Chapter Text
In the middle of otherwise fairly flat farmland and forest was a solitary mountain. It was small compared to the towering mountains in the far south, but standing alone as it did, it loomed over the countryside casting an impossibly long shadow, its rocky peak a beacon that could be seen for several days’ walk.
To anyone who cared to listen, the mountain, called Lod by the nearby peoples, hummed in a different melody than the world around it. A subtle and dissonant sound that set one’s teeth on edge with a sense of otherness. A sense of danger. Birds and animals rarely ventured up its sides, though much of it was covered by numerous trees and lush grass. The animals, too, could feel that there was something inside the mountain that didn’t belong.
For those who doubted, they needed only wait until a blue moon rose. When the moon reached its apex that night, all the night sounds would hush and an unearthly howl rise from the mountain. No wolf or bird or person could make such a sound. It traveled far and didn’t echo. It was a sound that made people hold their breath, feeling like an icy finger ran down their spine. It inspired fear, but in poetic souls, sadness too. There was a loneliness to it, a note of pain, though most people were too frightened to hear that. Instead, they huddled in their homes and hoped that the creature – which they called many names: bodag, monster, beast – stayed far away.
Carcasses were found sometimes, too. Large animals, always, killed by four parallel slashes across the throat from something far sharper than a bear’s claws. Despite the ferocity of the kills, the meat would be eaten almost meticulously, hide, legs, head, bones, and some organs untouched until scavengers came for their share.
Still, villages huddled around the mountain’s feet. Why would they choose to stay close? Not because the land was better than elsewhere or anything so mundane. No, they stayed because whatever it was inside the mountain protected all that was ever touched by Lod’s long shadow. If a tornado ripped through the area, those villages were spared the worst of the wind. If floodwaters rose, they took a detour around the handful of hamlets there. And if armies ignored all the stories handed down over the years and came looking for plunder, the generals would wake one morning and find that many of their soldiers were simply missing. Or worse...they’d be lying around the fires and in their tents as if merely sleeping, but their throats would be slit. If the army actually attacked anyway, the next night, all around would hear the soldiers’ screams. And this time, there wouldn’t be any wounds, but every face would wear an expression of horror and pain.
There was, of course, a price for such protection.
A high, high price.
* * *
Sam had lived his whole life in the shadow of the mountain, practically weaned on the stories of the mysterious creature within. He’d heard its cries every few years and been one of those who felt the sorrow amidst the fear it inspired. He’d scarfed up his mother’s stories with an eagerness that made his father teasingly roll his eyes and point out that they actually knew very little about the bodag and that many of the stories told about it contradicted each other.
But for the past three, nearly four season cycles, Sam didn’t have any energy left to think about anything that didn’t directly impact his daily life. Now, he rose before dawn each day and worked until he couldn’t work any longer, then went to bed and did it all over again just to scratch out enough of a living to survive. In fact, the last time the bodag had cried, he’d slept right through it and not even realized he’d missed it until he overheard a few people in town talking about it a few days later.
It had been like that for several years now. His mother had died in childbirth when he was a young boy, but he and his father had lived well enough as they had a profitable plot of land in a great location. The village had more than doubled in size during Sam’s lifetime, but the best land belonged to those who had been there before the expansion.
Sam didn’t remember the days when a few village elders had been plenty to take care of any legal matters, but now there was a council and seemingly new rules every year. Sam’s father had been wary of them. “They are greedy and jealous of our land,” he’d said. “We must keep our heads down and not give them an excuse to take what is ours.”
Though Robert was a peaceable man, a gentle giant, Sam suspected that he used his voice to actively thwart some of the activities of the council. Else why would they have hated him so?
But Sam would never get to ask him, because when he was not quite sixteen summers, his father went on a quail hunt and a group of wild boars inexplicably stampeded and Robert was gored. He made it home but was gone before the next day was out. Before Sam and the healer, Robert proclaimed that his friend, Thomas the baker, was to take his land until Sam was of age. Then he’d said something that chilled Sam to this day. “You should leave, son. Go far from this town. They aren’t seeking just the land. There are those who want to own you.”
Of course, neither of those things happened. Sam was too young to attend a council meeting or even enter a petition on his own behalf. Thomas came out with slumped shoulders. “I am sorry, Samuel. They rejected Robert’s last wishes because the only witnesses were a child and a woman.” He’d winced as he said it. “And they say that Bertrand shall be granted the house and land since it borders his own, and he...he claimed that he lent your father a great deal of money over the years.”
It wasn’t true but Thomas shushed Sam when he protested. “You need to leave the village,” he said, echoing Sam’s father’s words.
But Sam wasn’t one to run. “I am not leaving,” was all he said.
