THE ARTIFACTIUM by Rebecca Buchanan

Eventually, it will come out-
the thing his heart is calling for
that only the Artifactium can provide...

The Artifactium is always open for business. I knew that when I signed on as caretaker. That’s why there’s a bottomless bag of food, an endless wardrobe, and even iron shoes (really, they’re cotton-lined so they’re pretty comfortable). No TV, though, or computer, or even phone.

I’m okay with that.

My predecessor retired to Las Vegas a few years ago and joined a freak show. (There wasn’t any place else she could really blend in.) She writes once a week complaining about how bored she is.

I take pity on her and write back, telling her about some of the patrons who have come in.

Like the kid on Tuesday. Gawky teenage boy, glasses, braces. Walks with his head back, looks me straight in the eye. The kind the bullies leave alone, even though they could have beaten him to a pulp. The kind who loves fairy tales and isn’t ashamed to admit it.

And the Artifactium knows that and manifests in the back alley that he uses as a shortcut to get home.

He comes in, squinting, head swinging around in confusion.

“Hey there.” I wave from Sleeping Beauty’s bed where I’m sprawled out with some candied oranges and a copy of Andersen’s Nye eventyr.

“Uh. Afternoon.” He waves back.

“So what are you looking for? Seven league boots to win a track meet? A spinning wheel to make some clothes for prom? Endless coin bag for, well, money?”

“ … No.”

He’s still looking around, eyes wide behind his glasses.

I wait. Eventually, it will come out. The thing. The thing he needs, the thing his heart is calling for and that only the Artifactium can provide.

“My mom,” he says. “She’s … sick. Bad sick.”

I nod and climb off the bed.

The water of life sits in a cauldron on a shelf near the three snake leaves and the apples of youth. I fill a small glass vial with the water and hand it over to the kid. He looks at it uncertainly for a moment, and then smiles. His braces glint and a dimple forms in his right cheek.

Yep. This kid will be a heartbreaker when he outgrows his duckling phase.

He whispers an awed “thank you” and dashes out the door. I go back to my candied oranges and Andersen.

On Thursday, the Artifactium materializes on the Jersey boardwalk. A blonde walks in, fancy eyeshadow, jangly bracelets. Her lips are tight, her eyes narrowed. She stops in front of Old King Cole’s throne, where I’m curled up with a ragged copy of Lhéritier’s Oeuvres meslées.

She stares at me.

I stare back.

“I hate my sister,” she finally says, words clipped. “She’s ruining my life. I want her dead.”

I carefully set aside the book and walk over to a shelf. The shiny red apples sit in a bowl next to a pile of hair pins and a plate of golden rings. I pull one out and hand it to her.

She tosses it into the air, catches it, and saunters back out the door.

That’s the way it is with the Artifactium. Good, evil, in between. Doesn’t matter. All that is required is a heart’s true desire and absolute belief in the truth of fairy tales. The Artifactium doesn’t judge.

I don’t judge, either.

Well, not much. I’m still human enough to judge a little.

On Sunday, the Artifactium appears on the banks of the Seine and the Virtuous Knight walks in, her sword strapped to her back.

That’s capital V, capital K.

I don’t know her name. I’ve never asked.

I look up from my copy of Straparola’s Le piacevoli notti.

“Dragon?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Basilisk.”

I grimace in sympathy. I’m still human enough to feel sympathy. “Magic mirror, it is.”

I walk over to the wall and pull down a medium-sized hand mirror. The surface is speckled and the frame is a beautiful silver carved in the shape of a princess and her knight.

“This should work for you. Should keep the basilisk distracted long enough to get the drop on it.”

I hand it to her and she touches my fingers.

“Thank you,” she says, green eyes holding my gaze, and then she’s gone out the door, off to slay the evil monster and make the world just a bit safer for all the innocents out there who don’t believe in monsters anymore.

The Virtuous Knight returns that evening, the mirror clasped in her shaking fingers. Her clothes are burned by acid, and bloody slashes criss-cross her arms and face. I strip her down, stick her in a cauldron, and wash her with the water of life. The water is red by the time I’m done, but her skin is smooth and soft again; except her hands, still calloused from sword use.

She sits in Cole’s throne, wrapped up in bear skins, and sharpens her sword with the whetstone of Tudwal Tudglyd. I read selections aloud from Basile’s Il cunto de li cunti while she works.

