Red's Untold Tale (17 page)

“The washerwoman wanted revenge on Queen Nostos,” she continued reading out loud. “She grew strong in her new home, and with every kick, she slowly and patiently expanded the
spring into a pristine, bottomless lake. Soon thereafter, a terrible earthquake—or some storybooks claim it was a giant sinkhole—swallowed the castle in its entirety, towers and all. No
one came upon the castle or its inhabitants ever again. As for Lake Nostos, its water was said to magically cure curses.”

“What do you mean, Granny?” I asked.

“People believed the lake water could restore things back to the way they were.”

“No, what I want to know is: is there a whole castle somewhere under the Enchanted Forest?”

Granny chuckled. “No, child. There's no sunken castle or Lake Nostos. It's all just a fairy tale.”

“Fire! Fire!” Granny yelled, throwing open the oven and fanning the cloud of smoke with a dish towel.

I leapt off the stool on which I'd apparently fallen asleep and tried to steady myself on legs that weren't quite awake. As I blinked in the daylight, images of the dream I'd
had flashed back to me: the dark, foggy night, the torches, the fire…And yet, those things had happened there in Granny's kitchen, and at my own irresponsible hands.

“What in the land are you doing…” Granny demanded, using a hot pad to reach into the inferno and bring out a tray of a dozen of what looked like steaming chunks of coal.

“Baking cookies,” I said, wiping the wetness off my chin. For a second, I feared it was blood—but thankfully, this time, it was only saliva. “See?” I gestured at
the piles of shortbread cookies on the countertop that I'd baked prior to the batch that hadn't survived.

“So you're
not
trying to burn the house down?”

“No, of course not. I am so sorry, Granny. I must have nodded off.” I unlocked and opened the windows and then began helping Granny clean up the mess.

As I washed the cookie sheets, I felt Granny staring at me. When I turned in her direction, her bosom rose and fell in a deep sigh, and she said, “Promise me you won't sleep-bake
ever again.”

Once we had the kitchen put back together and the majority of the smoke had cleared out the window, Granny collapsed into a chair and exhaled loudly. Most of her curlers had come loose and
fallen to the floor, but two or three hung on for dear life.

I moistened a towel and rubbed a black smear off her flushed, wrinkled cheek. “Granny, I was baking these cookies because I wanted to help.”

She huffed and snatched the towel away from me, finishing the task herself. “I know.”

An hour or so later, after a quick breakfast, I stood among the rusty axes, piles of kindling, muddy boots, fox and rabbit pelts, rucksack, knives, tin bowls, and coils of ropes
on Amos Slade's squeaky porch. He was first on my delivery list that day.

“Go away. Unless you have peach pie,” he called through the window before I'd had a chance to knock. Amos Slade loved four things most in the land: hunting, his hound dog,
playing cards with his rowdy friends, and Granny's peach pie.

“It's too early in the season for peaches. But I have rhubarb, your second favorite,” I offered, and thankfully, it was enough to get the cranky bachelor to open the door.

With a grunt, he held out his hand to accept it.

I said, “Would you like a sample of shortbread? There's no charge.”

“I suppose so,” he said from somewhere behind his thick mustache. He set the pie down on the window ledge and I watched expectantly as he took a bite of the cookie. His eyes narrowed
and then protruded as if he were being strangled. To my horror, he started hacking like I'd poisoned him.

“Are you all right, Mr. Slade?”

“That ‘cookie'…is not meant…for human consumption,” he stammered between coughs. He threw the remaining half of the cookie off his porch, into the dirt.

“What? They taste just fine,” I said, but then I realized for the first time that I'd been so sidetracked I hadn't even bothered to sample my own goods. I grabbed one out
of my basket and took a bite—only I would've had better luck sinking my teeth into a horseshoe. I pulled the cookie out of my mouth and tried not to look as mortified as I felt.

In the midst of my apology, Amos's dog loped across the yard and gobbled up the tossed cookie. Then he leaned back on his hind legs and, though I noticed he kept a safe distance and a
watchful eye on me, eagerly begged his old man for another.

Amos raised his gray, bushy brows. “Wait a minute now,” he said slowly. “That hound is the pickiest eater I ever met. But I'll be damned; he likes your
cookies.”

“Would you like to buy some, then?” I ventured, crossing my fingers behind my back.

Amos tilted his head and stared at me for a moment before glancing down at his still-begging dog. His weathered face broke into a smile, and he shook his head. Digging in his pocket, he said,
“I'll take half a dozen.”

When I got home later that afternoon, I found my grandmother humming and knitting on the living room sofa. “Granny, I have some good news.”

“What is it?” she asked, peering up at me over her glasses.

“I sold four dozen dog biscuits today.” I dropped the coins in her open palm.

“Dog biscuits?” she asked. “What nonsense are you talking about now?”

“Apparently, my shortbread is inedible for humans, yet irresistible to our customers with four legs and a tail.”

