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WINNERS |
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First Prize The good fairy stared through the sifting curtain of snow and wondered how they could accept such a wizened and hideous creature in their home. In her arms she held her own sleeping infant closer to her breast. A baby boy she’d named ‘Tipper’. She inched closer to the window to see more clearly the room’s interior, poorly illuminated by a miserable fire. Above the hearth was a withered sprig of holly; its three or four berries blotched with black. A year on since she had entered the farmhouse an hour before cock-crow, slipped the golden-haired newborn from its cradle, and deposited in its place that crooked-backed, dark-eyed fiend, this was the first time she’d returned. Her intuition had not failed her. Eleven months and a few days old, and there he sat, looking more like an ancient, emaciated dwarf than a child, wailing and screeching in a voice that could curdle even the blood of a banshee. And yet the demon child’s surrogate parents tended to him with the devotion of a pair of hedge sparrows given charge of a cuckoo chick. Deaf they were to the hungry cries from their other children, ten famished mouths. And as blind as they were deaf to the upkeep of their small farm, the animals were neglected and the crops lay diseased and dying. Now, with Christmas Eve already upon them, the good fairy was here to make amends to the family her ungodly offspring had brought to near ruin. At first she thought she would return Tipper, the stolen child, and take his replacement back to the realm of the fairies. But beholding before her the long-clawed, furry-faced changeling wailing to be fed from the large rocking chair, her heart quailed. As though he sensed his fate, Tipper, the blonde-haired infant swaddled in cloths embroidered from butterfly scales, awoke in his fairy mother’s arms. The child’s eyes, bluer than a kingfisher’s wing, seemed filled with hurt greater than all the betrayal that ever was. “There, there, mo chuisle,” she whispered. My pulse. “Mo chuisle mo chroi.” Pulse of my heart. She pressed her lips to Tipper’s cheek, the familiar scent of his skin crowding her with the sorrowful shame of what might have been. And with that she banished forever any thoughts of abandoning her precious child. There were other ways to rid the family of its unwarranted curse. She could just leave. Changelings had a short lifespan. Two or three years and it would shrivel up and die. But this family didn’t have two years. Already the other ten children were starved and frozen. They lay curled up in corners of the room or sat about on their haunches like sickly rabbits resigned to their end. That’s it! The good fairy would play upon the changeling’s greed. True to its nature, the demon-child’s incessant appetite meant that every morsel harvested and hoarded by the parents was fed to their newest child. The ageing mother and father took turns at keeping vigil over their fast depleting stocks in the larder. Even the little milk they managed to squeeze from the goat was his alone. But the nanny-goat had given birth to two kids around the same time as the changeling’s arrival last Christmas. The animal’s duds were almost shrunk and her udder nearly dried up. Soon the nanny-goat, the family pet, would go the same way as her offspring; as nourishment for the creature that had sucked from them their family wholesomeness the way a weasel sucks the lifeblood from a slain fowl. Unfurling her wings, the good fairy clutched her baby to her bosom and flitted into the air, where she battled hard against the swirling snowflakes and the North Wind’s sharp teeth. Back home in her fairy hollow beneath the roots of an adler tree, she deposited her child in his cradle fashioned from mistletoe-saplings and lined with the down from a kingfisher’s breast. The boy, exhausted from their journey, gurgled his contentment and drifted off towards fairyland on Christmas morning. There he dreamed of riding red dragonflies over a frozen stream along whose banks grew Christmas Fir trees wearing coats of snow. On the ice fairy children skated and laughed. The good fairy then got to work. From stocks gathered in autumn, she baked tiny cakes flavoured with honey and sweet cream, adding saffron, an ingredient irresistible to fairies. She then set about preparing a liquid with which to wash down this treat: lusmore tea, a deadly potion made from a flower known to mere mortals as foxglove. This, when taken by the changeling would burn away his human innards, whereupon he would sprout fairy wings and flee for his life back to the realm of the fairies. To ensure its strength, she sipped the potion, just enough to do her no harm. The liquid kicked like a startled rabbit. This she corrected by adding honey