Scarlet Hood

by Laura Wolf

  Scarlet Hood: The Whispering Woods

  Scarlet Hood, Volume 1

  Laura Wolf

  Published by Laura Wolf, 2019.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  SCARLET HOOD: THE WHISPERING WOODS

  First edition. October 22, 2019.

  Copyright © 2019 Laura Wolf.

  Written by Laura Wolf.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  Note from the Author

  Scarlet Hood: Dreams or Duty | Chapter One

  CHAPTER ONE

  The frost was thick on the ground even as the mist began to clear at the entrance of the woods. Scarlet pulled her cloak around her tighter and strode forwards past the boundary where grass gave way to a thick carpet of fallen birch leaves.

  The Whispering Woods were not a place to dawdle. The sound of ice and twigs crunching beneath her thick leather boots accompanied her down the familiar path, the same one she had taken many times before, that lead her from her own town of Junction Hill - more often referred to as Junk Hill - to the township of Girdlebrook where her grandmother still lived despite the waning population. Girdlebrook had so few residents left these days that the name of the town itself was forgotten by many. The signpost at by the South Road had so badly decayed the only letter that was still legible was a large capital 'G'. Her grandmother was unlikely to fix it, nor was the Huntsman, who favored to sell his skins at the markets in Junk Hill. The Blacksmith and his family were the only ones left in the town who had anything much to gain from the name of the town being on the map, but he stubbornly insisted he was a metal worker not a wood worker and that was that. The result was the town was colloquially referred to as "Ghost Town" which Scarlet felt was fairly accurate, if one was to take into account both the lack of a name and the empty houses which lined the streets in various states of disrepair. Her grandmother dutifully upkept those on her own street, pruning the fruit trees in the garden each year, but one woman, a single family and a reclusive bachelor could hardly maintain an entire town and so the place rotted year by year in the wind and the rain.

  It was a wonderful place to play during Scarlet's girlhood, and she still loved to visit her favorite haunts even now. There was a particular house on the far side of town that held her collection of carved animals. Her parents would not have approved of her taking up such a boyish hobby as whittling, but the Huntsman had been a fantastic co-conspirator, providing her with her first knife and having taught her how to sharpen it. Even he had no idea though, of her little hideout that she returned to every year to mend the thatching. There had to be some place that was just her own, after all.

  Scarlet's mother had protested her grandmothers continued residency many times, going so far as pointing out that the more Scarlet was required to travel the forest path the more often she was in danger - but her grandmother had only responded by gifting her with a silver dagger for Christmas and promising to keep her overnight rather than let her travel after dusk. The Huntsman, too, had given her the bow that hung over her shoulder, and promised to patrol the path often and her mother had been appeased. Her quiver she had made herself - leather from rabbit skins she had shot and cured with her own hands. Her mother could not abide the stench, so she had commandeered another Ghost Town house as her tannery. The Blacksmith had taken it over, much to her ire, by the time she had returned the next year, but she supposed being used by someone else was a better fate than being destroyed by roaming animals seeking shelter.

  Scarlet enjoyed staying with her grandmother and hearing her exotic tales - and the promise to travel only during the day would have gone without saying. As much as Scarlet loved adventure she wouldn't have risked it. Everyone had heard the old tales of will'o'the wisps leading people off the path never to be seen again. The path between the two villages was maintained as promised by the Huntsman, but it was windy and rough walking. If one travelled at night it would be hard to keep track of the twists and turns and a light in the distance could easily be mistaken for a house in the town beyond. Not that any local would have thought to follow a single light in the Junk Hill direction. Although her grandmother’s house stood as the lone illuminated building on her stretch, no one in Junk Hill wanted to live anywhere near the forest. Their houses were well concealed by a large stone wall which encircled the town, restricting its growth but keeping them safe enough from the fae folk of lore and legend. The road itself, Scarlet thought, would probably have been abandoned as well if it wasn't for the trade carts which braved the journey each month from spring through until autumn - and the regular users of the road such at the Blacksmith, the Huntsman and herself. The alternative route took a good six-day detour, and in the end trade always won out over danger.

  She wouldn't much mind being a merchant’s wife, she had thought on occasion, if only they weren't all so smarmy and fat. There was one in particular she avoided at all costs, who stunk out the town square with spices and garlic every summer. She preferred the trinkets from the lean one with the long beard who came through each spring, anyway.

  Her ears twitched as she heard a crackle out of sync with her own foot falls, and glanced up. It wasn't the Huntsman, which would have been her first guess, but a cloaked figure in the mottled light. He stood still on the path ahead, as though waiting for her to approach.

  "Good day," she greeted him, when she was a few feet away.

  "It is, isn't it," he answered in a friendly, husky tone. "It's shaping up to be a very good day. And where are you headed to, this early in the morning? Why, it's even before breakfast."

  "We must both be early starters," Scarlet answered, matching his friendliness with her own, curious as to what would bring a traveler through the woods so early in the season.

  "Oh yes, yes," he said distractedly, and leaned towards her basket, his nose and scruffy chin peeking out beneath his worn brown hood. "Is that chicken soup I smell in there?"

