Scarlet Moon (Once Upon a Time) (2 page)

When Ruth awoke, sun was streaming into her eyes, and her legs still felt as though they were on fire. Her first sense was one of fear, and she cried out.

“Hush, little one, you are safe,” a familiar voice said soothingly. Her brother stood over her, his face twisted as if he were in pain.

“What is wrong, Stephen?” she asked.

He picked her up, hugging her to him. “Thank God you’re awake,” he whispered against her cheek.

“You’re tickling me,” she protested.

He laughed and laid her back down. “You had us all frightened, little one.”

“Am I going to die?” she asked, the fear still tugging at her heart.

“No, God be praised,” her father said from the doorway.

She turned to look at him and saw tears streaming down his cheeks. The sight frightened her more than the pain she felt or the memory of the wolf that had inflicted it.

He turned his face away from her, and his voice was muffled as he continued. “You will be all right. You will even walk again, though the scars will remain.”

His words frightened her still more, and she struggled to sit up. Stephen pushed against her shoulders, trying to hold her down, but she fought him. Her fingers clawed at his hands and she scratched him. At last she rose up on her elbows just as her blanket slid to the floor.

She stared in horror at what was left of her legs. They were crisscrossed with angry red wounds. Whole chunks of flesh were missing, and the marks of the wolf’s teeth were clearly visible.

She dimly heard Stephen’s voice telling her that everything was going to be fine.
How can it be?
she thought, her horror mounting with each passing second.

“I am hideous!”

“No! Listen to me. You are still beautiful and you will heal in time.”

Ruth nodded for his sake because she could hear the pain and the fear in his voice, and it broke her heart. She would be strong for him. In her heart, though, she didn’t believe him.

A movement in the corner of the room caught her eye, and she turned to glance at a cloaked figure standing in the shadows.
Grandmother?
she wondered for one wild moment. But it couldn’t be, because her grandmother lived in the forest and wasn’t allowed to come into the village—ever.

Outside she heard a commotion, many voices mingled together in excited shouting. She turned away from the cloaked figure as her father strode to the door and flung it open. He stood for a moment before turning with a satisfied nod. “They have the wolf.”

“I want to see it,” Ruth quavered, fear and hatred filling her.

“So you shall,” Stephen said, swooping her up in his arms. He carried her outside. Coming up the path was a group of men who wore tired yet triumphant looks.

“We followed the trail of blood,” her cousin, Peter, shouted from the head of the troupe. “We lost it, but when we searched the area, we found this wolf, already dead. He died of the wound you gave him, Stephen.”

Ruth tightened her grip around Stephen’s neck, her heart beginning to pound in fear as she caught sight of the monstrous gray brute. They dropped the wolf at Stephens feet with great ceremony.

Peter reached out to touch her hand. A year younger than her brother, he was still several years older than she. His parents had died a year before, and he had been living with them since. He had grown much in that time, his body beginning to make the transition from boy to man, as evidenced by his expanding shoulders and increasing confidence.

“I cut off the wolf’s paw for you to keep,” Peter told her.

“I don’t want it,” she whispered. “You keep it.”

Slowly she looked down at the body of the wolf. It was ugly, its fur splattered with streaks of dried blood and its tongue hanging out the side of its mouth. Its fangs were covered with bits of flesh. At last Ruth looked into its eyes, which were wide open and staring. They were lifeless, like two little pieces of round yellow glass.

Yellow.

A chill went through her and she buried her head against Stephen’s shoulder. “It’s not the same wolf.”

Something was wrong; she could feel it. Two weeks had passed since the wolf had attacked, and in that time she had felt closer to her brother than ever before. He had been by her side constantly, warm and
caring. The last few hours, though, he had seemed cold and aloof.

“Again,” he commanded, sitting by the hearth and extending his arms toward her.

She struggled up from the edge of her bed, trying to stand. At last she gained her feet. With pain shooting through her legs, she tried to hobble using the crutch he had made for her. Since before dawn he had had her up, trying to get her to move around using only the crutch. She was getting tired and angry.

