The Red Hood and the Wolf

The cottage sat at the edge of the village, where the last garden fence gave way to a wide and whispering wood. Inside, a mother wrapped a cake in a clean cloth and set it in a basket beside a small bottle of wine.

“Your grandmother is poorly,” she told her daughter. “Take her these. They will do her good.”

The girl nodded and put on her red hood. Her grandmother had sewn it for her, and she wore it every day, so that everyone in the village called her Little Red Riding Hood.

“Straight there and straight back,” her mother said, tying the basket handle. “Keep to the path, and do not stop for anything.”

“I won’t,” said the girl, and she stepped out into the morning.

The path wound between tall oaks and soft ferns. Birds called from the branches, and once a rabbit crossed in front of her, quick as a blink. She walked with the basket on her arm, humming a tune her grandmother liked.

After a while the trees grew close together, and the light turned green and dim. The path stayed clear, though, a brown ribbon through the ferns.

She was thinking about her grandmother’s warm kitchen when a voice spoke from beside a hazel bush.

“Good morning, little one.”

A wolf stood there, grey and lean, with bright eyes and a smile that showed his teeth. The girl had never seen a wolf before, but she had been told they were sly.

“Good morning,” she said, because her mother had taught her to be polite.

“And where are you off to so early?” asked the wolf.

“To my grandmother’s house,” she said. “She is ill, and I am bringing her cake and wine.”

“How kind,” said the wolf. “And where does your grandmother live?”

“A little way into the wood,” said the girl. “Under the three big oaks, by the stone wall.”

The wolf nodded slowly, as if he were thinking about something pleasant.

***

The wolf walked beside her for a few steps, his paws silent on the fallen leaves.

“Such a lovely day,” he said. “And look at all these flowers. Your grandmother would be glad of a few, don’t you think? She must be tired of her own four walls.”

The girl looked at the flowers. Bluebells nodded in the shade, and white stars of wood anemone grew in patches. She thought of her grandmother’s face, pale on the pillow, and how a bunch of flowers might make her smile.

“I should stay on the path,” she said.

“Oh, the path will wait,” said the wolf. “Flowers will not. Pick a handful, and I will walk on ahead and tell her you are coming.”

The girl hesitated. The basket was heavy, and the flowers were pretty. No harm could come from a few steps into the fern.

“All right,” she said. “Only a few.”

She set down the basket and began to pick. The wolf watched her for a moment, then turned and trotted away through the trees, his tail low and his steps quick.

The girl gathered bluebells and anemones until her hands were full. She chose the brightest ones, and she took her time, for the wood was quiet and the flowers were many. When she looked up at last, the sun had moved, and the path seemed far behind her.

She gathered her basket and hurried back to the path. The wolf was gone. Somewhere ahead, a wood pigeon called, and the leaves rustled as if someone had just passed by.

Grandmother’s cottage sat at the edge of the wood, where the trees thinned and the light came down in patches. The wolf reached it before the girl. He knocked on the door with one paw, soft and quick.

“Who is there?” called Grandmother from her bed.

“It is your granddaughter,” said the wolf, making his voice small. “I have cake and wine.”

“Lift the latch, then,” said Grandmother. “I am too weak to rise.”

The wolf lifted the latch with his nose and stepped inside. He did not wait for questions. He crossed the room in three strides, and Grandmother had no time to cry out. He swallowed her whole, as wolves in stories do. Then he stood still and looked around.

A nightcap lay on the chair. A nightgown hung on a peg. The wolf put them on, though the gown was tight across his shoulders. He climbed into the bed and pulled the covers up to his chin. The pillow smelled of lavender. He lay there and waited, and his breathing was slow and even, and the room was very quiet.

***

The girl came down the path with her basket on her arm. The cottage door stood open, and that was strange, for Grandmother always kept it shut against the wind. She stepped inside.

“Grandmother?” she called. “I brought you cake.”

No answer. The fire was low. A chair was tipped over near the bed. The girl went closer.

“Grandmother, your ears are so big.”

“All the better to hear you with,” said the wolf.

“But Grandmother, your eyes are so big.”

“All the better to see you with.”

The girl took a step back. The voice was wrong. It was deep and rough, like stones in a bucket.

“And your teeth, Grandmother. Why are they so big?”

“All the better to eat you with!”

The wolf threw off the covers and sprang. The girl screamed, but the cottage was far from any other house. He swallowed her too, quick as a gulp of water. Then he climbed back into bed, for he was very full and very sleepy. The nightcap slipped over one eye. He yawned once, and the yawn showed every tooth, and then he closed his eyes and began to snore.

A huntsman was walking home along the far edge of the wood. He had been out since dawn and his boots were heavy with mud. The path curved near the cottage, and he stopped. Someone was snoring inside. It was a deep, rattling snore, like a saw going through a log. “Grandmother?” he called. No answer, only the snore. He knew the old woman kept a neat house and slept light. This noise did not belong to her.

He tried the door. It swung open. The fire had gone to ash. On the bed lay a great grey wolf, stretched out long, with a nightcap pulled down over one ear. The wolf’s belly was round and tight, and it rose and fell with every snore. The huntsman did not reach for his knife. He reached for his scissors, small and sharp, the kind he used for trimming. “Easy now,” he whispered. “Easy.”

He cut one stitch, then another. The fur parted. A red hood poked out. Then two hands. Then the girl tumbled onto the floor, whole and breathing. “Oh,” she said. “Oh.” The huntsman put a finger to his lips. He cut again, and Grandmother stepped out, blinking and holding her nightgown closed. “That wolf,” she said. “He swallowed me like a pill.” She looked at the sleeping wolf and shook her head. “And he snored.”

The three of them stood in the cold room. The wolf slept on, his belly open, his breath slow. The huntsman took a stone from the path outside and set it where the wolf’s middle had been, and Grandmother stitched the fur closed with her own needle. “He will not wake hungry again,” she said. The wolf did not get up. The girl sat on the floor and held her red hood in both hands. “I left the path,” she said. Nobody scolded her. The huntsman built up the fire.

***

On another day, the mother sent the girl through the wood again. This time the basket held bread and honey, and the path was dry and bright. Halfway along, a grey shape stepped out from behind a birch tree. “Good morning, little one,” said the wolf. His voice was sweet as syrup. “Where are you going with that basket?” The girl kept walking. “To my grandmother’s,” she said, and did not stop. “Wouldn’t you like to pick some flowers for her?” said the wolf. “There are lovely ones just off the path.” The girl looked at the flowers. They were lovely. She kept walking.

“Wait,” said the wolf. “I only want to talk.” His voice was still sweet, but underneath it was the sound of stones in a bucket. The girl heard it. She had heard it before. “I am not allowed to talk to wolves,” she said. Her feet did not slow. The wolf trotted beside her. “Then I will walk with you.” “No,” she said. “You will not.” She turned and looked at him, right in his yellow eyes, and she did not run. She just kept walking, steady, one step after another, until the trees thinned and the cottage roof showed through.

Grandmother was at the door, waiting. The girl ran the last few steps and hugged her. “A wolf spoke to me,” she said. “I kept walking.” Grandmother held her tight. “That is the whole trick,” she said. “Keep walking.” They went inside. The fire was high. The huntsman was there, mending a strap by the window, and he nodded without asking. The girl set the bread on the table. She hung her red hood on its peg. It was good to be home, and she knew the way back.