I watched her. As she ambled idly to her grandmother’s house, as she returned home in the evening; I watched her. At least once every week, the worn wicker basket held in a hand like creamy silk, her deep red mantle draped lazily about her shoulders, she sauntered down the dusty woodland path. The sun glints off her coppery hair and I take in the deep red gleam, her face vacant and her mind somewhere else. So unassuming, so fierce, so beautiful. What I would give to be with her in that somewhere else. But I am a man of the forest, a creature of the woodlands; it is here that I belong, not some comfortable farm on the plains. I have no need to make a living, my inheritance is enough. I am a simple man. I live off the land, aid my neighbors, and commune with my brethren, yet it is not every man who may speak with wolves.
My lupine senses developed at a very early age. I could hear better, smell better, hunt better. In my adolescence, the relentless images of wolven practices haunted my mind like a persistent fever. This is how my animal brothers communicate; not in words, but with images. I could speak with them, understand them. My body is fit and strong, my shaggy chestnut hair and stocky figure lend me a wayward appearance, but my eyes of burnished gold grant me a primal and animalistic intelligence. I am man in mind and man in body, but my instinct is wolf and the forest my constant companion.
The woods, they seemingly spoke with me; the leaves rustling in the wind and the twigs snapping beneath my feet as I pass ask carefully, quietly, how I fared and what had befallen me that day. With every step I took, I answered with a smile and a sigh, and the forest seemed to understand my longing. The foliage brushed against me as I passed through the branches of trees, touching me in reassurance and comfort. Soon, the wind spoke softly in my ear, soon.
My true family awaits me outside my modest if somewhat spacious woodland home. The stone foundations have kept many generations of my family safe from the troubles of the outside world, of the human world, but the accommodating and comfortable dwelling begs for a larger family to wander its grand halls, to fill its many rooms with laughter and with love. My wolf brothers sing their nighttime litany in preparation of my homecoming this cool autumn evening. Tonight has been particularly trying and such longing fills my heart. No, I don’t want to hunt tonight, little brothers, I say to them. They know it is the troubles of mankind that leave me so weary and, nuzzling against me in farewell, they leave me to my thoughts.
Entering my comfortable, rustic home, I kick my tall leather boots off my long, slender feet and take up a comfortable chair nearest the fire in the grand hall of my home. There are many chores that demand my attention, books from the trader I’ve yet to read, and I am ever in need of sleep, but I cannot wrest from my mind that fair and thoughtful face. I am resolved. Something must be done, lest I lose myself in dreams of her rich red hair, hair that dances in the wind like the flames I see dancing before me upon the hearth. I seek my lonely bed in search of sleep, but am met only with fitful dreams of the hunt and of heart wrenching desire.
Long have I lived in the forest and loved its people as well as its creatures, but never was my heart so captured as when she first wandered into the forest. Since that day have I watched her, guarded her, and so fervently wished she was mine. I knew the old woman she so religiously tended, a lovable grandmother who needed help and comfort in her old age but had not the heart to leave the forest she loved so dearly; this was her home, as it was mine. I had decided to be of help to her, as the old woodsman who often aided her, Jerle, was getting on in years and needed as much peace as the woodland life would allow.
“Here, ma’am, let me do that for you.” I stepped into the clearing surrounding the grandmother’s quaint house. She had just breached the doorway of her wayward cottage with a couple of rustic buckets in hand and her intended destination was quite obviously the deep water well. She looked over her shoulder at me and smiled.
“Well, thank-you kindly, young man. It’s not often these old bones get a bit of a rest, but a young buck like you can take a few more years of household chores, eh?”
I gave her a wolfish grin as I nodded fervently my agreement. “No trouble at all, ma’am.”
“You’re the young gentleman who chops the wood for me when old Jerle can’t make it out here, aren’t you? I must say, I’m awful grateful to you, young sir. Not many young men would waste their time looking after a good looking old lady like me…” she said with a sly grin, “Nor would they look after my granddaughter with such care or genuine concern.”
I quickly averted my gaze from her piercing look that followed. “I,uh... only want to help,” I said gruffly, but earnestly.
