Storytime

Storytime became one of highlights of his day. That, and playing with Dog. He tried many other names but none of them stuck. Just Dog. Well, the pup’s real name, his secret name, was Stripes, but Runt couldn’t use that name in front of anyone. The only stripy dog-shaped animals in Demon’s Land were wolves, and wolves were killed, skinned, and turned into cloaks. Runt had a secret name for himself, too. He’d been called it, just once, by mistake.

As the weeks and months passed Runt needed more and more of the soot to cover Dog’s secret heritage. The pup was nearly taller than Runt, now. The pouch needed to be filled until it bulged and even then, it was barely enough. And every night, on the way back to the kennels, Runt stopped to listen to the stories. Not just about killer creatures, but about the land, the people, and their history.

“…Demon’s Land is an island. Completely surrounded by ocean. But you can’t see much of the water because, to get there, you’d need to walk through the Deep Wilds, and then cross the Dragon-scale Mountains. But you’d be dead long before you got that far. That is, unless you live in the inner-city, at the very top of the hill. They say you can see the ocean in all directions from up there. If you really want to see a little part of the ocean, though, it’s not too hard. You ride the carts down to the port where they load the trade boats with wool, wheat, and butter, all in exchange for gold. But the real ocean is out way past that, through the Drake’s Maw, through the mouth of the Dragon. Only the best sailors can make it through the teeth of the Drake and into the open waters. The traders learned how to do it after we showed them.”

Another time:

“Some people say the Dragon-scale mountains were a real dragon once. The legend says that it lived in Demon’s Land and, one evening at sunset, it saw a giant snake wriggling in front of it. The dragon tried to swallow the snake and choked to death. Naturally, the snake turned out to be the Dragon’s own tail. Now, every night on sunset, the dragon’s spirit flies up into the sky. You can see it, just on sunset, the mysterious cloud rising above the mountains. The story’s not true, naturally. But it sure looks like a dragon from here. The ridge of the mountain looks like a spine. And the mountain makes a full loop of the island. And the sides of the mountain look like they’re covered in scales. You want to know truth about the scales? It’s slate, a type of rock that breaks into sheets. They even use it on the houses up the hill, for the rooves. And the spirit of the dragon is probably just the saltwater spray of the ocean crashing up against the mountain. When the sun’s at the right angle it looks like a colourful cloud. But the head, though. That looks pretty real. I sometimes even wonder, myself, if the story’s true, when I see the head. You ought to see it for yourself one day. There’s smoke that comes out the nose and everything, like a real dragon.”

Another time:

“They say outsiders are jealous of how rich we are here in Demon’s Land. If it weren’t for the mountains, and the Drake’s Maw, and the treacherous passage through the teeth, they would’ve invaded us years ago. As it is, only one boat at a time can squeeze through, and even then, it’s risky. Us Demonians, though, we’ve been here for ever. No one’s really sure just how long. Thousands of years, at least. My dad was a farmer, and his dad before that, and his dad before that. And so on. We used to grow wheat, but then my great grand-dad was allergic, so he switched to cows. My dad hated cows so he switched to sheep. I’m not sure who runs that farm anymore. I haven’t been out past the fence since my legs gave up on me…”

And, another time, a small lad called Henry asked about the Captain and whether he could be Captain one day. This caused an uproar of laughter from the other children but Greybeard always answered his students seriously.

“I’m afraid not, Henry. The Captain passes on his title by blood alone. So, unless the Captain is your dad, you don’t have a chance. And since your dad is Graham the butcher, you’re out of luck. I’ve seen three Captains of Demonia come and go. I can’t remember the first one much since I was only your age when he died. The next two were different in their own way. One of them did a lot of building, I heard. He really moved the fence outward. Expanded the city. The next one was big on trade. I still remember that clearly because they really pushed us farmers to grow more of everything. To sell to the traders, see? But the latest one, well, he’s an interesting character. He’s made a lot of new laws. Like making it properly illegal to go into the Wilds. And the hair thing. Not that most people had a problem with keeping their hair short, but it was never a rule. People are happy enough with him, though, because our trade is booming. We’re richer now than ever before. And with all these laws, there’s plenty of jobs if you want to become a trooper. I tell you one thing, though,” and at this, Greybeard leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper, “they say he’s a bit odd, and real fussy about women. He’s no spring chicken but, at this point, no wife, and no child to make his heir and future Captain. So there you go, Henry”, he laughed, talking louder once again, “you might just be Captain one day, after all!”

But Runt loved to hear about the creatures of the Wilds most of all.

“Kiddners, they call ‘em. As big and round as a sheep, maybe a bit rounder. Covered in spikes and with a long, skinny, trunk. They’re called kiddners, I suspect, due to their diet. Their small mouth means they mainly eat babies. If you make ‘em mad they shoot their spikes at you.”

