by Dame Darcy
"I was almost killed by a vicious wolf!" she retorted quickly. "While you were out carousing, who was here to defend me? I could have been killed. And then where would you be?” She said this to affect him, but she did not expect him to fall to the floor sobbing.
"I’m sorry, Ivy. I love you. I did not mean for our lives to be this way.” She began to stroke his matted hair and soothe him. She was deeply saddened and confused. They went to bed and fell asleep but nightmares of the shape-shifting dancing couples in the kingdom under the Black River plagued her sleep. Her whole adventure there seemed as if it had all been a dream. Perhaps the lie she had told her mother was actually the truth and Blackie was actually just a rough sailor who had rescued her from the deep. Nothing seemed real anymore or had any sense to it.
The next day the entire community was shocked. A wandering traveler had been found near the woods behind a neighboring pasture. A pack of wolves that came down from the mountain had ripped him apart. Many people suspected demons to be the actual cause, for they could attest to hearing a blood-chilling howling that was strange, not like that of a wolf.
Ivy, among others, was thrown into a panic-their house was so exposed, and a pack of wolves would find it a very attractive target. So she became outraged the following evening when, despite this news, Blackie insisted on going out drinking with his comrades again instead of staying home and putting her at ease.
"If you leave this house,” she threatened, "I won’t be here when you return." He merely glared at her before he shut the door. She threw a plate, shattering it, against the door and sat down and cried. She wanted to return to her mother’s house but her anger toward her husband was nothing compared to her fear of the wolves finding her alone on the dark road away from their home.
Ivy locked the window again and sat by the fire nervously embroidering and rocking. She jumped as the clock struck midnight. On the final toll, her heart stopped as she heard the howl of the wolf once more. Plaintive and frightening, the noise grew louder. Ivy ran to get the knife. The wolf was outside her house again. It sounded unearthly, like the devil himself had come straight from hell to open her veins.
The great black wolf’s head appeared suddenly in her window again, its sharp, white, adept teeth glinting behind the paneless window. Its eyes looked human. “Go away!” she screamed. She was surprised when it obeyed. Moments later she heard it crashing against the door, howling. Something about its call seemed familiar. Ivy’s mind struggled to recognize it, but when she did, she blocked it out of her perception. The connection she made was much too hideous to bear.
In a panic, she realized she had forgotten to lock the door. She rushed and pushed against it with all her strength to hold it shut. Her hand wavered as it reached for the bolt but the wolf was incredibly powerful. It forced its paw through the door but with a sudden burst of strength, Ivy slammed the door, severing the wolf’s paw from its arm and leaving the wolf howling on the outside.
As the cries faded into the distance, Ivy was astounded and sickened as she watched the wolf’s paw in a bloody pool before her transform into a man’s hand wearing her husband’s wedding ring.
That night, through a veil of tears, Ivy carefully wrapped the hand in cloth. The following morning she left the house to search for her husband, the former Prince Blackie. She finally found him wandering by the Black River, holding his severed bleeding wrist wrapped in his shirt. Blackie shuffled aimlessly and stared at her with unseeing eyes-he was deathly pale and muttering to himself, "Not hair nor stitch nor teeth nor hide…" Ivy took her stricken husband home and cauterized his wound with a hot poker from the fire.
After this experience, Blackie had an extreme change of heart. Now he could never return to reign over the Black River kingdom because he had lost a crucial part of himself in the world above. Finally, he cut his hair and beard and groomed his fingernails. This action not only returned him to his former appearance-save for the exception of the hand and a clearer, more sagacious look about the eyes-but also helped him regain his clever, kind personality.
Years later Blackie remembered this episode as being surreal and could barely recall anything from his time as a werewolf. He became a good, hardworking fisherman and dutifully worked with his net to come home smelling of nothing but brine.
Evenings, the sailor kissed his patient wife and sat by the fire polishing to a sheen the lovely ivory hook that now stood in place of his hand. Embossed into the base of the hook was the glinting wedding ring that had once been his crown-forever reminding the former prince of his reign under the deep waters of the Black River.
THE SIREN SHIP
The alluring water lapped at the beach, while soft lights reflected off the waves, glistening against them and shining like luring beacons to the sailors. The logical source of this light was the moon, but another source was said to luminously glow far away on an island.
Eighty-three years previously, a little girl accidentally washed out to sea in a small boat. She disappeared for two weeks, and everyone look her for dead, her family mourning bitterly. On the first day of the third week, however, they heard a familiar cry at the door and were overwhelmed with relief and joy when they found their daughter had returned to them safe and healthy.
When asked where she had been, she answered with this story, a story that never wavered in time even though she is now an old woman. She claimed she crashed into an island only seen at low tide that was completely inhabited by beautiful women, white and wormlike, their flesh and waxen hair so pale they glowed in the dark. From their heads grew long and twisting tapered horns, and instead of legs, they had iridescent fish tails. They could turn their tails into legs if they chose, but they mostly kept their fins because they never had much use for legs and thought them less attractive anyway.
