One: Charcolee Ann Chefferd of Gidale
A young woman sat on the grassy bank of a lake, just outside the town of Gidale, weaving a basket from the thick reeds that grew in the water. She patiently bent the fibery plants into shape, her eyes focused on the pattern. Charcolee liked the peace and quiet of the lakeside, where the only sounds were the lapping of the water against the bank and the occasional chirp of a cricket in the grass. It was there that her thoughts could drift freely through her mind, free of the intrusion of her sister’s voices or her mother’s nagging.
Charcolee reached out for another reed stalk but her fingers scraped against the ground instead. She glanced away from her work to frown at the empty spot before her; she would have to gather more before continuing. She set the half-formed basket down and stood, peering out over the lake. Her eyes were the color of the muddy shallows, a mix of brown and blue that was not blue enough to be beautiful and not brown enough to be unnoticeable. Even her hair was unpleasant, a pale carmel that frizzed around her face and was impossible to tame, not with the tightest plaiting.
Laughter came along the path behind Charcolee, and her peaceful time was interrupted by her two younger sisters, Yray and Kale. They were fourteen and thirteen, respectively, and had beautiful, glossy chestnut hair that sat in neat braids around their faces.
“What do you want?” Charcolee asked, picking up her half-finished basket.
Yray and Kale hung on each other’s shoulders, and only slowly contained their giggles.
“Mother sent us to tell you that the nets need to be brought in. she’s to busy readying for the festival, and thought you wouldn’t mind.” Yray glanced at Charcolee’s basket.. “And it doesn’t look as though you’re busy at all.”
“Yes, I am, Yray, why don’t you and Kale do something useful for once?”
“But we have to get ready for the festival too! Come on, Col, it’s not as if you’ve nothing better to do.”
Chracolee looked down at her hands, angry with her sisters, then reminded herself that she was five years their elder, and was expected to be more mature. And it was true, after all: she hadn’t anything better to do.
“All right,” she said, defeated. “I’ll head back in a moment.” she didn’t want to go back to the town with her sisters on either side of her.
“Thanks a bunch, Col,” Kale piped. “Mother really appreciates your help, you know, and so do we. Will you be coming to the festival tonight?”
Col thought about the upcoming celebration and shuddered; the whole town would attend, and there would be noise, and crowds of people, and dancing.
“No, I don’t think so. I’ll be covered in fish slime, anyway,.”
“Well we’ll tell you all about it.”
They skipped away down the trail, and left Col alone by the lake. When their cheerful voices had faded away into the trees, Col slumped down on the bank and twirled the light basket between her hands. She didn’t want to participate in the festival, but it still grated that her sisters should pity her for it.
She clenched her fingers around the woven basket, cracking the dry reeds. For a moment she seemed surprised to find she’d ruined it, then stood and tossed it into the water with a sigh. It didn’t fall very far from the bank, and quickly drifted back toward Col. With a muttered deprecation, she stumped away through the trees.
Her family’s nets were set along their property, a sloping green pasture that dipped into the lake without protest. An old dock rotted away in the water, a boat moored along it. Charcolee went up to the house, a humble wooden structure decorated outside with her mother’s gaudy flower boxes and a patch of yarrow to guard against malevolent spirits. Col passed through the yard, where a few chickens squabbled around her ankles, and retrieved a crate from the shed.
She hauled the crate back to the lakeside, and removed her shoes and stockings, hitching her skirts up into the waistband of her dress, then waded into the water.
The first two nets yielded no fish. Exasperated, Col threw them aside without caring to fold them. A few desperate lake trout were struggling in the third net, and these she unstrung and tossed into the crate, where they flopped around. Col pitilessly dragged in the fourth net, and added two more fish to the crate. The last gave her trouble, squirming in her hands so strongly that it slipped from her grasp. She reached out to grab it again and tripped forward into the water.
She sat in the shallow water for a moment, wondering why chores had to be so difficult for her; she’d done so much of the work around the house that by now, at nineteen years, she should be expert.
“Well, hello, Col,” a young man sauntered up to the water’s edge, his hands in his trouser pockets, a cap sitting jauntily on his curly brown hair.
“What do you want?” was her first impulsive response. She stood, her sopping skirts swirling around her knees.
“Sorry,” the man said, grinning. “I was just stopping by to ask your father about last week’s payment when I saw you take a tumble. Need some help?”
Col felt like growling at him that she needed nothing, but her face was already burning in humiliation, and she doubted any more forwardness would help.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
Her father had hired the young man, Emon, to help with the Chefferd family’s flock of sheep. Col didn’t see the use of paying a stranger to spend so much time on their small pasture; any of the girls could have watched the sheep as well as Emon. But Rey Chefferd believed that a girl’s work should stay in the house, and wanted his daughters to be taught as young women should: in the domestic arts, cooking and cleaning.
