Blackie Sharon - Foxfire, wolfskin and other stories of shapeshifting women

Also by Sharon Blackie:

The Long Delirious Burning Blue (2008)

If Women Rose Rooted (2016)

The Enchanted Life (2018)

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First published in 2019 by September Publishing

Copyright Sharon Blackie 2019

Illustrations copyright Helen Nicholson 2019

The right of Sharon Blackie to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright holder

Typeset by Ed Pickford

Printed in Poland on paper from responsibly managed, sustainable sources by L&C Printing Group

ISBN 978-1-910463-68-0

ISBN ePUB: 9781912836239

ISBN Kindle: 9781912836222

September Publishing

www.septemberpublishing.org

Most of the stories in this book are either reimaginings of older tales, or contain characters, beings and motifs which appear in older tales. To fully appreciate these new stories, then, or to understand who these characters are who are speaking, it may be helpful to know something about the older versions not all of which are particularly well known outside their place of origin. And so, at the back of this book, youll find a set of notes which indicate the inspirations for each of the stories, and brief outlines of the originals.

S AY YOU GO alone into the woods. Its winter, and youre hungry. So you take up your rifle, put on your deerskin jacket and your boots lined with rabbit fur. Off you trot.

Say its dawn, and the light in the woods is thin. Air clear, and snow on the ground to give the game away. Crow calling your name; ready-to-roost owl hooting its warning into fire-filled sky. Fledgling morning, Orion no more than a glimmer now, Hunter hanging over hunter.

But say you dont think much of all that. Youre there to kill your dinner, not to admire the scenery.

Say youre tired; you were up late the night before. Slim pickings in the woods, and on you walk. Say youre tired as evening falls; the rabbit is still warm. A long way back home, and the mill house which takes you by surprise invites you in. So you go inside to spend the night. Tomorrow there might be hind. Make a fire in the parlour, skin and cook the rabbit. You climb into the loft to sleep. Leave the fire burning in the grate; hot air rises. Leave broth and bones in the pan for breakfast.

Say you hear the door open just as youre falling asleep. Door creaks, like all the best stories say. Say a wolf comes in. Sniffs; smells something tasty. Say she goes to the fire; raises herself up on her hind legs, shouts, Skin down! Skin down! Sure enough, down comes her skin. Slips out of it, and out slips a woman. The mill house is her home. Hangs the skin up on a peg behind the door, goes back to the fire, gnaws bones, drinks warm broth, falls asleep on the rush mat.

Say you watch this from a hole in the lofts wooden floor. Say you creep down the ladder and snatch away the wolf-womans skin. Nail it to the mill wheel, tight and true. Walk over to the fire and nudge the wolf-woman with your foot. Say she screams, Skin on me! Skin on me! but its the mill wheel the skin is on.

The wolf-woman cries.

Say you laugh.

Ha ha ha.

You know the rest. Wolf-woman has to marry man, because man has her skin. Man moves into enchanted mill; wolf-woman cleans and cooks. Same old story. Say you tell her you like stories; make her tell you stories each night before bed. Wolf-stories; they make you laugh. Promise to give her skin back if she tells you a story you really like.

But say you actually decide to sell the skin; itll fetch a pretty price. Didnt even have to skin the wolf; it came ready made for sale. Say the wolf-woman sees that her skin is gone, and cries.

Say you laugh.

Ha ha ha.

Say the wolf-woman begins pregnant with hope, but ends up pregnant with a man-child. Say the man-child kills his brother Hope in the womb.

Dont you like this story? Say you do. You dont seem to be laughing now.

Well then: say the man-child hears people whisper that his mother is really a wolf. Mama! he says. Are you a wolf?

What nonsense, says the mother, and turns away.

Say the man-child asks his father whether his mother is a wolf. Father says yes. Man-child asks father where his mothers skin is. Father says he sold it.

Say the man-child starts to wonder whether he is a wolf too. Asks his mother how to find his wolf-skin. Say she tells him only his mother can show him how to discover his skin, and only when shes a wolf. The boy cries.

Say you laugh for the third time.

Ha ha ha.

Say the father sends the man-child over to the preachers house. Takes a fresh buckskin and a basket of buns. Man-child smells his mother there, but mother is at home. Man-child sniffs; follows his nose. Follows his wolf-nose to the wolf-skin thrown on the seat of the preacher-mans wooden bench. Say he goes home and says to his mother, Mama, Mama! I know where your skin is!

Say the wolf-woman has lost her skin, but still has a wolfs bones. Say the wolf-woman has lost her skin, but still has a wolfs heart. Say the wolf-woman has lost her skin, but still has a wolfs eyes. Say the wolf-woman creeps out in the dark while her husband is away hunting, and steals through the window of the preachers house. Skin on me! she says. And on the skin comes. Skin reaches for her, clamps around her, tightens. Caresses her like a lover, and she shudders. Skin flows all over her, down her back, around her thighs. Skin wraps itself softly around her throat, loosens her hurt heart.

Say the hunter comes home to find his wife gone and a wolf sitting in the kitchen. The cub is alongside. Say the wolf growls and bares its teeth. Say you never see it coming.

Say the wolf gets the last laugh.

Ha ha ha.

H E SHOULD HAVE been down from the hill by now; hes been gone too long. She turns away from the window; wipes her wet hands on the tea towel. Shes learned not to worry, over the years. Or rather, not to fuss. Theres nothing he hates more than a fuss. But hes been gone three hours now, and still she hasnt heard the shot.

She wishes he hadnt gone today. Not today, with his hands still red-raw from digging the grave for the old dog in yesterdays freezing rain. Not today, with a heart so heavy that shes not sure his stiff old legs can carry it all the way up the hill. His hearts been heavy before, and hes found a way through it clamped his jaw shut, straightened his bent back and set his sturdy granite chest against the wind. But she knows that this is different. Saw the difference in him this morning, when he came back from the shed and the feeding and there was only young Ruaridh to keep him company. A dog, right enough but not the right dog. Not enough. Not the dog that he needs.