Twisted Fayrie Tales

by Sally Odgers

  Ted arrived home as the modest December sun dipped low in the sky. He'd have to take the car back in order to reach the cemetery in time. Considering the need for swiftness, he was surprised to find his arms scooping the globe out of its box and setting it on the mantle. Jostling the orb had sent plumes of glittery “snow” swirling through its interior. He watched, entranced. The globe truly was a wonder.

  The crystal star had somehow caught the dim light of the room and magnified it so that it gleamed. No, he realized, not light from the room ... it was glowing from within.

  Setting his hands on the mantle on either side of the piece, he bent down to get a closer look. The star did seem to be glowing, and getting brighter at that. The longer he stared, the brighter the light grew until his eyes watered from the brilliance. A sudden flash exploded the light into a kaleidoscope of color and whirling patterns, and Ted felt himself being swept away. Swirling into the kaleidoscope, the darkness took him.

  * * * *

  A loud pop startled Ted awake. Logs in the fireplace sizzled and crackled in protest over the roaring flames. Flames? The thought sat him straight up. He hadn't started a fire. He'd barely gotten home to wrap the globe...

  The globe that was now missing, along with the rest of his living room. In its place was a cozy, wood-paneled cabin he had never seen before. Bedsprings groaned beneath him as he pushed aside a colorful quilt and got to his feet. Where am I? he wondered silently. Am I dreaming?

  "No, you're not dreaming,” boomed a friendly voice. A short slip of a man with laughing eyes and ebony hair regarded him from an armchair across the room.

  "H-how did you know what I was thinking?"

  The other man shrugged. “Didn't. But they all say it."

  Ted strode to the center of the room. “Who are you?"

  The stranger set down a newspaper on the table beside him and rose. From the bottom of his sole to the tip of his knit cap he stood not an inch taller than five-foot-two.

  "Phineas C. Cottle, Ted. Folks just call me Finn."

  "You know my name?"

  Finn chuckled. “Oh yes, and a great deal more, friend. It's all here, plain as plaid.” He handed Ted the newspaper he'd been reading.

  His eyes widened. “Hey, that's me!” His picture was on the front page. And the next. And the one after that. In fact, the entire paper appeared to be a detailed history of his life: parents, school, jobs, everything.

  "This is nuts. This,” he waved the paper at Finn, “is not real. And neither are you."

  The other nodded, a gesture that caused his chin to rub against his cherry red sweater. “Yes, fine. All a dream, if you want. That done and said, let's get on with it."

  "Get on with what?"

  "Your Christmas present, of course."

  Ted's thoughts buzzed in a tangled mess, like too many fireflies trapped in a jar. Yes, trapped. He had to get out. Whatever was happening to him, he should fight it.

  "I'm leaving.” He burst through the cabin door and headed for ... he wasn't sure. He just wanted to get away. So bent was he on the thought of escape that he'd taken several steps before realizing the ground under him was crunching and giving way.

  "Snow? Now I know this isn't real; it never snows here,” he declared to the empty winter air. “Guess I have gone nuts."

  He headed across the blanketed landscape away from town, his steps growing increasingly difficult from deepening snow. Ted soon regretted his hasty exit from the cabin. His feet, burning with numb cold, competed for attention with stiff fingers and a chapped face. Pine tree after pine tree drew in behind him as he walked for miles, it seemed, until he finally saw a change in the scenery. Footprints! Familiar footprints ... his heart sank. He'd been going in circles. But hadn't he struck straight out from town?

  "Can't get any farther."

  Ted jumped and discovered that Finn had managed to catch up. Heavy clouds of breath hung in the air in front of him, betraying the strain of his exertions. Finn, on the other hand, looked as warm and dry as when they met in the cabin.

  He crossed his arms in front of him, tucking hands under armpits. “Look, assuming I buy into this delusion, what is it you want from me?"

  "I'm a guide, Ted. Or part of your dream, whichever you believe. I want nothing and give nothing. What you must give, you'll give to yourself."

  Eyes rolled. “Gee, thanks for not clearing that up. And what am I giving me? No, let me guess ... my Christmas present.” “Well, the chance to regain your Christmas present."

