The Year's Best Australian Fantasy and Horror 2013

by Angela Slatter

  Fern’s sobs became more subdued until she lay there sniffling. Gingerly, she sat up and glanced at me tiredly. She let out her breath. With a stomp, she got to her feet, almost snapping her heels together, strode over to pick up her rucksack, then stood in front of me. “Show me the nearest witch.”

  “Fern, I’ve seen more people than you’d believe go through this. The best advice I can give you is to cry, eat a lot of baked goods, and find someone who returns your love. Time and distraction heals many things.”

  “I don’t want your advice. I want a witch.”

  With a deep sigh, I located the nearest competent, reasonably ethical witch I could think of. Fern was out the door before my last sentence was even finished.

  Another master I couldn’t bear to look for.

  The goblins were out on their nightly hunt by the time Fern returned. Instantly, I could see she had what she wanted.

  Fern charged purposefully into the cottage, flung her rucksack on the table and began pulling out items. The first thing she pulled out was a deer’s heart. As she continued unpacking, I saw the flash of blood on her hands. The poor, silly girl. Next to the deer’s heart, Fern arranged a candle, some strands of her own hair and what appeared to be a gem from Ugra’s mine. After a quick rummage through her cupboards and boxes of miscellany, Fern returned with more candles and a locket.

  I knew this spell.

  Tinchy flitted uneasily in his cage. Fern waved him into silence, without even turning to look at him. Glad it’s not your heart there, bird, I thought.

  Fern placed a circle of candles around the assembled items, then pulled out a little scrap of paper. With trembling hands, she held it to her nose as she read aloud, with surprising confidence:

  Ugra, give me your heart

  As gentle as this deer’s,

  As precious as this gem,

  Burning as brightly as this candle

  Ugra, give me your heart

  Filled with love only for me

  She tore off a hunk of the heart, then wrapped her hair around it and the other items, somehow managing to not break it, her tongue stuck out with concentration.

  I bind these things with my own self

  His heart to my heart

  As my will is done, Ugra will be mine

  With a grunt of frustration, Fern managed to shove the amateurish charm inside the locket. She placed it around her neck, clutching it to her chest reverently, eyes shut in raptured dreams of love. Turning her big green eyes toward me, she grinned. “I think it worked,” she said. She swirled to her feet, twirled around the cottage and leapt into the air, letting out a little squeal of triumph. “My love is coming to me!” she cried, dancing around the floor. She raised her arms and began to waltz, humming the music for herself. “We shall be together forever, we shall. It will be a love story the ages will write about.” With a dramatic swish, she faced me and declared, “And he’ll never think of her again, either.”

  Or himself, I thought.

  * * *

  I could hear two pairs of footfalls on the gravel outside. Fern’s light almost-dance-like step was familiar. Behind her came a plodding sound, which I assumed to be the unfortunate object of her misplaced affections. The door swung open with a bump, and in flew Fern, her wings fluttering madly at her back, her eyes bright and an almost maniacal grin of joy planted on her face. Ugra followed, more subdued but compliant.

  So the spell had worked, then.

  Fern flitted about her cottage, showing Ugra her collection of thingummybobs (not to be confused with her doo-dads), her sleeping hammock (they’d have to get a proper bed to share), where the food and tea was kept and a few random items here and there. Throughout, Ugra smiled benignly and gazed with glass-eyed wonder at his new-found love. Every so often, I noticed Fern glance at Ugra, eyebrows raised, as though waiting for a response. Ugra just smiled and Fern, with a mild pursing of the lips, continued to flit about the cottage. She even took Tinchy out of his cage and held him on her finger. Ugra patted the little bird’s head, and it chirped merrily in response.

  Once Fern ran out of things to show Ugra, she sat him down and began to fuss around the kitchen. She sang to herself as she prepared some tea. Ugra sat back in the chair, a blissful smile on his face. Slowly, in a resonant bass, he began to hum along to Fern’s singing. Fairy and dwarf singing together was something I hadn’t actually heard before and I was surprised at how well they harmonised. Fern came over to where Ugra sat, wrapped her arms around his shoulders and cuddled him as they sang. Tinchy’s sweet chirping joined them. Ugra’s blissful expression never changed.

