“Miss…”
“Red, call me Red.”
The young man bent over his paper at the long table, dexterously avoiding dipping his sleeves into the plate of meat before him, quill scratching parchment.
The investigations into the old legend had led him at last to her.
He gazed at the tall, slender woman before him across the table, her face framed by the twin wine glasses, taking in the red hood, men’s clothes and long gloves, the wild black hair threatening to explode from its severe bun and the yellow eyes beneath half-lowered lids.
She was nothing like the young girl in the faerie tale his grandmother had told him, but people change.
His grandmother had taught him that as well.
“We can begin whenever you are ready, Miss Red.”
“My grandmother was an old wise woman who lived deep within the forest. Everyone called her Granny Myrtle.
Living in the forest Granny Myrtle, as she advanced in years, was no longer able to make it into town to buy bread, milk and meat as often as needed.
Thus the task of walking between the old woman’s cottage and the town fell to me.
I had been walking this path for several years and had grown into a young woman before I stopped to talk to the man.”
“Man? Wasn’t it a wolf you met?”
“Don’t be silly. Wolves can’t talk. Trust me, I know these things.”
“Go on.”
“He looked a few years older than me with a mane of dun colored hair and an unkempt mustache.
The thing that attracted my attention was that he didn’t look like one of the young woodchoppers or hunters I had encountered before.
He was dressed in fine deep blue cloth cut to fit him well, though having clearly seen better days as it was worn thin and patched in places.
His foot was caught in a hunter’s snare in amongst the briars.
The man hailed me and I went to free him. In his struggles he had pulled the knot tight against his leg and it took me a long time of picking with my nails to free his poor leg.
“Oh dear, I’ll be late for my grandmother’s,” said I.
“Perhaps a race would speed the rest of your passage,” said he, his voice strangely accented.
“A race?”
“Yes, a race with, perhaps, a small wager.”
“Oh and what would this wager be?”
“If you win, I will make you a splendid dinner.”
“And if you win?”
“Then you must give me a kiss.”
I liked this man, he was charming and attractive, and if I lost the price would be little.
And it seemed I had little chance of losing, since I had walked this forest since I was a small child with ease and he had already gotten himself caught in a wolf trap.
“To prevent cheating, let us take separate paths. Which path do you choose: the Path of Pins or the Path of Needles?”
It was strange how he knew the secret names I had called these two paths as a child.
But perhaps he had merely noticed the singular shape of the leaves on the fir trees lining these paths as I had.
“The Path of Needles,” I called as I ran off down the trail at a sprint.
I ran the fastest I had ever run. This was my woods and no pretty man could beat me here. But, no matter how fast I ran, he still beat me to my grandmother’s house.
At the house he had already laid out a spread on the table for me, even a glass filled with burgundy wine. On my plate was a slice of meat cooked to perfection.
“Eat, eat,” he encouraged.
“Oh, but I lost,” I flirted, suddenly emboldened.
“But what sort of man would I be if I took my reward and left you without a bite to eat.
Now drink your wine and eat your meat. We wouldn’t want any of this good food and drink to go to waste, would we?”
“Wait,” interrupted the reporter, “Was he wearing your grandmother’s clothes?”
“Why on earth would he be doing a silly thing like that?”
“To fool you into thinking he was safe, like your grandmother.”
“You think I could not tell my grandmother from a young stranger?”
“No, no. Go on.”
“Alright then. I asked him where my grandmother was and he replied that she was in the back room sleeping and that we shouldn’t wake her. I understood.
Granny Myrtle often took long midday naps and was a beast to any who disturbed her. She kept a cane by her bed just for this purpose.
So I took a bite of the meat. It was rich and tender and tasted different from any other meat I had ever tasted, but there was some taint, some fault in the cooking that left the meat with a foul aftertaste.
I took a draught of the wine to clear the taste from my mouth, but the wine was thick and salty and I nearly spat it out.
“Finish your wine,” he said, “It may taste foul, but it will give you strength. Mayhap next time you will beat me when we race.”
I drunk the last of it down and got up to get a glass of water. As I walked passed him the young man said, “You think to get away that easily and leave me bereft of my reward.”
Before I could reply he bent to kiss me, passionately.
At first it was wonderful, well worth the loss of the race, but then I began to feel him biting at my lips, my tongue.
I tasted blood. I opened my eyes in time to see his handsome face part to reveal the head of a wolf: long canine muzzle, needle-sharp teeth, pointed ears and yellow animal eyes.
I gasped, pulling away from him and his savage biting, taking as my advantage his sudden drop to all fours. I ran, faster than I had ever run, but still I knew he would catch me.
He was only toying with me now as I stumbled over roots, cutting and scraping myself on brambles and rocks. He could catch me any time. I remembered how fast he could run.
The sun began to set and the trees glowed eerily in its dying light, sending chills skittering along my spine.
Then the moon rose like a great galleon, splintered by the arching branches of the trees.
I could hear him panting now and see his yellow eyes, like round gold coins.
There was no more running, I had to stand and fight.
I looked up at the moon one last time and turned to face the wolf. But deep within me something stirred. Hungry golden eyes looked out from my stomach and howled.
The body of the wolf came pouring up my throat and I felt like I was choking as it burst from me, bones popping and stretching.
A mad she-wolf stood where I had been, hackles raised, a snarl at her lips. We ran towards each other and –“
“Who won?” interrupted the reporter anxiously.
“Won? Don’t be so naïve.”
“What do you mean?”
“Let’s just say that when we were done I had learned the other way to make werewolves.”
“Oh,” he blushed slightly at his mistake.
Then he continued, “And the woodsman – surely he was real.”
“Woodsman?”
“Yes, a woodsman came at the end of the story I was told and cut open the wolf and filled its stomach with rocks.”
“I would have remembered that. No, I do remember the first woodsman whose throat I ripped out. Blood tastes so much better still hot, than grown cold in a glass.”
“’Grown cold in a glass’?”
“Yes, the wine the wolf-man gave me was my grandmother’s blood and the meat my grandmother’s flesh. The bite of the werewolf is not enough to change someone into its kind.
There needs to be a sin as well.”
“Is there more to your story?”
“There is always more, I’m not dead yet, am I?”
“No, of course not. I meant no offense.”
“None taken. Now drink your wine and eat your meat. We wouldn’t want any of this good food and drink to go to waste, would we?”
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