Deep magic second coll.., p.18
Deep Magic - Second Collection, page 18
part #2 of Deep Magic Collection Series
When the guests arrived several days later, however, the house was almost unrecognisable by any respectable Faerie standard. The walls were straight, the beams of the roof were arranged all in a structurally sound criss-cross arrangement. The tables had legs, or else lay supine on the floor. The fireplaces were filled with coal, the clocks on the wall all ran at the same time, the mirrors reflected only what was put in front of them—even the cutlery no longer did as it was told, and had become complacent and lazy, needing to be operated entirely by hand. It was by far the most reasonable house that anyone in Faerie had ever seen.
Loosestrife had planned on converting the cosy little morning room at the front of the house into a majestic high-ceilinged ballroom, with lambent parquet flooring, marble columns, and several enormous chandeliers, but Obtuse had laboured the point that the dimensions and volumes of reality would not allow for such a thing, and the room had retained its original size, with little if any room for dancing. It was so poky in fact that the Countess de Winter’s voluminous gown of frost not only knocked over rather a lot of Loosestrife’s china ornaments (which in order to impress Obtuse insisted on smashing when they hit the floor) but also began to melt in the heat from the fireplace.
“Now listen here,” Loosestrife said after sneaking out to the serving pantry to scold his frustratingly scrupulous servant, “I want no more of your incessant reasonability tonight—you must be somewhat reasonable, of course, otherwise they will not believe you to be human, but please do your best not to be so pedantically logical. You have quite ruined my house, I have several very important guests in attendance, and I shall be very much displeased if you make this evening even a modicum less successful than it ought to be.”
At that moment, Marjory appeared at the door to the pantry.
“Marjory, my dear!” Loosestrife exclaimed. “Why, but a moment ago I saw you chatting to Martin Willowlimbs. What in all the realms could have possessed you to so hastily abandon one of our most important guests? Was his conversation not frivolous enough?”
Marjory smiled. “Quite, quite, he has a very fanciful way with words indeed, which kept me quite entertained. However, I had to tear myself away to consult with Obtuse here about the small matter of the canapés. You see—”
But Loosestrife simply waved his hand in dismissal. “I leave all that up to you, my dear. But do remember to hurry back. I have been told that my company is entertaining, but even I cannot be expected to singly keep a whole parlour of faeries enthralled for an entire evening.”
And with that he left to attend to the guests.
* * *
Having returned to the far-less-than-adequate ballroom and taken up my customary position on the mantelpiece, I was pleased to overhear the following conversation between the Countess de Winter and the aforementioned Martin Willowlimbs.
The Countess: How strange this house is, my dear Martin. I have never seen the like. Why, everything is so orderly! I must confess it to be the dullest house I have ever seen. And they say Loosestrife has gone up in the world . . .
Willowlimbs: Indeed, Countess, his wife, too, speaks of the most dreary topics. She’s almost as bad as Long Wind.
The Countess: Is that the Greenteeth girl? Yes, what a strange slip of a thing. How unfortunate for her father to be so overcome with relatives like that.
Willowlimbs: How do you deal with them, my lady? I hear you have a large family yourself, and yet your wealth does not seem to have been leeched from you.
The Countess: Oh, swiftly, and sharply. They ask for much less money when they have no heads, you see.
Willowlimbs: Indeed, indeed, a wise course of action.
Loosestrife: Enjoying yourself, Squire Willowlimbs, Countess?
Willowlimbs: Quite, quite, my dear Loosestrife. But tell me, what is this strange way you have renovated your brugh? It is, uh-ha, somewhat dreary, is it not?
Loosestrife: Ah! You noticed. Well, my dear squire, Countess, you shall find out the cause of it soon enough. I have something of a surprise for you all, you see. Proof positive that I have indeed gone up in the world.
Tom Thistletop: A surprise, you say?
Jack Catkin, Marquess Arumhall: What’s this about a surprise I hear?
Loosestrife: Now, now, everyone, your lordship, my lady. All in good time.
Lady Arumhall: Oh, Loosestrife, don’t make us wait. Come now, show us your surprise.
Countess: Yes, do.
Willowlimbs: Go on, be a good fellow and show us!
Loosestrife expelled a long, considered sigh. “Oh, very well,” he said with apparent reluctance (although he could not, in truth, have hoped for a warmer reception to his surprise).
He marched to the head of the room, and stood on a stool in front of the fireplace. He picked up a miniature bell from the mantle, and when he shook it, it rang as loudly as the tenant of any belfry (it, too, must have escaped the attentions of the servant, Obtuse), dampening the chatter of those in attendance beneath the weight of its peals. The music stopped, the dancers came abruptly to a halt.
