Author's note: There is some evidence that the Red Riding Hood story as we know it--a children's tale--has its roots in something of a bawdy story told in the court of Louis XIV about a girl losing her virginity. I have (clearly) taken some liberties with that, and present this as a darker version of the innocent children's story.

In our village, no one is to wear red until their wedding day. Then the bride wears a red dress, and the groom a red shirt. Red serves as a symbol of knowledge, of blood—of passion. It is supposed to suggest what will happen on the wedding night.

No one is supposed to wear red until after they have married. I wear a red cape. Not because I am fond of red, nor because I wish to upset tradition, but as punishment. I am not chaste. The cape is intended to serve as a reminder of this—a reminder of my transgression, of how I am defiled.
They do not know the truth of the matter, else I would not be the one made to wear red.

Here, a girl is not truly married till she has “seen the wolf”—slept in her husband's bed. It is called this because it is supposed to be frightening for the bride—she is to fear the pain that comes from her first time with her new bridegroom. It is also meant to speak of her husband's virility—he is a wolf, strong and proud. Together, they will bear many children. Unmarried women in our village are meant to be terrified of their first night with their husband—he is supposed to play the part of the wolf, and tease her into relenting and allowing him to come to bed with her. We are raised to fear what happens.

I am not afraid of wolves, any more.

I was attacked while walking through the woods, carrying a basket of bread and milk to my sick grandmother. She was an unpleasant old woman—she resented my mother for marrying my father. I was the only one that got on with her at all. Whenever an errand involving visiting her came up, it was inevitably assigned to me. Because of this, I knew the path through the wood better than anyone else in the village. It is a wonder, then, that he surprised me as he did—the blacksmith's son, a friend of my brother's. The friend that had tried to lure me to bed with him on more than one occasion.
He grabbed my arms and pinned me against a tree. I tried to strike him with the basket I was carrying, but he was too quick. Before I could so much as try to escape, he had me held against a tree with one hand, the other unbuttoning my dress, lifting it.

I spoke, before he could remove my shift. “Why?”

He did not answer, merely opened his breeches, and I saw the wolf.

Mercifully, I cannot remember what happened between the opening of his breeches and waking in the wood, half naked, with scratches where the bark had dug into my skin. I stumbled my way back to the village that night, walked into my father's shop, where the men were conversing after work, and told them what had happened, sobbing my way through the story. Unfortunately, the blacksmith's son was present. Where I was a gibbering mess, he was calm and collected. He told a story now that is familiar throughout the village—how I complimented him, teased him, finally led him to the wood and forced myself upon him—ending with how ashamed I must have felt, lying there on the forest floor, knowing that I had sinned with him, and that I had invented the story to take the blame away from myself, that I would not be punished. Suggesting gently that perhaps I should not be treated too unkindly, for I had not really done anything wrong.

They believed him, of course. They were men and he was a man as well; I was the only woman present in the room. They were ignorant, and afraid—the village blacksmith was a man respected in every household—good and God-fearing, with a wife and son just as honorable as him. To suggest that his son was anything less than honorable was a serious matter. My family simply did not command the same respect the blacksmith's did. He went unpunished. I, instead, was seen as the perpetrator of the crime, and this red cape placed upon my shoulders. They were merciful, as he asked—oh yes, they were merciful. The traditional punishment would be to be stoned by the village girls (for they knew not how many young men I had seduced), but as they thought I was truly repentant, they marked me, forcing me to wear a red cloak. So I was labeled.

The village girls do not speak to me now. Their mothers will not let them, or they are afraid of me—perhaps something of both. Their mothers are afraid I will plant ideas into the heads of their daughters, and their daughters are afraid that I will willingly share secrets—what happened when I saw the wolf. When any woman—mother or daughter—spots my red cape, they stare straight ahead and walk past as though I do not exist. They fear me. Not because I wear red, but why I wear it. I serve as a reminder of the dangers that exist in the village. They fear me, for they know that I have seen the wolf, and despite what the men may say, he still walks among us, stalking his prey.