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Editor’s note: The structure of this story is pretty traditional, but I love the surprising little details. And I really wanted to know what happened next as I read through it. A very satisfying read. Long ago there lived an old king who when young had married a woman he deeply loved. She bore him one daughter and then she died. All the king’s advisers told him to take another wife, one who might bear him a son. All told him this but one tall and gaunt adviser, known as a skilled magician, who said that it was an ill-omen to marry with a heart sore sick with grief. And so the king refused every lady of the realm. Now in time the princess grew, and all the gentlemen of the kingdom wanted her. Not only was she as beautiful and witty as her mother, not only did she have the strength and tenderheartedness of her father, but any man who wed the princess would inherit the throne upon her father’s death. And yet still many advisers cautioned him to take a new wife. And yet still the magician said that it was an ill omen to marry with a heart sore sick with grief. The king still missed his wife dearly, and so he did not marry. Now this magician had a son not much older than the king’s daughter, and he so contrived it that his son married the king’s daughter. The match had not been to the princess’s liking, but the magician had the power of persuasion, and the king did as he suggested. Now it came to pass that the magician grew old and sickly. Fearing his death, fearing that the king might yet take a new wife, and knowing that his son had none of his powers, the magician decided to poison the king. Every evening when entertainment and supper were had in the great hall, the magician would bring the king his wine but sprinkle some powder with noxious effect into it. Soon the king grew sicker than the magician. The king’s council quickly called for all the herbalists and hedge-witches in the land to come forward and help cure their king, promising a rich reward. The magician knew not how he could argue against the plan, so he argued in favor of it. In favor of it but with a twist. The magician suggested that he, who had some knowledge of the healing arts, should guard against those who wanted to fraud their way into a kingly reward. And so the king’s poisoner became captain of those who would find the king’s cure. Week after week herbalists and hedge-witches, midwives and all sorts of cunning folk came to see if they could cure the king. The magician met with them all and questioned them about their knowledge of the healing arts. Whenever any herbalist or hedge-witch, midwife or cunning folk showed any sign of true knowledge, the magician cast them out as simple fools. Whenever they showed no true knowledge, he welcomed them in. And so the king worsened. One day when the king was especially sick, a woman came to the portcullis wishing to play her lute for the king. The magician still met and questioned her. And he noticed odd equipment in her lute-case. “What is that powder?” he asked. “It’s meal from my country, far in the East,” said she. “And what’re those straw-like objects?” said he. “Those’re capos from my country, far in the East,” said she. “And what’re those pebbles there?” said he. “They’re picks from my country, far in the East,” said she. He then asked about the healing arts and she pretended ignorance, for it is no evil to deceive a deceiver. Satisfied with the lutist, the magician allowed her to play for the ailing king. Her tone sang sweeter than honey, her melody made the sternest knights cry, and her rhythm carried all before it. To reward her, the king invited her to his table for the meal. “You played with wondrous skill,” said the king. “do you have other skills, madam player?” “Many, your majesty,” said the woman, “But you might enjoy these three.” She showed the king the powder, which she could sprinkle into wine to lessen its effects, and so allow one to drink longer into the night and with greater pleasure in the morning. This trick tickled the king mightily and he poured a heavy heaping into his own drink, and the magician frowned. She showed the king the straw-like objects, which she said would turn even the sourest wine into ambrosia. The king called to the kitchens, and the cook brought vinegar out. But after three twirls of the straws, the king could gulp the wine and declare it the best he had ever tasted. And the magician grew alarmed. She then showed the king the pebbles. “These, sire,” said she, “Will smoke in any poison-touched wine.” Then the magician stood and tried to end the night. “Your majesty,” said he, “That’s enough of petty parlor tricks.” But the king took three pebbles from the woman, and he tossed one into her drink, one into the magician’s drink, and one into his drink. His drink sputtered and smoked. The consternation and anger of the hall is better imagined than described. They captured the magician and promptly hanged him from the ramparts. And the king announced that he would immediately take the lady magician to wife. “But dear father,” said the king’s son-in-law, “isn’t it an ill-omen to marry with a heart full of grief?” And the king said, “I must do what I think best for the kingdom, pray, and bear the consequences if I am wrong. Only a fool trusts a proven liar.” And so the king and the lady magician married, and though the king never forgot his true love, he had some happiness. The lady magician bore him a son. The son grew strong and just, and as king he relied upon the advice of his brother-in-law who had learnt from his father’s disgrace, his father-in-law’s mercy, and his wife’s tenderheartedness and was always truthful and honest. Judd Baroff is a subcreator living the the Great Plains with his wife and young daughter. You may find him at www.juddbaroff.com or @juddbaroff. Image is by Wilhelm, no last name given, from 1890, for a pantomime costume.

Editor’s note: The use of folk magic in this poem, along with its economy of words, paints a truly magical picture for the reader. And I love the twist at the end—you will, too! You can keep witches from your door With two dead cats Underneath your floor. To guard against witches’ evil looks Press four leaf clovers In a heavy book. A better way to keep out ill Is a jar of broken pins On the windowsill. Both mistletoe and the rowan’s wood Will keep out the bad And in the good. Add horseshoes nailed to the front porch posts To give fair warning To the devil’s hosts. Then cross your fingers behind your back Throw salt past your shoulder Don’t step on a crack. Because you see it’s all their doing The still born calf The failed seed sowing. Behind the guise of midwife and nurse A witch works her evil And plants her curse. If you work these charms free of fear or doubt God will dwell within And the witch without. Don’t dwell upon that disquieting glitch That if your spells work Then you’re the witch. Wendy Purcell was a nurse, now she writes. Her short stories and poems have appeared in [Untitled], Braindrip, Unusual Works, Every Day Fiction, Vautrin and The Haibun Journal. She lives near Melbourne, Australia and is often in her garden that is both too big and yet never big enough. Broken lock Image from Pixabay.