and saffron until the sourness mellowed and turned sweet. Perfect. To transport the deadly liquid, she filled a dozen vials normally used by fairies for collecting nectar or pollen. One vial was dosage enough, but changelings were wise beyond their age. Better to fill a mortal-sized tumbler when they got to the farmhouse than to risk the changeling not touching the potion because it was in a glass container no bigger than his thumbnail. Before departing, she kissed her sleeping child on his tender lips. “Gra mo chroi. Oiche Mhaith, codladh samh,” she whispered in the language spoken by fairies. Love of my heart. Good night, sleep well. And with that she summoned a herd of fairies from the nearby hollows along the riverbank to come help her carry the feast to the room where the changeling slept. At the farmhouse, the good fairy instructed the others to use the chimney. The entrance she initially used when she deposited the Changeling and rescued baby Tipper from his misguided fate. Inside the house the fairies flitted about, wary of the sleeping changeling. While the parents and their ten children slept on the cold stone floor of the main room, covered only in rags, they discovered the changeling snoring in what used to be the parents’ bed and bedroom. What they didn’t notice was a second pair of devil’s eyes, not sleeping, watching them from the room’s darkest corner. The yellow eyes with rectangular slits for pupils watched them depositing the tiny cakes and vials on the dressing table. The fairies were about to transfer the liquid to a tumbler when the unseen, cloven demon bleated from the shadows. The goat. There followed tiny shrieks from the fairy herd, the sound of shattering glass, where one of the vials had crashed to the floor, and a general sooty panic as the fairies all tried to escape back up the chimney at the same time. Finally, after much bleating, together with panicked shouting from the awakened parents, they were free. The fairy herd fled back through the brightening forest for home. Everyone except the good fairy. She remained in a small hollow of an Elder tree growing in the garden of the farmhouse. A tree long respected by the fairy folk as protection from evil night spirits. The good fairy awoke chilled, but was quickly warmed by the sweetest music being played on a tin whistle. The tune, lilting from the house, was the sound that plays through the skies and waters following a fierce winter; a melody of relief and boundless joy. A terrible surprise awaited the good fairy. Hovering at the window, her almond-shaped eyes became bigger than daisies as she beheld the ten lifeless children scattered about the stone floor. Next to each of them a tiny vial emptied of its lethal contents. An instant, invisible hand clasped her by the neck, constricting her breathing. But the sight of the smiling and laughing parents, dancing in time to the changeling’s reel sent her flitting and tumbling through the Ash forest for her home and Tipper. But even before she made it beneath the Adler roots into her home, she sensed his absence. “Tipper,” she called, the hoary Christmas morning momentarily freezing her words in a mocking cloud. Her instincts were right. Inside her home Tipper was gone. In his place was his little body, as lifeless as the ten children on the farmhouse floor. The kiss. Her mother’s deadly kiss on her infant’s mouth when she had sipped the lusmore tea. She took Tipper in her arms and kissed him once more: A final kiss. “Mo Leanbh go deo,” she said. My baby forever. When the good fairy returned to the farmhouse, the Changeling’s tin-whistle playing seemed so brilliant as to be demonic. He continued to play when she flew across the threshold, moving only the black eyes in his head to point to the last vial resting on the mantelpiece over the open fireplace. The good fairy nodded and, with quickened wing-beat, obeyed the command of the black-eyed fiend. |
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SECOND PRIZE “The good fairy stared through the sifting curtain of snow and wondered …” began Mary before closing the book with a loud bang. “You can’t stop there,” complained Fiona. “It’s not fair.” “Fair or not,” her mother replied, “it’s time for you to go to sleep. I don’t want you to have nightmares tonight of all nights. As it is, you will probably be banging on our bedroom door in the early hours of the morning demanding to see the rest of your presents. It was four o’clock last Christmas morning when you woke us up. Your father was none too pleased, and neither was I for that matter. So it’s lights out now. The sooner you get to sleep, young lady, the quicker Father Christmas will deliver the presents.” Mary planted a kiss on Fiona’s forehead before leaving the room. When she returned later, she found Fiona fast asleep. But it was Mary who had