by Robin Jarvis
Here dances Hearts’ fair daughter, see what the curse has brought her. Who can resist her rosebud lips? The bitterest soul they slaughter.
SANDRA’S BROTHERS WERE rampaging around the house and yelling at one another as usual. She closed the door of her tidy, apple-white room and sat at her homework table with a fresh mug of tea. Switching on the lamp, she tried to read the poetry book she was currently enjoying, but the din of her brothers kept intruding on her concentration. She leafed through some schoolwork, but their shouts and screams made any study impossible.
The girl took her MP3 player from the drawer and tried to blot out their riot, but she could still hear them crashing around.
Sandra’s eyes fell on the old children’s book she had bought that afternoon. Taking it in her hands, she examined the illustrations again. Gradually the commotion in the house grew fainter until a deep silence filled her room. Outside the window the light of the afternoon grew dim. Only the lamp was shining, making the printed pages glow in her fingers.
Sandra could feel a buzzing in her head. As she began to read, she felt as though something was ebbing away, something vital was trickling out of her, but she could not tear her eyes from the words of Austerly Fellows. A shadow rose up behind and fell across her neck. Sandra Dixon began to sway backwards and forwards in the chair.
The Jill of Hearts pulled the plum-coloured velvet cloak around her shoulders and covered her head with the ermine-trimmed hood. She urged her horse forward. Wisps of vapour escaped her lips as she spoke.
It was a crisp winter’s night. The moon was high and a covering of deep, frost-glittering snow lay across the realm. Glancing back, the pale girl surveyed the high, solid towers of Mooncaster. The white stonework glimmered like frozen milk and only a handful of windows burned with lantern light. How beautiful the castle appeared against the dark, star-bejewelled sky. She hoped she would return there soon, before she was missed, and before the effects of the sleeping potion that she had fed to Mauger wore off. She hoped her mother, the Queen of Hearts, had brewed it good and strong. Shuddering, she drove all thoughts of that dread monster to the back of her mind. That night she must ride.
Spurring her horse on, she rode through the small village of Mooncot. The peasantry were abed, but threads of pleasant-smelling woodsmoke still climbed from the chimneys of their pretty cottages. The pond in the village green was a clouded ice mirror and the disc of the moon burned like white fire over its surface. The coal eyes of a jolly snowman were the only witness to her passing. Soon the village was left behind and the wintry countryside rolled by, past linen-like meadows and ice-locked streams, past frost-painted hedgerows sparkling with winter diamonds.
The Jill of Hearts’ face felt just as cold as that of the snowman, but when she saw the sprawling woodland of Hunter’s Chase in the distance, her cheeks burned with excitement.
The lane dwindled to a track and that into a footpath across a field that eventually pierced the outlying thickets of Hunter’s Chase. The desolate voice of a wolf cried out in the distance. The horse stamped and tossed its head, blowing steam from its nostrils.
“Peace,” the girl calmed it. “Hungry Mister Wolf is atop the hills, crying at the empty moon dish. He will not come down to trouble us. Be of stout heart.”
The beast shook its head once more.
“We must enter the woodland,” she commanded.
With hesitant steps, the horse passed into the trees.
Hunter’s Chase was a wild, perilous corner of the Kingdom. There were many dangers beneath its branches. In high summer the smothering leaves and tangled undergrowth kept the paths dark and secret, but in this stark chill, all was laid bare. The Jill of Hearts marvelled at the icicle curtains that spiked down from the branches and the crystal pillars the longer ones had formed when they reached the ground. The surrounding trees were silver and white, their naked nooks and crooks draped with hammocks and bolsters of snow. The cold, sharp air tingled with enchantment.
A wolf howled again. This time it was closer. Then another lonely howl joined it. The horse trembled.
“Fear not,” Jill said in a whisper. “They are still far off. We shall be safe and protected ere they reach us.”
“Your steed has better wits than you, my Lady,” a deep voice said suddenly. “You should heed it. This is no place for the likes of one so young and fair and brimming with blood.”
