When Little Red Became the Wolf

a winter's tale

She did not know when the transformation first began. The itching at her scalp became noticeable in the days following her first bleed, but it could’ve started much earlier than that.

As the girl reached up to scratch the spot, her fingers brushed an arc of coarse gray fur. Another poked through the hair above her right ear, two triangles with downy centers jutting up towards the moon.

When she showed them to her mother, the woman frowned and shook her head. “Best keep them covered,” she said, wrapping her daughter in a cloak of red wool. “Folks ‘round here like to skin a wolf.”

The girl shivered and her eyes darted towards the door—to the great bushy tail nailed above it. She’d always been told it was a gift from her father, the woodsman who’d sired her but never returned. Now, she wasn’t so sure.

Next came the claws, several months later, erupting from her fingers at dinner one night. They sliced the beetroots and gouged the table.

“Come,” her mother said, grabbing the cloak and throwing it to her. “There’s a tree out back—you can grind them down against its bark.”

Another year passed and her voice changed. Stringing holly berries across the mantle while singing holiday hymns, the girl’s voice rang out in a howl, bursting from her throat to soar into the night. 

“Hush, child, hush!” Her mother ran to close the window, her whole body trembling. “They’ll hear you if you’re not careful!” 

So the years passed, and the girl became silent. She ground down her claws and covered her ears, wrapped the wool tighter and tighter around herself until she could almost believe she was a sheep. 

One day, the girl’s mother sent her on an errand to Grandmother’s house. “Just stay on the path and you’ll be safe,” she said, tying the cloak once more under her daughter’s chin. 

The girl, who was not so much a girl any more, had only gone a few paces when a patch of bright snowdrops caught her eye. They glistened like stars under the gloom of the forest. She stepped off the path and a figure darted between the trees.

“Who’s there?” the girl called and there was no quake in her voice.

From the hazy shadows, a wolf appeared. Its coat was pale grey and dusted with sable. Large, lamp-like eyes studied her closely. It tilted its head, as if waiting for something.

The girl knew she should be afraid, but she wasn’t.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Who are you?” the wolf replied, and its voice was an echo of her own.

The girl undid the ribbon at her throat and let the cloak fall to the ground. 

When the girl did not return to the village that night, the people made up stories that she had been eaten by a wolf. 

Which, in a way, was true.

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This story was written to accompany a self-portrait shoot that I did last year. You can see more images here: