Author's note: I really love this contest, the stories I get to read, and the total unpredictability of what kind of story will burgeon in my head when reading this or that opening sentence.
Disclaimer: I drew upon mostly Germanic myths and legends for this one, and there isn't one character whom I can claim is mine (the spin I put on them might be, though). Carter and Newkirk are Fein's estate and Ruddy's, and the rest belong to themselves and those who tell their stories.
Under the Night Sky
Of course there are people who don't believe in fairy tales – the fools.
There are reasons why people are advised not to anger the sprites or go searching for goblins and fairies. The main reason is that, although they need mortals to believe in them and make them powerful, they don't like humans interfering with their lives …
Even though the Fairy Folk love interfering with humans' lives.
Once upon a time, in Germany, during what some calendars call the year 1943 on a cold winter night …
Council was held among the sprites.
Wodan, Helmet-Bearer, Flaming-Eyed, and Lord of the Wild Hunt, was pleased.
"War is still going well enough," he said, voice booming, to the creatures assembled around him. "Hitler's soldiers sweep across Europe with the Hunt in their hearts, and soon we shall follow. We will go to our kin in the South of Britain, and join with the great gods of ancient Germania, and our hounds shall know no borders!"
He stopped, and looked down severely at his audience. To his dismay, they appeared uncertain at best, and sceptical at worst.
"I cannot understand why you can't just let these foolish mortals be," said the Rübezahl sternly. The Lord of Weather had deigned to come down for the meeting, wrapped in the mist and the moss of his native Krkonoše mountains. "They are just mortals. Soon, your Hitler will only be a memory, of fire and blood, and the Hunt will still be roaming."
The Rübezahl has no love for war. After the blood of men has seeped into the earth, the flowers and the grass grow again next spring, but the felled trees are slow to come back.
Wodan glared at him. The Rübezahl, a mighty Lord in his own right, stared back, unperturbed.
There was playful laughter from the nearby stream, and two Nixes put their chin in their hands, their eyes dancing. One was fair-headed, the other dark-haired, and the scales on their fish tails flashed silver in the moonlight.
"Wodan the Furious is like the ravening wolf," they teased him. "He has to devour everything in his path, and everything he sees he keeps for himself. You need to learn to share, O Mighty One."
Lightning flashed over their heads, and the pretty Nixes, though still grinning, fell silent.
"They're right, Lord," said a small, creaking rasp of a voice between the kobolds and the Erdhenne. Wodan seldom condescended to look down at the little house sprites, deeming them unworthy of his attention, and the sound surprised him.
It was an old, frail, tiny woman, clad in grey rags. Her smirk had a wry, malevolent quality.
Wodan narrowed his eyes.
"I know you. You're the one who lives in ash trees, aren't you? The Eschenfrau. Haven't seen you in ages."
"Oh, I've been around," the Eschenfrau replied vaguely. "I've seen things. Many things. Things that are hard to see when you ride a horse in the sky, hell-hounds leaping behind you."
"Are you mocking me, old woman?" Wodan roared. The Eschenfrau rolled her eyes.
"I was merely saying that mankind has a remarkable capacity for belief. We are not confined to human borders; why should we invade other lands, with other spirits, other laws of magic?"
"The men of Germany were waging war on themselves before they invaded their neighbours," said the White Lady sadly, her eyes turned to a nearby town, and the ruins of a synagogue. Some time ago, black-clad men had forced their way in, to plunder and pillage the gold and valuables. The very soul of the temple had been ripped away, blood spilled on the door. That soul, that treasure had not been the White Lady's to protect, like others were, but it tore at her heart all the same.
Wodan crossed his arms against his large chest.
"Our duty is to help the people who believe in us. If we don't defend ourselves, who knows who our people will believe in tomorrow? Baba Yaga? Chernobog? That Celtic rabble?"
"That 'rabble' didn't do too badly defending their island the last time a German host intended to invade," said the Eschenfrau pointedly. "You of all people should remember well the day the Fair Folk of Eire, Scotland and Wales went to war, and the fight they put up."
"Don't talk to me about them," Wodan said darkly. "I will not have the mortals of our lands trade the Hounds of my own Hunt for the Cŵn Annwn. I intend to fight for Germany."
"But they are not invading, are they?" asked the White Lady, fairly alarmed.
Before Wodan answered, one of the kobolds, the one called Hödekin, who liked to keep an eye on the mortal world, peered through the woods from under the rim of his hat. "Actually, Lady, it looks like they are."
Hidden though they all were to human eyes and ears, the whole council fell silent. They watched as two men made their way through the woods, some with apprehension, some with curiosity.
"What are they doing?" asked the fair-headed Nix. "No-one usually goes through this part of the forest at night. They should know better."
"Shall we call them this way?" asked the dark-haired Nix with a wicked grin. "They are handsome enough. We could have our little fun."
