Zydeco Queen and the Creole Fairy Courts

by Cutter, Leah

  “Ah, ma chérie, ladies always go first.”

  “Fine.”

  Francine forced down the shiver of fear that threatened to overtake her—what if she’d judged wrong and was taking them to another awful land? But she still made herself step through.

  The air was the first thing Francine noticed. Instead of merely humid, it reeked of rank mud and rotten wood. All the kudzu hanging from the trees had turned gray and tangled, mixed with the Spanish moss. No birds sang. The underbrush held no leaves, merely twisted branches.

  Francine whistled to the trees, and only got a soft moan in response, brittle as deep winter ice.

  The place was dying.

  Francine whistled again. The trees not only sounded thin, but scarce. She wondered if the land had shrunk.

  Pierre finally stepped through. He looked around, dazed. He took a short breath, as if the air here wasn’t enough for breathing.

  “Come on,” Francine said, more relieved that he’d shown up than she’d care to admit. She grabbed his hand and tugged him along the path. It didn’t make any effort to impede them; it didn’t interact with them at all.

  Before long they reached the meadow. The grass stretched out, black and burnt. It dissolved into powdery ash, like graveyard dust, when Francine brushed against it. The sky held shroud-white clouds from end to end. Francine shivered from the cold wind pushing against her.

  On the far edge of the meadow, Brooks and Jacque lay side by side on a tattered, moth-eaten rug. They looked peacefully asleep.

  Francine wondered if they were trying to dream things better.

  They also looked a lot less human. Instead of clear, beautiful skin, Brooks now had scales across his face. Rough brown hair covered Jacque’s, his nose had turned black, and floppy rabbit ears grew out of his head.

  Gingerly, Francine reached down to shake Brooks awake. He opened eyes that held a golden gator hue, like his mama’s.

  She didn’t see any recognition in those reptilian eyes.

  Luckily, she snatched her hand away before Brooks snapped it with his sharp teeth.

  “Brooks! It’s me! Francine. Your cousin.”

  With a rumbling, deep voice, Brooks replied, “I don’t see why you calling me kin. You’re his kind,” he said with a sweep of his paw, indicating Pierre.

  “Not mine.”

  “They’ve been dreaming too close to the spirits,” Pierre said quietly.

  “I still got legs,” Brooks said, shoving Jacque hard to wake him. “Not too close yet.”

  “Come back to the Seelie court,” Francine said. “We’ll help you.”

  “Don’t need no help.”

  Jacque sat up beside him, looking bewildered. His eyes had turned dark and liquid. He opened his mouth to say something, but all that came out was a chittering sigh.

  “That’s all right, Jacque, old boy.” Brooks laid a heavy, clawed hand on Jacque’s knee.

  Jacque turned large, scared eyes to Pierre, who in turn nodded and pulled out his fiddle. He played a bright, courtly dance. Francine quickly followed, not trying to speed up the tempo for once.

  Brooks shook his head once, twice. The scales faded, and the glitter in his eyes dimmed. “Not going back to that bitch,” he said bitterly.

  “Can’t stay here,” Francine pointed out.

  “Could if you’d stay,” Brooks said, sighing as he shrugged back into his coat, his strong shoulders no longer pressing at the seams.

  “Can’t stay.”

  Jacque cuffed Brooks on the back of the head. “We’re going.”

  His face still held patches of fur.

  Brooks hummed and a streak of sunlight broke through the clouds. For a moment, the air turned golden again. But he couldn’t spread the light out, couldn’t maintain it. Clouds quickly recaptured the day, turning everything gray.

  “Fine. We’ll go.”

  It took three tries for Brooks to find his way to his feet.

  “Don’t blame us for fighting against you, though,” he said, pointing at Francine.

  “You won’t win.”

  “And don’t blame us for that, either,” Jacque said darkly.

  * * *

  Pierre found them a hole to the Seelie lands, into the backwoods where the trees grew on top of each other and the air bustled with late summer insects.

