When Magic Calls: A Collection of Modern Fairy Tales

By Caitlin Berve and Beth Berve

 Witness the Wonder and Terror of Magic

Once upon a time in a land not so far away, in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico, a jealous girl stole

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ignited Ink Writing, LLC
• Release date: Apr 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781952347016

Caitlin Berve

Caitlin Berve is a fantasy author, editor, and speaker, and like many writers, grew up a bookworm. However, she couldn't have fathomed a career in the writing industry. Surrounded by family members in the medical field, she was determined to become a doctor. When Caitlin wasn't chosen from the medical school waiting list, she was relieved and realized the fantasy novel she'd written in her spare time was her true passion. Now she uses her MFA to teach creative writing and founded her company Ignited Ink Writing, where she seeks to fill the world with the kind of writing that lingers with readers and find magic in modern times.

Book preview

When Magic Calls

A Collection of Modern Fairy Tales

Caitlin Berve

Illustrated by Beth Berve

When Magic Calls: A Collection of Modern Fairy Tales

Caitlin Berve

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places, or persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2020 by Caitlin Berve

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Desert Fantasma first appeared in Third Lion Stories published by Third Lion Stories 2019

Smoke Whispers first appeared in Flight: A 30th Street Fiction Anthology published by 30th Street Press 2019

Legend of the Bitter Berry first appeared in another form in SWP Guerrilla Lit Mag published by Naropa University 2017

Published 2020 by Ignited Ink Writing, LLC

1110 Opal Street #202

Broomfield, CO 80020

www.ignitedinkwriting.com

Illustrations by Elizabeth Berve

Cover design by Hannah Linder Designs

Library of Congress Number: 2020903640

ISBN: 978-1-952347-01-6

First ebook edition published in 2020

Formatted in the United States of America

Read More by Caitlin Berve

Books

The Mortician’s Assistant in Proof: A 30th Street Fiction Anthology

Smoke Whispers in Flight: A 30th Street Fiction Anthology

Fractured Dreams in Broken: A 30th Street Fiction Anthology

Other Readings

Will you catch all the fairy tale references in When Magic Calls? Find out at caitlinberve.com/fairy-tale-quiz.

If you want a sneak peek at Caitlin’s next magical work and a free flash fiction story, go to caitlinberve.com/ more-by-caitlin.

If you’re a writer or soon-to-be writer, Caitlin blogs about writing at ignitedinkwriting.com. There you can sign up to be notified when a new article is released and find information about Caitlin’s editing and writing services.

For my mom, who didn’t blink when I went from pre-med to author in an afternoon. For my dad, who did, and for my brother, who went after his creative dreams first. I love you all.

And for everyone who’s been told fairy tales aren’t real and fantasy isn’t worth their time. They absolutely are. You are my people.

Table of Contents

When Magic Calls

Read More by Caitlin Berve

Once Upon a Modern Time

Letters from a Wu

A Salty Invitation

Desert Fantasma

Wolf Girl

Borrowed Skin, Borrowed Year

Voices of Sacrifice

Smoke Whispers

In Pursuit of the Bitter Berry

A Love to Sleep For

But the Fairy Tale Isn’t Over

Bones of the Soul

Acknowledgments

About the Author

About the Illustrator

To Find Out More

Also by Caitlin Berve

Once Upon a Modern Time

ONCE UPON A TIME, a desert girl in love with text magic—the fantastical stories she read and wrote—found herself stuck in the mountains, attending a school void of classes on the subject. Her heart ached for magic. Each semester the pain deepened and she felt her smile slipping away. So instead of sitting through yet another course studying confusing, boring literature, she decided to make her own class to study the roots of text magic: Fairy Tales.

Her guide on this quest challenged her to rethink her approach to creating text magic and pull the past into the present. As she read and wrote and rewrote, the desert girl reconnected with her text magic and her smile returned.

She began with the tale of Hansel and Gretel and the cannibal witch. She wanted to show how fairy tales change with society by switching one detail in the classic tale at a time until it became something else entirely. With her guide, she rolled a set of dice to see how many iterations Hansel and Gretel’s tale needed. Unfortunately or fortunately, she rolled an eleven.

That is where and how this collection began.

Each of the eleven tales awaiting you contain elements from different fairy tales and cultures. No two stories are told in the same way. One began as an oral tale. Another as a gift for an injured friend. Some are tales of triumph. Others show the consequences of choice.

