Mortal Souls

by Amy Hoff

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “People aren't snakes,” Robert said then. The man just quirked an eyebrow.

  “Where...where else have you been?” Robert asked.

  “You're very handsome,” said the man suddenly, ignoring his question. “It's breathtaking, really.”

  Robert stared. He'd never heard anyone say something so direct to anyone else, man or woman. There was a coiled strength in this man, whoever he was; quiet and calm but clear as the build of an ocean wave that could rain down desolation, an unexpected force of nature, irresistible, resisting. His eyes were so green Robert was having trouble believing they were real, lit up from within, as though the man was made of light, barely contained and beautiful.

  However, at this point in Robert's career as a poet, what came out was “Er?”

  “Some island cultures don't have bards to speak of,” the man continued, as if he hadn't just destroyed Robert's composure, “but they sing their histories, and they believe that if you can't do that yourself, you have no soul.”

  “Where else have you been?” Robert repeated.

  The man grinned.

  “Everywhere,” he replied. Robert was lost.

  The man began to recite stories from across Scotland, from across time, and Robert was drowning. Adventure did not often come to Ayrshire, and until tonight, Robert had consigned himself to the dreary existence of a ploughman in a tiny corner of the world, his heart full of love and poetry but also the knowledge that poetry and love weren’t going to get the chores done. Robert wondered, briefly, through the haze of alcohol, if there was something fey about the man, because he was hypnotised, swaying, falling...drowning, drowning in that eternal green.

  “But what about you?” asked the man.

  Robert was jolted back to reality.

  “M – me?” he asked. “What do you mean?”

  “Tell me about yourself,” said the man. “What do you do? You write poetry, but about what? Have you ever been anywhere outside of Scotland?”

  “Why?” asked Robert, defensive. Nobody had ever asked him about himself before. Nobody had cared. He was just a stupid peasant farmer, one of countless thousands living out the eternal birth-to-death cycle of working the fields so the rich could eat, pausing on the way to create children and perpetuate the monotony.

  “Because,” said the man, grinning, leaning closer, conspiratorial, “that's how you make friends.”

  Robert could feel the man’s whisper, a tactile thing now that he was nearer, and his skin pebbled as the man’s soft breath ghosted across his skin.

  “Well,” Robert began, “I was born here in Ayr – in Alloway – my mum said that the door blew open when I was born, the wind was so strong. I live with my parents on our farm and – but this is very boring, you don't want to hear this.”

  The man only leaned forward further, engrossed, as if Robert's story was just as interesting as his endless travels, as if Robert was a thing both beautiful and beloved. Those lips, those eyes, so much closer now, close enough to touch if he just leaned in –

  Robert took a deep breath and continued.

  “My father and I don't get on,” he began. “He doesn't approve of the poetry – he doesn’t think it's worth much to a poor farmer. I can't help it, it's just there. I'm just compelled to write. I don't think I could stop even if I tried.”

  Robert must not have realised how much he needed this, because he poured out his life and soul to this man who sat there looking at him, smiling fondly, not interrupting. He laughed when the story was funny, his brow creased when the story was sad. As Robert talked, he took in the careworn lines on his companion’s face, on the hands, the fingers wrapped delicately around the stem of the pipe, and sensed that this man had suffered greatly, and for a long time; he could read this unspoken sorrow in the drawn-down cast of his mouth, especially when Robert talked about his own difficulties. The man's expression would change, subtle and fierce. Military, Robert thought at one point, or a warrior built of other blood and bone.

  The man kept buying him drinks – good whisky, too, not the terrible low-quality kind Robert could afford, but the type that was usually kept away from most of Ayr society and brought out only for weddings or visiting dignitaries. As the night wore on, he grew bolder; his shyness falling away, and he began to talk with feeling.

