Emma and the Banderwigh

by Matthew S. Cox

  “Oi, careful, girl. Donnae get too close to that. Is Satyrsroot, will make ya sicker’n a mule in the rain.”

  She shot Marsten a confused look, letting her weight back onto her heels. “How sick is a mule in the rain?”

  He huffed. The sudden blast of air made his wispy, white moustache jump. “Just a figure of speech, girl. That stuf’ll make a woman sick. Probably kill a little’un for sniffin it.”

  “You’re lying.” Emma walked up to the counter. “You want to scare me away from touching things. Mama makes tea with it for Da sometimes.”

  Marsten turned bright red and coughed. She cringed from the awfulness of his dry, wheezing chuckle.

  “Aye. Should’a figured you’d know an ‘erb or two. What’s yer mum need?”

  “There’s a list.” She reached up and set the pouch on the eye-level counter. “In there. With money.”

  Marsten upended the pouch, spilling copper coins and a few silver bits onto the wood with a clatter. Emma covered her nose with both hands in an effort to tolerate the overwhelming mixture of scents in the air. He plucked a strip of paper from the coins and pressed it flat, lifting his head to stare down his nose at the writing. She tapped her foot, waiting while he ticked through the money, glancing at the list every few coins.

  “Aye. Be just a moment.”

  She folded her arms and nibbled at the last half of the sweet roll. There was no tasting it in here, so powerful was the stink. A twinge of guilt made her stop; Kimber needed it more than she did. Marsten shuffled about behind the counter, gathering the supplies her mother had requested. Emma kicked at the floor, shifted her weight back and forth, and swiped her foot to draw arcs in the dust.

  In the corner, where the counter met the wall to the left, a large wooden drawer held a number of mushrooms that caught her eye. Wide, flat tops ranging from eight to ten inches across sparkled in the weak light. Some were beige, others golden, and one bright orange with a white middle. Their stalks were almost a foot in length, causing them to droop over the front. Emma crept up to the bin. Wide-eyed, she reached to touch one with unsteady fingers, curious, but afraid of being yelled at.

  When the tip of her finger was an inch from contact, Marsten let his weight fall on the counter above her with a heavy slam. Emma recoiled from the bin and pulled her arms to her chest, a gasp shy of screaming. He stooped over and leaned on his elbows. At the sight of the old man’s grin at startling her, she scowled.

  “Pretty, aren’t they?”

  “You could have asked me not to touch them. You didn’t need to be mean.”

  “Oh, the look on your face.” Marsten laughed himself coughing. “Your Mum’s goin’ to be cross with me, but it was worth it. Did she teach you what those are?”

  She shifted to look at them once more, making a series of faces. “Mushrooms?”

  “Well, in general terms, yes. Do you know what they’re called?”

  “Big mushrooms?” She poked one. Firm, dry, springy. “Flat-headed orangecap?”

  “Creative, but not quite.” He stood up. “Those are Faerie’s Throne.”

  “There’s no such thing as faeries.”

  “They use ‘em as chairs out in the woods. Sleepin’ on ‘em, takin’ breaks from their endless days of playing. Sometimes they even”―he coughed―“uhh, dance on them.”

  “I’m too old to believe in that silliness. It’s for little kids.”

  “And old Nans.” He winked.

  “They’re just stories.”

  A clamor at the door announced the arrival of a man burdened with packs and bundles. She glanced at him in passing, paying him little mind as he trudged up to the counter, clattering and bumping bins. Something he carried stank worse than the herbs, causing her to lean into the shelf behind her. He struggled, shrugging weight off his back. The largest cloth bundle over his shoulder came undone from the sharp motion. Bright green spilled out from it, flying toward her. A spider with a body bigger than Emma and legs that spanned six feet to either side collapsed to the floor. The most ghastly smell of rot blew past her nose, making her long for the reek of herbs.

  She screamed, and wedged herself against the wall as the beast landed, looking right at her. Eight milky white eyes, resembling wads of spun spidersilk, stared lifeless from a face six inches away from her foot. Emerald hairs covered the beast, matted with goop from an obviously fatal wound. Nightmares flashed through Emma’s mind, memories of a dozen horrible dreams caused by the sight of one of these creatures lashed to a wagon.

