by Anthology
Bow in hand, arrow at the string but pointing down for the moment, Galen strode out into the sunlight. “What passes here?” he shouted.
One of the blue-clad men stepped forward, his hand open in token of peace. “I am Simon de Clare, in the service of the Count of Cobaltia. We are here to investigate rumors of trouble.”
“There is no trouble here,” said Galen, halting within the edge of the ideal range for a quick shot. “I thank you for your concern, but you are wasting your time.”
“It is our time to waste.” De Clare glanced around the yard, his eyes missing nothing. “You are Galen Chasseur?”
“I am, as anyone in the village could tell you.”
“You are accused of witchcraft and consorting with evil spirits. What say you?”
“Pfah!” Galen scowled. “Who accuses me? I have a right to face him.”
“Only if the accusation is formal. Thus far, it is not. We hope to resolve the situation without requiring such measures.”
“Then I say the accusation is groundless. I know there is a curse at work, but it is none of my doing. We have suffered from it as much as any. I have no grudge against any of my neighbors, nor should they have any cause for a quarrel with me.”
“I see.” De Clare nodded in satisfaction and turned back to Galen. “Well, I am inclined to take the word of such an honest fellow.”
Galen nodded in thankful suspicion.
“Of course…should it be proven that you are not an honest fellow, I would have to reconsider. Which brings me to another matter of concern. I took the time to examine the village rolls before coming here. To my surprise, I found that you have no right to live here, or to hunt in the Fogwood.”
“What? I have land-right and forest-right, clear as day in the village rolls.”
“Ah, but you have those rights by way of your father, who had them from the last King. Have you sworn an oath of fealty for the renewal of those rights?”
“There’s no one to swear fealty to, unless the Heir should return.”
De Clare spread his hands in helplessness. “You see my problem. By law, you are a poacher and a thief, not an honest man at all. So how may I take your word that you are not the cause of the curse afflicting this village?”
“That’s not what the law says, and you know it.”
“Perhaps. I suppose we could take this to the village court. Where the case would be tried by your peers. Most of whom are already half-convinced that you are a sorcerer. Or…” De Clare paused as if in thought.
“Spit it out, man,” said Galen in disgust.
“My master could doubtless resolve all of this, if you were willing to swear fealty to him. Become his man, support his claim to the throne, convince your neighbors to do the same. He will advise the Mayor and the village to let the matter rest. You could make your fortune in his service.”
“I see.” Galen sighed. “All this trouble goes away, and the Count makes me a rich man. All I have to do is become a lying lickspittle like yourself.”
De Clare smiled gently. “You do seem to have grasped the situation.”
“Never.”
“Well. That is too bad, but I shouldn’t take your first reply. Think about the matter while I report back to my master and hear his answer. You have perhaps three days to consider.”
“Three days or three years, my answer will be the same.”
All at once, de Clare’s manner of polished courtesy vanished. “For your own sake, it had better not be. When I return, I will have more than two men with me.”
Then he turned on his heel, the other two following, and strode away.
Galen stood, his bow still in his hand pointing at nothing, until he felt a presence at his side.
“Husband,” Katherine said, “I am proud of you.”
He released the breath he had been holding. “You should not be. I got us into this.”
“No. You are not the one in the wrong.” She hesitated. “Still…I admit to being afraid.”
“So am I, love.”
“What are we going to do?”
He reached out and put an arm around her shoulders. “The only thing we can do. Live each day and look for a way out.”
“Galen…” She sighed. “You are the most unimaginative man I have ever known. Bless you.”
He snorted. “Be that as it may, I still have work to do.”
“Come inside in an hour. I will have fresh bread and broth for you.”
Galen went down to the well, and then to check the fowl-yard. No more of the birds had been slain in the night.
From the cottage, a harsh crack. Then Katherine’s voice, this time full of pain.
When Galen looked back, he saw the roof of his cottage falling in.
He ran.
