Little Red Riding Hood
01
Once upon a time, there was a young girl.
I do not know exactly how old. She was described as “sweet,” which seemed to be an important label to give to young children, especially girls, in those days.
So this girl has been described by witnesses as both “sweet” and “good.”
She had a mom who loved her.
She had a grandmother who loved her.
She had a dad who might have loved her at one point, but sadly he disappeared before our information about this young girl became known.
There were no siblings, and perhaps because of this, the grandmother gave her lots of special attention, which also leads me to believe that the little girls’ mother may have had no siblings either - or possibly no siblings who had children. We do not know for certain the family tree of this young girl; we simply know that she was well-loved by her mother and grandmother.
She called her grandmother “grandmother,” as this was before the era of grandparents coming up with creative and exotic titles to be called by. So this sweet, good young girl was loved by her grandmother, and that affection was returned.
At a certain stage in life, some children become fixated on certain styles or articles of clothing. This girl was no exception. For the sake of this story, I’m going to call this girl “Verdi,” in honor of the wonderful Italian composer, although you must understand this is a placeholder and I am dreadfully sorry I don’t have the budget to hire a research staff who could comb through the records buried in old monasteries in France from the 10th century that might provide more information about this girl and her genealogy.
Verdi loved the color red. So everything she wore was red. Her favorite outfit was all red, and was topped off by a red hood and cape. It was a singular look, and there was no mistaking her. That is not a bad thing; to not be mistaken for anyone but yourself.
02
Upon a day within the mid-morning hour, Verdi’s mother - of whom I shall henceforth refer to as “Lucille” - informed her that she would need to take a walk to Grandmother’s home to take bread and butter.
At this point, we know that there are non-dairy alternatives to butter, and we know that there are ways to make bread without gluten or wheat, and it gives one a good think to consider whether Grandmother’s diet might have had anything to do with her feeling well. Or, she might have had consumption, which I recently discovered was a long-time euphemism for “tuberculosis,” which is a dreadful illness that has little to do with gluten.
Verdi was like many children, which is to say that she smelled of mud and stinkbug, and also she had the child-like trait of not going directly from Point A to Point B, which honestly and truthfully and to be perfectly forthright, is a wonderful trait that should be picked up on by retired children, or as some say, “adults.”
So in these manners - odor and aimless walking - Verdi was a very normal child, and her mother Lucille understood this, which is why she gave instructions to go straight to Grandmother’s. Straight like a bullet, except remember that this was in the 11th century, so there was likely no gunpowder, and therefore no bullets, at least in Western Europe, which is where we believe this account is to have taken place.
As an aside, there is evidence to suggest that William of Hastings was an admirer of Lucille’s saffron biscuits, and actually dropped by before successfully invading England a year later in 1066. But this cannot be verified, so I will leave it out.
Verdi sets out. We have little information about the distance between the dwellings. My best guess is that Verdi and her mother lived in, or on the outskirts of a town, and Grandmother lived in a more remote area on the extreme outskirts of a different town. Why didn’t she move in with them? I really don’t know. There’s a lot of factors that go into the decision of whether to become a multigenerational home, and those issues are more firmly embedded in Eastern culture than Western, so perhaps there were social mores in the ten hundreds that frowned on the elderly living with their children in this part of France.
So Verdi’s on the road.
03
There is no public transport, as the socioeconomic makeup of this region, according to recently-uncovered records, was disinclined to pay taxes for such, so Verdi the Red Riding Hood set off on foot.
The path led through a deep woods; a forest which had to that point escaped the observations of the Timber Dukes who might use its plethora of old growth for their second (and third) holiday homes. These woods were host to much flora and many fauna,
and as Verdi tromped along through the green black forest in her dark red hood and medium red cape and light red boots, she drew the attention of one of the fauna.
As we know, “flora” refers to plants and pretty flowers basically, and “fauna” refers to animals and creatures. The easiest way to know the difference between plants and animals, of course, is to remember that the former have cell walls and chloroplasts, and the latter do not. So, this, again of course, is how our red-caped heroine recognized Wolf immediately.
Note: the following is not verbatim, but I have attempted to recreate as accurately as possible the dialogue they shared on this day upon this forest trail. I would happily divulge the details of how I came to accurately gather this interchange, but the rest of this story is dull enough, so I will not bore you anymore with the specifics of data-gathering. Suffice to say, it is probably very accurate. So this is what happened:
Hi Wolf,
she said,
as he stepped into her path.
How did you know I was Wolf?
Wolf asked suspiciously.
I never told you my name.
Your name is Wülf?
