Cerberus, Tales of Magic and Malice

Preface

Though he penned some of the most memorable novels in science fiction, Ray Bradbury thought of himself as a sprinter, a short story writer. I always thought of myself as a marathoner. Blame my personality. Big things done alone have always appealed to me. In elementary school, I challenged the fastest kid in the class to an endurance race around the schoolyard. By lap nineteen he dropped out clutching his side. I kept going another ten laps, even though I was running solo. When I discovered novel writing, it seemed just the thing. The form allows for the creation of intricate worlds, twisty plots, and complex and compelling characters. And plenty of time for the story to unfold. It came as a surprise, then, that I would enjoy writing short stories. The concentration of time, place, and emotions was startling and satisfying. And there’s nothing like knocking out a finished piece in a few days or weeks, rather than one to three years, my pace for writing a novel.

In this volume, three stories sprouted from prompts from The Fellowship of Fantasy, an online support group for fantasy authors. One of these stories, Three Steaks and a Box of Chocolates, was published in their anthology, Fantastic Creatures. Another, The Demon Monkeys, was published in their anthology Hall of Heroes. Blaze was also inspired by the story prompt for Fantastic Creatures, but you can’t always control when something is ready, and it needed more time to gel. Cerberus on the other hand had been rolling around my brain for some time. The prompt for that first anthology fit it to a tee, but I decided to retain it for later publication. Two unfinished stories, The Tea Party and The Mask, were dredged out of old computer files and completed for this collection.

Flash fiction lends itself wonderfully to fairy tales, and I couldn’t resist conjuring up two of these with The Willow Princess and Tangles. A third flash fiction, Titania, was inspired by the magical forest in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

So there you have it: mix six short stories with three flash fiction stories and you get a potion for magic and malice. I hope you enjoy reading these as much as I did writing them.

Introduction

Mystery and magic reside in both strange and mundane places. The same may be said of the heroes and heroines, big or small, who quest there as well as the beasts, human or otherwise, that they battle. Skeptical? Take a gander at the locales and folk that occupy the tales in this volume.

Three Steaks and a Box of Chocolates: Stuck in a desolate town and down on his luck, Doc Turner takes on a mysterious case. He gets more than he bargained for.

Cerberus: Bailiff Giles Dunstable is hell-bent on stopping the spread of superstition in his village. But his beliefs are sorely tested after the witch of the Hevyl Mountains reads his fortune.

The Willow Princess: Separated in childhood, two sisters struggle against a terrible enchantment to reunite and claim their birthright.

The Demon Monkeys: The mountain hides a secret. Deep in winter, the orphan girl Scamp fights to survive in the shadow of a menacing terror. When a stranger crosses her path, her life changes forever.

Tangles: Lessy needs one last spell. But it, like everything else, has faded.

Titania: After a mysterious encounter on her doorstep, a reclusive actress battles doubt and disability to take on her greatest role.

Blaze: In 1689, the lonely servant boy Davie fights to protect his one friend from the malice of a heartless earl.

The Tea Party: A dying Sir Robert Wainwright offers his selfish sons one last invitation to tea …

The Mask: Jessica Lansing is certain her tyrannical methods will win her Teacher of the Year. But her plans start to unravel when little Christopher makes a singular mask.

This ’twas but a sip, dear reader. For the full spell, drink on …

Three Steaks and a Box of Chocolates

The day Burt McCall backfired into Dead End I got my last and most peculiar patient. I’d been standing on the termite-riddled planks of the sidewalk watching dust devils and my sign swinging in the wind. The two customers in the Dry Gulch Saloon hadn’t moved in their chairs all day. For all anyone knew, they could’ve been dead.

Then Burt parked in front of the post office and that got my attention. If he had anyone to write to, no one knew about it. He came out a minute later with a small package. He tossed it into his tow truck and headed across the street to my establishment.

Why don’t you take that rusty can of yours out of town before you hurt someone? I said, itching to know what was in the package.

I ain’t happy to see you, either, he replied. But I got something that needs doctorin’.

I looked him over. From his worn boots to his weathered face, he was none too pretty to look at. But a wealth of silver tumbled from beneath his old hat, and his eyes hadn’t lost their youthful spark.

You never paid for last time, I said.

I’d think you’d want the business. He stared meaningfully at my sign:

Doc Turner

Healing Artist

Its groaning in the wind seemed to emphasize his point. Fact was, no one had passed beneath it for quite a spell. I admit I’d tightened my belt a notch or three.

This better be good, I said.

Inside my office, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a lump of gold, and slammed it on my desk. That oughtta cover what I owe. Consider the rest a down payment. You’ll get a whole lot more if you help me.

Is it real?

Test it yourself.

I didn’t need to. I’d seen enough nuggets to know the real McCoy from the metal of fools—though, as for fools, Burt might take the cake. He seemed to make a profession of chasing crackpot dreams.

You didn’t pull this from that sand patch of yours. Who’d you steal it from? That way, I’m prepared when they come after me for it.

Now that plain hurts, Doc. I’ve been tellin’ you all along there’s gold there, and there’s the proof. Just like I told you there’s water.

The day you find water I eat my boots.

Then you better put a fire under the pot so you can cook ’em when you get back. You gonna help me or not?

