Swanmaster

Seven Swans a-Swimming - A Dark Tidings Horror Story

Dec 18, 2024

Twelve Days of Christmas—Dark Tidings is a Substack special holiday event. Each day beginning Friday the 13th, we’ll count down to Christmas Eve with a dark tale featuring one of the gifts from the classic carol. A guide to all the stories can be found here.

When I was a boy, Mum had a glass swan on her dresser. On golden afternoons, when the sun’s rays would channel through the body of the swan, I’d run my hands over the blue and white lights that streaked the walls of her bedroom, and I’d imagine the light to be water from the Thames, and that I was the Royal Swanmaster, checking on the Queen’s birds.

I still play in the light of glass swans, even at thirty-five. I own five of them, all antiques, nearly identical to Mum’s swan in Heath. My brother Sam thinks it’s strange that I collect them. He’s never said so, not directly, but I can hear it in his voice when he telephones.

Occasionally, when the shades to my flat are open, a column of light turns my sitting room into an underwater dreamscape; I’ll gently turn the swans where they sit on the sideboard—the only nice piece of furniture I own—to create an aquatic kaleidoscope bursting with pool-ripple-blues, sea-greens, and honeyed-yellows.

Helen, who’s always milling around the door to my flat, lives across the hall. I caught her trying to look through the spy hole; I put my eye up to the glass and nearly screamed when I saw her dark pupil looking back at me. When I opened the door to ask her what she was doing, she handed me a parcel.

“This was downstairs in the foyer.”

“Thanks,” I said, taking the parcel from her. “You know, in the future, you can leave it in the foyer—parcels, mail—all of it.”

“What is it?”

“Excuse me?”

“What’s in the parcel? It’s from a place called G.G. Wells Collectibles.” Helen peeked over the top of the box and pointed at the address label. “Sounds expensive!”

“Yes, I see. Well, if you must know, it’s a figurine.”

“Is it a Hummel? My friend Becca is obsessed with—”

“No—no, it is not a Hummel. It’s a glass swan. I collect them. Well, nice seeing you—good-bye.” I shut the door, dead bolting it behind me.

She was a gorgeous white swan with thin amber ribbons twisting around her sleek neck. I nearly dropped the piece while cutting it out of a bundle of bubble wrap. After my heart stopped racing, I set the swan next to her five sisters, poured myself a large glass of wine, and marveled at my bevy. The telephone rang, but I didn’t answer.

Later that day, I left my cold flat to see my friends at the park across the road. Helen was waiting for me in the hall.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Well, don’t you look dapper,” she replied. “Who is the lucky lady?”

I was wearing my warmest coat: a faded cagoule with a hole in the armpit. “Just going on a little walk.”

“Oh? Well, you know, my cousin is having a bit of a holiday get-together next week and…um…if you were interested, I—”

“I would love to, Helen. I really would, but, well, I’m keeping it low-key right now. I have a lot going on at work…and my mum is sick…” I wasn’t lying about Mum; she’d been sick for months. Cancer. Sam asked me to come home, to say goodbye, but I had my swans to look after. Mum would be fine.

Helen looked down at her shoes.

I continued, “I should really get going, but you have a great day, Helen. And thank you for the invitation. Maybe another time?”

They came right up to me, as usual; all my friends were there: Hank, Dee Dee, Chauncey, Belle, Mean Dean, Pickles, and Cher. They’re mean buggers to most people—they’ll nip and chase the kids—but they know I’m trustworthy. They know my face. I’ve even had one sit on my lap. Oh, not for very long, but still! A family took pictures of me as if I were a celebrity—the Swanmaster and the Queen’s birds. Sure, they were just seven average park swans, but they were elegant. Graceful. Mine.

As I watched my swans a-swimming, I thought about my glass flock—one day, when I was gone, they’d get dusty, and the light would struggle to shine through them. My chest felt tight.

Across the stream, two men wearing large parkas were watching my swans. They hadn’t noticed me. The larger of the two picked up a rock and chucked it at Chauncey. I stood and shouted.

“Hey, fucko!”

The two men looked over, but it was a hazy morning, so it was hard to make out their faces. The smaller of the men waved his hand as if to apologize for his friend, then they walked down the trail and out of sight. Nobody messes with my swans. Nobody.

That night, I had trouble sleeping. I walked over to the window and looked down at the street. I could see the park’s entrance beneath the streetlamp, and I wished it were daytime so I could visit my friends. I was thinking about Cher, who’d been looking thin and possibly sick, when I saw a figure moving across the street wearing a parka, heading in through the park’s entrance. I thought about going down, following them to see what they were up to, but instead, one by one, I lifted each glass swan up to a shaft of moonlight, letting the opulent hues bathe and replenish me.

The following day, I called out sick to work. Calling out ill had become a bad habit of mine—of this I was aware, and so was my employer—but my swans filled me up, and work did not.

My friends were happy to see me. I greeted them one by one, but when I looked around to say hello to Dee Dee, she was nowhere to be found.

“Where is our Dee Dee?” I asked my swans. They honked, and one of them, Mean Dean, walked off toward a small wooden bridge crossing the stream. I followed. As I approached the bridge, I could tell something was off; I saw Dee Dee’s white tail sticking out of the water, and she wasn’t moving. I pushed her gently with the tip of my shoe, and her body rolled over enough so that I could see she was dead. And if that weren’t tragic enough, one of her wings was missing. Dizzy with grief, I fell to my knees.

