The blacksmith was called Black Johannes because of the dirt that seemed to have worked its way permanently into the creases of his cheeks. His eldest son was called Black Ardan, and he was expected to follow his father into the trade. But there was nothing Black Ardan loved more than to feel the springy heather underfoot. He wandered far, eating the oat-cakes and cheese he kept in his pockets. By the time he came home again, night had fallen. The goat had not been milked, and the cock and the hens had been given no corn. To add insult to injury, Black Ardan always returned with an enormous and insatiable appetite. Black Ardan’s parents were at their wit’s end. Unable to support a child who ate all their food, they chased him into a gloomy forest where, despite the boy’s pleas, they tied him to a tree with a strong rope, and left him there. Black Ardan was never heard from again. One day, a creature emerged from the forest: a hideous, stare-blind creature, whose feet, speeding over the green grass, left blackened pits on the ground. The villagers gave that creature the name Black Gorles, because its skin reminded them of the blacksmith’s. Soon, there was famine in the village. The grass was scant. From the udders of the cows streamed milk that was thin and poor.
Black Johannes sat on the bank of a river, staring glumly down at the yellow, swirling water. His wife was constantly pleading with him to do something to save their youngest, a mere infant, who lay quietly in his cradle, staring out at the world with round, unseeing eyes. The blacksmith was thinking how easy it would be to throw himself in when, on the opposite bank, appeared a figure. Black Gorles! The creature made a gesture. Black Johannes stared at him, mute. Then it occurred to him that Black Ardan used to make exactly the same gesture when he was hungry. He remembered the day he and his wife had tied up their son in the forest. Their son’s face was wet with tears, but he did not – could not -- speak. It was as if his tears had carried all his words away. Instead, he cupped his fingers and brought his hands to his mouth. Black Johannes knew what it meant. It meant, “I am hungry.” If the boy had said anything else. Anything but that. With cold fury, Black Johannes fastened his son’s hands behind his back. Now, Black Johannes knew what to do. He cast himself into the water and swam across to where the creature was waiting. Without needing to say a word, the two set off across the trackless waste of bracken. Back in their sod-roofed cottage, Black Johannes’s wife sat rocking her baby, feeling a gnawing at her insides and dreaming of bread and honey.
Marianne Villanueva was born and raised in the Philippines, received a
fellowship in creative writing from Stanford University, and now lives
in the San Francisco Bay Area. She has published four short story
collections including Mayor of the Roses, the inaugural publication of
Miami University Press. Her most recent collection, Residents of the
Deep, was published in August 2025 by Unsolicited Press. She has just
completed a collection of linked novellas, The Undiscovered Islands,
about accidental sightings, journeys, and the unknown, set in 16th
century Philippines and Spain. Her favorite revenge story/movie is Mad Max: Fury Road.
