Zydeco Queen and the Creole Fairy Courts

by Cutter, Leah

  Francine would never remember who’d received what treatment. Of course, if this were anything like high school, she wouldn’t have to—they’d remember her greeting and would snub her accordingly.

  At least everyone had their human face on, with only a hint here or there as to their mixed parts: maybe twig-like hands, or horned-owl tufts for ears, or even a dog’s snout.

  A commotion toward the end of the line cut short Francine’s greeting of an older man with cat eyes. A young man with the head of a donkey came barging up to Francine.

  “Cousin!” he exclaimed, throwing his arms wide.

  More than one person in the line sniggered softly.

  Francine froze. Was this really a relation?

  Pierre scowled. “Jacque. Come to make an ass of yourself again, I see.”

  Jacque shook his head and the glamor of the donkey head disappeared, replaced with a sly, mostly human face. His white skin was covered with orange freckles, and his hair curled tightly around his scalp. His eyes seemed extra wide and sparkled with an unnatural green.

  “Couldn’t possibly do that as well as you,” he said, turning his attention to Pierre.

  Before Pierre could reply, another young man came running up, holding his hands out to Francine.

  “I just heard!” he said. “I’m Brooks. We’re cousins!”

  While everyone Francine had met was beautiful, Brooks outshone them all. His hair was black and perfectly cut around his face, his dark skin looked smoother than polished obsidian, and his brown eyes held specks of gold and green, like brilliant stones.

  Jacque threw his arm over Brooks’ shoulder. “Me and Brooks thought we’d come back when we heard news a relation had shown up.”

  Francine looked carefully between the two, startled to see that though their eyes were different colors, they still looked similar.

  “Brooks,” Queen Yvette said, coming up. “How nice to see you.”

  All the light faded from Brooks.

  “Mother,” he said formally bowing his head. Jacque did the same.

  “I don’t suppose you’ll be staying,” Yvette said.

  Francine found it difficult to read the queen’s expression—her gator eyes made her face too alien. She still thought Queen Yvette wanted them to stay, at least for a while. “I’ll be playing later,” Francine offered.

  “Will you now?” Jacque said, looking intrigued. His features had shifted as he’d stood there, looking less human and more rabbit, with a dark nose, whiskers, and floppy ears, what Francine guessed was his true nature. He and Brooks exchanged a look.

  “Yes, of course. She must win her place in the court,” the queen said. “Prove her worth.”

  Shock made Francine take a step back. She wasn’t accepted yet? She had to show them she could play? Then why had she been introduced to everyone? And hadn’t they heard her play the other night? Hadn’t that been enough?

  “Merely a formality,” Pierre murmured.

  “A formality,” Brooks said, crossing his arms over his chest. “For a cousin.”

  Queen Yvette shrugged.

  “Then maybe I shouldn’t waste any more of the court’s time with introductions,” Francine said, fuming.

  Who were they to turn her away? She’d show them.

  Brooks turned to Francine.

  “As much as I might love to see you show them all up,” he said, “Jacque and I really must be going.”

  “When you get tired of playing at tea parties, let us know,” Jacque added with a wink. “We know where the real hootenanny is.”

  “Boys,” Yvette said, a warning edge in her tone.

  “Goodbye, mother,” Brooks said with a bow.

  Jacque repeated the words and they sauntered across the grand hall, arm in arm, before disappearing into the trees on the far side.

  “So you want to play for us,” Yvette said.

  Francine looked at her, confused.

  Wasn’t that why she was here? Because she could play? Wasn’t that what drew them to her initially?

  “Yes, ma’am,” Francine replied finally, still wary.

  “Pierre, you’ll be playing against her.”

  Pierre grew stiff beside Francine.

  “But, my lady—”

  “You were her champion. Surely you don’t think she’ll take your spot.”

  “Take your spot?” Francine asked.

  “As Master Fiddler for the court,” the queen explained.