Editor’s note: The wild, prose-poem imagery of this work grabbed me with its teeming, excited, magical, fevered language and pace. It both exhorts and exalts. Listen. To the language that requires no ears to hear with, no vowels, consonants, diphthongs, declensions, or twisting acrobatics of the teeth and tongue. Consider the bowed willow and the bottomless well, the rusted gate, the creeping rot in the castle walls, the fork in the road, the broom on the hearth, black crow, drop of blood, wolf, thorn, snake, shooting star, moon and sun. In daylight we are deaf to portents, blind to treasure. In dreams we dance with them from midnight til dawn, forgetting our shoes and ourselves, bloodying our toes without a care for the doctor’s bill. The kingdom of dreams is a forest glutted with soul’s gold, thick as porridge in a hungry bear’s bowl. Here, all the falls you take never end. Here, every path is winding (in on itself, ouroboros). Until you wake up with a jerk, a thump, a snap of the blinds rolling up (eyelids) as the bleating alarm rollercoasters through your ear whorls. Tiger tiger burning bright in the forests of the night stares with sad cartoon eyes from the cereal box. Every bottle at the table beckons, "Drink Me,” and every day you reach for the bitterest potion of them all. Wonderland weeps while you dig Mr. Sandman’s crusty gifts from your dry eyes and brush your teeth. Every day you take the highway most traveled by in the forest-less kingdom to which you banished yourself in search of the prince(ss), the cure, the shiniest object (so many you cannot recall). Here, everyone has a magic mirror; here, we devour all the pretty red apples, every gingerbread treat. Can’t Stop, Won’t Stop. The Hustle is Real. The magic mirror shows all and comes with an iron-clad pinky swear promise that it does not lie (read the fine print: it sells dreams, my dear, for a very steep price). In the tower overgrown with sleeping briar roses, the child you once upon a time were wonders when you’ll stop following crumbs and pills and climb out of the oven. Can’t you see all of the bones? Are you blind? Are we better off awake or asleep? Some say we are asleep—we need to wake up. Be Woke. Woke AF. It’s on t-shirts, in memes. Wake up from the dream! Or if you must dream, Dream Big! Dream Better! Need help? Consult the magic mirror for more great tips! You have a dream. You are seated at a dinner table, honored guest. There is no silverware. You panic. Everyone at the table is a stranger, except the janitor from your elementary school. They are hungry, but they cannot eat until you begin. The feast steams impatiently on silver plates. Anxiety squeezes your guts. Do you eat with your hands or ask for a fork and a knife? Or do you run? Your legs are rusted tin, your head withered straw. You dig in your pockets for courage—there is none. For a moment, the veil lifts. In that magical realm between asleep and awake, choices can be made. Unlock the forbidden door, trade your cow for the magic beans, grab that oil can to your right, next to the roast beef. You hesitate. The alarm roars. You wake and forget. You forget the language of the most tender, loving tongue hiding in plain sight, breathing endless buoyant ribbons of wordless tales to tilt the trees, wave the grass, sing the birds, churn the waters, flame the fire, and strike the blossom up through the strip mall parking lot. Pluck it. And with a swish-flourish-slash cut away the strangling briar hedge and set all of the sleepy prisoners free. Huzzah! In this wondrous Imaginarium, this universe-kaleidoscope, this endless rollicking play—you, too, are the wordless words. Can you hear you? Close your eyes, click your heels three times and whisper: “I am infinite possibility.” Listen. In my house there’s a wolf who lives like a dog, but has not forgotten he’s a wolf. He reminds me with his hunting slink, his howl and growling over a bone. He prowls the kitchen and delights the daycare children down the street. “Wolf!” they shout with glee and point and laugh and waggle their fingers, reaching through the fence to touch his wet black nose and weave small hands into his cool gray fur. They know what they see when they see it. They have ears to hear with, eyes to see with, noses to smell with, and teeth to eat with. No ovens for them. No crumbs and stale candy houses. No magic mirror tricks. They choose the wolf. As do I. Trip trap typing on my magic mirror I conjure the words from each precious heart thud spiraling rosy life through my 60,000 miles of winding arteries, veins, and capillaries (and back again). Ferocious and tender love for the woods and the path, for the wild wolf and the wild child overflow this electric tangle of space and flesh, blood and bone, constellations and stories. Words, thoughts, firecracker synapses unravel in an endless river of poppies, poppies, poppies red as my hood, red as my blood from the finger I pricked on the endless spinning wheel on this spinning rock in a spinning galaxy of stars—I dream. Listen. The clock is striking twelve, final as the blow of the huntsman’s axe, transformative as a kiss. Run. Feel the moss and flowers kiss your bare feet in welcome and relief. Ahead, an ancient hut dances round in circles on wizened chicken legs and throws open the front door. On the hearth, fast asleep, the wolf dreams of grandmothers and rabbits. The skulls on the rusty iron gate douse their light, for the dawn rider is already thundering by. The path is clear before you and the morning here is soft and sacred, touched everywhere by gentle gold. You are home, dreamer, weaver of stories woven in dreams. Awake. Liz is a Movement Educator and Storyteller. In her Louisiana studio, she helps folks create healthier movement stories to live by. Beyond the studio, she reimagines folk and fairy tales, mixes them with creative movement, and shares them with children through her “Tales with a Twist: Stories That Move!” programs. Image by Pixabay

Editor’s note: The power of dreams and the obsessive devotion of a mother made this story ring true to me. There is sadness and grace in this powerful story. The broken-winged moth stumbled into my mason jar like a drunkard, its left wing torn like the paper scraps I used for writing shopping lists: baby formula for James, half-price turkey, dandelion greens. I set the jar on the cabin windowsill facing the petunias so I could pretend the moth would fly back home. Later when I saw my baby boy slumping in bed, I thought of that moth: the flap of a single wing against glass, shards of moonlight illuminating its legs, the clear glass both a promise and a prison. The doctors ran tests. Ventricular septal defect. A hole in his heart. We’ll waitlist him for surgery. No guarantees. I brought James home and watched him. When his lips blued and his breath shallowed, I clutched him in his dot-patterned baby blanket and kissed his dandelion-fuzz hair, fearing it would be the last time. The night winds whispered to the blue moon. Before she passed, Grandma Rose had rocked with me on the porch swing and told me that blue moons attract Dreamkeepers, healers with hands the color of dried blood and hair made of milkweed blossoms. I thought they were a myth that people blanketed themselves with when the world grew too cold, until the Dreamkeeper appeared at my moonlit window. Metallic silver revealed her in streaks like a Polaroid picture developing. It doesn’t have to be this way, the Dreamkeeper said gently. Do you know what it’s like to lose a son? I asked. I’ve never had a child. She stroked a half-heart birthmark on her cheek. But yours can grow up in your dreams. When I saw my boy’s body crumpling, like that moth in the jar, I didn’t ask the price. I just said yes. Word spread that James was gone. The townspeople brought potato casseroles and whispered about funeral arrangements. Cremation, I lied. I couldn’t tell them I had handed my son to the Dreamkeeper before he could take a last breath. I nodded politely from the doorway, my unbrushed hair like wild vines. Then I shooed them away so I could sleep. James’s bunny rattle jangled in my mind as I drank chamomile tea. Soon, the wood-paneled bedroom walls dissolved into the gray mist of dreams. I heard James’s cries before I saw him resting in his oaken cradle in our shared bedroom. His tiny breaths warmed