Fractured Fairy Tales (25 page)

“How did I get here?” she asked, her gaze darting around the dark clearing.

Her father did not respond as he led her back to her room, put her to bed, and bolted the door from the outside. She could hear whispered conversation on the other side, but even with her ear pressed against the aged wood, she could not make out what her parents were saying. She vowed to ask them in the morning and began to stand up from her crouch near the door.

Arms wrapped around her from behind, and she tried to scream, her voice failing as the air was forced from her lungs by the embrace. She tried twisting around to see the attacker, but bony arms pinned her against his emaciated body.

“At last you’ve come,” he whispered into her ear. The chill of his breath startled her, and he snickered. The vibrations from his chest sent a shiver through her body, and she tried again to push away. “No, my Ararinda, you came willingly.”

Her voice quivered, “This isn’t real.”

Another laugh came as he turned her to face him. No light broke the black expanse around them that was her bedroom, but his eyes shined down at her as twin golden orbs, the same soft light she had once dismissed as moonlight through her shutters. The glow was not enough to distinguish his features, but it was enough for her to be caught in his gaze. Ara felt herself grow weak to the point of swooning, and he lowered her to the ground. The intensity in his eyes grew as he did, and she could see the glint from his wide, toothy smile.

She could hear her parents trying to unbolt the door and their shouts for her to open it. When both efforts failed, she saw the door bend against her father’s weight. After a few curses, he seemed to give up, and the only sound that Ara could hear from beyond her room was her mother’s sobs.

“Who are you?” she gasped as his hand followed the contour of her body, sliding the hem of her nightgown up her leg. Ara tried to force him away, but pulled her hand away once she touched the repulsive feel of his leathery skin.

“I am called The Hunter,” he whispered as his other hand slid up her back, his jagged nails catching in the rough fabric.

He pulled Ara closer, cradling her against his emaciated body, head resting against the sharp ridge of his collar bone. If she hadn’t felt his hand, she would have thought he wore a thin leather vest. When he shifted, she heard the bones creak and pop as the skin pulled beneath her cheek. He removed his hand from Ara’s thigh and roughly gripped her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze, the brightness nearly blinding her.

She tried to close her eyes to the golden glow, but found herself peering through her long eyelashes. She saw him gazing down on her as he straddled her body, his slender arms pinning her to the floor. He leaned over her and kissed first her collar bone, then her neck, before coming to her lips. The dry brittleness of his mouth against her skin appalled her, but the touch against such sensitive areas that had never been touched by another confused the girl.

Ararinda tried to turn away, her mouth opening to scream. He took advantage, his tongue slipping in, brushing against hers, and she felt a draining sensation go through her. The longer he held her kiss, the warmer it became to her, and the more she felt herself shrink as his body grew heavier atop of her.

The room was bathed in a soft glow. Ara realized the light was sourced by her own eyes. The Hunter stared wide-eyed down at her, and she saw her own sunken face reflected in the darkness of his pupils. His body had filled with her essence, but the sharpness hadn’t left his features. He pulled back, his full lips parted in a satisfied grin. She craved his warmth as her body became cold. She reached for him as he stood, a whimper escaping her cracked lips.

Whatever the creature had been when it had entered her room, it was gone. The man before her was young and unlike any man she had seen before. Even with the gold glimmer that tainted her vision, she saw his dark chestnut hair falling to his squared shoulders. His full lips curled, and his sharp nose wrinkled in revulsion as he looked at her. He shook his head and laughed when another thud sounded from her door, her father’s attempts at forcing it had begun again.

The Hunter waited for another three thuds before opening the door and letting her parents see her. “You broke your promises,” he chastised them.

Her mother shook her head emphatically. “No! We did as you said. We raised her as you asked. She is a good girl.”

“You allowed her innocence to be spoiled. You,” he sneered, pointing first at her mother, and then her father, “and you, took whatever traveler you desired like rutting dogs and allowed her to see it. You did not stop the monk from fondling her young body.”

Ara’s father puffed his chest at the insult and stepped forward in protest. “We put an end to it when we found out and never allowed it to happen again.”

The Hunter shook his head. “It never should have happened in the first place.”

“She is a good girl,” her mother whimpered again.

