After Hours: Tales From Ur-Bar

by Joshua Palmatier; Patricia Bray

  Most women become ugly when they cry. Faces all scrunched up, noses dripping snot, eyes red-rimmed and swollen. Rona becomes more beautiful, dark eyes huge and liquid, pear-shaped breasts rising and falling with each sigh. And those sighs ... so soft and tremulous that it’s hard to choose whether to comfort her or tup her.

  Sure enough, my pintle peeks out, pink and perfect. I merely lick her arm again; I can be as gallant as Thomas if I’ve a mind to. Then I notice two of the Kerr brothers drifting our way. Hard to say which ones; they’re all big and bluff and red-haired.

  My lips curl back in a snarl. A growl rumbles in my chest. My fur rises.

  “There’s no cause for that,” one of them protests.

  “Gentlemen.”

  Hearing the edge in Gil’s voice, the Kerr brothers slink back to their table.

  “Horny bastards,” I mutter.

  “You’re no better.”

  I lower my tail, cringing. For a big man, Gil moves very quickly. One minute, he’s wiping a cup. The next, he’s towering over you, glowering. And since he’s a good eight to ten feet tall (his height seems to vary according to his mood), the towering glower is quite effective.

  He looks unusually tall at the moment, a sure indication he is displeased.

  “I didn’t do anything,” I whine.

  I’m forever whining and cringing around Gil. My canine aspects come to the fore when I’m nervous.

  As Gil continues to glower, I belly forward on the trestle table, ears folded back.

  “If it weren’t for Rona, I’d ban you from my place.”

  I roll onto my side to expose my groin, the ultimate act of submission.

  “Put your leg down and get back to your seat.”

  I edge backwards, quivering but relieved; the last time Gil reprimanded me, I’d pissed all over the table.

  Gil turns to Rona and offers one of his rare smiles. Her face lights up as if he had proffered her sealskin instead.

  “Evening, Rona. The usual?”

  “Thankee, Gil.”

  It’s been more than a sennight since she’s spoken to me. The mere sound of that soft, husky voice encourages my pintle to reassert itself. Gil shoots me a dark look, and it quickly retreats.

  “He couldn’t possibly have seen,” I grumble aloud.

  “Seen what?” Thomas asks.

  “Nothing. Thomas, did you ask the Queen about lifting the curse?”

  Thomas grimaces. “She became very wroth. Thought she’d turn me into a dog as well.”

  “It’s not fair. You’re always leaving and she adores you.”

  “I always ask permission. You just bolted.”

  “Because I suspected the bitch meant to sacrifice me to Hell as a tithe!”

  “Still, there are niceties to observe. Especially with faeries. You know how touchy they are.”

  I stare across the fire pit. The faeries are watching me, sniggering. Little beasts.

  “Perhaps if you came back with me,” Thomas suggests. “Begged her pardon. Humbled yourself.”

  “She’d likely turn me into a newt. No, it’ll have to be the elixir.”

  Thomas strokes his beard and surveys me, doubt writ plain on his face.

  “Maybe if you ask Gil,” I suggest.

  “Not after what happened last night. One of the Kerr boys made the mistake of asking for the elixir and Gil ... ejected him.”

  “Threw him out, you mean?”

  “I mean lifted him off the bench and hurled him through the doorway. I could hear his bones snap from here. Ah, wonderful!”

  At first, I think he means the Kerr boy’s snapping bones. Then I see Gil striding forward with two wooden plates in his hands.

  He places the lamb chop before Thomas and the herring before Rona. I wag my tail, but he simply walks away.

  Thomas—kind soul—slices off a piece of lamb for me and lays it on the table. Rona picks up the raw herring and rips the head off with her teeth. Her table manners are disgraceful. It is my only complaint about her. That and the endless weeping. And sighing. And staring seaward when I’m humping her leg.

  Thomas’ knife clatters onto the table. He stares intently at his plate.

  “Meat a bit overdone for your taste?” Ever since I became a dog, I prefer mine rare.

  His head comes up. He’s wearing that glazed “I feel a prophecy coming on” expression. He shoves back the bench, nearly unseating me, and rises.

  Another hush descends on the bothy.

  “Look to the sacred tree, for in its branches shall the magical fleece be found.”

