Fairly Wicked Tales

by Hal Bodner

  Faugder grinned, flashing those knife like teeth of its. “My father shall be pleased. Throw the sacrifice into the water and return home. Your family will be standing before the door of your palace.”

  George did not speak. He simply walked over to his unconscious son, grabbed him under his arms, and heaved him into the sea where the boy sunk like a stone. “Dear God, forgive me,” he whispered as tears spilled over the rims of his eyes.

  The fish dived. Seconds later, the water churned violently, nearly knocking George overboard. Once blood rose to the top of the dark blue—somewhat purplish—gray water, George could no longer stand. He collapsed to the bottom of the boat. “My God!” He fumbled for the oars, took hold of them, and placed them in the rowing stations. George traveled through the thick water as fast as possible, eager to be away from the site of his heinous crime.

  ***

  George staggered through the woods, having run all the way from the shore. He eventually came upon his home and saw it was as Faugder had prophesied. His family, bubbling with excitement, stood on the steps of their new stone palace. Then George’s haggard face came into view and concern arose.

  Isabell reached for her husband as he neared the steps. “Where is my son? Where is Matthew?”

  “He drowned!” George cried.

  Gasps erupted all around him. “What do you mean he drowned?” Isabell asked as tears welled up in her eyes.

  “He drowned,” the man reiterated as he joined his family in their grief. “We rowed out into the sea to meet with the fish. After it granted our request, we began to row back. On our return trip, a large wave appeared out of nowhere and flipped the boat. We both went over.” George indicated the clothes he had the mind to soak once he reached the shore. “Matthew did not surface. I searched for him, I swear I searched as long as possible, but he vanished. My firstborn! He drowned.”

  George’s words were a lie, of course, but his grief was real. For this reason, no one thought to question his story.

  ***

  The Anderman’s period of mourning eventually ended, allowing them to enjoy the stone palace they now called their home. Every day, they admired the large foyer with its hanging crystal chandelier, and they cherished the marble covering the floors of the palace. A multitude of servants came along with their new home, people who willingly waited on the Anderman’s hand and foot. Beautiful tapestries covered the walls. Furniture crafted from pure gold adorned every room. In addition to the grand furnishings, a never ending supply of food filled their cupboards—a smorgasbord of delicacies.

  The outside of the palace complemented the wondrous inside. A large courtyard—containing splendid carriages and stalls for horses and cows (a feature Matthew would have loved)—surrounded the Anderman’s home. Isabell’s garden grew from a vegetable patch placed alongside a cottage to an orchard filled with beautiful flowers and fruit trees. A forest stood nearby—half a mile long—filled with elk, deer, rabbits, and many more species any nature lover would covet.

  “Did I not tell you this would be a good move?” George asked Isabell as they took a stroll through her garden one day. “And you wanted to remain in the cottage.”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “I suppose. But don’t you think this is a bit much?” And they lost their oldest son in the process of procuring their palace, but Isabell was too good of a wife to mention such a thing.

  “A bit much? If anything, it’s not enough.” He held his hand outward, indicating the large land they owned. “This is but a tiny fraction of what the world has to offer. Why should we be reduced to settling for this alone? Isabell, I could be king! Ruler over this and much more. You would become queen! Think about the perks associated with such titles.”

  “King and queen?” Isabell asked. The notion terrified her. “George, you’re shooting for the stars when the treetops would do.” The woman took his hands into hers and gazed lovingly into his eyes. “You and the kids are all I need and all I’ve ever needed—children I barely come across anymore. This place is enormous. I don’t even know where to find them, and they don’t care to come find us.

  “You need not visit the fish anymore, George. Let’s be content with what we have.”

  George considered his wife’s advice. Wisdom filled her words and he knew this initially, but a voice intruded his thoughts. What are you doing? This bitch trying to hold you back. She’s always held you back. Do you think you all lived in a shack because of you? No. You worked harder than anyone alive and still had nothing. She’s at fault. She’s responsible for your previous lack of success.

