Checkmate: Tales of Speculative Fiction

by Icy Sedgwick

  Maretta closes the draft magazine and sits back in her padded leather chair. She likes the chair, but finds it less comfortable than her Queen Anne chair. She looks forward to the Queen Anne chair returning from its restoration. She hopes the upholsterers have done it justice; she would love to see the chair looking as it did when she bought it in 1713.

  “Shares in the Corporation are going up, as predicted, and the manufacturing division are finding it difficult to keep up with demand. Maretta gyms are the most popular in the country, your books are consistently sold out on Amazon, subscriptions to the magazine are being taken up at a rate of around 300 per day, and we’ve managed to persuade four favourite celebrities to endorse your food range,” replied Repa.

  “I’m pleased to hear it. And the plans for the TV channel?”

  “Progressing nicely. We predict that Maretta TV will be on air within months. The online message board indicates that the channel will be a resounding success.”

  Wrapping her fingers around the tall wineglass brought by Repa, she gazes across the room at the portrait of her uncle. Vlad would be impressed with the extent of her empire. She may not draw blood in the family tradition, but she sucked the simpletons dry all the same.

  She knocks back the dark red liquid in one swallow, feeling its warmth slip down her throat. She turns her golden eyes to Repa, and smiles.

  “Praise the Gods for capitalism, eh, Repa? Lifeblood of this great nation.”

  Spring Returns

  Silver Blade

  Winter sunlight bleached the world into monochrome. The black skeletons of sleeping trees stood harsh against the blinding white blanket of unbroken snow. A solitary crow sat high in the branches above the ruined church, casting his gaze into the hollow shell of the nave. Years of snowdrifts cushioned the rotting pews, and the cracked flagstone floor glittered with ice. Tattered remains of tapestries fell limp against the walls like moth-eaten rags hung out to dry.

  A hooded figure knelt at the top of the aisle, her head bowed in prayer before the wooden cross that hung above the remains of the altar. A statue of the Supreme Mother lurched to one side below the cross. A thick crust of frost covered her benevolent expression. Above the church, the crow cawed a harsh greeting, breaking the silent reverie of the stranger. Rising slowly, she gathered her cloak about her and swept down the aisle. Her trailing gown left furrows in the thin covering of snow.

  Outside, she meandered around the graveyard. For a moment, ghosts of summer surrounded her with their happy chatter. The forest sang with the sounds of life back then, and cloaks of green clothes the trees. Villagers still felt safe venturing into the forest, and they often stopped to enjoy picnics in the cemetery. They would talk to their dead, inviting ancestors into their lives as they ate. Children would sit on the graves, pressing flowers into the soil around the headstones.

  The crow cawed again, shattering the illusion. The ghosts looked at her sadly as they faded, their dead voices withering into silence.

  Pausing to examine the headstones that lurched left and right, the woman stopped beside a grave near the crumbling wall. The stone at its head was blank, but she knew that the grave was his. A red flower stood defiant above the snow that obscured the grave, turning its little head to greet the weak sunlight. She smiled as she knelt on the cold ground, running a finger across a velvety petal. He did not die in vain; life would return to the forest. She could hope once more.

  “The snow will melt, Imelda.”

  She jumped at the sound of her name, whirling around to face the speaker. Waves of pure white hair partially obscured her face, her huge golden eyes brimming with tears that threatened to spill down the porcelain skin. Swathed in a mantle of white feathers, she smiled.

  “Your Majesty!”

  Imelda dropped to her knees, bowing her head. She reached up and took one of the Queen’s pale hands in her own, scarcely able to believe what she was seeing.

  “Yes, I have returned. Cathor fought bravely, Imelda. You should be proud of your husband,” said the Swan Queen.

  “Oh, I am, your Majesty, I am!” gushed Imelda. “I just miss him so terribly, you see. He was my whole life, my one great love. Though I am glad he was returned here for burial. Was that your doing, my lady?”

