Red Riding Hood

by David Leslie Johnson; David Leslie Johnson; Catherine Hardwicke Sarah Blakley-Cartwright

  Roxanne, having followed, was hurtling toward her, shrieking with laughter. Then they were in each other’s arms, spinning, spinning. Valerie couldn’t see anything, her revolving view of the world condensed into a blur. What was out there was not real. What had been real was the feel of Peter’s hands, the weight of his body, the touch of his breath.

  But one thing broke away from the others. A pair of girls who had been inspired to follow them over the coals were a dizzy mass of color. Their bodies danced past, revealing something in the alley that cut through the blur and arrested Valerie’s attention.

  “Where have you been anyway?” Roxanne asked, oblivious, gulping down air.

  A pair of eyes.

  Valerie stopped short, jostling Roxanne.

  “What’s the matter with you? You know, I was looking for you.”

  They did not speak for a moment, allowing the world to stop spinning. Roxanne was holding out expectantly for a response. But Valerie was elsewhere, far away in time.

  She was seven years old, a little girl in the black forest, held in terror, pinned by a pair of savage eyes.

  Eyes that saw her.

  Not an ordinary kind of seeing, but seeing in a way that no one had seen her before. Seeing through her. Recognizing her.

  The Wolf.

  She had always known this day would come. As she had walked through the ordinariness of her everyday life, she had known it, but she’d never allowed herself to think it. But she had known.

  And here it was.

  First there came a low growl, unheard amidst the tumult of the festivities. But it was like a drop of water that starts a tidal wave.

  With a roar and one ranging leap, the Wolf was already past Valerie and in the center of the town square.

  The Reeve, holding forth at the table of honor, squinted at the monstrous dark shape before him, his face knotting up in an attempt at understanding. His alcohol-flooded mind struggled for recognition. He’d seen a shape like it only yesterday, in the cave, but this couldn’t be a wolf; the beast that had turned him into a hero was a mere lapdog compared to this… thing.

  But the eyes—the burning yellow eyes… its gargantuan blackness… its fur sculpted by the muscle underneath…

  Horrible.

  The Reeve rose to his feet unsteadily, his hand fumbling for the knife at his belt, knowing everyone was watching.

  The great black shadow streaked toward him, quick as an arrow, and an instant later it had passed him. But an instant was enough. The Reeve stood motionless as a dark line widened on his throat, and then he dropped to the ground. One moment he’d been grinning, holding court in all his glory; the next, he was dead.

  “We’re under attack!” someone thought to yell.

  Panic tore through the village like scissors through fine silk as the Wolf prowled the square. Scrambling off the stage, villagers collapsed into the well. Bottles were tossed, buckets of apples kicked over, instruments abandoned and rocking on their sides, their strings still quivering. Men did not stop to help up women who’d fallen into the muddy slush, so the women climbed out on their own, dripping skirts clutched in hands that were too shocked even to tremble.

  Claude had been standing by himself, shuffling his cards, still hoping William might come back with his hat. Catching the terror, Claude whirled in a panic, causing the cards to fly from his hands. They fell slowly, like petals, settling bright in the dirt. He dropped to his hands and knees, grappling for his scattered treasure. He had to get up, he knew, but he also knew that if he left even one card, that everything gone wrong would never be righted, and that wrongness would grow like a fungus until it engulfed the whole world.

  As he crawled to reach under a wagon for The Falling Tower card, he froze. On the other side of the wagon, a man was going by on his back, his head and limbs bumping along like a sack of apples against the ground as the Wolf dragged him through the snow. Once they had passed, Claude could see what they had been blocking; it was one of the village seamstresses who only two months before had won the embroidery contest for an image of The Lover Returning from a Hunt, which her nimble needle had recreated on a lady’s pocket handkerchief. Now she was pitifully slumped against the earth, her life’s blood spurting from her in a hot, black rush.

  And it came over him, there on all fours like a dog, that he could never stem the flooding darkness; his life was infinitesimally small, and no matter what he did, the bright card deck of life would always be scattered and ground into the dirt of this suffering world. Claude crouched, his body racked with a sob.

