The Red Hunter

C h a p t e r 1 4

My small, nimble fingers grazed the open books sprawled across our kitchen table. Their spines were old and rough and the pages worn and wrinkled. Some of the books were closed, while others were open to random pages.

The writing in all of them was foreign to my young eyes, yet Grandmother was muttering the novel words under her breath while she read from one of the books, a finger tracing the lines as she went on.

With her other hand, she clutched the red cloak she had just finished making me this morning, her grip tight and slightly shaking as she continued to speak in a tongue unfamiliar to my keen ears.

I leaned forward in my seat as I watched my Grandmother continue on, her eyes closed and unaware of me.

I let my curious hands roam the tabletop, exploring the ancient books I had never laid eyes on before today. My fingers were light as I traced a path from each book to the next, the last book at the end of the table snatching my eyes away from my Grandmother and to its mysterious form.

It was certainly worn with use and age, the edges of the black book slightly faded. Gold flourishes of vines and flowers intertwined around the border of the book, engraved into its dark depths. The book was rough to the touch and smelled of smoke and ash, but that wasn't what attracted my attention.

A small, gold lock kept the book closed, its pages hidden from my grasp. Too curious about it's mysteries to give up, I tugged lightly on the lock.

A hot shock bit my soft flesh, forcing me to snap my hand back in surprise, earning the attention of my Grandmother who had just finished with her task a moment ago.

"Rosemary!" She scolded. "What are you doing?"

"But Grandmother," I whined, "look at what that mean book did to my hand." I held out my palm to show her, only for there to be no mark to my puzzlement.

"But I felt it . . . "

She reached out to brush the tips of her fingers across my skin in a soothing gesture before speaking in a soft tone.

"Dear child, I'm sorry the book did that to you, but don't be mad at it, it was a mere spell. Just don't touch it again, okay? You shouldn't be looking at these books anyways, especially that one," she muttered as she attempted to take all the books and put them in a messy pile away from my reach.

"A spell?" I asked while watching her collect the books. "Like the ones Mommy did?"

My Grandmother flinched at the mention of my mother, her movements halting for a moment as she stared at me. "Yes, like her spells I suppose," she finally whispered hoarsely.

"Where are you going, Grandmother?" I asked her as I watched her close the remaining books before taking them all into her arms.

"I'm putting these away, you should have never seen these. I'll be back in a moment, can you wait like a good girl for me?" She asked.

I nodded my head as I watched her walk out of the kitchen and down the hall towards her room. With no strange books left to distract me, I listened to the kettle of tea on the burning stove slowly start to whistle it's painful notes throughout our little cottage.

The growing sounds of the tea kettle were making me giggle, so the tiny flames dancing on the stove rose higher and jumped to my amusement.

"Grow, grow, grow!" I chanted through my giggles and the fire did as told. Slowly, the fire began to do as commanded and engulfed half of the kettle, the shrill screams sounding from the spout bouncing off the walls.