Layer 22: How the Other Side Lives

Fiona looked out the window of her new room at the beautiful multi-hued sunset, the last sliver of the reddening sun just peeking above the lush tree line that made up the horizon.

Well, ‘new’ was relative. It had been some three weeks now since the room had been added, and tonight marked a full month since Groyl had rescued her and brought her home. And tonight, he and Moyre and she were celebrating.

Alas, she reflected, ‘celebrating’ also was perhaps not the right word. “Ogres don’t celebrate anything,” as Moyre had commented acerbically one day when Fiona had asked what holidays ogres observed.

Moyre could be a pain some days.

Still, Fiona was learning to give as good as she got. Her diplomatic language was slowly eroding away as she learned to bluntly speak her mind. After about two weeks into her stay, when Moyre made a meal one evening that even Fiona found distasteful and the princess had tried to avoid directly saying so by carefully picking her words when Moyre asked what she thought, Moyre spat, “Oh, for the love’ah Pete, woman, if yeh don’t like it just say so, don’t go pussyfooting around your words like some sniveling little bootlicker!”

“Fine!” Fiona had spat back, her own ogrid temper pricked. “I don’t know what you were thinking, but you had way too much mold in the stew.”

“Oh, the high and mighty princess doesn’t like mold now?” Moyre said, sneering.

“Of course I do!” Fiona said. “But you can’t add that much mold without balancing it with a goodly amount of boiled tree bark. And dropping in a few snail shells to add a little crunch wouldn’t have killed you, either!”

The ogresses stood, scowling at each other and breathing heavily. Groyl, who sat at the table finishing his latest bowl of stew, looked up from one of them to the other, swallowed the bite that was in his mouth, and ventured calmly, “Uh, ladies, perhaps we should—”

Both ogresses wheeled toward him. “Shuttup!” they said together, and then wheeled back to resume glaring at each other.

They continued scowling for a few seconds more. Then Moyre’s face broke into a little grin. “Good,” she said. “Gooood. You’ve been paying attention.”

“Well, like, duh!” Fiona said, still peeved. “I’m not stupid, and I’ve been helping you with each meal for quite some time now.”

“True,” Moyre conceded. “And you’ve learned well. In fact, tomorrow you’re going to prep and cook the evening meal all on your own.”

Fiona dropped her scowl. “What?”

“You’re smart and you know your way around the kitchen,” Moyre said. “You’ve paid attention and done well in helping me. I think it’s time I take a break from feeding your fat—” she slapped Fiona’s corpulent belly – “and let you feed mine for a while” – she then slapped her own, more hefty waistline.

Fiona stared at her. “You…trust me to do that?”

Moyre rolled her eyes. “No, I’ve got a death wish and I want yeh to poison us,” she said. “Don’t ask asinine questions, woman.”

Fiona stared at her for a few more seconds, and then grinned herself. “Did you sabotage your own meal tonight to get me to critique you like that?”

“Don’t be silly,” Moyre scoffed. “Why would I do a fool thing like that?” But Fiona once again thought she saw that mischievous glean in her eye.

Fiona smiled at the memory. That had led to a number of meals which she prepared. Moyre had provided advice at first as Fiona cooked the dishes in imitation of Moyre. Then Fiona was able to cook the dishes without her advice. Then Fiona started experimenting on her own – sometimes successfully, sometimes no so much. And when she failed, Moyre let her know in no uncertain terms. Moyre showed an honesty and candor that took a while to get used to, but that Fiona eventually found refreshing. And the older ogress always ended with some encouraging words like, “Don’t worry, you’ll get better.” Such words coming from someone like Moyre, Fiona realized, weren’t just patronizing; Moyre was voicing a real belief in her. And that really meant something to Fiona. And Moyre’s oft added, “And don’t worry about experimenting; we’re ogres, and can digest just about anything, so yeh won’t kill us,” made her smile and took the edge off. And Moyre’s honest criticisms made her compliments – which occurred more and more frequently – that much sweeter, for Fiona knew they were truly earned.

