Burly Tales

by Steve Berman

  “Gullscope!”

  “It is a name I use from time to time,” agreed the warlock. “I had word of your travels home, and in your brother Erys’s absence, I guessed that you would need counsel.”

  “False counsel! You are also the cur Ovelamieli; you knew that if I burned the pelt, Leif Thurlasson would be yours.”

  “Of course. I trusted that your blundering would deliver.”

  All Justinian’s woes seemed met together, and his folly complete.

  The warlock stood up. “Yet I am pleased to see you, still full of figure and fine despite your journey. For I tire of this wretch, who is thin and without spirit these days. I see the golden curls upon your big chest, the rich tangle of your beard, and find that you might suit me well. My bed is eager; my appetites deep, and you will last many a moon.”

  “Do what you will to me,” said Justinian, sinking to his knees, “only free my prince. Let him return to his people, to mend and prosper without my foolishness.”

  The warlock shrugged. “As you wish, so shall it be—but I am no child to be gulled like you. I will bind you, until I am assured your word is good.”

  “Very well. You shall have me, for I count myself worthless now. But the prince—”

  “Pah. A small matter.” The warlock snapped his fingers, and Leif Thurlasson rose to his feet. “Go you now,” commanded the warlock, “and find your mead-hall, tarrying not until you have it in sight. By black thread and broken reed, I release you.”

  And the prince staggered out through the empty doorway, his face towards the west; in his wordless passage, he showed no recognition of his Southlands lover, which tore Justinian’s heart the deeper.

  The warlock grinned, and kinder grins were seen in graves. He snapped his fingers again, and thick ropes wound from the corners of the chamber, twisting around Justinian’s ankles and his wrists. The touch of them brought a shiver of disgust, and he knew they were no common ropes.

  “No steel can cut, nor fire burn, these bindings,” laughed the warlock. “You will grow used to them, and when you grow used to me, I may command them back into their dens. If not, there are parts of you unbound that will bring me amusement in the days to come.”

  Thus was Justinian subject to the warlock’s whims. Ofttimes the sorcerer was far from his hold, making mischief in this land or another. One day was he Gullscope; another was he Peterkin, or Malvolt, or even Sweet Peggy, so easy did he move from guise to guise. And on certain cold nights the man would return, and take pleasures with Justinian’s body, delighting that his new captive was full of form, caressing the golden hair on every limb and in every secret place ....

  The ropes which bound Justinian had their own ways, giving him lease to attend to most needs, but they would tighten fit to break bone should he offer threat or stray beyond the warlock’s doorway. The blade used to carve his meat would not mark them, nor could his teeth split a single fibre from their coils. True to the warlock’s word, when Justinian braved the fire and held his bound wrists over the flames, all that came were pain and blisters; the ropes remained unmarked.

  His only comfort, in pain or unwanted pleasure, was to know that he had freed the Red Bear of Norroway, that his prince was safe, and might—in time—recover from the warlock’s wickedness and Justinian’s folly ....

  TWO MOONS HAD PASSED; HIS captor was away in the land of the Finns, but would soon return, and Justinian’s will was low. The sun in the warlock’s land was without vigour, but the captive would drag himself to doorway and stare longingly to the west. Not the least discomfort of his prison was the rank smell within, and the scuttling noises from the shadowed corners.

  On one drear morning, he sat silent between the pillars of bone, when he heard a harsh caw, and saw a single rook tumbling and swooping in the air. For a heartbeat he remembered his journey, and in the next, he saw a tall figure striding the earth towards the hold, coming from the Weeping Plain. Too tall for the warlock, surely? Half Justinian’s great heart hoped for the prince to have come; the other half wished his lover safe and far away.

  Leif Thurlasson it was, for good or ill. Gaunt and fell-looking, he walked with a long spear rested on his shoulder, halting as he espied Justinian in the doorway.

  “Better I die at warlock’s hands, than live loveless in my empty hall,” said Leif before Justinian could even rise.

  “Avaunt!” the captive cried out, torn between love and fear. “Go back, dear soul! The foeman is on his way, and we have naught that can give him pause.”

