Terribly Twisted Tales

by RABE, JEAN

  “Hush, girl,” Grandmother said. “Tomas will be outside, preparing his ‘cleansing fire,’ and I haven’t much time.” She lay back in the cot. “The fey poison their blades.”

  Roudette picked up one of the crushed fairy cakes that had spilled from her basket. The cross on top was mostly intact. “There’s still time. If you repent before the poison takes you—”

  Grandmother took the roll from Roudette’s hand and crushed it. Jam ran between her thin fingers. Her smile was both warm and gruesome. “The church garbs you in curses,” she said, glancing toward the scraps of Roudette’s cloak. “Those symbols your mother copies so carefully? Enchantments that would burn you alive for attempting the simplest magic.”

  Roudette stared at the remains of her cloak. “Mother never said anything—”

  “She doesn’t know. It’s one more way to keep us controlled.”

  “No,” Roudette said. “It’s because man is weak. Because magic tempts us from the Path, leading us to . . . to this.” She pointed to the wolf skin. “Only God’s chosen have the wisdom to use magic properly.”

  Grandmother coughed again, spitting blood. Roudette used a corner of the blanket to wipe her mouth.

  “Thank you.” Grandmother lay back. “I have been to lands where the Church of the Fey is looked upon with scorn and derision. I have seen magic wielded by men and women to heal the sick. I have met those who believe humans, not fairies, are God’s true children.”

  Roudette shook her head. “Please stop,” she said. “I never should have returned. But the opportunity was too great.”

  Curiosity forced Roudette to ask, “What opportunity?”

  “The Midsummer Festival. They say the Grand Bishop himself plans to attend this year.”

  Despite her fear, Roudette’s heart leaped at the thought. The Grand Bishop visited only one human town each year. That he would bestow such an honor on her father’s town—

  “I thought I could use the skin, as my great-grandfather used it to kill Bernas.” Grandmother looked away, almost as though she were ashamed. “I was too eager. I allowed them to discover who I was. I never even noticed Tomas tracking me.”

  She touched the deep cut on her ribs. “His spear pierced my side before I realized he was there.”

  “But why would you want to hurt the Grand Bishop?” Roudette asked.

  Burned fingers stroked Roudette’s hair. “Because I couldn’t bear to see my grandchildren live as slaves.” Her voice grew raspier. “You must go, child. The wolf has taken too many of his kind over the years. Now that he’s found me, he’ll seek out your family. He’ll kill them all to protect his people.”

  Roudette backed away. “My family has never strayed from the Path. He wouldn’t punish them for—”

  “That’s what I thought too.” Her voice was distant. “The gift of magic is carried in the blood. Your mother. Your brother. Even if the flames took this skin, you have the power to create another. Tomas won’t risk your survival.”

  Outside the cottage, Roudette could hear flames crackling to life. “Grandmother, let me help you.” She reached out, but Grandmother pushed her away.

  “I’m beyond saving,” Grandmother said. “But your family needs you. Take the skin. Save them from Tomas.”

  “I can’t—”

  “Please, Roudette.” Grandmother coughed again, spitting blood into her hand. “Isn’t it the child’s duty to honor the wishes of her elders and to comfort those who are dying?”

  “Of course,” Roudette said automatically. “But—”

  “Well, I’m both. Take the skin.”

  Slowly, Roudette nodded.

  “Thank you.” Grandmother slumped. One hand closed around her necklace. The pendant was a simple cross made of three iron nails. Roudette had never seen the forbidden metal, but its blackened appearance matched the descriptions her father had read to her.

  Grandmother began to mumble. She was praying, though the prayers were unfamiliar to Roudette. Her face was twisted from the pain, but her voice was serene. At peace. The kind of peace the church said was impossible for those who left the Path.

  Smoke darkened the air. Roudette dropped to her knees, where it was easier to breathe. She touched the wolf skin, half-expecting it to burn her the way her cloak had burned Grandmother. She thought of her parents and of Jaun.

  “Goodbye, Grandmother.” Roudette picked up the skin and fled.

