“The shadows brim with hidden teeth:

Full moon above, gold eyes beneath.”

Peter learned this at Grandma's knees

While papa swung his axe at trees

And mama kneaded dough for bread.

“Stray from the path, you'll end up dead.”

But drink can make a man a fool

Thinking himself above the rule

His granny taught him to abide:

“Full moon above, you stay inside.

Full moon above, you bar the door.

And if you're wise you will ignore

The sounds that sometimes split the night

While you hold all your loved ones tight.”

Still drink can make a man behave

As though he thinks folly is brave

And though he knows the woods are deep

And filled with things that crawl and creep

And skulk and stalk and leap and tear,

He thinks there's nothing he can't dare

To make the maids admire his pluck.

They kiss him on the cheek for luck

Then watch wide-eyed as he sets out

Leaving the tavern with no doubt

That he can reach his grandma's place

And laugh at her astonished face.

For he has been long gone from here

And city boys they know no fear.

(Besides, Grandma is fading fast

And any day could be her last.

It's sad, of course, but she is old

And he has debts; he needs her gold.)

Beer makes him brave and makes him brash.

His grandmama would call him rash

But shadows hold no dread for him

And if perhaps he hums a hymn

It is because he likes the tune

And not from fear of the full moon.

The moon is white, the shadows black

Sobriety comes stealing back

And his bravado leaks away

Remembering his granny say

That when the moon hangs full and bright

Like some strange pearl pinned to the night

Uncanny creatures prowl the wood

A-hungering for human blood.

His cloak is warm, his cloak is red

Within he starts to shake with dread

And every breath of wind he hears

Just serves to further stoke his fears

And every crunch and every creak

Just makes his quivering knees grow weak

As he recalls the butcher's son

Who had so great a love of fun

When they were boys, that one dark night

Although the moon hung full and bright

He'd ventured outside for a joke...

They found him by the withered oak

In pieces like a shattered toy:

The broken wreckage of a boy,

His shin-bones gnawed, his pale skin torn

A grisly sight to greet the dawn.

He can't imagine why he thought

He should forget what he'd been taught

And plunge alone into the wood.

He raises up the warm red hood

And wishes it were made of steel

Telling himself there are no real

Monsters to fear, just fairy tales.

He squares his shoulders.

                                ...Something wails.

A frantic sound quickly cut short...

And now he can't escape the thought

That something out there in the night

Is hungry. Hunting....

                              Headlong flight

Is surely not the wisest course

So, trembling, he tries to force

Himself to stay upon the path;

Assures himself that monstrous wrath

Is no more real than unicorns.

But all along some instinct warns

Him that the night has teeth and claws

And slinks behind him on all fours,

Sensing his dread, scenting his fear

And slowly, surely, drawing near.

He glances back, trying to prove

His fears are groundless...

Something moves.

And in the shadows he espies

The glint of hungry golden eyes.

He starts to run, frantic with dread

He does not want to be found dead,

His limbs all clawed, his face half-gone

Just like his friend was once upon

A time, a lesson he's not learned.

And so perhaps this fate is earned,

But he'll be damned if it is fair.

He stumbles on and branches tear

The woolen hood back from his head

And thorns snag in his cloak of red.

He scrapes his skin upon the bark

Of half-glimpsed trees and in the dark

The path is somehow lost between

One heartbeat and the next. Unseen

Behind him he can hear a growl

Start softly then swell to a howl

And terror hurls him forward now.

No hope, no plan, no idea how

He can escape some bloody fate.

He runs although it is too late

For running to do any good.

He runs as though somehow he could

Outrun his death, as if there might

Be shelter somewhere in the night.

He pants and wheezes, gasps and sobs

And in his throat his poor pulse throbs,

Pounding a rhythm for the race

Music to frame a frantic chase.

He is as lost as he can be

With nothing left to do but flee

When all at once he spies a light

A shocking and unhoped-for sight

Which spurs him faster through the trees

Until to his delight he sees

A tiny hut heave into view

A benediction, just a few

Last fearful, frenzied footfalls more

Before he's pounding on the door

And pleading to be let inside,

Abandoning all sense of pride

And caring nothing now who hears

The terror in his voice, salt tears

Still tracking down his fearful face

As he begs shelter in this place.

