Faerie Tale (53 page)

Sean lashed out backward with the dagger, but only dug the tip into moist ground. He yelled, half in anger, half in fear, and rolled again, but the Bad Thing held tight to his back.

Sean then felt powerful claws grip his throat, and in a spasm of panic he managed to roll onto his chest. He made a crawling motion while the Bad Thing cried, almost a human sound. It was in torment from the fairy stone but it continued to do its master’s bidding: Rid the boy of the stone and return them both.

Then the Bad Thing rocked, and Sean felt the weight roll off him. Sean turned and saw that Patrick had struck the creature, knocking it away, and now the other twin was struggling. Patrick flailed out with the rock he used as a weapon, but Sean knew that without the ward and silver dagger, Patrick was no opponent for the Bad Thing.

Without hesitation Sean leaped atop the struggling pair, adding his weight to Patrick’s, to press the creature to the earth. He cut downward with his dagger and felt the point dig in. The creature screamed, a sound to linger forever in the boys’ nightmares.

Sean cried in fear, his vision blurred by tears, but he held his position and let his weight fall upon the handle of the dagger, using his mass where he lacked strength of arm. The hilt dug into Sean’s stomach as the blade bit deep into the stomach of the Bad Thing, and to Sean it was as if their pain were shared. The Bad Thing screamed. And the boys’ shrieks of fear made a counterpoint to the thing’s cry of pain. It was a gurgling, strangled sound, then a hissing and scratchy sound. Patrick threw himself across Sean’s back, and the dagger was driven deeper into the Bad Thing. The heartrending scream of pain changed, trailing off to a warble, a hiss of steam leaking from a boiler, a shrill, final sound. It was the sound of death.

Patrick rolled off his brother. Sean scrambled back, as if repelled by the most noxious thing ever seen. Neither boy spoke as they watched the black creature writhe upon the ground, the dagger protruding from its stomach. It flopped like a freshly landed fish, crimson blood spraying from its nose and mouth, then lay still, only to twitch and shiver, then lie still again.

Sean looked at Patrick, who sat silently with tears flowing from eyes wide with panic. Sean rubbed his own runny nose on the back of his sleeve, then wiped his eyes and left his brother. He went to where the Bad Thing lay, slowly circling it to ensure it was dead.

At last he was satisfied, and he bent over to get the dagger. As his fingers touched the hilt, a black hand swung up and gripped his shirt front. Sean yelled. The Bad Thing pulled the boy toward him, the yellow and brown eyes now open and alive. Scant inches from the thing’s face, the pulling stopped. Then the Bad Thing spoke, its bloody lips barely moving. In a gurgling whisper, soft and tiny, like a little child’s voice, it said, “I … was once … like you.” Then in a hissing whisper, almost inaudible, it said, “Free … thank … you.”

For an instant Sean saw the hate leave the creature’s face. Sean looked into its eyes, and in that instant they were not mad with inhuman lights, but large, brown, and
soft. And hidden deep in those moist eyes, far in the shadow of hate and rage, was a hint of something more. Then Sean understood: Once, long ago, this Bad Thing had been as human as Sean. From wherever the Bad Thing had come, it had had parents and a home, a life of promise and hope, and the expectation of youth. But all that had been taken from it by the black, glowing figure. Like Patrick, the Bad Thing had been a child stolen from his parents by fairies, taken to this alien place. That forgotten child had been twisted and warped over the years, his once child’s flesh distorted by inhuman passions into this creature of horror. And Sean understood more: To be taken by the Shining Man was to become such as this. Then the light extinguished in those eyes as the creature’s head fell back, its hand still clinging to Sean’s blouse. Sean gently pried apart the thing’s fingers, and the grip on Sean’s blouse was released.

Sean stood away from the thing, knowing now what his and Patrick’s fate would be should the Shining Man somehow recapture them. As objects of perverted lust and desire, they would be used, warped, and twisted, their bodies and spirits reshaped until they were like the Bad Thing, creatures so blackened of soul that even the memory of humanity was a dim, nearly forgotten thing.

Sean stared down at the twisted thing that had once been a child much like himself, feeling a mixture of relief and sorrow. Perhaps it had been that almost lost humanity that had given the creature the ability to resist the ward. And perhaps it had been that almost lost humanity that had let the boys drive home the dagger, giving the creature final rest.

