This is the original fantasy story I've been working on for the past couple of weeks. I don't really have a title for it yet - I'll come up with something eventually. It was inspired by my counselor Mrs. Stahl's suggestion that I write a fantasy to work out a lot of my problems. This is what I came up with.
Once upon a time, there was a young
woman named Kathleen. She lived in a small village on the edge of a
great mountain. The village was bordered by a shadowy forest and a
beautiful villa with a rich, bright garden. The villa had once been
owned by the wealthy Rightsmith family. They were the richest family
in the kingdom and owned the town's prosperous furniture-making
business. The beautiful Lady Sylvia was the last remaining member of
the family, after Lord Adam and Lady Pallicia died in a carriage
accident. They'd had a son, but he vanished after the Desert Wars and
was never seen again.
Kathleen was a storyteller. She lived
in a small cottage on the edge of the village and the forest, writing
her stories and inventing new ones. She loved nothing more than to
make up plots and characters and whole worlds in her head. She lived,
breathed, and ate her stories. She spent a great deal of time
wandering through fields, mountains, and forests, getting ideas for
her tales. Most of them were fantasies about lovely ladies and
handsome princes who, against all odds, fought for and loved and
rescued each other.
Kathleen worked at the grocer's shop in
the village. She only tolerated her job because it earned the money
to keep her cottage. Otherwise, she despised it. She didn't like
dealing with people. Real, flesh-and-blood humans were nothing like
the characters in her head. They quarreled with each other and
complained bitterly about the price of goat's cheese or about grapes
being expensive because they weren't in season.
What she really wanted was to be a
full-fledged storyteller and sell her stories to the bookmakers in
the village, but she was too afraid. She had tried a few times, but
they always rejected her stories. “They don't fit our books,”
they said. “They're not like other stories. They're too short or
long, too happy or sad. We want stories that are like other stories.”
Oh, how Kathleen tried to be like
everyone else! No matter what she did, she could never fit in. She
felt shy among women her age, most of whom were married with families
of their own. While they talked about their children and homes, she
talked about her stories and the world in her head. While they worked
in their own stores, or as lawmakers or artists or teachers, she
could barely keep her grocer job.
No, she was happier exploring the
forest outside of the village, or reading at the village book
lender's shop. She was far better friends with the animals who lived
in the forest than the people in the village. Deer didn't fear her.
Squirrels made her laugh. Bears and big cats knew her friendship as
well as rabbits and birds. She always had a song or a story for all.
She fed them enough to encourage their friendship. She wanted them to
remain wild, to be friendly but not dependent. No animal should be,
she thought.
She was inside one evening, working on
a new story, when she heard the crash. She thought a log had fallen
somewhere. Her cottage seemed all right, but she was worried some of
her animal friends or their homes may have been hurt. She jumped up,
put on her walking shoes and her wrap, and hurried out into the
forest.
At first, she could find nothing out of
the ordinary. It was late in the day, almost twilight, and the forest
was rapidly darkening. She clutched the purplish shawl around her
shoulders. It was a wild, windy evening, the kind where shadows
played tricks on one and the wind blew you back every time you pushed
against it.
She'd just pushed past several gorse
bushes, pulling the burrs off her wrap, when she found him. She
thought he was an animal at first. She could see shining,
shoulder-length dark brown hair, whipping around his head. His body
was bloody and bruised, and his left leg lay at a crazy angle.
Looking up, she could vaguely see a hole in the trees overhead. He
must have crashed through there, she though. But that's
impossible. How could he have done that? He looks human, and humans
don't fly, except in my stories.
She somehow managed to drag him home,
trying to be mindful of his bad leg. She had a better look at him
when she had tugged him inside. Her eyes widened. He looked like
someone she'd known many years before. His thick black hair had more
gray strands now, and it was much longer than when she'd known him
after his army stint. His skin had a few more lines, and it was so
pale under his natural tan. She took hold of a strong hand, its
fingers calloused but sinewy, so different from her long, slender
fingers.
“Darren,” she barely breathed. This
was Darren Guierrer, who had left her high and dry almost ten years
ago. He'd left her a note and walked out, saying it wouldn't work
out, he couldn't commit himself to their love anymore. She was
devastated. She'd never loved anyone else. The few men she'd even
been remotely interested in since then had either gotten bored with
her or wanted to use her.
She gathered water from the stream
outside her door to wash Darren in her bathing tub. He was a
scratched, dirty mess. She noticed how badly scarred his back was,
like someone had lashed it with one of those heavy leather whips it
was said they used on war prisoners. Maybe Darren escaped from an
army? No, the war ended years ago.
When he was rubbed so clean his tanned
skin glowed pink, she gently pulled him to her couch. She would have
put him in her bed, but the couch was closer to the bathing tub. She
dressed his wounds and set his leg as well as she could, but she was
no doctor. She'd have to fetch the town physician the next day.
She left him laying on the couch. He
still looked as human as that annoying man was ever going to get. She
still didn't quite understand why he left so suddenly. She never
accepted “don't wanna commit.” He was a war hero – they didn't
get cold feet.
