The Wolf & The Witch

“A word of caution.”

It was pitch black behind them, and a beautiful, moonlit night before them. A nearly full moon painted the land in pale red-silver. Claire was in front, on the horse, Lestat behind her, his right arm around her stomach, locked to her left. Leather pants for Lestat and a leather skirt down to Claire’s ankles, slit to within an inch of her hip on her left side- Lestat’s side. Lestat had two swords, and Claire a bow and a pouch of arrows. Both wore cotton shirts that laced up the sides and the fronts, with the sleeves rolled up.

Este, the malefica, continued. “I tell my girls to avoid this place. It’s dangerous in the grass, it’s worse in the woods. I would tell you to stay on the paths, but, you know… dangerous. From border to border this land is not even two-hundred miles wide. However, everyone who crosses it travels at least a thousand. Most never make it at all. This place used to be called the land of streams. Good luck. Don’t forget my offer.”

The wolf and the witch turned back, and looked into the dark. Their horse lifted its hoof and stomped the grass, impatient. Or nervous.

“Can I ask you a question?” Lestat asked.

The malefica came out of the dark, her cotton dress hanging loose, and open, revealing most of her plump breasts. Her black hair hung long like drawn curtain strings, blocking out the light. “Ask me your question, wolf.”

“Do you think this world is dying?”

Claire looked back at him, curious. That was in the letter the priestess wrote.

The malefica smiled. “Of course I do. Packs kill packs. Covens kill covens. Humans kill humans. Most people aren’t even strong enough to protect their own children. We destroy the land to make weapons, to feed soldiers, to build walls, and we poison it while we’re at it. We’ve driven off all the vampires, all the elves, all the orcs- they’re all gone. Entire cities, entire lands, stand vacant.” The malefica looked out at the moon-soaked fields of red grass, and wished her land extended further- she wished she could paint all of it black. She looked back at Lestat. “We all do our fair share of killing, and every year this world becomes more and more vacant.”

The wolf and the witch looked at each other. How many had they killed since being sent to the wasteland? Seven soldiers- one in the camp, six in the ravine, Owen and Rana, and probably thirty or more soldiers and wolves, including Megolte, by poison. And probably a few prisoners used as a distraction.

“True,” Claire agreed, and turned back to face the new land they had to cross. She squeezed Lestat’s hand, their fingers laced together. “I kill rabbits to make gloves and blankets; I kill pigs for bacon and ribs. I kill to stay alive. And I’ll kill this world for the same reason.”

How many more would need to die before they returned home? How many would die once they returned home? The answer was simple, for Lestat. “If wolves and witches and humans do not want to die, if this world does not want to die, then they will step the hell aside and get the fuck out of our way.” He felt Claire squeeze his hand again- his little beautiful village witch.

“And that is why,” Este said, fading into the black, “The two of you are welcome here. I was wrong- you are not pathetic. We could expand the night, together.”

“Not until you and your damn coven learn how to dress,” Claire said, not looking back.

Este smiled, and sank down into the darkness, and was gone, back to the city of Alma.

She looked back at the wolf. “Ready,” the witch asked?

“Ready,” the wolf answered.

“I like what you said, by the way.”

“What’s that?”

Claire smiled at him. “That they better get the fuck out of our way if they don’t want to die.”

Lestat returned her smile, and kicked his feet and the horse lurched forward- he kicked again until it was galloping- they had a second horse, running along behind at the end of a rope. “Let’s ride for awhile before we stop.”

Claire heard it in his voice- that was a question, and not a command. She turned back around and faced the red fields. Respect, and value. “Ok.”

Long fields of flowing red grass stretched out before them, rolling, and glistening in the cool night breeze. They rode until they came to a long, narrow forest. The trees went off undulating in either direction toward the silver-red horizons. The grass died at the edge of the forest, and the forest ran like a river- forty feet wide and cut down into the ground the way a river cuts into the ground, with rocks on the edges. The trees were old, and vines, and broken branches, and moss, hung down like layers of heavy lace. And they could see the fields on the other side.

Their horses would not enter the forest. Lestat hopped down and pulled, and they pulled back. He pulled harder. They pulled harder. He shifted, and wrapped the reins around his wrist, and pulled much harder, and the horses laid on the ground, whimpering, kicking. He would rip leather or break their necks if he pulled any harder.

Claire shook her head. “Why is it always horses that are the problem?”