  “How about just for the evening?” Pierre proposed. “Master Fiddler for a day?”

  “No,” Queen Yvette said. “I don’t want you throwing this competition. You will play for your position. And you will beat him, or else,” she added, turning to Francine.

  “Or else?”

  “We’ll drag you back to the crossroads at dawn,” Yvette said, smiling sweetly at both of them before she walked away.

  “Pierre—” Francine started.

  “I can’t lose my place,” Pierre interrupted her. “I’ll lose my standing at court.”

  Francine stared at him. How did that compare to her not being allowed to live here at all?

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “Maybe she’ll decide it’s only for a day,” Pierre murmured, not paying attention to Francine.

  Brooks suddenly reappeared behind them.

  “No, she won’t,” he said. “You know how much she likes these games.”

  “What am I going to do?” Pierre asked, looking lost.

  Francine bit her tongue to keep herself from telling him to grow up.

  “You’re going to play your heart out,” Jacque said, coming out of nowhere. “That’s what she’s going to do.” He paused, then added in an over-solicitous tone, “You do still have a heart, don’t you? Haven’t sold off that body part yet?”

  Pierre scowled at Jacque. Then he looked at Francine, and the lost expression filled his face again.

  “What about…” he said, waving vaguely in her direction.

  “What about me?” Francine asked, crossing her arms over her chest. If Pierre thought she might have any regrets beating him in this contest, he was sorely mistaken. She’d been so attracted to him before. Now, she wasn’t sure if that attraction had been a mistake.

  “We’ll take care of her,” Brooks told him solemnly.

  “She’ll be in good hands,” Jacque added.

  “She better not actually end up in anyone’s hands,” Pierre growled, glaring at both of them. “She’s a virgin, and she should still be one by the end of the night.”

  “I think I can make my own judgments about that,” Francine said hotly, stung by how freely he shared this information.

  How had he known? How was it anyone’s business?

  Pierre said softly to Francine, “Just make sure that you do.” He paused, then added, “I really hadn’t expected this. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “I know,” Francine said.

  Pierre’s standing in the court seemed to be too important to him for him to knowingly jeopardize it. But his assumption that he would win also added fuel to her already burning anger.

  “She’ll be safe with us,” Brooks promised.

  Pierre merely nodded, then walked away.

  “Come, cousin, let’s get you dressed for battle,” Brooks said, extending his elbow to her.

  Francine didn’t want to go with this man. She didn’t want to have to prove herself again.

  She also didn’t want to be judged as inadequate and thrown out of the fairy realm. She couldn’t go back.

  Gingerly, Francine took Brooks’ arm.

  “No gowns,” she said firmly. Dressing up like some court mannequin was the last thing she needed.

  Brooks laughed.

  “Oh cousin, I have something much better than that planned for you.”

  * * *

  Francine slid the ivory silk shirt over her shoulders, buttoning it quickly. She believed Brooks and Jacque when they said they wouldn’t peek through the vas
t shrubs of the grove where she changed her clothes. Yet, it wouldn’t do to tempt them by moving slowly.

  The shirt felt cool against her skin and didn’t seem to warm like normal clothes. On top of the shirt, she added a black vest that fastened tightly just under her breasts, emphasizing them. Even without a mirror she knew she looked good in them. She quickly changed into the black jeans that Mama always fussed about, saying they were too grown-up for her. They fit her legs tightly and made them go on forever. After trying on the fairy boots, she put back on her own; the new ones didn’t have the weight she was used to.

  With a final sigh and a wish for a mirror, Francine walked out of the grove.

  Jacque gave her a low wolf whistle.

  Francine found herself smiling at him.

  “You look like a proper warrior,” Brooks added.

  “You just need one more thing.”

  He brought his hands forward from behind his back with a flourish. He held a beautiful fiddle made out of smooth white wood. Gold lined the scrolls of the head and around the openings in the middle of the body. The silver metal strings gleamed.

