by M. D. Massey
Many who were unfamiliar with the fae might ask how the Queen of all the Western Fae courts ended up in Austin, Texas. A fair question to be sure, but one that had a simple answer. When Maeve had settled in the area, Texas was the Western frontier. It was a place that was wild and free, and quite unlike the Europe of its time, which had been made thoroughly civilized and thoroughly Christian. Eventually, those changes forced the fae who were native to those lands to find new homes.
I personally believed that Maeve stayed here not just because she had put down roots, but also because it was now a center of commerce and culture, both of which interested her greatly. As well, Texans were quite well-known for leaving people to themselves, because if there was one thing a Texan valued, it was their privacy. And I’d say that made it a perfect place for the high Queen of the Western Fae to place her court.
That also meant I’d be on my own if my meeting with Black Agnes went poorly, since she resided in the darkest reaches of the swamp. I would not be able to make any sort of tactical retreat, nor would I be able to contact the Queen’s court to help me suppress the old hag should she take offense at my presence in her territory. However, I was used to operating alone and without support, as that was how I’d been raised and trained by my adoptive mother.
Yet, a power as old and evil as Black Agnes was not to be taken lightly. Before I made the journey to East Texas, I spent considerable time planning and preparing, just in case. It simply would not do that I should end up floating in Black Agnes’ kettle, or rotting at the bottom of some East Texas swamp.
For the long drive out to East Texas, I chose my Cadillac—a sleek, black luxury vehicle made in the good old U.S. of A. Not only was it more comfortable on longer trips than my Jaguar, but it would also draw less attention from the locals once I arrived in the middle of nowhere. Certainly, any of the vehicles I drove would draw attention, but at least I could say that this one was a domestic make. Texans tended to be sensitive about such matters.
Many hours after leaving Austin, I pulled into the small town of Uncertain, Texas, population 94. The burg was not much more than a few pockmarked blacktop and gravel roads, a rundown, faded blue metal building that housed the local volunteer fire department, a dilapidated brick church that claimed to be nondenominational, and several bait shacks that dominated the shore of the lake. I most definitely was not going to walk through the swamp to Agnes’ shack, so I’d have to hire a local to take me there.
I drove around for a short time until I spotted what I was looking for, a bait shop with a sign on the outside that said, “Airboats for Hire.” When I entered the store the glass and metal door creaked in its frame, and an old-fashioned doorbell rang overhead to announce my arrival. I smiled at the use of the bell, as such devices had once been thought to scare off fae—a ridiculous notion.
The smile quickly faded from my face as the stench of the place overwhelmed me—a combination of rotten fish guts, cheap cigar smoke, and stale beer, mixed with the lingering aroma of human flatulence. Holding my breath as best as possible, I made my way to the scratched and worn linoleum counter at the other end of the store. There, an old man leaned over the counter as he read the local paper, viciously chewing on a cigar stub as if he were mad at it.
Despite the humidity, he wore a flannel shirt over a white tee, left untucked to cover the considerable paunch that hung over the top of his faded and stained blue jeans. Tufts of gray hair stuck out from underneath a brown and white trucker hat with a slogan screen-printed across the front. “My wife told me it was her or fishing… I sure am going to miss that woman.”
The man ignored me as I stood in front of the counter, waiting patiently and politely for him to acknowledge and address me. After a minute or so I grew tired of waiting and cleared my throat to get his attention. He kept his eyes on the newspaper, moving the stub of his cigar to the corner of his mouth as he spoke.
“Be with you in a minute,” he growled in an East Texas drawl.
A few minutes later, he folded the newspaper neatly and set it down on the counter, finally taking a look at me. Based on the way he squinted and the frown on his face, he must not have liked what he saw. In retrospect, perhaps I should’ve chosen clothing that was a bit more, shall we say, mundane. I had dressed down, but the designer jeans, expensive hiking boots, tailored T-shirt, and Ralph Lauren field jacket I wore still left me quite overdressed when compared to present company.
