So Fey: Queer Fairy Fiction

by Christopher Barzak

  Why couldn't the old man be quiet, and leave him to his waiting?

  Ryuichi lied, "I am feeling a little ill, these days."

  Father Iido clicked his tongue against his teeth. "No doubt, because you've been wandering around at night. Do not think that I don't know about that."

  Ryuichi looked at Iido's face. He was as withered as a dried fruit, with skin of leather. Humans were such vulnerable things. "I..." he began. But no words could explain how he felt. And it was shameful, to say it. Remember that monkey that got into the temple? Well, he is really a creature of myth that has fallen in love with me. And I love him, too. I am just waiting for his return, to let him know how I feel. You see, he let me feel his world. And it is nothing like ours. Colors are sharper. Music flows through everything. You can hear the stars laugh, and smell fragrances that you never thought possible.

  Father Iido considered Ryuichi's silence. "You are ill. But it is with soul sickness. I have been here for over forty years; I know that look. There is only one cure." Ryuichi waited patiently for the old man to finish: "Prayer. Meditation."

  Ryuichi bowed, nodding his head.

  That evening, the monks filed into the temple like silent puppets. Ryuichi sat on his knees, and closed his eyes after the last gong resounded. More waiting. Maybe he would see the youth there, behind his eyelids. It was as good a place as any. An acolyte began a low humming chant.

  Ryuichi waited for a sign. His entire body felt tense with anxiety. Every coiled muscle in his neck and thighs waited for release. Through a profane act, he'd been allowed to see eternity, to taste it. The sacred no longer held any allure for him. Surely, the spirit could hear his psychic cries for help, feel the wave of desire for union.

  It began with a tingling in the pit of his stomach. A presence heard him, and Ryuichi left his body behind. The room and the chanting all faded into the background. He was enveloped in cloud, caressed by it. He waited for the mist to clear, to see the weird, elongated face of the swan boy. His heart swam in anticipation of seeing the face, and his grandmother's garden.

  Cloud refined, reformed, and reshaped itself. Wispy, translucent trees grew in the distance--a ghostly pine forest. A monstrous willow tree draped shredded white leaves over a lake of sapphire. He found himself surrounded by the lake, in a small island of cloud, with flowers sculpted of water, and lace bonsai trees. This sanctuary was beautiful, the perfect place to meet his strange lover.

  Ryuichi stepped to the edge of the impossibly blue lake, and found that it wasn't a lake at all. It was the sky. Birds flew below him, and further below were the pitiful bottom dwellers--humanity. He'd left it behind, including his body, for a grander existence.

  He turned around to survey the garden of cloud, and found that he was not alone.

  She sat on an ornately carved throne, decorated with serpents of blue and green. If you looked closely, you could see them moving, slowly. Her red kimono moved with the molten grace of lava. Her hair was blue-black, and framed her bright, golden face. He found that he couldn't look at her very long. It was like looking at the sun.

  With a gasp, he knew who it was. Ryuichi hastily fell to the (white) ground, and bowed his head.

  "Stand up, young man." Her voice was imperious, but not without a sparkle of humor. "You will find that flattery gets you everywhere; however, it does get tiresome."

  When he stood up, Ryuichi found that the throne and the lava dress were gone. In their place was an old woman, with hair as white as cloud, wearing a simple robe of blue. She stood next to a wheelbarrow full of cumulus flowers with cirrus petals. In a distant corner of the sky, there was a glitter of movement: the serpents spun through the air like acrobatic eels.

  "Divine Mother," he began.

  She held up her hand, stopping him. "Enough flowery talk. You may ask any question you wish, but please, no more 'divine mother'." She promptly bent down, and pulled another flower from the ground.

  Ryuichi walked next to her, apprehensively. "Divine--Please excuse me, but I can hardly call you, 'You, there.'"

  She laughed, putting the flower into the wheelbarrow. "I always did like you, Ryuichi. You have a wonderful sense of humor. Or at least you did, before that creature had his way with you."

  A cloud bubbled up behind her, and she sat down. She gestured for him to do the same. Ryuichi found that a similar 'seat' had appeared behind him. He sat down. It was as soft as feathers.

  "So I am cursed by the yosei," he said with a sighing.

  She rolled her eyes. She was nothing like her image, which he had obsessively cared for over the past month. And yet, her divinity surrounded her.