  Francine took it from Brooks reverently, feeling its weight. She plucked one note, then another, then shook her head and handed it back to him.

  “Thank you,” she said. “It’s a beautiful instrument. But I need to play my own fiddle, the one I know.”

  While Francine suspected this new instrument could easily become an extension of her soul, it would take time—time she didn’t have. Better she stayed with something familiar for now.

  However, based on the matching grins Jacque and Brooks gave Francine, she knew she’d made the right decision. The boys weren’t trying to trick her or put her at a disadvantage—she didn’t know what they had against Pierre, but they really wanted her to win.

  “Any advice?” she asked as they walked back toward where the court was gathered.

  Brooks shrugged. “The queen always changes the parameters to these sorts of challenges, so you never know what’s expected. Just—play your heart out.”

  Francine nodded. She wouldn’t try anything too fancy, just pour everything she had into her music, as always.

  The atmosphere in the grand hall under the trees and kudzu sparked now, not sparkled. Ladies and gentlemen lined the walls, clustered in tight groups, whispering urgently to one another. Francine thought she saw money being passed between them.

  Were they betting for her, or against her? It didn’t matter. She was determined to win.

  Pierre already stood at the front of the hall beside the queen. His outfit was similar to hers, except in different colors: a blood-red shirt covered by a green vest so dark it seemed black. His instrument would have matched the one the boys had tried to give her, only instead of white and gold, it was black and gold.

  At the prompting of Brooks, Francine sank into a low curtsy as she was presented.

  “I approve,” Queen Yvette said, her golden gator eyes sparkling.

  “Thank you, your majesty,” Jacque said woodenly. “You know I live for your approval.”

  “None of your cheek,” Pierre said hotly.

  “Save your ire,” the queen said calmly.

  “What are the terms of the battle?” Francine asked. She really wanted to know what was expected of her.

  “A duet,” Queen Yvette said, looking between the pair of them. “Followed by each of you playing alone.”

  It seemed strange to Francine that they’d play together first—maybe the queen wanted to make sure that she wasn’t a hothead, unable to play with anyone, though she’d shown that already at the crossroads.

  Pierre picked up his fiddle, cradling it gently against his chin.

  Francine followed suit, bow raised. Anticipation and relaxation ran through Francine. Nothing felt better than playing, even in these circumstances.

  When the notes spilled out, Francine cursed. She’d let Pierre pick the tune, without insisting he play something she know. It put her at a disadvantage, forcing her to play second fiddle.

  Pierre smirked as he speeded up, Francine’s fingers tripping.

  Francine refused to give up. She picked up the melody by the second time Pierre looped around to it, adding her own flourishes and arpeggios. She couldn’t steal the lead from Pierre, not when he went into the bridge. She skipped up and down it as best she could, adding sweet harmonies and a syncopated beat. They ended with a prolonged improv at the end, both trying to outplay each other and get the last note in.

  The court applauded politely. Francine grimaced. Though the queen awarded that round to Pierre, she felt they’d both lost.

  No one had gotten up to dance.

  Now, it was Francine’s turn to do her solo. Without a second thought, she started in on “Zydeco Queen,” the song she’d written. It moved fast and hard.

  Francine felt like a wind that had finally been set free. She whirled in place, unable to stop herself from moving, stomping her boots and letting her fingers fly.

  She poured all her anger into her song. She’d lost both Mama and Papa. Not even those who called her kin accepted her. She hated being called young and inexperienced, which Pierre had done with his comments about her being a virgin.

  But mainly, Francine wanted those creatures to move. Proper zydeco was music that you had to dance to. Done right, even the dead would rise and twirl to her tune.

  When those in front started swaying, Francine knew she’d won.

  Before the second verse, the power of Francine’s heritage washed over her and the thrill of magic coursed through her. She couldn’t control it—she didn’t really even know what to do with it. She felt like she’d finally come home. This was what she’d been born to do: to bring this music to life, to make it solid and real.

