Fell Beasts and Fair

by C. J. Brightley

  A Fryolater timer went off and the women started. Lori, tall, blonde, and tan, laughed and the tension broke. Everyone scattered back to their stations. Lori’s perfect, white teeth flashed in a grin and Suzie’s humming hung in the air as they both disappeared through the door back to the dining room. Sizzling overrode the beeping as Marge leaned hard on the burgers.

  “Get that, will ya?” Marge said as she rubbed a meaty paw across her glistening forehead.

  Tam lurched to life. She yanked the basket out of the bubbling oil and hung it to drain. She tried to get hold of herself, to ignore whatever it was that was going on around her—it was nothing to do with her, after all. She crossed back into the dining room, intent on coffee and club sandwiches.

  And then she heard it.

  They all heard it.

  Approaching engines that dulled not in Doppler but in the easing off of the gas as they coasted to a stop.

  Tam looked around, feeling like a mouse caught in a trap. The frightened gazes of Lori and Jen looked back.

  There was the sputter of engines cutting off and the squeak of kickstands and the creak of leather seats suddenly relieved of a heavy load. There were loud voices and boots on gravel.

  The air in the diner grew thick with worry. Tam's pulse fluttered. She and the other staff drifted to the window one by one to stand shoulder-to-shoulder to gaze out at the men in the parking lot—diners, burgers, and Fryolators all forgotten.

  “What’s wrong?” Tam asked, her voice hardly more than a whisper, first to the waitress on her right and then to the dishwasher to her left. Neither woman answered. “Are they Hell’s Angels or something?” she asked a little more forcefully, though she scoffed at the idea that some outlaw biker gang was roaming the scenic byways of New Hampshire. The men were rough looking, to be sure—beefy and unkempt, the wiry bristles of their bushy beards disappearing into their jackets—but that didn’t make them dangerous. She knew better than to buy into stereotypes. Most bikers were never any trouble, even if they did come pouring out of places with a certain rough, backwoods flavor, like Webster, Loudon, Henniker, and Northwood. They were mostly quiet men who just wanted to be left alone. They drank their coffee quickly and silently and paid their bill with no fuss. The rest were usually weekend warriors—reclaiming freedom and lost youth in the all too short breaks between their nine-to-five days. Heck, Tam’s uncle rode a motorcycle, a bandana tied to his head and aviator shades covering his eyes, like he was Jack Nicholson in Easy Rider, and he was an accountant.

  Still, a nameless fear prickled at the back of her neck.

  “Worse,” Marge ‘The Barge’, who’d marched out from the kitchen, answered in a flat voice, never taking her eyes from the bikers.

  What could be worse than Hell’s Angels? Tam wondered.

  There was a silence, just long enough to be noticed, and then Marge said, “Unicorns.”

  Not joking. Not as an aside. Not apropos of anything. Just flat and monotone, as if providing some unfortunate but necessary news. The car has a flat tire. It’s going to rain tomorrow. There are bats nesting in the attic.

  Tam waited for the punch line to the joke, but it never came. In fact, Marge said nothing further.

  Marge has lost her mind, Tam thought just as flatly and matter-of-factly as Marge had said the word “unicorns.” She’s scared; so scared, in fact, that she’s gone crazy.

  Tam had a sudden flashback to a junior high math class. Heather Baxton, a plain, solidly-built tom-boy with a physique for rugby, had, one day, inexplicably turned to Tam and stated in that same matter-of-fact tone that she was tired because she’d been up all night, waiting in the woods for a unicorn.

  Tam had blinked in surprised confusion and returned no answer. Unicorns were not something she had ever thought much about, and she was unprepared for the sudden introduction of them into any conversation, let alone in math class of all places. Math and unicorns just didn’t mix. Reality and unicorns didn’t mix. Tom-boys built for rugby and unicorns didn’t mix. Tam’s brain had rebelled at all facets of the statement. It was odd enough that a girl of fourteen, long past the age of fairy tales, should believe in unicorns, and a little crazy that she would actually stay up all night waiting for one to appear to her as if they were real and there was any possibility that it might happen. Crazy as that all might be, it was outright insane that plain, solid, staid Heather Baxton, of all people, should believe one would come to her, of all people. Unicorns were for pretty, slim-waisted, sweet-faced storybook princesses with long, flowing hair and girls who liked glitter and high heels and things that sparkled and the aggressively pink artwork of Lisa Frank. Heather was neither.

