Once Upon a Time: New Fairy Tales

by Goss, Theodora

  Then the princesses happily exclaimed, and flung wide their arms, as if to embrace lovers. And at that—at that—

  There they are, Yannis breathed, in his unheard phantom’s whisper.

  For there indeed they were.

  Begun as shadows standing between the land and the water, gaining substance, filling up with color, youth and life. Twelve tall, young and handsome men were there, elegantly arrayed as princes. But their royal clothes no better than the panoply of their hair—one amber red, one brown as tortoiseshell, one gold as topaz, red as beech leaves, brown as walnut wood, gold as corn fields, summer wine, spring beer, winter mead; copper, bronze, and gold—as gold.

  In God’s name—could God have any hand in this? Yes, yes, Yannis’s heart stammered over to him. A snatch of the ancient tongue came to him, from his own past, where he had known pieces of it—that the soul was neither male nor female, yet also it was both male and female. So that in every woman there dwelled some part of her that was her male other self. Just as, in every man—

  The fine princes walked into the arms of their twelve princesses. Why not? They were the male selves of each woman. Every couple was already joined, each the other, sister and brother, wife and husband, lovers for ever and a day.

  Yannis stared even so as the princes rowed them all back across the lake to the palace of unearthly delights.

  Invisibly, he sat in turn in every boat.

  Was it heavy work for them? No. Yannis was lighter even than the light.

  Nevertheless, they sense I am with them, he thought.

  He returned to the air and landed on the other shore first.

  How long, that night? Dusk till dusk—so many hours. In the world they had left, he thought at last it would be close to dawn. But here it was always and never either night or day.

  In the kingly great hall that far outshone that of their father above, the young women danced the often lively dances of their world and this one, forming rhythmic lines, meeting and clasping hands with their princes, parting again to lilt away, and to return. Sometimes the young men whirled them high up in their arms, skirts swirling, hair crackling. Wheels of burning lights hung from the high ceiling, which was leafed with diamond stars. On carven tables food had been laid, and was sometimes eaten, goblets of wine were to be drunk. Somewhere musicians played unseen. There were no other guests.

  The soldier watched, and sometimes—the plates and cups were communal—he ate and drank. He wondered if the food would stick to him, or leave him hungry; it seemed somehow to do neither. He himself did not dance until it grew very late.

  And then, as it had happened on the shore, and as he had known it must—turning, the soldier found another woman stationed quietly at his side. She at once smiled at him. He knew her well, though never had he seen her before. She might have been his sister.

  “Come now,” she said, soft as the silver and golden leaves in his pocket, and firm as the single adamant.

  And onto the wide floor of the hall, which seemed paved with soot and coal and frost and ice and candle beams and sparks, she went. And somehow then she was dancing with the amber prince who had partnered the amber eldest princess. So then Yannis went forward, and took the princess’s hand. While his spirit’s sister danced with the prince, Yannis danced with Amber, who seemed then to see, if not to remember him.

  “How lightly you step,” he said.

  “How strongly you lead,” she answered.

  After this, one by one, he danced with each of them, twelve to one, as his feminine aspect engaged their princes.

  “How strongly you lead,” said each princess, seeing him, too.

  Until he came to the youngest princess, Gold-as-Gold Evira.

  “How strongly you step,” said she.

  “How lightly you lead,” said he.

  And he looked into her eyes and saw there, even on that curious dancing floor, a color and a depth he had met seldom. And Yannis thought, This after all, the very youngest, soul-wise is the eldest—

  And she said, “By a ribbon of air.”

  And he said, “But I must follow you.”

  “You,” she said, “and no other.”

  “Are you so sure?” he said. He thought, What am I saying? But he knew.

  And she smiled, as his soul-sister had, and he knew also her smile. And then his inner woman returned, and coming up to him she kissed his cheek, and vanished, and he, if he had grown visible, vanished also.

  From high up he watched the princesses and the princes fly towards the doorway and hurry down to the boats. As they ran he saw the naked soles of their feet, and they were worn and bruised and in some parts bloody from so much dancing, and streaked with shines and spangles.

