Faerie Tale Medley, Part the 1st: IL Cané

Dear Readers,

The story below is the first installment in a  series of such installments which will be posted from time to time on this Blog. It is an epic tale built on alternate histories of several Faerie Tales, all merged together into one story and it will form the baseline of the Blog.
Please note that these stories and poems are my own writings and are therefore not to be posted anywhere else without my permission.

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        Even in the rain the town stank. The reek of dung and offal that clung to the soiled cobblestones of the street was dulled by the rain, but could not be washed away entirely. The musky odor of the unwashed that clung to the hovels that lined the sides of the streets and the underlying tang of sour milk and liquor combined to make the town enough to turn a man’s stomach.

          However, the one man out in the streets in the rain, showed no signs of noticing the city’s smell.

          The rider’s steed was a black charger, both hair and hide shaggy and matted and slicked with the rain that ran down through it in rivers. It moved along at a steady trot through the streets, the sound of its hooves on the cobblestones all but drowned out in the storm.

          The black steed’s rider himself was a tall man and wore furs to match the black of his charger; black and matted. Wolf furs, or rather a wolf’s fur.

          The Wolf’s Hide hid the rider’s body entirely save for the hands that gripped the reins, gloved in black leather, and his face, shadowed by the curving jaws of the wolf.

          There were no lights on in the houses of the town and their waxed-paper windows stood dark as the houses themselves. Only the moon lit the night now and then only just. The heaving clouds above that poured down such torrential rain hid the bright face of the moon, and only now and then was the pale light glimpsed through the black.

          There were no people outdoors at this hour, the curfew was an hour passed now, and all knew well not to venture outdoors past the ninth hour of the night.

          The rider in furs entered the town square, and brought his stead to a halt. The yellow eyes that peered out from under the shadow of the wolf’s jaws surveyed the square thoroughly, missing not a detail.

          Sections of the square were underwater from the rain but most areas stood above the pools made by the downpour, though they were anything but dry. Houses and shops looked in on the square, their windows dark save for one building, larger than the others; an Inn.

          The windows of the Inn shone bright through the downpour and a lantern illuminated a swinging wooden sign on an arm above the door proclaiming the Inn’s name:

The King’s Hound

Voices could be heard from inside the Inn, mingled with the noises of creaking stools and table-legs and the clunk of mugs and tankards on the bar.

          The rider in the square stared a while longer at the Inn before nudging his mount forward with a flick of the reins and sending it into a slow walk to the center of the square where stood a single tall pole of treated oak.

          The rider dismounted and tied the reins to a hook planted in the pole for just such a purpose.

          Tacked to every section of the pole were notices from the castle, the paper on which they had been written now sodden and plastered to the pole in the rain, the ink running down through them.

          The rider turn from his mount, leaving it at the pole and headed for the Inn at the far side of the square.

          Inside the Inn, several men sat, some along the bar and others at small tables about the room. A lazy chatter hung over the men in the Inn, mingling with a blue haze of pipe-smoke in the air.

          The Inn was lit by several lanterns hanging from the crossbeams in the roof, their golden light a welcome change from the darkness outside.

          The bar man, a large man by the name of Berk with a tangled mass of a beard and powerful arms and hands, was passing out drinks to the patrons as fast as the orders came in while joining in with the chatter.

          The air was happy and relaxed in the Inn, with no indication of what was soon to come.

          Suddenly, a man at the bar leaned forward across the bar towards Berk.

          “Hoi, Berk!” he said, raising his voice slightly to be heard above the chatter in the room. The man’s name was Sean and he was a Celt, one of the Northern people as any might have guessed from his speech, however slurred by drink.

          “Hoi, Berk!” Sean repeated, even though the bar man was already listening, “Why’d ye name this here place after tha’ scunner up at tha’ castle?”

          A silence spread outwards from the place where Sean sat the bar, like oil in water, as everybody heard what the Northerner had said.

          “I think that’s enough for you for tonight, Sean” Berk said after an uncomfortable pause, “Time for you to be of-”

          “Ach, awa’ wi’ ye!” Sean said loudly, waving a hand carelessly at the bar man and knocking over his tankard in the process, “King’s Hound indeed, psha, awa’ wi’ ye.”

          Sean turned away from the bar and towards the other men in the bar.

          “We all ken tha’ the King’s not fit tae rule, eh? So why name an Inn after his hound?! I’d sooner be living wild like an animal in the forest than be tha’ fool’s hound.”

          The silence around Sean dragged on. Such talk was treason and the punishment for treason against King John was harsh.

          Another man at the bar, this one also a Celt and a friend of Sean’s leaned forward and put an arm on his shoulder.

          “Cease yaer jabbering, Sean, Ye’ll bring the punishment of the Wolf upon us all.”

