Spine Shivering Stories!

by Michelle E Lowe

Jack Pack stared into the fire, a wistful look on his face. “Elaine of Corbenic fell in love with poor ole Lancelot. To get him to sleep with her, she twice tricked him into thinking she was Guinevere. She even gave birth to his child, one Galahad by name. When Guinevere discovered this, she cursed Lancelot and he went mad with grief.”

  “I know the story,” Thooranu said. “Later, Elaine finds Lancelot in shambles in her garden. To cure him of his insanity, she lets him drink from the Grail.”

  “Indeed. Rumors of that spread. In order for Elaine and Lancelot to have a life together without being badgered by those wanting the Grail, Elaine handed it over to a holy court, who hid it away.”

  “And that’s when the Trickster, the elf, and the beast bet on who could find it first?”

  “They made the bet long before any of this happened. Each of them was aware of the relic, and when the three attended the funeral of the Fisher King, it became a conversation piece. They knew the Grail would eventually become hidden or lost, as most relics do, and decided that when it did, they would race to find it. The challenge was, however, that they had to only use mortals in their search.”

  “Interesting,” Thooranu admitted. “I am intrigued. What happened?”

  “When he became a young man, Galahad went to King Arthur, offering to serve him. The king put him to the test.”

  “The old sword in the stone, eh?”

  “Indeed, another legend. Now, here is the reason the stories cross paths. A wizard came to Arthur years before and showed him the stone, which was nothing more than a simple boulder by a river. The wizard then presented a sword made from steel that had come from another world. The hilt was wrapped in the hide of a creature that no longer existed, and set inside the pommel was a jewel that once resided far within the earth’s heart. The wizard claimed the sword had come from God.” Jack Pack took a deep draught of his wine, sighing in appreciation of the vintage.

  The wizard sheathed the sword in the stone and said that only the worthiest knight would be able to pull it free, and that knight would serve Arthur well. Arthur, believing that the sword was indeed a holy relic, held an annual ceremony to find that worthy. Once a year, knights would come to pull the sword free. Legend of the sword spread throughout the lands. No one, however, could get the sword out, and after a while, Arthur stopped holding the ceremony.”

  “Then one day, Sir Galahad showed up,” Thooranu surmised.

  “Yes, but he wasn’t a knight then, not until he pulled the sword free.”

  “What made him worthy?”

  “Ah-ah, wait,” Jack Pack said, wagging his finger. “The king proclaimed that Galahad would become one of the Knights of the Round Table. Shortly afterwards, Arthur had a vision about the Grail and ordered a search for it. The king sent three knights: Galahad of course, Sir Bors, and Sir Perceval. The Trickster, the elf, and the Adlet beast had to choose which of the knights would find the Grail. Whoever’s knight found the relic would win the wager. The elf chose Sir Perceval; the Adlet beast chose Sir Bors, and the Trickster chose Galahad.”

  “How did they determine who got which knight?” Thooranu inquired.

  “They went by rank. The Trickster was a god, you see, and being the most powerful, he chose first. The Dökkálfar went next and then the Adlet beast.”

  Thooranu nodded. It made sense.

  Jack Pack continued. “The knights went on with their quest and spent years searching. Then one day, the Trickster became distressed when Sir Bors saved Galahad’s life. To show his gratitude, Galahad traded the sword he’d pulled from the stone with Bors.”

  Thooranu leaned over to pour more wine into his guest’s glass. “So what? After the sword had proven Galahad to Arthur, what other purpose did the thing serve?”

  “Don’t be impatient,” Jack Pack said, holding out his glass until it was full. “The Trickster needed the sword returned to Galahad and he found an opportunity for that to happen. After some time apart, the knights reunited when they came across Perceval’s sister. She brought them to a ship bound for the Wasteland. When they landed, they continued on their journey together. On the way, the Trickster came to them, masquerading as a holy man and said that in order for them to cross the Wasteland, they first needed the blessing of the sick lady. They went to the sick lady’s castle, where the custom was for one of her choosing to drink her blood from a silver dish.” Jack Pack paused for a moment, savoring more of the fragrant wine.

