SATURDAY TALE - Made for Their Hands by G.D. Watry

The enchantress sacrifices all,

including her life with him...

The enchantress murmurs the incantation, her voice a lisping whisper in the snow-swept night. Despite the chill, she stands unmoving on the canoe’s bow, her body wrapped tight in a ratty peacoat. The cold seeps into her old bones, but no visible shiver passes through her body. She keeps the tremor locked in her spine, blocking its spread to her extremities. All she feels is tension radiating outwards and flurries kissing her wrinkled face. The balance between the internal and external stimuli is ethereal, a reminder of the eternal touch of Gaia, for whom the enchantress sacrifices all. 

Including her life with him. 

Wind sweeps across the thawed lake, creating spirals in the snowfall. The canoe wobbles in the chop. Ice chunks scratch against its cedar wood. 

Through the flakes, the enchantress can make out gas lanterns on the shore. The ones attached to the dock bob gently in the distance. They trace a path up from the dock to the cabin, lighting its deck. The enchantress can see the knots in the cabin’s wooden door. 

She could row to the dock and walk up that familiar path, hands touching each lantern along the way. She could knock on the door and wait for him to answer. She wonders if he’d be able to recognize her, be able to see who she used to be. 

The enchantress could do all that. But she won’t. She’s as close as she needs to be for the spell’s sphere of influence. And if she’s being honest, she’s as close to the island as she can bear. It hurts to be this close. 

The enchantress knows that memory has a geography, that places revisited can unbury the past. And sometimes those memories eclipse lessons learned by new experiences. They can occult progress, and worse, ignite reversion. Suddenly, you’re no longer what you are but what you were. 

The enchantress remembers… 

What are you? 

She was asked this question at the Altar of Devotion, hidden in the mines of Schwarz Mountain. 

Weak, the girl who became the enchantress replied. It was how she felt after that last ordeal. Her hands were stained with his blood. Though he was safe, his cries still echoed in her ears. She was ashamed she allowed him in harm’s way. Again. She had to do something. Her work was dangerous and he was insistent. He would never leave her side voluntarily, so she found someone with the power to help. 

I can make you more, the earth mother promised, powerful enough that you can protect the ones you love. But only if you promise your life to me. 

The enchantress swore her life away and became more. She became someone who could control the elements and exert her influence over the minds of others. Adventure filled her life as she fulfilled Gaia’s will, and often the fates of many were in her hands. The enchantress became a savior, revered and deified in certain corners of the world. She did her best to cultivate detachment, but still…

It isn’t enough. 

The enchantress doesn’t miss who she was, but she envies the love she used to have. She longs to be on the shore, to feel his arms around her and hers around him. Their bodies one; not on the outside looking in. 

But she knows it wouldn’t be the same. Her presence would only complicate the life he’s made without her, without the memory of her. 

Made so by my hand, she reminds herself. For his benefit. 

She stops the spell mid-cast when the cabin’s door opens, and he shuffles onto the deck. He raises a hand to his forehead, as if searching the darkness. The enchantress knows what it’s like to be under the influence of a waning spell, to feel its mystical grip slip. She knows he’s searching for her, that he can feel her presence. An impression of her is forming in his mind. A vague mask that he at first only saw in dreams is slowly becoming distinct, morphing into a face. Her face.

Not all ghosts are dead. She smiles at the thought.

He looks feeble from a distance, his face is scrunched in confusion. Gray curls spill from beneath his knit cap. She remembers brushing his hair with her fingers as they lay in bed in the morning, how he’d fall asleep under the spell of her touch, before she learned the ways of real magic. 

The enchantress wants to go to him, but she can’t and the reason why steps out onto the deck. 

The old woman materializes from the cabin’s darkness and touches her husband’s shoulder, rousing him from his midnight search. The enchantress doesn’t want to admit it, but she sees a smile break across his face. He loves the woman; she’s someone he can anchor himself to while weathering this storm of confusion. The enchantress has watched their relationship develop over the years, returning to this spot annually to wipe his resurfacing memories. Her words clear the gale in his mind. 

