The Tale of the Fox and the Lady - Alexandra Faye Carcich

Beauty walks through the tall grass...

A long long time ago, somewhere in Japan, there was a certain den where two fox spirits were born. Out of a litter of six, only the female kits inherited their ancestors’ power. The elder girl was born with flaming red fur, and their mother said, “This one will have many passions that will rage like the summer brush fires.” Her sister was white and delicately boned. Their mother cooed over her coloring and favored her above the other kits.

The sisters first manifested their powers struggling for the larger share of dinner. A dead mouse was presented to the growing kits. The red kit snapped her teeth and the mouse’s teeth rattled, biting the dirt. The white sister swiped a paw at her elder, and the mouse's tail whipped through the air, striking the red sister in the side. They moved from warnings to a tumbling fight, while their brothers devoured the mouse. Prevailing, the red sister stood as victor over the battered white until their mother interceded, bringing her favorite to suckle while the red fox went hungry. With her belly growling and empty, the elder sister thought herself the most hated of the litter. Someday she would prevail in affection over the white fox.

As she grew, the scarlet sister enjoyed bathing in the early morning dew while crickets sang. She played at chasing butterflies, leaping and snapping her teeth while they fluttered away from her incisors. During the moonlit hours she hunted, looking for small prey or lover’s hearts to satiate her appetite. When bored of the trysts in the Emperor’s gardens, she prowled the streets. One night she wandered into the garden of a mansion on Nijo Avenue to sleep under the plum trees. With the morning came a boy. She hid under a bush and watched him from between its leaves. His hair was as dark as a moonless night and hung undone down his back. Soft, smooth cheeks announced that he was too young to be a man. He disregarded the servants waiting to dress him in many layers of silk, preferring to walk unhampered in the morning sun. All of his movements displayed grace and refinement. Mortal women demurred behind their fans, overcome by his beauty, they would blush from afar, but never speak to him.

The fox was not mortal.

Under the bush she slid from fox into the form of a human. Brazenly, she went across the garden to greet the boy, so that he may be as dazzled by her. In the sun her black hair had a fiery hue. He saw her and smiled sun beams.

He spoke a poem:

With the sun's first kiss

Beauty is born of the dew
A lily opens
The delicate white petals
Have a heart of crimson

She answered:

Lily alone knows

When the sun rises each day

And how dark the night

Beauty walks through the tall grass

The dawn kisses newborn cheek.

They stood, side by side, in that picturesque manner, as the sun climbed. When he answered a servant's call, she slipped away through the grass.

Both sisters attended in the garden one morning.

The white fox looked across the grounds and sniffed. “The pool is overgrown with weeds. Maybe once they were rich, but now the occupants are poor as peasants.”

“Then you will cede this place and its people to me?” asked the red fox.

“Of course, I've never enjoyed the wilds.”

The boy appeared on the veranda with pen and paper. Carefully he held back his sleeve while drawing letters with the brush. The blooming wisteria was his subject. The red fox transformed to a maiden and walked under the wisteria branches to smell its perfume. When she was sure the boy watched her, she faded away. In awe, the boy penned a poem about a girl's haunting beauty, instead of the transience of spring as he originally planned. When the red fox returned, the waiting sister was silent and expression impassive.

“You will remember our agreement,” said the red fox. She was suspicious of her sister, who liked to have all the fine things for herself. With a silent assent, the sisters parted ways.

The younger sister enjoyed slipping into her human disguise to run among the village children. She played small tricks on them, making their ball disappear, or suddenly finding a ripe fruit, which was out of season. Her greatest achievement was convincing the regional governor and his wife that she was their own, human daughter. As the childless couple lifted their chopsticks to eat the morning meal, she knelt at their table and bewitched them. From then on they shared their rice and fish with her and believed that she was their own daughter. The trick was reversed back onto the white fox, for when she pretended to be a human she forgot she was born a fox. She became spoiled by their easily gained affection and the rich life among humans and never shifted back to her true form.

She grew into a beautiful and graceful woman. Suitors vied for her attention, while she demurred behind a screen. When one proposed to steal her from her parent’s house, she chose to join him, thinking that he would establish her in a mansion of her own with many servants. He was only the first of her lovers.

She began to have dreams of a distressing nature and always woke with an uneasy sensation of invisible spirits passing through the room. She dreamed of a fox snapping its teeth. “You pathetic creature,” it said, “you have forgotten what you are. Now you walk the earth nameless with no past or ancestors. Only a future of heartache waits for you.” Then she woke and could not sleep again, fearing the fox would eat her fingers and toes, turn her hair white, or steal her soul.

On Nijo Avenue, the boy came to the garden infrequently, but on those days the red fox was there to admire him. As he grew under her gaze, his visits became increasingly rare. He pursued romance in the houses of noble ladies, attended galas where he was much admired, and studied all the martial skills a man of high birth should posses.

