by Anthology
Her mount did not slow. Below them, the sea glimmered and heaved.
Eileen tried to release the horse’s mane, but the strands were wrapped tightly around her fingers.
“Let me go!”
Heart pounding, she yanked. Her hands would not come free. She attempted to leap off, but her legs were bound fast to the horse’s sides. She screamed and thrashed in panic, banging her elbows against the horse’s shoulders.
They reached the cliff’s edge.
Eileen’s stomach churned as grass turned to empty air. Then they were falling, plummeting to their doom.
She found that, after all, she rather desperately wanted to live.
The water swirled restlessly beneath them. Eileen squeezed her eyes shut. She could not bear to watch the surface coming closer, closer. Or worse, the teeth of the hungry rocks, waiting to crush her body and spit it into the sea.
They hit the water with a crash. She gulped in a breath as the sea grabbed her legs, her arms, then closed relentlessly over her head.
She tightened her legs around the horse, the only warm thing in a world of shivering salt. Its withers bunched as it swam. They must be close to the surface. They must.
Lungs clenching with the need to breathe, she tipped her head back and opened her eyes, blinking past the sting and blur.
The wavering moon lapped the water, high overhead. The horse was not struggling toward the surface. Betraying its fey nature, it swam strongly downward, untroubled by the need for air. The surface glimmered, receding, and she could not free herself.
So, it was to be death by drowning after all.
Eileen released her breath in a silver stream of bubbles. They raced away from her lips, uncatchable. Crying, though she could not feel the tears, she laid her cheek against the water horse’s neck. In another moment, she must gulp in the harsh tang of salt water. It would fill her, smother her—but at least it would be a quick end.
“You are brave, for a human.” The words sounded in her head, the voice low and amused.
It was the uncanny creature she rode, speaking to her; or it was her own mind, conjuring up visions as she descended into her doom.
“Release me!” She aimed the thought at the black head bobbing through the water in front of her. “Or do you want a sodden corpse bound to your back for a blanket?”
She must breathe—her body demanded air. Against her will, Eileen’s mouth opened and she gasped in the cold seawater. Choking, she doubled over on the horse’s back as the water invaded the warmth of her throat and stopped her lungs.
Cold, and bitter, the weight of the sea lay heavy on her chest. She was dimly aware of silver spattering the surface above her head.
Then, with a thrust, the horse burst into the air, spray flying in a mighty gout. Eileen leaned over her mount’s neck and heaved up water. She coughed and vomited, the agony in her lungs like a thousand stabbing pins.
Finally, teeth chattering and fingers numb, she pulled in a breath of sweet, sweet air. The horse bore her strongly through the heavy wash of the sea, no longer seeming intent on drowning her.
“Thank you,” she whispered into its thick, black mane.
Her mount veered, swimming toward the rocky beach. Low, shadowed hills rose behind, and further down the coast the cliffs shone. Eileen coughed again and huddled against the horse’s burning heat as the waves shoved against her.
“Do not thank me yet, human girl,” came the reply. “The night is not ended.”
The voice she’d heard beneath the water had not been her imagination. It held the echo of terror, a darkness she did not want to heed too closely.
“What are you?” she asked. “A kelpie?”
Even as she spoke the word, she knew it to be untrue. A kelpie would have taken her directly to the bottom of the sea, delighting in the drowning.
“Nay.”
“Then you are a púca.”
Her aunt had raised her on tales of the fair folk. Indeed, she should have realized her peril far sooner, but fear had blinded her in one eye, and hope in the other.
“Not just any púca. I am Tromluí, shredder of sanity, waker in the night. The longer you remain astride me, the more of your mortal soul you will lose. You should have chosen drowning, girl.”
Eileen shuddered, cold to her marrow.
Better to be trapped on a kelpie’s back. But no, she was astride the NightMare. She might live to see the dawn, but only as a madwoman, chased by stones and suspicion from village to village, cackling in the grip of her lunatic visions.