Halfway to the hearth she began to lose her footing and fell onto a chair.

“I can’t do it!” she exclaimed as her crutch fell to the ground.

“You can and you must!”

“I’m tired. I’ll work on it more tomorrow.”

“No, you’ll work on it today.”

“Why? Why today?” she demanded.

“Because tomorrow will be too late,” he said, standing so suddenly he knocked over his chair.

“Why?”

He sighed and dropped his eyes to the floor. After a moment he crossed over and knelt beside her. “Ruth, the duke has sent a call for men to join him as he marches with the prince to the Holy Land. They need men to fight in a crusade against the infidels holding Jerusalem.”

“What has this to do with you?” she whispered,
though she feared that in her heart she already knew the truth.

“Peter and I are going. We have heard the call and it has resonated in our hearts. We will join the duke and the prince.”

“But you are blacksmiths, not knights.”

“And they need those more desperately even than warriors. We will help build and repair weapons and armor, and shoe horses. If need be, we will fight as well.”

“You’re leaving tomorrow, aren’t you?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“The army leaves at first light. We are traveling to the castle tonight to join it.”

Ruth threw her arms around his neck and clung to him, terror filling her. “Don’t go,” she begged.

“I have to,” he said. “They need me.”

“I need you,” she countered.

“No, you are strong. You do not need me to look after you anymore. But Father will need you now more than ever. You must promise me that you will help him.”

Her tears spilled out freely, running down her cheeks and soaking his shirt. “I can’t.”

“You can, Ruth,” he said, pulling away and staring into her eyes. “You are strong and brave. Not even the wolf could beat you.”

She shivered at the mention of the creature and began to cry even harder. “But you were there to protect me.”

From his belt he pulled his dagger—the very one he had used upon the wolf. He placed it in her palm
and wrapped her fingers around its hilt. “I will still protect you, so long as you carry this with you.”

She stared from it to him, praying to find the words that would make him stay. A shadow fell across the room and she turned. Peter stood in the doorway, a sack on his back.

“I will miss you, Ruth,” her cousin said, his voice trembling.

She held out her arms to him and he came to her, hugging her tightly. Then the three of them hugged, all of them crying.

Finally Peter pulled away. “It’s time to go,” he said softly, and Stephen nodded.

“But Father—”

“We said our good-byes this morning,” Stephen assured her.

“He knew and he did not tell me!”

“We agreed it would be better this way. Nothing is to be gained by lengthy good-byes.”

Stephen stood and crossed to a corner, picking up a sack that Ruth hadn’t noticed sitting there. He threw it across his back before bending to kiss the top of her head.

“Be strong,” he whispered. He turned to Peter, and without another word the two of them left.

Ruth sat, shaking and staring at nothing, for several moments. When she could no longer hear the sound of their footsteps, she stood slowly, using the chair for support.

She picked up her crutch and began to hobble
painfully. Every step sent pain up her legs, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. A few steps and she made it through the door. Outside, the road was a river of mud winding between the houses and scattered shops. Smoke curled from all the chimneys, and people walked by quickly, their heads bowed and their spirits dampened by the recent rains.

The thick brown ooze clutched at her boots, and each time she pulled them free the motion was accompanied by a loud sucking sound. Slowly, step by painful step, she made her way toward her father’s blacksmith shop. He was already there; she could hear his hammer ringing out against steel—strong, angry-sounding strokes.

He glanced up at her as she entered, but he said not a word. Slowly she made her way over to the forge. A steel blade sat in the fire, the metal becoming soft and pliable. With tongs she pulled it out and placed it upon an anvil.

She leaned her body against a stone pillar and propped her crutch up against the back of it. She reached down and picked up her brother’s hammer. The feel of it in her hand brought tears again to her eyes. It was heavy, but she lifted it high into the air. As she slammed it down upon the glowing steel she met her father’s eyes. He nodded slowly and then turned back to his own blade. Together they hammered far into the night.

