Crimson

Chapter 2

From outside, the forest seems quite menacing. But inside, it is a mystical place. Patches of light show the trodden paths, and the sweet whistling of birds is all that breach the silence. Taking the route slower, Crimson marvels at the beauty of the center of her childhood nightmares.

 

All children in Peter’s Field are taught to fear the forest, with stories making it out to be the den of the devil. His arm unencumbered by the waves of gnarled trees and weed that wrap around your ankle and drag you away into his home.

 

But nothing of the old tales seems prevalent in this place. Instead, the majestic willows drape their vines over Crimson, and although there are roots occasionally on the path, none would be able to impede the travel of a stranger.

 

The leaves rustle behind her, but Crimson does not stop moving. It is the wind, she rationalizes. Nothing more. But fear sets into her system when suddenly a branch snaps. She whips around to see a man, taller than her by a head, leaning by a tree. “Hello.” He greets in a deep voice. His face is reminiscent of paintings Crimson had spent hours staring at, with luminescent green eyes and high cheek bones. The black hair atop his head is neatly combed back, reaching down to the nape of his neck. He wears brown trousers and a white shirt, with light scratches in the sleeves. “You’re not one I’ve seen on the path before.”

 

Crimson keeps her lips tight together. The man probably associates with wolves, and she refuses to talk to him. “My name is Faolan.” Pushing off the tree, the stranger named Faolan approaches Crimson and smirks as she steps back. “Believe me, little one, if I wanted anything to happen to you, it would have already.”

 

“I’m not little!” Crimson snaps. Although she is called little one by some,  SHE hates it when strangers call her any kind of nickname.  “And you wouldn’t be able to do anything to me, anyway.” She grumbles, turning her back to the strange man and continuing down the path.

 

Faolan grabs her arm and pulls her close to him, taking his free arm and forming an unmoving barrier around her abdomen. “It’s too obvious that I could.” He whispers in her ear, tickling it with his warm breath. He removes his hands from her, making her stumble forward. “And I’m not the only one who could.” As though his words stirred the woods, the sound of rustling starts in the areas just out of her view. “If you give me your name, I promise to walk you to wherever it is you’re going.” Faolan moves to Crimson’s side, in a defensive or possessive way.

 

Crimson inches away from him. “My name is Crimson.”

 

Entertainment dances in the eyes of this strange man. “What a strange name.” He comments. “And where are you heading?”

 

“To the cabin of Scarlet Hood.” Crimson lifts the basket into Faolan’s range of sight. “My mother told me to bring it to her.”

 

He nods understandingly. “Well,” he is at her side once more, arm linked with hers, “let’s be going.” Despite Crimson’s struggles against his touch, he seems completely unaffected by it. And heat rises in her cheeks whenever he looks back and smiles at her.

 

They walk in silence, listening to the forest and the melody of nature. Twigs snap up ahead, and Faolan freezes. “What is…” He grabs Crimson and pulls her off the trail, down into the shrubbery out of sight. She sees him signal for silence and watches the road with curiosity.

 

Terror and wonder fill Crimson. A wolf, larger than the dogs in Peter’s Field, with shaggy grey fur and sharp grey eyes wonders up the trail. It pauses to sniff the ground a bit before trotting on down the path.

 

Faolan rises slowly, scanning the trail with stone eyes. He takes Crimson’s hand gingerly and they continue on the trail. She quickly removes her hand from his and rubs it on her skirt as they walk.

 

Crimson nearly kissed the cabin when they arrived. “I assume you know the way back?” Faolan grinned mirthfully.

 

She rolled her eyes and did not dignify his comment with a response. Through the door she went without a word of thanks or goodbye. Why would it matter? He was rather strange and probably did not care. When she checked out the window, Faolan was sitting beside a tree, head slumped over and unmoving.

 

“Who’s there?” Crimson hears an elderly woman’s voice yell. “You’d best show yourself before I have to use any of my magic!”

 

Stepping lightly into the room where her grandmother waited, Crimson smiled sweetly to Scarlet Hood. “Hi Mami.”

 

Scarlet’s brown eyes soften at the sight of the eighth Hood. “My little Rose.” She sighs. The nickname ‘Crimson Rose’ had been given to the young lady when she was a child, and it was eventually shortened to just ‘Rose.’ “How are you?”

 

“Fine.” The basket feel light in Crimson’s hands, and she begins thinking about the pull down into the brush. Had she lost some of her wares? “Mama wanted me to give this to you.”

 

The basket rests nicely on Scarlet’s lap. She pulls back the cloth that was placed over its contents and smiles gratefully. Her withered hands pull out a loaf of bread. “Your mother’s work, no doubt.” The elderly witch weaves salt-and-pepper hair through her free hand. “Thank you kindly, little one.”

 

Crimson kneels beside her grandmother’s chair, just as she had when she young. “I am not so little anymore, grandmother.” There is no hiding the twinkle in her eyes.

 

Her grandmother throws her descendant a quizzical look before a knowing smile stretches her lips. There are no words exchanged, for what words can be? Through silent communication Crimson has already made known the promise of the red hood.

 

Their visit ends with a hug and kiss on the cheek. “Be safe, little Rose.” The sixth Hood calls. Crimson nods curtly and walks past Faolan, still asleep on the side of the trail, en route to Peter’s Field. Why her grandmother would choose to live deep within the forest instead of safe in a town that would give her highest honor is a question Crimson has always had. Though she never voiced it.

The journey back through the woods is slower without the unwelcomed companionship of Faolan, but it gives Crimson time to admire the birdsongs whistled in the trees. She cannot define the different birds, and she has no need to. All she needs is to get home.