The mare strode up from the sea, hooves clattering against the stones of the beach. Overhead, the half moon shone, a bowl of whitest milk. At first the air seemed warm, but in moments Eileen’s skin prickled with gooseflesh. Her hair hung in a soggy plait down her back and saltwater dripped into her face, stinging her eyes.
“Will you let me go?” she asked, despairing at the answer.
“Shall I?” The mare’s voice was ice and midnight. “I might climb into the stars and release you there, high above the earth. For a short time you would know what it is to fly.”
The copper taste of desperation flavored Eileen’s mouth. Indeed, she rode a dreadful creature. But she was not dead. Not yet.
Possibilities, sharp and painful, brought her upright, her mind racing. It was perilous to bargain with the fey folk—beyond perilous—but this night was full of wild chance. Already she had escaped death by fire, then by water.
“I will remain upon your back,” she said. “But I demand a boon.”
The NightMare turned her neck, regarding Eileen with an eye the color of moonbeams.
“It amuses me to hear your request. What is it you desire?”
Eileen swallowed and forced her voice to steadiness. “Help me save my beloved, Aidan.”
She had sent his soul spinning from his body, and she must return it. No matter how dire the consequences.
“This is no small thing you ask,” the mare said. “There will be a price, mortal.”
“I will pay,” Eileen said recklessly.
The horse gave a high whinny. Through the clear, still air Eileen heard the ring of chimes.
“Our bargain is sealed,” the mare said. “Now hold fast, for we have far to journey ‘ere the sun rises.”
The NightMare leaped forward, muscles bunching beneath Eileen’s legs. The rocky clatter of the beach fell behind as the mare galloped up the long rise of hills, leaping low stone walls and skirting tangles of briars. Eileen ceased shivering as the night wind dried her dress and the NightMare’s heat seeped into her body.
With every stride, something burned away in Eileen’s blood. She could feel her earliest memories shred and tatter, but she clung tightly to every thought of Aidan.
Near the top of the highest hill, the mare slowed, her hoof beats no longer the frantic race of a pulse but the slow stutter of a dying heart. A dark maw gaped in the side of the hill; the doorway to a barrow grave. Starlight picked out the gray stones outlining the opening, but within was sheer blackness.
As if aware of their presence, a dank wind moved from the depths of that hole. Eileen, her hands freed from the NightMare’s mane, covered her nose at the stench of old, dead things.
A large, flat stone scribed with spirals marked the threshold. The mare raised one hoof and brought it sharply down upon the stone. Bright sparks skittered, followed by a distant, booming echo. Twice more the mare knocked, and each time the sound grew closer, until it vibrated Eileen’s very bones.
The air of the doorway wavered, like a pond stirred by the wind.
“We pass now into the Realm,” the NightMare said. “You must remain on my back, no matter the sights you see or the danger you face. Are you ready?”
“Yes.” The syllable floated up from Eileen’s mouth, a fragile moth lost in the night.
The mare stepped forward. As they passed over the threshold, Eileen felt a terrible pain, as though angry wasps swarmed over her. She bit her lip and drove her fi
ngernails into her palms, determined not to cry out.
Inside the barrow a pallid light spread, illuminating a stone-lined corridor with a corbelled roof. Rank fungus, pale and misshapen, grew along the edge of the flagstone floor and clumped in crevices on the walls. The stinging pain passed, but the clammy air lay heavy against her skin.
She cast a look over her shoulder, straining for one last glimpse of the night sky before the mare bore her deeper in. The stars were tiny pricks of light, washed dim by the moon. Then the opening was blocked by a shambling figure. The barrow light illuminated its skeletal form, ancient skin shriveled tight against the bone. Tattered rags hung from its limbs and a golden torc encircled its neck, marking it as a chieftain of yore.
From the skull-like face, empty sockets regarded her. Deep within lurked a spark of eldritch fire. The corpse opened its mouth in a soundless laugh.
Eileen pivoted away and leaned over the mare’s neck, hoping her mount might hurry, but the NightMare continued her measured pace down the corridor. Another memory untangled itself from Eileen’s mind, flared and burned down to ash.
