A Celebration for the Dying

A Celebration for the Dying
by Chris Pearce
“The Erlking’s got you.”

This was true, though I didn’t know so then.

“Oh, to be killed by a phantom,” I said, turning over in my bed.

“A perfect fate for such a wicked boy,” my father said, rising from his chair and walking towards the door of my room. “You should pray. Pray that God will protect your soul from the Devil and his children.”

And with that he left me, alone in my bed. I heard the click of the lock on my door, and I sighed. If I was going to die, I was not going to die like some old woman sick with the fever. Of course, he always forgot the window.

The first thing that I thought as I climbed down the side of my house was that if the Erkling didn’t kill me I would never return to my bed. The town was far too wonderful at night, dark and quiet and empty and covered in snow. The darkness illuminated all the opportunities in the place.

As I stood there in the snow, I wondered where I needed to go. I was going to die after all; I knew that. I suppose that I needed to find the Erlking, but I had no idea where he might be. Father had said that he galloped along lonely roads, looking for the lost and the foolish. As I stared up at the sky, watching the stars in the sky, I heard the sound of hoof steps, and—

“Hello.”

I turned around and saw behind me—not a horse, or the Erlking or the Host of the Wild Hunt or any other thing that I was looking for—just another boy, standing in the shadows.

“Who are you?” I asked him.

“Oh. You don’t remember. I am Nick,” he said, pulling back a cloak from his face. “Are you looking for the Erlking?”

“Do you know him?”

“I do,” he said, smiling and revealing rows of crooked white teeth—they reflected the light of the moon and were the only part of him I could see. “If you’re looking for him, I can help you find him. Is he trying to kill you?”

“He might be trying, but he isn’t going to succeed,” I said. Nick laughed at this, a deep braying sound that made me shiver. “How do you know him?”

“Oh, everyone does, where I come from,” he said, stepping out from the shadows and into the light of the moon and the stars. He had antlers like those of a deer or an elk, each with seven silver tines, and instead of feet he had hooves. He wore no cloak—what I had seen was his hair, long and brown and matted, mixed with twigs and leaves. In fact, he wore no clothes at all—just a few hides draped around his shoulders and the light of the moon on his skin. As the darkness retreated from him, I smiled, and stepped forward. “Are you not afraid?”

“Why would I be afraid? I’ve always dreamed of meeting one of the Good Neighbors. My father says you’re all quite wicked. Is that true?”

“Indeed,” he said, drawing himself close to me.

“Good,” I answered, stepping back with a flourish and bowing. “I am quite wicked myself, you see.”

“Oh you are? Well, we will see about that,” he said, circling around me. As he took my hand in his—they were rough hands, even though they looked smooth—he asked me “And what is the name of this wicked human?”

“Erich.”

“So, Erich, you’ve never seen one of my kind before? I’ve never seen humans before, either. You aren’t what I expected.”

“What did you think humans were like?” Nick was exactly like I expected on of the Fair Folk to be. He seemed so different—and so familiar. My hair was short and blonde, his was long and dark. My eyes were blue—his were black, I suppose. I am tan, or sunburnt more often, and he looked as if the only light that had ever touched his skin came from the moon. He looked like no one I had ever seen before in any way, even if I ignored his horns and hooves. And yet I had seen him before, when my Father talked of the Wild Hunt or the Fey Dances or the City beneath the Sea. I had seen him in the dreams I had during the day, when the pastor talked of the monsters that lurked beyond the town’s walls.

He simply shrugged my shoulders at my question.

“I don’t suppose I know. Well, Erich, do you want to find the Erlking? I can help you find him.”

“Where is he?”

“Oh, I don’t know, exactly. No one really does anymore. But I have a general idea—“ He pointed north, towards the rising moon—“that he is in that direction, beyond the mountains, or something like that. But you’ll never make it.”

“I can try, at least,” I said, furrowing my brow and pushing past him.

“But you can’t,” he said grabbing my arm. “You don’t have much time. You know that. You’ll die tonight, one way or another, so you can’t waste any time.”

“But how can I get over the mountains any faster than walking?”

“By riding, of course,” he said, and pulled me into the shadows.

“Ride? But we don’t have a horse!” I said, as we raced along, between the buildings, and I realized that he was gone, and in his place was a horse with a mane long and brown and matted, mixed with twigs and leaves, with antlers like those of a deer or an elk, each with seven silver tines. He was gone, and I was upon his back, riding through the city streets towards the darkness beyond its walls. As we rode, he spoke to me. “I can get you to Erlking before dawn, but you’ll owe me.”

“What?” I asked, laughing as the wind blew back my hair.

“You’ll owe me a favor. Anything I ask, whenever I ask it, and whatever I ask, you can’t refuse it. Do you accept?”

I would have given him anything at that moment, and I was certainly willing to give him a promise. “Of course,” I said, and we galloped along, jumping up over fences and then roofs and then over the walls of the city itself, into the forest that surrounded it, towards the mountains.

And then we stopped, and rode no longer.

“Is this where the Erlking lives?” I asked, peering up at the sky. There was no light here; the city had vanished behind the trees and all I could see where the moon and the stars.

“No,” said Nick. I could not see him, and it seemed as if he whispered to me right by my ear, but when I reached for him, he was not there. “No, but we’re getting closer. You still haven’t left the mortal world yet. You must do that before I can take you to him.”

And then, down from the sky, came the stars. But these were not stars—they were insects, fireflies, more than I had ever seen in one place. They flew through the air, spiraling into one place—and then I could see Nick, standing before me, holding a gnarled wooden staff, upon which the fireflies rested, although a few still wafted through the air.

“I thought,” he said, smirking and again revealing his crooked white teeth, “that you might like to be able to see where you’re going before you go there. Are you ready to leave your mortal home behind?”

“Of course,” I said, moving forward into the light. And then I saw where Nick was standing. He was within a ring of mushrooms, each capped bright red. I hesitated, half remembering words spoken by father, my pastor, by children singing old songs whose meanings had been forgotten hundreds of years ago.

