Dark Valentines

by Mark Onspaugh

  A chill went through him as she said his name, and it was a shiver of both of fear and desire. The latter urged him to accept her invitation. Obviously she was an enchantress; would it not be politic for him to do as she asked?

  But Mùirne appeared in his mind, her hair neither as long or lustrous, her face not as perfect and her form not as pleasing. Still, he loved her with all his heart, aye, and he would not betray their vows this night or any other.

  “I cannot stay, good lady, for I am promised to another.”

  “All who battle are wed to me the moment they take up sword or lance. Our marriage bed is the battlefield and our union is consummated with the blood of the enemy.” She said this with a flicker of a smile, and in that smile he saw the predatory gleam of a wolf’s teeth.

  “You are Morrigan, then,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper.

  “Aye, and it is pleasing to hear my name pass such sweet lips,” she said.

  She held out her arms to him. “Come, my brave warrior, rest a while within the bounds of these sentinels. Let me tend to your wounds and wrap you within the soft strength of my embrace.”

  Sionn wanted her, and all thoughts of Mùirne were swept away in the urging of his lust. He took a step toward the circle of stones and the war goddess. Morrigan smiled, the wolf gone from her aspect, leaving only a woman of unsurpassed beauty. Sionn stretched forth his hand to take hers, and the moonlight fell upon the favor of his beloved, that humble ribbon he had won for her at the games two summers ago.

  Looking at it, he could only see Mùirne’s face, and the hurt such infidelity would bring to her. And were she to never know? Aye, he would and ever after would never look upon her without feelings of guilt and reprisal. Would he poison the very water that gave him life?

  Sionn withdrew his hand, and now Morrigan frowned.

  “I ask your forgiveness, Lady,” he said. “I cannot break the vows I have made, even for one such as you.”

  Morrigan nodded, though he was sure she meant to strike him dead.

  “Not many have the will to refuse the cup I offer,” she said. “May your love last forever, and your strength never waver. Rest here and I will trouble you no more.”

  Sionn felt a great weight of fatigue settle upon him. Would not an hour of two of sleep bring him renewed strength?

  Sionn bowed to her, then stepped within the ring of stones. He lay down in the cool grass that grew there, and she knelt and smoothed the hair from his brow. All the ache of his wound disappeared, and he smiled in gratitude.

  “Sleep,” she said, and he closed his eyes.

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  When Sionn awoke, he found himself under water. Panicking, he struggled to the surface, though his body felt sluggish and unresponsive. He broke the surface gasping, and saw now that he was in a vast peat bog, nearly a hundred feet from solid ground. He struggled through the water, which at times seemed as thick as porridge. The morass attempted to pull him under, and he only reached the shore through a titanic effort. Finally, he heaved himself up onto the ground like a bull struggling from thick mud. He turned over on his back, breathing in great draughts of air.

  He was surprised to see that the moon was barely risen. Had he slept through the day? He rose to his feet, his joints stiff and protesting. He felt leaden, almost intoxicated, and wondered if Morrigan had given him some potion.

  He looked around and was further mystified to find that the circle of stones was gone.

  Who had moved him while he had slept?

  There was a road to his left and he made for it. From the position of the stars he could see that the road went in the right direction.

  The road was strange, indeed.

  It was hard and black, made of some substance he had never seen. A white line was painted down its center.

  Was this some dark magick? Perhaps a road to the Underworld?

  And the stars, weren’t they a bit… off?

  That was nonsense. He had never heard of any witch that could change the stars, goddess or no.

  He decided to take the road, for it was easier to travel than the bogs on either side of it.

  Sionn walked most of that night. Once he left the bog, his strength returned and he kept up a steady pace. He seemed tireless, and was anxious to end his journey.

  The bog gave way to fields of tall grass and then rowan trees, their bright red blossoms making him ache even more to find his own front door.

