‘‘If it please Your Grace, Her Majesty is in need of a working of magic. One small to one of your obvious puissance but beyond the reach of her own powers.’’
‘‘Get on with it, girl.’’
‘‘Well, Your Grace, a spell was cast upon her then-unborn daughter, and, oh, Your Grace, they made such a mess of it. Instead of making the girl beautiful, she has a face straight out of a bad dream. They have tried all they know, but nothing has helped.’’
‘‘There would be a price . . .’’
‘‘Her Majesty has told me she is prepared to be generous.’’
‘‘Indeed? I will think on it. Steward, show our guest to suitable quarters and see she is provided for. I will send for her once I have reached a decision.’’
The room Beth found herself in was small but immaculately appointed. She sat down on the edge of the bed and removed her boots. She had a moment of fright when she heard the key turn in the lock behind her and realized that there was no other way out of the room, but they did not seem to intend her harm. She lay back and let herself drowse.
Beth came awake suddenly and would have cried out but for the small hand across her mouth. It was full night, and moonlight streamed through the window slits.
‘‘It’s me, the Puck,’’ a voice whispered in her ear. ‘‘Be as quiet as you can. Put these elf boots on. We’re leaving.’’
Beth struggled to put the strange boots on. Eventually, the Puck gave up and put them on her.
‘‘Now,’’ he whispered. ‘‘Follow my lead. Be quiet. Do what I tell you when I tell you, and we’ll get you out of here.’’
They stepped out between two sleeping guards. The Puck relocked the door and hung the key back on one guard’s belt. Then they slipped into the shadows and away out of the court.
After several miles, she stopped to catch her breath.
‘‘Come on. Come on.’’ The Puck jigged up and down in anxiety. ‘‘We must be well away before day-break. ’’
‘‘I’m not going a step further until you tell me what’s going on.’’
‘‘I heard them talkin’,’’ said the Puck nervously. ‘‘They was going to put you to sleep.’’
‘‘So?’’
‘‘They was arguing whether forty years would be better or fifty.’’
A sudden chill ran up her spine. ‘‘Oh. Thanks are definitely in order, then. And we’d best cover our tracks.’’
‘‘No need while you’re wearing those,’’ he said. ‘‘Best elf boots, them. No noise, no tracks, never slip. The scout I stole them from will be livid. Now come on.’’
‘‘What about the duke’s hounds?’’
‘‘Well, when they wake up, in about a week, the trail will be too cold. Now come on.’’
And so she did.
‘‘You can speak normally now,’’ said the Puck. ‘‘We’re safe here.’’
‘‘Where are we?’’
‘‘Oh, this is just a hidey hole I made for when I need to keep out of sight. Being a Puck means that sometimes you have to avoid certain people until they cool down. First, the water rushing past the end of that corridor is a waterfall. We get water, light, and air that way. Second, that way comes up under a rather large, unruly, and extremely thorny blackberry bush. Third, that way comes up between the roots of a tree, though you’d have to cut your way through some spiderwebbing.’’
‘‘Isn’t anyone who finds one of those going to investigate it?’’
‘‘Not unless they’re a Puck, or one of the wee folk. Yon elves would just think it was a mouse hole. They don’t have size-mastery.’’
‘‘Oh. So I’d be what—half an inch tall?’’ Beth thought about this a moment, and decided not to think about it more, because it made her dizzy. She sat down.
‘‘There’s a bed over there,’’ said the Puck. ‘‘It’s yours as long as we’re here.’’
‘‘Thank you.’’ She moved in the direction indicated, and located the bed by touch. ‘‘Is it always this dark?’’
‘‘At night, yes.’’ The Puck was amused. ‘‘I’ll shut the water door, and then we can light a candle.’’ He did so.
Beth sat on the bed and began to remove the boots. ‘‘I still don’t understand why you’d risk the wrath of one of the great lords of Faery over me,’’ she said.
The Puck nibbled on a fingernail. ‘‘Well,’’ he offered, ‘‘it’s not like I’m unfamiliar with the wrath of great lords. But mostly, it’s for your namesake, Old Beth, your great-grandmother.’’
