The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

By Robert Frost

The night is dark. I should have set out earlier, well before sunset. The moon is no help. It will not rise for several hours yet.

Wind whispers through the trees and, although I know the path well, twisted branches tangle into my cloak, snagging the fabric and pulling at the hood. Carrying the basket of provisions in one hand, I use my free hand to keep the hood in place.

I walk as quickly as I dare, not wanting to trip over tree roots along the path, but eager to reach my destination. On such a night, who knows what is abroad? Boar maybe, wolves perhaps? I manage a smart trot, the pace making the amulet bounce under my dress.

With relief, I see lights, warm and glowing in the night. I will enjoy pulling up a chair by my Grandmother's fire, warming myself by her hearth. But then I always do. My Grandmother is, not exactly kind, but I always feel safe near her. She can be cranky and has a sharp tongue, but I can talk to her, in a way that I can't talk with anyone else. She is my harbour in a storm.

*****

"So, what's upsetting you, Belle? You've got a face like a wet cat."

"It was my name day last week Grandmother. I'm eighteen now."

She sniffs. "That's good, isn't it? You're a grown woman now."

"But I'm not a woman Grandmother. I haven't bled yet." The dam bursts and I let it tumble out; the things I'm afraid of. "What if I'm barren Grandma? All the other girls I know started to bleed years ago. Most of them are wed and have babes. If I'm barren, I'll never be able to marry… then what will happen to me…? Old Aunty Spinster by the Fire?"

My Grandmother looks unconcerned, merely tilting her head as she listens to my outburst.

"If I'm barren, I can't marry. I know that Peter's father won't let him marry me if I'm not a woman."

"You're not barren, Belle, just a late developer. It runs in the family. You mother was eighteen too before she started to bleed. For that matter, so was I." She pauses, looking thoughtful, pursing her lips. "Aye lass, I was eighteen too." She stares into the fire, looking thoughtful. "It's important that you have a woman's mind. A girl who bleeds at thirteen is still a child. In our family, that cannot be permitted."

I don't understand her, but she refuses to speak more of it. Instead, we spend the evening discussing the doings of the forest; the deer, the best place to find the autumn mushrooms, whether the men might go to hunt the boar that roam hereabouts. "Some wild pork would be good eating, Belle. Mention that to your father when you see him. Or Karl perhaps."

"I don't like Karl."

"There's time, Sweets. There's time."

*****

The morning is bright and sunshine dapples through the leaves to the forest floor. My ill mood of the previous night evaporates in the bright light, as I pack my things for the long walk back home.

"Come back this time next week," says my Grandmother. "And come early. Get here well before sunset. And bring some mutton with you, or if your father's slaughtering a pig, pork and some of the blood sausage. Don't bother with the apples and the bread."

I'm puzzled. "I thought you liked apples, Grandma?"

"Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don't. Don't bother with them next week."

*****

The week is ordinary enough. When I tell my mother about the strange conversation with Granny, she sucks in her cheeks, nodding quietly. Oddly, she stares up into the sky, then goes to seek out my father, telling him that the larder is bare and it's time to slaughter a pig. Farm life continues quietly enough for everybody except the pig. And there is always plenty of work for everyone, dealing with the carcass; making pies, jellies and sausages.

Returning to my Grandmother's the following week, my basket is laden. Today, my Mother lined the basket with clean straw and packed it with meat. Liver, a flitch of bacon, mutton, sausages, lard, rendered from the pig fat. Granny's an old lady. She'll never be able to eat so much meat before it goes foul.

Strolling through the forest in daylight is an entirely different feeling to the night—time. The sun is westering, and the long light stretches the shadows of the trees into grey skeletons over the leaf—strewn ground. But the light is warm and golden, the sky blue; a perfect day in late autumn.

*****

My Grandmother inspects the contents of the basket, poking through it critically. "Aye, there's plenty there."

We sit companionably in her little room. The fire glows a golden welcome and we chat about the small doings of the family; farm life, gossip. But Grandmother is distracted. She seems to be waiting for something. It's not late, but the moon is shining bright through the panes, almost full, casting brilliant streaks across the stone flags.

"Belle, take off your pendant."

I am startled by the request. Pulling out from under my clothes, I look at it, dangling from my fingers. It's a plain enough little thing; a silver moon on a slender chain.

"Mother said I should always wear it; that it protects me."

"Did she say what it protects you against?"

"No."

"Do as you're bid. Take it off. No, don't give it to me. Put it in the little casket above the hearth."

*****

In the morning, I wake, to find a rose has bloomed on my sheets overnight: a scarlet stain.

"Grandma. In the night…"

"You bled?"

"Yes. Am I coming into my womanhood?"

"You could say so. In a manner of speaking. You want breakfast?"

"Are we having porridge?"

"You want porridge?"

Now I think of it, no I don't want porridge. The thought of it turns my stomach. I want…

"We'll have bacon," says Granny. You'll be better with that today.

*****

I feel strange; moody, bad—tempered. Nothing seems right. The bright autumn sunshine irritates me. I finding myself blinking against the light, and want to retreat into the coolth of the forest. Is this what they mean when they speak of a woman whose moods change with the moon?

"Grandma, I'm going…"

"That's fine, child." She knew what I was going to say. "Don't wander too far."

Under the partial shade of the trees, it is better. The forest is used by nobles for hunting boar and deer, and so much of the undergrowth is cleared by the foresters, copsed into bright, open clearings, clothed in herbage. Crisp flakes of dry beech leaves crackle under my feet as I skirt the edges of the glades, and sunlight slants through the last few green leaves on the trees.

