"So," she said, "she refuses to wake up. She insists on remaining asleep."

"It's been twenty years, Carol. This isn't news."

"I mean, since your renewed efforts. Your rededication toward raising her from wherever she is."

I felt the beginnings of embarrassment. "You talked to Frank."

She acknowledged this.

"And?"

"He thought you were acting a little strange. A little desperate maybe."

"What made him say that?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe because you took his advice." This was meant as a joke, and being less than eager to hear exactly how much she knew, I let it die.

"I am desperate."

"Why, Martin? Why all of a sudden now?"

"I'm going to die soon," I told her. "I can feel it. I want to talk to her again. I want another chance to make it work."

"So talk to her," said Carol, ever the champion of free speech. "Maybe she hears everything you say. Maybe she gets it."

"I want her awake. I want her to move. To smile. To speak." My voice caught. "I want her to love me, Carol. I want to know that she cares."

"That's a lot of wants, Marty."

"Just one really. I want another chance. I want to show her I can be a better person."

She sighed and took my hand. "Don't we all."

Carol's was the rational approach. Practical, prudent and eminently reasonable. Her advice: get a lawyer. If I was going to die, I should definitely update my will.

This, of course, was the crux. My will.

We were sitting on the cottage porch the next morning over coffee. Carol was reading the business section of the paper. I was leisurely making my way through the obituaries.

"You want to know what I really think?" she said out of nowhere.

I was on McLamb, Yvette, beloved wife of Charles, devoted mother of Irene, Frederick, and Diane, adored grandmother of Adam, James, Portia, Kiki and Maurice, cherished great-grandmother of Laura, Gregory, Thomas . . .

I looked up. "Sure. What do you really think?"

"Put her away."

My mind didn't work that fast. "Who?"

"Your wife. The sooner the better. Especially if you're going to die. Which I doubt. And what makes you say so?"

"I'm seventy-five, Carol."

"Are you sick?"

"No."

"Are you thinking of killing yourself?"

"Not that I know of. On the other hand, I don't see the sense in needless prolongation. Life's been what? C+? B-? That's about an even shot that death is going to be better."

She didn't like that. "I thought you wanted another chance."

"Barring that."

"You know what, Martin? You're not desperate. You're depressed. You should see a doctor."

"No doubt." I folded the paper. "So, I should put her away. Tell me something, Carol. How does a person put away someone he loves?"

"We put away Mother."

"That was different. Mother was senile. She needed round-the-clock attention and care. She was like a baby that way."

"Exactly," said Carol, as if I'd finally seen the light. "A big baby."

She had never liked Vexing, had thought her spoiled and self-centered and generally unsuitable as a mate. The current situation did nothing to alter her opinion, and I felt pressed to my wife's defense.

"She's a victim, Carol."

"Victim schmictim. She's had everything a person could want."

"She lost what she had."

"What did she lose? Her looks? Her fame? What?"

"Both. Among other things. Or so she thought."

"Then give her to posterity, Martin. She'll be famous again."

"What does that mean, 'posterity'?"

"I don't know. A research foundation. A medical facility. Hell, give her to an art museum. They can put her on display, make her the center of attention, just like she always wanted. Design some new outfits for her, maybe work up a whole new line. She'd love it. You think she was famous before. How famous do you think she'll be when the world sees her like that?"

"It sounds awful."

"She'd be taken care of, Martin. That's what you want. Make the plans now, and you'll have that peace of mind. You'll have that security. And you know something else? I bet you'll be a happier man. She's a burden, Martin. When burdens are gone, life has a way of taking a turn for the better." She gave a self-deprecating little laugh. "I've been through two divorces. Trust me on this."

IN THE END.

I took Carol's advice. In a way. And Frank's, too. I used the same shovel I had used to dig Vexing out, and I dug the hole to put her back. I did it at night, when no one was looking. During the daytime I covered the hole with a tarp. It took six nights. When I was done, I lined the hole with three of the four gowns from the cottage, mirrors and sequins and such facing inward, so that if she did wake up and could see in darkness, if her eyes could pierce dirt, she would catch a glimpse of herself. The fourth gown, white satin with a pale blue bodice encircled with moonstones, I wrapped around her. It was three in the morning when I finished. Fog hid the sky.

I hoisted her over my shoulder and carried her to the hole. The effort left me breathless. Her face was white as snow. I laid her in the ground. She was no longer Vexing to me, if ever she truly had been. She was the woman of my dreams, and I wished her well. Someday, I hoped, a new and better prince would come along.

