Fairly Wicked Tales (35 page)

“Eat you? Why would I want to eat you?”

“Because even wolves enjoy bacon and ham. Not to mention pork chops.”

B.B. nodded in concession. He made a good point. “It is true the Gods made you out of such tasty meats, but I am not here to eat you.”

“You are,” the pig accused, unswayed. “You’re going to blow my house down and have me for dinner.”

“Why would I even need to blow your house down? I could eat you regardless if you home is standing or not,” B.B. countered. “Besides, if you’re worried about your house’s structural integrity against my breath, why do you build it from straw?”

“Straw is cheap,” the pig said. “And plentiful.”

“And flimsy, too. I doubt I’d even need to blow it down. One decent storm and it’d be destroyed,” B.B. said and picked a handful of straw off the ground. He crushed it in his paw to demonstrate its frailty. Some of the crushed straw particles tickled his long snout. “Ah … ah … atchoo!”

The unfinished straw house exploded into thousands of pieces, raining down a shower of straw and dirt. The pig squealed in the way that only pigs can, and bolted from the scene, his coiled tail bouncing behind him as he ran.

The wolf took off in pursuit, sneezing as he did. His cough was brought on by the sneezes too, so as he loped in chase, he had to fight through the sneezing and the coughing. “I—I’m sorry!” he called as he ran. “I can rebuild it for you!” The pig didn’t look back and B.B. could see he was running towards another small hut, this one made from wood.

“Brother, brother,” Straw Pig cried breathlessly as he got close. “Help, there is a wolf chasing me!” B.B. saw another pig wearing a leather apron. One trotter held a fearsome hammer and the other held a collection of iron tacks. A large pile of wooden planks lay at his feet. House renovation on this day was a family activity.

Wood Pig clearly had a bigger pair than his straw brother. “Back off, wolf, or I’ll drive a nail through your skull!”

B.B. came to a halt at the hut. “I shall overlook your threat for a moment and implore you to believe this is a grave misunderstanding.”

“He wants to eat me, he does,” cried Straw Pig to his brother. “And he huffed and he puffed and he blew my house in.”

“Go inside, brother,” said Wood Pig, dropping the nails and passing the hammer from trotter to trotter. “I’ll deal with the wolf.”

The promise of good karma was tempting, but he was still a wolf, and in the woods there was a definite predator-prey relationship and wolves were rarely the latter. B.B. tried to be patient, but this pork roll was really starting to get his goat. “I mean to apologize and offer my services to you,” B.B. said. “Please—little pig, little pig, let me in.”

“Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin,” the Wood Pig growled through gritted swine-teeth.

“You’re a pig, you don’t have a chin,” B.B. said.

Wood Pig had enough talk, and ran at B.B., his hammer held high. B.B. fell to all four legs, and growled at the pig.
Good karma be damned
, he thought.
This morning I feast on bacon.

He dodged the first swing, dancing to the side away from the pig, who arced his swing back up. B.B. ducked under it and placed himself behind the pig. The hammer swung around again, the pig placing his considerable bulk behind it. It caught B.B. unawares, and he only just moved out of the way. The pig over swung, lost his balance, and stumbled, giving B.B. the opportunity to attack. His instincts took over, and he leapt at the pig, his jaws clamping over his fore trotter.

The pig shrieked, somewhere between a squeal and a blood curdling scream. B.B. pulled away, and the pig’s trotter came with it, ripping from the socket with a sickening
schlock!
B.B. took the trotter from his mouth and beat the pig with it, each strike leaving cartilage, gore, and blood in its wake.

Whether from a loss of blood, the shock of the situation, or from being beaten with his own limb, the Wood Pig lapsed into unconsciousness. B.B. picked up the limp body and threw it into the wooden house. It struck the supports and the house collapsed with a great crash of wood and nails. The Straw Pig, crazed with grief and fear, bust forth from the wood and was once again on the run.

This time B.B. wasn’t sorry. He was hungry and suddenly he knew why his bigger brother found it so satisfying. This was natural. He was the wolf. He was the predator, and this was the way nature intended it. He tore off after the pig, driven by bloodlust. “Get over here, swine. You’re dead!”

