Ice white fills my veins—a freezing burn blazing through the labyrinth of my body. It twists and turns through the million minuscule tunnels crisscrossing from brain to heart to lung and sinew. And there is nowhere to escape the sensation. Nowhere to escape the pain. It grips my heart in a vice, squeezing the life from me but I cannot yell out. I am not here, yet experience it all the same. The pulling, the purging, the persistent grab of claws and fangs. The only place that does not pulsate in agony is the four puncture wounds beckoning me to solace. The four tiny spaces I try to crawl into, to find peace and sanctuary from the burning madness. I just want to stay here, in these four tiny spaces. Safe from the pain.
5
I have passed out many times since the attack, and the dreams only get worse. I call them dreams because the real nightmare begins when I open my eyes. The stark truth as blinding as the winter sun blazing on the crystal-tipped snow before me.
To my right is a pile of black soil. It must have been a hellish job for the gravediggers in the hard frost of winter. The undertaker said she would keep—Grandma—she would keep, because the weather was so cold. And I could not help myself but to think of a pail of milk sitting on the kitchen counter. She would say the same thing in the winter, it will keep a long while yet before it spoils. But I didn’t want Grandma to spoil any further than she already had; to curdle or go bitter or grow mould on her mangled skin and flesh. So, no, I told the undertaker, she will not keep, she will be buried, and here I am, watching the cheap timber coffin—the best I could afford—lower into the ground.
Blaxton squeezes my hand, though I wish he wouldn’t. I can barely contain my grief and any ounce of care or concern or pity cast my way could break the dam walls and my tears would flood the land, though I doubt it would thaw the snow or my thoughts. So I busy myself with distractions and look around at the mournful faces of the few who knew the body sinking into the depths. She was old, too old to have many friends. She had already seen them pass. What is left are the relatives of once friends, people of goodwill who wish to support a woman who earned so much respect in the village, and the others. The others who have come to watch the spectacle—to watch me. The lone survivor of the lone wolf’s attack that has taken my mother and hers too.
They think I can’t see through the facade of pity, but I feel it all right. Their darting, nervous eyes. Their whispers behind black silken gloves and shifting eyes veiled beneath black lace. But for all the people to show, it’s Woolsey who irks me the most. He, with his pack of friends pretending to show respect. Woolsey stares at me, his eyes gorging over my body. I do not give him the satisfaction of returning his gaze—but I do stare down the girl hovering tightly to his left. The peculiar creature glares at me with her beautiful sharp features, her striking eyes; one gold one blue. She all but snarls, taking a possessive step closer to the boy whose eyes have not left my own. Her siblings step forward, six, maybe seven boys ranging from ten to twenty years old, silently warning me to back down from their sister.
I feel exposed, suddenly vulnerable. So I squeeze Blaxton’s hand and for a small moment, I feel safe.
People asked me if I wanted to hold a wake for Grandma, but I decided against it, for there is nothing awake about the dead. And I feel mourning is a private thing, best savoured for lonely, solo moments when the world cannot see the tears or hear my howls of grief as I kneel, broken, on the threadbare rug that still bears Grandma’s dried blood. I haven't washed out the stain and I do not intend to—really, it is the only thing I have left of her, any real tangible thing, because memories cannot be touched and therefore do not count.
The funeral party—if such a gathering can be referred to as a party—disperses and the gossip begins to circulate as the good people line neatly behind one another to wait their turn to tell me how very sorry they are, and how they are here for me if I ever need anything. But I hear the others, the whispers that are not so much whispers in the increasing murmur of the small crowd.
“There have been more wolf attacks on the border of the eastern village did you hear? Terrible tragedy.”
And
“It ain’t no natural thing, this. Strange for a wolf to hunt alone. Strange indeed.”
Or
“You heard of the ancient moon curse and the moon bitten?”
