The Fairy's Tale

by F. D. Lee

  Safely inside, she scurried behind one of the many boxes and, once her heart had stopped racing, slowly peered over the top of the chest. She was met with the surreal and unwelcome sight of a muscular, blue Anti sleeping flat on his back in the centre of the tent, a thin blanket covering him. Ana was nowhere to be seen.

  Bea started looking around for her bag, being as quiet as she could. The tent was circular and she wasn’t sure exactly where she’d come in. Still, it had to be back here somewhere – it wasn’t like she’d been asked to join in the more central activities of the night before. It couldn’t have gone far.

  She crept around the outer edge of the tent. She was certain this was where she’d been sat, but there was no sign of either bag or Book. She crawled back over to the edge of the tent. Perhaps the bag had got caught on a peg. It hadn’t.

  Muttering curses, Bea crawled back to where she had been eavesdropping and started to search around the boxes and crates she’d hidden behind. Nothing.

  Bea started to felt sick.

  There really weren’t that many places the Book could be. The tent wasn’t small, true, but she’d only been in this one little area of it.

  There was a gap between two of the crates. It wasn’t big, but it might be big enough… maybe the bag got kicked somehow…

  There really wasn’t any chance this had happened, but Bea was now at stage five on the panic-Richter scale: blind hope. She lay on her side, her face pressed into the dust, and reached into the gap, praying to all the mortal gods she might feel the soft cotton of her bag against her fingertips.

  “Ah. The fat, little fairy. Imagine my delight.”

  Bea froze.

  She looked up, and of course there he was, sitting on the crate above her in all his blue, exotic glory, the sheet tied around his waist. How he’d managed to move so quickly she had no idea, but his silence was accounted for by the fact he wasn’t wearing any of his jewellery, except the snake necklace.

  Bea pulled her arm back and got to her feet.

  “I knew you would come.”

  “And why’s that? Because you told me not to?”

  He had the gall to smirk. “That too. You have lost something, have you not?”

  Bea felt the world stop. “You’ve got my Book?”

  “I know where it can be found, yes.”

  “Well, you just better hand it over, that Book is General Administration property.”

  Bea was disappointed when her statement failed to have any kind of impact on him. She tried another approach.

  “If you don’t give me back my Book I’ll be forced to do something I’ll regret.” Well, that was true at least. She really would regret having to go on the run from the white suits. “Don’t you realise you’re putting us both at risk of Redaction?”

  “I fear I must contradict you,” Seven said. “You are yet to inform against me, is it not so?”

  “Oh really?” Bea said, her hands on her hips. “How do you know I don’t have the Beast outside, waiting?”

  “If there were a three-headed hound amongst the humans, I think we should both be in no doubt as to the fact.”

  “Look,” Bea said in a tone of voice meant to be reasonable, “I’m not trying to be unfair, but you can’t just go around taking what you want. So, if you give me back my Book and leave now, I won’t report you. I’m asking you nicely, aren’t I? Go somewhere else, ruin someone else’s life.”

  The blue Anti pulled his legs up under him, sitting crossed legged and unmovable on the crate. “I have no intention of leaving. But perhaps we can resolve our disagreement. It would please me to do so.”

  Bea hesitated, unsure what to do. But she was stuck, now, wasn’t she? She’d deviated from the Plot, shown her lead character the Mirrors, and now she’d let her Book fall into the hands of this creature. Telling the GenAm was an empty threat, not unless she wanted to join him on the Redaction Block.

  Maddeningly, he was just sitting there, half naked, waiting for her to answer. He was also looking absurdly at ease and quite deliciously louche, two facts Bea was certain he was aware of. He looked like he would be happy to wait all day.

  She tapped her fingertips against the flesh of her palm, which was tacky with sweat.

  It’s a rather remarkable trick of the mind that there can be a wicked little voice that whispers in your ear that you’ve done it before and nothing happened, so why not do it again? Everything will be OK, it says. Things are bad now, but something will turn up. The good will prevail, you’ll be rescued, you’ll find the answer at the last minute. No one dies in a story…

  “Alright, fine. I’m Bea, by the way, since you ask,” she said.