Then, at the sound of approaching hoof beats, he knew danger once again raced after them. He turned away from the Bad Thing, the dagger forgotten. Patrick stood mute, as if the spoken words were some sort of narcotic, rendering him without volition. Sean seized his hand and pulled him toward the rear door of the strange house, where the Quest Guide waited, moving rapidly from side to side, as if impatient—or frightened. They reached the back door and Sean tugged on the handle, but the door
would not open. Panic struck, for they seemed to be balked by the reluctant door. Again and again Sean tugged, until at last the latch moved. The door swung open ponderously, and Sean pushed it wide to reveal the interior of the Hall of Ancient Seasons. The boys took a single step toward the interior and halted as a tall figure stepped into view, coming out of the gloom deep within the building. No longer dressed in armor, but now wearing a barbaric hat topped with antelope horns, and a jerkin sewn with gems and the skulls of seabirds on each shoulder, the Fool blocked their path through the house. He studied the motionless boys a long moment, then threw back his head and howled his pleasure.

Phil and Mark found Barney kneeling in the rain, clutching his rosary as he prayed. Phil approached from the side. So he could be heard over the driving rain, he shouted, “Sean?”

“In there,” said Doyle, pointing at the hill.

“What?” said Phil, astonished. “Where’s the entrance?”

Mark gripped Phil’s shoulder. “Nine times around the hill to the right. Like the old legends.”

“Well, let’s get them!” shouted Phil.

Mark held Phil’s shoulder, while Barney said, “Wait!” Phil quit moving toward the hill, as Barney motioned for a hand. Slowly, letting Mark help him, Barney got to his feet. “If you go barging in after, you may lose all you hope to save. Time and distance are canted in the land of the Good People, so the tales say.”

“I don’t know what the hell’s going on,” shouted Phil, “but if my sons are wandering around in there, I’m going to get them out.”

Barney sighed. “Said like a man, Philip Hastings. But it is almost midnight, and if they’re not out within min
utes, there’s nothing to say you’ll survive as well. You’ve a wife and daughter in this world you must also think about.”

Mark said, “We stay.”

Phil was about to object, but Mark said, “If what I think is going to happen happens, then we’ll get the boys back, Phil. If I mess up … it won’t matter.”

Atop the crest of the hill, the night was suddenly rent by brilliance as a white glow erupted. Phil saw a magnificent woman—if she was human—surrounded by what seemed a royal court take form atop the hill, dim figures stepping out of the brilliance to walk down the hill. Mark came up to stand beside Phil.

The three men watched the Queen of Faerie. She seemed to float above the mud as she descended farther down the hillside. How she had moved between the realms was not apparent. Behind her came the members of her court, including one who was obviously human, a man who alone in the Queen’s company had to plod over muddy sod. All the others glided above the surface of the earth.

Barney stood weaving—whether from being still slightly drunk or from fright, it couldn’t be said—his mouth open in disbelief at the sight of the Queen of the Fairies standing nearby. The Queen looked at Mark, as if expecting him to speak. When he remained silent, she said, “You are not of the Magi.”

Mark spoke softly, yet his words carried in the now still air. “The Erl King, who is called the Fool, was responsible for a breach of the Compact; he was in league with traitors within the Magi—men who would share power over the rest of humanity with him. He set it up for this man”—he pointed at Phil—“to find the gold. And not knowing it to be a pledge of faith, this man took it. There was no intent to break the law.”

“We know the truth when we hear it. We mourn for that which once was. If the Compact is broken, it is because of no mortal doing. One wished for the old ways and thought to revenge himself upon those who vanquished us so long ago.” Almost sadly she added,
“Rightly has he named himself the Fool, he who is King no longer.” She heaved a sigh that would have been called theatrical coming from any mortal woman, but looked only appropriate to her more than human nature. “We shall finally have to call him to account when he comes.” She glanced about. “The hour to move is almost here. He is overlong in coming. Fool or King, yet must we wait upon him, for it is by his will as much as our own that we travel again.”

“Titania and Oberon,” said Mark quietly.

“So they have been called,” agreed the Queen’s human companion. “Those are but mortal names and not their own, any more than he is Elberich or she Gloriana. Nor are they truly Ahriman and Ormuzd. They are only they who once ruled the
Faie.”

“Faie,” said Phil. “It that what they call themselves?”

