Firefly Island, an Epic Fantasy Read online

  Aeolia shut the door behind him. He would be gone shepherding all day, she knew, and meanwhile she had plenty to do: dust the house, tend to the ogress, change the linens, wash the dishes, wash the laundry, sweep the chimney, wax the floors, feed the livestock, milk the goat, collect the eggs, weed the vegetable patch, clean the sheep pen, chop firewood, butcher a pig, kindle a fire, cook dinner, and finally dust again. Dusting was the most important chore, for the ogre’s nose was sensitive to dust, and one of his favorite sayings was: “The cane flies with the sneeze.”

  I wish I were like my King Sinther, Aeolia thought, with skin made of stone, skin a cane cannot break. Nobody could hurt the terrible Sinther, Aeolia knew. Not one person in the world.

  Well, except that one person from the legends, Aeolia remembered. The tales whispered of one who could reach past Sinther’s stone skin, could hurt the wicked king. But then, surely those are only legends, Aeolia thought. Surely if such a one truly lived, Sinther would have ordered him killed long ago.

  “Enough fairytales for now!” Aeolia scolded herself. She was always telling herself stories when she should be working. With a sigh, she took her feather-duster from its shelf and ran it over the animal heads, the dry flowers, the decaying windowsills.

  As usual, when she dusted beneath the sofa she wondered what lay below the trapdoor. She had imagined many possibilities: a chest of glinting golddrops, a deformed son fed secretly whenever she slept, a suit of armor and a rusty sword, the ghosts of the house’s dead builders, a dusty grimoire with golden binding, a passageway that led to an underground land of fairies.... Aeolia delighted in imagining these wonderful or horrible secrets, and she often lay awake at night, inventing their stories.

  She would also imagine her rescue. These dreams were not pleasurable but wistful, and they did not ease her loneliness but made it swell. And yet she thought of Joren every day, of the promises they had exchanged so long ago. She had kept hers, though she did not understand it, and prayed that this year, as Joren came of age, he would keep his. She shut her eyes as she dusted and tried to imagine how he would look now. Would his hair still be spiky, his gray eyes still brave? He would be handsome, she knew, and he would love her like only a brother loves his younger sister. They would live together, away from their callous father, and forget their past lives and simply be happy.

  Aeolia sighed. Suddenly she felt a need to escape the cluttered living room, with its towering furniture and ever-present stench. She laid down the duster, lifted her wicker basket, and hobbled outside to collect the ogress’s breakfast. She stood on the porch and breathed the crisp air, banishing her brother from her mind; his memory was so sweet it hurt, and she was better off without it. The clouds had darkened and it was drizzling. When Aeolia stepped off the porch her feet sank into the mud. The raindrops matted her hair down over her face, and the wind whipped at her skirt.

  She walked toward the sheep pen, careful to avoid the fairy rings in the grass. Behind the pen, she followed the old picket fence, her feet pressing into the soft, wet clover that carpeted the ground. At the end of the yard, where the land swept down into a valley of mist, grew the enchanted cherry tree, its bark glistening with raindrops.

  Aeolia loved this tree, a magical tree that bore fruit all year. It was her favorite place on the farm, the only place where she felt solace. She climbed onto a mossy rock, stood on tiptoe to reach the high branches, and began collecting cherries. She smiled as she picked, imagining the scent of rain, sedge, and cherries a perfume she wore, and when she shut her eyes she could almost imagine her woolen dress a gown.

  A bell, ringing in the wind, disrupted her reverie. Aeolia turned her head and looked back at the cottage, and in the attic window she saw a shadow stir. She shivered, placed a last cherry in her basket, and hopped off the rock. Basket in hand, she squelched through the moss and mud back to the house. She wiped her feet on the doormat and stepped inside.

  The bell rang loudly upstairs, a flat sound like wood on flesh. Aeolia bit her lip, approached the staircase but paused before climbing. She looked up into the shadows and shivered again. The attic always frightened her. The bell continued ringing, however, and so Aeolia swallowed, sat down, and began climbing. With every stair the air became sultrier, smelling of sweat and decay, so thick Aeolia felt it stroke her skin. She reached the top stair and stood up in the shadowy hallway. Burrows honeycombed the floor, and Aeolia heard beetles chirping inside. The bell’s ringing came from behind a tall, peeling door. Aeolia turned the clammy knob, and the door slowly creaked open.