“My, my…golden eyes.” She breathed so softly only my enhanced ears would catch it. “Well,” she said with more hearty vigor, “You need a shave and I don’t fancy I want to know how you got all those nasty scars,” my hand instantly shot up to the faint scar that graced my tender throat, “but you look clean and respectable enough and as old Jerle is getting on in years and, of course, since you have good reason to stick around… how would you like to help me out around the old place, hmm?” she said in the direct fashion of the elderly.
My acute gaze quickly surveyed the property in which I stood and noted a great deal of work to be done. The thatch was just beginning to mold, the grass needed cutting, the shutters needed attention and the fence a great deal of mending; all quick work for a younger man. I nodded in the affirmative and with my eyes gave hearty thanks to the kind old woman, who understood my amorous plight and sympathized. She invited me in for tea, which I gladly accepted, and I followed her into the tidy, cozy cottage. Sitting by the hazy fire while the grandmother bustled about the kitchen, the whole scenario took on the quality of a dream, the house smelled of clean lavender and the air was thick and heavy. My eyes closed themselves and I stretched out my consciousness to try to reach my wolfen brethren, but all of them were too sated with the reward of last night’s hunt, snoring away the bright autumn day. Typical.
“Do you like sugar in your tea, dear?” I came out of my trance instantly, blinking my eyes as they refocused, “Falling asleep?” she asked.
“Ah, uh, no. No, thank you, I mean.”
“Didn’t mean to startle you, dear. So,” she said stirring with quiet deliberation, “what do you intend to do about my little granddaughter, hmm?” To my silence she responded, “She’ll be back in three days. You have ‘til then to decide what you’re going to say to her, but take care to speak with her father if things go favorably.” She paused, chewing her lip thoughtfully as she did so, “She’ll like you. She’s headstrong and you’re a sensible young man, but I sense a wild spirit in you. You'd make a great match.”
Those very words carried me through the next few days; I repaired the thatch with care and mended the fence from sunup to sundown. My wolf brothers called for me in their mournful song of the comforting night air, but I could not answer. The work left me weary and I had no time for the hunt or for my nocturnal family. When the day finally came, stripped down to my bare chest and breeches, I was working diligently on fitting new shutters to the crumbling cottage windows when the clever fox-haired minx snuck up behind me.
“And who might you be?” she practically shouted with mock indignation.
I, of course, fell off the rickety ladder I had been standing upon. “Oof!” I exclaimed as I hit the ground with a thud. My heart caught within my chest as my brain fumbled for words and I stared into those dewy emerald green eyes filled with amusement as she towered above me, a cool contrast to her fiery bronze hair.
“Swallow your tongue? Well, you can’t possibly be the gentleman who usually tends the cottage; I heard he was a fair bit older than yourself,” she quipped. She smelled like a whole field of wildflowers, colorful and earthy with a musky undertone that was all her. I quickly rose to my feet, brushing off my trousers as I did so. Crossing her arms beneath her breasts, her fair skin in contrast to the light mantle of red wool which so casually graced her shoulders, she spoke again, “Are you alright, I mean, I really am sorry about startling…” Her breath caught as my gaze met hers, golden eyes peering up through thick lashes. A Beast’s eyes. Wolf eyes. She licked her lips slowly.
“I should see to my grandmother,” she said in a rush and dashed inside. I had somehow caught her with my lupine gaze and the whole day thereafter she sought excuses to leave the comfortable cottage for the warm autumn outdoors. Claiming the day was too nice to be wasted, or that her elderly grandmother must have more water fetched from the well, she bustled back and forth, in and out of the modest home. I said little, just gazed at her with all the fiery intensity I had felt inside me so long for this gorgeous slip of a girl, this clever and cunning fox. She came to say good-bye to me before she left that day.
“I’d.. uh, like to apologize for my rudeness earlier. I didn’t intend to scare you. I mean, ah, not that you were frightened of course,” she said with a small smile.
I gave her a roguish grin as I said ‘It was worth falling off a ladder just to meet you. Besides, it’ll keep me fresh in your mind.”
She licked her cherry lips and smiled wryly, “Yes, yes of course. It’s not something I could easily forget.”
