The Red Rider, page 1
“I’m always fascinated when I read a debut novel that captivates me from start to finish. Where a novel is so well-written that I’m in awe of the author’s writing as well as their ability to tell an amazing story. There are stories with great writing styles. Those that have amazing plots. Those that sustain your attention with every word. Ones that exceed your expectations of great lines, with a satisfying ending. Mr Dunn accomplished all of these aspects. I can only hope that the right person will come across The Red Rider and turn it into a movie that is sure to be a box-office hit.”
Kym McNabney, Story Contributor, Childhood Regained: Stories of Hope for Asian Child Workers by Jodie Renner and Steve Hooley
“Action filled novel. Journey of a teenage girl. A story of love, courage, friendship and more. The author has got it all in this book.”
Jay Deb, author of The Assassin and Contrived
Copyright 2013 by Randall Allen Dunn
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
Randall Allen Dunn writes stories of action, adventure, and infinite possibility, as well as instructional books about writing.
You can follow him on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, Goodreads and YouTube, and follow his Packing Action blog at www.RandallAllenDunn.com.
You can send comments or feedback to Randall@RandallAllenDunn.com
FICTION
High Adventure: The Solomon Ring of Kilimanjaro
The Red Rider
Den
NON-FICTION
Making Fiction Funny! How To Create Story Humor
The
RED RIDER
by
Randall Allen Dunn
MY SCARS
1.
“Hit her again, harder!”
Egged on by his friends, Jacque Denue smiled and rammed his fist into my gut. The jarring pain shook my prone body and made me want to vomit. I held back the bile, since the other four boys had me pinned and I didn’t want to swallow it back down my throat. At least the early morning rain muddied the ground enough for me to sink into it, as it ruined my little dress and burlap cloak. When would Papa come back with the wagon?
I was too hoarse to scream any more. I could only raise an arm or a leg as much as they let me, curling into a weak ball to protect myself. The village boys laughed as they took turns trying to punch my stomach, chest, arms, groin and face. My horrible, scarred face that helped them justify their attack.
“You sick, ugly witch!” Jacque spat. “You stay out of La Rue Sauvage, you hear? Stay out of our village!”
His palm weaved around my arms and slapped me. Tiny lights swirled about my face as the sting settled into my cheek. I wanted to sleep. To sleep forever and make them go away.
“Monster!” one boy yelled.
“Disgusting hag!” shouted another.
I stopped trying to rise from beneath them. I shut my eyes, accepting blow after blow, my arms and legs burning with bruises. I no longer saw them, but I saw myself and the image they so hated. The eight-year old girl with blonde hair and blue eyes and three thick scars slashed across her face. They ran at a slant, like torn pink ribbons. The top one started above my left eye and ended below my right. The second ran below my left eye and scraped across my distorted nose. The last tore across my left cheek and my mouth, ending beneath the enlarged right portion of my lower lip. No wonder they called me a monster.
My mind pictured something else as they continued to hammer my stomach. I saw the wolf, large and leering and unstoppable, its jaws gaping wide to swallow me. The wolf that stood on its hind legs and loomed over me. The living nightmare that spoke to me through its grinning fangs: Where are you going, little girl?
I found my voice and screamed.
“Helena!”
“Run!” the boys shouted. The pain stopped – or at least, stopped mounting - replaced by a scuttling and sloshing of feet through mud and puddles.
“Helena! What have you boys done? Come back here, you!”
I kept my eyes closed and lay still, sobbing but relieved. Papa would stop them. He would chase them, punish them, make them apologize. He would catch every last one of them and make them sorry for hitting me.
Strong arms surrounded me. They snatched me up, then slowed to a gentle cradling motion.
“Helena.” Papa’s voice broke. “Helena.”
“Papa,” I rasped, too weak to embrace him. I kept my eyes shut against the pain, wincing out tears as he held me. Until I could breathe regularly again. I swiped tears from my eyes. “Did you get them?”
His chest sighed. “They ran away.”
“All of them? You didn’t catch any?” My voice sounded like a frog’s croak.
“Helena, I’m taking you to Doctor Renoire.” He rushed me to our wagon, which he had parked on the next street. I had wandered off to smell some flowers outside another shop, when the boys started hurling insults and chased me through the alley.
“I want to see Francois,” I said.
Papa cradled me closer as he sloshed across the muddy path. My cloak scraped against my bare shoulders where my dress had been torn. “I’m taking you to the doctor.”
“Am I dying?”
“No, Helena. You’re not dying.”
“After we’re done … I want to see him.”
“I’ll think on it. Lie still.”
He laid me down on the hay in the bed of our wagon. I heard Papa’s horse, Royale, snort his readiness from the front. Soon we were rolling and jostling along the dusty road, so much smoother than the hills outside our cottage. So smooth …
And I was so scarred.
2.
