Red's Untold Tale (10 page)

I whirled around, steeling myself to face my fate. I expected my frightened gaze to be trounced by a pair of wild, bloodthirsty eyes. I was ready to flinch, scream, collapse. Die.

But all I saw was forest. Endless acres of soaring trees. Leaves clinging to their branches as if for dear life, while others twirled down to the fern-covered floor with each breath of the
evening wind. Bright green moss and lichens splotched the rocks and tree trunks. Ordinary, familiar, harmless.

Whatever was chasing me had to be invisible, or at least very well camouflaged. Perhaps it was nothing at all. Or maybe I was going mad, like so many people believed Granny was. But then I heard
it again: thumping and bumping. Still, inexplicably, nothing emerged from the woods, not even a mouse.

I started running. Shielding my face with one arm and gripping the jug of milk with the other, I burst through a thicket. The prickly twigs clawed at my cloak. Roots tripped me like dozens of
angry elves. I caught myself on a gigantic oak tree, but its moss-covered trunk buckled beneath my hand, and I dropped the jug. Before I could right it, the last drops of milk soaked into the
thirsty earth.

“
Hide
,” Granny's voice repeated in my aching head.

A hole appeared in the tree, swallowing me into its hollow haven. Like magic, a curtain of dried-up vines swung over the opening. As they swished back into place, they whispered,
Shhhh
.

It was the perfect hiding place, and I thanked my lucky stars to have fallen into it, even if I'd spilled the milk getting there. But I knew better than to assume myself safe. Safer, yes.
But completely safe, never.

I wrapped the cloak snugly around my body and adjusted the hood so it shrouded my face. I shrank into its red, velvety folds, believing in its power. It seemed the more I told myself to trust in
it, the more questions threatened my faith. What if the cloak wasn't magic at all, like the feather in that story Granny used to tell to me about the elephant with the big ears? What if it
was just a hoax, like the tale about the emperor who was conned into thinking that he was decked in the finest clothes in the land, only to discover that he'd been parading around completely
naked?

What if, when faced with razor-sharp teeth and a thirst for human blood, the cloak was just a cover for a trembling, insecure girl without a hope?

If it wanted me, all it needed to do was track me down. My boot prints and my scent would give me away as sure as the moon would be full that night.

It was so close; I heard its every breath: inhale, exhale, inhale.

This cannot be how it ends. I haven't had my happy ending. I haven't even had my first kiss!

“Red? Red! Where are you?”

Peter?

I swept the curtain of vines aside and peered out. Grayish-green fog curled into the haven, billowing at my feet and flanking my skirts. Beyond the bushes, I spotted something, and with the
shifting of shadows and mist, I could just make out his silhouette.

It
was
Peter! Relief flooded each and every part of my body.

“Peter!” On wobbly legs, I stepped out of the tree.

“Red! There you are. You scared me.”

“
I
scared
you
?” I countered, and then thought twice about confessing that he'd frightened me to the point where I'd imagined my grandmother talking to
me and said my final words to her. “Why are you chasing me?”

“I have something of yours.” He reached in his pocket and placed something small and cold in my palm. It was my gold cross! “I was just over yonder at our pond and found it.
Then I happened to see you—well, your red cloak, anyhow—walking through the woods.”

“Oh, Peter. Thank you!” I said, brimming with gratefulness. Letting the chain dangle through my fingers, I ran my thumb over the familiar smoothness of the golden cross. As my finger
and thumb framed the pendant, it seemed to beam at me, glad to be back where it belonged.

“Oh, it was nothin'. But you gave me an impressive chase, I must admit.” He chuckled, despite himself. “I thought I'd never catch you.”

I said, “Had I known it was you, I would never have allowed such a thing,” and Peter just grinned and kicked a pebble. When our eyes met, I saw something foreign and
exciting—yet also familiar and true—in his big brown eyes. I felt like I had when I'd jumped off the rock at the swimming hole. The strange and wonderful desire to kiss Peter hit
me full force. Would it be so awful? I wondered what it would feel like, and silently cursed Violet for knowing.

I was sick of Violet ruining everything for me.
I won't allow her to steal this moment.
I stepped closer to Peter until the tips of our boots touched. “Will you be so kind
as to put it on for me?” I handed him my mother's necklace and then twirled around. Moving the hood of my cloak to the side, I lifted my long, dark hair.

As he latched the necklace, his breath tickled the back of my neck. It felt warm against my skin, and yet it gave me goose bumps.

“Here, let's see how it looks.” He twirled me back around, and his eyes rose from the cross up to my face. I had to be blushing something awful; it felt like there was an
invisible torch between us. “Beautiful,” he said softly.

I cleared my throat. “Um, thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

“I'm sorry I left your party so early,” I blurted into the silence that followed. “I had to get home.”

“I was worried. But I went home by way of your cottage. The candles in your bedroom were lit, and I could see your silhouette.”

“Oh,” I said, not sure what to think. On one hand, I was happy to know he cared about my welfare. On the other, I hoped he hadn't seen me clearly, because I hadn't worn a
nightgown for an entire week! With the mere thought of Peter seeing me undressed, I was sure I blushed the hue of my riding hood.
I'll never sleep in only my underthings again
, I
vowed.

