“But what is a Peritwinkle?” Damselfly demanded.
“Well, it is a little hard to explain,” Beatrix pondered.
“Not hard at all,” Morris interrupted, having been listening in the shadows.
“A Peritwinkle is the most fearsome creature you can imagine; it cries like thunder with giant tusks and a temper wilder than any storm.”
“Don’t say any more,” Buttons requested though Morris was already beginning to sing in a rising baritone.
The Peritwinkle
A Peritwinkle can strike faster than a spitting cobra,
His ire can be raised quicker than a Silverback gorilla.
He is more cunning than a fox, wiser than the owl,
If you’re still breathing it won’t be long now.
Quick as a bite from a shark,
Snap as a dog’s bark.
The Peritwinkle will make you his prey,
On this your very last day.
The Peritwinkle has an anger like a goose after an intruder,
He has a sense of humour like a starving piranha.
If you see eyes glowing red, above two tusks it won’t be long,
For the Peritwinkle strikes like a wounded scorpion.
If only it was a rhinoceros or a paltry tiger,
None of them compare to the Peritwinkle, not even the tarantula.
For this monster has a smile like a crocodile,
A laugh like a giddy jackal.
He punches harder than a fighting kangaroo,
You best stay clear of his wood so he cannot find you.
There is no reason, nothing is fair,
You may as well argue with a grizzly bear.
With a roar louder than a lion,
I close my eyes to avoid seeing what will happen.
For the Peritwinkle is as mad as a rabid wolverine,
If you see him, it is sure to be the last thing you have ever seen.
“That is a wonderful song though I still don’t understand what a Peritwinkle actually is?” Damselfly apologised.
“It is a giant boar,” Beatrix said.
Buttons jumped out of his seat as the wind blew against the windowpane; he scrambled into Damselfly’s lap and hiccupped in his fear.
“No more stories now,” Morris chided. “It is time for bed.”
When Damselfly awoke it was still dark. She missed the faded evening sunlight of home along with Old Nana and her family. Buttons was still asleep beside her, running away from some imagined danger. She stroked his fur until he quietened and then went to search for something to eat. Morris and Beatrix were already up performing chores to keep the inn running although they did not seem to have any other guests.
“You must be hungry,” Morris welcomed.
“I don’t have any money to pay you,” Damselfly confessed.
“Don’t worry about it, you’re our guests,” Morris dismissed.
Beatrix brought a bowl of stew which, while not up to royal fare, was warm and palatable enough to take the edge of Damselfly’s hunger. Buttons, of course, appeared almost immediately the food arrived and managed two portions despite Damselfly’s concerns about being rude. It was obvious that Morris and Beatrix were poor; they wore tattered clothes that had been patched multiple times and the inn was in need of serious attention. Damselfly guessed that few people travelled to Wintergarden now; the Fairy King had been responsible for a lot of hurt when he stopped time, especially here.
“There’s a town meeting later if you want to come,” Beatrix informed them.
“Yes, thank you,” Damselfly agreed, hoping to learn more.
“Is there any more stew?” Buttons asked before Damselfly kicked him under the table.
The town meeting was held in a draughty old barn with about thirty people congregating together to keep warm and share stories of recent hardship. It seemed they received very few visitors, because Damselfly’s presence caused quite a stir amongst the regulars.
“Where did you come from?”
“You came through the Garden Gate?”
“What was it like?”
Damselfly told a version of her tale, explaining that they had been chased by a bad man and escaped through the Garden Gate with no idea where they would end up. This explanation at least stopped many of the questions as people drifted back to their normal groups and largely ignored the newcomers.
“Why don’t you leave?” Damselfly questioned.
“This is our home,” Morris stated. “My grandfather built this inn with his own hands and no one is going to take it away from us.”
“Even if we wanted to leave, we can’t,” Beatrix reasoned. “The only way out of Wintergarden is through the Garden Gate and none of us have a token.”
“Those that did left long ago,” Morris said bitterly. “How did the Sprites get here?” Damselfly queried.
“What Sprites? We ain’t seen any of those creatures,” the townspeople feigned.
“I was chased by a pack of them riding wolves. They almost caught us in the woods until the Peritwinkle scared them off.”
Naming the monster that haunted them all was a mistake, and they refused to acknowledge Sprites existed in these parts. Instead, they stated her scared mind had imagined the Sprites and from then on few of them would even speak to her. Morris, no doubt encouraged by his peers, soon led them all back to the inn, and when Damselfly attempted to raise the subject again, he disappeared down to the cellar with some excuse of checking barrels.
“What is going on?” Damselfly asked Beatrix who looked uncomfortably guilty.
“No one ever talks about it,” the inn keeper’s daughter evaded.
“I know what I saw, it was not my imagination,” the princess replied.
Beatrix cast a glance towards the cellar where her father had disappeared before looking back with certainty in her eyes.
“I will tell you everything if you do the same,” Beatrix offered.
“I already did,” Damselfly lied.
Beatrix shook her head knowingly; the young girl