  Her gaze shot left and right. Its legs had fallen around her like a spilled wagon of fire logs, trapping her in the corner. She couldn’t go either way without touching one to move it. Trembling, she clutched her arms to her chest, unable to stop staring at its eight dead eyes. Any second now, it would come back to life and eat her.

  “Got a fair wad of silk,” said the man, ignoring her imminent death. He dug a shimmery pearl-white wad from his pouch, about the size of Tam’s head. “Nabbed a trophy as well, biggest one I’ve ever seen.”

  Emma tried to force herself through the wooden wall to get away from it. She managed to break eye contact with it and stared, pleading, up at Marsten. He was busy plucking a strand of thread away from the wad. He held the fiber, as thick as twine, up to the light and studied it for a moment before setting it down. Emma whined and fidgeted, but neither man noticed. He flashed a broad smile and sifted through another pack the trader had dropped on the counter. The spider’s left foreleg slipped forward two inches, sending her up on tiptoe with a brief, high-pitched squeal.

  The visitor shook his head at her. “Nothing to be ‘fraid of, child. It’s already dead.” He jostled its rear end with his boot, making the mouthparts wave at her.

  Eyes closed, she tried to push the memories away. How many times had she woken in the middle of the night bawling? She remembered Mother’s sleepy reassurances that she was safe at home. Emma whispered to herself, the same words her mother had used.

  “Shh, Em. It was just a dream. There are no spiders.”

  “Is this all you could get?” grumbled Marsten. “I’m willin’ to offer forty kingscoin for this, but I have half the traders in Calebrin wantin’ more.”

  A scrape made Emma’s eyes snap open, fearing it had returned to life. The creature had shifted, slumping further to the ground. Pale green ichor leaked out of its front end, threading toward her unprotected feet. Her chest felt tight. She couldn’t breathe. All she had to do was kick a spider leg out of the way, a spider leg as thick around as her own. She raised her foot, trying to step over it without touching. Rigid bristles scratched at her calf. Emma emitted a faint squeal and recoiled into the corner, shivering.

  Neither man moved.

  “The damnable things are getting more aggressive. They got Finlay.” The trader bowed his head. “I never even saw where he went. One minute he’s at my side with his bow ready, then I hear a shot and turn, and he’s just… gone.”

  “So,” said Marsten, palms flat on the counter, “does this mean you’ll not be hunting for more?”

  “I reckon it might be a while, but I’m willing to go back. Need to find some men to help first. I’ve no interest in attempting it with less than six blades behind me.”

  “Hey.” Marsten tapped the counter twice. “Mind movin’ the critter. Can’t ya see it’s scarin’ the child?”

  “It’s dead.”

  “Would ya, look at ‘er?” Marsten gestured at Emma. “Me sis was the same way with spiders. She’d be climbin’ the walls to get away from a wee one. That thing would’a killed her from fright.”

  The visitor hauled the corpse from the corner, bundling the legs and tying them with twine. As soon as the leg was out of her way, Emma darted along the wall and hid among the shelves. She held onto a box full of metallic blue Shimmerweed while trying to remember how to breathe. Conversation between the men murmured in the distance; she did not care to listen in. Panic faded, and she went limp on her feet, forehead to t
he wooden bin as she focused on long in and out breaths for a few minutes.

  “Em?” yelled Marsten. “Are you alright, girl?”

  She peered around the edge of the row, one eye, four fingers, and five toes visible to the man behind the counter. When she saw no trace of the trader, or anything resembling an enormous spider, she approached.

  “I don’t like those things.”

  “Aye. I’d not want to meet one alive either, and I’m too fat to be carted off by ‘em.”

  Emma glared at him, aghast he would say such a thing. Now she was sure tonight would bring a nightmare of being wrapped in silk and carried away into the woods. If she wasn’t so terrified at the thought, she’d have been angry.

  “Here’s your mum’s order.” He reached down, handing her a burlap bundle.

  “Thank you, Mister Marsten.”

