Fairytales Slashed: Volume 8

by Samantha M. Derr

  Maybe Ida should have refused to continue working for Elfreda. Maybe she should have raged, or plotted and tried to defeat Elfreda and escape, but it was difficult. The days wore on, and Elfreda was kind, other than her refusal to hear Ida's plea to return to her family. Ida didn't dare bring it up again after being denied it. Fairy stories were full of girls who met terrible fates for being lazy or demanding.

  Fairy stories were meant as warnings, Ida knew. They were meant to teach children to be polite and hardworking. Ida had never imagined she would be trapped inside one.

  One day when Elfreda was patrolling her borders, Ida dressed in the clothes she'd arrived in—so she wasn't stealing anything—and went back to the field she'd woken up in. Ida searched high and low, but there was no sign of how she'd arrived or how to get back to her own world.

  She was well and truly trapped.

  It was not all that bad, really. Elfreda always thanked her for the work she did, always praised her. Elfreda seemed to take her promise of giving Ida the best of all she had seriously. She often brought Ida gifts of things she found in her waters: a handful of ribbons, shiny shells, even a pretty bronze hand mirror that had been lost in a pond. Elfreda gave Ida tastes of whatever she cooked and listened to her suggestions about seasoning. She always gave Ida the ripest strawberries or the sweetest apples, the choicest cuts of meat. The ones Ida would have given to little Linza rather than keeping for herself, if she were home.

  It was far too easy for Ida to focus just on the work she was doing. Sometimes she worked at Elfreda's side, and Elfreda's voice joined her in song. They both wore breeches under their dresses when they had particularly heavy work to do and laughed at how they looked with their skirts tied up around their waists.

  Often Ida worked alone, but the work was never too heavy. She grew used to River Wolf seeing her to and from the fields, to Nan begging her for sweets. She grew used to the sharp tempers of fruit trees, and the whispering of aging beeches and oaks when they praised her singing and told her where to find delicious mushrooms ripening beneath their shadows. Ida even grew used to Elfreda's knobbled gray form, so her sharp teeth and grating voice weren't frightening in the slightest.

  Elfreda came and went, returning with tales of border disputes with other magical creatures, of droughts prevented or weakening streams strengthened, or, very rarely, of punishments dealt to cruel travelers. She seemed to have very little to do with any humans at all, other than Ida.

  Ida did not know when River Wolf stopped referring to her as 'the maiden' when Elfreda asked who had entered her cottage and called her instead 'our Miss Ida', only that it sounded familiar when she noticed it.

  Evenings were often spent sitting before the wide hearth of the living room fire. Sometimes, River Wolf came in and lay tangled around Ida and Elfreda's feet like a friendly hound. More often than not, Ida would brush out Elfreda's hair for her. It grew so snarled when she went out and used her powers. Maybe that was a part of being an elemental creature, using the untamed power of water. Ida didn't mind brushing it out. Elfreda's lovely black-and-silver hair looked good in any braid Ida had a mind to try.

  It was calming, meditative for them both, when Ida brushed it. Elfreda never failed to change to her beautiful form when Ida tended her hair.

  "Which one is real?" Ida asked. She was sitting on a low chair in front of the fire, with Elfreda sitting patiently at her feet while she braided. She tucked away the last ribbon on the crown she'd put in Elfreda's hair, and leaned back to admire it. It was the type of style a young girl might have worn to a spring festival to catch the eye of a beau. It should have looked silly on someone older, but Elfreda made it, like everything else when she was in this form, look regal.

  "What do you mean?" Elfreda asked, leaning forward to stir the spiced cider they had set to warming beside the fire.

  "Sometimes you're like this, and other times you're gray and knobbled with a coarse voice," Ida explained. "Which one is real?"

  Elfreda hummed thoughtfully, but her bright green eyes were smiling when she turned them on Ida. "Which is the real Ida?" she asked. "The well-rested Ida who wakes up in the morning, or the tired Ida who lays down to sleep in the evening?"

  "Both of them!" Ida protested. "I mean, they're not different. I'm the same if I'm tired or not."

