by Carl Waters
“No, it’s me,” I said. I swept back the hood so he could see my face.
He looked me up and down, from my mud-stained boots to my tangled hair. “Gigi! What are you doing here? Why are you wearing your mother’s cloak? What happened to you?” The questions spilled out of him like grain from a sack.
“You have to leave,” I insisted. “There’s a werewolf chasing me.”
An uncertain smile flickered across his lips. “Is this one of your pranks, Gigi? I’d love to run off with you, but I’ve got to chop two cords this morning and deliver firewood to half a dozen villagers. I’ve got a stack for your grandmother, so if you want to wait a little while, we can walk over together.” He picked up his axe and rested it on his shoulder.
I should have known he wouldn’t believe me. I wouldn’t believe it either, had I not seen Bernard and Claude change into fairytale monsters before my eyes.
“Théo, please. I don’t have time to explain, but this is no joke.”
His smile faltered and died. “You look almost frightened,” he said. “You’re not serious, are you?”
I tugged on his sleeve. “It’s not safe here,” I said. “Go home, bar the doors, and for God’s sake, don’t go back into the woods.”
“If it’s not safe for me, then it’s certainly not safe for you,” Théodore said. “Come back with me to the house; I’m sure my mother would love to see you. You look like you could do with a rest and maybe some breakfast.” He slung his arm around my shoulder and then paused, wrinkling his nose. “And a change of clothes, too. Did you sleep in a bush last night?”
My face flushed with embarrassment, no doubt turning as red as my hood. “No, a tree,” I said. Ignoring his puzzled looked, I ducked out from under his arm. “I have to get to Grandmère’s house right away. It’s…it’s my mother.”
“Do you need help? Is she ill?”
“She’s dead.” It was the first time I’d said it out loud, and it hurt far worse than I’d expected.
“Oh, Gigi, I’m so sorry.” He tried to hug me, but I shied away. Kindness from him just then would have been too much, and the tears I’d been holding back would have all burst forth in a waterfall of grief.
Théodore looked at the stack of logs still waiting to be split, then back at me. “I’ll walk you to your grandmother’s house,” he offered. “It’s not far, and my work can wait. Let me take care of you. Please?”
I wanted to say yes. I wanted to throw myself into his arms and let him protect me, but I knew he couldn’t. The Red Hood defended the innocent, and it was my duty to defeat the werewolf. I realized that this was the first time I’d thought of myself as the Red Hood. The cloak felt right on my shoulders, as if it belonged there.
I smiled sadly at Théodore and then, without thinking, I stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. “I have to go,” I said softly as I pulled away.
Before he could react, I turned and ran.
* * *
Grandmère’s house was an hour from the clearing; I ran it in a quarter of that time and stopped, panting slightly, beside the woven wicker fence. The cloak had made me faster and stronger, but I was reaching the limits of my strength. I couldn’t wait to take off my boots and lie down on the familiar feather bed. Maybe I could even convince Grandmère to whip up a hot posset.
Her cottage looked as I remembered it, with a low thatched roof and a pair of windows on either side of the rounded door, giving it the appearance of a friendly, somewhat startled face. My fondest memories all took place here. Where Mama had endlessly drilled me in the fighting arts, Grandmère had given me treats and toys. She had a habit of singing in a low, sweet voice while she worked, and every time I came to visit, she baked my favorite: spiced raisin bread.
When I was a little girl, I used to wish that I lived with Grandmère all the time. I used to cry when Mama returned from her summer bandit hunting to take me home. Now I understood better why she had been so hard on me. She’d known that sooner or later, I’d have to take up the mantel of the Red Hood. Grandmère was what Mama might have been, had the weight of the world not been on her shoulders. That weight was on me now, and I would try to make her proud.
I opened the gate and made my way up the path to her door. As I raised my hand to knock, I caught the unmistakable reek of werewolf. It was so strong that I thought it might have burned my nose. Pulling the cloak over my face to block out the smell, I ducked beneath the window. My heart was beating so hard that I thought everyone in France must have been able to hear it.
