Wishes and Sorrows: Myth and Magic

Wishes and Sorrows

Cindy Lynn Speer

Dragonwell Publishing

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright (c) 2014 by Cindy Lynn Speer

Cover art by Howard David Johnson

Published by Dragonwell Publishing

(www.dragonwellpublishing.com)

ISBN 978-1-940076-04-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any printed or electronic form without permission in writing from the publisher.

Table of Contents

Introduction

The Bell Witch and the Queen of Vines

Every Word I Speak

One Hundred Eight Degrees

Remember

The Train

The Tower in the Desert

A Necklace of Rubies

What Will I Do When the Dream is Over?

The Fortunate Ones

The Jester’s Heart

I Am the Grey Lady

But Can You Let Him Go?

And With This Slipper…

The Taste of Cherries

About the Author

Also by this author:

The Chocolatier’s Wife

The Chocolatier’s Journal

Blue Moon

Unbalanced

Introduction

Introductions are tricky things. Most people skip them… I skip them, sometimes, but they are still important. Sometimes you feel like you have to explain yourself.

So, skip this now, and come back when you’ve read the stories… read it for the sake of curiosity, if nothing else. It’s a good thing to have introductions, after all; they stand as apologies for or reasons behind the things we do. Sometimes they tell the author’s secrets.

I am doing an introduction because this book contains several short stories, from the first one I ever wrote to the most recent finished ones. Maybe it will be useful, or interesting to know when and where they came from. What brought me to write them. I’m not silly enough to think that this is for posterity’s sake… I doubt I’ll ever be that popular… but maybe it will entertain.

The Bell Witch and the Queen of Vines (2012)

The Bell Witch in this story has nothing to do with the Tennessee poltergeist, but quite the opposite. The story originated from the first line coming to me while I was doodling. Aziza came into my head—a gypsy with hair like a cloud of darkness, walking alone through the streets, ringing from the bells she wore—and I needed to know why she would do that. She was a protector, that was obvious… but from what?

Every Word I Speak (1998)

The first of my retold fairy tales. I’d been reading a lot of Neil Gaiman and old fairy tales, and I loved his Snow, Glass, Apples. I hadn’t thought of doing anything similar until one day, I read Charles Perrault’s The Fairies.

The story is about two sisters, one who is favored but vile, unkind. The less-favored one is a sweetheart. One day the less-favored one is drawing water, and a twisted old crone comes and begs for help. The sister gives her water, and in return, is given a gift… with every word she speaks, a flower, a pearl, or a diamond comes out of her mouth. Her sister, of course, must get in on the action, but sadly… well, she gets what she deserves. The nice girl gets to marry a prince, and live happily ever after.

When I closed the book, I thought, What a terrible thing to have to live with. I immediately felt that the prince didn’t marry the girl because she was sweet and pretty. So I wanted to write a story about what it would be like to have this gift—if it was a gift at all.

One Hundred Eight Degrees (1999)

What happens afterward is one of those things that fascinates me—how do you recover from being and doing something spectacular, whether it’s no longer being a companion on Doctor Who, or coming back, as our heroine in this story, from a world of magic. She’s had time to settle in… and now she has a chance to go back, but will she take it?

Remember (1997)

Remember is the first short story I’d ever written. I was a senior in college and I’d written all this stuff—poems, plays, chapters from novels—and I wanted to write something short. I’d tried before, but nothing clicked or gelled. One of my friends sent me the soundtrack from an obscure movie called Dogs in Space. On it, there is a song sung by the late Michael Hutchence (you might have known him as the lead singer of INXS) called… well, Remember. So I wrote this short story while listening to this song—on tape, yet, so I would listen to the song, hit Rewind (fortunately I think it was the first song on the side), and hit Play when it clicked off. Rewind, play, rewind, play, until the first draft was done. It took me all night. It’s kind of odd in that… well, normally, I hate to have music (or at least anything with words) play while I’m writing.

The Train (1998)

This is the second short story I ever finished… I finished it in 1997 but rewrote it in 1998. It came about at a meeting of two things: the memory of a train ride I took coming back from my grandmother’s funeral (so the train stuff is really accurate to my experience as a passenger on an Amtrak auto train in 1993) and my desire to talk about the idea of Frankenstein. Yes, this is my Frankenstein story… the thing that always resonated so loudly with me was the idea of what the creator’s responsibility really was to his creation. The one thing the creator in this story can create is her mind, her personality, and so we play with that too.