After some time, I lifted her body out of the stream, her limp neck draped over the side of my hands like a snow-covered rope, and carried her to the soft grass.

When I got home from the park, Helen was waiting in the hall, holding a small gift-wrapped box with a red bow on top of it. I was in no mood to talk; my eyes were dry from crying. I moved quickly through the hall and unlocked my door. “Late for a video call with my manager!” I said. “He’s a real bastard if I’m late—another time, perhaps?”

But Helen wasn’t having it; she placed the present in my hands, and said, “Happy Christmas! Expect biscuits tomorrow!”

With one last wave and a quick “Aww, you’re too sweet!” I slammed the door shut.

That night, thinking about Dee Dee, I couldn’t sleep. I got up and looked out the window just in time to see the same person in the parka crossing the road, entering the park. I ran to the cupboard to grab my torch, pulled on my jacket, and hurried to the lift. It wasn’t until I was outside that I realized I was still wearing my house shoes.

I ran across the road and into the park toward my swans, but when I got to the stream, it was too late: Mean Dean was dead, and like my precious Dee Dee, one of his wings was missing. I looked around for the murderer, but whoever had done it was nowhere to be found.

“Fuck you! You cowards!”

My swans swam down the moonlit stream away from my shouts.

The next morning, my brother phoned. Mum was dead. He gave the details, but I wasn’t listening. I was looking at my glass swans, turning them, and making them swim.

I packed a bag and left for Heath.

At Mum’s house, while the family ate triangle sandwiches and talked solemnly about this and that, I made my way to my mum’s bedroom to fetch her glass swan, but it wasn’t there. I ran my hand over the drab white wall where once I pretended to be the Swanmaster, and wept.

Later that week, when I returned home, I placed my luggage in the foyer and walked straight to the park to see my swans.

White bodies lined the stream bank. All of them decapitated—some missing feet, others their tails, or beaks. I didn’t cry this time; in some way, I expected this. Then I realized there were only four bodies.

Down the stream, Cher floated listlessly. When I approached her, she swam away from me. I squeezed my hands tight until my nails dug into my palms, and I felt blood seeping through my fingers. I would kill the person responsible for this.

“This came for you while you were away.” Helen dropped a small box into my hands. “It’s from someone named Sam. Same last name as you—your brother?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Well, thank you.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your mum. Let me cook you tea tonight. I’ll even fetch the napkins—”

“No. Thank you, but no. I’d like to be alone.”

“Okay,” she said in a quiet voice. “Did you open your gift yet?”

“Gift?”

“The present I gave to you. What did you think?”

“Oh! With all that’s been going on, I completely forgot. Sorry, Helen. I’ll open it tonight, I promise.”

My flat felt cold and dark, even with all of the lights on. My swans were dusty. I exhaled and opened the package from my brother, inside there was a note:

Found this behind the dresser. I know Mum would have wanted you to have it. Love, Sam.

Inside the package was my mum’s swan, the neck separated from its body. Sam hadn’t wrapped it very well, and it must have broken during transit. I walked into my bedroom, put a pillow up to my face, and screamed.

After dinner, I opened Helen’s present; it was a delicate, smokey-black swan. I stroked its beak and smiled. What a thoughtful gift, I thought. Perhaps I would let her cook for me. I took a knife from the block and shut off the light.

I stripped down to my underpants, crouching in the water beneath the wooden bridge. The knife in my hand felt good—it felt like a tool of justice. Cher was on the stream’s bank, and I could tell right away she was dead, but unlike her brothers and sisters, she was intact. All of my swans were gone. All of the light in my life: snuffed.

I heard footfalls coming down the path toward Cher’s body. I crouched low in the water, scooping up a handful of mud, spreading it diagonally from the right side of my forehead to the left side of my chin.

My body was starting to shake, but I didn’t feel cold. I lowered myself up to my neck and pushed along the bottom of the stream with my bare feet.

I heard them before I saw them, the teeth from the zipper on their parka coming undone, filling me with rage. But when the murderer came into view, my eyes widened as two wings unfurled. I gasped.

Helen stepped back, startled.

“It’s you,” she said. “Damn! I wanted it to be a surprise!” Helen waded to the center of the stream, holding her hand out to me, smiling.

My fingers curled around the knife’s handle; the blade wanted flesh. “Why did you kill my swans? W-w-why would you do such a thing?” Snow began to fall.

For a moment, her smile faltered, then her face relaxed, the smile returning with resolve. “I didn’t kill your swans, love. I am your swans.”

Snowflakes dissolved on my cheeks, running down the channels carved by my tears.

A blinding light clicked on, forcing me to shield my eyes; a bobby appeared behind Helen, shining his torch at us. “What’s going on here, then?”

With the backlight from the torch shining behind her, Helen looked just like one of my glass swans.

I dropped the knife into the water, took her hand in mine, and twirled her, watching the torchlight illuminate her outspread wings. Until this moment, I hadn’t realized her beauty. Her grace. Her brilliance. She was my swans—all of them! There was Dee Dee and Mean Dean. There was Pickles, Hank, Chauncey, and Belle. Their feathers trembled. Downy flakes fell with conviction, dusting her wings—their wings. She was as fragile and beautiful as glass, with an everlasting light, a light that filled me up totally and with such abundance that I squealed in delight.

Seven swans a-twirling. Oh, happy, happy Christmas.