  "What is a curse?" she said. "Men curse themselves; they need no help. That particular yosei loves making mischief; he has a peculiar fetish for chastity and piety. Imagine the nerve of him, sitting on my head with his dirty behind!"

  "You know him?"

  "Who don't I know? Listen, let me let you in on a little secret."

  Ryuichi leaned in close.

  The Divine Mother whispered: "It's all the same. Demon and god. Earth and air. Snow and petal. Swan and monkey. The sacred and the profane. It's all a matter of perspective."

  Ryuichi sat back. "I don't understand what you mean."

  The bodhisattva leaned back, as if she were considering something. "Years ago, when I was much younger, and more foolish and self-centered, I had a bit of a conflict with my brother. He can be bit, how shall I say, insufferable at times. He was flexing his muscle, exulting in his power, much in the way that warlords on earth do. You know the type, eh?"

  Ryuichi nodded.

  "So I went into hiding. I was as sulky and ill-tempered as that little groundskeeper man Yukio is. You see, I was a bit, how should I say, vain. As a result, the world and the heavens were plunged into darkness, for many years. But I did not care about anything but my own rage and annoyance at my brother. Ah! And no-one could lure me out of my hiding place. No one, that is, except Uzume. How I love her, my whirling sister!"

  Ryuichi remembered the laughing stone woman in his grandmother's garden. She seemed to be the kami his grandmother liked the most.

  "It all came together, through her nasty, lewd dances. Shaking her breasts at me, showing me her nether regions, she reached me where prayer could not." She paused, as if waiting for a response from him. "You see, carnality and the pleasures of the flesh--laughter--are not antithetical to divinity."

  Ryuichi nodded, stupidly. He said, "To be honest, Divine Mother, I still do not understand."

  She leaned forward, and gently patted his hand. He felt her nascent heat. "Do not worry, child," she said, "You will."

  She stood, and kissed him gently on the cheek, on the spot where he had been marked by the yosei. Ryuichi expected to be singed. And he was, but not on his cheek.

  The heavenly isle melted, and he felt himself spiraling downward, toward reality. He caught a solar flare glimpse of Amaratsu, in her divine form. It burned his eyes as he fell, through clouds as soft as fur, and petals as cold as snow.

  ---

  Spring arrived two weeks later. Buds appeared on the trees, and the ground sprouted young grass, green stubble on the black skin of the soil. Cautious birds appeared on the branches, and flowers rose from the earth. The days lasted longer, and all was drenched in the perfume of growth.

  Like the world around him, Ryuichi was revitalized. A new energy coursed through him, no doubt granted by the kami. He filled the hours with activity. Mornings he would help the surly Yukio with his yard work. After a while, the groundskeeper began to grudgingly accept his presence. He taught village boys writing, and nights would be spent working at his beloved calligraphy. Meditation and prayer came easily to him; the possibility of another visitation was always there. Iido was pleased, and pulled him aside after a service.

  "You seem to have rededicated yourself to your life here. You are no longer soul-dead."

  Ryuichi smiled, and gave a slight bow. "I wish to thank you for your advice."
>
  Iido nodded brusquely, and never bought up the subject again.

  The secret light of the kami shone in everything. Every drop of water was a prism that reflected her in rainbow colors. The warmth of the air, the raw glory of sunset--all were reflections of the Way. For the first time in a long time, Ryuichi felt that he truly belonged here. He was not merely the dreamy younger son, left here for lack of fortune.

  Ryuichi walked to his room, full of joy. It had been a wonderfully full day. There had been a visit to the village, to share food with the poor and infirm, followed by an intense walking meditation led by one of the acolytes, around the foothills of the mountain. The families had been grateful, and he recalled that as he heard birds singing brightly. Ryuichi remembered his grandmother, the walks that they would take together, down forest paths and by the sea walls. The warmth of rice wine in his belly, the taste of spring on his lips. Her stately gait, his hand in hers, held tight.

