Michele Hauf - Gossamyr

“She is not a mule,” the man offered as he mounted. His shoes, strapped and circled in thin leather ties, grazed the grass tops. “Fancy is a rare breed, yet while lacking in height makes up for it in endurance.”

Fancy? A miserable waste of horseflesh. But Gossamyr did not speak her annoyance. Surely the only reason for the man’s return to her twice over was that someone or thing in Faery saw to make mischief with her. But to speak to Faery—the trees, as the man would view it—would not put her to advantage. And where was the fetch when she needed to communicate?

Gesturing the mortal and his mule follow, Gossamyr walked up the path. At the rise, she saw the forest stretched ahead for endless lengths. Not a visible root or marsh kelpie in sight. Impossible he had traveled the distance and returned to her side in so little time.

Could Shinn be behind this? What reason had her father to place this man in her path? He had wanted her to accept a guide…

“You are a faery,” Ulrich muttered, the mule ambling to make pace with Gossamyr’s light-footed strides. “I know it. I am not going with you, foul one.”

“Suits me fine and well. I have no need of such misery to accompany me on my travels, you barmy bit of breath. Go. Once more,” she said as the man passed her by. And then he was gone.

Assuming a defiant stance, shoulders back and one knee slightly bent, Gossamyr counted her breaths, waiting, wondering. A strum of her fingers across the dangling arrets produced a multitude of obsidian clicks. Deadly aim, Shinn had once remarked of her skill. She’d taken the prize in tournament three years consecutive.

With a sigh, she shook away the sudden rise of apprehension created by her encounter with the mortal. Time threatened. Her father and his troops must battle more revenants even as she stood here.

She felt a familiar presence first at the base of her skull, the prinkles of warning, of sure knowing.

Gossamyr reluctantly turned to face where she had started her adventures in the Otherside. There lumbered her pisky-led mule and rider. It was too ridiculous to wonder. And so she loosed a chuckle and splayed her arms out in surrender.

“It appears I am destined to remain at your side,” Ulrich called. “Oh, to tap into the source of such magic!” Then he narrowed his blue gaze on her and muttered, “Mayhap I will, luck be with me.”

“I possess no magic.” And that was truth. Magic was a mortal device, forbidden in Faery. (Though there were those who dabbled.) For every use of magic, be it good or for evil, tapped Enchantment. Mortals literally stole Enchantment (most unknowing) to conjure their spells and charms and bewitchments. Should a fée be accused of dabbling, banishment was immediate.

“I do not know why you lie, faery, but I will allow you are a lone woman who must protect herself. Of course, lies be the way of the faery.”

“Faeries do not appeal to you?”

“Faery circles, my lady. And we are far from—Yei-ih!” He flicked his gaze back and forth between Gossamyr and the ground. “What is that? It’s…that’s it. A toadstool circle?” Ulrich heeled the mule, but it remained stubbornly stationed beside the Passage from which Gossamyr had disembarked. “Move, beast! Get thee gone!”

Gossamyr reached out. A tweetering whistle enticed the mule to wander toward her as she walked widdershins down the path. “They are merely toadstools. No harm will come to thee.”

“Speaks one who has not danced!”

A Dancer? Gossamyr peered at the mortal, seeing him newly. Much as she loved her parents and her home, she had ever been curious about the mortal realm. A curiosity that had flowered since the day she’d witnessed a Dancer. So very much like herself. Wingless and clumsy, with a lumbering body that had made his dance steps wobble—almost as if the air was too heavy for him to acclimate.

Had this man really Danced? Or did he merely babble nonsensities? To make a determination proved yet difficult. Too new this mortal realm, and this man but her first mortal. Nothing to compare him to. He could be luna-touched for all she knew.

But he had returned to her side, thrice over.

“You have been placed in my path for a reason. I must accept and move on, for urgency is fore. Come!” The mule followed as she walked onward. “Do you ride to the nearest village?” she asked, her pace slowing to mirror the mule’s laborious trudge.

“Mayhap I do.”

“I’ve great need to know how far away it lies. What is the time from here to the next village? How many suns will rise before I arrive?”

The horizon held his attention. Young, he appeared, though the gashed flesh on his hands lended to hard labor, or struggle. Definitely struggle, to gauge from the condition of his face. He could well be her peer.

“Aparjon,” he offered, without looking her way. “That be the next village. And following…who knows.” His heavy sigh intrigued Gossamyr. “I go where I am led. Tell me true, you have not been sent to retrieve me to Faery?”

“You continue to assume I am from Faery when I tell you I am not.” She winced at the lie. And she fooled herself to believe the blazon was not visible even with the highest agraffe secured. “I am on a mission.”

“Ah. A woman on a mission. And she wields a big stick, so watch out world!”

Ulrich scruffed a hand through his tangles of dark hair and offered a genuine grin. A missing tooth to the side of his front teeth spoke of certain battle. “You are not like most women.”

“Why say you such?”

“You are confidant and commanding.”

She bristled proudly at his expert observations.

“And…well, you do twinkle.”

“And you bleed.”

He touched the cut on his forehead and studied the minute flakes of blood on his fingers before dismissing it with a shrug. “A mere scuffle, which found the opponent most unfortunate.”

“You sure it was not a tangle with a prickle bush?”

“Would that it had been so. I hate bloody banshees.” He narrowed a suspicious gaze at her. “You’re not a banshee, are you?”

“No. Merely mort—like you. What of that bruise?”

Trembling fingers smoothed over the modena on the man’s face. He grimaced and shook his head. “If I told you a woman gave it to me, would you believe such foolery?”

Gossamyr shrugged. “A woman like myself?”

“I see your point.”

“Your insistence you see faeries and banshees leads me to wonder if you’ve the sight?”

“That dance changed everything. I’m still a bit dansey-headed from the whole event. I want Faery from my eyes!”

So he did see. Yet obviously it was not a gift he enjoyed.

Striding lightly, Gossamyr clicked her tongue to encourage the mule to pick up pace. It did not, and so she slowed.

“Now, explain to me why, if you are not a faery, your dress is so strange. Leaves for clothing? And those braies, they appear to be leather, but never have I seen so remarkable a color. Only the fair folk could fashion such a garment and make it strong and so flexible.”

Gossamyr smirked. The remarkable color was utterly average. Fashioned from frog skin, the amphi-leather was strong but flexible and comfortable.

“It would not be wise to be seen by any in a village or otherwise dressed in such a manner,” he stated. “Women conceal their forms with dresses and silly pointed hats. And sleeves. And shoes. Braies and hose are for men. As are weapons.”

She had not considered as much. Why had not Shinn? Of course, male and female were equals in Faery. Though Veridienne’s bestiary had detailed the misbalance between the sexes in the Otherside. For all Shinn’s visits to the Otherside, he should have known.

Gossamyr glanced over her attire. The fitted pourpoint stopped at her thighs. The weapon belt hung snugly across her hips. The Glamoursiège arms were carved in fire-forged applewood—faery wings upon a sword and shield; a holly vine wrapped about the sword signified the peaceable times. Amphi-leather braies wrapped her legs, and secured about her ankles a thin strip of leather kept the loose braies from catching on brambles or sticks.