Twisted Fayrie Tales

by Sally Odgers

  "Some of the women of the castle."

  "And you keep them for..."

  "For times when Itanna is not here. You are nearly a man, it's time to learn how to be with a woman."

  He put his hand on the door and paused. Then he shook his head and shamed me. “No. I would rather wait for a waking woman."

  That day led to many questions about the princess and the castle. When he finally understood what Itanna and I had done he refused to speak to me for days. Then he changed his mind and decided all blame rested with Itanna and her magic. He told me I should fight her, resist her.

  "You must stop seeing the witch."

  "Were it you she came to, you would not let her go."

  "I would. I would not let her in to start!"

  I laughed. “In my youth I would have said the same. It takes so little to go off course and lose your way. And nothing is quite so simple as it appears."

  His face colored at my mirth. “You can! You don't wish to."

  "True enough, though even that is too simple."

  "Then let us be away. Let us waken the princess, end the spell and leave this place!"

  I smiled. “You are still a boy. You have not proven yourself worthy of her, have not proven yourself a man. You must still wait."

  He stalked away then, kicking the open door on his way out.

  In the end I took my knife to the east tower instead of my son. The queen died last of all save her daughter, for I could not resist availing myself of her one last time.

  Some months later Itanna said, “How shall we end this, mortal? Have these years not been long enough for you here? Do you not grow weary of this sleeping, changeless place?"

  It was spring, birds sang in the trees, and she stepped into the light of the library window wearing a shimmering gown of satin green. It clung to her as I longed to, hiding little more than the color of her skin.

  "For now I am content. You wish me to kill the princess?"

  "Is that not always what I have asked? Is that not what I intended from the start? I wish only her parents could have seen her die. No matter."

  "And I am but a means to an end?

  She smiled and came to where I sat. “Let it not be said that I have not enjoyed your company. You are most interesting, for a mortal."

  "You are most gracious, Lady.” I inclined my head. “I believe the time is nigh when I will deal with the princess. Soon. Yes, very soon."

  "Good. For that, a reward.” Then my clothes vanished while hers stayed.

  Some time later, she straddled me in the chair, her gown fading to nothing over me. I looked then at her breasts and again marveled at their perfect shape, unchanged by the passing years. What limits did her magic have?

  As she took me to the first mountain of our days-long trek to ecstacy, I groaned aloud and she grunted. An arrowhead came out her breast. Blood splattered me. Itanna roared in anger.

  I reached up to touch the arrow as she began to weave a spell. Cedric's second arrow found her wrist. He'd listened to the stories I had told him. His third pierced her stomach at an angle as she tried to turn. I touched that point too.

  Itanna gurgled, glared at me and collapsed against my body. Grief welled up like the tide, but I held it in. I still had another task. I looked up, met Cedric's eyes and nodded. Then I tore the leather thong from my neck and tossed him the key to the tower. “When you wake her, leave here and do not come back. There is a bag of gold in the flour bin by the kitchen door."

  "But Father, what about you?"

  "This is my place now. She will not wish to be here or near me. Go."

  I listened to his footsteps retreat down the hall before I wept. I remained there, bloody, naked and shedding tears, for what seemed hours. Did I weep for Itanna? For myself and the man I had become? For the end of my sojourn? For the end of magic? For the people I had killed? Perhaps all of those. Perhaps only for lost chances and stones in the stream.

  For a time after I laid Itanna's body aside and wiped her blood from my body, I stayed in the library. I knew it would take Cedric some time to convince the princess to leave with him. I paced the room, hardly knowing what to do with myself. Until I found my self standing over Itanna. We had barely begun our sojourn in pleasure. I wished to reach that great mountain of desire and release. I knelt beside her and caressed her from thigh to unmarred breast.

  As if struck by lightning, I collapsed back against the wall. While her body still aroused me, I knew without doubt I would reach no mountains. I would attain less than I had with the lowest sleeping chambermaid. Gone, all gone. Nothing left but the tears and the stone.

