Real Fiction Post: Into the Woods

[darkhairedgirl]

Title: Into the Woods
Summary: “They won’t bite unless they’re provoked.” A different look at Little Red Riding Hood, written for a prompt in my Creative Writing class.
Word Count: 2,682
Warning(s): Death, violence, werewolves – read at your own risk.
Disclaimer: Mine, mine, they’re all mine.
A/N: Not necessarily my best, but after finding this picture and listening to “Howl” one too many times, this happened.

 

They won't bite unless they're provoked.

There’s panic in the village and Mary’s heart is pounding painfully against her ribs as she runs, a stitch of pain tearing up her side and her breath tight in her chest. She can’t stop, no matter how much her body is screaming at her to do so; a list has been hung in the village square of all suspected “half-breeds” and their supporters: the baker, the town crier, whole families sentenced to death with the stroke of a pen. Her grandmother is the last name on the list – Hannah Avery, Healer – and Mary has to warn her, has to convince her to leave for someplace safe until the hunters have had their fill of blood.

The path is worn and familiar underneath her feet, but the darkness of the hour and the howling echoing throughout the woods sends shivers up her spine, the heavy fullness of the moon only adding to the terror she tries her hardest to suppress. They won’t bite unless they’re provoked. Werewolves are still people, her grandmother has always told her, just with more animal in them than others, and Mary tries to remember this as she hurries on down the path. They won’t hurt her if she doesn’t hurt them. It’s simple enough in theory.

She makes the sharp turn at the fork in the road and a few minutes later, home rises up before her. Mary stands at the end of the path and leans against a tree, trying to catch her breath, tugging at the strap of the bag that cuts into her neck. The windows of the cottage are lit and smoke winds out steadily from the chimney, but something about the picture feels…off. The door is open slightly and the entire scene is far too quiet; the hair on the back of Mary’s neck stands up and when a twig snaps from somewhere to her left, she turns, looking behind her.

The first blow leaves her reeling. The second sends her falling to the ground.

“My, what big eyes you have,” a harsh voice says from far above her. Mary gasps, trying to breathe. “And such a lovely mouth.”

There are other voices, laughter, but her ears are ringing and nothing in her line of vision seems to want to stand still. A pair of rough hands hoists her up and she stumbles, falling against the hard chest of a stranger only to be pushed away. Men have formed a circle around her – the hunters from the village, the realization comes later – and they push her back and forth, still laughing as she tries and fails to regain her balance.

“We’ve been waiting on you, little girl,” one says once she’s able to stop falling, grasping her roughly by the chin and forcing her to look at him. His eyes are cold, deadly serious. “Your grandmama’s house has been so lonely.”

Another grabs her by the elbow and pulls her away, dragging her toward the house before she even has the chance to speak. “Go on, then, let’s go see the witch,” he says, tugging harder when she tries to dig her heels in. “See what she brought on her own head.”

He pulls her through the doorway and when she tries again to break free, he shoves her away. The force of it sends Mary stumbling into one of her grandmother’s high-backed chairs, moved away from its place at the hearth to sit in the center of the room. Everything is a mess: salves and medicines have all been knocked from their cabinets, broken glass is everywhere and pages and covers have been torn from books. Pots and pans have been thrown unceremoniously from their hooks above the fireplace and every single dish has been smashed, the pieces lying in a heap on the table. Mary covers her mouth with her hand as she looks at the room, her horror growing steadily with every new image she takes in. When her eyes fall on the bed in the corner, she cannot help the whimper that passes her lips.

Her grandmother is sprawled across her bed; her long black braid hacked off by a knife, hands still clenched into fists. Blood stains the bedsheets, dripping out from the deep wound one of the men beside her left in Hannah Avery’s stomach, but in the midst of everything, it is her eyes that Mary focuses on the most. Those familiar blue eyes, kind and warm and sharp enough to spy stars on cloudy nights, are as blank and empty as clean paper.

“My – my grandmother –” she starts, but cannot seem to finish. Mary sputters and steps toward the messy table, pressing her hands hard into the tabletop while she tries to keep her balance. One copper pan sits next to the broken plates, giving off a brassy glow from the firelight it catches. “You, you killed my –”

“She deserved what she got, sticking her nose where it didn’t belong. Helping them.” The man scowls and spits off to the side, nodding for the other men around him to get moving. Five leave through the open door, disappearing into the darkness. “People like that don’t deserve to live.”

