“Where am I?” I ask, my quiet pitch matching his.
“You’re in the tower. I found you in the woods, bleeding out over the foliage. I will send for a doctor. I just wanted to make sure you were alright first.”
“No. No doctors. Just leave me be,” I say weakly, my voice pleading with him not to call any medical professionals. I do not want the company of anyone. Not even him. I am doomed to a life of solitude—that much is certain now—and shape shifting, a life without control. I would rather let the pain settle in now than prolong it further.
“Alright, I won’t call the doctor. But I’m not leaving you here to die.” He is moving away now, his voice becoming more distant. I turn my head slightly to see where he is, and find him at the top of the stairs. “I’m going to get some warm cloths to clean you up. I’ll be back in a moment.”
I sigh, and turn to face the ceiling again. I do not want to be waited on; I just want to be left alone. I try to summon the strength to be angry with Alexander, but I cannot find it within me. There is something about the quiet man that calms something inside my mind.
As promised, he is back momentarily, a clean cloth in one hand, and a stone bowl of warm water in the other. He sits on my bedside gently, trying not to jostle me. I am thankful for that. He reaches over my body, the damp cloth in hand and gently lifts my robe to expose the knife wound in my right side. The cool air against my skin is relieving, but it doesn’t last long.
Alexander presses the warm cloth to the cut, and I flinch and reach for his hand. My skin against his feels odd. I am no longer used to any kind of tender contact. Our gazing eyes meet at the touch, and I feel warmth spread throughout my body. It is an odd feeling, and one that I’m not sure I like.
I break the eye contact first, and let Alexander go about cleaning my wounds, and bandaging my torso tight. Tears spring to my eyes, the pain almost unbearable. I need rest, and yet, I don’t want to close my eyes.
“You should sleep now. Rest will help you heal.”
“I don’t want to sleep. I want to do something, anything to take me mind off the pain.” I feel awkward having a normal conversation. I don’t remember ever having what human’s class as a normal conversation, not at any stage in my life. Not with anyone. With me, it has always been threats and yelling. I was born a witch, and with that, came responsibilities and a specifically designed way of life. I respected that way of life, and had lived it to my full extent—until Joringel.
“Alright, how about we talk then. Tell me something interesting about yourself.”
Not yet, I think. “How about you tell me something, I’m still a little weak.” I say, trying to shift the attention from myself.
“Alright then, I was born not too far from here. The neighbouring Kingdom, in fact, but I have left there now. I have no intention of returning.”
“Oh?” I ask with genuine curiosity.
“My parents want me to be something that I’m not.” He shrugs as if it doesn’t matter to him, but I can tell from the sad look in his eyes that it does.
“What do they want you to be?”
“A prince. I am betrothed to a woman I do not love.”
The statement stirred a memory within me, and I asked my question without a thought. “Is that the girl you were singing about in the garden?”
He lets out a small laugh at my question, but his eyes still hold sadness within them. “No, that’s just a song. My father used to sing it to me as a child. I hadn’t realised you heard me.”
I don’t know what to say to his answer. Something flutters within me, I feel happy and sad all at the same time. Could it be relief? “Oh,” is the only response I can conjure out of myself.
“So what about you?”
“Oh, you don’t want to hear about me. It’s not nearly as nice as your story.”
He gives me an odd look at that. “Nice? You think my story is nice? Your own story must be very sad if you think that mine is nice.”
I decide without much thought to tell him what I am. I don’t know why, it will not benefit me, but at least I may be left alone to wallow in my self-pity if I tell him. I close my eyes briefly before I start.
“I am a witch, and not a nice one. I used to trap maidens who wandered too close to my castle at twilight. I would transform them into nightingales and keep them locked within cages.” I look around the room then, pointing out the wicker-work cages with my eyes.
“Oh. Well that’s not so bad. Nightingales are beautiful after all,” he says it with a smile on his face, and I can’t figure out whether he means it or if he is being condescending. “What do you mean used to?”
“A curse was placed upon me two years ago. I am doomed to be bound in the form of an owl by daylight, and a human by night. I am still one with Earth, as are my witch sisters and warlock brothers. But I can no longer practice even the most basic magic,” I end quietly, sadly.
“Can you break the curse?”
I shake my head, not wanting to talk in case I start sobbing.
“It will all be okay. I will find a way to help you.”
I don’t understand Alexander. Why isn’t he running in the opposite direction screaming? Why does he want to help me? I am a witch. I have done bad things, and yet he still wants to help me return to that. Why? I fall asleep under his watchful gaze and dream of nightingales, cages, and men with a touch so soft it is agonizing.
I wake in my owl form, Alexander still be my side. He is stroking my wing as he changes the now too-large bandages for smaller ones.
“Good morning,” he says.
I hoot in response.
“I made you some breakfast.” He beams down at me, and lifts a plate from the side table. The plate contains eggs and bacon. He lifts the fork to my beak and feeds me bite after bite, not saving any for himself. When I am finished, he places a gentle kiss on my forehead, and strokes my wing. The affection is new to me, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I am being told to enjoy it.
