by Hal Bodner
“Very good,” Patrick said and smiled.
He offered her his arm. She placed hers in his without a second thought. She trusted him. She almost forgot the uncomfortable clothes she wore and how she could barely breathe.
They walked into the hall and everywhere, men and women bowed deep before them. She watched them intently. A familiar song reached her ears. Her stomach dropped and her heart beat faster. The darkness in her mind was complete, but that song was a ray of sunshine that threatened to dispel it. She looked at Patrick’s face. He smiled, but something seemed to be bothering him.
“What’s that music?” she asked.
“It’s one of the most beloved songs in the Kingdom. It can be heard every time there is a celebration. It’s called Helena’s Lullaby.”
“What is it about?”
Patrick told her the story.
“Some years ago, a little girl lived in this palace. Her name was Helena and the whole Kingdom loved her. Her mother, the Queen of these lands, sang this song to her when she was just a baby, to put her to sleep. But the Queen died one day and the little girl was left alone with her father, the King.”
Anne felt a weight she could not explain on her heart. She was happy to be by his side, but the story weighed heavy on her heart. Patrick sensed the change in her and he caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. He removed his hand once he realized they were outside the great wooden door with the golden ornaments. Soldiers stood emotionless on each side. The music, a music that broke her heart, came from behind the door.
“Enough with the stories. It’s time for you to meet the King. He motioned to the guards to open the doors of the great hall.
She stood frozen as the doors opened. She had never seen so many people gathered in one room before. Men and women, in their finest garb, stood everywhere. The women had painted faces and clothes made from the most colorful fabrics. They seemed to float about the room to the pace of the song.
In the center of the room, weird creatures danced their own dance. Tiny people and others with forms and faces that didn’t look human. They were wrong and wild, and unnatural. They hobbled or walked with their hands because they had no legs. Others were stranger still because they wore masks with the faces of animals, trying to hide their own. They wore colorful clothing, as if to call attention to what made them different. They spat fire and jumped through flaming hoops. They yelled and laughed, loud, and made the lords and ladies laugh in turn. They seemed to be the happiest creatures in the hall. As if the King had brought them here to show the nobles, who seemed bored, how to have fun.
One of them came near her and made a white dove appear from one of his sleeves. He wore a mask like a deformed face. She wondered how much worse his real face could be. Patrick put his hand on her shoulder and drew her towards him.
“Don’t be afraid. They’re just jesters and jugglers, they won’t harm you,” he said.
She shook her head. She thought about telling him about how they reminded her of the forest. That creatures like those and even stranger ones slithered among the trees and walked besides her without ever wanting to harm her. Unlike humans, whom she didn’t feel the same about. But she kept silent.
Between the two different worlds in the hall, only one thing stood out. The man who sat high atop the golden throne. Beside him, a little lower, sat a younger man. Women sat at their feet. They were some of the most beautiful Anne saw in the room, and their clothes were different. They showed more of their pale skin and they wore their hair loose and decorated. Some watched the two men with wonder and others stared at the jugglers blankly. They looked sad to Anne.
The man on the throne was fat and appeared to be very bored. They walked towards him until his eyes fell on them. His bored expression changed. His eyes lit up. Patrick knelt before the king and drew Anne down with him. They both bowed. The King motioned them to rise and approach.
“So you are the young lady that came uninvited to my palace?” he asked. She noticed the younger man’s eyes followed her as well. She squeezed Patrick’s hand.
“Her name is Anne,” Patrick said.
“Anne? Like your dead wife?” King Cassius asked, perplexed.
“Lord Patrick chose my name because I cannot remember my own,” Anne hurried to answer.
She stole a glance at Patrick.
He gave me his wife’s name, Anne thought.
“Yes, yes …” the King said. “I will be happy to have you as a guest in my palace, Anne.”
The younger man stood up.
“This is my son, Prince William.”
The man took her hand and kissed it softly. He invited her to sit beside him. Patrick nodded and she sat down.
The song kept on going.
They must really love the princess, she thought.
Now and then, a servant would appear to refill a cup with wine or bring out more food. But the old maid that appeared at the door had no business being there. She walked towards them, never taking her eyes of Anne, as if she had seen a ghost. When she reached the guards, they blocked her path.
Anne could see her eyes. They were a pure blue that seemed to pierce her. She understood the maid wanted to speak to her. She tried to get up, but the Prince took hold of her arm.
“Helena?”
The old blue eyes shed tears. She covered her face and sobbed. Before the guards dragged her away, Anne managed to escape the Prince’s grasp and run down the stairs.
“My name is Anne,” she said, uncertain. She felt bad about using a name she knew was not hers.
The old woman said, “No. You are Helena. You are my little girl. The daughter of King James, the Goldenbearded. Don’t you remember me?” she asked with bitterness in her voice.
“I don’t remember anyone or anything,” she said.
Patrick already stood by her side and Prince William was coming down the stairs. The King looked worried from his throne but soon, he too got up.
