by Selena Kitt
“They believed your bear story.”
“Nobody believed the bear story, Valerie. It was a fairy tale. There were talking bears, for God's sake. Who lived in a house. And ate porridge. They just liked the story. Ya gotta be able to go one way or the other. Fairy tale or real-life. And as real life goes, this story goes too far.”
“So fix it up,” she implored me. “Make it a fairy tale.”
“I'd have to re-write the whole thing,” I said.
“Like what?”
“Well, I'd have to take out the lesbians, for one thing. Your parents would have to give you to the witch. That also gets rid of the sex. We can keep the tower—”
“—and the long, blond hair?”
“Sure. But maybe make the prince attracted by something other than your, um, orgasms. Do you sing?”
“Sure. A little.”
“Excellent. We'll have him come to your singing. Well, not come, but...”
I was blushing now.
“I get it, Joe,” Valerie rescued me. But it'll still end happily ever after, though, right?”
“Oh, sure, sure. You could even read this to your twins when they're a little older. Unlike the real story, which...”
“I get it, I get it. Oh, Joe, it's perfect. I knew you were the right man for the job.”
“There is one final thing, though. I don't think we ought to use your real name. Chris can just be 'the prince,' but Valerie makes the whole thing too real. What do you think about a name like…I don't know...How about Rapunzel?”
About Marshall Ian Key
Marshall Ian Key, who also goes by the alias Marsh Alien in order to avoid certain creditors related to the gaming industry, is a writer of comic romances. Some of them occasionally contain sexual material. Not so frequently that you would actually want to read them for that purpose, but often enough they you might not want your thirteen-year-old reading them at all. Up to you, though. Mr. Key worked as an organ grinder, an itinerant peddler, and a fishmonger before finally discovering a career suited to the present century. He currently resides outside a large Eastern metropolis in the United States. He enjoys skiing, fishing and white water canoeing. He can’t actually do any of them; he just likes the idea of them.
THE LOTHIAN FARMER
By Willsin Rowe
In the Lothian region of southern Scotland, there lived a young farmer called Jack. He shared his tiny cottage with his beautiful wife, Lucy, and his three tufty-headed sons, Henry, Ian and Michael.
Jack worked hard every day, watching his sheep as they grazed, then he whiled away his evenings before the fire, smoking his cow-bone pipe and contemplating the week’s upcoming weather. From time to time he would catch sight of his Lucy, who gazed lovingly at her master as she spun wool, cleared the scullery, bathed the children and prepared the next day’s meals for the four hungry men in her life. Jack would gaze back at her and nod approvingly.
“Idle hands beg the Devil’s influence,” he would say to his wife and his sons. From his place at fireside he would supervise Lucy as she embroidered his wisdom on a banner.
“You shall hang this fine banner above the fireplace, good wife, and each time you stoke the fire you may take comfort that you are worthy.”
He would keep his own hands busy tending his pipe as he pondered the elements.
One evening Lucy interrupted his reverie.
“My darling husband, ’tis Saturday tomorrow. Do not forget that I must be away into town. Callum is done patching our kettle.”
“Aye, wife. Do go and see the blacksmith. You can have a good brew of tea boiling when I’m back from the fields.”
But the next day, Jack arrived back home to three squealing boys and no wife. His mouth hardened in the certainty that she was still in town, dilly-dallying with the other wives. He removed his belt, ready to remind her of her duties to the men of the house.
When the sun dipped below the hills and Lucy still had not returned, Jack’s annoyance turned to anger. Henry, Ian and Michael sat, beating their bowls on the table and bleating for their supper. Jack silenced them with a sharp look and sent Henry to bring back Lucy’s mother.
Grandmother Regina arrived, dressed in her nightgown, her eyes heavy with sleep.
“What the dickens is the matter, boy?”
Jack pierced her with a glare. “Your flibberty-gibbet daughter is away who-knows-where. We need our supper, old woman.”
“Aye? And are your fingers broken?”
