The Wolf at the Door
#4 of Matters of the Hart
Matters of the Hart
2022 by Zorha
As their cuckoo clock announced the witching hour, the elderly woman shook her head from the sordid story that her adoptive granddaughter just told her. Her withered fingers still worked the knitting needles fervently. This late at night, the fire in the hearth struggled to keep her breath from being visible. Despite this, the Backfisch just sat on her wobbly stool, not shivering in the slightest.
"What a lewd little tale," Her disapproving look seemed even more distorted in the thick lens of her glasses, "Dreadfully sinful. I have no idea where you could have heard it from ..."
Instead of allowing the young hind to answer right away the Grandmother tied off the last stitch to the red cap and snipped it off. She examined the final work before leaning over and presenting it. The adolescent girl in a rustic hand me down dress took it hesitantly.
"Go on Child ..." The Grandmother said, "Put it on ..."
The young hind looked up at her, unexpected and utter scorn sweeping across her once porcelain facade.
"But Gram ..." She spat out. "I'm not the one with blood on my head ... why don't you remind me how we first met ..."
An unholy howl erupted from just outside, on their very doorstep. The old woman nearly died of fright right then and there, suddenly remembering a curse placed on her very own great great grandmother by a witch.
"Beware the wolf at your family door ..."
Chapter IV
The Wolf at the Door
Black Forest, Bavaria
March 20, 1847
Friedl Warner looked up from her scorched copy of an original Ratio Studiorum to the booming rumble of thunder. A small assortment of clay pots that dotted the warped floor planks caught the steady drips from her leaking thatched roof. Each plink echoed like the pluck on a stringed instrument. With each pot size creating a different pitch, it sounded like a concerto inside the otherwise lonely home. The old woman simply did not have the constitution or pfennigs to fix up her decrepit cottage, and being childless, she had no strong backs to call upon.
The faint noise of scratches at the front door made her head turn. She adjusted the thick glasses perched precariously on her thin wrinkled nose. Despite the downpour outside, she could not deny what it was. Friedl bookmarked her page and closed the damaged study guide. It had been a family heirloom for many generations, but now she had no one to pass it down to.
She stiffly got out of her rickety rocking chair, the damp weather sending a deep ache into her worn bones, before shuffling to the fireplace. There she placed the scorched leather bound volume back on the chipped mantle where it wouldn't get wet. She fished around for a candle holder before lighting the short wick and shambling to the front door. After fumbling a bit, she opened the port of the door viewer, holding up the flickering candle to see out the opening.
All she saw outside in the impenetrable Equinox night was the fall of gloomy rain just outside her doorstep. Friedl was about to close the door viewer when she overheard the faintest of pathetic whimpers, nearly drowned out from the downpour. She unbarred the flimsy door and took a half step outside. The small, flickering pool of light swept across the doorstep as she searched for the innocuous whine.
But instead of an injured animal, the old woman was surprised to see a naked adolescent girl curled up just under the thatch overhang, doing her best to stay out of the frigid downpour.
[Recommended Music - The Monsters Within - Salem's Heir - Peter Grundry]
"What are you doing out here, Child?" The old woman exclaimed.
She knelt down and gently brushed the matted, ratty raven black hair out of her pale face. The young girl couldn't have been more than fourteen at most. Cuts, bruises, and what could have been claw marks marred her otherwise snow touched skin. The nails of her fingers and toes were thick and sharp, probably from lack of trim. Despite being soaked, the child wasn't shivering in the rain. The only thing that the girl had on her was a silver heart shaped locket with a deer emblazoned on it. Her crystal blue eyes widened as the old woman reached for it.
"Don't worry little Backfisch ..." The old woman cooed. "... You don't have anything to fear from me."
She opened the locket carefully, examining the two portraits on the inside of the two halves behind the glass. She couldn't quite tell, but they didn't seem to be lithographs. The left side held a stern woman with raven black hair and a green dress. The right side held a military officer of some type sporting ruddy hair, but the uniform looked far older than traditional Prussian.
"Is this your family?" Friedl asked. Before the young girl could answer, a frightening howl called out from the depths of the Black Forest. Though it sounded very far away, the old woman was not going to take any chances. "Come in out of the rain Child! Lest the Devil's Hounds come for you!"
The young girl seemed confused at this for a moment. She turned her head to look in the direction of the howl, sad for some reason, before allowing the old woman to bring her inside. The Warner family door closed shut behind them, a centuries old curse ... unheeded ...
