“There are more this year,” said Red, looking out from her Grandma’s … no, her … cottage window, an inheritance she had been reluctant to accept.
Nobody heard. She was alone with her memories and the wolfskin rug.
Entering the kitchen, she noticed her father’s axe behind the kitchen door, long unused. That was why the trees had crept nearer. No one to thin them out. No one to cull them.
Red shivered, picked up the wolfskin, wrapped it round her shoulders. Just as she had done as a child.
She sat in her Grandma’s chair, rocked backwards and forwards. Just as she had done as a child.
“Tell me a tale,” she whispered into the silence. But that story had finished long ago.
The air, dry and stale was suffocating, driving Red out into the small garden, taking the axe with her. The trees had crowded ever closer, even in that short space of time. They bowed over her, branches reaching out, wanting to touch, to hold, to claim.
A lone howl caught her attention, a mournful sound that drew nearer with each heartbeat. A wolf appeared.
It advanced fearlessly towards Red, despite the axe she held.
She stood her ground. Remembered.
“You lied, little girl,” he said.
Red hefted the axe, felt that old sense of power. The animal didn’t flinch.
“We both know the truth, don’t we?” said the creature.
The truth? Yes, they both knew the truth. How she had hated her Grandma. Had lost patience with the woman one fine summer’s day. Had taken the axe …
Red looked down at the shaft, the stain had deepened over the years.
The moonlight dimmed. A passing cloud she thought. But as she looked up she saw a dense canopy form, boughs intertwined to create a tree-borne roof.
Now Red stepped back.
The wolf followed.
“We have our witnesses, little girl.”
The trees shifted closer, the light grew dimmer, the wolf’s breath hotter.
“Time to write another story,” he said. And the darkness became complete.
Image credit: “My forest dream is still a dream” by Vinoth Chandar from flickr (CC 2.0) Image has not been altered from original form.