Short Stories from Wing's Authors.

The Fenris Wolf

by

JoEllen Conger

Malleah caught her breath as she pulled aside the heavy hide which hung across the cabin’s entrance and watched Ragnar working in the yard. Evening approached in the stalking darkness, yet she could still see his massive shoulders flexing as he swung his metal axe. He chopped wood for their evening fire.

Suddenly he stood still, squinting up at the nearly full moon just clearing the silhouetted treetops. It looked as though he had completely forgotten the armload of firewood he had stacked on his massive arms. She shuddered as she watched him. She knew that faraway look, and she was afraid. As soon as the moon was full he’d leave her alone in the smoky cabin, except for the massive hound he left behind to guard her, while he went out hunting in the forest all night. Although she daren’t ask him, she willed him not to go.

If he hates the night hunting so much, why does he do it? She clutched her woven shawl more tightly about her as a chill coursed her spine.

~ * ~

Ragnar caught sight of Malleah in the doorway. His heart skipped a beat. She was not of his people, who were short and stocky with massive chests and shoulders and course shocks of Viking-red hair. Her long blond hair lay in a braid down the length of her sensuous back, her features as delicate as the woodland doe. He loved the way she watched him with her languid eyes; her slender hands caressing her own arms as gracefully as a fairy in motion sent thoughts of passion stirring his blood.

He recognized his responsibility to protect her. It came more from his desire for her than the simple fact that she was his property. Whenever she touched him, fire raced through his veins and his heart ached with his need for her. Yet, because of the evil curse laid upon him by the clan’s jealous witch, he’d never feel free to take Malleah to wife.

The time had cycled again when he must leave her alone in the cabin. Heartsick, Ragnar could not bring himself to meet her questioning eyes as he reentered the cabin. He could not bring himself to explain to her about the witch’s curse. How could he? He felt as though it hadn’t been of his making. Yet he was forever marked to carry the curse.

 Malleah released the wind guard and pulled the wooden door closed behind him. With both hands she slid the heavy bar into place. Then, as the leather barrier fell back into place, she turned and deftly snatched a chunk of firewood from Ragnar’s load and pushed it into the fire under the hanging iron pot.

“I must go hunting on the morrow,” he muttered, dropping down the remainder of the firewood upon the hearth.

The huge she-hound lying close to the hearth did not take heed of the rude crash. She only groaned, lifting her eyes in entreaty. Ragnar gently ruffled the huge head of the Norwegian elkhound between his enormous, rough hands. The dog gazed up at him with adoration, her curled tail slapping the stone floor in her pleasure.

Malleah grabbed up the long handled whittled spoon that Ragnar had carved for her and stirred the pot of cracked cornmeal stew before she turned to eye the man. “Why don’t ye hunt during the day, like the other men?” she accused. Her voice sounded wistful, not quite petulant.

He stalled, not wanting to give her the real reason. “I must,” he finally replied. Being a man of simple words, he had no way of telling her that he died a little each time he had to be away from her, every full moon, fearing he might return before the night was out and forget how fond he had become of her. How could he trust himself not to harm her?

“But...,” she protested, ready to argue with him.

He threw up a heavy hand to indicate the subject wasn’t open for discussion. His stormy eyes left no room for further comment.

Malleah jerked back to the pot and stirred in hasty strokes to hide her disappointment. She bit her pouting lip to stop the flow of words, which boiled inside her mind. She had no right to make demands on him. After all, she wasn’t even his wife, only a slave...carried off from her homeland.

She heard the creak from the chair where Ragnar had thrown himself down onto the padded, cowhide seat near the fire behind her. In her sideways glance she caught the movement of the dog stirring to press her shaggy head under the man’s restless hand, forcing him to take notice of her.

Malleah struggled to govern her runaway thoughts. She had no right to wish she could capture his attention as easily. She forced the jealousy from her heart and the pout from her lips. By the time she brought Ragnar his wooden bowl of stew his expression had softened.