  I actually began to hope that things might turn out for the young lovers.

  Those first few days, Ugra and Fern calmly went about their days together, not always singing but still somehow in harmony with each other. Ugra’s clumsy slowness did not seem to hamper Fern’s dancing gait: if anything, they complemented each other. As Fern made her way around the cottage, Ugra sat patiently and watched. As she became tired or bored, she’d sit by Ugra, lay her head on his knee and he’d stroke her hair. Ugra didn’t seem to have any more personality than a pet rock, but his presence appeared to make Fern happy.

  For those first few days, anyway.

  By my estimation, Fern and Ugra had been going about this daily ritual, with some outings into a nearby village and around the surrounding forests, for about two weeks when things began to change. Fern’s lips had pursed in irritation more and more frequently during the previous two weeks, but that was nothing compared to the outward frown she wore when Ugra answered her with “Whatever you like, dear,” for the umpteenth time. She sighed, stamped her little foot and snapped “Do you not have any opinions of your own?”

  Ugra glanced at her, slightly intrigued but not even surprised, then shrugged his shoulders and turned back to whatever he was doing.

  Fern stood stock still and stared. She clutched the locket at her neck, as though willing it to give her an answer. As though one had come to her, she knelt by her lover’s side and said “Ugra, darling, I keep hearing these strange noises at night. Maybe you should hunt down and slay the beast making them for keeping me awake?”

  Ugra smiled mildly and patted her head. “It will be fine, dear.”

  “You aren’t going to attack it for me?” Fern eyes looked the size of teacups. “But . . . but you hate beasts who disturb you! I once saw you swat a fly with a hammer! Ugra, can’t you show me how brave and tough you are?” I admit I could barely resist the urge to chuckle at that last comment.

  “I tell you, it will be alright, darling. If we’re together, then what could a measly beast do to bother us?”

  Fern sat back. She fixed him with a hard stare. “Say my name.”

  “Huh?”

  “Tell me my name.”

  “The most beautiful name in the world, darling.”

  “Which is?”

  “Why yours, my pet.”

  Her pretty face crumpled into that now-familiar ugly one and she flew out of the cottage, sobbing noisily. Ugra watched her go, shrugged and turned to an open newspaper, confident that his love for this unnamed fairy would solve all hurts.

  The poor, dear girl.

  To Fern’s sorrow—and Ugra’s cheerful indifference—things quickly began to deteriorate from there. Over the next few days, Fern quizzed Ugra continually. She asked him specific questions about her, to all of which he replied “Whatever is best for you,” or “The most beautiful name/animal/kingdom/village/colour in the world, my dear.” He clearly had no knowledge of Fern, other than that she was beautiful, that he was happy in her presence and that he was no longer grumpy. It didn’t seem to even occur to him to wonder at his complete change in personality, circumstance, or even affection. But that last issue occurred to Fern. Oh, did it ever occur to Fern!

  It was mid-morning when Ugra was sitting at the table, reading one of Fern’s many insipid novels of forbidden but, miraculously, successful romance. He looked up and turned hi
s glassy eyes toward the door as his beautiful love flew in, in an apparent rage. She held what looked like a crumpled piece of paper in her hands. “Hello, dear woman,” he said “how is my love?”

  “I don’t know, Ugra. How do YOU think she is?” Fern flung the paper in her lover’s hands and I saw that it was in fact a portrait of that hated stepdaughter. It was the kind the royal family would give out to peasants as a collectable. In fact, it looked like the exact one that the Queen had handed out to report her “beloved daughter” missing—to arouse sympathy, of course.

  Ugra took it in his hands and looked at it, his face scrunched up in consternation. “This isn’t my love.” He held it out to Fern. “This isn’t you.”

  “No, this is her, this is the person you love!” Fern began to cry. “This is the Princess. This is Snow White. I saw you crying over this picture of her. This is your love!”