Verdi asked Wülf the Wolf, giggling,
I truly didn’t know that! I knew you were a wolf because you’re not a plant, and you smell like a wolf. I like your name!
Thank you,
said Wülf the Wolf, who had strangely acquired enough social decorum to respond politely.
Where are you going?
I’m going to my grandmother’s home,
she said, providing much more information than was advisable then (and now),
but please don’t tell anyone, because I’m not supposed to tell strangers that, and technically we were strangers up until we were friends a few seconds ago.
We’re not friends,
Wülf growled,
I just met you, and I’m not sure I like you.
Well, Verdi said,
I’d be happy to consider being your friend, but if we’re not to be friends, then at least I’d recommend that you not eat me.
Why not?
Wolf buzzed softly.
Well for one thing, she says, I enjoy being alive and not being eaten. For another, there’s a team of timber people just over there (she pointed) who would definitely hear you trying to eat me, and then they’d have to probably end up eating you.
Where are they?
Wülf turned to look where she was pointing.
Over there a little ways.
she waggled her finger.
Just around the bend.
Wülf trotted in the direction she was pointing, but saw nothing, and heard nothing. He turned back.
She was gone.
Furious, he spat a wad of wolf spit all over the forest path.
Meanwhile, Verdi was not the only one about to be hunted…
04
After he was finished being filled with rage, he turned around, and…there she was!
Where did you go?
he growled sweetly.
Oh,
she said,
I thought I saw a rare salamander, so I was trying to find it in the wildbrush.
Oh,
Wülf said. Did you find it?
No. She said, it got away. He probably thought I was going to eat him. But of course I wasn’t.
Isn’t that the way it goes? Wülf grunted.
I’m not sure what that means, said Verdi, but I shall probably be going now.
Where exactly does Grandmummy live? Wülf asked.
I guess I could tell you that, Verdi said cautiously. She lives beyond this wild wood, one town up and the third house on the right.
Well now, said Wülf. Let’s play a little game, shall we?
I do love games. Verdi said.
Our little game, Wülf continued happily, is that you keep going that way, and I’ll go another way, and we’ll see which one of us gets to your granny’s first. Whoever wins will get a prize.
That sounds marvelous. Said the red-coated girl with a deadpan face. Oh look! A stag!
Wülf turned to look. There was no elk. He turned back around.
She was gone.
He snarled.
05
We pick up the story a short time later. Wülf is tearing through the forest on a secret shortcut, and Verdi is…Verdi actually is back on the main road. In movies and stories, it’s often popular to have protagonists constantly have a “shortcut” to wherever it is they’re trying to go, but in real life, we sometimes find ourselves in places we’re not that familiar with and without satellite coordinates or digital assistants to help provide shorter alternate routes. So in real life, Verdi simply plopped herself behind a tree while Wülf was distracted looking for a non-existent stag, and when he reacted violently and quickly with anger, then he let his id take control instead of his ego.
If you quickly check your history book, you’ll realize that Sigmund Freud’s theories of personality hadn’t been developed at this point, mostly because he wouldn’t be born for another 800 years or so. But just because something doesn’t have a name doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist, and unfortunately for Wülf, he let his primal instinct - which we now call the Id - govern his decision making in this scenario rather than the rational, thoughtful part of his mind - which we now call the Ego. I am dreadfully apologetic for including this non-narrative information, but it is essential to understanding why Wülf didn’t simply slow down and look around for Verde before racing off. In anger. This decision would later come to haunt him.
Meanwhile, Verdi was taking the long way. The normal way. The path taken by many, although she was solitary on this particular Wednesday. She had a deep affection for aesthetics and beauty, partially due to her being a child, and partially due to having a wonderful, although imperfect mother, who encouraged her daughter to find and create beauty everywhere she went.
A first draft of this manuscript was inadvertently leaked prematurely, and I have received some criticism - some on the edge of vitriol - for referring to Verdi’s mother as a “wonderful, although imperfect mother.” I thank these readers for their responses and inventiveness in finding evermore creative ways to impugn my character, and for giving me the opportunity to double down and not apologize in referring to her mother as “wonderful, although imperfect.” This is a phrasing I stand by, based on the evidence available, as well as on the research I have conducted for this story (and others) that suggests “perfection” is not only an unattainable attribute for a parent to possess, but that in fact, a predisposition toward perfection can, in fact, frequently be an inhibitor to being a “…wonderful parent.” I stand by my statement. I will not dwell on the mistakes of Verdi’s mother, because this story is not about such things. It is enough to say that she was “wonderful, attentive, and supportive” of her daughter. Could we question her wisdom in allowing her child to embark on this forested journey alone? Yes! That is an excellent question, and a much more interesting point to pursue than a mindless defense of her alleged “perfection” as a parent.
