Stepmothers and the Big Bad Wolf eARC

by Edited by Madeline Smoot

  A dog was barking when Sarah woke the next morning. The sound of breaking glass made her scramble to her feet.

  “It’s tax day,” she explained tersely to Max. He sat up, frowning.

  “When do you have tax day?”

  “Whenever the Guard feels like it.” She lined the yoga mats up neatly and checked that needle and thread strands were both woven into her clothing with nothing showing. She’d picked the green shirt apart into pieces the night before, and the beans were already soaking in the leftover stew. There was a moment of panic in the realization that while there was nothing they were likely to take … there was also nothing to appease them. Reluctantly she pulled the small blanket she’d been piecing together out of the rag pile and folded it neatly on top of her mat.

  She glanced over at Max, who now sat cross legged on his mat. She opened her mouth to warn him then shut it and gestured to him to stand. She could hear Cyrus talking next door, a rumble of threat with no distinguishable words.

  Her eyes dropped to the floor as her makeshift door was flung open. Three pairs of boots showed that the Guard had come himself, today.

  “What do you have for me, girl?” Cyrus grabbed her chin, while Luke dumped Max’s pack onto the nearest mat.

  Sarah swallowed her fear and indicated the blanket. Cyrus gathered it up and tossed it to the Guard, who examined it and nodded. Max’s pack produced little beyond some questionable meat jerky and a collection of twine and sticks. A small green bottle had no stopper and was too small to be useful; his canteen was dented and rusted.

  “That all you got, boy?” Luke asked, and Max smiled, meeting his gaze.

  “I’m told I’ve got my health and good looks.”

  Luke glanced at the Guard, who stepped forward to pick up the bottle. He held it up to the light by the door and smiled as he smashed it against a cinderblock.

  “Have better for me next time if you want water,” he said, and then nodded to Luke. Luke grinned as he turned the gun to jam the stock into Max’s unprotected stomach, then the three men left.

  Sarah held her breath for a moment before sinking to her knees. She gathered up the pieces of the green bottle then looked over at Max. He was holding his stomach, but smiling, like a rifle stock to the gut was funny. She sat back, shaking her head.

  “Why didn’t you look away?”

  Max raised one eyebrow. “Because they don’t scare me. They’re just people; just bullies like you’ll find anywhere.”

  “They should scare you. These bullies have guns.”

  Max stretched slightly, and winced. “It’s been ten years. How many bullets do you think they have left? One shot gun, one rifle, and one hand gun. They didn’t waste a bullet on me, did they?” He smiled again, and Sarah shook her head.

  “You are one crazy bastard.”

  She meant it, and it was true, but it didn’t keep her from smiling back.

  The walls by the spigot helped to explain why the Guard and his men had been in such a foul mood. Each one had graffiti on it, in different scrawls or scratches. The Wolf Is Here.

  Max had come with his canteen as she carried her bucket. A crowd was gathering, but no line was forming; the Guard and his deputies were standing in front of the spigot, weapons out.

  “We’ll have answers, now, or no water for any of you! Who is the Wolf?”

  A rumble of consternation went through the crowd, then Max stepped forward. He was smiling again, Jim’s smile, a smile that reminded her oddly of Before, of plentiful food and safety.

  “I am the Wolf,” he said.

  There was a moment of shocked silence, and then Luke lifted his rifle to his shoulder and fired. Max fell to the ground, a hole blossoming in his head … and still smiling.

  Sarah dropped to her knees beside him, searching the darkening eyes. He had known a secret, and she wanted it, wanted it more than she had ever wanted anything. Then, as the murmur began and she heard the Guard laugh, she found it.

  “Well, now that that’s taken care of,” the Guard was saying as she rose back to her feet, tall and proud and unafraid.

  “I am the Wolf!”

  The Guard paused and Luke hesitantly began to raise his rifle again. She could feel the smile splitting her face, the joy of relinquishing her fear.