  The wolf skin was heavier than Roudette had expected. The head and front paws dragged through the dirt as she fled the burning cottage.

  Though the flames soon engulfed the thatched roof, the trees appeared untouched. Bishop Tomas was already gone. On his way to Roudette’s home, if Grandmother was right.

  As Roudette moved farther from the fire, the breeze chilled the sweat on her skin, raising goosebumps along her arms.

  Wood cracked, and a section of roof thundered down with an explosion of sparks. She had never imagined a fire could be so loud.

  “Grandmother . . .” Smoke and tears stung her eyes. She turned toward the sky, amazed to see the sun still hours from its peak. How had her life changed so much in so little time?

  The wolf skin was stiff, like badly tanned leather. Sweat and blood stained the inside. Roudette could see a gash on the side, presumably from Bishop Tomas’ spear. Roudette looked more closely, finding older cuts, all carefully repaired with silver thread.

  The skin smelled like Grandmother, full of autumn leaves, fresh-baked apple bread, and stale ginger beer. Grandmother, who had died a sinner, whose soul was damned for all time. How many of God’s chosen had she killed?

  Mother couldn’t have known. She never would have allowed Roudette to visit if she had suspected Grandmother of such evil. To murder the Grand Bishop during the festival . . . “Evil is seductive,” she whispered, quoting one of her father’s favorite verses.

  This was what Mother had warned her against. Not a villain luring her from the Path with promises of forbidden pleasure and lurid decadence, but a loved one begging for help.

  “God help me.” Bundling the skin under her arm, she hurried toward home.

  Even from the road, Roudette could hear Bishop Tomas preaching to her family. Both Jaun and Mother were crying. Their voices came from the kitchen, at the back of the house.

  Her fingers dug into the fur of the skin. Her grandmother’s blood had begun to dry, stiffening the fur into bristled spikes that scratched her arms.

  She circled through the alley between her house and the next. She nearly dropped the skin as she scaled the fence into their garden. The smell of crushed tomatoes wafted through the air as she hurried toward the storeroom window and climbed inside.

  The voices came from the kitchen. Roudette crossed through the room, pressing her body against the stacked firewood as she peeked in at Tomas and her family.

  Heat from the stone oven rippled the air. Her parents stood in front of the oven with Jaun between them. Jaun’s face was buried in Father’s apron.

  Bishop Tomas rested one hand on the hilt of his knife. In his other hand, he held a piece of Roudette’s cloak.

  “That’s hers,” Mother said, her voice faint. She reached toward the scrap, and then drew back. “I made that cloak myself.”

  “I’m sorry,” said the Bishop. “The old woman gave herself over to evil. To devour her own kin . . .”

  Jaun’s cries grew louder. Father put a hand on his shoulder.

  “I should have been stronger,” said Mother. “I should have ordered her to stay away.”

  “Yes, you should have.” Bishop Tomas stared at her for a long time, then asked, “How long have you known of your mother’s sins?”

  Mother bowed her head. “She strayed years ago, when I was very young. But I promise, I never knew what she had become. If I had—”

  “You couldn’t have stopped her,” he said, not unkindly.

  If not for Grandmother’s words, Roudette probably wouldn’t have noticed the way Tomas’ hand never left
his knife, or the way he studied her family . . . like a farmer trying to decide which animal to butcher.

  “It’s written that the sins of the parent live on in the child,” Bishop Tomas continued.

  Both of Roudette’s parents stiffened. Father swallowed and wiped his hands on his apron. “My wife has never strayed.”

  “But she will,” the Bishop said softly, drawing his knife. “Her blood is tainted by her mother’s sins.”

  Or by her mother’s magic? Grandmother had said magic was carried in the blood.

  No! Grandmother had planned to murder a Grand Bishop. She had admitted so herself. To murder God’s own tool in this world . . . Roudette set the skin atop the firewood and backed away. Her father was a Patriarch. She couldn’t turn her back on him. She refused to follow Grandmother to damnation. But did that mean giving herself up to Tomas and his knife? Allowing him to kill Roudette and her family?

  “What do I do?” she whispered. If this was truly God’s will, who was she to fight it? Would God condemn her family for her Grandmother’s sins?

