Fairly Wicked Tales

by Hal Bodner

  A Blue Light Turned Black

  A Retelling of “The Blue Light”

  Wilson Geiger

  I limped into the throne room, apprehensive and nervous. Other soldiers might be called in after war service to receive land, retainers, maybe positions with the King’s Guard. A short year ago I would have counted myself among them, but today I came at my King’s bidding a broken man. Nearly useless, and even if I recovered some of my strength I knew I would never stand in the battle line again.

  Guards lined the narrow strip of carpet leading to the raised dais of the throne. A herald stood nearby, his gaze sweeping over me with disdain.

  Silas sat upon the throne, his countenance stern. He wore little in the way of regality, only leathers and fur across his broad shoulders, the silver crown seeming small on his large brow. His gaze fixed upon me, and I quickly lowered my eyes.

  The men-at-arms stopped at attention while I continued, unforgiving barbs of pain in my leg with every forced step. I silently cursed the scars which would mark me for the rest of my days.

  At last, after a seeming eternity of careful, measured footfalls, I stood at the foot of His Majesty’s throne. Muscle and tendon popped and cried as I awkwardly dropped to one knee, my head bowed in obedience. I prayed I would be able to stand without help.

  “My King, Angerweld Thorne, as Your Eminence requested,” the herald said.

  Silas grunted. “I know who the man is, herald. He has fought and bled for me.” He paused, but I kept my station, my eyes on the step at my lowered knee. “Stand and look upon me, Thorne.”

  My prayers went unanswered. My leg buckled as I fought to rise, and I slumped to the floor in shame. “I cannot, my Lord. My wounds still heal.”

  “Look at me.”

  Silas’s face was hard, his eyes cold. The crown canted forward on his head as he looked down upon me.

  “I no longer require your services,” he said. “I will not pay you for what you can no longer do.”

  I dipped my head. My heart raced, nervous anticipation replaced with a cold dread. “My Lord, I beg of you, the wounds will heal—”

  “No, Thorne, they will not. Cripples have no place in my army, even those with stout hearts such as yours. You know I cannot show weakness in these dark times.” He motioned to his guards.

  Speechless, anger and shame threatened to overtake me. Anger at my Lord’s betrayal, a seething red tide matched only by the shame and disgrace of his dismissal. Used up and thrown out like so much refuse. I felt the blood in my face, the welling tears in my eyes. My eyes locked on his as his guards propped me up on their arms.

  “My Lord, you promised me rewards!” I shouted, ignoring the guards’ fingers digging into my arms. “My faithful service for this? Is this how you repay my blood, the marches, the long days of battle?” I spit the last word out.

  Silas stood, his face red, his brow furrowed. He turned to his herald, one hand pointed in my direction. “Fetch the town crier. No one is to house this man, no one is to feed him.”

  He turned to me then, anger clear on his face. “The law requires death for speaking against the King, Thorne. In light of your faithful service, however, I give you this one chance. Never set foot in Rikkersfell again, or I’ll kill you myself.”

  He sat down on the throne. “Get this man out of my sight.”

  ***

  Mercy is an ill word, said with contempt in some circles, with a meaning very unfamiliar to me.

  Of course I asked all the same, but found none willing. None in town would lodge me, not even for a night. I would not allow myself further shame by trying to find sleep in a dark alley, or under a shop ledge. So I struggled on a hobbled leg, limping past the fringes of town, until at last I reached the outlying forest. The evening sun dipped below the western horizon, drawing shadows across the land.

  Exhausted, fatigued beyond measure, I kept moving, out of stubbornness and the fear that if I fell I’d not be able to stand again. My stomach growled, a frustrating reminder I’d had no food since the morning, before I’d been called to the King.

  The wind picked up as the sun fell, promising a cold night. Chill seeped into my bones, whisked around tree and brush, picked at me as if demanding entrance. My pace slowed, limbs shivering intensely, teeth chattering.

  Despair had settled over me like an ill-fitted cloak when I spotted a faint light through the trees. I gritted my teeth, rubbed my arms, and limped towards the source. A fire maybe, or perhaps the bitter cold taking its final toll, visions before a hard death.