my palm as I stroked his cheek. Hush. Mama’s here. I placed a hand on his chest, hoping my warmth filled the hole in his heart. I shook that bunny rattle, the one Papa had wrapped in jackrabbit fur. James kept his eyes closed, and his cries calmed into the steady noiselessness of things that flourished as we both slept. In my dreams, James lived and grew just like the Dreamkeeper had promised. Once, I woke with sore fingertips from soothing the nub of his first tooth breaking through. Chickadees outside the window cawed along with his murmurs. I wondered what songs and whispers he heard when I wasn’t there. Another night, golden dreamlight suffused the cradle. The light danced and James laughed from the alphabet carpet on the floor. He curled his lips and murmured. Mmmm. Ma. Mama. His first word. My heart full, I gazed at him. But James stared past me, his eyes seeking something beyond. I turned and ran to the rough-hewn window frame. I searched the hollow night air for answers. I was only in his world when I dreamt. I needed a way to help him remember me. The next time I drifted into dreams, I envisioned Papa’s old Polaroid camera. I held its image firm in my mind until it appeared on the bedside table. I would take pictures of us and leave them in his world. In the first picture, the two of us nestled in front of the window. It developed slowly, the shapes coming into focus one at a time. James smiling, turning and stretching toward the window. Blood-red hands. Milkweed blossoms for hair. The Dreamkeeper stroking James’s dandelion-fuzz. Her words rushed back to me. I’ve never had a child. At dawn, my fingers combed the chill air, grasping for him, reaching nothing. I paced the creaking floorboards into a distorted lullaby. Sorrow drenched me, beckoning me to return to my dreams. Beside my bed, the trapped moth dipped a leg into a moonbeam. Blue moonlight always attracted moths. And Dreamkeepers. I picked up that mason jar, clasping it like a lucky rabbit’s foot. I would use it to trap that false mother, the Dreamkeeper, hoping her dream-mist form would slip inside like rainwater. I slipped into a hazy morning dream, envisioning the jar in my hand. James. The Dreamkeeper spun him in a dance, cupped sunlight in her hands and offered it to him to drink. His laughter kept time for their songless waltz. The townspeople’s voices cut into the dream. She’s still mourning. Sleeping. James shrieked at the clang of dishes they set on my doorstep. The echoes of my world were leaking into our dream world. A hole in his heart. He couldn’t make it. She needs to let him go. The wind flapped like that torn wing against glass, struggling for freedom. I studied the Dreamkeeper. She smiled as James’s chubby finger stroked the half-heart on her cheek as if fingerpainting it to completion. James would grow up hearing the wind swish through milkweed blossoms, dancing until dizzy with a mother’s love. He would heal. So would I. I set down the mason jar. There was no need for capture. Just release. It didn’t matter that she was happy. He was. I bent toward his head and kissed his dandelion-fuzz hair until my lips grew numb. I shook the jackrabbit fur rattle. It thumped like a weak heart: damaged but alive. The Dreamkeeper pressed a milkweed blossom into my hand, our fingers meeting briefly on its petals. Then I let go. Alexandra Otto writes flash fiction and short screenplays. She has just completed her first novel. When she is not writing, she can be found outsmarting the largest bears in the world in southcentral Alaska. Image by Pixabay

Editor’s note: Lynden’s story is unexpected, twisty, and stitched together very well. You’ve not read a tale like this one before. The idea is magical. I’d actually like to learn more. At the funeral, every memory shared was of Grandma Susie's kettle. It was always on, ready for anyone to drop in with their woes—gardens that wouldn't flourish, marriages that struggled, babies slow to come. Things always got better after a visit to Susie, they said. No one mentioned sewing. So why had Grandma, in her will, left Lizzie a sewing box? The truth was, though she'd worshipped Grandma as a child, when the depression of her teenage years clung on into her adulthood she stopped visiting, ashamed of the way her own life had gone nowhere. Now she realised she hadn’t known Grandma at all. Lizzie lifted the lid and rummaged round half-heartedly. Needles pierced the cushioning, arranged from smallest eye to largest. Shiny beads and bright embroidery threads packed the trays. She’d never had the stamina for crafts herself, despite Grandma’s urges: “I think you’ll find you have the gift for it.” Odd she should try so hard to persuade Lizzie when it seemed Grandma didn’t have the patience either. At the bottom of the box was a layer of patchwork squares, joined only in twos or threes. She glanced at the clock and sighed. Her manager had grudgingly given her the morning off for the funeral, but she had to go in for the afternoon. It wasn't just the greasy washing up and the smelly mop, it was the running commentary. There was still egg at the bottom of this pan, the customers were waiting, why on earth was she so slow? Lizzie grabbed her coat. It had been raining all week. Grandma always told her to look up at the sky, that things always felt better that way. But Lizzie preferred to look into the puddles. There was one section of road with a myriad of potholes, and after rain they made a patchwork of reflections. While the traffic honked and spewed out fumes, in the puddles it was all sky and trees. # Hours later, Lizzie trudged home and crawled straight into bed. Dreams began to flicker through her brain. "Lizzie! Lizzie. The sewing box. Have you used it yet?" It was Grandma, but the one Lizzie used to know as a child, lithe and active. Her hair floated round her head, the silver only streaks. I don't know anything about patchwork, Grandma." "Never mind that, Lizzie. The puddles! Make a patchwork of the puddles." Lizzie sat up in confusion. It was just a dream, wasn't it? And dreams never made sense. She got up and opened the sewing box again. Maybe she should try to finish Grandma’s patchwork. She spread out the fragments. Really, they were beautiful. Each square had a different pattern, and the pairs were joined in a range of stitches, embroidered over with extra designs. This one had red hearts on white, joined to a square of white hearts on red. Here, a blanket stitch joined a Russian doll to a perambulator. Next, two squares of different greens were bound with herring-bone, itself studded with beads, a long forget-me-not embroidered across both. A memory slowly sharpened in her mind. A quarrel with her best friend, tears. Grandma saying she could mend it with her needle. Lizzie had said through her tears: "Don't be silly, Grandma." Yet, what if it was true? Could Grandma really mend things with her needle? On hands and knees, Lizzie studied each fragment again. Hearts—a restored marriage? Flowers—a flourishing garden? Perambulator—a baby at last? And could Grandma's tools work magic without her presence? I need my spirit to be healed, thought Lizzie. But how? Sleep eluded her for the rest of the night. Sewing...patchwork...mend...puddles: round and round in her head. The hours on the alarm clock flicked onward. Only five hours, then back to the cafe. Steam and grease and vitriol. No. She’d take no more. Into her pocket she slipped a capsule sewing kit: one needle, a fistful of thread, and the little scissors. In the predawn light she ran down the road to the stretch with the best potholes. She threaded her needle and selected two puddles from the road. They slithered in her hands like satin, but the needle glided through them. Now two more. Tiny stitches, so the water wouldn't run out. It lay rippling across her lap as she made the last join. Knot the thread, snip! Lay the puddle patchwork on the sidewalk. The potholes they'd come from were a foot deep at most. The patchwork puddle was miles deep. Lizzie stared into it. A face formed, smiling, nodding. A hand stretched towards her. A man? In a suit, made of leaves. She took a breath and stepped in. "Lizzie Simmons? We've been expecting you. Admitted at...05:25 Tuesday 28th. How long do you plan to stay?" Lizzie looked around her. They stood in a colonnade, open at either side