Bardic Tales and Sage Advice (Volume VIII): Bardic Tales and Sage Advice, #8

By Aaron Vlek, Amanda K. Thompson, Florian Heller and 6 more

Though originally meant as a stand-alone anthology, the Bardic Tales and Sage Advice collection has evolved into an annual celebration of speculative fiction. Our Eighth installment of the series features the winners of our annual charity writing competition and our Reader's Choice Awards poll. This anthology includes works by Amanda K. Thompson, James Zaharis, Derek James Cottrell, Florian Heller, Teo Kos, Ash Silverlock, Anna Cates, Tyler Bourassa, Aaron Vlek, and Julia Martins.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bards and Sages Publishing
• Release date: Aug 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536569018

Book preview

Dedication

Thank you to all of the authors and readers

who have been part of our journey.

I am pleased to present to you Volume Eight of our annual speculative fiction anthology, Bardic Tales and Sage Advice. When I first founded Bards and Sages in 2002, I held a small writing contest to benefit the International Women's Writing Guild. I had been a member of the Guild for many years, and thought the contest would be a nice opportunity to give something back to the organization. At the time, I had no intention of making the contest an annual event. It just seemed like a fun way to launch my new publishing venture.

In response to the tsunami caused by the massive 2004 earthquake in the Indian Ocean, we held a new contest to benefit the Red Cross's relief efforts. Like many people, we wanted to do something constructive to help. We were happily overwhelmed with wonderful submissions, and the end result was out first Bardic Tales anthology.

Since then, we have run the contest annually in support of various charity projects. Each installment of the anthology features winners from the annual contest, as well as winners of our annual Reader’s Choice Awards. With each installment, our goal remains to present to readers a varied collection of speculative fiction from emerging voices in the genre.

Julie Ann Dawson

Editor

The Curious Concoctions of Thornton Thoreau

by Amanda K. Thompson

Thornton Thoreau was part pharmacist, part witchdoctor, and not exactly in business.

So why was I ringing his doorbell?

Because I had nowhere else to turn and nothing left to lose. That’s usually when people paid a visit to the eccentric, self-proclaimed jack of all trades. He’d been a fixture of the town for as long as anyone could remember –ageless, feared, revered, mocked, jaded, spoken of in hushed tones, and avoided at all costs. He wasn’t ‘Mr. Thoreau’ to anyone, and he certainly wasn’t ‘Thornton’; he was Thornton Thoreau, pure and simple, and he did not exist in the daily lives of normal folk until they had a problem that no one else could fix.

The hardwood floors creaked as footsteps approached the door. I panicked. This was a mistake. I was halfway back down the porch steps when the door flung open and a booming voice turned my feet to lead, rooting me to the spot, JULIA PEABODY!

I gulped. How does he know my name?

Julia Peabody, he said again, his voice not as loud, but just as reverberating. Of course I recognize the girl who would peer for hours through my hedges, hoping for a rain dance.

A shiver ran up my back. Certainly it surprised me that he remembered that awkward runt in stringy pigtails, but what gave me chills was that I hadn’t asked how he knew me. Not out loud.

Definitely time to go.

Um, well, sorry to bother you, sir, but... I sidled away as fast as seemed prudent, considering I was the one who’d woken him at eleven PM. The past week, I’d failed to work up the courage to pay him a visit, but tonight, on my way home from making coffees to pay for college, I’d marched myself through his rickety gate, and up those creaking porch steps, to ring the now-lavender doorbell before I could talk myself out of it. Idiot. Now you’ll have to replace his doorbell on top of everything else. It was a...false alarm.

Thornton Thoreau studied me intently, one bushy eyebrow arched with a crazed kind of theatricality. Ha! he barked with contempt. No one comes here for ‘false alarms’. He was on to me!

Of course not, I said quickly, Which is exactly why I was leaving. So...I’ll just be going now.

STOP!

I did.

