My Little Red

Perhaps you’ve heard stories of glass slippers, sleeping beauties, and candied cottages. Or maybe you’ve read about wicked witches, frogged lips, and happily ever afters. Whatever the case, I’m sure, quite sure, you know my story. 

Well, a version of my story. 

But it wasn’t told in its entirety, of that I am certain. It’s time I tell the truth, now that she’s almost grown up and has a mind of her own. 

Now that she wants to hear the real story. 

Her story. 

Let me begin. 

***

There once was a little girl who wore a hood as red as blood berries. This much is true. 

But the first thing you must know is they got it all wrong. The little red hooded girl wasn’t followed by a he-wolf, but rather, a she-wolf. A mother wolf. 

A mother, above all else. 

It was early autumn, the air crisp and cool, and I was teaching my little one to hunt. We stood just outside the tree line, crouched low, keeping our ears perked and our noses to the ground. I whispered to him, “If you stay still, steady, and advance with caution, then you will snatch them before they even get a chance to see you.” 

My little one kept his eyes on the elk not ten yards away from us, grazing in the open meadow. We stayed in position for some time, and eventually, my little one got bored and started to nibble on his front paws. They were rather large, those front paws of his, and it filled me with great pride. One day, he’d be as big and as strong as his father was. 

I nudged my head against my little one, licking the top of his ear. “Focus up buttercup, or you’ll be quite hungry.” 

Then we heard it. 

A bright, sing-song voice floating up over the hill just beyond the meadow. The elk’s head swiveled in the direction of the voice, then darted into the woods. As the elk disappeared, so did my hopes for food.

My little one stared up at me, waiting for my cue. I crouched even lower to the ground, deciding to use that moment of wasted hunt as a means to teach my little one a lesson. “Stay very still, do not move. Watch.” 

Now standing in the elk’s place was a man-eater. A very small man-eater, a child really, with thick, golden locks that tumbled down her shoulders. But perhaps what was most captivating about this child was the long, velvet hood she wore, a hood the color of blood berries. 

The child skipped through the meadow, bending down to smell lavender stock and count the dandelions. 

My little one whispered, “I don’t get it Mama, it’s so tiny, just like me. And it smells good too, like… honey, and apples…” My little one sniffed the air and got so carried away his head raised above the tall grass. I snarled and pushed him down. 

“Don’t be a fool. Watch what follows.” 

A few seconds later a tall, thick figure emerged from behind the girl. This dark shadowed man-eater was three times the size of the child and wore heavy, branch-breaking boots. 

My heart sank. I’d seen this man-eater before and he had seen me. We knew each other all too well. He hunted here often, just beyond the tree line. 

He was the one many called the woodsman. 

“Father,” squeaked the little girl. “Can I play in the meadow?”

The woodsman grinned, showing off a wide maw of sharp teeth. “No Amala, quiet! Stay very still, I see something just over there…”

And then, the woodsman lifted the one thing on this earth that still sends chills down my back. With two massive hands, he raised the black fire stick he’d been carrying to eye-level, and pointed it in the direction the elk had run. We heard two clicks, a moment of silence, then a loud boom erupted. My little one trembled, hugging my underbelly close. 

Not so far away, I smelled the fresh scent of running blood.  

I was suddenly taken back to that day, to that very terrible day, when I lost the rest of my pack and my partner to this man-eater, the woodsman, and his fire stick. 

I bared my teeth, anger getting the best of me. I whispered in low growl, “Little one, you must be cautious and careful. You must always be two steps ahead of those that can hurt you. You were gifted with ferocious fangs, clever claws, undeniable speed and strength. But you have limits. We have limits. And we must never cross paths with a man-eater. Especially this one.”

My little one nodded, his body shaking. I softened just a bit, but continued on. “They have fire and a deep hatred for creatures like us. They won’t hesitate to kill us the first chance they get. Please, you must never go near a man-eater. Promise me.”

My little one inched even closer to me. “There there, it’s quite alright now, the man-eaters have gone. You’re safe as long as you’re with me.” 

I licked the top of his head, taking in his scent. I pulled him closer still, wanting to take away his fear. 

But fear, as far as I knew, was the best motivator at keeping us alive. 

I took one last look at the little girl, the one wearing the red hood, then retreated back into the woods, back towards the den, as my little one followed close behind. 

