Unspun

by Ruth Nickle

  Then, unbidden, Trygve spoke. As he combed, he told of how the lhoosh had come when he was walking on the castle grounds. She had used a spell to silence him, which also left him gasping for air, and then another, very painful spell to whisk him away.

  His voice choked and he had to stop several times as he described how the lhoosh had tortured both his mind and his body, the way she’d humiliated and hurt him until he almost lost his sense of self.

  Tatterhood’s hands clenched. If the lhoosh weren’t already dead, she would kill her.

  “I keep wishing I had done something different and prevented all this,” said Trygve. His brushstrokes had slowed, but not stopped.

  “It’s no use laying blame on yourself,” said Tatterhood. “Regardless of what you did or did not do, what happened to you is not your fault. You can’t hold yourself responsible for the actions of such a creature.”

  He finished brushing her hair, so she turned to look at him. His face almost made her weep. She had only seen such vulnerability on him once before, when she first found him in the dungeon.

  “You are very brave,” said Tatterhood.

  “I wasn’t brave. I could do nothing against the lhoosh, so eventually I stopped trying to fight back.”

  “But you survived. And that takes bravery.” She traced the line on his wrist where she had reattached his hand. She would need to remove the stitches soon, but even so, it would scar. “I wish I could do something to take away your pain.”

  “It is enough to have someone to listen to me.”

  “Thank you for trusting me enough to share what happened.” She intertwined her fingers with his. “I hope our baby is as strong and brave and true as you are.”

  “Thank you, Tatterhood.”

  They sat in silence for a long time, holding hands and watching the trees.

  The next day they decided to return home. They tried to both sit on Storm, but she was not large enough to carry two people, and it was a long journey back to the castle.

  “See you in a few days, Storm,” Tatterhood said. The goat made no sign of hearing her.

  She tried switching Storm for her beautiful, white horse, but it didn’t work, so instead of thinking of Snowdrift in her stall she visualized her in different spots in the fields. Finally, the switch occurred.

  Snowdrift was already saddled, which meant she had not been grazing: one of the stable hands had been taking her for a ride. Tatterhood chortled. The poor girl was probably now sitting atop a very upset Storm.

  And surely the entire castle was in an uproar, what with the endless number of items Tatterhood had switched and the lack of curtains in the royal rooms. She expected a lengthy lecture from her mother when they returned.

  Tatterhood mounted her horse. She sat in front and Trygve behind. He wrapped his arms tight around her waist, and she did not want him to let go.

  “Do you remember the day we met?” she asked. “Our wedding day?”

  “Yes.”

  “I switched my goat for my horse. And you still wouldn’t talk to me.”

  “I was a fool.”

  She shrugged. “No matter.” She directed a bit of magic toward Trygve, let it explore his desires, and turned it on herself.

  She raised her hands to look at them. They were still gray. Her fingers trembled. She took a chain out of her pocket and switched it for the mirror next to her bed. She stared at her face—her own face. No blond hair, no red hair, no changes in any of her features.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Trygve.

  “The magic’s not working.” Fear clenched her chest. She had thought that access to magic couldn’t dry up, that it was something she couldn’t run out of, but maybe she had been wrong. Maybe she had used too much in fighting the lhoosh and healing Trygve. Maybe she was running out and could only do simple things like switch objects.

  “Did you try to use my desires to change your appearance?” he asked.

  Tatterhood nodded.

  “Well that’s why you didn’t change. I want you to look exactly like yourself.”

  She turned her head and looked over her shoulder at him. “But I’m ugly.”

  “You are rough edges and frightening cliffs. You’re feisty and muddy and gray. And you’re never sorry for who you are.” He paused, considering her. “You are complete. You don’t need beauty.”

  Tatterhood sat there, stunned.

  “When I was captured, I clung to the memory of your face, knowing you were the only person who could rescue me, and knowing I did not deserve you.”