  “And I am Seven. Now, let us discuss. As I have stated, I am not going to surrender,” he held his hand up, silencing her before she could speak. “No, I am not, though you ask so nicely. I am resolved in my intention. This story cannot continue as your Plot would have it.”

  “So you are an Anti-Narrativist,” Bea said miserably.

  “Perhaps. I have not heard the term and know not its definition.”

  Bea gave him a sharp look, but he appeared to be serious. How was that possible? Everyone knew what an Anti was, surely and most crucially the Anties themselves.

  “It means that you want to ruin all the Plots, that you don’t believe The Teller Cares About Us. It means you’re evil.”

  “I have been called worse,” he said. His eerie blue eyes fixed her with a long stare. “I found myself thinking about you last night.”

  “I- You- What?” Bea was completely wrong footed. It didn’t help that she was pretty sure she knew what he’d been doing last night.

  And then he laughed in her face, his white teeth flashing against his dark blue lips and gums.

  “Yes, indeed it surprised me also. I am not a reflective creature, and yet recently I find I am empathying myself, empathying these humans – and now, of all unnecessary things, empathying you.”

  “Empathying? You mean empathising?”

  The Anti’s smile vanished. “I mean I am indecisive,” he snapped. “And in your case, it will not do. So perhaps, madam, you might help me to understand this vacillation, and then I may return your Book to you. We shall engage in the old mannerisms, shall we not? A game of threes.”

  He laughed at this, though Bea could hardly see what was so funny. She fisted her hair. What was it about life that enjoyed making her miserable? What had she done to deserve this? And, the thought rising with the inevitability of a seesaw, what choice did she have?

  “Fine. Three questions, and then you give me back my Book.”

  “What is your purpose here?”

  “Seriously? That’s your question? Easy. I’m here to do good. I’m making a Happy Every After for these characters. When I’ve finished my story there will be a wedding, and the whole Kingdom will rejoice, because everything will have worked out as it should.”

  “That is as bold a lie as ever I have heard, and I believe I have heard many.”

  “You’ve got your answer. It’s not my problem if you don’t believe me.”

  The newly confessed Anti leaned back on his arms, his blue midriff stretching out like a cloudless sky. “I can see this is all very difficult for you. I can help you, you know.” His voice dropped low. “Why not let me help you? You need not fight so valiantly, you need not run so far and so fast, nor struggle so. Is it not exhausting?”

  Bea stared at him, but her eyes were focused on something only she could see. For just a moment it seemed that she might be listening to him, and Seven leaned forward expectantly-

  “I want my story,” Bea said suddenly, her eyes refocusing. “Look, I’ll make you a deal. I won’t report you – not if you leave now and let me do my job.”

  Seven’s nostrils flared. “And I decline, once again. Now, answer me this: The other day, when you unleashed the bear upon John and Sindy, what would you have done had I not been there to save them?”

  Bea shook her head, her body
tensing at the mention of the near miss with the bear. “You answer me. Why are you here? Even if you don’t care about me, or ruining Sindy’s Happy Ending, don’t you know the Mirrors are breaking?”

  “A fair question, but you have nothing with which to bargain. I repeat, what would you have done?”

  “What do you think I’d have done? I’d have saved them, of course. I was in fact going to save them, and then you interfered.”

  “I apologise. In the future I will leave you to attend to any drug-addled bears we may happen upon. You are aware, however, that such an action would most certainly have resulted in your removal from your story?”

  Bea stuck out her chin. “I’m not about to watch people die. There. That’s three. My Book, please.” She held her hand out impatiently.

  Seven jumped off the crate, landing softly. Bea took a step away from him but he ignored her, walking instead back to the centre of the tent.

  “So, where’s my Book?” Bea repeated, following him around the crates, keeping her distance.

  Dropping his sheet unselfconsciously, he began to put on his bracelets and bangles. He did this far too slowly for Bea’s comfort.

