Fiction River: Fantasy Adrift (11 page)

Their only problem: how to explain the girl. She was out of control. A broken child, dangerous and unpredictable. Something Must Be Done.

Although the glory days of the trial attorneys were long past, they were not without influence in the Greater World. Regarding the girl called Red, they searched for options. That meant they whispered amongst themselves, scratched their hairy chins and muttered over stubby glasses of scotch rocks.

There was a great deal of coming and going, but in the end they decided I was too hard to handle, which was no different from what they’d thought the day they found me in the woods with blood and filth dripping down my legs.

What changed was their opinion.

In the realm of trial attorneys (feral or not), opinions count more than truth. Opinions are enshrined in glossy leather books with long and impressive titles stamped in gold. The volumes are passed from one generation to the next with critical citations read aloud with great pomp and ceremony.

You see, from the beginning the pack had never talked about me to authorities or anyone who could have done anything. Doing so would have required them to lift their long snouts from study and actually tell the terrible story. They would have had to remember it and replay in detail the condition in which they’d found me (which would be annoying considering the effort they’d put into forgetting that day). Besides the fact that the trial attorneys had been too long in hiding themselves. They’d forgotten how to tell the truth—if they ever knew in the first place—but that’s another story.

In the end they decided to consult an old woman who lived on the other side of the forest. They led me through the woods to her cottage. After the trial attorneys left, I followed her into the kitchen and watched while she rolled white dough flat and sliced it into long strings to make noodles. I lifted the noodles carefully and draped them over wooden rods propped between chairs.

She asked me questions. I told her my story. Because she was calm and gentle and her breath did not stink of scotch, I told the truth. She never called me a liar.

Later, she made hot, black tea and poured it into a saucer and blew on it to cool and spread thick, brown apple butter on fresh bread. The kitchen was quiet and clean. I sat by the fire with a stack of books. I could have stayed there forever.

That evening when the trial attorneys returned, I listened while she reported that, in her opinion, the hunters had damaged me beyond all hope of repair. She said it would have been better if I’d never been born, but the damage was done and there was nothing anyone could do. Then she zeroed in on the real problem: I had lived.

The filth and horror can never be removed from the child, more’s the pity. Death would have wiped the slate clean, however it is not for us to know why she survived when compassion would have sent her to a better place.

At that, the trial attorneys exchanged looks I did not understand. Something had changed, but I knew not what. They thanked the old woman for her advice. Before we departed, she handed me a basket containing a loaf of bread, a jar of apple butter and a sharp knife.

The walk home to our den was long. Along the way the trial attorneys talked about the hunters for one last time, as if the tale belonged to them now. It was all very sad, they said, a tragedy the things that had happened to me. It wasn’t fair, but it wasn’t their fault. They’d done their part, put a roof over my head and clothed me, but I’d shown no appreciation. They could not understand my shameful aggression in the face of their kindness.

Next followed a recounting of my many failings—a lengthy list by any measure. (I’ll not bore you with it now, however, feel free to take a break to jot down relevant items as they occur to you. Brainstorm, if you wish. Have fun. No matter what you come up with, I’m certain the items on your list will be similar to what I heard that night.) They said more things, a torrent of words that rushed over the tromping of their big feet and the swish of their bushy tails and the clacking of their fearsome teeth.

In summation, the trial attorneys were hurt and disappointed by my attitude along with the whole being difficult part, which led them to their final point that it was my fault for allowing myself to have been taken in the first place. This fact brought them to the most important truth: the safety of others must be assured. It was their solemn duty to protect others from me.

Granny herself couldn’t have tied it up with a neater bow.

When we reached the den, I returned to my small room. There we completed our last conversation where they said the surest solution was always the simplest one. Thinking too much inevitably led to complexity (which was always trouble), and trouble was the one thing they could not tolerate. It was the very reason they’d abandoned their careers in the city. Trouble must, above all things, be avoided, and that is how it happened.

A shove on the shoulder, the swing of the door, a snip of the latch and it was done.

They locked me up.

For my own good.

I pounded on the door and yelled loud and long to no avail. At length they sent an emissary, a hapless junior partner who commanded me to stop causing trouble or else I would be Sent Away.
Think on that, young lady.

As it turned out, I had a lot of time to think.

Years later I learned that some in the pack had argued for me to be sent away because the old woman said I needed professional help. This is why most of the Red stories start with Granny sending the girl into the forest. It is also why I have never trusted storytellers. The only reason to start the story there is if you think that old bitch had a point.

What she had was an agenda. Why do you think she gave me the knife?

To the credit or damnation of the trial attorneys, they did not send me away. I am not certain now from the vantage point of age which choice would have been better: being locked up or sent away to parts unknown. At the time, the mere mention of being
sent away
terrified me. I knew only too well what happened. I also did not ask for clarification because I’d learned that words were useless things—excuses, wishes, hopes, and sometimes promises—the stuff of stories.

And what was the point of a story? I’d told the old woman the truth and look where that had gotten me. The only way to make a point was with my fists and my feet, but now even that choice had been eliminated.

By now you must have realized that my truth, my story, is nothing like the familiar version. Girl, cape, basket, woods, wolf. Perhaps you’d prefer it if I made Granny into a kindly old thing? Or shall we transform her into a wily and clever woman? (Dream on.) Perhaps you’d like my story if I turned it into an action-adventure thriller where I picked the lock and escaped. Or how I disguised myself as a wolf…

I do not trust stories. For me, all memory begins in the dark, in the woods.

