Galinda
One pristine spring morning, in a village nestled within a vale coursed by a burbling brook and bounded by evergreens that scented the air with pine, a dreadful child was born. The tortured mother wailed and screeched piteously for long hours, and when the infant, too large again by half, was finally expelled in a tearing rush of blood and entrails, the exhausted woman looked just once upon her daughter’s face before turning her head away forevermore. The distraught midwife hurriedly pressed the mother’s eyes closed and crossed herself, murmuring fearful words of salvation, and then bolted from the room, never to be seen again.
The baby was born not pink and pudgy but rather with a coarse matt of hair that covered far too much of her body. Her lower jaw was dramatically thrust outward, and when her teeth grew in, yellow-grey in color, they crowded one another and jutted and jagged more like the mineralized protrusions that grew from the floor and ceiling of a cavern. Her limbs grew long and out of proportion, with boney joints and angles all wrong. Her feet and hands were far too large, and her nose looked like it had been broken, set sideways, and then broken the opposite direction. Large and misshapen moles and warts of various colors covered her skin, though they were not often visible through the thick mat of hair. Her only feature not disturbing or even shocking were the eyes, which shimmered as limpid pools of green, like the first sprouting of grass in an early spring meadow.
The listener might now expect to hear of an astounding beauty within, of a heart swelling with love and a soul imbued with kindness and charity even while locked into such a cruel physical form.
Forget about it. That would be another story; maybe try leafing through the book? Because Galinda’s heart was just as cold as her features were grim.
She would have been oversized for a boy and later a man, but was truly monstrous for a woman. Her strength was prodigious, and she was not slow to use it. And so the taunting that she suffered as an cumbersome toddler was silenced just as quickly as she became able to get about on her own, for even as a young child she’d not hesitate to launch into a bullying boy twice her size, pounding with her bony fists and scratching with her thick nails and biting. Soon enough the other children and even the adults would avert their gaze and avoid her whenever possible.
Which meant pretty much always, since she made it easy for them.
Galinda preferred to be alone, caring none for the company of others. Her father was a small, cruel man, known to be manipulative and quick to betray a trust, but he learned early on that any meanness played upon Galinda would be served back double and then some. And so he also came to avoid her, making no argument and in fact heaving a sigh of relief when she ceased to come home while still just a girl. But be reminded; she was a very large girl.
At first Galinda simply lived wild in the forest bordering the village, foraging nuts and berries and grubs and sheltering in caves or hollows, but eventually she built a large hovel of tree trunks and slabs of peat torn from the nearby bog. She learned to build baited traps of vine and tensioned sapwood, but more than that she loved to pursue her prey on foot, so that she might physically wrestle it to the ground, reveling in the fear of the frantically struggling beast, relishing the stilling of its pounding heart and the taste of its blood still warm.
As the months stretched to years Galinda grew to her full stature, and she was seen less and less by the townsfolk of Starrybrook. Stories of a sighting would sometimes come in from hunting parties that ranged deep into the forest, or occasionally when game was scarce a lumbering form would be seen in the darkness near the livestock pens, from whence a cacophony of fearful lowing and bleating would awaken the villagers. But no one would venture out into the night to confront the predator, instead waiting for morning to assess their losses.
King Stanislaw Everhorn was a kind and benevolent despot, of a predictably rotund profile for a monarch of middle years, and he was mightily aggrieved that such a wretched creature might exist among his subjects. “Surely there is some humanity couched within,” he would muse, “however deeply it might be buried.” His ministers would nod sagely when he spoke of such, as they had long since learned to quell their true emotions in the King’s presence. That would be ever since Lord Trundlebloom, Minister of Game and Bounty, had suggested with a meaningful wink that ‘a hunting party might mistake Galinda for a rutting boar, and then we’d be done with the nuisance forever’. Everhorn had flown into a rage at such a lack of compassion, and the minister had spent the long hunting season instead stooped and toiling in the fields. And so the King’s sentiment was henceforth taken to heart by all the ministers, since none had the heart for a turn at the plowshare.