“I don’t think it’s the horses this time,” he answered, and looked into the woods. He guided her over to the tree line, into the shadow of the trees. He let the slack out of the rope holding the horses, and they backed away from the woods. The tree roots were gnarled, and gangly, and rose out of the black forest floor like skinny children crawling away. The leaves were dark red; the moss was dark red.

“Do you feel anything off about this?” They took a couple steps down over the rocks, into the trees.

“Uhhh… yeah, this is creepy as shit.”

They took another step into the woods- they could go no further- they were at the end of the rope that led back to the horses. The ground was soft- Lestat looked down and noticed his foot was starting to sink. In dark red mud. Claire noticed the same, then, out of corner of her eye, she saw a pale, white skinny woman; she looked like a threadbare sheet wrapped tight around a wooden post scarecrow, held together with wire and cord. Her hair was stringy, and black, and looked wet, and behind her, at her feet, rats, slick, and black. She walked from behind one tree to behind another, and never looked up. The rats looked up, and every which way, with jittery eyes.

“Did you see that?” Claire asked.

“Yeah, but I didn’t hear it, and I don’t smell it.”

A shiver ran up and over Claire’s shoulders.

The horses pulled at the ropes, and they left the forest, and stepped back into the moonlight, back into the red fields. He looked at Claire, and the horses. Even if the forest itself wasn’t dangerous, if the horses refused to enter, then they either had to go around, or lose over half their gear. And, Lestat guessed, if the horses were that afraid of the forest then it was probably dangerous.

“What if we covered their eyes?” Claire suggested, of the horses.

It was worth a shot- the wolf and the witch wrapped blankets around the horses, but it didn’t work- they would not enter.

Claire sighed. Lestat sighed. “She said it was less than two-hundred miles, but took a thousand to cross.”

“Yeah,” Claire said. “Which means there are gaps in the trees. She said there were paths, too.”

“Ride around, or go through on foot?”

Claire groaned. Why was every damn land a problem? Then she realized that wasn’t true. Este’s land was very nice, and pretty- so long as she approved the trespass. And the forests of Itthon were pretty, though the animals, and game, and mushrooms- all were becoming more and more scarce. And the moss could be an annoying problem sometimes. “Around, I guess. What do you think?”

“Let’s go fifty miles in either direction, and if we can’t go around after that, we’ll go through.”

“Ok. Sleep?”

“Sleep.”

They made camp in the shadow of the narrow forest. Lestat drove stakes into the ground and tethered the horses, and they laid two blankets out in the grass. He unlaced the right side of his shirt and slipped it off and rolled it up for a pillow, and laid down, and motioned for Claire. She laid down carefully on him, her head on his chest, and she could feel him tense. He groaned as he held her.

She sat up and looked down at him. There was no way to lay on him without laying on a bruise, and it probably tugged at his stitches for him to hold her like that. Claire couldn’t hold him from behind- he was too big, and he couldn’t lay his head on her shoulder- too heavy. But she wanted to take care of him, because those bruises were still making her frown. “Ok. Come here.” She laid down on her side, and tugged his right hand behind his back, and motioned for him to scoot into her.

He paused. He did not scoot.

“Come on. You’re hurt. We can’t sleep like that, and it’s… it’s my turn to scratch you.”

Lestat scooted closer- an inch.

“Closer.”

Another inch.

“Damnit, come here,” and Claire pulled him closer, and pulled herself closer, till their bodies were touching, till their bodies were snuggled close. His face was in her cleavage, but the cotton shirt kept her breasts covered. Partially. Mostly.

“No biting. No rooting around. This is not the right order. And we’re only doing this till your bruises are better.”

He nodded, and rooted around- just enough to breath.

“Stop it. No nodding, either.”

He nodded.

Claire grinned, and shook her head. This was a bad habit to start. She adjusted their pillow, and pulled a blanket over their legs. Then she reached down and scratched him. She ran her fingernails down his arms, and back up, and she scratched his back, up and down, and she felt him fall asleep against her. Claire looked down at him and smiled and scratched him for a few minutes more. And then she fell asleep, in the middle of a red field, in the shadow of a narrow forest, with the wolf in her arms.

One by one, the frail and the famished ghosts of those who died long ago stood white and silent in the trees, starving, watching. They were emaciated, and gaunt, with eyes the color of dried blood. Men die. Women die. Witches die. Wolves die. All things die. But not all things leave. And the emotions that accompany death: anger, hate, loss, passion, mistrust, greed, fear- those do not die when a person dies. Emotions stay with the blood. Emotions follow the blood.

A word of caution: stay out of the woods.