“She has viewed her own image, and she has broken the boundaries you laid. She could not resist the call. A ‘good girl’ wouldn’t have done that,” he replied with a bitter laugh. He took a step toward the door and her parents shrank away. “I told you to raise a pure bride and good fortune would come to you. You have failed. Now you can stay here in this sad, little inn and tend to those few who come, knowing you could have been great.”

Ararinda looked at her withered hand. The light of the candle in her mother’s lantern hurt her eyes, and she hid her face from it. She didn’t need a mirror or anything else to know she was more decrepit than the Hunter had been when he had come to her.

Her father’s stare had not left her. He barely acknowledged the Hunter’s words or bothered to comfort her wailing mother. Even when he was pushed aside for the Hunter to leave, he didn’t look away.

Before the strange man could leave, he found his voice and asked, “What should be done with that thing?”

A sudden rage filled Ararinda as her father pointed at her and referred to her as a ‘thing.’ An inhuman growl escaped her thin lips, cutting off her mother’s sobs, turning into a pitiful whimper.

The Hunter stopped in the doorway and looked over his shoulder, bowing his head to Ara, a cruel smile playing his lips, before taking his leave of them. “Hunt the darkness, Ararinda.”

Hidden City of the Sea
Jeanette Joyal

In another realm, a secret is kept.

Buried below the Ocean depth.

An ancient battle was fought long ago

A tale of two cities that was never told.

Most believe that there was only one city of the sea
However we were all deceived …

Molded from precious metals from the fires below
It stood gleaming, tall, and majestic—a city made of gold.

Hidden deep within secret waters.

Even the Gods of Olympus didn’t know of its existence.

You see the great titian had three Sons, indeed.

The three mighty forces; rulers of the Sky, Earth and Sea.

Little did they know there was another.

Not a God, but a Goddess like no other!

Aliana, a breathtaking, enchanting vision to behold
A raven hair beauty with skin so white it seemed to glow.

Eyes of ember that burned like hot coals.

One that controls the fires of the depths below.

She soon was discovered by the powers that be.

Their rage could be felt throughout the Sky, Earth and Sea.

Four elements collided; this was never meant to be
The intension for the four was to create harmony.

Poseidon, being the worst of the three

In a fit of anger, he commanded the seas,

“Swallow both magnificent cities.”

He buried her city under his own

Now hidden many leagues below,

it lies under his mighty golden throne.

Trapped there, she must now wait until,

that day when she makes her escape…

A Pleasant Surprise

Nicole Daffurn

Echo

*This story is written in UK English*

NC Thomas

Echo listens to the soft crunch of the freshly fallen leaves under her feet as she wills herself to the edge of her forest at the base of Mount Olympus. Though she knows the forest as her only home, she never tires of it. She is a Dryad, a woodland Nymph, born from the roots of a tree. The forest is not just her home, but her life force. It is the mountain, with its sharp rocks digging into her soft feet and making them bleed, that fills her heart with sorrow. Oriads are the Nymphs of the mountains, but they do not reside on Mount Olympus. The Gods have claimed the rock as their own.

The cold air of the mountain makes its presence known on the edge of the forest, and soon, she reaches its foot. Stopping for a moment, as she always does when she comes to this point, she sighs. She remembers the day she became bound to this obligation. It is an invisible chain around her neck, and each time the chain seems to become heavier.





Since the forest had sprouted to life, men had wandered in, looking for proof of the legend of the Nymphs. This discovery had brought both joy and sorrow. Nymphs were beautiful in the stories and reality, and it was a blessed curse. The men received their carnal pleasures, and what once had been a curiosity, became obsession. Until the forest took their soul and poured it into the river that gave it life.

The man who came that fateful day looked no different than any other, except he appeared to be much older than the men Echo was used to. It was not wisdom brought on by age that made this so, but rather, the journey was too much for those who had seen more years than most. It made no matter to the Dryads—human bodies aged, but their souls never did. The man told them he was fleeing his wife; that his old ears could no longer listen to her incessant nagging about his comings and goings. Echo felt a twinge of pity for the man and listened to his woes as her kin attended to his needs. For an old man, his appetite was large and he kept going through the night—sometimes with more than three Nymphs at a time. Echo still thought nothing of it.

He has probably been starved of any affection by his wife for some time
, she thought.
Besides he is old, why shouldn’t he go with ecstasy running through his veins?