There was something very different on
her couch when she awoke the next morning. And “something” was
the operative word. Sunlight streamed through windows of her cottage,
pouring warm, hot gold onto the floor and couch. She could still see
heavy, wavy black hair...but it was much coarser and thicker than
Darren's normally was. Two sharp, curly objects lay on her flowered
pillows. She could hear growling and snuffles under the blanket she'd
pulled on Darren's cold body.
She crept slowly to the couch, stepping
into the sunlight. Her trembling hand reached for the dark-green
knitted blanket her mother made years before. When she ripped it
away, it revealed a hairy, horned THING, a huge monster covered in
wavy midnight-colored fur, with a long wolf-like snout, twitching
black whiskers, and claws that could rip her and her entire cottage
into shreds in a second if it were awake. A pair of black wings
pushed into the couch pillows and over her small wooden table,
knocking over two books and a sewing kit.
The moment she screamed, his eyes
snapped open. They were...to her surprise, they were Darren's eyes,
large and liquid and velvety brown, but without the customary spark
of laughter and mischief they always held. The monster grabbed the
blanket and tried to hide under it again.
“Light...” it growled.
“No...gotta...be...dark...”
Kathleen didn't waste time. She drew
every curtain and shutter in the entire cottage, covered every cranny
she could. Every bit of sunshine was smothered. It did make it dark
and rather stuffy, but she knew there had to be a reason for the
creature's request.
The moment she turned to the couch, the
creature began to change. She couldn't help her gasp as the fur on
the monster's body melted away, and the hair on his head became
shorter. His claws shortened, until they were merely human hands. The
tanned skin returned; the whiskers fell away.
“Darren?” she was barely able to
whisper. “What...how...”
He rubbed his head, then squinted at
her. “Kathy?” He looked around. “How the hell did I get here?”
“I don't know.” She sat next to
him. “You tell me.”
“I wish I could.” He pulled the
blanket even further around him. “All I remember is flying...it was
night. I ran into something, or something attacked me..I was falling.
That's all I know before just a few minutes ago.”
She pulled up a chair next to him.
“Darren, what's going on? You were not a THING when we were
together. At least, I don't remember ever seeing you like that.
You've always had long hair, but not that long.”
“Trust me, hon, it's recent.” He
made a face. “I was cursed.”
She frowned. “By whom?”
He let out a noisy yell as he pulled
himself to the closest thing he can to a sitting position. “Damn
leg..” The taller man turned those liquid brown orbs to Kathy. “My
aunt.”
“You never mentioned an aunt when we
were in love.”
“I didn't know about her.” He tried
to adjust the leg on the six plump pillows Kathy had pushed under it.
“Never even heard about her until I met her. She says she's my
dad's sister, but I'm not sure I believe her. Has no love for me,
that's for sure. She told me I was helpin' her.” He snorted.
“Helpin'. I was slave labor, worse off than the servants. When I
told her I wouldn't be her scullery boy anymore, she whipped me.”
He raised his chin, his eyes determined. “I still wouldn't do what
she wanted. That's when she cursed me.”
Kathy pulled closer to him. “Cursed?”
Darren nodded at the windows, the light
now smothered by dark curtains. “When light shines on me, any
light, I turn into a demon, that cute critter I was just a few
minutes ago. I can only be human in the dark.” He clenched his
teeth. “She didn't tell me how to lift the curse. When she tried
puttin' a collar on me, like I was some kind of dog, I took off.”
He rubbed his head. “I don't remember anything after that.”
“It was so windy last night.” Kathy
rubbed his calloused hand. “You must have ran into the wind and
gotten blown into the trees.” She ran her fingers gently down his
back. “It would explain some of the gashes. Some of them are too
wide to be from whips. I covered them as best I could, but I'm going
to have to get the doctor for the rest.”
Darren shook his head quickly. “No,
Kathy. No doctors. What if they saw me...well, as a demon? How would
I explain it?”
“I'll ask Doc Puttersly to come here
and tell him the shades are down so you can sleep.” She gently lay
him down on the couch. “Which isn't entirely a lie. You do need
rest if you're going to get better.”
Darren nodded, gently rubbing Kathy's
hand. “I'm fine, Kath” He winced as he shifted his leg again. “Or
at least, I will be when my leg stops feeling like a giant stomped on
it.”
She stood. “I'll get the doctor. I
have to get to work soon, anyway.”
He sighed. “You're still working at
that little grocer's shop?”
She shrugged. “It pays for my
cottage.”
He held onto her hand. “I thought you
were going to be a storyteller.”
“I tried.” She finally pulled his
hand free. “I couldn't sell my work.”
Darren's dark brown eyes looked into
her hazel ones. “Couldn't, or wouldn't?”
“It's none of your business.” She
pulled her shawl around her and grabbed a basket. “I'll be back in
a few hours with the doctor. In the meantime, don't move a muscle
from that couch. I'll get you water from the pump and something to
eat before I go.”
She did get the doctor, and he said
that Darren's leg was broken in at least five places and that he
wouldn't be able to go anywhere for weeks. They moved him to her bed,
and he wrapped his leg and chest in heavy bandages. She didn't like
it, but she'd have to sleep on the couch until he got better. It was
only good manners, anyway. He also had two bruised ribsl and gashes
all over. He gave her medicine for his aches and pains and told her
to keep an eye on him as much as possible.
