Chronicle Worlds: Feyland

by Samuel Peralta

  Here come the idiots

  One by one,

  Pop ‘em in the truth oven,

  Until they’re done.

  The cow came over anyway. Wrinkling his nose in distaste, because the cow smelled like a cow, Sam milked her in quick jerks. She raised a hind leg, kicked the bowl away, and fled to another part of the field. With a string of curses, he retrieved the bowl, sang the “Here come the idiots” song, watched the fool cow return, and again began to milk her. Perspiration began to trickle down his neck.

  “Nice touch, making the players sweat in the sun,” he said.

  He half-filled the bowl and set it aside because the smell of warm milk nauseated him. The cow looked at him with her gentle brown eyes. He picked up his sword, slaughtered her where she stood, and carried the wooden bowl back to the creature who waited in front of the cottage.

  “Ah, thank you!” the thing cried when it saw the bowl.

  “Here,” Sam said. He dumped the bowl of milk onto the creature’s head. The creature looked up at Sam with a stunned expression. Tears began to roll down his face, mingling with the rivulets of spilled milk. He tried to lap the milk with his thick black tongue.

  “The programmers must have expected some players to dump the milk on your head,” Sam said. “I’m not surprised. With that bowl on your head, you look better.”

  The creature continued to cry. “Milksop,” Sam said, pleased at his own joke.

  * * *

  In the Realm of Faerie, members of the Dark and Bright Courts observed the headless mushrooms, the dead cow lying in a spreading circle of blood, and the tears on the face of the creature who had asked for milk. They observed Sam Sammish, who seemed to be distracted by something. He was not at that moment entirely in Feyland.

  Without consultation, because they could read each other’s minds on this particular subject, the Bright King and the Dark Queen met high on a green hill between their two courts. Clouds moved quickly across the face of the sun, casting them in and out of shadow.

  “Sister,” the Bright King said to the Dark Queen, “I would like to make some mischief with this one. Shall we let him in?”

  “Brother,” said the Dark Queen to the Bright King, “I could use this one’s bitter mortal essence. I say yes.”

  They spoke to the creature on the cottage doorstep, who brightened a bit and gave Sam a crooked smile. Sam watched as the creature raised a hand to trace an elaborate path in the air, as if painting something Sam could not see. A ghostly pathway appeared, leading into a gray forest. Sam headed out to victory over Feyland.

  * * *

  Sam hoped to find another circle of mushrooms. Killing that first group had been fun. A plant can’t run away from you, or cry aloud when it loses its head. However, the forest he entered had no Amanitas or any other kind of be-headable fungi. It was entirely bleached of color. Trees, brush, flowers, sky, and grass all were shades of gray. The air smelled like dead leaves and mud. He severed some gray blossoms from their stems and some twisted gray tree limbs from their trunks, but that was not too entertaining.

  Sam did not see any obvious path forward, nor did anything appear to challenge him. “Get on with it,” he said to Feyland. “I knew this game was stupid, but I didn’t expect it to be boring, too.”

  As if responding to his command, glowing lights appeared and beckoned him forward. Getting closer, Sam observed that at the center of each light was a delicate fairy. Of course, he thought, fairy lights. “Turn on your brights and step on the gas,” he said to them. “I want to finish this game sometime tonight.”

  The fairies raced ahead and he galumphed behind under the weight of the silver full-body armor. His back hurt. His legs ached. Sweat trickled down inside his armor and drove him crazy.

  Breathing hard, he caught up to a pair of laggard fairies. Because he was angry, he knocked them to the ground with his sword. They lay on their backs staring up at him with their great eyes. He was about to finish them off when they vanished. In their place appeared a female creature even more hideous than the male one on whom Sam had dumped the milk.

  She was, first of all, grotesquely fat. In one hand she held a joint of meat, on which she gnawed with enthusiasm. In the other hand she held a tankard brimming with a pale amber liquid, from which she drank when she was not making a pig of herself with the joint. Three black hairs protruded from a large mole on her face, which was creased and wrinkled like an old boot. She wore a skirt and blouse so dirty that Sam could not tell what color they were meant to be. In a few places, the seams had given way, exposing rolls of fat.

