Fu Man Hei Hayden
St. Paul’s Co-educational College
The Baltic wind howled like a wolf, penetrating the once-lush fir forest surrounding the forgotten cobblestone streets of Odense. Alma, a girl with flaxen hair and piercing green eyes, shivered as she leant against a lamppost. Her cloak offered no protection against the winter, and her stomach growled with hunger. She sighed and closed her eyes. She’d had no fireplace to return to ever since she was a toddler, no shoes, no proper meals. The world had been cruel to her.
She felt a slight tap on her shoulder. Her eyes jolted open to see an old woman with silvery hair draped in a flowing black gown. The old woman’s eyes swept over Alma’s delicate frame, pausing for a moment. Then, with a nod, she helped Alma up. “Come with me, child,” she said.
Alma hesitated, her instincts prickling with unease, but the lure of warmth against the biting cold was too tempting. She followed the woman to a grand mansion on the outskirts of town.
The mansion was unlike any home Alma had ever seen before. Its spires seemed to pierce the sky, and inside, the air was filled with the scent of dried daisies. The old woman led Alma to a cozy dining hall, where a fire crackled in the hearth.
As Alma ate, the old woman watched her with a faint smile. “You remind me of myself when I was young,” she whispered.
Alma nodded, her mouth too full to speak.
As she devoured the meal, the old woman slipped out of the dining hall, unseen.
When the bowl was empty of the blood-red broth and the bread plate was free of its burden, the old woman reappeared. She handed her a pair of red shoes, the hue of the soup Alma had downed. The fabric shimmered in the candles’ light, and there was something rather…otherworldly about them.
Alma slipped the shoes on, and they fitted perfectly, as though they had been tailor-made just for her. Perhaps she was too tired from the day’s events, but it seemed as if there was a faint humming on the rim of Alma’s thoughts once the shoes were on.
When Alma went to bed that night, she delicately placed her new shoes on the wooden table near the fireplace, stroking them the way a mother would her newborn child. Soon, she fell into a blissful slumber on the silky linens of the queen-sized bed.
As all the candles in the mansion were snuffed, the ribbons of the shoes twitched. The crimson fabric glinted in the shimmer of the full moon, the colour of spilled blood.
Alma dreamt of dancing. She twirled and leapt in a grand ballroom, the red shoes glinting like rubies. When she woke, her heart raced with a strange longing. She crept to the fireplace, where the shoes sat on the wooden table, and slipped them on.
Mist occupied the sky, obscuring the moon so that only parts of it shone through. The red shoes’ fabric pulsed, a thousand malevolent souls fighting for dominance.
One Sunday morning, the old woman brought her to attend church. However, this time, Alma had made up her mind. She would wear the red shoes. They didn’t fit her as perfectly as before, but she could tolerate the mild discomfort for the world’s eyes to be constantly fixated on her.
Look at her they did. They all gazed at her whilst she strutted down the long aisle, her heels clacking against the wooden floor.
Oh, you want the world to see you for what you wear and what you look like, not who you are? So be it, child.
The priest started his sermon. As she listened, Alma’s eyelids felt like lead. The silence was deafening.
Suddenly, Alma’s shoes started twitching. A quiet tapping turned into aggressive stomping, and soon enough, everyone was wide awake staring at her with profound apprehension. Alma’s face flushed bright red, and she lowered her head. She frantically tried to control her own legs, but it was to no avail. It was as if her shoes had a mind of their own!
Her legs carried her torso as she pirouetted out of the bench where she had been sitting and into the aisle. Halfway down the aisle, it turned into a rapid moonwalk towards the door. There was an audible silence as all people attending the service questioned what they were witnessing. The priest was dumbfounded.
Panic surged through her as she realised she couldn’t stop. The shoes carried her out into the streets, where she danced. Alma’s palms clammed with sweat. What was going on?
Alma was pulled to the town square. The ribbons dragged her toes, their hum intensifying with each passing step. She tried to resist, but her legs moved by themselves. She started dancing in the middle of the town square, and as she danced, Alma felt a peculiar warmth spread through her.
A young gentleman hobbled towards her, the rhythmic thunking of his walking stick growing louder as he got nearer and nearer. As he got closer, Alma saw that there was a ginormous gash on the right side of his cheek.
Alma’s heart rose in her throat as the shoes forced her to walk closer. She wanted to run back to the old lady’s mansion, but her body was no longer under her control. Suddenly, her foot lashed out, one that sent him sprawling to the ground. Again and again, her feet struck, a flurry of blows that left him gasping for breath.
When it was over, Alma stood over his lifeless body, her chest heaving. The pooled blood seeped into the fabric of her shoes, staining them a more vibrant red. A strange warmth spread through her, a horrid feeling of feral satisfaction that made her human conscience shudder. She wanted to weep for what she had done, but the tears wouldn’t come. All she felt was a thirst for more.
Ah yes. Another soul to join us in our crusade.
In the abandoned village, the creature twirled and leapt, her movements graceful and deadly. The shoes hummed with a low, constant tone, a sound that echoed in her mind like a lullaby. She no longer remembered her name, her past, or the girl she had once been. All she knew was the dance, and the crimson glow of her shoes.
The old woman looked on from behind the curtains of her mansion, her hands holding another pair of red shoes.
Another rosebud, ready to bloom and blossom.*
*Inspired by H.C. Andersen’s “The Red Shoes.” (1845). Source: Andersen, Hans Christian. “The Red Shoes.”
Translated by H.P. Paull, HCA.gilead.org, 2007, http://hca.gilead.org.il/red_shoe.html