I never knew Sir Terry Pratchett, but over the years, I have come to feel that I did. Not, of course, in the intimate way that real friends and family knew him. But in reading his books, his voice eventually came to ring out in my head, not merely in terms of my enjoyment of his literature (although, gods know, that would have been enough). But also in wanting to be a better person. To learn to focus my anger against injustice, like Sir Samuel Vimes. To understand that, given the encouragement and respect needed, anyone could behave according to their ‘better angels,’ as Captain Carrot knew. To know that some things just had to be done because they were the right thing to do, as Granny Weatherwax knew. To understand that true evil begins when you treat people as things. I could go on and on. But suffice to say, Sir Terry not only has given me years of entertainment and reading pleasure, but he has taught me a great deal about life– including how not to be quite so fearful of meeting Death one day.

Combined with so many personal memories of him I have read, shared online, or in magazine articles and the like– I can’t bring myself to say that I felt as though I knew him, but that I really wish I had had the chance to meet him and get to know him. Although, really, through his books, I think I already have done.

As my own offering as an aspirant writer, I post a story here that is not quite finished– it still wants editing– as something partly inspired by Pratchett. I have tried to enter it now and then in those little literary contests one sees online, to no avail. But I’ll share it here. I’m sure I’ll never be as great a writer as Pratchett, but I hope that having read his work, he’s helped to make me a better writer than I otherwise would have been.

PIROSKA

Once upon a time, there was a young woman of the family Lupescu. She lived with her mother in a small village in the mountains by an ancient, darksome wood. Whenever she would go out, she would wear a great, wine-red, hooded traveling cloak; a gift from her father, now long gone. Her mother had named her Piroska.

Piroska had just turned seventeen that year, and though she was quite tall and strong for her age, she wasn’t particularly mature. Piroska’s mother worried about her immaturity and lack of, well, ‘adult interests,’ to put it delicately. Her daughter still behaved like a little girl in many ways. She decided to send her to her own mother for a few days, to see if she could help sort out the child. It was past time that Piroska took on a more adult role in the village.

Mother packed a travel basket with bread, butter, wine, cheese, milk, honey, and zacusca, and sent her daughter off to her grandmother’s. Piroska’s grandmother lived in a cosy bungalow-style cottage in the middle of the woods, not too far off from the main road, near a secluded mountain lake. Though the forest was deep and foreboding, the main road was well worn, for this was a local trade route between their small, isolated village, and the town over the mountain in the next valley. It was usually quiet for most of the year, but during market days, the traffic flowed heavily. Grandmother’s cottage was only half a league into the woods from the highway. There was a small path leading in, all the way to her home. But you had to know where it was, to spot it by the roadside.

After a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon, and puliszka, Piroska set out for Grandma’s house. It was several hours’ walk through the woods. Provided she didn’t dawdle, she could be there by tea. Piroska wore sensible, heavy boots, perfect for traveling through all sorts of unfriendly terrain. She wore sturdy leather trousers, a leather jerkin, and of course, her red cloak.

“Don’t stray off the main road, Piroska,” her mother called out as her daughter picked up the basket and strode out of the cottage. “And don’t stop to talk to strangers on the way!”

The day was cool, and the forest air crisp with the scents of oak, spruce, wild apples, and mountain bay. It had been a long winter that year, and even now that it was supposed to be over, it clung on, unwilling to step aside for spring to have its turn. Piroska enjoyed the smell of the ancient leaf carpet and the crunching sounds her boots made as she walked along the wide, unpaved road through the woods. Crows and jays cawed and sang, accompanying her on her journey.

After a few hours, Piroska met a man on the road, dressed entirely in black, from his boots to his hood. He was quite tall, and heavily built. He wore rough leathers, and a huge cloak, made apparently of wolf skins. And she could see that he was armed.

Though his great fur cloak hid much, Piroska could see a crossbow slung at his back, hanging from some sort of baldric. He also had a long-handled war axe, hanging at his right hip. Even in the shadow of the tree line by the road, she could see that the workmanship of the axe was exquisite. The dark burnished metal was deeply engraved with intricate occult patterns, which glinted like silver.

