Twisted Fayrie Tales

by Sally Odgers

  When he does, I can see he feels better. His eyes are grass-green, and the headache is probably going at only a hundred hammers to the minute. I let him look about a bit, and then I plant myself in front of him.

  He's flat on his back, but he manages to scurry backwards just the same. “Wha—wha—"

  "Never mind the wha-wha now,” I tell him. “Listen, Paddy, and don't interrupt.” I give him a menacing look until I am sure he'll obey, and then I toss back my hair. “I am a fairy, a fully paid-up member of the Unseelie Court,” I begin. “You are an Irish eedjeet; a country boy who drank too much and decided to sleep it off in an alleyway. I have captured you. You are my prisoner. Get it?"

  Paddy makes a few goldfish faces, and finally nods. He licks his lips. “Wh-what are you going to do with me?"

  "Dry you out,” I say. “It should take another few hours. Get up and walk about. Drink some water. A cow or two may have peed in it, but that's nothing to the liquid suicide you swallowed last night."

  "But—” Paddy glances down at himself, and then at his clothes, which hang dripping over the branch of a walnut tree. “Hey!” He squints at me. “This is so not fair. Doesn't the Geneva Convention say something about humiliating prisoners?"

  "I would find it humiliating to be wearing clothes some man had peed on,” I snap. “You ought to thank me for laundering them."

  He sits up and folds his arms in a mulish fashion, raising his knees and hunching over. “I want my pants."

  "They're wet.” I sigh, and conjure him a piece of linen. (It's an easy thing. Flax plants are common, and so suggestible.) “Make a loincloth."

  Frowning, he gets to his knees and wraps the cloth around his hips. “You're a weird sort of fairy, Acushla,” he grumbles. “What's with the bat wings? And the ears? Aren't you fair folk supposed to be glamorous?"

  I roll my eyes. Glamour I can do, and will, on occasion. Glamorous, I won't do. “What did you expect a fairy to be?” I counter. “A pretty flitty wittle thing?"

  "I didn't expect a fairy to be anything.” He puts his hands to his head. “That's it, Acushla. I'm swearing off the drink as of this very morning."

  "Be quiet. I'm going to get you some food."

  "Honey dew? Milk of Paradise?"

  "Don't push your luck,” I advise. “Coleridge did, and look what happened to him. Dead, gone, dust and still remembered."

  I seek out the local apple trees, and charm some milk from a couple of Jersey cows. After that, I grab a loaf of bread that is cooling on a cottage window sill. I pay for it all with elfshot. Why? Well, of course I do! We fairies always pay for the things we take, in whatever currency we can manage. Things taken and not paid for upset the balance of nature.

  I find Paddy sitting under the walnut tree, reflecting green and brown and dapples on his skin.

  The offer of breakfast gets his attention, but he sniffs at the milk suspiciously. “Have you put something in this?” he asks. “Am I going to sleep for seven years and wake up with donkey's ears or a tail?"

  "It is milk, plain and pure. I added nothing and took nothing,” I say. “It will do no more harm than any food you eat on any other day. And I paid for it. The Unseelie Court always pays for its needs and pleasures."

  He narrows his green eyes at me, and sips the milk, then reaches out to tear off a hunk of bread.

  We share the breakfast, and Paddy starts again with the questions. “So, Acushla, I am dried out, as you say, and the hammering in my head has faded. What next?"

  I stare at him. Can it be that he doesn't know?

  "I have a use for you,” I say. “I need something only a human may provide, and something we of the Unseelie Court need each seventh generation."

  Paddy almost chokes on a swallow of milk, and his cheeks blossom into crimson. “Well, you're not getting that from me, Acushla! ‘twouldn't be decent, and Melita wouldn't like it."

  What is the man drivelling on about now? No doubt Melita, whoever she is, won't like it, if he says so, but there it is. Needs must where necessity drives.

  "There's nothing indecent about it!” I snap. “It's the most natural thing, and without it, the Unseelie Court will cease to be. Not only that, but the natural order will be utterly out of balance.” I put my hand on his arm. “Come, Paddy,” I wheedle, “it will take just a few hours of your time."

  "A few hours!” His skin pales now beneath the freckles, and he shakes me off. “You've got bat wings."

