“Forgiveness for trying to kill me with nasty bugs and merrows and quicksand, you mean?” he asked, plopping down onto a tree stump and resting a hand on a heart still racing from surprise and fear.
“For breaking our engagement. This is Calan. He, not you, will be my husband.”
O’Neill almost choked. “Pardon me, but I doubt your father will allow you to marry a panther. Not that I’m jealous or have the slightest objection, mind you.”
“Calan is not always a panther. Sometimes he is a young man — one who has sworn to love me forever. He does not fear my teeth, and I do not fear his. His family lives at the edge of the swamp. They are shape-shifters, brave and noble people my father will respect.”
“Congratulations, then,” O’Neill said. “I’m happy for you; I truly am.” He was not about to dispute Mizella’s second case of love at first sight when it had saved him from being forced into matrimony.
The panther growled and grunted. Mizella translated. “Calan offers you a reward, something to appease you since he stole the heart of your bride.”
O’Neill wanted no other reward than to be back in Scarff’s caravan. Besides, the last “reward” he’d been granted had demanded that he risk his life by pursuing her through a dangerous swamp. But then he remembered Madame Vadoma’s request. “Could Calan get me three feathers from a golden-beaked ibis?”
The panther nodded.
“Well, those and a quick trip home without any more near-death experiences would be reward enough for me.”
“We will set out immediately,” Mizella said. The panther growled, and she added, “Calan says he will carry me while you ride upon his brother Flann’s back. They are the swiftest of panthers, and will spirit us to the camp before the moon is halfway up the sky.”
“That seems impossible,” O’Neill said. “But who am I to argue with a magical wildcat?” He reached into the satchel and pulled out the gold ring. “Here. You’ll be in need of this soon, I reckon.”
Mizella took the ring and swooped in to kiss his cheek before he could dodge her advance. Fortunately for O’Neill’s face, her mouth was tightly shut when her lips collided with his skin.
Battered, bruised, itchy, and grimy, O’Neill stumbled up the caravan steps and through the newly repaired door. He’d already delivered the ibis feathers and clever raven to Madame Vadoma, and lovestruck Mizella and her panther suitor, Calan, were on their way to beg the king to allow their marriage. Now he was eager to see only two things: Scarff and his own pillow.
Scarff greeted him with a snore. In the light of a low-burning oil lamp, the old peddler looked no worse than he had before the quest to find the Gaskin girl — and that was a good thing indeed.
O’Neill shed his sand-encrusted vest and then unbuttoned his charred shirt and dropped it onto the floor. Discarding the garments made him feel ten times less filthy. He started to unbutton his trousers.
“You’ve a foul stench on you, lad,” Scarff muttered from the bed. “The good Lord alone knows what mischief you’ve been up to. Do not even think of climbing into this bed without bathing first.”
It seemed the fellow was on the mend after all.
“But there are alligators in the pond,” O’Neill said. “And I am weary to the bone.”
“The smoke from Madame Vadoma’s special incense scares the beasts off. Besides, they certainly would avoid eating something that smelled as rank as you.”
“Yes, sir.” O’Neill picked up his ruined shirt and rebuttoned it. No way would he risk attracting another Gaskin bride with an immodest display of skin. He planned to do his level best and then some to avoid accidentally wooing anyone else before he made it back to his Pennsylvanian lass.
Scarff coughed a few times and then said, “When you return in a cleaner state, I’ll expect to hear what you’ve been doing, lad. All of it. The truth.”
“Of course.”
Had Scarff not been a well-traveled peddler acquainted with the world’s oft-hidden magic, no doubt he would have scoffed at the tale O’Neill was going to recount.
But first, a bath with alligators.
It just might be fun.
O’NEILL AND THE GRIGGIN
In O’Neill’s lifetime of experience as a traveling peddler, he’d learned a thing or two. Now seventeen, he could dance the Irish jig and the Viennese waltz, tie knots better than most sailors, play the tin whistle, and juggle a trio of blazing torches. He knew which wild berries would turn your guts inside out, and which mushrooms tasted best with hare. He’d also learned that when his guardian Ezra Scarff said they’d be taking a short cut, no good would come of it.
