Red's Untold Tale (8 page)

Suddenly, Granny's face went white, and she dropped the wooden spoon in the bowl.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

She rubbed her right arm, as I'd noticed her doing many times before. “This blasted scar. It won't give me a moment's peace, not until we're done with Wolfstime.
Then, next month, it'll flare up again, like clockwork.”

“Wait, what?” I knew her arm ached terribly from time to time, but I just figured it was related to her old age. She'd never mentioned a scar before. “Since when do you
have a scar? Can I see it?”

“Nothing to worry about.”

“What's it from, then? Will you tell me that much?”

“No time for chitchat, child. I need you to go to Farmer Thompson's for milk. I've run out. Get moving, time's ticking.”

I sighed. Someday, I'd get her to tell me the story behind her scar. Maybe if I knew what caused it, I could help figure out a way to make the pain go away.

Meanwhile, I grabbed my bow and arrows and headed for the door. “Yes, Granny, I'm wearing my hood,” I said before she could ask. I closed the door behind me and headed upstream
to the neighbor's farm. I walked quickly, sometimes breaking into a jog. With any luck, I could carve out enough time to fetch the milk and take a quick detour to the swimming hole to search
for my missing gold cross. And, with even more luck, Peter would be there in nothing but his britches. That vision certainly put a spring in my step!

Birds and dragonflies flitted about in the sky, and a frog flopped from rock to rock across the ripples of water. The forest teemed with creatures, yet they skittered away before I could get
anywhere close. It wasn't always that way; there was a time when I thought they actually enjoyed my company. Though I couldn't know for sure, I wondered if the spell on my red cloak
somehow repelled them in addition to protecting me from wolves.

Thank goodness, Mrs. Thompson seemed happy to see me when I knocked on the door of their cottage. “Hello, Red, what can I do for you?” she asked, rubbing her hands on her apron.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Thompson. I need some milk. I know I was just here, but Granny is in the middle of her biggest order yet, and I'm afraid she's run out.”

The farmer's wife shook her head sadly. “I'm sorry, Red, but our cow is…with us no more. She died just last night.”

Her four-year-old daughter poked her blond head out the window and said, “Dottie got killed by a damn wolf.”

Mrs. Thompson's face flushed scarlet and she uttered under her breath, “Oh, Fernie, that tongue of yours.”

“A wolf?” I asked.

Mrs. Thompson sighed. “She overheard her pa sayin' that, yes. So I suppose it's true. Pity, too. Dottie was a good cow.”

“An' we needed the milk money to pay the damn tax man,” said the girl, adding to her mother's apparent chagrin.

“Fernie,
language
,” she scolded her daughter. “My apologies, Red. She might look just like me, but that mouth of hers is all her father's. Funny how the apple
don't fall far from the tree.”

“It's all right, Mrs. Thompson. If you think colorful language bothers me, you haven't met my grandmother.”

The farmer's wife chuckled and nodded understandingly.

“I'm sorry to hear about your cow.”

“Thank you, Red. Sorry we can't help you with the milk. Have you tried the Roberts's place, up the stream a bit further?”

I swallowed, trying to get the lump out of my throat. I knew the Roberts family had cows, but their youngest daughter, Violet, was the last person I wanted to see.

February, three years ago

“How many do you need?” Granny asked as she lined my basket with a freshly washed and ironed cloth in a blue, red, and white plaid.

Of course, I knew the answer straightaway; but there was something exciting about saying their names out loud. I counted on my fingers, “Violet, Beatrice, and Florence. And
me
.”

“You realize these gooseberry tarts won the blue ribbon at the village bake-off.”

Oh, I knew. That's precisely why I chose to bring them. It wasn't every day Violet and her friends asked an outsider to their winter picnic, and this was the first time they'd
delivered an invitation to me. The invitation itself was so exquisite—paper white as snow, ink black as coal, and written in Violet's enviably artistic hand—I'd displayed it
on my bedroom mirror and counted down the seven days as if it were for Christmas. Only the finest treat would do for such a momentous occasion. I wanted them to remember the day they'd
included me in their winter picnic.

“Make sure you're back well before sunset,” Granny said, stacking the tarts in the basket with great care.

“I will. Thank you, Granny. I'm sure my friends will love them.” Referring to Violet, Beatrice, and Florence as “friends” might have been a stretch.
But who
knows?
Maybe if I made a good impression, they would truly want me to join their circle.

“Of course, they'll love them,” Granny said brusquely. “That goes without saying. The king himself would demand I keep his dessert table full—if he'd only get
off his high horse long enough to sink his teeth into one of these little masterpieces.” She gripped the tart in her hand so hard it busted in two. Shrugging, she stuffed half into her mouth
and half into mine.

“Mmmm. Oh, Granny, you've outdone yourself,” I said while chewing.

I started toward the front door, until Granny reminded me, “Your hood!”

I rushed to my room and took the red cloak off my bedpost, stealing a glance at myself in the mirror to make sure my braids hadn't frayed. I gave my cheeks a quick pinch and smiled at my
reflection in the looking glass. “What a wonderful day for a picnic,” I whispered to myself. “The first of many.”

“Good-bye, Granny,” I called before heading out. “I won't be long.”

“Take your time, child.”