  Lief ran forward, and kissed Justinian tenderly upon the lips, stroked the golden hair.

  “What has he done to you?”

  “I am bound hard to this hold, and cannot leave. My prince, if failing you and freeing you are equal measure, then nothing is owed. Go back to your mead-hall and your people, and forget.”

  “Neither can I do,” said Leif taking out his sword.

  He slashed at the ropes; he stabbed the point between their strands; he hauled with all his might. There was no yielding.

  Again the lone rook croaked its warning.

  “The warlock is near,” gasped Justinian—yet the bird’s call drew his thoughts back to the brooch he had used in that time of need. “Wait—my pack is by the bed within. There is a knife there ....”

  The prince swept past, and was soon back with the obsidian knife of Justinian’s mother.

  “No steel can cut these bindings, the warlock said.” Justinian gazed upon the glistening black stone blade, edged like sudden night. “And no steel is in your hand.”

  Sure enough, the ropes might have been soft flax beneath the obsidian; almost was it that they parted and fled, rather than let it touch them. Eager hands pulled the last of the strands away, and Justinian was free.

  “He is come,” said Justinian, seeing a swift movement over the prince’s shoulder. “But I am fearless when we are shoulder to shoulder, even to our ending.”

  There in the bone doorway they stood, and looked hard on Gullscope and his furrowed brows.

  “Two pretty birds, eh?” The warlock’s lips formed a narrow smile. “No matter. This time I shall keep you both, I think—one for the bed and one to scour the pans.”

  The prince hefted his spear and stabbed forward, yet a mere whisper from Ovelamieli shattered it, casting the fragments aside.

  Justinian groaned, too worn to think of what else he could do.

  “I am not made,” said the warlock, “to be taken by the weapons of men—or by those of women, if you think yourself clever.” He lifted one thin hand to snap his fingers and work some evil ....

  “Clever enough,” said the prince, “to turn your ways upon you. As you gave, so shall you be given,” and drew from his tunic a singed and ragged piece of hide, with coarse red hair upon it. “Not all was fully burned—nor is a doom so ill when it is chosen.”

  And he thrust the hide between his lips.

  In an instant his gaunt form filled, grew, and in Leif’s place stood the Red Bear of Norroway, more terrible than a troll, more vengeful than a thwarted love. The warlock froze at the change, his snapping fingers stilled by shock, and that pause was plenty; he had neither Finnish cunning nor stolen glamour enough to escape the two huge paws which clapped sudden to his skull, claws sinking to the bone .…

  Spine parted, sinew snapped, and the head of Gullscope bade an unexpected farewell to the body which had borne it. Over and over in the air it went, and when it fell it was but a misshapen lump of rock, like any other boulder thereabouts.

  The Red Bear of Norroway bellowed, and turned to where Justinian stood, black blade now in his hand.

  “Would you still have me in your arms?” growled the bear.

  “Oh, I would, my prince.”

  And letting the knife fall, Justinian charged full into the embrace of the coppery beast. Such love and urgency was there in that charge, that the piece of hide shot out of the prince’s mouth.

  Instantly did the form in Justinian’ s arms shudde
r and change, but to their wonder, Leif of the Broad Spear was no longer the massive bear that had been there a moment before, nor was he the gaunt and troubled man that had been its shadow. Instead, he stood fine and proud, his long red hair shining, his beard a proud mane at his jaw, and his chest as wide as Justinian’s.

  “Well now,” said the younger of the lovers, “This doom I like. More of a prince than ever to hold in the cold nights.”

  Leif marvelled at this new form, caught twixt shaggy beast and noble man. “I shall not complain,” he grinned. “Though we may need a sturdier bed.”

  Justinian nodded. “I shall ask that such be my troth-gift from my mother, when we tell her of our triumph.”

  And he laughed full loud until his belly shook.

  “But for now, ‘I need not look for maidens’ arms; another one has shown his charms.’”

  SO IT WAS THAT, WHEN the Red Bear of Norroway and his lover took ship to the Southlands and stood in the great hall of Justinian’s line, none could question that Justinian’s heart had chosen as it must. Naysayers could not be found, for those few skulked in meanness in their homes and battened on petty thoughts.

