Chapter Two from The Tarishe Curse

 

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Summary: 

Catherine fights every Hallows Eve to protect her village from creatures of the night. She has sworn to avenge the deaths of loved ones, but a witch's curse may prove a stumbling block impossible to overcome.
The Tarishe Curse is a thrilling piece of fantasy fiction from the Queen of Werefolk's point of view. It is challenging enough for Duvalla and Kresh to protect their young family in a world of Hallows Eve creatures, but such a feat proves near impossible when a witch bent on vengeance against the werewolves casts a Tarishe curse that manipulates both heart and mind. The fight is not only with the sword but an internal struggle to love the ones Duvalla has sworn under a spell to hate, and hate the one who through evil enchantment manipulates her heart.

CHAPTER TWO

When Up is Down

 

 

Misery is a river of tears that whispers my name in a constant hiss.

 

 

Three months had passed since Nehemiah’s death, and yet I mourned the loss of my infant son as if he had rested in my arms only the night before, as calm as a sleeping angel. The pain that wrenched my heart the day of his death had never eased, and I wondered if it was due in part to the fact that I had refused attending his burial. It had been too much to ask of me at the time, too hard a consequence to bear. Perhaps because of this, I would never find the peace that accompanies rituals meant for closure.

I was beginning to seriously fear this was the case for me.

To add upon my misery, the detest I normally harbored for our village leader, Thaddeus, had somehow distorted into a strange, unrecognizable emotion that also caused me distress. The coward had failed to save my boy’s life, but he had snatched the still body from ravaging wolves before they could devour it—a selfless deed entirely uncharacteristic of the man whom for years I had grown accustomed to loathing. But now, because of this act of bravery on my behalf, I felt a stir of something not entirely repulsed when our eyes happened to meet. It made me queasy—the primary reason I had taken to avoiding him.

For the most part I spent my days in solitude, thinking, either curled up by a warm fireplace in my grandmother’s hut or nestled in a shadowed crook on the rooftop of our town hall where a crumbling chimney nearly met the bordering walls of Tarishe. Only a narrow alleyway below separated the two structures. There were things I felt needed clarification; things bothered me regarding the events that had occurred during last Hallows Eve. It went beyond pained emotions. I was troubled by details that didn’t entirely make sense—actions more puzzling than Thaddeus’ incomprehensible moment of decency.

Days of mourning had transitioned into weeks of mentally reliving portions of that hellish night, stewing over what I could recall even vaguely. Now weeks had turned into months of wrestling with a troubled mind, a troubled soul. I wasn’t sure. I knew something didn’t sit right, and the answers my grandmother offered failed to appease me. Not that I doubted my dear grandmother, but age had likely, conceivably, affected her memory. And anyway, she had not been present at the ambush—that moment when the werewolves had attacked me as a pack. I would never forget the pain I suffered when the teeth of that awful umber wolf dug into my ankle and he dragged me into the forest. He and his loyal demons had pinned me to the ground and caused me to dispel my silver sword into oblivion. They had held me defenseless.

So how in the world was I still alive?

“The good men of Tarishe went after you, Catherine,” my grandmother had said in answer to the question. “They found you alone and unconscious. It must have been the threat of an armed mob that chased those mongrels away. Lucky for you, dear.”

“Yes,” I had agreed. “Lucky for me.” But my head had communicated disagreement in a subtle sway back and forth. It just didn’t make sense. Those dogs were swift, large, able killers. Had we swapped places, I would have snapped the neck of my enemy before tearing away from a mob I recall being at least a minute detained. Even seconds would have sufficed, enough time to rid themselves of the sword bearer who meant to wipe them out of existence. Those wolves couldn’t possibly want me alive; it would be foolishness. So why was I still here, even now in possession of a werewolf-slaying blade?

I stood up next to a rock-and-mud chimney when voices carried over the wall. A returning hunting party was visible far below, just exiting the woods, having embarked for the third time this winter in search of meat. They had gone without me, without my enchanted sword. I had neither been in the mood to hunt nor acquired a decent appetite in months. But the wolves hardly ever bothered us aside from All Hallows Eve. Rarely did I glimpse a set of large, ochre eyes peering out of the darkness on any other day.

Lithe and noiseless as if on padded paws, I sprang from the rooftop and landed on a high walkway that encircled the inner side of our surrounding fortification. It was my intent to climb down and meet up with the returning hunters. At least I believed such was my intent. But after descending the attached ladder and finding myself concealed by a late afternoon shadow, I froze. As if the wall possessed a gravitational pull of its own, I shrunk against it, clinging to the wood as quietly as a ghost. Thaddeus failed to make his customary appearance where he normally took credit for the hard-earned spoils meant to sustain villagers in the upcoming weeks. This seemed odd, yet opportune. No one appeared to notice when I slipped between the open gates and tore off for the woods, turning to squat behind a tree—watching, waiting for a soul to follow.

It was a violation of the law for anyone to leave Tarishe without armed escorts. In all my hunting years, I had never traveled without company. Yet here I was, alone, hunkered against a tree trunk, staring at the high, shielding walls of my village as the gates creaked closed. The locking board made a pounding echo when driven into place from the inside.

My heart thrummed in my chest. What in the world was I doing? Refusing to consider any answer to the question, I rose from my crouch and turned toward a thick congestion of foliage… and stepped forward.

