by Robin Trent
One story Rebecca remembered from her grandmother was that when the angels revolted in heaven, God ordered the gates of heaven shut. Those that were still in heaven remained angels, those in hell became demons, and those caught on Earth became faeries. Many believed they were demons, and in the Reformed Church of England, dealing with faeries was considered a form of witchcraft and punished as such. Some said they were spirits of the dead, and others said they were separate and special race altogether.
So here she was, with a woman, an English woman at that, who was claiming that her child had been stolen by the faeries and that what was left in the crib was a changeling. She had made remarks about that strange little umbrella too, so this wasn't the first odd thing Elizabeth had claimed. Rebecca had seen the faeries around the property before so she knew this was all possible. She looked in on the babies when Elizabeth quieted down. She didn't see anything unusual. The babies looked just as healthy and normal as could be. No deformities. No sickness. Still it could be a trick of the eyes. Rebecca knew about glamour.
She looked over at Elizabeth now passed out from exhaustion. She hoped the young mistress would be recovered in the morning, that this was just some weird circumstance that disappears as fast as it came. Either way, Rebecca was loyal, and she would do what she could for her mistress.
6
Her dress rustled through the leaves as she walked. The smell of death and decay hung in the air and filled her nostrils. Elizabeth could hear the bare branches of the trees clacking together in the wind. Strange eyes seemed to peer out at her from within the undergrowth and from behind the trees. Elizabeth felt goosebumps down her back, and her breath caught in her throat.
She ran through the dark wood, tripping over twigs and branches on the forest floor. Urgency drove her as Elizabeth hunted for something lost, frantically searching for something just out of reach. She knew it was important. She was trying hard to remember what it was, but it was like sifting her memory through thick syrup.
It was foggy and disjointed, and everything seemed to tilt, and the land moved strangely beneath her feet. Her hair pulled as branches snatched at it, tangling it, and twigs from the forest floor stabbed her feet. Elizabeth was having trouble distinguishing one shape from another. Through the fog, she could hear a baby cry. She ran toward the sound, but it only seemed to move farther and farther away. For a brief moment of lucidity, Elizabeth remembered her daughter. "Effie," Elizabeth said. "Where's my daughter?"
The baby was lying in a soft bed of moss with many blankets to act as a cushion. Smaller flower fae flew around the baby and placed a garland of white flowers upon her brow. She finally awoke after being drugged with the sleeping dust. She reached for the fae and cooed and gurgled. Queen Oonagh looked on. The babe seemed utterly harmless, and in its present state, she supposed it was. What it was now was not the problem, but what it may grow into, well, that was another matter. Still, for a human child, she was beautiful. Oonagh wondered if her sibling was a twin that would or wouldn't resemble her. Even so, she may never actually know about her twin. It would all depend on her temperament, and if she would grow into a being that would be trustworthy. Only time would tell.
In the meantime, she needed a name. She couldn't just be called "child" for the rest of her life. She supposed Titwell would eventually find out the babe’s real name since he was now a part of the household. Still, that would be her human name. A Sidhe name seemed more appropriate. Oonagh knew she had time, lots of time actually to concoct the story she would eventually feed the child about her human life. Until that time arrived, a Sidhe name would calm the rest of the court and make it seem like Oonagh's new pet was acceptable.
She could name her Amara, which means eternal, or call her after some plant, like Rose or Tansy. "Hanna" means "Goddess of Life" or "Daia" for "everlasting morning joy." But there's really no point in giving the child such an egotistical name. No, something more subtle, but will invoke the proper response. "Callidora," which means "gift of beauty" and "Sylvia," which means "from the forest." So Beautiful Gift from the Forest. Innocuous, but fitting, for that shall be the story as well. She was found in the forest, and rather than abandon the child, the queen opened her heart and took her in. Perfect.
