Terribly Twisted Tales

by RABE, JEAN

  One summer day while roaming through the woods, I heard a menacing growl. Lo and behold, a great black bear stood in my path.

  “Oh! Oh! Mr. Bear, please don’t eat me up,” I pleaded. “Oh, please, I am small, and there is simply not enough of me to make a tasty morsel. I certainly would not eat you.” I quivered, too scared to run.

  “Hah!” he said. “What makes you think I want to eat you up?” His big, black, shiny eyes blinked at me. “I’d rather offer you a business proposition. How would you like to make a little extra spending money, kid?”

  Well, needless to say, I became suspicious of this offer, especially since it came from a bear that talked. “Money?” I asked.

  “Yeah, a little extra never hurt nobody, and I know you Lockes and your neighbors ain’t got that much. You’re all a scraggly bunch, if I do say so.”

  “How?” I asked. “How could I make some spending money? What would I have to do?”

  He led me deeper into the mountains where the underbrush was densest. In the middle of a certain thicket sat a sweet-looking log house with smoke curling out of the chimney.

  He escorted me into a cozy little kitchen. There was a table set with three bowls and three spoons. On the stove in the corner bubbled a steaming kettle. A middle-sized bear, wearing a snow white apron and a little lace bonnet on her head, stood over the kettle engrossed in whatever she was stirring with a long wooden spoon.

  “About time you got back, Papa Bear,” she said. “The porridge is done. Who did you bring this time?” Without pausing, she went on. “Let her sit at Little Bear’s place. She can sleep in Little Bear’s bed too if she plans on staying. He won’t be back for a while since he is out distracting.”

  So from that day forward, I slept in whichever bed was empty—the great big bed, the middle-sized bed, or, most often, the little bed because Little Bear was frequently away.

  As we ate dinner that first night, Papa Bear explained what I was to do to earn my promised spending money. Seems he, along with a few other woodland creatures, had a moonshine still hidden up the mountain, and they all needed a little extra help.

  “I got one girl by the name of Red who helps out from time to time. She always wears this hooded mantle and carries a basket. She tells everybody she is taking lunch to her grandma, but actually she is carrying shine down to the valley. She has a wolf that works with her by distracting anybody that might stop her to check the basket. He makes as if to attack her, and whoever is about will chase after him leaving her free to go on her delivery route. Our Little Bear does distracting work, too. Neither he nor the wolf’s ever been caught. There’s just too many places to hide.”

  After eating my porridge, I ate Little Bear’s too because I was very hungry.

  Papa Bear said, “I am taking Golda up to the still, Mama Bear. So she can see what goes on up there and get acquainted with our operation.”

  The moonshine still was well hidden in a cave with the mouth covered by thick brambles. The cave could be entered by a small opening at the side of the brambles. The earth had shifted sometime in the past, and this made several vents in the ceiling of the cave that allowed the smoke an outlet. With all the different vents, I suspect no one could track down precisely where the smoke was coming from. Conveniently, there was a bubbling spring running close by, which supplied water.

  Papa Bear started right away teaching me the fundamentals of becoming a moonshiner. He explained the furnace, which was constructed of large rocks and dobbed with red clay to hold the heat in. Seated down inside the furnace was a heavy flat rock with a firebox under that. Inside the furnace was the still, all made out of pounded copper. Papa told me his grandfather had made the still all by paw and had learned from a Scotsman who moonshined with him for some time.

  It was all so interesting! I learned words like worm, which is a coiled copper pipe where steam is condensed into shine; goose eye, a good bead that holds; dog heads, so many I can’t write them all down.

  Thus, I became a moonshiner, and a good one too.

  I suggested to the farmers in the area that they grow white corn and sugar cane, since in the past they had planted potatoes and ate them all up, earning nothing. Most of them went along with the notion.

  The farmers became very well off selling us corn and sugar, which they made from the sugar cane, and which we used for shining. The farmers had the miller grind up the corn for us, but none of them knew the reason we wanted all the stuff.

  I became quite wealthy, and in time I moved away from the edge of the forest and into a great house down in the valley town, where I became a bootlegger. From there I could direct distribution of our commodity to Kentucky and Ohio, using a small barge operated by my family. They navigated up and down the Big Sandy and Ohio Rivers, stopping at secret drop-off points so we could sell our wares.

