by Paula Guran
Finally, it was time.
Through the window, the moon threw a pale white parallelogram on the floor. Yan stood in the middle of it, moving her head about, trying out her new face.
Hundreds of miniature pneumatic actuators were hidden under the smooth chrome skin, each of which could be controlled independently, allowing her to adopt any expression. But her eyes were still the same, and they shone in the moonlight with excitement.
“Are you ready?” I asked.
She nodded.
I handed her a bowl, filled with the purest anthracite coal, ground into a fine powder. It smelled of burnt wood, of the heart of the earth. She poured it into her mouth and swallowed. I could hear the fire in the miniature boiler in her torso grow hotter as the pressure of the steam built up. I took a step back.
She lifted her head to the moon and howled: it was a howl made by steam passing through brass piping, and yet it reminded me of that wild howl long ago, when I first heard the call of a hulijing.
Then she crouched to the floor. Gears grinding, pistons pumping, curved metal plates sliding over each other—the noises grew louder as she began to transform.
She had drawn the first glimmers of her idea with ink on paper. Then she had refined it, through hundreds of iterations until she was satisfied. I could see traces of her mother in it, but also something harder, something new.
Working from her idea, I had designed the delicate folds in the chrome skin and the intricate joints in the metal skeleton. I had put together every hinge, assembled every gear, soldered every wire, welded every seam, oiled every actuator. I had taken her apart and put her back together.
Yet, it was a marvel to see everything working. In front of my eyes, she folded and unfolded like a silvery origami construction, until finally, a chrome fox as beautiful and deadly as the oldest legends stood before me.
She padded around the flat, testing out her sleek new form, trying out her stealthy new movements. Her limbs gleamed in the moonlight, and her tail, made of delicate silver wires as fine as lace, left a trail of light in the dim flat.
She turned and walked—no, glided—towards me, a glorious hunter, an ancient vision coming alive. I took a deep breath and smelled fire and smoke, engine oil and polished metal, the scent of power.
“Thank you,” she said, and leaned in as I put my arms around her true form. The steam engine inside her had warmed her cold metal body, and it felt warm and alive.
“Can you feel it?” she asked.
I shivered. I knew what she meant. The old magic was back but changed: not fur and flesh, but metal and fire.
“I will find others like me,” she said, “and bring them to you. Together, we will set them free.”
Once, I was a demon hunter. Now, I am one of them.
I opened the door, Swallow Tail in my hand. It was only an old and heavy sword, rusty, but still perfectly capable of striking down anyone who might be lying in wait.
No one was.
Yan leapt out like a bolt of lightning. Stealthily, gracefully, she darted into the streets of Hong Kong, free, feral, a hulijing built for this new age.
. . . once a man has set his heart on a hulijing, she cannot help hearing him no matter how far apart they are . . .
“Good hunting,” I whispered.
She howled in the distance, and I watched a puff of steam rise into the air as she disappeared.
I imagined her running along the tracks of the funicular railway, a tireless engine racing up, and up, towards the top of Victoria Peak, towards a future as full of magic as the past.
Ken Liu’s fiction has appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Asimov’s, Analog, Strange Horizons, Lightspeed, and Clarkesworld, among other places. He is a winner of the Nebula, Hugo, and World Fantasy awards. His debut novel, The Grace of Kings, the first in a fantasy series, was published by Saga Press in April 2015. A collection of his short stories, The Paper Menagerie and Other Stories, appeared in March 2016. Liu has worked as a programmer and as a lawyer (two professions he finds “surprisingly similar”). He lives near Boston with his family.
This is not a story based on “Red Riding Hood” so much as a story about what happened after the Red’s encounter with the wolf. . . and also what happened a long time before. Still, it might be fitting to quote Sandra Beckett in Recycling Little Red Riding Hood: “No folk or fairy tale has been so relentlessly reinterpreted, recontextualized, and retold over the centuries as Little Red Riding Hood.”