“Are you afraid?” Nick asked. His smile had vanished, replaced by only the slightest off frowns.

“Why would I be afraid?” I asked, swallowing hard and stepping forwards, but not yet into the circle.

“Do you not fear the fairy ring? Do you not fear that you’ll be snatched away, only to return a hundred years hence, when everything you know has grown old and died and only you remain?”

“No,” I said, and I closed my eyes and stepped within the circle.

When I opened my eyes again I found that nothing had changed. Nick still stood before me, holding his living lantern that illuminated the empty forest that surrounded us.

“We haven’t moved.”

“No,” he said. “Take my hand.”

I did, and he led me out of the circle, into the woods. A cold wind blew through the trees; I coughed at this sudden chill, but Nick seemed unaffected.

“You don’t like the cold, I see,” he said, arching an eyebrow. “But you only have a little bit longer, now. Here, let’s rest. We’ll have to wait for him anyways.”

We sat upon a mossy rock by a quiet stream, and for a moment, we were silent.

“Are you hungry?” Nick asked me. I was. I hadn’t realized it, but I couldn’t remember the last time I had eaten. I hadn’t had an appetite in so long, and it came rushing back to me the moment he asked the question. My stomach growled, answering the question for me.

Nick leaned towards me, and I saw that he was holding a handful of golden leaves. He passed the leaves from one hand to another, moving them so quickly that they became almost impossible to see. He then held his hand up to me, and I saw that where there once were leaves there was now a loaf of golden bread.

“Here,” he said, smirking at me and holding the bread close. I could smell it—it smelled as if it had just been removed from an oven at the bakery. But—

“It’s just leaves,” I said, pushing the bread away.

“You are afraid,” he said, pulling the bread back to his chest.

“I’m not. But—it’s just leaves.” He shrugged his shoulders in response.

“Is it?” he asked, pulling off a piece of bread and eating it. “You’re right. It is just leaves. But, does that matter? It’s just an illusion—a trick of our minds. But an illusion is real, too—you can see it, and you can smell it, and you can imagine that, if just for a moment, that it is real, can’t you?”

I didn’t know if I could. I thought of everything that I knew was real—I thought of home, and I thought of my father. But I also thought of Nick and his fire fly lamp, and I thought of everything I had imagined beyond the walls of the city. So I took the bread from his hand, and I bit into the loaf. It tasted of leaves and branches and dirt, but also of wheat and the oven and flour and sugar. I quickly devoured the leaves, and left nothing remaining.

“You are a fool,” said Nick, lifting himself from his repose, and taking me by the hand, he pulled me towards the stream. “But you are brave, so that is fine. Only fools can meet the Erlking, after all. Are you ready?”

I was. So I did not resist as he pulled me into the stream, even as the cold waters soaked right through my clothing and my skin, right to my bones. My fingers went numb and my lips turned blue from the water’s kiss and my lungs screamed out for air. I saw my death—and then Nick pulled me from the water and back onto the forest floor.

“It’s alright,” he said, pulling me from the water.

“The water’s freezing,” I said, looking up at him. “It’s freezing—so why am I not cold?”

He shook his head in response. “You’re dying. It’s like I said—you won’t survive past the sunrise. Dreams never do.”

I looked at my fingers—I did not see the touch of frostbite, but that was only because I felt nothing in my fingers at all.

“When we first met, you said I didn’t remember you. How could I have remembered you? I’ve never met you before.”

“Think,” laughed Nick. “Think. Think of me, and only me.”

So I thought. I thought of lessons in the schoolhouse, of memorizing line and formula. I remembered the schoolhouse, sure—but not Nick—not of looking out the window and into the outdoors where the sun was shining. I thought of the cathedral, where the priest warned us of the temptations that dwelled within our hearts—of swimming with the other boys when summer came, of waiting for when the adults were gone and of racing heartbeats and baited breath. I thought of the only reason that I came to school each day, the only reason that I memorized my lessons—of sneaking to the bookseller’s stall, of peeking while no one watched.

“I remember.”

“Yes—but do you know why you forgot?”

I did not.

“It doesn’t matter—not yet. We’re so close, but the moon is almost empty. Do you think that you can make it, just a little longer?”

My clothes were beginning to freeze, and I was shivering violently, even though I felt as if my insides were alight. I looked to the sky—Nick’s words were true. The silver white of the moon was draining out, leaving only a dark circle hanging in the sky.

“I don’t know.” I was ashamed, and I turned away from him, burying my face in my hands. But then I felt his own hands upon my shoulder, pulling away my soaked tunic and wrapping his arms around me. They were strong, stronger than I expected, stronger than the slender white arms seemed when I first saw him. But I looked upon his arms and I knew that they were exactly as they should be—in fact, they were exactly as I remembered them. They were the strong arms of a boy who had worked in the fields or as a blacksmith’s apprentice—familiar arms, after all. I did not resist as his arms moved lower and started to pull away at my pants.

But then I had a memory. Or it may have been a vision—I don’t really know. I remembered father screaming and warning me of the dangers that lied just beyond the town’s walls. The priest came, and he warned me of what awaited in Hell. He spoke of deserts where fire rained eternally from the sky on all the sinners below, who wandered looking for comfort in each other’s arms but can never find it. That, he said, was what awaited those who trespassed in the forest. I thanked him for this mercy, for sparing me from hell and not simply casting me out to the fate I deserved. I must not betray his kindness—not here, not now.

“Wait—wait—this isn’t right,” I said, scrambling away from him.

“You aren’t afraid,” said Nick, looking at me with watery eyes. “So, then, why are you running away? What have I done to offend you so?”

“You’re one of the Fair Folk,” I said, looking at him, my back resting against a tree. It was late, and I was tired, and the numbness creeping up from my fingers and my toes seemed so inviting.

“Yes,” he said, rising to his feet and sauntering towards me. “But, I thought that you wanted to see the Fair Folk—to see me. The Otherworld is a wonderfully wicked place, you know, and—“

“Yes,” I answered, moving towards him but keeping my eyes distant. “Yes, it is wicked, just like me. That’s why the Erlking is coming for me, isn’t it? To take me away to Hell.”

