A Monk's Tail Page 2

  “What are you grumbling about now?” I ask impatiently. The first few days of her grumbling were somewhat humorous, but now it’s really starting to grate.

  “I was just wondering if perhaps maybe you can let me out of here now?” Leena tries to sound as sweet and innocent as possible. The glass distorts her features, or perhaps that’s how she looks when she’s upset.

  “No.” I reply through gritted teeth.

  “How about that puddle over there?”

  “No.”

  “Ooh! How about that puddle over there?”

  “No.”

  “Well, when are you going to release me?”

  “I already told you, when you stop trying to murder people.”

  “But, but I won’t murder anyone anymore! I have reformed. Honestly!” She pleads.

  “Uh huh? So you didn’t mean any of those nasty things you’ve said about me over the past three days?”

  “Oh…you heard that?” She says after an awkward pause.

  “Yup.”

  “Of-of course I didn’t mean it! I was just playing!”

  “Yeah? And what about last night when you were muttering to yourself about all the ways you’d kill me?”

  “... You heard that too?”

  “Yup.”

  “... I thought you were asleep.”

  “Nope.”

  “Oh...” We travel in silence for a long time. The wind bites through my robes and I pull them tighter. I didn’t really want to travel this way, but there aren’t any alternative routes back home besides this mountain path. Well, any better alternatives; the next best way would’ve cost me an extra two months. Still, I wish I hadn’t come this way; it feels like the cliff walls towering above me are going to come collapsing in at any moment. I quicken the pace, keeping an eye on the rocks above.

  “So,” Leena finally breaks the silence, “is that why you’re on this journey? Trying to turn spirits towards good?” Sarcasm drips from her words.

  “You could say that.” I reply flatly.

  “And how many others have you kidnapped?”

  “None. You’re the first spirit I’ve met.” Not entirely true, but she doesn’t need to know that.

  “Well then why–”

  “Shut it.” I cut her off suddenly.

  “Don’t tell me to shut it! I can do whatever I – oh!” She finally follows my gaze and does in fact shut it.

  Two hulking figures approach us in the distance.

  “Cait na bienne.” I say out the side of my mouth. Cats of the mountain. My voice is low and calm but my heartbeat begins to go out of control. The two monstrosities talk to each other as they approach. One of them points to me and my heart skips a beat as the two snow leopards draw closer with broadswords clutched in their paws. The weapons seem more like pillars of iron than blades of war. A heavy black scabbard hangs from each of their backs and despite the bitter chill and fierce winds they wear only a black and blue plaid skirt; the cats are apparently unfazed by the cold around them. Their dappled fur blends perfectly into the cliff walls to either side.

  “Damn. They’re actually pretty cute. And I bet they taste absolutely delicious.” Leena whispers.

  “Do you know them?” I whispers back.

  “Sorry.” She replies. “Not too many travelers came to my pool, and when they did they didn’t really discuss anything about the surrounding area. They were too busy with...other things.”

  “Can’t say I blame them.” Despite the situation I smile.

  “We could always turn back.” Leena’s voice betrays her misplaced hope.

  “No bloody way.” I say as I peer up at the rock walls. “Besides, I don’t think those two would let us.” Almost as if on cue, the two sword-wielding warriors wave at me with their free paws.

  “Oi, Callum!” The one on the left grins viciously and elbows his partner. “Lookit this here wee wanderer.” Uh-oh. They stop within arm’s reach, their grins revealing massive ivory daggers. My throat tightens. I truly am a ‘wee wanderer’ when compared to these brutes. Each of them stands a good head and a half taller than me. Their arms are roughly the size of the my legs. Their swords, crude hunks of metal etched with runic writing, look like no mortal being has any right wielding them. Yet these two carry them around like cubs playing with twigs.

  “Hah!” Callum snorts as he returns the elbow. “He’s ah fancy one, ain’t he? Wee little, slipper-walking, stick-carrying, wide-eyed, pajama-wearing panda!” Callum bends down and stares with pale yellow eyes. “Who do ye think ye are?” He snarls. I stare back, speechless. “Well?!”

  “I-I am but a humble monk, trying to pass through these mountains.” I bow low, making sure to keep my eyes on the ground. Callum huffs.

