Nobody could say who or what exactly the Tailor was. The stories about him were just about as old as the HungryForest itself. There was only one thing everybody knew for certain: that the Tailor had earned his name by tailoring his clothes from human skin.
Snip-snap, clip-clip. The trees opened into a clearing. Fox gave Jacob a warning look as a murder of crows fluttered up from the branches of an oak. The snip-snap grew so loud that it drowned out their squawks, and under an oak the beam of Jacob's flashlight found the outline of a man.
The Tailor did not like the probing finger of light. He uttered an angry grunt and swatted at it as if it were an annoying bug. But Jacob let the light explore further, over the bearded, dirt-caked face, the gruesome clothes, which at first sight simply looked like poorly tanned leather, and on to the gross hands with which the Tailor plied his bloody trade. The fingers on his left hand ended in broad blades, each as long as a dagger. The blades on the right were just as long and lethal, though these were slender and pointed, like giant sewing needles. Both hands were missing a finger — obviously other victims had tried to defend their skins — though the Tailor did not seem to miss them much. He let his murderous fingernails slice through the air as if he were cutting a pattern from the shadows of the trees, taking measurements for the clothes he would soon fashion from Jacob's skin.
Fox bared her teeth and retreated with a growl to Jacob's side.
Jacob shooed her behind him. He drew his saber with his left hand and Chanute's knife with his right.
His opponent moved clumsily, like a bear, though his hands cut through the thickets of thistles with terrifying zeal. His eyes were blank, like those of a dead man, but the bearded face was contorted into a mask of bloodlust, and he bared his yellow teeth as if he wanted to peel the skin off Jacob's flesh with them.
At first the Tailor hacked at him with the broad blades. Jacob deflected them with his saber while he slashed at the needle hand with his knife. He'd fought a half dozen drunk soldiers, the guards of enchanted castles, highwaymen, and even a pack of trained wolves, but this was far worse. The Tailor's hacking and stabbing were so relentless, Jacob felt as if he were caught in a threshing machine.
His foe wasn't very tall, and Jacob was more nimble, yet soon he felt the first cuts on his arms and shoulders. Come on, Jacob. Look at his clothes. Do you want to end up like that? He hacked off one of the needle fingers with his knife, used the ensuing howls of rage to catch his breath — and barely managed to yank up his saber before the blades could slash his face. Two of the needles cut his cheek like the claws of a cat. A third neatly pierced his arm. Jacob retreated between the trees, letting the blades cut into the bark and not his skin. But the Tailor freed himself again and again and didn't seem to tire, while Jacob's arms grew ever heavier.
He cut off another finger as one of the blades hacked into the bark right next to him. The Tailor howled like a wolf, yet he slashed at him with even greater rage — and there was no blood running from his wounds.
You will end up as a pair of pants! Jacob's breathing grew labored. His heart was racing. He stumbled over a root, and before he could catch himself, the Tailor stabbed one of his needles deep into Jacob's shoulder. The pain buckled his knees, and he had no breath left to call Fox back as she jumped at the Tailor and sunk her teeth deep into his leg. She had so often saved Jacob's skin, but never quite so literally. The Tailor tried to shake her off. He had forgotten about Jacob, and as he angrily struck out to hack his blades into her furry body, Jacob slashed off his left arm with Chanute's knife.
The Tailor's scream echoes through the dark forest. He stared at the useless stump of his arm and at the bladed hand lying on the moss in front of him. Then he spun around, wheezing, to face Jacob. The remaining hand came down on Jacob with deadly force. Three steel needles, murderous daggers. Jacob thought he could already feel their metal inside him, but before they could pierce his flesh, he rammed his knife deep in the Tailor's chest.
The Tailor grunted, pressing his fingers to his terrible shirt. The his knees buckled.
Jacob staggered to the nearest tree, fighting for breath while the Tailor thrashed in pain on the wet moss. One final gasp and then silence. Jacob did not drop his knife, even though the glazed eyes stared emptily skyward out of the grimy face. He wasn't convinced there was such a thing as death for the Tailor.
Fox shivered as if the hounds had been after her. Jacob let himself drop to his knees next to her and stared at the now lifeless body of the Tailor. Jacob had no idea how long he remained crouched there. His skin was burning as if he'd been rolling around in broken glass. His shoulder was numb with pain, and in front of his eyes the blades were still performing their murderous dance.
"Jacob!" Fox's voice seemed to come to him from afar. "Get up. It's safer at the house!"
He got to his feet.
The Tailor still wasn't moving.
* * * * *
The journey back to the gingerbread house seemed very long, and when it finally appeared between the trees, Jacob saw Clara waiting behind the fence.
"Oh, God!" was all she murmured when she saw the blood on his shirt. She fetched water from the well and washed the cuts. Jacob flinched as her fingers probed his shoulder.
"This one is deep," she said as Fox anxiously crouched by her side. "I wish it would bleed more freely."
"There's iodine and some bandages in my saddlebag." Jacob was grateful that she was used to the sight of bloody wounds. "What about Will? Is he asleep?"
"Yes." And the stone was still there. She didn't have to say it.
Jacob could see from the expression on her face that she wanted to know what had happened in the forest, but that was the last thing he wanted to remember.
Clara fetched the iodine from his saddlebag and dripped the tincture on his wound, but she still looked worried.
"Fox, what plants do you usually roll in when you're wounded?" she asked.
The vixen showed her some herbs in the Witch's garden. They gave off a bittersweet aroma as Clara plucked them apart and pressed them against Jacob's pierced skin.
"Like a born witch," he said. "I thought Will said he met you in a hospital."
She smiled. It made her look very young.
"In our world, the Witches work in hospitals. Remember?"