The Old Gray Mare
John D. Payne
It was a few years back, when the sign of the Gray Mare still hung over the door. Someone spilled The Ox’s beer. Wasn’t even good beer, mind. Grassy as green leaves. Nothing like what I’ve poured for you today. No, sir. A failed experiment with dry hops is what that stuff was, and I’ll be the first to admit it. Always been straight and level; ask anyone.
But The Ox, he loved that grassy beer, probably on account of his being half cow. Or bull, if you take my meaning. So the first thing he does, aside from stomping his hooves and bawling like a babe ripped off his mother’s teat, is look around for someone to gore.
Now, the one as did the actual spilling no one saw at the time. But if you ask anyone in town, they’ll tell you it were the witch, Arilya. An elf maid, she was. Funny lass. You know the type, I’ll wager. Spider webs in her hair and silver wire wound round her fingers. Drank nothing but carrot wine and perry. Talked to cats and the wind. Kept to herself, mostly.
But the one thing we all knew about her was that she hated to be touched. So much as brush her in passing, and she’d scream. “Keep your hands off me, or I’ll kick your pelvis clean out of your body.” Well, none of us liked the sound of that so we left her alone.
The Ox would have done well to do the same, but when he gets to seeing red, as it were, there’s no reasoning with him. And on that day, when he turned around and saw her there, holding her cup of wine, he didn’t even give her a breath to explain herself or apologize. He gave her a slap that sent her spinning across the room like a child’s toy—and straight into a table of caravan merchants.
Well, as soon as she can shake herself loose and get to her feet, she stretches out her hands like talons and then lights up like a torch. With flames running down her arms all the way to her fingertips, she hurls a ball of eldritch fire at The Ox.
And misses.
The fireball hits a dwarf full in the face, and as you might imagine, he was not best pleased. Don’t recall his name, but he’d been drinking all evening with a whole clan of gnomes. Stout for him, and plum brandy for them. Drank it in thimbles, but they’d had plenty. Enough so that when they saw sparks in the dwarf’s beard, they tried to put out the fire with their brandy.
It was quite a scene. Between the flaming dwarf, the bellowing Ox, and the screaming witch, the whole place was in chaos. Most everyone was trying to get out, but that only led to a trampling mob near the door.
Where was I in all this, you might ask? Despite rumors to the contrary, I neither bolted nor cowered. Like a ship’s captain at the tiller in a terrible squall, I stayed resolutely at the bar. Well, behind it at any rate.
And using my own body as a shield, I offered what meager protection I could to the little ones I had gathered up in my arms—poor, delicate things that they are. Call me a liar if you will, but I preserved every one intact, including this fiery little beauty up here. Ha ha! My little joke. Shall I fetch her down and pour you a dram? No? Just as well to save her. Her kiss gets sweeter every year, and more potent.
Where was I? Oh, yes. So the dwarf charges The Ox, beard still aflame, and with a whole pack of gnomes on his back, riding him like a war elephant. Everyone always wants to know why he attacked the seven-foot bull-man instead of the dainty elf maid. Well, I’ll tell you.
I don’t know.
The best I can reckon is that he simply went for the closest target, but I suppose we’ll never know the truth.
In any event, the dwarf ducks under The Ox’s swing and gives him a savage head-butt to the groin. Now, as you might imagine, I have a great deal of experience with both head-butts and groin attacks, so believe me when I tell you that this one was absolutely world-class.
While the great beast is staggered with pain, the gnomes all clamber up his arms and legs. In an instant, he’s covered in a carpet of tiny assailants, all of them scratching and biting for all they’re worth. He swats off every one he can reach, and they fly like ballista bolts. (In case you didn’t know, those pointy hats the gnomes wear are steel-reinforced, so if you happen to catch the business end—believe me, you’ll know it.)
Worse, everywhere one of those drunken little monsters landed, they erupted into miniature orgies of indiscriminate violence. Like rabid shrews they were. So much nose-biting. And ear-stabbing. One woman swears she saw one of the wee devils pluck out a man’s eye and eat it like a pickled egg.