In the morning, she steps through the door just before the Artifactium disappears. The Cairo Opera House fills the window.

A month passes, then two.

Paris, again. The Virtuous Knight arrives, sword strapped to her back.

I look up from my copy of d’Aulnoy’s Les Contes de fées. “Basilisk again?”

Her green eyes are fir-dark with worry. “No. A witch.”

“Hhmm. Iron stove? Red hot shoes? Jorinde’s flower?”

Some of the worry leaves her eyes and the corners of her mouth curl up in a small smile. “The flower. Perhaps I can just drive the evil magic from her. If not .…” She shrugs and the hilt of her sword gleams in the light.

I lift a purple pot down from a shelf where a dozen other pots sit, filled with flowers and vines and spindly, pricking plants. I pick one, the yellow petals soft, and tuck it behind her ear.

“Thank you,” she says, holding my gaze. And then she slips out the door.

An hour later, I look up from d’Aulnoy’s text as a woman in white furs and high-heeled black boots enters the Artifactium. She’s wearing gloves of sleek black leather laced at the wrist, and a heavy diamond sits in the hollow of her throat.

She smiles widely at me, baring her teeth. “Good afternoon. I come in search of an item.”

“Of course.” I set the book aside and stand. “Anything in particular?”

“Something to kill a knight.”

I stare at her.

She keeps talking.

“Something … sharp. Pointy.” She claps her hands in delight. “Yes! Thorns! … Well?”

“Thorns,” I repeat stupidly.

“Why not? They did a decent enough job of killing all those noble dolts who tried to kiss Beauty awake.” She snaps her fingers at me. “Get on with it, then.”  

My feet move. I don’t want them to, but they move anyway. That’s why I’m here. I’m the caretaker. I don’t judge. I walk over to the shelf covered in pots and lift down a white splotchy one filled with red-tipped thorns. I break off the small end, cutting my fingers. The thorns twist, seeking blood. They pull on my flesh as I hand the branch to the witch.

It arches and shivers between her fingers. She holds it up to her face, whispers something, and the branch stills.

She smiles sharply at me again. “This will do nicely.”

The door swings shut behind her with a loud clack.

My feet move again. I stumble to the window, pressing a hand to the glass, smearing blood. I catch a glimpse of her fur coat through the crowds and then the Artifactium dematerializes. The port of Shanghai appears. An old man comes in looking for a multiplying pot of rice.

A week passes.

I huddle in Cole’s throne and try to read Warner and Zipes and Perrault and Valente. I set them all aside, my mind anxious and twisty. I finally pull out Carter’s The Bloody Chamber and take solace in its grim pages.

The Seine appears through the window.

The door opens and a virtuous knight steps inside.

Male, buzzcut dark hair, sword strapped to his back. His eyes are hard.

“I need something that can kill a witch.”

Something icy and hollow settles in my chest. I feel that cold in my smile.

“I have exactly what you need.”

Apparently, I’m still human enough for revenge.

Rebecca Buchanan is the editor of the Pagan literary ezine, Eternal Haunted Summer. She has been previously published, or has work forthcoming, in Bards and Sages Quarterly, Enchanted Conversation, Faerie Magazine, Gingerbread House, Polu Texni, and other venues.

Cover: Amanda Bergloff

DOTADOKO or THE BRIGHT RED EARRING by DJ Tyrer

The girl’s happy childhood came to an end
when the muroyi declared,“As my payment,
I shall take the daughter- a life for a life...”

Ruvatsvuka was born in a village atop a low kopi on the edge of the veldt to a mother and a father who loved her very much. And, on the day that she was born, a bright-red flower bloomed on the hillside and her parents named her for it and, when she was a little older, gave her a gift of earrings of red-hued leather in the shape of a flower like her namesake.

Years passed… It was when the rains fell and bit away at the walls of the hut that Ruvatsvuka’s mother died and her father fell deathly ill, and her uncle sent for the muroyi who lived in a canyon amongst the rock-strewn hills to the east.

The witch-woman came and looked at the sickening man, whose brow was wet with sweat, just as the walls ran with rain, and said, “He has been cursed.”

“Can you cure my brother?” asked the girl’s uncle.

