Monsters Page 4

“You are outrageous.”

  “Three credits,” Jane said, repeating her offer.

  Bruce figured she probably came late to the stalls knowing sellers would want to offload their stock so they could leave early the following morning. Most of the traders he'd spoken to wanted to get a full day's travel in before the weather turned bad. He certainly did. Damn, she's good, he thought, a tinge of resentment eating away at his mind.

  “Four,” he said, making a counteroffer.

  Jane held her hand out and dropped three coins in his hand, saying, “Deliver the barrels to the blacksmith forge before dusk.”

  The audacity! Bruce started to say something, but she walked off, saying, “It was a pleasure doing business with you.”

  Bruce didn't like Jane. She wasn't pretty, her face had been badly scarred by pox as a child and her hair was thin and straggly. To him, she looked sickly and unhealthy. Her hard demeanor only reinforced that impression. A thousand comebacks started flooding through his mind as he watched her walk away. He'd been weak, and she'd sensed that and pounced like a mountain lion. He should have ignored her and driven the price toward ten credits. At the very least he could have wrestled her back to six! Bruce turned, kicking one of the barrels in disgust, but a deal was a deal. He was a man of his word, or so he told himself, the truth was, he had to get rid of these barrels and with the sun sitting low on the horizon buyers were thinning out and heading to their homes. He didn't want to be stuck with any leftover produce, so three credits was better than nothing.

  Bruce borrowed a hand-cart from one of the other traders, loaded up the produce and made his way across town to the blacksmith. As he approached, he could see Jane upstairs, but she didn't see him, she was facing to one side, looking out across the open fields at the dark forest beyond the village. She had the wooden shutters open and was airing out some blankets, draping them over the side of the windows.

  Below the rickety one-room hut lay the forge. With four walls of stone held together with thick layers of mortar, the forge was the sturdiest building in the village. A red glow emanated from within as smoke rose from the chimney, drifting to one side in the cool breeze. Bruce could hear the sound of metal being pounded.

  The old blacksmith saw him approaching and came out to meet him, leaving his apprentice at work inside the smoky building. Bruce pulled the cart up beside the cellar entrance on the western wall of the forge, immediately below Jane. He was sure she'd seen him, although she didn't acknowledge him, disappearing inside the second-story room.

  “Ah,” said the old man, reaching out and shaking Bruce's hand. “Jane said you'd be around before sunset.”

  Bruce responded to the old man's warm greeting. Jane's father was frail, but his handshake was firm. He smiled, revealing several missing teeth.

  “She said you were there at the tollgate and saw the fiasco with the tax collectors.”

  “Yeah,” Bruce replied sheepishly. He hadn't come for a conversation and so was a little taken aback by the man's jovial, chatty nature.

  “She's a fiery one, my Jane, full of vinegar, isn't she?” said the father, slapping Bruce on the arm. Clearly, that ran in the family, thought Bruce. Jane's father laughed, adding, “Oh, I'd love to have seen the look on that bastard's face when she dropped down beside him. I bet he went as white as a sheet.”

  “Yes, he certainly did,” Bruce replied smiling, warming to the old man.

  “These pricks think they can push us around,” the old man said. “Sometimes they need a reminder that life is a two-way street.”

  The old man smiled, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a few coins. Dropping them into Bruce's hand, he added, “There's the balance that was due you.”

  The look on Bruce's face must have revealed that something was wrong as the aging man quickly added, “It was six credits, right? Three to secure the purchase. The balance on delivery.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Bruce could see Jane leaning out of the window above them, a smile on her face as she leaned forward on her elbows. He acknowledged her with a slight wave, returning the smile.

  “Ah, yeah. That's right. I guess.”

  “Well, good,” said the man, throwing open the cellar doors and picking up the first barrel. He disappeared down the wooden stairs. Bruce glanced up again, but Jane was gone. He felt silly standing there with three credits in his hand. He was so sure he had Jane figured out, but she'd surprised him. Bruce turned and walked away, pocketing the coins, smiling at how she'd played him twice, like a cat with a mouse. She may not have been pretty, but she was intelligent and mischievous, and that intrigued him.

