A short story
By Cassie Swindon
2023
A Fairy Tale Flip prequel to “The Phantom Ink”
I slam my hands on the counter again, flop my head down onto the cold surface and let out a loud groan. What other ingredients could possibly create this wretched ink? In my apothecary studio, the size of a closet, shadows flicker on the wall until the sole lamp finally burns out. That’s fine. I can work without light.
I hover my hand over more options, from strawberries to crushed rubies to red zinnias. So far nothing red has formed the correct mix for the ink of my cursed pen. The last batch was too mushy and this one is too dry. Yesterday’s attempt smelled like a sewer so I threw that one out without even testing it.
“Mora?” My roommate and best friend, Feathi, shouts from somewhere down the hall. “Mora? Where in the Abyss are you this time?”
I ignore her, lean closer to my shelf of hodgepodge red items and squint. My body sways from exhaustion, but I must keep going. If the pen runs out of ink then my life is over, as well as Feathi’s and our other two roommates.
Guided by only moonlight, I accidentally knock over a bottle and it shatters near my foot. Stupidly, I shriek and jump out of the way, only to step on a broken piece of glass.
“Ah! Shit!” I bend, grab my barefoot and feel warm liquid dripping down my heel. “Awesome. As if I didn’t already have enough to worry about.”
The spiders keeping me company don’t respond to my hilarious humor. A simple, ‘you’re trying your best, Mora,’ from one of my eight legged friends would be more than enough encouragement to keep trying. Silence surrounds me. Not even the usual sounds of wild bholves howling in the distance break through these walls.
I’m about to hobble over to the antique lounge chair in the shadowy corner, ready to give up for the night, when another idea strikes.
Blood. Blood is red. I can’t believe I haven’t tried that yet. My heart rate accelerates. Quickly, I grab an empty bottle and hold it until several drops hit the bottom. It’s obviously not enough, but if this works, I’ll worry about that detail later.
“Now, what should I mix you with?” Keeping all my weight on my good foot, I scan the mess again– red geraniums, Cabernet Sauvignon, and ocean perch from the Barrett Sea.
I gag at the thought of fish guts being inside the ink that writes my life story day after day, minute after minute– never ending until the curse is broken. In fact, right now, in the West Wing, the pen is probably scribbling some sarcastic commentary about how my lack of creativity will be my demise.
“Mora!” Feathi yells again, more urgency in her voice this time. “Get your ass out here!”
It’s a good thing I haven’t disclosed my secret studio in the few months we’ve been trapped in this mansion. Though, if the ink runs out soon, then no one will ever find my body behind the secret door. It’ll be as if I never existed, like my story never mattered.
That sentiment doesn’t scare me as much as it should. The one terrifying idea that does rattle my heart is considering a world without Feathi, Yin, and Nax smiling, laughing, and bantering with each other around the chimney. If I die, they die. So, I must live.
I grab the red wine and pour a tiny bit into the bottle with my blood. The two shades swirl together in a syrupy tornado. No, not quite right. The consistency looks too thin, but the color is perfect. Maybe I added too much wine. There’s no time for more mistakes.
Bending to reach my heel, I push against the wound. Blood flows out of my flesh again. This time I collect more. When I add in the wine, I’m careful to pour less. It blends like Yin dances, fluid and graceful. I hold my breath. Once it settles, I don’t dare breathe. The potion inside almost resembles the ink I’ve stared at for countless hours.
Every hair on my arms stands up on their ends. From the moonlight shining through the window, I read the label of the wine, memorizing the name to use in the future. What if this is it? The possibility is almost too much to hope for. If I have replicated the ink, then my roommates and I have more time to figure out how to break our curse. We’ll finally be able to live in peace again.
With an attempt to glide to the door, I nearly trip over the old. frayed rug. If even a drop of the potion falls out of the bottle, the mixture might change. This door often sticks so I’d have to yank it open, which might make the potion spill over the side. And I can’t yell for Feathi to open it for me, because she has no idea where I practice my apothecary.
If I only I still used magic, the door would swing open easily. Risking everything, I tug on the handle, praying to whatever Goddess above that nothing tips out. Step by step, I try to float down the long, dark hallway to the West Wing, but my injury makes me limp. Maybe keeping my sights set on one thing will help me keep my balance and focus. So, I stare at the wall covered in peeled wallpaper of winged fairies. They look like guardians made out of gothic fairy tales.
I shiver from the cold leaking in through the old windows. “Damn it. Please don’t spill,” I whisper, “and please be the right potion.”
The West Wing is still a few minutes’ walk away. Alone, I trek below dusty chandeliers, by cracked stained glass windows, and through magnificent double doors from one room to another until finally I reach the library. It’s empty, as expected.
The Book– my stupid, rotten Book– hovers over a table, the one that has every moment of my life detailed since the day my sister cursed me. Some days it’s hard to keep track of how much time has passed. And I hate to think of how many more pages will be filled until I find a way to end this once and for all.
An owl’s hoot outside jolts me back to the task. My hand is shaking, so I gently set the bottle down next to The Book.