It was more or less at this point that the melee became, shall we say, general. Any as hadn’t managed to flee the premises were part of the brouhaha. And speaking of brew, I for one find it more than a little ironical to note that many a fine ale was spilled in all this—despite the fact that the original casus belli, if you will, was in point of fact a spilled drink. A tragic waste is what it was.
The same could be said of The Ox himself, who was finally felled by a combination of witch fire, gnome bites, and chair-leg blows to the delicates. If you ask me, that’s a sad commentary on the shortsightedness and futility of conflict in all its forms, but I’ll leave you to find your own lesson.
The long and short of it was that the only ones left standing were the elf witch and the dwarf. Plenty of bad blood there, as I said. He seemed to have finally figured out that she was the one as set him afire, more or less. He reaches for her, and … I don’t know what he meant to do, but he never got the chance.
She’d always threatened to do it, and we’d always thought it rubbish. But as I stand before you today, she did it. Limbs alight with dancing fairy flames, she kicked that man’s pelvis clean out of his body.
Well, not clean. Carried with it a considerable pile of innards. And that whole mess of steaming raw haggis flew through the room. No lie. Went straight out the door and smacked into the sign you see hanging there—the one you were pointing to when you asked your question.
It was quite a splatter, I’ll tell you, when that bundle of oozing guts hit. Colored the old gray mare red (and few other, less savory colors). One particular stray entrail slapped a long red mark trailing off the head of the old nag. To all of us at the time, it looked rather like a horn. So we’ve been the Red Unicorn since that very day.
And in my humble opinion, a more distinctive sign you’ll not see anywhere in town, nor indeed in the whole district. Catches the eye, it does. Paint it red at least once a year, with fresh blood—which is never in short supply in these parts. And that’s a fact, as I’m an honest man.
O O O
“Yes,” said the traveler, tapping his fingers somewhat impatiently on the bar. “A very … thorough recounting. But what I actually asked was if there was a story behind the mane. On your man there.”
The traveler turned to point at the thick-muscled young man standing directly below the painted sign that hung outside the entrance to the tavern. The hulking youth had a thick ruff of hair that completely surrounded his face from forehead to chin.
“Oh, that,” said the bartender. “No story there. Sired by a were-lion is all. The blackhearted tom ran off and abandoned both mother and boy. Left him with nothing but that shaggy pompadour, a wicked set of claws, and a tail, poor devil.”
“A tail? Truly?” the traveler asked, craning his neck.
“Aye,” the bartender said. “And speaking of tails, there’s quite a tale I could tell you about this wild lambic.” He thumped a nearby keg. “Just got it in this morning. Sit down, sit down. I’ll pour you a draft and give you the whole story.”
About the Author
John D. Payne grew up on the prairie, watching the lightning flash outside his window, imagining himself as everything from a leaf in the wind to the god of thunder. Today, he lives with his wife and family near Houston, where he imagines that the clouds of mosquitoes have achieved not just sentience but malicious intent.
His debut novel, The Crown and the Dragon, was published in 2013 by WordFire Press. His most recently published stories can be found in Black Denim Lit, The Leading Edge, Tides of Impossibility: A Fantas
y Anthology from the Houston Writers Guild, and One Horn to Rule Them All: A Purple Unicorn Anthology.
Now I See You
Joy Dawn Johnson
“You want me to start a what?” I feel for the plastic railing at the side of my bed and pull myself up.
“An audio journal,” Dr. White says, giving her notebook a solid rap with her pen. “It’s where—”
“I’m twelve. I know what it is.” My hands stray to the bandages covering my eyes. I can barely deal with this. And the doctor expects me to record what I’m going through?
I hate this place. Between the unending supply of fake cherry Jell-O plopped in paper bowls, and the failed chemical attempts to mask the stench of pee and old people, the nurses make every excuse to invade my room. If I hear one more snap of latex gloves, I’m heading out the window, hospital gown and all.
