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Ruby had never seen snow in her life.
They’d gone back to Sister’s old home by wordless consensus. The police had long since left the collection of tumbledown cabins, tucked away in the pine forest like stones cradled in a great palm, well alone. Besides, she wanted to show here where she’d grown up, the yellowing photographs of her brother and uncles. The hikers rarely come here now, so instead they tracked deer and rabbits up and down the hills. Last week, Ruby had made her first kill, as Sister held her arms steady. She pulled the bowstring taught and, without words she told her to breathe, to feel the forest all around her, inside her, all that ever was and ever will be. Humans, she said, were just passing on through this place, but the Odets had always been here, neither man nor animal, as much part of the land as the wolves were. They had gone by many names, wendigos or mountain men, but always, they remained, and anything on their land was fair game.
Sometimes, Ruby bathed with her in the brook not far from the cabin. Without the trappings of humanity, Sister was eternal, ancient, tall as the mountains and strong as a winter storm, rough and muscled, skin streaming in the cold, eyes so sharp she was scared she would bleed if she stared into them too long. Now nearly twenty five, she’d grown into her scars and deformities, her face becoming more angular, her form long and slender, exuding the effortless grace of a mountain lion. Where once she’d been angry, her kills clumsy and vicious, now she was calm as a hawk surveying its land. Nothing could touch her when she was close, because she was above it all, indestructible.
Now, Ruby ran in ungainly circles, feet crunching through the thick, crisp blanket of white and kicking up powdery flurries. Pulling her red hoodie, riddled with holes and faded now to a pale pink, around her, she turned her face up to the sun, which filtered weakly through the pines. Her breath billowed up around her face. From her fingertips to the tip of her nose, her skin tingled pleasantly in the sharp, still air. She stood there until her teeth began to chatter, then picked her way back towards the cabin.
Inside, it was cluttered and smelt vaguely of mildew. In the corner of the sitting room, where the mouldering heads of deer were mounted up ten to a wall, an old man slept in a rocking chair in front of a black and white television that played mostly static, interspersed with the occasional word of an almost unintelligible sermon, long nosed face wrinkled and birdlike, pale hair falling like a veil over his albino- blue eyes, which were open but unseeing. He was skeletally thin, and coughed often, a dry rattle deep within his chest. Sister said he was called Three Finger, but he rarely spoke to Ruby or even acknowledged her presence. She sensed no animosity from him, only a sort of sadness, a resignation, like that of a sick lion who, unable to chase down his prey, had lost all purpose. They tended to him when they could, but the unspoken reality of his imminent death hung over them all.
She found Three Toe, his nephew, beside him, muttering something, though, like most of his family, he could scarcely talk. Perhaps her age, somewhat taller and stronger, surprisingly thick dun hair reaching down to his broad shoulders, with a face more like that of an animal, contorted into a permanent scowl, she was undeniably drawn to him. Initially, she’d feared him- something about the twist of his mouth reminded her uncomfortably of Lizard. But he was gentle, stealing shy glances at her between his chores, boiling nettles to make tea for her, holding her hand as though it were made of glass.
She sat beside the sick man for a while, trying to make out the words of the sermon to entertain herself- god, virtue, sin, something that sounded like Christmas. It was nearly that time of year when the rest of the world would hide away in their homes and eat. Having never celebrated as much as her own birthday, she had completely forgotten. Her musings were interrupted by the man coughing, and unsure what to do, she left him alone.
The sun cast the world in a syrupy, golden glow as she went out again, this time hand in hand with Three Toe. They walked out to the brook, and sat at its edge, watching the frothy water leaping over the pebbles. It moved too fast to freeze over. In the summer time, it became fat and languid, but now it was full of vigor, as she herself was. Its smell, bitter but joyful, emboldened her somehow. She turned around and, without thinking, kissed Three Toe, a chaste peck. Afterwards, she looked away, blushing, but he took her face in his work- roughened hands, missing fingers, like her own, and pressed his lips to hers, gently probing at the inside of her mouth with his stumpy tongue. The world seemed to stop turning. She was terrified, the swooping feeling in her stomach almost enough to make her pull away - she’d never kissed anybody before- but then it passed and she realised that she wanted more of him, his warmth, the sincerity of his affection, the smell of pine needles and musk that accompanied his embrace. Hansel was gone. He’d never been there in the first place. Wishing for his non-existent love would not make it real.