  “Gareth!” Callum calls to his partner who had been mindlessly tracing the cracks in the cliff wall and scratching his ear.

  “Oi.” Gareth calls back.

  “He says he’s a wandering monk.” Callum says with a snort. He pauses for a second, then in a flash his sword is pointed at my neck. Now I’m stone-still, paws outstretched towards the cloudy sky. Callum uses the tip of his sword to skillfully pick up the chain holding the vial around my neck. “Fancy jewelry for a monk, eh?”

  “Oh, it’s not jewelry!” I pipe up before the sword draws closer to my throat. Keep the paws up. Speak slowly and carefully. “It’s not jewelry. It’s a vial of holy water. From a sacred mountain. In a far off land. That has no special properties or any monetary value. Ever.”

  “Ah c’mon now Callum.” Gareth says gruffly. “Let the wee monk keep his precious water.”

  “Fine! Fine.” Callum’s sword whistles as he twirls it back to his shoulder. The vial thunks back onto my chest. Callum gives his partner a sly wink and holds out his paw palm up. “You can keep yer water, but you still need to pay tribute to Cheiftan Aodh if ye want tae pass through his mountains.

  “Cheiftan ... ‘Aye’?” I try to decipher Callum’s thick accent.

  “Aye. Aodh.” Gareth says. “He lords over these mountains. Those who dinnae pay tribute forfeit their right to pass through.”

  “And their freedom.” Callum adds. The two stand together, shoulder to shoulder, making it impossible for me to maneuver around them. I laugh nervously.

  “The thing is, I have no money to give.” Not good. “But as a monk I can offer a prayer to Aodh’s long and prosperous rule. Now, I’m sure we can work something out so that I may pass, yes?”

  ***

  “You sure this is the place?” I dangle a coin just out of reach of greedy little paws. The creature jumps, nodding furiously. His big black eyes gleam beneath silky brown fur. His fingers close in and open, in and open - that all-too-familiar gimme!gimme!gimme! motion of cubs. I lower the coin a few inches, then hoist it back up out of reach. The furry thing licks his needle-sharp teeth as if waiting for ripe fruit to drop from a branch. “You suuuurrrrreeee?” I ask again. I already know that this is the place. I just can’t pass up an opportunity to fuck with goblins.

  “Yes! Yes! Banjo is sure!” The narrow brown head nods vigorously. Heh. Banjo. Goblins always have the cutest names. The coin plops into his waiting paws and he’s off like a shot, weaving his slender body between shrubs and trees, holding high the purchase of his betrayal. Most likely he’ll brag to the others in his tribe about his new shiny, causing some of them to get jealous and starting a tiny civil war within his band. It sounds crazy and stupid, but not too improbable; when it comes to goblins, far bigger conflicts have started over far less.

  My attention turns back to the location my goblin guide has led me to. I crouch down behind a copse of trees and try to get a better view of the cave in front of me. The pitch black maw gapes out from a sheer cliff face fifty meters high. Despite the tall firs growing up against the rocky cliff, the front of the cave has a makeshift clearing about thirty meters all around. Whole trees have been uprooted and shoved aside; grass has been trampled and stained crimson with blood; various bones are sprinkl
ed around the mouth of the cave and even from this distance the fetid stench of death and rotted meat hits me right in the face and sends my stomach into my throat.

  In short, a fairly typical ogre cave.

  Slowly and quietly I step out off the trees and right to the edge of the clearing. I heft the iron maul strapped to my back and place it on the ground beside me, careful to place it head-down so that the handle stands erect right next to me. My hands gently tap the six metal cylinders holstered to my stomach and legs. Check, check, check-check-check...check!

  I breath in deep only to immediately fight a vicious gag reflex. Catching my breath, I try again. “Hei! Kom ut her du stygg sønn av en jævla hore så jeg kan drepe deg!” Not the most clever thing I’ve said, but when it comes to ogres, direct usually trumps clever. I lick my parched lips and draw the first pair of pistols.

