by Laura Wolf
There was a muffled clattering noise and a shadow was cast across the gap beneath the door.
"Granddaughter," the voice wheezed. The handle turned, but the door would not budge, wedged tightly in place. "Wont you come in and look after me?"
"You should be in bed, getting well."
"Won't you come in and help me back to the bed then?" the voice was softer again now, once again taking the tone of a vulnerable old woman. "I feel so frail, I do not know if I can make it on my own."
Scarlet did not answer, watching the shadow instead as it swayed back and forth.
"Granddaughter," the voice repeated after a moment in the silence. "Are you still there?"
Again, Scarlet did not answer, her jaw clenched as blood pounded through her ears.
She had told the truth when she had told the traveller earlier she was no murderer. She had killed nothing larger than a rabbit in her entire life. She certainly had never fought a man, neither human nor fae. She wished against all hope that the Huntsman would come to her door at that moment. Although the thought of him as her suitor made her quail and queasy, he had always been strong and dependable. He had been the one to give her her bow, he had carved it himself from a tree by the edge of the wood. It seemed wrong that he had gone to all the effort to teach her to defend herself only for her to die in this moment.
"You wouldn't leave your grandmother in her hour of need," the voice grew low again, and chilled her to the bone. Despite her thick woollen cloak, she felt every hair stand on end. "No, I know you're there. I smell you."
"I am not your granddaughter," she answered finally.
"No," the voice growled in agreement. "No you are not."
Scarlet braced her feet as the door shook again.
"Won't you come through?" the creature asked again.
"I see no need to."
"What if I told you your grandmother is in here?" the voice inquired, as though he was making a reasonable bargain.
"Would you have proof?"
"Perhaps. What else did you put in the soup?"
"Seasonings," Scarlet narrowed her eyes. "Where is my grandmother?"
"I'll kill her if you don't open the door immediately."
"How do I know she isn't dead already?"
There was a shuffling to the other side of the room, and a thump followed by a groan.
"Grandmother?"
"Run, dear child!" was the weak plea.
Instead, Scarlet kicked the chair aside and slammed the door open, charging with her knife. The creature in her grandmother's robe turned and leapt at her in a blur of teeth and fur. It gnashed its teeth at her, but she managed to bury her dagger into the wiry flesh of its shoulder, the blade becoming fully obscured by thick fur. The creature howled in pain, and shrank back from her, but Scarlet kept her grip, rolling and pinning the beast beneath her. It wasn't until that moment she realized the beast she was wrestling was a large grey wolf.
She shrugged her shoulder and let the coil of silver slip down, winding it around the wolf's neck and legs. As she bound the creature, its skin began to shift under her touch, the hair thinning as the limbs thickened into the visage of a man, his skin wet with sweat.
"You!" he hissed. "You! Let me go!"
She pressed her knee further into his back as she tightened the cord, and tied the knots tightly. Only when he was completely incapacitated did she dare spare a glance to her panting grandmother. She looked fevered, and had a bloody bruise on her forehead, but looked otherwise unharmed.
"Grandmother," Scarlet breathed in relief, still careful not to use her name. "What happened?"
Her grandmother eased her way to her feet, and shuffled over to the bed, sitting down on the mussed up sheets.
"Do you have him secure, dear?" the old woman asked, casting her eyes across the knots.
"I believe so," Scarlet said, lifting him as she stood, and shoving him roughly into a chair. "I thought he had killed you."
"Not killed, no," the old woman winced, touching her head. "He trapped me in the closet. I was too frightened to make a noise in case he killed you."
Scarlet looked to the wolf-man, who was glowering up at them through his raven black hair, blood still seeping from his shoulder as the edges of the wound started to blacken.
"It seems you are the murderer after all," the wolf hissed resentfully.
"You were the man on the road after all," Scarlet stared at him in wonder.
"You remember."
"I remember the color of your cloak," Scarlet frowned. "And the smell of moss."
"Surprising," he deadpanned.
"What do you mean murderer?" Scarlet said suddenly. "I haven't killed you."
He looked pointedly at the wound on his shoulder where the knife still protruded, black lines starting to make their way through his bloodstream.
Scarlet swiftly reached over and yanked the blade out, causing the wolf to hiss and swear, blood splashing onto the floor.
"Oh shoot," she frowned, and balled up her grandmother's bonnet to stem the flow of blood from the wound. "Can you not bleed everywhere? You'll stain the floor."
"Perhaps you should have thought about that before you stabbed me."
Scarlet huffed. "I don't have time for this."
She moved back to the four poster bed, keeping an eye on her adversary all the while, and pulled on one of the fastening ropes until it came loose. She firmly tied him to the chair, wedging the bonnet under the rope to rest against the wound as a gauze, before finally moving to her grandmother's side.
"Do you have a fever?" she asked, touching her wrist to her grandmother's forehead. "Let me tend to your wound, and then you should lie back and have a rest. The stew should be ready soon. I'll keep watch over this creature until the Huntsman returns. He will know what to do with him."
"You will release me," the wolf hissed at her.
"Did you or did you not come here to eat me?" Scarlet accused him directly, picking up her silver blade to once again point in his direction.