As the red fox grew she followed in the mischievous ways of her forefathers, always doing as she pleased. She tricked the worshipers of a wolf god to give her the summer grain offering. She ate well, and the angry wolf god cursed the villager's fields. For a time she haunted a dell where a solitary house stood. The child who lived there offered nightly sacrifices to his ancestors to keep the evil spirits away, while she lurked behind walls hissing the consequences for his daily indiscretions. His fears amused her and she grew strong with his tremors. Once she married a wealthy merchant. Just as the wedding cakes were being offered, on the third night, he emerged from their rooms and took vows to become a monk.

In the outskirts of the capitol, the red fox saw her sister. It was a woman in an ox drawn carriage. Her many layers of sleeves trailed out the window, advertising her tasteful fashion sense. The curtain of the window flapped in a fitful breeze. There was the white fox, the white faced, indulgent beauty, laying on her cushions, pretending to the world that she had always been human. Resentment passed through the older sister seeing that the younger had chosen an easy life. The red fox reasoned, at least they were no longer fighting over mouse bones. Maybe it was better that each went her own way.

Occasionally, the red fox remembered the beautiful boy at Nijo and returned there, hoping to see him again. In the empty garden, she was lonely and wished for the boy. She spent afternoons sleeping under the verandah, daydreaming of him coming down the steps and crossing the garden under the golden sun.

On one such night, he returned to the remote mansion. The day was gone and the evening mist rose from the ground like an apparition. The carriage stopped in the enclosed courtyard and he escorted a lady wearing a veil across the grounds and into the house. The red fox spirit saw them as two bright eyes among the ferns. She did not like the lady, who took her place by the man’s side. Her heart was a burning envy. She licked her lips, those hearts rich in joy were the most delicious morsels. A single servant led the party down the hall by torchlight. The fox followed as a shadow. The bed chamber was divided by a partition; on the far side was the soft murmur of the lovers' talk. It bored the fox to hear them make poems for each other and the usual dreamers' promises of fidelity and eternity, promises that would be broken in a month or less. She slid between the shadows and out the door into the garden. There she caught a field mouse who was hiding under the dwarf maple. With a snap of teeth she crunched the mouse's bones, and its children became orphans.

Late the following morning, the shutters were opened and the man appeared looking across the gardens he had known as a child. The red fox watched him. What had been a boyish roundness to his features had become the firm lines of a man. His robes were arranged carelessly since he thought no one but his lover was able to see him. Then the woman rose and stood beside him. The red fox recognized her sister.

As a woman, the white fox had gone from lover to lover, and loved deeply but briefly. Her skills with brush and harp were not greater than other women, but as a fox, even one who had forgotten her nature, she was able to charm her visitors into love. The younger sister was so haunted by her dreams that she kept a host of lovers so that she would never be alone. The man of Nijo wooed her from a house maintained by a romantic rival.

As a trickster the red fox had desired to gobble up the joy out of the woman's heart, but as a sister her heart was broken and filled with hatred. She decided the white fox would never leave the house on Nijo Avenue.

That night the lovers slept in the curtained bed.  The red fox entered the room and again stood over her sister.  The woman was fashionable, with high painted eyebrows and blackened teeth.  Her white skin appeared uncommonly delicate. High cheekbones were the only sign of her past life as a fox.  The red fox heard the sleeper's happy sigh, no fond memories softened her resolve. Possession by a spirit was most feared by mortals. She entered her sister's mind through the crack between finger and nail.

That night, in the lady’s dream, she was crowned Empress, for her new lover had secretly been the prince.  On the steps of the palace, a royal herald presented her to a crowd of faceless subjects, but when they should have prostrated themselves they remained standing, their blank faces turned toward her.

Beside her, her lover said,  “They are no longer deceived.”

She cried, “In my love I trusted you.”

He disregarded her tears. “Flee, vile spirit.”

A fish-head struck her as the crowd began to jeer and shout. She fled into the palace. Inside the palace doors there were no finely painted screens or ornate furniture. She was in a dirt hole with great tree roots jutting out from the walls. The crowd of humans shouted and struck the doors. The dark hole was less frightening than the mob, so, tripping and groping, she followed the tunnel away into the earth.

As the roof lowered, she was forced to crawl on hands and knees.  Her silk layers were cumbersome, she let them fall off, one by one, until all she wore were her scarlet trousers and white kosode.  Behind her there was a quick padding of feet growing closer; she heard breathing.  She looked back and saw foxes nipping at her feet and legs.

“Stop stop, can't you see I am one of you!” she said, but did not understand the meaning of her words.

Then there was one red vixen snarling and licking her lips, hungrily, the woman thought.  She opened her mouth to speak again but an animal whimper came out; she was no longer a woman but a white fox.  She dashed down the tunnel but the red fox was in front of her. With despair she watched the vixen leap toward her.

The woman died in the night.

