Fairly Wicked Tales (25 page)

The ocean tempted him. So much water, yet a few mouthfuls would kill him if the mermaid didn’t get him first. He wondered if the creature was still out there. If it was hungry, wouldn’t the cabin boy be enough to satisfy? Perhaps it took pleasure in tormenting him for a while, but then grew bored and swam away. The Prince took a chance and peered over the rocks and into the ocean. Nothing. Maybe it did go away. As he stared at the water his head involuntarily leaned closer and closer. The water seduced him. So what of the salt? It appeared safe enough. Just one sip, that’s all.

Her face rushed up from the depths just before his lips touched the surface. The Prince leapt back from the edge just as she emerged. She carried a polished skull in her delicate hands.

“Your friend is waiting for you to join him!”

She tossed the skull at the Prince’s feet and laughed. Her cold, hollow voice rang through the air as she circled the island before vanishing below the waves again.

***

“She will not have me.”

The Prince moved the smooth rock against the dagger. Sunlight glimmered off the edge. The tip was still dull, but given enough time it would be sharp again. He had lost track of time since the mermaid last taunted him. Was it one day or two? He was no longer sure. A brief storm passed by the island and it rained. The Prince opened his mouth and drank, but the raging thirst returned and he did not believe he would have the good fortune of seeing another storm for some time. His clothes were now torn and drooping from his emaciated limbs. An unruly beard sprouted from his chin and his hair, once clean and in military style, now hung by his ears in long, greasy curls.

“She will not have me.”

He sharpened the blade as the sun crawled across the sky. The meat hanging from the pirate’s skeleton tasted pitiful and chewy, but it satisfied his hunger for a while. From time to time he searched the horizon for sails. He soon lost interest in the empty horizon and turned all of his attention to the dagger. It was the only man-made thing on the island he had an intimate relationship with. The madness of thirst and crushing loneliness squeezed him like a vice and sharpening the dagger was the only thing that could keep him sane. He marveled at the simple dagger, even though the royal armory had much more magnificent blades and weapons stored in their vaults. Every crack and notch seemed like a subtle stroke of genius on a portrait.

“You are my salvation or my destruction,” he said out loud. The Prince knew it understood him.

“When I was a boy, my grandfather taught me everything he knew about the sea.”

The sun glimmered off the edge.
Go on,
the Dagger said.
Tell me more.

“He told me the sea was a living thing that did not care if you lived or died. The prudent sailor must always be prepared for the dangers of the sea. There is a price to pay if one is not prepared.”

The Prince stopped sharpening for a moment. A strange sound came out of his throat, like a mix between a laugh and a cry.

“You always believed they existed, poppa. What would you say now? Is this the price of the sea you always warned me about?”

He ran the smooth rock against the dagger too hard and accidently nicked the edge.

“Damn. Apologies, friend. Allow me to correct my error.”

***

The sea seemed as smooth as glass on that windless day. For a moment, the Prince believed he could walk home. He saw his reflection in the still water. He did not recognize the hairy, gangly creature with the wild eyes staring back at him. He clenched a dagger in his right hand. Where did he get it? A present from a loved one or did he purchase it from one of the shops lining the road to the marble palace?

He bent down to one knee and hid the dagger behind his back. There was so much water, and he was so thirsty.

The face of a pretty girl peered up at him from underneath the surface. She rose and her nose almost touched his. He wondered if his ragged features and unkempt hair offended her. Poppa always told him to shave and be presentable when in the presence of a lady.

“I have waited too long,” she said. “Now you are mine.”

She wrapped her smooth, soft arms around his neck. Ah, too long since he last received the warm embrace of another human being. She pulled him downwards. He lost his footing and the ocean rushed towards him. Her mouth opened to reveal rows of shark-like teeth and a long, forked tongue. He remembered the time he caught his first fish with his poppa at one of the rivers in the countryside. Poppa handed him a dagger and showed him how to remove the scales and guts. They ate fish soup with bread that evening.