They lit fires on the rock and sang songs about their life under the sea while playing beautiful exotic instruments they made from shells and coral. They seemed like ghosts but were not. In fact, they were very aware of their mortality, despite the fact they could each live for one hundred and fifty years. They cultivated their children inside empty oyster shells, and after gestating them the proper amount of time, they plucked them from the shell to join them. Their skin and body remained supple and nubile until the moment they died, age manifesting itself only in the depths of their eyes and by their lilting voices turning old and crabby.
They were deeply afraid of and despised the squids and sharks that lived in the water surrounding their island, and oftentimes they played mean pranks on them or killed them for fun. They sat by their fire and ravenously ate shellfish and lobster, the while smoke from the fire spiraling upward much like their horns. They also made simple smoke rings and jumped through them or made interlocking rings that rose high in the sky and dissolved.
They tried to convince the old woman, who was then a child, to be their daughter, but after two weeks she still cried and missed her home on land. They kindly repaired her boat and with kisses, wreaths of kelp, and fond farewells, led her back to shore.
The old woman told this story for many years and would readily tell anyone who cared to listen. Young boys who grew to be sailors longingly gazed at the glow on the ocean and the strange circular clouds arising from nowhere to surround the moon. Some said they heard the songs of these women while they sailed, but no one had ever really seen them.
One night as large cargo ship loaded with precious spices and jewels sailed past the vicinity where the island was supposedly located, something hit the ship so hard, the boat almost capsized. Large tentacles reached over the bow of the ship, grabbed some of the sailors on board, and dragged them screaming into the ocean. It was then they realized a giant squid had attacked the ship.
It eventually dragged the entire ship into the ocean. A few men struggled to remain on the surface, but in the end all lost their battle with death.
The boat later resurfaced and floated aimlessly on its side, the valuable cargo now rattling worthlessly inside the h
ull. After a couple of months, it bumped into an island and washed ashore.
That evening several white luminous figures dragged themselves out of the ocean toward the ship, talking among themselves in low hushed voices as they examined the ruins and cargo within. This escalated into exclamations of joy as they soon found one treasure after another. Soon the island was covered by sirens dripping in glistening, luxurious jewels, lounging and eating their lobster off silver-embossed platters as they wove pearls into each other’s hair--the pearls imitating and highlighting the whiteness there as they gazed at themselves in their new-found silver hand mirrors.
The sirens had never seen this many incredible earthly belongings before, and it gave them a lust for more. Their favorite treasures were the telescope and compass. Fights broke out as to who should own them, but the conflict was settled in a lady-like way when one siren acquired both in a bet. After they divided the remaining treasures, the sirens focused on the ship, which they promptly set to rebuild. They worked for hours, the last touch being the replacement of the figurehead they unknowingly made in their image. Laughing all the while, they placed a crown of shells in her waving wooden locks. They planned to set sail the following twilight.
The first ship they came across was much smaller than theirs and not much cargo was to be had, but they stole what there was with relish, leaving the crew tied to the mast. The next day they came across a larger craft. The sailors on board fought well but the sirens won with a vengeance and victoriously carried the cargo back to the island.
Soon the story spread of beautiful, strange women, glowing white like ghosts with long tapered horns, killing sailors with swords and stealing the booty. Some laughed and claimed the victims were mad, making up stories to glorify their loss; others believed the women were actually ghosts and tried to anoint their ships with spells and charms for good luck. Either way, no one ever caught the siren ship, and you can still see the strange luminous lights from the coast.
THE QUEEN OF SPADES
The Queen of Spades was a striking creature, her skin pale as abalone, her hair the color of fresh blood, matching her crimson, heart-shaped mouth; her wit was sharp (though demented, and her steel gray eyes cut like a knife anyone who dared oppose her.
She lived in a basement, a hole in the earth really, that most people wouldn’t look twice at. Leaves and filth always covered steps leading down into it, thus giving it the appearance of being abandoned. She liked it this way.
Inside the door the hapless victim or ghoulish guest was met with a dazzling sight: luxurious golden candelabras, cherubs floating over the marble fireplace dripping with exotic jewels. And from one wall, the icing on the cake--a large, protruding wooden arm holding a shining silver bowl of golden fringe (this was her fringe holder), placed there, easily at reach, for whenever she needed to add fringe to something.
Her collection of parasols and cloaks were the envy of everyone, her linen the finest, her velvet the softest, her frames and mirrors the most gilded.
She spent most of the day sleeping, writing correspondence to her many admirers, and sewing (only for herself), and when it grew dark, she claimed to be a fortune-teller (by appointment, of course). She had no husband, but was loved by many.
She received the newspaper early in the week as she always did and read only the section that concerned her: the comics and the obituaries. She was very excited this week because a middle· aged woman of wealthy lineage had been freshly buried on Wednesday. The Queen of Spades waited until the weekend, though, because the moon would shine brighter and fewer mourners would be hanging around getting in her way with their petty observations.
