The Verse of Sibilant Shadows: A set of tales from the Irrational Worlds

by JM Guillen

  That was dangerous. Merely holding my bow was only a few steps away from calling the Wild Hunt.

  “Ya sure ya wanna go? I could put ya up for a spell.” His eyes shone; the man had seen and would never forget.

  I smiled at his unintentional wording.

  “You’ve gifted me enough, Kenneth.” My overtaxed voice cracked.

  If he had me for one night, he would have me for a dozen, always begging for another Telling. With no interest in food or sleep, he would wither away, drifting on my meandering tales.

  I must leave before he became fully entangled in my glamour despite a wistful pang in my heart.

  No. Home, love, that wasn’t part of who I was. I didn’t get family; I didn’t get friends.

  The Herald of Autumn would find no restful place to lay down roots. The leaves changed, the wind blew, and the Herald wandered on.

  Ever wandered.

  I reached out and clasped his hand as a goodbye. “Thank you for everything, Ken.”

  His grip was like old oak. Words flickered behind his eyes, but those words were lost.

  His handshake would have to convey enough.

  I glanced at him once more, then stepped out into the frost-touched evening. He waved through his window, saying something at last. I waved once before walking away.

  Mount Chase, a tiny town of only a few dozen families, cloistered around me.

  Near its heart rested the Inn of the Hollows. Kenneth had told me it served less as an inn these days, more as a bed and breakfast. I had never been here before, but true to his word, I could make out its flaking, hand-painted sign from the road.

  It was perfect.

  The inn sang with history. Old wood shingled its long, sloping roof. Its stone pavers slept in the earth, surrounded by a garden of mums and aster, with bellflowers throughout. This building had obviously sat through the wearing of years.

  I rang the old, brass bell at the door, chiming a song into the listless night.

  Yellow light shone from one of the upper windows.

  “A moment!” The woman’s voice sounded sleepy.

  I regretted rousing her from her bed as I heard rustling inside.

  A light came on downstairs. Then she opened the door a touch, peering out at me, almost coy.

  Projecting the innocence of a harmless traveler, I said, “I was told you might have a room.”

  “Occasionally.” Now she smiled. “When someone is from away. You don’t have any people here?”

  I shook my head. No, I don’t have any people anywhere. It was only a thought, but its bleakness sung on my face, in my posture, from my stance.

  She gaped, almost affronted, as if she had heard the words.

  “Well, you do now. My name’s Molly. I collect vagabonds.” Her grin flashed, both beautiful and lovely.

  “Timothy.” I extended my hand. “Timothy Ash.” I sank just a whisper of my glamour into my touch and gave her a charming smile. When she took my hand, I knew she would catch the faintest whiff of frost-kissed pumpkin. She would hear crunching leaves and feel the caress of the harvest moon.

  Yes, I saw it in her eyes, the first whisper of wonder, as she bid me, “Step on in.”

  I did, glancing around. It was alive, warm. Now, what had obviously been a small inn two hundred years ago had been reshaped into Molly’s home.

  It was perfect inside as well. Like beautiful, living art, it reflected the world that was.

  My world.

  “Let me start a fire. Frost gets fearsome, even this early.”

  While she arranged logs atop the andirons in an old, large fireplace of flat river stone, I sat at one of the places at the bar. It had once served numerous patrons as they sat with their cups, reminiscing and lie-telling. Now the wood had worn smooth and shiny.

  I frowned at the cunning brackets holding it together. I touched one gingerly, anticipating sharp pain.

  None. It was iron, but not angry iron. Not cold.

  “...brings a young man like you out this late? Don’t you have any bags?”

  I attempted to seem rueful. “I came to, along the road. I had no bags when I awoke.”

  In an endearing gesture, her eyes widened, even as she made a small tsk. “You have to be careful out there, Timothy. It can be dangerous out this far.”

  I hid a small smile.