When Scarff indulged in lostness, the old fellow embraced it, gave it a kiss, and proposed marriage to it.
So, when night fell over the mountainside like an enormous black bear pelt, there was no need for Scarff to announce that they were well and truly lost. The look on his bearded face (puzzlement with a hint of guilt) spoke for him. He halted the horses, bringing their caravan to rest at the foot of a towering oak tree. The wind chimes, pots, and pans swinging under the edges of the roof tinkled and clanged — scaring off any mountain lions or grumpy boar that might be on the prowl nearby, or so the travelers hoped. The lanterns on the front of the wagon flickered cheerfully, as if they found the forest’s encroaching darkness pleasant indeed.
“I’ll see to the horses,” Scarff said without apology. “You might as well prepare for bed, lad. Unless you’re in the mood for a cold supper of bread and ham. It would go down well with a bit of that bottled fizzy orange stuff Madame Vadoma gave us.”
Never one to skip a meal for any reason, O’Neill said, “I’ll get the food out. But first I’ll fetch some water for the horses. I hear a creek running close by. It won’t take but a few minutes.”
“Fine. But watch out for wild beasts and poison ivy. If you’re half eaten and covered in rashes when we get back to Llanfair Mountain, the ladies will tan my hide.”
O’Neill laughed, picturing Auntie Verity chasing Scarff around the house, her biggest wooden spoon in hand and her head lowered like a mad bull’s. It was true that Auntie Verity and her adopted seventeen-year-old daughters would blame Scarff for any damage to O’Neill’s person. His laughter faded quickly. He missed those young ladies so much he could feel it inside his chest, an airless chasm of longing and homesickness. Scarff’s “short cut” wasn’t just an inconvenience. It meant more time apart from Maren (who was all too quickly turning into a mermaid) and her sister Clara (who was overwrought with worry about Maren’s condition). They needed to be together, to comfort one another, to share stories and songs and dreams.
Troubled as he was, O’Neill knew better than to grumble about the situation. If he complained, Scarff would retaliate by assigning him ridiculous tasks like polishing the wagon wheels or arranging the jarred spices in alphabetical order. As a grand finale, Scarff would deliver the dreaded but oft-repeated lecture which ended with, “It isn’t straight paths but unexpected adventures that forge a man’s true character.”
Ugh.
So, with as much cheerfulness as he could dredge up, O’Neill said, “I promise I’ll be careful.” He grabbed a bucket and one of the lanterns and headed deeper into the woods, ears focused on the sound of running water. Walking briskly, he kept alert for fat tree roots that could trip him or dangling vines that might entangle him. At least, he thought, he wasn’t stuck in a magic-infested swamp where living quicksand and pesky merrows lurked. He’d had enough of them before leaving Florida a few weeks ago.
He smelled the creek’s earthy-fishy-weedy scent before he laid eyes on it. The waterway ran between two steep banks covered in mosses and tiny pebbles. He alternately sidestepped and slid down to the water and filled the bucket, pleased that his boots remained dry and he’d encountered no wildlife. Careful not to slosh out too much water, he climbed back up the bank.
And then he heard something odd.
At first, he thought the eerie screaming came from a
wounded rabbit or a screech owl. When he stopped and listened harder, he became convinced the noise came not from an animal, but from a distressed human child.
He set the bucket down, tightened his grip on the lantern, and ran toward the sound. Scrambling over bushes and dodging tree trunks, he hoped he’d remember the way back to the caravan. The squealing and wailing grew louder as he descended into a little valley. Something white caught his eye, a length of fabric at the base of a boulder.
A bit of fabric someone had tied about a wriggling infant.
His heart fell. Who would … how could … But this had been him once, a child left in a basket under an apple tree in a cemetery. A babe rescued by a kindly priest, and soon after, given to traveling merchant Ezra Scarff.
“Hush, hush.” O’Neill placed the lantern on the ground and scooped up the baby. “What are you doing here all alone, eh?”
The child quieted and nestled against him. It weighed hardly anything, less than a half-grown cat. In the dimness, he couldn’t get a very good look at the baby’s face. All he could tell was that it was wrinkly, pruned up like most new babies’ faces.