The Tower in the Desert (2001)

This is one of those stories that doesn’t have a clear genesis in my mind. I think I just wanted to write a story where the characters were isolated. It became a bit of a love story. I might revisit these two someday, but who knows? I like them a lot.

But then, I like all of my characters a lot.

A Necklace of Rubies (2004)

The second of my retold fairy tales, its origins began when I was sitting at my computer looking at books I’d been sent for review. A few years back I was a book reviewer for several places, and Tor Books sent me everything they had. It was, honestly, heaven. Anyway, one of the books I received was Gregory Frost’s Fitcher’s Brides—I read the introduction by Terri Windling (See? Introductions are useful!), which discussed the Bluebeard/Mr. Fox mythos in several of its forms. I became fascinated by the fact that no matter what a woman is offered—threats, bribes, love—the main woman in the story always, always has to go into the one place she is forbidden, where she finds Something Terrible. I borrow a little from the English Fairy tale of Mr. Fox (the fox motif, obviously, and of course the various phrases of Be bold in the story), but I would not say that this story takes place in our world. Long-time blog readers will recognize this story as In the Chamber, which I posted as I wrote.

What Will I Do When the Dream is Over? (2006)

My parents and I would take long, long drives before I got my current full-time job. I’d ride along in the backseat, sometimes bored, sometimes enjoying seeing the world. We’d drive down country roads and see abandoned houses, in the back ends of cities and see dying industry. This is what happens when a woman what ifs while riding through these types of places.

The Fortunate Ones (2004)

One of the topics that crops up once in a while in my writing is imagination as a survival tool. In this story, one has to wonder if the main character’s friend is truth or fiction.

The Jester’s Heart (2005/2013)

I don’t know why I started writing this story… maybe I wanted to talk about how totally horrid people can be to each other when they are young, though recently I’ve watched people who were supposed to be honorable adults take pretty good chunks out of my friends, so maybe it’s a pack mentality, sometimes, that takes over and makes us cruel if we are weak enough to be swayed by it. I have always thought jesters were seriously creepy too… so when you put those things together…

The Grey Lady (2003)

I used to watch a Saturday TV show on PBS about visiting Scotland. Tartan TV, I think it was? And they spoke of a manor house haunted by The Grey Lady. I started to think about the Grey Lady, wandering around this tourist spot all alone, and I wondered what she would think or see. My Grey Lady is not the same one, but is set in a bed-and-breakfast in the States.

But Can You Let Him Go? (2010)

I love retold fairy tales… I think that the ability to look at an old story through different eyes is a fun and interesting approach to a story. I’d written two others (included) and I was just itching to write a third. My favorite fairy tale of all time has always been Cinderella, and I think it’s really cool how there are so many versions of the story. You have an Egyptian prostitute, a murderess… just a thousand variations. And I wondered… why? Of course, I know the logical scientific-ey explanation, but… could it be that this story, more than any of the others, is being retold, replayed out again and again, for another reason? I looked and saw that there is always some sort of fairy godmother figure in the stories, and I wondered… maybe someone is trying to make up for something they did. And that’s what the fairy godmother in my story is trying to do… fix a wrong, and perhaps finally find peace.

The Taste of Cherries (2009)

I wanted to write a (very) short story about longing… about missing this world while being in another. It’s the last story because it’s more of a farewell than a story. Just something pretty, a little sad, to send you on your way.

The Bell Witch and the Queen of Vines

She called herself Aziza, and as she walked she rang softly, bells in her hair, around her ankles and waist and wrists, which was appropriate, for she was a bell witch. She walked the streets at night unharmed, from the time dusk became dark to the time dark became dawn. Sometimes she would sing as she walked, the old chasing songs, and many was the man or woman who did not rest well until the jingling of her jewelry was heard passing in the street.

She slept only when the sun was high and the shadows small, in a roofless room surrounded by no less than seven pure-white cats.

The villagers gave her food, and cloth, and books and the tools of her profession. She had a small, simple house, and a garden where she grew nightbane and garlic among the hollyhocks and daisies. She often slept there in the summer, on a stone bench in full sun, soaking up the heat to protect her from the chill of the night. On one ankle she had a mark, half tattoo, half burn, of a vine wrapped around it. She scratched it sometimes, absently, and would wince as if it had hurt her. People asked about it, from time to time, but they never got an answer, and they never asked again.

Sometimes people would join her on her walk. If the guest on her travels was a young woman, she would teach her a swaying, graceful dance that set the bells aringing. It is about control. Not shaking your assets, but about grace…, she could be heard to say in her curling-smoke voice. The men she would walk next to calmly, the epitome of the grace she preached.