Pigs, not known for their speed or alacrity, have little chance against a wolf at full tilt. B.B. ran down the pig in a matter of moments, and knocked him onto his back. A moment later, he buried his muzzle in the pig’s fleshy neck and pulled out his throat, the blood and gore sending him into frenzy. Claws sliced open the pig’s belly, and he relished in pulling out the entrails, feasting on whatever he could cram into his mouth. This was primal.

Finished with gorging on the craven Straw Pig, B.B. raised his eyes and considered the brick house up ahead. He could see the third, considerably smarter pig cowering in the window, witnessing the slaughter of his brothers. B.B. briefly considered forcing entry into the brick house and putting more pork on his fork, but couldn’t muster the energy. He was full, and all he wanted to do was find a nice, warm spot in the sun and take a nap.

***

Some hours later, his own coughing fit woke him. The cold fingers of sickness were slowly taking his life. It wouldn’t be long now. He felt it inside. It was unfortunate it had taken him this long to realize what he was capable of. He had always considered his brother the rogue of the family. His brother’s notoriety painted him as something to be feared in this area, but B.B. doubted he had ever committed double homicide.
I’m one up on you there, brother.

Humpty’s story came to him, that of Rumplestiltskin and his quest for betterment. He died in the end, so what did it matter? Whether he did good or evil, there was no salvation for him. If his actions during life are judged upon his death, and he is sentenced to torment, he would make his captors pay for it so much they’ll send him back for fear of him taking over. He was here for a good time, not a long time and now would make every moment count and serve his basic instincts.

He continued through the woods, heading toward the next village. When he was there he would feast again, on whichever poor souls were foolish enough to cross his path. He had a taste for blood now, and he liked it.

The sun dipped in the west as he continued, heralding the evening. Birds twittered as they hunkered down for the night and he spied the lights of the village ahead, complete with steady plumes of smoke rising from their chimneys. He stalked on, his mouth salivating for the delights he would behold.

B.B. was rushed from the side, a red shape busting from the bushes as he passed. He was tackled to the ground, rolling over and over. Wrenching free, he sprung to his feet, ready to attack.

The figure was clad in a billowing red cloak, and flipped to its feet. There was just enough light remaining in the day to see it was just a little girl. Barely in her teens, the girl was caked with dirt, and had a murderous gleam in her eye.

“My lady, you picked the wrong wolf on the wrong day,” B.B. said, stalking back and forth across her path.

She pulled a sword from a scabbard on her belt, sharpened steel gleaming in the fading sun. “I’ll make you sorry you ever crossed me that day, wolf.”

“You’re Red Riding-Cap?”

“The same,” the girl said. “I’ve waited for you to return this way and have vowed I would have my revenge. That day is at hand.”

“You’re mistaken, girl. I was not the one to accost you. That was my brother.”

“Then, I will take a member of his kin as a trophy in compensation.”

“You can try,” B.B. growled and crouched low, ready for the attack.

The girl in red cart-wheeled into the attack. Claws extended, B.B. turned away the attack, and ducked the follow up strike with her short sword. The blade flashed, carving the air and B.B. dodged left and right, avoiding the blade.

The red-clad girl was proficient with the blade and showed considerable skill in her attacks with each movement precise and calculated. B.B. found a break in her attack and countered, claws slashing and jaws snapping forcing her back against a tree. B.B. swiped at her throat, but she ducked at the last moment, and his claws embedded themselves in the trunk. He pulled free, spraying wood splinters.

Her continued evasiveness frustrated him. She showed great dexterity with acrobatic, swift moves. She flipped, vaulted and somersaulted, jumping like a court jester, ever evading his attacks. Being new to this kind of vicious fighting, his attacks took a lot out of him and he began to slow.

She was tiring too. Her hood down, B.B. spotted slick perspiration beading on her forehead and she drew ragged breaths. Still, they battled on, a dance back and forth as the sky darkened. Red Riding Cap with her sword, and B.B. with sharpened teeth and claws.

The physicality of the encounter had taken its toll. B.B. suddenly doubled over in a coughing fit. Unable to defend himself, the girl in red slid the cold steel into his stomach. He collapsed with labored breaths, his eyes fixed on Red Riding-Cap’s.

