THE HARPY
By R. Chetwynd-Hayes
Henry was not all that keen on picnics, but Joyce insisted that it would be a crime to stay indoors on such a fine day. So their mother packed a hamper and their father drove them out to a site near the old castle, and Henry had to admit that, once there, with all the good things laid out on a white tablecloth, perhaps it wasn’t such a bad idea.
But of course wasps had to commit hara-kiri in the jam; ants insisted on marching six abreast across the tablecloth, and a swarm of flies formed a buzzing halo round his head.
“We are providing food and entertainment for the entire insect kingdom,” he complained.
Joyce poured tea from a vacuum flask into blue plastic cups. “Nonsense. You shouldn’t let a few flies worry you. Ignore them and perhaps they’ll go away.”
Henry waved his hands frantically in an effort to disperse the irritating horde. “What a hope! Also, I’m not happy about wasp and jam sandwich.”
“There aren’t any wasps in the jam. I dug the last one out with a teaspoon.”
“Ugh!”
“Don’t be so silly.”
It was then that something happened that drove all thoughts of flies, ants and other flying or crawling small life out of Henry’s mind. From the direction of the ruined castle came a shriek, rather like that of a whistling kettle under full steam, and what at first appearance looked like some kind of large bird swooped down from the high walls and landed right in the centre of the tablecloth.
Joyce screamed and even Henry emitted a loud cry of horror when he was in a condition to examine the creature that had so abruptly descended upon them. It stood about four feet high, had the body of a very large bird and the head and shoulders of an ugly old woman. But possibly the most frightening aspect was the flapping wings and curved claws. Henry was certain they were made of brass. One claw reached out and grabbed a plate of sandwiches, and instantly the bread turned blue. Then the jam pot was overturned and two wasps flew away as the strawberry preserve assumed a green, mildewy appearance, then began to bubble in the most alarming fashion. Next, the sliced ham that dissolved into a heap of maggots, then the pink iced-cakes crumbled and became small heaps of grey dust, and finally the two cups of tea disappeared into puffs of foul-smelling steam.
Having completely destroyed a perfectly good meal, the creature emitted another ear-splitting shriek, then flapped its brass wings and flew back to the ruined castle.
“What shall we do?” Joyce whispered.
Henry answered without any hesitation at all.
“Run,” he said. “It might come back.”
Mr. Harrington was extremely annoyed when the children arrived home and was in no mood to listen to stories about monsters with brass wings—not to mention the head and shoulders of an ugly old woman.
“Where on earth did you run off too?” he demanded. “You knew I was going to pick you up at five o’clock. And you left the vacuum flask, cups—plates—everything—for anyone to take. Why?”
“There was . . .” Henry began, but was quickly interrupted.
“Another thing. What was the foul mess all over the tablecloth? I have never seen anything like it.”
“And how did you get home?” Mrs. Harrington asked the question which had been causing her great anxiety. “If you had walked along the main road your father would have seen you.”
“We came across the moors.” Henry explained. “It was the shortest way. But . . .”
“We were attacked by a horrible thing with brass wings and feet and it was half bird and half woman!” Joyce exclaimed, unable to restrain her excitement any longer. “And it made all the food go bad.”
Mr. Harrington looked at his wife and sighed. “I told you they should not be allowed to watch so much television. Heaven above knows their imagination is vivid enough at the best of times. It’s that Star Trek . . .”
“But we did see the dreadful thing,” Joyce insisted. “And it did turn all the food bad. Tell them, Henry.”
Henry nodded. “Yes, it was like a bird—a vulture, I guess—with the head and shoulders of an old woman. And I know it will sound mad—but the wings and feet did appear to be made of brass.”
Mr. Harrington was quite unable to sustain his angry expression, for he suddenly sat down and began to laugh.
“I see nothing funny in the situation,” Mrs. Harrington complained. “They run off and make me almost ill with worry, then tell us this—this outrageous story. It really is too much.”
Mr. Harrington wiped his eyes. “Yes, I know. But you must admit that they are at least original. When you or I played truant we came up with the old worn out excuses—didn’t feel well—lost our way—didn’t know the time. But these kids have pulled something out of Greek mythology.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you are talking about,” his wife said. “All I know is we’ve been told a silly story that has neither sense or reason. I think they should be both sent to bed without any supper.”
“Hey, just a minute!” Mr. Harrington raised his hand. “They display a certain amount of educated imagination, and although I do not approve of lies, nevertheless someone has been doing his homework. Where did you learn about the harpy, Henry? At school? Or have you been rummaging around in my library?”
Fortunately for Henry his father did not wait for an answer, but got up and, walking over to a bookshelf, returned with a leather-bound book which he placed on the table.
“Now.” He began to turn pages over. “Let’s have a look. Gorgons . . . Hamehs . . . here we are . . . Harpies. Listen to this:
“ ‘A combination of vulture and woman. The four harpies were sent by Zeus to torment the blind king of Thrace, whose meals they snatched before he had a chance to eat. Everything they touched turned to corruption, and they were noted for their brass wings and claws. They were afraid of only one thing—the sound of a brass instrument, which put them to immediate flight.’ ”
Mr. Harrington closed the book and grinned cheerfully at his irate wife. “There you are. These young fibbers have dreamed up a harpy. Only one, mark you. I don’t know what happened to her three sisters, but perhaps they’re being saved up for the next time ants and wasps become tiresome.”
“But we did . . .” Joyce began, then Henry nudged her and whispered: “Shut up.”
“But . . .”
“Shut up.”
Mr. Harrington next turned his attention to the children and did his best to look very stern.
“Now listen to me, you two. I’m going to overlook the matter this time, but in future you will consider your mother’s feelings before running off and causing her—both of us—a great deal of anxiety. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Daddy,” Joyce said meekly.
Henry succeeded in looking contrite. “Right, Dad.”
“Very well, we will consider the matter closed. Now go upstairs and wash your hands.”
Several times during supper, Joyce appeared to be on the verge of rebellion, but a scowl from Henry was sufficient to smother words before they were spoken. However, once they were alone in the small room that was used as a communal study, she raised her voice in outraged protest.
“Why didn’t you insist on them believing us? That thing might be dangerous.”
Henry shrugged. “They never would have believed us, not in a month of Sundays. You know what adults are like. They can never see anything beyond the tips of their noses. Mind you, I can’t say I actually blame Mum and Dad for not believing we were attacked by a harpy. I mean to say—would you?”
Joyce shook her head. “No, I suppose not. But why hasn’t it been, seen before? Think what the newspapers would do with a story like that! Harpy in ruined castle! It would be even better than the Loch Ness monster.”