ROSE RED: THE STORY OF RED HIDING HOOD

Retold by Paul Edmund Norman

Warning to parents: this story is not for the faint-hearted. You may wish to read it through yourselves before reading it to your children just in case you want to leave out some of the – er – more grisly bits. There again, it might be too grisly for you, so maybe you’d better have someone else read it first to see if they think it’s all right for you to read…..

Middle Europe, late eighteenth century

You may have been told this story before, but with a slightly different title. You may know it as “Little Red Riding Hood”. Well, the people that collected and told fairy tales in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries got a few things wrong, and it’s time to set the record straight. In the first place, they wrote the stories for children, and although children like to be frightened, just a little, the story-tellers took all the really frightening bits out, otherwise they might have got into trouble with the children’s parents. Secondly, and more importantly, Red Riding Hood was not little, she was nearly eighteen years old at the time of this story, and was a fully grown young girl, very beautiful. True, she wore a red coat with a red hood, all made from the softest velvet and trimmed with white fur. A little like a Father Christmas outfit, really, but you have to remember that Father Christmas had not been discovered in those days. Finally, before we get to the actually story – sorry it’s taking so long, by the way, but these things have to be said – this happened at a time when people believed in all sorts of things many of us don’t believe in now. Vampires, werewolves, shape-shifters, ghosts, fairies, ghouls, spirits, banshees, goblins – all manner of things that now exist only in the old children’s fairy tales.

So, let me tell you the true story of Red Riding Hood. Sitting comfortably? Do you want to make a cup of tea first, before I start? Or go to the toilet? Are you sure? I don’t want to have to stop halfway through. This isn’t a commercial television programme, you know. Well, if you’re sure, I’ll begin.

Rose Red wasn’t her real name, of course. That was Drosselkopf. Rosie Drosselkopf. Only everyone called her Rose Red because she always wore a red coat with a red hood. Rose lived in a small village, more of a hamlet, really, in Transylvania, which is on the borders of Hungary and Germany, in the heart of the Carpathian mountains. If that sounds familiar, well, it should be, it’s where the dreaded Count Dracula comes from. But he’s the subject of a quite different story, and one that does not concern us here.

The village was called Strassenberg. About five hundred people lived there, simple peasants for the most part. In those days there was no such thing as a police force. There were sheriffs, appointed by the local mayor, and there were a few soldiers stationed at the local castle, not Castle Dracula, by the way, another local castle, but there were no policemen as such. If a person was caught stealing, or doing anything against the law, he or she was locked in the town jailhouse and dealt with by a travelling magistrate who visited all of the towns and villages and hamlets in turn. Sometimes, if they were really unlucky, and especially if they were innocent and had been wrongly arrested, people were locked up for a whole year before being put on trial. So, the law was kept for the most part by the people of the village themselves. In the case of child murders, and horrific things like that, they would take it upon themselves to decide if a man or woman was guilty of the crime, and likely as not they would hang them without waiting for a circuit judge and a trial.

At the time of Rose Red, murders were commonplace, probably because there was no organised law enforcement agency, no police. At the beginning of this story, Hans Grubelkirk, the town sexton, that is the man who digs graves in the churchyard for the dead people, and his assistant, Franz Beckendorf, stood over the newly-dug grave they had just prepared for the latest death, that of Fraulein Kitty Katsenjammer, a pretty young girl who had been found with her throat torn out in the graveyard itself just a fortnight ago. See, I told you the old fairy-story tellers left out the most grisly bits, didn’t I? Well, we can either carry on and I can tell you the whole, true, shocking story, or we can go back to the airy-fairy version as told by Hans Christian Andersen or the Wilhelm and Jakob Grimm, better know to you as the Grimm brothers. Good name for people who collected horror stories, eh? Which is it to be? My version. Right you are. No more interruptions, then. If it gets too much for you, just leave the room. Yes, someone else will be able to tell you a watered-down version of the true story. If you think you’re not up to this version. Everyone settled? On with the story.

