A Wolf and his Boy

They found each other in the springtime. The boy was crying. His eyes were red and he lay curled under a bush at the far reaches of a meadow beyond the end of town. When he felt the other’s presence he straightened but made no move to get up. The wolf eyed him balefully, as one does a meal that does not seem fully satisfying.

 “What do you want?” said the boy. He felt curiously calm, even though his muscles were taut and his eyes wide. Wolves do not, in general, attack people. They prefer to go for the simpler kill: the straying lamb, the quietly grazing deer, or if hunger is of the essence, rabbit will suffice. This is of little comfort when one is sitting opposite you. A wolf is not a dog. He will not roll over; he will not play fetch; he will not make friends. If you approach, he will growl - gently at first as a warning, but quickly deepening as you encroach upon his territory. Then he will kill you, and the fact that he is more afraid of you than you are of him will be of no consolation.

The wolf sniffed the air and sneezed, but made no other move.

“Eat me then, it couldn’t make things worse,” said the boy and lay down on the ground, head nestled in the dirt.

The wolf took a pace towards him and whined.

The boy lay still, trying to control the shaking in his limbs. A wolf was stood over him. Even with eyes closed, he could feel the heat of it; smell the deep must of mud and urine that lay tangled in its fur. Through the lids of his eyes he saw the shadow approach and blot out the sun, and he waited for the blow: a single paw that would come crashing down to end his life and smash his spine.

When he opened his eyes the wolf was gone. He stood up and walked home, brush stinging his feet at every step.

*

At home, Machu's father was waiting for him. He looked worried and one look at his son’s shoeless feet was enough to tell him what had happened. The old man waited for the boy to come inside and then gestured to the table. A stew bubbled slowly on the stove and Semuel turned his back on his son as he impassively spooned the dark liquid into two bowls.

“They chased you again,” he said. It wasn’t a question. Machu nodded anyway.

“Did you try ignoring them?”

The boy didn’t answer.

“They’re only boys,” said the old man, looking suddenly tired. “They’ll forget about you eventually. Find some new sport, a new game to distract them.”

Machu continued eating the warm, thick liquid as it congealed, hard and lumpen in his stomach.

*

Machu woke up to the sound of insects on the night air. His skin felt cold, despite the close heat of the evening and he heard an insistent flapping, quiet like an owl but loud enough to have woken him. He stepped out of bed, sweat cooling on his bare back, naked except for a loin cloth and padded to the window. The scents of spice and vanilla swept in, though he was certain he had closed it before settling in for sleep. The simple canvas curtain writhed in the breeze, flapping senselessly against the wall of the hut. Machu closed the window, unsettled and turned back to his bed. Yellow eyes looked back at him. In the familiarity of his room the wolf looked bigger than it had done on the plains. He could sense the closeness of it, taste its scent amongst the earthy notes of clay and canvas. 

"Still hungry then," whispered Machu and the sound of his own voice startled him. The wolf turned its head but made no other move. 

"Did you come to finish me off?" whispered Machu, slightly louder this time. "Did you save me till the sun was lower and your appetite larger?"