Red And The Wolf

RED AND THE WOLF

Red was not the kind of girl who usually listened to gossip. There were rumours of wolf. Evidence, the villagers were asserting. A cow had been mutilated. A wolf was the natural conclusion. Red heard this theory with disinclination. There had not been wolves in the surrounding woods for over a century. This small but significant fact had been overlooked in the inevitable panic. Red came to her own conclusion, one that some would label just as far-fetched as the wolf theory. She suspected some sort of political ploy to unite the village, concocted by their foppish young Mayor Crumble. She imagined him ducking out from his considerable supper to butcher a cow, all in the name of community spirit. There would be men patrolling the outer edge of wood with pitchforks after he'd whispered the word wolf in every ear. Women would combine their culinary talents to provide great feasts for their brave husbands. Children would be forbidden from running wild in the forest, and confined to the safe boundaries of their rather boring gardens. Crumble had taken over from his father, the First Mayor Crumble, just two years past. These were big boots to fill. The First Mayor Crumble had driven out witchcraft, banished thievery and eradicated poverty. The New Crumble, as the villagers had taken to calling him, was thought a rather silly sort of fellow, though the only evidence for this silliness was the fact he cared greatly about his dress. Crushed velvet waistcoats and weighty damask cloaks were the order of his wardrobe. He always opted for a flash of colour, and therefore in the eyes of the grey and black clad village folk, was certainly a halfwit. He needed to prove himself preferably without giving up his gaudy ties. Lacking any real occasion to do this, Red suspected this wolf business to be entirely his fiction.

Her suspicions were corroborated further in the Town Square. He was standing on a bench, whipping up a frenzy. And the villagers loved a frenzy. They had lived a rather dreary existence in the latter years of the First Crumble's reign, after he eliminated every potential threat for miles around. They were ready for a mass panic. Red meandered around the edge of the crowd, more interested in the strained faces of her elders than New Crumble's vitriol. Betsy Kane from the Inn had a hand to her mouth, Lucas Urwin the farmer and owner of said mutilated cow, was nodding grimly and even Roddy the Simpleton stood hushed and still for once. New Crumble, a man only several inches over five foot, grew in stature under the intensity of this new attention, their collective nods after each of his painfully constructed sentences appeared to buoy him up further and further. His new satin waistcoat, a regal purple, caught the mid morning sun and cast a radiance about him. Deliver us from every evil oh Crumble. Red crossed her arms, the beginnings of a smirk playing across her lips.

"Not convinced Red?"

She had not seen her neighbour approach until he'd bumped her with his elbow. The smirk drained from her face, replaced by the irritated frown that the Huntsman never failed to induce. She shuffled away, bumping him with her wooden basket not entirely by accident. She should not be wasting time around here anyway. He followed her out of the crowd.

"What do you want?" She asked. There was no attempt on her part to disguise the irritation his presence arose in her.

"Going into the woods?" He had grown taller and broader this last year and now stood a foot above Red, who apparently had stopped growing upwards and now grew in places she would rather not.

She snorted a laugh. "I'm not afraid of the wolf." She eyed him.

If anyone would know whether there was a wolf in the woods it was him. He was out there every day, killing things. Best shot in the village, the men would say, slapping his back and watching him enviously, perhaps even fearfully, Red had thought on more than one occasion. He was self effacing and earnest, but had these fitful blue eyes that would not stay still. A true hunter, people said of him, always seeking out his prey.

"Shouldn't you be out there shooting holes into furry creatures?" She strode towards the fence that marked the edge of the village.

The wood was a homogenous mass of green ahead of them. Her eyes strayed to the chapel, as they always did when she reached this spot. It stood about a mile along the fence, a ruin now, after the fire. The First Crumble had held his Witches there, paid Nuns to lure them in with promises of shelter and safe haven. Then he set the chapel alight and the town watched them burn to death from the safety of the square. It had been quite a celebration apparently, with onion broth and freshly baked bread and spiced apple cider to drink. The villagers remembered it fondly. Red was glad she'd been the size of an apple pip in her mother's belly at the time.

She concentrated back on the beckoning forest. The sun would disappear a few paces into it. Red appreciated the gloom, preferred the quiet. Her Grandmother needed her daily now. The once lively, resourceful woman was now bedridden, the life seeping out of her and into a straw mattress. Her cottage was at the clearing and was the only dwelling amongst the trees. She kept chickens and a goat and had tasked Red, who'd taken every opportunity to visit before, with the upkeep of her makeshift family when she took to her bed, complaining of aches.

"It will just be for a short while I suspect." She'd said as she ascended the staircase, creaking like her old bones; the cottage in tune with its owner. "Once this malady is finished with me, I'll be up and about again."

