Red's Untold Tale Read online

  Basket in hand and riding hood draped over my head and shoulders, I took off for the village. The rain had tapered down to a mere mist. I loved the sweet, earthy smell of the forest after a good rain shower, and I took a moment to fill my lungs with the dewy air.

  I walked backwards, watching our cottage steadily shrink into the distance. My grandmother’s six brothers had built the house long ago, back when they were young men—before the wolf had attacked them and slashed their throats as she’d watched helplessly from the roof.

  I hoped beyond hope that I’d never, ever witness anything as frightful as a bloodthirsty monster killing people I loved. Tears pricked my eyes as I thought about that tragic night, so I quickly pushed the thought aside; instead I pictured the cottage at its finest, before the log walls needed oiling and the thatched, steeply sloped roof needed patching. Before the oak tree had grown tall and strong enough to support the rope swing I’d spent countless hours on.

  I imagined my mother had grown up swinging on that very rope, too. There was a time when the window boxes burst with flowers of every shape and color—but it had been years since Granny had planted new ones, or trimmed back the ferns that covered the stone path leading to the front door, or the one out back that meandered to the stream. It had been years since the village children gathered by the fireplace while Granny read storybooks and baked more shortbread cookies than our little bellies could hold. These memories consumed me as I turned my back on the cottage and plodded down the muddy road into the village.

  Perhaps the door-to-door selling wouldn’t be so bad after all. I took a deep breath and rapped on the door of a rickety little house of the far west side of town. While I waited, my heartbeat hastened. I ran my fingertips along the gold cross that dangled from my neck.

  A burly, shirtless man stood in the doorway, looking as if he’d been sleeping, and smelling as if he hadn’t bathed since last Wolfstime.

  “Whatdayawant, girl?” he slurred.

  “Have you ever heard of Granny’s Baked Goods?” I asked, hoping to sound much more enthusiastic than I felt. I didn’t even give him a chance to respond. “Well, if you haven’t, you’ve been missing out.”

  “What? What’re you yakking about, girl?”

  I tittered nervously. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Red.” I held my hand out and he shook it limply in his sweaty grasp. “I’ve come by your lovely home to see if you’d like any of my grandmother’s delicious baked goods. They’re all made fresh, using only the finest ingredients.”

  “Red? What kind of name is that?”

  “It’s a nickname.”

  “But you’re not a redhead.”

  “I know. They call me ‘Red’ because…Never mind. Look, I have some delicious croissants here—” I waved my hand over the basket like I’d seen the street magicians do at market.

  The man pulled a face. All right, so croissants weren’t his favorite. “—as well as a variety of cookies and muffins,” I continued brightly. “You look like a muffin man to me.”

  “Well, I might…”

  “Fantastic! For today’s special bargain price, you can have your choice of bran or blueber—”

  “How ’bout I try one first, to make sure it’s edible and all?”

  I sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t have enough for sampling. However, I know you’ll love Granny’s muffins. My grandmother has never, ever baked anything less than perfection. It’s her special talent.”

  He raised an enormous eyebrow. I could tell he was tempted, and I held my breath in hopeful anticipation…

  “No.” He started to close the door, but I held it ajar with my foot.

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “All right, then,” I said, my heart sinking. “Would you like me to come back tomorrow?”

  “No.”

  I winced as the door slammed shut in my face. “How about next week?” I said to no one but a little brown spider crawling on the armrest of the rocking chair.

  Two hours later, I’d made a total of ten regular deliveries, and though I’d knocked on countless doors hoping to sell Granny’s extras, I had nothing to show for it. Discouraged and more than a little annoyed at having wasted so much time, I climbed the steps leading to Seamstress Evans’s house, the eleventh and final delivery of the day.

  She had ordered a half-dozen crumpets and an apple pie for her family, and as payment she handed me a couple of coins, a spool of yellow thread, and four wooden buttons. “I wish it were more, Red, but times are tough,” she apologized. “With taxes due, it’s all I can spare. But I’ll pay you properly next time, I promise.”