  I rounded a stand of trees and stepped into a clearing. Twenty yards away stood a small cottage, smoke rising steadily out of a pipe on the roof. A single lamp shone in the window.

  Willing my legs into motion, I moved as quickly as I could towards the cottage. My breath rose in sharp bursts, lifted by the bitter, cold air. I knocked on the door with numb fingers, hardly feeling the impact against the wood.

  Expecting a hunter, I stepped back in surprise when the door opened and a thin old woman peered around the edge of the door, her eyes sharp and wary. Her hair, as white as snow, caught the breeze.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “Most sorry to d-disturb you at s-so late an hour,” I said, as the warmth from inside licked at my frozen legs. “I need lodging f-for the night. M-Maybe a small bite of food and water to drink.”

  “No.” She moved to close the door.

  “Please, I’ll die out here,” I said, cringing at the desperation in my voice.

  She paused, a finger drumming against the door. “Very well,” she said with a nod. “One night and some food, and in return you will do a day’s work for me.”

  I didn’t hesitate, nodding my head in hurried agreement.

  ***

  The fire blazed in the hearth, and I sat so close to the flames I feared my tattered clothes might catch fire. My body soaked in the warmth as I leaned my head back, tipping the last of the broth down my throat. I set the bowl beside me, wiping my mouth with a sleeve.

  “Had enough?” the old woman asked. She sat behind me, leaning back against the only chair in the cottage.

  “Yes. My thanks,” I said. Now that my belly no longer grumbled and the chill had fled my body, I considered her earlier words. “You said a day’s work. What is it you wish?”

  “I have a garden, and my tired limbs need rest,” she said. “You are still young and strong, and will grow stronger still. I need you to dig all around my garden tomorrow.”

  For an instant I balked. Surely she had seen my condition, the limp, the crack and pop as my joints moved? A debt was owed, however. I still had my sense of honor.

  “Then I will dig your garden tomorrow, as a debt paid.”

  ***

  Her garden lay behind the cottage, an unexpectedly enormous stretch of soil. I counted the paces as I limped along the edges, the bright morning sun leeching the remaining chill from the air.

  Twenty paces by forty, an imposing stretch of ground to till for a healthy man, let alone one in my current state. I looked at the old woman, who smiled as she dropped a large bucket of water at my feet.

  “Be careful, boy, might be a hot day,” she said, before she turned and headed back to the comfort of her cottage.

  How right she had been. As the sun rose, the air became thick and humid. Sweat seemingly fell from my skin in sheets, my hair a sticky mess. I stopped periodically to drink from the bucket and splash water over my head.

  Back breaking work, my shoulders burning, my leg on fire. Muscles cramped, bones ached, blisters formed on my fingers. My feet were caked in mud and dirt.

  The old woman walked up at one point late in the day. She brought a chunk of bread, and I devoured it, although in truth I wasn’t hungry.

  “It will be evening soon,” she said. “Anyone can see that you will likely not be done by then.”

  I scanned the garden as she spoke. In my fevered effort, I hadn’t realized I’d only finished half the bed of soi
l, the remaining section rough and unturned.

  “I am sorry, lady,” I said. “My wounds must have slowed me more than I knew.”

  She nodded. “The debt isn’t paid. You will have to stay another night.”

  My eyes widened. My stomach clenched at the thought of tilling hard-packed ground into the next day.

  She laughed then, like she knew my thoughts. “Oh no, soldier, I can finish this. But tomorrow, I will need more wood for my stove and fire. I will need you to chop wood, small pieces fit for use in the stove.”

  Feeling I had little choice in the matter, I wearily nodded my assent. I would need to rely on her mercy for one more day.

  Once back in her cottage, I fell fast asleep at nearly the same time my head touched the floor.

  ***

  Spasms and cramps woke me early the next morning. I could barely close my hands into fists for painful blisters and torn skin. The woman had left a large slice of ham and bread by the floor, which I ate with slow, deliberate relish.

