For the Record

IN THE ENCHANTED CIRCUIT TRIBUNAL

Case No. 314.PINE

The Crown of Everwood v. Lupus Commonly Known As Wolf

They swear me in with a book that smells like someone tried to clean a tree with school glue.

It’s the kind of heavy that feels like a dare. The kind of weight designed to make a point.

I place my hand on it because that is what one does in rooms like this. The bark presses into my palm. I wonder, briefly, which tree gave it up, and whether it struggled.

“Do you solemnly swear,” the Prosecutor says, “to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help you God?”

Her voice is practiced. Neutral. Clean.

“I do,” I say.

This is not a lie. It is a selection.

The Enchanted Circuit Tribunal sits high enough to remind you that gravity exists. Stone bench. Carved runes dulled by centuries of hands. Someone has polished the surface recently. I can tell by the way the light slides instead of catching.

They want this to feel modern. Fair.

Behind me, the gallery breathes in small, careful increments. Parents. Woodsmen. A girl with a red hood folded into her lap like a flag after a funeral. No one looks at my mouth.

They look at my teeth.

The Judge adjusts his robe. It is threaded with silver vine, subtle enough to deny intention. He regards me with the weary patience of someone who has already read the summary.

“We are here,” he says, “to determine responsibility.”

Not guilt. Responsibility.

I incline my head. Respectful. Measured. The posture of someone who understands how stories work.

I can win this.

I have rehearsed every question they might ask. I have weighed each answer for balance and consequence. I know where to be precise and where to let silence do the work. I know which truths sound like mercy when spoken aloud.

I have always been good at hunger.

The Prosecutor for the Crown rises. Her sleeves whisper. Paper answers paper as she gathers her notes.

Defense Counsel Hare shifts beside me. Something passes through the room. The smallest pleasure warms my chest.

Already, they are listening.

[Court Reporter: oath administered. Microphones humming.]

PROSECUTOR PEARL: State your name for the record.

WOLF: The record knows me. Fine. Wolf. No middle name.

PROSECUTOR PERAL: And you understand why you are here.

WOLF: I understand why I was brought.

PROSECUTOR PEARL: Where were you on the evening in question?

WOLF: The Eastern Wood.

PROSECUTOR PEARL: Did you encounter anyone?

WOLF: Ah yes, a child traveling alone.

PROSECUTOR PEARL: Objection your Honor. Answer is unclear.

JUDGE WILLOW: Mr. Wolf, please answer the question.

WOLF: Yes. I encountered the child known as Red Riding Hood.

PROSECUTOR PEARL: You spoke with her.

WOLF: She spoke first.

A stir in the gallery. Judge Willow lifts one finger. Silence returns.

PROSECUTOR PEARL: Did you give her directions?

WOLF: I described the wood.

PROSECUTOR PEARL: Did you direct her toward her grandmother’s house?

WOLF: Eventually.

PROSECUTOR PEARL: Before that, did you suggest another path?

WOLF: I mentioned flowers.

A breath passes through the room. Familiar. Expected.

PROSECUTOR PEARL: While she took that path, you went another.

WOLF: I am faster.

DEFENSE COUNSEL HARE: We do not dispute the sequence, Your Honor.

JUDGE WILLOW: Proceed.

PROSECUTOR PEARL: You arrived at the grandmother’s cottage first.

WOLF: Yes.

PROSECUTOR PEARL: You entered.

WOLF: The door was open.

PROSECUTOR PEARL: You encountered the grandmother.

WOLF: She spoke to me.

PROSECUTOR PEARL: Was she alive when you entered?

WOLF: Yes.

PROSECUTOR PEARL: Did you eat her?

WOLF: Yes.

A sound escapes someone too young to own it.

PROSECUTOR PEARL: Afterward, you remained.

WOLF: I lay down.

PROSECUTOR PEARL: You disguised yourself.

WOLF: I wore what was available.

Defense Counsel Hare stands halfway, then sits.

DEFENSE COUNSEL HARE: Your Honor, is this necessary? My client has been forthcoming.

Judge Willow does not look at him.

JUDGE WILLOW: Continue.

Pearl steps closer. Her voice does not change.

PROSECUTOR PEARL: When the child arrived, did you intend to harm her?

WOLF: No.

PROSECUTOR PEARL: You did not intend to eat her.

WOLF: I did not plan it.

PROSECUTOR PEARL: But you understood it was possible.

WOLF: Many things are possible in the wood.

Pearl turns a page.

PROSECUTOR PEARL: If you had no intention of harming the child, why did you remain in the bed?

WOLF: She asked me to.

Judge Willow’s fingers still.

PROSECUTOR PEARL: The child asked you to stay.

WOLF: She wanted company.

PROSECUTOR PEARL: You could have left.

WOLF: Yes.

PROSECUTOR PEARL: You could have warned her.

WOLF: Yes.

PROSECUTOR PEARL: You could have told her who you were.

Silence holds.

PROSECUTOR PEARL: But you did not.

WOLF: She did not ask.

Pearl tilts her head, only slightly.

PROSECUTOR PEARL: Then why answer her at all?

THE WOLF: My mouth answered a question her body asked.

I hear the shift when it happens, the room leaning toward the sentence the way hunger leans toward meat.

Judge Willow leans back.

JUDGE WILLOW: Let the record reflect the witness’s exact language.

Pearl closes her folder.

PROSECUTOR PEARL: No further questions.

JUDGE WILLOW: The jury will retire and consider. We will reconvene at dusk.

BAILIFF: All rise.

The jury files out. No eyes meet mine. The room exhales as if relieved of a smell.

The bailiff does not cuff me. That comes later. For now, I remain where I am, a courtesy afforded to those who have spoken well.

I sit still. Stillness has always played mature.

The clerk gathers her papers. The reporter stacks the transcript, taps it once against the desk to square the edges. A neat sound. Final.

I watch her thumb pause on one page.

“Just for clarity,” she says, not looking up.

“Yes,” I say. The word arrives ready.

She reads aloud, careful, neutral:

The defendant stated: My mouth answered a question her body asked.

She stops there.

“That’s the line we’ll be using,” she says. “For the record.”

I wait for the rest of it to arrive. The forest. The pin. The wanting a different answer. The failing.

Nothing follows.

“That isn’t the whole sentence,” I say.

She glances at the page. “It’s the part that matters.”

I open my mouth to correct her.

What comes out is air.

No metaphor rises. No framing. The words line up somewhere behind my teeth and do not move. I taste paper. Ink. The faint sugar of her pastry.

Across the room, the judge confers with no one. The bench has already decided what a bench decides.

I understand then. Not all at once. Piece by piece, the way a carcass disappears.

I was never here to be heard. I was here to be quoted.

The story does not need my balance, my regulation, my careful distinctions. It needs a mouth. It needs teeth. It needs a shape children recognize before sleep.

The clerk slides the transcript into a folder. The folder closes. The sound is soft. Finished.

On the cover, in block letters, my name reduces itself.

Not Wolf.

Just THE WOLF.

A category. A warning. A meal.

I feel the loss then, sharp and unmanageable.

Not freedom. Not breath.

Voice.

The bailiff touches my shoulder. I stand because that is what one does in rooms like this.

As I’m led from the room, I catch my reflection in the dark glass on the far wall. For a moment, I try to speak to it. To explain.

The reflection does not open its mouth.

Behind me, the clerk files the folder away. Somewhere down the hall, a child laughs. Somewhere else, a book opens.

The story eats well tonight.