Distorted Fates

by R. L. Weeks

  “And my gorgeous fur,” Winder said. “That was all you.”

  Sewing was another, though the lumps between the seams of Winder’s patchwork coat made it look like his metal body beneath had been slightly mangled. Bertie nodded, still crying for herself and her best friend.

  She stroked the cat as he and Nadia worked to starve the disease’s seeds.

  “You’re an important piece of this community,” they said.

  She remembered she believed that, as if the knowledge had left her for a little while. She may not have had any one thing she was especially good at, but her smattering of talents provided help here and there throughout their village. She did contribute.

  Even so, Bertie had abandoned her friend. It was a wrong she meant to right.

  Outside the window, summer covered every tree in a thick, green blanket. It always did in Summerglen. Every tree, lawn, and garden buzzed with life. Even Bertie’s home, with its chipped paint and cockeyed shutters, looked cheerful. The only interruption was the Winterwood, which Bertie could just see from her house. Snow fell from fat, heavy clouds above it.

  Nadia was still asleep upstairs, so Bertie crept around their kitchen as silently as possible while scouring the bare shelves for supplies.

  Winder was grooming himself on a chair even though his tongue was dry and smooth. He flicked his leather tail back and forth and whispered, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  Bertie nodded. Liam was somewhere out there, and she was going to find him.

  His words from that morning not so long ago echoed in her head. The Pale Queen visited me last night.

  Why didn’t I listen to him? Bertie asked herself for the thousandth time. Why hadn’t she paused, paid more attention? She and Liam had grown up as neighbors. They’d seen each other’s families shrink over the years until none of hers remained and she’d moved in with him and Nadia.

  A nursery rhyme from when they’d been children taunted her. Whispering her sweet poison... She will tempt with words like love…

  “She… actually had some really interesting things to say,” Liam had added pensively.

  How had that not stopped Bertie in her tracks? Because money’s always an issue, isn’t it?

  Bertie had been distracted that morning. Nadia hadn’t been well enough to take her goods to market in the next town over, which left it to Bertie since Liam already had handyman jobs scheduled for that day. Crystal Fever wasn’t the only malady to affect their village, just the worst. For a short while, it was possible to stop the sickness the same way it spread: with words. After they took root, only the sap of the weeping maple could cure Crystal Fever.

  A warm cloak of flower-perfumed darkness had covered Liam and Bertie as they spoke that morning. His broad frame and close-cut hair made his silhouette look like a cider barrel. Winder had been off chasing fireflies like any flesh-and-blood cat. Bertie, so consumed with the day ahead, had barely given Liam a second glance when he followed her outside, still dressed in his pajamas. It was the last time she’d seen him as himself.

  “Interesting?” she’d replied as she focused on packing her saddlebags. “I’m pretty sure you dreamed that.”

  Liam had insisted it had been real, but Bertie had neither the time nor the attention for it. She’d given him a quick have a good day and mounted Nadia’s donkey while Winder leapt onto the animal’s rump. When she’d returned that evening, Liam’s symptoms were already beginning to show.

  As she prepared for her journey now, Bertie knew Nadia couldn't spare much. She took the oldest loaf of bread and a few peaches, wrapped them in a kerchief, and left a note. She wished she had a jacket to bring even as heat seeped through the broken seams of their little house; she’d be cold soon enough.

  Several hours upriver, north of Summerglen, Bertie and Winder sat in a small boat, little more than a canoe with a sail, as the sun spilled sparkles into the clear water. The craft had been easy enough to steal, and the water sped them along. On Bertie’s left stood the Winterwood. An arctic gust blew from it.

  Stay out it seemed to rasp at her, scraping tiny ice teeth against her cheeks.

  Close-growing trees with bare black trunks, stiff as sentinels, rose from the snow-blanketed ground. Summerglen sprawled on the right, sunbathing in its own glorious warmth.

  Winder narrowed his bicolored silver and copper eyes at the shimmering river, water being a threat to both his feline and clockwork sensibilities. He rubbed his fabric ears against Bertie. “Can we get off now, please?”

  “Do you fancy tromping through snow banks as tall as you?”

