Tam Lin: A Modern, Queer Retelling (Faerie Tales) Read online

  Tam Lin

  A Modern, Queer Retelling

  T.J. Deschamps

  Dans La Lune Press

  Tam Lin: A Modern, Queer Retelling

  All Rights Reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. If you’re reading this, Mab, please don’t curse me.

  Copyright ©Tammy Deschamps 2020

  A Dans La Lune Press Novella

  www.tammydeschamps.com

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  Van D. Vicious thank you for helping me polish this story. Emily Paper thank you for all the tarot card readings, and lost things found, including myself. Mindi, you didn’t read this one, but you’ve read a lot of works that will likely never see the light of day. Thank you for all your support and encouragement.

  Erin, Sharon, Della, Emily, and Silvana, you’ve all read the really bad early stuff. Here’s a good one. Thank you, my friends, for supporting me in everything. Thank you for being aunties to my kiddos and my chosen family.

  Cascade Writers, thank you for all the wonderful workshops, teaching me the craft of writing and for your warm support and welcome. To all the writers in Speculative Twist and GrottoGarden, thank you for cheering on my excerpts, virtual write-ins and word-sprints.

  To my kiddos, don’t read this yet. I know you’re teens, not babies anymore, but it’ll be super weird.

  And, last, but not least…Felix, my Dominican Denzel, the only straight person in our house, and love of my life, muchisma gracias para todo. Te amo, siempre. No Morira.

  1

  Last night, Tom had given Ariel two weeks to think over his proposal, but it seemed Tom’s boyfriend had already come to a decision. This morning, Ariel stood in the hallway of their condo, waiting with one arm behind his back.

  The sight of Ariel wearing only a pair of flannel pajama pants was something to behold. Tom’s boyfriend had a perfect blend of looks: strong nose, heartbreakingly long eyelashes, high cheekbones, killer jaw, and full set of shapely lips, and the body of a bronze god. Not only was he beautiful, but Ariel was kind and sweet and had the best stories about growing up in ‘el campo’ of the Dominican Republic. Ariel listened well and was smart enough to appreciate some of Tom’s more esoteric writing. Tom wondered how long he would have the pleasure of this sight and Ariel’s company. What was a skinny, ginger, word nerd doing with a professional baseball player/model let alone asking for more?

  Ariel swiped a large hand over sculpted features, pausing over his mouth—he had a habit of doing that when he didn’t know what to say.

  Tom braced himself. This was it. They were breaking up.

  Instead of speaking the words Tom didn't want to hear, Ariel revealed the envelope he’d been hiding behind his back and handed it over, face unreadable.

  Tom eyed the envelope, suspicious and somewhat surprised the talkative athlete would hand the writer a Dear John letter when Ariel wouldn’t admit they were in a relationship publicly. In a day and age anyone could take a photo of the letter and post it on social media; it would be a risk. Ariel trusted him, which should warm Tom’s heart. What did that trust mean if it were all going to end anyway?

  Ariel’s supple mouth spread in a teasing grin, and then he let out a raucous chuckle. “Dude, it isn’t gonna bite. Go on. Open it, papi.”

  Tom let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and crossed the living space of the condo they sublet from one of Ariel’s friends. At his desk, among bobbleheads of his favorite science fiction, comic book, and anime characters, and haphazard piles of books, Tom found a letter opener one of his professors had given him upon graduating from the MFA program. Along the seam of the letter opener, an inscription read, “Bearer of Glad Tidings.” A joke on the professor’s part because it was King Arthur’s fabled sword in miniature. Back when writers and publishers sent letters instead of emails, the professor had used the letter opener on envelopes containing more rejection letters than acceptance. He had given it with a note saying he hoped Tom would have better luck with it. Tom used the Excalibur miniature to open bills but now sliced open Ariel’s envelope with satisfying precision.

  Inside the envelope were several travel brochures for Ireland. Advertisements for tours with pictures of castles and ruins, lakes, lots of green rolling hills and for villages and cities he’d never heard of. On the cover of a pamphlet for Ulster Extras Tours, a man who looked like he could star in a show about highlanders or Vikings caught Tom’s attention. The man had dark silky hair, tons of jewelry like an 80’s rock star, and long lean-muscled body that looked like it could easily wield a sword or guitar. Next to the Irish Adonis, a petite, red-haired woman with ample proportions held a shield and sword. Her short plaid kilt revealed muscular legs, pale as ivory. Tom had never labeled himself gay because, on occasion, a woman like that would turn his head, and he’d just melt for her.

  A woman like that had brought him together with the man who hovered nervously nearby. Kelsey had served as a bridge, but she’d been exhausting and demanding, talked over them whenever they went out. She had treated what happened in the bedroom like her fantasy scenario.

  Ariel and Tom had found themselves doing dinner or movies without her, enjoying each other’s company. Kelsey had lost her original allure, and Tom had found himself wanting it to be just him and Ariel all the time. For weeks, he’d worked himself up to ask Ariel if they could be not exactly exclusive, but if their dates could stop including Kelsey. Fortunately, he’d never had to have the conversation.

