Dragon Tale

Despite the heat of the day, the forest was cool. It was truly the only place to be, if one had any choice in the matter. Kevesh waded through the shallow stream, his great taloned feet sinking in the soft mud and sending out eddies of cloudy water behind him. Although he was one of the largest creatures in the forest, he watched where he walked. He carefully stepped over a painted turtle peering up at him with some concern.

“I see you, little shell-friend,” he called softly, not wishing to disturb the forest with his usual booming voice.

Though most of the water in the slowly moving stream was stagnant, it was cool. Kevesh held his wings flat against his back as he pushed headlong between two pines at the water’s edge. His scales protected him from the worst of the prickly branches, but it hurt to catch a wing that way. Yes, there it was. The hollow he’d dug into the side of the hill had grown thick with moss since his last visit. It would be a comfortable place to wait out the heat of the day. As he took a deep breath, nearby branches and fronds wafted toward him. He loved the smell of the forest in the summer. The only way he’d ever been able to describe it was ‘green,’ like wet ferns. But then, dragons weren’t fond of fancy descriptions and gold-plated words.

As he settled himself on his bed of politrichum moss, he recognized the distinctive rounded leaves of wild mint. He grinned, then rubbed the side of his muzzle through the plants, smearing himself with the juice. It was turning out to be a perfect day.

He’d chosen this particular place because it was comfortable, yet it provided him with a variety of things to watch. At a hundred and fifty, he was too young to sleep a whole day through the way older dragons might. Water bugs skated across the surface of the stream and small pools of standing water. The thick full plants shook from the passage of a muskrat who occasionally stopped to snack on the varied flora. Every once in a while a bird would sing out, or squawk in protest, but this appeared to be a time of inactivity for them. A low bridge connected the well-worn dirt path that reached the stream on both sides. In the past he’d gotten to watch, unseen, as humans used the little bridge in their travels through the forest. He couldn’t see the two frogs carrying on a conversation on the other side of the bridge; it was as well he wasn’t a gossip. A red squirrel, chirping in alarm, ran partway up a nearby birch, turning to continue his harangue at an unseen opponent below.

Kevesh had just settled his head on his forearms when he heard the approaching hoof-beats of a horse. He grinned again. Humans were peculiar and fascinating creatures, and he’d spent a great deal of time trying to figure out just what they were all about. How he’d love to write a paper on their culture. He sighed. They spooked easily, making them difficult to research.

“Let me down!”

The sharp voice pulled Kevesh out of his contemplation. A delectable looking white steed paused at the edge of the bridge. Naturally, his master was a knight in shining plate armor. The protest had come from a young maiden squirming in the knight’s arms.

“I said, let me go!” she shrieked, struggling against his hold. Most of her sandy hair was pulled back in a braid, although some had come free to hang about her oval face.

The man laughed. “Do you think I care one way or the other what you say?” He tightened his arms around her. “You belong to me now, Mirabelle. The sooner you accept it the easier it will be.”

“Belong to you?” she demanded. “I don’t belong to anyone!” She pounded on his hands.

He laughed again.

Kevesh watched the man dismount, pulling the maiden with him. He’d never seen anything like this, but he’d always known that knights were despicable sorts and not to be trusted for an instant. There was a dull clank as the knight pulled off his helmet and dropped it nearby. His beard and mustache were blond, as was his cropped hair, and a ring of sweat circled his face. Holding Mirabelle by the back of her head, he kissed her. Although for a moment, Kevesh thought the man was trying to eat her face.

Mirabelle started to cry. “Leave me alone.”

“You’re mine, Mira. And you’re far too fine to leave alone.” He ran his dagger through the laces of her bodice, and with a swift jerk, the blade cut through.

“But, you’re a knight,” she protested tearfully.

He grinned at her, the kind of grin that raised the spines on Kevesh’s back. “Of course I’m a knight.” He kissed her again. “What did you expect?”

“You’re supposed to help people,” she insisted, pushing at his armor-clad chest.

“And I am.” There was that grin again. “I’m helping myself.”

She managed to get a hold of her emotions for a moment. “I’ve no wish to marry you, Sir Lavine,” she said, managing to sound very formal and self-assured.

He laughed, and Kevesh had to stifle the low growl he wanted to let out. “I’m not going to marry you Mira. But if I like you enough, I may keep you a while.”

“My father will kill you!” She batted at his hands as he worked the fastenings of her light blue skirt.

