She wrapped her lips around the small end and furiously sucked, her cheeks expanding and shrinking with the effort. She said, I thought the bitches of the forest did all the work. Gran-ma-ma shushed her with a quick jerk of her hand.
It’s always been a man-beast, she scoffed, her throat rioting up into a hack. Can’t tell the story right, she said, spitting into the cold hearth, unless you tell it like it’s always been told. Oh, put that out! It bothers my throat.
Mother moved to the window. When Gran-ma-ma went back to her house in the middle of the forest, my father accompanied her. She did not need an escort, she knew her way, but she was prone to tripping and breaking her glass-bone hips. When she was past the tree line, my mother sat me at the table and told me, her voice all reason, that if I ever met a man-beast in the forest I should simply gut him and be done with it.
But what if he is a kind man-beast? I asked. What if—She tapped her pipe on the table. There is no such thing. All man-beasts will eat you, no, destroy you, if you give them half a chance. My mother was optimistic like that.
One day, my father was out gathering berries to make his daily fruit pastry. I’d never seen nor tasted anything more delightful than the rows of tarts, cakes, pies, and sweet buns that adorned our sills, our counters, our tables, and when finished with this task, my mother would take his berry-stained fingers to her lips and wrap her tongue around his plump digits, saying what a good boy he was. Mother called out to him from the window that she wanted blueberries, for a pie, then puffed, puffed, puffed. You should visit your grandmother, she told me. I haven’t heard from her in days. She’s probably got the flu again and hasn’t deemed us worthy of a letter.
But, Mummy, I said, Gran-ma-ma’s hand cramps up.
Pah! My mother spat in the flowerpot on the sill.
In spite of my complaints, Mother had packed a large, wicker basket of day-old fruit tarts, a bit of hard, black bread, cheese, and a bottle of wine. As she packed that, wrapping the heavy bottle in a checked cloth, she told me I had better not drink any.
But it’s bad for Gran-ma-ma! I said.
Pish posh, said Mother. It might give the old hag a thrill.
I stuck my finger in the strawberry tart for a taste, but my mother slapped my hand before I made it to my mouth. I glared at her. Mummy, I said, shouldn’t I bring medicine? What if Gran-ma-ma really is sick?
My mother shushed me. She said, Your grandmother wouldn’t take it unless she dug it out of the ground herself. If she’s ill, put a warm cloth on her forehead and hold her hand until she’s better. She wrapped me in my red wool cloak with the pointed hood that I’d gotten from Gran-ma-ma as a birthday gift years ago, and stuck a box of ammunition for Gran-ma-ma’s shotgun in the pocket. I did not tell her the bullets were unnecessary; Gran-ma-ma had never touched the thing after politely letting Mother show her how to use it. She also handed me her sharpest hunting knife—her favorite for gutting rabbits. Remember to twist it, she said, placing the handle in my hand. You need to really get it in there and twist it if you want to really do some damage, sweetheart.
I took off for the forest, passing my father on the way. He gave me a dazed good-bye, his eyes fixed on his basket of fruit.
The path to get to Gran-ma-ma’s is lovely. It was the end of summer, so the trees were slowly beginning their beautiful rot. There were tinges of yellow on the greens, and the wind carried the scent of sweet decay, like a ripe apple just about to turn.
There was always a sense of calm danger in the forest, like you were forever walking on the edge of a breaking dam. One wrong move, or perhaps even stupid chance, and your fortune would flip and the rushing waves of animal jaws would devour you whole. Gran-ma-ma always said that there were demons and spirits in the forest and once, long ago, people would revere the ancient ones with blood-rites and strange dancing, but Mother always brushed Gran-ma-ma aside, telling her to stop telling such ridiculous tales.
After a while, I began to notice that the forest grew still the more I entered its winding body. The birds stopped their bell-like twittering, the crickets ceased rubbing their musical thighs. Even the leaves were silent. Even though I had only recently begun to bleed, and only recently have begun to know things, I recognized the archaic, intrinsic indication of danger, of change. The fine peach fuzz stood up on my neck, and I felt my less-than-musical thighs quiver in expectation.