  Marge was still staring out the window, unblinking, transfixed by the bikers. A tremble of fear ran through Tam, chilling her worse than if she’d been locked in the big walk-in freezer. Marge’s bizarre—no, strike that, absolutely nuts—statement frightened Tam as nothing else all day had—not the pack of burly bikers milling on the hard packed gravel of the parking lot, not the strange, unnerving fear and silence that had descended over the diner’s staff, not the ritualized gathering at the window to stare out at the bikers as if they were the fabled Horseman of the Apocalypse. The most frightening part of the statement hadn’t been the weirdness of it; no, the most frightening part was that Marge was serious. Marge, large and fearless, was going to pieces.

  That morning’s cup of coffee soured in Tam’s stomach and threatened to come back up. She looked around for help—help making sense of Marge’s words, help getting Marge to pull herself together, help in understanding what was happening. It was then that she noticed there weren’t any men working in the diner. Not Matt the owner, not floppy-haired, pimple-faced Joe who was working two summer jobs to save up for his first car, not Joe-Joe, the silent and surly sixty-year-old busboy who was on work release as part of his probation.

  Unease slithered down Tam’s spine, replacing generalized dread with a warning bell of alarm. Where were all the guys? Why today, of all days, were none of them working? The motorcycle rally happened the same time every year. Motorcycle Weekend. Fourth of July fireworks. The State Fair on Labor Day Weekend. These were foundational events—fixed and unchanging—that meant big crowds, busy staff. The guys should be here today of all days, if for no other reason than the fact that the diner would be busier than usual. It was, after all, the first stop anyone coming east on 101 would make.

  “Where are all the guys today? Why aren’t they here?” Tam asked, starting to panic. Even Joe-Joe, who was always staring at her chest, would be a welcome sight at the moment.

  “Men just make them worse,” Leyla, the dishwasher, said softly. “It’s up to a woman.”

  In response to Tam’s questioning frown, Lori, who had gone pale despite her tan, nodded at the bikers. “Look,” she said. “Really look.”

  Tam looked and she didn’t have to ask what Lori meant. Outside, in the parking lot, the sun glinted off the wiry beards and bushy hair and leather jackets and chrome tailpipes and Tam could see the tossing heads and spiral horns and pawing hooves, flashing in and out of the sunlight. She gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth, terrified they’d hear, while her eyes strained and her brain spasmed as they tried to make sense of the impossible, crazy, unbelievable thing before her.

  Unicorns weren’t supposed to be like this. The fairytales her mother had read to her as a child described unicorns as delicate, slim-legged, graceful creatures of pure white, ethereal and fragile. However, Tam could see the evidence of this untruth with her own eyes. The unicorns were big and beefy and wild-eyed, more Clydesdale than Lusitano, but unlikely to be mistaken for horses anyway—they were too fierce, too feral, too ferocious for that.

  The unicorns were whooping now, making as much noise as they could, and one leaped onto the hood of a nearby car, jumping up and down on it with unrestrained glee, while his fellows hooted and hollered and kicked up their hind legs, striking out at anything in their path.

  Tam looke
d down the line of women, looking for fear that mirrored her own. There wasn’t any. Instead, the anxiety that had been present all day had flattened and dulled into stoicism and resolve, the line of women transformed from a gaggle of weak and frightened girl-children to a line of warriors.

  Without a word Marge grabbed the broom from Suzie’s limp-wristed grip and, hollow-eyed and stiff-legged, headed out the door to the parking lot. By the time she reached the gang of bikers, she wielded the broom like a quarterstaff.

  One of the unicorns stepped forward. The trees, the sun, the whirring, chirping insects that made the landscape so pastoral all faded away, leaving only the dark, sparkling glint of quartz-encrusted gravel and a ring of burly, frenzied spectators in Tam’s view. The quarterstaff arced through the air as the unicorn lowered its head and charged. Marge wasn’t fast, but she was strong and solid. The horn and the staff thudded against each other with a bone-jarring force so visceral that Tam could feel it vibrating down the length of her own arm.

