Even More Short & Shivery

by Robert D. San Souci

  When he saw the woman racing down the path in fright, he called to her, “What is the matter?”

  Before she could answer, the giant child stood up on legs as thick as tree trunks and tossed the roof of the hut aside as easily as a waking man throws off a blanket. Then he killed and gobbled up two bullocks in the pen beside the dwelling.

  “Sure, that must be the giant who will swallow Ireland before the Last Day!” the wizard cried. “But the way he is growing, he will bring ruin upon us all before the appointed time.”

  “Can you do something to make him as he was?” asked the frantic woman.

  “That is not in my power,” said the wizard. “I cannot prevent what he was created to do. I can only keep him from doing it too soon.”

  The woman, caught between love of her child that had been, and fear of the monster that had come to be, began to weep and moan.

  But the old man started to say spells and incantations, and to make charms and symbols from bits of twigs and grass that he pulled from the ground. Each time the giant, who was still growing, tried to seize the magician and the sobbing woman, the charms turned him away.

  Three times the giant tried to snatch them, his hands as big as hayricks, his eyes blazing with hunger. Three times the spells kept him at bay, as if he had come up against an unseen wall.

  At last the monstrous creature turned away and began to climb the steep path up the mountainside, behind the ruined cottage.

  The wizard pursued him, still muttering secret words. All the while, the huge figure kept growing bigger and more terrifying. He was treading with heavy steps because of the spells that were upon him, but he was raging to devour the world. The fury in him made him awful to behold. The pounding of his heart against his ribs shook the mountains. His hair bristled thick and stiff and sharp as spearheads. He roared like a hundred lions, so great was the anger in him.

  Still, he thundered up the path, with the wizard following and the old woman coming also, for she must see how things came out.

  Soon the giant reached the mountain lake of Baylock. And as the three of them straggled toward the shore, the wind began to rise and black clouds gathered over the hills.

  When the monster planted his massive feet on the lakeshore, a wild blast of wind shrieked through the hills. A frightful, voracious vulture arose from the rocks and flew screaming over the water. The witches and goblins of the mountains rose up from cave and crevice; the destroying demons and ghosts of all who had died near that place filled the air. All were drawn, by the wizard’s magic, to harry the monster.

  Hidden behind a rock, the old woman watched wide-eyed as the wizard summoned a great, howling whirlwind down from the mountain peaks. This caught the giant and carried him out to the middle of the lake. There it dropped him.

  In spite of his thrashing about, the giant soon began to sink. As he sank, the wind died away and the water became calm. Bird and banshee, ghost and goblin, fled back into hiding, and the silence of death hung over Baylock.

  “Oh,” wept the woman, “though he was a monster, he was once my babe. Now he’s drowned and lost, never to return.”

  But the wizard said grimly, “The like of him is never drowned. But with the spells that are on him, he is chained to his fate. He must bide his time at the bottom of Baylock, until his bonds are loosened on the day before Judgment Day.”

  Ever after this, shepherds would say that, once a year, a whirlwind would blow through the peaks of the Knockmealdowns. And in the sound of it could be heard demons and ghosts screeching. The surface of the lake would churn. Then a thunderous voice would rise from the depths of the lake, asking, “Is it the day before the Last Day yet?”

  When there was no answer, the voice would be stilled. Then, for another year, Ireland would be safe from the giant who is destined to devour the land on the day before the destruction of the world.

  The New Mother

  (British Isles—England)

  When Queen Victoria ruled England there were two little sisters, whose real names are forgotten. But the older was nicknamed Blue-Eyes for the rich blue color of her eyes; her sister was called Red-Skirts, because she always wore dresses of that shade. They lived with their mother in a cottage in a seaside village. Their father was a sailor visiting faraway lands.

  Their mother always told the sisters not to talk to strangers. But one day, as Blue-Eyes and Red-Skirts crossed the village square, they met an old woman sitting on a bench. She wore a black bonnet and white gloves, and her face was powdered as white as a ghost’s. Her black skirt reached to the ground, and it crinkled and rustled like stiff tissue paper when she moved. Her eyes were hidden behind spectacles of thick, smoked glass. “Come here,” she invited in a voice like pages turning in a very old book.