Two weeks have passed since I was stabbed, and Alexander, or Alex as I have come to know him, has not left my side once. Currently, it is almost twilight, and I am learning how to fly once again. The pain has subsided to a manageable level now, and I am able to get out and about more frequently. I glide to the grass below me and await the change. As he does every night, Alexander turns his back while I dress, and waits for me to approach him before turning back to me.
“Was it easier tonight?” he asks worryingly. Always worrying.
“Yes, much,” I lie.
“Don’t lie to me, Abrielle. You know you are horrible at it.”
It’s the truth. I have never been a liar, and I don’t do a good job of convincing anyone of anything except for the truth. “I’m sorry. No, it was still painful.”
He nods at me, accepting the answer. “Take a walk with me?” he asks, extending his hand to me.
I take it, and we walk in the low moonlight through the rose gardens that surround my home. He bends, picks one of the blooming yellow roses, and offers it to me. Unlike the last time he offered me my own flowers, this time, I do not feel rage. Something within me has changed in the last two weeks. Something warm and gentle has surfaced. Something I never thought I could feel. Fondness. But fondness is not love, and it will not break the curse.
“Will you tell me now?”
“Tell you what?”
“How to break the curse.”
I sigh, he asks me this same question every day. And every day I refuse. Today is no different.
“Not yet,” I say quietly.
He hugs me closer and whispers in my ear, “Someday soon, you will trust me enough.”
“It is not a matter of trust, Alex. It is just something that I must do myself.” He has been told this every day as well, and yet he still tries.
I hear rustling coming from beyond the far wall behind us. Maybe a rabbit. I turn, wanting to see if I can catch something of worth and cook Alexander a pleasant me
al. He has cooked every meal since the day I was stabbed, and I feel that I’d like to return the favour. No matter how small it is.
It is not a rabbit that rustles the long grass at the edge of the wall. It is a human. A human with a sword pointed in my direction. My breath hitches in my throat at the sight, and I am powerless to do anything but stare at the man who has just thrown his sword with the might of ten men.
“Joringel! No!” I scream, I can see the sword, as if in slow motion, headed towards me, but I am not fast enough to move out of its path. I see a flash at my side—Alexander. He dives in front of my body, protecting me, and taking the metal blade in his chest.
“No!” I wail.
Joringel looks on in horror at what he has done, and before I can gather my senses, he has gone. I fall to the ground beside Alex, tears falling in grief for the first time in my life.
“Alex. You’re going to be alright. I’m going to take care of you,” I say quietly, my tears dropping onto his chest.
“Never mind, my love. I am not worth saving. Save yourself.” He doesn’t realise that there is no one to save myself from now. He didn’t see Joringel run.
“I am saved,” I say, as I realise what this grief symbolises. “You have saved me.” His breathing is laboured, his eyes finding it hard to focus.
“How?”
“Because I love you,” I say as I bend to place a kiss upon his lips. I feel a burden lift from me, as if the weight of a thousand years has been lifted from my shoulders. I watch as Alexander closes his eyes, and I weep.
It has been five years since that day. The day that changed my life. I think about it as often as I can, my love for the man who took a sword for me, growing, and swelling within my heart every time my mind crosses the memory.
I am in the rose garden. It is more beautiful now than it has ever been. I see a man strolling toward me cautiously. Word had spread through the kingdom of my curse being lifted. Any who came close, turned away rapidly. I have not placed a curse upon a single soul in seven years, and they still fear me, but not this man.
“Abrielle. Have I told you today how much I love you?” he asks tenderly.
“Only about ten times my love.”
“Why stop there then?” he asks, as he picks me up and twirls me around. I lift my head towards the sky above. It is daylight, I am human, and I am in love. I am happy.
Lorelei: The Nightingale
Catherine Stovall
John Emperor’s seaside home was damn near a palace. Everything within was costly and fragile, right down to the platinum records hanging on satin covered walls. His favorite place was his garden full of exotic and native flowers, which bloomed next to each other in glorious twisting arrays. The opulence and precision that had gone into creating the paths, beds, gazebos, and fountains had been his solace. These things were the only family he had, and as his fame grew, he threw great parties to show off his success and the beauty of his gardens.
Beyond John’s property, a forest of tall evergreen trees stretched down the rocky cliffs, straight to the white sand beaches, raging waves, and the seaside bars with their neon lights. Large ships sailed right up to the port, and bobbed on the waters, bathed in the glow of a pink and blue sign that read: The Nightingale.
At the same time John stood in his garden, lonely and sad, a fisherman upon one of the large ships paused in his work at the sound of the loveliest voice he’d ever heard. Lulled into a blissful place by her song, he stared out across the shimmering, moonlit waters as the waves gently rocked the vessel.
“How beautiful the lady sings!” he breathed as the music ended and he returned to his work.
People came from all over the world to dine at John’s table, to discuss record deals and stardom, and to walk in the beautiful gardens as they dreamed of fame. Yet, when the left the kingdom on the hill above the sea, they would slip down to the seaside bars to celebrate among themselves, leaving him alone in his palace of marble and solitude.
If these people happened to hear the woman at the Nightingale sing, they all exclaimed, “She’s the best I’ve ever heard!”
