Page 1 of Maneater

I was in a miserable mood.

I wove through the street market of Brier Len, earning scowls and dirty looks as I elbowed past the townsfolk with a copper coin clenched tight in my fist. There was nothing I hated more than making this trip uphill.

Today, the market was packed with people fighting for a glimpse of the six horses pulling a crimson carriage along the dirt-lined outskirts.

Ten mounted guardsmen rode alongside, parting the crowd to clear a path.

And etched on the carriage door, a silver stag crowned with ivy marked it as part of Hyrall’s royal household.

Skirtsfolk crowded the roadside, and a few brave souls rushed up to the guardsmen, dropping to their knees with clasped hands.

…please Your Majesties, perhaps the crown could spare a…

…may the King and Queen take mercy on us…

…but a single copper from the King’s coffers…

Desperate pleas spilled from their mouths as they begged for charity, calling out to the curtained windows of the carriage. The air was thick with it, like something about to snap.

The guardsmen slammed their steel boots down on the kneeling folk, shoving them aside, and shouted so all to hear:

Make way for the Crown!

Move it!

The Crown is passing!

Hands grabbed at my shoulders and back as I was shoved to the front of the crowd, and my breath caught when I saw the horse in front of me.

It was massive, broad through the chest, and had a coat the color of pale stone.

My head barely reached its shoulder, and I stood close enough to nearly touch the stirrups hanging beneath its belly.

Suddenly, I was shoved forward and I cursed. I stumbled straight through the guards’ formation and slammed into the side of the carriage. My arms flew up to brace myself, but not fast enough to stop my head from hitting the wood.

Before I could shout, a hand seized the back of my neck and a fistful of my hair. I reached for my scalp, eyes squeezed shut as the pain spread. Through my wince, I caught a glimpse of amber eyes watching me from inside the carriage, just before the guard shoved me back into the crowd.

I hit the ground with a hard thud but scrambled to my feet before I could be trampled. Around me, the crowd grew restless, pressing forward in hopes of some offering from the Crown.

Annoyed and flustered, I brushed off my cloak and tried to peer over the sea of heads for a way out.

When I couldn’t find one, I grumbled and let myself be carried along, waiting for an opening.

Once I spotted a gap, I slipped toward the stalls, surprised to find it led me exactly where I needed to be.

At least something had gone right in this mess.

“Fuck the Crowns and their pampered arses!” a tawny-haired merchant shouted nearby, throwing a crude gesture toward the horse-drawn carriage.

As if noticing me for the first time, he turned and said, “Oi, lass. What can I get you? ”

“Flint, and any kindling you can spare.”

He began gathering small, dry pieces of clean, unblemished wood. “It’s a damn shame what’s happened to these woods,” he said, voice rough. “Rotten to the roots, and what’s the Crown done? Nothing. We skirtsfolk are left to rot with it.”

The merchant wasn’t wrong. In the years I’d been alive, the woods around Brier Len had turned dry and lifeless.

A stale, heavy air hung over us skirtsfolk, clinging to our skin like sickness.

The fields stopped giving and the crops curled and died.

It was as if the earth itself had been poisoned, clear down to the very loam.

Folks who burned the spoiled wood were left choking, coughing up blood in fits that never really went away.

“That’ll be a copper.”

“A full coin? For a bit of flint and kindling?” I stared at him in disbelief.

“Aye,” he said with a scowl. “That’s right.”

“I see.” I narrowed my eyes.

He leaned in suggestively, locking eyes with me. “I’ll drop it to a half-penny if you settle up a different way.”

It was getting late, and the trip upland had already worn on my nerves. I needed to leave soon if I wanted to make the long journey home before dark.

“A copper then,” I muttered, frustrated. I reached to hand him the coin, but when I looked down, my palm was empty. A sinking feeling settled in, I must have lost it while being pushed through the crowd.

The merchant grinned as he noticed. “The offer still stands, lass.”

I leaned forward, arms resting on his stall. “I’d rather burn on a pyre of Brier Len’s rotting trees.”

With a shrug, I pushed off the cart, slipping a handful of wood chips beneath my sleeves. I turned away, pulling up my hood as I shouldered back into the crowd.

