Fae

by Laura VanArendonk Baugh

  I feel a deep, shuddering wave of pity and regret; my eyes sting with tears; and then it’s gone. Before anyone sees me I hurry back to the house. I’ve learned all that I need to know.

  ~*~

  I am kept home that day, and the next. I listen to my parents arguing, phrases such as but you said you ended it and what about the money she makes? and I understand. I understand that they are weighing my salary against my life, against the risk of my returning to Mrs. Duggan’s.

  On the third day they summon me. In winter, to carry us through, Father mends harnesses; he does this now as I sit down, his fingers teasing out worn reins and straps, cutting and fitting the newer leather.

  “Sam Masterson has been to your father, Rose,” Mother says. “He has asked permission to call on you.”

  She says this brightly, but there is no joy in her eyes. I simply look at the table.

  “He’s really taken a fancy to you,” Father says. “He says you’re the prettiest girl in the village. He’s got a good piece of land already in his name, and his father has a finger in every pie in this county, he’s one of the wealthiest men around. Look at how they’ve ridden out this blight: it’s barely touched them. You’d be a real help to them too, now that Bart’s getting on.”

  “You’d be taken care of,” Mother continues. “You’d be safe from all this. Besides, look at some of the girls in the village, still at home in their twenties. Ask any of them if they’d trade with you, I know they’d say yes. Ask Abigail Fitzwilliam,” she adds, her voice tinged with sorrow.

  “I thought—” I speak carefully, perhaps for the last time. “I thought perhaps I could go to school again. To become a teacher.”

  “A teacher?” Father drops the leather. “What the hell gave you that idea?”

  “I know you enjoyed school,” Mother puts in hurriedly. “But Rose. That’s a special thing, becoming a teacher. Those girls come from money, they come from better families. We don’t have a penny to spare, what with Tim doing so well.” Her smile grows tight. “Or would you have us ruin his chances?”

  I bow my head; inside I feel a last door shutting. Only my path now.

  “Now Sam’s coming here tomorrow, before supper. He’s asked to take you for a walk, and then we’ll all eat together.” She rises. “I expect you to be nice to him, miss.”

  Father has already turned back to the harness, but as soon as I shut the door upstairs I hear them again. Headstrong and your fault for letting her go to school so long and at least we have Tim.

  They have Tim. And I have myself.

  ~*~

  I wait until they’re asleep, then I creep on silent, bare feet out into the icy night. Before me the road to the lake beckons. Soon, soon. Instead I go into the shed, feeling my way until I reach the high hooks where Father keeps the most dangerous tools: the axe, the filleting knife, the skinning knife with the gut hook. I test each one, trying to see them in my mind’s eye, their weight and their heft, how easily they can be concealed.

  At last I take my chosen weapon and hurry back to bed.

  For the first time in years I dream myself in armor.

  ~*~

  At close quarters Sam Masterson is as oafish as he looks from afar, all grinning and hunched shoulders. Thin hair combed at a harsh part, his face and neck washed but I can see the grime below his collar, under the cuffs of his best shirt. He has brought me a bouquet of pine branches studded with cones.

  “You can make a wreath out of them,” he offers. “My sisters like to do that.”

  I thank him and curtsey. I can tell this pleases my parents, I can sense them both relaxing.

  He talks about the next year’s outlook with Father; from the way he rattles on I know he’s parroting Bart’s ideas. I meekly set the table with Mother, who beams at me. I’ve been making a good show of it all day, reading to her from Tim’s book and asking her timid questions about running a house, watching as she starts the roast even though I’ve seen it done a hundred times before.

  All this, and I even managed to slip away with my coat for a while. It needs mending, I said to her puzzled expression, I don’t want him to think I don’t take care of my things.

  Now she goes up to Father and lays a hand on his arm. He clears his throat.

  “Perhaps you’d like to take a walk before supper?” he asks.

  Sam nods. Only then does he give me a look, like he’s sizing me up.

