Tales of Dark Fantasy

by Robert E. Keller

  ***

  When the tax collector came, we had no money to pay. He warned us that the next time he returned we'd have to pay double, along with a fine, or the king would take possession of our house and land. I was miserable and shaking with anxiety, but Father had other things on his mind. He'd succeeded in pulling a short pipe from the yard and laying it on the porch. He spent hours scraping rust from it--only to find more rust underneath.

  "I don't understand it," he said. "The Iron Smith said their metal never rusts. Yet look at this pipe. And why is it cut so short?"

  "We're going to lose our house and land, Father," I said. "Do you realize that? I don't care about that stupid pipe. You promised me you'd give up on that stuff. You lied!"

  The old man's mouth fell open, pain in his eyes. I realized he felt terrible but couldn't help himself. Lonely chills crept over me.

  "I can't give up," he said weakly, and he went back to scraping the pipe.

  "I have an idea," I said, the tax collector's disapproving face burned into my mind. "We could dig up a bunch of those pipes and sell them for scrap metal to a blacksmith."

  "That wouldn't work," he said. "The metal is cheap and plentiful in these lands thanks to all the mines that the Iron Smiths dug. We'd have to gather a mountain of it just to make a handful of coin. It would take us weeks of digging and backbreaking labor just to get enough to pay the taxes. No, I'll brew a lot of whiskey instead. I promise. But first I've got to keep searching for our salvation!"

  I considered running away. But I had nowhere to go, and I couldn't bring myself to abandon him. He was like a seventy-year-old baby who needed constant care. I had to make sure he ate and slept, otherwise he might waste away.

  In desperation, I tried to remember what the Iron Smith had said--something about looking in a mirror and learning to see. I got Mother's mirror from Father's bedroom and gazed into it. My face was young and smooth--yet somehow it looked old and cynical. I widened my eyes, struggling to see. But I saw nothing different.

  When I stepped outside, Father was shaking his head. "I wore a hole right through it, son. Rust all the way through."

  I tilted the mirror so I could see the pipe's reflection. It looked the same.

  "Maybe I should scrape near the other end," said Father, hope springing back into his eyes. "Maybe that's the magical end."

  I walked into the garden and examined the large pipe Father had dug down to just before we visited the Iron Smith. I looked into the mirror, and the pipe's appearance changed. It was now black and engraved with runes, and water dripped from one end of it. When I moved the mirror away, the pipe was rusty with no sign of water.

  My heart sped into a flutter, and I jumped down into the hole. With a shaking hand, I let some water drip into my palm. I lapped it up.

  The blood rushed to my head and I nearly passed out. Then the feeling subsided, and I could sense the network of pipes beneath the ground. The Iron Smiths' system was still intact, feeding the earth and keeping it free of rot and disease. I could feel miles of pipes calling to me, and I was flooded with a sense that anything could be accomplished. I was confident I could do whatever I wanted in life, that knowledge and wisdom would be my guide.

  This was the transformation that Father had dreamed of. But there was a dark side. The world wasn't ready for such knowledge, and it could upset a precious balance and lead to massive suffering. Humans were still too petty and thoughtless to be given such gifts. The Iron Smiths had known this, and they'd concealed their network with magic to keep people from gaining power from it. They'd further hidden the pipes by planting decoys in the ground that were easy to remove--like the short one Father had dug up.

  I could see the pipes as they really were because I had compassion and wisdom--the reflection of my true self. Caring for my father had given me strengths and qualities I wasn't even aware of. The Iron Smith had seen that in me.

  I climbed out of the hole and shoveled it full of dirt. It would take me days to fill in the rest of them. I walked back to the porch.

  I sat down next to Father and patted him on the back. "No luck, huh?" I asked.

  He bowed his head. "No luck, son. It's just a rusty hunk of metal. I'm a crazy old man who's wasted a lot of time. I hope you can forgive me."

  I smiled. Father didn't realize we had everything we needed. He didn't know my knowledge had expanded to dizzying heights. And he wouldn't know, because I could never tell him or anyone else. But things would change for us soon enough.

  End.

  A Christmas Frost

  (Originally published in Daily Science Fiction magazine.

  Revised for this collection.)

  When I was a young boy, I used to climb in Dad's rusty pickup truck and we'd head out to find the perfect tree. He always brought ropes to help subdue it, because the wretch pines usually put up one heck of a fight. One time, I got nailed with a flailing branch and it ripped my cheek open so badly that Mom had to stitch it up. I still bear the scar. With pride, I should add.

  As I grew older, Dad let me swing Fungbrom's Axe while he stood by and watched. I chopped down my first wretch pine. My arms were torn and bloody, but once the wretches are free of their roots you can wrestle them onto a truck pretty easily if you've got some thick clothing on. Dad was so proud of me he gave me a big sip of mountain whiskey, and I managed to keep it down.