Peter tugged his ear and dropped his gaze to the ground. “I'm not a Peeping Tom or anything, I just wanted to make sure you were home. I was glad to see that you were safe.” A
few seconds later, his eyes met mine. “Though I must admit,” he continued, “I felt slighted when I heard you'd brought me a birthday cake, and I never got even a bite of
it.”

“I'm sorry. Maybe I'll make one for your next birthday.”
Better yet, I'll ask Granny to.

“So, where are you off to in such a rush, anyway?” he asked, kicking rocks again.

“My grandmother asked me to fetch some milk for her, but it hasn't exactly gone as planned…” I retrieved the jug and held it upside down to show it was completely dry.
“She needs it for her baking.”

“And so she shall have it,” Peter said, swooping up the jug. “Lucky for you, I can fill this empty vessel with milk. All it takes is a little magic. Come on!”

Peter took me to his house and made me wait in the stable. He took the jug and disappeared, only to return with it a few minutes later. “And with a snap of my fingers, the milk your granny
needs will appear in the jug!” he said with gusto that rivaled the puppeteer at market.

“Like magic?” I played along.

“Not
like
magic, Red. It
is
magic.” Peter snapped his fingers.

On cue, I peered into the “magically” filled jug. “Oh, Peter, thank you. I could just kiss you!” Even before the squeaking, smacking “kissing” noises wafted
down to us from the loft, my cheeks burned with embarrassment. “But not really,” I amended, while our audience of pint-sized boys carried on. “I would never
actually
kiss
you.”

“Whew, that's a relief,” Peter said, loud enough for his brothers to hear.

They sniggered even louder when Peter hoisted me up onto his white-and-gray horse and accidentally—or perhaps
not
accidentally?—touched my bottom. My face blazed even as the
mare broke into a gallop, leaving the rascals far behind.

At first, I sat rigidly behind Peter, holding on to him only tight enough to keep from falling or dropping the milk jug. It occurred to me that Peter had given me what was likely a whole
day's ration for his family, and his generosity and goodness warmed my soul.

“Let's go faster,” I said once we'd made it to the road. Peter gave his horse a kick and she broke into a run. I knew he probably thought I needed to get home as quickly
as possible—and that much was true. But the main reason I wanted to pick up speed was so I'd have an excuse to hug myself tightly against his body.

I breathed in the scent of him: leather, wood, metal, and soap. I never tired of that smell, and I doubted I ever would.

If he had kissed Violet—and I wished with all my might that he hadn't—she didn't deserve him. “Don't take me all the way home,” I warned him when I
realized we were almost to the cottage. “Granny will come unraveled if she knows I've been out and about with you…” He probably knew, but I felt bad telling him outright that
Granny didn't trust him—or any teenaged boy, for that matter—so I added, “when I have so much work to do.”

“And it's less than an hour before sunset,” Peter said with a nod. “The whole village knows how serious your grandmother is about Wolfstime.” He tugged the reins,
and after his horse came to a stop, he held the jug for me until I hopped down.

I reached up for the milk, but before letting go, he said, “Careful now. I hear you have a dreadful milk-spilling problem.”

I gave him a courtesy chuckle, and after we said our good-byes, he rode away, disappearing over the hill. As I walked up the path to the cottage, I hoped it wouldn't be long until I got to
see Peter again.

The door swung open before I'd even reached the porch. Granny stood in the entry, her hands on her hips, glaring at me over the rim of her glasses. I immediately wiped the smile off my
mug. “Where have you been?” she demanded. “Can't you see it's almost dark?”

“Sorry, Granny. I know you've been waiting for the milk.”

“I don't give a turkey gizzard about the damned milk. It's
you
I'm worried about.”

“A wolf killed Farmer Thompson's cow last night, so I had to fetch milk over at the Roberts's place. I'm sorry I made you worry. It just took longer than
expected.”

She looked over my shoulder, into the ever-darkening woods, and visibly shuddered. “Get your tail feathers in this house and help me get ready for Wolfstime.”

I am afraid to move, and yet I am
starving for air. What will become of me when I give in? Wind and rain mercilessly lash out at my body, and I have no
choice but to bend. My body bows and twists until I hear the noise of a twig breaking. Twigs seem to be snapping all around me and inside of me. Twigs, branches, bones. I collapse to the ground,
gasping for air, but filling my lungs with dirt and pebbles instead.

And then I hear the voice. “Don't fight, just be.”

I breathe deeply, my throat searing in pain as air forces the dirt out of my body and back into the earth.

Monday, May 14

The night had been largely uneventful. Granny had baked muffins deep into the wee hours, but she'd insisted that I got a good night's sleep. I wasn't sure if she really wanted
me to be bright-eyed for school, or if she simply wanted me out of her kitchen so I wouldn't somehow ruin the muffins just by being there. I'd fallen asleep without any problem. Still,
my eyes felt and looked far from bright when I awoke.

I remembered little of the dream I'd had, but an undeniable sense of fear lingered even as I made the daily trek across the backyard for eggs. I spotted a paw print in the dirt just
outside the chicken coop and gasped. The print was about eight or nine inches across with big, long claws. Much larger and more ferocious-looking than an ordinary wolf's. My heart banged in
my chest as I forced myself to push open the door. I dropped the basket in the dirt and stood frozen among clumps of brown and white feathers, bits and pieces of chicken, and blood.