Layer 16: An Unorthodox Rescue

Fiona shrieked and reached for her sword while simultaneously trying to get up and swing herself around. But the man had the element of surprise on her and his reflexes were quicker than her overtaxed body could counter, and he had snatched her sword from its scabbard a split second before Fiona’s hand arrived. A push from his boot also disrupted her attempt to rise and she fell clumsily onto her back. A jolt of pain exploding from her side made her groan, and it took a moment for her to realize that the man was laughing at her. She forced herself to focus, noting the man’s lean but solid build and woodland attire, all shades of green and brown, including the green tights encasing his legs. He wore a quiver of arrows strapped to his back and a dagger was sheathed on his belt. Beneath his huntsman’s cap was a handsome face framed by dark hair and goatee.

After a few moments he stopped laughing and said, in a French-accented voice, “Bonjour, mon cherie! Please forgive the rudeness of this introduction. But I did not wish rash first impressions to…” He looked over her sword, felt its edge, and then continued “…cut our relationship short.” He then turned, and calling “Petit Jean!” tossed it back to another man standing some ten feet behind him, similarly dressed but taller and heftier, who deftly caught it by its handle.

The taller man, ‘Petit Jean’, examined the sword, flexed it, and said, “Peu de valeur. Tarnished. Worn. Scorched. Ehh.” He then tossed it aside.

“Quel dommage,” the man standing above Fiona said regretfully. Then he looked back down at her and his aggressively cheery manner returned. “Ah, pondon moi,” he said. Then he reached down, offered his hand, and said, “Allow me, s’il vous plait.”

Fiona stared at the outstretched hand for a moment, then at the waning sunlight filtering through the trees, and then at the man’s face, which still bore a smile, but with the hint of a leer. She felt on the verge of panic. As an ogre she had bested a dragon, but could she best these two men as a human? It might have been an interesting challenge some other time. She even found the idea oddly intriguing, another peculiar influence from her ogrid self, she reasoned. But in the shape she was presently in, where just walking without pain was challenge enough, she didn’t think so. She felt she had no choice but to play along for a little while. The knowledge that a little while was all she had did not calm her.

With a sneer to answer his leer, she reluctantly grabbed the man’s hand and allowed him to pull her up as she tried to hide her physical discomfort. But once she was on her feet, instead of letting go, the man continued to hold her hand as he began planting kisses up her wrist.

“Hey!” she said angrily, jerking her arm away. “Look, pal, I don’t know who you think you are—”

“Ah! Again, how rude of me,” the man said contritely. “Please, let me introduce myself.” Then he turned, laid a hand beside his mouth and called, “Oh merry me-en!”

Suddenly a monk holding an accordion and sitting on a small plank suspended by ropes like a swing dropped down from a tree. As he began playing a jaunty tune four other men dressed in garb similar to her assailant and also with quivers strapped to their backs appeared out of the woods, making acrobatic backflips, all chanting in chorus fashion “Ta dah, ta dah, dah, dah!” as they did so, ending with a combined “Whooo!” as they landed beside Petit Jean while her assailant leapt back to just in front of them. Then, to Fiona’s open-mouthed amazement, he began to sing:

“I take from the rich

And spend on the needy

For glaring opulence

Makes the rich look greedy

And spreading of the wealth

Makes us ALL feel good!”

Then the ‘merry men’ concluded:

“Our savior! Monsieur Hood!”

“Break it down,” the leader – ‘Monsieur Hood’ – said, and then the men began an Irish folk dance.

Fiona closed her eyes, shook her head, and then opened her eyes and said, “Stop it, okay? Please? Just stop!”

But the group continued to dance and then looked like it was about to break into another chorus.

“I said I want you to stop NOW!” Fiona commanded in a voice forceful enough to stop the men with their mouths hanging open and their feet in mid-step. The accordion ended in a long, plaintive note.

They all stared at Fiona for a moment, then Hood said, “Pardon nous. We do have other variations, if you’d like to—”

“What do you want from me?” she demanded, forcing herself to appear much more in control than she felt.