  By the time Francine reached the final chorus, the court wasn’t merely swaying.

  More than one had started dancing.

  Francine had expected them to do a type of courtly dance, partnered and refined, though speeded up for her zydeco.

  Instead they stomped in time, like how old people did when they could no longer swing their hips. They’d also lost some of their human countenance: The man closest to her now had the head and claws of a wolf, while the woman he danced with shimmered with the sleek black skin of a rat snake.

  Queen Yvette frowned at Francine, but she didn’t care. It didn’t matter to her if she lost to Pierre. Tonight she’d played better than ever before.

  Tonight she’d finally tasted real magic.

  Francine threw in an extra chorus. All the court moved now. They formed lines and stomped back and forth. Animal howls echoed through the great hall. At first they startled Francine, then she used them, incorporated them into the song, casting it higher.

  The queen had said only that Francine would play alone. She hadn’t specified the number of songs she could play. So Francine slid into another tune without stopping, “Run, Gator, Run.” She didn’t speed up the melody—it was normally played triple time—but she did hit the bass notes hard, sometimes slipping down into a lower octave, to drive the tune forcefully.

  Cool moonlight joined Francine’s tune, curling around it and casting the notes far and wide. Even the trees’ limbs started swinging in time. Kudzu shivered in invisible winds, twitching with the steady beat.

  Francine laughed as the court danced. This was the power she remembered from her few gigs, only amplified ten thousand times. She controlled the court, directing them from the sidelines. They might be fairies, inhuman and alien, but she held their hearts and minds.

  Something coolly whispered to Francine that she could make them tear each other apart if she wished. It would be easy to cause them pain and make them hurt like she’d been hurt.

  The magic inside her welled as she made her notes brighter, sharper.

  The court responded with a swelling growl. All the hairs on the back of Francine’s neck stood up. She remembered Uncle Rene’s backyard suddenly, the trees there.

&nbs
p; Beautiful and perilous.

  Quite possibly deadly, if under her command.

  “Stop!” Queen Yvette commanded.

  Francine kept playing, but she turned her attention to the queen. The intensity of the music faded and just the notes continued.

  “You will stop. Now.”

  Slowly, Francine let the melody die away, the tune left unresolved. The court growled again, sounding frustrated.

  “That music isn’t appropriate for the court,” Queen Yvette declared.

  “I don’t care,” Francine told her hotly. “That’s the music I want to play.”

  “Then play it on your own,” the queen told her.

  Pierre spoke up. “What you played—it’s the music of war. The court needs a different kind of music. Something lighter, more playful.”

  Francine gritted her teeth. Damn them all for letting her think she might have a better life here.

  “So I should leave, then?”

  Queen Yvette blinked at her. “Heavens, no, child. What gave you that impression?”

  With a snap, Francine closed her mouth. What kind of game was the queen playing? She’d just been told to stop playing, which meant she’d lost, right?

  “Y’all are powerful, but undisciplined,” Queen Yvette continued. “You can stay, and learn, under Pierre’s guidance. You’re too untamed to be the Master Fiddler, even for a day. Later, though, she still may take your place,” she warned.

  “Thank you, my queen,” Pierre said, stumbling forward, bowing low.

  At Pierre’s nudging, Francine also said, “Thank you, Queen Yvette.” She gave a curtsy, but not as low as before. Anger still shimmered through her blood.

  Though Francine had no doubt she’d won the contest, she still felt as though she’d lost, too.

  * * *

  Pierre insisted on playing the next piece alone: A slow lullaby that calmed Francine’s shimmering rage. The fairies were more affected by it, quickly dropping their claws and fangs, becoming more human, their heads nodding. The lights in the trees dimmed, and the branches inched higher, as if giving one last good stretch for the night.

  Francine gathered her things together and stood awkwardly to one side, shifting from one foot to the other, while Pierre played the last few notes. She wished Pierre would at least play a waltz, but he seemed determined to keep the fairies from dancing.