Red had never suspected this would not be the case. So robust was her Grandmother that it did not seem possible she could be horizontal for any real amount of time. But the days had turned into months. Her smile grew weaker and her voice softer. She stopped asking how many eggs the chickens had laid overnight, stopped reminding her to get a good price for the goats milk. It became apparent that she would not be getting up. Red prayed for a miracle and was still young enough to believe this could happen. As a child she'd thought the beam of sunshine that flooded the clearing and illuminated the cottage to be God smiling down on her Grandmother. As practical as she grown of late, a small part of her still hoped this to be the case.

"There was another mutilation, a cow from Hollen farm this time. Found it this morning." They halted at the fence, a place where their paths crossed far too often in Red's opinion.

The only thing she disliked about the woods was seeing the Huntsman there. Her meditations through the murky trees were frequently disturbed by the throck of his arrow in the distance, ending the life of some unsuspecting woodland creature. The sound made her stop in her tracks, trying to decipher from the hiss of the arrow where he was situated. She hadn't mastered this, for whenever she took the opposite trail to the apparent location of the sound, he would appear ahead of her, bow in one hand and brace of lifeless fowl over one shoulder.

"Was its throat ripped out?" She asked.

He looked at her, bright restless eyes settling momentarily against hers. "I couldn't tell, most if it had been eaten. Why do you ask?"

It did seem like an odd conversational piece. She did not want to tell the Huntsman her real theory on the wolf; she'd learned it better to keep these things to herself.  She shrugged. Curious was all. She stepped onto the stile and hopped over the fence. He didn't follow. She'd thought she'd be stuck with him for a few paces yet at least.

"There's a raid on the woods at nightfall. I need see Crumble before, talk strategy." She thought she saw a trace of a smile.

"The animals of the wood will be glad of the reprieve." As was she, she thought. "Be careful not to shoot anyone you shouldn't." She smiled at her own joke and he gave her a crooked grin.

"Make sure you're back well before nightfall then."

They shared a look before she slipped away, half amused at each other. Red was not sure what made up the other half of the glance. She was just pleased that he wasn't coming with her and he hadn't warned her against walking through the woods. If he truly believed there was a wolf, surely there would be some attempt to stop her? Or perhaps he'd be rather pleased if she was eaten alive.

Her feet found the trail amongst the moss wrapped trees. As a child she'd always felt bewildered at how dense the forest appeared from afar, and yet when she reached inside she didn't have to bustled against the trees to find the path. It was as though they graciously stepped their elegant bodies aside and beckoned her to enter. It was an hour's walks to the clearing and a number of paths were at her disposal. She opted for the one closest to the brook, the ground softer and cooler underfoot this way.

As she walked further, she felt a familiar dissolving feeling running the length of her body, relaxing as she advanced into isolation. She could have walked this path blindfolded. She had been visiting her Grandmother out in the woods for almost sixteen years. She saw herself as a little girl up ahead, her mother dragging her along on stumpy legs, and later alone at nine years old wearing the scarlet cloak that gave her her nickname. At twelve she first met the Huntsman, four years her senior and already out killing in the name of hungry villagers. It wasn't until two years later that she first saw him hunting, stringing his famous bow and arrow. She still felt unsettled by the memory though she could not begin to explain why. The fawn was alone amongst the trees, leaning up to chew the heady greenery above its delicate brown head. He'd strung the arrow lightening fast, pulling back the bowstring with one swift movement. He made this manoeuvre look effortless, one languid motion, not several complication ones, as she had found when she had attempted it herself. She'd held her breath, counting the beats of her thudding heart in her head. He took aim and for once his restive eyes were still. The forest faded around them. She felt herself dimming too, a candle flickering on its last dregs of wax. There was only him and the fawn. And then the fawn was dead, an arrow straight through its eye. While the forest shimmered back to life around her, Red tried to recall the arrow leaving the bow, but could not. When she'd followed him to the carcass, the bubble of excitement she'd felt whilst watching him take aim abruptly burst, leaving a residue of repulsion which made her skin crawl. She'd walked away without another word. Afterwards, seeing her with a cup of pheasant broth, the Huntsman charged her with hypocrisy and her irritation towards him was born, intermingled sometimes with the faint traces of elation she'd felt that day.

She was wrapped uncomfortably in this memory of her fourteen year old self when she heard the scream. She stopped, lifted her head, her lips parted in a silent gasp. The hush swarmed back around her, thick and suffocating, altered for having been so disturbed. It had came from the other side of the brook. Red walked to the edge of the stream, her eyes searching the forest ahead but finding nothing out of the ordinary. She stepped onto a flat stone in the water, wobbling slightly as she hopped onto the mushy earth of the other side. There was no trail on this side of the brook, just  a short bank of grass and yet more trees, so densely packed that no one had attempted to mark a route. There was another noise. More of a moan this time, low but loud. It felt close yet she could not see any movement ahead of her. A woman had made that sound, she realised belatedly.

