A Little Story That Happened at the Foot of the Bed.

Once upon a time, when I was still a fourteen-year-old girl (which was a very long time ago), I had tucked myself into bed and spent an hour or so chatting contentedly away to Lusyo, seated at the foot of the bed.

You see, when little girls' mothers fly off to the land o America to work as nannies ot their cousins, little girls will most often find themselves very, very lonely, specially little girls who go around school toting Arnold Arre's The Mythology Class and Gerina Dunwick's guide to Wicca in her bag and in her her head. This little girl also had a room that faced a Mango groove that the villages' housewives whispered among themselves to house magical creatures not like you, or me, or your favorite household pet. So, armed with what wisdom or knowledge or whatever you'd prefer to call it, she set out to befriend what she imagined as the most noble, the most powerful, and the most wise of the Mango Grove's inhabitants; the Tikbalang, with the a body of a man, a head of a stallion (or mare, as proper), and a soul of pure magic

Well, not that she really leapt on the Tikbalang's back and rode him up to the moon and back. If she couldn't befriend him with a handshake or a grip to his mane, she'd befriend him in her head. And so, that was that: for then on, The Tikbalang and the little girl were friends, and she'd tell him stories of school and books and family and the occassional crush in the comfort and quiet of her room, and she would call him Lusyo.

This harmless sort of companionship went on for quite some time. Until one night, after a hard day at school, the little girl had begun to feel very mothersick, and twice as lonely as before. So, tucked under her blanket, she sobbed away her loneliness, unburdening herself of her woes to someone who wasn't there at the foot of the bed. Or so she thought.

"Mama's been gone for so long," she said. "I miss her so much, and (sniff) school isn't as happy as I hoped it would be, Lusyo."

Silence.

"This week isn't at all good,"

Deeper silence.

she winced, wiping away her tears. "Hey, maybe you're not listening to me at all."

A low, deep, horse-like grunt came from the dark, dark bottom corner of the foot of the bed.


Silence.

"... Er, see, I knew you you were there all this time. You're a really good listener, yes you are. "


Happy Holloween, everyone.