          A ripple of uncomfortable murmurs ran through the crowd in the Inn. Several men left the bar at this point and headed up to their rooms. Speaking the name of the Wolf was almost as bad as treason in the town.

          “Ach, ye’r all a pack of pandering fishwives!” Sean said loudly, standing unsteadily and glaring around at the men in the bar, “What’s there tae be feared from IL Cané? He’s naught but a fool in a wolf skin!”

           An audible gasp ran through the occupants of the bar. Sean had spoken the name of the Wolf.

          “Aye, that’s right,” Sean said again, turning back to the bar, “He’s naught but a pandering, bootlicking, fool in wol-”

          BANG! BANG! BANG!

          All eyes turned to the door of the Inn. Someone was knocking. And whoever was knocking could not have helped but hear what Sean said.

          The door of the Inn swung open and the sound of the storm blew in with a gust of damp wind. A figure in dark fur stepped inside and closed the door behind him, again muffling the sounds of the storm outside.

            The figure stood for a moment, yellow eyes slowly moving about the bar, taking in everything.

          For their own part, the men in the bar were not missing the essentials. They could clearly see the wolf-skin that the figure wore. They all knew his name too. All feared that name.

           A man at the back of the bar stood quietly and headed for the steps that led to the rooms upstairs.

          The figure in black drew a flute of carved wood from a sheath at his belt and brought it to his lips. Suddenly there was music in the bar. It was strange music, airy and dark but somehow meant only for the man at the back who had stopped in his tracks and now stood motionless, then, as the music played on, the man turned slowly, returned to his place at the bar, and sat down.

          Then the music stopped as the figure in black brought the flute away from his lips and replaced it in the sheath at his side. Then, still without saying a word, he walked to the bar and turned to face all of the men in the Inn.

          “I am looking for someone,” he said and all the men involuntarily flinched as he spoke. The voice of IL Cané, or ‘The Wolf’ as he was known to the common people, was low and dry, yet rhythmic somehow, as though the music he played so often on the flute of his had somehow overflowed into his voice.

          The figure in black reached inside his coat and withdrew a slim scroll of paper which he unfurled and placed flat on the bar. Then, in one fluid motion, the Wolf drew a dagger from his belt and slammed it down into the paper, nailing it to the bar.

          “Have any of you seen or heard anything to do with this woman?” the Wolf asked, staring around at the men at the bar. Some glanced at the notice but others kept their eyes averted. All shook their heads in silence.

          The Wolf glanced once more around the crowded room and then once more withdrew the flute from his belt. All of the men stared at the instrument as the Wolf placed it to his lips once more, all of them wondering who its music would be directed at this time.

          Then, once again, just as before, music filled the Inn, music directed at only one man.

          Sean stood from his stool at the bar and walked slowly to the door, his face blank of expression. Opening the door, he stepped outside, leaving the door open to let in the wind and rain.

          The Wolf replaced the flute in his belt again, and headed for the door.

          “Please, sir!” a voice said from the bar and Sean’s companion stood, quivering in his boots.

          The Wolf did not turn but answered without looking at the man behind him.

          “Yes?”

          Sean’s companion took off his hat and wrung it between his hands nervously as he spoke.

          “Well sir, I was wanting tae know…I’m sure all of us here would please like tae know…what’s going tae happen tae Sean? Sir?’

          “The man has spoken treason,” The Wolf replied, “He will be punished according to his crimes. Let his fate be a warning to the rest of you”

          And without another word, the Wolf left the Inn, leaving the door open behind him. There was a rush of movement as the men in the bar headed to the door and looked out into the rain.

          They saw the Wolf heading for his mount at the center of the square. All of the men in the Inn saw what stood behind the charger. It was Sean, with a rope tied about his neck. The other end of the rope was fastened to the saddle of the Wolf’s charger.

          Some of the men groaned, they knew what must be about the happen.

          The Wolf swung himself up into his charger’s saddle, unfastened the reins from the hook in the post, and dug his spurs into the horse’s flanks.

          The black steed reared high in the air and let out a piercing whinny. Then its hooves came down on the cobblestone and it set off at a gallop through the square and into the street leading up to the castle.

          Sean ran behind the horse for as long as he could, but in a few moments, he fell and was dragged by his neck along the cobblestones behind the charger.

          The men at the Inn turned away and returned to the bar, unable to watch any longer.

          On the bar, the notice lay nailed to the wood, its message clear:

Wanted:

The girl in the Red Riding Hood

Brought in alive,

She’ll be worth it, ‘tis true,

Golden crowns twelve,

Shall be paid unto you,

Bring her in dead,

And the payment’s still fine,

For her corpse or her head,

Silver pieces nine.

Signed:

IL Cané

Royal Marshall, Tax-collector and executioner