Hödekin shot her a look.
"You have been visiting your cousin the Lorelei again, haven't you?" Then, ignoring the Nix who stuck out his tongue at him, he turned his attention back to the two men, thoughtful. "Would you look at that. A man of Albion and a son of the Americas. That's interesting."
"Americans." Wodan huffed in contempt, thunder rumbling in his voice. "What do they know of legends? Their minds and their homes are made of glass, steel and stone."
"This one comes from the wide prairie," the Eschenfrau pointed out, a glint in her eye.
Wodan adjusted the bridle of his horse with a disdainful shrug. "And what are prairies? Only sky and soil as far as the eye can see. No high mountains, no deep forest, no dark caves. No mystery at all. Legends need a little mystery to blossom! What kind of legend can ever come from the prairie, I ask you!"
The Eschenfrau smiled, but said nothing. The meeting was nearly over, and her mind was elsewhere already.
Wodan got on his horse, and cast a last look around.
"I must be away; my traps are set and my prey is waiting. But I have to ask once more, as I did at the last solstice: won't the Little People help in the fight?"
The Moss People cowered under the bushes, and the kobolds looked at one another uneasily.
"Go join your hounds, Mighty Hunter," said the White Lady, standing tall and unbowed. "The Little People do not belong in war, and new blood will never wash away old blood."
"Make your mischief and let us have our own," said the Nixes with a cheeky grin. "What do we care for fire and battle? Men are just as easily lured to their death by our laughter and our songs as by the drums that call them to war. Leave us our games and our playthings." And they plunged back into the stream, following it to the river.
Thunder and lightning followed Wodan as he rode away to his hounds in the sky in haste. Soon, all were gone, except for the Eschenfrau and Hödekin.
"Do Americans really have no legends?" asked Hödekin after a little while. The Eschenfrau gave a chuckle that sounded like a croak.
"Of course they have legends. Wherever you find humans, you'll find stories; that's what they live on, what makes them what they are. They have stories to explain the world, stories about their ancestors, and these stories go with them … In fact, come here."
Hödekin shrugged and came to stand in the spot the Eschenfrau indicated.
"What do you see?" she asked.
"I see the two humans who passed that way earlier."
"Look farther."
Hödekin's eyes were sharp.
"There are other humans nearby, and they're on the prowl. These two are probably their prey."
"Maybe. Now look closer."
Hödekin shot her a curious look, but complied. And then he glanced at her again, amazed.
In the shadow of the man from Britain drifted vague silhouettes which he dimly recognised: Gwyn ap Nudd, warrior king of the Welsh Underworld, and his spectral Hounds, the Cŵn Annwn whom Wodan hated so. Fairies, goblins and other figures slunk along as well.
What bewildered Hödekin, however, was the vast host that hovered around the American. These ghostly shapes were bigger, much clearer, more detailed and colourful. None of them looked remotely familiar to him.
"Who are they?" he breathed out once he could speak. The Eschenfrau smiled.
"Legends – his legends. They walk with him, always, like we walk alongside our people when they are far from home. Some have names, some don't. Some he remembers from his childhood, some he has forgotten. They are Unhcegila, the dragon from the cold waters, Cetan the hawk, swift and far-seeing, the brothers Iya the storm and Iktomi the spider … I told you humans carry their legends in their hearts wherever they go. This one is no exception."
"How come Wodan does not see them?" asked Hödekin, still staring at the strange figures.
"Wodan only sees what he wants to see. In that respect he is little better than most humans." The Eschenfrau looked up at the night sky, her grey eyebrows knitted. "He is on the hunt tonight. That band of soldiers on the prowl you just saw … Yes, he will probably try to have them catch our two wanderers from overseas. You heard him earlier: his prey is waiting. They are walking right into a trap."
Hödekin squinted up at her. "I don't suppose there is anything we can do about it? I like playing tricks on humans, but this is cheating."
"Oh, there is something. Tell me, little kobold, how good are you with a saw?"
In hindsight, Carter really shouldn't have chosen this branch.
Not like they'd had much of a choice. He and Newkirk just had time to scramble up a tree before the SS patrol walked right where they'd been standing. From the ground, it looked like a good idea; the tree was old and thick, quite tall, with enough holds to climb quickly.
With typical bad luck, though, the branch Carter had found himself on was starting to crack ominously. He clung to the tree trunk and tried not to breathe too loudly.
The SS were not sixty feet away when there was a sharp, grim crackling sound. Carter felt the branch give away under him, tried desperately to hold on to something, but fell.
The branch had been quite high. He fell hard.
How he managed not to cry out, he would never know.
"Wake up, boy, there's no time to lose," said a grating voice, with something like the creak of breaking wood. He half-opened his eyes with difficulty.
There was a little old woman crouching in front of him.
