Twisted Tales

I ran through the forest, my feet stumbling over gnarled roots and thorny bushes that seemed determined to drag me down. Every frantic footfall sent jarring pain through my legs. My lungs burned as I gasped for air, but I couldn't allow myself to stop for breath.

Nothing but adrenaline and terror kept me running now, while the jaws of the wolves snapped at my ankles, driven into a frenzy of bloodlust by the thrill of the chase. Tree branches whipped at my face as I sprinted past and my hood was torn from my head, leaving angry red welts on my cheeks and brow. I hardly noticed. There would be time to feel the pain after I escaped.

If I escaped.

I could hear them, loping along behind me, snarling and snapping at one another, competing with each other for who would get the first bite. I could imagine how they must look; their gleaming yellow eyes flashing in the darkness, their wide wet mouths open and panting, exposing white, gleaming canines, over and inch long, viciously sharp.

I had seen the first wolf become two, and then three, before I had fled, and by now it sounded as though there was an entire pack tearing through the trees after me. I couldn't outrun them for much longer, I knew.

The only reason I was even still alive was because I had had so much of a head start, and the density of the forest undergrowth made it easier for a lone, slim girl to slip through the gaps in the trees and bushes than it was for a pack of overgrown, half starved mutts; clumsy in their desperation, and all jostling violently for position at the front of the pack. If they hadn't kept stopping to fight with each other, I'd have been lunch a long time ago, and I knew my luck was bound to run out sooner or later.

The stolen crimson cloak billowed out behind me, and without warning it snagged on a branch, jerking me painfully backwards as my desperate flight was brought to an abrupt end.

I spun around and tore at the red fabric in panic, pulling once, twice, and three times before finally succeeding in yanking it loose; but it had cost me my precious few seconds of a head start. I looked up with terrified eyes into the shadows of the forest, and saw the wolves bearing down upon me like hounds from hell.

There was no point in running any longer, I knew I wouldn't be able to outpace them. So instead, I willed my shaking legs not to give out on me just yet; summoned what little was left of my strength; and leaped straight up into the air as high as I could.

My fingertips barely brushed against the closest tree branch above my head.

“Come on!” I grunted, jumping again. Again, it remained just out of my reach. “I won't-” I jumped.

The wolves were twenty feet away now.

“-Go out-” I missed.

They were ten feet away, and I could see their glistening teeth, barred and wet with drool.

“-As dog food!” I was so close this time, if only I could have been an inch, a centimeter taller!

I tried, one last time, and just as the closest of the wolves leaped into the air, my fingers closed around the branch and I hauled myself up into the tree.

A moment later, the creature's mouth snapped closed futilely at the space where my legs had just been dangling. All seven of the wolves had reached the foot of the tree now, and were clawing at the trunk, half crazed with blood-lust, snapping at the air with their foaming lips pulled back over black gums. But it was too late, I was out of their reach.

“Ha!” I barked triumphantly. “What now, you stupid, mangy, flee-ridden mutts?”

As if in response to my gloating, the largest of the wolves—a massive brute with coarse, patchy fur—narrowed his eyes at me and crouched low to the ground, his bony ribcage almost touching the forest floor. He laid his ears back flat on his head, tensed the rippling muscles in his haunches, and launched himself higher into the air than I would have expected possible.

I shrieked and tried to scramble higher, but I wasn't his target. Instead, the wolf threw himself at the trunk of the tree, and to both my horror and amazement, clung there like a squirrel for a heart-stopping moment, before slowly, but with awful determination, beginning to inch his way up the trunk towards me, in a way that no earthly canine should have been able to.

Well. Time to revise my plan.

I began to climb higher, pulling myself with shaking arms up the tree, increasing the distance between me and the horrible mongrel. But even as he reached the branch I had just moments before taken refuge on, the ascent became easier for him, as now he had the help of the sturdy limbs of the evergreen to act as a ladder, leading straight up to the tailing hem of my stolen cloak.