  She waited for me outside, standing next to a large woodpile, axe in hand. “All this, soldier, I’ll need cut. You’ve taken shelter, ate my food, please pay this debt.”

  “I will, lady,” I said. Tired, sore, but honor intact, I vowed I would fulfill my duty. “Will you bring water?”

  “Of course,” she said. She handed the axe to me and walked back towards her cottage.

  The wood pile sat underneath a tall oak, several rows long, five or six logs deep in spots. Doubt pricked me like thorns. I eyed the pile with a sense of resignation. Five years ago, maybe. Now? This broken shell wouldn’t last the day.

  Still, I struggled against the task set before me, determined to square my debt. I chopped at thick logs, my blisters peeling anew. I hacked the cut wood into still smaller pieces, and threw them in a new pile. My leg groaned, my back threatened to give, but I cut, over and over, counting each repetitive swing.

  I eventually stopped to rest my broken body, my chest heaving, the shade of the oak scant protection from the sun’s afternoon heat, the new pile still pitifully small.

  “I’ll never finish this,” I murmured.

  “No?”

  I turned in shock. The old woman stood behind me, the bucket of water at her feet.

  “I mean, I need a short rest is all,” I lied. “A hard day’s work, to be certain, for a healthy man.”

  She glanced up at the sky, squinting at the sun. “Only a few hours of daylight left.”

  I nodded, reaching for the bucket of water. “Yes, but don’t worry, I’ll finish. Just a quick rest.”

  She smiled at me, like she knew. I knew, too.

  ***

  I laid back against the wall of her cottage, my leg on fire, my shoulders and arms burnt and all but useless. She poured soup into a bowl from a ladle, handed me the steaming bowl and a wooden spoon.

  “I’m sorry, lady,” I said. And that was a lie, too. I wasn’t sorry, not at all. She had used me up, torn my battered body, forced me to stay longer than I wanted with her impossible tasks. I briefly wondered if maybe I should’ve stolen in the night, killed her, and taken the cottage as my own. Sour thoughts.

  She nodded slowly, her lips pursed. She looked at me after a moment’s thought, appearing like she reached a decision. “One more night, soldier, and one more task with it.”

  “I can take no more, lady, if you mean to have me dig, or chop, or push.” No lie, that.

  She shook her head. “No, no, nothing of the sort. A small effort, really.” She paused to take a sip of her soup. “You’ve seen the well in back?” If she saw me nod, she ignored it. “It’s mostly dry now, but I dropped something in there, a light. I need you to fetch it for me, and then you can be on your way with my thanks, and some food for your travels.”

  “You have light enough, I think.”

  She frowned at me, her arms crossed over her chest. “Your honor, soldier. Does it flee so easily?”

  I swore under my breath. Honor had gained me a broken body and little else. I put the spoon to my lips, cringed as the tip burned my tongue. “Very well, lady. One last task.”

  ***

  She lowered me down slowly, her arms surprisingly strong as she ran the rope through her hands. The well was cool and shaded, and I realized too late I should have asked her how deep the pit went. If anything went wrong down here, I might have found a way to starve after all.

  I held my hands out as I dropped, outstretched fingers sliding over moss-covered rock, the only light from the narrow opening at the top of the well. I counted the rocks as I descended.

  My count stopped when I spotted a faint illumination below, a tinge of blue against the rocks. The source lay against a small mound of damp grass and soil. The light flickered, wavered, but continued to burn brightly. The wet ground seemingly had no effect, and I wondered what sort of flame stayed lit in such dark, sopping conditions.

  “I see it!” I yelled. She must have been excited at my words. The basket suddenly plunged the rest of the way down, which luckily meant only a short fall, less than my own height. The basket landed with a splash, and I nearly toppled over it. My leg shrieked, my arms whined, but I held myself steady against the rounded wall.

  No apology came, and I frowned as I stepped out of the basket. Looking up, she stared down, her face lit with an excited grin. I shook my head, agitated, and scanned the ground for the source of the blue light.

