His riding-cape billowed as I rounded the corner at the foot of our property and for a moment I felt as large and powerful as he had been.
I remember kissing Mama goodbye and striding out the door, just as Papa would have done. And if I didn’t beat the snowfall, I’d have to beat the melt. I was terrified a shower of rain would wash Papa’s smell clean away. And when I wrapped his scrim net scarf around my head I could enjoy his lingering scent. I’d been wearing Papa’s leather riding-cape since autumn. Surely you were trying to attract attention.” The silhouette of a womanly figure is sure to get them going. “Why did you leave the path? Were you really just picking flowers?” That’s when I decided to collect a posy of flowers along my journey. In any case, Gran can keep the vessel as a vase.” I thought Mama would always keep his pretty bottle on our mantle as a remembrance. And she was always alone now that Papa had gone. “I’m to take the wine? Really, Mama?” I never did enjoy the taste of toddy and Mama refused to drink alone. “But Gran could moisten it sufficiently with a few dregs of wine.” Mama had also baked a fruit cake which turned out dry as usual. Mama had stewed the most tender portions of varmint and made a pasty, binding it inside layer upon layer of cloth so as not to attract wild predators. I’d made the bread rolls myself, proud of their rise. Wicker receptacles filled me with joy back then: Gingham-lined baskets were the enduring prop of picnics with friends and evening bonfires. “What were you doing waltzing though the woods unchaperoned?” She would be sure to catch me up, she said, embarking upon horseback just as soon as the farrier had finished with our gelding. I grabbed the basket with glee and about knocked Mama off her feet with a bearhug. “At least you won’t dawdle,” Mama said eventually, familiar with my long, swift stride. 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. I sensed that if Mama should not grant my 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 should be. My own concern was limited to my boots, and the way my toes had started pushing up against the leather.Įvery small thing felt significant in those days. With my long hair concealed beneath the hood of Papa’s riding-cape, anyone gazing on from a distance would assume from my heft that I was a male hunter, and therefore armed.
Scarlet hood and the wicked wood sex full#
Besides, I had reached my full height that summer. Less chance of meeting against foul, so I reasoned. I thought of a few things that might reassure my anxious mother: I would be taking the less populated route. “Lambert needs his foot seen to,” she said, “and the journey to Gran’s would take so long if you walked.”
Scarlet hood and the wicked wood sex Patch#
She pointed from the kitchen window to a patch of sky. It’s true that mama did not want me to walk alone through the forest that day. Born to the largest man in our village, I was never what you’d call ‘little’. There are a few things I’d like to get straight.
Content note: This Little Red Riding Hood fractured fairytale contains off-the-page sexual violence.
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