It was a brisk, windy day in October when Mary set out for her grandmother’s cottage. In that part of the world in those days, autumn still had bite. The trees were barren, and the sun, casting no shadows from behind the thick clouds, offered no warmth. Nevertheless, Mary skipped along cheerfully, enjoying the protection her shaggy red cloak and hood afforded against the wind.
As she reached the edge of the forest where her grandmother lived, however, Mary slowed. Between the naked trunks she saw snatches of movement: a brief flicker of hair, heard the occasional crunch of leaves. At last, the movement stopped, and out from behind a tree stepped a wolf. His coat was lustrous, his eyes, deepest black, and when he grinned (as he did now), his teeth were exposed: crooked, yellowed, and sharp. Mary, smiling brightly, strode forward to greet the stranger.
“Hello young lady,” said the wolf as Mary approached. “What brings you to the forest on this cold day?”
Mary examined the wolf before speaking, noting the sheen of his coat, the breadth of his chest. No mangy cur was this. He was a fine specimen. “Friend wolf,” replied she. “I am bringing a basket of bread to my grandmother. She is old and sick and cannot bake for herself any longer.”
“You can call me Jack” said the wolf, Jack. “Surely you will require a guide to find your way through the forest.” He smiled after saying this, in what was apparently meant to be a reassuring way. Yet saliva dripped from his sharp teeth to the forest floor with a spatter that was not at all reassuring.
Mary demurred. “Oh, thank you for the offer, Mr. Jack, but I quite know the way to my grandmother’s cottage. I simply need to take the right fork when I get to the ancient willow tree, and then the small winding path on the left that leads to the clearing where she lives beneath four large oak trees.”
“Well, I won’t keep you any longer, then,” said Jack, quickly forming a new plan. “I’ll leave you to be on your way, but I hope to see you again soon.”
“I hope so, too!” said Mary, gaily. “You’ve been ever so friendly.”
Jack bowed his shaggy head to her, gave one last, toothy grin, and stepped casually back into the thick tangle of branches beside the path. As soon as he was out of sight, however, he broke into a run. A meal like that, so tender and plump, was not to be missed. The grandmother might not taste quite so fresh, but with winter coming on, Jack was not in any position to turn down a snack, even a tough, stringy one.
Jack knew this forest well, having lived here all his life, so it was only a matter of minutes before he came to the willow and the fork. Trotting down the right path, he found the narrow lane, partly overgrown with brambles. Though impenetrable for an adult, for a wolf (or a very small person), it was just passable. Jack forced his way through and soon came to a little cottage beneath four large oak trees.
At first glance, the cottage appeared in disarray. No smoke curled up from the chimney, and vines overgrew the windows.
“Perhaps the old bag has died or gone away,” thought Jack to himself. “Less food for me, but at least the sweeter snack remains.” He knocked at the door, and it opened at his touch. It creaked. There lay the hearth, a pile of logs within, unlit, and a pot of water sat off to the side. There, too, was the bed, grandmotherless. Yet atop the quilt lay a torn, stained nightgown and an old tattered nightcap.
“No grandmother,” thought Jack, “but little Mary’s coming soon. She expects to find her grandmother, and a grandmother she will find.” Jack drew on the garments, careful not to let his claws rip the frayed fabric any further. He then slunk down under the covers to hide his form. The quilt was heavy, warm, and smelled oddly familiar. He waited.
It wasn’t long before he heard Mary approaching the house, whistling. She opened the door, and beamed as she looked at the bed.
“There you are, grandmother,” said she. “I’ve brought you some lovely breads. You’ll find the recipe much sweeter than last week.”
“Thank you, child, thank you.” Jack pitched his voice high and quivering, an old crone’s voice. “Please, come tuck me in. I’m very cold.”
Mary took two steps towards the bed. Jack tensed, preparing to spring. Then Mary looked at the hearth. “I see you’ve let your fire go out again. Let me light it for you. We wouldn’t want you to freeze.” She crouched down by the hearth, lit a fire, and set the pot of water above it. “There, that’s better,” she said, standing up and turning.
Something in her voice raised the fur on Jack’s neck. Mary was grinning broadly at him. The fire behind her wreathed her in flame, and her little white teeth glinted in her smile.
Mary took a step towards the bed “Grandmother, what big ears you have.”
Jack quivered. Had she noticed? “All the better to hear you with, my dear.” Her eyes widened and her smile broadened into a leer. Jack felt his strength leave him.
“Grandmother, what big eyes you have.” Mary took another step towards the bed and reached into her basket.
“All the better to see you with, my dear.” Jack’s breath was coming in short gasps. He wanted to leap up, to flee, but found the comforter much too heavy to throw off. He searched the room frantically for some means of escape. His claws scrabbled frantically against the mattress, the quilt, tearing fresh holes in his nightgown, but to no avail.
Mary’s eyes glinted in the firelight and her smile was cold as she pulled a dagger from her basket and placed it against Jack’s throat. “Grandmother, what a soft, luxurious pelt you have…
Give it to me.”
Many hours later, Mary emerged from a little cottage in the woods. An old, torn, slightly damp nightgown and nightcap lay again on the bed. Logs lay in the hearth, ready to light, and a pot of water sat off to the side. A new, shaggy pelt hung over Mary’s shoulder as she skipped off down the narrow lane, and her basket dripped red upon the ground.