The man of Nijo went into mourning and made arrangements for her earthbound shell to be buried. He had known his lover for so short a time, she began to resemble a vapor, intangible, dissipating when it was grasped. He remembered to a friend the night when she passed away. “It was strange, before I knew the unfortunate had died, I dreamed of my childhood, of the little maid who played in my garden. She was my first inspiration. Her soft hand was on my cheek. She was like the fleeting spring days. Yes, youth and love, too quickly falling like the cherry blossoms.”

Alexandra Carcich is a long time hobby writer with a passion for myth retellings and a history with NaNoWriMo. Her folders of unfinished manuscripts are reminiscent of her refusal to write a singular sentence in the second grade. Her work is featured in Timeless Tales Magazine and This Zine Will Change Your Life and forthcoming in Ariel Chart. You can read her poetry on Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/alexandracarcich/ 

Cover: Amanda Bergloff

The Name Game: A Folktale from Nigeria - C.L. Clickard

Not one of you knows my name...

In the time of tales and tails, Hippo was once mighty king of the land. He had more friends than he could count and more food than he could eat. He had seven fine fat hippo wives and a herd of plump precious children. What he didn’t have was a name. That is, nobody knew his name - except for his seven hippo wives.

One night at Hippo’s feast, when everyone was slurping and burping, Hippo looked out at his friends and frowned.

“HUNH!” he said. “Every day you come and eat my food, but not one of you knows my name.  Where’s the respect? Where’s the love? If you can’t guess my name, then I say this feast is over. You’re going home hungry tonight!“

“Ewo!” cried the guests, sneaking a few more mouthfuls. “Nu-uh, King Hippo. We love you. We respect you. You know that.”

“So my name is …….?”

Nobody wanted to go home empty bellied, so they tried.

“Adebyi the Awesome?” Buffalo guessed.

“Tiwa the Terrible?” asked Antelope.

“Kalu the Courageous?” whistled Waxbill.

“Fred?” squeaked Mouse.

“Fred??!” Hippo bellowed.“Fred? Do I look like a Fred? Wrong, wrong, wrong. This feast is over!”

Furred and feathered faces dove into bowls for one last bite, then grumbling headed for home.

“Not our fault he never told us his name.”

“He got a secret, he can keep his secret.”

One small Tortoise stopped at Hippo’s gate. “Wait! What if I can tell you your name tomorrow?”

“HA-HA-HA-Hooey!” Hippo belly laughed. “Little you? Know my HUGE hippo name? Well, we shall have one more feast tomorrow, and if you guess my name, bitty Tortoise, then I will take my fine fat wives and my precious plump children and go live in the river forever.”

The next day Tortoise waited for Hippo to parade his family down to the river. He counted each hippo wife as they went by: otu, abua, ato, ano, ise, isii, asaa. He counted each ker-sploosh as they hit the water: otu, abua, ato, ano, ise, isii, asaa. Then, Tortoise hurried out to the middle of Hippo’s path and started to dig. When the  hole was bigger than Toad but smaller than Tortoise he wriggled over to hide behind a uko tree.

“Huh-UH-HAAA!” With a tremendous shake and snort Hippo finished his bath and led the way back home. Tortoise counted the hippo wives as they went by: otu, abuo, ato, ano, ise. Only five wives had jiggled past. The last two were far behind.

“Yes!” Tortoise cheered. “This will work perfectly.”

He slipped into the hole, tucked his head in the dirt and left his bottom waggling in the air. Isii. Wife number six strolled right past. But… OOOF!!! Wife number seven tripped on Tortoise’s hard shell.

“Aiiiii!” she cried. “King Isantim, my husband, I hurt my foot.”

“Come home lovely one, and I will kiss it better,” Hippo bellowed back.

Wife number seven giggled and hurried down the road. All alone now, Tortoise wriggled out of the hole and smiled all the way home.  

At Hippo’s feast that night, everyone waited for Tortoise. He strolled past the seven fine hippo wives until he stood before the king.

“Let’s hear it, little one,” Hippo boomed. “Tell me my name and we can all get to eating.”

“Will you keep your promise?” asked Tortoise.

“Ho ho h-of course!” chuckled Hippo. “Are you afraid to guess my name wrong? Here’s a clue:  It’s not Fred.”

“Oh, everyone knows that. Even bitty me, King Isantim!”

Hippo’s mouth fell open so wide you could count his teeth but his guests were too busy eating to try. When the feast was over, Hippo kept his promise. Now he spends all day in the water with his fine fat hippo wives and his plump precious children  -- and only sneaks onto land at night when he thinks no one can see him.

Carrie L. Clickard is an internationally published author and poet. Her books include MAGIC FOR SALE (Holiday House, 2017), DUMPLING DREAMS (Simon and Schuster 2017), VICTRICIA MALICIA (Flashlight Press) and the forthcoming THOMAS JEFFERSON & THE MAMMOTH HUNT (Simon and Schuster, 2019). Her poetry and short stories have appeared in numerous anthologies and periodicals including Andromeda Spaceways, Havok, Myriad Lands, Spellbound, Penumbra, Muse, Haiku of the Dead and Underneath the Juniper Tree.
You can learn more about Carrie & her work at www.clclickard.com.