I didn’t allow a rationale to form in my mind for what instinct was leading me towards, but I was aware it was reckless. I was breaking laws! Disregarding my grandmother’s strict warnings! Putting my life in jeopardy, not to mention the lives of all who occupied our village if the sword at my side were to end up in the hands of werewolves! A gruesome image flashed through my mind of my fellow Tarishians lying lifeless and mangled; it caused my steps to falter. As I wobbled on the balls of my feet, hesitating briefly, a shiver crawled like a spider up my spine and drove me forward again. I broke into a run as if attempting to escape the imagined spider, but it was sanity I was fleeing. Whatever it was I meant to do could be nothing short of sheer madness. But months of raking my brain over unresolved questions was driving me crazy, more so than risking an attempt at finding out the truth—a truth that eluded me inside sheltered walls.

I ran without a clear destination; however, my gait indicated confidence that some inner compass guided my blinded mind. I had no idea where to go, and yet I knew where it was my hurried steps raced to, a place I was certain they would find me. My breathing grew loud, not necessarily from the exertion of a steady sprint, but from anxiety swelling within my bosom. The smell of mosses thriving in the damp forest infiltrated my nostrils. Sunlight penetrating the woods stole in at my back, lighting my path effectively. I barely had time to dig my heels into the soil and stop myself from running into a tall figure when he appeared out of nowhere.

A man with golden-brown eyes stared at me, standing at an angle just feet away. He looked ready to move into a run, his weight slightly shifted in the same direction I had been traveling before my abrupt stop. When I failed to move, so did he. We gawked at one another, both wide-eyed and on guard.

 I sized him up quickly—broad, athletic build; angular features; muscled legs; big, empty hands—ascertaining the threat he might pose. Thick strands of wild, dark hair reached in every direction around his face to just below a slackened jaw. His clothing was a simple wrap. He looked as surprised to have come across me as I was to have nearly trampled over him. A swarm of questions circulated in my head, fighting to reach my tongue, but the stranger spoke up first.

“You… you’ve come… home?”

My eyebrows pinched, conveying confusion, but I answered him. “I come from home.” His mouth shut, a small move that made me feel he was unhappy with my answer. I quickly asked what I needed to know, what I was already certain of. His eyes seemed too familiar. “Are you a werewolf?”

After a long moment of hesitation, he answered with a nod, his gaze fixed on my reaction. I had none but the slightest palpitation of a rapid heartbeat. My hand moved instinctively to hover over the sword at my side.

“I’m no threat to you, Duvalla.”

Again, my eyebrows pinched. “I’m not Duvalla. My name is Catherine.”

“It is not,” he refused with a snarl. His brow furrowed in angry lines while his fingers curled into tight fists.

In response, I withdrew my sword from its sheath and with a quick inhale assumed a fighting stance. “I know who I am, werewolf.”

The man’s irritation dissolved as quickly as it had formed. His head lowered, and for the first time he broke eye contact with me. I felt something wrench sharply inside my chest, a stronger emotion than I was prepared to endure. For some unfathomable reason it felt like every portion of my being wished to run to this mongrel in human form—to console him—unable to do so only because my stubborn sanity kept both feet planted in the soil. I raised my sword like a shield, not as a threat to him but a warning for me to resist whatever wicked magic he was using to try to seduce me. He looked up sideways, his ochre eyes miserable. My heart nearly burst through my chest wanting him.

“No,” I breathed to myself.

“We would never harm you,” the man said softly. “I promise, you’re safer here with us than in that awful place you mistakenly call home.”

I didn’t fail to catch his use of the word “us” and turned about in one complete circle, scanning the surrounding trees for evidence of others. They made no attempt to hide themselves any longer and emerged from shadowed cover—a small pack of longhaired wolves. I brandished my silver blade, letting its bloodthirsty song ring through the air as a warning. My eyes stole a glance upward in search of a patch of sky and evidence of an early moon.

“But it’s not a full moon,” I noted.

“That’s a myth,” the man said, understanding my confusion. “We can take on either form at any time, although, it has never been wise to appear as a wolf in front of humans. Only under a full moon can we not keep a man’s appearance.”

It was a detail I hadn’t known, but one of no importance. I returned to my reason for entering the woods alone, determined to ask my questions before time ran out.

“You were there,” I said, “on Hallows Eve. You attacked me, bit my ankle, and dragged me into the woods. Why did—?”

He responded before I could finish. “To protect you.”

The nonsense of his claim made me stammer over the rest of my question. “But… no, no, why did you… I mean, why didn’t you kill me? Why let me live? I’m your sworn enemy wielding the power to destroy you, so why am I not dead?”

His face fell forlorn as if he had insight into the ending of my story, one that could only be labeled a tragedy. I was certain such was the case; I would most likely die here at the hands of the same monsters who had taken my offspring. But I would not go to the grave without first understanding this mystery. When moisture appeared to glisten in his eyes, the sight was excruciating to me, so I averted my gaze and stared at his legs… waiting.

“Duvalla,” he began.

My eyes flashed up resentfully.

“I will not call you by any other name,” he insisted.

Again, I dropped my gaze at the intensity of his look, a gesture he mistook for consent. I allowed it; it seemed a trivial thing.

“You are not who you think you are, Duvalla. You’ve been bewitched by a creature whose blood is infected with vengeance. This Catherine character you suppose yourself to be was created to torture you—to punish us. She doesn’t exist. You are not—”

I cut him off, refusing to deny my own existence. “I am the huntress, Catherine! Can you not see me standing before you, holding the same weapon I have possessed for years? I am Catherine, protector of Tarishe! Slayer of werewolves!”

I was certain that verbalizing the last title was a mistake, but a glance around found no dogs ready to test my words. A woman’s voice brought my attention forward again. I watched her appear from the woods in human form and step up gracefully to the man whose head hung low.

“If that were so, we would have killed you years ago.”

