Big, Bad Wolf

by Essex, Bridget

  “Here.” Kara gestured, and she held up a bit of the chain-link fencing that still stood around the property. I scooted underneath it, maintaining enough balance to keep myself from spilling onto the ice. Kara followed me, and put the fencing back exactly as she'd found it.

  And then we followed a well-pounded path through the snow toward the building. Boots and shoes and even a bare human footprint here and there spoke of how many times people had been this way. Many people seemed to live here, I realized, as we neared the building. The air was crisp, and my nose was partially frozen, but I still smelled smoke.

  “Kara...” I paused, clearing my throat again. She turned to look at me, eyes wide in the dark, questioning.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  I looked around us, at the darkness betrayed by town lights, at the stark, cold lines of the building, dilapidated beyond repair, rising before us. I heard singing in the distance. It sounded like a hymn.

  I saw how hopeful her face was in the dark.

  “Nothing,” I replied, digging my hands deeply into jacket pockets. I glanced at her in her shirt and jeans, no coat. She must be frozen solid, but with a reassuring smile, she took me by the arm and gently lead me into that place.

  The first thing that stuck me was the sheer monstrosity of this forgotten factory. We entered in a lopsided door, half decayed and rotted, covered in a sheet of ice. Then, before us, stretched the long width of the first floor.

  This part didn’t have a second story, only skylights above us, far above us. The room rose, seemingly limitless. The windows were broken or cracked, and I could see stars on the other side. Bits of white cloth draped down from the rafters, and they looked for all the world like ghosts, moving in the breeze from the broken windows. As I stepped forward, I almost fell again--the floor was thick with ice.

  “Watch your step,” murmured Kara quietly, and she tightened her grip protectively on my arm. Then, we were walking along the corridor, hugging the wall. There was less ice here, I saw, and footprints, where the snow had drifted in from the windows.

  We followed a particularly hard pounded path, past gutted rooms full of snow and papers rotting on the floor, with doors off their hinges, or hanging eerily in the half light by a single hinge. It wasn’t pitch black--the moon shone overhead, and there were streetlights that cast the place in a half glow, but it was still dark inside. I pressed myself against Kara, and realized I was shivering.

  She wasn't. In fact, she was warm when she put her hand in my coat pocket, gripping my fingers between her own. They were hot and welcome. I held her hand tightly, stepping around chunks of broken glass and records, bits of newspaper and single shoes.

  “Here,” she indicated a staircase through another doorway. The paint on the walls and ceiling had been peeling for years, curling up to meet the cold air. It was a kind of weird effect, as if the entire room was trying to molt. The stairs were made of cement, but had cracked in places, there was glass everywhere, and our feet crunched sadly in the darkness. I followed her as she began her descent downward, but my grip tightened. “What goes down must come up,” said Kara quietly, with a grin. I heard the singing; it was fainter, now.

  In the basement, there was no redeeming light. Kara fished around in a hollow in the cement and came up with a stub of candle and a match. She flicked it along the wall, and the scent of sulfur and bright glow surrounded us.

  “How are you doing?” she asked. I was shaking, visibly now, even in this poor light. I nodded, rubbing my hands together, trying to keep my spirits up.

  “I'm just cold,” I told her.

  We continued on. There were long shelves along the wall, splintered in places, covered in cobwebs, and icicles where the floor above us had broken, and snow and rain had gone through. My breath came out in brief puffs, even close to the warmth of the candle, and I tried not to look in the corners. I could have sworn I saw small things moving, and I didn’t want to notice rats.

  “Here,” Kara paused and indicated a door, propped open by a block of wood. She moved it, with some difficulty, to be wide enough for us to pass through. “Go on,” she muttered through clenched teeth. The candle was held in shaking fingers as she tried to hold the gargantuan thing open.

  I slid through the crack she'd created, and then instantly regretted it. It was pitch black here. As Kara came in behind me, I let out a small squeak, as did the tiny, furry inhabitant we’d rudely interrupted. He scampered away into the darkness. There was a set of stairs that went upward here in the corner, and more peeling paint.

