SHAPESHIFTERS (3 Tales to Chill Your Bones)

by Mav Skye

  His pants, worn and torn, melted into a strong waist, muscled back and shoulders. His skin a delicious sun kissed brown all the way up to his neck where…

  Ribbon stopped. Every inch of her doe’s body stiffened. A memory caught her and hung about her like a black blanket. The gypsy’s voice, “Your debt has been paid in full.” And she knew the gypsy had been hired beforehand. Sheridan.

  Tanned skin flowed into scales the color of grass and clover. He turned; a long snout filled his face’s profile. Large orange eyes with a line of pupil, like a cat, caught her. Its tongue flicked out, licked the air, and then returned to its mouth. It hissed, and she knew it was him.

  She stood frozen. Ribbon hesitated.

  He turned and crouched to the ground. Those long fingers that had caressed her so sensuously sprouted claws. He hissed again.

  Before she ran, Papa’s words reminded her, It is a reptile, a lizard. It is Lacerta, Cecilia Cher.

  She had been blind. Sight had nothing to do with it.

  * * *

  His stomach rumbled and his heart hurt. It had been weeks since he eaten, unable to summon the warmth to his cold body to search for food. The young woman had been as the sun, her mere energy and life giving him youth. He had watched inside her window, followed her around the farm, that devilish aunt of her prevented him from showing himself.

  He should have eaten the aunt. She would have tasted good. Plump was always good. He could go for weeks on a human and they were so easy to catch, but Ribbon would have gone away, and he couldn’t bear her to be gone. Without her light, the world would be dark and cold. Dark and cold as it had been without her.

  And now he crouched to the forest floor. A doe, a beautiful doe stared at him from just yards away. He sensed the throb of her pulse, the life within her eyes. He needed her. She would give him a few more weeks until the woman visited him again.

  He felt the claws spring from his fingers. A predatory hiss escaped his lips. Fangs grew, and he felt his jaw unhinge in anticipation. He flicked his tongue out, tasting its fear.

  It turned, sprang into the air straight as an arrow.

  He leapt after it. It bounded around the old oaks, the little creek that flowed by the place he and Ribbon had always met. It scratched its inner thigh on a thorn. The scent of the doe’s blood filled his mouth.

  The doe slowed. He flicked his tongue, tasting her before his claws sank into her neck, scraping across, draining the blood. His jaw unhinged.

  Dropping

  Dropping

  Dropping to the ground. And as the doe kicked her last beats of life, he swallowed her whole.

  Her life filled his. As the sun sank into the sky, so his fangs sunk back into his mouth. His lower jaw attached to his snout, and his claws receded into his fingers.

  He wandered into the forest, feeling for the first time in months, perhaps years, whole. Alive. He slipped down the familiar trail leading to Ribbon’s home. He hid behind the giant oak, watching her bedroom window. She’d be lighting the oil lamp any minute now. And he yearned to feel the heat of her presence. Perhaps he could sneak into her room tonight.

  A dark shadow filled the window instead. It leaned out the window, searching the woods. “Cecilia Cher!” It called out. A slip of paper fell from the shadow’s hands to the grassy floor below.

  He recognized the shadow as Ribbon’s father.

  He slunk back behind the tree, out of her father’s sight. He would wait. He would wait for her father to leave and the candlelight to appear. He couldn’t stand the darkness any longer. He would wait for her light.

  Lacerta:

  "When the lizard goes blind, it looks to the rising sun"

  -The Medieval Bestiary

  Click here to listen to the audio version of Lacerta. Narrated by Barry J Northern.

  Heart for a Heart

  The red cape covers my thighs and clasps between my breasts. It isn’t much, but it was all Merlin could do for a naked girl who had climbed out of the sea. I had walked for hours on seashells and glass. He had found me splayed on a rock, dry as a fish out of water, salt tears dried upon my sun burnt cheeks.

  “Olgana…my promise,” I say between cracked lips, as he picks me up off the rock.

  “A promise?” he asks, concern rolling from his voice as pearls from an oyster. “What is it, dear girl?” His warm eyes caress my face like a worried father.