“He’ll do no such thing,” Sir Lavine corrected her quietly. “I resolved his little sheep theft problem and he owes me. He knows it.” He chuckled at his success, and her skirt slipped to the ground. He placed a heavy foot on it, preventing her from pulling it back on.

Her face was twisted in anger. “The thieves were a couple of starving children.”

The knight shrugged. “That doesn’t matter. I caught them, and when he finds you gone, he’ll know I’ve taken my reward.” He took advantage of her shock to loosen the tie of her full-length chemise, which slipped to her waist as the sleeves caught on her hands.

She belatedly tried to cover herself as Sir Lavine fought her quick hands. In the struggle, Mirabelle lost her chemise, but Sir Lavine lost his hold on her, and she scrambled toward Kevesh’s forest resting place.

“You can’t run away from me Mira. Where will you hide in the big dark forest?” He followed, not quite at a run.

Mirabelle nearly ran into Kevesh before she saw him, and he abruptly sat up. She stood frozen with fear.

“I won’t hurt you,” Kevesh whispered.

“But you’re a dragon,” she protested in a whisper, her earlier plight momentarily forgotten.

“I suppose you think dragons eat people,” he said. “That’s about as accurate as knights in shining armor rescuing the weak and downtrodden out of the goodness of their hearts.” He got to all four feet and pulled her toward him. It was to her credit that she didn’t scream or faint. “Stand behind me, and I’ll see what I can do about this knight of yours.”

Sir Lavine pushed through the trees and stared at Kevesh for a moment, completely stunned. “Run Mira!” he shouted. Trained reflexes springing to action, he jerked his sword from it’s scabbard. “It’ll eat you!”

Kevesh let out a deafening roar, and the entire forest seemed to go silent. Sometimes it was nice to be a dragon. “The lady Mirabelle will not be taking any more of your advice, Sir whatever you call yourself.” He casually batted the sword out of the knight’s hand. As the knight ran toward his horse, equally panicked by the sight of a dragon, Kevesh followed, stomping his feet in an excess of draconic glee. Yes indeed, these were the times when it was terrific to be a dragon.

Once he was sure the man was gone, and not likely to come back with one of those stupid poking sticks, which could be quite a problem if one wasn’t careful, Kevesh carefully picked up the discarded clothes. He brushed them off as gently as his claws would permit, and turned back toward his hollow. Mirabelle was peeking out from behind the trees, watching him. Her eyes were a lovely green, and he was surprised to see the color in a human face. Perhaps they weren’t so different after all.

“I imagine you’ll want these back,” he said, holding out her clothes. Humans were exceedingly odd about concealing their bodies. Kevesh had often wondered if it was a necessary adaption to protect what appeared to be very thin skin, or if it was the result of one of their bizarre religions.

She stepped forward, still timid, and took her clothes. She quickly pulled on her white chemise, all the while thanking him profusely for his assistance. “I don’t know what I would have done if not for you…” she paused suddenly. “You do have a name, don’t you?”

“I’m Kevesh,” he said with a nod.

“Well, Kevesh, I don’t know that a dragon has any use for the aid of a human, but is there anything I can do for you?”

“You mean that?” he asked. On his few close encounters with humans, most couldn’t wait to get as far from him as possible.

She nodded, smiling.

Kevesh thought about his paper. “Would you come home with me? I’ve a research project I could really use your help with.”

“Go home with you?” she asked hesitantly. “You mean, to live with you?”

“Oh yes. For a little while at least.”

“I don’t know. It isn’t quite what I had in mind.”

“We could have lots of fun, and I’d get to do my research. The elders have been telling me for years that there’s no way I’ll finish my project. If you’ll help me…” Just considering the implications made him shake his head. “I have some very good ideas, and I suspect it could be beneficial to people too.” He refrained from using his normal persuasive expression. She might just run off to find that stupid knight, thinking him less frightening.

She thought about it “I can’t really go home. After the way I disappeared, what would they think?”

“Please come with me, lady Mirabelle?”

Swallowing the last of her hesitation, she gave him a low curtsey. “It would be an honor to assist you in your research.”

“Well then, why don’t you hop on?” He looked pointedly to his back.

She stared at him a moment. “You mean, ride you?”

“It would take a long time to get to my home if you were to try it on foot. The mountain would surely be impossible.” He crouched down. “Flying’s fun, Mirabelle. You’ll like it.” He let his enthusiasm creep into his voice. Flying was another great thing about being a dragon.

