The Ghoul

[Scaramouche Fandango]

Half Truth said to Changes, her son, when he asked her for a scary story one long, cold night when no other adults were around to tell her that this, perhaps, was not an appropriate story for a child: A long time ago, when the Motherfather's fleas and ticks were smaller and duller than they are today, far before you or I were ever born, the Crane's Family was scattered over the Motherfather. There were of course the Kimeti here in the swamp, but the Acha- that's you- were in the desert, and only the desert. And while their coming was met with much jubilation- yes, dear heart, jubilation, for even then while you and I were still but dreams, I loved you- not everyone who came from the desert came with kindness.

As it so happened, there was a Kimeti buck, a handsome fellow, who fell in love with what he knew could only be a desert spirit. She was a beautiful creature, with burning eyes, and he knew in his heart she couldn't be real- for she was no Kimeti, and only Kimeti had eyes like that. She was like a singing specter, a flirtatious phantasm whose hot kisses and scorching embrace melted his bones. For a short time, they were brilliantly happy, and he felt nothing but tender warmth for her. Even after the sunglow faded from her eyes, and he realized she was a creature of flesh and blood, just like him, he cherished her radiance all the more.

But one night as they lay together, necks entwined in a pool of sweet moonlight, without warning, she ate his heart, smiling as she chewed. He wailed, a horrible twisted howl, keening over and over, begging her for answers. Did she do this for love? He could forgive her if it was for love. Did she do this to nourish their unborn children? He could forgive her if it was for that. But there were no children, and there was no love- she was a wicked, selfish thing and prided herself above all others. He was fine enough to take as a lover, which meant he was a jewel, a prize, a fruit to be plucked- and like all ripe fruits, heavy and dripping, he was sweetest at first bite.

So she ate his heart, and he died, and she thought that would be the end of it- but a crime so heinous could never go unnoticed, for it was abhorrent to the Motherfather. There were predators, and there were prey, and they were in their proper order- but this, this was a perversion, a twisted mockery of what should be. She was found, later on, surrounded by his grisly remains, his dead eyes watching her. Was that a tear in his unblinking eye? Surely it was. They came upon her, chewing the marrow from his bones, flush and content. The fire sparkled in her eyes once more, but her beautiful smile was outlined in blood, a stain that would not fade.

And so she was banished, never to return.

Haughtily, she tossed her proud head, the sun gleaming off her horns, as she stalked away. A feverish wind blew, sending ripples across the swamp as she set out towards the sands. But even though she was a monster of the burning desert, her hooves had touched the cool waters of the swamp. She was doubly cursed, and she didn't know it until she'd carried her disgrace back to the desert sand.

It was then that the Ache set in.

At first, she ignored it; what was mere pain, compared to what she could do? She pushed past it as it twisted her guts, bent her double, froze her muscles. When she could no longer walk, she staggered. When she could no longer stagger, she crawled, dragging herself along, inching her way through the dunes. The searing sun scorched her inside and out, and she found no refuge, no oasis to soothe her.

Some say her journey took years, or months, or it was over almost as soon as it began. That's not important. What's important is that when she reached the swamp again, desperate for sanctuary- but it was as if the swamp had disappeared, for while she could see the shimmer of water in the distance, with each exertion forward, she only found herself pawing through sand. As much as she tried, the swamp came no nearer- and the Ache didn't subside.

It was only then that she cried out in anguish. For five years, or five months, or five days, she lay there, begging to die- but the land was not done with her. She took a life that was not hers to take; justice demanded then that she keep it, as well as her own. She would not die, but she would live a living death.

She's still out there, stalking the night. She can't move well, not after the land's punishment. She hobbles through silent hunting grounds, the gleaming bones of travelers she's eaten her only companions. She mewls for help with a sparse, rasping voice, hoping to prey on the kindness she prays for. She cannot command, she cannot chase- but she can certainly entice and beg for aid, even as you shrink away from her accursed specter. She can follow. She can wait, wait until the sun drops you- and then she can feed.

She likes to eat hearts. The bigger, the better.

But as a warning to desert travelers, she's no longer beautiful. She's a twisted thing, a warped shell of what she once was. Her sensual smile has fallen to gnashing tooth and haggard lip, and virtually nothing remains of her former form. She is a victim of those burning winds that heralded her arrival; as they once played at her back, now they face her head on, flaying her hide and wearing down her bones where they've pushed through. She reeks of carrion and rot, and her lushness has withered. No softness remains, only a crackling hardness, baked to leather by the blazing sun. She looks like nothing, but she also looks like everything; some see in her a broken hound, others a battered desert lion. Some see the impossible, a crocodile in the desert. Some see nothing but the shape of death. Some see an Acha, but not once they get close.

Of course, by then, it doesn't matter what they see, for it's too late. She might look pitiful, but she's fueled by hatred and hunger.

Her motives are debated by those who've never seen her. Does she hunt travelers in order to restore herself, out of a twisted belief that by consuming their essence, she'll be able to take her old shape again? Can she change her shape, or are kin only seeing a strange sort of mirage when they look upon her? Does she really hunt them, or are her pitiable moans a misguided attempt to warn others away from treacherous spots in the desert? Are those sun-bleached bones really her prey, or is she merely their guardian?

Nobody knows, because nobody who's seen her has survived.

But she's out there, surely. Everybody knows that.

And that is why when you cross the desert, you don't look back.