The man shook his head. “It is a Norman word. They call themselves the Race, or People—much as any people do—but their words cannot be spoken by mortals, for only angels or demons have voices like theirs. To us they are the
Fee, Peri
, or
Sidhe.
Or a dozen other names. But, simply, they are what they are—as we are but what we are. And each race and nation of man sees them in a form that is like to its own.”

Mark shook his head wearily. “What will happen now?”

The man said, “That is as it has been for ages, in the long and the short. There will be a change. But for good or ill, I cannot say.”

Mark said, “I don’t understand.”

The man pointed. “Ariel comes. And behind him close should come his master.”

A glowing dust devil spun past the silent members of the Queen’s court who dotted the clearing, and came up the hillside. Behind it came those creatures who had served the Fool. They halted at sight of the Queen, but the glowing column of spinning wind moved boldly past her to halt before Phil and the others. The spinning form quickly resolved itself into the shape of the young boy who had rescued Sean and Patrick.

“Hail, Thomas,” said the youth, obviously weary.

“Welcome, Ariel,” replied the man. “Come and rest. You appear bested.”

With resignation, Ariel said, “True. My master again took my measure and made me cry out in pleasure. It was a great and wonderful defeat.” Grinning, he said, “But though I must again count him my master, still did I task him greatly. And he did fall prey to fate’s whims and now finds himself within the Hall of Ancient Seasons. And should he not quit that hall before the twelfth chime strikes, even his powers will serve him not. So then I would have a master, but then I would not. It would be, in short, a matter of some perplexity.”

“And what were you to do with Dark Lands? Went you with the Queen’s consent?” asked Thomas.

“Not entirely,” said the youth. “But she knew what I was about. It is not the first time she has lost me to the dark court and the Fool’s bidding. And if the Fool has not lost himself in time’s dream, she will win me again, and it will not be the last I change the King’s court for hers.” With a wicked smile he said, “Neither counts me a particularly reliable servant.” He frowned almost petulantly. “I think now I must be about a different calling, for I deem it time to change my lot. Ah, now to be master instead of servant.” He sighed. “To serve the Fool has its benefits. The last time he sent me to dwell among mortals was to establish contact with the Magi in the woods of Greece. Ah! What joys I had traveling with university students on tour! And the nights were filled with revels fit to put old Dionysus to shame. Before that it was to watch the Magus Kessler for a span.”

Mark looked to Phil. “I think we’ve just found Wayland Smith.”

The boy grinned and nodded. He shimmered and turned to the shape of the blacksmith. “It is a talent we have.” His voice was now deep and resonant. “It is a shape pleasing to mortal women. In my more common form they find me childish and wish to mother me. This shape seems to excite more notice. I have also discovered that in this guise it is not necessary to use arts to gain
women. As I look now, they come to me. A fair word, a quiet touch, a promise of love, and they are more than willing to spread their legs and make the beast with two backs.” He laughed. “When I wore this form while watching the Magus Kessler, I had many a pleasurable hour with a mortal wench, and those whose society I enjoyed were a high-spirited and jolly company, ruffians all. Though, I think, to serve the Fool after this struggle will be less a joy than that occasion. Should he win, it will be war. Should he not, he will be wroth and unleash his vexation upon me.” His voice rose in pitch as he shifted back to his boyish appearance.

Phil looked confused. “Who’s Wayland Smith?”

Mark said, “I’ll tell you later. If there’s a later.”

Phil studied the youth for a moment, then said, “My daughter! Are you …?”

With a stretch, the youth said, “Nay, proud father. I am not the one who troubled your children. She saw me but once in my more manly guise, and I did but do her a small service. She is a fair one and gladly would I have taken her pleasures.” He shivered and grinned. “My flesh hardens to think of her.” His smile vanished and he added, “But she did not offer and I did not wish to be the one to break oath by using arts. The one I call master did take my most common form and think to place the blame for the breach of peace upon me, should word of the deed reach the Queen. Causing her to cast me out would seem a splendid jest to him. It was a cruel thing to do. It was a long feud we had, for among the People have I alone risen to be near his match, I who was once his knavish jester. And as he sought to dishonor me,” said the youth with an evil grin, “I think I shall repay him most bitterly, by taking his place.” With a shimmer of light, the boy changed his form, and suddenly, in all his towering splendor, the Fool stood again before the stunned humans.