“Well, mon cherie,” Hood said, taking out his dagger and casually gesturing to the satchel hanging from her side that contained the coins that she took from the keep, “I believe my trained ears caught some cliquetis – or, how you say, jingling – from your satchel, and from the size it appears enough to buy many poor people many loaves of bread – after a small handling fee for ourselves. Surely you would not deprive the poor of bread? Or us of our…” he looked her up and down for a moment, and then continued suggestively, “…handling?”

Fiona blushed, then crossed her arms in front of her bosom and said defiantly, “I think I’d rather donate through more respectable organizations, thank you very much.”

“Ah! Sacre bleu!” he said, rolling his eyes. “But they are all thieves!”

“But I should trust you?” Fiona said, “Just because you claim to be a –” Then she blinked. “Savior, did they say?”

“Oh, mais oui,” he said with feigned modesty, rubbing his fingernails on his tunic and then looking at them.

“Savior in this case meaning…rescuer?” she asked with more sincerity.

“Ahummmm…je suppose,” he replied, apparently surprised and confused by her odd question and shift in tone.

Rescuer, Fiona thought. Her rescuer? Could this handsome French bandit possibly be the one to release her from her curse? Hugely improbable, she realized. But the sun would be completely set at any moment, and in her desperation this appeared the only straw within grasping distance. Steeling herself to ignore the pain, she strode forward the few yards that separated them and, to Hood’s and his men’s astonishment, grabbed him by the tunic, pulled him toward her, and planted her lips forcefully against his in a kiss.

The kiss lasted several seconds. At first Hood’s arms just flailed beside him, but then he relaxed, sheathed his dagger, and began putting his arms around Fiona. But when his tongue begin to slip into her mouth Fiona felt a wave of repulsion, let him go and shoved him away forcefully while simultaneously stepping backward herself. Thrown slightly off balance, she continued back-peddling a few steps until they were some five yards apart before she completely righted herself.

“Mon Dieu!” Hood exclaimed. Then he turned back to his men. “Mes amis, we have found the right var-i-a-tion!” he declared ebulliently, and as the men raised a cheer he turned back toward Fiona, desire written across his face. But as he began walking toward her, one of his men called with a frightened voice, “Monsieur! Stop! Attention!”

Hood was about to turn and give the man a stony glare when he realized what he was referring to. A mist, laced with specks of gold, had begun swirling around Fiona’s feet.

“Oh, no!” she whined. “We kissed! We kissed, blast it! This isn’t fair! This isn’t right!”

The princess began to wail as the swirling mist rose yet again to envelop her, and once more she felt her body expanding and rearranging as her wail morphed into an ogre’s roar. A moment later the mist vanished, revealing the ogress. Hood’s men gasped in horror. All took an involuntary step back except for one, who fainted.

The roar ceased and the ogress fell onto her knees and slumped forward, panting, her head drooping in embarrassment and defeat.

“Mon Dieu!” Hood said again, this time in revulsion. “The beauty is a beast! What manner of sorcery is this?” He violently wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then spat on the ground in disgust. “What evil enchantment are you trying to cast upon me, monster?!”

“I…I am not a monster,” Fiona said meekly, forcing back tears and lifting her head. Misty blue eyes stared up at him from a pudgy green face framed by her long, loose, now unkempt red hair. “I am under a curse. At night, I—”

“Not only a beast, but a cursed beast!” one of the men said.

Hood nodded. “Mais oui,” he agreed, drawing his dagger again and pointing it toward her.

“Look! Everything about her has grown!” another of the men said.

“Even her clothes!” said another.

“And look at the size of her oreilles!” exclaimed a voice.

“I’m looking!” responded another, almost breathless.

A moment later, as the shock of the transformation faded, one noted more analytically, “That satchel of gold she wears does not seem to have grown.”

“But it has not shrunk, either,” said another slyly.

The others, their fright receding, mumbled their agreement.

“Slay the bête, Monsieur,” one of them urged Hood. “Take your blade and ram it through its heart before whatever vile spell it cast with that kiss takes effect. Then we can take its gold and put the demon’s wealth to the service of good!”

Hood, still pointing his dagger toward Fiona, seemed to contemplate his underling’s words for a moment, and then he addressed her. “You. Monster. Toss the sack to us, and we may yet let you live.”