The echo of hoof beats was soon muted by the slither and scrape of dozens of footsteps.
Throat dry, Eileen glanced behind her again, and smothered a scream. The dead followed, patient in their stalking. Your beloved will soon join us, their tongueless mouths seemed to say.
“No,” she whispered.
The barrow amplified the sound, turning it into a long “ohhh” of despair.
“Quiet,” the mare said. “Or do you wish to bring the bean sidhe for a visit as well?”
Eileen had been afraid before, but this slow, creeping terror held her nearly paralyzed. What if the NightMare chose to stop and allow the restless corpses to touch her with their rotting fingers? Would they merely stroke the resilience of her living flesh, or would they gouge great handfuls, feasting on her in a vain bid to regain their own vitality?
From the avid lights in their eye sockets, she very much feared the latter.
The mare bore her past an opening to her left, filled with the tang of blood and the sighing of the sea. Then an opening to her right, where noxious vapors swirled. Eyes stinging, Eileen buried her face in the crook of her elbow and tried not to inhale. Her heart beat hard and fast, knocking against the fragile prison of her ribs.
She did not need to look back to hear the following dead.
At length, her mount brought her to the central chamber. The pale light revealed crumbling treasures in the corners: rotted linens, tarnished silver set with dully gleaming gems, a golden goblet with one side crushed in as though it had been used as a weapon in some vicious fight.
In the center of the room lay a stone slab, and upon that slab…
“Aidan!”
She swung her leg over the mare’s broad back, and only a shrill whinny of warning made her halt. Mere inches from dismounting, Eileen scrabbled back onto the horse. The dead hissed in disappointment behind her.
Hands trembling with impatience, she forced herself to be still as the NightMare stepped up to the slab.
Aidan lay as if asleep—or lifeless. His eyes were closed, and he was dressed in the raiment of an ancient king, with gold armbands encircling his biceps and thin circlet set upon his brow.
Digging her fingernails into her palms, Eileen watched his chest, straining for a sign of breath. At last, it rose in a long, slow inhalation. She slumped back, tears pricking her eyes.
“He lives,” she whispered.
“Not for long,” the mare replied. “You may step down now, but stay upon the marble verge. Should your foot touch the flagstones, you will be lost, and your love as well.”
Eileen slipped down, placing her feet with care. She cupped Aidan’s cheek.
“Wake, beloved,” she said.
He made no response.
“Aidan, please wake.”
She took his shoulders and shook him, gently at first, then harder as he continued his enchanted slumber. A kiss did not wake him, nor a shout. The echoes of her cry woke strange shadows that skittered across the ceiling, but Aidan slept on.
Throat choked with tears, she turned to the mare. “What shall I do?”
“He has dreamed too long, too far from the mortal world. Tír na nÓg calls to him strongly.”
As if confirming the words, the dead lined up in the chamber stirred and rustled. The fallen chieftain took a step forward. Soon, Aidan would be among their number.
No. She refused to let him slip away.
Eileen gazed at his strong, beloved face. Her heart had long belonged to Aidan, since the first time she met him while picking herbs. He was brave and kind, and deserved a long, full life. And he was lost to her, now, whether she lived or died.
“Lie beside him on the slab,” the mare said, “and take his hand.”
The stone chilled her side, but Aidan’s fingers were warm in hers. She watched the excruciatingly slow rise and fall of his chest. With one finger she traced the slope of his nose, the line of his jaw.
She must sing him back.
Pulling in a breath of grave-cold air, she began. His spirit had traveled far down the road to the West, and the simple waking chant would not be enough. It must be a call home, back to the human world.
Her voice filled the chamber as she sang the heat of summer, the call of the thrush, the taste of ripe berries on the tongue. Every warm, vital memory she once owned, she gave to him, spilling it forth. Each word carried more of her humanity out of the shell of her body and into his. The golden plait over her shoulder leached of color, the strands turning an eerie white.
Slowly, the dead began to dissipate, fading under that mortal onslaught.
