Skazka

There once was a young man just grown, who was neither ugly nor handsome but just so, neither thin nor fat but just so, neither weak nor strong but just so, and neither meek nor bold but just so. His father, a merchant-man, died and left him a small fortune. Now, he and his father had lived shrewdly to build up that inheritance, and the young man said to himself, "Why should I go on and suffer now that I am alone in the world?"

So he set about to spending his money on fancy clothes in which to strut about town, lavish things by which to live comfortably, beautiful horses on which to ride about the country side, and warm drinks under which to revel and carouse. Soon he found himself friend of all in the town and welcome wheresoever he traveled in the kingdom. He bought fine jewelry and dresses for beautiful girls who strolled about town on his arm, laughed and lounged with him in his comfortable house, shrieked and whooped upon horseback in the country, and blushed and leaned in close to him in the cool evenings. He even kept company with the Princess herself on occasion, and gave to her a cottage in the woods.

And so he enjoyed himself for quite some time, for his father had been as shrewd and prudent a steward as the son was not. After many years, however, the man -- who was no longer young -- had spent all to the last copper coin. Without his purchase of flowing beer and wine, his friends no longer came round to make merry with him. Without his purchase of sparkling jewels and gifts, the lovely maidens no longer paid any mind to him. And without his patronage of their wares, the merchants and artisans no longer tipped their hat when they passed him on the street.

So the man knew that it had come time to make something of himself in the world. He sold his comfortable house, used the money to pay part of his debt for the cottage he had gifted to the Princess (who had been married to a Prince in another country), and bought himself a single-room shack which did little to keep out the winter's cold. Then he rattled the doors of all the shops he had once patroned, looking for work. Yet he had learned no useful skills in his years of merrymaking, and time had made him more ugly than handsome enough for barking, more weak than strong enough for hard labor, more fat than thin enough for royal service, and more meek than bold enough to press on in his search.

In the same town there lived a woman the same age, who was also neither ugly nor beautiful but just so, neither thin nor fat but just so, neither flat nor buxom but just so, and neither shrewish nor pleasant but just so. Her parents had been poor and left her no dowry. She set about to find herself a husband in the town, but none could be interested in the prospect. "Wait some more and some man will come along," said the townspeople. And though she waited for a man to make her his wife, year after year they passed over her for others. In the meantime, the woman, whose name was Skazka, dedicated herself to acquiring skill in cooking, cleaning, spinning, and weaving, through which she made a living and built up a dowry on her own.

Now the man cast his eye about town and it fell on Skazka for the first time. "Ah," he said to himself, "Here is a fine lass with which to be serious, and grow old pleasantly." And so he set about wooing the woman, in hopes that she would marry him. But he bought her no fine jewelry or wedding gown, because he had already spent his money during his youth. "And a good thing, too, for a good wife should not be so concerned with such material things."

Poor Skazka had longed for a suitor to come knocking at her door, and at first felt that her perseverance had finally fruited. But then she remembered the years and years in which the man had never invited her to stroll about town on his arm, nor lounge within his comfortable home, nor fly about the countryside on horseback, nor warm at his side in the cool evenings. "Oh, whatever will I do?" Skazka asked herself, and others in the town, who all agreed that it was good and just that she should settle down with the man. "After all, isn't that what you wanted?" they said. "And aren't you a perfect match for him?"

But Skazka could not console herself with this, and she wept bitterly all the night. Then she got up early and set out on the road to beseech the King for advice. The palace being some ways off, she was still traveling as the day wore on. She came upon where the great Snake had lain himself down across the road to warm himself in the afternoon sun, and could not make her way around him.

"Please, sir Snake," she said, "Move out of my way so that I can go to see the King."

"And why do you want to see the King?" asked the Snake.

"A man who did not want me now has little choice than to marry me, and I go to seek the King's advice on my dowry."

"Would you make a good wife?" asked the Snake. "Can you cook, clean, and sew?"

"I can host a party with nought more than hock and stale bread, laid out to eat off a dirt path, with a tablecloth made from the grass of the field," Skazka replied.

"So you say," Snake said, "but I shall see for myself, and if true I shall bring a husband worthy of such a prize. First, make me a slicker of leaves to keep off the rain." And he thrashed his tail to knock over a tree.

