Spark and Sorrow

by Rachel A. Marks

  The bay of a hound rises into the wood, stopping the thunder.

  Silence falls.

  I hear only my heart crashing at my chest.

  And something bursts from the trees right in front of me.

  A giant buck leaps into the air. Breast white. Black eyes wide. Head low. Crown of antlers sharp as daggers.

  Coming right for me.

  I scramble away, trying to escape its path. Not fast enough.

  I’m hit, my back sliced through, the antler tearing a line up to my shoulder, sending my body tumbling.

  I land hard, the air leaving my lungs in a sudden rush. A gasp forced through my lips.

  My body curls in on itself, more sounds rising; the pounding of hooves, the strum of a bow, the barking of a frantic hound, all as the scent of blood and death press into me.

  A cry cuts through the air. Cuts through me. It dies, it dies! the voice calls. The arrow flies true.

  Birds chatter in the branches, wings and fearful cries joining the chorus; And now he comes, he comes, blood and blade, their terrified voices say, steal and rage.

  Hoof beats move close and a male voice commands, “Hush, boy.”

  Instantly the baying hound quiets, and with it the chaos of the frightened voices seems to settle, the shouting birds go silent as well.

  A jostling of leather somewhere nearby, the huff of a horse. The crunch of the underbrush approaching, and a shadow falls over me. “Boars bones,” the voice says, edged in frustration. “Fool girl.”

  I try to clear my vision, my head throbbing, everything buried in the hum of pain. But I register small details: a man, young, hair brown, trimmed in the Roman style, a quiver on his back, a knife in his hand.

  His other hand reaches out, begins to grip my shoulder.

  I jerk away, trying to sit up. Only to find myself cringing again, groaning in pain.

  “Hold still.” The man reaches out once more, attempting to grab me. “You’re bleeding, did he get you? You’re lucky to be alive.”

  “No!” I snap, “Don’t!” Panic drowns out the agony a little now, letting me gain distance.

  The man, the horse, the hound, all stare at me with similar frowns.

  “Don’t what?” he asks. “Make sure you’re set a’right?” The large silver hound comes up to the young man’s side, its thick grey coat tangled with brambles. It sits with a whine.

  I search the trees behind them at the rim of the clearing, looking for an escape. Everything in me wishes to run but I know my body wouldn’t cooperate. I can feel warm blood at my back, the raw burn of a wound—gods, let me heal faster.

  The ground is scarred with deep gashes beside me, and beyond. My gaze follows them until they stop. The body of the buck is a yard away, a dark mound of muscle and glistening blood. Two thick arrows protrude from its flank, fletched in white feathers.

  The beast nearly ran me through. But still, my throat tightens at the sight.

  “It’s safe,” the young man says, mistaking my confusion for fear. “It won’t come at you again.”

  “You killed it,” I manage. Why would he purposefully harm such a beautiful beast?

  He tips his head at me, his brow creasing. The dog mimics his movement. “Would you have rather I’d sewn it a frock?”

  I can’t understand what he means. Is he making a joke after chasing that thing right into me?

  “Where’ve you come from?” he asks, looking around. “Who’re your people? There’s nothing in this woodland but fox and deer.”

  I open my mouth to answer that I came from the abbey on the other side of the hill, but then I shut it again, feeling foolish. He’s a human. I don’t need to tell him anything. And the less he knows, the better. Now that the pain has faded to a dull throb, and I can think, I study him, trying to decide how I should speak. Which angle should I take? It’s not as if I can be a queen, as powerless as I am. And I certainly can’t tell him I’ve run away from the abbey, he’ll send me back quicker than I can blink. So, who will I be?

  His clothes are neat, well-stitched leather and linens with embroidered knot-work along the hems. His features are young and handsome, his hair dark brown, his eyes the same. He appears almost too angelic as the sun breaks through the trees in golden shards behind him.

  He studies me as I study him. “You should let me get a look at that wound,” he says.