By the Moon’s Good Grace
Kirstyn McDermott
It be all I can do to keep still in me bed, waiting in the dark for the snoring to start up on the other side of the curtain, that snuffling death-rattle of his I been hearing most of me life, and when it does come I gotta wait some more till I be sure me Mam be sleeping sound as well. She been giving me the side-eye since we come back damp and wretched from the woods, me stepfather carrying his story the way he sees fit to show it and me with me mouth pinned shut, not knowing what to do with the words even if I could lay tongue to the right ones. Not me story to tell, he says, not me place to bring such frightful tidings to me own Mam, specially when I don’t see the proper shape of them.
I can still feel where his fingers dug into me arms, shaking sense into me; the bruises’ll bloom with first light.
Waiting, waiting, while the crimson thread knotted round me breastbone thickens and twists, becomes a cord, becomes a rope, becomes a cable like them what pull Old Yag’s punt across the river, and so it drags on me, tugging till I can’t bear it one breath more and throw off the blankets. Quiet, mindful of the creak and tattle of the floorboards, I make me way to the door and grab me cloak from its hanging hook. So soft, this fine woolen weave me Granmama must’ve bartered more’n a few good hens over, more again to have it dyed red, red as a castle rose, and her stitching be finer still.
The thirteenth moon of your thirteenth year, my girl; a milestone to be well marked.
Me eyes prickle and I rub at them, angry and sad and scared all at once, but I push the whole mess down, throw the hood over me head and slip from the cottage into the night.
Full-bellied Moon shines the way but I don’t need her, don’t need nothing but me own bare feet that know this winding woodland path better’n any paved or cart-runneled road, me feet and the pull of the thread that draws me on sure as any compass. Running till the breath catches cold in me throat, ducking each low branch and leaping over roots that hump and thrust from the dirt, running till me toe catches on some unseen thing, some stone or twig that sends me sprawling. I break the fall with me hands, palms scraping raw along the ground but better that than another bump on the head, and I roll panting onto me back to see I’ve landed in the same little clearing where I seen the wolf this afternoon.
Where it seen me.
Those sharp amber eyes fixing on mine as it stepped from the trees, paw by careful paw. I were frozen, breathless, but outta wonder more’n fear, standing motionless as it circled towards me, muzzling the air. Were it the basket in me hand that caught its nose, the cloth-wrapped salted pork tucked in beside the apple scrumpy and fresh-baked bread? If I tossed the meat to the ground for toothsome jaws to chomp over, would I be allowed to go on me way?
The wolf come so close I might’ve touched it, might’ve bent and run me fingers through that thick grey pelt to feel the softness of its fur, the heat of its skin. Me own skin itched with the longing of it.
As it stared at me, yellow eyes clever like no beast’s should have a right to be, a trembling welled up inside me, a great shivery warmth that filled me chest and belly and legs, and I swear that when that hot, pink tongue licked over the back of me hand it be like the Goddess Moon herself reached down through the clouds to touch me. Me knees buckled and I crumpled to the ground like poor wooden Judy with her strings cut off.
The wolf growled.
I lowered the hood of me cloak and lifted up me face, thinking that this weren’t no bad kind of death if it
be the time for it. But the beast stared past me, back into the forest the way I’d come with me Mam’s last words an echo in me ears—straight to Granmama’s, you mind me; this ain’t no day for flower-plucking. Thunder rumbled in that pale throat and its hackles spiked stiffer’n any tomcat’s. Then, just as sudden as it showed itself, the wolf turned and loped off into the trees. The forest round me kept still, kept hushed, like it be holding its breath but I didn’t stay to see what it might be expecting. Only gathered up me cloak like I be doing now and scrambled to me feet, bidding me traitor legs to come to their senses.
Wolf-clearing or no, this ain’t where I meant to be stopping tonight. The thread, it keeps on tugging and a’tugging, and I got no answer but to let it run me all the way to me Granmama’s house. Even then, hunched over with me hands braced on me knees, trying not to retch up me dinner amid all the huffing and a’puffing, I still feel the pull of it. Only when I find me way down to the old mill pond does it let up some, does it let me stop and fall down beside the water which be still and smooth as a Lord’s window pane.
