So Fey: Queer Fairy Fiction

by Christopher Barzak

  "'Tis true, friend Nicholas, that thou hast scorned to drink our faerie wine. And yet hast thou seen our faerie revels, that is a sight any poet in London would give his last breath to see."

  "I am no poet, Madam, but a humble journeyman goldsmith."

  "That too, is true. And for that thou art something better than humble at thy trade, I will do thee the honor of accepting that jewel in my image thou bearest bound against thy breast."

  Then it seemed to Nick that the Lady might have his last breath after all, for his heart suspended himself in his throat. Wildly looked he upon Gloriana's face, fair and cold and eager as the trull's he had escaped erewhile, and then upon the court of Elfland that watched him as he were a monkey or a dancing bear. And at his feet, he saw the dark-haired lass Peasecod, set apart from the rest by her mean garments and her dusky skin, the only comfortable thing in all that discomfortable splendor. She smiled into his eyes, and made a little motion with her hand, like a fishwife who must chaffer by signs against the crowd's commotion. And Nicholas took courage at her sign, and fetched up a deep breath, and said:

  "Fair Majesty, the jewel is but a shadow or counterfeit of your radiant beauty. And yet 'tis all my stock in trade. I cannot render all my wares to you, were I never so fain to do you pleasure."

  The Queen of Elfland drew her delicate brows like kissing moths over her nose. "Beware, young Nicholas, how thou triest our good will. Were we minded, we might turn thee into a lizard or a slow-worm, and take thy jewel resistless."

  "Pardon, dread Queen, but if you might take my jewel by force, you might have taken it ere now. I think I must give it you--or sell it you--by mine own unforced will."

  A silence fell, ominous and dark as a thundercloud. All Elfland held its breath, awaiting the royal storm. Then the sun broke through again, the Faerie Queen smiled, and her watchful court murmured to one another, as those who watch a bout at swords will murmur when the less-skilled fencer maketh a lucky hit.

  "Thou hast the right of it, friend Nicholas: we do confess it. Come, then. The Queen of Elfland will turn huswife, and chaffer with thee."

  Nick clasped his arms about his knee and addressed the lady thus: "I will be frank with you, Serenity. My master, when he saw the jewel, advised me that I should not part withal for less than fifty golden crowns, and that not until I'd used it to buy a master goldsmith's good opinion and a place at his shop. Fifty-five crowns, then, will buy the jewel from me, and not a farthing less."

  The Lady tapped her white hand on her knee. "Then thy master is a fool, or thou a rogue and liar. The bauble is worth no more than fifteen golden crowns. But for that we are a compassionate prince, and thy complaint being just, we will give thee twenty, and not a farthing more. "

  "Forty-five," said Nick. "I might sell it to Master Spenser for twice the sum, as a fair portrait of Gloriana, with a description of the faerie court, should he wish to write another book."

  "Twenty-five," said the Queen. "Ungrateful wretch. 'Twas I sent the dream inspired the jewel."

  "All the more reason to pay a fair price for it," said Nick. "Forty."

  This shot struck in the gold. The Queen frowned and sighed and shook her head and said, "Thirty. And a warrant, signed by our own royal hand, naming thee jeweler by appointment to Gloriana, by cause of a pendant thou didst make at her behest."

  It was a fair offer. Nick pondered a moment, saw Peasecod grinning up at him with open joy, her cheeks dusky red and her eyes alight, and said: "Done, my Queen, if only you will add thereto your attendant nymph, Peasecod, to be my companion."

  At this Gloriana laughed aloud, and all the court of Elfland laughed with her, peal upon peal at the mortal's presumption. Peasecod alone of the bright throng did not laugh, but rose to stand by Nicholas' side and pressed his hand in hers. She was brown and wild as a young deer, and it seemed to Nick that the Queen of Elfland herself, in all her female glory of moony breasts and arching neck, was not so fair as this one slender, black-browed faerie maid.

  When Gloriana had somewhat recovered her power of speech, she said: "Friend Nicholas, I thank thee; for I have not laughed so heartily this many a long day. Take thy faerie lover and thy faerie gold and thy faerie warrant and depart unharmed from hence. But for that thou hast dared to rob the Faerie Queen of this her servant, we lay this weird on thee, that if thou say thy Peasecod nay, at bed or at board for the space of four-and-twenty mortal hours, then thy gold shall turn to leaves, thy warrant to filth, and thy lover to dumb stone."