After glaring at me for several seconds, the old man crossed his arms and spoke. “What d’ya want?”
“I need to hire a boat to take me into the swamps,” I answered.
The old man’s frown became not quite so deep, perhaps because I was now a potential customer rather than just some pesky city person in need of directions. “Big swamp, bigger lake. Whereabouts in the swamp are you looking to go?”
There was a map of Caddo Lake and the surrounding swamps under a scratched sheet of plexiglass on the counter. I pointed to a spot deep within the swamps, which I guessed was quite a distance from our current location. “There.”
The old man chewed his cigar for a moment, then he pulled it out and spat flecks of tobacco on the floor behind the counter. “Ain’t nobody goes out there. Folks who do don’t come back.”
“Be that as it may, I find myself in the position of needing to visit the area.”
He narrowed his eyes further if that were possible, meeting my gaze. “What business ya’ got out thataway?”
“I’m a journalist, and I need to interview someone who lives in the area.”
“Huh. Well, I ain’t had much business lately—not like people are flocking to Uncertain to fish the bayou. Can’t say I’m eager to head out there, but if you’re paying cash, I might consider it.”
Now we were negotiating, and this was a language I could easily understand. “I’ll pay you three times your normal rate to take me to that spot and bring me back.”
The old man chuckled with very little humor. “Five times my rate, and it’s a deal, although I can’t guarantee you’ll come back. I kin drop you off and come back for ya’, but in the meantime, you’re on your own.”
I dropped a fat roll of bills on the counter, not bothering to count them. “When do we leave?”
The man locked up his shop, and I followed him around the building to a sloping, muddy incline that led down to the water’s edge. There sat two flat-bottomed airboats, of the kind powered by large airplane propellers so they might glide through shallow areas of grassland and swamp. The old man grabbed a few things from a storage shed, including a battered red cooler, a tattered camouflage backpack, and a double-barreled shotgun with a bore larger than any I’d seen.
He saw me looking at the gun and grunted. “Ten gauge. Perfect for dealing with gators—and other things.”
I arched an eyebrow. “And do you routinely see other things in the swamp?”
He harrumphed and shook his head. “If I did, I wouldn’t talk about it.” He reached into his backpack and tossed me a white plastic bottle. “Bug repellent.”
I handed it back to him. “I won’t be needing it.”
He shrugged. “Your funeral. Got skeeters bigger than hummingbirds out there. It’ll be in the bag if you decide you need it. Now, gather whatever gear you got and toss it in the boat. We’ll have just enough time for me to drop you off out there an hour before dusk. It’ll be up to you to get where you’re going and back to the drop off point again. I’ll pick you up again an hour after dawn, if you make it.”
“I have everything I need on me,” I said. When he gave me a quizzical look, I held up my mobile phone. “Modern technology. Eliminates the need for pen, paper, and other recording devices.”
“You won’t get reception out there, so don’t think that if you get in trouble you can call the authorities to come get you. They won’t find you anyway. No one will if something bad happens to you out there. Final warning—you can back out now if you want, and I’ll be happy to refund your money.”
“I
’m fully aware of the dangers involved in this excursion. Now, perhaps we should get going. I would prefer to arrive at a decent hour.”
The old man shook his head and pointed at a seat in the boat. “Strap in, ’cause I ain’t fishing you out if you fall off.”
A few hours later, after navigating our way through a maze of bald cypress and water tupelo, the old man glided the boat through an opening in the overhanging vegetation that I might never have seen had we not passed through it. We traveled down that narrow canal for a good twenty minutes, traveling at a speed that was just fast enough to propel us ahead while allowing the old man to steer the boat through the slender passage without crashing into the broad, massive tree root systems that supported the trees native to the swamps.
Finally, we exited the canal, the thick vegetation ahead parting to reveal a bayou several hundred meters in diameter. Despite the roar of the airboat’s engine, to this point the swamp had been full of life, and evidence of birds, amphibious animals, and insects abounded throughout the entire trip. But as the old man cut the engine and glided silently into the bayou, nothing moved in the swamp, and the sounds of birds and singing frogs faded away behind us.