  “His heart,” I say. My eyes close, my head droops. I feel safe and cradled as I rock back and forth to his stride.

  “Whose heart, child?”

  I realize who must be carrying me, and hold my tongue. I fall asleep in the wave of Merlin’s arms, dreaming of the man with jewels on his brow and laughter in his voice. There is a price for everything. My guilt I give to the harsh sun.

  Merlin’s back is to me now. He is studying a book, murmuring, waving his arms in the air. “Drat, that isn’t right either.” Turning to me, I notice how his cheeks brighten when his eyes gaze down past my red cape to the circular scars on my ankles, the place where my fins had been. I feel myself harden, knowing what I was to do next. This man’s kindness and innocent awkwardness around a woman could not hide who he truly was.

  “No, you couldn’t be from the sea…” He shakes his head and turns back to his books; his heavy blue robes swish the floor stirring up cat hair and dust. “If you’d only speak to me once more, child. I could help you. If only I could remember that name…”

  I grab the sharp knife by the chair.

  Olgana, the sea witch, and I had made a deal. I longed to dance for the man with the crown and jewels upon his brow. I’d seen him aboard the ship two weeks before, his body firm and lithe, his laughter strong and easy. Music, drinking, and merriment had carried into the night sky and drenched the sea with cheer.

  “Bring me the last magician’s heart. Bring me his heart, and I will give the king’s to you,” Olgana had said. And I couldn’t refuse.

  “I promise,” I whisper, thinking of the King’s handsome eyes, how they would light up when he saw me, “I promise.” I raise the knife above my head letting the cape flow open as I tiptoe across the dirt floor.

  “Olgana,” says Merlin, his hand upon his fleshy brow. “That’s it!”

  I swing hard and hit soft.

  I would dance on glass and seashells for the chance to be the king’s bride; I would do anything to steal his heart. I hear snapping and crunching as I search for Merlin’s. And when I find it, I smile.

  Neverwas of Koppelburg Hill

  Sun steams the bay. Vapor falls and rises, turning the giant yellow globe into a water painting, uneven streaks of color spread across the sky, an oily rainbow on a pavement canvas.

  I drop the blinds and lean back into the couch cushions, hugging my knees to my chest. The living room is dark. Clothes scatter about the floor, hotels for breeding bugs. I’m wearing a dirty tank and jean shorts.

  I glance at my pink flip-flops by the sliding glass door. They have become the symbol of escape, a quick get away.

  Every night when mom gets her worst, when her nagging and her drinking and her anger gets the best of her, I think this is the night I’ll do it. The night I’ll leap into the mist and disappear under the midnight sky.

  I peek out the window again. I could do it right now, the moment between night and dawn. Just grab my flip-flops and be free forever.

  But I hesitate, and the sun continues to rise, bringing clarity with it. And I know I won’t go. I never do. And I know I never will. My words: Trapped. Weak. Invalid. Non-existent.

  Out in the world, I’m a high school drop out. I barely exist on paper—paper that’s been wiped and flushed. I only exist in my mother’s words: idiot, dumb, blind, lost, fucked in the head, rat—Neverwas!

  I close my eyes and I see Mother. She’s slapping my face. Her words: Don’t you defy me. Don’t tell me my boyfriend’s screwing you! Liar! (Neverwas!)

  She’s banging my head on the wall. Her words: Why can�
��t you see how you hurt me! How my life is shit and you’ve got it all. You got me. ME. Stop crying, you ungrateful tramp!

  She twists my ears when I get a math problem wrong. Her words: How stupid can you be? Your half brother Daryl over in Kentucky gets this stuff. His daddy tells me all the time. Daryl is one fuck of a dumb brick. When Daryl was a baby, kid couldn’t latch on to a tit to save his life. But you is even dumber’n him. Don’t look at me like that, girl! Damn it-- get out of my house before I smack you one. Go ahead and run. You’re just a junky rat! Remember that. A junky rat gnawing in these walls, gnawing in my head. Get out of my head, Neverwas!

  I’m older, taller now. In truth, almost sixteen. She gets her rich boyfriends to do her dirty business for her, the slapping and hitting and the yelling. They do more. I hear their words too: slut, bitch, child whore.