  Yannis ran before them over the lake. He ran before them up the land beyond, missing the tender farewells. He bolted across the orchards of the Otherwhere, and behind him he heard them say, “Look, is that a hare that runs so fast it moves the grasses?” One thought it must be a wolf, or wildcat.

  Then he fled to the mystic entry to the world, and unmistakenly rushed in like a west wind, and found instantly the silver spirit-cord flowing away through the mausoleum, and on. So out over the graveyard hill, and in at the secret corridor, and up inside the palace walls. Straight through the stone he dived. And stood sentry behind his body, sleeping tranced as death in the chair, until they came in.

  “Look at him!”

  Eleven sisters scorned and pinched him and made out he snored, the fool.

  By then the Earth’s own dawn was rising like a scarlet sea along the windows. It showed their dresses were plain again, and how weary they were, having danced in their physical bodies all night. But the body of Yannis the soldier had slept with profound relaxation. So in he stepped to wake it up at once.

  “Never a hare, nor a cat, running. I ran before you, exactly as I followed you all night, my twelve dancing ladies.” Just this said Yannis, standing lion-strong on his legs of flesh and wood, eyes bright and expression fierce. And he showed them leaves of silver, and of gold, and a diamond, taken now from his physical pocket. He told them all he had seen, and all they had done, every step and smile and sip and sigh. And he added he had not needed three nights to do this, only one. “Meanwhile, I will remind your highnesses, also, of mockery, pinches, blows—and a twisted pin.”

  Their faces whitened, or reddened.

  But Evira Gold-as-Gold only stood back in the shadows, her cat and dogs and most of her birds about her.

  “What will you do?” Eleven voices cried.

  “Why, tell the king. And he will make me his heir, and you he will curb. Whatever that word means, to him.”

  Then some of them began to weep. And he said, “Hush now. Listen. What you do harms nobody. More, I believe you do good by it, keeping the gates oiled between here—and there. And he is a poor king, a coward and tyrant, is he not? His people sullen and afraid, his guards afraid, too, or arrogant and drunken. He’s not how a king should be, his people’s shepherd, who will die for them if needs must. Few kings are any good. Few men, few human things.”

  But still they sobbed.

  Then Yannis said, “I tell you now what I’ll do, then.”

  And he told them. And the crying ceased.

  Down into the king’s hall went Yannis, with the twelve princesses walking behind him on their bare and bruised and lovely feet.

  And as he had suspected, the instant the court and soldiers saw the daughters walked meekly with him, everyone grew silent.

  The king with his grayed black-iron beard and hair looked up from his gold dish of bloody meat. “Well?” he said.

  “Their secret is this, sire,” said Yannis, “they stay wakeful on full moon nights and do penance, treading on sharp stones, and praying for your health and long life, there in their locked room. Such things are best hidden, but now it’s not, and the luck of it is broken. But so you would have it.” And then he leaned to the king’s ear and murmured with a terrible gentleness this, which
only the king heard. “But they are, as you suspect, powerful witches, which is why you fear them; but the old gods love them, and you’d best beware. Yes, even despite all those other men you have allowed these girls to dupe, and so yourself had the fellows shorn of their heads: blood sacrifices, no less, to the old powers of Darkness you believe inhabit the lands below the Sun Beneath. This too shall I say aloud? Or will you give me what I’m owed?”

  Then the king shuddered from head to foot. Top to toe, that was fair. And he told everyone present that the soldier had triumphed, and would now become a prince, the king’s heir, and might marry too whichever of the daughters he liked.

  “That’s easy, then,” said Yannis. “I’m not a young man; I’ll take the oldest head and wisest mind among them. Your youngest girl, Evira.” And because, he thought, she is the golden cup that holds my heart.

  And gladly enough she came to him, and took his hand.

  Less than half a year the iron king survived; maybe he destroyed himself by his own plotting. But by then Yannis was well-loved by the city, its soldiers loyal to him, for he had learned how to be a favorite with them, having seen other leaders do it.