Here’s the truth: I dreamed in my little bed while locked in my little room inside the wolf den. Dreams that helped me pass the time while the trial attorneys held the threat of exile over my head like an axe strung from an exceedingly thin thread. It was for a good cause, they said, so I would stop fighting and learn to be good and behave. It meant
be quiet, don’t talk, don’t cause trouble, and above all, never, ever tell anyone what you did in the woods.

Not what the hunters had done.

What I had done. Things so bad they must never be spoken aloud, let alone remembered. A story so terrible the very telling of it became a weapon that might harm others. Like the knife that rested in my basket.

But I was still Red, and Red’s story was my story. It was the only story that mattered, and it was the only story I could never tell. From this knot there was no escape.

Alone in my room, I tried to forget, but it wasn’t easy. I pushed the memories away, but every night they rushed back in. In my dreams I fought back, but the hunters always came for me. Over and over. I ran and they caught me, overwhelmed me with their cruel strength until everything went mercifully black.

Then it would start. All. Over. Again.

This was how I did my time. Some people call it childhood. I watched endless hours of television until the shows and characters blurred one into the other because I feared sleep and the evil that rolled along behind.

When I’d lain awake for days, my body tight as a prowling wolf, an unseen door opened in my mind. From it came a little girl who looked remarkably like the three-year-old I’d been, once upon a time. Her feet were bare and bloody and a dog collar hung about her waist. She carried the basket to me, pulled away the red checked cloth. We both stared at the long and wicked knife. We both knew why the old woman had put it there in the first place and what was expected of me.

Still, I could not behave.

But I found a use for the knife, certainly not what Granny had intended and not as final, at any rate. I used it to chop up my memories into tiny bits. When I was done, I folded the knife carefully in the cloth and slept. I did not wake up for a long time.

When my keeper finally opened my little door, I emerged a pale and quiet girl who never fought and rarely spoke. The trial attorneys were pleased with the result. Their solution had worked.

What remained of my childhood was spent alone. It wasn’t so bad because I wasn’t outdoors in the rain and there were no hunters about in those days. The cave was clean and dry. I had a television and a lot of books. I was allowed out for meals and to go to school. I didn’t have many friends because the other kids were afraid of the trial attorneys, and I didn’t have much experience relating to people outside of books or a good fight. I kept my nails sharp.

About the time I was supposed to graduate from high school, the trial attorneys’ worst fear came true: a hunter came for me. He was a boy instead of a man. When he walked out of the dark woods he looked like any other hunter because he carried an axe, long and wicked looking with a red handle. No one particularly noticed the axe. What interested them was that he also carried a notebook, which meant he had a plan.

He had something to prove.

He had to kill a girl.

He chose me. I don’t know why.

Over the years, I have wondered if the hunters who took me told the story of the girl who ran, the one they lost. Perhaps in this version of the story, the boy heard it around the campfire and vowed to find the girl who had shamed his elders. Vowed to find her and succeed where the others had failed so long ago.

Perhaps this happened.

Or not.

I will stick to what I know for sure: the day he walked out of the woods there were names scratched in his notebook in blue ink.

The name on the first line of the first page was Red.

The hunter tracked me, and when the trial attorneys learned of the threat, they promptly left me alone in the remote and lonely cave and waited in hiding for the inevitable. The inevitable took awhile, but hunters are patient.

Since I am here to tell this tale, you have logically assumed the boy hunter failed. That is, you must assume the boy failed if you believe I’m telling the truth because I cannot be, like the poor physicist’s cat both dead and alive at the same time. I cannot be Red and not-Red. It must be one or the other. The two ideas fit together like a hand to an axe.

One evening I returned home from school and found the hunter waiting for me. I ran, but he was faster. He threw a hood over my head.

Blinded, I stumbled and fell. He scooped me from the ground and threw me over his shoulder and set off at a furious pace. Soon the crunch of boots smashing through the crust of snow gave way to a thump and slide that slowed to a soft, gravelly slide. We had reached the lake with its frozen expanse frosted with delicate layers of fresh snow. His pace slowed even more, and I could feel his body tense as he picked his way across the ice. Fear radiated from his broad back with the stench of unwashed skin.

Fear told me what to do.

When he slid right, I rolled in the same direction, throwing all my weight against his grasp, letting momentum set him off-balance. We lurched sideways. His knees buckled, and I tumbled across the ice. I yanked off the hood, pushed away from the cursing, floundering hunter, scrambling until there was distance between us.

He growled and struck out after me, lean and lethal against the flat white. I was lighter and faster and reached the center where I knew the summertime waters rippled over rocks far below the surface. The lake was deep here, but the current made for thinner ice, thin but strong enough to hold one smallish girl, I hoped.

The hunter was only a boy, but tall for his age with big arms and legs padded with dense muscle. He could not touch me here, not without breaking the ice and plunging to certain death in the dark waters. If that happened, he would take me with him, this was true. Down into the depths, past air and light and all hope of life, into the night tide, but that was a place I knew by touch.

When he stood there stinking of blood and death and roared his fury, it came to me that I should feel pity for him. Some measure of compassion for a boy raised by brutes in the wild. They’d fed him cruel stories and handed him an axe and set him on a course that led to me. There were other stories, more true, if only I could make him believe. Faint hope bloomed that the truth might save me more surely than any blade.