“Damn it!” Darren lay back as soon
as the doctor left, looking annoyed. “Kathy, thanks, but I can't
stay here. My aunt...”
“Probably doesn't know you're alive.”
She poured some of the herbs the doctor gave her into a warm broth
she heated on the wood-burning stove. “Here.” She handed him a
bowl. “Drink this. The doctor says it'll ease your pain and help
you sleep.”
“If anything can make me feel like
not screaming, I'll do it.” He grabbed the bowl from her and
guzzled it down in one gulp...then dropped it on his lap and fanned
his mouth. “Good grief, that was hot!”
Kathleen shook her head, but she was
chuckling. “You always did have the worst table manners. I just
made that. Of course it's hot! Didn't you see it on the stove?”
Darren was still fanning his mouth. “I
was thirsty.”
She sat down next to him. “You could
have waited a few minutes.”
“Not the way my leg feels.” He lay
back. “Kathy...”
“Yes?”
His eyes were already starting to
flutter. “Thanks for takin' care of me.” He yawned deeply.
“You're welcome.” She stood. “And
now, I'm going to let you sleep. That's the best medicine you can
have.”
“I'm not...tired...” Even as he
said the words, Darren's head was lolling on the pillow.
Kathy smiled, rubbing his thick, wavy
dark hair. “Poor boy. He needs his rest.”
Darren wasn't always a model patient.
He could be demanding and was frequently stubborn. He wouldn't try
half of what she cooked for him, at least until he was hungry enough.
Then he'd eat most of it and ask for her share. Kathleen was
accustomed to demanding people from dealing with her often obnoxious
customers at the grocer's shop, but there were times when Darren was
worse than any of them. He kept trying to stand on his own, without
the wooden braces the doctor gave her. She'd hand the braces, and
he'd try to “lose” them under the bed.
Gradually, Kathleen had to admit that
she liked having someone around the house to talk to. It was an
improvement over talking to herself and the animals in the woods.
They played cards and games. She read passages from books and told
stories from her own imagination. She loved telling stories. She
always threw her whole heart into it, making up voices and accents
for every character, creating sound effects, even acting out dramatic
parts. Stories were her lifeblood, and she was glad to finally be
able to share them with someone.
Regardless of her visitor, life did
continue. She went to the grocer's shop almost every day to help with
customers. She continued to write her stories and go for walks when
Darren was asleep. She would watch him and listen to him, and she'd
know what she wanted her hero to say, or how to behave. She wasn't
very good with men, or people in general, really. She did better
dealing with the people in her head.
One day, as she was returning home from
work, she found Darren sitting up in bed. “Hello there,” she
started. “I didn't expect you to be awake...” That was when she
realized what he was doing. He held a pile of papers in his hands and
was intently reading one. She recognized the papers. It was the story
she'd been working on that morning. “Darren, did you go through my
desk? I'm not finished with that one yet! I still need to work on the
ending! Besides, you're not supposed to be up at all.”
“I got bored.” He put the papers
down. “You know, Kathy, this is good. Really, really good. You
should sell it when you're finished. I think a lot of people would
read it.”
Kathleen blushed. “Oh, it's just
silly fantasies. You know, boy meets girl meets dragon. It's not good
enough to sell.”
He shook his head. “You were always
so hard on yourself. I think you could sell this. I know I read some
of your stuff before, but you've improved since we were together. I
really feel for the characters' predicament. I want them to get away
from the dragon alive. I don't usually get into stories like this,
but you really drew me in.”
“Thank you.” She sat down next to
him. “That's all I ever wanted. I want to tell stories, and let
everyone enjoy them.”
“Then why don't you?” He waved the
papers. “Why don't you try selling these? You have stories to
share, and they're really interesting.”
“I...” She looked down at her lap.
“I can't. I've tried.”
Darren snorted. “You're still scared
of those idiots in town.”
“They're the town elders!” She
played with her wrap. “They know a lot more than me.”
“But could they write stories like
this?” He shook his head. “I never understood you, Kathy. You
have talent. You're pretty, you're kind, you tell great stories, but
you hide in your little cottage and never show yourself to anyone.”
“I never thought anyone wanted me
around!” She couldn't help her blush as he rubbed the back of her
hand with her finger. “You've never been pushed away or tormented
because your story isn't the same as the rest of the world's.”
“No one's story is the same.” He
kept rubbing her hand. “Isn't that what you've always told me?
Everyone has their own story. Everyone has their own way of doing
things. So you aren't like the rest of the town. Why is that wrong?
Why can't you see your story that way?”
“I just want everything to be right,”
she she said softly. “It's always right in my head. I can always
work things out with my characters. I can handle them. I can't handle
people.”
“Who needs people?” He shrugged.
“I'm not much good with people, either. I do things on my own. I'm
a loner. I talk when I have to. I've been like that for years, and
sometimes, I do get lonely. But I'm mostly pretty happy that way.”
She finally just stood up, turning away
from him in annoyance. “You don't understand! You never understood.
You didn't understand when we were...when you were here the first
time.”
Darren glared at her. “I understand
fine, baby. You're just too used to feeling sorry for yourself.”
