“So child, what story do you wish to hear this night?” the elderly grandfather asked the boy on his lap.
The young boy scrunched his nose as he thought. After a moment, his eyes lit up as he thought of the story he wanted to hear, “The one with the swamp horse!”
The content smile drained from the grandfather’s face as he asked, “Now who told you about that story?”
“Balli was chasing Echi saying that the swamp horse would get her, and you know all the stories grandpa so I knew that you would know it!”
“I’ll need to have a word with your brother about saying such things to your sister,” the grandfather muttered to himself before sighing. With a bittersweet smile, he looked to his grandson and said, “Well, since you are now ten I suppose that you are old enough to hear it. But just to be sure, when your big brother was first told this story he had nightmares nearly every night for two seasons. Are you sure you want to hear this story?”
The boy’s face lit up even more than it was as he started bouncing in excitement. Chuckling and shaking his head, the grandfather closed his eyes and breathed deeply as he thought back to the story his youngest grandson requested. Ædil was always more interested in the darker stories of their world than Balli was, perhaps the boy would be less affected.
“Alright Ædil, this story begins in this very village fifty years ago, with a young boy not much older than yourself named Togferth. Called Tog by his friends and family,” began the grandfather.
As his grandfather spoke, Ædil’s mind drifted, the words pulling him into the story as if he was there.
#
Tog slowly walked through the still waters of the swamp. The bigger frogs were also the most easily spooked, and he needed a few more to fill the basket for supper tonight. His eyes slowly roamed over the banks and lily-pads, freezing when he spotted one of the biggest bullfrogs that he’d ever seen. A grin spreading across his face, he raised his frogging-spear as he inched closer through the rippling waters. Wait...
Tog slowly turned around, fearful of what he’d find. Would a swamp witch throw him into a pot to make stew? Or would it be Old Husk, the insect hive that used a man’s body as a home and meat shell? A Fang Knee? Spear Beak? Strangler Tail? Something worse?
What he saw was none of those things, yet terrible all the same. Reaching up out of the water was a mud-covered corpse, rusted sword in hand as it drew itself up out of the muck. Soulless white lights within empty sockets gazed out at the world that had forgotten it, a mindless, relentless fury burning brightly within. Sword raised into the air, the risen corpse took a shaky step forward, rotten strips of muscle and sinew dangling from old bones.
With a shriek of terror, Tog ran as fast as he could away from the undead. Tripping over his own two feet, the young boy scrambled up onto the bank. As the ground beneath his feet turned from mud to solid dirt, Tog cried out for his brother, desperate to warn him, “Tustan! Mere-Dead, Mere-Dead!”
Terror unlike any that he had known drove Tog’s legs to run faster than he knew possible, rapidly outpacing the unstable corpse. Only to come to a terrible, horrified stop as he reached where he and his brother were to meet.
Tustan had finished frog hunting first and reached the meeting point. But something else was waiting there. From a distance, it looked to be a horse and rider, yet the rider had no head. Where a saddle would be and where a rider’s legs would guide the horse, the torso merged seamlessly to the back. The arms were long, gangly things that dragged along the ground. Most unnerving of all, the muscles, veins, and sinew were clearly visible as it lacked any skin on its malformed body.
Tog watched in dread as the lanky arms held onto Tustan’s shoulders as the beast’s horse head bit into his neck. Tearing out chunks of flesh with a wet ripping sound, the horse head of the beast swallowed the meat it tore out of Tog’s brother.
Fear and shock rendered Tog as still as a boulder in the field as the beast ate its way through his brother’s neck. The beast’s left arm grabbed Tustan’s hair as it ate through the last of his neck, it's right dropping his body as it lifted Tustan’s severed head up to the stump where the rider’s head would have been.
“Tustan...” Tog whispered in horror.
The beast’s horse head snapped up to gaze at Tog, a single eye, like a baleful, emerald gemstone, in the middle of its forehead staring out at him. As the arms finished placing Tustan’s head upon its shoulders, the long, spindly fingers grabbed at the tattered skin before it began to rip and tear the skin off of its new head.
As the beast continued to tear the flesh off of Tustan’s head, the wet ripping sound echoing through the mere, Tog watched as his brother’s head turned to face him. A wicked, evil grin spread across his brother’s face, no trace of the joking humor that was previously as much a part of Tustan as his hair and nose.
The grin stretched inhumanly wide, showing far too many teeth as the beast spoke with Tustan’s voice, yet corrupted and wrong,“My dear brother, come join me for a supper of something with more meat on it than bullfrogs.”
Hearing his brother’s voice broke Tog out of the fog that his mind was in. A scream of pain, anguish, and terror tore its way out of Tog’s chest, the beast listening and savoring it like a fine wine.
The beast practically danced forward, darting and circling around Tog as it spoke, “Now what shall I do with you dear brother? I do so love fresh meat, so I cannot kill you now to eat later. Not while I have another meal to finish. I also cannot just let you go, you would never come back and I would be out a meal. Decisions, decisions, decisions...”
The bloody fangs in the beast’s mouth were still painted with Tustan’s blood, the breath from within smelling of rot, of plague, of death. It made Tog’s vision swim, his mind fog, and his stomach churn. As black swept across his vision, he fell to his knees, then onto the ground as consciousness left him.
#
The sounds of a cooking fire and a wooden spoon stirring in a metal pot greeted Tog as he awoke. The smell of stag hide, sage, and lemon crest filled his nostrils. Opening his eyes, the dim candlelight, and fire in the hearth cast flickering shadows that sparsely illuminated walls covered in skulls, furs, and herb bundles.
