{"id":102,"date":"2024-02-19T02:59:04","date_gmt":"2024-02-19T02:59:04","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/societyforritualarts.com\/website_02846d40\/?page_id=102"},"modified":"2024-02-29T21:51:52","modified_gmt":"2024-03-01T05:51:52","slug":"you-are-red","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/societyforritualarts.com\/rw\/2024-spring\/you-are-red\/","title":{"rendered":"You Are Red"},"content":{"rendered":"

[et_pb_section fb_built=”1″ _builder_version=”4.24.2″ _module_preset=”default” background_color=”rgba(255,255,255,0.71)” width=”80%” max_width=”1200px” module_alignment=”center” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_row _builder_version=”4.24.0″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”4.24.0″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_image src=”http:\/\/societyforritualarts.com\/website_02846d40\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/02\/RW-header-3.png” title_text=”RW-header” _builder_version=”4.24.2″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”][\/et_pb_image][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row _builder_version=”4.24.0″ _module_preset=”default” width=”95%” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”4.24.0″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_text _builder_version=”4.24.1″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”]<\/p>\n

You are Red<\/h1>\n

by Melissa Cole<\/b><\/h3>\n

Art by Denita Benyshek<\/h3>\n

[\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row _builder_version=”4.24.1″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”4.24.1″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_image src=”http:\/\/societyforritualarts.com\/website_02846d40\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/02\/image8.jpg” title_text=”image8″ align=”center” _builder_version=”4.24.1″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”][\/et_pb_image][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row _builder_version=”4.24.1″ _module_preset=”default” width=”85%” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”4.24.1″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_text _builder_version=”4.24.2″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”]You only wanted to see what she said wasn\u2019t there.<\/p>\n

You saw fairies, but Grandmother scoffed at such a notion. The stories she told were of dark and danger, and wolves who would hunt a girl down. Take a bite if she wasn\u2019t careful.\u00a0<\/p>\n

For all those years, you listened to Grandmother\u2019s stories. What else could you have done? The house the two of you shared was comfortable but small and surrounded on all sides by the Woods where the wolves of Grandmother\u2019s stories lurked.\u00a0<\/p>\n

During those years, you didn\u2019t notice how small the space of your life was, or how vast the world you were forbidden to enter. The vegetable beds in the back were neat and abundant year-round, save for two months of bitter winter when the firewood was plentiful and the house warm and cheerful with the scent of baking bread and the sweetness of apples and cherries dried the previous summer. The front yard bloomed with flowers that visited as soon as the winter snow melted,\u00a0snowdrops and crocuses and daffodils giving way to columbine and bleeding hearts as spring settled in, then a riot of Begonias, elephant\u2019s ear, Canna lilies, poppies, and sunflowers in the gentle summer heat before autumn brought chrysanthemums and pansies.<\/p>\n

The land on which you lived insisted that it could provide all a young girl would need. Flowers and sustenance, a place to play and a refuge. It worked, hand in hand, with Grandmother to convince you that the Woods were dark and dangerous, and a girl should never venture into them. Should, instead, live her life in the brightness of flowers and the comfort of baking bread.<\/p>\n

But that, too, is a story.<\/p>\n

#<\/p>\n

The first glimmer came with the Woodcutter. He visited every month, or maybe twice a month. You couldn\u2019t be sure, since you had only the flowers and the sun\u2019s path through the sky to mark time.\u00a0<\/p>\n

Grandmother was marking time in a different way, but you wouldn\u2019t have known. Couldn\u2019t see your own limbs lengthening, your chest finding its shape.\u00a0<\/p>\n

The Woodcutter could.<\/p>\n

You watched him leave that day. You\u2019d never watched him do anything before, only chattered away over the lunch Grandmother served for his trouble\u2014about the wonders the worms spoke of and the tales the spiders wove along with their webs. The Woodcutter was not a talkative sort of man. He\u2019d merely crinkle his eyes as he chewed and nod his head when you\u2019d finished, as if to tell you it was a job well done. Grandmother would smile indulgently. Her wood supply well laid in, her table bountiful, her granddaughter a charming and obedient thing. Her life enchanted.<\/p>\n

But that day the Woodcutter\u2019s eyes didn\u2019t crinkle as you spoke. Instead, they slid toward you and then away in a hurry.\u00a0<\/p>\n