Their eyes caught and he smiled and nodded his head, inviting her to sit beside him. When she returned with slabs of crusty bread and her own small bowl of stew, she slid into position next to him, grateful for his radiating body heat. She handed him the larger chunk of bread and they ate in silence. The well-mannered dog knew better than to beg; she lay gazing into the flames.

“When will ye be leaving?” Malleah asked at length, licking her fingers.

“With the coming of the dawn,” he answered around a mouthful of food. He couldn’t tell her he had a great distance to travel before the change overtook him. He grinned crookedly at her and ruffled the top of her head as he had the dog’s.

Then he sighed. A man who had purposely exiled himself from the safety of the communal longhouse was in no position to speak of love. Not even to so fine a woman, even if she was his slave. He couldn’t bring himself to do that to her, though he yearned to give in to the willingness he saw in her eyes.

Still disappointed, she snuggled down next to him, pushing the hound aside to make room for herself. “The wolves come...sometimes...when ye are away,” she whispered, drawing her nails down the length of his arm. She hoped to change his mind. The guttural sounds of the wolf pack in the woods frightened her.

“Surely you know how afraid I am of the wolves that run through the forest during the full flood of the moon.”

“Keep the bitch inside,” he commanded.

“She never asks to go out to them,” Malleah protested.

“Hear my words!” he demanded. “She be in heat.”

His voice was sharp. With a quick intake of breath the girl turned to study the man’s craggy features as he loomed above her. The expression in his dark-gray eyes flashed in anger.

Malleah cringed. “She never has,” she uttered defensively.

“Keep the bitch with you, here. Put the sheep in the shed early; bar the doors and shutter all the windows as soon as the sun is down. Don’t wait.”

“Yes, Ragnar.” His voice was so stern Malleah rapidly blinked back her sudden tears to keep them from sliding down her freckle-peppered cheeks. “I would never put Flyndla to harm,” she protested.

“The wolves be different at the full of the moon, girl. Don’t be a fool with the devil’s own. We do not need her whelping with the wolves. Keep yourself and the bitch locked inside until after first light. Do ye hear me?”

Frightened by his change of mood, Malleah only nodded, wide-eyed.

Ashamed of his harsh tone, Ragnar tore his glare away from her sad expression. Her unhappy brimming eyes and quivering lower lip burned a vivid picture into his memory. It seemed he was always hurting her. The witch’s curse wasn’t her fault. If he hadn’t had his heart set on winning Malleah, perhaps he might have indulged the witch’s sudden interest in him. Then again, even if he had, perhaps she still would have cursed him. He stared thoughtfully into the dancing flames.

Finally Malleah snuggled under his arm, her bowl sliding unnoticed to the floor.

Ragnar watched her burrow beneath his shaggy vest so that his stern eyes could not find hers again. Protectively, he pulled her head onto his lap. They sat quietly together watching the fire. His fingers lazily stroked her soft hair, easing out the knots he encountered in her bangs until his hand eventually slowed and they finally drowsed.

~ * ~

At first light, Ragnar released the sheep from the small shed that housed them. There were only six but they represented the total of his wealth. He took pleasure in watching them nibble at the sparse grass in the dooryard. He knew the only reason their varying shades pleased him was because of the wool Malleah used in her weaving. Before Malleah came, he had been content to own cows.

When he returned to the cabin, Malleah averted her eyes while handing him his breakfast of new-made bread supporting a thick slab of cold porridge. She had already packed a sizable lunch for him. She wrapped his noon meal in a bit of cloth and passed it over to him.

He wiped his fingers on his shirt and took the offered package, laying the cloth-wrapped bundle carefully into his pack. From past experience he had learned it didn’t pay to be careless with her offerings since they didn’t always consist of solid slabs of meat, bread, dried fish or travel cakes. Often there were soft-fruited pies.

When he finished eating he stared out the opened doorway, reluctant to begin his journey. “Dark will come early this night, woman. See to it everything has been put up early. Hear?”