  Tatterhood swung her leg over Snowdrift so she sat sideways in the saddle. Trygve wanted her—he desired her. Not some false image of what she was not, but herself, her essence.

  She wrapped her arms around Trygve and kissed him with such passion that they almost fell off the horse.

  They steadied themselves. He ran his fingers through her hair, down her back, and around her waist. “You’ve never kissed me like that before.”

  She traced the embroidery on his shirt. “I bet I could do it again.”

  “I bet you can’t.” Trygve’s eyes glinted with his challenge.

  Tatterhood kissed him again. This time they did fall off the horse, and it was quite some time before they decided to get back on.

  As they began the long ride back to their kingdom, Tatterhood enjoyed the feel of Trygve’s hands around her waist. She knew their difficulties were not over—there would always be troubles and annoyances. But at least now they were starting over with a greater understanding of each other. She had won the prince’s hand in marriage months before, but only now did it truly belong to her.

  The Little Mermaid

  by PJ Switzer

  Dear sisters, who rise from the deep to mourn me,

  I am here.

  I am the breeze that ruffles your shorn hair.

  I am the mist upon your cheeks that gives form to your tears.

  Can you hear my voice, restored to its former glory?

  Can you hear my plea for forgiveness?

  Dear prince, who loves me but loves another more,

  I am here.

  I am the wind that fills your sails, pushing you home.

  I am the zephyr that cools your brow as you hold your princess close.

  Can you hear my voice, one you never heard in life?

  Can you hear my offer of forgiveness?

  Dear child, who might have been mine,

  I am here.

  I am the sweet breath of morning that stirs you to wake.

  I am the gust of air that carries your cries to your mother.

  Can you hear the lullaby I sing only for you?

  Can you hear my promise of joys to come?

  O my dears, though you think me lost,

  I am here.

  A daughter of the air, floating on the ether.

  Master of my eternal destiny at last.

  Be at peace, as I am

  Seeking my immortal soul.

  Ásthildur and the Yule Cat

  by Sarah Blake Johnson

  The Yule Cat prowled, searching for a child who had not been given new clothes. Green lights swirled and swayed overhead in the starry sky, and he bounded over the icy lava field toward the nearest farms and loped through the countryside and slinked through backyards. If he smelled fresh woolen sweaters or socks, he passed by the home. When there was no wool smell, he would circle the house, peeking through windows, but so far he had been disappointed, as the children were wearing new clothes, but not made from sheep’s wool.

  Ásthildur peered through a crack in the curtains in her front room. If she watched long enough, she was sure she would see Door Slammer or Candle Beggar or one of the other Yule Lads. It was Christmas Eve, and Candle Beggar would arrive tonight. Instead, a giant, black cat walked up the street. Sh
e had always wanted a cat, but the Yule Cat was almost the size of a pony. His ribs showed like whale bones beneath his black hair. She had thought he was a made-up story, just to scare children.

  The Yule Cat froze. This was the first time in over a hundred years that he had been spotted. The last time had not gone well, as dozens of men had come after him with shovels and spears. The girl’s eyes were large, and a huge smile grew on her face. But she wore a new sweater, so the Yule Cat crossed the street and disappeared into the shadows.

  For hours and hours he continued prowling. In the late morning, as shards of twilight appeared, he ate leftover skate fish scraps carelessly left in an open garbage bin.

  * * *

  The next Christmas Eve, the Yule Cat took the same route, but before he reached Ásthildur’s house, he veered north and wandered through that neighborhood. Strong, fermented skate fish smell permeated the air. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten anything besides scraps. It would probably be another Christmas season without any yummy children.

  Ásthildur hoped the Yule Cat liked milk and fish. After her parents had settled into their evening, sitting next to the roaring fire and reading books, she put on her new sweater, new socks, new mittens, and new hat, just to make sure she wouldn’t be a tempting tidbit. She slipped out her front door and placed a bowl of warm milk and a nice fillet of fresh fermented skate fish. Maybe that would lure the Yule Cat so she could see him again.

