by John Bladek
“Scarlette, look at me.”
I stared into Grandma’s eyes.
“One day you and I will live together in a castle and do whatever we please,” Grandma said. “Now hurry. But first, give me a smile.”
I grinned. “All right, I’ll see you in a moment,” I said and ran towards the cottage.
The road ahead, which led east towards the village, was empty. Looking over my shoulder, I felt some comfort seeing Grandma wave. But I froze when I reached our door. The sound of bleating sheep echoed off the gorge’s walls.
Mother.
Chapter Two
I rushed inside, slid the food baskets underneath my bed, and lit the cooking fire. I didn’t want to have to explain about the berries, roots, and Grandma’s absence all at the same time. As I stood over the pot, tossing in old bread scraps, my hands shook. When the water began to boil, I heard the snap of the sheep-pen gate. I whisked the gruel, pretending everything was normal. I hoped Grandma had been able to duck down in time.
The door flew open and Mother stepped into our one-room cottage, bladed staff in hand. A gust of damp spring air wafted inside. Goosebumps scaled on my arms as the heat from the cooking fire escaped out the door, along with my hope for a peaceful supper. Avoiding her iron-gray eyes, I tried to control my fear.
She slammed the door, and the cottage shook. I winced as a piece of thatch fell from the ceiling onto the dirt floor. Dull light peeked through a tiny hole in the crisscrossed straw roof. I sighed. I would have to fix that. God knows she wouldn’t. And there was no point asking her to be careful. She could make anything my fault: a lost sheep, her muddy shoes, or even a bad frost. And the last thing I wanted to hear right now was blame for a shabby roof.
“Salut,” I said, as I stoked the flames under the pot. I stepped back, waving away ashen smoke, and poured myself a cup of water. Trying to hide my worry, I asked, “Would you like some, Mother?” Carefully, I put another cup on the table.
I took a sip and darted my eyes towards the tiny window. The beginning wisps of a spring fog crept down the ravine walls. I didn’t see Grandma. Where was she? Was she still resting?
Mother muttered something about the good-for-nothing soldiers not doing their jobs. “Found another girl dead, they did, out there among the trees. Serves her right. Nothing natural comes of that forest. Soldiers will never find that beast, lazy criminals.” She pointed at me. “I’d better never catch you going out there.”
I swallowed as I put my cup on the table and walked back to the pot.
“And supper better be done soon. I’ve got chapel tonight. Someone must pray for our souls.”
I clenched the soup spoon and stirred harder. I didn’t need to be reminded about how she went to chapel every night to pray for my soul—and everyone else’s.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched her lean her staff against the limestone wall. As she turned toward me, I stole a glance at her. Her bloodshot eyes and weathered face gave her the appearance of someone at least twice her age. Grandma always said that Mother used to be cheerful and a beauty like Aphrodite. Looking at her now, I couldn’t see how. To me, Mother had always seemed like sour milk. And over the years both her looks and her temper had continued to spoil.
“What’re you looking at?” Mother snapped while opening her satchel.
I didn’t answer, but watched her place a package of meat and a bouquet of purple wolfsbane on the table. I couldn’t believe her. Clearly, she’d been to town to buy these items. That meant she’d left the sheep to fend for themselves, and we couldn’t afford—
“Grind up the plant and put it on the meat when you’re done,” she said.
I frowned. “But we could eat—”
“Do as you’re told, wretched girl.” She hung up her gray cloak and pulled off her taupe linen cap. Dirt brown hair fell to her elbows.
I watched the porridge boil, trying to hold my tongue.
“I mean now,” she said, her voice rising.
I picked up the meat package, but the bloody shank slipped out of my fingers. I gasped.
“What’s wrong with you? Pick that up!” she yelled, pointing to the beef. “Worthless.”
Brushing off as much dirt as I could, I put the chunk back on the table, but pricked my thumb on a splinter. “Ow,” I cried, sucking the salty blood.
“Look at you. Thumb in your mouth like a babe.” Mother shook her head. “Useless like your grandmother. Where is that old cow anyway?”
My cheeks warmed. I looked out the window at the chestnut tree in front of the cottage. Its fading shadow had bent and twisted far to the right. The day was dying. Something was wrong. Had she fallen?
Waiting for an answer, Mother glared at me.
I kept my eyes down. “She’s out fetching water.”
She grabbed my water cup from the table and threw it on the floor. “I just passed by the well.”