to grass threaded with wild flowers, watched over by majestic trees. She could glimpse a lake further up. Wandering the winding paths, made small by distance, were men and women and children. A girl drifted round the corner and nodded her head. Serenity lit her face. "Forever!" Lizzie breathed. "Not possible, I'm afraid. But it will aid your recovery to know you can return whenever you need it." "Recovery? Is this a hospital?" "If you like. A sanctuary, to build up your strength for the outside world." A thought hit Lizzie. “You said you were expecting me?” The man nodded and checked his clipboard. “You were booked in by Cunning Susie." "Grandma?" "A regular guest when she was younger." The man smiled to himself. "Now make yourself at home." "Where should I go?" “Anywhere you like. Excuse me, another admission to log." Lizzie walked slowly down the path and into a cluster of trees. Fine rain made beads on leaves, but on her skin it only felt cool and fresh. She titled back her head and spun, and all around was leaves and sky and air. Lynden Wade spends as much time as possible in other worlds to avoid the dirty dishes in her home in eastern England. She has stories in several publications, including The Forgotten and the Fantastical series. She’s still hoping for a house elf. Photo by Pixabay

Editor’s note: Parenthood leads to a million wishes, and this poem addresses one of the biggest wishes parents ever make with charm and honesty. Enjoy! She went to the grand wizard Babe at her bosom, herself sunken and sallow of face "Just one simple spell" she asked And wanted no more, truly with all of her heart Against snickers swirling the chamber, he took pity Ceding her solicitation "Magic will be wasted on her,” the whispers and shouts said But the wizard scoffed "How could one low as she threaten me? Or any of you?" And thereby silenced the chatter Grateful she left, child at breast But crying and fussing no more. She knew it not yet, but one day they'd regret Giving her this small slice of magic. From all around, the mothers they came Stumbling one over another Not in a rush, simply too tired to see one in front of t'other For the spell that she asked Truly was small, though by no means simple All she had wished was for quiet and calm from the babe in her arm and the power to speak it to be So the mothers all asked For one night of peace And kindly she always would grant it The mothers came to her from all 'cross the land Til the wizard, less grand Found his magic unfurled A new most powerful in the world The witch whose only spell Was to help a mother sleep. Jason P. Burnham is an infectious diseases physician and clinical researcher. He loves many things, among them sci-fi, his wife, sons, and dog, metal music, Rancho Gordo beans, and equality (not necessarily in that order). Image from Hill’s Manual of Social and Business Forms, by Thos. E. Hill, 1886

Editor’s note: Oh the traps that are laid for protagonists in fairy tales! That’s what this poem conjures up for me. It also makes me think of Andersen’s “The Nightingale.” It’s a lovely spell of a poem. Bird, girl, you perch upon words as if they were something solid like trees instead of shimmering notes of nothing. You have yet to learn that whether they are kind or unkind matters little. Betrayal is just an exposure of rotted wood beneath auburn leaves. Comforting nests, too, may only be made of twigs. Storms blow things apart, whether weak or well made. What have you then—as you look outward to vast sky? It is too simple to insist on you soaring on wings magnificently unfolded—for yours have been clipped and pinned. You’re not sure how they work. And so, I suggest you burst into flame instead: regold your glory outward. Become a purification of your own making, a sharpening of beak, an opening of throat, sing a keening or a calling, let it be yours, and yours alone. Whatever cage they wish to lock you in, whatever trap they’ve laid or sprung, never let the weaving cease, never let them hold your tongue. *** To learn more about the mythical Philomela, you can go HERE. Christine Butterworth-McDermott’s latest collection of poetry is Evelyn As: Poems (2019). Her poetry has been published in such journals as Alaska Quarterly Review, The Normal School, The Massachusetts Review, and River Styx, among others. She is the founder of Gingerbread House Literary Magazine, an online venue for fantasy and fairytale (GINGERBREADHOUSELITMAG.COM). Image from Pixabay

Editor’s note: Can you take one more Halloween treat? I know you can. The veil will be thin between the living and the dead for a day or two longer, so enjoy this gorgeous offering from our splendid Kelly Jarvis. It’s about trick or treating and love and Halloween, but you will see that it is still timely. That’s why it’s publishing at midnight. It’s all about the veil. The wheezy doorbell chimed as Old Pete shuffled across the threshold with his bowl of candy. The trick-or-treaters had been steady all night, and Pete happily dropped the last of his chocolates into their pillowcases. One of the mothers who trailed behind the group of children smiled and called out to him. “Are you ready for the snow, Pete? They say we haven’t had October snow in over thirty years!” Pete nodded silently. He had always loved snow. He had smelled it coming all day long in the air that blew through his open windows. Pete closed the door, knowing that this would be the final group of trick-or-treaters. Next would come the teenagers, ready for Mischief Night. Every year they would run round and round the ancient maple tree that grew in his front yard, draping its barren branches with rolls of toilet paper. Pete didn’t mind. It reminded him of his own boyhood mischief in the old country. Pete had left Ireland as a young man, just after his mother died. She had been a healer in their village, and people had come from all over the countryside to seek her magic elixirs. But after she passed, Pete had heard whispers behind his back. “Son-of-a-witch,” people called him, so he had set sail for America and settled on a small farm in North Massapequa, Long Island. Pete’s magic had always been a “growing” magic, and even in the rockiest soil he could bring forth plentiful crops. He loved the feel of dirt in his hands and the smell of young plants pushing up through the ground. He loved the sight of his rolling fields when the shadows of clouds traveled over them like boats on the open ocean. Now, when his great-grandchildren came to visit, they didn’t believe he had built his tiny house on farmland. They peered out the windows at the crowded neighborhood, trying to picture the rolling fields of their Grandpa Pete’s memory, but all they could see were the cars of the present as they sped up and down Boundary Avenue. Pete moved into his miniscule kitchen where pots were bubbling on the stove. The kitchen had once been full of life. Relatives and friends had crowded into it on holidays, so Pete built a dining room addition that was as big as the house itself. In the corner of the dining room was a grandfather clock, and, when Pete remembered those festive celebrations of the past, he could still hear the steady ticking of the clock beneath the joyous laughter. The clock was broken now. Pete shuffled to the dining room where he had already set the table and decorated it with candles. The sideboard was loaded with platters of spiced beef and whipped potatoes. There were bowls of nuts and a pyramid of late season apples. Pete had even set out a pile of foil wrapped chocolates for his wife. Sweets were her favorite, and in their golden years, she had grown as round as she was tall. He delighted in taking her in his arms and kissing her rippling cheeks. Pete dished out two plates full of food and set them on the candlelit table. He took a letter from his pocket and laid it at his wife’s place. Then he lowered himself into a chair, took a long sip of whisky, and waited. ​​​​​​*** Pete had met the love of his life long ago at a Harvest Festival. Her tiny stature and delicate features caught his eye. She reminded him of the fairies of his homeland. Pete watched her walk from booth to booth, snacking on sugared raisins and mincemeat pies. She stopped to play a game at one of the fortune-telling stalls, peeling an apple in one long strand and tossing it behind her to divine