RED

Chapter 1

“The Dark Wood is dark,” Gran used to say, “But it’s my home.”

My Gran was the first person I remember in this life, and she’d been living in the Dark Wood her life-long. She was already old when I came to live with her at three years old, after the accident that claimed my parents’ lives. The woman seemed ageless. I was too young and my surroundings too new to understand the tragedy that happened, so it did not affect me and didn’t seem to affect Gran either. I did understand eventually, however, that the accident had occurred in the Wood; all manner of accidents happened here on a frequent basis and were not a surprise to the People of the Wood, only tragic.

I lived with Gran in a little cottage on the edge of the village of Huntsville, and it was there my life began. As the village’s only seamstress, she was hard-working and well-known. She saw quickly enough I would never be a seamstress, at least not with the skills she possessed, so she was relieved to discover I was good with injuries, herbs, and poultices. I had a good bedside manner, and was patient with difficult people. This could be put to good use in our little community and was a good way to earn a small living for myself, as she often encouraged me as I grew older.

Eventually she discovered my skill went beyond just a Healer’s regular interests and abilities.

“You’ve got a bit of Fumi in you,” she’d say, though this was never explained very well.

This meant, I surmised eventually, that I had a supernatural gift. One that moved beyond this realm into another one, where power worked in an unusual way to produce abnormal results. If you had asked me, I would have said I was only applying bandages and mixing herbal potions.

The size and depth of the injuries I took on grew over time. Our community learned to place more trust in my abilities, young as I was, though they never called it magic or Fumi’s influence as Gran did. They were just thrilled to have a Healer who had a decent skill at it and required modest payment. Most of them paid in rabbit meat or garden vegetables, or bolts of cloth for Gran, or a new roof for our tiny cottage. This was an ideal, comfortable arrangement.

I quickly understood why Gran believed I had some rare gift at healing. Within only a short time of living with her, I learned that there is a motherly pride in your child because you love them and your heart rejoices at their every success, and there is a pride that needs your child to succeed so you can feel successful — a mother who hungrily takes credit for your accomplishments because she so desperately needs them. Gran needed badly to be well thought of.

These moments weren’t all the time, some seasons worse than others. But even as a young child I became aware there was a slight gleam in her eye when she behaved in this way — a yellow glint that sprang up in her gaze. I didn’t know what it was I was seeing, but it was there. At its weakest, she simply tossed her hair to others, pitched her voice unnaturally high, and bragged on me. No one believed the exaggerated notions she claimed, but everyone smiled. They all believed, like all people do, that she was simply a proud parent. She adored me.

At its strongest, the yellow eyes flickered at me behind Gran's for a moment. In the atmosphere around her I swore I could hear the raspy sound of animal breathing... There was always the strong feeling that I was her possession at these times. At any moment, I felt sure, she would fly into a verbal fit if I dared to dispute her, dared to take from her what was rightfully hers.

As a child, I felt I was being siphoned somehow. Nothing I did and nothing I was was my own — it was hers. I inwardly cringed every time she introduced me. I knew instinctively if I showed any resistance to her or made any comments to others about her behavior those present would quickly correct me. They understood she was a proud parent, they would say. She did this out of love for me. She wanted the whole world to know I was her treasure. From their perspective, I should be grateful. But something about it left me uneasy. Something wasn’t right.

Then there were the People of the Wood. The Dark Wood held several villages; I learned all of them with time. From a young age I hauled my little basket packed tight with medicines and hand-made bandages far and wide, roaming over the dark winding trails of the forest on foot. Everyone needed a Healer... and I was a good listener, too. They all had a story to tell. Some wanted me to come just on that merit alone.

I don’t suppose they knew I was listening as keenly as I was, nor watching so closely. Every one of them had been affected by life here somehow, I realized. I grew certain of this from a young age.

Like Old Man Samson, for example. He lived in Huntsville and often called on me for herbs to relieve neck pain he had had for most years of his adult life. He preferred to call me Healer, rather than Red. He was the one who taught me about manipulation.

