Dark Harvest

By Nerine Dorman

A whisper of butterflies’ wings promises a lonely old man his heart’s desire; mages draw upon music to work magic; and a fearful symmetry threatens an alien realm. Be it in our dreams or flights of fancy that take us into uncharted territory, our hopes and desires often birth twisted imaginings. This selection of tales, some devious or whimsical, others downright eerie and unsettling, offer glimpses into other, darker realities.
Allow Amy Lee Burgess, Anna Reith, Autumn Christian, Carrie Clevenger, DC Petterson, Don Webb, Liz Strange, Nerine Dorman, Rab Fulton, Sarah Lotz, SL Schmitz, Sonya Clark and Toby Bennett to remove you from what’s familiar – just for a short while – and bring you back changed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nerine Dorman
• Release date: Mar 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311838360

Nerine Dorman

An editor and multi-published author, Nerine Dorman currently resides in Cape Town, South Africa, with her visual artist husband. Some of the publishers with whom she has worked include Lyrical Press, Dark Continents Publishing and eKhaya (an imprint of Random House Struik). She has been involved in the media industry for more than a decade, with a background in magazine and newspaper publishing, commercial fiction, and print production management within a below-the-line marketing environment. Her book reviews, as well as travel, entertainment and lifestyle editorial regularly appear in national newspapers. A few of her interests include music, travel, history, Egypt, art, photography, psychology, philosophy, magic and the natural world. Her published works include Khepera Rising, Khepera Redeemed, The Namaqualand Book of the Dead, Tainted Love (writing as Therése von Willegen), Hell’s Music (writing as Therése von Willegen), What Sweet Music They Make, and Inkarna. Her short fiction regularly features in anthologies. Titles co-written with Carrie Clevenger include Just My Blood Type, and Blood and Fire. She is the editor of the Bloody Parchment anthologies, Volume One; Hidden Things, Lost Things and Other Stories; and The Root Cellar and Other Stories. In addition, she also organises the annual Bloody Parchment event in conjunction with the South African HorrorFest. She is also a founding member and co-ordinator for the Adamastor Writers’ Guild; edits The Egyptian Society of South Africa’s quarterly newsletter, SHEMU; and from time to time assists on set with the award-winning BlackMilk Productions.

Book preview

Foreword

Dark Harvest is another one of those anthologies that came about thanks to a what if? And if I remember correctly, it’s supposed to exist as a counterpoint to my efforts with Bloody Parchment—which sees me casting the nets for mostly fresh, untried voices in horror and dark fantasy (although established authors are welcome to submit too). Dark Harvest, on the other hand, is my excuse to solicit material from some of my favourite authors. And maybe one day I’ll also get my act together and set up an authors’ event to happen on April 30. One can dream…

But back to the anthology… I had no idea what some of these authors were going to send. My brief to them was purely dark harvest—interpret that any way you like within the fantasy and horror genres. So you’ll get the whole gamut here, from Lovecraftian and menacing to ghostly and quirky.

Everyone gathered here has some quality that I love about genre fiction, be it magic, a turn of phrase, darkness or hints at a greater mystery we might never truly understand. Of course I slipped in a tale of my own too.

So, without further ado, I bring you this little collection, with my darkest blessings. May your dreams be filled with wonder.

Nerine Dorman, 2013

With Thanks

As always, no artist can create in a vacuum, and this project is no exception. A huge thank you goes to my husband, Thomas, whose picture graces the front cover. Then another thank you to Carmen Begley, who designed the outside front and back cover. You are awesome, lady.

Then, next, to my team at Dark Continents—David, Tracie and Sylvia. Many thanks for allowing me to have creative free rein. Then, of course, there’s Donnie, who makes sure that the e-book and print files look awesome.

Of course none of this would be possible without the authors whose work appears here. I can’t even begin to thank each of you enough for entrusting your words to me. It is an honour and a privilege to work with you, and here’s hoping there will be further opportunities.

His Kiss Will Taste of Honey

By Nerine Dorman

What a peculiar man he is. Yesterday afternoon I found myself wandering near the apiary garden again. I couldn’t help myself. Curiosity maybe. The lavender is in full bloom, as is the syringa. The gardens are filled with the shades of mauve, magenta and violet—strange how as the seasons progress, particular floral hues dominate the vegetation.

But he was standing by the fountain, in discussion with the head steward. The sunlight caught his hair—it is a particular shade of gold, honey blond with hints of autumnal copper, if I have to find a word to describe it best, and falls straight to the small of his back. He wears it loose. Who combs it for him? The armour is particularly fascinating. The previous Apis Lord used to wear flowing robes, so her armour was mostly hidden. Lord Sithra eschews robes, and his chitinous armour is mostly obsidian struck through with bands of amber that gleam in the sun. It is part of him, it is said. I wonder.