  The man simply sat there and listened, drawing on the pipe and gently exhaling smoke, from a mouth Robert first thought was beautiful and then was hungry for. As he watched those lips tighten around the stem of the pipe once again, Robert forgot where he was, who he was, he forgot about his father or his poetry or his future or past. He wanted to touch those lips with his, to breathe the smoke into himself, to take this man into himself.

  Somewhere a voice in his head was speaking in a frantic tattoo:

  what are you doing, this is Tarbolton, this is your local, the vicar is probably still here – what you are doing is illegal – men get hung for this – Robert get ahold of yourself

  and he leaned forward, wanting to taste that mouth as the other man dropped the pipe from his lips and breathed out, tendrils of smoke rising around a face lined with sorrow and darkness.

  The other man abruptly stood, offering his hand to Robert.

  “You'd better get home,” he said, and Robert was startled out of his reverie. He noticed the loud ringing of the bell that signified closing time. He groaned. His father would be very angry, as he had never stayed out quite so late before – nor had he ever been quite so drunk before. It was not alcohol that ran fire and light through his veins, and he allowed the man to lead him out the door. In the darkness, the man bowed to him, and Robert watched him walk away, smoke curling around him like a lover, until he disappeared into the darkness.

  Robert turned in a daze, taking the path through the forest that lead to his farm. As he fell into his bed that night, alight with love, he suddenly realised he'd never asked for the man's name.

  He woke to sunlight streaming into his room, and groaned with a headache that pounded through his entire body.

  “Robert!” his father was calling. He sat up quickly, and immediately regretted it. He was late – very late – and the field needed ploughing. He was going to hate today.

  As he pushed the plough forward with all his strength, thanking God and his angels for the sticky porridge breakfast he'd never much liked before, he considered the events of the previous night.

  You just fell in love, said his mind, with a man.

  Robert considered this, worried.

  Did that mean anything? He had heard of it before. He considered.

  He could not deny the way his heart felt, his entire being, and he decided that his current goal in life was to get the man's name. He wondered if he would be interested, or horrified, or if he felt the same.

  He compared my eyes to whisky, thought Robert fondly. And I know I will see him again, because I am going to recite my poetry, and he promised he would not miss it for the world.

  Determined, Robert Burns ploughed the fields, and for the first time looked forward to his performance.

  ***

  Robert stood in front of the pub, wishing he’d been able to have a whisky to calm his nerves.

  The chill of the cold grey evening had dampened his skin, his arms clammy; he did not even have a plaid to keep himself warm. He had soldiered on to the pub and the warmth he knew was waiting. If the audience liked his poem, he hoped they’d buy him enough whisky to convince him he was warm inside on his long walk back to the farm later that night.

  It seemed like everyone in town was there in the audience, wearing sceptical expressions. He huffed a breath and stared down at his hands to give himself something to do. What are you waiting for? he accused himself. Start talking! He pulled at the ends of his loose shirtsleeves, thinking he should probably have washed his face. The crowd was beginning to murmur and his nerves were getting the best of him.

  His heart leapt in his chest when he saw th
rough the smoke, as someone pushed through the door into the warm, cloying darkness of the pub.

  There was the man he had met, sitting where he'd promised to be, at one of the dark wooden tables nearest the leaping fire. Robert felt his heart twist when he saw another man sitting next to him, a man of slender stature and such intense beauty he wondered if the other patrons had noticed. Jealousy streaked through his veins before he was quite aware of what he was feeling; was this other man a lover? A friend? Either way he'd known those green, green eyes longer than Robert had, and it made him irrationally jealous.

  And then the man looked at him – those bright, too-bright green eyes glowed like embers, and Robert recovered his strength, his confidence, as Richard came up to him, grinned and shook his hand, and almost pushed Robert in front of the audience.

  But Robert only had eyes for one person in the crowd.

  Robert knew he was in love, believed with all his soul that he was in love with a man, and in that moment, he did not care.

  Robert Burns opened his mouth, and began to recite his poetry for the first time, in a history that would follow him down.

