Strange Paths to Wonder: Fantasy Stories

By Jeff Chapman

Is a vampire without fangs harmless? Do trolls really live under bridges? What's a squonk and why does it weep? Where do water wights come from? How do you return a stolen jewel to a ghost?

Those are only a few of the questions the stories in this volume consider. There are varied paths in the fantasy genre and these stories travel many of them. The tales range from weird westerns to fairy tales to classic fantasy with a cat as the protagonist. Some feature magic, others none at all. Some are wondrous, some are woeful.

Strange Paths to Wonder has something for everyone, so dive into a feast of stories certain to satisfy your fantasy hunger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeff Chapman
• Release date: May 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393998006

Jeff Chapman

Jeff Chapman explores fantasy worlds through fiction and is the author of The Merliss Tales fantasy series, The Huckster Tales weird western series, and The Comic Cat Tales series. Trained in history and computer science, Jeff writes software by day and explores the fantastic when he should be sleeping. His fiction ranges from fairy tales to fantasy to ghost stories. He's not ashamed to say he's addicted to dark hot chocolate and he loves cats. Jeff lives with his wife, children, and cats in a house with more books than bookshelf space.

Book preview

Strange Paths to Wonder

Strange Paths to Wonder

Fantasy Stories

Jeff Chapman

Strange Paths to Wonder

Fantasy Stories

Jeff Chapman

Copyright 2019 by Jeff Chapman. All rights reserved.

This eBook or any portion of it may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author—except for brief quotations in reviews.

The stories contained within this eBook are works of fiction. All material is either the product of the author's imagination or is used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead) or to actual events is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design by James, GoOnWrite.com.

For Ada, Sophie, Bree, and Gigi,

May your imaginations soar.

Contents

Preface

A Gift from over the Sea

The Princess and the Vampire

The Fletcher’s Daughter

The Hand with the Knife

Why the Squonk Weeps

A Mother’s Gift

Under the Bridge

The Master and the Miller’s Daughter

Esme’s Amulet

In the Kappa’s Garden

The Flaming Emerald: A Huckster Tale

The Water Wight: A Merliss Tale

About the Author

Publication History

Preface

This book collects all the fantasy stories from my first collection Tales of Woe and Wonder plus three uncollected stories. No broad theme or shared world connects these stories. Some make explicit use of magic. Others contain no reference at all to magic. Some are more akin to fairy tales. Some are woeful. Others are wondrous. I hope there is something in this mix for everyone.

A Gift from over the Sea was inspired by Charles Causley's poem Nursery Rhyme of Innocence and Experience. The whole story poured out of me one day in a single sitting, which is most unusual for me. The Princess and the Vampire is my antidote to the Twilight series. The Fletcher’s Daughter is a quirky variation on Cinderella and strangely enough features no magic. The Hand with the Knife expands on the Grimm's tale of the same title. The original is only a few paragraphs long. Why the Squonk Weeps is my attempt at a fairy tale in the classic tradition. A Squonk is a creature from American folklore reputed to live in the hemlock forests of Pennsylvania. It's elusive, ugly, and weeps continuously. A Mother’s Gift concerns the unintended consequences of meddling with pain and magic. Under the Bridge is about what we make of reality. The Master and the Miller’s Daughter reimagines the Easter story in a fantasy setting. I started with a girl in a boat attempting to cross an enchanted river. The Easter story crept in. Esme’s Amulet tells about a young girl's encounter with a witch and the costs of magic.

Among the three new stories, In the Kappa’s Garden recounts a young boy’s encounter with what he thinks is a monster. A kappa is a creature from Japanese folklore. The Flaming Emerald is another weird western installment in the Huckster Tales series. Orville and Jimmy are once again way over their heads in supernatural trouble. The Water Wight explores another incident in the life of Merliss, a girl whose spirit has been cast into the body of a cat.

The characters from The Flaming Emerald and The Water Wight feature in novels, so there’s plenty more to read about them.

Lastly, some thanks are in order. Thanks to the slush readers and editors who saw something worthwhile in these stories and published them. And thanks to you, the reader. I hope these stories bring you some enjoyment.

A Gift from over the Sea

Father, father, called Arne. The boy sprinted over dirt and pebbles toward the lapping water. To the east, an orange shade of dawn edged jagged peaks, merciless as a shark’s teeth. Some of the men loading the longboats held torches. Their bearded faces wavered in the flickering light, floating in the night like spirits. Arne felt a chill mist on his cheeks.

