by Alec Silva
"As we are under profane oath”, he concluded, “we'll give you a bottle. It is from a virgin who languished expecting her groom return from the war. We devoured him on the battlefield shortly after his death; and we found the bride days later in a cemetery, with eyes still beady. They are odd little gems. And they are now yours.”
The female gave her a small bottle, with a bit of a crystalline liquid. Despite the stench and the dark blood, Anamelia took it, admiring its contents for a few seconds.
“Now go!”, ordered the male, heading for the bodies he was eating before.
“Yes, go, child! Go! And may your destiny be better than ours or the young man who wept even after her death! Go!”
And so the first task was fulfilled.
IV
The lemon tree gnome
The rock should be happy. Maybe not. However, it was likely to, since Anamelia returned with the first item. That was the problem of being an inanimate object: the lack of facial expression. Perhaps that was a better system.
“It’s a cold night out there”, said the girl, who was still recovering from the way back.
“Yes, it is. However, here the temperature is mild. If it was not for my petrified state, I could enjoy better.”
Butterflies were flying on flowers and colorful leaves, close to the bees that gathered nectar to their hives. The heterochromatic eyes of the young girl accompanied them briefly, pending the next task.
“Now that I have tears of the maiden who died for love”, the stone began, “I need some mushrooms that Death has in his garden.”
“Death has a garden?!”, Anamelia sounded awed.
“Yes. It is an amazing place! That's where She cultivates trees made of hanged man's bones, flowers derived from the blood of stillborn children, fruits originating of many different ways to die. And there are mushrooms that are born from the ashes of those who were burned alive. I need some of them, no more than three.”
“It seems dangerous, doesn't it?”
“It is, indeed. It is an impossible task for a human who has never been close to dying or seen someone being killed."
Yes, the girl had witnessed death.
It was a pleasant weekend afternoon, and after a tasty picnic, they had planned a trip to the theater. The winter that year was mild, without so many snowstorms or freezing nights, and family rides were common and even fun.
“I saw the death of my parents”, she whispered, holding back tears.
“And you meet the couple of ghouls in the cemetery. Two factors that qualify you to accomplish the task, my dear chosen. But I'll understand perfectly if you don't want to do it, for Death may be angry with you and demand your soul as a tribute for the offense. I can live with my condition for a few years, perhaps decades or centuries.”
Anamelia was fazed with that. She did not intend to give up the dream of going to a magical world, nor fail to help someone who could take her to her goal. It was a selfish attitude, of course, but it was also a chance that she prayed to have.
“How do I get to the Garden of Death?”, she asked, determined to continue.
“Sure you really want to continue?”
“Yes.” Until the end.”
It was what the stone needed to hear.
“Near here there is an orphanage. There's a garden, which children keep as a daily activity. A gnome inhabits an old lemon tree there. Before asking him to take you to the garden, offer him things until he accepts. Once he has accepted a gift, he is obliged to return the favor with a favor, no matter what it is. Just ask him to bring you the mushrooms!”
“I won't need to go there?”
“No, not now. In fact, you could go, but your kindness towards me moved me enough to remind me of the old gnome. Only I fear, however, that he will not accept a gift. But give it a shot! You might get lucky.”
“What if I don't?”
“Then come back here and I'll tell you another way!”
Anamelia then left.
The orphanage was near the park, the same that she spent many years of her childhood. She Always found the place rather gloomy with the always severe nuns and mothers, putting the children to pray every morning and evening; several times she was punished “for committing sins”, as said those responsible for the institution.
For her child’s mind, there was a den of demons disguised as angels. And the janitor was among the most sadistic.
On cold nights like this, silence reigned over the three-story mansion; the loathsome rats roamed the hallways to the girls' rooms with promises of games that should never be told to adults. Things were made in exchange for goodies and toys and all that never looked good for the dreams of Anamelia.
When adopted, she, at least, felt free from the horrors suffered for so long. Free from the caretaker's tobacco waft and his rough touch.
The garden did not seem as perfect as she remembered it. Vegetables and greens were shriveled, without the expected vigor. Maybe it was a lack of dedication because all that does not receive love tends to fade in the winter cold. The lemon tree, however, resisted well to the climate, with beautiful fruits, green bark, and showy leaves. She always wondered when she saw it, how could it be so beautiful; and now she knew: a gnome lived there.
However, how to call a creature who she had never seen before? Should she hit the bush trunk or just whisper, trying to guess the resident's name?
When in doubt, the girl tried a little of everything she could remember, tiring after half an hour. She sat next to the lemon tree, curled up, thinking she would not get success in that task. Saddened, she began to hum a tune that matched that moment; her voice was harmonious, a lyrical and poignant tone, and the song gave beautiful contours around where she was.
Attracted by so familiar and enchanting music, the gnome came out of his den, noting the young woman, whose face was wet with tears. He recognized her, despite having passed some years, and knew she wanted something. He cleared his throat, causing her to face him.
"I remember you, girl”, he said, his voice sharp. “You always took care of the leaves of this lemon tree, watering it in times of heat and fertilized it with manure and foliage, ensuring the production of tasty lemons, which all were delighted with juices and other delicacies made by the old cook.”
