The Wolf That Was

I remember when the people were kind. When they lived as one with the world and with nature–when they didn't try to conquer everything that was, everything that is, everything that will be.

We wolves and humans have been knit closely together since the dawn of time. Where the humans strayed from the ways of the world, we embraced it. They sought fire, control, power. And they found all of this and more, in time. Many wolves have given up on humanity. Condemned them to their pursuit of becoming God.

Wolves used to speak with humans in a common language, one that most humans have elected to forget they know. In parallel, most wolves have elected to never speak it again. Reasoning with the humans is pointless. Everything they do ends in nothing but destruction. But I, for one, have not given up on the kinship we once shared.

I've found a human to speak to, and maybe… just maybe he'll answer.

I came to these woods from a wood far away. I ran to escape human hunters who, after setting up ranches near my pack's hunting grounds, located our den and proceeded to set up traps around it–to capture and kill us. They said we were a threat to their cattle, after another bordering pack strayed too close to us and slaughtered one of the herd.

The humans didn't know any better. They simply attacked any wolf on sight, deeming all of us a threat. The traps were brutal and maimed one of our growing pups. After that, we fled.

I told my pack that the people weren't bad; they were simply mistaken. But, so opposed to me they were, they cast me out too, and then I was alone.

But in these woods, I found a lone human.

I've been following him for a few days, nursing an injured paw from my rushed departure from home. Like me, he seems to be alone. No other human has been within scent or sound of us. Yet he continues to walk.

He holds no obvious tools or weapons, save a knife he uses to skin small animals he traps, but I'm still hesitant to approach him or to try speaking to him. But my mother told me stories of when wolves and humans got along. My inability to let go of those stories is what keeps me following this human now. Eventually I will have to talk to him, but… what will I say?

One day, I wake up and smell a familiar scent that I never expected to behold again. It's very close. Peeking out from my hiding spot, I see that my human has already left. I stumble on my injured paw after him, rushed by this scent.

I've just caught up to him, now just a hundred feet behind him in the trees, when I hear the horrible snarl, quickly approaching him. My pack is here.

He's taken by surprise as my littermate jumps at him, jaws wide open for a bite. My littermate shoves him to the ground and stalks around him. The others are nowhere to be seen, but their scents are getting closer by the second. They must not have caught my scent over their own.

His arm is bleeding from a gruesome bite, his eyes filled with fear and surprise. She's inching closer with bared teeth.

"Stop!" I cry, pushing into the space between them. She freezes, looking at me with disbelief.

"You? We thought you were dead."

"Stop," I demand again, standing rigidly.

She narrows her eyes. "He's a human. We are hungry. Get out of the way."

"No," I growl. "He's different."

"Oh yeah? Prove it."

I hesitate, watching her. I look back at him, at his bleeding arm, at his terrified expression. With one more glance at my sister, I speak in the common tongue that is shared by all life. "Hello, human."

He blinks at me, mouth agape, silent.

"It's okay," I say softly. My sister is pawing the ground impatiently. Trying to ignore her, I lower myself to the ground closer to him. He pulls away at first, but my paw catches his eye as I push it forward. The gash on my leg is still visible.

"It's okay," I say again.

"You're–you're talking," he chokes out.

"So are you," I point out gently.

"B-But… wolves don't talk…"

I can see that he's in shock.

He continues, "Wolves just kill."

His words sting, but I don't show that. "To us, humans are no different. I've been following you for days, and I think that you are different. You only kill when necessary."

He watches me. The blood from his arm is still flowing. He looks at it, looks at my sister, looks at me. The wonder in his eyes starts to turn to suspicion, and his other arm tenses up, reaching behind his back.

A second too late, I jump back. His knife catches my nose, and I yelp.

"You're not talking," he growls, pushing himself to his feet with a grimace. "Wolves don't talk."

"I am talking!" I cry, cowering low to the ground.

My sister shoulders me aside. "I told you he was a threat," she says in our native tongue.

"He is not a threat!" I insist to her in the common tongue. I don't want to leave him out. "He's just scared."

"I am not scared!" the human roars, flourishing the knife at us.

At that moment, my mother leaps at him from behind. He falls to the ground, her teeth buried in his neck. He doesn't move, and she turns to me.

She says, "Never trust a human."