  “I’m well enough,” I say through clenched teeth. I don’t want him touching me. Or gawking at me. I shift so my torn shoulder is farther out of reach and the movement sends another shock of pain down my side, making me suck in air, betraying my weakness.

  “You’re going to force me to be a brute, I see. Should I toss you over my shoulder?”

  I freeze, picturing him doing it. “What? Gods, no.”

  “If we don’t get that wound seen to,” he says, slowly, as if I were too dimwitted to understand him, “you’re risking infection.”

  “I told you, I’m well.” I take in a slow breath. Let it out. “But if you touch me, you won’t be.” I didn’t escape the abbey to become someone else’s fool.

  His head pulls back, and he squints at me. Clearly, this young man isn’t used to being told no.

  The hound releases another whine.

  For good measure, I add, “Go your way and leave me in peace.”

  His brow furrows deeper as I try to stand on shaky legs. The ground tips a little but I stiffen and breathe through my teeth, keeping steady, determined not to falter. My back is slick with blood, the frock sliding with my movement, burning against torn skin.

  I’m taking too long to heal. Could it truly be that bad? Healing from my beating must’ve sapped my power. I’m too weak for a quick rejuvenation while trapped in this torque.

  I lean on a tree and try to focus. I can’t lose my wits, not now. Not with this stranger. Not when I’m finally so close to freedom.

  “If you wish to die here and feed the wolves,” he says, his gaze digging into me, “that’s your choice, I suppose.”

  “Yes, it is.” But I’m using every ounce of my focus to keep my eyes open. My limbs are already growing heavy, pulling me back to the ground.

  He waits a few heartbeats, staring at me, but then he shakes his head and moves past, walking over to the carcass of the buck. The hound trails after him.

  I release a held breath, thankful his gaze isn’t pinning me any longer. I plead with my mind to stay conscious. What foolishness has brought me into this situation?

  I look into the ash trees, thinking of the trickster bird. It led me here. But why? Was it trying to get me killed? Even after it freed me? The questions fill my head, and I focus on them to block out the harsh sound of the blade slicing across the stag’s neck, draining the blood, before he starts sawing down its underbelly.

  The entrails spill out, the metallic tang of death filling the air as the young man begins to whistle a tune.

  My stomach rises, and I look away.

  Something moves in the trees ahead, just out of view. A shift in the underbrush, the snap of a twig. I focus on the spot, but a shivering fern pulls my attention the other way. Then grass shudders several feet from the buck, drawing my gaze back just as something crackles in the trees.

  A heavy crunch of leaves. Footsteps. Someone moving though the denser wood, closer.

  Or something.

  The hound lifts its head, perking its ears, turning to the trees.

  The rustling grows louder.

  Whispers begin to rise, chanting, growing louder, sounding in the trees:

  Smell him, smell him, up ahead, comes a voice made of growls and grumbles. He cuts, he kills. A tasty boy!

  A clacking. Like teeth snapping together.

  Then a strange chorus of voices chime in one by one:

  A mud man.

  Blood man.

  I will nibble.

  I will crunch!

  Yes, yes.

  His bones we will munch.

  The hunter doesn’t seem to notice, o
bviously not hearing. The hound whines, tipping its head, but its master just continues to whistle as he reaches into the carcass of the stag, pulling out the liver, the heart—

  “You should stop that,” I hiss. I’m unsure why I’m warning him. Perhaps I’m terrified of what I’m about to see. Because as the phantom sounds slink closer I know what’s approaching. The air is thick with their Otherworld scent, decay and sulfur and unwashed skin, the smell of what lies beneath, rising from below. Dark, earthen things searching for mischief and bloodgames.

  The hunter ignores my warning, continuing to gut the buck. “If you feel faint from the smell, move downwind.” He waves his crimson-stained hand to the other side of the clearing.

  This one smells of salt and meat.

  Tassssty.

  I will have his eyes!

  No, I!

  I his heart!