He has her, she thinks. He doesn’t need me.  

The enchantress continues with the spell. Alone in the cold, she tells herself, maybe things will different next year. 

G.D. Watry is a writer from California. His work has appeared in Pantheon Magazine, Hinnom Magazine, Horror Tales Podcast, OCCULUM, Enchanted Conversation Magazine, Third Flatiron Publishing, and The Molotov Cocktail, among other publications. He can be found on Twitter @GDWatry.

Cover: Amanda Bergloff

SATURDAY TALE - Breadcrumbs by Jude Tulli

I don't like the path these breadcrumbs 

are leading me on...

Breadcrumbs! They're not my personal favorites or anything, but...mmm, nice and stale the way Little Coocoo likes them. What we birds do for our young; if I just swallow them whole real quick I can barely taste them now, but the regurge gets me every time. I'd much prefer the flavor of worms or grubs, but parenthood is sacrifice, as my mother always said.

           

Besides, Little Coocoo is so cute when he's all open beak, waiting. What daddy-bird wouldn't endure a sourdough burp or two for such a welcome?

           

Uh oh, I don't like the path these...what am I eating again? Oh yeah, breadcrumbs! I don't like the path these breadcrumbs are leading me too close to the wick--oh Coocoo Boy! Excuse me, Coocoo Boy, I could be wrong but you have the look of someone who's lost. Something in the wideness of your eyes is how I know. I've seen it before in lost Coocoo Children before they—oh, but I do so hate sad stories!

           

Listen, I would turn around if I were you. Coocoo Girl, tell the Coocoo Boy why I'm running around you both in circles; if you carry on this way you'll soon be—

           

Hush now, Little Coocoo, I'm coming! Listen, Coocoo Children, my own offspring is hungry, and I have these yeasty thingies I gotta go choke up for him. If you can just wait for me here, I'll show you the way back to your home if I can remember where I picked up this trail of bread...thingamabobs.

           

Waiting sort of requires that you stop walking, though, okay? Okay! I'll be back just as soon as I can.

Little Coocoo! I'm sorry I left you alone so long but here, I got you some of your favorite human crumbly bready...breadcrumbs!  That's what they call them. Breadcrumbs!

           

Relax, of course there's more. All right, don't gobble down faster than I can gag up your precious little dough-globs.  

           

There! That should tide you over until—you're still hungry?! Coocoo Mother must be laughing at me now from her perch up in Feather-Heaven. I can just hear it.

           

Oh good, here comes your own Coocoo Mommy now. Coocoo! Here, I'm getting up so you can land in the nest.

           

Welcome home, Coocoo! What did you bring for Little Coocoo?  

           

That looks good, but he'll never eat ant eggs right after the wheaty, lumpy...breadcrumbs! That's it, breadcrumbs! I just fed him his favorites.    

Well what do you know...he likes caviar now. Learn something new every day. Clearly you don't need me here, so if you don't mind, I'm going to go borrow Coocoo Sparrow's nest and take a little...what's it called? Oh yeah, nap. Been so long since I've had one I can't remember.

Coocoo Sparrow's nest was full up of young ones, so I suppose Coocoo Swallow's empty nest has to do, petite though it is.

           

Funny how I can remember words like "petite" and “caviar” when I need them just for myself but "nap" eluded...so...tired. . .

       

What's that? Who's there? Stop pecking at my eyes! Can't you see they're closed?!

           

Oh, hello Coocoo Swallow. I thought you'd abandoned this nest.

           

Less work to rebuild it than start a new one, eh? Well, these are troubled times, old friend. Troubled times, indeed.

           

Very well, I'm up now anyway. I'd better go home and check on Coocoo and Little Coocoo.