They not only taught Fiona how to cook the food, but as her recovery progressed they took her out to gather ingredients. They taught her just how far tree rot should progress before they should take some to stock the pantry. They taught her which weeds made the best garnishes. For protein, they taught her how to set swamprat traps and fish by emitting coma-inducing digestive vapors into the water while bathing – which the princess in her told Fiona she should find disgusting but which made her laugh anyway.

One trick that Fiona found particularly unconventional was when Groyl led her by torchlight one night out to a particularly stagnant corner of the swamp. “Now wade out about until you’re about knee-deep,” he directed.

“Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.”

She raised a wary eyebrow.

“Go on, trust me.”

The ogress shrugged. She slipped off her shoes, hiked up her dress just above her knees, and waded out. She didn’t particularly like the smell of the water here, but she did like the way the mud squished between her plump, bare toes. When she felt the water touch her knees, she said, “Okay, now what?”

“Just wait a bit.”

“What for?”

“You’ll see.”

Fiona let out a frustrated grunt, but waited. After a few seconds she started feeling something on her legs.

“Hey!” she shouted. “Something’s tickling me!”

“That’s good!” Groyl said reassuringly. “Now just a wee bit more.”

“Good grief, why?”

“You’ll s—”

“I know, I know, I’ll see,” she said, exasperated and a bit frightened. But after a short while – “Okay, the tickling stopped.”

“Perfect. Now come on back.”

Fiona did so. Once she set foot back on dry land she looked down and gasped. There were some half-dozen dark green leeches attached to each leg, their wet skins glistening sickeningly in the flickering torchlight.

“Ho, ho! Great catch!” Groyl beamed.

“Get them off!” Fiona almost screamed.

“Hold on, hold on,” Groyl said. “Just wait and watch.”

Fiona waited, almost panting, and trying to keep her gorge down. But then, one by one but in quick succession, the leeches let go, fell to the ground, and laid there motionless. Each left a small bloody imprint where they had latched onto her leg.

Fiona looked up at Groyl, who smiled at her. “Ogre blood,” he explained. “Poisons ‘em. Oh, and don’t worry ‘bout those pinpricks, they’ll heal in no time.”

Still breathing hard, Fiona stared down at the slimy, unmoving creatures. Then she looked back up at Groyl, and felt oddly embarrassed as he stared back at her with concern. Then he smiled and said with a wink, “Our blood’s too rich for the suckers, I guess.”

Fiona snickered despite herself.

Groyl tossed a burlap bag to her. “They’re your catch,” he said. “Gather ‘em up. There’s nothing like pan-fried leeches for a good midnight snack!”

Fiona shook her head and smiled as she started harvesting the slimy little creatures. “I never thought I’d eat leeches,” she said.

Groyl frowned. “I thought Moyre mentioned that she had several dishes that used leeches.”

“I thought she meant lychees,” Fiona said.

Groyl stared down at her for a moment, and then let out a great bellow of laughter. After a moment, Fiona joined him.

Of course, such fishing and hunting expeditions weren’t the first reasons that Moyre and Groyl had Fiona get into the water. Bathing was. It had been one day shortly after her room was finished when Moyre called her a “stinking human.” At first Fiona took umbrage, thinking it a racial slur. But Moyre explained that she was simply being literal; after so long without bathing, Fiona was definitely emitting body odor. And she was bluntly informed that the odor she expelled while human was particularly repugnant to ogres. “If at night everything changed about yeh but your stench, you’d understand,” Moyre said.

Fiona indignantly informed Moyre that she had made her point quite clearly, and so one bright day Moyre led the humbled human princess down the swamp a ways where Fiona was astonished to see, set just a few yards from the edge of one of the more pristine sections of the swamp, some sort of contraption made of wood planking that channeled the contents of a large, raised wooden barrel down gutters that looked like something left over from the Roman aqueduct, where it was poised to dump its contents over some sort of stall that resembled the ogres’ outhouse, but with no roof. The wood that the stall was composed of looked much fresher than the rest of the construction.

