Blood Surfaces First

There are still signs of life in the landscape, scarlet and gold leaves, singing birds, and a hint of summer on the breeze. Autumn has been short lived this year.

Hazel has almost succumbed to her ennui when, in a final impetus, she takes to the woods, following the river in search of inspiration, a sight to bring back to her canvas and watercolours.

Hazel follows the labyrinthine route of the river through leafy aisles. The moss beneath her feet is warmer and more familiar than the floorboards of the mansion, yet there is still a discontent in her bones.

Hazel moves to the riverbank, careful to avoid excessive wetting of her boots. She pauses where a patch of wildflowers have entwined themselves with the weeds, wondering if she could return to the mansion and retrieve her sketchbook before they untangle.

Then there is the growl. It is the deep rumble of shifting plates far beneath the earth’s floor, and it comes from the shadow slowly navigating through the woods in Hazel’s direction.

The wolf three times her height, easily. It slinks from shadow to shadow, glossy black like a raven. Where is crouches the forest seems to bend inward, the sunlight vanishes. It is the personification of shadow.

Where the sunlight hits it directly it is distorted into columns of grey mist. The translucence of it makes Hazel uneasy. She feels that if it can disappear in the light, perhaps it could appear beside her in shadow, as quietly as a dragonfly.

It looks wrong in the daylight, too dark against the blue sky and emerald moss. The teeth too sharp, the haunches too monstrous.

Black terror creeps down Hazel’s spine.

The wolf tilts its head, cocking its ears as it listens to the forest and the river. Hazel tries to maneuver herself around the beast, closer to the river. The water rushes past, a dizzying current with shadowy depths. Slight spray dapples Hazel’s dress like rain.

The wolf turns its head.

Hazel’s foot slips on a wet rock.

The wolf is still watching her with deep black eyes when Hazel tumbles backward into the river.

The current is swift and strong, and the force of it sweeps Hazel away. She tumbles beneath the water, the rush of it sending her downstream, past rocks and flotsam. Hazel reaches for handholds but the river rocks slide from her hands or brush her knuckles, leaving angry red scrapes.

The water rushes around Hazel like a vortex, and she cannot draw a breath.

For a few seconds, before the sunlight becomes too bright, the forest appears as a blur of light and shadow, there is a glimpse of black, then a glimpse of red. Hazel drifts away on the waves.

Hazel wakes curled in the weeds, beneath an oak tree. She wishes she could stay there forever within this moment, drifting between consciousness and sleep, resting in the moss.

It is only the ache and the flashes of pain that rouse her.

Hazel dreads the long walk back to the estate, but she is considerably closer than she had been when she fell into the river. She walks as quickly as she can, leaning against trees as she passes.

Hazel pauses at the edge of the forest, surveying the gardens for easily agitated staff, but they are nowhere to be seen. Hazel continues to the mansion and slips quietly into the kitchen, which is hardly busy, and the few maids and cooks still present are too busy to notice her.

She treads as lightly as she can, taking large steps and cringing when they echo in the hallways. There is a steadily growing line of muddy boot prints in the hall behind her.

Mr.Everill appears from his study, a book of accounts tucked beneath his arm. He stops when he glances at his daughter.

Hazel has a scrape on her knee, her stockings and skirt are soiled and her boots, where they are visible beneath the mud, are scuffed and tattered.

They are silent for some time as the candles flicker around them. Mr.Everill’s surprise fades and he proceeds past her into the parlour without a word. Hazel follows him, wandering into the book filled room, which is laden with books and papers, held down by paperweights on almost every surface.

“I don’t feel well,” Hazel says as she approaches her father. Mr.Everill looks up again briefly from his papers. Hazel is ill so few and far between, and she complains very little when she is or otherwise tries to hide it, that she must be feeling awful to warrant even bringing it up.

Mr.Everill gently places a hand on her forehead and frowns. “You’re very hot,” he says. He tilts her chin up and squints at her pale face and hollow eyes in the light. He lowers his hand. “Perhaps you should go to bed. Get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning, dearest.” Mr.Everill turns back to his sheaf of paper.

Hazel nods and stumbles from the room. 

Art by Annie Stegg

Text by Lucie MacAulay