I've been gone how long?! Of course you would have woken me up Coocoo, but I was too tired to tell you I'd switched nests. I can barely get comfortable with Little Coocoo nuzzling my tail, let alone with several Coocoo Sparrow fledglings nipping at my wings.

           

Oh no!  I promised Coocoo Children I'd return to show them the way home! Coocoo, can you feed Little Coocoo while I try to find them? I'll take care of him for the next few days to make up for it, okay?

           

You're the coocoo sweetest.

Now where did I first find the whatsit? Oh yeah, breadcrumbs! Maybe if I start at the witch's house I can trace the trail of my beakmarks back to where those Coocoo Kids'll be safe.  

           

Oh, dear! Coocoo Boy, don't start eating the house, it's just a prelude to—

           

Coocoo Girl, tell him to stop. Oh no, not you too!

           

I'm too late! They've been invited in, and they don't have the coocoo sense to say no.

           

I don't know if I have the stomach to watch how this story's going to end. Especially after eating all those breadcrumbs.

Jude Tulli lives in the Sonoran Desert with his beloved wife Trish and a small pride of housecats. For quick links to his other works published with EC (including the recent Krampus anthology), his novelette Faegotten and more, you can visit him on Goodreads. 

Cover: Amanda Bergloff

SATURDAY TALE - Off-Spring by Marcia Sherman

She sat on a rock near the cavern
where the river disappeared and kept watch...

Dusk was nudging the sun away. The breeze quickened to wind, and leaves scattered. Caritas sat on a rock by the pool, near the cavern, where the river disappeared. Twice a year she kept watch. She knew her mother was waiting for her; it was soon time to leave. But her grandmother was not yet in sight. Cari could not, would not leave until her hand was firmly grasped by the elder’s. She touched the birthmark on her right cheek. Maybe she would see her father again this time. Maybe Cari would get another kiss. His beard tickled, she remembered. That had been nice, even though it had burned a little and left a mark. Cari’s mother told her it was the shape of pom seeds. Cari thought it looked like tears.

Dusk edged through the trees and wind tossed leaves in every direction. Persephone wiped her hands and removed the apron. It was almost time; and all of the preparations for her absence were now completed. She eased into a chair by the door, waiting for her mother and daughter to arrive. She was ready to meet her husband. Every year Sephi went through the same rituals: clean the cottage, pack some personal belongings, smell the last of the flowers – even though chrysanthemums had little smell – and set out alone to the pool, by the cavern, where the river disappeared. It had taken her longer to prepare this year. Her growing belly kept getting in the way. Why was her daughter not returned?

Sephi knew Cari waited in hopes of seeing her father. However, Hades had been warned not to seek contact again. That would void the contract, and he would not chance losing Sephi forever. Cari, with her black eyes and fiery red hair, was the image of her father and his surroundings. This second child would be quite different. Cari’s brother would be born in dark, but would carry light with him always. He too would be the image of his father – and nothing at all like her husband. Sephi knew exactly how Hades thought, what wife doesn’t? At first he would be happy, over the moon as it were, to have a son. A son who – being born underground – would stay with him forever and take a seat beside him in the management of the underworld. All babes look alike at birth, and eventually change to favor one parent or the other. This babe would keep the coloring with which he was born. Hades would begin to wonder, and doubt, and suspect. Then he would count the moons, and he would know. This child, this son, with those cool, blue eyes and soft-as-spring-lambs pale hair, was not the son of Hades. Waiting for her daughter, watching out the window, Sephi let her thoughts wander. How was it she had been so weak? Was it really just all those months, year after year, in dark and heat? The soft, new grass and the rainbow of flowers had seduced her, along with his smile. She was lost, and loved, and never spared a thought to the complications which might arise from the joining. He had been gone when she awoke. Nothing for it now, just bear it and move on. Where was that girl?

Cari watched the shadows grow and tamped down her excitement and fear. What was taking her grandmother so long? There – finally, footsteps on the path, surely that was Demeter making her way to collect her granddaughter. Cari glanced past the cavern to get a better look through the trees, and her eyes widened in amazement. It was him! Had her yearning called him? She jumped up and ran to the cottage, calling to her mother the entire way.

