From Red to Violet

Sultry ash collected beneath the burning firewood too quickly for Violet’s taste. The stoker she held was not yet familiar with the pressure of her calloused hand, the imprint of her mother’s fingerprints lingering on the metal. Almost as if she were there after all these years, tending to the hearth. 

Violet poked at the wood, and the flames burst into flickering violence. Light pooled in obscure shapes amongst the ancient stone walls, shining on the thick wool curtains tied up to display the dark wooded forest upholding residence outside. Even during midday, with a clear blue sky, one could not see a few feet past the thick trunks of the fern trees. Nevertheless, she made it a point to tie up the curtains as often as she likes, since her mother insisted that they remained concealing the windows.

Violet did not know how imperative the curtains were at the time, or why her mother berated her for wanting to see the forest. In fact, she did not know much at all, yet she stayed true and diligent in her job. 

It was all she could do. 

She could not leave. 

By the time dawn broke, spilling its sunny yolk out onto the world, the fire had died, and Violet groggily shuffled out of the living room. The corridors were narrow and empty, but Violet easily navigated her way to the master bedroom, passing all the vacant rooms as she tiptoed through the tight hallways. For someone whose sole purpose was to spend decades alone, Violet found living in a manor with seven bedrooms and seven bathrooms unnecessary.

In her storybooks, which she read and reread almost daily, most of the characters lived in little cozy huts or grovels with multiple family members. And here Violet was, all alone. She would never marry, go on adventures, host dinner parties, or even invite a friend over for a cup of tea. It was like her own home was taunting her, mocking the life she did not choose.

Whenever she felt lonelier than usual, she’d hum the tune to the anthem her mother used to sing, imagining that the lyrics were being sung to her, echoing throughout the vacant manor. 

Keep the hearth going, keep it alive. 

If flames flicker, the huntress will survive. 

Dust dirtied the bookshelves lining the high walls of the bedroom, wrinkles rippled through the ivory bed sheets like water in a pond. Red paint chipped off the wooden shelves as Violet skimmed her eyes over the five layers of novels available at her leisure. She hated how the paint peeled off and cracked, and desperately wished that she had spare paint in the basement. These were the only books in the entire manor. They deserved much more than hundreds of years old paint. 

Keep the hearth burning, keep it well fed. 

If flames flicker, there is nothing to dread. 

A yawn burst from her lungs, so she sought to rest in her bed without a book in hand. She spent most of the day sleeping anyway. Arising an hour before dusk, she would bathe, eat, read, and then prepare the hearth for the upcoming night. Unfortunately for her, it was winter, meaning long nights and shorter days. And less time to escape in her stories. 

Keep the hearth happy, keep it content. 

If flames flicker, our souls won’t lament. 

Her body sunk into the mattress, which molded into her shape many moons ago. The sheets cooled her taut skin, sticking to her gooseflesh. Exhaustion presented itself as the cloudiness in her mind, yet the daylight brightening the forest kept her awake. She didn’t need to see it to know it was there; she did not need windows to feel the ache in her bones. 

Keep the hearth smoking, keep it dry.

If flames flicker, the wolves will all die.  

An hour or so passed before she gave up on sleeping, the dull pangs in her joints taunting her desire to rest. The pain was like sunlight, overwhelming and relentless, and would only leave in the presence of the night sky. So, Violet would select a novella, tracing the edges of the delicate pages with her shaky fingers, and roam about the first floor of the manor to distract herself until the safety of the darkness returned.

The kitchen was her favorite place to linger. She’d grab a granny smith apple, the same one that magically replenished day in and day out, perch up on the counter, and bite into the fruit hoping that any juice that dribbled down her chin wouldn’t stain the lace trimmed slip she wore. Violet tossed the half-eaten apple into a bin and stumbled to the heavy door of a lofty study on the opposite end of the manor, listening to the faint echo of her own footsteps. 

She grumbled, swearing under her breath as soon as she pushed open the door. 

The sheet she used to cover the large portrait on the wall had slipped off the golden frame. Now it lay crumpled on the ground.

Unsure whether to flee the room or re-hook the linen cloth on the edges of the painting, Violet became hypnotized by the grotesque image. Charcoal outlined the thin, windy figure adorning a red cloak, holding a lit torch in their right hand. Snarling creatures, bowing down before the fire erupting into the sky, drawn with massive canines hanging over their bloody, drooling muzzles. Cakey bits of pastel stuck onto the canvas, especially the yellow used to design the scattered almond-shaped eyes plotted on the wild animals. 

A shiver ran down Violet’s spine, pinching every nerve in her back. Fear gnawed at her bony ankles as she slammed the door shut, sprinting away from the ghastly sight. Her heartbeat pounded louder than the heavy breaths heaving in and out of her tiresome lungs. She returned to the master bedroom, throwing herself under the covers. Salty tears ran down her flushed cheeks. 