My guide navigated the boat to a narrow strip of land that wrapped around the bayou all the way to the far side, where a small, weather-beaten shack sat alone. As the boat made contact with the shore, the old man spoke in hushed tones as he pointed at the shack.
“That would be where you’re goin’, as there ain’t nothing else that lives out here. Not human, anyway. This is as far as I’ll go, and as soon as you get your ass off the deck, I’m headed back to my shop just as fast as this boat will take me. Like I said, I’ll be here tomorrow an hour after dawn. I’ll wait fifteen minutes, and if you’re not here, I’ll assume you’re gator bait. Good luck.”
“I’ll see you in the morning,” I said as I jumped off the prow of the boat, landing in the soft, marshy ground that surrounded the bayou.
The old man gave another humorless chuckle as he lit a cigarillo from the pack he kept in his front shirt pocket. “If you say so, mister.”
True to his word, the old man fired up his boat and sped back the way we came. When the whine of the boat’s engine faded in the distance, I began following the narrow game trail that led around the bayou toward the shack on the other side.
16
The closer I got to Black Agnes’ shack, the more apparent it became that this was not a place your typical human would wish to be. About fifty feet down the trail, various fetishes and charms began to appear, hung from trees and placed on stakes in the ground lining the trail that led to her home. The talismans mostly consisted of animal skulls, bones, and small twigs woven into foreboding shapes, each designed to serve as a message to others of her kind to steer clear of her territory.
Despite the obvious warnings that the fetishes presented, Black Agnes had made no effort to ward her territory against trespass. This was partially due to the fact that she lived so far out in the swamps, and no entity would bother to travel this far to intrude on her privacy. But it was also because she did not want to keep curious humans away from her domicile. What spider wanted to keep potential prey from its web?
I was fairly positive that she did not have to leave this area in order to hunt, since hapless humans were ever curious about the supernatural. Many sought it out, unaware of the inherent dangers of crossing over from the mundane world into The World Beneath. I was certain that the remains of dozens of humans littered the bottom of the bayou, the evidence rotting safely away from the eyes of any interfering authorities, human or otherwise.
I made my way without hurry toward her home, keeping an eye out for any guardians or familiars that might try to catch me unawares. Again, I doubted she had any such measures in place, but it always paid to be careful with the fae. As I rounded the last bend in the trail, her ramshackle home came into view through the canopy of vegetation that arched over the trail.
The shack itself sat on stilts, high above the waters of the swamp, safe from flooding and any predators that might decide to wander within. Although I doubted that Agnes feared any natural predator in the swamp, she likely preferred to keep them out of her home. The shack itself had been made from clapboard once painted blue, but those cerulean hues had faded to a sickly gray in the places where paint had survived at all. The single pitch metal roof was more rust than not, and an equally rusted and blackened stovepipe poked out from the center.
Smoke wafted lazily from within, drifting down to ground level where it mixed with the mists of the swamp to rest heavily on the ground and nearby waters. Up until now, the area had smelled like a swamp should, thick and redolent with the odors of rotting vegetation, bacteria infested waters, and slick, East Texas mud. But now the air carried different scents, both the pungent aroma of boiled meat and the sharp tang of fae magic, ready and waiting for its master’s command.
A raspy female voice called out from the open door of the shack. “I see a visitor walking down my trail. One human, yet not, come to visit old Black Agnes and her lonely swamp. I wonder, does he bring gifts?”
I did in fact bring gifts, but perhaps not the kind for which she longed. In times past, it would be appropriate to bring a peace offering when entering the territory of a dangerous fae creature like Black Agnes. Said offering might or might not prevent the occupant from eating the trespasser, depending in part on how satisfactory the offering might be.
