Grandmother's House
By
Edward Hyde


Once upon a time not so very long before our own, there stood a village surrounded by forest. The village was prosperous, the people strong and healthy and their lives easy and, for the most park, happy, because they were children of Grandmother and lived under her protection.

The sun was high above the village but mid-day had already passed. The time for the Offering would soon be at hand. The people of the village embraced the religion the missionaries had taught but also respected the old ways. They may pray to Christ in the Church for the fate of their immortal souls but they knew that it was Grandmother who protected their earthly home, kept the wolves at bay.

There was only one path out of the village through the forest and that path forked in three directions. The right hand path led, eventually, to the road which connected the village and others like it to the larger towns and cities and this was the only path that most from their community would ever tread, taking care not to stray from it for, although the forest was beautiful and full of many alluring sights, sounds and colours, it was also dangerous and anyone who strayed from the path risked being lost forever. Anyone travelling at dusk was well advised to carry a flaming torch to keep the wolves at bay and on market days, torches were lit all along the path to keep travellers safe. The other two forks, the paths rarely trodden, both led to Grandmother’s House – a stone chapel deep in the forest built generations ago on a site which had been sacred for even longer. The site where the Offering would take place.

Shielding her eyes from the sun, Rosaleen looked up at the Church spire to judge the time. She was nervous about performing her duties and excited too but there was no real sense of fear. She knew what was to happen to her, of course. The Elders of the village always said that for an offering to be valid it must be made willingly and one could not willingly offer themselves if they did not know what making that offering would mean. Since her selection at the Mid-Winter Solstice, the ancient celebration which prefaced the Christmas festivities, she had known that she was to be fed to the wolves – Grandmother’s other children. In keeping with tradition, since that day, other families in the village had provided her own with their finest foods so that she might fatten and become a most satisfying meal and when they had washed her in the lake that morning at the commencement of the day’s festivities, several of the old ladies of the village had humorously expressed envy towards the wolves that they should receive such a tasty meal. Rather than feeling afraid or offended, thirteen year old Rosaleen had felt proud to be considered such a worthy offering.

The Offering was a ritual which took place once every five years to ensure the safety as prosperity of the village. As long as the Offering was made, the wolves of the forest did not come into the village or cause trouble for its people. In their turn, the villagers did not hunt the wolves out of fear or for trophies as many others did. This peaceful truce was mediated and maintained by Grandmother, the Goddess of the Forest who had watched over their people for countless centuries before the first Church was even built. Every five years, during the mid-winter celebrations, all unmarried girls who had begun to bleed would draw lots to see who would be offered at the Spring Equinox and this year, Rosaleen was the chosen one.

Now she sat on the wooden throne in the middle of the village green, naked apart from the long, woollen cloak she wore. Red, of course. The sacred colour. The last garment she would ever wear, knitted for her by the old women on the village once the announcement of her selection was made. The villages danced and feasted, each family bringing a small food item – a meat pie, some smoked sausage or small cut of meat, and placing them on the dais before her. These would be gathered up into the basket that she would carry on her final journey through the forest and become part of the offering, used to attract the wolves so that they would find their true feast, in the form of Rosaleen, waiting for them.

Finally, the moment arrived. The member of the Council of Elders who would escort her to Grandmother’s House stepped forward and offered his hand to Rosaleen. All the other villagers gathered around to watch as she stepped down from the dais and took the new woven basket offered to her by one of the old women. She then carefully gathered up all the small offerings including the one placed there by her own mother – the small bottle with the cork stopper. She knew exactly what this was and that it was for her, rather than the wolves. Poppy wine. Given to those who had suffered a severe injury or to help women through the labours of child birth. It would dull her senses and limit the pain she would suffer from being eaten alive.

When he basket was full, the villagers formed two lines, facing each other, creating a path from where she stood to the edge of the forest and the beginning of the true path out of the village that she would follow, never to return, and Rosaleen, her long dark hair tied up in a bun beneath the hood of her cloak which hung open at the front, exposing her adolescent body to the gaze of everyone in the village, walked slowly and solemnly between then, her escort just behind, at her right shoulder. It was important for the ritual that she walk ahead so that she could not be said to be guided or forced.

As she passed between then rows of people who had been her friends, family and the only world she had known her whole life, many of them reached out to touch her arm or shoulder respectfully. Some offered hushed words of encouragement and thanks while others remained silent. Her own family – her mother, father and two brothers were the last of all and she stopped to hug each of them and exchanged whispered goodbyes before setting off on the path into the forest.

Like on market days, the path had been lined with torches and she knew she must not stray from it. She and her escort exchanged no words until they reached the three-pronged fork.