‘Who do you think could have done it, Hans?’ Franz said, leaning on his spade.

‘I’ll tell you what I think,’ growled Hans, scowling. ‘I think it was a werewolf. Two weeks ago, see, there was a full moon.’

Now Franz was considerably younger than Hans, and had no experience or knowledge of werewolves. He asked the obvious question, for he wished to broaden his mind and make his way in the world. Not that he was simple-minded, you understand, but he had not completed his education to his own satisfaction, preferring to skip lessons and go off into the woods with some of the village girls. Oh, yes!

‘What is a werewolf, then?’

Hans stared in disbelief at his God-son. ‘Don’t they teach you anything nowadays? You’ll be telling me next you don’t know what a vampire is!’

‘No, I know what a vampire is. They suck all the blood out of you, and you become undead. That’s right, isn’t it, Hans? Isn’t that right?’

‘Yes, Franz, that’s right. Well, a werewolf.’

‘Yes?’ said Franz, eagerly.

‘A werewolf is a person that turns into a wolf. At the time of the full moon.’

‘Go on!’

‘It’s true, I tell you. They start to grow hairs on their hands and face, until they’re entirely covered with hair, and gradually, over a period of a few hours, they slowly transform into a wolf. Well, into a werewolf. Don’t ever confuse a real wolf with a werewolf, because they’re entirely different things. You understand what I’m saying, boy? You can scare a real wolf off with fire. Not a werewolf.’

‘Yes, Godfather Hans. I think I understand. I often see wolves running in the woods, when I’m out with the girls. So they’re all right, then? Not dangerous in any way?’

‘Of course wolves are dangerous!’ growled Hans. ‘They’ll attack you and rip out your throat, especially if they’re hungry and have cubs to feed!’

‘So I should keep away from wolves as much as possible, then?’

‘Yes.’

‘And werewolves?’

‘What about them?’

‘What do they do to you?’

‘They rip your throat out and eat you. Just like one did to poor Kitty.’

‘But you just said that’s what wolves do.’

‘It is.’

‘And it’s also what werewolves do?’

‘Yes, it is.’

Franz considered this matter slowly and deliberately. At length he spoke again.

‘So, what’s the difference, then?’

‘Well, wolves aren’t people. Werewolves are really people who have been cursed in some way, and turn into werewolves at the full moon.’

Franz nodded thoughtfully and started to dig again. After a moment, he stopped.

‘And you think it was a werewolf that killed poor Kitty?’ Kitty was one of the girls with whom he had played, as a young boy, in the woods.

‘Yes, I’m sure of it.’

‘Because her throat had been ripped out and she had been partially eaten?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

This is the point in the story where we discover that Franz was not quite as simple-minded as some of you might have first thought. In fact, from the questions he asked, it now becomes clear that Franz had the makings of a modern police detective. Just listen to his next statement.

‘But an ordinary wolf could have done that, Godfather Hans!’

Clever, wasn’t he? But Hans would have none of it. He was convinced that a werewolf was behind the killing, and now he gave his reasons.

‘Yes, I’ll admit that could be the case, Franz. But understand this. Wolves hunt each and every night. Werewolves only hunt at the time of the full moon, and only for three days. Now think back. How many murders have there been in the past three months?’

‘Three.’

‘And when did they occur?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Franz said hesitantly.

‘I’ll tell you, my boy. They happened at the time of the last three full moons. I rest my case.’

‘So you think there’s a werewolf somewhere in the area?’

‘I think that’s sort of obvious, isn’t it, Franz?’

Franz grudgingly admitted that it was kind of obvious.

‘What can we do about it?’

‘Well, the funeral is this afternoon. After that, I want you to take yourself off to the town records office in Oberkerfel and read up all you can about werewolves. It’s another two weeks to the next full moon, and I want to be prepared. It’s up to us, Franz. You and me. But we need to be prepared. Now, let’s finish this grave for poor Kitty and give her the send-off she deserves!’

