As It Was Told

by Russell Mickler

The grizzled undertaker lifted his lantern and squinted into the night. His breath steamed in the frigid air. "Fosin?"

     “Here.” A man rose from the half-height stone wall bordering the road. Beside him, a corpse lay bundled in a white shroud.

     “Received your summons.” The undertaker led his mule by the throatlash. “Back on the sauce then?”

     Fosin scratched his beard. “Suspend your grievances. Today, Gradif, I am a hero, tasked with an errand given to me by the Earl’s widow.”

     “Widow?” Gradif brought his wagon alongside Fosin to direct the light over the body, then, shaking his head, turned to address a latch. “Murderin’ lords now? And so fancy dressed? You elevate killin’ to an art.”

     “You assume much.” Fosin went around the corpse to grip its shoulders. “Nonetheless, he takes a good story to the grave, one that redeems the mistakes of my youth.”

     After lowering the wagon’s side gate and resting his lantern, Gradif stiffly bent over to take the legs. “That so? I’m eager to hear it.” Straining, they loaded the body into the cart. Gradif grunted, “Heavier than he looks.”

     Fosin took the lantern. “I’ll accompany you to Black River Downs. By my troth, I must see this one into the earth myself.”

     “I don’t need your help, boy.” Gradif relatched the loading board before rounding the mule to nod at the frail light of the quarter moon. “But I wouldn’t mind the company.”

     Fosin stepped out of the way as Gradif brought the animal around. “I’ll tell it to you as it was conveyed to me. That way, you’ll come to respect its quality.”

     Gradif sneered from the shadows. “Respect and quality ain’t words I’d associate with the likes of you, Fosin Piao, but spin your yarn. We’ve a half-mile to the Downs.”

* * *

“Emmy? Emmy, where are you?”

     Eadlin called into a thicket of wild roses, pushing aside clumps of rosehips to peer into the trees. Finding nothing — and, in particular, no hiding, grinning boy — she furiously cast her fists against her skirts. “Emmy!”

     Anemic shafts of sunlight penetrated the forest’s dark canopy to touch a floor webbed with roots, rock, and underbrush. Thorny brambles and shrubs thrived in the dappled light alongside patches of gray-capped mushrooms sprouting from the rich, moist soil. Traipsing among centuries-old aspen trees blanketed in moss and lichen, Eadlin smelled the earthen scents of decaying wood and leaves, immersed in an eerie silence that only echoed her footfalls.

     Eadlin turned from the thicket to follow the crumbling ruins of a stone raceway that once guided water to the nearby mill. She could barely make out the silhouette of its stilled waterwheel behind her. “Emmy! Come back, Emmy! You’ve gone too far.”

     Eadlin happened into a clearing hosting the dry leat and a sluice gate of rusted iron. A corroded turnwheel remained locked and overgrown with ivy and moss, and Emerson, the Earl’s first-born son, was nowhere to be found.

Eadlin gazed upward. It’d be twilight soon, and their game had become a nightmare. If she were to return to the Earl’s estate without the boy—

     “Emmy!” Her voice, wavering with trepidation and urgency, seemed swallowed whole in the forest's gloom.

     Suddenly, a rustling came from the opposite side of the clearing. Eadlin shuddered and stumbled back, placing her hand across her bosom to rasp, “Who goes?”

     “No one of any consequence, milady.” A figure stepped into the clearing wearing a green vest, white cotton shirt, and silk ascot. A pair of wire-frame glasses perched on the bridge of his long nose. His legs tucked under his wool-covered knees like a goat, yet he walked upright, and his head — crowned with the majestic curved horns of an Ibex — sent his height soaring to more than six feet.

* * *

“A faun?”

     Fosin chuckled. “That is how I was told.”

     Gradif grumbled, “Tommyrot.”

     The pair led the wagon down a vacant country road, the lantern casting a crescent around their legs.

     Fosin slapped Gradif’s shoulder. “Bear with me. You’ll come to see its truth by the end.”

* * *

Eadlin cowered in the trench behind the gate. “Bewitched monster, leave me be!”

     The faun smartly gripped his waistcoat’s lapels. “Well. An unflattering assessment, in the least.”

     “Away!” Eadlin waved her arm as if to shoo him.

