The betrayal

“The demons came in their boat and wrecked it against the teeth of the dragon. We saw them flounder. Some of them perished, but most of them made it to shore. They were cold and wretched. Lost and starving. We knew nothing of the demons’ ways in those times.” The teacher said, softly.

“The demons befriended us. They showed us many things. Things that seemed like magic to us, then. The gorgons, who treasure strength, admired their steel blades, and stick shooters, and their mastery of fire. Then, they showed us their axes, and began cutting down trees. We should have realised it then. But we knew nothing of their ways.”

“We, the harpies, protested the felling of the trees. We protested the demons that hunted and killed the creatures of the Wilds. But the gorgons were not alarmed. They do not think like we do. In fact, the gorgons began to help. Not with the killing, not then, but with the trees. And the gorgons returned to the ocean and brought back parts of the demons’ boat. Gorgons are strong. They can quite easily last many tens of minutes holding their breath underwater. The broken boat was, piece by piece, returned to the shore.”

“Once we harpies learned the demons’ plan, to rebuild their boat, we stopped arguing about the trees. We ignored the killing of the creatures. We helped them,” the teacher spat these last words with venom, “we helped them rebuild their boat. Soon, the demon craft was ready. The gorgons helped one last time. They led the demons out of the Drake’s maw so they would not wreck again. They showed them the way through...”

The teacher sighed before continuing.

“The demons waved as they left and thanked us for our help. They gave us things, small trinkets, to show their gratitude. The gorgons were pleased with the trinkets. The harpies, though, were pleased with the final words of the demons. You see, the captain of that boat promised to leave, and never return. They smiled, and waved, and promised never to return.” The teacher slumped down as if the telling of this story drained the life out of its frail body. A tiny, wrinkled hand pointed over to the final painting.

It showed the Drake’s maw, the setting sun, and the ocean’s blue horizon. Against that backdrop, boats! Not just one, but eleven of them. The demons had returned, with the captain at the helm, along with his friends, and his family, all of them sailing towards their new home.

Demon’s Land.

“We sheltered here, in the cave of remembering, when the demons landed. They came with axes, shovels, picks. They came with ploughs, and stock, and grain. They cleared the scrub from port to hill and outward in every direction. They named the land and they took it.”

“We sheltered here and watched and waited. One by one, the gorgons disappeared, only to reappear and boast of the deeds accomplished under the demons’ guidance. They bragged of riches, wealth, and booze. They bragged of adventure, and thrill, and the death they caused. They reappeared to boast and when they left, the trickle of disappearing gorgons turned into a flood. Soon only a handful remained.”

“Those few gorgons that stayed helped us dig the lake and protect the final mother tree. Eventually, though, even those gorgons left us.”

“We sheltered here until we saw that, indeed, the end of the world was upon us. We left the remembering place and returned to the Wilds to meet our doom.”

The two of them sat there in silence for what seemed like an eternity. Runt looked from one painting to the next all the way back to the hand paintings. From this distance, though, the tiny hands were nearly invisible. From a long way away, without knowing any better, you could almost imagine the tiny hands never existed. Only the large handprints remained.

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He felt sick in the pit of his stomach. His insides twisted with a mixture of cold dread and burning rage.

“There has to be a way to make this right,” Runt said, “even if it means tearing the whole place down. Even if it means marching every demon down to the ocean, cramming them into boats, and sending them away. We make them keep their promise. ‘Leave and never return.’ That’s what they said. We make them keep their promise. By force, if we have to.”

The teacher said nothing, but smiled sadly and held up those tiny, wrinkled hands. “These hands,” the harpy whispered, “these hands are not made to force anyone to do anything.”

“The gorgons, then.” Runt said. “The gorgons could do it. They’re terrifying! I watched them tear whole trees apart with their teeth and bare hands. I saw them throw fist sized rocks over two hundred yards.”

“There are no gorgons left, Wolf-ghost. Only demons that live in the city, and demons that live in the caves. One has become like the other. The gorgons seek our destruction, now, to please the demons. The last thing they would do is attack the creatures that feed them booze and offer them trinkets. Their minds have become clouded with hunger and greed. It has been too long since they came to the remembering place. They have forgotten the old ways. No, the gorgons will not help us. Not anymore.”

“Then we bring them back here. We make them remember! We make them stop drinking booze. Or we – “ Runt paused, and tilted his head as he looked at the teacher “or we stop them getting the booze in the first place. That’s it, isn’t it? That’s what you’ve been trying to do? You’ve been attacking the booze cart to break the spell the humans have over the gorgons.”

The teacher sighed. “Yes. And that is why we need to get moving. Tonight, the harpies will try again.”

Seven days. It was hard to believe it had only been seven days. Runt’s face alternated between disbelief, confusion, and wonder, as he rode Stripes towards the shack in the scrub where the booze was made.

“Seven days ago I was living in a kennel. My biggest fear was for my dog being killed in a wolf attack. Now, somehow, I’m on the same side as the wolves and we’re going to attack the cart, again. Or, at least,” he thought bitterly, “the harpies are.”

The teacher had been adamant. Runt was not to help in the attack. He was not even permitted to watch.

“This is a problem between harpies and demons. You cannot get involved.”

The unspoken message, though, was clear.

Only a week ago, Stripes found himself caught between two worlds. Part dog, and part wolf, the pup froze in the midst of battle. Would he behave any differently now?

A week before that, Runt was helping feed, water, and care for trained killers. He tended to the injured dogs, and wept for his dead friend, Fang. Could he be trusted to make the right choice when the moment arrived?

Tonight, the harpies headed out, to convince wolves to attack and kill every living thing that defended the booze cart. This would be the final attempt. Every able-bodied harpy left the fey-tree with a single intention. They planned to summon an entire army of wolves, this time, and any other creature that could be stirred into action. Mammoths, hoppers, even kiddners were considered. If they could be awakened, and convinced to fight, they would be sent to battle.

Runt, though, was to remain by the great fey-tree, and wait.

He did wait. He waited until the last harpies left before jumping onto Stripes and heading out. The final harpy to leave, of course, was Patch. The little harpy paused to look at Runt, opened its mouth as if to say something, but then turned and flew off with the others.

Seven days. So many changes in seven days. In such a short time he escaped slavery, learned to survive in the Wilds, made new friends, and now rode out to defend them. Like a coin flipped over he now lived a completely different life. Little did Runt know; in another seven days the coin would flip again. In another seven days he would be a slave once more after watching his friends hopes torn down and dashed. In seven more days, he would be reunited with his terrible master, his freedom stolen, and all hope would be lost.