  “You are quite irregular,” he said.

  “And what in the five hells does ‘irregular’ mean?” Bea said through clenched teeth, refusing to look away. She would have bet her life he was trying to embarrass her with his body, and she was damned if she’d give him the satisfaction. Still… if she blushed now, she’d save the Redactionists the trouble and go and throw herself in the river.

  He reached down and picked up his white linen trousers from the floor. “You say that godmothers create happy endings, yet another would have left them, too afraid of reprisal to risk being uncovered. Another godmother would have sought refuge in the hallways of the General Administration, not a large stick.”

  “Yes. Well. We’re not all the same.”

  He looked up at her. “Evidently not. Does it not concern you that your brothers and sisters in arms would have allowed their deaths?”

  “Well, I… I’ve never thought about it.”

  “Perhaps you should? You are mistaken, by the way,” the Anti continued in a muffled voice as he pulled on his tunic. “I have not said I wish to stop the story. And you, curious, concerned little godmother, cannot in good conscience believe that these stories are for the best. I know this is a falsehood,” he finished, pulling his head free.

  “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “No, I know not everything about you. But I sense enough to know you have mistaken obsession with drive, guilt with injustice. I know you want to escape what you are, cabbage fairy,” he said, reaching for his hood and gloves and tucking them into the waistband of his trousers. “Your desires are no different from my own, I simply have the courage to face them.”

  Bea stared at him, unable to believe the extent of his arrogance. “Excuse me? I think I must have something in my ear. I could have sworn you just said courage. What courage does it take to hide behind hoods and pretty words and smiles? You don’t impress me.”

  His strange eyes narrowed.

  “Or frighten me,” she added untruthfully, too angry to care. “You make some guesses – wild judgements, in fact – about me, and who in the five hells are you? Just some Anti who doesn’t care about anyone but himself. You obviously have no idea about True Love or Happy Endings. You just want to get your own way. You’re very quick to say I’m in the wrong, but you’re the one trying to stop someone marrying a King. And what will you do when the ugly sister wants to see you again? You’ll settle down with her and have little blue babies, will you? You’re nothing but a liar and a hypocrite. Now. Give. Me. My. Book. Back.”

  Before Bea had any idea what had happened he was on top of her, his arms icy cold and wrapped tightly around her, his hand clamped hard across her mouth. She tried to kick him or break free, but he had her too tightly, and she hadn’t been expecting it.

  She thought suddenly that this was the moment she was going to die. She didn’t think about her life, about being a fairy, or even her friends or forgotten family. She just thought how badly she had misjudged herself and that – perhaps – it would be nice not to have to carry on.

  And then she felt his chilly lips against her ear. “Hold on,” he whispered, and they disappeared.

  …a rush of noise that sounded like sandpaper against her skin, that tasted vast and old and, though she was covered by something, hurt wherever it touched her…

  She could feel something wrapped tightly around her.

  Her mouth was covered. She took a long breath in through her nose. A warm, spicy-sweet scent filled her, reminding her of lazy, dream-filled summer days she’d never experienced but had always known were happening somewhere, to someone else.

  She wanted to swallow, but her throat was so dry she wondered if it was still made of flesh and blood. A wave of sickening, boiling giddiness washed over her, and for a moment she didn’t know what she was looking at. Her vision was filled with white and blue, and she wondered if she had died.

  There was a voice, beautiful, holy and deeply pained, telling her to breathe, telling her it would pass. It landed deep inside her, bypassing her ears to touch a part of her that made her feel desperate and needy.

  Images spun in front of her eyes like a zoetrope… fractured, alive and silent:

  Playing in the grass with Mustard Seed, her father calling for them to come home… The fires and the screams and her mother, crying… The GenAm, white and clean… Rags To Riches, Lost And Found… No one stopping her, no one telling her she couldn’t…

  …No attacks…

  …No empty spaces by the fire…

  …Happily Ever After…

  “Can you… Please… I need…I wish…”

  She began to panic. Her words were muffled. She couldn’t breathe. She was going to suffocate. And then the voice again, rushing through her like blood and hope and desire, filling her veins, sighing promises:

  “Breathe, breathe and you will be restored.”