But mostly, she walked alone. Considering her past, she thought that was just as well.

She would wend past the houses, the gardens, past the graveyard and the church. A rare stand of trees marked where a spring rose up out of the earth, and she would stand there, the only sound being from the wind lifting her hair or the edge of her scarf, muffled as she moved her hand to still it.

The townspeople spoke of it, how she stood so quiet, her head tilted as if listening for something. Some argued that it was because it was at the beginning of town, and the road wended past the spring, and she was listening for danger. Others scoffed at that, for if it was so, why did she not dance, or sing? It was pointed out that she had never entered the grove, never passed into that circle of trees. Another ventured that perhaps she was listening for some great danger, though the townspeople scoffed at it.

Aziza knew what they said, knew the questions they asked, but she didn’t know what to tell them. She was waiting… her life was one of walking and waiting, and so when she went out to that spot, she would stand there in the darkness, counting her breaths until they slowed, avidly studying the shapes in the reflection. How the shapes of the trees looked in the shadows of the water. She knew the shape of the stand intimately; she could almost feel how much the trees had grown since last she saw them. Her eyes could see well in the dark, for all that it was a colorless world. Muddied, shadowed, dreary. It was her world, and she did not mind it at all.

She listened for the sound of strings. She was waiting for a sign. She did not recognize it when she finally saw it.

Gardening, Aziza thought to herself, would be much less unpleasant if they could do something about the weeds. They seemed to be multiplying at an insane rate, the paths, the fences, untended hillsides were all covered in long, thin, sticky vines, each covered with little thin branches that had clusters of leaves at every juncture. They were miserable to rip up because they tangled with the plant, damaging it if you weren’t careful. It chocked the good plants out if you left them alone, and people needed to eat, so leaving them alone was not an option.

I’ve never seen weeds like this before. Have you? she asked Chloe. Chloe was sometimes Aziza’s student, and pretty much the closest thing the bell witch had to an apprentice. She’d come to help rid the worst of the mess from Aziza’s tiny garden.

No, I’ve not… everyone’s complaining about them, though. They seemed to have come from nowhere.

Aziza looked at the vine in her hand. It was a pleasing bright green covered with small white flowers, yet if left unchecked it would destroy everything around it.

Things are changing, she said. She’d seen these vines before, but to confess that would be to confess a lot more that she just wasn’t prepared to tell.

How so?

Aziza shook her head and smiled. Don’t pay heed. Things are always changing. But she knew that when night fell, she would make her way to the strand of trees, and she would wait there longer than ever. The spring had to be a fae gate. She didn’t know how to tell for certain, except to wait and watch it.

There would be signs, if she looked for them, if she was lucky.

That night, she sat and stared at the spring where the weeds seemed to grow the most lushly. She worried and she concentrated and she thought, but nothing came to her. She danced the bell dance, she cast herbs onto the waters… whatever she could think of, but she would wander home again, distracted and tired.

Days passed, and the choke grass grew wilder than ever, and now the people’s fears were not focused on the ghosts and evils of the night, but on getting enough food to survive. It made her job harder, for fear, worry, and the anger that almost always followed in their steps woke ghosts and drew darker things to the village.

Aziza worked with the others in the fields, stripping away vines and throwing them to the fires. At night, she chewed nightbane, bitter and cruel, to keep her awake on her route. She could feel the poison festering in her stomach, but she could do nothing about it. The pain throbbed in time with her pulse. She drank tea in the day and tried to pad her stomach as much as she could. Chloe objected to it, but Aziza laughed and said, This is definitely a ‘do as I say and not as I do moment’… we are desperate right now; I am needed more than ever.

It was a bad night for ghosts.

She passed under a window where a newborn infant was wailing piteously, and she raised her left wrist, shaking it, and the baby calmed. Aziza smiled at the mother’s whispered thanks, but kept going.

Farmer Bridger and his wife were screaming at each other, desperate, painful arguments. She could tell they wanted to stop, but couldn’t. Through the window Aziza saw the shadow of his mother, looking as smug as a shadow can look. She backed away from the house a few steps, and joined her outstretched hands in front of her, stomping with her left foot in a spiraling dance, pivoting on her right, swaying her hips once on the beat, working her way up until her hair and earrings shook with the movement, and the ghost wailed softly, and dissipated.

Ghosts played together in the cornfield, chasing each other through the stalks, until she came, and danced, and chased them away. They had left their mark on the corn, the few stalks they had touched black, as if frostbitten. She continued to chase them, from houses and gardens and barns.

