Giants and Ogres (14 page)

Bihotz blew a staccato burst of sharp denial.

Do not,
she pleaded,
do not yet. You yet breathe, and you sing!

I sing death-song,
the wolf crooned, low and quiet,
I sing last-song.

Please,
Bihotz played, a note so sweet it was sticky and grasping.
Please. Tonight you are not alone. Tonight we are a duet!

The wolf tilted his great head on his great paws and looked at the tiny bundle by his side. It was still.

You are not pack. You are not wolf,
he whined,
no others and now none ever. Enemy takes all.

He laid his head back down.
None to mate, none to feed, none to protect. Enemy takes all. No pack to sing with. Soon no song.

The blood continued to drip.

Bihotz sat down on an outcropping, keeping her
head near the tiny alcove.

Alas for no pack,
she played,
alas for no clan. Alas to be the only ones left. A curse on dragons and mate-takers. Alas for us. Alas for the last, weakest, and fading.

The silence stretched for a moment, but Bihotz could not let it take.

I sang of sleep tonight, and I sang of stone-sleep too. When you sang, I was not tired. When you sang, I was not alone.

The dire wolf's reply came almost hesitantly.

You were not alone. I sing with you. I don't sleep alone. That is good.

That is not good enough!
Bihotz cut in.
Why must you sleep at all?

Enemy has taken—

Dragon has not taken you! Why do you give yourself to him? Has not he taken his share?

The wolf was silent for a long moment, and then his soft howl rose interrogative.

Enemy took your mate? And you were not there?

Bihotz pulled up the hem of her tunic to display the wide scars that started under her arm and traveled down, across ribs and belly, and ended at contrary hip.

Dragon wanted me, too.
She played, dropping her hem.
I would not go then. I was not ready. I had many songs still to play, even if the chords were simpler.

The wolf whined again, no meaning to it but misery. The night was quiet a moment, but he would not let the silence take either.

You are strong to fight enemy. You are strong to be here.

The notes from her flute were bitter laughter.
I am a giant. We are strong. We are like rock.

I was strong too,
the wolf argued,
but not strong enough. Could not defend. What you defend? Enemy will take you next time.

Maybe,
Bihotz agreed,
or maybe I will sleep stone-sleep. Or maybe I will find a spear in my belly. Or maybe many things. But none of those are tonight. I will play tonight, and in the morning, and maybe the next night too. And maybe all winter until it is spring.

This time Bihotz let the silence take. She could hear, faintly, a rustling down below in the foliage. She could hear the stream running wide and smooth at the bottom of the valley. The occasional hoot or squeak of the night going about its business kept the silence from consuming.

Gradually, she realized the dripping had stopped. She turned her head, and the dire wolf met her gaze.

I bleed no more,
he sang,
but have little blood. I may still sleep.

You will not,
Bihotz informed him, before sliding off her outcropping and laying down her flute.

She tore a strip from her tunic as she went down to the stream. She soaked the strip and draped it over her arm before filling her cupped hands with water. She offered the water to the wolf, who was soon quenched, and she washed blood from his pelt and bound his wounds with more strips from her tunic. She brought him more water and then offered him some of the dried bear meat she carried. While he replenished himself, she took the sad little bundle from his side and laid it further back in the alcove.

By the time all was finished, and the wolf once more resting, the moon sat low against the mountains.

My mate and pack feed scavengers tomorrow, but I don't sleep yet. Still I am strong.

Bihotz played an answering note.

My father is stone, but I still have strength. I still sing.

I sing too,
the wolf agreed, and in harmony, they watched an unexpected dawn break.

K.L. Critchley
is a new author from the southwestern United States. She has degrees in Psychology and Linguistics, and enjoys dogs, dancing, long walks through the cactus, and challenging gender stereotypes.

I don't want the Watcher's Necklace. But I take it because I'm the only one left that can. The simple leather thong grips an oversized eagle's talon, a remnant of a time when the raptors were as big as dragons. It's an ancient symbol of the eyes that could watch over all.

I hate it. It's a burden and a curse.

As my mother leans forward to drop it over my head, arrow feathers tickle my chest. The sharp end is embedded in hers, blood matting the long silvery hairs that cover her strong, muscular body. I press my forehead against hers, looking within to see what happened.

She was Watching, of course. Watching over the pale, fragile humans, those little ones that could never quite figure out how to survive. There was a passel of them, picking blackberries, complaining about the thorns. No matter how many times they're pricked, they're always surprised.

One woman separated, strolling deeper into the dark woods alone. She spotted a better patch, and she'd
have the most. She muttered to herself about the pies she'd make, the prizes she'd win. Eyes on the berries, she didn't notice the snake in her path and tromped over it with her big, clumsy foot. Surprised, it lunged forward and bit her ankle, releasing its venom.

Mother sprang into action, sprinting towards the woman. She knocked her to the ground and began to suck the poison from her blood.

“Ogre!” The ridiculous woman screamed. My mother reared back, surprised, and the arrow struck her chest. The bowman ran forward, gathering the woman up in his arms. As he fled, he brought a heavy boot down upon the snake, dashing its skull.