  “Going up?” She was trying to keep a lighthearted tone about it all, and I assumed this was for my benefit. I gripped her arm again, and we ascended the stairs. These were not cement, but wood, and they were broken in parts. The landings, however, were reasonably sturdy, and by the time we'd reached ground level, I was ready to try for the next set.

  We rose a step at a time as I listened to the weary creaking with my heart in my throat. “Don't worry,” Kara was saying, “people go up and down these a lot—they sound bad, but they’re actually pretty strong.” Somehow I didn't believe her, but I must have, because I kept going, and then we’d reached the second level of the building. There was another large door at the end of the landing. A piece of sturdy cardboard was placed between the jam and door to block its complete closing. I heard music, strains of a violin, which made me crinkle my forehead, turn to Kara, but she shushed me with a long finger to her lips...and then she stepped forward, and pushed the door open.

  Fire danced along the walls, licking dangerously towards the ceiling, but as my own heart went into my throat, my eyes began to adjust to the light again. So, no, the building was thankfully not going up in flames. The fires were in burning barrels, set on concrete blocks. There were grills with flames, and pots full of live coals. And candles--it actually looked a little like a Catholic church along the walls where hundreds of candles, burning on metal sheets, had made the walls black.

  Milling around the fires were people, many people, I realized. At least fifty. In the center of the group of people, a man stood on top of an overturned crate, cradling a violin to his chin and coaxing a sweet melody from it. It filled the air, as did the smoke.

  There were scents the beckoned me closer, the scent of cooking meat and simmering incense, lavender and herbs. We walked into the place, and I realized it was no longer so cold. I took off my hat and gloves, my stomach growling.

  The people turned towards us as we came closer, and the violinist paused in his playing. Kara walked proudly by my side, squeezing my hand. “This,” she said, then, gesturing to the crowd, “is my family.”

  These people, clustered close to the fires to stay warm, were piled with layers of dirty clothes to keep away the cold, but regardless of their circumstances, smiles shone, easily, on faces that, for all apparent hardships, glowed with health and joy. They were a bright, warm group of people—they reminded me of the firelight they stood around.

  “Everyone, this is Megan,” said Kara, then. I smiled a bit, shyly, and they stepped forward as one. Some to pound my back, some to shake my hand. They all touched me in one way or another, but I wasn’t self conscious like I usually might be. They moved with grace and gentleness, striding with power and fluidity. One woman stepped forward and kissed my cheek. Her lips were warm.

  “We made a stew—we weren’t sure when you’d be coming,” the man declared on the crate. He held his violin up and grinned down at the both of us, hopping down to the floor. He wore a long plaid coat and his longish black hair back in a ponytail. He looked remarkably like Kara. “I don’t know if it’s any good because the dumpsters were a little lean this week, but if you’re hungry, we’d love to share it with you.”

  “I’m actually very hungry, thank you,” I told him, then. I felt a little out of place, like I was in a dream, or in one of the pictures of my fairy tale books when I was a kid. I should be beneath trees and a full moon in some far away land, a storybook land. And yet, somethi
ng about these people was strangely familiar, and I remembered the scent of lavender and herbs, the same scent as my grandmother’s drawer satchels. She’d gotten them from the traveling people, once, she’d told me. People she’d helped…

  As Kara ushered me forward, towards the largest fire, I felt a faint memory leave me. There were random pillows and blankets around the fire in a rough circle. I sat down on an old Barbie comforter and drew my legs up. The floorboards pressed into my bottom, even through the cloth, and I realized I hadn’t noticed the cold here, but I was shaking a little again. But the man stoked the fire and Kara brought me a plain bowl of steaming liquid. I couldn’t name all of the vegetables or herbs in it, but what I tasted was very good.

  “You're Megan, then?” the man came and sat down on my other side, as Kara sat on my right. All around us, the people sank down on pillows and blankets, sprawling like puppies in the dancing light.

  “Yes, I am,” I smiled again, wincing at how hot the stew was on my tongue. I was burning my mouth and felt the heat of it shoot through me as I winced.