“But if folks can barely afford to keep their own mouths fed, why would they buy biscuits for their dogs?”

“You have to go to the right people,” I answered. And before she could shut me down, I quickly laid out my plan: “I was thinking that when I'm making my usual rounds, I
can give biscuit samples to the customers who have dogs. And if someone says ‘That's the silliest thing I've ever heard of!' I'll just smile and say that Mrs.
so-and-so thought so, too; but now she doesn't know how her pooch ever lived without Granny's dog biscuits.” I bit my lip, waiting for her response.

Granny counted the money, and the tiniest grin appeared on her face. “It's not the worst idea you've ever had.”

“So…?”

“All right.”

I almost toppled over. “All right? As in, ‘we're doing this'?”

“As in, ‘you'd better get baking.' And this time, try not to set the whole damn house on fire.”

It was probably ridiculous how happy Granny's pat on the back made me feel, but I gladly took it and ran into the kitchen.

After baking and bundling up
cookies, pies, buns, and dog biscuits for the next day's deliveries, Granny and I settled in at the table for suppertime.
She grimaced when she lifted her arm, even just to mop up the last traces of vegetable stew with her biscuit, and I wished for the hundredth time that Wolfstime had already passed. However, there
were three more nights to go.

“I'll batten down the cottage tonight,” I offered as I started clearing the dishes. “You just sit here and rest.”

“Nonsense. We'll do it together, like we always have.”

I knew better than to argue, so I just sighed as I took the bowls and butter back to the kitchen. “Have you ever gone to see Dr. Curtis about your scar?” I asked a moment or two
later. “I know you're always saying he's nothing but a kook in fancy britches, but who knows? Maybe he can give you a salve or something that will take away the pain.”

“No salve will work for this scar.” Granny adjusted the ruffle of her sleeve to completely cover her right wrist. Then she stood, the legs of her chair screeching against the wooden
floor. “Unless it was a magic salve,” she said with a little snort.

I knew Granny had only jested about the magic salve. However, as we fell into our traditional Wolfstime routine—locking the shutters, boarding up the doors, and pulling the iron grate over
the fireplace—I couldn't get the notion of it out of my mind. Could there really be a magic elixir somewhere in the land that would keep Granny's arm from hurting? I'd never
met a fairy, witch, sorceress, wizard—or any practitioner of magic, for that matter. They weren't exactly easy to come by—they tended to keep their identities and habitats top
secret, and they cast various spells to further ensure their concealment. However, Granny herself told me that my red riding hood had been enchanted by a wizard, and since she'd never
ventured far from our village, I guessed he lived nearby.

If I could somehow find that wizard, would he give me a magic salve for Granny?

Later that night, Granny snoozed on the sofa with her crossbow, and I rummaged through the keepsakes I'd collected and stowed beneath my bed through the years. In the far corner sat the
box in which Granny had wrapped my red riding hood when she gave it to me for my thirteenth birthday. I slid it out and lifted the lid. As I remembered, I'd put the square of parchment that
had been pinned to the hem of the cloak inside the box for safekeeping.

I flopped onto my bed, and by the glow of candles, I examined the note, hoping to find some sort of clue that could lead me to the wizard who'd written it. I ran the tip of my finger over
the words:
WEAR THIS GARMENT
,
FEAR NOT THE WOLF
.

I didn't recognize the handwriting, and I couldn't detect anything notable about the parchment itself. Disappointed, I set it on my bedside table and curled up on my side, listening
to the steady snores wafting from the living room. The grandfather clock struck twelve, and a bolt of energy zapped through my body. It was midnight!

Sitting straight up, I grabbed the wizard's note.

Most folks used ink made of ordinary blueberries—the ones that grew abundantly on bushes in the surrounding forest. But the ink the wizard used was decidedly darker.
Midnight
blue, to be precise. The only thing I could think of that would yield such a dark blue hue was the bilberry.

Once, when I was about ten, Granny asked me to gather berries in the woods. I took my basket and headed off, realizing hours later that I'd gone deeper and farther than I'd ever
been. I stopped to drink from a spring and explore a cave, and that's where I found a patch of bilberry shrubs. Only I didn't know them to be any different from blueberries, at the
time. I did know that it was nearing suppertime, and I'd best be on my way. So I picked every last berry and tramped home. By the time I walked in the door, I'd eaten all but a handful
of the delicious, midnight blue berries. Granny wasn't too pleased with me for being gone so long and having so little to show for it, but she stopped scolding me when she saw the
berries.

“Where did you find these, child?” she asked. I was afraid to confess that I'd wandered so very far away, so I shrugged and said I didn't know. “I haven't
seen a bilberry since I was a girl. Mama used to use them with apples in pies and pastries. Here, eat it,” she said, handing one to me. I didn't dare admit I'd already eaten
dozens, so I popped it in my mouth and smiled.