- Some nights prior -

In a musty hut on the outskirts of Gladstone, nestled against the edge of the forest, old thatch sitting like a decaying wreath upon sun-baked mud walls, an elderly woman rocked back and forth.

“Skin, leather, tanner, feather, fletcher, retched, hunter, hatred,” the woman whispered through cracked lips that had seen not food nor water for days.

“Skin, leather, tanner, feather, fletcher, retched, hunter, hatred,” she said, staring at an empty firepit, cobwebs dangling from its dusty chimney.

“Skin, leather, tanner, feather, fletcher, retched, hunter, hatred,” she continued, oblivious to the musky smell of unwashed clothes, days old meat, and soiled sawdust.

“Skin, leather-”

There was a gentle tap on the door.

“-tanner, feather, fletcher, retched, hunter, hatred.”

“Elaine? Are you in there Elaine?” a cheerful voice called, “Can I come in?”

“Skin, leather, tanner, feather, fletcher, retched, hunter, hatred.”

“I’m going to let myself in, Elaine. I hope you’re decent!” Margaret called as she opened the door.

Elaine did not turn to greet her guest.

“Goodness me, Elaine! Oh, dear me, dear me, dear me. This place is filthy, darling!” Margaret put her hands on her hips, “I knew I should be coming over more often,” the old baker berated herself.

Margaret set about opening the shutters to let some air in. She tutted and exclaimed with each dirty dish she moved. There was a constant stream of, “deary, deary me”, as she swept the floors, dusted the surfaces, washed the linen, and changed the bedding. Somehow, in all of this, her pinny remained unblemished, and her immaculate, peacock-like coif undisturbed.

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Elaine, for her part, just continued to rock on her heels, saying again and again, “Skin, leather, tanner, feather, fletcher, retched, hunter, hatred.”

“You really ought to sit down, dear. It’s not good to be on your feet all day,” Margaret scolded the other woman, barely a year older than herself.

Elaine responded in her usual way.

The day passed and the evening came and went whilst Margaret tirelessly went about her good-neighbourly duties. She set the house in order again, just as she had the week before.

Sometime around midnight, Elaine’s mantra grew faster.

“Skin, leather, tanner, feather, fletcher, retched, hunter, hatred. Skin, leather, tanner, feather, fletcher, retched, hunter, hatred. Skin leather tanner feather fletcher retched hunter hatred. Skin-leather-tanner-feather-fletcher-retched-hunter-hatred!”

She straightened.

Her pupils grew wide.

“Figo,” she whispered.

Slowly, her entire body trembling, she raised her bony hands to her face, and wept.

“Oh, Figo, Figo, Figo, no! Figo, my boy. No, no, no.”

She shook and shivered as she curled into a ball, hugging herself tight.

“Figo, no. Figo, why?”

Abruptly, she stopped shaking.

“Killer,” she hissed.

“Cur,” she croaked.

“Elf,” she gagged on the vile word.

“Demon, bastard, murderous, treacherous,” she spat and spluttered, her fingernails tearing furrows in the wooden floorboards, drawing blood and splinters she didn’t feel.

“Elf,” she said again.

This last time was colder, darker.

Carefully, confidently, she stood up, brushed off her black gown, and walked mechanically out of the front door. She walked straight out of the building and directly to her late-husband’s shed, where the miserly hunter had kept the tools of his trade.

Scarcely a moment later, she stood in the moonlight, a cleaver in one hand, a skinning knife in the other.

Elaine looked at the stars, her ragged breath forming clouds of condensation that blotted the constellations. Then, set out unerringly to the north-east, all the while telling herself, “Skin, leather, tanner, feather, fletcher, retched, hunter, hatred.”

Not long afterwards, a call came from the house.

“Elaine? Are you hungry, Elaine? Should I put on some dinner? Sorry it’s so late, I got so caught up with all the chores! You really have let the place get a right… Oh,” Margaret said as she stepped into living room and found it empty, “Elaine?”

Margaret shuffled about the house looking for the elderly hunter’s wife. By chance, she spotted the black-gowned lady out of the window, trapsing off into the night.

“Oh dear. Elaine! You’re going to catch a cold, dear! Elaine?” Margaret wrung her hands together, “Oh dear, oh dear.”

Margaret watched Elaine disappear over a hillock.

“I’ll put a casserole on, dear!”

There was no response.

“Yes, a nice casserole, I think,” Margaret said, setting back to work.