The woman’s voice, when she spoke, was strange, a mix of the sweet and the discordant—only later would the girl realize it came of the scars at the base of her throat.
“Now. Now you are secure, my little one, the game has begun.”
Emer, finding her own voice unaffected by whatever paralyzed her body, gave an answering cry.
“Come, come—you want to help me, don’t you? And if I take my fun at the same time, then what harm?” She laughed. “Would you like a story, my dear one? My sweet sister’s darling child? Shall we begin thus? Once upon a time . . . ”
And Emer listened as her unsuspected aunt told of two sisters, one swan-white, the other raven-dark. All the while the girl wondered how long she would be in this shape. How long before all she began to think of were bugs and beetles, worms and carrion. How long it would take for someone to find her. And Emer despaired because she knew her parents believed the Black Bride defeated and dead. They would never find their raven-daughter because they would never think to hunt for a ghost.
The girl spent many months feathered and tethered.
Each night she heard the Black Bride’s version of the tale Emer’s governess had told in hushed tones. Her mother had tenderly sworn it was no more than a story, and even though Emer pretended to believe her, she had seen the evidence on the Queen’s very flesh: the blemishes around her neck where the gold band clutched too tightly, the left hand missing its smallest finger where her wings had been clipped so she would not flee the palace pond. By the end of her first month in captivity, Emer was acquainted with every cadence of the new account as surely as she was her own heartbeat.
How the Black Bride’s mother had two perfectly serviceable husbands, one after the other, and produced one lovely daughter with each. How both girls were raised with equal affection, and how, when an exceedingly fine suitor—a king-to-be—came a-courting those very girls, this very same mother refused to choose between her daughters, so the dark girl had no choice but to make her own fate. How the prince had made his preference for the snowy girl known—and the girl of shadows had determined her will would prevail.
It wasn’t as if she’d harmed her sister so terribly, said the Black Bride with a shrug. Turned her into a swan, certainly, but as she was sure Emer could attest, a few feathers never hurt anyone. And hadn’t the swan-sister’s revenge been a terrible over-reaction?
When she came to this point in the tale, the Black Bride always fingered the scars on her cheeks, neck, breasts, where spikes hammered into the barrel had pierced her as she was rolled up hill and down dale until that barrel had finally hit a tree and burst asunder, leaving her bleeding and dying, the tiny child within her withering as surely as an ice-lily on a summer’s day.
How, when she’d thought her last breath was spent, she was found by a woman, a witch—not kindly—who mended her and taught her greater things than she’d ever imagined. Marvelous magics, legends of objects that might grant every wish, but none of this imparted fast enough for her wanting or wishing. There was still much to learn when the Black Bride held a pillow over the old woman’s face and stifled her last breath, but the girl was simply tired of waiting for her to step aside and let a new order begin.
How, after years of plotting and planning, everything she’d worked for threatened to slip from the Black Bride’s grasp. Though she’d schemed and marshaled her resources so she might yet play on, she had failed to get what her heart most desired: healing. It was tricky, balancing the time she had left between revenge and recovery, but she refused to relinquish one for the chance of the other. No matter how it taxed her, she could be—would be—whole once more, and all scores settled with her sister and the king.
Emer listened and watched, watched and listened, although no one spoke to her but the Black Bride. She paid attention to the comings and goings of the shadowed woman’s pilfered court, noting the frequency and severity of the woman’s wet cough, the sweet-sour dying scent of her breath. There were suitors—for her wealth, though stolen, though dusty, was not insubstantial, and the strength of her sorcery was of great value. Aside from these charms, in certain lights, the ravages of her punishment were not so obvious. So, the willing grooms came, though none of them ever left.
In the cold hours, after the woman had talked herself out, after she’d muttered at the windows when will she come, when will she come?, then gone to bed, Emer would work with her sharp beak at the deceptively fragile-looking chain, more out of habit than hope, but inexorably, insistently.
Peck-peck-peck.
