One of the men pulled the long meat fork from out of the ham, the oldest boy grabbed the broom, and together they moved toward Peter.
Through a blur of tears Peter saw them coming for him; the man that he’d thought of as
Peter took a step back.
The broom slapped Peter from behind, knocking him to the gritty dirt floor. The boy pressed the broom onto Peter to hold him, the sharp twigs digging and poking into Peter’s soft skin.
“Don’t spill its blood in the house!” the old woman yelled. “Or there will be sickness upon us all. Take it into the forest. Leave it for the beasts.”
Hard, rough hands held him as the man corded prickly twine about his limbs, the twine bit into his skin, binding his arms to his body and his legs together.
As the man and boy donned boots and furs, the old woman brought Peter’s basket and blanket. “Take anything that it has soiled. I will get the grease.” She poured warm grease from the ham into a pot and brought it over.
The door was pulled open and a biting winter wind blew in. They took Peter outside into the night. Peter got one last look at his mother. She was on the floor, sobbing, her two sisters kneeling beside her, holding her.
“Mama,” Peter cried. She didn’t look up. The door shut.
The old woman poured the warm grease all over Peter. It stung his eyes, soaked into the blanket and quickly congealed into a cold paste on his skin. “It will make things go quicker,” the old woman told them. “Now take the creature far into the woods and leave it.”
The old woman gave the man a wad of wool. “Put this in your ears. No matter what it says, remember, that wicked thing is not of your loins.”
Both the man and boy held a torch. They threaded the broom through the handle of the basket and each carried an end. They marched off down the icy trail, the old woman watching them go from the door stoop.
The cold bit at the infant’s tiny nose. “Papa,” Peter called. “Papa, please. I’ll be good. I promise. I’ll be good. Papa? Please, Papa. Papa?” But no matter how Peter pleaded, the man wouldn’t look at him.
The man and the boy marched steadily, their mouths set tight, neither spoke as they tracked deeper and deeper into the dark, frigid forest.
Peter had no real idea how much time passed, but when they finally stopped, the moon was peeking down at him from high in the cloudy sky. They set him in a clearing surrounded by high shrub and an outcropping of crumbling rocks, then left in a hurry without a single look back.
Peter watched the tree limbs waving to the moon. Thick clouds tumbled in and the shadows wove together. He struggled to free himself, but the bindings were too tight. His fingers and toes grew numb and the cold became unbearable. Peter shook all over. “Mama,” he called. “Mama.” Over and over he called her name. His mother never came but something else did. Peter heard a loud sniffing and fell quiet.
A large shadow emerged from the bush. Its shape reminded him of the hounds back at the house. The dim moonlight glinted off the beast’s black eyes as it sniffed the air. Peter sensed the beast’s hunger. He tried not to make any sounds, but couldn’t help whimpering as the wolf slowly circled in on him.
The wolf bit one end of the blanket and tugged, tipping the basket over and spilling the infant out onto the frozen ground. Now fully exposed to the winter air, Peter began to wail. The wolf licked away the grease from the blanket, then moved to Peter.
It shoved its snout into his face, licking the grease from his cheeks, neck, and along his belly, then clamped its jaws on Peter’s leg and began to drag him into the bush. Peter yowled, but the wolf only clamped down tighter. There came a clatter from the rocks. The wolf let go of Peter and jerked its head up, ears alert.
“A-yuk,” came a gruff, gravelly voice.
There, on the flat outcropping of stone, stood a man. Only it wasn’t a man, really, as he couldn’t have stood much higher than the wolf’s shoulder. He was short in the legs, long in the arms, and solid through the chest and shoulders. His head was large, out of proportion, and grew straight from his shoulders. His skin was gray and gritty like the earth itself. He wore a patchwork of mangy animal furs, covered in dirt and alive with moss. His eyes were no more than black specks set deep beneath his protrusive brow. He saw Peter and grinned, exposing black gums and a sharp underbite of twisted teeth.
The wolf’s fur bristled, and a mean growl rumbled up from deep within its throat.
The moss man hopped off the rock and into the clearing.
The wolf dropped its head, peeled back its lips, displaying an arsenal of long, dangerous teeth, and snarled. The moss man let loose a snarl of his own and before Peter could blink, charged and leaped upon the wolf. He wrestled a hold about the beast’s mane, then bit into its ear, snarling and jerking his head side to side until he tore the wolf’s ear completely off.
The wolf howled, kicked, and spun.
The moss man let go and sent the animal yelping away into the bushes with a solid kick to the hindquarters. He spat the ear onto the ground and stared at Peter while licking the blood from his lips. “A baby,” he said, then picked up a twig and poked Peter. “Make good stew. A-yuk.” His speech came out slow and staggered, like words were unnatural for him.
“Please don’t eat me,” Peter pleaded. “Please. I’ll be good.”
The moss man’s brow rose with surprise then drew together suspiciously. “Baby can talk?” He crouched down, stuck his wide, flat nose into the crook of Peter’s neck, and sniffed deeply. Up close Peter could see all manner of bugs and worms crawling around in the man’s hair. The moss man looked puzzled. He wiped his finger through the bloody bite marks on Peter’s leg and dabbed the blood to the tip of his tongue. The moss man’s beady eyes grew round and he spat into the dirt. “Faerie blood!” he sneered. “Faerie blood is bad. Very bad!” His shoulders slumped, his face grew glum. “Can’t eat baby.”
The moss man bent and picked up the wolf’s ear, stuck the bloody end in his mouth, and started away.
For a second, Peter was relieved to see him go, then the bite of the cold reminded him that he was tied up, naked, and there was a hungry wolf nearby.
The moss man kept walking.
The moss man turned around. He looked at Peter and scratched his chin. Finally, after a long minute, he asked, “Can you catch spiders?”
“What?” Peter asked.
“Can you catch spiders? Lot of spiders in cave. Hate spiders. A-yuk.”
Peter didn’t want to go near any spiders, but he certainly didn’t want to be left in the woods either. He nodded. “Yes. I can catch spiders.”
The moss man considered while Peter shivered. Finally, he grunted, shuffled back, and untied the infant. “No more crying. Hate crying. You follow. Keep up or wolf get you.”
Peter crawled to his feet. He could barely stand, his feet were so numb. The moss man took off at a hearty pace and Peter tried to follow but fell after only a few steps. The frozen ground bit into his knees and hands and he let out a cry. He got up and tried again, but the ice cut into the bottom of his tender feet. After only a dozen steps he fell again. He tried crawling, but the pain was too much. He stopped. He could no longer see the moss man. It was dark, it was cold, he was lost, his knees were bleeding, he was naked and freezing to death, and there was a wolf somewhere nearby. Peter began to cry.
The moss man reappeared, glaring at Peter with his small, dark eyes. His nose wrinkled up in disgust. “No crying. Hate crying.”
Peter tried to stop, but couldn’t. Instead he began to bawl openly and loudly.
The man put his hands over his ears. “Stop that,” he groaned and started away. He made about six strides then stopped. He looked back at Peter, brows drawn together. Finally he let out a great sigh and strolled back to the infant. “Okay. Okay. I not leave. Now stop crying.”