“Where’s your mother, little one?” He squinted into the dark spaces between the surrounding trees and then at the ground, looking first for a lingering watcher and then for footprints, but finding neither.
The baby’s stomach growled like a full grown man’s and O’Neill chuckled. “That’s a language I understand. Let’s see if we can find you something to eat.”
With the baby resting in the crook of his arm, O’Neill lifted the lantern and followed his tracks back to the caravan.
“Thought the sprites had taken you,” Scarff called from the caravan’s doorway as he gave his bearded chin a good scratching. “But lad, where’s the bucket?”
“I’ll go back for it. I heard crying, and …” He held up the now sleeping infant. “Someone left the poor child out to die, I reckon.”
“Great Zeus and Hera,” Scarff said as he hopped down the steps. He leaned over the baby and examined it. “You found it by a big rock, did you?”
“How did you know?”
“That’s the way of its kind. What you’ve found is no human child, lad. It’s a mountain griggin.”
The baby snarled softly, its eyes still shut. O’Neill held it out from his body, putting a few inches between it and him. “A what?”
“A griggin. One of the New World faeries.”
Seized by the desire to set the creature down, O’Neill tried to do so — but found his arms stiff and unresponsive. He looked to Scarff for help. “There’s something wrong with my arms.”
“Aye, as one might expect. You lay hands on one of them and it’s yours until you find its mother. Or until it grows up and eats you for supper. At least that’s how I recall the lore of it. If Verity were here, she’d be able to tell you more.” Scarff sounded far too calm about the situation.
“Eats me for supper?” O’Neill’s voice squeaked like a twelve-year-old boy’s, and his knees knocked together like a set of castanets.
Scarff waved a hand dismissively. “It would be ages before that happened, or at least a week. Why, that puny fellow couldn’t eat more than half a squirrel, the size he is.” Scarff peered into the baby’s face again. “Yes, indeed. Ugly as sin warmed over. And see the blue crescent on its forehead? No mistaking a mountain griggin.”
“How do I find its mother?” O’Neill’s stomach churned like he’d eaten a whole basket of bad berries. Truly, he wished his mistake had been as simple as that.
“She’ll only show herself in the full moon’s light, at the top of the tallest tree on the top of the mountain where she left the babe. At least I think so. It’s been a while since Verity schooled me in such things. The terrible tales she’d tell when we were young and sitting by a campfire! Did you ever hear her banshee story? Gives me nightmares to this day.”
“The full moon? Tell me it’s not long off. Please.”
“Wednesday, if my memory serves me rightly. Until then, I suppose we’ll be stuck here. I’ve camped in worse places, and in worse company. Now, don’t look so distressed, lad. You’ll only be a griggin’s papa for a handful of days. Good practice for when you have a child of your own, I reckon.”
The baby’s belly grumbled again. Then the babe stretched its long, bony arms wide and yawned. Inside its gaping red mouth, eight or ten sharp teeth glinted.
“Well,” Scarff said with a grin, “Best feed it before it takes a notion to gnaw on you, young papa.”
“This is not half as amusing as you make it out to be,” O’Neill said.
“’Tis only a temporary inconvenience. No worse than a mosquito bite or two.”
“Clearly you’ve never met a fire mosquito.” He bore a few remarkable scars courtesy of those pesky, swamp-dwelling demons.
“I’ll mix up some cornmeal mush for little O’Neill, Junior.” As he scaled the steps into the wagon, Scarff chuckled. O’Neill stared daggers at him.
O’Neill had never fancied settling down somewhere safe, but the idea was beginning to hold great appeal. If he survived the griggin, he might just marry the girl he had his heart set on and give quiet farm life a try. Eschewing his roaming ways seemed a small price to pay for remaining alive and in possession of all his limbs.
The baby griggin ate a lot.
In one day, he (for the faerie creature was of masculine anatomy) consumed bowl after bowl of mush. The following morning, he devoured three oranges (rinds and all), half a pound of hard cheese, a plate piled high with beans and rice, and several rock-hard biscuits which would have shattered a normal person’s teeth.
“Better do some foraging,” Scarff said to O’Neill on the third day of O’Neill’s unexpected week of parenthood. “Our shelves will be empty soon if the griggin keeps eating at such a pace.”