Piroska shivered at the sight of him, feeling icicles crawling up the small of her back. He had appeared from nowhere, stepping out into the open from the forest. She certainly hadn’t expected to meet anyone else on the road this time of year. Though some few woodsmen did make their living in the mountains here, this was no common woodsman. She attempted to continue on her way, giving him a wide berth. But he drew up to her and greeted her in a booming, friendly voice, forcing her to stop.

“Domnule,” she greeted him.

“Jo reggelt, domnisoara! Where are you going today, then, eh?” He eyed the pack basket she was carrying. “Market day isn’t for weeks, yet. Why are you traveling all alone through these dark, dangerous, and eldritch woods?”

Don’t stop to speak to strangers on your way, her mother had told her. And certainly, she had sincerely intended to abide by her mother’s instructions. But sometimes, circumstances will conspire to thwart a person’s well-laid intentions, no matter how strong one’s resolve. In Piroska’s case, those circumstances were that she was willful, absent-minded, over-confident, and, honestly, not all that bright. Besides, there was no way for her to outrun a crossbow bolt.

“What does ‘eldritch’ mean?” she asked, all innocence and bright smiles, hoping desperately that she could stall his intentions.

“What?” the man said, put off his stride. “Er- why, it means ‘weird…unnatural…sinister.’”

“Oh. Well, why didn’t you just say ‘spooky?’ Or ‘eerie?’”

“Well, I- Look here, I asked first!” he said, flustered.

“Yes, and I asked second. What’s your point?”

“Well, I like that!” the man fumed. “Insolent little brat! And here I thought to do you a good turn. I can see I am wasting my time already.” Yet he made no move to leave.

Piroska raised an eyebrow as she folded her arms and shifted her weight over one hip. “Oh, yes? A good turn, is it? An armed stranger practically leaps out at me from the forest and demands to know where I’m going? How big a fool do you think I am, anyway?”

The man tilted his head and put a finger to his pursed lips as if thinking. “H’mmm. A one-hundred-and-thirty-pound fool…?”

“Keep your impertinent remarks to yourself!” Piroska retorted. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend.” She made to leave.

“There are dangers here of which you know nothing,” the man insisted, barring her way. “I am trying to keep you safe!”

“Safe? You’re some sort of highwayman, and you’re going to keep me safe?” She slowly backed away from him. “My family has lived in these woods for generations; there are no dangers here of which I am unaware!”

“Highwayman?” he replied, somewhat nervously. “No, my dear; I am a simple woodsman…”

“And why would a woodsman need weapons of war?” Piroska challenged. “A crossbow? And that axe is certainly not for felling trees. Not even a hunter has weapons like those.”

“Hunter or woodsman; a man must protect himself, after all,” came the answer. “As I said, there are dangers here in the forest.”

“Let me go on my way,” Piroska growled.

The man looked surprised. Then suspicious.

“Where are you going, Little Whelp?” the man asked again. His hand strayed toward the axe at his side. “I won’t ask again.”

Piroska took another step back. She raised an arm and pointed vaguely at the road ahead. “The great crossroads, just before the mountain pass into the next valley,” she whimpered, becoming more and more frightened. Of course, that was a lie. Piroska wasn’t completely stupid.

As the man reflexively glanced in the direction she pointed, Piroska darted into the sylvan gloom. She was fairly certain she could elude such a large man in the thick of the woods. And he’d be hard pressed to get a bead on her with his crossbow through the thickets. There might be wolves, but they wouldn’t be out and about until the dusk. What else could possibly be lurking in the old familiar forest that would want to hurt her? She plunged into the safety of the trees and tried to ignore the crashing footsteps and bellowed curses of her pursuer.

Now, Piroska may not have been very bright, but she was clever. She knew enough not to run straight through the woods, but she ran in spirals, making great loops through the trees and undergrowth. She would double back at irregular intervals, retrace her steps, and wipe away her tracks as she came across them. She tread through water wherever she could, following small streams and ponds as she discovered them. Piroska even swung through low branches and climbed trees to make sure she left no tracks or traces for the wolf-clad man to follow. And she was smart enough to assume that no matter how far, no matter how long she’d been running, her pursuer was always hot on her heels.

By the time Piroska reached her grandmother’s, the sun was already setting. Frantically, she pounded on the front door.

“Nagymama!” she cried. “It’s me- Piroska! Let me in, hurry!”

