Lotta: Red Riding Hood

7/21/2019 Lotta: Red Riding Hood

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HERE ARE a few things Id

like to get straight. Born to the largest man inour village, I was never what youd call little.

My name is Lotta. And my riding-cape was

brown.


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Its true that Mama did notwant me to walk alone

through the forest that day.

She pointed from the kitchenwindow to dark clouds

hanging low. Snow lookedimminent. Lambert needs hisfoot seen to, she said, and

the journey to Grans wouldtake so long if you walked.

I thought of a few things thatmight reassure my anxious

mother: I would be taking theunpopulated route. Lesschance of meeting against

foul, so I reasoned. Besides, Ihad reached my full heightthat summer. With my long

hair concealed beneath thehood of Papas riding-cape,

anyone who glimpsed mefrom a distance would assume

from my heft that I was ahunter, and therefore armed.My only concern was that my

toes had started pushingagainst the end of my boots.


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Every small thing felt significant in those days. If

Mama should not grant me freedom that very morn,

with Gran in urgent need of care and Mama herself

occupied with horse business, then I would remain

housebound until marriage, whenever that might

be. I longed to leave our single-room cottage, to

stretch my magnificent limbs every which way, to

leap over creeks and swing on low-hanging

branches, testing the endurance of my newly adult

body.

At least you wont dawdle, Mama said eventually,

familiar with my long, swift stride. I grabbed Grans

basket of goodies with glee and about knocked

Mama o!her feet with my bearhug. Mama would

be sure to catch me up, she said, embarking uponhorseback just as soon as the farrier had finished

with our gelding.


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Wicker receptacles filled me with joy back then:

Gingham-lined baskets were the enduring prop

of picnics with friends, or of evening bonfires.

The basket smelt of medicinal herbs. Id made the

bread rolls myself, proud of their rise. Mama had

stewed the most tender portions of varmint,binding the pasty inside layer upon layer of cloth

so as not to attract predators. Mama had also

baked a fruit cake which turned out dry, as usual.

But Gran could moisten it su"ciently with a few

dregs of wine.

Im to take the wine? Really, Mama? I never did

enjoy the taste of toddy and Mama refused to

drink alone. And she was always alone, now that

Papa had gone. I had assumed Mama would

always keep his pretty bottle on our mantle as a

remembrance.

That wine might spoil. In any case, Gran can

keep the vessel as a vase.

Thats when I decided to collect a posy of flowers

along my journey. In fact, it may have been

Mamas idea.


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Id been wearing Papas leather riding-cape since last spring. I

loved every scu!ed inch of it. And when I wrapped his scrim

net scarf around my head I could enjoy his lingering scent. I

was terrified a shower of rain would wash Papas smell clean

away. I would have to beat the snowfall. And if I didnt beat

the snowfall, Id have to beat the melt. I remember kissing

Mama goodbye and striding out the door, just as Papa would

have done. His riding-cape billowed as I rounded the corner

at the foot of our property and for a moment I felt as large and

as powerful as hed once been.


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I wasnt as wary as I had promised Id be, more intent on scanning the ground for those tiny blue

flowers that grow throughout winter despite the frost. I picked the most perfect specimens for a posy,

thinking all the time about my grandmother and how she, too, always managed to delight in the

small things. Despite her ailment, I was sure shed be grateful for flowers.


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The woodland was crisp and still,

punctured occasionally by an

unidentified creature scrabbling in

the undergrowth. I strode along the

path. I have always enjoyed any

opportunity to crane my neck

upwards, and I did so now,

marveling at the height of the ashtrees.


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As my boots felt tighter and tighter, I focused on

the steady crunch of my footsteps. I had not yet

lost my childhood sense of wonder and mimicry.

I saw my own breath pu!and dissipate in the

chill air, so found a short stick about the size of a

pipe. How manly and powerful I would look

from a distance, with a pipe between my teeth! I

imagined I could smell Papas tobacco.


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I could definitely smell tobacco. Not the

ino!ensive, floating-past kind, but the heavy,

acrid kind that clings to your lungs. Id smelt

that somewhere before, but not on Papa.

I stood still for a moment, scanning the forestall around. There was nothing but darkness

in there. So I continued on, quickening my

pace. I soon reached a clearing. The tobacco

smell intermingled with the aroma of

sawdust. These logs had not fallen; they had

been felled. I sat on a stump for a fewmoments, heart quickened, inexplicably

frightened by the solitude. I told myself that I

was simply on the recent trail of a friendly

huntsman, or perhaps of a merry family

collecting kindling before the snow set in. On

reflection, it was the silence that unsettled

me. I heard no footsteps, no childlike

laughter, no felling of trees.