  He never observed the situation from such a viewpoint, but George figured he (the foreign voice) might be on to something. Isabell had been anchoring him to a life of squalor. Now his wife was acting as dead weight again. ‘You’re shooting for the stars when the treetops would do’, she said.

  Well, isn’t she a sly one, he thought.

  George forced himself to smile. “Whatever you want,” he finally told her.

  Isabell breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” she said as they continued their walk.

  About a week later, George—and the voice now dwelling within him—came upon Rachael alone in the stables. “Hi, father,” she said before refocusing on her horse, Rachael’s most prized possession.

  “Good day, daughter.”

  “You need me?” Rachael asked as she brushed her mare’s silky coat.

  George glanced about the stable to ensure no one else was about. “As a matter of fact, there is something you could do for me.” After seeing the coast was clear, he removed the hatchet and burlap sack from behind his back. Rachael had been chosen for the sacrifice out of pure elimination. Mark was his only surviving son, and a king needed an heir. Catherine was the youngest of them all. This left the second born to die so George’s dreams could be fulfilled.

  “Pray tell, father.”

  No one will even miss her, George reasoned as he stalked his daughter, who had yet to look up from her chore. Like Isabell said. We barely even see them nowadays. After closing the distance, he raised his hatchet. “All I need you to do is … die!” As he spoke that last venom filled word, George brought his weapon down with tremendous force.

  ***

  “Faugder, Faugder in the sea, come, I pray thee, here to me. For my life, as good as it is, wills not as I’d have it will.”

  George stared out at the sea while he waited. The water had become dark gray in color. It bubbled like boiling soup. Noxious gases escaped the bursting bubbles, filling the air with a terrible stench. George took all this in stride. He thought of himself as a man on a mission, and sea life conservation did not make his agenda.

  Eventually, Faugder appeared at the top of the water. “My good friend George,” the fish said. “My! You are ambitious, aren’t you?”

  “I want to be king.” George bent over, grabbed his bloody burlap sack, and tossed everything overboard. Rachael’s butchered body was swallowed by the boiling water. “Here’s your payment.”

  “Go home, for you are king,” a sneering Faugder said as it slowly descended into the water.

  ***

  Hours after his meeting with Faugder, King George reclined on his magnificent throne. Opulently clad soldiers stood on either side of his dais while a handmaiden knelt nearby feeding him grapes. As he relished his supremacy, the gigantic double doors to his throne room flew open. A page scampered into the great hall and announced, “Queen Isabell approaches!” The soldiers went to attention. Everyone else—with the exception of King George—bowed their heads.

  A single glance at his wife told the king she was displeased. Isabell, her face flushed with anger, stormed into the throne room. Handmaidens hurried along to maintain pace, doing their best to carry the train attached to the Queen’s extravagant gown.

  “What have you done?” she bellowed. “You assured me this would not happen!”

  King George pretended to admire his fingernails. “I did, then I thought things over
. Why not do it if it is within my power to do so?”

  “You son-of-a-bitch!” Queen Isabell spat.

  The king sat upright. His anger now matched his wife’s. “Be careful how you speak to your king!”

  “You’re no king of mine,” she said, coming to a stop when the king’s personal guards came to stand in her way. “You’re a fisherman who lived in a shanty by the sea before you went and sold your soul to the devil.”

  “The soul was not mine, my dear,” King George said with a smirk.

  “You bastard! What happened to Matthew? Where is Rachael? What have you done with my children?”

  “Guards! Take her away!”

  “WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY CHILDREN?” Queen Isabell shrieked as the guards grabbed her by her arms and drug her away. “WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY CHILDREN?”

  ***

  Two days later, the youngest child Catherine screamed while being thrown into the now black, but still boiling sea. A strong wind continually blew about the place. “I want to be emperor,” King George said.

  “You are emperor,” Faugder said before going below the water to feast on the cooked child.