  Once the door closed, I reached in my pouch to count up the tips that the customers had given me: barely enough to make up for what the seamstress lacked, plus two unsold cookies and four muffins. The day’s sales could have gone better—much better, really. My heart felt heavy as I straightened my hood, picked up my basket, and marched back toward home.

  One of Seamstress Evans’s little boys, a toddler with muddy knees and a pirate hat, jumped out from behind a bush and shouted, “Argh! Hand over your booty an’ no one gets hurt!”

  “Oh, my. If you’re looking for treasure, Cap’n, this is your lucky day,” I said. “Now, close your eyes…” I bundled the cookies and muffins in a handkerchief and set them under an apple tree in his plain sight, because of course he was peeking in between his fingers the whole time. He dutifully waited a few seconds and then made a run for the treasure. Suddenly, and out of nowhere, four other children tackled him to the ground, poking him with wooden swords.

  “You’d better share it with your mateys, Cap’n,” I called over my shoulder, laughing. Playing with the Evans children made me long for little brothers and sisters of my own. But I knew that a big family was a foolish thing to wish for, since my parents were long gone. Some girls in the village, like my former schoolmate Priscilla, had already started their own families. I wanted to have my own children, too. But I couldn’t imagine that it would be any time soon. I wanted to leave this village and have my fair share of adventures first.

  Drops of rain glistened from the leaves, and the springtime early-evening sun beamed through the trees. Twigs and pinecones crunched under my boots, and a pair of yellow butterflies flitted just above my head. When I neared the swimming hole, I heard splashing followed by Peter’s husky voice. “Hallo, Red!”

  I pulled back a tree branch to clear my view. From the deepest point of the pond, he waved at me and grinned. “Come on in; the water’s fine,” he called.

  The temptation was strong, but I knew I shouldn’t. “Oh, Peter. I wish I could, but I need to get home to Granny,” I said ruefully.

  Peter’s smile faltered. We’d been friends forever—in fact, he was probably my only true friend. He climbed out of the pond and onto a boulder, where he shook the water out of his mop of dark hair. His bare chest squeezed in and out as he caught his breath.

  He’d had sun-kissed skin and kind brown eyes for as long as I remembered, but when exactly had he shot up taller than me? And when had that shadow of whiskers on his jawline appeared? I couldn’t help noticing how handsome, how grown-up, my friend Peter had become.

  Before he could see that I was blushing, I tore my gaze away from him and stared instead at my shoes. Sunbeams pierced through the branches above, lighting up my dusty, shabby boots until they practically glowed. I bit my lower lip as the sun’s warmth rained down on me.

  A quick dip wouldn’t hurt anything, would it?

  April, ten years ago

  As Peter and I walked home from school together, he told me a story. “This morning, Papa went into his shop to start working. He began doing his prep work, and everything seemed normal enough. But then, from the darkest corner of the forge, he heard a strange noise—a scuffling sound, and then a broom toppled right over! Papa said, ‘Who’s there?’ No one answered. And then the scuffling noise happened again, even louder!”

  “What then?” I asked, completely mesmerized. Goose bumps dotted my arms as if I were right there. It helped that I’d been in his father’s workshop before, and with all the weapon-like tools, banging and crashing noises, and sparking, blazing fires, my imagination ran wild. The first time I’d been there, I’d felt like I was trapped in a deep, dark dungeon by a ferocious fire-breathing dragon. The memory took hold of me, and I hoped against hope that Peter’s father was able to vanquish whatever evil force had come into his shop to do him in. “Come on, Peter, don’t keep me waiting. Tell me what happened next!”

  “Papa picked up an anvil.” Peter smiled. I liked it when he grinned like that. It made me want to walk closer to him, to count how many teeth he’d lost already. “He held it as tight as he could,” he continued, “and the closer he got to the noise, the louder it sounded.”

  “What then? Come on, Peter. Tell me!” I could hardly stand the suspense.

  “Papa said, ‘Whoever you are, come out this instant.’”

  “And did they come out? Who was it?”

  “Oh, yes, it came out all right. It was a…skunk.”

