There was a village in the village every year on the day day between Midsummer and All Howells Eve, the people would select a boy and lead him to the hill overlooking the land.

There they told the boy to watch, and if he saw the creature, he was to shout wolf.

And they would run to the rescue.

Even as they rushed to press the goats and the sheep and themselves behind the tall

iron gate they grinned at each other refusing to look him in the eye. The boy

tasted their lie, the trail, still he waited. And when the wolf came that night

he knew her. For he had run these glades, swam these rivers, given his own offering to this queen of the forest.

She told him, in the non-vocal language they shared that she was sorry she had to devour him, but that she was

the wolf and he the sacrifice. The boy told her that he would give her a far greater gift and trade.

From his pocket he pulled a wooden box and he opened the box to show her a long piece of jagged metal.

The wolf shook her enormous head.

You are creatures of iron and fire.

But we have no need of such things.

No, he said, this is not my gift.

She followed him to the towering gate.

He withdrew the piece of metal, reached as high as he could reach, and turn the key into

the slot. Here he threw wide open the gate and led her padding beside him inside

there there is your gift.

As the boy pointed in their direction, the townfolk gave in horror.

To them the boy whispered,

Wolf.

Sweet season of the wolf stay true. Oh, empires have a scent, a scent, a presence and energy.

...