Unearthly Fables

FOREWORD

by Marty Young

When you read Dave Schembri’s fiction and study his artwork, you’re likely to think he was the deranged, psychotic, axe-wielding bastard child of Freddy Krueger and Elizabeth Báthory, with an intense dislike for humanity—but he’s not. He’s one of the nicest guys I know, with a truly wacky sense of humour. I can still picture him at the pub during Worldcon in 2010, trying to tell a story but laughing so much that he was crying and barely able to speak. I’m not sure what the story was, but I think it was at his own expense (he’s like that). He also plays the guitar and sings. I kind of always thought he’d be a screeching thrash metaller with anger management issues, but nope, I got that wrong too.

Dave lets through some of his wacky humour in Unearthly Fables (Fine Mortal Cabernet gives you a hint of it, while Nigel’s Evening is a laugh-out-loud riot, and a break from the grim goodies to either side of it), but for the most part, the tales and art within this collection are dark and terrible. They are pure horror: hapless women giving birth to demons, lurking men with monstrous hearts becoming the victims of things much worse, condemned souls finding a way out of hell, and cold-blooded murder directed by horrific creatures.

Sometimes, it’s the fine details that get you, like this bit from World of Amusements:

The first cuts were a lot of work, but once he had destroyed the garments, the dismemberment became much more efficient.

There is blood spilt here, oh yes, and lots of it. These are short, sharp tales of revenge—rapid cleaver strokes that maim—but the thing that strikes me most about this motley collection is the morality, even if that moral isn’t at first obvious. Dave’s fiction tells a story, and it’s always one worth reading.

It is quite a skill to construct well-rounded tales in such a few words, and David Schembri is a master. He’s got flash fiction nailed. But the true test of a writer’s ability is when they extend themselves, and some of the longer pieces here— The Tuning of Hex and Parhelion, for example—prove that he is just as good in those formats as in the shorter ones.

Unearthly Fables contains thirty-four stories, most of them bite-sized nuggets of horror goodness, and nineteen pieces of superb art. It’s a collection I can’t recommend highly enough. But beware as you venture forth. Don’t expect good always to triumph; this is a view of the night-time world—make no mistake about it.

As Dave says, May the Seamstress have mercy on your souls.

PREFACE

by Robert Hood

David Schembri’s Unearthly Fables is a darkly evocative Pandora’s box of a book.

Made up of compact short-short stories of horror and dark fantasy, a flash fiction collection gathered under the title Sightings in the Dark, a few longer tales, and a concluding science fiction thriller, Unearthly Fables aims to unsettle the reader and leave phantom scratches on the psyche.

The varied collection never seems merely random. Without sharing story continuity or characters, the shorts create a unity of tone and colour, a thematic resonance that is enhanced by the author’s evocative illustrations. We feel that we’re in a consistent and unsettling world. What the shorts and flash fiction inevitably lack in complex plotting, they make up for in atmosphere and dark imagery, jabs of black humour, half-seen glimpses into strange realities, and moments spent lost in the nastier corners of the human mind. This tonal unity even embraces the concluding more plot-driven SF novella, which has enough grotesque imagery and violent adventure to sit comfortably with and complement the preceding tales of supernatural and visceral horror.

On top of all this, Schembri has asked some of Australia’s leading practitioners of the weird tale to write a brief lead-in to the stories—another unusual touch. The book ends with an interview with Schembri conducted by editor Paula Berinstein, exploring the author’s thoughts on horror and his own work.

All up, Unearthly Fables is a distinctive collection of horror fiction, offering the reader a glimpse into the darker corners of Schembri’s imagination.

GAITREL THE BLACK

A castle, a fair maiden, a magician . . . but beware of Gaitrel. Take my hand, he said, then led me to things hidden from the world.

—Amanda J. Spedding, author of the apocalyptic short The Long Ago, mythology mutation The Road, and award-winning steampunk story Shovel-Man Joe

The young girl’s screams echoed within the shadows of the tower. Gaitrel leaned over her and said gently, Do not despair, child. He tried to calm her with a hand to her forehead, but she continued to cry and fought wearily within the rusted shackles. There are many wonders in store for you after tonight. He straightened and leaned on his staff. You are about to become the mother of an immortal child. You will receive a beautiful castle, an order of guards, and perhaps even have a kingdom named after you! he said.

Y-you told me I was g-going to die, she spat.

Her saliva sprayed onto his grey beard, and he flinched. Gaitrel bit at his lower lip and slowly recalled her purpose. The events of these past centuries had wreaked havoc on his memory. He could not remember having told her such lies before. He sighed with dismay and peered down at the pale, baggy robes that signified his fall. He was the last of his kind. Alone. Troubled. Practically powerless, and losing his memory was the last thing he wanted. It was all he had. But now . . .

The girl’s screams suddenly intensified and he gazed up.

Another was born.

The young demon had burst out of her gut, staining her white night dress with blood and innards. She lay motionless on the stone bed as the demon chewed and bit at her flesh.

Gaitrel stepped towards the newborn. It snarled at him and screamed an insult, complaining that the meat was bitter. He bowed his head, gathered the demon up in his arms, and wrapped its bloody body in his robes. It struggled for a few moments but soon settled and began to slumber noisily in his embrace. Gaitrel sighed again and proceeded with the ritual.

He would raise the demon and live with it. Feed it the flesh of livestock. Cope with the stench of its filth as it lay in steaming heaps around the halls of his tower. Then, a time would come when it would be old enough to depart. To be released into a nearby village. It would assume the form of a local townsman—and wait.

He laid the slumbering beast into a cradle made from iron and lined with straw, and gazed at its flapping lips. His mind continued to show signs of its former strength, supplying images of the tasks that lay ahead. Once the power of his staff had regenerated, he would obtain another young virgin using a seductive scent—a pink haze that would entice her up to his tower.

Gaitrel dragged his feet into the gloom of his chamber and slumped into his throne of ironstone. His staff fell from his grip and rolled noisily onto the floor, the impact echoing in the tall ceilings. He wearily rubbed his sweaty brow and mumbled, Come, come. Speak to me before I forget where I am.

He sat in the silence for endless moments before shadows swirled around the spines of his books. Soon the voices eddied around his ears.

All ten of his departed order visited him that night, an order he’d led through the Dark Ages before their fall to the Lord’s army. Their voices encouraged and worshiped him, despite the faded condition of his robes. The birth of the newborn signaled yet another troop for their impending army of fire. Once the circle of demons was complete, his order would rise again.

Gaitrel looked down at his robes and grinned as the colors grew a shade darker. The time to reshape the way of the world would come, and he would regain his title.

He would no longer be known as the fumbling fool. He would again be Gaitrel.

Gaitrel the Black.

THE SEAMSTRESS

—Kyla Lee Ward, author of The Land of Bad Dreams

There was a place beneath a haze dark and terrible. Trees stretched into the sky and creeks weaved their way around the hills of a great range. In that wilderness, settlements spread and grew into a lively township—a township where blood flowed through lovely veins.

Living veins

A hermit, the townsfolk labeled her. A witch? the children wondered fearfully. Perhaps, but for me, the woman was something else: the perfect quarry. She was middle-aged with a full head of wild brown hair. Deterring the locals with glaring looks from her dark, sunken eyes, she walked the damp streets alone in clothing that hung heavily from her thin body like crimson drapes. It was fortunate that this woman was disliked. She would not be missed.

I had taken my usual time studying her movements, and before long, I knew her routine. I chose to begin my hunt after her usual afternoon stroll and followed her back to an old cottage, which thankfully was hidden and secluded. Once she was inside,