Man fears what he does not understand. 

I run, though I can’t breathe. Branches tug at my hair and clothes, but they do not slow me. My body both begs me to stop and urges me to continue.

I can hear them behind me, chasing me with their swords and torches. They never go this deep into the woods, but now they do. They want to punish me, an outsider, for daring to cross into their land. I do not doubt that my punishment will be a brutal and torturous death. 

Winter has been tough on us, the toughest she has ever been in my lifetime. Many of my people died… many members of my family died. Both my maternal and paternal grandparents, my elder sister, my youngest niece… We placed their bodies on our Funeral Ledges, and we laid them in stone cairns adorned with mementoes. Each time, we prayed to Death that she may guide their souls to the Great Mountain, so that they may feast with other deceased kin. And each time, we prayed this would be the last to die. 

I am young and naïve. My cousin’s newborn had come out of a warm womb, and soon after he was placed in a cold one. I was determined that he would be the last to die to Winter, so I left my home in the middle of the night. I dreaded that there would be nothing to return to, but I believed that I could at least give them a chance. I thought the People of the Valley could help us, despite the centuries of hatred between us. I had ventured down from the mountain, prepared to beg on my knees for help, and they had met me with hatred and fear. 

The Mountain comes into view, but I still am not home. The rocks rise in front of me; frantically I climb. I knew how to climb before I could walk, like all People of the Mountain, and I expertly navigate the footholds. I expect the People of the Valley to retreat back to their flat home, cursing my name. 

They prove me wrong yet again.

A man throws his torch at me, grazing my leg. I grimace, but drag myself to the top; the instinct to live is stronger than any and all pain. I look down; the man has found the footholds I had used. He is climbing now, knife between his gritted teeth. He is unsure of himself, but determined to end me. 

I look around and, dread in my stomach, realize I have climbed up the wrong ledge. Between the one I am on and the next rock formation is a giant chasm I cannot jump. I am stuck. I squeeze my eyes shut, hearing nothing but the roars of the mob, feeling nothing but the cold rock beneath me, knowing the man was getting closer and closer. I prepare to rejoin my deceased kin, and pray for a quick death.

The mob suddenly goes quiet. The man, who has reached the top, gasps and I hear his knife fall to the ground. I feel soft fur against my back. It’s warm like the fur of the beloved dogs I had lost to Winter. 

I open my eyes. The man’s head peeks over the ledge, mouth agape, his knife nowhere to be seen. The mob, too, stare, eyes wide, mouths open in shock. I tense. What do they see? I am too afraid to turn around.

Something wet touches my shoulder, like the nose of a dog. And then I realize who is behind me. In this moment, I feel powerful; I know that the creature behind me is on my side. I am untouchable. 

I do not stand and face them. I am still a child, and I lean into my savior for comfort and more confidence. Already, the man is scrambling down, stumbling as he does, and the mob is fleeing. The man hits the ground and runs after his people, glancing back at me for a brief moment. I stare back at him, defiantly, until he and his people are gone. 

I look behind me, and there she is: the Majestic Gray. My people have long told stories of her, the wolf spirit who protects the mountain and his people. I stare into her eyes, eyes that are so human-like. Eyes that hold infinite wisdom in them. Eyes that are blue like mine.

My name is Lupa. I was named in her honor. My grandmothers would tell me stories of her; of how she was a beautiful woman of the Mountain, who fell in love with a man of the Valley. His fear of my people, it seems, was more powerful than his love for her, so he killed her. The Mountain took pity on her, and transformed her spirit into a wolf.

The Majestic Gray protects us all. She protected my father’s family, when their village burned down and they and the few other survivors had to find a new home. She protected my mother as she laboriously but successfully birthed by twin brothers during a fierce storm many winters ago. She protected my people as we made those many trips to the Funeral Ledges, carrying the heavy bodies of our beloveds.

She protects me.

I press my face against hers and we share our breaths. Her fur is so soft, softer than the wolf cape I wear to keep warm. I can’t help myself; I hug her. She sighs lovingly, and nuzzles the paw print I have tattooed on my shoulder. A tattoo that I had received in honor of my eighteenth autumn, only a few moons ago.

And then she is gone, and I am hugging the wind. I straighten myself up, and stand tall. I face the Mountain, my home. The Sun is making his way up the sky; soon he will be at his peak and will watch over me as I make my way home. Soon his sister Moon will be there and I will be home.

I look behind me. The snow will melt soon, and Winter will return to her father’s home and be replaced by her sister Spring. In a few moons more babies will be born, and more harvests will be successful.

And I will survive.  

Inspired by Anne Stokes's painting "Wolf Protector" and by Sonata Arctica's song "Blood."