Wolfskin

by W. R. Gingell

  I blinked a few times before it became apparent that she was now speaking of her dress, and not the custard. Elizabeth Gantry’s legs had certainly lengthened since the last time I had seen her, and she was now a head taller than me: tall enough to have lengthened her old dresses without any marked difference. I didn’t really care what length my skirts were as long as they didn’t encumber me, so my fellow feeling was only good for a sympathetic look. Elizabeth, however, took it in good part, and offered me the sprinkles again.

  “You’re lucky,” she said. “Akiva doesn’t care what anyone thinks. I suppose you don’t even have to learn to cook.”

  I shrugged. Akiva had certainly made no such attempt. That her forbearance resulted from the certain knowledge that I would ruin whatever dish I tried to cook, was more than likely. I felt a vague sense of accomplishment at the thought.

  “Mostly I dig and weed,” I said. In my opinion there had been entirely too much digging and weeding. It seemed remarkably excessive for a garden that size. “Sometimes we go out into the forest.”

  She looked at me with an expression I was unable to decipher. “Mama won’t let us go out in the forest because of the Wolf. Have you seen him?”

  I regarded her sharply, unwilling to be made a fool of. “That’s just a story. I’m not afraid of stories.”

  “My grandam saw him,” she remarked equably. “She was out with her sweetheart. They say he eats the hearts of girls.”

  After another thoughtful moment informed me that Liz’s habit of skipping subjects had once again confused me, I gathered that it was the Wolf, and not Liz’s grandam’s beau, who supposedly ate hearts.

  “What, just the heart?”

  She nodded solemnly. “Just the heart. They find the bodies waxy white with a huge bloody hole where their heart should be.”

  “Fussy eater, isn’t it?” I knew a little something about wolves, and nothing I knew of them suggested that they were in the habit of eating hearts and leaving the rest of the organs untouched.

  “Gives you the shivers late at night. Me and Harry tell each other stories across the lane sometimes; his window is right next to mine.”

  I grinned. “What does your mama say about that?”

  “She doesn’t know,” said Liz, with a cool look. “She better not find out, either, Rose Grady!”

  “I’m no tell-tale,” I said carelessly. “Gwen has boys talk to her through the window, too; they go away pretty quick when you pour the washing water on them, though.”

  Liz gave a surprisingly elfin grin. “And what does Gwen say about that?”

  I returned her a conspiratorial wink, but the appearance of her mother sent Liz scrambling to her feet and cut short our conversation.

  Mrs Gantry, looking me over in a thoughtful manner not unlike Liz’s, nodded once and said: “Good morning, Rose. I think Mistress Pennypurse is ready for you now.”

  I nodded my thanks, shot another grin in Liz’s direction, and set the little bell above the door tinkling again at my entrance.

  Fortunately my business with Mina Pennypurse didn’t take long, and I was soon able to feel myself in possession of a proper holiday despite a certain, quivering nose and spitefully short-cut cotton. I also purchased a length of silky blue ribbon for Gwen’s approaching birthday with my own money, which precipitated the short-cut cloth. Mina had looked at the ribbon, then at my bare, dirty feet in open disapproval, suggesting to the initiated that she’d expected me to steal the blue silk, and plied her scissors with more than her usual vicious rapidity. While I didn’t mind Mina’s frown, it had reminded me just in time that Mother wouldn’t stop at a look to express her disapproval of my bare feet, and that I had hung my boots from their laces over my shoulder for just that reason. So I scowled up at Mina, daring her to make a remark as I thumped my boots to the floorboards, and used her counter as a prop while I tugged them on. I even, glumly, untucked the bit of my skirt that had pulled the wealth of material out of my way over the last month, allowing it to sweep irritatingly against my shins. I then gave Mina one last glare for form’s sake as I took my parcel, and let it linger as I clumped heavily out of the shop. My dirty feet felt odd and unnatural in the boots as I strode back down the road, ignoring stares. They took the fun out of the walk, cramping my poor toes and rubbing my feet in places I didn’t remember ever hurting before. I would have slowed my pace and favoured the right foot, which hurt the most, but eyes were still watching. Instead, I put out my chin determinedly and forged ahead, scowling more and more fiercely as each step grated at the back of my heels. Horned hedgepigs, I was certain it was scraping away my skin one layer at a time!

