The Monster's Bellows
There’s
a sound.
Can you
hear it?
A breathing
in the wind.
A noise
between the trees.
And then
a bellow.
It hits
your ears as if a thousand glasses shatter.
And that
is when you see it.
It’s ten
taloned feet thudding, three tails blazing forked fire, as many heads slashing
their gnashing teeth through the air in ripping snarls.
A
monster.
Your
feet back up as quickly as your jaw drops and you take in the gleaming red eyes
that pulse with each closing of scaly lids.
Until you feel the wall of an ancient castle tight against your back,
the deep moss soaking through your clothes, the points of uneven stone making
small cuts as you push willing it to move, or, better still, fold in around
you.
You feel
the clang of metal hit against the stone, a reminder that the silver that runs
down your leg is no more than a toothpick in comparison to the monster that wildly
advances.
Sweat
drips down your face and back and neck as you draw the thin blade. It’s the shake of your hand that draws your
line of sight up and down the beast, the nerves that allow your eyes to fix
upon a strange wooden stump sticking out of one of the ten legs.
A thorn.
Cautiously
you take the tip of your sword, dart in, and brush it fast against the top of
the overhanging lump. The creature roars
with pain, and a slash of sharp claw would have taken your head had you not
ducked just in time.
Another
hit against the thorn, and yet again you fail, sending the creature into howls
of rage that threaten to leave you without limbs.
Still
you press on.
And the third
time…
There’s
a groan as you close your eyes. And then
the feel of breath crosses your face, the wet hot gas of relief.
The
monster shudders once and walks away.
You have
your freedom—that’s the thanks you get.
It is by
far thanks enough.