The Butcher of the Forest

by Premee Mohamed

It was not yet dawn when they came for her. Veris stumbled from her bed into an early-morning sea, deep blue light submerging the little house with no hint of sun; she swam, it seemed, to the lamp in the hall, and lit it with a wavery half-smothered match; she swam down the stairs. The front door rattled in its frame with each blow, paint and shreds of wood flaking from it, as if the unseen callers were not knocking but rushing at it with a battering ram. It was locked from the inside, but the bolts and bars were beginning to give as she approached. She unlocked it hastily, cursing and fumbling the ancient keys, and threw it wide.

She could almost see it around her: magic not as words and spells but as poison, a faint smoky mist exhaled from the near-invisible flowers in the grass, from the tiny white mushrooms in the black dirt below her feet. What they breathed out was inattention, and inattention meant disaster.

It was very tall, and in the darkness she could not see whether it held something in its hands or whether they were indeed long, curved claws; and she was glad for that, just as she felt suddenly, stomach-clenchingly glad she could not see its face either, only the eight small bright lights that shone in it.

Was it distracted enough? Veris could not tell. And in some fashion, it did not even matter; they must go, and quickly. The day burned on like a match toward the fingertips.

He had too much face, and then again not enough; he had a tail, but of course he did not, he wore a dark red frock-coat like the singers that came to the fairs, and its cutaway tails gave the effect.