Nick frowned. “Why do you think this?” he asked, a quick breath of air escaping his mouth that sounded almost like a laugh. “How can something so wonderful lead there? How can something that originated within you be the road to Hell?”

“That’s exactly why!” I screamed, rushing away from him. I came to the stream, and I stared down at my own reflection. I knew that I was crying—I could feel the tears pouring down my face—but they did not seem to be reflected in the water. I heard Nick approaching me, heard his attempt to mask the sound of his approach. I did not turn to face him.

“You have to tell me,” I began, still staring at the happy face in the water. “Why is the Erlking coming for me? Why do I have to die tonight?”

“You are going to die tonight,” Nick began, not approaching any closer to me. “Simply because you are ill. You have a fever, and the winter’s cold has made you weak. That is the easiest explanation. But that is not why the Erlking is coming for you.

“Then, why?” I choked, as I reached out to the reflection in the water—but Nick stayed my hand.

“You’re dying,” said Nick, pulling me up from the stream and into his arms. I wanted to struggle, to pull away from him, but I did not. “Not just your body, but your soul, and we—and I don’t want that to happen. The Erlking is dying too, because you don’t visit us anymore—so the Erlking isn’t coming for you. Not really. But he needs you, and I need you, not to leave us.”

And then he sighed, long and deep, before he spoke again. “But the price will be high. You are sick, after all, and the cost of saving the King of the Elves will kill you. Can you accept this price.”

And as I looked into his eyes, I saw that I did remember him. I had missed him, after all this time—and I was ready to save him. “I am,” I said, drawing myself close to him.

“Then let us go,” he said, pulling me along, away from the stream that I had seen in his eyes. He took me deep into the forest, where the trees grew long and gnarled and wide, to the point where the moon and all the stars in the sky were blocked out, and the darkness would have been complete were it not for the fireflies that followed us. We came at last to a great maw of a cave, were even the fireflies would not go. I knew what lay within, and I was ready to face it.

“Here we are,” said Nick with a sigh. “This is your last chance to turn back. Part of you is going to die tonight, but the cost need not be this great. You can still go home.”

I shook my head. I wanted to die. I need to.

So we entered the Erlking’s chamber, deep within the earth, where the dead dwell. The gray stone of the cave quickly gave way to deep brown soil, held up by hundreds of tangled roots. Nick’s fireflies did not follow us here—but now, I no longer needed them.

And here was the Erlking, enshrined upon his throne wrought from the stone and soil itself. His cloak was a dull gray, stitched together from the shadows that lined this place. Up from his head grew horns made from the roots of trees that winded their way out of his skull and into the earth above us. He had no face—only a mask of silver. He made no movement, and his shriveled brown limbs looked almost as if they had grown into the throne that held him.

“Wait!” said Nick, as I started towards my final goal. “Wait—not yet. You still have my promise.”

I turned back and looked at him.

“I know what I want from you. I want for you to turn back, and go home. I want you to leave the forest, and climb back in your bed. I want to watch you age, I want to watch you become a man and take a wife and have children. I want to watch you grow old and die. That’s what I want. That’s how you can fulfill your promise to me—and I promise you, if you do this, then you will not die today, but the Erlking will, and you will have nothing to fear from the fairies again. Please, do not break my promise. Please, do not break my heart.”

I turned back and walked towards him. He smiled, but then I shook my head. I pulled him close to me, looking in his eyes that were beginning to pool with tears. I saw within his eyes a stream, babbling with the waters born when the snow of winter gave way to spring. And I saw my death, clear and beautiful. I kissed him, and then I left him behind.

“I’m sorry,” I said, when our kiss finally ended.

“Thank you,” he said, and then he pulled away from me. I turned away from him, but I looked back one last time. It was too late—he was gone. So I walked up the steps to the Erlking’s throne, ready to at last die at the hands of the King of the Elves. He was dead, or sleeping. I reached up to his mask, and I pulled it away from his face. The body beneath crumbled away, leaving only the dark gray robes and the mask that I held in my hands. So I sat upon the throne of the Erlking, and placed his mask upon my face.

And so the Erlking killed me, and I was no more.

* * *

Chris Pearce is an aspiring writer of fantasy and horror fiction. His works have appeared in Sanitarium, Mirror Dance, Tales from the Lake, and Werewolves versus Music. You can find him on twitter @chrispearc1.

Where do you get the ideas for your stories?

Almost anything can turn into a story if you sit and really analyze it; you just have to let yourself think and work out the possibilities. I’ve found inspiration in places like mythology and literature but sometimes it can be something as mundane as seeing the light on in a newly built house or a passing reference to something on a TV show.

Leaving Anthemusa

Leaving Anthemusa

by Chris Pearce

She remembered when her sisters died. She had seen many deaths before; many ships had wrecked upon the rocks of the island. But these deaths had almost all blurred together in her memory, while the deaths of her sisters remained distinct. Their shrieks had been the last sound to reach each corner of the island. Anthemusa was quiet now, quieter than it had ever been. Only the occasional chord of harp music penetrated the silence, and the sound of a harp always grew dull without accompaniment.

They had never feared death, those three sisters. They were immortal, and the difference between a day and a year was meaningless to them. They were the sirens, the daughters of the earth and the sea and the sky, and they were as beautiful as any mortal woman, though they had wings twice as long as they were tall, and talons like those of fierce birds of prey with claws that were shining brass.

She had always played her harp, almost constantly, until the day her sisters died. For hours, perhaps even for days (or maybe even longer-it was hard for her to know), she let her harp be silent, and there was no sound on the island except the sound of the waves lapping against the rocks. She had not heard silence in such a long time that she had almost forgotten what it sounded like. Her sisters had always been talking or singing, even when she herself had let her voice grow idle and her harp music fade away.

Her sisters though, they always sang, and their songs brought visitors. Men sailed to the island-never intentionally, for none could find the island that sought to do so-and heard the song that the sisters sang, and were enraptured by the honeyed notes.

