by Hal Bodner
When I cried out my last, when Pieter cried out his pleasure, I knew my stepmother and sibling were dead.
Pieter collapsed upon me, his body shaking as much as mine. His sobs as loud as mine. And all around us, the wicked followers of Old Teufel and his twisted religion bore witness to our sins.
“It is done! The May Queen is here!” he proclaimed.
We were pulled from our lover’s embrace, hauled over their heads in a mockery of a royal procession. Again no amount of flailing removed us from our abductors; no amount of tears washed away our sins. We were ruined, the two of us, he to never return to his vows, and I to never wed in a proper match. Truly, what was left to fight for? Was it not better to let them cast us into the bonfire, to meet our heavenly Father with sin fresh upon our souls?
A whisking sound rent the night, followed by the dull thud of flesh smacking into a tree. Everyone froze, dropping Pieter and I to the ground. He gained his footing quickly, never bothering to look my way as he dashed deep into the forest. I had nothing in me for which to call to him, to speak past the shame in my throat. The blood of my maidenhood sticky against my thighs, mingled with the trickling of Pieter’s seed.
Everyone fell silent as the shadowed figures of men poured into the clearing. My father stood foremost among them, the crown of the King upon his brow, his bow in hand with an arrow ready, two monks of Pieter’s order flanking him.
Old Teufel cackled his hissing laugh. “The King of Life!” he mocked, bowing low. “It is done, Your Grace. The May Queen is chosen and prophecy is fulfilled. Was not your brother King of Death? Was it not his bone which robbed you of your queen, led your daughter here to be crowned in blood? The Old Ways have come again and she will be Queen! The babe she carries within her is born of blood and magic, stolen from Ilsa’s womb and bathed in her life essence. Hail to the Qu—”
Two arrows whisked through the night, sailing through the specter of Old Teufel.
“You have killed me once, King of Life. You do not know the Old Ways to do it twice. Take him!”
The crowd surged forward, screaming their horror at the interruption of their precious ritual. My father fired again and again, the monks slapping with fist and foot and staff. But there were too many of them, and I glimpsed the flash of steel in the moonlight. My Uncle’s blade sank deep into my father’s side, wielded by the specter of Old Teufel. The crowd parted, letting the King sink to his knees, his bow still clasped in his hands.
And with him, kneeling beside my dying father, was Pieter. His head bowed, a cross from one of the fallen monks clasped in one hand, his tears watering two arrows.
“Speak your false blessings all you wish, little man,” The specter taunted. “You have not the knowledge to bind me to the grave. I shall bind you to my fires. Your bodies will serve as sacrifice to my god.”
Pieter finished his blessing with a quiet and firm voice, passing the clutched arrows to my father. He took them dutifully, his eyes catching mine where I huddled behind a tree. The tree, I realized for the first time, my father had pinned Old Teufel against nearly ten years ago. The tree that was missing a skeleton and two distinct old arrow shafts. My father raised his bow, aiming at the demon before him, the creature that had taken away nearly everything he had loved.
Teufel smiled, showing a mouthful of teeth filed to points—
—and shrieked in disbelief as the arrow slammed into his chest, pinning him against the same tree from before. Black blood fountained past his lips, mouth wide in utter shock. I will never forget the way my father appeared as he rose to his feet for the last time. Bathed in pure moonlight, as if the clouds had opened up to showcase him in all his glory. He lifted the bow again, and punched the final arrow through the meat of Old Teufel’s left eye.
Teufel moved no more.
Blessed arrows from a pious and humble man, arrows bearing the original flesh of Teufel’s true body. Arrows loosed from loving hands, protective hands, from hands giving everything in willing sacrifice, not for money or power or selfishness. Loosed in the purest kind of love, to see those he cherished safe at long last.
***
Pieter and I and the one surviving monk found the containers of salt and oil Pieter had brought with him. Together we salted and burned the bones of Old Teufel, and with their crumbling to ash I felt myself free of the cold taint of this forest. It was as any other to me now, dark and foreboding for the dangers it represented naturally, instead of with wicked sorcery. I was free.