I pull my head back. It's not anything unexpected, but it kills me just the same. Mother holds my face with weakening fingers. Her eyes, brown like leaves on the forest floor, are begging me. “Keep watching,” she whispers.

I shake my head. “I can't. I'm not even eighteen yet. I'm not ready.”

“You'll have to get ready,” her soft whisper turns to an urgent hiss. “It's our duty. Our sacred trust. And it's up to you now.”

“They—”

“Please, Oni. Promise me.”

“Fine. I'll watch. But I don't want to talk about them right now.” From between black lips, her yellow teeth flash the briefest smile. The last smile. She kisses my forehead, then settles back onto the grass.

I bury her deep in the forest, where the humans are scared to go. I bury the snake, too.

So, I watch. That's what I promised. I'll watch them, but I will not Watch over them. And I will not intervene on their behalf.

I will not bargain with the wolves that come to take their sheep. I'll watch them enjoy their prey.

I will not beg the bees to visit their crops. Why? So they can be swatted? No, I'll watch the bees revel in the freedom of the forest, and I'll watch the humans puzzle over their failed harvests.

I will not beguile the worms to the surface. I'll guide them deeper underground and watch the humans scramble for their own bait.

I withdraw the help of my people. And I can do this because I am the only one left, the last Ogre of the Forest.

But I will watch.

I'm watching the sun flash along the river when she approaches. She crouches down by the water, awkwardly holding a spear—a spear quite obviously three sizes too big for her adolescent frame. Her fawn-colored hair falls forwards into her face, and she brushes it impatiently from her eyes.

She's ruined the view. Sighing, I heave myself to my feet and trudge towards the hills.

A shriek and splash cut the air, echoes bouncing from tree to tree like alarm bells. I tell myself not to turn around, to keep walking. But I can't help it.

The spear spins erratically on the water, caught up in the rushing currents. It careens into a bed of rocks and splinters. Light brown strands of hair float to the surface, attached to a flailing shadow. The world darkens around me, and I watch that shadow through tunnel vision. Her panic becomes my panic. My ears are filled with the sound of my pounding heart, and I can feel the water pouring into my lungs.

I sprint for the river, anticipating her position by the flow of the current. I plunge my arm into the relentless stream and grab her around the ribs. Pulling her to me, I rub her back as she coughs and spits up water. Her breath still coming in ragged bursts, she
runs her smooth white hand along my rough one. The frigid water has caused the brown hairs to tighten and curl, and my cracked yellow nails are an ugly contrast to her dainty fingers.

She wrenches herself away and turns to face me. Her mouth opens, and I know what's coming. That pitiful, terrified scream of absolute nonsense. Ogre!

“Considering the circumstances, I would just save your breath,” I snap. I want to melt into the woods and disappear, but I'm also mad. She doesn't get to make me feel like this.

“Why? So, you can murder me in silence?” she spits out through chattering teeth. She pulls her wet cloak even tighter around herself. I want to tell her that's only going to make her colder, but why should I?

“You were doing a pretty good job of murdering yourself. I should let you get back to that.”

I turn from her and lope up the hill, anxious for the sanctity of my den. And then a rock hits me square between the shoulder blades. A rock.

“Ogre!” The little drowned rat squeaks. “You killed my mother, you ogre!” She has another rock in her hand. I don't know what she thinks she's going to do with it, she's shaking so hard she can barely hang onto it.

“I killed your mother?” I dash towards her, stopping just short of her face. Grabbing the back of her head, I force her forehead against mine. So I can look within. It doesn't take long to see her mother. The last human my mother ever Watched over. I pull back, swallowing a growl.

“Your mother was bitten by a snake. A snake that she stomped on like a big clumsy oaf, never even noticing it beneath her feet. My mother was saving her, and she would have. If she hadn't been murdered. Blame the bowman. Not the ogre.” This time I run, not stopping until I get to the very top of the hill. But for some reason, I can't keep myself from shouting down to her one last time. “Go home and get out of those wet things and sit by the fire. You'll catch your death.”

I'm surprised to see her at the river the next morning. I actually expected a hunting party, but it's her, sitting cross-legged by the water, a basket in her lap.

“I brought you some bread.” She smiles weakly. “To say thank you. For saving me.”

“Alright.” I slide down onto the grass next to her. She breaks off a piece from the basket and hands it to me. It doesn't smell like poison, so I take a big bite. The
girl flinches at the sight of my sharp teeth tearing into the bread and looks quickly away.

The river seems calmer today. We sit in silence, listening to whisper of the currents, until she finally asks, “Is it true? What you said?”

“About your mother? About my mother? Yes and yes.”

“But why? Why help her? We always hunt ogres. We have to. They kill people. They eat them!” Hysteria starts to creep in, and she clutches her basket until her knuckles turn white.

“Who's been killed? Who's been eaten?” I question her softly.

“I don't know. Just people.”

“Hmm …”

We sit in silence a bit longer. She stares into the water, contemplating her warped reflection.