“This is where I leave you.” He informed her, taking a torch from its mount and presenting it to her free hand. “I shall take the straight path to Grandmother’s House, and you must choose your own.” The ritual words spoken, his face softened into a slightly sad smile. “You’re a good girl.” he told her, clasping her cloaked shoulder in a warm, friendly gesture. “I’m sorry this burden is yours to carry, but I know you’ll do the right thing!” Rosaleen felt pleased and encouraged by his kindness and wished him a safe journey before watching him disappear down the shorter of the two paths that led to the sacred place, holding his own torch aloft against the gloom of the thick forest and to protect him from the creatures that dwelt within.

Now a choice lay before her. To take the left hand path would be to willingly walk to her death. The right hand path would take her to freedom and, most likely, to safety. She would be able to build a new life and create a new family but it would mean abandoning her sacred duty, the duty that she had been chosen for and accepted, putting everyone she loved, the only home she had ever known, in danger. Without the Offering to placate her other children, would Grandmother feel bound to protect the village any longer? Or would the wolves of the forest attack and destroy it, killing all who dwelt there? Whichever path she took, Rosaleen knew that she had to move forward. There could be no going back to the village, no going home. It was her sacred duty, she knew, to make the Offering, sacrifice herself to the wolves, but she also knew that the Offering must be made willingly and that is why she, and all the girls who had come before and those who would come after, were left alone at the fork to make their own choice.

The choice, she knew, was hers to make but really there was only one choice that she could live with. Taking a deep breath and holding her torch up in front of her, for there were none lining this most lonely and sacred of paths, Rosaleen took her first step onto the left-hand fork.

The path was long and windy and took a long time to walk. Her bare feet were sore, her arms tired and the sun waxing above her, from what she could tell from the little shafts of orange light which broke through, when Grandmother’s House came into view, the Elder who had walked with her stood waiting next to a small fire just before the entrance. Covering the last few dozen feet of the path quickly, now that the end was in view, Rosaleen looked in awe and wonder at the place where she would die.

Grandmother’s House was not, after all, an enclosed structure like a true house. Instead it was a circle of carved stone columns, in the middle of which was a long, low bed or altar with images of wolves carved around the sides, like those which decorated the pillars. Behind this altar was a large slab on which, illuminated by the light of the torches mounted on each pillar, was a carved depiction of Grandmother herself, but more like a sculpture as if she was emerging from the stone slab.

The creature, goddess or being known as Grandmother was depicted her as half old woman, half wolf. She was naked and had the breasts, belly and genitalia of an elderly woman who had birthed many children but the haunches, legs and forearms of a powerful she-wolf. Her clawed hands or paws were held out to the sides as if inviting an embrace and her bushy tail hung down between her legs in a way which was almost phallic, giving her a hermaphroditic appearance. Her face was most alarming of all for, which her head was shaped like that of a woman, with long straggly curls of hair falling around her shoulders, huge wolf ears grew from the top of her head, her eyes were unnaturally large for either species, signifying that she saw all that went on in the forest and her mouth was a long wolf snout, open to show the many sharp teeth within.

The stone floor inside the pillars was littered with bones. The bones of the many girls who had met their end their and been devoured by the wolves. Of course some would have been dragged away or scavenged after the fact and the remains of the offerings of years passed likely spread in a very broad circle around Grandmother’s House but more than enough were left here, in this sacred final resting place, to leave nobody in any doubt what the place was for and what happened there. The rock from which everything was carved was light grey, almost white, but stained in many places with dark, reddish brown. These stains could be seen splattered up the columns, in patches on the floor and of course on the figure of Grandmother herself but were most concentrated on the bed, the altar, the top of which was almost entirely covered. Rosaleen knew that it was the blood of her predecessors which had soaked into the stone, becoming a part of it forever, and she was equally aware that her own would soon be added to it, before her bones joined the others scattered about on the floor, her meat eaten by the wolves and, when they had taken their fill, the rest left to smaller scavenging beasts.

“Welcome, child.” The Elder greeted her, taking the basket and torch from her. “You know why you are here?”

“I am to be an offering to the wolves of the forest so that my people may live in peace.” she replied dutifully. The man nodded his head in approval.

“First, child, take of your cloak and place it in the fire. You will not need it any longer.” With another deep breath, Rosaleen did as she was told, removed the cloak, folded it over her arm and placed the bundle into the flames where the fine wool immediately caught fire. This further symbolised, she knew, her acceptance that she would never leave. Now completely naked, she accepted the basket back from the Elder and walked counter-clockwise around the outside of the sacred space, placing the food at intervals as she went so that the smell would attract the wolves. By the time she reached the fire once more, she had only the bottle of poppy wine left which she handed to the Elder while she placed the basket into the flames to be burned up along with the cloak. The supple wood and reeds used to make it gave off a sweet smell as the fire consumed it.

