by Cameron Jace
“That’s true. There was a Ladle in my last sentence.” He said.
Even though he looked friendly, I still didn’t trust him. Too many scary things happened today. I decided I am not coming closer.
“So what language is that?” I asked.
“Anguish Language.” He said proudly.
“Anguish what?”
“Anguish Language,” He pointed at the book he was reading with his finger. “It’s another way of saying English Language.”
“What?”
“Let me read to you,” He opened the book. “Wants pawn term—“
“Wait. Wants pawn term? What is that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t you get it?” His boyish eyes gleamed with enthusiasm. “It means: Once upon a time.”
“It surely sounds like it, but the words don’t make sense.”
“That’s the point,” He said. “It’s a secret language without actually being a secret language. It’s genius. Listen to this,” He started reading again. “Wants pawn term, dare worsted ladle gull—“
“Stop. Are you saying that what you just said should read: Once upon a time, there was a little girl?”
“See. You’re starting to get it.” He smiled.
“That’s an amazing language.” I said. If I taught this to my animal friends, we could have our real secret language.
“I know,” He said, sounding a little arrogant. “The best thing about it is that each word in the Anguish Language is English, but when you put the words together they don’t make any sense, unless you listen carefully.”
“So ladle means little?” I was a little girl in size, indeed.
“It doesn’t quite mean it since both words have different meanings, but they sound alike when used in the secret language. Can you see the magic of this? You and I could walk for hours without anyone understanding us.”
“Please continue.”
“Wants pawn term, dare worsted ladle gull hoe life witter murder inner ladle cordage.”
“Amazing,” I clapped my hands, forgetting about the wolves. “Once upon a time, there was a little girl who lived with her little mother in a little cottage. Is that right?”
“Indeed.”
“So murder sounds like mother?”
“Yes.”
”Creepy,” I giggled. “But wait, this story is strange. It sounds like me. I am a little girl who lives in a cottage with my mother.”
“Could be anyone,” He waved his hand. “You think the world evolved only around you?”
“You’re right. I am just being silly.”
“Besides you don’t wear a red hood. The book describes the girl as Ladle Rat Rotten Hut.”
“Wait. Don’t translate it for me,” Closing my eyes, I tried to translate it into English. “You mean: Little Red Riding Hood?”
“See? You might be little, and your mom calls you Ladle – because you’re little – but you are not wearing a red hood.”
“I wanted to,” I said, remembering my mother’s double-faced hood, secretly tucked in her drawer. “But my mother didn’t allow me.”
“And I assume you know why.” He asked.
“Yes. Yes. I know. Red is the forbidden color. Everybody’s been telling me this today.” I said impatiently.
“But do you know why it is forbidden?”
“Not again,” I sighed. “I heard a million reasons. Vampires, evil creatures, wolves.”
“None of that is true.” He shook his shoulders.
“So what is it?”
“If you come closer, I will tell you.” He teased me with his lovely eyes.
I shrugged. The boy looked harmless, but finding him here all alone, reading in a hammock, didn’t make sense. Your mother warned you about talking to strangers, Ladle. Remember? And you have a job to do.
Finally, I shook my head. No. I wasn’t going to come closer.
“Just one step forward,” He teased again. “It’s worth it. I am going to tell you a great secret.”
Reluctantly, I took a step forward. The boy was charming. It’s just a step. What could happen?
“Happy?” I said.
“A little.” He smiled. It was an undecipherable smile.
“So why is red forbidden?”
“Because it is the color of death.” He whispered.
“You mean that it is the color of blood, so it resembles…” I couldn’t say the word death. Somehow, it was so heavy on my tongue.
“No. I mean Death as in death itself.” He lowered his voice, sounding cautious and creepy.
“You’re talking as if this death is a person.”
“Not really a person, but a demon that can look like humans whenever it wants to.” He whispered again, looking around suspiciously. “And it walks around in the forest every day, wearing a red hood.”