“Jessi, I’m concerned that you’re not accepting your condition.” Dr. White shifts in the visitor’s chair, the leather sighing beneath her. “Treat it like a diary. No one else ever has to listen to it. You need to remember life before the surgery and release whatever is bothering you. To find a balance between then and now.”
“Is there a point to this?”
“You want to leave the hospital?”
I lean forward, knocking away one of the overstuffed pillows cocooned around me. I leave it on the floor. “Is that a real question?”
“Most kids your age don’t want to be stuck in a hospital for their birthday.”
“I’m not like ‘most kids’ anymore.” The lunch cart’s back wheel whines as it rolls into the room, and I think of Bernie, as I do every day before my daily dose of Jell-O and pain meds. I’ve missed his little barks and his shaggy hair tickling my leg as he curls against me. He’s been my best friend for as long as I can remember—through Mom leaving, through my sickness.
As I lift my spoon for my first bite of Jell-O, I catch a faint glow of red as it wiggles. I say nothing. If I do, they’ll start with the tests again. Dr. White is right about one thing: I want out of here. “Okay. So you want me to record Jessi’s Greatest Hits. Anything else?”
“Yes. Record at least one a week. You can talk about anything as long as it’s from the heart.”
O O O
Jessi’s log 01
For the record, I’m only doing this because the doctor told me I had to. So here goes.…
I started playing lacrosse this year. I loved the rush, and sports were always my thing. Halfway through the third game, I began seeing double of everything on the field. Just as I was about to score, I saw two nets, and my shot went so wide, I hit the stands. It was embarrassing. And then there were the headaches. The pain made me want to puke and then I did.
I didn’t want to worry Dad, so I kept it from him as long as I could, but that didn’t last. Mom had always carried our insurance. Soon after she left, Dad’s office cut back on benefits. He took me to the doctor even though I told him I didn’t need one.
Dr. White used a model and Silly Putty to show the growth pushing against part of my brain. She called it the pituitary gland, but I still don’t know what that is and don’t really care. They shaved my head for the incision. Not having long hair doesn’t always make everything feel lighter.
The doctors had hoped I wouldn’t go blind from the surgery, but a cancer I can barely pronounce stole my vision.
This is so depressing. I can’t do this today.
End 01
O O O
Dad places a hand on my head. “I’m sorry, honey, Mom’s not coming.”
“Am I supposed to act shocked or something?” I don’t bother to filter the acid from my voice. Bernie rubs against my leg, like he always does when I’m upset. He’s been doing it a lot lately. “It’s what every nonexistent parent does in the middle of a divorce.” I run my fingers along the ABC Book of Braille. Reading used to be fun, but this isn’t exactly reading.
“We can do something for your birthday.”
“Like what? Oh, I know. Go to the zoo or see a movie?” I lean back and wait for the tears to come. I haven’t cried since Mom left.
O O O
Jessi’s log 02
It’s been a month since the surgery, but complications kept me in the hospital until last week. All I wanted to do back then was breathe and walk with Bernie. Dad wouldn’t let me because dogs weren’t allowed at hospitals.
How dumb is that? You know, if they really wanted me to get better, they would have let me see my best friend.
I’m not doing this anymore.
End 02
O O O
“So, Jessi, would you say the audio journal is helping you?” Dr. White’s voice is always just a little too smooth, attempting to be that “female influence” she insists I’m lacking.
I lean against one of the dozen miniature pillows arranged on her leather couch and twist its braded fringe between my fingers. Just for a moment, I see the red strands begin to move like a thousand tentacles reaching out for the doctor, as if trying to convince me to tell her I’m seeing things. I stuff the pillow behind the others and pretend like nothing happened.
“The podcasts? They’re dumb.” I wait for her to jump in and defend her precious idea, but all I get is a lungful of her mothball-meets-fruitcake perfume. “I thought they were supposed to help. I feel worse after them.”