Cover Layout: Amanda Bergloff

Deer Daughter - Clodagh O Connor

She had never known freedom like this.

Once there lived a king whose only daughter was as precious to him as all the gold in his kingdom. Her mother had died when she was young, leaving the king sorrowing and broken-hearted.  His only joy was in watching his child as she grew more and more like her mother. The king attended to his duties and eventually married once more, but the new queen was jealous of the love her husband had for his daughter.

“She must marry,” the queen insisted.

“She is too young,” protested her father, “and, besides, who could look after her and care for her as I do?”

“If I can ensure that her prince will be as kind and loving as you are, will you let her marry?” asked the queen.

“If you can promise that, then I will allow suitors to come for her,” said the king with a heavy heart, for he knew that a princess must marry for the sake of the kingdom.

The queen knew of a wizard among the king’s advisors and she asked him to cast an enchantment on the girl. “When a suitor approaches her, if he is not worthy, let her turn into an ugly hag,” the queen commanded. She had studied witchcraft herself and knew that a transformation spell such as this would have lasting effects. The king’s lovely daughter would age and wither with each change.

The wizard was reluctant to obey, but he knew the queen could cast him from the court with a word, so he agreed. The spell needed the agreement of the princess, so one morning he came to her as she walked in her garden.  She often walked there, loving the fragrance of the flowers and being in the open air. The maze of box-hedges, where she could hide from the servants, gave her a brief illusion of freedom. Her long red hair was loose upon her shoulders and she seemed to the wizard like a young doe, trapped in a cage.

“My lady, the queen has commanded that I cast a spell upon you to save you from unworthy suitors,” said the wizard. The young girl was well aware that the queen had no love for her.

“What manner of spell is this to be?” she demanded.The wizard explained the plan and the girl frowned.“Will I change back to myself afterwards?”

The wizard hesitated, “Magic is a powerful thing, princess,” he said, “Each time you change, you will look and feel a little older, I fear. But once a good man comes by, there need be no more changing.”

The princess thought for a while. She knew there would be suitors, much as she disliked the prospect. Perhaps this spell would be a way of delaying her marriage; she hadn’t seen many good men among the princes of the neighboring kingdoms.

“I must ask my father for advice”, she declared. The wizard thought quickly, he knew the queen would find a way to get rid of him if word of this plan reached the king’s ears.

“My lady, perhaps I can suggest an alternative plan? How would it be if you were to turn into a young doe, should your suitor prove unworthy?”

“A deer!” said the girl, her face lighting up at the thought, “That would be a wonderful thing. Yes, I agree.”

The wizard, heaving a sigh of relief, began to incant the spell.

Sometime later the queen arranged for suitors to come to the palace. She told the king that she would oversee the meetings and he agreed.  The queen led the first suitor to the princess’s garden. He had no sooner caught a glimpse of red hair behind the tall box-hedges when out bounded a beautiful young doe. They stared at each other for a moment and the doe turned and leapt, showing a copper- red tail as she bounded through the garden.

The prince turned to the queen, who recovered enough breath to say, “The princess must be indisposed, that was her pet doe that she keeps in the garden”.  “Perhaps her highness will come to my palace the next time, but you can tell her from me that she need not bring her pet, unless it is on a plate,” the prince said, snapping his heels and bowing stiffly to the queen.

The queen summoned the wizard and he came to her chamber dreading her wrath, but, to his surprise, she smiled at him. “You have surpassed yourself,” she said, “Now all we have to do is cut a hole in the hedges of the garden and let her escape.”

“B..b..but,” stuttered the wizard, “She will be lost in the forest and prey to wolves or hunters”

“Indeed,” said the queen, with quiet satisfaction.

The queen brought several suitors to the garden and each time the girl transformed into a deer. The spell’s after-effects deepened with each change. The princess became nervous and shy, often jumping as people approached. Her father, noticing these changes, came to talk to her. She gazed at him with her deep brown eyes, which seemed darker of late. Her hair hung down, browner now with a flash of red here and there.

“My daughter,” he began…

”No father, I am quite well,” she said, “I admit I do not like these suitors calling upon me, but I know it is my duty to wed. I know my step-mother will not offer my hand to an unsuitable man.”

She could not tell him about the spell, for she felt she was deceiving him by chasing away the suitors. The king sensed that there was something deeper troubling his daughter, and he resolved to watch the next meeting in the garden. He was beginning to suspect that his new wife did not have her step-daughter’s interests at heart.