Bjarn dropped his haversack and picked up the boy in a hug with a single sweep of his muscled arms. A round shield hung from the man’s back, a battle ax from his belt. Arne smelt milk and rye bread and ale on his father’s breath, sweet and comforting. Bjarn put the boy down then ruffled his son’s hair and caressed his smooth cheek.

In three seasons, Arne, you can come with us. Now back to your mother. You’ve fields and stock to tend.

Three seasons? Do you promise?

If there’s hair on your face.

I brought you something, for luck. Arne held out a copper coin, hardly as big as the end of his thumb, with a leather cord threaded through a hole in its center.

Bjarn put the cord over his head then patted his chest. Next to my heart. He turned to retrieve the haversack.

Father, will you bring me something back? Something from across the sea.

I will.

When the sun peeked over the mountains, Arne stood with the other villagers and watched the men plying the oars. His mother’s hand gripped his shoulder. What would his father bring him? He did not know how he would wait the summer’s end. The two single-masted longboats sliced the calm waters of the fjord then set sail and dipped beneath the rim of the open sea.

The days of summer lengthened then faded. The red wheat grew. Arne tended the farm under his mother’s direction. He wielded a wooden sword and shield in mock battles with the other boys and inflicted more bruises than he received.

As Arne knelt in the black dirt pulling weeds from among the beans, the long blast of a battle horn shook the morning. He jumped the fence surrounding the garden and joined the throng hurrying toward the shore. Two long boats crossed the fjord, riding lower than when they had left months before. Women and children stood in the boats, many thralls. Excitement carried Arne to the water’s edge. He had much to tell his father: the fox he had killed while defending their chickens and the blows he had dealt older boys with his sword. His father would tell stories of the dangerous sea and the raids to last a winter.

And the promised gift drew nearer with each pull of the oars.

The warriors splashed ashore, hauling sacks of riches, herding thralls bound one to another. The men laughed and rejoiced in reunions. Arne searched for his father.

A warrior stopped and clapped Arne’s shoulder, staring grimly at him. He mumbled something then moved on but the din drowned his words. Did he say Valhalla? An empty feeling sickened Arne and swelled in his gut. He jerked his head from side to side, now frantic. Not his father, he told himself, not him, not one so strong.

Arne, over here. Olav, his father’s friend, beckoned at the water’s edge. Olav gripped a young girl’s arm. Her hands were bound behind her back, and mud splatters soiled her ripped, tawny tunic. Arne walked toward them. Sights and sounds faded to dim echos, the ravings of ghosts. Arne’s breaths came in shuddering gasps. The girl held her head bowed, her face hidden behind tangled hair.

Behind him, a wailing scream, alien yet familiar, pierced the air, his mother’s lament.

Your father fell killing this slag’s father. Olav jerked her arm, putting her off balance and then shoved her toward Arne.

The girl fell forward on her chest. Her cheek smacked the pebbles.

Your father told me he was bringing you a gift. He never told me what it was going to be. It would have been something glorious. She’s not much, but she’s yours to do with as you will. Olav stomped away, his deed done.

Arne stared past the girl at the sea. Father is dead, he repeated, a warrior’s death. The girl sobbed at his feet, her cries chasing away his thoughts. And what bitter gift are you? he shouted. He cursed her father and the sea and the wind. He thought to smite her, to beat her to death.

He raised his foot to kick her. She looked up. Her cheek was muddy and bruised. Red, swollen eyelids rimmed her watery, blue eyes. Arne recognized his own blue eyes, his own salty tears, his own pain. He saw their fathers grappling in combat, swinging axes, shattering shields, gouging eyes, and in death binding their children. His sorrow welled up in choking sobs. He fell to his knees beside her, his gift from over the sea.

The Princess and the Vampire

The Chief Councilor and the Court Fool were walking down a road scarcely wide enough to accommodate a coach. Young pines crowded the road's edge, while their forebears, tall and ancient, stood behind. Amber pine needles carpeted both sides of the lane before thinning out to nothing across the crown at the road's center. With the rising sun at their backs, the pair's bobbing shadows stretched in front of them, an advance guard racing ahead.

The Chief Councilor trudged like a man going to beg forgiveness for his back taxes, while the Fool bounced, swaying side to side like a man going to meet his betrothed for a secluded stroll in the woods.