“You can hide from the paintings,” her mother used to scold, “And you can hide from who are you are, but that will not change what you are. Now come, we must light the hearth.” 

Those words ricocheted in Violet’s mind as she cried herself to sleep. 

Her slumber did not grant her the peace of mind she craved. 

Nightmare after nightmare slashed through her dreamscape, vivid imagery resulting in beads of sweat conjoining with the dried tears on her skin. The carnage of her ancestors battled the life she wished she had, pressuring her to accept what she truly was. Blood ran in rampant rivers, swelling into the earth, feeding it the venom that was her existence. Violet tossed and turned, her dreams swindling the motions of brutality; fire fighting sharp teeth engrossed in drool.

It was not a fair trade to carry the burden of her six times great grandmother, who she’d never met, for a dollop of magic. Magic Violet hated. Magic that kept her sealed within the confines of the manor, never to step foot outdoors. Magic that boiled the front metal doors down to a pile of molten liquid the second her mother escaped, abandoning her.

Violet woke up gasping for air, choking on her own screams as she called for her mother, begging her not to leave. She swallowed and exhaled a few breaths, then crept to the bathroom, removing her thin dress as she walked. Drenched in her own sweat, she rinsed herself off in the bathtub, which refilled itself with warm water and scented soap daily. 

The sun had begun to set.

And, of course, Violet did not need windows to know. She felt the pain in her bones subsiding, releasing her of its abnormal tension. 

She cocked her head, sinking down in the tub so the water came up to her neck, whilst staring at the shattered mirror to her left. It now hung crooked on the wall, two lanterns residing adjacent to each side to illuminate its history. She cleaned up the glass the day she smashed her fist into it. The same day her mother left. 

Month after month, year after yet, and Violet had forgotten her own features, save for her pale skin and the ends of her thick brunette hair. There was no time to look in a mirror. Her short-lived youth consisted of repetitive magic demonstrations, history lessons, reading, crying over the scary paintings, and listening to her mother sing. Sometimes she couldn’t figure out if she missed her childhood or loathed its emptiness. She did not have a father or a best friend, or a dog to play fetch with.

“You were born for the hearth,” her mother said. “You do not lack such silly things, for you were never meant for them.” 

Finished with her bath, rivulets of water dripped down to her ankles as wrapped a cotton towel around her torso. Violet tucked her hair in a braid, wringing the wet ends but forgetting to brush her hair all the way through. From her lonesome perspective, basic maintenance was a foolish task. She had no one to impress. Not even a mirror. 

She found a new slip to wear in her rickety wardrobe, it was lace trimmed like the rest of the ones she owned, but this one was the shade of lavender. Violet appreciated the humor of wearing the color they named her after. She laughed as a child when her mother wore a midnight blue dress. It matched her name perfectly, Indigo. 

The living room looked as dreary as it always did, with the same old drab furniture and beige colored curtains. Wooden carvings of wolves sat on the mantle above the hearth, which Violet had begun the ceremony to light. New, unscathed firewood sat in the mouth of the fireplace, complimentary of the manor’s magic. Violet crouched down, mere inches away from the wood, rubbing her hands together.

“Friction generates heat,” her mother said, “And heat generates fire.”

In one fluid movement, Violet directed her palms towards the logs, focusing on the vision of sparks and glowing embers. She closed her eyes, squeezing them shut for seven seconds. When she opened her eyes, a single flame ate away at the left corner of the log. It spread across the log at an even rate, the crackling sound encompassing the entire living room. 

Violet kneeled before the hearth, her voice cracking as she recited, “Friction generates heat, and heat generates fire. Fire wields protection, in times that are dire.” 

Much like the painting she despised, the flames burst into the air, traveling up the chimney and sweeping out of the hearth, and touching her skin. 

Violet frowned.  

The fire does not burn. It does not inflict pain, nor will it ever. 

For the rest of the night, her role was to keep the fire going, to watch over it as if it were her own child. As if she were Prometheus giving the mortals a flicker of a flame, cautious and curious, waiting for something wonderful to happen. But nothing wonderful ever did happen, so Violet tilted her head back and sighed. 

Violet, her mother, and their ancestors were all born fireproof. And that very thought haunted her. What a cold, miserable life; never to be embraced by warmth. 

It was supposed to be fulfilling, honing the skill of fire. 

But it did not fulfill the lonely girl, rather, it hollowed her out, carving out fractions of the raw emotions buried within her cursed soul. 

Tap. Tap. Tap

“Have I gone mad?” Violet asked aloud. “Have I finally lost my mind?”

Tap. Tap. Tap. 

She bit her fingernails and said, “Of course I’ve gone mad. When the sun rises, it will mark the tenth anniversary of when Mother left… And my twentieth birthday. Living in solitude for this long, any normal person--”

Violet bit her tongue. She was not a normal person, and she knew it. 

Some time had passed, the tapping had silenced a while ago, due to what Violet thought was the realization of madness. However, a new bolstering thud crashed directly above her head, sending a sudden jolt down her spine. Tapping followed thereafter. 