June 21st, 1847
Friedl dragged the young girl by the sleeve of one of her old dresses through Wuotenbach's olde village square. The old woman was frustrated that the Backfisch wanted to stop at every single shop window despite the lateness of the Solstice hour. It was like the feral child had never seen cuckoo clocks before. Despite the girl's small frame, the old woman had to use all her strength to pry the young hind away from her stone clad fascination with the hunter themed, mechanical timepiece.
This was the first time that the old woman could arrange for one of the Lansbury's to pick them up at her remote cottage and take them to the closest village. It had been a difficult carriage ride as well as a long one; the usually well tempered horse throwing an absolute fit around the otherwise stoic girl. To add more insult to an already frustrating day the town magistrate was of little help in tracking down the young hind's parents.
When all was said and done, the old woman decided that it was providence that a young girl should show up on her doorstep in the middle of the night. With all the trouble she had gone through these past few months to feed, clean, clothe, and get the orphaned child to finally speak, Friedl decided to file the appropriate paperwork with the magistrate to legally adopt the nameless girl.
They wandered through the darkening streets illuminated by gaslights, passing by more storefront windows. Soft glows of kerosene lamps spilled out into the street, lighting up the myriad of exquisite handcrafted goods sitting behind framed glass. The old woman paused long enough to check some signs. It had been many years since she visited here, usually electing to have small loads and provisions delivered to her remote cottage instead.
When Friedl went to grab the young hind and continue on her way, she was no longer next to the woman. With a contemptuous sigh she went right back to the shop of assorted curiosities: Gregor's Curio. Sure enough her now adoptive granddaughter was there, still obsessing over the mechanical device. The darkened shop itself had only one or two lanterns lit, as if it was closing early.
"Tut mir leid, gute Lehrerin." The shopkeep offered as she stepped inside. The older gentleman with faint scars criss-crossing his wrinkled face seemed busy packing up what few items remained on his shelves in a simple wooden crate. "We are unfortunately going out of business."
He didn't seem to mind or notice the Backfisch still gawking at the only remaining clock. The way the huntsman in black rode out of the forest themed timepiece at the top of each hour was both peculiar and somehow foreboding at the same time. Its haunting mechanical, wind up chorus told the endless march of time with a touch of portentous whimsy.
"You heard the store keep, Child!" She grabbed the child's arm. "We best be off now."
Before the feral youth could sink her sharp teeth into the hand pulling her away from her obsession, Gregor grabbed the small clock and placed it in the crate. He knelt and presented it to the jubilant adolescent, who, despite the crate filled with all manner of oddities, held it without strain.
"I'm afraid I can't afford those!" The old woman protested, frowning.
"Oh that's quite alright." The merchant looked up to the old woman with slightly sad eyes. "One's debt always comes due, and there's no running from that I'm afraid." His emerald eyes hardened. "May they be of more use to you than they were to me."
The unsettling feeling in the pit of the Grandmother's stomach compelled her to leave the empty shop in haste, her adoptive granddaughter not resisting anymore in the slightest ...
September 22nd, 1847
As the crisp autumn nip made Friedl shiver, she looked up to the thatched roof to supervise the young hind's work.
"Very good Child. And don't forget that patch just off to your right ..."
"Gram, why do you work me so?" The girl pulled some more thatch from a bundle and wove it through a sparse part of the roof. Despite the wobbly ladder she precariously perched upon, she deftly toiled away without issue. "These reeds itch. And my back aches."
"Because Child, Proverbs 22:29." When the young hind gave her a strange look, the old woman quoted scripture. "Hard work places you before Queens."
"You know nothing of Abnoba" The girl scowled. "The Queen of this Forest is far older than any silly book ..."
Before the old woman could chastise the young girl for her blasphemy, an eerie howl erupted from deep within the Black Forest. Its call floated through the swirling dead leaves falling around them. Friedl found it strange that the wolf hadn't moved on in six months, still lingering on the outskirts of her meager cottage. But she, like her ancestors, wasn't going to tempt fate with the Devil or his Hounds.
"Come inside Child!"
She hurried the young hind down from the ladder and quickly rushed inside, barring the family door. Friedl peered anxiously through one of her grimy windows to the descending Equinox night. Once satisfied that there was no wolf at her door she bade the girl to start collecting the rainwater pots and stacking them in a closet. While Friedl swept the floor, the young girl dragged out the shopkeeper's crate out of the closet to make room for the pots. Aside from the clock, which the young hind insisted they mount as soon as they got home, both of them had largely forgotten about it.
Friedl put the broom back in the closet when she was finished and curiously went through the items: A Bisque doll, a small darkly polished walnut music box, and a most peculiar ornate dagger. She decided to place them up on the fireplace mantle alongside the Ratio Studiorum and her great great grandmother's Armillary sphere. She momentarily considered dusting off the astronomical instrument before losing herself deep in reflection. As she slumped into her rocking chair, she thought about how her great great grandmother had wanted so very much to study the Heavens.
