wolves on the wind
Long, long ago, in lands mirroring, yet, not our own, there was a village named Khonstant. Khonstant was renowned among travellers for their long and harsh winters, and the banshees that stole women, men, and children alike if they found them alone in the storm.
Khonstant was small, but had no shortage of funds for when it came to their faith. The marble-hewn mosque that lay to the outskirts of the village was a testament of their devotion, as were the adorned vestments worn by the priests and acolytes, renowned for being forbidden to touch. But Miera had touched them. Many times.
Her father would often find her stroking his silken garments when he returned from the temple just shy of twilight, but unlike the other priests, he would not punish her. He would just hold her on his lap and stroke her hair and tell her over and over how much he loved her. She would fall asleep to the rocking of his chair and the kiss on her forehead.
On Miera’s tenth winter, the one with winds that howled like wolves, the merchants stopped coming to Khonstant. Dry wood ran low that year, but food ran lower. Miera was not afraid of the cold. So on the day that her father was to have a sermon, she pulled her mother’s bearskin coat around her frame, put stones in her pockets and breathed through her mouth as she walked towards the woods. Her breath was like mist in the frigid air, but Miera did not shiver. She stepped into the woods and the trees swallowed her whole.
The girl-child spent the day scouring the wind-pruned trees for sticks that she could carry home for kindling. She searched, and searched, but before long there was a building wind, one that took her breath away. The kind of wind that picked up children, and whisked them towards the gaping maw of the banshee who willed it.
Now Miera was shivering. She couldn’t tell whether the howling she heard was from wind or wolf. She almost found herself hoping the latter. Suddenly, the smell of sea spray burst across her flaring nostrils. And no matter how the wind whipped and whistled, the scent did not cease. Miera followed it, deciding as any child might, that wherever the smell was coming from, it had to be better than waiting outside for the storm to pass. And that was how Miera came to be sitting at the wood-carved table of a woman she was sure was a witch. But digging into a salted fish bake, Miera couldn’t find herself to care.
Miera fell asleep in the witch’s den, with a full belly and lazy smile, only to be woken up by the white of the sun and the prodding of the witch’s cane.
“I should be on my way,” Miera said, dusting off her mother’s bearskin coat.
“Go on, girl, but first fetch me a flask of water from the stream.”
Miera complied, cursing when she found herself hacking away at the impenetrable ice with a broken branch to no avail. It took her until twilight to fill the flask, and by then, the winds and wolves were howling and Miera had to retreat back to the witch’s cottage.
The witch said nothing, simply snatching the flask from Miera’s frost-burned fingertips, and offering it to her glassy-eyed raven who stuck his beak into the opening, then threw it to the floor. Miera ate bread and cheese that night, and the warmth of the witch’s den lulled her to sleep.
Miera awoke on the seconds morning, and upon telling the witch, “I should be on my way,” the witch now replied, “Go on, girl, but first fetch me five mushrooms as big as your hand from the woods south of here.”
Miera complied, but finding even five of the mushrooms that the witch demanded took her all day. And soon, the winds and wolves were howling and Miera was grateful to return to the witch’s cottage.
The witch said nothing, simply snatching the fungus from the girl’s hands and throwing them into her cauldron. Miera ate mushroom stew that night, and fell asleep in the witch’s den once more.
On the third morning, Miera stood and told the witch, “Thank you for sharing your fire and your food, but I should be on my way.”
To this the witch replied, “Then allow me to give you a gift before you leave, girl.”
So Miera lay down on the floor as the witch bade her, and closed her eyes to the soft caws of the witch’s raven and the smell of the salts in the witch’s fist held close to the girl’s nose. For you do not simply decline a witch’s gift. And when the girl opened her eyes again, she was peering at her own body on the floor, eyes closed.
“Return to your village,” the witch said, facing the now raven-girl, “and see why the wind brought you to me.”
Miera flew and flew until she spied the window of her father’s study. She landed lightly on the windowsill, her heart leaping with the thought of seeing him again, but the sight before her made her blood run cold.
She returned to the witch’s cottage, and upon the touch of her raven-feet to the stoop, she opened her eyes – a girl again. The witch did not ask what she had seen. She likely already knew. So the witch was not surprised when Miera asked to become her apprentice.
The witch placed salt on Miera’s hands, under her tongue and spread the crystals across her forehead. They tumbled down the girl’s cheeks but she did not complain. She could think only of the golden-haired girl on her father’s lap, her salty tears mirroring those which cascaded down from Miera’s brow. The silent pleading, the open “no” of her sobbing mouth.
Miera did not want to believe that her father could do such a thing. But she had seen it. She had seen it. And in those moments, Miera swore under the witch’s steady hand that she was going to be a hunter, not a witch.
She slept and dreamed of her father and the crying girl, dreamed that she tore the girl from her father’s clawed grasp and cut off the hands that had touched her, the tongue that had kissed her.
She would be a hunter. But she would not hunt the deer or rabbits, who trembled and fled. She would not kill prey. She would kill wolves.
From that moment on, no predator was safe.
And on Miera’s eighteenth winter, the one with winds that howled like wolves, she paid her father a visit and returned to the witch’s cottage with a girl with hair like gold.