Skazka sat down by the roadside and used the tree to spin its leaves into thread, from which she made a splendid jacket. It was woven tighter than the Snake's scales; not a seam could be seen on it. After putting it on, Snake was well-pleased, and said, "Next, clean out my home. You shall find it not far yonder in a cave in the woods. I shall come along at sunset to sup."

Skazka went to Snake's cave and swept it clean until not a speck of dust remained. Then she polished and shined all the rocks until they sparkled like fine jewelry. But there was not even a rind to cook for the Snake's supper! So she looked about in the woods for something to make into a meal. "If I don't find something for him to eat, he will like as not gobble me up myself!"

Spying a nest up in a tree, she climbed up to see if there were any eggs. The mama woodthrush, seeing that her clutch would be lost, begged Skazka not to take her eggs. "Please spare my children, and I will do you a good turn."

"But what good will it do me if I am eaten up by the Snake?" asked Skazka, and she considered taking the eggs anyway. Again, the mama woodthrush said, "Please spare my children, and I will do you a good turn." So Skazka relented.

She walked on in the woods and came upon a boar who had become trapped under a fallen tree. "Ah ha," she said, "Now I have found supper." So she began to sharpen a stick with which to kill the boar. But as she was doing so, the boar begged for his life. "Please spare me, and I will do you a good turn." He kept on and on, and Skazka used her stick to free him from the tree trunk instead.

She walked on and met a mountain goat with a kid. Skazka sat down to milk the mountain goat, but she implored Skazka, "I need my milk for my young. Please, spare him, and I will do you a good turn."

"But what good can you do me if I am eaten up by the Snake?" asked Skazka. But the mountain goat begged her again, and her kid bounced around with vigor, and Skazka relented.

"Now I am in for it," Skazka said, "for it is almost sunset. Oh well, there is nothing for it." Fetching water from a nearby stream, she went back to Snake's hole and stirred the ashes of the stove into a roaring fire. Then she put a cauldron on the fire.

Out of the fire popped a little man! He asked Skazka what she was doing in Snake's house.

"I am making supper for him," Skazka said. "But I do not have anything to cook!"

"Ah, simple," said the man. "Make button soup!" And then he hopped back into the fire.

So Skazka cut the buttons off her dress and plopped them into the cauldron. About that time the mountain goat came clopping by the door. "Here are some carrots for the soup." And the kid was carrying onions. So Skazka put them in the cauldron. The mountain goat and her kid left and about that time the boar came grunting by the door. "Here are some mushrooms for the soup." So Skazka put them in the cauldron. The boar left and about that time the woodthrush came chirping by the door. "Here are some fine herbs to flavor the soup." So Skazka put them in the cauldron. The woodthrush left and about that time the Snake came slithering through the door.

"My my," the Snake said, flicking his tongue out to smell the soup. "But you have cleaned up this place and made a supper that does better than a Russian smell." The Snake ate up the soup. "Well, you did not lie. So I shall keep my promise, and I shall keep you as my wife!"

Now Skazka set to trembling, but she smoothed her skirt and said only, "Supper has surely made you feel warm. Let me make your bed for you." And she put hot stones from the stove all around the bed. The Snake slithered in and went fast asleep. Then Skazka took the stick she had sharpened for the boar and drove it into the Snake's head. And so the Snake was defeated. But as he died his body thrashed and Skazka had to flee from the cave.

Now it was dark, but the road was clear of the Snake so Skazka walked on. Suddenly, behind her, there came a clip-clip-clop of a horse. Skazka stood to one side and turned to look. There, in the moonlight, came a man riding on a fine horse, much finer than any that her potential husband had ever ridden. He came a-galloping down the road, but when he saw Skazka standing there he stopped.

"What are you doing on the road at this hour, all alone and with your buttons missing?" the man asked. So Skazka told him. "I am going to visit the King, but I was delayed by the Snake."

"What luck!" the man said. "I am going to the King, and I will give you a ride." He hopped down from his horse, but then he pushed Skazka into the ditch, tore her clothes, and left her there as he galloped on.