“Aye, Ragnar,” she reassured him. What else could she do? There was no changing his mind about leaving her alone in the cabin. He hugged her, running his callused hands down her slender back to pull her nearer. She felt her body respond to him. His tender kiss clung to her lips and she savored his heady scent. She didn’t want him to leave her and held fast to his neck.

He tore himself away from her to lift his bow and arrows from their place above the mantle and ducked through the opening, all in one fluid motion. She could not bring herself to turn and watch him leave the glen. She knew without looking that he would be gone as swiftly as smoke from the chimney in a shift of the wind.

The bitch dashed past Malleah to fall in step with her master, prancing, her eyes shining with excitement. But with a jerk of his head, the man ordered her back to the cabin. The animal was crushed. She squatted as though felled, her soulful eyes faithfully watching him as he disappeared from view.

~ * ~

Ragnar found his way through the forest without benefit of a trail. Flipping the corner of his calfskin mantle back off his shoulder, he broke into a trot that ate up the distance, ignoring the cold rain-drenched foliage that slapped at his clothing and soaked him. Steam radiated from his barrel chest. He held a steady pace, his breath feathering plumed clouds into the frigid air before him. He trotted tirelessly, his mind too distracted to notice the sign of game along his trek.

At noon he rested atop a high outcropping, eyeing his father’s fleet in practice in the bay spread out far below him in panoramic view. The sadness in having given up his former life to save his people from his shame fell heavily upon him. With a growl he threw down the remainder of his meal, grabbed up his bow and ran on. By nightfall he caught sight of the higher branches of his tree-shrine. He had deliberately chosen an oak instead of the traditional ash for his Yggdrasill tree.

He arrived at sundown where his chosen tree stood alone on the crest of a ridge. His eyes measured its bark, its branches and its thick trunk. He stood below its huge uplifted limbs, his arms outstretched, and shouted a greeting. He hated it that the tree never welcomed him. Each time he came he expected the tree to answer but it never did. After all, he had been the one who had chosen this oak to represent his gateway to hell, his mystical threshold. How could he expect the tree to admit to its role in the coming ritual? It was only an oak, after all, not an ash as custom declared. But nonetheless, he always paid homage, disappointed that the tree refused to recognize him.

Ragnar stood at Midgard, Earth…the coming ordeal was his own hell. Even if the tree wouldn’t acknowledge it, he had chosen it to be his gateway. He dropped his bow and arrows to the frozen ground, removing his mantle. He tossed it down and sat heavily on it, pulling his deerskin tote bag into reach, but could not force himself to finish the food Malleah had provided.

Frustration overtook him. Throwing back his head he howled his torment. An echoing howl answered him from a distance. The time drew nearer. He had to prepare himself. First he removed his footgear and unwrapped his woolen leggings. He folded them and placed them on the mantle beside him.

Next he removed his vest, his wide belt and his heavy wool tunic. He piled them atop his footwear. His brais were the only thing remaining to remind him that he was human. He stood and balanced on one foot and started to remove his pants.

His shoulders arched as the transformation began. Dark-gray fur emerged along his spine, covering his shoulders with long shaggy swirls. His hands curled into the beginnings of his wolf paws. His jaw lengthened and his nose turned into a black nub. His skull changed, his teeth grew. His ears began to elongate.

With a swift motion he tore off his brais and sat upon his bundle of clothing, naked to the world…to the sky, the frozen ground beneath him and the ceremonial branches of the tree above him. He always hoped somehow the transformation would be painful...adding to his hell. Yet the act of metamorphosis always disappointed him. Each time he felt a thrill as though he were being reborn.

His nostrils caught the scent of the nearby wolves. His ears could detect their pacing in the underbrush. He could taste the acid perfume of the oak bark in the back of his throat, the chalk of the moldering leaves beneath him. But he was blind until the moonlight touched him. He waited...his head thrown high, his eyes squeezed shut…the transformation incomplete.