Normally I love the bright streaks of sunshine through the branches, but somehow, today it seems unimportant, irrelevant. Instead, the scent of the wood is intoxicating. Deep earthy smells rising from the forest floor, peaty and rich with layers and shades of perfume.

A small group of toadstools nestling into tangled tree roots smell fascinating, if disgusting. I scent them long before I see them. I'd never noticed before, how strong they smell. And the reek is a warning. These are not safe to eat.

Perhaps I will seek some of the other fungi of the forest, take them back to Granny to serve with her bacon. But my belly roils at the thought, and I dismiss the idea.

Back in my Grandmother's cottage, in the mirror, cracked and stained as it is, my reflection seems strange. We don't have a mirror at home, so mostly I only ever see myself in water, rippled into broken shards, but… my eyes were never golden… My eyes are brown… surely?

The sun sinking lower, Granny makes the evening meal. As she puts the plate down in front of me, I start to protest. The liver is barely cooked; bloody; all but raw. But it smells delicious and I am suddenly ravenous. Famished, I bolt it down, then wonder if I need to apologise for my ill manners.

My Grandmother seems unconcerned. She simply sits at the end of the table, chin resting on steepled fingers, watching me calmly.

What is it, Granny?"

"How do you feel, Belle?"

It's a good question.

"I do feel odd. I suppose it's because of coming into my womanhood. Is that alright?"

"It's fine. And yes, you will feel strange."

She pauses, thinking about something. "There are some things you need to understand. I asked you to take off your amulet yesterday because it protected you against becoming a woman too early. You don't need that protection now."

"I don't understand…"

She cuts me off. "Our family is not like most. Those other girls can start to bleed sometimes at thirteen or twelve. Even earlier sometimes. It doesn't matter, so long as their fathers don't marry them off too early. That kills 'em young. But it never happens to us."

She continues. "In our family, it is important that our bodies do not become adult until the minds inside them are old enough to understand. We have responsibilities, and we must protect ourselves. And others."

I'm confused. "Protect ourselves? Against what? Who would hurt us?"

"I didn't say anything earlier, because I wanted to see how you were today, after taking off the pendant last night. Sometimes it skips a generation, but not for you. I can see that."

Shaking my head, "I'm sorry, I still don't…"

"The pendant is silver, Belle. Silver has always been the weapon against our kind. But also, while you wore it, right from your youngest days, it kept you… human."

Her choice of word rings through me. A death knell. "Human?"

"How was the forest today?"

"It was… different. The autumn air's really bringing out the scents and perfumes."

"'Tis not the forest that's different, Belle. It's you."

The moon is rising outside and, through the open window, a streak of light shines across the stone flags of the floor. Granny glances at it.

"You mustn't be frightened, Belle. It's in our family and I'm here to help you. To see you into the adult world. Tonight, you come into your womanhood."

My mind is a blur of confusion, but there is something… A feeling of inevitability, of my body being poised on the brink of…

"Come sit on the floor by the fire. You'll be easier here."

On the cold stone flags? But she's right. The chair is oddly uncomfortable.

I sit on the floor, my Grandmother standing beside me, stroking my hair.

I feel frightened, "What's going to happen, Granny?"

"You're going to change. Don't be afraid. I'm here with you. And I'll change with you."

"Change?" But I am beginning to understand. There was always a feral streak in our family and…

The shaft of moonlight slides across the table and floor. Somehow, everything seems to be moving, as though I had drunk to much wine. Colour drains from the world. The scent of blood from the liver tangs the air; sharp and bitter, almost metallic.

"Let it happen, Sweetings," murmurs Granny. "Listen to your body. It understands, even if your head doesn't."

I nod, gulping. "It's so different."

"It's a new life for you, Sweets."

"You make it sound like Baptism, Grandmother."

"Yes, Sweets. But 'twill be a Baptism of Fire……"

"…Belle, you need to take your clothes off, or you'll spoil them."

I struggle with the laces on the front of my bodice, with fingers unexpectedly clumsy. My nails are long and catch in the threads.

"Let me help." My Grandmother unlaces me, then unties my skirt at the back, letting it slide to the floor. She lays a blanket over my shoulders as I shiver.

"You won't be cold," she says. "And you don't need to be frightened."

The shaft of moonlight creeps across the wooden tabletop, picking out the scratches and cuts of twenty years of chopping and cutting.

"I am frightened, Granny. Why is it so slow? If it's going to happen, can't it be quick?"

She smiles. "Good girl. That's the way. Embrace it."

I look at her, puzzled.

"Step into the moonlight."

I take a breath, the last pause before the storm: Then standing, I step into the silver beam.

For a moment, nothing. Then, my flesh strains.

As I stare at outstretched hands, my fingers ripple and flow, shortening, broadening, the nails becoming sharp and narrow.

My hair flows in a black tide over my skin, undulating down my neck, flowing over my shoulder like a mantle.

Compelled by the curving of my spine, I drop to all fours, the world suddenly taller around me. Seeking reassurance, I turn to my Grandmother. She holds my eyes for a moment and then, unbuttoning her dress, simply lets it drop, and steps out of it. For a moment, she stands, naked before me, her old woman's body, crooked with age. Then she also changes, her flesh fluid, rippling and flowing like mine.

Perhaps it should be a horrible sight; a horrible experience, but it isn't. It feels utterly natural. This is how it is for me. I am a wolf and I am human.

Grey—pelted and silver—muzzled, my grandmother nuzzles me. Her breath is sweet and, unthinking, I lick her grizzled jaw. Even as a wolf, she is venerable. Her great golden eyes are beautiful, depthless.

Then with a backward glance at me, my Grandmother leaps through the window and I follow, rejoicing in my new life.

And we run into the dark and silken night.