All the best magazines talked of John and his home, the small seaside town where he lived, and the beauty of it all. The articles often spoke of the magnificence of his gardens and the other attractions in the area. Almost all of them mentioned the Nightingale, and the woman who could bring a man to tears with her sweet ballads.
One day, too tired to walk in his gardens or return to the endless stack of work on his desk, John turned to the stack of magazines that came like clockwork to his home. His face peered back from several of the covers, headlines dubbing him ‘the Emperor of Record Labels’ and boasting of his success. He opened the first of the publications and scanned the article there. To his surprise, all the good words ended with a strange comment.
“The most astonishing thing about our visit to John Emperor’s little seaside kingdom was a trip to the seaside bars, where talent runs thick. On many of the late night stages, one can partake in a variety of talents and skills. One such place is a club called The Nightingale, where a waitress, known only as Lorelei, sings somber and soulful tunes. Personally, we were shocked that Mr. Emperor has not discovered this gem for himself.”
“What the hell?” John dropped the glossy pages onto the desk. “The Nightingale? Where the hell is that? What kind of nonsense name is Lorelei? She can’t be that good. It’s not possible for a star to be singing in a night club right at my front door.”
Swiping up the phone, he called his local agent, Chambers. “Supposedly, there is an extraordinary singer performing at a club called The Nightingale. I’m reading an article in Song! that says she’s the best thing since Whitney Houston. Why haven’t we signed her yet? Why has no one told me about her before?”
“I’m sorry, boss. I’ve never heard of such a girl. She’s never sent in a demo or came to the open mic nights at Rockards,” Chamber’s voice shook.
“I want her to come here, tonight, and sing for me,” John demanded. “The whole world knows about her now, and it won’t be long before someone else snags her up from right under our noses.” The impatience in his voice was clear.
“The Nightingale? Never heard of it.” Chambers quickly added, “I will search for her. I will find her, sir.”
“You’d better, Chambers. You’ve never let me down before. But if you let this girl get away, I will fire you and your entire staff. I won’t be made a fool of.”
The line went dead, leaving Chambers staring at it blankly for a full minute before he turned to his keyboard. A quick internet search didn’t bring up any clubs on the coast with the name. He flipped through his black book, and called all his trusted contacts. No one had ever heard of the club or the woman, Lorelei.
Exasperated, he cradled his head in his hands and sighed. “Impossible, John. This Emperor crap has gone to your head. This is madness,” he cursed his boss under his breath.
A knock on his door shook him back out of his thoughts. “Mr. Chambers, can I empty your trash, or should I just come back later?”
With a dismissive wave of his hand, Chambers admitted the young housekeeper to his office, and continued to search his rolodex for anyone who might know of the bar. He couldn’t think, the maid was humming and the tune was off. He raised his head to yell at her, when he noticed the earbuds in her ears, and the way she bounced across the room with the trash bin.
Of course, he thought. The young always know where the hottest spots are.
“Young woman!” he shouted. “Young woman!”
The second time he screamed at her, she turned and pulled the earbuds out with an apologetic grin. “Yes, Mr. Chambers.”
“Have you heard of the Nightingale or a local singer named Lorelei?”
“Oh, yes! The Nightingale is the best place to go. I know it well. Lorelei, she sings there every night! She has the most beautiful voice. My friends and I go down to the shore, and I love to go listen to h
er sing. We all do. Her voice is unexplainable, all deep and husky. It’s like whiskey, smoke, and something that makes you want to cry.”
“Take me there,” he demanded. Then with a softer tone he added, “I will arrange it so that you get a raise, or a better position. I can even arrange for you to meet Mr. Emperor. He insists on meeting this girl, tonight.”
With a quick eagerness, the maid agreed, “Yes, sir. I’d be happy to show you.”
“Excellent,” Chambers cried. “Let me call my consultants, and we will set out.”
A half an hour later, the small entourage parked the car and began making their way down the boardwalk. From the entrance of a jazz club, they could hear a crooner’s voice, and Squire, the company busy body said, “We’ve found her! Do you hear that? What a voice!”
“No,” the maid shook her head. “That is Sammy J. Not Lorelei. We are still a ways from the right place.”
They walked farther, the crowds of people pushing to and fro and the exotic smell of seafood wafting in the air. From the open door of a country bar, a strong voice belted out a solemn ballad.
“Lovely,” proclaimed Chaplain, yet another assistant. “Her voice is so classic, so pure.”
Again, the maid shook her head. “No. That’s Alyssa, not Lorelei. We have a bit further to go.”
They continued on, not even bothering to pause and watch the jugglers, dancers, and other street performers that paraded about.
When they’d almost given up hope, and had begun to whisper that the maid had taken them on a wild goose chase, they heard Lorelei’s voice. Strong and mournful, it called out to the soul and the heart. The sweetness of the tone suggested youth, but the spirit sounded as old as one of the many greats.
“There, do you hear her?” the maid exclaimed as they turned toward a small club with blue and pink neon lights. “Listen!” she insisted as she pointed toward the stage. “That’s Lorelei.”
Fractured Fairy Tales Page 13