  “What the knights did not know was that anyone who drank the blood would die. The woman chose Bors. Perceval’s sister, who was aware of this custom, offered to drink the blood in his stead. The sick lady allowed it, and when the sister drank, the lady revealed that Perceval’s sister would die and that Bors now owed her for her sacrifice. Bors took it upon himself to uphold the dying sister’s request to be brought back to the city of Sarras. The sick lady then said that because he had allowed this to happen—even though he’d been unaware of the fatal consequences—he no longer was deemed worthy to hold onto the sword from the stone. Guilt drove him to give the sword back to Galahad.”

  “You’re saying that this Trickster had a hand in her death?” Thooranu asked, amazed. “How could he do that? Did he make a bargain with the Fates?”

  “He didn’t. Only if the Fates are absent from their realm can the laws of death and life be changed. However, the Trickster was one of the gifted few who had the ability to bend rules.”

  “I see. If that is so, then why kill Perceval’s sister? Why not let Bors drink the blood?”

  “It would have suited the Trickster just fine except that Bors might have been buried with the sword that had been given to him. It was customary for knights to be buried with their swords and shields. The Trickster had to make certain Galahad got his sword back.”

  “What if the sick lady hadn’t chosen Bors?”

  “She didn’t choose at all. The Trickster had made a deal with her.”

  “And the sister couldn’t just warn Bors?”

  “They had been forbidden to leave until a sacrifice was made—a payment, if you will. Until then, they were bound within the castle walls forever.”

  Thooranu nodded cautiously and gestured for Jack to continue.

  “The sword was returned to its rightful owner and Bors left to take Perceval’s sister’s body back to her homeland,” Jack Pack went on, “leaving only Galahad and Perceval to continue the search for the Grail. After years of adventures, the pair finally came to the court of King Pelles and his son, Eliazar. These two holy men were the Grail’s keepers. They told the knights that only a blessed man, a man of pure heart, could see the Holy Grail. Galahad then presented the sword he had pulled from the stone.”

  “Wait, I thought it was the Sword of David, the one given to him on the ship of faith.”

  “That’s one version of the story, but it’s not true. It was really the sword that proved his salt to King Arthur. The Trickster then won the contest the moment Galahad showed the king and his son the sword.”

  “What?” Thooranu said. “How is that?”

  “It was rather simple, actually,” Jack Pack said with a mischievous smirk. “It was the Trickster who had come to King Arthur with the sword. The wizard presented the sword that he, himself, had forged. In telling the lie that it had come from God, it helped to get the tale out into the world, where it was eventually brought to the attention of the holy court.”

  “Why go through the trouble with the sword?”

  “Well, because of the love affair between Lancelot and Guinevere, Arthur was reluctant to allow the son of the man who stole his woman’s heart to join his circle of knights. The sword convinced the King that Galahad was the knight he needed.”

  “Why did the Trickster want Galahad to be chosen to look for the Grail? Wouldn’t any knight do?”

  “No. Even with the sword, no mere human could be allowed to even see the Grail, which had become so much more than just a fallen star. The sword was designed to release itself from the
stone only by someone with a special bloodline, which Galahad had.”

  “Did this Trickster have a hand in Galahad’s birth?” Thooranu asked, sensing a deeper history to this god’s involvement.

  “Very good guess, young man,” the wanderer praised. “He most certainly did. To win the bet, the Trickster needed a mortal with an edge over the other two knights. He decided to use the love that Elaine had for Lancelot as a means to bring forth said mortal. He’d portrayed himself as a servant girl and told Elaine that if she wanted Lancelot to lay with her, she needed to give him wine and to wear a certain ring. The wine and ring were utterly useless, merely a ruse that gave her the confidence to go forth with the plan. It was the Trickster who’d led Lancelot to believe that it was Guinevere he was laying with. When their son was born, the Trickster made the sword and presented it to King Arthur.”

  “Then the Trickster was pulling the strings the entire time? Why?”

  “To win the bet, my boy.”

  Thooranu snorted. “Not much of a challenge if he was going to cheat.”

