once upon

In the glade there is nothing else but the sun and an intermittent breeze. Hours or minutes pass, then a raucous commotion intrudes, and the fairies scatter, and you spring to your feet, and a troop of goblins blunders out of the bushes.

"Hoy, you goes get you down!" yells the leader at you.

Torn between smile and snarl, you decide to grimace.

"Hoy!" he screams. "You goes down."

You flex your arms and tilt your head back in the sun.

"Hoy!" he screams. "Hoy! Yous crazy? Me and we goes get you now."

The troop surges behind him, and you level your face at them.

They do not waver, and you kick up the branch you have been using for a walking stick and, shutting your eyes for a moment in the sun and snapping your arms, meet their stamping rush with a shuffling, ecstatic-come-violent fury that lays down the front rank in a moment. You erupt, for a second, in what would be hilarity if it weren't so taut with pain, and literally slay outright at blinding speed all those that remain standing but for the leader, who you have elected to face down.

He refuses to come into focus.

"Hoy," you whisper gently.

"And I say," he recites, "hoy unto you goes down or--"

You swipe off his head, in spite of yourself. His speech is profane, and will not be suffered. They are all dead, and flies are already thick upon them.

You turn away and leave the glade. There is a brook not far in the trees, and there you lie down to slake your thirst and wash your face.

"I saw you wipe them on the grass."

You look up, and there is, across the brook a nymph or elven woman, watching you.

"Aye."

"Are there more will come?"

You appraise her and shake your head slightly.

"I have a flower bed, and honey ...."

You step gingerly across the water, and she leads you on to her place. The day has become hot, and you are flush with the exertion of the pass in the glade and unable to separate it from the warmth of her body on yours and, as usual, cannot tell if this is right and proper or some sickness. The sub-men are so rampant, never goes a day without some quick exercise, and the nymphs seem always to be free of the ugliness, but you never know if this is only because of your presence, nor are they ever forthcoming with answers. You have given up asking questions; you seek only pleasaunce and quiet, though you never find it for long enough to wonder what to seek further; and your violence is always rewarded by beautiful women, though you cannot escape the wish that they might be found free of it.

Her honeycomb is abundant, and you lie with her until the next morning, and then, knowing patrols will be after you, travel on, bidding her farewell and be wary. She shrugs, as if this were not necessary. These nymphs always do, and again you wonder how they keep their purity, if that's what it is.

You stumble away into the shadows of the trees feeling sad and angry and confused, as always. There is a town you know of, not far, and you amble that way, unable to think of aught but whiskey. The nymph, like the last one, knew not her own name, let alone any feeling; and you wonder again if that's how they escape notice.

At the 'bumbling bee' inn you order three whiskys in succession paying with gold and silver taken from a travel ling circus or mission back down the road. There is a plump, dark demon girl slouching not far, sipping wine and eyeing you.

"You in the dark today?" you say.

She smiles, or maybe it is a grimace.

"Wine no whiskey?" you try, the demon speech coming readily after a few whiskys.

She shrugs and looks bored.

You glance out the grimy window, where the sun has just started to turn orange as it drops in the sky. She swivels slightly to face you. You order another whiskey, having said enough; and lay down enough silver to pay for as many rounds as you should wish.

The barkeep is a gross fat wiry haired personage of indeterminate gender with a voice like gravel in a shit choked culvert; or maybe that's just the whiskey. You shake it off. With these types its better even to trust the whiskey than to give them the slightest benefit of the doubt. Give them silver or gold, nothing more.

There is a black cat on the window sill watching you. You return its gaze levelly, glad there is some live thing that will come into focus without dribbling some ichor onto the floor .

"Wine 'n dine," says the demon wench, to you or the barkeep you are not sure which.