I saw him.
He was large, feral, and strange; a black figure with yellow, glowing eyes, his long teeth a sparkling gleam, while his rough, red tongue ran its wet length across his lips. And his lips, easily pulled back, easily shut, with a dash of red—blood?—by the dark bead of his nose. Had he just eaten some young, pale deer that could not jump from his jaw in time? Or perhaps some white rabbit corpse lay not a few feet from me, its own blood staining its fur, its eyes trained, helpless and wide, toward inevitability. But this beast was lean, almost starved, and when he stepped closer I saw the blood at his lip was black with age. Likely, he thought me an offering to his hunger.
I grasped Mother’s gouging knife with a trembling hand in the basket, ready to strike if he moved quickly. But he did not jump at me, nor make any movement that seemed violent. Instead, he stared at me with what I thought was amusement. I felt very foolish. I let the hilt of the blade go, and it tumbled to the bottom of the basket.
The wolf lowered his head and approached me. I was nervous at his large form. He looked like he would tower over me if he went on hind-legs like a man. I dared not move. He walked around me with his body so close that I could feel the tips of his fur, rough and matted, against my hand, or brushing my legs. I shivered and squirmed when I thought I felt his long tooth slide across my arm but was too terrified to look down to be sure. A growl escaped his throat, but it was soft and drawn out, a sigh of pleasure.
When he did not bite me, I grew to enjoy the feel of him close to me, his heat and soft panting just by my thighs. He continued his slow circle and I felt bold enough to reach my fingers out and brush them, as lightly as I could, on his thick-furred back.
Quicker than I could retract my hand, the wolf grabbed hold of my wrist in his teeth and bit down hard enough to leave nasty red imprints, but did not break the skin. I fell to my knees, and he shook my hand in his sharp maw. I cried out, Oh, please, oh please, I didn’t mean it! I won’t touch you again!
This seemed to calm the beast, for with one final shake he released my hand, and instead took to sniffing me. He was most enraptured at the scent where my skin bore the mark of his teeth. As for myself, I felt calm under his attentions, assured that I would remain safe so long as I did not touch him.
When I felt his rough tongue run across my neck, I did not breathe.
After a while, the beast huffed and turned his back to me. When I saw that he was making to leave, I felt a coldness touch my legs, my neck, and my stomach. I was afraid of him, but I did not want him to go. I called out, I am going to my Gran-ma-ma’s house in the middle of the forest. She’s probably very sick, you see.
The wolf did not turn to face me, but he stopped moving. His ear twitched.
I wouldn’t mind seeing you again, if you want, I said. You’d need only follow the road.
The wolf made a snorting noise and was gone. I clasped my hands and hoped I would see him again.
I arrived at Gran-ma-ma’s house just before sundown, hours after my strange encounter with the wolf.
I saw that something was wrong. The front door was open and I could hear strange noises inside, so strange I could not even begin to describe them. I went to the window and snuck up to it as quietly as I could. I peeped in and saw Gran-ma-ma’s prone form laid out in bed. She was wearing the blue and white lace bonnet and nightgown my mother detests but which Gran-ma-ma treasured. I held my breath when I saw the wolf step up onto the bed. He was careful to step on the edges of her body. Her nightgown sank into the covers under his paws.
I could hear Gran-ma-ma’s breathing begin to grow quick and deep, like the heavy panting our dog used to make before Mother put the hollow end of the shotgun in his face. The wolf seemed taken aback at this, because his paw visibly shook, and he would place it down on the comforter and retract it in twitches. Is that you? came Gran-ma-ma’s wavering voice, quiet and earnest. I’ve waited for you. Did you know I’ve waited for you?
She gave out a low, pitiful wail, like the caterwauling of a wretched cat in the peak of its estrus.
The wolf’s soft ears flattened and he lowered his head, as if asking for forgiveness. The beast opened his slick jaws, and each shiny pointed tooth was visible. I was afraid for Gran-ma-ma, and the feeble warning was about to issue from my mouth when the beast drew out his long, red tongue, and ran it slowly up her neck, ending on her pale, thin lips. Gran-ma-ma’s breathing came out in erratic huffs, as if she couldn’t get enough air into her lungs, and then she released a high pitched whine, like the one my father makes at night sometimes, accompanied by my mother’s heavy grunts.
