The Dark Wolf

A young girl must hunt to provide for her family, but this hunt takes an unexpected turn.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I wrote this story for a creative writing class I took a few years back at junior college. I recently found it in an old folder and decided to rewrite it and hopefully perfect it a little. I must admit, this is one of the first short stories I have ever written and I wrote it the night before it was due (I remember that because I'm such a pro procrastinator), so I'm really only doing this for fun. I haven't changed too many details from the original draft.

This is not the completed version!

I will update it again when I have finished rewriting it.

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The glowing, threatening eyes of the night were the sheer terror of my people for three whole decades. Wolves became so much a part of our culture that we have whole legends dedicated to them.

My grandfather used to warn me when I was a child about how much an encounter with a wolf could change my fate. I still remember sitting on his lap next to the crackling fire, watching how his eyes lit up with excitement about the experiences he had. Not all stories were to be taken lightly, as my grandfather believed there was a lesson in every detail.

"Such sly beasts they are!" he'd exclaim with his deep, booming voice, "the smaller the prey, the better the hunt! They'd take the little ones away for sure, all right! A long and strenuous search ended in the discovery of a rotting carcass on the far side of the mountain woods.

"Dreadful," he'd say while shaking his head and staring into the fire. I can still remember the look in his eyes.

Wolves became less populous as time passed. The men of every mountain village hunted for wolves every chance they had. From these hunting trips spawned the legends: dark wolves were workers of the devil bringing about misfortune while prowling around in the black of night. Their deaths were cause for magnificent celebration. White wolves meant excellent fortune if encountered; their fur brought wealth to whoever had it to sell.

Sightings of these violent creatures were soon scarce until there were none at all. What used to be packs upon packs transitioned into sudden extinction.

This had changed for me, however. It was the year of my fifteenth birthday when Papa gave what still is the best gift I have ever received: a handmade wooden longbow. It contained trimmings of bright, colorful feathers and carefully carved wooden beads. I had exactly fifteen arrows; my father had made one every year since I was born. He also presented me with a huge, sturdy quiver with a wolf head painted on along with my name; it was beautiful. Treasures such as these were rare in my village due to the amount of work and lack of materials needed to make them. Papa had been hard at work for years to achieve the best quality in each piece. I could not show my appreciation enough that year.

I practiced everyday from midday to sundown. My mother worried about me being too hard on myself when I would make mistakes, but I had an objective in mind. I was going to give back to my father: I was going to take down a dark and white wolf.