Once Upon A Curse: 17 Dark Faerie Tales Page 2

  Instead, she slipped easily through the narrow opening.

  Her breath echoed back to her, a chorus of hush and sighs. Then the narrow passage opened into a small chamber no bigger than her grandmother’s hut.

  There was no light here, but her eyes, so long without the lantern, had finally become used to this darkness. If she had been carrying her lantern, she would be blind and could never have seen the truth of this place.

  The truth was horrifying.

  The walls were covered in bones. Some of them small, some of them large. They were not the bones of animals. They were the bones of people.

  At first, she thought the bones were draped in gauzy cloth that shifted slightly in the deadened air. Except the gauze was not cloth. It was the tattered souls of all the missing children of the town, lured away by the piper, swallowed by the mountain.

  All the ghost eyes watched her. All the ghost hands reached for her. All the ghost mouths moved with words barely more than a sigh, warning her: “Run, run away from these cursed stones. The piper hungers for your bones.”

  But she did not need warning.

  In the center of the room stood two figures. One was a slim, tall man, with dark hair and eyes that glowed green. He wore a patchy suit that reminded her of her auntie’s quilt, stitched of bits of bright-colored fabric. In his hand was a pipe made of bone. When he brought it to his lips, the sweetest music she had ever heard filled the room, filled her head, filled every breath of her lungs.

  “And who are you, my brave child?” the music seemed to ask. “Who has come to hear my song?”

  Yarrow struggled to look away from the man. She wanted desperately to see the other figure in the room—the man she knew as well as her own heartbeat.

  The tailor’s son stood quietly. He didn’t look afraid, only curious. He was not bound or tied, his face was clean, the curl of his hair combed. He wore the same coat, trousers, and boots that she remembered him wearing a year ago, and yet, he looked as if he hadn’t aged a day.

  “I am Yarrow, sturdy and bright,” she said. “A weed of the field. And I am here to take my true love home.”

  “Of course,” the piper said. “Of course you are. And there he is, waiting for you.”

  Yarrow stepped toward the tailor’s son. He smiled. “My beautiful Yarrow,” he said, golden eyes shining. “Stay with me here, where the fields are green and skies are blue. Where summer never ends.”

  The music played softly, and as the tailor’s son spoke, the chamber around them faded and became instead the vision of his words. Green fields rolled resplendent with flowers. Trees heavy with fruit offered perfumed shade, and the sun shone warm between fluffy clouds.

  There were no bones nailed upon cold stone walls. There were only children, a hundred or more, some of them small, some of them large, laughing, dancing, frolicking in the field.

  “Stay with me,” the tailor’s son said again, his voice oddly that of a flute playing.

  The children danced by and one tugged at her sleeve. Yarrow did not see laughter on the girl’s face. She saw terror.

  She thought she could hear soft words on the breeze: “Run, run away from these cursed stones.”

  But the music played louder, and she forgot the terror, forgot the words.

  “We will marry, you and I,” the tailor’s son sang.

  Another child tumbled past her and as he rolled, his mouth formed around words she could barely hear: “The piper hungers for your bones.”

  But the music played louder, and she forgot the warning, forgot the words.

  “Take my hand and we will be together forever.” The tailor’s son held out his hand, his eyes shining.

  Yarrow looked from his warm eyes down to his hands. Familiar hands. Kind hands. But there was no thimble on his finger. She had never seen him without the ivory guard. Never known him to put it away.

  A third child skipped past her, brushing her wrist, and Yarrow felt a heavy heat burning in her palm.

  She was carrying a dagger here in this beautiful field. Even though the music played louder, the dagger remained solid in her hand, sturdy and bright, reminding her of her grandmother, reminding her of her home.

  No matter how loud or how sweetly the piper played, she knew in her heart this was not her field, this was not her summer, and this was not her tailor’s son.

  She lifted the dagger and with a steady hand, plunged the blade deep into the tailor’s son’s heart.

  The music stopped. The children stopped. The wind and sun and clouds in the sky all went still.