  Typical fat woman, Sam thought. She gets her clothes too small thinking that will make her look thinner. He called up the background information to find out what challenge she would present and how to answer it.

  But there was nothing on her at all.

  “Damn freelancers,” Sam muttered. He would dock their pay for that. He would dock their pay for not telling him about the gray forest, too. At this rate, they would get nothing at all. This, at least, was a pleasing notion.

  “Tell me what to do next,” he said to the woman, “or feel my blade on your neck.” He waved his sword in her face. She smiled, showing her bad teeth.

  “Here’s a riddle for you,” she said. “What’s got a hide like steel, a heart like a cinder, and no brains at all?”

  “You mean me,” Sam said. He had been attacked like this before. Still, it was odd that a character in a computer game knew how to recite the standard criticisms leveled against him by wimps and losers. It was as if she had researched him.

  “Do you think I care about your opinion?” he said. “You are the ugliest woman I have ever seen.”

  The woman then did a strange thing. Setting down the joint and tankard of ale, she walked over to the nearest tree and began to climb it, not as an ordinary person would but as one who could defy gravity. She trod straight up the tall trunk, perpendicular to the forest floor. With a heave of revulsion, Sam saw that the soles of her feet had suckers on them. The woman walked up and down the trunk several times, apparently thinking about something.

  Abruptly, she pulled her suckered feet free of the tree trunk and jumped down. She walked straight up to Sam, coming so close he could see the bad capillaries on her nose and smell her sour breath.

  “Go away,” she said. She flicked her fingers and a golden path appeared in the gray forest.

  “Where does it go?” Sam asked. “I assume gold is good.”

  “A smart man like you shouldn’t worry about that. It’s just a game, isn’t it?”

  The woman levitated a few inches off the ground and took off at high speed. As if she piloted a floating grav-car, she zoomed and zipped among the trees and was soon out of sight.

  Sam thought, then regretted thinking, that the gray forest reminded him of death. Shaking off a feeling of uneasiness, he lit out for the golden path.

  Quickly, the world turned green and gentle, and the air sang with music. Sam admitted that the tunes were pleasant. They helped him relax and forget that playing this game was a waste of his precious time. He began to look about him, and saw playhouse-sized houses that were detailed, intricate, and individual in their artistry.

  A house did not have a single porch, but two or three porches, one for every floor. The porches did not just have railings, but carved railings painted in every color of the rainbow. Sam noted particularly one porch with six curved archways that had cutouts and spiraling decorations. From the tops of each archway hung six potted fern plants, and each differed from the other. In the front yard was a garden in full bloom. Sam stopped to examine the plants and found that they, too, were individual. Even the flowers on a single plant did not look entirely alike.

  He kept walking, past a house as elaborate as a castle with its towers and turrets, and a whitewashed house with a brick chimney from which came wisps of smoke. The forest stretched before him in all directions. Although he sensed that he was being watched, no characters came out to cha
llenge him.

  This forest must have cost a fortune in programmers’ salaries and overtime. Sam wondered what the point was. He checked the Feyland background material: no information about this level of the game. He decided then and there to reduce the freelance researchers’ pay to zero. Let them whine their heads off; they would not get a penny from him. The only person who had done work worth paying for was the geek who hacked the Full-D sim system to enable him to access the background view in the first place. What was that geek’s name? Encito? He could stay on staff.

  The golden path led on and on and on, past more houses as fantastic as the first ones and gardens riotous with color and form, each one unlike all the others. The strange, hypnotic music continued.

  Something was wrong. This was not how Feyland was supposed to work.

  It was with honest relief that Sam finally saw fairy lights like the ones he had seen before. This time he decided it would be imprudent to hurt them. He followed the lights until he found himself in a circle of gold, copper, and silver trees. In the center of the circle was a gold throne on which was seated a gold man wearing a crimson robe. Around him a great many creatures were making merry.

