Red's Untold Tale (7 page)

“She says it's too dangerous to have all of the village's young people in one place at the same time,” Florence explained, “in case the wolves decide to hunt that
night and kill every last one of us in one fell swoop.”

If only Granny had told me she'd been lobbying to call off the ball, I could've tried talking some sense into her. Then again, who was I fooling to think she'd pay me any mind,
especially when it came to the subject of wolves? And what would it matter anyhow, if the wolves got us tonight?

“That crazy ole bat can't cancel the ball,” Beatrice said, stomping her foot. “Seamstress Evans has been working on my gown for weeks on end.”

“The Forget-Me-Not ball
will
go on,” Violet said firmly, and the mob pumped its fists and torches in the air and shouted in agreement. “It's been held during the
Flower Moon for years, and the tradition isn't going to change just because of one crazy old lady and her granddaughter who doesn't even care about the ball because no one would want to
dance with her.”

From my wooded haven, I saw the bonfire surge, its flames shooting high into the night sky. The cake had vanished so easily and completely in that fire. If only the rest of my problems would
disappear like that. When I heard cracks of branches and bouts of curses, I realized with mounting horror that my problems were about to get even worse.

“Do you youngsters have a death wish?” said Granny as she marched into the clearing, brandishing her trusty crossbow. Her hair flowed down to her shoulders like silver snakes, and
under her shawl, her threadbare nightgown flapped in the breeze.

Oh, no. Please. No!

Gasping, I rose onto my toes to get
a better view of the nightmarish scene unfolding before my eyes. Why on earth is she here? How had the poppy dust lost its
potency so quickly?

“Widow Lucas, what a lovely surprise,” Violet said, sounding less than pleased. “I'm sure I'm speaking for us all when I say we do appreciate your concern. However,
as I'm sure you can see…” She pointed at the sky. “…the moon is not full. It's not Wolfstime.”

“It's full enough. The wolves are out, and the bunch of you are nothing but tasty little appetizers in their eyes. Especially
you
.” She briefly pointed her weapon at a
pudgy boy named Gregory Oliver. “Being out here in the forest is downright foolish! Now, if you know what's good for you, you'll scoot on home and stay there until sunrise. And
you'll stay there every night all week, until Wolfstime has passed.” Having said her piece, Granny lowered her weapon just a hair.

I exhaled in relief, hoping the worst was behind us. But the relief, however slight, was short-lived, because Florence stepped forward and said, “With all due respect, Widow Lucas, we have
every right to be here.”

I cringed, knowing that any moment, Granny would launch into one of her lectures. “Right or wrong doesn't matter one lick when you're all dead and gone, now does it!?”
Granny spun around, waving her bow in the air.
What is wrong with her?
Instead of being frightened, almost everybody laughed and poked one another, seemingly thinking her behavior was
hilarious. Gregory crossed his eyes and pantomimed swigging out of an invisible bottle.

Peter cautiously approached her. “Ma'am? Are you looking for your granddaughter?”

Granny pointed her bolt at him. “You. The blacksmith's boy. You're the reason they're all here, putting their lives in peril.”

“I'm sorry, but Red isn't here,” he said, reaching over to move the arrow to the side. Unbeknownst to them, if Granny happened to pull the trigger right then and there,
it would hit me square in the heart. I sidestepped, trying to get in the clear while still keeping sight of what was happening.

“She
was
here,” Violet said with a shrug. “And then she left. I don't have a crystal ball or a magic mirror handy, but if I had to guess, I'd say
she's probably out in the deep, dark forest, wandering about all alone…”

“And I heard a wolf howl,” Beatrice added.

The bonfire and torches cast sinister shadows on Granny's face. She started walking toward the trees, straight for me. Rather, not very straight at all. And that was when it hit me:
the poppy dust must still be in her system.
My heart stopped. I couldn't decide whether to stay perfectly still and hope against hope that she'd pass by me, or make a run for
it.

“Widow Lucas, wait!” Peter called as he took off after her.

“Peter, where are you going? It's your birthday party. Let her go!” Violet shouted. A breeze blew past her, causing her hair to ripple as if each curled lock had a life of its
own. I couldn't be sure, but the way she inclined her head and squinted, it seemed like Violet caught a glimpse of me. Then, the very next second, she turned on her heels and stormed back
toward the bonfire, muttering something about how old fogies should leave the liquor bottles alone.

Once Peter caught up with Granny, he matched her pace. “I'll help you find your granddaughter.”

“No,” Granny said. “You'll only slow me down. You'll be the most help getting those fools to go back to their homes. If the wolves hunt tonight, all of the blood
will be on your hands.” She snatched his torch and left him standing in the clearing with his palms up and his handsome face etched with worry.

As for me, I ran along the trail and waited on a fallen log near the road. I was just about to go back for Granny when she showed up.

“Granny,” I said softly.