  That night the air was unusually cold. Autumn was giving way to winter. Soon snow would fall and within days the trails would be impassible. Bruce planned to return to his farm the following day so as to finish his fortifications against the coming ice storms. For several days there had been reports of wild dogs, but no one took them seriously as the village was surrounded by crop fields, with large gates barring the major approaches. Wild dogs had never come up to the village before. The huge beasts tended to stick to the wooded areas, so there was no cause for concern.

  Bruce heard a woman scream over the jostling and singing in the bar. He and several of the locals rushed out into the main street to see a woman lying on her back at the end of the dusty road. A wild dog stood over her, dwarfing her with its immense size. Somehow, he knew it was Jane, even at that distance. He wasn't sure how. Perhaps it was her silhouette, or maybe her clothes as she was still wearing the same dress he'd seen her in that afternoon, or it could have been the pitch in her voice as she cried out for help, but in the low light, he knew it was her and a chill ran through him.

  The monster was savage. Dark brooding eyes stared down at Jane with malice. The creature's fur was matted and tangled, as black as the night beyond. With paws the size of a man's outstretched hand, the beast pinned Jane to the ground with its weight.

  The events of the day flashed through Bruce's mind, her brashness in the gate, the way she teased him in the market, but all that was about to come to a tragic end as she was torn to pieces by a wild animal.

  The beast bared its teeth, growling at Bruce as more locals ran into the street behind him.

  The dog snarled, saliva dripping from its jaws.

  The men of the village grabbed poles and sticks, swords and axes, anything that was handy, and charged at the brute, shouting and screaming to drive it away, but the monster held its ground.

  Jane rolled to one side, scrambling to get away as the men of the village surrounded the animal and began beating it with rods.

  The creature was rabid, mad with disease. Each stab, each cut and wound only infuriated it further. With the strength of a horse, the wild dog wheeled, knocking wooden carts around, breaking fences and hitching posts as it reeled from the pikes and spears of the villagers.

  The massive dog lunged at one of the younger men, grabbing his lance with its teeth and whipping its head, sending the man flying some forty feet through the air.

  The older men brought flaming torches, knowing fire was all the monster feared. They surrounded it, striking only at its hind quarters, forcing the dark beast to circle.

  Jane crawled away as the men wore the animal down, using their numbers to confuse it, never having more than one man strike in succession as they kept their wary distance.

  The wild dog wheeled to face each attacker, growling and snarling, only to be struck from behind again and again.

  Bruce caught sight of Jane fleeing down a dark alley. Her dress was torn. Blood dripped from a cut on her arm. At the time, he was astonished she'd survived at all, let alone with barely a scratch on her forearm. A single bite from the dog would have crushed her bones like matchsticks.

  The animal reeled from side to side, never sure which villager to attack as lances and swords slashed at its hind legs, cutting at its underbelly, stabbing behind its ribs. The monster snarled and lunged, snapping at the air, risking the fire fo
r a chance to kill a man, but the villagers were well trained, they knew they had to keep moving, keep weaving as they surrounded the giant dog, constantly changing their position as the beast fought against them. In that way, they confused the animal with their numbers, making it seem as though there were hundreds of them.

  Somehow, no one died, and when the monster finally succumbed to its wounds, the men of the village took it as a sign of good fortune to come.

  They found Jane on the outskirts of the small town, down by the river, bathing her arm in the water, madly scrubbing at her wound. She'd been bitten, although bite was too strong a word as a bite would have severed her arm completely, or worse, taken a portion of her torso. The deep gash on her arm was little more than a graze by the giant brute.

  Bruce waded down into the river to attend to her wound. He had no reason to, it just seemed like the right thing to do. The water was bitterly cold. Bruce was surprised to see Jane wasn't trying to stem the blood. She was rubbing at the wound.