“Why do we sing?” she had asked them once. “Why do we lure sailors to the island?”

“So their ships will crash on the rocks, and we can feast on their flesh,” said her sister Mapsaura, the swift wind.

“I know that isn’t true,” she answered. “We have food here. We have the flowers on the island.”

“We can’t live on flowers,” answered Mapsaura.

“We do live on flowers,” she replied. “And we don’t eat the sailors. We watch them drown on the rocks as they listen to us sing. But, why do we do that?”

“Why would you eat flowers when you can eat sailors?” asked Mapsaura. “The flesh of sailors tastes best of all men. The ocean air seasons them well.”

“Mapsaura, quiet,” hissed Aello. She was the oldest, and when she was the only thing in the world that could silence Mapsaura. “I don’t imagine that sailors would taste good. They are a dirty lot, even if heroes do sometimes travel with them. No hero is ever a sailor. Now heroes, they would most certainly taste good. They almost always have the blood of the gods coursing through their veins. Divine blood.”

“You, dear sister, are no fun,” pouted Mapsaura. “Don’t listen to her, little Celaeno.”

“Why do you ask that question, Celaeno?” asked Aello. “We’ve always sang our songs, since we were born, and men have always sought to hear our voices.

“I don’t know,” answered Celaeno, shrugging her shoulders and letting her wings drape around her.

She did know the reason. Sometimes when her sisters sang, she sang with them (though never as loudly or as clearly, and her voice was not as beautiful as her sisters), and sometimes she played the harp (though it was always just accompaniment to her sisters voices, and she still sometime struck a sour note), and sometimes she was simply quiet and listened. There were secrets in their voices, secrets that no one else knew, secrets given to them from the depths of the Earth. This was what made their songs so compelling. The sailors who came to the island would listen to the secrets that were woven into the songs and wait until the cold grip of the sea claimed them.

But her sisters didn’t hear the secrets. They were too busy listening to their music-and their music was beautiful, after all. The notes that came from their mouths were more beautiful than the notes of any harp or the song of any mortal musician. So they heard their songs, but they didn’t listen.

Celaeno listened sometimes, when she let her voice grow quiet and she plucked on the strings of her harp. She heard their stories, and remembered every word. She learned the pasts of the sailors; she saw the faces of their parents, heard their laughter when they were children. She saw the futures that they almost had; she saw them fall in love, and marry, and have children; she saw them grow old, and saw the earth claim them again. But then she saw the futures that they truly had, as they clung to the rocky shores of Anthemusa, just to hear a single song, a single chord, a single simple note.

One day when she saw that a ship was headed towards their home, she picked a spot close to the shore-as close as she possibly could sit without risking being claimed by the ocean’s waves-in preparation for the song that she and her sisters would soon begin to sing. She played her harp and sang softly, while her sisters allowed their voices to be carried high up into the wind. And as every time before, the ship turned towards Anthemusa, lured by the honey of the sister’s voices. The sailors ignored the clear danger that the rocks presented, for the only thought in their minds was to get closer to the source of the music that they heard. And just as every time before, the ship wrecked on the rocks, spilling its cargo and its crew into the craggy sea that surrounded the island.

The sailors clung to the rocks, but they made no attempts to climb up onto the island. All they wanted was to hear the sisters sing-they cared not for their own lives. Most of them swam to the rocks that sat under the perches of Mapsaura and Aello, for they sang far more beautifully (and far more loudly) than Celaeno ever could. She tried to lift her voice to match theirs, in hopes that she could lure just a single sailor to her perch, but always the voices of Mapsaura and Aello grew clearer and louder.

But Celaeno’s voice caught one man’s attention. He had grabbed a rock closer to Celaeno, and had heard her voice before her sister’s voices could enrapture him. She saw him clinging to the rocks, and she tried to drown out the sound of the sea, and the sound of her sister’s songs, and the sound of the men drowning in the briny waters. She wanted to hear the words of her song instead of losing them to the music that was wrapped around them.

She heard the man’s story. He was not remarkable, in any way; but she was singing only to him, and the story that she told in her song did not become muddled with anyone else’s. She saw his life with clarity, and each note of her song was a second in the sailor’s life. She walked with him on the sandy beaches of his home. She saw his parent’s faces, and the faces of everyone she loved. And she changed her song, weaving new words into the chords. “Swim away, swim away, swim away and never return. Forget, forget, forget the island, forget the song, forget, forget me.”

The sailor blinked as she sang her new song. He looked up at her, and held out his hand. She let her harp nearly fall into the sea as she leaned towards him, but she stopped short and pulled herself back onto the rocks. He stared at her, closed his eyes, and began to swim away from her, and from the island.

That had not been the last time that she did this. The last time grew quiet so she could listen was when Odysseus had sailed by their home. She hadn’t expected it to be the last time-but no one ever expects their family to die before their eyes.

There was no one on the island to drown out her voice anymore-but there was no longer anyone there to listen. Perhaps it was because she had stopped singing-but she thought to herself that even if she started singing again, no one would come. Their song was only beautiful when her sisters were the ones singing.

For the first few days, she withdrew to the center of the island, drinking the dew off the flowers and subsisting on little else. All she could hear was the sound of the waves crashing on the island; Anthemusa was a small place. Eventually, she picked up her harp again, and began to play, singing softly to accompany the tune. At first her voice could barely be heard above the sound of the harp and the ocean, but slowly her voice built up higher.

She sang for some time, and did little else. Days and weeks and months were meaningless, with nothing to distinguish one from another. One day, when the playing the harp had grown tired and dull, a bird arrived at the island, and sat and listened to her sing. It was a seagull, and Celaeno knew what a seagull meant; there was a ship coming. She quieted her voice, and looked beyond the horizon. There were more birds, flocking over something that was drifting to the ocean. There was darkness as well, gathering slowly, and flashes of light. She held out her hand, and the seagull alighted on her finger.

“Hello, sea-bird,” she whistled to the gull.

“Hello, song-maiden,” chirped the bird. “Have you seen the ship?”