The muroyi took a pouch from the thong that hung about her neck and tossed its contents into the fire and breathed deeply of the noisome fumes and gazed deeply into the dancing flames.

“I can. But, the cost will be high.”

“Cattle, millet, ivory, gold – whatever you wish – my brother’s life is worth it.”

“It will be a great cost. Swear you to pay it?”

“I swear by the spirits of our ancestors.”

“Then, cure him I shall.”

The muroyi banished them all from the hut, even tearful Ruvatsvuka, who clung desperately to her dying father. Then, she performed the healing ritual, emerging with the morning light to declare its success.

Ruvatsvuka was delighted to see her father whole and well, once more, and paid no heed when the old woman told her uncle, “I will return in five days to collect my payment.”

And, return she did, bringing the girl’s happy childhood to an end when she declared, “As my payment, I shall take the daughter – a life for a life.”

“No!” exclaimed Ruvatsvuka’s father. “I would rather die than give her away to one such as you.”

The muroyi merely laughed, even as he reached for his assegai, as if he meant to strike her down.

“Refuse me – kill me – if you wish, but it will rebound on you. You will die – but, not just you… your brother, your daughter, and all your kin shall die. An oath was sworn and payment will be made…”

His hand dropped back to his side, and he sagged almost as if sick again.

“Take her,” he said, softly, and the witch-woman took the sobbing girl away to her hut, which lay deep within a canyon, so deep it seemed almost to be night even during the day. Water swirled past it all through the rainy season, threatening to wash it away, and strange fungi grew on its walls and floors, which the muroyi used in her spells.

“Sit,” barked the witch-woman upon their arrival

Ruvatsvuka sat.

The muroyi said, “You are my daughter now, and you will obey me as if I gave birth to you. Remember, I hold your father’s life in my hand.”

She flexed long and withered fingers, like dry twigs, at the girl, as if demonstrating the fact.

“Your tasks will be to sweep out the hut, to clean, to cook, and anything more I tell you.”

Ruvatsvuka sighed and nodded.

The witch-woman worked her hard and, when the dry season came, set her to sweeping the area about the hut so that it was always completely bare, just earth, with not even a pebble to be seen.

“Good, good. I cannot stand disorder.”

And, if ever the girl left a mess, the muroyi would rant and rave, screaming and shrieking, and threatening to beat her till it was set right.

“I cannot stand disorder,” she would say over again. “Dotadoko, do your job.”

Dotadoko was the name she gave Ruvatsvuka, meaning ‘little ashes,' for the girl always seemed dirty from attending to the chores the witch-woman set her.

“Clean yourself, Dotadoko – you are disorderly!” the witch-woman would cry, only to put her to work at some new task, returning to berate her for her filthiness, again later.

For a long time, Dotadoko served the muroyi, so that she almost forgot who she was in her gloomy despair, trapped in the shadowy canyon, longing for the sun.

Even when the rainy season ended, a trickle of water continued to fall like rain near to the hut, joining the meagre flow of the stream that ran the canyon’s length. This trickle came from a pool in the lee of a boulder on the cliff’s edge, which was fed by a secret spring. It was to this pool that the girl would go, whenever the muroyi was absent or asleep or too busy to notice her, relishing the kiss of the sun’s light upon her skin, and wash the filth of dirt and ashes from her, transforming Dotadoko back into Ruvatsvuka, if only for a little time.

One day, she went to the pool and carefully laid her bright-red earrings on a flat stone beside her neatly-piled clothes, before slipping into the waters and luxuriating as the coolness caressed her skin.

But, as she splashed and washed herself, a kestrel swept down from the sky above and seized one of her earrings and flew away before she could even let out a cry.

The bird vanished into the glare of the sun, and she saw not where it went, nor whether it dropped her earring or carried it afar.

She slumped on the edge of the pool, head upon the flat stone, sobbing. Her heart felt torn, as if she had been snatched away from her parents, once again.

Climbing out of the pool, she dressed and picked up her remaining earring, holding it to her chest, resolving never to wear it again, lest it, too, be lost.

She returned to the witch-woman’s hut and hid the earring carefully and surrendered herself to her life as Dotadoko, believing she never again would be happy or free.

Unbeknownst to her, the kestrel flew for many miles before dropping the red-leather earring, which spun and floated like a flower caught on the breeze to fall into the lap of the mambo as he sat in his kraal, receiving tribute from the lesser chiefs.

