An evil mist hung over her log house.
Thick, yellow, with a greenish cast.
And,
she wondered. Would Gryndyl come tonight.
Conditions were right.
The stench of rotting peat and bog-slime
crept through windows
stuck to curtains
and flavored her mushroom stew.
An evil brew, that one, kept simmering
in wait.
For Gryndyl.
Together they waited,
Fredika and her stew, in her log house
in the thick mist.
Seven years since her sister and her lover
one in the same
had fled the marsh.
Seven long years.
Cursed by Gryndyl for their incest.
Seven years Fredika studied the ancient
texts, learned the smallest details
of rhyme, curse, and time
moved slowly,
then, tonight,
or perhaps tomorrow night,
if the fog were thicker,
would stop.
Entering this silent state,
Fredika had one chance only
to regain the passions shared.
The wizened formulas were real enough.
Fredika had practiced on local creatures.
After some mishaps, she had
nearly perfected her concoctions,
the slow moaning songs chilling the heart of
fishermen and gator-poachers, unreal shrieks,
sounds that could not be words,
unless one knew their ancient sounds.
Cyrllic script, Gaellic, and Welsh manuscripts
had she stolen from Gryndyl's cave,
brought to the log house
and fortified there until
they were now only in her mind.
And when Gryndyl finally dared
darken the log-house door,
on the thickest yellow stink-filled mist covered night,
then, only then, with a sip of the long-simmering stew,
Gryndyl might be banished
in exchange for Kathleen, lovely Kathleen
whose tender lips shone like hot peach slices
and were as sweet in Federika's mouth.
A tap, then silence. Gryndyl comes,
enchanted by a perfect curse.
She enters, stooped, black hair matted with bog mud and leeches,
stinking marsh water drips from her rags,
one shoe missing,
slowly. She sits by the fire.
Wordless Federika serves her concoction, with platinum spoon --any other
would dissolve--to Gryndyl's cracked bleeding lips.
Yes, she's taking it. Gryndyl sips.
And Federika begins her slow moaning chant. Omneoh omenoh dogieolo.
dogielol. she continues for what seems endless time.
Gryndyl sinks to the floor. The change begins.
1/14/93 10 min via phone w/ABJW Log Frog Dog Bog Fog
Daniel Friedman's Poetry & Short Stories
Daniel Friedman's bio
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