Swan Sister (7 page)

I keep the gold key on a chain around my neck, but always I wear it inside my clothes. The blood is still on it, even though we have buried the dead.

Now I run my husband’s businesses and sell my husband’s treasures. I have provided a dowry for my sister and captains’ commissions for my brothers and fine things for my mother. I live in comfort I dreamed of and craved from the day I first set foot inside Bluebeard’s house.

I often find myself fingering the key.

N
INA
K
IRIKI
H
OFFMAN
says, “One of my writing teachers, Algis Budrys, says people read stories because they’re searching for survival information.

“I never liked the story of Bluebeard. But in the wake of the September 11 tragedy, this was the tale that gripped my imagination. I wanted to write a story about someone who looked into the dark corridors of another’s heart where unimaginably horrible deeds hibernated, someone who stared into that darkness, lost her innocence, and yet survived.”

N
INA
K
IRIKI
H
OFFMAN
’s books for adults include
The Thread that Binds the Bones, The Silent Strength of Stones, A Red Heart of Memories, Past the Size of Dreaming,
and
A Fistful of Sky.
Some of her stories for younger readers appeared in Bruce Coville anthologies. Viking will publish her first Young Adult book in 2003. She lives in Oregon with three cats and lots of toys.

You know I’m giving the straight and deep ’cause it’s about a
friend of a friend. A few weeks back, just ’cross town, a true sweet chiquita, called Red for her fave red hoodie, gets a 911 from her momma’s momma. The Grams is bed-bound with a winter bug, but she’s jonesing for Sesame Noodles, Hot and Sour Soup, and Kung Pao Tofu from the local Chineserie—’cept their delivery wheels broke down. So Grams is notioning if Red fetches food, they’ll feast together.

Red greenlights that. Veggie Asian chow and the Grams are solid in her top ten. So Red puts on her hoodie, leaves a note for the Moms, and BMXes away.

Now, down by the corner is a fine looking beastie boy who thinks he’s the Big Bad, and maybe he is. He sees Red
exit the eatery with a humongous bag of munch matter and calls, “Hey, Little Red Hoodie Hottie. Got me a tasty treat?”

Red doesn’t slow. She just says, “Not if you’re not my Grams, and you’re not.”

This Big Bad wouldn’t be so big or so bad if he quit easy. He smiles and follows Red to her chained-up wheels. While Red juggles dinner and digs for her bike lock key, the Bad says, “Take five? Or all ten?” and holds out both hands.

Red warms to his style and his smile—this beastie boy isn’t half as smooth as he thinks he is, but half is twice as smooth as this town’s seen. Red hands off the bag, the Bad peeps in, and his stomach makes a five-two Richter. He’s thinking he’s holding the appetizer, and Red’s the main course.

Red mounts her wheels, takes back the bag, gives the Bad a gracias, and pedals off down the main drag, riding slow. She doesn’t want to be a sweatpig when she gets to Grams’s. The day’s as sweet as a sugar donut, but Red’s not happy. As she rides she calls herself a ho for flirting up a corner boy with Grams so sick. Pumping the right pedal is like pins. Pumping the left is like needles.

The sec Red rounds the corner, the Bad’s off on a mountain bike, zipping ’cross town, cruising down alleys, cutting through yards, taking every shortcut he knows and making up seven new ones. ’Cause when he peeped in the chow sack, he saw the foodery’s little green delivery slip spelling out Grams’s name and address.

The Bad gets to Grams’s front door while Red’s still blocks away. He leans on the buzzer till a weak, weak voice asks, “Who’s there?”

The Bad pitches his voice like Red’s. “It’s me, Grams! It’s major munching time!”

Grams laughs and buzzes him in. She’s laughing right until she sees the Bad, and then she’s not laughing at all.

Red’s the gladdest when she gets to Grams’s place. Walking up to the door, she pokes her nose in the bag of Chinese tastiness, snorting peppers and garlic as if she were dipping her face in a spicy sauna. She has to smile. What can be wrong when a great dinner’s coming?

In Grams’s bedroom, the Bad thinks the same as a tap-tap comes at the door. He hops in the Grams’s bed, calls, “Hurry in, my sweet surprise!” and pulls the covers up over his nose.

Red walks in the front room, saying, “You shouldn’t leave your door open.”

The Bad calls from the back, “It’s just to let you in, my munchiliciousness.”

Red heads down the hall, saying, “Your voice sounds funny.”

The Bad calls, “It’s just my sore throat getting sorer. It’ll be better once I eat, my little main dish!”

Red brakes at the bedroom door. The place looks nice, if nice is a dark, dark cave. On the shadow that she knows is Grams’s bed is a shadow that could be Grams. The shadow says, “Now, come snuggle your poor, cold Grams,” and pulls the bedcovers back to invite Red in.

Red sets down the food, gives the shadow some serious squinteye, and wants to turn on every light in the room. Then she hears Grams, near to tears, add, “Or don’t you love your Grams?”

Red says, “Sure do, Grams,” and hops in bed without a doubt in her head. But when the Bad pulls her close, Red’s a little spooked. She says, “Your eyes are way bright, Grams.”

“Cause I’m way glad to see you,” says the Bad, pulling her closer.

More spooked, Red says, “Your arms are way strong, Grams.”

“Cause I’m way glad to hold you,” says the Bad, pulling her closest.

And as spooked as spooked gets, Red says, “And your teeth are way sharp, Grams.”

“Cause I’m way glad to eat you,” says the Bad.

Now, I could say that’s when a bold cop hears Red scream, runs in faster than the Bad can bite, shoots down the Bad like the cold, cruel creature he is, finds Grams tied up safe in a closet, and Red and Grams and the cop all get the happy ever after.

Or I could say there’s no scream, no handy cop, and the Bad has a happy belly glow for days, thanks to Red and her Grams.

Either way, there’s uno problemo with my story: If the Bad dies, how do I know how he gets ’cross town? If Red dies, how do I know how she feels biking to Grams’s?

Here’s what’s sure: One dies. One lives to tell the tale. And the one telling the tale is guessing ’bout the other.

Now, pick the end you like. But before you do, think on this:

The storyteller’s still around. Maybe nearer than you think.

And everyone’s got to eat.

W
ILL
S
HETTERLY
writes, “The first version of ‘Red Riding Hood’ that I heard had great things: a girl goes off on a trip all alone, and a wolf tricks her into getting in bed with him. There’s great dialogue: “What big teeth you have, Granny.” “The better to eat you with, my dear.” But it ended with a woodsman coming in from nowhere to save the girl. And I thought the point of the story was that she was too trusting. She deserved to be eaten.

“When I got older, I started reading about folktales. I learned that in the oldest recorded versions of ‘Red Riding Hood,’ she ends up Wolf Chow. But by that time, I was a little less bloodthirsty, and I understood why people like happy endings.

“So when I had the chance to write a story for this book, I picked ‘Red Riding Hood.’ Maybe because the right ending nagged at me. Maybe because it has a girl on an adventure, and a tricky wolf, and cool dialogue—”

W
ILL
S
HETTERLY
is the author of
Elsewhere, Nevernever, Dogland,
and other works. He lives in Brisbee, Arizona, with his wife, Emma Bull, and their cat, Buddha. His Web site is
www.player.org/pub/flash/people/will.html
.

Mira was a lovely girl who lived on the edge of the great
Inland Sea with her farmer father, a cranky Auntie, and her little cat, Sasha.