***

The Captain of the merchant vessel raised the eyeglass and studied the horizon. Pirates were known to roam this part of the sea. He and his crew were on high alert, keeping their weapons ready and their eyes open. One of his officers approached.

“Yes?”

“We spotted a small island off the starboard bow. There is a body.”

“Alive or dead?”

“Hard to tell from this distance. Could be a member of the missing Royal Barge.”

“Very good. Let’s swing her around and investigate. Be on guard, though. Best be prepared for anything.”

The sailors ran across the deck and guided the ship with mechanical efficiency. Cannons and swords were readied in the event of a pirate ambush. Closer and closer they approached the island. The Captain ordered the ship to drop anchor before they got too close. They lowered a small row boat into the water with a search party including the captain and a handful of armed men. They rowed to the island and into a small cove.

“There’s blood in the air, lads,” The Captain said. “Be on your guard.”

One by one the sailors and Captain climbed out of the cove and onto the surface. They climbed over the uneven rocks and reached the opposite end of the island. No one said a word. The Captain stared and felt revulsion crawl up his spine.

Bones and large fish scales littered the rocks. A naked man with greasy and disheveled hair sat cross legged against the largest rock. Sun burnt skin hung from the frame of a rail thin body. Dried blood streaked across the man’s face and shoulders like primitive war paint. When he brought his eyes up to the Captain and his crew, they appeared glazed and wild.

“They are not like us,” the naked man said. “Their bodies are different. Extra organs. I recognized two hearts, but the rest I could not determine. Like this, for instance.”

The man raised his hands from his lap. He held up a green, fleshy thing and smiled.

“I do not know why they need it, but it holds water. Sweet water! Not salty.”

He laughed.

“Poppa always told me the sea had a price, but this time I refused to pay. This time I exacted my own price!”

The crazed man laughed and laughed under the burning sun.

About the Author

David Matteri
is an author living in Northern California. When he is not writing or getting lost in used book stores, he is studying to become a high school English teacher. His short fiction has appeared in SNM Horror magazine,
From the Depths
,
Confettifall
, and The Midnight Diner.

A Blue Light Turned Black

A Retelling of “The Blue Light”

Wilson Geiger

I limped into the throne room, apprehensive and nervous. Other soldiers might be called in after war service to receive land, retainers, maybe positions with the King’s Guard. A short year ago I would have counted myself among them, but today I came at my King’s bidding a broken man. Nearly useless, and even if I recovered some of my strength I knew I would never stand in the battle line again.

Guards lined the narrow strip of carpet leading to the raised dais of the throne. A herald stood nearby, his gaze sweeping over me with disdain.

Silas sat upon the throne, his countenance stern. He wore little in the way of regality, only leathers and fur across his broad shoulders, the silver crown seeming small on his large brow. His gaze fixed upon me, and I quickly lowered my eyes.

The men-at-arms stopped at attention while I continued, unforgiving barbs of pain in my leg with every forced step. I silently cursed the scars which would mark me for the rest of my days.

At last, after a seeming eternity of careful, measured footfalls, I stood at the foot of His Majesty’s throne. Muscle and tendon popped and cried as I awkwardly dropped to one knee, my head bowed in obedience. I prayed I would be able to stand without help.

“My King, Angerweld Thorne, as Your Eminence requested,” the herald said.

Silas grunted. “I know who the man is, herald. He has fought and bled for me.” He paused, but I kept my station, my eyes on the step at my lowered knee. “Stand and look upon me, Thorne.”

My prayers went unanswered. My leg buckled as I fought to rise, and I slumped to the floor in shame. “I cannot, my Lord. My wounds still heal.”

“Look at me.”

Silas’s face was hard, his eyes cold. The crown canted forward on his head as he looked down upon me.

“I no longer require your services,” he said. “I will not pay you for what you can no longer do.”

I dipped my head. My heart raced, nervous anticipation replaced with a cold dread. “My Lord, I beg of you, the wounds will heal—”

“No, Thorne, they will not. Cripples have no place in my army, even those with stout hearts such as yours. You know I cannot show weakness in these dark times.” He motioned to his guards.