The desert girl did her best to infuse each tale with text magic. She hopes some of that magic spills over into you, so that you too might smile and ensure the fairy tale you’re living has a happily ever after.

Letters from a Wu

DEAREST MR. WANG YONG,

Babies aren’t meant to remember their births, but I do. I was born in a place where the elderly go to die. It was a sterile place, but not a cold one, thanks to the last wisps of life in Grandma Xia and residents like you and your wife. I need your help again, Mr. Wang. I have a decision to make by the end of this Hungry Ghost Month. One that will affect us all. Whenever I think of doing what Mama has asked, I can’t breathe in the same way I couldn’t breathe when I was born.

On my birth day, nearly eighteen years ago, I swam in Mama’s womb, enjoying the sweet cadence of the ancient Chinese lullabies she sang. The subtle beeps and whirls of Grandma Xia’s medical equipment in the hospice room acted as drum beats to her melody. I felt Mama’s delicate caress press through the barrier of skin and fluid, yet even as an unborn babe, I knew I was receiving the excess love she felt for Grandma Xia, not affection for me.

Then my world contorted. Mama’s womb rejected me and squeezed and squeezed until I thought I was going to pop. Poking her belly with more force than any loving mother would use, Mama hissed at me to stop. I felt her rise and heard the rush of liquid falling. She continued to ignore me as the walls around me collapsed in contractions. I needed her help to get out, to survive, but she refused.

Mama screamed at me, I won’t have you.

Zhang Min, you do not deny your daughter, Grandma Xia said in a strong voice devoid of her usual shaky tone.

You know she isn’t mine, Mama said.

My world shifted horizontally, and Mama grunted as Grandma Xia pulled us onto her bed in the cramped room and forced Mama to lie back.

I don’t have the charms here, Mama said, You know what she is. She’s not mine. Mama was right. Just as I remember my birth, I remember my conception.

Not a memory exactly, I imagine the shadow man and woman sneaking into Mama’s room one night when Papa was away for work. The moon was barely a sliver; the breeze a hushed whisper. With an ancient, guttural spell and the twist of an enchanted dagger, they took a palm-sized, infant girl from Mama’s belly and plopped me in her place from the ether of Yûshān—the changeling realm—not bothering to impregnate the shadow woman, my almost-mother, the natural way. A sharp ache of rejection settles in my chest when I think of how even my own kind didn’t want me.

Mama’s mortal blood was so much stronger than mine when her umbilical cord connected to my belly. It seared inside me as both a nourishment and a poison. The way drugs or alcohol both sustain and kill an addict, her blood fueled my body and devoured my life force.

A similar pain echoed back at me as the shadow man used the dagger to slice into the shadow woman’s stomach. The real little girl sank into that dark womb and her blood mingled with that of a changeling, fusing with their dark magic, but she was wanted so her life force wasn’t destroyed. As they slipped into the night and back to Yûshān, her pain quieted then subsided, especially after her birth. Mine has not.

Mama gave in to the need to push but refused to cry out. She didn’t want Grandma Xia’s caretakers to interfere, but they came anyway. Voices shouted commands to Push, Get more towels, and Move Grandma Xia to her chair.

I will not miss meeting my granddaughter, Grandma Xia insisted, and her spirit drew closer to mine.

The walls squeezed tighter and tighter, propelling me forward. The shock of cold, dry air made me want to cry, but I couldn’t. The pressure around me was gone, and I felt exposed yet free as Grandma Xia caught my small body and handed me to Mama. Blinding, unforgiving brightness pressed around my body. I wanted to stay in that light, but I had no breath. Fingers made of spirit encircled my throat, calling me to my ancestors and their dark spells.

She’s not crying, Grandma Xia’s favorite nurse, Yan, announced.

Without the gift of breath, I only had a fraction of a moment in the mortal realm, but Grandma Xia would have none of that. She slipped from her body and pried the ghostly hands off of me. Although she only had a few days left, she gave me what remained of her life, and with her final breath, named me.

Zhang Li, she uttered. Beauty.

Something large still pressed against my chest, yet I could breathe. I cried for Mama, but she ignored me and dropped me onto the bed as she scrambled for Grandma Xia.

Mama. Mama! My own mama half-fell, half-scampered out of bed and over to Grandma Xia, trailing blood and other fluids along the way. Get the breathing machines. Shock her back, she demanded the medical staff.