He peers back out into the night

Squinting to catch a glimpse of white

Teeth shining, or of golden eyes.

His back pressed to the door, he cries

And yells and screams and makes a din

Until somebody lets him in.

He falls back flat upon the floor

And kicks out quickly at the door

Too focussed on the need to close

It to care yet just who he owes

His thanks to for this safe retreat.

The door bangs shut. Each breath is sweet.

Long moments pass. His heartbeat slows

As he at last starts to compose

Himself and to recall his pride.

His fears seem foolish from inside

A stout cabin with windows barred

Against the night, and it is hard

To know if it was sense or drink

That prompted him to truly think

Himself at risk of brutal death.

He sits up straight, draws a deep breath

And looks about the hut to find

Whom he must thank for being kind;

Whom he must hate for seeing him weak.

His eyes alight on what they seek.

A woman stands in silhouette

Before the fire, face shadowed yet

Her form enough to make him drool.

But she just watched him act the fool

And weep and beg, he thinks with shame,

Feeling his cheeks begin to flame.

He pulls himself back to his feet

And tries to make his scowl curve sweet

Into a smile of gratitude.

He mouths some silly platitude

About true friends in times of need,

And folly caused by beer and mead,

While wondering if the girl is fair

Behind the curtain of her hair,

And wondering if she lives alone

Now that she's let him in her home.

“Where is your father, Miss?” he says,

Already thinking of the ways

She might help him improve this night.

“He's dead,” she says, and that is quite

The best news that he could have heard.

“Your husband, then?” he says. “Absurd

To think you live here on your own.”

“I do,” she says. “I'm all alone.”

She glances sidelong at the fire;

He feels a dark twist of desire

At the half-glimpsed curve of her lips

And the neat angle of her hips.

She tilts her head. Memory uncurls.

She never was like other girls,

The butcher's birth-mark-sullied daughter

They'd tried to wash her clean with water

Laughing as she kicked and spat

And spluttered like a drowning cat.

Her brother was a merry lad.

(Though Peter's granny called him bad

And said he was his father's son

With an unholy sense of fun.)

It's ten long years since Peter left

To seek his fortune, fingers deft

To cheat at dice and cheat at cards

For wood-cutting was far too hard

And village life too dull as well.

He's transformed into quite the swell.

He'd long forgot her curse-marred face

And how she held herself with grace

At her poor brother's wretched wake;

The hail of insults she would take

Whenever she walked through the town;

The ragged sweep of her patched gown

Enough to make them point and jeer.

Now he recalls how they would hear

The butcher's voice cut through the walls

Of their small hut, the countless falls

She claimed accounted for black eyes.

He views her now with deep surprise

Having supposed her long since dead

Or else, conceivably, long wed,

While he was working far away.

Instead it seems she chose to stay

Out here alone deep in the wood.

He should be grateful, knows he should

And that Grandma would think it wrong

To use the fact that he is strong

And she is weak, her father dead,

Her brother too, and she unwed...

His parents too would disapprove,

Yet still his feet begin to move

Taking him closer to the girl

And closer still. Fingers uncurl

And wrap themselves around her arm.

“My dear, I don't mean any harm,”

He lies, “But I do not believe

That I will accept 'no'.”

Her sleeve

Begins to flex under his hand.

He clasps her tighter, smiling, and

Not caring if he leaves a bruise.

“Ah, but, you see, I do not choose

To be the victim of your game,”

She says. “It's really such a shame

You did not heed your gran's advice.

You should know there's always a price

That must be paid for breaking rules.”

Her smile is sharp; his ardour cools.

Her confidence seems out of place.

Then, though her hair half-hides her face,

He sees a sudden glint of gold

And all at once his blood runs cold.

He drops her arm as though it burns

And backs away. Too late he learns

Sometimes a wolf looks like a mouse

And you should stay in your own house

When full moon hangs high overhead

Or else you may well end up dead.

The shadows brim with hidden teeth:

Full moon above, gold eyes beneath.