Celia: Monster Hunter

Chapter 1: Happy Beginning

She didn’t live in the suburbs. The suburbs were blighted by zombies.

She also didn’t live in the city, because that place was crawling with ghosts. Ghosts were terrible. You could never sleep at night with ghosts around. They were always clanking their chains next to your bed.

Instead she lived in the country, where there were specters. It was annoying how they wisped about and blew your hair in your sleep, but it could be worse. And, sure there were the night-gaunts that roamed the hills, and also the were-cat gangs, oh, and the chupacabra, but so long as you had good solid doors and a steady supply of lamb’s blood, they usually wouldn’t break into your home and eat your skin off.

Celia was eleven years old, had blue hair and was unusually tan for her line of work. Most monster hunters worked at night, and so did Celia, but she worked the family farm during the day and she also liked to swim. Most monster hunters did not like to swim because most monster hunters were not eleven year old little girls. They were a very serious sort of person, generally. Most monster hunters were also not half mountain nymph, but Celia didn’t know that she was either. She just thought she came by her super-eleven-year-old-girl strength honestly. Which she did, I guess, strictly speaking.

This particular morning was one of those pleasant spring ones where everything is nice and green, or blue, or pink, or whatever vibrant color a particular thing should be in spring if it can help it. The roses, for instance, were not green. Some were pink and some were yellow and some were white, but in turn they were all the best versions of that color. At least almost, because the best ones were just a couple days ago; sorry you missed it. Celia was hoeing the garden when a young man passed by and stopped to talk to her. He was wearing a very bright, yellow shirt, sunglasses, and pants cut off at his knees. He wore his scraggly facial hair like he was in his early twenties, and he probably was. Celia, for her part, was wearing shorts as well.

Hey, little boy, he said. How far is it to West Mavin?

I’m not a little boy. I’m a little girl.

You’re not a little girl. You’d have a shirt on if you were.

Why?

Because little girls wear shirts.

Well, I don’t. Not when it’s nice out. Why would I?

Because it’s not couth to run around with no shirt on if you’re a little girl. He didn’t look like the type of guy who would really care much about social conventions; his hair was in a typical atypical fashion and his ears were pierced. But there it was.

What’s wrong with not wearing a shirt?

Well, you could be mistaken for a little boy.

That’s fine by me.

Apparently not. You got all bent out of shape when I called you a boy.

I did not get bent out of shape! she said, getting bent out of shape because she hadn’t been before.

See. You are. But if you were more normal, you would never be bent out of shape, because then everybody would treat you with indifference, rather than distrust.

Celia gave the man a blank, disdainful glare.

He continued. So where is West Mavin? I hear they have a good music scene. I’m a musician.

I still don’t understand how come I have to wear a shirt, said Celia, who seldom let something go.

Because girls must cover their bodies.

My mom doesn’t always wear a shirt.

Well that’s because…wait, what? Really? Is this some sort of nudist colony?

What’s that?

It’s a colony. A colony for nudists.

What’s a nudist?

Somebody who runs around nude all the time.

I’m not nude now.

Fine, half nudist colony. You’re abnormal, whatever you are.

Where’s your instrument? asked Celia, her mind wandering to his earlier comment, as you might expect a child’s to do.

With my band.

Where’s your band?

In West Mavin.

Shouldn’t you be with your band?

I, uh, got held up in the last town.

Oh, I’m sorry. Did they take your money? she asked, suddenly consolatory.

And how.

Well, West Mavin is only another five miles from here. Just follow the road until you get to the big Pecan tree where it forks and then go leftward.

Leftward?

Leftward.

Is that the same as left?

Leftward, yes, she said, exasperated.

Alright, he said. Thanks, little boy.

She chose to respond with a dignified silence as she went back to her hoeing. It wasn’t particularly dignified, though, because she had to go, Hmph, to make sure that the stranger knew she had heard him but chose to remain silent.

Nominally silent.

One of Celia’s very best friends was a cat. She was not one of those talking cats that you often hear about, but she was a cat, and she did talk. But she only ever talked to Celia, which begs the question of whether she was really talking, or if Celia was imagining she was talking. Time will tell.