the name of her future husband. When she dropped her strand on the ground it formed the shape of a P, and it was then that Pete went up to her and boldly introduced himself. His name wasn’t really Pete, but he knew a little trickery was acceptable in matters of love. Since that day, everyone called him Pete. Now, he could barely remember his childhood name. They were married in November and their two children, a boy and a girl, followed quickly. Pete worked his magic on the farm until he was forced to sell the land and go to an office. His wife taught the neighborhood children to sing and play piano. She’d had the voice of an angel. Pete silently sipped his whisky, letting the thick amber liquid slide down his throat. ​​​​​​*** He had finished more than half the bottle when he heard a distant music, the trill of a soprano voice and the tinkling of piano keys. The rustling of a dress followed, and Pete held his breath in anticipation. When she entered the dining room and took her seat at the head of the table, she looked as beautiful to him as she had on the day they had met. He supposed that was what they meant by the phrase “true love.” Pete ate very little these days, but the sight of his wife brought back the appetite of his youth. He smiled as he dug into the potatoes, carefully chewing the tender beef with his worn teeth. His plate was almost empty before he stopped, suddenly realizing he did not want their silent supper to end. Samhain was the one night of the year when the living and the dead could mingle, and it was almost over. Pete looked at the shade of his wife through tear-stained eyes as the past and the present collided. Yes, they were sitting silently together in the dining room that he had built, but they were also young and stealing kisses at the edge of the sea. They were dancing in the moonlight while their newborn baby slept in his cradle. They were toasting marshmallows beside a roaring bonfire, their grandchildren playing at their feet. He was holding her hand as she took her last breath. With a sigh, Pete opened the letter he had placed on the table. He had never been good with words, and, in the end, he had written only one sentence: “I sure do miss my girl.” Pete lifted the letter to the flame of the candle and watched it ignite. Ashes coated the tablecloth like faintly falling snow. “Merry meet. Merry part. Merry meet again,” she seemed to say. And then, she was gone. ​​​​​​​*** Pete finished the bottle of whisky and gazed out at the western sky. Already the snow had settled on the sidewalks. The papers had been right: snow was falling all over Long Island. Pete swooned peacefully as he watched the snow falling faintly through the branches of the ancient maple tree. Ribbons of toilet paper danced and swayed like the shadowy veil that separates the worlds of the living and the dead. Old Pete drifted off to sleep, and his solitary soul seemed to slip its earthly bonds, sustained by the death-defying power of everlasting love. Kelly Jarvis teaches classes in literature, writing, and fairy tale at Central Connecticut State University, The University of Connecticut, and Tunxis Community College. She lives, happily ever after, with her husband and three sons in a house filled with fairy tale books. She is also Enchanted Conversation’s special project’s writer. Unsplash image by Nana Nakazwe

Editor’s note: Happy Halloween to one and all. I couldn’t resist one more spooky (and funny) offering, so here you go. I liked the imaginative fun Henry had with this classic. It was quite unexpected. Enjoy! BANQUO (to himself): Ah, Macbeth, thou art king now, as the witches promised, and I fear thou played’st most foully for it. Still, they also said the crown would pass not to your posterity, but to mine. So, I have’st that going for me. (Enter Macbeth and Lady Macbeth) MACBETH: Welcome to our castle, Banquo. Thou art our chief guest. No celebration would be complete without thee. We have arrange a special dinner on your behalf. So please, no snacking. As anticipation shall make the um, banquet sweeter, we will keep ourself alone till suppertime. BANQUO: My lord. (Exit Banquo) MACBETH: To be the king is nothing if I am not safe. Banquo is my enemy and scarest the bejeezus out of me. He is noble, willing to take risks, and his mind never stops working. He has the wisdom to act bravely but also cleverly. LADY MACBETH: Why not simply take his head, milord? MACBETH: Well, I could with barefaced power sweep him from my sight and take claim of the deed. Yet I must not. For there are certain friends that are both his and mine, whose support I cannot lightly discard. I must be able to wail his fall who I myself struck down. And thence it is, I must mask this foul business from the common eye. LADY MACBETH: What will you do, milord? MACBETH: Remain innocent of the plot, my dear, til thou may applaud the deed. Come, night, and raise your bloody, invisible hand to extinguish my foe. The day creatures begin to drowse, while night’s black agents to their prey do rouse! LADY MACBETH: My lord! Thou employ’st rhyme? MACBETH: Marvel at my words, but hold thee still. No one questions my iron will. To sharpen a blade, one must hone. Now, where’s the royal telephone? (A cavern. In the middle, a boiling cauldron. Thunder. Phone rings.) FIRST WITCH: Thank you for calling Acheron BBQ Pit. May I take your order? Uh, huh. Anything else, Lord Macbeth? Very well. That will be three pound twenty. Your order will be ready in the hour. We are open all night, milord. Yes, we do take credit cards. Good evening. (hangs up) Four orders of beef stew, one with poison! SECOND WITCH: Four stew, one spicy, aye. Round about the cauldron go, In the poisoned entrails throw. Toad bespeckled, wart and blot, Boil thou first in rusted pot. THIRD WITCH: Double, double toil and trouble, Fire burn, and cauldron bubble. SECOND WITCH: Fillet of a forest snake, In the cauldron boil and bake. Eye of newt and toe of frog, Wool of bat and tongue of dog. Adder’s fork and blind-worm’s sting, Lizard’s leg and owlet’s wing, For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth, boil and bubble. THIRD WITCH: Double, double toil and trouble, Fire burn, and cauldron bubble. SECOND WITCH: Tooth of wolf and dragon scale, Witches’ locks, teeth and tail Of a ravenous deep-sea shark. Root of hemlock dug in the dark. Liver of a kangaroo, Gall of goat and slips of yew, Slivered in the moon’s eclipse. Nose of Turk and Tartar’s lips. Finger of birth-strangled child, Ditch-delivered and reviled. THIRD WITCH: Double, double toil and trouble, Fire burn, and cauldron bubble. SECOND WITCH: Cool it with a wand of wood, Then the charm is firm and good. And now about the cauldron sing, Like elves and fairies in a ring. THIRD WITCH: By the pricking of my thumbs, Someone wicked this way comes. Open, locks, whoever knocks. (Enter Macbeth) MACBETH: We are in a royal hurry, as our coach is double parked. How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags? FIRST WITCH: There’s no need for name-calling, milord. Welcome to Acheron BBQ Pit. Will you dine in or are you here to pick up? OTHER CUSTOMER (interrupting): Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! MACBETH: What’s this? How does’t thou know me? Had I three ears, I’d listen with them all. OTHER CUSTOMER: Oh, king be bold and laugh to scorn, Banquo’s power for none of woman born, shall harm ye. MACBETH: That is all to the good, but I’m no fool. Will Banquo’s sons yet come to rule? OTHER CUSTOMER: Be lion-hearted and take no care, who frets or where conspirers fare. Macbeth shall never vanquished be, until to Dunsinane come a host of tree. MACBETH: I like the sound of that, good dude. Excuse me whilst I claim my food. I called in four orders of stew. Poison into one you threw? FIRST WITCH: Yes, milord. That’s three pound twenty. MACBETH: You have filled my urgent need. Now, I’m off to do the deed. Keepeth the change. Henry Herz has authored over 25 traditionally published short stories, including eight for the pro-pay markets Daily Science Fiction, Blackstone Publishing, Albert Whitman & Co., Air and Nothingness Press, Highlights for Children, and Ladybug Magazine. He has edited three anthologies and has written 11 traditionally published children's books. Image by Sawsan Chalabi. You can learn more about her and her work HERE.