At this, Blaxton swears and blasphemes to the Gods, and pulls me into him, protecting me from the worthless tittle-tattle. Even Woolsey and his friends look uncomfortable with the fever pitch of gossip beginning to babble and overflow like the brook in early spring. All except the girl, Kaya, by Woolsey’s side. Kaya covers her smile with her slender hand, and feigns a cough to cover her laughter. Woolsey whispers something in her ear though it’s me he watches, and the smile slides from her face like melted candle wax.
With the gossip and the looks and the pain pulsating in my arm, I cannot help but show the scowl I’ve been hiding behind my composed facade. It is not that I expect respect from anyone, I just thought they would at least wait until I was out of earshot before they began their raving ramblings. And I can’t help but feel my private promise—my vendetta—rising to the surface as yet more details of attacks are discussed behind cold, cupped hands.
“I’m going to kill this wolf,” I involuntary call. Everyone looks as surprised by my outburst as I feel, but I cannot stop the anger pouring from my mouth. “I will hunt it, and kill it, if it’s the last thing I do.”
“Red,” Blaxton urges me to stop. I have their attention now. Now they are not talking about me. Now, they are listening to me. I wriggle under his grip.
“I won’t stop hunting it until I kill it dead, even if I have to rip the beast apart with my own teeth,” I growl, shocked my by venom.
“Red?” Blaxton says, surprised this time. He widens his eyes, urging me to stop.
Several women cross themselves as their men pull them away, disgusted. Good. Having their disgust is better than having their pity. I shirk from Blaxton’s hold.
“I need to be alone,” I say. I need to mourn, I need to feel the pain and emptiness of my home without Grandma’s body keeping inside as it has been. Blaxton nods, and kisses me once firmly on the forehead.
“At least let me walk you home?” he asks but I turn him down.
“The walk will clear my mind, and it’s daylight. I have nothing to fear but the insidious gossip. Please,” I say, and so he nods and reluctantly follows the funeral party away. Though he does turn his head over his shoulder to offer a weak smile. My own smile is too late arriving and so he misses it, lowering his head and shoulders like a scolded dog as he leaves. He knows when he is beaten, and I curse myself. He’s the only thing I have left in the world and I’m pushing him away—pushing him away because I can’t stand the thought of one more ounce of pain my future could hold if he is taken next.
I watch the small crowd disperse awhile. Their black funeral capes and gowns dot across the frigid, white landscape like a spreading disease. Gossip is muted now by winter’s clutch and all I hear is the repetitive thud of frozen black soil pounding on Grandma’s coffin as the grave diggers fill the hole in the ground but not the one in my heart.
I turn to go, pulling the red hood of my cape over my hair. I elected not to wear the traditional black garb of the grieving, despite the outrageous looks cast my way. Grandma had made the cape especially for me, so I can do with it what I wish. But somehow the red looks less vibrant now, the edges tinted with grief and darkness. I tell myself it is simply the damp seeping up the heavy hem from the sleety snow. But I’m not sure if I believe my own words. And I wonder if Grandma is pulling the colour from the cape, from my life, and into her grave, trying to replace her blood spilt on the rug at home.
A strong grip grasps my wrist, pulling me from my thoughts. I spin into Woolsey as he yanks me toward him, his face inches from my own. His warm, whitened breath touches my face and his delicious lips pull into a wolfish grin. I try not to notice his liquid gold eyes, his musky scent filling my l
ungs with a carnal craving.
“Be careful,” he warns—threatens. “Be very careful.”
I don’t trust his perfect face, his honey smooth words. I don’t trust the way his body pulls me towards him like a magnet—our hips touching, our legs intertwined.
I try pulling away, but his grip is relentless. Like being caught within the jaws of a beast.
“Get off,” I warn through clenched teeth, “You cannot have me.” An echo from a past promise. Grandma’s promise. I shudder.
He raises an eyebrow and looks around himself to check if we are alone. We are.
His hand reaches for my bandaged wound and he cocks his head to the side like an inquisitive hound.
“Does it hurt?” He asks as he wraps his fingers and palm around my arm. His touch is somehow as light as a butterfly landing upon the puncture wounds, but the pain raises a guttural scream that does not sound like my own.