Tap. Tap. Tap. 

Blood beat in her cheeks, her heart thumped twice as fast. 

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Despite the fact it was impossible for anyone to enter the manor, Violet convinced herself someone broke in. Perhaps if she hadn’t spent a decade alone, she’d be more hesitant to wander up the spiral staircase, but she did so. Whether the intruder was good or bad, did not matter to Violet. Someone was someone. And that was enough. 

By the time her feet quickly brought her halfway up the staircase, she realized she had not stepped foot on the second floor since the day her mother left. Hesitation set like a stone on her feet. Dozens of paintings lined the walls of the second floor, ones that her mother never covered with sheets to appease the young, frightened Violet. 

Tap. Thump. Tap. Thump.  

She drew in a breath. “They are just paintings,” she consoled herself. “Nothing more.” 

Desire overpowered fear: she reached the top of the staircase. 

At first glance, Violet cringed at the mural painted directly on the wall, but she shot her eyes down to the floor, not wanting to think about her ancestry. All she saw was a title written in cursive on the bottom: Riding Hood. 

Tap. Tap. Tap. 

Dust stuck to the bottom of Violet’s bare feet as she paced towards the noise, following it to the left wing where three bedrooms were located. The noise morphed into a ruckus, intensifying as she crept passed the first door. For a second, she dared to look upwards, and eyed a painting identical to the one in the study, save for the bright orange cloak substituting for the red. 

Three more copies of the art piece hung in line, but each owned its own bright hue: yellow, green, and blue. Thinking she surpassed the outlandish canvases, Violet once again flicked her eyes upwards, only to be met with a new painting. Unsurprisingly, it was identical to the others, crafted with chunky pastels and thick charcoal lines. The sole main difference was the color of the cloak. A vibrant indigo. 

Violet’s breath hitched. 

“When did this appear?” She asked so low the thumping sound overpowered her voice. 

 Her eyes darted to the floor; scared tears will leak from them as her thoughts crossed her mother. A mixture of anxiety, curiosity, and impatience nauseated her stomach. Tension roiled within the veins of Violet’s forehead. 

Tap. Tap. Tap. 

Thump. Thump. Thump.

She put her hand on the rounded doorknob, twisting it ever so slightly. 

Utter, distill silence. 

As if the door had a mind of its own, it swung violently open, dragging Violet into the room, tossing her on the ground. It slammed shut as she braced herself for a hardwood floor, but all she felt was something soft. Something she had never touched before. What was it? Maybe a thing she read about in a story? Feathers? Cotton? Dandelion tufts?

Sharp yellow eyes met hers, their heart beating as loudly as hers. Gnarly teeth stuck out of its muzzle. A grey tail poised on the floor. Without a doubt, it was one of the creatures depicted in the paintings. A wolf.

The gravity of the situation kept Violet frozen, her head on the wolf’s abdomen. If she moved, it might kill her. If she didn’t, well, it was the same fate. Was it not? 

“Are you a huntress?” the wolf asked, a tiny bit of drool landing on Violet’s terrified face. 

An answer did not come to mind. All Violet could think of was the wolf’s yellow eyes, which were not ghastly or threatening. If anything, the yellow hue reminded her of a full moon, or the way gold shimmered in a flame. Glimmering stars on the darkest of nights. 

“Are you?” the wolf asked again, this time leaning in closer and taking a whiff of Violet’s scent. 

Violet knew this would be her end. She kept the hearth lit at night. She practiced the ritual of the huntress. She burned the wolves. 

“You are the last,” the wolf said.

Its mouth gaped open, and Violet prepared to be torn to shreds. But all she felt was a lick on her cheek, and a humid breath sticking to her nose. The wolf’s heartbeat slowed. 

“Aren’t you going to kill me?” Violet whimpered. 

A womanly laugh escaped the wolf’s lopsided grin. “No, my dear, I am not.” 

“But I lit the hearth.”

“And it did not work,” said the wolf. “You are the last huntress, if you ever claimed to be a huntress at all, that is.”

Violet sat up. “I’m not a huntress?”

“Red ensured huntresses would go on for all eternity to scald us wolves, cursing a babe with magic in their veins each generation to serve as a huntress,” the wolf stepped away from Violet and strutted to the door, “But she made a grave mistake.”

“What did she do?” Violet questioned. 

“Look in the mirror for yourself,” the wolf grinned once more as the door gently opened. “Come downstairs when you’re ready.”

Violet craned her neck to view a broken-down bed as the wolf slipped out of the bedroom. Blistered pieces of wood sprawled out on the floor, trailing to the smashed bed pushed up against the wall. A mirror lay beneath where the bed was once positioned.

She gasped. Her eyes were shaded the color of a full moon, just like a wolfs.  

Violet was cursed to be a huntress, just not the kind her ancestor intended her to be. 

Wolves are huntresses too.