The mambo stared down at it in surprise.

“A flower from heaven.” He picked it up and examined it. “A leather flower… an earring. How strange.”

He waved his n’anga over, the wisest of his diviners, and asked, “What does it mean?”

The old man bent, slowly, and picked it up to examine.

“Interesting.” He took the hakata from a pouch on a thong about his neck and threw the bones. “Very interesting…”

He gathered up the hakata and returned them to the pouch, saying, “This earring is one of a pair that belongs to the woman you must marry, a beautiful maiden, lost some place far from here.”

The mambo rose. “I shall seek her.”

He bade the chiefs return to their kraals and see if such a maiden lived amongst their people and he travelled from one to another, only always to be disappointed.

“I do not think,” he said to his n’anga, “that I shall ever find her. She is absent from every kraal.”

“Then,” said the n’anga, “seek her elsewhere – look in the forest and the thick bush, go anywhere a person might live alone.”

They sought her widely and every time he met a woman or a girl, whether she was outside a hut pounding grain into flour or in a field working or on a riverbank washing clothes, the mambo would take out the bright-red earring and show it to her and ask if she owned the other like it.

But, no matter how eager they were to marry a handsome and powerful man, none could produce the twin of the one he held.

After a long journey, just as the rains began to fall again, the mambo and his retinue came to the little hut in the canyon amongst the rocky hills.

Disconcerted, the muroyi came out to greet them.

“Are you the only woman here?” the n’anga asked.

About to say ‘yes,’ she was forced to admit her captive’s presence when the girl looked out from the entrance of the hut.

“Just me and my daughter, the filthy, lazy brat I call Dotadoko.”

The mambo stepped forward and produced the earring.

“Do either of you possess the twin to this?” he asked, voice weary with lack of hope.

“No,” said the witch-woman, too hastily, for she suddenly remembered the girl had worn a pair just like it when she took her.

Dotadoko stared at it for a moment in surprise, then said, “I do.”

“You do?” asked the mambo.

“No, she doesn’t,” snapped the witch-woman, but he ignored her and said, “Fetch it, now, and you shall be my bride.”

Dotadoko ran inside and returned a moment later with the proof of her claim.

“No!” screamed the muroyi. “She is mine – you cannot take her from me.”

“I can,” said the mambo.

Then, the witch-woman turned sly and looked at the girl. “Remember, the deal that was made. Leave and your family die…”

But, the n’anga stepped forward and threw the hakata and, laughing, said, “She lies – the curse is broken and cannot return.”

With a delighted cry, Dotadoko ran to the mambo and put her earrings on, while the witch-woman went inside her hut, shrieking and screaming so loudly that she drowned out the thunder of the burgeoning storm.

“I will consent to marry you,” said the girl, after she told the mambo her real name, “but first I must return to my father and you must give him cattle.”

The mambo laughed with joy, for Ruvatsvuka truly was a beautiful and lovely woman. “My dear, I shall give him that and more, and do whatever else you wish.”

Together, followed by his men, they left that place, hurrying to make it to her father’s kraal before the rains grew too heavy and floodwaters swept down the empty riverbeds, the witch-woman’s cries echoing up and down the canyon behind them.

And, as the muroyi’s shrieks grew louder still, there was a sudden rumble, not of thunder, but of rock, and the great boulder that sat beside the pool where the girl had bathed, agitated by the witch-woman’s shrieks, slid over the edge of the cliff and tumbled down… down… down into the canyon, landing with a crash upon the hut and silencing the muroyi for good.

Which is how the story ends: The muroyi didn’t live, but Ruvatsvuka became the wife of the mambo and the two of them lived happily ever after and the people they ruled rejoiced in peace and prosperity.

DJ Tyrer is the person behind Atlantean Publishing and has been widely published in anthologies and magazines around the world, such as Winter’s Grasp (Fantasia Divinity), Tales of the Black Arts (Hazardous Press), Pagan (Zimbell House), Misunderstood (Wolfsinger), and Sorcery & Sanctity: A Homage to Arthur Machen (Hieroglyphics Press), and issues of Fantasia Divinity, Broadswords and Blasters, and BFS Horizons, and in addition, has a novella available in paperback and on Kindle, The Yellow House (Dunhams Manor).