He directed her to use his front leg as a step up to his back, just to the front of his wings. Although she seemed a bit unsure of the concept, she was very cooperative. He was a little more than twice the size of a good war horse and he suspected she was used to riding horses.

“What do you eat?” Kevesh asked, wondering if they would need to stop somewhere on the way. “I’ve never had an occasion to dine with a person before.”

“Oh, I’ll eat most any vegetables, fish or meat…” She paused. “What do you eat?” her voice was uncertain.

His graceful neck allowed him to look at her even as she sat astride him. “Certainly not people.” He made a face. “Too many small bones to get stuck in your throat. And it’s a long throat to have things stuck in. Besides, I hear humans cause bloating, and it’s a bad idea for a fire breather to get gas.”

“Oh,” she looked surprised.

“I eat a lot of meat though. I’m a pretty good hunter,” he said with a bit of pride. He began walking them out of the forest then.

“So you don’t eat people, but you do breathe fire,” she said, as if trying to reconcile fact with myth.

“Correct.”

“Can you really see halfway across the planet?”

He hadn’t heard that one before. “Oh no. Dragons are actually quite nearsighted.”

“But… I thought flying predators had to have good eyes for hunting.”

He paused and flashed her a look. “You think I could make a meal out of a mouse?” He twitched his tail, a good length away, to indicate his size. “I just need to be able to spot a cow, or a sheep, and they’re plenty big enough for me to see.” He smiled.. “I think we have a lot to learn about each other. I hope you’re up for the task.”

“Oh, I am,” she insisted quickly.

He brought them out of the forest then. “Hang on Mirabelle. Time for your first flying lesson.” He could hardly wait to show her his home, and he was glad he’d tidied up earlier. He wasn’t sure what humans were used to, and he hoped they could make some sensible compromises. The chance to have a human room-mate was just too fabulous to pass up. His neighbors would be so jealous.

“Are all knights like Sir Lavine?” she asked as they took to the air.

It was the perfect time to dispel myths. “Trust me. I’ve seen my share of knights, and they’re no good.”


“Dragon Tale” appeared in the DragonCon chapbook Do Virgins Taste Better, edited by Celia L. Badon and published by 7-Realms Publishing Corp in August 2000.  This was my first sale.

This story was written while sitting on a wooden bridge over a stream in the north-woods of Wisconsin, which ended up giving me the setting. It shows my penchant for both fractured fairy tales and turning the traditional hero into the villain  


Writer Brain in Action

Brain (talking fast): hey, hey, hey!  Lookit, lookit, I have a shiny cool idea.  

Me: I’m in the middle of a novel; I really can’t be distracted right now.

Brain (insistent): Best idea ever!  C’mon. Just take a look.  You can jot it down for later.  Cause you know I’m not gonna remember.

Me (placating): Fine.

Me: Hmm. This is a pretty good idea.

Brain: See.  I told you.  Have I ever lied to you?

Me: Uhhhh.

Brain: Don’t answer that. Focus on the shiny idea. Hey.  It’s pretty short.  Probably 2,500 words tops.

Me (thoughtfully): Hmmm. This won’t take long to write.

Brain: May as well do it now, right?  That’s the efficient thing to do.  Then you’ll have another story to foist onto people.  And it IS awesome.

Me: Yeah.  I can probably knock this out in one sitting, and it’ll be a nice break from the novel.

Me: *500 words in and realizing I’m not done with the set up.*

Brain: PSYCH!  It’s totally a 7500 word story!

Brain: You should see all the backstory and research I did.   It’s gonna be awesome.



Check out all the Writer Brain shenanigans in reverse chronological order here.

Speed Writing #1 – Stop Flirting With Me

Vampires, I could deal with.  Werewolves, no problem.  A couple of demons, right up my alley.  But this… none of my training had prepared me for this.

“You’re really hot,” he mumbled.  It was the fifth or sixth time he’d said something of the sort.

“Uh… thanks.”  I would’ve given anything to have a bit more distance between us, but that wasn’t happening anytime soon.  If we went at the pace he could manage, clumsy and unbalanced, it’d be dawn before we got him the medical attention he needed.  I was mostly dragging him, his arm flopped over my shoulder and mine around his waist.  Ugh.  I reminded myself that saving people was a noble calling, and it was sometimes bound to be uncomfortable.  Being hip-to-hip with a seventeen year old misogynist was pretty uncomfortable. 