Oonagh moved toward the child, and the other fae moved a safe distance away. She bent over and let the babe grip her finger. Oonagh actually smiled. She dipped her fingers into the shining blue waters of the fountain and brought wet, dripping fingers to the child's chest over her heart. "May the waters of life bless you, and may you now be known as Callidora Sylvia for all of eternity in the Land of Elphame. Your new life begins with us this day, and you shall be raised as one of us. You will be taught our ways, and you will be a bridge between this world and the world of humans." The queen took the babe and removed its human clothing and dressed the child in fae baby clothes of green, blue, and gold. She handed the human clothes to her attendants. "Burn these."
Now, to see to the child's needs. Oonagh could have left the infant with its human mother until the child was weaned. But no, she couldn't take that chance. Besides, this way the child would have absolutely no memory of her birth mother. So, Oonagh needed a human mother who had lost a child. Someone who will have milk available. The queen called her guard and told them to search high and low for such a woman. A simple memory draught should keep the woman from knowing what was going on. Find her and bring her here every night to breastfeed the child. It should be simple enough.
A house brownie's life centered around hearth and home. They don't like to be seen, however, and only work at night. They don't like to be "thanked" either as it implies an obligation. They usually abandon the house if their gifts are called payments, or if the owners of the house misuse them. Brownies make their homes in an unused part of the house, often in attics and holes in walls. And it was this that Titwell was now looking for. He didn't have to look very far.
He stood in the hallway. To his right was the upper floor master bedroom, where the mother was sleeping. To his left was the guest bedroom, where the grandmother was sleeping. Also, to his left at the end of the hallway was another flight of stairs. He mounted the steps and found a door at the top. Locked. The keys would be with the mistress of the house.
Titwell tiptoed back down the stairs and across the hall to his mistress's bedroom. He came up short as he opened the door. There, leaning over his mistress, was a shadow, foul and black as night, and he could hear its wicked whispering. "You have failed. Failed to protect your daughter. Misbegotten one, now a changeling."
"Get out, you foul creature, out I say!" Titwell whispered.
The nightmare lurched forward a step towards Titwell, taken by surprise as it was. It leered at Titwell and hissed, "You will fail as well... Fail to protect her!" And it vanished.
With shaking hands, Titwell moved the coverlet up over his mistress's shoulders and tucked her in.
"Be well, Elizabeth, for nothing is your fault. No, I'm afraid it's mine."
The keys were on the dresser, and Titwell snatched them and moved toward the door. Back at the top of the stairs, he took the key to the attic off of the keyring. He doubted anyone was going to miss it for quite some time. He pocketed it and decided to return the rest of the keys right away. It gave him a good reason to take another look at Elizabeth just to make sure that thing hadn't returned. Nothing was amiss. He made his way down the stairs and located a candle, candle holder, and matches in the kitchen.
The attic was spacious and covered the entire top floor. Dust coated every surface. At the far end, there was a tall window overlooking the front yard. Grime and dead flies covered the window sill. Boxes upon boxes were piled everywhere. There was abandoned doll furniture which he supposed belonged to the missus, old clothes, books, lamps, and even a broken rocking chair. Titwell decided to make this his home, but it was going to need a thorough cleaning first.
Another trip to the kitchen to retrieve buckets, water, soap, and rags. He went to the closet in t
he kitchen to retrieve his cleaning supplies when low and behold, he spied his umbrella. Titwell made sure to retrieve that as well. He then set about fixing the place up.
He continued to berate every fae in all the land in his mind as he cleaned and polished everything until it shone. It was good for his soul and helped to quiet his troubled mind. He was going to have to keep a close eye on the missus. And of course, the geas from the queen didn't help. Since it was the fae who kidnapped her child, he doubted Elizabeth would be too keen about him taking up residence in the house. Best to keep quiet and stay hidden. It was his nature anyway. No house brownie worth his salt wanted to be seen. It's not normal for a brownie to interfere with human affairs, but he was already knee-deep in it anyway. Protecting her was only fair. Besides, he was here to watch over Ophelia, so he might as well look after Elizabeth as well.
