I may have gone overboard a little.

I love fall. I love the cooler temperatures, the mellow afternoons out in the open air that can happen since it’s no longer too damn hot, the many many reasons I can find to sip wine in those open air spaces.

And maybe, I also associate fall with wonderful things because of this-

-which happened on a particularly beautiful, rainy fall afternoon.

This particular year, I was feeling a little more festive than usual and ended up buying a few critters to hang out in my courtyard. Mom says the sign should stay all year.

Thanks mom.

Just for fun, I thought I’d share a short tale from the Way of the Fae that seems kind of apropos considering the time of year. If you like it, please feel free to check out the rest of the book. All I ask is that if you hate it, you don’t tell me, and if you like it, pass it on!

The Craven

Never can I not remember the evils that took place that November, when the world lost the fairest maid ever to walk to settle a score. I may be but a young fae lad, and I’m told that my fancies will grow cooler and paler as the years pass- and yet, and yet, I know I shall feel the sting of this pain till the veriest last.

For many days after the sad tidings were delivered, I remained in my burrow and laid alone. Neither wind nor rain touched me as I swaddled myself in the care of the numb. Friends came, but I saw none of them, in my den their words could not reach me, their hands could not touch me. Part of me wishes I laid there still, but I am obliged to sit upon this perch until I am stone, or he is no more.

Sometimes I wonder which happy occasion will arrive first.

All my sorrow, all my plight, all my pain, all my loss, all of the suffering of my light of love is lain on his doorstep. This low dull witted creature, this cowardly mule headed fool that drove my darling to doom. For some farcical point of human pride, he laid all that was decent aside and played the dastard to win her hand without a care for her heart.

When the lovely girl was among the living, she was one that would suffice, once she no longer drew breath, she was the only who had ever lived. Long and long I plotted and pondered how to insure his short pathetic human life was as miserably squandered as surely as my lady had been damned.

At last it came to me one dark night in which my heart found no solace, and I took on an ill omened form. As black as an unredeemed soul, with eyes to fix upon the heart and render it cold, I spread my wings and flew to the pleasant house of prosperity he preferred. 

It took only minutes to find him seated before a roaring fire in velveted comfort, warm and well fed and well cared for, looked after all his life long. His smug countenance as he turned the page, undoubtedly with a mental aside that his abilities were far superior to the wordsmith he read, nearly undid all my good (or ill, if one considers it as such) intentions as I wanted nothing more than to bury the beak of my borrowed form within his breast. How dare he smirk so in such satisfaction when my beloved lay in her cold virginal tomb!

With a fury I knocked in the only way I could, pounding for admittance across the threshold, but did he leave his comfortable chair by the fire to see who called at such an hour? No, he did not! It was a gentle faced lady who came by my beckoning, looking out into the swirl of snow. In through the politely cracked door I swept, silent as a shadow. The housekeeper frowned, thought, then yes! shrugged and turned away, following the call of all the chores necessary to keep the residents in their accustomed comfort. 

You may read and wonder in all of my plotting and planning how did I see to disrupt one such as this? With servants to cater to his every whim, a home to take pride in and social standing to spare how could I ever hope that the mounting sense of injustice be repaired?

And to you I would respectfully offering this reminder- all of the blessings that money can convey, all of the status, all of the worldly possessions you may surround yourself with- none of these things can weigh against the engagement of the conscience and the weight of the guilt carried within one’s mind. 

Down the hall I ghosted, my determination as solid as the oak of the door to the chamber that I knocked upon next. And heard a start and a shuffle, then a pause like a breath held, waiting to see if the tapping would resound or was but a fancy.

When he let the breath go, I knocked again, and when he called out, his voice had a quaver that filled me with chilled delight.

“Sir or Madame, truly your forgiveness I implore! But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, and so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door that I scarce heard you,” said he, as he swung the door open, apprehension a mask over his face.

Oh! To see this, to see that a midnight visitor fed his morbid fantasies, I settled on the lintel above the door. For the dread was too delicious not to be drawn out and savored, lingering so sweetly against my senses as he whispered, “Lenore?”

With a shudder at the stillness, he lingered but a moment looking up and down the hall. As soon as he shut the door, I flew to through kitchen and stable to alight upon his window ledge. There I made more noises pecking at the shutters, hoping to set his pulse once more aflutter.

“Surely,” he said, “Surely that is something at my window lattice. Let me see then what the threat is, and this mystery explore. Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore, tis the wind and nothing more.”

Thus emboldened, he thrust open sashes, up windows, out shutters with violent motions, and welcomed me into his pleasantly cozy abode. Grandly in I went, noble as a prince, to settle upon a suitably glowering bust, joining my gaze to the blind eyes and looking down, down, down in judgment at my foe. And there I sat, onyx eyes boring into his very soul.

“Though thy crest by shorn and shaven thou art sure no craven, ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore. Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

Oh! And now the word, the perfect word, the essence of my sadness that would drive this excrescence down the path to madness was the part of my plot that had finally moved me from my burrow. For all of his clever classical references and mocking tone, I gave a single word in answer- “Nevermore.”

He stared up at me for long minutes in silent marvel, and perfectly still I remained as though I myself had become one with the bust on which I rested. Clearly, he waited for me to speak again, to further my point and give him something he could wrest against and win (at least in his own mind) with force or charm. 

Then he scoffed and muttered, “Other friends have flown before- on the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”

If I could have smiled with the same smug smirk I had seen from him so recently, I would have, as it was, I answered him, “Nevermore.”

Startled, he did as most men do and went to explanations, suppositions, some trick of logic to will away the creeping of his flesh. “Doubtless,” he said, “what it utters is its only stock and store caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore- till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore of never- nevermore.”

Not settled enough in his argument to dismiss away the apparition of me, he drew his velvet chair away from the fire and sat opposite me to ponder my appearance and the meaning of the one word I would continue to gift him with forevermore. I kept my unbirdlike stillness, my burning gaze fixed upon his visage, taking pleasure in his every shortened breath and twitch. I knew already he thought of his lost lady, and as much blame as eyes can have were concentrated within mine as I stared down from the bust.

“Wretch!” he cried. “Thy God hath lent thee- by angels he hath sent thee respite, respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”

I scoffed to myself, as though I would release him from his care so easily! but merely said, “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” he screamed, “Thing of evil! Prophet still, if bird or devil! Whether Tempter sent or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted on this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore! Is there balm in Gilead? Tell me, tell me, I implore!”

To which I answered, “Nevermore.”

“Prophet,” he cried again, fists clutching his head in despair, “thing of evil! Prophet still if bird or devil! By the Heaven that bends above us- by the God we both adore- tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, it shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore- clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

And there it was, the veriest peak, the jagged edge of madness he had reached, the shape of my revenge had taken form as his mind began to break before the storm… and all I said was, “Nevermore.”

Like a shot from the chair, his mien unhinged, he screamed, “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend! Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Let my loneliness unbroken- quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart and thy form from my off my door!”

For a long moment, I pondered, truly pondered what damage I took upon my soul- was I no better than my rival? Unbidden came the image of the white marble tomb that housed my love, Lenore, and before I could think further, I merely said, “Nevermore.”