‘‘Gran’s ma? But she’s long dead.’’
‘‘Oh, I wouldn’t count on that—her being such a fearsome strong woman an’ all. Half the Fae looking after her house think she’s coming back. You know some people called her a witch?’’
‘‘Never to her face, I’ll bet.’’
‘‘No, never that. Not twice, anyway. But I owe her. And it’s one of those unpayable debts.’’
‘‘Why? What’d she do?’’
‘‘She faced down a King of Faery for me.’’
Beth looked at him and raised one eyebrow.
‘‘He’s hunting me seriously—hounds and all. They’ve just about caught me when I see Beth’s door standing open, so I duck inside. Beth takes one look at me and grabs her staff and heads out the door I’d just come in. I hear a few yelps and sneak a look out the window. There’s twenty-odd Fae hounds prowling up and down this white line she’s drawn across her garden. Any of them is at least as big as her. Presently, His Majesty comes trotting up on his gray horse and looks at the line. She tells him it’s a courtesy line, which is to say a line that he can cross if he really wants to but that he can’t cross without crossing her, as it were. Then he demands me, and she tells him no, that I am under her protection, and that he may not hunt me, or anyone else for that matter, on her land without her permission. And at that time, the Fae reckoned her territory as stretching at least ten leagues in every direction from her house. She lets him bluster and threaten a bit as his retainers come trotting up, and then she looks at them and tells him, yes, his hunting pack is a pretty fair imitation of the Wild Hunt, but if he doesn’t get those horses and hounds out of her vegetable patch quick smart, he’ll get a much closer look at the real thing than he really wants. His Majesty tries to stare her down, but she just lifts one eyebrow and smiles slightly in that dangerous way she had. He jerks his horse’s head around and heads off with all his retainers and other hounds behind him. And you know what? She never even asks me what I’ve done.’’
‘‘And what had you done?’’
‘‘Well, the king has been romancing this sweet thing for months, and finally she gives in, and the two sneak off to the royal bedroom, only to discover that some evil person has short-sheeted the royal bed.’’
‘‘Oh. And the king didn’t think that was funny?’’
‘‘I thought it was hilarious.’’
‘‘You would. And, of course, you got blamed.’’
‘‘As is only right, seein’ as I’m the one what done it. A Puck’s got his pride.’’
Beth laughed. ‘‘You’re mad, I vow. Completely off your rocker.’’
The Puck leaped to his feet and gave her an extravagant bow. ‘‘Why thank you, Mistress. ’Tis the nicest thing anyone’s said about me these many years.’’ When Beth’s giggles had subsided, he added quietly, ‘‘You know, you’re not going to be able to go back.’’
‘‘What?’’ Beth said, momentarily stunned by the rapid change. ‘‘What do you mean?’’
‘‘I mean that if you go back to Grimley-on-Tyde, you’ll find all your old friends aren’t your friends any more. You’ll be the strange one, the one who left the village, and talked back to the queen, and went to Faery. And they’ll never quite believe any of it, but they’ll make those signs they think ward off evil when you walk past.’’
Beth’s eyes filled with tears. ‘‘I know,’’ she whispered.
‘‘And when that happens,�
��’ the Puck went on, ‘‘you’ll have two choices. You can run away before they stone you, or . . .’’ and he posed dramatically for a moment ‘‘. . . you can move into your great-grandmother’s cottage.’’
‘‘I don’t understand. How would that help?’’
‘‘Ah, now listen to the Puck, for he is mad. Completely off his rocker. Fear and respect are but two sides of the same coin. The one will get you stoned; the other gets you a place in the world. Your great-grandmother was a Wise Woman, and a wise woman as well. It is a place in the human world that will let you be strange, nay, even requires it in some measure. Moving into that house would be a declaration that you are to be treated with respect.’’
‘‘Does it still stand?’’
‘‘Oh, aye, did I not tell ye there were Fae looking after the house? And half of them expecting her back? And you were named for her, because you were born shortly after she died. And half those Fae suspect there is more of Old Beth in you than would be accounted for by bloodline.’’
‘‘And what do you think?’’
