Little Red Rodent Hood Read online

“It’s fine,” said Harriet, realizing that the weasel-wolf was scared of her. “You can bring me the note.”

  The tiny weasel-wolf dropped it at Harriet’s feet. It bobbed its head in a quick little bow, then darted back to the safety of the pack.

  Harriet picked it up cautiously.

  “Aww,” said Wilbur. “Look, they even drew little stink-lines.”

  “I don’t stink! Except when I’m covered in ichor.”

  “Ichor?” asked Wilbur.

  “The goo that comes out of giant spiders,” said Harriet. “Or out of any giant insects, slimes, and other assorted monsters, really.”

  Wilbur did not look as if this addition to his vocabulary had made him any happier.

  “About the weasel-wolves . . .” he said.

  “No, they’re mammals, so they have regular blood,” said Harriet, who had a very one-track mind. “No ichor there at all.”

  “About the note!”

  “Oh. Right.” Harriet examined the note again. “He’s . . . he’s asking for help?”

  The big weasel-wolf nodded vigorously at her.

  “But why would you need my help?”

  The weasel-wolf sat up on his hind legs and attempted to do some sort of mime. Harriet and Wilbur stared at him, trying to figure out what he could be saying.

  “It’s always evil clowns!” said Harriet.

  “It has never once been evil clowns,” said Wilbur grimly.

  “That’s because they’re sneaky.”

  After nearly a minute, they had determined that it was not, in fact, evil clowns, but they were no closer to figuring out what the problem actually was.

  “Sorry,” said Wilbur. “I don’t think we understand what help you need.”

  Harriet suddenly realized that she was talking to an enormous weasel-wolf. “And wait. Why would we help you? You’re a weasel-wolf! You eat people!”

  The tiny, sad weasel-wolf gave her a pitiful look. Harriet immediately felt like a monster.

  The big weasel-wolf shook his head, looking disgusted. One by one, the weasel-wolves melted away into the forest, until Wilbur and Harriet stood alone on the path with their quail.

  CHAPTER 4

  I have no idea what’s going on,” said Harriet. “I mean, usually that doesn’t bother me, but I have even less idea than usual now.”

  “So now the weasel-wolves want help?” said Wilbur. “And Red wants help with the weasel-wolves? Does everybody in this whole forest need help? And was that big one the one she was talking about?”

  “Those are excellent questions, Wilbur,” said Harriet. “I have no answers for any of them.”

  They began walking down the road in what was presumably the direction of Red’s grandmother’s house.

  “They could be cleverly drawing me out,” said Harriet. “By writing a note. Then they’ll attack when I ride to the rescue!”

  “I’m not saying you’re wrong,” said Wilbur, in the tone of voice he used to indicate that Harriet was almost certainly wrong, “but why wouldn’t they have attacked as soon as you showed up? What are the odds that weasel-wolves are that smart?”

  “They wrote a note. That’s pretty smart.”

  “Yeah, but their spelling was awful.”

  “Just because you can’t spell doesn’t mean you can’t lay a clever trap, Wilbur! Very few diabolical traps are dependent on your ability to spell a word like—err—”

  “Qwerk-qwerk-qwerk-qwerk . . .” began Mumfrey, which was Quail for “D-I-A-B . . .” But then he couldn’t remember if the next letter was a Qwerk or a Qwerk and trailed off into silence.

  “I just think that if they were trying to lure you into a trap, they probably wouldn’t have included the stink lines,” said Wilbur.

  Harriet grumbled under her breath. The idea that weasel-wolves might need her help was not sitting well with her.

  “Well, let’s see what Red wants us to do. Maybe then everything will make sense.”

  The shadows lengthened as they went down the road. Occasionally Harriet heard a twig snap or leaves rustle, as if a weasel-wolf was watching them, but when she looked back, no one was there.