  Those joyful days are long gone. Now I sit on my back porch, out of work and luck, watching the snow pile up in silver rolls that look so creamy you could eat them with a tablespoon. The wretch pine is already propped up in the living room, and I keep her nourished on skunk water from hollow trees. In spite of being cut off from her precious roots, she's still plenty mean. My boy James is standing in his dirty red snowsuit punching snow off the porch rail. Some cheap canned soup simmers on the stove.

  "Dad, when can I play with Fungbrom's Axe?" James says, flinging snow into the air and letting it fall onto his face in some strange child's ceremony.

  "You don't play with it, son," I explain patiently. "It's a tool, not a toy. Actually, it's a weapon." I take a sip of whiskey.

  Linda lets out a yelp. "Brian, your stupid wretch tree has fallen over on top of Bixby!"

  "Shoot," I mutter, taking another sip. If the wretch actually fell on Bixby, our Siamese cat, he was probably fur patches and blood pudding by now.

  "Brian!" comes the second, inevitable yell.

  I stick my whiskey jug in a snowdrift and slowly head inside. The wretch tree is lying on its side, the tip near the stove. The tip is curling away from the heat. I consider shoving it against the hot cast iron just to teach it a lesson, like my daddy would have, but I'm not that mean.

  I pull out the faded couch. Sure enough, Bixby is hiding behind it. He leaps out and jumps into the TV cabinet, knocking down some of my Incredible Hulk VCR tapes. Cats obviously have no respect for great television.

  I stick on a welder's glove and seize the wretch tree. The bluish branches flail around at my touch, trying to pierce the thick rubber. I carefully stand it up. Those damn tree holders never work right. I call in James and together we adjust the tree stand.

  Beyond the windows, puffs of glittering, windblown flakes block my view of the woods. The feeling of a harsh frost hangs in the air, three days before Christmas. I glance at my wife and realize it can't get any colder around here, frost or not. But we have one perfect wretch tree and some canned ham, and my TV is picking up two grainy channels. I click it on to see a mountain man getting chased by a bear. I adjust the rabbit ears and the picture comes in a little less grainy. The wretch tree's branches seem drawn to it.

  Linda gazes at me with eyes full of blame as she stirs the bland soup, and I tense up, certain she's going to start talking about our lack of money. That issue always becomes especially dire issue around Christmas, which is why I live in dread of the holiday. But there's nothing to say beyond the old blame game, and both of us are burned out on that. There's just no work out here.


  I turn back to the wretch tree, admiring it, with James beside me. I put my hand on his shoulder. "Isn't she a beauty, son?"

  He nods. "But what am I getting for Christmas?"

  My instinct is to respond with a stern tone and remind him of what he already has--a roof over his head and two loving parents. But I know he's too smart to buy into that. "We can't really afford anything, James. Truth is, we can barely afford to eat."

  Linda glares at me accusingly.

  I look away, waiting for her to resume her stirring.

  We sit down and have a quiet dinner of thin soup and homemade bread. It's not the worst I've eaten. The snow goes on piling up outside.

  After dinner, I smoke my pipe while Linda watches TV. The picture has darkened a bit so she hits the side of the set. She's still pretty, but way too thin. All bones and skin, and murky underneath. That murkiness drives me crazy, leaves me feeling shut out. Luckily, the picture brightens again. I wonder how many times smacking it will do the job before it finally gives up the ghost.

  I glance at my VCR tape collection, wondering if I should take it to town and try to sell it along with the player. Might get enough for it to buy James something decent. He's too old for simple toys, so I'd be cutting it close. Some old, beat up Hulk recordings? I'd sold off everything else that wasn't nailed down, but I manage to convince myself no one would buy them. It might be a lie, but I'm quick to believe it for the sake my collection. And, I remind myself, James loves that show. If only the logging company hadn't shut down. If only I had learned to live off what the mountain provided, like my daddy used to do, instead of relying on a job. If only this, if only that. I was tired of such useless speculation.

  A stomping noise causes me to whirl around. James strides out of my bedroom carrying Fungbrom's axe. His eyes burn like two angry match heads. He's focused on the wretch pine.

  "James!" I yell. "Put that back."

  He keeps walking toward the tree, his shoulders hunched with purpose.

  Linda leaps up from the couch. "James, do as your father tells you!"

  I step in front of him and extend my hand. "Give me the axe, son."

  "I'll chop that stupid tree into bits!" James promises. "I don't care about it. I want something for Christmas. It's not fair."

  "No, it's not," I say, hanging my head. "But if you chop up the wretch, we'll have no protection from the dark gnome. He'll bring you toys that pinch, poke, bite, and possess. Is that what you want?"

  "Some toys are better than none," says James. But his body has gone limp with defeat, the fire dying in his eyes.