No, Sam worked much too hard to have the energy to expend on wondering about a creature that nobody ever saw and that hadn’t demanded payment since before his parents had been born. Oh, his mind churned while he worked, but it was focused on ways to accomplish more, to maybe, possibly start to achieve enough that he didn’t feel like he was constantly skirting the edge of disaster.
Orphans were considered dead weight in their society, so it was assumed Sam would sell himself into indentured servitude to survive, but that was not going to happen. Not considered an adult, he hadn’t been allowed to sue for the land; but when he’d refused to stop pestering anyone who would listen, literally sleeping outside in the center of town so he wouldn’t miss the chance to appeal to anyone who walked by, they’d begrudgingly granted him use of a run-down hut and a little plot of rocky land. He’d been expected to fail, of course.
Some of the less charitable folks in town took bets on how long it would be before he was back in the square, begging for anyone to take him on. One bet that he would starve before doing so.
But Sam was going to prove everyone wrong. He survived the first winter on trapped rabbits, a pile of overwintered (and only slightly moldy) potatoes, stubbornness, and the parcels of food gifts that appeared on his doorstep once in a great while.
He laid clever snares, found a productive fishing spot in the brook where he got his water, planted the eyes of the potatoes he’d eaten, and hauled rocks out of his little field every single day. He taught his dog, Bear – a stray who had adopted him several years earlier – to alert him if anyone came near the hut and more than once he’d driven away nighttime visitors that Sam knew were up to no good. (They were a pair of strays looking out for each other; he could see the irony of it.) He still didn’t know why they wouldn’t leave him alone.
Sam built a low fence with the stones he’d taken from the fields and stole one of each set of twins from a small herd of wild sheep that roamed nearby. He stuffed the holes in his walls with whatever he could find – grass, leaves, ruined fabric – and built himself a crude but serviceable rain barrel. He began to grow other things, too, like carrots from carrot tops and wild onions. He got better with his bow and arrow and began to figure out how to make his own arrows.
He worked, and worked, and worked, taking pleasure in watching his efforts slowly but surely come to fruition, and simply stopped paying attention to what anyone else said about anything.
Well, almost anyone else. Relegated to another hut on the outskirts was an old woman named Miss Elizabeth. She’d been the wife of a town elder before the current thugs ascended to power but had outlived him by a score of years already. Her sons were embarrassed by their outspoken mother and more concerned with getting and staying rich than doing the right thing, and nobody had seen her daughter Nora since her marriage many years prior. So Elizabeth had thumbed her nose at the lot of them, packed her things, and moved herself to the hut she now occupied. Not unlike Sam, she’d been expected to fail to live alone. The expectation was that she’d either die shortly or come crawling back to her sons for help. But Miss Elizabeth had refused to do either.
Sam didn’t know her except by reputation as a prickly old lady whose living came from making the finest weaving for miles around and who preferred solitude in a hut to living surrounded by the people of the village.
However, when spring was just beginning to wipe away the first, awful winter that Sam had lived alone, he’d gotten incredibly lucky and taken down a large deer. As he’d surveyed his bounty with tears in his eyes, Sam had decided that he must share some of it. He hadn’t forgotten that anonymous gifts had helped him survive, so the least he could do was share some of his bounty when he had it. So once the hind was butchered, he’d loaded up a large shank and trudged to her place. When he’d knocked, she’d told him to go away. When he’d offered her some meat, she’d told him he was a moron for not keeping it all himself.
Sam had persisted, and she’d quickly developed a soft spot for the skinny boy (her words). Soon, Sam was bringing her some of all his fresh meat and she was mending his clothes. He fixed her roof, and she told him where he could find some wild chickens. (To her amusement, he only butchered one that he caught and kept the rest in a hastily-constructed lean-to.) Sam shared his eggs, and she baked bread for both of them. And, though most people considered nicknames to be for children only, she called him Sam (which he much preferred to Samuel) and he called her Lizzie. Their growing friendship benefited them both, in ways so far beyond the material. It was nice, maybe even essential to Sam’s well-being, to have someone to care about again, and to be cared about in return.
Lizzie was hilarious, acerbic, and intelligent. The time Sam could spend with her was his only real respite in an existence that was not much more than hard work and sleep. Though she never said as much, he knew Lizzie cherished their time too, spending most of her hours completely alone sewing, tatting, and weaving endlessly. Sam was pretty sure she didn’t lack for money but enjoyed keeping herself busy. Sometimes, she’d tell Sam stories about the flock of sheep her husband had owned and how shearing and dyeing the wool was a huge affair, culminating with a village celebration. “But that was a long time ago,” she’d always conclude. “Our current leaders seem to think there isn’t enough land for farming and sheep.” She was bitter that her sons had gone along with it and sold off the animals. She was more wistful when talking about her daughter, and Sam wondered why she never came back to care for her mother but he didn’t ask.
