Red Rider Revolution

by Randall Allen Dunn

  “Hm,” he grunted, staring down as his fingers traced circles in the table’s wood surface. “Isn’t she fortunate, then? To have a legend like you coming to rescue her.”

  I fingered the trigger. I had made the right choice, sending Madame Strineau away. “How am I a legend?”

  “Come now, Mademoiselle. The ‘Red Rider’? The girl who fought all those wolves in La Rue Sauvage?” He sipped his drink. “Everyone knows about you.”

  “I wasn’t aware.”

  “No, you’re not aware, are you?” he said, turning gruff. “You know nothing at all about DeSarte. Do you,

  Mademoiselle?”

  The others fidgeted in their seats. I had made the right choice, sending Madame Strineau away. “I assume you have a point,” I said. “Why don’t you make it?”

  “My point, Mademoiselle, is that when you go looking for trouble, you usually find it.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed.”

  “Wouldn’t want you to get in over your head, challenging the wrong people.”

  “Sound advice. I’ll pass that on to the people who took her. I don’t suppose you would know anything about where to find her?”

  He studied me up and down once more. “Only girl I’ve seen around here is you. And seeing you is enough.”

  I didn’t catch his meaning but I understood his hostile tone. Like he was struggling to contain his violent urges. “Enough for what?” I asked.

  He smiled, as if enjoying a private joke. “Enough for us all to have a drink. Boys?” He raised his mug, and the others followed suit, draining their glasses.

  I had seen this before. And now, it made me shudder.

  A foul odor filled the air around the table as the men laughed, their breath reeking. A couple of them glanced upward at the high upper windows around the tavern, which allowed moonlight to shine down onto the center of the room.

  DaVorre slammed his mug on the tabletop and leaned across it, grinning like the devil. “Ah! Now I feel refreshed,” he said, his throat more gravely. “Except that now – I’m hungry.”

  His eyes turned brighter, almost glowing, as his face began to change, widening at the cheekbones. Black hair grew rapidly around his eyes and nose, which elongated to stretch down toward his chest. Behind him, other men were starting to change, too, becoming wolves.

  I rose, kicking the chair behind myself as I raised the crossbow. I never expected a Lycanthru to transform in public, exposing his secret to the entire tavern. Stepping back, I sighted them all with the crossbow, searching each face to spot their fear and exploit it.

  Yet I found none. They all seemed ready to move on me in unison, as if assured of victory.

  I turned toward the barkeep, Michel, hoping he could show me an escape route. He avoided my gaze and strode quickly to the other end of the counter.

  All around the tavern, other mugs and glasses shattered as they were hurled against the floor. I stared into a vast array of snarling lips and reddening eyes. Over two dozen wolves shredded their clothes apart and advanced toward the center of the room.

  That was why DaVorre and his associates seemed so confident here.

  Except for Michel, they were all Lycanthru.

  14.

  I stepped away from DaVorre, as he snarled at me in his black wolf form. The other Lycanthru stepped closer, inching toward me from all sides.

  I raised the crossbow, ready to fight. But I could only shoot ten of them before reloading. I might frighten them, but they would all notice when I ran out of bolts and would charge me.

  “You understand now, Helena?” DaVorre growled, grinning as he approached. “Here in DeSarte, we don’t hide. We rule.”

  I kept my breath steady. “Good,” I said. “I prefer to keep you in plain sight.”

  A lanky wolf leaped at me from my left. I whirled and pulled back on the lever, sinking a bolt into its ribs and letting him fall on his face, dead.

  Nine bolts left.

  The others didn’t wait. They rushed at me, as I turned in all directions, wondering where to shoot first. Wondering how to survive. I needed to cause more damage than nine bolts, and I needed it now.

  The flame of a torch on the wall caught my eye. I dropped the crossbow and jumped from a barstool up onto the counter. Then I leaped to the wall, seizing hold of the torch’s metal holder and standing on the back counter. I smacked the bottom of the torch up from its place and grabbed its base, bringing it down before me. The Lycanthru stopped in their tracks as I waved the blazing torch before them.