“What’s your name again?” he asked, confusion creeping into his voice.

Trying to ignore him, I scanned the woods up ahead.  There were more shadows than I liked lurking on the right side. 

“C’mon,” he whined.  “I’ve gotta know your name.”

“Could you please be quiet for like two seconds?” I demanded.  “I need to focus on this.”  Yep.  There was definitely something nasty in the trees.  Great.

“Ka-ZING!” He chuckled.  “You’re a take-charge kind of girl, aren’t you?“

That didn’t even warrant a response.  I’d fought off five keeluts, creepy hairless dog creatures to save his sorry ass.  I spent my nights and weekends fighting monsters.

“How am I supposed to brag about my awesome new girlfriend if I don’t even know her name?” he asked, waving his free hand around.

I gawked at him for a moment.  “I’m so not your girlfriend.” 

He smiled stupidly at me.  “That’s easy to fix.”  He didn’t recognize me, of course.  No one ever did.  It’s not like I wore a mask or identity-concealing costume, either.  What was it Gramps said?  Oh yeah.  People don’t notice what’s right in front of them if they don’t see how it will benefit them.

Peter was a soccer player.  We were in the same grade and had attended the same school for nine years.  I currently had three classes with him.  And damn it he was heavy.

“No thank you,” I said firmly.  “Now come on.  We’ve got to get out of here.”



Prompt: Will you stop flirting with me?  You just got seriously injured and i’m the EMT trying to tend to your wounds in the ambulance, i don’t give a fuck that i look cute when i’m concerned, you’re lucky you’re not dead you dipshit.

Modification: change EMT to monster hunter

Acceptance

In February 2000, I received my first acceptance letter. I signed my first contracts. I bounced off the walls for about a week. At some point during the great hullabaloo, it occurred to me that the person who sent me the letter was essentially just doing her job. She probably dropped it in the mail without much fanfare. How ironic that so simple a task could, just a few days later, cause such a stir. Like many writers, I framed the letter. I had a party. I fretted over how exactly to word my thank you letter. I puzzled over the proper way to list publishing credits in future cover letters. It was absolutely fabulous, and I loved every minute of it.

While I maintain that publication isn’t necessarily the mark of exceptional writing, it is the goal of many writers. For some of us it’s a form of validation in a culture that doesn’t reward artists. For others, it’s a benchmark, a means for measuring one’s career. For the really lucky ones out there its simply a part of their profession. For any writer who has spent years pursuing this goal, receiving that first acceptance is the absolutely most exciting experience. I honestly don’t think anything else could beat it. This is probably due to the fact that the first acceptance is often a bit of a surprise.

So, how can an acceptance possibly be a surprise to the writer who has been submitting manuscripts for years? Easy. Rejection becomes familiar after a while. It’s part of the territory. If you’re working hard, and have multiple stories to send out, rejection letters accumulate fairly quickly. I have an uneasy truce with numbers so I’ll not share any here. Suffice to say that you learn to look forward to those return envelopes and e-mails. “Did I manage a personal reject this time?” I always wonder as I review the return address. It’s turned into a kind of game for me to try to guess what story I sent out (especially for those long response times that make it hard to remember).

A writer has only so much control over the acceptance process, and it lies primarily in marketing and submitting one’s stories. If you never send out a manuscript, you’ll never be rejected but you’ll never be accepted either. A lot of it depends on hitting the right editor at the right time. Try as we might, we can never be sure when the right time is. The right story to the right editor at the wrong time generally results in the “Loved this, but I got 75 dog stories this month,” kind of rejection.

You never know which story is going to make your first sale, and that adds to the suspense of the whole business. I was genuinely surprised that this particular story was mine. I love it, don’t get me wrong. I love all my stories. It’s just not as powerful or as strong as some of my other work. It doesn’t have a message of any kind. It turned out a bit sillier than I’d planned. In effect, it’s a little like bubble gum. Fun with no nutritional value.

I was dismayed to find that not everyone was excited by my news. There were some who just assumed I would be getting published because it was what I had set out to do. Sounds complementary, but it stemmed more from misunderstandings about the publishing world than utter confidence in my abilities.

Exactly a week after Acceptance Day, I had a Triple Rejection Day. It was a good reminder that I still had a lot of work to do if I want to make a career of this.