  Yannis, therefore, ruled as king, and his gold-haired queen at his side. Some say they had three children, some that they had none, needing none.

  But it was not until after the burial of the cruel first king that Yannis said to his wife, “But did your white cat, at least, not protest?”

  “At what, dear husband?”

  “At your changing her, for however short a space, into a goat.”

  “Ah,” Evira said. “Of course, you have known.”

  “And the dogs to wolves, and the birds—to chickens . . . ”

  “They were glad,” said Evira, coolly, “privately to meet with you. For I had sensed you were coming towards us all, and foresaw it was the only way that you would let me tell you and warn you and teach you—and so help me to save my sisters, who trust no man easily, from our fearsome and maddened father. The way matters stand in this world, it is men who rule. So here too it must be a man. But a man who is cunning, brave, kind—and with the skills of magic woken in him, needing only the key of one lesson.”

  And from this they admitted to each other that Evira had disguised herself as the elderly witch in the woods, and since she was far cleverer than her sisters, none had discovered her. Though at the last, as they danced, because of the russet radiance of her eyes, Yannis did.

  To the end of their lives he and she loved each other, and Evira and her sisters went on dancing in the other country below the sun, even with Yannis sometimes. But he never betrayed them. Never.

  It took storytellers, alas, to do that.

  Tanith Lee was born in the UK in 1947. After school she worked at a number of jobs, and at age twenty-five had one year at art college. Then DAW Books published her novel The Birthgrave. Since then she has been a professional full-time writer.

  Publications so far total approximately ninety novels and collections and well over three hundred short stories. She has also written for television and radio. Lee has won several awards and in 2009 was made a Grand Master of Horror. She is married to the writer/artist John Kaiine.

  When I was a child, fairy tales were not for the faint of heart. My mother used to read to us from this massive book with a horned demon dude on the cover. Readers and writers are partners in story, and my fertile imagination contributed horrifyingly vivid details. Thus twisted (thanks, Mom!) I grew up to write two best-selling teen fantasy series: The Heir Chronicles (The Warrior Heir, The Wizard Heir, The Dragon Heir, The Enchanter Heir); and the Seven Realms series (The Demon King, The Exiled Queen, The Gray Wolf Throne, The Crimson Crown.)

  “Warrior Dreams” is set in the gritty industrial landscape of the Cleveland Flats, where the crooked Cuyahoga River meets Lake Erie. The Lake Erie region boasts a rich folkloric tradition, rife with water monsters such as nixies and grindylows; zombie-like Wendigos; storm hags, ominous black dogs and the feared Nain Rouge—the Red Dwarf of Detroit. Some elements have been transplanted from the Old World, some are home-grown.

  I love to marry contemporary issues (e.g., our [lack of] treatment of wounded warriors) with fantasy elements and unexpected settings.

  I’ve discovered I can get away with a lot in a fairy tale.

  Warrior Dreams

  Cinda Williams Chima

  Russell’s new home under the abandoned railroad bridge was defensible, which was always the first priority. Secluded, yet convenient to the soup kitchens downtown. It offered a dry, flat place for his sleeping bag, and some previous occupant had even built a fire ring out of the larger rocks.

  The bridge deck kept the snow and sleet off, and because the bridge wasn’t in use, he didn’t have to deal with the rattle-bang of trains. Any kind of noise still awakened the Warrior—the dude born in Kunar Province, in Korengal, in the Swat Valley—even in places like Waziristan, where he never officially was. Any sudden noise left him sweating, heart pounding, fueled by an adrenaline rush that wouldn’t dissipate for hours.

  Best of all, the bridge was made of iron—a virtual fortress of iron, in fact, which should’ve been enough to win him a little peace. That and the bottle of Four Roses Yellow Label he’d bought with the last of this month’s check.

  But Russell was finding that, for an out-of-the-way place, his new crib on Canal Street was in a high-traffic area for magical creatures. The river was swarming with shellycoats—he heard the soft chiming of their bells all day long. Kappas lurked around the pillars of the bridge, poking their greenish noses out of the water, watching for unwary children. The carcasses of ashrays washed up on shore, disintegrating as soon as the sunlight hit them.

