Short Story: The Scent Of Elsewhere

by ujalaa kaleem
November 1643
Darkest night.
Sheets of rain descend on the thatch of the inn and seek to breach its ancient barrier. Most of the water is carried down the slope and splashes on the stone and mud below. Some however finds gaps in the woven reed and forms into rivulets that twist as they descend. They steer an erratic course to penetrate through to the room below.
The pretty girl hitches up her skirt and moves from behind the bar carrying a bucket to catch the latest of many such intrusions. One thin stream falls from the thatch and finds an oak beam. It drips suddenly onto the back of a small mouse that shakes itself and scurries along the beam to a more secure perch. The creature’s bright eyes regard the scene below and its nose twitches as it peers through the candlelight and studies the old man.
Leaning forward over the table and hugging his beer, the man is watching the girl as she returns to the bar. She runs a wet hand through her long hair, and raises her chin to the newcomer, wordlessly asking his pleasure. The old man sets his dark and hungry thoughts aside for a moment and switches his gaze to the man at the bar. This man is fresh from the storm outside, his black cloak drips onto the flags at his feet, the candles still flicker from his passing , and the iron handle of the heavy door still swings from recent use. He regards the girl through matted hair.
“Your best ale.”
The smile doesn’t reach her eyes.
“There’s just one” she takes a tankard and pulls on a pump “and this is it”.
This forces a laugh from the other two occupants of the inn. Two farmers deep in the shadows at the far side of the room, look up from their cards.
“You tell him Rosamund.”
The stranger turns slowly and nods to the men.
“I’m told.” They return to their game.
The stranger throws two coins onto the bar and takes a drink. He studies his tankard for a moment.
“That’ll do fine. Rosamund.”
“Hmph” The girl spins around, grabs a cloth and sets to polishing a line of tankards. Across the room the old man stirs. He rubs his eyes, and when he speaks his voice is gravel.
“You may not believe this stranger, but that’s a better reception than most get” he laughs from the throat and it turns into a wet cough. The stranger turns and leans back onto the bar, he gestures to the door.
“It’s a better reception than this bleak night has given me so far”. The old mans eyes follow his gesture and he nods wordlessly, then..
“Bleak indeed, have you wandered far stranger?”
The man looks at him and tilts his head.
“Wandered?”
“Why yes. I heard no hooves and heard no request for stabling, and..” He gestures with his flagon “Those boots suit a walking man”.
The stranger regards him for a moment with a hard stare. Then he grins.
“Yes old man. Far.”
A new sound rises over the hiss of the rain. The clatter of horseshoes on a wet stone road. The sound increases and causes all those inside to stop whatever they are doing. The stranger and the old man hold each others gaze, frozen. The girl holds her position and her breath - one hand is holding the cloth buried deep in a glass - and the two card players turn to the nearest window although there is nothing but the night visible without. As the riders pass, each bottle along the shelf behind the bar chinks against its neighbour and their contents ripple. Abruptly the sound is gone and the hiss of rain resumes. The stranger takes a swig of his beer and speaks to the door.
“The Kings men. That was a disciplined troop.”
The old man nods slowly but then stops.
“Or the Wild hunt.”
“The Wild hunt?”
“Aye, the Lord of Faerie sends his riders abroad on nights such as…..”
“I know what the Wild hunt is old fellow, and I know that it is a tale for children.”
He turns back to the bar and holds his tankard out the girl.
“I knew that I had wandered far from the town, but I didn’t realise I had wandered so far from reason.”
“Hah!” This from one of the farmers.
The girl takes his tankard and fills it, holding his stare. She seems to have softened somewhat and gives him a smile.
“Don’t mind old Thomas stranger, he’ll wear you away with his stories. Many are the paying customers who have walked out that door on worse nights than this rather than hear his babble.”
The stranger takes his beer.
“Is that right Thomas? Are you bad for trade? Well, I’ll not be forced out. I’ve come too far and I’m too cold. Maybe we’ll have a story or two eh?
Thomas raises his eyes, unsure if he is being mocked. The barmaid shakes her head.