  ~*~

  Before we are even past the gate his hands are everywhere, his mouth on mine, thick tongue pushing in. I can’t get my breath. Not slow circles like his hands, but grasping and pulling like my breasts are teats; then lower, yanking my pelvis against his. In the lining of my coat, the skinning knife jostles against my hip; quickly I move his hands back up.

  He pulls back, his eyes gleaming. “You are a goer, aren’t you?” His hands kneading my breasts like dough. “Abigail said you had a fellow, you were going in the woods with him.”

  I look away, biting my lip. “Poor Abigail,” I say.

  “It was terrible,” he says, as if discussing the weather. “I wouldn’t mind, you know, if you had gone with someone for a bit. I like it when a girl knows what to do.” He looks back at the house, then pushes me against a tree, grinding his pelvis against mine. “Just a quick one,” he says, trying to work my legs apart. “We’ll be married soon enough, it’s not wrong.”

  I manage to wiggle free, but just; he’s stronger than I thought. As he grabs me again, his hand trying to get under my coat, I say “not here.”

  That makes him pause. “Oh?”

  “There’s a place in the woods, by the lake.” I frown. “Only Father says I mustn’t go there, what with Abigail and all.”

  “Did you go with one of my mates?” he asks, and there’s an edge to his voice now. “I’ll bust their heads, I will. Everyone knew I fancied you.”

  “No, no one you know,” I say quickly, trying to think and appear coy at the same time. “Just the one boy, from the far side of the county. And we never did… that. Only other things. I didn’t even want to,” I add, looking down at my clogs. “Only he wouldn’t listen, he made me, I couldn’t stop him.”

  And when I look up at Sam’s moonface, my gaze slowly traveling up, over his breeches twisted with his lust—when I look up at his face, I know I have him.

  “Show me,” he says.

  ~*~

  Through the woods and into the silence. I lead Sam by the hand, smiling at him over my shoulder. Every now and then he stops and grabs me, pushing his tongue in my mouth again, groping at my backside; I shudder not in pleasure or disgust but at the stopping. We need to get far enough that Mother cannot call us back.

  We step off the road and onto the damp ground, near the edge of the lake. I tense, waiting for him to appear. But there is only the mud sucking at my clogs and Sam Masterson pushing me backwards until I stumble against a log and fall to my knees. At once he’s on top of me, pressing me under him. My head scrapes against the log as he kisses me. He weighs so very much, he’s pushing all the air from my lungs.

  “No,” I gasp. “No, wait.”

  My skirts up now and he’s yanking at my drawers with one hand, squeezing my breast with the other. I have no words for what he’s doing with his tongue.

  I try to get away, try to push him off, but my clogs just dig deeper into the soft dirt.

  “I knew you’d feel like this,” he says. “Touch it nice. You know how.”

  “No,” I say to the sky as he grabs my hand and moves it. Not like this.

  Anything but this.

  Somewhere in a bright-colored world Queen Rose steps out on her balcony into the sunlight and her people cheer her name Rose Rose Rose.

  “Rose,” Sam huffs against me, shoving his pants down. “Rose I can’t wait, stop trying to close your legs damn it.”

  All I can see is his face leering at me, like I’m someone else, like I’m nothing. He wedges my knees apart, his fingers digging into my flesh.

&
nbsp; A greengrey hand, its skin shiny with moisture, wraps across Sam’s face and wrenches his head to one side. There is a crack, so loud it makes me scream.

  “Rose, Rose, Rose,” he chortles. “Lovely Rose, I’m starting to think it’s you who wants me.”

  He wraps his squelching arms around Sam, drawing Sam’s limp body up against his own. Only then do I feel how my thighs are trembling; it’s hard to push myself up onto the log, to turn aside enough to work my drawers back up. And then I keep my body angled away from him, feeling inside my coat until I find the slit in the lining.

  When I seize the knife I start to cry.

  The each-uisge is swelling and rising, his body expanding with each breath like a bellows. His elongated head blots out the stars. The Sam stuck to his chest is no longer Sam but some still, glassy thing. I can still taste his spittle; I see that his pants are hanging off his hips, his penis small and flaccid, and I cry harder now.