  Valerie stood amidst the madness, in a place beyond fear.

  Why is everyone running? What has life ever given them? All along, they’ve belonged to the Wolf. And now he’s returned to collect what was always his.

  But then four villagers came striding past her, hidden in their cloaks, strangely unafraid.

  The reason came as they threw off their disguises and drew weapons—a wickedly glimmering silver sword, a pair of murderous battle axes, and bullwhips as heavy as steel cables. They were Father Solomon’s soldiers. They had simply been waiting in the wings for the real show to begin.

  One of them, the Captain, gave Valerie a hard-bitten smile.

  “Run and hide, girl,” he whispered.

  They strode into the carnage, and from the other corners of the square, the rest of Father Solomon’s men closed in.

  Valerie looked around, tracking the creature.

  The Wolf had its claws planted in the back of the village butcher, but its ears pricked up at the sound of a ferocious battle cry, and it looked around, a still-writhing arm clenched in its massive jaws. It saw a pair of battle axes descending, one whirling in each hand of a huge Viking of a man. The Wolf appeared paralyzed by the storm of metal, but as the axes came down to deliver double death, there was a snarling blur of motion, too fast for any eye to see, and the awesome battle cry twisted into a horrible shriek. The axes flew into the air, one cleaving into the snowy earth, the other meeting the face of an unfortunate fleeing villager, his blood spattering.

  With one great lunge, the Wolf was instantly twenty yards away, pursuing another of Solomon’s men, leaving the Viking fallen atop the one-armed body of the butcher.

  Floating through the nightmare, Valerie came upon an impossible sight: the scribe, diligently drawing the chaos, standing close enough to see details. His hand moved quickly, his eyes quicker, seeing the beast in fragments: haunches, fur, teeth, tongue. He did not look at his parchment. He spared a second to look at Valerie, gave her a sad smile that suggested the artist was horrified by what he saw but was driven by some perverse human need to record it.

  Valerie watched him edge closer to the Wolf, close enough to see the electricity pricking up the fur of its back, the slobber dripping from its jaw. His quill scratched at the page, brown ink dappling the papyrus sheet. He shook the quill to loosen the ink, and that little motion was just enough to turn the Wolf’s eyes upon him. Valerie finally covered her mouth in horror as she watched the scribe hold up the quill—was it in self-defense? Or was it to say, Look, I’m only an artist?

  No matter. It was the last gesture of his life.

  Valerie went to his body and retrieved his final work from the ground so that it would not be rubbed out in blood and filth. A mighty stallion brushed past her, neighing as the wind whipped its mane into its eyes. Father Solomon sat astride it, shouting.

  “Get to the church!” he cried out over the panic. “The Wolf cannot cross onto holy ground!” As he drew his sword and rode over the body of the Reeve, Valerie felt that he savored the vindication. He had warned them, they had chosen not to listen, and now they had paid the price. It felt good to be right, Valerie knew, even about things one would prefer to be wrong about. “Your time has come, beast!”

  Silver armor glittered in the firelight as the hunter rode toward the fray. Valerie wondered if Solomon’s sword would get lost in the Wolf’s matted, thick fur. Was any weapon big enough to fell
such a creature?

  The towering Wolf effigy had become an orange smear against the sky.

  Solomon’s men sailed toward the Wolf, keeping low to the ground. No fear or rage registered on the beast’s face. Rather, Valerie imagined it was a look of mild annoyance. Almost amusement.

  One soldier approached the Wolf, swinging a chain with a spiked ball at either end. The weapon appeared violent by its simplicity. And just as simply, the Wolf took him down.

  Another swarthy soldier rushed forward next with a curved saber, harsh and beautiful in his rage. He seemed stunned as the Wolf’s claws found their mark, and his skin popped as it was punctured, letting loose a long spray of blood from the slit between his upper and lower breastplates.

  And still the soldiers attacked, one after another, giving the Wolf no rest.