  "And you have a rude tongue. Maybe,” I suggest, “it will take less. It depends on how well you apply yourself to your pen."

  "My pen?” Paddy stares at me. “What has a pen to do with it?"

  "Most men write with a pen,” I remind him. Puck's toenails! Don't say I've picked an illiterate? Sure, he was cast down in the gutter, but his voice is educated and his clothes are good enough.

  "You want me to write something?” He corrugates his brow.

  "Of course! Haven't I just explained? By Patrick's staff, what else would I want with a captive human?"

  "Explain, is it?” says Paddy, growing more Irish as his dander rises. “You explained only that you need something from me to keep the fairy race alive. Fresh blood, I would be supposing."

  I feel my face crease with distaste. “The Unseelie Court is vegetarian,” I snap. “What would we want with your blood? Do I look like a mosquito?"

  "A fresh bloodline,” clarifies Paddy. “Um ... manseed.” He brings forth the word with a kind of blushing triumph.

  "Ugh!” I say. “That is so disgusting. Keep it for Melita."

  Paddy gives me an unfriendly look. “No need to be insulting, Red,” he mutters. “I'm not the one with the bat wings and pointy ears. If you don't want me to help repopulate the Unseelie Court, that's fine with me!” He seems put out, but he squares his shoulders, and almost turns the subject. “So. What should I write? A ballad? A tale of the fair folk? A piece for the paper suggesting you're an endangered species? Perhaps a wiki-entry? Is that the price of my freedom?"

  I groan. This is more complicated than I want, or need. Puck's winkle, why did the lot of the manhunt fall on me?

  "Don't be foolish!” I snarl. “How would ballads and tales benefit us?"

  "Seems obvious to me.” Paddy sticks out his square Irish jaw and his green eyes glimmer with the joy of debate. “You folk depend on human belief, and human attention,” he pontificates.

  I draw a sharp, resentful breath, but he waves his hand to hush me.

  "The tales keep you in the human imagination,” he continues. “It's a well known fact that talking about things makes them real. Maybe in the old days you improved your race by taking human babies, or even young men and women as breeding stock, but I'm betting that's too difficult for you now, so you need to go for the soft option."

  "Which is?” I show my teeth.

  "Propaganda,” he says. “You feed on credulous folk and the love of fantasy, not to speak of the soft-minded desire for beings stronger than us to take our affairs in hand.” He folds his hands, and beams. “Am I right, or am I right?"

  "Wrong,” I say. “Swallowed a dictionary?” I flick a pen from his pocket, and it sails from the walnut tree to stab point-first into the ground between his legs. Paddy yelps as I produce a page torn from a schoolboy's notepad. I offer them both, with an ironic bow. “Start writing,” I order, “and put exactly what I say..."

  Sulkily, he writes the ransom note I dictate. It's standard fare, suggesting that anyone hoping to see this fine specimen of manhood alive in the future would be well-advised to pay the sum of $500,000.00 for a certain item advertised on eBay. (Who says we fairies don't move with the times?)

  Paddy signs it, and a passing homing pigeon consents, for the price of a handful of corn, to carry it back to the pub. I know it will fall into the correct hands. The landlord owes me a favour.

  I wait, and Paddy waits; and the upshot is that the payment is made and Paddy goes home with all his blood and his virtuous bits intact. The Unseelie Cou
rt has funds to invest for another few generations, and we can stop paying our debts with elfshot, which allows us to stop doing favours for the elves.

  Win, win, win, and everybody's happy.

  * * * *

  That should be the end of the story, Melita, but this is where you come in. How was I to know my prey's lover was a cop? How was I to know you'd hunt me down and threaten me with steel bars and mailbags to sew? You have my story, now ... so what is it you want? The truth, you say? That was the truth; every spit of it.

  The woman stares at me. Her hair is long and glossy, and intelligence shines from her eyes. I see right away why Paddy keeps the faith with her. If he dipped his wick where he shouldn't, she'd have it off him in an instant.

  She stares. I stare.

  Just as I think she is not going to answer, she speaks.

  "Acushla, or whatever your name is, I can think of at least one point of that story which is obviously a lie."

  I shake my head, and challenge her to explain.

