by Bret Allen
The Firebird
…and Other Extracts from Strange Matters
By Bret Allen
www.bretallen.info
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Cover art by Ryan Salazar Acosta
R.S.A. Artworks Studio
Belligerent Madness font by P.D. Magnus
www.fontmonkey.com
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Copyright 2013 Bret Allen
Table of Contents
Introduction
The Firebird
British Gods
Thornback
Saturday’s Child
More
My special thanks to:
Mum, for all your support and everything else.
Becki, for helping and listening and being patient.
My other family and friends and those somewhere in between, for encouraging me and making life interesting.
Basil Reginald Jones, for all the things that I never thanked you for enough. Rest in peace.
“These things are sent to try us.”
Introduction
The Firebird, British Gods, Thornback and Saturday’s Child are free samples from the short story collection ‘Strange Matters’, by myself, Bret Allen. I hope you enjoy them!
The Firebird
Ekaterina wants to be taken seriously by the men of her village, so she sets out to hunt the greatest prey of all… the legendary Firebird.
My attempt at a faery-tale. This draws heavily on characters from Russian/Slavic mythology (which I adore). I immensely enjoyed writing this in a traditional storybook tone of voice, with the help of my partner Becki.
British Gods
Two strange figures watch the violence of the London riots unfold and do what they can to help, as only forgotten gods can.
A humble nod to my favourite author, Neil Gaiman. These ageing culture figures deserve a moment in the spotlight, even if it is in their modern-day, half-forgotten forms. The story was inspired by the 2011 London riots and by a strong love of history and mythology (which is as close as I get to patriotism). I used some poetic license with the identities and histories of these figures, but I feel that they remain true.
Thornback
A poem about the humble hedgehog, seen through my eyes.
Saturday’s Child
Henri discovers that his afterlife is going to be even more dangerous than his first life, when he meets a predatory and beautiful stranger.
This story is set in the world of ‘Sleepwalkers’, a setting of my own creation that I love to tell stories in. In this case, I give a glimpse of the plight of a newly deceased spirit, in a city that to me seems as strange and fantastic as any fictional place. There are two other ‘Sleepwalkers’ stories in the full version of this book.
The Firebird
In a small village, which lay in the middle of a great forest, there lived a young woman of nineteen years called Ekaterina.
Ekaterina was strong and hardy, like all of the villagers, for the cold forest made cold people. Despite this likeness, she was considered to be unusual. She often argued with the other villagers because she did not want to behave like the other women did.
“I’m tired of washing clothes,” she said, throwing down a pile of linen. “Make them do their own!”
Her mother sighed and shook her head, picking up the undershirts and bedding from the floor of the washhouse.
“Katya,” replied her mother, “do not be so stubborn, child!”
Ekaterina frowned at her. She hated washing, she hated sweeping, she hated sewing and she hated cooking.
“I’m not going to clean up after men all my life, Mother. I’ll be a great hunter.”
“What is wrong with cleaning for men?” asked her mother. “I did so for your father. I raised you. Do you think yourself better than me?”
“No, Mother, of course not. I just…”
“You are too proud. After all I have done for you, you only ever speak of hunting, or fighting, or riding. You want to be a man? Very good, step out on your own, like your father did, leaving me here to struggle alone!”
“Mother, don’t become upset,” replied Ekaterina, but it was too late.
Her mother turned her back, furiously scrubbing the linens in a wooden tub.
Ekaterina opened the door, escaping the washhouse and the other women of the village. She would apologise to her mother later. The old woman simply failed to understand how desperately she wanted to prove herself; to do great things, to be bold and free, not just another village wife.
Ekaterina decided that she wanted some ale, despite the early hour. She strode across the muddy ground, almost knocking over a young boy struggling with a bundle of firewood. The village was circular in shape, protected by a wooden palisade wall. Along the southern curve of the wall stood the humble straw houses of the villagers, while along the northern curve stood the washhouse, the granary, the smithy and the alehouse. The village saw few visitors, huddled in the midst of the forest that it was built from, like a giant bird’s nest.
Standing at the centre of the village was a shrine. The shrine was very old, a jutting black rock topped with a figure made of bones. The men would visit the shrine to pray to the god of the hunt before entering the forest. The forest was dark and dangerous but it was also the source of their food and their wood; they lived and died by its ancient will.
Ekaterina arrived at the alehouse in a black mood. She entered into the gloom, feeling the eyes of the men upon her. The landlord gave her a frown.
“Ekaterina, have you no chores to be doing?” he asked.
He had a big gut and a deep voice. He was the richest man in the village, making his wealth by trading with other settlements. He was also one of the three ruling elders.
