Anthology 1: The Far Corners by Frank Tuttle

Author:Frank Tuttle [Tuttle, Frank]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Humor, Short Stories, Anthologies, Single Author, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Fantasy, Epic, Humor & Satire, General Humor, Single Authors, Anthologies & Short Stories
ISBN: 9781458066923
Amazon: B003K16TUG
Barnesnoble: B003K16TUG
Goodreads: 21605271
Publisher: Frank Tuttle
Published: 2010-05-01T04:00:00+00:00

* * *

A song played. Wake Up Sleepyhead. Jere smiled. That’s quite a change from the last song I heard, he thought. Not an amorous Troll or a nearsighted blacksmith anywhere in Sleepyhead, and I’m certainly thankful for that.

Memories trickled past Jere –- songs and wights and whirlwinds, and a black sky full of stars.

Jere’s eyes snapped open. Daylight half-blinded him, and he groped for his roadharp.

It lay by his side, uncased. Jere sat upright, brushing leaves off the strings and ignoring the sudden pounding at his temples until he was sure the harp was undamaged.

Jere looked about. He lay a stone’s throw from the lady’s gazing-pool, his pack and sword and harp-case at his feet. The towering red-leafed blood-oaks still ringed the clearing -– though now, heading west, lay a wide, straight road through the trees, which lay broken and splintered on either side of the lane as though uprooted and tossed aside by an angry giant.

Something glittered in the morning sun. Jere squinted, and spied an armored helm hanging from a broken bough. The helm was crushed nearly flat.

Crows cawed and fought and troubled the leaves just out of Jere’s sight. Overhead, great turning wheels of vultures circled, circled, dipping lower and lower.

"I don’t think we need be concerned about soldiers," he said. The throbbing in his head intensified, and he sank back to the turf until it passed.

His head pounding, his throat rasping and dry, Jere reached for his canteens. The big one was empty; the small one was gone.

"Wake, harper," said a voice. "Wake."

Jere scrambled to his feet. "No, no, no," he said. "The sun is up." Jere’s head reeled and spun. I’m back in the real world, he thought. Or what passes for the real world, this far East. "It’s over," he said. "I charmed your wights. My night for yours," he said. "It’s done."

From the pool, the tia-tia laughed, its voice as rasping and weary as Jere’s. "It is done," she said. "Done, and well done. I offer you only water, to slake your thirst. Are you not, after all, born of the fragile folk?"

Jere backed up. "Pardon me, my Lady," he said. "Thirst is one thing. Foolishness is another. I must needs seek another pool."

"As you will, harper," she said. "As you will. I tell you true that you may drink from here without harm, and that I vow to make neither charm nor curse upon you, should you approach." The voice paused. "In truth, harper, I only wish to see you. You charmed the wights –- how, I do not know, for they have hidden, loathe to come forth or speak. What song, I wonder, did you sing?"

Jere shook his head. "I may not say, Lady," he said.

The tia-tia sighed. "We must all have our secrets," it said. "So be it."

Jere stood on tip-toe. Just for an instant, he saw the tia-tia, as though it stood in the pool, head just below the water. It wore its female form, garbed in sheer white robes in the fashion of Eastern nobility.

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