I had neither the desire nor the motivation to carry a live pig or, for that matter, a human child through the swamps to present to the hag as peace offering. Instead, I had brought things that I thought she might value—not as much as fresh meat, but enough to allow for my passage and to buy me parlay. I pulled the items I had brought from within the pockets of my jacket, packets of herbs and spices that one might use to season and flavor whatever dish they cared to prepare.
These I laid down on her front porch step, stepping away to a somewhat safe distance after. Then, I waited for her to examine my offering and respond.
“Not what I wanted, but useful still,” the voice said. “Now tell me, Hound—did they send you for me? If I invite you into my home, will you try to take my head?”
“No, Agnes, I am not here at the bidding of the rulers of Underhill, nor did Maeve send me.” Not a lie, but not the truth, either. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t take your head before I take my leave.”
Silence hung in the air, then high, cackling laughter split the still calm of the swamp. “Either way, you might find it difficult to do so. My guess is, that’s not the real reason you came. Which means you either want some of Agnes’ magic, or some of what she knows. Whichever it is, you may as well come in so we can discuss it face to face.”
I ascended the creaky, partially rotted staircase, alighting on the wraparound porch that served as a balcony for Black Agnes’ humble abode. The door had been jammed open, held against the wall with a human jawbone that served as a door stop. After a thorough examination to ensure there were no magical traps present, I entered the dimly-lit, smoke-filled space beyond.
My eyes had no need to adjust to the gloom, but it did take me a moment to pick out Agnes in the darkness. Hags were cold-blooded creatures, and therefore difficult to spot with my shade-enhanced vision. But spot her I did, sitting in the corner close to an old, cast-iron wood stove, upon which an equally black cast-iron pot simmered.
The air in the room was heady and thick, redolent of spices, cooked meat, and wood smoke. As for the spices and smoke, they were nothing of note. However, I recognized that cooked meat smell—for I had encountered the same scent many times during my childhood in Underhill. The odor of cooked human meat simply could not be mistaken, although to the untrained nose it was often confused with the smell of roasted pork.
“Tell me now, what brings Fuamnach’s Hound to my doorstep?” Black Agnes said as she slowly rocked back and forth in her chair.
I allowed my human eyes a moment to adjust
to the gloom, taking in her appearance at a glance. Unlike Peg Powler, who had no need nor desire to alter her hideous appearance, Agnes disguised hers with a glamour.
As for her actual appearance, she was said to have skin so blue as to appear blackened, apparently the result of her being throttled or drowned before her transformation into the fae monster she was. Her nails were said to be long and made of iron, all the better to rend the flesh of her prey. Add to that dark stringy hair, a balding pate, a crooked nose, some warts and moles, and hair in places that no woman should ever desire it to grow, and one would have a fairly accurate description of Black Agnes’ true form.
Yet this version of Agnes appeared as an exotic, beautiful young woman, with long, straight dark hair framing a pale, delicate, heart-shaped face. Her frame was slender, but not without the soft, pleasing curves that many young women possessed. The thin calico shift she wore had been left unbuttoned to the center of her chest, and it was slit far enough up her thigh to reveal ample amounts of smooth, unblemished skin.
Her legs were crossed, knee over knee, and she tapped a bare foot in the air as she awaited my reply. I noted that her feet were clean, as was the rest of her body, save for her long fingernails, which were stained underneath with a reddish-black substance that most certainly was not nail polish. That was the chief drawback of a fae glamour. Such magic could hide some, but not all, of the target’s true nature.
If one merely knew what to look for, it was generally easy to spot those fae creatures who chose to pose as mortals. I was quite practiced at picking them out, hidden as they often were amongst their human prey. It was a skill upon which my life had depended, on more than one occasion. Despite that, I chose to play along with Agnes’ ruse, as it would not serve my purposes to offend her by piercing her disguise.
“I require information, Agnes,” I said from where I stood in the doorway. It was never a matter of small consequence to enter a fae power’s dwelling, and I made it a habit to always stay close to the exit when doing so.