  “I'm Ledo,” he grinned a crooked grin. “I’m brother to our dear Kara.”

  “I thought you two looked alike,” I smiled, a little shy. I looked down into my stew. The steam curled like a plant, climbing towards my nose.

  “We've been waiting to meet you.” His voice was easy, kind. “You see, our Kara never stops talking about you. I feel like I know you already”

  I blushed and hoped that the darkened room would hide it. “How long have you been living here?” I asked then, because I was curious.

  “Not very long,” said Ledo, reiterating his sister's estimate as he settled his elbows on his knew. “We...travel. A lot.” His gaze darted to Kara, but she was staring at the fire, her eyes softened and unfocused, as if she was thinking of something else.

  “Are you staying long?” It was something I hadn’t considered, and even as I asked it, I swallowed, fear churning in my belly. If they traveled a lot, that meant Kara might leave.

  He shrugged. “We go as the wind goes. We don't really make plans. You're a librarian?” he asked then, smoothly changing the subject.

  I smiled a little, blew on the stew as I tried to cool it. “Yes, yes I am. That's how I met Kara, actually…she came in asking for art books.”

  “She loves art,” he watched his sister rise, leave us for the moment. He kept talking. “She said you were an artist?”

  “I am,” I felt my cheeks color. “I don't think I've ever even shown her any of my stuff. I just mentioned it--”

  “She seemed to be of the opinion that you were quite good.”

  Odd. I hadn’t remembered showing her any of my old things, and only that day had I drawn her. And I hadn’t shown her the sketch.

  “Megan?” Kara's comforting voice washed over me, and I glanced up at her quickly. She'd come back over to us. She curled a finger toward me with a secretive smile. “Can you come with me? Are you done with your stew?”

  “It's very good, just too hot...” I told her.

  “No matter—it can cool.” She helped me stand, took the bowl from my fingers. “There's someone I want you to meet.”

  We crossed the circle of people, and came to stand in front of an older woman. She had wrinkles creasing her face, but her hair was still jet black, and plaited into a long braid down her back. She wore red, all red, mismatched gradients of the color in different shirts, sweaters, skirts and even pants that she wore beneath the skirts. Her eyes were dark, I thought, as she looked up at me. So brown they were almost black.

  “This is Nedra,” Kara whispered in my ear, her hot breath against my skin making me shiver a little, and my body curved toward her. “She already knows who you are. She's a very good friend of mine. I guess you'd call her a psychic. She wanted to do...a reading for you? Is that okay with you?”

  I sat down in front of the woman, my head swimming. I felt pretty hot, now. My throat and tongue burned, but my entire body felt warm to the touch. I looked into the woman's eyes and blinked. It was impossible, but they seemed to be even darker now.

  “Welcome to our home for the time being, Megan,” the woman was saying. I’d never gotten a psychic reading before. I didn’t know how to tell Kara that I thought anything psychic was, not to put too fine a point on it, a load of crap. But this was obviously important to her, and I didn’t want to insult a friend of Kara’s. I blinked as the woman took my hand, gentle fingers tracing my skin.

  “Are you reading my palm?” I asked, trying to hide my smile. I bit down on my lip. I really didn’t want to insult her.

  “No,” she said, one brow up as she pet my palm over and over with her fingertips. “I'm trying to calm you down. Your heart is racing.”

  It was... but I hadn’t noticed it. My body was now hot, but it was also numb. I blinked owlishly a few times in this dull light, a roaring filling my head. I was feeling like I had that night in the blizzard…I felt feverish. The heat spread out from my belly to distant limbs, fire in my veins, in my head.

  Everything was burning up, now. An inferno.

  The woman's edges blurred. I tried to look at her, tried to pin her down in my line of sight, but I couldn’t. She wavered and danced like the edges of a flame. I saw nothing but shadow.

  But her hand, the fingers that gripped my own...those were solid and real, even as her own edges waxed out of focus. I tried to understand what was happening—how could a fever come up so quickly? As she traced her fingers on my palm, I realized she was speaking to me, but I couldn’t make out words. Swarms of flies, locusts maybe, made a crescendo in my ears. There was only the dull roar. I watched her lips work.

