Waiting for the Woodsman

Granny and I are waiting for the woodsman, and he is late. Often we wait like this, crushed together in the dark, her bony elbow dangerously close to my eye, my pointy knees digging into her back. The indignant chicken that made up the wolf’s lunch flaps and squawks incessantly, and nearly suffocates us with its feathers. They say that adversity brings people together, and in this moment we have never been closer.

It’s odd how often we find ourselves in this situation. Every time I go to visit granny, we both get eaten, much to our surpise. It is only when we are crammed inside the wolf’s belly, waiting for the woodsman to come and rescue us, that we begin to remember that something like this has happened before.

This morning started like any other morning. I woke up in my little trundle bed, snug and warm beneath the crimson cloak that Mama sewed just for me. We ate apples and oatmeal for breakfast, fat spoonfuls swimming in the cream that I skimmed from the morning’s milking. Bessie, our cow, produces the creamiest milk in the county, and Mama says we eat better than the king.

I sat for lessons in the morning, then weeded the garden and collected the last of the summer squash. Mama baked an apple cake for Granny and bottled some our fresh cider for her, before packing a basket near to overflowing. Granny’s rheumatoid has been bothering her, and she depends on me to bring her sustenance and keep her fed.

I am halfway to Granny’s house when I meet the wolf, sitting lazily beneath a pine tree, a blade of grass between his teeth and a few stray chicken feathers clinging to his ruff.  

“Where are you going, little girl?” he asks.

“To Granny’s house,” I tell him. “Her rheumatoid is acting something awful, and Mama has made an apple cake with cinnamon to ease her pains.”

The wolf’s eyes light up at that, and I expect that he will try to barter the cake from me, but he simply says, “What a kind thing to do, little girl. Perhaps your Granny would like some flowers, to bring a little color to her on this fine day.”  

The field beyond beckons, and I put down my basket to gather chrysanthemums and asters and celosia, cutting the blooms with my sharp little knife, and braiding them together to make garlands for my dear Granny. It is only when my neck is ringed with flowers, and my dress is dusted yellow with pollen, that I realize how much time has passed. I hurry with the flowers and my basket, but my arms grow heavier with every step and I am tired when I reach Granny’s house.    

There is a fire burning in the hearth, and Granny is tucked up tight in her bed. I am surprised to find her abed at this time day. Even when her joints are aching and swollen, Granny is always active, knitting or whittling or peeling potatoes.  

“Granny, are you ill?” I ask, putting down my basket just inside the door.

“I’ve just taken a little chill, my child. It is nothing to be alarmed about,” she says, but her voice is deep and raspy, and doesn’t sound like her at all.

“Granny, you don’t sound well,” I say, and tiptoe closer to look at her. Too late I see that her hands are covered in grey fur, and her teeth are glistening canines. The wolf is out of bed before I can run, and in a gulp I find myself sliding down his gullet, and colliding with my Granny in his stomach.

“Who is there?,” she asks, and her voice is high and quavering. My Granny, a woman who raised 10 children, who built a house in the woods with trees she felled herself, and dug her own well, and planted her own fields, who is scared of no one and nothing, is now shaking in a wolf’s stomach.  

“It’s just me, Granny,” I say, and I mean to reassure her, but my voice is shaking too.  

“My dear child,” she says, and her voice sounds stronger. “We must put our heads together and figure a way out.”

That is when the chicken starts squawking and flapping, and it is nothing but feathers and claws and beak for a few minutes, until Granny can maneuver herself around to sit on the wretched bird.

“Granny, I almost feel as if I remember this happening before,” I say. The memories are dim, pitch-dark really, but they’re flickering to life at the edge of my mind. I remember us waiting, and planning, then hearing the sound of a booming knock on the door, reverberating through the wolf’s skin and muscles. I remember the muffled sounds of a man’s deep voice, and then the feel of cool air on my face as he slices the wolf open and lifts us out. Who is that man, and how does he know to come for us? How can it be possible that I have been in the dark with my Granny, floating in a wolf’s innards, ever before?

And then another thought comes to me. What if this man doesn’t come for us this time? Will we live out our days in the wolf’s belly, growing more and more crowded as he eats each successive meal until we are smothered by his appetite?

“I remember, too,” Granny says, and she sounds puzzled. “Though it seems foolish to rely on memories and strangers in a situation such as this. We must figure a way out of this ourselves, in case he doesn’t finds us.” 

Another memory whispers in my mind: the bright flowers I gathered this afternoon, and my small, sharp knife, now resting heavily in my pocket. If I twist just right- like that!- I can reach it.

I pull the knife out of my pocket and flip open the blade. “Granny, I have my knife!” I say, both exultant and afraid. In the pitch dark of the wolf’s stomach, I am scared that I could accidentally slice Granny or myself.  

“Smart girl,” she says approvingly. “I’ve taught you well! Can you reach the edge of his abdomen?”

Slowly, carefully, I feel around me with my free hand. Immediately ahead of me is a dense and knobby column- his spine. I twist around, and this time I feel supple skin. The lining of the wolf’s stomach is warm and slimy, and I can feel an artery pulsing under my palm.

I’m scared. I imagine a million ways in which this could go wrong: the knife slips, or breaks, or isn’t long enough, or I hurt my granny or myself or even the stupid squawking chicken. Wouldn’t it be safer to wait just a little longer?  

“Go on, girl,” says Granny, “the time for waiting is past.”

I take a deep breath and stab. At first, the knife blade slips across the satin lining of the wolf’s stomach, but as I press more firmly, the blade finds purchase and sinks into his flesh. It’s difficult. I shove with all my strength, sawing back and forth at an uncomfortable angle. Soon, I hit the pulsing artery that I felt earlier and the wolf’s warm blood sprays across my face, dripping into my eyes and clogging my nose and mouth with salty liquid. The chicken is squawking yet again, and her beak and claws are merciless and sharp. The knife blade is slippery in my hands from a mix of sweat and blood, and it’s hard to keep the line of cutting because the wolf has begun to buck and writhe in response to my unanticipated attack.  

Light peeks through a tiny hole above me. Granny throws her weight towards the ground, attempting to pin the wolf down from within his own abdomen.  It is not perfect, but it makes enough of a difference.  

Through the hole I can see his paws flailing, but I’m not scared any more. I keep sawing away, drenched now in the wolf’s blood, until the wound in his abdomen is big enough for us to all come tumbling out, first me, then Granny, then the chicken.

In all my memories of being eaten by the wolf, never have we escaped this way. I am horrified and energized, shocked at my own capacity for violence, and awed by the tenacity of my will to live. Will this be the event that breaks the cycle? If there is a next time, will I remember this strength in the moment when I need it most?