An hour or so later, after the funeral had taken place, Franz and Hans made their way to the village inn, where they sat in a corner, drinking huge jugs of beer. Later, when all the mourners had dispersed, Hans went back to the churchyard and fill in the grave, and place all the beautiful flowers carefully on top of the green turfs to make it look nice. Franz, on the other hand, started off on the three-mile walk to Oberkerfel, the nearby town. Just outside the village, he saw the little cottage belonging to Frau Drosselkopf, Rosie Drosselkopf’s grandmother, and there, standing at the gate, dressed, as usual, in her red coat with its red hood, was Rosie herself. Rosie was a beautiful young girl, nearly eighteen years of age, with lovely long wavy blond hair, and the most stunning green eyes. Beneath the coat she wore a white tunic pulled down low to reveal her full and stunning figure. Rosie was Franz’s favourite, and although she rarely went off into the woods to spend time with him, preferring to stay at home to look after her invalid grandmother, they nevertheless got on very well.

‘Hello, Franz, are you off to the town?’

‘Mm,’ Franz told her. ‘I have to read up on something for Hans. Have you been visiting your grandmother?’

‘Yes, I brought her some flowers, and some oranges.’

‘How is she today? Better? Worse?’

Frau Drosselkopf was a kindly old grey-haired woman who spent most of her days in bed, riddled with arthritis.

‘A little worse, I’m afraid. I’m off into the woods to pick herbs to mix for medicine.’

‘Well, you be careful, Rosie.’

Rosie smiled innocently. ‘I will, Franz. Enjoy your reading.’

‘Reading? Oh, yes. Yes, I will. See you later?’

‘Probably.’

Two weeks later, there was another murder, this time it was a little boy, Peter Kraft. Once again, his throat had been ripped, and this time one of his arms had been wrenched from its socket and again, partially eaten. Now the villagers were starting to get really frightened, and a town meeting was called. The mayor, Johannes Gruber, called the meeting to order.

‘In the absence of anyone to keep the peace for us, I suggest we send a representative from the village to the castle, to ask Count Franzenstein to send a couple of his guards down to help us out,’ he said. You’ll notice I said “Count Franzenstein?” Yes, that’s right. The other local castle belonged to none other than Count Franzenstein, not to be confused with Count Frankenstein, the one who did all those terrible experiments with human body parts a while back. Just coincidence, I suppose, that all these things happened in this very corner of Europe – and about the same time, too. Just coincidence. Makes you think, though.

‘I’ll go!’ volunteered Franz, and the townspeople immediately cheered his courage. It was a long, arduous journey, almost to the top of the mountain, for Count Franzenstein was something of a recluse and did not often come down into the village. Instead, he had his food delivered, once a month, only the delivery men left the crates of food halfway up the mountain, because they were afraid to go all the way to the top. They also made the mistake of thinking that Count Franzenstein was Count Frankenstein, which, of course, he was not. Anyway, to cut a long story short, Franz and Hans were detailed to climb the mountain path to ask for help from the Count. Only it so happened that the snow was particularly bad, the path impassable, and they had to wait almost three weeks before they could set off.

At about the same time, Rosie Red also set off, from her house into the woods to search for more wild herbs she could turn into a potion that might alleviate her grandmother’s suffering. She gathered up her basket and took the trail leading from her house to the town, then left it halfway to her grandmother’s house, knowing that the melting snows would have stimulated the growth of the very herbs she sought.

It was late evening. Franz and Hans sat by their campfire, drinking coffee. I say coffee, in actual fact it tasted like dried mud mixed in water and boiled. Not very nice at all. God only knows why they didn’t take real coffee with them on this trip. They had not come far, in fact they had only set out at sunset. Hans had insisted on this, saying that the journey would be far more comfortable at night. Franz was not convinced, but as Hans was his elder and his senior, he agreed. They did about a mile or so, and then Hans suggested that they camp for a while.

‘We’ve only just set out,’ protested Franz.

