Fae

by Laura VanArendonk Baugh

  Thomas hissed. These two were merely toughs, hired to keep any of the Seelie Court at bay, should they appear. The real menace, their leader, was probably inside the school already.

  Spinning Silverthorne like a drum majorette’s baton, he slashed, cut, and stabbed at the trolls. They fell back at his furious assault, but one sidestepped a cut and backhanded Thomas. The blow stunned him and he almost dropped the shimmering ivory-ebon blade. The aspirin had worn off and his hands hurt. It took everything he had to keep his grip on the blade.

  The creatures closed the distance in moments. They would kill him if he didn’t do something. His mind screamed that he was too old to fight them and he should have given up the hunt! Now, because he hadn’t, he was going to die.

  He closed his eyes. Suddenly, he felt more alive. Sounds, which had been muted with the boon of sight, now seemed sharper, more defined and his sense of smell sharpened as well. He shifted his feet and his demeanor shifted with them.

  Thomas heard the air woosh as one of the troll’s fists surged toward him. Calmly, he spun away from the sound, flicked Silverthorne out and caught the troll in the heart with the ivory blade. With lightning quickness, he reversed his spin and the ebon blade struck in precisely the same spot.

  Thomas heard the troll’s body break up and fall away like sand through an hourglass.

  The other troll ran. He heard the crunching of leaves and pine needles as footfalls moved away. He let it go. He had more important matters to attend.

  He opened his eyes and turned toward his school.

  5. The Once and Future Knight

  The Halloween dance was in full swing. A few of the students were in full costume, but most of them were too self-conscious for that. They wore elf-ears or vampire fangs. Mr. Theron smiled—this was the best thing about the queen’s boon. Once every year, he got to see his students. His smile faded though. Somewhere in here was a fae who wanted to harm his kids. He tightened his grip on Silverthorne. He would not allow it to happen.

  Mr. Theron threaded his way through the crowded gymnasium.

  He saw Lydia dancing with someone in a pumpkin-head costume. He smiled—she was dressed in yellow and black with silvery rounded gossamer wings and glitter-bopper insect headband. She made a fetching bumblebee.

  However, as he watched her dance, Thomas realized something was wrong, very wrong. She looked listless—almost lifeless. He looked hard at her dancing partner. The costume—if it was a costume—was first-rate. It consisted of a huge over-sized Halloween pumpkin-head with the traditional black triangles eyes and a rictus of zigzagging black lines that crawled across pumpkin-head’s face in place of a mouth. A huge scythe hung over pumpkin-head’s shoulder like some massive claymore on an overly muscled barbarian. The rest of the costume was a long black shroud that ended in tatters on the floor.

  A samhain—a fae that was rarely seen in the mortal lands that fed on humans’ life essences. Like a fly depositing maggots, the samhain also left his spirit inside his victims.

  Lydia would slowly withdraw from her schoolwork, her parents, her friends until her spirit finally turned and corrupted and then she would become one of the ban-sidhe, wailing in eternal insanity.

  The hand that held Silverthorne trembled. It took all of his willpower not to leap in and cut the samhain’s head from its body. Too many kids, too many lives at risk. He had to save Lydia, but he could not put all the other kids in danger. He had to find a way to separate Lydia from the samhain.

  He made his way to the dancing couple, knowing that his dark glasses would keep his secret of sight hidden from everyone.

  “Hi, Lydia,” he said, “glad you could make the party.”

  “Oh, hi, Mr. T.,” she said in a listless and offhand way, “yeah, I guess it’s kinda good even if it is a little dorky.”

  Lydia was usually neither listless or offhand, nor had she ever called him anything other than Mr. Theron. “Who’s your friend?”

  Pumpkin-head turn toward him. “The name’s Sam,” he growled.

  Mr. Theron’s mind raced. “Well, Sam, I hate to do this, but I need to borrow Lydia for a moment. Ms. Shepherd needs to talk to her about the Washington DC trip.” He shrugged. “Don’t worry, she’ll be right back.”

  Pumpkin-head’s hands tightened on Lydia’s arms. However, Mr. Theron had chosen the one topic guaranteed to break Lydia out of her trance. No one, and that included the faculty, wanted to miss the DC trip. It was the highlight of every school year. He heard the swish of fabric as Lydia broke free. “I gotta’ go see her,” she said and her voice had a little more timbre. She moved quickly through the swaying crowd. Mr. Theron, used to listening far more than watching, heard her footfalls gaining confidence the farther away she moved from Pumpkin-head. He smiled.

  He stepped up to the samhain, put his arm companionably around the fae’s shoulder, and steered him to the exit. “Let’s talk for a couple of minutes until she gets back. I’m curious—I haven’t seen you in any of the classes. Are you a new transfer or do you go to another school?”

  He could feel the samhain’s malice, radiating like waves while it spun lie after lie to his questions. He kept chatting amiably until they were outside the gym.

  Once out in the chilly night air, Mr. Theron released the samhain and allowed his voice to take on the same chill that was in the air. “Oh, by the way, Sam, if you ever come to my school again, I’ll have to take steps. I don’t think you’ll much care for them, so I strongly suggest you stay far away from here from now on.”

  The samhain stiffened.

  “Who’re you to tell me what I can and can’t do?” the fae asked, still playing the role of a surly teen.

  Mr. Theron brought up Silverthorne. “I’m a teacher at this school and a knight of the Seelie Court. I do what my principal asks and what my queen commands. My principal asks me to keep these students safe, and I will make sure no one, human or fae, hurts them. My queen bids me to rid the mortal realms of the Unseelie Court, and I will see it done. So I have one suggestion for you: run!”

  He knew it wouldn’t happen, though. Sure enough, he heard the rustle of clothes as he watched the samhain pull the scythe from its back. Mr. Theron was wearing dark glasses at night, so his vision was diminished, but he wasn’t terribly concerned, as he was used to the darkness. He trusted his ears far more than his sight. Of course, “Sam” would have no clue that his hearing was hyper acute. Perhaps he could use that to his advantage.

  The scythe whistled as the samhain whirled it through the air. Mr. Theron watched impassively and when he didn’t move, the samhain snarled.

  Pumpkin-head lunged, but he was prepared for it. Mr. Theron dropped to his knees. They groaned and protested, but he was able to keep his balance and the scythe cut through the air overhead.

  If he’d been younger, he might have been able to sweep the samahin’s legs, but the throbbing ache in his knees convinced him that would not be an option. He needed to close the distance to bring Silverthorne into play. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he launched himself at the samhain. His shoulder crashed into the fae and they both collapsed in a heap.

  He grabbed the samhain, who was on its back, with his free hand and then slashed Silverthorne at its neck. The fae threw him off just as the stroke was coming. Thomas rolled away, but when he heard a sharp whistling sound he stopped and reversed, rolling back towards the samhain. The scythe tore into the pavement, right where he would have been had he continued his original roll. Thomas tried to leap to his feet, but his knees buckled under the exertion.

  The samhain roared and lunged.

  Thomas watched as the creature seemed to hang in the air. Even through his dark glasses, he could see the deadly glint of the scythe’s blade as it tore through the night straight toward his chest. He was going to die. Die.

  He felt his heart as it thundered in his chest. A stiff breeze blew across his sweat-stained brow, chilling him. He heard the rustle of leaves as they were torn from the trees by the
rising wind. To die in the service of his queen. He was content.

  Lydia’s face floated in front of him. Not the Lydia he had left in the gymnasium, but an older face contorted in howling madness, locked in some facility somewhere. No, NO, NO!

  He did the only thing he could and pitched forward, rolling toward the samhain. He felt the wind of the scythe’s wake as it passed just over him and heard the rip of clothing as it split his coat. Finishing his roll, he gathered himself, prayed that his legs would hold, and thrust his body straight up. His head and back pounded into the chest of the samhain and lifted the fae backwards off its feet. It flailed as it flew backwards and landed hard on its backside.

  Gritting his teeth against the arthritic throbbing, Thomas closed the distance. Before the fae could recover, he whipped Silverthorne out with a stroke to its throat and followed it immediately with a reverse stroke. Snicker-snack. There was a rolling, bouncing thud as the samhain’s pumpkin-head rolled across the white stripes of the parking lot.