the nightmare that night. Although she seldom remembered her dreams, she did this one. She would recount it in vivid detail over and over again during the coming days, months and years. Mary dreamed that she was a small girl again, sleeping in her old bedroom – the one that was now Fiona’s. In the dream, she was awakened by the sound of something being thrown against the window pane. Mary felt no fear or surprise as she pulled aside the curtain and opened the window. She looked out onto a moonlit lawn glistening in a blanket of snow, and there standing on the patio was a pretty young girl in a yellow dress about to throw another snowball at the window “My name’s Lizzie”, called out the girl. “I come here to play every Christmas Eve, but this is the first time that it’s ever snowed. Look, there’s enough snow to make a snowman. Please come out and play with me. Do play. Oh, please do.” Mary smiled and agreed to come down. She put on her dressing gown, left the bedroom and went down the stairs and through the kitchen to the back door. She undid the bolt, opened the door and stepped onto the patio. Lizzie, still smiling, took hold of her hand and led her onto the lawn. “Aren’t you cold?” asked Mary, noticing that Lizzie wore no top coat. “Of course not,” Lizzie replied. “Nor will you be after we’ve made the snowman.” The snowman started as a snowball, which they rolled in the snow until it was big enough to make a good-sized body. Then they rolled a smaller ball for the head, adding two round stones for the eyes and a larger one for the nose. “Put your dressing gown over his shoulders to keep him warm,” Lizzie suggested. Feeling quite warm with the exertion, Mary was only too pleased to do this. “Look at our lovely snowman in the pink coat,” cried out Lizzie excitedly. “Not bad!” The voice came from behind Mary. She turned to see a young boy, dressed in short grey trousers, a grey shirt and a blue cardigan. He was a little older than Lizzie but there was a clear resemblance between them. Their clothes looked old-fashioned, Mary thought, like those she had seen in old black and white family photographs. “Go away, Will,” said Lizzie angrily. Then turning to Mary and smiling again she said, “He’s my brother. He’s always getting into mischief. Just ignore him and he’ll go away.” But Will was not going to go away that easily. “I tell you what,” he said, “let’s go skating on the pond. It’s completely frozen.” “No, Will, Dad said…” protested Lizzie. “Dad said, Dad said… So what? Who’s going to tell him? Tell-tale tit!” Will replied haughtily. “You’d like to go skating, wouldn’t you?” he asked, smiling at Mary. The pond was out of bounds to Mary, as it obviously was to Lizzie and her brother. It was in the woods, beyond a large meadow on the other side of the hedge that surrounded the garden. She had been there several times with her mother and father but was told never to go there alone. Dad had said something about there having been an accident in the pond many years ago. Still, if she went with Will and Lizzie then she wouldn’t be going alone, would she? “I’m not going,” said Lizzie angrily. But, without waiting for Mary’s answer, Will took her hand and tugged her so that she had to run to avoid falling over. Panting loudly, they eventually reached the hedge. As far as Mary knew, it was impenetrable. Lizzie stood beside the snowman, staring after them. She appeared to be crying. “Never mind her,” said Will “Look! We can get through that gap.” Going down on his hands and knees, he squeezed through a small gap that Mary had never noticed before. She wriggled through the hedge after him and followed as he ran and skipped across the snow-covered meadow towards the distant woods. There, in a clearing bathed in moonlight, was the frozen pond. “Come on,” he called out. He took a run and slid onto the ice. “See! It’s quite safe. Last one on’s a sissy!” Mary was nervous but Will came back and led her to the edge of the pond. “If it can take my weight, it’ll be able to take yours,” he said confidently. Mary tested the ice with her feet and, feeling less nervous, she started to slide over the surface towards the middle of the pond. It was great fun. Every time one of them slipped over, the other burst out laughing. “Don’t! Please don’t go on the pond.” Mary looked up to see a tearful Lizzie running towards her. “It’s not safe. Dad said it’s not safe.” Not wishing to upset her new friend further, Mary made her way back to the nearest edge of the pond. This part, unlike the rest, was covered by the trees. The ice was thinner here. It began to creak and crack. Mary stopped. She felt very frightened. Where were Mummy and Daddy? What should she do now? Mary woke from the nightmare with Will’s shout and Lizzie’s scream echoing in her ears. Despite the cold in the bedroom, she was sweating. She tried