  Later that evening, Emperor George tossed Mark into the shallow end of the sea for he feared rowing out. The water boiled while gigantic waves rose up and came crashing down. A strong gust of wind blew across the land, tearing leaves from their trees and whipping the vegetation through the air. Clouds edged in red filled the sky. Thunder rumbled overhead, and lightning flashed. Emperor George had never witnessed such a ghastly sight, but he was not deterred for good old Faugder was gracious enough to come near the shore.

  “I want to be pope!” Emperor George screamed to be heard over nature and his wailing child.

  “Are you shitting me?” Faugder asked with a laugh. “You? The Pope?”

  “Have I reached beyond the limit of your father’s power?”

  Faugder was not amused, mainly because it had grown weary of George’s haughtiness. “No, not at all,” the fish stated calmly. “You may return home, Pope George.”

  The pope had no need for children—which proved fortunate since he no longer had any—and he no longer had room in his life for a significant other. Isabell had been thrown out into the streets of his makeshift Vatican City. By the next day, George decided the life of a pope was dreadfully boring.

  Why should I dedicate all my time to God when I can become God, he asked himself. All I need is the proper sacrifice.

  He had a person in mind. Pope George the Fourth—he added a number to his title because he thought it added a bit more prestige—sent forth emissaries to locate his wife. He did not tell them why he wanted her, or ask them to retrieve her for him. George feared what those around him would do if they knew what he was truly about. He simply wanted knowledge of her whereabouts. So George waited several, agonizing days until someone came back with a report.

  “I caught sight of her walking through the woods,” the clergyman said. “I believe she was making her way to the sea.”

  Pope George the Fourth smiled a wicked smile. Good, he thought. She’s saving me the trouble of having to carry her carcass to the coast.

  ***

  Isabell held an arm before her bowed head as she fought to walk against the hurricane like wind. The worst storm she had ever seen was taking place. Lightning constantly lit up the pitch black sky while thundered roared as a lion. Nearby mountains shook and boulders crashed into the sea. Humongous black waves capped with white foam rose until they touched the heavens, then down they came—BOOM!

  Dear God, the sea! she thought as she peeked from behind an arm. Surely it is outraged with the blood of my children.

  Isabell’s intention had been to walk right into the sea and join her beloveds, but a shrill shriek caused her to turn around. Standing at the edge of the woods was Pope George the Fourth. His precious miter—or big ass pope hat in layman’s term—sat askew on his head, allowing stray strands of hair to emerge. His clothing billowed in the wind, and his unnaturally wide eyes completed his madman appearance.

  “Faugder, Faugder in the sea, come, I pray thee, here to me. For my life, as good as it is, wills not as I’d have it will.” After reciting the summoning spell, Pope George the Fourth tilted his head at an awkward angle, let loose a maniacal laugh, and then charged—a run weakened considerably by the harsh wind—across the sandy beach.

  Isabell turned and fled from the man she once loved with all her heart. Not too long ago, she had been a peasant living near the sea. Her life was not an easy one, but she had found contentment. Now her precious children were dead and her husband possessed—all for the sake of power and wealth.

  The woman made her way to the water, high stepping her way in, but the sea quickly spit her back out. George arrived to pick his drenched wife up. “Here you are again, trying to hold me back from my destiny!” He brought the back of his hand across his wife’s face, forcefully. She cried out as she fell into the surf. When George leaned down to pick her up again, she kicked him in the leg with all her might, causing him howl and to drop to one knee. The incoming waves pushed him over onto his side.

  Isabell managed to stand to her feet despite being bombarded by water and howling wind. She hiked up her soaked dress and made her way over to George who attempted to rise. “You bastard!” she cried out as she kicked him in the head. When he fell back into the water, she kicked out again, but he took hold of her ankle the second time. He screamed ferociously as he pushed her away, causing her to fall backwards into the water.