DJ Tyrer's website is at http://djtyrer.blogspot.co.uk/

The Atlantean Publishing website is at http://atlanteanpublishing.blogspot.co.uk/

Cover: Amanda Bergloff

RUMPELSTILTSKIN, VEGAS STYLE by Robert Allen Lupton

Stage magic is smoke, mirrors, and sleight of hand,

but the little man showed up at 3am and offered his deal-

and I didn’t see any other choice...

“Let’s cut to the chase. You’re in trouble and you need help. I don’t want your necklace or rings. I can make gold, so I don’t need cheap jewelry. I want your firstborn child.”

“You want a baby?”

“Well technically, I don’t want a baby. I don’t do well with the diaper and potty training thing. I want the child on its sixth birthday. Doesn’t actually have to be firstborn, could be the second or the third. I’ll decide as we go. I want the pick of the litter.”

“Sounds like the same deal the miller’s daughter made with the man who spun straw into gold. Are you Rumpelstiltskin? Since I know your name, does that mean you can’t take my child?”

“Correct name, Rumpelstiltskin at your service. Incorrect about contract terms. I don’t care if you know my name, can recite the presidents in order, or spell supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, when I come for payment, I’ll take the child.”

What to do? I couldn’t get out of this mess by myself. I’m the great magician, Madame Zantha. You’ve probably heard of me. Stage magic is smoke, mirrors, and sleight of hand. I was here because of the golden fountain. In the trick, gold coins pour from my hands and mouth and cascade all over the stage. The gold isn’t real and hidden pneumatic tubes provide the fountain.

Unfortunately, three idiots visiting Vegas decided the trick was real, kidnapped me, and locked me in a shipping container with some water, a little food, and four of those plastic five-gallon buckets from a hardware store. “Little Lady, you fill these buckets with gold by morning and you can go home.” The one who did the talking had really bad teeth.

“It’s not real, it’s an illusion. If I could make real gold coins, why in the world would I work as a magician at a casino?”

Bad Teeth said, “Don’t treat us like we’re stupid because we talk with an accent. You’re one of them Midas people. We’re not greedy, we only want four buckets of gold. That’s one for each of us and one for our mama. You ought to make the gold. Fred here takes it downright unkindly when he doesn’t get his way. Gets pretty violent.”

They locked the shipping container. It didn’t take five minutes to realize I couldn’t break out. I did amazing escapes on stage, but all of those involved rigged handcuffs, false bottoms, hidden compartments, or trapdoors.

I turned one of the buckets over and sat down. I couldn’t escape, and I couldn’t make gold coins. I wasn’t looking forward to spending the morning with my new best friend, Fred.

The little man showed up about three in the morning and offered his deal. I didn’t see any other choice. I didn’t believe him, but if he couldn’t make gold, I wouldn’t be any worse off. If he could and I got out of this mess, I decided I wouldn’t have children. “Okay, Rumpelstiltskin, rock and roll. Let’s do this.”

“To be clear, I’ll grant you the power to fill the buckets with gold coins. I’ll come for your child on its sixth birthday, take the child, and never come back. Once I leave, our bargain is complete. We’ll never see each other again.”

“Agreed, but what if the men kill me and take the gold?”

“You’re too smart to let that happen. Your magic fountain trick will be a reality. Until you leave this metal box, gold coins will cascade from your hands and mouth whenever you want.”

Rumpelstiltskin spit on his hands and rubbed his wet hands across my face. He spit again and took my hands. Disgusting. “If you put your finger in my mouth, I’ll bite it off.”

“Concentrate and fill the buckets.”

I pictured gold coins flowing from my hands into the first bucket. It worked. I filled the buckets in minutes. I held a hand over the next two buckets and vomited gold into the last bucket. The gold spewed from my mouth faster than it flowed from my fingers. I used most of a bottle of water to wash the metallic taste out. The buckets were heavy.

Rumpelstiltskin vanished. Bad Teeth, Fred, and their brother opened the box after sunrise.

Bad Teeth said, “I told you she was holding out. I knew her powers were real.”

Fred said, “We gonna let her go?”

“No, we’d best keep her. Tie her up.”