She wiped the blood from her blade on her red cloak and returned the sword to its oiled scabbard. “And so the tale ends,” she said quietly.

“What … do you mean?” B.B. struggled to say.

“Our last meeting was unresolved. It could not go on without an ending.”

“But it wasn’t me,” he said with a rasped voice. “It won’t be complete until it ends with my brother.”

“Any wolf would do,” she said. “It is the victors that make the history and tell the tales.”

B.B. was fading and he knew it. It would not be long until it was all over, his life no more than a fading dream, recorded incorrectly in the tomes of legends and history. At least the sickness didn’t get him directly. “It … it’s not the truth,” B.B. managed with his final, dying breath.

Red Riding-Cap pulled her hood up once more and set upon the path back towards the village. “Never let the truth get in the way of a good story.”

About the Author

Based in Sydney, Australia,
Reece A. A. Barnard
is a member of the Royal Australian Navy and writes in what little spare time he has. Usually an author of cyberpunk fiction, Fairly Wicked Tales gave him a chance to expand his repertoire.He is married with three wonderful children, and in his spare time watches movies, catches up on TV series, and indulges in video games, comics and geek culture.

Al-Adrian and the Magic Lamp

A retelling of “The Arabian Nights”

Tais Teng

1

After the executioner had let roll Scheherazade’s head through the sand, the King turned to his greatly saddened Grand Vizier and said: “Don’t you have another daughter, my friend? One as accomplished in the weaving of tales as the last, but snoring a little less loud?”

The wise Grand Vizier tugged his forked beard and quoth: “Only one daughter you have left me, fathered on my favorite Frankish slave. My daughter Dagmar has eyes blue as the summer sea and hair flaming like the tail of the fleet fox. When she speaks all tellers of tales fall silent, and even the oud-players set down their flamingo-necked instruments, for fear of missing a single word.”

“Bring her forthwith to my harem,’ the king ordered, “together with an imam. I shall wed the maid this very afternoon.”

2

On the One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Night Dagmar said:

“It hath reached me, O wisest of all kings, but only Allah is truly wise, that there lived in distant al-Frisia, in Dorestad, a poor tailor. He was a skilled cutter, but alas, he missed his left thumb so each tunic and vest took him twice the time they should. This tailor now, though a most pious and true believer, was cursed with a son, named Al-Adrian, who was disobedient to his father and mother, and would go out early in the morning and stay out all day, playing in the streets and public places with idle children of his own age.

When the muezzin called all men to prayer from his high wooden tower, for even in the chilly Frankish lands the ‘La ilaha illa Allah, Mehamet rasul Allah!’ warms the hearts of the faithful, when his father knelt on his frayed prayer mat, the little rascal fled from the back-door of their hovel to inflate screaming frogs or to steal crabs from the baskets of praying fishermen, roasting them on a small fire of dried goat droppings.

When Al-Adrian had reached the age of ten years his father wanted him to learn an honorable trade. But alas, the father was too poor to apprentice his son to a cooper or even to a tanner, so he had to content himself with taking Al-Adrian to his own shop, to teach him his own trade, the humble art of needle and thread.

It made no difference. The moment the tailor turned his back to point out a nicely tasseled fringe to a customer or to pour water in the drinking bowl of the talking ravens, the boy was gone. Instead of learning a profession he spent all his time in the company of rat-faced Jewish imps or even grubby Christians. He often forgot his ritual washings so he ran through the streets looking like a charcoal burner.

The heart of his father broke when the tailor saw how Al-Adrian dishonored the family name: He got sick and soon died.

His death didn’t matter to Al-Adrian in the slightest: he blew on shrill flutes made of elder-wood and danced with the swallows until the sun went down and even the keenest eye could no longer distinguish a white thread from a black.

When the mother saw her husband no longer walked the earth in sorrow and her son was no more than a wastrel, she decided to sell the shop and all the tools of her husband’s craft. With that money and the unremitting toil of her hands she succeeded in putting a hot and nutritious meal in front of her son every day. There was precious little joy in her life, though. Without the support of a guild or family she was reduced to washing the turbans of porters and leprous beggars or scraping barnacles from mooring posts.