OVER THE RAINBOW

THE EXILE BOOK OF ANTHOLOGY SERIES

NUMBER SEVENTEEN

EDITED AND WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY

DEREK NEWMAN-STILLE

Publishers of Singular Fiction, Poetry, Nonfiction, Translation, Drama and Graphic Books

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Over the rainbow / edited and with an introduction by Derek Newman-Stille.

(The Exile book of anthology series ; number seventeen)

Short stories.

Issued in print and electronic formats.

ISBN 978-1-55096-712-8 (softcover).--ISBN 978-1-55096-713-5 (EPUB).--

ISBN 978-1-55096-714-2 (Kindle).--ISBN 978-1-55096-715-9 (PDF)

1. Marginality, Social--Canada--Fiction. 2. Short stories, Canadian (English). 3. Canadian prose literature (English)--21st century. 4. Fairy tales.

I. Newman-Stille, Derek, 1978-, editor, writer of introduction II. Series: Exile book of anthology series ; no. 17

PS8323.M35O94 2018 C813'.01089206 C2018-904740-2 / C2018-904741-0

Story copyrights rest with the authors, © 2018

Anthology collection copyright © 2018 Derek Newman-Stille

eBook publication copyright © Exile Editions Limited, 2018. All rights reserved.

Text and cover design by Michael Callaghan

Cover artwork by Arthur Rackham

ePUB, Kindle and PDF versions by Melissa Campos Mendivil.

Published by Exile Editions Limited ~ www.ExileEditions.com

144483 Southgate Road 14 – GD, Holstein, Ontario, N0G 2A0

We gratefully acknowledge the Canada Council for the Arts, the Government of Canada, the Ontario Arts Council, and the Ontario Media Development Corporation for their support toward our publishing activities.

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I dedicate this to book to all of the folks

like myself who grew up loving fairy tales

and wanted to see ourselves in fairy tales.

I dedicate it to the storytellers, the readers,

and the people who love tales of wonder.

This book is for us.

Introduction:

Fairy Tale Transformations

DEREK NEWMAN-STILLE

Skin

NATHAN CARO FRÉCHETTE

I Am Not Broken

FIONA PATTON

The Half-Courage Hare

RATI MEHROTRA

The Story of the Three Magic Beans

ACE JORDYN

Iron Jenny and the Princess

ROBERT DAWSON

The Waltzing Tree

RICHARD KEELAN

Fairest Find

NICOLE LAVIGNE

White Rose, Red Thorns

LIZ WESTBROOK-TRENHOLM

Path of White Stones

KATE HEARTFIELD

The Page of Cups and The Star

EVELYN DESHANE

Unearthing History

LISA CAI

Half Gone Dark

TAMARA VARDOMSKAYA

None of Your Flesh and Blood

CHADWICK GINTHER

Pied

QUINN MCGLADE-FERENTZY

La Bête Sauvage

KARIN LOWACHEE

Martinis, My Dear, Are Dangerous 

KATE STORY

Daughter Catcher 

URSULA PFLUG

As Never Bird Sang Before 

SEAN MORELAND

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

FAIRY TALE TRANSFORMATIONS

INTRODUCTION

DEREK NEWMAN-STILLE

Born out of oral narrative, fairy tales are themselves magical. They are spoken into existence like a spell, and they make changes in the world as people listen to and read them. They are spells that change the way we think. These spells draw ingredients from mythology and the subconscious, speaking to our innermost thoughts, desires, fears, uncertainties, and needs. Even though they are filled with magical creatures – fairy godmothers, witches, talking frogs, and transforming swans – these are essentially human tales. They are ways to tell us about ourselves, and yet, with each fairy tale we read, we change. We become something different. Maybe not a unicorn or a bear, but we become different, our thoughts spiraling into new possibilities.

Because fairy tales come from oral narratives, they are changeable. They shift and modify themselves depending on who is telling the tale and who is being told the tale. Maybe this is why fairy tales have survived so well…because they can change as our cultures change. Fairy tales take on our cultural baggage, picking it up like magical fruits on a hero’s journey. This magical fruit salad cultural baggage gets tossed with the myths of the past, becoming something different and speaking to a new age, new culture, and new experience each time. Our fairy tales possess the ability to transmute and transmogrify. 

Yet fairy tales claim to be tradition…

So, in their adaptability and changeability, fairy tales show us that traditions are meant to be changed. They are meant to grow and shift as new ideas spark and flow around them. Traditions, like Cinderella’s pumpkin, can grow and become something other than themselves. They can be imbued with that mutable magic.