to wake Jim. He was fast asleep, snoring as a result of the many glasses of wine he had drunk the night before. What a horrible dream, she thought. She tried to put it out of her mind. Daylight was breaking through an opening in the curtains, and her watch showed it was after eight o’clock. After eight and no sign of Fiona, that’s a surprise, she thought. She got up, put on her dressing gown and walked into Fiona’s bedroom. “Merry Christmas, sleepy-head,” she called out as she drew back the curtains. But the room was empty. “She must be downstairs opening her presents, keeping quiet so as not to disturb us,” Mary said to herself, trying to prevent the feeling of panic that was beginning to take over. With an enormous effort she forced herself to look out of the window. A single line of footprints was clearly visible on the snow-covered lawn. The footprints led from the house to a snowman, which was cloaked in what appeared to be a small pink coat. Another line of footprints led from the snowman to the hedge at the end of the garden. Beyond this she could just make out the distant snow-covered trees. |
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3rd Prize HEAVEN SENT “The good fairy stared through the sifting curtain of snow and wondered … then went outside to play in it,” the constable explained to DS Jennifer Brooks. “So a four year old left the Christmas party without being missed?” “Yes. A man appeared and asked if she’d like to go to the woods.” “And just lead her away?” “Alex spotted her with the man, assumed he was her father, and continued into the church. The little girl says an angel came down with the snow, said to run to the church, which she did.” “How did we get involved?” “She ran into the church crying about a bad man fighting an angel, Alex went to investigate. He found an angel’s wings and blood, tried 999, but no signal, so text his sister before following the trail of blood. Rachel, the sister, contacted us.” “Abductor ID?” asked Jennifer. “Tall, wearing all black, dark hair, red eyes.” “Sounds weird.” “Hmm, Alex said he saved the angel… he’s along there. Bit shaken up, he was “reading the church” when it all happened.” “Let’s see him.” Jennifer Brooks introduced herself, checked her notes, switched on the tape. “Alex, that right?” “Yes, Alex Thomson,” he was clutching his tea, looking shocked. “Why were you at the church Alex,” Jennifer spoke softly, reassuringly, encouraging him. “To do a church reading of St Jude’s for my architectural thesis. The little girl ran in crying, saying an angel and a bad man were fighting, when I went outside I discovered the angel’s wings lying where they‘d been wrenched away,” Alex’s eyes were wide as he recalled the sight. “Angel’s wings?” Jennifer queried. “They were magnificent, the beauty and size even crumpled and bloody,” he answered, “I touched them, to check they were real, and reckoned the angel was badly hurt somewhere because of all the blood, and figured the angel would need help, I had no signal, so text my sister, Rachel.” “What‘s a church reading?” Jennifer asked. “Studying the decoration and ornamentation for answers as to why a church was built a certain way. It’s very interesting.” “Why St Jude’s?” “Because it’s not guarded by a Yew tree, said to protect churches from evil, which intrigued me,” Alex explained, as Jennifer made notes. “What did you text?” “Abducted child in St Jude’s. Get police. I hoped it’d work. It was snowing so hard, the trail would soon be covered.” “Trail?” “Of blood, from where the wings were ripped away. It was getting dark. I needed to hurry.” “Where did the trail begin?” “At the churchyard, then lead into the woods, where tracking was easier.” Jennifer continued writing, “You have experience of tracking?” “Yes, from Scouts.” “Carry on.” “Leaves were scuffed, like someone was being dragged,” he shivered, “The trail lead to the pond, which, with the snow falling looked magical, totally weird after what I’d seen at the church.” “What did you find?” Jennifer broke in. “A door I’d never seen before. As I opened it, a burst of heat hit me from the pitch black beyond.” “Why not return to the church, let us take over?” “When I saw the wings I thought the angel was dead, but reckoned the angel was possibly still alive, because the dead don‘t bleed. I’d got that far, I had to go on you understand?” Jennifer said nothing, just nodding for Alex to continue. “I felt my way down the passage until I heard laughter.” “Laughter?” “Not funny laughter, but manic and evil, and I heard gasps of pain.” “Who was laughing?” “I don’t know, couldn’t see. I just crept along.” Alex looked up, Jennifer was watching him, and realising he was sweating, he wiped his hand over his face, down his jeans before continuing, “It was stifling hot. I edged forward, listening. Something clanged, making me