Through the hot afternoon, even when insects crawled across his skin, Harrimiah remained like one dead. When night fell, the boy quietly climbed to his feet. He took his spear and circled the fig tree.
The Yara-ma-yha-who was asleep against the trunk. Harrimiah finished the creature with a single thrust of his spear. Then he went and knelt beside his brother.
Perindi was still alive. His eyes were open. When he opened his mouth to speak, he made soft mewling sounds like a baby. His skin was darker now, with a reddish tint.
Harrimiah scooped up the tiny Perindi. Clutching his brother to his chest, the boy fled across the moon-streaked desert. But as he ran, he felt the form in his arms changing. Perindi’s head was growing bigger, while his legs and arms seemed to be growing smaller.
Suddenly Harrimiah cried out as something stung his chest like bees. Looking down, he saw that his brother had pressed his small fingers against Harrimiah’s skin. The ends of those fingers had turned to suckers, as had his toes.
Harrimiah pulled the hands away from his skin with little poppling sounds. Then he tossed the thing onto the sand and began running for his life. He easily escaped, for the Yara-ma-yha-who cannot run very fast on their tiny legs. Harrimiah looked back only once, to see the creature his brother had become glaring furiously after him, red eyes blazing with hunger.
The Fata
(Italy)
One evening, three girls from a small town near Torino sat spinning. The moon was full, casting a curious bright light over everything. This started the two youngest, Maria and Stella, talking about ghosts and various strange creatures. As the spinning wheels whirred, they spoke of folletti, the little sprites that have magic powers and can cause nightmares or madness if angered.
“Stop talking such nonsense!” ordered the oldest girl, Barbarina. “There are no such things as folletti!”
“You shouldn’t talk that way,” warned Maria. “The folletti may hear and punish you.”
“I don’t believe in such things,” insisted Barbarina. “They’re just tales for grandmothers to tell by the fireside.”
“Well, I believe in them. The same as I believe in the fata,” said Stella. “She can live in the wood or the river or the sea. My brother is a sailor. He has seen the palace of Fata Alcina shimmering in the air above the Strait of Messina.”
“He saw a mirage. Or he imagined it,” said Barbarina with a sniff. “If it was real, why didn’t he pay a visit to the fata?”
“Oh, no!” cried Stella, “Any sailor who tries to reach her castle will be lost at sea.”
“I think I would like to meet a fata,” said Maria. “My grandmother—”
Here Barbarina just sighed and shook her head.
Maria ignored her and continued, “Granny knew a man who stopped to help an old woman carry a sack of kindling in the forest. Suddenly the old woman turned into a tall, beautiful lady dressed in white. The fata thanked him for his kindness, then vanished. When he looked in the sack, he found that the kindling had turned to gold coins.”
“Fairy tales!” exclaimed Barbarina.
“If I met a fata,” said Stella, “I would want her to give me great beauty.”
“You should ask for brains,” said Barbarina. “You both could use them more than gold or beauty, if you believe such nonsense.”
For a time, an angry silence settled over the room. There was just the sound of the three spinning wheels humming away.
At last, ignoring Barbarina, Maria said to Stella, “Certain people don’t want to hear things. But my granny says a fata lives in the big chestnut tree on the hill at the center of the forest.”
Stella looked out the window at the moon-drenched countryside. “I’m certain that if anyone were brave enough to go into the woods when the moon is as bright as it is tonight, that person would see the fata.”
“Just to show you how foolish you are,” said Barbarina, “I’ll go out there alone tonight and prove she doesn’t exist!”
Her friends were shocked.
“Don’t anger the fata,” Maria cautioned.
“If you displease her,” added Stella, “she’ll give you bad luck or worse.”
Barbarina picked up her sharp-pointed spindle. “I will leave this as proof that I have been there. You can see for yourself tomorrow, when daylight gives you courage.” Then out the door she went. Her friends called to her and begged her to come back, but she didn’t even turn around.
The other girls waited anxiously for her to return.