Young lady, you have rudely awakened me at a very late hour. You may insist that it is merely a ‘false alarm’ –which is ridiculous since we both know it isn’t true– but you may hold on to your flimsy charade, for all the good it will do you, IF–

I waited, terrified. I remembered a story Becky Gardner told back in third grade. For six weeks, she had an incurable, racking cough and her grandmother took her to Thornton Thoreau. He’d made her hunt down a black-scaled lizard under a full moon, added its saliva to a daily dose of boysenberries and chicken marrow, and instructed her for the next week to get out of bed left foot first.

Thornton Thoreau sniffed, as if amused by this recollection of poor Becky. If, he repeated, You join me for a cup of tea.

I didn’t have much choice, did I?

We sat in silence as the water came to a boil. He studied me even harder with those brooding eyes, and when the tea kettle began to sing, so did I.

It’s my finger, I blurted.

Thornton Thoreau nodded as if he had expected this.

This one, I said, wiggling my right index.

And why does it cause you such aggravation? he pressed.

I began to reply, but my gaze settled on a startling sight above his head, stopping me mid-word. Mounted on the wall, the detached head of an elegant antelope stared me down. This by itself wasn’t entirely strange –we were a hunting town and I had seen plenty of de-bodied animals in my time. But none of them had ever winked at me before. My voice faltered.

Thornton Thoreau looked annoyed. He followed my gaze upward and scowled. Don’t mind Scruples; he’s just a flirt. Now about your finger...

I decided to pretend the antelope didn’t exist and turned my attention back to the matter at hand. Well, at finger. I stared down at the golden spiral on the pad of my index finger and wondered how in the world I would ever explain.

Thornton Thoreau rolled his eyes. Does it itch? Does it hurt? Does it turn things into gold?

Warning bells clanged in my head. What? Gold? I stared at him through narrowed eyes. Why do you say that?

Only a jest, he replied, more serious than I’d ever heard him. His

eyes were cautious now, as they probed mine. Reference to King Midas. Midas. The golden touch. Funny, I hadn’t caught the correlation. 

I laughed, a sharp squeak of nervousness that made all of us wince, even Scruples.

Thornton Thoreau leaned forward, a strange glint in his eyes. Does it turn things into gold?

I blinked. No.

Oh. He looked crushed for an instant, but then he cocked his head at me. "What does it turn things into?"

My lucky easel sprang to mind, along with all the bad luck it had sported recently. Eyesores, I replied before I had time to wonder if I should even answer at all.

Thornton Thoreau blinked. He rose, moving beyond me to take the kettle from the burner, though there wasn’t much point now. The water inside had boiled into steam that long ago whistled its last tune.

You’re an artist, Peabody? 

I allowed myself to believe he had seen my canvases at the grocers. Well, yes, I am.

I heard him rifling through cupboards behind me, crinkling every noisy package ever known to man, probably looking for tea. You’d think a man dressed like Ebenezer Scrooge would know where he kept his tea.

Prone to bright colors?

Yes...

There was a sound behind me, like a bird’s squawk and the rumble of a rhinoceros’ empty stomach. Not looking for tea then. Suddenly I didn’t want to know what he was looking for.

And your family, they’re descended from Greece?

Rubbing at my tired eyes, I thought of my one-quarter Greek, great great-grandmother and millions of recipes my mother never used. Barely, I muttered, wondering at the same time, What does that have to do with anything?

Possibly everything, he answered, grinding something that chimed like Tinkerbell as it was pulverized. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. There was a stench, too, a nauseating mix of overripe peaches, hot rubber and steer manure.

Finally, I could stand it no longer. I turned.

The counter was covered in odd packages and wooden boxes, vials and talismans, none of which had been there before. The sight of that hocus-pocus would have sent me packing if he hadn’t already piqued my curiosity and given me a glimmer of hope. But then, Thornton Thoreau probably knew that.

He scoffed. I’m not a fortune-teller.

Sure you’re not, I thought bitterly. Aloud, I asked, What are you doing?

Concocting a cure, of course, he replied absently, scraping flecks of gold from a small statuette into the half-full blender.

I gulped.

That mark on your finger –when did it first appear?

Somehow it didn’t surprise me he knew the mark had ‘appeared’. Six years ago, when I was fifteen.

