by Isla Jones
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Copyright © 2017-2018 by Isla Jones
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission—this includes scanning and/or unauthorised distribution—except in case of brief quotations used in reviews and/or academic articles, in which case quotations are permitted.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, whether alive or dead, is purely coincidental. Names, characters, incidents, and places are all products of the author’s imagination.
Imprint: Independently published.
Red Run
Feared Fables
Book One
†.†.†.†.†
ISLA JONES
1.
I draw my fur-lined hood over my head and keep my eyes on the ground beneath me. The cold season has dusted the earth with ice that crunches under my worn boots. Stares pierce through the red cloak I use as a shield and I feel each one of them. Judgement, fear—intrigue. Some are braver than others. Children come closest to me before their mothers yank them back to the wooden posts they call home. But they all come to me eventually.
In the depths of their depression and desperation, they knock on my door after sun fall. They fear me, but they beg for only what I can give them.
Hope.
The villagers call me Red.
It’s not the name my mother gifted me before she took her last breath on the birthing table, it’s a name that follows me along the muddy lanes of the village.
Grandmother tells me the name will forever haunt me. Doesn’t ‘haunt’ suggest an unwanted presence, I wonder? It’s not entirely unwanted. As an orphaned pariah, I won’t be forced into a marriage with a repugnant village man, and I can do what I please—so long as I don’t upset Priest Peter who mostly pretends I don’t exist.
I am Red, because of the colour I wear—the colour of my cloak, the colour of my lips, and the colour smeared over me when I return from the woods.
I hunt the animals. Their blood stains my hands and face. Of that, I am proud.
Not many of the other villagers hunt. Fear traps them inside the tall wooden walls that circle our corner of the land. But I venture out each morn with my bag of traps slung over my shoulder, a knife in my boot between the leather and my stocking, and a spear in my gloved hand.
This morn is no different.
Ahead, the log-wood gates part for me before I even reach them. The village guard, Thomas, gives me a stiff smile. At least he tries, but he can’t keep the unease from crinkling the corners of his eyes.
I make to venture out into the cold woods alone. But the creak of the gates behind me doesn’t go for as long as normal. I turn around to see Abigail rush at me, her eyes wild.
Before she can ask, I glower at her from beneath my hood. My voice is firm and my eyes cold; “No.”
Thomas hesitates behind the blue-cloaked woman, but doesn’t shut the gates. He tries to listen, to suck out the hint of village-gossip that he senses.
“Please,” begs Abigail. She’s so desperate, she doesn’t bother to draw up her hood when talking to me. Others through the gates see her—they look and watch. But Abigail cares naught. “I ask only for one more—that is all, Red. I swear it, one more and I shall never darken your path again.”
I want to correct her, to tell her it’s ‘darken your doorstep’, but I catch myself. We’re not on my doorstep. We’re on my path.
Clever girl. Too clever to beg for what she thinks she needs.
“You said that last time, and the time before that,” I tell her.
Abigail cries out. She has always been this dramatic. It’s almost amusing to me until she drops to her knees and clasps her hands up at me—in prayer.
I blanch and look at the village to see if Priest Peter is watching. He isn’t, but the tension in my shoulders doesn’t unwind.
“Get up,” I bark. “Get up, Abbie. People are seeing you like this.”
Abigail cries again, but words twist her wails; “I beseech you, Red! I shall pay six shillings—you know I have it! One more, I need one more and that is all!”
I crouch before her, my brown eyes cold and sharp under the shadow of my hood. “Why? What is it you need this poison for?”
Abigail snivels. “You wouldn’t understand…You’ll never understand.”
I sigh and turn my eyes on Thomas. He inches closer, but stops when he sees my gaze on him. He gulps and slinks back to the gate.
“You are engaged to be married,” I say.
Abigail jerks her gaze up at me. “How do you know?”
“It’s what you all ask for when the wedding night approaches.” I stand and flick the bottom of my coat where snow has gathered. “Come to me tonight. After sundown.”
Abigail staggers to her feet. Behind those teary eyes sparkles hope. “You mean it?”
My gaze levels with hers. “Bring one pound.”
I ask for a lot. One pound is the most a maidservant could hope to earn in a year. But Abigail’s family own the tavern—a pound is much to them, but not too much to hurt their livelihood.
She nods, and it’s the last moment of my morn I grant her before I sweep away up the path and into the snowy forest.
The gate groans shut behind me.
Once I hear it bolt in place, I feel the familiar sharp embrace of the woods.
2.
Grandmother prefers the woods to the village. Sometimes when the night is coldest and quietest, I cannot understand why. Loneliness haunts me in the village at times. Still, there are days that I understand Grandmother’s choice to be apart from the fools within the wooden walls.
Today I come across the biggest, greatest fool of all.
As I hike up the path to Grandmother’s cabin, I catch sight of his trap: A wire that hangs from a wooden pike and ends in a noose, ready to snare and strangle any rabbit that runs through it to reach the sprinkle of lettuce on the other side.