A soft creak of hardwood echoes from down the hall and I freeze so Feathi won’t hear me. It’s not as if I like keeping secrets from my roommates. But they shouldn’t have to know the sacrifices I make to try and solve our dilemma. Maybe the creaks and groans I hear are only the house speaking the language of midnight.
The pen continually writes on a page, so I peak over to read the latest addition:
Mora believes she has outsmarted her problem, once and for all, but she’d be mistaken. Her glorious hope will soon be squashed by yet another failure. The witch is a walking wreck. Not only does guilt weigh down her shoulders from past mistakes, but now she also keeps secrets and lies from the three people who have always been there for her, the three people counting on her to save them. Somewhere in the stars, a moon goddess joins me in laughing at Mora, not for her ridiculous cat sweater or bedhead hair, but for her flittering moment of hope. How she could possibly believe she can save her roommates? But Mora has not yet learned the answer. She’s clueless–
“Shut up!” All my muscles tense.
I grab the pen as fast as possible, pluck off the top and pour the contents of my bottle into the small cylinder area where the ink is placed. It immediately bubbles and bursts out of my hand. Crap. The potion I had poured in flows out like a volcano erupting and splatters all over the floor. The enchanted pen launches out of my hand and fixes itself by reconnecting the tip, then continues to scrawl.
See, I was right. Mora knows nothing. She will run out of time. She’s no closer to finding the correct ink than she is to figuring out how to get rid of her hideous thorns torturing her.
I glance down at my cat sweater, where holes open from the thorns that protrude from my wrists, forearms, elbows, shoulders. My curse. These thorns will end me.
“There you are!”
I jump and swivel around fast to meet Feathi’s bright eyes–well fake eyes, since she’s been made of origami.
“Why didn’t you answer me? I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Feathi says as she crosses her paper-arms.
“I, uh, I was reading and got caught up in the story.”
She shakes her head, making the blonde paper-hair swish back and forth. “You’re a terrible liar, Mora.”
“Shouldn’t you be asleep?”
“Woah! What’s all over the floor?” She’s about to crouch down before I stop her.
“Nothing. It’s wine. I was having a glass while I read and dropped it. I’ll clean up, go back to bed.”
“I’ll go back to bed the second you stop ordering me around.” Feathi doesn’t hide her sarcasm.
“I’ve got it covered.”
“Mora, just let me help you.” She stoops again, but I pull her up.
“No, I told you I’ve got it.”
Her paper-eyes narrow. “If you don’t tell me what’s going on right now I’m gonna go wake up Yin and Nax and all three of us will be hounding you until the suns all rise.”
I rub my temples with one hand, careful not to scratch my face. “Fine, I’m trying to mix more ink for the pen.”
“You mean, the phantom ink that you told us would magically replenish itself soon?” Her tone is sharper than the icicles hanging outside the window.
“Exactly. And I don’t need you or anyone else bothering me.”
She stares me down, not moving an inch, then glances at the near-empty pen. “I’m going to pass over the fact that you’ve been lying to all of us for months and assume that there’s not much time left to refill it?”
“There is no ‘we’ Feathi, just ‘me’. It’s dangerous. I’ve already hurt my–”
“I knew I smelled blood. Where are you hurt?”
I groan and slowly cross the injured leg behind the other. “Please, just go to sleep so you’re not in my way. This nonsense is only slowing me down.”
“I love you too,” she stoops down, rips a piece of her paper-dress off and blots the open scratch on the side of my foot. “There, that should act like a bandage for now.”
When she stands, I look up at her beautiful face, wishing the curse hadn’t destroyed my best friend’s life too. She’d be so happy if she weren’t trapped here, hiding from society as a non-human. Maybe she and Nax would already be Committed to each other, living in a little cottage a few miles away.
“What ingredients have you tried so far?” Feathi takes my hands into hers, still as strong as a human’s, but no longer formed from flesh and blood.
“Apple peels, tomatoes, peppers, lobsters, ladybugs, chili, cranberries, raspberries, cinnabar, scarlet macaw feathers, beetroot–”
She holds up a hand. “Okay, I got it. What about plants, flowers?”
“We don’t have much variety during winter.”
“Roses.”
“Roses,” I repeat.
We make eye contact and both slowly nod. “Roses!” we say in unison.
There’s a rush through my veins, like a spark has been ignited inside me, energizing my body from head to toe.
I dash to the library door, deciding there’s no time to grab a coat or gloves. Knowing Feathi is behind me, I jog down the dark hallways. Each tap of my feet along the hardwood floors might wake Yin and Nax, but at this point, I can’t delay in any way.
Basically stumbling down the grand staircase to the foyer, I try to save time by mentally checking off the locations where winter roses might still grow in our forest. None will be by the cliffside and it’s too dangerous to travel closer to the town in the valley. That leaves us only one option, bolf territory.
At the front doors, I shove on my worn boots lined with fur, then use every ounce of strength to pry open one of the massive doors just a bit. The bottom scrapes and screams against the flooring, not used to being opened at all. A gust of wild, crisp wind attacks my face but I won’t turn around.
