The Nibblekin

Once upon a time, there was a monster known as the Nibblekin. The children said the Nibblekin’s horns rose thick and crooked from its skull, ridged like old bark. Beneath them sat two enormous, glass-bright eyes. It was tall enough to cast a shadow on the moon, they said, but had talons thin enough to pass through keyholes. Truth be told, nobody really knew what it looked like. But it was fun to hold gnarled, sun-bleached branches to one’s head and play pretend. For the parents, the monster was little more than a scare to keep the little ones tucked in bed at night, away from the looming Wayward Woods—

CREAK!!

The stairs groaned under its weight. The door swung open with an animal whine. Light from the hall spilled into the room, caught on a black shape filling the doorway. Tall, antlered horns rose from its head, their shadows climbing the walls and breaking against the ceiling. The monster stood poised at the threshold of the child’s room.

“I am the Nibblekin!” it said, “Rawr!”

“Oh noooo,” Gloria drawled from inside the room, drawing her hands to her pallid face before she got up and lifted her nephew up into the air by the scruff of his neck.

Peter giggled as he dropped the branches. “Did I scare you?”

“It would be scarier if you didn’t do it every night. Now come on, beddy-byes.”

Peter’s pet frog Ferg hopped into the room behind them. “Ribbit,” he said.

Ferg was around two feet tall, with warty, green skin and giant webbed feet. Two bulbous, grey eyes sat lopsided on its head, and one always seemed to blink slower than the other. Ferg could talk. Well, not really, but he could echo things he heard often enough. Peter had taught Ferg how to say “ribbit”.

“Ferg!” Peter patted the bed beside him.

“Beddy-byes!” Ferg burped.

“Did you brush your teeth?” Gloria asked Peter.

“Yes, Auntie Glo.”

“And did you scrub the dishes, child?”

“Yes. Till I could see my face in them.”

“Good. Now, recite the rules.”

The seam between the village and the woods was dotted with wooden signboards painted with the three tenets that were repeated so often that babies uttered them before they acknowledged their mum and pop.

“One,” said Peter, sticking up a finger, “Do not go into the woods. The Nibblekin will find you. Two, do not answer a voice you do not know. There is nobody there who is not the Nibblekin. Three, if a button comes loose, do not try to return. Whoever has been unfastened, belongs to the Nibblekin.”

“Whoever has been unfastened belongs to the Nibblekin,” agreed Ferg.

“Good. And?” Auntie Glo had come up with two more rules of her own.

Peter sighed, “Do not leave the house.”

“And?”

“If you get lost in the woods, follow the silver birch. The silver birch will lead you out.”

Gloria nodded and got up to blow out the candles. Peter peered at her. Her hairs were always hidden beneath a raggedy, grey bonnet. She didn’t blink a lot, he had observed. She had a large frame, built over years of hardwork as a lumberjack. They lived pretty close to the woods. He would have liked to see Auntie Glo chop down a tree. But she never let him leave the house. She was particularly strict about that. She was an austere auntie, but she wasn’t awful. Plus, she was his only family.

Peter knew a world existed outside the barbed wire surrounding their house. He remembered asking Auntie Glo if anybody in that world knew he existed. Her face had darkened. “No. And it’s better if we keep it that way. You know I do this for your sake, right?”

So, Peter didn’t quite get why she made him repeat the line about the birch trees every night if she wasn’t ever going to let him go out. But it made him hopeful that someday when he was old enough, she would teach him how to be a lumberjack, too.

Gloria was standing at the door, rolling a cotton wick between her palms to stuff the keyholes of Peter’s room.

“Auntie Glo?”

“Yes, child?”

Peter thought for a minute before asking. He had a lot of questions. Like where babies came from. Or where his parents went. But most days, he found himself thinking about the Nibblekin. “Auntie, what makes a monster a monster?”

Gloria did not look back and continued, almost maniacally, to roll the wicks between her palms. Ever since Peter turned seven, he had been asking her a lot of questions. “A monster is what a monster does.”

“What does the monster do then?”

“It eats people.”

The glass of his bedroom window shuddered in the dim moonlight as the wind rapped on it with ghostly knuckles. He drew the blanket closer to himself, one hand resting on Ferg’s bumpy back. “What’s all the fuss with buttons?”

“Buttons.” Ferg did his wonky, fatigued blink. His tongue shot out like a party blowout to lick its eyeballs.

“Do you think it eats buttons?” Peter smiled as he tore a button from his shirt and placed it under his tongue.

“It’s hard to say, child,” Gloria paused. “To be understood is a mercy a monster must not receive. The mystery is what keeps it a monster.”

Peter liked mysteries.

“It separates monsters from misfits. If you understand them, you will want to fix them.”

Maybe it was the spidersilk moonlight distorting her features, but Peter could see an odd expression, sad and soft, settle over her face. She stepped closer to him.