‘‘I think that it doesn’t matter. Even if you were Old Beth come again in her entirety, you’re still yourself, and that’s as it should be. And you’ll be a great Wise Woman.’’
‘‘How can you be so sure?’’
‘‘Because I’ll make sure. And, of course, because I’m mad. Completely off my rocker. Didn’t a Wise Woman just tell me so?’’
She heaved a chunk of moss at him and rolled over, knowing she’d’ve missed. ‘‘Good night.’’
She did not hear him leave, but then, he was, after all, a Puck.
Beth awoke to a strange crunching sound. She carefully rolled over to locate the source. The donkey rolled one eye at her but left his muzzle in the bucket of oats.
‘‘How did you get here?’’ she asked.
‘‘I stole him, of course,’’ said the Puck, sauntering into the cavern and perching himself on a rock. ‘‘And seeing as there was no pursuit yet, I brought him here. And as to your next question, don’t ask, because I ain’t tellin’. Just take it from me that following the tracks he left is a waste of time."
"So what now?"
‘‘Now, we wait until the hunt dies down. Should be only a few days. Make yourself comfortable.’’
‘‘Then what?’’
‘‘Then we go looking for a mage again. Only it can’t be an elf, because the duke will have alerted them all.’’
‘‘Doesn’t he have any enemies?’’
‘‘Oh, plenty, but they’re just as nasty as he is, or worse. And it won’t be so easy to escape a second time. They weren’t really expecting you to up and go, because it never occurred to them that I might help you. They know better now.’’
‘‘So who do we try next?’’
‘‘Well, it’s no use asking a unicorn. They don’t like traveling out of Faery. And they can’t do magic, only undo it, so if the girl is naturally ugly, that’s how she’d end up.’’ He scratched his head thoughtfully. ‘‘I think your best bet is a dragon. They’re powerful, very magical, and don’t care what elves think. Yes, a dragon would be best.’’
‘‘Ah, don’t they eat people?’’
‘‘Yes, but they’re intelligent. No self-respecting dragon would eat a person who could deliver them half a dozen oxen, and I imagine your queen would gladly give every ox in the country for this little job. And they’re quite protective of their own offspring, so they can understand a parent’s concern, which gives us a slight advantage. And don’t forget they’re vain. You can use that.’’
‘‘I see.’’
‘‘Just don’t irritate the dragon, and you should be able to rely on its greed to see you through. But cheat one, insult it, steal from it, or try to harm it or its offspring in any way, and that dragon won’t be happy until you’ve met a gruesome death.’’
‘‘Such as being a dragon’s breakfast.’’
‘‘Exactly!’’
A fortnight saw them in the foothills of the mountains, approaching the lair of the dragon Fwooshka.
‘‘I’d better change back to my old boots soon. Wouldn’t want him thinking we were sneaking up.’’
‘‘Good thinking.’’
Her steps still sounded disturbingly loud to Beth by the time they crested the final rise, and there, basking in the sunlight near the opening of a cavern, was a large dragon, which Beth correctly took to be Fwooshka.
The Puck pointed toward a rock entirely too close to the dragon. ‘‘We’ll just sit down there until he wakes up.’’
The donkey sensibly declined to follow, so they led him back over the ridge before making their way down to their chosen seating.
No sooner had the Puck sat down than an eye snapped open. The dragon sat up and stared at the Puck. ‘‘Why are you here? Could it be that you have brought me a ssssnack?’’ He eyed Beth hungrily.
‘‘Oh, no, Great Fwooshka! I have come to you with a rich proposition befitting your magnificent self,’’ Beth said quickly. ‘‘There will be many oxen in it for you, and gold.’’
‘‘Oxsssen? Gold? Magnifissscent!’’ Fwooshka polished a claw against one massive shoulder. ‘‘I approve of your mannersss, human, and sssssince you do not offend as much as mossst of your unattractive speciesss, you may continue. Go on.’’
So she did, and they haggled, and finally agreed that, for a fee of eight oxen, the dragon Fwooshka would fly to the mortal lands on the night of the next full moon, and there he would inspect the princess and then negotiate directly with the queen for the correction of the spell.
