Layer 17: An Unexpected Haven

Fiona didn’t really sleep. Sleep implied rest and peacefulness. What she endured was hardly that, but rather a prolonged unconsciousness filled with half-realized images of great dragons swooping down at her, teeth bared and talons stretched – fearsome ogres, blood drooling from the corners of their mouths, one hand reaching for her while the other held a butcher knife at the ready – her parents, their benevolent faces smiling down at her, then suddenly morphing into snarling jackals – a group of armed, leering bandits, their vile intentions written on their faces, slowing closing in on her, but then suddenly parting as a stunningly handsome prince appeared, a halo glowing above his head. He held out a beautiful bouquet of red roses to her, but as she reached for them, they all suddenly turned black and then wilted to the side, revealing what had been hidden at their center: a long shiny dagger, which the prince drew back and swung at her side—

Fiona awoke with a gasp and automatically reached for her wound. Her hand slapped down upon some sort of cloth bandage.

“Careful, lass, I just finished dressing that,” a female voice – tinged with a Scottish brogue – rebuked her.

Fiona’s head began to clear and she realized that she was lying on some sort of bed. She turned toward the voice as her vision focused. For a moment she thought she was looking into a warped mirror – but then she realized that, sitting on a stool beside her, was an ogress. She was an older ogress, with graying hair so scraggly that Fiona wondered if it had ever felt a comb or brush, her rotund form clothed in a light gray dress with faded toadstool prints. The dress had seen better days, as had its owner; the ogress’s face was careworn with crow’s feet around the eyes and other creases indicating she had done much more frowning than smiling through what Fiona assumed were her many years – such as the frown that adorned her jowly green face now as her alert eyes studied Fiona.

“Who…where…” Fiona stammered.

“My name’s Moyre,” the older ogress replied. “Groyl’s wife. You two’ve met, I believe?” Without moving her eyes from Fiona, she nodded her head slightly to indicate past one shoulder. Fiona followed the gesture to see Groyl, arms crossed, leaning against a nearby wall. He nodded to Fiona, a gentle smile on his lips.

“And this,” Moyre added, indicating with a wave of her hand, “is our home. Or at least our bedroom.”

Fiona looked about her. She was lying on a somewhat lumpy, roughly king-sized mattress (or it would have been king-sized if it were for humans; for these two, it was more like a twin) stuffed with what a sniff from her acute nostrils told her was some sort of moss. The bedroom itself was just large enough for two people – well, ogres – to move about in without constantly bumping into each other. The walls were constructed of what looked to be a clay and sandstone daubing, with an unevenly cut window through which Fiona saw (thank Heavens) that it was still dark. There was one door made of clumsily cut boards. Above her the ceiling was made of tight thatching, and beside her on an obviously home-made nightstand stood a gourd with a lit, irregularly shaped candle stuck in it which provided the room’s lighting. The candle was of some sort of wax she couldn’t identify and it gave off a peculiar smell. Actually, Fiona found her heightened olfactory sense inundated by a number of odors – from the candle, from the mattress, from the fungus she noted growing in a couple of corners, and from the ogres themselves. Altogether, the combination smelled… homey.

Homey? That didn’t make sense. It was the contrary of what Fiona knew she should be feeling. And yet…Fiona shook her head. Another side-effect of that blasted curse. She looked down at her body. A dark, rough woolen blanket covered her from the waist down. Her midriff was encircled by the light cloth that made up the bandage and held the fresh dressing in place over her wound. Her chest and shoulders were covered by some sort of loose-fitting, brown leather halter top, cut off just above the bandage and below her bosom. Her arms were bare. She gently touched the compact dressing over the wound. “What…” she began, but there were so many things she wanted to ask she wasn’t sure which should complete the sentence.

“Ah, a girl of few words. I like that,” Moyre said sardonically. “In short, lass, my kind-hearted husband here brought you home. You were in rather dire straights, what with your side in the shape it was in. We changed your clothes and took care of ministering t’your wound.”

Fiona’s eyes flashed to Groyl reflexively. “You…did what?” she asked.

He held his hands out defensively. “Whoa, now, that’s not quite what it sounds like!” he said. “I just carried yeh onto the bed. My better half here took care’ah the clothing part. I stayed in the living room during that. Honest!”

“Oh,” Fiona said, blushing. She felt almost overwhelmed with confusion. These two creatures had done her a great service. Yet she was so completely ignorant of their culture. How was she to express gratitude, or even begin to repay them…and what would they expect? She decided to begin with the simplest thing, hope it was proper and sufficient, and wing it from there. So she said shyly, “Um…thank you.”