  “Since you’ve heard of me, I’m sure you’ve also heard that I know how to use this,” I said. “So before I burn your tavern to the ground, I suggest you clear me a path.”

  DaVorre stood still before the others, his chest heaving as he glared at me. He stuck his black paws behind him, ordering everyone back. The others bared their teeth and snarled at me. But none of them dared to charge. I shoved the torch toward them, forcing them to back away. I moved through the center of the room, waving the torch carefully in each direction to keep them at bay. As I neared the entrance, the circle of wolves closed back in around me. DaVorre narrowed his eyes like slits. “This isn’t over, Mademoiselle,” he warned.

  I glanced at the bar beyond him, and the rear wall lined with liquor bottles. “It is now,” I said, hurling the torch at the wall.

  The barkeep, Michel, saw the flame coming and leaped away, as I kicked the door open and dove out. I heard the other wolves scattering inside, scrambling in every direction, before the alcohol caught the flame and exploded. I rolled off the porch as a hot blast of wind blew over me. I waited one second, then struggled to my feet to meet Crimson’s startled eyes.

  Inside the Vorace tavern, the Lycanthru groaned as heat emitted from the walls, threatening to burn through them fast. Other wolves growled with rage, and I heard DaVorre’s voice among them. “Rider!”

  He didn’t sound nearly as wounded as the others.

  I rose and whistled for Crimson, who whirled and charged at me. I seized the saddle horn and planted one foot in the stirrup, letting his speed whisk me away as I jumped up onto his back.

  Seconds before two wolves burst forth from the tavern, screaming, both of their bodies blazing like candles. Followed by several others. I glanced back to see the black wolf, DaVorre, surrounded by others, preparing to race after me.

  Another small explosion sent splinters through the front door, causing the wolves to duck, giving me time to flee.

  What happened to Madame Strineau?

  I spurred Crimson on. No time to find her now. Only to lead the surviving Lycanthru away from whatever hiding place she found nearby. I heard other wolves growling and pouring out of the Vorace door as we rounded a corner to escape.

  We pounded through the streets, as people jumped out of our way, startled either by the explosion or our sudden appearance. No one scowled this time, only fled in sudden terror.

  Except for the stork-like woman with the shawl who had stared at me earlier in town, the one I thought I recognized. She emerged from her house to flag me down, then hurried to stand in our path. Crimson reared back as I tugged at his reins to keep him from trampling the elder woman.

  “Come inside! Quickly!” she said.

  A balding man appeared beside her, his face equally weathered. His slim fingers seized Crimson’s reins. “I’ll see to your horse,” he said.

  Crimson tossed his head, yanking the reins from the man’s fist.

  “Easy! Easy, boy,” I said, patting his neck. “Who are you?” I asked.

  The man blinked in surprise. As his thick handlebar moustache twitched, I noted that he also seemed familiar. “Trying to help you, Mademoiselle,” he said. “How else can you get off the street?”

  “There’s no time!” the woman interrupted. “We have a stable. Come in, now!” She looked beyond me, breathless, as the Lycanthru’s growls drew close.

  No choice.

  I dropped to the ground and handed over the reins, then
patted Crimson’s flank. “Go with him, boy,” I ordered. I released him, letting the elderly man lead Crimson into an alleyway and out of sight. The man somehow calmed him quickly, and I hurried to follow the woman inside.

  Their living room seemed cluttered, with various objects strewn about the room. Clothing and papers peeked out of the half-closed drawers of several large cabinets. Along the walls, candles highlighted various family portraits and a small bookshelf stuffed with books. A large dining room table contained bowls and utensils from the evening meal, but these were surrounded by woodworking tools, a Bible, lamps, and several stacks of papers, which left little space to rest and eat.

  “Over here,” the woman said. She took my hand and led me toward a wicker basket spilling over with blankets. She pulled the round lid off it and knocked the basket over, to dump out the entire pile of blankets. She extended a hand, as the mustached man entered through a rear door to join us. “Climb in,” the woman urged. “I’ll cover you up.”

