Straw into Gold

by Hilary McKay

  The boys Tom’s age had another idea. It was that Tom had had enough of working for his uncle and had simply run away. The surprise, the boys said, was that he hadn’t done it sooner.

  The girls said, “Poor Tom!” and dabbed their eyes and hunted for frostbitten flowers to make into a wreath. They left it by the oak tree on the green where Tom had often collected acorns for catapult bullets, or climbed in search of caterpillars to drop down their necks, or simply stood boasting with his hands in his pockets. “We’re making it a memorial tree,” they told Polly. “Aren’t you going to help?”

  “How can I help?” asked Polly.

  “We’re each going to tie a hair ribbon to show we’ll never forget him.”

  “What if he comes back and sees them?” asked Polly. “He’d never stop laughing. He’d be awful.”

  The girls looked at her with reproachful blue eyes, and thought she was hard-hearted.

  Most people in the village agreed with Tom’s uncle, that Tom had gone too far into the forest. After much talk, they collected men and dogs for a search party, but they didn’t get far.

  “They only did it to make themselves feel better,” Polly told Granny. “Like the girls with their tree.”

  “You didn’t tie a ribbon, then?” asked Granny.

  “No,” said Polly, holding her fir cone. “I think he’ll come back.”

  Tom didn’t come back, and the village changed. Now no one doubted that there were wolves in the forest. Bears too, almost certainly bears, and who knew what besides? A message was sent to the King, far away: “Send a huntsman!”

  There was no reply. Winter closed in. People locked and barred their doors at night, and huddled close to their winter fires. The fields that lay nearest to the forest were left empty. The trees seemed to move closer.

  Only Polly, in her red hood and cloak, dared go along the path under the darkness of the ancient branches. She went once a week to visit Granny, and nothing the innkeeper or his wife or anyone else in the village could say would stop her.

  “Keep to the path!” the innkeeper’s wife warned.

  “I do,” said Polly.

  “Don’t stop to pick flowers, nor nothing like that.”

  “There aren’t any flowers in winter.”

  “Don’t go, Polly!” said the girls. “It’s not safe! They say there are bears.”

  “Granny says there aren’t.”

  “Does she say there aren’t wolves?”

  “I should love to see a wolf!” said Polly.

  But all that winter she saw nothing but frosted ferns and black forest tracks and old Granny waving from her cottage door, calling, “I saw you from away down the path!”

  When the first snow fell there was a wonder waiting for Polly at the little house in the forest.

  “He come marching up to the door like he’d lived here all his life!” said Granny.

  And there was Diamond. Diamond, fat with beechnuts and acorns, and lately with Granny’s porridge. Polly got down on her knees to hug the little pig, and her tears of thankfulness rolled down so fast they caused him to snort and sneeze.

  “Now what we will do,” said Granny, when the happy reunion had become slightly less damp, “is build him a little pen round the back of the house where it won’t show from the path.”

  “Do you mind?” asked Polly anxiously. “Did you want a pig, Granny?”

  “I can’t say I did,” said Granny, “but it seems that I have one. I daresay he will come in useful!”

  “And he will be safe,” said Polly thankfully, and she asked again, “Are there wolves, Granny?”

  But Granny’s answer was the same as before. “There are and there aren’t,” she replied.

  “One day,” said the villagers, “that Red Riding Hood will set off into the forest and not come back.”

  The villagers said wolves had been heard, howling under a full moon on the edge of the fields. Once again they sent a message to the King.

  Polly told Granny, “The village has sent for a huntsman. That’s twice now.”

  “Fools,” said Granny.

  “Do you hear the howling at night, Granny?”

  “I do not,” said Granny. “I hear owls. What’s that in your hand?”

  “A white stone,” said Polly, showing her.

  “Where did you find it?”

  “On a bank of green moss,” said Polly.

  “That’s a mystery,” said Granny.

  “Mmm,” said Polly.

  She put the white stone with the fir cone.

  Time passed. Late in the spring there was a molehill with a jay’s blue wing feather sticking out the top. One summer morning Polly saw a red rose in the duck pond. On the oak tree on the village green, half a dozen faded hair ribbons fluttered under the leaves. When the leaves fell, they were still there. Whole months passed when no one mentioned Tom’s name. Polly grew tall, and was now too old to be sent back to the orphanage.