  “Indeed it was. I could not bear the idea that Cathor would not rest near his home. It was even one of his conditions of battle, that he be returned if he should die. It truly pains me that he was slain, but the Raven King was forced to release me. There shall be no more winter here.” The Swan Queen stood up straight, an expression of regal majesty on her face.

  The crow cawed a third time, his harsh voice echoing across the graveyard. The Swan Queen narrowed her eyes. Raising her free hand, she pointed at the bird with her index finger.

  “And you! Evil creature. Be gone, leave this forest! You shall not return until fresh snow falls.”

  The crow cackled, fluttering his wings in defiance. Imelda’s eyes roved across the nearby graves, searching for a loose rock. She carefully extracted her hand from the queen’s grip; she refused to let a mere bird defy her queen.

  “I assure you that the Raven King holds no more sway here. I am telling you to leave, and you shall.”

  A jagged fist-sized stone sailed through the air. It struck the branch a mere hand span from the crow. The bird flapped away from his perch, cawing at Imelda. She sat back on her haunches, grinning at him. The Swan Queen suppressed a smirk. The crow screeched at them.

  “Oh, hush now. This is the end of this; there is nothing your King can do for you now. Just leave this place. Leave the dead in peace, scavenger.”

  With an angry flutter, the bird hauled himself high above the forest. He disappeared over the tree line, leaving a trail of avian curses in his wake. Imelda turned back to the Queen, but she had left the graveyard. The train of her gown left a trail of grass behind her in the snow, as flowers sprang into bloom from the edges of the graves. A deafening creaking filled the air as the trees shook off their shrouds of snow

  A smile slowly crept across Imelda’s face as she watched the departure of winter. Greenery crept across the forest floor beyond the churchyard walls, sending tendrils of life up the trunks of the mighty oaks. The moss that covered the rocks along the edge of the path rippled beneath its blanket of snow, shaking the white flakes to the ground as dripping water.

  Imelda felt the weight of curious eyes on her back. She turned to face the trees beyond the church. A stag stood just behind the tree line, his intelligent brown eyes fixed on her. Understanding blossomed on his noble face, and he nodded to her. Imelda returned the nod as the stag leapt away into the darkness beneath the trees. He would carry the message with him, and soon the entire forest would know the news

  Imelda turned back to Cathor’s grave. She brushed away the last traces of snow and knelt on the wet grass. Running her hand across the rough granite of his headstone, she finally allowed herself to cry. Tiny shoots pushed through the soil wherever her tears fell. She laughed quietly.

  “The Swan Queen has returned, my love, and she’s brought spring with her.”

  Somewhere in the silence of the wood, Imelda heard her husband laugh. She lay down on the grave, and curled up like a cat before drifting off into the deep sleep of the weary. She slept without fear, confident that the Swan Queen would watch over her. She was safe now that spring had returned.

  The Mirror Phase

  Fictionville

  The mirror arrived when Sara was ten years old. Six feet tall and two feet wide, it stood in the corner like a disapproving matriarch. Fat feet carved to look like lion’s paws sank into the rich carpet under the weight of the heavy frame. Sara’s mother said it improved the energy flow around the room. On sunny days, it reflected the glittering light that sprayed through the crystals hung at the window. Sara spent hours sat before the impassive glass, staring at something only she could see.

  “Mummy, there
are people in the mirror,” she told her mother.

  “No darling, that’s your reflection.”

  “No, mummy. There are other people. They’re not me.”

  “Don’t be silly. There’s no one else in the mirror.”

  “There is!”

  “People can’t live in mirrors.”

  Sara sulked for hours after these exchanges, sitting with her back to the mirror. On one occasion, Wendy decided to forego a good energy flow in the room and draped a black cloth over the frame. Sara threw a tantrum, tearing the cloth from the glass. She screamed at her mother never to cover the mirror again.

  “They don’t like it when you do that!”

  ***

  Wendy visited her brother. He dealt in antiques, and she considered him to be a wise advisor. She also felt he should know the trouble the mirror caused since it was he who sold it to her in the first place.

  “Where did you get that mirror?”