  A thunderous rhythm, like the death roll of a thousand drums. Everything was blue. She pressed her head forward, brushing her forehead against the endless sky.

  No, not the sky. Too hard, too cold, too empty. Ice. Hard and frozen and forgotten. Freezing, burning, refreshing. Ice, not new but old, hard as diamond, miserable as the space it came from.

  The drums were beating too fast. Too fast. Surely no one could keep up such a rhythm…

  The ice was moving, shifting beneath her cheek, her forehead, her heart. Pulsing, in and out, in and out…

  She groaned against the chilly surface, not wanting to lose it. It surrounded her. She pressed her lips to it, desperate, hungry for what she knew it could give her.

  It felt like…

  It was almost like…

  As if someone were…

  Bea frowned.

  She had her head against the Anti’s chest, her cheek pressed against him. Even though she could feel his heart beating, he felt cold and hard, as if there was no life in him. He still had his arms around her, his hand over her mouth.

  Too late, she realised she was kissing the palm of his hand. She struggled against him as her senses returned. His hold on her was light, but it made no difference. Being in his arms was like being kept in by cold weather. Some part of Bea knew that if she could face it, she could leave, but somehow it just seemed easier to stay put.

  “I am about to turn you around. Please do not take this as a slight. I enjoy being kissed,” he said as he spun her around. His voice, normally so silvery, was rough and unappealing.

  Bea kicked his shin, hard. He grunted, but neither let her go nor removed his hand from her mouth.

  “Do you know where you are?”

  About forty feet in front of them was a little garden, divided into sections for vegetables and herbs. It was still morning, and the wildflowers were turning their heads towards the climbing sun. Bea nodded grudgingly, reco
gnising the heroine’s garden.

  “Watch,” he whispered in her ear. He rested his chin heavily on Bea’s head, his body pressed against her as he kept his hand over her mouth. He was breathing awkwardly: short sharp gasps of air pressing his chest into her back in jumpy movements.

  Bea shifted her stance, ready to ram her shoulder into him, when she saw something that dislodged any thoughts of escape.

  A beautiful blonde girl in a cheap dress was running through the garden, her skirts flying out behind her like angel’s wings.

  Bea stared as Sindy raced up to a young man in overalls. She was running so fast she stumbled, but she righted herself before she fell. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips were trembling.

  Bea stiffened.

  “It is a shame you cannot hear them,” the Anti said in her ear. Annoyingly, he seemed to be recovering. “I predict Ana has just informed her sister that they will indeed be attending John’s Ball.”

  Bea stared. Sindy was waving her arms around urgently. The young boy grabbed her hands and held them in his own. She said something to him, but he just looked down at her, his expression as brittle as baked bone. He dropped his hands and turned away from her.

  For a second Sindy stood, rooted to the spot, her hands hanging at her side. And then she brought them up to her face, hiding her expression from him and from Bea.

  It’s something else. It isn’t because of me, Bea told herself, knowing as she thought it that it was a feeble thing.

  Sindy must have said something. The boy turned and reached out to her, an ugly red blush blooming on his cheeks. He patted her on the shoulder, his hand lifting up and down in mechanical, juddering actions. But it was enough. Sindy dived into his arms, wrapping herself around his stocky frame. He stood frozen, and then, slowly, he put his arms around her and held her tightly.

  There was something so easy in their embrace. He stroked her hair and whispered words into her ear, words that Bea couldn’t hear and realised she didn’t want to. She was watching something deeply private and exceptionally beautiful.

  She had the sensation that if she allowed herself to understand it, it would change everything. Everything she believed in and had worked for would wither and die. Everything she had told herself she didn’t need, didn’t want, that wouldn’t make her happy, would take on a significance and consequence she had never imagined.