Once Upon a Time: New Fairy Tales Paperback (22 page)

of everyone she thought fine and fair. No one understood her

inhuman passions, and she was most often left alone—except by her

tormentors.

Soon after entering maidenhood, Lupine fell in love with a

superior lad. Golden as the sun when it is closest to the earth, he had an unusual and endearing skill: finding things no one else knew they should look for. By now Lupine comprehended her enchantment,

and so she fought every least stirring of feeling for him. But to no avail, for she found herself telling horrible lies about him, insulting his sister to her face, and spitting on his shoes whenever they met.

Kyrie, her love, being no ordinary boy, met all her stings with

tenderness. This only made things worse.

One night she woke from sleepwalking under his open window, a

long, sharp knife glittering in each hand. Overcome with horror, she fled back to the wilderness before her mother or anyone else could

stop her.

She ran until she could only walk, and she walked until she could

only stumble, and she stumbled until she could only crawl, and she

crawled until she could go no farther. She had come to the top of a

tall mountain. She lay so still that the vultures thought she was dead

• 186 •

• Nisi Shawl •

and came to feed on her, but a fierce little bird scared them away.

By and by, Lupine recovered from her exhaustion and opened

her eyes. The first thing she saw was a cunning cup fashioned of

leaves and filled with clear water. She drank it all and sat up. The little bird had put away its fierceness and perched on her knees,

chirruping at her. She was so forlorn, she decided to confide in the beast. “Oh, Piece-of-the-Sky, if only you could tell me how to end all my sorrows,” she said.

“With pleasure,” the little bird replied. “I will consider it payment for your naming of me.”

“You—you talk!” said Lupine, naturally amazed at this.

“Not exactly. But because of the water I gave you to drink you

understand my singing. For only a short while, however, so let us

waste no time.

“You need not tell me your troubles, for I have been watching

you. The solution to them is simple. You must chain yourself to

those rocks there—” the bird gestured with a wing “—the Rocks of

Solitude, so you can do no harm to anyone. Throw the key down in

the dust. I will retrieve it. Then you must wait till I return with your swain, whose kiss will release you from the spell of your mother’s

potion.”

So Lupine shackled herself in the place where ancient princesses

had sacrificed themselves to fire-breathing dragons, using for this

their old, abandoned chains. The little bird flew off with the key.

Soon Kyrie strode up the path, bright as morning. Lupine hissed

at him and shook her rusty chains. He was not afraid, though, for he had learned all that it was necessary for him to know from Piece-of-the-Sky.

Still, he feared Lupine would bite off his nose before he succeeded

in placing his lips on hers and melting into her mouth. But at last he kissed his love.

When he stopped they were both dizzy with bliss and victory. He

unlocked her, and together they rejoined the world to share their joy.

Their whole lives were ahead of them, and they were free.

• 187 •

• Lupine •

As for Lupine’s mother, when she heard of the way in which

she had been outwitted she grew more and more anxious over her

impending death. When would it come? Where would it be? How

would it find her? What would be the manner of it? At last she could bear the suspense of her ignorance no longer and jumped into a fiery furnace.

Thus all concerned found peace.

••

Nisi Shawl
’s story collection
Filter House
was one of two winners of the 2009 James Tiptree, Jr. Award. Her work has been published by

Strange Horizons
,
Asimov’s SF Magazine
, and in anthologies including
Dark Matter
and
The Other Half of the Sky
. She was WisCon 35’s Guest of Honor, which Aqueduct Press celebrated by publishing
Something
More and More
, a collection of stories, essays, and an interview conducted by Eileen Gunn. Nisi edited
Bloodchildren: Stories by the
Octavia E. Butler Scholars
. She co-edited
Strange Matings: Octavia E.

Butler, Science Fiction, Feminism, and African American Voices
with Dr. Rebecca J. Holden; with Cynthia Ward she co-authored
Writing
the Other: A Practical Approach
. She is a founder of the Carl Brandon Society and serves on the Board of Directors of the Clarion West

Writers Workshop. Her website is www.nisishawl.com. She believes

in magic.

••

• 188 •

•

When I was working on my MA—writing reloaded fairy tales—I

had two rewrites I could not make work: “The Raven” and

“White Bride, Black Bride.” In the end I gave up, but they’ve mocked me for several years. Each tale had all the elements: princesses,

princes, kingdoms, magic, ill-will, bright hope, all bumping up

against each other, creating tension.

But neither story was right—neither was
enough
. When asked

to contribute to this anthology, I figured it was time to show those stories who was the boss. I peeled away their skins, cutting off the excess fat and flesh. I took them back to their barest basics and

found—for my purposes—the core of a single story. I built a new

skeleton, discarding the bones that did not fit, then layering on new flesh, new skin.

All writers working in the genre engage in the same Frankensteining

process. With fairy tales, we make and remake our own pretty

monsters, with their roots firmly embedded in the past. Oh, they will look new, but if you look at the shadow they cast, you’ll recognize

their original shape. You’ll know who and what they were. That co-

existence of old and new is both comforting and disconcerting.

Old storytellers used to finish with: “This is the tale you asked

for, I leave it in your mouth,” and I think this is the essence of the fairy tale. The words sit differently on varied tongues and each

retelling changes the tale, however infinitesimally. The fairy tale is the ultimate Chinese Whisper, shifting with telling and time, its feet in the past and its head in the future—and I think that’s why it’s my favorite form of storytelling.