  Lurking somewhere close, Old Man Coyote had enough glam to make the entire town rave and rage if he wished. Rave, or simply abandon everything. They would walk into the red-leaved trees and never look back. When they reached the ocean they would never stop smiling while they drowned.

  Dangerous was an understatement.

  “I know, Molly. I’m glad you’re here. You’ve saved me a night in the wind.”

  She blinked up at me, a smudge of ash on her pretty face. I saw a glimpse of her enchanting smile before she turned back to the stuttering flame that refused to catch.

  “I can help you with that.”

  She babbled flustered politeness as I walked over but stood still as I stepped close.

  She smelled like cinnamon. Like cinnamon and myrrh. As I drew near, she trembled and flushed. “Everything is wet. It gets mist covered; I didn’t expect a guest tonight...”

  I bent over her hearth. This corky, wet elm would never light for her.

  “I’ll set the hearth, Molly. I have a touch for it.” I met her eyes and held them.

  Her smile warmed like the sunrise.

  “Well, if you’ll do that, I might have something else that can warm us as well.” She walked toward the kitchen.

  Each step, part of a dance I knew well. Awash in me, curiosity filled her mind. Inevitable as the tide, unseen forces attracted us. She allowed herself to relax, to drift on the filaments of glamour I’d cast about us.

  I Dreamed my fire. Dry, crunchy oak leaves, juniper that had been laid up before the cold, and pine heartwood steeped in sap. October wind breathing, biting.

  You owe me a bit yet, Old Elm, from before. One small boon, we’ll call square.

  My fire stuttered to begrudging life, then flickered with light and shadow. The shadows told the story of a battle long ago, where we had stood fast against the strange armies of the First People. All others had left us, but I stood with Elm. We stood, and we survived.

  Square, Tommy Maple. This is the last time you call me, else you evoke a boon and a debt.

  Agreed, old friend.

  Molly turned, setting a cup on the long bar, followed by a second. She poured amber fire from a stout glass bottle into them. She smiled as she walked back, handing me one.

  “You got that going quick. You don’t need a drafty, old inn if you can scratch up a fire that fast,” she teased.

  “I’m hoping the company here will be better than with the bears.”

  She laughed at me then, genuinely. Her eyes glistened in the light. “I’m not much company, I’m afraid.”

  “You’re perfect.” I could not stop watching the firelight dancing in her dark hair. “You are an unexpected gift on a long, empty road.”

  The moment meandered while our gazes wandered across each other. I could not say how long it was, for such moments roam outside of time. The lovely curve of her ear, the sweetness of her neck and hips entrapped me. She, eyes wide, reveled in the thrill of the Great Hunt, the darkened wood, and the mystery that lay at the heart of an autumn night.

  “You’re an unusual man, Timothy Ash.” Her voice fell to a whisper. She took a long draw from her cup.

  I sat, sniffing at the glass. “Bourbon?”

  She pushed her dark hair from her face.

  “Warms you up, loosens the tongue, and makes friends of strangers.” She raised her glass.

  I did the same.

  Then, with abandon, she practically fell backward into the overstuffed couch. “I love this place, you know.” She smiled, languid, at nothing in particular. “Other girls want the big city, or beaches, or mountains. This place, however”—she took another sip—“it�
�s real, Timothy. I can feel the days and months and years etched into these old rooms.”

  I rolled the bourbon on my tongue as she prattled musically about the inn and traditions. My ears perked at her next question.

  “So, tell me, what happened on the road? You said you came to. Were you jumped by someone?”

  Not a question I wanted to answer. I thought for a moment and then looked square into her green eyes.

  “That’s a long story.” I held her gaze over my glass. “I’d tell you what happened, Molly, but it’s boring tale.” I sighed. “I have a better trick for you if you like.”

  She leaned forward. “What’s that, Timothy?”

  “Any fool can wander in off the darkened road and tell you some sad tale of woe.” I shrugged. “You have to admit, there are better stories to be told.” The bourbon turned warm on my lips.

  She twirled a finger in her dark hair. “I suppose that’s possible, Timothy.” She started to laugh but stopped.