The Jill of Hearts started and looked around her in fear and astonishment.
A tall, wild-looking man stepped out from behind one of the frozen cascades ahead. The girl pulled on the reins and reached for the dagger at her side.
“Declare yourself!” she commanded.
The man was clad from head to toe in skins and furs. A large axe was strapped to his brawny back beneath a cloak made from many hides and a beaver-skin hat covered his bearded head.
“I am the Woodman,” he explained. “May I ask where you are bound on this bitter night when all folk should be huddled before their fires?”
Jill tried to remember what her governess had told her about the Woodman of Hunter’s Chase, but she could not. Only one personage had ever interested her in this dangerous place. She had not paid attention to the other stories.
“I do not see why it is any of your concern, Master Woodman,” she answered loftily.
The man chortled and stepped nearer. “Know you the terrors of this wood?” he asked. “Know you of the cave up that trail yonder, where the cinnamon bear dwells? Have you not heard of the gnomes who bide beneath ancient roots and reach up with twiggy hands to trip and catch the lost traveller then slit his throat and feed the blood and ground-up bones to the tree? Or the sounder of savage boars with tusks like scimitars that could cut the legs clean off your horse in a twinkling? Perhaps you’ve heard of the Bad Shepherd who roams here betimes? Or of the Mistletoe King who calls down curses to punish the rash and foolhardy? This wood stretches close to the border and many dark creatures steal in over that unguarded boundary. And what of the wolves, my Lady? Surely you have heard them a-howling?”
Even as he said it, the mournful howls began again. They were even closer now and there were more than two of them.
“I am not afraid,” Jill said defiantly. “I know where my path takes me. I shall be safe there.”
The Woodman chuckled with understanding. “Then it is Malinda’s cottage you seek!” he declared. “On such a frost-biting night as this, no other bolt-hole would offer protection. What can that old Fairy Godmother do for you, I’m wondering?”
“Again that is my business,” she told him.
He bowed in apology. “My manners are as rough and rude as my garments,” he said. “Let me atone by leading you to the one secure shelter in this wild edge of the Kingdom – the cottage of Malinda. No evil thing may enter her fences, though they prowl and skulk all around, throughout the hungry night – testing and trying.”
The girl wanted to refuse his offer, but the howling of the wolves frightened her. The man came closer. The horse shuddered and the girl could smell the animal skins he wore, mingled with his own grease and musk.
“Lead me then,” she instructed.
The Woodman bowed again and smiled. His teeth were white as the surrounding snow and sharp as the hanging ice.
“Love philtres are what most maidens go knocking on Malinda’s door for,” he said. “Or charms to enhance or restore their beauty. You have no need of either. Ha – you blush, my Lady!”
“You must not say such things,” she chided him. “Surely you are used to praise and tributes? Do youths and princelings not line up to court you? Is there no wooing done within the white walls of Mooncaster? Are the contents of their britches frozen also?”
“Enough, Sir!” she scolded. “Your talk is not seemly.”
“And yet I see it has kindled a rosy April in your cheeks!” he laughed. “We know naught of ‘seemly’ in my wood. The stags rut, the doves bill and coo, the rabbits… well, they do what rabbits do best.”
He flashed his smile again. It was wider than before.
“Then I am glad I do not live in this wood,” Jill replied. “Now tell me, Sir. What errand lures you from hearth and home this night?”
“I go to meet my brothers,” he told her. “When the moon is as white and round as this, we gather and go hunting.”
“What quarry can there be in the hollows of a winter night?”
The howling was nearer. The girl gripped the reins tightly to keep from shaking.
“There is always something to hunt down,” he said, his colourless eyes shining at her.
“And your brothers,” she continued. “Are they woodmen also?”
“They live in the woods,” he answered, stroking the horse’s neck with his hairy hands.
“Is it much further? Are you certain we follow the correct path? Should we not have turned left when it divided back there?”
“No, indeed,” he said. “We are almost at the end.”
“Listen to those horrors!” she gasped. “Let us hasten; they sound almost upon us.”
