What does it mean, really, to be in the wrong place at the wrong time?
For most of us, it's probably the result of a stroke of bad luck. Some unfortunate coincidence of fate that puts us into unfortunate circumstances entirely out of our control.
What about those who insert themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time, and as a result, find themselves running for their life? Well, some of you might call that stupid.
Now, now, it's a little harsh calling a seven-year-old stupid, don't you think? Though I suppose truth often hurts and it is hard to deny that little Lottie just really... wasn't... a clever seven-year-old.
You see, when all the villagers moan and cry about some monster who appears at night to steal their poultry and cattle, you would expect a clever seven-year-old to cower in the shadows of their parents.
Lottie's parents were long gone by the time the residents of Wilkin Village moaned and cried about such a monster, but she still had her dear old grandmother to cower behind. Only she chose not to. She got terribly curious instead, and you all know what kills the cat.
Then when the adults go monster-hunting while the moon is full and bright, you would also expect a clever seven-year-old to heed their protective guardian's advice and stay home with the door locked and the windows shut.
But we have already established that Lottie was curious and stu— not the brightest little girl. So when the villagers of Wilkin marched off into the woods with their weapons and torches, of course, she snuck along and followed them.
Fast forward an hour or two, Lottie squatted behind a blueberry shrub while the villagers before her quibbled on about what the monster even was. Some were adamant it was a large bear. Others swore on their second and third cousins' lives that they'd seen a giant chicken. Whatever it was, they had landed an arrow or two in it before it ran off into hiding.
"We should give chase while it's wounded."
"But it's too dark."
"Did anyone see where it went?"
"Left."
"Nay, right."
"Yer eyes too old."
So engrossed they were in their argument that none saw Lottie crouching low in the shadows, sneaking right past them in her single-minded intent on taking a look at the so-called monster.
Deeper and deeper into the woods she went, her little red boots crunching on the dried leaves of fall and alerting all the hungry animals within a mile that fresh meat had arrived.
In the distance, she heard a soft whimper. She should have turned back then (a cleverer child certainly would have), or at least hesitated and thought for a second about what she was doing. But all she did was allow that treacherous curiosity to lead her towards the source of the noise.
Long story short, that was how Lottie found herself screaming and running for her life with a big black wolf chasing her through the woods, and the only bright idea she had was to throw a stick and hope it plays fetch because she certainly couldn't outrun it and all the villagers who had dogs threw sticks to play fetch with them and a wolf was like... well, a big dog. Right?
Darting around a thick old tree, Lottie picked up a few dead branches scattered around its base. Then she stayed crouched behind the tree, praying to all the gods and goddesses she could name (which were not many), and lobbed one stick of branch as far as she could to her left.
Chancing a peek around the trunk of the tree, she met with the gleaming yellow eyes of the deadly predator still coming right at her from eighty yards away.
Could it be too dark for the wolf to see the first stick? Or was it just dumb?
She threw a second stick far to her right this time and cried, "Go! Fetch!"
The wolf kept coming. Fifty yards.
Gods, how did she end up in such a wrong place at such a wrong time with such a big, dumb and deaf wolf? She'd never believed in karma before, but this could only be karma for eating one more cube of sugar at supper than Grandma had allowed. If ever she escaped the wolf, she would never, ever eat any more sugar cubes. No more. Karma was scarier than an angry grandmother.
She gripped the third stick tight between her fists. She had to really draw the wolf's attention this time.
A few seconds later, she crawled out from behind the tree and faced the wolf bravely even as it approached twenty yards... ten yards... she had to get this right...
Lifting her elbow above her shoulder, she threw all of her courage and strength and will to survive into her arm and flung the third stick in a graceful arc through the air to hit the wolf right on the nose.
It skidded to a stop at five yards and growled.
Finally!
"Good puppy!" She clapped. "Now shoo, go fetch the other two I threw!" Lottie called out, pointing a finger in the rough direction she recalled throwing her first stick in.
The wolf lowered its hind legs into some kind of a half crouch, which somehow made itself look even bigger under the soft glow of moonlight.
