The Year's Best Australian Fantasy and Horror 2014 (Volume 5)

by Kaaron Warren

  “Thank you, Father.” I take the book from him and begin to wrap it up once more. He leans across the table, grasps my wrist and says, “What will you do with this?”

  “This is a commission, I cannot simply make it disappear.” I lower my voice. “And I fear this client, Father, I fear him greatly. I will not risk my life nor that of my family by refusing to give him what he has demanded.”

  “But, child, it’s too dangerous. If you will not listen to sense, I shall have to tell the Abbot.”

  “And if you do so, there’s every good chance I will be burned—it won’t matter that this book is not mine, it will simply matter that it is in my possession.” I hold his gaze for a long moment. I do not think he would like to see me as ashes.

  “What will you do?” he asks quietly once more, defeated.

  I shake my head. “I’ll think of something.”

  * * *

  I wipe my hands on a rag, then wash them with hot water and Edda’s whortleberry soap, massaging the cramps and the smell of ink and oil out of them. Passing my desk I survey the work: the replica is almost done. I am exhausted and my eyes ache; I have been copying by the light of the fire and as many lanterns and candles as I could find without leaving my family in darkness. Outside the black mirror of the window, the air smells of spring. The days have grown longer, warmer, but I have spent an eternity inside, working on this damnable book. The time is fast approaching and although I have not slept well since the client’s last visit, it is not the sole reason for my sleeplessness.

  The doors to the bed cupboard are open, just a little, and inside I can make out blankets and coverlets heaped up, mounded over the form of a slumbering young man with the thickest, blackest hair relieved only by a streak of white down the middle. He snuffles and snores, his hands curled like paws, batting at the pillows as he stirs, then stilling as he settles once again.

  I struggle with the buttons of my dress, then drop it to the rug, half-undone. Crawling in beside him, I fit myself into the half-moon of his body and breathe deeply. He smells musky, slightly sweet. I close my eyes, nestling as his arms come around me.

  “I want peaches,” he mumbles, breath warm in my ear.

  “You ate them all, remember?” That was how I found him, in his-night-time shape, late on the evening I returned from St Simeon-in-the-Grove, crouched on the floor of the cellar, struggling with a bottle of preserved peaches. His hands seemed not to know quite what to do, and he dropped the bottle, which smashed impressively. He merely gave a grunt and neatly picked slices of the preserved fruit from the glass, carefully examining it for shards, then elegantly chewed it in tiny bites.

  “It doesn’t stop me wanting them,” he points out, in a reasonable tone.

  “Ordinary badgers don’t eat peaches.”

  “Well, I’m no ordinary badger, obviously,” he says, and shrugs, a movement that takes his whole body, not just his shoulders.

  Badgerish.

  “You ate plenty this evening. I cannot believe how much food you put away—and Aelfrith insists upon feeding you twice a day. You won’t fit in my bed soon.”

  “Get a bigger bed.” As he cuddles comfortably into my back. I take hold of one of his hands, weave our fingers together.

  “At least there’s no cheese left.”

  “Oh, that cheese! Terrible cheese. Awful constipation.”

  “An ordinary badger doesn’t eat cheese. Or indeed, spend his winter in a girl’s bed.”

  “An ordinary badger doesn’t get hit by stray magic.” He nuzzles my neck, pauses. “How long will this last, do you think?”

  I shake my head, feeling dizzy as if I am dangling over a terrible pit where all the loss in the world resides. “I don’t know.” I squeeze his hands. “What do you think about, in the day? When you’re . . . ”

  “Four-legged and furred? Badgerish things: about food and warmth, staying safe, about spring and blackberries and wild cherries and windfalls apples.” He wiggles against me to suggest the time for talking is done and other activities should be considered.

  Here is the problem with raising daughters so far from suitable mates: it makes them prey to roaming, transformed badgers. It makes their hearts easy pickings, like windfall apples.