  A long silence greets this pronouncement. Then Wallace shouts, “That was Jason and the bloody Argonauts, you great nit!”

  “Sorry! Sorry.” Thomas shakes his head and resumes his seat. “What were you saying? Ah, yes. The elixir.” He spears a chunk of lamb on the point of his knife. “Sorry, Tam. Don’t see much chance of that happening.”

  The lamb halts midway to Thomas’ mouth. He gasps. For the third time that evening, all conversation ceases.

  Gil walks towards us. The rushes crackle with each slow step. He cradles a chalice in his hands, the glint of bronze barely visible between his thick fingers.

  Around the trestle tables, mouths gape open like congregants about to receive the Host. My tail wags so violently that my hindquarters are jigging back and forth. I have to dig my claws into the wood to keep from tumbling off the bench.

  I hear Thomas murmur, “I’m frightfully off tonight.” No one else dares speak. It is so quiet I can hear Rona crunching herring bones.

  My tongue lolls out as Gil draws nearer. I cannot suppress a soft “woof.” The last time I will ever make that sound. Or walk on four legs. Or view the world from the level of a man’s knees.

  Gil halts in front of me. Then places the chalice before Rona.

  A collective sigh eases around the bothy. I barely hear it over my anguished howl. Gil’s eyes—the gray-green of the Tweed in spate—fix on me before returning to Rona.

  My howl must have startled her. Concern etches two small grooves between her dark brows. She strokes my head, her hand gentle. Only then does she look at the chalice.

  Fear of Gil is all that prevents me from leaping onto the table and plunging my muzzle into it. Rona’s fingers trace the patterns on the shallow bronze bowl, the short, curving neck, the conical base. A hesitant smile curves her lips. She glances up at Gil, then leans forward to sniff the brew. Her snub nose wrinkles.

  “Thankee, Gil. ‘Tis a lovely cup. But I’m not much for strong drink.”

  The incredulous gasps are still drifting skyward when she pushes the chalice towards me.

  “But, my dear,” Thomas says. “You don’t understand. One sip of that elixir and your most heartfelt wish—”

  He breaks off as I turn on him, snarling.

  I dare a glance at Gil. He is watching Rona.

  “Are you sure?” he asks.

  She nods and rips off a piece of the fishtail.

  Gils turns to me and I cringe, waiting for him to snatch the cup away. Instead, he shrugs.

  I cannot believe it. I’ve talked of little else for the last few months except the possibility of acquiring the elixir. Granted, Rona pays scant attention to my ramblings, her mind consumed by her desire to find her sealskin. But when she is offered the drink that would ensure that, she foolishly passes it to me.

  I laugh aloud at the irony. At my incredible good fortune. I forgive Rona for her inattention when I am humping her leg and vow that, when I am restored to my true form, I will give her the best swiving man ever gave woman.

  My laughter captures her attention. She ruffles my fur affectionately. Her smile—rarer even than Gil’s—fills me with warmth.

  And shame.

  The warmth settles in my groin. The shame niggles at my mind. I recall one of Janet’s annoying maxims: “If you thought more with your head and less with your cock, you’d be a better man.”

  Which is nonsense. I am like any other m
an, only more so.

  Can I fulfill Rona’s heartfelt desire without sacrificing mine? If I make two requests, I’m liable to get neither.

  In addition to being incredibly handsome, I am also exceptionally clever. If I choose the words carefully, I might succeed in gratifying the desires of both our hearts.

  I form sentences in my mind, adjust the phrasing, discard a few words and choose others. Wallace and the Bruce leave their corners and edge closer. Wallace raises his head between his hands for a better view.

  The tension in the bothy is palpable. So is my arousal.

  I concentrate hard, willing my errant pintle into submission. But the aroma from the chalice maddens me. Sweet honey and tangy beer. Strange spices that tickle my nostrils. Saliva fills my mouth. Images of my manly self fill my brain.

  I hastily mutter, “I wish to make Rona happy by becoming a man,” then scramble onto the trestle table, thrust my muzzle into the bowl, and frantically lap up the contents.

  My mouth burns. My eyes water. But I cannot stem my frenzy. No Israelite wandering the desert had a greater thirst, no man mounting a maid a greater desire. My tongue plunders the dregs, and I shudder at their bitterness.

