Red as Blood, or Tales from the Sisters Grimmer: Expanded Edition Read Online Free PDF Page B

sky gleamed dimly through like panes of blue-colored glass.
    “I am weary,” sighed Bianca. “May I rest a moment?”
    “By all means,” said the huntsman. “In the clearing there, foxes come to play by night. Look in that direction, and you will see them.”
    “How clever you are,” said Bianca. “And how handsome.” She sat on the turf and gazed at the clearing.
    The huntsman drew his knife silently and concealed it in the folds of his cloak. He stooped above the maiden.
    “What are you whispering?” demanded the huntsman, laying his hand on her wood-black hair.
    “Only a rhyme my mother taught me.”
    The huntsman seized her by the hair and swung her about so her white throat was before him, stretched ready for the knife. But he did not strike, for there in his hand he held the dark golden locks of the Witch Queen, and her face laughed up at him, and she flung her arms about him, laughing.
    “Good man, sweet man, it was only a test of you. Am I not a witch? And do you not love me?”
    The huntsman trembled, for he did love her, and she was pressed so close her heart seemed to beat within his own body.
    “Put away the knife. Throw away the silly crucifix. We have no need of these things. The King is not one half the man you are.”
    And the huntsman obeyed her, throwing the knife and the crucifix far off among the roots of the trees. He gripped her to him and she buried her face in his neck, and the pain of her kiss was the last thing he felt in this world.
    The sky was black now. The forest was blacker. No foxes played in the clearing. The moon rose and made white lace through the boughs, and through the backs of the huntsman’s empty eyes. Bianca wiped her mouth on a dead flower.
    “Seven asleep, seven awake,” said Bianca. “Wood to wood. Blood to blood. Thee to me.”
    There came a sound like seven huge rendings, distant by the length of several trees, a broken road, an orchard, an underground passage. Then a sound like seven huge single footfalls. Nearer. And nearer.
    Hop, hop, hop, hop. Hop, hop, hop.
    In the orchard, seven black shudderings.
    On the broken road, between the high hedges, seven black creepings.
    Brush crackled, branches snapped.
    Through the forest, into the clearing, pushed seven warped, mis-shapen, hunched-over, stunted things. Woody-black mossy fur, woody-black bald masks. Eyes like glittering cracks, mouths like moist caverns. Lichen beards. Fingers of twiggy gristle. Grinning. Kneeling. Faces pressed to the earth.
    “Welcome,” said Bianca.
    * * * *
    The Witch Queen stood before a window of glass like diluted wine. She looked at the magic mirror.
    “Mirror. Whom do you see?”
    “I see you, mistress. I see a man in the forest. He went hunting, but not for deer. His eyes are open, but he is dead. I see all in the land. But one.”
    The Witch Queen pressed her palms to her ears.
    Outside the window, the garden lay, empty of its seven black and stunted dwarf trees.
    “Bianca,” said the Queen.
    * * * *
    The windows had been draped and gave no light. The light spilled from a shallow vessel, light in a sheaf, like pastel wheat. It glowed upon four swords that pointed east and west, that pointed north and south.
    Four winds had burst through the chamber, and the grey-silver powders of Time.
    The hands of the Witch Queen floated like folded leaves on the air, and through dry lips the Witch Queen chanted:
    “Pater omnipotens, mitere digneris sanctum Angelum tuum de Infernis.”
    The light faded, and grew brighter.
    There, between the hilts of the four swords, stood the Angel Lucefiel, somberly gilded, his face in shadow, his golden wings spread and blazing at his back.
    “Since you have called me, I know your desire. It is a comfortless wish. You ask for pain.”
    “You speak of pain, Lord Lucefiel, who suffer the most merciless pain of all. Worse than the nails in the feet and wrists. Worse than the thorns and the bitter cup and the blade in the side. To be called upon for