She should have fled, but her feet carried her forward through the shrubbery and the snake grass. Another groan propelled her forward. She thought unexpectedly back to the dead fawn, the Huntsman yanking his arrow from its blank black eye and her own little heart thumping in exhilaration as the fawn's heart faded to silence. She sensed the same kind of revulsion coming towards her. If she walked further would she happen upon a wolf with the throat of a woman colouring it's mouth? When she took a step forward, her eyes snagged on a flash of colour ahead to her right. It was grey, but not the grey of the forest. Two people, a man and a woman. Red flattened herself against the nearest tree. The woman called out again. They were very close. This time Red realised that it wasn't just pain shading her voice, but something else as well, something she did not recognise but caused her stomach to churn. She waited a few beats and then peered out, her palm resting against the speckled bark of the tree. The man was older. His hair was black, but streaked with grey. He wore an animal pelt around his shoulders. The woman she could not see, for her back was against the tree. The man was lifting her around his waist, the skin slipping to the ground as he pulled her skirts up to her stomach. Red could see the mottled pink skin of her thighs. His hands roamed her legs before gripping them tightly, his fingers dimpling her plump skin. He leaned forward to kiss the bare skin of her shoulder and up her neck. Red felt hot under her cloak and allowed the hood to slide from her head, her honey coloured hair spilling out from beneath. She knew she should move away, get back to the path. But the grappling of these strangers had her transfixed. Like the tree at her palm, she was rooted to the spot. He pushed against the woman until she cried out again. More pain this time, Red estimated, like something had ruptured in her belly and was now forcing itself out of her mouth. The pain did not stop the man ferociously beating his hips against her, his hold moving to her behind, squeezing her flesh between his fingers. Red pressed her forehead against the tree but it did nothing to cool her blushing face. The woman was gasping now, taking in air with ragged breaths. Her body jerked like a ragdoll as he continued his assault. Red studied his face, his eyes black like rainy day puddles, unfocussed as he bit down on his lower lip. Suddenly his grip on her behind loosened and she dropped to the forest floor. It was then that Red saw his part down below, thick like a tree branch, full of blood. She felt her pulse thudding between her legs.

"Turn around." He said.

The woman obeyed wordlessly. As she turned, Red scrutinized her face. She was perhaps several years older than Red, her cheeks pinched and flushed from exertion. Her eyes had a sticky glaze over them, slowing their motion, like the men when they stumbled home from the Inn after too many tankards of Betsy Kane's home brew. Her dress was pulled down at the front, her breast resplendent, nipples pink and hard. Red's own nipples stirred under the starched cotton of her shirt, she ran her hand across her chest, still alarmed by how much it had grown these last few months. Her mother had wanted to bind her breasts with a stretch of dirty material she'd found, but Red refused, promising to the wear a high collared shirt instead. The woman was pressed forward into the tree. She leaned her cheek against it as Red was doing only metres away. Her nipples pushed against the bark as he yanked her dress up again. Red watched in morbid fascination as he pulled her hips against his part, keeping her top half flush against the tree. As he moved, they both called out, as though something gave way. His head fell back as he groaned into the dark canopy. Then he looked down as he penetrated her, clutching her flesh and moving faster and harder each time. Red looked back at her face, desperate to gauge the pain. Her eyes were closed and she'd pressed her mouth to the tree as if to stop herself from screaming. But there was a slackening in her face, a relaxation that belied the apparent brutality of what was happening to her. He reached forward and grabbed her breast, pinching the nipple roughly whilst he whispered in her ear. Red too leaned forward, keen to hear but unable to interpret his low tone. Whatever it was made her lips curl into a lazy smile as he continued to grope her, squeezing her flesh and thrusting rapidly into her behind. Red's own breath caught at the back of her throat as she watched his hand drop and move between her legs. She saw the smattering of soft pubic hair, thicker and darker than her own, as he inserted his fingers into her. Red felt a moistness between her own legs, wetting her undergarments. He kneaded his hand into her, continuing to mutter into her ear. Her response, though Red could not hear the words, was pleading. One hand continued to slide in and out, whilst the other curled around her throat. Then her eyes opened. They were gray, hard like the cobblestones in the village square on a wet day. She shouted out, cursing violently. He held her tight, hand slowing but thrusting faster from behind. Red saw her legs buckle though his grasp would not allow her to fall. Her body seemed to melt, as though her bones had liquefied. It was the opposite of Red's own body, fraught with tension, muscles coiled like grass snakes. She felt embarrassed by the searing juices gathering between her legs. As the man moaned again, ramming himself inside the shaking woman, Red reached down and rubbed her hand between her legs, digging the material of her skirts into herself. She bunched it up so it pressed hard against the wetness, a flash of pleasure coursing through her, so vivid that she almost moaned along with them. But it was not enough, she rubbed faster, eyes focussing again as the man gave one last powerful shove inside the woman. He shuddered and his head dropped back again, but he didn't cry out. His body seemed to contain it, the tremble through the muscle of his arms the only outward sign that something potent gushed through and out of him. Red watched his chest rise and fall, her own rapid breathing matching it instinctively. When his head levelled, his eyes were open. They alighted, ferocious, on her own. She stared. It was as though he'd known she was there the whole time. They were both motionless. Only the stumbling of the woman onto her knees in the soft mud disturbed them.