Do you remember the sudden feel of the soup making its way down your throat and past the swelling of your breasts? Surely you noticed that you sat as tall as Grandmother now, your spine straight and supple where hers bent low. You felt the ends of your hair tickle the bare back of your neck, and instead of wiggling more firmly into the shrinking edges of your dress, you let it press against you, covering not quite enough.<\/p>\n

After lunch, you stayed at the table while the Woodcutter mumbled his thanks and Grandmother placed the single gold coin in his hand. For the first time, you wondered\u2014a revelation more startling than the way the Woodcutter\u2019s eyes skittered about the floor without ever touching you\u2014where the endless supply of single gold coins came from. Grandmother\u2019s stories did not include a Grandfather who\u2019d squirreled away a nest egg to keep her safe when he was gone. There were no hidden treasures in Grandmother\u2019s tales. Only deep Woods holding dark danger.<\/p>\n

You hurried to clear the table and brought the dishes round back to the pump that spouted clear, sweet water year-round, even, you surely now realized, in the winter months when it should have been frozen. Or maybe that thought didn\u2019t come until later. Maybe right now you were too busy hurrying through the garden to crouch behind a tangle of sheltering tomato plants so you could watch the Woodcutter be swallowed by the deep, dark Woods.<\/p>\n

It wasn\u2019t violent, as Grandmother had promised. The branches of the trees didn\u2019t reach out to claw at him the way you\u2019d expected. The way you\u2019d been raised, from before your memory began, to believe they would.<\/p>\n

Was it possible, you may have asked yourself, that you\u2019d never watched the Woodcutter leave before?\u00a0<\/p>\n

This time, though, you did. His stiff shoulders, thick with muscles from swinging his axe. The scuffed belt around his waist. The boots tramping down the brown loam of Grandmother\u2019s path, pausing as he pulled open the gate that seemed to hold all danger at bay, and then walking without hesitation into the darkness.<\/p>\n

At this moment, it looked more dusty than deep. Like the soft fur of a harmless animal. Taller than the rabbits that tiptoed through your garden, front feet, then back. Less skittish than the deer that emerged from between gray tree trunks. There was a shagginess to the dark that you may have embraced as you would a big, serious dog.\u00a0<\/p>\n

Or a wolf.<\/p>\n

The thought of a wolf brought Grandmother\u2019s stories tumbling out of the tree branches, unfurling their long legs. You heard the snapping of sharp teeth. The snarling of danger. The Woodcutter disappeared as if eaten by the darkness.<\/p>\n

#<\/p>\n

You saw the fairies that night.\u00a0<\/p>\n

Grandmother was busy readying herself for bed, a process that involved a great deal of unwinding and then rewinding of hair and clothes, punctuated, at the end, with the triumphant lowering of her sleeping cap over her gray braids. While she was busy, you pressed your nose so closely against the glass that you smelled the cool nothing of its surface. How you were lucky enough to have real glass in your windows, four panes in each of four, was a question that had never troubled you before.\u00a0<\/p>\n

Maybe now it did. Maybe it tickled at you as you watched the fairy lights wink on and off again. They lit the path the woodcutter had taken. Promised light in the darkness. A dance of wishes granted and then squandered, and of clever girls like you who could do better than the ones who\u2019d gone before.<\/p>\n

Did you doubt yourself as you read the promises they winked at you? Or had Grandmother raised you so well that doubt wasn\u2019t an ingredient you could taste? Did you see in those lights a straight line from the Woodcutter to something beyond Grandmother\u2019s stories? A slim and sharp knife blade of certainty? Or did you know enough to be very doubtful indeed?<\/p>\n

It\u2019s hard to say whether you heard exactly what Grandmother said at that moment, and it doesn\u2019t matter whether you did. She could have uttered the same words every night. An invocation to sleep, undisturbed, in the safe home she provided for you. Such invocations play an important role in these sorts of stories.<\/p>\n

On this particular night, though, you didn\u2019t listen.\u00a0<\/p>\n

Or if you did, the words were swept away by your dream.\u00a0<\/p>\n

You dreamt of the Woodcutter. Younger. His muscles supple instead of knotted with hard work and long years lived. His skin as brown as the soil that yielded your beautiful flower friends. His lips tasted of salt and soot and far-away places. His fingers were rough against your skin, especially where before you\u2019d felt nothing but the whisper of your underclothes brushing absentmindedly against you.<\/p>\n