“Speak!” said Prince William. “Is it true, what you’re saying?”
“Lords and ladies, I beg your forgiveness, but …” the old woman’s voice trembled. Anne saw in her eyes how afraid she was but also how much she wanted her to be the lost princess.
“There are marks on her body, marks I knew from when she would sit on my lap. Other servants know those marks as well. They know our Helena well too.”
The guards stood aside so Anne could approach the woman and hold her hands. The darkness in her mind seemed to lift, slowly.
“You hear that? It’s your song, my Princess. A hundred days and a hundred nights from when we knew you were dead, the song was heard throughout the kingdom. I am Thea, my girl, your nanny.”
***
There was no reason to wear the dress so tight. No reason to keep her head under a veil. It didn’t matter if she was beautiful or ugly, or if her hair was long or short. Her fate was sealed. She had to marry Prince William. The King must have been really scared, to arrange the betrothal even before being certain she was Helena.
Within a fortnight, she lost everything she had gained that morning, when she had been found in the woods. Patrick did not defend her. She thought he was her friend. But why would she think that? He didn’t see her for who she really was. He only saw his dead wife.
Then there was Thea. When they were certain she was the princess, they took the old woman and the servants who had known her as a child away. To their death.
Why such hate? Such fear?
Yes, fear. Because they should be afraid of you.
The voice in her head made her jump.
It was a pretty room. The walls were a soft white color and the furniture was pretty. Decorated for a woman. Maybe for one of the King’s mistresses. But it wasn’t the Princess’s room, not her room. It stood far from the main palace and the door was secured with a heavy bolt. She was up in a tower and when Helena looked down, she got dizzy from the height, the strong wind that blew through her hair, and the darkness below.
Darkness. Like the one in your mind, the one that swallowed you in the woods, little bird. That’s what father called you, but you didn’t know how to fly. Neither did he.
She held her head and tried to find where the voice was coming from inside her. The voice hurt her and the darkness was no longer dark enough to hide everything. Only a small part remained hidden from her, but that too, was ready to be revealed.
Yes, she didn’t need the veil anymore. It couldn’t hold her hair anyway. She looked out at the night covering the Kingdom outside her window. She walked to it once more and stuck her head out, letting the wind pull at her hair. She was calm.
Nothing will happen to you this time.
She looked at the darkness below and at her golden hair, which now licked the tower’s stone walls. It slithered along like a snake and already grew thicker. Yes, now she knew that even if she fell, nothing would happen to her. Nothing at all.
***
Patrick saw no other solution than to grab her by the arms and shake her. Esme let a small cry escape her but said nothing. He recognized the fear in her face.
“I asked you, how is she? What happened? Did the King order you to not even tell me if she is alive or dead?”
“She is alive, my lord,” she whispered. “She is very much alive.”
“Then what is it?”
She lowered her head and closed her eyes as if she expected to be hit. She leaned over and whispered in his ear.
“Perhaps you should have left her in the forest, M’ Lord.”
Patrick felt his blood boil but said nothing. He wanted to hear what the woman had to say. When he didn’t react, the servant looked at him.
“Her hair, my lord. Her hair …” she said and walked away quickly.
***
The man with the grey beard stood across from her and stared as if she was his next meal. His words were kind, but they would not trick her.
“It had to be done my dear, for your own safety. Imagine how many would have wanted you dead. You are the heir to the Kingdom, you know.”
“I can think of some,” she said quietly. She had nothing to be afraid any more.
He was the one.
“Why are you standing so close to the window? Come here, sit beside me,” he said and patted the bed by his side.
“And the carriage? Why didn’t the soldiers save us back then?”
It was close to sunrise. The wind blew through the window. The morning light had not yet filled the room.
“From what I was told they tried to, but the rocks gave way and they saw you fall over the cliff, to your death.”
Liar. All of them liars.
“And the horses? What spooked them?” her voice broke.
“I do not know. You must know my dear I was miles away. If it was in my hands I would have …”
“Liar! You did this. You killed us!”
Do you remember his eyes Helena? Father’s hazel green eyes. He was afraid for you, not for himself. He held you tight in his arms while you fell. And then…
The King’s eyes glinted. His face was red. He stood and approached Helena. The next thing she felt was a sharp pain on her cheek.
“Watch your mouth, you little whore! I am your King!” he yelled. His face was sweaty.
See? He’s afraid of you. As he should be.
He grabbed her by her shoulders. He looked at her breasts.
“Were you waiting for that useless man, Patrick, to make you his, or did you wear this for me? I’ll show you what it’s like to be touched by a man,” he said and drew her towards him.
He smelled of death.
His death.
“This is why I’m standing by the window.”
His face lost all color and his eyes opened wide from fear.
***
Patrick woke up. It had been a miserable sleep, filled with bad dreams. Dreams he hadn’t seen in a long while. His mind wouldn’t rest. It was his fault and he knew it. He should have taken her away from this place. His heart had whispered to him when he first saw her. He shouldn’t have ignored it.