  Where were they all coming from? Was there some kind of paranormal convention going on and nobody told him?

  The first night, he’d awakened to the adrenaline rush and a pair of red fur boots, inches from his nose.

  “Hey!” Russell said, rolling out of danger and grabbing up the iron bar he always kept close. The creature screeched and scrambled backwards, out of range. It was the size of a small child, with a long beard, burning coal eyes, and a ratty red and black fur coat. Like a garden gnome out of a nightmare.

  “Listen up, gnomeling,” Russell said, “you sneak up on a person, you’re liable to get clobbered.”

  The creature struck a kind of pose, lips drawn back from rotten teeth, one hand extended toward Russell.

  “Je suis le Nain Rouge de Detroit,” it began.

  Russell shook his head. “En Anglais, s’il vous plait. Je ne parle pas Francais.”

  It scratched its matted beard. “You just did.”

  “Did what?”

  “Spoke French.”

  “Maybe,” Russell said, “but now I’m done.” He leaned back against a bridge pillar and lit a cigarette with shaking hands. At one time, he’d been fluent in five languages, but he’d forgotten a lot since the magic thing began.

  The gnomeling let go a sigh of disgust. “I am the Red Dwarf of Detroit,” it repeated. “Harbinger of doom and disaster.”

  “I hate to break it to you,” Russell said. “But this isn’t Detroit. It’s Cleveland. Detroit’s a little more to the left.” He pointed with his cigarette. “Just follow the lake, you can’t miss it.”

  The dwarf shook his head. “I may be the Red Dwarf of Detroit, but my message is for you.” And then it disappeared.

  Way to ruin a good night’s sleep.

  The second night, it was the dog. Russell woke to find it snuggled next to him, its huge, furry body like a furnace against his sleeping bag. He nearly strangled it before he realized what it was. He was definitely losing his edge. No way any animal that size should’ve been able to sneak up on him

  “Hey,” Russell said, sitting up. “Where’d you come from?” After holding out his hand for a sniff, he scratched the beast behind the ears. It was immense, probably a Newfoundland, or a mix of that and something else.

  Russe
ll liked dogs. They accepted a wide range of behavior without question, and they believed in magic, too.

  The next morning, Russell shared his meager gleanings from the dumpster behind the Collision Bend Café, and the dog elected to stay with him another night. Russell’s rule was, if a dog stays two nights, it gets a name.

  “Is it all right if I call you Roy?” Russell asked. The dog didn’t object, so Roy it was. That night Russell fell asleep, secure in the belief that old Roy had his back.

  He awoke to six nixies tugging on his toes with their sinuous fingers. Yanking his feet free, he said, “Ixnay, nixies.”

  They swarmed back into the water and commenced to squabbling about what, if anything, they should do with him.

  “He sees us!”

  “He will tell!”

  “We must drown him!”

  “Some watchdog you are,” Russell said, glaring at Roy. The Newfie stretched, shook out his long black coat, and trotted off to anoint the bridge for the hundredth time.

  After shooing away the nixies, Russell kindled a fire. He hadn’t lost the knack since he’d been chaptered out of the Army. Like riding a goddamn bike. He curled up and tried to go back to sleep, but he couldn’t shake a sense of imminent danger. The nixies kept muttering, and that didn’t help. He tossed and turned so much that Roy growled, got up, and found a spot on the other side of the fire.

  It was no use. Russell sat up. As he did so, the wind stung his face, bringing with it the stench of rotten flesh.

  Stick with Lieutenant MacNeely. It’s like he can smell danger.

  He searched the embankment that ran down to the water. There. He caught a flicker of movement along the riverbank. The lights from the bridge reflected off a pair of eyes peering out of a tangle of frozen weeds. The eyes disappeared and the weeds shifted and shook, a ribbon of motion coming toward him. Something was creeping closer, stalking him. Something big. Was it plotting with the nixies or was it here on its own?

  Warrior Russell planted his feet under him, reached down and gripped his trusty iron bar.