"If you didn't want to be eaten you shouldn't be made of meat," the wolf grinned toothily, although he watched her hands closely.
"I could say the same to you," Scarlet narrowed her eyes. "I've never tasted a wolf before. Tell me, how long do you think I should boil you before you become tender?"
The wolf glowered at her, clearly unhappy that she remained unintimidated.
"All this time," her grandmother sighed. "And of all the fair folk he is the one to turn up."
Scarlet pulled out her grandmother's medicine box, and dashed some alcohol onto a clean cloth, pressing it gently to her forehead.
"It's alright, Grandmother," she stroked her hair out of her face, where it had been mussed up from her stay in the closet. "You are unhurt, at least. I will stay with you until you are well."
The wolf watched them wordlessly as she went about caring for the old woman, sinking deeper and deeper into himself as the hours went on. Finally, as Scarlet was tying a knot in the bandages she had wound around her grandmother's head, the wolf was curled in on himself as much as his bindings would allow, and let out a long groan.
"What did you put into that soup?" he asked again, blinking the drops of sweat out of his eyes. "My insides feel like fire and my limbs feel like lead."
"Herbs and seasonings," Scarlet repeated again. "I don't think it would kill you - it would mildly poison a human for a few days, at least."
She wasn't particularly sure if it was true - hemlock was deadly, but she had only managed to pick three clusters of the little white flowers. She knew it would be bad luck to kill a fae, but worse still to have a living one who knew she had made an attempt on his life.
She took in his wilted form as he hung his head as far forwards as the ropes allowed. His chest was bare, from when he had leapt out of her grandmother's robe, and she could still see the dark lines splayed out across his skin like lightning. His damp skin shivered but she didn't know whether it was from fever or cold.
As afraid as she had been, and as angry as she was that he had invaded the house and made an attempt on their lives, she didn't like to see suffering. She cursed her soft heart, still remaining wary of tricks, and took one of the quilts from the end of the bed to drape over his shoulders, although she left his arms uncovered and visible. She noticed his wrists had chaffed black, the same as the now crusty edges of his chest wound, and wondered whether the silver was doing more to poison him than the hemlock.
His shoulders sagged further, and he shivered again beneath the bedspread, looking up at her oddly through his shaggy fringe. He looked like a wild thing, his yellow eyes glowing out of his dark hair, his skin tanned and dirt stained. It was a strange juxtaposition next to the neat stitches on pink and yellow floral fabric.
"The stew must be ready," Scarlet turned to give her grandmother an apologetic look. "I hate to leave you alone in here with him, but he is quite secure and I will be back shortly."
"That's fine, my dear," her grandmother lay back on the pillows and rested her head. "I trust your knots. The Huntsman has taught you well."
With a final look to the wolf, Scarlet left the room, keeping the door ajar to listen for any sign of trickery.
CHAPTER FOUR
As soon as the girl in the red hood had left the room, the old woman sat forwards once again, and looked at the wolf with piercing blue eyes.
"Have you seen them?" she asked urgently. "The lost children?"
"What children?" the wolf asked in confusion. "I don't know of any lost children."
"The children your kind took. The ones who followed the Pied Piper."
"Oh," he widened his eyes in understanding, then laughed. "They were never lost, you know. They know quite well where they are."
"What happened to them?" the woman asked longingly. "Are they well?"
"What is it to you?" the wolf cocked his head. "Were your sons or daughters among them? I could tell you about them, in exchange for my freedom."
"They weren't my children, no," the old woman said sadly, her eyes moistening. "I was just a girl myself. All of my friends, gone. Just like that."
"Impossible," the wolf frowned. "He said he took them all."
"I wanted to go," she reflected longingly. "His music was so lovely. Otherworldly. I've never heard anything as magical ever since. I was cold, so I had run to fetch my jacket, but by the time I returned he was gone. They were all gone."
The wolf watched her quietly, feeling a kinship with her despite the fact she was only a human. How many times had he watched those same children in their camaraderie from his place alone on the outskirts. It was not easy growing up alone and in isolation. He would know.
"They are quite well," the wolf informed her. "They had to start a school for them. One does not age the same in our world as in yours, so it was unheard of to have so many children at one time. One hundred and thirty kids running amok. It has quite changed the feel of the place."
"A whole generation," the grandmother sighed.
"Quite."
"And they are still young?"
"Younger than you."
"Could I go now?" she leaned forwards and begged him. "Could you take me to see them?"
"Adult humans are not permitted within our world," the wolf said sternly. "That is a rule even I would not dare to break or bend."
He caught a flash of red from the corner of his eye, and looked to the door where the girl was standing, staring at them aghast. She held a bowl of stew loosely in her hands, which looked like it would tip to the floor at any moment as she looked between himself and the old woman.
"Grandmother?" she asked shakily. "Is it true?"
The old woman looked embarrassed and settled back into her blankets.
"Come dear, let's have our supper and I'll tell you the story."
The girl walked woodenly over, and sat on the bed, readying the woman's dinner on her tray with stiff movements. The smell of the fresh rabbit and rosemary was delightful, but his stomach was still cramping from the last food the girl had served him, so he decided against asking for any himself.