“We just put that part up,” Moyre explained. “Groyle ‘n me never bothered with it. But we figured you might still be more…um…”

“Modest?” Fiona suggested.

“I was actually thinking ‘stuck up’,” Moyre said. “But ‘modest’ will do.”

Fiona smiled wryly and shook her head. “Thank you,” she said.

“Hey, whatever encourages yeh t’keep clean,” Moyre said. Then she held out an old frayed towel and said, “Here. And don’t forget to wash out your armpits.”

“Oh, speaking of those,” Fiona said, a little demurely. “You wouldn’t happen to have on you, well, a razor or something?”

“What for?” Moyre asked, squinting as she examined Fiona’s face. “I don’t see any whiskers. Heck, yeh don’t even need to shave as an ogress…yet.”

“No,” Fiona said, her embarrassment growing, “it’s for my armpits.”

Moyre’s face seemed to scrunch in genuine surprise. “Yeh shave your armpits?”

“Well, yes, actually,” Fiona said, and started to explain, “It’s just a custom for women to—”

Fiona’s explanation was drowned out by Moyre’s sudden, derisive laughter. “Oh, good Heavens!” she sputtered once she caught her breath. “Next you’ll be telling me yeh hack off your fricking leg hairs!” She then resumed laughing.

Fiona’s reddened face nearly matched the color of her hair. “Just give me the blasted towel,” she said, snatching it from the ogress. Then she turned and stomped toward the stall, angrily kicking off her shoes just before she reached it.

Fiona strode into the stall and slammed the door behind her, then set the hook that she found there to lock it. She hung the towel over one of the walls and then closed her eyes and took a few moments to calm herself down as she heard Moyre’s laughter finally fade away outside. Then Fiona slipped off her dress and hung it over another of the walls. She looked up to where the mouth of the gutter sat several feet above her. Hanging down from another part of the contraption was a rope, which a pulley system connected to a small door on the barrel that Fiona assumed released the water down the gutter and onto her.

She reached up and took hold of the rope. “I just pull on this rope, I take it?” she called out.

“Yep,” Moyre said. “That’ll do it.”

Fiona pulled. The door on the barrel slid up, but instead of a gush of water traveling down, a miniature mudslide started rolling down the gutter directly toward her. Fiona had barely registered what was happening and had opened her mouth to gasp when the torrent of mud tumbled past the gutter and splashed over top her. Unfortunately, her mouth was still open at the time.

Drenched brown with mud that continued to topple onto her plastered-down hair, Fiona disgustedly spat out the sludge in her mouth and then cried out, “This isn’t water!”

“Astute observation,” Moyre said.

“This is mud!”

“Two for two!” Moyre agreed, with what sounded like amusement.

“Is this a joke?!” Fiona said, feeling like she was about to cry. “Are you trying to humiliate me?”

“No, no joke,” Moyre said quickly, her voice now consoling, “We really do take mud showers. Honestly.”

Fiona had let go of the rope. The barrel door had slid closed, the torrent had stopped, and Fiona was left standing, covered in mud, her arms crossed over her chest, shivering more from anger than from the substance’s wetness. “You’re sure you’re not making fun of me?” she asked, her voice tepid, fearing that even Moyre was now in a way betraying her.

“Fiona, darling, no, I wouldn’t do that t’yeh,” Moyre replied in as soft and caring a voice as Fiona had yet heard from her. “You know how yeh said yeh like the squishiness of mud ‘tween your toes? Well, ogres like it all over.”

“But I’m not an ogre right now.”

“Aren’t yeh?” Moyre said. “Anyway, just try it.”

Fiona frowned. After a moment, she started rubbing her upper arms where her hands lay. The feeling of the smooth, wet glop rubbed against her skin – she had to admit – felt – well, nice. She slid her arms down and started rubbing against the sides of her tummy, including over the fresh scar left from the prince’s dagger thrust. It felt – well, soothing. Still…

“So how do I get all this stuff off?” she asked, her voice still upset but softening. “This towel won’t cut it.”

“That’s why this thing’s set so near the water,” Moyre replied. “After you’re done, yeh just walk over and take a dip t’wash yourself off. Then yeh use the towel.”