  Winder gave a dramatic sigh and settled back into his place at the bow.

  Bertie had grown up with stories of what lay in the Winterwood. She’d loved listening to the traveling merchants, who said paths cut through the forest farther north. These negated the need to fight through the wilderness and remember whether you’d already been past that particular tree three times already. Everyone knew the infected went to the Pale Queen’s castle after they’d been turned out. Bertie just needed to get there and cure Liam before returning home with him.

  Well, when I think of it like that, it doesn’t sound so hard. She grimaced at her humor.

  Bertie stared as the world unfolded around her. She’d never been farther than the market, so as she saw other places and people roll by, she wondered about their lives. What special talents did they possess? Maybe they could teach her something she could use to help Liam. Maybe they didn’t even have to worry about the Pale Queen.

  A well-known path through the forest began in a place called Vernal Vale, but Bertie didn’t know how far away it lay. She’d just have to look for some kind of sign. Star-studded indigo dusk settled over the right bank as her boat came within sight of a vast city, and Bertie drank in every detail.

  The gaslights lining the avenues glittered brighter than the stars above. The people, dressed in fine silks and lace, strolled to and fro as if they had all the time in the world. Steam-powered carriages with shining brass boilers zipped past moseying clockwork horses, whose copper bodies resembled well-groomed chestnut fur more than Winder’s mismatched coat ever would.

  These people must have a charm against Crystal Fever, Bertie thought. Maybe they haven’t even heard of it.

  The river turned into the city. Other boats and vessels of every shape and size surrounded them, some gliding so close Bertie could have reached out and touched the passengers. She nearly did, but the sight of a laughing man’s gleaming black tongue made her snatch her hand back. Nestled in her pocket, next to her embroidery shears and other hobby tools, sat two globs of beeswax. As she fumbled to shove them into her ears, she accidentally dropped one into the water. With one ear plugged, Bertie reached toward the water to rescue its twin. The river lapped at her boat as if trying to return her lost property, but the craft rocked too far over. Winder yowled, leaping for the mast and sinking his metal claws into it, and Bertie reeled back just before they capsized.

  “Don’t worry about falling in,” someone shouted. “You can’t look any worse than you already do.”

  Discordant laughter rang out. Bertie desperately covered her other ear, hoping to block out the fever’s germs.

  “Don’t listen to that,” another voice called. “You’re doing great.” She spied a man pumping his fist in her direction. “Keep it up!”

  More people took up the second’s cheer. She heard it even through her efforts to deafen herself. Watching the city folk now made sweat prickle on Bertie’s brow. Some had ordinary eyes, others had pale restless ones, and many more were caught somewhere between.

  As the boat sailed on, the city changed. Instead of shining cupolas and spires reaching toward heaven, chimneys squatted atop enormous brick buildings and spewed thick black smoke. The people here dressed in poorer fabrics, but they seemed just as mixed health-wise as those in the shinier part of town.

  Bertie couldn’t focus on the city anymore. Anxiety crawled over her skin with liz
ard feet. Heart racing, she checked her eyes and tongue again and again in the river’s reflection. They looked the same as ever, but the city’s light was fading quickly as she sailed into the outskirts beyond.

  Winder sat close and spoke remedies to her. “They don’t know you. You are more stubborn than anyone might suspect. Wait, is that the right way to do this? Oh dear, perhaps you should have gotten a clockwork dog instead.”

  “That’s all right,” Bertie said, her voice a choked whisper. “Just keep going.”

  Clockwork cats didn’t require sleep, only to be rewound each day, which Bertie did before lying down for bed. Winder continued his encouragement attempts as fear and sleep warred for her attention.

  A raindrop tapped against Bertie’s cheek. Another. And then another. She opened her eyes to a sheet of steely grey clouds. They hung low and oppressive. Turning her head, she discovered three things: one, sleeping in the bottom of a boat will leave you stiff and uncomfortable; two, Winder was curled up beneath one of the seats and looking at the sky like it had betrayed him; and three, they were no longer sailing.