  A great shrieking rose from all around her—a wind that was more than a wind. It was voice, it was power, it was fury. The tailor’s son who still stood in front of her melted away like hot wax, revealing instead another man.

  He was the tall, ragged coated man. A thick white scar carved a path from beneath his chin toward his heart. He was the piper, a flute of hollowed bone clutched in his hand.

  Off at a distance, the other man who had looked like the piper wavered and changed into a sight so familiar, her heart caught. The tailor’s son.

  “You are nothing,” the piper hissed, his eyes glinting green, pupils long and narrow like a snake’s or a demon’s. “You are no one. You are nothing but a weed in the field.”

  “I am brave, and strong, and alive,” Yarrow said. “Just like a weed in the field. And I am your end.”

  The final fragments of the piper’s illusion shattered. She was once again in the deep and dark cavern. Once again surrounded by walls hung with bones, souls pinned in tatters against them.

  The piper’s blood pooled around the dagger. As drops fell to the rocky ground, they hissed and caught the stones on fire.

  With each drip of blood, the ghosts against the wall began to move, unfastening themselves from their bones like buttons sliding free of holes.

  The ghosts surged forward, surrounding the piper, pulling, pushing, snarling. They fed their bones like dry kindling into the fire at his feet.

  And the piper screamed.

  Yarrow fought her way through the weaving ghosts, fought her way through the smoke and fire filling the small cavern.

  The piper screamed and screamed as the fire devoured him whole.

  She had to find the tailor’s son.

  Her eyes watered, her lungs hurt from the sting of smoke. She knew she would have to leave the mountain before the fire burned her up too.

  She knew dawn was moments away from sealing the mountain for another year.

  Just then, she felt a warm hand clasp her own. Familiar fingers threaded together with hers.

  On the end of one finger was the cool, heavy press of an ivory thimble.

  “Yarrow?” said the tailor’s son, his voice rough and unused from a year trapped in the mountain.

  “Run.” Yarrow held tight to his hand and ran, guiding him through the narrow corridor, through the dark of the cave, and then out onto the pile of rocks. Smoke gushed out of the cave as Yarrow made her way down the stagger of stones.

  She glanced back only once, and saw the ghosts of all the children flying free of the mountain, their laughter and joy like bells shivering in the star-tumbled sky.

  The tailor’s son followed her down the boulders. He did not once look back, his hand locked tightly with her own.

  When they reached the forest floor, she finally turned to him.

  He looked tired, thin. A year trapped inside the mountain had taken some of the light out of his eyes and the blush from his cheek. But when he smiled at her, she knew with her heart that he was indeed the tailor’s son.

  “I’m sorry I broke my promise,” he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t return.”

  “I know,” Yarrow said. “Now that I’ve found you, we will make new promises.”

  Yarrow looked around at the trees. Even though dawn was just beginning to bring light back to the sky, she was still lost and didn’t know how to find her way through the forest.

  “There,” the tailor’s son sa
id, pointing with one hand. He would not let go of her other hand slotted so closely with his that she could feel his heartbeat. “Breadcrumbs.”

  The breadcrumbs had been dropped by the clever rat. If she had not given the rat her bread, she would never find her way through the forest, and would be lost.

  They followed the trail through the forest as dawn rose and the bells of the town rang out in jubilant harmony. The wise owl and thoughtful raven winged above them like heralds announcing royalty. All the ghosts followed in their wake.

  The town rejoiced at their return, and a celebration was held to honor the children who had been lost.

  The ghosts attended the celebration, families finally reunited after long, long years. There was dancing, and singing, and music, though no one played the pipes. Stories were told, memories shared, loving words given and received.

  Yarrow watched, her heart full, as her grandmother, old aunties, and friends laughed and danced with the spirits of those whom they had never stopped loving.

  Before they left, the ghosts promised they would return in a year to celebrate with their families again. Yarrow did not know if her heart could be happier.

  But it was not yet the happiest time.