With a sigh, O’Neill agreed. The baby in his arms belched and smirked. He winced every time he looked at the creature in the daylight. The griggin had a face like a toad that had been crushed by a train and molded into a human shape afterwards. His toothy smile was actually more disturbing than his frown.
“At least he’s full for the moment,” O’Neill said. His arms tingled and he realized he could move them more easily than he had since he first picked up the faerie babe. Bending over, he discovered (with great glee) that he could set the griggin down. He backed away slowly. One step, two, three. Then the thing snarled and dove at his ankle, digging into his flesh with its teeth.
O’Neill swore. Not something he did often, but by Jove, a griggin bite was nothing to sneeze at!
He leaned over and addressed his attacker. “All right! I understand! Stay close or suffer the consequences. You might have just grunted or gestured or something.”
The griggin burst into tears. Droplets of water flew from his black eyes like rain splashing off rocks. Feeling sorry for the child, O’Neill picked him up and patted his curved spine. “There now,” he said, disturbed and amazed by his sympathetic feelings for the wee beast. “Let’s forgive each other and not fuss over it anymore.”
“Best be careful not to get too fond of the thing,” Scarff said gruffly as he headed back into the caravan for something. “Unless you fancy staying here forever and wedding its mother.”
“Very funny.” O’Neill hoped his guardian was kidding. Knew he probably was not.
On the pine needle-carpeted forest floor, the griggin rolled and kicked thin, hairy legs. His swaddling fell off, revealing a lightly furred torso in shades of gray and brown. A gurgling sound accompanied the exercises: laughter or an attempt at primitive speech. As the griggin convulsed, he started to shed in gobs — until not a hair remained. His skin darkened, browning like a butter-basted chicken over a cook fire, forming ridges and bumps. His arms turned to branches, his fingers to twigs with green leaf fingernails.
The griggin looked like a two-foot-long chunk of tree trunk with bark-covered arms and legs, a purplish-red mouth and black eyes. Sappy yellow drool l
eaked viscously from his lips as he stared up at O’Neill.
“Well, that’s a fine trick,” O’Neill said, glad Scarff wasn’t around to remark upon this odd turn of fortune. Toting a log about would be even more awkward than carrying a baby-shaped burden. But tote he must. As Scarff had remarked, he had some foraging to do, or they’d all end up starving.
Long after midnight, O’Neill lay awake under the forest canopy, watching a few stars wink through the evergreen branches. The last thing he wanted to do was to worry about little Lloyd, but he couldn’t help himself.
He certainly shouldn’t have named the griggin, not when he was trying to avoid becoming attached to the little monstrosity. But somehow the log-shaped baby’s toothy grin and sticky kisses had melted his resolve. It had seemed wrong to continue to call the griggin “it” or “him.” Besides, he looked exactly like a Lloyd. Lloyd the Log.
At least he had.
The griggin’s shape had shifted again in the last few hours, slowly but surely. He was more rodent shaped now, like a squirrel perhaps, or some sort of minky animal. Who knew what he’d look like by morning? O’Neill hoped it didn’t hurt to change forms.
To add fuel to the fiery indigestion in O’Neill’s belly, Lloyd had stopped eating altogether. He’d refused oatmeal, acorns, biscuits, dandelion greens, and skunk cabbage. He’d growled like a mad wolf when O’Neill offered him a dill pickle.
Babies had to eat, didn’t they? How long would it take for Lloyd to sicken for want of nourishment?
Also, O’Neill had concerns about Lloyd’s mother. Would she show up at the full moon? Did she even want her child? What kind of mother used her infant to play tricks on passing humans? O’Neill knew what a good home was; he’d had the best upbringing a once orphaned boy could ask for, being adopted by a man with a tender and generous heart. What manner of home life would a griggin mother offer her little one? At best, a hole in a tree and a handful of grubs for supper.
If the griggin mama did not appear, could he be as good a man as Scarff and raise the little terror? Chances were he’d never find out — but he did wonder. Right now, young as he was, O’Neill had not even a shadow of a yearning for fatherhood. Perhaps Scarff had felt the same and simply laid his own wants aside. Perhaps he’d sacrificed more than O’Neill would ever know.
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