  The small pub was loud, and rowdy. Desdemona sat in a corner watching the proceedings, as a young poet stood up to read his work. She was dressed as a man, and to all outside appearances looked like a man.

  Her companion was the most beautiful creature on the physical plane, then or now. Nothing had ever been birthed with the kind of beauty this young man possessed, flawless skin and wide dark eyes. People found it difficult to look at him, because he shone.

  Desdemona was a baobhan sith vampire, and although technically genderless, her people appeared to be human women. The White Women of the Highlands.

  Her companion, Iain, was the most beautiful selkie ever born.

  He was also unimpressed.

  “Desdemona,” he said, “We don't have time for this.”

  “Come on, Iain,” she said, “we don't get a lot of time away from the garrison. Anyway, he's handsome, and I've heard he's talented.”

  “Don’t you have enough young men?” asked Iain.

  Desdemona grinned at him, the white stem of her pipe between her teeth.

  “Is there such a thing?” she asked. He smirked.

  “Why don’t you just kill him? Why do you need to drag it out?” he asked.

  “Because then I don’t get to see the look on his face when I eat him,” Desdemona said around her pipe as she lit it. She drew smoke into her lungs and breathed out, like a dragon.

  The young poet stood on the stage, nervous. He had already noticed Desdemona, who grinned boldly at him through the wreath of smoke with her bright and strange green eyes. Her gaze nailed him to the wall. He stuttered, and began to recite.

  As I was a-wand'ring ae morning in spring,

  Ae heard a young ploughman sae sweetly tae sing...

  Iain side-eyed Desdemona with a stare of disbelief. Desdemona, for her part, dropped a wink at the man in the front of the pub. Unfortunately, she seemed to be the only one present interested in the proceedings.

  The other patrons seemed to share Iain’s sentiment, as they were getting rowdier by the moment.

  “Oh, give it a rest, Robert! … who cares?... You just wait til your da hears about this! Go home, Robert!”

  Robert, for his part, had seen Desdemona wink and felt strengthened for a moment. He ventured to continue.

  And as he was singin', thir words he did say,

  there's nae life like a ploughman's in the month of sweet May...

  But the angry, derisive shouts of the other denizens of the pub drowned out his words.

  These were people he’d have to see, he realised, tomorrow and every day after, when he had to go to town to fetch the shopping for his mother or to ask the landlord yet again to give his father more time on the rent. Tarbolton and rural Scotland were all the future held for him, and these were the people he’d have to face in the light of day.

  Robert, onstage, faltered to a stop. He dropped his head in shame, the unkempt strands of hair hiding his scarlet cheeks. He pushed his way through the jeering crowd and out the door, hiding in his humiliation in the cold darkness of a winter’s night.

  Robert walked alone, listening to the crunch of his footfalls on the path. He wiped at tears that stung his eyes, unbidden, making tracks through the dirt on his face. He sighed as he noticed it rub off onto his white shirt cuffs. Robert couldn’t see his way in the darkness, but that was fine; he knew his way back and forth from the farm to the pub and would be able to navigate it in his sleep.

  He sighed deeply, feeling like an idiot. He lived in the middle of nowhere. He was a ploughman’s son, in a tiny village no one had ever heard of. It was ridiculous of Richard Brown to talk him into this. He ought to have listened to his father, and dedicated himself to the plough instead. He was physically strong, enough for the town to talk of it, and he was talented in his work. Unfortunately, Robert’s heart desired more than the hard farmer’s life he had watched ruin his father. He had other interests, and had spent his entire life at the plough. He didn’t want to offer up the rest of it as a kind of sacrifice to the land. As it was, he already had a bit of a stoop when he walked, so he had felt like he’d given enough to the earth.

  Robert was so wrapped in his own thoughts that he hadn’t noticed the quiet snick of breaking branches underfoot, or sensed that something was following him.

