M. Lachlan: Wolfsangel

‘It pleases the gods,’ said the stranger, ‘to see the stories of their fate acted out in the earthly realm. The wolf and Odin have fought down the centuries and will fight down those to come. It’s easy to see where, if you know how to look.’

‘So Judas was Jesus’ helper, was he, by your reckoning?’

‘Judas helped Jesus die for the sins of man, it is said,’ said the traveller. ‘Well, if that was against the will of God it wouldn’t have happened, would it?’

‘It was the will of the devil, working through Judas’ hands,’ said the first hunter.

‘The will of the devil that all sins be washed away?’ said the stranger. ‘Then he is a strange devil indeed.’

The men laughed some more.

‘We are luckier than you, sir,’ said one. ‘We only have to listen to what the priests tell us, not think about it.’

‘If God sends us these wolves, then that’s enough for us,’ said the first hunter.

‘You should ask Loki,’ said the stranger. ‘He is the one who sends wolves.’

‘We don’t pray to idols, sir,’ said the second.

‘No,’ said the traveller. ‘Then perhaps you should pray to your own god that Loki doesn’t send you a wolf anyway, if the fate of the king and the witch are anything to go by.’

‘That sort of wolf we can do without,’ said the first.

The men sat by the fire and drank and talked until late. The stranger, who knew the woods well, told them of a cave a day west, following the north bank of the river.

‘It is a famous wolf den,’ he said, ‘and though hunters take the animals again and again they always seem to return.’

‘We will watch for it, sir.’

The next day the man was gone when the hunters awoke. They had no better plan than to follow his advice. It was nightfall again when they came to the caves, which were set in a small cliff a hundred paces from the river and five men’s heights above it.

The hunters looked around and were pleased to see wolf droppings along with some small evidence of kills. They camped nearby, sure that the wolves were out hunting and knowing that they would not return with men in the area. Nevertheless, the next day they tried the caves. It was a clear blue day and the moon was still visible, bright in the morning sky.

They made the short climb to the mouth of the biggest cave. The first hunter took a stone from the ground and threw it in while the other two stood ready with their bows. There was a noise from inside but neither loosed an arrow into the darkness. It wasn’t impossible that a traveller was sleeping in there, and as good Christians none of the men wanted a murder on his hands. The hunter threw another stone. There was a scuffling sound and the hunter caught a glimpse of something. It was paler than any wolf. A pig maybe?

‘Master wolf, come out, come out wherever you are.’

Nothing stirred. The hunter moved closer and his eyes began to adjust to the dark. He gasped when he saw what was inside the cave. It wasn’t a pig or a wolf, but a boy, about six years old with a shock of dark hair. He was in a terrible state, thin and filthy with eyes that seemed too big for his head.

‘It’s a boy!’ the hunter called over his shoulder.

He took an apple from his bag. The boy shrank back into the cave.

‘It’s for you — go on.’

The boy didn’t move.

‘I’ll have it then. See.’

The hunter bit into the fruit but the boy just retreated further.

The hunters were limited men but not insensitive. They could see that winning the boy’s trust would be no quick job. As Christians, they thought they had a duty to help him — the parable of the good Samaritan had been impressed on them not two Sundays before — and they decided to wait until he learned to accept them. They would, they agreed, treat the boy as they would a nervous animal. So they stayed near but not too near, hunted for birds and small game, cooked them and left the food with water at the cave mouth. None of them could understand how he had lived. Pagans were known to abandon sickly children in the forest but this boy had proved anything but delicate.

Gradually the boy became less wary, and the hunters were able to get closer. The moon was a slim crescent by the time he finally took the hand that was offered him. They decided the best thing to do was to get him back to their village and hand him over to the priest.

It took four days to get out of the forest. The boy was dreadfully restless at night, throwing off the blanket the hunters had given him and scratching and howling in his sleep. The clever hunter felt very sorry for the child and put out his hand to stroke his hair. The child suddenly seized it. He was dreaming, the hunter could see, but his eyes were wide open, staring up at the sickle moon.

‘Adisla,’ he said, ‘I will find you.’