What a sweet tongue you have! she said.
I was enthralled. I imagined that heavy tongue running across my own sensitive neck again, or my lips. Perhaps even my tongue would dart out, quick and shy, and meet his lips, or his fuzzy snout.
In the midst of my fantasy, I almost did not notice the wolf cringing back from my Gran-ma-ma. His soft whine filled my ears, and I felt pity for the dumb beast when he began to lightly paw at Gran-ma-ma’s still form.
Her eyes were dull. Her toothy smile was adoring and stuck. My stomach tightened like when I wore the corset Gran-ma-ma gave me to wear one spring before my mother expressly forbade it. I felt like vomiting. The wolf, skittish by his own realization, looked as if he would bolt. I cannot really explain it, but I did not want the wolf to leave. Quick as I could, I slammed Gran-ma-ma’s only window shut. The beast petrified still at the bang. He growled and pulled back his lips to show those trembling, vicious teeth. I ran to the door, shouting loudly as I did. The trick worked, for the wolf, terrified at the screams and bellows backed up to the dead fireplace and hid best as he could in the nook.
When I’d entered the house, making sure to lock the door behind me, the wolf seemed confused. His sharp teeth were weary. Without making any sudden movements, I put the basket on the ground and raised my hands in supplication, palms outward. The wolf lowered his head, but his teeth and eyes glowed in the fading light.
I mean you no harm, I said quietly. I only thought that you’d like to stay a little longer. Must you leave so soon? The forest is cold at night, and it is very warm here.
The wolf made a vicious noise, like rocks grinding in his throat, and moved to the back wall. I knew he wanted to escape, but I could not allow this. After all, the beast had come for me. I had asked him to come. It was not fair that Gran-ma-ma should be the only one to enjoy him.
I indicated the basket. Would you care for something to eat? I’ve packed cheese and cakes for my Gran-ma-ma ….
I looked to her still body, and I hoped the wolf understood that she would not need them anymore. The wolf paced back and forth, nails clicking on the wood floor.
Perhaps you’d like some wine? I bet you’ve never tried wine before, I said. Slowly, very slowly, for the wolf was watching, I reached down and picked up the bottle of wine and showed it to him. He seemed interested in it, so with my eyes on him and his eyes on me, I went to the cabinet and took out one of Gran-ma-ma’s breakfast bowls. I poured half the bottle in the bowl and set it on the floor.
Come now, it’s safe. And very tasty. I knelt down and dipped my fingers in the wine and brought them to my lips. It’s just like the blood of a rabbit, I said.
I pushed the bowl at him and moved away. Tentatively, the beast made his way. He growled at me, and so I went on my knees and held up my hands to show there were no tricks. His tongue darted out and tasted the wine. He must have liked the taste, or really believed it to be blood, for he began to lap it up. He got his whole snout in that bowl, and when he pulled his head out the dried blood by his nose was gone, replaced with the lighter, thinner wine. When he had finished the bowl, I was unsurprised to watch him stumble on wobbly legs to the foot of the bed and collapse. I quickly went to work.
Using some of the rope Gran-ma-ma used to bind lumber together, I tied a tight collar around his thin neck, and knotted the loose end to the bed, silently thanking my Gran-ma-ma for having had it nailed to the floor. With another bit of rope I tied a sloppy muzzle around his snout to keep him from snapping at me when he woke. Pleased, I brushed his coat. It was rough and warm. I could even feel the strong pulse of his heart through the thick skin. I lay my head down on his stomach and rested.
I awoke to a wet growl in my ear and my head thumping on the floor as the wolf moved out from under me and stood. There was never such a sight as that animal yanking and wrenching at the rope. He was like a bird throwing itself at the bars of his cage, or the fox gnawing at his leg in the steel trap. I was enraptured. The fullness of his rage and power struggling against such little thin strips of rope made my stomach clench. I salivated when the ropes held. I wanted to run up to him and throw myself on him, to rub my body against his as he struggled, to bring some of that passion into me.