  I’m not sure what to expect. Skin stretching uncomfortably? Bones creaking as they elongate? Instead, there is only a sickening wave of dizziness. I snap my jaws shut lest I vomit up the elixir. When the chalice melts into a puddle, I squeeze my eyes shut as well.

  Something tickles my nose, and I sneeze. I open my watering eyes to discover a dark veil obscuring my vision. At first, I think it is Rona’s hair, but when I shake my head, the veil moves. Only then do I realize that it is my hair, my thick, glorious waterfall of black. Between the wavy locks, I see two hands. Small, perfect, wonderful hands, fingers splayed atop the wood of the trestle table.

  I raise those trembling fingers to my face and discover the noble brow of legend. The long, feathery lashes that made women sigh. The boyishly smooth cheeks Janet stroked. The full lips that the Queen of Faerie called two pink rosebuds. The determined chin that lends strength to a visage that might otherwise be too beautiful for a man.

  The laughter that fills the bothy imbues me with love for my gracious comrades who can set aside their disappointment at being denied the elixir to share my delight.

  I shake the hair out of my eyes. Wipe away the tears obscuring my vision.

  That’s when I see the fur.

  Thick doggie fur, patched with black and white, covering my arms, my chest, my belly. I fall back on my haunches, only to discover they are haunches still, my legs short and crooked as a dog’s and ending in two large paws. Worst of all is the fast-wilting pintle that peeks out of my furry groin. It is still pink and perfect, but smaller than my thumb.

  My screams and curses fail to drown out the laughter. Thomas’ face betrays sympathy. Rona’s is streaked with tears. Gil’s is expressionless.

  “I wanted to become a man and you’ve turned me into a monster!”

  “Becoming a man is harder for some than for others,” Gil replies.

  Rona’s gaze sweeps the bothy, and the laughter subsides. She pushes back the bench and rises, then holds out her hand to me.

  “Come, Tam. Let’s go home.”

  I scramble off the table, claws scrabbling on wood, and land on my hands and paws. Rona has to help me rise. Even then, my crooked legs prevent me from walking out like a man. I have to totter, bent over, my gaze helplessly directed towards the nub of my once-proud pintle.

  How Janet would crow.

  I spend the Lord’s Day alternately lamenting my fate and banishing all thoughts of it with the whisky jug. Occasionally, I remember to pray.

  The following morning, Rona kneels before the wooden chest and begins extracting articles of clothing. The moths have feasted on my woolen hose, and the linen braies hang in rotted shreds, but the fine lawn shirt and doeskin tunic presented to me by the Queen look as if I had tucked them away yesterday. With a sigh, Rona pulls out her spare chemise and fetches her sewing kit.

  At midday, she holds up the loose-fitting braies for my inspection. In spite of my black despair, I have to admire her neat stitches.

  I slip the braies on and secure them with my belt, another gift from the Queen. There are three gaps among the gems studding its length; likely, I’ll have to wrest another free in order to purchase more garments to cover my shame.

  “I’ll go to the Clothmarket on the morrow,” Rona says as if reading my mind. “But now, we must go to the river.”

  I wipe my streaming nose and nod. It is the least I can do in return for her kindness.

  Our cottage is half a day’s walk from the nearest town, but I wait for Rona to wave me out the door lest some wayfarer or shepherd glimpse me in my newly monstrous condition. The isolation can be depressing, but it serves me well during the regular invasions of the English and shields me from the notice of the ecclesiastical authorities that undoubtedly would have ordered a talking dog strangled and burned at the stake.

  After years guarding the dark pinewoods of Carterhaugh, the open meadow around my cottage has always provided relief to eyes and spirit alike. Today, consumed by my misfortunes, the scarlet poppies and yellow buttercups seem gruesomely cheerful. Thistle stands knee high among the browning grass; I must swing my head from side to side to avoid scratching my nose.

  The languid air trembles with the hum of bees and the trills of pipits. Garbed in clothing and fur, I am wretchedly hot and heave a grateful sigh when we enter the small woodland. All too soon, the path emerges above the Tweed, a vista I can only enjoy by twisting my neck up and sideways.