Bernard was in my grandmother’s house.
He must have given up searching for me during the night and come straight here. How could I have been so stupid? While I was playing hide-and-seek in the treetops, he’d had plenty of time to get here and set up a trap. Grandmère would be the bait…if she wasn’t dead already.
I forced myself to lower the cloak and take a deep breath. I smelled Bernard, but I also smelled tea, honey, and rose water. Grandmère was still inside, or had been recently. I didn’t sense Alison or Claude, and more significantly, I didn’t smell the sweet, sickly odor of death anywhere nearby.
Grandmère is alive. I clung to that thought like a drowning woman, desperate to stay to afloat. Grandmère was alive, and I would do everything in my power to keep it that way. It was time to stop running and face the monster.
9
I pushed the front door of the cottage open. It swung silently on well-greased hinges. Inside the cottage, it was cool and dark. If I hadn’t already known something was wrong, the cold hearth would have made it clear; Grandmère always kept a merry fire burning in all but the hottest months of the year.
Hardly daring to breathe, I crept into the main room. The stench of werewolf was so strong, it made my eyes water. On the rough-hewn kitchen table, the remains of a meal were scattered, and I spied a broken cup on the floor. Grandmère’s rocking chair was overturned, too. Whatever had happened here, she had put up quite a struggle.
It was eerily quiet. With my keen senses, I should have been able to hear the slightest movement. At my house, when I’d first donned the red hood, I could hear the rustling of my aunt’s dress as she paced upstairs. Here, there was…nothing. It was as if the house was holding its breath.
Grandmère’s cottage was small, and there weren’t many places for a werewolf to hide. The main room, where I stood, was empty. That left only the low-ceilinged loft and Grandmère’s bedroom. I decided to check the loft first, since the rickety ladder that led up to it was closer to the front door. The wooden rungs creaked under my weight. I winced; to my ears, each step sounded like a hammer blow.
When I saw what was in the loft, I nearly screamed.
My grandmother lay on her side, her hands and feet tied and her mouth filled with a length of cloth. Her eyes met mine. They widened in surprise, and she shook her head as if to warn me away.
“Giselle, is that you?” asked a voice. It was a high and wavering falsetto, a parody of an old woman’s tones. It wouldn’t have fooled me for an instant, even if I hadn’t been able to see Grandmère, bound and helpless, lying on the floor before me. I inched forward. She shook her head again, but I ignored her imploring look and began to work on her bonds.
“Hello, Grandmother,” I called, trying to sound as if nothing was out of the ordinary. “I thought you were sleeping, so I tried to be quiet. What good ears you must have.”
“All the better to hear you with,” said the voice. It giggled, as if that had been a particularly clever joke.
What was Bernard playing at? I worked on the knots, attempting to loosen the bonds at her wrists first. The rope was rough hemp, and the knots were dense. They bit cruelly into her skin, and I knew that my tugging on them had to be causing her even more pain. I needed to buy a little more time, so I decided to play along.
“Are you ill, Grandmother, to be still in bed at this hour? Your voice sounds very strange,” I said.
“Come here where I can see you, child,” said Be
rnard in that ridiculous voice.
“Let me bring you some tea,” I said. “I’ll just be a minute.”
I felt the knot slip. Encouraged, I doubled my efforts and finally managed to untie it. I held Grandmère’s hands for a moment, chafing them gently to restore the circulation. While I started on her ankles, Grandmère ripped the cloth from her mouth.
“I can do that,” she whispered, waving me away. “Giselle, you need to get out of here at once. Where is your mother? Why do you have the hood?”
I hung my head; how could I tell her that her younger daughter had murdered her elder one?
“Oh,” she said. A world of grief existed in that single syllable. “Adela’s gone, isn’t she?”
I nodded without looking up. My fingers tugged uselessly at the knots.
“And do you know the nature of the beast that waits downstairs?”
I nodded again. “Yes. A werewolf,” I said softly. “His name is Bernard.”
“How much did Adela teach you about fighting them?”
“Nothing,” I said.