  At first, the girls held back, remembering their mother’s warning. But when the woman took a music box of carved and polished pearwood from her big, black silk purse, Blue-Eyes and Red-Skirts stepped closer to look.

  The woman’s gloved fingers worked stiffly as she turned a key in the back of the music box. When she lifted the lid, tinkly music played, and a tiny carved boy and girl popped up and danced. The boy’s painted mouth was sad; the little wooden girl had a single crystal teardrop under each eye; but Blue-Eyes and Red-Skirts were delighted. They laughed and clapped and begged the old woman to give them the music box.

  “I will give it to you,” she said, “but only if you are very naughty! Come back tomorrow and tell me how wicked you have been.” Then the music wound down, and the wooden boy and girl stopped dancing, and the woman put the wonderful music box back into her purse.

  “Now give me a kiss, and run on home,” she said in her papery voice. The girls each kissed a cheek, finding that the woman’s face powder tasted like dust. Then they ran home.

  That evening, Blue-Eyes and Red-Skirts were awfully naughty. When their mother asked if they had spoken to anyone, the girls lied, saying nothing about the old woman in black skirts or her music box. Then they shouted and spilled their food and scribbled on their books and refused to go to bed. Their mother was very upset and said, “If you keep on being naughty, I will have to go away and leave you in the care of a new mother with glass eyes and a wooden tail.”

  But the little girls did not take her warning to heart. They thought only of the pearwood music box that would be their reward for such mischief making.

  The next day, the sisters got up very early and hurried to the village square. There they met the old woman in black. Again she played the music box, and the tiny sadfaced boy and teary-eyed girl danced as before. “Did you do what you were supposed to?” the woman asked as soon as the music stopped.

  “We were very naughty,” Blue-Eyes cried.

  “Yes,” said Red-Skirts. “Can we have the music box now?”

  “First tell me what you did,” the woman demanded. She leaned forward with a sound like a door creaking.

  Taking turns, the girls told what they had done.

  “Oh, no,” said the woman, “you were only a little naughty. You must be far worse than that. Now give me a kiss, and run along home.” This time, her cheeks smelled like the parlor table when their mother polished it with lemon and beeswax.

  All day long, Blue-Eyes and Red-Skirts were as naughty as they could be. They threw their teacups on the floor and tore their clothes and walked in the mud up to their knees and pulled up all the flowers in the garden and let the canary out of its cage, so that it flew away.

  “Whatever has gotten into the both of you?” their mother asked. “Have you spoken to anyone?”

  “Oh, no!” the two girls answered as one.

  Then their mother said sadly, “Children, you must not be so naughty. If you do not stop, I shall have to go away, and then you will have a new mother with glass eyes and a wooden tail.”

  But Blue-Eyes and Red-Skirts thought she was only telling stories to make them obey, so they paid her no mind. The next day, they got up even earlier and ran to meet the myste
rious woman in black.

  But when they told her what they had done, she scolded them. “You haven’t been nearly naughty enough. You must be really bad if you want any part of my music box. I will give you one last chance.” They could not see her eyes behind her smoky spectacles, but her mouth was stern and no longer smiling. When they kissed her cheeks, the woman’s skin felt dreadfully cold and hard.

  Afraid of losing the music box, Blue-Eyes and Red-Skirts dashed home. This time they broke the chairs and smashed the china and tore their clothes to pieces and whipped the dog and even pinched their mother.

  At last their mother said sadly, “Blue-Eyes and Red-Skirts, you have been so naughty that I will surely have to go away and leave you in the care of a new mother with glass eyes and a wooden tail.”

  Her daughters did not heed her. They only thought of the prize that would soon be theirs. “Tomorrow, when we have got the music box, we will be good again,” they told each other.