  Francine walked easily along the smooth dirt paths, sometimes reaching out to drag her fingers across the rough bark trunks of the familiar trees. Her heart ached for the gentle breezes and whispered winds.

  These woods were much closer to her dreams.

  Brooks walked more upright with each step, and Jacque regained his teasing voice. It seemed to Francine that they didn’t remember what had happened after a short while. Julius had said they didn’t have much imagination. Did that mean they didn’t have much memory, either?

  Francine wondered what would have happened if she’d been trapped in her world like they’d been. Would she have turned into a tree, like Pierre? Stretched her arms up tall over her head and grown roots? Arranged her branches so the wind would make music when it blew against them? Or grown white wings and turned into a stork, content to forever dance under the trees that stayed?

  Pierre pulled Francine to the side at the top of the ridge, looking down on the great hall.

  “Let them go first. Then I should go. The queen will be too excited about her sons to look around elsewhere, see who else might be in her lands.”

  Francine nodded and stayed to the side, hidden among the shrubs. They respected her here and didn’t try to prick her or slyly snag her clothes. The trees gladly granted her shelter, puffing up their trunks and growing darker in the bright sunlight.

  As soon as Brooks stepped into the grand hall, a voiceless cry rang up through the trees. Francine didn’t see where Queen Yvette came from, but she was suddenly there, hugging her boys to her. At least as much as they suffered her to.

  The rest of the court gathered quickly. Francine didn’t understand why their graceful steps as they came running up made her sad, as if she’d lost some grace herself, but they did.

  A laughing voice made Francine’s heart catch in her throat. She’d recognize that laugh anywhere.

  She searched the edges, finally finding Uncle Rene walking into the hall. He moved like a solid mountain through the fluttering Fée. Francine found herself drawn to him, standing without realizing it. She wanted to go to him so badly, to hold his big hands in hers, to listen to his stories.

  Papa stood beside him.

  Francine recognized the crane in him now, with his proud head and white, tufted hair. She’d thought of him as a bear before, growling with anger. Now, he had black eyes and a pointed stare, cutting through those around him.

  It hadn’t just been anger, but stubbornness.

  Together, they laughed with the fairies, clapping Brooks on the shoulder as if he’d been the one who had freed himself.

  When Papa stepped on the stage, touting a black fiddle, playing alongside Pierre with ease, Francine felt torn in two. Uncle Rene stepped up as well, playing a beautiful golden tenor saxophone that she’d never seen before, the notes deep and low. They laughed and joked with each other, tossing the melody back and forth.

  Francine wanted to be on stage with them. Wanted to make music with them in this wild place, to have them follow her tune and to maybe play with theirs.

  They both looked young, younger than she remembered, without a care weighing them down. They skipped around each other, dancing lightly on their feet.

  Francine could listen to them for hours, pouring out music as easy as breathing.

  Everything was easy with them.

  And that was the problem.

  Francine’s fingers tingled and her breathing grew short as her rage rose.

  How dare they forget Mama so fast?

  Francine remembered her every day. She played her heart out and her rage for Mama being taken so young. How could they play such lighthearted songs? How could t
hey make such easy music?

  Even in her lighthearted tunes, Francine still layered an undercurrent of hurt and anger.

  Had Mama been just a dream for Papa, and was this now the only place that was real?

  Francine left before she did something stupid, like pull out her own fiddle and start a fight. She marched back to the edge of the woods, the trees pulling back from her, no longer a comfort.

  It was easy to draw the doorway back to the Unseelie, to the dark woods and twisted paths. They matched Francine’s heart, the hatred she felt.

  No barriers withstood her rage.

  Only when Francine was back under the familiar trees did she pick up her fiddle. Her first song tore up roots and bushes, as well as cast fire in spiraling circles around her.

  Francine swore to never forget Mama. Never.

  And when the battle came, Francine also swore she’d make Papa and Uncle Rene remember as well.