He didn’t want to talk about his family any more than Lizzie wanted to talk about hers.
There was another gift that Lizzie gave Sam that was second in value only to her friendship. She taught him to read. They huddled side by side during late nights in the winter when he should have been sleeping and she should have banked her fire to save fuel, and Lizzie opened a whole new world to Sam. Soon he could read the two books she possessed and hungered for more material. Sadly, books were an expensive luxury.
Though most people just thought Sam (and Lizzie, for that matter) a bit odd and some were clearly impressed and even pleased with their relative successes, there was still the small but powerful group that was displeased to see Sam in particular making it on his own. As long as he lived, Sam would never forget the indecent proposal he’d received just a few weeks after he’d lost his father and his home.
Sam was leaning against the town stables eating a leftover sweet roll that Thomas the baker had given him. He was too hungry to turn down anything freely offered and hadn’t even wanted to wait until he was back at his hovel to eat it. He hadn’t had anything sweet since...well, since he’d been on his own.
Night had just fallen and most people were inside, so he easily heard the person coming before they were around the corner of the building. Not overly concerned, he stood but didn’t bother to stop licking his fingers clean.
“Suzanne?” He was surprised to see the daughter of Bertrand, de facto leader of the elders and the one who’d claimed the property that should have been Sam’s. Nobody said no to Bertrand because if they did, bad things began to happen, bad things nobody could quite prove that he’d caused.
Sam quickly quashed his thoughts about his own father’s death. He had no proof of anything and never would unless Bertrand unexpectedly grew a conscience.
His daughter was pretty, with fancy dresses and long, blonde hair, but she was nasty and arrogant, in Sam’s opinion. She rarely went anywhere without servants about her and didn’t normally associate with anyone but those she considered close enough to her equal...which meant definitely not Sam.
“Samuel,” she purred, making his name sound dirty somehow. “You look...hungry.” Her eyes roamed his body boldly. “I can help with that. Come take a place in our household and never go hungry again. I promise your duties will be pleasant.” She actually licked her lips, making it clear what types of “duties” she had in mind.
Sam blinked in shock, then color rose in his cheeks. Suzanne smirked, probably thinking that he was embarrassed or aroused by her bold proposal. She couldn’t have been more wrong. Okay, yes, he was embarrassed by the way she looked at him, but the thought of touching her or letting her touch him left him feeling cold and ill, much less depending on Bertrand for anything. He felt his mouth twist into a sneer. He would never consider becoming part of that household in any capacity, much less the way she was implying.
Speaking clearly, he said, “I would rather starve.”
Since that day, both Suzanne and her father had more actively tried to sabotage everything Sam did. People were “encouraged” to buy eggs elsewhere, cows were “accidentally” allowed into his garden, and eyes watched him any time he had to go into the town proper. The only saving grace, besides Bear’s loyal protection, was that Bertrand was unwilling to do anything more overt and risk his position of power. Still, they certainly didn’t make his life any easier.
Sam didn’t think about them much, though. No, when he was doing tasks that didn’t require much thought or at night when the wind was creaking through his pathetic little house, Sam allowed himself to dream. In six months’ time, he’d be able to shear his young sheep, and Lizzie had promised to tell him how to clean and card the wool. They had fine coats, finer than any of the domesticated sheep in the village, and Sam knew that he could charge a good price for the wool or give it to Lizzie to make some high-quality garments to sell and they could split the profits. In addition, he’d carefully hoarded seeds of all kinds and finally gotten his field cleared of almost all the stones. He’d turned over the soil in the fall and expected to have ten different types of vegetables by the end of the growing season. He’d allow the rooster into his coop a couple times so he’d have chicks – maybe selling a few – to increase the size of his little flock.
And then, right when his ventures were coming to fruition, Sam would turn 20, the age of majority. For the first time, he’d be able to petition the elders. He’d show what he’d accomplished and argue that he should be granted his father’s house or at least its value in money. Even with Bertrand’s pressure, the elders would have no real reason to deny him since he’d proved that he could not only fend for himself but be an asset to the whole village. Then he’d get his hut fixed up, add another room, and ask Lizzie to move in with him and they’d both be warmer, safer, and happier.
Soon, he’d think, wrapping his hands in rags when his callouses broke open or wrapping his inadequate blanket around himself while his little hut trembled in the wind. Soon, my life will be different. Oh, he knew as well as anyone that life could take sudden turns and there were no guarantees; a bad storm could ruin his crops or knock down the chicken coop, the elders could side with Bertrand, or something else could go wrong. But despite everything, Sam was an optimist. Something was coming that would change everything. He could feel it.