“Did you talk about something positive?”
I give her a look. Okay, I can’t really give her the look I want to from behind my oversized glasses, but it’s better than digging my nails into one of her precious pillows.
O O O
Jessi’s log 04
I started tying Dad’s ties when I turned ten. He insisted after Mom left. He said he preferred “Jessi knots” because I got the length just right. I always chose the craziest ties. It might have been silly, but all his coworkers knew he was loved.
He’d bend down, and I’d hum as I worked because that’s what Mom used to do. I always tied it just a tad too tight, and he’d make funny strangling noises until Bernie started barking. I secretly knew he could do it himself, but I still did it every day before school.
As Dad showed Bernie and me out the door, he always asked, “Have you fed Bernie?”
I knew Dad loved me because every time he headed off to work, I felt him watch me leave. “Hey, sunshine. Look both ways before you cross,” he’d call. He’d pretend to head to his car, but I saw him behind the hedges. His red tie bled through the openings between the branches like little ripened berries.
He never needed to watch me. It’s only three straight blocks to school, and besides, I had an escort. Bernie would bark at Dad as if to say he’d never let anything happen to me. Before each cross street, Bernie and I would wait together until the signal changed. We always looked but there were never any cars. Bernie with his too-short legs stuck on an oversized body, and me with my lacrosse stick strapped to my faded green backpack that I’ll probably have until the zipper falls off.
Once I’d get to school, I’d turn back and give my dad a huge wave. It was my daily revenge. Though to keep his cover, he never waved back, but I knew he smiled.
My dad has a great smile.
End 04
O O O
“Dr. White emailed me information about a support group.”
Seriously? What is Dad thinking? “Like to talk about my feelings and what I’m going through?” Not a chance. I might let it slip that I’m seeing … things.
“Exactly. I know you’re—”
“I agreed to do the podcasts. Don’t push it.”
O O O
Jessi’s log 07
I’m not able to tie Dad’s tie anymore. I’ve tried and it comes out all wrong every time. The people he works with are going to think I don’t care about him. I stopped humming. It’s not like the surgery stole my voice, but everything sounds out of tune.
Dad forgets to ask me if I fed Bernie, and I remind him of our routine. I reassure Bernie that Dad still cares abou
t him too.
Sometimes I see my dad’s red ties knot themselves or the red garage door fly away, and I tell myself it’s just my imagination. But there is one thing I know I see: Bernie.
When I first arrived back home, Bernie didn’t rush to greet me like usual. I’d been looking forward to that moment for weeks and … nothing. I called out to him, and for the first time since my surgery, I knew I actually saw something.
I watched Bernie trot up to me. But not the same Bernie, not exactly. He’s still Bernie, of course, but I think I now see what he truly is: a unicorn. A miniature, furry unicorn. He’s the one thing that comes in clearly, bleeding through the blackness like my father’s tie through the bushes. It was hard to take at first, but when you go blind and your best friend is the one thing you can still see, you go with it. No matter what he looks like.
Bernie’s all I need, and I tell him that every day. He nuzzles my neck, and the fine hairs of his horn tickle my cheek. I’ve wondered if the only reason can I see him is because he’s red. Not tie red or garage door red. Bernie red.
End 07
O O O
I scratch behind Bernie’s ear. “He just didn’t see you,” I whisper to him. Dad’s always loved Bernie but ever since my surgery, he’s so overprotective of me he doesn’t even notice the little guy. He didn’t say anything when he smacked Bernie with the door. Sure, his arms were full, but that doesn’t matter.
“Guess what I’ve got?” Dad plops a grocery sack onto the kitchen table and kisses me on the forehead.
I wipe it off and turn away. “I don’t care.” I used to love when he did that but now it feels forced.
“I have your favorite cupcakes. But if you don’t want them …”
Dad hasn’t brought home double chocolate-chip cupcakes since before the surgery, before the bills. Something’s up. “What do you want?” I snap.
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