  When Cedric woke the princess, the thorny hedge faded to dust. The mice and rats in the castle woke. It grew cold. He did as I said and led her far from there. I knew there would be time in the ashes for them, times of trial and hardship, but that is another story.

  After some time I found my way to the tower where the princess had laid. I touched the empty quilt and wondered what I had missed, what mountains of pleasure and pain Cedric might find. Then I saw the parchment lying on the wooden floor.

  "Dear Sir,” the princess wrote, “my prince says he grew up here in my castle and that my parents are dead. This he blames on the evil sorceress. I have my doubts about his tale. Still, you may share any blame with me, for, angry with my parents I came to this room. At that time, I would have rather have slept a century than live in this place another day. How foolish I was. I shall remember my father as a passionate man with a great heart, my mother as a lover of beauty and righteousness. Now they are gone, and I will regret that for many years. If I knew all that occurred, I would hate you, as like as not. Never knowing is best, I think. So, I will be as courteous as my parents taught. Fare well."

  I knelt there on the quilt and thought of the lives lost in this place, including my own. I wept.

  I stayed in the castle. When the current local King and his army came by to contest for the land, I greeted them, invited them in and asked how I could serve. I gained a reputation for wisdom—ever could I perceive the lies and evils men attempted. Such service I fear is too small price to pay for my time of youth and magic.

  Ah, let us forget all this. Would that I could forget Itanna, but the rest of you might yet. Let us have our kind story. Let us erase the truth, obliterate it from our memory. What use is truth in such a case as this? Let us simply say a prince made it through the thorns and found the sleeping princess. The evil sorceress died. A kiss woke the princess, and she left with her prince. What more can one ask from a story? What need have we for magic, and pebbles in the stream of fate? And what use repentance or guilt? Or mourning the forgotten dead? What hope is there for me? There is no redemption waiting, for I enjoyed my time in between. I enjoyed it all.

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  Cinders

  By

  Karina L. Fabian

  Eleven o'clock. The bells of the great clock tower that echoed throughout the little kingdom sounded dimly in the dungeon.

  Even though the sun shone brightly that day, only a small sliver of light penetrated the gloom of Ella's cell. Nonetheless, she squeezed herself into it, trying to take some comfort and warmth.

  —Not that it really matters, she thought.—Soon, I'll be all too warm.

  She moaned and rested her head on her knees. She started to dig her fingers into her hair, stopped. Her hair, so beautifully coifed only days ago, was now greasy and matted and like her torn clothes and bruised body, filthy and stinking of human waste. While she'd been careful with her own toilet, the hay was lousy with the carelessness of previous prisoners.

  The first night, she'd stood beneath the window, breathing through her mouth, finally sleeping standing up. The events of the second day, however—the trial, the betrayal—had sapped her strength and will, and she'd fallen into a fitful sleep on the soiled “bedding.” She'd awakened that morning gagging and nauseated. She'd begged for a clean outfit, even a pail of water to wash in. They lau
ghed. “You want to look pretty and clean, witch? Use you magic!” They left without even giving her a meal. Apparently, they expected her to conjure that, too.

  "It wasn't my magic,” she sobbed yet again. “How could she have done this to me? How?"

  "Child."

  She started a moment at the voice, half-thinking her own dear father had come for her, then chided herself. Papa was dead. But perhaps her grandfather? She looked up and cringed at the sight of the Archbishop. The finery of his robes jarred against the dank dungeon, and she wondered at his presence. But then, who else would see to one accused of bewitching the Heir Prince? He looked at her with an expression of stern gentleness, but it didn't fool her.

  "It's almost time,” he said. “Are you ready to confess your sins?"

  "I haven't done anything—"

  "You've been practicing Black Magic—” the guard behind the Archbishop snarled.