NINE YEARS LATER

T
he trees moaned and sighed as below them a deer died a sudden, violent death, its life taken by another creature. Claws and teeth slashed at the animal, rending flesh. There was nothing the trees could do but stand and watch and worry. The creature below them tore into the deer, devouring it as quickly as it could.
What a disturbance; what a tragedy; how very unnatural.

Ruth slammed the hammer down on her thumb and choked back an oath.
Why are you so clumsy this morning?
she chided herself.

She plunged her hand into a bucket of cool water nearby. After a couple of minutes she pulled it out and crossed to a bottle that sat on a shelf across the room. She picked it up, squeezed a thick liquid onto her thumb, and slowly rubbed it in. The scent of chamomile, geraniums, lavender, lemon, myrrh, and rose filled her nostrils. The remedy was her grandmother’s recipe, and it was designed to
alleviate swelling. Years before, Ruth had started keeping a supply of it on hand in the shop. Every finger knew it well.

She let out her breath slowly, forcing herself to relax. After a minute she stared gingerly at her hand. She grimaced at what she saw It was rough and red like a man’s and laced with scars. Through the years she had broken three of her fingers, but thanks to more of her grandmother’s treatments and care, none of them were crooked.

She sighed and closed her eyes, hearing snatches of local gossip in her head. “She’s never gonna find a man ’less she starts acting like a woman.” The women of the village thought she didn’t know, didn’t hear them talking about her. She heard, though, and the words hurt.

I can fight against a sword, or fists, but I don’t know how to fight against words,
she thought bitterly.
Worse, I know it hurts Father, though he would never say.

Ruth clenched her fist and watched the muscles in her forearm jump. Her grandmother had lotions for those, as well, to keep them from growing quickly. If it weren’t for those creams, Ruth’s arms would be twice as big.

“When Stephen returns, there will be time enough for me to worry about marriage,” she muttered to herself. It was an old mantra, but it still gave her strength. She didn’t let herself think about what would happen if he never did return. Eventually he
would—he must. Just six months before, a young man had returned to his home in the village. He said that the fighting was still raging. Knowing her brother, he wouldn’t return until it was done. Until then, she would continue to help her father and keep using salves to keep her skin smooth and soft.

Except for my hands. I wish Grandmother could do something about their redness.
Ruth was instantly angry with herself for thinking it.
I have nothing to be ashamed of; I earned every one of these scars.

Thinking of the scars on her fingers was enough to make her legs begin to ache. She grimaced as she sat down on a barrel and rubbed them.
Those scars I
didn’t
earn
, she thought grimly. There was nothing about them to be proud of. Her thoughts flashed, as they often did, to the wolf that had caused them.
I wonder if he’s still alive out there?

Ruth shook her head to rid it of the question. The woods held enough terror for her without her allowing thoughts like that in.
No, he probably died long ago.
That thought did give her a great deal of satisfaction, and she stood, ready to continue working.

She crossed to the anvil and bent to pick up her hammer. A shadow darkened the door and she glanced up. A man stood there, his form thin beneath travel-stained clothes. His blond hair was unkempt and straggled past his shoulders.

“What can I do for you, stranger?” she asked.

“I guess I would seem a stranger to your eyes, but
I know you, Ruth,” he said, his voice cracking. “Though when I last saw you, your appearance was less that of a boy and more that of a girl.”

She wrapped her good hand around a metal rod used to stoke the fire. “Who are you?” she asked warily. She stood her ground as he advanced.

When he got close enough that she could see his eyes, she froze. “Peter?” she whispered.

The wraith before her nodded. “What’s left of me.”

“Peter!” she cried, dropping the poker and flying to him.

“Careful!” he exclaimed as she hugged him fiercely.

“Sorry,” she laughed, pulling back slightly. She couldn’t believe the boy she remembered had grown into the man before her. Only his eyes were the same—a soft brown, shot through with gold flecks. Even they had changed, though; a shadow was in them that had not been there before.

She glanced over his shoulder to the open door. Would her brother stride through it next? Several seconds elapsed and she could feel disappointment curling like a serpent in the pit of her stomach.