We gathered my uncle’s bones on the way back to the city, performing the same ritual and scattering them to the river. I held firm the image of my father in the moonlight, bleeding and dying and determined to do right as we returned to the castle. I had left those city walls as a child fearful of the night. I returned as a woman strengthened by her losses. I returned a Queen.
The Sheppard was captured trying to flee the gates, the former King’s blood still fresh upon his clothes. He had murdered the kind old man while he wept over the body of his only daughter and grandchild. That, more than anything else, was unforgivable in my eyes. I ordered him thrown into the dungeons until the mourning period for the former King, the Princess, and my father ended.
Pieter and I bore witness from my balcony as the messenger of Old Teufel, the treacherous Sheppard, burned in the fires of righteousness, the flames kindled by my own hand. Pieter tied the blasphemous horn around the traitor’s neck, burning and salted to rid my kingdom of this evil. I peered at Pieter, my hand finding his along the railing. He would never again be a priest, but he would always be my confessor, my heart’s friend. My truest companion forevermore, the father of my child, and my husband. For is that not how all good stories end?
Ah, that is incorrect of me. They end with happily ever after.
About the Author
Vekah McKeown is a lover of all things dark and magical. Her first introduction to the darker side of fairy tales came at an early age when her grandmother read to her the original Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Ever since, she has had a small (rather large) problem with many of the modern retellings that involve happy endings without sacrifice. This manifested early in her young life, and the darker bent of her writing went unappreciated until a high school English teacher unleashed the creative freedom in her by stating ‘I expect something scarier from you in your next assignment.’ She ran with that advice and gleefully never looked back. She has a degree in legal studies which hangs above her computer, and collects copious amounts of dust. Her three cats, however, find it charming enough to play with when her back is turned. Her first published story “Alasdair” headlined the book Serial Killers Quattuor (James Ward Kirk Publishing). She lives in Sanford, Florida, with her husband and a massive collection of old-fashioned paper books.
Red
A retelling of “Little Red Riding Hood”
Katie Young
Red packed the hamper with jars of preserves, a fruitcake, cheeses, and freshly baked bread. She hand-picked some apples from the orchard herself, and laid these on top so as not to bruise the flesh. She had received a hunk of salted pork from the butcher and bottles of ale courtesy of the village tavern, all on the house. She tucked these into the corners of the basket and covered the whole thing with a linen cloth.
The villagers had been generous. Everyone would do well to keep Red’s Grandmama happy and healthy. The old lady remained something of a mystery, living as she did in the middle of a dense wood with her herbs and her incantations, but she was a veritable saint to those with ailments the physician could not fathom, or those which they wanted kept secret. While no one could truthfully claim to love the old wise-woman, many feared her just a little and, as far as Red could tell, fear and love looked the same to the casual observer.
She glanced up at the sky—still an hour of daylight left. If she hurried, Red would reach the cottage before nightfall. She set out, the basket swinging from the crook of her skinny arm. It was heavy and the handle bit into her flesh.
“Give my best to your grandmother!” called the school mistress as Red passed her garden wall.
“I will, ma’am,” Red said, waving her free hand. “Thank you kindly.”
Red remembered a time a few years ago, when the unmarried school mistress had to excuse herself frequently from morning classes to violently purge the contents of her stomach. The children would sit as still as statues, listening to the poor woman retching and spitting. She had grown more fleshy in the cheeks and round-bellied, and then the whispers started. She had paid a visit to Red’s grandmother, and a few days later seemed her old self again, if a little pale.
The cobbled pathway was slick underfoot from an earlier fall of rain, and Red hitched up her cape to stop the hem trailing in the mud. The seams were starting to come unpicked, and the scarlet fabric had grown threadbare in places. Grandmama did not approve of the garment. She thought the color showy and unbecoming for a young lady. Bad enough, according to her, Red had been born with her mother’s auburn hair and freckles—the sure mark of a witch—without flaunting her burgeoning womanhood in the Devil’s color.