***
The roof-tree of the cottage had suddenly failed, crashing down to the floor. Galen was able to drag Katherine out to safety. Under his breath, he thanked the Lion she had taken nothing worse than some bruises and a broken arm.
It was almost sunset before Katherine finally fell asleep. Friar Benedictus had done what he could, setting the bone and giving her poultices and a sleeping draught. Yet, even in her sleep, she whimpered with the pain. When the friar emerged from the cottage’s front door, he found Galen sitting on a stool, turning a piece of wood over and over in his hands.
“Dry rot,” said the hunter. “See here, Brother? Just at one end of the roof-tree. So corrupt that it couldn’t hold the weight of the roof in place any longer.”
“A terrible accident,” said Benedictus.
“No accident,” Galen said flatly. “I built this cottage with my own hands. The wood was sound. This much rot, and the frame would not have held the roof in place for an instant.”
“What are you saying?”
“The Fair Folk cannot abide the touch of cold iron, nor can their magic bite upon it. They could not have attacked the iron of the nails that held the frame together. But the wood of the frame itself, that they could corrupt. To cause it to rot, all in an instant, just when my Katherine was standing there in the way.”
Benedictus nodded slowly.
Galen sighed and stood. “Brother, I’m ready to end this now. Will you stand with me?”
“Gladly, my friend.”
Galen cast the scrap of wood aside. He stepped out into the fading light and looked around, as if seeking his enemy. “All right, you damnable creature! Come out and face me. I’m ready to make my first wish.”
The golden-coat hare emerged from behind Galen’s well, where it must have been waiting for just such a pronouncement. It almost wriggled with glee as it hopped across the yard.
“About time,” it said. “You might have avoided so much trouble had you seen reason sooner.”
Galen only spat, missing the hare by inches.
“Rude. So what will your first wish be? Something simple: healing for your wife, game for your bag, forgiveness from your friends? Or will it be more of the usual human greed: gold, land, victory in battle, power over others? So many possibilities. Come now, let’s hear it.”
“You will.” Galen’s fists balled at his sides as he stared at the hare. “I wish for justice.”
The hare ceased to move. Its nose, its whiskers, its ears became absolutely still. Its eyes stopped gleaming with delight and grew dull. It hunched low on its legs, as if hoping to evade notice.
Friar Benedictus breathed a heavy sigh of relief. “Oh, well done, Galen.”
Far off in the distance, they heard a sound of trumpets.
Soon, a procession appeared at the brow of the hill behind Galen’s land, moving with speed and grace toward where the hunter and the hare waited. Handsome men in bright-colored tunics and hose, beautiful women in sheer white gowns, all of them seemed to glow from within despite the failing light of the sun. Galen and Friar Benedictus stood spell-bound, watching that fair company as it approached.
The Fair Folk arrived, their voices like chimes and woodwinds, and sto
pped a few paces off. Their company parted, revealing their leader.
Dwarfish he was, his head not quite coming up to Galen’s heart, but handsome and well-formed as any of his people. His hair was dark as a starless night, his eyes cornflower-blue and shining with merriment. His voice, when he spoke, had the tone of a waldhorn singing alone in the deep forest. “Not long ago as the sunlit lands measure time, I heard rumor of ill-working among my people. I am on my way to Midsummer revels in a faraway land, yet such matters must take precedence. Whom do I see before me?”
The friar stepped forward and bowed. “Lord Alberich, I am Friar Benedictus. This is Galen, a huntsman, who holds himself wronged by one of your subjects.”
The dwarf glanced at Galen for barely a moment, and then his eyes fell on the golden-coat hare. “How now, young Puck? What have you to say to this?”
“I have done this man no wrong,” said the hare with indignation. “Indeed, I have offered him three boons, which he has not the wit to use.”
Friar Benedictus glanced at Galen and felt his eyes widen in surprise. The hunter positively swelled with anger, losing his temper for the first time since anyone could easily recall.