A fiery bolt of jealousy shot through my body as this gorgeous creature placed a gentle hand on the shoulder of her companion. They were a beautiful pair, both dark-haired with golden flecks in their eyes. My knuckles paled as all ten fingers clamped tighter around the hilt of my sword. It trembled in my grasp. This unexplainable reaction was frightening to me, so I forced myself to exhale in a controlled attempt to dampen such strong emotion. Why should I care if she touched this man—this beast?

“She doesn’t understand,” the woman whispered, leaning into her companion’s ear.

He whispered in return, so close to her face. “She never does. And I grow tired of explaining, repeating the same awful story.”

The woman combed her fingers through his dark tangle of hair, consoling him. “I know, I know.”

My nostrils flared. It was all I could do to keep myself from charging forward to cut her heart out. What cursed magic possessed me?

As if he understood my struggle, his ochre eyes turned to me, assurance swimming in their glistening stare. “She’s my sister, Duvalla. Don’t you remember? Sarti, my sister? Your friend?”

I repeated the name, finding no recollection attached to it, yet noting how the knowledge of their relationship as siblings seemed to squelch my insane jealousy. The whole thing vexed me.

“You… you killed my child!” I accused, determined to hate these creatures but draw answers from them nonetheless.

They straightened up instantly, denying my charge with adamancy. “No, no—!”

I would not hear them. “My son is dead and buried because of you! I saw him, his lifeless form bundled like a mummy… just a baby!” I choked on a swell of tears at the poignant memory and struggled to keep my emotions dammed.

“You never saw your son dead,” the man insisted. He made an approaching move, and I backed away, maintaining the distance between us.

“I did!” I argued. “My grandmother saw him too. She was the one to place him in my arms. The hurt it must have caused her.”

“Then she lied to you. Everything she tells you is a wicked lie.”

I shook my head at his words.

“You’re being deceived, and I can prove it,” the man boldly announced. “Nehemiah is alive.” He turned to the one he called sister. “Go get the babe.”

The woman spun around without delay and raced off.

My feet moved forward, wanting to follow her, before reason forced them to a standstill. “You… you have my son?” I squeaked. Incredulity, outrage, confusion, and hope all hit at the same instant.

The man opened his palms to the sky as he spoke to me, explaining. “I told you we would never, ever hurt you. We’re sworn to protect you, Duvalla, and your children.”

“But you took him—”

“—for his protection.”

“From me?”

His fingers reached for a moment, as if offering me assurances. “No, no. From the witch who blinds you. From her and her son who would kill your offspring if they ever suspected the truth about them.”

His words launched an avalanche of questions, only one powerful enough to break through first. I choked on the preposterousness of my crazy hopes, able to verbalize one word that asked the entire question. “Natasha?”

He nodded before telling me, “Natasha is here; your daughter is safe.”

If the monster had meant to debilitate me, he had done it effectively and by means of a simple, irrational promise. My eyes flooded with tears as a hand rose to cover my trembling lips. I staggered from weakened knees, barely able to keep from collapsing. When the bearer of such cruel lies moved at me in the pretense of offering a stabilizing hand, I lifted my sword to prevent him, noticing only then that I held up an empty, clenched fist. My silver blade had slipped to the ground. He halted merely a stride away as I dropped to my knees to scoop up my weapon. With sword in hand, I didn’t bother threatening him or the surrounding pack of wolves. No one had made a move to overpower me, despite the presented opportunity.

After an eternal moment of peering into ochre eyes that looked down on me with the sweetest patience, my focus shifted to a blur of movement in the background. Sarti was returning in a hustle, followed by a small group of human figures. I assumed they were all werewolves, all but two—the babe in her arms and the raven-haired girl clinging to her skirt. The girl looked the right age, six years old nearing seven. My heart quit beating long enough to catch in my throat. Too unsteady to stand, I remained on bended knees.

Sarti slowed her pace as she drew near, coming to a stop beside her brother. The others remained a distance behind, excepting the young girl who still grasped her chaperon’s skirt with one hand. I swallowed hard, my focus pinned on a pair of big, brown eyes that sloped in the same fashion as my own, fringed by black bangs as limp as my hair had always hung. The child examined me with as much curious interest as I eyed her. But there was no way to tell for certain that this adorable creature was indeed my offspring.

Nehemiah, however, I would know.

Sarti glanced at her brother before reaching out to me, offering the swathed form of a baby. The same dread that had afflicted me not so long ago upon sight of a similar bundle returned with horrific pangs until the blanket wriggled with life. Carefully, I accepted the bundle and cradled it in my arms. I melted at the warmth of an infant, and my heart dissolved at his soft, cooing sounds. Quickly, my fingers parted the covers from his face. Dark eyes blinked before finding me. The child kicked in my hold. I smiled when a tiny, free hand waved in the air as if he recognized me as I did him. This baby was indeed my son.

I rained a shower of tears upon my boy. Believing then that the girl blessed with my eyes was indeed Natasha, I held my free arm out, inviting her to come to me. She came willingly, the word “mama” voiced in a hopeful manner.

“Yes, baby, yes,” I assured her.

I didn’t care where my silver blade had fallen or whether my enemy had seized it. If I were to die in the moment, it would be with pure joy permeating every susceptible fiber of my being. I was a mother who had buried her children and by some farfetched miracle had found them alive and well and warmly in my arms once again. The man who had summoned them for me bent down to one knee and tried to explain. I could tell his words came carefully; he paused after every outlandish claim. It was hard to accept what he said, yet hard to deny him given the miracle he had just managed.

“Things—people and circumstances—are not what you believe them to be, Duvalla. Your mind… it’s been affected. A witch begrudges you… us… for the death of her son.”