“I warn you sir”
The stranger waves her away and moves to sit opposite the old man. He touches their tankards together and the candle between them flickers as if excited.
“Well Thomas, the Wild Hunt was it? What other tales of Faerie do you have? It seems like the night for it and I have nothing but time.”
Thomas hugs his beer again and grunts.
“I think you would make fun of me sir. Have you come from the town to amuse yourself with the likes of us tonight? If so I will give you no such entertainment...”
Then he leans forward and his voice softens. There are discoloured teeth within his sly smile.
“..if however your interest is genuine, then I have something to tell. I know why the Wild hunt rides.”
Above him, still peering down from the oak beam, the small mouse shakes itself. It has tired of the smoky room and the sounds it cannot understand. There are babies waiting for its milk and it needs the warmth of the nest. As it turns to run home a shadow falls. The cat has approached silently and is crouching low on the beam, tense and ready. The mouse gives one shrill scream as the predator’s claws rip its life away.
Old Thomas looks up briefly but sees nothing. Then, fixing the other mans eyes, he begins..
“Now, as you probably know, the land of Faerie wraps around our world like a cloak – like your cloak. It exists within and without, all around us but distant. The fair folk can travel to us but we cannot travel to them, leastways not unbidden.”
He looks past his companion to the girl, and then to the card players. All are apparently ignoring him, and the stranger knows they must have heard all this many times, but he senses they are listening.
“Their land is wondrous to us, more beautiful than we can imagine. They are beings of light, immortal and terrible as they are mischievous. There are towers of gold and valleys of…..”
“Just a minute old Thomas. If they are so..wondrous, why bother with us at all? Why not ignore this mundane realm of rain and sadness?”
“Ah well young man. They have a fascination with our kind you see, always have. They cannot understand our short lives or our…our weight. For all their glory, we have feelings that they don’t possess. We are somehow deeper. They study us..”
He leans back and takes a deep drink.
“..yes that’s it. They study us.”
“What? Such as a doctor of Physic may study a caged rat?”
“Aye, yes sir, a caged rat. Then there is the sport.”
A sharp gust of wind beats at the windows and the heavy door creaks above the sound of the storm. All within turn their eyes there for a moment. The stranger turns back.
“Ah yes the sport, the Wild hunt. I have heard the Faerie Lord sends his knights forth to roam our world on nights such as this. They hunt the white stag which is so dear to him, yet they never catch it.”
The old mans eyes widen.
“Ah, so you have a little country knowledge within you.”
“I have heard little boys tales if that’s what you mean, but that’s all they are, and I fear this is just another, though I am no child Thomas. I think it’s time for me to go back to the barmaid, for she is prettier than you and I must arrange lodging.”
He makes to stand, but the old man grabs a fold of his cloak and pulls him back.
“No Sir it’s not what you think. True the tales are often told, but they’re told wrong. The stag is not what they hunt. Not mostly anyways.”
The man sits back down and narrows his eyes.
“Oh no? So what is it they hunt?”
Now there is a lull in the wind and rain, for one brief moment something approaching silence inhabits the Inn. When old Thomas speaks his voice is as a hiss.
“They hunt the lost.”
The storm resumes.
“The lost? What are the lost?”
“Not what sir. Who. The lost maidens of Fairy, those who have chosen to leave the realm behind. Those whose fascination with mortal man is so great they have passed into our world to live amongst us as ordinary girls and women. They have sacrificed all the long ages of eternity to burn brightly and briefly among us. Their wings fade and wither, as does most of their magic. They are..they are as we are.”
The stranger tilts his head, his interest sparked again.
“And they live amongst us?”
“Yes sir, they work our fields, they whore our towns, and they serve our noble ladies. Some of them evenareour noble ladies.”
“You speak nonsense old fella. Interesting nonsense I grant but nonsense nevertheless. If such a world existed, and if such beings lived within it, why would they possibly relinquish all that for..” he gestures around “for this?”