  Chapter Ten

  Francine waited with the rest of the Unseelie court in the raised hall. Excitement buzzed over her skin like electrified ants. Even the trees swayed anxiously, their twigs quivering.

  The first battle would start soon, very soon.

  Francine stood with the musicians. They looked practically dowdy compared to the other groups, as their attire was closest to human, with sensible shirts, pants and vests. Their instruments were the flashiest bit about them.

  Francine had her bone-white fiddle, ready to rain fire down on the Seelie, while Amos’ guitar looked like he’d grown it out of a black crystal. Claire’s accordion was all pearl and ivory, sleek-looking despite its bulk. Harley’s washboard had red designs painted on it for the battle, sharp-edged, spiky patterns.

  The warriors were the other ones who didn’t look like much. They wore black cloaks darker than a root cellar at midnight, and had bright red paint striped along their arms, faces, and legs.

  Francine wondered if the paint was magic or something, because it didn’t look like much, not like armor or really like it’d provide much protection at all.

  The dancers who stood beside the warriors looked ethereal, as if they’d float away on a strong wind. They wore majestic purple and blue, wrapped in thin gauzy strips around their bodies and legs. The ends of the strips swirled as the dancers moved their arms, or fluttered when they lifted up a leg to stretch.

  Amazing gold and silver ropes, strung with gems and pearls, hung around the necks of the priests and priestesses, hiding their plain blue smocks. Francine wondered if they represented the richness of the kingdom or if, when the sun struck, they were merely supposed to be blinding.

  Finally Erastus arrived. He wore a powdered wig that curled around his neck. Francine had seen a TV show with old-fashioned British royalty wearing something similar. Fine white fur edged his great cloak, while blood-red silk lined it. Brilliant gold- and silver-embroidered brocade made up the rest of it.

  Erastus shone brighter than all of them combined.

  “Friends!” Erastus said, clapping his hands and stomping his feet to get the court’s attention.

  “The day has finally come! To avenge ourselves on our enemy, and to finally have the influence that is rightfully ours!”

  The court hooted and cheered, Francine joining in. Her heart beat hard in her chest. Finally, she would have some of her revenge.

  “Now, I know y’all are as eager as I am, but this has to be done right, if we’re gonna do this at all.”

  The words quieted the crowd effectively.

  Francine focused all her attention on the king, pushing down on her excitement.

  “The priests must go first, set the pace,” Erastus said, nodding in their direction.

  They bowed and curtsied in response, their heavy ropes clanking as they moved.

  Francine had never seen the Unseelie court show so much respect toward one another. It made the butterflies in her stomach gain weight as the seriousness of this was impressed upon her again.

  “Dancers, I’ve know you’ve got some great moves. Show ’em everything you got.”

  The dancers twitched and shimmered, giving aerial bows.

  Francine wasn’t sure how they’d fight—they looked the lightest armed of all the groups. Most of the fairies who made up the dancers didn’t even have long claws or fangs.

  “Now, you musicians. I don’t have any worries about you.”

  Francine grinned. Her excitement rose again, making her shiver.

  “Just don’t hold back, and you’ll be fine.”

  Francine curtsied with the others, her head held high.

  “Warriors, my brothers, as always, the cleanup is left to you.”

  They shared a knowing chuckle.

  Despite the heat, Francine shivered. She’d never heard a laugh sound so menacing.

  “Today, I want you to clean up everything. Lick their bones dry. Understood?”

  The warriors roared their acceptance, and kept roaring, the howl building through the top of the clearing and out through the woods.

  The sound struck Francine in the center of her chest. She shivered again, glad she fought with them, not against them.

  Erastus caught Francine’s eye and nodded.

  Francine fought down the prideful smile that threatened to take over as she brought up her fiddle, trying to hide how pleased she was that Erastus had asked her to play again.

  She listened to the cadence of the swelling growl, then added to it, shaping it, giving it focus.

  The warriors easily followed Francine, breaking off their continuous roar into a recognizable beat. They started stomping their feet and clicking their claws in counterpart.