  She had lost her way. The revelation felled her. On her knees, she begged, “Please guide me, Lord. Lead me back.”

  “Please!” Father was almost shouting. “Her faith is as strong as any I’ve known.”

  “Then she will be rewarded.”

  The Bishop’s thrust was quick and sure. Mother grunted and stumbled back. She made no further sound as she collapsed at the base of the oven.

  Tomas used the bloody knife to make the sign of the cross. “Go with God, and be reborn into grace.”

  “Mommy!” Jaun broke away and ran to Mother. He touched her shoulder, gently at first. When she didn’t respond, he began to shake her, yelling louder and louder as tears dripped from his cheeks.

  Roudette didn’t realize she was crying until one of her tears landed on her arm. She jerked back, unable to look away from Mother . . . from Mother’s body.

  There had been no sign. No divine guidance to tell her which was the right choice. She had waited, and now her mother was dead. Because of her.

  “I’m sorry,” said Tomas, stepping toward Jaun. Father started to move between them, then turned away, his shoulders shaking.

  Roudette rose and grabbed the wolfskin. “Leave him alone.” Her voice was still hoarse from the smoke at Grandmother’s cottage.

  Father spun. “Roudette!” For a moment, joy filled his face. Then he looked at Tomas, and his expression turned to despair.

  Jaun ran toward her, wrapping his arms around her waist. Roudette ran one hand through his hair, holding him close. With her other, she pulled the skin over one shoulder.

  “No!” Tomas shouted. “Don that skin, and you join your grandmother in hell.”

  Roudette gently pried Jaun away, pushing him behind her. She drew the skin tight around her body.

  “Roudette, please,” said Father. “You mustn’t turn away from the Path, not now. Not when—”

  Tomas leaped at her. Roudette grabbed a log from the firewood and hurled it at his chest. Perhaps grief gave her strength, or maybe the skin’s magic had already begun to take her. The log felt light as a twig, smashing Tomas backward.

  She could feel the wolf’s skin embracing her. Pain crushed her fingers and feet, pulling them into the wolf’s paws. Her vision darkened momentarily as the head pressed down on her own. She blinked, her ears twitching to follow Tomas’ footsteps as he came at her again.

  Roudette bounded past him. She shook her head. Already her eyesight had returned, keener than before. She could see the sweat beading Tomas’s forehead. She could smell his terror.

  “The beast has taken your daughter,” he said, brandishing his knife. “She will kill us all.”

  Father started toward her. Roudette growled, and he jumped back.

  In that moment of distraction, Tomas attacked. But Roudette heard his footsteps and leaped easily away from his knife. Her claws gouged the bloody floor.

  “Help me, damn you!” Tomas shouted.

  Father didn’t move. And Jaun was too afraid to act.

  Baring her teeth, Roudette pounced.

  Removing the skin was painfully difficult. Roudette’s fangs pierced her own skin several times as she struggled to rip the seam back from her stomach. She pulled harder, cramping her neck and shoulder until she finally freed one arm from the wolf’s skin. Once she had the use of her hand, she was able to peel the rest of the skin from her body.

  Her clothes were little more than tattered rags. She lay on the floor, trying to adjust to the blurred vision, the abrupt loss of scent.

  “Roudette?” Jaun stood in the doorway, looking from her to Father.

  “What have you done?” whispered Father.

  The bishop lay crumpled on the floor, his throat a bloody mess. Roudette brushed her mouth with the back of her hand. Her lips were blistered, and her mouth felt as though she had bitten hot coals, seared by Tomas’ magic. The taste of blood in her throat made her stomach convulse, and she fought to keep from vomiting.

  “I’ve saved my brother,” she said. If this had been the right choice, shouldn’t her doubt be gone?

  Father shook his head. “At the cost of your soul. Bishop Tomas was right. Your blood is cursed.”

  “No, Father.” But there had been truth in Tomas’ words. At the moment her teeth closed around his throat, Roudette had experienced a thrill like nothing she had ever known. An animal pleasure. Even now, a part of her longed to feel such freedom again. “Maybe,” she admitted, bowing her head. “But he—”

  “Don’t.” He knelt beside Mother. Without looking up, he whispered, “Get out.”