Now I know why I been led here.
Stop your shrieking, girl, he yelled at me this afternoon, axe dripping blood onto the floorboards. It were nought but a damned wolf about to have your throat out, and you standing there mouth open like a bullfrog catching flies. Now hush up and lend me a hand.
He wouldn’t listen. Wouldn’t stop to hear about Granmama, or what happened—what I thought had happened—before he busted through the door all fury and fright. And me not able to find the proper words neither, so he just kept yelling at me to shut me gob and help him, and when I didn’t—when I couldn’t—he pushed me away. Pushed me hard. Me foot slipped in something, maybe the blood, most likely the blood, and I remember falling with me fingers grabbing at the air, and I remember nothing else.
Till he be shaking me and slapping at me cheeks. His clothes were wet. The wolf be gone, the floorboards smeared pink in his hurry to clean up. You say nothing to your Mam, he told me. You know how she be about the bloody wolves, she’d have me hide as quick as spit.
But Granmama—
Your Granmama ain’t come back yet; Lord know where she’s taken herself off to.
The wolf—
You think your Mam wants to hear your lunatic ravings? That wolf ain’t touched your Granmama, I cut open its belly meself. All you gotta tell her, it be stalking you and I come by and scared it off. You hear me? His face all scrunched up and ugly with anger, maybe a little bit of fear as well, so I just nodded and let him help me stand. I felt woozy and when I touched the back of me head, I found me a swelling and some crusted blood. It come away in dry black crumbs under me fingernails.
His own hands were clean. Freshly scrubbed.
The Moon throws her reflection onto the surface of the pond, so clear and perfect it might be her own twin sister rising in greeting. I take off me cloak and fold it neatly on the grass. Me white cotton nightgown be torn now, dirty round the hem, and I can hear me Mam already, sighing and tutting as she tells me to fetch her sewing basket. I take it off as well, place it on top of the cloak. Me skin prickles with gooseflesh and I rub at me arms, teeth chattering.
The crimson thread tugs, gently.
Water, cold as snowmelt, laps at me ankles, calves, thighs. Before long me foot bumps against something solid, something soft, and I reach down with both hands, shivering as the water splashes round me. I grab a chunk of fur, wet and thick, and pull. The body barely budges, so I crouch down to brace meself then pull even harder, grunting through me clenched teeth as I try to drag it back to the shore. It takes a good long time and clumps of fur keep coming away in me hands, dumping me on me arse more than once. Each time I swear a bit louder, then find me a new grip and keep on going.
It be only in the shallows, with the wolf lolling on its back and those pale front legs bent awkward in the air, that I see all the rocks stuffed into her belly. I swear again, thinking that the Moon, she might’ve told me. The Moon, or her water-logged sister, now broken into so many silvery splinters.
Nothing for it but to kneel down, reach me way into the beast and roll out stone after stone. Most of them be slippery with moss and slide easily enough in me hands. There be a couple caught stubborn ’neath her ribs and the dull crack of bone makes me wince as I wrench them free. Emptied out, it still be a strain, but there be enough useless weight gone now for me to pull her up outta the water and on to the grass.
“You a heavy bitch,” I tell the dead wolf, then I lay me weary self down beside her and stare at the Moon.
I don’t remember even closing me eyes, but I must’ve done cause the next thing I know I be waking up to a warm tongue licking at me cheek. I let out a cry and roll away, scrabble to me knees to find meself face to furry face with the same yellow-eyed beast from the woods this afternoon.
Me teeth be all achatter from the cold and me skin be prickled as a plucked hen’s.
The wolf tilts its head to one side. If it had lips, it might be smiling.
“Wh-what you after?” I ask, getting to me feet proper. Beside me, the dead wolf I dragged outta the pond lies still. Its hollowed belly gapes in the moonlight and I swallow, feeling sick to see it.