How the hell was a wolf climbing a tree? I spared a fraction of a moment to glance down at the breast. Perhaps, from certain angles, there was something not entirely wolfish about its features. Something about its bright eyes, which were fixed on me with unsettling intensity, with unsettling intelligence.

It noticed me looking at it, and it grinned.

We climbed in unison, inch by agonizing inch; him struggling to close the distance between us, and me struggling to increase it; trapped in some perverse game of cat and mouse. The higher I climbed, the thinner and weaker the branches of the tree became, and they groaned distressingly under my weight.

I tried to ignore this as best I could, and instead hoped that what could barely support me would eventually send the huge wolf tumbling back to the earth. The monster below me didn't seem to be paying any heed to the danger though, and he continued his relentless rise without once taking his starving, yellow eyes off me.

I reached upwards to grab a branch—though by this point the word “branch” was somewhat misleading, “twig” seemed more accurate—only to have it break off in my hand the moment I tried to put any weight on it. Case and point.

I screamed involuntarily, clutching desperately at the tree trunk with my other arm, my heart pounding fit to burst out of my chest. My near fall had forced me to glance below my dangling feet, and the sheer drop off made my already woozy head spin like a top.

Worse still, the wolf was gaining. Evidently having seen my slip, he was filled with new eagerness, and he picked up his pace, panting and scrambling with his massive claws paws to clumsily drag himself from branch to branch. If he didn't fall soon, he would be upon me. I looked up at the remaining branches above my head, and knew that venturing any farther up would only result in a very sudden, very unpleasant meeting with with ground. And several dozen tree limbs and a hungry wolf on the way, of course.

Okay, so much for plan B.

The wolf was ten feet below me now, and steadily rising. A tree limb snapped under one of his paws, but he drew himself up onto the next one just in time. He'd be upon me in moments if I didn't act now.

Frantically I looked around, desperately hoping to see something, anything, that could help me.

Nothing turned up. Except for one tiny, crazy idea. But if my choices were between crazy and dead, I'd take my chances. I took a deep breath, stood up unsteadily on the branch I was clinging to, and without giving myself time to actually think about what I was about to do, threw myself bodily from the tree.

I fell through the air, screaming every moment of the way. With a painful jolt, I crashed into the nearest branches of the tree beside the one I had just jumped from. With clawing hands I tried to grab hold of the branches or the trunk or anything that might stop my fall, but everything I clutched only broke off in my grasp.

True, I didn't have a blood thirsty wolf to worry about anymore (at least not at that exact second), but that fact didn't really make my falling some fifty feet to my inevitable death any more comforting. Thankfully, it was quick. Somehow managing to miss the worst of the branches which would certainly have brained me in an instant, I hurtled to the earth, the red riding cape billowing about me like engulfing flames, until I crashed-

-Right through someone's roof.

I stared up hazily at the hole I had made in the ceiling. I could see the dark foliage high above, only a few slanting rays of light able to penetrate the thick coverage of the treetops. I knew I should probably get up and apologize to whoever lived in this house, but to be honest, I didn't really feel up to moving at this point. So instead I laid there on my back, gazing unfocused at nothing in particular, and vaguely wondered when I would be able to breath again.

A face appeared in my line of vision.

It was blurry and kept moving, so it was hard to get a good look at it, but I thought it might have had sandy blonde hair. After a few moments, I realized it was speaking, though the ringing in my ears prevented me from hearing clearly what it was trying to say.

I tried to tell the face that I couldn't hear it, but when I opened my mouth, the only sound I seemed capable of making was a rattling wheeze. Through the aching pain that fogged my mind, I thought I could feel pressure being placed seemingly at random over my body. After a few bemused moments, I realize that the face had hands, and those hands were pressing gently on my arms, legs, and chest; evidently trying to determine how bad the damage was.

Now that the terror of the moment had passed, the sharp pain in my back and lungs seemed to diminish slightly as well, and I wanted to tell the face that I didn't think anything was broken, but I still couldn't quite get enough air to manage anything more than a groan.