  She retrieved the dust-covered half of a sweet roll from the corner where she had dropped it. No amount of puffing on it made it look appetizing anymore. Not even Kimber would want it now. Well, maybe Kimber would, but she couldn’t let the girl eat dust. When she got outside, she tossed it to some birds pecking at the road. Emma gave herself a once-over, wiping evidence of her terror off her cheeks and putting on her usual stoic face. She twisted left and right to check her dress, and almost fainted at the sight of a few emerald hairs stuck like quills in her right calf.

  “Marsten!” she cried, limping through the door. “It got me!”

  Despite feeling no real pain, she moved as if her entire leg had gone numb. Marsten lifted a section of hinged counter and shuffled over.

  “What happened, Emma?”

  She turned, showing off the back of her leg and whining.

  He suppressed the urge to laugh and scooped her up by a hand in each armpit. After carrying her to the counter, he set her down and held her leg up by the ankle.

  “Them critters have stiff hairs. When somethin’ scares em, they throw ‘em like daggers.”

  Emma huffed and sniveled. “Are they poisoned?”

  “No. Just sharp.” He grasped each one in turn and gingerly worked them loose. “And barbed.”

  “Barbed?” Emma’s knuckles whitened on the counter.

  “The way they’re shaped, they stick in easy, but tear on the way out. Too small to see.” He held up the removed bristle. “Rub your finger over the top.”

  It took a minute of staring, but Emma gathered the courage to set one finger on it. Sliding left felt like a smooth knitting needle. Sliding right seemed more like a nail file. She pulled her hand back.

  Marsten knelt, pushing her foot up higher and easing the last two hairs out one at a time. He rubbed her calf afterward, smiling, and let her leg down.

  “There ya are. Only but a wee stab. They dinnae go in far enough to do much. Hardly grazed ya.”

  “It hurts,” she whined.

  The pudgy apothecary struggled upright off his knee, gasped for breath, and meandered to a nearby bin. He took a small green leaf, crushed it, and rubbed the fragments around her leg. The area went numb and tingly.

  “There. Good as new.”

  “Thank you.”

  He helped her down and handed her back her mother’s order. “Go on now, Em. Your mum’ll be worried if you take too long.”

  Emma waved and ran for the door.

  mma guarded her bundle of dead plants as though all the bandits in Widowswood wanted to take it from her. Clinging to it made her think of Mother, and not of enormous spiders with fangs the size of daggers waiting in every gap between buildings. She smiled at the man who gave her the roll, and walked dutifully through the square on the most direct path home.

  A few of the town watch greeted her; any close enough to touch her invariably patted her on the head. Every one of them asked what had scared her, and she told the story of the huge spider four times. Father was their superior, and she felt grateful they all looked after her. The Village of Widowswood was somewhere between a huge hamlet and a small town, and everyone knew the daughter of Guard Captain Dalen.

  She frowned, unable to get rid of the worry something bad would happen to her leg for having spider-hairs stuck in it. Despite seeing nothing wrong, she could not put a feeling of discomfort out of her thoughts and paused every few steps to rub the spot.

  A high-pitched shriek made her look up during one such pause. When the voice screamed again, she recognized it―Kimber.

  Caution to the wind, Emma sprinted along an ever-narrowing street that went into the north part of town, where the poor congregated. An incoherent man reached for her from where he had fallen against a hovel, babbling in a drunken stupor about copper bits. She paid him no mind, running faster when she heard the scream again.

  No one else seemed to notice the commotion occurring in the fenced-in dirt lot by a pathetic wooden shed. Kimber, hair wild and full of thistles, positioned herself on the far side of a horse trough. Arms held out to her sides, she trembled like a beaten dog, eyes locked on the wretched figure of a thin, wasted man who towered over her. The girl’s dress had ripped, exposing one shoulder and a new bruise.

  A round bottle with a thin neck in the man’s left hand sloshed as he used that arm to point at her. “Fink you kin sic the guard on me? Ungrateful little brat!”

  He lunged to the left around the trough; Kimber went the other way, evading a grab as she used the barrier to keep her distance.

  “Pa, I dinnae! No’ me!”