My lips pinch together as I near the trap and, with a curt glance at the trees enveloping me, I crouch down beside it.
From my boot, I fish out my knife and grab hold of the wire-noose. Before I can cut through it, I hear the crunch of his boots behind me.
“Get away from my trap, witch.”
He spits the word most of the villagers are too afraid to call me. One of the few reasons they call me Red instead. Fear. Though ‘Red’ is close to the true word that dances on their tongues, and it leaves the implications to linger.
The knife stays firm in my gloved hand; I rise and step back onto the path.
“It’s a poor trap,” I say, but it’s a lie. He knows it.
Colton might be the only villager who can out-hunt me. But what can be expected of a blacksmith? All those materials within his reach, a shop to fashion whatever he likes, and without a penny spent, too.
“The wire will rust in this weather,” I add.
It’s the only point I have to support my insult. My lashes lower to a gl
ower. Unlike the rest of the villagers, he doesn’t so much as blink under the deadly cut of my stare.
Proud, he stands taller than me by a foot and some, and even lifts his chin in defiance. Colton wears the complexion of his Northern ancestry; a soft pallor dusted with the palest of freckles, eyes so brown that when the sun dips under the moon they resemble old tree bark. A fur hat is pressed down on his auburn waves that remind me some of rusted metal darkened by sunset-orange hues.
As I drink him in, I see the corner of pinkish lips twitch, as though he might like to snarl at me.
Colton is not afraid of me.
Still, he believes me to be a witch. And it’s what I use against him.
“I wish you good fortune today, hunter,” I say, cruelty in my smile. “Should you need such wishes.”
Colton’s snarl breaks out and his eyes turn to the pots of soil I’ve seen them become before. Yet, he is brave and takes a hard stride closer to me, axe at his side.
“These are my hunting grounds today, witch. I have marked them with my traps.” His high cheekbones grow pink from the pinch of the cold and the bite of the witch. “Off with you.”
The few hunters of the village have an agreement. To put it simply, we have a ‘first to arrive, first to hunt’ deal among us. Colton was first to arrive, so I dip my head very slightly, then turn my back on him.
My boot barely presses into the snow before a hiss rushes by me, and I catch the metal gleam of a throwing knife.
His knife soared right by my hood.
Stunned, I turn on the hunter. He strides toward me, sheathed in brown leather gear and a wolf-fur coat. My cutting eyes follow him to where the knife landed.
Ah. He hadn’t missed. He hadn’t been aiming at me at all.
Colton picks up the knife by its hilt. From the point of the blade, a snake writhes. An adder snake. He doesn’t gloat as he snaps the creature’s neck.
I would have gloated plenty.
My eyes widen and I can feel the glow of them pushing through the shadow of my cloak. The urge to hold out my hand for the snake takes me, but I resist and rein in my excitement.
It’s rare to see adders this close to the village and in this time of winter, too.
As if reading my mind, Colton says, “Its nest must have been disturbed.” He turns it over in his thick, black gloves. “Female. Pregnant, it would appear.”
The urge has now heightened to outright glee, and my veins tingle beneath my fair skin. “I will dispose of it,” I tell him as dully as I can manage. “Hand it here.”
Colton drags his gaze from my outstretched hand to my face, as if he can see everything that lurks behind the cloak’s hood. The limp waves of my yellow hair, the fair skin I wear in all seasons, and the somewhat crooked nose on my face that has turned pink at the nostrils from the cold.
“You want this?” His brows arch and there it is—the cold, gloating smirk I’d anticipated. “For what? Your potions and spells?”
Silence pulls between us as I choose not to respond.
“I will give you this,” he says and steps closer, “in exchange for the woods.”
“They are not mine to give. The woods belong to nature.”
He ignores my answer and draws closer still, only stopping when he towers before me, so close that I smell the sweetness of jam on his breath and see the shadow of stubble on his strong jawline. Though it is short hair, I notice that the orange grows stronger there than on his head.
“This adder, in exchange for first mark of the woods each morn until the day of rest.”
Sunday. That is four days from now—four days of giving up first arrival to the hunting grounds. It is hardly worth it…and yet, I cannot bring myself to deny his offer on a whim or out of pride.
“It doesn’t seem fair,” I tell him, but my gaze burns hard on the adder.
Its venom is gold to my remedies. I could accomplish so much with that one snake, and even more with the foetuses inside of it. Adders, unlike most other snakes, don’t lay eggs. For that, they are all the more interesting to me.
Colton pulls out the knife from the snake, then tucks it into its sheath. “I will bring you one rabbit each day. Now is it fair?”
I reach for the adder, and Colton doesn’t pull away. I take it and roll it up like it is a mere rope to be hung on a peg. “It is a fair offer, and I accept. But heed this warning—” I look up at him and conjure my glower again. “—should you try to trick me with your smallest rabbit, I will know, and our bargain will be at a quick end.”