He turns and sees Rosamund leaning on the bar, clearly intent on the story also but scratching at the wooden surface and feigning disinterest.
“No offence to your fine inn my girl.”
“Well it’s keeping you dry tonight friend. Shall I make up a room?”
He nods “Aye. Do that.”
She gives him a playful smile that maybe has more within it, and leaves through the door behind the bar. He regards Thomas who now has his arms crossed.
“So the Lord, he seeks them out?”
“Yes sir he does. He is a jealous lord, and the realm of Faerie will not give up its own kind easily.”
“So he sends out his hunt to fetch them back?”
“No, there is no return to glory for them. They are hunted and killed. They have relinquished their immortality, and they are truly shown what this means. It is said that in the last moment of their lives they regain their light and become for a moment what they once were.” He took a drink and wiped his lips. “Then they fade to dust, as must we. The fair folk call them ‘Tinks’, and they are lower to them than vermin.”
“Hah! Tinks.” His companion banged his tankard down. “What a story you tell. I have never heard this, and I doubt that it has reached the ears of children either, or they would never sleep again.”
“That’s true my friend, and yet there is more.”
“More you say? Speak on old Thomas.!”
The girl returns and nods.
“There is a room at the end ready for you when you’ve drunk enough ale and heard enough nonsense.”
“Room yes. Beer yes!” The stranger raises his tankard, apparently feeling the effects of the strong drink on an empty stomach.
“Let’s have some more over here, and one for my tale weaving friend.”
She takes their tankards away and begins to fill them. He turns back to the old man.
“So. More.”
“Well. The Wild hunt is a ruse sir. They are fairy folk and believe it or not, ill suited to killing their own kind. There are other kinds of hunter.”
“Other kinds?”
“Yes, and we must not speak of them lightly young man, for they are as deadly to us as they are to any former maid of Faerie.”
He leans forward and speaks in a whisper. The younger man mirrors him irreverently.
“The Faerie lord hires assassins, mortal men to seek out these women. They are hunters, mercenaries who can move through this world of ours more easily than those from beyond. They work for faerie gold and the promise of long life. They are mongrel’s sir, vicious dogs who kill without mercy.”
“And how do they find these girls?”
“Ahh, you see. There’s a scent, a sweet odour they can’t quite rid themselves of. It’s said to be quite wonderful and can make a man dream himself away. It’s said to be the smell of the meadows and vales of the otherworld. The hunters are trained to detect it. They are given a small amount of magic to sharpen their senses. Although mortal in almost every way, the lost maidens cannot hide their true selves and it gives them away.”
“So they are found, and killed, but how?”
“Well how do you think?”
“Er..Strangled with silk? Thrown under horses?” The stranger is clearly enjoying the chance to involve himself in the tale. “I know! They are made to listen to Old Thomas night after night. At the end of a week they take their own lives willingly. Ha!”
Thomas shakes his head although he is smiling. The stranger turns to see if the others are sharing in his joke. Rosamund stands at the bar with her hands on her hips, their full tankards foaming and ready.
“Ah sweet Rosamund. Bring us the ale!”
“And have you lost the use of your legs?”
“Nearly girl. The beer is stronger than I’m used to. Soon I’ll be good for nothing.”
Mischief creeps into her eyes.
“Nothing? Well that won’t do.” She hefts the tankards and brings them to the table. He gives her four coins and winks.
“This’ll be the last eh?”
She raises her eyes and moves over to the farmers who are also waving their empty tankards. He pushes Thomas’s drink towards him and gestures.
“So. How are they killed?”
“Why, with iron sir, an iron sword or dagger, an iron spear or even a pin.”
His companion’s eyes widen. “Yes! Of course. Iron is fatal to the Fair folk. I have heard this. Just a graze or a scratch.”
“Yes sir, or of course a thrust to the heart. They fear the metal above all else, and it is one part of their heritage these lost girls can never leave behind. They must beware it all their days on earth.”
“So who are these men, are they known in our world?”
“Why yes sir. Their names slip in and out of stories and legends, some are forgotten and some are thought of as pirates, warriors, highwaymen and bandits, but that is not what they are. I will give you one name and you can tell me if it is familiar. Caleb Blackmoor.”
