Eventually, spending so much time in manskin--thinking, and talking--changed them.  Turned them.  Oh, they were still vicious.  Still endlessly hungry.  But now, they walked on two legs more often than four.  And they too, stole.

But these wolves who walked, walked on two legs when the moon hid her face, were no longer interested in stealing only chickens, and goats.  These wolves were cold, so cold without their skins, and without their lupoaica, and so they began to steal things far more precious, things irreplaceable.  Things that could keep them warm at night.  

They were so, so hungry…

Once upon a time, long long ago, and far, far away, there was a sweet young girl.  A girl exceedingly young, and exceedingly beautiful, a beauty so entrancing that all the young men of the village yearned for her hand.  At night, they would lie in their beds, and think of blessings for their mothers, and their fathers, their sisters, and their brothers, but most of all, they would breathe gratitude, thankfulness for being born men that could love her.  

And truly was the girl a beauty, with rippling hair, thick, and brown as bear skin, chestnut eyes--welcoming and warm as woodland pools, a pink mouth wide with smiles, mobile, and expressive, and skin as pale as winter’s frost.  Truly, she was altogether lovely, but her beauty was of the lotus in mud, for her parents never saw her beauty--inside or out--only what it could bring.  

Her father was a hunter, poor and parsimonious, and her mother no better.  Together, they lamented daily over having been cursed with a daughter.  Every day, her father longed for a son who could take over the hunting, and ease his burden.  Every day, her mother pined for a son who would take care of his parents in their old age.  

Never mind the fact that it’s not the sons who take care of aging parents, but their wives…

Father, Mother, they were never cruel…

But they were never kind.

The girl knew no birthdays, no gifts, no soft words, no gentle hands.  She was fed, and clothed, but she wasn’t loved.  She wasn’t cherished.        

They did their duty.

One day, her father said to her, “Come fiica, it is your birthday, and you are now a woman grown.  I have done right by you, and now have a boon for you.  Here.  Take it.”  He handed her a parcel, wrapped in brown woolen cloth, and tied with twine, and she unwrapped it to find a fine velvet cloak, heavy, lovely, and scarlet as blood.  “This is to be your bridegift, as I have promised you to the butcher who lives in the woods.”  Into her soft arms he pressed a covered wicker basket, heavy and rough.  “Take this basket, and take yourself, hie hence to him, and return no more.  You would have been better a son, but he has paid a generous brideprice to have you, so at least your mother and I have that.  Wear the cloak that he may know that his bride approaches.”

“The old butcher,” she murmured, “who has buried three wives, and none of them easy?”

“The very same.  Surely a man who has been a husband so often knows how to do it well.”

The girl lifted the heavy fabric that covered the basket to find it filled with cake and wine.

Her father gestured to the basket with his chin.  “Your wedding banquet.  Mind your manners, and take care not to eat it unless invited.  It would not do for your new husband to think we have taught you no better.  Behave yourself on the way, and do not leave the path, or you may fall, and then there would be nothing left for your new husband.”

She promised to obey her father.

Her mother was nowhere in sight.

The girl took her basket, and a bundle of her things (there weren’t many), and started on her way.  Her heart was heavy, for though she had never been loved, at least she had been known.  At least she knew the shape of her home, the scents, the sounds.  But she knew better than to complain, for what alternative was there?  She had been sold to the highest bidder, and now there was nothing left but to walk the slow steps of her fate as she left the village to be swallowed by the woods.  

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   

But I have promises to keep,   

And miles to go before I sleep,   

And miles to go before I sleep.

Three steps into the woods, it was dark.  Six steps in, she could no longer hear the village.  Nine steps in, and she was all alone.  Eventually, though, her eyes adjusted.  Eventually, though, she began to hear the songs of the birds.  Eventually, though, she was surrounded by life, small, furry, and curious.

And something not so small, and not so furry (not now), but infinitely more curious.

Sunlight streamed through the canopy of the leaves, golden and warm, as the scent of daffodils filled the air.  The girl walked on, trying to enjoy, trying to remember every moment to fill her heart for later.  For later when there would be no warmth, no sweetness.  

Only duty.   

Presently, she realized, however, that she was not alone.  A man walked alongside her, silent and graceful as a leaf falling to the ground.  She looked up, but was not startled.  He looked too easy for fear, his smile too warm, too inviting.  She was not afraid of him

“Hello,” she said.

Please Subscribe to read the full chapter