Angela Slatter

•

• 191 •

•

The feathers were tiny and Emer hoped they would stay so.

Indeed, she prayed they would fall out altogether. They

were not downy little pins. Small, but determined, their black shafts hardened as soon as they poked through her skin, calcifying under

her touch as she stroked them in dreadful fascination.

All day she’d felt something happening beneath the gloves hastily

donned after her morning’s escapade. The sight of those ladylike

coverings had brought approving nods from both her mother and

governess, as if they were a sign she was
finally
listening to their exhortations.
A princess does not run. A princess does not shout or
curse. A princess keeps the sun in her voice, but off her fair skin. A
princess sits quietly, back straight. A princess smiles at a gentleman’s
tasteful jest, but never laughs too loudly
.
A princess never furrows her
brow with thought. A princess does not chew her nails.

Emer had been determined that nothing untoward was occurring;

that the healing salve she’d sneaked from her mother’s workroom

would put everything to rights.

But that night, when Emer closed her bedchamber door and

finally peeled away the doeskin gloves, she found that the wound in

her palm was sprouting dark fronds around its ragged edge. They

looked like the collar of her mother’s favorite cloak—except those

feathers with their vibrant eyes were from the palace peacocks. A

great ball of fear threatened to stopper her throat.

• 193 •

• Flight •

It had been the madness of a moment, to sneak away and run

through the gardens with the sky so blue, the clouds so white, the

grass such a vibrant green. Trembling in the breeze, the flowers

shone like delicate gems: wine-dark amethysts, sun-bright topazes,

heavenly sapphires, rubies red as blood, beryl the color of a storm-

tossed sea and, stranger still, the roses.

She’d danced and run, bounded and rolled like a child of five

not a young lady of thirteen. Not like a princess on the eve of her

fealty ceremony, someone who shouldn’t frolic until her gown, once

a triumph of pink embroidered with daffodils, had its hem torn and

trailing, one sleeve held in place by four tenuous threads, and grass and dirt staining the pattern. Tradition decreed the heir—even if, to the regret of many, she was female—be left unattended this day, not so she could
play
, but so that she might stand vigil, alone, unsupervised and mature, meditating on her future life of state. Preparing to pledge herself to the land, to be its sovereign and its succor, now and always.

Leaving the manicured lawns upon which she was usually

permitted a chaperoned stroll, Emer had wandered into unkempt

areas where the demarcation between garden and myrkwood was

little more than a rough boundary of aged briars. Smooth malachite

stems spiked with roses’ thorns—roses black as ebony!—entwined

seamlessly with the gray and brittle barbs of the brambles.

A burning glow from the heart of each bloom had compelled her

closer; an opalescent flash of green and red and gold, orange and

azure and magenta had drawn her. She’d reached out to touch the

nearest one, careful to avoid its prickles. The petals were like velvet.

As she pulled away, she felt a stabbing pain in her upturned hand.

One moment the air in front of her was empty and the next, a

raven, which had sat so still that it’d been invisible in the chest-high hedge, occupied the space with regal mien, its claws fixed tightly

around the briar barrier. The crimson wound in the center of Emer’s

palm showed where it had made its mark.

Emer stared at the bird; its feathers glistened tenebrous-dark, yet

radiant as if moonlight had been woven into their undersides. The

• 194 •

• Angela Slatter •

raven gave a harsh cry—if she hadn’t known better, she’d have said

it sounded apologetic—and Emer noticed its eyes burned with the

same fire as the blossoms, colors flickering and dying, only to be

replaced by the next brilliant hue. The creature took off, flying higher and growing smaller until finally it dove, plummeting straight at the girl, veering at the last second and shooting into the shadowy depths of the forest.

That was when Emer’s nerve had broken. Hitching her skirts,

she’d fled to her rooms, changed her dress and hid the destroyed one.

She’d smoothed her hair and washed her face, slipped on the snug

gloves, and spent the afternoon, heart aflutter, sitting in the solar.

Feigning contemplation of the book on her lap whenever her mother

or governess swept past, and hoping ever so hard that nothing would

come of her misadventure.

Now, Emer removed her frock slowly, fearfully, wondering why she

did not feel the cold. She stood in front of the mirror and turned. An inverted feathery triangle lay across her back and shoulders. At the nape of her neck were knots and twists where her tresses had begun

to tangle into a kind of plumage. Her nails had toughened, lengthened and grown points. Her thumbs and little fingers were shorter.

Yet she did not call for help.

Emer knew the price of magic—something outlawed since the

beginning of her father’s reign. Herbcraft was acceptable; although

leechwork was a gray area, its benefits were acknowledged; but

witchcraft? Enchantments had enabled the Black Bride to bring

calamity, to blind the King to the one he loved, to almost ruin a

prosperous land, and to leave the Queen permanently scarred. Emer,

transforming as she was, must be committing sorcery, even if it

wasn’t her choice.

No, she would not call for help. Surely it would go away. Surely

all she needed was to apply more of her mother’s lavender nostrum.

Surely in the morning, she thought, upending the bottle of ointment

and slopping it up her arms, surely by then this would all be gone.

v

• 195 •

• Flight •

At dawn, as the final act of her vigil the princess dressed all by herself for the first and last time.