Bayou Fairy Tale

by Lex Chase

  Taylor raised his fist to Ringo, and Ringo bumped his tiny fist to Taylor’s knuckle. They withdrew and fanned their fingers in unison. “Fah-lah-lala-lah,” they said together.

  Corentin smirked as they sealed their pact.

  They sat in silence as the investors continued to bicker. The product designer might or might not have already shit his pants at the amount of money being tossed around and taken away.

  Corentin didn’t know if he should interrupt them and ruin the moment. They were cute this way. Ringo had been Taylor’s fairy godfather and conscience from birth. He was a terrible, albeit hilarious, enabler and the bad best friend whom parents warned their children about.

  The investors seemed to near the end of their bickering. Ringo crossed his fingers, followed by his arms, and then his legs.

  “C’mon, Cuban. I’ve got five bucks riding on this. Daddy needs a new shammy,” Ringo growled.

  “Lori’s got it. Give it up. I’ll take those five bucks now.” Taylor gave a lopsided grin.

  “Shh!” Ringo ground his heel into Taylor’s scalp. “You’re just trying to psych me out.”

  “Bet you ten it’s Herjavec,” Corentin said, finally breaking the moment from the doorway.

  “Pfft!” Ringo waved a dismissive hand. “You might as well kiss that good-bye. I can get two shammies for that.”

  Corentin furrowed his brows. “Why do you even need a shammy?”

  “Taylor knows.” Ringo crossed his arms and turned up his nose.

  “It’s the principle of the thing,” Taylor explained without looking up.

  “Damn right.” Ringo gave a decisive nod.

  Right when the investors were about to reach a decision, Taylor lifted two fingers like a mock gun at the TV. “Aaaaannnnddd…,” he said in a singsong, and as the dramatic music reached a fever pitch, the Shark Tank graphic of great whites circling above a dollar bill cut in. “Commercial,” Taylor said and mimicked his finger gun going off.

  Ringo tossed up his hands. “Dammit! Suspense!”

  Corentin finally entered into the hallowed ground known as the living room turned gambling hall. He stood off to the left of Taylor because Storyteller forbid Ringo miss a moment of TV. Corentin held out his hand to Taylor, they linked fingers, and Taylor gave him an amused once-over. Corentin studied Taylor’s face as he made a childish swing with their hands.

  Taylor was a strange beauty. His soft face made him look younger than he was. And his peach-pink eyes were such a stark color, they looked bigger than they were. But he was all elbows and knees elsewhere. Lithe, but not bony, and not a hint of muscle on him, yet Taylor had a consistently mean right hook now that Corentin had taught him. Taylor had a hidden strength wrapped in a deceptively small package. Corentin licked his bottom lip as they watched each other.

  Taylor arched a brow. “Really? Again?” he asked flatly.

  Corentin blinked out of his daydream. “I wasn’t thinking about that. Seriously.” He swallowed, halfway baffled that Taylor misread him—or perhaps Taylor read him correctly.

  Taylor narrowed his eyes and then made a pointed glance at Corentin’s crotch. “Uh. Huh.” He made a wide, sarcastic grin. “I swear you just like fucking my mouth more than my ass.”

  Ringo slapped his hands over his ears. “Fahlalalalalalaaaanotlisteeeeniiiing!”

  Corentin flushed from the idle thought. “Anyway.” He cleared his throat. “I’m going back to bed. I know it’s useless to tell you not to stay up too late.”

  Taylor licked the end of his straw in a purposely sexual way and slurped his chamomile tea. He tilted his head back with a moan and licked his lips.

  Corentin’s stomach tightened, and he clenched his teeth. “Knock it off, dammit. I actually need sleep.”

  Taylor pursed his lips into a pout. “Spoilsport.”

  Corentin groaned in frustration, sexual and otherwise, as he stalked away. “Had I known you’d have a raging sex drive, I would have rethought taking your virginity.”

  Taylor puffed a sigh. “Do you think I like getting turned on at the drop of a hat?”

  Ringo blinked at the TV and took his hands from his ears. “Ooh! Ooh! It’s—”

  “Considering how many sex toys we have hidden around the house, I think the princess doth protest too much,” Corentin said as he headed back to the bedroom.