“I'm not!” she yelled, feeling her
cheeks turn hot. “You're impossible!” She ran out, into the
woods. He watched her.
Darren continued to recover, but she
felt more awkward around him. This was what had happened last time,
she remembered. He was an ex-soldier, a man of the world. What was
she? Just some storyteller and grocer in a small town living all
alone. They did make up after that argument, but it wasn't like it
had been earlier.
It was nearly the end of spring before
Darren could walk on his own, without Kathleen's support or the need
for the crutches. His breathing was much better, too, and he no
longer wheezed when he spoke. She knew he'd have to leave soon. She
wasn't sure how much she was looking forward to that. While it would
be nice to have her cottage back and have time to herself again, she
knew she'd miss him. She missed him terribly the first time he left.
“You know, Kathy,” he said one
night when they were playing cards over their simple dinner of
vegetable stew and crusty bread, “I'm just about on my feet again.
My leg doesn't hurt nearly as much as it used to.”
“Darren,” she said quietly, “where
will you go?”
“I haven't decided yet.” He put a
card over hers. “I'm not going back to my aunt's. I can't.” He
frowned. “But I can't stay here forever, either. I know you're nice
enough to keep it dark in here for me, but I have to do something
about this curse. I've got to find the cure.” He sighed. “And I'm
gonna need to find a job, too. A guy's gotta make a living somehow.”
“I could do that.” Kathleen slapped
a card over his. “I'm friendly with several bookmakers in town, and
I volunteer at the town library every week. I could check magic
books, see if there's any mention of a curse like this.”
“I wish you didn't have to go.”
Darren tossed the last card, a grin spreading across his ruggedly
handsome face. “There. Black Jack. I win.”
Kathleen rolled her eyes. “You always
win. I think you cheat.”
“Me, cheat?” Darren rolled his eyes
dramatically and clutched his chest. “You wound me, honey.”
“I would if I had a shotgun.” Even
as she spoke, she was chuckling. “At least I don't have any money
to wager.” She grabbed her wrap. “I've got to get to work. I'll
be back in time for supper.”
Darren grabbed her arm. “Honey, I
wish you wouldn't go. Something doesn't feel right. It's like we're
being watched. I know it.”
“Someone has to pay for our food and
supplies.” She gave him a gentle kiss on his lips, surprising even
herself. She hadn't kissed Darren since...well, in a long time. “I'll
be home as soon as I can.”
Darren held her hand. “Promise?”
Kathleen nodded. “I promise.” She
knew he was watching her, with those velvet brown eyes of his, even
as she left.
Kathleen usually hated her job, but
today, she thought it might be useful. Many of her customers were
elderly people who gossiped constantly. She generally disregarded
their chatter about who married whom and how much better life was
when they were younger and everyone did everything the way they did
and didn't involve themselves so much with machines. Today, she
thought they might be able to help her.
“Who owns the Rightsmith estates
now?” she'd ask them. “I thought the owners had been dead for
years.”
“I heard,” whispered one delicate,
bird-like older woman, “that a witch moved in the Rightsmith
estates. They say she practices,” her voice dropped so low,
Kathleen could barely make her out, “black magic.”
“Oh, that's silly,” scolded her
equally aged friend. “Her name is Sylvia Rightsmith. She's the
older sister of Lord Adam Rightsmith, who died in that terrible
carriage accident last year? Well, anyway, they say she's the most
beautiful woman in the valley. Blond hair, blue eyes, looks like a
princess from one of the fairy tale books. Smart, too. Runs the whole
place by herself.”
A gnarled old man had a more
frightening tale to tell. “I was her gardener,” he wheezed to
Kathleen as she bagged his carrots and walnuts. “She was beautiful,
but her soul was like ice. She was demanding. The gardens were never
perfect enough. She beat anyone who disagreed with her. She whipped
her own nephew until the man could barely move.”
Her voice caught in her throat. “Her
nephew? What was his name?”
The old man stroked his scraggly beard.
“I don't rightly remember. He weren't around that long. She
dismissed the servants before she dismissed him. He were kinda
good-lookin'. Some of the maids sure found him pleasin' to the eye,
if ya know what I mean.”
She blushed. “I think I do.”
Another woman, large and hearty, with a
wrap around her silvery curls, confirmed the bearded man's story.
“Never go to that villa!” She said, shaking her bony finger at
Kathleen's nose. “It's a place of evil now. That Lady Sylvia, she's
a bad one. People go in, but they don't go out. They say she has
black magic. She can take people's minds, make them forget what they
are. She takes their lives, their memories, their very stories.”
Kathleen laughed, but it sounded hollow
to her. “No one can do that!”
“Mark my words, young lady,” the
old woman creaked, “she has done it. She will do it again. My own
granddaughter worked in that house. Now, she doesn't remember who she
is, where she was, or anything she is or was. That house is
dangerous! Stay away from there!”
Now Kathleen was scared. The rumors
couldn't be true, could they? She had to know. She went right to the
library after she left the shop to look at the city hall
records...and there they were, clear as daylight. At least four
people, mostly lower servants, had been at the villa in the past
year, and they'd come back with no memories, no anything. They didn't
know who they were or what their story was.