Editor’s note: This story appealed to me because it has a classic fairy tale structure, combined with beautiful details—especially about the Firebird. The story reminds me of why I love fairy tales. Once upon a time there were three witches. They were sisters and they each lived alone in her own hut deep in the darkest forest. The oldest sister was feared by all the surrounding villages. She was known as mean and wicked and most people left her alone. Occasionally, a knight would show up, intending to kill her. But he stood no chance against her in her own home. She had a collection of human skulls on her fence posts surrounding her hut to warn away any other brave young men that came to try to challenge her. The middle sister was also known by the surrounding villages. But she was loved and trusted by those who came to her in need. The middle sister was often willing to give aid to the sick and injured. She also offered potions and lucky charms to those who could convince her that they were in need. The oldest sister and the middle sister did not get along at all, for they had very differing views about how a witch should behave amongst the human world. The oldest thought witches were better and more important than others because of their power given to them by Mother Earth. The middle sister felt that witches were given the power to aid humans and other creatures and that they were to behave with benevolence and authority over the poor wretched villagers that were tasked to them. The youngest of the three sisters had a secret. She lived deep in the dark woods and she wasn’t known by the people of the villages. She wasn’t mean, she didn’t have to go up against young knights who were looking to prove themselves. She wasn’t known for her healing or her spells and wasn’t sought after by the sick of body, mind, or heart. But she did have her secret. On All Hallows’ Eve, the three sisters were in the forest collecting mushrooms for use in meals and potions. And in hopes of coming upon a firebird. Firebirds were magical creatures that were exceedingly rare indeed. Coming across a firebird was considered to be very lucky and one who could even touch it was considered to have the most powerful magic themselves. A firebird could only be found on All Hallows’ Eve, as it was the only day of the year that they could be seen with human eyes. The youngest of the three sisters was the first to see the firebird. He was beautiful and regal, sitting tall in the tree with his red feathers blazing hot in the dappled sunlight that found him through the orange and yellow autumn leaves above. She could see waves of heat rippling off his body and into the air. His long tail dangled far below the branch he sat on and the plume on his head bobbled back and forth as he cocked his head to the side to look at her. She ran over to her older sisters to point him out to them. She was so happy that she was the one that was lucky enough to see the bird first as he stared down at them. The bird sat high up in a tree and looked down at them with a casual glance. He seemed unconcerned that the three witches below him were very excited to see him. For he was not at all excited to see them. He did, however, seem to have an interest in the youngest witch. He shifted from one foot to the other on his perch and watched them with curiosity as they moved closer to him. The three sisters whispered among themselves. The oldest sister wanted to capture the bird and kill him to drain his magical essence. The middle sister wanted to catch him and bring him home as a pet, so she could utilize his magic when necessary. The youngest sister wished she hadn’t pointed the poor creature out to her sisters at all and looked up at the bird with apologetic eyes as her sister witches put together a plan. The oldest witch had some leftover bread in her pocket. She had brought it with her in case she got hungry. She volunteered to use the bread to lure the bird out of his tree and down to the ground so they could capture the creature. The middle sister had brought a large dark green cloak with her, in case she got cold deep in the forest. She said she could use the cloak to throw over the bird when he came down to the ground to eat the bread. The two sisters agreed that they would decide what to do with the bird once he was captured. The youngest sister watched the bird closely and hoped that he didn’t like bread and that the crumbs that her oldest sister sprinkled on the ground would be of no interest to the bird. The two older sisters put their plan into action, and much to the youngest sister’s disappointment, the bird came down out of the tree and floated gracefully to the ground and started to eat the bits of bread that the oldest sister had scattered on the ground. The middle sister threw her cloak over the bird and it squawked in anger as it thrashed around under the heavy green cloak. The three sisters jumped towards the bird, with the older two sisters trying to grab the bird as he thrashed around under the cloak. The youngest sister, feeling for the bird, lunged forward and grabbed the corner of the cloak. She pretended to stumble backwards and pulled the cloak hard, releasing the bird from her sisters’ attempts to capture him. The bird’s head appeared out the far end of the cloak from where the youngest sister still held on to it, and as the bird spread his wings, he knocked over the older two sisters, through the cloak, and forced them to stumble backwards. All three sisters scrambled on the ground to try to regain their footing, but it was too late. The firebird took off in a burst of flames that forced the older two sisters to cover their faces in order to protect themselves from the power of the bird. He soared high into the air and off into the evening sunset. The youngest sister looked at her hand and found that she had accidentally pulled two tail feathers from the bird when she tried to rescue him. She hid the feathers in her skirt pocket quickly, before her sisters could see. She handed her middle sister back her cloak and stared at the ground. The middle sister snatched the cloak away from the youngest sister and the oldest sister swore curses at the youngest for her clumsiness and stupidity, and for costing them the chance at obtaining a firebird for another year. The three sisters went back to their homes, the older two in anger and disappointment. The youngest went home in relief and was glad that the firebird had gotten away safely. Late that night, under the light of the full moon, there was a knock at the youngest sister’s door. She climbed out of bed and looked out the window to see a tall man dressed as a knight standing at her front door. She went to her door and opened it just slightly. “Hello?” she said. She felt like her voice was stuck in her throat. “I am here on behalf of Magnus the Magnificent,” the knight said. “He has sent me to bring you back to the royal castle. You were chosen to be his apprentice, should you accept this honor.” “I’m sorry,” the youngest sister opened the door wider. “You must be looking for one of my sisters.” “No,” the knight shook his head. “I was sent by Magnus himself and his directions to your humble home were very specific.” “You must really have the wrong sister,” she said again. “For you see, I have no magical powers like my sisters do.” “And that is the secret that you have been hiding for all these years,” a voice said from behind the knight. The youngest sister squinted into the pale light that the moon cast down on the man that was standing behind the knight. “Yes,” she nodded. “It is.” The knight moved aside to let the other man pass. He was an old man with a long white beard and a full head of white hair. He had bushy white eyebrows and he wore a long red cloak that seemed to flicker like firelight in the light of the full moon. “You’re Magnus?” the youngest sister said. “The warlock who serves the king?” “Yes, I am,” the old man said. “And what is your name?” “My name is Nix,” she said. “You obtained something today, Nix,” the old man said. “Did you not?” The youngest