The morning came, but Barbarina did not.
Summoning some neighbors, Maria and Stella organized a search party.
They soon found the missing girl. Barbarina lay under the giant chestnut tree, with her spindle thrust through her heart.
The Fiddler
(British Isles—Wales)
Deep in the steep, rugged Welsh hills lies a certain cave. Its mouth is largely hidden by thick, rank grass and briars that grow undisturbed, tangling and strangling each other. For as long as anyone can remember, folks have said it is dangerous to approach within five paces of the opening.
Once, a fox with a pack of hounds in close pursuit ran straight for the entrance. Suddenly the fox turned right around, with its fur all bristling in terror, and ran back into the middle of the pack. The hunters later said it had struck them that, to the fox, anything earthly—even an earthly death—seemed preferable to the unearthly horrors of the cave. But the fox escaped, for not a dog would go near it. It was aglow with green, yellow, and blue lights, as though a swarm of will-o’-the-wisps were clinging to its fur.
Many years ago, there was a shepherd, Elias Ifan, who had a friend named Ned Pugh. Ned was a fiddler who earned his keep by playing at weddings and dances and other gatherings.
One evening Elias was sitting in the local tavern when Ned came in. He was in unusually high spirits, and paid for a round of drinks.
“Come into a bit of good fortune, have you?” asked Elias.
“That I have,” Ned agreed.
“And can you tell me the source of it?” asked Elias.
“That I cannot,” Ned told his friend. Shortly after this, he paid the barkeeper and went on his way. Elias saw a puzzled look on the barkeeper’s face. When he asked what was the matter, the man just showed him the coin the fiddler had paid him with. To Elias’s surprise, the coin proved to be solid gold, and ancient.
The next day, and the day after that, Ned spent more of the gold coins. But he refused to tell Elias where they had come from, and Elias grew more and more curious.
On All Hallows’ Eve, Elias was returning home in the misty twilight. His dog trotted beside him. By chance, he passed about a hundred yards from the haunted cave. Faintly he heard a fiddle playing a strange tune. Rounding a large boulder, Elias was startled to see Ned facing the cave’s mouth, his fiddle at his chest. As he played, he danced a jig, his legs moving tirelessly.
To his horror, Elias realized that Ned was within the fatal five paces of the cave. He shouted and shouted to the man until the rocks echoed around him, but Ned Pugh seemed perfectly deaf: He fiddled and danced away without a care.
Though he dreaded the cave, Elias could not leave his friend in such danger. He edged as near as he could, hoping to pull the fiddler away with his long shepherd’s crook.
But when he was almost near enough to reach his friend, Elias stopped and stared. Beyond the dancing man, the cave was ablaze with swirling and darting will-o’-the-wisps, glowing green, yellow, and blue. Amid the fairy lights, a company of tall men and women, clothed in elegant robes, danced to Ned’s music. They were watched over by a shadowy figure seated on a gold throne at the back of the cave. Though he couldn’t see the seated person clearly, Elias was suddenly transfixed with terror. He felt he could count every upright hair on the back of his dog, which crouched and quivered between his legs.
All the while, Ned fiddled and danced with his back to the shepherd.
With a great effort, Elias forced his fear-
stricken muscles to move, and he stretched out his crook to his friend. Hooking the sleeve of Ned’s jacket, Elias began to pull him to safety. Even as he was tugged away from the cave, Ned kept on playing and dancing his mad little jig.
Suddenly there was a howl from the cave. A blast of cold wind tore Elias’s cap from his head. His dog fled, but Elias found himself rooted to the spot.
Still Ned fiddled and capered. Behind him, the tall dancers had changed into hideous cavorting demons and imps. The shadowy figure on the throne was growing larger, revealing a misshapen body, and a swollen head from which two baleful red eyes burned into Elias’s own.
Desperately Elias gave a final tug on his crook. The motion swung the fiddler around, though it did not quite pull him out of the fatal zone.