  After an hour, the Yule Cat circled back toward her house. He pattered down the opposite side of the street. The smell of fish grew stronger, and his stomach growled. The Yule Cat didn’t think, but bounded across a snow drift and up onto Ásthildur’s front step and lapped up the milk. Light flashed as the curtain parted. The girl was there again, wearing a new knitted sweater. The cat hated the smell (and the taste) of wool and any freshly-made clothing, so he grabbed the fish and leaped off the step.

  * * *

  Every year, after the Yule Cat searched for a child without new clothes, he visited Ásthildur’s house. The third year, he feasted on lamb hot dogs and more skate fish. The fourth year, the door cracked open, and after they both looked at each other for a minute, he ate quickly, grabbed the last fish fillet, and darted away.

  The fifth year, Ásthildur stepped outside and watched him eat while a light snow fell. As always, she wore a new sweater. She said, even though she wasn’t sure if he could understand, “You could come every night. I set food out for you yesterday, but you only come on Christmas Eve.”

  Ten years later, the Yule Cat still visited Ásthildur’s front step during Christmas Eve night. But this night, after he finished eating, he didn’t leave. She combed through his hair with her fingers, and together they watched pink and green lights stream across the sky.

  * * *

  The Yule Cat finished eating the fillet of skate fish. He stretched, then padded over to where Ásthildur sat in a comfortable chair, knitting. It was Christmas Eve, and she looped the last stitch on a wool sweater for a granddaughter. Her silver hair sparkled in firelight. The smell of wool didn’t bother him anymore, so he half-leaped into her lap, his head resting on the sweater, his back feet staying on the floor.

  She set her knitting needles aside and rubbed behind his ears, and he rumbled a giant purr. “You’re too large for my lap,” she said, but continued to scratch his head.

  After a moment, she bundled up, opened the door, and they stood on the front step. It was afternoon, and the sun had already set. The green and pink lights were already vibrant. Waves of blue and yellow joined the dancing lights, filling the sky. Ásthildur shivered as the strong wind blew. “Are you ready to roam tonight?”

  The Yule Cat’s stomach was full. Snow crunched under his paws and tonight he felt the cold for the first time. He leaned his shoulder into her thigh. It had been two centuries since he had eaten a child. Everyone always had new clothes, every single year. There was no reason to search. Fresh fish tasted better anyways. His aging joints ached. It seemed that he may not live forever, except in legend.

  He ambled back through the doorway and into his home and waited in the front hall while Ásthildur took off her boots and mittens and scarf. He followed her into the kitchen where she gave him a small bowl of lamb. When she settled into her chair with a cup of hot tea, the Yule Cat curled up near her on a soft sheepskin rug in front of the flickering fire. They both closed their eyes and dozed.

  Perfectly Real

  by Robin Prehn

  Over three weeks ago, I was fighting with my parents about their ridiculous expectations. Then I ran away and got caught in a storm. Days later, I found this castle and took refuge, though my first night was not at all restful. When I admitted I did not sleep well, a gorgeous guy—a prince named Johan—asked me, Isabella, to marry him. All under his mother’s triumphant gaze. Then his mother, the queen, said she placed a pea—a pea—underneath my mattresses to test me.

  Because I’m stubborn and perhaps a bit defiant, I agreed to marry Prince Johan. I deflected their questions about my lineage with a vague, “Oh, yes, I’m a princess.” They clearly wanted to believe me, and as I needed to escape my parents’ plans for me, I nodded and smiled and tried my hardest to play the role of a “real” princess—whatever that was.

  The castle—a palace, really—burst into activity from that second until now. I’d dealt with fittings and place settings and wedding plans. Through it all, I managed to hold my tongue, for the most part. But I could feel myself wearing down, could feel the familiar resentment at my place in life burning in my chest. Johan rarely made an appearance, and although I caught glimpses of him here and there and he spoke kindly and carefully at shared meals, I spent most of my time with his mother, the queen.