  Sam remembered enough about the background material to know that he was in the Bright Court before the Bright King.

  “Sam Sammish,” the Bright King said, “Do you believe in me?’

  “Is that a riddle?” Sam asked, wondering how the Bright King knew his full name.

  “No,” the Bright King said.

  “You are lines of code,” Sam said. “Impressive, I admit, like your forest.”

  The Bright King said something Sam could not hear. Around Sam’s armored feet appeared a dozen spotted puppies with long ears and enormous paws. One bit his right foot and took the armor off as cleanly as a can-opener takes off a lid. Sam stared down at his naked white foot and at the teeth of the puppy, which were sharp as razors and, obviously, much stronger.

  “Have at him,” the Bright King said.

  All twelve puppies leapt upon Sam, gnawing his armor with glee. When he fell trying to escape, it was short work for them to remove the shining silver metal in jagged pieces. The puppies played with the scraps as other puppies play with chew toys. Tugs-of-war broke out all around Sam, who sat on the ground wearing long red underwear with an unbuttoned drop seat.

  “Very funny,” Sam said, regarding his red-clad self. “Har-de-har-har.”

  “Puppies!” commanded the Bright King, “Let our honored guest rise.”

  The puppies scattered. Sam got to his feet and fastened the drop seat of his underwear. “I suppose there are game scenarios where the Knight loses his armor,” he said. “The programmers had to put something under it, or the game wouldn’t be rated for all ages.”

  “Sam Sammich,” said a colorfully dressed little man with an annoying grin on his face. “We are not done with you.” He shoved Sam toward the throne of the Bright King.

  Sam stumbled into a cunning loop of rope and found himself hoisted skyward. “Oh [expletive deleted],” he yelled as he dangled by one leg upside down. Back in the mortal world in Full-D sim, he was dizzy and disoriented. He could do nothing as various creatures gathered around to bat at him as if he were a piñata.

  “Just a game!” they cried as they swatted him. He spun around, not slowly, and added nausea to his list of discomforts.

  “Just a game! Just a game!”

  “What do you think of Feyland now?”

  Sam tried to abort the game, but he was not adroit while spinning around upside down in space wearing long red underwear, so he could not. He heard a slashing noise, as of a sword cutting rope, and fell to the ground. For a moment, all went dark. When he regained his senses, he saw a wondrous sight:

  The most beautiful girl in the world stood before him. She had long blonde hair with wispy bangs and wore a crown of flowers that matched her ankle-length dress, which was fringed in white feathers. Her feet were bare. She looked at Sam calmly, as if she could see straight through him. She seemed to be a pure, clear band of consciousness, meeting a pure, clear band of consciousness within him. Sam had not believed until that instant that he had a soul, but she changed his mind. “Oh,” he said.

  In one arm, she cradled a fold of her dress. Looking at her belly, Sam realized that she was pregnant. He felt both hot and cold.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  The girl considered the question for a few moments. “Fay,” she said.

  “You are expecting a baby,” Sam said. Speaking those words aloud felt like broken glass in his throat.

  “Aye, soon.”

  But you belong to me, he wanted to cry. In desperation he fell back on the observation that she carried a few extra pounds not attributable to her pregnancy. However, this did no good; he loved her, he wanted her.

  As he gazed up at her, she shape-shifted into the ugly hag he had met in the forest. Fat, warty, and wrinkled, she looked upon him with the same calm, soul-piercing gaze as before.

  “You did not see me as I am,” she said. “Now, you will see me no more in this world.”

  She again became the beautiful girl of Sam’s dreams, then vanished. Alone and stunned, Sam knelt in his red underwear in the court of the Bright King.

  “It is time you met my sister,” the king said.

  The world swam in darkness. Sam woke, still in red underwear and on his knees, in a midnight-colored world. On a throne made of gnarled vines sat a woman whose beauty inspired terror rather than attraction. She looked down at Sam with black eyes as deep and fathomless as the ocean. Bonfires blazed purple in the shadows. Creatures danced about, but not in a way that implied invitation to join them.