Anamelia smiled.
“But what brings you here, with your cat's eyes so mournful and this song of grief that woke me up from winter sleep? I know you want something from me, and I believe that I will give it to you in gratitude to the days dedicated in zeal for my address.”
The heart of the orphan throbbed with joy.
“I need some mushrooms that Death grows in your garden”, she said, simply.
The gnome, who was a pygmy mere ten centimeters tall and greenish skin, furrowed his thick eyebrows. He scratched his bald head, trying to understand why such a kind girl needed something so deadly.
“Are you sure?”, he replied, staring at her with his brown eyes, aiming to identify the missing evidence of malice required for the request.
“Yes, I do.”
He sighed. He had promised.
“Okay”, he said finally, before returning to the den.
Another half hour dragged with heavy chains. And during this period, impatient, Anamelia sang and hummed, whistled and fell silent. An anxious wait and time consuming, as the wait for enlightening news. Without sleep, the monotony tired, and still she waited.
Then the gnome returned with an embarrassed look, holding a package that was soon handed over to the girl. He nothing said or done; just disappeared, leaving her alone and confused.
However, the second task was completed.
V
The Queen of ogres
The ease of the last job worried Anamelia. Not that little difficulty was something bad, but she longed for challenges, as was the first. It was a simple thought that she had: nothing worth would be easy because there would be sacrifices and hard work involved. Without effort, without the permanent dedication, absolutely nothin
g would matter; and even if the prize were achieved, it would not have so pleasant flavor.
“Well, do not waste time, because it is extensive and still scarce”, said the stone, bringing the girl back.
"Ready?”
“Yes. The sooner we finish the better.”
“Exactly! So, my dear, I need a bit of saliva of a creature that lives in the swamp of this forest. She is the self-titled Queen over all others of her race, which has an extreme aversion to men. Robust and violent, they devour the unwary adventurer and the lost child. They have the strength of one or two hundred soldiers and have fun with the slaughter. Moreover, the one which is called queen is the evilest of them all because she not only kill sand eat humans as well as the males of her clan. Unable to love, no newborn from her womb lasted more than a minute. Thus, as odious, isolated in the darkest corner, between the woods and a filthy swamp, claiming to be the owner of everything and fighting with anyone who disagreed. Moreover, there it is so far, time or another receiving from taxes from other ogres as a way to appease her hunger and prevent more similar to die. Her saliva will serve me for what I want. Can you go to her house and pick me up a little bit?”
Anamelia shuddered and vibrated in a mixture of fear and joy. It was the challenge she craved; as dangerous as the first. And she would know a monstrous beast that was present in numerous fairy tales.
Following the guidelines of the stone, she walked through the enchanted forest, thinking how she would get the needed item. Masterminded not too complicated plans, perhaps aware that she would end up improvising, if appropriate. Large and complex plans tended to derail in the slightest imbalance or movement change; therefore, they did not compensate as much as they should. The simplest, in many cases, showed up to be the best.
When the forest was over, a nefarious environment began. It was not a transition, but a blunt end, followed by the sudden emergence of the swamp. Nothing to prepare the young one to the rotten odor and visual grotesque; simply there was an immediate change. Something similar to the climate of the square and the woods.
Covering her nose with her fingers, Anamelia was dizzy for a while, unaccustomed to the carrion smell emanating from the gasses coming out of so many holes scattered on the ground and the dead lake, which caused dreadful and filthy air bags to burst. “Disgust” would be a good word to summarize what she felt as she stepped into the black, sticky mud or the yellowed bones spread across the floor.
Her heterochromatic eyes sought the ogress's hut in a strange hope. There was no fear in her mind, as was expected, nor courage, as was recommended. Just that anxious feeling that everything began and ended as soon as possible so that she could go to the next task. Therefore, she looked for the den of the disdainful and proud creature.
Not finding it as intended, but indirectly.
She spotted a small group of ogres, taller beings than a standing bear, but furless, and with a rough and leathery skin covered with sores and pus. They were dragging something, an animal that looked like a calf, thrashing now and then, resisting with violent jerks. They talked among themselves, which caught the attention of the girl, who approached very cautiously.
“Always stupid!”, shouted one of the monsters who carried a mace made from a tree trunk. “She is unable to wipe her ass, and yet she is called our queen!”
The verbiage without manners is the hallmark of ogres, as are violence, cannibalism, and stupidity. Drunk, they usually get even worse, getting close to their cousins of the mountains, the trolls.
“Yeah!”, agreed another, which sported ridiculous tufts on the chin. “She is so fat that she already causes earthquakes only by trying to think anything!”
Everyone laughed, but not even the one who told the joke knew why they laughed.
“Someone could go and kill her!”, suggested one of the creatures, thinner and lower also, perhaps still young.
No one said anything. As much as they hated the ogress, there was no one there willing to face her and stop those absurd taxes. Some examples of her anger, when she devoured one or another male, sufficed to impose herself as a sovereign.
And so the four spoke of the recent killings.