  “Rose,” he says thickly, nuzzling Sam’s head. “My poor Rose, I’ll just be a moment. Why don’t you lie down again, and when I come back I’ll make everything much better.”

  “You said you would free me,” I say, my voice quivering.

  “And I will, pretty,” he coos, taking a step backwards. “I just have to take care of your swain first, and then I’ll show you a different way to read.”

  “You promised me,” I say again. “You said you would make me a queen.”

  As he starts to reply I lunge forward, seizing Sam’s shirt with my free hand like it was the handle of a shield. My shield. We topple backwards and I swing the cruel curved knife out wide and around, driving it into the softness behind Sam’s body, burying it to the hilt in his cold flesh. I can feel him scream but we’re already beneath the water, sliding into a strange thick darkness, falling down, down, down.

  ~*~

  He trudges along the road, somber in his crisp black suit. As he crosses into my lands he pauses, looking around. I would know him anywhere, even now with his pretentious lace cuffs, the white cravat that would be soiled by the simplest chores.

  My brother, the gentleman.

  Tim comes to the edge of the lake and looks around again, his eyes gleaming with tears. He bows his head and begins to pray.

  For a moment I think to let him pass but his praying irks me, his clothes irk me. As if he were clad in my very tears. Would he even be here, now, would he even have bothered to write, had I become the good Missus Masterson? Like hell he would. Like hell.

  I rise up out of my waters. My waters, my lands. My realm. As are the books in my library, as are the roads I fashion between my waters, roads that take me through the world. I am practicing languages I did not know existed, I have seen cities unlike anything I ever imagined.

  That creatures great and small shun my roads—it is a small price to pay. That I still have a higher power I must bow to, that I must appease from time to time with the sweet, plump essence of three victims—

  well, it is a far cry from sewing buttonholes, or having to give service to Sam Masterson.

  Tim finishes his prayer and raises his eyes to me and screams. I am gratified.

  “Rose,” he gasps. “Rose, what have you done?”

  “Darling, lovely Tim,” I say, smiling. “Flectere si nequeo superos acheronta movebo.” I take a step forward, and another. I can smell his fear and it is marvelous. “It’s Virgil, Tim. ‘If I cannot deflect the will of Heaven, I shall move Hell.’ Whatever do they teach you in that university of yours?”

  “Your eyes,” he whispers.

  “Whole and well and mine. Already they have seen more than you will ever know.” I stretch my arms out to him. “Never to be taken from me. Never, Tim. Vivat Regina.”

  I take him with me into my lake.

  ~*~

  L.S. Johnson lives in Northern California. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in such venues as Corvus, Interzone, and Long Hidden: Speculative Fiction from the Margins of History. Currently she is working on a novel set in 18th century Europe. She can be found online at http://www.traversingz.com

  ~*~

  Ten Ways to Self-Sabotage, Only Some of Which Relate to Fairies

  Sara Puls

  1. Flea Market Snap Traps

  Elly raises snap traps in the basement of her tiny bungalow. She bought the first two at a flea market on a whim. The proper name for these carnivorous plants is Venus Fly Trap or, to get even more technical, Dionaea muscipula, but the previous owner called them snap traps and the name stuck. They live in peaty soil and require less humidity and attention than one might think.

  Originally, Elly’s plan was to cultivate the plants for sale. She would sell them to grocery stores and flower shops, to sad little soccer moms wanting to feel “exotic” and to patrons leaving the local natural history museum. She would be productive.

  But then, by the time she got them home—to her house that hadn’t been cleaned since she was fired from the post office, and that would probably have the electricity shut off in a matter of days—she lost all motivation. Her limbs were too heavy, like dead tree stumps, and all she could think of was sleep.

  After searching for open counter space and finding none, Elly stuck the two potted plants in the basement.

  At some point—days or maybe weeks later—she returned to the basement in search of the box of vintage hats she kept for when she needed an escape, for when she needed to be someone other than herself.