“They are famished,” he said, hearkening to the chilling wolf calls. “Your steed’s sweat has laced the air. Their snouts are tracking it. They want to feast on its steaming flesh. They smell it as strongly as I can scent the fear that flows from you, my Lady.”
“Take up your axe!” she urged. “We will have need. Look – over there! Through the trees! A shape. A wolf. There – another!”
The wolves were fast. They loped through the woodland swiftly, their pale eyes glaring at her with steady malevolence.
“Your axe, Sir!” she said again. “They are running us round and closing!”
The Woodman turned about, watching the circling wolves drawing nearer. The Jill of Hearts drew her dagger and brandished it in warning.
“Begone!” she shouted in as fierce a voice as she could manage.
Then, to her surprise, the man began to laugh. It was a warm, friendly sound and she stared at him incredulously. Had he gone mad?
“Welcome!” he called. “Well met, my brothers. See what I have trapped us. Fill your wagging bellies on the beast, but let the girl feed my appetite before her blood is drunk.”
The wolves came prowling from the trees. Loud, threatening growls rumbled deep within their throats. The Woodman shook his head and cast off the cloak of hides. With it went his clothes – and the very skin he stood in. A monstrous figure of fur, claw and muscle remained.
“Werewolf!” the girl shrieked.
The wolves pounced. The nightmare leaped at her. She threw her dagger at his throat and spurred the horse away. The steed galloped down the icy path. The wolves went rushing after.
A fiercer, much louder gargling howl shook the snow-laden trees. The werewolf tore the blade from his neck and licked it. Then, with a snarl, he bounded in pursuit.
Horse and rider fled deeper into the wood. The pack and its fearsome leader were close behind. The hunt was on.
The Jill of Hearts could hear the werewolf bellowing. The horse raced as fast as the winding path permitted. Low branches and fallen trees checked the pace. It leaped and veered, but the hunters were closing. Sharp teeth clamped about the horse’s tail. It kicked back with its hooves. The wolf went flying against a tree and broke its neck. Another wolf sprang into its place. Through their ranks the horrific werewolf came charging. One of his claws lashed out and ripped a gash through the velvet cloak.
The girl screamed and ducked as the other claw came swiping for her head.
Upon both sides of the galloping horse a wolf drew level. Jill knew they were preparing to jump up and bite. She saw another race on ahead then spin around and tense, ready to leap.
She pulled to the left. The ground rose steeply there and she could see no trees beyond a line of great oaks. Her only hope was to reach open ground. Then her mount could make a desperate dash and the wolves would never catch them.
Her horse whinnied as it swerved aside. It tore up the slope, trampling one of the wolves into the snow with a shrill yelp and a crunching of bones. The other fiends came darting up and the werewolf let out a blood-curdling roar.
“Almost there!” Jill cried. “Almost at the top, then you run – run like you never have before. Fly through the darkness, my love.”
A jaw came leaping at her arm. She smacked it away. Another bit at the hem of her cloak and almost dragged her from the saddle.
Then they reached the top. But the Jill of Heart’s hopes were shattered. It was only a ridge, encircling a wide, basin-shaped glade. They were doomed. The werewolf came storming up to her and threw back its hideous head to howl. But the chase was not over yet. The ridge was narrow and the horse slithered and slipped. Neighing wildly, it went tumbling down the other side. Jill screamed and was flung clear. She rolled and somersaulted, falling helplessly down into the snow-filled glade below, and plunged head first into a deep drift.
An instant later she exploded out of it, stumbling free and whirling around, ready to fight to her last breath.
Her horse was already staggering upright and shaking its mane. But where were their pursuers?
The girl looked upwards. The wolves were still on the ridge. They and the horror that stood amongst them were questing the air. She saw their eyes gleaming, but they were not staring at her. With her heart pounding, she realised that something was behind her – something that even they were wary of. Trembling, she turned.
The glade was empty and the snow untouched. No trees grew there, except one. A fine pomegranate was growing in the centre. Not a flake of snow had touched its bushy green foliage and bright red blossom shared the boughs with ripe, shining fruits. Yet it was not the tree that filled the wolves and that monster with doubt, but the creature that nibbled at its lowest branches.