  It was once again near three in the morning when Sionn MacDuff returned to Wemyss in Fife. Though he found the castle of his uncle, it was ruined and deserted, much of its grandeur lost to some great cataclysm. A fence of metal surrounded it, and there were characters on a sign affixed to that barrier that he did not understand.

  What sorcery was this?

  Feeling sick at heart, he ran with all his strength for home.

  He reached the place of his birth as the sun was rising, passing buildings unlike any he had ever seen, and objects of which he had no knowledge or comprehension.

  His home was gone.

  In its place was yet another smooth-sided building of many angles with great, clear sides. Metal structures nearly as tall as a man seemed to stand as sentinels before it, covered with curious markings and devices.

  A large device upon a tall staff proclaimed “FINA PETROL”.

  Sionn thought he must be going mad, that perhaps the blow to his head had sent him into fevered dreaming. He spied a man through the clear sides of the structure, and though the man’s dress and hair were strange, Sionn was grateful to see another human being.

  He approached the structure, his hand up in greeting.

  The man saw him and stared, then let out a wail and ran out of sight.

  Sionn slowed his approach, wondering if the man had taken him for an enemy.

  It was then he saw his reflection.

  His skin was the color of iron, and his head hairless. He looked for the first time at his hand and saw something leathery and repugnant. He touched it with his other hand and found them both cold and lifeless. He stared again at his reflection. The blue eyes Mùirne had loved so much had been replaced by featureless orbs speckled like quail eggs. These glowed and flickered softly, as if there were tiny candles within.

  He was a monster.

  Sionn screamed then, and the sound that came from him was a harsh bellow, not the sound a man would make, at all.

  He ran from the place, the tears streaming down his face stinking and tasting of the peat bog. A monster, yet still able to weep - surely he had been cursed.

  Coming at last to the seaside, he found a cave that ran deep under the cliffs. He entered, wondering how he was to live in a world bewitched.

  As the years passed Sionn of Wemyss grew adept at hiding from the eyes of men, though sometimes he was spotted wandering the moors, giving rise to both speculation and nightmares.

  And though he does not eat or drink, his love and strength endure.

  Indeed, there seems to be no end to his tears.

  He wanders still, searching for a way back to Mùirne, and his home.

  THE SCULLERY MAID’S TALE

  On a cold and crisp February day, Innkeeper Helmut Zauberwald took his son-in-law Peter with him to the town of Aubendroth to purchase supplies. Helmut thought it best to bring his son-in-law into the family business slowly, even though the lad had already had several encounters with the world of magick, not the least of which was running off with his young wife.

  Helmut had the boy pick up staples from the town market while he went to discuss a private matter with Erdmann the Blacksmith.

  When he had finished his business, Helmut found Peter with a group of young men near churchyard. The others were pointing to an old woman near a grave and whispering. Helmut could tell from their tone and their demeanor that what they were saying was most unkind, and this made him angry.

  The village boys saw the look on the Innkeeper’s face and hurried a
way. Peter, seeing only his father-in-law, motioned to him and pointed.

  “Look, Papa,” he whispered, “that old woman is going to kiss a statue. The others told me it is the statue of Felix Weiss, who was one of the most corrupt men…” Peter saw his father-in-law’s face cloud and grew silent.

  Helmut looked at him for a long moment, and the boy reddened under such scrutiny.

  The Innkeeper softened, and he clasped Peter on the shoulder. “As you spend time in the Black Forest, lad, you will hear much that is cruel and fantastic. Some of it may be true, but often the real story is far stranger.”

  Helmut nodded in the direction of the old woman, who had stopped to rest on a small bench. Her goal, a large (metal) statue, was in a far corner of the churchyard, in a spot overgrown with weeds.

  “Many years ago when I was a small boy, this village was named Weissdorf, named for the man you speak of. He was a baron with great wealth, but quite prideful and often cruel. He was denied nothing, because money gave him power, and most of the people of Weissdorf depended on the whims of Felix Weiss to feed their families.

  “At that time, Jessika was a scullery maid at the Gored Boar alehouse. She was quite beautiful in those days, and was to be wed to young Timo, a groom at the town stable.