“No need to thank us, lass” Moyre said. “After all, it’s ogre law that when one of our own is in trouble and we’re aware of it, we’re obliged to help. Right?”

“Um, yes, right! Of course!” Fiona said. “Still…thank you.”

Moyre waved dismissively. “We just had to suppurate the wound and apply the proper salves and herbs.”

“Suppurate?” Fiona repeated, surprised an ogre would know such a word.

“Yes, we drained the seepage and ate it as part of our supper,” Moyre responded matter-of-factly, her face completely serious.

Fiona blinked. Then she had to swallow. “Uh…really?” she said.

One corner of Moyre’s mouth turned up in a half grin, half grimace. She then turned briefly to Groyl. “I told you she wasn’t a real ogre,” she said, then turned back to Fiona, the older ogress’s expression now even more stern. “All right, lass. It’s pretty obvious from your ignorance and the clothes you were wearing, right down to the fancy human lady’s underthings, that you’re not a natural ogre. Who are you, why were you fighting a dragon, how did you receive that wound, and how did you end up in the skin of an ogre?”

Fiona blushed. Her heart started beating faster. She considered trying to escape, but between her physical condition, the presence of two ogres, and the claustrophobically enclosed room, she didn’t know where to go. Then she realized fully what Moyre had said. “Wait a minute,” Fiona asked, “how did you know I was fighting a dragon?”

Moyre sighed. “You have the smell of brimstone, your clothes have a few old burn marks, and the sword that my husband was good enough to retrieve for yeh was scorched.”

Behind them, Groyl snapped his fingers. “Say,” he said, “you weren’t trying to rescue that princess locked in that tower by any chance, were yeh?”

Fiona gave him a surprised look. He shrugged and said, “Hey, we value our privacy, but we’re not total recluses, y’know. That’s just a silly myth.”

Fiona blinked. It was uncomfortably startling how much these…creatures…were able to deduce about her from so little, far beyond what she would have given them credit for. But then she started to think. The deduction from smell…that was basically just extrapolation on an enhanced animal sense, not much better, really, than a bloodhound. And the undergarments…that was a bit of a giveaway; they being of such better quality than the primitive apparel than these two wore and had now foisted upon her. As to Groyl’s speculation about to her identity…ironically wrong, but a bit too close for comfort…was it really hubris for her to think that wasn’t that much of a stretch, given the fame that had led so many to their deaths?

“Well?” Moyre insisted, looking even more irritated…and imposing.

“Well…I…um…” Fiona stammered, her mind whirling, trying to think up a believable lie.

“ANSWER ME!” Moyre bellowed, leaning close enough to Fiona for the princess to smell the fetid stench of breath expelled between the large, uneven teeth of the grimace that the older ogress’s face now bore.

Confused and more than a bit frightened, Fiona blurted out, “I am the princess from the tower!” She immediately bit her lip and held her breath, fearful of what might come next.

But Moyre’s grimace morphed into a tight little smile. She leaned back and, glancing back at Groyl, said, “See? All we had to do was ask nicely.”

Groyl nodded, then a look of realization dawned upon his face. “Of course!” he exclaimed. “She said her name was ‘Prin’. Obviously short for ‘Princess’!” He whacked himself in the side of the head. “Why didn’t I think of that b’fore?”

“Maybe that’s the easterly wing of your family coming through,” Moyre suggested.

“Bite your tongue, woman!” Groyl snapped. But his eyes bore a twinkle and a grin played at his lips – an expression that Moyre returned.

“Huh?” Fiona said, still trying to get the bearings of her situation.

Moyre waved a hand dismissively. “That branch of my better half’s family...they’re decent enough blokes and all, and they mean well, but they tend to be…well…a bit shallow in the gene pool, shall we say. So if yeh ever happen across any other ogres that look like Groyl, dearie, and they act a little odd…well, don’t say you weren’t warned.”

Then Moyre’s expression, which had softened for a moment, suddenly resumed its hard edge as her eyes again bore into Fiona. “So what happened to yeh?” she demanded. “Get on the wrong side of a witch?”

Fiona’s eyes opened wide. “How…how did you know a witch did this?”

Moyre’s eyes rolled. “Well, I assume you didn’t ask some fairy godmother to be turned into an ogre, did yeh? It’s not the kinda thing human girls normally do.”

“Well…no,” Fiona admitted.

“Then what did yeh do?”