  Instead, Kelsey announced she’d moved on to another triad the day Ariel proposed they all move in together. So, instead of the three of them sharing the apartment and each other, it’d became the two, and it had been fantastic.

  An airline boarding pass fell from one of the brochures. One boarding pass with Tom’s name on it in bold print. He sifted through the rest looking for Ariel’s ticket but only found a meal voucher and something regarding pre-paid travel insurance.

  He furrowed his brows, unsure of what this meant. “Are we going on vacation?”

  “Remember how you found out you weren’t German like your adoptive family after all? I got this cousin who does ancestry stuff. I gave her that test you took. She’s set up a whole trip. Except the movie extra tour. I booked that. I thought you might like a break from history and have some fun.”

  It had to be the most creative and considerate breakup Tom had ever experienced. He felt like someone was sitting on his chest and spraying vinegar in his eyes. He took a deep breath, but it didn’t help. His voice cracked when he asked, “Alone?”

  Ariel bit his lip, brown eyes puppy-dogging. “I can’t go, pap-o. I got fall training.” He grasped Tom’s shoulders, thick fingers pressing into the smaller man’s flesh. There was so much strength in those hands, but the hold was reassuring, not threatening. Ariel’s feelings were always so clear. It was almost as if he could superimpose them on Tom’s. Right now, it seemed as if Ariel was reassuring both of them it was g
oing to be okay. “This is an opportunity to learn about your people. Who knows? You might come up with a story or two while you’re there.” He smiled broadly, revealing perfect white teeth. “Imagine all the men in kilts like on that one show we watch.”

  Tom’s gaze landed on the brochure with the Highlander-looking man and redhead. “It’s Ireland, not Scotland.”

  “They film historical flicks there, Mr. Pedantic.” Ariel pressed his full lips to the tip of Tom’s nose. “Flip as many of those kilts as you like and have some fun.”

  “You going to have locker room tales to recant for me?” His chest burned at the thought. At the same time, the idea of Ariel with another buff jock in some clandestine tryst made him hot. This was why Tom always ended up with men who were still in the closet. He liked the secretive nature of it all.

  Ariel backed away, suddenly cold. It was only a step but felt like he’d already stood on the other side of the Atlantic. “You know how much trouble that’d get me in? Some of the guys even get whiff that I’m bisexual, let alone the fans.”

  “I’m sorry I suggested sleeping with your teammates. I know you have to be more professional than anyone for multiple reasons.” Tom spoke in a low, calm voice and held up his hands as if surrendering. “But there are bad people who will monopolize on your shame and get evidence. Someone in one of those Bible Belt places where you train is probably already setting up to out someone, or worse, blackmail them. Oh god--you know this. That’s why you’re getting rid of me. So I don’t visit you.”

  Ariel crossed his thick arms, muscles bulging. He was now more than an ocean away. A world settled between them. “I was being nice about it, but yeah. I can’t have you there for exactly why you said.”

  “What about after I come back? Away games in conservative states? Am I not invited or am I to be the roommate cheering you on for our entire lives?”

  “Coño, Tom. Why do you gotta be like that?” Ariel waved his hand in the air. “You know what? I’m out.”

  2

  Tom finished his fourth IPA, swimming in the floaty, tingling of mild inebriation. Across the high-stool table, sat a stout man with a well-groomed, salt and pepper beard and coke bottle bottom glasses. Professor Xavier kept his hair in the same close-clipped academic style he’d worn since 1984. Instead of a tweed jacket with elbow patches like most men in their sixties, the professor wore a purple UW hoodie and fitted black jeans. Tom was sure his former professor, now employer and confidant, paired those with sensible shoes.

  “Then he said, ‘I’m out.’ Packed all his things and left. And I just stood there with my brochures.”

  His former professor folded his hands on the table. “Thomas, I have never given relationship advice, but I have to say something here. Mr. A., as you call him, has every right to be worried. He’s a foreign-born, Black, Latino living in a time of the greatest progress and the greatest regression in civil liberties in American history. He comes from a community that’s even less accepting of queers. Coming out is harder for him than it was for us, and you’re not right to push him on it.”

  Put in that light, Tom’s anger deflated. “What should I do?”

  “Write him an apology letter, acknowledge you come from a position of privilege and that you have no idea what it’s like to be him, but you’re willing to be his ally if not his man, and, my good friend, write it from Ireland.” Professor Xavier smiled as he lifted his IPA, sweat beading on the bottle ran in tiny rivulets dripping on the table. “I don’t care who bought the trip. You’d be a fool to pass up the opportunity.”

  Tom wasn’t angry anymore, but he also wasn’t ready to apologize. He should take Ariel up on his offer and have a little fun in Ireland. “The flight’s tomorrow at 4:30 AM. Are you going to drop me?”