Red gathered herself and ran. The trees seemed thicker on the way back. There was no standing aside for her now; they threw themselves wholeheartedly in her path. She reached the brook, jumping over and landing with a thud on the riverbank, mud coated her skirts and her basket tumbled ahead. She retrieved it and continued her flight through the forest, not stopping until she was sure no one was following her. She was only yards away from the clearing when she eventually drew to a halt. She waited for some moments, sitting on a tree stump, fighting a frantic urge to cry. Her breathing slowed, but her heart was still fleeing through the woods at a million miles an hour. She stood and peered down the path she'd taken. Prickly dread pinched at her arms. The wood was silent; disturbed only by her own panicked presence. It mocked her with a cool serenity. She had not been followed. She took tentative steps towards the cottage. At the door, she straightened her clothes before passing the key in the lock.

Everything was as it should be. Kitchen neat and tidy as she'd left it yesterday, gleaming from the sunbeam that tapped at the window shutter. She opened it, letting the sun warm her skin, glimmering through her eyelashes and giving her vision a crimson smudge. She went about her chores vigorously, carefully folding her mind away from the scene in the woods. The chickens had laid only six eggs between them, but she still cooed her appreciation as she placed them in her apron. She was less inclined to exchange pleasantries with Snowflake the Goat, who had taken a strong dislike to her. Milking was a hazardous exchange of kicks and bites and everyday she came away with an impressive new tooth or hoof imprint. She worked quickly, making warning noises every time the goat so much as glanced back at her.

Back in the cottage, she prepared lunch and climbed the stairs to her Grandmothers room. She looked, Red noted with pleasure, better than she had yesterday.

"Good afternoon my sweetheart." Her voice was still weak but her smile had improved. Today it almost reached her eyes.

"You look well." She said, placing the tray carefully in front of her. She sat on the side of the bed and chewed on a hunk of bread.

"You're late today." She cracked open the top of the boiled egg. She never eat very much, but Red considered a quarter of the plate to be a victory. She was surprised that she was aware of what time Red arrived each day, given that she had barely woken in the last week. But she should not have underestimated her; nothing escaped the notice of this old lady.

"I got caught up in the village." She stumbled a little over the lie and one look at her Grandmother's delicate little face confirmed that she suspected this wasn't the case.

"Don't explain yourself to me child. Everyone needs their secrets."

Red watched her eat the last of her egg. She did not want this secret. She did not like it. It made a shameful glow colour her cheeks. Her Grandmother liked secrets and kept many of her own. She had lived out here in the forest for most of her life, choosing inexplicably at age twenty to make the run-down cottage in the middle of the forest her home. She did not take a husband, and her pregnancy when it occurred caused a scandal in the village. To this day, no one knew the identity of Reds Grandfather, a secret that had coloured her mothers' life and fostered a great resentment between mother and daughter. There were whispers of witchcraft and Red thought perhaps these could be true. The First Crumble had never quite been able to round her up with the other supposed witches of the village, an unfortunate rabble of single mothers and ugly spinsters who appeared to have done nothing wrong except be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Evading infamous wrath of the First Crumble must have taken some special magic indeed. But Red abided by the unspoken rule of the cottage, that these things were never discussed.

Her Grandmother set her tray aside, and Red was encouraged by the amount she had eaten. Perhaps she would get her strength back after all.

Red straightened the covers as her Grandmother dozed. In her slumber she muttered:
"Old friends in the woods."

She looked at her sharply."Has someone been here?" She touched the papery skin of her forearm. She just opened her eyes and gave her a crinkly smile.

"You should go, find your way little Red."

Red watched her for some time, slipping through the various levels of sleep until she reached the pit of her slumber. She listened to the deepening of her breath and then kissed her cheek.