Fiona looked across at the faces staring down at her. Faces filled with disgust and loathing. Exactly the reactions that she had feared. A few minutes ago she was an object of desire. Now she was an object of detestation. And yet she was the same person. One corner of her mouth broke into a sneer as she expressed her own disgust at these shallow, pathetic gawkers. Seven men altogether. Now in her ogress state, she wondered if she might actually be able to put up a fight against all of them. The transformation had temporarily weakened her, as it almost always did, but she was beginning to feel power trickling back into her limbs. She rose from her slumped position so that she was sitting straighter on her knees. But even that modest effort was greeted by a protest of pain from her side. Also, not only was she still feeling warm, she was also starting to feel somewhat light-headed. Blast. Perhaps if she did toss them the gold, and then begged for her life…

“Do it now, monster,” Hood prompted, gesturing with the dagger. “This is your last warning.”

Fiona’s eyes narrowed. No. She would not degrade herself. Princess or not, ogress or not, she was tired of living in crippling fear, and to worry about what pathetic, small-minded bigots, who knew nothing about her, thought of her, suddenly seemed like a terrible waste of life. A life that she would not see end on her knees before swine like these. Trying to ignore the pain, she struggled to a standing position. She stumbled for a moment, feeling a bit more woozy once on her feet, but then righted herself and stared at the men before her, who looked considerably less sure of themselves now that she stood as tall or taller than any of them, save perhaps Petit Jean. Her sneer turned into a smirk. She reached down and unloosed the knife strapped to her ankle, which Hood had either overlooked or didn’t think she’d have the chutzpa to use when so out-numbered. But then, he didn’t anticipate her turning into an ogre, either. Although she assumed that his skills with a knife far exceeded hers, just seeing an ogre wielding a deadly weapon might give her opponents pause. She hoped so, anyway. That and a little self-confidence – even if feigned. She held the knife at the ready as she faced Hood. “Go for it,” she said coldly, trying to ignore the sweat she felt beading on her brow, not all of which was from her fever.

Hood stared at her for a few moments, an uncertain expression on his face, and Fiona thought she might just pull the bluff off. But then a wave of dizziness struck her, and she swayed on her feet for a moment, nearly blacking out. She righted herself once more, but when she was able to focus on him again Hood’s face had resumed that smug look and arrogant grin. “C’est tres bien. En garde!” he said, and took a step toward her.

Suddenly the attention of Fiona, Hood, and the band of merry men were diverted by the sound of something crashing through the branches of the trees above and beside them, in the direction of the ‘KEEP OUT!’ sign that Fiona had seen. Then from out of the tops of the trees a huge figure appeared, with the broad frame, green skin, and protruding earstalks of a great bull ogre. With one hand he grasped a vine by which he swung; under the opposite arm he carried a wooden log, some six feet long and a foot in width.

The ogre released the vine and dropped dramatically between Fiona and Hood, landing with an earth-shaking thud, facing the bandit and shielding her. “Mon dieu!” Hood gasped, retreating a couple of paces by reflex.

“Sorry to drop in unannounced,” the ogre said, patting the log threateningly against one beefy hand as if it were no more than a baseball bat, “but I was out taking care of some chores when I caught the roar of a lady in distress. You wouldn’t be bothering her now, would yeh?”

Fiona was positioned just a few feet behind the ogre, and she had nearly screamed at his sudden and startling appearance, but she had managed to restrain herself. It was the first time she had ever seen an ogre – another ogre – in person, and not just from some drawing or story illustration…or from gazing in a mirror. She gaped at his huge, broad back, which was draped, she noted, by a goatskin vest which didn’t quite cover the coarse, shabby shirt he wore. His neck was thick and muscular, and his head, the top of which reached some seven feet high, was completely bald save for a smattering of small spots a little darker green than his skin. The brawny arms that so easily held the log seemed as wide as small tree trunks themselves. His voice bore some sort of accent – a brogue, was it? Scottish, perhaps? And his stench that hit her nostrils cleared her dizzy head like smelling salts, at least for now. Although she knew she should have found the odor repulsive, somehow she didn’t.

She poked her head around his side so that she could see the bandits’ reactions.