In the center of the room, a woman stirred a pot nearly half as tall as her. Her stooped frame was dressed in old leathers, from what Tog could see her hair was white and stringy. A hermit woman? A witch?
“Are you going to lie there all night, or are you going to get some food?” asked the woman, her voice raspy and rough like dry twigs.
With nary a word, Tog pushed himself off the leather covered cot that he had been resting on. The animal skulls seemed to leer down at him from the walls as he slowly made his way towards the woman. As he approached, he noticed that a cloth bandage was wrapped around her head.
“Would you be so kind young man and fetch me a pair of turtle shells? They last so much longer than wooden bowls around here.”
It took a moment, but after looking around Tog spotted two turtle shells hanging on the wall to his right. Not wanting to provoke her, he quickly ran over to pick up the two shells. Turning around, he froze upon seeing the woman’s face.
The bandage that he saw earlier was covering her right eye, a long, gagged cut above that had a greenish paste smeared over it while blood seeped from the wound. Her left arm ended at a stump halfway to the elbow, the injury long since healed over.
“Well? Do you want to eat or not?” the woman asked, her sole remaining eye glaring at Tog.
Slowly, he made his way over to the old woman, his whole body shaking with every step. With shaking hands, he held out the two shells. The ladle dropped a mass of boiled crawdads into the first, then the second. Placing it over the top of the pot, the woman took one of the shells and sat in a chair.
Sitting on the cot that he awoke on, Tog picked up the first crawdad before asking a question, “What happened? How’d I get here?”
Not stopping her eating, or to peel the shells, the woman’s response was direct; “You had a run in with Molochdes. Had I not been by you would be dead for food. You’re welcome.
“Now, you owe me an eye and thanks to you I’d be surprised if Molochdes hasn’t figured out where I live. So the way I see it, I have two choices. First one is I let you go and regardless of whether or not you escape the mere Molochdes figures out where I am, comes here, and then eats me. As I’m sure you can imagine, I would much rather avoid that.”
The crunching of the beast’s teeth crushing Tustan’s neck echoed in Tog’s mind. The way she worded the choice though, something about it was unsettling, not right. Tog’s grip tightened on the shell as his body tensed.
Ignoring Tog, she continued, “The second, and much preferable to me, choice is I use a ritual to hide my hut from Molochdes. Fortunately I know such a ritual, unfortunately for you, I need your life to fuel it. So enjoy your last meal boy, tyfas.”
The last word was spoken with an echoing reverb of power, and at the front of the room plants and grasses grew to cover and block the doorway. The wooden frame of the cot warped, twisted holding Tog in place. The witch stood up, finishing her last crawdad as she took a stick and started drawing a circle on the floor.
Shell and crawdads ignored, Tog scrambled, he scratched, he clawed at the wood bindings holding him in place. He had to escape, the witch was going to kill him, use him for a foul ritual that would condemn his soul! Being eaten by the beast would have been a kinder fate.
A loud, evil laughter echoed into the hut, causing both occupants to still in fear. Tog recovered first, fighting to free himself with renewed vigor. The witch’s eye seemed glazed over as she whispered to herself, “It’s too early, how could he have found me so soon?”
Tog ignored the witch, he had managed to get a leg loose; just a little more and he’d be free. Seeing her victim struggling, the witch renewed her preparations. Seeing her resume drawing in the dirt, Tog struggled harder. Seeing him struggle, she sped up her preparations.
Both were interrupted as the walls shook, the roof rattled, and laughter echoed. The roots and grasses blocking the doorway splintered and wilted as the beast bit, clawed, and slammed.
“Dear brother, has this old hag stolen you away?” the beast called in a sing-song voice, sounding like an older, gruffer Tustan.
“Begone Molochdes! This home is not yours, you are not welcome here!” the witch shouted at the beast as she finished her ritual circle.
The beast’s laughter was punctuated by the splintering of wood, “My dear, dear Wuldara, is that any way to treat your husband? It has taken me fifteen years, but I have returned after you cast me away!”
Tog’s eyes widened in horror, the witch was the beast’s wife?! Now he really had to get out of here! As the witch began chanting, Tog managed to get his foot free. Jumping up on top of the cot, he took a moment to get his bearings. The witch was in front of him chanting, behind her was the still bubbling pot, and beyond was the beast trying to break in.
As he tried to think of a plan, Tog felt a sudden weakness in his leg. A glance down showed muscles withering, skin graying. He didn’t have the time to plan. Praying to make it through this, Tog jumped down from the cot and rushed the witch.
Her hand reached out to grab him, but Tog managed to duck under her reaching fingers and shove her backward. Put off balance, the witch stumbled back into the pot. It tipped back before the weight caused it to rock forwards, dumping the boiling water onto the witch.
As she screamed in agony, Tog ran out of the hut, racing under the stamping legs of the beast. A lashing claw left a deep gash, from the edge of his eye to the back of his head, taking part of his ear. The wound burned, undoubtedly already infected from the foul magic of the beast.
The beast considered chasing the boy, it could easily catch up to a half-grown, hobbling human, but its true prey was within.
#
“Tog made it back to the village, where the priest managed to work a miracle and save his life. The cut that he received from the mere-beast left a terrible scar that he carried for the rest of his days. His leg never regained its full strength, but he managed to live a full life. Thus the story ends,” the grandfather finished his tale.
Ædil stared up at his grandfather with sleepy eyes, fighting back a yawn. As he got off of his grandfather’s lap to go to bed, he had a realization, “Grandpa you have the same scar as Tog!”