As she stomped away from Emon, Charcolee suddenly realized that she wasn’t inside doing more delicate work like Yray and Kale, or the two older sisters had done. Both Jaya and Tawn had been the perfect young women, the perfect brides, and were now married and living far away from Gidale. No, Charcolee was hauling slimy fishing nets from the lake, and she had the unpleasant job of cleaning the fish they caught.
Col squashed her rebellion under her heart and told herself it was no surprise that her parents hadn’t tried especially hard to fit her to follow her older sisters’ footsteps.
“Wait, Col--” Emon came after her, cap in hand. “Are you going to the festival.”
“No,” Col snapped, wringing her apron out as she walked.
“Why not?”
“Because I have to clean those fish,” she said. She looked up and saw that Emon was genuinely surprised that she could be so blunt. “I--I’m sorry,” she stuttered, looking back at the ground. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“Naw, don’t worry about it. After all, you did just fall into the lake.”
Charcolee didn’t like Emon’s laughter, it seemed to scratched under her skin, reminding her that she was just an oddity, like her eyes, like her hair.
“So what if I convince your mother to let you leave the fish to someone else? Would you come then?”
Col cast Emon a dubious glance. “Well, I don’t want to.”
“Oh.” Emon watched her, and she glared down at her heavy skirts clinging around her ankles. “Well,” Emon continued with a bold grin. “Maybe I’ll speak to her anyway, and she can force you to come.”
The idea of attending the festival on compulsion appealed even less to Charcolee.
“I have to go,” she told him. They’d arrived at the gate to the Chefferd’s yard.
“All right.” Emon saluted her with his cap, then jammed it back over his curly head and sauntered away.
Col went around to the back of the house, checking to make sure Emon really had disapeared, before peeling her dress off and draping it over the fence. She went in then, knowing her shift still dripped lakewater onto the floor.
The Chefferd’s kitchen was warm, its cupboards and counters cut of honey-colored wood, and a row of brass pots and pans lined along one wall. Charcolee’s mother, Etta, stood at the stove, stirring something that steamed and gave off a sweet smell.
“Oh honey,” she exclaimed when she saw Col’s sodden hair and shift. “What did you do?”
“I fell into the water,” Col said dully, grabbing a towel and wiping her face with it.
“No, don’t get lake water on that, Charcolee! That’s one of my finest towels!” Etta snatched the towel out of Col’s hands and handed her a coarse square of burlap. “Use that.”
Col frowned at the sack in her hands and tried to remove the water from her skin without scratching it.
Etta turned back to her cooking, and babbled about the festival. “I’m making my famous raspberry sauce and hotcakes,” she said, stirring the bubbling liquid with more energy than was necessary. “And you should see the dresses Yray and Kale have decided to wear! They were Jaya’s, you remember, the white lace and the pale blue chiffon. Aren’t those the perfect dresses for Yray and Kale? And we’re going to decorate their hair with aunt Hansa’s pins. That reminds me…what are you going to wear tonight?”
Charcolee wanted to laugh. “Why, how silly of you, mother,” she said derisively. “You know I’m not going.”
“Why ever not?”
Col wondered if her mother really was trying to be cruel. “Because, mother, why would I?”
“Oh, but you should! Come on, I’m sure we can find something in the attic to fit you--Aunt Hansa left some of her old dresses up there.”
Col dropped the burlap sack. “No, mother, I don’t want to go. And you are not going to stuff me into any of those musty old things.”
“But honey, I saw young Emon out there, he seemed like he wanted you to go.”
“No, he didn’t. he was laughing at me for falling into the lake.”
Etta crossed her arms under her ample bosom and surveyed her daughter shrewdly. “That’s not what he was talking to you about.”
“So you were spying?” Col snapped, wishing she could control the defensive tone in her words.
“No, I wasn’t. But you’ll be going tonight, whether you like it or not.”
“No, I won’t!” Col hurried out of the kitchen, not caring that she splattered water across the floor as she went. She took refuge in her room, which was now hers alone, as Jaya had gone away a year ago. She huddled down on her bed, and hoped she’d catch a cold if she stayed in her wet shift long enough.
Three hours later, Charcolee Ann was shuffling up to the town hall, her feet awkward beneath the wide skirts of her Aunt Hansa’s least favorite dress. It was a horrid old thing, made of plain black linen, with a collar so high and tight that Col felt she was in black-linen stocks and not a dress. Even her wrists were choking in the dress’s unrelenting cuffs.
As she and Etta followed Yray and Kale past the doors, Col was sure the dress was a device of punishment; she could see the laughter in the other girls’ eyes, and knew that soon they’d come to throw carefully veiled insults at her.
Though it was unpleasant, Col clung to her mother as the party started. The town band started a lively tune, and the other people her age skipped to the center of the hall to dance. Col remained fearful that Emon would show up and ask her to dance, but then she reconsidered the dress she wore and was rather sure he’d stay away once he saw it.
