Grimbound

By Brooke Elden

In a macabre retelling of the classic tale of Red Riding Hood, Eirwen is a whimsical young woman in a crimson cloak who lives in a vivid world of gardens and flowers, even as autumn turns to the dead of winter.

One day, while delivering baked goods to her beloved grandmother, she witnesses the horrific aftermath of her death at the hand of wolves. Now, The Grim Reaper follows her, delighting in showing Eirwen various ways in which she could die, while simultaneously becoming a place of refuge.

Can Eirwen vanquish The Grim Reaper’s tantalizing and terrifying yet dreamy and romantic dances, or is she doomed to a grim fate?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brooke Elden
• Release date: May 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463152508

Brooke Elden

I’ve been telling stories since I knew what stories were. I remember inventing very dramatic plots for my dolls and other toys (most of them involved death) to live out. My first story was The Missing Unicorn, penned at age 6, followed by The Lost Cat, both published in the school library. I’ve been writing since.In second and third grade, I received some awards for short stories I wrote. In fourth grade, I was a part of a writing club where we printed our work into a picture book. Mine was a tale about my dog.At age 11, I formally proclaimed myself a writer. I knew it was my destiny to tell stories. I completed my first novella at age 12.

Book preview

1

Grandmother’s Cottage

Only on the coldest days did Eirwen wear her lace-up boots inside. The fire roaring in the bakery kitchen downstairs did little to warm the upper level as the season’s first crystal snowflakes collected in a tranquil pile on the windowsill.

Eirwen’s bedroom had white walls, an unpainted wood beam ceiling, moss-and-lichen-covered stones, autumn leaves, interesting tree branches, and deer antlers Eirwen had found in the forest. They made her bedroom a place she never wanted to leave. She longed to return to her bed where the red and white snowflake-patterned quilt her grandmother had made beckoned, but her mother was expecting her downstairs, even on their day off when the bakery was closed.

Eirwen seized the burgundy cloak Grandmother had given her from a peg on the wall, passing her mother’s room across the hall before trudging down the stairs where a tiny batch of cakes baked in the glowing hearth.

Eirwen lived with her mother, Seraphina, in a remote village surrounded by dense forest. Their bakery was known for its whimsical and colorful treats, from flowery icing to towering layer cakes. The interior was patterned with peacock-printed wallpaper and had an assortment of bird cages hanging from the ceiling as well as a few colorful bird houses displayed on shelves.

About time. I was wondering when you’d come down, Seraphina greeted her.

It’s the first snow of the season, Eirwen replied.

You look like you’re ready for winter already, Mother lamented while her dark chocolate eyes swept over her mittens, snow boots, and red cloak. Get changed into your apron. You’ll be outdoors soon enough, she said, shaking her head.

Yes, Mother, Eirwen replied, setting her mittens to the side and hanging the cloak by the doorway to the storefront.

Eirwen donned a red apron and pulled pale pink cream cheese frosting from the icebox. Eirwen and Seraphina were preparing a special batch of cakes for her ailing grandmother, who grew fragile and forgetful.

Eirwen filled a cloth bag with frosting and squirted a test squiggle onto a paper mat. The piping was thin, perfect for what she had in mind. Once the cakes finished baking, Eirwen decorated them to look like a bird’s nest and then filled another bag with white frosting and added little eggs. Seraphina walked by as she licked some of the frosting from her fingers.

Working hard, I see, Seraphina scolded.

Sorry, Mother, Eirwen apologized.

They laughed. Trying product was part of the job, as Seraphina frequently reminded Eirwen.

They look stupendous. Grandmother will love them, Seraphina complimented.

Thank you, Eirwen replied. She beamed, internally agreeing that Grandmother would be fond of them.

When Eirwen had added eggs to the last cake, they tucked them securely into a basket, careful not to damage the delicate tops.

Take these cakes to your grandmother, along with this wine, and stay on the path. They’ll cheer her and make her well, Seraphina told Eirwen, handing her the sanguine cloak.

They walked to the door that led to the street.

Very well, Mother, Eirwen replied.

Seraphina hugged her daughter. Be safe.

Grandmother lived deep in the forest, about a half-hour’s walk from the bakery in the center of town. The bell in the door jangled behind Eirwen as she trotted down the steps, her basket extra heavy, for in addition to the wine and cakes, Eirwen stored her thick book of fairy tales with gilded edges in it, often imagining the stories coming to life in the woods.