  “Fuck!” Ringo squeaked and slapped his hands over his ears. “Happy place. Happy place.”

  Taylor seemed to give him a proud smirk, like he knew something Corentin didn’t. “I wouldn’t look at page 696 in your journal with anyone looking over your shoulder, by the way.”

  Corentin pressed his lips together in confusion. He gave a slight shake of the head.

  “There’s pictures.” Taylor winked.

  Corentin tossed his head back with a loud, annoyed groan. “Good night, Taylor. Please don’t fuck me in my sleep.”

  “Is that a hint?” Taylor asked a little too eagerly.

  “Maybe,” Corentin said, pointing a finger as he looked into the bedroom. But his gaze went to the adjoining bathroom, and the old journal’s whispers beckoned.

  Over his shoulder, he heard Ringo mutter, “Is it safe yet? I swear to Storyteller, guys, if Honeysuckle and I didn’t live here, you’d be walking around with your wangs hanging out 24-7.”

  Taylor guffawed. “What can I say? It must be a princess mating season thing. I could be in heat or something, y’know?”

  The fact that Taylor’s tone seemed like he was asking a serious question startled Corentin away from the journal’s whispers.

  Ringo grunted. “There’s no princess heat thing,” he scolded. “You’re just a constant bundle of hormones.”

  “I think you’re full of shit,” Taylor said. “There is so a princess heat thing. Because I say so. Corentin will back me up on it. Right?”

  Corentin heard Taylor say something, but it was just a wave of dull noise. In place of Taylor’s voice, the hissing whispers and the click-clacking of fanged maws urged Corentin toward the bathroom. His fingers twitched with spasms, as if already feeling over the words. Step by step, the journal dragged him on.

  “Right?” Taylor called again, his voice like a beacon, pulling Corentin out of his darkness.

  “Right,” Corentin called back over his shoulder, unsure what he was agreeing about. He turned the bathroom doorknob and took one step in.

  “Aw hell naw,” Ringo whined in the distance. “Herjavec totally invested in the shammy!”

  With a careful click, Corentin shut the bathroom door behind him. The darkness took hold. Corentin’s silhouette watched him from the mirror. The fingers on his right hand bent and flexed, wracked with seizures. He bit his lip. It wasn’t that he wanted to read the journal. His fingers insisted on touching the words of a man he couldn’t remember. Corentin kept his arms at his sides and concentrated on keeping the right one still.

  In the mirror, his reflection grinned. His smile gleamed like a scalpel. He crooked a finger, beckoning Corentin closer.

  Corentin swallowed hard and flexed his fingers. The spasms shot up his right arm, into the elbow. His hand shot forward under its own power, yanking a self-aware Corentin with it. It flung the medicine cabinet open, and Corentin used his left to protect the mirror from shattering into the wall.

  His thoughts were his own, but his hand had declared mutiny. Corentin gnashed his teeth, holding in his panic. Slam the cabinet shut, he told himself. Walk away. Leave it!

  But as he stood there, panting for breath in the dark bathroom, he looked into the secret alcove at the journal, and the thing almost looked like it breathed on its own.

  Exposed like an old festering wound, the journal’s hissing whispers became clear as they grew into raging winds and the drag of a blade across a whetting stone. The warning clicks of teeth became the rattles of chains and squeals of protest.

  Sweat beaded on Corentin’s forehead. He couldn’t do this. He wanted to. Storyteller That Be, he wanted to. His resolv
e was as flimsy as Ringo’s coveted shammy.

  He took the journal and settled on the edge of the tub. His right hand petted the journal with hard, determined strokes, as if petting a dog into submission. Did his psyche find comfort in the long knife gouges? What of the blood stains and embedded hair? What was that a mark of? Self-defense? Or a trophy?

  This journal was angry and written from a place of rage and chaos.

  “Storyteller, forgive me…,” he whimpered, unsure to whom he should apologize. Perhaps his own damning curiosity.

  He unhooked the bungee cord, and the cover fell open.

  Slamming his right hand to the words, Corentin’s mind ignited.