“In the world out there, the Nibblekin would have always been a monster. Or something to be fixed, at best. That’s why,” she exhaled deeply, crumpling a little as she gently touched the side of Peter’s face, “it has to be kept away from people.”

Her eyes dropped to his nightshirt, to the small unravelling where a button was missing. Her face hardened. Peter flinched at the change. “You think too much about the monster, child. Do in your mind what you’ve seen me do every morning around the house. Draw a circle of salt. Keep the monster at bay. And, sleep. You have a long day ahead of you. The rain gutters are choked with leaves.”

Sea salt was supposed to burn the Nibblekin. Peter pressed his lips into a thin line. That was always how it was with Auntie Glo. There was never a straight answer. Only chores.

The next morning, Peter stumbled blearily down the stairs to find Gloria pulling on her steel-toed logger boots. She wore her usual black plaid flannel shirt and canvas pants, and a woollen cap had replaced her bonnet. It was a chilly morning.

“There’s breakfast on the table,” said Gloria, gripping the hickory handle of her axe. “I shall be back by sundown. The circle is made. Remember to clean the rain gutters.”

Peter smiled weakly. “Okay. If you get lost, follow the silver birch. The silver birch will lead you out.” His attempt at humour was lost on Gloria. “Can I come with—”

The door banged shut.

One hour and forty-three minutes after Gloria had left, Peter found himself dragging a ladder to the yard. He was wearing his red, chunky knit sweater. Ferg sat in the tall, damp grass, keenly observing Peter.

Peter stuck out his tongue in disgust as he scraped the cold, wet leaves from the gutter. From the roof of their small house, he could see the woods. He sighed. He turned his attention to the toadstools in their own yard—

He gasped. From the roof, he could see a neat gap—almost the breadth of a hand—in the salt circle beneath the wire. The wind moved over him with a soft, unplaceable murmur. He jumped out of his skin as somewhere in the house below, crockery flew out from a cabinet and shattered on the floor with a loud crash.

For the first time in his life, Peter felt panic. Little black shapes swam in his vision. His limbs buzzed. His throat closed. He could only hear the sound of his heartbeat hammering in his head. Rising unsteadily to his feet, he headed toward the ladder—

SKRRP!

His foot slipped. The world turned sideways. Two hours and thirteen minutes after Gloria had left, Peter fell from the roof.

Ferg jumped in alarm as Peter slammed into the ground. The fall knocked the wind out of him, and had it not been for the pain in his ribs, Peter would have thought he was dead.

Whoever—or whatever—had crossed the circle to break into the house was still inside. Peter scrambled to his feet. His breathing was shallow as he hesitantly got on his tippy-toes to peer inside the house.

Two eyes flared glass-bright in the darkness of the kitchen. Peter’s hands flew to his mouth to hold back a scream as he fell back in fright. He had to run. Auntie Glo would understand. He had to run. He had to tell her.

Peter wasn’t tall enough to jump over the barbed wire. But he could slide under it if he dug just a little. His hands flew out, wiping the salt aside, and he clawed at the earth with desperate urgency.

Then he felt the heat on his palms where they touched the salt. The heat was sharp and immediate and followed by pain that bloomed and spread and widened and deepened and turned bright as the salt seared his flesh. It felt like razors biting into his skin and the air seemed to thin—

Peter howled. His fingers curled into a fist without his permission, locked in place, tightening around the hurt as if he could crush it in his fist.

Swallowing a cry of pain, he threw himself on the ground and wriggled out. Ferg hopped over the wire with a mighty leap and landed beside him. “Ribbit!”

His heart was still in his throat, his breath a series of jagged bursts. His palms were raw and red. He had to reach Auntie Glo. Peter hesitated for a second. He had never been on this side of the circle. A loud, angry clang rang out from inside the house. He scooped up Ferg as he ran, clutching him to his chest. His hands hurt, but they weren’t burning anymore.

The Wayward Woods rose high into the air; their tops lost in viscous fog. Peter tripped over sinewy roots as he stumbled in the darkness, the floor squelching with every step he took. He couldn’t quite tell where he was stepping, and he flinched every time he crushed a snail under his feet. They cracked so loudly.

“Auntie Glo?” Peter called out meekly, too scared to disturb the thick silence. “Auntie!” He was well past the wooden signboards. He should have seen her by now. He ran deeper into the woods. The darkness swallowed his pale face like the brief flare of a match being snuffed out. Ferg hopped at his heels. “Auntie Glo!”

“Auntie Glo!” Ferg joined in, too.

A faint wind moved around Peter, sibilant through the leaves. He shivered, pulling his sweater tighter around himself. Another breath of wind slid along the forest floor, low and searching. The leaves rustled, as if they were talking.

Help.

Peter stopped in his tracks. Branches trembled. The wind gave a long, hollow moan.

Help. The voice was muffled and distant, as though reaching him through a long tunnel.

“Hello?” Peter asked, his voice small.

Help me. Can you hear me?

