Fairly Wicked Tales

by Hal Bodner

  The girl gave a cry as the three ancients settled into their seats next to her. They smiled at the couple and looked at the girl expectantly.

  “Will you not introduce us to your new husband, dear?” asked Atropos.

  “Of course, how rude of me!” said the girl. Then, turning to her husband she said, “These are my aunts of whom I spoke.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, ladies,” said the merchant, though the look of disgust written across his features told otherwise.

  Throughout the meal he stared at the three women, aghast at their subtle deformities the girl had never noticed in all her dealings with the three women. Clotho’s lower lip was large and drooped from her face like an overripe fig. Lachesis had a foot larger and more flat than her other foot, and one of her thumbs was swollen and engorged as if with infection. Atropos seemed to be the only one of the three women with no visible deformity other than advanced age until she opened her mouth to reveal long, sharp teeth that caused those who looked upon them to shudder.

  After several glasses of wine and much rude staring, the merchant at last broke his silence. He leaned across his new bride and his shirt dipped into her plate of untouched food. The girl stared at him incredulously as she attempted to settle him back into his seat.

  “I apologize if I am forward, ladies, but I must know …. What caused you to have such odd growths upon your persons?”

  “Growths?” asked Atropos, who was the closer of the women.

  “Yes. For example, your teeth are uncommonly large and sharp-looking for one so aged,” said the merchant to Atropos, then pointing at Clotho, “And you, your lip is too large for your face.” He turned his unfocused gaze to Lachesis, “And you, good mother, your foot and thumb have no comparison!”

  The three women stared at the merchant in astonishment. At last Clotho replied.

  “My lip is large because I wet the flax,” said she with contempt for the merchant’s rudeness.

  “And my thumb is large from spinning the fiber, my foot is flat and large from so many decades of working the treadle while I spin,” Lachesis replied, her voice filled with venom.

  The merchant made a noise of disgust and looked to his new bride. “If this is what years of work will do, then you will work no more, my wife. I cannot bear the thought you might one day look like your aunts as a result.”

  The girl stared in horror at his words, her protests weak and futile. She stole a glance at the three women, pleading with them to have pity upon a drunken fool who knew not to whom he spoke.

  “And my teeth,” Atropos said, raising her voice to regain the merchant’s wandering attention, “are as they are so I may cut the thread at the proper length. The length must be just right, you see, or the life would go longer than it should.”

  The merchant scoffed in confusion. “Life? What mean you, old mother?”

  Atropos held up a ball of yarn finer than any the merchant had ever seen. His eyes shone with greed as he beheld it and he reached as if to touch the ball. Atropos pulled the yarn away from him.

  “This is your life,” Atropos said in a low voice. “A life which has gone on for exactly one week longer than it should have because we were detained with spinning your flax, sir. Our young lady here was kind enough to invite us to your nuptials and to the feast afterwards and so we allowed you one more week. At first we were of a mind to extend your life for several more years, but after your rudeness to us, your honored guests, here at this table, I am inclined to set right what was made imbalanced by our fondness for your bride.”

  With those words, Atropos stretched a strand of the yarn taut and sliced through it with her sharp teeth. In an instant the merchant pitched forward into his meal and was dead.

  About the Author

  Suzi M spends quite a lot of time wandering woods, back roads, towns, and cities in search of something she calls ‘the rest of the thirteen,’ and her expression is far away when she speaks the words. When not writing horror under the name Suzi M, she writes under the names James Glass and Xircon. She has had stories published in several horror anthologies, and has released novels and novellas under all three pseudonyms. She lives in the center of the middle of nowhere, having forsaken city life after The Gladiola Viola Incident of 2006. When not busy with her own work or getting pictures and autographs of people who recognize her on the street (or train), Suzi helps support the efforts of independent artists, writers, musicians, and film-makers, and has contributed copies of her books to Authors Supporting Our Troops.

  You can follow Suzi on Twitter @xirconnia or visit the Suzi M Facebook page at SuziMOfficial.