Celia did not befriend only cats. She was actually a very likable girl, and all the people living around her in the countryside, old and young, liked her very much. However, there was a shortage of children in the area ever since that troop of traveling circus performers turned out to be trolls.

At the moment, on this fine afternoon, they were fishing next to a beautiful brook. That is to say, Celia was fishing. It would not be proper to say the cat, whose name was Muelie, was fishing, because she wasn’t. But Celia was fishing, and Muelie was keeping her company and also eating her fish. Which was fine.

Well, well. Look who's coming over.

Oh, it’s him, said Celia, not enthused.

He’s sooooo cute, purred Muelie.

Celia shrugged. If you like that sort of thing.

You mean boys?

I mean were-cats. Aren’t you a little young to be dating, anyway?

Come on, Celia. Don’t be a square. I’m almost sixteen.

Sixteen months.

Cats reach sexual maturity in their first year.

If you say so, said Celia, not convinced that anything about sex could be mature.

Hey there, Celia…Muelie. It was Marcus Martin, the leader of the Hell’s Strangers, one of the were-cat gangs that plagued the whole community. At night they’d have raucous parties and keep the whole neighborhood awake with their caterwauling. They also occasionally ate farm animals, sometimes people, and made the barn smell terrible.

Well, hello there, purred Muelie.

Nice to see you, Muelie. Doing a little bit of fishing? Marcus could hear Muelie, because Marcus was a were-cat, though he was a human at the moment. But that’s how these things worked. Before when I said that Muelie only talked to Celia, you should have realized that she would talk to other cats. It only makes sense.

Why, yes.

Have any to share?

No, said Celia, coldly.

Sure there’s enough to share, said Muelie.

If he wants fish, he can catch them himself, said Celia.

Celia, baby doll, what’s with the attitude?

Oh, I don’t know, she said snidely. Maybe because you and your Hell’s Strangers ate my baby goat.

You have no proof that we ate that goat.

I heard you all yowling outside my window, ‘Yeah, yeah, we’re the Hell’s Stranger’s and we eat Celia’s baby goats!

Circumstantial evidence!

The circumstances being?

We were eating your goat…damnit! he yelled. He hated being so easily tricked into admitting the truth. This is why he failed at being a trial attorney, which had been his dream in his youth.

He still remembered that fateful day two weeks ago when his first and only client fired him after that debacle with the soup. You’re fired! the man had yelled from behind the bars of his cell.

Don’t worry, Marcus had said. I’m sure we can get you an appeal.

An appeal? I’d like to see you try! I want a real lawyer!

I don’t understand. Soup theft doesn’t usually get the death sentence.

You’re worthless!

I’m sure I can get you out. The plaintiff’s case was pretty weak.

I was the plaintiff!

Yes, the trial had not gone well. Marcus sighed and tried to smile his feline smile, which always made him feel better.

He felt better right away.

So you can catch your own fish, said Celia with finality.

Marcus sighed and rolled his eyes and said, Fine. So, Muelie, what’re you doing tonight?

Nothin’

Well, why don’t you come on down with me to West Mavin and catch that rock band that’s come into town?

Don’t go, Muelie, said Celia. He just wants to eat you.

That’s nonsense. I’ll be a human tonight.

Then why are you interested in having a cat accompany you to a concert?

I might ask you why you want a cat with you fishing. You’re a human all the time.

Celia thought she’d have a retort, but she didn’t. She clamped her jaw tight and went back to fishing and tried not to listen to the cat and sometimes-cat flirting. It was gross.

Mitch Bucolic was a twelve year old boy who had managed to escape the clutches of the circus trolls because he was always too busy working for his wicked step-mother to go do anything fun. On occasion, however, he managed to escape the house and get out for a bit. Such was the case today. He found himself happily wandering next to a brook, enjoying the trees and grass and flowers and bees and birds.

It just so happened, because that’s how these things go, that the brook he was wandering beside was the self-same brook by which Celia was fishing. She was beneath a tree, and he was in the sun, so he didn’t see her at first sitting there in the shade. But when he saw her, he started running. He didn’t call out to her, knowing that it would disturb the fish.

Unfortunately he couldn’t silence his testicles. Even though he was only twelve, his balls were huge and clanged like cow-bells when he ran. He might have thought to grab them to keep them from clanging, but he generally thought this was uncouth to do in front of people. He, and the people who knew him, mostly pretended not to notice the racket out of politeness.