  At this, Peasecod's smile grew dim, and up spoke she and said, "Madam, this is too hard."

  "Peace," said Gloriana, and Peasecod bowed her head. "Nicholas," said the Queen, "we commence to grow weary of this play. Give us the jewel and take thy price and go thy ways."

  So Nick did off his doublet and his shirt and unwound the band of linen from about his waist and fetched out a little leathern purse and loosed its strings and tipped out into his hand the precious thing upon which he had expended all his love and his art. And loathe was he to part withal, the first-fruits of his labor.

  "Thou shalt make another, my heart, and fairer yet than this," whispered Peasecod in his ear, and so he laid it into Elfland's royal hand, and bowed, and in that moment he was, in the hollow under the green hill, his pack at his feet, half-naked, shocked as by a lightening bolt, and alone. Yet before he could draw breath to make his moan, Peasecod appeared beside him with his shirt and doublet on her arm, a pack at her back, and a heavy purse at her waist, that she detached and gave to him with his clothes. Fain would he have sealed his bargain then and there, but Peasecod begging prettily that they might seek more comfort than might be found on a tussock of grass, he could not say her nay. Nor did his regret his weird that gave her the whip hand in this, for the night drew on apace, and he found himself sore hungered and athirst, as though he'd been beneath the hill for longer than the hour he thought. And indeed 'twas a day and a night and a day again since he'd seen the faerie girl upon the heath, for time doth gallop with the faerie kind, who heed not its passing. And so Peasecod told him as they trudged northward in the gloaming, and picked him early berries to stay his present hunger, and found him clear water to stay his thirst, so that he was inclined to think very well of his bargain, and of his own cleverness that had made it.

  And so they walked until they came to a tavern, where Nick called for dinner and a chamber, all of the best, and pressed a golden noble into the host's palm, whereat the goodman stared and said such a coin would buy his whole house and all his ale, and still he'd not have coin to change it. And Nick, flushed with gold and lust, told him to keep all as a gift upon the giver's wedding-day. Whereat Peasecod blushed and cast down her eyes as any decent bride, though the goodman saw she wore no ring and her legs and feet were bare and dusty from the road. Yet he gave them of his best, both meat and drink, and put them to bed in his finest chamber, with a fire in the grate because gold is gold, and a rose on the pillow because he remembered what it was to be young.

  The door being closed and latched, Nicholas took Peasecod in his arms and drank of her mouth as 'twere a well and he dying of thirst. And then he bore her to the bed and laid her down and began to unlace her gown that he might see her naked. But she said unto him, "Stay, Nicholas Cantier, and leave me my modesty yet a while. But do thou off thy clothes, and I vow thou shalt not lack for pleasure."

  Then young Nick gnawed his lip and pondered in himself whether taking off her clothes by force would be saying her nay--some part of which showed in his face, for she took his hand to her mouth and tickled the palm with her tongue, all the while looking roguishly upon him, so that he smiled upon her and let her do her will, which was to strip his doublet and shirt from him, to run her fingers and her tongue across his chest, to lap and pinch at his nipples until he gasped, to stroke and tease him, and finally to release his rod and take it in her hand and then into her mouth. Poor Nick, who had never dreamed of such tricks, was like to die of ecstasy. He twisted his hands in her long
hair as pleasure came upon him like an annealing fire, and then he lay spent, with Peasecod's head upon his bosom, and all her dark hair spread across his belly like a blanket of silk.

  After a while she raised herself, and with great tenderness kissed him upon the mouth and said, "I have no regret of this bargain, my heart, whatever follows after."

  And from his drowsy state he answered her, "Why, what should follow after but joy and content and perchance a babe to dandle upon my knee?"

  She smiled and said, "What indeed? Come, discover me," and lay back upon the pillow and opened her arms to him.

