Approach With Caution

The Skin

There was a saying in the village: "To him, the role of Crown Prince, who can reach the other side of Serwood, with his limbs attached."

Among the mature villagers, who themselves had barely covered a quarter of a mile, were stories long accepted as truth. The washerwomen, while hanging up bed linen, spoke of bloodthirsty goblins that could smell the scent of children three leagues away. There were also the little men who lived in caves, who, for whatever reason, would cut off your hand and keep it as a souvenir.

In the past people who had ventured into the woods, had either changed or disappeared. Those who returned from Serwood had their original disposition changed so dramatically that they proved difficult to readjust. There were outbursts in unheard of languages that shocked the locals, plus fainting fits, delusions of grandeur, self-inflicted injury, servile men became violent, married men became sexually out of control, and one incident in where a carpenter took his family to an orchard, bound them to trees and proceeded to mutilate their ears, eyes and mouths, with his own tools. By the time the elders came to the scene the crazed carpenter had already dispatched two-thirds of his clan.

Apart from the threatening nature of the woodlands, medicine, ointment, shields, and repellents were the second most thought of subjects for the villagers. A superstitious lot, they would take whatever balm to ward off the fiendish, debilitating affects of Serwood. Once in the backyard of an old woman her tomatoes had failed to grow. She tried all sorts; watering every hour, stamping on the soil to stimulate growth, and on several occasions stayed up all night to see if any pest would feed on her soil. No animal ever did. Rumours began to spread, that the old woman was cursed. "To save your crops," one plucky youth said, "You have to piss on them. They must feed on the essence of their maker." The blistered old woman, desperate to cultivate her vegetables, resorted to the idea. She dragged her feet to the fruitless plot and lifted her skirts, before squatting on her blue-veined legs. She tried to balance herself while feeling the warm sprinkle of desire splash on the side of her thigh. The sound of barely concealed snorts was what eventually broke the woman out of her reverie. She got up quick and turned to a sniggering pair who sprinted off as soon they met her eyes. All seemed hopeless until a kindly neighbour suggested the offering of a cow to the forest would make her tomatoes grow. So the old woman took her speckled cow to the edge of Serwood and the next morning it was gone. Just a week later the soil had begun to sprout shoots – like a miracle. Some assumed that the stupid woman had planted her seeds too closely together, others thought she had been duped, that a fellow villager took her cow. Whatever the belief, Serwood had a huge influence in the way people lived.

A woman from the village, pregnant and wary, ventured into the wooded realm in search of herbs. She was to make them into a soup for her husband to revive him. The woodcutter had fallen ill, and when the doctor was called, claimed there was nothing he could do. Having exhausted all the homemade tinctures and powders and compresses, the woman sought the help from the most feared. She prayed while walking with each delicate step, eyeing the rooted sentries along her path. She knew not what offence she could make to be driven mad like the ones who had returned from Serwood, but with her determination and love she could not turn back. At the sight of the herbs she quickly gathered what leaves she could find saying blessings under her breathe. A twig snapped, and the woman looked to where it came from. It stood mid-stroll, its yellow eyes fixed on her. For a minute they gazed at each other, before the creature nonchalantly turned its head away, stalled, then walked in the opposite direction. The woman raised herself, turned and walked calmly back the way she came. On her return her husband made a full recovery; she never spoke about the wolf.

It was years later when the village was struck again. Young and old women claimed that their husbands, brothers and sons had left their homes and disappeared without a word. No inclination, no warning, no signs. A beast, they thought, it must be, not since the young shepherd was seen walking at dusk, slowly and casually into the woods. It had to be destroyed, but by whom, the villagers questioned. The names of the most capable men were placed in a sack. Whoever's name was picked out would endeavour to enter Serwood and bring back the monster's corpse. One, two, three men either shied away from the task or returned having given in to fear. Eventually a new name was called. After kissing his mother and taking his father's axe he bade everyone farewell. The villagers waited for half an hour, then an hour, then another hour, until they realised that the young woodcutter's son had gone further than they had anticipated.