  “I am the Wolf.” It was Jim, and he too was smiling.

  Luke shifted his hold on the gun and Cyrus raised his. A woman Sarah didn’t know straightened suddenly, face serene. “I am the Wolf.”

  “I am the Wolf!” The chant was growing now, voices overlapping.

  How many bullets do you think they have?

  Not enough, apparently. Luke broke first, and then Cyrus and the Guard were turning with him, turning to run.

  “I am the Wolf!”

  They were still running when the crowd pulled them down and tore them apart.

  Hope Erica Schultz lives in Central Massachusetts with her spouse, two children, one dog, four cats, and assorted visiting wildlife. She writes SF and fantasy stories and novels that can be considered comedy, adventure, or horror depending on where she chooses to end them. When not writing, reading, or pretending to be someone else, she still works for a living. Find her at https://www.facebook.com/hope.schultz.14

  You wake up to the alarm like it’s an ordinary morning. The coverall feels cool on your skin as you pull it on; it’s getting a little short in the legs, but there’s no sense in worrying about that now.

  Susan is already in the kitchen. She doesn’t look as though she’s slept at all, and as much as you don’t want to, you feel a little sorry for her. She doesn’t have many more choices than you do, and everyone always says that blood is thicker than water.

  Why do they say that? It isn’t water that’s scarce—it’s air.

  “Would you mind getting your sister up?” she asks, already busy cooking breakfast. You see that she is making French toast, like it’s your birthday or something.

  Or something.

  You shake your head and go to your sister’s compartment. You never addressed Susan as “Mom,” not even when she first married Dad when you were little, but today it feels almost cruel to call her by her first name.

  Cara is starting to wake up when you lift her out, and she wraps her arms around you. She’s talking, a little now, and goes to the crèche a lot more while Susan works. You usually watch her in the evenings until Susan gets home.

  In one more month, you’d be done with school and working enough for your social credits and the rest of the family, beside. The taxes, unfortunately, are due now. With Dad dead, Susan just doesn’t make enough to support three people.

  Susan hands you a plate as you return to the kitchen, and you look at her, trying to remember why you used to hate her.

  “I asked if we could leave Cara at the crèche, today, but the whole family has to be there.”

  You nod. The rules always make at least a twisted kind of sense. Your family had been lucky enough never to have to face this, before, but luck was as scarce as air, with never enough to go around.

  You eat in silence, enjoying the flavors, and then force a smile. “Thank you.”

  Susan nods, but doesn’t smile back. “You’re welcome.”

  There are things you could bring with you, but there’s no sense, really. You stare at your single shelf of belongings, at your reflection in the small mirror, and then close the door to your compartment. Cara can have your things, and your room, when she’s older.

  Cara is fussing, and you take her from your stepmother and rest her against one hip. “I’ll carry her.”

  Susan’s severe face softens a little, even though she doesn’t smile. “Thank you.”

  You head out into the corridor, knowing from the noises behind that Susan is following. You pass the turn to your class, the turn to the infirmary, and follow the corridor to the very back of the ship.

  There are only two families waiting outside the accounting room. One stands in angry silence, not looking at each other
. One family is crying and hugging and carrying on so that you are actually a little embarrassed. Then there are the three of you, a small broken family about to get smaller.

  You bounce Cara on your hip and talk to her as you wait, ignoring the other families. At length the door opens, and a woman comes out calling Susan’s name as head of household.

  You walk inside, trying not to hold Cara too tightly, with Susan right behind you. You’ve never been here before, and the room is small and sterile and cold, with three doors including the one you came in through. The woman who summoned you in has returned to her computer; there are two guards behind her, both armed.

  “Susan Evans, you do not have enough social credits to cover the air for three people. As head of household you must designate the member to be withdrawn. You have five minutes,” the woman says, as though five minutes now will make any difference. The door on the back wall is frosted, and you look at it, refusing to flinch.