  The Nuckelavee was on him with a terrible roar before he was even aware what was happening. He threw his arms over his face protectively but could do nothing more as the great beast snapped at him with its long, scything teeth. As the Nuckelavee leaned down toward him, Robert could feel its hot breath on his face. He felt no inclination to fight or flee; he felt his life only a small candle flame to be snuffed out. It was not as if he would be worth much in the grand scheme of things, nor the history of the world.

  The crack of gunfire and the monster’s yelp as it leapt and rolled away into the trees at the side of the path stunned him. He had been certain he was a dead man. He looked up cautiously, to see the man who had been in his thoughts for days, and his beautiful young male companion.

  His eyes moved from one of them to the other, wondering about their relationship. His heartbeat began to slow to a more natural rhythm.

  “Good evening, Robert Burns,” said the man with green eyes. “I'm Desdemona. That's Iain. Faeries exist, and we are at war.”

  Desdemona. Robert gaped at… her? She put out a hand to help him up.

  “And by the way...happy birthday.”

  Robert was dazed, but the first stirrings of amazement in his heart were leading down a path he did not want to think about. Not a man…but some kind of Fae warrior.

  That’s not any better, Robert, he chided himself.

  “I liked your poem,” said the one called Desdemona.

  He found it hard to believe she was a woman while he looked at her, so much did she resemble a man. A handsome man, certainly, but a man all the same.

  “Thank you. I think you may be the only one,” said Robert.

  “He's right, I hated it,” said Iain mildly.

  “Thank you, Iain,” Desdemona said in a world-weary voice.

  ***

  Robert Burns never had any difficulty falling in love.

  Truth be told, it didn’t take much.

  And there stood Desdemona, gun still smoking, beside her beautiful lieutenant. She favoured Robert with a cocky grin as her eyes raked over him. He had never been looked at in that way by anyone, man or woman.

  And it turned out that she was indeed a woman. But he had already decided that it didn’t matter.

  “Can I come with you?” was the first question out of Robert’s mouth.

  Desdemona raised an eyebrow.

  “You’re human,” she said. “Go back to your plough, little poet. Live a long and happy life. Have many children. Get rich and famous off your work. Travel. See the world.”

  She and Iain h
olstered their pistols.

  “And forget you ever saw us, Robert Burns,” she said. She turned to Iain.

  “Ready to go, General?” he asked, and she nodded curtly.

  The two Fae soldiers murmured to each other as they walked away from Robert. He knew they thought he couldn’t hear them, but he could.

  Why didn’t you kill him? I thought you were going to eat him.

  I was. He looks like he’d taste good. Prime steak.

  Then why didn’t you? Desdemona…

  I don’t know, Iain.

  The vampire looked off into the distance, as if she had surprised even herself.

  I don’t know.

  ***

  As they walked away from him down the path, Robert saw Desdemona look over her shoulder and wink at him. Even from a distance, he could still see that preternatural green lighting the darkness.

  Robert was rooted to the spot for the moment. He knew the dangers of the Fae, of following them into the darkness, of losing years of life to the passion they inspired in men. His mother was a wise, sensible woman who had made sure he was instructed in all of the fairy and folktales of the country people. He knew how foolish it would be to follow her in secret and that only an idiot would blatantly ignore the advice of a clearly powerful Fae creature.

  He followed her down the path, his heart beating with the first wash of love.

  ***

  Robert peered around the bushes, eager to see what a Fae war looked like. His excited imagination provided him with a fantastical light show, incredible displays of power, and feats of bravery, with Desdemona in the centre of it all – whatever kind of creature she might be – powerful, with a terrible beauty.

  He did not expect what greeted his eyes.

  Row upon row of makeshift cots, creatures of all shapes and descriptions laying on them, groaning or sighing. Several of these – monsters? – were missing limbs, or were screaming as another monster stitched a wound back together. In one case, a creature appeared to be having an eye sewn back into his head by a grey-blue man with the most hideous face Robert had ever seen.