She was walking through the woods, and she heard the wolf approaching. She wasn’t afraid at first; all she had to do was go back to the village. Yet she couldn’t find her way through the trees. Frantically she tried to find her way home, but the forest seemed to go on forever. Soon she was completely lost.
A long mournful howl split the air.
Marguerite woke in the dark. She listened for what could have woken her in the middle of the night. Then the echoing note sounded again. The despondent howling that had pierced her dreams was dreadfully real. It forced her to confront the feeling that something was horribly wrong.
Trembling, she threw on her clothes and ventured out into the night. It was snowing lightly, with individual flakes falling like tiny stars. The howls continued, leading her on. She wondered how long he had been crying while she was asleep, and whether anyone else had heard him.
When she finally reached the wolf, it wasn’t immediately clear what had made him cry so. He seemed to be sitting calmly, and she didn’t want to get too close. Then she saw the glitter of blood in the moonlight. One of his front paws was caught in one of Cheyne’s snares. The cord had tightened, biting into the skin.
“I thought you would be clever enough to avoid those,” she said, shoving away her distaste.
“It was covered in snow,” he said, eyes flashing. “and the wretched things are everywhere, thanks to your friend.”
"If you’re referring to the woodcutter, he is not my friend.”
The wolf just glared at her. Clearly it was not in the mood to hear her protests. He kept watching her as he dropped to the frozen ground beside him and pulled out her knife, tensing in anticipation of her next move. Her heart was beating wildly, part of her still convinced that this was a terrible idea and rebelling at being so close to him voluntarily.
“I shouldn’t be doing this.” She told him. “I should leave you to die.”
“And yet you came,” he said, eyes sharp as obsidian.
“Tell me what really happened that day.”
He did not refuse. Maybe he just wanted to be free as soon as possible. Perhaps he truly thought she was cold enough to just walk away if she didn’t get the truth.
“Do you know what a Baba Yaga is?” he asked.
“She’s a witch. But that’s just a story.”
He growled a little.“Look at who you are talking to. You of all people should know how real stories can be. Now are you going to use that knife, or not?”
“Give me a moment! My hands are shaking.”
Taking a deep breath, she leaned over the wounded limb. She tried to pull the thin rope out so she could cut it. He whimpered.
“Keep talking,” she suggested.
“You were almost right, but there is no one Baba Yaga. There are several. They look like old women, but they were never human. They like to test people. They can even be helpful. But if they feel you insulted them, they get to punish you.”
“Punish how?” she asked, pausing in her delicate task.
“It depends, but most of them like to eat people.”
She shivered. “How do you even know this?”
“A Baba Yaga used to be my mistress.”
Marguerite looked up at him when he admitted this, but the wolf was gazing of into the trees. At least his memories seemed to have distracted him. His usually crisp words had been strangely stunted, possibly because he was clenching his jaws to keep from lashing out as she worked.
“She was very talkative,” he continued. “One day she brought m to a little cottage in the woods. I thought it belonged to her. She told me to make sure that the little girl roaming the woods didn’t come in until she was ready.”
Marguerite stopped again as she recognized her own part in the story.
“You are not telling me my grandmother died because I was a naughty child.”
“No, I’m saying this Baba Yaga was cheating,” he snapped. “She should never have let me speak with you. I could tell right away that you were a child somebody loved.”
“That is a wonderful cloak you have on.”
“Do you like it? My grandma made it for me.”
“What did you say?”
She realized the wolf was staring at her again.
“You ran from me,” he accused.
“I was scared! You were so nice, and then you changed. It frightened me.”
“So you ran. But you didn’t go home.”
“Grandma’s was closer.”
She had finally managed to work the blade under enough to cut the string, but she kept a hold of his paw. She wanted to make sure there was no thread left in the gash encircling his leg.
“You must have known something was wrong,” he said.
“She wanted me to take off my cloak. Grandma never made me take it off,” she said, letting go of his foot and reaching up to brush the thin white scars on her neck and shoulders. “She started to lose her form as I was talking to her. She turned into something with long teeth and claws. It grabbed me and that’s all I remember.”
The wolf nodded. “If she had more time, she wouldn’t have lost the spell and you wouldn’t have known until it was too late.”
“What happened next?”
“What do you think?”
She looked into the burning black coals of his eyes. When she concentrated, she could almost picture the scene seven years ago just before she blacked out. She thought she has heard him snarl, but now she finally understood. He had been there, but he hadn’t been the villain.
“You saved me,” she said. “You came to the cottage and killed your mistress.”
“She wasn’t playing fair. You were an innocent. I couldn’t let you die because you were tricked.”
“Why did you take my cloak?”
“It was an accident. I didn’t want to leave you alone with the Baba Yaga’s body. I was worried she wouldn’t stay dead. But when I tried to move you the hood ripped off. Then I heard someone coming so I hid.”
“That would have been Cheyne. The woodcutter. He must have heard something,” she smiled as the wolf’s lip curled and looked down at the ruined trap. “I guess you two are even now.”
“I suppose,” he said, turning to limp away. “But if that man ever touches you again, I’m going for his throat.”
“Why do you even care?” she called after him.
She watched him slide away into the forest without getting an answer. Eventually she gave up and made her own way home.
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