The Gift of the Moss Maidens

By Rachel Dib

Bjørn thrust his numb hands deeper inside his pockets and hunched his shoulders against the bitter cold as he crept through the forest, searching for the creatures he hoped could save his future. To his right, he could just make out the river Meuse, still and silent under a glistening layer of ice. While he’d only lived in Namur a few years, he’d never seen the river in such a state. In fact, it was the coldest winter even the oldest members of his community could remember.

The worst part was no one had been able to break through the thick ice to the running water beneath—to the cod beneath.

I really need those fish. Bjørn exhaled sharply, his breath forming a cloud. By his calculation, he could only keep his restaurant Fried Frenzy open for another week or so before going out of business. After all, one couldn’t claim to serve the best fried fish in Belgium if fried fish were no longer on the menu.

Sure, his other food was tasty, but his juicy, fried cod was what drew new customers and kept the regulars coming back for more. Without it, his clientele waned. Just the other day, he’d discovered that even Mr. Dubois had chosen to dine at Bjørn’s biggest competitor’s restaurant—that snooty Louis Moreau’s Petit Poisson—and Dubois has been a weekly patron since Fried Frenzy opened.

Bjørn glanced around at the shadows, unsure of how to look for what he sought. Local lore claimed one could find moss maidens in the darkest corners of the forest. But what did that mean exactly?

He stomped his feet, trying to regain some feeling in his toes. The moss maidens must be around here somewhere. They have influence over nature. They must know the river is a problem for beast and man alike. Surely, they’ll do something.

Bjørn was just about to press onward when he noticed a subtle shift in the trees to his left, as if someone—or something—had been standing there and now wasn’t. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and he swallowed.

“Hello?”

Not actually expecting an answer, Bjørn was surprised when two lithe creatures emerged from the shadows. While humanoid in shape, the moss maidens looked more flora than flesh. What skin he could see was gray and rough like bark. Fuzzy moss covered their shoulders and grew in patches across their bodies while a stringier moss wrapped around their torsos like garland on a Christmas tree. Instead of hair, small twigs sprouted from their heads. And their eyes… well, Bjørn decided he’d avoid gazing into those as much as possible. They seemed to see nothing and everything all at once.

One of the moss maidens tilted her head. “You seek for us?”

“I um…” Her trill reminded Bjørn of songbirds on a bright summer day. He shuffled his feet, allowing his gaze to briefly flicker across her face before redirecting it to the ground. “Yes.”

“For what reason?”

“The river is frozen.”

“It is winter.” The corner of her mouth lifted in amusement.

“Yes, but I need cod, and…” He trailed off and shifted his gaze to the river. “…no one can break through the ice. I was hoping you’d be able to do something. I’ll lose everything if I can’t get them.”

“To feed your family?”

Bjørn allowed his eyes to briefly meet the moss maiden’s. A shiver zipped down his spine as he looked away. “No. I don’t have any family, just a restaurant. I serve the best fried fish in Belgium. Or I did until the river froze. Now, I’m losing customers.”

“Fry something else than.” Boredom oozed from the moss maiden’s voice.

He flung out his hands. “I do, but nothing stands out enough. Other restaurants can produce my dishes better than I can.”

“Fry something new. Something no one has fried yet.”

Bjorn heaved a sigh and shook his head. “I’ve fried everything there is to fry.”

“Have you fried this?”

The moss maiden tossed him something, and Bjørn reflexively caught it. He lifted a brow. “A potato?”

“You have a lot of them, no?”

“Yes, but no one fries potatoes.”

The moss maiden shrugged. “Then maybe you should.”

“But French them first,” the second moss maiden spoke for the first time, her voice sounding like a screech owl.

He flinched. “French… them?”

“Slice them thinly,” she explained.

“But not too thin,” the first moss maiden warned. “No one wants julienned fried potatoes.”

The second moss maiden wrinkled her stubby nose. “Absolutely not. You most definitely only want French fried potatoes.” Her face brightened. “And perhaps serve them with steamed mussels. The pair will make a very satisfying combination.”

“Right.” Bjørn stared down at the potato. His shoulders sagged.

“We can do nothing about the river.” The first moss maiden apologized. “Our influence lies over bush and bramble, field and tree. We hold no sway over water.” She nodded at the potato. “Frying that tuber is the best suggestion we can offer.”

“French fried potatoes.” He repeated, eyeing the spud. When he glanced back up, both moss maidens had vanished. Bjørn clicked his tongue. “Worth a try, I guess.”

“Bjørn!”

Bjørn’s head snapped up to see Mr. Dubois perched on the edge of his seat, waving emphatically at him. Slinging the cloth he’d been using to wipe down a table over his shoulder, he walked to the gentleman.

“Mr. Dubois, I hope everything is to your liking this evening.”

“To my liking!” Mr. Dubois selected a thin fried potato from his plate and held it up. “It is more than to my liking.” He took a bite and closed his eyes. His brow wrinkled in ecstasy. “This dish is simply genius. Just what I needed after trudging about in the cold.” He held up a second potato. “What do you call these?”

Bjørn grinned. “I call them French fries.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rachel Dib is a stay-at-home mom of three small children. After marrying a soldier, she left her home state of South Carolina to live in random places across the United States. Her works of short fiction have been published by On the Premises Magazine, Havok Publishing, and Ye Olde Dragon Books. She has also had short stories published by Toasted Cheese Literary Journal under the name R.J. Snowberger.

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