Red's Untold Tale (5 page)

“Make a wish, child,” Granny said. The cake was as white as snow, so perfect it hardly seemed real. I doubted that even a princess would have a birthday cake as pretty as mine.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath—probably the deepest one I'd ever taken. Then I peeked out of one eye, just to make sure the flames were still right in front of my lips.

I wish I could leave this village to find my happy ending!

I blasted the candles with all the air in my lungs, and they
poofed
out, one by one. Pleased, I clapped my hands together. I could almost feel the wish working, and part of me wanted to
run to my room and count the coins I'd been collecting in my secret box—my “Adventure Fund.”

“Good work. Now for your present,” Granny said. She relit the candles around us and then handed me a big box, perfectly square, wrapped in the most elegant gold paper and a silky red
ribbon. I gasped. “It's beautiful.”

“Well, it's definitely something,” Granny agreed. “You're thirteen now. You're practically a woman. Go on, open it already.”

At first, I took my time, not wanting to rip the paper. But that was taking too long, and I was dying to see what wonderful gift Granny had gotten for me. I wasn't sure what it was, even
as I peered into the open box.

All I could see was red.

I pulled my gift out and held it at arm's length. The hooded cloak was made of rich red fabric, a lovely brocade on the outside, and lined in lush velvet. I stood and tried it on, loving
how the hood draped over my braids and the cape flowed to the ground so regally. I couldn't wait to wear it to school; I knew I'd be the envy of all the other girls.

“Do you like it?” Granny asked.

I twirled, admiring how it floated in the air and then, as soon as I stopped, landed so gently around my ankles. It felt like wings and butterfly kisses rolled into one. “Oh, Granny.
It's wonderful!”

She nodded. “It's no ordinary hood. Now, sit back down and I'll tell you all about it.” Once I stopped twirling and sat beside her, she continued. “First off, the
color red repels wolves. Plus, I had a wizard place a magic spell on it. See here?”

Pinned to the bottom of the cloak was a square of parchment, and upon it was written in midnight blue ink:

WEAR THIS GARMENT
,
FEAR NOT THE WOLF
.

“The wizard wrote this?” I asked.

“Of course.”

“But I thought you said to stay away from magic. That even when it's used for good, it can change to something very bad.”

She nodded. “It's true, but in this case, I did what I had to do to keep you safe. This magic cloak will protect you from the wolves, my dear. You must wear it every
Wolfstime,” Granny said. “Promise me.”

I drew the cloak tightly around my body, trembling at the very thought of the wolves. I never knew my grandfather or my great-uncles. I had no memories of my mother or my father. One way or
another, the wolves were the reason they were dead.

I held the gold cross that had been my mother's between my fingers. “I promise.”

I shivered with the knowledge that soon the forest would be on the cusp of Wolfstime. My fingers grazed my neck, but the golden cross wasn't there to soothe me this time.
I pulled my cloak taut around my shoulders as I joined Granny in the living room.

“Who were you talking to?” Granny asked. Though her bones creaked and her skin was wrinkled, it never ceased to amaze me how well her ears worked.

“Just a squirrel. A very ornery squirrel.”

“
Humph
. And people say
I'm
crazy,” Granny muttered, shaking her head. I opened my mouth to say that no one thought she was crazy—which was, of course, a
lie—but she cut me off. “No time for chin-wag. We've work to do.” The staid look she shot me warned me not to argue.

I helped her lift the planks and wedge them securely against the front and back doors. Next I hurried around the cottage securing shutters and locking windows while she pulled the iron
portcullis down over the fireplace. Rubbing her right arm, she leaned against the wall to catch her breath. I hated seeing her in such pain and so very exhausted.
It will be good for her to get
a good night's sleep
tonight.

“Sit down, Granny,” I said, guiding her to a chair. “I'll get us both a nice cup of cider.”

“Yes, yes. That sounds nice.”

When I returned from the kitchen, Granny was fixated on the door. “The hunters are going out tonight, you know. They're nothing but stupid, idiotic fools! Thinking they can kill the
wolves. Someone's going to die one of these nights, I feel it in my bones,” she said, rubbing her right arm.

Last full moon, the village was misfortunate enough to lose two lambs and five chickens to the wolves. But Granny remembered a time long, long ago, when people strolled through the village,
caught up in games or music or love, and didn't heed the warnings. They didn't pay attention, they were risky, they indulged in drink—and those gaffes proved fatal. The morning
after, when the sun shone the light of truth, their bloody, ripped-apart, feasted-upon remains were strewn up and down the cobblestone streets of the village. For all to see, for all to fear.

Some people claimed that it had never really happened; that the tale had been passed down through the ages to frighten children into staying indoors at night. Much like stories of evil giants
who used children's bones to pick food out of their teeth, or witches who fed boys and girls delectable sweets to fatten them up before feasting on their tender flesh. Still, Granny told that
story with such passion; my heart filled with fear.