The queen was mightily pleased with herself. For a few dozen oxen and a mere hundredweight of gold, the dragon had agreed to remove all the existing enchantments from the princess and then to make her beautiful. The only hard bit would be getting the gold out of those priests, but she could take it from the royal coffers and deal with them later.
The peasant girl had been granted the patch of abandoned land she had requested and sent on her way laden with gifts.
The oxen had already been set free in the wilds for the dragon to collect at his leisure. All she had to do now was get the gold to the agreed clearing in the forest on the night of the new moon and leave Jewel there alone with the dragon while he worked his magic. And the next morning, her little Jewel would be beautiful. She could make plans . . .
The queen and her ladies-in-waiting approached the clearing. The ladies wanted to be done and return to civilization, but the queen was more anxious to see her now beautiful heir. She needed to know the exact appearance of the princess, so she could choose which of the neighboring kings to offer her to. Red hair would be good—that would attract the lust of King Randolph, and his kingdom was large and rich and adjoined her own.
Anxiously, the women entered the clearing. The gold was, of course, gone. They looked around and spotted something.
‘‘Aww . . . what a cute little dragon,’’ said one of the ladies.
‘‘Such exquisite patterning!’’ enthused a second.
‘‘She’s beautiful. Just look at the way the light plays on those iridescent scales,’’ said a third.
‘‘But where is the princess?’’ demanded the Queen.
It was some minutes before the awful truth occurred to her.
Narrator: The queen and Beth received exactly what they asked for, so was this technically a misspell? Alas, only the lovely princess could say for sure . . . and she’s declined to be interviewed. Something about oxen and gold.
KEVIN MACLEAN lives in Auckland, New Zealand. He gives his profession as freelance computer geek. His short fiction has been featured in Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine, Millennium Nights, Summoned to Destiny, and a number of Pipers Ash collections. He is currently working on a novel that he describes as ‘‘very strange,’’ which, considering he considers H. P. Lovecraft’s work ‘‘normal,’’ is somewhat worrying.
Cybermancer
Janet Elizabeth Chase
N
arrator: Sisters, sisters. There were never such devoted sisters. Old song. Enduring sentiment. Or is it? Witness the plight of Epiphany Jones, cybermancer extraordinaire, when her flesh and blood comes to call.
The Aether was singing its song to me again. With my headphones on I didn’t hear the knocking. The pounding I heard. When I opened the door, I nearly slammed it shut again. It was my sister. My younger sister, and she had a suitcase.
‘‘So what’d you do this time?’’ I held the door open only to my shoulder. Slamming was still an option.
‘‘Got caught at a rave,’’ she said plainly. ‘‘Things are a little tense at home right now.’’
‘‘No kidding. What else?’’
‘‘Nothing.’’ She sounded defensive. ‘‘Mom and Dad didn’t appreciate me calling them from the police station.’’
‘‘I can see how that might make them upset.’’ She knew a call to me would have meant a night spent in a holding cell at juvenile hall.
‘‘Well?’’ Exasperation.
‘‘Well what?’’ I wasn’t going to make it that easy.
‘‘Can I come in?’’
‘‘Want to give me one reason why?’’
‘‘We’re sisters.’’
‘‘That’s never mattered before.’’ And it hadn’t. Bernie, Bernadette on her birth certificate, and I had never been close. My parents thought it was our difference in age. We’re seven years apart. My sister and I knew it was because we quite simply didn’t like each other.
I stared at her for a minute before turning around and walking back into my apartment. I left the door open.
‘‘I’m surprised Mom didn’t just give you the key,’’ I growled. My mother had a key to my apartment for ‘‘emergencies.’’ ‘‘Put your stuff in the spare room.’’ I headed for the fridge and a beer. ‘‘And close the door, Bernie.’’
Bernie was barely seventeen. Of the two of us, I’ve been the least problematic, even with my chosen profession. My name is Eppie Jones, Epiphany on my birth certificate. I am a practicing Cybermancer. I deal in cyber-divination and demon summoning. I work in the Aether, known as Hel to its inhabitants. What you’d call the Internet. My sister, on the other hand, has no notable skills other the aforementioned stress-inducing ability toward parents.
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