Everhorn finally became determined that he must do something to correct the wrongness of Galinda, mostly because of his charitable heart and benevolent intent, but also because some of his most prized livestock had begun to disappear with disturbing frequency.
“Galinda cannot be a natural happenstance,” he sternly counseled his advisors, “for never before has such a child been born—here or anywhere else. “ He drummed his fingers on the table, as he was wont to do, and then thumped down a fist. “Sorcery! There must surely be dark magic involved—why have we not thought of this before?” He glowered at his Ministers, especially Lord Veilcry, Minister of Conjured Arts, and they all nodded fervently and did their best to do nothing.
But then Everhorn’s grave frown turned up into a beaming smile. “I have a solution!” he announced in triumph. “We will procure a wizard of the highest order, and task him with stripping the wretched curse from Galinda of the Forest! Hmmm, Veilcry, come to my counsel—let us discuss the slate of candidates...”
***
Thump, thump, thump, came a knocking on the door of her hut. Galinda turned her head to it and glowered.
“Who dares to intrude?!!!”
“It is I, NorthMoon, Master of the Arts Dark and Fair, Assuror of Balance and Purveyor of Mystical Rectitude!”
Galinda flung the door open to reveal the interloper, jarring loose a cloud of dust and bits and pieces of detritus from the peat ceiling. She looked the wizard up and down, and would have eyed him side to side were he not so spare. A tall man he was, though more than a head shorter than she, and of a frail and spindly build. He was quite grey—from his cloak and his peaked cap to his dingy beard and pallid complexion. He carried a long staff, of course, for all who perform wizardry assume that affectation, and a sack was slung over one shoulder.
The content of the sack appeared rather agitated.
“What is your business here?” demanded Galinda, “I take no social calls!”
“I come at the personal behest of good King Stanislaw Everhorn, and my intent is to rid you of the dark conjury that weighs upon your mortal being. Our wise and eminent King has divined that you are the woeful victim of Blacke Magic, and as I look upon you I can see the truth of his augury. But you no longer need toil under such a burden, piteous Galinda, as NorthMoon of the Cloistered Coven will call forth his White Magic to strip away the darkness that bedevils you!”
Galinda glared at him fiercely, and was disappointed that he did not shirk away. She peered more closely at the sack over his shoulder, which appeared to carry some animate content. “I don’t take none to witches nor wizards,” she growled, “an’ I’m carryin’ no curse.” She pointed. “What you got in that sack that looks bound t’ get out?”
NorthMoon knelt and lowered the canvas duffel to the ground. “This is an Orobo, wretched Galinda; a creature very rare and hard to come by.” He opened the sack to reveal a small furry beast that looked much like a child’s stuffed playmate; soft and rotund with great wide eyes that were of a calming blue-green color and with long whiskers that drooped to either side. It looked up at Galinda, and instead of hissing or barking or running away as did all other animals that saw her, it cooed and hummed soft murmurings and somehow seemed to smile.
Galinda scowled. “What is it, and why’d you bring it? It had best not drop any scat at my doorstep.”
NorthMoon waved a hand airily. “The Orobo is often called a ‘soother’; it is the gentlest creature amongst us by far, nothing else comes even close. They are few in number because they have no natural defense beyond the calming nature that they develop in adulthood, and that is why so few make it that far. Those that do, however, have complete sanctuary, because no predator will kill an adult Orobo. A mountain cat would curl up and purr like a kitten, and a wolf would roll over to expose his belly like a puppy in the hope of a good tussling. Not even Dark Sorcery can withstand the goodness imbued in an Orobo—it would simply melt away like butter on a heated griddle.”
Galinda scoffed. “Yeah? So what’s it do? It just sits there all moony-eyed.”
“Ahh—And that is my role, belabored Galinda. I will use my talent to open an ephemeral channel between you and the Orobo, and the Dark Magic that plagues you will soon be reduced to nothing more than a fading memory.”
Galinda did not care the slightest whit for this wizard and was about to tell him so in no uncertain terms, but before she could get out another word he produced a wand and waved it grandiosely, while mouthing an incantation in a lyrical cadence
.