“She was innocent.”

“She betrayed her race,” he adds, “And her death’s a mercy compared to what we’ve got in store for you.”

Mary blinks at him. “I’ve – I’ve done nothing,” she insists. Her voice wavers slightly on the last syllable. “I haven’t helped them! I’m not even fully trained yet, so how could I –”

The man to her left – the first one who touched her, the one who grabbed her by the face – steps forward, and the sound his hand makes when he strikes her echoes in the quiet of the room. He’s shorter and broader than his companions were, with a thick red beard and a heavy, sloping forehead, and Mary cringes, cheek stinging, as she cowers back against the table.

“Shut up,” he orders, and when he takes a step toward her she slips away, moving so fast to the other side of the table that she knocks her hip against the edge of it. Pain blooms through her bones but she stays quiet, watching the man before her. He bares his teeth in a leering grin and when he fakes right, Mary goes left and is cut off from her exit as he bolts around the table, pinning her against it. Her bag is still around her shoulders and he grabs it, pulling her closer by the strap when she tries to wriggle away.

“You think you’re better than me?” he growls, seizing roughly her by the arms, hard enough to leave bruises. “Think you’re somethin’ special, girlie? You’re not. You’re trash, little girl, just like your grandmama, and I’m gonna show you what trash deserves.”

He shakes her a little on the last word, trying to rattle her up as he lets go of her left arm, fumbling across the bodice of her dress to unclasp the silver buttons. Mary snakes her free hand behind her, grasping blindly for the pan, for anything, and when her fingers close around the handle she brings it up in a wide arc; it makes a hollow clang against the hunter’s head and he howls in pain, releasing the grip he has on her other arm as he staggers back. She swings again and this time, her aim is truer: it strikes him across the face and he falls against the hard stone mantle, blood dripping from his nose as he slumps against the wall. His eyes are half-closed when he falls to the floor, and Mary drops the pan.

She killed him.

She didn’t, but Mary is in too much shock to realize that the man who nearly assaulted her remains, unfortunately, alive – his breathing is slow and shallow, his barrel of a chest barely moving, but he is still alive. Mary panics; there isn’t enough breath in her own lungs to let loose the shriek that is welling there, a thick, heavy knot between her ribs she does not have the time to unravel. She lurches away from the table, tripping over the upturned chair in the middle of the room, and lands against the empty bookshelf, her eyes wide and disbelieving as she stares at the man on the ground.

“Oh my God,” she whispers, “Oh my God.”

Mary uses the shelf to keep herself upright, clinging to it as she makes her way to the door. She can’t stay here – she can’t stay – but she doesn’t know where else she can go. Inside she has no one, but outside, wolves howl and men prowl the night.

It is a split-second decision; later, when she thinks about it, Mary won’t even remember the thought that led her to this course of action. The last cloak hanging on the peg by the door is her grandmother’s; it sweeps over Mary in a reddish blur as she hurries outside, pulling the hood up as she goes. She runs with no direction, no weapon, as she flees deeper into the forest, thorny branches catching at her skirt as she runs. The bag slaps against the back of her knee as she goes, the leather strap cutting tighter into her skin than before, but she doesn’t stop.

Mary runs and runs until she doesn’t know where she is, and then a little further, stopping only when her legs threaten to give out and even then, she almost keeps going. She collapses near a stream, at a little outcropping of rocks that have been made smooth by the water, drinking until her heart stops racing and her stomach starts hurting. She has never been this deep in the wild on her own.

Laughter to her right makes her realize that she’s not alone.

Shakily, Mary climbs to her feet and follows the sound, afraid of what she might find, but even more afraid of what might find her first. She goes as quietly through the brush as she can and even picks up a fallen branch from the tree beside her, but has no real intention of using it; it is better, she thinks, to look like more of a threat than she actually is, to have at least something to scare off whatever enemy she might meet with. Mary moves a little further into the moonlight. The branch is heavy in her hands.