There was nothing absentminded about this dream.<\/p>\n

#<\/p>\n

You awoke a different person. As different from yourself as the blooming lily is from its green bud. As the purple crocus is from the snow that blankets it until it awakens. As different as a young woman is from her aging Grandmother.<\/p>\n

You ate breakfast with the blush of the dream Woodcutter\u2019s mouth on yours. His desire pooled in the hollows of your collarbones. It slipped into your oatmeal, and when you swallowed, your own desire grew in the awakening spring of your belly.\u00a0<\/p>\n

Not desire for the Woodcutter of course. He\u2019d been there for as long as you could remember, a constant, providing presence. Steady and reliable and safe. Isn\u2019t that all a father figure is in these kinds of stories?<\/p>\n

Your desire was not for old relations, of which you\u2019d had plenty. Or of spiders who spin stories or deer who pretend to be princesses. You may have found, as warm tea played over your tongue, that you couldn\u2019t quite believe in such stories any longer. They may have slipped away as you swallowed, leaving you with nothing but a desire to know what was really there.<\/p>\n

You took the dishes out to the pump after breakfast every day\u2014nothing Grandmother would remark on. Even baking an apple cake when the sun was barely risen wasn\u2019t so unusual that she\u2019d say anything about it.\u00a0<\/p>\n

But when you brought the cake outside to cool, Grandmother asked why you didn\u2019t just leave it on the windowsill.<\/p>\n

You replied, airy as the outdoors, that you thought the open blooms of the flowers would lend it a different kind of sweetness.\u00a0<\/p>\n

She didn\u2019t agree, but she didn\u2019t argue either. To Grandmother, this was just more little-girl play.\u00a0<\/p>\n

But you played at something different as you slid a bottle of wine out of the root cellar. You told Grandmother that you had a special treat planned. You didn\u2019t say it was for her, but who else would she think it was for?\u00a0<\/p>\n

Her smile was a tad smug as she watched you line a basket with a tea towel and lay the wine bottle next to it. You didn\u2019t see it. You were too busy pretending to be caught up in your pretending. But you felt her watching you through the glass-paned window as you lay the air-cooled apple cake in the basket and swaddled it with the tea towel.<\/p>\n

Do you remember the words you called to her as you donned your red cape, tight at the neck now and too short by half?\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m off to bring my Grandmother cake and wine!\u201d\u00a0<\/p>\n

The words tripped playfully from your lips, the last child\u2019s play this little house and its garden would ever know.<\/p>\n

#<\/p>\n

You didn\u2019t know what a real wolf looked like.<\/p>\n

Grandmother\u2019s stories were full of wolves. Sharp teeth. Long tongues that lolled from pointed snouts. Shaggy gray-brown fur. Hot breath that smelled of danger and the blood of weaker animals.\u00a0<\/p>\n

But those, you\u2019d suddenly come to understand, were just stories.<\/p>\n

You made your way past the rows of rhubarb planted at the far end of the vegetable garden and climbed over the small fence that marked the edge of your world. If it was so easy for you to climb out, you surely must have thought, your confidence growing, how was it that the predators had never climbed in?<\/p>\n

And then you stepped into a world that existed for you only in dreams, a land whose sole function was to mark the outer edges of your own. The grass was springier than the tame patch of Grandmother\u2019s yard. The spot where darkness began closer than you\u2019d believed. You stopped a breath shy of the place where the Woodcutter had been swallowed.<\/p>\n

The Woods.<\/p>\n

Yesterday, their razor-closeness would have sent you scurrying back over the fence. But today the darkness hinted at the darker corners of your dream. Of a woodcutter who wasn\u2019t the Woodcutter and of your own choices that weren\u2019t Grandmother\u2019s.<\/p>\n

Your next step was powerful and frightening, exhilarating and terrifying.\u00a0<\/p>\n

Truth be told, the dimness you stepped into wasn\u2019t really any different from the dimness of bedtime in the cozy bed you shared with Grandmother. If you shut your eyes, you might even imagine you were there with her, safe and sound.<\/p>\n