A swish of heavy fabric is all that betrays my aunt Gira’s entry into the solar. I pull my journal close to my breast and watch her coolly as she approaches.

What is it you’re writing that’s so secret, Myessa? Terrible things about your witch of an aunt, no doubt. You’re going to get ink on your bodice. Her smile has no warmth in it.

I glance down at the pages hovering dangerously close to my clothing, but a fingerbreadth exists between the damp ink and velvet. Then I glance back at her, not quite making eye contact, because I’m concerned she’s going to glean the true contents of my journal entry merely by reading my expression. I’m making observations about the royal gardens, ma’am.

She snorts softly. Childish pursuits. The woman hesitates, and I’m struck by the fear that she wishes to engage me in a more serious discussion, such as my upcoming coronation, but then the buzz of an insect draws our attention to a bee.

The creature describes drunken circles in the room, its flight erratic yet looping around us with an ever-diminishing axis.

Oh for the gods’ sake, she mutters when the bee flies too close to her face. Before I can intervene she knocks the insect from its course, a sharp, accurate swat that smacks the bee out of the air.

No! I cry and snap shut my journal. No time to worry about smudged ink now as I toss aside the book and drop to my knees on the tiles so that I might find the fallen bee.

It’s just a bee. And I’ve told the bee master before to keep his charges outside.

Bees are sacred to us. They appear on our coat of arms. That Aunt Gira can display such callous disregard strikes a deep horror within me. I cast about for the fallen insect, hoping it’s stunned and not dead.

Look at you. Like a child scrabbling about on your knees. Please get up, and deport yourself with the dignity befitting a princess. You are getting dirt on your skirts.

Pursuit of an argument with my aunt is pointless, and I ignore her until I spot the bee struggling on the floor near the window seat. While my aunt watches, and no doubt harbours further unworthy thoughts, I fold over fabric from my sleeve to create a pocket in which I lightly scoop the insect. Only then do I rise to face Aunt Gira.

We should not be disrespectful of bees, I tell her.

I’m not prepared for the peals of laughter that escape her. Aunt Gira dabs at the corners of her eyes, still snickering as she says, Ah then, I shall leave you to playing protector of a bug. Only children glare like that. Go on then, continue with your silly games. We will talk later. She sweeps from the room, leaving me fretting about what she wanted to discuss that necessitated her seeking me out in the only room of the castle I can generally claim as my domain.

Held prisoner in the small purse of fabric I’ve created, the bee buzzes weakly, and reminds me of my good deed that will surely not go unpunished.

Lord Sithra isn’t in the apiary garden, but after asking one of the serving women, I am told he is by the stores, checking on sealed jars of honey with one of the stewards. I’m well aware it isn’t terribly becoming for a princess to wander these parts of the castle without an escort, but then my quest is hardly ordinary.

Any small way I can defy my aunt, I will. In two weeks’ time I shall attain my majority and she must step aside and allow me to ascend the throne. That is the law of our land; she will no longer have a say in what I may or may not do. Queen regent indeed.

What would my mother have allowed? Try as I might, I can hardly remember her. A kind face, light grey eyes and laughter lines. Nothing like my aunt, whose features are severe, her mouth constantly twisted in displeasure when I speak. Aunt Gira never lets me forget her onerous duties, of raising her older sister’s orphan daughter while carrying the burden of regency for a kingdom afflicted by royal tragedies.

My father—a hunting accident; my mother—the wasting sickness; and Aunt Gira’s own husband, a duke no less—a duel gone wrong. Death stalks among us, like wasps singling out prey from the swarm.

Lord Sithra has his back to me, and whether he hears my approach or reads a shift in Steward Harman’s stance, he turns to face me.

Warmth creeps up my cheeks and my quest to hand him the injured bee seems foolish and, as Aunt Gira suggests, the behaviour of a child.

Your majesty. Lord Sithra inclines his head.

L-lord Sithra. I draw a deep breath then summon the most imperious tone I can muster, like that of my aunt, I hope. A bee flew into the solar. I think it might be injured. I hold out my sleeve and release the fabric pocket.

The insect clings to the weave and crawls about. Gently, Lord Sithra places his long fingers so that the bee might crawl onto him, which the insect does. The tiny creature gains vigour the moment it comes into contact with his skin, and I watch, fascinated, as it sinks into his flesh and becomes one with him.

Lord Sithra’s smile lights up his face. Not one of mine, but I must thank the kind lady anyway. He winks.

I exhale and allow myself to smile too. I’m glad.

Harman coughs delicately. I shall go now, milord?

Indeed, many thanks, Lord Sithra tells him. I shall escort the lady back to the royal chambers.