The face said something again. I shook my head slightly, screwing my eyes shut for a long moment. When I opened them again, I was pleased to find that the double vision was receding, and likewise was the ringing in my ears. I groaned again, and because I was so pleased that I could hear it properly, I groaned a third time. I tried to sit up, only to fall back down in an aching heap.

“Hey, don't try to move yet!” a voice I assumed belonged to the face snapped. “Are you stupid? Stay there, stop squirming!” It was a male voice.

“I'm not squirming,” I finally managed to wheeze, after several tries.

“Don't argue with me,” the man snapped. “It's my floor, I should know whether you're squirming on it or not. Why did you fall through my ceiling?”

“I didn't do it on purpose,” I replied, as testily as I was able to, considering every breath still felt like someone was stabbing me in my lungs. “I fell.”

“Obviously,” he shot back shortly. “But why?”

“Wolves,” I answered, trying again to struggle into a sitting position. The owner of the voice and face put a hand out to stop me, but I shrugged him off and pushed myself up onto my elbows.

“Wolves?” he repeated, as if I had lost my mind.

“Wolves. Chasing me. Up a tree.” I groaned again. The small effort of sitting up had sent my head spinning in all new directions.

“Wolves,” the man growled, and he rose to his feet. “Are they still out there?”

“I don't know,” I replied. “I think so. My head hurts. One of them is in a tree.”

The man didn't reply. Instead he left my side, and went to some shadowy, unfocused side of the room, only to return with something sliver and glinting clutched in his hand. I tried to get a good look at it.

“...What's that?” I asked, though I already knew.

“An axe,” the man replied shortly, making for what looked like a door.

“You're... you're not going out there!” I gasped. I didn't even bother making it sound like a question. It was obviously madness.

“Stop moving, would you? You're only going to hurt yourself worse,” the man grunted. “I'll be right back.” And then he was gone, pulling the door shut behind him, and leaving me all alone in the stranger's house.

For a dumbstruck moment, I didn't move. Then I scrambled to my hands and knees, and with an enormous effort of will, pushed myself to my feet. I tottered woozily for a few seconds, my vision swimming, but managed to keep my footing. I hobbled painfully to a window beside the door and peered out it, narrowing my eyes in an attempt to see clearly through the warped and bubbled glass.

I couldn't see a thing in the swiftly darkening network of trees beyond the house. Night was setting in fast now, and it left me blind to what I was sure were the man's final moments.

Sure enough, a few heartbeats later, I heard several hungry howls picked up by the wind. I waited in silence, wishing my heart wasn't beating so loud, in case the sound of its pounding was drowning out any telltale noises coming from outside.

My body still ached all over, as if I had... well, as if I had just fallen through a roof, and the blinding stabs of pain in my side every time I took a breath made me pretty sure I had severely bruised a rib or two; but I tried my best to ignore it all, and waited patiently for either the man to return, or dawn to come—which ever came first. I held my breath, and stared into the gloom, jumping every time I caught the lingering notes of a guttural wolf's cry. Twice I heard them abruptly cut off. Perhaps ten minutes passed in lonely silence. Maybe fifteen. The man didn't return.

Well, that was that then. I pried my nose from the window, and gingerly hobbled back to the site of my landing. Straw and splinters of wooden beams made a neat little nest on the floor, with a distinctly me-shaped indent in the center.

I was painfully aware of how lucky I was it had been a thatched roof, rather than a brick one. I had fallen straight through it, but it had slowed my fall, and had the straw had cushioned my landing, and by some miracle I'd passed harmlessly right between the support beams.

I finally glanced around the room I had landed in, and what I saw was far from what I expected.

For starters, it was a mess.

I was surprised that so much stuff had been crammed into such a small space. There was a long and low table on the far left side of the room, which was piled high with crumpled papers and bent quill pens; little bottles part way full of ink; half eaten meals; and numerous dishes and dainty tea cups, all of which were cracked, chipped, or broken in one way or another.

The floor could have done with a thorough scrubbing. Its owner evidently didn't believe in wiping his shoes on a mat before tramping muddy boots throughout the room, and water stains warped the crooked floorboards. A massive black iron stove was pushed against the rear wall of the room. A fire flickered cheerily in it, stinking of burning sap and pine.