  “Sit,” Nedra pushed me down onto a pillow next to her. It was done gently, but there was no strength in me and I fell hard. The pillow was flat and dirty on the ground. I bruised my hip when I fell.

  My tongue was thick in my mouth. I was so thirsty.

  She lit a braid of what looked to be hay and waved it around us. It glowed at the tips from the match. “Bless us both,” she said, moving her mouth. “Come, Megan...” Nedra was whispering now, and I heard an accent thick in her voice. Funny that I hadn’t noticed it before. “Look and see.”

  I'm looking, I wanted to say. My tongue was too thick to form words. My breathing continued, quicker, the smoke choking me…

  The light snuffed out like a flame.

  Chapter 6

  I’m twelve. I wear a cast off dress, covered with holes that Gramma hasn't gotten around to mending. But I'm wandering in the crick today, so it doesn't matter. I'm in a state of undress anyway, a wild child, a hooligan. My bare feet squelch in the mud. I’m home.

  There’s a frog evading me. I sit very patiently on the bank, waiting for his head to pop out of the hole. He dashed in there when he heard me coming. Too smart for me. I'll show him. I'll catch him and bring him back to my Gramma to proudly display in my hands. He's gorgeous, pretty big. She'll praise me for catching such a beauty. And then I'll bring him back to his home. It's a game we play often.

  As I sit there, my breathing becomes steady and quiet. I don't blink. I watch the moving surface of the stream, and I will my heart to stop beating...almost. And then he raises his head, and I dive my hand beneath the surface for him.

  A larger hand, a much larger hand, closes around my tiny wrist and keeps it from darting forward. I let out a surprised huff and look up angrily at this intruder on my space. It’s Clyde, my grandmother's neighbor. I contrive to look angry, but I'm not. No one can be angry at Clyde for long.

  “It's not nice to catch the frogs,” he admonishes me, as if I’m just a kid. I’m twelve years old! Almost full-grown! I know right and well what I can do and what I should be up to. I open my mouth to form an angry retort, and he puts his other hand on it, leaning forward.

  “All right, all right, I didn’t mean to make you mad,” he says, face gentle. “If you want to catch the frogs, that’s all right. I can help you! I have some boxes, back at the hou
se, big ol’ boxes that would make catchin’ them easy. We should go back and get them, then we could play a game at my house.”

  “I can’t, Clyde…Gramma says be home before sunset. She’s making my favorite for dinner,” I explain as if it should be obvious.

  “Well,” he says quickly. I listen as he explains there is something in the woods he wants to show to me, then.

  “It’s not far?” I ask

  “Not far at all.”

  I put my hand in his, willingly, and we walk into the green together. The trees tower over us both, and we are almost equal in our smallness beneath them.

  “There,” he points, and I step forward, curious. His finger bends down towards the earth.

  On the ground is a carcass: a dead deer, gutted. There is blood surrounding it, staining the grasses and moss, sucked in by the hungry soil. Her eyes have been ravaged out of her head. The sockets look like they’ve been bitten--gnawed clean through--deep red messes that have paused in their leaking to the earth, dried by the summer heat. The stench is overpowering.

  “Wolves did this,” whispers Clyde. “Gramma Molly says you don't know enough about the dangers of the wood. I want to teach them to you, Megan.”

  I stare at the deer. I can't breathe. I'm shaking.

  “Big, bad wolves,” Clyde shakes his head.

  I back away from the thing, I can’t breathe, I still can’t breathe. Clyde puts his big hand around my arm, eyes wide. “You’re not leaving, are you?” he asks, “what about the frogs…the boxes?”

  “I have to go home, Clyde,” I say, tears coming down my cheeks.

  “Maybe next time,” he mutters, as I race away.

  ---

  I gasped and sat upright as cold water splashed on my face. There was a moment of sputtering and I sucked in air through my mouth...barely. My limbs were too heavy to move. My body sunk back down without my telling it to do so. I had no control on my limbs, on my thoughts. I felt like I was underwater.