She prepared for her task at dusk when the night surrounded her like a sweet, familiar cloak of blackness. It was only then that she emerged from her home, leaving for work shielded in darkness. The only tool of her trade was a spade. She toiled mostly by full moon so the light of a lantern wouldn’t give her away. By the glow of this moon she made her way with conviction to the cemetery.
As she strolled to the graveyard whistling tunelessly to herself, she heard a whistle mock her in reply from the top of a tree. She looked up to see the ghost of a thin young man in a battered vest and top hat. His teeth were either knocked out or black (she could not tell which and she didn’t care), and his throat had been slit open, black clotted blood running down his neck and smearing the front of his shirt. She ignored him and continued on.
She hated this cemetery in particular because of its strong lock and guard dog policy but she was accustomed to these little inconveniences, and when she failed to open the lock with her buttonhook, she went immediately around back. She looked perplexed for a moment as she regarded the tall, intricately embossed wrought iron bars tipped with foreboding spears. Propping her spade against them, she slipped her button-up boot with deep azure spats into the handle, then pulled her long, nimble, ivory limbs. Grasping one of the spears, she balanced on the top, swung her spade to the other side, and climbed down using the same method.
Once on the ground, she heard a sound from far away. The dogs howled and came closer. As they neared, she made her shovel ready for the attack. The Queen of Spades had a method of disabling her attackers with her spade by swiftly applying the edge to their temples; this, she had found though much trial and error, could temporarily disable or kill her rival, whether it be man or beast. She also had a way of hypnotizing them with her eyes as she swung the shovel so they never knew what hit them.
As the dogs approached, she got her spade ready to do the deed it had done so many times before. The first dog neared and as she struck it, she felt a temporary surge of adrenaline mixed with satisfaction. It howled and lay on the ground dead. Its comrades soon joined it after the Queen of Spades had her way with them. She wiped off her bloody spade on the grass and continued onward, searching eagerly for the gravestone of Mrs. Millicent Bly, which she finally found near the gate. She began to dig, pausing only at brief intervals to see if anyone approached to apprehend her wicked deed, never ceasing until she struck the lid of the coffin.
She pried open the lid of the coffin, and the familiar stench hit her then. The jewels glistened in the moonlight, enveloping Mrs. Bly’s neck and glimmering tauntingly on her breast. On her fingers shone ruby rings of varying sizes (she must have been born in July): these she quickly pocketed, as well as the rest of the jewelry. She shut the lid and finished filling in the grave by 2:30. She replaced the last gardenia with a flourish then looked critically back at her work. The dirt had been lowered a few inches (there’s never quite enough), but other than that there was no sign of suspicion. She congratulated herself for a job well done, jingling the jewels in her pocket as she strode toward the gate where she had entered.
As she neared, she saw the dogs and noticed one of them still breathed. She simply kicked it once and it stopped. She stepped over it and climbed lightly over the fence. When she had safely cleared it, she walked briskly home, not looking back. While walking, she tried as hard as she could to envision the woman’s face from whom she had just taken the jewelry, but to no avail. All that would materialize was the picture of her Great Aunt Augusta still in the frame lying on the body of the corpse, covering the face.
The Queen of Spades didn’t know what to think of this but nonetheless found it amusing as she continued homeward in the daybreak, whistling tunelessly to herself. As her key turned in the latch to her door, she heard the rooster next door crow, signaling that she had broken her record and had completed her excursion by sunrise. She entered her home and carefully laid her booty on the plush, dark crimson Oriental rug. Her eyes gleamed greedily as she began to conceive of her fortune. By midmorning she estimated the value of her wares to come in easily at a couple of grand. These she could hock to her connections by the end of the week and buy that taxidermied python frozen in the act of eating the taxidermied vole she’d had her eye on for so long.
She changed into her white silk nightgown with the lace collar that simulated
the froth of the ocean surrounding her creamy neck. Then placing her head on her key lime pillowcases, she spread her dark red hair around her and slipped into a sleep that lasted for three days.
While in her coma like trance, she dreamed the most horrific dreams. She envisioned herself at the age of four, sitting on her grandfather’s knee while the music of the neighbor’s calliope wafted around the back porch through the summer air. She laid her head on his chest and listened to the rumble of his voice talking to her uncles, producing words she was too tired to bother to understand. At this moment giant gears churned in front of her crushing out all other reality and prohibiting her from going any farther in the dream or escaping through the act of waking. Finally she was awakened by a sound that escalated to a pounding on her door, almost breaking it from the hinges.
She arose and staggered to the door, cautiously peering out of the keyhole. She saw it was her comrade Mr. Briggs and promptly let him in. She knew him through gambling circles. The Queen of Spades was adept at playing blackjack due to her psychic abilities, thus assuring that she would double the stolen fortune she bet if not merely break even.