Only, of course, you weren\u2019t.<\/p>\n

A dry murmur of shapes moved in the low tree branches. Twigs snapped under padded feet. Chittering winged creatures flew overhead, and the tang of pine caught in your nostrils, sharp and strange, a living thing.<\/p>\n

When you opened your eyes, you\u2019d lost your way.<\/p>\n

You spun around, sure the sunlight you\u2019d stepped out of was just behind you. You\u2019d taken no more than a few careful steps into the Woods, hadn\u2019t you?\u00a0<\/p>\n

But there was no sunlight to be found. No going back so easily.<\/p>\n

Maybe you steadied yourself with a breath, calmly assessing the situation. Or maybe not. You\u2019d never been taught how to deal with real danger. Never had the concept of being lost explained to you. Never had an inkling of such a thing happening to you instead of to the paper-thin girls in Grandmother\u2019s stories, pliant word-paintings who waited to see what dangers Grandmother would bring to them.<\/p>\n

You knew not to wait. Though what your other options were was less clear.<\/p>\n

#<\/p>\n

The trees pressed around you like a caress.\u00a0<\/p>\n

When you shrank from them, they reached further. Touching, exploring, pulling back only when you batted at them hard, then harder until a branch broke violently.<\/p>\n

It lay on the ground where it fell, and you stomped on it, then lifted one end so it stood at an angle to the dark dirt beneath, and stomped again, the way Grandmother would to break a piece of firewood into smaller bits.<\/p>\n

\u201cShow me the way home,\u201d you commanded.\u00a0<\/p>\n

It was the sort of thing girls said in Grandmother\u2019s stories. The way Grandmother told them, the girls\u2019 voices trembled and then steadied.\u00a0<\/p>\n

Your own words sounded small and furry. Field mice poking out of their burrows before popping back down again as if they\u2019d never been there.<\/p>\n

\u201cI command you,\u201d you said, louder this time. Braver. \u201cShow me the way home.\u201d<\/p>\n

The Woods waited to see what would happen.<\/p>\n

You weren\u2019t the type of young woman to stand around waiting with them. Better to move, even without a clear sense of direction.<\/p>\n

#<\/p>\n

You could easily have expected fear and panic. These were the emotions Grandmother spun out of her story-girls so that they\u2019d realize how wrong it was of them to step off the path. So they\u2019d convince you never to do the same thing.<\/p>\n

But you weren\u2019t frightened or panicked or anything else Grandmother would want from you.\u00a0<\/p>\n

You were thrilled.<\/p>\n

Now, when branches brushed against the back of your neck or glanced your breast, you swatted and snapped. You bent them back and cleared your own path.\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s more like it,\u201d you said because you liked the sound of your own voice.<\/p>\n

A creature overhead seemed to like it too. \u201cCoo-hoo,\u201d it called. \u201cCoo-hoo beautiful girl, follow my voice and I\u2019ll show you something<\/i>.\u201d<\/p>\n

The words formed in your head out of a chorus of animal sounds. Burping frogs and crying rabbits. Shuffling badgers. And, of course, the howling wolves. You heard what they wanted. It was more than just to show you something, and it was more than you were willing to give.<\/p>\n

So you followed your own path, the basket of cake and wine still slung over one arm, the too-small red cape catching on branches. Walked through the chorus of animal voices and deeper into the Woods until the bubbling song of a stream gave you something to walk toward instead of away from.<\/p>\n

Did you think of the water from the pump in Grandmother\u2019s yard as you bent to drink from it? Or were you thinking of the magic that lurked in running water? In Grandmother\u2019s stories.<\/p>\n

You were already magical as you knelt on the wet bank, the smell of moss strong in your head. The magic came from stepping out of your tiny world and into this vast one. Magic was discovery and wonder, and the strength to slap away branches.<\/p>\n

The water was cold and clear, nothing like the water that came from the pump. It was its own being. Full and delicious as you quenched your thirst.<\/p>\n

\u201cBeware.\u201d<\/p>\n

Your head rose sharply. Water dripped from your lips.\u00a0<\/p>\n

And you laid eyes on a wolf.<\/p>\n

#<\/p>\n

He wasn\u2019t what you\u2019d have imagined, if you\u2019d ever bothered to imagine a wolf fully. Still, Grandmother\u2019s stories had done their job. You recognized him, even with the shadows of the woods hiding everything but a face, his shoulders.<\/p>\n

