7 DAY STORY WRITING CHALLENGE #6 WINNER

Prize: £500

Finalists

Humour: Sarah Turner.

Paranormal: Deidra Whitt Lovegren.

Thriller: E. D. Human.

Magical Realism: K. L. Vincent.

Epistolary: J. C. Roskell, Christopher Bloodworth, F. Vancutsem.

Historical: Cecil Armstrong, Rose M Cullen, Emily Renk Hawthorne.

Horror: Christine Light, A. O. Henderson, Isabel Flynn, Deryn Pittar.

Dystopian: Daniel H. Nathaniel III, Marie Martello Conway, Marion Lougheed, Armand Diab.

Crime: Emily Macdonald.

Romance: Rachael Murray.

Science Fiction: Joanne Deluce.

Fantasy: Jane Brydon, Karen Darger.

Honourable Mentions

Humour: Mikayla Hill, Philip Scown, James Gaitis, Megan Geiger.

Fantasy: K. Antonio.

Crime: Thomas Knowles, Will L, Linda Crowley.

Horror: Debbie Wingate, Melinda Pouncey, Ruth May.

Paranormal: Az Day, Florie Kong Win Chang, Kasumi Ng, Malcolm Todd, Lisa H. Owens.

Romance: Joanne Wescott, J. P. Relph.

Epistolary: Moss, Rebecca Deslauriers, S. E. Denny, Anusha Anwer, Don Gordon.

Magical Realism: Linda Flynn, Adele Evershed, Katie Jordan, Amanda Hurley, Colleen Hogan, Hannah Brown.

Dystopian: Yuan Sun, Kate Aranda Nye, Finnian Burnett, Faire Holliday.

Historical: J. L. Theoret, L. M. Lydon.

Thriller: Shabnam Younus-Jewell, Ken Towl.

Science Fiction: Correen Robinson, Meir Avital.

and the winner is…

K. L. Vincent

The Loch’s Princess

(MAGICAL REALISM)

           Limbs strike against icy waters, but the loch’s black silk is leaden, holding them beneath the surface. Lungs ache, mouth daring to open and let the water pour in. The fears ebb, withdrawing to the bank, replaced by a flood of whispers.

***

“Do you hear us, little lass?” Maybe. “Can you speak?” No. “Will you listen?”

Mam says I shouldn’t go out to the loch, says it isn’t safe. Not alone. But I’m old enough, past the age of bleeding, and I prefer going to the cairn nearby to be with the fair folk. Most people from the village leave me be…ever since Da’ went off to the mainland and didn’t return.

Sometimes the fair folk whisper things into my ear as I nestle between the stone slabs. I’m the ruler of the loch, I like to whisper back.

Today, sunlight licks my arms and face, and the sea’s brine moves over green ferns as I wander from the village. It’s just land and sky with the sea in between. Behind, the gray-blue mountains loom, their pointed summits a shadow on my back. In front, as I wind down the steady slope, islands float on the horizon like goliath-sized black clouds. My bare feet pad the grasses speckled with purple thistles, their prickly thorns tugging at my hem. A light breeze wraps through my loose tresses, and my fingers play with their gold. The only adornment I have.

Ignoring the growl in my belly, I hum a tune. The words play only in my head.

An outlandish knight came from the north lands,

And he came a-wooing to me,

He said he would take me to foreign lands

And he would marry me…

The loch spreads ahead, a mirror placed on an emerald meadow. It reflects the clear blue—as if the sky fell below the earth, a hole peering up. I pass the outcroppings with the old watchtower clinging to their cliffs. A herd of sheep chews on clover, lifting their wooly heads as I make for the ancient canal.

It snakes out from the loch’s body into the sea, lined with lichened stones. Old ships came and went from the waterway, another time long ago. I know of a secret tale: a princess, her hair spun gold like mine, brought her war-faring vessel here to hide. Her ship sank in the loch’s depths, but I’ve never seen anything from shore.

My feet dance along the canal’s rim as I sing my unspoken song.   

Doff off, doff off yer silken things,

Deliver them up unto me,

For they look too rich and too gay

to rot all in the salt sea.

The tide is out, making it easy to hop back and forth on the canal’s banks. My feet grip slippery stones while I munch on scurvy grass found in the gaps. The bitter tang coats my mouth but quells the roil of my hunger. Perhaps I’ll find some mussels and seaweed if I wander farther.

He dropped high, he dropped low,

Until he came to the side.

Catch hold of my hand, my fair pretty maid,

And ye I will make my bride.

A baaing lamb interrupts my tune, separated from the flock that roams up the hill. It does not know how to cross as I do. The pink mouth opens wide, bright as a primrose bud.

I hop over to its side, scoop it into my arms, and for a moment, it stops its little bleats. Its fur is warm and fluffy white; I clutch it to my breast, forgetting what I sought to do, its tiny heart thudding faster. The odd rhythm beats through my bodice, melding with my own.

“Baaaaa!” The cries return.

Remembering, I jump back over the waterway, my footfalls clumsier than before, and plop the creature onto the grass. It leaps off to join its flock on rickety legs that bounce and spring, and I continue to my cairn.

Beyond the bend, I stop my tread. Two boys no older than myself walk on the path, their fishing rods, hooks, and baskets in hand.

“Hullo! Good mornin!” one says.

I keep my head low.

“Arn’yer that bonnie lass from the farm?”