I still felt stinging pain in my stomach and my face and between my legs as I lay on the cot in his visiting room. But Doctor Renoire cleaned me with soft cloths and lotion that took away most of the soreness. Soon I was able to sit up and eat some of the crackers he kept in his house.
They had left me alone to rest. I could hear Doctor Renoire out in the parlor talking with my father.
I slid down from the cot, wincing at new pains knifing into my thighs and lower back. My ripped, muddy dress had been thrown away. I now wore a pair of boy’s trousers and a shirt, which Doctor Renoire said he borrowed from his son’s upstairs wardrobe.
Only one item had been rescued, and lay on the table beside the cot. My burlap cloak. At least the dark bloodstain in the center gave it some color. I pulled it about my shoulders and hobbled to the door, the wooden floor chilling my bare feet. I peered through the crack and listened.
Papa leaned forward in a chair, burying his face in his hands.
Doctor Renoire kept a hand on his shoulder. “Relax, Henri,” Doctor Renoire said. “Helena’s going to be all right.”
Papa sat up and wiped away tears. “This is why. This is why we don’t come out any more. Why we can’t.”
“Because of her face?”
“No. Not exactly. I just don’t want her to suffer any more harm.”
My cloak scraped my bruised forearm as I pulled it tighter about myself. Doctor Renoire stared at the floorboards. “I understand. When you brought her in last summer … I had never seen anything like it. At least, not anyone who survived. And certainly no child.”
My breath grew quick and shallow. My skin bristled at the memories that still filled my nightmares. The wolf that spoke to me in the forest, that killed my Grand’Mere Marie and tried to kill me. The wolf that was anything but a wolf.
Doctor Renoire knelt before my father. “Perhaps it’s distasteful to say, but you really should be so grateful, Henri. Just grateful to have her.”
“I know. We are. That’s why we can’t let her go out. Not until we can know this won’t happen again.”
My foot shuffled against the floor. They both turned. I opened the door slowly as if I had just arrived.
Papa wiped his face. “Helena. How do you feel?”
“A little better.”
“Come here, Helena,” Doctor Renoire beckoned, still kneeling. I limped toward him, feeling some of my strength returning. “That’s it. Good girl. You’re walking fine. You just need to rest up for a few days. Your father agreed to let you skip some chores the next few weeks while you recover. But you should be up and around in no time. Nothing seems to be broken and you’re already moving around much better.”
They smiled. They seemed to be waiting for me to respond in kind, so I smiled back.
“You know, Helena,” Doctor Renoire continued. “I’ve never seen a girl recover so quickly. You survived last year and again today. You’re
My smile faded. “I don’t feel like a miracle.”
I clutched at my sore ribs as we trudged across the cobblestone street to find the village clothier. I was eager to barter for a new dress and return the trousers that felt so strange, clinging to my legs and exposing them in public.
We rarely visited the brick shops and stone houses of La Rue Sauvage. It seemed aptly named now: “Wild Street”. I had begged Papa to take me with him today, but he wouldn’t allow it again. Not after this. Perhaps my parents were right to keep me close to home, never venturing too far outside. Where the wolf might be waiting. “I want to see Francois,” I said.
Papa said nothing at first. “You could use some rest. We came to the village. That should be enough excitement for one day, don’t you think?”
I heard laughter and flinched. A few men strolled by in front of us, chuckling. Not Jacque Denue or his friends. “I want to see Francois. Please, Papa.”
He sighed. “I’ll think on it. Let’s focus on finding a new dress.”
We arrived at the clothier and stepped up onto its stoop. The store sign suddenly flipped over to show it now closed as the front door slammed. Papa held my hand and stood in the empty street, staring at the shop door.
The sign above the door read: Clothier de Denue. I never knew Jacque’s father sold clothes. He must have heard about what happened. Now he wouldn’t speak to us, out of shame. Or fear.
Papa’s hand tightened on mine. He clenched his jaw, then turned me away from the closed door. “Come on, Helena.”
I glanced back at the shop. An eye peered out from a crack in the window shutter. Then it disappeared. “We’re not getting a dress?”
“Your mother can make you a quick one, perhaps by tomorrow. We’ll ask Doctor Renoire to let us keep these clothes another week. We’re going to see Francois.”
My heart soared. “Oh, thank you, Papa!” I nearly threw my arms around him. Then I slowed myself to hug him without upsetting the pain in my ribs. He knew I needed to visit Francois, especially today. Some days, Francois was the only person who could make me feel safe. Especially when I remembered the wolf.
Papa marched to the wagon without a word. He studied the noonday sun. He never let me travel all the way from La Rue Sauvage to Francois’ cabin this late in the day, for fear of being out after dark. He never felt anything was worth that risk. We had to hurry.
I tightened my burlap cloak against a draft, scraping my bruises. I glanced back at the shop to see the eye staring at me again before it vanished. Jacque Denue’s father was smart to stay hidden. Papa was no coward.