  Emma squeezed her bundle. Her fear of old man Drinn rooted her in place, while guilt at being responsible for Guard Kavan paying him a visit prodded her in the back. Kimber jumped right as her father faked left. He pounced and snatched a fistful of her hair. She wailed as he hauled her across the yard and sat on a stool by the shack’s door. Kimber screamed, pleading as he pulled her over his knee and tugged at her dress. She kicked and clamped onto her tattered garment, trying to delay the beating as much as she could.

  “Ungrateful little whelp!” He yanked at the fabric. “Can’t find any decent apples, so you lie to the guards?”

  “Stop!” Emma yelled. She ran up to the gate. The house was smaller than Nan’s bedroom. “Don’t hit her!”

  Kimber’s father squinted at the new voice intruding on his world. His left eye did not seem capable of opening more than a narrow slit, while his right looked ready to fall out of his head. He was as starved-looking as his daughter, and almost as pale. Kimber lapsed into sobs as he ceased trying to pull her dress up.

  Old Man Drinn stared, awestruck, at Emma. “Who d’you think you are talkin’ ta me like that?”

  “I sent the guard. It wasn’t Kimber’s fault. Let her go!”

  “Is that right?” He stood, carrying the weeping redhead over to the trough.

  The way he held her, head down, made Emma afraid he was going to dunk Kimber under and drown her. Emma dropped the herbs and shoved through the gate.

  “Been a month since your last bath, child.” He dangled her over the water, shaking her. “Best do a right lot of sellin’ today, mebbe I’ll forget it’s time to―”

  Emma swiped a rotten apple off the ground and hurled it. The foul missile splattered over the back of the old man’s head. He yelled in surprise, losing his grip on the flailing girl. Kimber fell face-first into the filthy water. She surfaced seconds later and sloshed to the far side, shivering. Emma stood defiant, another apple in her hand ready to throw.

  “If you don’t stop hitting her, I’ll send the watch again. You’ve no right to be so mean. Kimber’s only a child. You should be the one earning money.”

  He wiped a hand over the back of his head, studying the ill-smelling brown smear. From the look on his face, it seemed he wasn’t sure if he had spoiled fruit or brains on his fingers. He licked it and spat, setting his bottle on the stool. Shaking, he pointed a thick, yellowing fingernail at her.

  “Too mean, huh?” Old Man Drinn stalked at Emma, reaching. “I’ll show ya mean.”

  “Papa, donnae do it!” screamed Kimber.


  He rounded on her with a glare that made her cry and duck half underwater. Emma hit him between the shoulders with another rotten apple.

  “Leave her alone!”

  Drinn went still for a few seconds, turning about with a growing sneer. His one wider eye narrowed to match the other side, his upper lip twitching. The glare he levelled at Emma made her freeze in place.

  Seconds passed, the stillness broken only by the lapping of water in the horse trough and Kimber’s sniveling.

  Emma drew a breath to speak, but before she could think of what to say, Old Man Drinn let off a roar like an animal and ran at her. She ducked under a punch and darted around him. He got a hand on her long hair, yanking her over backwards onto the ground. She grabbed at the back of her head with both arms, screaming as he dragged her close and grabbed a fistful of her dress with his left hand. He leaned down hard, crushing her into the ground and forcing a wheeze out of her.

  “Papa! No!” Kimber clutched the edge of the trough, casting hopeful glances at the street, seeming terrified of what would happen to her if she screamed for the guards.

  “Little brat!” He slapped Emma back and forth across the face and drew his hand high, this time making a fist. Breath laced with the sweet stink of faeberry brandy made her eyes water more than the pain in her cheek.

  Despite trembling, Emma stared at him. Sweat dripped from his nose. Distant water sloshed as Kimber climbed out of the trough and ran to grab her father’s poised arm. She got an elbow in the face for her effort, which knocked her on her rump, crying.

  Emma squirmed, grabbing his wrist and trying to shove it off her shoulder. Old Man Drinn looked down at her, and the bones in his hand creaked. He took a sharp breath; ready to whomp her in the face.

  Bwawk!

  A raven landed at the corner of the hovel’s roof, fluffing its feathers. It cocked its head, staring at Drinn. The bird leaned forward, wings wide, threatening, emitting a noise like shale scraping on stone.