  The next morning, Blue-Eyes and Red-Skirts got up the earliest yet and went to meet the old woman. She patted the silent music box on her lap and asked, “Have you earned this?”

  “Oh, yes!” the girls boasted. Then they eagerly told her all the wicked things they had done.

  The old woman laughed and clapped her hands with a sound like two sticks hitting together. “Yes,” she agreed, “you have been really naughty, and now your mother has gone far, far away to find your father. Soon you will have a new mother with glass eyes and a wooden tail—and the music box, too!”

  But Blue-Eyes and Red-Skirts had grown frightened. The music box no longer mattered. They ran home, but they found that their mother was away. Hoping that she had merely gone to market, they mopped the floor and polished the silver and tried to undo their mischief. As evening fell, they put the kettle on the fire to fix tea for their mother’s homecoming.

  While they waited for the water to boil, they heard a loud knocking at the door.

  “Who is there?” called Blue-Eyes.

  “Mother,” a soft voice replied. “Open the door: I have forgotten my latchkey.”

  Something about the voice did not seem right to Blue-Eyes. But Red-Skirts cried, “We thought you had gone away!” She lifted the latch and opened the door before her sister could stop her.

  There stood the old woman. She was so tall, her bonnet almost touched the top of the door, and her black skirts filled it from side to side. Her smoky spectacles were as big as saucers, and her black silk purse looked immense.

  “Where is our mother?” asked Blue-Eyes.

  “Because you were so naughty, your old mother had to go away,” said the woman. “I am your new mother.” She walked heavily into the cottage, growing taller with each step. Now the top of her bonnet reached to the rafters. From beneath her monstrous black skirts came a strange thumping noise.

  “Run away!” Blue-Eyes yelled to Red-Skirts. “We will hide until our real mother comes home!”

  But suddenly a wooden tail lashed out from under the black skirts and knocked them to the floor. When the new mother pulled off her spectacles, the flash of her glass eyes lit the room, so that Blue-Eyes and Red-Skirts clearly saw something round and dark coming for them. It was the mouth of the new mother’s purse grown big enough to swallow them both.

  One morning, two little boys playing in the village square met a funny old woman in black skirts and cloudy glasses who called them to her side. At first, they hung back, remembering how their mother had warned them against strangers. Then the woman opened her black silk purse and took out a pearwood music box. When she lifted the lid, tinkly music played, and two tiny carved girls—one with blue-bead eyes, one with dainty red skirts—popped up and danced. The boys were delighted.

  They begged, “Can we have the music box?”

  The woman smiled and asked, “How naughty can you be?”

  Rokuro-Kubi

  (Japan)

  More than five hundred years ago there was a samurai named Kwairyo, who gave up the life of a warrior and put on the robes of a priest. But he kept alive within himself the heart of a samurai, and scorned danger. Those were lawless times, when a lone traveler was always in peril, even if he was a priest. But Kwairyo would go anywhere to preach the holy teachings of Buddha.

  One evening, while Kwairyo was crossing the mountains of a remote province, darkness overtook him when he was still far from any village. He had resigned himself to sleeping under the stars, when a man came along the road, carrying an ax and a bundle of chopped wood.

  “Good evening, sir,” said the woodcutter, bowing to Kwairyo. “I am surprised to see a stranger on this road so late. Are you not afraid of things that haunt the dark?”

  “My friend,” Kwairyo responded cheerfully, “I am only a poor wandering priest, but I am not the least afraid of goblins. And I find lonesome places ideal for meditation.”

  “You must be a brave man indeed,” the peasant responded. “But I can assure you this is a very dangerous region. Although my house is only a wretched hut, I beg you to come home with me at once. Alas, I have no food to offer you; but there is at least a roof to shelter you.”

  Kwairyo gratefully accepted his modest offer. So the woodcutter guided him away from the main road and up a narrow path through a mountain forest. After a long time, the priest found himself upon a cleared space at the top of a hill, with the moon shining overhead. Before him was a thatched cottage with paper lanterns glowing in each window.

