Now there are bogs, and there are bogs. Most bogs are rather pleasant and peaceful places, though soggy. They are filled with tall grasses and waving cattails; frogs and turtles splash about in a carefree fashion; the muskrat industriously ferries baby ducks on its back when mother duck has a canasta party; and there are bright marsh flowers that scent the air with aldehyde and muguet. The circulating waters are clean and pure, having been filtered for centuries through peat moss and lignite. Tall and majestic cypress and willow poke through the clammy ground to give shade and shelter to many varieties of wild fowl -- such as the rufous button bird, the towheaded meeble, and the stilted motto. It is a welcoming region, where children can frolic barefoot in complete safety while gathering indigenous candyweed and honeyberries to bring home for the family larder.
But some bogs have a chip on their shoulders.
The Bog of Sluggery is one of these other types of bog, the kind of place you never want to be stranded in after dark -- and really don’t want to visit during the day, either. It is stagnant and fetid, with layer after layer of dead and decaying matter at the bottom of the water. And sometimes the dead things forget they are dead and rise up when the moon glowers down on them, to shamble about in hoary confusion. Instead of frogs and turtles, there are snakes and alligators. A gelid scum covers the muddy ground, discouraging the growth of anything but spiked hornwood and pouting toadstools. The dead trees shelter no birds -- only disgusting slabber bats. Strange pulsating lights drift about at night, smelling of wet ashes.
This is the terrible place Tim Laughingstock found himself involuntarily deposited as the guards and Constable slowly pulled away on their raft, leaving him stranded on a slippery hummock full of barking worms and daddy longlegs. He had with him only his two flasks of pickled lumdiddles and his bag of King's gold coins -- for although the guards and the Constable were implacable when Tim begged for mercy, they were also rigidly honest and never gave a thought to depriving the poor exile of his gold -- much good would it do him in the Bog of Sluggery, where he'd probably be dead by nightfall anyway.
Tim felt very sorry for himself. He had set out from Mountebank with such keen expectations, and now he was marooned in a dismal bog -- an outcast and a failure. He sniffed mightily to keep his tears of disappointment and fear from turning into an embarrassing cascade. His misery kept him from noticing a little man dressed all in black come strolling up behind him.
“Good day to you, delicious man!” said the little fellow in black.
Startled, Tim whipped around to face the little man -- wondering sullenly if this was the bog creature slated to do him in and leave his bones moldering on the ground. But Tim had been brought up to always return a polite greeting with one of his own -- even when stranded in a scummy bog.
“Um, good day to you . . . little man” he replied. “I hope this day finds you well.”
“Why, thank you!” replied the little man, smiling and revealing a set of enormous white teeth. “I believe today will be a good day, and tonight may even be better! What brings you out into the middle of our bog, might I inquire?”
TIm squatted down, the better to talk to this mannikin.
“I’m afraid I am a victim of unjust accusations, and have been sent here for the rest of my life as punishment.”
The little man dressed all in black wagged his head back and forth in concern, and clucked his tongue.
“I am sorry to hear of your misfortune. I hope I may offer you my condolences and my company while you are here.”
Tim’s spirits perked up at hearing this. Perhaps this strange little man could help him get out of this awful place!
“I am most obliged, stranger, for your offer of companionship. My name is Tim Laughingstock.”
“And my name” said the little man dressed all in black, “is Gullet the Ghoul.” He gave another gigantic grin.
Tim quickly stood up and backed away.
“You are Gullet the Ghoul, is that what you said?” Tim asked, beginning to feel queasy.
The little man in black stepped forward, still smiling his disconcerting smile.
“Yes, that is correct. And it will be my pleasure to accompany you during your exile, your brief exile, until you are killed by a flock of slabber bats or bitten by a poisonous slither worm or just starve to death. At which point, once you start to decompose, I will sit down and enjoy a delicious meal. My, but you look tender and fairly marbled with fat!” The little man pulled out a silver fork, knife, and spoon, and began polishing them with the loose end of his black cravat.
“But, but . . . you’re not going to try to kill me?” Tim quavered.
Gullet the Ghoul looked very offended.
“Certainly not! I am not a violent creature. Not in the least! I perform a very important but very peaceable function here in the bog. When something, or someone, dies I take care of the remains.
“Oh” said Tim, despair growing on him like the onset of a sudden chill. “So you aren’t going to help me escape from this place? You really aren’t going to be my friend at all, are you?”
“I’m going to watch you die and then I’m going to eat you up” replied Gullet complacently.
Tim stood very still at hearing this, while his heart beat very fast. And then something wonderful blossomed inside of him. Something that happens to men and women when they have been beaten down and abused until they look up to find a Bright Spirit holding their hand. They experience an inner tempering that steels them to attempt great things. This is how heroes and heroines are made. Right then and there Tim started growing into the hero of this story.
He reached down to grab Gullet by his black cravat and pulled him up until he was face to face with a very grim Tim.
“So you think you’re going to wait around until I starve, eh?” said Tim menacingly. “Well, let me tell you, Master Gullet the Ghoul, that I am not going to starve as long as I have YOU to feast on!” Tim grabbed Gullet’s silver utensils before letting go of his cravat. Gullet dropped to the ground, and stayed there -- looking up at Tim with dawning fear and respect.
“Now, now, Master Laughingstock. You wouldn’t really do me in just for a meal -- would you? I’m rather scrawny and, and . . . just think of the rotten things I’ve been feeding off of for years! I must taste very nasty by now . . . “
Tim kneeled down to address Gullet the Ghoul.
“Don’t worry, my little snack. I’ll have a roaring fire going to roast you until you’re crisp and sweet.” Tim unwound Gullet’s cravat and quickly tied him up with it. Then he scrounged around for sticks and twigs, heaping them up next to Gullet.
“You have some excellent wood around here for a bonfire” Tim told the ghoul cheerfully.
Ghouls are sneaky and putrid creatures, but they also have a strong feeling for survival and know when the jig is up.
“Master Laughingstock -- may I call you Tim?” began Gullet in the friendliest tones he could muster. “Tim, I’m thinking that you and I got off on the wrong foot today. Why, a big strong man like you must have very important business to conduct in the outside world. It would be wrong of me to detain you here in this backwater bog. After due consideration, I’ve decided that, um, I would be most happy to guide you out of here -- completely safe and sound and free of charge. What do you say to that, Tim?”
Heroes don’t hold grudges and are humble enough to accept help quickly when it is offered. Tim untied Gullet the Ghoul and offered him a hand up.
No comments:
Post a Comment