“But…walking to the water…I’ll be exposed,” Fiona said.

“Good grief, girl! It’s only a few feet, and you’ll be covered in mud!”

“That’s not good enough.”

“Oh come on! Who’s even around t’see yeh?”

“Groyl, for one.”

“I told him t’stay away while we did this.”

“Well, he might accidentally wander by.”

“Criminy, girl. Even if he did, you’re in human form now, and he’s an ogre.”

“He’s still male, isn’t he?”

“And he’d find yeh as physically attractive right now as your princey would find me.”

“Well, maybe. But…maybe there’re other people out there in the swamp watching us unseen…”

“Oh, for the love of Pete. Stop being so paranoid!”

“I’m not paranoid. I’m just…private.”

“Fine,” Moyre said, obviously making an effort to contain her annoyance. “How ‘bout I go get another towel for yeh, then yeh can wrap one around yeh when you make your way the whole twenty feet to the water, and then dry off with another one when you’re done. Will that do, Your Majesty?”

“It’s ‘Your Highness’, actually,” Fiona corrected, almost reflexively.

“Your Highness my a—” Moyre began angrily, then checked herself. After pausing to take a deep breath, she said, “Okay, dearie, I’ll go fetch yeh another towel.”

“Oh, Moyre,” Fiona called when she heard the ogress start stomping away.

The stomping paused. “What?” Moyre said, irritated.

“You’re right,” Fiona said contritely. “It does feel…nice. Um…thank you.”

There was a pause, and then Moyre replied more calmly, “No problem, dearie.” Then Fiona heard her resume her trip back to their home, her footfalls lighter.

Fiona sighed, reached up, and then pulled the rope again.

Now here it was, one month to the day from when Groyl had brought her home. Fiona waited at her window, anxious for the sun to complete its decent below the horizon, an emotion she would never have thought she’d feel for sunsets back in the tower – not while she was still under the spell. At last the sun did descend, and the dependable golden swirl started surrounding Fiona. She closed her eyes and smiled unconsciously despite the pain of the transformation. When that faded the ogress opened her eyes to the sharper view of the wilderness around her, listened to the crisper sounds of life around them, and breathed in the heartier smells.

It wasn’t just the smells from outside that Fiona picked up on – there were also smells from past the bedroom door from inside the house – the smells of cooking. She felt her mouth begin to water. A moment later there was a knock at her door. “Fiona, yeh decent?” Groyl asked.

“I am now,” Fiona said, and then checked herself, surprised at her own answer. “I mean, yes!” She then turned from the window and headed toward the door.

Moyre had prepared a feast for the three of them. Swamp toad soup, fish eyes tartare, and a couple of new dishes that Fiona couldn’t yet name but which tasted divine – if that was the right word to use in this context. They even poured extra ograrian ale as part of the celebration. For desert, they presented her with a mince-meat pie, made from real minced meat of various animals. It was topped by a single earwax candle. “Make your wish and blow it out,” Moyre said.

Fiona raised an eyebrow quizzically. “Making wishes? Really?” Fiona asked. “That doesn’t seem a very…ogre-type thing to do.”

Moyre sighed irritably. “Okay, that’s true,” she said. “But we heard that humans to it, and we were trying t’make yeh feel comfortable. So shut your smart-aleck trap, make a stupid wish, and blow out the blasted candle!”

Fiona smirked at Moyre’s goading and looked down at the candle. The princess hesitated. Every day locked in that castle she had wished to be rescued by a brave knight on a valiant steed. So insulated, with such one-sided indoctrination, things had seemed so simple. No longer. The hospitality she had received from these ‘creatures’ who had rescued her, tended her wounds, welcomed her into their home and taught her that no part – no part of her was an abomination, and making Fiona realize that the only ugliness was to be found in the way that people of all species mistreated their fellow beings – it had changed her as much as any witch’s curse ever could have.

Fiona smiled. “I wish that one day I could have as much of an impact on your lives as you’ve had on mine,” she said, and blew out the candle.