I questioned him with a look, open to hearing his story. I clung to my children as he related the tale of a family of werewolves ambushed and killed for human sport, and how the survivors had responded to this cold-blooded murder of their children by seeking out and destroying the hunters—Tarishe men. One victim, however, had turned out to be the eldest son of a truly wicked witch.

“She tracked us down with the intent to seek revenge. But it wasn’t our lives she demanded, it was torture. Misery. Our suffering and agony as compensation for her loss. The beautiful, black wolf who once stood proudly as our queen was transformed by sorcery into a huntress bent on destroying her own kind. The witch painfully marred one foot by the touch of a blade forged to kill us—the very silver sword you wield. A curse keeps our queen in human form every day of the year but one—All Hallows Eve—when by magical means a red, full moon hovers over Tarishe. That is why we come to the village on that night, Duvalla. We come for you. It is the curse that keeps you from remembering.”

His story swirled in my head like a murky nightmare, one from which I was unable to awaken. I voiced what he was carefully trying to tell me.

“I’m the ebony beast. I’m the Queen of Werefolk.” It made sense now that my eyes had never beheld the silver-pawed queen. How could I if she were me?

The man nodded. Seeing the struggle in my face he reached for me, his hand landing on my cheek. Warmth rushed to meet a touch I had never felt before, and yet my body reacted as if it were deeply familiar. When I shied away, still leery, his hand moved to gently clasp my daughter’s arm.

He went on to speak of my children. “Natasha and Nehemiah are well-guarded by the bravest of our warriors. Don’t worry, they are safe here. I believe the witch truly thinks they were among the casualties. If she were to suspect your werewolf children still lived—”

I cut him off right there. “They’re human children; they’re not mongr—” Feeling guilty over my degrading choice of labels for the first time, I stopped short.

The man didn’t show any sign of offense. He looked to my daughter with a softness in his eyes that affected me, and then he kindly said, “Show your mama, Natasha. Show her with me now.”

I held my breath and watched as the girl placed her small hand in the palm of this werewolf whom she clearly trusted. At first I watched her eyes as they smiled at him, but my focus fell on their hands when a sudden growth of umber fur spread up one arm while black, glossy fur coated the smaller one. Clawed paws touched where human fingers had stretched.

I fell back on my rear, hugging Nehemiah possessively close to my chest where his mouth searched franticly for his mother’s milk. I glanced at him, saddened that I had none to give, and then moved my wide eyes back on hands no longer covered in fur.

“How did you—?” I asked, anxious and bewildered.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” the man said. I could see by his expression, and that of my daughter’s, he was not only concerned about my reaction but the possibility that I might inadvertently hurt Natasha’s feelings.

I tried to compose myself, attempting to force a smile. The man smiled weakly in return.

“She can take on wolf form at any time, Duvalla. Nehemiah will grow to do the same, just like his sister—just like his mother once did before a Tarishe curse was uttered.”

I looked at my free hand as if searching for the trigger to change it. My son squirmed in my arms, once again moving his mouth in search of milk, so I gave him a finger as a temporary pacifier and wondered where his nourishment came from in my absence. It was disheartening for me to imagine a dog… a werewolf… nursing my boy. It was harder still to imagine him as one.

I closed my eyes and shook my head in a desperate attempt to wake from what could only make sense as a wild and crazy dream.

A familiar touch warmed my cheek for the second time, and I pressed against it. My eyelids didn’t open until Nehemiah began fussing, impatient to be fed. I rocked the babe and shushed him, not ready to let him go. A gentle bouncing motion seemed to appease him.

Looking up at the lead werewolf, I asked the only question left to ask.

“How do I break this curse?”

“Someone must kill the witch.”

I nodded my head. A sensible, straightforward solution. “Where is she?”

All watching eyes seemed to glance at one another as the man frowned. It was clear he didn’t care to verbalize the answer.

With apprehension, I rephrased the question. “Who is she?”

He sighed audibly and attempted to gradually make me see. “The witch has sought a twisted revenge, delighting in the anguish of her enemies. The spell she cast not only caused our queen to turn against those she loves, but it has made her love the one who, if reason had not been robbed from her, she would naturally bitterly despise.”

I pondered his riddle. I had turned against the ones I love—the werewolves. How many kindred souls had I slain? How many had I harmed whom I should have loved? Anguish wasn’t a descriptive enough word to suit the type of pain that stabbed at me. But the only way to stop this was to kill the witch, the one whom justifiably I would despise. But he was suggesting the witch had made me love her. I loved her? Who?

“Grandmother?” My face screwed up in a contortion of appall and disbelief. Surely, he wasn’t suggesting that my dear, sweet, frail and innocent grandma… an elderly soul who had done nothing but counsel me and nurse me through grief-stricken tears over the loss of…

Held too tightly against my chest, Nehemiah let out a cry. He was hungry and tired, needing mothering. I had no way of giving my baby what he needed. The turmoil roiling inside me made it difficult to think, to deal. I put the child on the ground. Sarti started forward until I grabbed my sword, left untouched where it had fallen, and held it firmly in front of me. No doubt she was the one who had taken my place nursing my child. I was jealous, bitter, hurt, angry, incensed—all of it! This was all wrong!

“You liars,” I hissed, narrowing my eyes as they darted from one observer to the next. “You’re all liars!”

“Papa?”

I gasped in shock, my attention slamming to Natasha—my daughter—as she hugged the leg of the lead werewolf who had risen from his knees. I was the only one on the ground now but remedied that swiftly. Nehemiah’s cries intensified at my feet. No one moved to comfort the babe.

I pointed my blade at the imposter. “You are NOT her father!”

Natasha squeezed more tightly to him, moving to hide behind his muscled legs. His hand reached rearward to rest tenderly on her head. My eyes widened watching this, daring him to explain.

