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Authors: Alice Borchardt
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through the wicker walls as she built up the fire and began to cook the flat breads and porridge that constituted the morning meal.
Later, after sunrise, he would watch over her as she stood before her loom under the ancient linden tree, shuttle flying to and fro as she created one or another strip of brilliant-colored cloth.
By noon, the breeze dropped. The sun beat down mercilessly. The rest of her family retreated to the round house or other shady spots to sleep through the afternoon’s heat.
This was his hour. She wandered up the mountainside, “to tend the flax,” as she told Kat, and they met. She didn’t know how or why he was always able to find her. She only knew he did, and that seemed sufficient for her.
By now he’d managed to acquire some minimal clothing—a worn tunic he’d stolen from a Roman soldier who’d spent an afternoon bathing in the river. It was doubtful if the man regretted his loss long or deeply. The wretched thing was old, faded to a dull gray and ragged beyond belief. The wolf noticed none of these things. One garment was the same as another to him. This one was long and thick enough to protect his epidermis. He’d found, after an unhappy encounter with a tangle of blackberry vines, that human skin is tender.
In any case, he wore it only long enough to reach her, pull it off, and enter her embraces. Because that was what they did—make love, eat, and sleep away the long afternoons. Sometimes they talked. In fact, they talked often. Or rather, she talked and he listened. After the first and only question she’d asked him about his humanity, she never asked another. He didn’t expect her to, realizing instinctively that she feared to disturb the delicate balance that preserved the happiness between them, an almost unearthly happiness.
When their daily lovemaking ended, she unpacked the food she always brought. She was an excellent cook. At first, he didn’t understand this. Wolflike, he simply made it disappear. But human teeth and jaws, shaped by thousands of years of savoring and sharing, don’t lend themselves easily to a wolf’s method of tearing and swallowing whole.
After he nearly strangled himself for the third time, he learned to savor his food as humans did. He became aware of her skill. She made flat bread with flour, enlivening its flavor with honey, hazelnuts, and even hard cheese. He learned to love the taste of ham and bacon she’d smoked through the long winters. The innumerable sausages she made from pork, venison, and beef were an unending gustatory delight. And then there was wine and sometimes mead. Ahhhh . . .
He found a cave near the top of the ridge overlooking her house. It was small with a sandy floor, but deep enough to be cool on the hottest days.
They went there during the dog days, when even the overhangs sweltered in the summer sun. There, in the dim quiet place, she taught him the joys of becoming a bit fuddled by strong drink and the languorous relaxation of a summer siesta taken together before and after lovemaking.
When the tree shadows grew long, Kat began calling her. Imona quickly knelt and pulled on her dress.
“Odd,” he said one day. “She never comes looking for you?’
“She doesn’t want to find me.”
“No?” he asked.
“No,” she replied, coming to her feet and peering through the gooseberry bushes that choked the entrance. “She knows what’s going on, but she needs me. The cheeses I make and my weavings bring in what little money we have.”
The wolf remembered Clarissa’s words.
“Besides,” she added as she kissed him good-bye, “I believe she’s a little afraid of the unknown. You know: Who could he be, this man? By now, she’s probably certain you aren’t anyone from the families in this little enclave. Yes, I’m sure she’s satisfied about that. She’s not sure she wants to meet you.”
“I don’t think she’d care for me,” he said.
Imona shook her head. “She wouldn’t.” Then she
Later, after sunrise, he would watch over her as she stood before her loom under the ancient linden tree, shuttle flying to and fro as she created one or another strip of brilliant-colored cloth.
By noon, the breeze dropped. The sun beat down mercilessly. The rest of her family retreated to the round house or other shady spots to sleep through the afternoon’s heat.
This was his hour. She wandered up the mountainside, “to tend the flax,” as she told Kat, and they met. She didn’t know how or why he was always able to find her. She only knew he did, and that seemed sufficient for her.
By now he’d managed to acquire some minimal clothing—a worn tunic he’d stolen from a Roman soldier who’d spent an afternoon bathing in the river. It was doubtful if the man regretted his loss long or deeply. The wretched thing was old, faded to a dull gray and ragged beyond belief. The wolf noticed none of these things. One garment was the same as another to him. This one was long and thick enough to protect his epidermis. He’d found, after an unhappy encounter with a tangle of blackberry vines, that human skin is tender.
In any case, he wore it only long enough to reach her, pull it off, and enter her embraces. Because that was what they did—make love, eat, and sleep away the long afternoons. Sometimes they talked. In fact, they talked often. Or rather, she talked and he listened. After the first and only question she’d asked him about his humanity, she never asked another. He didn’t expect her to, realizing instinctively that she feared to disturb the delicate balance that preserved the happiness between them, an almost unearthly happiness.
When their daily lovemaking ended, she unpacked the food she always brought. She was an excellent cook. At first, he didn’t understand this. Wolflike, he simply made it disappear. But human teeth and jaws, shaped by thousands of years of savoring and sharing, don’t lend themselves easily to a wolf’s method of tearing and swallowing whole.
After he nearly strangled himself for the third time, he learned to savor his food as humans did. He became aware of her skill. She made flat bread with flour, enlivening its flavor with honey, hazelnuts, and even hard cheese. He learned to love the taste of ham and bacon she’d smoked through the long winters. The innumerable sausages she made from pork, venison, and beef were an unending gustatory delight. And then there was wine and sometimes mead. Ahhhh . . .
He found a cave near the top of the ridge overlooking her house. It was small with a sandy floor, but deep enough to be cool on the hottest days.
They went there during the dog days, when even the overhangs sweltered in the summer sun. There, in the dim quiet place, she taught him the joys of becoming a bit fuddled by strong drink and the languorous relaxation of a summer siesta taken together before and after lovemaking.
When the tree shadows grew long, Kat began calling her. Imona quickly knelt and pulled on her dress.
“Odd,” he said one day. “She never comes looking for you?’
“She doesn’t want to find me.”
“No?” he asked.
“No,” she replied, coming to her feet and peering through the gooseberry bushes that choked the entrance. “She knows what’s going on, but she needs me. The cheeses I make and my weavings bring in what little money we have.”
The wolf remembered Clarissa’s words.
“Besides,” she added as she kissed him good-bye, “I believe she’s a little afraid of the unknown. You know: Who could he be, this man? By now, she’s probably certain you aren’t anyone from the families in this little enclave. Yes, I’m sure she’s satisfied about that. She’s not sure she wants to meet you.”
“I don’t think she’d care for me,” he said.
Imona shook her head. “She wouldn’t.” Then she
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