“Come in, Dearie; it’s not locked,” came Granny’s voice from within.

Piroska hurriedly let herself in, locking and barring the door behind her. She sagged with relief as she let the basket slip to the floor from her shoulders. She spared a moment to peek out of the kitchen window just in case the man had managed to follow her, but she saw nothing.

“What’s going on down there, Piroska?” Grandmother’s voice floated down the stairs. “Is everything alright?”

“I-I’m okay, Nagymama,” she answered. “I brought some things from Mama for you.”

“Oh! Well, would you mind bringing them up, Dearie? I’ve been in bed all day. I haven’t been feeling too well lately.”

Piroska hung her cloak by the hearth, picked up the pack basket, and went upstairs. Granny was in bed, wearing her shift and night cap.

“Come along, Dearie,” she said. “Pull up the chair and sit by the bed, and let’s see what Mother packed for us.”

Piroska glanced out of the window as she sat down and opened the pack by the side of the bed. As the sun was setting, the moon was just beginning to rise. And in the dying light of the day, Nagymama looked a bit…off….

Granny sat up, and she and Piroska began going through the basket.

“Oooh, fresh butter…honey…cheese—is this yours?”

“Yes, Nagymama,” Piroska answered proudly. “We got fresh cow’s milk from Doamna Farkas’ farm, and I used that to make the cheese.”

“Cow’s milk cheese?” said Granny, impressed. “Well, I’ll be. What else have we got, here…?”

Suddenly, she stopped, and looked hard at Piroska.

“How old are you this year, Dearie?” she asked. “Help me out; my memory’s not what it used to be.”

“I-I was seventeen a couple of months ago,” Piroska answered her.

As the sun finally set, the moonlight began to shine in through the window. Shadows filled the small bedroom. Nagymama seemed fidgety, and in some discomfort. She didn’t look quite right.

“Nagymama,” Piroska asked. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, Dearie,” she answered with some effort. “Don’t worry about me. Just feeling a bit—”

If Piroska hadn’t known better, she would have thought that Granny herself was changing. But, no; it must have been the lengthening shadows.

“Nagymama—What big eyes you have….”

“They are for seeing you, Dearie….”

“And, Nagymama—What big ears you have….”

“They are for hearing you, Dearie….”

“Oh, Nagymama! What big, sharp, pointy teeth you have-!”

But this time, Granny didn’t answer. Her whole body seemed to be rippling in the half-light. Hair—no, fur—was sprouting from her skin as she writhed, her face lengthening into a canine muzzle. Her ears grew pointed, enlarged, and moved toward the top of her head. Her hands somehow became paws. Soon, a great grey wolf lay in Grandmother’s bed where moments ago, only Nagymama had lain.

The wolf shook itself, wriggling out of the nightgown and throwing aside the night cap with a toss of its great shaggy head. It hopped down from the bed and gazed at Piroska, snapping its jaws. Piroska thought of running, but she was too terrified to even move. Just as she thought the wolf would spring upon her, there was a loud crashing noise from downstairs. The wolf immediately glanced down the stairs and dashed toward the sound.

“Aha!” Piroska heard. “I was right! Prepare to meet your doom!”

Piroska heard the wolf’s deep growl, and the whizz-thunk of a crossbow bolt hitting something solid. She ran to the top of the stairs to see the hunter she thought she’d eluded, dropping his crossbow and grabbing his silver-engraved axe just as the beast leapt upon him.

He screamed as he was borne down by the weight of the wolf. Its massive jaws closed upon his shoulder. The axe fell from his now-useless arm. He flailed about with his free hand, drawing a silver-tipped bolt from his quarrel. He tried desperately to stab the wolf.

Now it was the wolf’s turn to howl as the bolt sank into one great shaggy flank hard by the thigh. It yelped as it leapt away and circled the man warily, bleeding heavily from its wound. The big man struggled to his feet, trying to retrieve the axe he’d dropped when the wolf mauled him. But before he could do so, the wolf had the man’s throat in its jaws. He let out a brief, gurgling scream, and then was silent as the wolf severed his head from his body.

Piroska was halfway down the stairs, now frozen again in terror. She had hoped to be able to sneak out through the smashed front door in the confusion, but her way had been blocked by the fearsome combatants. Now, the wolf turned toward Piroska once more. It moved toward her slowly, snapping its jaws at her, blood and slaver dripping from its maw.