Peck-peck-peck.
Peck-peck-peck.
“About time.”
Emer, perched on the padded armrest of the throne, was enduring the Black Bride’s caress, staring out the only unshuttered window. Normally, she divided her time between eyeing the roiling mass of canine domestics, the fluttering carpet of ravens who came and went at the Bride’s bidding, and the hopping, kicking sea of fur that had once been the courting princes—all now transformed to fine, fat hares. This day, though, the sky had her undivided attention. She ignored the dark woman, assuming the remark was addressed to someone else. But the Black Bride’s next words—and her tone, so soft and sad—dragged the raven-girl’s gaze back to the room.
“Did you think yourself forgotten?”
Emer was startled—it was precisely what she was beginning to think. She had lost track of the days, weeks, months, but the turning of the season outside told her winter was arriving for what seemed the second time. She wasn’t sure—speculations about bugs and beetles had occupied her mind of late. A tentative movement at the entrance of the chamber made her head tilt in curiosity.
The figure was willowy, dressed in white furs, a hood of silver fox framing her pale face. She moved with all the grace of a bird on the surface of a lake, effortless. She hesitated as if, unable to find whom she sought, she was unwilling to commit deeper to the room.
“You should know,” continued the Black Bride, her touch stilled, “that she raised an army to find you. Your father failed and wept, wasted away—trust me, my girl, I have my spies. But she, oh she mobilized their vassals, rode at their head, slept in the saddle, scoured all the lands that could be covered by foot and sea. I’ll warrant she’d have given her very soul to take to the skies if it meant she might find you that way.”
Her hand slid to the black chain. She toyed with the liquid length, unconsciously worrying at the dent Emer’s beak had made. She stared at the woman hovering in the doorway and seemed to realize that there would be no further progress without some kind of carrot.
“In the end, though, I sent for her. Reports of her mourning, her burning anguish, warmed my very soul. I could imagine it for I know her as well as I know myself. But there is no true joy in suffering that one cannot witness, child,” the Black Bride said, then she snapped scarlet-tipped fingers, and the ankle chain evaporated. Before Emer could take advantage of this freedom and make it to the open window, the Black Bride wrapped both hands around the raven’s trembling form. She held the bird as if intent upon stilling her heart, then kissed the top of her head. Whispering flux, she threw the girl—not upward, but forward.
The raven-girl’s shape became fluid, like water tossed from a bucket. Her feathers disintegrated, her beak receded to a pert little nose, legs lengthened and grew feet with soft pink toes, the tips of her wings split into fingers. Emer plummeted like a surprised stone, landing half on, half off the fusty carpet, scattering canine courtiers and confused coneys as she went. Naked and suddenly cold, she sat up slowly, feeling sick, stunned. Her mother, as if released from a cannon, sped toward her, hands reaching, lips curving, focusing entirely on her child, drawn by that agonizing relief which makes caution flee.
The Queen’s hands were not as Emer remembered; once soft as silk and pale as moonlight, they were now red, the skin split and dry, callused, coarsened from gripping sword and reins. But the eyes, silvery blue, the gaze wide and wise as an owl’s—those were her mother’
s without doubt. Emer nestled into the embrace, feeling as much as hearing a thrum as the White Bride crooned her love.
“Oh, sister, how sweet!” The Black Bride teetered on the edge of the dais, shuddering with the effort of her magic. “What was lost is found. You didn’t look for me like that, not even to make sure I was dead.”
“A mistake I will not repeat, sister,” said the White Bride as she rose.
“Now, now, sister, don’t be too hasty. Didn’t I give her back? Isn’t she safe? Isn’t she lovely and whole, unlike we who still wear our battle scars? Didn’t I give you hope?”
“Only as one doles out breadcrumbs, sister, for without hope, suffering tastes flat,” said the White Bride, which set the Black Bride off into peals of laughter.