As soon as her foot touched the last step on the stairway, she knew she was not alone in the kitchen. Her eyes settled on the front door ajar, and a sickening feeling uncoiled in her stomach, filling her throat. The man was sitting at the kitchen table. They stared at each other as they had hours earlier in the forest. She walked a few paces towards him, registering anything she could use as a weapon when the time came. The poker in the hearth was her best option. He looked towards it.

"I won't hurt you." She heard the woman's cry of pain echoing around the forest. He'd hurt her.

"Sit." It was more of a request than an order. She obeyed, pulling in tight to the table, as though it could defend her should she need it. Her hands clasped together, white knuckles revealing her anxiety.

"You followed me."

"Yes."

"You're not from the village."

It was not a question. He regarded her closely, trying to anticipate her next move. She tried to look as though she had one.

"We're travelling through."

"You and your wife?"

He smiled at this. The glint of pleasure that flashed through his dark eyes was warm. She realised in the bright light of the kitchen that his eyes were green, not black. She didn't comprehend his amusement and squirmed in her seat. She felt like a child.

"There is a group of us. We've been living in the woods for a while."

She found herself nodding, wondering how many his 'group' consisted of. She dreamt regularly of sleeping in the woods. As a child these dreams had been so vivid that in the morning she would wonder whether she had actually been out there sleepwalking. She would open her eyes and smell the thick sharp scent of the soil, her body curled in the undergrowth. When she looked up a gibbous moon had lent its pale light to the leaves, they twinkled about her, stretching up and up into the deep green awning above. Latterly when she'd dreamt like this, she'd been running through the woods and jumping over fallen trees, she'd tasted blood in her mouth. Waking for real in the harsh light of her bedroom was shockingly disappointing. She tried to picture this group of people, dozing on the earth, their camp hidden in the canopy. This man, their leader perhaps, would hunt and provide for them. Then it struck her.

"You're the wolf!" Her eyes slammed upwards into his.

He was unshaven, bordering on bearded. The sun had coloured and creviced his face, making his age indeterminable.

"The wolf?" He rubbed a hand over his bristles, a revealingly nervous gesture.

"In the Village, they think there is a wolf from the woods killing cows."

The beam of light sparkled between them, picking up the dust like a fine glitter. She had all but forgotten her initial fear. She tried to pull it back, reaching for it, but in vain, it had passed. She was not frightened.

"Then I suppose I am." He said. She smirked; she had known there was no wolf. Granted her own hypothesis was still pretty far from the mark, but still, the wolf was entirely fictional.

"We were hungry." He offered by way of further explanation. She hesitated. It was more than that. He had made it appear as though a wild animal had devoured the first cow. It was scare tactics.

"You want to stay here." She observed after a pause. She felt the concentrated dimness of his eyes casting a heavy shadow over her face. "You wanted to scare the villagers out of the forest so they wouldn't discover you." She talked quickly, lending her voice to the rabble of thoughts than ran unchecked through her brain.

"Your villagers wouldn't approve of us."

"Why not?"

"You ask a lot of questions." He smiled, bared a flash of white teeth. She waited for an answer.

"We're drifters, we live in the wild. We don't like to be governed; we don't live by rules set by a Mayor who has no more right to rule than a simpleton. We live where we can but sometimes we need to bed down for a while. Your woods were the perfect place, lots of shelter, good hunting. But the proximity to the village was a problem. A wolf ..." He looked at her carefully. "Is the perfect guise for us."

She thought she understood. Unfortunately their timing was all wrong. Ironically they'd played into the hands of one of those idiotic Mayors. Wild people roaming the woods, free to act as they pleased. She wondered if what she had seen this afternoon was freedom. She felt uncomfortable. She didn't have all the pieces to this puzzle.

"You underestimated this village. You should have gone for a malevolent force, something hell bent on revenge." She mused. "A headless horseman perhaps." Or a scorned woman burnt alive by her village, she added silently. She did not want to give the Wolf a history lesson. "These are God, not wolf, fearing people."

"If only we'd met a week ago."

She found herself returning his smile. A moment of quiet consumed them. Red thought back to what she'd saw earlier in the day. They lived like animals. It was wrong, her mother would say, the Mayor Crumble's would say. But perhaps her Grandmother would take a different view. Her life seemed like a half way point between their existence and Red's own.

"You shouldn't tell anyone about seeing me." He remembered his purpose in coming here. She had no intention of telling a soul. Her mind was whirred with everything it had learned. She scraped back the chair and walked to the window sill.

"I mean it." He followed her, but the edge in his voice had little effect. He took her wrist and spun her towards him; his eyes searched hers for reassurance. She was emboldened by this power.