Furious at myself for losing a week’s pay, I stomped down the path home, each step heavy on the dry soil. I wasn’t sure how I’d make up for the loss, but I always seemed to get by. Of course, there’d be no help waiting for me when I got home.

I couldn’t say when my father’s drinking started, but if I had to guess, it was before I could walk. Over time, it had driven my mother to madness, and eventually, to infidelity. He could’ve had her punished for it, but I doubted he had the sense to care.

My thoughts drifted to the merchant’s gripes about Brier Len, the woods I called home. It was true, the forest was rotting, bit by bit. Since my first bleed, the trees had withered and died. The creeks had dried to dust. Even the wildlife had fled what was once a thriving land.

Snow had begun to fall, and a quiet sense of comfort settled over me.

I’d always felt drawn to it, even with winter’s sharp, biting chill.

I walked on through the drifting flakes until a shabby cottage came into view, nestled among a cluster of decaying trunks.

As I approached, I stomped the snow from my boots and pushed open the door.

It creaked loudly when I stepped inside, just before I kicked off my boots, and let the door close behind me.

My father was slumped in a chair, somnolent and reeking of ale, face-down on the kitchen table. My mother stood nearby, humming softly as she stirred a pot with a wooden spoon. I approached calmly, peered into the pot, and sighed.

Empty, of course.

It had become routine to find her confused and unwell by the time I returned from work. Some days, the house looked as if a storm had passed through. Furniture shifted, belongings scattered. Other times, important supplies were missing, as if taken by invisible hands, without a trace left behind.

Moving past my mother, I fed a bit of kindling from my cloak into the hearth.

I’d pocketed enough to last us three days, maybe a little more.

Kneeling, I peeled off my gloves and arranged the logs to catch easily.

I took the sole flint we owned and struck it, but only a faint spark flickered.

The next few strikes chipped the stone, already worn thin from use.

I held back my frustration and made one final attempt, and to my surprise, the kindling caught.

I fanned the flames to life, and soon the hearth blazed, filling the small room with warmth.

My mother clapped joyfully behind me, grinning at the sight.

She held her upturned palms to the flames, soaking in the heat.

She wore a sultry gown, her breasts spilling from the corset.

Raven-colored hair fell loosely around her face.

She still looked young, even now. She’d been seventeen when she was sold off to my father, and eighteen when she gave birth to me nine months later.

I made a point of looking at her dress. “Aren’t you cold, Mother?”

“Hmm, I hadn’t even noticed, sweet.”

“It’s snowing outside.”

“Is it now?” My mother drifted toward the window and gasped in wonder, her nose bright as a berry. She began to hum, “Snowflakes falling, round and bright, like little stars in the quiet night…”

“Did anything happen today?” I asked, knowing nothing had.

“Oh, yes. I’ve prepared supper for us, sweet. Take a look.” She pointed toward the kitchen, to the empty pot, then began to swirl and sway as she returned to humming.

“Right,” I murmured. “Why don’t you tend to the flowers?”

“Should I?” Mother tapped her chin delicately. “I think I will,” she said, with soft certainty.

Her small steps carried her to a faded painting of daisies beside the window. She lifted a weathered pail and began to mimic watering. As she worked, she hummed softly, “The flowers bloom, so quiet and neat, turning earth into something sweet…”

I turned away. I couldn’t bear to watch for long.

There was a slow, steady pain in seeing her slip further into delusion with each passing day.

Pushing the ache aside, I rummaged through the cabinets for anything edible.

All I found was a stale bag of barley, three shriveled potatoes, and a jar of pickled cabbage, each just shy of spoiling .

Father had once hunted, but the forest was empty now, and meat cost more than we could afford.

I picked up the empty pot and stepped out the back door to fill it with water.

I figured I could cook the barley and potatoes into a stew.

After a few tugs on the well rope, I drew enough to fill the pot.

As I did, my eye caught a bundle of wildflowers peeking through the snow near an evergreen.

The sight stirred a slow, simmering resentment in me.

Leaving the pot behind, I crossed the distance and seized the wildflowers in my fist. The cold bit into my palms, but I didn’t care as I tore the bouquet apart, petal to stem. I let the pieces fall and crushed them beneath my boots until nothing remained but dust.

I was sure they’d come from the neighboring widow.