  “A young man sold it to me. His aunt died and they were clearing the house. They found the mirror in the loft and thought it looked valuable. It’s a nice piece, genuine Victorian. It’s worth a lot more than you paid for it.”

  “Why did she keep it in the loft?”

  “I don’t know. The fellow didn’t even know it existed until they emptied the loft. He guessed she must have put it away as she started to get older, didn’t want to be reminded and so on. Why do you ask?”

  Wendy told him about her daughter’s strange behaviour around the mirror. She explained how Sara wasted hours watching some unseen drama unfold behind the glass. Tom raised his eyebrows when he heard how Sara would fly into a rage if her mother covered the mirror.

  “That’s not at all normal. Children often have a fascination with mirrors when they’re very young and they first discover their reflection, but I would have thought Sara to be too old for that,” he said. “But saying there are people in it? That’s very peculiar. Is she getting on alright at school?”

  “As far as I can tell. None of her teachers have said anything different,” she replied.

  “Does she do it with any other mirrors in the house?”

  “No, that’s the funny thing. She treats all the other mirrors as mirrors. You know, for when she’s brushing her teeth or playing dress up. But this mirror...she treats it more like a window.”

  “I see. Well, leave it with me, I’ll find out what I can. If you can try and find any sort of markings on the mirror that might help identify where it was made, and when, that would be a great help.”

  Sara’s mother thanked her brother, and left.

  ***

  Wendy waited until Sara was at school before examining the mirror. She ran her hands over the bulky frame, dusting the crevices and polishing the glass. She stared into the depth of the reflection, straining to see what exactly it was that so held her daughter’s attention. All she saw was a middle-aged woman with short black hair staring back at her, surrounded by a room decorated in a vaguely Victorian fashion.

  Finding nothing even remotely helpful on the front, Sara’s mother turned her attention to the back. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, until she spotted a small wooden panel screwed to the back near the base of the mirror. A simple piece of plywood, it caught her eye for the modern looking screws holding it in place. Fetching a screwdriver from the kitchen, she undid the screws and lifted off the panel.

  A piece of yellowed paper was glued to the wood, its edges starting to lift as they curled with age. Faded handwriting looped and curled across the antique label. Wendy squinted to read it.

  ‘Stage property of Emascula the Great. 1905’

  She copied down the inscription before replacing the panel. The last thing she needed was Sara seeing it; it would only further fan the flames of her imagination.

  She found herself wondering who this ‘Emascula’ character could be as she dialled her brother’s number. If the mirror was ‘stage property’, it implied some kind of previous theatrical use. Emascula the Great sounded like a magician of some kind. Maybe Tom was right – maybe the mirror was worth some money after all. She decided that she would sell it. She could buy something more modern. She could overhaul the entire room and go for a more minimalist look.

  Tom answered the phone, disrupting her interior design daydreams.

  “I found something on the mirror,” she said.

  “You did?”

  She told him about the panel, and the label underneath.

  “Hm. The name rings a very dim bell. I’ll do some digging and let you know what I find out.”

  “Thanks. I’d better go now, I have to go and collect Sara from school.”

  They said their goodbyes, and Sara’s mother hung up. She felt better having spoken to her brother. They were closer to finding out the mirror’s origins, and hopefully they could soon work out exactly why it fascinated Sara so much. She also recognised that she enjoyed this minor detective work. Vague excitement pulsed at the back of her mind as she picked up her car keys and left the house.

  ***

  Sara continued to stare into the mirror. Wendy grew impatient at the lack of contact from Tom. The impatience turned to alarm when she walked into the living room one sunny Saturday afternoon to find Sara whispering to an unseen presence in the mirror. Sara broke off, her expression a mixture of embarrassment and annoyance.

  “Who are you talking to, sweetie?” asked Wendy.

  “No one.”

  “Were you talking to the people in the mirror?”

  “There aren’t any people in the mirror. You said so.” A touch of smugness hovered around the corners of Sara’s mouth. Her mother frowned.

  “Why don’t you go and play outside?”

