moon had risen to etch the streaks of clouds with light. The landscape shone eerily. The air swarmed with midges and the iridescent flies named after dragons and damsels. The fragrant scent of bog myrtle wafted on an evening breeze. With the moonrise came a change in the boggles. Where their eyes glinted a coppery sheen by day, they now glowed like gold coins.
At last they called a halt for supper. A great bonfire was made with logs of bog oak, and everyone sat on stones around it. Dana’s clothes were caked and filthy, her hair plastered to her head. Oblivious, she joined the debates about who won which game and what could fairly be called a draw or an “undecided.” Sometimes she got the boggles’ names wrong, as she found it difficult to distinguish one from another. Each time she apologized, they waved away her regrets.
“You’s all looks alike to us,” Piper, the leader, told her.
“’Cept when you’s got color. We likes the brown ones best.”
Along with Piper and his bog asphodel, Bird was easy to recognize, as he was the smallest and had a beak for a nose. But she would never be able to tell the difference between Butterhill and Silverhill, who were twin brothers, or Snow and Twig, who were not related but looked identical. Then there was Underhill, who was no relation to the two other “hills” but was a cousin of Goodfellow, Light-bow, and Gem. Some had identifying markers. Green did indeed wear a vest of woven grass, while Stone had a little chain of pebbles around his neck.
When the fire was deemed hot enough, a big cauldron was placed at its heart. Ingredients for a stew were tossed in willy-nilly, whetting Dana’s appetite with mouth watering smells. She peered at the flora of the bog bubbling away: dark-purple liverworts as fat as worms, green and black bog moss, leathery bogbean with fleshy stems and hairy flowers, bottle sedge and pondweed with flat red leaves. She wondered a moment if it was safe to eat, but decided she didn’t care. This was no time to be fussy. She was ravenous.
While the bog bouillabaisse brewed, Dana shared out her chocolates. Since no one told them not to, they ate dessert first.
At last the stew was dished out into wooden bowls. It was truly scrumptious. Though Dana felt as if she were eating the bog itself, the chief taste was “brown.” She was reminded of all the brown things she liked to eat, both sweet and savory: almond croissants, the crusty top of a freshly-baked bread, buttered toast, and peanut butter cookies; but also golden-brown fries, grilled mushrooms, HP Sauce, and the crisp skins of potatoes baked in the oven. They offered her grimy water to drink, but she declined. When she passed around the bottle of cola, they admired its color but spat it out.
“You probably don’t like chemicals,” was her comment.
“You does?”
“Yeah. Tastes great.”
They huddled around the fire, leaning against each other like a bunch of homeless kids with dirty faces. Dana was reminded of Peter Pan’s Lost Boys. Did that make her Wendy? Now that things had quieted down, she began to think.
“Right, lads,” she announced. “There’s something we’ve got to—”
Before she could finish, the boggles were on their feet.
“Time to dance!” they cried.
Skin drums and panpipes suddenly appeared. Up rose the wildest music imaginable, drumming and thrumming, trilling and thrilling. A contagious cadence that called to the blood.
Despite her protests, Dana was pulled into a ring and urged to hop and skip. The Celebrate the Kidnapped Child Dance entailed spinning her around again and again till she was hopelessly dizzy. She laughed so hard her stomach hurt.
For The Dance of Lights each had to pick a star and, while keeping an eye on it, twirl and whirl like a top. When the music halted, all came to a stop. Except the earth and sky, which kept on turning, leaving everyone to stagger around, whooping, till they all fell down.
Crack the Whip had them holding
At last they called a halt for supper. A great bonfire was made with logs of bog oak, and everyone sat on stones around it. Dana’s clothes were caked and filthy, her hair plastered to her head. Oblivious, she joined the debates about who won which game and what could fairly be called a draw or an “undecided.” Sometimes she got the boggles’ names wrong, as she found it difficult to distinguish one from another. Each time she apologized, they waved away her regrets.
“You’s all looks alike to us,” Piper, the leader, told her.
“’Cept when you’s got color. We likes the brown ones best.”
Along with Piper and his bog asphodel, Bird was easy to recognize, as he was the smallest and had a beak for a nose. But she would never be able to tell the difference between Butterhill and Silverhill, who were twin brothers, or Snow and Twig, who were not related but looked identical. Then there was Underhill, who was no relation to the two other “hills” but was a cousin of Goodfellow, Light-bow, and Gem. Some had identifying markers. Green did indeed wear a vest of woven grass, while Stone had a little chain of pebbles around his neck.
When the fire was deemed hot enough, a big cauldron was placed at its heart. Ingredients for a stew were tossed in willy-nilly, whetting Dana’s appetite with mouth watering smells. She peered at the flora of the bog bubbling away: dark-purple liverworts as fat as worms, green and black bog moss, leathery bogbean with fleshy stems and hairy flowers, bottle sedge and pondweed with flat red leaves. She wondered a moment if it was safe to eat, but decided she didn’t care. This was no time to be fussy. She was ravenous.
While the bog bouillabaisse brewed, Dana shared out her chocolates. Since no one told them not to, they ate dessert first.
At last the stew was dished out into wooden bowls. It was truly scrumptious. Though Dana felt as if she were eating the bog itself, the chief taste was “brown.” She was reminded of all the brown things she liked to eat, both sweet and savory: almond croissants, the crusty top of a freshly-baked bread, buttered toast, and peanut butter cookies; but also golden-brown fries, grilled mushrooms, HP Sauce, and the crisp skins of potatoes baked in the oven. They offered her grimy water to drink, but she declined. When she passed around the bottle of cola, they admired its color but spat it out.
“You probably don’t like chemicals,” was her comment.
“You does?”
“Yeah. Tastes great.”
They huddled around the fire, leaning against each other like a bunch of homeless kids with dirty faces. Dana was reminded of Peter Pan’s Lost Boys. Did that make her Wendy? Now that things had quieted down, she began to think.
“Right, lads,” she announced. “There’s something we’ve got to—”
Before she could finish, the boggles were on their feet.
“Time to dance!” they cried.
Skin drums and panpipes suddenly appeared. Up rose the wildest music imaginable, drumming and thrumming, trilling and thrilling. A contagious cadence that called to the blood.
Despite her protests, Dana was pulled into a ring and urged to hop and skip. The Celebrate the Kidnapped Child Dance entailed spinning her around again and again till she was hopelessly dizzy. She laughed so hard her stomach hurt.
For The Dance of Lights each had to pick a star and, while keeping an eye on it, twirl and whirl like a top. When the music halted, all came to a stop. Except the earth and sky, which kept on turning, leaving everyone to stagger around, whooping, till they all fell down.
Crack the Whip had them holding
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