  Professor Xavier looked at his watch, fiddled with the digital screen. “Go home. Throw some clothes, your laptop, and good walking shoes into a backpack. I’ll lend you my European outlet converters. Text me when you’re ready to leave.” He made a shooing motion. “Go on. I’ve got the check covered.”

  “But what about—"

  “I’ll hold your position. Thomas, this isn’t a trip to the San Juans. You’re going somewhere steeped in history. It’ll be good to have seen the places you teach about. Your family’s personal history. The novel you’ve been meaning to write is on the Emerald Isle. Go.”

  Tom stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of his Queen Anne apartment building, passport and boarding pass in his front pocket, brochures with all the email addresses of the places he’d stay and tours in his carryon. He’d brought a few changes of underwear and outfits that would mark him as a poor student backpacking through Europe, not a rich American tourist who could gather a ransom.

  His writer’s brain had worked overtime on that one. This was his first time off the North American continent. He had a passport because he and Ariel went to Vancouver, British Columbia. He hadn’t feared a thing in Canada. Having a six-foot-three athlete by his side made most scenarios seem safe.

  Tom glanced up at the now dark apartment, and with a sigh, got into the professor’s car.

  3

  The signs in Irish then English was the first noticeable difference when he deboarded the plane into the airport. Tom scratched his head, staring at the rope maze leading to several glass encased stations. Everyone else seemed to know where they were going. Non-EU would likely be his best bet as the right line to get in, but tightness in his chest wouldn’t let him move forward.

  An announcement blasted from overhead. His DNA test said he was of Ulster-Scots descent, but he didn’t know any Gaeilge or Ulster-Scot dialect to help him now.

  “Um, excuse me.” He tapped a passenger, a thin woman with cropped hair and smile lines around the eyes. “I don’t speak Irish. What did she say?”

  “She was speaking English.” Laughter peeled from the woman’s mouth, rich and warm. “Sorry. I understand your predicament, I do. I couldn’t understand a word Tennessee folk said. I spent nearly two weeks repeating myself, saying, ‘Sorry?’ like that was all the English I knew, and I was apologizing for it.” She laughed at her own joke.

  Tom smiled at the woman’s attempt to lighten the mood, but his chest grew increasingly tighter as he waited for her to get to the point. “So—the announcement?”

  “She said that the luggage will be delayed twenty minutes. Typical of this airline, if you ask me. I got to get on to my queue.” She pointed out where he had been about to head before the announcement. “That’s your queue. Mind the fair folk while you’re here. They have an eye for the lonely and lost, especially a fine-looking man as yourself.”

  “Mind the who?” Tom asked, but he wasn’t really listening.

  “Nothing. Having a bit of fun.” The lines around the edges of her eyes deepened. “The Tuatha Dé Danann have long gone to Tír na nÓg. Ireland is just as modern as the states. No faeries will snatch you up.”

  His jet-lagged brain couldn’t interpret half the words in the last sentence. “Huh?”

  “Never mind. Oh—Don’t kiss the Blarney Stone. It was a toilet, you know.” She patted his shoulder, offering a wry smile that twinkled in her eyes. “I best be off.”

  Still bemused, Tom waved at the cheerful, strange woman as she walked away, and he got in the growing line.

  With a lot of, “Sorry. Could you repeat that?” and a taxi ride he wouldn’t soon forget, Tom made it to downtown Dublin. It was Friday night in Ireland. When he walked through the lobby doors, The Spencer had a posh nightclub feel with its modern decor, and a bar that led to a restaurant in the back. He circled round and asked someone where he might find the concierge’s desk since it wasn’t right at the door.

  After a friendly bartender all in black gave him directions, he backtracked and found the concierge’s desk to the right of the doors he had originally entered. He’d missed the desk due to his altered bearings, not a flaw in the design, and his face flushed with embarrassment when he realized he’d walked right
past it.

  After a nine-hour flight and wearing typical Seattle casual clothes, Tom looked like he belonged in a hostel, not a swanky place like this. He doubted he could afford the hotel on his salary and ghostwriting income. Nobody seemed to notice his attire was out of place. The concierge gave him excellent service, better service than he got in New York City when he dressed inappropriately for an upscale restaurant.

  He settled into his room, took a shower, and with the help of melatonin, Tom got a goodnight’s rest. He didn’t feel jetlagged at all despite rising when it would be the middle of the night back home.

  The next two days Tom spent on tour buses, visiting quaint villages and following tour guides. The Irish good-naturedly teased or “slagged” each other. It seemed the worse the insult, the deeper the friendship. Tom wanted to enjoy the trip, but his thoughts often went to Ariel and he had the nagging feeling of being watched. He never quite saw anyone when he looked directly, only catching a glimpse from the corner of his eye.

  He exited the ruins of a cathedral with a tour group, and the feeling came on strong. A fine mist had rolled in while he’d been taking pictures of the remnants of the walls. In the distance, where he’d seen a lake, the fog grew thicker, and in that roiling gray, he saw the outline of a horse. He turned to the guide, a professor-looking type and asked her if there was a farm nearby that might have lost the horse.