“Nothing! I didn’t do anything!” Fiona insisted. When she saw Moyre skeptically cock an eyebrow, she added, “At least nothing I know of. You see, I’ve been this way as long as I can remember.” She sighed, then again recited the despised words that were scarred into her memory. “‘By night one way, by day another, this shall be the norm. Until you find true love’s first kiss…and then, take love’s true form.’”

Moyre chuckled. “Very cute little rhyme,” she said. “So you’re gonna turn human again at dawn, I take it.”

Fiona nodded meekly. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about hiding that little revelation any longer.

“Pity,” Moyre said. “And yeh don’t remember your life b’fore that spell?”

Fiona shook her head.

“Then how the blazes do yeh remember the spell itself?” Moyre asked pointedly. “Did the witch wipe your memory, too?”

“No, I…never heard the words,” Fiona said.

“Come again?” Moyre asked with the tenacity of a district attorney finding a flaw in a defendant’s testimony.

“I was too young,” Fiona said defensively. “My father told me what she said!”

“Ah-ha!” Moyre declared triumphantly, “So your father’s the one that ticked off the witch!”

“No! I mean…maybe. I…I just don’t know.”

“What? That little detail never came up?”

“He said she was an evil witch. And…and I figured that’s all I needed to know.”

“You weren’t curious about her reason?”

“What reason? She was a witch! That’s just the type of thing that witches do!”

“Oi,” Moyre sighed, leaning back. “You’re human, all right.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Fiona responded, her irritation at the slight overriding her fear of the situation.

“It means that your presumptions about witches – like your presumptions about ogres – is just plain typical of your whole bigoted species!”

“Oh, right,” Fiona sneered. “And your comment just now wasn’t bigoted against humans?”

“I’ve got reasons!” Moyre shot back.

“Like what?”

Moyre stared daggers at Fiona for several seconds, breathing heavily. Fiona, who had felt her own blood rising, suddenly started to feel fearful again. When Moyre suddenly rose to a standing position and leaned over her bed, Fiona shrank back.

But Moyre simply reached up with one hand and pulled down a sleeve, exposing a nasty spot of disfigured flesh on her shoulder. “See that?” she demanded.

Fiona nodded obediently.

“Villager’s torch,” Moyre said. She then turned back to Groyl and nodded toward his torso. “Show her,” she said.

“Moyre, I don’t think—” he began to protest.

“Show her!” Moyre demanded.

Groyl sighed, then pulled up his shirt far enough to expose a row of four puckered circular scars across his abdomen. “Pitchfork,” he said to Fiona, somewhat apologetically. When he saw her ashen expression, he smiled consolingly and added with a wink, “But you should see the other guys.”

“So yeh see, dearie,” Moyre said, turning back to Fiona. “We’ve got reasons.” Then gesturing to Fiona’s side, she said, “And speaking of wounds, how did yeh get that? I’m guessing it wasn’t by witch or ogre or dragon. What happen, some human mistake yeh for a real ogre?”

“No,” Fiona answered uncomfortably. “He knew exactly who I was.”

“Really?” Moyre asked, curious. “Who was it, now?”

Fiona hesitated. She had not intended to reveal so much of herself, but in the heat of the moment—

“Answer me!” Moyre growled.

“An agent of my father,” Fiona almost spat. “Sent to assassinate me.”

Moyre’s jaw slacked, a surprised expression on her face. Fiona grinned despondently and almost chuckled. She had finally found a way to shut the older ogress up.

“What?” Groyl said with a shocked expression that turned angry as he growled, “why the devil would he want to do that?”

Fiona shook her own head, then found she had to choke back tears as she said, “He…I…I’m not sure. I…guess he…well, I know he hated what I was…what I am…at night. I think I…disgusted him.”

“But what about this ‘true love’s kiss’ thing?” he asked.

Fiona shrugged. “Maybe he got tired of waiting,” she said. “I’d been in there for years. So many already died…” she trailed off, closed her eyes, swallowed, then opened her eyes and continued. “So many knights died, and the situation dragged on for so long…I guess he thought it would be better just to…end everyone’s misery. Besides, I tried kissing that bandit, and nothing happened. I’m starting to think maybe that was a myth. A lie. Like so many other fairy tales I believed.”

Groyl shook his head, disgust in his own face. “What a monster,” he said. “It’s bad enough that he didn’t move heaven and earth to rescue you when that dragon stole you and took you to that tower—”

“The dragon didn’t steal me,” she said.

“What?” both ogres said, surprised.