  “Oh, but it was. The bet wasn’t just about winning; it was a way for the Trickster to test his scheming skills, and what better way to do that than with a fixed wager?”

  “Huh. So Galahad saw the Grail for himself. What happened then?”

  “Not much; he died.”

  “And who gave Arthur the vision?”

  Jack Pack smiled. “The Trickster, of course.”

  “And the Dökkálfar and the Adlet beast never suspected?”

  “That was the real challenge, being able to do all of that trickery without getting caught.”

  “You mean all that backstabbing, it seems.”

  The wanderer shrugged. “No one said that Tricksters were honest.”

  Thooranu raised his glass, and gave a wry smile. “Well played.”

  They both drank.

  “Who gave you Guinevere’s hair?” Thooranu asked.

  “The Trickster. It was the only thing he requested of her when she asked him to convince Elaine to kill herself, which wasn’t hard seeing how she was utterly heartbroken. Lancelot never stopped loving Guinevere, you know.”

  “So you met the Trickster?”

  “I did, indeed.” Jack Pack took a long drink of wine and turned to Thooranu. “Now, let’s have some of that heart.”

  They spoke for hours on many topics: the places they’d seen, women they’d seduced, and mischievous deeds committed. Several bottles of wine and one jackal later, they were conversing on matters that Thooranu had never discussed with anyone. As the sun began to rise over the sandy hills, Jack Pack told him that he was going to explore the moons of Jupiter and invited him along.

  For the next few years, the two were inseparable. They traveled together, sharing adventures that Thooranu hoped would never end. He felt he’d found a true friend in Jack Pack.

  One hot summer’s day in Greece, they were enjoying coffee at a café when Jack Pack offered a proposal. “Have you ever thought about running a business?”

  “Pardon?” Thooranu said, setting his cup on its saucer. “A business?”

  “I’ve been flirting with the idea for quite some time now. I was once an architect, you know.”

  “An architect?” he chuckled. “Why?”

  “Sometimes I like to grow roots. It’s a change of pace. I like to keep myself busy, and what better way than running a business, eh?”

  Thooranu’s curiosity was piqued. He had never tried such an endeavor. “What sort of business?”

  “I was thinking of a tavern and brothel.”

  “Where?”

  “Here, in Athens. I’ve already picked out a place.”

  Thooranu leaned back in his chair. “A brothel, eh?” he said, rubbing his chin.

  “We’ll only employ the finest women,” Jack Pack added slyly.

  Both the human and incubus side of Thooranu liked that idea and he grinned. “Where is it?”

  Jack Pack took him to an abandoned brick building in Piraeus. Fragments of pottery lay everywhere, and a couple of amphora stood against one wall.

  “It used to be a warehouse,” Jack Pack explained, walking farther inside. “Until last year, when the owner committed suicide after he lost two of his ships.”

  Thooranu imagined how it might be, not as the hollow forgotten place it now was, but as a fully stocked tavern, filled with people drinking and singing. He smelled cigar smoke and heard music. There would be blood on his face from a fight. Once in a while, he’d sneak off with one of the whores for a good fucking. Seeing everything so clearly got him excited. What did he have to lose?

  “What say you?” Jack Pack asked. “Are you game?”

  “Sure. Why the hell not. We can just walk away from it when we’re bored.”

  “Ah,” Jack Pack said, coming back. “That is so, but we need a signed contract for the building.”

  Thooranu’s eyebrows knitted together. “Why?”

  “To make it legal, of course.” He reached into his inside coat pocket.

  “I don’t understand. It isn’t as if it matters if we lose money. I sure as hell don’t care. Why sign a contract?”

  “As you pointed out, we can leave the business anytime we wish. The contract is simply a formality to the owner of the property. It’s meaningless to us, but the mortal I leased the building from needs it.” Jack Pack brought out a rolled up piece of paper. “Have a look and see.”

  Thooranu took the paper and unrolled it. He had never read a legal document before. The single sheet was indeed a lease for the building, the price paid for it each month, and other legal jargon that bored him. Jack’s name was already scrawled in black.

  “How come you’ve already signed it?”

  “I want it,” Jack Pack said. “Do you?”