The king had a window that overlooked the princess’s garden – he often observed her fondly as she sat or walked there. He settled himself on the balcony to await the visit of the newest suitor. His daughter was in the garden, but did not seem ready to present herself – she was hidden from the entrance, waiting behind a hedge. The king heard the voice of his queen extolling the beauty and shyness of the princess to the prince who was visiting. As they approached the garden entrance, the king glanced back to where his daughter had been a moment before.

There, to his amazement, was a beautiful doe, quivering and ready to spring. He let out a surprised shout and the deer gazed up; their eyes met and he saw his daughter in that instant. She bounded away, her red tail flashing; found a gap in the hedge and vanished into the forest.

The king whirled around and called for his guards and his horse.

“Arrest the queen,” he yelled and galloped away on the horse through the forest.  The wood was dense and travelling on horseback was difficult. There was no sign of the doe or of his daughter. As night fell the king returned to the palace, exhausted and in despair. He turned his fury on the queen and locked her up in a dungeon. He questioned the wizard who said “The spell will not reverse unless she comes back to the palace gardens.”

The young doe ran and exulted in her running. She had never known freedom like this. Soon the palace and her memories of it were far behind her. As night began to fall she slowed, her need to find water and food taking over from her urge to run. She lapped at a stream and nibbled the bark from a young tree, curled up on the grass and slept. In the morning she woke to the sound of others like her and, lowering her nose to the ground, approached the herd, who took her in as one of their own.

Many years passed and the king in his sorrow searched for his missing daughter. The hunting of deer in the kingdom was banned on pain of death. Throughout the land, deer became less wary of men, until the people grumbled as the animals invaded farmlands and destroyed crops and grazing. Many live does were captured and brought to the king for inspection, but never did one change back into his beloved daughter.

In the forest lived a woodcutter who loved the deer, despite their destruction of young trees. He would often sit outside his cottage and watch as the does suckled their young and the antlered stags bellowed. One morning, through a gently lifting mist, he spotted a young doe. She approached timidly, but with curiosity, her deep brown eyes meeting his. He reached out his hand and, as he touched her muzzle, she transformed into a young woman. She fell to the ground as her legs gave way beneath her. She was beautiful; her long brown-red hair covered her, almost to her feet. On the ground beside her lay a deer pelt, with a tail of red fur. The woodcutter wrapped her in it and carried her inside.

The girl slept for a long time. When she awoke, he gave her a bowl of milk, and she lapped at it. She did not speak, but she smiled at him. Over the next few days he gave her morsels of fruit and vegetables and she began to talk – haltingly at first, but then pouring out words as if trying to relieve the silence of many years. The princess had finally met a worthy man. They lived together in happiness in the forest for many years, and if the man occasionally noticed that his wife and the deerskin hearthrug were missing, he knew better than to comment. She needed her freedom.

One morning he was awoken by the crashing noise of a chase through the forest. He leaped out of bed and saw that the girl was gone. Opening the door he realised that a hunt was in progress. The deer that bounded through his open door was sweating and wild-eyed; as he reached out to sooth her she changed and the deer skin slid to the floor. The heart of the girl was still deer and she hid in the farthest, darkest, corner of the cottage as the hunters came crashing through.

They stopped and stared at the deerskin on the floor. The head huntsman spotted the distinctive red flash on the skin and turned to the woodcutter.

“You killed a deer – you have killed our princess!”

His blade plunged into the heart of the woodcutter. A wordless scream came from the corner of the cottage and a white flash became a blur of brown and red as the deer bounded out of the cottage into the deep woods.

Clodagh O Connor is an engineer, an avid reader and aspiring writer. She lives in Dublin, Ireland with her husband and 2 sons.

You can follow her on Twitter @iamagnat

Cover Layout: Amanda Bergloff

Clyde and the Pickle Jar - Steve Carr

Those pickle things must be of some importance...

Lying on the kitchen window sill above the sink, Clyde licked his paws as the noonday sun warmed his bright orange fur. The gentle breeze that tickled the tips of his pointed ears carried with it the aromas of the animals in the farm yard along with honeysuckle and roses.

He had his eyes on Mistress who was standing by the table and trying to get a lid off of a jar. Her face was red from exertion as she strained to twist the lid. She banged it on the table, and then stuck a knife under the rim of the lid, but was still unable to open the jar. She turned on the faucet in the sink and put the jar under the flowing water, and then again tried to turn the lid and was still unable to remove it. After digging around in the utensils drawer she pulled out a can opener and tried to pry off the lid, but still had no success.

“Darn, why is it so hard to get a pickle out?” she said aloud as she slammed the jar on the table and left the kitchen.

Clyde stood and ran his paw across his whiskers. He then jumped onto the sink draining board and then leapt onto the table. Cautiously he approached the jar and patted the glass with his paw before putting his nose to it and sniffing it. Mistress's scent was on it, but otherwise it had no discernible odor. He sat back on his haunches and gazed at the long green objects tightly bunched together inside the jar.

