The Girl Who Cried Wolf: A Novella

One



1

Follow the path.

She heard her grandmother's voice embedded deep inside her as she walked the familiar cobblestone path. She memorized those words like they were a prayer, echoing loudly in her ear.

If you don't, you may go astray into the woods which you are forbidden to enter.

She shuddered. She wasn't sure if it was from the chilly autumn breeze—her favourite time of the year—or from the coldness in her grandmother's voice everytime she said those words.

She longed to go to the woods but was forbidden from entering. Why? she would ask her grandmother. And she got the same answer every time. They'll hunt you too, her grandmother would reply.

She stole a glance at the trees and greens that was the woods, where the sun burned hotter and the air was cooler, with more trees to canopy over your head and moss to serve as carpet. Someday, she promised herself. Not because she was a brat who didn't listen but because she was curious to know—to find answers.

But that was someday. Today, she had one last delivery to make before she headed back to her small log cabin.

Taking hold of the cool curved metal that was the door knocker, she hit it just loud enough that whoever was inside could hear. Mrs Weaver walked out of the door with disheveled hair and colourful pieces of thread dangling all over her worn out blue cotton dress.

"Ah, Red," Mrs Weaver greeted, "I should have known it would be the girl in the trousers. Need a new pair? I was just working on the loom." She gave Red the smile she was always known for.

That name, Weaver, wasn't given to her by accident. She had come from a family of weavers and all the weaving in town was done by her. Betty Weaver had a lot of time on her hands for a mother of ten.

"Not until next week, Betty. You know how grandma opposes them."

Aston was a town where only men wore trousers and ladies stuck to their cotton skirts and gowns. Not her. Those corsets were uncomfortable as hell!

"Dear, everyone opposes your choice of garments."

"That's their problem," she said dismissively. "I brought today's delivery." She handed the basket full of cupcakes to her and recited the usual order. "Three banana cream, two coconut spiced, four strawberry with a dash of vinegar, a red velvet for Corbin and two spiked with…the hard stuff."

Mrs Weaver's eyes shone with pure gratitude as she wiped her palms on her dirty apron and took the basket from Red. "I don't know how you manage to remember it all, dear. The twins have been wailing all day waiting for this. You really are a special gift to us all, Red."

There it was again that silly name. Red. Strange how no one in the village knew her real name. Whose fault was that? Oh right, hers.

For as long as she remembered, she had always worn a red hood over her head. No one ever saw her without one. They had given her the nickname Red, since she hadn't bothered to tell them her actual name. The only thing they knew was that she was the only child of the late Mr and Mrs Baker.

She hugged said hood to herself as the wind blew even fiercer. "I try my best to avoid mistakes." Red shrugged.

"Mother, Corbin refuses to do the dishes again. It's his turn!" Red heard a fuming Lily yell from inside.

Mrs Weaver sighed out loudly and yelled back a "give me a minute!" Then, she turned back to Red and paid her bill. "Sometimes, I hate myself for having so many kids. Take care, Red. I better resolve that before the house catches fire. Do send me well to your grandmother," Mrs Weaver farewelled and went inside. And Red went her way.

*:*:*

"Grandma, I'm home," Red announced tiredly, as she walked into the small log cabin she shared with her grandmother. The air inside was homely, at least to her. It smelled like batter and freshly picked flowers.

"Take off that coat, will you," her grandmother snarked. Typical, Nana. Rolling her eyes, she peeled the hoodie off her body and hung it on a nail by the door before dropping the money in their sales jar.

"How many times, do I have to tell you to take that coat off," Grandma Baker huffed with both hands on her hips. Her big brown eyes scanned Red from up to down.

"It's not a coat, Nana. It is called a hoodie," she corrected and stretched her hand to take an apple from the bowl on the kitchen table. But grandma Baker beat her to it, hitting her hand with a spatula.

"Grandma!" Red complained pouting at her unmoved Nana.

"Do I always have to remind you to wash your hands whenever you're home from work? You're twenty-one for heaven's sake you should know these things. Instead, you want to put germs in your mouth. I have no money to get you medicine if you fall sick," her grandmother warned her while untying the apron from around her thick waist. Grandma hated it when you called her stomach bulging. But that was being honest.

"I will wash my hands, Nana. I'm just hungry. I need food," Red tried to reason with her but grandma gave her a firm shake of her head to say negative. How could she forget how hard headed her Nana could be?

"Wash your hands, chickpea. It costs nothing. Unlike the medicine I would be buying if you fall sick," grandma retorted while packing her long grey hair in a bun.

"Fine I'm going." Red dragged her feet over to the sink which was not far away from the table.

"I promise you one day, I'll tear that red coat into shreds, rip your man jeans and cut off those ridiculous bangs of yours," her Nana promised while vigorously cutting the vegetables for breakfast at twelve.

"For the umpteenth time, they're not man jeans. Ladies wear jeans too and what's wrong with my bangs?" Red, now done washing her hands, touched her hands protectively as if to shield them from whatever evil her Nana had planned.

"Nothing much. Just that while you wear that coat every day of your life, you also cover half your face with those hair curtains." The knife hit the board violently as grandma wasn't so gentle anymore. A notable sign that meant something was up.

"Why don't I take it from here and you go rest Nana, hm?" Red offered and took to chopping the vegetables herself. "Are you alright, Nana? You know angry cutting is a sign of something's wrong but I don't want you to find out," Red reminded her grandmother who sat silently on the wooden stool.

"Nothing's wrong," grandma bit back.

"Snarky remarks are also a sign," Red sing sang.

Her grandmother sighed in defeat. "I didn't want you to know but you always act like a smarty pants."

"I am a smarty pants, Nana."

"Indeed you are. And that's because you got it from me." Her grandmother smiled sweetly.

"Trying to change the subject, huh? Good one," she remarked. "Just tell me now and get it over with."

There was a long moment of silence before grandma spoke again. "We got an order to bake for a party," grandma finally admitted.

"That's not so bad. What kind of party is it? An engagement party, a promotion celebration or is it—"

"It's for the prince's birthday ceremony in the castle."

The knife suddenly felt too heavy in Red's hands and she absentmindedly cut herself.