“So that is why the color red is prohibited? This doesn’t sound like what everyone has been telling me.”
“Because they don’t know the truth. Death walks around wearing a red hood, holding a scythe that it uses to kill with. You know what a scythe is, don’t you?” The way he whispered the words with caution sent shivers down my spine.
Of course, I knew what a scythe is, but I said, “No. What’s a scythe?”
“A cutting tool, made of wood and a blade at the top. Some people chop trees with it.”
“Oh,” I said with open eyes. “Those? We have those in our garden. We have many actually.”
“Everyone does, but they used it to chop trees. Death uses it to chop heads off.”
“So Death stands out. Imagine a world without the color red. Whatever is red will be exposed, and maybe, just maybe, we can avoid it, and maybe kill it, and then no one ever dies.”
Thinking about the boy’s theory, it made sense. But I didn’t want to talk about it, because everything the boy said reminded me of my mother.
“Can I ask you a question?” I said.
“In Anguish Language?” He rose an eyebrow.
“No. Are wolves evil?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On many things. And you know why? Because evil is a point of view.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean little children fear the forest because of the wolves. To them, wolves are evil. And wolves fear Death. They think it is evil. A worm thinks a sheep is evil, because it eats it. A sheep thinks wolves are evil because they eat it. You get the picture. What is a threat to you is considered evil to you. Nothing is absolutely evil.”
As I listened to him, I kept thinking about my mother. I was thinking about her travels to forest every day, why she owned so many scythes, and that she kept a double-faced hood that was red on one side. Was it possible that Death was my mother? Was that her job that brought bread to the table?
The cloth covering the basket slipped to a soft breeze. Once the boy saw the cakes and the wine, something changed about him. I swear I saw the hunger in his eyes, his tongue dangling like an animal as he stared at the cakes.
“Are you hungry?” I wondered.
“I love cakes,” He dropped the book and rubbed his hands, his eyes lingering on the basket. “I love cakes so much.”
Wow. I had the feeling he was about to sing to the cakes.
“When I really get hungry,” He talked as if daydreaming. “I go visit the cemetery to eat the sweetest cake and drink the best wine. It’s so delicious.”
“Cemetery?” I started to worry. His hunger was unusual. It’s as if cakes could make him grow taller or something.
“Don’t you know that you can find the best cake and wine in the cemeteries?” Finally, he looked up at me.
“How so?”
“Most people bring cakes and wine along when visiting their dearly departed,” He explained. “Everybody knows that. It’s an old tradition. Thanks to the Roman civilization.”
I wasn’t going to ask who the Romans were. I didn’t want him to notice that I hadn’t been out for years.
But it was interesting that wine and cakes were brought to the dead as an offering or something. My suspicions about my mother grew stronger.
“So can I get a cake?” The boy drooled.
“I am sorry,” I said. “I can’t. They are my granma’s. I lost some of it already on the way, and I should be going, or I’ll be late. She lives in the forest.”
“Your grandmother lives in the forest?” The boy rubbed his chin.
“What’s strange about that?”
“I don’t know. But it is just strange. When was the last time you saw her?”
“Hmm…About ten years ago. She used to live with us, but I don’t really remember much about her.”
“The forest is big. You could easily get lost. And who knows, Death could find you.”
“I am not afraid of—“ Again, I couldn’t say it. “Not even of the wolves.”
“Nobody’s afraid of the wolves. They’re just cute creatures—“
“Wow. You think so?” I giggled. “Actually, it did cross my mind how beautiful they are. Their hair and their eyes, and the swift and fast ways they run. I like it.”
“I am glad we share the same opinion about them. Everyone thinks otherwise, not knowing that the wolves are the victims, and that the real danger in the forest is Death, which the wolves are afraid of. But still, you might get lost.”
“Don’t worry. I have a map.”