After desert Moyre said, “I’ve got something else for yeh.” Fiona had just opened her mouth to protest that they’d already done too much when Moyre tossed her a piece of clothing that the surprised princess caught awkwardly. She held it up to find that it was an awkwardly knit one-piece bathing suit. “Umm – well, I – uh…thank you, guys,” Fiona stammered, “but I don’t—”

“Go try it on,” Moyre said, “while Groyl ‘n me try on ours.”

The other two ogres retreated to their bedroom with Fiona staring after them questioningly. She wasn’t sure where this was going, but she wasn’t feeling comfortable. Nevertheless, a moment later she sighed in resignation and headed into her room.

Fiona huffed in irritation as she clumsily changed into the garment, which she found showed off her plump ogress shape in a way that she still found embarrassing. When she exited her bedroom she found Moyre and Groyl already standing in the middle of the main room, Moyre wearing a similar bathing suit and Groyl clad only in a kilt. Moyre had some tattered towels draped around one arm and held the handle of a bucket with a bottle and glasses in the opposite hand. Groyl was holding a lit torch.

Confused, Fiona asked, “What’s going on? Are we going for an evening swim?”

“You’ll see,” the couple replied in unison.

“Oh, criminy,” Fiona moaned, rolling her eyes.

The couple laughed, and then headed for the door, signaling Fiona to follow them. She did so, falling in behind after Moyre, and noticed that despite Moyre’s even less comely physique, the older ogress strode with confidence and without self-consciousness. Fiona found herself somewhat envious.

After a short trek through the swampland they came upon what appeared to be a mudhole, in a roughly six by ten foot roughly oval shape. It was surrounded by four tiki torches on poles some five feet high.

Fiona frowned as Groyl lit the tiki torches from his own. “Why are we—” she began to ask Moyre, but then Groyl dropped his torch, gleefully shouted “Cannon ball!”, took a short running leap and, curling his legs up against his torso in the air, splashed into the middle of the mudhole. Both ogresses suffered splatters on their outfits, and one splatter struck Fiona on the cheek.

Groyl was laughing heartily as, covered in mud, he rose to his full height – the mudhole was apparently only five feet deep or so – and reclined against the edge of the hole. There he let himself slip until he was chest-deep in the ooze, then he closed his eyes and sighed contentedly.

Fiona wiped her cheek as she turned to face Moyre, who was also laughing as she reached into the bucket, uncorked the bottle and started pouring drinks. “Go on in,” the older ogress said. “You’ll find it incredibly soothing and relaxing.”

Fiona raised an eyebrow skeptically, but tentatively approached the mudhole and after a moment’s hesitation slowly, reluctantly, lowered herself into the muck.

And she found that Moyre was absolutely right.

The three just relaxed for a while in the mudhole, sipping eyeball-tinis (which Moyre swore – although with a mischievous wink – that they were fish eyes). Then Groyl started pointing out star constellations from an entirely new perspective.

“And that,” he said, indicating one pattern of stars, “is Bloodnut, the Flatulent. And that little cluster a ways behind him is a group of hunters running away from his stench.”

“You sure you aren’t pulling my leg with that one?” Fiona asked, skeptical but bemused, as she relaxed and let herself sink to neck level in the ooze.

“Not me, I wouldn’t pull your leg” Groyl said. “Might be a bog constrictor. Just kick ‘em off, they’re mostly harmless.”

Fiona rolled her eyes and took a sip from her glass, her fourth – or was it her fifth – drink since entering the hole. On top of the ale she had already consumed during dinner, her head was starting to fell a bit…odd.

“And up there,” Moyre said, pointing out a different grouping, “is Mutik, the Champion.”

“What was he champion of?” Fiona asked. “Did the sound of his belches carry across kingdoms and cause minor earthquakes?” She giggled, then went to take another sip and was annoyed to find the only thing left in her glass the twig-impaled eyeball. She removed and flicked the twig away, then popped the soggy orb into her mouth and was squishing it between her teeth when Moyre began speaking again, her voice suddenly void of humor.