“Och, ye old witch. Just be gettin’ to your duties,” he barked. He took his customary seat by the fire and lit up his pipe, his scowl easing only when dinner was served. When they had eaten, Jack returned to the fire.
“Old woman, I have weather to contemplate. The boys need washing and then must be put to bed.”
“Perhaps they’d like their father to do it.”
“’Tis not my place. Children are a man’s blessing to his woman. Only when their voices grow deep shall they become my duty.”
He turned back to the fire and tried to fathom the weather for the coming week. After a day of greater hardship than usual, he drifted to sleep in his chair, and woke to the clattering of Regina fixing breakfast.
“D’you have to be so noisy, woman?”
“We will be late for church, Jack. ’Tis time you boys all rose.”
After a quick breakfast they all hurried into town and scuttled into the back pews. The service was augmented by the parson’s plea for help on Jack’s behalf.
“If anyone knows the whereabouts of lovely young Lucy, please would they tell us? She has duties to her family.”
Jack scowled, angry that his private business had been made so public. When the service finally ended he stormed out, caring little if his boys were following. He was half-way home before he heard the call.
“Farmer Jack!”
’Twas the tall, young blacksmith calling out.
“Farmer Jack! Heed me! You must wait!”
“Och, what has your apron in such a whirl, Callum?”
“Jack, ’tis your bonnie wife.”
“My Lucy? Where?”
“She was in among your boys, outside the church. I saw her with my own eyes, worrying at the lads’ hair with a beastly big comb.”
“Aye, that sounds like her, no doubt.”
Jack turned back toward the churchyard, a steely look in his eyes, preparing to address his wife about her waywardness. The blacksmith called him again.
“Jack.”
“Yes, Callum? What now?”
“Dinnae rush,” said the blacksmith.
“I’ve missed her? She has scarpered again?”
“No, Jack. I saw it with my own eyes. One minute she was there, the next she just…vanished.”
Jack frowned. “That cannae be. That sounds like…”
The blacksmith nodded. “Aye, laddie. Witchcraft.”
Jack ran back to the churchyard, where he found his boys but, as Callum had said, there was no sign of Lucy.
Henry was holding his younger brothers in tight headlocks, making short work of any grooming their mother may have achieved.
“Boys!”
Henry quickly loosed his brothers and beamed his innocence. “Aye, father?”
“Your mother was here, was she not?”
“Aye, father. She was.”
“Did she say where she has been?”
“No, father.”
Michael, the youngest spoke up. “She said she’s off with the fairies, dah.”
Henry quickly cuffed his brother around the ear. “Shut it, you little pillock. She told you not to say.”
Jack crossed his arms and scowled at his sons. “What is this nonsense, boys? Fairies?”
Henry looked at his shoes. “That’s what she said, father. I made sure I didnae believe her.”
Jack ruffled his eldest boy’s hair. “Aye, lad. Dandy. There’s nae such thing as fairies.”
Michael and Ian glanced at each other. Ian pulled softly on h
is father’s sleeve.
“But dah…ma wouldnae lie to us. No’ ma.”
Jack gazed into the hurt expression on his son’s face. “Oh, yes she would, lad. If it were smoother than the truth. That’s a woman’s way, and it’s time you learnt it.”
Ian’s sniffling caught on with young Michael, and before long the two boys were bawling. Even Henry’s lip began to quiver. Jack stood abruptly and stared at them each in turn.
“Wee jessies,” he spat and then turned on his heel, steaming homeward again. “Come now, babbies. There is work to be done.”
The boys scurried after him, still wailing. Jack lifted his pace, driving his sons so hard that soon their crying was pushed aside by the need to breathe.
When they reached home, Regina, who had rushed home from church to fix lunch, swept straight past Jack and pulled her grandsons into an enormous hug.
“What’s the matter, wee ones?”
Jack watched with disgust as eight-year-old Henry erupted in a babble made incoherent with breathlessness and caterwauling. Disgust turned to anger as Regina gave comfort where there should have been discipline.