     The faun circled the gate, its heavy hooves squishing into the earth. “Monster, indeed. Lady, I’d no sooner eat you than dine on a meal of Chevre and Chevon. Come.” He extended his palm to the trench. “I am no one to be afraid of.”

Long, curly hair framed his twitching, goat-like ears, and he maintained a well-trimmed goatee. Although his elongated eye teeth gave him a sinister appearance, the faun behaved in an otherwise gentlemanly manner.

     Eadlin reluctantly accepted his hand; calloused and ordinary.

     “Right. That’s the spirit.” The faun pulled her up from the trench, adjusted his glasses, and backed away, opening his empty palms to reinforce his peaceful intentions. “I’ve an appointment, so I wish you a merry evening. Perhaps our paths will cross again.”

     As the faun turned his back to leave, Eadlin blurted, “Wait!” She bit her lip, glancing nervously behind her into the forest. “I-I’m looking for someone. Maybe you’ve seen him?”

     “Yes?” The faun smiled, glancing over his shoulder as he re-entered the woods.

     “Emerson.” Eadlin followed after him.

“A boy? Chestnut hair?” The faun easily transited the dense foliage, snaking along a game trail. “Cheeks the color of them yonder rosehips?”

Eadlin gasped, pursuing. “Yes!”

“I haven’t.”

Eadlin frowned. “But—”

“The boy wanders and is lost. He is safe, for now.”

“What’s your meaning?” Gathering her skirts, Eadlin stomped clumsily on the trail, trouncing on stems and roots. She left a path of destruction in her wake, whereas the satyr almost glided across the forest floor. They circled the mill. “Do you know where he is?”

“Not exactly.”

“You dare threaten him?” Eadlin reached out to snag the faun’s arm. “He is the Earl’s son!”

The faun shrugged her off. ”Unaided, the Earl’s boy is meat for the wolves — sugar for the worms. I’m sure you’ll find him soon.” The faun adjusted his glasses and examined the breeze fluttering the leaves above them. “Before dark.”

“Please, sire!” Eadlin’s shoulders slumped.

“Sire,” the faun cooed, straightening his back and turning to face her. “That’s much better.”

Tears welled in Eadlin’s eyes. She embraced herself as if she were flotsam and drowning. “I … Emmy. I must find him.”

“Must you?” The faun’s eyes narrowed as he handed Eadlin a pocket square from his waistcoat. “Forgive me, child, but I am late.” He pressed on.

“Wait!” She dabbed the cloth against the bottom of her eyelids and brushed an errant bit of hair from her face. She closed her eyes and cringed. “I will bargain.”

“Well,” the faun said, grinning as he extended the crook of his left arm to her, his tail switching around his legs. “Walk with me, and let us hear your proposal.”

Eadlin accepted the faun’s arm. They continued around the mill. “Emmy must return home.”

The faun patted her hand reassuringly. “Safe and sound, his experience within these woods as if but a dream.”

“I’ve heard tell of satyrs and their carnal lusts.” Eadlin blushed, looking to the ground. She trembled. “I would offer myself if it were to guarantee his passage. I am untouched.”

The faun chortled incredulously. “You?”

Eadlin stopped in her tracks.

“I’m sorry.” The faun sniggered, seeing her turn beet red. “That’s not how this works. Your loins harbor no magic for me.”

Eadlin sent her palms to her hips and snarled, “Then name your bargain!”

The faun stepped closer, his horns towering above her. He whispered, “Are you sure?”

Eadlin met him squarely, tipping her head back.

The faun nearly purred in guttural elation. “Such ferocity. All spit and bile.”

Eadlin locked eyes with him. “I know what I want. I’ll do what’s needed to have it.”

“Very well.” He leaned in. The faun’s teeth were jagged — rotting and stained yellow — and he rested his index finger against her chest. “A long while from now, I will arrive at the feast of Saint Valentine, and you will willingly offer unto me your as-of-yet unborn progeny — a daughter.”

* * *

“God blind me.” Gradif shoveled dirt out of the grave. The lantern sat at ground level near the wagon. “You’d sell me a sack of dung and call it seed, boy.”

     “I swear!” Fosin laughed behind Gradif and, putting his back into it, scooped a heaping pile and dumped it aside. “It is as I was told!”

     At their eye level, the shadows of jutting granite headstones and angelic forms pleading for heavenly mercy loomed in the rolling mist.  