  First the woodcutter showed Kwairyo a shed behind the house. Here, bamboo pipes brought water from a nearby stream, so the men washed their feet. This done, they entered the cottage.

  Inside, Kwairyo found two men and two women warming their hands at the fire pit in the center of the room. All bowed to the priest and greeted him respectfully. There followed some polite conversation; then the woodcutter showed Kwairyo to a little side room where a sleeping mat and pillow awaited him. Promising to pray for them to repay their hospitality, the priest retired.

  The household settled into sleep, but Kwairyo read the holy sutras by the light of a paper lantern. As the hour grew late, he became thirsty. Remembering the clear-running water in the shed, he decided to go and get a drink.

  To avoid disturbing the household, he gently pushed apart the sliding screens separating his room from the main chamber. By the light of his lantern, he saw five bodies upon sleeping mats—all headless!

  At first, he thought that his hosts had been murdered. But a closer look showed no traces of violence or blood. Then he realized that this was a house of some Rokuro-Kubi, demonic creatures whose heads left their bodies to hunt food. He guessed that the heads had made their exit through the open smoke hole in the roof. He knew he was in great danger, since the creatures would devour any living thing—even a man.

  Hearing no sound, Kwairyo unbarred the main door. He knew that moving the bodies would confuse and distract the creatures, so he dragged them out and hid them in a bamboo thicket. Then he hurried toward the stand of cedars at the head of the path. But when he entered the grove, he heard voices. Peering out from behind a tree trunk, he saw the heads bobbing and darting. They were eating worms and insects they found on the ground or in the trees.

  “How fat that priest is!” cried the woodcutter’s head. “How good he will taste! Though we cannot touch him when he is praying, he may have fallen asleep by now. Someone go and see.”

  The head of a young woman rose up and flitted batlike toward the cottage. After a few minutes she flew back, crying, “The priest is not there! And he has hidden our bodies!”

  “We must find them,” said the woodcutter, “or we will die. When I see that priest, I will kill him! I will tear him! I will devour him!” Suddenly the creature’s eyes went wide, and he shouted to the others, “There he is, hiding behind a tree!”

  Shrieking, the five heads flew at Kwairyo. But he had armed himself with a stout tree branch, and he struck the heads as they came at him. With tremendous blows, he knocked them aside
. But the buffeting only seemed to anger them. They came for him again and again, their eyes burning, their sharp teeth clack-clacking. Though he wielded the branch as skillfully as he had once used a sword, the five heads were too much for him.

  Two of the heads clamped their jaws on the branch and gnawed it to pieces. With snapping jaws, the three other heads dived at him. He chopped at them with the sides of his hands, but each bit off a mouthful of his flesh. Desperate to find shelter from the snapping teeth, Kwairyo ran back toward the house, slapping and punching at his tormentors.

  At the entrance, he swung around and punched the woodcutter in the face, slamming the head into the one immediately behind. Then he ducked inside the hut, pushing the door shut and barring it. He yanked on the cord that shut the smoke hole. But a moment later, he heard the screaming heads chewing at the oiled paper that covered the windows.

  Kwairyo looked around for a weapon but could see nothing. In an alcove, he found piles of clothes, coins, and jewelry that the Rokuro-Kubi had taken from their victims. There were even a suit of armor and a sword.

  Kwairyo snatched up the sword as ripping sounds, followed by screeches, warned him that the heads had chewed through the window coverings. To their dismay, they found that the priest had once again become a samurai. As the frenzied creatures flew at him, Kwairyo’s sword cut them to ribbons.

  At last, only the woodcutter’s head was left. He had skillfully eluded the sword blade, managing to chew off several gobbets of Kwairyo’s flesh. Though he was in terrible pain, Kwairyo stood his ground. When the howling Rokuro-Kubi rushed at his face, he waited until the last possible moment. Then his sword flashed. The upper half of the creature’s head, its eyes filled with rage, struck the wall. The teeth from the lower half clamped on to the sleeve of Kwairyo’s robe, biting as if the cloth were skin.