When I was a child I read cheap little books of adventures. I played pretend. Played at pirates. I longed to find a ship and sail off towards coral reefs and azure waters, but it was not to be. In the beast’s home I dress myself like a pirate queen, gold coins strewn upon the floor and a jeweled dagger at my waist.
I stopped playing when mother died, when I was six, but I can play in the beast’s den. Play pretend that I am a pirate captain and sometimes a maiden and sometimes a slick sea serpent.
I went back home one summer, foolish nostalgia clouding my thoughts. My father’s eyes were cold when he saw me, my sister’s face listless.
They disliked my finery. The little ring upon my third finger, the silver mirror and matching brush in my bag, the cut of my dresses and the sound of my voice, the words I used.
“I do not like the way you look at me, little girl,” he said. “The way you hold your head up.”
“Why shouldn’t I? Hold my head up, look you in the eye?” I asked.
My father said I’d grown proud and vain; I did not know my place.
He slapped me twice for good measure. Left bruises this time, which bloomed like roses upon my cheeks.
He said I would not be going back unless the gentleman paid more. He had been cheated. He’d gotten a rotten bargain.
I said “I must return.”
He said “Shut your mouth.”
He took the little ring resting on my third finger and the silver mirror. He sold them, sent a letter to the beast in the stone house and he wrote “If you want her you must pay.”
I said “It’s a beast that lives in the house of stone, behind the wall of ivy.”
“’Tis just a cripple, a deformed child that should have died in the womb,” he said.
I said nothing. He knew little of the world and my learning had surpassed his. I went to my room and sat upon the bed, listening to the patter of the summer rain against the window. I’d feared him once, but I’d been a child then. A child who wanted to play at pirates and sail the high seas. I’d learnt there be monsters, but not at the edges of maps.
Near midnight I heard a scream. Only one. Then only weak murmurings.
I stood up and walked out of the room, past the overturned furniture and the carpet stained in crimson. Towards the pale beast, hunched upon a man. It was no pretty pretty sight, the creature wrapped around him like an albino eel, wrapped so tight, eating, devouring him bit by bit. And the man a pulpy bit of flesh without features. The beast has chewed his nose and lips, and was now savaging his hands, eating each finger like a bonbon.
“Hush, my pretty,” I told my father, stroking his hair, which was matted in blood. “Hush now.”
Then I touched the beast’s shoulder and pulled him from the man. The rain had turned into a drizzle which washed away the blood and together we walked back to the old house of stone with its walls of ivy.
The kiss does not transform him. The scales do not wash off from his body, the smell of brine clings to his clothes. The teeth remain, pointed and sharp, like the maw of a dangerous tropical fish or a shark. Tiny little teeth, white, serrated, in his smiling mouth.
They get details wrong in the telling.
Of course they do.
The Little Yellow Bear paused and sniffed the cool night air. Up until now, the trail wound through quiet meadows and gently sloping hills where visibility was high and the likelihood of an ambush low. But he was approaching the edge of the Wood, where strange things had taken up residence since the night of that terrible storm. That was the night everything changed. He would have to be careful at this point. Though the sun wasn’t down yet and they didn’t seem to like the daylight so much, he had no reason to believe he wasn’t being watched.
It seemed strange to feel such agitation in a place where he’d spent so many happy years. Every day had seemed like an adventure where anything was possible. There had been some close calls, but things were always sorted out by supper time. Sometimes a lesson was learned, sometimes it wasn’t; it didn’t matter. Each night he went to bed content, his tummy happily digesting a king’s ransom in honey as he sleepily anticipated whatever pleasant diversions the next day might bring.
Then the storm came and everything changed. How was it possible that, in the space of mere days, the only life he’d ever known had been relegated to that far off kingdom of Long Ago, becoming something dimly remembered during those brief and scattered pauses in the strangeness of his new reality?
The sun hung low and the sky was already starting to take on the angry red hue of twilight. The zoogs would be coming out soon. The Little Yellow Bear wondered if they were already about. He could practically feel the weight of staring eyes that glittered like gemstones gazing hungrily at him from out of the leafy shadows. No proper eyes for a furry creature, they belonged on insects. No, that wasn’t right. They belonged on something from another world. There was nothing recognizable in them. He shuddered to think of what those eyes had seen.
