My, What Big Teeth You Have

CH 1 - Unrequited Letters

This is the first chapter of a novel I've committed to writing! I guess I just want to know what y'all think because I'm second-guessing my choices already.💀 (I enjoyed writing this chapter though)

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On the last night of the Starving Moon, the remaining people of Rushinsea gathered in The Hollow Tavern with the dark brewing in their hearts.

"We shan't stand for it!" Bruckely Sutherman hollered, pausing his passionate rant to ask for more brew, which he was quickly granted.

Bruckely was the type of man whose fists softened when he was inebriated. Built like a bear with the hands of a hunter and the temperament of a volcano, it was hard to look at him and remember that it was his genteel forefathers who had laid the cornerstone of Rushinsea.

"Stop yellin," Bumbleridge the beekeeper, said. "Words won't fix this no more. I reckon them fair folk haven't cocked an ear to a single peep, that I swear on my bees."

"Oh, and ye think a spoonful o' honey ought to do the trick? Ye think them is butterflies, wuss?"

"Shove off," Bumbleridge took a sip of his tea- sweetened with his homemade honey of course- and muttered into his cup, "At least me business with 'em is still good."

"Why do ye reckon that is?" Someone in the crowd said, pounding on their table. "What else ye offerin' them?"

"Oi, I ain't the enemy here!" Bumbleridge cried. "Maybe they just like me honey!"

"I've got me sights on ye. I ain't never seen any establishment so untouched as yer little bee houses, that," Bruckely growled with a mean squint.

"Gentlemen, this is no time to fight," a voice cut into the escalating conversation.

Both men turned to look over their shoulders at the door. A rain-soaked silhouette stepped in and was revealed to be William Goodwin, shaking off his raincoat and hanging it on the coat stand. The Goodwin family was fairly new to Rushinsea but came from money, and had easily carved themselves a comfortable spot in the sleepy town. William Goodwin was a doctor of great renown and a man of intelligence. Rushinsea had no person in charge, but the townspeople had come to look up to William Goodwin. Most of the people, anyhow. The rougher folk thought he was an absolute pansy, what with his books and fine, pampered doctor's hands.

"Well, if it ain't the man 'o the hour," Bruckely said with a sarcastic clap.

"Please, no need to stand on ceremony," William said. "I am simply doing my part."

"No one else thought to build a wall," Charity Smith said softly from where she sat in respite behind the piano. "That was clever."

The single mother worked in The Hollow Tavern whenever she could, refilling glasses, dodging grabby hands, and sometimes playing the piano at a customer's request.

"Ah," William said, seemingly blowing the compliment off but not without a reddening of his cheeks.

Bruckely noticed and for a ruffian who was deep in the bottle, he was still remarkably perceptive. Sour as he was, he was not one to spoil such moments, so he kept quiet, choosing to drain his cup instead.

"The wall," William said, "will only hold for so long. Fae magic is powerful and persistent. I do not have the skill to build an effective barrier."

"So we fight!" Bruckely said. "We knock them sharp-ears on their behinds, that's what!"

"Violence is not the answer," William said and added quickly. "Besides, we are not equipped with anything to make a dent in their forces, and we cannot go past the wall."

"Why not?" Bruckely protested, red in the face from the drink.

"No one has ever come back alive," William said.

"Aye," the tavern-goers murmured as one.

Indeed, anyone who crossed for any purpose, whether good or bad, was sent back in blackwood coffins. The few Fae that had crossed the wall years ago for business could not say what happened upon crossing but warned the townspeople that to attempt was to go at their own peril.

So there went that plan. Curiosity of what lay beyond aside, there was the matter of the beasts that slipped through, permeating the forest surrounding the town with their clicks and calls, rotting the trees with their otherness, and poisoning the soil. The beasts were getting braver and drawing in closer. Granny Mae had even reported sighting one. What a fright it had given her, so much so that William Goodwin was concerned she would pass on from the excitement. She described it as having a knotted ball of a body with too many legs to count, with teeth like firepokers. Everyone believed her and had been that much more afraid since.

"So... What are we to do?" Charity asked, leaning forward on the piano bench, her golden ringlets tumbling over her shoulder and causing more than a few young men to sigh.

"We can send another letter," William said, tucking his hands behind his back and beginning to pace. "Although I did that just last week.'

"Do the faefolk even read them?" She asked.

"Well, the envelopes are returned to the same place, but their seals are always broken, at the very least," William said. "I'm certain no one in the town would do that for a laugh."

"They'd better not," Bruckely said. "Or I'll gut 'em quick and neat. Just sayin'. Charity, more brew!"

Meanwhile, in a sagging cottage on the fringe of the dying forest, an old woman knitted and rocked, singing softly to keep herself company. Her self-appointed name was Moggart since she had forgotten her birth name years ago. Moggart was certainly no longer a young flower, but in truth, she was even older than she looked.

"Ten stitches, twelve more. A rising moon and a knock on the door," Moggart hummed, her spotted, gnarled hands turning over her knitting contemplatively.

The yellow bird in the cage by the window whistled and Moggart looked up.

"Visitors?" She said. "Wouldn't that be a treat."

She hesitated at the thought of getting up. "Stupid old bones," she said to herself. "You're just an old lady, that's what you are. Now up you get."

Groaning, she heaved herself to her feet and put her hand on her back. Shuffling forward, she peered out of the dusty window that was framed by herbs drying on a string nailed above.

"The townsfolk will come, sure as rain," she said. "We'll be ready for them, will we not? We'll have all the answers."

The bird chirped and fluttered agreeably in its confines.

"Aye, cruel it might be, but there must be balance. Someday it will make sense." Moggart went over to the table she used for eating meals and making potions, sifting through empty vials and stacks of recipe books and a basket overflowing with limp, wilted herbs. A cutting board sat to the side, holding a loaf of stale bread that had gone fluffy with mold. Underneath the board, she spied the jutting corner of an envelope.

"Ah, here it is!" She took it and used a butterknife to break the wax seal. "Let's see here," she said. "What do they want this time?"

Her eyes skimmed the letter and she hummed. Once she had finished reading it she tucked it back into the envelope and hobbled to the birdcage.

"I know exactly what they want to hear," she said to the bird as she opened the cage. "Now be a dear and put this back for me."

The yellow bird took the envelope in its beak and flew through a hole in the roof, spiraling up into the sky. Moggart fixed herself a cup of tea and sank back into her rocking chair to wait for her guests to arrive.