He nodded with his lie. “She is our daughter, Duvalla. Nehemiah is our son. You know there is no one else.”

My face paled at his words. How could he know of my shame—that I was unable to recall those intimate moments of conception? I had always assumed one-night affairs that were the result of inconsolable grief drowned in the rare indulgence of alcohol. No man had ever stepped forward to claim paternity. Until now.

It felt as if the forest had suddenly petrified, every living soul motionless, and every sound mute but for the babe now wailing at my feet. His tiny arms flailed desperately, wanting a warm embrace and sustenance.

It was more than I could handle. I turned and ran.

Sarti called out a name at my back that nearly made me crash to the ground in my sprawling attempt to twist back around.

“Kresh!” She was pointing at me while already crouched low, prepared to scoop up my infant child.

The name echoed in my head, hitting some subconscious part of my brain with avid force. Though I had never heard it before, intense recognition made me search for the one who owned it. I prayed she would say it again.

Sarti made a rounded gesture for her brother to hand over Natasha. Nehemiah, still crying, wriggled in her other arm. She ordered her brother, “Go, go! Go after her, Kresh!”

The name gripped me. Its owner frightened me.

Our eyes met for a second before I spun around and tore off for home.

I didn’t get far before a presence was on my heels. Though he begged me to stop, I raced faster, determined somehow to lose him. It was alarm that put a halt to my sprint, over a claim hollered past my shoulder.

“She will erase your memory again! Duvalla, listen! You’ll forget your children! You’ll forget they’re alive!”

When I turned to face him, my sword swiped level to maintain a distance between us. He was panting from the sprint but spoke up right away, spitting out his words hastily; perhaps he was concerned that I might flee again before he could say what he wished to say.

“I know this is hard for you to accept, but you can’t tell anyone what I’ve told you.”

“Because you lie!”

“No—no, I haven’t. Think about it, Duvalla, why would a loving grandparent hand you a dead child if it wasn’t yours? Why would she tell you your son had been mauled by wolves when he clearly wasn’t? Who’s really lying to you?”

I searched my brain for an answer. “Maybe… maybe the body was too clawed up to identify. He was wrapped in rags when my grandmother handed him to me. She didn’t know; she didn’t see his face.”

“Yet a woman who claims to care for you would let you endure the unspeakable agony of losing a child without knowing for certain he was yours?”

I thought again. There had to be an explanation. “Someone else must have wrapped the body. Someone she trusted.” Who else had been there that night? “Thaddeus! Thaddeus was there—yes, yes, he knew!”

“You mean the witch’s son?”

My eyes bulged with incredulity. “No. No, no, not Thaddeus. You said I… we killed him… her son was dead.”

“You took the life of her eldest boy, Lucian, not the youngest. What that witch never learned was how Lucian savagely slaughtered all three of our boys—our entire family at the time.”

I couldn’t speak after that. My throat closed up at the mental image he painted—Kresh and I, a family with young sons. Three children slain by the brother of… of Thaddeus? I harbored no kind feelings toward that gritless, craven swine. Perhaps he was the true witch, a fiend I could cut down without an ounce of remorse.

Kresh drew me from my thoughts with continued beseeching. “Please, just consider my words before you act on your doubts. If you let it be known that you’ve visited us again, she will—”

“Again?” I cut in, speaking over him.

“Yes. You’ve come twice before. I tried to convince you of the truth both times, but you ran back to Tarishe and confronted that awful hag with everything you’d learned. She used her enchantments to erase your memory of the incidents. They’ve not let you wander off alone since the second occurrence.”

I nodded. The law now asserted such control, enforced by strict punishment. “It was Thaddeus. He insisted a law be instated to protect hunting parties from werewolf attacks. He said they had grown more brutal and frequent. My grandmother was concerned; she forbade me to go anywhere alone.”

Kresh grimaced. “We never attack without cause.”

Both stories couldn’t be true. “One of you is lying.”

He nodded in agreement. His dark eyebrows drooped over eyes that implored me to believe his claims. I wanted so badly to trust him.

“I have to go; I have to think,” I said, moving away.

“Please, Duvalla, please keep these things to yourself until you realize the truth.”

I nodded, acquiescing, and took a step as if to leave.

Kresh augmented his appeal. “I don’t want you to forget me. I don’t want you to forget that I love you.”

I froze for a moment, hardly able to glance at him. I didn’t know what to say. The same devious magic that had made me want him all this time was wreaking havoc inside me. I had to get away from him.

With my sword returned to its sheath, I continued through the trees, running as if speed held the power to alter both time and reality and thus restore life as it should be. My ears picked up every twig that snapped beneath my tread as well as every labored inhale and exhale. I swallowed the smell of moss and a coldness that was setting in with the night. But I didn’t detect the werewolf keeping pace off to my side until a flash of fur caught my eye.

The umber wolf glanced at me, meeting my spotting gaze. I didn’t slow at the sight of him, not until the walls of Tarishe became visible through dwindling foliage. Then I walked, panting, headed for a collection of boulders assembled in the open area outside the gates.

Before clearing the final line of trees, I was forced to the ground by a heavy body. When I moved to defend myself against this perceived attack, the umber wolf slipped off me with his head lowered, whimpering.

“What was that for?” I asked, confused by his actions.

His snout gestured toward the gates where a watchman could be seen pacing the inner catwalk, scarcely a helmeted head in view bobbing along the top of our fortification.

“Oh,” I breathed, remembering that I couldn’t be seen unless I cared to face a penalty for breaking another of Thaddeus’ inane laws.

I crouched behind a wide trunk and waited until the watchman turned his back my way to advance down another length of walkway. Swiftly, I scrambled out from my hiding place and crept up to the wooden wall. It seemed twice as tall and twice as daunting from up close. I had no plan for successfully sneaking inside.

