Don't Let the Fairies Eat You

by Darryl Fabia

  “Someone who can afford to throw gold at the street must be prosperous indeed,” Calden said to his friend.

  “It didn’t look like gold to me,” Belfry said.

  “I don’t care if the money is gold or silver, so long as it’s ours. Perhaps he can throw coins our way and make us prosperous too.”

  “We don’t look as shabby and innocent as that little boy. How will we make him care about us?”

  Calden drew his dagger. “We’ll make him care about himself.”

  They were on the old man in moments, kicking his cane out from under him and tossing him onto the street. Calden snatched the man’s money bag out of his coat and held the heavy sack high, flashing a greedy grin.

  “No, you mustn’t open it!” the old man cried.

  Calden did not merely open the bag—he slit its side with his dagger, believing coins would rain from the torn leather and that he could make a witty jab about throwing coins in the street before he and Belfry ran off with their profits. Yet nothing emerged from the bag. The knife flew out and it hung, limp and light, as if there had been nothing inside but air.

  “Where is your money?” Calden growled, grabbing the old man by his expensive collar.

  “That was the money,” the old man moaned, and there were tears in his eyes. “Sixty-five years ago, I made a deal with the devils in the graveyard north of town, when I was a lad like you two, penniless and ragged on the street. They fashioned a bag of human flesh, and so long as I reached into its mouth, I would find gold coins waiting for me. But I had to keep the bag safe for sixty-six years or I would forfeit my soul and any further money.” The man suddenly reeled up from the ground, and now his fists took hold of Calden with the fury and strength of a man half his age. “And now my soul is theirs! They’ll come for me this night and I’ll have guarded that bag against my chest for nothing! All you needed do was ask and coins would have been yours. Now there is nothing for anyone and my soul is forfeit!”

  Calden and Belfry stood stunned for a moment, and then Calden shoved the man away. “Off me, you madman. Keep your secret purses and your lunacy too.”

  The man hobbled back, retrieved his cane from the street, and resumed his unsteady gait, sobbing now and then as he left the boys.

  Calden then beckoned Belfry close. “We’ll follow him.”

  Belfry frowned. “But Calden, you said he could keep his secret purses and—”

  “I said, we’ll follow him.” Calden felt unnerved at the man’s tears and sudden willfulness, and wondered if he might be telling the truth.

  The two boys followed the old man for a ways, sticking to alley shadows in the dusk, and to the more plentiful darkness when the sun vanished beneath the horizon. The man lived in a tall house of many windows, but once he’d ducked inside his door, the windows filled one by one with wooden planks nailed into place, as if the old man had been prepared for this turn of events.

  The boys waited at the street corner for hours and had nearly fallen asleep when they saw lights coming around the house’s side at midnight. Small, hooded figures held lanterns glowing with orange-yellow flame and walked a line along the street. They said nothing and barely made a sound until the leader of the line knocked at the old man’s front door. No one answered, and then all the little hooded figures knocked at the boarded-up windows. The old man squeaked in fright from within, and as if all the knocking was simply a formality, the hooded figures slapped the windows.

  The glass panes swung open like doors, as did the nailed-on wood, beckoning the hooded figures inside, which is just where they went. The man’s squeaking turned high-pitched and horrible, a scream that echoed over the street, loud enough that the boys were afraid at first that they’d be blamed if caught outside the house. Yet no one lit a candle in their own houses nearby and no one came seeking the source of the scream. The hooded figures crept through the windows unmolested, and they dragged the shrieking old man from his house undeterred.

  “We’ll follow them,” Calden said to Belfry.

  Belfry frowned. “But he said he had to give his soul in exchange—”

  “I said, we’ll follow them.”

  The boys followed the little hooded figures into the darkness beyond town, and soon they appeared as nothing more than a line of lanterns floating over nighttime pastures and into a thick forest. Calden had heard of a graveyard there, but it was not hallowed ground, if rumor was to be believed. Many people had been buried there in barbarous times, and only betrayers, witches, and bandit kings were buried there now.

