Tales from the Oakenwyld

By R.J. Anderson

A human woman's life is thrown into chaos when her son brings home a mysterious, uncanny new girlfriend.

The adopted heir of a cruel Empress struggles to forge his own identity, only to find that freedom comes at a bitter price.

A stubborn, independent faery tries to free herself from a life-debt and finds herself tangled in the last thing she ever expected — love.

The magical world of Knife and Swift comes to life again in three new grown-up faery tales featuring side characters from the series. What did Paul tell his parents about Knife? What really happened between Rob and Martin? How did Thorn end up where we find her at the start of Torch?

Learn the answers to these tantalizing questions, read bonus scenes from early drafts of Knife, Rebel and Arrow, and discover the inspirations behind the books in this never-before-published anthology by bestselling fantasy author R.J. Anderson.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Silverlode Books
• Release date: Oct 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9781739057206

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R.J. Anderson

Tales from the Oakenwyld

Three faery tales for grown-ups

First published by Silverlode Books 2023

Copyright © 2023 by R.J. Anderson

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

R.J. Anderson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

First edition

ISBN: 978-1-7390572-0-6

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

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To all who wanted more of the story

Contents

Foreword

Acknowledgement

I. TALES FROM THE OAKENWYLD

The Unwelcome Guest

The Unwanted Gift

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

The Unopened Letter

Prologue

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

Epilogue

II. DELETED SCENES

Knife

Rebel

Arrow

Author’s Notes

The Unwelcome Guest

The Unwanted Gift

The Unopened Letter

Deleted Scenes

About the Author

Also by R.J. Anderson

Foreword

Ever since my first novel was published, readers have been asking where I got my inspiration for Knife and the other inhabitants of the Oakenwyld.

There are a hundred different answers to that, from Cicely Mary Barker’s Flower Fairies to Madeline L’Engle’s A Swiftly Tilting Planet and Richard Adams’ Watership Down; I could also mention some of the quirkier sources, like a children’s TV show called Tales from the Riverbank and Steven Spielberg’s movie Hook. But ultimately, as C.S. Lewis said about The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe, it all began with a picture.

As a teenager I loved to draw, and one day I sketched a fierce, dragonfly-winged female faery throwing a dagger. I called her Knife—and immediately knew there must be more to her story. I imagined the faery queen sending her to assassinate an unsuspecting human, who I sensed had some kind of disability, and Paul’s character sprang from that seedling. The faeries’ lack of magic, the insidious schemes of the Empress, and the battle for the Oak came later, like the sequel trilogy about Ivy and the piskeys of Cornwall (which I would never have dreamed of if my publisher hadn’t asked for another faery book after Arrow, but which I’m now very glad I wrote).

Yet even as the tales of Knife and her successors—Linden, Rhosmari, and Ivy—flourished, so did a number of story ideas that didn’t fit into those books. They weren’t big enough to be novels, and they involved older characters who didn’t fit my usual YA protagonist model at all. I couldn’t think how to tell those stories in a way that would appeal to my existing readers, so for years I just didn’t. I had other projects to write.

Eventually, however, I took a sabbatical to help care for a sick family member, and finally felt free to explore those long-neglected tales. I wrote the first draft of Thorn’s novella, put it on pause while I wrote Torch and sold it to a publisher, then came back to write the other two stories in this collection.

As expected, though, these tales are different from the series that inspired them, both in tone and in content. One is written in second person, a POV rarely found in fantasy. Readers of Torch know that Thorn is both married and pregnant in that novel; her story tells how she got there. And anyone subscribed to my newsletter has met Beatrice McCormick, even if they only read her narrative to find out what happened to Paul and Knife.

My hope is that these previously untold tales from the Oakenwyld will satisfy readers without diminishing their enjoyment of the original novels. However, Thorn’s story in particular includes content which may be more forthright (like Thorn herself) than all of my readers would like. So I think that novella best suited to a grown-up audience, even though the details are sparse and indeed tame compared to a lot of modern YA.

