wounds with presses of comfrey and chamomile. Lacking children of her own, she lavished attention on her, combed and plaited her hair, made her a pretty dress and even gave her a bed. Saitada was as happy there as she had ever been, though she swore she would never take another man. And she never did, until she was seventeen.
On the day that she was to go back on that vow a neighbouring farmer had visited to warn that, very unusually, there was a wolf in the area. Three of his sheep had been killed the night before. In such a tight community of small farms wolves were rare, put off by the number of men. Hence the local farmers had little experience of dealing with them.
So Saitada, the farmer and his wife drove their livestock into the pen by the pigsty and waited the night with the dogs and a spear. You have two ways to go with a wolf, unless you are an experienced trapper. One is to light your torches and sing your songs, hoping that the noise will drive him away. The second is to lie in wait to spear him and kill him. Neither will work but both courses of action will provide the comfort of doing something. If you come in force he will slip away and try again tomorrow. If you wait, he can wait longer, until you are tired and sleep takes you. To catch a wolf, you need a trick and a trap, things the farmer did not have.
The farmer was eager for sleep and wanted to get things over with, so he commanded silence from the women. Still, he could not quite keep quiet himself, so impressed was he with the weight of his spear. Men who have never had to fight love a weapon. They love to hold it in their hands, feel its balance and speculate on the damage they might do, were they called to do it. There is a killer in every cowardly man, waiting for the right set of circumstances when the time has been drained of the possibility of reprisals and he feels free to act. The farmer was no different and began, as he sat in the warm night, to feel the importance the spear bestowed upon him and, despite himself, to talk.
‘When I was a boy it was said no one threw a spear better than I.’
The farmer’s wife rolled her eyes because she had heard this story before many times when he was in drink.
‘I thought we were being quiet for this wolf,’ she said.
‘I’m just saying,’ said the farmer, ‘had I been born higher I would have made a mighty warrior. As a boy I had quite the feel for weapons. The earl himself saw me one day and said he wished half his warriors could shoot a bow as well as I. I was quite the—’
Suddenly he was quiet. In the trees by the farm two gigantic eyes seemed to burn, less a wolf than some fiend from hell.
He moved smoothly behind the slave girl. She did not flinch, having endured worse than a wolf had to offer her.
‘That is no ordinary wolf,’ said the farmer’s wife.
‘Sound the alarm,’ said the farmer. ‘Fetch aid, fetch aid!’
‘You fetch aid,’ said his wife; ‘you’re the man.’
‘If I move it might see me,’ hissed the farmer.
‘If I move it might see me,’ hissed his wife.
‘I am needed to till the land. Who will provide for poor Saitada?’ said the farmer.
‘I will go for aid,’ said Saitada.
‘Too late. The wolf is among you,’ said a voice close at their ears.
The three turned but couldn’t for a moment see anyone. Suddenly, so bright and white in the starlit night that they wondered how ever they could have missed him, a young man of around twenty was there. He was strikingly handsome, long-legged and lithe. He seemed to draw the moonlight to him, and beneath it his muscles rippled as if under some silvery sea. For a breath it didn’t seem remarkable that he was almost completely naked. All he had to cover his modesty was a huge and bloody wolfskin draped across his back, a rear paw cheekily positioned by his hand over that part the nuns shun. His hair was bright red and stood up in a shock.
‘Christ’s wounds!’ said the farmer.
On the day that she was to go back on that vow a neighbouring farmer had visited to warn that, very unusually, there was a wolf in the area. Three of his sheep had been killed the night before. In such a tight community of small farms wolves were rare, put off by the number of men. Hence the local farmers had little experience of dealing with them.
So Saitada, the farmer and his wife drove their livestock into the pen by the pigsty and waited the night with the dogs and a spear. You have two ways to go with a wolf, unless you are an experienced trapper. One is to light your torches and sing your songs, hoping that the noise will drive him away. The second is to lie in wait to spear him and kill him. Neither will work but both courses of action will provide the comfort of doing something. If you come in force he will slip away and try again tomorrow. If you wait, he can wait longer, until you are tired and sleep takes you. To catch a wolf, you need a trick and a trap, things the farmer did not have.
The farmer was eager for sleep and wanted to get things over with, so he commanded silence from the women. Still, he could not quite keep quiet himself, so impressed was he with the weight of his spear. Men who have never had to fight love a weapon. They love to hold it in their hands, feel its balance and speculate on the damage they might do, were they called to do it. There is a killer in every cowardly man, waiting for the right set of circumstances when the time has been drained of the possibility of reprisals and he feels free to act. The farmer was no different and began, as he sat in the warm night, to feel the importance the spear bestowed upon him and, despite himself, to talk.
‘When I was a boy it was said no one threw a spear better than I.’
The farmer’s wife rolled her eyes because she had heard this story before many times when he was in drink.
‘I thought we were being quiet for this wolf,’ she said.
‘I’m just saying,’ said the farmer, ‘had I been born higher I would have made a mighty warrior. As a boy I had quite the feel for weapons. The earl himself saw me one day and said he wished half his warriors could shoot a bow as well as I. I was quite the—’
Suddenly he was quiet. In the trees by the farm two gigantic eyes seemed to burn, less a wolf than some fiend from hell.
He moved smoothly behind the slave girl. She did not flinch, having endured worse than a wolf had to offer her.
‘That is no ordinary wolf,’ said the farmer’s wife.
‘Sound the alarm,’ said the farmer. ‘Fetch aid, fetch aid!’
‘You fetch aid,’ said his wife; ‘you’re the man.’
‘If I move it might see me,’ hissed the farmer.
‘If I move it might see me,’ hissed his wife.
‘I am needed to till the land. Who will provide for poor Saitada?’ said the farmer.
‘I will go for aid,’ said Saitada.
‘Too late. The wolf is among you,’ said a voice close at their ears.
The three turned but couldn’t for a moment see anyone. Suddenly, so bright and white in the starlit night that they wondered how ever they could have missed him, a young man of around twenty was there. He was strikingly handsome, long-legged and lithe. He seemed to draw the moonlight to him, and beneath it his muscles rippled as if under some silvery sea. For a breath it didn’t seem remarkable that he was almost completely naked. All he had to cover his modesty was a huge and bloody wolfskin draped across his back, a rear paw cheekily positioned by his hand over that part the nuns shun. His hair was bright red and stood up in a shock.
‘Christ’s wounds!’ said the farmer.
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