Peter gulped. He turned slowly, trying to fix the sound to a direction. The wind rose, stronger now, pushing at his back.

I’m lost. Can you hear me?

“Yes, I can hear you. Where are you?”

A pause. Here.

The woods seemed to shift. The voice was unmistakeably coming from a single direction now.

Come quick, the voice beckoned. We don’t have much time.

Peter followed the voice into a small clearing, hoping he wouldn’t run into a ghost.

“Hello?” he called, turning around slowly.

Hello, child. A guttural voice responded.

Ferg croaked.

The voice came from somewhere above their heads. Peter’s gaze traced the trunk of a tree upward from its base, climbing and climbing, until he saw, high up in the air, two scintillating, yellow eyes —pale ovals burning steadily through the fog. From either side of them spread antlers, wide and uneven. The monster was wrapped in a cloak that bled from its neck to its feet, eating away all the light.

Peter let out a strangled cry.

There was a sudden blur, and suddenly the eyes were inches away from his face. Something moved beneath the monster’s cloak—a thin, rotten hand with reedy fingers that tapered into long, lank nails. They reminded him of knitting needles.

Peter could not speak. He could not move.

The hand closed around the topmost button of his sweater.

Mmmm.

The button gave a soft pop. The Nibblekin tilted its head, opened its mouth—a deep, yawning hollow crawling with teeth—and dropped the button inside.

Who are you all, it chewed, without your buttons holding you together?

Peter took a small, unsteady step back. The Nibblekin lazily raised one finger to nudge a loose thread on the hem of his sweater with its knitting needle nail.

Peter did not think. He did not plan. He turned and fled from the clearing as fast as his legs would carry him. Spots still danced in front of him from the brightness of the monster’s eyes, and he felt a gentle tug pulling him back to the Nibblekin no matter how far he ran. He shot a look back at the clearing. The monster stood still, staring at him. Peter ran till the fog swallowed the nightmare behind him. He had lost a button. His sweater had come unfastened there, and it flapped shapelessly as he ran.

If a button comes loose, do not try to return—

Peter gave a yell of relief as he spotted a silver birch. The black splotches on the silver bark looked like eyes. It was easy to spot the trail of birches. He ran from birch to birch—

And crashed into Gloria. He saw shock and anger flash on her face, and he half expected her to lop off his neck with her axe. Her eyes shifted to his sweater, and widened with horror. It had unravelled from the hem, and now ended right below Peter’s armpits. Its red yarn zigzagged back into the forest, over fallen logs and around sharp turns. Peter felt nauseous as he locked eyes with Gloria. The Nibblekin was on his trail.

“Oh, no.” With one fell swoop, Gloria chopped the string of yarn with her axe and scooped him into her arms. She ran slashing the foliage, her feet falling heavy on the damp floor. She knew the birch trail like the back of her hand.

As they reached their little house, Peter finally managed to recover his voice. “S-Someone broke in. Someone broke through the salt c-circle and—”

Gloria paused and peered through the kitchen window. Amidst the pile of broken crockery, a stray, black tabby sat licking its leg. Its eyes caught the light as it turned its small face to look at her.

“It’s a cat, Peter,” Gloria exhaled.

Peter’s ears blazed pink. “A-Auntie, I swear I-I saw—”

“You entered the woods.”

“I—”

She slapped him. Then grabbing him by his collar, she dragged him inside the house. “Did you tell the Nibblekin the way out? Tell me!”

“N-No, no, I-I didn’t do that.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Gloria sank to the floor in relief. “We’re safe, then. The silver birch trail is the only way out. We chopped off the red yarn in time. Child, the woods may not belong to the Nibblekin. But the Nibblekin belongs to the woods.” She held her face in her hands. “The Nibblekin never found its way back after it was driven deep into the woods. We don’t venture into the woods for fear of leading it back out. That’s what you almost did today.”

He couldn’t meet her eyes.

“Did you skin your hands in the woods?”

“No, Auntie, I hurt them when I fell from the roof.”

She pinched the skin between her eyebrows. “Okay. But again, are you certain you didn’t mention the birch trees to the Nibblekin?”

“I’m certain.”

“Good. Good lad,” she sighed. “I’m surprised why the—"

SKRKKK!

Outside the window, the barbed wire was shaking violently where Peter had wiped the salt.

The door blew off its hinges. A black blur crossed the air between Gloria and Peter. A button on her flannel shirt popped off and fell to the floor.

The sound she made was small, strangled inside her throat, too short to be a scream. Cloth whooshed, and the black blur passed between them again. Peter noticed the blood before he noticed the missing chunk of flesh from Gloria’s neck as she crumpled onto the floor.

—Whoever has been unfastened—

Peter saw the teeth flash in the air.

—belongs to the Nibblekin.

Then there was darkness.

Somewhere in a clearing in the woods, a wonky-eyed frog croaked, “The silver birch trees will lead you out! The silver birch trees will lead you out!”