Wild Game
The leaves spiraled up and down as Gwendolyn extended her hand to touch them. The dance of orange, red, and yellow told the story of the changing season. The kiss of morning frost and the sharp needle of cold prickled her skin. The smoke was acrid and permeated the air, along with iron and the musk of adrenaline. Gwendolyn drew closer to the odor, cautious of the smoke. Smoke and death meant hunters in the woods. She sank further into her bear fur coat, hoping to avoid unnecessary contact with men. Few lessons were more precious to her survival in the woods all this time than this—be invisible at all costs.
The next lesson: never waste food. The deer’s neck steamed in the cold air. The blood carpeted the ground, warm and velvet. Her red hair fell to her shoulders as she knelt and withdrew her blade. Kissing the firm flank of its body, she thanked the deer for its sacrifice. Her heart was full of grief for the animal senselessly killed for its trophy and excitement that her larder would be full for the coldest stretch of winter.
The birch saplings were cut through quickly and wrapped together at the top with a strand of fabric torn from Gwen’s shirt. The deer lay across this, legs dangling on either side, as she dragged it through the dusting of snow. The plume of smoke grew smaller the closer she got to her cabin. Sweat formed on her brow, trickling down her neck from exertion and the growing realization of who she had stolen this meat from—and the consequences.
The life she had created, away from the village, away from the scrutiny and the narrow definition of marriage, childbearing, and servitude. The most dangerous thing in the woods was not blade, claw, or teeth, but the righteous indignation of a man who felt he had been scorned. Men who felt entitled to everything were more dangerous than starvation. Gwen’s mind was popping and whirring. Her heart thudded in her ears. Her knuckles were chapped and strained under the weight of the animal. The sting of anger she could feel lashing at her skin, bruising it like an overripe peach falling from the tree. No amount of food was worth this.
Her cabin emerged from the woods ahead, built at the base of the root ball of a fallen giant. The logs were crudely sewn and attached painstakingly, laid across one another. The effort it took to strip and lift them took her weeks to recover from, but it had been worth it to have a hearth of her own. She brought the carcass to a covered outer area near the woodpile and hung it from the rafters. The animal would need to bleed out before butchering. She hooked it onto her pulley system.
Inside her cabin, the embers still glowed from the fire she had lit that morning. Her breath was thick as smoke, awaiting another log to gnash and smack its greedy flames against—never sated.
The home was shuttered, as no glass was encased in the frames. She aired out the space, let the wind blow the earthy, stale dust from its corners, but narrowed the shutters to keep the hanging plants from being disrupted. Otherwise, the blossoms, shaking loose from stem or shaft would fall below as if a wedding had taken place. Comfrey, rosemary, lavender hung from the rafters. Her apothecary chest of dark wood dovetailed with blond drawers was the only luxury she had allowed herself from her former life. The drawers were full of sinewy roots, dried aconite leaves, twigs, and blossoms—or empty, with a scant remnant from the previous occupant.
Gwen took her copper kettle and set it atop her stove, next to a simmering pot of stew, keen to hear its whistle bidding her to teatime. She pinched dried mint leaves, bits of dried apple, raspberry leaves, fennel seeds, juniper berries, and silverweed and placed them in her bowl.
She drew her pen from its holder and dipped it into the ink to make her notes for the day: the movement of the winds, the flight of the birds, all the clockwork of nature. Gwen bore witness to the magic that thrummed through the earth.
She placed three cups on the table.
The kettle screamed.
Gwen’s attention sharpened like a knife in the night air.
She knew the deer was gone. Before she had the chance to look, someone was at the door.
Just on time.
Placing her pen in the holder, she drew a deep breath. Coldness spread from her belly and into her chest. Gwen braced against it.
Ready?
Gwen unlatched the door.
