Fantasy Magazine Issue 15, June 2008 Table of Contents The Lodger at Wintertide by E. Catherine Tobler (fiction) His One True Bride by Darja Malcolm-Clarke (fiction) Sorrowbird by Sean Markey (fiction) Marrying the Sun by Rachel Swirsky (fiction) Author Spotlight: Rachel Swirsky Author Spotlight: Darja Malcolm-Clarke About the Editor © 2008 Fantasy Magazine www.fantasy-magazine.com The Lodger at Wintertide E. Catherine Tobler Sibley set dinner in front of the nursery children, beef stew and thick slices of bread from which they could pluck the carrots and soft middles respectively. Naughty children, she signed to them as she took her seat at the head of the table and spread her napkin over her lap. A chorus of waving hands answered her, fingers rippling in silent laughter. What will Silversack think when he arrives to carrots instead of cookies? The kitchen door banged open and Sibley alone turned toward the sound, looking at the widow Nek who entered on a gust of cool wind. Her cheeks were flushed with color, snow melting against her temples. Sibley smiled at the woman who had raised her, but Nek was in no mood for niceties. The lodger is here, in his room, Nek signed. Sibley pushed back from the table, turning over the salt cellar. Her napkin fell to the floor where the ginger cat pounced upon it. Joni dipped her licked fingers into the spilled salt before she righted the cellar. Locked himself in! Nek signed while she paced, the abrupt turn of her body placing gaps within her dialogue, but Sibley understood well enough. Silversack was here and rather than go straight to the town square as he had done for the past seven years he had taken to Sibley’s parson’s room, where he normally lodged and– –locked! My candles are going to waste. Nek’s hands cut sharp angles through the air. She normally spoke with reserve, her hands rounded and slow, but tonight she could not disguise her anger. Sibley pictured the town square illuminated with a year’s worth of golden beeswax candles, each made by the widow, waiting for Silversack. When Sibley signed to Nek, she was mindful of the children who watched the scene with widened eyes, having abandoned both stew and bread, even the soft buttered middles. I will speak with him, Sibley signed. If something was wrong, she would try to fix it. She couldn’t stand the idea of disappointing the children, of their seasonal hopes written in careful letters, bound with ribbons and set into the letter-carrier’s basket, going unacknowledged. For the first time in the seven years of his coming, Sibley had sent her own wish, as heartfelt as any the children had written. Joni pulled on Sibley’s sleeve. Has Silversack come? Her small hands moved more precisely than they ever had and Sibley smiled. After months of long therapy Joni could now make herself understood, despite the broken fingers she had suffered a year ago. Last wintertide, Silversack brought her a game of cords and ribbons, which helped strengthen her fingers as well. No, Sibley signed carefully. Just an old friend. Would Silversack lodge here? She wriggled her fingers in laughter against Joni’s cheeks. Eat your carrots and he may yet come. Entrusting the children to Nek, Sibley left the kitchen, drawing her coat from the peg beside the door before stepping into the snowy night. She pulled the coat on and looked down the length of the long covered porch. What had changed that Silversack would seek solace rather than those who gathered to see him? He would know they were waiting. Every year, the town looked forward to his arrival at the turn of wintertide, when the days were once again more bright than dark. Sibley knocked on the door and when there came no answer, feared that he had gone when no one was looking. He went to the great cities when he was not in their company, places of sound and spoken conversation. He had told them of such places, but Sibley could only imagine them. She tried the doorknob. It didn’t move and she felt a great relief. He was still inside then–unless he had tried the window. Sibley peered around the corner of the house to check the window. “Miss Tellan?” She straightened and managed a smile for Silversack who stood in the doorway of the parson’s room. Tall, his hair damp from snow, he still wore his gray coat, but it was unbuttoned, red scarf in a tangle at his throat. The children had knit him the scarf, each taking a turn, each producing a length of wool unlike the one before it. He wore it every year. I thought– “You thought I went out the window,” he said. He didn’t return Sibley’s smile. His face was more stern than Sibley could ever remember seeing it. His eyes, the color of toasted nuts, appeared even darker tonight. Sibley blushed. I’ve known many children who prefer windows to doors when it comes to leaving a room. Not that you’re a child by any means– She felt absurd and gratitude flooded her when Silversack stilled her hands by covering them with his own. He was warm and smelled like the fire beyond the door. “Come inside,” he said. It was a simple room, with a narrow bed, a small table with chair, a chest of drawers. Sibley let it to travelers throughout the year for enough coin to ensure the children had a surprise or two during their time with her. The town elders would pay her for Silversack’s time when he left; no one ever suggested that he pay–they were all too fearful that he and his sack would not return the following year. This was the first year Sibley shared that fear. He sat on the bed and clasped his hands before him. Sibley longed to hear him speak again. When he had first arrived, lost in a storm, the idea that a speaking people existed astonished her. His voice was a miracle, a sound she had only dreamed before. The cities were full of such people, he told her. Sibley could not believe it, even though Nek had mentioned the distant cities to her. Visitors to the village were rare, but it always seemed to Sibley that none of them spoke. None before Silversack. That first day, Sibley made him speak until he begged off, said his voice was tired, but the next day he’d sung a song for her, and the day after, and the day after. Silver– “My name is Camden Druce,” he said. “Not Silversack.” The tone in his voice made Sibley withdraw. In her years of knowing him, she had learned how his voice had tones, as the river had tones; quick and merry or slow and grim. He was the half-frozen river now, hard and strange. “I never wanted to be that–never meant it.” Sibley went to the table with its chair and sat. His sack sat in the center of the table, drawn shut, packed with less than it had held in years prior. The idea that it could possibly contain Sibley’s own wintertide wish abandoned her. It was folly all along, she decided. How foolish she had been to wish for such a thing, to speak the way Silversack– The way Camden Druce did. His sack did not hold a voice for her, nor picture books for Laci, nor glass marbles for Toma. “It was your letter, Sibley.” She looked across the room at him, his face a dance of shadow and light from the fire. He peeled his coat off and left it on the bed, to join Sibley at the table. He loosened the bag strings and pulled the mouth of it wide. He dumped the insides out, scattering clothing, letters, small bottles, and loose coins over the table. No wishes. He picked up one letter. Sibley recognized the paper as her own, handmade by Nek when her hands didn’t bother her. Sibley didn’t want to hear Camden’s voice shape the words she had written, didn’t want the absurdity of her wish spoken aloud in this room or any other. She lunged across the table, catching the edge of the page. It ripped as Camden pulled backward. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve memorized it,” he said, and still spread the torn and wrinkled page upon the table. “It was this letter that proved to me I couldn’t do this any more.” His blunt fingers smoothed the page down. “Gifting children with toys is one thing, but to give a young woman a voice is something I cannot do. I never meant to give you that hope.” Sibley closed her eyes, feeling a great breath leave her. When Camden’s warm hand covered hers, she kept her eyes shut for a moment longer, wanting to believe as a child might that this was all a dream, a terrible one at that, and that soon she would wake. She would find Silversack with the children in the square, gifting them with kindness, lifting little Tola in his arms to dance. When at last she did look at him, he looked older and more tired than she had ever remembered; as old and tired as she felt tonight, cold seeping into her bones as it never had before. Sibley withdrew her hand so she could sign. A foolish wish. “Never that.” Camden shook his head.