Phantazein

Phantazein

Edited by Tehani Wessely

Smashwords Edition

Individual stories and artwork copyright © to the respective creators

ISBN: 978-0-9925534-0-1

This anthology © FableCroft Publishing 2014

http://fablecroft.com.au

Cover artwork by Kathleen Jennings

Cover design by Amanda Rainey

The moral right of the authors has been asserted.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

Title: Phantazein / editor: Tehani Wessely ; authors: Faith Mudge,

Tansy Rayner Roberts, Gitte Christensen, Thoraiya Dyer, Rabia Gale, Jenny Blackford, Suzanne J. Willis, Nicole Murphy, Vida Cruz, S.G. Larner, Charlotte Nash, Cat Sparks, Foz Meadows ; Kathleen Jennings, Moni.

ISBN: 9780992284497 (paperback)

9780992553401 (ebook)

Subjects: Fantasy poetry. Short stories.

Dewey Number: A820.804

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The editor gratefully acknowledges the generous assistance given to the production of this book by Katharine Stubbs, Elizabeth Disney, Dirk Flinthart, Amanda Rainey, and the amazing contributors—I never cease to be impressed by the depth of talent and professionalism among our Australian creators.

As always, Tehani would like to thank her ever-enduring husband and children for their patience and support, and for keeping her away from the computer when she should be.

CONTENTS

Introduction

Twelfth by Faith Mudge

Bahamut by Thoraiya Dyer

The Nameless Seamstress by Gitte Christensen

How the Jungle got its Spirit Guardian by Vida Cruz

The Seventh Relic by Cat Sparks

Rag and Bone Heart by Suzanne J Willis

Kneaded by S.G. Larner

The Village of No Women by Rabia Gale

The Lady of Wild Things by Jenny Blackford

The Ghost of Hephaestus by Charlotte Nash

A Cold Day by Nicole Murphy

Scales of Time by Foz Meadows & Moni

Love Letters of Swans by Tansy Rayner Roberts

About the Contributors

Also from FableCroft Publishing

Introduction

Every time I think I’m getting on top of my publishing schedule, new opportunities seem to pop up. And while I like to think I’m a sensible person, sometimes I just can’t say no.

The book you are holding in your hands really shouldn’t exist. FableCroft’s 2014 anthology of original stories was supposed to be an unthemed speculative fiction anthology called Insert Title Here. I called for submissions back in December 2013, and received more than 250 stories in a three month period. As I was reading the slush, I uncovered several stories that resonated with me as working very well together but not, it seemed, in an unthemed anthology. To include them in Insert Title Here would have unbalanced the nature of that collection. These stories felt like they belonged in a different book altogether. A fantasy book. This book.

It would be wrong of me to compare this anthology to a phoenix rising from the ashes, because the stories that will appear next year in Insert Title Here are anything but ashes, but Phantazein does seem, to me, like something a little magical. The stories in these pages are inspired by mythology, by fairytales, and by the tradition of fantasy itself. They are all very different, but I think you, like me, will see the same connections I did when I plucked them from the slush. I hope you, like me, love them too.

Tehani Wessely

August 2014

Twelfth by Faith Mudge

He came to us as Esben the traveller, Esben the adventurer, a youth no older than the youngest of the ogress Ostra’s sons. She opened her door to him, raggedy and rain-driven as he was, and that very night he repaid her kindness by taking his quick blade to the throats of her twelve boys as they slept. He seized her throne and crown, and tossed her out into the dark to drown in her grief. In this manner a king was made.

He thought of her no more, for she was old and feeble in his eyes and had no sons left to fight for her. How could one woman alone reclaim her lands? So Esben-traitor, having won his kingdom, sent for his promised princess to share the night of triumph.

But Ostra was clever. Broken-hearted, oh yes, bleeding tears like heart’s blood, but the night was not done with yet. She cut herself a cloak of shadows and followed Esben the killer, Esben the king. She was there as, one by one, with ropes and ripped sheets, hands slicked by blood and sweat, he dragged the bodies of her sons down into a lightless vault deep, deep below the castle, where they would never meet with light again. There, he thought they would be forgotten, and his crime with them.

He did not know he was watched.

This was Ostra’s castle. Even Esben could not steal its secrets. She went by her own way, creeping through masked doors, down hidden steps. There she found the bodies, left to rot under shallow mounds of earth. Ostra scrabbled in the gravesoil until she could lay her hands in the blood of her sons, and with words from the oldest tongue in the world, she called us back to her. We were only shades, cold and hollow, but we knew what had been done to us. We knew her.

I will make things right, she vowed. He may be king, oh yes, he may wear my crown and keep my castle, but we’ll best him in the end, you’ll see. Let he and his pretty bride be happy! Let them feast on their lies! While she’s sleeping I’ll speak my right words in her ear. All the guards in the world won’t keep me away, but I won’t lay a finger on her, no, not a finger. We can wait, my lads. In the end, it will all be ours again. All we must do is wait.