“There is a ship?” she asked. “Is it Athenian or Spartan or Theban or Ithacan?”

“None of those,” chirped the bird. “Doesn’t matter, song-maiden. The boat sank.”

“A storm?” she asked, already knowing the answer. She had seen storms before; her sisters loved them. Storms brought ships to their island-and ships brought sailors, who would gladly drive their ships into the rocks to hear the sister’s song. Even if their ship sank, if the sailors heard but a note of their melody, they would gladly swim for miles to reach Anthemusa. They perch themselves on the rocks and stare up at the sisters and listen to them sing until exhaustion overcame them and they sunk into the sea.

“A storm,” the seagull agreed. “Will you sing to them, sea-maiden? Will you give them happiness before the sea drags them away?”

“No,” she whispered. “I won’t.”

The seagull flew away from his perch on her finger, and Celaeno dropped from her seat upon the rocks of the island and spread out her wings wide, catching the updraft from the hot rocks of the island. Her wings felt heavy and tired-she couldn’t remember the last time she had flown. She never seemed to have need of it before. The ships always came to Anthemusa before they wrecked. She soared into the air, looking down at the wreckage that bobbed along the ocean waves. She scanned the water, looking for the slightest bit of movement that would indicate a survivor.

She saw a ripple in the water, and saw dark shapes swimming below a figure clinging to a rotting plank of wood. She swooped down towards the survivor, hissing at the circling sharks. She grabbed the man with her talons and pulled him up, heaving him skyward with all her strength. As she did so, she heard him choke, and expel water from deep in his lungs.

She flew as swiftly as she could, and deposited his body on the soft purple flowers of the island. She looked at his face, and recognized him instantly. His hair had become white from age, his skin was wrinkled and blemished, and his arms with weak and bone thin, but she remembered him. She had watched him sail away, when her sisters flung themselves onto the rocks.

“Has it been so long, Odysseus?” she asked, as he opened his eyes and lifted himself up from the ground.

“Siren,” said Odysseus, with a laugh and a smile. “It has, in fact, been a very long time.”

“How long has it been, hero?” she asked, staring at him. His strength was gone, and his youth had faded away, but she saw in his eyes the same shine that she had seen so long ago. “We immortals lose track of time so easily. We can’t easily distinguish one day from another, and our sense of time falls apart.”

“I’ve lived a long time, too, now,” said Odysseus. “I found immortality now. It helps when a sorceress has fallen in love with you.”

“When I sang your song, I heard you die. I saw you die. How have you lived so long, Odysseus?” she asked him.

“I heard your song too, you know,” said Odysseus. “Circe told me that I would need to do so. And I’m glad I heard your sister’s voices. They told me how I would die. And since I knew how to die, I knew how I could continue to live.”

“Why have you come to my island, Odysseus?” she asked him.

“It has been a long, long time,” said Odysseus, who was interrupted by a spasm of coughing. “People don’t think of heroes the same way that they used to. There’s no one left but hedge wizards, and I haven’t seen a nymph in a hundred years. And Athena hasn’t spoken to me since I left Penelope.”

“Is that why you are immortal now?” asked Celaeno.

“There are advantages to being the favored of a goddess,” said Odysseus. “But being the favored of a goddess no longer matters. So I left my home. I wanted to find a place where being a hero still mattered.”

“Have you found such a place?” Celaeno asked.

“I have not,” said Odysseus. “I think that I shall stay here. I can wait for the world to change again. It isn’t as if I have to worry about growing any older.”

“You’re old now,” said Celaeno. “What happened, Odysseus?”

“A gift from Athena,” snorted Odysseus. “I have loved many women in my time. The sorceress Circe, and the nymph Calypso, and my wife Penelope. When I listened to the song of your sisters, I heard of my death. I learned that Circe would bare me a son, and that the son would murder me. And that Penelope would marry him, and go and live on Circe’s island. The very thought of it stuck in my mind. I had wanted to see her again, for so long. And I did see her again. But I told Athena what I had learned, and she laughed. She told me that I would not have to worry about Penelope, for my memory of her would soon fade. She then gave me the gift of immortality.”

“That would be a wonderful gift for a mortal,” said Celaeno, smiling.

“You should never accept gifts from a goddess,” said Odysseus. “They always come with a price. She wanted me to become her consort. I was unwilling to spend eternity with a single woman-even if she was a goddess. So, she let me keep my gift of immortality, but she also cursed me. She said that I would be old forever. Eternal life without eternal youth-that’s not a gift at all. Ah, but you wouldn’t really understand, would you? You have both.”

“Why would you want to wait on my island?” asked Celaeno. “Even if the world has changed, Anthemusa is a lonely place. You have immortality-why would you worry?”

“I’d rather wait here,” snorted Odysseus. “Less trouble. Less worry.”

“I think I’ll leave the island,” said Celaeno. “The world may have changed, but I never even saw it before the change. I’m not going to wait for it to change again.”

“Ha! You? The runt of the litter of the earth?” said Odysseus, his laughter tinged with disdain. “You could not survive. Your sisters are the ones that everyone has learned to fear. You were only ever the accompaniment. You know, I only expected to see two sirens when I sailed by the island. People don’t even know you exist. Your sisters are the ones everyone cares about.”

“I can sing,” said Celaeno. “My voice can lure men to their doom, just as easily as my sisters did. I could make you jump off onto the sea and drown.”

“Then do so,” said Odysseus, his arms crossed. Celaeno stared straight into his eyes, and began to sing. Odysseus’s eyes grew wide, and he stepped towards Celaeno, and she stopped her singing. “The sound of a harpy’s voice is said to be more beautiful than the most skilled voice of eunuch. I do not think I believe this anymore. Your song is no more than that of a newly hatched bird, croaking for its mother. You have had a thousand years to practice your art, siren. Is this all you can produce? You have spent far too much time listening when you should have been singing. If you had the gift of your sisters, I would tell you to go out into the world. No matter how much the world had changed, even if it no longer loved heroes and no longer cared for joy in music, you could survive. But you have clearly wasted your time here. What good, then, is listening?”