“No, Fiona,” Moyre explained. “Mutik was female. And a stunning female she was. The myth goes that one day, long past, an evil human emperor sent his army out to hunt down all the ogres in his kingdom—”

“Actually, he might not have been all that evil,” Groyl interrupted. “There’s another version where his daughter was stolen from her crib and an ogre child left it her place, so the Emperor’s armies were scouring the ogre habitations looking for her—”

“That’s revisionist B.S.,” Moyre shot back. “Always trying to explain why villains do what they do and make them seem not so evil. We’re going with the classical version, and in that one he’s evil!”

“Okay, fine, suit yourself,” Groyl said, literally throwing his hands up.

“Anyway,” Moyre said, “shooting Groyl a warning glance before turning to Fiona again, “ogres are solitary creatures.”

“Yeah, I kinda figured that,” Fiona said.

“And the Emperor’s army was successful, ‘cause he was picking us off individually,” Moyre continued, ignoring her. “When the army appeared at an ogre’s home, the couple or so ogres there would face them, and would be – well, dealt with in short order. Mutik was different.”

“How so?”

“Instead’a facing them all herself, she ran.” Moyre smiled. “Then she went through every ogre-inhabited swamp and forest, convincing the ogres there that they needed to fight together to stand a chance. She formed them into an army, and they eventually defeated the Emperor.”

“Okay, I get it,” Fiona said, recognizing in Moyre’s story the structure of the many fairy tales she had read and believed in for so long before she had her worldview shattered. “It’s a story meant to give a lesson on the importance of communication and cooperation and all that. Weird they’d have a female as protagonist. Maybe because we’re supposed to be better at that type of stuff, whereas guys are more manly and physical and…hmm, I don’t know if that makes the story feminist or sexist. Anyway, what happened then? She beat her sword into a kitchen knife and marry a rich, handsome prin— oh, sorry, I mean a big, strong, ugly ogre and settle down into her own swamp or something, and live happily ever after?”

“No,” Moyre said, eyeing Fiona critically. “Ogres don’t live happily ever after. She died in the battle.”

“Ah! Well, I guess that serves her right, a female messing around in man’s work. So that’s the lesson. Well, at least we got a martyr. So, what was the upshot? What did the other ogres do then?”

“Then everybody went back to their swamps and forests.”

“So everything went back to the way it was before?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

Fiona snickered. “So much for the lessons of mythology.”

“Some say she wasn’t a myth, that she really existed.”

“HA!” Fiona blurted derisively. “Yeah, right. Just like a prince is really going to show up and give me ‘true love’s kiss’” – a phrase she mockingly emphasized by laying her head back, speaking in a breathless tone, and raising the back of her hand against her forehead – a move that, since her hand had been in the mud, left a muddy blotch there. She gave another contemptuous snort and wiped at the blotch, which only smeared the mud across her forehead and into her unkempt hair as thoughts of her betrayers rekindled her smoldering resentment, her mood darkened further by the brew simmering in her stomach. She picked up her glass again, forgetting it was empty, and was irritated both at her forgetfulness and the glass’s continued emptiness. “I’m going for another drink,” she announced flatly. “Either of you want more?”

“No, Fiona,” Moyre said, looking at her evenly. “I think we’ve all had enough for this evening.”

“Ah, you see Moyre, that’s where we differ,” Fiona said, pulling herself out of the muck. “That and the turning human during the daytime thing.”

“Fiona, please,” Moyre implored. “Too much drink doesn’t sit well on yeh.”

“But you think this thick, green ogre hide does, don’t you?” said Fiona, covered in and dripping mud from her neck downward, as she picked up the torch Groyl had dropped and strode – somewhat unevenly – into the foliage in the direction of their home.

“Yeh know, sometimes you’re too big fer your britches, and I’m not talking about your frigging nighttime transformations,” Moyre called after her reproachfully.

“Ooo, burn! Score one for the monster in the mudhole!” Fiona tossed back, and then giggled to herself over her cleverness as she continued walking away.

“Fiona! Come back here!” Moyre called.