Der Erlkönig

Long ago the Earth was more wild, and the forest of the world held great power over humankind. The face of the world has changed, but some of this remains true.

In the shadows of Schwartzwald, the Black Forest, lived a powerful king known as Erlkönig, King of Alder. He stood over seven feet in height and was easily as majestic as any tree in his domain. His robe was the blue-gray color of mist. On his head he wore a crown of leaves, of a kind never found on any tree, perpetually held in the bright tints of autumn. He carried a staff as tall as himself, and although it could have been an imposing weapon, it was never needed. Erlkönig was one of the fair folk, and while human children saw a grand figure, their parents could see only an old gray willow, battered by the elements.

Alone in his vast forest, Erlkönig might have become quite lonely. Spotted woodpeckers, red deer, and badgers could participate in conversation on only a limited number of subjects, even such creatures as have been surrounded by magic. Foxes served him by choice rather than fear or obligation. Of humankind, the children were the most like him. They alone could laugh with abandon, and found pleasure in the simplest of things. Alas that human children grew up and took on the world’s troubles as responsibilities, extinguishing the spark within and blinding their eyes to his visage. It was the tragic fate of the human born. Their lives were short, and they lost all joy in the world so quickly. But he had a solution.

When a boy entered the forest with his father, Erlkönig knew. When a girl child traveled the narrow roadway, he was aware. He decreed that children trespassing within the bounds of Schwartzwald between dusk and dawn would never leave. The red fox carried the proclamation to all ends of the forest, but humans were ignorant of the true language of the wild.

When a child came under the shadow of the mighty trees, Erlkönig visited as soon as night fell. Perhaps it was unfair. No child could refuse him, and they rarely even considered it. Most quickly forgot to fear him as a stranger, ran into his arms without question, and never looked back. He was more handsome than anyone they had ever seen, and they could not turn away once he had caught their eyes. His gentle voice coaxed like the fairest music. Sometimes he sang, other times he lured them with promises of all the marvelous things they would do together. He did not lie.

In his forest, where he was strongest, around those he loved the most, his power enabled him to bind the vital essence of the child, forsaking his or her first form to become one of his own; fey children who would never have to understand the weeping of the world.


“Who rides through my forest so late this night?” Erlkönig asked as he stood at the edge of the well-traveled dirt road. He could hear the pounding of a single horse’s hooves, though it was still a great distance off.

“It is a father with his son,” the red fox whispered. “He holds the boy close to keep him warm.” He smiled up at the Lord of the Wood. “How considerate of him to pass through so close to winter, when few choose to travel with their kits.”

Erlkönig bent and caressed the fox behind the ear. “How right you are.” He straightened and stepped into the road, gathering his glamour about him like a cloak. The rider and his precious burden approached. Closer and closer they came. Erlkönig saw the travelers long before they could see him. To the father he was little more than a shadowy cloud of fog, haziness in a low spot under the trees. The horse slowed, then shied, keeping to the far edge of the path.

The boy let out a faint gasp of surprise, and turned his head to watch as they passed Erlkönig. His mouth was open, but no words came out. His round cheeks were pink from the wind and chill. His hat and scarf were free of threads and snags, suggesting that they could not be mere cast offs from an older sibling. In an age when most children went unshod, fine leather boots were visible under his blanket wrappings. He was a treasure, cradled in the arms of the man.

Erlkönig smiled. “You lovely child, come away with me,” he whispered. In Schwartzwald his voice carried to the ears of all children, be they near or far, if he wished it. “Many are the games I will play with you.”

The horse continued down the road, and the father forcefully turned the boy’s head to face front. The child became restless, squirming in his father’s grip. It was a common reaction when someone tried to hide Erlkönig from a child who had already seen him. Such young ones were already smitten, enthralled by the king who spoke so kindly and looked so beautiful.

On swift feet Erlkönig moved ahead of the horse and riders, and again waited for their approach. In his forest he could move wherever he wished as quickly as necessary. He was not bound by the rules that restricted humans. His eyes were keen, and he could see the boy thrashing, half-hidden beneath his father’s cloak.

“I will show you many colorful flowers, and dress you in golden raiment,” he said. The child saw him then, and stopped struggling. Erlkönig held his staff in his right hand and reached out with the left. It was important to him that the child came willingly, despite the fact that there was no choice. He did not intend to harm the boy with force, and fear was hurt enough to grieve Erlkönig. He worked his magic patiently, knowing he had all the time he needed.