  Calden and Belfry stopped at the edge of this graveyard, hiding in the shadows of the trees while the hooded figures formed a circle among the graves, some old and overgrown with weeds, some fresh with mounds of earth, and some open like hungry mouths. The old man sat in the center of this circle, between an open grave and an overgrown one. The hooded figures made noise now, snickering and growling as they closed in on their victim.

  “It’s not my fault!” the old man cried. “Two street urchins mugged me and tore open the bag!”

  “Jon Dalmer, son of Beatrice Green and Horace Dalmer, it is your fault because you are the one who made the agreement,” the leader hissed, the same who had first knocked on the door. “You made the agreement without the influence of drink or drug, without the intimidation of fire or blade. You made the agreement knowing the price.” Curved and shining scissors emerged from the leader’s cloak.

  Strangely enough, the sight of the blades seemed to somber the old man, Dalmer, and he ceased his sobbing and screaming. “Yes, I know. The price is my immortal soul, which you will now extract for my failure of but one year.”

  “If it helps your heart bear it any better,” the leader said, “then I will say that it is not immortal, for all things must change. All things die in constant, and you are not losing as much as you believe.” The scissors slid forward and other hooded figures laid the man down on his back.

  “We should confess,” Belfry whispered. “We should tell them it was our fault.”

  “A lot of good that will do,” Calden said. “You heard the leader of these devils—the old man knew the deal he was making long before your grandfather bought your grandmother for an evening’s delight. Now, be quiet.”

  The hooded figures held Dalmer down by his arms and legs, so tightly that he couldn’t even squirm, and the leader of his tormentors ran the scissors along his body from head to toe, toe to head, again and again, as if he didn’t know where to find the man’s soul.

  “He might’ve hidden his soul in an egg,” Belfry suggested. “I heard a story of a man who hid his death in an egg, and a giant who hid his heart in an egg.”

  “Have you heard the story of one boy who threw another into an open grave and buried him alive?” Calden asked. Belfry shook his head. “They’ve yet to tell it, but they will, and it’ll be a true story, if you don’t shut up now.”

  “You’ve kept the bag close all these years,” the leader said to the old man.

  “Yes,” said Dalmer.

  “You’ve kept it safe all these years.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve kept awake some nights, worrying that someone might take it or destroy it.”

  “Yes,” Dalmer conceded. “It drove my wife away. My children left my house and never speak to me. I had to fire all my servants, who were once paid with the bag’s coins, and generously. I could not trust them anywhere near it. If I could do it all again, I would never have made that deal. I would’ve been poor all my days, however few or many, not to have my life ruled by that leather sack. Its price was too high from the first day to the last.”

  “I see,” said the leader. His scissors halted over Dalmer’s feet. A pale, tiny hand yanked away both of the old man’s boots, then his socks, and then the scissors snipped at his wrinkled flesh, stripping away the thinnest layer of skin from heel to toe. “And now I have collected your soles.”

  The circle of hooded men hopped away from the old man and laughe
d hysterically. Many fell to the ground, rolling with joy, while others slumped over headstones, struggling to catch their breath for they were cackling so heavily.

  “Is that all?” the old man asked, looking to his raw feet.

  “If by all, you mean the suffering and torture you crafted for yourself in the years and years you’ve held the bag, then yes,” the leader said. “That is all.” And he laughed with his slightly smaller friends. He laughed so hard that his hood flopped up, revealing the pointed ears, the beady eyes, and the dirt and moss skin of a goblin. The old man only wept.

  “They’re no devils,” Calden said, grinning. “And there’s no need to forfeit one’s soul. Death will wait in just the same way as always. We’ll follow in the old man’s footsteps.”

  Belfry frowned. “But the goblin said he crafted suffering and—”

  “We’ll follow in the old man’s footsteps.”

  The boys emerged together from the dark woods and all the laughter and weeping was snuffed out like a tiny candle’s flame. The goblins scowled, and the old man scowled like he was one of them. They parted to allow Calden to bluster into the circle, with Belfry stepping nervously at his heels, and the boys stood before the leader goblin as if Dalmer didn’t exist.