  Ugra shook his head. “No you are, my dear.”

  “Then what’s my name?”

  Ugra looked at her as though she were a small child asking what colour the sky was. “You know your name, darling.”

  “But you don’t! Just like you don’t know my favourite colour or what I like to eat or my mother’s name or anything of any real importance to me—not even Tinchy! You don’t know me and you don’t love me.”

  Ugra stood up and closed the small space between them. “I do. I do love you.”

  Fern sniffled. Again she clutched that locket. She took a step closer and lifted her chin. “Then show me.”

  Ugra smiled, then threw his arms around her and kissed her on the mouth. Fern immediately melted into his arms, apparently forgetting everything she’d just said. Ugra pulled back, lifted her hand and said “These are the arms I love.” He kissed her again. “These are the lips I love.” He gazed deeply into her eyes. “You are the one I love.”

  Fern smiled and threw him on the bed. They were noisy. Very noisy. Being a magic mirror certainly has its disadvantages. Watching couples, well, couple was certainly one of them.

  It was not to last. Although Fern seemed content to teach Ugra about herself, thus helping him love her for her, not a spell, Ugra didn’t seem to want to listen to her discuss her childhood, her dreams or any of the other endless things couples who are falling in love discuss. All Ugra wanted to do was gaze at her, to grin at her stupidly, and to make noisy love. To Fern’s frustration, it wasn’t enough.

  Fern decided, for whatever harebrained reason, that she must test the reality of his feelings. Surely, if he loved her for her and not the spell, he would display some other emotion at some point? Surely, if she treated him badly enough, he’d initiate a lover’s tiff?

  She began by calling him names, slipping subtle insults into the conversation. Ugra glanced at her once or twice but did not respond. At one point, she even pushed him but he just became sympathetic, suggesting she’d had a rough day and that he’d irritated her. “Goddamn it, why won’t you fight me? Where’s the strong, tough Ugra I fell in love with?” she’d screamed.

  I hoped the end would come soon.

  It did, about two weeks after that. Ugra was making faces at Tinchy while Fern cooked their dinner. I was watching her closely for some reason. There was a look in her eye that I recognised. It’s not something I can describe in words, but it’s a look that signifies some serious misadventure, some ill intent that departed from what could be considered morally right. It was a look devoid of emotion. A look the Queen wore the day she decided to kill her stepdaughter. Today, my ditzy and gentle Fern wore it.

  “Ugra,” she called “There’s not enough meat in this dish. Bring me Tinchy.”

  Obediently, Ugra opened the little cage. Tinchy innocently hopped onto his proffered finger. “Do you want him to look for food?”

  “No, I want to cook him.”

  Oh no. Was my Fern gone for good? “Fern . . . ”

  “Quiet, mirror, we’re going to cook him.”

  Ugra frowned. “That seems extreme.” He took a step closer. “But I suppose you know best, my love.”

  Fern’s jaw dropped. She didn’t crumple or cry, she just stared. Then she screamed and threw her tiny boot into Ugra’s stomach. He sprawled on the floor, a look of mild surprise and confusion on his face, yellow feathers briefly flitting past him as Tinchy made his escape. “You never loved me!” Fern roared. “You’ve killed me, Ugra, you’ve killed me!” She ripped the locket from about her neck, so violently little beads of blood smeared her throat. She threw it at Ugra, hitting him square between the eyes.

  I couldn’t tell you if the spell was broken because, without warning, she turned to me, her pretty face unrecognisable behind a mask of pure hatred. “And you, you did this to me! Had you never come, none of this would have happened!” I knew better than to argue. Fern took me in her arms and flew out of the cottage. She flew upwards, holding me aloft in shaking hands. “You can die, too!”

  I fell.

  * * *

  Pain. Like being splintered in reverse. Darkness, giving way to blurry shapes glowing with ethereal light. Agony reverberated through me. If this was the afterlife, I was sorely disappointed.