  His Heart’s Desire

  A retelling of “Sleeping Beauty”

  Fay Lee

  She was waiting, as she sometimes did, at the bend in the path near the forest’s edge. She waited often enough to keep him dangling, but not too often. No, never too often.

  Aleron watched as Stefan pulled up and jumped from his mount, the nervous bay prancing fretfully as he lashed its halter to a branch.

  “Shall I meet you at the keep?” Aleron asked his friend, loathe to bear witness to what would follow.

  Talia rounded on him. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped.

  Because how might he leave her unchaperoned, open to the gossip that would be no more than truth? Never mind how she had managed to slip away from her own lady; the honor of their house—and Stefan’s—was in his hands now. Aleron dismounted with a sigh. He led his horse to the glade nestled in the last of the woods, the stallion’s hooves crunching on a litter of acorns.

  Aleron stared into the open countryside and at the castle beyond. The scene barely registered, swamped by unwanted thoughts and memories. Behind him, his sister would be offering a taste of her wares to his besotted friend.

  “Her lips smolder like her eyes,” Stefan had recounted last time, “her kisses are honey sweet, her skin is velvet made into silk, and her bosom …”

  “Enough!” Aleron had had to interrupt.

  Remembering himself, Stefan had fallen quiet. Aleron had caught the sideways glance and read his friend’s mind. A duke’s son Stefan might be, but to dally with any noblewoman held danger and Talia even more so. He should be careful of trespassing upon her brother’s goodwill.

  The moment had held a quiet sting. For Stefan to doubt Aleron’s loyalty was both understandable and yet another tiny betrayal of their friendship.

  Now, as then, Aleron ground his teeth. Stefan was far too blindly in love to be told Talia was poison. What choice had Aleron had but a grudging complicity with his sister’s manipulation of the young earl?

  “I refuse to be part of your machinations,” he’d stormed at her.

  She’d smiled sweetly, lips curving into a bow. “Really?” she’d said, and her lower lip had quivered like a string held taut. “Even though the earl will be the one to suffer if we are caught? Some friend you are, then.”

  She had weighted the barb with truth and her missile had struck home.

  So even now, Stefan was panting his undying devotion as he rucked Talia’s skirts, desperate to experience more than she would ever allow. What twisted amusement she gained by stoking his friend’s desire, Aleron couldn’t guess.

  Disgusted, Aleron decided to find somewhere more comfortable to wait. At one edge of the glade, an angular rock shone golden in the afternoon light. Topped with emerald moss, the surface jutted flat-faced from the swaying grass. He’d never noticed the stone before, but at another time, in another season, the rock would no doubt be shadowed to a nondescript dullness.

  The rock would make a fine backrest, he thought, taking a step. Something within him tugged, counseling caution. He hesitated. A quick glance around revealed no danger and the only sound to reach his ears was the rustling of the grass. His eyes returned to the stone.

  Smooth and sun-warmed, the rock almost shouted how well it would support him. The beckoning grass surrounding it also promised a far better seat than the acorns cushioning
Stefan and Talia’s entwinings. He dismissed his unease with a shake of his head.

  As he approached the stone, Aleron imagined the promise of a comfort so great he might even fall asleep and dream away thoughts of his sister’s behavior. Yes, he should take his ease here, with nothing but the lazy flies to bother him.

  His horse’s reins dropped from his hand, unnoticed.

  Aleron yawned. Though he hadn’t been at all tired earlier, he was now exhausted and desperately in need of rest. Indeed, such a heavy fatigue demanded he lay his head against the tombstone flatness and embrace sleep. His eyelids were already starting to droop.

  Aleron was almost swaying on his feet, ready to fall to his knees, when his heart started to pound. The thudding rhythm was disturbing, jarring like a discordant note, the throb growing from a murmur to a rumble …

  With a jolt, Aleron turned towards the castle, shading his eyes from the glare of the low sun. There, dark against the orange-tinted sky.

  “Stefan! Talia! Riders come!” he called. He ran for his horse’s reins and hastened into the copse.