Once he had finally been sated, he asked Echo to sit with him and tell him tales of the forest. She gladly did, never tiring of her home. He spoke little, except to tell her, as so many had before, that her voice was like the tinkling of bells, a sweet music to his ears. Then the footsteps came crashing down on the forest floor like thunder.

“My wife!” the man said with panic in his eyes. “She has found me. Please, you must help me!”

“How?” Echo asked.

“With your voice,” was his response.

Echo agreed, not knowing how much it was to her and the other Nymph’s detriment. She followed the sound of the footsteps warily. Nymphs didn’t usually show themselves to women; they had no need to. However, not only did Echo want to help the old man; she wanted to see the face of the woman whose anger could be felt in the soil. When she came face to face with her, Echo held her breath in surprise.

She had expected an old crone of a woman: aged, ugly and stooped. Instead, she faced a woman of exquisite beauty, with large, dark, oval eyes, large lashes that reached her brow, and milky white skin. Her black hair moved as if a gale wind rushed through the forest, but the air was quite still. Echo fulfilled her promise and distracted the woman with tales of the forest until she was calm again.

As the woman made to leave, she turned to Echo. “Yours is a voice that soothes. My husband and my responsibilities give me nothing but grief. I shall speak with you again.”

Echo said nothing, a rare occurrence for her, as she was so very fond of speaking. She did not want to agree and willingly welcome a woman into a forest that only looked to entertain men. Her silence seemed to speak volumes and that angered the woman.

With a thunderous look in her eyes, her voice filled the silent forest when she exclaimed, “Do you know who I am child? Do you know who my husband is? I am the daughter of Cronos and Rhea, mother of war, sister and wife to the supreme God Zeus. When I ask a question it is answered.”

Sorrow and dread suddenly filled Echo’s heart, and the forest seemed to quiver in fear upon the realisation of what had entered it. The woman was not a woman, but a Goddess from Olympus. Not only a Goddess, but Hera, the Queen of the Gods and patroness of marriage and fidelity. She was known for her jealousy and vicious nature, which drove towards a never-ending lineage of revenge. It could only mean the old man, who Echo had welcomed and the Nymphs of the forest had pleasured, was none other than Zeus, supreme ruler of Olympus.

Echo could do nothing but agree to the demands of the deity. Hearing what she wanted, Hera left and Echo returned from whence she came upon first hearing the footsteps. The old man had disappeared, and instead, there stood a mighty figure with an aura of blue that seemed to crackle.

“You must leave this forest, King Zeus, and never return,” Echo declared. “Your lies and deceit have brought danger to us all.”

“I shall leave,” Zeus solemnly replied, but a menacing look crossed his face as he added, “but I will return.”

“You are not welcome.”

“The forest does not refuse any man.”

“But you are not a man, you are a God, and a God with a vengeful wife known for hating my kind who serve the pleasures of man.”

Zeus smiled. “And what would my vengeful wife do when she finds out that, not only did I have all of your kind in one night, but that you also tricked her with your voice?”

Echo stood rigid in shock at the realisation of what he was saying.

“Hera knows of all my infidelities, and still welcomes me back with open arms of forgiveness each time. Yes, there is a period where her hate runs so cold that I sometimes wonder who the supreme God is, but time means nothing to Immortals. We know eternity together means so much more than a fleeting moment with a lesser creature.”

And that was how Echo ended up climbing the craggy rocks of Mount Olympus over and over to distract Hera while Zeus had his way with the Nymphs—without ever having to pay the forest back. Time passed and seasons changed, but still he didn’t tire. Like all other males, he became obsessed with the Nymphs, but they couldn’t bring an end to it. The forest began to wither, and the legend of the Nymphs slowly became only legend. Men were able to pass through without ever looking upon one of the woodland sirens, who were always attending to Zeus or exhausted from it. There were times Echo would begin the climb, resolving to tell Hera of the trickery and falsehood of her visits. However, once she reached the top, she was once again fearful of what would happen to her kin and the forest, and thought better of it.





She reaches the peak and stops for breath. Her feet are blistered and cracked, with ripped and torn toenails. She dares not put her feet into the healing waters of the forest river, for fear that she will take any of the energy from it. The other Nymphs who Zeus uses, no longer bathe in it either, even though they are sore and raw from the physical violations. Echo, with her sweet voice, is the only one who lifts their spirits, telling them their suffering is worth the saving of the forest, and Hera’s wrath will be much worse if she finds out.