Celia had no such pretensions of politeness, especially when she was fishing. Shut your balls up already! she hissed as he approached.

He slowed down and cupped himself, figuring that this lewdness would be more forgivable to Celia than the noise. Hey, how you doing? he whispered as she approached.

Fine, she sighed, not at all happy to see him. Celia mostly liked everybody; she was a happy and gregarious girl. Mitch bothered her. He was just so socially awkward, understandably given his upbringing and audible condition. He also was uncommonly fond of her and not at all good at curbing his enthusiasm; this annoyed her, as it would almost any girl her age.

Meow, who do we have here? said Marcus Martin who had been dozing against the trunk of the tree.

Oh, hi, said Mitch, surprised and dismayed to see another boy here, especially a boy like Marcus. Marcus was tall, dark, and handsome. Older than Mitch too. Marcus was almost sixteen. Straight, black bangs hung over his forehead, almost obscuring his dark eyes, and his arms were all lean and muscled and tanned. Mitch wasn’t small for his age; in fact he was fairly tall and pretty sturdily built, but not in a way that most girls thought was attractive. His hair was blonde but his skin was tanned from working outside. But then Mitch wondered, Did you say ‘meow’?

’Meow’? Haha, uh, no. Of course not, Marcus blithered.

Well, my names Mitch, said Mitch, extending his hand.

Okay, Marcus yawned, leaning back against the tree.

Mitch stared at him for a moment, wondering how he was supposed to feel about that snub. He didn’t quite feel like he could just talk to Celia normally with this stranger lounging around and possibly listening. Mitch tried his best to pretend the stranger wasn’t there. So, Celia, he said self-consciously, failing at ignoring Marcus, What are you doing tonight?

Guh, she said disgusted. I’m chaperoning those two.

Those two? asked Mitch.

Muelie and Marcus.

Oh, I hadn’t seen Muelie there. Hi, Muelie.

Muelie twitched her tail from behind the tree but otherwise made no reply. If Marcus saw fit to be cool to Mitch, then she felt no compunction to be friendly either. Mitch frowned. Muelie had always enjoyed his tummy rubs.

Where are you chaperoning them to? Mitch pushed on.

That rock concert over in West Mavin.

You don’t want to go to it?

I did want to go until I found out I’d have to be watching these two.

Who's making you watch them?

Nobody, she said with a look that said, ‘are you stupid?’ I have to watch them because nobody else will.

Well, I can go with you, offered Mitch, since he had wanted to take her to the concert anyway. I had wanted to take you to the concert anyway.

She could not hide the disgust from her face as she gave him an awful look, but sensing that she should be more diplomatic, she simply said, I doubt your step-mother will let you out for that long.

Oh, it’s okay. I slipped a little whiskey into her morning laudanum tea. She can’t handle whiskey, so she’ll be out until tomorrow.

Oh, said Celia, actually a little impressed by his shrewdness. She had just thought he was always a spineless weakling. It softened her a little. Yeah, well, I guess it’d be okay if you came along.

Gee! Really? he said joyously, trying not to jump up and down so his balls wouldn’t swing.

Yeah, I guess, she said, already having second thoughts.

Celia came home yet more browned from the sun than she was when she got up that morning. Her mother Berta supposed the season was early and this darkening would go on for awhile. It always made Berta a bit nostalgic for Celia’s father, who was an oread, or mountain nymph. He always tanned well, even though when she first met him in the Ozarks he was white as a person should ever be, but in a beautiful, icy-milk way. He was a bit of a dead beat dad. He never came to visit Celia. But that was okay by Berta, she knew what she was getting into at the time. You don’t fall in love with a fairy if you want a steady husband.

Hi, darling, Berta called through open shutters as she saw Celia walking up to the house.

Hi, mom! called Celia back.

When she came into the little house, and into the little kitchen, she saw on the little counter the big watermelon that her mother had placed there for her.

We’re going for 50 millimeters today, right? said her mom.

I’ll try, said Celia.

Berta quoted Celia’s piano teacher, ’No. Try not. Do, or do not. There is no try.’