Skazka picked herself up, wrapped her torn and button-less clothes about her, and walked all night to the palace. When she arrived at the gate, the guards stopped her, thinking she was a beggar. But Skazka said, "I have come to report the condition of the King's roads," and they let her pass. At the palace door, the guards stopped her, thinking she was a beggar. But Skazka said, "I have come to report the condition of the King's roads," and they let her pass. At the King's court, the guards stopped her, thinking she was a beggar. But Skazka said, "I have come to report the condition of the King's roads," and they let her pass.

When she entered the King's court, all eyes turned to see her, for her clothes were torn and stained all over with mud, yet she entered the court with the bearing of a queen. She walked directly to the King's throne, the people parting on either side of her, and there she bowed deeply before the King, who spoke to her.

"How is it," he asked, "that you have come to the King dressed as a beggar?"

"I set out on the King's road to ask the King's advice on my dowry, but I was waylaid by the Snake. After I passed his tests, I set out again on the King's road, but I was waylaid in the night by a man on a fine horse, and he wronged me so that now I cannot even work as a scullery-maid, but must live by the road-side all my days. I have come to report on this to the King."

Upon hearing this, the King sent everyone out of the court. And he questioned Skazka as to the man on the fine horse, how he was dressed, and where he was going. After she answered all his questions, he sent her to work in the palace as a scullery-maid. "Take care that no one troubles you," he said, "because you have the King's favor."

Skazka devoted herself to her work in the kitchens; soon the head cook trusted her with all of the King's dishes. In time, she gave birth to a boy whom she named Ivan. Then the King moved her to nursery to work as a nursemaid for the princes, where Ivan grew up with the King's own sons (heirs to the throne after the old Prince died). Ivan kept so closely with the princes that many in the palace did not know that he was not a prince himself. Meanwhile, Skazka was well-regarded in the palace, and she came to oversee the royal weavers, seamstresses, maids, and kitchen staff. So she and Ivan lived for many years under the King's favor.

Then there came a time when the kingdom went to war with the Morskoi Tsar. All the princes and young men in the land left to fight, and Ivan went with them. All of the mothers in the kingdom waited for their boys to return home, but none did, for great and powerful was the Morskoi Tsar. And Skazka waited with them, until she turned old and broken with grief.

Then the King gave to her a cottage in the woods, one of the best in his kingdom, which had once been owned by the Princess (until she became Queen of another kingdom). She lived alone but for her servants, and the cold of winter hurt her.

One day, a messenger of the King brought word that many of the kingdoms' sons had returned home, freed from the dungeons of the Morskoi Tsar. Skazka heard the news as she lay on her bed, for she was dying. She begged the messenger to return at once and search for her son Ivan, that he might come and see her before she died. "If I can but see his face once more, my precious son, I can die happy."

But when the messenger returned, he said her son Ivan could not come, and that the King was coming instead. Skazka turned to the wall and wept bitterly, for she would end life the same as she had begun. She said to the King's messenger, "Send my thanks to the King, who has treated me better than the husband I waited for in my youth. But tell him to turn back and not worry over this old woman, unless to find my son and send Ivan to see me before I die."

The messenger left, but word came back that the King's procession was still on its way to Skazka's cottage. So Skazka had the cottage cleaned and swept and prepared to receive the King. But she could not rise.

Trumpets sounded, for the King had arrived. Skazka sat in her bed and faced the door. In came Ivan! He wore a crown upon his head, as did the beautiful woman at his side. Skazka received them both into her arms, weeping tears of joy. Ivan had defeated the Morskoi Tsar and become King, but he was still her son, and so had come to pay his respects. He introduced his Queen, one of the Morskoi Tsar's swan daughters. And the King and Queen stayed at the cottage with Skazka until her time. After, the whole kingdom mourned for the loss of its Mother. They brought her back with them to the King's chapel, where every citizen attended her funeral dressed in black. And never did they mourn so before or since, because Ivan and his Queen ruled the kingdom wisely and well.

My Fool Heart

I looked for her, you know, my fool heart curious at each new name. I saw her: my sort of pretty, sure enough, but something was missing -- some spark of a smile. We danced, and though she knew all the steps, she had nothing to offer.

I bade her goodbye; my fool heart belonged to me.