  Ryuichi was flushed, and glowing, when he entered the room he shared with the other monks, looking forward to a long and restful sleep. He entered the darkened room. Past the threshold, he was hit with chill air. Early spring nights were chilly, but it was colder inside than out. The brazier was not lighted, which was odd. He stood for a few moments adjusting to the dark. Black became grey, and lumps became human bodies, huddled underneath covers. Arms and legs, rising chests. He moved through twilight, to his own pallet, and saw the multiplicity of limbs and legs spilling from the others' beds. The silver hoarfrost of sleeping breath mingled about supine forms. Two to a bed, entwined against each other for warmth. Why don't they just light the brazier? And movement, the melding of bodies beneath the grey covers, the anguish-wracked faces. Ryuichi gasped. But of course, not everyone could resist temptation. It was a struggle, eternal, the sundering of body and spirit. Still, it was shocking, to see male lovemaking right in front of him. Ryuichi removed his clothes and sandals in the dark, and dressed in his sleeping clothes, steadfastly ignoring the pulsing forms in the pallet near him. He heard groans, and closed his eyes against them. Limb on limb, the curve of bodies, the hollows, the masculine scents, all blending in his vision, his ears, his nostrils. Ryuichi shivered.

  "Are you cold?" Hideo's voice was at his ear. Ryuichi opened his eyes, and saw Hideo standing next to him, wisps of fog falling from his lips and nose.

  "Yes," he whispered. "We can light the brazier."

  Hideo nodded. "We could. Or, we could do this."

  Hideo leaned close, and kissed him on the lips. He held Ryuichi's shoulders, and lightly kneaded them. Ryuichi kissed him back, and explored the cave of his mouth with his tongue. It was cold. The teeth he lightly licked where icicles. He pulled back.

  Hideo's face was wrong: the expression was slack and malleable, as white as clay, and sugared with frost. Ryuichi moved back, away from Hideo. He now stood still as a statue. All color had been bled from him. His skin was white. The color of--

  Ryuichi looked around the room. Figures still writhed underneath covers. Frost glittered here and there, like crystals. Ryuichi stepped back. He saw the cold brazier, the wooden slats of the floor, the moonlit window. He discerned every shadow in every corner.

  "Show yourself," Ryuichi said. His voice shook; he was chattering with cold. He repeated himself, a little more firmly this time: "Show yourself!"

  In the dark left hand corner of the room, the air coalesced and thickened. Squinting his eyes slightly, Ryuichi could make out a form there. A suggestion of wings, the stem of a neck. Etched on the darkness, a transparent bird. It was a bird of ice. The topaz beads of its eyes glowed faintly in that dark corner.

  Ryuichi jumped--he felt Hideo's hands on his shoulder. Cold fingers dug into his shoulders. He felt Hideo press into him, fit the contours of his body to Ryuichi's. Ryuichi felt the pull of his answering lust.

  It was hollow, and cold. The bird of ice watched the two monks, swaddled in the dark clouds. Ryuichi echoed inside. Hideo, or the yosei, unfastened his robe, and so, unfastened his soul. It was like a soft falling away. Of petals from a tree, of white feathers from a leaden sky. Of a woman vanishing into silver mist.

  That day with his grandmother, coming from the torii gate, came back to him. They'd stood together for long moments, after watching her fade away.

  After a while, his grandmother spoke. Her voice crackled with age and wisdom, like the beads of a merchant's abacus. "A ghost is a soul that is not connected to Nature. They have fallen off the path of kami. It is always very sad."

  Five-year old Ryuichi had looked up at her. He saw her hair, as white as the snow that fell around them, the wrinkles on her pale face. Surely, no-one is more connected to Nature than my grandmother. She broke the somber mood by taking his hand and taking him into the teashop, and gave him a taste of sake, that burned his fear away. "Now, don't you tell your mother about this!" she'd said, merriment in her eyes.

  The glow of the sake, the leathery feel of her hand, he felt them now, even as the yosei stared on, as Hideo tried to arouse him. That glow spread throughout his body. It went from his belly, up his spinal cord, through his arms, up to his brain. It rested in his eyes. Ryuichi felt that he had drunk down the sun. He was warm, with the love of his grandmother, the wisdom of Amaratsu, and his connection to the path. Surely, he glowed. He gave into it all--the ghost bird, the haunted monk, the caresses. It all had a place. Ryuichi smiled. The smile was a ripple, a current of warmth that reverberated across the room like an earthquake. The bird in the corner faded, melted into shadow. The topaz eyes dulled, and Hideo's hands fell away from his body. Ryuichi watched as he trance-walked back to his own bed. His two other roommates separated, and sleepwalked back to their own pallets.