  To her complete astonishment, Sara nodded. She left the living room, skipping down the corridor to the kitchen. Sara clattered about before Wendy saw her appear in the back garden.

  “What ARE you?” hissed Sara’s mother. She glared at the mirror. Her heart leapt into her mouth as a shadow passed before the glass, on the inside.

  She jumped when the phone rang in the hall. Its shrill announcement jangled her frayed nerves. She snatched the received from its cradle, barking a greeting into the mouthpiece.

  “Wendy? It’s me, Tom.”

  Sara’s mother breathed a sigh of relief to hear the familiar voice of her brother.

  “Are you okay, Wendy?”

  “Not really. I caught her talking to someone in the mirror a few minutes ago. I asked her who it was and she wouldn’t tell me. She’s gone outside to play...but I feel like she’s up to something.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, and that’s what worries me.”

  “Well at least I managed to find something out about that mirror.”

  “What?”

  “Well I checked my records and I bought it from a Simon Matheson, nephew of Tilly Jacobs. That didn’t really tell me much, so I checked the archives at the local church. It turns out that her mother was Effie Jacobs, favourite and final assistant of Robert Wyatt, a stage magician otherwise known as Emascula the Great.”

  “So it was his mirror?”

  “It seems he used the mirror during one of his vanishing acts. Rumour was rife at the time that he dabbled in the occult, and sometime in 1906, he himself disappeared during his show. No one knows what happened to him but his equipment was sold off to other magicians who then incorporated aspects of his act into their own performances. The whole affair was hushed up by his family and he faded into obscurity.”

  “What happened to the mirror?”

  “Effie kept it. She refused to let anyone else have it. I have no idea what happened to it after that, but it somehow ended up in Tilly’s attic, which is where Simon found it. Then you bought it and now we know where it is.”

  “I see. Do you think it would be worth me selling it?”

  “I wouldn’t say that’s a bad idea. After what you’ve told me, I can’t imagine Sara will be too pleased, but it s
ounds like she really needs to be separated from it. I don’’t think the mirror is inherently bad, but she’s far too attached to it.”

  “Will you sell it for me?”

  “Of course I will. I’ll come and collect it in the morning.”

  Wendy hung up. She walked down the hall to the kitchen. She stuck her head out into the back garden. A ribbon of panic fluttered across her mind when she realised it was empty. She stepped out onto the patio, calling Sara’s name. She tried shaking the back gate but the bolt was still drawn. She swept her gaze across the garden in case Sara was hiding, but the bushes stood empty and silent.

  A flicker of movement in the kitchen caught her attention. Further inspection revealed an empty room with no trace of her daughter.

  “Sara? Where are you?”

  She stood in the hallway, listening for any kind of sound that may reveal Sara’s whereabouts. Sara’s interest in hide-and-seek waned years ago, and her mother kept seeing that smug expression float before her eyes.

  She padded to the living room. The room appeared empty, yet one of Sara’s shoes lay in front of the mirror. She gasped when she realised that the mirror reflected the room – yet it reflected an empty room. She was missing from the reflection. The realisation twinned with the sight of the discarded sandal drew a sudden cry of despair from Wendy. She snatched up the sandal, and threw it at the mirror.

  Her jaw dropped open as the sandal failed to make contact. Instead, it shimmered as it passed through the glass, sailing into the depths of the room reflected in the mirror. It bounced across the floor, stopping when it struck the wall opposite. Wendy gasped, divorced from the room around her. A shadow passed across the mirror again, as if lurking on the far side of the glass.

  Without thinking, Wendy launched herself at the mirror. She fell heavily against the glass, hitting her forehead on its cold, impassive surface. Her reflection reappeared, and to an observer, it looked like she had head butted herself.

  “You bastard! Give me back my daughter!” She hammered on the mirror with her fists, screaming at her reflection.

  The surface of the glass shimmered, and her reflection disappeared once more. Two skeletal arms shot out of the mirror. They caught hold of her wrists, pulling her toward the glass. She gave a cry as she disappeared through the molten surface of the mirror.