Red

My longest story in a while. Red Riding Hood is, like, the greatest fairy tale of them all. My tribute follows.

You seem so tired, Grandma. So close to the end of your thread and, fortunately for me, not yet divested of all your succulent meat. I am sorry, but you are to be my prey and your life must therefore be cut short. It is no great loss. You are old and sickly, and by stealing your few remaining weeks, I shall continue to live and grow stronger. You are lucky that I found you sleeping, so that I can send you to the next world withot fear; because I would like to tell you why you are meant to die while others may go on living. I will try my best to explain, but I am afraid that you will not understand.

But your grandaughter can understand me; she can speak the animal languages. Do you have many younglings? I am talking about the girl who wears the riding hood. A shroud of brilliant crimson which your whipped dogs are blind to. But nothing escapes a wolf's senses. Take Red, for example. I could smell clover and rosemary in her blood. I could hear her nimble footfalls, and see the marvelous sparks in her eyes. My compliments to you and your lineage; she is a girl of exceptional breeding.

You see, Grandma, we wolves despise waste. Your death will be efficient. It will serve two purposes, the first of which is to sate my hunger. The second is to put Red to the test. She is clever and precocious and spirited, but still wrapped in the naivete of youth. I met her on her way here, and asked her where she was going. She told me without compunction, without care. She was carrying a bounty of berries, preserves, tea leaves and remedies, courtesy of your talented daughter-in-law the herbalist. I would like to have tricked her out of her basket right then and there, but its contents would be wasted on me. I eat nothing that cannot feel fear. She gave remarkably clear directions for me to find you, too. She will be a capable traveler when she grows up, assuming she lives long enough. All will be decided shortly.

A most remarkable boy draws near, trailing a stream of blood that I left for him. He is the son of a forest ranger, and already lives up to the old man's noble calling. I spied him at work, following the tracks of the manifold creatures that live in these parts. He was magnificent. His head would turn just in time to catch a bird enter his field of view. He shifted his arm ever so slightly to avoid a lingering drop of rain from the night's storm. He movements were so silent and so disciplined that a chipmunk darted by his feet without paying him any heed. He almost spotted me, even. Were he but a few years older, I do not think I could hide from him. He is going to arrive far too late to save you, of course -- I have seen to that -- but he will arrive early enough to drive me off before I do anything to Red. And she will be so grateful and he will be so taken with her pretty eyes and elegant flowing cloak and they are young and... well, you know how this works.

But I do not lead them to each other for nothing. I will kill them both if I can. I will kill the girl with guile and the boy with mettle. The girl will arrive first, and I will disguise my appearance and my voice to resemble yours. I will wear sheep's clothing, if you'll pardon the expression. The rules are simple: If she approaches me without realizing anything is amiss, she dies. If she can delay me until her rescuer arrives, then I will move on to the boy. He will force me to flee, or I will slay him while Red escapes. I do not shown mercy to those who have not earned it.

I know what you're thinking. What is a wolf doing putting people to the test? In my youth, I parted with my own kind and took a fox for a lover. She was cunning like all foxes are, and beautiful. A creature of grace. Her coat was lustrous and sparkled in the April sun, while we ran in the deep meadows and feasted on rabbits whenever they caught our fancy. I can still remember her scent mixed with the gleeful terror of our prey. We would lie together in our dry den and listen to the rain rushing over the forest leaves.

We parted badly. I was exploring the northern forest when the hunter came. When I returned she was stripped of her coat and her meat was left untouched for the vermin to find. The murder scene was covered with human scents. Mangy curs. Gunpowder. And the stinking, billowing stench of sweat. The hunter's blood trailed away, and I was at least satisfied that she had wounded the brutish man before he stole her skin. The trail lead to these parts in the southwestern forest, where the herbs crack the old winding stone paths of abandoned Hallowdale.

I did not head southwest right away. I stayed and listened to the story flowing in through my nostrils. I can still imagine her final minutes, as she goads and taunts the stupid dogs as they caper clumsily about on their drooping haunches, and the familiar gleam of joy in her eye as she sinks her teeth into the neck of the leader, his meaningless howls and barks finally and completely punctured. But she is no match for the hunter. He is violent and starving, utterly beyond her ability to educate. But she is not afraid. She knows she is finished for now, and grins wickedly as he raises the rifle. She is a trickster to the end; my red lady knows something that he does not. A shot rings out, and the story is cut short, waiting for me to finish it.

I left her body behind; we wolves do not bury our dead in the middle of a hunt, and she had no more need of it. At the end of the trail of bloody droplets was her murderer, making a poultice for his wounded arm. He did not hear me with his useless human ears as I crept up behind him, sunk my teeth into his throat, and shook him while he bled and choked to death. Since then, I have slain literally dozens of your degenerate scavengers and men-at-arms. My great task is almost concluded. There are only a handful of hunters still foolish or brazen enough to defile these lands, and soon only the worthy will remain.

And so we return to the matter at hand. A trapper was watching Red while she played among the flowers. I could tell from the ale-drenched stink of him that he intended to take something from her. The basket filled to the rim with marvelous treats? The riding hood? Or was it...? Well it doesn't matter now. I baited him off with an old fox trick and slashed his throat when he tripped on the roots of an oak tree. I left the meat there to rot, a final insult to his cretinous kind. In the old days, I would never have abided such callous waste, but I had a promising young girl's education to see to. Cubs should not wander from the den on their own. Red still has much to learn.

The trapper was a mutt, but there are better breeds of men. You see how you resemble us just as I have come to resemble you? Do you understand now how wonderful your death will be, Grandma? I am to enjoy a proper meal, Red is to recieve a proper education and a handsome mate besides, and you are to have a good and noble death at the end of a full life. Ah... the wind carries Red's scent here even now, and we have so little time. It is time for the end; shall we begin?