‘It’s a long way, Franz,’ said Hans. ‘Better to rest a while now, then travel through the night, when it’s quiet, all the animals will be asleep, and all the people. We’ll be able to arrive first thing in the morning, and probably make the journey back down to the village with a couple of strapping soldiers, be home in time for tea. What do you say?’

Franz reluctantly agreed. He would have preferred to travel during the day. He made a face, drank another mouthful of the slops Hans called coffee, and spat it out in disgust.

‘Coffee not to your taste, Franz?’ Hans asked innocently.

‘Not really. Tastes like mud.’ He looked across at Hans and could not help noticing how hairy the man looked. A day’s growth of stubble adorned his chin, and his hair was longer and more unkempt than usual. Hans kept rubbing his hands together. Franz frowned.

‘Tell you what. You wait here. I’ll nip back home and bring us back a piece of Martha’s fruit cake. That’ll keep us going for a while. What do you say?’

Franz nodded eagerly. Hans’ wife, Martha, was an excellent cook.

‘Keep the fire going. I’ll be back before you know it.’

‘Right-oh,’ said Franz, and started to gather more twigs. Hans hadn’t been gone more than a few minutes when the clouds parted, and the moon appeared. Franz stroked his chin and was surprised to feel the soft hairs growing there already. Why, he had shaved his face just before they set out, yet here he was, already needing another shave! He frowned, tossed another twig onto the fire and watched the bright sparks fly as the heat from the fire began to eat into the damp wood. A wisp of grey smoke rose up through the clearing. Franz followed it with his eyes and again saw the moon. With a jump, he realised that the whole disc was visible. It was a full moon! He groaned. At the same, he rubbed his hands together, partly from fear, partly to keep them warm. Unbeknown to him, the twigs he had been collecting had fine little fibres on them, and some of them had rubbed off onto his palms. Being damp from the melted snow, they sort of stuck there, and as he rubbed his hands together, he gave a start. It was for all the world as though his palms were covered with a fine down of hair!

Franz leaped to his feet, his heart pounding wildly. Now, as we have established, he was not stupid, perhaps a little slow, and extremely superstitious, especially living in a place like Strassenberg, where everyone still believed in witches and fairies, vampires and werewolves. His first thought was ‘Oh, God! It’s me! I’m a werewolf!’ Then he calmed down. He could not remember ever having turned into a werewolf, and he certainly thought he would remember if he had killed anyone. His heart slowed back down to its normal pace and he sat back down to wait for Hans to return with that fruit cake he’d promised. The minutes ticked by, and there was no sign of Hans.

Then, along the path came Rosie Drosselkopf, dressed, as usual, all in red, and carrying a bag. She saw Franz and waved, smiling.

‘Hello, Franz! What are you doing here in the middle of the woods at this time of night?’

‘Hi Rosie. Hans and I are off to the castle to ask the Count for some soldiers to help protect us against the murderer. Would you like some coffee?’

She sat down beside him and wrinkled her nose at the smell of the coffee. ‘No, thank you. It doesn’t really smell like coffee, does it?’

‘No. That’s because it isn’t really coffee. Anyway, where are you going at this time of night?’

‘I’m off to see Grandmother. She’s still not too well. I thought I’d take her some home-made biscuits and some flowers to cheer her up.’

‘That’s very thoughtful of you.’ They lapsed into silence. Franz caught himself admiring the curves of Rosie’s beautiful body, her perfect, heart-shaped face framed by the red hood, her hazel blue eyes and her blonde wavy hair.

‘Where is Hans, then?’ she asked.

‘He went back home to get some fruit cake for us.’

Rosie frowned. ‘I didn’t pass him on the path. He must have taken a detour.’

Are you thinking what I’m thinking? No? Well, never mind. On with the story. Rosie stood up. ‘I’d better get on. I intended getting there in the daylight but the first batch of biscuits got burned and I had to do some more. You be careful, Franz. I’ll see you later.’