  * * *

  I keep my eyes downcast, but watch through lowered lashes. Adelbert is trying to hide his surprise at my seeming modesty. He is also trying to hide his look of suspicion. We sit in his study, all three of us on separate over-stuffed armchairs.

  The client has my work in his hands. He is appreciating the fine red leather cover I’ve added. It is different to the old one, but I see that I was right: this pleases him, this newness. There is neither title nor author on the front.

  “Your workmanship is exquisite, Mistress Gytha. I commend you.” He tosses my father a heavy bag of coins, and Adelbert’s eyes go soft, like a drunk seeing his first drink of the day. “And the original?”

  “I burned it,” I pipe up and two pairs of eyes turn on me. I hold up a small box and shake it gently. “The ashes. The book—the ink was almost unreadable by the time I finished and I did not think you would care, sir. It was old and not new.”

  The man stares at me for long moments, then nods and brings out a smile. “Yes, you’re right, Mistress Gytha. Although, such a decision I would have liked to make myself.”

  He does not care the original is gone, he merely cares about my high-handedness. I offer the box and manage to sound sincere, “I apologise, sir. Would you like . . . ”

  He shakes his head dismissively and I nod. “I am very sorry, sir.”

  “No matter, no matter,” he smiles and waves his hand. He places the book into a leather case he has brought specifically for the purpose. “I shall take my leave.”

  Father sees him to the door, then returns to the study. Through the open windows comes the warm air of the first day of spring. I watch, just as I watched him that first occasion, as the client appears around the side of the house, then disappears into the green of the woods. I do not pursue him this time. I watch until the trees swallow him, until I am sure he is nearing his carriage waiting up on the road, waiting far from us so no one will know he has been here, has brought something here, so no one will question and perhaps hunt here, or suspect him of whatever he is doing.

  “Well done, Gytha,” says my father. His good mood cannot be contained. He moves around the room, laughing and joking, pouring us both a glass from the last bottle of the summer-berry wine. He counts out my coin into a smaller purse and gives it to me. I sit opposite and stare at him until he becomes uncomfortable. “What is it?”

  “Hafwen.” I do not say ‘my mother’ for she has never been that, only ever an absence to whom I was able to put a name a few years ago. He makes a sharp sound and jerks his head to one side before bringing his gaze back to me.

  “Well, what about her?”

  “Who was she?”

  “A girl. Just a girl.”

  “Was she a witch?”

  I have never seen such grief in my father, such a terrible thing clawing its way up from inside and painting itself across his face. He lowers his head so I cannot see, then slowly raises it once more. Everything is gone but an awful blankness. I will get nothing from him.

  “Enjoy the spring, Gytha, while there are no new commissions,” he tells me and looks away, starring resolutely out the window at the garden, but not, I suspect, seeing it.

  * * *

  From the blanket box at the foot of my bed, I lift out several coverlets, folded winter dresses and shawls. At the bottom is the original Murcianus grimoire, its text and diagrams re-inked each day before I copied it. Each page has been dusted with a setting powder of my own devising. I run my fingers across the cover and wonder how long it will take me to learn the language of witches, to take the knowledge I need for my purpose. I wonder if Larcwide might be prepared to teach me. I wonder if I have any of my mother’s blood in me to help.

  I notice a four-legged absence
. I look around for the badger. He is not in his usual spot, the rug by the hearth, but then as the days have grown longer he has been roaming about the house more, seemingly restless. Perhaps he is in the kitchen, begging food from Aelfrith. He will be so fat soon.

  My sister is rolling out dough; a dozen apples sit on the bench, waiting to be peeled. Beside them, a bucket of blackberries, lush and dark. But there is no sign of the badger.

  “Where is he? Where is Brock?”

  Aelfrith looks at me in surprise. “He wanted to go out.”

  The kitchen door stands open. From the threshold I survey the green grass and the plants, growing thickly in the house-garden.

  There is no sign of him.

  No track, no trail, no hint.