Her eyes widened. Darren had said they
were being watched. She had the sinking feeling she knew who was
doing it. She had to get back, before they hurt Darren...or did worse
to him.
She ran as fast as she could into the
woods, towards her cottage. It never seemed to be so far away before!
The last rays of the blazing sun were just appearing in the treetops
when she entered the clearing where her cottage was.
She gasped. The first thing she noticed
was every single window was open. The shutters had been torn off.
“No!” The horrified woman rushed inside, her tangle of brown
curls bouncing behind her.
Her cottage had been torn to shreds.
Furniture lay in splinters on the floor. Food was spilled onto the
counter, the doors to the cabinets flung open. The cottage was filled
with light from every angle. Her beloved stories had been flung off
her desk, sent carelessly every which way.
An enormous creature raged in the
center of the room, where the couch had been. It growled and snarled.
At least three smaller demons, ones without wings, were trying to tug
it away with rope. Kathleen screamed. “DARREN!”
It couldn't have been anyone else. He
looked like he had the night she'd inadvertently discovered what had
been done to him. His fur-covered head swiveled to gaze at her. His
eyes...they were still a deep velvety brown, very sad and angry and
very, very human.
“Darren...” She started towards
him. He growled, trying to attack the smaller demons and throw them
off, but they held firm.
One demon grabbed her arm. “No touch!
Lady no touch! He ours!”
She slapped the creature's paw away.
“He's not yours! He isn't anybody's.”
“Sylvia say his story belongs to
her.”
“His story is his.” Kathleen
stomped her foot. “I want all of you out of my cottage this
instant! And please replace the shutters! Darren can't stay like
this.”
“Kath...Kathy....” He let out one
enormous roar and finally flung his wings into them, knocking them
all away. He lunged for them as they squealed, trying to flee his
claws. Kathleen did her best to help, smacking them out the door with
the sharp end of a broken table leg. She stabbed one that tried to
reach for her stories.
“Those are mine!” She pushed the
little furry thing away. “Write your own stories!”
“Our lady want!” the critter
whined. “All stories hers!”
“Not these.” She almost literally
kicked the creature out the door.
When the last of the demons were gone,
she turned to Darren. He was in the middle of the room, panting.
“Darren...” Her eyes widened when he moved his clawed hand, and
she saw blood on his shoulder. “One of them bit you! I hope they
don't have rabies!”
He shook his horned head. “I...ok...not
bad...”
“That's not what I see.”
He pulled away. “I...leave...not hurt
you...”
“You won't.” She took his hand,
letting her long, slender fingers rest in his thick, furry ones. “I'm
going to stay with you. I don't care what you look like. I know who
did this. I'll make her change you back. I swear I will.”
He looked at their joined hands, then
into her bright hazel eyes. “Can't hurt you,” he said in a small
growl. “Must go.”
“Darren...” She said this to his
back. She followed him as he rushed outside and took off into the
rapidly darkening sky, ignoring her angry, heartbroken protests.
“Darren!”
She went back into the cottage. She
knew what she had to do. She gathered her shawl, her stories, and
what little food remained in her leather satchel, changed into strong
walking shoes, and headed towards the villa.
Darkness had almost fallen by the time
she reached the tangle of greenery surrounding the villa. Darren told
her it was once the most beautiful and extensive garden in the entire
kingdom. When the lord and lady died, the gardens were permitted to
fall into disarray. Now trees with branches as long as giants seemed
to reach for her. Thorny bushes caught at her wrap and tore her
skirts. She pushed them back with a thick branch, but they kept
swinging back at her.
Only one flower bed had been tended to,
recently from the looks of things. Two rose bushes, one larger than
the other, bloomed despite the dreariness of the rest of the garden.
One was awash in roses the color of a sunset; the other, in delicate
snow-white blossoms. They'd been lovingly weeded and fed and watered;
they flourished while the other plants around them wilted. She felt
compelled to pick a perfect flower from each bush, being careful of
the thorns.
All the while, she called Darren's
name. She couldn't find him. You'd think a huge demon with horns and
wings would stand out, but he wasn't anywhere. She dove around the
colorful tangle, looking into every plant and garden shed.
That was when she heard a voice. “You
won't find the one you seek where you think you'll find him,
storyteller woman.”
Perhaps the darkness was playing tricks
on her, but she was surprised to discover a little old woman. She was
a tiny, wizened thing, wrinkled with age like a plum heavy on the
vine. She was sitting by a gnarled tree, near a small house, barely
more than a shed.
“Are you the caretaker?” Kathleen
asked. “You wouldn't have seen a...a...”
“A demon?” The woman said with
something like a cross between a croak and a laugh. “Your lover.
Yes, he's here...but I fear he's in danger. She's taking them. The
stories.”
“Why?” Kathleen asked. “Why does
she want stories? Why does she want his story?”
The woman croaked again. She blinked
her raisin eyes at Kathleen. “Because she has no story of her own.
That's why she takes the stories of others. That, and she wants the
villa. It's filled with stories. So many, many stories.”
“So I've heard.” Kathleen shook her
head. “How can I stop her? I'm only a storyteller. I have no
magic.”