The bound between the bad and good
Will fall as if it never stood
Good prevails and always will
To shadows go all things evil
The Orobo seemed to shiver and Galinda was abruptly submersed in a sensation that felt something like the lapping of water in a pond warmed under the sun, and then the Orobo stiffened and rose taut on all four, suddenly looking more like a pincushion than a cuddly toy. It emitted a piercing keen, harsh enough that Galinda clapped her hands over her ears, and it bared its teeth—pitiful little rounded affairs built more for chewing cud than for tearing flesh. It began to advance on Galinda, keening and hissing and making a noise that sounded like a baby trying to growl.
She raised her questioning gaze from the comical little creature to the wizard, who stood with his lips blubbering out little more than gibberish, but he finally regained the ability to speak. He looked to Galinda, wild-eyed.
“What?— What have you done?!!! This cannot be happening! The Orobo is incapable of aggression! You must cease whatever it is that you’re doing!”
The wizard fumbled for both his wand and his words, and Galinda shook her head and raised one very large foot. She brought it down with measured resolve; there was a squeak and a mushy squishing sound, and then silence.
***
NorthMoon sat with his elbows propped on the table, his wattled jowls cradled on bony fists, shaking his head miserably.
“I tell you, Your Majesty, I have never, ever, heard of such a thing! The poor Orobo—always I have seen it reduce a curse, even one placed by a half-dozen Black Practitioners working in concert, to nothing but empty words! But her! She is evil incarnate, Sire—pure and simple. I felt it wafting off her in torrents! Best to be avoided like a plague!”
King Everhorn sat moodily silent a moment. “What will you try next, then?” he rumbled.
The wizard’s brow rose like the curtain over a stage. “Next?!!! What will I do next? Why, Sire, I’ll make certain that my path strays nowhere near Galinda, the troll of the Deep Woods! That is most certainly what I will do next, and every day thereafter!”
Everhorn narrowed his eyes at the wizard. “You did not complete the duty that I tasked you with. It would not be at all unreasonable if I insisted that you return to finish it.”
NorthMoon’s lips fluttered. “But Sire, surely you see that I can do nothing more! The Orobo is likely in her stew-pot by now, and no magic can overcome this scourge named Galinda!”
“So—you cannot finish it, you say? What of someone else, then; a more powerful wizard?”
NorthMoon took an affronted expression. “More powerful? You suggest that I am weak? I—” He halted, seeming to realize that he was arguing himself into a return trip. “Well, there is Tarlebaine,” he mumbled grudgingly, “the Maester of all the Covens. Perhaps he might have an idea…”
***
Thump, thump, thump came another knocking on her door. This was becoming very tiresome. Not since her youth had she had to deal with people, and now it had happened twice in as many days. She glowered at the door, but then her scowl softened—she had, after all, gotten a fairly easy meal out of that last visit. She plucked a bit of floating fur out of the simmering cauldron, and walked the few steps to her door.
There stood yet another wizard, this one even more imposing, dressed in brilliant white and with a beard just as lucent hanging fully past his waist.
“Whadda yer want?” she growled down on him.
He opened his arms wide. “I am Tarlebaine, Maester of all Covens. I have learned that a monstrous evil is coiled herein, and I have come to send it back to whatever shade of Hell it has slithered out from!”
She narrowed her eyes into a calculating squint. “You’ve brung me another Orobo, then? They’re kinda tasty; no gristle or stringy meat—lot’sa juicy fat.”
Tarlebaine looked momentarily taken aback, but quickly recovered his poise. “No, no. No Orobo. No smoke and mirrors, no hocus-pocus, no enabling artifices. I am a Sorceror of the highest caliber, and Maester Tarlebaine wields nothing but pure White Magic.”
Galinda scowled darkly. “You git outta here, then, if ya brung me nuthin’. An’ tell your pals in dresses I don’t wanna see ‘em skulkin’ around. This is Galinda’s Forest, an’ nobody else is welcome here.”