And then everything turns to darkness.
Interlude - Darkness
The wound pulls me into itself, and the world surrounding me evaporates into only this small space. The space blazing a blacker darkness through my veins. As before, pain floods my body with a shredding and tearing deeper than flesh; a severing of my soul, perhaps, if such a thing could occur.
I clutch at it with my mind, gripping claws of desperate hopelessness. There is nothing else. Nothing but the pain and the small spaces in which to hide. And here, I find solace in my wound once more. I go inwards, I give up. I allow the darkness to become me.
6
I am not sure how long I left my body, but when I return, I find myself back in Grandma’s cottage. A fire roars in the hearth and dusk has settled outside. It casts a strange half-light through the window, a blue hue of twilight upon snow shimmering like an otherworldly land. I have no idea how I got here—did I walk in my dreamlike state, my subconscious guiding my body as I lost myself to the darkness?
My hair sticks to my face and the back of my neck, though I suspect the clamminess has nothing to do with the flames dancing gold and amber against the walls, but more to do with the rising infection pulsing in my arm.
I dare to remove the bandage for the first time. Slowly, I unravel the soiled, damp cloth, wincing as it reaches the site of the wound. It sticks, cloth to blood and pus leaking from the punctures. Grandma would have used a poultice, and I curse myself for not remembering sooner. I bite my lip and hold my breath as I get to the infected area, each unravel worse than the one before. The stench rises now, the stench of decay and rot, worse than the smell of Grandma before they took her away.
The final unravel is the worst, skin and the small hairs on my arms are caked with gore and they won’t give up the cloth. I hold my breath and wince. Slowly and painfully, the bandage peels away, and it is all I can do not to retch at the sight of the wound.
The holes are deep and black, as depthless as the universe itself. Purple veins spread from each, outwards and upwards, connecting to those million tunnels through my skin. And these veins stretch further, grasping at clean white skin to pull into those black holes as if my entire body will vanish into them.
I should go to the doctor, I know I should. His homestead is not far away. But as I stare through the window, assaulted by a snow flurry edging its way to a blizzard, I wonder if it would be more prudent to wait until morning. As if taunting me, the wound grips my arm with its fang like pulse, a heat surges though my entire body making me dizzy. And I know…
This wound cannot wait.
If I leave it much longer, I may lose my arm altogether, my fingertips are already touched with a darkish hue. If I leave it completely, the infection could take over my entire body, and then I’ll be lowered into the ground in a cheap wooden coffin just like Grandma.
Despite my hot flushes and clammy sweats, I don several layers of warmer clothes, noticing my cloak hanging on the back of the chair by the fire to dry. I can’t remember putting it there, but who knows what I do when those painful dreams pull me into themselves. But as I grab at the thick fabric, I realise something is not right.
The hem of my red cape is still black as if wet, yet it is dry to the touch. I scrunch it in my fist to make doubly sure. And more disturbing, it is not only the hem. The blackness is spreading—just like the dark veins on my wound—greedy and wanting; stripping the colour away just as the wolf had drained Grandma’s blood.
A lone howl echoes into the valley—a sound held steady by the white-capped land. The beast is not far away and I feel my hackles rise. Before I have time to change my mind, I fling my blackening cloak over my shoulders, fastening it tight against the snowy night. And just in case, as the lone wolf howls again, this time closer, I grab Grandma’s gutting knife. She used it for gutting plump summer fish, just one clean slice would see their innards exposed.
It feels right in my hand. Heavy with responsibility.
I step out into the night.
7
The wind has picked up. It howls its lonesome eerie tune, another layer to accompany the howls from the savage beast hiding in the wilds. Swirls of thick snow fling about the dense air in abstract patterns, and I make out the faces of Grandma and Blaxton much like the way I used to make out faces in the patterns of the now blood-stained rug when I was but a child—seeing things when they are not there.
I wonder if that is what I’m doing now when pondering the wolf’s attacks. Are they the pure chance maul of a dumb and hungry beast, starving in the winter’s barren embrace? Or are the attacks planned assaults and something far more sinister?