  The last I heard of Red Hood, she and the wolf had joined a circus, she as a wolf tamer, both of them being squeezed out of the bears’ operation.

  And as far as I know, the bears are still making moonshine in that cave. But I won’t say where it is or speak the name of the town where I lived.

  My biggest mistake was marrying and letting my husband in on my secret. He stole some of my money and flat out left me and our five younguns. He went back to Europe, where he originally came from.

  The blabbermouth he was, he changed my story to his way of thinking, wrote it down, and sold it to a publisher. He was just a dirty dog, and what he told was a dirty pack of lies, so don’t believe all that he said if you happen to read his story, which he called a “fairy tale.” The truth was writ by my hand this day.

  ONCE THEY WERE SEVEN

  Chris Pierson

  Chris Pierson, an unrepentant Canadian, is the author of nine novels, eight of them published, most recently the Taladas Trilogy in the Dragonlance world. His short fiction has appeared in numerous anthologies, including Time Twisters, Pandora’s Closet, and Fellowship Fantastic. During the day, he builds swaths of Middle-earth for The Lord of the Rings Online. He lives in Boston with his wife, Rebekah, and their amazing daughter, Chloe.

  The earth smelled of roses, which Heimskur the Fool thought was odd. He knew soil and stone, had lived with it all his life, delving deep into the bones of the world to prize out copper and silver and gold. He was of the dvergar, one of the last of his kind, born able to scent different sorts of rock. Granite smelled like woodsmoke; limestone stank of the sea; a bright vein of iron ore sang in the nose like the air before a storm. He knew every aroma of stone, every fragrance and reek and tang. None smelled like flowers, though. No dirt was like roses.

  “The witch has tainted the earth itself,” muttered Reithur, lying in the ditch beside Heimskur, his black-bearded face pressed into the mud. “Her list of sins is long.”

  “Hush,” whispered Alvííss, who was their clan-chief, eldest of them all. “I would not have them hear us.”

  Reithur scowled and looked like he might argue, but Reithur always looked like he might argue. It was his nature, just as it had been his brother Reifur’s ever to be glad. He stayed silent, though, bowing to Alvííss’ will, and lay in the flowery soil and listened as the riders clattered past.

  There were thirteen horsemen, which was of course a dark number, as all things in this land were dark. Fjarheim had been a glad realm once, but now it was foul, its people hard and its warriors cruel. The riders wouldn’t hesitate to put four wandering dvergar to the blade. Even Heimskur, who was slow-witted for one of his kind, did not doubt that. And though Reithur would no doubt claim later that he could have slain all thirteen riders with his sword alone, that was just his hot blood talking. Besides, as Alvííss had said when they set forth from their halls in the mountains, there was no good reason to risk getting killed before they reached their goal.

  “Then we may chance death,” he’d said. “Any other risk is empty, as our friends and brothers know.”

  Sorrow took Heimskur, as he lay in the shadowed ditch; listening to the
rattle of tack and harness while the queen’s huntsmen rode by. Once the dvergar had been seven, and they had lived in peace. Now they were four—him, Reithur, Alvííss, and Stygg the Silent, who lay as still and quiet as a stone on Heimskur’s right side.

  Horses chuffed and whuffed. Chainmail jingled, and swords rattled in their sheaths. Men’s voices cursed and barked with spiteful laughter. The noise grew loud, then faded away, echoing among the hills. The dvergar lay still for some time after, while the pale moon traced the sky overhead. Finally Alvííss got up, brushed the dirt from his silver beard, and peered into the night.

  “They are gone,” he said. “We were not seen.”

  “About time,” snapped Reithur, heaving to his feet. He checked for his sword, sheathed at his hip. “If I had to weather that stench much longer, I’d have started puking flowers.”

  Stygg, who was big and broad and red-bearded, smiled and said nothing.

  “It will not be the last time you smell it,” Alvííss replied. “If the tales are true, the town itself stinks of roses, and the queen’s bower worst of all.”

  “Perhaps,” Heimskur said, “we should cut off our noses. Then we will smell nothing.”