The early autumn sun began to set as Red reached the edge of the wood, throwing the pines’ long shadows across the grass at her feet. Crows cawed in the trees, and Red pulled her cloak tightly around her as the cool gloom swallowed her up. Rainwater dripped from the branches, pitter-pattering on the mulchy ground like the tiny footsteps of unseen creatures. But Red did not fear the woods. Before she died, her mother had taught her any animal she might encounter there would surely be more afraid of her than she of it, and every living thing would be hers to command one day. A comforting thought.
Red dearly missed her parents. Her father had been pensive and prone to bouts of melancholy, but he had adored Red’s mother, that much was clear. Red’s grandmother had never made any bones about her dislike of her daughter-in-law. She blamed her for her son’s death, which seemed rich if you asked Red. Grandmama always said she thought Red’s mother had bewitched her father, and that she was a slovenly wife, too flighty to care for a child and the house, but Red suspected her disapproval had more to do with the woman’s natural talent for healing and her gift of second sight. While Grandmama was a self-taught apothecary and undoubtedly very learned in the ways of natural remedies, there was no magic about her. Red’s mother, however, had the craft in her blood.
The birdsong hushed as the sunlight faded, and Red quickened her pace through the trees. She hummed a melody to herself, stopping now and then whenever she heard a noise close by. Her imagination threw up vivid pictures. A twig snapping under a giant paw, a low growl from a long, grizzled muzzle. Red’s heart beat a little faster. She couldn’t shake the idea she was being followed. Dogged. She stopped walking and turned around in a slow circle, scanning the woods, but could not see anyone or anything nearby. Taking a deep breath, she pressed on, faster now, the hamper bumping against her thigh with each determined step, hard enough to leave a bruise.
It took a few moments for Red to realize a rough panting echoed her shaky exhalations, which deepened as she marched along. Red halted once more, held her breath, and sure enough, the sound came from right behind her. Whuff. Whuff. Whuff. She closed her eyes and concentrated on slowing the frantic pace of her pulse. She counted to three and whipped around.
Red let out a gasp as the large man standing in front of her leapt back.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you!” he said, holding his hands up in a gesture of placation. “I just saw you walking alone and thought you might be in need of a chaperone.”
Red drew her cloak around her, relieved to find she knew his face. He was tall and well made, with fine features and a thick silver chain about his neck, fastened with a little padlock.
“Oh it’s you! You startled me, is all. But no, thank you. I’m fine. I have no need of company.”
The man smiled.
“On your way to the old wise-woman’s cottage?”
Red nodded.
“Yes. My grandmother is very sick and infirm. I’m taking her this hamper full of treats, but I expect the poor thing is too poorly to even sit up in bed, let alone eat.”
“Is that so? Well, I am sorry to hear that. Why not take her some of those crocuses? They may cheer her. It is so rare to see flowers this late in the year.”
The man indicated a patch of the woodland floor with a nod of his head, and Red looked down to see it was indeed covered with white flowers. The man stalked towards them, and Red smelled their sweet fragrance as he crushed some of the blooms under his boots. He picked a few and handed a small posy to Red.
“Thank you, sir,” she said. “You know, these are a symbol of renewal. Of rebirth. The death of an old way of life and the beginning of a new one.”
Their eyes locked. The man nodded.
“Yes. So I understand. Well, I must be going. There are more just over there beyond that grand old tree. Different colors. Lilac and gold. Why don’t you gather some? It would make a much richer bouquet for your dear grandmother.”
The man smiled, white curve of his teeth glinting in the twilight.
Red looked up at the darkening sky. The moon, full and pale, already hung above the trees. It would be nightfall before she reached the cottage if she stopped now.
“I’ll do that,” she said. “I bid you good evening.”