  At first, I thought maybe her outlook would be less oppressive than my own mother’s. I hoped that I could find freedom just that easily: a hasty and impetuous run through the forest and an unplanned trip down a river during a storm. But after nineteen days, I was beginning to realize that although the prison looked slightly different, it was still restrictive. Today, they planned to outfit me with my royal clothes, the formal wear I’d use during official meetings, banquets, traveling, and so on. I didn’t enjoy being dressed like a straw doll, and although I’d gotten a little better at withholding my impatience and even scorn, the restlessness was building.

  I sat this morning in the sunroom, my favorite space in the palace. Though I rarely had the chance to escape, when I did, it was to find this oasis in the midst of the chaos. I perched on a padded lounge, watching as the early-morning sun built tree shadows across the wide lawn leading up to the forest. My mind drifted like the few puffy clouds, and for this moment, I felt peace.

  A door creaked, and the queen’s voice interrupted the stillness. “Here you are! Why are you not in the fitting room? The prince would like to see you in orange, our family’s royal colors.”

  “I’m not a fan of orange.” Then I remembered my manners, stood, and curtsied before the queen. “I apologize, your Majesty.”

  She nodded, her brown eyes narrowing a bit. “Did you not get enough breakfast this morning?” Without waiting for an answer, she beckoned me with her slender arm. “Come. We have much to do today.”

  I followed her without a word. After all, what could I possibly say? I’d already made my bed here, and to be honest about my feelings now would serve no good.

  “When shall we contact your family?” the queen asked, her tone bordering on brusque.

  She’d already asked numerous times, and I wasn’t sure how much longer I could put her off. “They are still traveling, your Majesty,” I murmured. I didn’t want to talk about it; I didn’t want to be pushed. In the rare moments when I allowed myself to think about my parents, what I mostly felt was hurt and lingering anger. Despite the distance between my home and this palace, surely I should have heard something about parents searching for their mi
ssing daughter, regardless of my status.

  “They must plan to return at some point.” She huffed. “I’m beginning to wonder—” She broke off, glancing at me as she hurried us through the corridors. “Which district did you say you were from again?”

  I hadn’t—not really. When Johan made his impromptu proposal and his declaration that I must be a “real” princess, I’d been astonished. But with my opportunity to escape staring me in the face, I couldn’t let it go. “I am,” I’d cried. “Of course, I’m a real princess.” It helped that my clothes, torn and soaked as they were, revealed their high quality. I’d stolen them from the stable where I regularly used to meet up with Sofia, now a princess married to a prince from a far land. Sofia always kept an extra gown tucked away in case she mussed whatever she had chosen for that day’s ride. We were close enough in size that I knew it would fit, and she had no need for it now that she was far away.

  I took a deep breath as the queen slowed, indicating we were near a more public area where she did not want to be seen rushing along. She turned the corner with a purposeful but stately deportment, and I followed her up the marble steps toward the fitting room. She looked back at me, her delicate brows raised as she clearly awaited my response.

  “Featherwick,” I murmured. “I come from Featherwick.” I’d had enough time here to know this was a safe answer. Featherwick was distant, small, unimportant in status and tactics, and the ruling family was a mere blip on the list of significant bloodlines while still holding “royal” status. It helped that it was true.

  Her expression showed a brief hint of surprise before smoothing over. “Ah, of course. One of our minor royals. I met your parents years ago, when you must have been a small child. But now that I know, I can see some resemblance to your mother,” she finished, coughing gently. Then she sped up, her slippers tapping out a strong rhythm. I hurried to follow, smirking a bit at the ease of that response.

  Inside the fitting room, I took my usual spot—the place where I’d been measured for the wedding gown, my honeymoon gown, my everyday dresses, and even a nightgown. I pasted a slight smile on my face and tried to breathe.