  I laughed. “A skunk? Really?”

  “Cross my heart. And it sprayed the dickens out of him!”

  I doubled over with laughter. “Oh, that is so funny! Oops, I mean, horrible. Your poor father!”

  “You can say that again. Mama didn’t let him come to breakfast, and she’d made his favorite: flapjacks.”

  I rubbed my belly. “My favorite, too. Now I really feel sorry for him.”

  “Well, the story does have a happy ending. I got to eat every last bit of Papa’s breakfast.”

  I laughed some more, and my belly ached with happiness until we got to the cottage. The front door swung open as if Granny had been peeking out the window, waiti
ng like a hunter waits for a stag. “Who’s this?” she asked, eyeing my friend.

  “This is Peter. He walked me home from school.” I almost told her about how we’d discovered our footsteps were almost exactly the same length, so neither of us ever had to jog to keep up with the other. I had a feeling she wouldn’t care anything about that, though.

  Peter offered his hand for a shake, and when she took it, she rolled it over. “Your fingernails are black.”

  “His papa is the blacksmith,” I said proudly. “Peter gets to be his apprentice someday.” I could only dream what it was like to have a father. Or a mother. Or an exciting trade to look forward to learning and taking over once I grew up.

  Peter explained politely, “I really do wash my hands, ma’am. Fact is, most of it’s just too stubborn to get off, no matter how hard I scrub at it.”

  Granny clicked her tongue. “Your pants are tattered, as well.”

  Peter looked down at his trousers like he’d never noticed them before. “I’ll ask my mama to mend them soon as I get home,” he promised.

  “That’s a grand idea. Now, Peter, why did you walk my granddaughter home?”

  “Seemed like the thing to do.” He shrugged. “Might like to do it again tomorrow. If it’s all right with you, ma’am.”

  I puffed up my chest, hoping she’d say yes. Walking home with somebody was a lot more fun than being all alone. And Peter—with his gappy grin and entertaining stories—was especially fun.

  Granny bent down and stared him right in his eyes.

  He blinked; however, he never flinched or backed away.

  I was sure she was going to say no. She surprised me. “I suppose that will be all right. But I’ll be watching you.”

  “All right, Peter. Just one jump,” I agreed now, climbing the highest rock.

  His eyes grew half a size. “From way up there?”

  “Where else?” After setting down my basket and shedding my dress, boots, and stockings, I reached up into the sky and took a deep breath.

  “It’s just that I’ve never seen a girl do it,” he said.

  I put my hands on my hips. “I’ve seen you jump a hundred times. So it must be as easy as cake.” Then again, after baking Peter’s cake that morning, I should definitely have stopped using that particular expression. It might have been easy for some people, like Granny, but not for me.

  My remark got a scoff out of Peter, which made me smile. Until I glanced down. I hadn’t realized it was remotely this high. The whole forest whirled and churned before my eyes. I took several steps back, steadying myself on the rock behind me.

  “You can come back down any time now, Red. I know you want to,” Peter said, sounding frustratingly amused.

  “Oh, don’t you worry, Peter. I’m going to jump. I’m just enjoying the scenery from up here.” And trying not to throw up. With my big toe, I scooted a pile of pebbles off the edge. It seemed to take five full minutes for them to pelt the water below, finally causing a starburst of ripples.

  “The longer you put it off, the scarier it is,” Peter said.

  Out of habit, I reached for the gold cross pendant. A feeling that my mother had stood on this very rock overwhelmed me. It was like a memory, if that were even possible—of her jumping off from this very point and landing in the water below, a breathtaking combination of grace and bravery.

  “It’s all right, Red. Your secret is safe with me.”

  “What secret?” I looked up guiltily. Did he somehow know that I’d been spending so much time trying to imagine my mother?

  “That you’re…” He flapped his arms at his sides and clucked.

  I sighed in relief and put my hands on my hips. “I am not chicken!”