Hood looked up at the creature looming before him, swallowed, and then brandished his dagger. Reassuming an arrogant posture, he said, “N’approchez pas, monster, or your heart shall feel the wrath of my steel!”

The ogre chortled. “Isn’t that just like a human?” he said. “Brings a knife to a log fight!” Then he suddenly looked past Hood as if something in the background had caught his eye. “Oh, look!” the ogre said. “A rainbow pony!”

“The quelle?” Hood said, befuddled, and turned to follow the ogre’s gaze.

The moment that Hood looked the other way, the ogre rapped him smartly on the head with the log. Not enough to do lasting damage, but enough to turn out the bandit’s lights for a while. Hood dropped his dagger and wobbled on his feet for a moment – Fiona could swear she heard little birds chirping – and then he collapsed onto the ground.

The merry men stared drop-jawed down at their felled leader for a while, and then back up at the ogre.

“Now then,” the ogre said, “if you’d care t’step aside and let us pass, we’ll just call it a night. Fair ‘nuff?” He then pounded the log on the ground for emphasis.

The merry men continued to stare at the ogre for a few moments. But then Petit Jean called, “Archers!” Suddenly the bandits pulled arrows from their quivers and took aim with their bows at the ogre.

“Oh boy, here we go again,” the ogre muttered tiredly. At first Fiona thought he was speaking to himself, but then he added, “Stay behind me, girlie.”

Fiona drew back so that he completely shielded her as the bandits let their arrows fly. The ogre twirled the log before him, using it as a shield against the barrage. Fiona heard some of the arrows land harmlessly in the wood. But she also heard sickening thunks as two arrowheads found flesh. But the ogre made only the lightest of grunts in acknowledgement of the hits, and only Fiona’s proximity and sharp hearing allowed her to hear him.

The ogre actually laughed, then reached down to his thigh and pulled out one of the arrows, again with only a light grunt. He held it up in with one huge hand, in which the shaft seemed no more than a stick. “Well, now,” he said. “Yeh seem t’ve dropped something!” He then tightened his grip, snapping the arrow like a twig.

Fiona again peeked around the ogre’s side. She saw the bandits staring, again slack-jawed, at her defender. The ogre opened his hand, letting the remains of the arrow drop. Then his demeanor changed, almost palpably, as his posture became more hunched and his knees bent, as if he were about to pounce. But instead, she heard him mumble, “My turn.” He then sucked in an enormous breath, paused, and then let loose with a great, giant ogre roar. The torrent of air he released was so strong that it blew the caps off of most of the bandits, and threatened to blow the bandits themselves off their feet as well. The men screamed in terror, although their screams were drowned out by the volume of the creature before them. Fiona had thought her roars impressive; now she realized that they were like the yowls of a pussycat to this male’s lion.

After what seemed an eternity the ogre’s roar faded out, followed a few seconds later by the fading of the bandits’ screams of terror. Their expressions remained pale and horrified, however, and they seemed frozen in place. Fiona noted some of them wore the ogre’s spittle, despite the distance between them. The ogre relaxed, casually wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and looked them over.

“Ahem,” he said. “This is the part—”

The bandits all screamed, turned around and ran into the forest. The monk fell off his perch, his accordion making a rude sound as he landed on it with his stomach. He scrambled to his feet, took a last frightened look at the ogre, and then ran after his fellows into the woods.

Suddenly, with the danger past, Fiona felt the wooziness returning, and this time stronger than before. She collapsed onto her back, even as the ogre, oblivious to her swoon, laughed and stared after where the bandits had retreated. “Best weapon in an ogre’s arsenal!” he said, still snickering as he finally began turning toward her, “A good dose of shock and—”

It was then he realized that she had collapsed.

“Aawww, girlie, are you okay?” he said, dropping to one knee beside her.

Fiona hoisted herself up onto one elbow. Her vision refocused, and she found herself staring into a wide, green, almost egg-shaped face. Big bushy eyebrows arched above concerned brown eyes, and beneath a large broad nose his mouth attempted a comforting grin. She noticed his earstalks were somewhat different from hers; they were set a tad higher on the sides of the head, and the ends were more closed. Fiona wondered if that was because he was male or because he was a different race of ogre than she had been cursed with being. Or perhaps her cursed form was imperfect, and she was a freak among freaks. Somehow she would not be surprised. Overall, his face looked somewhat…but not exactly…familiar, which made no sense to Fiona, since she had never – could never – have seen it before. It was also somewhat lined, with jowls that sagged a bit and graying sideburns, indicating that, despite his impressive physical skills, he was not in the prime of his life. Heaven help those he encountered when he was, she thought.