Again, Verdi the Red walked through the main path of the forest, picking flowers, and waving to butterflies, her heart a joyful bumblebee.
In the distance, a wolf crashed through the forest, knocking down sword ferns* and stomping spiderweb homes, his heart an angry ostrich.
*Note: these sword ferns were not of the Western variety many readers may be familiar with, as this account takes place in Europe, not North America, but evidence strongly suggests that this fern was a cousin to Polystichum munitum (the afore-mentioned variety). I will append this information in future printings as my forensic botany team, European Division, uncovers more details. Thank you for your patience.
06
In many stories, the protagonist somehow magically arrives at the important destination before the villain, but two points must be made:
We can’t get all our common-sense information from legends and folk tales, no matter how entertaining they might be. In real life, villains win many battles, and sometimes wars. It’s very sad.
We also agree to have some shared assumptions about whose story this is. In the same sense that we rejoice at the brave exploits of Leonidas and his Spartans against the tyrannical Xerxes and his Persians because most of the history we know about this period was written by Greek historians, predominantly Herodotus, we also rejoice at Verdi’s triumphant little victories over Wülf because what we know is primarily from her point of view. We share an assumption as we read my account of this story that Verdi is our hero and Wülf is our villain, but that is because I am, despite my attempts at narrative integrity and historical accuracy, reinforcing the long-held belief that we have a clear-cut Good and Evil in this happening. That may not be the case. I suppose that makes me Herodotus in this tale then. So it goes.
So what happens next is very interesting: Wülf makes it to Grandmother’s house first. He knocks.
Knock-knock.
At this point, certain difficulties could have been avoided simply by taking some simple precautions. Grandmama, of course, should have kept her door locked. But she didn’t. She was expecting her grand-daughter, so not only did she leave it unlocked, but she had left a note that read: “Come in, sweet Verdi, I’m in bed.”
Note: This note is a rough translation, as the original copy has been lost to history. Forensic linguists have had difficulty translating the exact dialect of French that grandmother used, in particular, with the word “sweet.” It’s a slightly awkward phrasing - “sweet Verdi” - but “sweet” seems to be the closest word in meaning to the original Middle French.
What this means is that Wülf doesn’t even knock a second time. He notices the note, reads it, and marches in. This is where things get hazy and very confusing.
He’s a wolf, right? And in this era, in this area, in this forest, it’s clear at this point in history that wolves, and perhaps certain other select animals, are able to speak in some form of French, or Latin-Greek hybrid. As well, they apparently walked on their hind legs a high percentage of the time, and had a self-awareness about them that seems startling in retrospect. And here’s one more thing: wolves, or Canis lupus of this region and time, possessed what psychologists now might refer to as Theory of Mind. In other words, they had an ability to understand other creatures’ mental states and therefore to interact with them on some level. We might consider this to be a sort of social or relational empathy, which means that Wülf, has in his ability, a character trait of great power; something which later superheroes would understand must be coupled with great responsibility. But Wülf was not a superhero. He was a wolf. And this is not a superhero story. It’s an historical story.
So, this might be the point where you’re suddenly saying A-ha, now it makes sense, now I understand how a talking wolf could be communicating verbally on some level with a human! And you should give yourself a big hug (or high-five, whichever you prefer), because that is correct: we don’t know how or why wolves at this time possessed Theory of Mind, but it (along with their verbal-linguistic abilities) is what gave them, on some level, the ability to socially interact with others in a way that’s somewhat familiar.
07
Wülf heads in. He’s already knocked, so Grandmother thinks Verdi was just being polite. A quick knock, then head in without waiting for confirmation. No big deal, right? She’s good. She’s ill, but she’s not in a coma, and she’s not a doddering fool, regardless of how others in the nearby town might think.
Her mind is nimble enough to quickly realize who this is not. This is not her granddaughter. She’s in danger. She knows it. So what does she do? This is what she does, and this is what so many of the fairy tales about this event get wrong:
She faints. Oh yes, she does faint. But it is a purposeful faint. A fake faint. Because she realizes right away that this is a wolf. Although she is a compassionate person and doesn’t want to instantly villainize a wolf based on long held tropes of the time, she also knows that there’s sometimes truth in legends and wisdom in tropes. She knows she will perish unless she reacts instantly. In this case, her Id and Ego collaborate well. She faints and she sells it. Wülf buys it.
He pants across the room.
