A.N.D. - Wolf Woods

The farmers shifted their grip on their pitchforks, warily watching the strangers as they walked slowly out of the woods. The travelers wore torn, dusty clothes; the woman was empty-handed, the boy held nothing more threatening than a sack slung over one shoulder. But the farmers had learned many weeks and too many ransacked flocks later to trust no one who came down the road from the Second Kingdom through the Disenchanted Forest.

As the strangers approached the town the farmers abandoned their fields, forming a pitchfork line across the road. “Stop right there!” Fred shouted, bringing his fork up at the ready. “We aren’t having your kind in our town!”

The boy stepped forward angrily, but the woman pulled him back by the shoulder. “What kind are we?” she asked calmly.

“Wolves! Those woods are full of wolves!” Fred spit into the dust, just missing her toes. “Ever since the Dog King gave that mad pardon we’ve had more wolves than mice, pouring out of the Second Kingdom! Move along! You’re not welcome here!”

“I’m not the wolf kind, and if you want a farm woman to check for a tail, I’ll let her. But I’ll not be lifting my skirts for you. I’m not that kind either.”

There was rough, appreciative laughter from the other farmers behind Fred, but none of the pitchforks wavered. “If you’re not a wolf, why are you coming from the Second Kingdom?”

“My brother in Beantown had a ranch... until the wolves hit. He asked my son and me to bring him more breeding stock from our farm, to get him back on his feet.” She grabbed her skirt and held it out, letting them see the punctures and rips in it. “Wolves attacked us two days ago. Ate our livestock, even the ox dragging our wagon. We’ve been dragging the empty wagon, but we left it behind in the woods. I still have a little of the money we were bringing my brother-wolves won’t eat gold! We hoped...” she sighed, staring at the pitchforks still aimed at her face. “We hoped we could buy more here.”

“There’s you and your son. What about your husband? You some wolflover?” Hank the miller demanded to know.

She turned to the boy. “Show them.” He swung the sack off his shoulder and shook it out, sending a wolf’s head rolling through the dirt to the feet of the farmers. “That one attacked my husband. Would a wolf carry THAT?”

Over the rising murmurs, Fred asked “How much money do you have?”

Negotiations were short. The woman made it clear that she wanted herself and her son well on their way before the sun set and the wolves came back out. Still, everyone was satisfied-there was enough gold to fill the well-chewed wagon with sheep and put a new ox in the traces with several coins to spare. The townspeople offered new clothing and a place for the night, but the woman firmly turned them down.

“I thank you, but I have to keep what I can. My brother needs it.” She swung up onto the driver’s seat and took up the reins, nodding sharply to her son. He swung silently up beside her, tossing the re-bagged wolf’s head in among the sheep, which baa-ed dubiously before settling back down.

“You still want that?” Fred asked dubiously. “It’s going to get juicy soon.”

“Until then, it’s my safe passage.” The woman smartly snapped the reins and the ox lumbered into a walk. “Thank you, you’ve been very kind!” she called over her shoulder, and the boy waved.

The ox was a good, strong one; it kept a slow but steady pace for hours. The afternoon passed, the sun set, twilight faded to dark, the sheep settled to sleep in the hay, and still the wagon rolled onwards through the woods.

Until two yellow eyes glowed on the road ahead.

The woman pulled the wagon to a halt and met the yellow eyes squarely. “So, you’re back. Come to plunder my wagon again?”

“Yes.” The gravelly voice came from the front, but the wagon rocked as more wolves appeared to the sides, some jumping up to put their front paws on the edge of the wagon. One was even brave enough to shove its nose in among the nervous sheep, sniffing appreciatively until it suddenly reached the sack. It leaped back with a startled “Wuf!” and the boy laughed.

He picked up the sack, waving it at the cringing wolf. “Boo!”

“You keep that blasphemous thing?” the rough voice asked.

“The farmers gave me safe passage when they saw it. No wolf would carry that,” the woman pointed out.

“No wolf should.”

She smiled for the first time, sliding down from the wagon. “Then it is a good thing I am not a wolf, my husband. Your rival did us a favor when he challenged you to a dominance death match.”

She gestured to her son. “Unhitch the ox.” Then she raised her voice to the gathering, slathering wolves. “Nobody eats the ox this time, or I put you in the traces!” Before the pack pounced she shouted, “AND STOP CHEWING ON MY WAGON!”