Fontanus or Ueris? Either name would be perfect. It may be considered a slap in the face of her husband, but Sephi wanted a name to remind her of that breathtaking afternoon spent in the May bower. Shaken from the reverie by her daughter – at last! – calling to her, she gathering up her travel bag, she stepped out of the door. There was Cari dancing along the path. There was her mother, laughing. There was, wait, was it…him? She had not seen him in almost six months. Thought it impossible, considering the circumstances. Her knees gave out and he rushed to catch her. Joy shone like a May dawn on his face, amazed at the gift she held for him. Gently, he lifted her and carried her into the wood.

Cari watched her mother and companion and laughed delightedly. She looked up at the trees – did they suddenly seem a little greener? With one long loving look at the couple, Demeter smiled too. She took Cari’s hand, and they entered the cottage.

Hades waited for hours at the mouth of the river, in the cavern, near the pool. At length a messenger was sent. There was to be no argument. Just this one winter Persephone would not be returning to Hades. Other than the god of the river Styx and his bride, only the dead live underground.

It was remarked upon as the warmest and mildest winter in hundreds of years.

Only one snow fall - and that on February 14th.

Check out another story by Marcia

by clicking on the cover below:

Marcia A. Sherman writes flash fiction, specializing in re-imagined fairy and folk tales, and mythology, with a feminist bent. One of the stable of writers for Llewellyn Worldwide, she has been a columnist for her local paper, has self-published a children's book, and enjoys entering literary contests. Marcia resides in New Jersey and, with the arrival of a granddaughter, has recently been happily graduated to the position of crone.

Art: Evelyn de Morgan
Layout: Amanda Bergloff

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SATURDAY TALE - The Salt Pool by Angie Dickinson

There is a small, saltwater pool in the Peak District of Derbyshire.

It is said that a nymph bathes there.

The message said to be there on the night of her birthday. Alone.

Although Mairen turned sixteen on the last fine night that the people of the Peaks would see until spring, there would be no firelit celebration in her name. She had been forgotten her whole life, living sparsely on the outskirts of the little village she had been born into without a family.

Forgotten, that is, until she received the message instructing her to come to the salt pool.

The pool was said to be salt because of an underground passage to the sea, although no one could verify such a thing. It would have to be quite a long passage, as the nearest coastline was many miles west of the Peaks. Mairen rather thought that it was salt because it was an ocean by itself, but she kept that fanciful suspicion quiet.

The pool had to be much deeper than it was wide; it only took five lengths of a row boat to cross it, and legend said that no diver or pole had ever reached the bottom. The dark waters of the pool dipped into the white rock of the cairn quarry, a solitary, wind-swept place. Mairen never saw a soul there, although she visited the place daily. The scent of salt and the pull of the rippling waves felt more like home than her tiny shack ever had.

Mairen visited the pool regularly by day, but had never ventured near it at night. The air was cool as she approached, but the water must have been warm, for steam rose in evanescent curls off of its stirring surface, and fireflies danced above it, reflecting amongst the stars in the water beneath.

Mairen looked around cautiously. The stones that rose jaggedly from the isolated cairn quarry, brilliant white in the moonlight, threw long, concealing shadows. She shivered, viciously angry at her own stupidity, her desperation for human attention.

She turned to leave, and something splashed lightly in the water behind her. She whipped around, and her hands came up, ready to fight. Small waves furrowed the water, but still, she did not see a soul.

“Hello?” Mairen forced her voice through her compressed lungs, past her tight throat.

A dark shape moved at the edge of the pool.

“Oh, you really are mine, aren’t you?” A voice, like a warm wind through rushes, spoke clearly from the pool.

“Who’s there?” Mairen demanded, her voice louder than she’d intended, higher than usual. Against all reason, she took a step closer to the pool, then another.