∑†¥§∞§¥†∑

The passing of months is nothing to us; the dead do not weary or age. For Ostra, it is torturous. She has nowhere else to go, and so our tomb becomes her sanctuary. Sometimes she drifts, a severed shadow, through the bright halls where once she reigned; but it is here in the caverns beneath, in the forgotten vault, that she weeps and screams and makes promises to the bitter dark. Her grief is the flame that holds us near, though we cannot share it. I do not feel, yet I can think. I am not alive, yet not allowed to die.

I had a name, once, but names are nothing to the dead.

∑†¥§∞§¥†∑

When the first princess is born, Ostra’s happiness is a fierce thing. The clapping of her hands echoes across the icy waters of the underground lake until the vault is ringing with her glee. "They celebrate, boys, up there in our home, they think they have been blessed. But they’ll see. They’ll all see."

A second daughter is born to Esben-king. A third, a fifth, a ninth.

He knows, Ostra croons. He looks at his wife, all worn down to a ghost woman, and his daughters all in a row, and he knows I’ll be coming one day to collect.

The day the twelfth girl is born, the queen dies. There are no celebrations in the halls above for this princess, but in the vault Ostra is dancing, shrieking, laughing.

∑†¥§∞§¥†∑

There is light now, the conjured glow of a phantom moon. It reveals a face in the water at my feet, familiar as a fading dream, youthful as the day I died.

I linger here, not from choice, but because it is where the only life within my reach happens to be. My mother stoops in the black earth beside the lake, planting pearls and silver coins, rubies, gold, all taken from the king’s own coffers. She sings to them as she sings to us, making them what she needs them to be. Luminescent branches rise where our blood fell, bringing the water alive with a thousand shimmering reflections. There is no wind to stir them, but when Ostra brushes against the leaves they ring like bells. Her skyless moon shines down on her lifeless wood.

I feel my dead eyes blink for the first time in decades.

They’re coming, Ostra whispers. She fusses over us, tweaking her illusions, patting our cold cheeks and smoothing colourless hair. You know what to do.

I hear footsteps, whispers and nervous giggles, the echoes carrying clearly to the water and the twelve boats, where we stand waiting. Through the gold and silver trees they come, the king’s daughters, all pale in long white nightgowns, as if it is they who are the ghosts. The eldest is a woman nearing thirty, thin-faced and sober, the only one to think of putting on a dressing gown over her night things. Her sisters cluster close to her, teetering between fear and curiosity. One is armed with an iron poker; several more hold candles aloft, gasping and exclaiming as the light dances over living silver and gold. As they near the lake’s edge, their eyes alight on us. Silence falls.

My eldest brother is the first to throw off his hood. His hair is bone white, but the pallour of his skin is brightened by candlelight, borrowing a flush of life. His eyes fix steadily on the eldest sister and he holds out his hand.

I have been waiting for you, he tells her, without remonstrance but also without grandeur, a simple statement of fact. The princess’s eyes widen. She has uncovered a secret door and been lured into a fantasy; a world that is governed by the rules of dreams, where gold can grow leaves and the moon shines underground. A better world, perhaps, than her own. In such a place, why should a handsome suitor not stand waiting on her arrival? A pattern has been laid before her feet, and it is hard to resist.

Who are you? she demands, dazedly. What is this place?

Once, we were princes. My brother spreads his arms and one by one the rest of us throw off our cloaks, revealing the regal uniforms and glinting scabbards of our mother’s illusion. We are cursed men, my lady, bound to this land of shadows, but it was foretold you would come, and the end of our imprisonment with you.

What does that mean? The princess with the poker grips her weapon tighter, as if she’d rather lash out than listen. What do you want with us?

Oh, a clever one. But Ostra knows the king’s daughters well, and my brother is ready. I would look upon another living face, he says, with an earnestness that is all his own illusion. I would hear a new voice and new words. And perhaps by hearing them, find our salvation. You were brave to come as far as you did, princess. Will you come further?

He has not once let his hand fall; now he stretches it further, silently imploring. The eldest princess stares for a long moment, ignoring the shifting and whispers of her sisters. This woman is their leader—where she goes, they will follow. My brother stands unflinching before her. He makes no further effort to sway her, not with words, but he waits with his hand open as if her answer will change the world.

For us, that is true. It is all true. Perhaps she recognises that, or perhaps she simply wants to believe. Either way, I see the moment she changes her mind. She takes his hand and steps into the gondola.

Several of the princesses linger by the trees, wary; the one with the poker is the last to choose a boat, and even then unwillingly. Others are easily charmed, hurrying down to the lake’s edge to meet with their mysterious escorts. The youngest princess is one of the latter. She practically leaps into my boat, almost unbalancing it with her enthusiasm, and I do not so much assist her as catch her before she can fall into the water. Her hands are a shock of heat against my own, her eyes wide and avid as they search my face. Hot colour infuses her cheeks. Blood; that is the blood of Esben’s daughter. I am fascinated by it.

What are you? she blurts. Her cheeks grow hotter. My mother’s spells mask the chill of my skin, but she cannot give me that colour, that life.

