Somedays

by Daniel Arenson

This story features the world and characters from Firefly Island, my fantasy novel.



On an autumn day, the ogre announced that he felt like a new dinner, and told his servant girl Aeolia to slaughter their goat, a shaggy white ninny that was her only friend.

Only thirteen years old, Aeolia had spent that morning with her usual chores, no sign heralding these terrible news. Like every morning since her father sold her to the ogre, she woke up in the barn, kissed the goat good morning, and hobbled outside in the fetters that bound her ankles. She stood in the mud and clover, inhaling the morning, mist rolling over the valleys that surrounded the farm. Magpies glided under the blue-gray clouds, and woodsmoke plumed in the distance, speaking of faraway towns.

Aeolia smoothed her ragged skirt, placed a kerchief in her long brown hair, and tended to the garden, pulling weeds and patting earth. She fed the pigs and sheep, then hobbled toward the towering, dilapidated cottage where the ogre lived. All morning she worked, dusting, cooking, cleaning, washing, and never did she suspect that today her best friend might die.

In the afternoon, the ogre returned from shepherding, a mighty appetite in his belly, his cane tapping down the cobble path, onto the porch, into the cottage. Tap tap, rapped his cane, tapping like Aeolia's heart for the fear of his rancor and fists.

"Girl!" he thundered as he entered the cottage, his huge feet--longer than Aeolia's legs--spreading mud across the rug she had just cleaned. "Girl, I am home, and why is my rug so muddy?"

Aeolia, who was inside the hearth with broom and brushes, hurried to the door, brushing cinder off her face. She curtsied before her master--a potbellied beast who stood twice her height, his nose as large and round as her head, his fangs rotting, his tangled beard swarming with lice.

"Welcome home, Master," Aeolia said, as she had said every day since her father sold her seven years ago. "Let me take your cloak."

She climbed the ladder by the door, took his cloak and hat, and when the old ogre sat with a grunt in his armchair, she rubbed those great yellow feet. They were smelly and filthy, coated with dirt and crushed insects, and left Aeolia's fingers stiff and soiled.

"Methinks tonight," the ogre said as she picked lice from his beard, "that I will not eat goulash. Today is my birthday, yes indeed, and methinks to eat a goat. Go fetch that shaggy ninny in the barn, yes indeed, and prepare me a meal."

Many times the ogre would beat her with his cane--for daydreaming, for sobbing when weary or lonely, for accidentally meeting his eyes--but none of his blows hurt like those words.

"But... master," she dared to say in a small voice, "that goat has been our companion for years." Tears gathered in her eyes, and she let her hair cover her face lest the ogre saw and beat her.

Seven years the goat had lived with her in the barn, since she was six and just sold into slavery. When the ogre beat Aeolia, when he chastised and terrified her, the goat would comfort her with slobbery kisses. When the winter snow covered the farm, she slept cuddled in the goat's fur, far from the cottage and its hearth. When nobody else listened, she could cry into that fur, whispering the whispers of her heart into furry loyal ears. Seven years of her wishes, dreams, and mumblings she had spoken to her friend.

How could she slaughter her and serve her on a platter?

The ogre slammed his cane against the floorboards, rattling the geodes and skulls on the mantle. His clawed finger lifted Aeolia's chin, forcing her to stare at his fleshy face.

"Tears?" he thundered, the lice rustling in his beard, his breath foul against her face. "Dare you disobey? Now go to the barn and cook me a goat, lest I change my mind and feed on girl flesh. You know that I've eaten the disobedient servants before you."

Tears on her cheeks, Aeolia hobbled out the door, her fetters jingling. How can I kill my old friend? The ogre staring from the window, she hurried down the cobble path and across the yard, clover and fallen leaves caressing her bare feet. She entered the barn, and at the sight of the goat, fresh tears wet her apron.

"Oh, Scruffy!" she said and hugged her, resting her cindery cheek against her warm fur. The goat ate the leaves from Aeolia's disheveled hair, and her tongue wiped away her tears. Scruffy's fur was soft as a blanket, a blanket Aeolia would cuddle with so often, and suddenly she had an idea. If the ogre knew how soft Scruffy was, perhaps he would spare her. Will it work? Aeolia wondered. She had to try. She could not just let her friend die.

That evening, when the ogre sat down to dine, he found a platter of three steaming ducks, a dozen sweet potatoes, and a loaf of bread the size of a pumpkin. The beast stared at the food with beady eyes, eyebrows pushed low, as Aeolia stood with her head lowered and hands clasped behind her.

"This is not goat," the ogre grumbled and clutched his cane, the old cane that had beaten her so many times. "I asked for goat for my birthday meal, yes indeed." He raised the cruel cane and the hearth light burned red in his eyes.

"I know, Master," Aeolia said, heart pounding, fingers trembling. "But I figure the goat can give you an even better birthday gift." She held out a blanket she wove from the goat's fur, a wonderful weave strewn with wildflowers and scented as a meadow. "Here, Master! A blanket of goat fur to keep your feet warm."

The ogre stared for a moment, and Aeolia flinched, expecting a beating. But then the ogre lowered his cane, grabbed the blanket, and tucked it into his shirt like a bib. He began to eat, splattering his beard with food, and Aeolia breathed in relief. Had her plan worked? Sweet Scruffy, are you saved? Soon the ogre finished his meal, belched, and wiped his mouth with the goat blanket. "A fine birthday meal," he said, "yes indeed. But next year... next year I'll eat the goat."