Three, four, five…I count the mottled rocks, avoiding their gaze.

“Where ye goin? Dinnae feel like walkin with us?”

The tawny-haired boy comes closer. My pace quickens, my fingers finding the frayed hole in my skirts, picking at the raveling threads. I’ve lost count of the stones.

“Now, jist hold on!”

Go away.

His tone turns churlish. “Yer mam’s the whore, int she. And ye a dumb quine. Not from these parts, aye? Shoulda left with yer da’!”

“Gonny no dae that, Malcolm…leave the lass be,” the other boy says from behind.

I’m at a run now. The cairn’s rocks draw near.

When I slow, the boys’ treads have disappeared. No one has followed me. The knot coiled in my center slackens. They must have left around the hill.

I find my cairn, squeezing through the rocks to get inside. It’s cold and musty from the damp stone. But I like the dark. It quiets everything outside. My heavy pants fill the cave—in and out they go—and I find another tear in my skirt to scuff my finger on.

I wait to hear the fair folk whisper their soothing words. Alas, I don’t hear a thing. Where’d they go? Where are my fairy friends? The sun’s rays peek through the rock hole. I poke out my head. Still, no one is about, so I crawl to the top of my cairn. I stretch out on its grassy roof, my hair fanned, and stare into the blue sky. On occasions, I hear the whispers up here, the fair folk needing the sun as much as they like to hide.

Closing my eyes against the heat, I listen—the faint sound of the sea beyond the hill swells; waves crash onto the stone. A gull squawks and the wind murmurs through the reeds. The grass smells fresh, mixing with the salt, seaweed, and the muck of the loch below.

Finally, the smallest of whispers, so quiet I have to strain my ears.

Then something else, a crunch on dry moss and rocks clutter.

My eyes snap open. 

It’s the other boy, the leggy one with dark hair. His face blocks the blue of the sky.

“Yer Orla, right?”

He sticks out a hand, and I stare at it. The fingers are calloused, a scrape, red and scabbed, on one knuckle. “I’m Irvin.”

The whisper’s gone.

I push myself upright, darting my eyes. The other boy isn’t around. 

“Malcolm’s gone back to the village.” Irvin puts his hand down, resting it near my skirts. The other holds his rod.

“Wanna go fish?”

I shake my head and pull my knees to my chest. I want the fair folk to come back.

He gazes at the loch.

“Do ye ken the story of the princess? Suppose’ta have hair like yers.”

How does he know the tale? I thought it was only mine.

Bringing my eyes to his face, I’m relieved. He still looks away.

“Suppose’ta have been buried here in this cairn”—he pats the mossy stone— “after her shipwreck in the loch…her body came floatin ashore. Sometimes ye can see the prow stickin out, just there.” He points to a spot beside the bank. The water looks dark blue, almost black—the sky lost in its depths. “Wanna see?”

My gaze flicks to the loch. Maybe that’s where the fair folk are?

I dip my chin.

A grin breaks on Irvin’s face. He puts his hand on my back to push me along, and I roll my shoulder away.

“C’mon!” He scrambles from the rocks and bounds to the water’s edge.

I trail him warily, still listening for my whispers.

We reach the spot, and stiff reeds poke out from that water’s dark obscurity. I crouch and place my palm on the surface, its tension a gentle suck on my skin. 

“Dae ye see it? That piece of wood there? Looks like a dragon’s head disn’ it?” Irvin points farther out into the loch.

I stand, but I don’t see anything.

“Here.” He comes from behind and raises my arm to point where his finger points. “Dae ye see it now?”

I immediately go taught, a thousand pins jab into my skin. My stomach curdles sour.

His hand grips my arm, and his length presses at my back.

Where are the whispers? Where are my fair folk to keep me soothed? I cannot move.

His rough cheek chafes my ear, and I feel his hot breaths in my hair. My scalp creeps with tiny legs. He smells of the stagnant muck beneath my feet. Another arm binds around my belly, the hand sliding lower.

He’s tricked me. My eyes begin to burn.

“Do you hear us?” Their whisper breaks my stupor. It was them: the wee fair folk and their drowned princess.

I kick and grunt and shove with all my might.

There’s a splash and a gurgled yelp.

“I can’t swim!” Irvin’s arms thrash.

Neither can I.

I stand there, watching him flail like a carp—the whites of his eyes bulge, and water laps into his mouth. The loch is deeper than I thought.

The surface ripples, and now, a shape moves closer from its depths, the head of an animal, a dragon…is it the ship’s prow?

“Somethings pullin me! Give me yer hand!” Irvin’s coughs increase.

I should lean out and grab, help him to the shore. But then he may...

The water sloshes up the bank.

Just below the glossy sheen, gray-white hands reach from the prow. Gossamer fabric floats about the limbs as golden hair paints its waves.

Irvin’s dark head sinks beneath the murky top, his calloused fingertips the last to fade.

The air feels wet and sluggish. My hands and feet squish into mud and moss, and my body shivers cold.

The whispers grow steadier now. “Come, Orla, come.” They drift down from my cairn.

I lift my soaked skirts, wring the muck from my hair, and trudge back to the grave.

Mam told me not to go to the loch. Perhaps I should have listened.

*The ballad referenced is called “The Outlandish Knight” from Child ballad #4, Child, F. J. (1965). The English and Scottish popular ballads. New York: Dover Publications.