Grylio: The Bestiary Tales
By Allison Graham
Copyright 2011 Allison Graham
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Betws-y-Coed, England - 1841
Peter Flynn and Edward Blackwell sat in the mud near their favorite stream, two eight-year-old boys without a care in the world. They had been catching toads ever since their mothers let them out after lunch, and this of course had them both giddy with delight. The fat little fellows had been hopping around them all afternoon, but now the sun was shifting and the toads were being replaced with salamanders. Edward didn’t mind. He loved salamanders. Peter, on the other hand, did not. They had very delicate skin, and he’d once accidentally torn one open when he picked it up. Ever since then, he’d been afraid to go near them.
“Hey, the salamanders will be coming out soon,” Edward noted, peering around. He stood and, careful not to step on any creatures, made his way over to a nearby waterfall where he did his best to get the mud off himself. “You want to go home now?”
“B-But…” Peter frowned. “You like them.”
“Yes, but you don’t, and last time you stayed for me. So this time we’ll head home early. Maybe you can come to my house for supper!” This idea went over quite well with Peter. Miss Blackwell, now a single mother, was a wonderful cook, and despite her meager income, always had delicious things over the fire. “What do you think?”
“Yes!” Peter said energetically, standing and picking his own way over to the waterfall. After making himself as presentable as possible, the two of them started homeward, pushing ferns and low hanging branches aside. Peter loved the smell of the woods near the river, though his mother would never allow him to play near the river itself. It was earthy and green, sweet and bitter.
Of course, nothing beat the smell of the apple tree. The boys loved that tree. They loved the shape and color of the flowers (though both would vehemently deny thinking such a girl-thing), the smaller, skinny branches perfect for playing swords with, and of course, the sweet fruit it bore them each year.
Peter never ate from the tree when he would be eating at Edward’s home. Edward, used to his own mother’s cooking, clambered swiftly into the branches to grab an apple. “Want one?” he asked.
“No thank you,” Peter responded, watching as a black and red salamander scampered from the tree. The thought of it up there with the fruits they ate made his stomach twist.
“More for me,” Edward said teasingly, jumping down and sinking his teeth into the tender red skin. Peter looked hungrily upon the apple, relishing the crisp sound it made as his friend ate…but no, there would be apples later. He had to save all the room he could for Miss Blackwell’s food! Contenting himself with that thought, he walked just a bit quicker.
Unfortunately, as Peter sped up, Edward slowed. By the time they arrived at Edward’s house, the boy looked pale and tired, and he trembled slightly when he moved. Peter frowned. “Edward? Are you well?” he asked worriedly.
“Uh...well, I don’t feel very well,” he responded. There was a slur in his voice. “I felt fine a moment ago, though.”
“Should I still stay for supper?” Peter continued.
“If mum lets you.” He opened the door for Peter, ushering him in. “She might want you to go home if I’m ill.” He leaned into the kitchen, which smelled of lamb and rosemary, and called, “Mum, I’m back. Peter’s with me. I don’t feel at all well, though.”
Miss Blackwell poked her head around the corner. Peter had her wild head of dark brown curls, though his was sheared short. Her dark eyes narrowed in concern when she saw her son. “Evening, Peter m’boy,” she said in that strange way she had of speaking. Edward was punished for speaking that way by his schoolteacher, though how his mother had managed to afford to send him there was a mystery. “Oh, Edward, you look poorly. Bone-white, you are. Come, have a lie-down, see if you feel better.”
“Mum, can Peter stay for supper?” he asked as he followed her to his bed.
“Of course, darling. Here, you’ll feel better after a lie-down, and then you can come out and eat your supper as well. Peter, you just have a sit there at the table and I’ll bring your food to you.”
