Lupus

A new take on the traditional tale of Red Riding Hood.

The people in the mountains are not like us. They are superstitious people with cold hearts. The bitter winters freeze the souls, it is said. They live in murky wooded houses with coal or peat fires smoking up the interior. Many die in the winter. Many die later, found guilty of witchcraft.

It could be anyone, you know. It could be the medicine woman on the corner, if the baby she delivers is stillborn. It could be the young unmarried girl in the village. Witches live alone, dark and beautiful when young, you see. Or it could be the old woman on the edge of the wood, with her strange cat that follows her everywhere. How unnatural.

Once they have accused a woman, they need proof. That is found in the form of a suckling spot, where the Devil feeds and gives her power and a familiar. That mole on her right hand? That birthmark on her neck? That scar on her leg? They always find it. And when they do? They stone her, burn her in the name of their Gods.

This girl is a good girl. She walks along the forest road, like her mother told her, to visit her Grandmamma with bread and meat. Her Grandmamma, while a beauty when she was younger, had never married. The girl knows the winding route well; it is littered with wolves, the harsh wind biting through their thick coats.

The little path was jagged, so she wore leather boots, from the animal she skinned herself. The winter’s bitter chills send shivers down her spine. She draws her red cloak around her, trying to stay warm. The wicker basket on her back creaks with the harsh frost. She slips on the path, and scrapes her hands on the jutting stones, red blood dripping from the gashes. She binds her hands with a scarf, knowing that Wampyr stalk the smell of blood.

She rounds a little corner, the pines seeming to shake above her with the cold. She is only a little away from her Grandmamma’s. She would be there soon, in the choking heat, safe. Without the fear of wolves, or worse. But she hadn’t seen anything yet. Maybe she would be alright. Maybe-

But no. There it was. Emaciated, but hungry. Hunger makes them bold, that was why it dared venture near the village path. Its jaws were dripping when it saw the girl. Its gray fur bristled between its shoulder bones, and the muscles tensed. You could see them move under the skin. It hadn’t eaten in a week. It snarled, low and desperate.

The girl was not afraid. Instead grasping the thick bone handle of the hunting knife her father gave her, she slid it out of the scabbard by her waist. She clutched it in her right hand, while slowly sliding off her red hood. A sudden, sharp, darting movement would only make it attack faster, and time was her friend. The longer she could avoid the attack, the easier she could kill it.

The girl relaxed, then tensed her muscles slowly, warming them up. Her nutty, coarse hair whipped around her face, teasing out of the leather throng that held it. The knife was as long as her forearm, its serrated edge glinting nastily in what little light there was. She was young, but tall for her age, like the others of her village. But she still had little weight on the wolf. It could easily tackle her, rip her, baring her bones to be found lying glassy-eyed in the snow. Like so many others.

The wolf cracked first, hungry for hot blood and still warm meat. It snarled and bounded forward, its eyes fixed on the girl’s own. She waited for it, as it came closer, closer yet, closer still. She watched its paws thud in the snow, and then it leapt high, aiming for her jugular.

But the girl was quicker.

She sidestepped, and flashed the knife, slicing the air, until it connected with something.

The wolf dropped to the ground, then fell. It managed to struggle to its paws, and it limped down the path, leaving behind only a trail of bright red blood in the snow and a severed paw. The girl watched it go, waited ten breaths, and efficiently wiped the knife clean in the pure snow. Then, she picked up the paw, and wrapped it in cloth, placed it neatly in her wicker basket, and continued to her Grandmamma’s, drawing the red hood around her face.

She arrived soon after, and let herself into the smoky cottage. She searched the cottage, and her Grandmamma was still in her bed. Something was distinctly not right. The girl approached the older woman, and watched as she stirred in an unrestful sleep. She was feverish, and moaned, groaned, thrashing her head from side to side.

The girl looked at her, and then noticed the covers were stained red. She drew back the white sheets, and screamed. Her Grandmamma was wounded, trickling red. Her right hand was missing, leaving only a bloody stump. With a quiet horror, the girl opened her wicker basket, and unwrapped the paw.

It was a woman’s lined hand, with a ring on the finger, with her family name engraved.

The girl dutifully ran back to her village, with horror alerting the Elders. They followed her to the smoky cottage beyond the woods, and searched the body of her Grandmamma. They found it, eventually. A mole on her ribcage, that was where the Devil sucked and gave her the power to transform her shape.

They stoned the old woman, and buried her outside the consecrated burial ground. Witches would taint the pure, safe land. It would become a place of dark magic and necromancy if they dared to allow her to be buried there.

When the girl moved into her Grandmama’s house, she prospered.