“You’re not my mother!” Fiona called back as she trudged along the path homeward. Then she muttered under her breath to herself, all mirth gone, “My mother wanted me to go away.”

Fiona didn’t hear anything further from Moyre, which was fine by her. The reminder of her parents and their rejection had again reopened the pain in her heart. She felt like she wanted to cry, and she was very tired of crying. Perhaps more drink would help, and to blazes with Moyre’s warning.

As she drew nearer her destination, Fiona’s ears pricked to attention as she caught odd noises that shouldn’t be there. She halted, listening intently as she tried to control her breathing.

It was the sound of whispering, with the occasion sound of movement in the leaves and bushes from somewhere up ahead. Fiona ducked off the path and into the foliage, where she quickly ground out her torch in some loose earth. After a few seconds she crept forward through the plants – not as stealthily as she might have earlier that evening, but quietly enough. Eventually she reached forward and parted a pair of large fronds to see a group of men – a half dozen, dressed in village garb – themselves hiding behind bushes that they peered over at the ogres’ home. They were some twenty yards away from Fiona, their backs to her. Two were carrying torches, the rest pitchforks.

She rolled her eyes. How stereotypical.

As they continued to whisper, Fiona was able to make out words – slurred words – and it dawned on her that they were even more inebriated than herself.

“So ya think they’re in there?”

“It looks awful dark.”

“So what we gonna do?”

“Ya wanna call ‘em out?”

“You nuts?”

“Then why’re we here?”

“Ralph here dared us back at th’ – urp – tavern.”

“Hey, don’t blame it on me jus’ cause you’re turning yella.”

“So what we gonna do?”

“Let’s throw a rock an’ break a winda.”

“There ain’t no glass in em.”

“There ain’t? See, tole ya they’re savages.”

“Brutes prolly don’t even dump their chamber pots out the winda like civ’lized people.”

“Whaddya ‘spect from big, stupid, ugly ogres?”

“You kin say that again.”

“Whaddya ‘spect from b—”

“Ah, shuddup.”

“So what we gonna do?”

Fiona watched the intruders. When she first saw them she felt afraid, but as she listed to their drunken blather her temper rose. She considered going back and getting Groyl and Moyre to chase the scoundrels away, but then reconsidered. She had faced down a dragon, blast it, why should she be afraid of a few drunken louts? Besides, it was about time she started earning her keep around here doing something more substantial than a few domestic chores. She recalled how Groyl had handled Hood’s men…and she smiled. She began creeping out of the foliage and tiptoeing toward the drunkards.

“Hey, Bud, ya still got that bottle?” one of the men asked.

“Sure,” Bud replied, pulling out a quart-sized bottle.

“Let’s all take another slug ‘fore we chase these monstas outta here.”

“Yeah, we’ll show ‘em,” Bud said. Still facing the ogres’ home, he took a slug from the bottle then passed it over to the next man, who did the same and passed it on to the next, and so on. The sixth man took his slug and, eyes still on the ogres’ home, passed the bottle over to Fiona.

“Thanks,” Fiona said.

“Ga’ah!” the men said in unison, taking terrified – if unsteady – steps backward as they suddenly realized that there was an ogre in their midst.

“Here’s to brave souls who risk their lives protecting their loved ones from evil monsters,” Fiona said, tipping the bottle in mock tribute toward the men, who were all now frozen in fright, staring at her with bulging eyes and open, quivering mouths. Fiona tipped her head back as she took a long drink from the bottle, draining what was left. She then looked back at the men as she wiped her mouth. “Hmmm, not too bad,” she said. “It’s got more kick than eyeball-tinis, but not nearly as much as ogriarian ale. Since we like to be neighborly, why don’t you all come inside, have a drink, and relax?” She then leaned forward and gave the men a big, toothy smile. “We’d love to have you for dinner.”

With that, the men all looked around at each other for a moment, terror in their eyes. Then one of the men with a torch held it out at Fiona as if to ward her off. “G-get back! I’m warning ya!” he entreated, trying to sound threatening but failing miserably.