“Shush, shush. Och, my lad, calm yourself. Let me put on–”
“Old woman!” Jack bellowed from the front door. “Put on the kettle. I need a strong cup of tea to aid my thoughts.”
Regina gave them all a quick squeeze and went into the kitchen. For the sake of her grandsons, who she loved more than anything, she did her son-in-law’s bidding.
“Here’s your tea, boy.”
Jack grunted and took a long sip. “Och, there’s nae sugar in it.”
“You don’t take—”
“I take it when I take it!”
For the rest of the day, Jack sat in his chair and wondered what had become of his good and loyal wife. Why had she shirked her duties? Why was she not here to keep his house in good order, and his children out of trouble? He was a busy man, with sheep to watch and weather to contemplate.
Every day began and ended the same way. He would wake to the clattering of his cursed mother-in-law and his unruly boys as they worked together to make his breakfast. He would trudge out to watch his sheep, then stagger back home to a hot meal, which he would eat but not truly taste. He would retire early but spend half the night awake and cursing the shame his wife had brought on him.
The next Sunday, he took his sons to church, to pray for the swift return of his indolent wife. In the churchyard, he once again encountered the blacksmith, whose strong arms were barely contained in the sleeves of his good Sunday shirt.
“Any news, Callum?”
“Not a lot, Jack. Hello, boys.”
Jack’s three sons leapt and cavorted with the blacksmith, who always seemed happy to see them. Callum twirled them around to make them dizzy and then sent them off to play together.
As he watched them totter away, the young blacksmith smiled. Then, suddenly, his face grew white.
“Jack,” he said. “Look.”
Jack turned to behold his sons huddled on the grass, and in their midst, his Lucy, wielding her comb as a highlander wields his claymore.
“Och, look at you all. Like ratty old scarecrows, the three of you.”
“Ma! Ma! Pick me up!”
“I cannae, Michael. You’re too big.”
“Pleeeeease?”
Jack had never seen Lucy resist Michael before, but she stood firm this time.
“Mikey, I’m so sorry. I truly cannae.”
Suddenly, Jack found his voice, and even he was surprised with its strength.
“Lucy!”
His wife’s beautiful face shot up like a startled hare. She stood, slowly and gracefully, her hands seeming to skim across the ragged tips of the boys’ hair.
“Hello, husband. You look tired.”
“Aye, wife. I’ve been doin’ the work a two since–”
“Oh, aye? And you’re keeping ma around for her looks?”
Jack gritted his teeth and stared into Lucy’s eyes. “Your sons have loose lips. No doubt they get it from your side.”
Lucy smiled weakly as she shook her head. “My love, we have so little time. Must we spend it quarrelling?” She brought her hands up to his face, but stopped short of touching him.
“So little time? You forget your place, girl. Where have you been?” He shrugged away his own question. “No matter. You’re coming home now.”
“No, love. I cannae.”
“Why not?”
She closed her eyes, her sadness seeming to grow every second. “Och, if I explain it, Jack, ’twill seem even more ridiculous.”
Jack suddenly became aware of the chill which seemed to cascade from Lucy’s body, as if she were carved from ice. A ball of fear rolled down his throat and into his stomach, landing with a thud that threatened the integrity of his knees.
“Lucy...you’re not dead, are you? A spirit?”
“Nae, my Jack. I’ve been taken from this world, but I’m no’ dead.” She seemed unable to look him in the eye as she spoke. A moment passed and then she drew in a sharp breath.
Jack turned to see what it was she was looking at, finding Callum the blacksmith leaning easily against a yew tree, a gaggle of young women all begging for his attention. Jack frowned deeply and turned back to his wife.
“Lucy, you must tell me what’s happened.”
“Love, if I tell you, you will only try to save me. I cannae let you.”
“Woman! Tell me!”
Lucy sighed heavily and turned to the boys with a great show of reluctance. “Lads, would ye no’ like to go and climb a tree or somethin’?”
When they’d left, Lucy turned back to her husband. “It was nothin’ really, Jack, just…bad timing.”