jump, the laughter faded. I entered a cavern, lit by a huge fire, and, lying there, terribly beaten was the angel, still alive.” “What was he like, this … angel?” “Tall and so beautiful, even though he was badly battered.” “Wearing?” “A blood-covered white gown.” “What did you do?” “I went over and whispered “Can you hear me?” because I was scared whoever had left, might come back. “Did he answer?” “He opened his eyes, and I stroked his hand to comfort him. He murmured, “The child, must save her. Help me please?” “How?” “Get me outside.” “I can’t carry you, you‘re too big,” I whispered. “Stay here, she and I will surely die. Can…bear pain…please?” I said I’d help, I couldn’t leave him. “So, he wanted you to help him outside?” Jennifer raised an eyebrow. “Yes. He couldn’t stand, let alone walk, I needed something to move him with, so I pulled off my coat, easing him onto it, and explained I’d drag him. As I started, he fainted. Gripping the sleeves, I began pulling him up the passage.” “How big was he?” asked Jennifer. “Seven foot I reckon.” “So how did someone your size, what, five ten?” Alex nodded, she continued, “Someone five ten drag someone seven feet tall up a passageway, using just a coat?” she looked questioningly at him. “Because I was bloody terrified, I reckon,” he replied angrily, “he’d begged me for help. I figured if I left him there, whoever had beaten him would finish him off. With those injuries, I was amazed he wasn’t dead already.” Alex took a few deep breaths, sipped his tea before continuing, “I kept going, but he was a dead weight and I was exhausted. Almost at the top he was still unconscious, so I stopped for a second. Then I heard this banshee shriek from the cavern. I fell backwards out through the door, pulling the angel clear. Then other angels appeared, gathered the injured one up Heavenwards through the snow,” he shook his head, “it was amazing.” “Did they speak, these… angels?” “No, only the one I’d saved.” “Saying?” “The child is safe.” “The one at the church ?” she queried. “I reckoned so. I was trying to understand it, when I realised the shouts were coming closer.” “What did you do?” “Jumped up and started running for my life, through the wood. Whatever was behind was catching me up, I could sense it.” “How long did it take you, to get out of the wood?” she asked. “A couple of minutes,” Alex answered, “I saw blue flashing lights, then my sister, and as she ran to me the cries behind faded. I was explaining about the angel, when a policeman said the little girl was safe. They’d caught someone in the woods, who was being taken into custody, and I saw a scruffy bloke in jeans and sweatshirt being put in a police car.” “Was it who you’d seen with the child?” Jennifer asked. “No, I’d never seen him before.” She snapped her notebook shut. “Who was he, what happened?” Alex asked. “Escaped prisoner, been hiding in the woods before allegedly abducting the child from the Christmas party, but she’d run away from him in the churchyard, losing her fairy wings, and he’d fled into the woods. Because of your message, we arrived and found the child crying in the church before she was even missed from the party.” “But,” Alex said, “did she tell you about the angel?” “She kept repeating about an angel and bad man fighting. Come with me.” Jennifer led Alex round the cordoned off churchyard, to the side door where he’d first found the wings. “Forensics took samples of the blood. Are these the wings you found?” Alex shook his head, “Those aren’t the ones I touched earlier, they’re soggy, fancy dress costume wings.” They returned to the church hall to wait for the police to finish searching the woods. Jennifer came back. “There was no door to his hide-out, which was deeper into the woods, nowhere near the pond. They did find your coat, it’s a bit marked.” A policeman held up a large evidence bag with Alex’s coat inside. On the lining, clearly visible, was a large ruby stain. “You’re free to go,” Jennifer told Alex, “you may need to attend an identity parade.” Alex went outside to where Rachel was waiting when, like some heavenly sign, a white feather floated down, landing on his arm. On their way home she asked, “So what do you think happened tonight?” “That convict was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The devil was in the churchyard today. He snatched the little girl, but her guardian angel fought with him to save her,” Alex told her, describing the wings, the angel’s terrible injuries. Rachel shuddered. “The other angels collected his wings from the churchyard,” Alex said, “and I visited Hell’s entrance tonight, down there, and I saved an angel.” “Heaven sent then,” she said, “Will you include it in your thesis?” Alex shook his head. “Don’t think anyone would believe me.” he said, “Do you?” |
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