No fur, it\u2019s true, but his skin was the brown found deep in a wolf\u2019s coat and his eyes\u00a0 reflected its gray. He didn\u2019t have a snout, just a straight and long nose that you\u2019d have considered regal if he weren\u2019t a wolf. His teeth weren\u2019t fanged, but they flashed white as he smiled.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou never know what magic flows through an unknown stream.\u201d His grin embraced the idea that you might find out. \u201cYou should take more care.\u201d<\/p>\n

You stood, unwilling to let him tower over you while you crouched like you were the animal here. He had the higher ground, but you had cake and wine and your wits. \u201cIt tastes fine to me. I\u2019d like to think you\u2019d have stopped me sooner if I\u2019d really been in danger.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo you trust me to rescue you.\u201d His gray eyes held yours, trying to draw forth a yes.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou haven\u2019t given me any reason to.\u201d\u00a0<\/p>\n

According to Grandmother\u2019s stories, you should have been frightened and trembling. Your cleverness should have been born of fear.\u00a0<\/p>\n

But it wasn\u2019t. It was born of you.<\/p>\n

The wolf took a step closer. You could see his hesitation. \u201cShall I have the opportunity to make you trust me?\u201d<\/p>\n

You eyed each other, taking stock. He held his shoulders back, his chin high, as if he\u2019d been taught to. But there was uncertainty sitting at the corners of his mouth.\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy not give me an opportunity to make you<\/i> trust me<\/i>?\u201d In Grandmother\u2019s stories, the girl follows along, even when she\u2019s being clever. She hides and waits and keeps herself alive until someone comes to rescue her. She never takes charge.\u00a0<\/p>\n

The wolf tensed, squinted, then let loose a smile. \u201cFair enough. And then I\u2019ll get my chance.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBy then it\u2019ll be too late,\u201d you pointed out.\u00a0<\/p>\n

His laughter seemed to relax him. When he came closer, he looked even more human and less like a wolf. \u201cThere\u2019s different degrees of trust, don\u2019t you think? For example, you just trusted me to come closer. And I trusted you not to run away.\u201d<\/p>\n

You picked up the basket of cake and wine as if preparing to depart. \u201cI just wanted to see what you\u2019d do. That\u2019s not trust.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIsn\u2019t it?\u201d He cocked his head to one side, like the big, shaggy dog the Woodcutter sometimes brought with him to Grandmother\u2019s.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere has to be a promise to have trust.\u201d You probably weren\u2019t sure of this. But it sounded good.<\/p>\n

The wolf considered it. There should have been drool dripping from his jaws and hot breath that smelled of his last meal. You wanted him closer so you could see for yourself if this was true.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo.\u201d His face, brown and regal and beautiful, moved into the light. \u201cTo get you to trust me, I need to make you a promise. Is that how it goes?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes.\u201d You didn\u2019t even stop to think before answering. The prospect of a promise from a wolf was too exciting.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat if.\u201d He paused, drew the moment out. \u201cWhat if I promise not to eat you?\u201d<\/p>\n

You dropped the basket of cake and wine to the ground to show him you weren\u2019t afraid. \u201cAnd what if I<\/i> promised not to eat you<\/i>?\u201d<\/p>\n

This time his laugh was a bark of pleasure. \u201cWould you really do that?\u201d His gray eyes turned blue, then brown, then gray again. \u201cEat a wolf? We\u2019re not reputed to be all that tasty.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019d cook you up in a hearty stew.\u201d You and Grandmother never ate stew, but in her stories people always did. You didn\u2019t know exactly what went into a stew, besides potatoes, so you made it up as you went along. \u201cWith potatoes and some vegetables from the garden. And maybe some of the wine from my basket.\u201d<\/p>\n

He looked at the basket on the ground and then up to you again. \u201cYou\u2019d waste good wine on wolf stew?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy not? Unless, of course, we happened to drink it all now and there wasn\u2019t any left to cook with.\u201d<\/p>\n

You must have known how reckless you were being. When Grandmother drank wine, her stories grew wilder.\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you offering to share it with me?\u201d The wolf seemed startled, and suddenly shy.\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d you said.<\/p>\n

