Courts of the Fey

by Martin H. Greenberg

  “Quiet now, little one,” she cooed, but she found her voice ripped away from her, lost in the wake of the wind and rattling leaves above her head. The storm had picked up again, the cold air slicing through the thin fabric of the cloak, but she took comfort in the fact that the child was protected, warm and safe inside the fleecy brown blanket she had stolen from its bed.

  The baby hadn’t cried when she’d come into the room to take it––the baby never cried when she held her––and it had been easy enough to swaddle the child in the fleece, wrapping it up safe and tight. Even the rain could not harm the babe; the girl saw to that by keeping the child tucked tightly against her breast underneath the protection of the cloak. Of course, she knew none of these precautions would have lasted had the journey been a longer one––and she thanked the Goddess the tree which marked the entrance to the Sídhe was less than a league from the river at the edge of her father ’s property.

  It was strange to think that getting to her destination––in the pitch of night by way of the icy windswept forest––was proving to be the easiest part of her endeavor, while the actual abduction itself had been the trickiest. Fraught with the most risk because her stepmother was the lightest of sleepers, assured to hear even the faintest creak of foot on stair or rustle of skirt against skin. The girl’s heart had lodged in her throat as she made her way across the hall, her breathing barely a whisper as she tried to keep the shaking of her hands to a minimum.

  She’d never dared to defy her stepmother before––even when she’d tried her best to please the woman all she’d been met with was pain and humiliation. She could only imagine what her stepmother would do if she were to discover the girl tip-toeing across the thick slats of the wooden floor in the dead of night, her eyes wild with fear . . . and determination.

  The girl had already decided should she be discovered during the course of her attempt, she would put an end to the charade once and for all. To this end, she’d taken the poker from the kitchen hearth, concealing it within the folds of her skirt as she made her way upstairs after a tense and silent dinner with her stepmother and father. As she’d held the poker tight in her hand, its leaden weight a talisman against discovery, she’d issued a silent prayer to the Goddess that the precaution of carrying such a weapon might be for naught, that she wouldn’t have to use its heft to destroy the woman who had made her life such a misery.

  At dinner, her mind focused on what lay ahead; she hadn’t given much thought to her father or what her plan might mean for him. As usual, he had been quiet and withdrawn, paying her little attention as they’d eaten, lost in the rich folds of his own imagination. He practically lived for his work, so that his daughter hardly ever saw him outside of meal-times––and even then he frequently took his dinner in his workshop, a place that was inaccessible to both his second wife and daughter. The girl knew her father was brilliant, that the king paid him great sums of gold to build the strange inventions he dreamed up, but she had never been close to him, never understood what it was exactly that her real mother had found so appealing about the man.

  Not that she had ever really tried to know her father.

  Especially after he’d done the unthinkable and remarried––barely three months after her mother’s death––allowing that horrid woman, the one she now had to call stepmother, unfettered access to their life. It had irked the girl that the marriage hadn’t been for love; that her father had been goaded into the match by her grandmother, a wizened old crone of a woman whose marked fragility belied the formidable character that lay hidden underneath. Luckily, the girl was only forced to endure the old woman once a year at Christmastime––which was still one visit more a year than the girl would’ve liked.

  The girl could remember a Christmas visit when the old woman had caught her playing with a straw dolly that her mother had made for her before she’d died. It was a representation of the Goddess, one of the life-giving personality facets of the Great Mother called Astarte. The girl had adored the doll, thrilling at its strange, silvery hair and tiny aster seed eyes and mouth. The dolly had been her most favored possession; going everywhere with her and even cuddling up beside her while she slept.

  But when her grandmother had caught sight of her otherworldly dolly that cold winter′s night, her eyes had flared with recognition and before the girl’s bewildered gaze the old woman had made the sign of the cross, her hands like claws as she traced the powerful symbol into the air. Then in a tremulous, sibilant voice, one the girl barely recognized as human, the old woman had called the dolly “an abomination to God.”

  The girl didn’t understand; the dolly was only a gift from her dead mother, it wasn’t something to be feared––but then the old woman had done something unthinkable, something the girl’s mother would never have allowed had she still been alive: the witch had torn the bedraggled dolly––the only thing of her mother′s left to the girl besides the acorn charm––and pitched it in to the Yule fire. The dolly had caught the flame instantly, its straw body and aster seed eyes glowing orange as they incited the Yule log to burn even brighter, creating a miniature inferno inside the wrought iron grating of the sitting room fireplace.

  The girl had understood from an early age that her grandmother was a selfish creature and she’d pitied the old woman this glaring weakness, never despising her for it. Even when the girl’s beloved mother lay cooling underneath her newly settled gravestone and the old woman had lectured her son about finding an able-bodied woman to run his household and provide a feminine influence for his young, impressionable daughter––and to the girl’s consternation he’d listened, marrying the first woman his mother suggested to him––even then she hadn’t hated her grandmother. But with the destruction of that cherished dolly, the old woman had made a bitter enemy for life––and the girl had vowed never to forgive her, or her father, for their cruelness.