  "Yes," Scarlet frowned as she remembered her task, and pulled the basket closer to her body. "My grandmother is ill. She will be expecting me shortly."

  "Oh, well I mustn't hold you up then," he leaned back, his features once more fully obscured. "Although I would have liked a companion to walk with. Even more so, one to share lunch with."

  "I really must be on my way," Scarlet shifted her cloak again, adjusting her grip on the basket in one hand and her knife in the other. The silver blade glinted in the early morning light.

  "My, my, you are well prepared," the man stepped back off the path to let her past, his tone noticeably less friendly. "One might wonder if you were hoping to run into trouble."

  "I'm only hoping to make it to my grandmothers unhindered," Scarlet returned a little impatiently. "Although one never knows when one might happen if you cross paths with the fae folk."

  "Do you fancy yourself a hunter then? Or a murderer? Odd for a young woman like you. I would have thought you a girl, but children are so rarely armed with weaponry," his eyes glittered hawkishly in the cavern of his hood.

  "I'm neither," Scarlet took a step past him, glancing towards him as she stepped past him. "But I really must be on my way."

  He had a distinct musk of moss, she thought.

  "Where is this grandmother of yours?" he called after her. "I might know her."

  "I doubt it," she glanced back at him, but kept walking. "I know all her acquaintances. And I didn't invite you to follow me."

>   "There is only one path after all," he chuckled dryly.

  "Well, don't expect me to wait for you," she sniffed. "You've wasted quite a bit of my time as it is."

  "You know the forest well then, do you?" the man picked up his pace, and followed behind her on her left side - she thought perhaps to get a closer look into her basket.

  "Well enough."

  "Though not as well as some?"

  "The Huntsman is the most familiar with the forest path," she shrugged, trying stubbornly not to let his hounding bother her. "I wouldn't dare to claim I knew it as well as he."

  "I wonder if you know the little patch of bluebells," he suggested thoughtfully. "They bloom about this time of year in a clearing not far off the path."

  "It does not do to leave the forest path," she shot him a sharp look. "Or do you need another reminder this is fae land? They don't call it the Whispering Woods for nothing, you know."

  "Well then," the man slowed his pace. "I can see you need no escort. I mentioned the flowers only because I thought your grandmother might appreciate them."

  "She would appreciate the knowledge I did not leave the path a little more, I should think."

  "Well, there may be some by the side of the road, by the by," he said. "They are not uncommon. I'm sure the fae would not mind if you groomed the side of the roads to your pleasure."

  She gave him an odd look. "Thank you. I will keep an eye out."

  "You best get moving then," the man waved her on. "Lest your soup get cold. It is a shame indeed, you had none to spare."

  "A-another time, perhaps."

  "Quite."

  Scarlet picked up her pace to make up for the lost time. She turned her head once, to see if the man in the brown cloak was still behind her, but he had disappeared into the mist.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Scarlet had walked several hours before she came across the second man of her journey. This one, however, she knew by sight and called out to him as she saw his green cape and the axe over his shoulder.

  "Rowan!" she called, and the Huntsman turned towards her, greeting her just as enthusiastically.

  "Little Red!" he reached out and tousled her hair. "I wondered if I would meet you on the path. You grandmother is not doing well."

  "I'm to see her shortly," Scarlet frowned. "Is she really so ill?"

  "I'm sure your presence will cheer her," Rowan encouraged her. "You've brought her food I see. That's good. I left her eating porridge in bed this morning, but I fear she could do with a gentler hand. I have never claimed to be a good cook."

  "You are very good to her," Scarlet sighed in relief. "Thank you."

  "Yes, well," he coughed awkwardly, and pulled his satchel around to show her the contents. "Perhaps you would like to bring her a rabbit. I've caught two this morning already, I'm sure you could turn them into a good stew."

  "Thank you!" Scarlet beamed at him and held her hands out to accept his gift.

  "Perhaps I could carry it for you, if we were to walk together?" he asked.

  Scarlet paused, thinking back to her earlier experience.

  "I would not impose long, but we could at least have our supper together," the Huntsman frowned. "That is not too much to ask, surely."

  "It's not that," Scarlet bit her lip. "You're my grandmother's friend, of course you would be welcome in her home. It's just-"

  "You are a woman now," the Huntsman began thoughtfully, crossing his arms in thought. "Of course you must consider propriety. It is not the same as when I escorted you last spring, of course. You were a mere schoolgirl then - not at the cusp of womanhood. But if it would set your mind at ease, I will speak with your parents tomorrow to formalize my intentions. You will know-"

  "No, no," Scarlet blanched at the thought. "There was a traveller on the path, a man I didn't know."

  The Huntsman halted his soliloquy and looked at her seriously.

  "A man?" he asked. "A merchant?"

  "No one that I knew," she said, puzzled. "He wore a brown cloak with a hood and had a little hair on his chin - as black as a raven. He said he knew this wood, so I wondered if you knew him."

  "A brown cloak?" the Huntsman shifted his grip on his axe. "He spoke to you?"