With a groan, Elias saw that Ned’s face was as pale as marble, his eyes were staring as fixedly as one dead, and his head was dangling loose on his shoulders. He was still fiddling, but his arms kept the fiddlestick in motion without consciousness on Ned’s part. In the same way his legs were moving like a puppet’s, jerked by invisible strings.
The howling from the cave grew so loud that Elias, still frozen to the spot, dropped the crook and clapped his hands over his ears. At that moment, the dark figure inside the cave waved a hand grown huge and clawed.
The will-o’-the-wisps were extinguished. The cave became as black as the very mouth of Hades, save for two fiery eyes.
As the terrified shepherd watched, the fiddler’s body became thin and transparent. Still fiddling and capering, Ned Pugh was sucked into the cave in the same way that summer mist is drawn up by the rising sun.
In an instant he was gone, and with him, his music. The red eyes blinked out. Elias felt his legs buckle under him, dropping him to his knees. After a moment, he found he could stand up. Then he took off for home, never once looking back.
Ned Pugh was never seen again. But folks say that on All Hallows’ Eve a person with enough courage to approach the entrance of the cave will hear Ned playing. And on certain nights in leap year, they add, a watcher can even see him. Amid blazing will-o’-the-wisps and shadowy dancers, the wretched fiddler scrapes and capers—and may well go on dancing and fiddling for all eternity.
Land-Otter
(Native American—Tlingit tribe)
The Tlingit live on the northwest coast of America, relying on the sea to provide much of their food. One year, however, the halibut grew scarce. The people took their boats out every day, but their lines and nets turned up few fish.
A certain man and his wife built a little house for themselves far from the village of Silka, just out of reach of the high tides. They fished tirelessly, but the halibut seemed to be growing scarcer; the one or two small fish they caught in a week hardly kept them alive. The wife would go to the beach at low tide and look for crabs or shrimp in the pools among the rocks; but even so, the couple grew thinner and thinner.
One night the husband came home with only one little halibut in his big fishing basket. They were both very hungry and could have eaten ten fish each. Even so, the woman only put part of the halibut in the pot that stood on the fire; she hung the rest of it outside in a shed. “At least there will be something for us to eat tomorrow,” she said.
But when the morning came, the couple heard a strange noise in the shed, as if someone were throwing things around.
“What is that?” asked the wife. “Let’s go and see who has got into the shed.” But they found no one. Instead they discovered, to their surprise, the large, flat shapes of two devilfish on the floor.
“How did they come up from the beach?” the woman asked. “Someone must have carried them.”
“It doesn’t matter,” her husband said. “Whoever brought them was very kind. Now we have good bait to help us catch some halibut.”
But the woman, in a voice little more than a whisper, said, “I know who brought them here. Last night I had a dream about our son, who drowned last year. He said he knows how poor we are, and that he has taken pity on us. He told me that if I hear anyone whistle, I must call his name, Land-Otter.”
Then they put out to sea and baited their lines with pieces of the devilfish, and this time they caught two good-sized halibut. As soon as it grew dark, they rowed back and beached their canoe. The woman went inside and threw one of the halibut into the pot. At that moment, she heard a whistle behind the house, and her heart beat wildly.
“Come in, Land-Otter, my son,” she cried. “We have missed you these many months. Do not be afraid; there is no one here except your father and me.”
The whistle was repeated, but nobody entered. Then the man flung open the door and shouted, “Come in, my son! We are grateful for your help.” And though neither the man nor his wife saw Land-Otter enter the house, they turned and discovered him sitting opposite them, by the fire, with his hands over his face.
“Is this truly you?” they asked. Again he whistled in answer. Then the three sat in silence until midnight, when the young man made some sounds through his hands, as if he would speak. Shifting himself so that his parents could not see his face, he pointed to the door. Opening it, the husband discovered two more devilfish. When he turned back, his son had covered his face.
“In the morning we will go out,” Land-Otter said in a strange voice, as if speaking was difficult. Then he ran into the night. They saw his shadowy form racing toward the forest.
