Brighid watched with no small amount of envy as her younger siblings trooped out into the gray twilight. She was too old for Mischief Night—she no longer felt the fae pull, the tug in her belly that had led her out into the streets, laughing and breaking and burning through the night.
Too old for Mischief Night, too young to be Queen of the Harvest, no longer a child but not yet a woman. Brighid felt defined by what she wasn’t, instead of what she was.
She followed her mother out into the thickening gloom. Cheery candlelight spilled from the neighbor’s curtained windows, but on the village green more sinister flames flickered. Shadows danced around the bonfire, and a small group of children ran up to them, cackling, their faces twisted into inhuman masks–their eyes empty, inky hollows, their glinting teeth too sharp.
Brighid ran her tongue over her own teeth, remembering the feeling of the change. She wondered if the memory would fade, given time, or if it would live inside her forever.
The children shrieked in wordless demand, and Brighid’s mother tossed a handful of brightly wrapped candies over their heads. The children scrambled in the fallen leaves for them, shoving past Brighid hard enough that she stumbled, then scattered into the encroaching darkness.
Brighid’s mother took her elbow and pulled her along the street. The path was still familiar to her feet, but eerie laughter, rustling leaves, and hints of movement out of the corner of her eye made it strange and unwelcoming. Tonight, the darkness had weight.
Light footsteps pattered behind them, gaining quickly. “We need to get inside,” her mother said, pulling her along even faster.
They were nearly running when they burst into the barn where the adults gathered, into light and warmth and the comforting hum of human voices. Brighid’s hands shook as she accepted a cup of small beer from her cousin Finn. The bitter taste grounded her.
“The first Mischief Night is the hardest,” he said.
Brighid wondered if he meant the fear or the longing, but decided it must be both.
There was music and dancing and brittle-edged laughter. The wind howled outside, and the children howled back.
A gust of wind blew the barn door open, and Brighid’s eyes locked with a creature caught in the light that tumbled out into the darkness.
It was human-shaped, and beautiful, with wide-spaced eyes and forking antlers. It was breathing hard and cowering at the base of a massive oak. Tonight, it was prey, and afraid, and it had no light-filled barn to hide in.
In the uproar and chaos and rush to close the door against the night, Bridghid slipped out, unseen and unnoticed, and knelt by its side.
She remembered being drawn to light, to sound, to movement. They wouldn’t be safe here.
She took the creature’s hand, which felt human in hers. She tugged it to its feet and pulled it toward the river. Laughter and shouts echoed through the trees behind them, and their feet slid through wet leaves. The creature tripped over a root, and only Brighid’s grip on its hand kept it from falling.
Brighid remembered the thrill of the chase, the feel of bone cracking beneath her teeth, the hot iron taste of blood. She ran faster. Branches, invisible in the darkness, whipped her exposed skin, and briars scraped and clung at her legs.
“Why?” the creature gasped between ragged breaths. Its voice, even weak and winded, rang like bells.
Brighid didn’t waste her breath telling it that she didn’t know.
She remembered not liking the sound of running water.
The bridge tower was unmanned tonight. If any travelers were mad enough to travel, they would pay no tolls. But it had a good stout door that locked, and was hopefully close enough to the river that no children would be nearby. It was the best plan that Brighid had.
But she was too focused on the sounds of pursuit behind them, and careened straight into a group of children feeding on a wild boar. Their faces, black with blood, twisted into unholy grins.
Their bloody faces were unrecognizable masks, but Brighid knew her siblings by other signs. There was an old coat that she’d grown out of, a pair of boots that she’d mended, hair that she’d braided that morning.
Brighid pushed the creature toward the river. “Keep running!” she shouted. “Hide in the bridge tower, and you’ll be fine!”
The creature’s eyes locked with hers again. “Thank you,” it said, and fled.
Brighid turned toward her siblings as they swarmed around her. She was no taller than her next-oldest brother, only the barest bit older than her sister. She wasn’t a woman yet. She didn’t feel the fae-pull, but the barrier was thin, and she could push through.
She grasped her sister’s reaching hand and smeared boar blood over her cheeks. She ran her tongue over her teeth, and it came away bloody. She grinned, and feasted, and led her band away from the river’s displeasing babble.
About the author:
Jamie Lackey lives in Pittsburgh with her husband and their cats. She has had over 200 short stories published in places like Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Apex Magazine, and Escape Pod. She has a novella and two short story collections available from Air and Nothingness Press, and she’s created six successful crowdfunding campaigns to self-publish a novel, two novellas, a novelette, and three short story collections. In addition to writing, she spends her time reading, playing tabletop RPGs, baking, mushroom hunting, and hiking. You can find her online at www.jamielackey.com.
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