  “What were we thinking of?” asked the innkeeper’s wife, meaning, What were we thinking of, taking her in. That cold morning. Gold earrings. We might have known! She looked crossly toward Polly, who pushed her hair behind her ears so her earrings showed. Polly half fascinated and half alarmed the customers at the inn. She had a way of slamming glasses down that made them jump. It was a rather slamming autumn, what with glasses and doors and Polly’s replies to some customers’ remarks.

  Winter came again, with bitter winds. The cold and the neglected fields made the forest seem more menacing than ever. For the third time, the villagers sent for a huntsman, and this time their message was answered. A huntsman came, a silent fellow in greens and browns and soft leather boots. He carried a gun. The innkeeper admired it very much.

  “Double-barreled,” he said with satisfaction. “Bang, bang! About time!”

  “The poor wolves!” said Polly.

  “Wolves are outlaws,” said the innkeeper.

  “Outlaws are wolves,” said the huntsman, winking horribly at Polly. “Got yourself a boyfriend yet?”

  “No, have you?” asked Polly, shutting him up.

  It seemed a long time since the rose in the pond. The ribbons on the oak tree were shredded to thread, and the path to the pigsty was overgrown with weeds. Polly looked at the huntsman’s gun again and, at the first chance she got, she put on her red riding hood cloak and went to see Granny.

  “That cloak has got short on you,” said Granny. “More like a cape.”

  “Granny, what’s beyond the forest?”

  “Hills,” said Granny, “purple and blue.”

  “And over the hills?”

  “That’s far away, Polly love.”

  “Too far to ever come back?”

  “Let’s hope not,” said Granny.

  “There is a huntsman in the forest now,” Polly told her. “He stopped at the inn, and I saw him. He was sent by the King. He has a gun. The innkeeper says wolves are outlaws.”

  “He always was a fool,” said Granny robustly.

  “And the huntsman says outlaws are wolves.”

  “Shows he knows nothing, then,” said Granny. “I knew many a fine outlaw, back in the days! Stop your worrying, Poll, and go round the back and have a word with Diamond. He’ll cheer you up!”

  “Has he come in useful yet?” asked Polly.

  “Anytime now!” said Gran.

  Anytime now! thought Polly, as she trudged back to the inn that afternoon, and the words made her feel lighter. She remembered them often, as she worked through the days, or shivered herself to sleep at night.

  Everyone was cold that winter. Granny tucked up her four hens in together with the two white goats. Diamond, as long as his feet were clean, was allowed into the house to sleep. He slept most of the day, as well as all night, on an old quilt at the end of Granny’s bed.

  “He’d be in the bed, if I gave him the chance,” said Granny. “And he snores. But then, so do I. Polly, that fella’s about.”

  “The huntsman?”

/>   “I’ve spoken to him. He hangs around here. He says this is the place any wolf would come, with the goats and the hens.”

  “And Diamond,” said Polly.

  “Well, he never saw the pig. The pig was indoors. Diamond’s safe, Polly, but you be careful. He fires that gun at a shadow. You make sure you wear your red cloak. You’ll not take him by surprise in that. Or . . .” Granny paused.

  “Or what?”

  “You could stay safe home.”

  “No thank you!” said Polly.

  Some nights the frost was so bitter it froze the branches on the trees. They split with sounds louder than gunfire and dropped without warning.

  “You want to keep out of that forest, Poll!” warned the innkeeper.

  “No I don’t,” said Polly.

  One morning, toward the end of winter, Polly found a handful of frost feathers in the middle of the forest path. They must have only been there a moment. They were so light a breath of wind would blow them away. Polly stooped and gathered them into her hand and waited as they melted on her mitten.

  It was very quiet.

  Polly became aware of being watched. Of the way ahead blocked. Of breath, not her own, smoking in the frosty air.

  She looked up, and there at last was the wolf.

  “And where are you going, Red Riding Hood?” asked the wolf.