The Little Yellow Bear contemplated bedding down where he stood. Granted, he was out in the open, but at least he had a good view of his surroundings. Traveling through the Wood at night was a far riskier proposition. It was their place now. Besides, it had taken him hours to pull the sled this far and his burden wasn’t getting any lighter. He resisted the urge to look back for fear his heart would break at the sight of what lay beneath the tattered blanket serving as a shroud. The Clever Rabbit was gone. So was the Wise Owl. With the possible exception of the Curious Tiger, they were all gone. Now only the Little Yellow Bear remained. Who could have imagined it would end like this?
The Little Yellow Bear tightened his grip on the makeshift spear he’d cobbled together from a carving knife, the walking stick for which the Clever Rabbit certainly had no more use, and a bit of twine. Small and crude, it worked well enough. It had certainly given that shantak something to think about. A smile flickered across the Little Yellow Bear’s face but vanished just as quick. With a little help, he’d managed to take care of the shantak. By then, the Clever Rabbit was already dead and the Gentle Pig was soon to follow.
The Little Yellow Bear decided the meadow was his best bet. He began gathering kindling and stones for a campfire. Tonight’s meal would consist of the remaining leftovers from the picnic, the last picnic they’d ever have together. His tummy began to rumble as he lit a match and dropped it into the kindling. The Little Yellow Bear would have killed for some honey. Literally.
Hours later, the Little Yellow Bear laid down his book, a strange tale of a strange journey and all that remained of the Wise Owl’s once grand library, and gazed into the fire. Sleep was out of the question. He wasn’t sure how close the zoogs were willing to come to the fire, and he didn’t feel like taking any chances.
Savage little creatures, those zoogs. Almost cute, the first time you see them. Then they look at you with those terrible, glittering eyes and a grin slowly creeps across their face, showing you what a piranha would look like if it could smile.
What a strange turn of events it had been, the Little Yellow Bear mused. And to think it had started on the day after the Fair-Haired Boy’s going away party.
The Fair-Haired Boy was their friend from beyond the Hundred Acre Wood, where the Forest grew thick and gave way to the unknown. Inquisitive and generous, he had shared many of their adventures and his youthful insights had even saved the day more than once. They were all quite fond of the Fair-Haired Boy; even the Clever Rabbit, who could be cross with his own shadow. And so, after learning he must leave them soon, they spent the morning preparing a surprise farewell picnic in the shade of a small stand of pine trees. The Clever Rabbit, who bragged about many things and was actually quite good at a few, had fixed a fine meal and prepared a three-tiered carrot cake covered in a delicious vanilla frosting. The Little Yellow Bear, the Gentle Pig, and the Curious Tiger hung streamers and a large, hand-painted banner between the pine trees. The Wise Old Owl oversaw the whole thing, giving orders and dispensing a
dvice whether it was asked for or not. Even the Melancholy Donkey’s admonitions seemed half-hearted; like the rest, he awaited the Fair-Haired Boy’s arrival with some anticipation.
Hours passed. As the sun crawled across the sky, the shadows lengthened until they were appropriated by the deeper darkness of the approaching night. As the moon rose, it was silently acknowledged among the friends that the Fair-Haired Boy wasn’t coming. One by one, the guests bid their adieus and, agreeing to return the next day for clean-up, departed. The Little Yellow Bear and the Gentle Pig were the last to go. After seeing his timid friend safely home, the Little Yellow Bear walked back to the picnic site for one last glance. He wanted to be sure the Fair-Haired Boy hadn’t shown up at the absolute last minute. Lit by the moon’s pale glow, the deserted picnic presented a ghostly sight.