  “Then prove it.” Peter counted down, “Three…two…one,” and I shut my eyes, held my nose, and leapt. The wind ripped through my hair as I fell, and I swore I heard a voice say, Breathe. I plunged deep into the shockingly cool water. It took me a few seconds to get my bearings. I struggled to swim with the weight and bulk of my petticoats. When I finally surfaced, I rolled onto my back and filled my lungs with the springtime air. I felt so wonderful, so free; I couldn’t help laughing out loud. When I turned to look for Peter on the bank, he was gone. Where is he? Had he left before I’d jumped? After all of that, had he missed it?

  “Look out belooooow!” Peter hollered down from where I’d leapt. After flipping around twice, he tucked his body into a ball and drenched me with a tidal wave of a splash. Not a minute later, he was treading water next to me, chuckling as if the whole thing had been completely effortless for him.

  After paddling to the edge of the water, I lugged myself up onto the bank, where I sat watching Peter swim hither and yon.

  It was hard to fathom a time when Peter couldn’t swim, but he used to be afraid. When he was seven, he told the other boys his mama didn’t want him getting water in his ears and other such nonsense. I said, “You know, Peter, you can’t learn to swim if you never jump in the water.” Finally, he took a big, deep breath and leapt right in. He flailed his arms and swallowed a bunch of water, but the more he paddled about, the more at home he felt in the water. In all the times I’d spent with him there at the pond, he’d become a strong swimmer. Actually, he’d become strong, period.

  When Peter decided to join me on the shore, he sprawled out, resting his head in his hands. His dark hair was slicked back, making him look so different, almost royal. We laid beside each other on the soft ground, soaking in the warm sunlight. Every so often, I turned my head to gaze at him, but never long enough for him to notice.

  A few minutes later, Peter sat up and stretched. He stared beyond the pond into the trees. “There’s barely a tree in this entire forest that doesn’t have a wanted poster stuck on it,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “It’s like every man and his dog is a crook these days. Women and children, too. Can you believe it? I really hate thieves. They’re nothing but a bunch of lowlifes without a lick of honor.”

  “I can’t imagine ever getting desperate enough to steal,” I said. Then, suddenly horrified, I turned to him and added, “I didn’t mean any offense by that, Peter. You know, your uncle…”

  When Peter had been a little boy, his favorite uncle had been an expert pickpocket. His uncle taught Peter how to do it, and sometimes, for fun, Peter would swipe something out of his parents’ or brothers’—or even my—pockets. Of course, he’d always give back whatever he’d taken; and I, for one, could never figure out how or when he’d stolen from me.

  As for his uncle, in time, he sought greater challenges, and he began robbing carriages deep in the woods. I’d never forget the day Peter and I saw the poster with a sketch of his very own uncle, a wanted bandit. With disappointment etched on his face, Peter threw rocks into the pond until his arms ached. Peter never saw or heard from his favorite uncle again. We never saw another of his wanted posters, either. We could only guess that he’d been captured and turned in for the ransom, and he was fated to spend the rest of his days locked up in the royal castle’s dungeon.

  “He got what was coming to him,” Peter said, shaking his head. And just like that, his almost-dry hair relaxed into its typical tousles.

  I looked up at the trees, clouds, and sky, and while my mind wandered, I felt his warm gaze on my face. What does Peter see in me? I wondered. In his eyes, was I still that giggly six-year-old girl?

  “You look…” he started, and then swallowed loudly.

  I smiled as I waited for him to say that I looked beautiful or refreshed, or—though it would’ve been a bit of a mouthful—like the girl he was destined to have the first dance with at the Forget-Me-Not ball.

  The whole notion of a ball was rather silly. It wasn’t like we had lavish clothes or food, let alone a ballroom. Still, it was an age-old tradition for our village. Named after the forget-me-not flowers that grew on the edges of the forest, it was supposed to help everybody remember their childhoods as they moved on into their adult lives.

  Honestly, I didn’t really care about going to the ball, and last summer, Peter and I had agreed to spend the evening at our swimming hole instead. But sometimes, when I least expected it, a daydream about dancing with Peter at the Forget-Me-Not ball popped into my head.