The Night of the Wolf

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“Daddy, Daddy, tell us a story.”

The chieftain looked at the little group that was devouring with gusto the deer that had been killed a few hours before. He pricked up his ears and glanced in exasperation at his son.

“Yes, Daddy, please,” insisted another of his children.

“Another one?” he growled. “You’d do better to occupy yourselves with more important things! You’re old enough to hunt now. The winter’s been hard and spring is still a long way off. How many times do I have to tell you that to live you have to eat, and to eat you have—”

“Yes, we know, but please, Daddy, please tell—”

“Now you’re bothering me! I don’t know what else to tell!”

His companion trotted through the snow to rub herself against him: “You can tell them the story of Wolf.”

“The story of Wolf!” he bristled. “But they’re much too young.”

“Yes, tell us the story,” his turbulent offspring clamoured in unison.

He bared his teeth in anger, but he soon relented; he knew that, one way or another, he would not be able to escape the daily chore. And after all, if they were old enough to hunt, they were old enough to know.

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