The wolves came out that night, before we were ready. People thought they were the old gods, but I knew better. Villagers made gifts, of corn dollies and blood, tied up their crop and offered it as their tithe.
They thought hanging iron horseshoes and wreathes of wolf's bane, angelica and st.john's wort on their doors would protect them. They thought planting a rowan tree would keep them safe. They thought the god wolves were like fairies, like witches. They pain in blood and bone magic, old magic.
I was ready for what they really wanted.
They weren't normal wolves. They were stronger, swifter. They were the colour of soot, of twilit sky and of the red brown sands in the west. One of them, who people claimed was the leader (which made me snicker behind my hands at mass) had great gnarled horns smooth as elephant tusks, twisted as ancient trees.
"They are gods of the wind, the sea, and the fires in our hearths. We must pay tritbute to them, for our own good," my people muttered behind prayer books.
They didn't prepare for wolves. So the wolves came.
When they came early, descending on the village as quietly as phantoms, the people panicked. They ran in droves, tossing their gifts behind them to appease the gods, drabbing their scythes and hoes and running to the nearest fields to gather their wheat in hasty, sorry bundles. The wolves didn't want their cyield, their dismal excuses for presents and offerings, they wanted sacrifices. Of the four children they stole away, I was the only one who didn't scream in terror. I screamed in loss. Of my family and friends.
I had accepted this possible fate years ago. I gave a noise of alarm when teeth closed around my shoulder, but the muzzle that helf me was, careful, if not gentle.
They will mourn us, my people, forget us, believe we are dead. They will move on, make more gifts for their 'gods', believing if they are ready earlier, next time their young won't be taken. How little they know.
Art by Abby Diamond
Text by Lucie MacAulay
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