  My eyes, the color of aspen leaves under the hunting moon, filled with wonder, filled her with wonder.

  “What if instead of telling some dull, true story, I tell you a secret story made of every smile you have ever forgotten? A story that will change the way moonlight tastes?”

  She laughed and took another sip. Then, she saw my hunter’s gaze. “S—such a story sounds precious and rare. I don’t know that I deserve a story like that.”

  I took her hand. “You do, Molly. You deserve a story that will sing lullabies to your restless heart. You deserve a story that will make the child you were dance with glee; that will make the shadows whisper secrets. I can tell you a story about the girl you were, the woman you are, and all the infinite women you may yet become.”

  She stopped for a long moment then, her gaze wide. Her hand trembled, sloshing her drink around her glass, and her eyes grew wet. When she spoke, her voice quivered.

  “Alright, Timothy. I’ll play.”

  I grinned. “Only if you want it, Molly. My stories aren’t for women who hide from their own mystery. I see what your eyes never have. I know the secret turnings of your heart.”

  Her smile returned, brilliant and fearless. “That’s a brave statement. Tell me.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “It is.”

  That was three.

  4

  Listening, she soon nestled against me, sitting in the flickering light of the dying fire. Her eyes remained wide, and she gasped and giggled in all the right places. Her night orchid scent teased while her eyes glistened like the full moon on a lonesome road.

  I told her tale, of course, drawing forth truths that only she knew, that she kept wound around her heart. I saw where she had been hurt, been abandoned. I told her of all the places where her heart had wanted, had yearned to blossom, but fear and pain had restrained her.

  The story I told wasn’t factual, but it was absolutely true.

  As she listened, Molly grew drunk on bourbon, drunk on me.

  I told her the story of a wandering gypsy who lost her voice—but the story was about Molly, her childhood dreams. I told another of the woman who tamed the horses in the sky—her struggles with love and hope and loss.

  I made her smell colors and see sound.

  When she kissed me, dawn blossomed after winter’s long night.

  Her soft lips ached in yearning. Her sweet kiss sang of renewal. Waves of her washed over me, her mortal fire rekindled by the grace and glamour of one of the fey.

  I traced my hands along her face and then down her neck. Each place I touched, I kissed and whispered secrets that no mortal-kind knew. She sighed, arched over me, and then slipped onto my lap. Her silhouette darkened the flicker and dance of the fire.

  “Timothy.” Her voice shrank, small like a child’s. “This isn’t me. This isn’t what I—”

  “I know.” My smile stayed simple, my words true. “I know what you are, Molly. I know you guard yourself well. You are not one to be coyed by every man who wanders in.” My lips met hers again.

  She tasted apple cider and the crisp wind at night. She murmured against me as whispers of the Hunt coursed like lightning from my touch.

  My fingers found the buttons of her shirt, and I kissed ever lower. The scent of her intoxicated more than the bourbon.

  “Take me upstairs, Timothy.” Her voice dipped low and primal. “Take me upstairs and tell me more.”

  Delighted, I allowed my fingers to trace their way underneath her shirt.

  Molly bit her lip as I caressed her and made her sigh.

  “I will, Molly.”

  Under my touch, she whimpered. She moved her mouth to mine again and delicately nibbled at my lips.

  The rest of my words were lost.

  It was as it ever was. For the briefest flash, I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t fated to ever-wander. I was home. I was home, here with Molly, and I belonged. Everything would be well. For that briefest of moments, precious and dear, I was home, was wanted, was needed.

  Burning in the fire of her passion, caught in her eyes, I belonged.

  As it ever was, that moment passed.

  5

  Four hours later, while the silver-clad moon sang and seduced her way through the window, I awoke, alert. The fine hairs of the back of my neck bristled. My dreams had scented something in the wind that left my heart troubled.

  Molly stirred, reaching for me.

  “Timothy?”

  I kissed her cheek. I could still smell our passion in the bed. Carefully, I smoothed her soft hair, shushing her back to her dreams of September nights and October whispers.