The stranger narrows his eyes rubs his forehead. His hand pauses there.
“Why yes. I have heard this name. A captain of our king turned robber. Parchments were up all over the town some time ago. A wanted man. A feared man.”
“Aye. Feared. Feared by them above all.” Old Thomas sits up straight on his bench. For a moment some of his years seemed to slip away, and a poise, a gravity comes to his features.
“I, you see, was also a captain of the king for many years. I fought and I was feared.”
He winks and uncertainty stirs in the others eyes. The old man stands slowly. He is taller than the stranger has imagined, and stronger. There is nothing of the frail vagrant about him now. A chink of metal reveals a sword hung at his belt, and on his buckle the Kings crest.
“Are you…..are you he? Is this why you tell me this tale? Must I fear you?”
The farmers muted conversation has stopped and the younger man feels their eyes at his back. For a moment there is just the rain and the wind. Then one of the farmers bursts into laughter. Rosamund squeals and bangs the bar, giggling. Thomas’s shoulder slump.
“No young sir. You must not fear me. I’m just a sad old soldier, a teller of tales who needs a piss.”
He shuffles from behind the bench and limps towards the door by the bar. The stranger lets his breath go and turns to face the others. They are still laughing and he holds up his hands.
“Alright alright. I am taken for a fool. It was a fine tale and I was convinced. I am glad to have been your entertainment on this bleak night.”
With a tilt of their heads the two card players raise their glasses and Rosamund makes a shallow curtsey. He turns back unsteadily to his beer.
“Rosamund girl! Look here! What’s this? There’s half a rats tail in my rutting ale.”
Her smile disappears and she walks over to him as he gestures to the tankard on the table. As she draws next to him his eyes suddenly clear and he stiffens, all intoxication gone. In one swift and fluid move he reaches behind her head and draws a short iron sword from under his cloak. Both pulling and pushing, he drives the bright blade under her ribs and up into her beating fairy heart. Hot golden blood pours over his hand as the girl shudders and shakes, held firm by his arm. Her eyes meet his with an expression of profound surprise and loss, and her last warm breath breaks on his cheek.
Now Thomas enters the room again. The shadows are dancing as the candles wave and stutter in some unfelt breeze. In that moment he sees something his stories have not prepared him for. He sees the back of the girls blouse move as she slumps over the stranger’s blade. It heaves once and her wings burst through the cloth, casting it aside. For one brief moment they spread and flap, gossamer thin and peacock bright, before they dry and fade to bracken. Her skin likewise glows with an ivory light, and her eyes, as they hold the strangers shine green and bright.
Then all her life and long ages blink out, and she dies with a short sigh.
The man pushes her roughly away and withdraws his sword. She crumples and he bends to wipe the blade on her blouse. As he stands he meets Thomas’ gaze. The old man is frozen to the spot, his mouth works to form words and his shaking hand gestures to the limp body on the floor.
“R..osy. You killed….”
The other forces a grim smile. “Don’t weep for her mate. She’s just a dead ‘Tink’, turncoat scum. She fancied a mortal life..” he shrugs “..and that’s what she got. They all kiss the iron in the end. We see to that.” He gestures to the bar. “I smelled her as soon as I came in. She had the scent about her.” He nods to himself “It really is beautiful.”
Now Thomas points at him, the finger shaking violently now “Who…who are you, and what are you about stranger?”
“Me? I’m Caleb Blackmoor. I kill faeries for gold.”
He spins quickly and his cloak billows as his blade is sheathed. Moments later the old door bangs shut behind him and every candle is extinguished by the blast of cold wet air he has let in. The two farmers are frozen in place, rendered as statues by what they have seen. In the gloom, Thomas can barely see the girls body limp on the stone floor.
In the warm thatch above them, a nest of blind young mice squeal for their mother’s milk. Their pink and hairless bodies crawl over each other in the darkness. The cat turns slowly at their mewling and quietly slinks,