Faerest

Note: “Niamh” is an Irish name, pronounced “Neeve”, like “Eve”

Once upon a time, there was a girl who lived with her father and stepmother in a sturdy wooden house in a town that was more brown than green. It was a coal town, where the ghosts of miners were said to haunt the corners of every empty street.

Once she had asked the pastor if her birth mother, the one who had left the world just as Fiona entered it, also roamed the lands as a ghost. Of course not, she had been told. Women were angels, gentle spirits. They would never be ghosts. But, as she would come to know, they could be something far worse.

Her name was Fiona; pale, white. A common name, a pretty one even, but for the fact that her skin was indeed white. Not golden brown like her stepmother’s, or rosy freckled like her father’s, but pure white like school parchment, like the feathers of the swans that occasionally visited the pond in the summer. They were strange birds, mean birds. They made enemies with children and good prizes for some hunters. She wasn’t proud to resemble them, but she did, her hair pitch black like their inky faces, her lips permanent red like their bright bills.

And then there was her skin, which was truly as colorless as snow banks. To the villagers, her features spelled death. Not a hint of warmth or life in her bone-white cheeks, her lips stained the crimson shade of blood. Her hair hung black like coal, as if marked by the fingerprints of mine corpses. 

That witch must have cursed her. This is what becomes of a girl without a real mother. Adults avoided her in the streets, but their whispers clung close to her like so many shadows, invisible cobwebs, unshakable.

In those days, that little ramshackle house at the end of the lane was not just her safe haven. It was her whole world. It had a big yard and a big fireplace, and the two people she loved the most. Her father Deaglan was both a woodcutter and hunter, though he preferred to build rather than kill, more inclined to create than destroy. He was good with blades, precise and decisive and the most gentle man Fiona knew.

And then there was Niamh. If Deaglan was the light, Niamh was the warmth, the embrace that was always felt even when it was not seen. Fiona’s stepmother, though she never liked that word, never liked the way the townspeople spat it out like a poison. 

They lived near the forest, which at times was a relief, and at other times a source of deep distrust. Everyone knew the eastern woods were plagued with paganism. That was where Niamh was from, of course, and despite her best efforts no one in the village could forget it. Faerie, they spat. Bana-bhuidseach. Witch. As far as they were concerned, nothing but trouble resided in that house by the woods--it had seduced a good man and corrupted his only child.

Fiona always knew Niamh had magic in her blood. This was merely a fact of their family, perfectly normal and natural from within. Niamh’s magic was a fundamental part of her life. What she did not know was that it had once saved it.

Fiona had no memory of the harshest winter the town had faced. Her parents were used to brutal conditions, but at the time she had lived barely four seasons. Still an infant, dreadfully underfed and overexposed, and eventually almost comatose. Niamh was running hopelessly low on the plants they used to brew Fiona’s sustenance. Deaglan had scoured the area for any possible prey that could become food, but to no avail. As the cold swept in from the eastern woods, they turned west to the village for help. None was given. They knocked until their knuckles were bloody on doors shut so tight not even the wind could sneak through. Even the candles at the church seemed to extinguish when they approached. It was as if they stood at line of battle, stuck between a barrage of vicious spears and a wall of unforgiving shields. 

They needed a miracle, and they found one in the long-dormant stores of magic in Niamh’s body. So she dug up what she had buried so deep, ripped out suppressed memories by the roots, and stood over Fiona all night, whispering the words she had tried so hard to forget. 

By morning, baby Fiona’s skin had turned tundra white, her hair night black, and her lips the red of a blooming rose. It was as if all the color in her fragile body had spread to her mouth as it desperately sought sustenance. 

But she lived. 

Soon her heart beat stronger, and when her eyes fluttered open, yet another change could be seen. One was still the blue iris that she got from her birth mother, but one was now the deep brown of Niamh’s own eyes.

Like a piece of me has taken root in her, she marveled, gazing upon the child’s transformed face.

I love that, her husband replied. It’s fitting. It’s thanks to you that she will survive to see another day.

You don’t understand, Niamh said wearily. Appearances matter so much, especially west of the wood. Her survival may still be something we have to fight for.

We’ll just have to protect her together. Deaglan wrapped his strong arms around his wife and child, cradling his family. Both exhausted, they sank into his embrace.

The dam of Niamh’s magic had finally burst, it had surged, and now it flowed freer but shallower. It came to her more easily, but with nowhere near the power she had once possessed. Fiona knew her to work in Inanimations, enchanting objects. Living subjects were something she could no longer control. Their accommodations were far from lavish, but there were a few prized possessions on which she practiced, often in Fiona’s presence. The old cuckoo clock that could slow the passage of time to a trickle. The crown made of branches and flowers that brought playful imaginings to life, which she sometimes let Fiona try on for games of make believe. And the ornate wood-framed mirror, though that was supposed to be a secret.

Fiona never asked where all these treasures came from. They were, like Niamh’s magic, a fixture of her childhood. But like the magic, she was forbidden to talk about it to the other children.

And Fiona never did. But once, she had asked how the mirror was made--it had fascinated her, as she had never seen anything so beautiful outside of the church’s stained glass window.

Niamh had been startled. That isn’t for you to worry about, she insisted, in far harsher a tone than she normally used with her. This startled Fiona in turn, but it also piqued her curiosity.

And so, late one night, she snuck down to her parents’ room and hovered in the doorway, craning to peer through the open crack of light.

She heard her stepmother’s voice, hushed but urgent, and shifted position to see her kneeling before the mirror. As Niamh spoke, the surface turned opaque, like the churning of murky waters. Fiona held her breath, equal parts afraid and transfixed, and listened to the incantation.

Of all the people in this town, who does Fear collect around?

Which woman feeds their worst suspicions, that Fae magic fuels her traditions?

Reveal the face of this known devil, the name cursed at the highest level

Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the Faerest of them all?

Fiona watched as the glass cleared to form Niamh’s sharp nose, dark eyes, and pink lips. The girl was almost disappointed--after all, it seemed to be performing the normal function of mirrors.

Then the mirror seemed to speak. Niamh Ryann. The name filled the room, rang out like the vibrations of fine glass. The frequency was only just detectable, but it was enough for Niamh herself, who bent over in relief.

Dear, this is the third night in a row, Fiona heard her father say. You should give it a rest.

I’m just so scared for her, Niamh said. I feel like it’s only a matter of time, and there’s nothing I can do to protect her from them.

She was right. It was only a matter of time. Because adults whisper, and children listen, and children repeat what they hear, but children speak louder and with less shame. Children speak in actions.

Fiona had always been a target; she had bruises from the stones they threw along with curses. But the day came when a few particularly restless schoolmates got the idea to “melt the snow”. Or “burn the witch”, depending on who you asked. The important thing was that somehow, a pot of water was boiled, and a hiding place was selected, and all of a sudden Fiona’s skin felt like it was on fire.

That was the first time Fiona saw Niamh cry, as her stepmother pressed fresh snow into her fresh burns. That night, she consulted the mirror for the last time, as if for final confirmation of the day’s events. Her voice was soft, pleading. By the last line her helplessness betrayed her, voice catching silently on the words, like a fawn caught in a thorn bush. 

Who is the Faerest of them all?

Sure enough, her stepdaughter’s face appeared before her, scars and all. Niamh’s face contorted with grief, though she could see the reflection that was not hers remained blank, before it was blurred by the tears collecting on her lashes.

Fiona de Faoite. The name sang out and cut into her, sealing what her own fears had known to be true. It had only been a matter of time, but the pain was just as sharp.

She ran her fingers over the wooden frame, thinking of the hands that had crafted it.

She knew what had to be done.