Franz stood up too, and on a sudden impulse, reached for her hand. ‘You be careful, Rosie. I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you.’ For a moment she peered into his eyes and he was on the point of asking her to be his girlfriend, when she suddenly snatched her hand away.

‘What is it?’ he demanded.

‘Your hands are covered in fibres, from the twigs!’ she said.

Franz stared stupidly at his hands, and a wave of relief swept through him. He gasped. ‘Oh! I thought I was turning into a werewolf!’ he said. Rosie laughed. She stood on tiptoe and planted a moist kiss on his cheek.

‘Hmm. You need a shave, too!’ she said. He touched his cheek where she had kissed it. He was sure he remembered shaving before setting out to meet Hans.

‘I can’t believe you just kissed me!’ he whispered, but when he said it, she was already a way down the path, swinging her bag, and out of earshot. Franz settled down to wait for Hans, and started to doze in front of the fire. It was very nearly nine o’clock when he next opened his eyes, and there was still no sign of Hans. Franz gathered his things together and stamped out the fire. There was nothing else for it, he would have to go home and find Hans. He was not prepared to spend the night in the woods waiting for him, in case he never turned up. It was just like Hans. The old man had probably eaten some of his wife’s cake and fallen asleep in front of the fire!

‘First, though, I’ll go see if Rosie and her Grandmother are all right. Perhaps she’ll let me walk her home?’

Meanwhile, Rosie had reached her Grandmother’s cottage and let herself in. There was a strange smell in the air, a sort of coppery smell. She frowned to herself, then walked through the kitchen and into the main room, which served as living-room, bedroom, bathroom and toilet. It was very dark, and only one candle was lit, in the far corner.

‘Leave the candles, Rosie,’ a voice said. ‘The light hurts my eyes so.’ It was a deep, gruff sort of voice. Rosie immediately assumed that her grandmother had a sore throat.

‘I brought you some biscuits, Nanny. Made them myself! And some flowers, which I picked in the woods this morning. Are you feeling better?’

‘Not really. Come closer. I can’t see you properly. I had to put on my gloves and everything, it’s so cold in here!’

Rosie went to the bed, where her Grandmother sat, a fur stole around her shoulders and up over her head. Just the tiniest amount of her face was visible, and as it was so dark, Rosie could not make out her features at all.

She sat by the bed and picked up one of her grandmother’s hands, feeling the soft fur gloves. ‘Nanny, your hands seem bigger!’

‘Well, it’s the gloves. They make them seem bigger.’ Then her grandmother started to sniff, lifting her nose into the air and taking in great drafts of air.

‘Nanny, your nose!’

‘What about it, dear girl?’

‘It’s so big! I never noticed before!’

‘Big noses run in our family, Rosie. Yours is the exception. Just a cute little button of a thing, yours is. Wish I had your nose!’

Then her grandmother turned her eyes to Rosie and stared. Her eyes seemed huge, red, and wild-looking.

‘Nanny, I don’t like the look of your eyes. Have you been using the drops the physician gave you last week?’

‘I tried. But I’m so clumsy, I spilt most of them.’

‘Shall I do them for you? They look very sore.’

‘Yes please, dear. It’ll mean coming a little closer, of course. You might catch what I’ve got.’

‘I’ll try not to. Someone has to do your eyes, they really do look very sore indeed!’

Rosie got up to fetch the eyedrops. Her grandmother cast a furtive glance all around and pulled her nightshirt across her chest, and tried to cover more of her face and shoulders with the fur stole.

‘They’re on the dresser, in the scullery, dear,’ she said.

‘Got them!’ cried Rosie, and came back to the bedside. ‘Now, lay back a bit, Nanny. It won’t hurt, and it will stop them being sore.’