The girl backed away slowly up the stairs. The wolf followed, stalking after her. Eventually, Piroska backed up against the far wall of the bedroom. The wolf continued to move toward her. Trapped, and with nowhere to run, Piroska howled in anguish. The howl became a deep, baying cry. Had anyone been there to see, the great grey wolf’s mouth seemed to pull back into a smile.

Piroska felt suddenly dizzy. Her body wouldn’t do what she wanted it to do. She felt as if she were the wrong shape for the commands her brain was desperately sending to her limbs. Intense smells from, it seemed, the entire forest assaulted her all at once. And most of all, the terrible smell of blood from downstairs, and on the wolf’s muzzle. The smells and sounds were overwhelming. Piroska felt quite ill with fear, unable to move, unable even to keep her feet. She fainted.

When Piroska opened her eyes, she noticed three things; she was outside, it was daylight, and she was naked. She sat up quickly and tried to get her bearings. The crystal clarity with which the world around her invaded her senses was almost painful. A thousand and one scents filled her head, painting a picture of her surroundings as clearly as her eyes might. She blinked in the light. Colors were muted, but her focus was sharper than a razor. She fancied she could even hear the sap moving through the limbs of the trees. She wrapped her arms about herself and shivered.

“You slept late, Dearie.”

It was Grandma. She sat on her haunches a few yards away, at a makeshift fire wearing nothing but a large wolf’s-fur cloak. It was the one that man had been wearing. She stood, and walked over to Piroska, carrying her great red traveling cloak.

“I was a bit concerned,” the old woman said as she stooped and placed the cloak about her shoulders. “But I suppose it’s only natural for your first time.”

“Nagymama?” Piroska asked as she drew the cloak about her against the morning chill, “What happened?”

“Haven’t you guessed by now?” she answered her granddaughter. “Your mother has been so worried, you know.”

“Worried? About what?”

“That’s why she sent you to see me; but I told her, I did,” Grandma said, ignoring Piroska’s question. “You’re just a late bloomer, that’s all. Your mother was, too, you know. I told her not to worry.”

The old woman helped her granddaughter to her feet and walked her over to the fire. Piroska noticed that her grandmother had a terrible limp. They sat down by the fire, warming themselves.

“Nagymama! That man last night- the haiduk! What happened?”

“Oh, don’t you worry about him, Dearie. I killed him, and then we made a nice meal of him. He’ll never bother you again.” She cackled to herself. “Nor anyone else, neither.”

Piroska went pale. “A…meal…?”

Granny laughed again. “Well, I’m not particularly fond of humans- not when fresh game is available in the forest. But needs must, you know. And that was one fellow we really needed to be rid of.”

“Nagymama,” Piroska tried again. “I still don’t-“

“Oh, yes you do,” Grandma interrupted.

Piroska said nothing but stared hard at Grandma as the light slowly dawned for her.

“Our family has lived by tooth and claw under the moonlight for more than three hundred years, now, you know.”

Piroska closed her eyes and breathed deeply of the forest around her. As she accepted what Grandma was telling her, it felt as if a thousand worries and a score of questions had dropped from her mind. Piroska had never felt so…alive…before. “Varcolac,” she realized.

Grandma heaved a sigh and, with some effort, stood. “What do you say we head back to the house for elevenses?” she proposed. “It’s chilly out here without me drawers, and anyway, I’m looking forward to your mother’s zacusca.”

Piroska stood, nodding. “I have a lot of questions now, too.”

“I’m sure you do, Dearie,” Granny replied as she kicked out the fire and stamped on it. “Come along; let me lean on your shoulder.”

“Will you be alright, Nagymama?” Piroska asked with concern.

“I daresay I’ll be a few weeks healing, if I can heal,” Grandma replied. “That bastard didn’t hit anything vital, but it was something silver he stabbed me with. That’s gonna hurt for a while, I’m afraid.”

And Grandma leaned on Piroska as the two made their way back to the cottage.

“I imagine we’re going to have to give the kitchen floor a good scrubbing when we get back,” Piroska thought out loud.

“We’re going to have to fix the front door, too,” Granny murmured as they hobbled off. “Buggerit.”

Now– Go read a Pratchett novel!