“No wrong?” shouted Galen. “Shall we speak of game scared off, fowl slain, milk soured, grain eaten out of the fields, children stung, elders sickened? Shall we speak of my wife, lying there with a fearsome hurt? Shall we speak of my neighbors turned against me, the Count’s men ready to lay hand on me? And you say I have not been wronged?”
“Have you done all these things, Puck?”
The hare took up a posture of affronted dignity. “Certainly not.”
“They were done at this creature’s bidding,” said Galen.
Alberich looked stern. “Would any these things have come to pass without your will?”
The hare shifted its weight. “Well…no.”
“Then why did you convince others to harm this man, his neighbors, and his wife?”
“Because I owe him three wishes!” The hare looked away. “Two now. You know what I must suffer, with such a debt unpaid.”
“Beware, golden runner in the fields, for I can see to your shivering heart, and I know this to be a lie.” Alberich stepped closer, his face like a thundercloud. “I see no signs of suffering in you at all. Indeed, you seem well-fed, well-groomed, and well-satisfied. Explain this.”
Galen’s eyes narrowed as he watched the hare, a suspicion taking root in his heart.
“I can’t, oh great and terrible lord,” quavered the hare.
“I can,” said Galen.
“Indeed?” said Alberich with surprise. “Please do so.”
“The last time I saw this beast, this Puck, I threw my knife at it. I am a knife-man of no common wit. Where I throw, I strike. Yet, this hare dodged aside in the blink of an eye.”
“Our Puck is no common beast,” said the dwarf.
“Perhaps. But that isn’t all. Before the knife, I had my bow at full draw and had sighted down on the creature. I am an archer of no common wit. Where I shoot, I strike. Yet this hare stood stock-still, as if it had nothing at all to fear.”
“I did have nothing to fear, you fool!” The hare danced from paw to paw in reckless pride.
“Then how is it that you were caught by one of my snares?”
Silence.
“A snare?” asked Alberich in wonder. “Our Puck was caught and held…by a snare?”
“A common snare, made of wood and leather and not an ounce of cold iron,” said Galen. “Yet there it lay, helpless and ready to be slain. Or so it seemed.”
Galen did not expect what came next.
Alberich and all his company laughed.
Galen had heard much laughter in his day, even if he was not normally inclined to join in. Joyful laughter, laughter at a jest, these things he understood. The laughter of the Fair Folk bore nothing of such honest merriment. It spoke instead of inhuman cruelty and spite. It spoke of death, of children starving alone in the forest, of fresh blood bathing a stone under the full moon.
He shivered. May the Lion keep all creatures such as these far away from me. Assuming I live through this night.
He glanced at Benedictus as the laughter died away, seeing the friar’s eyes wide with fear. Then he turned back to the Faerie King.
“You see it now. This creature was never in danger of being caught in my snare. It could have freed itself at any time, by withering the snare as it did my roof-tree. When I freed it, I did nothing it could not have done for itself. It owes me no obligation at all. Every hurt it has done to me and to my neighbors has been an unprovoked crime. Even by your folk’s lights, I think.”
“Indeed,” said Alberich. “My people hold no love for yours, Man, for your greed, your cold iron, and your ravaging of the Earth. But those who cry for justice may not act unjustly in their turn. I deem that to punish you for a harm that never was—well, it is a crime. Puck!”
The golden-coat hare shivered, and then seemed to grow. In the space of two breaths, the hare was gone and a small golden man stood in its place. “I hear, oh terrible King.”
“This is my Doom: you shall wander the Fogwood in the form of a hare, robbed of your voice and your cunning, so that you may learn what it is to be toyed with by greater powers. You shall be left with your swiftness, your fear, and nothing else. So shall it be for a year and a day. If you survive so long, well and done.”
Puck bowed his head. “So be it.”
“You will also hear this Word: never again shall you attempt to force a boon upon any man, neither by force nor by fraud. If you do, be very certain. I will feed you to Shaykosch.”
The golden-skinned man trembled in terror. “I understand.”
“Then go!”
The last of the sun’s light shone on Puck as he returned to his lapine shape. Then, a streak of gold ran through the grass, and he was gone.
