Red

by Liesl Shurtliff

  “That sounds lovely. Why didn’t you? Would the wine turn me into a troll?”

  I shook my head. “The wine would have made you young, but it also would have taken away all your memories.” And I told her about The Well Witch.

  “Well, maybe that would be worth it,” said Granny. “I should love to be young again.”

  “Even if you forgot me?” I asked.

  “Maybe just for a day or two,” she teased. “I was beautiful when I was young. Just gorgeous—”

  “Everybody said so,” I finished for her.

  Granny smiled. She placed her hand on my cheek. “You see? I will always be here, Red.”

  “How?” I said with a trembling voice. I thought I had dried all my tears, but I could feel buckets more welling up in me.

  “I never knew my own grandmother,” she continued, “and my mother died long ago, but I feel them both with me, all the time, because I came from them. They are a part of me and they are a part of you, and so we all keep living through each other. No one really goes away for good.”

  I rubbed the edge of my cloak. It had been draped over me like a blanket. “In The Woods, my path kept fading, going in and out. I thought it meant that I had lost you, and it was like losing a part of myself.”

  Granny seemed confused. “What would my dying have to do with your path fading?”

  “Because you made it. If you were gone, wouldn’t the path go, too?”

  “Silly girl, I never made that path. You did. You made it yourself when you weren’t more than three years old. Don’t you remember?”

  That couldn’t be right. “You made it for me after that bear attacked me. I remember wanting so badly to go see you, but I didn’t want bears to get me. You told me they wouldn’t get me if I wasn’t afraid, and I said I wouldn’t be afraid if I had something to protect me. And that’s when my path appeared….”

  “Because you wanted it to,” said Granny. “You made that path with your own magic, and it was some of the most wonderful magic I’ve ever seen.”

  I tried to take in what Granny was saying. The path was mine. I made it with my own magic, and it wasn’t dangerous or awful. It guided. It protected. It was good.

  “Then why did it disappear?” I asked. “I didn’t want it to.”

  “Why did the princess want to live forever?” said Granny. “And Horst. Why did he so desperately need to keep living?”

  “Because they didn’t want to die?” I didn’t see what this had to do with my path.

  “But why?”

  I thought for a moment. Why had I wanted to save Granny? Why would anyone try to stop death? I could think of dozens of reasons, but they all boiled down to one. “They were afraid,” I said.

  Granny nodded. “The Well Witch, the huntsman, the beast—they all sought magic that would make them live. But the magic was always born of fear. Nothing twists magic so much as fear, Red.”

  “And so my path disappeared because…I was afraid?”

  “Magic does not cause trouble, Red. Fear. Fear is what makes the trouble. Why do you think I’m always telling you not to be afraid?”

  “I was afraid,” I said. “But I’m not anymore.” I took my cloak and wrapped it around my shoulders. “I’m Red. Strong. Fearless.”

  “And just a tiny bit grumpy,” said Granny.

  “Just like you.”

  “Like me.” Granny smiled, but there was something of sadness in it. “And will you be afraid when I die? Because I will, Red. Someday. Maybe soon, even.”

  I took a deep breath. “I will probably cry, and maybe even feel angry a little, or a lot.”

  “I should hope so,” said Granny indignantly. “I’d be insulted if you didn’t at least break a dish or two.”

  “Or set something on fire,” I said.

  “That’s my girl.”

  “I will miss you every day,” I said. “But I won’t be afraid.”

  Granny smiled, and I thought I saw a small glisten in her eyes. “When you are missing me most, then you must grow something. Roses. I want you to grow me a whole forest of roses in my memory, so you’d better get practicing.” Granny took a pot of dirt from the bedside and set it in my lap. “I’d like you to grow me a rose now, please. A red one. Booger blossoms are my favorite.”

  I laughed a little and took the pot. It sat heavily in my lap. I was still weak and tired from all that had happened. Even so, I could feel that familiar pulse of energy nestled in my belly. I settled my hands over the pot, and I let the magic rise to my fingertips and pour into the soil. Nothing happened at first, but I waited patiently until a small shoot sprouted from the soil and rose up and up. It thickened into a hearty stem and grew thorns and leaves and, finally, a bud at the top that swelled and split, revealing deep red petals that opened and curled into a perfect rose.

  Granny sighed. “Oh, well. I would have preferred booger blossoms, but this will do.”