Gradif, hunched, glowered. “Goat-men. Favors of the flesh. Bargains for the unborn. Ain’t proper. You spoil your yarn with fiction, Fosin. Satanic lies!”

Fosin planted the spade with his foot. “Patience, friend. I’d not waste untruths if it weren’t critical to understanding the very nature of my redemption!”

“It’s not my patience you test.” Gradif made the sign of the crucifix before he started digging again. “You’ll do well to keep such sordid debauchery from my ear!”

Fosin wiped away sweat with his sleeve. “So the deal was made. Lady Eadlin agreed to the faun’s terms and fled the forest to find Emerson safely at home, except—”

“Oh, do get on with it,” Gradif groaned, pitching another round of dirt over his shoulder. He gestured to the wagon. “He ain’t got all night.”

“Relax. I am sparing you the romanticism.” Fosin sunk his spade into the soil. “Eadlin returned to the estates to find Emmy — now Lord Emerson — fully grown, for she’d lost time in those woods; more than a decade had passed when she resurfaced.”

“You treacherous liar.” Gradif angrily spat to his feet.

“From God’s lips to your ears, this is how it was told.”

Gradif shoveled more dirt. “Prison taught you nothing.”

“On the contrary,” Fosin said, dumping more ripe soil along the side of the grave. “Prison made me an even better liar, but this is the Lord’s truth: when they were reunited, Lord Emerson was so entranced by Lady Eadlin that he begged her to marry. They were wedded sixteen years to the day.”

“Eh? Today?” Gradif asked, squinching his nose. “The feast of Saint Valentine?”

“Correct!” Fosin laughed and spiked his shovel into the naked earth.

Gradif wiped the grime from his face with a loose-fitting bandana coiled around his neck. “The girl’s in the forest, makes a compact with a faun, and returns to marry the little lord she lost in the first place?”

“Irony!” Fosin said, laughing.

The old man rolled his tongue against his cheek. “They fell in love, and were gifted a daughter?”

“Dear undertaker.” Leaning on his shovel, Fosin gripped Gradif’s shoulder. “I knew I could count on your keen wit.”

Gradif squinted at Fosin’s revelry. He pressed his lips together. “Mad. Mad as a Frankish cobbler.”

Fosin rolled his wrist. “And she was baptized Rosalinde and bloomed into a beautiful flower.”

“Aye. I’ve heard of her. But what of the faun?” Gradif paused, trying to piece it together. “The promises made in the wood?”

“He never appeared! Neither hair nor horn, not on any Saint Valentine’s for fifteen years—”

“Fifteen?” Gradif threw his shovel to the ground, removed a rolled-up fag from his coat pocket, and — covering with his palm — lit it with a match before wicking it out. Pinching it between his fingers, he wrapped his lips around the butt and inhaled the smoke. Blazing orange embers lit up the wrinkles and bags around his eyes. “Right. Go on, cockweasel. Finish it.”

* * *

It was a day of feasting.

A fire raged in a large hearth that ten men could stand upright within. Ancient tapestries depicting celebrations of Catholic tradition hung from the walls, and drippy, smokey tallow candles burned from wrought iron sconces. Emerson, the Earl of Edgewater, his wife, Eadlin, and daughter, Rosalinde, entertained their guests in a great hall, seated on wooden thrones at the head of a long table ladened with platters of roasted pheasant, salted meats, rounds of aged cheese, dried fruits, and hand-woven baskets filled with freshly baked loaves of bread; decorated with pine needles and sprigs of winterberry, the feasting table offered a cornucopia of culinary delights. Their fattened and inebriated guests partook of these offerings, served by buxom wenches who filled every goblet with potent red wine.

Enjoying himself, Fosin Piao leaned in to bring a leg of seared bird to his plate.

“My good friends.” Lord Emerson lifted his cup, then wobbled as he tried to stand. Annoyed, Lady Eadlin placed a steady hand against his side. “Well, friends. Good ones. And bad.”

Many chuckled and clapped, their numbers seated along all edges of the table.

“It is my honor … privilege … to eat … you.”

The hall burst into laughter. Eadlin scowled.

“With you, with you!” Emerson, bubbling over with giggles, looked back to Eadlin. “I don’t believe I got that right.”

