In Sleeping Beauty's Bed

by Mitzi Szereto

  Or, to those with whom she was on more intimate terms: Red.

  Now it so happened that Red adored her elderly relative, therefore she made no protest when called upon by her mother to deliver some teacakes and a pot of strawberry jam to the old woman, who had been feeling poorly and could not leave her sickbed. “Now, set out before the sun grows too hot,” came the maternal warning. “And mind not to stray from the path, as thou might suffer a mischief.” Of course the dutiful daughter promised to do just as her mother said, although she could not for the life of her imagine what sort of mischief could possibly befall her upon such a fine spring morn. However, the mother knew her offspring far better than her mildly creased brow indicated; residing in a village, it usually proved difficult to keep one’s activities a secret.

  Grandmother lived in a tiny, shingled cottage set in the middle of a vast woodland, a fair distance from the bustling village of her granddaughter. Armed with her precious gifts, which would be certain to add cheer to the convalescing woman’s day, Little Red Riding Hood sallied happily forth on her journey. The distance and the isolation did not for a moment concern her. She liked taking solitary strolls along the periphery of the wood, although she had never ventured out this far all on her own. Yet it seemed like such a grand day to be strolling among the invigorating scents of pine and rain-soaked earth that any dangers awaiting her would surely be minimal. Besides, Red had heard that the wood contained handsome young huntsmen and thought it might be of benefit to ascertain the truth of this claim, since those of the local variety were already familiar to her. Many a time did she go skipping by the village tavern in hopes of meeting one of its rugged patrons, her red-hooded presence in the vicinity inspiring considerable gossip, which undoubtedly accounted for this sudden dispatch to Grandmother’s. Indeed, Red had become very well known in huntsmen’s circles.

  Just as she would likewise become well known in other circles…. Despite the fact that she had no legitimate business in the vicinity, Red frequently made a point of passing a busy construction site located down by the docks on the east end of the village—a place notorious for its unsavory activities and equally unsavory characters, several of whom appeared to have been hired as laborers. These men worked outdoors in the open, balancing precariously upon planks of wood as they slathered mortar onto bricks and joined them together to form sections of wall. Beads of sweat glistened like diamonds on their sun-bronzed flesh. They had stripped down to their dungarees in the heat of their labors, exposing their naked chests and backs to onlookers. The pretty, red-hooded presence of Little Red Riding Hood was most inconsistent with these rough and grubby surroundings, to say nothing of attracting the kind of attention on which her mother would likely have frowned. For each time she approached the brick-strewn rubble of the construction site, the workers called down to her in greeting: “Oy, Red—show us yer hood!” Whereupon they grabbed hold of the bulges at the front of their sweat-stained dungarees, shaking them about as they blew her a noisy kiss. In response, the beneficiary of this friendly salutation twirled merrily about, leaving her sweaty admirers with the memory of a forbidden flash of skirts…and what had lain beneath.

  As the hooded lass made her carefree way along the woodland path toward Grandmother’s cottage, the wind of a departing wintertime set the hem of her garments aflutter. Giggling good-naturedly, she smoothed her skirts back down to rest flatly and neatly against her hips, only to be forced to repeat the process again and again with each successive gust until she ultimately abandoned her efforts. For who was there to take heed? Red quite enjoyed the stimulating sensation of winter’s cold breath swirling about the bare flesh of her thighs and nether regions. To derive the maximum benefit possible, she hitched up her dirndl skirt and ruffled pinafore to better appreciate what the season had to offer, fully aware that by doing so she was providing the casual observer with amusements of an altogether different nature. Indeed, Little Red Riding Hood took tremendous delight in displaying what others may have regarded as shameful.

  Beneath her cherished hood, Red’s face glowed with all the luminosity of a full moon, her eyes a sparkling set of perfectly matched gemstones against the surrounding mantle of red velvet. Several wisps of springy yellow curls escaped to frame her face. Rather than tucking them back up underneath the hood as modesty would have advised, she allowed them to have their freedom. How wonderful it felt to suddenly be unburdened by the opinions of others! Creatures both great and small emerged to watch this blithe damsel as she passed, hanging precariously from the branches of trees or scuttering up from holes dug into the winter-encrusted earth. Perhaps it was to be expected that this spirited bearer of gifts should come to the attention of the local wolf, who made it his vocation to be conversant with the business of the wood.