  The cracked-concrete room smelled of fermenting laundry; visible particles of dust clung to the air. Elly pressed a switch and the light flickered on. Once her eyes adjusted, she discovered that the two snap traps looked just as good as the day she brought them home.

  Elly was so surprised she hadn’t killed them that she allowed herself a smile. After that, tending to the plants became something of a hobby for her—something to take her mind off other things. Like, for example, her grabby new boss at the Saves-A-Lot, where she took a job as a part-time cashier.

  As the snap traps fed on flies and slugs, Elly lied and told herself she needed nothing more.

  2. Lina

  It wasn’t until Lina came along that the fairies appeared. And it wasn’t until Elly had tried several other extermination methods—vinegar, hot water, lemon juice mixed with salt, even sticky tape—that she started feeding the fairies to her plants. She knew there had to be a better way to get rid of them but she couldn’t stand the sight of them, their delicate touch, or the sugary scent they left hanging in the air.

  Elly and Lina met at the Half Price Books on South Lamar. Lina had been standing in the History section, holding open a paperback. The book, something about Constantinople, was upside down.

  “You’re not reading,” Elly noted.

  Lina raised her head and looked over at Elly. Her eyes were dark and deep, like two black holes. Immediately, Elly wanted to be sucked into them, to be pulled to some other place that wasn’t Earth.

  Lina smiled and shrugged. “Yeah. I don’t read much—not for leisure anyway. But a friend told me I need to date someone sensitive this time around.”

  Elly raised her eyebrows.

  “I tend to date real jerks, you know? So I thought I’d hang around here.”

  Elly did know. She only ever dated jerks. Not intentionally, but inescapably. Lately, though, she hadn’t dated anyone at all. “Well if you’re looking for sensitive, you’d better your chances at the library. It’s closed now. But tomorrow maybe.”

  “I see.”

  “Yeah. Bookstores and libraries don’t attract quite the same crowd. Your friend should have told you that.”

  Lina smirked. “Maybe it’s good he didn’t.”

  Elly felt her heart flutter, as if it had grown two tiny wings. She pointed at the book. “Want me to show you how to read that?”

  Lina pushed her long, thick hair from her face and smiled. Her hair was always in her face, Elly would learn, always refusing to be tamed.

  Then they were back at Elly’s pla
ce, hands all over each other, stumbling towards the couch.

  A week later, Lina moved in. This is what she brought with her: Four antique couch legs that were shaped like gargoyles but no couch; a standing ashtray that looked a bit like a space ship; one flower-patterned suitcase that couldn’t have weighed more than ten pounds; two unicorn-shaped bookends; three cartons of cigarettes; and zero books.

  Elly helped Lina find space for the ashtray and bookends. They put the gargoyle couch legs in a closet filled with ten years’ worth of Elly’s junk. Elly cleared out two drawers in her olive-green armoire.

  “Here,” she said, pointing. “Use these.”

  Lina thanked her and put her few pieces of clothing away. Then they made love on the couch. On the floor. In the bed.

  When they finished, Elly rolled away from Lina’s warm body and let the doubt creep in. It whispered that she didn’t deserve this. That this too would end.

  3. The First Fairy

  One day later, the first fairy showed up.

  Elly found it hovering above a glass of water she’d left on the kitchen table. It couldn’t have been any bigger than a grasshopper. But it looked far more delicate. Far prettier, too.

  Still, Elly’s skin itched as she watched the tiny creature flit about without a care in the world. She hated the sight of it. Intensely. It was just—too perfect.

  She mixed together a little dish of lemon juice and salt, and then set it on the counter. The fairy went to the dish and tasted the juice. In an instant, the thing pulled back in horror. Then, sputtering and coughing, it fled through an open window.

  “Serves you right,” Elly said, leaning her head out the window. “And don’t come back.”

  The next morning, Elly awoke to a soft giggling sound filling the bedroom. Sitting up, she saw that yesterday’s fairy had returned, bringing three more pale green creatures with it. She groaned and threw her pillow in their direction. She missed.

  She groaned again, this time waking Lina.