  I gaped at the rose I had grown with my own magic. Nothing had caught fire. Nothing had broken or exploded. It was a perfect red rose.

  Granny leaned over and kissed my forehead, and a single tear spilled onto my face and ran down my cheek. “Rest, child. I’ll still be here when you wake.”

  I closed my eyes and held tight to Granny, feeling her heart beat with mine, two hearts alive and full of magic.

  EPILOGUE

  On and On and On

  In autumn, I walked through The Woods on my path. It was as strong as ever, clear and true and never flickering, because I wasn’t afraid. I was strong. I was magic. I was Red. I climbed up The Mountain and stood on the highest peak. Across from me, there was a rocky ledge and a cave that served as a den to a newly formed wolf pack. Wolf had not come to me since that day in The Woods. At first, I called and searched for him. I worried that something bad had happened. What if some other huntsman had caught him or he’d gotten into a fight with some beast of The Woods? But then I heard him howling.

  Come! he called, and my heart thrilled at the sound and invitation, until I realized it was not for me. Another wolf howled in response, their voices twining together in that lovely, longing song.

  Come!

  I could see Wolf now, just outside his den. Another wolf stood by his side, a gray female with white markings on her chest and paws, and behind them were three pups, fluffy and playful. Two gray and one black with just a tuft of white on his chest. Wolf had found a mate, and now he had a new pack. I was happy for him, but I could not repress the ache in my heart—the feeling that I’d lost a friend. That was okay, though. Granny says it’s good to feel sadness in times of loss, because it means we have loved. It means we’re truly alive.

  Wolf stared back at me across the cliffs. I still felt that thread of connection between us, pulsing and tugging ever so slightly. The bond we shared would never go away, but he didn’t need me anymore. He wasn’t my pet. I was not his keeper. He was wild and powerful, and he would run with other wolves now. Just as I would run with humans.

  “Red!” I could hear Goldie calling to me from below. I couldn’t believe she’d followed me all the way up here. “Red! Come down, I have a surprise for you!”

  I looked at the wolf pack one last time. Wolf dipped his head, acknowledging me, then turned his attention back to his pack. He picked up one of the cubs by the scruff while the others pounced on his back.

  I climbed down from the top of The Mountain to Goldie. “What is it?” I asked.

  “Come on!” said Goldie. “Wait till you see!” She took off at a run, and I ran after her. Her golden curls bounced wildly, and my red cloak billowed out behind me like wings. We danced through The Woods. We leapt over rocks and fallen trees, hurtled down a hillside to the stream where we first met Borlen, then splashed through the water. We ran and ran until I was nearly out of breath. Finally Goldie slowed. “Shhhhh,” she said. “Listen.” I heard a familiar hum. Bees darted around me, resting on my cloak, multiplying as we walked toward an old tree stump swarming with bees.

&n
bsp; “Goldie, you found another honey hive!”

  “And this one isn’t owned by a bear!” she said.

  I walked to the hive and dipped my hand inside. I pulled out a good chunk of honeycomb, dripping with golden honey.

  Goldie licked her lips. “I think I see how it’s done now. Let me try.” She tried to approach the hive, but the bees immediately began to sting her. “Oh! Ouch! Vicious little beasts!” she cried as she swatted them away.

  Some things never change.

  Speaking of beasts, I had been thinking about Beast in the enchanted castle. I wanted to go back and see if she was still a beast, or if she was Beauty again. And I wanted to see the dwarves again, too. I wondered if Borlen would be just as grumpy as before, or if he might be happy to see me this time. Maybe he would take me someplace new and exciting, without any beard holding required.

  Someday I would do all that, but for now I was happy to stay on The Mountain. Who knew how much time Granny had left? And Goldie needed me. I needed her, too. She was one of my dearest friends in all the world, along with Rump, and Granny, too. I’d found I couldn’t have too many friends, and that saying goodbye to one didn’t mean I couldn’t say hello to another.

  “Let’s go home,” I said. My path unfurled beneath my feet. Goldie stepped onto the path, too, and put her arm through mine. “Red, when I’m old and you’re older and it’s time for us to die, let’s just die on the same day, okay?”

  “Let’s not think of dying,” I said. “Let’s just live every day together, for a long time. Shall we?”