  "Regain?"

  "You read the globe, yes?"

  "The snowglobe? What's that got to do with—"

  "Declinatio Temporis,” Finn cut him off. “Or, in the Latin, to turn aside time."

  He rubbed the bulbous nose, setting glasses askew. “You're being given a chance to alter your Christmas present ... by turning aside the past. One chance."

  "Turn aside the past? You mean, change things?"

  "Indeed. The globe gives those it chooses one chance to alter destiny. A most precious gift, I'd say."

  Ted frowned. “Where am I?"

  "Don't you recognize it?” The old man gave a sweeping gesture. “Truly a wonder, wouldn't you say?"

  He looked back the way they'd come. Dotted pine trees; a snowman; tiny buildings...

  And suspended above it all, a giant star glistened.

  No. “I'm ... inside the snowglobe?"

  That was it then. Eight years of misery and guilt had stolen his sanity. He waited for panic at this realization to shoot up from his abdomen. Instead, there was an odd sense of calm. Funny, he thought. Still, changing the past ... if he had to suffer hallucinations, there could definitely be worse ones.

  He turned to face his guide and sighed. “What do I do?"

  Finn let out a hoot. “Right then! First, let's get inside. Need clothes a bit more fitting for the weather here."

  * * * *

  Ted soaked up the radiant warmth of the cabin, though his fingers and toes tingled in protest at being thawed out by the fire. Finn explained things as he warmed.

  "The doors in this town represent vital moments of your past. For now, they remain locked. Tomorrow, one door of your choice will be opened to you. Through it you can go back and change the current path. But choose with caution. If things don't turn out the way you expect, you can't put it back. And you can't try again."

  Ted shrugged. “Easy choice. I go back to the night of the accident and deal with Claire. If she hadn't been there, everything would be fine."

  Finn pressed tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. “Don't be too quick about it. Things are rarely as simple as they appear."

  "But that's where everything went wrong. That's where I need to go!” He rubbed his hands together in fury, then waggled his fingers to test them out.

  "Indeed?” The old-timer pushed himself deeper into the armchair. “I'm not allowed to choose for you, nor interfere once you have. But I'll say this: you might change the accident, but lose Julia anyway. Turning the past aside is a tricky thing. One way or another, the kinks like to iron themselves out back onto the original path. You have to find just the right spot to twist."

  "So you're saying that the accident isn't the only way I could lose her?"

  Finn shrugged. “What I'm saying is, you've got the rest of today to decide. Think about your path, Ted. Think carefully on it. Death isn't the only way to lose someone."

  He moved over to a tall wooden coat rack and selected some items from it. “Put these on.” He tossed Ted a black knit cap, a black and yellow knit scarf, and a pair of gloves. “When you're warm enough, go enjoy the village. Spend time considering what I've said."

  So he bundled up and headed back outside, puzzling over this hallucinogenic nightmare. What was all that stuff about still losing? “Considering the path?” The choice had seemed so obvious. He'd lived thousands of days. Which was he supposed to change, if not the accident? The day he met Claire? Julia? His twelfth birthday?

  Angry, he
found himself tugging doorknobs as he made his way past. True to Finn's word, they were locked. Finn. Some guide he was turning out to be. Ted tugged his hat down closer over his head in annoyance.

  He'd been lost in thought when a hard, wet shock thumped the back of his head.

  "Ouch!” He rubbed his throbbing skull.

  "You shoulda ducked, mister!"

  "No, you should watch it, kid.” He was addressing a boy of about seven, with straw-colored hair poking out from under a red hat and bright, round eyes that reminded him of the deep blue marbles in his childhood collection. Aggies, he'd called them. A misshapen snowball lay at Ted's feet.

  "Sorry. Anyway, wanna help me fix the snowman? Big kids knocked him over. He needs surgery.” Sure enough, the snowman he had seen earlier was lying in a crumble.

  "Some other time, kid.” He started to turn away.

  "Charlie!” The boy insisted. “My name's Charlie. I can't fix it; I tried. I'm not big enough to get his head on."

  Ted sighed. He didn't have time for this. “I can't, ki—Charlie. Got things to think about."