#<\/p>\n

Yes<\/i> was the magic word, the key that unlocked the door between you. The wolf stepped out of the shadows to stand in the mud and moss a few yards away.<\/p>\n

He was lean and muscled, and he stood upright like a human. His skin was smooth like a human\u2019s, and the same brown all over, nothing shaggy about it. He wore pants, held at the waist with a thick, worn black belt. Instead of paws, he had feet, bare, like his chest. Strangest of all, he didn\u2019t have a tail.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe wine is tempting. But\u2014\u201d and here he hesitated, as if hearing a voice inside tell him otherwise\u2014 \u201cnot a good idea. Sharing wine with a stranger.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cA wolf,\u201d you corrected him, even though he wasn\u2019t like any wolf in Grandmother\u2019s stories.\u00a0<\/p>\n

He seemed surprised, then ashamed. \u201cI should leave now.\u201d He shook his head. \u201cNo, I should see you safely home.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd why would I trust you to do that?\u201d you teased.<\/p>\n

But he didn\u2019t laugh, and he didn\u2019t tease back. His gray eyes were serious, his chin held low. \u201cI promise,\u201d he said. \u201cIt isn\u2019t safe out here, and I\u2019d never forgive myself if I left you to worse creatures than me.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWorse?\u201d Grandmother\u2019s stories whispered their way through you. Enormous beasts that locked innocent girls in their lairs. Witches who made girls dance until their bones broke and their bodies collapsed. Sleeping princesses who gave birth to unknown men\u2019s babies.<\/p>\n

You didn\u2019t feel frightened by these stories, not anymore. Not in the way you had been when Grandmother told them to you in front of a blazing fire, the windowpanes frosted over, the wine on her breath as intoxicating as her words.\u00a0<\/p>\n

What you felt now was hungry.<\/p>\n

Your stomach gave a wolf-like growl to remind you that it had been a long time since breakfast. Your time in the Woods had passed like a dream, but there it was. No fooling your stomach, which didn\u2019t care about stories and wolves and disobeying Grandmother.<\/p>\n

\u201cWant some of my cake?\u201d You tilted the basket toward the wolf so he could see it wrapped in its swaddle of tea cloth. Recalled the gold of the yolks as you\u2019d added eggs, the sweetness of the sugar you\u2019d sucked from your fingertips. The richness of the batter as you\u2019d poured it into the pan.\u00a0<\/p>\n

Your stomach gave another mighty growl, and the wolf laughed. It broke his serious mood. \u201cSounds like it would be dangerous to say no.\u201d<\/p>\n

It was easy now to climb further away from the stream, where the ground was too damp for sitting, and to find a dry spot beneath a silver-trunked tree. Its branches hung over you without any grasping or grabbing.<\/p>\n

The wolf sat across from you, too far away for an accidental touch. He inhaled deeply as you peeled back the edges of the tea towel.\u00a0<\/p>\n

My, Grandmother, what a big nose you have<\/i>.<\/p>\n

You broke off a piece of cake as big as Grandmother\u2019s lie and held it out to the wolf, who did not drool or gobble or pop the whole thing into his mouth. He said, \u201cThank you,\u201d and held it in his hands, waiting politely while you broke off a piece for yourself. He said, \u201cThis is truly delicious, the best apple cake I\u2019ve ever tasted,\u201d as if wolves ate apple cake all the time and never one as good as yours.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re a strange wolf,\u201d you told him.\u00a0<\/p>\n

He cocked his head, chewed, and swallowed. \u201cWhat makes you say that?\u201d<\/p>\n

Now you were trapped, whether you knew it or not. You would either have to admit that he was the first wolf you\u2019d ever met and you were relying only on the evidence of Grandmother\u2019s stories or you\u2019d have to lie. And you\u2019d never lied until the moment you pretended this was all a game. There\u2019d never been any reason to before.\u00a0<\/p>\n

You took another bite of cake, and another and another, while the wolf waited for your answer. Maybe he thought you\u2019d give it to him when you were done.<\/p>\n

Your mouth grew dry, your swallows more effortful. Your stomach felt sore. But if you stopped eating, the wolf would expect you to speak, and you couldn\u2019t tell him that what made him so strange was that he didn\u2019t seem strange to you at all.<\/p>\n