*** 

The next day I started the hunt early, leaving my little one at the den. While he slept in, I snuck out, disappearing into the early morning fog. 

I treaded lightly on trails I’d traveled many times, followed up on every sound, every scent of substance, but couldn’t catch a thing. After a few hours I gave up and returned to the den, anxious to see my little one. 

But when I got there, he was nowhere to be found. 

He was probably just out playing, but still, my chest began to hurt, crushed by the weight of worry. I pressed my nose to the ground and yes, there was his scent. I followed it all the way to the tree line at the edge of the meadow. 

And then I heard it.

A loud, deep voice very close by, the voice of the woodsman. I lowered to the ground, hiding beneath the tall grass. 

“Amala what is that? What are you doing over there?”

The woodsman sounded worried, his voice rising. “Amala, I told you never to play with those things, they’re rabid, dangerous, they can hurt—” 

The voice of the small girl sang out, “But father, look, it likes me. It just wants to play.”

Suddenly, I realized what they were talking about, or rather, who they were talking about. 

My little one, he must have been— 

I stood at full height and saw them, my little one rolling on the ground beside the red hooded girl. She was on her knees, stroking his fur, her smile wide. 

And then, I watched what followed. What always followed. The woodsman was running across the meadow towards my little one, the fire stick in his hands. 

I too started racing towards them as fast as I could, but the woodsman was already much closer than I.

I began barking, yelping, howling, doing anything and everything to warn my little one to run. 

But he never moved. 

As the woodsman got even closer, my little one froze and rooted himself to the ground. His tiny body was trembling, and I remembered what it felt like to be cuddled against him just this morning. 

I was halfway across the field now, the woodsman almost upon them. I let out my loudest snarl, hoping to distract the woodsman. He turned and saw me, and then, he did the most peculiar thing. He paused and looked at me, looked right at me. And I knew then that he recognized me. 

For it was I, the mother wolf who escaped his slaughter weeks before. The mother wolf, with only her pup to tether her to this world. 

The woodsman grinned wide, gave me a wink, then turned to face my little one again, pointing the fire stick right at him, never mind the fact that his own daughter was within shot range, too.  

My little one covered his eyes with his front paws and crouched low to the ground. He started whimpering, crying out for me. “Mama I’m scared. Mama—”

A loud boom erupted, and with that deafening sound, everything that I was, or ever loved, shattered within me. 

I slowed to a stop. 

Not so far away, I smelled the fresh scent of running blood. I was too late. 

The little red hooded girl was cradling my lifeless baby in her arms, whispering something sweet, tears streaming down her face. 

Then the woodsman turned towards me, still grinning, and said, “Amala, what did I tell you about talking to strangers? Even animals can’t be trusted. Now look what you made me do.” 

I held such hatred in my heart, such pain and hurt, but when the woodsman pointed the fire stick at me, my instincts kicked in. I turned fast and darted back and forth, making my way to the tree line with speed. 

I heard shots fire over me, a few whisked right by me, grazing my fur, but none of them struck me. 

Eventually I was able to hide below the tall grass, just beyond the tree line. I waited a few moments, not hearing anymore shots, then peered up. 

I watched the woodsman fling my little one over his shoulder and saunter back towards town. The little red hooded girl was still in the middle of the meadow weeping and cried, “I hate him so. Oh how I hate him so.”

I focused on her, my eyes narrowed to slits. 

And knew what I must do. 

***

The little red hooded girl listened to her father; she never did talk to any strangers. But sometimes terrible things happen to good people. I knew as much as that. 

After the woodsman took my little one’s body away, I followed him into town. I watched his movements each and every day, but most importantly, I studied his daughter’s. 

And I noticed that once a week, the woodsman would give his little girl a basket filled with fresh goods to take over to her grandmother. You see her grandmother was ill, quite ill, and these baskets helped sustain the old woman in her final weeks. 

On one particular outing, the little girl in the red hood carried a basket filled with apples, honey, and buttered cookies. I could smell the goods from a mile away. 

I knew which path the little red hooded girl was most inclined to take, and so I mapped out a much quicker route to her grandmother’s house. I would get there in no time, and indeed I did. 

When I reached the front door, I pushed it open, just like I had done countless times before. The house was quiet. Too quiet.

Perhaps today would be the day.

I made my way down the hall, to the bedroom where the grandmother was sleeping. And sure enough, there she was, curled up in bed.