“We will be safe here,” Granny said. As she lowered herself onto the comfy old sofa, her hand gestured broadly around us—at the cluttered bookshelf and sooty stone fireplace,
the rag rug she'd woven herself, the sun-faded gingham curtains, the lopsided beeswax candles we lit every evening—and finally, she patted the space beside her on the sofa I'd
never fully seen, since it had been covered in a worn calico quilt for as long as I could remember. It was the same sofa that my mother must have sat upon every day when she was alive. Maybe my
father had sat on it when he'd asked Granny for her blessing to marry my mother. I placed the mugs of cider on the table, careful to set the one with the pinch of poppy dust closest to
her.

“We can only hope the wolves will find their fill of livestock and chickens and leave the hunters be.” She shook her head, and a section of her hair fell loose, flopping down well
past her shoulders. I tucked it back into her bun for her, like I used to do when I was younger. Now the gesture seemed to make Granny uneasy. The expression on her face, like she wanted to tell me
something important yet couldn't quite talk herself into it, reminded me of all the times I'd begged her to tell me how my mother and father had died.

The stories that the villagers told never seemed to add up. Some claimed they'd been killed by wolves. Others said that my parents just woke one morning and decided to pack up and move to
another village, far, far away. But why would they have left their baby daughter behind? I'd been much too young to have brewed up any real trouble yet. If I had a daughter, even if she were
a rascal, I'd never, ever run away without her. I refused to believe it could be true about my own mother and father.

When I was ten, Granny finally gave in to my relentless questioning and told me what had really happened. Hunters mistook my parents for wolves deep in the forest and killed them. I immediately
hated the hunters and demanded to know their names so I could get revenge as soon as I was old enough. Granny made me calm down, insisting that it wasn't the hunters' fault; they were
only trying to protect the village.

The night before they died had been a particularly gruesome one in which a wolf had killed a shepherd boy, so the hunters were riled up. My parents should not have been running through the
village—let alone the forest—during Wolfstime. It was reckless of them, Granny told me. Between tears, I said I bet they'd died holding hands, shot by a single arrow through both
of their hearts. Granny nodded and said she was sure that was how it happened.

“Hand me my crossbow,” Granny said now. I did as I was told, and then we sipped our ciders in silence—a quietness that only made the
ticktocks
of the grandfather clock
seem lethargic and the wind outside sound angrier. Right before nodding off, she murmured, “Don't you worry, child. We will be safe. We will be safe…here.”

Granny had barricaded the front door to keep unwelcome visitors out—and also to keep me trapped inside. Not tonight, though. I'd only stay at Peter's bonfire long enough to
give him the cake and wish him a happy birthday, and then I'd hurry home. With any luck, Granny would never know I'd gone.

I spread a wool blanket over her and slunk into the kitchen. While carefully packing the cake in my basket, a thought occurred to me: how would I explain the missing cake to Granny? If she slept
past the rooster's crow tomorrow morning—which was entirely possible with the poppy dust—I could tell her I changed my mind about giving it to Peter and fed it to Farmer
Thompson's pigs. It wasn't the best plan, but it was the only one I had, so I'd have to go with it.

After taking my bow and quiver off the bureau in my bedroom—accounting for the silver-tipped arrow Peter had made me—I paused to listen. Sure enough, Granny's snores rumbled
steadily through the cottage. Holding my breath, I opened the shutters and balanced my basket on the rosebushes below my window while I slipped outside. As soon as my boots hit the dirt, the
squirrel hissed and twitched his whiskers. Then he scampered away and disappeared into the hedge, like before.

The wind blew, and the leaves rustled and waved, reminding me of the ripples in the swimming hole when I'd kicked the gravel from the jumping rock. If I could have gone back in time, I
never would have leapt. It had given me a wonderful rush, but it hadn't been worth losing my golden cross. As the sun dipped into the westernmost sky, I knew I'd have to wait until the
morning to search for it.

I trudged through the forest, wondering if my mother had ever snuck out of the cottage while Granny slept. I suspected she had. How else would she have been able to make, and keep, the most
fascinating of friends? How else would she have been able to seek adventure around every bend? And now I was off on my own adventure; it felt good to be so bold, so free.

January, five years ago

The blizzard finally tapered off, and Granny told me to bundle up; we were going out. I fetched the matching pink scarf and mittens she'd knitted me for Christmas and the bow and arrows I
never left home without. Although my boots sank into the fluffy white powder with each step, I quickly caught up with her. Robins glided over our heads, and squirrels shuttled acorns from tree to
tree.

I desperately wanted to stop and build a snowman, but Granny held up a slip of paper and said, “Frolicking in the snow is not on the list.” I bit back my disappointment and plodded
along, mesmerized by the bluebird sky and the way the snow sparkled like diamonds. “First on the list: the blacksmith's shop to get a dozen arrowheads,” Granny said, and I was
suddenly glad to be included in this errand. Peter would probably be busy, but perhaps he could take a brief break.

While Granny bartered with Peter's father, I waited by a table on the front porch of their house. The table had been cleared of snow, and a small potted spruce served as a centerpiece. I
wondered if they took their meals outside, even in the wintertime. Peter's folks had four boys, yet their cottage was smaller than ours. I figured that made it easier to keep tidy and warm. I
liked that it had so many windows, and that I could see clear to the windmill from their porch.

Out of nowhere, something pelted me in the arm. Instinctively, I stood and reached for my bow. But then I relaxed. It was only a snowball. Brushing off the powder, I called out, “Show
yourself! Or are you too chicken?”