Celaeno turned from him, and went to the edge of the cliff. She looked down at the rocks, where her sisters had chosen to shed the gift of immortality. She wondered at their choice, which seemed more inviting now.

Instead, she sat, and stared into the gentle ocean. The sea had grown calmer since she rescued Odysseus, and the sky was dark, not from storm clouds, but from the veil of night. She began to sing, but the notes of her song only served to choke back the sobs that emerged from her throat. She let the music that came from her voice grow soft and fade away, and she let her tears fall into the ocean.

Odysseus said nothing. He walked to the other side of the island, and drank some of the dew that was still on the flowers. He was ready to wait, and to sleep. He had an eternity to prepare for.

“I doubt you can even fly,” said Odysseus, snorting. “Anthemusa is a long way from the mainland.”

“I carried you to the island,” said Celaeno.

“You barely made it to me,” snorted Odysseus, who was apparently still listening to her. Celaeno did not respond.

Instead, she walked to the ledge where her sisters had sat before they had thrown themselves into the sea. She looked up at the sky, which was clear and black, and then out at the ocean, which seemed to be almost as still as glass. And then she looked down on the rocks where her sisters had thrown themselves when Odysseus had first passed by their island. She could see many bones on the rocks below her, but she could not tell which bones were those of her sisters. The sea had stolen any trace of identification from them, leaving them all bleached as white as death itself.

She stepped off the edge of the island, and fell forward to the rocks. Odysseus, though he had cloistered himself away from her, saw her action, and laughed. He had known what fate she would pick.

His laughter did not last, for Celaeno did not allow her life to be snuffed out upon the rocks. She spread her wings and rose up into the air, and the only part of her to join her sisters were a few errant feathers.

Odysseus cursed at seeing his clever prediction come undone. He raced to the edge of the island where Celaeno had taken flight, and digging his hands into the dirt he pulled up a few smooth round stones. He threw the stones at her, hoping to summon up just a small portion of the might that he had possessed when he was a hero and a favorite of a goddess-but the stones flew much too short and much too low, and not a single one threatened Celaeno.

It was Celaeno’s turn to laugh now. Anthemusa grew small and distant, before disappearing behind the horizon. For a moment, then, Celaeno was joyful.

But the joy was not to last. She soon felt her wings growing tired and heavy. She no longer was flirting with the clouds, but was instead growing closer to caressing the waves. She struggled to lift herself higher, but failed. She looked back, hoping to see that Anthemusa was still within her reach, that she could still return there if she tried-perhaps even swimming. But Anthemusa was gone, and Celaeno then realized she could not find it even if she could swim. She had no point of reference-all she could see was the clear blue sea.

So she dropped into the sea, and felt the ocean’s icy grip begin to take her, just as it had taken all the sailors that she had seen die. She felt it drinking the heat away from her, and with her wings already tired from flying, she did not resist. She let the ocean claim her.

But then she felt hands, all over, clasping at her feathers and holding tightly on her mouth. She opened her eyes-just barely, as the saltwater stung fiercely-and saw before her dim forms, dark and blue and green.

“What are you doing, daughter of songs?” a voice, or perhaps many voices, asked her, as she felt hands cupping around her ear and heard sibilant whispering. “Feathers cannot help you swim.”

Celaeno closed her eyes as tightly as she could, for the stinging of the saltwater was growing nearly unbearable. She felt fingertips travelling along her eyelids-the fingers were cool and soothing, and she found that the pain was seeping away. The hand that was placed over her mouth moved away, and Celaeno found that she could breathe the ocean’s water as easily as she could breathe the air of the sky. She could see clearly now through the waters of the sea, and she saw that all around her swam the children of the ocean, or, as mortals called them, mermaids.

“Why have you left your home, song sister?” asked one of the mermaids, whose voice rang out like the sound of bells.

“My sisters died, so I sought to leave my home, and see how the world has changed while we were singing.” The saltwater hurt in her throat, but she found that she was able to tolerate the sting. “They flung themselves against the rocks of Anthemusa when the ship of the hero Odysseus sailed by our island and they were not able to lure the crew to their doom.”

“But you did not end your life,” said another mermaid, whose voice was like the plucking of the strings of a harp, gentle and sure.

“No, I did not,” said Celaeno. “But I think that I should have. When they were still alive, all I did was sit and listen while they sang, and thus I proved myself worthless. And now, because I did not listen, I have failed again. I can feel that I am still drowning, despite whatever you have done.”

“This is true,” said a third mermaid, the last of the trio. Her every word was tinged with melody, and her face shone with radiance that lit up the darkness of the sea. “But, you do not have to drown. Unless you really desire to drown.”

“You do not want to drown, surely,” said the mermaid whose voice was like bells. “You are a siren, and you have watched many men drown on the shore of your home. Why would you want to drown?”

“Why would I not?” asked Celaeno, as feeling and sensation left her fingers and toes. “I am worthless. I am useless. My voice is either sharp or flat, and my sisters were always in tune. Men who sailed by our home spoke only of them. I could not even fly across the ocean and escape Anthemusa, and now I must die alone, for I chose not to die with my sisters, as I should have.”

“Perhaps no one heard your voice when you dwelled on land,” said the sister whose voice was like the strumming of a harp, “but know you are in the sea. And you do not have to drown. Come with us, and we will listen to your voice.”

“I am afraid,” said Celaeno. “My sisters looked down on me, and the hero Odysseus mocked me-will you all not just do the same?”

“We will not,” said the sister whose face was bright. “We will always, whether your song is flat or sharp. We will help your song grow strong and beautiful, better than your sisters. And even if your song is always flat or sharp, we will still listen, if you will only come with us.”

Celaeno closed her eyes, smiled, and nodded. She felt the three mermaids converge on her, and she felt hands tugging at her wings. She felt her feathers being pulled away, but she felt no pain-only the slightest of pressure. Her feathers spread out into the sea, each dark and silvery, and as they floated they changed, darting out like fish. When she opened her eyes, the clutch of the ocean no longer held onto her throat, and she found that she could move as easily as the three sisters could. Her feathers were gone, having formed a school and swam away, and in their place were scales, green and blue.