  The room inside was dark and stuffy. Its hot air filled Aeolia’s lungs like smoke. The window was ajar, casting dusty sheets of light, and Aeolia could see ants marching along the walls. The ogress lay in her bed like one of the shadows, her face cloaked in darkness. Her long feet, yellow toenails cracked, hung between the posts. She was so thin, her bones showed beneath the sheets, making her look like a shrouded skeleton.

  Aeolia twisted her fingers behind her back and said, “Good morning, Mistress.”

  The ogress’s frail hand passed through a shaft of light to place her bell on a nightstand.

  “I shall have my cherries now,” came a grainy whisper from the shadows. The ogress never spoke above a whisper.

  “Of course, Mistress.”

  Aeolia shuffled toward the head of the bed. The ogress’s eyes glinted in the shadows as they watched her. Her shriveled lips parted to reveal a gaping, toothless cavern. Aeolia took a cherry from her basket and placed it on her mistress’s white tongue. The ogress chewed slowly with hard gums, then spat the pit into Aeolia’s hand. The process repeated itself three more times, and then the ogress turned her head away.

  “Is that all you want today?” Aeolia asked.

  The ogress nodded. “Chewing tires me. Toss the rest out the window.”

  Aeolia bit her lip and gazed at the remaining cherries in the basket.

  The ogress laughed—a hollow, sickly sound, more a cough than a laugh. “You want to eat them yourself, hmmm?”

  Aeolia shrugged one shoulder. “No one will eat them outside.”

  “The worms and beetles will eat.”

  Aeolia lowered her head and nodded. She shuffled to the window and opened the shutters, thankful for the fresh air and light. For a moment she gazed longingly at the northern horizon, thinking of her brother. Then she tightened her lips and tossed the cherries. They hit the mud and sank. Aeolia turned from the window, her throat tight.

  Her mistress was watching her, a wry smile on her lips. In the new light Aeolia now saw her yellow, papery skin, the sacks beneath her sunken eyes, the white wisps on her balding scalp.

  “Was it cruel of me, girl, hmmm?” the ogress asked.

  “It was cruel,” Aeolia replied quietly.

  “Do you imagine freedom any kinder?”

  The question surprised Aeolia. One never talked of such matters. It was as taboo as mentioning the basement. She stood silently, lost for words.

  “Don’t be embarrassed,” the ogress said. “My papa’s cane beats only sheep now. He cannot hear you.”

  “If I were free I would have eaten the cherries.”

  “But cherries are not enough, are they? A woman needs more than cherries, does she not?” The ogress propped herself up on her elbows. Her eyes flared and blood rushed into her cheeks. “What about love, hmmm? You forgot about love, didn’t you?”

  Aeolia took a step back. She remembered the ogre’s words about his daughter’s madness, but decided it safest to play along.

  “I have no love here,” she said.

  The ogress cackled. “Be glad! Love is cruel and whimsical. It calls you beautiful but laughs behind your back, taunts and leaves you with nothing but a ring and broken heart. Look at you! Look what your family did to you. They sold you for three golddrops!”

  The ogress was mad, there was no doubt of that. Her words still hurt, however, and Aeolia could not let them stand.

  “My father sold me,”
she said, not without anger. “My brother loves me still.”

  The ogress leaned forward, reached out, and grabbed Aeolia’s shoulders. Aeolia squirmed but the ogress held her tight. Her bony fingers dug like claws. Her yellow face—long as a horse’s—was thrust so close Aeolia could smell her breath, stench of morning mingled with the scent of cherries. She wanted to turn her head away, but something in her mistress’s eyes held her, and she stared back.

  “Are you certain?” the ogress whispered. “Are you certain he, too, would not betray you?”

  Aeolia thought of her home, of her father who was so churlish, she often thought she must be a changeling. But her brother had always comforted her. Joren had always made her laugh, even when her father made her cry.

  Aeolia nodded. “I am certain. Joren loves me. He would never betray me.”

  The ogress’s eyes glinted a moment longer, and then they dimmed. Her grip relaxed and she fell back into her bed. She looked tired and spent, and her breath was shallow. She looked defeated. With a long sigh she pulled the covers to her neck, shut her eyes, and mumbled sleepy words.