By the manner of his creased lips, I know I caught his trickery. He thought he could fool me, but no one can.
“So be it.”
Colton strides out of my way and back to the rabbit’s trap. He crouches beside it to check for any damage I might have done.
Once he’s satisfied, we share a brief, cold look.
I continue my journey to Grandmother’s cabin, a sour pinch to my face.
I’m not too proud to admit that Colton is a fine hunter. He brings back the most of any of us from his days in the woods. Sometimes, he stays among the trees for days and nights, and returns only when he has a barrow full of prize. Rabbits. The occasional fox. And rarest of all, a wolf. I have yet to catch me a wolf—and shan’t for the next four days, at least.
Colton’s claim to the hunting ground burdens me greatly. When I am finished at Grandmother’s, I will return to barren woods. No boars or deer or foxes. I should be lucky to catch a mouse, and even so, there is little I can do with just one.
At least there is comfort in that the blasted hunter will bring me rabbits for the next four days. I could roast one a day or make a stew.
But then, there’s always him to rely on.
Dante.
3.
Grandmother greets me before I push through her alder-wood gate. She stands on the doorstep above potted plants and frowns at me across the icy garden. Her scraggly brown hair is noticeably greying and is fastened into a bun with a piece of twine. She wears no corset; she expects no other visitors but me, and corsets were invented by the devil. I am most positive of that.
“It is too cold a morn for wanderings in the woods, Ella,” she demands. “Come inside before you freeze your bosom off!”
At the snap of her voice, my legs move faster until I’m ducking underneath her arm and into the cabin. Warmth hits me like a blow to the face and with it comes the fragrance of my childhood. Squirrel broth and warm goat’s milk infused with crushed almonds.
“Grandmother,” I sigh, and pull off my bag. It thuds to the floor as the door shuts behind me. “You told me you have no almonds left. I needed only a handful for a loaf of bread I made.”
“Oh, hush.” Grandmother takes off my cloak and hangs it on the rack. “Never have I met a girl who burns bread like you do. And you expect me to hand over what I have left of my almonds to you? Silliness doesn’t become you, child.”
In her eyes, I am—and will forever be—a child to scold. Even at nineteen years of age, she treats me as though I am a toddler running through the garden still. I moved back into the village, made my own business—of sorts—and set up a house for myself, all without a husband. And still, she scolds me.
My eyes roll back as she fusses about. She cannot decide on whether to usher me to the armchair by the fire, stir the stew, pour us tankards of hot milk, or put away my things.
I drape myself over the armchair and kick off my boots.
Finally, she decides on serving up stew and says it’s because I ‘look half-frozen to death’. She means I look like a corpse. Unbecoming.
“I make it my duty to be as unbecoming as I can,” I tell her. “Otherwise, men might have ideas about me and those ideas might lead them to an ale sprinkled with belladonna.”
Grandmother tuts and shoves a hot bowl into my hands. “Just like your mother, poisoning this boy, then this one.”
I blow my cold breath onto the stew.
“It came back to her, it did,” she says
. “The first man she didn’t poison, well he killed her and that’s nature for you, Ella. Take lives, and life is taken from you.”
“I killed mother,” I say, then sip from the wooden spoon. “In birth.”
“Yes, but who put you in there!” She points accusingly at the wall. “Oh, your father was the death of her. I told her to poison the foetus out of her womb before it grew too big, but she wouldn’t listen. Now, look at her.”
Her gaze goes down to the wooden floorboards, then she shakes her head.
Mother isn’t buried under the floorboards. But we make no lies of where she rests for eternity. We will join her someday.
Pointing my toes toward the heat of the fire, I ask a question I’ve had trapped in me for a while; “Did he love her?”
Grandmother blinks.
She shakes off my words as though they are bees, then sits opposite on the frayed couch. “Now why would ask such a thing, Ella? Are you having ideas?”
No, I was not. Still, a Hemlock woman can only become pregnant with a man she loves. It can be any man. A baker, a cobbler or a king. It matters only that there is a love so wild that it rattles the mind, body and soul. Mother must have loved my absent father to have had me.
Her life was taken by my very birth and I find myself wondering sometimes, was it worth it? Should she have drank a special brew and rid herself of me? Or did she risk it for love that might not have been returned?
“It was a mere question, Grandmother. No need to get your broomstick all in a twist.”
According to the ordinaries—the non-witches, non-wolves—broomsticks are a witch’s companion, the way horses are to non-witches. There isn’t much truth to it.
Still, I like the silliness of the fib.
“You visited me two morns ago,” Grandmother says. “Why this morn, too?”
Not often do I visit her more than once a week. She is a difficult old woman and she irks me. But her garden is the best in all of England, and I must have some pieces of it.
“I’ve come to tend to the garden. I should hope the valerian has blossomed some.” I place the now-empty bowl on the side table. “How is my mugwort coming along?”