  "Come on, mister, just for a minute? Besides, thinking isn't as fun as snow."

  Charlie's persistence chipped away at his resolve. He had to admit that there was no good reason not to help the kid. And besides, the child was bundled up in so many layers of clothing that his arms stuck out like a scarecrow. Maneuvering snowman parts wouldn't likely be an easy task.

  "Okay. But just for a minute."

  "All right!"

  The pair started piling snow and stacking it into large balls. Gaining enthusiasm, Ted gathered tree branches to serve as arms, and Charlie contributed stones he dug up to serve as eyes, nose, and mouth. The boy kept up a stream of conversation as they worked.

  "Never saw a yellow and black scarf before. You look like a big ol’ bumblebee. You don't make many snowmen, do you? This one's kinda dumb looking."

  "No, I don't. It never snows where I live. Anyway, I'm too busy to play around."

  "Busy doin’ what?"

  "Working, mostly."

  "That's boring.” Charlie flopped backwards into the snow, pretending to snore. “I never wanna work when I grow up."

  "Grownups have to work, so they can make money and be successful."

  "Who cares? What good's it if you just work all the time? I don't care if I'm a successor! Work is just work, but fun is like the whole point of waking up!"

  Ted stopped patting the snowman and looked at the little boy. “You know, Julia said something like that to me once."

  "Who's Julia? She's real smart."

  "Someone I used to know. You'd like her.” Saddened at the mention of her name, he changed the subject. “Why are you here, Charlie? Where are your parents?"

  The boy rolled over several times in the snow and jumped up. “I'm waiting for them here. They're lost, I guess."

  "Lost?"

  "Yep. The grownups in the village take care of me while we're waitin’ for my folks to find me.” He stabbed his foot into the snow repeatedly.

  The man's shoulders drooped. “I'm sorry, Charlie. I'm sure they'll be back for you real soon."

  The kid sneezed, then wiped his nose on his sleeve. “S'okay. Hey, the snowman's done!” Charlie studied their handiwork like an art dealer regarding a masterpiece. “He's good now. Thanks, mister."

  Ted brushed snow from his gloves and pants, noticing that shadows had grown long and impatient for night to fall. Time to get back, he knew. It was a thought full of regret. He'd enjoyed talking with the kid more than he'd imagined.

  "I guess I'd better be going."

  Charlie bent over to pick up his hat, which had slipped off his head. “See ya around."

  A thought provoked a wicked grin. “One more thing, Charlie."

  "What?” He stood up, snugging his cap back on.

  "Duck!"

  A snowball came whizzing by just inches from the kid's ear. He whooped with boyish delight and dashed towards town. Ted watched him go. The child, despite the loss of his parents, had such a zest for life. And seemed to understand it better than a lot of adults, too. Like Julia. The simplest things always pleased her. She'd have liked the boy.

  The realization struck hard. “That's it!” He shouted. “That's what I have to twist."

  Elated, he jogged all the way back to the cabin.

  * * * *

  "Ready?” Finn chewed his pipe as the pair regarded the door. After a restless night flopping around on his cot, Ted announced the path he'd chosen. Now they stood by a door much like all the rest.

  "No, but I'm going in anyway."

  Finn clapped a hand on his shoulder and looked him in the eye. “I'm not supposed to say, but your choice shows promise.” He jabbed his pipe in the air towards the other man, to punctuate each word. “But remember, the way you do the twisting's is as important as where you do it. Choose your words and deeds wise and well. That's the way to turn the path aside."

  "I will."

  "As soon as you step inside the door, time will turn aside, to the past. You can't come back once you've started."

  His eyes widened. “What happens to me when I've finished?"

  Furry white brows raised. “That depends on your actions. You'll end up where the twist takes you. Good turn to you, lad."

  The thought gave him pause. What if he screwed up and landed in some dismal place? His home could be gone—everything he knew. After a panicked moment, he came to the realization that he lost everything that mattered eight years ago. Nodding to Finn, he squared his shoulders and started towards the door.

  A voice shouted from behind him. “Hey, mister!"

  Ted peered over his shoulder to see the boy standing, small and alone, in the middle of the street.