I walked with her, happy enough for company, my fool heart flattered at her interest in its hidden romances. We sat on a bench and looked at the stars. The night grew cool and she curled upon herself; I could not take what I would not give.

I heaved then a sigh; my fool heart belonged to me.

I turned her on her back and found more beneath than I expected. I asked what Providence wanted of her, and her uncertainty grated out over knives of exasperated sincerity. I stumbled about, my fool heart wanting to run where we walked, until I turned around and found her standing close by, patiently waiting for me.

She smiled and said "Hi"; my fool heart belonged to she.

I waited on her, trusting in words as footsteps diverged. Ambushed, neither could rescue the other from soul-sapping success, and each overcame apart -- and so we grew. Defiant of the tide, we set a honeyed course for the moon. My fool heart, anxious for an end to the cold isolation inhabited by lonely claws, revived and believed.

It had been a lie; hie, fool heart, along to me.

The Bandit's Beard

(A snapshot from a much larger tale.)


Like a flock of their namesake, the Crows descended upon and blackened the countryside. Strange it was for brigands to be making camp so openly, but then it was likewise strange for bandits to move in numbers more closely approximating an army. As the sky darkened to match their raven dress, glimmers of fire began to blink forth throughout the encampment in a scattering as random as the stars and streams above. Crows gathered around the firelight for warmth, and company, and the challenge of bettering their peers in tallness of tale.

"He's queerer than three-ounce doubloon, I tell ya." The declaration came from a man with skin wrinkled and darkened by Lux's rays, and the firelight cast his winding scars and patchy stubble into stark relief. "But Crows wouldn't follow a fairy around. So's he grows a beard."

"Puck's fire!" was the response of one of the man's three companions, a younger lad with lighter, unmarred skin and a darker, unbroken brow. "We all know the stories. He's famous for wenching. All the brothels loved him!"

”So’s he’s grown many a beard. Great stories, they are.”

"Aye, Triv, the legend runs that he pinned all the fancy flowers in his hat," said the oldest brigand there, stocky and white of hair, and wearing dilapidated gentlemen’s clothes, "but also that he never paid for any favors. Peke's claim isn't impossible."

A cheer went up a couple of campfires over, where a veritable bonfire had been raised, its flames licking at the moonstreamed sky. As the random cacophony of voices died down, a steady clapping continued, accompanied by the music of an impromptu band. Figures could be seen dancing in a carousel of shadow and flame.

Triv snorted. "Hear that? He's dancing with her right now. You've seen how he jigs."

"Dancing's different on your feet than in your bed, boy," Peke said. He emphasized his point by poking a long yew pole at the branches crackling in front of him. "It's all just a show for Crows. 'Sides, his skill at prancing about like a city dandy proves my point. Even ol' Mac agrees."

"Not necessarily," the white-haired Mac demurred. "I merely stated that the original proposition wasn't entirely devoid of merit. I can't agree that I find the fast waltz unmanful."

"But he claimed her on sight! And, did you see her? What man wouldn't?"

"Aye, Triv, I saw the stripes on her back. A slave girl ain't much a prize to claim. Better for sharing, 'less there's a reason he thinks taking her for himself would better keep the Crows following."

Mac coughed. "There could be the logistical problem of there not being quite enough to share for so many of us...."

"Them's as wanted her and could still make use, old man."

"See, Peke's just upset because he wanted her." Triv laughed. "And who can blame him? Slave girl or no, that hair, that shape, those eyes! She looked like a dream, like a princess, like... like a...."

"Fay," said the fourth man at the fire. Though he spoke softly, his voice resonated with power, a quiet confidence that instantly commanded the silent attention of the others. The flickering light smoldered in his dark eyes and danced over the ink carved into every inch of his visible skin -- from the knuckles of his hands to the top of his shaved pate. Tendrils of smoke drifted about his nostrils, but not from the fire: he held a hand-carved pipe in one hand. He was a thick-boned man, neither muscular nor fat, but nonetheless heavy and imposing of body. He wore leather garments, soft leathers built for comfort rather than protection, with an apparently random assortment of feathers, jewelry chains, and cut stones sewn into the raiment, so that even as he sat silent and unmoving the eye was drawn to his sparkling presence.