  Soon, my vision began to sharpen. I could hear tinkering and looked down to see a pair of hands confidently gluing shards of my broken body together with what looked like liquid glass. So that’s why I felt like I was shattering in reverse, I thought. I was literally doing just that. I closed my eyes against the sight of my scattered self being handled by those unfamiliar hands.

  I must have passed out again because, the next time I looked down, there were no more hands and no more shards of glass. I ached all over but that bizarre sensation of reverse destruction had left. Someone cleared their throat. I squinted my eyes, trying to focus.

  “Mirror, mirror, on the wall,” a voice said. “Does this mirror work at all?”

  I tried to laugh but coughed instead. “That was a terrible rhyme,” I said and prepared to meet my new master.

  All the Lost Ones

  Deborah Biancotti

  “Ah, but no? You have not moved into a house of the Lombardi!”

  “Temporarily,” Francesca explained, “while my husband finds a residence.”

  The air in the cavernous salon of the Contessa Rossi was warm and dense with humidity. The furniture was at once plush and sharp. Ornate gold arms were fixed to plump black chairs, and heavy drapes blocked the sunlight. It smelled of the ocean as much as of the fat, perfumed candles that stood unlit and uneven in the candelabra around the room.

  In the midst of it, Francesca in her simple blue silk felt almost infantile. Her hair was plain and dark and pinned back with none of the clasps of the Contessa’s tresses, and she lacked for rouge and powders on her face, being too modest to buy such fineries. She admired the heavy lace and crinoline of her hostess’s dress. The Contessa was as elaborately regal as the porcelain figurines that seemed to pin the room to its floorboards.

  “C’est bon à savoir,” Contessa Rossi replied. She beat the air with a white, silk fan, a tracery of trees distorted by its folds. “It is not an adequate address.”

  “I have heard about some houses in Venice . . . ” Francesca hesitated. She did not want the Contessa to think her entirely foolish. “I’ve heard many are haunted?”

  The Contessa’s eyes widened and the fan rose to cover the indelicate smile on her face. “Alors! It is true.”

  “Really?” Francesca leaned forward.

  She’d been in this salon for less than an hour, with its heavy, closed air. She looked forward to breathing fresh air again. But the stories of the Contessa Rossi were proving too much of a delight to move.

  “They call the city La Serenissima, but how serene is she?” the Contessa asked. “Have they told you, for example, of Biasio?”

  “Did he live in the house of the Lombardi?”

  “The house? Mais, non.” Rossi shook her head and sent her careful curls bouncing.

  It was almost impossible to guess Rossi’s ag
e under the heavy rouge. Her hair—her wig—was carefully coloured a deep, unconvincing red and her décolletage was gently hidden behind fine lace.

  “Who is he, then?” Francesca asked in a rush.

  “A butcher.”

  “Is that all?”

  Contessa Rossi waggled a finger. “The murderous butcher of Venice.”

  “Here?” Francesca leaned forward. “Now?”

  “Ah, centuries ago. He served the finest meats in Venice. He was a favourite of the sailors of Venice, and his pies were much sought after. Until one—” here she leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, with her fan to one side of her face, “one sailor discovered in the sausage he had bought, the tiny finger of a little child.”

  “No!” Francesca whispered.

  “Oui!”

  It took Francesca a moment to recover, to hide her face with her hand, since she lacked a fan, and to lean back into the awkward settee.

  “What happened to this monster?” she asked.

  “They cut off his arms,” Rossi smiled, leaning in. Her voice dropped a full octave. “And they took him into la Piazza San Marco so they could behead him.”

  “Good,” Francesca heard herself mutter.

  “And they hung the pieces of his body from the four corners of the city.”

  “Mon Dieu!”

  “C’est vrai!” Rossi leaned back with a satisfied look. “And then they named a street after him, can you believe? La Riva di Biasio. Where even the priests fear to tread.”

  “Also as a reminder?”

  Rossi shrugged and clucked her tongue. “Who knows? The Italians! And they think us the savages.”

  “I see.”