  You’ve known what had to happen ever since Dad had his accident. You might not have been an easy stepchild, but you love Cara as much as any full sibling could.

  You turn to hand Cara back to Susan, but she is glaring at you fiercely, and then puts a hand on either side of your face.

  “I didn’t always like you … but I didn’t have to like you to love you.”

  She touches her forehead to yours, puts a hand on Cara’s curls like a benediction, then turns and walks to the airlock door, and through it.

  C. H. Spalding has been writing short stories since the 1980s or before. Only claim to fame: having dinner with Anne McCaffrey in 1992, then nervously pushing her in a wheelchair around the Atlanta airport to get her to her flight. She wanted to take the escalator at one point. Oh God, the terror.

  She of the Impure Heart sat by the small campfire, waiting. She took in deep breaths of the fire’s acrid smoke, faintly perfumed with the kitchen herbs she had stolen. The older student who had told her in whispers and half muffled snatches about the ceremony had mentioned sacred, magical herbs for the ritual. He just couldn’t tell her from those half-remembered tales from his youth which herbs to use. Impure Heart could only hope that rosemary, basil and coriander would suffice.

  A small breeze pulled at Impure Heart’s nightdress and blew more smoke from the fire into her face. Impure felt odd outside without a corset and the stiff starched collars of her uniform, but she had not wanted to meet an Animal of her ancestors garbed in the day clothes the white men of the school chose for her to wear. Her traditional clothes along with her family, her language, and her name had all been taken from her the day she had arrived at the School, eleven years before.

  With her long hair braided down her back instead of pinned on top of her head, and despite the bright white nightdress instead of soft leathers, Impure hoped she looked more like her proud mother and less like the meek servant girl the School had trained her to be. Perhaps if she succeeded tonight, that meek little servant girl would no longer exist.

  Hunger gnawed painfully at her. She had never gone an entire day without food before. It was perhaps the only good thing that could be said about the School: no child there starved. The older student had warned her that her Hembleciya could take many days and that she would not be able to eat at all during that time. The boy had looked fearful and a bit daring when he had whispered the forbidden word, Hembleciya. He had looked over his shoulder, afraid a teacher might hear him speaking something other than English.

  Impure’s stomach grumbled again, and she hoped an Animal would appear this night. She had barely managed all of her chores and lessons today. She could not imagine doing them after a second day without food. Perhaps fasting was not necessary. After all, how much could the boy really know about this? He was only two years older; they had both left the tribe on the same day. He was no adult … here words failed her. She did not know the right term for the holy men of her tribe. She rubbed her eyes, wiping away tears she had not shed in years.

  She did not see the Animal step into the firelight, so she had no knowledge of how long he stood studying her before she noticed him. In human form, he stood taller than any mortal man she had ever seen, almost towering over the saplings around them. Nearly naked, the only thing he wore was a headdress made from the head and skin of a wolf.

  A wolf.

  She had been sent Wolf.

  Impure had been hoping to see the mischievous smile of Coyote or perhaps the strength of Bear. Predatory and fierce as Wolf might be, she did not see how he could help her. She tried to hide her dismay, but some must have leaked onto her face or into her scent carried by the traitorous wind.

  Wolf took a great sniff, and then he moved around the fire a step closer. “I am not your first choice?”

  Impure felt her face flush, and not from the heat of the fire. She was not so ignorant as to think she could pick her own Animal as if ordering off a menu in the white men’s fancy restaurants. She remembered that much at least from her short time with her family.

  Wolf did not seem to expect a response. He studied her for another moment before holding out his hand. “Come.”

  Impure shrunk back a little. The entire palm of her hand wouldn’t cover the pad of a single one of his fingers. She had known that she might be taken on a journey, set on a new path as part of the ritual, but the idea of travelling with this Animal, with this God, terrified her.

  “Come,” Wolf said again. “I will not devour you.”