  Sam heard a laugh that caused his heart to flutter like a trapped bird. All the cruelty of the world was in it. He knew that the horrible sound came from nearby on his right, but Sam would not turn to see who or what could laugh like that. He did not have to turn around. The Black Knight, faceless behind his black armor, stepped directly in front of Sam and laughed again.

  With the last of his strength, Sam tried again to quit the game. He was right side up now, he should be able to do it with ease. But he couldn’t. It was as if he were being prevented from leaving Feyland. He remembered the mocking words so recently thrown at him, “Just a game?”

  “Fool,” said the Dark Queen. “If a great wave were approaching, you would stand on the shore proclaiming you did not believe in great waves while all the animals ran for the hills.”

  She moved her hand as if in sign language. Before Sam stood every Feyland creature whom he had wronged: the cow he had slaughtered, the creature on whom he had dumped the bowl of milk, the fairies he had injured, and even the red and white-spotted Amanita mushrooms he had beheaded.

  Sam looked for Fay. Not there.

  “I won’t waste a riddle on you,” the Dark Queen said, raising a crystal sphere high above her head. Sam watched her make more sign language gestures, every movement causing silver tracings to appear in the darkness. Her pale fingernails looked like claws.

  She pointed at him, and he reeled in agony. The pain in his chest felt like death. “Oh God,” he cried as he fell to the floor.

  “You don’t believe in God,” remarked the Dark Queen

  Sam rolled this way and that, clutching his chest. A crescent moon cast faint light on his contorted face. Candles flickered. Goblins and wraiths gathered round to watch and wait.

  “Now,” the Dark Queen said with a wicked smile. “Look up and behold a tiny sliver of your mortal essence that I have trapped for my own use.”

  Sam saw a small flame twisting helplessly within the crystal sphere the queen held aloft. It seemed to be made of many colors, although they were dark and subdued. Even in his pain, he wondered about that. He had colors inside him?

  “Bitter,” the queen said. “I am pleased.”

  This cannot be happening to me, Sam thought. I have a vid show. I have a website. I have fans who hang on my every word.<
br />
  The Dark Queen’s laughter chilled his blood.

  “Sam Sammish,” she said, “With this I curse you: The woman named Fay will come to you in dreams, day and night. You will long to return to her. But if you try, you will find the way to the Realm of Faerie blocked by flaming swords.”

  The gold light that swirled around Sam hurt like a burn. He cried out one word, “Water,” before he fell unconscious in the sim chair.

  When he woke up, his chest felt empty and cold. He ached from head to toe. He no longer felt like a man.

  The helmet. The gloves. He had to take them off. Pain shot through his arms as he struggled to lift the helmet from his head. Wincing, he peeled the gloves from his hands. There was a large bruise on the back of his left hand. His right little finger did not work right.

  On his hands and knees he found his bedroom. He slept for eighteen hours and woke up thinking he was a little better. However, the room went round and round when he tried to get out of bed. His stomach heaved with nausea. He crawled to the bathroom and crawled back again.

  When his secretary Robin called to ask what was going on, he said he was sick with flu. No, there was nothing she could do for him. No, he didn’t need to see a doctor. That afternoon Fay came to him in a lucid dream. She looked just as she did before, same long flowered dress, same soulful gaze. “You complete me,” Sam said, tears running down his cheeks. “How can you not be mine?”

  The dream ended. The wounded place in Sam’s chest throbbed with pain. He lay in his sour bed, afraid to fall asleep again.

  For several weeks, viewers who tuned into Things That Are Wrong saw reruns.

  However, people can survive with missing parts, sometimes many of them. Sam’s bruises healed, and the nausea went away. The painful emptiness in his chest became a routine feeling. He began to eat real meals again and sleep regular hours. However, he could not return to Things That Are Wrong. He tried, but the hurtful words he once said with relish now died on his tongue.

  His quitting the show did not much trouble the advertisers. They found someone to take his place within two days. Sam was glad. The show did not matter. The show had never mattered.