  “There is a Stoneson in town looking for you.”

  Aeolia’s heart stopped in her breast. Her hands fell limp to her sides. Slow as sunrise, she uttered, “What did you say?”

  The ogress began to snore. Heedlessly, Aeolia grabbed her shoulders and shook. “Mistress, please, don’t sleep now!”

  The ogress’s head slumped sideways. She would not wake. The madness, Aeolia thought, it was only the madness speaking! And yet... he had promised, it might be true, he might be here, in town, but a day away, looking for her....

  “Is my brother here?” she asked, shaking the ogress and shaking herself. “Have you talked to him? Oh, please wake up!”

  She would not, and Aeolia wrung her hands, trembling. Is my mistress only taunting me? she wondered. Is she simply speaking dreams? This was the year of Joren’s promise; surely the ogress couldn’t know that. Perhaps she wasn’t delusional. Perhaps the ogre had claimed so simply to discredit words he knew she’d speak. Joy bubbled in Aeolia’s belly as she convinced herself that Joren was truly near.

  A smile trembling on her lips, she shuffled out the room and downstairs.

  She spent the day waiting.

  For the next few hours, she worked at her chores in a daze. She kept thinking of Joren, imagining how she would hug him, planning their future. Today might be my last day here, she kept thinking. I might never see the ogres again.

  By noon she began worrying. As she stood outside, brushing cinder out of her hair, she kept glancing at the hills, waiting for Joren to appear. He never did. Aeolia’s excitement slowly curdled. She told herself she must be patient, that Joren was slow because he was thorough, that he would arrive in time. She gazed at the tattoo on her hand and told herself that soon it would be meaningless, that soon she’d be able to forget its words. Joren would not betray her like the ogress had said. He had promised and he would come.

  But where was he?

  Afternoon’s shadows began unfurling, and still Joren did not appear. The butchered pig sat in a pot of paprika, bubbling in the hearth, filling the living room with the smell of spices and bones and blood. Aeolia nibbled her lip as she stirred the broth, and her fingers tapped against the ladle. Her worry gnawed on her like a dog on a bone. A thought sneaked into her mind that Joren might miss the lonesome farm, that he would never find her. The thought was too horrible to bear. She twisted her toes and continued waiting.

  With twilight’s frogs trilling outside, Aeolia decided she could wait no longer. Though she trembled at the thought, she knew what she must do. She would do the impossible, what she had never dared. She would leave the cottage. She would go to town. If Joren would not come, she would seek him herself.

  But how could she? The ogre shepherded outside, blocking her way, and his dogs were trained to scent strangers in the hills. Even if Aeolia did slip past him, he would discover her escape when he returned, and Aeolia could not expect to outrun his dogs, not while hobbled. If she went to town, she knew, it had to be with the ogre’s permission.

  She forced herself to wait till he returned. It was not long. The sun had hardly touched the horizon when she heard the tapping of his cane outside, the baaing of sheep as he goaded them into their pen. Aeolia quickly filled his bowl—big as a watermelon half—with the goulash and set it on the table. She lit the candles in their iron sconces. Knowing her face must be spelling guilt, she covered it with her hair. She heard the cane tap up the stairs and onto the porch, and she opened the door.

  “Good evening, Master.”

  The ogre grunted and limped inside, bringing the smells of sheep and grass and sweat. Aeolia climbed her ladder and helped him remove his coat and hat. The ogre limped toward his sofa and sat down heavily, sniffing his food and salivating into his beard. He licked his chops and brought the bowl to his lips. As he chewed, bones crunched and juice trickled down his chin. Aeolia watched him eat, twisting her fingers behind her back, till he lowered the empty bowl with a satisfied belch.

  “Now,” he said, as she knew he would, “fetch me my jug of wine to wash this fine food down, yes indeed.”

  Aeolia nodded and stepped into the pantry. A hanging lantern lit the cluttered room. With every gale outside, the shutters rattled, the lantern swung, and shadows danced like demons. From one shelf Aeolia fetched the clay jug that held the ogre’s weekly supply of crabapple wine. It was half-full and heavy. Aeolia carried it with both arms back into the living room.