  I run out, to the stables. Edda has a curry comb and is grooming Hengroen.

  “Have you seen him? Have you seen the badger?” I ask, uncaring that my voice is breaking.

  She shakes her head, and tuts. “You knew he would go, Gytha. I know you’re fond of him, but he’s a wild creature. It’s not as if he’s a dog or a horse.”

  I knew the spell would end. I knew he would change back, but I thought he would stay. I thought he would wait. I thought I could find something in the grimoire, some means to make him transform for good, to keep him with me.

  A breeze starts up but the dancing air does nothing to lift my spirits. I did not think his badgerish instincts would lead him away from me so soon. The itching of my punctured finger is all I have left.

  * * *

  It is only three days later that I see the client again.

  I thought I would have longer. I had planned to leave when he had gone, when I had both book and badger. I had planned to run and find another life, but with my love departed, I had fallen into a funk. I had lost the will to move. I lost any care that the golden-haired man might try one of his new spells and find it did not work. That he would try another and it, too, would not work. And another and another until he realised that I had copied each and every enchantment, each and every curse, incorrectly. Just a tiny detail in each, a line missing, an ingredient changed, a direction left out, an instrument added.

  Sitting on the window seat in my room, I see the man breaking out of the woods, his long knife catching the sun, and I finally rediscover the will to move. I bundle the grimoire into a satchel and drape the bag’s strap across my chest. I clatter down the stairs, run into Edda, who protests, until I put a hand over her mouth, the bandage still on the finger that will not heal.

  “Sister, if you never listen to me again, listen now. Lock the doors. Do not let anyone in, especially not that man, the handsome man. Don’t let him in, Edda, no matter what. Keep all the doors locked. I am sorry for whatever I may have brought down upon you.”

  I flee before she can answer. I tear out the door, creep around the corner of the house, then make sure the client catches sight of me. He gives a sound somewhere between a yell and a scream, but all rage, and pounds after me. It’s the only thing I can do, to draw him away from my family.

  I know these woods far better than he. I know the paths both seen and hidden, I dart between trees, under hanging mosses, I hurdle over rocks and stiles and rills, but still he keeps on my trail.

  Then, all is silence. I stop, wait, turning, turning, turning, trying to see if he is anywhere in sight. From behind a huge oak, he lunges, the knife preceding him and slicing across my left side, not enough to kill, but to wound, to hurt. I swing the heavy satchel up at him and catch him in the face. He goes down like a sack of potatoes. I run.

  I keep running, fleeing into the darkest, deepest part of the wood, bleeding, weakening, aching, my lungs burning, my legs shaking. In a green hollow, a spot dotted with mounds and slopes, I trip over a branch and the breath whumps out of me. I hit my chin and bite my tongue and iron tastes in my mouth. Behind me I can hear the crashing, the swearing, the inexorable rampaging of the golden-haired man.

  My injured finger tingles, twinges, burns. I hear a chittering, a squeak, a growl close by. Searching, I find the mouth of a hole and in that mouth a creature of black and white, a fine well-fed badger, who calls to me. I scramble up try to stand, but my entire body convulses, arcs in on itself. The hand with the injured finger curls beyond my will, as does the other. They turn ebony with fur, the nails elongating, becoming hard horn. I drop on all fours and shudder as the transformation completes. The boar’s call changes, the noise more urgent. With the strap of the satchel still around my new shoulders, I scamper up the hillock, and follow my love down the tunnel and into the sett. The book is dragged along behind, getting caught now and then, but the corridors are wide enough for it to get through with a tug or two. We come to a large chamber filled with clean straw; the strap slips from me, the book’s progress halting, pushing up a wave of the dry yellow covering that will eventually settle over it.