"Will you rip my throat out too?" She said. She recalled the sensation of her own hand between her legs, rubbing furiously. She could clasp his hand in hers and move it down there. The colour rose in her cheeks.

"You were watching us today." He drew her into the swamp of his eyes, her head tilting back. But she was wise enough to only dip a toe. She knew that anymore and she would be sucked down into the quagmire.

She pushed away his hand and stared at the flagstones at her feet. She remembered something, a crucial piece of information which spun the power back in her direction.

"The villagers, they're planning to raid the woods tonight."

A jolt of panic tugged at his careworn features. "How many?"
She shrugged, she could only guess at the number. "Maybe fifty. The huntsman as well." The huntsman who never misses, she did not add. She knew that they had little chance against the surge of men; there only hope was to leave now, get a head start and get out of the path of the arrow destined for them.

"Can you help us?"

His question surprised her. She had never been asked to help anyone before, except perhaps her Grandmother and her assistance there had been a given. She peered closely at him. She was a girl, what could she do? But he had levelled with her like an adult. She felt an odd connection to him.

"Yes." She faltered. "Yes I will help."

"Then there are two important things you need to do."

She listened to his plan as they stood at the window. At points, she felt short of breath, wanting to back out. She heard his history, consumed with silence. When he was gone, she looked around the empty house and wondered if she had dreamed this day. She stood in the patch of light pooling on the kitchen floor. Upstairs her Grandmother was dying, but Red still felt hope. She went to the door, reaching instinctively for the red cloak. But rather than slip it over her shoulders, she let it fall to the floor. She didn't need it anymore.

******

By the time Red arrived at the fence, the sky was wrinkled with ragged scarlet clouds, torn from the blanket of the sky. Her plan was about as carefully plotted out in her head as was possible, when so much of it depended on the action of someone else. She had no idea whether he would go along with it for she did not know whether she had any power of him. She had one card to play. A card that this morning she did not even know existed. She was woefully inexperienced at this game.

She streaked across the field that led to Hollen Farm. The Huntsman had lived there since he was old enough to work, escaping the grim walls of the village orphanage. It was also, she realised with a lurch of her heart, the natural gathering point for the village men taking part in the raid. Men were beginning to assemble around the outbuildings. Lamps were filled with kerosene, knives were sharpened at the armoury and tales were told by the elder men of previous ventures into the woods at night with the First Crumble, who was always raiding something. Red's eyes skirted across to New Crumble, reclining on a bale of hay, wearing soft brown leather riding boots. He didn't cut quite the same terrifying figure as he father had. If Red's plan worked, he would get more than he bargained for tonight, and his bravado was run out of his veins and puddle at the ground around those expensive boots. But she when she pictured it, she wished it was the First Crumble standing there, the one who had murdered those women in the church. New Crumble looked uncertain now, as his merry band of men gathered and shoved a tankard of ale in his hand. The forest was a different prospect altogether at night.

She kept to the shadows, running along the stone walls, scuttling across the farmyard to the brightly lit kitchen where the Huntsman sat alone at the table. She slipped inside, and pressed her back to the door as she closed it behind her. He was eating porridge. He was not dressed up for the occasion as the other men seemed to be. He wore his usual dirt smeared shirt, rolled up to the elbows. His forearms, she noticed for the first time, were covered in dark hair. He looked up, trapping her in the beam of his blue eyes. She inclined her head towards the doorway and he rose wordlessly to his great height, the spoon clattering against the bowl. In her haste she almost forgot to grab the lamp from the table.

She directed them away from the farm house and its many outposts, gathering her skirts and dashing through the field towards the fence. He stopped when she jumped over it. Crossing his arms across a broad chest, he regarded her suspiciously from the village side.

"What's going on?"

"I need to speak to you." She said.
"Go ahead."

"Not here." She strained to get moving.

"Where's your cloak?"

She twinkled with irritation at the question. Over his shoulder the sun was falling behind the village, fading out as it descended. The men would be on the move soon and she could not let the Huntsman go with them. She did not want to find the Wolf splayed in the woods tomorrow with an arrow through his eye socket.

"Come with me." Her eyes were pleading, searching his for signs that he would submit.

She had certainly never asked him for anything. Curiosity seemed to get the better of him, and he moved to her side of the fence with ease.

She took his hand in hers, marvelling at the size difference as she laced her fingers through his and guided him along the fence towards the skeletal chapel. It diminished in size as they moved closer.  She was breathless when she reached the charred door frame. She pushed a hand against what was left of it, splintered wood grazed her palm. She felt her heart pounding right through to her fingertips as she braced them against the heavy door. The Huntsman put an arm over her head and shoved it open with one thrust. It shifted and rasped opening onto a murky darkness, beckoning them inside with a gnarled finger.