  I forgot my pains the moment I saw Mother’s face in the kitchen window. When she saw me, a rare smile swept across her face and she disappeared from the window in order to throw open the door. I clattered through the front gate and threw myself into her arms, careless of the fact that my parcel had dropped into Gwen’s carnations.

  “Rosie, my darling! You have no idea how much your old mother has missed the banging of doors about the house!”

  “You’re not old!” I said, my voice muffled. I had buried my face in the front of her apron to hide the tears that caused my eyes to glimmer in a less than piratical manner.

  “I didn’t miss your tossing and turning,” said Gwendolen. I knew she wasn’t serious, because she was glowing with pleasure. “I’ve had lovely long nights of sleep ever since you left.”

  “That will be why you felt it necessary to share my bed for the first two weeks, I suppose?” inquired Mother mildly, shooing us into the house and rescuing my parcel from the carnations. “Rose, I’ve made up a parcel for you with some vests and underthings for the winter. There’s also a new best dress for you. How long are you staying?”

  “Just the afternoon,” I said regretfully. “I have to be back with Akiva before dark.”

  “Very well; remember to take them with your parcel. New pinafores?”

  I scowled. “Yes. Akiva said I needed two.”

  “Make sure you make them large enough to let down the hem once or twice,” she advised. “I believe you’re about to go through a growth spurt.”

  I said: “Hah,” without much hope, wondering how she knew. Both Mother and Gwendolen were dainty and petite, and while I couldn’t be said to be either, I was certainly scrawny enough in my own right. I’d given up on the thought that I would grow any taller, shrugging away my disappointment as best I could. Tall pirates are more imposing than tiny, scrawny ones, but we scrawny pirates kick harder.

  “You’re just in time for lunch,” Gwendolen said, with slight exultation, dismissing such mundane things as pinafores. I guessed that she had made the leek and garlic stew I'd been smelling with bliss ever since I entered the house. “What’s it like, being an apprentice? Is Akiva really a witch? Does–”

  “You can tell us the Awful Adventures of Cutlass Rose over lunch,” Mother said firmly. “We are not going to stand talking while the stew goes cold.”

  Happy to oblige when obliging meant consuming as much stew as was humanly possible before Mother noticed and rationed my intake, I settled myself down to the business of eating until Gwendolen’s questions bubbled over again. Then, sitting back with a sigh of relief and a newly filled bowl, I was able to turn my attention to answering them at last. Gwen sounded slightly envious, and I wondered, grinning a sharp, brothy grin at my sister that made her eyes narrow, if having Mother’s full attention all the time was so easy, even for her.

  “I don’t think Akiva is really a witch,” I told her, answering her second question first. It had been borne in on me, regretfully and at long last, that there were no arcane supplies hidden about Akiva’s home or person. Nor was she in the habit of wandering off on full-moon nights to gather herbs that stories said simply must be gathered in moonlight to be effective. “She talks to her plants, but she doesn’t mutter spells or anything.”

  “What a disappointment,” said Mother promptly, but there was a
distinct gleam of amusement to her eyes that said she knew Akiva a little better than I had given her credit for. I had been conned.

  “Well, I think it is,” Gwendolen opined. “Think how useful it would be to be able to charm away warts, or freckles! Or spots, for that matter. One always comes out in a spot just before a party.”

  I made a rude noise through a mouthful of stew. Trust Gwendolen to think of that first. “You can do all that with plants. And what parties do you go to, anyway?”

  Gwendolen lifted her chin haughtily, a more elegant copy of my chin thrust, but there was a dimple in her left cheek. “In case you’ve forgotten, Madam Pirate; I am now old enough to attend the dances on the green. Just because you never cared to go doesn’t mean I don’t.”

  I pursed my mouth to make another rude noise, but caught Mother’s eye and refrained. “Pirates don’t dance, bufflehead. Not that sort of dance, anyway: we do hornpipes and things.”