“Then, she must have…” I wrung my hands, trying to think of something to say, “taken another way home. I’ll go look for her.”
I stepped toward the threshold to open the door. But Mother put out her arm, blocking my exit. I looked into her eyes. Black shadows hung low under her lashes, and a pox mark dented her cheek like a thumbprint pressing into the skin of an apple.
“You’re hiding something from me,” she said, pointing to my face.
“No, I… I’m not. I’m just hungry, and I want to find Grandma so we can eat.”
“You’ll be lucky if the door is unlatched when you get back.” She took papers from her apron pocket and waved them in my face.
Locking her threatening words into my blackened chest of memories, I looked outside. Even the darkening skies and gloomy haze seemed more inviting than being in a warm cottage with Mother. She put the lettres back in her pocket and dropped her arm.
A quick sigh of relief escaped my lips. I wiped my hands on my apron and stepped outside into the cool evening air. As the wind picked up, my goosebumps reappeared. This reminded me that I needed my cloak. But there was no way I was going back inside.
I strode into the cutting breeze and walked a little ways towards the village. When Mother closed the door, I backtracked and ran west towards the withering sunlight.
Chapter Three
My throat tightened as I reached the boulder where I’d left Grandma.
Gone.
Trying to stop my hands from shaking, I glanced back towards our cottage and down the road.
She couldn’t have passed the house. I would’ve seen or heard her. I scanned the tree line, but there was no sign of her. Where was she?
Running towards the trees, I hoped to retrace our footsteps and fight the panic crawling through my stomach. My mind kept flipping through possible explanations of what had happened. But all I could think of was the wolf. Hoping to calm myself, I tried to think of any possible reasons why she wasn’t in sight. Perhaps she thought to get more food, or maybe she walked to our neighbor Bernard’s to get out of the cold. But her hurt leg. She couldn’t have gone too far.
Almost at the tree line, I saw Bernard’s cottage. Rusted gardening tools lay scattered on the soil, and the awning sagged horribly, making the windows and doors look like a crestfallen mouth and eyes. Swaying in the slight breeze, dried braids of garlic and wolfsbane hung from the porch beams, while puffs of blue-gray smoke pulsed from the chimney.
It’d been a month since the latest wolf attack, and that was the last time I’d seen anyone come out of that house. A memory of Bernard carrying his wife Odette from the forest, innards ripped, flashed before my eyes. Odette’s screams rang throughout the village, just as the screams of the dozens before her had. I tried to push the scene from my head to stop the sickening feeling growing in my belly.
I didn’t want to intrude on him, but I had no choice.
I was almost at his cottage, when something caught my eye. My head pounded. Up ahead, a white apron lay rumpled in the middle of the path. As I ran to pick it up, I noticed a fresh blood sta
in near the hem. I glanced down, and my neck hair stood up. Fingernail markings raked the dirt, leaving a trail into the woods.
Without thinking, I ran towards the forest.
When I stepped inside the woods, the canopy turned the dusk into blackness. Now shivering, I could see the ghostly haze from my breath. In the distance, shorter pine trees arched over the path, creating a tunnel of green needles. Grandma was nowhere in sight, and I began to run faster to raise my body temperature and my courage.
Please be all right. Please be all right. What have I done? Why did I leave her? Sweat dewed up on my forehead despite the cold.
“Grandma?” I called into the forest. The only reply was the crunching of pine needles under my wooden shoes.
I didn’t have much further to go when my nightmare sharpened. Lying halfway on the road and halfway in the grass was a broken oak staff. Next to the splintered wood, a trail of broken branches snaked into the underbrush.
My hands trembled as I picked up the bladed half of the staff. I ran through the bushes. The shrubs were becoming thicker, but I stopped when I heard something.
The sound of brush being parted and loud cracks of thick branches splitting shot a bullet of fear into my heart. Only something with enormous weight could make that much noise.
I held up the staff and squinted through the darkness, but couldn’t make out where the sound was coming from. “Hello? Grandma?” I called.
Whatever it was, it was picking up speed and crashing through the brush. My breath became shallow and rapid, and I put my hand on a thick tree trunk to steady myself. Another branch snapped. This time it came from behind me.
I spun around, and my mouth dropped. A woman lay on top of a bed of gnarled roots. Entwined within her dirty silver hair were twigs and leaves. Bloodstains soiled her arms and face.
End of this sample book.