The Woodsman and the Wolf

The wolf’s howl pierced the midnight silence, jolting Rohan awake. Under his thin blanket, he clenched his father’s rusted knife—the one Arjun had tossed him that morning with a grunt. “For the fences,” he’d said, but Rohan knew better. It was a test. And tonight, the test had claws.

Nestled against the curve of the northern mountains, the village of Dharvan clung to the edge of an ancient forest like a whispered secret. Life there moved with the seasons—harsh winters, short springs, and the ever-present scent of pine resin wafting from the woods. To the villagers, the forest was both provider and predator. Arjun, the woodsman, knew this better than most.

Each morning before sunrise, Arjun would rouse his son, Rohan, with a firm hand on the shoulder and a nod. Words were few between them, but their bond was built through action—splitting logs, hauling water, repairing fences before breakfast. Rohan, though only twelve, had learned to listen with his eyes.

But lately, something had shifted in the village. Chickens vanished in the night. Goats were found torn, their pens shattered. Whispers turned to warnings. And then came the tracks—wide, clawed, too large for a stray dog. A rogue wolf, the elders declared, the same kind that had once mauled a man seasons ago. The village turned to Arjun.

“You’re the woodsman,” they said. “If anyone can deal with it, it’s you.”

Arjun’s gaze flicked to his old axe, now more polished symbol than weapon. Beneath his tunic, a long-healed scar twisted down his left side, a reminder of the day he stopped being invincible. He said nothing, only nodded and walked away.

That night, Rohan overheard the hushed argument at the village well.

“He’s too old now.”

“Cowardice hides behind silence.”

Rohan’s face burned. They didn’t know his father—not the way he did. Arjun wasn’t afraid. He was... calculating. Still, the shame hung like smoke.

Later, by the fire, Rohan stared at his father’s hands. Strong, calloused, yet slower than before. “Why don’t you go after it?” he asked quietly.

Arjun didn’t look up from sharpening the knife. “Because strength means nothing if your mind is weaker. And I can’t afford to be careless again.”

Silence. Then, “But the village needs you.”

“They need someone who isn’t afraid to prepare.”

That night, Rohan made a decision.

He slipped from his bed just before dawn, knife tucked under his shirt, the forest pressing against the edge of his courage like fog on the mountain. He wouldn’t fight the wolf. Not really. But he would find it. He would prove himself.

Each step into the forest was a step into the unknown. The pines loomed overhead, casting green shadows that whispered with the wind. But Rohan remembered everything Arjun had taught him: where the moss grew thickest, how to find animal tracks by broken twigs and flattened grass, how to breathe without noise.

Midway through the day, he found fresh tracks—deep, deliberate. Nearby, a goat carcass picked clean. The wolf had been here recently. Rohan’s breath hitched, but he forced it steady. He set a snare, using vines Arjun had shown him how to tie, baited with the last scrap of dried meat from his pouch.

He climbed a low tree and waited.

The sun slipped. Shadows stretched. Then—movement. The wolf padded into view, a phantom of fur and muscle. Its amber eyes scanned the underbrush. Rohan’s heart thundered. The trap snapped.

Chaos.

The wolf yelped, lunging, the snare tightening around its leg. But it was strong—too strong. The vine strained. Rohan knew it wouldn’t hold.

He dropped from the tree, landing clumsily, and shouted, waving his arms. “Go! Get away!” he cried.

The wolf turned on him, teeth bared. Then—a low whistle cut through the air.

Arjun stepped from the trees, calm as a mountain. In his hand, his old axe—raised, not to strike, but to command.

The wolf froze. Then backed away, limping, vanishing into the shadows.

Silence.

Rohan sank to his knees, trembling.

Arjun walked over, checking the boy first, then the failed trap. “Good knots,” he said. “Wrong tree.”

Rohan looked up, voice cracking. “I—I wanted to prove I could be brave.”

“You were,” Arjun said, crouching beside him. “Bravery isn’t the absence of fear—it’s moving forward despite it.”

Rohan nodded, tears hot in his eyes. “Were you scared? When the wolf came at you?”

Arjun’s face softened. “Terrified. But I had you to come back to.”

—

By the time they returned to the village, word had spread. The rogue wolf was gone. The villagers clustered around, full of questions and cheers. But Arjun didn’t say much. He simply placed something in Rohan’s hand—the hunting knife, its handle worn smooth by years of use.

Rohan looked at it, then his father.

“For the fences?” he asked.

Arjun shook his head. “For what comes next.”

That night, they sat together by the fire, no words needed between them. Outside, the forest rustled with secrets. But within the house, courage had taken root—not loud, not flashy, but steady as a pine tree.