Note: I write “panting” because he he been racing through the woods and was still out of breath. I was not writing “panting” as a stereotypical description of what modern wolves might do when crossing the room of a cabin to eat an old woman - and, as an aside, there are extremely few documented attacks of humans by wolves over the last two hundred years.
08
What follows is one of the large mysteries of history.
Wülf picks up Grandmother and hides her away in an nearby closet. Why did he not eat her? Why did he not check for a heartbeat? Why did he not bind her?
I once took a Criminology course from a retired police detective, and something he said has stuck with me for 26 years. He talked about the motivations of many criminals and he said something like: “…you cannot begin to understand how dumb so many criminals are. You ask yourselves - we ask ourselves - ‘why would someone commit an act that dumb? What were they thinking? And the answer (he said) is that they just weren’t thinking.”
That is what this Detective said. I’ll call him “Spiva” for short, and because that was his name, in all honesty. I don’t know that I agree in totality, because I’ve seen enough filmic renditions of Les Miserables to thoughtfully consider a variety of actions that ordinary people might take when faced with extraordinarily difficult circumstances, and what might motivate them to take an action that can be described a posteriori as “dumb.” So I don’t disagree completely with Spiva, although I think there is more to the story of criminals’ motivation than the explanation that “‘they’re dumb.”
In this case therefore and however, Wülf’s actions may fall into the spectrum that many criminologists might refer to as “dumb.” It is important to distinguish that I am not calling Wülf “dumb” as an individual, I am merely using the available facts as evidence that his actions upon this day could be described as “dumb.” There is a difference.
Wülf climbs into bed and waits.
Huh? What is he thinking? Why? Why not just wait in a closet and leap out to quickly subdue and attack her? Why crawl into Grandmother’s bed? Was this the realization of a fantasy he had; a certain theatrical bent for the dramatic?
I have conjectures, but as this is an attempt to set the historical record straighter than it has been, I will simply stick to the dry information as best I am able.
He waits.
09
If I was making a film of fiction about this (which I’m not, but am considering), then I would certainly be cross cutting amidst stories. We’d see Wülf crouching stealthily in Grandmother’s bed, salivating. We’d cut to Verdi Riding Hood, skip-bouncing along through the woods. We might even cut to a dark closeup of Grandma waiting in the dark closet, ostensibly dead, but in a beautiful moment of dramatic irony where we know she’s alive but Wülf doesn’t, determinedly biding her time to execute a rescue operation. Maybe we’d even see a scene of the tranquil not that far away, as everyone else blissfully goes about their work and play. And perhaps we’d see the tree-choppers in the forest working their way closer and closer, and the editing would escalate in intensity as we cut rapidly amongst these scenes and build up the suspense…
But again, I’m not making a film. And I’m certainly not telling a sensationalist story. I’m correcting the historical record of a tale that many are familiar with, and that is accepted as canon and truth by most. In the pursuit of setting things straight, imagination must suffer, and that is why I tell this story in as dull a manner as I do: so you know that what’s happening is really the happening. Because if it wasn’t true, why would it be so boring?
My point exactly.
So here we are. Verdi has opened the door. She’s crossing the room. It’s dark. She’s got her basket of bread, and some flowers she illegally picked (which technically makes her a criminal as well, although possibly more on a misdemeanor level). Wülf waits with a glint in his eyes (again, I write that factually: after studying the time of day and the positioning of the windows in relation the bed’s location in the room, there is a high probability that a wolf’s eyes would be glinting).
10
Here’s the thing. I’m really sorry to say this, because this is where the story should be super exciting, but it’s not. What happens is this:
Verdi has realized immediately what’s going on. That’s what the fake stories about this get wrong. They treat her as dumb. Remember, she might be a little bit criminal-ish, in the misdemeanor-ish sense of illegally picking flowers, which is an inconsiderate thing to do and possibly dumb in the sense of not considering how even a misdemeanor offense might affect her options for the future, but she’s really not dumb-dumb, you know? She’s not someone who habitually does dumb things. She did her dumb thing for the day, which is to pick flowers when she shouldn’t have. But she wasn’t dumb in the sense of not being able to immediately tell the difference between her grandmother and…a wolf.
Duh.
Her brain is whirring. What’s the gambit? What’s Wülf’s play here? Where’s Grandma? Is she dead? Is this is a joke? Do I run?
She does the smart thing: she lets her Ego take over. Not ego in the way people throw it around these days, like ‘being prideful and arrogant.” No, ego in the sense of consciously letting her ego choose quickly to try and make a rational decision in spite of her id screaming at her to do something instinctual, like…scream.