Perhaps the wolf, too, has a pattern. There is certainly a pattern within which the beasts have killed my own family. Perhaps they’ve marked us as their prey, much the way a territorial and possessive wolf marks its territory. Trudging through the thick snow, my eyes all but closed against the blizzard whirling at my face, I wonder if I should find out more about the other attacks—discover other patterns with other families. Maybe I should track the beast and discover its wily ways and intent before killing it and its secrets dead…
…All this is superstitious nonsense. The curse, I know I’m thinking about the curse, but it is nothing but hearsay, the wild gossip of young children and bored housewives. But still… the morphing blooded footsteps in the snow. My hand instinctively reaches to protect the wound on my arm, and the tiring journey begins to dissolve my fanciful thoughts.
I shuffle along as best I can, my legs plunging into soft snow up to my knees. My breath is short and catches against my scarf leaving it hot and damp against my otherwise chilled face. And the world feels as though it has shrank to the small space within my cape—my inhales and exhales deafening, filling my ears and head like the swooshing of a rough and ragged shoreline. All my extremities are numb—all but the wound, of course. The wound still pulses with flames and fire.
The thick blanket of white hides the well-worn path but I still recognise the route to the doctor’s abode through the trees which meander this way and that. Though tonight, the empty branches bow towards me, ominous fingers of ice and frost grasping for life. No moon shines her light, she is late to rise, so I am at least a little thankful for the pale glow of the snow lighting the way.
A sense of vulnerability creeps along my skin. Hairs stand upright on the back of my neck and I look about myself. Someone, or something, is watching me. I feel the eyes devouring me in its gaze. My mouth dries and I quicken my pace, thankful for the glow of a warm fire emanating from the windows of doctor’s home through the trees.
I breathe a sigh of relief and pick up my pace. Warmth and help are but a few yards away. Of course, the howl would come now, breaking though the shrieking blizzard when I am so close to sanctuary.
The low and resonate tune sings out into the night, holding for several long breaths and heartbeats. Is it a threat, or an invite? I hover, turning to the doctor’s warm glowing cabin, then back into the darkness of the forest’s cavernous clutch—weighing my options.
But my
hesitation has sealed my fate, stripping choice away. The paw prints are light and fast in the snow, galloping towards me, flicking snow around itself as it bounds. I hear the heavy breathing of the beast in full flight, the growl beneath its breath. Its eyes piercing through the blizzard. Primal fear races blood around my body—the fight or flight response of the hunted.
I grip the knife in my right hand and drop my body weight downward, an attack stance. No flight for me. And I wait, breath steady as the wolf launches through the air.
8
The wolf’s body pounds into me. Air bursts from my lungs like a spewing volcano as we tumble into the ice-cold snow. It growls and snaps and yelps, a feverish attack echoing my grandma’s death.
I scream at the wolf. Not the scream of fear, or a plea for help. No. I bellow my own battle cry, my own roar, my own howl. Any thoughts I had about discovering the lone wolf’s secrets vanish. All I want is to kill this bastard that has already taken too much from me.
Anger and revenge have a primal power, an otherworldly strength that emanates now I as grapple the beast’s body lurching on top of me and spin it onto its back in the snow. Grandma’s gutting knife is clutched firmly in my hand, I plunge the blade into the side of the beast as it wrestles beneath me.
It yelps, but raged and ferocious, I continue—stab wound after stab wound. The wolf’s hot blood warms my freezing cold hands and specs of its ailing life force spatters upon my face. It whimpers, but I don’t stop.
Can’t stop.
Screaming and plunging over and over again. Its blue eye, piercing against the snow stained red, begs, pleads, for mercy I do not have.
The beast stops fighting, stops defending itself but enraged, I continue. I continue until I feel faint with exertion. Plunging deeper into my own wrath. I continue until my sickening actions fill my body with nausea. Finally, breathless, I fall onto the crimson stained snow, weeping as the wolf takes its last few shallow breaths.
Moon Bitten Page 2