~ * ~

Gathering up her shawl, Malleah had gone out to fetch the day’s water and to keep an eye on the wanderings of the sheep. If it weren’t for their fine wool she wouldn’t care what became of them, although she knew that Ragnar had selected each one for its particular shade of wool.

The dog reappeared through the woods. She watched the bitch slink from tree to tree and bush to bush as if returning reluctantly, realizing with a start that Ragnar must have had to order the bitch back. Guilt flooded over her for not having missed the animal. The dog was a real comfort to her when Ragnar was away.

Malleah whistled for Flyndla to come watch the sheep. The dog looked up at the sound, but responded without enthusiasm.

Malleah lowered the bucket into the stream to fill it before starting her trek back to the cabin. She shivered, looking out into their meadow. A mist had started to rise and a damp chill filled the air. She speculated whether or not there might be snow before morning. Although she studied the sky as she had seen Ragnar do, it didn’t speak to her.

None-the-less, she carried armload after armload of wood to heap upon the hearth. Darkness overtook her mid-afternoon. Although she laughed at her own fear at being left alone, the threatening sky stole the sound.

Apprehension stirred in her breast like a tangible weight. Quickly she left the cabin and checked on the whereabouts of the sheep, although she knew that Flyndla wouldn’t let them stray far. She needn’t have worried; the dog was faithfully on guard.

She whistled and circled her arms high over her head to direct Flyndla to bring the sheep across the glade. The dog rounded them up and urged them into the shed. When they were all safely inside, Malleah pushed the door closed and lifted the bars into place.

Relieved that the sheep were safely put away, she headed back toward the cabin. Slapping her thigh, she ordered the dog to follow her. Reluctantly, the animal accompanied her, sniffing the wind and every blade of grass and bush between the shed and the cabin. Malleah realized the animal was every bit as restless without Ragnar as she.

Once inside the dog threw herself down in front of the fire with an audible groan. Malleah closed the shutters and slipped the thick cross-boards into place until only the opened doorway gave any indication of the dying afternoon light. Anxiety stirred within her. She stared out at the thickening fog before she suddenly forced the door shut and slid the bars into their slots. Malleah turned her back toward the door as the leather door-shield fell into place.

The room had never before seemed like such a prison. She struggled to keep herself from throwing open the door to the sparkling cold air. She knew that a madness would lie over the land with the coming of moonlight. There was bound to be terrifying unidentifiable sounds in the nearby woods.

The wolves would howl and circle the cabin...but would they, really? Or did that only happen in her imagination? She could hear her heart pounding in her chest until she thought surely it would burst.

Why, oh, why does Ragnar have to hunt at night during the flood of the moon? Why does he always leave me alone with my fears?

You aren’t alone, you silly goose, she berated herself. Why do you think he leaves you the dog? So you aren’t alone.

She forced herself to turn toward the fireplace and seek her comfort there, but even after helping herself to the stew from the pot she had no appetite and could not eat. She offered her dinner to the dog and watched as the grateful beast lapped the bowl dry. Then she curled herself beside Flyndla, stroking her fingers through the animal’s matted fur.

Malleah woke with a start when the dog leaped up, growling. The hair on the back of Malleah’s neck stood as stiffly as the dog’s, which she could just barely make out in the dim glow of the dying fire. She scrambled across the rough floor on her hands and knees and beat the coals into a flame. Her heart pounded like a drum in her ears. Quickly she had the fire rebuilt, but the dog was irreconcilable. The restless beast paced back and forth, her nails clicking on the stone floor.

“Ragnar! Ragnar!” Malleah wailed, her voice so plaintive the animal returned to comfort her, kissing her with a long wet tongue. Although the fire had brightened the room, the shadows in the corners dipped and swayed into grotesque threatening shapes.

Returning to the barred door, Flyndla snuffed, grunting in her throat.