Inwardly I twinge with embarrassment. I shouldn’t be here, but there is no malice in Lord Sithra’s expression.

We go, your majesty? He extends an arm, which I take, and guides me back up the stairs.

We walk in silence until we reach the apiary garden where he releases my arm. His touch is light. I should return to the solar, and perhaps engage in pursuits more appropriate for someone who is to assume the throne in a fortnight. I should peruse the histories, or even consider sitting in on the afternoon petitions the queen regent so graciously endures on my behalf. Only I don’t want to draw back to the sometimes claustrophobic confines of my domain.

Out here the air carries the sweet scent of honey, especially around the bee master. He regards me quizzically with an amber gaze—more proof that he is somehow not quite human—and I realise belatedly that I’m staring.

I’m sorry, I say and turn away.

What for? He laughs.

I pause, my fingers clenched in the fabric of my dress. I’m behaving like a child. Even now I cringe when I think of how I’d run after him on the basis of the weak premise of bringing him an injured bee. Everyone in the castle must now be talking of the princess’s impudent behaviour.

Don’t be so ashamed, princess. Come. Walk with me. You need to have a little sunshine to bring colour to your cheeks. Lord Sithra gestures toward the apiary garden.

My heart stutters. I must return to the solar, but surely it can’t harm me to accompany him? Just for a short while. Bumble bees knock about the purple tresses of the blooming wisteria. The damask rose weeps petals of deepest lilac. The royal purple loves-me-not hangs its waxy tubes in scented trails. All these beckon, and I accompany Lord Sithra at his request. The sunlight removes the chill lingering from spending most of my morning in the solar. It is spring, and I shouldn’t be closeted away.

What you did was very kind, he tells me.

How so, my lord?

Most would never bother with one lone bee. She was lost, from a hive in an oak grove many miles from here. She would have died but you cared enough to risk her sting.

Why ever not? Our kingdom owes its ascendancy to your kind. It is the right thing to do.

His smile is wry. Ah, it might be the right thing to do, but that does not mean that all would bother. Historical connections mean very little in human memories. We Apis Lords have long memories. As long as that of our queens, even if those of us who serve are considered expendable.

Another reminder of how his world differs from mine.

I am not my aunt, I tell him.

Good. That is for the best. Is that an underlying, implied threat?

Aunt Gira has little love for the Apis Lords. This is common knowledge. She tolerates them, at best because of the ages-long agreement between our people. So long as an heir of King Demos sits on the Onyx Throne, so shall one of the Apis Lords guide. Though Queen-regent Gira does her best to relegate such guidance to mere procurement of honey and healing. Lord Sithra holds no more status than the lord steward, though the histories indicate the status of past bee masters has been otherwise.

Are you happy here? I ask him. Now where did that question come from?

Are you? he counters.

I asked you the question, my lord, I answer, and am glad the day is warm, so that the blush creeping up my cheeks could be mistaken for the effect of the sun.

We don’t always have a choice over what we want, do we? His eyes grow distant and he inclines his head as if he hears something I cannot. Then he lifts my hand to his lips in a brief kiss, like any lord would. I must go.

Lord Sithra leaves me standing by the fountain, watching him as he ascends the steps to the ambulatory and cool shadows beyond the arches.

* * * *

My cousin Ranulf is in the solar when I return from my unexpected meeting with Lord Sithra. It’s not so much the shock that Ranulf has strayed into my domain, but that he is reading the journal I so carelessly discarded when I’d embarked on my mission to save the life of that damnable bee.

His grin is nothing short of malicious as he snaps the volume shut. I never thought your feelings ran so deeply, cousin. That you must refer to my mother as a wasp, and me as ‘that despicable little larvae’. And to think that I came here to bring you the joyous news Mother didn’t have the chance to share.

He clutches at my journal and I want to break every finger in that hand.

Give me my journal back.

Oh, and it’s ‘the new bee master’ this and ‘the new bee master’ that. I’d swear that you’ve developed quite the unhealthy fixation with Lord Sithra.

Some small part inside my heart shrivels at these words, at the thought that my cousin has been privy to my innermost thoughts. Normally I’d never leave the journal in plain sight. Usually Ranulf stays far away from the solar.

I make a grab for the journal, but my cousin, two years older than me and physically stronger, easily lifts the volume out of my reach. Give back my journal! I cry.

Ranulf’s response is laughter—terrible, hurtful laughter—and I want nothing more than to slap that smile from his mouth.

When I am queen you will not treat me like this! I shout at him, and immediately hate how petulant I sound.

When I am queen, he mocks, mimicking my voice. When I am queen, when I am queen, I shall marry a king. And what do queens do? They do what the king says, sweet cousin.