  “The Red Bear and the Gold,” announced the heralds, and in brightness were the two lovers hand-fasted. This joyful deed was done before the eyes of Andrys, his dark-eyed Aisha and their new son; of Erys wise in his governance, and of the queen, who had no complaint that the Northlands were now her ally.

  Besides, she too had a generous nature. She had heard that Leif yet had an unwed aunt in Norroway, a fine, big woman who was said to be seeking warmer climes—and possibly a goose-feather quilt to share ....

  Something Old, Something New, Something Borrowed, Something Blue

  Jonathan Harper

  1

  HOW I REMEMBER THAT FIRST night on the train, face pressed against the glass, watching the silhouettes of trees, their knifey branches, their skeletal frames, whisk by in the dark as I felt nothing but dread. There was an ever-constant feeling of danger or warning, a notion I could not fully understand. Back then, I was a timid boy, one who was easily intimidated by his own shadow, having relied (perhaps too much) on the protection of his older sister. Amelia, sat across from me in our private car, dressed in her new traveling suit, feigning sleep. That night, I felt such a kinship with her. I knew she also felt the dread. Her body was so tightly knitted together that she appeared ready for a brawl.

  But I had no idea why she would be so nervous. She had already married the Duke, had already consummated their relationship in our parent’s sullen bed, had already sold off our property and shed all the trappings of our previous home. Amelia was the stronger sibling, a brazen woman, a tough woman, one with the will to survive.

  As the train rolled on through the night, I could find no sleep as I felt my grasp on our old life lose shape. I already missed my old village, despite its faults and disappointments. By the morning, we would arrive and be delivered into the hands of the Duke and begin our new life under his roof. What I feared the most was not knowing what awaited us at the end of the journey or how we would eventually be changed by it.

  WE CAME FROM A HUMBLE beginning, typical for a story like this. Our mother, a strong-willed farmer, and our father, a stoic former soldier, were long dead. They had taught us well: how to churn the butter, how to pluck a chicken, the best price for grain and how to sell just enough to keep money in our pockets and bread in our bellies.

  I should say that I was never meant to be a farmer. I did not have the constitution for it. I was a small boy, a lithe boy, a sensitive child as my mother often proclaimed. And my father, bless him, agreed and did all he could to ease me into the demands of such labor. Thankfully, Amelia possessed the raw strength I never had. She was a sturdy girl, obstinately pretty with a keen eye. When I think of our childhood, I remember those happy mornings saddled next to my mother, helping her sew and to prepare the broth, while Amelia joined my father in the fields. It was she who learned how to shoot our father’s pistol, how to drink harsh liquor, how to laugh at a bruise. So, when we were finally on our own, we both knew she was to be master of our house.

  Fate continued to test us after our parents departed this world. Our father’s pension was not as plentiful as we had originally believed and after overspending on farm hands one season, we were unable to afford them the next. Then, two of our fields soured as if the land itself was rejecting our stewardship. We survived off Amelia’s brawn and determination, working until we would collapse in an exhausted heap and still it was never enough.

  This all changed when the Duke entered our lives.

  After years of training, my sister had developed a reputation for her skills with our father’s old military pistol. She could draw quicker than a field vole could dive in its burrow and with a closed eye she could shoot the cap off a bottle from a field’s length away. Every summer, at the county fair, people would crowd in wooden stands to see her shoot. She always wore our mother’s high-collared dress, her hair pulled back in a single braid, and drew her pistol with lightning reflex, shattering clay doves in rapid succession to the applause of many.

  The Marvelous Amelia, they called her. The Pistol Maven, the Lady Sharpshooter with the Eagle Eye. This was how the Duke found her.

  He was an older man, a sturdy rugged man with grim patriarchal stature and a surly black beard that shimmered with a hint of blue when the light struck it so. I was sixteen that summer when he came to town, having arrived on his honeymoon, escorting a beautiful black-haired woman, near exotic in her dark features and exaggerated hand gestures. Word around town claimed she was an opera singer, one of great standing in far-away cities.

