Uncanny Magazine Issue 47 by Lynne M. Thomas

Author:Lynne M. Thomas [Uncanny Magazine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: science fiction, fantasy, magazine
Publisher: Uncanny Magazine
Published: 2022-06-26T00:00:00+00:00

Radha Kai Zan is an artist and author. Their visual art indulges in the aberrant and strange, centering often on the body and its mutable, mortal nature. Their fiction skews towards the speculative with a particular leaning towards the horrific, romantic, and adventurous. You can find more of their work at https://radhakaizan.com

Bramblewilde

by Jordan Taylor

“There is only one thing to do,” Mrs. Rothchild said. “We must pay a visit to Bramblewilde.”

So Mrs. Rothchild raised her most intimidating parasol, and Mrs. Wollstonecraft wrapped herself in her embroidered cloak, and Mrs. Clarke fetched her straw hat trimmed with a bit of this and that from her husband’s shop, and together they set off to call on the fairy.

At that time, Bramblewilde lived in a cottage at the edge of town—a cottage covered in a riot of roses and blackberries, with hives of bees who produced the most golden honey imaginable. No one then living remembered how or when or why the fairy came to live in the cottage, rather than in Faerieland where they belonged. But their spells and charms could be relied upon to work—if not quite in the way one expected—and so Bramblewilde and the town lived in dubious mutual beneficence.

When Mrs. Rothchild, Wollstonecraft, and Clarke knocked on their cottage’s door, Bramblewilde was checking the aging of their blackberry cordial. They shook the bottle, bits of pulpy fruit bobbing in the purple liquid, residual sugar washing back and forth. They stuck one long finger into the mix to taste. They smacked their lips. Nearly done.

“And won’t you be surprised,” Bramblewilde chuckled, replacing the bottle on its shelf.

They opened the door.

Mrs. Rothchild, Wollstonecraft, and Clarke struck their most imposing postures.

“We’re here about our daughters,” Mrs. Rothchild said, shoving her way into Bramblewilde’s stone-flagged kitchen. Bundles of herbs and snared rabbits swung from the rafters overhead.

“They refuse to listen to reason,” Mrs. Wollstonecraft said, wringing her hands.

“They forget their place!” Mrs. Clarke scowled.

“Frankly,” Mrs. Rothchild said, “I fear they are unmarriageable.” She snapped her parasol closed and sniffed with distain at Bramblewilde’s loose curls and shapeless shift.

Bramblewilde smiled a long, slow, sideways smile. “Oh? I’ve heard rumors—”

“They are witches,” Mrs. Rothchild cut them off with a purse of her lips.

“And dear friends,” Mrs. Wollstonecraft said.

“Rebellious heathens,” Mrs. Clarke grumbled. Mrs. Rothchild poked her ankle with the parasol.

“Sit,” Bramblewilde said. “Tell me more.” They indicated a group of rough wooden chairs around their kitchen table, though they themselves continued to rummage around the room, one pointed ear half-cocked to the women.

“You know who we are, I suppose?” Mrs. Rothchild asked.

Bramblewilde cut their long green eyes at her. “You I know.”

Mrs. Rothchild was the wife of the town’s richest citizen: the renowned Wizard Rothchild. To her everlasting regret, it had been he who first introduced their daughter to the Art.

“And that, I believe,” Bramblewilde licked their teeth, “is the vicar’s wife there.” They nodded to Mrs. Wollstonecraft.

Mrs. Wollstonecraft inclined her head.

Unlike many, the Reverend Wollstonecraft saw no contradiction in the study of the Art with that of the Gospel.

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