Wolf Eve

As he lay his head down on her thighs and kissed her there she trembled and put her hand on top of his head and even gasped when his tongue touched her bare, sensitive skin, but he knew that he had only half her attention. The rest of her was already out there where the snows would soon be falling. But the kiss she gave him reassured him that it was not because she wanted it so.

She left in the night. The sounds of howling and baying and snarling could be heard all through the forest. She did not come back the next day, or the next, but Peter was certain she was not dead, for he recognized one howl from all the others at night, and it comforted him. He was certain that if she could come back, she would, but that was all he was certain of. The chapel seemed a lonely place now, and it was always cold, even with the fire.

When next he came to Buchard's he found the forge dark and empty. Neither Buchard nor his wife were at home. Instead a woman with chestnut hair was minding the house. She seemed to be expecting him. When he came in she took his coat and his stick and sat him at the table. The little house was full of a warm, achingly familiar scent, and Peter realized it was the smell of baking bread. His stomach growled.

"Where is Buchard?" he said.

"Away for a day, maybe two," said the woman. "I'm watching things while he's gone."

"You're Maren?"

"Yes." She was making the bread straight on the hot embers of the fire and she plucked it out in several large pieces before setting it on a plate before him. He hesitated before eating it, but it was clear she expected him to, and the scent was too much to resist; he took a bite. "It's good," he said. She nodded. "Aren't you having any?"

"It's for you," she said.

As Peter ate she quizzed him and seemed satisfied with his short answers.

"You were a priest of the Christ god they hung from a tree?"

"Once. Not anymore."

"You can work metal; build a house; get food?"

"Yes."

"Children?"

"Priests of the Christ god weren't supposed to have children. I could have them now if I wanted to."

She nodded, as if accepting something. The bread was gone. She took him by the hand and brought him to the fire. A rug he did not recognize was laid out in front of it. She must have brought it with her. She knelt on the rug and gestured that he should too, and then she kissed his hand. She seemed to be waiting for something but Peter did not know what. The room was very hot and uncomfortable all of a sudden. When she went to kiss him on the mouth he turned away.

"I'm sorry," he said. "This is...a kind of mistake. I understand the position you're in, but we shouldn't do this."

Maren blinked. "But we already have."

"Have what?"

She gestured to the rug. "You ate; you knelt; it's done."

Horror dawned in Peter's mind. "My God! I didn't know—I had no idea!"

Maren shrugged. "It's done now," she said again.

"Well...let's not tell anyone this happened. No one has to know." The woman's countenance grew unmistakably angry and Peter leapt to correct himself. "But not because there's anything wrong with you," he said.

"Then why?"

Peter's tongue clove to his mouth. What could he say? "There are reasons," was all he managed.

"Is it because you were one of the strange priests?"

"Yes! Yes, that's the reason."

"But you are not anymore. If you were, the people would hate you and drive you out." She seemed to be pondering her words even as she was speaking. "So if I told them you refused me because of this, you would have difficulty. You would even be in danger."

Peter's blood froze. Her tone was not quite threatening, but it was close.

When she gestured to the rug he found himself kneeling again, and when she clamored up onto him he did not resist. A log on the fire popped and sparks burst forth; Peter flinched.

Maren's kisses were hard, and so was her touch. When Eve was rough it was because she was not thinking of anything, but Peter knew that Maren was hard very much because she meant to be. But she was beautiful, in a quiet way, and she reminded him of certain wives he'd known in the past. And she is a widow after all, he thought. He traced the line of her back and found the curve pleasing. He thought of Eve again but pushed the memory away; it would do him no good now.

Maren wriggled out of her clothes in short order and then laid him out, stripping his garments away and running her fingers across his naked chest. The rug was thin and the floor hard. The orange light from the fire accented the curve of Maren's breasts and she took his hands and put them there. The feel of warm human flesh was pleasing. She kissed the tips of his fingers one by one and then she slid down the front of him and, to his surprise, swallowed him up into her mouth all in one go. He was so startled he sat up a bit but she pushed him down again.

