Little Wolf

Freshly baked bread and ripe cheeses. Waxy slightly fermented sweetness of the last of last autumn's apples. Ginger cake. These aromas snaked through the pine trees to my keen canine nose and awoke me, drooling, from my slumber. Oh oh, do you know just how good that felt after the freezing stillness of a long northern winter?

I arose and ran to my favourite vantage point overlooking the village. The delicious smells emanated from the nearest timber cottage. The lady of the house is an excellent baker. I'd had a fine meat pie she'd made the previous summer, its disappearance blamed on her hapless husband, given the ruckus I'd overheard later that evening.

The end of a sentence drifted to my ears: ‘…to your grandmother.’

The cottage door opened. Out she came, the one they call Littell Red Rydingudd, basket on arm. Oh! Better and better. I quite forgot myself and chased my tail a few turns in delight as a plan formulated in my mind, then I set off at speed towards the forest.

When she reached the wooded path I followed her along the ridge. I slunk and ducked, careful not to be seen for a couple of miles until we neared the glade. A little more light there I thought, to lessen any fear that may be creeping up on this delectable young morsel. By this time greed had set in and the goodies by her side seemed mere hors d'oeuvre. Oh, how I would devour her, oh how I would feast.

I ran ahead to meet her so it would seem I had travelled from the opposite direction.

‘Greetings to you my dear,’ I said, in my uttermost charming manner.

‘Hello,’ she said, tilted her head slightly and eyed me with careful thought.

‘And what brings you to these parts this fine afternoon?’ I enquired.

‘I'm taking supper to Grandma.’

‘Would you partake of a game to make the journey a little more interesting?’

She shrugged.

I started to feel somewhat irritated at this point. Something to do maybe, to break the monotony of life in this frigid wasteland?

I didn’t say that. What I said was: ‘It'll be fun.’

She scratched her nose nonchalantly.

‘There are two paths to Grandma's house from here. I'll take the left-hand path, you take the right-hand path. We shall see who gets there first.’

She nodded. At least I think she did.

So off I went, and sprinted as soon as I was safely out of sight.

As I approached Grandma's cottage I noticed the door was ajar. I stepped up my pace to leap in through the entrance, growling with as much menace as I could muster. I stopped dead in my tracks. Grandma sat upright in a chair in front of me, eyes wide, mouth open, not stirring an inch. The old woman must have died of fright the very moment I burst into the room.

Oh the best laid plans of beast and man. This certainly wasn’t how it happened in the tales of my pup-hood. No matter. I crept into a corner to lay in wait for Littell.

I'd been asleep for a while when I heard Littell approach. She rapped briefly on the door, shouted a cheery ‘Hello,’ and entered the room. When she saw Grandma she gasped and dropped the basket, the contents spilling out over the rug. She ran over to Grandma and felt her cheek. She slumped, moaned, then gently drew the lids over Grandma’s empty stare.

At that moment I jumped out from the shadows, snarling. Littell spun round to face me, a loud shriek escaped from her mouth. I jumped up onto the arm of the chair next to Grandma. Littell pulled herself up to her full height and roared ‘Get down!’ And with one swift, precise movement pushed me off the chair arm, onto my back, and pinned me there by my throat.

That I felt surprise was an understatement. I had certainly underestimated Littell. Oh I protested alright. I squealed, squirmed, snapped and snarled. I looked most undignified no doubt, with my legs stuck up in the air. The last one to do this to me was my own dear mother, the day before the woodcutter murdered her and my brethren.

Littell held me there like she had all the time in the world. When I’d calmed down, she reached into her cloak pocket with her free hand to retrieve a biscuit and held it out to me. I wanted it badly, but the wild in me resisted. She put it down and began to stroke my belly, scratching lightly, her fingers running through my pelt.

‘Poor skinny little Wolf,’ she murmured. ‘You need a good meal. I watched you play, you know, as a pup, down in the glade. I know that bastard killed your family. He didn’t get you because you were the runt, small enough to hide well out of his reach. He ranted about it later. That's why I left food for you. Mother blamed him for its disappearance, and half the time the lecherous bastard was too drunk to know whether he'd eaten it or not. Well, this house is mine now little Wolf. Grandma told me when she realised her time was short. “Your mother's not getting a penny from me,” she’d say. “Never could stand that good-for-nothing woodcutter she married after your father died.” You should stay here little Wolf, times are not auspicious for Canine Lupus. What do you say?’

She offered the biscuit again and this time I took it. When she let go of me I stayed on my back for a few moments then rolled round and sat up. With eyes open anew I viewed the room. Logs in the fireplace waiting to be lit, a thick sheepskin rug in front of it, a very comfortable looking bed to be glimpsed in the other room.

Littell walked to the larder, opened the door. I padded behind her, then stood by her side. Saliva formed in my mouth as my nose focused on sides of ham, smoked herring, sausages, black pudding, eggs, cheese, potatoes, beets, cabbages, onions, dried mushrooms, nuts, pickles, preserves. Oh oh, so much more.

Outside, the rain started.