A Christmas Brothel: A Set of Canterbury Christmas Tales

by Kate Pearce

  Rhiannon hesitated, her gaze drawn to the front of the room where she would be on display. As the brothel proprietor had saved her from the streets, it was the least she could do.

  “As you wish.”

  She took her place, clasped her hands together at her waist, drew in a deep breath, and began to sing.

  “Yr eneth gadd ei gwrthod…”

  At some point, someone began to accompany her on a Welsh harp. She relaxed into the song until she uttered the last mournful note and found everyone in the room had gone quiet. One of the prostitutes was even wiping away a tear.

  “What a beautiful song, my dear,” Frau Klaus called out. “Can you tell us what it is about?”

  Rhiannon smiled tremulously. “It’s titled ‘The Rejected Maiden.’ It’s about a young girl who finds herself pregnant out of wedlock. She’s thrown out by her family, ostracized by her community, and finally drowns herself in the river, asking not to be remembered by anyone at all.”

  “That’s…” Frau Klaus tried to smile. “Rather sad. Do you know any other, happier songs, my dear?”

  Rhiannon shook her head, guiltily aware that she had now taken the smiles off everyone’s faces.

  “I know one.” A ripple of harp music followed the softly spoken words.

  Rhiannon spun around to the harpist who had accompanied her song. She could barely make him out in the shadows beside the fireplace. All she could see were his long, slender fingers, the silver gilt of his hair, and the gleam of his sharp teeth.

  “Please, go ahead, sir.” Frau Klaus gestured at the man to continue as Rhiannon sank down onto the floor, her gaze fixed on the melodiously voiced stranger.

  “Although, my dear hostess, I must confess that it is less of a song and more of a tale of ancient times and a prayer for the future.”

  He paused to pluck an opening chord, and the room settled down to listen.

  “Once upon a time there was a place called Parc-y-meirw, Field of the Dead. Named for a battle fought by warriors long gone, their blood staining the ground, their souls…” He paused. “…if they believed in such things, returned to the earth from whence they came. Flowers sprung up white and pure red and gold around a hollowed-out spring where some say their spirits still lingered…”

  Rhiannon drank in every syllable that echoed each eerie note of his harp.

  “But this is not a sad story of loss, now is it?” His smile revealed his slightly pointed teeth. “Because as time passed, the spring remained, and eventually a church was built alongside it. Soon the good people whispered their prayers and wishes, their doubts, their curses, their everything into the small echoing cavern where the water flowed ever onward.

  And they left ribbons tied to the hazel boughs, trinkets, and bribes, threats, and promises until the stream almost disappeared under the weight of all their demands and cares and expectations…”

  He paused to breathe and the whole room breathed with him.

  “But a good man, a holy man, came to bless the church one Christmas. He breathed new life into the overburdened water spirit, cleansed the water, and set it free again. In gratitude, the water rose up to greet him and shone like a well-polished silver shield reflecting his goodness and illuminating the darkest corners of the ancient shrine.”

  The singer paused to look up at his audience. “Such is the power of good in our world.”

  Frau Klaus nodded, her gaze sweeping over her unexpected guests.

  “And what did he see in the mirror?” Rhiannon blurted out.

  For a moment the singer stared down at her, and she couldn’t move, trapped in the strange feral silver of his gaze that reminded her of a fox she’d once seen in the undergrowth.

  “He saw what he wanted to see, bach. And when he left, the spring remained dormant all year until the night before Christmas when it rose again, and shone true and clear, offering those who sought such things a mirror into their own desires.”

  “You mean it answered questions like an oracle?” Frau Klaus asked.

  “The spring could not speak, ma’am. It could only show you a vision. Now, many crowded around the spring to try out its powers, and many came away angry with what they had not seen.”

  He paused. “The truth is sometimes hard to accept.”

  Several of the guests nodded in sympathy.