  George, who had lost his hat some time ago, climbed to his feet and stalked toward his wife. Spray from the black sea continued to wash over him. The surf lapped at his ankles. “You have defied your king,” George said as rivulets of water ran down his menacing face, “but you will not defy your God.” He lunged through the air and landed atop Isabell. She did her best to push him off, but her husband possessed a strength not even he knew he had. George wrapped both his hands around her neck and squeezed, while pushing her head beneath the ever fluctuating water.

  “You won’t be around to hold me back anymore!” he yelled.

  Amidst all the chaos, Faugder arrived. With all its speed—which was a great deal—the fish swam over to where the couple wrestled on the shore. It leapt through the air, and before either combatant became aware of the fish’s presence, George had been snapped up in Faugder’s wicked teeth. The top half of the man’s body disappeared. Without a moment of hesitation, Faugder flopped back around—because the water on the shore was not deep enough for swimming—and gobbled up George’s blood spewing lower half. “I was really starting to dislike you,” the fish said around a mouth full of gore.

  Isabell immediately sat up straight, rising from the surf like one of the dead rising from its grave. She coughed and sputtered in an attempt to dislodge the water from her nasal passage and throat. Once steadied, Isabell looked up and spotted the gigantic fish lying on the shore. It appeared to be stuck on its side.

  “Dear God, save me!” the woman pleaded as she scrambled to her feet.

  Faugder’s whiskers waved about while it observed the woman flee—an escape impeded by blowing wind and rushing water. “A soul has been offered, the debt paid,” Faugder stated in its baritone voice. ”You have a wish to be granted if you so choose.”

  Isabell stopped cold. “You’re the fish my husband told me about?”

  “That I am.”

  “Can I have my family back, as they were?”

  “My father does not do refunds.”

  The woman threw her hands up in defeat before letting them drop to her sides. “Then let me return to my shack near the sea.”

  Faugder grinned, inadvertently flashing its razor sharp teeth. “Go home. It is done.” And with that being said, Faugder floundered about the surf until it caught a wave that carried it back out to sea.

  Isabell returned to her familiar shack: tired, wet, alone, and heartbroken. Years later, when the sea went back to normal a
nd both fisherman and fish migrated to that area, she could be found sitting on a rowboat in the middle of the hullabaloo. She never caught any fish. Isabell was no fisherman and she did not claim to be. She would just row out into the sea and stare into the calm, reflective water, daydreaming about what was and what should have been.

  About the Author

  Bennie L. Newsome is a writer and graphic designer from Birmingham, Alabama. He is the author of The BoogeyMann (YA humor, horror), Life is no Fairytale (YA humor, romance), and Agape (Christian, fantasy). In addition to his three novels, Bennie’s work has been published in numerous anthologies, including Hallmark’s Thanks, Mom.

  Rum’s Daughter

  A retelling of “Rumplestiltskin”

  T. Eric Bakutis

  It was a cold, clear night when Rum watched his child die. Snow hung heavy on the ancient pines of Toroia Wood. Even the howl of the winter wind could not consume Bricka’s anguished cries, the pox eating her fragile yellow skin.

  Over and over Rum sent his warmth into her. Each time, a little more of his anima slipped away. Her pox tore at his throat and ripped at his gut, but he would bear all the pain in the world to save his daughter. He would die if she would live.

  When at last she slipped away, Rum drew solace from the silence. Her pain had ended. Her brittle skin hung on her bones like so much sackcloth. He spent some time digging in the hard, frozen dirt—the nails on his clawed yellow hands dirty and broken when he finished. When he had made her place suitable, he returned Bricka to the earth. He buried her beside her mother and joined their graves with leaves of silver fern.

  Rum curled his yellow body into a ball and closed his muddy eyes. Let the winter freeze him, and the pox strip his bones. He would die here gladly, with his family, under the heavy boughs of Toroia Wood. The harsh men and bitter winter had taken all he loved. Let them take him, too.