Fell Beasts and Fair Page 9

  Red Paw is standing there, teeth wrapped around Woodcross’s left hand, the one wearing the ring. Woodcross has his other hand up, and his fingers are sparkling with something red and green at the same time, shimmering like an oil slick and crackling like electricity. He makes a grab for Red Paw’s scarred paw with that hand, and I smell burning hair and flesh and hear an almighty crack all at once, and just like that, Red Paw is gone.

  Woodcross is laying on the ground, clutching his arm where his hand used to be, and Red Paw, or what used to be Red Paw, is standing there, stark naked, holding the red and silver ring in his hand.

  I’m pretty sure I scream—that must be what makes him turn to me, ring dropping out of his fingers and hitting the snow like another drop of blood. He crosses over to me, suddenly-human face aghast at frightening me, at the violence.

  Looking up into his human face, I can’t judge Rosie for wanting to run from the wolf in her chest—mine is right here, is staring me down, and it’s terrifying. Not because of Woodcross or the blood, but because he’s not him, all of a sudden, he’s—he’s just somebody, and I can’t handle this kind of thing from just somebody. I can’t handle people hardly at all, let alone—let alone this.

  “Are you alright?” he asks, cupping my face in his hand, thumb running across my cheekbone. “Miss Blanche, what’s wrong? Did I frighten you? Talk to me.”

  I bite my lip hard, feel it wobble, and I squeeze my eyes shut so the tears don’t fall out. Hard as I try, I can’t get any words to come up out of my throat—they’re all just stuck in the back of it, a hard knot of horrible that I can’t spit out. He’s not Red Paw anymore, he’s not—he’s not mine, he’s all of a sudden people. He’s a complicated thing, he’s company, and the smell of dark earth and silence is gone. I could talk to him, maybe, if he was just ordering up a coffee or a slice of pie, but talk to him?

  “I can’t,” I say, raw and ragged like my mouth is bleeding. I think of all those stories, things like The Frog Prince and Beauty and the Beast, and I wonder if those girls felt the same—if they could talk to the forest creatures but not the men, because men are—you’re supposed to be something for men, supposed to have the right words and the right little gestures and all those sorts of things, but before they’re men, they’re pieces of forest, of solitude and quiet observation. It feels like a betrayal, somehow, and I know that isn’t fair of me, it’s not, because Red Paw—but he must have another name, a man’s name, now, or even always—wasn’t really a bear, was cursed to wear that shaggy coat, and he must feel free now. I should be happy for him, I know I should, and I’d be properly polite and tell him so, I would, but I can’t get my mouth to open again. This is the other thing, the thing Woodcross stole, however long ago—his humanity—and it’s as jarring and out of place on him as the ring was on Woodcross.

  He’s still looking at me, brow furrowed, mouth half-open in confusion, when Rosie takes my hand and pulls me away, out of the doorway and down the street.

  I don’t even manage to say anything until Rosie has us halfway to the creek down below the churchyard, her hand tight around mine. Even then, all I manage to get out is, “What?”

  She just shakes her head and keeps towing me along until we get to the rocks by the creek, the big ones that stick out across the water like some kind of pier made by giants. She pulls me out across the biggest one, the one we used to play on as kids, and she tugs me down at the edge of it, sitting us down side by side with our legs dangling out over the water.

  We’re silent for a minute, me frozen and her thoughtful. When she does talk, she makes a couple false starts, clearing her throat like a smoker before she manages to say things properly.

  “It’s how happy endings are supposed to go,” she says, smiling a little lopsidedly and looking out over the water. “You know, true love and beasts turning into men and everything.”

  “I—” I start to say, but my throat catches again and she puts a quelling hand on my knee. My apron, coffee-stained and ancient, rumples under her hand, dingy white against the bright red paint on her nails.

  “But you’re weird, you know?” she goes on. She doesn’t say it unkindly—more like saying you’ve got black hair than some sort of judgment. “You’re—you’re all quiet, inside.”

  It startles me a little, because I don’t know that I’ve ever caught Rosie paying that much attention to things outside her own self.