Kelsi Morris and I came up with the idea for Over the Rainbow because we looked at the fairy tale tradition and saw absences, gaps, and deletions. Fairy tales are often about belonging, featuring the return home or creating new homes, and we noticed that there were people being cast into the role of not belonging. We wanted our fairy tales to be a trail of breadcrumbs for readers to find their way into narrative traditions, to belong and take part in the magic of speaking our presence. 

We recognized that by changing and shifting narratives, opening doorways for new voices and tales, we could be fairy godmothers, helping tales to find their way out into the world and change it. As much as this collection is a book, it is also a glass slipper that can fit anyone and imbue them with the magic of change.

Just make sure that you read it before midnight…

SKIN

NATHAN CARO FRÉCHETTE

He started coming back to himself on the beach, sometimes as far as ankle-deep in the sea, shoes and all. He always woke up there when his mind stopped, when he didn’t know who he was; the sand under his feet, the sound of the waves, the cool sea breeze on his face always made him feel so welcome. It felt like home or, at least, closer to it than anywhere else. 

The impression of comfort didn’t last: as usual, it was immediately followed by the hollow feeling of wrongness that he had felt about his body lately. It was so overwhelming that it had started being the first thing he felt about himself when he started to remember who he was: not his name, not his family, not even his friends; just a general feeling that his body, his skin, was wrong. The feeling was always there, like a toothache, sometimes in the background, sometimes so painful it pushed the breath out of him, hollowed him out of all thought and feeling except this white-hot pain.

There you are, a voice sounded behind him, and he turned, slowly. A boy stood there, a boy with a smile bright as the moon, who held his heart in his eyes. He was familiar, so familiar, like he was all that mattered in the world. 

Vincent, he replied, his voice slightly cracked, like he hadn’t used it for a while, and too high, wrong, so wrong, like the rest of his body. 

Vincent crouched in front of him, his moon-smile wavering as he searched his eyes. Veronica? Are you all right?

He shook his head, the simple word driving through his entire being like a red-hot rebar. Don’t call me that, he said, lowering his voice as far as it would go.

I’m sorry, said Vincent, taking his hand. Ron.

Ron looked down at their joined hands. The touch was light, but it spread some sort of heat through his skin, warming his arm, his heart, his entire body. Ron had never really explained the reason behind the nickname to Vincent; how it made his skin crawl to be called by his feminine birth name, how he couldn’t stand to be perceived as a girl. But he knew, deep down, that Vincent couldn’t see him as anything but a girl. Even though his breasts were bound, his hair cropped short, and he’d been clear about using only the name Ron, Vincent could only see him through that lens. He’d always been too afraid of taking that next step, telling him everything, and possibly losing his only friend.

I came by your house and you weren’t there, continued Vincent, unaware of the interior cacophony of Ron’s thoughts. Your mom’s pretty upset. Did it happen again? 

…I… He tried to think. Mom had been angry. Angry about what? His free hand instinctively went to his head, touching his hair. 

Vincent seemed to understand before Ron could formulate the thought. Is she angry because you cut your hair? 

Ron nodded, his hand running through the cropped black locks. She says…I’m just like my father. He looked up at Vincent, troubled. I don’t know what that means. Ron had never known his father; the man had had a passionate, but short, affair with his mother, which only lasted a few weeks, then left before his son was born. He’d come back after the birth to try to claim his child, or so Mom said, but had been unsuccessful, whatever that meant. Ron had decided long ago that thinking about this too much was too painful, too distracting; there was something about the way he felt when he spoke of his father which reminded him of the deep unease he felt about himself. 

Vincent smiled his moon-smile again. Well, I think it looks fantastic. It really suits you. He touched the side of Ron’s head gently, barely brushing the hair with his fingertips, but the touch vibrated down Ron’s neck and spine, and he closed his eyes. 

Thanks.

Is it the attic thing again? Vincent asked, his brow creasing. 

Ron rubbed his temples. The attic. The attic, of course. How it called to him, to his heart, his head, his entire body, like a physical need sewn into his every muscle, pulling him inexorably toward it, as painful to resist as a million fish hooks buried in his flesh. Most of his waking hours were now spent actively resisting the call, the pull, and he could hardly concentrate on anything else. And yet, when he gave in and went to the ladder…he woke up here, on the beach, as though he had somehow sleepwalked there. 

Yeah, he simply said, the attic. I can’t take it anymore. 

Did you try to go back?