"C'mon, Proff, you don't really mean--"

Peke punched Triv in the arm. "Shaddup and let the Shahman speak if'n ya wanna learn something."

Proff looked up past the others. Everyone turned, following the shaman's eyes to a pair of silhouettes passing in the moonlight, just beyond the fire's radiance, as they made their way from the bonfire. The first was willowy enough to pass as a woman, if not for the clomping boots, the broadness of his shoulders, and the make of his hat. The flamboyant billowing of the tails of his long jacket could be seen even in silhouette, while the fluffy white feather in his hat glowed as it bobbed in the moons’ light. He reached a tent, the largest representative of the few of its kind in the brigands' encampment, and lifted its flap, patiently holding it open for his companion.

She, arrayed in a white blouse and skirt, not only passed as a woman but could not be mistaken for anything else, except perhaps a spirit. The length of her hair -- no slave's crop, this -- floated behind her like dark, wispy clouds chasing the full moon of her face. The actual light of the moonstream bounced off her clothes and pale skin with such intensity that she seemed almost otherworldly, an angel of light in this reality of darkness. No, it was the opposite: she was more real, and the light of her reality caused the rest of the landscape to dim in comparison.

She hesitated a moment at the tent's entrance, long enough that the gentleman rolled a hand in insistent but pleasant invitation for her to enter. After she disappeared into the tent, he followed, letting the flap drop after him.

"Understand," Proff rumbled, "the truth runs in the middle. It is all a show, but he also claimed her because he loved her on sight. He's not queer, but queerly bent. Broken, some might say."

Triv's eyes grew round and wide, enhancing his nonplussed blink. "Broken?"

"His heart's like a pot with a crack in it. It'll hold meal, but leaks water."

Peke scowled. "You're speaking in riddles again, Shahman."

"Long ago, before there were Crows, he cracked himself upon a Fay."

"Right. Fairies. And if it was before the Crows, how would you know?" Triv asked.

Mac cleared his throat. "Proff here goes back further than the Crows. He knew him when he was a lone thief."

"I did." Proff nodded. "And I witnessed him court the pixie."

"Ha ha, even I do not believe the pixie story!" Triv shook his head, smiling. "The Fay are just fodder for campfires and old wives."

"Just so. And we sit now at such a campfire."

"I mean they're not real!"

"Just so. Fay are creatures of fantasy. And that is why he cracked."

Proff leaned back and puffed on the long stem of his pipe. He exhaled a cloud of tobacco smoke, but did not speak again. His companions exchanged looks.

"Er, um, Proff, good sir," Mac said, "Perhaps you could explain better how you think an unreal being of fantasy could break a real, flesh-and-blood man."

Proff sat in silence for a few moments more. The embers in the fire snapped and popped, their color matched by the bowl of the shaman's pipe, the orange light of both appearing as twin sparkles in his dark eyes as he stared at nothing. The smoke of his pipe hung in a haze about his head.

"Well--" Triv began, before Peke rapped his shins with the stick. "Ow!"

Triv rubbed at his legs, frowning at Peke. For his part, Peke remained focused on Proff with an uncharacteristic air of respect. Mac's eyes were also on the shaman. Triv leaned back and sighed, then also turned his eyes to the fourth man. The fire snapped and popped again.

Finally, Proff spoke. "It is the nature of Fay to fool men to fall in love with them, but the pixie also fell in love with the fantasies he created for her, because such things were real to her. Together, they created a fantasy whereby he could win her hand, but to claim his prize would be to make the fantasy real. She would be undone. The pixie would not become mortal for a mortal, and so the game ended.

"But it was too late for him, and so he did the only thing that he could to be able to stay with his beloved: he, too, became a fantasy, a legend among men, a Fay who moved among humans and received their hearts but knew them not. Since his reality had shattered, he simply slipped through the cracks and left reality behind." Proff tapped the contents of his pipe out onto one of the stones ringing the fire. The others looked back and forth from the shaman to each other.

"So's I'm right," Peke said. "He is a fairy. And she's his beard."

Proff chuckled. "Yes. And no. For she is more than that; in his eyes, she is his beloved."

"So he lives his pixie fantasy out with the slave girl." Mac tutted to himself.