Celia’s took the enormous cleaver from beside the watermelon and prepared herself. This was a simple exercise. It involved cutting a watermelon in two swift strokes such that it produced a perfectly round slice. The thickness of the cylinder had to be uniform, not cut like a wedge, and the inside watermelon had to be intact. Her piano teacher, who she suspected had other work on the side, once cut a slice that was paper thin, and yet the red innards were still kept in one piece and the seeds, instead of being knocked out, were actually cut along with the flesh. It was impressive, but Celia wasn’t quite there yet.

Whack-whack! The cleaver came down with two smacks. I mean whacks. It was so fast one almost wasn’t sure there wasn’t just one whack. The cuts were clean, but the bottom was a little thinner than the top. A bead of juice ran along the cut.

Suddenly! Sprays of arterial spewing watermelon juice gushed out of the cuts, covering Celia and her mother nearby with prodigious amounts of sticky, pinkish fluid!

As the last dying splats of the watermelon subsided, Berta put her hand on Celia’s shoulder. I think you’re not quite ready for fifty millimeters yet. Go chop some firewood.

Yes, ma’am.

Berta always tried to support her daughter’s choice to become a monster hunter. It wasn’t just that Celia was part oread and therefore inclined toward such work. Berta believed that everybody should follow their dreams and that parents shouldn’t quash their children’s ambitions just because they seemed outlandish. After all, it wasn’t like Celia had stupid ideas of being a princess or a ballerina. Although her piano teacher did make sure she practiced some ballet. He said it built strong and agile legs, which was hot, but also important for an ambitious monster hunter.

Firewood chopping was also an important exercise. In keeping with traditional social mores, Berta often had one of the neighborhood boys chop wood instead of Celia, even though it was good practice and Celia was better at it than the boys. That was now moot, however, thanks to the aforementioned troll circus. Celia did have two younger brothers, but they weren’t old enough to chop wood yet.

After some chopping in the hot sun, which wasn’t that hot, really, because it was in the early spring and they lived in a temperate region, Berta brought out some of the watermelon and they sat in the shade of an oak and ate. It was very refreshing.

Oh, said Celia. By the way, I’m supposed to go to a rock concert in West Mavin tonight.

Oh, yeah? Who with?

Well, I wanted to keep an eye on Marcus and Muelie, and then Mitch Bucolic came along and wanted to go.

Oooooh. I don’t like Mitch very much. His mom is letting him go?

No. He drugged her so he could get out of the house.

Awww. To go on a date with you? How sweet. Well, he’s a good boy, and that witch of a step-mother had it coming. Where’s his dad?

I think he’s in the basement, still.

Oh, right. Well, that’s just great. But it’s getting to mid-afternoon and West Mavin is a bit of a walk. Don’t you think you should be thinking about assembling your party and heading over there?

Mom, come on, I can handle being out at night.

Well, I know you can. But you know how obnoxious escort missions can be. And with Mitch’s balls clanging you’ll probably attract all sorts of unwanted attention.

We’ll be fine, mom.

Berta figured she was probably right.

Chapter 2: A Game of Red Rover

The quartet walked merrily along toward West Mavin, along the well worn trail. Marcus, with his sensitive ears, was constantly annoyed by the clanging noises, but Mitch ignored most of his insults, just happy to be included in a group and especially happy to be hanging out with Celia.

Marcus’s preoccupation with Mitch’s noises upset Muelie. The conversation was not particularly good between them, because all he could do was complain about Mitch. This pleased Celia, who hoped that Muelie would see Marcus for what he was, which was no good, so far as Celia was concerned. So she quietly paid attention to Muelie’s disenchantment while Mitch happily hummed beside her. Being shut up all the time, he wasn’t a particularly good conversationalist, so he mostly just hummed to himself and occasionally made quaint, if not amusing, observations.

Oh, look, that flower is blue!

It’s a blue bell, said Celia.

Wow, that’s neat, said Mitch.

If you say so, said Celia.

Speaking of bells… intimated Marcus, an edge on his voice.

The merry troop made their merry way, merrily, until they reached the town of West Mavin. That’s where the fun started.

There were lots of children in West Mavin, and once they reached the town Celia disappeared almost immediately, forgetting completely about her mission to keep watch over Muelie and Marcus. They immediately began fawning over each other as Mitch looked around to see where Celia had gotten off to.