Fred and Bad Teeth grabbed my arms and the other brother took duct tape from his overalls. I spit gold coins at them and knocked out Fred and his brother. Bad Teeth took the coin shower on one shoulder and the side of his head. He staggered away and slipped on the gold coins. He crawled across the floor.

Rumpelstiltskin said that my power would vanish once I left the shipping container. I had to stop Bad Teeth before he made it out the door. I jumped and caught him by one leg. He rolled onto his back and kicked at me. I held him with both hands and rained the golden shower over him until he was completely covered. I buried the other two jerks and walked away. The inside of the shipping container looked like a money bin in Duckberg.

I stepped out the door and turned to lock it. The gold inside had changed to rusted metal and rotted garbage. I guess magic gold is an illusion just like my stage show. I tried to produce more gold coins and nothing happened, Queen Midas was out of the gold making business.

There was no movement under the heaps of trash. They deserved to be dead. It didn’t matter to me. Darwin’s law is a harsh mistress. I locked the door, went home, cleaned up, and did my performance that night. The show must go on.

Two years later, I fell in love with a singer and married him. I didn’t see that coming. Three months later I was pregnant. Really didn’t see that coming. Rumpelstiltskin and the Bad Teeth brothers were a distant memory, but it wouldn’t go away.

Once Sarah was born, I couldn’t quit thinking about him. I had six years to be ready for his visit. He’d show up, take my child, and never come back. I had to be ready. I had to have a plan.

I trained Sarah to work in my magic show when she was three. She loved it. I had a great trick where I threw her above my head and she changed into a dozen doves. Her favorite was when I put her in a box with a glass front, covered the glass with a black panel, and slid the panel up and down a few times to show the audience she was really there. I closed the panel and dumped a glass bowl full of poisonous snakes in the box. The crowd went crazy.

I turned the box a few times and collapsed all four sides with a flourish. Sarah was sitting there in a snake skin robe. She was a natural. The audience loved her.

My husband performed in Cincinnati on Sarah’s sixth birthday. I canceled my show that day and stayed home with her. No party this year.

Rumpelstiltskin appeared at noon. “I’ve come for my payment.”

“Certainly, she’s in her room. I couldn’t stand to say goodbye, so I drugged her. She’s asleep.”

“You aren’t going to try to talk me out of taking your daughter?”

“No, you saved my life, and a deal is a deal.”

We went to Sarah’s room. She was on the bed. The little man could barely restrain himself. He chuckled and rubbed his hands together. “Give her to me. Give her to me.”

I picked her up and put her in the open suitcase on the bed. “Carry her in this. I can’t stand to see you touch her.”

The little man said, “No tricks. I have to know she’s real.” He touched her throat and felt her heartbeat. He put his face close and listened to her breathe.

“Are you satisfied?”

He stepped back, nodded his head, and I closed the suitcase and zipped it up. I locked the zipper and tossed him the key. I deliberately threw it short and it landed on the floor. He looked down, bent over, and picked it. Classic misdirection.

“I’m leaving now. You’ll never see us again.”

He grabbed the suitcase and hefted it. He was satisfied with the weight. He held it with both arms, carried it out of Sarah’s room, and put one finger on his right ear. He smiled evilly and vanished out of my life.

I ran into the bedroom and threw back the hidden flap in the bedspread. Sarah smiled from the hidden compartment and held out both hands. “Did I do good, Mama? I made the switch. The snakes are in the suitcase. Do you think the little man will like them?”

I picked her up and hugged her. “I’m sure he will. Let’s call your father and see if he has time to sing “Happy birthday.”

Robert Allen Lupton is retired and lives in New Mexico where he is a commercial hot air balloon pilot. Robert runs and writes every day, but not necessarily in that order. He has been published in several anthologies and has short stories online at www.horrortree.com and www.crimsonstreets.com. His novel, Foxborn, was published in April 2017 and the sequel, Dragonborn, in June 2018. His collection of running themed horror, science fiction, and adventures stories, Running Into Trouble, was published in October 2017.

Visit https://www.amazon.com/Robert-Allen-Lupton/e/B01GW77JY4/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0

his Amazon page and www.goodreads.com/author/show/15292457.Robert_Allen_Lupton, his Goodreads page and blog for current information about his stories and books. His Hometown Reads page is https://www.hometownreads.com/books/foxborn.

Cover: Amanda Bergloff