Fresh snow covered the road, and droplets of ice twinkled in the sunlight like tiny stars. I almost felt bad leaving boot prints in the pristine blanket of white. A hare hopped alongside me for
a little while, and then a squirrel kept me company with its nonstop chatter. I turned off the road and cut into the forest, and was pleased to see three sets of boot prints, all heading toward the
secret spot described in the invitation as “where the stream meets the white oak tree that was struck by lightning.”

I was sure I knew precisely the spot, and I smiled when I glimpsed a little table all set up with a tablecloth, cups and plates, and four wooden chairs. Sprigs of holly crisscrossed the length
of the table, and the whole effect was lovely, like a Christmas tea party in one of my old storybooks. I couldn't believe my good fortune to be included.

Where is everybody?
Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw somebody dressed in red, standing in the middle of the small clearing. On second glance, I could tell it wasn't a
person after all; it was a snowman. Only this snowman wasn't the usual type, with coal eyes, a carrot nose, and a scarf. He—or she, I should say—wore a red tablecloth draped over
her head and flowing down her back. A snow-girl wearing a red-hooded cloak.

It was, I realized at once, supposed to be me.

Rustling noises came from behind some bushes. I whirled around, and a snowball exploded on my left cheek. The hit stung my bare skin. I thought I felt blood, but when I touched my face, a smear
of mud stained my mitten. More snowballs pelted me from the opposite direction. I ducked and dodged for a moment or two, and then collapsed onto my knees, where the snowballs and laughter hit me
from every direction, coating me in mud and humiliation. I stayed in that position, my cloak protecting my skin from the stings, until finally the torture stopped. I lifted my hood just enough to
peer out.

“Enough fun and games,” Violet said, appearing in the open. “I'm completely bored. And famished.”

“Oh, goodie! It's time for the picnic!” Beatrice said. “Come on, Red. Get up.” I tried to hold my shoulders steady, so they couldn't tell that I was sobbing.
“Red? Are you all right?”

Florence said, “She's fine, just fine. She's just resting, Beatrice. Anyone can see that.”

“I hope she doesn't rest too long,” Beatrice said. “I've worked up quite an appetite.”

“I'm sure she won't mind if we begin without her,” Florence said, but Violet did not approve.

“Florence, I'm surprised at you. Red is our special guest. She told everyone that she wanted to be included in our winter picnic, and here she is—a dream come true for her,
I'm sure. We won't start until she's good and ready.”

A scrawny squirrel skittered across the snow. He stood on his hind legs and clicked, and another squirrel joined him as they prodded my basket. With my mitten, I wiped the tears away and slowly
stood.

“Oh, my goodness, Red. You're a mess,” said Violet. “But we don't mind. Come on over here and join us.” It took everything I had not to hurl my basket at her.
Instead, I brushed the mud and snow off of myself as well as possible and then kicked the snow-girl down, leaving a shapeless mound beneath the red cloth.

“That wasn't very nice,” said Florence. “That snowman took us half an hour to make for you.”

“So I take it you don't want to come to our next winter picnic?” Beatrice asked.

“I guess you're not quite as stupid as everybody says you are,” I said.

The walk home seemed twice as long as the walk to their picnic spot. Maybe it was because I kept pausing to feed the two squirrels and other woodland critters Granny's prized gooseberry
tarts—a generous eight instead of the four I'd asked for.

“I'm home, Granny,” I announced, yanking my feet out of my dirty boots.

“This is earlier than expected,” she said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” She looked up from her knitting and dropped her needles in her lap. “Goodness gracious,
child! What the dickens happened to you?”

“I fell,” I lied. “I'm just an oaf, I suppose.”

Granny adjusted her glasses. “I'll say! You look like you took a dive in the pigsty. Now that you're thirteen, you should probably roll around in the mud a bit less and act
more like a lady.” She gathered her knitting and piled it neatly on the stool. Then she stood, using the arm of the sofa for support. “Here, hand me that hood. I'll get it washed
up, good as new.”

“Thank you, Granny.”

She took my basket from me and set it on the coffee table while I shed my cloak. “I take it your girlfriends enjoyed the tarts?” she asked.

I stared down at my stockinged feet. “I don't think they're very fond of me.”

“Oh? Why do you say that?”

“They made a snowman…” I started to tell her what had happened, but the look of worry—with a spark of anger—in her eyes made me reconsider. I didn't want to upset
her. She was scary when she got really upset.

Besides, now that it was over, I wasn't so sure that what Violet, Beatrice, and Florence did was intentionally cruel. Maybe their idea of fun and games was quite different than mine, and
that's why I got along best with boys. “Never mind, it's nothing.”

She waited, probably to see if I'd change my mind and tell her the story after all, but when I wordlessly handed over my cloak, she said, “The best of friendships don't happen
overnight, child. They'll grow to adore you; you'll see. You'll just have to be patient.”

I sighed. “I wish I could go to the wizard and get a friendship spell.”

“
No
, you don't.” The graveness of her tone startled me, and I stood at attention.

“Yes, I do. You did it for my riding hood, only for a protection spell, right?”

“Yes; however, magic always comes with a price. You might think you want something, and that magic is the only way; but more times than not, it ends up costing yourself or your loved ones
in ways you cannot even begin to fathom. Even when magic is used for good, it can become something very bad.”

I wasn't quite sure I followed, but I nodded anyhow.

She folded my muddy cloak in two and hugged it to her bosom, which made me worry that she'd have to wash her blouse, too. “Those girls will come around sooner or later, mark my
words.”