“Come, daughter,” said the voice. The moon slipped out from behind a cloud, and shone down over the water, illuminating a dark, sleek head and wet, bare shoulders. Mairen gasped, but did not draw back.

“Why do you call me daughter?” she asked, kneeling down to the edge of the water. The figure in the pool did not move, but her dark hair swirled around her shoulders.

“See for yourself.” The figure turned her face up, and the moonlight bathed her features. Mairen had rarely seen her own reflection clearly, but she knew that she might as well be staring at it now. Wilder, perhaps, with ancient, deep eyes, but with her nose and dark brows, her sharp cheekbones, her lips.

“Daughter,” the woman said again, and the water stirred around her. “Your sisters.” Four more dark heads rose from the water. Each face looked like a young version of the one before her. Although their lips were solemn, their eyes danced in excitement as they stared at her.

“Your path will be harder than your sisters’, but you have the strength to follow it.” The gentle voice was louder now.

“What – what do you mean?” Mairen asked. Her eyes darted from one wild face to the next. The joy in her sisters’ eyes began to fade to something else. Something darker.

“Your father was of earth. Now that you are grown, you may join us, but incompletely. You will never be truly of the water until you have claimed your full strength from a human.

The water was liquid diamonds at her fingertips. Warmth and wildness and home. Mairen felt a tug of longing. “How?” she breathed.

“Join your sisters, tonight, when the moon shines over our pool on the night of your birth. Then, lure the young man, Kel, here.”

Mairen froze. She stared into the black eyes of her mother.

“Drag him down into the pool. He will die, and you will be a daughter of the sea, as you always should have been.”

The words knifed through Mairen’s chest. Rarely as she saw him, Kel, the innkeeper’s son, was the only person who had shown her kindness. The only person who seemed to realize she existed. How had her mother known he was the man who might come to her – and the one it pained her to hurt?

“When…when must I do this?” Mairen asked unsteadily.

“Tonight, of course.”

“But – how shall I lure him tonight? The village is a mile away, and it is already late –”

“He has been sent a message just as you were. He will come as surely as you did. But you must join your sisters first.” Her mother slid back from the pool’s edge, and Mairen caught a glimpse of her heavy, shimmering tail. A fin slipped above the surface of the water, elaborately studded with glistening adornment, its detail obscured by shadows.

Mairen’s sisters swam forward. The joy had returned to their eyes, and they reached out to her.

“Come sister, gently. We will keep you safe,” said one, her voice young and sweet. Mairen felt something bright rising within her, and she smiled. She sat at the edge of the pool, and gasped as she slid her bare feet in. The water was hot and abrasive against her skin.

“It’s all right, we will be with you, we will help you,” said her sisters, taking her hands gently in their small, cool ones. The smallest said earnestly, “It will get better!”

Mairen plunged into the pool. The water closed over her head, scalding and tearing at her skin. Her entire body screamed. Then a pair of slim arms wrapped around her, and another. Another, and another. She was sinking, fast. She had been tricked. Her lungs clawed for air, her heart pounded frantically, and the empty darkness of death pressed against her eyes.

“It’s all right, you’re safe,” whispered a voice in her ear. The voice was joined by three others, crooning and soothing. Her sisters’ arms clutched her tighter.

The water cooled against her skin. Her body flooded with light, utter relief, as if a balm had been poured over her, as if her lungs were full of fresh air. The arms held her, but she was no longer sinking.

Then, four sets of soft lips brushed against her cheeks, her forehead. Four voices, as soft and nearly inaudible as a distant wave, whispered against her healing skin, “She lies.”

When Mairen broke the surface of the water, she felt as if she were waking from the heavy cloud of a dream. The sky had lightened to violet, but the stars still shone brightly over the pool. The water was pleasant against her skin, and she felt no fatigue in her muscles. Dipping under the water, she found that she had no need of air. It had been no dream.

Down, through water as clear as green glass, she could see the figures of her sisters and mother. Waiting for her.