  Bertie peeked over the edge of their craft. The bow sat firmly berthed against the bank, while the port side scraped against a fallen tree stretching partway across the river. Before them spanned a field of flowers. Bertie almost gasped at the sight. The flowers, all different types and colors, grew as far as the horizon. Between the stalks, rabbits hopped and twitched their pink noses at the visitors.

  Bertie stood. “How long have we been here?”

  Before Winder could answer, another voice called through the steadily increasing rain. A woman wearing a straw hat with an enormous brim waved like a lunatic as she ran toward them from across the field.

  “Oh my goodness, you poor dear,” the woman puffed as she reached the boat. “I’m so glad I caught you.” A sudden gust of wind tried to make off with her expansive hat; the woman held it against her head as the brim danced. “Come inside before this storm really gets going. You can head out again once it’s passed.”

  As if to drive her point home, the clouds above rumbled and flashed.

  Bertie jumped from the boat. “Thank you.”

  The woman helped Bertie tie up the boat before they took off for a cottage in the distance. Bertie clutched Winder in her arms to protect him from the driving rain.

  Inside, the cottage smelled of honeysuckle. There were only a few rooms, but the sound of rain very much outside was more than enough for Bertie. A handful of bluebirds and goldfinches warbled welcomes from a rafter. They went silent, however, when Winder leapt from Bertie’s arms and stared at them, licking his lips.

  The woman removed her hat. “So glad we’re out of that. Vernal Vale storms can be wicked.”

  Bertie’s heart danced at hearing this. “Thank you again, Miss…”

  “Oh, no need to stand on formality here. You can call me Rose. And you?”

  “I’m Bertie. And this is Winder.”

  Winder turned from the birds and inclined his head as gracefully as any highborn gentleman in top hat and tails.

  As Rose went about her chores, Bertie asked where in Vernal Vale they were and how to get through the Winterwood, but every question resulted in a long-winded story without answers. During these yarns, Rose asked her own questions—what did Bertie like for breakfast, how did she like her eggs, what was her favorite fruit?

  “Strawber—Oh! The city!” Bertie suddenly remembered the night before, the insults on the river, and hurried to check herself in a wall mirror.

  Dark eyes as usual, pink tongue. Winder pressed against her legs and confirmed she felt warm. She scratched behind one of his tattered ears, making him purr, or as close to purring as he could get—a fast sort of clicking in his throat.

  Rose made Bertie lunch and nattered on about her garden, how her hawthorns hadn’t bloomed yet, and her concern over what the storm might do to her lovely flowers. Once Bertie had stuffed herself on the seemingly endless stream of food—strawberries and cream, asparagus quiche, roasted lamb, onion soup—Rose offered to brush and arrange her hair. Bertie sleepily agreed and settled on the sofa.

  “What lovely hair you have, my dear,” Rose said. “And strong like iron. If I had a daughter, I’d never let her go off into that dangerous world. Doesn’t that sound lovely? Staying safe at home with someone to take care of you?”

  That did sound lovely. Bertie smiled. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this full. Perhaps never. The cushions beneath her were like clouds, and the rain outside pattered musically against the roof. Yes, that did sound lovely. So she closed her eyes and let Rose pamper her, drifting from dream to dream.

  Bertie dreamed she was lying in the field outside. The sun beamed overhead while the rabbits sniffed at her with their tickly little noses. She strolled for days through one idyllic scene to the next. While she picked berries, a bunny pawed at her ankle. It pawed more insistently, then sank its long teeth into her flesh.

  Bertie cried out. Her eyes popped open as she yanked her foot back.

  Winder sat at the other end of the sofa, bicolored eyes glowering. “I of all people appreciate a good nap now and then, but you’ve been asleep all day. It’s time to wind me.”

  “Ask Rose to do it,” Bertie grumbled. She already missed her dreams.

  “Rose has gone out.”

  Bertie ignored him, and he poked a claw into her other foot. She tried to sit up, but her head refused to follow, making her yelp. Winder stalked along the back of the sofa to investigate while Bertie tried again more slowly. She couldn’t lift her head far before her hair pulled taut. Bertie grabbed it, followed it back, and found it changed from silky strands to links of cold, heavy iron.