When a wet nose nudged my arm, I realized the umber wolf had shadowed me clear to the gates.

“You can’t be seen here,” I scolded him in a firm whisper. “I thought you didn’t want anyone to know I was with you.”

He stepped around me, skirting the wall in the opposite direction the watchman had gone. When he paused to look back at me, I frowned but agreed to follow him. We stole silently to the dark side of the village, stopping at a stretch of wall where surrounding foliage had grown closer to Tarishe than at any other point. I made a note of how the overgrown branches provided extended cover and concealment for approaching enemies. Thaddeus would want them cut back.

While thus preoccupied, my werewolf companion bumped into my calves, causing me to fall backwards onto him. To keep from meeting the ground, I grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled myself over, somewhat resting on his back. He shifted to force my legs on either side, effectively straddling him. The moment he lifted his paws onto the fortress wall, standing on hind legs, I released my hold and jumped off.

He dropped to the ground beside me, growling deep in his throat. His ochre eyes scrunched into disapproving slits.

“What are you doing?” I squeaked in a hushed yet objecting manner.

He pointed his snout at the high wooden planks. I glanced at the wall from under knitted eyebrows, and then returned my unwitting gaze on him.

Once again, he motioned toward the wall, this time placing a paw on the timbers. Solid, hooked claws scratched the smooth surface.

My eyebrows scrunched lower, and I gave the wolf a look that easily translated into “you’ve got to be insane.” I rubbed my hand over the surface. “This is flat, dense wood, the height of at least five large men. You can’t possibly climb this wall!”

When his claws successfully pierced the reinforced boards, and he managed a few feet off the ground to prove me wrong, I immediately understood that if the werewolves had ever wanted to breach our stronghold and devastate us, they had possessed the ability to do so all along.

I gawked at this giant, hairy monster as he jumped back down to the ground. He ignored my complete state of shock, stepping over to squeeze his head between my hip and arm. I understood his desire, and took hold of his fur, lifting a leg to straddle him once again.

“Are you sure you can carry me?” I asked, a little worried.

He gurgled a low growl as if chiding my lack of faith. With both arms around his neck, I intertwined and locked my fingers, just in case.

To my great astonishment, the umber wolf managed to scale our high buttress with me clinging to his back. He stopped his climb just below the guard rail and whimpered quietly as a sign for me to pull myself up the rest of the way. I did so without a sound, checking in each direction before hurdling onto the inside walkway.

“Thank you,” I whispered across the wall. I couldn’t help but reach down to stroke the fur on his head. His course hair slid between my fingers, eliciting an emotional stir in my chest. Kresh nudged my hand with his wet nose and then disappeared into the dark abyss below.

Long, dancing shadows suggested fires were ablaze in the open streets of Tarishe, providing light after sunset. Oil lamps produced dark silhouettes of obstructing huts and sheds. From my crouched position I could see the streets nearly empty. Most villagers had retired to their homes for an evening meal and a night of earned rest. My grandmother would be expecting me.

I followed the catwalk to where I could leap across the alleyway and onto the rooftop of our town hall. Then I clambered down, sticking to the shadows in a rush to get home.

From within my grandmother’s hut, a murmur of voices drifted to reach my ears. I paused to listen, able to hear bits of dialogue from just outside the door. The speakers were familiar to me. Hoping to overhear a remark that would either condemn or clear my dear grandmother’s good name—for it was a trial to imagine the frail woman as anything but my loving kin—I moved to the rear of the house and managed to sneak in through a bedroom window. Curled up on the floor next to a partly open door, I eavesdropped on the conversation taking place in the next room.

“Frankly, I think she’s avoiding me on purpose. I’ve looked everywhere. She won’t even answer to the call of her name.”

“Did you ask around?”

“Of course. A few say they’ve spotted her on the rooftops doing nothing useful at all, just staring blankly out at the woods.”

There was a heavy sigh breathed by my grandmother, followed by a moment of silence. “It concerns me, Thaddeus. She spends more and more time outside our watch.”

“Because she’s a self-absorbed irritation who believes herself to be above the rest of us. She’s unwilling to lend a hand with menial chores yet refuses to join a hunt where the sword she carries would be advantageous. And she neglects you as well. With no child to care for anymore and no man in the house whose needs must be met, she squanders her time uselessly. She’s a lost cause if you ask me.”

“The girl is suffering, Thaddeus. Her decline into solitude is to be expected. She may be uncooperative, but she is a resource for you nonetheless.”

“She’s a drudgery—a volatile lunatic who’s become near impossible to control.”

“Not impossible if you handle her correctly.”

“You do know she wields that sword against others besides those hairy mongrels. She’s an unruly menace!”

I silently returned Thaddeus’ aversion for me and wondered if our pathetic leader wasn’t whining because of the disagreeable encounter that occurred between us during last Hallows Eve. He probably had no clue as to how close I had come to slitting his throat that night.

“It’s clear she doesn’t respect you—an unfortunate error. Your position alone should demand a reasonable amount of regard.”

“Yes, it should! It should!”

I rolled my eyes at the man’s immaturity.

My grandmother groaned. “I’ve more important things to worry about than the conflicting rapport between you and Catherine.”

Again, it fell silent. Thus far, there had been nothing incriminating said—nothing to suggest the old woman who had raised and cared for me was indeed the witch Kresh accused her of being. Not once had she referred to Thaddeus as a son. My ears perked up when her voice suddenly seemed to smile with an idea.

“Or perhaps… yes… perhaps that is exactly what we need to remedy.”

I wondered what in the world she meant. Thaddeus asked the question for me.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… I believe you’re right, Thaddeus.”