White houses with ebony frames lined the short walk, each building’s rooftop dusted lightly with fresh snow. Clad in her mittens and winter boots, Eirwen almost regretted not bringing earmuffs and a scarf, but before long, Eirwen had reached the end of the narrow street and took the path into the forest, its thick canopy blocking winter’s flurries, where she wound down the curvy trail with the basket of cakes.

Eirwen often imagined she met an unnamed stranger in the forest, with whom she enjoyed engaging in pretend conversation. Sometimes he appeared as Ivan, the woodcutter, while others, he was only a whimsical figment.

Good afternoon, Eirwen.

Eirwen staged a jump as though she’d not expected to encounter him. Oh! My, you startled me! she exclaimed.

I’m terribly sorry, Lady Vermilion, the unnamed stranger apologized. He bowed deeply. Lady Vermilion was the name he called her. May I atone for my sin?

You may. You may follow me with endless devotion until the end of your days, Eirwen replied.

Very well. It’s done, the unnamed stranger acquiesced.

Eirwen beamed, pleased with her suitor, and abandoned him for the imaginary foliage sprouting across the forest floor. The perfume of roses, lavender, and foxglove tickled her senses as she piled a bouquet into the basket aside the arduously decorated cakes. A cascade of blue butterflies passed in a waterfall of rushing wings.

Eirwen followed them to a tunnel of purple flowers. She twirled beneath the fuchsia and lilac dream, lost in a melody for which her heart yearned. She reached a rusty iron fence, buried beneath overgrowth, and pushed the brush aside to discover a bench and a mildew-covered fountain hiding behind an unlocked gate.

It was a magical occurrence to find flowers and butterflies well into autumn and while it snowed outside the canopy. Eirwen called it The Garden. For as long as she could remember, she’d been able to see it, but no one else appeared to be able to find it.

Eirwen returned to the pine scent of the forest, leaving The Garden’s perfumery behind. Normally, she’d stop to read one of the tales in her book, perhaps the one about the glass slipper or the one about the evil queen and the poisoned apple, but not today.

There was soon the familiar smoke rising from the chimney of Grandmother’s cottage. Where the canopy thinned, snow coated its roof and crunched under Eirwen’s feet. The path to Grandmother’s threshold was lined with flowering trees, immune to the magic that nurtured The Garden, but come spring, delicate blossoms would clothe the walkway and its path.

Defoliated vines crept up the cottage’s brick walls, their leaves littering the ground, but a few of the garden plants clung to life. Cabbage, arugula, and beets thrived, despite the whispers Jack Frost left on their leaves and stems. Eirwen delayed for a moment to pick the late bloomers for Grandmother, brushed the ice crystals from them, and set them precariously atop the full basket before knocking loudly on the door to announce her arrival.

Grandmother? Eirwen cried as she entered the cottage. I’ve brought you some cakes and wine!

It’s wonderful to see you, angel, Grandmother greeted her in a careful walk, wrapping Eirwen in a warm hug.

Eirwen returned the gesture. Nothing was better than Grandmother’s hugs, except perhaps for Grandmother’s warm rosemary bread, the scent of it thick in the air. Eirwen was proud to carry on the family tradition of baking.

Have you seen the flowers in the wood, Grandmother? Eirwen asked, even though she already knew what Grandmother’s answer would be.

Flowers? Grandmother looked askance at Eirwen. It’s almost winter, child! Grandmother declared before wrapping her shawl tighter about her shoulders with mottled hands. It’s even snowing!

Grandmother pursed her lips and shook her head before smiling, well-acquainted with Eirwen’s whimsy. Her gray hair was pinned back. Grandmother had bags under her eyes, crow’s feet when she grinned, and yellowed teeth, but Eirwen loved her laugh.

Yes, the snow is magical. There are flowers, too. See, I’ve even brought some, Eirwen announced brightly. She peered excitedly into the basket to retrieve the bouquet, but it’d disappeared. Eirwen pouted, crestfallen. They must’ve fallen out. Well, I did pick some vegetables from your garden for you. Here are your cakes and wine, Eirwen added, unloading the goods onto the table, examining the basket for traces of a colorful petal.

Why, thank you. What beautiful little cakes! You shouldn’t have. I don’t need to ask who made them, Grandmother exclaimed, winking.

Eirwen glowed. Red and orange danced in the brick hearth while a clock chimed the hour on the mantle, next to Grandmother’s bowl of potpourri and stack of coins. The cross-patterned window reflected a cloudy sky under the cover of tendrils. The days grew shorter as winter approached.

I was just knitting something for you. It’s about finished, Grandmother told her.

Eirwen’s face shone. Really? What is it?