“Charcolee, why aren’t you dancing?” Etta asked some time later.
“Oh please, mother,” Col muttered, hoping the old ladies around them didn’t hear her. “You know there’s no man desperate enough to dance with me, and I certainly don’t want to dance alone.”
“Stop being such a--”
“--A what, mother?”
“An unsociable worry-wart,” Etta hissed, leaning in close so that Col could smell her wine-stained breath.
“I can’t help what I am,” Col said coldly, stepping away from her mother. “I wish I hadn’t come.”
“I told you you’d come!”
Col swirled about to see Emon grinning at her. A furious blush flooded her cheeks and she tried to melt into the sturdy floor planking.
“Yes, of course she’s here,” Etta said genially, jumping on the opportunity.
“Would you like to dance?” Emon asked, offering Col a carefully manicured hand.
“I--no, not really.”
Silence seemed to steal both Emon and Etta’s words away.
“What, honey?” Etta spluttered, trying to smile disarmingly at Emon at the same time as she scowled at Col, a dire threat in her eyes.
“I don’t feel well,” Charcolee said, tugging desperately at the cuffs of the dress. There were people all around, their backs caging Col into a hot, breathless crowd. “And I--I can’t breathe in this dress.” She was really feeling ill now, and began struggling toward the door and the cool evening air. Her mother caught her wrist and dragged her back.
“What are you doing?” she asked furiously, her face contorted in unpleasant ways. Col jerked her hand free.
“I’m going home.”
She managed to reach the doors, but before she could escape the town entirely, a scream came along the streets and a hysterical woman stumbled into view.
“Help!” she cried, heading toward the town hall. “Oh, someone help!”
Curiosity overcame her abhorrence of the party, and Charcolee followed the woman back to the entrance of the hall.
The music had guttered out, and all the people were circled around the frantic woman.
“There’s a monster!” she was babbling, wringing her straggling hair. “A huge wolf, with terrible teeth and glowing eyes! He’s here, in the town, and he’s attacked the sheep! Oh, somebody help!”
The town leader, a man named Thorolth stepped forward and comforted the woman. “It’s all right, you’re safe here.” He looked over his shoulder. “Get some men together and see what this is about. Everyone else, stay here.”
Whispering broke out in the hall as soon as Thorolth stopped speaking. Several men joined the leader, grabbing their rifles. Charcolee, standing by the open doors, glanced once at the darkness outside, then slunk away, hiding in the dark as the men ran past.
The woman could still be heard, her voice cracking over every other word. “Blue! It was blue, and terribly black, and those eyes!” the woman wailed, and Charcolee decided she’d risk the monster rather than rejoin the townspeople. She didn’t really believe it was monster that had attacked the sheep; after all, it was rare for wolves to come for a wooly snack, or for lynx to raid the sheds where they smoked the fish.
Charcolee padded through the dark streets, glad for the blue shadows of night. Her skirts blended into the gloom, and she decided that the first thing she’d do when she reached the house would be to tear the horrid dress off and throw it away.
She paused at the low stone fence dividing her family’s property from their neighbor’s; a long dark streak ran over the stones, glistening slightly. A cloud moved away from the moon, and Col saw the streak blossom with red.
“Blood,” she whispered, reaching out toward it. She wasn’t particularly afraid; after all, living with chickens and fish, she’d had her share of gory innards. But all the same, she was glad she hadn’t been there when the wolf had come.
She left the blood stain and went into the house, changing into a comfortable nightdress and throwing Aunt Hansa’s black linen into the farthest, darkest corner of her room.
A half hour later, her family arrived.
“Charcolee?” her mother’s hysteric voice called. “Charcolee, are you here?”
Col considered prolonging her mother’s worry, but called back. “Yes, I’m here.”
Her whole family burst into her room, her mother first. Etta swept Charcolee into her arms with a dramatic sob.
“Oh, I was so worried. Don’t you ever leave like that again!”
Col looked to her father, Rey. He seemed all right, though a little paler than usual. “You really worried about me?” she asked dubiously.
“Of course we did!” her father snapped. “Didn’t you see the blood outside.”
“You could’ve been eaten by the monster!” Yray whispered.
“Oh come on, guys,” Charcolee laughed. “It was just a wolf! You don’t really believe that woman, do you?”
“I don’t know,” her father said. “We saw the paw prints; they were huge.”
“Well, whatever it was, it didn’t get me.”
“And thank the spirits for that!” Etta gave Col another strangling hug.
It took a while longer to convince her family that she had not suffered from torturous fear. When they finally left, Charcolee went to the window and opened it, breathing in the sweet forest air. She carefully didn’t think about the horror of the festival. Instead, she wondered if there was a monster preying on the town. She had a fanciful image of it, then yawned and went to her bed. If all the monster wanted was sheep to eat, Col didn’t feel terribly threatened.