He nodded. And when did it begin to...act up?

About three weeks ago.

And the first victim?

I choked. Brandon.

His eyes strayed to me. Boyfriend? 

I flushed. Cat.

He added something suspiciously squirmy to the mix and hit blend. I averted my eyes as the machine roared to life and liquefied its contents. Perhaps, I thought, if I don’t actually see it prepared, I won’t know for certain that’s the cure he’s going to give me.

Someone snickered at my logic. I think it was Scruples.

At first, it would only turn things yellow, Thornton Thoreau guessed, But now, it produces a random spectrum of vivid colors, yes? It’s a mutation of your own bright imagination, he confided.

I stared at him. "How did you know?"

I’ve known for quite some time, he said. You’ve inherited the Midas Curse. Obviously, over the centuries it’s lost its potency, but I think you’ll agree it’s still beastly inconvenient.

He poured the frightening mixture into a medicine bottle. Drink a little every day, he ordered. And anything you touched will need a dab as well.

What–

But questions did not interest Thornton Thoreau. He forced the bottle into my hands and pushed me out the door, stumbling down the porch steps. I didn’t even get that cup of tea.

YOU HAVE SOMETHING ELSE TO DRINK!

The door slammed behind me as I grimaced at the dark sludge. I unscrewed the cap, but the offending odor nearly knocked me back. Forcing that down would not be easy but...I glanced at my finger.

I was desperate.

And, now that I think about it, Becky Gardner did get over that cough. Well, I gulped, Here’s goes nothing. 

I raised the bottle, plugged my nose, and glugged.

The Super-Man in Black

by James Zahardis

Ilya’s arrival to Boeotia was heralded by a white light in the midnight sky as the subluminal transport made planetfall. For a few moments the fiery craft appeared to be the third sibling of the binary moons, Castor and Pollux, until its descent ended with a bone-jarring landing on a rocky runway

Ilya looked out of his passenger window. A sign in the distance read:

ICARUS INTERPLANETARY SPACEPORT—WELCOME. The parallel rows of runways were missing the long, black blast-pads used by the spaceports of his home world, and the off-ramps were cluttered with rusty crop-hoppers and other small crafts associated with farming. 

Ilya was lowered from the transport to the ground along with the only other passengers who had traveled from Dardania, a couple he thought were newlyweds. Ilya hadn’t paid much attention to them during the flight; he’d been too preoccupied studying his exobiology text, and they’d been too enamored with each other to notice the thin, sandy-haired teenager. Sometime after lunch, the couple changed from sleek attire to dark-blue, knee-length chitons and leather-strap sandals. 

Ilya and the newlyweds were directed from the craft to a corridor extending from the runway to the terminal. Upon exiting the corridor, he noticed an old woman sitting on a bench looking at him with a scowling face. She turned to a young man in a dirty rough-spun tunic. He pointed at Ilya and whispered in the old woman’s ear. Ilya realized his glimmering skinsuit and haversack marked him as an urbane off-worlder—a Dardanian.

A massive man approached Ilya. He stared at the man’s wide shoulders, bull-like neck, and salt-and-pepper hair that draped over his face covering one eye and wondered, Is he a man or a Cyclops?

The man lifted up a plank. ‘ILYA’ was printed in chalk on the weather-beaten wood. 

Greetings. I’m Ilya, my grandmother is Dianthea, daughter of—

—Ma’Anthea sent me! I’m Oedi! I tend ‘em hogs! the man exclaimed. Let’s go. Ma’Anthea say: ‘Don’t dally, Oedi! Don’t dally!’ 

Oedi pressed on Ilya’s back, orienting him in the direction of a wagon, to which a pair of shaggy oxen were attached by a wooden yoke. It reminded Ilya of a picture he saw in a book on Boeotian history: two seats and an open-wagon bed, which, in this case, was occluded with sacks marked ‘FLOUR’, and buckets filled with nails.  Ilya slung his haversack over the side of the wagon, but it was waylaid in midflight by paws reaching out from behind a flour sack. A pair of ear tufts emerged, followed by the rust-red head and body of a cat-like animal. It stood on its four rear legs while grasping Ilya’s haversack with its front paws.