In short, if you were the right age to have read Knife when it first came out in 2009 (or even the reprinted edition in 2015), you are the right age to read these stories now. Thank you for still loving and wanting more of these characters, long after other readers have forgotten or moved on.

I’ve added further comments on my inspirations and writing process for each story at the end of the collection, as well as some cut scenes from early drafts of the faery books. Feel free to read or skip those as you please.

Acknowledgement

I owe a tremendous debt to the many friends who read one or more of these stories in draft form and gave me their helpful, insightful, and encouraging comments: Kelsi Johnson, Katie Williams, Jane Maree, Joanna Ruth Meyer, Rosamund Hodge, Leng Malit, Rebekah Brown, Deva Fagan, Emily Bytheway, Victoria Ramsey, Claire Hill, and no doubt one or two other people whose e-mails I have failed to locate and therefore have ungraciously overlooked (for which I hope you will forgive me, and I promise to add you in the next update!).

Thanks also to Neil Finn, whose hauntingly beautiful song Love is Emotional became the unofficial theme for Thorn’s story as I was writing it; to Kelsi Johnson (again) for drawing the delightfully surly illustration of Thorn that became the cover of this book; to Susannah Rowntree and W.R. Gingell (fabulous indie authors in their own right) for their practical tips on self-publishing, as well as Nathaniel Luscombe for his insights about publishing in Canada particularly; and The Thing With Feathers writing group for their moral support as I wrangled the stories into shape.

Finally, thanks to my followers on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and Tumblr, especially those who signed up for my author newsletter. Many of you read Knife as children and now you are grown-up, but your letters and e-mails have continued to inspire and encourage me. It’s because of you that I had the courage to push forward with writing Torch, my last faery novel, even though I had no idea who would publish it¹; and it’s because of you that I’m telling these stories now. Thank you for reading, re-reading, and sharing my books with your friends, family, students and library patrons. I am forever grateful.

¹ Blessings on Steve Laube and all the lovely folk at Enclave, who have taken such good care of all my faeries!

I

Tales from the Oakenwyld

Three faery stories for grown-ups

The Unwelcome Guest

The girl had come out of nowhere.

Or so it seemed to Beatrice McCormick as she stared across her breakfast table at the stranger, a blob of marmalade sliding off the forgotten piece of toast in her hand. What? she asked faintly, and her teenaged son reddened and tried again.

I said, this is Peri. We met after the accident, and, er… now she’s come for a visit.

The Accident. For Bea it would always be written with capital letters, the event that had changed everything. Until this morning, she’d thought Paul felt the same. But he’d breezed past the words as though they didn’t matter, and put all the emphasis on Peri.

It was an odd name, and the girl herself was odder, a lanky creature with icy, pin-straight hair and eyes so dark they were nearly black. There was a foreign look to her sharp cheekbones and overlarge mouth, and she wore blue jeans and a man’s dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, like a Calvin Klein model in a magazine. But the clothes didn’t fit her, the too-loose jeans especially, and she wasn’t pouting, or posing. She just stood behind Paul’s wheelchair, stiff and silent.

For almost a year now, Bea had hoped her son would stop brooding over the schoolmates who’d drifted away from him after The Accident, and start making friends again. But she’d never expected it to happen like this, or so suddenly. When had Paul met the girl? How long had they been planning this visit? And why hadn’t he told Bea about it—or her—before?

I see, Bea said at last, though she didn’t. She glanced at her husband, but George only looked blank, the morning newspaper crumpled in his big hands. It seemed Paul hadn’t told him about the girl either.

Have a seat, Peri, Paul encouraged, gesturing to the table. I don’t suppose you had breakfast on the train?

He sounded perfectly at ease, as though he’d known this girl for ages. But how could that be when for weeks after The Accident he’d refused to speak to anyone at all? Unless he’d met this strange girl at the hospital, and she’d somehow got through to him when even Bea couldn’t…

Jealousy nettled Beatrice, but she forced a smile. It wouldn’t do to be rude to Paul’s friend. Please sit down, she said, pushing back her chair. I’ll make more toast.