The other wolf, the wolf with the too-clever eyes, nuzzles at me hand. It takes me wrist in its mouth, all gentle like a mother cat moving her kittens, and tugs. Fangs press into me skin but don’t break it. The wolf tugs again, then lets me go. It trots a few paces away towards me Granmama’s house before stopping to look back over its shoulder, head cocked. Its eyes glitter in the moonlight. I grab me cloak from where I left it near the edge of the water and wrap it round me shoulders, the wool soft and warm on me shivery skin. Then I bundle me tattered nightgown up close to me chest and run after the wolf.
By the time I reach the front door, the beast has lifted the latch with its too-clever paws and slipped inside.
Behind me, there come a spat of barking noises, ratchety as an old sinner’s cough. I turn round and see maybe seven or eight big grey wolves all jostling and asnuffling round the dead one down by the mill pond. One of them nudges the body with its nose, licks at lifeless jowls that won’t ever lick back. Another sits on its haunches and shows its silvery throat to the moon. That howl be full of hurt and helplessness. It sinks into me bones. Into me blood. Me heart beats with it.
Wiping at me eyes, I push into me Granmama’s house and shut the door on the night and all its wolves.
Excepting one.
Which I do me best to ignore as I busy meself lighting a fire in the grate. I still be chilled from me swim and me hands shake as I shape the kindling. Sneaking a sidelong glance, I see the wolf sniffing over the stain on the floor. It makes a kind of whine, a kind of growl, and scratches at the wooden boards. The fire takes and I use the bellows to build the flames till they big enough to keep spitting and acrackling on their own. Then I sit back and pull me cloak tighter round meself, pull the hood up over me head. Outside, another howl splits the night. If I be still, if I hold me breath, I can feel the echo of its song in me heart.
The too-clever wolf finds the basket I left behind on the sideboard this afternoon. The hunk of salted pork disappears between its jaws in three quick bites. Now it looks to me, amber eyes bright, and for a moment I wonder if it means to fill its belly with girl flesh after all. If it maybe just wanted me all warmed up first.
“Do what you gonna do,” I says. “Only do it quick.”
But the wolf just closes its eyes and dips its head and then—
And then—
Smarter folks’n me might find the proper words for how it happens, but they not here to see it.
The arch and crack of a furry spine, the stretch and pull of slender legs.
Paws spreading and splaying into feet and into hands, ten fingers and ten toes all neatly nailed if you pay no mind to the dirt and grit lodged under them.
That long snout pushing back somehow, pushing in, the whole head bulging and breaking and putti
ng itself back together in ways that seems like it gotta hurt, but the wolf, it makes no sound at all, even as fur melts away to smooth skin like frost meeting the winter sun.
In me mind, I see me Granmama again. Don’t be frightened, my girl, she says this afternoon, you watch now, and you see. I remember how her dressing gown puddled to the floor. I remember how I screamed at the shock of it.
Me face burns with shame.
Maybe now I should look away, but the only naked woman I ever glimpsed before be me Mam with her soft curves and dimples, belly all skin and wrinkles after me baby brother come wailing into the world, and the woman squatting here before me be a different creature. Her legs be hairy and lean and muscled and I can see the rise and judder of her ribs with each panting breath. Her shoulder blades stick out like stunted wings and, between them, a line of coarse dark hair grows right down the middle of her back to disappear into the crack of her arse. She smells like sweat and earth and something else besides. Something musky and wolfish that sticks in me throat and makes me cough.
The woman looks up. Pushes the tangle of long, brown hair outta her eyes and makes her mouth into a shape kinda like a smile, kinda like a snarl. Maybe she outta practice.
“Don’t be scared,” she says. Her voice be rough, like tearing cotton. Maybe she outta practice with that as well.
“What there be to scare me?” I ask, bold as I can. “You lost those nasty old fangs of yours.”
The woman blinks. Then she throws back her head and laughs, a great howling bellow that makes me shiver, makes me flinch. A sudden yearning bubbles up inside me, a feeling like seeing some fine court lady in pearls and a pretty dress and wondering how me own self might look in such a getup, or watching the miller’s oldest son heave round sacks of flour at market and thinking how it might be to lick the fresh dusting of white from his cheeks.
I want to laugh like the wolf-woman laughs. I want to howl down a blessing from the Moon.