  Her mind swirling with painful memories, the girl reached the towering oak tree just as the baby began to fuss in earnest. Under safety of the tree’s canopy, she unwrapped the babe so she could kiss its forehead.

  “It won’t be long, I promise,” she said, nuzzling the child to calm its fussiness. The baby instantly relaxed at her touch, yawning and then closing its eyes to sleep again.

  As she stared down at the sleeping child, she remembered the last time she had come to this place. It had been a few days before her mother′s death, the tragedy that would soon follow etching the memory into her brain forever, so that even now the remembrance brought tears of pain to her eyes. That it had been seven years since her last visit was superfluous; the girl knew the way as if she’d ventured there yesterday.

  They had stood on this very spot: her mother, tall and willowy, with a shock of sunfire hair and eyes greener than a cat’s, holding the girl’s hand and pointing to the rough hewn trunk of the giant oak.

  “This is where I come from, Daughter,” she had said, her voice thick with a honeyed pride that made the girl squirm.

  Whenever her mother had spoken of her childhood home, there had been a longing inside of her words that’d spooked the girl. She’d instinctively known that given half a chance, her mother would undoubtedly return to the world of the fairies, leaving her daughter adrift in a human world fostered upon lies and half-forgotten truths.

  It was an idea that had chilled the girl.

  As mercurial as her mother may have been, there was no guile in the woman. Instead, she possessed an almost animal honesty, something that was inherent in her every action or word, so that the girl always knew exactly what her mother was thinking. Unlike her father or the servants, whose intentions were so complex they were hard for the girl to unravel.

  “The fairies will help you should you ever have need of them,” her mother had continued, her voice the timbre of silk. “You have their blood in your veins and that will be enough. Though only once will they heed your call—so use the gift I give you wisely.”

  The girl had been so little that she hadn�
��t known how to respond and, instead, merely nodded her blonde head, her own green eyes wide with wonder.

  As she’d watched, her mother had grasped the end of her necklace and yanked, breaking the thin filament that encircled her throat. The charm it had borne, a small stone acorn that her mother had worn around her neck for the whole of the girl’s life, fell silently into her mother′s outstretched palm.

  “This will call them out,” she had said, as she’d placed the charm into the girl’s open hand, closing the tiny fingers around it as though within their fleshy pads they possessed all the protection the world had to offer.

  Three days later, her mother was dead, thrown from the back of her own horse, a timid creature called Buttercup that was the sweetest of all the horses in the stable. The girl had not understood how so fine a horse could’ve done so much damage, but that was to remain a mystery that she would never solve. Her mother had been out riding alone in the woods, without even a servant to keep her company. The accident, if that’s what it’d truly been, was not witnessed.

  The following morning her father had had the beast slaughtered, the efficiency of the act frightening the girl. She’d wondered then––as children filled with guilt and incomprehension are wont to do––if she, too, would’ve been dispatched so competently if she’d been the one at the helm of her mother′s death. She’d also wondered how much forewarning her mother had had of her own death, if that’d been why she’d taken the girl to the oak tree and given her the charm; that she’d known this would be her only opportunity to do so.

  Yet another mystery the girl would never solve.

  Now that she stood at the entrance to the Sídhe, the world hidden behind the majestic oak tree beckoning her forward, uncertainty overwhelmed her. Up until that very moment, she’d been so sure of herself and her plan; now she felt lost. The idea that there would be no going back once she’d put the thing into motion had not worried her in theory, but to hand the child over to the fairies when one was actually doing the deed was a very different thing.

  The girl swallowed, her mouth dry as she contemplated her options. She could turn around and go back the way she had come––or she could move ahead with what she’d originally intended and let the cards fall as they may.

  It was the babe, itself, that made the decision for her. It kicked out at her from beneath the blanket, its tiny foot catching her in the forearm as if it were bestowing a benevolent kiss. It was as if the baby were saying: go on, do this thing for both of us. It is our destiny.

  “I know it’s for the best,” she whispered as she pressed her lips to the babe’s ear. “I know it.”

  Only once will they heed your call, her mother had warned.

  Over the years the girl had endured numerous beatings at her stepmother′s hand, but she’d never dared waste the gift her mother had bestowed upon her. She could survive the physical pain; knew that once she was sixteen her father and grandmother would marry her off and she would be rid of them forever. She had prayed to the Goddess every night since she was six years old that she might marry a man of true kindness––and were she to find that the suitor chosen for her was a tyrant? Well, if that came to pass then she would gladly use the charm and damn the consequences.

  But those thoughts belonged to another girl from another time––one who understood nothing about true fear. Fear for her own sanity, and that of her newborn sibling, had driven the girl to this desperate place; had finally forced her hand enough that she’d dared to waste her one chance and call out the fairies to do her bidding.

  Clutching the baby tightly within the crook of one arm, the girl raised her free hand and wrapped her fingers around the stone acorn that had hung like a talisman around her throat for so many years. Repeating the same gesture as her own mother seven years previously, she grasped the charm and snapped the thin piece of string that held it into two, letting the weight of the charm fall into her hand. It was as if she were holding a tiny block of ice in the coolness of the dark, wet night, and she shivered. She had prepared nothing. Her mother had given her no words to say, no charm to incant; just the small piece of cold, dead stone that she now held in the folds of her palm.

