Upon a Midnight Dreary
in a Knacker's Yard

The moon was plump, and the sky was drooling well beyond the city walls. 

Kyning supped as the rapping raindrops danced upon his shutters and serenaded his lonely, thatched roof. He took one last bite of the horsemeat, a bit of the old palefrey’s hindquarters that was not yet taken by disease. He’d been a knackerman for nearly twenty years and knew the opportunity to eat what he culled was few and far between. So he took the risk.

His sense of smell had abandoned him long ago—or at least the urge to gag at blood, feces, and decay—but he knew his apron and breeches were particularly repugnant after market days. He had buried six lifeless lambs, burned two poisoned boars, slaughtered three hoof-rot heifers, and butchered the decrepit mare he feasted on.

Repugnant.

He stripped to the nude and let the summer shower wash away the stench and drown out the chorus of the bleating sheep he’d have to deal with in the morning. It was moments like these, when the mist brushed against his lips and the breeze caressed his back, that he wished he had a wife. 

Try as he might, he could neither attract a beautiful songbird nor a soft hare to his knacker’s yard, let alone a woman who’d want to make it her home. So, he sat by the candlelight and reread Le Morte d’Arthur while humming along to the cries of condemned critters. And right as Guinevere was about to give Lancelot tokens of her favor, Kyning heard the strangest of sounds: silence. 

No rain, no cries, no rustling of tired trees. 

Just silence.

Kyning grabbed his torch and axe and walked the perimeter, looking for a fox or a feral dog. He didn’t mind them searching for an easy meal; for that, he was just as guilty, but the pigs were his and ate the waste, and a sheep’s coat was always worth something, so the pests needed to be dealt with.

Behind the deadhouse, where, funnily enough, the living animals were held, was something quite large. Too wide to be a fox. Too tall to be a wolf. Too upright to be of God’s creation.

“Halt,” Kyning shouted in the direction of the glistening yellow eyes. “This is private land, commissioned by the viceroy. Make no mistake, fella, it’s not just the animals I deliver the king’s justice to. I’ve trimmed the necks of thirty-seven men. No need to make it thirty-eight tonight.”

“I’m sorry,” a sweet voice said between the gnarls. “But don’t come any closer. This will pass, and we’ll talk. Look at the clouds. They’re coming in, and the light of the moon will leave us alone.”

Kyning illuminated a safe distance ahead of him. He could see the thick, grey coat of fur that covered her body, and the blood trickling from her fangs. But he also saw her delicate nose and the slender frame that tore through her modest dress. He knew he ought to be afraid, but he’d traded in death so long, life had no mysteries left. 

Except for marriage.

“Got a name?” he asked.

“Lyca,” she said, her eyes slowly tinting to a pretty shade of blue.

“Friends call me King. On account of my name sounding like it. And, ya know, all that King’s justice stuff I was saying back there.”

Thunder echoed in the sky as dark clouds obstructed the moon. Lyca, picturesque in tattered clothes, approached him. She had small wrinkles that told the tales of many winters, and lines around her mouth that could only be earned by decades of smiling.

“With a place like this, you could eat like royalty,” she said, wiping sheepish residue from her lips. “Do I not scare you?”

“No. I’m too furious to be scared. I could have earned half a day’s pay for the pelts you just ruined. And it’s gonna cost me the skin off my back to replace the shit-eaters you killed.”

“I’m sorry.” Lyca began to cry as she fell into his arms. 

Heavy rain struck without warning, and he instinctively ushered her inside his humble home. He owned a second chair, though it was covered in spiderwebs and cluttered with unfinished whittling projects. He began to tidy it up and gave Lyca the seat he had been keeping warm.

“You really one of them?” Kyning broke the comfortable silence. “A werewol—shifter?”

“Only since my Oleg passed away. You know how they tell widows and maidens to never open their doors after sundown? Well, guess this is why. Fella looked kind enough. Young. Almost like he could be my son. Maybe I wanted him to be. Not an easy thing. Having all the men in your life die.”

“Better to have loved and lost than—” Kyning stared at his empty walls. “This.”

Lyca gently chuckled and patted his hand. As her hair dried and the ferocious features fled her body, Kyning began to recognize her.

“Lyca? Lyca, Lyca. You’re the lady from Honswirth Fair. You sell brushes and the sort. We’ve spoken a few times.”

“Five,” she said. Blush filled her cheeks where there once was fur. “Not that I’ve been counting. Well, I have been counting, but it’s...you make me laugh. And you’re quite kind for such a hulking man.”

“Says the woman who just ripped my three-hundred-pound sow in half with her bare hands.”Kyning had also been counting conversations. 

The best part of market days. 

The knackerman dusted the remaining cobwebs from the cushions and protected his guest's modesty with the cleanest of his aprons.

“Perhaps,” her voice cracked, “when the moon’s not full, I can repay you with a proper dinner.”

“And when it’s plump,” he said, “I’ll leave out some livestock.”

Lyca giggled, her eyes lingering on his before noticing the book. “My favorite. Did they present the tokens of their love yet?”

“Not yet.” The sparkle in Kyning’s eyes watched the woman transform his house into a home. “But you arrived just in time.”