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I had made it through the clearing now, and reluctantly entered the dark woods on the other side. I could no longer

see any sky. I started to wish for that snowfall, which might at least lighten the landscape. A movement caught my

eye. It might have been a black deer, or else my imagination. Oh, but another one. Closer this time, I was certain.

Then I remembered about wolves, and the hunter who had returned with a pelt just three months prior, and this

after swearing wolves had been hounded out of the area. If I was now caught on the scent-draught of a wolf, she

might be stalking me from any direction. There may even be a pack of them. Thats when I started to run.


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Youthful fancies ran away on me. I remembered tales of

wild beasts of witches and werewolves retold around

campfires by village elders. Those tales were certainly

exaggerated for the frisson, or to frighten us into blind

obedience.

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Above the sound of my own boots pounding against peat, I listened in vain for Mama, who had promised

to join me on horseback. I had traversed this very wood many a time, but never alone. The trees looked so

di!erent now. Every slender branch, graceful and delicate just moments ago, now resembled the muzzle of

some leaping predator, ready to sink its teeth into my ample flesh.


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Faster and faster I ran. I considered ditching the heavy wicker basket, thud-thud-thudding against one

thigh. Perhaps my pack of stalkers would make do with the stew and I would live another day.


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And then, at last, with my chest burning, the path widened and the trees thinned out. I had

reached the edge of that terrible, wicked wood Id been warned against since birth.


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Outside the dark of the forest, I found it had

been snowing for some time. Grandmas rear

field, even with the cherry morello naked for

winter, had never looked so inviting. I

considered sprinting across the white,

propelling myself over the picket fence, and

bursting in through Grans back door. But I

didnt. I decided to catch my breath. I wanted

to show Gran that I had walked calmly through

the forest alone, and could be trusted with any

sort of adult responsibility. I would enquire

after her health, peck her on the cheek, andinsist on completing the days chores.

In my calmer state, I noticed the lack of

shimmer above Grans chimney. Her hearth

would need attention. I decided to collect an

armful of kindling before going inside.

A i h ll f i b h f ili d


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I could not tell you his name these days, or if I ever knew it.

He had delivered a load of kindling for Gran. Hed been a

frequent visitor to our own cottage, on the same business. Id

oft-times seen him emerge from the village tavern and once,

soon after Papa had gone, he insisted on walking me homefrom church. My mother followed close behind, and I own

that I enjoyed the bulk of him ambling along beside me a

reminder that there are, indeed, marriageable men in the

world who match me in height and exceed me in girth. He

was the only man who could call me Little without irony.

Again, the smell of a pipe, both familiar and

strange.

Little Lotta, he said, emerging from behind the

woodshed.


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He said hed spied me, running through the

woods. He told me about the huntsman and

the wolf pelt, though Id heard the story

already. He embellished the details

somewhat, and I laughed at his hyperbolic

ferocity.


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But he wasnt making any joke. You

should be careful, he said, lowering his

voice despite our solitude. You might

wear the riding-cape of a man, and thatmilitary weave as camouflage, but you

can never disguise your womanly

opulence.

I wished now for a smaller woodcutter,

and one without an axe.


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He stepped forward, lifted one

flap of my basket, let it fall. He

swung the splitting axe before him

-- between us -- impressing upon

me his danger and skill.

The axe dropped; his hand caught

my wrist. I had always felt strong,

but until that moment I did not

know the meaning of brute

strength.


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I watch as the axe lies helpless against the ground.

I have dropped Grans basket of goodies, and I

know the bottle of wine has fractured, because a

trickle of brownish-red stains the pure white snow.

Then I squeeze my eyes shut.


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Snowflakes melt on my cheeks and chin. I think onlyof the snow, and how it will cover his tracks. If his

tracks can disappear, and eventually the snow,

perhaps I can imagine that he, too, has evaporated

into the ether.

Footsteps retreat.


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Lotta? Oh, Lotta! Mother appears above me. Thinking of

nothing at all, I had not heard her approach.

I remember sitting wedged between Mama and Gran in front of a blazing fire. Poorly as Gran was, I saw a


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healthy fury that day, behind her wolflike eyes.

I should have listened

to those terrible tales.

From now on, I shall

never venture outalone.


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That was the winter Gran grew worse. As

her eyesight weakened, arthritic fingers

sewed for me a double-milled scarlet

chaperon. Mama helped with the

embroidery.


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I wear it still, patchingand mending as needed.


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Perhaps youve noticed me in the decades since passed traversing the woods without


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Perhaps you ve noticed me, in the decades since passed, traversing the woods without

fear. I will not become invisible. The forest is dark, but I am a red blaze against it.

All the better to see me with, my dear.


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Lotta: Red Riding Hood