sister nodded. “May I see them?” Magnus asked. Nix went inside and retrieved the two firebird feathers from the pocket of her skirt that was laying on a chair by the fire. “Firebird feathers,” Magnus nodded. “You do know that only one with the most powerful magic can touch a firebird.” “I didn’t really touch him,” Nyx said. “I was just trying to rescue him from my sisters.” “Yes,” the old man nodded. “And I appreciate that greatly.” “You’re—” Nix started. “Yes,” Magnus said. “I was that firebird. And the fact that you hold two of my feathers in your hand proves that you touched me while we were out in the forest today.” “But I have no magical powers,” Nyx said. “Not like my sisters.” “That is where you are wrong,” Magnus said. “You have more magic than both of your sisters combined, you just need to learn how to use it. And I have chosen you to become my apprentice because of your vast powers and your mercy.” Nyx looked at the two feathers in her hand. Magnus smiled at the young girl and said, “Come with me and I will show you the power you have. I will train you to become the most powerful witch in the land. Be my apprentice and you can take my place as advisor to the king and become the head sorceress of the kingdom.” “Are you sure I have magic?” Nyx asked. Magnus nodded. “I will teach you how to release the magic that is inside of you. You will become greater than your sisters, and they will no longer drain you of your power.” Nyx looked up at him in shock. “Yes,” he nodded. “Your secret isn’t that you have no magic, it is that your sisters use you for your power.” “And I can escape them if I go with you?” she asked. “Yes,” Magnus said. “But my middle sister, she does good with the magic,” Nyx said. “She heals people.” “With stolen magic,” Magnus said. “The people can come to you instead.” “What will happen to my sisters?” Nyx asked. “Whatever you decide for their fate,” Magnus said. “They have both committed a great crime in draining you of your power. Stealing magic from another is punishable by death.” Nyx stared at the feathers in her hands. “Can I have them spared?” Nyx asked. “For they are my sisters.” “Only if you come with me,” Magnus said. “Only if you work for the king can you have the authority to ask that your sisters be spared.” Nyx looked at the feathers in her hands. “So, you were the firebird?” she asked. “Yes,” Magnus nodded. “The most powerful magical creature in existence. And you will be the next firebird, with my training.” Nyx ran her fingers along the soft, hot barbs of the feathers. “We must hurry. It is almost midnight, and the apprentice ceremony can only be done in the moonlight on All Hallows’ Eve,” Magnus said. She smiled up at Magnus and said, “I accept your offer.” Born and raised in California, Judy Lunsford now lives in Arizona with her husband and Giant Schnoodle, Amos. She writes with dyslexia and a chronic illness (Meniere’s Disease), is hard of hearing, & is a breast cancer survivor. She writes mostly fantasy, but occasionally delves into suspense, women’s lit, and YA fiction. She has written books and short stories for all ages. She likes playing RPG’s and drinking lots of coffee. Cover Graphic: Amanda Bergloff @AMANDABERGLOFF Cover Painting: "The Firebird," Yelena Polenova, 1898

Welcome to EC's October Witch Issue! Wild and perfect, they belonged to the night with their hair flowing around them and their song of moonlight and magic that turned the midnight hour into something new and strange. ~ A. Bergloff They are shadow and light. Dust and fire. Earth mothers and formidable foes. Reflections of the past and mysterious visions of the future. They are the ones who live at the edge of our vision and beckon us to follow them into their arcane world of earth and bone. They are witches, and EC is featuring them with some enchanting tales for the month of October. So please enjoy our Halloween contest winning story, the honorable mention tale and a poem, along with some other witchy treats from EC's archives below, and as always, dear readers... Stay enchanted! - Kate, Amanda, Molly, and Kelly First Place Mike Neis Honorable Mention Judy Lunsford A Wishing Spell Kelly Jarvis MUSIC Sharing one of our magical favorites to accompany this issue: ALL COPYRIGHT to the written works in this issue belong to the individual authors. The Fairy Tale Magazine Editor-in-Chief ~ Kate Wolford Art Director ~ Amanda Bergloff Special Projects Writer ~ Kelly Jarvis Graphics ~ Amanda Bergloff

Editor’s note: I’m a granny, so I’m a sucker for a grandmother story. And what a grandmother! And what daughters! Such powers they have! The story hits all the right notes for a Halloween fairy tale. Update, 12-26-21: Mike’s daughter, Karen Neis, was inspired by her father’s delightful tale, and created the gorgeous watercolor image below, “The Wind Sisters.” What a talented family! A long time ago at the edge of a village in a remote valley there lived twin sisters who were still babies when their parents died. Although the girls were orphans, fortune had smiled upon them in three ways. The first was the wind, which kissed them on the day of their birth. This kiss showed itself in their wavy, windswept hair and in how they could run like the wind. Likewise, their temperament was usually as placid as a summer breeze, but at times could turn as turbulent as a winter blizzard. The second way that fortune smiled upon them was their grandmother, who was known in the village as Grandmother Brua, respected for her knowledge of plants, and feared for her power. Few ever dared to approach her. Grandmother Brua always sang melodies that were haunted with aches and longing, and the twins would ask her why she sang such sad songs. “Because life changes and people lose things,” she would say. “Your day of change will come, and you too will have to give something up.” The twins would laugh and say, “Oh Grandmother, things will never change. We will always play here in our hut, and you will always be there to care for us.” And Grandmother Brua would listen to her granddaughters’ innocence and laugh with them. The third thing the twins had in their favor was each other. Since the day of their birth, the twins woke together, ate from the same bowl, and played the same games which always ended in a draw. At night, they slept in the same tiny bed, in which they would sing each other lullabies until they both drifted off to sleep. Although Grandmother Brua thought it strange that the twins could be so close, she knew that she too, was a bit strange. But not even Grandmother Brua knew the strangest thing of all about her granddaughters. From the time they were still small, the wind would call them on nights of the full moon, and the two would slip out of their hut and plunge into the forest. There, the twins would sing into the sky. The wind would mix its voice with theirs, and the three would sing together. On such nights, a gentle breeze would caress the dwellings of the valley, and villagers would drift into a contented sleep. The old people would smile at each other by the fire and say, “how blessed we are to live in our remote valley, so far from the troubles of the world.” Such blessings were too good to last, and, sure enough, a blight struck, so that the crops of the valley began to wither. A young farmer, who had not yet learned to fear Grandmother Brua, approached her hut and called out, “Grandmother Brua, our crops are beset with a blight. If they fail, we will starve this winter. Is there nothing you can do to help us?” Grandmother Brua emerged from her hut. “I will help you,” she said, and gave the farmer a large bottle of yellow powder. “Mix this powder with dirt and spread the dirt over your crops and they will be saved.” The young man went to the other farmers and showed them the powder. Although they were suspicious of Grandmother Brua, they did as the old woman had instructed, and their crops were saved. Not long afterwards, the twins were old enough to venture forth from the hut. They sought out other children to play with but were rejected. Terrible rumors had always swirled