I say, said the Fool, I don't think I've ever been down this stretch. Doesn't look like anybody else has either.

No, it's not a well-traveled path, at least not by the living, the Chief Councilor mumbled.

So where are we going?

The Chief Councilor smiled, knowing the Fool had not listened to the most important detail. To deliver a message from the Princess.

Oh, hmm. I hope they offer us some breakfast when we get there.

I wouldn't count on it. The Chief Councilor fingered the brass cross hanging under his cloak as he added more prayers that they wouldn't be breakfast. You're only the messenger, he told himself, absolved from all guilt and responsibility, but he didn't believe it. He wondered how long he should keep the Fool in the dark.

It's not Christian to offer a guest no breakfast in the morning. And why do we have to be up so early anyway? Don't these people sleep?

I wouldn't know.

"They must go to bed awfully early."

The Chief Councilor chuckled. Here's a riddle for you. What do you get a spoiled princess who has everything she could possibly want?

The Princess will have your head for that.

She would have yours for far less. Do you give up?

A new castle. We're going to look at a new castle.

Nope.

Wait. Don't tell me. A new horse.

If only it were so simple. The Princess has more horses than she can ride in a month. Give up?

The Fool shrugged his shoulders.

A vampire lover.

The Fool stopped. "A vampire? This ... this isn't the road to that castle?"

The Chief Councilor nodded. Come on. I want to get there and back before I lose my nerve.

What do you need me for?

You can hide in the woods and take word back if anything bad happens.

Oh. How do I know if something bad happens?

I'm afraid you'll have to use your wits. No one else would agree to come.

Turning a bend in the road brought the pair into a long-deserted village where the doors had been scavenged and the thatched roofs had collapsed. The Fool eyed the cemetery, where weathered crosses made of branches and rope stood defiantly against the sapling evergreens that led the charge to reclaim the land.

I don't think they'll do us any harm, said the Chief Councilor.

Vampire victims?

Most, I suspect.

No one lived near the vampires' castle. For five miles in each direction, the forest knew nothing of men's boots or children's laughter. For those living just beyond the dead zone, including the Princess and all her subjects, an uneasy, informal truce had developed. The resident vampires--a man and his sister--no longer preyed on the local populace but the hanging of garlic and crucifixes across shuttered windows punctuated everyone's nightly routine.

Rumor said the vampire and his sister possessed ageless beauty, having been frozen in time at the prime of their aristocratic youth, and since pale skin and deep red lips were the rage among the fashionable elite, the pair were well-poised to impress on appearance alone.

An ancient portrait of the brother and sister, painted before their lusts turned to blood, hung in the long gallery of the castle in which the Princess lived with her father, an aged king slipping into dementia. In the portrait, the brother stood behind his sister, who reclined on an ottoman as she reached toward her brother to touch his hand. Many times the Chief Councilor had seen the Princess entranced beneath that portrait, reaching up to touch that very hand.

Advising the King was so much easier than pampering the Princess. The King asked for nothing but fruit pies and then ignored them while he babbled on and on about the tapestries adorning his bedchamber.

Coming around a sharp bend in the road, the Chief Councilor and the Fool came to a curtain wall. Splotches of green and red lichens dotted the wall's gray stones. The path ended at a pair of black, oak doors that barred entry through an archway. Centuries of rain had effaced a family crest etched in the capstone. At the wall's edge, sunk in the soil like megaliths, lay fallen stones from the moldering battlements above. The Chief Councilor surveyed the wall, wondering if the stress on the ancient hinges would dislodge an avalanche. To the right of the doors, pines encroached to the wall's edge.

The Chief Councilor leaned toward the Fool. You hide in the trees and if something happens to me, take word to the castle.

The Fool nodded before diving under the trees like a rabbit.

After withdrawing a scrolled parchment from beneath his cloak, the Chief Councilor approached the doors. An iron knocker, the size of a man's fist, hung from the door on the right. He grasped it, grimacing at the screeching of the ancient hinge, and beat it against the door. Nothing stirred inside, at least nothing that he could hear. Again he pounded the knocker against the wood, but still no sound came from the other side.

Have you lost your way? asked a female voice.

The Chief Councilor spun around, falling against the door. The owner of that sweet, languid voice eyed him with a mixture of humor and curiosity. Her ruby lips, all the more crimson against her ivory skin, smiled, and when they parted, the sharp points of two white fangs emerged.

I thought this was the main gate but apparently there's another door.

"Oh no.