The filth and horror can never be removed from the child, more’s the pity. Death would have wiped the slate clean, however it is not for us to know why she survived when compassion would have sent her to a better place.
At that, the trial attorneys exchanged looks I did not understand. Something had changed, but I knew not what. They thanked the old woman for her advice. Before we departed, she handed me a basket containing a loaf of bread, a jar of apple butter and a sharp knife.
The walk home to our den was long. Along the way the trial attorneys talked about the hunters for one last time, as if the tale belonged to them now. It was all very sad, they said, a tragedy the things that had happened to me. It wasn’t fair, but it wasn’t their fault. They’d done their part, put a roof over my head and clothed me, but I’d shown no appreciation. They could not understand my shameful aggression in the face of their kindness.
Next followed a recounting of my many failings—a lengthy list by any measure. (I’ll not bore you with it now, however, feel free to take a break to jot down relevant items as they occur to you. Brainstorm, if you wish. Have fun. No matter what you come up with, I’m certain the items on your list will be similar to what I heard that night.) They said more things, a torrent of words that rushed over the tromping of their big feet and the swish of their bushy tails and the clacking of their fearsome teeth.
In summation, the trial attorneys were hurt and disappointed by my attitude along with the whole being difficult part, which led them to their final point that it was my fault for allowing myself to have been taken in the first place. This fact brought them to the most important truth: the safety of others must be assured. It was their solemn duty to protect others from me.
Granny herself couldn’t have tied it up with a neater bow.
When we reached the den, I returned to my small room. There we completed our last conversation where they said the surest solution was always the simplest one. Thinking too much inevitably led to complexity (which was always trouble), and trouble was the one thing they could not tolerate. It was the very reason they’d abandoned their careers in the city. Trouble must, above all things, be avoided, and that is how it happened.
A shove on the shoulder, the swing of the door, a snip of the latch and it was done.
They locked me up.
For my own good.
I pounded on the door and yelled loud and long to no avail. At length they sent an emissary, a hapless junior partner who commanded me to stop causing trouble or else I would be Sent Away. Think on that, young lady.
As it turned out, I had a lot of time to think.
Years later I learned that some in the pack had argued for me to be sent away because the old woman said I needed professional help. This is why most of the Red stories start with Granny sending the girl into the forest. It is also why I have never trusted storytellers. The only reason to start the story there is if you think that old bitch had a point.
What she had was an agenda. Why do you think she gave me the knife?
To the credit or damnation of the trial attorneys, they did not send me away. I am not certain now from the vantage point of age which choice would have been better: being locked up or sent away to parts unknown. At the time, the mere mention of being sent away terrified me. I knew only too well what happened. I also did not ask for clarification because I’d learned that words were useless things—excuses, wishes, hopes, and sometimes promises—the stuff of stories.
And what was the point of a story? I’d told the old woman the truth and look where that had gotten me. The only way to make a point was with my fists and my feet, but now even that choice had been eliminated.
By now you must have realized that my truth, my story, is nothing like the familiar version. Girl, cape, basket, woods, wolf. Perhaps you’d prefer it if I made Granny into a kindly old thing? Or shall we transform her into a wily and clever woman? (Dream on.) Perhaps you’d like my story if I turned it into an action-adventure thriller where I picked the lock and escaped. Or how I disguised myself as a wolf…
I do not trust stories. For me, all memory begins in the dark, in the woods.
Here’s the truth: I dreamed in my little bed while locked in my little room inside the wolf den. Dreams that helped me pass the time while the trial attorneys held the threat of exile over my head like an axe strung from an exceedingly thin thread. It was for a good cause, they said, so I would stop fighting and learn to be good and behave. It meant be quiet, don’t talk, don’t cause trouble, and above all, never, ever tell anyone what you did in the woods.
Not what the hunters had done.
What I had done. Things so bad they must never be spoken aloud, let alone remembered. A story so terrible the very telling of it became a weapon that might harm others. Like the knife that rested in my basket.
But I was still Red, and Red’s story was my story. It was the only story that mattered, and it was the only story I could never tell. From this knot there was no escape.
Alone in my room, I tried to forget, but it wasn’t easy. I pushed the memories away, but every night they rushed back in. In my dreams I fought back, but the hunters always came for me. Over and over. I ran and they caught me, overwhelmed me with their cruel strength until everything went mercifully black.
Then it would start. All. Over. Again.
This was how I did my time. Some people call it childhood. I watched endless hours of television until the shows and characters blurred one into the other because I feared sleep and the evil that rolled along behind.
When I’d lain awake for days, my body tight as a prowling wolf, an unseen door opened in my mind. From it came a little girl who looked remarkably like the three-year-old I’d been, once upon a time. Her feet were bare and bloody and a dog collar hung about her waist. She carried the basket to me, pulled away the red checked cloth. We both stared at the long and wicked knife. We both knew why the old woman had put it there in the first place and what was expected of me.
Still, I could not behave.