  The mortal body faded as the fae inhabiting it returned to the Faerie Realms.

  Mr. Theron released the Vorpal Blade. Panting, he waited in the night air until he regained his breath and composure.

  Mr. Theron smiled—and he knew.

  Next year, he would accept his queen’s boon again, without question and without fail. As long as his kids needed him, he would be there for them.

  ~*~

  Sidney Blaylock, Jr. is a Science Fiction and Fantasy writer as well as a Sixth Grade Language Arts Teacher. He has worked previously as Adjunct Instructor of English, a Library Assistant, and a Bookseller. He holds two Master’s Degrees, one in English and one in Education.

  In addition to Faerie Knight, appearing in Fae, Sidney has another story, Knight of the Wylde West appearing in the upcoming anthology, Book of Sylvari: An Anthology of the Elves (Nov. 2014). Sidney’s other publications includes a fantasy short-story entitled, Dragonhawk, in the Winter 2013 issue of Tales of the Talisman (Kindle and print editions are available from amazon.com). Previous publications include Sister-Knight in the May 2012 Sorcerous Signals, The Ghost and the Shadow in the 1996-1997 issue of G.W.N. Litmag, and an article, “The Art of the Rough Draft,” in the Sept.-Oct. 2005 issue of the Writer’s Journal.

  You can find Sidney’s Blog at sidneyblaylockjr.wordpress.com.

  ~*~

  Solomon’s Friend

  Kristina Wojtaszek

  Kadie never considered herself a great mom, which made it easy to slide her son’s journal out from under his bed and hide it within the curtain of her hair. She made herself comfortable on the plush carpet, lying on her stomach between the two little beds where her boys slept while the moonlight snuck through an opening in the heavy drapes and settled beside her. The boys often found her in this very spot during the day, reading in a pool of sunlight while the oven preheated or the laundry dried; here or in other random places, her laptop propped beside her or yet another book in her lap. She didn’t always answer their calls, but they knew the places to look; it was her own little game of hide-and-seek.

  Kadie pushed her hair back, the multiplying strands of white gleaming like tinsel in the clean light, and opened the journal’s stiff front cover. The pages crinkled beneath her fingers and she glanced up, but Solomon didn’t stir; he had always been a deep sleeper. Being only seven, his entries were short and stilted and she smiled over his many misspellings. Though a few sentences were altogether indecipherable, it didn’t stop her from scrutinizing every line, prying apart the crudely rendered thoughts and drawings, desperate for a hidden trail into the thicket of his mind.

  As night thinned, the moon whittled down from a wide, soft face to a single, brilliant eye. Kadie was just about to close the journal and slide it back under Solly’s bed when the moon’s gaze fell across the page, setting the dull paper alight with a shock of white. Kadie found her knees, lifting the book to her face at the sight of a flowing, pale script rising from beneath Solly’s heavy scrawl. But the moment her shadow touched the page, the foreign writing disappeared. Edging closer to the window, she lowered the book into the well of light once more, and began flipping pages, finding the tight lettering squashed into every bit of white space until it ended abruptly in the middle of the journal; at the very bottom of Solomon’s most recent entry.

  Kadie gazed at her son as he slept, one arm thrown over his head, his lips thick and slack, revealing the infant still hidden in his elongating features. He was just a little boy; a bit unusual at times, and oddly intelligent, but a child nonetheless. He couldn’t be responsible for the lavishly formed letters that burned beneath her fingers. Nor was her husband the type to play odd pranks. It seemed equally ridiculous to suspect his school counselor, the only other person to lay hands on the journal, having asked Solomon to write down his feelings once a week.

  Kadie’s fingers jittered above the page. The words were oddly formed, each letter twisted like a knot, untangling itself as she stared, allowing meaning despite its strange appearance. She swallowed down her heart as she read.

  I knew you’d pick this up one day, and if you’re reading these words, it must be by the light of a full moon. Damn. I guess that sounds kind of creepy. And there’s no erasing hob blood. Shit, I shouldn’t have said that, either! I’m getting too old for this.