  Francine nodded to the other musicians. They picked up the melody easily.

  The rest of the court joined in with their own shrieks and growls. The priests clanged their metal ropes together, while the dancers flew higher, tumbling through the air, doing impossible leaps and flips.

  Julius waved at Francine from his place in the middle of the warriors. Francine almost didn’t recognize him without his suit. His skin was a mottled brown and white, his chest solid and barrel-like. He looked like he could power a mountain. He lifted his hoof in a bouncing motion, raising it higher and higher.

  Francine nodded and backed down from the war chorus slowly, subtly adding higher notes and making the music lighter. Amos on the guitar joined her as did Clair on the accordion. Soon they played a straight march, but still with a bouncing tune. It sounded like Mardi Gras music.

  “This way!” Erastus said. He’d sketched a huge opening, strung up between the arch of two trees. The court danced through as if at a parade, following the order Erastus had laid out.

  Francine had no fear stepping through the gate. Though it was inconceivable that they’d lose, she knew how to get back.

  She would not lose this home, too.

  * * *

  The sun shone brightly on the other side of the arch, bringing more warmth to their fervor. Tall grass with knife-like blades separated the two armies. Water encircled them, kept them crowded close in their camps. Rows of trees marked each end of the field, providing comfort and shade.

  At first, Francine thought they stood on an island, until she saw the shore beyond them shift. It wasn’t an island: They went to war on a floating mass of marshland.

  No wonder the land was so green. It had been freshly raised from the water. Francine had heard stories about the marsh turning this vibrant after storms had flooded the swamps.

  Though Francine longed to see the other army, to get a glimpse of Papa, Uncle Rene, or even Pierre, she made herself stay under the trees, away from them. She’d see them soon enough, when they battled and she won.

  The Seelie priests came out from under their trees first, coming toward the Unseelie camp. They looked like they were on their way to a party, dancing to an unheard beat as they took the field. Like the Unseelie, they wore plain blue smocks underneath an amazing number of ropes of jewels. Mixed in were colorful Mardi Gras beads.
Many of them wore masks as well, made of leather and feathers, making them more fantastical.

  Then the Unseelie priests went out, also dancing, but to a song full of smoke and a sultry beat.

  Both sets of priests stopped when they reached the center, a few feet apart.

  They puzzled Francine. She didn’t see either group carrying any weapons.

  Francine took a step back with the rest of the court when a priest of the Seelie court let loose with a brilliant bolt of pure light.

  An Unseelie priestess caught it easily, laughing. She shaped it into a long spear and tossed it back.

  Suddenly the air filled with volley after volley of light coming from both sides. The air sizzled with the brilliance.

  Francine looked anxiously from one side to the other, trying to see who was throwing what, when. She finally had to hold up her hand and cover her eyes when it grew too bright.

  At the first curdling scream, Francine automatically reached for her fiddle.

  Amos grabbed her wrist, hissing, “No. We’ll get our turn.”

  Francine nodded and pushed down on her sudden fear.

  Her ready anger rose, but this time, it was toward herself for being so naïve.

  Neither the king nor the queen would be killed during this battle—but no one had told her that others wouldn’t be.

  The scent of burnt hair filled the clearing.

  Francine had to swallow down bile when she realized it wasn’t just hair, but skin as well.

  The air thundered as the Unseelie and the Seelie unleashed more power. Tremors shook the ground, but it wasn’t like it was dancing. Dust and smoke rose, making it even more difficult to see.

  All the hair on Francine’s arms and along the back of her neck stood up. She thought uneasily of the firework displays at New Year’s, brilliant silver stars flashing higher and brighter. But this wasn’t anywhere near as friendly as that.

  Before Francine could really get a sense of the battle, the brilliant lights stopped. Ash and dying embers drifted down.

  The Unseelie bowed and backed away as the Seelie stood their ground. The outcome was obvious.

  Bitter defeat made Francine stand up straighter.

  The priests might have lost, but she was damned if the musicians would.