  Reithur snorted with disgust. Stygg’s eyes twinkled, and his shoulders shook. Alvííss, however, smiled his patient smile, the one he always wore when he spoke to Heimskur.

  “Perhaps,” he said. “But what about when our quest is done? Without noses, how then would we find ore underground?”

  Heimskur thought about it. He scratched his cheeks, which—unlike the others’—were bare, save for the faintest downy wisps.

  “I don’t know,” he answered. “I didn’t reckon there’d be anything after the quest. I never thought we would return.”

  The four dvergar stood quiet in the bushes beside the road. They glanced at one another, then away into the dark. After a while, Alvííss sighed and spoke in a voice that was heavy as lead.

  “Sometimes, Heimskur,” he said, “you seem the wisest of us all.”

  That made no sense to Heimskur, but he nodded anyway, and smiled, and followed when the others set off down the road again, on their journey to the heart of Fjarheim to slay the Snow Queen.

  Isvíít, she was called, and she was fair beyond anyone in all the northern kingdoms. She had been a princess, though not of Fjarheim; Hitherlond had been her realm, at the feet of the mountains where the dvergar dwelt. Her mother had prayed to Frigg and Freya for a beautiful daughter, as white as snow and red as blood and black as night. The gods granted her wish, but they were cruel, as all men know. She died in childbirth, before she could behold her baby girl.

  The child grew up lovely, but the King of Hitherlond took a new wife, a dark and comely woman from far away. Vándir, the new queen was named, and she was cold and cruel. She grew jealous of young Isvíít, and ordered one of her huntsmen to take the girl into the forest and murder her. Isvíít’s fairness stayed the man’s hand, however, and he spared her, turning her loose in the wild. She might have died then, but her wanderings led her into the mountains, where she sought shelter in the halls of the dvergar.

  The seven of them—Alvííss, Reithur, Reifur, Stygg, Móthur, Ónd, and Heimskur—had returned from the mines that evening to find Isvíít asleep in Heimskur’s bed. Taken with her beauty, they welcomed her, adopting her as a foundling and raising her to womanhood. Those had been glad days, and Heimskur thought of them often, with a fondness that left a bitter taste in his mouth. For if the dvergar’s long and dark history had taught them anything, it was that glad days never lasted long.

  It began some ten years after Isvíít came to them; somehow, doubtless through fell witchery, Queen Vándir learned that the girl still lived. Wroth with envy, she came three times to the dvergar’s halls, seeking to kill Isvíít with fell magic and poisons—and the third time, she succeeded. The dvergar came back from a hard day’s mining and found the girl dead at the gates of their hall, a foul and rotting apple still clutched in her hand.

  Their grief was as deep as the world’s bones, particularly Heimskur’s, as he had been her favorite. To honor her, the dvergar bore her to a cavern of white crystal, and there she remained for many years, and rot did not touch her, such was her fairness. Often Heimskur went to that cave and wept beside her bier. Without Isvíít, the world was a dark place, and he found little joy in toil and ore and song. Only the beauty of her lifeless face lifted his heart. Each day he prayed, to grim Wotan and furious Thunor and wily Loki, that the dark queen’s deeds might be undone.

  Then, one day, a warrior came to the mountains. His name was Frííthur, and he was the heir to the throne of Fjarheim, a land of folded coasts and misty hills, many leagues away. He came to the dvergar’s mountains seeking monsters to slay: a frost-giant, perhaps, or a band of trolls. Instead he found the cave of crystal, and Isvíít dead within.

  So taken was he with her beauty that he knelt by her bier all night, whispering sweet words in her ear. Heimskur found them in the morning and ran to fetch his clan-brothers. The dvergar came to the crystal cave, ready to slay Frííthur for despoiling Isvíít’s tomb, but instead they beheld a wonder: His honeyed words had awakened her from death itself. The sight of Isvíít, alive and in Frííthur’s arms, lightened the dvergar’s heavy hearts, and though it pained them, they allowed her to leave with him, riding back to Fjarheim, where they were soon to wed. Heimskur and his fellows rejoiced, for glad days had returned.

  But again, as ever, they did not last.

