The day was a bit less cold than the day before, and the snow was melting. In the wood ahead there was barely any, as the overhanging trees had prevented it falling. I felt the slush seeping through my shoes, but I kept running. I heard Elizabeth’s voice in the distance. I did not stop. I knew if I reached the woods, I would be safe.
I did. My footsteps slowed, as did my heartbeat. The woods were strangely silent in the winter, neither birds nor even squirrels, the only movement the shadows of trees. The only sounds were my feet against the matted pine needles and the wind. I concentrated on my footsteps until they formed the rhythm of the hymn we had sung at church.
Sinners, the voice of God regard;
’Tis mercy speaks today.
He calls you by His sacred word;
From sin’s destructive way.
I stomped my foot with each rhyming word, listening to nothing, save my head’s music. This was how I did not see the wolf until it was nigh upon me. Then I froze, my heart beating so hard I feared it would shatter my ribs.
It was smaller than wolves look at a distance, but it was still far larger than I. It had fur of gray and white, puffed out against the winter cold, covered in a dusting of snow, and when it stared at me, its eyes were bright silver, almost white.
“Hello,” I said, knowing not why. It was a dumb animal with no understanding. Yet its eyes said differently. I felt that I had to address it, that it would be rude not to. It was almost like a person, and my parents had taught me to be polite.
Also, I worried that the wolf might gobble me up.
But it did not seem hungry, at least at the moment. Rather, as it continued to stare at me with its intelligent eyes, I heard a voice say “Hello” in reply.
How was the wolf speaking? I backed away. My parents had also taught me to avoid wolves. And magic, for surely a talking wolf was magic.
Should I run? I knew, from watching our dogs and cats, that running was the worst thing to do. It motivated an animal to give chase. I must remain calm. I had to keep a cool head. I had to ignore my shaking knees. I had to stare him down. I had to . . .
I broke into a run. But only for a few steps. Then I slipped on a patch of ice and fell backward against a tree trunk.
For a moment, the world contracted and everything was black. The earth vibrated beneath me, then stopped. I lay there, blinking, my beating heart sitting in my throat.
Then the wolf was upon me. Would it rip me apart?
“You should not run in such icy weather.”
The wolf’s voice was gruff yet surprisingly gentle, a male voice. I did not see his mouth move. I glanced around to see if there was anyone nearby. The wolf’s breath blew hot in my face.
Mother had given me some cookies for Betty. Now I thought it would have been better had she given me a knife. Still, I reached for my basket. Perhaps the wolf would take a cookie.
But my basket was nowhere in my reach. I groped for it among the icy tree roots.
The wolf licked my face. It was slimy, and I shuddered for fear of his teeth.
“What is the matter, my dear child?” the voice said, and I felt the coldness where his warm tongue had been.
“Are you going to . . . to eat me?” I whispered.
The wolf chuckled. “Of course not.”
Or had he said only “Of course”?
How was this? How was a wolf speaking to me? Yet he was. Perhaps I had fainted from the cold and was in a dream.
I pushed myself up onto aching arms. My head throbbed too.
“If you ate me, my parents would look for me. Father would get men to come, men with guns.” I did not know if the wolf knew what a gun was. “They would search the forest for me, and when they found me”—I paused, wincing at the thought of what I might look like—“they would kill you.”
The wolf seemed to consider this. His white eyes never left my own. I saw the gray fur ripple in the wind and snow fly off it. My fingers were frozen—I had forgotten my mittens—and I longed to touch the warm fur, but I dared not. Finally, the wolf said, “Perhaps.”
I waited for more. When there was nothing, I asked, “Perhaps?”
The wolf moved his head, almost a nod. “Perhaps. Perhaps it is as you say, and your parents would be devastated at the loss of you, Ann Putnam.”
I felt a chill when the wolf said my name. How did he know it?
“You, Ann Putnam, a girl whose parents have six other children, three of them boys.”
“Of course they would.” But I wondered.
“Girls are often prized by their parents.” The wolf held my gaze, unblinking. “And you are always helpful, never shirking.”
Had the wolf been watching as I snuck from the house? I remembered how Father had rejoiced last year when Timothy was a boy. This even though they had two others. A boy could help with the planting. A girl could only do tedious things like cooking and weaving and feeding the chickens. Father said that he wished to buy more lands, to have the largest farm in Salem Village, maybe in all Massachusetts. With three boys to do the work, he could.
“I help with the babies,” I said, though it was lunacy to justify myself to a wolf. “Mother could never manage without me.”