  Even as I did, my attention riveted itself elsewhere.

  I listened to the world breathe, searching for what had awakened me. Something whispered to my heart in a lost and raving tongue older than man.

  Something is wrong. Something is rotten.

  I tasted the meaty, punky sweetness, rancid in my mouth.

  Now the hunter, I slipped out of Molly’s huge bed. Bare feet on polished wood, I edged my way to her window where I could see below.

  There.

  The shambling darkness in the silver light resembled a nude man. It was not, but most any mortal eye would see exactly that. Behind the seeming was the empty shambling. Dead in the eyes, ochre-red blood seeped from its every orifice.

  It felt my gaze, felt the chilled heart of golden autumn within me. Its head twisted up toward me, loose, flailing. It roared, screams that echoed in a world only I knew.

  I leapt half-way across the room. Darting to the old wooden door, I remembered the wood scraping loudly, as it sagged against the floor. Molly must not be allowed to wake just now.

  Quiet now, Old Pine. Sleep. Gently I moved it, silently hoping that I wasn’t invoking a boon for such a small kindness. One never knew with my kind.

  As the door swung in silence, I murmured of gratitude, taking care to never actually say “thank you” or imply a debt.

  In four long, graceful jumps, I bolted down the darkened stairs and past the room where most guests stayed. Less than a breath later, I cast about her kitchen for a weapon. Yes, I could call my bow, but I didn’t know if this was worth that risk—not yet.

  Her knife block held two large blades, but unlike the brackets on the bar, the metal stung with cold. Dead. They would never do.

  Fine. No weapon. For now. That was fine.

  Typically, once I needed a weapon, drawing my bow had become worth the risk.

  I peered through the front window.

  The creature jerked forward like a broken marionette. I couldn’t say how it was tracking me, how it felt me—but it did. It sought me with those empty, hungry, lost eyes.

  It would come for me. It would tear through the inn and anything else to get to me.

  Her sweetness lingered on my face and hands, traces that made my heart ache, wanting her. It would drink Molly’s sweetness…

  That thought pounded a cold-iron spike through my chest. I had to act, arm
ed or no.

  For this brief interlude in time, she belonged to me. This broken darkness could not have her.

  That I would not abide.

  I unlatched the door and leapt into the misty gloaming.

  It appeared as a man, an older man with sallow cheeks, blue eyes, and white hair. He was nude, overweight, and pale.

  To my dreaming eye, it was a fetch. I hadn’t seen one in many an autumn, but I was fairly certain. Such abominations mimicked humanity but held none of the poetry that hid within every human’s heart.

  Its broken, hollow, mad screech raged in lapping fire and rusted blood.

  Its fingers ended in talons from another age.

  Its arms, slender gangles, each had two elbows.

  Its empty eyes wept blood and bile.

  Its fetid breath was like a physical thing, a miasma of rot and despair.

  When it swiped at me, its spidery arms wild, I ducked one swing and dodged the other, wind whistling by my face. As it drew close, I felt some whisper of darkness touch my mind.

  There is a boy, just a boy, yet the boy is a wielder of darkness dire. He summons flames that live, white flames that whisper and sing—

  I lurched away from the creature, and the dream withdrew from my mind.

  What had that been?

  It made a strange cackling noise, dragging terror up from my gullet.

  I forced myself to slow down, to think.

  Even if I could kill the creature, those who lived here must never know the truth. This poor soul had been devoured, likely some time ago. The hollow fetch was his only reality now, and it was broken and mad. Killing it—

  It shambled forward, quick-quick.

  I stepped away just in time, struggling to think so soon after my awakening.

  Killing it would only leave a corpse, one all-too familiar to those living here. The first day of autumn would bring a dead body while a strange out-of-towner stayed at Molly’s. That was too coincidental for the children of men.

  It lurched toward me again, quicker than I anticipated. A whistling swing struck me this time but barely. One of those strange talons left a path of stinging beads across my cheek.