  For a little while, he was content to kiss and toy with lips and neck, and let her body be. But soon he tired of this game, the need once again growing upon him to uncover her secret places and to plumb their mysteries. He put his hand beneath her skirts, stroking her thigh that was smooth as pearl and quivered under his touch as it drew near to that mossy dell he had long dreamed of. With quickening breath, he felt springing hair, and then his fingers encountered an obstruction, a wand or rod, smooth as the thigh, but rigid, and burning hot. In his shock, he squeezed it, and Peasecod gave a moan, whereupon Nick would have withdrawn his hand, and that right speedily, had not his faerie lover gasped, "Wilt thou now nay-say me?"

  Nick groaned and squeezed again. The rod he held pulsed, and his own yard stirred in ready sympathy. Nick raised himself on his elbow and looked down into Peasecod's face--wherein warred lust and fear, man and woman--and thought, not altogether clearly, upon his answer. Words might turn like snakes to bite their tails, and Nick was of no mind to be misunderstood. For answer then, he tightened his grip upon those fair and ruddy jewels that Peasecod brought to his marriage-portion, and so wrought with them that the eyes rolled back in his lover's head, and he expired upon a sigh. Yet rose he again at Nick's insistent kissing, and threw off his skirts and stays and his smock of fine linen to show his body, slender and hard as Nick's own, yet smooth and white as any lady's that bathes in ass's milk and honey. And so they sported night-long until the rising sun blew pure gold leaf upon their tumbled bed, where they lay entwined and, for the moment, spent.

  "I were well-served if thou shoulds't cast me out, once the four-and-twenty hours are past," said Peasecod mournfully.

  "And what would be the good of that?" asked Nick.

  "More good than if I stayed with thee, a thing nor man nor woman, nor human nor faerie kind."

  "As to the latter, I cannot tell, but as to the former, I say that thou art both, and I the richer for thy doubleness. Wait," said Nick, and scrambled from the bed and opened his pack and took out a blank ring of copper and his block of pitch and his small steel tools. And he worked the ring into the pitch and, within a brace of minutes, had incised upon it a pea-vine from which you might pick peas in season, so like nature was the work. And returning to the bed where Peasecod lay watching, slipped it upon his left hand.

  Peasecod turned the ring upon his finger, wondering. "Thou dost not hate me, then, for that I tricked and cozened thee?"

  Nick smiled and drew his hand down his lover's flank, taut ivory to his touch, and said, "There are some hours yet left, I think, to the term of my bond. Art thou so eager, love, to become dumb stone that thou must be asking me questions that beg to be answered 'No?' Know then, that I rejoice in being thy cony, and only wish that thou mayst catch me as often as may be, if all thy practices be as pleasant as this by which thou hast bound me to thee."

  And so they rose and made their ways to Oxford town, where Nicholas made such wise use of his faerie gold and his faerie commission as to keep his faerie lover in comfort all the days of their lives.

  Delia Sherman is an award-winning fantasy writer and editor. Her novel The Porcelain Dove won the Mythopoeic Fantasy Award. She lives in New York City with her wife and sometime collaborator, Ellen Kushner. Her three novels for adults are all exemplars of the subgenre Fantasy of Manners. Her most recent books, Changeling and The Magic Mirror of the Mermaid Queen are for younger readers and readers with young hearts.

  Exiles

  Sean Meriwether

  It is well after midnight when you leave Roger's apartment, but you opt to walk home, riding an amorous wave of invulnerability. Your new boyfriend's scent lingers on your clothes and you sniff yourself with a schoolgirl sigh, dance a love struck waltz, oblivious to the car trailing behind you. You gaze up at the moon with rose-tinted eyes, a little drunk and giddy, and blow the old boy a kiss. He stares back impassively; he gives you no warning before he slips behind a cloud ripe with rain.

  You jump up and smack the street sign feeling butcher than thou, stumble into your future as iconoclast, lover, and champion of the written word. The public, at last, is about to find out just who the fuck you are....

  Rubber squelches on asphalt. Stark shafts of light snare you like a deer. Four doors slam open. Yo, faggot. Cold sweat douses your body; the icy drop of your balls. You hear me cocksucker? Your brain demands that you run, but your feet won't respond.

  Five boys wall you in like a crowd. Metal bats slap palms with metronomic precision. You wanna suck on this? You shield your face with your arms but the gesture provides frail shelter. Metal bites into your flesh with a pronounced hunger, the uneven pattern of scuffed aluminum--variegated gray and silver--the last thing you see. Laughter, grunting, kicking. The concrete sidewalk cold comfort as the tornado of bats and boots funnels down. The hybrid odor of sweat and blood fades as you slip beneath the waterline into the darkness below.