The following morning a woman came to the cabin, barging through the door like she owned it. She was middle aged, perhaps fifty or so, her dark, matted hair shot through with grey, and dressed in a motley assortment of human clothing and deer skins. Her singular eye was incongruously green, the brightest thing Ruby had seen in months, as though all the colour from the washed out landscape had been stolen and trapped inside it. A small, extra arm sprouted from her side, which was seemingly as functional as the others. She stared at Three Finger’s sleeping form for a while, and although she did not cry, did not seem capable of crying, she sensed that she was grieving. Ten minutes passed, twenty, and, finally, as the sun reached its zenith, she left, padding out into the snow silently. Later, after she’d found out that the woman’s name was Ruth, and that she’d once lain with Three Fingers, Ruby would go outside once again to search for her, and find that the footprints that lead out into the forest were not those of a woman, but a bear.
The old man died that night, gaunt, eyes dull as river stones. They sat beside him as he lay in bed, his shallow, laboured breathing evening out, then stopping entirely. By the morning, he was stiff and cold. Sister butchered him, taking every edible scrap of flesh and storing it away in an ancient ice chest outside. They dug a pit in the frozen, hard packed soil behind the cabin and laid his bones inside, before piling stones on top. Exhausted and smattered with mud, Ruby sat down in the snow next to Sister. She was weeping, shaggy head cradled in her hands, small, quiet noises, like a child. She gazed at the grave, and wondered what kind of man Three Fingers had been, where he’d come from, what footprints he left in the snow and if she would die in that same rocking chair.
In the evenings of the bleakest months, when the days fled like rabbits from a fox, she huddled together with Three Toe and Sister to watch the television, the images of the pastor in his smart suits and coiffured hair flickering and chasing themselves over the screen. The other two drank moonshine from glass jars, but she went without. She got the sense that neither of them believed in what he was saying, but watched him with a sort of blind incomprehension because it was something to look at and because somewhere, sometime, somebody had said that it was a good idea. Perhaps they were mocking him, in that secretive way of theirs- he was but a man, preaching about some abstract, human nonsense, whilst they knew that the only real gods were the nameless things that wove their way through the trees, and the only real divinity could be found in spilt blood, sharp teeth and hot flesh. If he came to them, they would tear him to shreds without a second thought. Even the Lord himself buckled in the face of the indifferent wild.
When the moonlight fell just so and the snow fell softly, silently, she looked out of the window in the living room to find a white wolf circling the grave. It was long legged, its fur patchy, muzzle long and scarred. She blinked, and it was gone, leaving no paw-print behind. On nights like those, she would have dreams, long, sweat soaked, sucking her so deep she thought she would never wake. She saw blood, dead women and cowering men, concrete cells and the smell of fear, a thick, animal reek. They were the memories of the dead man, she knew, rising up from his bones and dissipating into the night like smoke curling from a snuffed out candle.
Spring came so suddenly that it seemed to her that one day she opened her eyes and found the world brimming with flowers. They were so beautiful that she was not sure where to look first, but did not grow at all around the cairn, as though fearing its occupant. She’d never seen so many colours in one place. As they drove out in the yellow truck to find deer, she could not stop smiling. Her aim was sure and true, as though the warm, hot greenhouse air was guiding the motions of her hands and the arrow she shot. They strapped the carcasses to the hood and bumbled home, the birds singing so loudly they could not hear one another. She found a meadow full of elderflowers, growing between the rusted hulks of the cars that had once belonged to the Odets’ countless victims; she ran through them, spinning round and round, arms spread, teeth flashing, the sky above a timid sort of blue. Out of nowhere, rain began to fall, heavy, hot droplets soon rendering her white housedress transparent. Her skin rose up in goosebumps of anticipation, though of what she did not know. A moment later, she felt a familiar weight pressing against her back, a hand on her breast, lips on her cheek. He’d come, without her calling him. The earth melted into the sky and into her body. Everything was a blur of rain and white flowers, thousands of them, all unfurling at once, just for her.