  Chapter 8: Hello, Darkness, My Old Friend

  February 26, 2006

  Krewe of Endymion Mardi Gras Parade, New Orleans, Louisiana

  CORENTIN CRASHED into a mud puddle on the alley pavement, landing hard on his shoulder. He spat out the dirty water in his mouth. The smell of piss, vomit, and Pine-Sol hit him first. As he wiped the muck from his eyes, he discovered he was a long way from the safety of the Enchanted Forest.

  He shakily stood, getting his bearings. Droplets of humidity slicked the alleyway bricks, and trash bags rustled at his feet. A rat skittered between his legs, then disappeared behind a dumpster. The flies buzzed, flicking against his face.

  Corentin furrowed his brows. Where was he and why was he fully dressed? He went to the Enchanted Forest naked, like a newborn learning his first thoughts. Perhaps he was a visitor here. He found his smartphone in his pocket, along with his pocket knife. But the smartphone’s screen was only an unintelligible blur of colors. He blinked, held out his phone at arm’s length, and then brought it to his face. Nothing focused. The knife was even more of a curiosity. The outer red plates were screwed together, but the assortment of tools was missing.

  No method of contacting the outside world, and no method of self-defense. He didn’t think those things mattered in a place like this. It was merely a collection of memories, and his psyche had traveled here. His physical body was sitting on the edge of the tub, reading this book in silence. No physical harm would come to him, of that he was certain.

  At the left end of the alley, garish lights flashed and swirled like a beacon leading him on. He followed it, and once he got closer, the thumping bass of music and the cheers of partygoers piqued his curiosity.

  Corentin stepped out of the alley and found himself amid an ocean of drunken revelers in the middle of a Mardi Gras parade on a sticky, humid night in New Orleans. He ducked when a clunky string of plastic beads went sailing over his head and into the hand of a woman all too proud for showing her breasts.

  Purple, green, and gold plastic cups clattered over the asphalt and bounced off spectators’ heads. The children scrambled like an ocean of rats, trapping him in place as they greedily snatched the cups from the ground.

  A long line of Krewe of Endymion parade floats drifted down the street. A random collection of obnoxious sounds blared from a float decorated in a Wizard of Oz theme. At the mast, a giant animatronic Wicked Witch of the West cackled with a metallic shrill over the loudspeakers.

  Corentin turned away and slapped his hands over his ears, trying to block the head-splitting noise. He stumbled back and tripped over one of the children. He fell against a drunken man with a neck full of beads. The man scowled before letting Corentin hit the pavement. His breath burst from his lungs as he landed flat on his back. Self-preservation took over. Corentin scrambled to his feet and scurried to the back of the crowd.

  He assumed a safe vantage point by climbing a lamppost. Where was the man who collected these memories? His conscience had to be here somewhere among the crowd. The man with his face, the one to tell him the meaning of all of this, was here somewhere. That is, if this man had his face at all.

  Another round of beads whizzed past his ear and fluttered through his hair. The screams, the chants, and the laughter were like trumpet fanfare deep inside his head, throbbing in his chest.

  “What are you doing, buddy?”

  Corentin continued to scan the crowd.

  “Hey,” the man said again and swatted Corentin on the ankle.

  Corentin startled and looked down. He pressed his lips together as he met the gaze of an annoyed National Guardsman brandishing a rather imposing rifle.

  “Sorry,” Corentin mumbled as he hopped down, landing within breathing space of the more burly man. “Just wanted a better view, y’know?” He didn’t entirely lie.

  “Safety first, man,” the man said, seeming to scan Corentin’s face. Did he recognize him? Was his double actually here?

  Corentin didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Judging by way the guy raised his eyebrow, it wasn’t good. The oddity that he could interact with his past self’s memories was something of a curiosity. His double wasn’t present to explain everything to him. This journal wanted him to see it for himself. But why?

  A cannon boomed over the crowd and the crowd squealed. Birds scattered from the rooftops in a cawing calamity. The National Guardsman turned on his heel, distracted by the sound. Corentin’s attention went elsewhere as a single bird didn’t stir from its perch from the So Good trinket shop across the street.

  But it was too big to be a bird. Much too big. Corentin nodded to himself. The keeper of the journal looked down upon it all from the pastel pink jewelry shop, surveying his kingdom like a distant god.