“Good evening, ma’am.” A man stood in front of her with piercing blue eyes. Leaves dotted his black hair. The smell of whiskey, sweat, fire, and something desperate wafted over Gwen’s threshold. Behind him, two men in plain clothes with leather coats lined with fur. They leered in the doorway and the glow of the lantern. “Might you have some hospitality for some hungry gentlemen?”
Gwen breathed deeply, preparing to respond in a manner that every cell in her being opposed.
“Of course. Come right in.” Gwen widened her entrance to reveal the table with the cups awaiting the party. She pulled the bulk of her hair back in a leather tie and sat down at the table. The men pulled up chairs, taking in the heat from the tea as they breathed in deeply. The far man took in the plants, the apothecary chest, and shelves of books.
“The soup is almost ready,” Gwen offered.
The three men exchanged glances and sipped their tea. They winced at its bitterness and reached for the honey, adding dollops from the little pot without asking.
Gwen took in their ease. She wondered what it was to occupy a space in a room without a thought to the others around them. How easily they took without question. How little they feared predation.
“You have anything a little stronger than this?” The blue-eyed man smiled.
“Oh no.” Gwen smiled and leaned in. “There is nothing in my house stronger than this.” She motioned to their cups.
“Surely your man must take a snifter of brandy to warm his bones at night?”
“No husband here, I’m afraid.”
The men exchanged broad smiles, revealing tobacco-yellowed teeth. Two had brown teeth.
“So, you are all alone out here?”
Gwen’s breath tightened as she ran her finger over the blade concealed in the folds of her dress.
“I suppose I am,” she said casually.
The men all sipped their tea, nodded, and considered the information.
“Aren’t you afraid of being a lone woman in the woods?”
The man with the black hair leaned in farther. His chest hair glistened in the lamplight. His tongue licked his upper teeth.
Gwen stood to take the bowls from the shelf and ladled the stew into each of them. The fragrance of fennel and potatoes distracted her from the burn of the men’s glares and the feeling of the hairs on the back of her neck rising.
“Whatever would I have to be afraid of in these woods?”
The men exchanged glances. Smiling again.
Gwen put the bowls down.
They sat across from each other. Steam filled the air from the soup bowls between them. The fire crackled in the stove; the heat rose in the room. The soup lay untouched. Their spoons poised.
The air stilled.
The wind howled outside. A shutter clapped against the side of the house.
The shock vaulted the two men on either side of the blue-eyed man to their feet; hands poised at their hips for their guns or blades.
“It looks like I’m not the one who should be afraid in these woods.” Gwen smiled.
“We’re just shook is all.” The two men sat back down.
“Shook? What could shake up three burly men like yourselves? You run into a bear in the woods or something?”
“We shot a deer, see?” The man to the left shoveled stew into his mouth.
“Beauty too. Eight points. So excited. We had to bring the head back to camp right away.”
The men on either side of the blue-eyed man spooned the food into their mouths faster. Overfilling their mouths, lines of broth leaked out the corners of their lips. Small bits of potato stuck to their mustaches and beards. They slurped and wiped their faces with their sleeves.
“See, the funny thing is—when we got back, it was gone.” The blue-eyed man spoke on their behalf now.
“That is concerning.” Gwen sipped at her spoon; eyes fixed on the men. Certain her time would run out as soon as their bowls were empty.
“Concerning, yes. I would say the right of a man to kill food for his family is definitely something we concern ourselves with.”
Gwen nodded.
“We tracked it. And see, the tracks led us here.” The log snapped in the fire. The blue-eyed man began to fidget with his spoon, then pointed to Gwen with it. “We’re wondering if maybe you might know something about it.”
The wind stirred the branches outside. The shutters clapped against the windows. The candle on the table flickered and extinguished.
The blue-eyed man was up and across the table as quickly as Gwen sprang to her feet. He pressed his forearm across her chest. She struggled against him, but he was so much bigger than her. He had her up against a wall, pressing his pelvis into her, grinding against her. Her mind flashed to her blade.
Not yet.