He was a cranky man, largely unfriendly. He loved to sit and talk for hours about his life. He had gone on great adventures outside of the Wood and told me about a world I had never known. Through watching him — even at times through my own arrangements with him — I learned he could never admit what he wanted, even when asked directly. For him, it was easier not to talk out an arrangement with others. This took time, and risked that the end results would not get him exactly what he wanted. So he’d make up some woeful or complicated reason to get his way. He’d always pretend to go along with the discussed arrangement, and then at the last moment create a story that guaranteed he got exactly what he wanted. Part of his technique was to take advantage of the social generosity of others. He preyed on the naive, the innocent, the giving. Never in big ways, and only from those people whom he believed had it to spare, especially his family. It was a harmless kind of stealing that he justified entirely.

Of course I knew he was manipulating me when it happened. I wasn’t deceived and never fooled. I let him have the fruit of his efforts — not to reward him, but because I knew how suddenly mean and accusing he would become if I spoke up. He was viperous. I had often witnessed him react viciously with his family and various members of the community; I could sense the tension there between us if I dared to protest or asked him to clarify his commitments. There was no one to protect me, and no high ground to run to should he lash out. I was just a girl, and a small one at that.

At the same time, during this I also saw Samson’s great pain, a pain that left him vulnerable, just as my Gran was, to that yellow light in his eye, to that heavy-breathing monster that was somehow involved. I saw his great need for relief that extended well beyond the neck pain he was living with. Most of all, I held my peace because I saw he needed some person not to let him go. He was old and alone, and very few people liked him.

All the People of the Wood were similar, all of them carried some inner pain or hungry need that was then fueled and encouraged by the Unseen Presence. I didn’t know what that Dark Presence was. I didn't know what it was after, and the People never spoke about it, as if they were unaware of it. I could see they agreed to its influence. They were the ones who turned the power over to it. But I never really knew what it was.

These woods were a dark and difficult place to live. Deep with shadow, cold, rife with mystery. Home it was not. Unlike Gran and these people, it was never home for me here. I wondered if it was truly home for anyone.

I first learned about the wolves from the Huntsman, and only incidentally. He was never one for words, that one.

I met him at fifteen years old. My Healing duties had taken me into a deeper part of the Wood that day, so deep in fact that through parts of it I had to light a little lantern which I carried with me on days I knew I would be traveling farther from home. It was an uncomfortable temperature here, an odd mix of both cold and heat which was common in the Wood. As usual, I wished I had more than the short shabby little cloak around my shoulders. It was growing thin from years of use and had become nearly useless. My only saving grace was the long woolen skirt and sturdy leather boots, the latter of which had been payment from Huntsville’s cobbler for doctoring a broken arm he suffered for falling off his roof.

Danner never did tell me what he had been doing on his roof. He had no need to be up there, considering he was best friends and next door neighbor with the local thatcher. There were many things patients kept from their Healers out of shame or other unknown reasons. I suspected this accident had to do with a dare between the two men which they did not want to reveal to me... or to anyone else who asked over the ensuing weeks. But I received a fine pair of boots out of it, and that was good enough for me. I was hopeful the shoes would last for several more years, now that my feet had finally stopped growing.

I was on my way home now, tired and ready for the little lunch I had packed in my basket before departing the cottage that morning. It was this desire that took me off the path momentarily. I saw sunlight through the heavy trees to my left and thought I could take my lunch where the shadows were not quite so deep or thick.

Skirting massive trunks, stepping over a tangled web of roots spread out on the forest floor, I moved delicately for the light. This was tedious work by use of the lantern, but I knew it would be well-worth the reward to sit in some semblance of sun after a long morning in the darkness. My patient that morning had not been a difficult one, thankfully, but he had hardly needed the urgent care which I had been called such a distance for. I spent most the morning listening to his personal woes, eager to make my way back home.

It was then I heard the unexpected gallop of horse’s hooves in the distance just ahead. This was a single horse, riding too fast through these dense forests. The sound startled me and I froze to listen, reaching for the lantern instinctively to dim it. There was no sense in giving away my presence until I was ready to alert them.

Surprisingly, the rider gave a sudden shout, one I interpreted as playful and urging the horse on, which was just as odd in these parts of the forest, particularly here in such thick undergrowth. I could hear the animal leap over an obstacle, and his hooves came down heavily on the hard earth. Then a crash occurred, followed by a terrible tangle of foliage, forest undergrowth, and a human body meeting disaster of some kind. The rider let out a painful yelp... and then there was only the silence of the forests.