It was still dark when Land-Otter returned to the house and shook his father awake. “Get up, it is time to fish,” he said. So they fetched the line and dragged the canoe to the water’s edge. In the darkness, Land-Otter was only a dark shape. He seated himself at the front of the canoe. When his father was seated behind him, Land-Otter took a paddle and pulled so hard that they reached the feeding grounds of the halibut in a few minutes. After that, he baited the hooks and fastened the end of the line to the seat.
“Put the blanket over you,” he told his father, always keeping his face turned away. “Do not watch me.” But his father did watch him through a hole in the blanket. He saw his son get up very gently, so that the boat would not rock, and plunge into the sea. Secretly watching, he saw his son move swiftly through the water, catching halibut and placing them on the hooks. Then Land-Otter reboarded the canoe as carefully as he had left. But he kept his face turned away, though his father still had the blanket over him.
Land-Otter’s father pretended to be asleep. When his son shook him, he yawned and stretched like one newly awakened. Then, always keeping his face averted, Land-Otter helped his father pull in one big halibut after another. The canoe was soon full, and they paddled home.
But the moment they touched the shore, Land-Otter looked at the sky. “I must hurry to find shelter before the raven cries!” he exclaimed. Then he ran off to the woods, his hands shielding his face, while his father watched in surprise.
It took the couple all day to clean and salt the halibut so that they would always have something to eat. Darkness came before they finished. In the evening, they found their son in front of the fire, sitting with his back to them. The mother prepared a bowl of cooked fish and set it beside him, being careful not to look at his face. Land-Otter ate this eagerly.
So things continued for a week. Again and again, Land-Otter’s parents begged him not to go back to the woods to sleep. After a time, he stayed with them. But he always slept beside the fire with his back to them.
Every day, before it was light, he would wake his father. Then they would go out fishing and always return with their canoe full of fish. Soon they had great stores of food.
Sometimes the mother would go with them, because she loved fishing. But both husband and wife were careful never to look at their son’s face. Now Land-Otter let them watch him slip into the sea and harvest the halibut. But they turned away when he climbed back into the canoe.
Very soon, no longer fearing starvation, they packed up their store of food, put it in the canoe, and set off for Silka to return to their tribe
. Land-Otter, wrapped in a blanket, sat at the front, with his parents behind him.
But as they drew near the landing place at Silka, the woman whispered to her husband, “What is the matter with our son? I can only see the shadow of his hands on the paddles.”
Still the shadow-hands rowed steadily on. Land-Otter remained hunched under his blanket. Suddenly the blanket began to crumple as though Land-Otter had fainted. His anxious father grabbed the blanket and pulled it away.
At first they saw only a vague figure of mingled mist and shadow. The woman cried out, and the ghostly shape turned toward her. For a horrible moment the couple saw the drowned face of their son. His eyes were gone, his flesh had been picked nearly to the bone by fish, his long hair was tangled with the muck of the seabed.
Then he vanished. From the woods behind the village came the lonely cry of a raven, like a distant farewell.
A Fish Story
(United States—Virginia—African American traditional)
Long ago, down Virginia way, there was a young man, Aaron, who spent most of his Sundays with his fishing pole on the riverbank. He ignored the warnings of his family and friends and preacher, who told him it was bad luck to fish on the Sabbath.
“Fish ain’t gonna bite,” they warned him.
But Aaron caught strings of fish.
Then everyone told him, “Them fish gonna kill you if you eat ’em.”
But Aaron ate the fish and felt as strong and healthy as ever. Maybe stronger.
After that, a lot of young folks got the idea that fishing—or doing other things—on the Sabbath might not be unlucky after all. But the old people still said, “Bad luck gonna come that boy’s way sooner or later.” When the preacher scolded him for his wicked ways, Aaron only laughed and said, “Mebbe it’s time you got youse’f some new ideas. Don’t seem nothin’ bad gonna happen to me.”
“Just you wait,” the preacher warned.
A Terrifying Taste of Short & Shivery Page 2