Zhang Min, Nurse Yan admonished Mama while swooping me from the bed with strong, calloused hands that smelled of fresh soil and flowers. You know she has a DNR order. She was ready to pass. Now you must look after your daughter.

No! Mama slipped and sat on the floor, shaking Grandma Xia, begging her to come back.

When Mama continued to ignore me, Nurse Yan pulled me closer and strode out of the room, whispering for me to hold on. Crying was difficult. Grandma Xia hadn’t had much energy to begin with, and I’d spent a lot of it trying to get Mama’s attention. Still wailing like a vengeful spirit, Mama didn’t follow us. In a space filled with people robbed of vitality by their emerging deaths, Mama’s hardy screams grated.

You are no beauty. No Li. You killed my mama. She suppressed a sob. You are Zhang Wu. Her words trailed after me.

And so I was given my second name: Evil Sorceress.

Did anyone ever call you names, Mr. Wang? I suppose everyone gets called something nasty from time to time, but was it by someone you loved and who was supposed to love you? Were they right about you like Mama was right about me? I do have abilities, and I’ve been asked to use them again by Mama, the shadow woman, and Mama’s real daughter. That’s why I’m writing.

The real Li has been contacting Mama through water in our polished silver bowl. Water is known for being a looking glass: silver for its magical properties. Through their combined reflective surfaces, the real Li and Mama can converse. She’s told Mama about her changeling family. How they needed an infusion of human blood to stabilize their community in Yûshān. How they took care of her right from the start. Despite belonging to the dark fae, it seems she was born into a loving family, so why does she want to come here after almost eighteen years?

The heavy weight Grandma Xia lifted from my chest comes back when Mama reminds me she wants her real daughter back. She wants me to make it happen, but the balance must be kept. Someone will have to take this real daughter’s place in Yûshān. Mama wants that to be me. Technically, I was supposed to be born there, but it doesn’t feel like home.

Ever Haunted,

Zhang Li

P.S. Today is the first day of the Hungry Ghost Month. Mama says I can’t burn paper spirit money and gifts for you and most of the others because we aren’t blood relatives, but I don’t believe her. She doesn’t know about your ancestral shrine in the corner of the cemetery. I believe you and the others are my ancestors. Papa agrees with me, so he bought the most beautiful sheets of crisp origami paper for me to fold into your spirit gifts. He slipped them to me with wink and told me to tell you hello. To honor you and ensure you have the wealthy afterlife you all deserve, I’ll send paper money and folded goods every day of this Hungry Ghost Month through ritual fire with my letters. This time I’ve brought paper spirit money and folded lots of different kinds of flowers you can use to decorate for the festivities.

Dearest Mr. Wang Yong,

It doesn’t have to be me. We could trade someone else for the real Li, but it would take more energy, more effort, more magic. We’ve already switched places once, so we created a pathway through the human realm and the changeling one just for us. A new pathway would need to be forged to swap the real Li with someone else. Mama even suggested using a baby from the orphanage, but I don’t want anyone else to start life the way I did.

Breathing was so hard those first few hours. A tightness in my chest made each breath a struggle like my ribs were laced too tight. Nurse Yan rushed me to the hospital across the street from the hospice center, where I was cleaned and laid in a covered bed. Even with the help of the incubator filled with oxygen, breathing was a battle, so I didn’t cry anymore. I didn’t have the strength or energy to focus on anything other than moving air in and out.

A new nurse with softer hands made for holding delicate lives placed stickers on my chest with wires attached to beeping screens outside my coffin-like glass box. I felt her fretting presence every time she came to check on me. Nurse Wenling’s worry was a poor substitute for the love of a parent, but I was grateful for it. I needed someone to care and hope I won my fight for life.

Other glass boxes arranged in a neat grid surrounded me. All but a handful were empty. I didn’t sense the same lack of life force in the other babies. They had simply been born too early. Whether they lived or died would be determined by their desires and wills. Although they occasionally squirmed and fussed, the room was silent and bright and smelled of powder, disinfectant, and electric heating pads.

When Papa arrived, so did my breath. For the first time, I felt love. A warm sensation deeper than the heated mattress beneath me tingled throughout my chest, loosening my muscles and ribs. Finally, I could breathe, so I fussed. Then I cried until Papa lifted my tiny body in his strong