  Having never before made the creature’s acquaintance, Red had no knowledge of the wickedness of his character and his cunning lupine ways. Therefore, when he stepped boldly out from behind the frosted trunk of a fir, she experienced neither fear nor distrust. “Good day, my pretty one,” the wolf greeted, his grin framing sharp yellow teeth whose greatest desire was to sample the supple young flesh he had seen parading with such insouciance through the shadowy woodland.

  “And good day unto thee, kind sir,” answered Little Red Riding Hood with an amiable nod. She had always been told by her mother to demonstrate the utmost in politeness in her dealings with others, even if those others might only be strangers. Of late, though, her mother had been given much cause to regret such counsel—if the village gossips were to be believed. Since Red had no reason to be wary of this pitifully unprepossessing creature whose intentions seemed merely to while away a few dull moments of the morning engaging in carefree banter, she acted in the manner most natural to her.

  “And where art thou off to on so fine a day?” inquired the wolf, his sanguineous eyes gleaming with an unwholesomeness far beyond the worst imaginings of the mother of his chitchat partner.

  “I am going to visit my gran, who is feeling poorly and hath not the strength to leave her bed.”

  “Indeed…” mused this hirsute busybody of the woodland, his broad grin never once wavering. A trickle of saliva had begun to make an escape from his darkly furred mouth, and a carmine tongue darted forth to collect it before it could cause offense. “And where might she live, thine old granny?”

  “In a cottage ringed by hazel bushes and situated beneath three large oak trees. It is the only dwelling in the whole wood.” Red stated this with pride, as if the old woman’s isolation were a thing of status.

  The wolf nodded thoughtfully, scarcely able to contain his mounting excitement. “Pray, may one be so presumptuous as to inquire what treasures thou hast got hidden there?” For the hooded lass appeared to be in the process of transporting a receptacle of some sort. With any luck, it might contain something tasty to eat. The poor wolf was growing quite weary of a diet of small animals and the occasional bit of gristle procured from a woodland neighbor’s leftovers.

  Deliberately misinterpreting the object of the inquisitive creature’s interest—for she could never resist an opportunity to flaunt herself—Red raised up the hems of her skirts and pinafore, revealing to a vigilant pair of eyes a little cherry. It had been the source of great pleasure as she went skipping along the earthen pathway with her garments aflutter, just as it had been when she twirled about for the bricklayers at the construction site, each of whom had been most effusive in his praise. It boasted a hood of the same shade of red as the one she wore upon her head, and as the gift-bearing granddaughter stood indulgently before the wolf, a gust of wind inspired this velvety sheath to flutter festively in the breeze. All at once the sinewy legs of the beast threatened to give way beneath his weight. This must be the hooded lass of whom he had heard all the huntsmen speak. And she had just revealed to him a treat for which his discontented palate had been desperately longing.

  A fruit of unparalleled glossiness sprouted forth from a downy vale, its plump contours bur
sting with a succulent sweetness that caused its beholder to sway in drunken delirium. This lone harvest had reached the perfect pinnacle of ripeness, all but demanding to be plucked and, indeed, consumed. This pretty maiden shall provide me with a very choice morsel, mused the creature with an impassioned shudder. Yet perchance if I am clever, I might also manage to secure a somewhat less tender bill of fare to help remove the edge from my appetite. For in having just set his lupine sights upon Grandmother, the greedy beast planned to save the juicy tidbit before him for dessert. “My, what a nice little hood thou hast there,” remarked its furry admirer in a strangled tone, the unwavering direction of his stare clearly indicative of which hood he meant. “Wherever did its charming owner manage to acquire it?”

  “Forsooth, I cannot say. For it has always been there whenever I look beneath my skirts.”