“Come here,” the frightened girl ordered. Wrapping a shaggy hide about her shoulders for warmth, she pulled the dog down in front of the fire and forced her to lie still. The two huddled and shivered together, listening to the sounds from out in the darkness.

Malleah woke again with a start. Fear gripped her heart. She could feel it pounding in her chest. She had no idea how long she might have slept, but surely the moon had already risen. Surely the wolves were already on the prowl. Surely they were just outside the cabin just as she had feared.

When Flyndla made a wild leap for the door, baying shrilly, Malleah’s scream echoed in the confines of the small cabin. The dog growled, frantically clawing at the leather door covering. Then, the full-throated cry of a wolf shattered the night.

Hands pressed over her own mouth to stifle her screams, Malleah waited. The baying did not sound again. She had nearly quieted her heart when she heard the wolf’s loud snuffle on the other side of the door. Paralyzed, Malleah listened as the beast circled the cabin, clawing first at one bared window and then another.

Hysterical, Malleah shrank back against the woodpile, whimpering. She fought to shut out the sound of the wolf trying to get into the cabin. Her eyes blazed like fires as she watched Flyndla go crazy in her lust to reach the wolf, clawing and biting at the boards covering the doorway. Chips flew. Wood splintered.

Without warning the dog lay down quietly, her nose pressed against the door. Malleah heard only the stillness of the night in answer to her straining ears. She crept forward on hands and knees to where Flyndla lay and cautiously ran her fingers through the dog’s curls. Flyndla, her muscles bunched, seemed to be waiting.

Lifting the leather covering, Malleah carefully placed her eye to a chink between the boards. She held her breath. She didn’t want it to cloud before her, obscuring her vision. Her eyes scanned what small portion of the yard she could see. She tried to define just what she saw on the other side. Snow had fallen earlier but now it glittered in the moonlight.

A dark, silver shadow swirled across her vision. She stared for long moments before she suddenly realized she stared into the unblinking depths of gray eyes. Her mind shrieked as she swooned.

~ * ~

When Malleah awoke cold and stiff, Flyndla was whinning repeatedly at the door. She pushed the dog aside and peered through the small hole. Ragnar lay crumpled in a heap on the opposite side of the door. Although it was not yet dawn, Malleah none-the-less threw open the door. The dog dashed through and licked her master’s face.

Malleah added her own keening to the dog’s insistent pleading. “Get up,” she sobbed again and again, jerking at Ragnar’s still form. His face was blue from the cold. His hair was frozen to the ground where he had fallen.

The dog’s ministrations revived him and Ragnar’s eyes opened. Although he tried to scold Malleah for not waiting until dawn to unbolt the door, he could not speak.

Malleah felt too exasperated to listen. She levered his elbow to help him gain his feet. He swayed, yet she steadied him. With her arm wrapped tightly about his nude body, she could feel him shiver from the cold.

“Ragnar, what are you doing out here?” Her voice sounded irritated, even as she sobbed his name. Frantically she guided him into the cabin, the dog in the way at every step. Kicking the door shut behind her, Flyndla yelped.

“Stay down,” Malleah snarled at the animal.

Ragnar fell to his knees on the shaggy hides of his bed. The warmth in the room burned him like fire. He slumped. His eyes refused to remain open. Yet subconsciously he was aware of the sleeping hides being drawn over him.

Malleah forced warm broth between his chattering teeth before he slumped into a dead sleep. She slid into his bed beside him and cuddled herself against his frozen form. The dog jumped up on the bed and tromped about until she could also add her own breath to warm her master.

~ * ~

The first impression he experienced when he awoke was Malleah curled spoon-fashion around his back. Her warm arm was locked over his chest and her breath exhaling on the nape of his neck stirred his blood. The dog lay with her head on his chest. He pushed Flyndla aside and tested his muscles with a groan. He felt as though he had been in battle...and lost.

Malleah rolled instantly out of his bed and touched his cheek with light, quick fingers to determine his state of health. Finding him hale, she admonished, “Ye nearly scared me to death!” She struck his shoulder with a fist.