“Oh,” His eyes glittered. “But how is a map in the forest of any use? What does it say? Walk five steps to the apple tree, and three steps to the next mushroom? Or does it say, wait for the cloud in the sky that looks like a sheep, and then take a right from there.”
I laughed. “In the beginning it said something like that, but now that I came closer, it says to follow the breadcrumbs.”
“Did you find the breadcrumbs?”
“No. That’s why I have to get going.”
“It’s so sad. I just thought I made a friend in this lonely forest.”
Making friends was my weak spot. If I didn’t have to visit granma, we could have played the Anguish Language game. “Listen, I won’t be late,” I said. “If you wait for me here, I meet you again on my way back.”
“Really?” He almost jumped in place. “That would be fantabulous.”
“I think it’s fabulous,” I said. The Anguish Language messed with his language. “And to prove to you that we’re good friends, here is a piece of cake.” I walked closer to him, and stretched out my hand with a cake.
The boy looked at the cake on the palm of my hand with glowing eyes, which turned a little yellow. “Hmm,” He licked his red tongue, and started eating from the palm of my hand. “I love cakes.”
I couldn’t see his eyes when he was eating like an animal, licking the cake off my hand. His tongue felt strange, rough like a cat’s tongue. Not like the tongue of—
Oh. My. God.
I stepped back suddenly as he rose his head. His eyes were slitted and yellow. Hair grew on his hands. His body grew bigger, and arched as if he were in pain, ripping the cloth open as he growled at me.
He was a werewolf.
“Yum. Yum. Yum.” He said, licking his lips, saliva drooling out.
Instantly, I ran away in the snow, looking for a place to hide. There was nothing here but vast amounts of white and some dark trees.
Run. Run. Run.
I heard him panting behind me, and from his shadow, I knew that he was growing bigger and bigger.
I was just a fool. He played me with all this talk about Death while he was the evil one in the forest. Where should I go? What should I do?
I stumbled over an uneven part of the snow. It sloped up enough for me to hide in it. I remembered when I used to hide from my mother inside in the snow when I was a kid.
Shuddering to the approaching voice of the wolf, I dug a hole in the snow, just like rabbits and cats. I dug deeper and faster with my hands, then slid into it and hid inside. I buried the basket before I pulled down the white hood. I was thankful that I didn’t spill the red wine on myself to scare the wolves in the carriage. There was no way I could hide in the snow if my hood was soaked in red.
I held my breath.
The wolf came running, but decided to stop two feet away from me. Did it smell me? Or did smell the cakes?
It started sniff-sniff-sniffing. My heart poun-poun-pounding.
As it walked slowly, inspecting the area with its yellow piercing eyes, I wondered how long I was able to hold my breath. It didn’t bother me at all. How did have such a gift?
The wolf padded right over me, not noticing me. I was about to scream, but I didn’t.
Lurking around, the wolf seemed to believe that I was nearby somewhere, but it couldn’t figure out where. Then it stopped in place, and started shivering.
Squinting, I could see very little from under the hood. The wolf stood in front of something – or someone – I couldn’t see. It’s started to moan like a cat, brushing its chin against the snow. What was it afraid of?
The wolf turned around and ran away. Far away into the dark.
I rose out of my hiding place, cautiously making sure it was gone. I grabbed the basket and padded the snow away.
Walking toward the spot where the wolf stood, I saw nothing.
What was it scared of?
Wait. There was something. It wasn’t what I had in mind though. I saw a scythe, half-buried in the snow. This was one of my mother’s scythes.
I found myself stumbling back in horror. This meant that Death was nearby. He – or she – must have lost its scythe on the way. Maybe it’s taking a nap somewhere before chopping someone’s head off.
And I didn’t want to say chop-chop-chop in my happy and perky way. I was so scared. If the werewolf was afraid, why wouldn’t I? After all, I knew now why the wolves at my window ran away when I spilled the red wine on my hood. They weren’t just afraid of the color red. They were afraid of Death.
