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “Hate me as much as you like. We’re still looking for a murderer, and your answers could provide vital clues.”
“I will never—”
“Please, Orange,” Sarah said, “cooperate.” Orange’s face twisted in defiant rage, but before he could say another word, Sarah added, “For all of us. Please.”
Orange looked around the room and sighed. “For group cohesion, fine. One last question.”
“Your skull … it’s red. Why?”
That sent Orange into a rage. “Are you mocking me? Me?” he screamed, breaking away from Sarah’s grasp and running toward me.
He didn’t get two steps in before Deirdre stood between us. I thought she was going to attack him again, but this time the changeling took a more diplomatic stance. “Please answer milady.”
“It is not relevant to the investigation,” he cried out.
“Is it not?” Deirdre said. “Surely you have heard of the goblin Redcap?” As the name escaped Deirdre’s lips, I cried out a quiet—almost entirely in my head—“Hurray!”
Everyone looked at me.
OK, not as quiet as I wanted, but still, good for Deirdre. She was thinking exactly what I was: Redcap, the grand, murderous goblin who resided on the borders between the UnSeelie Court and the mortal plane. It’s legend that the goblin’s bald scalp would magically turn into the color of his latest victim’s blood.
“You wouldn’t dare imply that I am one as horrid as Redcap the Horrible?”
“I am not implying that you could be as horrid as Redcap. He was a vile and corrupt being,” she said.
Orange nodded in satisfaction.
“But what I am saying,” Deirdre said in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, “is that you may be a sniveling little Seelie Court—what is the mortal term for it?—ahh yes, fanboy to Redcap. A cheap imitation who, like his hero, also paints his bald head with the blood of his victims.”
I expected Deirdre’s insult to send Orange over the edge, perhaps far enough that the outclassed elf might even try to strike the changeling. But instead, he pursed his lips almost as if he expected Deirdre to insult him in such a way.
With a venomous tone, he pulled out a vial from his pocket and said, “Raspberry and elderflower essence mixed with brown sugar. It makes for a far more effective wig glue than anything mortals can concoct.” He opened the vial, dipped in his finger and licked it. Then he poured a little out for Deirdre to taste.
The changeling sniffed it. “Your words smell true.”
“Indeed,” the ugly elf said. He stuck a finger between his wig line and scalp and vigorously rubbed his head. Pulling out a finger covered in red, he said, “Seems elf sweat causes mortal glues to lose their stickiness. But my recipe is only strengthened by my body’s fluids. Care to taste?”
He held his finger out to Deirdre, who took a step back.
“Didn’t think so.” He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his hands clean.
Satisfied that he had put Deirdre and me in our places, the ugly elf looked at his watch. “It is nearly five o’clock. We can compare our notes after our stomachs are filled. Might I suggest we have an early dinner and, if the mood strikes us, another round of accusations, finger-pointing and passive-aggressive comments? Or perhaps an early night? Who knows, maybe the GoneGods will smile upon us this evening and clear the snow enough for the authorities to arrive so we can leave this infernal place. Agreed?”
“Shouldn’t we share our notes first?” I asked in that passive-aggressive way I am oh so good at.
Orange looked at me, then my stomach. GoneGod damn it, the ugly elf was right: I was hungry. We all were. I shrugged, then nodded.
“Then it’s settled?” Orange said.
His question was met with silence—which, given the somber mood we were all in, was taken as consent. Had I known what kind of dessert was in store for us, I would have protested with every fiber of my now soulless human body.
Polite Dinner Discussions and Impolite Dessert Disasters
Because of the inconvenient murder, there was no dinner planned for us. No cooked goose, no cranberry sauce, mashed peas, potatoes, parsnips or carrots. There were just a bunch of raw ingredients. So much for Christmas Eve dinner.
The goose would remain in the fridge, but the rest of the stuff could be cooked. Turning on ovens and stovetops, we boiled the carrots and peas, baked the potatoes and grilled the parsnips.
Not bad. And given that I was a vegetarian, things could have been worse.
We didn’t even bother to go to the dining hall. All of us ate our garden-variety vegetarian treats standing silent in the kitchen. Deirdre and I leaned against an oven door, Sarah offered pieces of her meal to Tiny the dog, and the abatwas’ plates floated a few inches off the ground.
The only noises came from our forks against our plates—except for Jack the giant, who’d set aside the tiny utensil—and the smacking of our lips. It was the most depressing Christmas Eve ever, and given I was already feeling like crap, this just sank me further into my black hole of despair.
I hate this. I looked up to see if anyone had reacted and realized I had said that in my head when I had meant to say it out loud. “I hate this.”
My voice echoed in the kitchen and all eyes were on me. “I hate this,” I repeated. “It’s Christmas Eve, and we didn’t even bother to pull out cloth napkins. Look, I know someone died and all, but if I don’t get at least a hint of Christmas cheer, I’m going to …” I realized I had talked myself into a corner. I couldn’t say “kill someone” or “off myself.” It would have been a joke, but this crowd was a wee bit sensitive to stuff like that.