  Finally, the Captain came running, snapping his bullwhip out as an expression of his ferocity. His body was tight and neat; he looked more like a beautiful sculpture than a person. Strutting forward, his brother came up alongside him, pulling out his own bullwhip, which was wound into a tight coil. He unleashed it in preparation.

  The two men flanked the Wolf. A third soldier stood behind them, breathing hard, his lance at the ready. The two men moved like dolphins, arcing and flipping as they lashed the ropes. Most of the villagers had heeded Solomon’s warning by now and fled to the church. But Valerie stood, watching, feeling her insides stretched as taut as the leather whips.

  They thought they’d caught it.

  But, ensnared, the Wolf planted its legs and started backing up, tugging the soldiers by their two strained leashes.

  The huge men slid forward in the dirt, trying to maintain their balance, careful not to lean too far forward or back. Their legs quivered as they struggled with the beast. Their combined weight was, to the Wolf, not much of a burden.

  Then something broke, some inevitable release of tension, and Valerie felt her heart fall like a stone as the Captain was dragged to one side through the blood-tracked snow and the Wolf hurled his brother across the square, his flat body flashing through the air like a star.

  The Captain’s brother struggled to get up, but the Wolf ripped him back down to earth.

  Valerie looked up at Father Solomon astride his mighty steed, and in his face, she saw what she would never have imagined.

  Uncertainty.

  The man who had come prepared for everything had been caught by surprise.

  The soldier with the lance turned and strode toward Solomon, who had kept a hard, eagle eye on the scene.

  “It’s strong—stronger than any we’ve faced before!”

  “Have faith. God is stronger,” Solomon said, staring straight ahead and spurring his steed, the handle of his blade nestled tightly against his hand.

  Across the square, the Wolf reacted to the name of the divinity. It whirled to face Father Solomon, letting out a low growl. Solomon met the monster’s eyes. He reached down, and, taking the crucifix that hung by a chain from his neck, he kissed it.

  Valerie saw whatever it was that had overtaken him—doubt, fear—had now left him, and the man of certainty returned with a vengeance.

  “God is stronger!”

  And with that, he snapped the reins and dug his spurs into the sides of his steed. As the horse charged, Solomon raised his sword—the sword of God’s wrath.

  But the Wolf held its ground. Fearless. Challenging.

  And its jaws spread, letting forth an unearthly roar that shook the ground where Valerie stood.

  Solomon’s horse spooked, rearing up, crossing its feet over one another, tripping over its own legs, sending its rider flying backward into the air. He came slamming to earth amidst the blazing coals of the bonfire, throwing up a geyser of sparks. The horse’s hooves drummed the ground as it galloped away.

  Solomon’s scream of agony and rage seemed to amuse the Wolf. Valerie could feel the pleasure in every ripple of its muscles as it charged toward the coals to finish off its helpless enemy. Struggling to get out of the fire, his sword lost, Solomon knew his end had come.

  Zzzzzziiiissssss! Slanting shadows came jetting across the square from nowhere.

  No, not from nowhere—the masked bowman seated on the rail of the tavern balcony wielded a fire crossbow that spat out silver-tipped arrows repeatedly. The bolts zippered toward the Wolf, who let out a snarl of outrage and, with a mighty leap, soared onto the top of a cottage. The bowman sent bolt upon bolt after the shadow bounding across the rooftops.

  With a final spring, the beast vanished into the night.

  But the show wasn’t over. Valerie watched a figure climb out of the burning coals and smoke, brushing hot cinders from his face. He was burned, scarred for life. But spurred by pain and hatred, by bitter anger and a thirst for vengeance, Father Solomon rose.

  Resurrected.

  18

  It was tracking two shapes. Human shapes. Vulnerable.

  “Claude,” one of them whimpered, barely able to get out the word.

  Pathetic. But a pathetic whimper rings loud in the ears of a predator.

  That and the pounding of a human girl’s heart.