She wanted to join them. When she looked at her sisters, a keen sense of home and family roared, and gripped the deepest parts of her. She would do whatever she had to do.

Mairen surfaced again, and saw him: Kel, the innkeeper’s son, standing at the edge of the pool, gazing down at her with sheer amazement in his eyes. Fierceness thrummed through her, and she stared back, holding his gaze until she knew that he couldn’t look away if he wanted to.

“Mairen?” he said. He knew her name. The thought was enough to cut through the raging emotion, but only slightly. She would not let it weaken her. She threw up her arms, as her sisters had done.

“Let me help you,” he said gently. She shook her head. No. He mustn’t be kind. He knelt, and reached for her. Their hands touched, and indecision shivered through her. But she pulled anyway.

She wrapped her arms firmly around him, and they sank together. His arms tightened around her as well, and she knew he could not swim. He kicked his legs madly, panic rippling through his tense body; he knew he was going to die. She held him, her thoughts focused downward, and they plummeted. Something swirled around them, beating the water powerfully. His arms clenched, and then he let go and desperately tried to push her up. He was trying to save her. His heart beat wildly against hers. Then, his body relaxed.

Mairen looked up into Kel’s face. It had gone slack, and his eyes were closed. His head lolled against his shoulder. Something like poison darted through her and she knew herself, starkly.

As desperately as she wanted her family, she could never have them at such a price.

She swam up with a ferocity of speed, although her legs were still human, and shoved Kel above the water. Hauling him to the edge, she pushed his limp body onto the stone lip of the pool. She rolled him to his side.

A long moment passed, and a devastation heavier than the weight of the ocean began to fill her. What had she done? The pale autumn sun broke over the horizon, and the wind gently ruffled Kel’s dark curls. Then he coughed.

Relief coursed through Mairen as Kel coughed up salt water and his chest began to move up and down. His eyes remained closed, he didn’t try to sit up – but he was alive. The sky lightened to pink. Mairen pulled herself out of the pool and sat next to Kel.

With a rush of waves, four heads broke the surface of the water and blinked in the rising sun. Mairen’s sisters swam toward her, their eyes shining. Her mother was not there.

“I’m sorry,” Mairen whispered. “I couldn’t do it.”

“But you did do it,” said the oldest, her voice vibrating with contained emotion. “You saved a human life.”

“But – our mother said that I must take one.”

“Yes – she lied,” said a sister with a streak of lighter hair playing through the dark, and eyes more amber than brown. “She did not want you to challenge her strength. As a half-human, you could become one who dwells in water by night and land by day. If you had taken a human life, you would have been bound to the water, forever. But because you have instead saved a life, you are a nymph, free to dwell on land or in sea as you please. This also means you are stronger than she, and she owes you her allegiance.”

“Which would be why she is gone,” said the youngest, her eyes dancing with pleasure.

“Gone?” asked Mairen, peering down into the pool.

“We can access any sea we choose from this pool. Who knows where she went.”

“Will she be back?” Mairen asked. She slipped back into the gentle water beside her sisters, excitement stirring her blood.

“Yes – but you will be ready.”

Mairen followed her sisters into the fathoms-deep salt pool to explore her new home, where the sunshine followed them endlessly downward. When she returned later that evening, just to check, Kel had gone, and only the gleaming stars remained.

Check out another story of Angie's, "Knight of the Sun, Moon, and Stars," by clicking on the cover below:

Angie Dickinson is a busy mother, and an avid reader and writer. Her writing has been greatly influenced by fairy tales, folklore, and myth, and their deep well of renderings. She is grateful for every opportunity add to that well by expanding on old tales that capture her imagination. Her short story, "Knight of the Sun, Moon, and Stars," has been previously published in Enchanted Conversation Magazine. You can learn more about Angie and her writing by visiting her blog, Telling Tales. Follow her on Twitter @AngieSDickinson

Cover: Amanda Bergloff

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