My first instinct was as a Healer. Where there was an accident, there was most likely an injury. The silence was telling that something negative had occurred to the rider, particularly as the quiet stretched out. Not even the horse was shuffling around.

Quickly, I re-lit the lantern and moved forward. I followed where I had last heard any human sound, picking my steps. My heart was pounding, but I ignored it. I’d seen enough serious injuries now to not let fear or uncertainty impact my mission.

Soon enough, I saw a flash of white and picked out the image of a horse through the broken web of brush and trees. He came more into view as I approached, a massive animal of purest white. I realized his long neck was bent over his master at his feet, nibbling on the man’s collar, hoping for a reaction of some kind.

It was then I let my steps be heard, so the animal would not be startled. He looked like a horse that was capable of defending himself and his rider if he thought they were being attacked. The gold pommel of a sword could be seen at his saddle. For a quick moment this distracted me. I’d never seen anything like it in my humble upbringing...

Then my eyes were drawn back to the rider, who was sprawled on the ground unconscious. His dark clothing was as rich as the saddle and gear strapped to his horse, sewn with tailoring that would make even Gran supremely envious. I approached closer, keeping my steps tentative until I was certain the horse had seen me and accepted my presence.

Enough light broke through the canopy of branches overhead to set the lantern down on the ground and kill its light, then I stayed bent, examining the face of my patient, keeping on the far side of the horse. He was a young man — only a year or two older than myself — with a chiseled face and olive complexion. Certainly he was not one of the People of the Wood. No one in the Wood was tow-headed, not one. I suspected he was not a commoner of any kind in the Land of Hadithi.

Just as I reached for him, he moaned suddenly, stirring. He opened his eyes and shook his head, immediately intent on sitting up.

Without thinking, I placed both hands on him. “Easy. Easy, my friend. You came off your horse hard.”

He didn’t obey me, though my voice and words did slow him. He rolled to a seating position. In only a moment he had already taken in his surroundings, the horse bent over him, and myself at his side with my hands still offering support.

“Where did you come from?” he asked. He sounded dazed and in slight pain, but aware enough.

“I’m a Healer,” I quickly assured him. “I’ve been out seeing a patient and heard you take a fall. Are you alone out here in these forests?”

“No. I slipped away from my party.” He laughed a little as he gave this confession. He was amused by his actions. “Here — help me to my feet, would you? I’m a little dizzy.”

This young man had none of the self-consciousness I was accustomed to in boys of my own age. Without thought, he placed an arm around my shoulders. Taking for granted that I would assist him, he leaned on me as I pulled myself to my feet.

As soon as we struggled to a stand, he stepped away, still shaking his head dizzily. “My thanks.”

“Are you able to see clearly?” I asked him. “Do you have especial pain in your head?”

His half-laugh returned, but again this seemed directed at his own daring, not at my questions. “I’m fine. Nothing serious. I just need a minute to clear my head. Hey, boy —“ His attention was turned for a moment by the white horse, who was nuzzling now on his master’s collar in concern. The young man patted the animal’s withers affectionately, reassuring him. “I’m fine. Shouldn’t have tried that leap in the dark.”

The young man’s eyes returned to me. It was true, with every second he was on his feet he seemed to gain more coherency. He was focusing in on me now, taking in my clothing with one broad sweep, as well as the little basket and lantern at my feet. “You’re just a girl. You’re a Healer, you say?”

If I was just a girl, he wasn’t much more than a boy, I thought. He had a rakish look about him, and appeared as though he spent a great deal of time laughing. The blue eyes that were on me were already alive with sparkle.

“I am,” I told him. “I live here in the Wood.”

“I’m Prince Desi,” he announced, but even this was pronounced casually, as though he took no especial merit in it.

He paused as though he expected me to return the greeting with my own name.

I was a little more taken aback than he was, obviously. The most important person I’d ever known was Huntsville’s mayor, who conducted business in his smithy barn with the glowing forge at his back and manure usually at his feet. We were not a very formal people.

The most I knew about the Royal family of any kind was in connection to the White Palace, one of their summer homes located along the southeastern edges of the Wood, just fifteen minutes’ ride from the cottage. The Royal Family was rarely there, and when they were local people were not made aware. We neither knew when they came or left, which they had managed quite successfully for all the years of my life.