Triv glanced at the tent. "The slave girl alone is enough of a fantasy for me." Peke loosed a lewd snort and nodded agreement.

Proff, however, shook his head, and slipped his pipe through a loop on his shirt so that it joined his dangling assortment of ornaments. "He performs the role required of his fantasy, and loves the girl on sight as his beloved, but he won't become real for her. Nothing is as it seems with the Fay."

"Wait. I think I understand now," Mac said. He leaned forward, his eyes glowing in the firelight. "He seeks from her not the writhing and rolling of reality, but the twisting and turning of his fantasy. In other words, to him, she's not so much a fleshly beauty as an essential plot device to his tale. And so he gravitates toward her because she spins within his universe; he's as fixed upon her as Terminus in his moonstream above. He loves her as himself, as part of his fantasy that he weaves. He doesn't need her to serve as a marker for his manliness, no, for that's already been established in the previous pages. Instead, he acts the chivalrous knight and saves her from his very own band of thieving cutthroats. That means she's not his beard, a ploy to keep the Crows following, as much as she's his -- oh my. Oh dear."

The white-haired old man stared at Proff.

“It can’t be. Can it?”

The shaman cocked an eyebrow at Mac.

“He didn’t. Did he?”

Proff gave a slight nod that served both as a confirmation and a compliment. He stood.

Mac stood with him.

"Wait," Peke said. "What?”

"You shaman and your arrogant mysteriousness! How long,” Mac said, “were you going to just sit there while you knew such changes were afoot?”

The shaman shrugged. “Long enough to leave my friend’s fantasy unbroken.”

Triv looked around at everyone, baffled.

“There’s no more time for dilly-dallying.” Mac raised a hand to his chest. “I'll back you, Proff. You can keep the Crows from becoming a scourge upon the folk, and you have power and seniority."

"Thank you, old friend,” Proff said. “And you are right: There is little time left for wonderment and the ceremony of surprise. We must act now. Marlbough must be caught off guard. Only by our foresight can we outflank that sly fox and stack the odds against him."

Peke stood up, squinting. "I didn't tag along to polish Marlbough's boots. What do ya need from me?"

"Tork will be a problem," Mac said. "Same for Derril and his men. Round up men that you trust, then buzz those factions out. Quietly."

In response, Peke rapped his heavy yew pole against the ground. "Sure, I can do that," he said. "But I didn't quite understand the point of all yer five-ducat words before. Why are we acting as if our fairy god-bandit leader will be buggering off?"

"Because," Proff replied, "he already has."

"WHAT?" Triv said. He didn't jump to his feet as much as stumble backwards from the fire.

Peke hissed at the boy. "Fool boy, never shout. Not in this line o' work."

"But we just-- he's in his tent. With the girl! We all saw them go inside. Everybody did! He can't be-- can he?"

Triv looked at the faces of the older men. Peke rolled his eyes. Mac lowered his. But Proff met his gaze for a few moments, then closed his eyes and shook his head. "I am sorry, son."

The boy took a few halting steps backwards. Then he turned, mindless of Peke's quiet curses grasping at his back, and sprinted over ground as invisible and infinite as the night above, racing toward the tent belonging to the leader of the Crows. He did not slow, but burst through the entrance with a loud slap of body against leather, plunging into the even greater darkness within.

He immediately froze. What if it had all been a prank? An elaborate setup to embarrass him into bursting in on his commander like this?

Nothing but a void, black wall met his eyes. He stilled his shuddering breath and listened, but heard no sound other than an occasional, erratic flapping of fabric. He sucked in a deep gulp of air. "Sir? Uh, the men were, uh, worried about you and sent me in to check on, uh, things." His voice came out as a whisper. He swallowed, and spoke louder. "Sir?"

Nothing. Triv edged around the tent, keeping one hand on the fabric of the wall to orient himself until he bumped into a wooden obstacle. He fumbled blindly on the surface of the table, then found what he was looking for. He struck a match and lit the lamp. An oversized cot dominated the center of the tent, its pillows and covering unruffled. Beyond this, a thin vertical slit had been cut into the back of the tent, its loose edge rasping in the night breeze. Triv fell to his knees.

The bandit and the slave girl were gone.