Ron frowned, concentrating. His thoughts were coming back in a jumble, as they always did. He’d given in to the need. He’d pulled down the ladder, and he’d started to climb, and…

He shook his head, feeling a familiar, dull ache creeping up behind his eyeballs. I…yes, I did. But it’s the same as the other times. As soon as I start climbing the ladder…nothing. My mind just goes, and I end up here, and I can’t remember what happened. 

His voice shook with emotion, going back up in pitch despite his efforts. I can’t take this anymore, Vincent. I don’t know what to do.

Vincent stroked the back of his head gently. Maybe I can help. What if I came with you?

Ron looked up, breathing deep to give himself courage. I…but what if…what if what happens when I black out…what if it’s something weird? What if I…

Hey, Vincent touched his cheek, don’t worry. Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it. Okay?

Okay.

They made their way back to the house in silence. Ron spotted his mom in the garden at the back of the house, planting, so they went through the woods to get to the front door, silent and unnoticed.

The silence in the house was deafening; it amplified every creak and sigh that the old building let out in protest at their steps, and Ron was acutely aware of their breathing, down to the slight whistling sound that Vincent’s nostrils made, which Ron had never noticed before. When Vincent pulled the attic ladder down, the clatter resounded like a four-vehicle crash. Vincent turned toward him, raising his eyebrows in an encouraging expression, but Ron could only stare at the ladder, paralyzed. This was the place of so many of his defeats, and yet he felt the key to his true self, to the part of him that he had to keep hidden, the part that he himself did not really understand yet. Besides the feelings he had for Vincent, this part of him was the only true thing he’d ever contained in his being. 

Vincent reached out to take his hand. Come on, he said in a gentle voice. I’m right behind you. 

His words made some of Ron’s fears ebb away, and he started climbing. One rung, two rungs, three…

His hands. His hands weren’t his hands; or they were his hands, more his hands than they’d ever been, but he’d never seen them before. They shone like the full moon, with specks of colour and—

You’re almost there. Vincent’s voice brought him out of his stupor. Keep going.

He climbed another rung. And another. And…his vision clouded. The ladder in front of him was blurry, and his limbs felt like they were going to sleep. He wavered, then swayed, and started falling backward. 

Vincent supported him with one arm, holding on to the ladder with his free hand. You’re almost there. You can do this. Don’t give in. Don’t give up. 

Ron breathed, and closed his eyes, concentrating on Vincent’s warm touch. He usually hated being touched; it was as though people’s fingers somehow conveyed to him that they thought him a woman. But Vincent saw through that, saw him, and his contact helped keep Ron here, in this body, in this moment. He focused on the sensation of climbing, trying not to think of his destination, of what he might find there. He emptied his mind. Climb. You’re not dizzy. Climb. Vincent is here. Climb. You can do this. Climb. 

The confusion and vertigo grew with every step. Had he really wanted this? Was it that important? Wouldn’t he rather be in the woods? What was he doing here, anyway? He held on to the sensation of Vincent’s hand on his back, that soft, comforting pressure, until he didn’t remember who Vincent was, until he couldn’t even understand what the feeling was, other than comforting. 

When his hand finally fell on a hardwood floor instead of another ladder rung, the veil lifted from his mind, as though he’d never been dizzy or disoriented, and he pulled himself up into the attic. Vincent followed, immediately clapping him on the upper arm. 

Hey, you did it! You’re here!

Ron breathed, nodding, and turned to grin at Vincent, but his expression of celebration died before it found his voice. Vincent was smiling, but the fear and uncertainty in his eyes were very clear. Ron wasn’t sure what to make of it, and his senses were overwhelmed by the longing for whatever was in this room, so he could not address it, but only stood and looked around. The room was dark; the floor covered by a thick layer of dust, which spoke of years of abandonment. It was also empty, save for a large, ominous chest at the end of the room. It was there. Whatever it was, it was in there, pulling at his chest through the bindings over his breasts. 

What now? said Vincent. Ron couldn’t find any words to answer, so he just raised his hand and pointed at the chest, taking a step forward, and another. Vincent followed him, silent. Ron felt none of the confusion, only an increasing certainty as he grew close to the chest, reached out his hand, and—

Veronica, stop!

He hadn’t meant to respond to his birth name, but he was so used to it that he stopped anyway, and the voice’s shrill tone startled him so much he could hardly have done otherwise. He turned to see his mother in the trap door, standing at the top of the ladder, panting, her fingers still caked with dirt; she had obviously run in from where she was gardening outside, but…how? Why? 

Mom?

