REBECCA SHARBAUGH The Tale ofWoolyRocky(or How He Ruined Everything) I neeupona timetherewasa mannamedWoolyRocky. He was sevenfeettalland nobodylovedhim.So he jumpedoffa cliff. He fellfifty feetontohard,cold rock, buthe did notdie.When he hit theground, hissoulescapedhisbodyand flewoffintothemountains. WoolyRocky spentyearsroaming themountains, searching forhissoul. As he searched,therocksworedownhis feetuntilhe was onlythree feettall.His clothesfellapartandhisskinbecameold andleathery. His hairgrewoutlong,silver, and tangled.He decidedto livein thewoods behindmydead grandma s house,wherehewaitedto stealthesoulsof little children. That is an old rusty kindofstory, and its noteventrueanymore. BecauseWoolyRockyis in facta blackbear,theworstkindthereis. I usedtothink helivedinmyfather swoodshed, becausemyfather always saidI wasforbidden from goinginthere. WoolyRockyhasdonelotsof horrible things to thepeopleof Perry Gap.And,he is theone whoput thecrayfish inSpilledPaintRiver. Once when I was little, probably sevenor eightish or so, I was splashing aroundin thecoldwaterof SpilledPaintRiverwhensomethingcrazyhappened .I was digging in themud and thepebblesand whenI pulledupa rock, I sawa creature squirming andflopping around. I scoopeditoutofthewater withmyhands.And I heldit.I sawitslittle beadyeyesstaring at me,itshardshell,itsskinny squirmy legs,itsbig ugly claws. "Hellodemonmonster," I said,lookingatitintently And thenitpinchedmyhand.I shrieked inpainand droppedit. When thecreature hitthewater,I ranto thebankas fastas I could. A singledropofblood drippedfrommyhandonto theground.That wasthelasttimeI touchedthewaterin SpilledPaintRiver, anditisall thanks toWoolyRocky. 150 ThatnightI hada dreamthatthedemoncrayfish waschasing me down thestreets of Perry Gap. It toweredoverme at threetimesmy height.I ranand ran,and itcameafter mewithitsshiny pincher claws out in front, trying to chop offmyhead. Breathlessly, I wove myway through thetreesofthewoods and ranto theporchofmygrandma s house.I burst through herdoor,andthat's whenI wokeup. The nextdayafter schoolI walkedto mygrandmashouselikeI did every day.Mygrandma was an artist and shelovedthewoods. She wentoutwitha canvasandpaintedevery day.Shepaintedthetreesand theblackberry bushesandonceshepainteda nestofbabybirds.Shegave me thispainting on mybirthday. I hungitin mybedroomnextto the window.SometimesI wouldcomehomefrom schoolandseemyfather ' sitting on theedgeofmybed,juststaring atit.I'm notsureifhelikedit orhatedit. Grandmahadwildgray hairdowntoherwaist, butitwasnotsilvery and tangledlikeWoolyRocky s. Her skinwas coveredinwrinkles, butshesomehowseemedso young.She neverworedresses, onlypants, and alwaysa sunhat, eveninthewinter. Shewas themostbeautiful old ladyinthewholeworld. She livedalone,in a littlecabinbackin thewoods. She and my grandfather hadbuiltthehouseyearsago,before they hadhadmymother and herotherbrothers. Sometimeswhen I saw thehouse,I liked to imaginemygrandmaand herhusbandbuildingit. I picturedthem securing thehingeson thefront door or standing on theroof,nailing downshingles. I had to use myimagination when I picturedmygrandfather. I sawa portrait thatmygrandma hadpaintedofhimonce.Intheportrait, hewasyoungandhandsomewitha brownmustache crawling acrosshis face.ButI hadneveractually seenhim. Once, I askedmyfather howhehaddied,andhesaidthathedied ofold age."He was twelve yearsolderthanyourgrandmother," he had said,and thenhe wentout to smoke,shutting thescreendoorbehind him. I askedGrandmaonce ifitwas trueaboutGrandpabeingtwelve yearsolder,and she said,"Sureis,sweetie.I married himwhen I was 151 onlysixteen. We ranoffinthemiddleofthenight andgotmarried ina churchin Ravensfield. Myfamily was scandalized.Butboy, werewe in love."After that,I lovedto imagineGrandma, so youngand fulloflife, falling inlovewithan older,handsomemustache man.I lovedtoimagine hergetting married secretly, eventhoughsheknewitwouldcause trouble. That day,the day afterthe demon crayfish dream,I asked my grandma aboutWoolyRocky "Grandma, was WoolyRockytheone whoputthecrayfish inthe riverř" "Whyyes,"sheanswered. "AndI'm pretty surehe putspidersin mycloset." Thenshesetupaneaselanda canvasonherporch. Shetookouther brownandbluebriefcase thatwasfulloftubesofoilpaintsanddabbed someofeachcolorontoa palette forme.Sheseta cupofturpentine next to me and laid out abouttendifferent paintbrushes.Myfavorite was madefrom horsetail hair.Thiswaswhatshedidevery daywhenI came over.Andevery timeI cameover, shesaidtheexactsamething. "Paintsomething. Anything youfeellike." That dayI paintedthedemoncrayfish. I paintedhimat thebottomoftheblackriver , lookingup atmyhand.Myfinger wascut,and a fewdropsofbloodwerespreading through thewater.When I painted thebeadyeyesofthedemon,I madethembright red,as redasfire-berries .I paintedthewaterdarkandblack,swirling aroundthemonster as ifhecontrolled itsmovement. I shivered whenI lookedatthefinished painting. My grandmahad a special ability. She could look at whatever I paintedand she could tellexactly whatI was feeling. Honestlyshe could. Thatday, thedayofthedemoncrayfish painting, shestaredatmy painting forwhatseemedlikea dayand thensaid,"Thisisjustlikethe timeofthedustbunniesandthecorduroy sofa.* I didn'taskherwhatshemeant.Neverdid. Instead,I added the dateinthelowercornerofthepainting. Once I did this, shehelditup formetosee. 152 Thenshesaidwhatshesaidtomeevery singleday.Shesaid,"MattieWellington , youarethebravest artist I know." Shetookmypainting upstairs. Thatyearwastheyearthatshehad emptied outhersparebedroomjustso shecouldfill itwithmypaintings. The roomwas already filling up."One dayweregoingto needa whole barnforallyourpaintings," mygrandma hadsaidonce.Then Grandma made me dinnerand walkedme home.At dinner, she sometimes told me storiesaboutmymother and thetimewhenshesliddowntherain spoutlikea spiderand thetimeshe roadon thebackofa largehogat thefair. Mymother diedwhenI was a baby, so I don'tremember her.Everyonesaysshewas beautiful and I knowshewas. She lovedto bake. When I imagine hersheiswearing an apronandholdinga pinkfrosted cupcakewithrainbowsprinkles. Her little woodenboxofrecipesisstill inthekitchen cupboard.When I wasa littlegirl, myfather usedtotake itoutand shoveitatmeand say, "Whydon'tyoueverbakeformelike yourmother didř"Mygrandma sometimes madepiesandcakesfordessert , andevery time,I wonderedifsheknewabouttherecipebox. Itwas a fewyearsafter thedemoncrayfish painting, whenI was thirteen, thatTeddyAlbertstarted walking me to mygrandma s house after school.His housewas right...