To write a novel like The Talking Cure, I dove deeply into the people, places, and cultures that shaped my characters’ challenges. I’ve talked about character creation for this book earlier. Another helpful practice is to write brief flash fiction backstory pieces. These stories not only fill in the facts of their past lives but also gave me a strong sense of how my paper doll people feel about what they’ve gone through.
Today I’m sharing a short story about Sean Joye, one of The Talking Cure protagonists, that takes place when he was two years old. “The Faerie’s Visit” gives a deeper explanation of his thoughts on the faerie world.
“The Faerie’s First Visit”
It was a dark and stormy night. Trite, but true. All Saints’ Day just a few hours away, the children all packed away in bed, and the adults drawn around the small coal stove, having one last smoke and cup of tea before locking up and retiring for the night. The day had been cold and clear, but an evening storm out of the west brought warm rain and wind howling through the twisting streets of old Belfast.
All the youngsters slept, except for the two-year-old, Sean. He’d napped long that day, well into teatime, and at ten o’clock was just beginning to yawn. A quiet child, Sean demanded little attention, laughed easily, and smiled more. After enduring the squabbles of their two older boys, the easy going tag-a-long was a welcome relief to his tired parents.
Sean’s father was of the opinion that a child shouldn’t grow up alone, and the fruit of his labor now lay in a crib. And a girl, to boot. That sweetened the deal for Sean’s mother, who’d had her doubts about tempting fate and trying for another baby at her age. And so, just a fortnight ago, she’d birthed a beautiful little girl, strong and healthy, with a mop of red hair and hearty appetite.
Sean snuggled in bed with his brother, comfortable and warm. Padraig wasn’t one to play with him much, but he slept soundly and really couldn’t object to the little boy curling up against his back. Sean listened to the whipping wind in the eaves, the drip of the leaking roof in a large cook pot in the center of the room, and the drone of the grown-ups’ voices.
“My, she’s a pretty one, Eileen,” said a visiting aunt from Dublin. “And you’ve named her Siabhan. For your mother?”
“Well…” Sean’s mother started to speak, then stopped. He could tell from her voice she was flustered and tense. “Well, ain’t she nothing special to look at? No different than any other.”
“Oh, you’re just being modest. And I remember we all envied your mother’s beautiful red curls.”
“Her hair will no doubt fall out. Come back in all mouse brown, like the boys,” said Sean’s father, his mild voice a counterpoint to the loud Dublin aunt.
Sean yawn, beginning to feel drowsy. The baby’s hair was pretty. He liked to stroke it. Gently, like they’d taught him to pat the dog. And she was pretty. He’d seen plenty of babies, of course. But seldom up close. And to have one of his own to play with was an unlooked-for gift. He could tell the big boys didn’t share his parent’s quiet delight or his own intense curiosity about the baby. He yawned again. The voices in the other room rose and fell into good nights and the rustling of wraps and finding of umbrellas.
“Not another word out of ye.” His mother’s voice broke into Sean’s drowsy mind. “A woman out alone at this hour? And walking past the Orange Lodge? Michael will go with you.”
More murmured replies, the protesting words not matching the grateful tone. Cold damp air flowed under the door as someone—no, two people—went out.
And someone else slid through the front door and then into the bedroom. Sean was sure of it. As sure as anything. But someone . . . different. Their presence smelled like no one he knew, more like cold wind and wet earth than a person at all. He peeked out from under the covers to see ice crystals painting the window and walls. And he sensed danger, a threat to his family.
Sean felt a new emotion, one that hadn’t yet intruded into his safe, comfortable world. Fear. Powerlessness, vulnerability—those weren’t new feeling. The fact of being a tiny child in a world of the big and strong. But the big and strong always protected him, even loved him. They might be monsters, but they were his monsters.
This new presence was different. Its power diffused through the room; the air thick with fog. Whoever—whatever—had entered, he knew it was strong.
It didn’t hate them, but didn’t love them either. Sean froze, clutching his brother, who roused long enough to throw off the child’s arms, then fall back to snoring. Sean wanted to call out, but his cries stuck in his throat. The fog began to roll over him but paused. “Hush now.” The fog had a woman’s voice. “We’ll sort you later. You’re not quite ready to join us.”
It thickened, swirled, and coalesced into a woman’s form, substantial, a glowing translucence. She touched his head, his lips, his heart in a sort of blessing—or maybe curse— then suddenly was on the other side of the room, bending over Siobhan’s crib.
In a flash of intuition, Sean knew what the glowing woman was about. She intended to steal his baby. He climbed out of bed, his bare feet sliding across the icy floor toward the crib. He’d heard enough tales around the fire to know the woman was one of The Good People, a faerie. They stole pretty human children, especially those overly admired, punishing their family’s sin of pride.
He charged, screaming. He had no weapon, no strength, no power, but this faerie wasn’t taking his baby without a fight. She turned, startled but smiling, the newborn in her arms. And laughed at the little boy, his arms wrapped around her skirts, as she vanished back into the cold and fog.
In the cradle lay a little bundle. A bundle of sticks. Sean collapsed on the floor, his cheeks wet with tears and snot. He feel asleep on the floor, crying.
Sean never cried.
He awoke in the gray dawn, his father carrying him back to bed. His parents’ voices were low and worried. He tried to speak. “A faerie stole my baby. Find her. Fight her. Get my baby back.” But all that came out was gibberish.
His father smiled and stroked Sean’s head. “Quiet now, my little man. Rest.” He turned to Sean’s mother, the smile gone, his jaw set in serious intent. “He’s burning up. Best call your granny.”
The room went black for what seemed like a moment, but then it was broad daylight. His mother sat by the bed. The big boys were gone. She was washing him with a cool rag. He looked over at the crib, where the bundle of sticks still lay. He pointed at it and whimpered, trying to tell her what he’d seen.
“Ah, and feeling better are we now?” she said. “You want to play with your sister?”
She pulled the quilts up to his chin. “You’re sick. So you can’t hold her, or she’ll get the fever, too.”
Sean watched in horror as his mother crossed the room and picked up the bundle. She carefully, lovingly cradled it in her arms and walked a few steps toward the bed to show him. She cooed and smiled at her sticks and gave the bundle a little kiss. “She’s crying for her breakfast, so I’m going in the other room to nurse her. You take a nap like a good boy. Soon you’ll be well and strong again. I’ll let you hold her then.”
But he never did hold Siobhan again, or even the changeling the faerie had left in her place. The sticks weakened and died within the week. Sean was never able to tell what he’d seen, even as he grew older. But the memory remained burned in his heart.
“The Talking Cure is a marvelous story—an Agatha Christie-style murder mystery infused with a strong sense of the Weird… and a hearty dose of magic on the side. It’s ideal for all fans of the sinister, the surprising, and the strange.”—Cherie Priest, award-winning author of Boneshaker
Find The Talking Cure at these fine locations:
Do you better understand Sean’s negative attitude toward the fae? Comment on the blog.
If you enjoyed reading this short story, you might like to learn more about my new novel.
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Wolfhearted is also available as an Audible audiobook, here.
St. Louis Writers Guild just published Weird STL, an anthology celebrate the strange, spooky, and just plain wonderful stories of our hometown. This volume of short stories, poems, a play, and essays includes a Sean Joye universe short story, “Big Magick.” Joseph Arwald, one of the baddies from The Big Cinch, tells us what really happened to the Ferris Wheel from the St. Louis 1904 World’s Fair.
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