  “Please,” I say, my voice shaking now. The tales I was told as a child painted horrifying images of the old world fae, fierce creatures set to guard the wood long ago by the great goddess, Danu. They may be lower beings, but they’re nothing to toy with. If they want this man, he’s sure to get snagged in their trap. And then they’ll do their work. Likely ripping him to bits right in front of me. “Please, you must run. You must go. The fae are stirring.”

  He looks up then, an exasperated tilt to his brow. “What nonsense are you chattering about? Fae? Are you a child?”

  But as he says the words the moss beside his boot shifts. If I blinked I would’ve missed it. The ground sinks a bit, then thin vines emerge from the soil. One, two, three, unfurl in a steady hiss.

  I watch in stunned horror as the growth silently wraps around his ankle.

  A warning crowds my throat. But before I’m able to get the words out, the hounds frantic bark crowds the air.

  “Hush, boy, for heaven’s—” The vines tighten in a swift tug around his ankle. He looks down to his trapped feet, confusion marking his features.

  The vine yanks. Pulling him off balance.

  He cries out, his body jerking sideways, landing him on his belly.

  The hound continues barking, growling, whining as its master struggles, his blade rising to defend himself. But he’s no match for the strength of the insistent pull. He cuts one tangle, another takes its place, and then more vines take hold, and more, emerging from beneath him, tangling around his wrists, his shoulders. Covering his chest. And wrapping over his forehead.

  His eyes are wide and white as his body is pulled into the clover.

  He twists and jerks, but the green covers him, legs, arms, belly, the growth close to swallowing him whole.

  A scream rips from his throat.

  Birds burst from the branches above, their cries mingling with his, drowning them out, drowning out the desperate baying of the hound.

  Horror fills me, my fingers clutching at a tree to hold myself up as I watch the green drag him into the earth.

  “No,” I gasp.

  The whispers of the forest rise again.

  Silent, pup. Quiet, beasty, the strongest voice says, rest awhile.

  The hound goes silent. It lays down, resting its head on its paws and closing its eyes.

  The young man’s screams become muffled as the clover and earth cover his face.

  We’ll take him under.

  Take him deep.

  Into our roots. Our caves and hovels.

  We’ll feed him stones.

  Uncover his bones.

  I fall to my knees, crawling the few feet to where the hunter is being engulfed by the forest. “Please, don’t hurt him!” I say, unable to imagine, to think of what they’re going to do.

  The green slows its work as I get closer, so I add, “He was only hunting for food. He meant no harm.” I don’t know if that’s true, but I won’t stand by and watch them take him, torment him.

  Put him to sleep first, then.

  No! Make his skin scrape.

  Make his skin bake.

  That red girl can do it.

  Yes, you do it, My Queen.

  The young man’s body emerges a little from the earth again, as if he’s being offered to me.

  Peel him, the voices say.

  Burn him!

  Turn him to ash.

  To coal and stone!

  Ivory and bone!

  I shake my head, feeling sick that these creatures would believe me capable of such horrors. I could never . . . I won’t. Determination surfaces in my terrified thoughts. “You need to stop this. You have no right.” The vines clear a little more, though still keeping him captive. He’s silent, his breath quick, his horror-filled gaze pointed at me.

  But he is ours, the voices say.

  Our master owns him.

  He is cursed.

  His kin have broken old bonds, stained old ways.

  See, even there, he took the flesh.

  So, we take his.

  Tit for tattle, blood for bones.

  I open my mouth to protest again, but everything begins to move, the ferns around me coming alive.

  Four or five stones rumble, rising from the ground, then roll closer in a rush, stopping at my feet before they shift, unfurling like beetles, and growing into dark grey beings. They’d reach as high as my knees, if I were standing. But as it is, we’re all eye to eye. I take in the sight of their bony arms and legs, their clawed hands and feet. Fresh life grows from their misshaped heads, roots carpeting their rounded spines and bellies. Their faces are scrunched like dried figs, eyes like coal.