My gilded eyes fell upon that full mouth, slightly parted, begging to be tasted. Her breath came quickly between her ruby lips and as she leaned slightly forward toward my large frame. I raised her hand and brushed it quickly with my lips.
“Until we meet again.” Then I turned and walked away. The heady scent of her skin pervaded my nostrils long after she was gone. I did not follow her to the edge of the autumn woods that night, for my wolven brothers, though I had long put them off in lieu of my labor, guarded her every step.
I was beset, I was undone. But as I was caught by her laughter, clever quips and sanguine beauty, so, too, was she undone by my mystery, my wildness. She visited her loving grandmother more often after our first meeting, nearly every day. She would stop first in the cottage and see to her elder, but soon afterward she would rush out to keep me company while I worked.
“You’re not at all like the boys in the village”, she would tease.
I kept to my work, giving her the merest glance or a wide grin while I labored. She would tell me jokes, tell me of life in the village, of the world outside the forest, and invent fantastic and imaginitive stories with a thought. She told me of her hopes, her dreams and her fears. And I listened dutifully, for as her sweet voice rang in my ears, I was overjoyed, I was bemused and I was horribly in love. Each day we parted she would come to me as dusk began to kiss the top of the trees, and I would respectfully brush my lips over her fair hand and with each parting the longing grew in her eyes until its fervor matched my own.
We began to picnic everyday by the nearby river bank, her grandmother sometimes joining us. However, the old woman often left us to our own devices and, upon leaving the cottage, often giving me a roguish wink of encouragement. On the sandy banks we lounged, eating passively, listening to the water chortle all the while. She looked deep into my eyes as she talked, her tourmaline eyes laughing and dancing as she told marvelous jokes and stories for my amusement. She asked me questions while we ate, all about my life in the forest, and what information I did not provide she invented with gusto. It was on a blustery day deep into autumn, when the chill had begun to seep into the air, the leaves fell more rapidly and our daily picnics soon had to come to a close, that she looked at me with grave eyes and her voice took on a somber tone.
“Whatever is the matter?” I asked as tenderly as I knew how.
She sighed, pushed a strand of bronze hair behind her ear and I braced myself for the worst. “Do you not love me a little?” she pleaded softly.
Astounded, I could say nothing. Her face was crestfallen, and as the fading golden sun glinted off her cast of copper hair, I took her soft face in my careworn hands.
“I love nothing in this world as well as I love you.” Her lips parted in a slow smile.
I was lost.
And we were lost.
I tangled my fingers into her silky hair. I pulled her forcefully to me and my lips caught hers. Our kisses caught fire; they grew more and more heavy, more quick and lush. The smell of her invaded my senses, her quick breaths sung sweetly in my sensitive ears; I felt wild with passion and she returned my wildness in kind. I felt a familiar, growing desire. “I need you,” she whispered softly against my mouth.
“No.” I said parting her body from mine. Already I could see her face had fallen, the wild ardor that overtook it but a moment ago was already replaced with shame and the scarlet hue of rejection. “I will go tomorrow and ask your father for your hand,” her face lit up again. “Your grandmother will vouch for my character, your parents will accept me in kind and we will be married.” I brushed my fingers against her fair cheek. “I needed only to know you felt the same as I.”
So it was decided that I would make the long trek to town to ask her father her hand in marriage. I had never felt so light as I walked the worn path of my woods that day. I was dressed in my best tunic, flowers in one hand for her mother as the leaves shook in applause for my impending victory and the wind seemed to whisper words of encouragement at my back. My fondest thought was of my intended awaiting my deliverance of her father’s answer snug in her grandmother’s cottage.
And yet, something pressed upon my mind, a warning, a heavy impression of danger. I ignored the unpleasant sensation, yet the niggling sense at the back of my mind told me to explore it. The woods had grown to be a dangerous place, of late. Rumors of bandits, rogues, and other unsavory characters pervaded the conversation of our woodland neighbors. This shadow of a threat had been growing on my mind, so when I came near to the edge of the woods, I decided to traverse my conscious mind and figure out what could possibly be bothering me. The truth of it hit me like a stone wall. The woodland wolves, my brothers, who for so many moons I had ignored, had been trying to reach me. Those who walk on two legs, they said, are burning the land, burning our homes. Your woman and her great mother are in danger. You must run, you must join the hunt.