  Elfreda chuckled softly, smiling at her as she handed over a mug of warm cider. "And I'm the same nixie in whatever form I wear. Neither one is more real."

  Ida hadn't really thought of it that way. Elfreda did still act the same, no matter if her face and voice were different. Ida finished her mug of cider and sighed, content for the moment with the warmth of it in her belly.

  "You must be tired," Elfreda said. "You should rest."

  Ida's eyelids drooped, as they always did when Elfreda suggested it was time for bed. Usually she was tired enough to go along with it, but not tonight.

  "No," Ida said, forcing her eyes open wide, and the sudden lethargy evaporated from her. "No, I'd rather stay up a little longer," she said a little firmer.

  Elfreda smiled up at her, as though Ida had done something marvelously clever. "What would you like to do instead, Ida of the unshakable will?"

  "Just enjoy the fire," Ida said. "Just be here. Talk, maybe?"

  "As you desire," Elfreda consented. "And what would you like to discuss?"

  "I don't know," Ida admitted. She straightened one of Elfreda's ribbons and stroked her smooth hair. "Do we have any plans for tomorrow, or the coming days?"

  Elfreda leaned closer, her shoulder warm against Ida's knee as Ida continued playing with her hair. "I will be on patrol, seeing to my northern borders," Elfreda said. "I hope to bring home caribou or bear to share with you, if I can."

  "I'll make bread tomorrow, I think." Ida said. "And we have a batch of cheeses that need wax in the next few days. They've gotten dry enough for it."

  "I will help you with that," Elfreda promised.

  They talked quietly, just of little domestic things that needed tending, until Ida's eyes drooped on their own and she chose for herself that it was time for bed.

  Weeks passed as if in a dream, with the days always bright and warm and the nights cool, and life in Elfreda's lands was not bad. Ida had satisfying work to do, food in her belly, a roof over her head, and any luxury she desired. It was far too easy to focus on just that, to be content and not think of her family struggling on without her in the real world.

  Ida always kept Linza's spindle in her pocket though. A reminder of where she was supposed to be, and who she was supposed to be with. It pierced into her heart whenever she remembered.

  One day, when Elfreda was gone tending to her borders, Ida sat in the sun beside one of the cottage's large windows and did some mending. River Wolf was just outside, sunning himself. Dawn was long past, but the rippled sky remained orange. There was a scent on the air currents, very faint, like smoke.

  River Wolf noticed her sniffing. "Don't worry, it's not fire elementals," he said. "They would never dare approach the mistress' kingdom. It's just autumn and the burning of the fields in the world above."

  Autumn already. Ida had missed an entire season, locked away in a fairy tale. She hadn't been there to help her family with the gardening and livestock all through the summer, and she wasn't going to be there to help with the fall harvest and slaughter. Would they be able to save enough to eat all winter? Would they have enough wool for clothes and blankets if she wasn't there to help shear and spin and weave? They needed her, and she needed them, and she was trapped so far away.

  The first tear that splashed on Ida's mending surprised her. She scrubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand, sniffling hard. It was ridiculous: crying never helped anything, but once started, she couldn't make herself stop. All the loneliness and worry Ida had ignored for so long welled up and overflowed.

  She'd missed her father's birthday, and that was only the first thing she was going to miss. She wouldn't get to see Linza through school, ce
lebrate the harvest festival, or midwinter, or spring. She was going to miss her beloved little sister growing up. She wasn't going to be there to help her father, and Rozlin, who'd been a mother to her when she had none, when they were old and needed a helping hand. Ida was going to be trapped in a fairy land forever, and never see them again.

  Ida was crying too hard to hear the crackling on the horizon. She didn't know Elfreda had returned until her hands were wrapped up in Elfreda's webbed ones.

  Elfreda knelt in front of her, worry in her beautiful oval face. "My sweet Ida, what's wrong?" she asked. "Why do you weep?" She reached up to tenderly wipe the tears from Ida's cheek, and Ida turned toward the touch, soft as it was, as unconsciously as a plant reaching for sunlight.