  "But I didn't! They lied! They—” She faltered, looked down. How could she expect anyone to believe her after that horrible transformation in front of everyone, in front of the Prince ... And when someone raised the cry of witch, how could she not have expected her stepsisters to join in, if only for the excitement and attention. Her stepmother, ever calculating, immediately pounced on the opportunity to be rid of Ella and ingratiate herself to the royal family. Even more, she'd found the perfect scapegoat for all her daughters’ faults. The accusations of the crime came back to her then:

  "Of course, it was all so gradual we never suspected.” Her stepmother had sadly told the Archbishop and audience at the trial. “But I should have realized! How she seemed to grow in ... unnatural grace each day while my poor Bellana struggled."

  "And Kethryn's voice, Mother!” Bellana shouted eagerly from the wings. “Tell them about Kethryn's voice!"

  "What about my voice? Mother!” The two started arguing, both shrill voices echoing in the chamber. Their mother cut them off with a sharp word.

  She waited until attention returned to her, then dabbed her eyes. “It's true, Your Grace. The poor dear tries so, but ... Kethryn! Sing for His Grace!"

  "Mother!"

  "DO IT!"

  Three lines into the song, the Archbishop winced and rapped his gavel. “That's quite enough. Now, let us hear the accused."

  Ella shrank back in her chair. “But Your Grace, I—"

  A bailiff forced her to stand. “Sing, witch!"

  Her mind whirled. Suddenly, she saw a chance to prove her innocence. She started to sing the Lord's Prayer.

  The crowd screamed in protest. “Blasphemer!"

  The bailiff punched her in the stomach. “How dare you desecrate our Lord?!” She fell to the chair, winded and defeated.

  The Archbishop banged his gavel on the table and pandemonium quieted. “Have you anything to add?” he asked her stepmother.

  "No ... Only. I wonder. Her father died so unexpectedly—"

  Ella jumped up. “How dare you! I loved my father! I'd give anything if he were alive again! How can you say that! How?!” Her protests were drowned out by shouts from the crowd. She never had a chance to defend herself. A recess was called, but the verdict was clear: she would be burned for witchcraft.

  After they threw her into her cell, she'd fallen to crying, as she had that night when she'd thought she'd lost all faith, when her fairy godmother came and told her there were still things to believe in. She'd promised to make Ella's dreams come true, but betrayed those dreams instead. She realized, in the darkness of the cell, that everyone had betrayed her: Her father, who married again, then died and left everything to his new wife; her stepmother, who publicly promised to care for her, then made her a slave; the uncles and cousins who could have taken her in, but abandoned her when they found she had no inheritance; the gallant prince who swore to love her no matter what, convinced her to stay just a little longer, only to call the guards when her true self was revealed. Even the birds and mice who were her friends betrayed her, in a way; it made it easy for her stepfamily to prove she kept familiars.

  The Archbishop was speaking to her about going to God with a clean soul and contrite heart.

  "I'm innocent. They all lied—my stepfamily, the Prince. Her. They're the sinners."

  "Child, please reconsider. Even the smallest of sins, left unconfessed—"

  When she didn't bother to respond, he moved aside for the guard. Her hands were bound behind her and she was led out of the dungeon. She slipped on the steep, slick steps and the guard yanked her back up roughly. He moved to strike her, but the Archbishop stopped him.

  "If you promise not to resist, I'll have the guard unbind you. Do I have your word?"

  "Yes,” she whispered. For a moment her eyes stung with tears of gratitude at his kindness. They quickly changed to anger, then hopelessness. They'd supposedly bound her hands so she could not form an enchantment. If he was willing to free them, did he think she was innocent after all? If so, how could he let this farce continue?

  —Why did the thought hurt so? she wondered.—It was just one more betrayal.

  Wiping her eyes, she followed the Archbishop to the exit.

  At the top of the steps, he turned to her. With the sleeve of his velvet robe, he wiped at her face, as her father once had wiped her tears when she had suffered some little hurt. He spoke pleadingly, “There is still time—"

  Time. She laughed, bitter and hopeless.

  The clock struck the quarter hour.