  It took longer than Harriet expected to reach Red’s grandmother’s cottage. The road snaked back and forth through the woods, and she had the feeling that they were walking a long time without making much progress. It would have been much quicker simply to cut through the woods, but then they’d risk losing the path altogether. They might even wind up at a completely different cottage and confuse the inhabitants as to why there was a princess banging on their door after dark.

  People in Harriet’s kingdom had developed a certain paranoia about having a princess show up at the door in the middle of the night. It usually meant that something was invading and no one was going to get a decent night’s sleep.

  The sun had just dropped below the trees when the road opened up into a clearing and they came at last to Grandmother’s house.

  CHAPTER 5

  In the center of the clearing was a cottage. It was a tiny cottage with a metal roof and a chimney and even a window box full of flowers. Smoke puffed from the chimney and the smell of fresh-baked bread filled the clearing.

  The cottage was up on wheels like a wagon. Everything about it was scaled down. The door was smaller, the windows were smaller. Everything was small and neat and compact.

  Harriet had met travelers who lived in wagons, usually pulled by quail or even draft chickens. She couldn’t see any sign of animals to pull the wheeled cottage, though.

  It would have been a picturesque scene, except for one thing.

  Next to the cottage, also on wheels, stood a massive iron cage.

  “. . . uh,” said Wilbur.

  “That’s . . . um . . . different . . .” said Harriet. “Not a lot of picturesque cottages with big wheeled cages outside.”

  “Perhaps they have a very odd sense of decor?” said Wilbur.

  “Yeah . . .” said Harriet. “What would that even be? Giant Cage Chic?”

  “Qwerrrrk . . .” said Mumfrey, which was Quail for “I don’t know what to think.”

  Red stood on the steps of the cottage. When she saw Harriet and Wilbur arrive, she clasped her hands together. “You made it! I was so worried when you took so long, even though you’re the best princess in the whole—”

  “Sorry,” said Harriet, who wasn’t particularly sorry. “There were weasel-wolves.”

  “Did you beat them up?”

  “No . . .” Harriet began.

  Red’s worshipful expression slipped for a moment. “What?”

  “One who doesn’t attack things that haven’t attacked me first!” Harriet yelled back, which was more or less true, although she had sometimes made exceptions for things that were a whole lot bigger than she was.

  Red stamped her foot. Harriet raised her eyebrows. “Okay, see, I don’t approve of that,” she said. “You should never stomp your foot. People don’t take you seriously if you do that.”

  “I’m taking her seriously . . .” said Wilbur, not quite under his breath.

  “Yes, but you take everything seriously.”

  The little girl folded her arms. “You can’t come in now,” she said. “I’m sorry. I know Grandmother would want to meet you because she’s the best grandmother in the world and you’re a princess. But you were too slow! Grandmother’s asleep.”

  Harriet paused.

  She tried very hard not to be treated special just because she was a princess. Being a princess wasn’t her fault. She’d been born into royalty and she knew that people treated princesses differently from peasants. It was her job to use that fact for good, not evil.

  Nevertheless, she wasn’t used to people going to sleep instead of meeting with her. People usually stayed awake to meet princesses. Particularly when they’d asked for her he
lp.

  “Uh,” said Harriet. “Is she . . . uh . . . well, okay. Should we come back tomorrow?”

  Strangely, the little girl looked up at the sky before answering. Harriet followed her gaze but couldn’t see anything except dark blue sky. The first stars were starting to come out and the moon was washing cold blue light over the ground.

  “Don’t trust anything the big one says?” Harriet said, baffled. “But you said it’s a weasel-wolf. They don’t . . .”

  “. . . talk,” finished Harriet, blinking at the door. Red had dashed inside and slammed it behind her.

  She looked at Wilbur. Wilbur looked at her.

  “Do we go bang on the door?” she asked uncertainly. Monsters she understood. Very small girls throwing tantrums were a little outside of her league. (Harriet was an only child because her mother said that her nerves could only take so much.)