  Bang, bang, bang, went Polly’s heart.

  The wolf grinned. White teeth. “Don’t worry. I won’t eat you,” he said.

  “No you won’t!” said Polly, and she tucked her hands under her cloak so that their shaking was hidden, and looked boldly at the wolf. She had never imagined he would be so big. His eyes were the yellow gold of bracken in autumn. He leaned on a tall carved staff. Polly noticed that when he moved it, it left behind the mark of a huge wolf pad. Had this wolf once tried to carry away a little black pig?

  “All alone, Red Riding Hood,” the wolf said mockingly. “Aren’t you frightened?”

  “No I’m not,” said Polly, “but you should be.”

  “Why should I be?”

  “There’s a huntsman in the forest,” Polly said. “He says wolves are outlaws, and outlaws are wolves. He has a gun. He hangs around Granny’s house, watching out for you. You should go away! You should go far away, over the hills!”

  “I’d rather come with you,” said the wolf.

  “Well, you can’t,” said Polly, and pushed past him and ran, bright in her red cloak, calling, “Granny! Granny! Granny!” so that the huntsman stepped back into the shadows.

  Granny’s door was open, despite the cold. “Come in, Polly!” she called. “I knew you’d be along. I’m in bed.”

  “In bed?” repeated Polly, astonished.

  “I had a tumble. I’m resting my foot,” explained Granny, as Polly came panting into the cottage. “I should never have tried to climb on the roof . . .”

  “On the roof!”

  “That’s no matter just now. Are you all right, Polly? You look bothered. Come close!”

  “Granny . . .”

  Granny raised a finger to her lips and nodded toward the door. “That hunter’s about!” she whispered. “Did you see him?”

  “No! Where?”

  “Around in the shadows. Listening, I daresay. Talk natural!”

  Polly nodded.

  “I knew you’d be worried, finding me in bed,” said Granny, in a loud, clear voice. “Polly, what big eyes you’ve got!”

  “All the better for watching where I’m going,” said Polly. “There were frost feathers on the path, Granny!”

  Polly gazed at Granny, willing her to understand.

  “Were there now?” said Granny. “After all this time! I should like to have seen them. Nearby?”

  Polly nodded, looking at the open door.

  “Dear, dear,” said Granny, briskly. “Cold enough for frost feathers and the fire out and that poor soul outside under the eaves looking out for wolves and whatever . . .”

  “Outlaws!” growled the huntsman’s voice, sounding terribly, terribly close.

  “Wonderful hearing these huntsmen do have!” said Granny, glancing at Polly from under the large lace nightcap she wore. “Never misses a word! Tell him to come in out of the wind, Polly love!”

  Polly went out with the message, but the huntsman would not come in. Nor would he let Polly leave again. “You stay with the old woman!” he ordered. “There’s something about!”

  “I came through the forest,” said Polly, speaking much more loudly than she needed to do. “You don’t need your GUN! I didn’t see anything to worry about!”

  “You keep your voice down, miss, and get inside!” said the huntsman.

  “Why? What are you frightened of?” demanded Polly, twirling around in her red cloak, as if trying to see. “What made you think THERE WAS SOMETHING ABOUT?”

  “I’ll not stand for this!” exploded the huntsman, and he actually marched Polly back to the house and sat her down in the rocking chair. “There!” he said. “So long as I hear that chair rock and those bedsprings creak, I shall know where you are!” And he stormed back outside.

  “Oh Granny!” exclaimed Polly, frightened and furious. “Whatever . . .” Just in time she remembered the open door. “Whatever were you doing on the roof?”

  “That chimney pot is loose,” said Granny. “And I hopped up to try to fix it before it came down all together. Slipped off and twisted my ankle, which is why I’m here in bed. ’Tis dangerous, a loose chimney pot.”

  Polly’s eyes became suddenly bright.

  “It might slip and roll down on anyone,” said Granny.

  Polly didn’t reply. She was thinking so hard that she was perfectly still, and she jumped when the huntsman poked his head round the door.

  “Gone quiet!” he said, glancing at Granny under her lace cap, and Polly’s red cloak. “Just checking!”