  But his footsteps were too well muffled by the soft ground to alert the couple, because as he neared, Talia was still speaking.

  “Next time, I’ll give you your heart’s desire. When you have shown me I can be sure of you, I promise nothing will stand between us.”

  “Stefan? Talia?” Aleron called again, pretending he wasn’t aware he was almost upon them, pretending he hadn’t overheard what his sister had offered. “Do you hear me?”

  A muffled curse and he spotted the back of Talia’s gown. She turned from the shelter provided by a pine’s sweeping boughs.

  “What do you want?”

  Talia held her arms across her chest, but the spread and sway of the fabric refused to collude with her: the hooks and eyes at the side of her stiff bodice were clearly unfastened.

  “Riders come. I’ll see to your horse, Stefan,” he added at their gasps of horror, glad to turn away.

  The horsemen found Aleron first. Despite his soothing, Stefan’s bay jerked its head and pawed the ground in alarm as the men reined in their mounts. The horse was a magnificent animal, but why Stefan had chosen such a flighty beast from all the stables’ offerings … it would’ve been to impress Talia, of course.

  The first rider dismounted, touching his knee and one hand to the ground.

  “Your Highness, I bring a message.”

  Aleron continued patting the bay’s neck. His own horse stood calm.

  “Well met, Corbin. But were you not hunting with my father and the Duke? What message do you bear? All is well?” He willed away a sudden dread.

  The rider rose.

  “Sire, all is well. The hunting party chanced to encounter the Red Prince and the King extended the hospitality of his realm. I have taken the news to Her Majesty, who sent me to find you and your sister. The princess’ lady said Her Highness’ horse had gone lame hereabouts and she was awaiting help … ”

  “Our cousin is coming?” interrupted a musical voice.

  Talia smoothed the skirts of her gown as she approached. The bodice’s catches showed no sign of hasty fumbling. Stefan must be as good as a maid at fastening a gown by now, though his preference was in the unfastening.

  “Your Highness.” Corbin bowed low. “Yes, Prince Eldred will be arriving tonight.”

  Talia clapped her hands. “How wonderful!”

  To Aleron, her eyes glowed with a wolf’s hunger, but the men around him smiled as if she shone with radiant innocence.

  Aleron schooled his face to hide his emotions. It had always been like this, she the favorite of everyone, worshipped wherever she went. He alone seemed impervious to her charms and unfooled by her pretenses. Yet in being the only one in whom Talia flared annoyance, anger, and disgust, he was forced to conform to others’ adoration of her or be thought petty, jealous, wrathful, or even deluded.

  Not for the first time, Aleron cursed his sister’s magical gifts. He had been too often regaled by the story of their giving to doubt their existence. Even the telling of the tale was enough to flare his annoyance, due as much to the awe the story inspired as the paltry facts it related. He pretended otherwise, of course, pulling his features into an agreeable expression as he tried not to listen to the time-worn tale. Retelling after retelling: how the fey had been eager to show approval of the King’s promise to protect their weird lands and had sent seven fairies as emissaries to his firstborn’s christening. How each of the magical creatures had bestowed a gift on his parent’s newly minted daughter, eliciting gasps of approval and amazement from the crowd of onlookers. Beauty, charm, wit and grace, talents in dance and music. Six gifts, frequently and loudly proclaimed to the prince. The seventh he’d learnt from quiet whispers not intended for his ears. The softening of a curse, so they said, though the King had precautions in place against the curse’s fulfillment. Still, six magical gifts to raise the recipient above all others. No wonder Talia bewitched all those around her—save her younger brother.

  Aleron tasted bitterness, and not for the first time. A pity the fairies hadn’t gifted his sister with kindness, wisdom, charity and modesty, or talents in teaching and healing.