I could sense him grinning like a drunken fool without even seeing the smugness painted on his face.

“Catherine should learn to respect her leaders.”                       

“Yes.”

“And she has become more of a challenge to look after, what with the way she disappears all the time.”

“Yes.”

“And this is a worrisome thing, not knowing what sort of trouble might find her.”

“Yes, yes.”

“But, as you pointed out, there’s nothing to keep her at home. Nothing to prevent her moping about. No child to look after, no man to please…”

Hesitation preceded the predictable response. “Um, yes, that’s true.” My brow crinkled with the same concern I detected in Thaddeus’ voice.

“If we were to remedy that, our concerns would be resolved.”

“What exactly are you proposing?”

“I am proposing that you, Thaddeus, propose to Catherine.”

I had to cover my mouth to keep from protesting as vehemently as Thaddeus immediately did. What in the world was that woman thinking? I would never, never agree to marry that witless, spineless, pathetic excuse for a swine, let alone a man!

“No, no, no, no, I have no interest in an unmanageable lunatic who opposes me at every opportunity.”

“As your wife, she would have to listen to you. She would be subject to her husband’s law.”

Thaddeus made a scoffing sound that communicated my feelings exactly.

“She is young and beautiful and available—”

“Because no one will have her!” Thaddeus cut in. “She has a reputation as a whore! Two children out of wedlock! Not one but two! And no man has come forward to claim them, which makes the women in this village wonder if it isn’t one of their husbands that she cunningly seduced. The only reason she hasn’t been publicly censured is because of her usefulness as a huntress and her ownership of that blasted sword!”

“All the more reason to make an honest woman of her. It is for the better good, Thaddeus.”

“No. I refuse.”

“Propose to Catherine, or I will do it for you.”

The air fell dead quiet after those stern words. I waited with bated breath for a stronger argument from Thaddeus, but he failed to deliver. The next thing I heard was my grandmother calling out to him as if he had crossed the room to leave.

“You will convince her, Thaddeus. Remind her of how you saved poor Nehemiah from being devoured by those savage werewolves.”

A door slammed, and I realized he was gone. I rushed to the window and scrambled outside before my grandmother could discover me inside. I waited for Thaddeus to stomp off—far off—and then rounded the house, summoning the courage to enter.

A slumped form appeared heavily weary, seated by a dwindling fire. Upon sight of me, my grandmother raised a hand to her heart.

“Thank goodness, my child, where in the world have you been? I’ve lost years imagining what evil might have befallen you.”

I muttered an apology. “I’m sorry, Grandmother. I’m fine.”

I tried to step past her in hopes of reaching the back room where I could slip into bed, but she stopped me with conversation.

“Thaddeus was just here asking about you. He too has been concerned by your absences and gray moods. He tried searching you out this evening, but with no luck. Where were you, Catherine?”

I looked at my hands. “Nowhere really. On the rooftop. I can think more clearly up there.”

“Oh, I see. You haven’t stepped foot outside the gates?”

“No,” I lied.

“Good. To do so unaccompanied would be foolishness—a violation of the law.”

I nodded my understanding.

“You’ve simply been ignoring us then. I think it a civil courtesy to respond to your name when you’re summoned, child. At least let people know you’re… around.”

I nodded. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

I tried unsuccessfully for the back room again. Grandmother patted the stool she was seated in before I took two steps, a sign that she desired to have me come sit on the floor beside her. I really didn’t want to, but it wasn’t in my nature to disrespect my elders.

“Catherine, dear, I have something important to discuss with you.”

“I too have something important to talk about,” I said, lowering to my knees in front of her, “and I’d like to go first if you don’t mind.”

She gave me a tight look of wonder and nodded her permission.

“Grandmother.” I felt a strong connection voicing the word, unconvinced that she was anything but my loving family. “Could you tell me why it is we stay here year after year in Tarishe? Why do we live here?”

She seemed confused by my question, so I tried to expound on my thoughts. I took her thin, bony fingers in my hand and expressed my feelings. “I’m tired, Grandmother. I’m tired of fighting for a peaceful, safe existence. The werewolves continually harass us, depleting our numbers—”

“As we do them,” she interjected. “We are not defenseless, Catherine, we fight back.”

“Yes, I know, but… but for what purpose? So we can stay here, locked up behind high walls that fail to keep the enemy out year after year? What’s left in this place for us? My babies are gone and all freedom to roam anywhere but strictly within this confining, dungeon fortress is nonexistent. So, why? Why do we live here?”

“Because it is our home. It has been my home for years. I have no desire to start over elsewhere.”

“But, Grandmother…”

“Catherine, dear, those mongrels have not always troubled us. And you possess the power to eradicate their kind for good. It was a gift granted to you for a reason. This is where you belong, child. You cannot run from your destiny.”

“But, Grandmother, please understand…… I’m so tired of killing. I’m tired of nothing but bloodshed and violence and grieving over lost lives—”

“Because those demons will not leave us be!”

“Neither do we let them alone,” I argued. “I have pursued them into the woods under many full moons, slaughtering their kind under a flag of retribution.”

“It is in defense of your village—your home and family!”

“Perhaps,” I said, although my head shook, doubting. “But, Grandmother, have you stopped to think that maybe the wolves retaliate because we’ve taken so much from them?”

Her eyes grew large at my question. I could imagine them dropping from their sockets onto the ground, rolling up beside the stone hearth to gawk at me.

“What? You think we have robbed them?”

I pled with her to consider another viewpoint. “Have the wolves not lost numbers as we have? Have they not mourned over their own dead? Why can’t we just leave them be? Why not move on to some place free from constant threat and misery?”