Ragnar caught her hand easily and pulled her back down into the bed. “What’s all the fuss about, girl?” He tried to nuzzle her. He grinned at her, loving the way her eyes flashed sapphire when she was upset with him. Yet he had never seen her this angry before.

Malleah struggled against his bear hug and leaped free of the bed, hands on hips to scold him afresh. “I don’t know what ye be hunting, running around the countryside without yer clothes...on a snowy night, at that!”

“What are you talking about, woman?”

“You!” she shouted. “Nearly scared me witless yestermorn, scratching at the door like a hound.” She whirled to point unnecessarily toward the damaged door.

Ragnar sat up slowly. “And my gear?”

“Wherever you dropped it,” she retorted. “Ye was all splattered with blood, but ye had not one piece of meat left for the pot. Did ye eat it raw?”

He wondered how he’d come to return to the cabin in such a sorry state. Where had he left his gear? Hadn’t he returned to the tree?

“How long have I been asleep?” he gulped.

“A day’s cycle and a night, by my reckoning,” she snorted.

He didn’t know what to say to her, but before he could say another word she threw a wad of old clothing into his face. She whirled and stormed from the cabin.

Flustered, he leapt out of the bed and pulled on the ragged clothing. He hesitated on his way across the room, combing his hair with his fingers. He found her on the door stoop.

“It be my own shame, girl. I’ll go fetch my gear my own self.”

“Ye’ll not leave this house without hot food in yer belly,” she admonished. “It’s been ready for hours.” Although her eyes still flashed fire, none-the-less she pushed her way back into the cabin to serve him a steaming bowl of cornmeal stew.

Ragnar turned to study the slip of a girl. He followed her back toward the hearth.

“I’ll pack ye a bundle to take with ye,” she added. “But only Odin knows where ye have left your pack.” Malleah’s chin, although flung high in arrogant reproach, still quivered.

Although her tone of voice still lashed him, Ragnar noted her eyes had softened. “Ah, girl,” he muttered. For just a moment he’d seen the love and concern written in her eyes.

Damn! What am I to do? She loves me and there be no way we could live a normal life with me having to answer to the witch’s curse each full moon. It’s too foolhardy to even hope for. Just forget it. With a trembling hand he accepted the bowl.

Her fingers brushed his hand and lingered but he was determined not to permit her to know how much it affected him. He gulped down the stew directly from the bowl’s lip and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He handed the wooden dish back to her.

Malleah took down Ragnar’s old cape from where it hung behind the door and threw it over his shoulders, fastening the broach. She handed him the bundle of food.

He could not bring himself to meet Malleah’s eyes just now. Quickly, he ducked through the doorway before he could change his mind about going. He refused to allow himself to notice the splintered boards as he stepped over them.

Flyndla whirled out the door behind him.

Malleah clamped a hand over her mouth to still the wail that came unbidden. She squeezed her eyes shut, her heart thundering with the knowledge that she was truly alone.

~ * ~

Taking off at a lope, Ragnar back tracked the pugmarks of a large wolf, still frozen in the cold snow. He knew who had made the tracks and he cursed. Throughout the day he ran without pause through the forest. When he reached the tree, he slumped down to rest. His bow, clothes and pack were just as he’d left them.

Yipping with furor, Flyndla circled the tree and snuffled the spoor where the wolves had been. She growled, excited by the prospect of a hunt, and barked in frenzied anticipation. She made to follow the scent. When Ragnar ordered her return, she joined him, dropping her head upon her front paws, grumbling that he’d spoiled her fun. She panted, her tongue lolling, jewels of saliva dripping from her jaws.

Ragnar rubbed a hand across the dog’s eyebrow-ridge and slapped her shoulder with affection. Studying the sky he realized storm clouds would hide the golden moon on his return to the cabin like a jealous lover. But no matter, he vowed he would not leave Malleah alone again throughout a second night.