She hurried to the kitchen, bustling about to cover her confusion. So Peri had come by an early train, and slipped in the door without knocking? That was bold of her; one might even say rude. Though perhaps she just hadn’t wanted to wake the whole house, so Bea shouldn’t judge too hastily.

But Paul hadn’t taken the car out that morning, so the girl must have walked from the station. An independent young lady then, or else very fond of exercise; Paul was too well brought-up and proud of his new driving skills not to have at least offered her a ride. Still, the girl must be strong to have lugged a suitcase two miles without breaking a sweat… unless she’d only come for the day?

With a furtive glance over her shoulder at the dining room, Beatrice slipped out to peek at the front entrance. There was no luggage on the mat, not even an extra pair of shoes.

Bea’s apprehension warmed to relief. Just a brief visit, then. No wonder Paul hadn’t thought to mention it. She returned to the kitchen and took more eggs out of the refrigerator as Paul’s voice—a lovely deep voice, like his father’s—floated in from the adjoining room.

…loves art as well, so we’ve always had lots to talk about.

Oh? That was George making an effort, bless him. He wasn’t much good at small talk, especially first thing in the morning. What sort of art do you do, Peri?

There was a charged silence. I don’t… the girl began, but Paul spoke up before she could finish.

She likes to sketch plants and animals, he said. In charcoal, mostly. She drew a brilliant picture of a crow for me once. He leaned back in his wheelchair. Mum, is there toast yet? I’m starving.

* * *

Starving indeed, Beatrice thought indignantly as she scrubbed the dishes. She was no stranger to teenage appetites: Paul had always liked a hearty breakfast, especially when he was rowing. But she’d never seen anyone eat as much as that girl. Now they weren’t only out of bread and butter, they were low on eggs as well.

But that wasn’t the only thing making Bea peevish. She’d done her best to show an interest in Peri, but the girl seemed too haughty even to speak to her. The more Bea tried to draw her out, the more curt her answers became. And that black gaze! It followed Paul everywhere, like a cat stalking a sparrow in the garden. But that hadn’t seemed to trouble him at all.

Perhaps he liked it. He’d grown into a good-looking boy, with Bea’s light hair and eyes and his father’s tall, lean frame. But he’d not had much to do with girls, especially after The Accident. Still, even if Peri’s exotic looks had dazzled him, that was no excuse for—

I’m driving Peri into town. Paul’s voice echoed down the corridor. Need anything at the shops, Mum?

Bea’s resentment melted. So he hadn’t forgotten her after all. Just a minute! she called back, hastily drying her hands and jotting a list. She padded out of the kitchen to meet him—and stopped short.

The girl stood by the front door, one long hand on the latch. Her hair gleamed silver in the light from the window, and her expression was as shuttered as before. But she was wearing one of Paul’s old sport jackets, wrinkled and much too big for her, and his lace-up Oxfords as well, with what looked like at least two layers of socks to keep them from slipping off her feet.

An unpleasant suspicion crawled into Bea’s mind. Had Paul loaned Peri all the clothes she was wearing? One blue dress shirt looked much like another, so Bea hadn’t noticed until now. But there was something familiar about that faded ink-stain above the pocket…

Sight-seeing, then? Bea asked, speaking brightly to hide her dismay. There must be some perfectly reasonable explanation for the girl to be wearing Paul’s clothes instead of her own. She just had to keep calm long enough to think of one. Will you be back for lunch?

No, said Paul. But with luck we’ll be home by tea-time. Bye, Mum. He plucked the shopping list from Bea’s numb fingers, spun the chair deftly and wheeled out.

Beatrice crossed her arms over her soft waist, watching until the door shut behind them. Then she hurried back to the kitchen, where George was making himself a second cup of coffee.

I don’t like that girl, she burst out, and her husband raised his brows mildly.

Well, that’s awkward, he said. Paul told her she can stay as long as she wants.