  Corentin started forward, weaving through the crowd. He regrettably pushed the wrong woman into a nearby barricade, who in turn tipped off the nearby New Orleans police. Corentin ducked and slowed his pace. Inching his way through the crowd, he hoped to throw off suspicion. He kept his attention on his double. Corentin had to get there, somehow. But his double leaped from the roof and sailed across the street to the next. Corentin turned back to the alley and chased after.

  At the other end, a National Guard Humvee roared as it patrolled the streets. Next to him the Voodoo Mart’s windows remained boarded up and spray-painted with the words We’re Open!

  Giant white FEMA semitrucks sat parked on the road and secured for the night. Just as Corentin felt bold enough to step out into view, two police cruisers zipped by, blaring their sirens. He danced back, waiting for all of the activity to pass. The darkness faded in and the streetlights flickered, barely casting enough light beyond a few feet radius. Corentin searched the skies for his twin.

  Nothing.

  “Come on…,” he whispered and gritted his teeth. He jogged a few feet to the left and then the right, like an anxious cat. His gaze darted from rooftop to rooftop. “Come on.”

  No sooner did he turn his attentions to the ground than a woman crashed into him. He snatched her around the middle before she could tumble to the ground.

  Their eyes met, and Corentin swallowed.

  Her honey-yellow eyes rounded in horror, and her metallic gold mascara had been long ruined by her tears. Her shimmering gold lipstick had been smeared back to her ear across her milk-pale skin. Her paper-white hair was a mess of tangles around her face. Corentin noticed the skin around her neck and wrists had been rubbed raw and bore the purpling of deep bruising. And her gold-tipped fingernails were broken and bloody. She put up one hell of a fight to escape something she probably wouldn’t have otherwise.

  “Let me go!” She flailed and yanked against Corentin’s grasp. “Please!”

  Corentin kept hold. “What’s wrong?” he asked her in a soothing tone. “I can help you.”

  The way she looked at him, Corentin recognized her knowledge that she was going to die. He knew the familiar prickling warmth on the back of his neck that he felt when someone reached full awareness that their time had come.

  But she fought him. She would not be denied the chance to escape.

  “Please…,” she whimpered, her tears returned. “Please, don’t kill me. Please. Please!” In his moment of confusion, she yanked out of Corentin’s grasp but misjudged the force and collapsed
to the sidewalk. “Please,” she begged. “Please… I’ll tell any story you’d like. Please. Is that it? A story? I’ll tell the grandest epic!” Tears streamed through her mascara and drew sparkling trails down her cheeks.

  Corentin raised a finger, and she wailed. This girl knew the extent of watching her world end one second at a time.

  “You’re a Storyteller?” he asked, and she screamed.

  “I’m sorry!” she shrieked. “I’ll do anything. Please. Anything.”

  Fear flooded Corentin’s lungs and swallowed his heart. He took a hesitant step back. This journal was going in a direction he didn’t know if he was ready to deal with. His urge to step away and the urge to find out warred with his judgment.

  He had to stop this madness, and he had to stop his own sick curiosity before Taylor found him in the bathroom under the journal’s trance.

  He needed to see it through. All he had seen was this woman and the throng of revelers who seemed not to notice or care about her. Where was his double? The one who kept these memories? Corentin had come so far; he needed to meet him and get answers.

  This journal was a story of tragedy. Corentin had known that going in.

  But whose tragedy was it?

  In the distance behind him, sick laughter shot through the darkness. He turned and froze.

  The man who had his face lumbered slowly down the sidewalk. He held his side with one hand, and blood seeped through his fingers and stained his flannel shirt. More blood stained his face, a concentrated splatter at his temple, and then finer droplets over his nose, eyes, and opposite cheek. Corentin’s double grinned, his eyes dilated like a shark closing in on his prey.

  The double licked his lips as the unmistakable black tendrils of Corentin’s Cronespawn magic bled from his hand and down the shaft of his axe. The axehead ground on the sidewalk. Orange sparks bounced over the concrete, illuminating his double’s limping steps.

  She had wounded him. But not enough to stop him.

  Corentin put himself between the Storyteller and his own terrifying double.