Little Red

Willa would never forget that day. She was coming home, carrying the new kill, with the fine jackrabbit fur tickling her nose, and the iron taste of blood still warm in her mouth. She planned to show the kill to her three cubs, Winken, Blinken, and Nod. She planned to use her razor-sharp teeth to tear the skin away, letting the blood sprinkle in their quivering little noses. She needed to wean the growing cubs off her milk and onto good, life-giving food. Fresh prey. Rabbits, mice, voles.

She arrived at the rocks and bramble that concealed the entrance to her den, and gently dropped the jackrabbit on the gorse. She yipped once, then cocked an ear, listening for a scuffle or whimper from her cubs as they wriggled their way out. She’d been away prowling all night, so the cubs would be restless, hungry, mewling for attention. She expected a chorus of eager replies to her single yip.

But today: silence.

As she crawled through the entrance, a terrible odor filled her nose. The hair stood up on the back of her neck. She stuck her nose among the furry bodies she had left sleeping at dusk yesterday. Now, they were cold and lifeless. She gave a low, guttural moan.

She sniffed the open mouth of Winken, her biggest cub, and touched the tip of her tongue to his. It was a vile, bitter taste and she recoiled. She tried to spit out the taste while scrambling out of the hole. A few paces away she noticed the dead rat, giving off the same horrid stench. It looked bitten and mauled—abandoned there by another predator, she guessed, close enough to the den where curious little cubs might explore.

Danger, danger.

She grabbed the dead jackrabbit’s neck and ran until she reached an outcropping of granite. She had a voracious hunger, and she made quick work of the rabbit. While she chewed, the memory of another death, two rats outside a granary, came back to her.

*         *         *

She was just a cub then, learning how to hunt and scavenge from her mother, when she had come across a pile of grain with two sleek, plump rats stretched out upon it. Their rat-noses were still in the grain, and but their bodies were cold and stiff.

 She had thought herself clever for finding such easy prey. She pawed at a rat carcass, wondering whether to have a quick snack, when suddenly a crashing noise scared her into the bush. A strange animal appeared, a two-legged brute, thumping a bucket, and screeching.

 “Hey Papa,” the brute yelled, “Here’s two more!”

Terrified, Willa had bolted, plunging deep into the forest unseen by the brute. She ran to her mother, whimpering about the encounter.

Mother sniffed the paw that had touched the dead rat. She growled the lowest, most threatening growl Willa had ever heard. “Those two-legged animals are known as ‘farmers.’ They are very sly,” Mother explained. “They are too cowardly to use their bodies to kill. So they grind up special nuts and make ‘strychnine bait’ that kills mice and rats eating their grain.”

Willa scrubbed her paw vigorously in the dirt.

“Good thing you didn’t lick or bite the rats,” Mother said. “The poison can pass into you. So be careful.”

“I feel sick.”

“Well, go puke. You might feel better. And you will learn a lesson. Farmers hate wolves. They will try to kill our kind any way possible. Poison—to kill our families. Or they poke us with very long, sharp sticks—or sticks that shoot smoke and pebbles.”

*         *         *

Willa chewed on the jackrabbit, unable to enjoy a meal she couldn’t share. Her teats, full of milk for her cubs, ached to feed them. She yearned to curl up with them and sleep. But she knew it was too dangerous to ever go back to that den. She began a slow, loping run, and didn’t stop until the sun had run a full cycle. By then, she was far away from the Forest by the Rocky Lake and closer to the Pine Forest on the Mountain, where she stopped to rest and hunt. She stayed for the season.

The memory of her first litter stayed with her, the sweetness of her cubs, and their little tongues, and how their busy warm mouths had suckled her, and the weight of their drowsy wee heads lying against her, the sweet milky perfume of their sated mouths.

One season became two… became several.

In the Pine Forest on the Mountain, the original rugged forest was being slowly ravaged by farmers. Trees were chopped down to burn or to make cottages and carts. Brush was burned. The rich, rotting leaves and pine needles were getting dug up and mixed with oxen and goat manure for soil. Wildlife was being driven further back into the canopy.

 Willa lived too close to starvation to dream of creating a new family. She felt safe only in her remote den, where she could sleep, although sometimes she awoke to a hound snuffling nearby—and then it became a lightning race for survival.

 Willa lived always on the run and at first it was exhausting. Then it became her skill that she yearned to pass to the next generation. If not as a mother, then as a wise old auntie. But perhaps there was still time to find a new mate—a strong, fast, clever male.

*         *         *

That summer a raging fire claimed part of the Pine Forest on the Mountain. Willa ran for her life and in the heat and fatigue, she became disoriented and ended up in No Man’s Land.

Life was much harder here. She had trouble finding a new pack and a new den. All her energy went into survival, so she did not hook up with a new mate.

The next spring a flock of birds flew into the devastated area. Willa eavesdropped while trying to sneak up on them. They were a-twitter with joyous racket. Apparently, there was good news about the Forest by the Rocky Lake, Willa’s first haunt. The birds were on their way to build nests there.

Willa followed along to check it out, discovering snick! snack! some tasty mice along the way. The farther away she got from No Man’s Land, the more of them she ate.

At last the migration eased up and the birds began to settle among the lofty, leafy trees of the Forest by the Rocky Lake. Grain grew plentifully in the meadowlands, and Willa grew plump on mice and rats, always sniffing them carefully before devouring.

Occasionally she dined on chicken or lamb and snickered to hear farmers complaining about “foxes” in the area.

Willa recognized much of the landscape where she’d grown up, such as the granite outcropping. But some things had changed. Some dwellings had scorched timbers, blackened stone foundations, and some dwellings had been completely re-thatched.