“You do.” The old woman poked her
in the stomach with her cane. Kathleen pushed it away. “You have
one of the greatest powers anyone can have. You're able to create
stories.”
“How will that stop her?”
“You have stories within you.” She
handed her a box. “Put all the stories in here,” she said. “Keep
your stories safe, for they are yours. We must never lose our
stories...or we'll lose ourselves.”
“But how...” Kathleen began. The
old woman shook her head.
“You'll know how.” She somehow
waddled around Kathleen, looking her simple brown peasant dress and
wrap over. “They'll never let you in the villa dressed like that.”
The older woman simply nodded, and flowing white magic gathered
around the young woman. It felt warm and glowing, like a fire without
the crackling heat. To her surprise, her faun-colored dress was
transformed into a beautiful silk gown of cream with brown trim, with
many petticoats underneath. Her shawl became a wrap of
chocolate-brown velvet. The two roses became a crown of flame-red and
white blossoms in her brown-gold hair.
She frowned. “This doesn't feel
right. I'm not a princess. I'm just a writer.”
“Every woman has a little princess in
them.” The old woman poked her again. “Some more than others.
Now, you go rescue your lover. He needs you, or he'll lose his
story...and his life. I'll make the path clear for you.” She tapped
the girl's head. “These flowers are magic. They will protect you
when all else fails. The flowers and animals here like you. You're
kind to them.”
The old woman waved her hand again. The
tangles of bushes and thorns started to shift and give way, showing a
clear path made of dark red brick to the villa. Kathleen turned to
the old woman to thank her, but she had vanished, tiny shed and all.
She followed the red path up winding
trails and down sloping hills until she reached the most beautiful,
frightening home she'd ever seen. It was a massive mansion, a
monstrosity of columns, towers, spires, and winding trim. There was a
feeling of...foreboding about it. Though it was kept well, there were
no lights in the windows or flowers or plants around the main house.
It felt like it was haunted, or at least the home of many dark
stories.
Kathleen squared her shoulders, pulled
her now-satin wrap around her shoulders, and knocked on the door.
“Hello? Is anyone home?”
To her surprise, someone did answer the
door. He was a man dressed all in gold livery, from his head to his
foot. He had a long, sharp nose that seemed to mainly function for
him to look down at her. “Hello, madam. Welcome to the Villa of the
Bella Mia. May I ask who is calling?”
Kathleen gulped, gave him what she
hoped was an ingratiating smile, and fluttered her lacy fan. “My
name is, uh, Lady Kara Du Mariner.” She curtsied before him, though
she knew her knees wobbled badly. “I'm here to see the Lady Sylvia
Rightsmith and her nephew, Darren Gurrier. It's a matter of some, um,
urgency.”
The gold-dressed servant sniffed. “Very
well. Follow me, Lady Du Mariner.”
She shivered. She'd heard stories about
the villa being a beautiful home, warm and inviting, but it just
seemed cold to her. The antiques were hard and shiny, the furnishings
gleaming like ice in a riverbed. It was all so extravagant, and so
very, very chilling. She shivered, pulling the fancy white wrap
further around her body.
“Sir,” Kathleen began, “do you
feel...do you feel the cold?”
The man merely tutted at her worries.
“Lady Sylvia has an excellent fire in her room. I'll get the
scullery boy to add more logs.”
“It's not that,” she admitted.
“It's just...I feel so much sadness here. Pain. Fear. It's like
there's hundreds of stories, but they're all being held and not let
free.”
“I don't know what to say, Your
Ladyship,” the butler admitted. “I only work here.” He lead her
to the very end of the hall. “This is Lady Sylvia's main library
and work room. She will receive you here.”
He opened the door for her...and
Kathleen let out a gasp. She'd never seen such an enormous
library...or one so full of fear. Every book she could possibly
imagine was on shelves, behind glass and metal doors. The entire room
was done in shades of black and gray and navy, with no relief from
the stark outlines. She went to one of the glass doors to take a
closer look at the books, but it emitted a small spark! She jumped
back, rubbing her gloved hand.
The butler pulled her back. “The Lady
Sylvia doesn't like people touching her books,” he explained.
“These stories are hers, and hers alone.” He turned to the
shining black desk in the back of the room. “Your guest has
arrived, Lady Sylvia,” he said in his stiff British accent.
“Thank you, Cecil,” said whomever
was behind the tall black leather chair. “Would you please bring
my...um...very hairy....guest here?”
“Yes, Lady Rightsmith. But I'll have
the footmen do it. I certainly have no desire to deal with such a
feral creature.” The tall butler walked out with stiff strides,
like he was a mechanical man.
A long, graceful hand with nails
painted blood-red gestured to one of the smaller leather chairs in
front of the desk. “By all means, Kathleen. Why don't you sit
down?” She obeyed as best she could. Her wide skirts took up most
of the seat, trailing on the floor around her.
Kathleen felt a little worried. “You
know who I am?”
“I've been waiting for you.” The
chair started to turn around. “Darren told me about you. He's
really very attracted to you. Why, I don't know. You're a peasant.
Not even a very pretty one, at that.”
Kathleen didn't like this woman's
condescending tone. “Looks aren't everything. I know I'm not
beautiful. Maybe Darren found other qualities about me attractive.”