Again, the horse spooked, sidling away as he came near. “Father?” the boy whispered in confusion as he leaned out to touch his hand to Erlkönig’s. The human child went limp in his blood father’s arms, his body quickly going cold. When the man checked, he would find his son dead. But standing in the middle of the road, holding the hand of Erlkönig was the same boy, turned fey. There was a healthy pale blue glow to his plump cheeks, and the light in his black eyes was brighter than it had been when they were hazel and he was yet a human child.

“Father?” the boy asked, reaching out with his free hand to grasp Erlkönig’s robe. “Were you calling me?”

“It’s late,” Erlkönig said gently. He raised the end of his staff to the sky. “The moon will soon take flight, and we’ve hardly had the chance to play.” Hand in hand they walked into the woods. “Let us leap to and fro, merry as we dance our way home.”

The boy laughed with delight and slipped loose to run ahead, free. Like a deer, he bounded over fallen trees and low-lying dips, spinning when he landed, and giggling when he fell into a pile of leaves and pine needles.

“Are you happy?” Erlkönig asked, easily keeping pace.

“Oh yes,” the child replied as his feet splashed through a puddle so small that it could scarcely bathe a star. He paused and stared at Erlkönig. “I love you, father.”

Erlkönig smiled. “And I love you, my stolen child.”


The mother was bereft. She knelt beside the body of her daughter and howled, an almost inhuman sound of unmeasurable suffering. Again, she grasped the prone child’s shoulders and shook her, begging her to wake. Her words were inarticulate and frantic, uttered in the desperation of one who knew it was too late. Holding the cold girl to her breast, the woman turned from despair to rage. She tipped her head back and shrieked her promises of revenge into the treetops.

Erlkönig was beyond her ability to curse.

He turned away from the road, following after the flighty child he had stolen. In sparing her the impoverished life she was destined to lead, he had done what was best for her, and that was what mattered. She would know no sorrow, and he would derive great joy from her happiness and freedom.


Over the decades and centuries, Erlkönig’s family grew. Visitors to Schwartzwald heard the echoing laughter of children high in the tops of the trees. The sound was faint, as if far away, yet the voices were clear and undistorted over the distance. Some said the forest was haunted, and others claimed it was bad luck. Others still, perhaps guided by some extra sense or exceptional wisdom, insisted it was a holy place not meant for the likes of humans.

Villages grew and expanded, cutting down more of the forest and splitting it, first in two, then four, shrinking woodlands, separate entities that were one in spirit. The roadways were widened and covered with gravel. A pungent black surface followed. Carriages were replaced with motor cars made with the death metal Erlkönig couldn’t penetrate or approach, even in his own domain. They spewed noxious fumes into the once pristine air. Many of the trees, his meek and defenseless children, grew sick. The animals became fewer. But Erlkönig refused to let his children suffer or worry because their playground had become smaller. He grew faery rings, allowing them to jump to the amputated portions of old Schwartzwald without nearing the dangerous roadways.

Over time, the tales of the haunted forest and the children who died there dropped into the realm of legend. Parents grew careless. Cars occasionally broke down, leaving the passengers stranded in the dark night. Boys and girls wandered off, looking for a convenient place to relieve their bladders, or simply meandering out of boredom. Away from the cold iron they could hear Erlkönig’s voice and see him in all his glory.

Then the forest stopped shrinking, and the air improved. It seemed that humans had discovered the folly in destroying everything that inconvenienced them, whether or not they understood it. While this made his home a safer place, Schwartzwald had been forever changed. Although some humans were more enlightened than those the Erlkönig first encountered, as a whole their progress was minimal. Many held little pleasure in the world or in their short lives. It seemed the world was a more tearful place than ever before. There were countless tragedies, crimes, and miseries, and upon reaching a certain maturity, humans were destined to accept guilt and responsibility for things they had no control over. They lost the spark that made life worth living. He would spare them all, if he could, but his power was bound to the forest and did not extend beyond the shadow of the trees.


The girl sat, unmoving, on a half-rotten log. Her father, a bare score paces away, was swearing from underneath the hood of his vile motor car. He offered periodic apologies and reassurances that they would soon be on their way, before turning back to the machinery that had failed him so completely.