“My lords and ladies, dukes and duchesses, gentlemen and crones. As you are all aware, I have recently found myself going up in the world. From humble beginnings as a simple weaver of lightning thread, I worked diligently, investing my earnings in many sundry ventures, which have, as good fortune would have it, made me a man of not inconsiderable wealth. I built this most excellent brugh, acquired a friend who rides my coattails, and decorated my abode with the most frivolous furniture in all of Faeriedom. I have held parties and gatherings well-received and attended by the most prestigious guests”—here he paused to smile benignly upon them all—“but one thing I have been missing, one thing that will convince even the most staunchly feudal among you, that I, Loosestrife Foulweather, have a place among you.”
He rang a service bell. “I present to you, Obtuse, my new human servant.”
Gasps rose up from the crowd.
“A human servant! Why, there hasn’t been a new human servant in Faerie since Cottingley.”
“Offa’s Dyke! This is marvellous. A new servant in Faerie—why, I haven’t seen a human in decades!”
“Thistletop won’t be happy about this. He’s always been proud of being the last faerie to have had a working servant. Now an upstart from the shires has one! And not he! Such a scandal! Such a marvellous scandal!”
So were the mutterings of the Faerie gentry while they awaited the arrival of the human servant. But when minutes came and went and no human servant appeared, Loosestrife began to show the merest hairline fracture of concern.
“Tobias, would you tell my wife to fetch Obtuse, please,” he asked of me, sweat beginning to bead on the larger of his eyebrows.
“Your wife, Loosestrife?” I replied. “I know not where she is.”
“She is not here?”
“No, my friend, she is not.”
“Fornicating fauns! Then I’ll go and get them myself.” He grasped me by the shoulders and hauled me off the mantle. “You keep the guests entertained,” he said in a voice hoarse with panic, before rushing to the serving pantry to find his wife and servant. But no one was there. He rushed to his quarters, but no one was there. He rushed to every corner of the house, but his wife and his servant were nowhere to be found. Only, nailed to the front door he found a letter, written in two separate hands.
In a script clumsy and smelling slightly of cheese was written: To my former master, Every man having been born free and master of himself, no one else may under any pretext whatever subject them without his consent. I bid you farewell.
And below it, in the clear, sensible hand of his wife: To my former husband, I wish to be treated as a rational creature, I wish to feel the calm and refreshing satisfaction of loving, and being loved by, someone who can understand me. Adieu.
Loosestrife sat down upon a very reasonable seat in the very reasonable drawing room of his now thoroughly reasonable house. The guests slowly departed, and he said not a word to them as they left, though they certainly had plenty to say about him (of which I shall not repeat here for fear of setting your ears alight). He sat in the chair for many hours, while I, once more, took up my position on the mantle.
When the sun began to rise, he sat there still, and it wasn’t until the rays fully illuminated the world outside the house that Loosestrife realised he no longer looked out on Faerie, but rather on a strange and uniform landscape of closely tended gardens and dull square houses, lined up in neatly regimented rows as far as he could see. The sound of bells rang across the brightening morning from the tower of a nearby church, and strange dark forms wandered hunched along the streets, boarding oddly shaped carriages, which rumbled and roared in the morning air and left clouds of grey fog in their wakes.
A knock, suddenly, came upon the door.
“Marjory? Obtuse? Is it them, do you think, Tobias?” he asked me, rising from his chair and rushing from the drawing room before I could answer.
How peculiar I felt in that new morning light, as though my whole body had ossified—from exhaustion, I surmised, following all the recent excitement.
I heard him open the door. And a voice, not Marjory’s, nor that of Obtuse, came galloping down the hall.
“Mornin’, Mr. Fowler. How are you today?”
“Excuse me, miss, I . . .” Loosestrife began, but the voice had already entered the drawing room (now much smaller than I recalled it ever being before) and revealed itself as belonging to a young woman wearing what appeared to be a sky-blue housecoat. Loosestrife followed her, and I must admit that now, in the fullness of the morning light, I could see how the strain of last night had changed him. His face was wrinkled and veined much like the cheese we had used to coat Obtuse’s wooden frame, and his posture was as crooked and contorted as the walls of his house had once been.
“Now, then,” said the woman. “I’ll give you your medicine first, and then I’ll make you a nice cup of tea. Then we’ll get you washed and dressed; how does that sound?”
“What is she talking about, Tobias?” he asked me, his eyebrows quite nearly leaping from his head.
The bluebells outside rang in the wind—but wait, it was not the bluebells; the ringing came from the intruder. She dug about in her pocket and lifted what looked like a pink snuff box to her ear.
“Hi, babe,” she said, apparently addressing an infant that had somehow entered the room unannounced. “Yeah, I’m at Mr. Fowler’s house now. Yeah, I’ll be done in about half an hour, all right? I’ll drop it round for you after I’m finished.”
“Tobias! What on earth is going on here! Who is this woman?”
“What’s that, babe? No, that’s just him talking to that flippin’ Toby jug on top of the fire. Yeah, yeah, all right, babe. T’ra.”
(I have done my utmost to transcribe her eccentric way of speaking, but I make no claims on its accuracy. It was indeed a most babbling and incoherent dialect.) She continued:
“Right, then, Mr. Fowler. Let’s get you that cup of tea, shall we?” She smiled a sweet smile, and left the parlour. I heard her going down the hallway to the kitchen.