  “She’s chained you to the wall,” Winder whispered.

  They looked up to the rafters. The birds peered at them, beady eyes hard as marbles.

  “Wind me,” Winder said.

  Bertie detached the end of the cat’s tail with a twist to reveal a winding key within. Winder sat on her chest while she turned the key in a hole in his back. The clockwork pieces within clicked away.

  “Tighter,” Winder said.

  “I don’t want to overclock you,” she replied with a trembling voice.

  “Just a little.”

  She gave the key a few extra turns, and Winder’s mechanical legs tightened against her. Like a bullet from a gun, he sprang up. Feathers flew. The birds shrieked and scrambled, dive-bombing Winder as he took them out one by one. Bertie reached into her pocket and pulled out her embroidery shears. She clipped wherever she could reach, gradually freeing herself. A goldfinch flew at her. It reached for her eyes with tiny talons and gave off a twittery war cry. Winder leapt and caught the bird in his mouth with a sickening crunch. Bertie kept working, snipping away until she was free.

  “Come on,” she said as Winder eviscerated the last of the songbirds.

  Bertie opened the door to find the storm had ceased, but a new danger faced them. Winder gave a low growl and pressed his over-warm body against Bertie as dozens of rabbits stared at them. The rabbits formed a semi-circle around the doorway and bared pointed incisors.

  “Boat,” she hissed. “Run.”

  Winder took off twice as fast as his mistress and easily dodged the rabbits. Bertie ran faster than she ever had while they clawed and bit at her skirt. They shredded the hem but couldn’t catch her pumping legs. Winder was already chewing the rope securing the boat when Bertie jumped into it and dislodged it from the bank. She freed the craft with her shears before driving them into the quickest rabbit, which had hopped onto the fallen tree. Bertie flung the body at its comrades with a snarl.

  “You’ll get worse if you don’t back off!”

  Winder punctuated her threat with a hiss and arched his back. The rabbits paused, gnashing their teeth but seemingly cowed, and the boat glided farther away. Bertie steered it around the tree and the current swept them off. In the distance, Bertie spotted Rose running toward them, waving h
er huge hat and looking nothing like an evil witch. Bertie ducked, holding Winder to her chest as his overworked body cooled. She glared at Rose from across the distance, fiddling with a new tear in the cat’s ear.

  Bertie decided they’d get off at the next place that looked promising. The Winterwood still rolled by on the left, and Bertie kept an eye out for weeping maples. Not that she expected to find any here since they supposedly only grew deep within the forest around the Pale Queen’s palace, but she could hope. Thankfully, just as her stomach started grumbling again, a bridge came within sight. They docked their boat beside it and stepped out.

  Papery leaves in every color between russet and butterscotch surrounded them as the wind gently kissed Bertie’s skin.

  She rubbed her chilled arms and looked down at Winder. “We need food.”

  “You need food.”

  “And a hat. This hack job won’t do anything to keep me warm.” She rubbed her choppy, ruined hair.

  Winder gave her the kind of disapproving look only cats could give. “You’re not seriously concerned about your appearance, are you?”

  “Not really.” Bertie shrugged, though pink tinged her cheeks.

  “Be proud. It’s proof of your warrior might.”

  Not far from the bridge, they found a grove of apple trees. Bertie tied as many as she could in her kerchief before chomping into one. As she ate, twilight approached, and a light flared in the distance. Speaking in whispers, they decided to creep over and investigate. Whatever it was, perhaps she could get a coat there.

  Within minutes, they came upon a crumbling castle of moss-covered stone and overgrown trees. They’d grown over the edifice, patch-working the bits that had decayed.

  As Bertie peered around a tree trunk, a deep voice rumbled through the growing darkness. “What are you doing?”

  Bertie spun as Winder arched his back and hissed. His fabric ears flattened against his head.

  A young man, who looked about her age and wore a deerskin cloak, stepped out of the forest. His wiry, dark hair stood up in unruly twists. He carried a bow, arrow nocked and ready, but he held it low. A crow perched on his shoulder twitched its head back and forth as it studied them. The young man’s grey eyes were similarly trained on them.