I rose, put on my hat, and grabbed my medicine bag. Business had dried up since the new doctor set up down in Black Rock. He was young and knew how to charm the ladies. I’m past my prime on that score and maybe behind the times in doctoring. I figured Burt’s gold would cover me for six months. Mainly, I wanted something to do besides watching dust devils. If anything else was happening in Dead End, nobody told me about it.

Well, what do you need me for? I asked.

Fluffy ain’t feelin’ good.

You want me to drive all the way over to your dump in this heat for a cat? Anyway, you don’t like cats.

He gave me a sly smile. I don’t. Fluffy’s special.

I let that slide. What’s wrong with her?

I think she’s got a toothache. He was looking at a photo on my wall, me standing beside a sleeping elephant, a red-and-white big top in the background. You sure you didn’t kill that elephant?

Couldn’t. He was the circus’s prize possession. But he went berserk when they sold his lady friend. Elephants are loyal that way. I used something that would drop a dinosaur and they paid me well for it. I was feeling a little sad thinking about it. It was probably the last good bit of coin I’d seen. If things didn’t turn around soon, I’d have to close shop. The thought of moving at my age didn’t appeal to my bones, which were about as shaky as Burt’s truck.

You still got that tranquilizer?

Probably somewhere.

Get it. Fluffy doesn’t like pain.

I squinted at him like he was a crazy man, which he probably was. That didn’t matter. He wouldn’t drive clear to Dead End unless he needed to. Something was afoot, and I aimed to find out what. I threw some hypos and elephant tranquilizer into my bag. We piled into his truck and started bouncing down the road, sending up clouds of dust.

I hung on for fear of falling out. If you’d brush that cat’s teeth, it wouldn’t have a toothache.

I never heard of such a thing. He grinned with those yellow teeth of his.

Tackling your own once a week might not be a bad idea either.

He came to a sudden stop in front of Newsom’s Hardware. Fine.

He hopped out and a minute later returned with a push broom and a crowbar.

What’s that for?

An ounce of prevention.

How many times the engine exploded no one would want to find out, but an hour later his mountain came into view. As the story goes, a bespectacled gent named Norman Fable from one of those big universities back east inspected it for a mining company. He declared it a likely place to find gold or silver. Everyone and their uncle descended on the place. For two decades they punched holes all over it and found zip. Now most people call it Fable Mountain. It seems a respectable way to immortalize the man.

The Indians round here call it Awanyu, after their serpent god. They got it right. From this side, it looked like a snake stretched out on the desert floor, the east peak its head, the west peak an eroded cliff that curved up like a tail.

Miles passed with nothing but cactuses, the sweat on the back of your neck, and horse flies the size of buffaloes. Burt was by himself out here. A lonely feeling settled into my bones.

His lean-to came into view, stuck against the base of the mountain. There wasn’t a well in sight.

How do you survive out here without water?

He gave me that sidelong look again. I got water.

You old fibber. The only water is floating around your brain.

Well, you can add your hat to your boots. Looks like you’re losin’ weight, anyway.

I mean it, Burt. How do you get by? Fact was, I cared about him.

He pointed to a clay disk with painted triangles and spirals hanging from his rearview mirror. Amulets.

You can’t get by on luck.

It ain’t luck. It’s magic. That’s what Indian Bob says. He oughtta know.

If that’s from Indian Bob you got swindled. He’s no more Indian than you are.

Not so, I’m two-thirds Hopi and two-thirds Chippewa.

Where do the McCalls fit in?

The lost tribe. You can’t count ’em.

I didn’t want to argue. He was rather sensitive on the subject, and told all kinds of tales about giant bears, birds, and skunks, and rolling heads that gobbled up bad people. He swore he’d seen them hereabouts, but then again, he’d claimed he’d seen a sea serpent in his navy days. Said it would bring him luck one day.

He pulled up to the lean-to and took up his package and the broom and crowbar he’d bought at Newsom’s. I followed him inside, hoping it would be cooler. The concept of shade didn’t seem to apply there, and sweat was rolling down my face. He offered me a pull from a canteen. I expected the water to be dusty. It was surprisingly cold and sweet.

He watched me drink. Don’t be bashful. There’s plenty where that came from.

I didn’t need a second invitation and poured half of it down my shirt. When the last drop trickled down my throat, I looked at him guiltily. Sorry, I should’ve left you some.

He shrugged. Take it, we’ll refill it.

I looked around, trying to figure this out. No well outside. Not even a water tank. An old wood-burning stove sat in one corner, a narrow cot in the other. An iron skillet, a Dutch oven, and a big spoon hung from the ceiling. A buffalo hide was nailed to one wall, probably to cover gaps in the planks that bands of light would’ve streamed through. More amulets were scattered about, long feathers, beads, bits of carved turquoise, dreamcatchers. If he was finding his dreams, I couldn’t see it.

The front of the room was as clean as any bachelor’s, but toward the rear, a layer of dirt covered the floor. A curtain hung over the back wall. It stirred, though no wind came through the open windows.

He lit a lantern and gave it to me. Smiling to himself, he put the package in a knapsack, slung it over his shoulder, and took up the broom and crowbar.

With my medicine bag in one hand and the lantern in the other, I followed him to the curtain, wondering what all this was leading to. He parted the curtain. More dirt was piled to the left and right but dead ahead the wall had been torn away, revealing an opening large enough to step through.

Inside,