Chapter Five
The wolf came to the little cottage at the edge of the forest long before either of the sisters, and knocked on the front door. "Who is it?" asked the mother.
"It is your daughter, Little Red Riding Hood."
"I am too weak to get up, dear," the mother said. "Lift the latch and open the door."
The wolf opened the door to the cottage, and pounced upon the woman in bed, ripping her into many pieces. Then the wolf took the mother's clothes and nightcap, and lay down in bed to wait for the Red Riding Hoods.
- from the fairy tale "Little Red Riding Hood"
No one sat next to the cloaked figure riding along in the train with them. This decision was hardly conscious for most of them, but some could feel the cold, nearly tangible aura surrounding that figure, as though it was not human at all, but a patch of deepest, darkest shadow, somehow detached from the rest of the darkness and sent airborne.
The person hidden within the shadows of the black cloak could not be more pleased to be without companions on this journey. Strangers could be oddly nosy at times, especially around someone travelling all alone. And it was much more important that the cloaked person perfect the strategy now, while there was time. She will be easy to persuade, the figure thought, gazing out the window at the countryside rushing past, but not really seeing it. That is, if I can appeal to her weaknesses. That shouldn't be too hard, for she has many. Indeed, far too many. She can be so easily manipulated that it's a wonder she doesn't see it herself. Well, my job should be fairly easy, then. Like pouring salt into an open wound to make her scream. I could say that...yes, and that...
Thus the hours passed, as the city faded into rolling plains to the clickety-clack of the train's movement. The train soared through several towns, and came to the edge of the large forest that ran along the western border of Amestris. "Vald!" cried the conductor, walking up and down the train. "We're coming into Vald Station!"
The cloaked figure, who hadn't moved for hours, rose up from the train seat like a bird taking flight, catching the conductor off-guard. But the figure didn't wait to see the man's start of surprise as what had almost seemed to be part of the train itself brushed past him. He nearly dropped the ticket he was punching a hole through, but managed to grab it again as it fluttered through the air. The cloaked figure swept down the aisle and leapt from the train car before it had come to a complete screeching stop, and was already leaving the tiny station by the time most were still clambering off the train.
The dark figure soon left the noisy station behind; the trees closely lining the path insulated all sound, till all that could be heard were the natural noises of the forest. The figure seemed to glide rather than walk, passing between the trees as though it was a shadow, and not a person with a corporeal body.
A quarter of an hour later found the cloaked figure finally emerging from the cover of the trees, pausing for a moment to stand on a hill overlooking a small village tucked in between the trees, smoke rising from several of the chimneys. The scents of trees growing and trees burning to ash mingled in the air, creating a warm, almost spicy aroma. A carpenter's paradise. I suppose that's why so many of the townspeople are carpenters and woodcutters. A dirt road led a more direct course from the train station, but the cloaked figure hadn't wanted to come so close to the place that had once been home. No...it would not do for them to see me. Not when, to all their knowledge, I am...
Shaking such thoughts aside, the figure started down the hill, making for a small, cozy-looking cottage a short distance from the rest of the village. The woodcutter who had once owned this cottage had died long ago, but the cloaked figure knew that she would still be there. Yes, she is sentimental like that. Weakness.
No one from the village of Vald saw this stranger enter the cottage. If they had, they would have realized that this was no stranger at all. If they had, they might have been able to prevent a catastrophe that would change Amestris forever.
Miranda readily admitted to herself that she was lonely. As if it wasn't enough that her parents had died when she was a child, the last remaining member of her family was gone as well. She knew the villagers took pity on her; she was reminded of their pity every time she clumped across the room, something she would not have been able to do had it not been for them. She sighed as she hobbled across the main room of the cottage she lived in by herself. It was sparsely furnished – a bed, a chair, a small table – and everything but the stone fireplace was made of wood. Some might consider her house primitive in the age of concrete and indoor plumbing, but for Miranda it was home. Upon reaching the wooden counter on the far wall, she leaned against it, biting back the ache in her ankles and looking down at her legs, which ended in wooden feet carved to look as much like real ones as possible. Yet no wood could substitute real flesh.
Pushing her lank brown hair out of her eyes, Miranda glanced out of her kitchen window, then froze. Someone was making their way up the path to her cottage, someone wrapped tightly in a dark cloak. No one comes that way, she thought. They all come from the back, since it's closer. Unless they're coming from the train station...
The figure approached the cottage and opened the door without knocking, as though this was its own house. Miranda was about to demand who this person was when she met the eyes deep in the shadows of that cloak and realized she didn't have to ask. "You," she breathed, clutching the edge of the counter for support. "What are you doing here?"
"Aren't you pleased to see me, sister?" the figure asked sarcastically.