  Mother’s boyfriends eventually dump her for one reason or another. Then her words are: Them bastard men come and go, but you can’t leave me, Neverwas. Everyone’s gotta pay the Piper. I need you and you need me. Staying is your price.

  I drop the blinds again, and drop my running away plans simultaneously. Weak. I sink into the couch, stretching my legs. It creaks and I freeze hoping not to wake anyone in the apartment.

  I hear mom and her latest crush snoring, my older sister’s sleeping bag doesn’t stir, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  Safe. Quiet for a few more minutes. I consider collecting the dirty laundry and taking a walk down to the Laundromat. It is fairly empty on the weekdays, especially with summer slowing down.

  I glance at my sister’s sleeping bag, and wonder if she’d help me haul it all down there.

  But then I remember I don’t have coins. Or soap. I’ll have to ask mom for some cash. Asking mom for money, for anything really, always leads to a fight of some sort. How my inability to fend for myself turns her into my slave.

  The men, the booze, her violence—it’s all because of me. Her words: selfish daughter.

  I glance at my sister’s sleeping bag again, something is off about it. I’m not sure what until I realize it’s completely deflated. The pillow is tossed to the side, which is how it normally is anyway; Sasha prefers the carpet to a pillow. But I don’t see her arms sticking out, or mop of yellow hair frizzing the floor.

  I ease myself off the couch and tiptoe to the sleeping bag, kick at it with my toe. “Sasha?”

  She is gone.

  How long has she been gone?

  Mother’s words: Neverwas.

  Shut up, I say back.

  I glance at the sliding door. Sasha always leaves her flip-flops next to mine. Mine sit lonely by the door.

  I heard her come in last night. Late. It was after mom and her boyfriend returned from the casino. Sasha and I whispered about movie stars and the concerts we wanted to see, so we didn’t have to hear the fighting, the clawing, the fucking in the bedroom.

  When did she leave? Why did my sister leave? I ask the more pressing question: Why did she leave me... alone.

  By myself.

  Never-fucking-was, my mother’s words answer back.

  Shut up! I tell her. Stop talking. I don’t believe you.

  Sasha and I had talked about moving out together since the day she moved in. I almost did it by myself when I was twelve. But the wolves caught me—they ate me. They chewed me up and spit me out two pieces of a whole. That’s when Sasha moved in with us. She loved me. She told me I was her long lost sister, and that I needed to stay. So I did.

  Perhaps this was Sasha’s way of telling me it is time to go.

  The thought makes my insides twist and shutter.

  I tiptoe to the sliding glass door, swivel the blinds so they are just barely open, and slide open the door.

  The bay air blows in chilly and fresh. It is like a knife, the sea. It carves dungeons in the sands, enslaving sea urchins and hermit crabs, tiny fish unable to help themselves. The sea deposits pebbles and shells strategically, crashing mighty ships in two, destroying for the fuck of it, giving and taking life as it damn well pleases. No one can stop her (the knife), the sea, the mother of life.

  I know as well as anyone—no one escapes her.

  Except, perhaps, the mist rising to the sun.

  I wish I were mist, escaping the sea mother. I wish I could rise to the sun.

  A noise distracts me. Footfalls. They are sure, strong steps. An elderly gentleman saunters around the side of the apartment. His gait is assured, yet hesitant. He glances around as if looking for something or… someone.

  An air of mystery clings to his peppered hair. And adding to the mystery are his sparkly, shiny clothes. I think he is an Elvis impersonator. His jacket is made of fine, silver threads. It glistens in the mist. His shirt is golden. His pants are shiny red, tight around his midsection, flaring out about his ankles. Black boots peek out beneath. A sparkly green belt ties the outfit together.

  I laugh, delighted. I wish Sasha were here to see this spectacle, this vision, this…magic.

  He stands still a few steps from my door. He puts his hands on his hips, staring out into the water. A brooding superhero. He watches the waves with the stance of one who has seen it all, but is still looking. One who has fought far too many battles—but seeks more.

  One who is in desperate need of something.

  Or someone.

  I think of Sasha.