  Impure would have found it more comforting if he had promised her no harm. She chewed on the inside of her cheek for a moment, and then began to reach out her hand. Wasn’t this why she had called the Animals? For their aid? At the last moment, before she had quite touched him, she paused. “Shouldn’t,” she began. Her voice cracked, and she had to take a deep breath before she began again. “Shouldn’t I tell you what I want?”

  Wolf bared his teeth in a particularly lupine smile. It sat oddly on his otherwise human face. “I will show you what you need.”

  Impure placed her hand on his.

  Wolf pulled on her hand, lifting her spirit from her body. Impure was surprised to find that it didn’t hurt more than rubbing a brush across the back of an arm. How odd to see herself still sitting, staring at the fire. Did her ears really look like that? She had never seen herself from the side and only rarely in a mirror. The School forbade looking glasses since they believed such things led to vanity.

  While she stood staring at herself, Wolf had shifted into his animal form. Impure shivered, disconcerted by the change. She had thought the huge human intimidating. She found the wolf towering a full head over her terrifying.

  “Come,” he said for the final time. “Ride on me.”

  Impure’s spirit legs went weak. Taking the Wolf-man’s hand had been hard enough. She suspected she didn’t possess the courage to climb on this creature’s back.

  Wolf sniffed, clearly scenting her fear. “Where we go, you cannot walk. You must ride or all of this will have been for nothing.”

  Impure Heart thought about the hunger, the spice theft, and the trouble she had endured trying to sneak out of her room in the dead of night. She didn’t want to have to do those things again. She wanted to be free, and she wanted to be free tonight. Gathering her resolve to her chest the way a mother gathers her child, Impure Heart scrambled and slid and finally pulled herself onto the Animal.

  The moment she had shifted into place, Wolf trotted away from the fire and Impure’s body. Impure looked back once. Her physical form had not moved since her spirit had been lifted away. It sat there, watching the fire, patiently waiting for her to return.

  Wolf began to steadily climb a mountain although there were no mountains within several hundred miles of the School. Never breaking his stride or changing his speed, Wolf navigated steep inclines and switchbacked trails with ease. They had been climbing for no more than a few minutes, yet they had covered many miles of ground. Wolf’s speed left Impure breathless.

  “Why do you ref
er to yourself as that? As Impure Heart? It is not your given name.”

  Impure Heart’s gaze snapped from the side of the mountain to the wolf head in front of her. She had not expected such a question. She snorted as her first response. Then realizing how rude that sounded, she quickly answered, “I was not given my name. It was assigned my first day at the School. The matron said I ‘looked like a Catherine’ whatever a Catherine is. I am not Catherine.”

  “That is not what I meant,” said Wolf. “I meant the name given to you at birth.”

  Impure Heart looked down at her hands, clutching Wolf’s fur. “I do not know that name,” she said at last. “When I first started at the school, I had trouble remembering the name, Catherine. The matron told me to say, ‘I am Catherine,’ twenty times every night. She sat with me while I did it. I never became Catherine, but I did cease to be … someone else.”

  Wolf gave a grumbled growl in what might have been sympathy or might have been disgust. “That does not explain the impure heart,” he said.

  Impure Heart continued to stare at her hands. Even though she knew it to be impossible, she felt Wolf’s gaze on her, and she could not meet his eyes.

  “A few years after I started, a preacher came to the School. He was horrified to learn that although we attended services daily, most of us had not been baptized. After we had been wetted, he pronounced us clean of sin and pure of heart. But even then, at that young age, I knew it to be a lie. I wished for nothing more than for the Christian God to strike the School and the preacher and to burn them with the hellfire the preacher spoke so often about. My heart is not pure.”

  A silence descended between Impure and the Wolf. It was not the companionable silence of friends, nor the awkward silence of strangers. This silence filled the night with Wolf’s disapproval. They continued to climb the mountain. The fire with Impure’s physical body, shrank away until it was merely another star in the landscape.