Then, another thought hit me. I found myself calling for my mother in the middle of the forest. If my mother was Death, chopping off heads in the forest, I didn’t think she would kill her own daughter.
The conclusion drew a smile on my face, “Mother?” I rose an eyebrow, looking around, feeling the sweet taste of the word on my mouth. “Are you around? It’s me, Ladle. It’s ok if you’re Death. I still love you.”
Wake up, Ladle. Don’t be a fool. If she didn’t mean to hurt you, why did she send you to the forest? She kills in the forest.
“Mother?” I said again, breathing out rings of vapor, sticking to the air. This time, the word tasted bitter and unsure on my tongue.
Stand up, Ladle. You know you’re stronger than that.
It seemed like there was another Ladle in my head, talking to me. One that was much stronger and determined. I liked her better than I liked myself, and gave in to her calling. Standing up, I walked to the scythe and picked it up, noticing that there were many scythes buried beneath the snow.
Was that where Death stored its weapons?
I didn’t care. I came here to complete a task my mother asked of me. Whether she was Death or not, I wasn't going to let her down. And I wasn't going to let my granma down. I will find her house, and I will bring her the basket of wine and cakes.
“You hear that?” I talked to a squirrel on a tree. “I can do this. It’s just a basket of cake and wine.” I told it, holding the basket in my hand, and the scythe in the other, looking determined and powerful.
The squirrel looked up from a nut in its hands, and nodded. “You can do it. I know you can,” It squeaked. “Good luck. Now hit the road, and stop making noises. We want to sleep.”
And I did.
I walked with the basket, white hood, and the scythe, looking for the way to granma’s house. It was a little too easy how I suddenly found a trail of breadcrumbs, and followed it.
Step by step, I reached my granma’s house, and what a lovely house that was.
The house was made of Gingerbread and cake
s with windowpanes of clear sugar. It shone like a crystal in the middle of the snow. It varied in color from pink, yellow, and brown, making me want to celebrate something. How was such a beautiful house so far away into the woods?
My mouth melted. I wanted to eat the house.
Stop it, Ladle. You’re a polite, girl. These are only manners of wolves, and you’re no wolf.
“But if my granma’s house is made of cakes, why am I sending her cakes?” I muttered to myself at the doorstep.
It wasn’t important. I was sure if I give her the basket, she would let me nibble on the house a little. It’s not like it will fall apart from a little nibbling.
“Knock. Knock. Knock.” I said, instead of actually knocking.
“Who's there?” A thick voice asked.
“It’s your granddaughter, granma,” I said proudly. “I brought you cake and wine, sent from my mother.”
“My granddaughter?” She asked behind the door.
“Yeah, granma. It’s me. Don’t you remember me?”
“Of course, I remember you darling,” Granma coughed. Her voice was strange as if she just swallowed a crow. “Come in, for I am ill my bed. The door is open.”
Oh. Grnama was ill. That must be why the Tree of Life told us to bring her cakes and wine. I pushed the door open.
There was this loud voice of an oven boiling somewhere in the house, but that wasn’t important. Granma’s bed was right in front of me. I saw her tucked in it, covering most of her head with a blanket like I did when I was alone the house. She must have been scared of the wolves like me. I wanted to tell her that all she had to do was to soak her blanket in wine, but maybe later.
Discreetly, I put the scythe aside so I didn’t scare her, and I approached the bed. I couldn’t see her features from under the blanket, but I wondered why her hands were hairy and brownish. She must’ve been really ill.
“Why is your voice so strange, granma?” I asked, reluctant to approach.
“The illness, darling. It got the best of me.”
“And why do you have hairy hands?”
“It’s a symptom of aging. When you grow old like me, you’ll know.” She said.
“Hmm.” I sighed, annoyed by the sound of the boiling oven. Where did that come from? It sounded like the old oven she had left behind in our house many years ago.