  There is a dark about him, lingering perhaps in the lines of his face, or hiding in the deep brown of his eyes. It is a thrilling dark—a fairy tale dark. I am intrigued yet still hold my tongue.

  Despite my held tongue, my Mother’s words continue, whispering, as they always do, in my mind: lie, bruise, sin, abortion, and finally the worst: Alone.

  My words: I don’t want to be alone.

  A strange feeling overcomes me as I watch the dark man. I decide I want to be seen. But he doesn’t turn around. He just stares out to the sea. I wonder if he prefers the mother sea, despite her rage and manipulation.

  Startled, he turns his head right. Takes a few steps into the long grass toward the forest. Intensity lights his eyes.

  A beach trail starts thirty yards off. It leads into a brushy forest, hooking in and out of the beach line. I’ve walked it many times with Sasha.

  I strain to see what he sees.

  Like a lithe hunter spotting his prey, he drops to one knee in the tall grass. He loosens his collar. I see a silver pipe on a string about his neck. He removes it. I wonder if it is a magic wand, but he doesn’t wave it or chant. He cups it in his hands, intently staring into the forest. He lifts the pipe and presses it against his lips like a kiss. He pauses as if remembering an old tune or note.

  He looks like the Pied Piper preparing to lead the children over Koppelburg’s wicked hills.

  Neverwas! sneers my mother. He never was.

  Was too! I tell her. Once upon a time, there was a man in bright colored clothes who rescued the children of the German town. He led them over the hills and far, far away to a land of endless delight. Although, my English Lit teacher said that was the Disney version. What really happened is he led them into a dark cave where he chained them and “had his way” with the older children. Afterward, he murdered them one by one with an axe.

  But the old man isn’t holding an axe. He’s holding a whistle. A whistle with sweet musical notes.

  The notes flow one after another. I feel hypnotized by the sweet song. As he continues, I become numb. I can’t feel my toes or hands nor the fresh beach breath on my face.

  The sun explodes in the sky. Fiery crystals sear my flesh, melting my skin. I scream one thousand times, and finally, I feel as if I’m rising and the pain is left on the ground. Rising as a droplet of water to the sun. I am in the mist. I am the mist. The musical notes call and I obey.

  I see the old man before me, and approach slowly, cautiously. Still on bended knee, he lowers the whistle. “Come on, girl.” His voice alone is music and it flows from a shrouded face of dark, hard lines. There is haunting i
n his hunter’s eyes, another mystery.

  His hand reaches for my head, scratches behind my ears. “There’s a girl. I’ve been waiting for you. Waiting so long, my dear. Away to the hills we shall go.”

  I flick my ear. My eyes widen. I am no longer a girl standing at a lonely doorway. I am a creature. A creature lured and enchanted by the man’s music. His hand lingers on my jaw.

  His hand sparks energy, an immoral force.

  Ice grips me, and I shake his palm off. I feel strength in my four legs. Passion in my beating heart. Smells of sea, grass, and salt fill my nostrils. I sense the forest to my back.

  When the shiny-coated man takes a step toward me, I bounce backwards. Edgy. Confused.

  “It’s just me, dear,” he says.

  Dear? I am a deer. My human body is gone, as if dissolved in the mist, under the sun.

  I glance at the sun. Its rays are lost in mist, but they glow, relate… they speak. The sun’s words: Escape! Run! Runaway as fast as you can!

  My words: I am free!

  “Come back!” he cries, but I am already leaping through the long grass, springing over fallen trees, dodging the tall brush. I feel leaves pet my flanks. Branches embrace me.

  My words: I feel alive…

  The sun explodes once more. The horrible melting sensation sears my very depths, and I am screaming over and over—one thousand times.

  And then, I am back at the sliding glass door, gripping the handle. Breathing heavily. My eyes are heavy, heart thumping. I watch behind the blinds.

  “Come back!” cries the old man, he’s standing now, reaching out one hand to the forest, clutching the whistle with the other.

  My words: Lost. Afraid. Unsure.

  The man’s head drops. He stands there like this for a long time. I sense anger. I sense vengeance. This frightens me. And yet his being lures me. The musical notes still catch on the wind. I want to cry out. I want to embrace him, follow him…but I’m just a girl who…who…