It’s one of the hunting party in the clearing, grinning from ear to ear as he pushes a wolf pup into a corner. The hunter laughs as he swings at it with an axe, and the pup yelps, leaping back. He’s backing it up into a corner, trapping it against a fallen log. He’s holding a burlap sack in his free hand, and it wriggles and whines in a chorus of fearful noises as he swings at the pup again, dropping the axe as he reaches to grab it by the scruff of the neck. The wolf snaps at him and he yanks his hand back, still laughing as he throws the bag to a more comfortable position over his shoulder.

“Come on, little muttsie,” the hunter wheedles, laughing. “Dontcha wanna go swimming witcher brothers an’ sisters?”

Mary’s blood suddenly boils. He’s drowning them. He’s drowning children.

Before she can realize what she’s doing, she calls out and the man’s head snaps towards her, eyes going wide when he sees what she’s about to do. Mary’s arms swing wide and the branch cracks against the side of the hunter’s head, the branch splintering in the middle from the force of the blow as he falls to the forest floor.

Things go black for a moment, colorful spots appearing behind her eyes. Mary drops to the ground, exhausted, and surveys the scene in front of her: four little wolf pups have gotten out of the bag and their parents race out of the brush. They cower, hiding behind their mother while she licks and nips at them, inspecting them, while their father surveys her coldly. His hackles are raised as he approaches with slow, deliberate steps, and his ears lay flat against his lowered head. Mary doesn’t move – her limbs feel as heavy as lead and she’s rooted to the spot, her breath hitching slightly as the wolf approaches. Grey with white paws, he stops less than a foot away from where she’s fallen to the ground and the two of them stare at one another for what feels like a long time.

The wolf is the first to move closer; when Mary carefully holds out her hand, he sniffs it. His nose is cold and wet, the fur of his snout soft beneath her fingertips when he nudges it against her palm. For the first time, Mary notices that there’s blood spattered across the back of her hand – whose it belongs to, the man who killed her grandmother or the man lying unconscious in this clearing, she doesn’t know. She jerks her hand back and the wolf cocks his head, curiosity suddenly replacing the suspicion he’d shown to her before.

“I – I’m sorry,” she says, voice trembling. “I’m s-sorry. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I didn’t want anyone to get hurt. I’m suh – I’m sorry. I didn’t want this to happen. Please, I didn’t want this to happen.”

She’s babbling now, she knows, but Mary can’t stop the words that are tumbling from her lips. She brings her arms around herself and rocks back and forth on the cold ground, hugging her knees to her chest. It isn’t until she feels the tears slide down her nose that she realizes she’s started crying. She snags part of the hood of the cloak to dab away her tears, only to break into a wave of fresh ones when she realizes how much it still smells like her grandmother; lavender and comfrey, herbs she used in her tinctures – it smells like safety, like a friend, like the home she can’t go back to. Mary suddenly feels ancient, like she’s aged a thousand years overnight, and she can’t for the life of her stop crying.

The wolf and his mate share a look when she pads closer, pups at her heels, but still far enough away that Mary cannot easily reach them. The she-wolf turns away, sniffing around the prone body of the man near the stream, while the male sidles up closer to Mary. He nudges her with light, gentle touches, nosing his way under her arm. A cold nose brushes against her neck and when a warm tongue laps up the tears streaming down her cheeks, she laughs a soft puff of a laugh and runs her fingers through the soft fur of his neck.

The monsters she’s supposed to fear are treating her better than her fellow man has all night. More tears come, and she rubs them away with her sleeve.

The she-wolf returns with the hunter’s axe in her mouth, and when she drops it at her feet, Mary picks it up. When she lifts her head to look at her new companions, she is given two steady, serious gazes in return; two sets of amber eyes boring into her as one of the pups climbs into her lap, as another rests his head on her knee, small black paws kneading her leg. She holds the axe tight in her fist and leans back against the rock. The hunting party is still out there, waiting for morning to arrive so they can regroup, and she takes a deep breath, adjusting her hold on the axe’s handle.

She’ll protect these creatures, these people, from the dangers in the woods. They’ll protect each other from those who would do them harm. They’ll protect each other.

Let them come.

She’ll be waiting.