And then she encountered the werewolf.

They stood, facing each other, on the hard-packed dirt of the main road.

You are not one of the village, she said, studying him. If you were, we would have seen each other before.

The massive wolf, broad-headed, sharp-fanged, growled at her, gathering closer to the ground as if readying to leap.

She put out her right hand, looking for all the world as if she was reaching out to pet the beast. I think you should leave this place before I make you. Go to the hills, and do not come back.

Glowing yellow eyes glanced at her wrist, covered in silver bells. They would shine brightly as the moon, to his eyes. His huge form shuddered, and slowly, surely, he became a man. Taller than the men of the village, muscled, he shook shaggy hair from his eyes.

Death, he said, then cleared his throat and swallowed again. Death follows you.

She lowered her hand. Are you my messenger?

He shook his head. I do not mean your village harm. The game have fled. There is no food in the hills, and I starve.

She relaxed. You were going for the sheep. But you will scare them, and the sheep will scatter, the pregnant ewes will drop their babies… this is no solution, either.

He rubbed his hand over his face. I have lived alone for so long, I have forgotten all of these… He waved his hand, looking for the word. Details.

She untied a wool shawl from her hips and handed it to him. He gave her an odd look, and she, trying not to blush, tied it about his hips. I will take you to my house. You may eat what I have there… but… She took a breath. What did you mean. About death? Did someone tell you to say it? Did you see something?

I still see it. He was looking over her shoulder. No, do not look back. Death follows you, a tall and pale man. He follows you every night. I have seen him. Your bells do not bother him.

He is there? Behind me now? She glanced around to see him. No one.

He is there. He has just smiled, and bowed to you, but your eyes are blinded to him.

That is not possible. She could see the dead. She always had been able to. It shook her more than it should, but she masked it carefully, even as she took a few steps forward, peering into the dark as if that would change things.

There is no benefit in me lying to you, bell witch.

She took a breath, shuddered, her bells ringing in the gloom. I must finish my walk. If you will, come with me, and I will lead you to my home, and give you what the food I have.

The werewolf fell into stride and they walked for a while in silence.

Tall and pale, you say? she asked.

The werewolf nodded. And one green eye, one brown.

No mistake, then, she whispered.

The werewolf was silent.

What is your name, then, if we are to be friends? She shook her wrist at something moving in the trees, but it was only a night bird and she felt a flush of embarrassment. She never made mistakes like that. The ghost that followed her, and who she thought it was, disconcerted her.

Jophas, he said. I think it was Jophas.

And that was how they became friends.

For a few days longer, Aziza allowed her life to be simple. She would walk the night, and Jophas would follow her. After a week he was sleeping on the floor next to her bed. She felt protected, which was odd, because what could frighten a bell witch? And then Aziza would look behind her, see nothing, and shiver all the same.

She pulled out her old set of bells, and spent a lovely, sun-laden afternoon polishing and repairing them. The werewolf puttered around aimlessly, sometimes pacing like a wild animal in a cage, sometimes sitting with her or working in the garden. There was something companionable about it, something peaceful that did her heart good, and for a time, she hoped that the signs would not come, that she could just continue on.

But Aziza knew better, and so, one night she invited Chloe to walk with her, adorned in the newly repaired bells. Chloe was excited when she put them on, ringing her hips. You’ve never had me wear bells before, she said, shaking her wrist and admiring the small, etched silver bells.

It’s time. I won’t wear my bells… as you know, two sets of bells can be counter productive. Bell-witchery is not good for groups.

Chloe calmed herself, but still, she was grinning as they walked out to town, Aziza’s own bells in a bag over her shoulder. Aziza tried to recapture the seriousness of the moment. All right then… tell me the litany.

Chloe nodded. Every seventh day, two ghosts can be found on the roof of the inn. Aziza stopped while Chloe pointed out the spot where they usually stood. If you do not scare them away, they give nightmares to the people within, and the innkeeper will be cross because the custom will be bad for a month… no one likes to stay at a haunted inn. I should use the anklets, stomping forward like this, then turn… She did it, and Aziza nodded.

Let’s move on. What’s next?

You generally will find that the spirits of the cemetery are the worst during the new moon… but if there are none at all, be wary, for it means they have been frightened away by something fiercer than they. And on they wandered, discussing the accumulated lore of the various hobgoblins, spirits, and nightmares that walked the dark.

Something about this conversation feels final, Chloe said.