Tarlebaine again looked a bit nonplussed, but then set his jaw and swept out a pair of wands to begin pumping them as if conducting a full orchestra. His incantation boomed out in a deep, pulsing baritone.
From darkest depths where evil flowers
I call the wraith who wields such powers
I banish it where shadows fail
Where darkness fades a lighter pale
With those final words he raised both wands over his head, and the ground began to tremble. A rumbling began to descend, like a distant thunderstorm approaching, and there was a sudden boom and a blinding flash, as if the heavens were being torn asunder. Galinda blinked several times at the searing light, and when her vision calmed back into focus she saw that she stood alone.
***
Tarlebaine did not return that day, or the next or the next, and King Everhorn surmised the worst. He fretted and grumbled and stewed and moped, and finally he called for Lord Trundlebloom. The Minister appeared forthwith, fervently hoping that he would not yet again be heading out to the fields wielding hoe and rake and shovel.
“Perhaps you were right the first time, Trundlebloom,” groused the King. “If even the most powerful of the wizards cannot deal with Galinda, then perhaps rather than trying to be her savior we should simply be rid of her. Why—just last week one of my most choice breeder bulls disappeared from the stockades! A huge animal, and in the wee hours! People are simply afraid to venture out after dark anymore; it’s truly time that we’re done with this.”
Trundlebloom heaved a great sigh of relief. “I fully agree, Sire. What would you have of me, then? Shall I send a hunting party out?”
Stanislaw shook his head. “No, I think not. I don’t want this to be a public spectacle. I’m forced to do it, but I’m not proud of it. I’m thinking of sending a single champion against her. A blooded and armed knight in full battle armor should suffice, don’t you think? The woman wields no weapon other than her brute strength, though she has plenty of that.”
Trundlebloom nodded fervently. “Most excellent, Your Excellency! Shall I select from the best of our ranks, then?”
“No, again I want to be discreet. I was thinking of one knight in particular—he who travels for hire and contests for tournament winnings. Sir Edric of Plume hasn’t lost a match in years. He’ll either succeed against Galinda,” Everhorn shook his head glumly, “or someone else will have a chance at victory come the next tourney.”
***
Edric had dismounted and tied off his charger a ways back, knowing that he was closing on her lair and not wishing to make his presence known. He had originally scoffed at this tasking; the sending of a full knight, much less an undisputed champion, against a single woman?! But he’d then heard the stories; paying particular attention to the words of the wizard NorthMoon, and had accepted the premise that here he would face a very uncommon foe. Sir Edric had also set aside his full battle armor, settling instead upon heavy leather under soft mail, as he intended to approach unannounced.
Now he was creeping quietly through a stand of trees, skirting a pond, when he heard a heavy rustling behind. He spun in place, and reared back from the towering grizzly that was upon him, its paws spread wide and its teeth bared. He grabbed for the sword sheathed at his side, knowing there was not enough time, and just as he smelt the bear’s hot breath and flinched away from death a great wooden spear rammed through the looming creature from behind! The bear roared and a gout of blood spouted from where the spear was yanked free, and then the spear slammed through again, and once more. The bear moaned and fell forward onto all four feet, and then over onto its side where it lay as a huge twitching mound of blood-soaked fur. Behind it stood Galinda, holding a great wooden shaft in her knobby hands and breathing heavily.
Edric stood in absolute awe, and he fell to one knee and lowered his head. “My Lady Galinda, I owe you my life!”
Galinda grunted. “You was going fer my bear, weren’t you? Ya can’t hunt here, this is Galinda’s Forest!”
Edric shook his head. “No, M’ Lady, I was not hunting the bear. I am Sir Edric of Plume, full Knight of the NorthCourt, and I am deeply shamed to admit that I had been sent out against you, fair lady.” He rose and stepped quickly past the bear to kneel again, this time directly in front of Galinda. “You saved my life, Galinda of the Deep Woods, and so to you I pledge it.” And before she could speak he reached up to take her hand, larger than his own, and brought his lips to it. He locked his gaze to hers. “Your inner beauty belies your harsh appearance, Lady Galinda, and easily turns the balance in its favor.”