The top of the mountain is shrouded in thick clouds that make it impossible to even see her hand in front of her face. These clouds serve as the gates of Olympus and will only disperse when the Horae, daughters of Zeus, deem she can enter. Echo waits as she always does, for the collective voice of the Horae, who always speak in chorus.

She waits and waits, but still the voices don’t come. Echo calls out into the thick mist of clouds, “I am here to speak with Hera.” The silence is deafening. Echo, lover of words, finds that silence seems to say more than speech. In her heart, she knows something is terribly wrong.

Her descent down the mountain seems longer and more painful than the climb up. She screams aloud in pain as the rocks dig into the raw cuts on her feet. When she nears the bottom, she leaps off to land on the soft grass at the edge of the forest, unable to take the pain any longer. When her feet touch her home, she feels its tremors vibrate through her feet and legs. The forest is fearful.

She feels a presence waiting in the trees, one she knows all too well, but wishes she didn’t. She could walk the other way—around the mountain to another forest, or perhaps to the sea where she could join the Nereids—the sea-nymphs. But her place is here, in the forest, which she knows as her home. She can’t abandon that which she has risked everything to keep safe.

She makes to walk amongst the trees, when Hera appears at the edge.

Terrifying and beautiful at the same time, her eyes hold storms that are waiting to be unleashed. “And now I know the truth, grass wench. Now I know why you visit me with your voice of liquid silver and tales of your wretched and adulterous forest.”

Echo, like the first time she met the Queen of the Gods, is unable to speak. However, it is not for want of speech. She wants to tell Hera of how her husband tricked the Dryads, and she had only gone along with it out of fear for the forest and her kind, but the words will not come out. It is as though they are trapped in her throat, and when she can no longer hold them in, she splutters, and a sort of hissing noise falls out her mouth.

Hera smiled and circled around Echo as the nymph holds her throat. “As a rule, I do not care for your kind, whilst my husband is the apparent opposite. Oh you are not the first, harlot of green. I know my husband well, and he thinks he can trick me with these diversions of his. Do you know the story of Io?”

Echo has not, but she can’t answer to say so.

“Io was a beloved priestess of mine who I grew to love like a daughter. My husband coveted her and took her maidenhood whilst he covered the sky with black clouds so I couldn’t see. But I always know. To cover his cheat, he turned Io into a cow to hide her from me. I called his bluff and demanded her as a gift, mine to torture for eternity. She is still mine, and I never tire of her pain. You see little Nymph, you are against everything I stand for and more. Whilst wives lie on their backs in duty towards their husband, your kind doesn’t just lie, but straddle in rapture. I will not allow it.”

“It!” Echo screams, and her voice bounces off the sides of the mountain as though it is rising into the sky. She wants to say something, but she has lost control of her voice. She looks to the forest and wills for Zeus to appear, to put a stop to all of it.

Surely he will come; surely he will see that it isn’t fair.

He doesn’t come. Slowly, figures begin to appear, kicking and thrashing their legs wildly. They dangle by their necks from the branches of trees, clutching at their throats.

Echo’s eyes widen as she recognises each of the figures as the Dryads. She turns to Hera, pleading with her eyes as she has no other way to beg.

“You have a choice, root slut,” Hera says gravely. “Either they die, or you become my new Io, my new toy to punish as I see fit. Choose now.”

For Echo, there is no choice. Above everything, she loves the forest. Without the Dryads, there won’t be one. She tries to nod, but Hera stands stone faced, wanting her to make a reply.

Echo wretches at first, and her throat burns as she bellows, “Take… me.” Her voice is no longer like the tingling of bells, but hollow and cold. Again it bounces off the mountain, over and over.

Hera looks up at the mountain as though she is following the direction of the voice. “It would seem, I have found my justice. No longer will you be Echo, speaker of words and tales. Men will never bask in the sound of your voice like it is music to their ears. Forever more, you will be known as Echo, repeater of words. You will never make a sound of your own ever again, wood whore.”





The other nymphs are free of both Zeus’s insatiable appetite and Hera’s vengeance, but the damage has been done. The forest remains, but alas, it is too late. The Dryad nymphs haveturned to legend, and men merely stumble on the place by accident rather than with intent. Forevermore, Echo’s beautiful voice will never be heard again. Instead, she is trapped to repeat the last sound of those around—never the first to speak.

My suffering is nothing
, she thinks to herself,
so long as the forest survives.