"I was only a girl of six at the time," the old woman began. "Back when Girdlebrook was known by its true name. It was a busy town, on the main through-way between Fort Hamilton and the Castle Crag. The town was wealthy, and the mayor was fat and jolly. I still recall his bright yellow lederhosen and the peacock feather he wore in his hat. He was loved by all, but by none so much as himself.
"Now, there had always been rats, don't disbelieve that, but there was a healthy population of cats that kept them under control. But then there was a mast year, where the grain grew tall and the trees dropped an excessive amount of nuts. The rats grew bigger and more numerous. Mast followed mast, and the rats grew to the size of cats. Families shared beds with their children, afraid that they would wake with their toes being nibbled off in the night."
"I know the story, Grandmother," Scarlet frowned. "The plague of rats that the Piper brought. He swindled the town and stole the children - but at school they say he killed them."
"He did not!" the wolf burst out, horrified. "He cares for those children as if they were his very own!"
"Does he now?" the old woman asked wistfully.
"And he didn't swindle anyone, either," the wolf huffed. "He brought no plague - he dealt with a problem, and your dirty humans didn't hold up their end of the bargain. You humans are all the same, those children are better off without your terrible influence."
"Children aren't currency, and it's not up to you to decide whether parents are good enough or not," the girl retorted hotly. "And now because of you and your kind, we don't have nearly enough children at all!"
The wolf looked her up and down lazily as she glared at him. She wasn't quite a girl after all, but neither quite a woman. More... inbetween.
"How old are you?" he asked her curiously.
"Sixteen," she frowned at him, the heat fading from her voice. "How old are you?"
"A hundred and seventy," he smirked as her eyes boggled. "Give or take a few years."
"But - but you look barely older than me!" she spluttered.
"Fae don't age the same as humans," he laughed at her bafflement. "I thought you were listening. Even humans who live in our world don't age the same as in your decaying world."
She looked thoughtful at that.
"Well, girl, what are you going to do with me then?" he asked leisurely. "It's become quite clear you don't have the will to kill me, even with your terrible cooking."
"I was still rather thinking of waiting for the Huntsman," she glared at him and his grin lost its smugness. "He always likes getting a new pelt."
"The Huntsman," the wolf glowered. "Now, what was his name again? I believe you spoke it in the forest. R-something, was it?"
The girl blanched.
"Roland?" he asked, his eyes glinting. "No, that's not it... Rowan."
The girl shook lightly, but the old woman reached out and grasped her arm.
"It won't do him much good without his family name," she encouraged her.
"Yes, well I'm half way there now, aren't I?" the wolf gloated.
"It won't do you much good if you're dead," she spat, and stormed out to the kitchen.
"I don't know what your history with the Huntsman is," the old woman spoke to him calmly and evenly once they were alone again. "But he has been kind to her. It's been a lonely life for that girl, and a large weight on her shoulders. You'd do well to bite your tongue if you want to change her mind."
"Why aren't you angry with me?" the wolf asked her in confusion. "I stuffed you in a closet and tried to eat your girl."
"You also brought me news of my old friends," the woman smiled wistfully again. "I've waited here so long hoping one of them would come back for me. Wondering where they were, what they were doing. A fairy school, how magnificent."
The wolf looked at her for a long time as she reclined, eyes closed and a gentle smile on her face as she imagined the wo
nders her childhood friends must have seen.
"What weight?" he asked, breaking the spell.
"Weight?"
"You said she has a weight on her shoulders," he reminded her impatiently.
"There's not many children in our towns, and only two boys - both much younger than my wee girl," the woman sighed sadly. "She will be engaged to the Huntsman by this time next year. He's known it practically since she was born, she's probably realized it by now too."
"But she's only sixteen," he frowned. "I didn't think humans married so young."
"The town needs children to prosper. I myself had my first baby when I was eighteen. So did her mother," the old woman sighed. "It would have been nice to have a longer youth. Soon my young girl will be having babies of her own instead of chasing rabbits in the woods as well."
The wolf made a face. "You humans are disgusting."
CHAPTER FIVE
Scarlet sat heavily at the dining table listening to the muffled conversation happening in the next room. She could make out every few words, but the pleasant tone bothered her more than anything.
How could her grandmother, one of the women who had partially raised her be sitting and chatting with one of the fair folk? How could everything she had seen from him - once he was incapacitated, of course - be so different to everything she had been taught? He seemed almost... human. Perhaps one about as out of place as herself, but human nevertheless. Definitely not monstrous, even with his sharp canines and haunting yellow eyes.
She looked to the bowl of stew she had dished up, pushing the chunks of rabbit around listlessly. Her morning had started out simple enough. She thought back to her mother’s instructions: Pack the food for Grandmother; travel the forest path - don't dawdle or stray from the road; keep an eye out for the Huntsman.
She had always insisted she keep an eye out for the Huntsman. Rowan had been a permanent fixture for most of her life, and she was only beginning to see why now. He had mentioned when she came across him that he would declare his intentions for her, and only minutes ago she had heard her grandmother herself - one of the most trusted people in her life - talk to the wolf of an unofficial engagement she had never known of.