When she calmed, wiping spittle from her lips, she looked fondly at Emer and the White Bride. “Didn’t I say so, little one? That we know each other as well as we know ourselves? You should find this no surprise at all then, sister dear.”
And the Black Bride clapped with a noise like a lightning strike and shouted something Emer couldn’t quite comprehend, a word that slipped over her ears like oil across skin, and left nothing in its wake but a slight ringing. Where her mother had stood, half-buried under the fox fur hood, was a sleek alabaster she-hare with eyes of silvery blue. Emer could do nothing but stare through hot tears as the Black Bride hobbled down the steps and scooped up the animal that made no move to run.
“No feathers for you on this occasion—I do like variety. I would we had more time for thrust and parry—I could play this game forever—but you’ve taken so long to find us that my time is running short. Your child must be swift if she wishes to save you.”
An iron cage, which had not been there moments before, appeared at the foot of her throne. The Black Bride urged the animal in and latched the door. “Best keep her here, though I’m sure she’d be terribly popular with the boys,” she cackled, then shuddered into a fit of coughing that resulted in something nasty spattering on the stone floor. A spaniel footman hurried forward to lap it up. Emer shuddered to think of her mother at the mercy of the legions of bucks, whose noses twitched at the smell of a female.
Unsteadily, the girl picked herself up and wrapped her mother’s cloak around her, clinging to the warmth left within. She worried at the hood between her fingers as she tried her voice, found only a raucous sound, tried again and managed, “Why? Why all this?”
The Black Bride gave her an astonished look. “For the sport, of course. The vengeance.”
Emer looked at the hare, the Queen-that-was, and quivered. “If I was the bait, then she’s taken it. You win . . . What use have you for me now?”
“I thought I’d have more time,” the Black Bride murmured, not to Emer, but to the ghosts, the nobodies with whom she regularly conversed. Blinking, she looked down at the girl, as if calculating fitness for purpose. “You’ll have to do.”
“Do what?”
“You want your freedom, don’t you?”
Emer nodded. The Black Bride mirrored the movement and went on.
“Retrieve something for me, and we’ll see what we shall see about that.”
“That’s hardly a bargain,” Emer said, surprised at her boldness. The Black Bride ignored her.
“I’ve sent that lot many times.” She shrugged dismissively towards the milling crowd of ravens, “and all they’ve brought back are excuses and complaints about the loss of this cousin or that brother. What I need can be obtained only by someone with pure intent—and we both know that’s not me—once it’s taken, of course, it can be handed over to whomever the acquirer pleases. It seems a fair price to me, for your liberty.”
“And my mother—her life, freedom, her true form,” Emer said. She had listened for so long to the Black Bride’s tricksy tongue, to conditions that seemed carelessly worded but were not, to deals she’d made with all those princes who now wore fluffy tails and pointed ears.
“Very well, clever little miss.” The woman frowned, curious. “What did you think about? When you were bird-brained?”
“Worms. Sky. Flight.” Home. Mother. Father. Emer’s short life had been determined by the whims and demands of others; therefore, she chose to keep some truths for herself this time.
“Ah.” The Black Bride seemed disappointed, and sat back on the moth-eaten damask cushions of her throne. “So. There is a castle atop a mountain of glass, almost a day’s distance. Inside is a very special crown, which you will retrieve.”
“And how do I climb slopes of glass? Will you give me wings again?”
“No, I can’t trust you not to fly away. You said yourself, in that form all your thoughts were those of birds—you’ll lose focus, grow forgetful.” She shook her head. “In the stables, there’s a horse—actually there are many, but you can’t miss this one. A suitable beast, but with a foul temper.” The Black Bride sighed. “You’re a clever girl, Emer, so listen carefully: there are no second chances for you. If you do not return here before the turning of a day and a night with the crown, I will kill your mother. Understand? I’m sick with waiting.”
“Is there a map?” Emer inquired stiffly.
“Follow the river—that’ll be map enough.”