Of course, it wasn’t her grandmother in the bed at all. No, you guessed it, it was a werewolf. The werewolf had gone to Rosie’s grandmother’s cottage and torn her throat open before eating some of her and stashing away the rest of the corpse in the kitchen cupboard. Taking care to clean up the blood, the werewolf had slipped into the grandmother’s spare nightshirt and covered its face with the fur stole. Then, realising the girl would sense something wrong with its paws, it had found a pair of fur gloves and put them on, too. Now it lay in wait, while Rosie prepared the eyedrops, intending to pounce on her. It would kill Rosie and stash her body in the kitchen cupboard as well. The meat on the two women would last him until the next full moon.

Rosie bent over her grandmother. As the werewolf reached for her with its enormous paws, she screamed, for she was now close enough to see that the creature laying in the bed was not her grandmother but a huge, fearsome wolf, no, a werewolf. She could see clearly that this creature was part-man, part-wolf, and that meant only one thing. As she screamed, Franz, who was about to knock on the door, realised his worst fears. All the way to the little cottage he had been turning it over in his mind. Hans, needing a shave even more than he did. Hans, rubbing his hands together. Hans, his long, greasy hair in desperate need of a haircut. Hans, looking like a wolf. Hans the werewolf! And as this realisation hit him, he remembered what he had read in the library at Oberkerfel on how to kill a werewolf.

Silver bullet.

Silver bullet from a shotgun.

Franz didn’t have a shotgun.

Stake through the heart.

No, that was vampires.

Fire.

No, that’s for zombies.

Garlic. A string of garlic.

No, stupid! That’s vampires as well!

All those thoughts rattled through Franz’s mind in less than a second. He wrenched open the door of the woodshed and found the axe he knew would be in there. He pushed open the cottage door with his boot and rushed over to the bed where the werewolf was attempting to tear out Rosie’s throat. With one blow he took off the werewolf’s head, splattering the room with blood and gore, covering Rosie and himself from head to toe.

Rosie slumped to the floor in a dead faint. Franz carefully put the axe against the wall and stooped to cradle her in his arms.

‘Please, God, tell me I’m not too late!’ he whispered, and put his mouth to her face, covering it with kisses, ignoring the coppery taste of the blood. After just a second she opened her eyes and turned her mouth to his. For a long time they sat on the floor, covered in blood, kissing and holding each other. Then, at last, they stood up.

‘Best thing for this place is to set fire to it,’ Franz said. ‘Quicker than trying to clean it up.’

‘What do you think happened to my grandmother, Franz?’ Rosie whispered.

‘He wouldn’t have had time to eat all of her, I shouldn’t think. If you wait outside, I’ll search the cottage. She won’t be alive, that’s for sure.’

‘Franz?’

‘Yes?’

‘Thank God you came to look for me!’

‘I was worried about you.’

‘So Hans was right, then?’

‘About what?’

‘The murderer being a werewolf.’

‘Hans was the werewolf, Rosie!’

She almost fainted again, but he caught her by the waist and helped her through the door. She had already taken off her red cloak as it was soaked with the werewolf’s blood. Franz found an old blanket to put around her shoulders but not before once again admiring the perfect colour of her skin and the rounded curves of her young body. He was a well-brought-up young man, but he wasn’t going to miss an opportunity like that, to admire a young girl’s beautiful figure, was he?

He soon found the body in the cupboard and disposed of it carefully, taking it to the woodshed and covering it in a shroud Rosie’s grandmother had stashed away for just such an occasion. Then he set light to the cottage and burned it to the ground.

‘Come on, Rosie. We’ll organise a proper burial for your grandmother tomorrow. Let’s get you home.’

‘Franz?’

‘Yes, Rosie?’

‘I can’t wear red any more. The blood, you see.’

‘I understand. You can wear white for the wedding, then any colour you like.’

‘Wedding?’

‘I want you to be my wife.’

‘Oh, Franz!’ Rosie cried, and opened her mouth to smile, revealing a pair of very long, very pointed canine teeth. Franz was too deliriously happy to notice. Arm in arm, they walked home to the village through the woods. And that’s more or less the end of this particularly story, although it’s fair to say that other things happened to them. But that doesn’t concern us. Not here. Not now.