But I found a use for the knife, certainly not what Granny had intended and not as final, at any rate. I used it to chop up my memories into tiny bits. When I was done, I folded the knife carefully in the cloth and slept. I did not wake up for a long time.
When my keeper finally opened my little door, I emerged a pale and quiet girl who never fought and rarely spoke. The trial attorneys were pleased with the result. Their solution had worked.
What remained of my childhood was spent alone. It wasn’t so bad because I wasn’t outdoors in the rain and there were no hunters about in those days. The cave was clean and dry. I had a television and a lot of books. I was allowed out for meals and to go to school. I didn’t have many friends because the other kids were afraid of the trial attorneys, and I didn’t have much experience relating to people outside of books or a good fight. I kept my nails sharp.
About the time I was supposed to graduate from high school, the trial attorneys’ worst fear came true: a hunter came for me. He was a boy instead of a man. When he walked out of the dark woods he looked like any other hunter because he carried an axe, long and wicked looking with a red handle. No one particularly noticed the axe. What interested them was that he also carried a notebook, which meant he had a plan.
He had something to prove.
He had to kill a girl.
He chose me. I don’t know why.
Over the years, I have wondered if the hunters who took me told the story of the girl who ran, the one they lost. Perhaps in this version of the story, the boy heard it around the campfire and vowed to find the girl who had shamed his elders. Vowed to find her and succeed where the others had failed so long ago.
Perhaps this happened.
Or not.
I will stick to what I know for sure: the day he walked out of the woods there were names scratched in his notebook in blue ink.
The name on the first line of the first page was Red.
The hunter tracked me, and
when the trial attorneys learned of the threat, they promptly left me alone in the remote and lonely cave and waited in hiding for the inevitable. The inevitable took awhile, but hunters are patient.
Since I am here to tell this tale, you have logically assumed the boy hunter failed. That is, you must assume the boy failed if you believe I’m telling the truth because I cannot be, like the poor physicist’s cat both dead and alive at the same time. I cannot be Red and not-Red. It must be one or the other. The two ideas fit together like a hand to an axe.
One evening I returned home from school and found the hunter waiting for me. I ran, but he was faster. He threw a hood over my head.
Blinded, I stumbled and fell. He scooped me from the ground and threw me over his shoulder and set off at a furious pace. Soon the crunch of boots smashing through the crust of snow gave way to a thump and slide that slowed to a soft, gravelly slide. We had reached the lake with its frozen expanse frosted with delicate layers of fresh snow. His pace slowed even more, and I could feel his body tense as he picked his way across the ice. Fear radiated from his broad back with the stench of unwashed skin.
Fear told me what to do.
When he slid right, I rolled in the same direction, throwing all my weight against his grasp, letting momentum set him off-balance. We lurched sideways. His knees buckled, and I tumbled across the ice. I yanked off the hood, pushed away from the cursing, floundering hunter, scrambling until there was distance between us.
He growled and struck out after me, lean and lethal against the flat white. I was lighter and faster and reached the center where I knew the summertime waters rippled over rocks far below the surface. The lake was deep here, but the current made for thinner ice, thin but strong enough to hold one smallish girl, I hoped.
The hunter was only a boy, but tall for his age with big arms and legs padded with dense muscle. He could not touch me here, not without breaking the ice and plunging to certain death in the dark waters. If that happened, he would take me with him, this was true. Down into the depths, past air and light and all hope of life, into the night tide, but that was a place I knew by touch.
When he stood there stinking of blood and death and roared his fury, it came to me that I should feel pity for him. Some measure of compassion for a boy raised by brutes in the wild. They’d fed him cruel stories and handed him an axe and set him on a course that led to me. There were other stories, more true, if only I could make him believe. Faint hope bloomed that the truth might save me more surely than any blade.
“Have you killed a girl?” I asked.
He took a step and the ice cracked.
Silence then, across the frozen lake. I shoved my hand into my pocket and brought out my knife. If he came close enough for me to strike him, would it matter? We would surely fall through the ice and die together.
“Have you killed a girl?” I asked again, louder this time.
“No,” he said, “but I will this day and in so doing, become a man.”
He took another step and the crack widened.
I held my ground, this act of being cold and quiet something I’d mastered during the long years I spent locked in the den, and called to him, “They told you lies. There are other ways to prove yourself and become strong.”
“Shut up,” he shouted. “I’ll have none of your tales.” And with that, he charged.
The ice gave way, huge jagged shards raking skyward as we fell, sinking into the deep black. The lake swallowed the boy’s dark form. I waited for my mind to go, for the endless cold to steal my breath, for death to take me one last time.
It did not come.
What happened is that hands like claws, bony and hard, gripped my legs and dragged me up and up until my head plowed through wet sand that clogged my nose. When I could breathe again and my body stopped shivering, I scrubbed my eyes. I lay on the floor of a cave. Somewhere nearby, waves crashed against rocks.