Grandmother lifted a maroon scarf from her rocking chair, the knitting needles still attached.

Oh, Grandmother, it’s beautiful! Thank you, Eirwen declared.

The coarse scarf was filled with the love and security Eirwen felt around Grandmother. The veins in Grandmother’s skin were textured, but Eirwen loved her hands. They worked magic with needles and thread and prepared wholesome, nourishing food.

Is there anything I can do to help you? Eirwen asked.

Oh, no, child. Grandmother waved a wrinkled hand dismissively in Eirwen’s direction as she turned to stir a pot of boiling soup.

Grandmother was stubborn and often refused help when offered. Still, Eirwen made the trek as often as she could to Grandmother’s, to sweep the floor, scrub the oven, and chop vegetables for canning.

The soup will be ready soon, dear, Grandmother told Eirwen as onion, celery, thyme, rosemary, and broth wafted across the room.

It smells wonderful, Eirwen complimented.

Oh, no. I’m almost out of wood. I’m afraid I won’t have enough fuel to finish the bread, Grandmother huffed, opening the flap to the oven feeder.

I’ll get more for you, Eirwen offered.

Would you? That’d be so helpful, Grandmother answered modestly.

Of course. I’ll be right back, Eirwen told her.

Eirwen disappeared out the cottage door and went around the back to gather logs. Ivan, or one of his many brothers, regularly delivered the logs. Today, however, the stash was empty. Eirwen frowned. She’d have to visit the woodcutter’s cottage to get more.

Grandmother? I have to get more logs. I won’t be long! Eirwen called through the glass, knocking on the window outside the kitchen.

Grandmother, tending the soup, didn’t hear her. Eirwen sighed. Grandmother would be fine until she got back. The woodcutter’s cottage wasn’t far from Grandmother’s house, just on the outskirts of the forest, and with racing footsteps, Eirwen was there in no time.

Smoke curled from the log cabin’s chimney, the scent of wood fire heavy in the air. Ivan was outside in a checkered shirt and beige pants. He swung an axe and split a log in two, the pieces falling from the tree stump platform to the ground. He lifted another log and the blade fell and struck with a sharp crack.

Good evening, Ivan, Eirwen greeted him once the axe was no longer swinging. May I take some wood for my grandmother, please?

Ivan turned to face her and wiped his brow with his sleeve. Sure. Help yourself, he replied, gesturing to the pile.

Eirwen smiled. Thank you.

The snow was mostly melted now, but a frigid chill clung to the air, their breath condensing around their faces.

I would offer to help you, but I’m afraid I have to finish this pile before the sun sets. There’s a blood moon tonight. On the same night as the first snow. How odd, Ivan remarked. He glanced at the sky.

Eirwen gathered as many logs into her arms as she could, knowing Grandmother always paid in advance. I know. Well, thanks again. I’ll see you around, Ivan. Tell your family I said hello, she told him.

Yeah, I will. See you, Ivan replied half-heartedly.

There was another sharp crack as Eirwen hurried away. Ivan or one of his brothers regularly made deliveries to the bakery, and she wondered when she’d seen him again. The forest’s darkness in the light of the descending sun was cast into sharp relief. In the dark, there were no signs of the butterflies or the flowers of The Garden. Instead, Eirwen expected to get caught in a life-sized cobweb or attacked by a colony of bats.

Ominous shadows whispered in haunted voices throughout the trees as her feet crunched on fallen leaves. Every step was careful, cautious. Was that the laughter of the witch from her book of fairy tales who lived in a house made of candy? Eirwen could be headed straight into her lair. The witch would boil her in a vat and then eat her like a chocolate-covered raisin inside the house of gingerbread bricks, gumdrop shingles, iced windows, peppermint flowers, and licorice hedges.

A single howl pierced the night like the edge of a knife. Eirwen shivered before she spotted them: brown, black, and gray wolves.

Eirwen ran, the logs bouncing against her chest, but the wolves were on her heels in seconds. There was a jerk to her cloak. She stumbled. The logs fell, skinning her shins before they crushed her feet. The wolves faced her, a scrap of red dangling from one’s mouth, its eyes yellow like the rare honey moon. Another pounced, sinking its claws into her chest while open jaws headed for her jugular. Eirwen screamed.

Completely abandoning the scattered wood, Eirwen raced home, the wolves’ eyes glowing in the last of the daylight as the ethereal blood moon rose through the darkness, unearthly howls ringing through the air.

2

Lady Vermilion

Eirwen came to, her body sore. Delicate sunlight streamed through white curtains. It must be morning, though