Red made her way over to where the crocuses blanketed the ground. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the man headed quickly in the direction of her grandmother’s house. She put down the hamper and set about plucking the loveliest flowers. When she had gathered a large bunch, she pulled the ribbon from her hair, shaking it loose, and tied it around the stems. She laid the bouquet gently on the hamper and made her way deeper into the woods.
The little cottage sat dark as Red approached the clearing, and no smoke rose from the chimney. Perhaps the old woman was too ill to light the lamps or stoke the fire. Red thought about her shivering under a heap of blankets, feverish and drenched in sickly sweat. How long since she had bathed or brushed her long grey hair? How long since she had swept the floor or opened the windows? The air inside the cottage would be sour and thick. The thought made Red shudder. She hoped the old woman was still lucid at least.
She walked past the woodshed and her skin crawled as she remembered the seemingly endless hours she had spent locked in there as a child with only the spiders and moths for company, the brush of spindly legs and gossamer wings against her skin in the inky blackness, feeding the encroaching terror with each passing minute. And all because she had too much of her mother about her.
She stopped in her tracks when she heard the thwack of an axe splitting a log. Red tip-toed to the warped door, hanging off its hinges, and cautiously peered inside. There was someone there, illuminated by the soft yellow light of an oil lamp hanging from the roof. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw the woodsman swing the blade. He had taken off his shirt. His skin, honeyed by the sun and covered in a sheen of perspiration, glinted gold. He appeared to her as supple and natural as the timber he worked. Every muscle and sinew stood out in sharp relief as if he had been hewn from a great oak like some pagan fetish.
She watched him for a moment, the easy grace with which he swung the axe, the unbroken rhythm with which he scooped up each log, balanced it carefully on its end upon the chopping stump, and hit it in just the right place so that it fell in two equal parts. Only when he stopped to wipe his face with his discarded shirt did Red make her presence known with a delicate cough.
The woodsman looked up and his face broke into a wide grin.
“Little Red!” he said brightly. “Although not so little these days. What brings you here at this late hour?”
“I’m bringing Grandmama these gifts from the village.”
“Ah yes,” said the woodsman. “I was very sorry to hear that she ails. I was on my way home for the day when I thought to stop in and chop some firewood for her. I doubt she has the strength to do it herself at the moment.”
Red had been a child the day the woodsman had appeared at the cottage door with red-rimmed eyes and shaking hands, pleading with her grandmother to help his elderly father, whose lungs were full of fluid. He was drowning in his own bed, and the village physician said nothing could be done. But Red’s grandmother knew what to do. Red had watched through the window as she measured out some powdered root of aconite. Within a few hours, the old man had passed.
“That is very kind of you,” Red smiled. “Perhaps when you have finished here, you’ll come to the cottage and join us for a cup of ale?”
She lowered her chin and looked up at him coyly.
The woodsman’s eyes sparkled in the lamplight.
“Aye. Maybe I will. Very good of you to offer, Miss Red.”
Red nodded, and backed out of the shed.
She strolled up the path to the front door and peeped through the star-shaped hole at eye-level. It was dark inside. Red wrapped on the door with her knuckles and called out.
“Grandmama! Are you awake? It’s me, Red. May I come in?”
Silence. Red tapped again and pressed her ear to the wood.
“Grandmama!”
This time, there came a rattling cough and the rustle of bed-linen. At last a gruff, slurred voice said,
“It’s on the latch. Come in, child.”
Red lifted the latch, pushed the door open with a creak and stepped inside. Her heels clattered on the dusty wooden floor. She walked across the room, seeing cold ashes piled high in the grate of the huge fireplace. It was colder inside the house than outside, the shutters having kept the sunlight and warmth of the day out. An empty cauldron hung in the hearth. Bundles of dried herbs and glass bottles of various sizes and shapes cluttered the dresser. A jar of withered monkshood flowers and another of something which looked like tiny animal bones sat on the counter next to a foul-smelling paste, long since crusted over, in a large, stone mortar. The rocking chair in the corner pitched gently backwards and forwards as Red’s footfall bent the buckled old floorboards. She put the basket down on the rickety table.