She couldn't help gasping when the
chair finally faced her. Lady Sylvia was simply stunning. Her mane of
reddish-gold hair was piled on top of her head in an elegant chignon.
She wore a deep purple velvet gown trimmed with silver lace and tiny
purple jewels that was tasteful and obvious cost a great deal of
money. She too held a fan, but hers glittered dimly, like it was made
from black dragon scales. Her eyes, though, held evil and malice and
ruthlessness. This was a woman who would stop at nothing to get what
she wanted.
“You have something I want, Miss
Kathleen,” she purred like a feral cat. “And I have something you
think belongs to you. He's really mine, you know. He's my family, and
he belongs to me.”
“Darren.” Kathleen started to
stand. “Where is he? What have you done with him?”
“Oh, he's here.” She smirked. “He's
my property.”
“He's not property!” Kathleen
exclaims angrily. “Just because you're his aunt – or you say
you're his aunt – doesn't mean you own him!”
She laughed. “He's not even human
anymore. I saw to that. I should have known he'd go right to an old
lover when he escaped. It was clumsy of me to leave the window open
like I did. It won't happen again.”
“Look, all I want is Darren, the way
he originally was.” She held the book close to her. “You stole
his stories, didn't you? I was surprised he remembered me. He
couldn't remember anything before he went to war. Was that you, too?
Sending him away?”
She fluttered her fan. “Well, he was
needed in the ranks. Besides, he didn't want to stay. It was rather
convenient. I just didn't know he'd come back and start making
demands.”
Kathleen frowned. “What kind of
demands?”
“Oh, acting like this is his home,
rather than mine.” She laughed, but it sounded hollow. “He heard
about his parents' oh-so-tragic death and had to come running home
like a good little boy. I had hoped he was dead. It would have been
so much easier to deal with.”
That was when four men came in,
dragging something in chains along behind them. Kathleen stood in
horror as Darren, or at least his demon form, was thrown into the
room. She ran to his side, checking to see if he was all right. She
looked up at the smirking woman in the leather chair. “What did you
do to him? How did you get him?”
“He came to me.” She laughed again.
“He thought he could destroy me. My demons were on him before he
could even get close to me.” She came around the desk. “Now,
we'll make a trade. You give me those stories of yours...including
your own. You can take him and do whatever your heart desires with
him. And we'll never discuss this again.”
Kathleen clutched the box with her
stories to her chest. “I can't give up my stories...and I refuse to
give you my story! That would mean giving up my life!”
“It's your precious story,” she
stroked the fur on the back of hisneck, “or I do something far
worse to him than turning him into a monster.”
“K...Kathy...don't...” Darren tried
to move towards her, but Sylvia yanked him back. He let out a yelp,
gasping.
She couldn't help herself. She jumped
to her feet. “Stop! He's a human being. You have no right to do
this.”
“He's my nephew.” She yanked the
chain further. He howled. “My property.”
“He's not property!” She ran to
him, trying to get the chain off. “I don't care what you want! I
won't let you do this!”
Kathleen hadn't noticed Sylvia raise
her hand. One moment, she was trying to undo the lock on Darren's
metal collar. The next, she was being tossed head over heels into a
bookcase and seeing nothing more than stars and falling books.
“You'll not do such things!” Sylvia grabbed Darren when he tried
to go after the fallen woman. She snapped his wings back until they
nearly tore. He let out a pained roar that wrenched Kathleen's heart.
“Stop! Don't hurt him!” Kathleen
looked from him to her. “Why do you want the stories?”
“Because I have no story!” Lady
Sylvia grabbed the book, trying to force it out of Kathleen's hand.
“I'm a dark sorceress. We take other people's stories. We feed on
them. They sustain us. We keep them for ourselves. It's the only way
we can live.”
Kathleen ducked back. “But...stories
are for everyone, not just a few people. Anyone can tell a story.”
She gazed at the book she was trying to tear from Lady Sylvia's
hands. “Stories are how we live. They're how we communicate, pass
down traditions and knowledge. Stories are in our blood. You can't
take them away. They're part of our very being!”
But Lady Sylvia's eyes were growing
more and more red...and her face was becoming an even darker shade of
scarlet. “I want those stories! GIVE IT TO ME...ow!”
Kathleen was once again thrown back.
Darren had leaped onto Lady Sylvia, his claws extended. He bit at her
and scratched and clawed, his growls echoing in the enormous house.
His attack gave Kathleen the chance to pull up the last page of her
story. “I...don't know how I want this story to end,” she
whispered. “All I want is for Darren to be all right and normal and
to find out what's going on. I don't want beautiful gowns or
elaborate homes.” She held up part of the skirt of her gown. “I
don't need this to be happy. I just want Darren and my stories.”
She gasped. The words that tumbled out
of her mouth etched themselves onto the page in thin, black lines
that trailed glitter. She watched as they trailed around the pages,
then moved to Darren. They surrounded him, tugging him away.
Lady Sylvia sneered. She wasn't so
beautiful now. Darren's claws had left wide gashes on her face and
tore her skirt to shreds. She glared red-hot fire at the panting
creature. “You think this is yours, Rightsmith,” she hissed. “You
abandoned this. This was never yours.”