  “The spring faded in the minds of those who craved only power or wealth, and was visited by people who desired more intimate knowledge.” He chuckled. “Eventually, it was only the village youth who’d gather as the church clock struck midnight on Christmas Eve to ask the stream who their true love might be...”

  He paused to strum a new, lighter, rippling chord. “Such a simple question, such a true thing to ask without demanding anything except the desire to be loved…” He smiled out over the assembled guests. “Because, surely that is the purest thing there is? To ask the spring to show you your lover in the reflection of the water?”

  “But what if their lover was standing right alongside them and was reflected back?” Mr. Richland asked.

  The harpist shrugged. “Then the spring is not lying, is it?”

  A ripple of laughter swept the room.

  “So it is a fake?”

  “No sir, because those who came alone often saw the faces of passing acquaintances or even complete strangers.” He smiled. “Strangers who would one day become their lovers as the spring dealt not only in the promise of love, but in that most precious of emotions—hope.”

  Rhiannon hugged her knees and buried her face in the coarse fabric of her gown. She had no hope. She couldn’t go home again. Her future meant staying in the brothel or trying to find work without a reference. She swallowed hard. Maybe it would be better for everyone if she followed the example of the girl in the song and simply allowed herself to disappear forever.

  A discordant clash of notes marred the perfection of the harp’s flowing melody. She looked up to find the man staring at her. He slowly shook his head.

  “Hope never dies, and, as long as the sacred spring flows, lovers will still be united on Christmas Eve, and the world will be a better, happier place because of it.”

  “Have you been to this mystical spring yourself, sir?” Frau Klaus inquired.

  “Indeed I have.”

  “And did you meet your true love there?”

  “Aye, I saw her face.” His smile was beautiful. “Which is how I know my story is true.”

  He struck a final chord with a grand flourish and bowed his head as his listeners clapped their hands.

  Rhiannon bolted for the kitchen and, finding it still crowded, let herself out into the yard behind the house. She gulped in a breath and tried to ignore the shock of the freezing air.

  “Did my song not please you, bach?”

  She gasped and spun around to find the harpist perched on top of the garden wall. She could see him more clearly now in the moonlight. His hair was long and tied at the nape of his neck with a scarlet ribbon, and his clothes were…

  Rhiannon blinked as she tried to focus on his body, which appeared to be shimmering.

  “Why can’t I see you properly?” she blurted out.

  “An excellent question.” He jumped down to stand beside her and took her hand. His skin was icy and his fingers as slippery as melting icicles. “Perhaps because I underestimated how hard it would be to find you.”

  “I don’t understand.” She focused on his eyes, which held all the colors of the sea in them. “Did someone send you to find me?” He shrugged and she kept talking. “Is that why you seem so familiar?”

  “I do?” His smile lit up his face. “Ah, progress indeed.”

  “Did my father find you?” Rhiannon wouldn’t allow herself to be put off. She had nothing to lose at this point in her existence. “Will he let me come home?”

  His smile rapidly died. “I’m sorry. I don’t know your father.”

  “Then I can never go home.” Her voice wavered, and her eyes filled with tears. “Perhaps I
should stay here and learn to accept my new station in life.”

  “In a brothel?” he asked, with a frown. “Is that what you truly desire?”

  “What I desire is for the past to be altered so that I don’t meet that scoundrel,” Rhiannon countered. “But even your magical spring can’t offer me that.”

  “It can offer you so much more…” He angled his head to one side and studied her. “Look at me.”

  “How can I when your visage shifts and sways like a reflection?” Rhiannon asked. She flicked the flowing lace at his cuff. “When your clothes drip water as if you have just emerged from the river?”

  “Surely better to come out of the river rather than throw yourself in it like that poor girl in your song?”

  Rhiannon turned away from his beguiling voice and walked farther down the garden, her gaze seeking the barren trees beyond where there was a stream. Would it be deep enough? Would she have to crack the ice to access her watery grave?

  “That is not the way.”

