The Queen Mother gingerly folds the letter and slides it to the bottom of a jewellery box. Her hands tremble as she contemplates her next step. She will do her duty as a mother and as a regent.
* * * *
"Hello, little queen."
Madchen, drenched by his voice, turns to face him squarely. She feels her son wiggling on her back and wills him not to draw attention to himself.
"What's that, my sweet? Offspring?” He swings down from the branch. He has been waiting for two days while she trudged away from the palace. “What lovely silver hands you have."
Still, she does not speak.
"Still alive, I see. Tsk tsk. Naughty Constance disobeying her son's orders. It's a sad state of affairs when you can't trust the Queen Mother."
"Why? Why do you dog my steps? You could have anyone you wanted; why me?” She despairs. “Why won't you leave me alone?"
"Because you said no.” He leans in close, his long nails playing across her face as gently as a breeze. “But you can change it all, you know. You still fascinate me, damn you. Say yes, now."
Madchen stands on tiptoe and kisses him. He will, he thinks, be merciful, now that she has been brought low, and she still makes him ache: his love and hate entwine like mating snakes. She pulls back, fixes him with her argent eyes and gives him a hard smile.
"You will never know the taste of me again. I hope the memory of that kiss lingers until the last trumpet sounds."
He strikes out and she falls but does not hit the ground even though her child and clothes do. Thousands of feathers break through the parchment of her skin. Her silver hands, immune to eldritch change, clatter on the stones of the path as, instinctively, she beats the air with new wings.
Hildebrand stops crying and stares at the large, snowy white owl. Madchen lets out a screech of anguish.
"Enjoy your life, Madchen. Try looking after your child with nothing but feathers.” He will think, from time to time, of the feathered maiden but he will not imagine she might escape his malice.
He disappears before she can finish her swoop at his head and her claws meet nothing but air. She settles beside Hildebrand, a picture of despair, and her son's hand reaches out to stroke her. He presses his face to her feathers and notes, to his comfort, that she still smells like his mother.
* * * *
Time and guilt have bent Constance like metal subjected to a fierce heat.
It is four years since she sent her daughter-in-law and grandson into the woods. The eyes and tongue of a gentle hind and her fawn float in a sealed glass jar, awaiting her son's request for proof. She received no acknowledgement of her last letter. Indeed, no word has come from her son at all, although troubadours and tinkers bring news of how he continues his war.
Letters bring her nothing but dread and the one that arrived today lies on a bureau, set aside from the documents she is signing. Her secretary pours hot, red wax onto the documents then stamps the royal seal into the molten mess as it cools. When the pile of papers has disappeared she turns her attention to the letter. The parchment crackles under her hands as she breaks the seal.
Her son returns, within the week, his war won, his dominions safe.
Constance folds the letter and adds it to the small archive in the jewellery box where her son's inhuman instructions have lived these last four years. She slips away, down the staircase leading to her private garden.
In a pear tree sits the large white owl that has taken to visiting her. The creature is truly beautiful, an artwork with strange silver eyes. Constance scratches at the bird's neck and it emits a soft, sad sound.
"I'm so scared, my lovely owl. My son returns and I will see once and for all if he is a monster. What if this man who came from me is something less than I believed him to be?” She sighs. “Tell me, white owl, will it hurt more or less?"
The creature starts and screeches. Her wings stretch wide and she takes off as if startled by the news. Constance watches her go, bereft.
* * * *
The owl circles down into a clearing. Dryads have coaxed their trees to weave branches into a roof, climbing vines and shrubs form the walls of a small hut. It is simple but comfortable, made with care.
In the clearing stands a boy, big for his age. A quiver of handmade arrows is slung across his back and a bow is in his hand. He sets snares and hunts for food now that he is old enough; but he never hunts the birds of the air. The storm of his mother's wings draws his attention and he watches her graceful landing, marvelling as always.
He is a child of silence: he has no memory of human speech, nor can he speak the language of birds. Communication between mother and son is rudimentary, one of love, not of sound. Hildebrand does not feel the loss, but it frustrates Madchen, for she had words before this time of feathers.
How can she tell her son that his father returns? How can she tell him that they are in danger? She will defend her child to the death. She does not know if it will be enough.