Next to it was a large, well worn sage green armchair, and on the floor was a bearskin rug. There were three or four wooden chairs placed at random intervals around the room, none of them matching, and all of them piled high with stacks of paper or dirty dishes.

On the walls were countless animals pelts, ranging from huge bear skins to tiny rabbit ones. Most of them, however, seemed to be wolf pelts.

Seeing them brought my thoughts abruptly back to the situation at hand. The man was probably long dead, torn to shreds by the starving wolves. Despite his impressive collection on the walls, I doubted anyone could fight off seven or more of the things single-handedly.

And here I was, stuck alone in his house, with some banged up ribs and no way of knowing whether the creatures were still out there, waiting for me as a tasty after dinner snack.

I was just beginning to wonder if I should try to clear away the mess my unexpected entrance had made, when the door swung open with a crash, making me jump and whirl around, too scared to pay attention to the aching protests of my body—only to find the man standing in the doorway, eyes flashing, axe hanging loosely from one hand, and absolutely soaked in what I could only assume was blood.

Without wiping his feet on the mat, he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. He walked past me, barely sparing me a glance, and placed his bloody woodcutter's axe on the table—though there was hardly any room for it there. He grabbed a dingy looking cloth and wiped the worst of the blood splatter from his face. Futilely moving onto the stains on his shirt, he turned to finally face me with an intimidatingly cold expression.

“Now,” he said, “who are you?”

“I-I...who are you?” I shot back automatically, my defensiveness kicking in before my brain could.

The man snorted in response. “You're the one who fell through my roof. I don't think you're at liberty to ask questions like that,” he pointed out.

“I didn't mean to fall through your roof!” I protested. “It was an accident, I was trying not to get eaten! And how did you... did you really... I mean all those...” I motioned uselessly at his entire body. He glanced down at the bloodstained clothes.

“Name first, story time later,” he ordered, frowning at me.

“I... fine,” I consented, not entirely happily. “My name is Rikki. Rikki Collins.”

“Uh-huh,” the man intoned, giving me a look that made me feel decidedly guilty, even though I'd done absolutely nothing wrong. “And what exactly were you doing leading a pack of wolves to my door?”

“I didn't do it on purpose!” I said fiercely, and then clutched at my side with a gasp of pain, the effort of my cry sending a jarring shock through me.

The man winced, then sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Alright, it doesn't matter now. Just... come sit down or something, before you manage to break something else.”

“I don't think I broke any bones,” I informed him helpfully.

“I was talking about my house,” he said. He pulled up a straight backed chair, and I tottered into it. These few moments gave me a good chance to get a proper look at him for the first time.

I could see now that he was much younger than I had first thought. He couldn't have been much older than myself, not past his early twenties.
He stood only an inch or two taller than me, and though his cheeks were a little hollow as if he hadn't had a good meal in a few days, his calloused hands and the tensed muscles in his arms gave the impression he fought rabid wolves off on a regular basis. His hair was sandy, and hung long and choppy in his face. If I had to guess, I'd wager he cut it himself, and not very expertly. His expression was sharp and serious, and he glared at me with bright eyes the color of the autumn leaves, almost golden in the flickering light of the fireplace.

I shifted under his displeased gaze, and looked away. “I'm, uh, sorry I crashed into your house,” I said, a little awkwardly.

“Being sorry won't fix my roof,” he grunted.

I frowned. “Yeah, you're welcome, it was nice of me to apologize for something I did completely on accident while trying to save my own life,” I snapped, then instantly regretted it. He was technically right, after all.

He didn't seem to be bothered by my outburst, however. Instead he turned from me, and began shoving things around on the table, evidently searching for something in the cluttered mess.

“Don't worry about it,” he said, without looking at me. “You'll have plenty of time to clean up your mess and patch that hole while you wait for your ribs to heal. My name's Erik, by the way,” he added, completely ignoring my outraged spluttering.