  By the time Aleron had arrived, his parents were too busy with their cherished daughter to overly concern themselves with another child. He supposed he should count himself lucky he hadn’t been similarly attended at his christening. Perhaps the gifts bestowed on Talia were suited to fairy kind, but for a human child … Beloved of all, was it any wonder the princess had grown up careless of others? Self-centered, self-indulgent, impatient, even cruel, how could the fairies not have understood how their gifts would become curses? And why had they cursed him to be unaffected by her, to alone be burdened with seeing her truly?

  Of course, there was also an eighth fairy, or so some said …

  Stefan emerged from the deeper brush, leading Talia’s mare.

  “I have removed the pebble from her hoof and … Oh. Well met, Corbin, but what do you here?”

  Aleron wanted to laugh at the obvious falsity, but in common with all of Talia’s charades, the play-acting was believable to all bar him.

  “Lord Brecht, Her Majesty sends me with news. Prince Eldred and his retinue arrive tonight. The hunting party has turned back early; your presence would be most warmly welcomed at the high table.”

  Aleron was sure Corbin had passed on his mother’s invitation exactly as he had heard the words. Faithful, conscientious, and unimaginative, like so many others the prince had grown up with. So unlike Stefan, his one true friend. Until Talia had captured the earl’s attention.

  “The Red Prince comes?” Stefan asked.

  “He rides even now. Queen Celeste bid me find you three that you may return to the castle with time to prepare for his arrival.”

  “Oh, yes!” exclaimed Talia as she mounted her white palfrey, “I have a new gown in the making; I should yet have time to have it finished.”

  Without another glance at Stefan, she spurred her mare into a canter. Aleron watched clouds gather on his friend’s face. He handed the young earl the bay’s reins before turning to the waiting horsemen.

  “Thank you, Corbin. Would you be so kind as to ride an escort for Her Highness? I think a princess’ preparations more pressing than ours and she is without her lady. We shall follow anon.”

  With a nod, Corbin mounted and the horsemen raced to join Talia—no doubt pleased at the task. Aleron turned to his friend and tousled the young earl’s hair.

  “Come, Stefan, she is as flighty as that bay of yours. Be content with today and let the future take its path.”

  Stefan shook his head. “No, she is true, though she dares not show the depth of her regard. Once I have proved myself to her …”

  He stopped, turning to fiddle with his stirrups.

  “What has she got you doing?” Aleron asked as he mounted, but Stefan refused to be drawn. How could he admit to what she’d offered him? His heart’s desire �
� A terrible promise, if only Stefan would open his eyes. The silence stretched until Aleron broke it.

  “Well, since I can’t leave you to pine on your own, lest that mount of yours throws you, shall we see what spirit the beast possesses? I’ll race you to the stables.”

  “And if I am unseated?” Stefan asked, but his tone was already lighter as he mounted the skittish horse.

  “Now, that would be a poor omen for a determined lover,” Aleron teased, and spurred his dark stallion.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Stefan’s bay bunch itself on its haunches, then launch into a gallop.

  Like two streaks, they flew across the countryside towards a setting sun and the crenulations of the castle. For a brief time, all that mattered was the exultation of the ride. They embraced it with all the joy of youth.

  ***

  Prince Eldred’s stay soon proved as morale-sapping for Stefan as the early portents had warned. The Red Prince’s realm was greater than Aleron’s in both size and splendor and Talia seemed set on finishing the binding of Eldred she’d started when they were children. Every day she wore a new gown of sumptuous fabrics glittering with gold and silver thread or strewn with rubies and pearls. All gasped at the beauty and opulence. Only Aleron begrudged the extravagance.

  Stefan grew morose and dull.

  “Surely ’tis a good day for hunting?” Aleron proposed as Stefan stood watch at the keep’s windows for yet another day.

  “He takes her hawking,” Stefan said, “with but her lady as company.”

  They both knew how willing Talia’s lady-in-waiting was to leave her mistress to tryst. Aleron again tried to distract his friend.

  “The day is warm enough, what say you we take to the lake one last time, before the weather turns?”

  Stefan didn’t acknowledge the proposal.

  “He is constantly at her side, billing and cooing. What chance have I to win her back?”