* * *

Beatrice was sitting on the veranda, shelling fresh-picked peas from her garden, when she heard a car crunching up the drive. Paul and Peri had returned.

She sat up, straining to listen, but though she could hear their young voices murmuring she couldn’t make out a word. With a sigh Bea went back to work, until the French doors at the back of the house opened and Paul rolled out.

Hi, Mum. Nice day, isn’t it?

Mm, said Bea, not looking up. Where’s your friend?

She’s, er… freshening up a bit. She’ll be out soon. Paul glanced about, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. So, is it all right with you? Her being here?

I’ve made up the spare bedroom. But it would have been nice to know she was coming. Reproach darkened Bea’s voice, and this time she didn’t hide it. Or how long she was going to stay.

Paul winced. Sorry, Mum. I would have told you earlier, but… it was sudden for me, too.

Worry flickered in Beatrice, and she pushed the bowl of peas aside. Paul, is this girl in trouble? I don’t want police at the door, asking—

No, Paul said firmly. Nothing like that. Her people know where she is, and they don’t mind. But she can’t go back to where she was living. That’s why I told her she could stay with me.

Not us, but me. As though the house was already his, and the girl too, no matter what his parents thought about it. Who are her people? Bea demanded, but Paul shook his head.

I can’t say, Mum. Just—trust me, please. I know what I’m doing.

You’re seventeen years old, Bea wanted to shout. You’re in a wheelchair, you’ve only just learned to drive, you’ve not even started university yet! What do you know? But the look in Paul’s eyes silenced her. It was so like George, that level look, and it meant there was no use arguing. He’d already made up his mind.

I just don’t see, Bea began plaintively, as the door opened again and Peri stepped out. Paul’s cast-off clothes and trainers had vanished, replaced by a loose blue jumper over dark leggings and shoes that actually fit her narrow feet. But she seemed no less ill at ease than before.

Come and join us, Kni— said Paul, then broke off with a sheepish laugh. I mean Peri.

The girl gave a flicker of a smile. You can call me Knife. I don’t mind.

Bea’s hands clenched around the bowl. Knife? What sort of nickname was that? It made her sound like a gang member, or an assassin.

Yet the girl’s accent was posh and precise, almost old-fashioned in a way. It reminded Beatrice of someone, though she couldn’t think of whom just now. Some actress perhaps, or a newsreader on the telly?

She was still frowning over it, trying to remember, when Peri sat down. May I help? she asked, gesturing at the peas.

Well, at least she was making some effort. Thank you, Bea said.

The girl stiffened at the words, as though she weren’t used to hearing them. Then she took a pod and gave it a clumsy squeeze. It burst open and the peas scattered, but she set her lips in a determined line and took another. Paul watched her, his gaze full of pride and tenderness, then pulled the bowl over and took a handful as well.

He’s adopted her already, Beatrice thought. Like a stray cat that turned up in the night. What am I going to do?

Well, there was one thing she would not be doing, and that was letting this girl stay in her house indefinitely. Or at least, not without paying so much as a tuppence for room and board. Did you have a nice time in Aynsbridge? Bea asked her. We don’t have a lot of shops about here, I’m afraid—nothing compared to London.

Peri gave a guarded nod. Her long, deft fingers worked at the peas, opening one after the other: she’d already grown quicker at it than Bea.

Is there anything else you’re hoping to do while you’re here? Beatrice persisted. Not that there’s much to interest a girl your age. I hope you won’t find us too dull.

Mum, said Paul with a hint of warning, but Bea breezed on.

"How long will you be here, might I ask? Not to hurry you away, of course, but when I asked Paul, he didn’t seem to know."

The girl’s hands stilled, and she drew a slow breath. Then she dropped the pods back into the bowl and stood up. I’m sorry. I’ll leave now.

Paul caught her arm. Don’t.

Guilt squirmed in Beatrice. There’s no need to rush, she protested. I’d only like to know what your plans are.

So would I, said the girl, with the first real emotion Bea had ever