So there are no sirens any longer. But there are mermaids, and the song of the mermaids are as beautiful as those of sirens. And Celaeno sings whenever she wishes, and people do listen.

* * *

Chris Pearce is an aspiring writer. He has been previously published in Sanitarium Magazine and Mirror Dance. Despite the best efforts of authorities, he remains at large.

What advice do you have for other fantasy writers?

Write! And keep writing. Even if you start from a very simple idea-- maybe just an image or set piece in your head-- it can end up taking you to amazing places by working out from it-- or by trying to figure out a way to work up to it. This story, for example, was inspired by the fact that sirens are described as having bird features in the Odyssey, but end up having fish features in most art.

Why We Will Never Know Paradise

Why We Will Never Know Paradise

By Chris Pearce

Once, there was a valley, nestled between the tallest mountains that were deep in the darkest jungle and surrounded by the most treacherous river. But even though the lands that surrounded the valley were more fearsome and more dangerous than any other in the world, the valley itself was the most beautiful land in the world, a land that the gods themselves had surely set aside for those few men who could reach it. In the valley, the heat of the jungle faded away, and the sky was always cool and clear, and the flowers bloomed bright and the ground was so fertile that all a farmer had to do to grow food was drop the seeds onto the ground.

But no one lived in the valley. No man lived in the valley, at least. Because this place was a gift from the gods to men, there were those who sought to take it away. There would always be those who hated both gods and men, and would seek to sow strife between the two. And of all these beasts—Heart-ripper and Eye-gouger, First Death and Knife-in-back—none hated men and gods as much as Bleached Bone Woman.

She had counted herself among their number once, in the time before creation was made; before Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered Serpent and Tezcatlipoca, the Enemy of Both Sides had destroyed it and created it again. But for whatever reason, they no longer counted her among their number, and she no longer counted herself as one of them. No one recalls exactly what happened, or even what kind of goddess she was before. She may have been a Tzitzimime, the demon-gods that counted the stars as their number and tried eternally to murder the son. She may have been a daughter of Mictlan, the lord of the dead. I don’t know, and she doesn’t know, and the gods don’t know. When the world is destroyed, this sort of minor detail tends to be forgotten. But what everyone knew was that she was no longer a goddess, and when she had fallen from Acopa, the Thirteenth Heaven, she had claimed for herself the most beautiful spot of land on the planet, the only place in the world where the Feathered Serpent and the Enemy of Both Sides had ever truly worked together.

Now, the gods had told men about this special valley that had been made just for them, and had told them of the monstrous woman who now dwelled there. And naturally, as what happens when stories like this are told to men, heroes attempted to free the valley. Tecolotl and Ocelotl tried.

And at first they succeeded. Though they did not journey through the jungle together, each journey was much like the other. Their journeys were filled with the sort of heroics that rival the legends of even the gods.

On his journey, Ocelotl wrestled with the great snake that carved the river in the earth, whose shaking caused the treachery of the river. This snake had been born from the sea demon whose body had made the world, and from his tongue to his tail he was miles long. But Ocelotl had wrestled the serpent to the ground, and strangled him, and from his body had formed the longest river in the world.

Tecolotl had found, deep in the jungle, the Woman With the Jaguar’s Tongue, who controlled the jungle’s flora and fauna with her foul tongue. She had sworn that she would never know the touch of men, and that any man who came into her abode would be murdered. And Tecolotl seduced the demoness, before he slit her throat.

One by one they faced the obstacles that had been placed before them, and one by one the obstacles were overcome. Their feats were so incredible that any who heard of them were sure they would succeed. Their feats were so mighty that the birds themselves could not help themselves but to fly to the civilized lands and tell the people of each brother’s journey. They flattened mountains, changed the course of rivers, and tore down the mighty jungles that choked the land around the valley. And so they came to the valley, first Ocelotl, and then Tecolotl, each thinking that he would be the one to kill Bleached Bone Woman and give paradise to mankind.

They did not succeed. Ocelotl was strong, and he had thought to either intimidate Bleached Bone Woman with his strength, or failing that to slay her with his obsidian weapons, of which he was quite skilled. Bleached Bone Woman had laughed as his obsidian sword shattered on her leg, and his spear lodged itself in her ribs, doing her no harm. Ocelotl was made into a shawl, of which Bleached Bone Woman would often adorn herself with when she climbed to the tops of the mountain in the valley in order to mock the gods. Such weak heroes they sent her, after all, and they deserved to be mocked.

Tecolotl was sneaky, being able to creep in the darkness unseen even by the predators of the jungle who saw all that went on in the night. He often would creep into the huts of pretty girls, for he was as handsome as he was stealthy, and he thought that he would defeat Bleached Bone Woman by sneaking up on her when she was sleeping, or failing that seduce her and then kill her. He had pretty teeth, and Bleached Bone woman made them into the finest jewelry that ever could be made out of the human body.

And as these two heroes failed, both gods and men resigned themselves to the fact that this valley would go unclaimed.

But not everyone agrees with the gods, as Bleached Bone Woman herself had proven. There was a girl, little Nicualli. Tecolotl and Ocelotl had been her brothers, and she had expected them to kill Bleached Bone Woman and claim the valley for men and gods. She had expected this, and when it did not come to pass, she went to Quetzalcoatl and Tezcatlipoca, who had created the valley in the only moment were they had not quarreled with one another. Now Quetzalcoatl, who is called the Feathered Serpent, and Tezcatlipoca, who is called the Enemy of Both Sides, were fighting when Nicualli came to see them, and they did not stop fighting even when they granted her audience.

The Feathered Serpent said: “Cleverness and beauty could not defeat her. How could you, when you are just a girl without brothers, a father, or a husband?”

The Enemy of Both Sides said: “Strength and treachery could not defeat her. How could you, when you are just a girl without brothers, a father, or a husband?”

