By S. E. M. Ishida
The stench of death assaults my nose as the abyss yawns before me. I breathe in the stagnant draft as a slippery carpet sweeps me off my feet. Ivory spikes rise from above and below. They curve inward, directing me to the pit and reminding me that this journey might be my last. I slide between the yellowing spires, and their interlocking forms close behind me.
Cut off from the outside, the reek intensifies. Acidic fluid drips from the walls and pools onto the slick floor. The warmth of my surroundings conjures beads of sweat from my skin, but I cannot remove my cloak. My grandmother’s enchantments are woven into the fabric and protect me from the acid that would eat into my flesh. I pull the red cloak tighter around me.
I move deeper into the darkness. My chest tightens with apprehension as the passage narrows, and I am forced onto my hands and knees. I must move forward, or the little one will not survive. As I crawl, the weapon at my side bumps against an undulating wall.
“My father told me these blades were stolen from a giant,” Mother Goat said when she presented me with a pair of scissors the size of swords bound in a leather sheath. “I have no use for them, but perhaps they can help you rescue my son.”
I took the scissors with confidence. I had cut numerous yards of fabric with my grandmother’s sewing scissors. I could wield these, too. “I will find your son,” I said. “Where he has been taken, I have gone before.”
The walls constrict around me, pressing against me like an unwanted embrace. Although this place feels like a tomb, I am not without light. Patches of soft moss glow a sickly green against the tunnel walls. From the floor, occasional clusters of white mushrooms also lend their light. They remind me of the work of the fey from my grandmother’s forest home, and I wonder how many fairies have also fallen prey to this wicked labyrinth. Perhaps these strange growths are their final marks on the mortal realm.
With a powerful pulse, the walls squeeze and pull me closer to my destination. The passage widens suddenly, and I tumble into a slimy pit. I pull myself from the mire, but it tugs at my cloak as if to claim it. With a surge of effort, I break free, my cloak still around my shoulders.
The room writhes around me, and I feel like I am standing on the deck of a ship at sea. Acid sloshes at my feet, and in the distance, the rhythmic pulse of a heartbeat rumbles as if from another room.
A wicker basket, preserved by the same magic infused into my cloak, floats past in the liquid lapping at my boots. Grandmother’s final gift. I was only a child then. With words I never learned, she made the basket rise above the fluid. I clung to it until help arrived, but Grandmother sank beneath the rippling swill.
I pause to pluck a handful of mushrooms to add to the lonely memorial.
“I’m back, Grandmother,” I whisper. Kneeling, I lay the meager gift inside. “I won’t allow anyone else to die in this place.” Moisture forms at the inner corners of my eyes, but if it falls, it is lost in the wetness of my surroundings. My voice is drowned by the gurgles of the oozing cavern, and I continue onward.
My ears detect a weak bleat, and I follow the faint sound until I find a small goat pressed against a wrinkled wall. His fur is matted with filth, and wounds from the acidic environment gleam red between patches of missing fur.
“I, too, was trapped here once.” I gently lift the victim and secure him in the satchel on my back.
Then, I draw the scissors from their sheath. I bury their points into the depths of our prison. Blood spurts around my blades as a howl resounds from above. I puncture the wall, and our surroundings convulse. As I make my first slice, a sliver of sunlight trickles through the opening. The goat screams, and the cavern thrashes. I strike again and ignore the splashes of blood and acid that wash over me. The scissors flash in the increasing light as I focus on widening our passage to escape.
Finally, I emerge from the belly of the beast and take in the enormity of the wolf who sprawls over the reddened ground. Despite his wound, his eyes are closed in slumber, and his chest rises and falls with each breath. His thick, gray fur reminds me of ashen grass. As a growl escapes his throat, he exposes pointed teeth.
The little goat bleats in fear, and Mother Goat leaps from her hiding place. I let down her son.
“Mama!” He stumbles to her on shaking legs, and she embraces him.
The wolf licks his lips, and the muscles of his throat contract into a swallow.
I wipe my blades with a cloth. “I wonder whom he dreams of eating next?”
“We will turn his dream into a nightmare.” Mother Goat takes a sewing kit from the bag that hangs from her shoulder.
More citizens from the village appear: a lamb, three pigs, a boy, and a duck. With the young goat prancing at my heels and the handles of a wheelbarrow in my grip, I lead my companions deep into the woods. I find the ruins of Grandmother’s cottage in the cool of the shade. The roof is gone, and the walls have crumbled, but the foundation remains. Together we gather stones to fill the wolf’s stomach.
When he is filled, I cut a length of thread, and Mother Goat sews his belly closed. He will never feast on us again.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
great version of red riding hood!
Chilling! And interesting to see how often the wolf is the bad guy in fairy tales!
What a great retelling of the Goat’s Seven Kids and of Red Riding Hood!! Love it!!
That is an awesome smash up revenge story. Great job. This would make a great graphic novel!