Those must be pickles, he thought. They're in there so tight they can't move.

It distressed him that Mistress had been unable to get them out. He wanted to return the kindness she always showed him. He patted the jar a few times and then pushed the jar to the edge of the table and knocked it off. It fell onto a bunched up throw rug. He jumped down and laid on his side next to it, wrapped his paws around the jar and wrestled with it, and tried to bite it and scratch it. Unable to get to the pickles, he stood, batted it with his paws, rolling it to the screen door. He then pushed the door open and rolled the jar out of the house and into a patch of dirt.

“What you got there?” Bart said, rising from a shallow hole he had dug to lie in. He shook his head, flapping his large ears and spraying drool onto Clyde.

“Pickles,” Clyde said as he wiped the dog's spittle from his face.

“What are pickles?” Bart said.

“They might be living things, but it's hard to tell.” Clyde said. “Mistress wanted to get them out very badly but was unable to and neither could I.”

The dog put his nose to the jar, sniffed and then licked it.

“Move aside,” Bart said. “Let me give it a try.”

Clyde stepped aside and watched as Bart plopped his large rear end down on the jar.

The dog then raised up and looked at the glass and barked at it several times. “Maybe those pickle things are supposed to stay in there,” he said.

“No, I'm certain Mistress wants them out,” Clyde said.

Seeing Clarissa and her brood of chicks crossing the farmyard, Clyde hurriedly rolled the jar towards her as Bart followed behind. He brought the jar to a stop a few feet from her.

Startled, Clarissa quickly gathered her fluffy, bright yellow chicks around her and covered them with her wings.

“What do you want?” she said to Clyde, clucking with a mixture of bravado and fear as she puffed out her chest and raised her beak.

Clyde wound his long tail around his hind legs. “Mistress has a problem and I thought you might want to help her out.”

Clarissa looked at him with one eye, and then turned her head and gazed at him with the other one. “Mistress feeds us every morning which is most kind of her,” she said. “What is the problem?”

“Mistress wants these pickles inside this jar but can't get them out and neither could Bart or I,” he said.

She tilted her head several times, staring at the jar, and then clucked several times. “What do they do?” she said.

“Do?”

“Do they sleep in her lap and keep her warm like you do, or take walks with her like Bart does, or give her eggs like I do?” she said.

“I don't know what they do,” Clyde said. “Whatever it is that they do, Mistress must find great pleasure in it. You should have seen how hard she tried to get them out.”

“I think they're ugly,” Clarissa said, “but if Mistress wants them out I'll be glad to help.”

She gently urged her chicks to stand behind her and then began pecking on the glass. When the glass didn't break she pecked harder and faster, until finally exhausted, she squawked and then sat down.

“Those pickle things must be of great importance if they're so hard to get out,” she said.

Pete the box turtle sauntered to where the group was standing around the jar.

“What's going on?” he said.

“Clyde has these pickle things that belong to Mistress but we can't get them out of the jar,” Bart said as he scratched at a flea.

Pete looked at the jar. “Are those the pickle things inside the jar?”

“Yes,” Clarissa clucked.

“Are they alive?” he said.

“They must be,” Clyde said. “They seem to be very fond of each other being packed in there like that. I'm sure Mistress was trying to rescue them.”

“I know all about things that are hard to get into,” Pete said. “But possibly if we wait long enough one of them will poke their heads out.”

“We can't just sit here and wait for that,” Clyde said. “Mistress was frantic about getting them out of there. Without hands like Mistress has we wouldn't be able to open it, and we haven't figured out how to break the glass.”

“Mistress always makes puddles for me to sit in so I'd like to help,” Pete said. “Not long ago I rolled down the hill behind the barn and landed against a large rock. It nearly broke my shell. Perhaps if we roll the jar down that hill it will hit the rock and break open.”

“That's a great idea,” Clyde said excitedly.

With everyone else following behind, Clyde rolled the jar to the top of the hill behind the barn. He aligned the jar in the direction of the rock, and then pushed it. It rolled down the hill, bouncing over clumps of grass and mounds of dirt. It smashed against the rock, breaking into pieces. The pickles were scattered around the rock.

“Hooray,” everyone yelled.

They rushed down the hill.

Clyde was the first one to come upon a pickle lying in the grass. He patted at it with his paw and then sniffed it. He let out a mournful meow.

“I think we killed the pickles,” he said. “They can't be of any value to Mistress now.”

Bart licked another pickle and then barked at it several times. “This one's dead too.”

Shielding her chicks from the sight of the dead pickles, Clarissa clucked, “What do we do now?”

“The only thing to do is bury them,” Pete said. He then pulled his head into his shell.

“Good idea,” Clyde said.

As Bart dug holes, Clyde carried in his teeth the pickles one at a time and dropped them into the holes. Bart covered them with dirt. When all the pickles were buried everyone gathered around the pickles' graves.