Grandmère sighed and pushed herself up until she could reach the ropes at her ankles. “Leave that,” she said. “Go downstairs. If you can, run. If you can’t get away, go for the silver. There’s a knife in the chest by my bed, a candlestick on the mantel, and a spoon by the stove.”
I blinked. “You want me to kill a werewolf with a spoon?”
Grandmère grinned fiercely; it was an expression I had seen on Mama’s face a thousand times, and suddenly I missed her so much, I thought my heart might break. “I want you to wound it wherever you can with whatever you can find,” she said. “Go for the eyes, the nose, and between the legs. Those are its most vulnerable spots.”
We both heard the bedroom door bang open. Our eyes met for an instant, and in hers I saw only love and pride. “Go,” she said.
I went.
Ignoring the ladder entirely, I jumped down to the ground floor. Bernard was waiting for me. He looked far too large to be allowed indoors; the tips of his tufted ears almost touched the ceiling, and his hulking frame almost completely filled the doorway to Grandmère’s bedroom.
“I see you, little girl,” he growled. His clawed fingers raked the door, leaving deep gouges in the wood.
“Why Grandmother, what big, hairy hands you have,” I taunted.
“All the better to grab you with!” He snatched at me, but I danced away, moving toward the mantel. I couldn’t get to the knife in her bedroom, so the candlestick seemed like the next best option. Despite Grandmère’s advice, the spoon was still my weapon of last resort.
Bernard snapped his jaws at me. I dodged his teeth but saw too late that it had been a feint. His right hand shot out, and his claws grazed my side. I moved into the attack, turning so that the cuts were shallow and long instead of the gutting wound he had no doubt intended. His rank breath rolled over me as he laughed. The bastard was enjoying this.
“What big, yellow teeth you have, Grandmother,” I said. I ducked under his outstretched arm and aimed a kick at his knee. I missed the kneecap and hit his thigh instead. The kick would hurt, but it wouldn’t cripple him.
“All the better to eat sweet, succulent little girls like you,” he said. His thick, black tongue licked his muzzle. “I’m going to snap open your bones and suck out the marrow.”
I shuddered. The monster’s rank breath smelled like bad meat, sickly sweet and heavy with decay. I had no doubt that he’d killed people before, and I was starting to think I might be next.
Bernard moved impossibly fast, lashing out with his clawed fingers and snapping with his jaws. The fabric of the hood dampened the blows that landed on my torso, but my legs were unprotected. He figured this out the same time I did and slashed viciously at my hamstrings. I flung myself to the side and rolled. The good news was that Bernard missed his target. The bad news was that he grabbed my right foot instead. The thick leather of my boot protected me from his claws, but he wrenched it to the side as I fell.
For a moment, I thought he had pulled my foot clean off. I cried out as I felt something crackle and snap in my ankle. I tried to stand, but my ankle gave way as soon as I tried to put weight on it. I did not think it was broken, only sprained, but I feared it would be a fatal injury nonetheless. Bernard’s golden eyes danced with malevolent glee. He and I both knew that I was as helpless as a rabbit in a trap.
Gritting my teeth, I forced myself to hobble toward the mantel. It was only a few steps away, but it felt like miles. Each step sent a lightning bolt of pain up my leg, but I ignored it. If I could just reach the silver candlestick, I might be able to fend him off long enough for Grandmère to escape. The hood’s magic didn’t seem to be repairing my ankle as it had my cuts and bruises, and I wondered if I’d finally reached the limits of its powers.
Two more steps.
“Poor little lamb with a broken leg,” Bernard said in a taunting, singsong voice. “Come here. Let your grandmother kiss it better.”
One more step.
“Where are you going? Do you mean to climb up the chimney?”
Never taking my eyes from Bernard, I reached behind me and felt around for the candlestick. My fingers closed around it just as the werewolf leaned forward, his breath hot on my face. I squeezed my eyes shut and hit him on the snout with the silver. Bernard yelped, and I heard a sizzling noise like oil in a hot pan.