Miranda swallowed painfully, then forced her voice to remain steady. "I asked you what you're doing here."
"Don't try that tone on me, Miranda. You know it won't work." The cloaked figure looked around, spotted the chair, and dropped into it, leaning back onto two legs with a creak. Still, the hands hidden within the folds of the black cloak made no move to push back the hood.
A muscle in Miranda's cheek twitched, but she chewed on her tongue and remained silent.
"I have a…proposition for you, Miranda. No…more like a demand."
"You can't make me do anything," Miranda snapped.
A smile was visible even in the shadow of the cloak's hood, white teeth sparkling in the darkness. "Oh, I believe I can." Abruptly, the cloaked figure changed tack. "I know how out-of-the-way this village is, but have you heard of the happenings in Central?"
"Lots of riots," Miranda said cautiously, remembering the headlines of the bi-weekly newspaper that made its way here.
"How eloquently put. And you know what 'lots of riots' means? Lots of deaths. The fool who calls himself Fuhrer tries to keep the death toll down, but this is a hard task when the Sect is so violent, wouldn't you say? And so well-armed, too. I wonder where they got all those military-issue weapons?" The chair dropped back onto the floor with a bang that sounded uncannily like a gunshot. The figure laughed cruelly, and Miranda's stomach twisted at the sound.
"This is all your doing, isn't it?" she demanded. "You're making all these people die!"
But the figure only laughed and said, "How classic! Lump all the blame onto me! You forget, my dear sister, where I came from."
Miranda blanched and found she had nothing to say to this.
"Yes, Miranda," the figure murmured, a smile sparkling from inside the hood like the last remnants of a Cheshire cat. "All these deaths...ultimately they are your fault."
"No!" For a moment, Miranda wondered who was howling like a wounded animal, but then she realized she was. She lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, horror and grief racing through her. It wasn't just the figure's words that had reduced her to this. It was all the memories they had shared – willingly and unwillingly. It was the terrible knowledge that this cloaked figure spoke the truth, for once. For it was her fault; Miranda could see it now. It was her actions that had led to all this conflict, all this death.
But the cloaked figure wouldn't let her wallow in her guilt for long. Miranda could feel hot breath on her cheek as the figure said right next to her, "Come with me, Miranda. You know alchemy. You can make me the Philosopher's Stone."
"What would you want with the Philosopher's Stone?" Miranda asked dully, wiping tears from her cheeks.
"With the Philosopher's Stone, I can put a stop to all this death," the voice said, a silken temptation that wound through Miranda's ears. "You wouldn't even be killing anyone with the transmutation; they would already be dead. And you don't need to bother yourself about making the transmutation circle either; I've already seen to that. All you need to do is activate it. Obviously, I can't perform alchemy...but you can."
"Wait," Miranda said, heart pounding in her throat. "The Philosopher's Stone is made from human lives. Who exactly are you killing?" She met the glittering eyes in the dark recesses of the hood, and shuddered as she read the answer in them. "No," she whispered. "I'm not going to use the citizens of Central to make a Philosopher's Stone! It...It's not right to make a Stone in the first place. So many lives are needed; how can you say you're more important than-"
But the cloaked figure, it seemed, had had enough. A hand suddenly shot out and closed around Miranda's throat, clutching with greater strength than she had expected. Miranda clutched at the hand, gasping for breath, but the fingers only tightened slowly, ready to snap her neck if necessary. Miranda didn't need to wonder if they would dare. Yet this, more than anything else, assured her that the cloaked figure was not the same person as before. How they both had changed!
Miranda's vision began to darken as the figure squeezed tighter and tighter. She listened to the gagging, choking noises she was making as if they came from someone else. The figure remained silent; the threat was obvious, and no words were needed. Miranda's lungs screamed for air; her heart pounded desperate fists against the inside of her chest, begging for a reprieve. "Okay," she finally managed to mouth out. "I'll do it." Immediately the pressure lifted. She sucked in air, holding a hand to her burning throat. She wondered if the throttling would leave physical marks, or if the only scars would be in her soul.
The figure rose triumphantly above her. "Good. Now get up and pack your bags. We're going to Central. And I'll warn you now, but never again: No running. If you so much as attempt to escape, I will not hesitate to kill you. There are other alchemists in the world, you know."
Miranda nodded. She understood. She knew the cloaked figure had only come to her because she could easily be persuaded. Yet as she packed a small overnight valise, as she meekly followed the cloaked figure to the train station, as she sat in the train bouncing and clattering its way to Central, she racked her brains for some way to thwart this person's plans. Surely, there was something she could do!
Unfortunately, Miranda found it very hard to concentrate when a pair of red, slit-pupiled eyes watched her at all times.