I shan’t marry then. I jump, using his shoulder as leverage, and am able to snatch my journal.

Ranulf does not let go but his glee distorts his features. Oh, but have you not read the histories properly, my dear studious cousin? Or does your heart flutter like a captive butterfly so that your mind is no longer capable of reason? You have to be betrothed on the day that you ascend the throne. It is unseemly for the ruling monarch to be without a partner, for both are to reign.

Your mother has no spouse, I spit.

My mother is the queen-regent, guiding her poor orphaned niece in the fine arts of rulership, until that point where the young Queen Myessa takes the Onyx Throne and joins with King Ranulf in marriage, thereby ushering in a new era of prosperity for the kingdom of Vasseria.

Horror has me in my clutches, and I let go of the journal he still holds, to stagger back two steps. I will never marry you!

Who will you marry, princess? Have you even given thought to this matter of custom?

Some confusion must be etched on my features, for he laughs again. Oh, you’ve not given this any thought at all, have you, sweet cousin? How delicious. Ranulf glances at my journal with disdain then drops it on the ground at my feet as though it were no more than a trifle. I weary of this. I have far more pressing matters to attend with the lords hound and falcon.

* * * *

Within two days, the news of my impending betrothal has spread throughout Castle Highgrove. Was this the news my aunt wished to bring to me? I suppose yes. Only I’ve had to hear the words from my hated cousin’s lips instead.

They all think he’s awfully dashing, all the serving women and the lords and ladies. Ranulf inherited his father’s good looks, they say—the chiselled features of the Summerborn lords from Trevail. Nut-brown hair to his shoulders and eyes to match the colour. Broad of shoulder and regal of bearing; he could be a king, they say, though he is only the son of a duke.

A marriage to me will place a crown on his head. My mother’s crown.

Foolishly I’ve always assumed I should rule as my aunt has, a queen, but as I pore over the histories, I discover a coronation is always announced with a betrothal. In every instance, for male and female of the line. Why is it that I’ve never paid attention to that one small detail?

One day when I am queen has turned into, after the next two weeks when I’m queen. And all the while I’ve been distracting myself with the histories and ancient languages, philosophic treatises—as if these will somehow help me rule.

It’s true I don’t remember much of my mother’s reign. My father died before I was born. I only ever remember my aunt seated upon the ornately carved chair beside the Onyx Throne. Petitioners bowing their heads before an empty seat held in anticipation of my majority.

What are the chances of Ranulf allowing me my birthright? I press the heels of my hands into my eyes and sigh. Not much. Not ever. He’s bigger than me, stronger, handsome. People love him.

* * * *

A week to go before my coronation. My feet stray to the apiary garden during every spare moment. As it is, I cannot bear the interminable audiences in the Great Hall. My aunt’s expression is exultant. See what I’ve spared you all these years, her gaze tells me. You should be grateful.

Ranulf sits opposite me, next to his mother. Between us stands the empty throne. Every now and then he inclines his head toward me and his gaze flicks to the Onyx Throne with the amber-encrusted circlet resting on its seat. Mine, he’s saying.

Already the lords are deferring to him. Majesty this, majesty that, and if I voice my displeasure, I will sound like the petulant, spoiled princess everyone thinks I am.

So I remove myself to the apiary garden whenever I can, but Lord Sithra is never there. I trail my hands over the nodding heads of lavender, and crush the tiny blooms between my fingers to release the scent. Lavender to provide calm in times of trouble. The gods know my troubles are only starting.

Why so sad, princess?

I jerk out of my reverie and turn around to face Lord Sithra. Bees circle us, but I do not fear their accidental sting, not when he is here.

My lord! You startle me. I press a hand to my collarbone.

You come here often, and every time your sorrow weighs heavier. Are you not happy? You are coming into your inheritance. The afternoon sunlight flashes red gold in his hair.

He has been watching me all this time? And has chosen not to speak to me until now? The apparent rejection is worse than a bee’s sting, and I flinch ever so slightly. I find that my inheritance is accompanied by the lack of any choice. I must marry someone I do not love. I shouldn’t say such fateful words but here, in the garden, surrounded by the silent flowers and the industry of insects, the usual strictures no longer apply. I can speak my mind to this man.

Choice belongs to those who possess power. Lord Sithra does not smile.

I possess no power. I refuse to hide the bitterness in my tone.

Only because you refuse to take it from those less worthy, he responds.

How dare he? I glare at him. You’ve seen them. You’ve seen what they do.

They behave like that only because you allow them to.

My eyes grow scratchy, my chest tight. How is it that he can say such cruel things? They treat me like I’m some spoiled, pampered princess.

Then stop behaving like one, Lord Sithra says.

"But the law says I must marry on my coronation day, and there is