“What was?”
“’Twas when I went to see Callum. To get the kettle.”
“Aye?”
“Well, I walked straight into his workshop, rather than the shop front. We’ve known each other all our lives, I saw no trouble.”
“Aye?”
“He was working very hard, pounding away with his hammer, his skin glistening with sweat and I had…an impure thought.”
“About Callum?
“Aye.”
“But…he’s a blacksmith. He’s beneath you.”
“Perhaps. But I had a vision where…he was above me. And working just as hard.”
“Wife, are you trying to shame me all over again? First you leave me alone with your spawn, now you wish to tell the town that I’m no’ good enough to have had you in the first place?”
“I’m no’ sayin’ that. And it’s you who’s tellin’ the town. Keep your voice low, Jackie.”
“Dinnae call me that. Harlot!”
Without another thought, Jack swung his arm to slap his wife, but fell heavily to the ground when his hand passed straight through her.
“What devilry is this?”
“I told you, love. I’m gone from this world. I’m with the Wicked Fairies. At that moment, when I had…that thought…I was clutching my moonstone pendant. It brought them straight to me.”
Jack crossed himself automatically. “The Wicked Fairies? But…no, that’s just a tale to scare the bairns, stop them from…bein’ impure before they wed.”
Lucy shook her head. “No, love. ’Tis true enough. And ’tis a strange level of Hades in which I now dwell. I must beg you, love, to forget me. Leave me here and raise our sons.”
Jack felt anger in his heart, even greater than when he lost a sheep to a fox. Did these Wicked Fairies believe they could steal his wife from him?
“I will no’ be defeated, Lucy. I will come for you and take you back.”
“Love, you must not. ’Tis simple enough to enter, but to return you must pass tests. Tests the like of which you have never endured.”
“I am man enough. Or do you doubt your husband…again?”
“Quite honestly, Jackie, I do. You know not what will be asked of you. And if you fail, you must remain here and…do
as I do.”
“Wife, I will do what must be done to bring you back. Then I will…remind you of your place.” He patted the buckle of his belt.
Lucy held Jack’s gaze for a moment, then sighed. “All right. There’s but one chance. At midnight on All Hallows Eve, you must come to Green Meadow, alone. On that night, and that night only, can a man pass into the anteworld between where you are and where I am.”
“To bring you back, wife, I would climb the highest mount.”
Lucy began to fade. “Aye. Keep that thought in mind, husband.”
“Ma!”
Henry and his brothers ran back.
“Where did ma go, dah?” Michael asked.
“I dinnae quite know, lad. But soon you can ask her yourself.”
Time flew by until the day of All Hallows Eve. For the first time in memory, Jack bid his sons good night. Then, without a word to his toiling mother-in-law, he wrapped himself up warmly and slipped away from his cottage. The full moon’s blue-white light gave the world a ghostly hue and Jack’s breath clouded before him as he stamped from foot to foot to ward off the chill air of Green Meadow.
On the stroke of midnight, the wind died, leaving the world utterly silent. Jack felt his heart jump in his chest but he stood still, his eyes searching the meadow for signs of danger. He saw nothing but could hear voices, just whispers at first, then cries of pain. He felt his knees weaken and he turned to flee, stopping only when he remembered his wife’s impudence.
He turned back and walked toward the middle of the meadow. The voices grew louder, and he believed he could hear Lucy in amongst them. Then, with one final step, he was assaulted by a warmth that put the Scottish summer to shame.
Jack tore off his overcoat and threw it to the ground. He glanced around himself and saw shapes beginning to form.
People. And they were writhing in pain.
But as the shapes became clearer, he realized that they were not people…and they were not in pain.
Most were tall and slender, with hair the color of sunset and wings the size of pillows, covered with downy white feathers.
The Wicked Fairies! And scattered among them, real people, all being forced to do…unspeakable things. Jack found Lucy, naked and on her knees, her hands caressing the belly of a beautiful youth while her–