  "I'm sorry," Ida said, trying her hardest to stop crying. Her eyes were not obeying, though, and Elfreda's worried face swam in front of her before another two tears fell from them.

  A current ruffled around them, tugging at Ida's clothes and tossing Elfreda's hair. Outside, the trees tossed and the sky darkened, as if in a storm. "Is there anything you desire I have not given you? Say it and it is yours!" Elfreda pleaded.

  "I want to go home," Ida said.

  Elfreda gasped in shock, mouth falling open. The currents stilled in the air, so there was silence around them. Ida closed her eyes, turned her face away. She tried to breathe evenly, but her shoulders shook and betrayed her tears.

  "Have I not given you the best of all I have?" Elfreda asked, her voice small. "Have you not been my princess?"

  "They're my family," Ida protested. "I'm not ungrateful for your kindness, but I want my family."

  Lightning flashed and thunder crackled out above the trees. "Your family used you as a servant and pushed you down a well to drown," Elfreda accused.

  "They would never!" Ida gasped. The shock startled her right out of her tears. She glared Elfreda down. "They love me. They don't have much. They don't have fancy magic wardrobes and talking trees and scythes that mow on their own, but they did their best for me. Always."

  "But the spindle, marked with your blood?" Elfreda's brow furrowed in confusion. "That is how the story goes..."

  "Not my story." Ida brought the spindle out of her pocket, bottom lip trembling traitorously as she looked at it. "I always hated those stories, with the wicked stepmothers. Rozlin was always so kind to me. Father wouldn't have married her otherwise."

  The story flowed out of Ida, like a dam broken and all she'd missed pouring out of her. She told about Rozlin, and Linza, and her father. She told about helping Rozlin save up to buy Linza the pretty spindle for her birthday, and how much Linza had loved it, and how Ida had ended up falling into the well after it. Elfreda's hands held Ida's as she spoke, but she couldn't bear to look at Elfreda still kneeling in front of her. She didn't want to see how Elfreda was reacting to the plain simplicity of Ida's life and how desperately she wanted to go back to it.

  Outside, a quiet rain began to fall, heavy gray sheets weighing down the world.

  They sat in silence for a long moment when Ida was out of words.

  "Oh, my Ida, I have done very badly by you," Elfreda finally sighed, but she was smiling when Ida looked down at her—a small, trembling thing. She squeezed Ida's hands. "You are no more my prisoner than you are my servant. I will see you safely home."

  "Really?" Ida could hardly believe it. Hope blossomed in her chest and her eyes prickled with fresh tears.

  The sun broke through the clouds, a small patch of watery autumn-orange through the rain. Elfreda laughed as she sprang to her feet, pulling Ida in her wake. "Of course! And we will send you with presents, because you have been so good!"

  "That isn't necessary," Ida protested.

  "I insist!" Elfreda sang back. Ida managed to keep things simple, at least. She chose a warm coat for her father, a pretty dress and bright embroidery thread for Rozlin, and for Linza, hair ribbons and a pair of dancing shoes. Ida did not need anything for herself, but on Elfreda's insistence, she asked just for a bag of the chestnuts she'd gathered. They would be delicious to share with her family over the fire. The bag Elfreda gave her was far too heavy, but she would not take any back.

  Elfreda wrapped a fine wool cloak around Ida's shoulders too. "It will be winter soon, in the world above," she said. "I do not want you to be cold."

  "Thank you," Ida said. What else could she say?

  Elfreda led her by the hand out to the pathway in front of the cottage. Nan the goat stood up on the fence to watch, bleating plaintively. River Wolf darted around them in nervous circles until Elfreda gestured him away and he huddled beneath a bush.

  Elfreda took both of Ida's hands, standing silent for a long moment. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but closed it again. Around, them the trees groaned beneath the wind and rain, but there was a little patch of sunlight and still air around the two of them.

  "No water will ever harm you, so long as you wear this," Elfreda finally said, slipping a slender silver ring set with a pearl on Ida's finger. She stretched up to press a kiss to Ida's forehead, brief and soft, and turned away quickly. "Ida's home in the world above," she ordered. A bubble appeared in her hand, which she blew toward the path. It danced on her breath, growing until it filled the entire path. Inside it, Ida could see her family's home, the front garden, and a little bit of the hedge that lined the road.