I don’t mean to sound impolite, the princess continues, the words spilling too quickly in her excitement, but…the door, the stairs, those must have been some manner of portal? We never knew it was there before. If Father hadn’t thrown— She stops herself abruptly. That is, if we had not been obliged to move my bed, we would never have known of it.

She looks down at my hands, still clasped firmly around hers. I release her and gesture that she should sit. The princess lowers herself carefully among the cushions at the other end of the gondola while I take up my pole and push us away from the shore to join my brothers on the lake.

Have you really been waiting for us? Esben’s daughter asks. But how could you know that we would come?

Over her head, I see a tall ragged shape between the trees, watching us from beneath a cloak of shadows. We have lived on hope, I tell the girl, and she smiles.

She gives me her name. I have none to give in return, and soon forget hers. She talks every moment we are afloat, a breathless babble that is not always decipherable. I learn that she is the youngest, that she loves the woods and is often barred from them by the strictures of her father, that she is enchanted by this world of glimmer and shadow, and by me. I learn, through her indirect words and fierce blushes, that she has often dreamed of a meeting such as this. Not all of her sisters are so easily won; the sound of voices drifts across the lake from the other boats, the sound of questions that can’t be answered. Like as not, they have never seen sorcery before; even the stories could not prepare them for this. Only the youngest sister does not seem to care. She gives herself willingly to enchantment.

As we near the far shore of the lake she falls quiet, staring wonderingly at the shining pavilion that awaits us there, its tall columns and latticed cupola wreathed in silver and gold roses. On a raised dais a quartet of instruments play themselves; beside it, a banquet table is laid with cloth of gold and brimming goblets. It is a display of magic so incontrovertible that the existence of a curse goes immediately beyond all denial. I look to the princess in my boat, expecting further questions.

My first ball, she breathes. It is unlikely she intended me to hear, so I pretend that I have not. Leaping lightly from the boat, I take her hand once more to draw her out and lead her into the pavilion. Most of my brothers are already there. The princesses who accompanied them gaze around with expressions that range from open fear to dazzled wonder. I turn to mine and bow. Delight leaps into her eyes, chased away a breath later by doubt.

I don’t know how to dance, she confesses, staring at her feet as if she hates them. They are encased in thin slippers tied shut with yellow ribbons. I stare at them too, nonplussed by this unforeseen obstacle. Ostra’s charming words taste wrong in my mouth; I realise I do not want to say them. What should I say? What would I have said to this girl in the days when names meant something?

Who is here who cares whether you dance well or not? I ask. We join my brothers in a swirling reel, and it’s true, my princess cannot dance, but that is not enough to stop her trying. She soon forgets to be embarrassed and laughs instead as she spins in drunken spirals. Abandoning the steps of the dance to join her, I find myself mesmerised. Her skin shines with sweat; her slippers fray. Her hands bleed warmth into mine. She is so very, very alive.

For the first time since I died, I feel the speed of time: the night’s end comes too soon. When the music stops we bring the twelve sisters back to the forest, lifting them gallantly onto the shore. They gather, blinking sleepily, as though the world around them is already dissolving into dreams. I watch them drift away into the trees. At the edge of the trees my princess hesitates, looking over her shoulder. I don’t think she wants to leave. She is afraid that I will disappear and not come back.

I could tell her that she won’t escape that easily. That she could make up her mind never to come back and still somehow she would return. Ostra has prepared us for the most elaborate vengeance; she will have no mercy on this drowsy-eyed girl with blistered feet and straggling red hair.

I suppose I won’t either.

∑†¥§∞§¥†∑

She does come back, the next night. They all do, dressed properly this time in beautiful gowns of daisy yellow and spring leaf green, ivory and lavender, their hair piled up with jewelled pins. My princess searches our row of boats impatiently. Her eyes brighten when I push back my hood and she bounds towards me without hesitation, jumping into the gondola before I can offer my hand to help. I look at her sideways as I push the boat onto the water, surprising myself with a smile that comes from amusement instead of artifice.

I wasn’t sure you were real, she confides, leaning forward so that her whisper won’t carry to the other boats. "Dathne said it was all a dream. But then we found our slippers all tattered beside our beds and we knew it must have been real. Patience said we shouldn’t come down again because only devilish things live underground and who knows where it was we’d gone, but even she changed her mind by the end of the day. You see, I don’t care where this is. It’s a thousand and one times better than home."

The king’s castle is not to your liking?

No, she says, and for once that’s all.

She finds her tongue again when the dancing begins in the pavilion. Tonight she tries to follow the steps and I slow myself to lead her. Embarrassed again by her clumsiness, she feels compelled to explain herself. The older girls had a tutor, she tells me, putting the wrong hand on my shoulder and quickly correcting herself. He taught them languages and deportment, and dancing, and which flowers were which on walks in the woods. That was before my mother died and Father started sending everyone away. My sisters have tried to teach me, but Dathne is usually busy managing the household and the others can’t always be bothered. I’m not a good student.

We waltz slowly. She treads on my feet twice, but she can’t hurt me.

Why did your father send people away?

I don’t know. Her face hardens when she