  "Fungbrom bred the wretch pines to ward off the dark gnome," I remind James. "And he showed the mountain people how to make special axes to cut them down. My great, great, great grandfather forged that axe."

  Tears slide down James' cheeks. He hands me the axe.

  I hesitate, and then hand it back. "It's yours now, son."

  His eyes light up. "Mine? But I thought I was too young!"

  I shrug and smile. "It looked steady enough in your hands. I thought that wretch was a goner." I glance at my jug of whiskey, consider giving James a sip, and then reject the idea. Some traditions are better off forgotten.

  Linda gives me a hard, fearful stare and then looks away, perhaps dreaming of a land beyond the mountains, like New York or Los Angeles--where I could never live. I'm a mountain man through and through, and now so is James. We're stubborn folk who make do.

  That night, I sit on the couch with James, and he keeps tracing his fingers over the oak handle and dark iron head of Fungbrom's Axe. Finally, Linda joins us, and somehow I know she won't be leaving. I had been wrong about her. I usually was. The wretch pine leans toward the stove, as if to warm itself and escape the strange pale-blue mountain frost that covers a nearby window. The TV is showing a clear, bright picture of some Santa on a city street, a world away.

  End.

  The Weeping Well

  (Originally published in Mirror Dance magazine.

  Revised for this collection.)

  Elleese touched the bruise on her cheek, which was still tender from last night's beating, and gazed into the well, wondering if this was the day she'd throw herself in and end her life. It was a lonely old well, made of crumbling, vine-covered stone blocks, lost in a deep valley amidst grassy hills miles from town. It was the perfect place for a quiet death.

  "My weeping well," Elleese said aloud. How many tears of hers had it tasted?

  A blanket of grey hung in the sky, with darker, angry-looking clouds to the west, and a light rain that was more like a mist caressed her skin. How many days had she come here with bruises on her face and arms? Once, she'd even showed up with burn blisters on the backs of her hands from a hot poker. She still bore the scars.

  How many times had she thought about leaping into the well and ending her misery? In this land, where women were all but slaves and the laws worked against them, there was no escape from her husband other than death. The laws of marriage were strict, and any woman who broke them was considered the scum of the earth and could be punished by torture or execution. She had nowhere to go and no one who would help her. Even her own relatives would have turned her away.

  "I'll leave all of them to wonder what became of me," Elleese whispered, climbing up onto the rim of the well. The water below was lost in shadow. Her husband would never find her body here. He didn't deserve to find her. Let him keep searching and searching, wasting his time and feeling miserable. Meanwhile, she'd be sleeping peacefully in the darkness below.

  Yet according to the religion that was widely practiced throughout the land, she would be suffering eternal torment at the hands of demons in some forgotten hell. It seemed unfair that a soul who was already suffering should then be punished by more suffering, but that's what her people believed.

  "I don't believe it," Elleese said. "It's just a lie invented to scare people."

  Elleese prepared to let go and fall, but her body refused to cooperate. What if it was true? What if she would end up at the mercy of demons?

  "I don't believe it!" she cried. She was tired of the constant fear and torture. She saw no future for her other than misery, and she wasn't going to let religious fears stop her from ending her life.

  She begged her god to have mercy on her soul, and she leaned farther out over the well, relaxing her grip. Still, she didn't fall.

  "I can't do it," she moaned. "Not yet."

  Elleese was about to climb down and return home, when the weeping well itself decided the issue for her. The stone block she was sitting on finally crumbled and gave way. With a cry, she toppled into the darkness.

  Elleese tried to grab something but fell too quickly, splashing into the murky water and going under. She flailed around and swam to the surface, gasping for breath, her chest tight with panic. Even though she'd been contemplating suicide, it hadn't been her decision to fall, and instinct and panic now commanded her to fight for her life.

  She swam to the stone blocks and tried to climb up. It was a shallow well--only about thirty feet deep; but the bricks were covered in a thick coating of slime, and she could find no toe hold even after she kicked off her shoes.

  "Help me, someone!" she screamed again and again. But she was miles from town or from any road, and she doubted anyone would hear her.

  Now that death was staring her in the face, Elleese realized she wanted to live. She suddenly knew her destiny, as she gazed up through the tunnel of stone blocks at the grey sky above. She would champion the cause of justice for women and lead a revolution. Or she would die trying. If she was strong enough and clever enough, she could do it. Many others felt the way she did, and they could meet in secret and plot change.

  Why hadn't she thought of this before? Why now, when she was trapped in the well? Regardless, Elleese had received her true purpose in life, and she wanted desperately to live to see it fulfilled. Fate was mocking her and it wasn't fair. Her destiny had been revealed--but only when it was too
late. Already she was growing tired of swimming, as she wasn't particularly skilled at it and she was expending way too much energy flailing about. She began to sob in frustration, her tears dripping into the water.