  “Normally, Felix Weiss never troubled himself with ordinary town folk. He had whatever he required brought to him at his estate and cared little what went on outside those walls. But Weiss was also a vain and prideful man, and took it upon himself to commission a statue of himself to place in the center of the village that bore his name.

  “Baron Weiss was also a man with connections, not all of them in the world of men. He had the statue made of iron, but overlaid with magick so it would never rust, never fall prey to the fires of a smith or the blows of a hammer. It would last for all time, silently watching and perhaps even judging the citizens of Weissdorf.

  “Weiss contrived for the mayor to announce ‘Felix Weiss Day’ as a day of games and feasting, culminating in the unveiling of the iron statue. All of this as if the statue was a gift of a grateful town to their benefactor. The townspeople knew it was a farce, but attendance was mandatory and truth to tell, they longed for any celebration to break up their weary routine, and Weiss would make sure it was a lavish feast.”

  “Were you there, Papa?” Peter asked.

  “No, my father and grandfather were far enough out of Weiss’ sphere so as to ignore such invitations. They took care of their guests at the inn, and tried to warn any of the curious that the day would be filled with speeches extolling the virtues of a man who cared for no one but himself.

  “The statue was in place several days before the holiday, and most had no desire to look under the cloth to see the sculpture of a man they couldn’t stand in the first place. But Jessika, Timo and their friends were quite young, and it is the nature of the young to be curious and go where they have been told not to go.

  “Jessika and her friends peeked at the statue of Baron Weiss, which gave him a heroic bearing, as well as a full foot of height more and four or five stone less around the middle. Jessika told the statue he was truly handsome, then kissed it on the cheek to the delight of her fiancée and friends. A constable called to them and they ran off laughing, sure they would all live forever.

  “Now, Felix Weiss had never laid eyes on Jessika, but she was hard to miss that spring day so long ago. Her hair shone like gold in the sunlight, and her skin was smooth and unblemished, with a smile like an angel’s and eyes the blue of a mountain lake.

  “She was there with Timo, of course, and the two talked excitedly with friends about their wedding, just a week away. Timo was sad they could not celebrate their love with a feast as grand as the one they were attending, but Jessika told him to put those thoughts away – they would borrow the day as if it were their own.

  “Weiss, of course, kept the mayor and everyone waiting. The man loved to make an entrance. Finally, when the mayor was about to pass out from standing in the sun for two hours, Weiss arrived in a coach fit for the royal family. Several trumpets heralded his arrival with a flourish, and all heads turned as Felix Weiss exited the coach near raised platform where the unveiling would take place.

  “As he was mounting the steps of the platform, he saw Jessika and he seemed to freeze in place. People noticed him staring and the square grew quiet. Jessika, unaware she was the object of scrutiny, chattered on with girlish abandon. Then, she felt his eyes upon her, and turned in his direction.

  “Then Felix Weiss smiled, and many claim that even the sun hid itself behind a cloud to get away from that awful grin.

  “Weiss had Jessika join him on stage, and the poor girl was powerless to refuse. Timo began to protest, but cooler heads told him to hold his tongue, less it be removed by one of Weiss’ guards.

  “There followed long speeches and half-hearted applause, with those in attendance praying for an end so they could sup.

  “At last, the statue was unveiled, and many applauded and cheered, though some merely did to hide the snickering they could not contain. The sculptor had made Weiss look like Thor himself, albeit in clothes of the day. It was vain and ridiculous and loathsome, but that’s who had found Weissdorf and kept it alive.

  “Just when Jessika thought she might leave the stage, Weiss grabbed small hand.

  “‘I understand this comely maid is to be wed,’ he began, and a cheer went up, and several clapped Timo on the back.

  “‘I wish to make a present to the happy couple, of five gold pieces!’ A collective gasp went up, for this was more money than someone like Timo was apt to see in a lifetime, even if he owned the stable where he worked.