  Roudette’s throat tightened. “What?”

  “Your mother died to serve God. You turned your back on him. I’ll not have you in my home.”

  “Mother died because . . .” Because Roudette had hesitated, waiting for God to decide for her.

  “She died because of your grandmother’s evil. The same evil you now embrace.”

  Hearing the grief in his voice, Roudette realized it didn’t matter what she said. Father was a Patriarch of the church. To turn away from the Path meant abandoning everything he believed. More importantly, it would mean Mother had died for nothing, and that he had stood by and watched as Tomas murdered his wife.

  “I’m sorry,” Roudette said. “I hope someday you can forgive me.”

  He didn’t answer. Roudette rose, carrying the skin in one hand. With her other, she reached for Jaun.

  “What are you doing?” Father asked. He started to rise.

  Something in Roudette’s eyes stopped him. “Taking Jaun somewhere he’ll be safe.” She hesitated. “You could come with us. Tomas died in your home. You’ll be punished if—”

  “Would you trade your mortal span for an eternity of suffering? If you lead Jaun from the Path, you damn him as well.”

  Roudette thought about the necklace Grandmother had worn, the reverence with which she had cradled the iron cross. She squeezed her brother’s hand. He pressed close to her in response. “Perhaps God will help us find a different Path.”

  LOST CHILD

  Stephen D. Sullivan

  Once upon a time, Stephen D. Sullivan wrote comic books. He spun tales of mutant turtles, and speeding race drivers, and dark-winged ducks, and star-bound boy robots, and the occasional faerie story. Sometimes, his narratives went unpublished—often for lack of a suitable artist. Then, one day, Steve said to himself, “If I wrote prose, I wouldn’t need artists to help bring my tales to life.” He’s been writing books and short stories ever since, with only the occasional foray back to his graphics-bound roots. “Lost Child” has followed the author through the publishing wilderness for many years, waiting for the right venue in which to reveal itself (or for Charles Vess to become available to illustrate it). Steve is pleased that this twisted faerie tale’s time has finally come. Some of Steve’s recent work, including Zombies, Werewolves, & Unicorns , is available from Walkabout Publishing, www.walkaboutp
ublishing.com. In his guise as Manwolf, Steve is the co-host of Uncanny Radio—www.uncannyworld.com. More information about the author and his upcoming projects can be found at www.stephendsullivan.com or on his blog, http://stephendsullivan.blogspot.com/.

  Amber Thomas hated England. She hated the weather, she hated the countryside, and she especially hated the big manor house her parents had rented. Mostly, though, she hated the shouting. It seemed as if ever since they came to England, the shouting never stopped.

  Her parents had been fighting from the moment they stepped off the plane. They didn’t think she noticed, but she was six years old now, and she understood a lot more than she had last year. She wasn’t deaf, either. Even in her grand bedroom, even with the door shut, she heard them arguing every night. She knew what they were yelling about, too: England. It had to be England.

  Either it was England, or it was her.

  Had they been fighting like this before summer vacation? Their house in America was just as big as their rented manor, but the rooms were more spread out. Noises didn’t travel as far back home, maybe because there weren’t open grates in the floors to let the heat move around.

  Not all the nighttime sounds that drifted to Amber’s room were fighting. Every night, the huge old building groaned and sighed. Sometimes, Amber heard whispers outside her window. Other times, the brilliant blue fireflies that danced in the summer evening sang to her. And some nights—maybe four or five times since she moved in—Amber glimpsed the face of a boy pressed up against the room’s wide, tall windows. The boy always smiled at her.

  That was impossible, though. How could a boy be at her window? Her room was on the second floor, and there was no balcony outside.

  Despite the strange, dreamlike quality of these visitations, Amber liked the boy. His face seemed friendly—though he never said anything. Unfortunately, whenever she looked at him directly, he was never really there after all.

  Each time he appeared, Amber called to him. “Hello!” she whispered into the night, “Hello!”