  "You said, and more than once, that the Unseelie Court pays for what it takes from mortals,” she states. “You said, and more than once, that not to pay puts the whole world out of balance."

  I nod.

  "I see no evidence of this payment,” she says softly.

  "I paid for the food with elfshot,” I protest. “Elfshot is easily sold on eBay, and many folk keep it as a curio. I paid the pigeon with corn, which I paid for in kind, with elfshot. We have elfshot from the elves for various favours."

  "Small beer,” says Melita, flashing her eyes at me. “But what of Roderick, or Paddy as you term him? You took his freedom and scared him half to death, and then you extorted a fortune from his parents. How can you say you paid for that?"

  "Of course I paid him,” I say. “I lifted him from the gutter! I saved his life."

  "He's tough,” she says dryly. “He'd have survived with nothing worse than a hangover and a flea in his ear from me."

  "I inspired him..."

  "You addled his brain. Since he came home he'll do nothing but pound away on his laptop."

  I raise my brows, thinking quickly. “And what is he doing, but writing the next Harry Potter? The next Lord of the Rings? The next Da Vinci Code? I paid him, Melita. I paid him the supreme compliment of becoming his muse.” I clear my throat, and wave my hand in a queenly fashion. “I assure you, he will earn every bit of that money (and then some) back when the movie deal is signed."

  Melita stares at me. “Movie deal? You think someone is going to film that crap?” She looks as if she has bitten a lemon, and quotes a few lines of Paddy-Roderick's novel. I don't remember it all, but it begins with the words, I am a fairy, a fully paid-up member of the Unseelie Court, then launches into the realms of romantic raunch. It makes me blush, mostly with fury.

  "Naturally!” I say. “You do understand that it's all pure fantasy ... or maybe wishful thinking?"

  "Naturally,” she echoes, giving me an evil look. “If I'd thought for one moment it wasn't fantasy, I'd have known the truth when I first saw you. Beauteous breasts ... hmmm, voluptuous mounds and auburn tresses. Puh-lease."

  "We're done then.” I snap my fingers, and a passing fog obligingly envelopes me. I make a mental note to look up a certain film director and make sure he owes me big time. I might even put it on him for a part in the film.

  Being a fairy is hard work sometimes, and requires an awful lot of imagination. Puck says I really ought to write a book.

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  The Christmas Present

  Award Winning Story

  by

  Lisa Logan

  The jangling of bells announced Ted Blake's arrival to the little shop as leaves swirled at his feet in an eager attempt to gain entrance. The interior was a warm and cozy relief from the blustery winter day. Brushing windswept blonde hair out of his eyes, Ted began exploring. The shop smelled of time, spicy potpourri, and musty wooden floorboards. He was enveloped by shelf after shelf of eccentric treasures: figurines, decorative boxes, carousel horses, goblets. Surely he could find a suitable gift here.

  "Somethin’ in particular you're wantin'?"

  Ted spun around to face the shopkeeper standing by a corner shelf, feather duster in hand. The diminutive redhead's knowing smile pinched crow's feet up around the eyes on her very round, very freckled face.

  The man tried to brush off his irritation at the interruption. He had neither time nor patience for chatter. “Just looking."

  "A Christmas gift, perhaps?"

  "Yes. A gift."

  "Best hurry then, holiday tomorrow an’ all. Not that you'd know it from the weather—not a fleck of snow."

  Despite himself, Ted found his mood lifted by the lilt of her voice. “Never snows here. Not for twenty-five years now."

  "Pity, no snow on Christmas. But I'd best be lettin’ you get back to shoppin'.” She turned back to a shelf of animal figures and resumed dusting.

  Ted watched for a moment, then let his eyes wander. What should he get? Not that it could change anything. Nothing could. But it still had to be right.

  And there it was. In the midst of a shelf laden with waxed fruit and Wedgewood sat a snowglobe, beautiful and intricate of design. Its orb was as large as a grapefruit and fashioned of crystal rather than glass. Rainbow colors glossed along the surface, giving the appearance of a giant soap bubble. The globe rested atop an elaborate carved base of antique brass, with three clawed feet and a plaque set in the front reading Declinatio Temporis. Despite the handsome materials used, the piece was quite lightweight.