  I can no longer hear the sounds above ground of a man thwarted and driven beyond his patience. I cannot hear the raging and the cries of loss. I lie still and my mate snuffles at the wound in my side, licking it clean. He curves around me, our black and white fur a chessboard match. Even as I hope my family will be safe, I begin to forget Fox Hollow House. Ideas about books and inks and pages and covers all subside into a dim memory place. I begin to think of worms and beetles, of windfall apples, blackberries, and wild cherries. I begin to think badgerish thoughts.

  The Preservation Society

  Jason Nahrung

  I

  Jack entered last. The darkness closed in on him like a fist. The windowless room had a darkly timbered floor and walls painted so deeply burgundy they could have been black. Candles accentuated the gloom rather than illuminating it. The iron chandelier hung like a dead spider from the decorative rose in the centre of the ceiling; the pressed metal was the colour of bone.

  Anticipation sharpened his senses. He had come in through the only door, painted to blend in with the wall. Six chairs surrounded a long, thin table in the centre of the room. The stainless steel shone in the subdued light, a gutter forming a grim depression that led to a glass vial under the drain: not a drop was to be wasted.

  Jasmine, a floating pale face with blonde hair piled on top and a voluminous black dress rendered vague and shapeless in the gloom, sat opposite the door and gestured for them to sit. Her fingernails were thin and sharp, glowing at the tips. Her fingers appeared inordinately long where they poked from delicate lace gloves. She had a fragrance to her, a blend of night-blooming flowers and old bookshops.

  Leather creaked under him as Jack settled in a recliner. Each chair had a round side table with burgundy cloth and black napkin. The only other furniture was a drinks cart, holding nothing other than a collection of fine crystal goblets; they threw faint orange-red patterns against the wall, like the reflection of sunlight shimmering on water.

  Elise sat opposite him, her eyes shining with excitement as she smoothed her skirt. Her mother, raven-like, sat next to her; then the dandy in his long coat, the nob in his business suit. He had already forgotten the men’s names. He’d barely listened to the overly polite conversation at the welcome in the drawing room; had said little. Hadn’t even minded so much that Elise had given him the cold shoulder under the watchful glare of her mother. Tonight was all about this moment.

  Jasmine held up a dainty brass bell. All eyes fixed on that instrument. Jack jerked as she gave the bell a calculated shake and it rang high and clear. His heart thudded. His body flushed hot, as blood surged through his system. He’d been fasting, as instructed, even since he’d left Brissie days ago. God, he was thirsty. His mouth was as dry as drought; his teeth like the bones of dead sheep.

  A dark-skinned girl in a starched white nurse’s uniform—no cap—entered, leading a shambling woman in a thin, white gown. The transparent material barely hid the radiance of the woman’s tanned, finely muscled flesh. Nipples were dark suggestions under the fabric. Her hair, sun-bleached blonde, was cut short to reveal the throat. The overhead ca
ndles made dark shadows of her eyes; she had the distant stare of someone under mesmerism. She radiated heat and blood, smelled of saltwater.

  Should there be chanting, Jack wondered? The sacrifice had arrived, and he felt dirty, now that he could see her. . . but she was here by choice. He tried to find comfort in that. But did she know that she wouldn’t be leaving here, at least, not in the same way she arrived? If she’d been promised eternity, he was fairly certain no-one had told her the how. And if she’d been promised an end—there must be some desperation fuelling this act—then she was being cheated. She might not know it, but she would not end here. Someone would take her home with them, a collectable to be masturbated over. He should’ve been wearing a raincoat, carrying tissues.

  The woman stumbled and the nurse helped her, first removing the gown, then holding her hand as she sat on the side of the table. She swung her feet up and stretched out. Her flesh goose pimpled. The room felt warm and close to Jack, but he supposed the metal must be chill. There were straps for ankles and wrists, but the nurse didn’t secure them.

  The nurse wheeled the trolley over and opened a drawer. Objects glinted silver on a velvet mat.

  “The subject,” Jasmine told them, “is not drugged, but has been placed under a low-level suggestion to ease the taking. I assure you, there is nothing untoward in her bloodstream. To be certain, I will take the first sample.”