“I hope Mistress doesn't miss the pickle things too much,” Bart said.

“I'm glad my shell didn't break like that,” Pete said as he stuck his head out.

“I wish I had gotten to know them,” Clarissa said. “The pickles must be wonderful beings for Mistress to want to let them out of the jar so badly.”

“Long live the pickles.” Clyde said

Steve Carr, who lives in Richmond, Va., began his writing career as a military journalist and has had over a 130 short stories published internationally in print and online magazines, literary journals and anthologies. A collection of his short stories was published by Clarendon House Books. His plays have been produced in several states in the U.S.. He was a 2017 Pushcart Prize nominee.

He is on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100012966314127

and follow him on Twitter @carrsteven960

Cover Layout: Amanda Bergloff

The Owl and the Spider's Son - Sandra Ulbrich Almazan

I feel no remorse for Arachne's fall...

I feel no remorse for Arachne’s fall. She woke me and my nestlings with her proud boasts. As soon as I heard the name of my beloved mistress, Athena, I knew I had to learn what the mortals were saying about her, sun or no sun.

My mate was sleeping close by in another tree, so I knew he would protect our children if there was any trouble. Keeping to the shadows as much as possible, I glided to a nearby stream. A dozen naiads poked their heads out of the water and admired a tapestry held aloft by a young woman. Her cloak shimmered like water, and a gold wreath crowned her dark hair. Was she beautiful? I don’t know how humans judge such things. She held herself as proudly as if she were a goddess, or a predator searching for prey among her own kind.

“Surely Athena herself must have blessed you, Arachne,” the naiad closest to the human woman said. She reached for the tapestry, but the human moved before water could drop onto it.

“I need no blessing from Athena, or any other god,” the woman declared. “I’m a better weaver than her.”

As the naiads gasped and dove into their stream, I was able to see the tapestry Arachne had woven. It depicted a stag being torn apart by hounds. Blood ran from the hounds’ teeth as if they devoured real flesh, not dyed cloth. I stared, fascinated, at the prey many times larger than me. It took me several moments to realize the stag’s face seemed to shift into an agonized human’s every time Arachne waved the cloth. In the background, naked, hungry-looking women caressed each other while staring at the slaughter. The one in the center held a silver bow that could only belong to Artemis.

This woman, this Arachne, might be almost as skilled as my mistress, but she had no respect for any of the goddesses. Athena would want to know of this right away. Despite the harsh sunlight and the taunts of crows, I flew up to Mount Olympus and shared what I had learned with the great, the immortal Athena, weaving her own tribute to her glorious father. She frowned, and a thread snarled in her hand.

“Show me this mortal,” Athena said. “If she doesn’t learn some humility, she’ll learn a lesson no human will ever forget.”

* * *

Humans who understand the art of weaving--and can appreciate color--have written about the contest between my mistress and the arrogant mortal. They’ve described how Athena disguised herself as an old woman and visited Arachne--though no one mentioned the owl perched on the roof, listening to her mistress chiding the woman for her impiety. Such was the mercy of my goddess; she would have forgiven Arachne if she’d repented and shown gratitude for her gifts. Instead, the woman made it worse for herself. I almost tumbled over when I heard Arachne say, “I don’t believe in the gods, crone; they’re stories meant to scare us into behaving a certain way. And if they do exist, they can’t possibly be as powerful or skillful as they claim. I’ve never met anyone who could weave expression into faces the way I do. Why, if Athena were here right now, I’d show her who the best weaver in the world is.”

The silence was so complete even my sensitive hearing couldn’t pick up a breath from a mouse. I hunkered down, wishing I was safe in my hollow tree. Athena’s wrath is terrible, but when she serves her anger death-cold, there’s no flying from her.

“You should be careful what you wish for, child,” Athena said. Light flashed from below, and I felt myself summoned. I flew through an open window to perch on her shoulder. She’d abandoned her disguise and showed herself tall and graceful, clad in purest white. Arachne stared at her with wide eyes in a pale face, but she didn’t cower. She was nothing more than a mouse foolish enough to think itself as fierce as an owl.

“If it’s a contest you want, a contest we shall have.” Athena gestured, and her loom appeared, securing itself next to Arachne’s. Weights and baskets overflowing with prepared wool threatened to topple onto a cradle. I hooted softly, and the goddess cleared a space around the infant. “We shall weave for three days and three nights. Then we will see who the best weaver in the world is!”

Blood returned to Arachne’s face. “We shall indeed,” she said, with a faint smirk suggesting she already thought herself the winner.

Woman and goddess stood in front of their looms, selected colors and went to work.