  Aye, it shall not be there for long! the wolf snickered inwardly, an image of the blue-eyed damsel staring up her skirts and discovering a vacancy in this once-fertile dell giving him even more to chortle about.

  Red coughed as if trying to free something from her throat, her patience with the beast wearing dangerously thin. “Sir, hast thou perchance spied any young huntsmen about?” she interrogated, hoping this unprepossessing creature might actually be of some use to her. After all, she had better things to do than pass the time holding up her skirts for silly wolves. She needed to make the obligatory visit to Grandmother, then get on with the real business of the day.

  “Huntsmen? Nay, there are no huntsmen in this wood,” lied the wolf, in whose best interest it was to avoid such bloodthirsty individuals in the first place. Putting forth a courtly bow, he accompanied Little Red Riding Hood through the wood, pointing out all the colorful flowers that had turned their faces toward the slanted rays of the sun. “Perhaps thine old granny might like a nosegay,” he suggested, his motive being to delay the granddaughter’s arrival at the old woman’s cottage, which would grant him the running start he required.

  Red gazed all around her, the melodic singing of birds and the busy buzzing of bees seeming to encourage her in this pursuit. Why, a cheerful bunch of blooms sounded the very cure for her ailing relation. Perhaps she might even locate a blossom whose narcoleptic petals could be brewed into a tea, thereby sending the old woman to sleep, at which time her gift-bearing granddaughter could make her escape. For indeed, Red had no wish to listen to laments of aching joints and failing eyes when there might be handsome young huntsmen about.

  With this in mind, the dutiful daughter disobeyed her mother’s strict instructions, leaving behind the wolf and the earthen pathway so that she could set about collecting the most perfect and beauteous of blossoms. With each stem she pulled from the earth, yet another floral specimen of greater beauty sprang up within her line of vision, drawing her deeper and deeper into the wood and farther and farther away from the path that would have taken her to Grandmother. To keep her skirts and pinafore from getting soiled, Red tucked them up out of the way, which would also prove advantageous in the event a huntsman might be passing, since she did not entirely believe the wolf’s protestations to the contrary.

  Meanwhile, the crafty creature dispatched himself with lightning swiftness to the tiny, shingled cottage surrounded by its hedge of hazel bushes and sheltered beneath three large oaks. Indeed, Grandmother’s residence was impossible to miss. Aside from being the only dwelling for leagues around, the eaves of the cottage had been strung with lanterns that blazed both day and night, serving as beacons for those who passed. As the wolf knocked with false familiarity upon the front door, he wondered what kind of foolish old woman bothered with outdoor lighting in the middle of a sunny day, especially in such a low-crime area.

  “Who goes there?” came a creaky voice from inside.

  The wolf cleared his throat in readiness to reply, only to be interrupted before he could do so.

  “Art thou a huntsman?” The voice sounded slightly stronger the second time, the note of hope in it unmistakable. It was followed by a clamorous clattering and clanging, as if the occupant of the cottage was in the midst of preparing for an unexpected visitor.

  The wolf shook his furry head in amusement, for it appeared that the old woman possessed the same aspirations as her lively granddaughter. Of course he had no way of knowing that Grandmother had in her youth worked in a bawdy house on the south bank of the village docks—an establishment heavily frequented by huntsmen. It was in these very surroundings that the fertile seed of some nameless huntsman had caused her to beget Little Red Riding Hood’s mother, a fact that probably accounted for the latter’s concerned vigilance for her red-hooded daughter.

  “’Tis I, Little Red Riding Hood,” answered the wolf in the lilting soprano of the young lass he had met in the wood. “I have brought some nice teacakes and a pot of tasty strawberry jam.”

  The clamor inside the cottage abruptly ceased, only to be replaced by a deep sigh. “Alas, I am far too ill to greet thee properly. Pray, lift up on the latch and come hither,” instructed Grandmother from her sickbed of pink satin, a ragged cough setting her ancient bones to rattling within their cage of withered flesh. Before she could haul herself up into a sitting position, a monstrous figure of fur loomed over her. Fortunately a pair of clouded eyes saved the ailing woman from the horror that would within moments befall her.