Women’s screams sounded from far away. His blood froze in his veins. He thought of her. Helena. He had to do something, even if it was too late. He left his room and ran like a madman in the halls.
Something strange is happening, he thought.
He reached a door. It was open and he went through and listened at the base of the staircase. He climbed the steps and unbolted the door separating him from her. He went in.
She stood in front of the window. Her skin pale, almost transparent. His eyes were drawn to her hair. It waved in the wind outside.
My god she’s—
He couldn’t see where it ended. Her hair had grown so long it disappeared out the window. He gazed into her eyes. They were calm, but empty. Perhaps that’s how they’d always been. He just hadn’t noticed.
“Are you a witch?”
Helena shook her head.
“What are you then?”
“Dead.”
Behind her, a golden rope began slithering through the window, into the room. Her endless hair reached his feet and slowly climbed his body like a snake—climbing and twining around him, burrowing into his clothes and mouth. It went as deep as it could. He didn’t scream.
She gazed on calmly, humming a tune.
“Helena’s lullaby, remember? When I fell into the forest’s embrace, I was thinking of my father who held me and the men who killed us. Then I died. But not all of me. Something inside of me just … slept. Thank you for bringing me here, Patrick. Even like this. You woke me up and I will put you all to sleep with my lullaby.”
She watched as life left him. His body was dying but his mind remained. Her eyes changed and turned white. Piece by piece, his mind was blanketed by darkness.
“Now, Patrick, we will all sleep together.”
About the Author
Eugenia Rose was born and raised in Athens. She currently resides in Sweden and she has been writing for five years. She is a writer and illustrator for the Synergy collective that publishes an annual comics magazine. She has had stories published in small press anthologies and magazines in Greece and in the upcoming anthology by Angelic Night Press, “Fairly Wicked Tales.” Fantasy and magic realism are the genres she tends to explore with her stories.
The Wolf Who Cried Boy
A retelling of “The Boy Who Cried Wolf”
Armand Rosamilia
The were-boy was bored. The night was too hot. The sheep wouldn’t stop trying to run away from him. His long hair lay matted to his face and his armpits itched again.
He wished for a breeze. The fields sat aglow with the full moon light, a wonderful occasion for everyone in the community. Only, he got stuck watching sheep; sheep that bleated and kept as far away from him as possible.
Who cared about the sheep? He didn’t even like meat, although his parents kept that fact from the other villagers. A vegetarian were-wolf? Seriously? The were-boy was too young to get involved in the hunts for the humans, too. This bothered him. Not because he had any desire to feast on the vile creatures, but because he wanted to belong. He wanted to be a feared hunter like his father, and his father before him.
Instead … he took a step and wasn’t surprised when the sheep screamed in panic with their annoying voices and ran to the other side of the field, pushed up against the fencing. He never hurt them, but they had the same reaction whenever anyone from the village came near.
While the hunting parties went out, including his older brother and father and uncles, he got trapped doing were-girl work. He knew he was ready to show he could hunt with the best of them. He would capture a lowly human and bring honor to his family, which his father always talked about. He might be the smallest were-boy his age (by far), but he had speed and strength.
The sheep bleated incessantly and he wanted to scream. They suddenly broke as a group and ran right toward him, before gaining their senses and fanning out in all directions. Something
had spooked them.
The moonlight filtering down interfered with his werewolf sight, but he could clearly spot a silhouette on the other side of the fence. Who or what was it? No one from the village would be out this time of night except to hunt, and they always moved north and east and away from this boring area. The penned in area had always been located as far from the village as possible, otherwise the sheep would cry all night.
Unless … maybe the village was under attack? What else could it be?
“Boy! Boy!” he yelled.
Whatever had been casting the shadow ran away but the villagers who weren’t out hunting came running, slavering jaws and ready to attack. The oldest members of the community and the youngest—women and children and old were-men.
“Where?” One of the older were-women, well past her prime to hunt, came up to him and shook him by the shoulders. She sniffed the air. “I don’t smell any boy.”
“He was right there.” The were-boy pointed at the spot he was sure he’d seen the shadow. “He was going to steal our sheep, I’m sure of it.”
They spread out, ignoring the screams from the sheep, and searched the ground inside and outside the fenced in area. Some of them took tentative steps into the forest.
“Nothing,” the old were-woman said with disgust. “You fool.”
“I’m not kidding. I saw something.”
“What did you actually see? The shadow of a sheep, more than likely. You’re out here, goofing off, and you spooked yourself. We give you one easy job to do and you can’t even do that. What’s wrong with you?”
He felt ashamed when the villagers walked away. He knew he’d heard or seen something. How dare they dismiss him so quickly? What if the forest was filled with humans, all coming to kill them? What if, even now, they were out there watching and waiting …
The sheep settled down and he patrolled the fences himself, but didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. Whatever had been out there was now long gone. But he didn’t care. He’d stay alert this night and hope to become a hero. The humans lurked nearby. He couldn’t see or smell them, but he could sense them.