But why didn’t he even knock on the door when we both knew Monsieur Denue was there? Why didn’t he kick the door open and make him give me a new dress for the way his son treated me?
Why wouldn’t anyone help me?
3.
As our wagon rolled up the muddy path to his cabin, I spotted Francois chopping wood outside and smiled. I loved watching his strong arms hammer down on a log with his silver ax. He was a burly man with a round belly and a scraggly beard that crinkled up in a grin whenever he saw me. A wave of warm sunshine bathed me from inside. For the first time since I saw him last month, I felt as though nothing could harm me.
Papa tugged Royale to a stop. I wanted to scramble down from the wagon without waiting for permission. But the pain in my side and my legs nearly slowed me to a halt. “Easy, Helena,” Papa said.
I hobbled over to Francois as fast as I could, ready for him to scoop me up into his broad arms like always. He thumped his ax into the wood and hurried to me with a fat smile. “Well, well, Helena! What brings you all the way out here?” he boomed. He frowned upon seeing me limp and the pants I now wore. “What happened?”
I started to tell him, but I couldn’t. I fell against him and wept, letting my itchy cloak fall to the mud.
He hoisted me into the air, but didn’t swing me around in a big circle. Instead, he cradled me like a bear holding his tiny cub. I nuzzled against his warm chest, covered with wood splinters and dust.
He patted my back and hugged me. With his heavy arms, who needed a cloak? “It’s all right, Mademoiselle. It’s all right.”
“Some boys in the village,” I blubbered. “They chased me and hit me and wouldn’t stop.”
“Andre Denue’s son and some of his friends,” Papa said, striding up from behind. “He wouldn’t even open his door to let us buy a new dress. These are from Doctor Renoire’s son.”
I sniffed and swiped a tear from my cheek, brushing one of my triple scars. “They called me a monster.”
Francois’ hands clenched against my back, then relaxed. “You’re no monster. You just had some bad luck, that’s all. Don’t pay no attention to those morons. Sounds to me like a bunch of no-good bullies.”
“I wish you’d been there. Papa let them get away.”
Francois held me a moment longer. Then he gently set me down and knelt before me. His eyes looked worried. “Now listen, Helena. If I’d been there, I couldn’t have done anything more than what your father did.”
I glanced back to see Papa staring at the ground. I started to tremble. I never meant to dishonor him. I just wanted someone to protect me.
Francois’ large finger turned my chin back toward him. “Your father took you straight to the doctor, didn’t he? And you’re here in one piece. Aren’t you? I think he was more concerned about treating your wounds than getting revenge.”
My face screwed up with tears again.
I fell against Francois and sobbed. Ashamed of the way I spoke about Papa. Angry at Jacque Denue and his friends for nearly beating me to death. And terrified of facing them – or anyone – again. Afraid of showing my horrid face.
“Helena. Your cloak,” Papa said.
I turned. He held the burlap cloak out to me. I took it with a faint smile, then draped it back in place, careful to keep it from scraping my shoulders too much.
Francois patted my back. “Dry your tears now. I’m glad you came today. Been wanting to show you something, next time I saw you. Come on back.”
He wiped my eyes with the tail of his thick tunic. I smeared away the rest with the back of my fist. He led me like a lamb, his large hand around my shoulder, toward the rear of his stable. I smiled, eager to see Francois’ ebony horse, Lightning, named for the jagged stripe that covered her nose. I always felt better after petting her.
We came around the corner. Lightning lifted her head lazily.
A colt jerked its head from beneath her. It rose to face us, stamping its hooves in protest. Its flanks were red like flame.
I gaped. “What’s that?”
“That,” he said, “is our new colt.”
Its blazing eyes locked on mine.
“She’s red!” I squealed. My cloak fell off my shoulders again as I hobbled forward.
“Whoa! Stop!” Francois shouted as Papa also yelled behind him.
I limped to the gate as fast as I could. The fiery colt reared back, then ran at me.
“Helena!” Papa cried.
Francois tugged me back as the colt stamped and kicked at the gate. “Easy now, that colt’s a wild one. Understand? Don’t move too quick around it, you’ll pay for it.”
I stared into the colt’s eyes. It did look dangerous, but that seemed all right somehow. It didn’t seem mean, just frightened and ready to fight. The same way I felt, except I didn’t have hooves to kick against a gate. “Let me give her some oats.”
“Helena …” Papa started.
“It’s still a little fired up, Helena,” Francois said. “I don’t know.”
“I can do it. I’ll be careful.”
After a silent moment, Papa nodded to Francois. “All right, if you walk up with her.”
Francois led me to the feed bag hanging outside the stable. He dug out a handful of oats and emptied some into my hand. “Now you let me go first,” he said. We stepped toward the colt, slow and steady. It watched our every move, looking curious, as I hobbled forward with a smile. Francois opened his hand and extended it beneath the colt’s mouth. The colt snorted and tossed its head. Then it bent, sniffed, and nibbled like one of Papa’s sheep.