  ---

  You wake in the hospital, its antiseptic stench punching your raw nose. An invisible doctor pronounces you lucky to be alive, says you've been in a coma for ten days, cautions that there is little hope of saving your eyesight. You stop listening to the medical jargon detailing your cranial trauma; the loss, not being able to read or write... you stop short of complaining it isn't fair and hold your breath, try to block out the words of the doctor, deprive them of meaning.

  Days later there is only quiet acquiescence when they remove the bandages and you find yourself mired in the mud puddle of your vision.

  Roger is promptly dismissed, your relationship too fresh to be saddled with multiple operations and months of recovery. The police are of little use--unable to describe the assailants beyond number and approximate age, there are few details you can relay; no other witnesses come forward. The doctors and nurses only poke and prod, ask inane questions, force you to eat. You grow to loathe their staged optimism, roll away from their voices, accepting that you'd brought it all on yourself; being a fool in love, walking home at night, alone, on the wrong side of the sidewalk in the wrong part of town.

  Jake, your oldest friend in New York, reads you stories from the paper to help cheer you up. The attack has made you an overnight local celebrity; a martyr to wake the community up to gay bashing. Your name inspires hope, disgust, and fear in equal measure, and becomes the topic of conversations held by other people in other rooms. You allow Jake to speak for you as proxy. He commits himself to his fifteen minutes--won by default--with quiet dignity. Still, your name gradually fades from the news, your first novel from the shelves, and the world shrinks back around you.

  When the hospital finally discharges you, it is Jake who escorts you home. Your ground-floor apartment has been distorted into an alien landscape of obstacles and stale odors. You spend a week fumbling around, knocking things off tables and walls, until Jake removes everything you don't actually need. He rearranges your cabinets, stocks your writing desk with fresh paper and pencils, sweet talks you into taking walks outside. You shake your head, insisting you're not ready.

  ---

  Over time, your external wounds knit and heal, but the internal scars fester and multiply. The stinging memory of the bats eclipses all others, playing in an endless loop against the black screen of your mind. You live in chronic fear of the next attack, the uncaught group of boys circling. You leave your bedroom only to use the toilet and shower; Jake patiently takes care of the r
est, preparing your meals and paying your bills with checks from disability.

  The rest of each day is spent in your chair, staring at the vague light of the window to the garden beyond. You try to recall the yard, adorned with fairy lights and interwoven rosebushes you planted when you first moved in--then the metal bats return, smashing the vision to bits.

  ---

  This moment is no different, only the melancholy percussion of summer rain distinguishes it from the hourless rope of days. You feed the growing fear that Jake will soon grow bored of taking care of you and leave to spend his golden years chasing younger men with less baggage. You'll be left to twist in the wind until they push you out; then another group of children can finish the job. You blink at muted shades of nothing and nothing, see only boys with bats, acknowledge what fate has assigned you with a tight nod.

  But then the memory fades, driven out by a single green dot. An absinthe fairy. You shake your head to jar it loose and return to your ominous thoughts, but the speck remains, strengthens in color, swells into a small bud. Doubting your sanity, you watch it shift and grow skeptically. The green ripens with each breath, uncoils like a blossom, spreads into a broad rectangle. White lines reveal themselves: a series of graceful sweeps and curls--more art than language. You laugh, a bubble of joy escaping chapped lips, the release like ejaculation. The message hovers, teases your hungry eyes, then snaps off. You reach out to recapture the vision, but your hands remain empty. The jarring loss shudders through you and you grip the worn arms of the chair to steady yourself.

  Your labored breathing slows and quiets--beyond the darkness you hear a fire engine wail by, birds chattering about the rain, the distant rumble of thunder foretelling heavier showers to come. You rise on the wave of an epiphany, open the window to the moist scent of the garden. The wet blows in brisk gales, baptizing your face with clean, fat drops. The garden takes shape before you: the cascade of rain on the leaves, dance of branches in the wind, secret rush of some small animal scurrying to his home. Oh, you blind fool, you chide yourself, voice thick with snot, it's all still there.