The Little Yellow Bear had always been fond of the moon. It was like an old friend whose visits were clockwork, yet whose appearance still seemed a pleasant surprise. He looked up into the night sky, rubbed his eyes, and looked again. The moon seemed…bigger. For as long as he could remember, it had been content to simply look down and smile as it hung in the sky. Now it seemed to loom, its familiar smile twisted into a lecherous grin. A shadow crawled across its surface, perhaps cast by something drifting through the vast, lonely spaces between earth and sky. If the Little Yellow Bear didn’t know better, he would have sworn it was a ship, a ragged-sailed schooner adrift on an ocean of night.
That night, a terrible storm descended on the forest. It tore through the Wood like a rampaging beast, uprooting trees and howling its fury at the leering moon. Incomprehensible save in its malignancy, the storm raged like a living thing. Each lightning bolt was a snarl of defiance, each gust of wind a cry of impotent fury.
The Little Yellow Bear huddled beneath the covers. He could only imagine what the Gentle Pig was going through. It had already been late when he walked him home. He chastised himself for not inviting his friend to sleep over. A tiny little thing, the Gentle Pig could have comfortably stretched out on his couch. But hindsight was 20/20, except, of course, in the Melancholy Donkey’s case. His hindsight was 20/40.
The next morning, the friends gathered to assess the damage. Blown to who knew where, no sign of the picnic remained. The stand of pine trees which had overseen so many picnics lay broken and scattered. Old and steady as the seasons, the storm’s fury had reduced them to kindling. Trees or not, it seemed strange to imagine life without them.
The Little Yellow Bear was walking toward the edge of the clearing when he noticed a dark blur against the green curtain of the forest. A Black Goat was on the far side of the clearing, standing just outside the tree line and watching them intently. It stood on all fours, like a proper goat, but the tight focus of its gaze implied an intellectual intensity beyond the mild curiosity of a dumb beast. The Little Yellow Bear shivered. He had always found the eyes of goats to be equal parts fascinating and unnerving.
The Little Yellow Bear turned toward the Gentle Pig. “Do you see that?”
The Gentle Pig scanned the tree line. “See what?”
The Little Yellow Bear started to point but, when he looked back, the Black Goat was gone.
“Nothing,” he said. “Never mind.”
“Well, at least we won’t have to clean up the picnic,” the Curious Tiger offered. He always tried to see the positive in things.
“There’s more to this storm than meets the eye,” the Wise Owl observed. Everybody nodded in agreement, though no one knew what he meant.
“What does he mean?” the Gentle Pig whispered to the Little Yellow Bear.
The Little Yellow Bear patted his friend on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. No one ever knows what the Wise Owl’s talking about, sometimes not even him. We’ll all find out together.”
And they did. Hours later, the Curious Tiger came bounding into the clearing in front of the Wise Owl’s house where the friends had gathered for afternoon tea.
“I’ve found something! I’ve found something!” Someone whose trousers had spontaneously burst into flames wouldn’t have moved with more vigor, but the Curious Tiger’s excitement was hardly contagious. His friends had long grown accustomed to his antics. To him, every leaf was a curiosity, every shadow a spy, every dawn the start of a new adventure.
The Wise Owl’s gray-blue feathers ruffled and spread out like a fan, making him seem one-and-a-half times his true size. “Get hold of yourself, you silly cat! What are you going on about?”
“I was on my way to visit the Melancholy Donkey down by the bog when I came across…I came across…” He was breathless and therefore speechless, truly a momentous occasion.
“Yes?” the Clever Rabbit prompted. “What did you come across?”
“A bridge is something you cross,” the Little Yellow Bear volunteered.
“Was it a bridge?” the Gentle Pig asked. “Is that what you came across?”
“Technically, you would use the bridge to cross something else,” the Wise Owl said. “For example, a river, a stream-”
“A trapdoor!” the Curious Tiger exclaimed. “It was just sitting there on the edge of the bog!”
“Well, I hardly see how a trapdoor could sit,” harrumphed the Clever Rabbit. “It hasn’t got a proper bottom.”
“I’m sure he means lying,” the Little Yellow Bear offered. Sometimes, he wished the Clever Rabbit wouldn’t take everything quite so literally.
The Curious Tiger looked at him indignantly. “I’m not lying!”
“That’s not what I meant,” the Little Yellow Bear protested.