  “Give me your knife,” Jane demanded.

  Bruce was stunned. He handed over his knife, unsure what she would do.

  Jane cut into her wound, grimacing as she enlarged the tear in her flesh, stripping back the muscle on her arm. She was crying. Her hands were shaking.

  The river turned red with her blood.

  “What are you doing? Stop!”

  “Get away,” she cried, turning the knife on him. Moonlight caught on the blade. Her eyes were wild.

  Bruce held his hands out, saying, “Please, don’t do this.”

  “Stay back,” Jane cried, shivering in the cold night air. Her dress floated on the waist deep water. Whereas once the fabric had been white now it was scarlet.

  The villagers knew.

  “It is better,” said one of the men standing on the muddy river bank.

  “Let her die now,” another cried.

  “No!” Bruce replied, turning to face them.

  Jane returned to cutting her arm.

  Bruce stepped toward her, gesturing toward the knife, almost losing his footing on the loose stones lining the riverbed.

  The current was swift.

  “Don't do this,” he said.

  Jane backed away from him into deeper water, saying, “You don’t understand. I’m dead already.”

  Her hand shook so much she dropped the knife. She staggered in the water, weakened by the blood loss. Bruce caught her, pulling her out of the river. She felt so light, so frail, as though she were a doll rather than a person. In the moonlight, her pale skin looked lifeless.

  He bound her ragged forearm with his shirt as she moaned, slipping in and out of consciousness. Bruce clambered up the muddy bank and carried her back into the village.

  Why did he care? Why did he care so much about this strange woman? It was a question he asked himself many times over the years to come, always thankful that he had cared on that cold, dark evening. She was too old for him, too worn, or at least she seemed to be to his young mind. He figured it was the cruelty of the villagers that made him care. No one else had gone to her aid, so he had to, he had to show her the kindness due to one in distress, be they a man or a woman, rich or poor, young or old, beautiful or not. The more she suffered, the more intensely he wanted her to survive. Perhaps it was Jonathan, he thought, not sure of his own motives. He hadn't been able to save his brother, perhaps saving someone else would repay that loss.

  Bruce carried Jane to the blacksmith's forge. The old man was beside himself when he saw his daughter hanging limp in Bruce's arms. He must have thought she was dead.

  Jane slept for most of the next day. When she awoke, Bruce was sitting by her side, whittling away at a stick, hollowing it out and shaping it into a flute. It was something his mother had done whenever he'd been struck with fever. It had been her way of biding time.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked, his knife shaving thin strips off the wood.

  Jane touched her arm, feeling the bandages covering the gaping wound where once muscle had shaped her forearm.

  “You took quite a chunk out,” he continued. “But you didn't make it to the bone. Given time, you'll get some use back, but you'll never throw hay-bales.”

  “I never could,” she replied, her voice coarse, her throat dry. Bruce handed her a water bladder.

  “Pretty dumb thing you did there,” he said, watching as she sipped some water.

  “Pretty smart,” she replied curtly, not in any mood for small talk.

  “And how is that?” he asked, blowing the dust out of his short flute.

  “It's called rabies,” she said, turning to one side on the bed of straw. “The infection, the madness of the wild dogs. The villagers think rabies is spread by blood, but it's not, it's spread by saliva. If I hadn't done that, I would have died. Not then, perhaps not for weeks or even months to come, but I too would have gone mad. I may still.”

  Bruce was fascinated. How could she talk about herself with such detachment? How did she have such confidence in what she knew? How could she be so sure?

  “Once, they had a cure, long ago.”

  That got him to be quiet. How did she know what they had in the Old World?

  “If I am to die, it will be on my own terms,” she said, her fingers lingering, touching gingerly at the bandages wrapping her wound. He wondered how she could be so cold toward her own flesh.

  “Most women would say, thank you,” Bruce said.

  “Most women would,” she agreed. “Where is my father?”