  Kadie dropped the cover, picturing some deranged old man following her son around. Her gaze flickered to the closet door where she imagined a shift in the shadows before she opened the journal back up.

  Let’s start over. Thing is, I can’t really introduce myself. There are too many rules involved. I’ll just say this; remember that day you stopped at that dilapidated old shop out on Highway 49, place called Desert Gems? And your son, the older one, he picked out one of those big rocks that looked like a fossilized piece of shit? A geode, that’s what you called it. Well that’s where I came from. Guess it was pretty lucky little Solomon picked my rock out of all the rest.

  Kadie did remember, vaguely. Solly was probably only five at the time. That meant this creep had been following them around for over two years. She shivered, her breath coming shallow as she wondered how he’d (she’d?) done it, and what it was he wanted. She was half tempted to phone the police right then, but as she slid her cell out of her pocket, the unnatural light obliterated the pale writing. She thought about the moon being full, and wondered how often that happened. Once a month? She glanced up at the moon, a small coin wedged in the top corner of the window, and dove back into the words before they could disappear.

  Since I already mucked up and told you I’m a hob, I might as well tell you that’s how my kind are born. That hollow stone was my egg. I’d spent half a century gnawing crystal when one day your little Solly picked me up and shook the hell out of me, as though there’d be something to hear rattlin’ around inside. I braced myself, but I had a mother of a headache for the rest of the day. In fact, it was the worst damn day of my life, but I owe you big, mamacita, because it could’ve been my last, too, if it weren’t for you. It was a long, bumpy ride home, contemplating my fate, when all of a sudden I heard a crack so loud I thought my skull was gonna split. It happened again, and there I was, my whole world shattered, chokin’ on the dust while bits of crystal fell over me like dry rain. I had to shield my eyes from all that light, eclipsed only by the flat, silver wink of death hovering just inches above, clutched in the kid’s fist. And then your voice almost knocked me off my enormous feet. It was violently clear, splitting the air like the voice of God, not just grumbles and growls, but real, coherent words:

  “That’s good, Solly. You can put the hammer down, now.”

  And in that moment, I realized humans weren’t stupid after all. They really could talk, I just hadn’t known it because all those years that damn shell of stone muffled everything into Neolithic grunts. Suddenly I was the idiot, because I should’ve been scramblin’ for a place to hide, but I was so stunned by the light and the words that I couldn’t have moved if that ha
mmer fell over me like an anvil. It didn’t though; the kid listened to his lovely mamacita and set it down on the table top in a burst of thunder. Good boy, I thought, nice kiddie…

  And there he was, two speckled orbs blinking over me, the deep gray brightening to blue shock as he sucked in a sudden breath, pulling my hair all up on end. Shit, was I in trouble. First day on the job and I’d already blown my cover!

  I shivered and sneezed and there it was, my invisibility falling over me with little cold prickles like a first snow, and you know how kids are, they make so much shit up that you just rolled your eyes when he told you there was a fat, hairy little troll in his rock. I rolled my eyes, too. I’m a hob, kid, not a troll, I wanted to tell him; there’s a hell of a difference, especially in size. And hey, I wasn’t fat! All right, I was a little pudgy at first, I mean how much exercise can a guy get inside a five inch geode?

  But at least I’d figured out the whole invisibility trick; clap on clap off, and I was out of sight, if not out of mind. The kid was still picking through the broken bits of my former abode, determined to find me, while I took off sliding down the table leg, my eye on a three inch model Harley across the room. It disappeared at my touch, but I don’t think the kid ever missed it. Nice little hog, just the right size so I could push off with my big feet on the ground and cruise. Course, carpet’s a bitch, but I make do.

  After a while, Solly and I came to a sort of understanding, you could say. He keeps quiet about his little friend, and I let him see me on occasion. You know, like whenever I’m in the mood to risk life and limb.

  Kadie sat back, half smiling. Someone was playing a trick on her. Someone that knew even more mythology and folklore than she did. A hob? Maybe someone from her writer’s group had found Solly’s notebook in her bag and swiped it. They’d used some retro disappearing ink and made a great story for her to take home. They’d be waiting for her at the next meeting with a wicked smirk…