#<\/p>\n

You reached for the wine when your mouth was so dry you couldn\u2019t ignore it any longer.<\/p>\n

The wolf still sat a respectful distance away. He\u2019d finished his cake and was brushing the crumbs from his hands. \u201cI think it\u2019s time to take you home.\u201d<\/p>\n

You didn\u2019t want to go back to Grandmother\u2019s, and you didn\u2019t want the wolf to feel so familiar, and there were dangerous things in the Woods, and here was the bottle of wine, solid and cool to the touch, so you threw it at him.<\/p>\n

Actually, you threw it to the ground in front of him. You changed your mind in the instant before it left your hand. Regretted the momentary urge to throw it at his face so he would stop being so beautiful.<\/p>\n

\u201cPlease open it,\u201d you said.<\/p>\n

He stared at the bottle as if trying to work out what it was, though he plainly knew. \u201cNot such a great idea.\u201d\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u201cBut I\u2019m thirsty.\u201d You spoke as plainly as a child who doesn\u2019t know better.<\/p>\n

\u201cDrink water from the stream.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou said it was enchanted.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI was lying.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n

You both knew the answer.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d the wolf said instead. Had a wolf in one of Grandmother\u2019s stories ever said he was sorry? You doubted it. Or if you didn\u2019t doubt it, you should have.\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u201cThen open the wine,\u201d you said.<\/p>\n

The tangy heat of the first sip turned into many more, and the heat spread from your belly to your limbs to your lips, and you found yourself stretched on the ground with the wolf stretched opposite you, his head propped on a most un-wolf-like hand.<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you really a wolf?\u201d It may have occurred to you that you should have asked this question a long time ago.<\/p>\n

He let out a breath that tickled at your skin, and you sat up. \u201cI try. But I don\u2019t really enjoy it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWere you raised on stories of wolves?\u201d<\/p>\n

He nodded. Sat up to face you as if hungry, not for cake and wine, but for the wolf stories you\u2019d been raised on.<\/p>\n

\u201cGrandmother\u2019s stories were all about how dangerous wolves are. Especially the ones who live in the Woods.\u201d Your lips must have felt like someone else\u2019s, betraying Grandmother like that.<\/p>\n

\u201cThen why did you come?\u201d\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u201cI didn\u2019t have any reason to trust them.\u201d You looked at him hard. A promise in exchange for trust.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe stories I was told were about the nobility of wolves. Their duty to protect helpless girls. And about how sometimes a wolf has to remind her of how helpless she is.\u201d His voice wavered at this last part.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou didn\u2019t do such a good job of that.\u201d You leaned forward to prove it.<\/p>\n

\u201cI couldn\u2019t.\u201d\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy not?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t believe the stories.\u201d He moved away, and you were disappointed. Don\u2019t pretend you weren\u2019t.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t believe the stories either.\u201d Whether you said it because you were mad at him for moving away or mad at Grandmother for telling them, it\u2019s hard to say.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t believe that I\u2019m dangerous?\u201d The wolf seemed sad to hear it.<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you believe that I\u2019m helpless?\u201d<\/p>\n

He shook his head, slow and serious.<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you think you need to make me believe I am?\u201d<\/p>\n

Now he did move closer. You helped lessen the space, until it was nothing but his lips touching yours and he said, \u201cI don\u2019t think you\u2019re helpless. That\u2019s what makes me such a terrible wolf.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat,\u201d you said, tasting him along with the wine, \u201cis what makes you such a good one.\u201d<\/p>\n

#<\/p>\n

Afterward, you walked hand in hand through the Woods. The basket and the tea towel and the wine bottle lay forgotten by a crushed bed of pine needles, some of which were still caught in your hair. The Woods were no longer dark, but twilit. The animal calls were music, and the caresses of the branches were soft and loving, like the wolf\u2019s hand in yours.<\/p>\n

You told each other your own stories, your names, where you came from. By the time you knocked on Grandmother\u2019s door, he was more real than any story she\u2019d ever told you.<\/p>\n

When Grandmother screamed, you screamed back.<\/p>\n

When she spit on the ground, you grew taller.<\/p>\n

When she cursed all wolves, and especially this one, you refused to believe in it, and her curse shrank into nothing, withered and useless.<\/p>\n