  Something slimy rubbed against her skin and she screamed. Something huge and alive was moving in the dark water--a serpent that rose from the depths and coiled around her. Its head was twice as big as that of a horse, and it was the ugliest thing she'd ever seen. It was a wart-covered mass of uneven, grey scales, with crooked fangs hanging from its jaws. Everything about the serpent was twisted, slimy, and ugly--except for its eyes. They were sapphire blue and sparkled hypnotically as they met her own.

  Elleese screamed and fought to escape, but the serpent's tree-trunk thick body was coiled tightly around her. "Let me go!" she pleaded. She wondered if she was already dead, if this was a demon come to torment her. It certainly looked like a demon. Actually, it looked far more ugly and monstrous than any demon she'd ever imagined.

  "But you wanted to die," the serpent hissed. "I've been watching you for some time now. You wanted to drown yourself in these waters. Don't deny it. I've tasted your tears and I know the pain in your heart."

  "Yes, I wanted to die," she sobbed. "But not now. I just want to live and be free! Let me go. I've suffered enough by my husband's cruelty."

  The serpent's jaws split into a grin. "Have you, now? I like pain and suffering--mental, physical...and the suffering of the soul. Despair and bitterness are treats for me to savor. I like cold-blooded murder." He let out a hissing laugh. "I could murder you right here and now. I could eat your heart and absorb energy from it, to grow stronger."

  "Please, let me go!" Elleese cried.

  "Why should I?" the serpent said in its low, rumbling hiss. "What will you do for me in return? Will you murder for me and bring me a fresh heart?"

  Elleese shook her head. "I can't."

  "What about that cruel husband you spoke of?" said the serpent. "Will you murder him, and bring me his heart? If you will, I shall free you from this well and give you an instrument that will kill him quickly. You would be free of this prison--and free from him forever."

  Elleese considered it. She'd thought about murdering her husband many times, but she'd always feared being found out and punished. And the punishment for a wife slaying her husband would be a long, slow death in a reeking dungeon. Regardless, could she really bring herself to kill him? She doubted it.

  "I'll do anything else," she said. "But not that."

  The serpent bellowed an angry hiss. "You waste my time. I'll take you down to my lair and devour you." With that, the monster started to drag Elleese below the surface.

  "Wait!" she screamed, and the serpent paused. "I'll do it."

  "I figured you would change your mind," said the serpent. "I've lived in this well for more than a thousand years. Most of the time I lay sleeping, dreaming of suffering and death. I'm as old as the world itself--a creature beyond good and evil. The agony of humans pleases me, and their hearts contain a type of energy that makes my power grow. But I haven't been able to feed since being imprisoned down here by a witch's curse. I've grown weak, but so has the spell that binds me here. A single heart--especially one full of malice--can give me the strength to break the curse and enter the world again."

  "But you'll hurt people," Elleese said. "Demons like you always do. That's probably why you were trapped down here in the first place."

  The serpent grinned. "Perhaps. But I don't want to feed off humans anymore--except for the one heart I need to free me from this well. Once I've escaped, I'll return to the mountains, to ancient caverns far beneath stone where I was born, and I'll never be seen again. You have my word on that, and a snake's word is golden!"

  Elleese hesitated, and then nodded. She knew she was taking a huge gamble in bargaining with a devil, but what else could she do?

  The serpent opened its jaws wider. "My back teeth are small and soft. Break one off and take it to your husband. Wait until he's asleep, and prick his skin with it. He'll be dead in moments. His eyes will turn blue like mine and he'll move and groan as if he still lives--but rest assured, he will be dead. Cut out his heart and bring it back to me. He may cry out, but he won't resist--because as I said, he will already be a corpse. His body will then disintegrate into smoke, never to be found. And with no body, people will just assume he ran away for some unknown reason."

  Wanting only to escape the abomination that was coiled around her, Elleese reached into the serpent's mouth with a trembling hand.

  "Don't prick your skin!" the serpent warned.

  She carefully broke off a small tooth and held it up for him to see. "Now let me go."

  The serpent rose out of the water, and she realized it was much larger than she'd assumed. It shot up fifty feet, carrying her in its coils, and dumped her out of the well. She lay dripping in the grass, as the beast hovered above her.

  "Do not fail me," the serpent warned. "If you plan on simply going away and never coming back, that tooth will transform into a tiny, winged demon that will suck the blood from the living--starting with you and everyone you know. And don't think you can discard it somewhere, either. You've touched it, and it knows your scent."

  "What if I can't do what you ask of me?" Elleese said, knowing it was a real and likely possibility.

  "Then you must return here for punishment," said the serpent. "I may devour you, or I may spare your life--depending on my mood. But regardless, I want my tooth back, as it contains powerful magic." With that, the monster sank into the well.