* * *
He couldn’t wait much longer. In fact, he shouldn’t have waited nearly as long as he had. But Maeve had been with him so long, and it was difficult to think of moving on when he was still mourning.
But the beast was riding him hard until he could hardly remember being human. No, he was all bodag now, as his neighbors called him. Some said bodach. When he’d been young, they’d said oilliphéist. He’d heard bánánch, sluagh, and others. They all meant the same thing: monster.
And if he didn’t exact his payment soon, there would be nothing left of him except the monster. The people he’d protected would become nothing but prey to him. No matter how he hated playing the role that had been foisted on him, there was no other choice.
His traitorous body swelled at the thought of sweet young flesh, and he knew he could wait no longer.
* * *
Sam whistled as he brought grain out to the chickens. He had his melancholy days when he missed simply living a normal life in town with his father and plenty of friends and acquaintances. Well, sort-of friends anyhow, not that they’d had much to do with him since his de facto exile. He was sure some were among those who had left him gifts of food for a while, some still looked at him with embarrassed pity when he did come to town, but not one had stood up for him against the elders, not even really Thomas, who had stopped associating with him in public. Not one person had offered him a place to sleep. Sam had a feeling Bertrand or Suzanne or both had exerted their influence to make him a pariah, since Suzanne clearly wanted him to be hers...literally.
Bertrand wanted something from Sam too, something he didn’t understand but that made Lizzie look at him with pity.
But their influence hadn’t stopped people from buying Sam’s eggs or requesting to buy lambs once his ewes produced. It hadn’t stopped them from trading sweet, overwintered carrots and onions for fabric and other things Sam needed. And it certainly hadn’t stopped Sam from getting stronger by the month as he worked hard and now had enough food.
Once he was established and respected, maybe Sam would be able to tell everyone the one thing he’d never dared speak of. The one memory he’d shoved down so deep that he'd almost made himself forget.
“I’m in the back,” Sam called hearing footsteps. He assumed it was somebody looking for eggs like usual. He was distracted thinking about if it might be possible to trap and keep some ducks, (since he knew from finding nests in the wild that their eggs were just as tasty as chicken eggs and somewhat larger) and didn’t register that there were multiple sets of feet making noise.
“You need to come with us, Samuel.”
Sam straightened and turned abruptly at the hated sound of Bertrand’s voice, his crude bucket still in his hand. There were eight men standing on his land, counting his nemesis. Sam frowned at them in consternation. Bertrand and two other of the elders stood to the back of the pack with five younger men in front.
All of the men carried some sort of club or stave except the men farthest to Sam’s left, who held a rope in front of himself.
“What? Why? I haven’t done anything wrong!” Cold dread filled Sam’s stomach. He didn’t even have Bear at his side – the dog was often out roaming or hunting during the day. He couldn’t think of a single reason why a group of villagers would come after him like this. When nobody answered, he stared at two of the men in the front. “Thomas? Edward? What is this about?” Thomas was his father’s old friend. Edward, just a handful of years older than Sam, had been a frequent childhood fishing partner.
Both men dropped their eyes. “I have a daughter,” Thomas said, which didn’t make sense to Sam at all.
Bertrand declared smugly, “You’re coming one way or another, Samuel.”
The man with the rope, who Sam didn’t know at all, moved toward him suddenly, a twisted grin on his face. Sam acted on instinct. Other than childhood altercations, he’d never been in a fight in his life, but all the hard work had made him strong. And though he was still lanky with youth, he was the tallest person in the entire village, and he wasn’t going to make things easy on his attackers even if some of his former friends were among them.
He swung his heavy bucket at the rope carrier, sending him into the men behind him before he crumpled to the ground. Sam continued the momentum of the swing, going in a complete circle before hitting aside a stave coming at him courtesy of the blacksmith. He went down as well, but Sam lost the bucket. Something struck his right shoulder, and another club came toward him from the left. He caught the latter, but while he was trying to wrest it away he was hit on the back twice. Growling in pain and anger, Sam punched out. He punched anyone who he could see, ignoring the strikes raining on him in return.
Finally, Sam got the cudgel for himself and rounded on Bertrand and headed toward him. He was going to get himself some answers. But his single-mindedness cost him dearly. Something hard crashed down on the back of Sam’s head and he was stunned, everything going gray and confusing. He couldn’t see or hear much for a moment or two, not quite there but not quite gone either.
The ringing abated a little but before he could figure out which way was up, a boot impacted his rib cage so hard that the breath whooshed out of him. “Secure him,” snarled a voice he detested. Bear howled in the distance. Then the boot kicked Sam again and everything faded completely.