* * * *
The king wanders.
Constance showed him the jar containing evidence of his wife and son's fate. He struck her, would have drawn his sword had she not pulled the letters from the jewellery box and thrown them at him. Their contents stayed his hand and broke his heart. Finally, Constance, assured of his innocence in the matter, told him of their exile. He vowed to find them and set off through the private garden, into the woods, with neither food nor drink nor companions to sustain him.
That was five days ago and his kingly garb is ragged and dirty; he looks like a beggar. His boots, right enough for riding, are not meant for walking miles and miles across forest floors. He discarded them on the second day, finding the blisters too painful to continue shod. Forest creatures play in and around the stinking leather as the king stumbles deeper into the woods.
He finds a stream and follows it, lapping at the crystal water from time to time in the hope that it will stop his belly from constant complaint. Any extra flesh he may once have carried has disappeared and his mind is strangely clear, freed of earthly considerations. If he cannot find his wife, his love, his beloved burden, there is nothing in life for him.
Then there is his son. The child is not real to him; Hildebrand is merely a concept, a chimera. The king has no memory of touch, or sound, or smell on which to hang his heart. His child is a lesson he must learn. If he can find him.
A clearing opens before him. Woven branches and vines form a small shelter, outside of which stands a boy. The child sees the man, sees his face stripped clean by suffering, but makes no sound. Behind him, the trees and foliage move and shift, fold back into themselves until the little hut is no more. The child casts a look over his shoulder; his home is gone.
The king takes in the boy, his black hair and sturdy limbs, and starts across the clearing. There is a rush of air, the beating of great wings, and Madchen swoops at him, her talons drawn. He falls, bloody scratches on his face, and the bird plummets to follow up her attack.
The owl's screech is replaced by the screaming of a human voice, long silenced. Hands and fingernails slap and claw at him as he sees his wife's face, transfigured by grief and anger and fear. He does not fight her, merely lies beneath her and watches as her rage plays itself out.
She hears, as her screams subside, his first words to her in almost five years.
"Madchen, my love, my silver bride."
Her hands fail her, her rage washes away like an ebb tide. She sobs and collapses. Her husband wraps his arms around her and holds her until she lifts her silvered eyes to his dark ones, to feast upon his face, to consume the changes the years have wrought.
As they kneel in front of each other, Hildebrand approaches, uncertain how to treat this man who may be an enemy, or a friend—he cannot read his mother's strange behaviour. He stands just out of reach.
Madchen raises one hand to her son, keeping the other firmly caught between her husband's palms. Hildebrand stares for a moment then reaches out to touch the white-skinned limb.
Madchen's hands, restored to her as wings during her feathered phase, are whole.
The Devil has watched, drawn to a casual mirror visit, his miscalculation causing his jaw to drop. That she would once again be willing to blindly sacrifice herself for someone she loved and so earn release from his spite, did not occur to him—that a fully-limbed owl might become a fully-limbed maiden. He clenches his hands into fists, his nails cutting into the soft flesh (which heals immediately). Lightning spits from his fingertips, he points towards Madchen's image but finds that the silvery sparks go the wrong way, licking up to his wrists, boiling around his own hands. This malignancy will not leave him. His shoulders slump, defeated.
Husband and son each hold one of the pale hands in wonder as they rise, the little family, and begin their journey to the castle where Constance waits with watchful eyes and an anxious heart.
About the Authors
Kirstin Allio's novel Garner was a finalist for the LA Times Book Award. She was selected one of “5 Under 35” writers to watch (and hopefully read) by the National Book Foundation. She lives in Seattle, WA, with her husband and sons.
William Alexander lives in the middle and writes on the side. This particular story is dedicated to Kelly, both of them, the sister and the author and the editor. His stories have appeared in Zahir, Weird Tales, Postscripts, and Fantasy: The Best of the Year 2008. He contributes to Rain Taxi Review of Books.
Jedediah Berry's debut novel, The Manual of Detection, comes out in February 2009 from The Penguin Press.