  I hesitated.

  The man took a step forward, his eyes wide. “Look. Those men – the people who worship wolves – you realize they’re searching for you, from house to house, right now? They know who you are and what you’ve done. What are you going to do if they find you? You’re not safe here.”

  “And how do I know I’ll be safe with you?” I asked.

  The woman gave me an impatient, but tolerant, glare. “There’s no time for this, Mademoiselle,” she said. “If we wanted to turn you over to the wolves, all we would need to do is open the door.”

  I shuddered. Then took her offered hand to step into the basket. I spread my cloak out as I scrunched down at the bottom.

  “Now fold your legs in,” the woman said. “And put your arms up to support the blankets, so you’ll be able to breathe easier. We’re close to the tavern, so they’ll be here any moment. Stay quiet until they’ve gone, and don’t move.”

  With that, she began piling on the blankets as I hugged my knees. I shut my eyes against the dust and put my elbows up, as instructed, creating a small pocket of air for myself. The blankets stacked above me, layer upon layer, shrouding me in darkness.

  I lay there and waited.

  I heard the couple’s muffled footsteps but nothing else. I grew warm, and started to feel anxious, as if I were entombed in an awkwardly designed coffin. The blankets seemed heavier than I knew they were, as I realized, in a sudden panic, that I couldn’t lift them off me if I tried. I had no way out until this strange couple released me.

  I shut my eyes, praying for patience, praying for escape, praying these people truly meant to help, praying I wouldn’t have to hide much longer.

  Something rapped loudly on the front door. The woman’s footsteps hurried toward it. The door seemed to fling open and bang against the inside wall. I strained to hear what anyone was saying.

  “… man says Mademoiselle …set fire to the Vorace … ran off … trying to find her ... any help you can provide …”

  The couple spoke in innocent tones, sounding sincere in their efforts to help find the red-hooded intruder.

  “… search ourselves … if you don’t mind.”

  Cabinet doors opened and closed. Boots clomped across the floorboards. Drawers were opened and shoved shut. Books or other heavy objects were slid across the table or the floor.

  Then footsteps clomped to the basket where I was hiding, and stopped. Paused. “Well, what have we here?” a muffled voice said, directly above me. He must have removed the wicker basket lid. I kept still, steadying my quiet breathing, holding my pained position. As the weight of the blankets lessened. As the man above peeled them away, one by one.

  15.

  My temples pounded, sweat trickling from my forehead down to the hair beneath my hood. I sat helpless on my back at the bottom of the wicker basket. Knees and elbows tucked above me to hold the pile of blankets hiding me from the man who now lifted them off, one at a time.

  “You wouldn’t be trying to hide her in your laundry, would you, Madame?” the man asked. I could hear his voice clearly now, with all the layers of blankets he had removed.

  “Garroche, come on,” another man urged. “She’s not here, she must be farther down the street by now. We’re wasting time.”

  The man, Garroche, made no move as the other man clomped to the door. Then at last, Garroche followed him, shutting the door behind himself.

  They were gone.

  I shut my eyes.

  I remained still for another minute that seemed to last forever. Sweating, back aching, feeling as if I was suffocating, as if my arms and legs were manacled in place, never to move again.

  Finally, the rest of the blankets were stripped off and I could move, could breathe. I struggled to unfold my legs and somehow stand. I felt the man’s hands grabbing my arm and back to help me.

  I stood up in the basket, catching my breath and taking in the surroundings of the house once more. The clutter that seemed off-putting before now felt warm and inviting in the candlelight. Now that we were safe again.

  I climbed out of the basket, with the man’s assistance. “Thank you,” I said.

  “We’re sorry to have to put you there,” the woman said.

  “It might have been better to hide you beneath the floorboards,” the man added. “But we had no time. We could never have sealed it up before they noticed.”

  “Where’s Crimson?” I asked.

