Dawn to Dark

by Halston James

  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 and tracks. I spin into Woolsey as he yanks me into him, his face only inches from my own. His warm breath touches my face as it puffs as white clouds from his delicious lips pulled into a wolfish grin. And I try not to notice his liquid gold eyes, his musky scent filling my lungs 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 toward 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 later, 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 realize 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 about seeing the doctor, 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 of something 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 same way a territorial and possessive wolf marks its territory. Trudging through the thick snow, my eyes all but closed against the blizzard assaulting 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 shrunk 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 num
b—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 recognize the route to the doctor’s abode through the trees that meander this way and that. Though tonight, the empty branches bow toward 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 winter 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 toward 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, a defensive stance. No flight for me. And I wait, breath steady as the wolf launches through the air toward me.

  8

  The wolf’s body pounds into me, and 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 as I 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 flickers upon my face. It whimpers, but I don’t stop.

  Can’t stop.

  Screaming and plunging over and over again. One 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.

  And it is done.

  My hands tremble.

  The bitter, terrible, disgusting revenge has been repaid. The vendetta accomplished. I retch, vomiting on all fours. And I can’t help but wonder, is this the end? The end of my story of savage wild wolves taking my family?

  I stagger to my feet, attempting to wipe the blood from my face with my sleeve, though I imagine it only serves to smear across my cheeks like a victorious hunter. I don’t know if the wolf still breathes, I don’t know for sure if it is yet quite dead, but regardless, there is no life to live now in its decimated shell of a body. Its pale blue eye stares up at me, empty and unseeing. And I stare back, noticing the weight of the knife in my hand. It has become more. It feels heavier, a burden I did not expect. It carries my curse, my revenge, and my hateful attack that still sickens my bones.

  One-by-one, my fingers unfurl from the hilt, and the bloodstained blade falls, its tip penetrating into the soft red snow beside my feet.

  Closure. The end of the old. New beginnings. With one last bite of venom, I kick the beast in the guts, it does not react. Then, backing away with unsteady steps, blood drunk, I stumble toward the safety of the doctor’s cabin.

  9

  I don’t even knock. I half barge and half fall into the doctor’s house, collapsing on the threshold.

  “What the…?” Doctor Revel cries. There is a thump of a book on the ground and the clattering of something wooden—a stool or a chair perhaps, I cannot look up to ascertain. I just lay with my blood-smeared face upon the soft rug, hoping it does not stain like my own. The smell of family life lulls my thoughts away; the sweetness of fresh bread baking, the musk of smoke and wood smoldering in the open hearth. Fresh sheets must be drying somewhere by the sweet perfumed fragrance enveloping me in a motherly embrace.

  “Dear Lord,” the doctor cries. “Renee, fetch some blankets, the child is freezing to death.”

  The doctor holds my limp wrist in his fingers, feeling for my pulse. But all I want to do is close my eyes to forget the blinding pain and biting cold… the terrible flashes of nightmarish images replaying in my mind.

  Within moments, a soft, heavy warmth covers my body and a wet flannel wipes clean my hands, though not my soul.

  “Don’t worry about the blood on her hands,” Doctor Revel says to his wife. He flips me onto my back and the world lurches within my stomach. With firm fingers, he opens one of my eyes, then the other. But I fail to see anything except the flash of fur and fang dancing on the canvas of my mind.

  “Quickly,” he says from somewhere far away. “It’s Scarlet’s granddaughter. Looks like another wolf attack. Help me carry her to the fire, she’s a bloody deadweight.”

  Hands grapple my wrists and ankles and I feel the world move, then a delightful warmth and crackle as I am set down. The doctor begins tearing at my clothes, his hands running along my body. I cannot protest, for I cannot move.

  “Where’s the wound?” Renee’s soft voice tinkers and there is an unnerving and wanting silence even to my half-addled mind. “All this blood, there must be a wound.”

  More tearing of clothes, more feeling of hands. More time and space and yet still I cannot rouse myself to say the words I must.

  “I still cannot find the injury,” Doctor Revel says, his hands still searching my body.

  “Perhaps she found someone else attacked? Perhaps she tried to save them like she did her grandma?” suggests the tinkling voice. “We should go out, see who’s out there, perhaps she came only to relay a message?”

  “Out there? With the wolf at large once more?”

  I can’t let them leave me here, not without finding the festering wound on my arm. I have already lost so much, I do not want to lose my arm as well, or worse. Perhaps it’s the noose of death gripping the edges of my subconscious and the windpipe within my throat, but my eyes fling open.

  “Red!” Doctor Revel calls in his deep resonate voice. “Thank the heavens. What happened, who’s injured?”

  “My arm,” I croak. My voice sounds weird, tinny and not my own. The doctor picks up my left arm. “No,” I say, “the other.”

  Another long, heavy pause. My gaze begins to focus. I see the worried stare between husband and wife, their silent fears as they look at my arm and to each other once more.

  “That bad?” I ask trying to sound a little light or hopeful, but sound like neither.

  “Red?” The doctor asks. His voice solid and professional. He is not talking to me as a long-time family friend anymore. “Red, what happened… out there?”

  “My arm!” I scream, cursing their concern for the dead wolf. “Tell me, how bad is it!”

  But he doesn’t tell me, instead he places his hand on my clammy forehead. “She has a fever,” he says to his wife, then to me, “is an
yone else injured?”

  He speaks slowly, as if I am a child that might not understand his simple words. I gather just enough strength to sit up, though it takes every ounce I have. Grappling my arm, I shove the wound, oozing black blood, to his face. “Tell me please? Will it kill me?”

  “Will what kill you?”

  “The wound!” I scream.

  “There is no wound.” The doctor’s eyebrows scrunch together—his forehead a ploughed and furrowed field of lost hope.

  My mouth drops open as I stare at him, then my septic wound, and back to him again. I hear his words but am unable to process what he’s saying, unable to process my own thoughts.

  “It could be the fever,” he whispers to his wife. “The fever can cause hallucinations. Or perhaps it’s something else, some way to deal with the internal pain of losing Scarlet to the wolves like her mother before.”

  “I’m… I’m not hallucinating…” I say but am unsure if the words leave my lips or simply circulate in my mind.

  “But that does not explain the blood,” Renee says, and I can’t tell if her whispering is quieter still or if I’m slipping away from the world.

  I claw at consciousness, grasp it tight. “What about my blood, my black blood!” I scream and this time they both look at me. My wound blisters with searing pain. “It’s right there between your fingers.”