  The next summer on a full and beautiful moon, Yarrow and the tailor’s son exchanged their own promise of love. While many might offer a ring to seal a vow, Yarrow and the tailor’s son instead gave each other an ivory thimble.

  They wore them that day and wore them on their fingers forever more.

  When they kissed, when they searched each other’s eyes and saw hope and trust and kindness there, they knew their love was sturdy and bright.

  And it would last forever, happily ever after.

  ***

  Devon Monk is a national best selling writer of urban fantasy. Her series include Ordinary Magic, House Immortal, Allie Beckstrom, Broken Magic, and Shame and Terric. She also writes the Age of Steam steampunk series, and the occasional short story which can be found in her collection: A Cup of Normal, and in various anthologies such as this one. She has one husband, two sons, and lives in Oregon. When not writing, Devon is either drinking too much coffee or knitting silly things.

  Want to read more from Devon? Find all her books on AMAZON

  Follow her online or sign up for her newsletter at: http://www.devonmonk.com.

  Fae Horse - Anthea Sharp

  If the men caught her, they would tie her to the stake and set the fire.

  Eileen O’Reilly crouched beneath a hawthorn tree, her heartbeat dinning in her ears so loudly it nearly drowned out the sound of her pursuers. Torchlight smeared the night, casting fiendish shadows over the hedgerows. She clenched her hands in her woolen skirt and gasped for air, trying to haul breath into her shaking lungs.

  She had heard there was no worse agony than burning alive.

  The flames would scorch and blister her skin before devouring her, screaming, as her bones charred. Eileen swallowed back bile.

  Shredded clouds passed over the face of the half moon. One moment, sheltering darkness beckoned; the next, the newly-planted fields were washed with silver, her safety snatched away.

  “I see her—there, across the field!”

  Cursing the fickle moon, and her fair hair, which had surely given her away, Eileen leaped to her feet and ran. She crashed through a thicket, heedless of the thorns etching her skin with blood. In the distance she heard the pounding waves below the cliffs of Kilkeel.

  Better a death by water than by flame. There was no other escape.

  Five months ago, when the new vicar came to town with his fierce sermons and piercing gaze, she had not seen the danger. She’d lived in the village most of her life, first as apprentice to her aunt, then later taking on the duties of herb-woman and midwife.

  But Reverend Dyer sowed fear and superstition—an easier harvest to reap than charity and love, to be sure.

  Eileen stumbled, falling to her hands and knees in the soft soil. Get up, keep running. She must not give in, though her side ached as if a hot poker had been driven through it, and the air scraped her laboring lungs.

  “There’s no escape, witch!” The vicar’s voice, deep and booming, resonated over the fields.

  The stars above her blurred, and she tasted the salt of her own desperate tears. She risked a glance over her shoulder.

  If she did not find a hiding place, they would catch her before she reached the cliffs. She veered toward the remains of the ancient stone circle that stood beyond the fields. Only two of the stones remained upright, the rest tumbled and broken. Still, she might find some shelter there.

  She reached the ruin, and a figure loomed before her, large and dark. Lacking the breath to scream, Eileen staggered to a halt. What new enemy was this?

  Four-legged and blacker than the shadows, it let out a soft whicker. A horse, untethered, with a rope halter dangling from its neck.

  Blessing her luck, Eileen caught the rope. It stung her hands, as though woven of nettles, but she did not care. Hope flared up, painfully bright. She might yet live to see the dawn.

  “Easy now,” she whispered, forcing back the panic pounding through her.

  The horse was tall, and lacked any saddle or bridle. She gazed up at it and choked on misery. Her escape was in her hands, but she could not mount it unaided.

  “Quick, lads!” the vicar bellowed.

  Now, she must go now. For a strangled second she considered kicking the horse and holding fast to the rope, letting it drag her to her death.

  A faint glimmer of gray caught her eye—a fallen stone tangled in the tall grasses. She tugged, and the horse followed her to the stone. Fingers trembling, trying to ignore the pounding footsteps of the men of Kilkeel, she scrambled onto the stone and pulled the horse close.