Please, just… His mom licked her lips and raised one of her hands, climbing the ladder slowly, as though she thought Ron was a savage animal that might attack at any given moment. Step away from the chest. Come back downstairs. I will make you two some hot chocolate and cookies, okay?

I don’t want cookies! Ron said, his voice sharper than he had intended. What’s in the chest? Why are you hiding it from me?

Please, sweetie, Mom said, her eyes full of tears, still approaching Ron cautiously. You don’t want to open that box.

Why not? 

You just – you don’t know what’s inside! It’ll change everything! 

Then tell me! Can’t you see how unhappy I am? How much I’m suffering? He pulled up his sleeves, showing the long, still-red, puffy scars going up each forearm. You know how much I’ve been longing to die. Why wouldn’t you tell me? How could what’s in there be any worse than that?

His mom let out a strangled sob, covering her face with her hands. When she spoke, her voice was so low and muffled that Ron almost did not hear her.

I don’t want you to go, she said.

What?

I don’t want you to go. I don’t want to lose my beautiful baby girl! If you open it… she trailed off, letting out another sob. This is all your father’s fault. He should have told me what he was.

Ron looked back to the chest behind him; it still pulled at him, and standing next to it without moving toward it nearly caused him physical pain, but he just needed to hear what his mother was saying. What did she mean about his father? His eyes briefly met Vincent’s as he looked back toward Mom, and he could see that his friend was just as confused as he was. 

What’s that supposed to mean, ‘what he was’?

Your father… Mom took a deep, shuddering breath, visibly trying to calm herself. He was…he wasn’t…human. 

Ron took a step backward, horrified and fascinated at the same time. 

He wasn’t human? What do you mean? What is he supposed to be? How can that even be?

He was… Mom’s eyes seemed far away now, like she wasn’t talking to him as much as to herself. He was so beautiful. I should have known. He had to be magical, looking like that, didn’t he? And then he left, and when you were born… they came back, you see. His people. They said you were one of them, and they had to take you with them, to go live in the sea. So I took it off; it just came right off, in my hands, and I knew what to do. I hid it. Without it, they couldn’t see you, you see? I couldn’t let them take you.

What do you mean, you took it? Took what?

Mom finally looked up at him, her face wet with tears, her eyes red and puffy. Your skin, she whispered. People like…like your father…they are magic. Selkies, we used to call them. They are bound to the sea. They have to remove their skin to walk among us. That’s how he came to be with me. Her words were rapid-fire, as though all the secrets she’d been keeping were overflowing. He had…he had lost his skin. I thought, after years, that he was happy, that he’d stay with me, but when he found it… She let out another sob. I couldn’t let this happened to you. I had to take it, don’t you see?

Ron took another step backward, looking down at his hands, his arms, and his chest, which bulged awkwardly despite the binder. At the skin. The skin that had felt so wrong, for so long. He turned toward the chest, no longer thinking about his mother, his father, or even Vincent. This was the piece that had been missing, this was going to complete him. 

He opened the chest. 

It didn’t look like anything at first – just a piece of old, dried-up rubber, or leather, thin and fragile. He picked it up gingerly, feeling like it would fall apart at his touch. Instead, it started to move, and glow, as though it were alive, and stretched toward him as though it yearned for him as much as he for it. He lifted his shirt, oblivious to the fact that Vincent would see, and he pulled his binder off to place the now-glowing skin between his breasts. It seemed to explode in a brightly coloured blaze, like fireworks, and flew to wrap itself all around his body. It burned him, all of his skin, and he thought, through his screams, that this had been a grave mistake, and that he was going to die. He screamed so much that he couldn’t hear anything else, until eventually he had no air left in his lungs, and he fell to the floor, wheezing, gasping, and exhausted. 

Immediately, Vincent was with him, his eyes full of worry, his arms around him. 

Ron? Are you all right? Please, talk to me! 

Ron tried to sit up, but almost fell; Vincent had to hold him up. Slowly, he regained his strength, and then, more than that, a strength he had never known before. Taking Vincent’s offered hand, he stood, and didn’t let go even when it became evident that he was quite capable of standing there by himself. 

He looked at his mother, who was staring at him with wide eyes. She started sobbing again and hurried down the ladder and away from him. He felt a pang of loss at her retreat, but he was too hurt and angry to go after her. Instead, he turned to face what he’d feared since they had climbed up here – the look on Vincent’s face. 

It wasn’t what he had expected: he had thought to see fury, scorn or disgust there, but there was only concern, fear, and a little sadness. He also realized that Vincent hadn’t tried to pull his hand away from his grasp this whole time. 

Are you all right? Ron