Fiona shied back for just a moment, but then a thought came to her. “Oh, goodie!” she said as she looked at the torch before her. The she crossed her fingers, briefly closed her eyes as she scrunched her face up, then a moment later opened her eyes and blew hard at the torch. It went out like the candle on her pie. “Well, do I get my wish?”

The men looked around at each other again, then they all screamed, turned, and – dropping their pitchforks and torches – bolted into the foliage, running away as fast as they could, often stumbling and falling, but quickly picking themselves back up and running again.

“I guess I did,” she said to herself with a self-satisfied smile. She listened to the sounds of their screaming and thrashing as they started fading deeper into the swamp. That was fun! That was more fun than she’d had in a long time. In fact, she decided she didn’t want it to end. She noted that the moon had risen enough now that it provided her enough light to see reasonably well – certainly better than the fleeing humans. Another thought came to her, and she grinned wider. “Oh, c’mon, guys!” she called after them. “You didn’t even get to hear me give my roar!” She then bounded off into the moonlit swamp after them.

She intentionally didn’t catch any of them. When she got close, and heard the men panic even more as they increased the intensity of their pace, stumbling over roots or bushes or running headlong into trees, she’d slacken her pace to let them get further away. Plus she found she was having increasing difficulty maintaining her own balance at times as her head started feeling woozier.

After several minutes of the game, Fiona, who had finally started running out of breath, stopped before a shallow pond that one of the men had splashed through, dropped to her knees, and burst into laugher. The laughing jag itself lasted about a minute as the last sounds of the men’s clumsy, panicked flight faded into the distance.

As the laughing jag at last ended, Fiona glanced down at the pond. The moonlight and her own keen ogrid eyesight allowed her to see her reflection quite plainly. She stared down for a moment at the big, ugly ogre staring back up at her, its hair unkempt and its raggedly swimsuit still coated with now dried muck.

Fiona smiled. “Aren’t you a sight?” she said, and started giggling. She forced herself to stop. “Hark! Thou hast had too much fun tonight, beast,” she said with mock haughtiness. “Back to thine lair!” She then stood, wobbled slightly, and looked down at her muddy outfit. “Well, after I’ve cleaned this and myself off properly,” she said, then looked back at the pond. “In something deeper than you, I’m afraid,” she said with a wry smile. “I’m afraid you’re much too shallow to handle this body.” She sighed. “And trust me, I’m an expert on shallowness.”

She turned and started walking back in the direction of her home when she noticed an apple tree, the slick red skins of its fruit glistening even in the moonlight. At the sight, and despite the earlier feast, her stomach rumbled. “Well,” she said, “perhaps first a nighttime snack.” She took the few steps to the tree, reached up, and grabbed one of the apples. She pulled once, and was surprised when it didn’t come right off. “Hmm,” she uttered, and then jerked down with more strength. The apple snapped off of its stem.

Fiona looked at her prize for a second, only to have the branch from which it was attached reach down and envelop her wrist.

Stunned, Fiona dropped the apple and looked up at her trapped wrist in horror. She tried to jerk it free; but the branch swayed with her effort but held tight. She then started to reach across with her other arm to pry her wrist free, but another branch reached down and grabbed that one. Before she could put up any further resistance both branches pulled upward, lifting Fiona and turning her toward the tree’s trunk at the same time. Fiona found herself dangling by her entwined, outstretched arms, her toes an inch off the ground as she started to kick futilely in the air, uttering grunts of alarmed frustration and growing panic.

Then indentations in the tree trunk’s bark seemed to open, and suddenly Fiona found herself staring at a scowling mouth and angry eyes. Her own eyes opened wide in fright, and she instinctively gasped in a great lungful of air, the prelude to a scream.

The scream never occurred, however. A third branch shot down and a hand-like construction of thick twigs closed around her mouth and nose, closing off her breath.

Fiona hung there, trapped, unable to get any leverage to use her strength to pry herself free. She stared at the malevolent face which would have appeared like a carving or odd natural formation were it not moving, its lips curling into an even surlier scowl and its eyes narrowing menacingly.

And she still couldn’t breathe.