He jangled anxiously about. Where could she have gone? She was there one moment, and then just gone the next.

It didn’t take long to find Celia. She had taken charge of a game of Red Rover and was shouting orders down her expanding line of kids. She had started with the team that was about to lose and now had swung twelve kids back to her side. Now it was a battle of wills and wits between herself and a couple of older boys on the other side. They would call somebody over, catch them, and then Celia would bring them right back. Somehow she managed to have her kids organized so that there weren’t any really weak links.

She had a way of inspiring others to greater heights.

To wit, a child rushed over from the other team and broke through part of her chain.

Time out! she called, walking over to the split as the boy who broke through (smugly, of course) walked back to his side.

What happened? she sweetly asked the little boy sitting on the ground.

It’s mah knee, ma’am. I think it’s skint.

Skint knee?..Do you think I give a rats ass about your knee being skint? I can see its skint, there’s blood dripping down it for all the world to see! But if your leg was severed at the knee I’d still make you stand up and get in my chain!

But Celia, I’m so tired.

Get him up, she ordered the two children next to him. Through shrewd maneuvering, she usually managed to make the chain links such that weaker and stronger alternated. Now see, boy, you don’t even have to worry about how tired you are, because these two big strong kids are just gonna grab you by your wrists and not let go, no matter who comes through. Your arms will pop off your body before anyone will let you go. Is that understood?

They all nodded.

Good! Now form up…Red Rover, Red Rover…

They all chanted along, and over came Cedryk, aiming for the weak link.

He failed and was assimilated.

The battle went on all afternoon, the opposing team hanging on but slowly shrinking.

The sun was setting, but the wiliest of the wily ones were still left on the other side of that epic Red Rover match. The brothers Bitters were both left, holding hands, and they’d catch anyone that came through, as long as it wasn’t Celia. They were stronger than anybody else. They were not twins, and they looked nothing alike, but they were actually the exact same age, the older one, Tony, being conceived before the other, but refusing to leave the womb until his destined brother, who he knew must come, was caught up and ready. It had been a hard pregnancy on the mother Bitters.

The sky reddened to blood above, the sun falling quickly below the horizon. A cold wind blew. The chant began.

Red Rover, Red Rover…

They let Bill come over. Bill was caught.

Celia! called Mitch. We have to get to the concert! We won't be close to the stage at all if we don't go!

Yeah, Celia, yelled Elliot, younger of the Bitter brothers, his red hair waving truculently in the breeze, his nose upturned in malice. Go ahead and go! We'll never give in! We have Bill back, and we'll never lose! We'll get him back as many times as it takes.

Run away, Celia, yelled Tony, his nose upturned in malice, his red hair waving truculently in the breeze.

You can't win, Celia.

You have to go to the concert.

We can be here all night.

We have no curfew.

Despair.

Despair.

Hopelessness.

Despaaaiiiiir…

Celia set her jaw forward. This ends now.

She turned her feet into the grass, leaned forward like a tiger ready to pounce. She could feel the breeze beneath her fingernails.

Red Rover…

Despaaaaiiiiir…

…Red Rover…

Go ahead and take Bill back. We'll just get him again next time.

Poor, weak Bill, said Bill.

…Let…

Despaaaaaiiiiiiiir…

…Tony come over.

The meadow was silenced.

Except for there was a breeze blowing, and the crickets starting to chirrup for the evening. And there were some pretty lightning bugs already coming out and they were distracting. But the kids were all quiet and appropriately grave, except one of them kept sneezing.

Harrumph, harrumphed Tony, stepping forward, insolence in his step, his freckled nose upturned and his red hair waving truculently in the breeze. He rolled up his sleeves, because it improved his aero-dynamism.

Off he went like a red headed lightning bolt. The brothers Bitters were known for their speed. Celia's line shifted, trying to move enough so he couldn't go for a weak link. But he was strong, and the line was full of links too weak for his mighty, ginger power.

He's closing in fast, Celia! yelled a kid. Ten yards…five…four… This kid had no conception of distance.

Tony was going straight for the littlest kids. Just then he suddenly changed direction, going for slightly larger kids, then again, back to the little ones. He was going to break through. The kids were already waning in their hand holding, fearing the imminent collision.

Then, at the last