  “Ah, excellent!” The ogre rubbed his hands together. “Bring it here.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  Aeolia took a step forward, her knees shaking. She took another step, swallowed hard. With the third step, heart in mouth, she feigned to stumble. She tossed the jug as she pitched forward.

  A shattering sound beat her eardrums. Droplets of wine bespattered her. The ogre rose from his chair with a howl.

  “Look what you’ve done!”

  Aeolia scurried to her feet as the ogre swung his cane. It missed her head by an inch.

  “I’m sorry, Master! I’m sorry, I tripped.”

  The ogre began chasing her around the table. He limped and she hobbled in her shackles, and both sloshed through the wine.

  “I’ll get more!” she said. “I’ll get more wine!”

  The ogre swung his cane. Aeolia ducked and it whistled over her head.

  “The peddler comes once a week,” he thundered. “How will you get wine before that?”

  The cane came down and Aeolia jumped aside. The vase of dry roses shattered.

  “I’ll go to town, Master! I’ll get wine there.”

  The ogre paused. Slowly he lowered his cane. Aeolia stood panting and watching him expectantly. The ogre rubbed his jaw and stared back through narrowed lids.

  “You want to go to town...,” he said.

  “Unlock my shackles and I’ll go now. I’ll be back by noon tomorrow with your wine, and work into the night to finish my chores.”

  “How do I know you’ll return?”

  “My tattoo, Master. Anyone who sees it will return me.”

  The ogre stared at her a moment, but then snorted. “Bah! I cannot trust you carrying wine so far. You are too clumsy. No, you will stay here and spend the night licking the wine from the floor.”

  Aeolia lowered her head and fought down despair. So he would not let her go. She could still try sneaking away.

  The ogre, however, had not finished speaking.

  “You are so clumsy,” he continued, tapping his chin, “you might fall into the fireplace or well, yes indeed. Safest if after you’ve cleaned the wine, I chain you to the cherry tree, at least for the next few days.”

  Aeolia’s mouth fell open. For a moment she could not breathe and stood gaping, shaking her head. Then she spun around and fled into the pantry, where she fell to the floor, scraping her knees. The rows of shelves, hanging bent under their burdens, seemed to close
in on her, ready to overflow and drown her. She could hear the ogre’s wheezing in the other room, and she had to cover her ears, so jarring the sound suddenly seemed. He knew, she realized, he knew, he knew, he had seen Joren and he was hiding her. Why hadn’t she just run? Now she couldn’t even sneak away.

  “Girl!” came a grunt from the living room. “Cease this foolishness and come back here. I want my foot rub.”

  Aeolia wanted nothing more than to stay in the pantry, hidden in the swirling shadows, but fear of the ogre’s cane had long been pounded into her, and she could not fight it. She rose to her feet and shuffled toward the door, barely able to drag her irons, barely able to stand upright at all.

  “I must be strong as stone, like Joren said,” she mumbled, but the sweet thought of her brother made her eyes moisten, and her mouth curved bitterly in preparation for weeping. No! she scolded herself. The ogre mustn’t see me cry. She shut her mouth determinedly, knuckled her tears away, and banished Joren from her thoughts.

  In the living room the candles had burned to stubs, and wax hung over their holders. The fire still crackled, and leftover goulash bubbled in the pot. From outside came the sounds of whistling wind and rapping rain. The ogre sat with a checkered blanket pulled over his knees, puffing on his pipe and filling the room with green, fragrant smoke. His bare feet rested on the table, warming in the fire.

  He clucked his tongue, and Aeolia nodded briskly, climbed onto the tabletop and sat beside his feet. Each foot was long as her leg, with toes as big as her feet. Sweat glued dirt, grass, and crushed insects to the soles. Aeolia reluctantly laid her hands on a rough, clammy foot. Breathing through her mouth, she began to rub. The ogre shut his eyes, let out a long moan, and leaned back in his seat.

  While Aeolia’s fingers worked, so did her mind. If she’d soon be chained outside, she could still wait for Joren to arrive. But what if Joren never found the farm? There was too much at stake to leave for chance and hope. Surely there was something else she could do, Aeolia told herself, but she could think of nothing. She stubbornly quelled a cloud of despair. I can’t give in to despair now, she told herself. I must think rationally, rationally....