  Ryuichi was left alone in darkness, as he watched the sleeping monks. It was dark, but he still glowed inside.

  ---

  A low gong signaled the end of the ceremony, and Ryuichi opened his eyes. He stood, and stretched, feeling oddly refreshed. As he headed out of the temple and into the night, Hideo stopped him at the door:

  "Brother Ryuichi, the stain on your face is gone," he said.

  He touched his cheek. It was still warm.

  Ryuichi smiled. "You are kind to notice, Brother Hideo."

  Craig Laurance Gidney has had fiction published in Say...Have You Heard This One?, Ashe Journal, the anthologies Magic In the Mirrorstone and Madder Love: Queer Men in the Precincts of Surrealism. His debut collection, Sea, Swallow Me and Other Stories, is a finalist for the 2009 Lambda Literary Award, and his reviews of books and music may be found in various online venues. He lives in his native DC, where he gawks at world leaders. You may visit him online at http://craiglaurancegidney.wordpress.com.

  Charming, a Tale of True Love

  Ruby deBrazier &

  Cassandra Clare

  It wasn't, Ivy thought, so much that she didn't want to get married ever. It was merely the method that she disapproved of. Her mother, Queen Arhianrhod, told her she was being silly – the Queen claimed that her marriage, preceded as it was by a contest in which brave knights from all over the realm of Fairy vied to win her hand, had been the most exciting time of her life, and that when Ivy's father had won the Third Task and Arhianrhod's hand in marriage, she had wept with happiness.

  Ivy thought of her father, tubby, graying, his beard often smeared with honey, and wondered if this could possibly be true. She could well believe that her mother had wept; she just wasn't so sure that it had been out of happiness.

  "There is no point making yourself miserable about things you have no choice about," Queen Arhianrhod opined as she bustled about Ivy's room, her arms full of clothes. "There are worse things than your very own charming prince, you know." Ivy didn't believe in charming princes. She ducked to avoid one of her mother's pixies, long sewing pins held in its miniature green hands. Two of them staged a mini-swordfight; Ivy grinned.

  "A smile, that's what I like to see," Ivy's mother said, pleased, and held up another dress. It was the gorgeo
us color of a rosy dawn breaking over distant mountains. "What do you think of this one?"

  "Pink," Ivy said. "I hate pink."

  Arianrhod tossed the dress onto the bed. "So far you've rejected the cloth of gold as too yellow, the thistledown dress as too scratchy, the gown of moonbeams as too flashy, and the cloak of starlight as, if I recall correctly, 'too naked.' "

  "You could see right through it," Ivy pointed out.

  "So what do you want to wear?" Arianrhod asked, exasperated.

  "I'd like to wear my deerskin trousers," Ivy said eagerly. "They're so comfortable, and the corset that goes with them doesn't crush my wings like the dresses do--"

  "Wings," Arianrhod said crossly, as if they were Ivy's fault. "I do wish you hadn't taken after your aunt Eleftheria in that department. So old-fashioned." She sighed, and held up another dress, this one the color of pale green daffodil shoots in springtime. "How about this one?"

  Ivy shrugged. "I guess," she said, and her mother advanced on her in a swirl of pins and fabric. Ivy could see herself in the polished silver mirror that hung over her bed, a small rebellious figure at the center of a storm of green silk, her face under its cap of russet hair screwed up in annoyance, her gold and russet wings fluttering angrily.

  "You've got a bruise on your shoulder," the Queen observed critically. "You haven't been out on that pony of yours lately, have you? You know what I told you about that."

  "I haven't ridden Pepperberry in weeks," said Ivy, who, like all fairies, could not lie, and as a result had become a master at manipulating the truth. Her mother only asked if she'd ridden Pepperberry lately, not if she'd borrowed her father's (enormous, black, snarling) war stallion from the stables and gone off riding around the perimeter of the Forest Court, where she'd happened upon a number of High Court fairies at revel in a valley. She'd spent all day dancing with them, especially a beautiful fairy girl with golden hair that reached to her ankles, wound all through with apple blossoms. They'd dallied all day in the fairies' pavilion, eating fruit and honey, dancing and laughing. Ivy had complained about her upcoming marriage and the other girl had been most sympathetic. "Sounds dire," she'd said. "I wouldn't go home at all if I were you."