Speechless, anger and shame threatened to overtake me. Anger at my Lord’s betrayal, a seething red tide matched only by the shame and disgrace of his dismissal. Used up and thrown out like so much refuse. I felt the blood in my face, the welling tears in my eyes. My eyes locked on his as his guards propped me up on their arms.

“My Lord, you promised me rewards!” I shouted, ignoring the guards’ fingers digging into my arms. “My faithful service for this? Is this how you repay my blood, the marches, the long days of battle?” I spit the last word out.

Silas stood, his face red, his brow furrowed. He turned to his herald, one hand pointed in my direction. “Fetch the town crier. No one is to house this man, no one is to feed him.”

He turned to me then, anger clear on his face. “The law requires death for speaking against the King, Thorne. In light of your
faithful service
, however, I give you this one chance. Never set foot in Rikkersfell again, or I’ll kill you myself.”

He sat down on the throne. “Get this man out of my sight.”

***

Mercy is an ill word, said with contempt in some circles, with a meaning very unfamiliar to me.

Of course I asked all the same, but found none willing. None in town would lodge me, not even for a night. I would not allow myself further shame by trying to find sleep in a dark alley, or under a shop ledge. So I struggled on a hobbled leg, limping past the fringes of town, until at last I reached the outlying forest. The evening sun dipped below the western horizon, drawing shadows across the land.

Exhausted, fatigued beyond measure, I kept moving, out of stubbornness and the fear that if I fell I’d not be able to stand again. My stomach growled, a frustrating reminder I’d had no food since the morning, before I’d been called to the King.

The wind picked up as the sun fell, promising a cold night. Chill seeped into my bones, whisked around tree and brush, picked at me as if demanding entrance. My pace slowed, limbs shivering intensely, teeth chattering.

Despair had settled over me like an ill-fitted cloak when I spotted a faint light through the trees. I gritted my teeth, rubbed my arms, and limped towards the source. A fire maybe, or perhaps the bitter cold taking its final toll, visions before a hard death.

I rounded a stand of trees and stepped into a clearing. Twenty yards away stood a small cottage, smoke rising steadily out of a pipe on the roof. A single lamp shone in the window.

Willing my legs into motion, I moved as quickly as I could towards the cottage. My breath rose in sharp bursts, lifted by the bitter, cold air. I knocked on the door with numb fingers, hardly feeling the impact against the wood.

Expecting a hunter, I stepped back in surprise when the door opened and a thin old woman peered around the edge of the door, her eyes sharp and wary. Her hair, as white as snow, caught the breeze.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“Most sorry to d-disturb you at s-so late an hour,” I said, as the warmth from inside licked at my frozen legs. “I need lodging f-for the night. M-Maybe a small bite of food and water to drink.”

“No.” She moved to close the door.

“Please, I’ll die out here,” I said, cringing at the desperation in my voice.

She paused, a finger drumming against the door. “Very well,” she said with a nod. “One night and some food, and in return you will do a day’s work for me.”

I didn’t hesitate, nodding my head in hurried agreement.

***

The fire blazed in the hearth, and I sat so close to the flames I feared my tattered clothes might catch fire. My body soaked in the warmth as I leaned my head back, tipping the last of the broth down my throat. I set the bowl beside me, wiping my mouth with a sleeve.

“Had enough?” the old woman asked. She sat behind me, leaning back against the only chair in the cottage.

“Yes. My thanks,” I said. Now that my belly no longer grumbled and the chill had fled my body, I considered her earlier words. “You said a day’s work. What is it you wish?”

“I have a garden, and my tired limbs need rest,” she said. “You are still young and strong, and will grow stronger still. I need you to dig all around my garden tomorrow.”

For an instant I balked. Surely she had seen my condition, the limp, the crack and pop as my joints moved? A debt was owed, however. I still had my sense of honor.

“Then I will dig your garden tomorrow, as a debt paid.”