  “I learned a hornpipe just last week!” Gwendolen struck in, with triumph. “So there! You wouldn’t have liked it at all, it’s very dainty and light. Robert Tenny danced with me.”

  “My hornpipe would not be dainty and light,” I said with conviction.

  Mother laughed. “Not if you were dancing it, Rosie darling. I’ve never seen a clumsier set of feet in my life. I will never understand why anyone who can dance so quickly in a circle while being spanked, cannot dance creditably.”

  I grinned, recalling several memorable occasions that had displayed that particular prowess. The most that could be said about my constant encounters with discipline was that I always thoroughly deserved any spanking that was meted out.

  “I s’pose it’s the lack of motivation,” I said. It wasn’t quite true, but it was the closest thing to the truth. Barefooted, I was as light as Gwendolen: once booted, I tripped over my laces and caught one foot over the other, stomping on my partner’s toes with abandon. I thought, grinning a little wider, that even if I had chosen to attend the dances, there wouldn’t be a boy brave enough to stand up with me.

  “Well, there’s no need to look so proud about it,” said Gwendolen.

  I wolfed down a third bowl of stew before I left. Gwendolen was determined to show me the two new dresses Mother had made her: and so, despite my complaints, I was dragged upstairs to watch the show. I refused to be parted from my stew, however, and Gwendolen was forced to twirl for a slurping audience.

  On my part, I was forced to admit that the frocks were beautiful. Mother had that touch of flair about her that always chose the right colour and material to set us off to best advantage. With Gwendolen, all gold hair and blue-green eyes, she had gone to some expense to get up a dress of the most ravishing green satin. The neckline was modest, but nothing could hide the fact that Gwendolen had already begun to develop a figure, and the layers and layers of light, foamy petticoat gave the dress an air of weightlessness. It was a creation, even if I wouldn’t have said so to Gwen. Gwendolen, dancing effortlessly around the room, was as light and fine as thistledown floating on the summer breeze. It would shortly be too cold to wear it on the dancing green, but Gwen wouldn’t care a rush about that: she would brave sleet and hail if it meant looking just right.

  Her other dress was muslin and only slightly more practical; cream with rich amber stripes that brought out the golden tints of her hair. The petticoats were a little thicker in a nod to the approaching autumn, but I noticed with a grin that both the frocks were rather longer than any of her others: Gwendolen must have persuaded Mother that she was old enough to have her skirts lowered. More fool her.

  Prancing in front of the mirror in the amber-striped creation, Gwendolen said over her shoulder: “Open yours, Rose.”

  I blinked at her in the mirror, my eyes blank and pebbly. I disliked dressing and undressing just to twirl in front of the mirror.

  Fortunately, Mother said: “Rose’s dress is not to be worn yet.”

  Gwendolen was pouting and beginning to look stubborn, and that always meant trouble. That stubbornness is our most similar feature.

  “It’s to be kept for a few years. The vests and underthings, on the other hand, are not, Rose. I don’t want you wandering around barefoot in the winter: those woollen stockings are meant to be worn.”

  I nodded, and Mother gave me a sharp look that softened after a moment in a smile. “I know you, Rose. When the winter comes you catch every kind of cold because you won’t wear your shoes and stockings.”

  “I’ll wear them,” I said grudgingly. I didn’t know how Akiva was going to feel about it, but it was impossible to say no to Mother. Speculatively, I wondered if I could wear them to bed for warmth, thus obeying both Akiva and Mother, and pleasing myself.

  I stayed until the afternoon was just beginning to darken around us. When I tied my two parcels together ready to leave, Gwendolen’s lower lip trembled and she looked distinctly tearful. I set my chin and refused to let myself acknowledge the luminous sheen to her eyes, since Gwendolen cried best for an audience and I was feeling unusually forlorn.

  Mother said: “The house has certainly been peaceful since you’ve been gone, Rose. Come back again when you can.”

  I didn’t look back until I reached the corner, where I waved to Mother and Gwendolen. I continued to wave obligingly until I was out of sight, then sat down with relief and some guilt to remove my shoes and tuck up my skirt. The fresh air went a long way toward putting me in a more cheerful frame of mind: it smelt of rain, and forest, and freedom. I hung my boots jauntily over my shoulder by their laces again, whistling loudly, and by the time I reached the darkening cool of the forest, I had the odd sense that though I had just left home, I was also going home. The mossy path felt cool and pleasantly damp beneath my feet, and my eyes glittered in the dusk as I saw Akiva’s cottage between the trees.