  It began with the wedding. The dvergar left their mountain steading, for the first time in many long centuries, and went to Hafodd, Fjarheim’s capital. There they were honored guests, and even ill-tempered Reithur wept with joy to see the girl they loved, now a resplendent princess. At the feast afterward, however, things turned ill. Queen Vándir had learned that Isvít lived again, and insane with spite, she traveled from Hitherlond to the feast. This time, however, Isvíít was wise to the queen’s tricks. She and Frííthur tricked Vándir, welcoming her as a guest and promising to set aside all their old enmities. But their words were false, and when the queen and her retinue were half-drunk with mead, they sprang the trap. Fjarheim’s warriors slew the queen’s guards and took Vándir captive.

  Next came the iron shoes.

  Heimskur felt a stab of pain at the memory, for the dvergar themselves had forged the shoes, at Isvíít’s behest. They had no idea why she would want shoes of metal, especially as they were not her size, but such was the dvergar’s love that they obeyed without question, presenting them to Prince Frííthur as part of Isvíít’s dowry. At the feast, though, all became clear: after they captured Vándir, the king’s warriors brought out the shoes and heated them over a fire until they glowed crimson as the setting sun.

  “You sought to bring woe upon this place of merriment,” proclaimed Frííthur, standing over the weeping queen. “I will not have it. This is a happy day, your majesty, and you must dance. Dance, so all can watch.”

  As the folk gathered in the mead hall watched, the king’s men clamped the glowing shoes on Vándir’s feet. She screamed and lurched and leaped—but not for long. The sickly smell of roasting flesh filled the air as she fell. Three times the king’s warriors dragged her back to her feet, and three times she danced, howling, until she collapsed again. Then, at last, she could not stand any more, and at a wave from Prince Frííthur a headsman came forward with his greatsword.

  The dvergar were horrified. They looked to Isvíít, expecting her to be stricken as well, but she simply rose, cold and haughty, and stood above Vándir, who lay gasping in anguish.

  “You gave me death, Your Majesty,” she declared. “Now I return the gift. You will dance again in the underworld, knowing that I was fairest.”

  The queen only wept. Isvíít nodded to the headsman and then turned her back while he struck Vándir, one quick blow to her neck. And it was done.

  The dvergar left the feast soon after, confused and heartsick. Alvííss sought
to speak with Isvíít, but she wouldn’t see him. They began the long journey home that very night, swearing never to return to Fjarheim.

  For years they kept that oath, remaining in their underground halls, delving and smelting ore to sell to the kingdoms of men. Soon after the wedding, traders from both Hitherlond and Fjarheim came in greater numbers, seeking iron at dear prices. War had begun between the two kingdoms, for the folk of Hitherlond could not let Queen Vándir’s murder go unanswered. Fjarheim responded with shocking savagery, with Prince Frííthur leading its longboats to burn the villages on Hitherlond’s shores. Smiths on both sides needed steel for mail and swords and shield rims, and the dvergar sold it to them, as they had always done.

  Still, though the trade made them rich, they took no pleasure from it, for they knew the war was Isvíít’s doing. Even Reifur, who was always merry and quick with a song, grew grim at the tales of slaughter wrought by Fjarheim’s reavers. The fighting went on for three years, growing ever worse until all of Hitherlond was laid waste. The call for iron soon fell almost to nothing, but the dvergar were glad of it. The war was done, and surely the woeful tales must stop.

  Instead, they only grew worse.

  Within a month of Hitherlond’s fall, the king of Fjarheim was slain—killed, the story went, by a vengeful Hitherlonder’s dagger. In their hearts, however, the dvergar knew better. Now Isvíít was queen of both her old home and her new, and King Frííthur took her longboats far and wide to plunder other kingdoms. Stories arose that the raiders returned with not only gold and jewels but also young girls, all of them beautiful. These they brought to the king’s keep, and they were never seen again, though at night their screams rang out from the castle’s tower.

  Two more years passed, and the dvergar heard the tidings they’d dreaded: King Frííthur was dead as well, drowned in the sea on the way home from a raid. Some lords questioned whether it was right that Isvíít remain queen alone; within a month, every one of them had disappeared, and loyal vassals ruled in their place. Isvíít took no other husband, but she continued to send her reavers forth for riches and young girls.