Carter's head kept swimming, but even so he was pretty sure there was something odd about her. For one, 'little old woman' didn't do her justice – she was utterly tiny and absolutely ancient. Also, something about the way she kept grinning at him made him feel uneasy.
Unless it was just the fall. Everything was blurry and it made him a little sick to his stomach.
"Listen to me, and listen well," she said. Her voice had a steely edge that made him want to snap to attention. "This is a trap. They know where you're going, and they will catch you when you get there. Do you understand me?"
Right now, Carter could do little more than nod, and even that was painful. But the SS couldn't be far. In fact, they had probably heard his fall, and would be arresting him any second now. Perhaps, if he kept silent, they might not notice him right away, and Newkirk might be able to get away to the rendezvous point with Jaeger, and ultimately back to camp. But Carter himself wouldn't be able to get very far very quickly.
He just hoped the tiny old lady wouldn't be caught, too.
"Good. Sorry about the fall, but you wouldn't have heard me otherwise, and it's far easier to mend a broken wrist than to come back from a grave. Remember – this is a trap."
Just as she said these words, white-hot pain (so far numbed by the shock of his fall) shot from Carter's left wrist into his fingers and his whole arm. He curled up on himself on the cold ground and bit into his hat to stifle a moan.
When he looked back up, she was gone, and Newkirk was hunkered down beside him, scrutinising him in open concern.
"Easy, easy," he said when Carter tried to sit up – too fast, as it turned out. "How're you feeling? I think I heard something crack …"
"Wrist," croaked Carter, still light-headed but trying to get up as quickly as possible. "The SS—"
"Gone. Right after you fell, this wild boar turned up out of nowhere and charged them. Wished you could have seen that, it was bloody hilarious." It probably had been, but Newkirk still looked too tense to crack a smile.
"How long was I out for?"
"Three, four minutes? I wasn't exactly looking at me watch."
Carter wanted to ask where the little old lady had gone, but as Newkirk slowly, gingerly helped him up, he came to the conclusion that she must have been a hallucination. People saw things sometimes when they got knocked out. Last time it had happened to him, he had seen stars for an hour afterwards. This couldn't be very different.
But she had said something … something important … Something about a trap …
"Wait," he whispered to Newkirk once they caught sight of the barn where they were supposed to meet Jaeger. The guy, a local poacher, had valuable information about the newest troop movements of the 19th Army. "Something's wrong."
"What d'you mean?" Newkirk whispered back, frowning. "I don't see anything. Except for Jaeger. What's he doing outside the barn, anyway?"
"I don't know, but …"
"Look, the sooner we finish this the sooner we can go back to camp and see to your wrist. It really shouldn't look like that."
It really shouldn't feel like that, either, thought Carter, who racked his brain trying to find a rational explanation for his sudden apprehension. His whole arm hurt so much spots were dancing in front of his eyes, he was still far from steady on his feet, but somehow he had a feeling that if they rushed in headlong to this barn, the pain in his broken wrist would eventually amount to a paper cut.
And then he saw it. Or rather, saw them.
His whole body tensed, and he gripped Newkirk's arm with his good hand.
"Look over there."
When Newkirk saw what he was pointing towards, his mouth fell open, and he went noticeably paler in the moonlight.
"Oh, for cryin' out loud," he groaned, looking very much like he wanted to close his eyes in consternation but couldn't bring himself to do it. "The poor bugger's done for."
The SS patrol from earlier, obviously still frazzled from their encounter with the wild boar but making a visible effort to appear business-like, were advancing towards the barn, weapons at the ready. Any time now, they would arrest Jaeger … Unless he tried to run, in which case he was as good as dead …
They saw him.
And lowered their weapons.
To Carter's and Newkirk's astonishment, Jaeger greeted them with a certain amount of enthusiasm, and they responded in kind, striking up a quick but friendly-looking conversation. Half a minute later, they spread out; most went inside the barn, the others took up a few hiding places nearby. Jaeger remained where he was, lit up a cigarette and resumed his waiting.
Carter felt like his muscles had turned to lead, and then melted. He wondered whether Newkirk felt the same.
"Blimey," said Newkirk weakly after a little while.
"Oh boy," Carter stammered almost at the same time. "That was close."
They looked at each other.
"Let's get back to camp."
"Yup."
They had dealt with double agents and traitors before, and it had never been pleasant. No doubt Colonel Hogan would come up with a plan to lure Jaeger in and hand him over to the Underground, either for a trek across Germany and over the English channel, or for a trip of a more … permanent nature. Right now, though, the most urgent thing was to get back to Stalag XIII and its relative safety; Jaeger had no idea who Papa Bear was and where he could be found. That was something, at least.
Getting back took longer than it would have if one of them hadn't sported a broken wrist and a dozen fresh bruises. At least they were lucky enough not to stumble upon other patrols.