  “Me, I’m like—like out here, how the creek never really shuts up, never stops going? It’s like that in my head, all the time, you know? But you’re like a rock, you know, like you’re solid all the way through, and the edges of you maybe get warm when the sun comes out, but never the middle. There’s always something in you that’s secret, kind of, that’s curled up and quiet.” She stops, gnawing on her lip, and I watch with a sort of distant fascination as she chews half her lipstick off. “But around him—and don’t get me wrong, I still think it’s plumb crazy that you talked to him in the first place, let alone let him stick around and keep chatting you up, alright, but—around him, it’s like whatever that thing is, that quietness? It’s like maybe it stuck its nose out into the light for a minute. Like I could finally see you, you know?”

  I do know. That’s why it hurts so much, why the hazel of his eyes is so spooky, because I’m used to the black. It’s like how now, if Rosie weren’t here, I’d be alone, even if there are frogs and squirrels and fish and deer and things—they’re not judging me on the standards that human folks do, they’ve got their own little rituals and things, and they’re uncomplicated. There’s something beautiful and quiet in that, and in the way he was—the kind of simple grace that people never have. It’s not quite the same as the quiet that I’ve got in me, but it makes me feel like maybe my quiet could be safe next to his. And looking at him, seeing that gone—

  “I think,” I say, my throat scratching horribly with the tears I haven’t let go yet, “I think maybe my heart’s broken.”

  Rosie rests her head on my shoulder, her fat auburn curls tumbling down my arm and getting in my face a little. “I want to say that you’re an idiot, but it also kind of makes sense, so I don’t think I can blame you for it.” She kicks her feet a little, idly, and we both watch them swing.

  I think about saying something else, about trying to explain to her the whole of what’s going on in my head, like I would when we were kids, but she’s too human for that now. Children are wild things in a way that people who have to move in the real world can’t be, and there’s too much in between us now, too many crushes on boys and rides in cars and lessons about manners and Sundays in church and mornings spent doing hair and makeup and evenings spent watching TV or reading books.

  I think the silence works, too, though. Rosie kicks my ankle now and then, and I kick back, and we sit on the big rock, feet dangling, and we don’t say another word.

  Somehow, it helps, just a little, knowing that even Rosie has this much quiet in her, even under all those thorns.

  He’s waiting when I come in for my shift the day after the ruckus. I take a minute to look over him, on the other side of the glass door, before I open it and the bell rings and he notices me. Now, just for a moment, it’s still quiet, inside me and around me, and I can really look.

  He’s got a scruffy beard that almost looks like his old coat, shaggy and brown, and his hair curls down over his ears and his forehead in rough little tangles. His shirt hugs his shoulders like some kind of plaid skin, and it pouches out a little with his round stomach. He still looks a little like a bear, if I squint—it’s in the way he holds himself, the way he’s curled around his mug and the counter. He still holds the mug carefully, like he’s minding his claws, and his right hand is still strange—there’s a white scar running across it, all the way up under his shirtsleeve, and the tips of two fingers are missing, and all the skin on the right side of his hand is reddish and patchy, like it’s been burnt. Woodcross’s magic, I suppose, but it looks stranger on human flesh than it did
on his paw.

  He cocks his head, then, and the gesture is so familiar my breath catches in my chest. He turns to the door like maybe he heard me, or smelled me, or something, and, caught out, I push it open. The bell jangles faintly, like it’s ashamed to interrupt.

  “Miss Blanche,” he says, ducking his head and rubbing a bashful hand over the back of his neck.

  I swallow and open my mouth, but no words come out. I don’t even know what to call him anymore—there’s no way I’m supposed to keep on calling him Red Paw; he doesn’t even have paws. I can feel the shuddery panic I get when I try to talk to people for too long start up in my chest, something way past butterflies, and I feel bad again for passing any kind of judgment on Rosie for wanting to run from the wolf in hers. Some things are just terrifying.

  He smiles tentatively, a crooked hitch of his lips, and his eyes crinkle in the way they always have. In the low light, they could maybe be black instead of that strange hazel, and the shine in them is the same. “Could I trouble you for a cup of cider, maybe?” he asks, low and soft, like I’m a wild animal, skittish and ready to bolt. Maybe I am. I nearly choke on the hysterical laughter that bubbles up under my breastbone.