  “We wish to make the deal with you, goblin,” Calden said. “We wish to take the bag which gives all the coins we can pull from within and carry it for sixty-six years.”

  “You scoundrels!” the old man cried. “Haven’t you pestered me enough for a day?”

  “But it’s night now,” Belfry said innocently, and the goblins cackled around him.

  “They say the fairies love a simpleton,” Calden muttered, and all but the leader of the goblins returned to scowling. “Make the deal with us, goblins, or I’ll show you what a true blade looks like.”

  “Will you be ones to make such a deal?” the leading goblin asked. He appeared calmer and more serene than any woodcutting or sketch of goblins that the boys had ever seen. “You are Calden Nobody, child of Damian Grounder and Rachel Humruck. Your friend is Belfry Green, child of Amber Green and Peter Guskchov. Do you know the significance of this?”

  “We are children of men’s lust and women’s wombs,” Calden said.

  “And we are not.” The goblin shook his head. “We are children of earth and grass, of wind and water, of day and darkness. As we spring forth from men’s shadows, so do we return, and perhaps we give the world a little laughter in our passing centuries. We are wild things, as hard to kill as the world itself, child. To make an agreement, you need not threaten, for doing so is fruitless coming from a boy such as you. All you need do is ask. You two wish to carry the bag?”

  “We do.” Calden nudged Belfry then.

  “We do,” Belfry said softly.

  “You should run, boys, for neither of you want this curse,” Dalmer said, but the old man was ignored.

  “And who shall carry this bag, and thus, pay the price as Jon Dalmer has done?” asked the calm goblin.

  “Belfry will,” Calden said, nudging the other boy again. “Won’t you, Belfry?”

  Belfry nodded solemnly. “I suppose, with all that gold, there’s no worry that I’ll need to run so much on raw feet.”

  Half the goblins began to giggle and were shushed by the other half, who themselves struggled to withhold their laughter. “Very well,” said the leader. “Brothers and sisters, let us make a bag of human flesh, from which a man may reach inside and find the worthless metal that bears the imprint of a king or lord or god. Belfry Green will hold this bag for sixty-six years, and if it is ruined and tonight’s agreement is made in vain, then he will forfeit his soles.”

  At that, the goblins swarmed over Calden, yanking him to the ground and tearing at his clothes. “What is this?” the boy roared, fighting uselessly against the little fair folk. “Belfry will hold the bag!”

  “Yes, he will,” said the goblin leader. “And from you, we will make the bag.”

  Calden scrambled for his knife, but it flew away from him just as his clothing did, and scissors swiftly pierced the flesh over his chest. The boy’s roaring turned high-pitched and horrible, but no one worried that anyone would hear the screams beyond the graveyard. Slit skin peeled away from poking ribs and hips, from lithe arms and legs, and the flesh was passed along the goblins as they began the work of making leather.

  “Belfry Green will carry the bag and pay the price,” the goblin leader went on. “He will carry this bag in worry, if such a thought should occur to him, and he will carry this bag in guilt, as Jon Dalmer has done, for he was a boy in this unhallowed graveyard once, and he had a friend, and he paid a price.”

  Within minutes, not a spot of skin remained on Calden’s writhing red figure and not a true word came from his throat. The goblins then lifted him, marking their hands with red splotches, and dropped him into the open grave next to Jon Dalmer.

  The goblin leader bent his scissors and twisted them until they formed a long shovel, and then he handed it to Belfry. “Bury him and seal your deal.”

  “No!” Calden screamed.

  Belfry took the shovel and chucked a splotch of dirt over Calden’s red flesh. “Don’t worry,” he said, making quick work of the burial. “Your true story will be told and I will carry the bag. Everything you told me to do, I’ll do.” Soil fell onto Calden’s eyes, into his open mouth, and over his red limbs and torso. Then soil fell onto the wriggling layer of soil, and next layer wriggled less, until at last, nine layers had been laid and Calden was heard and seen no more.