  “Hva?” I deep rumbling voice blows forth from the cave along with a fiercer stench. All grows quiet as the monster processes what I just said. “...HVA?!” A guttural roar erupts from the cave mouth along with a massive ogre. Pallid yellow skin holds together an enormous blob of fat and muscle that’s as wide as it is tall. Tree trunk limbs poke out and end in stubby fingers. A head with no neck sits atop, mouth unhinged like a snake’s, showing four massive fangs the size of my hands. Rust-colored blood cakes its lips, and a long bluish-black tongue lolls out the side. As for clothing, the common perception of ogres is that they will be wearing at least a loincloth. Unfortunately, common perception is wrong. Ogres wear nothing (oh gods why?).

  Just as the ogre’s pale, hairless head emerges from the cave, I pull the trigger on both guns. Two loud clicks signal the release of the flint locks and my field of vision is obscured with sparks and sounds of fury. The guns kick like basilisks in my hands and I let their momentum carry them up and behind me; I learned the hard way long ago that trying to reload them is a waste of time.

  One shot grazes the monster’s arm, drawing a tiny gout of blood. The other ricochets off the cliff wall with an echoing ptang! Before the echo fades away into the trees I draw the next two pistols.

  The ogre is in full view now and despite its size and girth he’s a quick bastard. Still charging, he wields a makeshift club in one hand and a crude javelin in the other. With surprising dexterity he hurls the spear at me. A dull hum fills the air as it flies at me. A quick step to the right allows it to sail right past and embed itself into a tree with a resounding crack!

  I fire the second salvo and my right side flares with pain as the pistol explodes in my hand. Shivers of metal and wood embed themselves into my arm and face. I scream and drop the guns. The other seemed to fire alright, since the bleeding hole in the ogre’s leg wasn’t there a second ago. The beast staggers a bit, its jaundiced eyes widen with surprise. They instantly narrow with rage as it lifts the club above its head with both hands. The head of the club is coated in bits of bone and metal, with the sheen of tree sap showing in the gaps.

  I stand my ground and aim the final two guns right into the ogre’s face. It brings the club in a sweeping arc down and around to the left. I jump back and fire at the same time. The chaos that ensues is drowned out by the shockwave that courses through my body as the club grazes my shoulder and sends me spinning to the ground.

  Scrambling to my feet, I grab the handle of the maul and swing with all my might at the ogre’s legs. The chunk of dented iron that goes for a hammer head connects to the back of the creature’s leg, buckling its knee and tipping it off balance. It wildly swings its arm and club in wide arcs in a desperate attempt to try and stay upright. Ducking as the greatclub whistles over my head, I brace myself and swing again, this time straight into the ogres flabby, bulbous chest.

  The sound of lightning striking wood echoes through the forest, followed by a roar of pain. The creature lays on its back, wheezing through broken ribs. Its lips tremble as a trickle of blood drips down the side. “Hvorfor?” It asks me with rasping breath. Some might be moved to pity at the sight of such a battered and helpless creature, even one as large and grotesque as this. That is, until they remember the primary diet of ogres.

  Children.

  I slowly and pitilessly raise the maul over my head, ready to deal the deathblow. The ogre begins to close its eyes in grim resignation, but then they fly open. Wicked, murderous intent shines within them.

  Oh shit.

  The greatclub glides over the ogres enormous stomach as the creature swings it across its body. The club connects with my exposed side and rakes across my stomach. Three explosions of agony wrack my side and warm streams begin to soak the front of my tunic. I stagger backward, clutching my gut and tasting copper with every ragged breath.

  The ogre wheezes a few laughs, having gotten his rib for a rib. In a blind rage I golfswing the hammer right into the crown of the bastard’s skull. The laughing stops. I clutch up on the handle and try to raise the hammer as high as I can. I bring it down, painfully, again and again and again until my world fades to black.

  The soft orange glow of sunset seeps through the trees, warming my face as I slowly wake up. I gag up some blood as I push myself off the ogre’s stomach, leaving an imprint of my body that slowly fills in. Swaying on my feet for a few seconds, I finally gather the courage to take a step. “Holy shitfuck!” I growl through gritted teeth as arcs of pain shoot up my left side. My breathing is calm and I don’t taste copper anymore, but those ribs will need to be set. Shit. Slowly, carefully, gingerly, I stoop down and pick up the broken handle of the maul. I leave the dented iron hammer next to what is left of the ogre’s head. Using the handle as a walking stick, I make my way to the mouth of the cave.