  I move on autopilot to the counter, taking up my apron and tying it around my waist like I have nearly every day of my life. I gather all my hair up in my hands and tie it back with Grampa’s old bandana, and then, well, I’m out of ways to stall, so I pull out a mug and pour the cider.

  My hand shakes when I hand it to him, and I think about Grampa’s hands, about his earthquake, and about men changing. He takes the mug from me, wrapping his scarred hand around mine and holding on for just a second or two longer than he really needs to. It makes my chest hurt. I wonder, looking at my shaking hand, if maybe any kind of war changes you, if maybe I could be a different woman if I fought the panic people bring out in me.

  I think Grampa would probably want me to try. He’d never tell me so, would never put that kind of thing on me, but—but there was something so nice about getting to spend time with another somebody without being scared the whole way through, and that makes me think that maybe it’d be worth trying.

  Swallowing hard against the tremble that’s hovering in my throat, I say, more awkward and stilted than usual, “And how’re—how’re you today, sir?”

  His face cracks open on a smile, eyes crinkling up until I can barely see them. “It’s Joe,” he says, stretching out his hand across the counter. He puts his gnarled fingers on the back of my hand, waiting, and it takes me a minute, but I manage to turn my hand over, just enough to let him take it. “And I’m doing better now.” His hand squeezes mine, strong but careful, and my eyes drop shut. Like that, I can almost relax enough to like it, like holding his hand—with my eyes shut, I can forget he’s a person and remember that he’s him. I open my eyes, because that feels too cheap to stomach, and he says, gentle as can be, “And how’re you, Miss Blanche?”

  I choke a little on the panicked laugh that comes out of me then, but I manage to say, “I could be better,” without throwing up or running for the hills, so I give myself a little mental pat on the back. Learning to read wasn’t easy, either, but it was worth it for the books. Red Paw—Joe—he’s maybe worth a little of that, too.

  “You really couldn’t be,” he says, squeezing my hand a little again and smiling right into my eyes.

  Rosie whistles as she comes round the counter, tray on her shoulder. “You’re mighty smooth for somebody as didn’t have thumbs or eyebrows yesterday,” she says, raising her eyebrows at him and patting my hip as she goes by. It’s somehow reassuring, in that weird way that folks acting like themselves somehow always is.

  Joe laughs, and it’s the same little huff of air that he laughed when he was a bear. “Sorry.” He looks at me again, more serious, and he says, “Miss Blanche, I know I had no right to go upsetting you like I did, but—” he clears his throat a little, ducking his head, “—but I hope you’ll let me make it up to you.”

  A proper gentleman, Gramma would call him. And rightly, too. I feel like a heel, treating him like he’s just somebody, after all the days he’s made nice just by being around, after how kind he is, even when I’m this much of a gibbering idiot.

  “I, um,” I say, tugging my hand back to cover the red I can feel rising on my cheeks. “I think I’d—I think I’d maybe like that.” It comes out quiet, barely a whisper, but Joe catches it anyways, and the width of his smile tugs a little one out of me in response.

  “Well, then,” he says, standing up and sliding a neatly folded bill under the edge of his cup, “I guess I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, Miss Blanche.” Still beaming at me, he nods that precise little nod, like he’s tipping a hat he doesn’t have, and then he’s out the door, the bell jingling in his wake.

  My hands are still shaking and my chest still hurts, but there’s something nice in it now, too, a kind of cool sunshine-y feeling, like the creek in summer or a really good apple. The air smells, familiarly, wonderfully, like dark earth and trees.

  “There you are,” Rosie says, soft and satisfied, from behind me. Her hand squeezes my shoulder, once, briefly.

  I smile, too widely for it to be pretty or polite, and it feels good. “Here I am,” I agree. I let the quiet places in me stretch, just a little, let them be more than quiet. Shaky hands or not, it’s worth it.