Then it leapt through the air, crossing the last five yards between them and tackling Lottie to the ground in one powerful pounce.
The air rushed out of her lungs. Her body and head burst with pain. Her eyes squeezed shut as she groaned, trying to roll onto her side to pull herself into the fetal position. But she couldn't, thanks to the heavy weight pressing down on her chest.
Opening her eyes, she came face to face with the animal, its eyes round and fierce, its ears perked.
Her vision swam. Her mind devolved into a muddled mess. This, she guessed, was what people meant when they said they saw stars after they'd hit their head.
"Oh Grandma, what big eyes and ears you have," she mumbled, then frowned. "I wonder how you were so blind and deaf to have missed the sticks I threw."
'Grandma' growled, opening 'her' jaws to display a mouthful of long, pointy teeth as it slobbered above her.
"Oh Grandma, what big teeth you have," she exclaimed in wonder. "You must be hungry— Oh."
Lottie's eyes drifted over to a long wooden stick protruding from a patch of black fur.
She gasped. "Oh Grandma, you're hurt! Is it the stick I threw? Oh, I'm so sorry!" This stick had a bit of a feathered thing at the end of it, but she couldn't remember if the stick she threw also had this feathered thing. It was so dark, after all, she could very well have missed it.
Reaching up a tentative hand, Lottie stroked her fingers through the black fur. It was beautiful, albeit a little rougher than she had expected. Whenever did her grandma get such a lovely fur cloak?
The growling turned into a pained whine. Lottie withdrew her hand and felt wetness on her fingertips.
"You're bleeding! Here, let me—"
"Lottieeeeeeeee!" came the cry of her meddlesome villagers. "Lottieeeeeeeee!"
The weight slid off Lottie's body and she propped herself onto her elbows to get a closer look at her grandma, but saw instead the largest wolf she'd ever witnessed (to be fair, it was the very first wolf she'd ever witnessed).
"When did you turn into a wolf, Grandma?"
The cries of the search party came closer. "Lottieeeeeeeee!"
The wolf—or was it Grandma?—backed away slowly.
"Hey, don't go." She didn't care if it was a wolf or her grandma or her grandma-turned-wolf anymore. "We need to get you looked at!"
A man burst through the copse of trees behind her. "Oh, Lottie, you're all righ— Oh, gods. Lottie!"
She looked over her shoulder to see the village woodcutter Manny unsling his bow.
"She's here! With the wolf!" Manny called over his shoulder and drew an arrow from his quiver.
Beside her, the wolf growled in a low warning even as it retreated another step into the shadows.
A group of villagers burst into the clearing then. The baker, the butcher, the cobbler and two of their wives. They may all use different tools of trade, but tonight, they all held torches and axes.
Manny notched his arrow and aimed it at the wolf. "Don't move, Lottie!"
Lottie, once again proving she was not a very clever girl, scrambled in front of the wolf and held her arms out to the sides. "Don't shoot! She's injured already."
"Her?" the cobbler's wife asked.
"The beast has been stealing from us, you silly girl, and it's hurt you badly, too. Move aside!" the butcher barked.
Hurt her? No, she was the one who threw a stick and hurt the wolf.
"Go, Wolf," Lottie implored gently to the growling creature behind her. "Go, and never come back."
"Lottie, move!" the villagers continued to yell at her, but she was too stupid to heed their advice.
As shameful as it might seem for a big bad wolf to use a little seven-year-old as a shield, the wolf wasn't actually as big as its size suggested.
He was rather young himself. Twelve years, to be precise. He was wounded and he was scared. So he continued to inch backwards, keeping his gaze on the brave little girl who had saved him until he considered it safe enough to turn and make a dash into the heart of the forest.
Arrows whizzed and thudded into the ground behind him. He ran and ran, ignoring the pain in his side. Even when he was far out of range of the villagers' arrows, he kept running.
One day, he would not run from danger. One day, he would be strong.
Then he would come back here. To repay his debts and come play fetch.
Word count: 1,630