For Anamelia, however, what mattered was that they were going to the lair of the peevish and monstrous lady. It was just a matter of following them, keeping a safe distance, to reach her goal. It was a journey full of nasty episodes, which little mattered when thoughts were in the suffered years that the visit to the orphanage brought. A dangerous way to stifle a horror with another, it is like an addiction: you never lose it, just trade it for a worse one, perhaps more harmful and with the ability to drown the demon screaming in your soul.
The unclean touch of the caretaker and his jokes that only he enjoyed. Children who called him a bogeyman; some feared him so much that seemed frozen with his visits. Even with candy and toys, playing with him was very, very wrong. In addition, nightmares were always common. That filthy touch...
The shack was made up of old and rotten wood, garnished with dried leather and arrangements made with bones of animals and persons; the biggest ones belonged to the ogres that the resident killed and ate in a stew or roast. Lifeless trees spread to the outskirts like skeletons of multiple alb creatures, yearning for blood to be shed; some hollow in their stems, as hungry mouths or doors into the depths of the earth to an underground world of mud and sulfur.
The queen of the ogres went out, dragging her feet. She was very obese, with a rough and covered bulk of darkened mosses and fabric and leather lint; she wore a tangle of thorns in the bald head, which seemed to bear wounds that never healed. Scratching her belly rippled in lard, mumbled something, as someone who has just woken up; eyes red and bleary first faced the offering and after the four servants.
“Just that?!”, she complained, finally, with a hoarse and annoying voice.
“Unfortunately..."
She, who until then was leaning on the object that served as a cane or crutch, advanced against the ogre with tufts on the chin, knocking him on the head again and again; not even when he fell, bleeding with a burst skull, the blows ceased. The others retreated a little, stunned, unable to help their companion. They could win if they wanted, but cowardice was greater than their own stupidity common to the breed. So they just watched their queen destroy the head of the hapless, creating a mass of bones, blood, flesh and brains.
When the tantrum has passed, the obese creature cackled. It was a typical laugh of a lunatic, a possessed and proud entity. And that, added to the cruel act of a few seconds ago, made Anamelia fear; the first two tasks were easy, compared to collect the saliva of that irritated monstrosity.
“Take him inside!”, howled the ogress, still holding the pose of madness and threat. “And the animals too!”
While her orders were met, the queen looked around, sniffing the foul air with her flat and bulky nose, scratching the wounds of her head, which were running down a heterogeneous mass of pus and blood. She made a rough sound from the throat, as a gargle, gathering inside her mouth saliva, phlegm and blood fluid; to form a large enough quantity, and spat noisily, creating a gooey puddle in a yellow and red. Then, with a look of contempt, returned to scour the nooks and crannies, as if seeking someone, a human and fragile presence, tasty and addictive meat; a dreamy young woman who should not be there.
The three pathetic servants went away under the growls and roars of the ogress, who looked tubercular. She would probably die soon victim of some lung disease, something everyone wanted. They left downcast, containing the will to curse; when they distanced themselves, they began the old habit of badmouthing the back.
Alone, after the queen of the ogres entered the hideous house, Anamelia looked to the spitting filth on the muddy ground. Saliva, phlegm, and blood. Perhaps it served after all, was close to what the stone asked for. She waited a while until she was sure to be protected from the surges of pride and anger of the immense creature. It was an uneasy waiting, as one of many nightmares about the orphanag
e caretaker, but without his sweet tooth touch or his sinful breath.
When she felt it was safe, she came out of hiding and approached the filthy mass that was spat by the ogress. With fearful and cautious steps, as a cunning cat, she went around that thing with its nauseating stench, looking for a part that saliva was more abundant; upon finding what seemed more appropriate, she crouched and picked up with a glass that she always carried in her backpack, resisting the urge to vomit. She took a deep breath, amazed at her own courage.
The way back was quiet and did not appear as long as the outward voyage.
VI
Fire in the garden
The rock accepted the item, even with the remnants of blood and phlegm. It would serve his purpose.
“Feeling fit for the fourth task, young lady?”, questioned the rock, knowing that Anamelia would answer affirmatively as indeed occurred. “Well, let's see! I need the ashes of a phoenix, you know?”
“And there are phoenixes?”, asked the surprised girl, raising her left eyebrow.
“Yes, Yes. Not as many as in distant times, but there is. Two species, so you know. One is very much like an eagle or hawk, not very pretty as the other; it has bronze colored feathers, with silvery plumes; usually lives in forests and woods, making its nest on the ground, because it is a creature of the earth and air, coming from the humus; when it realizes that death is approaching, it builds a beautiful nest with leaves and twigs in a state of decomposition, in which it lies and breaks his own neck, committing suicide; the next day, the body is rotten and hollow inside, except for one detail: there is a worm forming in its stinking flesh; the next day, the larva occupies the empty space, as if it were an egg; and in the last day, the worm resembles a baby bird, becoming a new phoenix in a week or two, an adult and ready to live another seven hundred years.”
It was an unknown species to the young dreamer. In the books, she had read nothing was mentioned about such an animal born and reborn of putrefaction.