  Goblins. They pull at their grassy hair, snorting and grumbling at me, looking generally miffed as more of the forest comes alive.

  Beside the young man’s head, the moss bursts to life, several dozen nixies born from the patches. The creatures’ tiny emerald bodies are as small as my thumb, thorns protruding from their vine limbs, their spider-web wings buzzing at the air as they gather in a crowded swarm before they begin flying back and forth over their captive’s body, hissing at him through their needle teeth.

  Sheer dream wysps lift slowly from a nearby mushroom patch and float around the young man’s feet.

  I’m stunned at the sudden awakening, fear and curiosity mingling in my belly. My mother’s world has been hidden from me for so long, it’s nearly alien. And now it’s surrounding me. I don’t understand my place in any of it. They call me queen, but how can a true queen be afraid of her subjects?

  I pull at my strength, trying to push back my weakness, my pain, trying to move my body between the goblins and the sinking hunter. “I am giving you a command,” I say, putting every ounce of authority into my voice that I can muster. “Do not touch him.”

  The goblins look at each other, appearing unsure now. One of them picks a mushroom off its head and pops it in his mouth. Another, a larger one, grinds his sharp stone teeth.

  She commands.

  Not nice.

  Taking our nibbles.

  “Let go of him,” I add, seeing them uneasy.

  They grumble, and the hum of the nixies grows a bit in protest.

  “Now!”

  The goblin with the mushrooms on his head rolls back up into a ball. She burns us!

  “I certainly do not,” I say.

  She’s bound, another goblin says. Then he points at my neck.

  Chained.

  Silly queen, doesn’t know. Her commands are hollow.

  I look between them. “Know what?”

  How to be free, the larger one sneers.

  My insides spark with realization. “You know how I can be free of this torque?” They all simply blink at me with their coal eyes, so I add, “Tell me!”

  The mushroom-hair goblin peeks out from between his feet. She is rude.

  Yes, very rude.

  The larger of the creatures gives me a sly look. Perhaps she wishes to trade?

  The other goblins’ faces all light up, liking that idea.

  “Trade what?”

  We take the boy meat—

  Whic
h is ours in any case.

  The mushroom-haired one sits straighter, its black eyes growing wide with wonder. And we tell you how to be free of iron and spell!

  Free!

  Yes, free, they all say in unison.

  I want to jump at the chance. To take the offered bargain and at last cast off these human shackles. Nothing will stop me from making it home if I have all my powers.

  But you don’t bargain with the fae. It’s most definitely a trick. A useless trade, where either way I lose. If I take their offer, they’ll still keep information in reserve. Even though I’m far above them in blood, they’ll happily string me along and hold me to them. It’s their nature.

  “No,” I force myself to say. “Release this man. He’s mine.” I try to put as much authority in my words as I can, but these creatures know I have no power to stop them; they feel they have the right to take the human because of his actions. Still, I can’t leave him to their whims, whatever he’s done. Humans don’t value Creation the same way as the fae. They don’t understand Spirit, they don’t understand how it shapes things, how it binds us all. I barely understand it myself, but the seed of awareness is there inside me. My soul weeps for the loss of the buck from its place in the fabric—the thread of a life cut loose.

  But this young man is a thread in the weave as well.

  The goblins all grumble again, the largest one shaking its head. Then it says, aloud this time, the crunch of its voice scraping at my ears, “So then, let us say, a new bargain.”

  The human jerks in his bonds and gapes at the creature, seeing it for the first time as the goblin reveals itself. His eyes widen with madness and confusion.

  The goblin continues, “Your life for his.”

  “What?” I ask, breathless.

  “We will give you his life, to do with as you will. But once he is fallen, as his legacy and his kin fade from this world, your fate will rest in the hands of our master.”

  I search the goblin’s black eyes looking for a way around this horrible bargain. “Who . . . who is your master?”

  “Why does this matter?”