  The feeling of coming home was so strong that when I entered the cottage and found it empty, it was a nasty jar. I noticed the silent dusk as I unlatched the gate, and wondered at it, because by this time Akiva should have lit the lamp and set it in the sconce beside the front window where it beamed brightly both inside and out. It wasn’t close enough to winter for the nights to be very dark yet, but the light had been a comfortable beacon to navigate the yard by until now.

  I dropped my parcels by the door and lit the lamp myself with narrow eyes. My hands felt clumsy as I placed it in the sconce, and if I told myself it was from the cool evening air, well, it wasn’t exactly a lie.

  A warm circle of light spread around the room and glanced off the empty space where Akiva’s hood was usually kept. I looked at the bare wall, frowning, because Akiva hadn’t been prone to night ramblings since I had become her apprentice. I stood by the lamp for a long time, scowling into a dark corner of the kitchen and trying not to feel the cut of cold that wasn’t really cold. Then I sliced myself some bread and cheese and scowled at the kitchen table instead.

  Later, I unpacked my parcel of pinafore cloth and set myself down at the table to cut the pieces, encouraging myself with the thought that there wasn’t really anything else to do, anyway. I even remembered to brush away the crumbs first, and the pieces weren’t very crooked. When my eyes were blurring from concentration and lack of light, I folded the pieces away and sank down on my footstool. Akiva’s chair was free, but I didn’t sit in it: I darkly suspected that somehow she would know that I had. When I found myself glancing up at the door every few minutes I took myself off to bed.

  Akiva wasn’t home when I woke the next morning. I was awake earlier than usual with a buzzing mind that confused me with its noise until I remembered why; then I tumbled out of my room in nothing but my shift to check the cottage. I padded through the length and breadth of it, and even dared to foray into Akiva’s bedroom. She was nowhere to be seen. The lamp had burned out some time ago but the morning was bright enough to navigate without the extra light, so I left it unlit and cut a tasteless round of bread for my breakfast with glittering eyes. I ate it as I dressed, scatterin
g crumbs around my bedroom with careless abandon, and let my mind touch briefly on the tasks of the day. It didn’t occur to me that in Akiva’s absence I might conceivably get away without doing my work: if it had, I would have laughed humourlessly at the thought.

  I didn’t dawdle with my morning preparations, scattering a few drops of water more as a warning to the dirt than an actual purge, and knotting my hair untidily at the base of my neck. A few minutes later I was scampering for the back gate with the egg basket clutched in my hand.

  I was prepared for a long, busy day. I was prepared to find myself slightly out of my depth. I was even prepared to have to fetch my own lunch and dinner.

  I was not prepared to find that the chookhouse path had disappeared. I set the egg basket down and hung over the fence to gaze at a perfect and unmarked green expanse of grass between silent trees. Even the henhouse had disappeared. The lack of path bothered me more than returning to an empty house had done, since I expected Akiva to be odd, after all. I didn’t expect old, well-worn paths to disappear on me. I glared at the silent trees, daring them to move, and backed away carefully to check on the front garden.

  The village path had also disappeared. I scowled, refusing to acknowledge that the little wriggle in my stomach was anything but excitement, and tried in vain to locate the main road that should have been visible through the trees. It, too, had disappeared. I was having my first contact with magic; real, unpredictable magic, and to my surprise, the most noticeable thing about it was that it was distinctly uncomfortable.

  I sat down in the grass with a quick pulse ticking behind one ear, and ran my fingers through my hair. No way in: no way out. I smiled fiercely at the garden around me. No way in, and no way out: but Akiva would still expect me to do my work. So I did.

  The chickens went without food that day. Even if Akiva hadn’t sharply warned me each and every day to stay on the path! I wasn’t rash enough to leave the safety of the back garden to find a henhouse that had vanished from sight overnight, on a path that was no longer there.