[Recommended Music - The Daughters of Darkness - The Unspoken Tales - Peter Grundry]
That was before Hell came to Ellwangen.
After the death of her great great great grandfather at the paws of a huge black wolf, the pious zealots of her family line hunted down werewolf and witch alike without mercy, and often, where there were none. More than four hundred alleged werewolves and witches met their end under the merciless persecution. With so many people put to death, the local economy plunged. Her great great grandmother would never attend university, and the blood of Barbara Rufin and the other four hundred would forever be on their family's head.
Curious about the music box, the young hind stood up on her tippy toes and opened it. The naked feminine figurine cloaked only in a deer hide sprang to life, twirling counter clockwise to a profane chime. The usually stoic facade of the young hind beamed at this for reasons known only to her.
Still lost in the memories from two centuries of guilt, the grandmother grabbed some crimson yarn and knitting needles from a small chest next to her before starting on a red cap to ease her conscience. Idle hands, after all, made for the Devil's work ...
December 21st, 1847
As the wolf at her door let out a dreadful howl, the silvery light of a full Solstice moon bathing her doorstep, every peculiar thing her adoptive granddaughter ever said flooded back to Friedl Warner at once.
"The Queen of this Forest is far older than any silly book ..."
"I am not concerned with the Devil, or his Hounds. For I know what they look like ..."
"I'm not the one with blood on my head ... why don't you remind me how we first met ..."
"Do you know why the wolf outside howls so sadly?" Little Red Cap asked Gram again. "Because your family kills our mates ..."
The Backfisch threw the red cap into the hearth. It was slow to catch at first, smoldering before bursting into flames. The final descendant of Father Warner watched on in horror as the young girl turned slowly back to her, the slitted eyes now a gut wrenching bright yellow. The old woman struggled to get out of her chair even as the girl's eye teeth lengthened before her wide eyes.
"Noo ... Oh Lord ... in Heaven no ..." Gram stuttered, heart thundering.
The usually placid face of the Backfish contorted, a half howl, half demented groan of agony escaping the snout pushing past her darkening lips. It outpaced the stretched skin of her mouth, the crimson musculature wet in the hearth's glow. The fangs on the long jaws lengthed wickedly. Hunched, the girl fell forward onto the warped wooden floor, the mass of raven black hair hiding those terrible demonic eyes. The Backfisch dragged her quaking, misshapen hands back towards her. Thickening claws ripped through the brittle wood like steel knives through balsam.
Gram finally found her footing and got behind her rocking chair, the only semi-sturdy piece of furniture she had. There she watched terrified as the Backfisch's back arched obscenely, the sickening pops of vertebrae and cracks of resetting bone sent vomit to the back of Friedl's dry throat. The tight fitting brown and white village dress ripped along its threadbare seams as mass shifted, muscles bulged. Thick, black fur sprouted through its shredded remains.
The absolute worst part of it all was the warbling cries from the misshapen thing twisting about in the very home she raised the young girl in. This creature ... this monster within ... her grand-daughter ... tearing itself out of the child she had taken in. Something large crashed into their front door, and suddenly Friedl remembered the other thing on her doorstep. The oak there splintered, but the bars of iron bracing it stood firm, holding back the fangs and claws that started to chew and slash ferociously through her front door.
Desperate, the old woman's head twisted about, looking for anything to protect her. The door to her closet was flimsy, and wouldn't save her. The roof wasn't sturdy enough to support her. Her old legs couldn't outrun the Devil's Hounds. The only weapon in the house was ...
Her eyes widened when she remembered the shopkeeper's dagger.
Friedl cautiously slid against the ramshackle wooden wall, making her way to the mantle, horror struck eyes fixated on the black furred mass still thrashing and shifting before her on the floor. She lunged last minute and grabbed the silver dagger, falling back towards her chair as the black, mostly wolf thing snapped in her direction. Friedl scrambled backwards as fast as her old body would allow. A large black wolf clawed its way out of the old woman's hand-me down dress, still wearing the Hart locket. It paused just long enough to glare at Friedl. The beast may have been mistaken for a brutish animal, but there could be no denying the malevolence in its yellow eyes flared with vehement intelligence.
The Big Bad Wolf stalked Grandmother.
One paw in front of the other. Deliberately. Slowly. The Backfisch stayed just outside the swinging range of the dagger. Her growl was low, the ivory fangs bared in a threatening snarl. The old woman crawled beside her rocking chair, still on her back, and stopped.
The wolf, falsely sensing weakness, lunged.