“It cannot be,” the girl said.
In size and shape, it resembled a roe deer, but there the similarity ended. Its hide was white as the snow its cloven hooves stood upon and a tail, like that of a lion, swished behind its long back. A golden collar gleamed around its neck, from which dangled three links of a glittering, broken chain.
The vapour of a disbelieving breath exhaled from Jill’s lips.
A fine, creamy beard sprouted from the animal’s chin, but it was what grew from the centre of its forehead that made the girl gasp. It was a long, straight, tapering horn.
“It is a dream…” she murmured. “It must be.”
The animal made no sign it was aware of them. It paced around the tree then thrust its ivory horn up into the branches and scraped it along the boughs. Two fruits fell into the snow at its feet. It stamped on one then lowered its head to delicately lick up the spilled ruby-like seeds.
The Jill of Hearts had never seen anything so perfectly magickal before. Even in the Realm of the Dawn Prince she had never believed in the existence of these creatures. But there it was.
“You are beautiful,” she said.
The unicorn gazed shyly at her for a moment then stamped on the second pomegranate and began lapping the burst contents. Jill heard an impatient snort close by. Her horse was eyeing the ridge fearfully. The wolves were crouching, shifting their weight from side to side, tensing and making ready to resume the hunt. They obviously did not consider the fabulous beast to be any threat to them. The werewolf was licking his fangs. First the girl, his vicious mind had decided. Then he lusted to rip out the throat of that dainty-footed curiosity.
With a savage yell, he came bounding down, his wolf brothers flanking him.
The girl rushed to her steed. It reared in alarm at the sound of the ravening wolves and bolted out of reach. Jill stood alone and helpless. The marauding pack came bursting through the snowdrift.
Three wolves raced immediately around the back of her, cutting off any escape. Two more came stalking in from the sides, whilst the harrowing form of the werewolf lumbered straight for her.
She could not look at his unclean eyes. Nor could she stare into his red throat as he rushe
d to tear her to pieces. She covered her face and waited.
Suddenly a strange, unearthly sound blasted across the glade. It was a strident, bleating scream. The wolves that surrounded her flinched and cowered as they jerked their heads around. A second scream made the werewolf spin about and he bellowed back at it.
Jill lowered her hands to look. The unicorn was shaking its elegant head and pawing at the snow. It opened its mouth again and another eerie scream trumpeted in the night.
Then it lowered its head and charged.
The werewolf gave a snarling laugh. One slash of his powerful claws, one lunging bite, and it would be over. He stretched out his mighty arms. The sinews tensed in his hairy shoulders. His sharp ears flattened against his skull. Saliva dripped from his jaws.
The brutal contest did not last long. Hunter’s Chase resounded with fearsome screeches. The Jill of Hearts fell back at the sight of such merciless savagery. The pure white snow exploded with crimson. Flesh and limbs were hurled wantonly into the air, then shredded and spat out. The gory carcass was leaped upon and the tail torn out by the roots.
Straddling the mutilated body of the werewolf, the unicorn reared its head and the dead fiend’s blood trickled down the twining groove of its long, lethal horn. It gave a bleat of victory. Then its goat-like eyes stared balefully at the petrified wolves. They could not believe what they had just witnessed. It was as if the most ferocious, mighty lion was hidden within a lamb.
The unicorn sprang at them.
Yowling and whining, the wolves turned tail and ran for their lives. The unicorn raced after. A yelp signalled the end of one. A triumphant bleat heralded the impaling of another. Two wolves scrambled up the ridge and escaped; the remaining one was not so lucky. The unicorn rammed its horn through the beast’s brains and tore the head clean off.
Jill looked around her, aghast. Everywhere was stained red. She stared up at the ridge and saw that the unicorn was already returning. Kneeling in the deep snow, the plum-coloured cloak ripped and tattered about her shoulders, she waited breathlessly. The animal was staring fixedly at her and she too was petrified.