  Most remarkable of all was the winter scene inside. Painstaking detail was evident in a snow village resplendent with tiny buildings, a snowman, and snow-flecked pine trees dotting the perimeter. Figures of ice skaters and other villagers detailed down to scarves, hats, and boots frolicked throughout the scene. And above it all, suspended by a tiny rod attached to the globe's ceiling, hung a faceted crystal star. It was truly a wonder.

  "Ah, a very unusual gift there,” the shopkeeper declared. The knowing smile was now directly behind Ted. “I thought you might be likin’ this one."

  "What's ‘Declinatio Temporis?’”

  "Can't say. That globe's a mystery—the reappearin’ gift."

  "The what?” Ted's eyes were fixed on the globe as he spoke.

  "Ever year or so someone buys that globe. I can usually tell the ones; somethin’ different about those drawn to it. Then, sure as a fiddle is quick, it gets returned. No reasons, no refunds. Come ta think it, don't recall how it got here in the first place.” She scratched her head with the handle of the feather duster and shrugged. “Maybe you'll be the one ta give it a home of its own."

  He studied the ball, wondering why someone would return it, let alone several people. What was wrong with it? He turned it over in his hands. It didn't seem damaged. It seemed perfect. Perfect ... for her.

  "Can you wrap this? I'm in a rush."

  "Sorry; no wrappings. Got a box you could have, though."

  Ted completed his purchase and hurried toward home. He'd just have to wrap it there first and double back to ... where it needed to go.

  * * * *

  Christmas bedecked window displays all along the street, reflecting a holiday cheer Ted did not feel. Indeed, the dark clouds marching their way toward the sleepy town were more fitting companions. It had been a difficult year. Of course, he thought with a bitter sigh, every year was difficult now. Ever since ... Julia. He pulled his blue jacket tighter around him, as much to shield himself from the memory as to block out the cold.

  It had been eight years ago this day, Christmas Eve, that it had happened. He was young and ambitious; eager for a high position with a large marketing firm. Julia said such things didn't matter to her, but he thought he knew better. Besides, the ever-annoying Peter Walstead had been sniffing around with his flashy sports car and predatory smile. So Theodore William Blake persisted, putting in long hours to secure his career. This,
he felt, would ensure that Julia's answer would be yes.

  For on that Christmas Eve, her gift was to be a diamond ring—and a marriage proposal.

  There was only one problem with his plan. Claire Stedman. Claire was half of Montgomery & Stedman Marketing, and angling for a position with the prestigious firm had soon become a game of dodging her advances. Tall and svelte, with eyes like chunks of amethyst and a tumultuous mass of jet black curls, most men would have been ecstatic to be in his shoes. Ted, however, found her attentions annoying. Though her behavior was bothersome, he believed he could handle things.

  Until the night of the Christmas party.

  He'd just been granted generous terms of employment and Claire had invited him to attend a Christmas Eve office party. When he arrived, however, he discovered the so-called party consisted of Ms. Stedman and a dress that left little to the imagination. Rebuffing a purring offer of a private celebration, he'd hurried home to await Julia. Claire, dosed with more than a little holiday cheer from a bottle, showed up soon after. She'd managed to stumble conveniently into his arms, kissing him as he caught her. It was at this precise moment that Julia walked into the house. Without a word aside from the volumes her eyes spoke of betrayal, she turned and ran.

  "Julia!” He said. “Wait!"

  Shoving Claire aside, he had started after Julia when he heard the horrid, desperate squeal of brakes. In her haste to get away she hadn't seen the sedan bearing down on her and fled into the street. She'd been killed instantly.

  As far as Ted was concerned, his life ended that day as well. He never returned to the firm, isolating himself instead within the home Julia would never share. He did freelance research, conducting all his business by fax and laptop. The black velvet box, cradling her diamond ring, sat untouched upon the mantle where he'd placed it that night.

  It was rare for him to venture out, but he made a special trip each Christmas Eve. Every year he bought a gift for the woman he loved and set it, wrapped, by the stone marking her place of rest. The gifts always vanished soon after. Ted didn't know who took them, nor did he care. All he knew was this was something that, for a brief moment, made him feel connected again.