Elizabeth finally stopped tossing and turning as the first rays of light came over the horizon. The servants roused sleepily to begin a new day but were under strict orders not to disturb their mistress. Everyone moved slowly as no one had gotten much sleep. Rebecca rose, washed her face, donned her clothes, then went into the kitchen to start breakfast. Eyes bleary, she opened the cupboard and reached for the cooking pot to make the morning porridge. As she pulled the pan out of the closet, she sat it down on the kitchen counter and stared out into the yard through the window. In the reflection of the glass, Rebecca could make out the kitchen behind her. She stared, and as she stared, realization slowly dawned on her, and she began to turn around. What Rebecca saw took her breath away. Not only was everything tidy and neat as a pin, but everything had been freshly scrubbed too.
The kitchen table had been cleaned and oiled to the point that the wood appeared restored. The floors were gleaming, and every pot and pan had every single spot or caked-on bit removed. Not a thing stood out of place. The broom stood in the corner, and even it looked as though it had the straw replaced and the handle polished. Rebecca crossed herself. She knew what this meant.
She had thought the faeries were back at the farm, and now she had confirmation. And she knew what she must do. Being as superstitious as the next person, Rebecca would never cross one of the Good Folk. She didn't expect the young mistress or her mother to understand, but Rebecca was going to have to start leaving out bread, butter, honey, and cream at night. The last thing in the world that she wanted was a boggart, and if you didn't treat a house brownie right and feed him, that was exactly what he would turn into.
John entered the kitchen and practically stumbled into Rebecca. "Mornin love." he said as he kissed her on top of her head. "Time to be tending to me chores. Let me know when the porridge is ready." And on he went outside to milk the cows without noticing a thing.
Abigail Young had never been one to mince words. No, if she thought you were a liar, she would come right out and tell you to your face. And she would make sure she did it in front of a large crowd for significant impact and lots of attention-getting. Abigail hoisted her bulk into the rocking chair in front of the fire and moved greasy strands of hair out of her eyes. Her emotionally battered husband had already gone to bed. Affection between the two had waned a long time ago. Abigail kept herself occupied by being the town gossip and running around town, as much as her stressed knees would allow, to see whose flower gardens were the best this summer and to hear the latest gossip.
She had heard that the young couple had moved into the Barker's cottage. Still, they had been here for almost a year and hadn't made one appearance at church. Elizabeth probably has her head full of all kinds of foreign beliefs and such after traveling abroad as she had. Abigail had heard the daughter had been traveling with her parents when she met Nikolai Merkova. Well, thank goodness for that. At least her parents had made sure she seemed respectable.
Still, this woman was in her village and hadn't made one gesture to speak of in trying to extend goodwill towards anyone. Well, that is just unheard of. Even if she had been pregnant most of the time, she could have made some effort. Abigail rocked back and forth faster and faster as she thought about it. It made her blood boil to think that there was someone in town whose business she didn't know. Well, there was undoubtedly a remedy for that.
Soon she would rouse herself, retrieve her carriage and visit the new Mrs. Merkova. Word had spread that Nikolai was already on another one of his expeditions and there she was out in the country all by herself. It just wasn't proper. She had to find out for the welfare of the town after all, morals and standards must be maintained. One person's lax habits could spread like a disease among the parish's flock.
7
It was war. Rhys Bryhana had always reveled in battle as it was the only time he felt alive. Also, there was the added advantage that he got to kill humans with no repercussions. He was an officer in the British Military; at least that is the figure he assumed with his glamour. He was out on the field of battle, dressed in an officer's uniform, shoulder-length brown hair pulled back into a ponytail gathered at the nape of his neck.
As an officer, he could have ridden a horse into battle, but that was not what Rhys enjoyed. He wanted to be in the thick of things, stabbing and slashing, releasing all of his anger and vengeance upon the men gathered at this particular place and time. Rhys held no specific loyalties to anyone. Still, he had to prevent himself from slashing the British if he wanted to maintain appearances.