Without touching the food she’d thoughtfully prepared for him, he quickly gathered up his belongings. He stuffed his cloths into his pack and threw the heavy mantle about his shoulders. Without acknowledging the oak tree, he picked up his bow and arrows and began his long race back home. Flyndla bolted up to escort him.

It was midnight when he approached the cabin in the moonlight. He paused, momentarily fearing to approach the building. He lifted his nose to the wind to catch the scent of smoke...the sleeping sheep...the smell of freshly broken branches, of the bitch that ghosted beside him. His body had not yet forgotten the memories of being the wolf. He was aware of every movement in the brush, each change of the wind. His ears catalogued the sound of each creature that rustled through the dry leaves and the squeak of snow beneath their weight. His vision pierced the darkness. As the wolf, would he have hurt Malleah if he had managed to breach the cabin door? He was horrified that he might have.

Flyndla whined at the delay, restless to be inside. Ragnar growled low in his throat and, submissively, the dog remained by his side. Finally Ragnar sighed deeply and willed himself to advance the last few steps to the bared doorway.

Resting his forehead against the door he called softly, “Malleah.” He waited. He could not open the bolted door from the outside. He called again before he heard the woman stir from within.

She loosed the boards, allowing him and the dog to enter the warm cabin. Her eyes searched him with unspoken questions but he was too tired to make reply.

He helped her return the bars across the door, then clung to her desperately. He didn’t want to talk. He was too exhausted and sick of soul. He simply held on to her tightly, wishing that things could be different between them; that his life could be something other than the hell it had become. That he could tell her he loved her…that they could wed and raise a family. But all of that was never to be. The lack of words betrayed him. There wasn’t any use in dreaming of it. It could never happen. He didn’t know how to break the spell, the one night each month when he became a fenris wolf.

Malleah said nothing. As soon as he released her she led the way to his bed and turned back the fur covers for him. He slumped down onto the pallet and she busied herself removing his boots and leggings. She spoke softly, but there was no reply. He had fallen asleep.

She sat, watching him breathe. Somehow he was different... as though something within him had broken. He looked so vulnerable in his sleep. Malleah wanted to cry for him, but could not.

~ * ~

In the days that followed, Malleah could not bring herself to mention the events of his midnight madness. And in due time, the strain between them was forgotten until again the moon waxed full.

On the morning before the moon-flood their eyes met and held. He made no pretense of going out to hunt. When he finally turned to leave he did not take down the bow and arrows. As Ragnar headed for the door Malleah held out his pack, her eyes pleading that he not leave her.

He ignored the pack and took her into his arms. For an eternity he clutched her to him, caressing her long blond braids with a trembling hand. He had not thought of a solution to his problem. Their situation seemed hopeless.

“Don’t go,” Malleah begged in a little-girl’s voice. He hadn’t even left, yet her loneliness had already turned to desperation.

Ragnar could not trust himself to speak. Still stroking her hair he memorized every highlight, every wisp that softened her brow; the sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her up-turned nose and the brilliant sapphire of her eyes. As far as he knew there was no way to break the witch’s curse.

With a catch in her voice, Malleah hesitated, “I’ve made a charm for ye.” Fearing she might lose her nerve she jerked something from her apron pocket and brought out the Thor’s hammer she had carved from bone. Before he could reject her gift she stood on tiptoe and quickly knotted the thong around his neck. With a light touch she caressed it wistfully. “May it bring ye safely home to me.”

Blinking back hot tears, Ragnar thought his heart might break. He fingered the charm resting upon his chest knowing the charm’s magic wasn’t strong enough to fight the witch’s curse. He stifled a sob as he brushed his lips across the top of her curly bangs. Taking up the bag, he fled, turning at the doorway for one last look.

“Stay here, Flyndla,” he ordered. His voice had gone gravely. “Protect Malleah.” He bolted out the doorway, ghosting into the nearby forest.

Malleah did not watch him leave. She held her chin high and kept her back straight, her eyes squeezed tight. She had already decided what she must do.