I opened my mind to their call and I followed the wolf song.
A quaking fear entered me as I never before have known. I sprinted off the path to a more direct route through the woods. My eyes took in the sights far off, the smells of the woodland creatures, and faintly, the smell of smoke. Faster and faster I tore through the trees, ignoring brambles and any discomfort I may have felt beneath the pelt of human cloth. I sprinted, darted, ‘til my lupine ears began to hear voices; low, gruff, satisfied. I was a creature gone mad, gone were the vestiges of my humanity; pure animal instinct took over. I knew what sight would befall my eyes before I saw the ruined cottage. The thatch still smoldered, the house looked disemboweled, its insides spilt upon the grass. A growl escaped my throat as I warily approached the place I once called home.
I found the grandmother first, her face so twisted in pain I hardly recognized her gentle countenance. Like a mother to me, she was. Tears stung my golden eyes to behold the numerous unnecessary stab wounds that marred her tiny frame. I moved away before my humanity could over take my senses. The wolf song rang louder now in my perfect ears. It sang sweetly to me, a song of indescribable grief, and of revenge.
Sprawling, spread-eagled, face battered and bruised, blood spattered between her legs and coating her beautiful pale throat where a wanton knife had sliced through so many layers of tissue and muscle, I found my intended bride already carried over the threshold. A howl rose up in my throat and I did nothing to suppress it; a guttural cry to make the hair stand on end and to strike fear into the hearts of my enemies. I heard a rustle from within the ruined house and boldly I walked forth, snatching a knife off the battered kitchen table. One of the men, for there were many and I could smell their stench on my beloved’s battered body, had chosen to stay and look through the rubble for anything valuable. My ears perked up, and my lips drew back from my teeth in a snarl. I silently stalked behind the clumsy, ungainly fellow and without a qualm stuck the knife straight into his spinal cord. Ruby red blood gushed forth, immersing my hand. The knife has become entangled in the bone and senew and could not be retrieved with ease, so, reaching beneath his wide, unblinking eyes and trembling chin, I tore out his ungrateful throat with my bare hands. I barely noticed as he dropped limply to the floor, hell-bent on my revenge.
I rushed outside the door, stepping over my beloved’s body as I did so, and made for the axe with which I had so often cut wood for the old woman and my purloined bride. Their brash voices guided me as I ran through the woods and finally happened upon their makeshift camp. They took inventory of their valuables and laughed to themselves about their hearty conquest.
Time to hunt, I said to my brothers of the moon.
We Come.
Minutes later, it seemed like hours, I had since ceased to be a man at all, hewn corpses strewn all about me. Crimson blood stained my pelt, my paws, my muzzle, stained the weapon with which I cut their vice-ridden bodies to pieces. Two of my brothers joined in the fighting, ripping out the tender throats of my enemies. Their screams shattered the calm of dusk and the echoes would ring discordantly into the gentle night. Let the carrion feast upon their flesh for they are poison, these unnatural scavengers of men. I wearily follow my feet back to the cottage I once felt was home, to the place where I once knew joy and felt love. I stumble to my lover’s broken body and sobs wrack my solid frame. I am overcome. All that I dreamed for, all that I hoped for is lost. Feet crash in the underbrush behind me, but I do not care. I am blinded by grief, wishing that which was done, undone.
The cruelty of humanity is vast.
“All right, lad. Up you get. I have to get you into town,” he paused. “You’re barking mad,” he whispered, “They’re all dead, all of ‘em.” It was Jerle, the wizened old woodsman. I vaguely noticed my hands were bound with a rough rope as he was raising me to my feet. The woods were strangely silent; no whispering wind, no chattering leaves. The world had gone gray; winter had come to welcome this sanguine tragedy. My golden eyes had lost their sheen. I would pay for this crime. And all the while the wolf song rang clearly in my perfect ears. A funeral dirge, a mournful lay. It was my own.