In fact, Rhys had been doing this for centuries now. He had fought in almost every major battle since the Celts sacked Rome. After every battle, he would side-step into the otherworld and disappear entirely. Men from the battlefield would remember the strange officer with the deep scar running from forehead to cheek on the left side of his face.
His left eye was dead, covered in a white film from being slashed open. This wound was evident in his natural form. However, when using a glamour Rhys could chose whether the scar could be seen or not. He never tried to cover up this particular battle scar in war. Dismayed when it happened, he soon realized it was an actual advantage when fighting as his appearance could strike fear into the hearts of many. The men would recount how bravely and gallantly he fought, never realizing that all he wanted to do was kill indiscriminately, and war always allowed him to do just that.
Not that he needed a cover for killing. Rhys could kill and step off into the otherworld and no one would see him or catch him. However, since the defeat of Napoleon in 1815, there had been 40 years of peace in Europe, and quite frankly, Rhys had been bored. He hadn't been able to kill any humans since the accords between faerie and mankind. They were made long ago, and Elphame had been relegated to legend and myth as far as humans were concerned.
But the fae remembered, even if man did not, and the Seelie queen of Elphame forbid killing humans. However, Rhys Bryhana was expelled from that court and left with no other option than to join the Unseelie court, where the second queen of Elphame reveled in death. Rhys really should thank Oonagh sometime for banishing him; it led him straight to Maeve, and he was allowed to wreak his vengeance upon the world.
When not fighting, Rhys played with men. Invisible to human eyes, he would whisper in their ears and plant thoughts in their minds. He destroyed a whole village once by whispering and then sitting back and watching them kill each other. Such was the anger and spite of Rhys Bryhana.
Rhys wasn't always this way. He loved once, a human woman. She was a warrior also and fought by his side. Her name was Brianna, and his second name, Bryhana, was a tribute to her. She was a fierce beauty, and she bore him a child. He took her as his wife, even though it was forbidden by fae law. Rhys did not believe anyone should be able to tell him whom he could love. He cared for the mortals then and helped them farm and grow crops, blessing them with fertile fields and abundance.
But when his child was born, the men in the village took action against Brianna, due to court intrigue. She was the daughter of the chieftain, and she was supposed to marry another clan chieftain's son. Charges were brought up against her
that the child was unnatural and that she had been trekking with demons. They killed Brianna and her child, and the chieftain did nothing to stop it. Rhys had been away at the time, sent on fae court business. When he returned, he found that his wife and child were slain, and he wreaked havoc on the village.
Since then, Rhys could not kill enough humans, and his blood lust was constant. He never loved again, and he never forgave the pain and suffering his wife and child endured. It was now centuries past, and his love had turned to dust long ago.
The Crimean War provided Rhys an opportunity to slake his blood lust once again. And now the Anglo-Egyptian War did the same. All Rhys had now was battle and hatred, and he killed humans every chance he got. After all, they were nothing but animals. Animals had more dignity and grace than men ever did. These were the thoughts he carried with him as he lunged and stabbed with his sword, an excellent weapon of ancient make. The soldiers were carrying bayonets, something Rhys could easily break in half with his sword, and it glinted in the sun as he slid it into the gut of an enemy soldier. No matter the human progress of their weapons, nothing had yet to match Rhys's sword, which was of faerie make. It never rusted, and it never needed sharpening.
A horn sounded, and Rhys looked up to see the enemy retreating. He was breathing steadily, barely breaking a sweat, as he had just gotten started. It was all over with too soon. These humans, they wear out so quickly. Their stamina was as short as their life spans. He began to sheath his sword when he felt something at his back, an energy with the intent to kill. Quickly withdrawing the sword once again, Rhys pivoted one hundred and eighty degrees, swinging the sword in an arc. As he did so, his sword cut the man in half, and Rhys grinned.