It was painfully beautiful to see his neck and snout rubbed raw by the course twines and to hear his grunts and groans turn to breathy whines, but I steeled myself from pity. It was the only way to keep him.
When he’d tired himself out, lying prostrate on the floor and following me with his cold, yellow eyes, I took stock of the house. I had forgotten all about poor Gran-ma-ma with the business of the wolf and looked with curiosity on her now. She looked peaceful with that queer smile still gracing her face, her wide eyes blank as parchment. With my mother’s determination in me, I went about covering her body with the blanket. After, I did not know what else to do with her. There was no way I could carry her outside and bury her all by myself, though I did consider getting some flowers to lay on her. But that seemed too sentimental. It wasn’t like she’d know to appreciate them anyhow.
The wolf did not move the entire time I strutted around the house, and I found myself admiring his bound physique more often than not. What was missing from his bones was meat, and so I tried to tempt him with the foods Mother had packed, but he would have none of it. I spoke very softly, as one would speak to a child, and told him how yummy the bread and cheese and tarts were, but he would not take it. He only turned his head away or swiped at me with his paws.
As the days drew on the wolf grew more and more haggard. I could only get him to drink water, and even then I had to wrestle him down and open his jaws as far as the rope would allow with my hands and funnel the liquid down. This task grew easier as time passed and his strength diminished. But Gran-ma-ma had begun to reek. I had no idea that the body began to decay so quickly, but the smell, at first just a faint whiff of rot, soon grew unbearable. I did not think I could lift her outside and bury her on my own. There had to be another way.
I wrote to my mother and told her that Gran-ma-ma had passed. I cried over the letter. I wrote that I would take care of her, and there was no reason for her and my father to make the trip. They had a garden to take care of, a house to run, and I was but a girl without husband or child, and so had no one to care for.
My mother wrote back: Do what you must. Keep the gun close to you when you bury her. You remember how to load it, don’t you sweetheart? Bullets in. Keep the safety off. Do not hesitate.
With trembling fingers I removed the muzzle from the beast. Thinking he would snap at me, I backed away, but the most he did was stretch his jaw. It made a terrible cracking noise, like bones snapping. Untying the leash from the bed, I tugged at him until he stood up and followed. I made him climb on the bed by slapping the mattress, as one would with a dog. Uncovering Gran-ma-ma and trying not to look at her sunken cheeks
and rotting eyes, I lifted her hand to his mouth.
Gran-ma-ma would have wanted it this way.
Several hours later he vomited her up.
I soothed his growling stomach by feeding him soft breads and fruit and milk. After a few half-hearted attempts at resisting he lowered his mouth to my hand and ate in a daze. His eyes became dull and glossy, like the doll’s eyes that Gran-ma-ma had given me when I was a girl. I’m not even sure he knew what he was eating.
I knew he would have preferred dead flesh, so I attempted to get him meat by trapping rabbits like Mother had shown me how to do with snares of wire or rope. I always cooked the meat before I gave it to the wolf, and he would knock it about with his paws and whine when it flopped on the floor. Still, he did eat it.
Soon he grew healthier, and there was a definite pudginess to him. His coat grew shiny each time I brushed him with Gran-ma-ma’s comb. He never resisted when I put my hands through his fur, which I confess I did often. Eventually I was able to leave the muzzle off his face, and even the leash from around his throat when I wasn’t off in the forest hunting. Whenever I came back he was always the same: still where I left him, staring at the dancing fire in the hearth, his body in a chair, his head and front paws prostrate on the table. I would like to have said that I was happy, but I was not. I tried to plead with him, I burrowed myself into his soft fur and cried, I offered my arm to him and told him he could bite me if he wanted to, rip me to shreds and eat me as a sacrifice to his once-great-might, but he just looked away or rolled over onto his side so I could put my head on his growing belly to sleep.
And though he was warm and soft, his dull eyes horrified me. There was a nothingness in those dark, wide spheres and oh, what large eyes he had! I could feel myself being drawn into them, helpless in an ever-widening recess.
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