  The goblins worked for three hours and a minute fashioning the bag, and their leader himself placed it in Belfry’s hands. “If you return home before dawn, all that emerges will be gold,” he said. “If you arrive an hour past dawn, all that emerges will be silver. Two hours or more, and all that emerges will be copper. If the sun sets before you return, you will receive only dirt, as your friend did.”

  “I didn’t know they made coins out of dirt,” Belfry said, and the goblins cackled again. He made to leave right away, but then he noticed Dalmer having trouble walking, as the old man had been abducted without his cane. Belfry stashed the magic bag inside his shirt and took the old man’s arm, helping him hobble out of the graveyard.

  “You should hurry off without me, boy,” Dalmer said. “You won’t make it to town by dawn at this rate, and your friend will have died for less than gold.”

  “Not to worry,” Belfry said, and he did not abandon the old man. “Calden said he didn’t care if money was gold or silver, so long as it was ours. So I don’t think he’d have a problem with it.”

  “Is that so?” Dalmer asked. “I’m sure the goblins would have a hearty laugh over that.”

  They did.

  Thunder Horn and Fire Box

  Once in the land of a thousand demons, the two named Io and Nao tried to steal the land’s thunder and fire. Both were good with their hands. The fat one, Io, crafted a great brass horn, only he made it backwards so that when the fat end was placed in his mouth, he could suck the sound of thunder from the next storm, and thus steal it all from the land. The sinewy one, Nao, crafted a stone oven, only it opened inwardly rather than outwardly, to welcome the heat inside from the next great fire, and thus steal it all from the land.

  With their weird devices in hand, the demons went off in search of a village of mortals. A great storm began to brew in the sky, and the fearful creatures huddled inside their homes to wait it out, meaning there were plenty nearby for when the demons’ plan came to fruition. Rain pounded the fields and rooftops, lightning crackled, threatening to light up any of the wooden homes, and thunder roared through the clouds.

  “When the thunder dwells in my horn, I will blast the noise at my will and deafen the mortals, and then watch them scurry in panic, their speech useless,” Io declared.

  “When the fire dwells only in my box, I will spit sparks at the mortals and burn their clothes and houses, and then watch them dash in fear, naked and homeless,�
� Nao declared.

  The two agreed that they could best steal the elements and achieve their amusing goal by taunting the lightning and dodging it at just the last moment while standing on a rooftop. The house would ignite, and there would be great fire and thunder at once, ripe for plucking and robbing from the land.

  Io and Nao hopped onto the nearest residence with a wooden roof and began to dance around, waving their instruments overhead. “In all my days, lightning hasn’t struck me, so lightning won’t like my song!” they chanted. “I say the lightning isn’t up to muster, so lightning’s reach mustn’t be so long! Lightning flashes and begs for thunder’s roar, but seems to me it’s all a show! Lightning’s been too limp to strike, too flaccid to give us woe!”

  The black storm clouds sparked angrily and a burning fork of lightning shot toward the two mischievous demons. Exactly as they planned, they leapt from the roof at just the last moment, and the house burst into flames. Thunder wasn’t far behind the lightning, and fire lived best in the flash of its ignition, so Io sucked at his horn and Nao opened his box, pulling thunder and fire into the devices.

  At once, the fire of the house puffed into smoke and the storm above became quiet but for the patter of rain and the blowing of wind. Then the sounds of giddy laughter echoed beneath the dark cloud, as Io and Nao danced again in victory. The lightning stabbed angrily at them once more, but they merely had to side-step it to avoid trouble, for Nao’s box had stolen its fire.

  “Now I’ll blast thunder at my leisure,” said Io.

  “Now I’ll blow flames at my leisure,” said Nao.

  A door slid open at the next flash of lightning and the two demons grinned at what they saw. From the house with the smoking roof came a family of a man, woman, and infant, and they were fixed under a terrible confusion. Just as Io and Nao were about to unleash their new powers, the man and woman took to their knees and bowed respectfully to the demons.

  “You have stopped the fire, and saved our home and our lives,” the man said.

  “We are indebted to you,” his wife added.