  About the Author

  Alena Sullivan is a graduate student in the Stonecoast MFA program for Creative Writing. Her speculative fiction has appeared in Strange Horizons, Urban Fantasy, Expanded Horizons, and elsewhere. One of her stories is in Rich Horton's Year's Best Science Fiction and Fantasy 2017, published by Prime Books. Her speculative poetry has been included in Goblin Fruit, Star*Line, Illumen, and elsewhere. Her website is alenasullivan.wordpress.com.

  A Midsummer Night’s Bedtime Story

  Charles D. Shell

  Long Tom slept in a ball at Eliza’s feet, burrowed into the comforter covered in pastel cartoon characters. The big tomcat rarely left the seven-year-old’s side except for the occasional foray outside. The only sound in the room was the quiet hum of the air conditioning.

  At thirteen minutes past midnight, a sound woke the feline. He looked over at the crack in the baseboard near the corner. A scent reached his nostrils. His fur rose and a hiss escaped his jaws as an ancient, instinctive hatred filled him. He jumped off the bed and stalked to the corner without a sound. He sniffed at the small hole in the wall, his tail huge with alarm.

  When the attack came, it was too fast for even the nimble cat to escape. He let out a caterwaul of pain that nearly woke Eliza… then quiet returned to the room.

  The trio had trouble holding a conversation over Eliza’s wails and Dale’s angry shouting into the telephone.

  “I toldja it was the Unseelie! Toldja!” Thornspur said over and over as they sat inside the kitchen cabinet.

  “Yah. Poor kit got pointy-stuck,” Mudlick said. “Stuck.”

  Featherpetal rolled her eyes. “Whose fault is that, addlebrain?” She pointed at Mudlick.

  Mudlick’s big, toad-like mouth turned down in a frown. He pulled his threadbare cap over his eyes.

  “He’s gonna cry again, Petal!” Thornspur said.

  “I don’t care.” She crossed her arms as sobbing came from beneath the cap. Her stern expression softened and she patted Mudlick on his back. “It’s all right, Mudlick. We’ll fix it.”

  Mudlick pulled up his cap as plump tears rolled down his oversized cheeks. He gave her a soulful look. “Fix?”

  “Yes, we’ll fix it,” she said.

  “How we gonna do that, Petal?” Thornspur asked.

  “Umm… I’m working on it,” she said. “First, we have to make sure that book is safely out of mortal hands.”

  Eliza looked over at Long Tom’s bed and felt the tears coming again. It was mixed with a dull anger towards whoever had done such an evil thing to her beloved cat. Her father still talked with the police over the phone as he
tried to comfort her.

  “I’m telling you that some hooligan was in my house, officer!” Dale said into the receiver. “The cat was inside last night and I found it hanging from a tree this morning!”

  Eliza started wailing again.

  “I’m sorry, honey,” Dale said as he silently berated himself. “I’ll get you a new cat.”

  “I don’t wanna new cat! I want Long Tom!” she screamed.

  Dale’s ex-wife Anna had picked a wonderful time to be out of town. He tried explaining the situation to another unsympathetic policeman before taking Eliza to his sister’s house and rushing into work.

  “Okey doke! They’re all gone!” Thornspur said, squinting out the window into the painful sunlight.

  “Gone,” Mudlick said as he sucked on his toes.

  “Let’s get to searching. We know the Chronicle’s here somewhere and there’s no glamour on it. We’ll be thorough and it shouldn’t take long.”

  “Thurra,” Mudlick said as he walked along the carpet. “Fuzzy.”

  Featherpetal sighed. She flew out of the air duct and hovered in front of the bookshelf. None of the books looked familiar, despite a large number of Gaelic words. This mortal had a lot of books. Thornspur hovered next to her.

  “Where should we start?” Thornspur asked.

  “Grab a book and start reading.”

  “And Mudlick?” Thornspur pointed at the floor where the plump spriggan bumped into a trashcan, spilling its contents over the floor.

  “Try to keep him from setting the house on fire.”

  “That’s it, then,” Featherpetal said, shoving the last book back into the case. She looked around at the ransacked chaos of the father’s den. Mudlick’s legs stuck out from underneath a couch cushion. “It’s not here.”