  His fingers closed on her elbow, and she gasped as coldness settled into the very marrow of her bones.

  “That is my choice, sir, not yours.”

  He studied her, his expression unreadable. “I will take you to where there is sufficient water for your purposes.”

  “You…will?”

  His slow smile made everything inside her go quiet, and she couldn’t look away.

  “Where is your harp?” she blurted out.

  “Why does it matter?”

  “Because I don’t understand anything about you,” she rushed to speak.

  He pointed at a strap that ran diagonally across his chest. “It is safely anchored on my back. And what is there to understand?” He smiled again. “You either come with me, or you stay here at the brothel and accept your fate.”

  He held out his hand.

  “I don’t even know your name,” Rhiannon blurted out.

  He considered her, his eyes dancing with amusement. “What name would you like to call me? I have many.”

  She raised her chin, her arms crossed around her waist. “You are a trickster, a riddler, a knave.”

  “Close enough.” His soft laugh cut through the still air like a knife blade. “I have certainly been called all those things.”

  “Then how could you possibly think I would trust you?”

  He sighed. “Ah, there’s the rub. Why indeed?”

  Rhiannon spun away from him, and this time he didn’t follow her.

  Her breath condensed in the cold air as she studied the back wall of the garden. She wanted to take his hand and let him take her wherever he wished. Turning around, she looked back at the lighted rooms of the brothel where everyone appeared to be having an excellent Christmas Eve despite the snow and the disruption to their plans. If she disappeared, she wouldn’t be missed until the next morning, if at all.

  Could she stay there? Learn a trade under the competent and kindly eye of a woman who would surely never allow a patron to hurt her? Rhiannon’s gaze fell to the man who waited patiently in front of her as the snow fell silently around them.

  “Come with me.” He held out his hand again.

  She swallowed hard and took one small step toward him. A loud burst of laughter from the house startled her, and she instinctively looked up.

  “Perhaps we might try this a different way,” her companion murmured.

  He strode back toward the house, pausing near the backdoor beside an open-topped barrel that held rainwater running off the roof. He used his sleeve to remove the snow gathered on the surface, revealing the ice beneath.

  “Look in here.”

  “Why?” Rhiannon raised her eyebrows.

  “Because it is Christmas Eve, and perhaps if you look into the ice you will see your true love?”

  “I have no true love,” Rhiannon stated firmly.

  “Please?”

  With a sigh, she stepped forward and stared into the mirrored surface of the ice where her own distorted image looked back at her.

  “What do you see?” her companion whispered in her ear, his breath as cold as a northerly wind.

  “Myself.”

  “And what else?”

  She narrowed her eyes, and focused on the image behind her. “You, of course.”

  “And if I step back?”

  Her breath caught in her throat. “Still you. How can that be?” She peered even closer, standing on tiptoe, her cold fingers gripping the edge of the barrel. “And you look…perfect. More perfect than you actually are here in this yard.”

  She turned slowly to stare at him, and he swept her an elaborate bow. “What is going on?”

  “As I said. It was…difficult to find you.” He shrugged. “What with all the snow and ice constricting me.”

  Rhiannon licked her frozen lips. “What are you?”

  “Don’t you know?” This time he didn’t smile. “I’m the rain clouds above your head, the stream flowing silently beneath your feet, the torrent of a waterfall roaring over a cliff.”

  “Llyr…” Rhiannon whispered. “The god of the sea.”

  His mouth kicked up at the corner. “Or sometimes just ysbyd dwr, a water spirit who is very far from home, bach.”

  “And what would a god want with the likes of me?” Rhiannon demanded.

  “To give me life.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He sighed. “I’ve waited centuries to find you. I’d almost given up hope of ever seeing your face until one day I heard you singing across the valley, and everything changed.” He took a step toward her, his hand outstretched. “I lost you once again to that deceiver, and I despaired until I tasted the salt of your tears.” He rubbed his fingers together. “And here I am.”