 The farmers living closest to her old den had changed. The alpha male was not around anymore, it seemed, and the alpha female had gray hair and wore a strange doodad on her face that she called “spectacles” or “my specs.” She had fewer members in her group to protect her, yet she walked as stiffly as an old elk.

Willa sensed an opportunity to get even for the loss of her family.

*         *         *

The old female, the one they called Grandma, was bigger than a badger, had softer flesh, and lacked the terrifically sharp badger claws. As prey, she was definitely worth a second look, but Willa knew that sometimes the farmers pulled out a nasty surprise, like that stick that was even sharper than a badger claw. The thing they called a knife.

At a distance, Willa watched the comings and goings at Grandma’s cottage. At least once a day, another farmer dropped by, usually the small, young farmer known as Little Red. The visitor would arrive with a basket, sometimes carrying rutabagas or cookies—things that disgusted wolves. Other days Grandma’s visitor brought pieces of meat or eggs—or Willa’s favorite—blood sausage!

Willa held back, making excuses. She was feeling too hungry… she was feeling too full. Too many hounds were running around. Or too many farmers were nearby, harvesting with sharp sticks.

One fine sunny morning as the dew was lifting from the wild larkspur in the Forest by the Lake, Willa noticed Little Red carrying the basket.

Now or never! I seek revenge for my family!

Willa silently jumped from the lilac bush beside Grandma’s cottage, startling the girl.

“Eeek! Eeek!” Little Red screamed. She wet her pants, dropped her basket and threw off her cloak so she could run faster.

Willa sniffed the basket contents. Cookies, ugh. But maybe these undelicious things could be put to good use. Willa wound the red cloak around herself, and took the basket handle between her teeth. She pitter-pattered to Grandma’s cottage.

Willa lifted the door-knocker with her paw and let it fall.

“Come in,” Grandma called, “door’s open.”

The day was overcast, and the cottage had only one teensy window for light. Grandma’s spectacles were on the supper table. And there was Grandma, curled under the poofy eiderdown.

 “I’m lying late a-bed, Little Red,” Grandma wheezed. “I can’t find my specs. You can just leave the goodies on the supper table. Tell your mama I am truly grateful.”

Willa trotted closer and dropped the basket on the floor.

“The table, I said,” Grandma repeated. “If you leave it on the floor the mice will find it.”

Willa tenderly whined as she used to do when inviting the little wolf cubs to nuzzle at her.

Grandma, whose eyes were clouded over, sat up in bed and spoke to the shadowy moving figure in her cottage. “Eh? What did you say? I can’t hear well. Don’t be shy, Little Red.”

 Grandma stuck out her hand and her fingertips lightly grazed Willa’s fur. “You have such fine hair, Little Red. Someday the boys will be after you, ohh my,” Grandma cackled. “Let me tell you about when I was a girl.” She patted the poofy eiderdown.

Although Willa was no dog, the gesture was so warmly inviting that Willa leapt onto the bed.

 “Ohh my, you are a big, heavy girl, Little Red.” Granny drew back, as if sensing something was awry. “I—I can’t find my specs... My specs.” She knocked around her night table, searching.

 Suddenly the wolf pounced on her chest.

Granny gave a blood curdling shriek. It was cut short as the wolf’s teeth aimed for her windpipe.

Willa bit and chomped and bit again, smelling the blood, reveling as its warmth oozed on her nose and in her mouth. She snarled, “Take that! Take that! You dare to kill my babies! You will never breathe again!”

 Suddenly a sharp pain split Willa’s shoulders and her world went black.

*         *         *

The fire crackled in the hearth as the woodcutter added another log, while two little children snuggled under a threadbare blanket.

 “Please Papa, tell us again how you rescued Little Red Riding Hood,” said the little boy.

The woodcutter rubbed his thick beard and chuckled. “Well, yup, the Big Bad Wolf ate Granny,” he said. He exaggerated a gulp, then patted his belly.

“And then what, Papa?”

“The Big Bad Wolf put on Granny’s nightgown and nightcap. Then he lay under her blanket, with just his ears poking out, pretending to be dear old Granny. Little Red Riding Hood came in with her basket of cookies—wolves love cookies, you know—and said, ‘Granny, what big ears you have,’” the woodcutter said.

The children’s eyes shone in the light of the fire.

Papa was having immense fun acting out the timid, naïve child, the ravenous wolf, and the terrified granny who’d jumped in the closet to hide.

Little Hansel shrieked with joy all over again and squeezed Papa’s hand. Then a pensive look came over his small, pinched face. “Why did the Big Bad Wolf want to eat Little Red Riding Hood?”

“He was hungry, son,” said the woodcutter. “Wolves are cruel and cunning creatures. And he knew Little Red Riding Hood would be far tastier than sick old Granny.”

The woodcutter’s wife frowned. “Don’t put any more ideas in their heads. They need to go to sleep.”

“Aww, do we have to?” Hansel said. “Mama used to let us stay up long enough to listen to Papa’s stories. Can’t he tell us the next one, the one about the brave woodcutter fighting a dragon?”

The woodcutter’s wife sighed. It was so difficult, being a stepmother.

Little Gretel piped up. “I feel sorry for that wolf. He’s hungry.” She squeezed the blanket. “Wolves live in the forest. Maybe Granny was scaring away the rabbits and the wolf had no other food.”

Hans poked her and whispered, “Don’t make trouble, Sis. Papa saw what he saw and knows what he knows.”

“The dragon story will have to wait until tomorrow night,” the woodcutter’s wife said brightly. “We must all go to sleep now.” She exchanged a significant look with her new husband. “Tomorrow, we have a long walk ahead of us, going deep into the forest to gather more wood.”

“That’s right,” said the woodcutter, tucking the blanket around them. “No more stories tonight.”

The End