The Wolf’s Blood

Michael “Woody” Wood

The old brick house still stood, alone on the outskirts of the village, worn but sturdy like the day it was built.

It had been ten long years since the Three Little Pigs had left, but their tale remained as strong as their home.

Things had changed since the wolf’s attack. Days after, it was decreed that an entire village of impenetrable homes be built further from the woods. And to ensure their safety, the old house would be their lookout post; a place where pigs watched for the wolf’s return.

One by one the new homes were finished with not a trace of the wolf. The pigs grew confident and abandoned the old house, leaving it to weather and slowly fade from memory.

But there was one pig who hadn’t forgotten.

Hogarth Trotterton never missed a chance to visit. Sometimes he would come with his piglet family, rejoicing as he showed them around. Sometimes he would come alone and sit peacefully, content among the weeds and moss. He would lose himself in the smell of damp wood and old smoke. He would relish how his skin prickled each time he walked inside, a feeling of power coursing through him.

He knew this place like he knew his own home. He could bring to mind every single nook and cranny. His favorite part of course was the fireplace where the wolf had burned himself before retreating, tail between his legs, back into the woods.

And this is where Hogarth found himself now, reminiscing as he stared at the soot-laden bricks. But this time something was different. This time he could see one small part he had never seen before. It was faint but it was there. A rusty red mark, brighter than soot, staining one of the bricks just inside the chimney.

It was blood.

“The wolf’s blood,” he whispered.

As a piglet, he had been told that old places held memories. Now, as he touched his hoof to the stain, the brick felt warm. Everything stopped. His mind was whisked from his body and he was flying high above his village below. He flew over the fields beyond the village, the river beyond the fields, the forest beyond the river.

Deep inside the woods, he came to a clearing and a shelter built into the ground. It was a den. A den for wolves. He could see inside.

A wolfpack, family of four, lay crumpled in a corner, emaciated, their ribs barely held back by skin and fur. They panted with tongues lolling from their mouths. The big one, looking far from bad, was kneeling beside his dying pups.

Hogarth reached out, his parental instincts taking over. No father, not even a wolf, should have to watch his children die. But as his trotter made contact, he heard a huff, then a puff, and he was blown back to the brick house.

Wiping his snout, Hogarth knew what he had to do.

He ran to the storehouse, the strongest and sturdiest building in the village. Grabbing as much food as he could carry, he bolted back out and ran toward the forest.

But he stopped just shy of the trees, the darkness beyond unveiling his fear.

“What am I doing?” he asked the woods. “Why would they eat my bread when they could eat me?”

Staggered by his own foolishness, Hogarth turned to head back. A gust stirred the first mighty oaks. Hogarth stood with his back to the woods, still gripping the food.

He pictured the pups huddled beside their father. Then he turned around. His legs were still shaking as he stepped beneath the trees.

He continued his quest, his hooves guiding him, until he came to the clearing.

Panting, he called out, “I have food.”

A growl gurgled from the den. Then eight yellow eyes shone through the gloom. The Big Bad Wolf stepped from his home, snarling at Hogarth.

“You are food, pig.”

Hogarth trembled. “No. I have this food here for you.”

He reached his arms out.

“Why would you bring me this, pig?”

“Because you are starving, and your children are dying.”

“Why wouldn’t I just eat you? You’re far tastier anyway,” the wolf growled, but it was a hollow growl. One that had lost its menace.

“Because I have more back at the village,” Hogarth said. “And because I’m a father, like you.”

The wolf stopped snarling. His teeth disappeared behind his lips. He crept carefully toward Hogarth, doing his best to hide his frailty. Now face to face, predator to prey, they eyed each other.

After seconds that felt like hours, the wolf reached out, dug his claws into the bread, and retreated back to his family. He ripped off pieces and handed them gently, first to his children, then to his wife, before finally feeding himself.

“Thank you, pig,” he said.

Peace was too strong a word for it. The tale, still too fresh for the pigs to call it that. But a truce it was.

In the coming weeks, a long oaken table was staged outside the woods, and every day, Hogarth piled it high with food from their stores. And every day, the wolves came out, took the food, and returned home.

Years later, the old brick house finally fell in a storm.

Visiting for one last time, Hogarth took a single memento; the bloodied chimney brick. He set it beside the oaken table at the edge of the woods, where pigs and wolves alike would see it.