Fiona shook her head, and then explained, “It was my parents who arranged for me to be locked in the tower. It was part of the plan to rid me of my curse.” She paused, looking over the ogres’ faces, both of them looking at her with bewildered expressions. Then her own expression turned cold and stony as she let her gaze drift toward a cob-webbed corner as she added cynically, “At least, that’s what they told me.”

“They locked you in a tower?” Groyl said, his voice still reflecting astonishment. “Your own parents just left their little girl in a dragon-guarded castle?”

“They said it was for my own good,” Fiona said reflexively, even while realizing she didn’t believe it any longer.

“And the humans say we’re cruel for sending our kids off to make their own way at such a young age,” Moyre said bitterly. “But Fiona, at least tell us you offed the blaggard who did this to your side.”

Fiona continued to stare at the corner. A lone tear ran spilled from her eye and began running down her cheek, but her voice was a low monotone as she replied, “No, I didn’t. I…couldn’t. I faked my death, and I think I fooled him. But I can’t be sure. I should leave here. You’ve already been too kind. If I’m found here by him or another of my father’s agents it might endanger you—”

“None of it!” Moyre said, and Fiona felt her take her hand. The princess looked down to see the ogress’s pudgy green fingers entwining her own. “We take care’ah our own. You’re not setting foot off our land until you’re recovered.”

“But…I’m not one of your own,” Fiona said. “As you noted, I’m not a ‘real’ ogre.”

Moyre waved that objection aside with her free hand. “Tosh,” she said. “If you’re close enough to rile the ire of bandits and the revulsion of nobility, you’re close enough for us.”

Moyre actually smiled at her. A genuine smile, without a hint of skepticism or irony. Fiona looked up and saw the same expression on Groyl’s face.

Fiona’s mouth worked wordlessly for a moment. She hadn’t expected this turn. Finally, she almost choked out, “I don’t know what to say—”

“No need t’say anything right now, dearie,” Moyre said, now patting her hand. “Actually, a change of pace might be good for us. Contrary to what you might hear, we ogres do get lonely on occasion. Besides, you’re about the age…”

This time it was Moyre’s turn to trail off. She bit her lip and looked away, and Fiona thought she saw her bat back the glint of a tear.

“What’s wrong, Moyre?” Fiona asked, stunned.

Groyl stepped forward and gently laid a hand on his wife’s shoulder. He looked at Fiona and said softly, “You’re about the age our daughter would be if we’d had one. We…never had children.”

“We should have,” Moyre said bitterly, still looking away. This time she reached up and violently wiped away a tear, then wiped her nose, apparently irritated at herself. “I still say we were cursed somehow.”

“Perhaps,” Groyl said. “But who, how or why we don’t know.”

“Why do you think you were cursed?” Fiona asked, both concerned now for the ogres and guiltily relieved that she was no longer the brunt of interrogation.

“Because I was pregnant, blast it!” Moyre said. “Then, one day – a day near the time of delivery, I’m sure – I just wasn’t. I woke up that morning, and I was no longer with child. And then I never…we never…”

“Never had a child,” Groyl said softly, and then laid his other hand on his wife’s other shoulder and rubbed them. Then he leaned over and said softly, trying to break her distress, “But t’wern’t for lack of trying, eh?” and then he kissed her softly on the top of her head.

Moyre half choked, half chuckled, and laid her free hand on one of his. “We…uh…even had names picked out,” she said, visibly pulling herself back together. Chaleria if it was female, and Shreklecheh if it was male.”

“Although we’d probably end up just calling him ‘Shrek’,” Groyl said.

“Bite your tongue,” Moyre said, turning to look up at her husband. But Fiona saw there was a genuine smile on her face. “Shreklecheh is a fine name.”

Actually, Fiona thought the name sounded rather absurd, and its shortened form not much better. ‘Shrek’? Seriously? Why did ogres pick such silly names? But for the sake of her hosts she said, “I agree. I think Shreklecheh is a wonderful name,” and squeezed Moyre’s hand with hers.

Moyre looked at Fiona and smiled. “Thank you, child,” Moyre said, and again took Fiona’s hand in both of hers. Then Fiona reached over with her other hand and laid that on top.

“Oh, and Fiona,” Groyl said, laying one of his huge hands atop the ogress’s, “one thing you’re gonna have to learn b’fore you go out on your own if yeh want to stay incognito. Yeh really need to learn to lie better.”

“Amen to that” Moyre said, and the ogres began laughing. Fiona blushed for a moment, and then joined them. It felt so good to laugh along with others. Ogres or not, it just felt good.

Almost like she belonged.