  I trudged my way across wet earth until I stood before the light, my feet soaked. The small flame danced along the wide end of a thin pole, much like a tiny torch.

  Expecting heat when I gripped the pole, I picked it up off the ground. I held my hand over the flame, but didn’t feel any warmth, nor see any smoke. Quite the opposite, a cool breeze washed over my hand, like a trickle of cold water on a hot summer day.

  A magical flame.

  I briefly wondered what the old woman wanted with the light, suspicious thoughts crossing my mind. But I also wanted to be on my way, eager to pay my debt. After a moment’s pause, I stepped back over the lid of the basket, carefully holding the blue flame away from my body.

  “Lady, I have it!” I shouted, holding the flame aloft.

  With a shrill cry, she immediately set to pulling me up. The basket jerked and creaked with every swing of her arms, and the rope swung wildly with the force she applied to the task. I had to use my free hand to push off from pitted rocks as the basket swung dangerously close to the wall.

  As I edged closer, she grew more frantic. I worried that she might lose her hold in her excitement, and I would plummet to the bottom again, dashed against the wall or falling in a broken heap.

  Finally I neared the opening. Her eyes widened at the sight of the blue flame. It danced in my hand, caught up in a breeze of its own design, weaving and flashing. Still I felt no heat, only a cool touch, like dipping sweaty fingers in a fresh spring.

  The old woman held the rope with a firm grip and reached out for the light with her other hand. “Quickly, boy, give it to me!” she cried.

  She meant to kill me. I knew without hesitation, cold certainty, she meant to drop me. She would hold on only until she had the blue light in her possession, and once she had secured her precious flame, she’d let go of the rope. She would leave me to die in her well.

  I snatched the light away from her searching fingers. “You’ll have the light, lady, once I have both feet firmly on the ground.”

  Her eyes blazed in a flash of anger, her mouth open in a soundless scream. She let go of the rope.

  My scream echoed off the rock walls, loud enough to wake the dead.

  ***

  I was surprised to find I still lived. The soft ground at the bottom of the well dampened my fall. I rolled out of the basket, sore and hurting, but no worse than I had been before. The end of the rope fell in a twisted sprawl at my feet. I peered upwards, but the old hag had disappeared.

  Alive, but no way out now, no escape from the pit I found myself in. I yelled for hel
p, shouted mad curses as I tried to force my way up the slick walls. I found no purchase. I swore to Gods that no longer existed, to those whose names I remembered with only the barest of knowledge, but in the end my cries only served me a raw throat.

  Exhausted beyond measure, my mind in a daze, I sat down heavily and felt a hard poke at my side.

  My pipe. I had nearly forgotten I even had the thing, stuffed in a pocket, the smallest trace of tobacco packed inside. A gift, years ago, before the war started. Before the life I wanted had been taken and plundered, tossed aside when Silas discarded my broken body.

  I pulled the pipe from my side pocket, and moved to snap the shaft in two. A useless trinket now, a symbol of a past life, gone forever, tossed down a dank well like so much trash. Oh, what mercy had done for me.

  Frowning, simmering, my fingers white as I gripped the pipe, I eyed the blue flame, which had fallen into the wet mush near the cracked basket.

  “To hell with this, I’m getting a smoke.”

  The flame lit the pipe with ease and I puffed, determined to the burning sensation as I inhaled, then exhaled thin clouds with practiced heaves. The tobacco crackled inside the pipe, and soon a ring of pale smoke obscured the walls of the old well.

  “Your command, my Lord?”

  I was right in the middle of another deep pull from the pipe and nearly coughed up my insides.

  A small thing stood in front of me. Hard to describe at first, the creature lacked features, details unseen thanks to the covering smoke. Black, with a human shape, but a sense of wrongness emanated from the creature.

  Its tiny face twisted, and I watched eyes, as black as its skin, widen. “Your command, my Lord?” the creature asked again, its expression strange and unreadable.

  “W-What do you mean?” I managed to stutter in reply.

  “I must obey your commands and do your bidding,” the thing said, its tone matter-of-fact.