  "He asked to accompany me for lunch," she furrowed her brow, trying to recall the conversation but the harder she tried to focus her thoughts the more the details slipped away. "I can't quite recall."

  "Did you give him your name?" he asked seriously.

  "No," she said, certain of that at least.

  "Good," he nodded sternly. "You must not use mine again either. The woods are not safe today."

  He lifted the satchel off his shoulder and placed it on hers, the rabbits weighing her down.

  "How long ago did you leave him?" he asked her. "And did you tell him where you were going?"

  "I believe I said I would not leave the path," she frowned, the slipperiness of her thoughts bothering her once again. "It was near the entrance. Maybe a few minutes in, or maybe half an hour. Why can't I remember?"

  "Fae magic," the Huntsman growled, readying his bow. "These woods do strange things for their masters. Off to your grandmother, girl. Do not tarry."

  Rowan sent her on her way and jogged down the path the way Scarlet had come. She adjusted the satchel so it lay beneath her cape, and readied her blade as she quickened her pace down the path to Ghost Town.

  She tried again to recall any details of the man she had met but could only remember the shape of his brown hood and the smell of pungent moss.

  As she neared the final bend of her journey, she saw a clearing of bluebells just beyond the path. A few were staggered along the side of the path as well in fresh loamy soil.

  'Grandmother would appreciate a few of those on her table,' she thought, her brain beginning to feel a little foggy once again. She stared at the bluebells for a moment, unnerved, as the familiar smell of moss once again caressed her nostrils.

  It was silent, she noticed suddenly. There was not even the song of a single bird, or the smallest whisper of a breeze through the surrounding trees.

  Scarlet shot out her right arm, the silver dagger becoming painfully visible.

  "I will cut a few," she said into the silence. "Grandmother will like them with the rabbit stew. She will have salt and pepper to season it, and a pot to make gravy besides. These flowers will make the perfect setting."

  She kneeled down and cut a few blooms, taking a few red cap toadstools besides, and tucking them into the bag the huntsman had given her. Her skin prickled all the while.

  Her chore accomplished unhindered, she returned to her regular pace and completed the last mile to the edge of the forest, where her grandmother's house lay on the edge of town.

  CHAPTER THREE

  When Scarlet arrived at her grandmother’s house, the door was unlocked. She glanced about, before letting herself in.

  "Grandmother?" she called cautiously.

  "Oh! Oh, you're here!" the voice of an old woman came from the back of the house. "I'm just in bed."

  "I brought you some soup and bread," Scarlet said.

  "Set it to warm by the fire," the voice instructed. "And then come through to see me."

  She obeyed, and placed her load by the fire, sheathing her blade but keeping it attached to her belt.

  "The Huntsman told me you were unwell," she said. "And that he left you with some toast. Did you manage to eat it?"

  "Oh yes, yes," the woman coughed. "Don't come beyond the curtain, I'm dreadfully ill."

  "Of course," Scarlet frowned. "He gave me some rabbits to cook for you. They will make a nice stew for dinner. Would you mind if I picked some carrots from the garden?"

  "Of course, my dear," the woman's voice creaked but was calmer now.

  "I will be back shortly with the soup."

  "I'll be here," the old woman answered, sounding rather amused.

  Scarlet worked swiftly, taking the Huntsman's satchel to fill with carrots, rosemary, thyme and hemlock.
She returned to her duty by the fireside and added the fresh herbs and toadstools into the soup. She cleaned the knife before cutting the carrots and setting up a cauldron of stew to simmer and take the place of the soup. She poured the concoction into a single bowl and cut a generous slice of crusty bread to lay beside it on the tray.

  She carried her load into the bedroom and laid it on the table.

  "Let me butter your bread, Grandmother," she said, and did so with her silver dagger.

  She drew aside the curtain, and looked upon her grandmother's form, pale and diminished, wearing her bedclothes with her bonnet drawn low.

  She sat down on the bedside, still buttering, and looked into the yellow eyes of the creature before her.

  "Why Grandmother, your eyes look quite jaundiced," she frowned, casting her eyes quickly over her features. The old woman looked down to the bread and blade in Scarlet's hands, and raised her lip, revealing two sharp canines. "I think you better finish every drop. I'll finish the stew and a pot of gravy to go with the rest of the loaf."

  She handed the crust of bread to the woman, who took it with both hands. Wrinkled appendages with sharp, pointed nails. Scarlet stood, and passed the tray of soup to the woman, before returning to the kitchen, shutting the door behind her with a click.

  She did not know what kind of creature it was that lay beyond, but she knew she did not want to be there when it realized her duplicity. She quietly propped a chair up against the door to prevent it's opening, and fetched the silver cord her grandmother kept hanging by her mantle, draping it over her shoulder as she stood her ground behind the door.

  It wasn't long - ten or twenty minutes, perhaps - before she heard the first groans.

  "Granddaughter," came the menacing growl which sounded less human than ever. "What was in that soup?"

  "Chicken and rosemary, thyme and carrots," Scarlet answered, readying her blade and watching the door like a hawk. "Healthy things to give you back your strength."