  The splintered end of my new cane sifts through the myriad piles of bone and debris that dot the entrance. After some searching, I find it: a small, dirty ribbon. Tiny bits of sky blue peek out through dirt and mud. I pick the ribbon up with the stick and brush off the encrusted gunk as best I can. Fine gold thread is embroidered on on side. “Emma.” Pocketing the ribbon, I turn to finish the rest of my work.

  Night falls before I finish, but camping in these woods another night isn’t an option. The smell of blood will have attracted goblins. Those little buggers can get pretty brave, and vicious, when they have numbers on their side. Even now I can see a few pairs of tiny glowing eyes far out in the bush. They’ll leave me alone as long as I don’t act to injured which, unfortunately for me, I am. So I need to get out of here fast and pray that those fuzzy little bastards are the only things that were curious enough to come.

  With the six pistols holstered again and an ogre hand tied to my hip with a rope, I trudge off toward town to return Emma’s ribbon to her father and the ogre’s hand to the local magistrate. Naturally, I’ll also be collecting my reward, drinking my weight in wine, and convalescing for Hel-knows-how-long. As I stumble over tree roots and brambles, always keeping one eye on the will-o-wisp eyes of the goblins, one singular thought sticks in my mind.

  Fuck this job.

  ***

  “Fuck what job?” Leena’s voice breaks through the crashing waves of pain between my ears.

  “Ugh…godsdammit my head…Huh? Don’t worry about it. And okay, I’ll admit,” I wince as I gingerly prod the lump on my head, “that could’ve gone a little better.”

  “Well I enjoyed it.” Leena barely suppresses a giggle.

  “Of course you did.” I grumble. “Did you happen to see which way they took us. You know, since I was knocked out.”

  “Not really. They dragged you here face down, so all I saw was a bunch of dirt and rock.”

  “Great.” I press against the iron bars of my cage and peer through the darkness of this small cave. Another cage sits on the opposite wall, empty save for a pile of rags in a corner. Wind howls outside the entrance; flecks of snow and dirt whirl and dance in the dim moonlight. The two leopards lurk near the entrance. They lean against a barrel that’s roughly their size and take turns dipping their paws in it, bringing forth a sickly sweet-smelling
liquid to their lips and greedily lapping it up.

  “Hey!” I shout, my hoarse voice echoing off the cave walls. “Hey! Is that any good? Could I have some?”

  “*Hic* Wuzzat?” One of them sneers. “What would some wee pajama panda want with mead? Betcha couldn’t even handle the stuff.”

  “Won’t know until we try. Plus I need it for a, um…holy ritual.”

  “Pssh! There’sh just enough mead here for me and Callum anyways.” Gareth takes a break to lap up another pawful, swaying slightly as he does. “Sho just shut yer trap until we get you to Lord Aodh.”

  Well, at least I tried. I sit back and watch while the two cats down way more mead than should be physically possible. Each turn brings them deeper and deeper into the barrel until they need to grab each other’s tail to prevent from falling in. But of course one eventually does; Callum or Gareth (who the Hel knows?) hiccups loudly and lets the other’s tail slip from their grasp, sending them tumbling into the wooden barrel with an echoing thud. The barrel wobbles a few times before crashing down on its side. Spotted legs and a tail - as well as some other bits - stick out from the opening with the kilt scrunched about his waist.

  “Not to bad.” Leena muses.

  “What was *hic* that?” The guard left standing eyes me suspiciously. I just shake my head furiously and pantomime zipping my lips. “Good. ‘Cause otherwise I’d have to go over there and *hic* shut you *hic* shut you *hic* up.” A giant, tongue-curling yawn overtakes him as he slides down the cave wall and curls up. Seconds later he is fast asleep. Faint echoing snores come out from the barrel, the other’s tail curling in and out to the rhythm.

  “Well then.” I say out loud. “What now?”

  “Now,” a voice to my right makes me jump, “we escape.” I peer in the direction of the voice to the moving heap of rags in the other cage. No. Not rags. The heap stands up to reveal a maus. She wears a plain pink dress with elbow-length gloves and a tiny bow behind her left ear. Large eyes peer back at me. Studying me.