  I hobble down to the river, rip off my clothing, and plunge into the cool water. I dare not linger long; the Tweed is a popular fishing spot. As I reluctantly don my garments, I watch Rona scouring the riverbank. I know I should join her, but my body aches from its unnatural contortions.

  I scramble up the bank and rest against the trunk of a towering beech tree. The stump of my tail makes the position uncomfortable and I must fling myself flat and stuff my tunic beneath my rump to achieve a modicum of ease.

  Late afternoon sunlight makes the leaves sparkle like the emeralds adorning my belt. The spreading branches carve out a mosaic of green, brown, and gold. The evershifting patterns lull me into drowsiness. I close my eyes and pray that the elixir stole my immortality along with any form recognizable to God. To live forever as a dog is curse enough; to spend eternity as a monster would be unbearable.

  A jay screeches, startling me into wakefulness. It pecks at a misshapen squirrel’s nest in the notch of the tree. Fragments of dead leaves drift onto me, and I shout irritably to drive the bird off. As I sweep the detritus away, my fingers brush something soft.

  I bring my hand close to my face and examine the tiny piece of fur. My mind refuses to believe what my fingers and eyes tell me.

  “Oh, Thomas!” I cry.

  He might have gotten the tree wrong, but the rest of his prophecy was accurate. I can only shake my head at the foolishness of searching the riverbank when the waters had raged high enough to flood the countryside for a mile.

  I open my mouth to call out to Rona, then close it again.

  If I were the young man I should be, I could easily scramble up the ladder of branches. In my present form, I must leap skyward, hands desperately scrabbling for the lowest branch while my back screams in protest. Twice I fall to the ground, jarring the breath from my body. The third time, my fingers close on the branch.

  I hang there, feet helplessly churning the air, vision failing along with my strength. I pray to God and the Blessed Virgin. To Margaret and Andrew and Columba, patron saints of Scotland. To Francis of Assisi, patron saint of animals. To Giles, patron saint of beggars and cripples. To Jude, patron saint of impossible causes. To Christopher who bore Our Lord across a river. I cannot remember the name of any saint who climbed trees.

  I swing my feet to the side and rake the trunk of the tree with my claws. They grip, hold
. I dig the claws of my left foot free, swing my leg over the branch, and leverage myself up until I am straddling it.

  My bollocks ache for all the wrong reasons.

  By this slow and arduous method, I finally come close enough to seize the dappled sealskin. I drape it around my neck and sink back upon my perch. It seems impossible that I am a mere fifteen feet above the earth. Surely, my exertions must have taken me to the very gates of Heaven.

  I hear a splash. Through the branches, I spy Rona’s head bobbing above the water. A salmon flops between her jaws. She slowly emerges, the lush curves of her body plainly visible beneath her chemise. Incredibly, given my recent ordeal, my pintle stiffens.

  She cannot see me. She cannot know that I have found her treasure. It would be easy to leave it in the notch. Or find a more accessible hiding place.

  Why should she get her wish when mine was denied? Why shouldn’t she remain with me, a lover to warm my nights, a companion to share my days? What other woman would have me now? Even the friendly bitches that guard the sheep will turn up their noses at me.

  Rona tosses the fish onto a rock and climbs the bank. No time now to clamber down. I can only shrink back against the trunk, hoping to remain hidden.

  She pauses when she reaches the tree, searching the landscape.

  “Tam?”

  She cups her long fingers around her mouth.

  “Tam?”

  She sucks at her thumb like a child. A third time, she calls.

  “Tam! Are you hurt?”

  It would have been kinder had she stabbed me through the heart.

  I stare down at her for a long moment, memorizing the sheen of her wet hair, the contours of her sweet, plump face, the worry in her sad eyes.

  Then I brandish her sealskin and call out, “I’m up here!”

  Our farewell is tender and tearful. She is generous enough to allow me to mount her. It frets me that my stubby pintle offers her so little pleasure, but I make up for this by employing my fingers and mouth to better effect.

  We wait until dusk to make our way back to the river, lest anyone observe her transformation. Even I am not permitted to watch. She ducks behind a boulder near the shoreline and emerges a few moments later. Only her eyes are the same, huge and dark and liquid. I kiss her whiskery snout and stroke her head, hoping to prolong the moment, but she trembles with the urgency to begin her voyage.