“Why...but she...she...why?” There were no sobs, but somehow she knew her mother was crying.
“She was...months ago. You must make peace...is God's will.” Father Astor's stronger voice was easier to understand, but she had no idea what he was speaking about.
Father Astor was large for a priest. During the time of the drawn-out wars that had ravaged the countryside he'd been in charge of the village's defense. Combat and the lengthy hours of hard-labour had chiseled him into a brutish, intimidating man, an aspect not eroded by his years of liturgical servitude. He walked out of the bedroom and glanced at her coldly before roughly grabbing her wrist.
“It's time to set off little one.”
He lead her to the door, and pulling it open exposed the cabin's inside to the icy breath of winter. She resisted his guidance, clawing at the iron-like arm that held her, and contorting her body into feral angles she searched the alcove leading to the bedrooms for glimpses of her mother.
“Chelle!, come here.” The sound of the priest's voice broke her out of her desperate fervor. He released his grip on her arm and let her drop to the floor. The door of the bedroom flew open, and her mother emerged running to take her into her arms.
“You must go with...with Father Astor.” Her mother's face was stained with tears. “You...you must take a little journey, precious.” She stroked her hair, but avoided looking into her eyes. “You have a grandmother who is very sick, and mother needs you to go to her. Make sure you tell her how much you love her,” Her mother's tears started anew. “...just like I love you dear, very much.” Her mother remained on the floor crying as Father Astor walked her outside into the glistening white world.
* * * * *
The old forest stretched in impossible lengths every direction to the horizon, except for directly behind her in the fields. Father Astor stood in front of her fastening the bronze clasp of the bright crimson cloak. A winter solstice gift to keep her warm on her trip he had explained. His large hands fumbled with the delicate workings of the buckle. As they stood in silence she gazed at the men in the fields. Thick wool hoods concealed the majority of their faces, but she thought she caught quite a few of them staring at her while they went about the final preparations for the evening's winter solstice festival. They averted their eyes when she looked at them, and went back to busying themselves with the hauling of barrels and inspecting the supports of the great red pavilion.
She turned her attention back to the priest who had finished securing the clasp. It seemed to her the look on his face was almost endearing. “You'll continue on this path until it ends, do not stray.” The indifferent tone of his voice eviscerated any illusion of warmth on his face. “Continue north after that... your grandmother's home will be the first building you encounter.”
* * * * *
The path had not been easy for her to follow. Despite the absence of leaves, the forest was dark. The peaks of the ancient oaks bent and tangled together in a grotesque natural roof. It couldn't have been past mid-afternoon, but it already seemed like evening. The near-solid canopy of the forest prevented most snowfall, yet at times the almost indiscernible path faded into the frozen soil and thin patches of snow that flickered eerily in the dim light cast by the lantern she clutched in her shaking hands.
She had found the lantern by accident while seeking refuge from the cold in a woodcutter's lodge. It was on a table laying in the feeble sunlight that had encroached upon the property when she opened the door. Fumbling around the dark shelves above the table she found a small box of matches and a handful of candles. The aroma of sulfur from the match, strangely, had made her homesick, until the focused light of the lantern passed across a figure sitting in a nearby armchair. It was a man, presumably a woodcutter, frozen to death, his face locked in misery. She fled the lodge, doubling the speed of her gait with the desire to reach her grandmother's home as soon as possible.
The light of the lantern was the forest's sole illumination as she reached the end of the path, dead-ending into an immense stand of trees. After she snaked through the thick grove of gnarled bark she found herself in a small clearing. A sloping field of snow eased into a curve of what she assumed to be the Seine river. Dominating the field stood a slim berfrei, a long neglected wooden watchtower built for ancient and most-likely forgotten reasons. This is where grandmother lives? It was a disconcerting thought that she pushed aside.
She slowly pushed the door open and entered slowly, allowing the light to move in first, but the lantern proved useless. No matter where she pointed the open side of the lantern there was nothing but an inky blackness. An abyssal darkness that seemed to pulsate slowly. The sound of the door closing behind her seemed infinitely loud in the silence of her fearful thoughts. She spun around, yet encountered only further darkness, the door lost in its ebon depths. Frantically she reached for where the door's iron handle should have been but felt only a matted mass of needle-like fur.
“What village are you from, Little Red?” The voice was low and powerful, and seemed to emanate from everywhere. Terrified, she couldn't respond. “What...village?” The voice asked again in an almost bored manner. This time she realized the voice was coming from above her. Tilting the lantern upward she was greeted with the peak of the darkness that spiraled around the berfrei, an enormous lupine visage, the craning head of the wolf staring down at her. It studied her with a harsh, appraising countenance. “What village?” When it spoke its maw filled her vision. A jagged forest of yellowed and cruel teeth. She dropped the lantern, its candle extinguishing as it smashed to the floor. The room was washed in black and as the broken lantern and expelled rolling candle finally came to a rest, silence.
It was a silence that was deafening. She felt feint, yet somehow found the courage to speak, “Formigny...I'm...I'm from Formigny.”
The wolf scoffed. It was a guttural, horrible sound, but it was the human characteristics of the noise which unsettled her the most. “A pitiful tribute you are.”
Her curiosity and confusion lapsed her fear. “Tribute?”
“Of course, what did you think you were, but a lamb in sacrificial garb?”
“Tribute?”
“Yes, albeit an insulting tribute. I've feasted upon the superior specimens of your kind. What you manlings consider warriors, with tabards richly sewn with chevrons and fleur de lys hanging down to conceal their quivering knees. Beautiful damsels with their shrouds of golden hair, lean and wonderful meat they are. But you...” The wolf spat. “...barely seven stone by the look of you, and just skin and bone at that. Regardless, you shall make a better snack than nothing at all.” The gigantic wolf uncoiled and with it's back bending near the top of the roofless watchtower, it hovered over her, salivating.
The behavior of her mother and the townsfolk suddenly made sense to her. Her life had always been troubled, and she had never been treated very kindly, but this realization made her sick to her stomach. How primitive and cruel were the people of her village?
“Why does my village pay tribute to you?”
“All villages around my forest do. They appease me in the winter months when food sources are lean, and in return I don't use their dens as my larder. It's been as such since your kind first settled in France, although the manling stock of the last hundred years or so has been less respectful as is evident in sending pitiful creatures such as you.”
“Then why do you still hold up your part of the bargain?”
“My sight and smell have weakened over the ages. Perhaps it is due to poor meat like you, but I fear my senses could no longer guide me to the manling dens.” The wolf's shame was evident in his tone.
In the darkness of the berfrei a wicked smile crossed her face. “How would you feel about a winter solstice feast?”
* * * * *
She stood at the edge of town near the field where the festival had taken place. The morning sun, to her enjoyment, had an element of warmth to it as it enveloped the silent town and adjacent field. She thought to herself that it was almost like looking at the stars on a clear evening, the way the light so beautifully shone off the frosted countryside, the wet snow as deep crimson as the festival pavilion and the cloak, lightly billowing in the wind, that was draped over her slender body. A content murmur at her side roused her from her rumination, and turning, she lightly petted the head of the sleeping wolf.