“What’s so special about this crown?” demanded the girl, her spirit growing the longer she stood on her own two fleshy feet.
The Black Bride’s eyes slid to the animal in the cage at her feet. “Enough questions. Go, and be quick about it.”
The bird had spent all the time since they’d left the castle pattering across the horse’s broad shoulders, up and down its neck, and making occasional forays onto saddle’s pommel. In turn, the roan had not stopped whickering in irritation and shaking itself hard enough that both bird and rider were almost dislodged. The raven—Bertók by name—also kept up an unrelenting monologue.
“And that,” he said with a meaningful look at the gingham bundle tied behind Emer, “if I’m not mistaken, is a loaf of bread and a flask of wine that will never run out. Purely magical, very valuable. The dog, I’m sure, was not meant to give you that.”
A tired-looking Alsatian with sad eyes, green waistcoat, fawn breeches, and mauve frock coat, had been instructed to find Emer clothes and food and send her on her way. He’d led her to a room decorated with colorful arras, furniture of pale honey wood, and brightly bleached linens. An alcove housed a tub; ancient copper plumbing rattled as the valet drew a bath. In all the past months, Emer had never suspected a room like this existed here.
She was provided with trousers and shirt, highly polished leather boots, and a worsted wool cloak, all in varying shades of black. Emer ignored the cloak, keeping instead her mother’s fur and hood. When she was washed and dressed, her guide took her to the stables and pointed out her steed.
The Black Bride had been right—so many princes had left many, many horses—but this one stood out. At least twenty hands high and with a burnished hide, he wore no shoes for his hooves were of spiked bronze. When Emer knelt before him, his golden gaze was measured. She held out the apple she’d kept back from her own quick meal and he deigned to sink his sharp teeth in its firm flesh. The dog, noting the beastie’s compliance, swiftly—and with palpable relief—saddled him, while Emer explored some of the stalls, patted the more biddable animals.
“Ahem. Excuse me, miss?” came a voice from the shadows.
At first, Emer couldn’t find the source, but when her eyes adjusted to the gloomy corners she saw a withy cage hanging from one of the rafters. Inside was a defeated-looking raven. His eyes were dull until Emer approached. Then, a flare of recognition and something else: a fire within, a swirling conflagration of green and red and gold, orange and azure and magenta.
“You!” she’d screamed, rage rushing through her, and strode forward, intent upon throttling the bird. The raven flapped wildly, shouting, “Now, don’t be hasty, I can explain!”
“This is all your fault, with your lying in wait and your pecking. Give me one g
ood reason why I shouldn’t wring your scrawny neck.”
“Well, strictly speaking, you need to shoulder some of the blame—you were alone, wandering about outside. Well-behaved princesses—” he broke off as Emer began to shake the cage. “I’m sorry! Don’t hurt me, I can help you.”
The bird’s terror broke through her fury and Emer suspected that the anger she felt was the sort of ire her aunt gave in to every day. She stepped back, shuddering with shame.
“No, I’m sorry I scared you.” She reached for the latch and lifted it. “How is that I can understand you?”
“You were one of us for an age, it’s bound to stick,” he said, tentatively climbing out onto her proffered forearm. “If you’re going where I think you’re going, I really can help. Please let me come along.”
It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now Emer’s head was fit to burst.
“When the old bat finds out what he’s done he’ll be a pair of slippers in the blink of an eye. Mind you, might come in handy,” wittered Bertók.
“Why were you in that cage again?”
“Injustice! As always. ‘Bertók, you talk too much. Bertók, you ate all the wild cherries. Bertók, you didn’t bring me back that crown. Bertók, you’re snoring too loudly.’ It’s getting so a bird can’t fart let alone express an opinion without getting locked up.”
In the brief respite while he took a breath, Emer used the chance to change track. “You mentioned a giant?”
“Giantess. Always hungry—I don’t know if they’re all like that. I wonder—”
Once Upon a Time: New Fairy Tales Page 16