She continued to stare at me wide-eyed, so severely I felt a shiver of unease crawl up my spine.

“That is enough rubbish, Catherine! Those filthy dogs are nothing more than cold-blooded killers that invaded my home and murdered my family! I’ll not allow them to seize what is left! I am too old to change my ways, let alone be uprooted from my home. And I will not let you run away from conflict because you’re suddenly afraid!”

“I’m not afraid,” I insisted, slightly affronted.

“Then it is settled. We are Tarishians. We will stay and fight for Tarishe against any evil to threaten her gates, mongrel or otherwise.”

With bowed head, I quietly agreed. “Yes, Grandmother.”

I remained silent as she took a moment to compose herself, breathing more evenly before speaking up with a forced air of gladness.

“Now, dear, I have good news to share. I believe this may be exactly what you need, something to cheer that unhappy heart of yours.”

I tried to squirm out of the conversation, knowing what was coming. It would in no way sit well with me.

“I’m especially tired tonight; my eyelids feel as heavy as lead. Perhaps if it were to wait until morning…” I stood up with my words, but the lean fingers I had been cupping took a firm hold of my hand and refused to let go.

“Be seated, Catherine.”

Again, I attempted to delay the discussion. “I haven’t eaten for hours. I’m faint of head and heart.”

I was given a look of insistence, and the grasp on my fingers tightened.

Reluctantly, I dropped to my knees. Grandmother requested my free hand which I willingly gave. She sandwiched both between her own.

“My poor, sweet, child, there was another reason Thaddeus stopped by this evening—another reason he was desperate to search you out tonight. Our fine and fetching leader had hoped to ask you something of the utmost importance.”

My forehead tightened with concern. “Then I shall go see him first thing in the morning,” I said, hoping to put off her dreadful news.

She patted my hands. “No need. He gave me full permission to speak for him. Perhaps he fears you’ll disappear early on and avoid being found as you have for the past few weeks. It is a legitimate concern.”

“But I wouldn’t—”

“Nevertheless, good news should not wait to turn sour.”

“But if it’s considerable enough to warrant searching me out, wouldn’t it be best for him to deliver the information himself?”

My grandmother grimaced, but still I persisted. “I would very much like to hear it from the horse’s mouth.”

“And you shall, dear,” she said grinning crookedly, “but I would have you prepared to receive his news well.”

I swallowed hard, determined to argue my case.

Her skeletal fingers reached to trace along my jawbone as she cushioned her announcement with justifications. “You are a beautiful creature, child, but the harsh truth is that you are not getting any younger. And having given birth to two babies out of wedlock has dissuaded many would-be suitors.”

I couldn’t help but drop my eyes in shame. She was right.

“That does not make you entirely undesirable, however. There are forgiving hearts here in Tarishe, one in particular willing to offer you a chance at redemption. Thaddeus, our revered village leader, has asked your hand in marriage. He would make an honest woman of you, Catherine, and give you shelter, protection, companionship, and a good name in our community. With him as your husband you would face a promising future, including the opportunity to mother children worthy of a father’s care.”

“Natasha and Nehemiah were more than worth—”

“They were inferior, bastard children.” Her derogatory branding stung like a blade to the heart.

“They were not!” I contended.

“Oh? Tell me then, Catherine, where is your husband? Who was their father?”

Wounded tears watered my eyes. I couldn’t answer those questions.

“Now, now, cease with the self-pity; I’ve allowed it long enough. I understand the pain you feel at the loss of those babies, every mother does. But this may turn out to be for the best. You will marry Thaddeus, and any further children you bear will be his—legitimate and blessed by the influence of two loving parents.”

I choked on my emotions but managed to speak. “I cannot marry him.”

“You can and you will.”

“No. No, I won’t.”

My grandmother’s pointed fingertip pressed beneath my chin, forcing my misty eyes up to meet hers. “Catherine, dear, it is in your best interest to set aside all selfish, petty narrow-mindedness and think for a moment about not only your future but your posterity. Your children deserve a home with both father and mother to look up to. They deserve a life free from the shameful stigma of bastard child. Now forget your trivial concerns and listen to your aged grandmother. I have lived many long years, enough to know that stubborn pride will benefit you nothing.”

“It’s not because of pride I refuse,” I tried to tell her. “It’s because I don’t… I can’t respect the man. And I don’t love him, nor do I believe for one moment that he feels anything but abhorrence for me.”

My grandmother frowned—a displeased look. “That is your biggest problem, Catherine, you give too much weight to meaningless sentiment. Thaddeus is willing to marry you and that is enough. Whether or not you appreciate it, this union will benefit both of you. Therefore, you will marry the man, and I will not hear another word on the matter.”

I begged with desperation. “No, please, Grandmother, please not him…”

It felt like razors slicing against my cheek when her hand contacted my face. I was stunned and silenced. Her gray eyes fell on me as cold as ice.

“I have not raised an insolent grandchild.”

I lowered my head and nodded, whimpering like a puppy.

“Get out of my sight.”

Finally making it to the back room, I slipped into bed and wet my pillow with tears. This day had placed too much on my shoulders. Was I a dog, blinded by a cunning witch who purposefully meant for my life to be an eternal hell? Did I have a werewolf mate who loved me—a loyal pack who had sacrificed lives for my children and myself? Or was I human as I appeared—as I felt? Was my grandmother simply seeing to what she considered my best interests? Despite my own loathing for his personal character, Thaddeus was of high standing in Tarishe, respected and supported by most villagers. It was because of him that many overlooked my infidelities.

Unable to think straight, I succumbed to self-pity and cried myself to sleep.

[ READ CHAPTER THREE - CLICK HERE ]

 Richelle E. Goodrich, Copyright 2013