The fire had devastated the bottom end of the building. The roof had fallen in and now lay in wooden clumps across the floor. The pews were smashed to pieces. The congregational area was all but gone. The altar though had, perhaps miraculously, survived the blaze and stood alone at the far end of the building. The roof was also intact at that end and although the stained glass window had smashed, it lost none of its magnificence. Her eyes lifted to the arch of the window as she walked inside and she felt a heavy hatred toward the Crumble's for bringing the building to its knees.

"Why did you bring me here?" The Huntsman was a pace behind her; transfixed it seemed by the same devastating outline of the window.
She turned to face him. "I need your help."

"In here?" He said, still looking up. "You do know what happened here?" He dropped his gaze to her face, his eyes skitted across hers.

"The fire, those women dying." She said. She trembled under the light of his eyes.

"Did you think they were witches?" He asked.

"No." This was a bold admission. She would be ostracised in the village for saying such a thing. "Did you?"

The Huntsman looked at her for a long moment. "You don't know do you?" He said finally, a sad smile played across his lips.

She squinted, confused, and shook her head.

"My mother died in the fire."

Red did the sum in her head, remembered seeing the older boy at the orphanage gates. The older boy that soon became the best shot in the village, that everyone seemed slightly afraid of. Everyone but her of course, but she hadn't known the full story.

"I'm going to set this place alight again." She blurted out. "And give Crumble the lesson he deserves."

Something in his eyes stopped moving. Even at this pace apart, she could feel the solidity of his body, as though her senses had been heightened by her afternoon in the forest. Her own body had changed. It felt sylth-like, unearthly. His gaze settled, resting against her own. She had seen him like this only once before. When he'd pulled the bowstring taut that day in the woods, in those silent moments when he'd tracked the movements of the fawn with minute precision, his eyes were focussed just like this, on his prey. Her skin goose-bumped though the air was thick and warm. She finally understood the bewildering mix of emotions he'd stirred in her for so many years. The irritation, the admiration, the revulsion, the elation - they all spun together and were burnt to dust by a white hot flame of desire. He registered the change in her look, in her body. She drew a ragged breath and he brought his hand to her mouth, running a calloused thumb across her rosy lips. His hand slid around the back of her neck, fingers burying themselves in her hair, holding the outline of her skull firmly. He could have pulled her to him but he hesitated, keeping her at a distance with one powerful arm.

"I've waited for this." His eyes flashed with a fierceness that thrilled her. "Waited until you were ready."

She counted the beats of her heart. She did not have to tell him that she was ready now, he could sense it emanating from her. The muscle in his arm flickered and he yanked her towards him. There was a moment of breathless anticipation as he held her face in his hands. She surrendered her mouth to his, pushing her tongue against his. He kissed her as though he were trying to pull something from deep within her, yank the life out of her. His mouth was warm and wet, it tasted like wood smoke. His strong arms clutched her to him, her breasts crushed against his chest. She let her head drop back and he brought his teeth to her throat, his lips closing on the dip between her neck and collarbone. He wrenched her blouse open, his hands roaming over her undergarments, grasping at her breasts. He squeezed one and brought his mouth to the nipple, soaking the silk of her slip as he sucked down hard. She gasped at the sensation, pulling his head away and pushing the material down to allow his mouth access to her swollen flesh. He sucked and pinched it with his teeth. A moan like the one she'd heard today escaped her lips. He brought his mouth back on hers, kissing urgently and walking her back until she felt the exposed stone wall against her skin. She imagined the heat of her flesh would alight the church again, the blaze running up the wall and catching around them. He pulled her skirt away, pushing her slip up her thighs. His hand found its way between her legs. Her own hand had not been enough earlier, as she's touched herself whilst watching the Wolf taking his prey. He found her moist, ready for him. To her surprise he got on his knees in front of her in the dirt and draped one of her legs over his shoulder. He put his tongue into her wet insides, honing in on the most sensitive area. She called out into the burgeoning darkness. He dug his hands into her behind as he consumed her relentlessly. She rolled her hips, pushing herself into his mouth. She felt as though she were teetering on the edge of a great precipice but she was afraid to let herself fall, the jump might kill her.

She squirmed out of his grasp, turning to face the wall. He stood up, towering against her. She pressed her cheek to the stone, drawing the cool dampness into her burning skin. She started as she felt him rub his cock between the top of her legs, only the strained material of his trousers between them. It was solid, like the rest of him. She ground her hips back against it, harder when she heard his breath catching at the contact. He held onto the side of her thigh with one hand, encouraging the motion whilst leaning the other hand flushed against the wall beside her head. She pressed her forehead to the abrasive rock and reached down with her hand to touch herself. This time there were no skirts in the way, diminishing the sensation. She dipped her fingers into the slick juice, squeezing two fingers inside herself and rubbing the upper area with the butt of her hand. He realised what she was doing and spun her to face him.