“I’m fine,” she lied without even thinking. “That was all just…exhausting.” Then she looked into his eyes. “Why…why did you help me?” she asked.

“Like I said b’fore, I heard a roar and figured it might be from a damsel in distress,” he chuckled. “It looked like yeh needed a hand. I hope you weren’t just toying wit them. I didn’t spoil your fun, did I?”

“What? Fun? No! I…but you don’t even know me.”

“Course I do. You’re one of us: the few, the persecuted, the ogres. And though we like to keep t’ourselves, no ogre ignores another one in distress. You’dve done the same for me.”

Fiona felt herself blush, and wondered if it showed on her own green face. She wasn’t sure if it was more from the embarrassment that this creature had mistakenly accepted her as one of his own, or that, had she heard his roar from some mysterious part of the wood, she would have made sure to keep a wide berth. But then, she was ignorant of these ogres’ ways. THESE ogres, or WE ogres?, that little gadfly voice in her mind chimed in. No, she thought in response. She was not an ogre. That this one had understandably mistaken her for another of his kind was certainly fortunate in this particular circumstance, but that didn’t change her nature. No matter what she looked like – or smelled like – at the core of her being she was human, and thus above these creatures. That did sound a bit harsh, she reflected, but that’s just how it was. In fact, as she reflected further, the ogre’s description of his actions made it sound more like instinct, a way that these creatures managed to survive as a species, and not driven by bravery or gallantry. Yes, that made sense, and fit better into her old world view. After the events of the past two days, Fiona felt that she needed something that harkened back to when the world made sense. It was somehow comforting, when life experience challenged one’s presuppositions, that when one had time to reflect and apply some rationalization and proper reasoning how one realized that those presuppositions really were right after all.

The ogre was continuing, “But as far as knowing you personally, let’s take care of that right now…” he stuck out a big beefy hand. “Groyl’s the name,” he said.

Fiona smiled despite herself. Now that she had regained her perspective, she could deign to show the creature some magnanimity. “My name’s…Prin,” she said, and started to reach for his hand. But then she noticed that the arm above it still had an arrow embedded within it. “Oh, no!” she said. “That’s all my fault! Here, let me help.” With that, she quickly reached up and plucked the arrow from the ogre’s flesh.

“G’aaaah”, Groyl groaned, his face grimacing in pain.

“Oh! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to hurt…when you pulled the one from your leg it didn’t seem to hurt nearly that much!”

“It wasn’t supposed to seem to hurt, not in front of that lot!” Groyl said, looking at Fiona as if she’d grown a second head. (And with her luck, Fiona reckoned that still might be possible.) “We never show weakness in front of humans, ‘specially the armed ones. ‘Just encourages the blighters. For the love ‘o Pete, girl, ain’t you never been shot?”

“No,” Fiona said, “just stabbed.” Then, as if on cue, a spasm of pain cascaded through her side. Fiona shrieked and fell flat on her back again.

“Where? Where does it hurt?” Groyl asked, his demeanor suddenly deadly serious.

So much for deception, Fiona though. “My…side…” she said, and gestured to her wound.

Before she realized what was happening, Groyl seized handfuls of both surcoat and chain mail to either side of the wound site and with a quick effort ripped both apart, exposing the wound. “Hey!” Fiona cried in protest, but Groyl seemed too occupied with examining the wound to note her objections.

“Hmmm,” he muttered.

“What?”

“Not good,” he said.

“That’s…not reassuring,” she said.

Groyl’s body hitched slightly in a restrained chuckle. “Cauterized it yourself, did yeh?”

“Um-hum.”

“First time?” he asked, gently probing around the wound site.