Her mouth was wet and warm. When she moved it up and down on him there was firm pressure that made him squirm, and his breath caught in his throat. She did not move her tongue much but the motion of her head was steady and constant and it drew a keen sensation out of Peter that coiled up tight inside of him, like a snare ready to snap tight.

She was not Eve, of course. She was not wild, mysterious, sensual, and complex. But she was a human woman who was warm and alive and wanted, in her own way at least, to please him, and when she came back up he found himself kissing her and being kissed back and letting the brown tangle of her hair fall around him as their naked forms pressed together and her legs parted for him. She whispered against his lips, her breath hot on his mouth as she gyrated up and down on him, sliding her sweat-slicked body across his. Later he could not remember what she'd said, but it was more words in a human voice than he'd heard all at once in longer than he could remember, and the moans and whimpers she made when he put his hands on her to feel her warm, soft breasts or the slope and turn of her curves were honest and open in a way that made him remember better times he'd rather have forgotten.

Peter did not sleep that night, but Maren did, lying across his naked chest and hugging him. He was certain that, behind her eyes, there was real sleep and guileless dreams.

She expressed no desire to go back with him to the chapel the next day, and appeared content to let him go on his own. There seemed to be an unspoken assumption that he would presently build a new house, closer to the village, and that she would stay with Buchard until it was finished. She offered him no farewell or words of affection at his parting, but she did kiss him. It was a tender thing.

There was no sign of Eve at the chapel. Peter was unused to being alone during the day now, and he paced and fidgeted. He knew he ought to have been collecting wood for the winter; the snows were late, but the grim color of the sky told him they could not be far off, but for some reason he could not bear the idea of working now. He thought of Maren, sitting by a fire of her own in her brother's house and waiting for him, and guilt ate at him. He tried to imagine where Eve might be but the possibilities were too horrifying. For the first time he wished he could still pray and he missed the comfort of the scripture. Angry at this moment of weakness h struck the wall; there was a dull thud, and that was all.

His dreams that night were full of the howling of wolves—or was that a real noise somehow invading his dreams from outside? He heard something else in his dreams too: the screams of someone in pain. He dreamed of blazing torches and flashing knives and fear. He woke soaked in sweat, feverish and weak. When he opened the door the morning light hurt his eyes. It was a moment before he realized Buchard was there waiting for him. Peter squinted He tried to talk but his throat was sore. It took a few drinks of water before his mouth seemed to want to work.

"You are ill," Buchard said to him.

"Yes," said Peter. He was sore all over. His body seemed marked and bruised, as if he'd been flailing in his sleep.

"You left Maren two days ago. You have been asleep that time?"

Peter felt dizzy. "I must have been," he said. "I'm sorry. Is Maren—"

"She's hurt."

Peter was about to apologize again but Buchard went on: "I mean she was injured, badly; a wolf came into the house in the night and bit her. Her face..."

And he gestured to one side of his face in a way that made Peter feel queasy.

The bottom dropped out of Peter's stomach. He wondered if it was perhaps a joke. Buchard would sooner throw himself off a cliff than tell a joke, and it was not even a little funny besides, but the other explanations seemed to make no sense. "Is she...will she be—?"

"She will live," said Buchard. "But she will not be the same. And now blood has been spilled." He sat on a stump. "She is my sister. You understand what this means?"

Peter considered his words. "You must be very upset."

"She's my blood. There are things I cannot do once my blood becomes part of things. You understand now?"

Peter shook his head, slowly. "No. I don't think I do."

Buchard sighed. He stood and put a hand on Peter's shoulder. "My grandfather liked the Christ priest. Even when he killed him, he liked him. Sometimes we must do things we don't like. When you bring a wolf into your home, I must do things I do not like."

Buchard's eyes met his. Peter's lips formed a denial, but he swallowed it. Buchard nodded.

"The people from the village will come for you tonight," he said. "They wanted to come a long time ago, but I stopped them. Now I cannot. But I did come here to warn you."

Peter nodded. Buchard sighed again. He turned to go.

"I'm sorry about Maren," Peter said.

"It's all done," said Buchard, and left. "By the way: It is Christmas Eve again." And he left.