That night, when the ogre stepped upstairs to his bedroom, Aeolia hobbled to the barn and hugged the shorn goat. "Oh, Scruffy!" she said. "I love you. I was so scared that the ogre would eat you."

She slept on the barn straw, the goat sleeping beside her, and with dawn began a new day of labor, tears, and the ogre's wrath.

As the days and moons flowed by, Aeolia remembered the ogre's words and feared his next birthday when he'd demand goat meat. In stolen moments, Aeolia began to dig under the barn, and soon had a deep hole hidden beneath the straw. Goat cheeses she made there, wheels and wheels. She learned the craft in town, where the ogre sometimes sent her on errands. All she learned from the cheesemaker, she practiced in her barn at night, and when the year ended, her secret cellar held a treasure of cheese.

She was fourteen when one autumn day, the ogre returned from shepherding and announced, "Today is my birthday, yes indeed."

As Aeolia rubbed his giant, dirty feet, he smoked a pipe and said, "Today, girl, I desire a fine meal. Fetch the shaggy ninny from the barn, and make me a feast, yes indeed."

"Yes, Master," Aeolia said with a curtsy and hobbled to the barn.

That evening, when the ogre sat down at the dinner table, he found a feast of dairy--cheese breads, wheels of cheese, cottage, onion soup with cheese topping, a mug of milk, and three geese encrusted with crispy cheese.

"What is this?" the ogre demanded, baring his rotting fangs. "Where is my goat?"

"I'm sorry, Master!" Aeolia said, wincing, expecting a beating. "All the cheese came from the goat. I figure cheese is just as tasty, and can be enjoyed as long as the goat lives."

The ogre grumbled, sniffed the meal, and nibbled. Aeolia held her breath. The ogre licked his chops, then began to noisily devour the food. Aeolia exhaled with relief. Have I saved you again, Scruffy?

The ogre finished his meal with a belch and slammed his feet against the tabletop.

"A fine birthday meal," he said, "yes indeed." He leaned forward, firelight in his eyes, and grabbed his cane. "But next year, girl--next year I better have that goat. No blanket, no cheese, no tricks."

"Yes, Master," Aeolia said, and cried out as he slammed his cane against her arm. Rubbing her blow, biting her lip, she hobbled to her barn.

That night, she cuddled against the goat, weeping into its soft fur, kissing the only friend she'd known in eight years. "I love you, Scruffy," she said. "I'm so glad the ogre didn't eat you." The goat nibbled the leaves in her clothes and licked her cheek.

More days and weeks went by, lost to the work and sadness, and as the seasons passed, Aeolia knew that soon her friend would leave her.

One autumn day, when she was fifteen, and her skirt was shabbier than ever, and her eyes as sad as eyes could be, the ogre grabbed her shoulder.

"Today is my birthday," the beast grumbled, "yes indeed. And this year, girl, I will eat my goat, and no tricks will save it." He tightened his grip, and she winced as his claws stabbed her. "If I get no goat tonight, I will eat a girl." He licked his chops, then shoved her aside and limped away, leaning on his cane.

Aeolia hobbled to the barn, her bare feet squelching through the mud and clover, and hugged her friend. The goat looked at her woefully. She was an old goat now, thin and gray, but her fur was still soft and her eyes still kind. "I'm sorry, Scruffy, but... I can't think of how else to endear you to the ogre. He won't accept a blanket or cheese this time. He said that if he doesn't eat you, he'll eat me. I'm sorry."

The goat only looked at her mournfully and licked her. Aeolia hugged her best and only friend, the friend who had comforted her for so many years, and led her outside the barn into the yard. She took the goat through the clover to the old wooden fence, and swung open the vine-coated gate. The valley rolled beneath them, misty, speckled with bluebells and goldenrods and pebbles. Dark green forests lay on the horizon.

"Go," Aeolia said to the goat. "Go, Scruffy, you're free."

The goat licked her but would not move. Aeolia hugged her, tears on her cheeks, then pushed her out the gate. "Go, Scruffy, run from here! You have no fetters on your legs, no tattoo on your hand to mark you a slave. You can escape, live in the forest. I can't let the ogre eat you, not after all you've done for me, all my tears that you dried, all my mumblings and fears you comforted. Better the ogre eats me."

The old goat lowered her head and took a hesitant step out of the farm. She pleadingly looked back at Aeolia, who goaded her on. The goat took three more steps toward the valley, then lay down and curled up like a rug.

"Scruffy!" Aeolia said and stepped toward her, but by the time she knelt by the pile of fur, the goat was dead.

That night, when the ogre finished his meal, he belched and announced, "Now that was a birthday feast! Fine goat, yes indeed."

Aeolia lowered her head, letting her hair hide her face, and said nothing. She thought of her friend, the great last sacrifice the goat had given her. You saved my life, dear Scruffy. But how can I keep living without you?

She buried the goat's bones in the yard that night, and watered them with tears, and in the morning found a sprig growing from the grave.

As the days flowed by, the sapling grew, and within a moon it became a tree. A cherry tree it was, enchanted, and gave fruit year round, and when Aeolia plucked one cherry, a second grew at once. Whenever Aeolia climbed the tree to pick cherries, she closed her eyes and inhaled the sweet scent of leaves and fruit, and she smiled.


Copyright ©  Daniel Arenson