  The other unicorns gathered around the two combatants, fists pumping, hooves pawing, their shouts and squeals as deafening now as their tailpipes had been earlier. Tam gritted her teeth against the sound that grated its way down her spine like nails on a chalkboard.

  Marge and the unicorn crashed together and then sprang apart, circling each other, thrusting and retreating, dodging and parrying, testing each other’s strengths and weaknesses.

  “What happens if she loses?” Tam asked breathlessly.

  “It’ll be a bad year,” Jen said, in that way farmers talk about a killing frost or a drought or a hard winter. Dire. Calamitous. Heart-breaking.

  Tam could well imagine what she meant. Seeing the unicorns so wild and lawless, she knew that unless they could be settled down, they’d run rampant over the countryside like an outlaw biker gang, wreaking mayhem wherever they went, until the winter snows drove them back into the forests.

  “Why doesn’t someone do something?” Tam asked wildly. “Shoot them or something?”

  “Kill them?” Leyla echoed as if Tam were crazy. “They’re unicorns.” She said it not in a ‘they’re really tough to kill’ kind of way but instead in a ‘they’re too special to kill.’

  “They’re kind of beautiful, in their own way,” Suzie added wistfully, and Tam knew what she meant as she watched, mesmerized, the knife-like horn and flint-hard hooves jab at her friend.

  “We just need to tame them a bit. Make them respect human settlements. They come out of the woods after the winter a bit wild.” Jen turned away to fill a diner’s coffee cup. Tam had forgotten the customers. She turned to survey the diner, expecting angry customers, wondering why all the wait-staff were gazing out the window. Instead, the diners calmly sipped their coffee and continued to eat, as if nothing strange was happening.

  “Does she have to fight them all?” Tam asked turning back to the fight outside. The unicorn sliced the air a hair’s breadth from Marge’s face.

  “No, just the leader. They’re herd animals. They’ll follow Marge and do what she says if she can subdue the leader.”

  “What do you mean, ‘subdue’?” she asked.

  The unicorns could never be tamed, that much was abundantly apparent to Tam. In the stories, only a woman could capture a unicorn, never a man, and a woman’s power over the unicorn lay in her softness, her gentleness, her biddable nature. Only the purest, sweetest, most innocent of young maidens could attract and capture a unicorn, her docility luring it to place its head in her lap so she could take hold of its horn. This, however, like the slim legs and white coat, seemed to be utter crap.

  Parry, dodge, thrust, retreat.

  The unicorn and Marge clashed together over and over as Tam watched balanced on the knife-edge between fear and fascination. The unicorn wasn’t going to bow down to sweetness; strength is what it would respect. Not raw, brute power—it would never allow itself to be dominated—but strength, which was something different altogether—as she was just now realizing as she watched Marge match the unicorn blow for blow.

  The unicorn reared, towering over Marge, its hooves mere inches from her head, and pawed the air. The women gave a collective gasp. Marge held her ground. Tam’s heart leapt into her throat, and she pressed the heel of her hand to her mouth to keep from crying out.

  The quarterstaff swept in under the unicorn’s pawing hooves, thudding into its unprotected mid-section with an audible crack so loud Tam swore the windows rattled. The unicorn screeched in pain and fell heavily to all fours and then crumpled forward on its front knees. The throng surrounding the combatants grew silent. Marge lowered her arms, letting the tip of the broom rest against the ground. The unicorn raised its head, and Tam saw what Marge did not: defiance flashing in its eyes. Too late, Marge tried to raise her arms, but the horn was already plunging deep in her belly.

  There was a collective gasp from the women and then a sickening silence. Marge knelt on the ground, her hand pressed to her guts as the unicorn towered over her, triumphant.

  “Someone go!” Jen shouted. “Before they get away!”

  “Screw them!” Tam cried, horrified at Jen’s callousness. “What about Marge?”

  And eight pairs of eyes answered the question: what happens if she loses?

  Dire. Calamitous. Heart-breaking.