“Mm-MMmm,” Fiona responding, wincing in pain at the prodding, however gentle. She wondered if the beast really knew what he was doing, or just imitating what he might have seen real doctors doing. Well, maybe with his life’s experience, he really did know, at least about wounds. Considering her dire situation, she didn’t have much of a choice but to trust him.

Groyle nodded noncommittally. His eyes had not left the wound side since he had exposed it. Thankfully he had stopped prodding, and rubbed his own chin thoughtfully for a few seconds instead. Then he turned to her and reached toward her face. Fiona let out an involuntary little squeal and leaned back away from the huge approaching paw.

“Calm down, girl, I just wanna take your temp,” he said with mild irritation as he laid his palm down on her forehead. After it had rested there for a few moments he frowned. “How long yeh been this warm?”

“I’m not sure. A half hour. Maybe longer.”

“And how long yeh been feeling faint?”

“Just a few minutes. Again, I’m not s—”

“Here,” the ogre said, removing his hand from her head and reaching inside his vest. He pulled out some sort of ugly, dark brown root, about eight inches long. “Burdock root,” he explained, “always good t’keep some on hand ‘case yeh run into malicious humans, be it soldiers, bandits, or the torch ‘n pitchfork lot. Here…” he held the root out toward her mouth, “eat it.”

“Eat?” she said, her nostrils flaring at its earthy aroma. “Don’t you mean just chew?”

“Chew?” he laughed. “For the love ‘o Pete, girl, you’re an ogre! You eat it! Didn’t your folks teach yeh anything before they booted yeh?”

“Booted?” Fiona asked, confused.

“Yeah, booted, you know, the old heave-ho, when your folks sent yeh ‘way from their home.”

Fiona’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “How do you know my parents sent me away?” she demanded.

Groyl rolled his eyes. “B’cause all ogre kids get booted. It’s a tradition! Good grief, yeh act like you was raised by humans or something. Now eat the root!”

With those last words, Groyl shoved the root into Fiona’s mouth, choking off any response she might have been preparing. With her choices abruptly limited to chewing or spitting it out, Fiona began chewing. Although a bit gummy, it actually didn’t taste too bad. But then, she wondered what it would have tasted like to a normal human.

Groyl took one more look at the wound and heaved a heavy sigh. “’Fraid it’s gonna take more’n that t’fix this up. I’ll take yeh home. We’ve got stuff that’ll help better there, and I can have my wife take a look at it too.”

“Wife?” Fiona said, swallowing the chewed root. “You’re married?”

“Yeah, sorry to disappoint yeh,” he chuckled. “But then, I’m old enough t’be your father anyhow. Now just lie still…”

Groyl leaned down and started to slip his arms under Fiona. The ogress felt a sudden shiver of fear run through her. Although this ogre had been most helpful and surprisingly kind – no, that was just instinct, she reminded herself – she had no idea what might happen if she were suddenly delivered to a place with more ogres, let alone what such a ‘home’ might be like. Plus, she still found that part about ogre children being banished from their homes such as she had been sent from hers to be a bit of a coincidence. Was that a lie meant to cover up a slip on his part, or was fate playing another cruel jest on her? Could a true ogre, who – being an ogre – was no doubt mentally limited, even think up a lie that quickly? But even if Groyl were to be trusted, if she couldn’t find a way to escape his lair before sunrise… “No! Please!” Fiona said. “You don’t need to do that. You’ve been most kind, but I’m sure I’ll be all right now.”

Groyl shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said, slipping his arms under her thighs and shoulder blades and picking her up with surprising ease.

“No! Please,” Fiona felt her heart begin to pound as her head seemed to become lighter. “I’ll be fine! I insist! I’ll be…I’ll…” Fiona’s head began swimming as she looked up at Groyl’s set jaw and focused eyes staring ahead as he strode into the woods, past the ‘KEEP OUT!’ sign and supposedly toward his home beyond. She realized to her horror that she was about to pass out, and then whatever this beast intended to do with her – or to her – she would be powerless to resist. “Please,” she said meekly, feeling herself fading, “please don’t eat me.”

“Eat you?” Groyl said, taken aback. Then his face began blurring out of focus and the last thing Fiona heard before passing into unconsciousness was his response, “For the love ‘o Pete, girlie, what do yeh take me for?”