She couldn’t have been more than ten, yet her expression was oddly adult. Exasperation mixed with the effort to control her temper. The fingers of one hand explored the cracks in the log. “It’s all right,” she called back to her father. “We’ll just have to be late.”

“I think she’s ready to cry,” the red fox said, then shook her head. “She’s all dressed up for a party. Look at those ribbons in her hair. And she’s accustomed to disappointment. You can see it.” She turned away. “I can’t stand it. I’m going home to my kits.”

Erlkönig brushed her tail with a finger as she fled. She’d become quite sensitive in their association, and understood his plight better than any of her predecessors. He watched the girl a little longer, puzzled by her ability to stay so still. She didn’t address her father again, although she occasionally turned her head, ever so slightly, pointing an ear in his direction. Then the Lord of the Wood realized her luminous gray eyes never moved, and he understood. He hoped it wasn’t too late; that she hadn’t already taken on too many burdens as a result of her blindness.

“Come away my child,” he whispered, relieved when her face turned in his direction. “Come to the wild.”

She looked both puzzled and awed, as she stared at him. Two small hands came up to cover her mouth.

She could see him.

He smiled, but took only the smallest step closer. “My fine girl, will you come away with me? My daughters await your arrival with great anticipation. Together, you will dance and sing.”

She turned toward her father, then back to Erlkönig. Because she saw him with pure sight, not human vision, he was the only thing she would see until she abandoned her imperfect physical form. Her beautiful face showed confusion. She frowned.

Never had one hesitated so. She was so near to losing her spark that she could consider her options and choose. “I love you, my child,” he whispered. He had to convince her, to save her from the fate her kind faced. While he knew he could use force, make her stay, the very idea repulsed him. “I wish for you to walk Schwartzwald at my side.”

As she gazed at him, her expression turned wistful. Finally, she stood and took clumsy steps in his direction. She held her arms out in front of her, as if expecting to run into something, as if disbelieving the one thing her eyes had ever shown her.

“Carefully, my dear,” he cautioned. She stepped in a hole and lurched forward. He caught her hands on the way down, pulling her gently from her human body.

She stared at him a moment longer before discovering she could now see everything around her. She flung her arms around his neck, burying her face in his silvery robe. She trembled and would not let go.

He carried her deeper into the forest, away from the road, and soon she calmed. They sat together on the damp earth of the forest floor, and she couldn’t stop looking about, running her fingers over the things she could now see. At last, her eyes settled on Erlkönig. “What have I done to deserve this gift?” she asked, her voice no more than a whisper.

“You came to me,” he said, patting her hand. “It is the only way I could have done it.”

The red fox and her four young kits scampered by, and the girl smiled. “Everything’s so beautiful. Especially you, father.” She looked at him again.

“Everything within my kingdom is wondrous fair,” he said as his long fingers tucked the black strands of hair behind her ears. “And you are in my kingdom.”

She blushed, her cheeks momentarily going a brighter blue, then her dark eyes went wide. “But I don’t even know what I look like.”

Erlkönig smiled and stood, holding one hand down to her. “We can find a pond for you to admire your reflection, and I assure you, you will be pleased.”

Together they walked through Schwartzwald, gathering his other children in a large entourage. “I love you, my father,” the girl said.

“And I love you,” he said. “I love all my stolen children.”

She looked straight at him. “Yes. But you will love me best.”


Humankind has dominion over much of the Earth, but the forest still has power over it. For Erlkönig of Schwartzwald is not unique to the forest of the world, and some of his kin have less kindly motives. The end of this story is unknown, and only time will determine who will live happily ever after.



“Der Erlkönig” appeared in Tales of the Unanticipated issue 29, edited by Eric M. Heideman and published by TOTU Ink in November 2008.  It has been reprinted in my 2015 collection Practice to Believe, available through 
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Influenced by the poems “Der Erlkönig” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (which I can still recite in German) and “The Stolen Child” by William Butler Yeats (which is performed beautifully by The Waterboys and Tomas Mac Eoin on the album Fisherman’s Blues).

Sword Haircut

About three years ago I chopped off my hair with a tanto.  For research.  And fun. To help other writers who might need to include this in their stories, I recorded the process. 

This past summer I repeated the exercise with a slightly different technique and a freshly sharpened sword  (it’s classified as a large tanto or a small wakizashi).

Fantasy writer doing research.  Now I can write what I know and know what I write… regarding cutting one’s hair with a sword anyway.



Check out my other research and resources for writers posts here.