Once Upon a Time: New Fairy Tales Paperback (25 page)

thickets, hands gnarled against tree trunks as their owners peeked

out. Emer heard snuffles and snorts, snarls and grumbles, but nothing came near them. Wolves and trolls, ogres, and things with no name

watched as they passed, but left them unmolested. She wondered if

the Black Bride’s power stretched this far, or if these brutes simply sensed her touch on Emer. Or worse, she thought, sensed that they

shared blood.

Their destination was less a castle than a single stout tower of

ochre-colored stone. Inside, the main chamber was topped by a

stained glass dome that, on sunny days, showered the room with

shafts of color. The air was icy, however; it leeched the hope from

Emer’s bones and she wondered if she’d ever see the sun again. She

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• Angela Slatter •

could feel the raven trembling on her shoulder. He’d been silent ever since they set foot in the bastion.

The giantess, all big bones, protruding eyes and corkscrew auburn

hair, was ensconced in wingback chair, knitting, and giving Emer the same look one might bestow on a beef roast. Emer was glad she’d

left the horse—who had taken the glass mountain at a canter and

danced a kind of jig to show how pleased he was with himself—

outside. Along the wall behind the enormous woman was a series

of hooks, almost all hung with ill-made scarves. The scarf-free one

held a huge bow of elm wood and a leather quiver filled with arrows

longer than Emer’s arm.

“How accommodating of you to arrive at lunch time,” rumbled

the giantess, who began to roll up her knitting. The door behind

Emer shut with a
clang
and she rubbed sweaty palms against her trousers. She lifted her chin defiantly and wished she could fly away.

“My lady,” she quavered and the giantess seemed taken aback to

be so politely addressed. “I’ve come to ask—to beg with pure intent—

for the crown.”

They both looked to the crystal plinth in the center of the room;

it was topped by a primrose cushion that held a circlet of white and black feathers.

“Ask as purely as you like, my girl, you’re still going to be eaten.”

The amazon nodded, rose, and reached for her weapon.

“Wait!” yelled Emer, and something in her tone stayed the woman.

“And why should I? I don’t like to wait and I’m starving—always

starving.”

“I imagine it’s hard to get enough food when you’re stuck up here,

madam,” said Emer.

The giantess loomed and Emer quaked. She hurried on. “I do not ask

your bounty for free. I offer you something most valuable in return.”

“What could you possibly have to interest me, you little thing?”

“What if I were able to provide a loaf of bread that is never

depleted and a flask of wine that never runs dry? Would that not sate your hunger, mistress?”

• 209 •

• Flight •

The giantess crossed her arms over her mammoth chest, contem-

plating. “And where would you find such a treasure, little scrap?”

“Outside, on my horse,” answered Emer, hoping the stallion hadn’t

taken it into his head to go for a run elsewhere.

“Then bring it hither. I demand proof before I agree to consider

this bargain. And I am not saying I will . . . ”

Fifteen minutes later, when the giantess had attempted and failed

to entirely consume the loaf and the wine three times, Emer thought

her troubles were over.

“And so, my dame? Do we have an accord?”

“Let’s not be hasty, little speck,” said the woman slyly. “What’s the point of eternal food and drink without companionship? It’s been

decades since I’ve had a chat—what with my tendency to eat my

guests. Stay awhile.”

“My lady—” began Emer, aware of the night’s hours bleeding away.

“My lady, this young one is no fit companion for you—she has

not lived long enough. What stories could she possibly tell? How

she once wet her bed nightly, what frocks she has worn?” The raven

began to wax lyrical. “I, on the other hand, am no mere bird.”

Looking into the creature’s swirling, sparking eyes the giantess

admitted this fact. She seemed to nod more than was necessary. It

was no wonder the woman normally shot birds out of hand; it was

dangerous to listen to them. Bertók’s voice swooped low, its ragged

edges barely discernible as he promised hours, days, weeks, months,

and years of conversations. The woman, Emer thought with a tinge

of sympathy, had no idea what she was getting herself into.

By the time the raven had finished, the giantess leapt to her feet,

removed the delicate crown from its cushion, and held it toward

Emer.

“Thank you,” Emer said, as she reached out. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” growled the giantess and snatched the crown

away, while wrapping one meaty paw around both of Emer’s wrists.

“Did you think me a fool to fall for sweet words? Anyway, what’s a

sandwich without meat?”

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• Angela Slatter •

Emer’s heart hammered, and her mind emptied of all thoughts

but these: feathers and air, lightness and flight. Just as her memory retained the language of birds, so too her flesh kept recollection

of their form. This time the shape was
her
choice—no one else’s to give or take or impose. She gladly shifted, shrank, sprouted plumes.

Within seconds, the giantess clutched only emptiness, for the girl

had slipped the fleshy bonds and snatched the crown of feathers

with her beak.

The door to the chamber remained shut. Emer flew around the

room, faster and faster, higher and higher, knowing the giantess was reaching for her bow. She heard the nocking of an arrow, curses

thundering from the woman, the twang of a bowstring. She braced

herself, heard a thud, but felt no pain. Risking a glance, she saw

another black body hurtling downwards. Resolute and determined

not to waste Bertók’s gift, she raised her head and aimed towards the stained glass.

The raven-girl pierced the dome, raining colored shards on the

giantess. She shot upwards, a shadow against a pallid sky. With the

dainty adornment gripped tightly in her beak, she flew on, tracing

the snake of the river back to whence she came.