She thrust the torch at me and then doubled over, wheezing. “Why did you run off like that? The wolf howled, and it woke me up, and when I went to your room to make sure you were all
right, you were nowhere to be…So tired. Must…rest.” She ungracefully plopped down on the log.

“I know. I just…I wanted to go to Peter's party. I knew you wouldn't allow it.”

“Damn right I wouldn't allow it. I've told you a million times. You cannot go out when the wolves are hunting. Do you want to end up like your grandfather, or any one of my six
brothers? Do you want to end up like your father? Like your mother?”

“No, of course not.” I blinked, trying not to cry.

“Then our discussion is over.” She snatched the torch from my hands and began walking fitfully toward the cottage. A dark blue cloud floated over and past the almost-full moon.

I waited a moment or two and then jogged to catch up with her. “But Granny, the wolves won't harm me. Not when I'm wearing this,” I said, shaking the corner of my red
riding hood for her to see. “Isn't that right?”

She sighed. “Yes. Of course. Although, when it comes to your safety, we must take every possible precaution. I can't let anything happen to you. I wouldn't be able
to”—she took a deep, ragged breath—“live with myself.” She sniffed, and I craned my neck to see if she was actually crying. But she turned away, so I couldn't
tell. “Your friends better be on their way home.”

“They're not really my friends,” I said, gently taking her bow away from her. “Apart from Peter.”

“Good. They're idiots. The whole lot of them. Idiots, I say.”

When we finally got home, I helped Granny into her bed. The instant her head hit the pillow, she fell into a deep, snoring slumber. She looked so small in her bed, like a little girl. I brushed
her hair off her face, blotted the sweat off her brow, and arranged her boots and shawl by the rocking chair. I had no idea what punishment awaited me come morning, but I had the horrible feeling
it would be a doozy.

Undoubtedly, Violet and her friends would make sure everybody heard the story of Granny's raving mad intrusion, how she tottered about the forest in her nightdress and threatened everybody
at Peter's party with certain death at the teeth of the wolves or the point of her arrow—whichever came first.

And this time, it really wasn't Granny's fault. It was mine.

A blanket of blackness cloaks me, and I strain to see, hear, smell, or feel something—anything at all. Finally, my ears pick something up. It's the mysterious
voice that's become familiar to me: “Come.”

I blindly follow the voice, feeling a gust of chilly air on my skin. The wind blows harder, and now I'm running. The more ground I cover, the more I can make out the shapes of trees
backlit by flashes of light. It becomes a game—run faster, see more. I'm amazed at how fast I'm moving.

Small woodland creatures—squirrels, mice, rabbits, and foxes—are running with me. Or at least I think they are. But an instant later, I realize they're not running with me
at all. They're scattering at my feet, fleeing from me, taking cover as best they can. I feel their panic clawing mercilessly at my heart. A giant owl screeches as it shoots into the starless
night sky. Its wings retract like an umbrella, revealing the perfectly round moon.

Sunday, May 13

Pots, pans, bowls, and spoons cluttered the countertops, and flour dusted everything in the kitchen—even Granny herself. “I've never seen so many muffins,” I said,
setting my basket of eggs on the counter. The chickens had acted even more skittish than usual, so my trip to the henhouse had taken a bit longer that morning. Which was fine, because it gave me
more time to compose myself after my terrible Wolfstime dream and steel myself for what I feared would be the lecture of my lifetime.

Granny paused just long enough to crack an egg into a bowl and then resumed stirring the batter. “Nor have I,” she said.

“What are they for?” I asked, wondering why she was waiting so long to dole out my punishment. But as I studied her from a safe distance, she gave no sign that she even remembered
having gone out in search of me last night.

Granny said, “That new schoolmarm of yours ordered them.”

“Miss Cates?”

“That's right. She wants to treat all of her students and their families, or so the note said.”

“Well, that's surprisingly generous of her,” I said. “Then again, she's been acting rather giddy lately. Did you hear she's to be married to Vicar Clemmons in
June?”

“It's about time someone made an honest man out of him.”

“Do you truly believe those rumors? Or are you just jealous that he's thrown himself at every eligible woman in the village except for you?” I deadpanned.

She glared at me over her glasses, then asked, “What happened to your cake?”

“Oh. I, um…gave it to the pigs.” I watched her carefully to see if she was testing me or playing some sort of game.

But she kept mixing as if nothing was amiss. “That was the sorriest cake I've seen in all my years,” she said, shaking her head. “But don't worry, child. As far as
your baking goes, there's nowhere to go but up. You'll get better, mark my words.”

Could it be that she truly had no recollection of last night? The only explanation I could come up with was she must have been on a poppy dust–induced sleepwalk. The whole notion of her
having left the house, wandered around in the forest, lectured the village young people—and even aimed her crossbow at some of them—without any recollection was downright eerie. I vowed
to stay far away from poppy dust from then on.