  “This makes no sense,” Rhiannon said desperately. “You are a man of fairy tales and falsehoods attempting to beguile me.”

  “I am a man of many tales, several of them about me, but I exist. You can see me standing here in front of you, aye?” He spread his arms wide. “Asking you to believe in me—to love me.”

  “And what happens if I don’t?”

  He glanced up at the snow. “I’ll return to that other place where I can no longer sustain this form and become part of the whole again.”

  “If you are indeed a god,” she said with a sniff, “I doubt such an existence is too painful.”

  He went still. “It is…different.” He showed her his upturned hand. “You know how water slips through your fingers and is impossible to keep?”

  Rhiannon nodded.

  “Imagine being that—never being held, always flowing ever onward.” A muscle moved in his jaw as he turned his hand over and let it fall to his side. “Imagine never being with someone you love.”

  “I’ve already lost everyone I love,” Rhiannon reminded him.

  “Then why not take a chance on me?” he coaxed. “If you choose to love me, you will never be alone again.”

  “And what exactly will I be?” Rhiannon asked. “Human or spirit? We’ve all heard the tales of being taken by the Fae and never returning.”

  “I cannot answer your questions because I have never wanted to be more than I was.” He shrugged. “But if we love each other, and exist together, then surely we can choose our own bodily form?”

  “And flow with the rivers?”

  He smiled. “You were the one offering to throw yourself into one. Why not do it with me and come out unscathed?”

  “Would I be able to see my family again?” she asked hesitantly.

  “If there is water near them, you can be there.” He shrugged. “You can keep an eye on them even if you cannot assume your true form.”

  Rhiannon thought about that. “How old are you?”

  “Old.” He winked at her. “Immortal.”

  “And I would share that?”

  “Aye.”

  Rhiannon spun in a slow circle, her gaze passing over the garden gate, the silent man in front of her, and stopped at the brothel.r />
  “What about Frau Klaus?”

  He snapped his fingers, and the back door to the house opened to reveal the brothel keeper.

  “Rhiannon? Did you call me?”

  Rhiannon reached out and took the god’s hand. “Thank you for everything, Madame, but I am leaving tonight.”

  Frau Klaus blinked at the shimmering form beside her. “Rhiannon…”

  “Come, my goddess.” His voice deepened like a wave crashing onto the shore. “Come my strong one, my beloved, my all.”

  She smiled as he wrapped his cloak around them both, and Frau Klaus disappeared behind a wall of frozen water. Liquid flowed through Rhiannon’s veins, making her gasp and clutch at his chest. She was underwater, she was in a raincloud, and she was part of that stream that nourished him. The whole universe now lay at her feet. She shuddered with the power of it and turned to kiss him, fusing their mouths together as he whispered her name.

  The last thing she remembered before she ceased to be part of the earth and became one with the water was the sonorous tolling of the church bells announcing it was Christmas Day.

  We’ll Have Ourselves a Merry Little Christmas

  Rose Gordon

  “Paul, where are we?” asked Liberty Grimes as her eyes fluttered open.

  “Your guess would be as good as mine,” replied her husband. He used his index finger to pull back the edge of the heavy, blue curtain that hung over the coach’s window. “It’s as dark as the night out there.”

  “Perhaps because it is night,” Liberty suggested, trying to disguise her annoyance. It wasn’t his fault they were still trapped in this velvet-lined rolling box, after all.

  “Perhaps,” Paul allowed, releasing his hold on the curtain.

  Liberty stifled a yawn and wiped the sleep from her eyes. “Perhaps—”

  The coach jolted suddenly, then swayed, nearly flinging Liberty to the floor.

  Paul’s large hands clasped onto her shoulders to stay her. “Are you all right?” He pulled her next to him to steady her.

  “Yes.” She licked her lips and tried to calm her nerves as the heat of his large, imposing body all but scorched her skin. She eyed him from under her lashes. Did he feel it too?