  At the doorway, she squinted against the sunlight as they arranged her in the procession. Once she'd had a dog for a footman and a horse for a driver. Now her escorts were the King's jailers and she marched between a drummer and the Archbishop. A crier led the way.

  "Make way! Make way for the witch Cinderella!"

  "Ella,” she murmured dully, “Just Ella.” The crier continued without pausing to correct or even acknowledge his error.

  They'd taken even her name from her. Her identity now centered on the nickname given to her in spite and hate and more befitting the low station to which she'd sunk.

  She'd actually found some contentment that long ago day, lost in a private daydream as she continued her chores. She was scrubbing out the fireplace, getting it ready for the summer closing, and she'd imagined she was cleaning her own little fireplace in her own little home. Oh, it'd have to be small. The family fortune was going fast, and anything left would no doubt go to her sisters’ dowries. There'd be nothing left for her. Her suitor wouldn't mind, though. He'd marry her for love and love alone. They'd eke out a poor but happy living. She'd cook and clean during the day, making things ready for him when he came home from ploughing the fields or maybe from his town business—

  "BOO! RAARH!"

  Lost in her daydream, she never heard her sisters approach. At their scream, she jumped and squealed and, with a little, help, fell forward into the pile of ashes she'd just swept. Soot fell everywhere, into her clothes and hair, into her face and eyes, across the floor.

  Somehow, her stepsisters managed to escape the cloud. Laughing, they danced and sang around her as she sputtered, sneezed and wiped tears of ash and rage from her eyes. “Look at old clumsy, all covered in ash. Soot-Ella. Coal-Ella. Clumsy Cinder-Ella!"

  Soon after, her stepmother came and after berating her for her carelessness, let her bathe in the trough outside. She was able to wash out the cinders, but the name stuck.

  The shouts of the crowd engulfed her, pounding against her ears until it became little more than a dull roar. She concentrated on the path before her. The day seemed to darken.

  Then she felt a slight scratching and a gentle weight on her shoulder. A high trill tickled her ear and she smiled slightly as she glanced at the sparrow. She'd always had a rapport with animals, which had only increased as the humans in her life treated her with more and more cruelty. The animals had always found a way to comfort her. Even now, even here, one had come to offer what solace it could.

  Someone screamed. “Look! A demon!"

 
; "It's her familiar!"

  "Kill it!"

  Suddenly, she was showered by rocks and trash. The bird flew away in fright. One stone struck Ella on the head and she fell, dazed. It took several minutes for the guards to restore order and resume the march.

  The clock struck the half hour.

  She used to rant at that clock, the way it always seemed to order her around: Get up! Time to cook and clean, wash and mend, tend to—and take abuse from—her family. Step-family. Always step-family. She would never be sister or daughter, especially after Father died.

  She still saw that Fall day so clearly, could still feel the sharp cool air on her cheeks and see the slightest wisps of vapor from her stepsisters’ lips as they argued over who would ride Windmare first.

  "I shall!” she'd declared. “I'm the best rider. Besides, Daddy gave him to me. I'm his real daughter and he loves me best!"

  As she predicted, her stepsisters immediately ran off to report her words to their mother, and she was free to take Windmare on a long, glorious ride. The breeze stung her cheeks and the dry leaves seemed to crash rather than rustle as they galloped through. It was one of the best afternoons of her life, and she came home elated, the morning's argument swept from her mind.

  Her joy didn't last long, however; no sooner had she put Windmare in the stable than one of her stepsisters ran out to her. “It's about time you got back! Come look what you've done!” Without waiting for a reply, she grabbed Ella by the wrist and dragged her into the house. She struggled only until they reached to threshold; then she heard the raised voices of their parents.

  United for the first—and last—time, the girls ran through the house and shuffled together so all could see through the crack in the study door.

  Their parents had faced off across a large desk. She couldn't quite see her stepmother, but her father's face was nearly purple with a rage he fought to contain. As usual, stepmother had him on the defensive.