Peter shut the door. He looked around. The chapel looked nothing at all like it had when he came here. He would not even have recognized it anymore. For a moment he felt like gathering the entire thing up, like a bundle he could carry under his arm. Then he felt like turning and running away, sprinting like a madman into the dark embrace of the forest and forgetting this place even existed.

Instead he sat, built a fire, stirred the embers, and waited. Outside, the snow was falling.

Around sundown there came a thump at the door. Peter rose, brandishing a flaming log which he thrust before him as he opened the door. But outside there was no angry mob; there was only Eve. She limped in on all fours, wolf's head hanging low, and when she curled up at the hearth the fur seemed to roll off her body, again becoming a hide from which she emerged, his own real Eve again. She looked tired and wan, but uninjured. Dropping the burning brand he ran and took her in his arms.

"Thank God," he said over and over again. "Thank God."

"I had to come back for you," she said.

Peter swallowed. "You shouldn't have. There's danger." And he told her everything. He expected her to be angry, but she proffered no reaction at all. When he finished all she said was:

"Then they'll come for us soon."

"Yes," said Peter. And then: "Did you hurt Maren?"

She appeared confused. "Why I would do that?"

The word "jealousy" was on the tip of Peter's tongue, but he realized how foolish it was. But he wondered whether he'd be able to detect a lie if she told one; was that something she even could do? As always, her yellow eyes seemed to have depths he could not fathom. He shook his head to clear the thoughts away.

"It doesn't matter," he said. "They're going to kill us both no matter what."

"I suppose they will," Eve said.

"We should run."

"They would find us. Unless..." She paused and went to the door, and she seemed to be listening for something. After a moment she turned back. "We could go to the other world."

Peter swallowed again. "The place you came from?"

"Yes. The way should be open again. If we went there, they couldn't follow us."

She sat down in front of him and looked into his eyes again. "But you could not go as you are now."

She held the wolf skin out to him. He took it in trembling hands. It was heavy.

"This other world...we'd be safe there?"

"Of course not," said Eve. "But who is ever safe anywhere?"

"I never understood what you meant when you talked about another world."

"You understood when you dreamed."

Peter shivered. "I don't want to go there, then."

"In my world no one is innocent. In my world we live and die, kill and spare, as the world sees fit. It's not a good place, but it's not a bad place. It's a place where whatever is, is."

Before he could reply she pressed a finger to his lips.

"No more talk," she said. "If we go, we must go now."

Peter ran his fingers through the soft fur of the wolf hide. Then he touched Eve's hair, just as soft. Her eyes gleamed. The embers of the fire were dying in the hearth.

"Then we should go now," he said.

At the door he shed his clothes, his boots, his belt, even his knife and tools. He would need none of these things where they were going. Snow was falling in icy white flakes. Pain shot through the soles of his feet when he stepped out, but Eve touched his arm and he felt warmer. As he watched, she shuffled into the wolf skin and in a blink she was running on all fours, tail behind her, toward a break in the trees. There she waited for him. Breathing deep, Peter wrapped the skin of the wolf around his body, and waited.

At first he did not believe the magic of the thing would work for him. At first, in fact, he thought it had not. Only when he took the first step and saw not his foot but his paw in the snow before him did he realize it had already happened. Or maybe, he thought, it happened a long time ago, and I did not notice then either.

That was the last truly human thought he had. Everything after that was crowded out by the sound of the wind and the smells of the forest and the sharp white glint of the snow on the earth and the retreating figure of the gray she-wolf through the thicket. Though she was slower because of her leg she still kept the lead, since she knew the way and he did not. The nameless wolf (for he'd forgotten his human name now) stayed close to her tracks, because he smelled peril in the winter air.

When the wind shifted heard the crunch of heavy boots on snow and the murmur of quiet voices and smelled not just the scent of the hunters themselves but also the smell of burning pitch from torches that would scorch his hide and burn his fur to nothing if he let them get too close. He had to keep away from them but he also had to stay with the she-wolf. Only the she-wolf knew the way to safety—

But where was she? He could not see or smell her anymore. He glimpsed movement out the corner of his eye and when he turned he saw a furry form slipping toward him—

Too late he realized the danger. The other wolf crashed into him and they rolled end over end in the snow, snarling, snapping, clawing, jaws searching for purchase. He should have realized it would not just be the village hunters looking for them tonight; the wolf pack had lain in wait all this time for an opportunity and now they had it.