  The man’s eyes narrowed, but he quickly realized I was referring to my horse. “Ah. He’s fine, Mademoiselle, don’t worry. I put him in our stable and smeared some extra spots on him so no one will recognize him at a glance. Fine horse you have there, gave me no trouble. But he’s got a lot of fire in him.”

  “Alexandre is a groom,” the woman said. “Knows all about horses and how to handle them.”

  I stared at them, amazed. “You’ve done this before.”

  “Often,” the woman said, toneless, as she pulled she shawl closer around her shoulders. “You’re the Basques’ girl, aren’t you?”

  I hesitated to respond. Then decided I had no genuine reason not to trust them. “Yes. Who are you?”

  “Gisele Serrone,” she said. “This is my husband, Alexandre.”

  I still couldn’t determine how I might know them. “Have we met before?”

  “Once. Briefly.” She lowered her gaze. “At the funeral for Francois Revelier.”

  Francois’ funeral? I thought back to that day, still struggling to recall these people. All I could remember was my deep grief over losing Francois, and my rage at Father Vestille for being away visiting another province when Francois was attacked.

  Then I remembered. “You were speaking with Father Vestille. He wanted to introduce me to you.”

  “Yes,” Madame Serrone said, shifting her weight and frowning. “Though you weren’t ready to meet anyone at the time. You were very upset about your neighbor.”

  I swallowed. “Francois was more than that.”

  She met my eyes. “Yes, I know. And I’m sorry.”

  I took them both in now. A kind-looking couple, despite their frowns. Grim and settled in their routines. They seemed like a pair of reliable farmhands, people I could count on for any assistance needed, with no task considered too big or too small or too menial. The sort of people who would do whatever was necessary to survive and help those around them, and who had probably already done so on many occasions. “You were two of the people Father Vestille visited, at your parish.”

  Monsieur Serrone snorted a laugh and raised his palms. “To be precise, you’re standing in it,” he said with a smile.

  “There hasn’t been a parish here in decades,” Madame Serrone said. “We remain indoors, and do all of our praying and worshipping out of sight. And we take great care any time we have to set foot outside.”

  Footsteps pounded outside from small groups rushing past the window. People shouted angry instructions as they hurried to pursue the escaping intruder.

  To pursue
me.

  “But Father Vestille said he was visiting your parish.”

  “Of course he did,” Monsieur Serrone said as he strode past me. He latched the door in three places, snapping each one shut. “Would you expect him to tell everyone at Francois’ funeral that he was gathering information about the Lycanthru?”

  “For now, Alexandre and I – we are the parish,” Madame Serrone said. She folded her hands. “But what about you? What’s your name, dear? And what are you doing here?”

  “Helena,” I said. “The Lycanthru have taken a child. I’m trying to find her.”

  Monsieur Serrone knit his brows. “Why would they do a thing like that?” His harsh tone surprised me.

  “I’m not sure – exactly,” I said. “My first concern is to find her.”

  Madame Serrone stared at the floor, narrowing her round eyes in thought and looking bird-like again. Despite her angry expression and the crow’s feet around her eyes, she looked pretty. Tougher and more resilient than my mother had been, but the wolves seemed to have left them little choice. How many Lycanthru filled this town? How long could the Serrones continue to hide from them?

  “We don’t know of any children – being taken,” she said, a slight catch in her throat. “It’s been some time since we’ve hidden any children here, with their families.”

  I moved to the window. Men flew by, screaming, while others shouted instructions for putting out the Vorace tavern’s blaze.

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Most of our lives,” Madame Serrone said. “We moved here from Dijon, a year after we were married. We’ve been here ever since, for twenty-five years.”

  Monsieur Serrone shook his head. “Amazing how the years sneak up on you.”

  I moved from the window to draw closer to them. “Is it true that the Lycanthru sometimes take a person – or a child – and keep them alive? For sport?”

  Madame Serrone looked away, as if considering the idea and being infuriated by it. “I’ve heard of it, not seen it. We weren’t so lucky.”

  I waited, but she said nothing further. “What do you mean?”