Friedl pulled the chair sideways down on her with her left hand. The limbs of the wolf smashed against the wood, its snout pushing through the slats of the chair's back. Spittle and fangs snapped mere centimeters from the old woman's face. One lens on her glasses had cracked from the brutal impact. Drops of blood dripped from a split lip. Friedl's right hand plunged the dagger down and sideways into the beast's upper shoulder. The wolf howled in pain, a faint wisp of smoke curling up from the wound now. It hopped off the chair in agony, barking when one of its front legs refused to hold weight, and its muzzle smashed into the floor.
Both the wolf and the old woman hobbled away from each other, wounded, but not dead. The black wolf kept swinging her head around to bite at the daggers handle, but it was just outside the reach of her fangs. The two glared daggers at each other, out of breath.
"You ungrateful little bitch ..." The old woman spat, a glob of blood landing between them. She fought her way to her feet, having to use the mantle of the fireplace to steady herself. "I took you in, fed you, bathed you, clothed you ..." Friedl grabbed the Ratio Studiorum from the mantle, shaking it at the crippled wolf in righteous fury. "I taught you ..."
A sudden explosion of glass showered the old woman as the Backfisch's mate crashed through one of the windows. Friedl screamed as the huge gray and white male wolf bounded through her, knocking her down. All the oddities on the mantle crashed down with her. The Bisque doll shattered when her fragile porcelain skin hit the floor. The music box flipped open and started playing its profane whimsical chime.
[Recommended Music - The Lost Lineage - Goëtia - Peter Grundry]
When the old woman opened her eyes, everything was fuzzy. Her hands fumbled around for her glasses, but between the broken furniture, the broken glass, and her broken hip, she wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. Through the blurriness, Friedl watched the gray wolf delicately bite the handle of the dagger, and with a pained whine from his mate, pulled it out of the smaller female black wolf. He dropped it to the floor in a hurry, and licked his chops as if the metal was acrid to his palette.
There was a small, resentful part of the old woman's heart that watched this, and realized that none of the men in the nearby village would have ever done that for her. She was barren, and could not bear any of them an heir.
Agony flared through Friedl's hip. Her mouth felt filled with cotton. A raspy sandpaper tongue licked her dry, cracked, and bloody lips. It came away tasting of iron and misery. She watched the two wolves fixate their yellow eyes on her, taking their time now on padding over to her. The descendants of the Wolfssegeners and their Familiars savored this final hunt. And they had waited centuries for their vengeance on those that would hang them, burn them, decapitate them, and drive them back into the night.
Friedl's tired eyelids started to fall from shock. She couldn't make out the snarls on their lips, but the menacing growls in the backs of their empty throats were low and ready to end her long, solitary life. She clasped the burned remains of the Ratio Studiorum to her bosom one final time.
She was still alive when they started eating her.
The old woman's dying screams went on for some time and carried quite far in the otherwise desolate still of the Winter Solstice night. Light snow began to fall, the sharp flakes carried on vengeful bitter wind. From within the cottage a satisfied pair of howls broke the silence. Their call announced a promise of generations long ago fulfilled. They burst from the remaining windows, bounding back to tenebrous depths of the Queen's Black Forest ...
The mated pair's powerful lupine legs kicked up snow in slow motion. They loped through the drifts, powder flying up around their muzzle lips and large ears with each bound. Two more wolves joined them. And two more ... until an entire pack strode through the black skeletal trees and white banks as one, the silvery light of the Full Moon above welcoming them back home. Their Lineage, once almost Lost, would no longer be threatened again ...
Whereupon they lived ... Happily Ever After ...
~ Fin ~
Little girls, this seems to say, Never stop upon your way,
Never trust a stranger-friend; No one knows how it will end.
As you're pretty so be wise; Wolves may lurk in every guise.
Handsome they may be, and kind, Gay, and charming -- nevermind!
Now, as then, 'tis simple truth -- Sweetest tongue has sharpest tooth!
[Bonus Track - The Weirdos Waltz - Single - Peter Gundry]
First of all, some dedications.
Most importantly, Matters of the Hart is dedicated to the memories of David Warner and Angela Lansbury, who both starred in The Company of Wolves.
And also, to my little girl, Sabrina Lynn Saunders, who I used to read Die Brüder Grimm to as she napped safe in my arms.
And also, zu meiner Königin, Shelby Hofmann, who I was present for her legal name change recently.
And also, her mate, November Hofmann, welcome to Minnesota. I hope you like the snow.
I would also like to thank Jan J. Mo?nik and Peter Grundry for the music that helped to inspire select chapters from these sordid little yarns.
Finally, I would like to thank those readers who have tarried with me throughout these long years, my paw in your hand, claws intertwined. Thank you.