  “Grab the witch!” That was Donal Miller, whose advances she had spurned. “She’s summoned her familiar. Stop her!”

  Torchlight flared orange and red against the horse’s glossy hide. It rolled its eye, the white showing, and whinnied, high and strange.

  The men were almost upon her. With a cry, Eileen tangled her hands in the horse’s mane and heaved herself up.

  “A devil steed! Catch it!”

  As if only waiting for her to mount, the horse leaped forward. Hemmed in by the men, it let out a shrill whinny and rose up, hooves flashing. The coarse mane cut into her palms as she clung there, half falling. She must not slide off.

  The horse stamped and feinted. She heard the thunk of hooves on flesh, and two of the men cried out in pain. Then they were through, bowling past the grasping hands and shouted curses. Eileen held on as the jolting pace smoothed into a gallop and the cries of the men grew distant.

  Slowly, her breath returned, the stark edge of her fear blunted. She had escaped—for now.

  But what of Aidan? His name was a knife through her chest.

  Did her true love still live?

  When Young Sean, the village simpleton, had come to tell her that Aidan had fallen into a fever, she’d gathered her herbs and charms and raced to the cottage he shared with his mother. The widow had grudgingly opened the door, her eyes narrowed in animosity. Eileen had handed the woman the herbs for a soothing tisane. Then, as planned, Young Sean caused a racket, freeing the widow’s chickens and chasing them about the yard.

  The moment Aidan’s mother went to tend her fowl, Eileen darted into the cottage and rushed to Aidan’s side. His dark hair was plastered with sweat to his forehead, and he shivered uncontrollably beneath the blankets. She dropped a kiss on his brow, flinching at the heat rising off him. As she slipped the charm over his neck, his skin scorching her hands, he mumbled. A coughing spasm shook him. When it finished he lay in a stupor, breath wheezing in and out of his lungs.

  “Peace, mo chroi,” she said, then softly wove the words to send him into a healing sleep.

  ’Twas perilous, to take a person to that between place, but Aidan was gravely ill. Even a few minutes of that enchanted rest would do much to
ease the sickness. Her charm would protect him while his body fought for life.

  However, if he slept too long the connection would fray, then break. Aidan’s soul would slip free, and death would bear him away into the West.

  She began singing the song to draw him back.

  “Eileen,” Young Sean whispered at the window. “Reverend Dyer is coming, fetched by the widow. Go!”

  Fear stabbed through her, but she must remain. She must finish the song and draw Aidan back to the waking world.

  “Witch!” The vicar slammed into the cottage and grabbed her by the hair.

  Her scalp burned and tears pricked her eyes from the pain, but she continued to sing. Nearly done. One more phrase…

  Reverend Dyer clapped a hand over her mouth, his skin stinking of onions. To ensure her silence, he pinched her nostrils shut. Eileen clawed at his arm, her cries muffled by his meaty palm.

  “Do not think to ensnare me with your spells,” he said.

  “Cast her out,” the widow cried, her face twisted with hatred. “Keep her away from my son.”

  “We will do better than that.” The vicar grasped Eileen’s arm, his fingers digging into her flesh. “We will burn her.”

  Panic gave her the strength to whip her head free. “No! You must let me wake Aidan. The danger—”

  “Aiee!” The widow had gone to Aidan’s side and spied Eileen’s charm. Now it dangled from her wizened fingers, broken.

  “Proof,” she spat. “This evil creature has had dark designs on my boy since the day she set eyes upon him. Look, she has cursed him.”

  Eileen writhed in the vicar’s grasp.

  “He will die,” she gasped. “I must—”

  “Out!” the widow shrieked. “Take her!”

  “I’ll lock her in my cellar until the pyre is built,” Reverend Dyer said, shoving Eileen before him.

  She stumbled over the threshold, then caught her balance. Though she knew it was hopeless, she broke free of his grasp, gathered up her skirt, and ran.

  The vicar would have retaken her, but for Young Sean. He threw a chicken at the vicar’s face, granting her precious time to pelt from the yard. He would likely be whipped for it, poor man.