"Andrew," said Newkirk fervently as they reached the tree tunnel entrance, "I will never doubt you again."
This week, anyway, a voice in Carter's mind added, and he gave a small lopsided smile. "Oh, well …"
"No matter how barmy you sound."
"Gee, thanks a lot, Newkirk."
He was down the ladder before Newkirk had time to figure out whether this was genuine or sarcastic. That was a nice change.
"Wodan is going to be furious. You know he hates it when his prey escapes."
"Which is why I have no intention of mentioning what happened to him. You might want to do the same, Hödekin."
"I was not planning on antagonising the Lord of the Wild Hunt," the kobold retorted dryly.
They watched as the man continued to wait, leaning on the wall of the barn, and the others crouched in the ditches and behind hedges. They could make out the hunched but unmistakeable figure of Wodan right behind the soldiers' captain, still reining in his impatience but obviously finding it increasingly difficult. The captain appeared calmer, and supremely confident.
Hödekin, who could glimpse into the near future, jerked his head towards him.
"These men do have the Hunt in their hearts, as Wodan said – there's something dark about them, about how they see the world. And they think themselves invincible. But I can tell you that this one will be dead in a fortnight, and it won't be at the hand of his enemies."
"Humans are funny that way. Grand ambitions and dreams of greatness, but their bodies are just as weak as those of the animals that roam these woods." The Eschenfrau's tone was derisive, but also faintly (very faintly) fond. "But Wodan doesn't know everything about them. Some soldiers do indeed go into battle for the taste of the blood and the thrill of the Chase, but you'll find that a lot of the ones who are fighting abroad right now would be happy to go back to hearth and home if they could."
"Who could blame them," murmured Hödekin.
He adjusted his hat on his head and made to leave – or at least, made a show of leaving. Before he had turned away, though, he heard the wry voice of the Eschenfrau.
"You have a question, if I'm not mistaken."
Hödekin straightened his jacket and buried his fists into his pockets, weighed the pros and cons, then finally blurted out, "I know the only way for the American to hear you was to talk to him while asleep – or unconscious, as it were. But did you really have to make him fall from that height?"
"No, not really," said the Eschenfrau with a smile that sent shivers down Hödekin's spine. "I also wanted to see his face when the branch gave out."
"You hurt that man for your sole entertainment? Isn't that a bit cruel?"
Her grey eyes flashed, and for a second, Hödekin caught a glimpse of the ancient scorching fire that burned in the little old woman.
"Do not make the mistake of thinking me kind-hearted, kobold! I was feared, once. Humans poured pure water on the roots of my ash trees, as a protection against my evil deeds. In my younger days they sacrificed animals for me. I used to taste blood. Yes, this is my entertainment, and yes, it is cruel. So am I." She paused to let the words sink in. "Besides, I know you enjoyed attacking these men in your animal form. Am I wrong?"
"Absolutely not. I may be a kobold, a helper, but cross me and you will pay the price. And I didn't like the feel of these men, anyway."
The Eschenfrau smiled her unsettling smile again.
"I know. I've heard the stories."
They both nodded, one trickster to the other, each on one end of the spectrum. The Eschenfrau had been a creature of darkness and dread back when the forest was an unknown entity; she did, however, like to do a favour to humans on a whim every now and then. Hödekin, on the other hand, was first and foremost of a kindly, considerate nature, though not above retaliating in a spectacular, sometimes quite gruesome manner against humans who made the mistake of offending him.
"Goodbye, Hödekin. It was a pleasure working with you."
"Farewell, Eschenfrau. I might pour a jug of water on an ash tree sometime."
They grinned, and parted ways.
The SS captain went home empty-handed. He died of a brain aneurysm a week and a half later, as per Hödekin's prognosis.
Wodan, who had breathed the idea in Jaeger's ear as he slept, recognising a fellow hunter, never knew exactly why his plan failed and who was to blame. He quickly lost interest and rode southwards, followed as always by his Hounds.
Lost interest, but never forgot. The Fairy Folk have long memories, because they are alive as long as they are remembered.
That is why they are so afraid that, someday, men will stop telling stories.
THE END
For those who know Corto Maltese (from Hugo Pratt's graphic tales), there is a story called A Midwinter Morning's Dream, where elf king Oberon, Puck, Morgan le Fay and Merlin enlist the unknowing help of a mortal (the eponymous hero, a dreamer who used to be a sailor and possibly a pirate – not a very good one) to repel a German submarine attack in 1917. It's a strange, poetic story (like most of Corto's wanderings) which might or might not be a dream; I read it first when I was ten and it's stayed with me ever since.
I like to think that Newkirk's and Mavis' mum told them bedtime stories when they were kids :o) Folklore is fascinating, and Welsh folklore is no exception. He probably doesn't remember them anymore, but it's still part of him.
Hope you liked!