The Wise Owl held up a wing. “Enough. Let us see this alleged trapdoor.”
An hour-and-a-half later, which was how long it took the Clever Rabbit to prepare a picnic basket for them to enjoy on the way, they set off for the soggy, perpetually overcast bog where the Melancholy Donkey made his home. The Little Yellow Bear sometimes wondered if it was where the donkey resided that made him melancholy, or if, somehow, it was the donkey that made the land drab and inhospitable by virtue of his mere presence. It was a well-established fact that the Melancholy Donkey had the dubious ability to sadify everyone and everything around him. Six of one, a half-dozen of the other, he supposed.
“Does it seem like we’ve been walking an awfully long time?” the Clever Rabbit asked.
Heads nodded in agreement. What should have taken no more than an hour was stretching into two, as if the distance to the bog had doubled or even tripled, since the Curious Tiger had shown up with news of the phantom trapdoor.
Mentally composing a song about the seventy greater virtues of honey, the Little Yellow Bear was happily humming away when he felt a tug at his sleeve.
“Do you hear that?” the Gentle Pig asked.
The Little Yellow Bear listened for a moment then shook his head. “I don’t hear anything.”
The Gentle Pig nodded. “Right. No insects, no birds calling. Nothing.”
“Ah,” said the Little Yellow Bear. Setting the song aside, he paid close attention to the Wood the rest of the way.
The trapdoor was exactly where the Curious Tiger said it would be. The Melancholy Donkey was there as well.
“I don’t suppose you came all this way just to visit me?” the Melancholy Donkey asked. Despite the heavy heaping of sarcasm, a sliver of hope that they had in fact come to visit him slipped through.
“Of course!” said the Little Yellow Bear. “But we thought that while we were in the neighborhood-”
“Right.” The Melancholy Donkey wandered off, but not very far.
The Clever Rabbit tapped the trapdoor with his walking stick, as if to verify it was real. “So this is it? Curious, indeed.”
The thing was ancient, that much was obvious. It oozed history. The trapdoor consisted of eight wide planks, each thick as a man’s fist, made from a wood that apparently grew stronger with age. The planks were held together by thick iron bands, brown with rust which all but obliterated the curlicue letters or symbo
ls that had been etched into them long ago. It could be opened by a large iron ring bolted to the middle planks. On one end, two large hinges held the thing firmly bolted to the massive stone frame on which the trapdoor sat
The Clever Rabbit looked at the Wise Owl. “What do you make of this, then?” he asked, a hint of challenge in his voice.
After a moment, the Wise Owl registered the silence, glanced around, and realized he was the epicenter of a ring of expectant stares. He sighed and cleared his throat. “Well, empirical evidence would seem to indicate it’s…a trapdoor.”
The Little Yellow Bear and the Gentle Pig exchanged glances.
“Brought here by the storm, perhaps?” the Gentle Pig asked.
The Wise Owl shook his regal head. “A reasonable theory, but one that falls apart under scrutiny. Note how the earth around it is smooth and undisturbed, though the thing itself is half-submerged in the soil. The frame was sunk into the ground by time and/or design, not a sudden, savage impact. This would imply the trapdoor has rested on this spot for ages.” It was the shortest and most concise answer the Wise Owl had given in a very long time.
“Then why didn’t we notice it before?” the Curious Tiger asked.
Again, everyone looked at the Wise Owl.
“Don’t look at me!” he cried, his feathers puffed in exasperation. “I’m not the one who lives in this gloomy place.”
All eyes shifted to the Melancholy Donkey.
“What?” he asked defensively.
“Maybe we’re both right,” the Gentle Pig said thoughtfully, but so softly that only the Little Yellow Bear heard him.
“What we have here is a mystery,” the Curious Tiger declared, “and there’s only one solution for mysteries! Who’s with me?”
The friends looked at each other, looked at the trapdoor, looked anywhere but at the Curious Tiger.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” the Clever Rabbit finally said. “You have no idea where it leads. For all we know, there’s nothing but dirt on the other side.”
A Mythos Grimmly Page 35