Galinda stared down at the kneeling knight who grinned like some smitten sop, and then she began to feel a sensation—something of a tingling, quivering, tickling tremor. She began to shrink. The dirty coarse hides she wore became heavy and itchy, and then slipped fully from her narrowed shoulders. The ground seemed to rise until her level gaze was not so much higher than that of the Knight who knelt before her. His cool grey eyes blinked impossibly wide, and after just a few moments the tingling stopped and she felt a cool breeze on her bare skin. Sir Edric swept off his gilded cloak and cavalierly draped it around her bare form.
“Lady Galinda,” he exclaimed, “this is the greatest miracle! You are completely transformed! Now your outer beauty matches that of your heart!”
Galinda brought one hand up before her eyes. What had just moments prior been a gnarly, lumpy ham of a hand was now a delicate work of art; long slender fingers, perfect nails manicured and polished, skin a creamy white without the slightest trace of blemish.
“What has happened?” she asked in a melodic contralto, even her simple words taking flight as things of beauty. “What have you done?”
“I did nothing, Lady Galinda, beyond seeing through the facade. It must be that the Twelve Graces have come to see the burden you have labored under for so long, that which trapped your pureness of spirit within a coarse outer shell, and they have taken pity and allowed your true essence to break through.”
Galinda slid her palms down her slender, curvaceous form, and stepped lightly over to the pond just feet away to peer down into it. The woman whose gaze she held was a striking beauty; fair blond hair, high cheeks and patrician nose. She smiled tentatively; the teeth were sparkling white and perfectly even. The only feature that even slightly resembled the Galinda she knew were those pale green eyes, now even more compelling in their new, flawless setting.
Sir Edric again stepped before her. He was a very attractive man, she was surprised to find herself noticing for the first time.
“Lady Galinda, this is a most blessed miracle to be granted by the Twelve. There is no woman whose beauty even comes close to matching yours, and none whose soul is so pure.” He smiled beatifically. “Please—allow me to escort you to King Everhorn. This is more than he ever hoped for; I am certain he will grant you whatever grace you might desire.” He lowered his head, almost shyly. “M’ Lady, I will serve you forevermore, in whatever capacity you so choose. I will be your protector Knight, your friend and confidant, and, if you ever so deign, your husband and lover. My Lady, whatever you wish is yours. I would give my life for you! I lay my sword at your feet.”
Galinda again looked down at herself, thoughtfully. Her every move, every gesture, now seemed so very graceful. “And so it is my inner self that defines my appearance?” she asked in a wondering voice.
Edric nodded solemnly. “As our scriptures so wisely advise, ‘Light emanates from within the soul, and upon those who shine bright, All Grace will smile’.”
She glanced again at the reflection in the pond, and knelt to lift Edric’s sword. It felt so heavy now, this piece that would have been little more than a toy just minutes past. “You would truly dedicate your life to me, Sir Edric?”
He bowed his head. “I would, Lady Galinda.”
And then he gasped as Galinda abruptly thrust the razor sharp blade through his chest. Edric fell to both knees, and raised his tortured gaze to her. “M… M’ lady? Why?”
Galinda again felt that tingling, buzzing sensation, and she began to grow in stature. “You said you would give your life fer me, Sir Edric.” Her voice grew huskier and more coarse even as she spoke. “An’ that’s ‘xactly what yer doin’.” Now she towered over Edric, even larger than she had been before, and uglier. He toppled over and she cast the cloak, far too small to suit her new immensity, down over his lifeless form. She stood there; lumpy, gnarly, her dugs hanging warted and hairy, her skin scarcely visible beneath a coarse matte of hair. She grumbled a bit and scratched at herself, stepped over to peer into the pond once more, and nodded and returned to her hut, determined to enlarge it to accommodate her increased girth.
On a rare occasion Galinda would dream of what she had been, for a very short time, and what she might have remained. Such aching beauty, at the cost of solitude. And then she’d awaken, heave a great sigh of relief, and rest easy. And thus Galinda of the Deep Woods lived happily alone, ever after.
The End