Is that a bobtail? 

That Bob, replied Oedi. Be good kitty, Bob. Good kitty, he said, gently pulling the haversack from the bobtail’s front paws while he petted the creature with his free hand. Bob curled up in the passenger seat. Saberlike canine teeth extended from its mouth, even when it was closed.

I think I’ll sit in the back, Ilya said. He boarded the wagon, stepping toward the bed. 

The ox-wagon began to roll after a tug of the reins and a call of ‘Ho!’ from Oedi; its rickety-rattling motion tossed Ilya from side-to-side. As they passed the cactus fence at the perimeter of the spaceport, Ilya began to drift asleep to the sounds of hooves and cricket-like chirping of creatures that weren’t crickets.

* * *

The light of dawn passed through the jagged stone outcroppings on the horizon, reaching Dianthea’s whitewash farmhouse. Ilya awoke. He got out of bed and walked to the desk in the corner of the room. Several folded-up, long-sleeved chitons were stacked on the desk. He selected an emerald green one with gold-colored trim. He slipped into it and fastened the single button at the shoulder. The feel of the wool was strange to Ilya; even stranger was the sensation of the cool morning air on his bare knees as he walked to the kitchen.

Ilya’s grandmother, Dianthea, stood over a wood-burning stove making scrambled eggs and bacon. She wore a light-blue, traditional Boeotian robe, a himation. Her hair was as white as mountain snow.

I thought you’d sleep-in after that long trip. That’s why I made a late breakfast, Dianthea said.

Late? Helios is just rising! Ilya responded. 

That’s late around here, Ilya. By Helios rise we’ve already fed the animals, Dianthea said, carrying breakfast on stoneware plates to the kitchen table. Her body was bent with arthritis, but Ilya noticed her strong hands and forearms when she placed breakfast in front of him. 

Ilya reached for his fork when his grandmother sat down.

Aren’t you forgetting something? Dianthea asked. Her hands interlocked.

Ilya got the gist. Even on his commerce-driven home world, old customs still lingered. You mean grace? 

Yes, grace! Why don’t you say it, Ilya?

Ilya had said grace a few times back home, where the patron deity of his city, Meteon, was Prometheus, the bringer of fire. He wondered what gods were favored on this world: his school teachers neglected Boeotian studies, other than to summarily state that Boeotia was settled by Dardanian outcasts. Ilya opted for the safest bet: Thank you, high-father Zeus and all the gods of the Pantheon for this meal we are about to receive. Amen.

Dianthea’s eyes opened wide. You forgot about the Phyeindox priests, haven’t you?

Who’re they? 

Didn’t your father ever tell you about the Super-Men in Black? Tell you about them and Grandpa? 

I don’t think so, Ilya replied. His attention diverted from his grandmother and toward the kitchen window behind her. A flock of rakish leatherwings had alit onto the gambrel of the barn. The glistening ebony alpha-male began to inflate its scarlet throat pouch to the admiration of the slate-gray females.

It seems like your father forgot quite a bit when he got himself that job in Meteon. Dianthea reached forward and took a hardtack from the straw basket in the middle of the table. She broke the dry biscuit in two pieces and held up the larger of the halves toward Ilya, who shook his head from left-to-right. 

Aridaios, your grandfather, was always the ladies’ man—a regular Pyramus, Dianthea said, taking a bite out of the hardtack. "He didn’t want to stay home and tend livestock and sow crops. He loved to sit in the meadows playing that mandolin, crooning songs in Old Hellenic. No

wonder he wound up with a farm girl in her father’s barn."

Why is she telling me this? Ilya wondered.

She must have been really fetching; he walked through the barley to meet her. And it was only three days after the Winter Solstice!

So? 

"So? You don’t walk through the barley on the Winter Solstice or the eleven days that follow—you know—the Twelve Days of Phota. That’s something you never do!" 

Why not? 

"Let me finish this story, and then maybe you’ll understand why not." Ilya’s grandmother used the last remaining corner of the hardtack to soak up some grease from her plate.