Christa A. Bergerson is a guardian of Nature and all of her wondrous inhabitants, even those who writhe betwixt the veil. In twilight hours, she finds pleasure traversing the wilds of Illinois and beyond. She is a Luddite, a bibliophile and suffers from occasional bouts of Chronophobia. Her poetry has appeared in Quantum Pulp, The Candor, Open Ways, Faerie Nation Magazine, and Balticon 42. She was a finalist in The Mattia Family 11th International Poetry Competition. Her poem “Sekhmet Upon the Horizon” garnered third place in the 2008 B.S.F.S. Poetry Contest.
Ted Chiang is a mild-mannered reporter by day, but at night he dons a costume and commits crime. Or fights crime. Or is a victim of crime. History will be the judge.
Abby Denson is a cartoonist and rock'n'roller in NYC. She is the creator of Tough Love: High School Confidential, Dolltopia, and Night Club, among others. She has scripted Powerpuff Girls and comics for Nickelodeon. She has webcomics on gurl.com and a dessert comic column, (citysweettooth.com) in The L Magazine. abbycomix.com
Daniel Lanza was born and raised in Northern California, but currently resides across country while he finishes a Masters in Humanities and Social Thought at New York University. His work has appeared in Toasted Cheese Literary Quarterly and Zephyr. Like half the known world, he is currently at work on a novel. He is also collaborating on a graphic novel which will, at some point, have a website.
Kat Meads's most recent book publication is a novel, The Invented Life of Kitty Duncan (Chiasmus Press). She lives in California.
Chris Nakashima-Brown lives in Austin, TX. His most recent story is in the anthology Fast Forward 2. For more: nofearofthefuture.blogspot.com
Kim Parko is a writer, visual artist, and seasoned worrier who lives in Santa Fe, NM with her husband and dog. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in 3rd bed, The Bitter Oleander, Caketrain, Diagram, and 5AM.
Mark Rich has two new fiction collections: Edge of Our Lives (RedJack) and Across the Sky (Fairwood). New stories are in Talebones, Tales of the Unanticipated, Zahir, and Analog. He is working on two books for McFarland, one on C.M. Kornbluth and what that author says about us, the other on Modern-century science fiction toys, and what they say about us. He and Martha Borchardt and Scottie Lorna, an avid squeak-toy aficionado, live in the Wisconsin coulee region.
Anna Sears is a writer/artist currently employed as a migrant holiday store worker in Staten Island, NY. She hopes to settle down soon and adopt a cat.
Angela Slatter is a Brisbane-based writer studying for a PhD in Creative Writing. Her stories have appeared in Shimmer, ONSPEC, Strange Tales II, and Twelfth Planet's 2012. Three of her stories gained honorable mentions in The Year's Best Fantasy & Horror 20; her story “The Angel Wood” was short-listed for the Aurealis Award, and she was short-listed for the Ditmars Best New Talent award in 2008.
Jodi Lynn Villers has her MFA from North Carolina State University. She lives in downtown Raleigh with a beagle named Turtle and has written a novella about a rehabilitation camp for girls who have killed their parents. Her short-shorts have also appeared in Staccato and Quick Fiction.
Susan Wardle is a graduate of Clarion South. Her fiction has been published in the Shadow Box e-anthology, Overland, Andromeda Spaceways, Antipodean SF, Fables & Reflections, Shadowed Realms, Ticonderoga Online, and The Outcast to name a few. Susan currently lives between Sydney and the South Coast (Australia) and spends her daylight hours (and some of her night time hours) working for local government.
Alex Wilson writes fiction and comics in Carrboro, NC. His work has appeared/will appear in Asimov's, The Rambler, Weird Tales, The Florida Review, Outlaw Territory II (Image), and elsewhere. He runs the audiobook project Telltale Weekly and publishes the minicomic/zine Inconsequential Art. alexwilson.com
Nick Wolven's short fiction has appeared recently in Asimov's and Paradox. He lives in Brooklyn.
* * *
Visit www.lcrw.net for information on additional titles by this and other authors.
Table of Contents
The LoveSling
The Problem of the Traveling Salesman
Heliotrope Hedgerow
The Chance
In the Name of the Mother
Holden Caulfield Doesn't Love Me
A Wizard of MapQuest
Marie and Roland
Ana's Tag
Three Poems
The Leap
The Girl With No Hands
About the Authors
[Back to Table of Contents]
Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 23 Page 11
