The Wolf and the Lambs

In a lush, sun-drenched valley nestled between two mountain ranges, there lived a peaceful flock of lambs. Their days were filled with sunshine, soft grass, and the watchful care of their elder, an old ram named Bartholomew. Life in the valley had always been tranquil, but Bartholomew knew too well that peace never lasts forever.

One morning, as the mist still clung to the hills, a dark shadow appeared at the edge of the forest. It was a wolf—large, lean, and with eyes as sharp as broken glass. He had wandered far from his northern hunting grounds, hungry and weary. When he spotted the flock grazing lazily near the brook, a sinister smile curled on his snout.

Instead of charging in with bared teeth and claws, the wolf devised a plan. He would trick them.

He disguised his voice to sound soft and friendly. “Hello, dear lambs,” he called out from a distance. “I am no threat. I have changed. I seek peace and friendship, not blood.”

The lambs looked up in confusion and fear. Some stepped back. But among them were three young lambs—Curio, Lila, and Bram—who had never seen a wolf before. They were innocent, curious, and their hearts, untouched by the harshness of the world, believed in the goodness of all.

“We should listen,” said Curio, the boldest. “What if he truly means no harm?”

Lila nodded. “Everyone deserves a second chance.”

Bram hesitated. “But Bartholomew always warned us about wolves...”

The old ram, hearing their whispers, limped over. His voice was gravelly from age, but strong. “Lambs, a wolf is a wolf. Their nature is in their blood. You cannot reason with hunger.”

The young lambs frowned. They didn’t want to think badly of anyone. That night, as the others slept, the three crept away to meet the wolf at the edge of the forest.

The wolf welcomed them with false warmth. “You are brave to come here,” he said, hiding his teeth behind a wide grin. “Let me share stories of the world beyond the valley.”

Night after night, the lambs met with the wolf. He spun tales of distant mountains, of glowing cities in the stars, and of magic rivers that granted wishes. They were entranced.

One evening, the wolf said, “Let me show you my world. Come just a little further into the trees.”

Curio stepped forward, then paused. “Will we be safe?”

“Of course,” lied the wolf. “You have my word.”

Just as they were about to follow, a loud crack echoed through the trees. Bartholomew burst from the underbrush, his horns lowered, his eyes ablaze with rage. “Back!” he roared.

The wolf snarled and leapt, but Bartholomew met him midair. The fight was brutal. Though old and worn, Bartholomew had strength born of purpose. He fought not for himself, but for his flock.

Wounded and limping, the wolf fled into the forest, never to be seen again.

The lambs were shaken. Bartholomew, battered but alive, turned to them and said, “Let this be your lesson. Evil rarely comes with growls and fury. It comes with charm and gentle words.”

From that day, the young lambs never again doubted the wisdom of their elder. They stayed close to the flock, watched the shadows with wary eyes, and warned others of the wolf that almost took them.

And Bartholomew, though older still, stood watch every night, not out of fear, but out of love.

The lambs were shaken. Bartholomew, battered but alive, turned to them and said, “Let this be your lesson. Evil rarely comes with growls and fury. It comes with charm and gentle words.”

From that day on, the young lambs never again doubted the wisdom of their elder. They stayed close to the flock, watched the shadows with wary eyes, and warned others of the wolf that almost took them.

And Bartholomew, though older still, stood watch every night, not out of fear, but out of love. His scars were deep, but his heart remained strong.

And in time, the lambs grew into wise rams and ewes, teaching their own young the same lesson: not all smiles are kind, and not every voice that speaks softly has a kind heart behind it.