  “Stay for a bit and get warm,” said Granny, but he was gone again in a moment. Diamond, dozing, stirred in his sleep, and suddenly Polly knew what to do. There was the window beside Granny’s bed, with the pen they had built for Diamond outside. If she climbed on the pen she could reach the roof. From the top of the roof she could see down the path . . .

  Polly rocked the rocking chair, bump, rock, bump, with her eyes on Granny’s. Granny turned and creaked in bed, her eyes on Polly’s. Polly looked down at Diamond, and began undoing the ribbons of her cloak. “I hope your foot doesn’t hurt too much when you move,” she said politely and clearly to Granny, and she did not forget to rock.

  “I daresay I will manage,” replied Granny, and she did not forget to creak.

  “I suppose it is nearly TIME FOR BED,” said Polly, and she lifted the sleeping Diamond, who had learned those words long before, when he was a slim black piglet in the garden of the inn.

  Often Granny had said that Diamond would one day come in useful. Now the time had come at last. The next time the huntsman looked into the door, there was someone in the bed, wriggling and creaking, with their lace nightcap pulled down to their nose. And there was someone in a red cloak, rocking in the rocking chair.

  But Polly was on the roof.

  Creak! went Granny’s bed. Polly could hear it in the room beneath.

  Bump! went the rocking chair.

  Grunt, grunt, grunt! went the person in the nightcap. And Granny said, clear and bright, “Oh Polly, what a shocking cold you’ve got. I never heard such a cough!”

  Polly had a clear view of the forest path. Beside her was the chimney pot. She could watch for the wolf, and if the worst came to the worst, the huntsman was standing under the eaves, and the chimney pot was loose . . .

  “You need to rub your chest with rum and oil!” continued Granny, rocking. Diamond gave a sudden startled squeal and Granny told him not to be foolish. Polly could not see the huntsman, but looking over the ridgepole, she could see his shadow on the frosty grass. Then, far down the forest path among the frosty flickering shadows, she saw a movement.

/>   Suddenly many things happened at once.

  The wolf stepped out from the trees.

  The shadow of the huntsman raised the shadow of a gun.

  Polly lifted the chimney pot, and in the house Granny heard her do it.

  “Polly, take care!” she cried, but too late.

  Crash! went the chimney pot, as it rolled off the roof.

  Bang! went the gun, shooting wildly into the air.

  Wallop! went the huntsman, falling to the ground.

  “Tom! Tom!” cried Polly, rolling and bowling and tumbling off the roof, and Tom ran and caught her as she fell.

  “Diamond!” called Granny, as Diamond heard the excitement and leaped from the bed. “Diamond, come back with my nightcap!”

  This is the story of how Red Riding Hood saved the wolf, Tom, with the help of Granny and the cooperation of Diamond the pig.

  It is also the story of how Tom Piper stole the pig Diamond from the innkeeper and his wife, and ran away to seek his fortune in the land of over the hills and far away. Tom reached that land (although Diamond escaped on the journey) but returned to the forest from time to time. Far away can be too far away, when the wrong people are left behind.

  As well, it is the story of how Diamond the pig came to be useful at last.

  It isn’t the story, because it has ended too soon, of how Granny returned the huntsman to the village in her wheelbarrow, and went back to her happy life in the forest as a semiretired smuggler, with Diamond for company.

  Nor is it the ridiculous mixed-up tale told by the huntsman of a wolf in bed, and Granny eaten, and Red Riding Hood saved by his own brave self, rushing in with an axe.

  “Where did you get an axe from?” the villagers asked him. “And where is the dead wolf, not to mention Red Riding Hood? And how did Granny come alive again? You had a knock on the head with a chimney pot, and plainly you’re not over it yet!”

  Tom returned over the hills and Polly went with him. When they married, Granny came to the wedding and so did Diamond. Diamond wore a scarlet waistcoat and carried a basket of primroses in his teeth, proving for a second time that pigs have other uses besides bacon, ham, and sausage. After the wedding Polly and Tom lived excitingly ever after, in a town beside the sea, backed by blue and purple hills. It never felt far away to Polly and Tom. Quite the opposite: it felt exactly like home.