  Moving through the wreckage, her eyes burning from the smoke, Valerie felt isolated, separate from the events she had just witnessed, as if she were behind a wall of glass. She vaguely wondered why she was not among the dead. Why had she been spared when her own sister had not? And why wasn’t she terrified to the bone like Roxanne, shaking at her side?

  “Claude!” Roxanne called again, her voice panicky. “Where are you?”

  Roxanne knew better than to trust her mother to worry about Claude. But she and Valerie hadn’t found her brother among the cowering townfolk, packed tightly like guppies in the church. They had found their parents, and lost them just as quickly, as they continued on.

  And so far, they hadn’t found Claude among the dead.

  So far.

  Nor had Valerie found Peter. She wanted to call out for him, too, but Daggorhorn was a town that fed on scandal. So, even in the midst of tragedy, she guarded her secret.

  There was something else that kept her from calling. A suspicion that had started to rise up inside her that so far, her mind had only flirted with, refusing to embrace it. All this had started when Peter arrived…. It had to be a coincidence….

  She sensed movement close by and looked around carefully, not wanting to alarm Roxanne. But even that was enough.

  “What? Is there something?”

  “No. It’s nothing.”

  She laid a reassuring hand on her friend’s arm as she considered their next move.

  “This way,” she said, guiding Roxanne into Dye Makers Alley.

  As the Wolf followed the figures around the corner, the pungent scent of dye ripped through the scent of the one girl’s fear.

  But what of the other girl?

  How strange it is to stalk one who doesn’t reek of terror.

  Valerie was thinking of Lucie. This was a place that they had always loved, a narrow magical pathway with a carpet of petals fallen around the dye vats like flakes dropped from a twilight sky. Valerie had grown up coming there, always desperate to slip her dusty feet into or skim her hands along the inviting surface of the yawning blue water. She had done it once. But Lucie, the big girl, had caught her, pulling her blueberry palm out of the long, low vat. To make amends, Lucie had stolen a handful of flowers from the storage towers and carefully woven them that night into Valerie’s hair.

  If only flowers lived forever.

  If only sisters did, too.

  Something startled Roxanne, who let out a shriek, lurching forward. Valerie grabbed her wrist, pulling her back from the lip of a vat of blue dye, shimmering garnet in the moonlight.

  “Careful!”

  A clatter echoed behind them. They whirled. Valerie’s heart hung in her chest as if suspended in the moment just before free fall.

  The Wolf was coming through the smoke. Ravenous, snarling, showing its dagger tee
th caked with blood.

  Valerie spun back around, yanking the frozen Roxanne along with her. They ran, their feet throwing up a spray of petals in their wake.

  But the alley reached a dead end. Nowhere to go. Valerie cursed herself for not thinking of this. There was only the wall of storage towers full of cut flowers for the dye. A ladder of spikes was driven into the wood. Valerie jumped, grabbing hold of one and pulling herself up. She looked down. The Wolf was nowhere in sight. Maybe it had lost interest.

  But Roxanne was frozen. Valerie reached down.

  “Grab my hand!”

  “I can’t.”

  “Do it!”

  But Roxanne didn’t move. Valerie let go of the spike, landed by Roxanne, ready to shake her out of her paralysis—but then the Wolf sprang down in front of Valerie.

  It was colossal, so big that it was everywhere, taller than any man who had ever walked the earth. This was the evil thing that had buried its teeth in her sister’s flesh. Valerie felt her courage shrivel into panic.

  But she could not take her eyes from the blazing gold of the Wolf’s eyes.

  The Wolf did not blink as they breathed in unison.

  The world went quiet. Then Valerie heard an intricate voice, a medley woven from sounds both male and female, human and animal. A composite of every voice she’d ever known, it vibrated deep within her. The Devil’s voice.

  “Did you think you could outrun me?”

  Valerie felt the sky whirl, the earth give way. “What—?” she responded. “You speak?”

  “All that matters is that you understand me, Valerie.”

  Valerie smelled the thick sweetness of the flowers mixed with the gnarled musk of the Wolf.

  “You know my name,” she stated dumbly.

  “What are you doing?” Roxanne asked Valerie, her voice tremulous.