“I’m not a child who must do chores on command,” she replied, laying down a bronze coin. “A drink, if you please.”
“No, you are a grown woman with duties,” he chided, though he took the coin and poured a cup of ale anyway. “You should have a husband and a child by now.”
“The last thing I want is a whining creature clinging to my breasts.”
“I’m sure an infant is not so bothersome-”
“I was talking about a husband,” she replied, taking the ale and turning her back to the landlord.
Ekaterina took a seat in the corner and drank deep. She ignored the stares of the men- who had plenty of chores of their own- and took out an arrowhead to idly scratch at her table. The arrowhead was bronze and she had forged it herself, with the help of her father. He had taught her how to shoot an arrow and throw a spear, along with other skills needed to hunt game. She liked to think that he had intended for her to provide for her mother, knowing that he would have to leave one day... but also suspected that he had just been amusing himself. It did not matter. She considered herself the equal of any hunter in the village.
“Good morning, my sweet Ekaterina,” said a man coming uninvited to her table.
He was the landlord’s son, a broad-shouldered man of similar age to her. He was well-liked in the village and was considered to be the best hunter.
“I am not your sweet,” replied Ekaterina.
She was weary of declining his advances, which were made nearly every day. Ekaterina had fine features, bright eyes and long brown hair; she was an attractive woman, made more so by the fact that she did not wish to be courted.
“Ah, you are a beauty with a sharp tongue,” he said, taking a seat to drink his ale.
“A sharp spear, too. Leave me in peace, or you’ll come to know it well.”
“Such a mouth for a woman!” exclaimed t
he landlord’s son. “If you are so keen to use a spear… then you may join us for today’s hunt.”
“Truly? I’d very much like to,” she replied carefully.
“Then it is settled. You shall marry me this very day, then you can carry my spear for me on every hunt I lead!” he said, laughing.
The other men in the alehouse chuckled at his gibe. Embarrassed and angry, Ekaterina tipped her cup over and marched out of the door.
With the sound of laughter echoing in her ears, Ekaterina went to the shrine. The two other village elders were there- the headman and Old Grandfather. The headman was first among the elders, a capable fighter but also a charismatic leader and mediator. He was the most respected man in the village. Old Grandfather was a storyteller and healer. His epithet came from being the oldest man in the village, but he was still straight-backed and lively. He had a long beard and a wealth of wisdom to go with it.
“Ekaterina!” called the headman as he saw her approach. “Your mother asked me to remind you that there is still work to be done.”
“I will help her later,” she replied curtly.
“Katya, my dear, what is wrong?” asked Old Grandfather.
“Nothing. I’m fine,” she lied.
He smiled and patted her shoulder, then knelt before the shrine. She copied him, bowing her head before the natural pillar of rock that the village was built around. Among the bones that lay on top of the rock was a wolf skull, which had the mark of death carved upon it.
Ekaterina swore to herself that this would be the day that things changed. She would prove her skills in the forest, or she would return to the washhouse and accept the role given to her. She summoned up her courage and said the most solemn prayer of the hunters, asking the god of the hunt for a worthy quarry and promising a kill in return.
Rising from her prayer, Ekaterina cleared her throat and addressed the elders.
“Please, can I accompany you today? I know that I can be useful to the village as a hunter. Let me prove it.”
“Nobody denies that you have skill, but we have enough hunters,” replied the headman. “Without horses to mask us, we must keep our presence quiet.”
“I could take someone else’s place. Old Grandfather…”
“Alas,” said the old man, “my knowledge is needed today. The witch of the forest has been seen wandering nearby. Please, let it be.”
While he spoke, the landlord’s son joined them. He brought bows and arrows for the hunters, in addition to hand weapons that might be needed if a boar or stag were to turn and fight… or if they met one of the forest’s stranger denizens.
“Ekaterina,” said the landlord’s son, “are you coming with us today? Are you going to kill stags and monsters with your sharp tongue?”
“I would come if I was allowed. I can hunt and you know it,” she retorted.
This was true. Ekaterina had proven herself to be a capable hunter in the past, on the few occasions that she had been out ranging. Nonetheless, the men never seemed to consider her their equal. They tried to consign her to clubbing small game, an activity sometimes given to their wives.
“Katya,” said Old Grandfather, “the forest is dark and dangerous. Please, it is out of love that we ask you to stay here.”
Ekaterina growled in frustration but had no retort. Old Grandfather was a kind man and she did not want to lash out at him. She sighed and turned away. Without any more discussion, the three men set off towards the village gate without her.
