Crimson Red

Into the Woods

As the midday sun began to bow its head towards the evening, sunbeams reflected across the cottage. Some caught the colorful glass bottles of various ingredients and tinctures, casting a small rainbow of reflections over the hooded figure, working diligently on the worn wooden table.

Her figure was slight, long honey-brown tresses hidden by a crimson colored cloak which she kept tucked over her face, even in the sanctity of her own home. She moved with precision, her fingers deftly working to strip petals from flowers, grind herbs into poultices, dropper exact droplets of strong smelling liquids into her awaiting glass bottles.

She had been at her craft since the first twittering of the forest birds in the early morning. But she was used to long days of much harder work. Compared to maintaining forest trails, bending to toil in her garden, or climbing precarious rocky cliff faces for elusive ingredients, medicine day was the best. It offered a kind of meditative repose she found nowhere else. She could not control a tree falling to cut off her most useful path into town. She could not control rain eroding rocks that once served as handholds to climb up mountain peaks. She could not control weeds tangling rampant in her garden, or blight eating up her vegetable patch. She could not control the week long journey to the ungrateful kingdom with its rising taxes and petulant guards.

But she could control her medicine-making. She was the master of her preparation table. Her small herb knife followed her command as if by magic. Her cauldron over the hearth never seemed to burn her potions. In their protective bottles, her medicines never soured, or came unsealed, or cracked with the basket’s jostling, even on the roughest terrain. Not even when her tired feet forced her to hire a ride on a rickety old farmer’s carriage over the uneven cobblestone streets. No, Red could not control many things, but medicine bent to her will like a supple and pliant lover.

She sighed, low and contented. With a last careful touch, she scattered the finely minced herbs into her cauldron pot. It burbled pleasantly with the addition. Stirring the coals with her fire poker, she breathed in deep. Fresh, herby, and mint scented steam rose from the pot. In three days time, the fire will die out, and the pewter cauldron will cool slowly, turning the watery broth into a thick, soothing syrup. In those three days, Red would trek across the forest, delivering a basket of pastilles and supplements to a village, where a newly pregnant maiden and her arthritic mother awaited healing. Red smiled softly to herself. When she returned, she would be able to spend a lazy afternoon bottling her fresh batch of cough syrup well in advance of the winter season of coughing illnesses. Her hard work would earn her at most a day of relaxation before she would inevitably be back fighting her eternal battle against weeds, fallen trees, crumbling paths to her secret forage spots. But one day of rest would feel like heaven, like paradise.

After placing her tin of ginger-root pastilles for the new mother’s nausea, and a pot of soothing cream for the elder’s aching joints into her basket, Red was feeling indulgent. She added a few of her most popular medicines into the basket as well, optimistic for extra sales. Finally, remembering the many children of the village, and hoping to garner good will with her newest customers, she tossed a handful of sweet honey candies on top.

Then, a small brown paper package for her own needs—a little loaf of brown bread, a wedge of cheese, and a single dried fish. She was lithe and slight, which helped her move through the dangers of the woods with the grace of a forest cat, but she was small too because there was always more work than there was food. Her stomach growled, as if to accentuate her thought.

It is still worth it. She would always remind herself of this. Still worth the small salvations she brought to the sufferings of the village people. People like her, who take their lives day after difficult day.

She imagined the sweet relief that her medicines would soon bring. Morning sickness replaced by contentment. Aching bones able to thread a daughter’s hair without pain.

With a final glance around her one-room cottage, she was ready to go. Herbs hung drying from the rafters. Her little bed and its threadbare sheets were dutifully made. The fire burned low in the fireplace. Her windows were latched. Curtains drawn. Red tucked a faded blue checkered handkerchief over the contents of the picnic basket, and opened her front door to begin her trek into the woods.