I picked up the shovel, it was my finest hour. The night sang, as I covered her with dirt.

NALO HOPKINSON.

Nalo Hopkinson has lived in Ontario, Canada, for nineteen of her thirty-six years. She is a freelance writer and interviewer for Word: Toronto's Black Culture Magazine and her short story, "Midnight Robber," tied for second place in the 1994 Short Prose Competition for Developing Writers, sponsored by the Writers' Union of Canada. She is the first of three contributors to have attended Clarion East 1995.

"Little Red Riding Hood" is another fairy tale that has been interpreted by some of the finest contemporary fantasists, including Angela Carter, Tanith Lee, and Kathe Koja. It's one of the more suggestively sexual, even in its most innocent forms. Hopkinson says, "I was born in Jamaica, and spent most of my childhood in the Caribbean, where oral traditions of storytelling are vital. When I write, the rhythm and texture of the language are just as important to me as the meaning of the story. The words have to sing when I speak them aloud." And they do, in this, her second sale, adding a new voice to the canon.

RIDING THE RED.

by Nalo Hopkinson.

She never listens to me anymore. I've told her and I've told her: daughter, you have to teach that child the facts of life before it's too late, but no, I'm an old woman, and she'll raise her daughter as she sees fit, Ma, thank you very much.

So I tried to tell her little girl myself, listen, dearie, listen to Grandma. You're growing up, getting dreamy. Pretty soon now, you're going to be riding the red, and if you don't look smart, next stop is wolfie's house, and wolfie, doesn't he just love the smell of that blood, oh yes. Little girl was beginning to pay attention, too, but of course, her saintly mother bustled in right then, sent her off to do her embroidery, and lit into me for filling the child's head with ghastly old wives' tales. Told me girlie's too young yet, there's plenty of time. Daughter's forgotten how it was, she has. All growed up and responsible now, but there's more things to remember than when to do the milking, and did you sweep the dust from the corners. Just as well they went home early that time, her and the little one. Leave me be, here alone with my cottage in the forest and my memories. As it should be.

But it's the old wives who best tell those tales, oh yes. It's the old wives who remember. We've been there, and we lived to tell them. And don't I remember being young once, and toothsome, and drunk on the smell of my own young blood flowing through my veins? And didn't it make me feel all shivery and nice to see wolfie's nostrils flare as he scented it? I could make wolfie slaver, I could, and beg to come close, just to feel the heat from me. And oh, the game I made of it, the dance I led him!

He caught me, of course, some say he even tricked me into it, and it may be they're right, but that's not the way this old wife remembers it. Wolfie must have his turn, after all. That's only fair. My turn was the dance, the approach and retreat, the graceful sway of my body past his nostrils, scented with my flesh. The red hood was mine, to catch his eye, and it was my task to pluck all those flowers, to gather fragrant bouquets with a delicate hand, an agile turn of a slim wrist, the blood beating at its joint like the heart of a frail bird. There is much plucking to be done in the dance of riding the red.

But wolfie has his own measure to tread, too, he does. First slip past the old mother, so slick, and then, oh then, isn't wolfie a joy to see! His dance all hot breath and leaping flank, piercing eyes to see with and strong hands to hold. And the teeth, ah yes. The biting and the tearing and the slipping down into the hot and wet. That measure we dance together, wolfie and I.

And yes, I cried then, down in the dark, me and my Grandma, till the woodman came to save us, but it came all right again, didn't it? That's what my granddaughter has to know; it comes all right again. I grew up, met a nice man, reminded me a bit of that woodman, he did, and so we were married. And wasn't I the model goodwife then, just like my daughter is now? And didn't I bustle about and make everything just so, what with the cooking and the cleaning and the milking and the planting and the birthing, and I don't know what all. And in the few quiet times, the nights before the fire burned down too low to see, I would mend and mend. No time for all that fancy embroidery that my Mama taught me.

I forgot wolfie. I forgot that riding the red was more than a thing of soiled rags and squalling newborns and what little comfort you and your man can give each other, nights when sleep doesn't spirit you away soon as you reach your bed.

I meant to tell my little girl, the only one of all those babes who lived, and dearer to me than diamonds, but I taught her embroidery instead, not dancing, and then it was too late. I tried to tell her quick, before she set off on her own, so pretty with her little basket, but the young, they never listen, no. They're deaf from the sound of their own new blood rushing in their ears. But it came all right; we got her back safe. We always do, and that's the mercy.