At sundown she locked the dog in the shed with the sheep and returned to the cabin, alone. As she watched the sun set she did not lock nor shutter the windows. She knew that if she had guessed wrong it wouldn’t make a bit of difference. She sighed. She would prepare herself for her master’s return.

Malleah sat on the hearth by the fire and slowly pulled a matching Thor’s hammer from her pocket. She studied it a long moment before she fastened the thong about her throat. Thor was not one of her own gods but tonight she appealed to Him for Ragnar’s sake. Tonight she would call upon every magic she could remember. In her desperation she wasn’t even sure whether the Triple Goddess could help her.

She stared out the door as the day passed into night. Painstakingly she unbraided her long hair. Taking up the brush that Ragnar had given her, she brushed her tresses until her hair glowed in a billowing golden cloud about her shoulders.

As the moon rose over the ridge, she removed her garments one-by-one. Tonight she performed a ritual of her forefathers. Her foremothers. She had no altar, no sacred blade and no magical charms yet she called upon the powers of the Quarters. She drew her finger within a bowl of salt and drew the pentagram upon her forehead. As the Goddess she would not feel the cold.

She moved to the doorway where she sat cross-legged, the full light of the moon on her hair shimmering like gold. She waited. If the wolf she knew was coming was really a fenris wolf, she would gladly join the pack as one of them. One bite on her neck would be all that it would take. But, if it were merely a wolf like any other timber wolf, would she ever see Ragnar again?

It seemed an eternity before she heard the wolves coming. They swarmed across the glade toward the cabin. She steadied her breathing, raising every bit of courage she could muster as she watched them come.

The pack froze at sight of her, milling about until the lead wolf ordered them to retreat into the woods. Stiff-legged, the wolf slowly approached her until it stood before her, watching her with intense gray eyes.

Malleah hadn’t realized just how big he was. Her heart fluttered in her breast like a frightened bird. She panted in fear while she and the wolf stared at one another. Head lowered, the animal advanced a step at a time toward her, his eyes never leaving hers.

She was almost certain she recognized Ragnar’s silver eyes. Relief flooded through her like fire when she saw the Thor’s hammer charm upon the wolf’s chest. She knew the wolf could be no other than her own beloved master.

Yet, as the wolf watched her, she began to doubt her decision. Had she made an impulsive mistake? She balled her hands into fists to keep them from shaking. Forcing herself to relax she placed her palms on her thighs. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut against the piercing gray eyes that seemed to search her soul and deliberately tipped her head back to expose her throat to him. She would rather die than live a life without Ragnar.

Not a sound could be heard. Time stood still. When she could no longer stand the suspense, she nervously fingered her matching charm. Finally, she lowered her head and opened her eyes. The wolf still stood before her, examining her.

As their eyes meet again, a chill of anticipation rippled her spine. Then the wolf stepped forward and pressed his nose against the charm suspended upon her breast. She glanced down at the charm, almost disappointed that he hadn’t chosen to join them in the fenris curse.

The wolf seemed to smile and motioned with his muzzle for her to follow him. Without hesitation, Malleah stood with a fluid motion and stepped out through the open doorway.

Moonlight made a halo of her hair as she leaned down to touch the wolf’s crown. The large wolf bowed low before her. He turned away several steps before glancing back over his shoulder at her.

Malleah could swear the animal smiled at her, willing her to follow him.

With a joyous bark, the fenris wolf whirled away.

Malleah’s pale skin reflected the ghostly moonlight. Touching her charm, Malleah sprinted to catch up. “Praises be to the god, Thor…or even the Triple Goddess,” she murmured. Her prayer had not been answered as she might have expected, yet somehow love had won out. She hoped that come morning, Ragnar would remember this night.

Tonight, however, she would run with the pack like a fairy wraith. She knew that come the dawning she’d still be herself, and she and Ragnar would come home to the cabin. With a hand resting on the wolf’s shoulder, they ran side-by-side through the forest.