The wind was picking up. Aziza looked over her shoulder to see what was rustling across the path behind them. She felt quite naked without her own bells, and she crossed her arms, cold despite the damp warmth of the night. That’s because I may be leaving, soon. I lack but one sign… and when I see it, I will know that it is time to make my journey.

You can’t leave!

Aziza smiled. Everyone leaves, eventually. That is why I’ve trained you. The village will be safe… besides… She heard a sound, purposeful. She walked forward and knelt in the middle of the road, and held out her hands.

Jophas came slowly out of the gloom, and smacked her hands with a paw, lightly.

She looked up at Chloe, who was trying, very impressively, to look brave. He is not frightened of the bells, for his heart is not dark. She could see something shift in the corner of her eye, and as Chloe’s head came up, she knew Jophas had changed.

Aziza dug a pair of breeches out of her bag and handed them to Jophas without looking at him. He sighed, and went and dressed… to please her, she knew.

I didn’t realize you were… no one told me that… Chloe, who had perhaps exchanged a half-dozen words with him stepped back a few feet.

I am a werewolf, but I am trying to become better, he said with a touch of irony.

He will be useful… while I am gone he can guard you, for a few nights, until you feel confident. But soon enough the night will be yours, and you will no longer need a companion to give you self-confidence.

She gave Jophas a weak smile and waved a little, while Jophas studied them both for a moment before rolling his shoulders and settling in to walk behind them.

What sign, then? Chloe asked as they continued on the path.

"When the moon is blue, the world is frozen,

"When it is green, the lost can be seen,

"When it is gold, it is no longer cold, "

"But when it is red, out walk the dead. "

That makes no sense. Chloe said.

It does… when you realize that it is not our moon of which they speak.

Oh, yes, so much clearer now, she rejoined, and Jophas laughed softly behind them.

Perhaps it will be clearer when we get to the spring. She was not sure what she wanted to say about it… her training, the things she had needed to know in the city was quite different from what she needed to know in a small town. Bell witches changed to their situation, and though if she had had more time, she would have trained Chloe in more things, just to pass them along and so that the younger girl wasn’t stuck serving away from cities, but time was fleeting.

Why are the weeds so much thicker here? Is it just because we do not tend them as much?

Partly. Partly because of magic… I think so, at least. Or maybe the spring just feeds them something they need to thrive. She crushed down the path again, making her way to the perfect tear-shaped mouth of the spring, where it bubbled up from somewhere unknown, cold and deep. She got down on her knees, smoothing her skirts. I kneel so I can see the moon through the branches, both in the sky… and here, in the water. Do you see how the moon and the trees reflect in the bowl of the spring?

Chloe joined her. Yes… it’s green. The moon’s reflection is green…

The spring is a Fae-door, that is why you guard it. Jophas stepped away.

The lost can be seen. Aziza looked back over her shoulder. Nothing. But Jophas’ gaze focused on something. That is why you can see him, and I can’t. He’s not dead, he’s lost.

He, who? I don’t see anything… Chloe stood and stared hard—trying, bless her.

You are not Fae… and werewolves are a little Fae-touched. Unseelie, but still, Fae nevertheless. Aziza got up. Let us finish, and I shall tell you what I know.

No…, Jophas said as she stumbled a little on the vines. You must finish your rounds… there is nothing else to be done, but then you will sleep, and I will make you a healing broth to strengthen you, and then, when the afternoon sun is still hot, then you will tell us what you know.

Aziza smiled, and rested on his arm for a moment. I did not know you had that many words in you.

He grinned back.

The trip seemed shorter than usual. Chloe got to frighten a small group of gremlins in a barn, all by herself. Aziza taught her how to scare away a gloom shade that had been camping outside a young man’s room.

When dawn came, Chloe went to her bed, crowded with younger sisters, promising to throw the windows open wide and sleep in the light. Aziza entered her courtyard and lit five lanterns and placed them in a circle around her bed. Years had taught her how much oil, exactly, to use so that they would burn out by themselves when the world was at full-light. Jophas dragged out the straw mat she’d made for him— he was not used to beds, but she hated to see him directly on the ground—and lay down next to her in the circle of light. She lay on her side, wrapped in a thick feather quilt that she would shed as soon as the sun warmed the day, and she looked down at him. He was sand-colored… dusty-blond hair and tanned skin, odd attributes for the moon-called to have. His face was a hard one, filled with rough edges.

The last man she’d watched sleep had been much different. Dark-haired, almost pretty. She had thought of him as the love of her life, but now, watching the werewolf, she wanted to touch his shoulder, wanted to lie in his warmth and be lost.

Why are you watching me?

She smiled.