  "Charlie? What is it?"

  "Just, good luck. That's all.” The boy's eyes were glassy and reflected a longing Ted knew all too well. The sight of the lost child stung right to the core of the man's heart. Why couldn't the boy have this same chance for happiness? Or had he been given a chance, and failed?

  He let out a deep breath and mustered a smile. “Thanks. And ... you too."

  After a moment that seemed to span a lifetime, he turned and headed for the door.

  "Hey! One more thing, mister."

  Before Ted could reply, the boy yelled, “Duck!"

  A snowball caught him solid in the back. He winked at the boy and reached for the door. Finn waited, silent.

  The knob turned. He hesitated at the threshold, then drew a deep breath and stepped through the open door ... and found himself in a barren and freshly swept cabin that was completely unremarkable.

  Empty? Was this a trick? Halfway through the thought the scene melted in a dizzying swirl, rocking him on his feet. Forcing himself not to shut his eyes against the sensation, he watched as the room resolved itself into a small park.

  Shelton Park! It had worked. Overdressed for the early autumn weather, he doffed his hat, gloves, and scarf and squinted against the bright sunlight. There, his heart caught.

  Julia sat on a bench, cobalt blue eyes a startling contrast to the beige sweater and pants she wore. Silken strands of hair the color of caramel candy wafted on a gentle breeze. She smiled at Ted and his soul leapt. This was it—the part of the path he had to turn aside.

  He remembered the scene all too well. It was fall, one year before the accident—the day he'd first gone after the marketing job. Julia had asked to meet him for a walk in the park. They'd crunched along as leaves of fiery red, burnished copper, and sunshine yellow fluttered down to masses already on the ground. It was the last time they'd done anything of the sort. Ted had been too busy after that, making his play for big-city power.

  He froze when he realized she'd been speaking to him. “You know I don't care about fancy things, Ted. All I want is for us to be together. Work is just work. Enjoying life is the whole reason for getting up in the morning.” She tucked a wayward strand of caramel behind her ear and grinned. “Come on
! Let's build a snowman!"

  "A snowman? But there's no snow!” It fell out of his mouth before he realized. His answer ... exactly the same as before.

  Julia shrugged. “Yeah, well it never snows here!” She gestured at the ground. “We'll just have to use these!"

  Ted's heart pounded a drumbeat that threatened to drown out the words. This was, he'd realized yesterday, where he'd made his true fatal error. In the other past he'd refused to build the snowman and gone off to the first in an endless parade of meetings that drew them further apart. He'd felt it necessary to ensure their security. But to what end? This was where it had gone wrong. Why hadn't he seen it sooner? It was Charlie's candor about life that had shaken Ted awake. Bless that little boy.

  Time to make his twist. Turning aside thoughts of the other past, he scooped up a handful of leaves.

  "Hey, Julia?"

  "What?"

  "Duck!” He released a fistful of brown and orange, most flitting to the ground, but some of the more damp ones taking steady aim in the woman's direction. She leapt to her feet, deliberately shuffling as she made her way to him. Without warning she bent over and hoisted an armload of leaves straight up, letting them waft down over the two of them.

  "It's snowing! Come on, Mr. Blake, our snowman awaits."

  Time flew through the magical afternoon as if on the back of a soaring eagle. Being with Julia again, if only a delusional fantasy, filled Ted to the brink of bursting. She loved life, loved him, loved doing simple things. Spending time, not money. Maybe that self-absorbed jerk, Peter Walstead, never had a chance.

  "Snow Angel!” Julia pulled him from his thoughts by grabbing the front of his jacket and pushing. The pair flopped over into a huge pile of leaves, where side by side they watched as wisps of cloud danced across the pale autumn sky.

  "I haven't done this since I was a kid,” Ted murmured.

  "Mmmm ... so perfect, isn't it? It's all just a dream, you know."

  He shot up, gaping at the pink-cheeked woman beside him. “A dream?"

  She nodded with a heavy-lidded smile. “Anything this perfect always is. Soon we'll wake up and everything will be the way it was."

  Tears stung like a patch of nettles. She was right. Soon he would leave this delusion, and he would be alone. Again.