I opened my eyes. Bernard had retreated a few paces, clutching his face and howling in agony. I looked down at the candlestick and saw that it was dented and somewhat blackened where it had struck him. Interesting.
“You wench,” growled Bernard. He dropped his hands and glared at me. His snout was blistered, making him appear even more monstrous than before. “No more games. I’m going to kill you, and then I’m going to eat you.”
I glanced left and right, looking for an escape route. My back was against the mantel, and Bernard stood between me and the front door. I wouldn’t be doing much running or kicking on a sprained ankle, so that left me only one option. I would have to make my stand here. I raised the candlestick as if it were a sword.
“Go on, then,” I said. “Let’s see you try, you overgrown puppy!”
My words sounded like empty bravado even to my ears. Bernard laughed in my face, and I realized that his breath, while still objectionable, no longer smelled quite so overpoweringly bad. I sniffed the air. It smelled…normal. No werewolf odor. I risked closing my eyes for a moment to reach out with my senses, but it was as if someone had wrapped a blanket around my head.
The hood’s powers were failing just when I needed them most.
10
Bernard swiped my arm, an almost casual movement as if he were swatting a fly. The silver candlestick flew from my grasp, landing near the front door. I heard a gasp and glanced up to see Grandmère watching from the loft. My heart sank, and my shoulders slumped. I hadn’t even kept the wolf distracted long enough for her to escape.
As if he read my mind, Bernard said, “You’ve failed, little girl. You led me on a merry chase, but it ends now. I’ll give you one more chance to save your miserable life. Give me the hood.”
My hand reached up to the clasp at my throat. What did it matter now? The hood’s powers were gone anyway. Perhaps if I gave it to him now, he might keep his word and let me live. I doubted it, but at least Grandmère might survive this way.
“No!” cried Grandmère. “You mustn’t let him have it.”
“It’s all right,” I said, unsure whether I was trying to convince Grandmère or myself. “It doesn’t work anymore.”
“What?” growled Bernard. He tried to snatch the cloak from my shoulders. The fabric pulled tight, choking me, but it did not tear. The werewolf shook me from side to side like a ragdoll as my fists beat helplessly against his furry arms. It was no use. The cloak seemed to be made of chainmail rather than wool, and his efforts to rip it from my shoulders failed. This only seemed to make him angrier, and I wondered how long it would
take him to decide to simply tear my head off and remove the hood.
A white-clad shape tackled him, sending all of us crashing to floor. Bernard landed on top of me, pushing out what little breath remained in my lungs. He scrambled to his feet, Grandmère clinging to his back. She was unarmed and still dressed in her nightgown, but she kicked and scratched with all her might. Grandmère might have been virile for an old woman, but she was no match for an enraged werewolf. Bernard quickly shook her off and flung her against the wall. She hit hard and crumpled to the floor like a dropped handkerchief. She did not stir again. I hoped that she wasn’t dead.
I tried to get to my feet, but my leg buckled and I fell. I crawled on hands and knees, trying to reach the silver candlestick near the door, but I was too slow. Bernard, having finished with Grandmère, turned his attention to me. He kicked me viciously in the ribs. Although the fabric of the cloak still protected me from his clawed feet, it didn’t lessen the impact of the blow. I curled into a ball, whimpering. Bernard seemed to think this was funny because he laughed and did it again.
Before the third kick could connect, I rolled onto my stomach and dragged myself just out of his reach. I managed to get to my hands and knees, and I crawled blindly away from him. Bernard watched me, his head cocked to one side like a cat watching a mouse’s futile attempts at escape. He let me go a few feet and then hit me, sending me crashing into the kitchen cupboards. My head struck the wall with a sickening thwack. I lay on my back, looking up at the rough wooden beams of the ceiling.
My vision started to go black around the edges, but I still saw Bernard draw back his clawed hand to strike. I knew that I was about to die. The hood could no longer protect me. The werewolf would tear me to pieces and take it off my corpse. All of my lessons, all of my training, meant nothing in the end. I hoped that Mama would not be too cross with me when I was reunited with her in heaven. I wished I’d been a better student. I wished I’d told her I loved more often.
