hoarfrost

There are wolves in the woods, they say, grey shadows, quick shadows, skin and bone now surely, and mad, mad with hunger. Don’t go into the woods, they’ll eat you. But your sister is starving, her eyes misty and unseeing, so you think – meat is meat. You take a long knife and a cloak and you go into the woods, leaving your sister behind by the fire that will surely last, must last until you come back. There are wolves in the woods, they say, gray shadows, quick shadows, but the only shadows you see are of naked branches above you, a net on the ground to catch your footprints in the moonlight. You can’t find the wolves, and you remember that you haven’t heard their song since the moon was a thin silver behind the clouds. You are starving, and the wolves are gone, eaten by their brothers or those who have more than just your long knife. Meat is meat. You turn back to the village, when suddenly a shadow moves – grey and quick – but it’s just a girl picking up some fallen branches for the fire, small and shivering.

Don’t go into the woods, they say, there are wolves. Grey shadows, quick shadows, and mad, mad with hunger. Why, they got the shepherd’s youngest daughter when the moon was full.

Your sister is no longer starving, and her eyes glitter in the moonlight as you tread softly between the trees. Grey shadows, quick shadows. Meat is meat.