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“Tell us about the hoppers, Greybeard!” another child, a girl this time, who came most nights holding the hand of her older brother.

“Hoppers! Gotta watch ‘em. First time I saw one I thought it was a man. Stand on two legs, they do, about as tall as a man, or taller, but the legs are sort of folded up. They got these long, gangly arms they use to grab branches. And a tail as long and thick as my leg. They got this ugly round head and a flat face. Kinda like the mammoth’s head but smaller. And big chompers for eating the trees.”

“Do they eat people?” the girl asked timidly.

“Nope. But I saw a hopper kill a dog once. I took it into the Wilds to hunt. Technically, you’re not allowed to go there but the rule is mostly about the Deep Wilds, where the scrub is so thick its near dark all year round. There’s good meat out in the Shallow Wilds and the dogs needed feeding. So I took my best dog and went hunting.” The story-teller paused for a second, remembering, then frowned.

“Anyway, like I said, we went out looking for meat and came across this hopper. It would’ve been easily a head or two taller than me. They look bigger up close. The dog crept up from behind as best he could. Well, that hopper turned around at the sound of him and raised itself up proper. Like I said, its legs are sort of folded up, and this beggar unfolded them and stood up another three feet tall. It made this weird grunting noise, leaned back on its tail, and kicked!”

In unison, the children, who had been leaning forward, all flinched and pulled back.

“Knocked the life clean outta him. Never saw anything like it. Kids, you stay away from them Wilds, and if you do have to go in there for any reason, stay outta the way of them hoppers and mammoths.”

Silence filled the campgrounds for a few moments while the audience soaked in the terror of the unknown. A small, curly haired boy broke the silence. Jonathon. Runt knew this one as he sometimes tagged along behind his father to collect dog poo for the tannery.

“Does anything eat people out there, Greybeard?”

The story-teller sighed and then grimaced.

“It’s… getting late. You lot had better push off.”

A chorus of complaints broke out. The childrens’ sing-song of “one more story” and “tell us tell us” caused several pigeons nesting in the tree above Runt to take flight. Greybeard waved his hands for quiet.

“You know about wolves, everyone does. They’re killers but, with the dogs, we can keep ourselves safe from them. But there is one thing out there,” he paused again, and continued with a croak in his voice, “one thing out there that’s unstoppable. A real monster. Drop-bears. I only ever saw one, once. It was the last time I went into the Wilds apart from…”

He stopped to pull the rugs closer around him as if the memory made him cold.

“Anyway. This was all a long time ago. There were two kids at the farm where I worked. Adventurous little brats. Always into mischief. Always exploring.” He smiled, then, but it was a sad sort of smile.

“There’s a type of fruit found out in the Deep Wilds, see? I shouldn’t be telling you this,” He paused for a minute, then sighed, “just like I shouldn’t have told them. We called it the forbidden fruit because it grows on a type of tree that you only find right out in the Deep. You’d be mad to go for it but, oh boy, those fruit are sweet and juicy. They’re heaven. You’ve never tasting anything like it.”

The story-teller paused for a second, as if eating one in his imagination, then his face went dark.

“Like I said, I shouldn’t have told them. It was the day of my birthday and I found a note saying what they’d done. What they planned to do. For my birthday.”

His voice cracked, and choked. It was the only sound in the dark apart from the logs hissing in the fire.

“They were easy enough to track. Once you get into the Deep Wilds you need to beat a path through the ferns and scrub. I took a dog and followed their trail out. You can’t see far when you’re in the Deep. The scrub’s thick on the ground, and the trees tower overhead and block out the sun. I heard them before I saw them. Just laughing and carrying on.”

Greybeard’s eyes glistened in the fire light with unshed tears.

“The girl was half-way up the fey-tree. That’s what they call ‘em. The trees that make the fruit. They call ‘em fey-trees because there’s a weird magic about ‘em. She was up there knocking fruit down to the ground and the lad was scrabbling around on the forest floor to put them in a basket. He… he never saw it. The drop-bear.”

“They’re about as big as a wolf, probably a bit bigger, but thicker if you get my meaning. Real muscular. More like a giant cat, maybe. With massive claws on their feet. If you came across one on the ground you’d be ok. Their legs aren’t made for running. That’s not how they hunt.”

He sighed again before continuing.

“I think the lad knew it, right at the last second. He looked up, anyhow. Looked up and screamed. You see, drop-bears hide in trees and wait for food to come to them. They wait. They pounce. And they kill. They cut you up with their big hooked claws. Sharp as a razor, they are. And they drag their meat back into the trees to eat. Teeth like knives. You wouldn’t believe it till you saw one. Me and the dog managed to chase it off but it was too late. He was only eleven years old.”

The tears flooded out of the old man, then, and he spoke no more. Story time was over. Silently, in groups of two or three, the children began moving off. They took the torches with them until there was no light left apart from the campfire, burning low.