about Grandmother Brua and her household. The old woman ached for her granddaughters when they came back home crying, for she knew the pain of rejection. She also knew of the vicious gossip in the village, and she knew of three women who fed those rumors. These women were so widely feared that all simply called them “The Three.” From this moment, when the twins sang with the wind on nights of the full moon, the dwellings of the village moaned with fierce gusts. The villagers would sleep fitfully and suffer from troubling dreams, and the old people would gather by the fire and say, “how alone we are in this remote valley, where no one can help us.” A spirit of unease settled into the land. Whether it was caused by the unease, none can say, but a terrible plague struck. The children of the village grew sick and weak. The sound of coughing and wheezing filled the streets, along with the wailing of their mothers. The young farmer had a son, who became quite ill. Again he went to Grandmother Brua and begged for her help. But this time Grandmother Brua refused. “Let The Three come to me and ask for help,” she said. “For I have a complaint against them.” The Three were terrified upon hearing Grandmother Brua’s words, for they also had children who were ill. That afternoon the villagers saw the three women, with shawls pulled around their heads, walking west to Grandmother Brua’s hut. The news flew like the wind. Grandmother Brua heard a mournful noise outside her hut. She opened her door and was astonished to see all the mothers of the village bowed down and wailing, “Please help us! Our children are dying! Please help us!” Grandmother Brua emerged from her hut and broke down in tears before them, for she herself knew the agony of losing a daughter and felt ashamed for withholding her help. She gave the women a powerful mushroom potion. “All must drink,” she said. “Everyone, with no exceptions.” The villagers did as she had instructed, and the village was saved. Although Grandmother Brua accepted the remorse of The Three, she did not believe the village would change. She was wrong, and the village children welcomed her granddaughters into their games. Once again, the wind brought a spirit of well-being into the village, and at night, the old people would gather around their fires and say, “how fortunate we are in this valley, and we have Grandmother Brua to protect us.” The village prospered and the children grew. The good fortune of the village continued until some young men found what seemed like a blessing, but was, in fact, a curse. A strange yellow metal lay bare by the foundation of the new village hall. Gold! News of the discovery quickly spread across the land. The two neighboring kingdoms heard the news, and before the villagers could decide what to do, they found themselves surrounded by two opposing armies. The men of these armies were wild with gold fever and would think nothing of destroying whatever stood in their way. As the sun set, these men made ready for battle on the following day. The elders of the village went to Grandmother Brua. They begged her for anything she might be able to do. The old woman could only stammer. “I—don’t—know!” Grandmother Brua closed her door and wept. The blight was easy to address with her plants. The plague, though more difficult to cure, was still within her abilities. But what could an old woman with a few herbs do against an invading army, let alone two? That night the twins did not wait for the wind to call them, and they plunged into the black of a moonless forest. In a small glen they held out their arms, tipped their heads to the sky and sang. Their voices spoke of helplessness and frustration. The wind heard, mixed its voice with theirs, and the three sang together. As they sang, frustration rose to anger, which erupted into unrestrained fury. Clouds formed in the sky, which coiled high into the heavens like huge snakes, tense, hissing, and ready to strike. Lightning flashed and frozen rain pelted. Thunder shook the earth and the whole valley trembled as a mighty gale bore down upon it. The wind howled with voices so discordant that people clamped their hands to their ears and cried out for fear of going mad. Gusts struck without mercy, and so the storm raged into the night. At first light, Grandmother Brua cast a sleepy eye at the twins as they slipped back into the hut and collapsed into bed. She noticed how their return coincided with the easing of the storm and saw the frozen world outside her window. Then she understood the bond the twins had with the wind and knew what her granddaughters had done. She began to craft her own plans for the day. Like the men of their armies, the kings arose from a dismal night with no rest. They surveyed their camps and found their great machines of war stuck in the frozen mud, their armaments brittle with cold and coated with a thick blanket of ice. The soldiers were stricken by rumors that the village was cursed, and any further action would lead to certain death. The kings held councils with their generals who advised parley instead of open battle. So they called for their personal retinues and headed to the village square. There they found a crone with two mysterious hooded figures at her side. The villagers huddled around the square’s periphery. The kings approached with their generals. “I know what has stopped you,” said the crone. “If you wish to leave the valley alive, you must do as I say. Sit down.” The kings and their retinues sat down. “We are listening,” they said. “I know of your hunger for gold,” said the old woman, and she set down a parchment before them. “This contract outlines how you are to share it between yourselves and leave the village in peace.” The kings and their retinues reviewed the parchment and found it to be fair. “You will sign it in blood,” said the crone. The cleverer of the two kings stood. “We will sign,” he said, “but your companions must show themselves first. We think it fair that we know who we are dealing with.” Grandmother Brua heaved a long sigh, turned to her beloved granddaughters, and nodded. The twins pulled their hoods back for all to see. Flushed with the power wielded from the previous night, their glory shone like the blinding sun. All were astonished at the sight of the young women, but none more so than the two kings, who had a driving thirst to possess beauty. The bolder of the two kings stood. “We will sign the contract in blood, but only if we have these two women as our wives. That is our condition.” The surrounding generals set their faces like stone and placed their hands on their swords. Then the twins knew their day of change had come, and they knew what they would have to give up. They embraced, wept bitter tears, and said affectionate words with such lamentation that all in the square wept with them. Then they took their places at the sides of their new husbands. The kings drew their knives, cut themselves, and signed the contract in their own blood. The crone rolled up the parchment and placed it in her satchel. “Do not break your promise,” she said. “For the contract makes clear your fates if you do.” The kings shuddered as they recalled the previous night and nodded. The sisters each accompanied their husbands to their new homes. They both became mighty queens over vast countries, and loving mothers of virtuous children. And, sometimes, on full moon nights, the wind would call to each of them, and they would slip out of their castle gates, and plunge deep into the forest. There, they would sing of their joys, their sorrows, and their longings. And the wind would mix its voice with theirs, and the three would sing together. Mike Neis lives in Orange County, California and works as a technical writer for a commercial laboratory. His work has appeared previously in Enchanted Conversations and elsewhere. Besides writing, his outside activities include church music, walking for health, and teaching English as a second language. Cover Graphic: Amanda Bergloff @AMANDABERGLOFF Cover Painting: "The Artist's Daughters," Thomas Gainsborough, 1760