  The wolf soon made himself comfortable upon the slippery, satin-covered mattress, adjusting the unfamiliar garments of his most recent repast on his oversized limbs. He placed Grandmother’s floppy nightcap atop his large head, taking care to tuck his ears beneath it. Because of their pointy nature, they sprang right back out again, and any further attempts to camouflage them were subsequently abandoned. Thusly settled, the sly creature pulled closed the bed curtains, sealing off both himself and the bed in a cozy cocoon of chiffon.

  Unable to locate any blossoms whose petals might send Grandmother into an expeditious slumber, Little Red Riding Hood made her way back to the footpath leading to the cottage, resigned to an afternoon of listening to the old woman croak out a detailed description of each malady. Upon arriving, she discovered the front door standing wide open and the interior of the tiny cottage silent save for the sound of heavy breathing. “Hello!” she called cheerfully, receiving no response. Perhaps Grandmother was sleeping and had not heard her young visitor arrive, in which case Red could leave behind her gifts and beat a hasty retreat.

  Placing her burdens upon the bedside table alongside the cup used to hold the old woman’s teeth, Little Red Riding Hood carefully drew back the wispy curtains enclosing the bed so as not to disturb her relative. Rather than snoring peacefully, Grandmother lay in a slothful sprawl against the pink-satin sheets with her garments all askew, a salacious expression distorting her bristled face. Never had the granddaughter seen the old woman in such a state, and she wondered if her elderly relation might have taken to ingesting some of the strange mushrooms one often stumbled upon in the wood. “Why, Grandmother, what big ears thou hast!” Red cried in astonishment, for they stuck up most uncharacteristically.

  “All the better to hear thee with,” came the cackling reply, the bloodshot eyes beneath the nightcap widening as the red-hooded visitor moved closer.

  “Why, Grandmother, what big eyes thou hast!”

  “All the better to see thee with,” the wolf replied with a suggestive wink, his ungrandmotherly paws fluttering in a flurry of palsy at his sides.

  “Why, Grandmother, what big hands thou hast!”

  “All the better to hug thee with,” croaked the disheveled figure in the bed, reaching out with false affection toward Little Red Riding Hood, the pink-satin duvet working its way downward toward this sly impostor’s furry haunches. A furious thumping had begun against his partially sated belly, its point of origin growing larger and larger at the thought of what lay beneath the pretty granddaughter’s skirts.

  “Why, Grandmother, what a portly member thou hast!” squealed Red. For the great hairy thing writhing
and wriggling before her bore scant resemblance to the sleek specimens belonging to the handsome young huntsmen from the village. She wondered whether this might be characteristic of those who lived in the wood—in which case she would henceforward confine her activities to the village!

  The wolf thrust his lap lewdly upward. “All the better to fuck thee with,” he growled, his tongue darting in and out of his salivating maw.

  Such unseemly language and gestures were not at all what Red expected from a sickly old woman. In fact, up until this moment they had only been directed toward her by the sweaty bricklayers down at the docks. However, she soon realized that there was something else very much out of the ordinary about her aged relative. “Why, Grandmother, what a big mouth thou hast!”

  Now this was what the cunning beast had been waiting for. He sprang forth from Grandmother’s satin-covered sickbed, hurling Little Red Riding Hood to the floor and swallowing in all its flavorful and hooded entirety the savory morsel that had been the cause of so much pleasant rumination on this fine day. To his delight, it had grown even riper since morning, and his carmine tongue fed greedily upon the sweet juices flowing abundantly out from beneath where it sprouted. How wise he had been to save this delicacy for dessert!

  Once the wolf’s hunger had finally been appeased, he returned to Grandmother’s bed for a much-needed rest, his satisfied snores shaking the cottage walls and dislodging several shingles from the roof. He would sleep so soundly that he failed to hear the approaching footsteps of a huntsman.