“If the wrong bolf clan wakes up…”
“I know. Which is why I’ll go alone.”
“No, Mora. I hate when you do this.”
I spin around, faster than lightning. “Do what?”
“Decide everything as if you always know what’s best.” Feathi blocks my path to the front patio. “Have you even considered that I may have a better idea than you?”
“You’re staying here. If Yin and Feathi wake up and try to follow, then we’ll have even more problems. I need you to stay to explain, just in case.”
“You’re the most stubborn, annoying, irritating, arrogant witch I know.” Feathi places one hand on my shoulder. “Please be careful. You’re also the heart of our little family. We won’t be okay without you.”
I don’t have the courage to tell her they’ll definitely not be okay without me, because if I die, they die.
Without looking back, I race down the frozen steps. Even in moonlight the stairs shimmer like crystal. One day in the future I may look back on this time and consider myself lucky for ever being able to live in such a gorgeous home, surrounding by a breathtaking scenery as if we’re encapsuled in a snow globe winter wonderland.
“Remember, if the bolfs charge, climb up!” Feathi yells behind me.
That reminder isn’t needed. I’m thoroughly aware of this possibly suicida mission. Or I may get lucky and run into the one friendly bolf pack that lives nearby.
My boots sink into the snow, one heavy foot at a time. Cold stings my face and I continually sniff to keep my nose from running.
“If I die, they die,” I whisper again and again, my breath visible in front of my face with each exhale. “If I die, they die. Keep going.”
Eventually my ears turn numb and I have to keep cracking my fingers within my pocket to keep the blood flowing.
The treeline ahead shifts from white pines to black spruces. I’m here. Any moment the bholves will smell me and alert their pack. I haven’t been this far from home since my sister cast her curse. My body gets tense and I check the snow for signs of pawprints. Nothing. Yet there may still be giant beasts hiding behind the trees in the distance.
I need to keep moving. Where are the roses they guard? I creep forward, hyper aware of each crunch of my boot, each sound of my breath. My heart rate sounds like drums beating wildly for the entire woods to hear.
If I die, they die. Keep going.
To my right, a shadow of movement flickers. I snap my attention in that direction. Only trees. And snow. More trees. More snow. And in the distance – red.
I bite my lip to refrain from whooping and march straight toward the winter rose bushes. At least twenty roses are in full bloom, the perfect redness for the ink. This better be what I need or I’m risking my life for nothing.
They’re ten more yards away.
I scan the area again, body trembling.
Seven more yards away.
I can do this.
Four more yards.
Then a growl.
“Fuck!”
I lunge for the bush. Snatch three roses. Shove them in my pocket.
Turn.
Run.
Something large and heavy swipes behind my knees. I collapse into the snow, hands first. The freezing temperature burns my skin. A scream threatens to break free but I don’t want to alert any more creatures.
Heart pounding, I crawl to the base of a tree. All I have to do is reach the trunk.
A sharp claw slices at my calf. I yell in pain. Keep crawling. Almost there.
The beast behind me flips me over straight onto my back and drags me closer. I can’t help but stare at the half wolf-half bear over me. Since it’s at least five times my weight, I have no chance.
If I die, they die.
So, I fight. I writhe. Kick. Scream. Slash at it where my thorns are the longest. Swipe with the goal to kill. My limbs flail wildly. Huge paws pin down my stomach but I can’t give up.
Suddenly, another thorn sprouts from my finger. Then another. I gasp. I know what this means.
Back in the West Wing, Feathi is purposefully attacking The Book. Each time we try to destroy it, more thorns grow on my body, each more deadly than the last. A new third one grows out of my palm, the largest so far.
Just as the bolf lowers its snout over my face, I ram the thorn straight between its yellow eyes. It wails and backs up, staggering. A strange black ooze comes out of the wound. Intriguing color for blood.
I sprint towards home. Out of breath. Chest burning. Terrified to check behind me. Faster. My legs wobble in protest. My face is on fire from the freezing wind. The iron gates finally appear.
I’m almost there.
So close.
A too-close howl pierces the night air.
Feathi appears in the crevice between the two front doors. “Hurry, Mora!” She waves me closer, then her eyes settle on something behind me. “Hurry!”
I push through the broken gate. Slip up the icy stairs. Fall into her embrace. We stumble onto the floor inside. Feathi heaves the door shut, then slides onto the floor next to me.
Both panting, she lays her paper-hand over mine. But I pull away. Because there’s wet snow all over my clothes and skin. I won’t risk her deteriorating.
“Did you…” she pants. “…Get any?”
Unable to breathe, I pull out the three broken roses from my pocket and lay them on the floor at my feet.
Now, I’ll check if roses are indeed the missing ingredient needed to make more enchanted ink.
Check out Mora’s full story in “The Phantom Ink” with the beauty and the beast theme continuing.
If you enjoyed this world, read “Eribelle’s Dream,” next. It’s another short story prequel for “The Wicked Blue,” casting a gender reversal of The Little Mermaid.