She keeps her presence and remains stoic, although with a certain amount of joy, as she knows she must play to Wülf’s pre-conceptions about her response.
“Hi Grandmammy!” She may have said cheerfully, sauntering over to the bed bravely and brazenly, despite knowing what lies beneath.
Wülf has pulled the covers up tight, and is wearing a nightcap. As an historical note, there is no evidence to suggest Grandmother was wearing a nightcap during this ordeal, so the best guess would be that Wülf either had one on his personhood (or wolf hood), or that Grandmother had one lying in close proximity to the bed.
Verdi approaches the side of the bed.
11
Again, in the world of fiction, this would be the most exciting part of the story. But honestly, it’s really not, as we hew close to the actual facts. In the fairy tales about this story, there’s a whole back and forth exchange where Verdi talks about the wolf’s giant teeth and hair arms and growly voice, but that’s just not true. Although the following is based on oral histories that have gone through multiple tellings, I am confident the following is as close to the truth as any have come. This is it:
They banter for a few moments. Not minutes. Moments. Verdi waits for it. Waits for it. Waits. She knows she’s got one chance. That’s it. She still doesn’t have an advanced enough Theory of Mind to really understand what Wülf wants from her or what his desires or endgame is. So she’s “…gotta be strong and she’s gotta be fast…and she’s gotta be fresh.”
(This is paraphrased from the 20th century poem Holding Out for a Hero, which was written for a film called Footloose by the poets Dean Pitchford and Jim Steinman and set to music).
Verdi is strong. She’s young and fresh and fast and ready for the fight. Except it isn’t a fight. It’s a beatdown.
What she does is sacrificial: halfway through a sentence, as they’re talking in this surreal dialogue scene, she hurls the basket of homemade bread at Wülf, sacrificing the entire basket to that of her and Grandmother’s survival.
Obviously getting whacked with a basket of bread across the head wouldn’t kill a person or wolf, but if swung hard enough at the right point on a person (temple) or wolf (snout) it can temporarily incapacitate long enough to leap into action. That’s what she did. Wülf howled in pain, tears blinding him. Grandmother, in the closet, quickly threw open the door (she had not been leaving her granddaughter for the wolves, both literally and metaphorically, she too had been biding her time, because remember this: she was ill, not entirely incapacitated! Again, most interpretations of this story get this dead wrong.).
Grandmother is not a victim here. Perhaps a temporary victim to circumstance, but both she and Verdi acted as heroes when survival demanded it (assuming again, of course, that we perceive Verdi as the protagonist in this account).
Grandmother and Verdi assailed Wülf with a baseball bat and a broom (I am uncertain who was wielding what). I truly wish there was a beautiful end in which we discover just how wicked the wolf is as he meets a grisly end, or that there was a beautiful end in which they somehow come to accept and embrace each other’s differences and end up becoming a trio of friends.
But that didn’t happen. The end is much more mundane and in many ways, much more tragic. Wülf escaped out the door, beaten and battered, but alive and not broken or bloody, and we don’t know what happened to him next. There are many unanswered questions.
There is much in Verdi’s story down the road, as her later life interests with some other historical figures of interest. The three generations of women made a handful more wonderful memories together, but - and it pains me greatly to write this - there is no happy ending for two of them. At a much later point, when Verdi was grown up and traveling away from home, the Timber Dukes seized their opportunity; through a series of legally-murky misdeeds enabled by a mix of miscreants and malicious militia, they obtained the rights to raze the majority of the forest between Mother and Grandmother’s house. When Verdi eventually returned home, it was gone,
Which leads us, as thoughtful readers and students of history, to ask, “who is the villain in this story?”
The End.
Post script.
Remember a while back when I wrote something like
“Meanwhile, Verdi was not the only one about to be hunted…”
I wrote this sentence while research was still underway for the facts of this story, and it was my hope early on that evidence would be found of a mysterious third party stalking, hunting down, and eventually destroying the wolf - our alleged antagonist of this incident. However, this evidence never materialized, and I made the difficult narrative choice to leave the sentence in, as I felt it was a justified red herring that might provide enough suspense in an otherwise un-interesting story to keep you reading. Forgive my misuse of power and I hope you can understand my motivation in doing so. May your reading of this give you a greater understanding of a much-misunderstood happening in history, and may you forgive me for the dry and factual rendition of it.
Yours in journalistic integrity and imagination,
Joseph Long
——
Citations: [Original source material: European folk tale (10th century), then most well-known interpretations by Charles Perrault (1697), then the Brothers Grimm (1857). Additional note : one of those versions has a happy ending. The other does not. 😬]