“Spontaneously combust,” Sarah offered.
Some polite giggles.
“Yes,” I said, snapping my fingers. “And spontaneous combustion is messy. Trust me, I’ve done it before.”
“What do you suggest?” Remi said.
“I don’t know. A song, maybe? Don’t elves and fairies love to sing?”
“Very well, young lady. Allow me.” Remi moved to the center of the kitchen and cleared his throat before singing a very off-tune, nearly offensive “Jingle Bells.”
He belted out two lines before people started playfully booing him into silence. “Not to your liking?” he said with a grin. “Then perhaps someone else would like to take the mike? Orange?”
“There isn’t a wig in the world that could beautify my singing,” the ugly elf said with a chuckle.
“Deirdre? Katrina?”
We both shook our heads.
“Well, the giant doesn’t speak, and I doubt Freol will surprise us by suddenly speaking. As for Jarvis, as strong as the poor trow is, he cannot carry a tune. The abatwas’ screeching is sure to drive us mad, so that leaves only you, dear Sarah. Legend says halflings are gifted with the power of song. Is this true?”
“Perhaps,” Sarah said, a coy smile tiptoeing onto her face.
“Then please,” Remi said, “save us from ourselves with your song.”
“Because you ask this of me, then I shall,” she said in that matter-of-fact tone she had used on me earlier. “But I fear I don’t know many songs of cheer.”
“Then regale us with something that will stir our souls. Anything is better than what we are feeling now.”
“Very well,” Sarah said, stepping forward. And she started singing a song in Elvish that was unlike anything I have ever heard before.
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Of all the Others that landed on Earth, perhaps the most complicated ones are fae. Broadly speaking—and I am generalizing, stereotyping and type-casting—fae fall into two camps: The Seelie and UnSeelie Courts, Light and Dark, except to simplify them as such is a mistake. In the world of fae, the Light isn’t always good, and the Dark isn’t always evil. Their mortality spectrum has a thousand shades of gray (I’m sure there’s a Fifty Shades of Grey joke here somewhere, but can we say overdone, people?), and the divide between the two courts tends to be along the lines of beauty. Seelie Court members are pretty: elves, pixies, fairies. UnSeelie Court not so much: trolls, goblins, trows.
Not that UnSeelie don’t have their share of beauty. Take Deirdre as case and point: she’s gorgeous. But she’s also a trained killer whose methods tend to be kidnapping and torture. Pretty ugly stuff.
But the divide between pretty and ugly isn’t the only thing that makes fae strange. They all seem to have some sort of condition to their being. Kelpie can grant wishes and they don’t have to burn time to do it, either. Leprechauns do have pots of gold. Dwellings do magically appear under any bridge if a troll is nearby.
It seems that their nature is magic, and that magic varies from fae to fae. Think of it like this: every fae has a thing, and a halfling’s thing is song.
They can sing.
And the thing about a halfling’s song is that it’s not about the music, or even the words. Halfling music is about emotion. It touches our very being, forcing out emotions that are powerful, real and undeniable.
To hear a halfling sing is to unlock feelings you didn’t know you had. Sarah sang like one possessed by the divine.
Her song started out lovely enough, evoking pleasant feelings that soon turned into emotions I associate with love. But it was more than love, for as much as I think I’ve known what it feels like to be in love, what I felt listening to her was so much more.
It wasn’t just the feeling of love. It was love itself, and soon that love turned into love coupled with joy.
&nb
sp; Given how horrible I’d been feeling these last few weeks, it was incredible to have those emotions—emotions I couldn’t seem to find in myself anymore—brought back to me with such intensity.
I didn’t want this to ever stop, and when both love and joy became sadness, I found myself wiping away violent and sudden tears. Looking around me, I saw everyone was affected the same way I was. Even Sarah, whose eyes were like exploding universes, released tears down her freckled cheeks.
Soon the sadness was replaced with acceptance and joy again, only for great anger to follow it.
The anger I felt at that moment in her song was greater than any rage I had ever felt before, total and complete. I knew if the undefined source of that anger were presented to me, I would kill it without a moment’s hesitation.
Mercifully, the anger stopped. Not subsided, or dissolved or became less intense, but stopped as if the bearer of that anger had been destroyed. A void filled my heart—a void that slowly filled with obsession and determination.
It felt as if renewed purpose had entered her song, before both anger and relief mingled inside me. Then the anger subsided, slowly this time, and all that was left was relief that slowly became joy again.
And with that, Sarah’s song had ended.
Wiping away tears, I saw that everyone was crying. And when Remi had dabbed away his own tears, he walked over to Sarah and offered her his handkerchief.
The halfling bard took it, wiping away her own tears as Remi said with love and admiration, “I’m glad to know your eyes are good for something.”
Sarah laughed and wiped away more tears still. “If only to show my human half.”
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