Eileen sang of fresh-baked bread, a child’s laughter. The humming feel of her hand clasped in his as they laughed together above the ripening fields.
Aidan’s breathing sped, his cheeks flushed with warmth and color.
Three of the dead remained. Then two. Then only the chieftain. It stared at her, bony fingers wrapped around the golden torc at its neck. The cold malevolence of its will dampened the song, chilled the air to ice.
Shivers gripped her, but she raised her voice, defiant. This time, nothing would stop her.
The last syllables faded. The dead chieftain took another step forward, and Eileen caught her breath. Had she failed?
Then Aidan opened his eyes. Turning his head, he smiled at her so freely she felt her heart break in two. From that crack, the last of her mortal essence seeped. The dark form of the NightMare struck her hoof against the slab.
“Eileen?” Aidan asked, blue eyes clouded with confusion.
“Live well,” she said. “Live long, and happily. I will never forget you.”
“Why would you need to? I’m here, beside you.”
She shook her head, her chest aching with sorrow. “There is no future between us, my love. We must part.”
“No! Marry me, I don’t care about—”
She stopped his words with her lips, a last kiss to carry her into the night. He tasted of apples and sunlight; everything now lost to her.
The dead chieftain howled. The mare’s hoof boomed against the stone. And between one heartbeat and the next, Aidan was gone.
Weeping, Eileen bent her forehead to her knees. The breath of the NightMare was hot upon her nape and the stone beneath her wet with salt, with blood.
Yet she remained.
Wondering, she sat and lifted her hand, curling her long, wraithlike fingers. Had she a mirror, the reflection would bear little resemblance to the human features she had once called her own.
“The price has been paid,” the NightMare said. “And I have a new rider. Come.”
The far wall of the barrow clattered down to reveal a night rich with shadows and starlight, and a wild, fey wind that called them to ride.
Eileen-that-was rose from the stone, her body hollowed nearly weightless, freed of memory, freed of hope. She mounted the black horse.
Toge
ther, they flew forward into that sweet dark.
Elsa Sjunneson-Henry
Edge of The Unknown(Short story)
by Elsa Sjunneson-Henry
Originally Published By Broken Eye Books in the anthology GHOST IN THE COGS
It was a beautiful home. A home with red brick on the outside and a bright blue door. The wisteria and ivy climbing up one side perfectly manicured, and the gate to the front always shines with recent polish. To the society of Primrose Hill, it is known as a proper finishing school for young ladies. They delicately march through the blue front door each morning. It is said that the owner of the building, Miss Iesult Greensleeves, taught her charges all the most important things. How to make a proper social introductions on Hyde Park’s Mechanical Promenade. Which forks to use, and when. Which gloves are appropriate at what occasion, whether or not it is acceptable to use steam powered gadgets to entertain ones guests.
The truth of the matter would certainly curl the neighbors’ hair into perfect ringlets.
Miss Greensleeves’s Finishing School for Young Witches is no more a place for learning about tea service than it is a place to learn about how to turn one’s husband into a newt.
In the parlor, her charges all dressed appropriately in day dresses, each in a different pastel shade. Their bonnets set aside, their hair coiffed in the most recent styles. And each one of them has a wand in their lap and a teacup in their hand. The girls range in age from at youngest, ten, to the eldest, a sixteen-year old witch. Surrounded by prim and frilly flowers, an owlish young lady sat in the corner, her giant spectacles perched upon her nose as she reads the latest Strand magazine. Unlike the rest, she was dressed in a simple tan gown. The others twittered and gossiped about their promenade in Hyde Park, discussing the latest addition: The Steam Carousel which moved faster than any other carousel in the world. She sat apart, reading by herself.
As soon as Miss Greensleeves stepped into the parlor, she counted under her breath to be sure that all her charges were in attendance. She dressed in a deep blue skirt, bustle, and vest and a white high-necked lace blouse. She strode purposefully to the front of the room. With a snap of her fingers, a small tea cart rolled into the room, tiny puffs of steam emanating from the back of it to propel it across the floor.