  “He's downstairs, working on the forge.”

  “Could you send him up on your way out?” Jane said coldly.

  Bruce couldn't understand Jane, perhaps that's what drew him to her. There was something dark, something mysterious, something rebellious within her. He sighed, getting to his feet. Jane turned to face the wall.

  Bruce didn't know it at the time, but several years later she told him she was crying. She felt so protective of her identity that she had to put up walls to keep others out. But here, with Bruce, she felt some genuine kindness, something she'd never known outside of her family, and she didn't know quite how to react. She turned to the wall to hide her tears.

  Bruce placed the flute on the chair and left without a word.

  The next day he returned. He wasn't sure why, perhaps it was the challenge of breaking through her cold exterior that forced him on, but he felt intrigued by Jane. He should have left town, but he was curious. Could she read? Is that where she got her confidence? It was dumb, silly, he thought, and he felt if he said something he'd come out looking like a fool. He should have left for his farm. The driving snow could arrive at any day on the brooding gray clouds, and yet it could equally be a couple of weeks away, he convinced himself.

  Bruce was smitten. Jane wasn't pretty. She was feisty. Her father thanked him profusely. He told him he was always welcome at the forge, but Bruce wanted to hear that from her. She wasn't the only one that could be stubborn, and stubbornness had many forms. With a bunch of dried wild flowers in hand, he knocked on her door.

  “Why?” came the curt reply from the other side of the door.

  Bruce smiled. How did she know it was him? Thinking about it, he realized, who else would knock? Perhaps she saw him walking up to the forge. If nothing else, she’s consistent, he thought.

  “Why not?” he called out, being sure to speak with an air of confidence. The more this played out, the more intensely curious he became about Jane. He was beginning to understand something his mother had told him, something all mothers tell their sons, that beauty is more than skin deep, that beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

  “That's not a reason,” came the reply, but the words weren't terse. If anything, they had a soft ring to them.

  He ignored her, looking at the flowers in his hand and asked, “Are you dressed?”

  “Does it matter?” Jane replied, although she sounded closer to the door than before. Whereas when he'd first knocked she sounded distant, as th
ough she were lying down, now she sounded as though she were standing next to the rough-hewn wooden door.

  “Well,” Bruce replied, thinking about it further. “A gentleman would never walk in on a lady undressed.”

  “Then I'm naked.”

  “And I guess I'm no gentleman,” Bruce said, lifting the wooden lever slowly and opening the door.

  Jane was fully clothed, standing just a few feet from the door, holding her bandaged arm in front of her. She was wearing a dress that once must have been pretty, but the pattern had faded and the frayed edges spoke of hard times.

  “You're rather persistent,” she said.

  “And you're rather dressed,” he replied with a grin.

  “Disappointed?”

  “A little,” he said, winking at her as he handed her the wild flowers. Being autumn, all he could find were dried flowers in the market, colored husks of a former summer glory, but he'd scented them with a few drops of lavender oil, hoping they were a substitute for real flowers. She sniffed them. The look in her eyes was something he treasured. He no longer saw her scarred skin, her pale features or her straggly hair, he saw her dark eyes, so warm and intelligent.

  “Thank you,” she said, her face lighting up with a smile.

  “I knew there was a thank you in there somewhere,” he replied.

  She blushed, which surprised him. He was so accustomed to how she hid her emotions that such an open display was refreshing.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Much better, thank you.”

  “There, you see,” he added. “Thank you isn't so hard to say now, is it?”

  She reached out with her good arm, punching him lightly on the shoulder. “No, it's not.”

  Bruce sat down on a chair by the table as Jane placed the flowers in an empty wooden jug. He noted she took some care in arranging the flowers, playing with them, teasing them into just the right shape, pretending they were alive and vibrant. He figured it was her way of signaling her approval. He liked her smile. She may not have been pretty, but when she smiled she lit up the room, at least that's the way he felt about her.

  “What are you looking at?” she asked, realizing he was staring at her.