“I don't...know....” Darren tried
to get to his feet, but another blast of energy from Lady Sylvia sent
him crashing into the bookcase in the back of the room.
“NOOO!” Kathleen ran to him when
she saw he wasn't moving. She took his hand. To her horror, it had
only a faint pulse. “I can't lose you! Not now! I have to change
this!”
Sylvia was advancing on her. Kathleen
swept her story into her arms. She held the box out before her. “And
in the end, she found that she loved him. Their love, and her belief
in their story, was able to defeat the wicked sorceress. The
sorceress had no story. Without her story, she...she....she
vanished!” Kathleen recited with all the feeling she could pour
into it. “She wasn't able to keep the stories. The stories...had to
be free!”
Sylvia's eyes widened in horror. “Stop!
No! What are you doing?”
Kathleen dashed to every bookcase. She
broke the glass doors with a fireplace poker, throwing all the books
to the floor Normally, she would never treat a book so callously, but
this was an emergency.
“These aren't books, are they?” The
storyteller asked, holding one up to Sylvia. “They're stories. The
stories that belong to other people. The stories that belong to the
townspeople who disappeared.” She snatched her papers. “I'm
giving them back. You had no right to take them.” She opened the
box, then said out loud “The stories in the books returned to the
poor people they had been stolen from, never to be removed again.”
Even as she spoke, the books on the floor dissolved and vanished,
their glowing forms flowing out the window with the last rays of the
setting sun.
“No!” Sylvia slunk closer to her,
her gashes bleeding, her teeth glowing sharp and white in the
oncoming moonlight. “Those are MY stories! I NEED them! Return them
to me!”
Kathleen glared her down. “I'm
telling you your last story.” She threw the box with her unfinished
stories down in front of the trembling, horrified Sylvia. “This is
how the story ends. The woman rescued her lover from his unspeakable
fate. He was restored to his original form, thanks to her love, and
their joined words. The sorceress dissolved. She had no story to
sustain her, no life to call her own. She was a parasite that fed off
the stories of others. She had discovered that no one can live that
way.”
“Nooooooo! No!” Syliva lunged for
Kathleen and the box in vain. She was already little more than a
blood-red outline, surrounding smoke and bits of glitter. The moment
the last words left Kathleen's lips, the outline faded, and she
vanished into the either, her screams echoing in the rapidly dying
sunlight.
“K...Kathy....” Kathleen rushed
over to Darren, the box in her arms. “I...you know I love you...”
She nodded, her eyes filled with tears.
“I've always known. You really came through for me tonight.” She
threw her arms around him. “If only I could re-write our story! I
don't want it to end like this!”
Darren gave her a tiny, weak smile.
“Tell....your story...that.”
Kathleen wiped her eyes as she pulled
the box to her. “In the end, she...she kissed him. And she restored
him, and his memory, and made them both whole again.” That was what
she had to do. That's what happened in all the fairy tales.
But the glitter and thin light of the
words were already surrounding them, even as she kissed his furry,
cracked lips. They went through every pore of her skin and his. She
could almost feel their stories meld and come together. As it had in
her home the first time she'd discovered his demon form, the fur
dropped away, the claws shrunk into fingers, and the horns
evaporated.
“Darren?” She helped him to his
feet. His knees were wobbly, but he gave her his sort-of smile. “Are
you all right? Is this...did I...”
Darren's brown eyes were directed
behind him, at the soft sunset glowing in the window. “Kathy, it's
light out still. I'm in the light...and I'm not a demon. I'm human.”
He grinned. “Good work, honey. I knew you could do it. You always
were a smart lady.”
“What did I do?” She took his hand.
“Who are you, really? What's your story?”
He sighed. “I didn't want to tell you
this. My real name is Darren Rightsmith. Yeah, Adam and Pallicia were
my parents. Gurrier is my grandmother's maiden name.” She let him
lean on her. “I wanted to get into the army on my own terms, not
because of my heritage. Lady Sylvia was no aunt of mine. I never
found out for certain, but I think she murdered my folks. She wanted
the money, the prestige, the stories that surround this house. The
Villa is hundreds of years old. There's stories in every wall.” He
rubbed her hand. “I never wanted this. I'm no businessman. I don't
know what I am, now that I've been discharged from the army, but I
want you to be there to help me figure it out.”
“You know,” Kathleen began, looking
around, “maybe you could keep this. Darren, look at this library!
And the grounds! Wouldn't this make a wonderful place for other
people to create stories?”
Darren rubbed her hands. “You
mean...”
She smiled. “This is too beautiful of
a home to not share it with others. I want to help everyone find
their stories. Everyone deserves one. Even you.” She reached up to
kiss him again as the last rays of the setting sun made Darren's dark
hair glisten like silk.
And so Darren did wed Kathleen. They
used the money from the Rightsmith fortune to publish Kathleen's
stories, which were popular among children who adored her fairy
tales. They opened the house and gardens to all people for miles
around. Everyone came to hear stories, to write them, to make their
own memories. The gardens rang with love and laughter. They made sure
everyone created wonderful stories, and that those who wished to
share them did so.
For what is life, if not a story?