“You’ve got about fifteen minutes.” The voice sounded like gravel on sandpaper, sharp and full of acid. Familiar.
I pushed myself upright and stared into the ancient and ruined face of the old woman.
“Fifteen minutes for what?” I asked.
“To decide if you want to live or not.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Don’t be stupid, child.”
You cannot trust her, whispered a voice that might have been inside my head or come from the walls of the cave. You told her your story. You told her the truth and she betrayed you.
“I will not kill myself no matter what you say.”
“Is that what you thought?” She chuckled with cool amusement. “I gave you a weapon, girl.”
“I was a child. What did you expect me to do with it?”
“I expected you to grow and bide your time and learn the strategy of patience.”
I stared at her in the shadows, the mass of frizzy white hair blown wild by the wind and her small, reddened eyes. “What are you?”
She grinned a wolfish smile and her teeth were like sharpened bits of yellowed ivory. “I am the girl who ran.”
I shook my head and backed away from her, a low moan escaping my lips.
She advanced toward me. “I became the woman who went after those who hurt me. I became a hunter. I am the girl who lived.”
“No.”
“I am the girl who fought back. Always.”
She is death, whispered the voice in the cave. She will kill you with the very knife she gave you long ago.
I stood there unable to move, trapped as surely as a rabbit in the hunter’s snare. She is the old woman who betrayed me. She is the woman I might become, a bringer of horror as surely as those who took me into the woods.
“I gave you a knife, a worthy blade, but you became a girl who felt pity for that odious boy who fancied himself a hunter. You might have saved him, pulled him from the water and then where would we be?” Her mouth twisted into a sneer. “You are weak, and I cannot have that.”
I said, “I am not weak. I survived.”
“Because of me. I saved you.”
“And what of it?” I asked. “If we are the same, aren’t you saving yourself?”
“You know nothing of the way the world works,” she said. “The way it slices things and puts them back together in different ways. Choose strength and I’ll let you live and teach you to become a hunter.”
“If I make another choice?”
She smiled, a goofy thing that made me shiver. “Why would you do such a thing? If I wanted you to die, I could have left you in the icy water with the boy.”
The boy. I had forgotten about him.
She’s afraid of the boy, whispered the voice in my mind. She is afraid you might make a different choice than she did.
She rushed toward me then, holding the thick, heavy stick in her hands like an axe, and she came at me. Again, my hand found the blade, but instead of striking her, I let it fall and turned and ran. Her screams followed me into the tide that swept me back into icy waters…
…where the boy’s dead white face floated in the darkness.
With all the fight and fury of the girl who never gave up, I grabbed him, kicked my way to the surface and dragged his leaden body onto the gravel-strewn beach where he gagged and vomited.
There was no sign of the old woman. I found the gnarled length of polished driftwood she’d used for a walking stick not far from the entrance to the cave where a set of footsteps in the sand abruptly stopped. I traced the footsteps back inside the cave until I came to where the knife had fallen, but it was not to be found. It was as if it had vanished with the old woman.
When I came out, the boy’s eyes were open. He stared about him in wonderment. “I was going to kill you,” he said.
“I know.”
A hank of wet dark hair fell across his forehead. Blood trickled from his nose. “You saved me.”
“I know.”
“What do we do now?”
I turned away from the cave
entrance and faced the length of the beach and the clusters of houses piled along the shore with their shining windows.
“We go home,” I said, and held out my hand.
Introduction to “Generations”
And now, a moment to breathe. Like our previous two stories, Steve Perry’s “Generations” takes a familiar tale and breathes new life into it. Unlike them, this story adds a bit of much-needed levity to the mix.
Ever since I edited Pulphouse: A Hardback Magazine, Steve has been my go-to guy for the off-beat. He was one of the first writers I invited into Fiction River, although I had to wait for the proper issue to showcase this story.
Because his career now spans four decades, he knows that editors can be an unruly lot. He has certainly worked with a bunch of us. Steve’s published everything from prose to TV animation. An Emmy-nominated, New York Times bestselling writer, Steve still finds time to write novels. His latest, The Vastalimi Gambit is part of his Cutter’s War series.
About “Generations,” Steve writes, “I like taking old tropes and trying to come up with new twists. I call these my wild-hair stories, and the ones that are the craziest are generally those for which I don’t expect there to be any market. Fortunately, I don’t get these urges very often. Pretty much every time I’ve had one of these loony notions, Dean and Kris have laughed and bought it. They’re passing strange, these two….”
Generations
Steve Perry
Ziegelstein heard Stroh’s ching on the room’s com. “I’m here,” he said. “What’s up?”
“We’re coming in hot! B.B. is a klick behind us and gaining!”
“Jesus! Is Stocke is with you?”
“Yeah. B.B. has got some kind of new toy, like a vortex thing. Took out my place like it was nothing, flattened Stocke’s like a fucking tornado, too. We’re screwed, Ziggy!”
Fiction River: Fantasy Adrift Page 8