  “‘In return,’ continued Weiss, ‘I invoke das Herrenrecht, and shall now bid you all good night.’

  “For a moment, the crowd fell silent, then a cry went up.

  “It was Timo.

  “As the Baron’s men began to forcibly escort the struggling girl to the coach, Timo drew a dagger and stormed the stage. He was only a boy and not adept at combat, and was quickly knocked unconscious by a large guard with a cudgel. That the man didn’t dash his brains against the cobbles may be a testament to the goodness that all saw in Jessika and Timo.

  “The boy was taken to a cell at the constable’s, and poor Jessika was borne away in the opulent coach, crying and wailing for her beloved Timo.

  “When Baron Weiss and his men were gone, talk went about with plans to storm the estate, but it was just talk. Weiss’ men were trained swordsmen and archers. What common villager could stand against such as these? Disheartened, the people went home, some taking food with them, others leaving it for the birds and scavengers from the forest.

  “That night, Weiss had his maids bathe the girl and perfume her, and dress her in gown of fine white silk. They left her on a sumptuous bed, weeping into her pillow. She had thought to throw herself to the rocks below, for how could she face Timo once she was deflowered? But the window was high and barred, and there was no escape.

  “Weiss entered, and smiled. He cooed to her that all would be all right, and that she could return to her beloved groom in time, a more mature and experienced woman to be his bride.

  “Jessika pleaded with him, told him they would pay for her freedom, and Weiss smiled again.

  “‘I have all the money I need,’ he said, ‘what I desire is sweet honey from the wildflowers.’

  “He drew near, his expression ghastly, when a cry went up from below. There was a tremendous crash as the great doors of the estate were splintered and torn from their hinges. Weiss, thinking a mob had come from the village, angrily told the girl his guards would make quick work of them, and that he would personally see to it that her beloved boy was drawn and quartered.

  “There were screams then, horrible and high-pitched, followed by an ominous silence.

  “Then came great booming sounds, as if the Drums of the Underworld were sounding. Louder and closer it came, s
ounding nothing so much like the footsteps an ogre might make, were he turned to stone and still animate.

  “The door to his bedchamber disintegrated into a mass of splinters, and Weiss saw his doom approach. I am told his screams could be heard all the way to our inn.

  “The next day, Jessika returned to the village on one of Weiss’ horses. She was in shock but otherwise unharmed. Concerned, a group of men went up to the estate. There, they found the massive stone wall in ruins. Guards lay dead on the grounds, and the front doors lay in pieces several feet inside.

  “Everyone there had their throats crushed or their skulls pounded to jelly. Weiss himself, or at least his remains, lay in the middle of the bed. One fellow told my father it looked as if something had used Weiss as if he were a sponge filled with blood to paint the walls and floors.

  “The only man to survive was the guard who had taken pity on Timo, but both his arms had been broken and his days of handling a sword or a bow were over.

  “The surviving guard would not speak of what he saw, and, once he was healed, joined a monastery where he took a vow of silence.

  “Some who still held Weiss in regard, and there were a few, sought to blame Timo, but he had been locked in a cell and unconscious. Besides, the massive footprints found in the earth and in Weiss’ blood indicated something huge, and the carnage spoke of something inhuman, something better left alone.”

  Helmut looked at Peter and saw understanding dawn in his eyes. “Weiss was buried in a crypt on his land. The townspeople wanted to destroy the statue, but it was Jessika who stopped them, and bade them place it in the church yard. Some may have guessed what you have guessed, Peter, and complied with her wishes. Jessika wed Timo and their marriage was a long and happy one. When he died some ten years ago, she had him buried under the watchful eyes of the statue.”

  Helmut and Peter watched the old woman tenderly reach up and kiss the statue on the cheek.

  “Of course, that was many years ago. Every week she brings flowers to the statue, and kisses its cheek. Most who were alive then are gone now, and most have forgotten what was whispered around hearths and ale steins back then. They see only an old woman, who seems to pay homage to a villain.”