“And now, child,” the Elder spoke carefully, knowing his role in this as well as Rosaleen knew hers, “list the blessed traits of Grandmother as you have been taught.” Rosaleen knew the expected words well – they were words that all girls in the village were taught from a young age, repeated to the Elders who would give the responses in the private devotions offered alongside the prayers to Christ and his Father in Heaven. And yet, standing in front of the statue, the first time she had ever seen Grandmother depicted in a physical way rather than an abstract description, the words seemed more powerful, more real and more terrifying.

“Grandmother,” she addressed the statue, standing before it in naked supplication among the bones of those who had gone before, protected from the chill of the hour by the surrounding flames, flames which danced across the statues features and gave it the semblance of movement, of life. “What big arms you have!”

“The better to hold you with.” intoned the Elder. “Grandmother hold us all in her loving embrace.”

“Grandmother,” continued Rosaleen. “What big ears you have!”

“The better to hear you with. Grandmother hears the pleas of all her children.

“Grandmother, what big eyes you have!”

“The better to see you with.” the Elder replied solemnly. “Grandmother sees all, in the Forest and our home.” Now Rosaleen gulped. She had come to the last part, the part reserved only for this occasion and which had the simplest and most direct response.

“Grandmother,” she gathered her nerve, looking up at the huge, open may of the statue and thinking of the many like it that would soon devour her. “What big teeth you have!”

“The better to eat you with.” replied the Elder. And with that, the required ritual words were complete.

“Drink the wine, child.” He handed her back the bottle. “Then lay upon the bed.” Rosaleen took the bottle, pulled out the cork and gulped the liquid within. It was rich, sticky and sweet. From the first sips she could feel a warmth spread within her and quickly a dream-like haze fell across her vision. Dropping the bottle, she stepped forward and turned to sit on the stone altar, shuffling backwards and drawing her legs up as if she really were settling down on a bed to sleep.

The Elder looked down at her beautiful, naked body, showing the first signs of a womanhood that she would never reach. It was a tragic loss to think of her eaten by the wolves, torn apart like a young deer or sheep, but was that not the nature of sacrifice? To surrender something of great value?

At the corners of the stone were small tunnels through which ropes could be threaded. He quickly set to work doing this then took hold of Rosaleen’s ankles and tied them in place. She offered no resistance and made no complaint, nor did she protest when he positioned her arms above her head and secured her wrists. The wine was doing its work, making her sleepy, compliant and far less fearful than a fully-conscious girl might be as the reality of her situation hit home.

“When the fire burns out, they will come.” he informed her before taking up his torch once more and setting off on the path back to the village, his task complete, leaving her alone, naked, exposed and totally vulnerable on the bed in Grandmother’s house.

The poppy wine did its work and, although she did not remember falling asleep, a fair amount of time seemed to have passed by the time Rosaleen was startled by the sound of wolves howling in the distance and tried to sit up to look around. At first, her restrained condition confused her but then she remembered where she was and why. Lifting her head and looking down her body, past her firm young breasts like small apples, over the tuft of dark hair which grew between her legs and beyond her cute, elegant toes. The fire seemed to have almost died down although the embers were still glowing. The torches in their sconces bore only small flames and would soon die. The forest beyond was in total darkness.

With nothing else to do but wait, Rosaleen lay back and closed her eyes once more. The sound of the howling grew closer and she knew that the wolves were coming. Coming to eat her. Part of her felt that she should be afraid but the poppy wine was working well, not dulling her senses so much that she did not know where or even who she was, as she had seen after old Mr Jenkins had been given when his injured leg had become infected and had needed to be cut off to save his life. He had made a good recovery after that and lived for three more winters but while under the influence, he had regressed to the state of a near-newborn child. Rosaleen was grateful that had not happened to her but also regretful for the courage and resistance to pain that the sticky liquor granted her.

When she awoke again it was to near-total darkness and the sounds of snuffling and munching around the outside of the columns. Clearly the wolves had come and they had found the food that was set out to attract them. How long would it be before they finished the sausages, pies and joints of pork, beef or mutton and came looking a fresher, rarer meat?

As she lay listening to the sounds of Grandmothers forest children, the cloud above parted, allowing the bright moon above to shine down through the small clearing in the canopy above Grandmother’s House, making the pale stone gleam as if it were cast from silver and allowing Rosaleen for the first time to see the beasts that would soon devour her.

From the tales she had been told since she was tiny, warning her of the dangers that lurked in the forest, she had expected them to be monsters – great shaggy terrors with evil read eyes and slathering jaws, huge teeth dripping with the blood of their many victims. But instead, the creatures she saw were beautiful. Their coats were soft and smooth, their yellow eyes filled with intelligence.

Still in her slightly dream-like state from the poppy wine which not only protected her from the pain to come but also from the cold of the night air and the stone on which she was bound, Rosaleen tried to count how many there were but she could not for they kept moving, circling the sacred space and weaving in between each other. There were larger and smaller ones, for sure. As she watched them prowl back and forth, Rosaleen noticed that one of the biggest seemed to be a mother for the young ones, no longer pups but not yet full grown, seemed to keep coming back to her for reassurance.