If the Black Bride had been surprised to see Emer feathered once

more, she did not show it. The girl landed and transformed, steadfastly meeting her captor’s gaze.

“Give it to me, girl,” said the Black Bride, her tone limned by

longing, and not a little desperation.

Emer shook her head. “My mother first. Restore her.”

A brief, tense standoff took place while the Black Bride insisted

her niece hand over the artifact before anything else occurred. Emer remained adamant. In the end, a rage-induced coughing fit tipped

the balance in Emer’s favor. The Black Bride was forced to concede

that she did not have enough time left to indulge in a battle of wills.

When her mother at last stood beside her—shaking, dazed—Emer

held the out crown. The Black Bride snatched at it greedily, turned it

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• Flight •

this way and that, held it up to the light, her eyes shining. Then she faltered, looked at her sister and niece and asked plaintively, “How does it work?”

And Emer recalled the story from her aunt’s own lips, how she had

done away with her mentor before full knowledge could be passed

on; for all her power, the Black Bride was a half-written book—she

might well know what an object did, but not
how.

“Put it on, I’d imagine,” Emer said, then asked quietly, “What does

it do?”

In an equally hushed voice, the Black Bride replied, “It mends

broken things,” and, reverently slid the delicate diadem onto her

blackavised brow. She waited, breath rattling, eyes wide and avid,

a covetous child expecting a treat. Seconds stretched to minutes as

she attended, with increasing impatience, for any sign of change, of
amendment
.

When it became apparent that no healing was forthcoming, the

Black Bride’s face seemed to split with rage.

“What have you done? Did you think to defy me?” She turned

on Emer, stalking towards her, spitting out every horrible name she

could muster.“I told you there would be no second chances! Both of

your lives are forfeit.”

Emer and her mother stumbled backwards, transfixed by the sight

of the Black Bride summoning her power, watching as it coursed

around her body, and sparked at the fingertips. Wanting, but not

daring, to turn tail and run—for that would be certain death.

The dark woman drew back her unmaimed hand, and just as it

seemed she would strike Emer down, the White Bride—in a flash

of ash and silver—threw herself at her sister. The attack, so brutal and brave, so unexpected, threw the Black Bride off balance and

she retreated under each enraged blow her sister rained down. The

firebolt-bright magical charge around her stuttered and snuffed, but she struck back, her nails tearing furrows along her sister’s smooth cheeks. The White Bride snarled and leapt, not noticing how close

they had come to the windows, and the force of her bound sent them

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• Angela Slatter •

crashing into one of the shutters. The wood, brittle and ancient,

splintered like twigs and both women were oh-so-briefly silhouetted

against the winter sky . . . then gone.

Emer rushed to the sill and peered down, too terrified to catch

enough breath to scream as she watched them fall. She clung to the

hope that her mother’s flesh would remember the shape of wings,

that she might fly; but it did not.

Flames erupted when the Brides hit the cobbled courtyard. Emer

waited. The fire burned down quickly, leaving a cloud of dust and

cinders that swirled and circled and, finally, found form.

Where two women had fallen, only one remained, unfurling like a

lily, her hair a mix of light and dark, skin a creamy melding of the two extremes, limbs intact, unharmed. A single woman, lovely and
whole.

The mother-aunt raised her head, looked at Emer and beamed.

“Come home,” she called. Emer stared, an uncertain smile on her

lips, and she heard the echo of the Black Bride’s voice:
She raised
an army to find you
. She thought of her mother as she had always known her, the docile White Bride, so kind and loving; wise, but

so bound by convention; always passive, meek, and accepting—

until the loss of her daughter. It had taken tragedy to give her the strength, determination, courage the Black Bride always had but

used selfishly.

And Emer reflected on her entire life, on how it was moved by

the ebb and flow of others’ desires. She thought of her mother and

aunt remade, all their chances given to them anew. She contemplated

updrafts and thermals, swooping and diving. She looked at the sky,

at the horizon.

“Come home,” called her mother-aunt again.

Emer shook her head, only vaguely aware of the ruckus in the

chamber behind her, of hares returned to the shape of men, and dogs

released from servitude.

“I shall find my way there . . . some day.”

Emer-that-was thought herself weightless. She thought herself

plumed, skipped onto the sill and pitched out to spiral down and

• 213 •

• Flight •

hover in front of the woman. The raven-girl memorized the new

face, the familiar features, so she might recognize them later, then with a powerful flap of her wings, Emer-of-feathers rose towards the dawning firmament.

••

Angela Slatter
is the author of the Aurealis Award-winning
The Girl
with No Hands and Other Tales
, the World Fantasy Award-shortlisted
Sourdough and Other Stories
, and the new collection/mosaic novel (with Lisa L. Hannett),
Midnight and Moonshine
. She received a British Fantasy Award for “The Coffin-Maker’s Daughter” (A
Book of
Horrors,
Stephen Jones, ed.), a PhD in Creative Writing, and blogs at www.angelaslatter.com. In 2014 she will take up one of the inaugural Queensland Writers Fellowships.

••

• 214 •

•

I loved fairy tales when I was a child. Hans Christian Andersen’s

“The Little Mermaid” and Oscar Wilde’s “The Happy Prince” made

me cry. As I got older I was thrilled by how grim the Grimms really

were. Then came Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling’s anthologies

of reworkings and subversions, which led me on to “The Bloody