It was the fright killed my dear Mam a few days later, that's what they say, she being so old and all, but mayhap it was just her time. Perhaps her work was done.

But now it's me that's done with all that, I am. My good-man's long gone, his back broken by toil, and I have time to just sit by the fire, and see it all as one thing, and know that it's right, that it must be so.

Ah, but wouldn't it be sweet to ride the red, just once more before I'm gone, just one time when I can look wolfie in the eye, and match him grin for grin, and show him that I know what he's good for. For my Mama was right about this at least: the trick is, you must always have a needle by you, and a bit of thread. Those damn embroidery lessons come in handy, they do. What's torn can be sewn up again, it can, and then we're off on the dance once more! They say it's the woodman saves us, me and my daughter's little girl, but it's wolfie who gives us birth, oh yes.

And I haven't been feeling my best nowadays, haven't been too spry, so I'm sure it's time now. My daughter's hard, she is. Never quite forgot how it was, stuck in that hot wet dark, not knowing rescue was coming, but she's a thoughtful one, too. The little one's probably on her way with that pretty basket, don't stop to dawdle, dear, don't leave the path, but they never hear, and the flowers are so pretty, just begging to be plucked.

Well, it's time for one last measure, yes, one last, sweet dance.

Listen: is that a knock at the door?

ESTHER M. FRIESNER.

Esther Friesner taught Spanish at Yale for a number of years before becoming a writer. She is best-known in the sf/fantasy field for humorous fiction; it is only in the last few years that she has attained recognition for her darker works. She has published twenty-two novels so far, including most recently, The Psalms of Herod, The Sword of Mary, and Child of the Eagle. Her short fiction and poetry have appeared in many magazines and anthologies; she has also edited the anthologies Alien Pregnant by Elvis, Chicks in Chainmail, and Blood Muse. Friesner won the Romantic Times Award for Best New Fantasy Writer in 1986, the Skylark Award in 1994, and the Nebula Award in 1996. She lives in Connecticut with her husband and two children.

There are numerous traditional fairy tales of thumb-sized children. The Brothers Grimm's tale is "Thumbling," the story of a boychild. The H. C. Andersen variation is called "Thumbykin" and is about a girlchild. Many of us are familiar with Thumbelina-particularly from the Hans Christian Andersen movie with Danny Kaye. The one thing that these tales have in common is that they are all light and airy as a souffle. Friesner's "No Bigger Than My Thumb" is a far darker version from a dark period for women in human history.

NO BIGGER THAN MY THUMB.

by Esther M. Friesner.

The old woman looked up from the fire, cocked her head to one side. "He is coming, Haldis," she said.

"Let him come, Idonna." Her companion never took her eyes from the fire. "Let him come."

The crone settled her bony rump on the splitwood bench and sighed as if at a leave-taking. "So you mean to see this through?" No answer. "He will not come alone, you know. He will have his men with him, and the law still stands, and-"

"I know the law." The younger woman was a statue for firelight to paint with blood and shadows. She sat on a chair with no back, her hands demurely tucked from sight beneath her clean white apron, as if she were the most common of matrons. "And I do not fear him or his men."

Idonna shook her head and fed a handful of dried herbs into the little black pot that bubbled and simmered on the hub. "I have lost one child already. I did not think to lose more this side the grave." She cast an imploring look at the other. "We may find we lack the power for this."

"In that case, he will call for all our deaths," Haldis replied evenly. Her mouth was the only part of her that seemed to live; the rest was stone. "If we die together, you will not miss me."

"Child, are you sure-?" A claw fell on the younger woman's knee, desperately clutched for the flesh beneath the layers of skirts and petticoats.

Haldis rose slowly, casting off the crone's grip like an afterthought. She crossed the room with the grace of carriage that had formerly drawn many eyes after her in the town, the grace that had once drawn one pair of eyes too many . . .

"You are too much afraid, Idonna," she said, and she left the fireside for the sleeping room, closing the door after.

The old woman remained, her gaze drifting from the leaping fire to the singing pot above the flames to the door the other had closed behind her with such finality. Outside the chill breath of autumn's close whirled itself around the solitary cottage, seeking entrance at every crevice, like the talons of a cat. She sighed again, and the breath of it seemed to take a shape made of the sparks released from the crackling hearth fire.

"He will come," she told the flames. "And he is too cunning to come alone."