"Don't stop." He murmured when he saw her hesitate.

He took a step back. Her eyes alighted on his erection tenting the cloth of his trousers. She continued to rub herself, the other hand snaking around her breasts, clutching at her nipples. Her eyes grew dark as she watched him unbuckle his belt, the snap of the leather harmonious in the charred chapel. She shook with anticipation. He reached inside his trousers and began rubbing himself with long languid strokes. She kneaded her hand into herself harder as she watched the fluid motion of his wrist. She took a step forward, releasing herself. She brought her wet fingers to his lips. He grabbed her wrist with his free hand and took them into his mouth, one by one, sucking the juices from each. His hand moved faster between their bodies. Then he pushed her wrist down and guided her into his trousers. She took hold of his cock, alarmed by the thickness of it. In her fear, she just held him tight in her small hand, until he began guiding her up and down the length of it. She felt his body judder against her, the solidness of his chest beginning to quake. She looked up into his face as she touched him. His eyes were closed and he growled deep in his throat, a noise so inhuman that it thrilled her to think she was the cause. She slid her body against his, pressing her lips to the base of his throat, not wanting to look. He halted her hand sharply. Her eyes flew back up to his, confounded.

"I want to come inside you." He whispered into her hair.

She didn't understand. She only knew, as he lifted her around his waist and anchored her against the wall, that she would liquefy like the woman in the woods and that the Huntsman would push her from the precipice she'd been standing on earlier. She did not know what would happen when she hit the ground. She wrapped her legs around him and felt him position himself against her wet opening. He guided himself forward with his hand, rubbing himself against the slick resistance. She felt the tip of his cock sliding inside her and angled her hips for the rest to follow. As he filled her, she felt a sharp stabbing pain, not just between her legs but in her stomach as well. She squeezed her eyes closed, biting back a gasp of pain. He kept still as she adjusted to the sensation of being torn open.

"Open your eyes." He said.

She didn't immediately. He moved slowly, long slides in and out, until she felt ready to look at him. The pain seemed to dissolve as she searched his familiar face. He increased the pace of his cock inside her, held her hips stock still as he thrust harder and harder. The base of her back hammered into the wall behind her. She hurt, but the pain amalgamated with other sensations, fusing together and scorching her insides. Friction mounted against the sensitive area above where he had entered her. It swelled and her pulse seemed to relocate between her legs.

Amongst the soot and the dirt and the death of this place, she felt more alive than ever before. His eyes dropped closed and he breathed heavily. His body glistened with sweat. Whatever was going to happen was hurtling towards them. He moved a hand between her legs, startling her. His thumb hit the swollen spot, circling it. She cried out into the bones of the building, her voice echoed around the decaying walls, bringing it back to life. He caught the swollen nub between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed gently. Her cry turned into scream that seemed to radiate from every cell in her being. She was falling, spiralling towards the earth, a kaleidoscope of red blurring her vision. When she hit the ground, she exploded into a million sparks. He continued to move inside her as a gush of warmth entombed him; he was ready to jump too. He burst inside her, her wetness containing the fireball that roared out of him. His head dropped to her neck and he dug his teeth into her skin as he spilled himself into her. The pain was remarkable. They were still for a long time, Red pistoned against the wall, his legs somehow holding her there. Eventually he lifted his head and focussed on her. The restlessness was gone from his eyes.
"Let's burn this place down."

*****

They watched from the other side of the woods as the fire took hold. It seemed to take a long time and Red worried that the timings would be off. Eventually though, she felt extreme heat bringing colour to her cheeks. She leaned against the Huntsman as they sat at the foot of a tree. He was silent. His eyes never left the blaze. From her spot between his legs, she felt his heart pounding through her.

Later, they heard the shouts of men, terrified as they fled the woods. A man with the head of a Wolf, they were saying, rambling madly, came to wreck vengeance on Crumble and the village. The village came to life as the men ran into their homes, locking their doors and gesturing wildly to their wives, pointing to the church blaze. The witches, they shrieked, returning from hell to find their retribution.

Red and the Huntsman watched until the church was levelled, until its skeleton was dust and its bones could finally rest. She supposed this was a retribution, of sorts. She slept curled in a ball at his chest and he stroked her hair. When she woke, they got to their feet and walked into the woods. They would not go back to the village. They had never belonged there anyway.

They wandered through the dark trees, finding their way instinctively in the black forest. With her hand in his, she allowed herself to be led deeper and deeper into the heart of the woods. And as she walked, she thought she caught the green gaze of a wolf streaking past.