  As she stood on the threshold of this immutable moment, the girl almost laughed, hysteria burbling up inside of her as she contemplated the dastardly thing she was about to do.

  In truth, it was odd for her to think how innocently all the pain and suffering had begun.

  Her first blood had come in the middle of the night, the pain ratcheting up her spine like a vise, waking her from a deep and dreamless sleep. She cried out, the noise barely a hush in the silence of the room, and then covered her mouth as the sound melted into the shadows. She didn’t dare sit up or move in any way, hoping that her cry would go unnoticed, but luck was not with her. She stiffened as she heard the soft creak of her stepmother unfolding the covers and climbing out of her goose down bed in the room next door.

  Her stepmother did not share a room with her father––he preferred to keep his own suite of rooms in the other wing of the house, so he never found his sleep disturbed by the scream of an ill child or a hungry babe. He left his only daughter completely at her stepmother ’s mercy . . . and the woman was merciless. Her stepmother never said exactly how she felt about being left to while away the nighttime hours alone, but by her actions, the girl could guess that she did not suffer the indignity gladly.

  The door to the girl’s room opened silently, a shaft of candlelight illuminating the way as her stepmother, her soft brown hair loose around the shoulders of her white cotton nightdress, stepped inside. The girl squeezed her eyes shut, hoping her stepmother would think she was asleep, but instead she heard her stepmother’s light tread continue as she crossed the divide between the doorway and the bed.

  “I know you’re awake.”

  The voice was low and measured, the trill of a purr languishing just beneath the dulcet tones, as her stepmother sat down on the edge of the bed, depressing the mattress with her weight.

  The girl opened her eyes. She knew better than to outright lie to her stepmother––this only brought you a beating much more quickly. Best to stretch out the truth a little instead and hope her stepmother would choose leniency.

  “I had a bad dream,” the girl answered, trying to keep her voice as even as possible. The ache in her belly had grown worse and she could feel the wetness pooling between her legs. She just wanted her stepmother to go away and leave her to her pain in peace.

  “About what . . . ?” her stepmother asked, her golden-brown eyes curious. “About what did you dream?”

  “I don’t remember,” the girl whispered, avoiding her stepmother′s piercing gaze.

  There was only silence as the older woman pursed her pale pink lips. The girl understood what would come next––what always came next––but still she sought to stave off the attack with meaningless words.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean––” the girl began, but her pleas went unacknowledged as two strong hands grasped the edge of the comforter and ripped it away from her prone body.

  “No!” the girl screamed as her stepmother grabbed her arm and dragged her from the bed, a smear of bright red blood staining the place where she’d just lain.

  At the sight of so much blood, her stepmother relaxed her hold and the girl broke free, clambering to the floor, her white nightdress now a red swirl around her legs.

  “What is this?” her stepmother asked, as she reached out a long, thin finger and pressed it into the center of the bloody stain.

  The girl trembled, her mouth dry as a wooden board.

  “Well . . . ?” her stepmother said, her curving body casting long, dancing shadows against the whitewashed walls in the flickering light of the candle.

  “I don′t . . . ” the girl began––then stopped cold as she noticed the calculating look that had overtaken her stepmother′s angular face and wide, expressive mouth.

  The girl understood that her stepmother was a
beautiful woman when not viewed through the filter of intimacy; for those who knew her only in passing thought her to be a bastion of innocence and light. At twenty-three, her stepmother did possess the luscious beauty of a newly plucked rose, but the girl was privy to what lay underneath the veneer of the freshly blooming exterior––and it was the wicked soul of a black-hearted witch.

  “Come here.”

  The two words dropped like icicles, shattering into a million pieces on the floor.

  The girl shook her head, fear swallowing her tongue and rendering her mute.

  “I said . . . come here.”

  Shaking like a newborn foal, the girl stood up and took three tentative steps toward her stepmother. She could feel each individual purl of the white knitted rug beneath her feet.

  “Closer.”

  It was a command––and the girl could do nothing but obey, her stepmother’s charge ingrained in her since she was six years old.

  “That’s a good girl,” her stepmother cooed, reaching for the girl’s hand and pulling her close, the two feminine bodies mere inches from one another like orbiting planets.

  “You’re a woman now,” her stepmother intoned, her breath warm and spicy like cinnamon as it settled inside the girl’s nostrils. “Just like me.”

  She leaned forward and kissed the girl firmly, yet sweetly on the mouth. The taste of her stepmother′s lips was heady and ripe, making the girl swoon as blood leaked from between her legs with every pulse of her heartbeat.

  Her stepmother released her hand and the girl tensed, waiting for the slap she was certain would follow. Instead, she felt her stepmother’s hand tenderly snake up the side of her waist, following the curve of her ribcage where it met her breast. The hand paused there, over the small mound of barely ripened flesh and cupped it, gently rubbing the nipple to attention with the meat of her thumb.

  The girl bit her lip, the feeling of pleasure at the hands of her persecutor confusing to her, the strange intimacy illogical to the girl.