  But my eye had been on the Duke since I first caught sight of him in the open market. They perused the many stands and drank in our tavern. He admired our township with the scrutinous eye of a man enjoying caged beasts in a zoo, while his wife perused little trinkets, what she called, “darling folk art.” And I followed them through the market, observing the Duke almost hungrily. I had felt compelled to do so, felt it in my gut, starting as a spark until it ignited into full infatuation, as if his mere presence nourished me.

  It was the opera singer who noticed me first, who suddenly lavished me with compliments of the fairgrounds and asked me about my life in this humble little village. “What a darling little Ganymede,” she told her husband. “Can we keep him, Your Grace?”

  As if I were a pet, a little companion dog to follow her about and rest on her lap. For a moment, I was almost amenable to the idea.

  There was the same glint of curiosity in the Duke’s eye as he asked what I wanted. But what was I to say? My infatuation had come on so suddenly that I had hardly the time to interpret these feelings. I only wanted to be near him, to catch another glimpse of the blue in his beard. In my frustration, I rambled on about my sister, that she was a performer and they would enjoy her art. I escorted them to the stands and when Amelia took her first aimed shot, the Duke laughed and applauded, and I felt proud that I had somehow brought him joy.

  His wife daintily applauded before she pulled him away, for she was tired of the fair. She left, twiddling her fingers at me. It was the last time I ever saw her.

  A year later, the Duke returned a widower. Rumor circulated throughout the fairgrounds and we descended upon it like hens to grain. She had died in childbirth, some said, or by sudden illness. It was unclear. But the Duke had been sighted loitering about the market and it was all the town could talk about.

  Our farm was hemorrhaging money by then, and in my dim youthful hope, I wondered if the Duke had come to rescue us. My chest rising with delight as if it were full of clouds, I darted out through the crowd searching for him. When found his bulking stature was draped in black, and he stared openly at me with a grim concentration. It was different than the first time. Grief had left him hard as stone. Still, I once again led him to the stands where my sister performed and watched him gaze upon her work with the focus of the devil.

/>   A week later, they were married.

  2

  OUR TRAIN RIDE WOULD TAKE us to him, to our new home on the other side of the country by the sea. He needed a week’s time, he said, to prepare his manor for a new bride. And the week had gone by in a such frenzy that I could hardly believe I was sitting in this cushioned train car with ample space, dressed in a coat that was more costly than the entire farmhouse. I should have savored in this newfound luxury, but it was an arduous journey, and I still could not comprehend the world we were entering.

  A little distance makes one reminisce fondly over their previous circumstances. I realized I would actually miss the reaping of grain and our yearly jaunts to the summer festival and watching my sister shoot in front of a dazzled crowd. I would actually miss the simple folk and their politeness—even if they had never been my friends, they were pleasantly familiar.

  A sense of dread had taken hold. For as much as I desired the Duke, I also feared him, his stern, harsh demeanor and the loneliness his manor would offer. It was well after midnight, Amelia finally asleep, when I decided to spend my time wandering about the cars. Trains are phallic places: long and hollow. I paced in an endless loop, until I caught the eye of one of the night attendants.

  The porter was a strange man, thick-bellied with a crooked mustache, subtly flamboyant in the way he grinned every time I passed. He said he recognized me, as if I was someone of prominence now, and after meager conversation, he offered me a touch of brandy to help pass the time. We sat in an empty compartment, one reserved for the night staff to linger away the longest hours. I cannot remember what we talked about, but I cannot forget the crude taste of the liquor, the feverish heat of the compartment. And the porter’s hands: how he fumbled through the buttons of my shirt. Thanks to the benefit of years, I know the tumbling loss of balance, the texture of his mouth, unlocked something intangible within me. And when we were finished, he kissed me softly on the cheek and cradled me gently against his furry chest. I must have felt as if I had entered Heaven. Eventually, I left the compartment, retracing my steps to my sister’s car, where she stirred slightly, feigning sleep, as a small smile crept upon her lips as if she had known all along this night would be temporal for us both.