MISC 3: Little Red Wolf

The huntsman was so proud of his axe. Of the bloody, violent thing he had used, to carve her grandmother from the beast’s great body. He had a smile on his face as he swung, as he carved open the massive creature, the Wolf of midnight black, towering larger than any bear.

It did not occur to him, then, that a man such as him could never have slain such a beast. He considered himself ever so mighty, with his height, tall for a man, and his build, wide and strong for a man, but the Wolf had been mightier than anything, mighty enough to huff and puff and blow away the world. The Big Bad Wolf, almost larger than the house my grandmother had spent her twilight years in.

It had not fought him. The man didn’t realize this, of course; to the huntsman, it had been a mighty battle, stretching every ounce of his strength and will, swing after swing of an axe so beautiful and cherry red, until it turned crimson. But to the Wolf? To the Wolf so big, it could eat up a person, a town, a forest, a grandmother, and barely need to swallow? The Wolf let him cut, did not struggle or do more than twitch, for how else could this small thing hurt the Wolf? The cuts could kill it, but not hurt it. I could see it in its eyes. The Wolf knew pain, because it had eaten something that was far too large, even if it had barely needed to swallow.

I still remember the stories my grandmother had told me about the Wolf. How it would someday eat the world. How it was big as a house, with such great eyes, and such large teeth, and such big ears. How it had a smile both roguish and charming when it so pleased. How it could hold someone in an embrace as soft as the softest feather bed. How, though it blushed furiously, it had taught her how to dance.

The Wolf taught my grandmother many things. It taught her to wear fur like its own, that they might dance under moonlight and bite through mountains. It taught her the sweetness of the hunt and the warmth of resting together. It taught her of howling, the great song of the Big Bad Wolf that would echo all the way to the moon. And, she told me when I grew older, it taught her all the best ways to kiss. She said this with a grin that could set the blood of men ablaze in fear and desire both, and in those moments, past the white hair and the weakness of age, I could see the hungry thing that had made the Big Bad Wolf fall in love.

The huntsman finishes his grisly work, and out of the wolf spills its meal. Surely there must be old bones, treasures, for how could a beast eat so much and not hold wonder and mystery? But all that fell was a body. it did not look like my grandmother anymore. Her hair was limp, her skin waxen, her body motionless. No more was there a smile hungry enough to tempt the Wolf. But it had not chewed as it ate. It had taken her, solemnly, there under the full moon, and eaten her in one gulp, before howling, long and loud and beautiful, sounding out across every forest and mountain and valley as the saddest thing I’d ever heard. It would eat the world someday, after all, but to look at it, you’d think it already had, for how alone it seemed beneath that moon. It had loved her. And she had loved it. They had made a family together, here, in the darkness of the woods, in the little cottage so far into the wilderness. And when her children had grown and left to see the world, my grandmother had stayed, alone with her Wolf. Together in their den, in their cottage, dancing with feet and with claw under moonlight and sun, visited by their granddaughter who loved them so.

The huntsman is hesitant, now. His victory, so complete, so legendary in scale, is soured by my grandmother’s body. She did not die by the wolf, even he can see that. She has been dead for a day, at least, her body starting to change as time and nature overtake the wild thing that had been my grandmother. He looks to me, hesitant, uncertain. He does not know how to comfort someone. All the huntsman knows is how lovely his cherry red axe is, and what a large and mighty man he is, and how taking his axe to the back of a howling, mourning Wolf will make him a hero. So it is only now, as he looks back at me, that he sees me truly.

It is only now that he sees my fur, growing from beneath my cloak.

It is only now he sees the red in my eyes, in my tears, in my heart.

It is only now, as he stands over my grandparents, that I allow him to see what I am, and what he has taken.

I don’t blame the Wolf for what it did. It loved a woman hard enough to, for just a little while, be something more and less than the Big Bad Wolf. To lose that must be agony. It hurt me, to see it let the huntsman cut its flesh, but no beast so mighty would let the man cut it if it didn’t want to. I cried when I heard it whimper. Sobbed when I heard it howl one last, final note.

But now it is over, and my grandparents lay dead. And the huntsman with the cherry red axe, now dipped in crimson, did the deed.

So I show him how much more beautiful my cherry red fur is, when it, too, is dipped in crimson.