Isa, the she-wolf, had kept watch those last twenty winters, mostly from her den in the hills to the west of Harwick, and from the misted edge of her own world. Silver-grey eyes had seen much, had seen more than the most keen-eyed of observes who stood guard at the gates of the settlement. The seasons had toppled, one over the other in swift succession, like a litter of cubs at play. She had often watched the long sleep of winter turn green again, as the land was warmed into giving forth life. She had watched the rich waxing of a sun-blessed summer turn to the gold of harvest, and then to the many hued majesty of the waning of the trees and the light. She had waited, growing strong in mind and in body, nurtured by the good land in which the woman dwelt; but her heart had turned to ice.
Oh, it had not happened swiftly, overnight, borne of a single event, no, not even several. It was not even those moments when the woman’s world had closed in upon her; when the wolf had savaged a would-be attacker on the edge of the Dwimordene, nor in the forgetfulness that followed. It was not in the slaughter near Langhold, nor in the long year of plague that saw the death of the woman’s mother. It was the slow, continual drip of gossiping tongues who took a chance to shun what they thought was ‘different’ - changeling, elf-witch, murderess. It was the glances, the turning of backs, the friends who were swayed by the opinions of others. It was the kinder hearts fearing to make a stand for what they knew was the truth about her, rather than succumbing to what was convenient.
Those same silver-grey eyes that had seen much were in demand though, by those who would know what lay ahead for them, be it love or fortune or bright fame. Even those who turned their backs in public had sometimes sought her out in private, at the small croft where the woman and her father lived, offering coin as if her gift could be purchased with such. She had refused them, giving that aid only at need, and to those who would use it well. She had made enemies.
For a time the women of the settlement had trusted her with their young. She would have been a good mother, most wolves were. She had taught and cared for any who were leant her. But no cubs were there to be for one set apart. The women were wary, and the men even more so it seemed. There had been a few who approached her with soft words and open hands, but always, always there were the rumours, and when any man saw the wolf in the woman, they made a hasty retreat.
The woman understood. The she-wolf did not. Her pain grew with each rejection, with each exclusion from the pack.
And then, during one dark and stormy morn, it was enough! She had been patient. She had endured. Caught between worlds in that moment, the wolf’s eyes saw a hope, saw the glimmer of a future worth embracing. To the south she would journey. The woman would come with her.
“Time” said the ice-wolf, the she-wolf to herself. “It is time to live, and to range at will, unfettered by falsehoods and fear.”
Rising to her paws, she stretched out each hind leg in turn, then lowered her head, hollowing her back, to stretch out her front legs. She yawned. She howled.
A new scent of a place from beyond the lands she knew, from a memory of the woman’s childhood had reached her sensitive nose. She saw her quarry in her thoughts, heard the voice, felt the sorrow. And as the deep coloured fields of the Wold become solid before her, she knew.
So it happened that she abandoned her den of two worlds and twenty winters, and travelled down to Harwick, to find Yllfa and herself.
“I must leave Harwick, papa,” I said. “There is nothing here for me except you.”
It was not a lightly made decision on my part. My father was dear to me. We had lived and worked as a family of two since the passing of my mother in my twentieth year, my father tilling the land, and I giving help and looking to always learn more of herbs and healing.
Beornmund, my father, looked up at my words, putting down the bread and cheese he was having for his morning meal. His eyes were sad, but he understood. He rose to his feet.
“Yllfa, you know I will never tire of your company, but I have been waiting and hoping for this day.”
He took my hand and bade me sit at the table with him a moment.
“This place is the best I can offer, but I watch as day by day it drains the life from you.”
I made to interrupt, to tell him that I appreciated everything he had ever done, (Save perhaps his insistence on departing Forlaw for Stangard, causing me to run away with my young love), but he raised a hand, asking me to hear him out.
“We all knew you were different, your mother, grandparents and I. You were never meant for the life most women desire. Had you been born a boy, it would have been easier. Cenulf would have seen to that. He would have made a rider of you. But a girl child...ah..and the bloodline of both my ancestors and your mother’s. “
I nodded. I knew what he spoke of, having talked with my mother about my rare visions of what was to come. ‘Ancestry on both blood lines,” she had said “All the way back to the times of the Eotheod. Every few generations there is one who can ‘see’ beyond the veils of this world in certain situations. It is not something to be open about. Folk fear what they do not understand.’
Aye, I was not open about it, but still they knew, and came seeking their fortune ( which I could not give) or a far-seeing (which I sometimes could, but mostly refused). And there had been times when what I saw ahead I could not tell. The death of a loved one, an empty home, failed crops, lost horses - I would not speak of such dire things. Some may think I had been born with a gift. It was a curse.
But my father spoke on. “You will never thrive in Harwick, daughter mine. But I must ask where you think to go?’
That had been part of my reason for hesitation until that very morning. Should I make for Snowborne, for Cliving? I needed somewhere I would not be recognised. Or so I had thought.
Now I spoke clearly, a picture forming in my mind.
“I shall travel south, to Edoras, papa. I would see if we have any claim on grandpa’s farm, as was suggested. I will go home again.”
My father merely nodded. “Then go with my blessing, but visit me again, if you ever can’.
In the field outside the small rented farm sat a silver-furred she-wolf, her long tail swishing from side to side with impatience. She had the vision, she was eager to be away. A small fragment of her ice-heart was warming at the prospect. No one saw her there. Indeed, it was rare anyone saw her at all.