  “Oh, yes, that sounds glorious. I’ll let you have as much honey as you want, every day, for our whole lives.”

  “I’ll get the honey out of the hive for you.” I took her hand. As Goldie had once said, red and gold have always gone well together.

  A wind rushed in, and the tree nymphs swirled and whispered. I understood them now, ever since that day with Horst when I had let go of my fear. Fear doesn’t only twist our magic, it also makes us forget. It made me forget who I was, the strength and the goodness I had inside me. But when I let go of my fear and faced what was before me, the memories came rushing back, like voices carried on the fingers of the wind. I saw myself in Granny’s arms, my first breaths of life, and my naming. I watched my first steps into The Woods, where the trees towered like friendly giants and the animals spoke simple wisdom. They whispered Granny’s spells and charms and potions, all her magic that would one day become mine.

  I wouldn’t waste a single second of life, not mine or Granny’s or anyone’s. I’d learn all I could—all about Granny, her magic, her mistakes, her enormous love. I’d grow things. I’d try not to set them on fire. I’d take in all of Granny that I could, all the magic, the stories, the laughter, all the Rose of her, and the Red. That way, when she did die, I’d still have everything she was inside of me. She’d stay alive in me, and after I was gone, I’d stay alive through others, and we’d never really go away. We’d just all grow together, like a forest, like the world, changing seasons and living on and on and on.

  THE END

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  When I was five or six, my grandmother sat my siblings and me on the couch in her formal living room and told us she had cancer. “I could die,” she said, “so I really want you to appreciate me while you have the chance.” I couldn’t fully process what she was saying. Death was still a very abstract idea to me. All I knew was that it was a big deal.

  Decades later, I look back at that experience as a prime example of my grandmother’s flair for drama. My grandmother did not die of cancer. She went on to live another twenty-five years, and I came to know and appreciate her very well. In her last years of life, I had the privilege of going to her home once a week and recording her life stories. She was an extremely interesting person, a singer and actress, and very beautiful. She loved to show everyone old photographs of herself in costumes and ball gowns. “Wasn’t I gorgeous!” she would say. Her life had a fairy-tale quality that drew me in. There was adventure and danger, tragedy and beauty, and even a bit of the supernatural.

  When I started writing Red, my grandmother was mostly bedridden. She knew what I was writing and she knew that the character of Red’s granny would be based on her. “Will I be on the cover?” she asked.

  “Probably not.”

  “Well, why not? I’m a main character, aren’t I?” (Far be it from my grandmother to play a supporting role!)

  She continued to pester me, asking me about my progress and when she’d get to read it. I kept putting her off, said it was coming, but the truth was that I was struggling. Though I had a set of characters I found amusing, I couldn’t quite find the main thread of the story—and in the midst of this struggle, my grandmother passed away. Her death somehow awoke me. It pulled everything into focus. I realized that the thing Red loved more than anything in the world was her granny, and the worst thing that could ever happen would be for Granny to die.

  Death is a difficult subject. Whether it happens early or late in life—by natural causes, illness, or accident—its sting is still felt by the survivors. Everyone has a different reaction to it, and everyone has a different idea of what it means. This story was my way of understanding what it means to me. I miss my grandmother, but her life and death have made me feel the essence of something bigger than myself, a connection to everyone and everything. Though my grandmother never read this story, I could not have written it without her. Every day I still feel her beauty, hilarity, and love, because it’s all part of me.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many thanks to my editor, Katherine Harrison. We’ve grown together over these past three books, and you’ve become an integral part of my creative process. Thanks to my agent, Michelle Andelman, always the steady voice of reason. Your enthusiasm, expertise, and support have been a lifeline in my early career.

  Thanks to Janet Wygal, Artie Bennett, and the entire editorial team. You guys are like the friends that let me know when I have spinach in my teeth. I’m a mess without you!

  To my trusty friends and beta readers—Krista Van Dolzer, Peggy Eddleman, Jenilyn Tolley, and Janet Leftley—thank you for reading rough versions that I’m sure were less than thrilling, but you’ve all given me such incredible insight and encouragement.

  To my kids—Whitney, Ty, and Topher—I love how much pride you take in your mom’s work. May it always be so, and may you all find such satisfaction in your own life adventures.

  And to Scott, love of my life, best friend in the world, each book I write has a bit of you sprinkled throughout. They’re usually the best parts.