Peter sat, though his appetite was slightly stemmed by his friend’s sudden illness. He wasn’t concerned about his mother; when he was late, she always knew he was at Edward’s home. Truthfully, he liked Edward’s home much better. His own mother was shrill, and always boxed his ears if he wasn’t paying complete attention to her. His father was often doing chores, even when it was dark, and was a very quiet man anyway. Miss Blackwell was fun, and she absolutely doted on Peter. Her home always smelled like spice and oil, so different from every other home he’d ever been in.
“Here, m’boy. Eat up,” she said sweetly, bringing him a dish of lamb. How she got such wonderful foods was also a mystery. “Then you settle yourself down. I can’t think Edward will be asleep long. I’ll let you know when he wakes up.”
Peter nodded patiently. Her kindness still unnerved him sometimes, but he’d never show it.
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Peter barely slept that night. He couldn’t stop worrying.
Miss Blackwell had gone in to check on her son, smiling as always, but had come out with a frightened expression on her face. “Peter, you scamper home, darling,” she had told him nervously. Peter was confused; he had never heard her call him ‘darling’ before. Only Edward was ‘darling.’ “Edward’s not well, you know, but the rest hasn’t helped. We don’t want you to go poorly as well.”
Edward had obeyed quickly, unwilling to upset her. He had put his dish in the large tub she used to wash them, thanked her for the meal, and walked home with a worried feeling in his belly. He didn’t know how Edward could get so sick so quickly. Was one of the toads they caught poisonous? He knew all about poisonous things, because he was almost bitten by an adder once. None of the toads had bitten Edward, though, so that didn’t make any sense.
Once he got home, he hugged his mother and father good-night, changed into his nightclothes, then threw himself onto the small square of feather-stuffed sackcloth he called his bed. He sniffled slightly, not actually crying, and hoped that Edward would be well soon.
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Morning came, and Peter blinked himself awake, though he didn’t recall ever having fallen asleep. At first, he was content to lie in the hazy sunlight beaming through the window, lighting the dust in the air. Then yesterday came flooding back to him, and he leaped to his feet. “Edward!” he said loudly.
Peter tore through his breakfast like an animal, and got a thorough scolding from his mother for it. She insisted on washing his face, so he stood as still as stone so it would be done quickly. He then threw off his nightclothes, dressed himself with clumsy movements, and ran to the Blackwell house as fast as his legs could take him.
The first thing he noticed was the doctor’s horse outside, and his heart sank. He edged around it, because it was a cantankerous and mean-spirited black and gray creature which bit everyone but Doctor Lambrick. As soon as he was clear of its teeth, though, he rushed inside. “Miss Blackwell! Miss Blackwell!” he called. Once he fell quiet, though, he heard Edward - his friend was moaning and wailing in the worst way, sobbing in what Peter knew was pain. “Edward!”
He started towards the place where his friend slept, but Miss Blackwell emerged with a tear-streaked face. “Oh, Peter!” she gasped, and scooped him up in her arms. Peter squeaked a bit in shock, but impulsively hugged her back. “Peter, darling…E-Edward’s sickly, I told you…”
“But why? He doesn’t have cholera, does he?” Peter asked worriedly. Emma Seavers had gotten cholera and she’d died. Peter didn’t want Edward to
die. Not at all.
“No, he has something else. The doctor doesn’t know what.” She was crying. Peter had never seen her cry before, and he reached up and scrubbed her tears away with his shirtsleeve. For some reason, this only made her cry harder.
Peter had to see his friend. There was no two ways about it. When he was sick, all he ever wanted to do was see his friends. With a slight twist, he wiggled out of Miss Blackwell’s arms and ran towards the groaning. He heard her shouts of protest, but he ignored them - he wouldn’t get close to Edward, just poke his head in and tell him he hoped to see him well soon.
Unfortunately, when he poked his head in, the words died on his lips.
Edward was whiter than talc, except for his lips - they were a deep purple, like an awful bruise. His eyes were shot with blood, and his chin was flecked with pink foam, like a mad dog’s. When he looked at
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