But Nicualli insisted. The two gods argued, as they argued about everything. The Feathered Serpent, who despised violence and prized peace, did not want her to go, for he did not want to see any more blood wasted on the lost paradise. But the Enemy of Both Sides, who loved violence and demanded that blood be spilled in his name, wished to see her go, if only so she could join her brothers. Eventually, the Feathered Serpent relented, and she was told the way to paradise.

Before she left, the two gods each spoke to her alone.

The Feathered Serpent said: “Bleached Bone Woman is strong, stronger than any man and certainly stronger than a girl. The only way you will conquer her is through stealth and cleverness. But however you seek to defeat her, do not listen to the words of Tezcatlipoca, for his advice will lead to ruin. He delights in destruction, and does not care who loses in a fight.”

The Enemy of Both Sides said: “Bleached Bone Woman is old, as old as Quetzalcoatl and I. So she is wise, and will expect any trick that you could come up with. Arm yourself with swords and spears, and don the jaguar armor, for this is the only way that you can hope to defeat her. But however you seek to fight her, do not listen to the words of Quetzalcoatl, for his advice will surely lead to your bloody and gruesome death. He is a fool, and tries to ignore that blood is the fuel of our world.”

Nicualli’s journey was not the hero’s journey that her brothers had endured. The rivers had been calmed, for Tecolotl had soothed the spirits that dwelled within them. The jungle was not so treacherous, for Ocelotl had torn away every tree that slowed his walk by even a second. All the challenges that a hero would have been expected to face were gone. And Nicualli was glad at this, for she had feared the journey through the jungle more than she feared the challenged that lay in the valley.

So Nicualli went to the valley, armed with all the gifts of the gods. She found Bleached Bone Woman there, digging flowers out of the ground and burying them deep in the earth. Her name, Nicualli found was apt as it sounded. She was nothing but bones, a skeleton too big for any body, wearing a shawl made from one brother’s skin and a necklace made from the other’s brother’s teeth. And on her head was a headdress made from the whitest of cotton, interwoven with more skill than Nicualli had ever seen. The headdress must have been from when Bleached Bone Woman had been a goddess, Nicualli thought. So she swallowed her fear, and approached the demoness.

“What are you doing, Bleached Bone Woman,” asked Nicualli. “Do you not like the flowers here? Are they not bright and beautiful, and do you not love to gaze at them, since you have no one to speak with here in the valley?”

“No,” said Bleached Bone Woman, who continued with her work. “They are the works of the gods, and as I hate the gods, I hate them. And since this valley is mine, I will do with it as I please.”

“But are not the flowers beautiful, for do not the gods create beautiful things?” asked Nicualli, who sat down by Bleached Bone Woman.

“No!” shrieked Bleached Bone Woman, who now doubled the pace of her work. “The gods do not create beautiful things. They only steal, and claim the things that others make as their own. This valley was mine, for I created it.”

This was a lie. Nicualli knew it, and Bleached Bone Woman knew it, and anyone who had heard it that day would have known it.

“True. You should be able to shape your valley as you wish,” said Nicualli. And she rose to her feet, and began to pluck flowers from the ground and bury them in the earth.

“What are you doing?” asked Bleached Bone Woman, who stopped in her task and stared out at Nicualli from her empty eye sockets.

“It is your valley, and I wish to help you make it the way you see fit,” answered Nicualli, who continued with her task uninterrupted. Bleached Bone Woman continued to stare at her, and then returned to her task.

And so they spent the day plucking the petals off of flowers, and taking the juiciest, ripest fruits from the trees, and smashing them on the ground, and damming the streams as best they could. And as they did so, Bleached Bone Woman had Nicualli do less and less, and she herself did less and less. She left a few flowers unplucked, and fruits unsmashed, and streams undammed. She told Nicualli about the time when she had been a goddess, before the world had been destroyed and created again. She showed her where the tastiest fruits grew, and let her eat a few, and she made a garland of flowers for her hair.

And at last Bleached Bone Woman took little Nicualli to the place she most treasured in the valley. This was a lake, she said, deeper and cooler than any other lake in all of creation. No one knew what was at the bottom of the lake, even she herself, for she could not swim. But still the lake was beautiful, more beautiful than anything in the valley, and the water was fresher than any in the world, so much so that a single drop could satisfy any thirst.

She took Nicualli to the valley, and she let her frolic on the shore, while she found a rock to lay down her head upon and rest. And as she did so, Nicualli thought. Bleached Bone Woman had killed her brothers, and the gods expected her to kill her. And she wanted to, not for her brothers, but for all men, for this valley was meant to know the tread of men’s feet. And, more than even this selfless desire, she wanted this valley for herself, for she had known the pain of loss. She did not want to lose this most precious of places, no matter what action she had to take. So she hardened her heart, and so she resolved herself for what she must do, and she pushed Bleached Bone Woman into the lake.

As the water touched her bones, she screamed, cursing at Nicualli for her treachery. But even as her bones sank, she knew that Nicualli would not have what she wanted. For Bleached Bone Woman had lied; she did know what was at the bottom of the lake. It was a great wellspring, from which all the waters in the world had once been brought forth, and though it did not have as much water as it had once, there was still a flood there, only held back by a single rock. That the waters of creation dwelled here was the reason that such a place could come to be in the first place. So Bleached Bone Woman pulled out the rock, and the waters of creation flowed forth, drowning the valley and Nicualli in but a moment. And Bleached Bone Woman still lives in the lake, with Ocelotl’s skin and Tecolotl’s teeth and Nicualli’s corpse, and she rages against the day that Nicualli chose to betray her.

And that is why we will never know paradise.

* * *

Chris Pearce is an aspiring writer; this is his first published work of fiction. A poem he wrote has appeared in Sanitarium Magazine. His current whereabouts are unknown.

What do you think is the attraction of the fantasy genre? 

I think the core of the fantasy genre is hope. Fantasy is stereotyped as a backwards looking genre, and while it isn't geared to the future the way scifi is, the sense of a light holding back darkness, no matter how small the light or how terrible the darkness, has always been central to the appeal of fantasy, at least to me.