  "Go," Elfreda urged.

  Ida picked up her skirts and ran into the bubble. She broke through into crisp, smoke-tinged air filled with birdsong. The autumn sun lit the world in bright, clear gold, and the rooster crowed as if to welcome her home. Ida glanced back, but there was only the well behind her, and she turned to the house.

  She was almost afraid to approach it, but then little Linza stepped out of the front door with a bucket of ashes from the kitchen fire and Ida's heart leapt in her chest.

  "Linza!" she cried, running to her sister. Linza dropped the bucket and all but flew into her arms. They both cried, holding tight to each other. Linza had grown so much in Ida's absence, but she was still the same sweet sister.

  Rozlin, who had heard the commotion, came running out of the house, and she cried, too, with happiness to see Ida safe and sound. When Ida's father came home, it was to find all three of his beloved girls together and hard at work, and he smiled as he had not in months.

  Her family had done better without her than Ida had feared. They had enough food and clothing. They had worked hard, but they had managed without her hands to lighten the load. Ida's gifts were welcome though, and when she opened the bag of chestnuts to share they discovered that it was half-filled with silver coins instead. It was enough to keep her family well supplied for a long time.

  When asked, Ida told stories of the Nixie's lands—she did not dare try to speak Elfreda's name aloud—of talking trees and scythes that mowed on their own and big pikes as loyal and friendly as dogs. The whole family stayed up late into the night to visit, to catch up on everything they had missed. The bed, when Ida finally retired to it with Linza, was smaller and harder than she had remembered, and the blankets thinner, but she could not have been happier.

  There was always work to be done in the world above, maybe even more than in Elfreda's lands. Ida found herself in the thick of it again in an instant. The last of the harvest needed to be brought in, and her sturdy back and strong arms were always in demand, for all sorts of work. Ida hardly had time to think.

  She should have been happy. Ida was painfully happy to see her family, really and truly. And she'd always had simple tastes—she adjusted easily back into a life without the little luxuries of Elfreda's cottage. She enjoyed brushing Linza's beautiful flaxen hair and helping her put it up in pretty styles, and she had no business thinking of a comb carved from mother of pearl sliding through thick black-and-silver hair.

  Ida and Linza had always been happiest walking hand in hand. They did still walk together sometimes, but Linza was not such a child anymore. She had school and friends her own age, and
things far more important in her little world, which was good. It was good to see her growing up.

  Ida often walked alone. She'd gotten used to that, but here, no big pikes swam out to greet her and no trees whispered to her. The only whispering was from the village gossips who fell silent and eyed her as she walked past.

  She had only ever wanted to be home and take care of her family, so Ida should be happy. She had no time to think of anything until the harvest was all brought in and the world muffled in snow and there was time to spin and weave and rest until spring. Ida spent long hours spinning by the fire, keeping warm and doing the work that needed to be done.

  Ida hardly realized she'd stopped, that she was sitting with her hands in her lap turning the pearl ring around and around her finger, until Rozlin sat across from her and took both her hands in her own. Rozlin searched Ida's face with her own brow furrowed in worry.

  "You're not happy here," Rozlin said.

  "That's ridiculous." Ida could not meet her stepmother's eye. "I have only ever wanted to be home, with my family."

  "But now you miss your Nixie." Rozlin touched the ring on Ida's finger.

  "That's ridiculous," Ida repeated. She pulled her hands away sharply, taking her spindle up to resume spinning.

  "As you like," Rozlin said, agreeably. She took some darning out of her pocket to work on, quiet and companionable. So very much like sitting before the fire on a quiet evening with River Wolf and Elfreda, but not, of course. Not at all.

  "You know, young Will was asking after you again, and he set to inherit his father's mill any year now," Rozlin mused, eventually. "He's a hardworking man, and a kind one. You could do worse than to—"

  Ida could not help the way her eyes rolled, her small disgusted groan, and Rozlin laughed.