  Thooranu thought on that for a moment, then turned his eyes back to the contract and to the blank line next to Jack’s signature.

  “You can sign it later, if you want,” Jack said. “I don’t want us to be late for the matinee.”

  Seven against Thebes. Thooranu had nearly forgotten about the play. He checked his pocket watch. It was already one-twenty-three.

  “Got a pen?” he asked.

  Jack Pack smirked and handed over a quill. Thooranu took it and carefully signed his name. Instantly he felt woozy, suddenly weak.

  “What is it?” Jack asked.

  “I’m not sure,” he muttered, almost falling, catching himself against a support beam at the last second. “I feel off somehow.”

  “Oh?” Jack crossed his arms. “Do you feel a bit hollow, as if you’ve just lost something?”

  Thooranu did not like the tone in his friend’s voice. Nevertheless, what Jack Pack had said captured his attention. Something was terribly wrong. He felt a sense of loss.

  “What have you done?” he asked fretfully.

  “It’s not what I’ve done, per se; it’s what you just did.”

  “What?”

  “Look at the contract.”

  Thooranu did so—immediately—as if obeying Jack Pack’s command. He read the contract again, only it wasn’t a deed to the ownership of the building they stood in, but a deed to ownership of him! Thooranu’s name was printed before a statement that he had surrendered his freedom to whoever’s name was on the deed. The other name was none other than Jack Pack.

  “I . . . I don’t understand,” Thooranu stammered. “This isn’t what I just read.”

  Jack began jumping up and down, clapping his hands while laughing. “I got you! I did it! I caught a demon!”

  Reeling from what was happening, Thooranu shifted his wide eyes up to him. “Why have you done this?”

  “Why?” Jack said, stopping his excited jumping. “Because I wanted to. Because I’ve never done it before. You’re my property now, for an entire year. Until the contract expires.”

  Thooranu’s face was stone. He looked at Jack Pack through slitted eyes. When the deed finally expired, he would tear his b
etrayer to bits.

  “Oh, but you won’t,” Jack Pack said, catching his thoughts. “All I need to do is sign my name again.”

  Thooranu was still holding the contact. He tried to rip it to shreds, but his arms locked up. No matter how hard he struggled, he couldn’t tear up the piece of paper.

  “You’re not allowed to do that,” Jack Pack said with a wagging finger. “If you read on, you’ll see why. Also, if the deed is destroyed, you will be forced to destroy yourself in the most painful way that a demon can die.”

  Thooranu lowered the paper. His whole body was numb with shock. “How did you do this?”

  “Well, first I had to gain your trust,” Jack Pack said, taking the paper from Thooranu’s hand. “Then, when the time came, I drew this deed up and put an illusion over it that kept you from seeing the real meaning.”

  “An illusion?”

  Jack Pack winked. “Yes, just like Elaine and Lancelot.”

  “Fiend! You’re the Trickster!”

  “Indeed. And I have succeeded in my scheme.”

  Being a demon, emotions usually didn’t penetrate Thooranu’s cerebral cortex. Yet the human side of him felt the sting of betrayal that this thing, this petty god, had inflicted upon him.

  The Trickster lost his smile. He leaned in closer, his face now only inches from the demon’s.

  “I have you, Thooranu, you’re mine. Until I sell you to the highest bidder.”

  Chapter One

  Mother of Craft

  Spring, 1843

  Mother of Craft’s garden smelled like new life in the fresh afternoon air, growing everything from local to exotic plants; from peas to poppies, orchids to onions, daisies to dwarf apples. The plot was vibrant with its variety of colors, a wonderful little spot in the world overlooking the sea. Her garden was a place where life began. And sometimes where it ended.

  Tarquin Norwich rode up the lane toward the modest cottage. For years, he had come to Mother of Craft, seeking guidance. Today, he’d come with a special request.

  He dismounted. The roan was shiny with sweat. He started for the front door when he spied Mother of Craft on her knees, at work amongst the flowers. She didn’t greet him, continuing to weed. Norwich was allergic to pollen, a fact she knew, and no doubt was why she was waiting for him in the garden. She smirked as he approached, as if she sensed his discomfort.