It was one of these youthful wolves that was the first to approach. Rosaleen watched him come closer, a mix of hunger and curiosity in his beautiful yellow eyes but not malice, no desire to hurt. These were not bloodthirsty monsters, taking pleasure from stalking their prey, they were hungry animals and she was their food. They saw her the same way she and her fellow villagers saw the chickens, sheep or pigs whose meat they ate.

The young wolf put his great grey paws on the end of the stone altar and lifted himself up to sniff at the bound girl, curious but apprehensive too. Just as Rosaleen and the other children of the village were taught to fear the wolves of the forest, the young wolves were taught a healthy fear of humans. Yet the human before him did not seem to be threatening in any way, not making any move to attack or to flee.

Knowing what must surely be about to happen, Rosaleen lay back, closed her eyes and tried to relax, allowing the stupor of the poppy wine to overwhelm her. At this movement, slight as it was, the young wolf gave a slight yelp and dropped back down to the bone-strewn floor but, when no further movement followed, he climbed back up again and began to sniff.

Despite knowing she was about to be eaten, Rosaleen could not help but giggle as she felt the wolf’s soft fur and warm breath against her leg. He grew bolder, heaving himself further onto the stone bed and gave her inner thigh an exploratory lick. When the girl did not resist, he licked her again, his nose catching a warm, musky scent which drew him further up between her legs.

Rosaleen let out a soft, low moan as young wolf’s long, warm, wet tongue began to lick at her virgin slit, his saliva mixing with her own secretions and soaking what little hair grew above it. He seemed to like the taste and continued to lick, deeper and more intensely. Emboldened by his success, other members of the pack approached from all sides, timidly at first and then with greater confidence. The bound young girl felt warm breath, wet tongues and the soft caress of thick wolf hair all over her arms, legs and sides. Daring to open her eyes as she sensed something huge, heavy and hot looming over her, Rosaleen saw the great mother wolf with her forepaws on the side of the altar, stood on her hind legs and leaning down to sniff at her chest.

Just as a wave of climactic pleasure flooded her body, driven by the tongue of the young wolf between her legs and encouraged by the dozen or more other tongues what explored her prone, thirteen year old form all over, the she-wolf opened her jaws and bit deeply into Rosaleen’s left breast. Her first instinct was to scream but she did not want to alarm the Grandmother’s beautiful forest children and dissuade them from their meal. She was there to be eaten after all and the mix of the pleasure from the licking and the effects of the poppy wine meant the pain was easily tolerable, even as the mother wolf lifted her head, tearing away a chunk of young flesh and chewing on it noisily so that little drops of blood dripped down onto Rosaleen’s chest. The beautiful young offering gritted her teeth and closed her eyes once more as the wolf began to lower her head, accepting her fate but not wanting to see it happen. Soon another bite was taken and her left breast was entirely gone.

Following their mother and leader’s example, the other wolves began to bite at her flesh, some making small exploratory nips and others confidently biting chunks of the tender meat, especially from her thighs and upper arms. Whether out of hunger, a desire to taste her more deeply or simply following the lead of the rest of the back, the young wolf who had licked her to orgasm sunk his teeth into the soft flesh of her pubic mound. Now Rosaleen could not help screaming, despite the poppy wine’s numbing effect but by then the wolves were so engrossed in their meal that even the sudden, shrill sound could not alarm them.

Whether as an act of mercy, the instinct of finishing off wounded prey or simply to silence the annoying sound, the huge mother wolf leaned over Rosaleen once more, bit her deeply in the neck and tore out her throat.

The soon the young wolves had eaten their fill and stepped back to allow the older and weaker members to eat, along with the smaller cubs, only months out of the womb, who jumped up onto the altar, giving squeaks and yelps of delight as they tore tiny mouthfuls of meat from Rosaleen’s carcass. Seeing the difficulty some of the frailer members of the pack were having reaching the meat, the mother wolf took hold of what remained of the torso in her jaws and dragged it onto the floor, turning it over in the process exposing the untouched meat of Rosaleen’s back and shapely bottom. The grateful elders whimpered their thanks before filling their bellies with the tender girl meat.

It took some hours for the pack to strip all the meat from the offering made to them, watched over by the statue of their Grandmother. Rosaleen had fulfilled her sacred task well and Grandmother’s children lived in peace with each other for the next five years before another offering was made.

How many more years the ritual continued, I cannot say. Today it is no longer practised but is recalled in a well-known tale, told to small children, although I doubt there are any who remember the truth behind it, and in this way, Rosaleen and her fellow offerings will live on for all time.

And that’s all I’ll tell you, because that’s all I know.

The End