  “I don’t think we want to wake up an old lady,” said Wilbur. “I mean, when my grandmother was alive, and she went to sleep for the night, you didn’t wake her up unless the house was on fire.”

  Harriet nodded. “I guess we could go home and come back in the morning?”

  Wilbur looked back through the woods. “We could try, but . . . uh . . .”

  He pointed.

  After dark, most quail had the urge to tuck their heads under their wings and roost. Hyacinth already had her head under her wing. Mumfrey was doing better, but he was definitely flagging.

  “No time for that, Mumfrey! We’ve got work to do!”

  “Qwerrgkk . . .” muttered Mumfrey, which was Quail for “It’s not my fault, yawns just happen.”

  Harriet sighed. “I guess we’re gonna have to camp in the woods tonight, then.”

  “With all the weasel-wolves?” said Wilbur.

  “Yeah. And according to Red, we’re not supposed to trust anything they say.”

  Wilbur looked very confused. “Do you think that’s going to be an issue?”

  “I tell you,” said Harriet thoughtfully, leading Mumfrey toward the woods, “I’m starting to wonder . . .”

  CHAPTER 6

  They found a small clearing in the woods where a tree had fallen and left a gap in the leafy canopy. They could look up and see the sky turn from deep blue to velvet black.

  One by one, more stars came out.

  Two by two, the eyes of weasel-wolves began to shine in the dark woods.

  “Okay,” said Wilbur. “Now that is creepy.”

  “Qwerrrkkk . . .” said Hyacinth, which was Quail for “I don’t like this! This is bad!” Then she yawned.

  “Qwerk!” said Mumfrey, which was Quail for “I’ll protect you, but yeah, this is bad.” Then he yawned too, because yawns are as contagious for quail as for everyone else.

  “I’d love it if my eyes glowed at night,” said Harriet.

  “That would be incredibly creepy,” said Wilbur.

  “Yeah, wouldn’t it be cool?”

  “I don’t have to imagine it,” said Wilbur testily, “the weasel-wolves are right there!”

  “Oh, uh . . . right.”

  The moon came out from behind a cloud, throwing light across the trees. It made all the shadows sharp-edged and turned everything silvery-blue.

  There were really quite a lot of weasel-wolves.

  “They didn’t attack before,” said Harriet. “Maybe they have another note.”

  “You’re alive,” said a voice behind them.

  Harriet jumped and came down with her sword raised, standing between the voice and Wilbur and the quail.

  “Qwerrrk!” cried Hyacinth, which was Quail for “I am terrified and also very sleepy!”

  At first, all Harriet could see was another pair of glowing eyes. They appeared far back in the woods, larger than the others, and began to approach.

  “It’s all right,” called the voice. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  She lifted her sword warily, not threatening, but definitely keeping the blade between herself and those eyes. Just because the voice seemed—not friendly, maybe, but not hostile—didn’t mean that this wasn’t all an incredibly elaborate trap.

  The eyes were higher off the ground than any weasel-wolf Harriet had ever seen. The owner had to be taller than she was. This was unsettling, but Harriet had fought giants before. It just meant that she punched up.

  “It’s got to be the big one!” hissed Wilbur in her ear.

  “Thank you, Wilbur, I had figured that out!”

  The big gray weasel-wolf stepped forward into the circle of moonlight. Except that he wasn’t a weasel-wolf any longer. He was large and shaggy and standing upright.

  In fact, he looked like . . . a hamster?

  The hamster/weasel-wolf/who-knew-what-else smiled. He had very sharp teeth.

  “Nice to meet you, Princess Harriet,” he said. “My name is Grey.”

  CHAPTER 7

  You’re a were-weasel!” said Wilbur.

  “No, I’m not,” said the large gray hamster. “I am a were-hamster. I was born a weasel-wolf, but I was bitten by a hamster under the full moon, and now I turn into one for three days a month.”

  Wilbur and Harriet both stared at him. “That can happen?” asked Harriet.