I advanced with caution, because no man-eater could ever really be trusted, even a weak one like her. But when I got close enough, I could not hear the familiar beating of heart, or the pulse of blood. 

A limp hand hung from the bed and I brushed my nose against it. 

Dead. Finally, she was dead. 

This wasn’t a surprise. I had been waiting weeks now for this day. For this exact moment. A small part of me wished the old woman peace in her final rest, but in all honesty, I was overjoyed that she had died, for hope that it would bring the woodsman great pain and sadness. 

I was determined to make sure the woodsman endured the deepest of hurts, because now the only thing he had left to tether him to this world, was his little red hooded girl. 

And she would arrive any minute now.

Without wasting another second I pushed the old woman to the far side of the bed and draped the blanket over her. Then, I wrapped myself in the shawl she left hanging on the rocking chair. It covered me just fine, only leaving my face exposed. 

And finally, I crawled into bed next to the dead woman. Soon after, the little red hooded girl knocked on the front door. 

“Who’s there?” I called out, trying my best to mimic the old woman. I didn’t quite match her tone, my voice was much deeper and raspier. But nonetheless, the stupid child giggled and said, “It’s your little red riding hood silly, who else would it be?” 

I paused. My little one’s laugh used to sound just like hers. 

The little girl continued, “Gran, it’s Amala, please may I come in? I’ve brought you apples, honey, and fresh buttered cookies.” 

I shook my head, remembering to focus up buttercup, and said in my sweetest voice, “Put the basket on the kitchen table and come here. Oh, how I’ve missed you.”

I could hear the little red hooded girl’s footsteps against the floorboards as she headed straight for the kitchen, then, for the back bedroom. I pulled the shawl tighter around me. 

Then, the child emerged in the doorway and I finally got to see her up close. Such small hands and feet, she couldn’t be more than a few summers old. Her dark brown eyes were the color of redwood, the very color eyes my little one used to have.

My heart began to beat quicker. Could she hear it? 

The little girl came closer and said, “Gran, what big ears you have.” 

I swallowed, cleared my throat, “The better to hear you with, my dear.” 

The little girl inched even closer, her nose scrunched up, as if she was figuring out a puzzle. “And Gran, what big eyes you have.” 

I nodded, “Yes child, the better to see you with.” 

When the little girl was just an arms-length away, she paused and whispered, “Gran, what big teeth you have.” 

There it was, the moment I had been waiting for. And so I said, with all the ferocity I could muster, “The better to eat you with!” 

I opened my maw wide and —

The little girl never even screamed. She was frozen, rooted in place. Her tiny body trembled and she covered her eyes with her hands. 

And in that moment, I saw my little one in her.

So I stopped. 

I stared at her. 

And I knew in my gut I couldn’t kill that child. I couldn’t be what her father was.  

I closed my mouth and ripped off the shawl. The little girl opened her eyes. “Y-you’re not going to hurt me?”

“Hurt you?” I said. 

My heart ached and I longed for my pack, my partner, my little one… 

And then it hit me, and I clearly saw the little girl for what she did, not what she was. I remembered how she showed kindness to my pup and wept for his death. I remembered how she held a hatred akin to mine for her own father. 

I realized what I’d been missing all along. What had been right there in front of me, for the taking, all along. 

I could do better than the woodsman.

I was better than the woodsman. 

The little red hooded girl cried, “Please don’t hurt me.” Her tiny body was trembling. She’d need more meat on her bones if she was to survive the winter, and come spring, I would teach her to hunt. 

“I won’t hurt you. I could never hurt you. But you, my little red, are coming with me.”

And with that, I scooped up the child, tossed her onto my back, and darted out into the night. 

In our haste, the red hood she loved so dearly slipped off, falling to the floor. 

***

Stories, fables, and fairytales are just that— stories. And often these stories are told by the wrong people, the people who want to tell the story their way. Even if their way is a lie. 

There once was a little girl who wore a hood as red as blood berries. This much is true. But now she lives with me, deep in the wild woods, far away from the fire and hatred she once knew so well. I have come to love her as if she were my own flesh and blood, and she has come to see me as hers. 

My little red frolics in fields of flowers each day, and together, we’re quite happy. 

I miss my little one terribly, but such is life. 

Don't be afraid to live again, to take back your story, because sometimes terrible things happen to good people. 

But we must move forward, best we can.