“Now, huntsman, justice demands that I make things right.” Alberich peered at Galen, his blue eyes shining with an uncanny light. “What boons would you ask of me to see that done?”
Friar Benedictus gave Galen a warning glance, but the huntsman only gave a grim smile.
“None, my lord, except that all of us harmed by Puck’s malice be made whole.”
“A human with wisdom and lacking in greed,” observed the dwarf. “The Powers Above stand still in amazement at such a sight. So mote it be.”
“Thank you, lord Alberich.”
“Thanks? What need have I of your thanks, Man?”
Galen shrugged. “None, I daresay. But isn’t courtesy always worthwhile?”
“Perhaps.” The dwarf lord smiled.
Alberich turned to his people. “Now then, let us be at our work, so that we may attend our revels on time! Healing to the sick and injured, new beasts brought to those who have lost theirs, wasps tamed and serpents driven aside! Food of the best: meat, cheese, fresh bread and ale, all of a kind good for mortals, for all those who have gone hungry! This cottage rebuilt sounder than before! In every ear, whisper that Galen the huntsman is free of blame, and that the Fair Folk always pay their debts! Be off now, in a twinkling!”
So it was done, and the Fair Folk departed under the first light of the stars. Galen and Katherine invited the friar into their cottage to share of their new bounty.
And did they live happily ever after? Perhaps…but that is another story.
Anna Zumbro
http://www.annazumbro.com
The Pixie Game(Short story)
by Anna Zumbro
Daily Science Fiction
The rain has stopped shortly before the dismissal bell rings, and the ground is spongy and quivering with worms. Someone taps Gage’s shoulder. He spins around and sees Dasha, her mouth upturned at some private joke.
“We’re playing the pixie game. Want to come?”
It’s the third time someone has talked to him at this school and the first time he’s been invited to do anything. He follows her, half running, to the h
edges surrounding the playground.
Iver and Jack are already waiting at the greenest part of the hedge. Gage has never spoken to either of them, but he’s noticed that everyone laughs at Iver’s jokes whether they’re funny or not, that even fifth-graders defer to him in the lunch line.
Iver nods at Dasha and turns to Gage. He grins. “Hey, new kid. You go first.”
“Okay.” Gage approaches the hedge, ready to thrust his hand through the branches on the count of three. “Am I going against you?”
“What? Didn’t you never play before? Show him, Jack.”
Jack puts his face close to the leaves and sticks out his tongue. Gage sees a rustle and a flash of green, then a tiny figure clinging to the tip of Jack’s tongue before it retracts. Jack’s cheeks bulge. His closed mouth forms a crooked line of disgust as his jaw moves up and down. Then he swallows.
“You ate it?” At Gage’s old school, the pixie game meant putting your fingers into the bushes and waiting while the pixies bit and latched on. When you couldn’t take it anymore, you pulled your hand out. If you had more than your opponent, you won. This way wasn’t really a game. It was a dare.
Gage hates the sight of the pixies, with their glassy wings and tiny naked human limbs and horrible red-eyed insect heads. But this is his fifth school, and he knows the price of refusing a dare. He turns his face to the hedge and leans forward.
Even squinting cross-eyed, he can’t see the pixie that bites him. He only feels the tiny fangs pierce his tongue, cold pinpricks like splinters of ice. He gasps and swallows, forgetting to chew. The creature is a lump of limbs and flapping wings in the back of his throat and Gage doubles over, gagging, trying to dislodge it one way or another. It would be okay if he coughed it up. Everyone would at least know he tried.
At last he stands, coughing a few more times to clear his throat.
“Dang, you downed it whole.” Iver slaps him on the arm, and Gage knows he’s in.
***
Dad prepares lamb-and-feta gözleme, Gage’s favorite, for the third night in a row. A sharp pain stabs him in the stomach. It must be obvious that his pants are hanging loose, that his dinners have gone uneaten most nights for the past two weeks despite his artful rearrangements of food.