  Things started to go a bit fuzzy and Tam’s legs were about to give out as she bit her palm to keep the sobs at bay, but it was going to be okay because tall, blonde, and good-in-a-crisis Lori had pulled out a cell phone and was dialing 911, and then it wasn’t so okay after all because beanpole Suzie was saying, “Tam knows martial arts” and eight pair of eyes had swiveled back to Tam again.

  “Mixed martial arts,” Tam corrected reflexively, nearly babbling. “I’m not very good. I’m just a beginner. It’s a beginner class.”

  Eight pairs of eyes stared back, expectantly.

  Time stopped. In the parking lot, Marge held her guts in with one hand, the blood seeping between her fingers, life ebbing away in rhythm to the ticking of the clock above their heads, while the unicorns squealed and pawed and shouted and thumped each other on the back.

  Tam’s eyes met the anxious yet steady gaze of the other women and something sparked between them, strength telegraphing across the cheery yellow faux-leather seats and white Formica tabletops. This is a ritual, a sacred duty, the women’s eyes said. We are the guardians of something great and terrible. And you’re a part of that now.

  Tam’s thudding heart beat slowed until it, too, matched the ticking of the clock. Everything beat in rhythm. Slowly, Tam nodded. She was a part of it. Or perhaps more true to say it was a part of her.

  She turned and headed for the door, and time was moving again, only it wasn’t really, and she was in the world, but she was out of it, now, too.

  She pushed the door open, the bell above it jangling merrily, and stepped out into the bright June sunshine.

  The unicorns stood before her, snorting, pawing, belching, scratching, and at last, Tam understood why it had been—why it had had to be—staid, stolid, built-for-Rugby Heather Baxton, of all people, who had waited for a unicorn in the woods all those years ago.

  Tam raised her fists.

  About the Author

  Terri Bruce has been making up adventure stories for as long as she can remember and won her first writing award when she was twelve. Like Anne Shirley, she prefers to make people cry rather than laugh, but is happy if she can do either. She produces fantasy and adventure stories from a haunted house in New England where she lives with her husband and three cats. Visit her on the web at terribruce.net.

  Like Sand in Your Teeth

  April Steenburgh

  The first time I saw the boy I laughed. There is nothing elegant about hiking pants up past knees in order to scrabble around in the sand and surf on gangly limbs. His skin was browned, legs obviously used to being exposed to the sun. The look of concentration on his young face, furrowed forehead and intent eyes all crinkled at the co
rners, was endearing enough that I did not continue to snicker. I floated out past the break of the waves, head just above water, and watched as he scavenged for things I could not fathom. There was no food to be found where he searched and scrounged, no treasure I could remember being buried. I had no idea what he could possibly be doing, bouncing around the shore like a willet.

  I have always been cursed with far more than my share of curiosity. I rode a wave in, slipping out of my skin after being deposited gently on shore and stood, hands crossed behind my back in an imitation of posture I had observed over the years, and leaned close. “What are you looking for?”

  I gave him a bit of a fright, stepping up to look over his shoulder without any prior announcement of my presence. After he recovered from his half-choked shout and clumsy leap to the side, his eyebrows drew tight over his forehead as he took a look, and then did his very best to look anywhere but my direction.

  “Who are you? What are you doing? Where…” He gestured at me, a flush rising to his cheeks to color them as if they had been kissed by the sun.

  “I couldn’t very well swim in my clothing, now could I? I left it on the beach.” It was not a lie—my sealskin was settled neatly between some stones a few paces down the shore. “My name is Coira. What are you looking for? Can I help?”

  He frowned, ever so slightly, but his stiff and startled posture eased a bit as he fixed his gaze over my left shoulder. “I am looking for shells.”

  Shells. Of all the little, silly things in the sea. Of course he was looking for shells. He had a few settled in a piece of cloth he held out for me to see, posture losing some of its stiff embarrassment as his attention focused on his collection. Some colorful, some bearing the marks of rough treatment, all meticulously selected as no two were the same. This was a fair place for shells. He knew his task well.

  “I am Dylan.” He offered me his name with the same stoic dignity with which he chose to ignore my nudity. “I suppose you could help.”