The two beasts snarled and rolled over each other. The enemy wolf was bigger and the nameless wolf was still not used to moving in this body. The enemy wolf was on top now and weight was crushing the nameless wolf. There was not enough air in his lungs, not enough breath left to fight with, not enough time to—!

And then the weight fell away and the gray she-wolf stood over their enemy, her jaws dripping red. The other wolf was not moving anymore.

The nameless wolf struggled to his feet. He was hurt, but there was no time to rest, no time even to slow down. The smell of burning pitch drew ever closer.

They ran together, shoulder to shoulder, through the trees and the thickets and the dark and the snow. Around them, they knew, the hunters closed in in a ring, and somewhere out there the other wolves howled and bayed, angry and vengeful. How much further did they have to go? The nameless wolf did not know. His haunches hurt and his ribs ached. He longed to simply turn and fight, to tear their pursuers apart with his jaws or even to throw his body onto their spears in a mad act of defiance. Anything would be better than this blind pursuit. But still he followed the she-wolf.

Footsteps drew closer; voices shouted; the hell-light of orange flames illuminated the tree trunks around them. Smoke was in the air and some dim part of the nameless wolf's brain registered that they must have set fire to the chapel. At least that will have slowed them down a few moments, he thought. Maybe it will be enough. Maybe...

They broke into a clearing. The well was there, the nameless wolf knew. And between here and where it lay was the wolf pack, its surviving two members circling the old well, heedless, apparently, that the approaching mob would kill them just as readily. They were determined to be revenged on this interloper no matter what it cost them. The nameless wolf paused; he was hurt, and the gray she-wolf was lame. A fight now was the last thing they wanted. But the hunters were closing in...

The she-wolf did not hesitate; she charged, and when the other wolves blocked her way she tried to muscle through them and they were both on her at once, and all three made a rolling pile marked by the flash of fangs. The nameless wolf ran in and collided with the first body he found and he and the enemy wolf rolled away, biting, snapping, tearing. The virginal white snow turned red. For a moment the nameless wolf was buried beneath a drift and when he came out he saw, to his relief, that the gray she-wolf had reached the safety of the well and even now was leaping into it, down into the cool, safe, dark world below.

Now there was nothing left to do but run. The nameless wolf was hurt too badly to still be quick or strong, but he would run as fast as he could and hope. Where were the other wolves? Their scent was everywhere but he couldn't see them; the bloodied ground looked like a wound in the forest itself. No point thinking about such things now; now he just ran.

Orange light flared to his left. Men were running at him and he heard their manic, garbled calls. He slipped and slid over the stones of the old well, trying to pull himself up, trying to let himself fall in, but below there was only a black abyss with no bottom and for a moment he was not sure if he could go in, nor sure that he wanted to...

Pain lanced up his body. The smell of singed fur and burning flesh sickened him. Flaming brands were flying through the air, striking him on the shoulders and back and burning his feet and singing his tail. So he jumped, and as he fell through that darkness below he was burning, burning, like a shooting star coming to earth, burning to pieces as it fell...

And then it was over. He lay in a deeper, colder snow than he'd ever imagined, and the flames sizzled and died. His pursuers were all gone. The pain remained, but cold numbed it. He could not stand. He could not tell how badly he was hurt. Would he recover? Or would he die here? There was no one who could say.

But the gray she-wolf was with him. She trotted to where he lay and then lay down on top of him. Her body was warm. She stayed there all night and kept the cold at bay, and now and then she nuzzled him.

The night was long. Perhaps it lasted for days. From somewhere out there came the howling of wolves. Faintly, he howled back. If the day came when he was strong enough to walk, they would follow the sound and join whoever was there. If that day never came, then it wouldn't matter.

For now, though, they were together, with each other and with the sky and the snow and the forest. Together, and home, always.