Rosalinde averted her eyes while Eadlin — her expression taut and serious — flicked her wrist at the crowd, encouraging Emerson to share his charm that way.

The red-faced, cherubic lord twisted too far and stumbled, bracing himself against the table's edge. He couldn’t stop giggling. “On this sacred, blessed day—”

Heads turned at the metallic screech of sliding doors flung wide, and the faun charged into the room. Party-goers screamed at his monstrous visage. Dressed as he was sixteen years prior and as if not a day had passed, the satyr bleated and shoved aside a ceremonial guard to send him sprawling to the floor. His hooves clopped across the stone.

And be it instinct or habit, Fosin Piao grabbed a kitchen knife to hide it in his billowy sleeve.

“Lady Eadlin!” the faun growled, pointing to Rosalinde as he strode unopposed behind those seated at the table. “I’ve come to collect on my debt.”

Rosalinde shrieked.

Sneering, her face dogged and determined, Eadlin rose to stand between the satyr and her daughter and withdrew a dagger from a scabbard sewn into her dress. She held it threateningly before her. “Our contract is void, creature! You tricked me!”

A well-intentioned guardsman charged, but the faun dipped his head to lodge the guard’s spear between his horns and then twisted to snap it in two. A quick open-palmed strike sent the guard reeling to the floor. 

“Fiend! I’ve prepared for this day!” Lord Emerson drew his longsword. Launching himself onto the table, he slipped on a greasy pan of bird carcass and — arms flailing — careened off the table's edge to impale himself on his blade. He died instantly.

Unable to help himself, the faun keeled over in a belly laugh when a blow to the face struck him. His smashed wireframe glasses skittered across the table.

Lady Eadlin raised her fist in a guard with her knife hand readied near her shoulder. “I’ve new terms! Surrender, or retreat, faun, lest your horned crown be forfeited to decorate my hall.”

The faun rose to his full height, lording above her, and he clenched his fists in rage. “This is our appointment, our bargain, our agreed-upon time. Your daughter and I are to marry. Stand aside! Rosalinde — the heiress of Edgewater — is mine!”

Eadlin lunged at the faun with her dagger, but he captured her scrawny wrist in his massive hand. “Cut me, woman,” he snarled, his foul breath causing Eadlin to wince, “and a blood curse shall forever befall your line. Don’t be a fool! Yield!”

“You will not take her!” Eadlin struck her captured forearm to force it down and out from the faun’s grasp, freeing her weapon hand. 

Two erstwhile guardsmen dragged the frantic Rosalinde from her seat. The girl writhed and cried out for her mother.

Pushing Eadlin away, the faun crouched to deflect Eadlin’s stab with his horns — just as Fosin’s kitchen knife sunk under his ribs, and as Fosin expected, the faun jolted back, allowing Fosin to wrap his other arm around the monster’s throat, pinning him.

The rest was effortless. Fosin expertly dragged his knife through muscle, tendon, and kidney to strike bone. 

* * *

“Mendacium!”

     Grinning, Fosin helped Gradif from the grave. The old man clambered to toss aside his shovel and brush soil from his leggings. “You’re a liar and a thief, Fosin Paio. Snake-tongued deceiver, you’ve pocketed my time with your outrageous tale.”

     Fosin bowed dramatically and placed his hands against his heart. “I played my part, Gradif, and told you no lies. God’s truth is I single-handedly saved the Earl’s daughter from a monster this day, and together, we may bury the evidence, but I pray my good deed will have you think better of me.”

     “What evidence?” the undertaker grumbled, marching to the wagon to peer over the side. “I thought this to be the Earl?”

     Hovering over the lantern’s light, Fosin pinched the air with his fingers and drew his hands toward his chest.

     Gradif recoiled. “Bull-shite!” He reached to whip back the bloodied shroud from the corpse’s head. Above the faun's vacant eyes gaped gore-laden holes in his scalped skull.

     The undertaker glared at Fosin and removed a silver flask from his jacket. Opening it, he glanced to the sky. “Lord, this is why I drink.”

* * *

Alone, seated cockeyed in her throne at the end of the sprawling hall before a dying fire, Lady Eadlin raised her wine goblet to the horns mounted above the mantel. A gruesome wash of guts and blood raced down her arm. “Emmy.”