Time passed oddly for me during their contest, as if my mistress had me wrapped in her spell. I neither hungered nor felt thirst; my talons remained locked in place on Athena’s cloak. I remember periods of light and dark, of other people crowding into the tiny house but never coming within arm’s length of us. Every now and then in the background, I heard a child’s thin wail, quickly hushed. It made me uneasy, as if there was something else I was supposed to be doing, but I was woven into this contest as if the wool threads strapped my wings down. Athena’s fingers danced between the warp strings. As she completed each row, the cloth folded itself up. Yet despite the inherent disadvantage of her humanity, Arachne kept pace with my mistress.

Athena and Arachne stepped away from their looms at the same instant. Athena ordered the tapestries cut down and brought into the closest temple so they could be unrolled and displayed. Even an eagle would have been hard-pressed to find a flaw in either tapestry. Athena’s offering was suitable for such a holy place; each of the gods and goddesses of Mount Olympus looked regal on their thrones. Athena illustrated herself giving an olive tree to the city of Athens.

Arachne’s work, on the other hand, insulted the deities. Zeus, Athena’s beloved father, fared the worst, as Arachne depicted every instance he’d transformed himself into a beast--sadly, not an owl--to seduce a human woman.

“You insolent harlot!” Athena rent the blasphemous work in two. For the first time, Arachne cowered, but it was too late to appease my mistress.

“Go, my messenger.” She launched me off of her shoulder. “Fly to Hecate and bring me the potion in the bottle with eight rubies.”

I traveled to the nearest crossroads. Hecate rose from the ground and handed me the bottle Athena had requested. I meant to fly back with it straightaway, but I heard another owl hooting mournfully nearby. With a shock, I realized it was my mate. I hurried to him, the bottle weighing me down with every stroke of my wings.

I didn’t even make it to the nest before my mate screeched at me. “Where have you been? I had to hunt for the brood all by myself, with no one to guard the nestlings. They were all taken!”

Stunned, I checked out the cavity myself. It was true; only down feathers remained. Our nestlings were too young to have fledged successfully. This was the third brood my mate and I had raised together. We’ve had eggs that never hatched and tiny nestlings that didn’t thrive, but we’ve never had a failure like this before. I reached out to groom my mate, but he pecked at me. Heavy-hearted, I continued my mission. Surely by next winter my mate would forgive me, and we would do better with our next brood. In the meantime, my mistress still needed me.

The temple was empty, so I sought Athena at Arachne’s house. It looked like the site of a crazed hunt. Arachne’s tapestry hung in shreds, and skeins of yarn had uncoiled among what was left of the broken furniture. It didn’t surprise me that my warrior mistress had demolished the place, but even I was taken aback to find Arachne hanging from the highest beam in her house, suspended by blood-red wool.

“She hanged herself out of damaged pride when I refused to admit her blasphemous work was flawless,” Athena said. “But there’s still breath in her. Quick, give me the potion.” Athena smiled grimly as she poured it over Arachne. “I’ll make sure she continues to spin and weave till the end of her days, she and her—”

Instinct told me she planned to curse this woman’s unfortunate descendants. The nurse poked her head inside the house, as if she was here to give the child to its doom. Hadn’t enough younglings suffered already?

I positioned myself between Athena and the baby. Spreading my wings to their full span, I cried, “Great Athena, for my sake, grant mercy to one child today. My brood are gone, but why should this nestling suffer?”

Some of the anger faded from Athena’s gray eyes. “Your brood, faithful owl?”

I told her briefly how my children had perished during the contest.

A goddess as great as Athena never apologizes, especially not to a mere animal. But though she remains eternally virgin, she is wise enough to understand a mother’s pain. She stroked my head lightly with a finger. “Have hope, my servant. You may be a mother again before the season turns. For your sake, I will spare the son.” She gestured toward the nurse, who bowed as low as she could. “He will contribute to weaving in his own way. But the daughters of Arachne will share her fate, lest they share her hubris.”

Now I saw for myself the effect of Hecate’s potion. Arachne had shrunk until she was small enough to snatch in my beak. Her body had become hard and round, with eight limbs sticking out of it. As she scrambled up the wall, a thread of silk followed her.

* * *

The rest turned out as Athena predicted. She never again summoned me during nesting season. As I raised brood after brood, I watched Arachne’s son, Closter, grow to manhood and invent the spindle. Arachne’s daughters multiplied, spinning their webs. Every time I spy one, I inspect it for any hints of outrage against the gods.

Rather than trouble Athena again, I will eat the offender myself.

Sandra Ulbrich Almazan is the author of the science fiction Catalyst Chronicles series, the completed fantasy Season Avatars series, SF Women A-Z: A Reader’s Guide, and several short stories. She’s also a founding member of Broad Universe (which promotes female writers of speculative fiction), a QA Representative at an enzyme company, a wife, a mother, a Beatles fan, and a member of the 501st Legion., which performs Star Wars costuming for charity.

She can be contacted via her website: www.sandraulbrichalmazan.com

Blog: www.ulbrichalmazan.blogspot.com

or Facebook page: SandraUlbrichAlmazanSffAuthor

Cover Layout: Amanda Bergloff