  “Indeed it can.”

  “But who’s the hamster who bit you?” asked Wilbur.

  “Funny story . . .” The former weasel-wolf pointed at Harriet.

  Wilbur stared first at him, then at Harriet. “Harriet? You bit this guy?”

  “It’s certainly possible.”

  “You don’t remember?!”

  “Hey, I bite a lot of people,” said Harriet. “Once you’ve dropped your sword, you use whatever you’ve got.”

  “You said you didn’t eat people!”

  “Biting is not eating,” said Harriet with dignity.

  “And how would that even work?” Wilbur clutched his head. “How could Harriet turn you into a were-hamster when she’s not a were-hamster?”

  “I might be,” said Harriet. “I have hidden depths. Have we ever hung out together during the full moon?”

  “Yes, we have,” said Wilbur. “And furthermore, I know you’re not, because if you were, you’d tell everybody. You’d be all Hey guys, check this out! I can turn into a weasel!”

  Grey grinned. “It’s the Changes,” he said, as if he were explaining something obvious.

  “The what, now?”

  “The Changes. Harriet was in the wrong place at the right time. If I’d gotten bitten that night by . . . by a quail, say, I’d probably grow feathers on the full moon.”

  “Qwerk,” said Mumfrey, which was Quail for “Would that be so bad?”

  Wilbur looked baffled.

  Grey sighed. “Look, have you heard of were-weasel-wolves?”

  “Of course, but I didn’t know they really existed!”

  Harriet and Grey exchanged glances. “Well, yeah, obviously,” said Harriet. “I mean, why wouldn’t they?”

  “But I thought those were just legends!”

  “I just never met one before.”

  “Right,” said Grey. “So everybody’s heard of were-weasel-wolves. We’re famous for it. We bite you, you turn into one of us, right?”

  “I’m with you so far,” said Wilbur.

  “Well, the only reason that we can do that is because we’re . . . um . . . inherently changey ourselves. The technical term is ‘metamorphic instability,’ at least according to a wizard I ate once.”

  Wilbur put his hand over his eyes. “You ate him.”

  “Look, he wasn’t a nice wizard.”

  “Don’t get distracted with irrelevancies, Wilbur!” said Harriet.

  Grey waited politely for them to stop yelling at each other. “Okay,” he said. “So basically weasel-wolves come down with the
Changes the way you come down with lizard pox, right? You get it once as a kid and never get it again?”

  “I remember,” said Harriet grimly. “I itched for days. Mom made me wear socks on my hands so I wouldn’t scratch.”

  “Well, I had the Changes. And if nothing had bitten me, I’d be a regular weasel-wolf, but then you came along, and I was hungry and Harriet . . . well . . . y’know.”

  “Uh . . .” Harriet rubbed the back of her neck. “Is that a thing I should apologize for? I mean, I’m sure I had a good reason to bite him . . .”

  “Oh, definitely. I was trying to kill and eat you,” said Grey. “These things happen.”

  “I still don’t remember it, sorry,” said Harriet. “I mean, a lot of people try to kill and eat me. It’s sort of an occupational hazard.”

  “Well, it was a few years ago. You were in our woods. And once you bit me, some of my packmates jumped you and I managed to limp away, so no one died.”

  “There, you see?” said Harriet. She was glad that Grey understood these things.

  Wilbur stared at them as if they were both nuts.

  “No hard feelings,” said Grey.

  “I’m not making it weird!” yelled Wilbur. “It’s already weird! You two are weird!”

  “I’m a weasel-wolf,” said Grey. “Biting happens. It’s not worth getting worked up about.”

  “There, you see?” said Harriet. “Perfectly reasonable.”

  She studied Grey thoughtfully. If you saw him on the street, as a hamster, you’d still notice something strange about him. His teeth were sharper than a regular hamster’s and his eyes had the same eerie glow as the weasel-wolves.