The woman with the long black hair sat beside an angler on the dock.
“Tell me of Korlova,” she said.
“You mean Klorava? Ha!” The angler’s laugh turned into a coughing fit, remedied only by a puff from his pipe. “More monster than goddess, I say. Evil thing, made all of rope. Ever hear of sailors strangled by rigging in a storm? That’s just a length of Klorava’s hair, torn from her head and sent to cause misery. I spit on her name.” And he did, leading to more coughing.
The next morning the angler found in his hut a soft black scarf. After wearing it for an hour, he realized his cough had disappeared.
#
The woman with the short black hair approached a farmer tending his windmill.
“Tell me of Korlova,” she said.
“Karlava?” The farmer smiled at the sky, as if gazing into a dream. “She’s wonderful—a spirit of pure kindness, made all of cloth like a banner flapping in the wind. If you see a thread floating on the breeze, that’s a piece of Karlava, blessing the next harvest.”
The woman thanked him and left, running a hand through her silky hair.
The next day the farmer’s wife discovered a large black cocoon lying by the windmill. She sliced it open to find her husband, pale and still, staring blankly at the morning sky.
#
The woman with no hair came upon a tiny church in the woods.
She had no intention of asking the lone priest about Korlova: his shrine was story enough. Instead she stepped quietly inside, tugging at the string that protruded from her almond-brown fingertip.
The next morning, after much thought, the now one-armed woman returned to the church. She stepped past the priest, hanging from the rafters by an almond-brown rope, and into the back room.
The string-dolls and paintings puzzled her. So much reverence . . .
A voice called from the main chamber: “No! Merciful Kovola, no!”
The one-armed woman peeked through the doorway. A young lady had wrapped her arms around the dead priest and was desperately trying to lift him.
“Brother, no!”
A small gasp escaped the one-armed woman’s lips. She slipped out the back, undetected by the sobbing visitor.
She spent the next week in the woods, meditating and regrowing.
#
The two-armed woman with the long black hair entered the tavern, where a sniffling man sat alone.
“Tell me of Korlova,” she said.
The man stared into his tankard, red-eyed.
“Korva,” he said, shaking his head. “Queen of Broken Families. If a plague leaves a child motherless, that’s Korva. If a man’s—” he choked on the next word “—if his sister goes to war and never returns—that is Korva. She weaves tapestries of splintered families, and laughs. Korva is scum.” He tilted the tankard against his lips, searching for the bottom.
The next morning he found by his bed a silky black coin purse, which would always be full when he needed a drink.
#
The woman with the short black hair sat by the stove, where the bundled-up innkeeper rocked in her chair.
“Tell me of Korlova,” she said.
“Sad story,” the innkeeper replied, shaking her gray head. “Korlova the God-Slayer. The Kin-Killer. Single-handedly kept her brother from ending the world.”
“So you worship her?”
“Didn’t say that. Lots of folks think she went too far—think she should have found another way to stop her brother. He was good once, you know. Maybe could’ve been again.”
“So Korlova should be reviled.”
“Wouldn’t be surprised if the goddess thought that herself. Guilt’s a mighty beast, especially when it comes to family matters. But that ain’t right, either.”
“Why not?”
“Because Korlova did what she had to, even if it weren’t pretty. She doesn’t deserve worship or hatred. Best thing for her is to just be forgotten.”
The innkeeper rocked in her chair, eyes closed. The woman with the silky black hair stepped away.
Two evenings later, the innkeeper realized she hadn’t seen one of her tenants in some time. She knocked on the door—no answer. Digging up a copy of the key, she let herself in.
The windowless room was vacant. On the bed, folded neatly, were piles of never-worn garments, all silky black and almond-brown. Beside them was the tenant’s key, and a note:
The most-needed truths are often the coldest. Let this give you warmth.
The innkeeper wore some of the garments to church the next day. When asked where they’d come from, she couldn’t remember.
[This story was first published in Fantasy & Science Fiction, May/June 2017. About the author: Zach Shephard’s fiction has appeared in places like Fantasy & Science Fiction, Intergalactic Medicine Show, Galaxy’s Edge and Flash Fiction Online. For a complete bibliography of his work (and links to a few free-to-read stories), please check out www.zachshephard.com.]
A powerful parable, headed up by that striking image. Gives pause for thought, thanks.
Thank you! Glad you enjoyed it 🙂