You gave up the safe home where you were never hungry and never in danger. You would have to learn to plant your own vegetable beds, and they wouldn\u2019t always flourish. You and the wolf might spend the rest of your days together, or you might not. You might raise a family together, or you might end up with no family at all, even a wolf.\u00a0<\/p>\n

It\u2019s impossible to say what your choices will be. You are young, and fairy tales are only that, and writing your own story sometimes requires a wolf or two.[\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row _builder_version=”4.24.2″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_column _builder_version=”4.24.2″ _module_preset=”default” type=”4_4″][et_pb_image src=”http:\/\/societyforritualarts.com\/rw\/2024-spring\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/02\/Image-12-20-23-at-6.44\u202fPM.jpg” _builder_version=”4.24.2″ _module_preset=”default” title_text=”Image 12-20-23 at 6.44\u202fPM” hover_enabled=”0″ sticky_enabled=”0″][\/et_pb_image][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row _builder_version=”4.24.2″ _module_preset=”default” background_color=”#FFFFFF” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”4.24.1″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_text module_class=”noindent” _builder_version=”4.24.2″ _module_preset=”default” width=”60%” module_alignment=”center” global_colors_info=”{}”]<\/p>\n

\"\"Melissa Cole holds an MFA in writing from the Vermont College of Fine Arts and is a finalist for the 2023 Doris Betts Fiction Prize of the North Carolina Writers\u2019 Network. Her stories have appeared in anthologies and literary magazines. When she\u2019s not writing, she can often be found walking one of her hound dogs in the woods near her home in Asheville, North Carolina. And, yes, there are wolves!<\/span><\/p>\n

[\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row column_structure=”1_3,1_3,1_3″ _builder_version=”4.24.2″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_column type=”1_3″ _builder_version=”4.24.2″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_button button_url=”@ET-DC@eyJkeW5hbWljIjp0cnVlLCJjb250ZW50IjoicG9zdF9saW5rX3VybF9wYWdlIiwic2V0dGluZ3MiOnsicG9zdF9pZCI6IjE0OSJ9fQ==@” button_text=”Davu the Explorer” _builder_version=”4.24.2″ _dynamic_attributes=”button_url” _module_preset=”default” animation_style=”zoom” global_colors_info=”{}”][\/et_pb_button][\/et_pb_column][et_pb_column type=”1_3″ _builder_version=”4.24.2″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_button button_url=”@ET-DC@eyJkeW5hbWljIjp0cnVlLCJjb250ZW50IjoicG9zdF9saW5rX3VybF9wYWdlIiwic2V0dGluZ3MiOnsicG9zdF9pZCI6IjE3MSJ9fQ==@” button_text=”Table of Contents” button_alignment=”center” _builder_version=”4.24.2″ _dynamic_attributes=”button_url” _module_preset=”default” animation_style=”zoom” global_colors_info=”{}”][\/et_pb_button][\/et_pb_column][et_pb_column type=”1_3″ _builder_version=”4.24.2″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_button button_url=”@ET-DC@eyJkeW5hbWljIjp0cnVlLCJjb250ZW50IjoicG9zdF9saW5rX3VybF9wYWdlIiwic2V0dGluZ3MiOnsicG9zdF9pZCI6Ijg2In19@” button_text=”The Yellow Brick Roooooaaad…” button_alignment=”right” _builder_version=”4.24.2″ _dynamic_attributes=”button_url” _module_preset=”default” animation_style=”zoom” global_colors_info=”{}”][\/et_pb_button][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][\/et_pb_section]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

You are Red by Melissa Cole Art by Denita BenyshekYou only wanted to see what she said wasn\u2019t there. You saw fairies, but Grandmother scoffed at such a notion. The stories she told were of dark and danger, and wolves who would hunt a girl down. Take a bite if she wasn\u2019t careful.\u00a0 For all […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":6,"featured_media":24,"parent":0,"menu_order":7,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","_et_pb_use_builder":"on","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"iawp_total_views":13,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-102","page","type-page","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry"],"yoast_head":"\nYou Are Red - Roses & Wildflowers Spring 2024<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/societyforritualarts.com\/rw\/2024-spring\/you-are-red\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"You Are Red - Roses & Wildflowers Spring 2024\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"You are Red by Melissa Cole Art by Denita BenyshekYou only wanted to see what she said wasn\u2019t there. 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