“Maybe you might give it back.” He stroked her cheek. She bit him. Her heart thudded in her ears.
Her cheek exploded in pain with his slap.
“Or maybe you got something a little better for me, huh?” He pawed at her with his free hand, clawing and lifting at her skirt.
The two men eating the soup began to gasp. Their eyes widened in disbelief. They clutched at their throats, struggling to take in air.
Gwen stilled.
The blue-eyed man turned to take in the panic of the flailing men. They rolled around. The floorboards creaked like the hull of a ship in a hurricane.
“Your friends need to be more careful when they eat,” she croaked, with barely enough room for air in her throat.
“You bitch. What have you done?”
He pulled off her and crouched down to his men. Sputum and bits of soup lay on the floor beside their mouths. Their faces, fixed in agony, drew their last breaths.
Gwen smiled, leaning against the wall.
The blue-eyed man’s nostrils flared. He gritted his teeth. The rage never came. How calmly this man treated the death of his companions—shrugging off the end of two human lives like they were dust on his boots. Gwen trembled but kept her smile.
“You’re amused.” He looked at the table. He stepped on a floorboard. It squeaked. He pushed his foot down over and over. “Got a loose board here.” He moved closer to Gwen. “Bit of a flaw in your design.”
Gwen’s body tensed. Her mind was clear. She liked the creaks in her floor and the cracks in the wall. They were hers. Gwen knew better than to oppose him. She nodded.
“You make all kinds of mistakes, don’t you?” He was close to her now. She could feel his breath on her neck.
“Oh?” Gwen tried to suppress the bile in her throat at his closeness—at the smell of his sticky skin as he nuzzled his face into her neck. He pulled away to face her, eyes gleaming in the delight of his own cleverness.
“See, I never ate the soup.” He gestured to the men on the floor.
“What a shame.”
His hands squeezed her waist. His hands squeezed her breast.
“Why? Sad you didn’t kill us all?” He licked her neck.
“No. That you didn’t have a decent last meal.”
He pulled back from her again with a puzzled look on his face.
“It’s no good to die on an empty stomach.”
He shook his head dismissively.
“I didn’t poison the soup.”
Suddenly, the blue-eyed man brought his hands to his throat. He gasped with a hunger for air. She stood over him, watching him writhe. She wondered what images might flash in such a man’s mind as he lay dying. A tender loving moment? The children he would never see grow?
“Bitch!” he mouthed before lying still.
Of course, Gwen thought to herself.
Before bed, she went out to find that the deer had been only dragged a few feet from her house and left under a tree. After re-hoisting it with her pulley, she went inside and put a log on the fire. Gwen washed the dishes and put them all away on the shelf. She picked up the honey pot and put it in the apothecary chest, careful not to touch the golden contents, while she placed it in the drawer where she kept all her wolf’s bane.
Before blowing out her lamp, she considered the men lying dead on her floor and was happy her larder would be so full of meat for the winter to come.
Amy's life has been dedicated to women’s health advocacy— from volunteering for survivors of sexual assault, being a midwife and now a therapist specializing in reproductive mental health, honouring the voices of women is in her DNA. Amy's short stories have appeared in As The Snow Drifts: A Winter Anthology, Recipes For Romance: A Valentine's Anthology, 805 lit+ art, her non-fiction in The Yummy Mummy Club and her poetry in Tiger Leaping Review. Amy's YA manuscript LITTLE ACT SOF USELESS REBELLION was second runner up in the 2023 Leapfrog Global Fiction Prize. She attended The Yale Writer's Workshop 2021-2024 and was selected for the McLoughlin Gardens Artist in Residency Program 24/25. Amy is currently enrolled in the SFU Writer’s Studio. When not writing or working, she is tending to animals on her hobby farm, enjoying her two wonderful neurodivergent teens, or making pottery. Amy's last great adventure was hiking Everest Base Camp at age 40, she hopes publishing her books will be next.