“Tobias,” Loosestrife said to me, quickly approaching the mantelpiece. “I think this may be our replacement servant. Oh, yes. Oh, yes! Now everyone will see how I’ve gone up in the world. Another party, do you think, dear friend?”
To this I said nothing. Having experienced quite enough excitement of late, I thought it best not to encourage my friend any further in his fancies. I merely stared, and chewed on my pipe in silence.
DAFYDD MCKIMM
Dafydd McKimm was born and raised in Wales, but now lives in the Far Eastern city of Taipei, where he spends most of his free time reading and writing speculative fiction. His stories have appeared in Daily Science Fiction and Stupefying Stories SHOWCASE. You can read more of his work at dafyddmckimm.wordpress.com.
Website: dafyddmckimm.wordpress.com
WHAT HE OFFERED THE RIVER
By Aimee Ogden | 3,100 words
JASON FOUND THE pieces of the broken boat down by the water just before the rain started.
Anger surged up first—Laurel should know better. Then doubt, undercut with guilt—hadn’t he taught her to be more careful than that? Such a little thing, but still too much and too dangerous to leave beside this river. He let cool rain wash the self-recrimination from his clenched shoulders. He got to his knees to collect the pieces, and tucked them into the hem of his shirt to carry. Discussion could come later, would have to come later. First he had to prevent the damage that could have been done, if he wasn’t too late already. He combed through the grass carefully to make sure he hadn’t missed a stray bit of plastic. Rain soaked his shirt and blurred his vision, and he used his fingers to search for what his eyes might miss. When he was satisfied, he got up and turned his back to the river.
A small face peeped at him from the kitchen window. She must’ve gone up to the house when the rain started. He ducked his chin against the rain and started up the hill. His feet carved long muddy wounds in the sodden grass, and he counted each one he left: . . . four, five, six . . .
She was still watching, leaning against the kitchen doorframe, when he came in through the back door. His daughter had always been a quiet child, growing up solitary and a little wild, as likely to be caught trying to build a houseboat out of cast-off boards as perusing Jason’s old nursing school textbooks. He sat down at the table, and she studied him as if he were one of those anatomical drawings, something to be picked over and thoughtfully analyzed to some obscure purpose.
He kept her waiting while he bent to take off his wet shoes. Six years of practice hadn’t made him any abler at speaking to his daughter in a way that she’d understand. Or maybe she was just evolving faster, finding new ways to tune him out or misunderstand or let her big blue eyes gleam with unshed tears. He sighed and let the boat pieces spill out of his shirt and onto the table. The wet string tied to the cracked prow fell in a near-perfect circle around it, a ring of protection that had arrived too late. The little plastic fisherman who could sit in the prow was missing entirely—lost at sea, Jason supposed. “What happened?”
She bent her neck, carefully studying the scabs on her knees. “I don’t know.”
He pressed his thumb against one of the broken edges on the boat. It wasn’t sharp enough to draw blood, but it did leach the rising tide of temper. “Laurel.”
She looked up to meet his gaze through a tangle of black hair. That was her mother’s look, and her mother’s hair too. She huffed, and the snarl of bangs fluttered out of her face. “I wanted to see if I could fill the boat with water and swing it around in a circle so fast that the water would stay in.” A flash of pride. “And I did it! But then I let go and it hit the tree and it broke.” And her gaze dropped to the floor again as she toed the pattern in the linoleum. Her feet were dirty; they were always dirty. She loved being outside as much as she hated shoes. “And I remembered what you said about the river granting wishes and I thought maybe the river could fix my boat—”
Jason stood up too fast. The chair canted backward and banged into the wall. He let it fall, and strode to the sink. Both hands clasped the cold stainless steel as he breathed deeply of the draft from the open window. Granting wishes! As if the river was some beneficent genie, a simple mender of broken toys and finder of lost things.
Well, perhaps she had been that, from time to time. But nothing was ever that simple, not completely. Jason closed his eyes. Down by the river, the wind chimes sang arrhythmically, and the carnations he’d planted that spring shone pink and red in between the shrubbery. Despite his best efforts the words dripped out of his mouth, like the leaky faucet he’d never fixed: “Do you realize what you could have done?”
She held so still he could feel her lack of movement, the sudden absence of six-year-old wiggling and bouncing. He drank down a cool damp breath from the window, held it in his lungs for as long as he could, blew it back out. “Laurel,” he said. Maybe she was ready. Not to offer a broken toy boat, no. But he couldn’t keep her from giving things to the river, not forever. Not unless she understood. “Do you want to hear a story?”
A shuffle of bare feet on linoleum. When he looked over, a sharp crease pinched between her brows. “Okay,” she said.
They sat down at the table with the superglue and the pieces of the boat scattered atop a towel. Jason worked his tongue in his mouth and tried to find the story’s beginning. “Once upon a time,” he said, “there was a man.”
