Goodman (1)

A Good Son

“The wolves are hunting. Pressing closer. Be careful, they are hungry, like us.” His hand was sturdy, resting on his shoulder while he kneeled to talk to him—a warning before they entered the forest.

His eyes were warm and tired. The skin hung from malnutrition, the sky had gone dark, gray since last winter, and the sun colder than anyone remembered. The harvest was meager, and his father had started to eat less to save food for what they expected to be a long, cold winter. The trees had lost their leaves early, leaving jagged branches clawing at the sky, and a snap was in the air in a time when they expected to be still harvesting. All that remained in the field were short, limp, diseased stalks.

“Protect your brother,” he said. “Tillo can gather acorns for stew. You gather branches and sticks for the fire.”

Underneath their feet, the dry fallen leaves crackled. Clodoald listened to his younger brother grumbling, his woolen pockets filled with acorns.

“I’m tired of acorn stew. It makes my belly hurt.” The boy grumbled, looking up high for signs of another oak tree.

“Hunger hurts more,” Clodoald said, trying to reassure his brother. “Mum is doing her best. We have to stretch the harvest through the winter.”

“Acorns make my belly burn, Lod. I don’t like it.” Tillo reiterated.

Their mom had started using acorn flour to thicken the Pottage. After eating, there was always discomfort, a burning that ached in their stomachs. The alternative was worse.

Even the forest couldn’t produce. Where they normally could count on the forest for foraging if the harvest were weak, it seemed the whole world suffered this year.

Overhead, the birds flew slowly, their songs melancholy and grim. “These are portents. Something is coming, little brother,” Clodoald said aloud, looking around protectively.

“Like what?” he replies, squatting under a tree, his small hands picking up the acorns that had fallen under the old oak.

“I don’t know.” He fills his arms with long, thick branches. Eager to return home with full arms and bulging pockets. He wanted to make his parents proud and give them confidence to count on their sons, even in tough times.

Tillo hummed a small song while he stuffed his pockets with acorns. Clodoald wandered around the area, filling his arms. Soon, all he could hear was his brother’s song.

Snap.

Too quiet.

Crack.

He froze.

Clodoald looked around frantically. His heart beat in his ears, and his body reacted to a threat he couldn’t see.

A low growl.

“Tillo, run!” Clodoald yelled before he understood why.

Tillo looked up, freezing as he saw the first lean, dark shape step out of the brush.

Clodoald dropped his branches and ran toward his brother.

Tillo moved as fast as his young legs could carry him.

He tripped and rolled into a wolf just as it lunged for Tillo.

The boy broke into a panicked sprint, screaming, “Wolf!”

Clodoald stood unsteady, grabbing a stick, he swung it, putting himself between his brother and the beasts.

They circled, their eyes sharp, their haunches up, and dark patches of prickly fur hung loose. They looked as hungry as he had felt in the long, dark nights.

“Go on. Get out of here!” he shouted, swinging the stick wildly.

He was ripped off his feet, slamming his chin onto the branch. His teeth clacked, sending a spark of pain through his face. His ankle burned like iron. Something sharp. Something wet. He screamed without hearing it. Dirt collected in his open mouth, and cool, damp leaves smeared his face.

Kicking and screaming, his foot connected with the wolf at his ankle. It snapped. Yellow eyes reflected the pale afternoon light. Another snarled near him. His arms went up to protect his face. Fangs dug into his forearm and pulled him.

He saw a figure at the edge of his vision, past the wolf, yanking his arm back. Tall and muscular, his clothes fine and clean, the figure calmly walked toward him.

“Mister, please!” Clodoald cried out while he flailed. The Pinching pain ignited his limbs.

The wolves grew bolder. Getting closer, biting harder, pulling him apart.

His world narrowed, crying out for help, reaching for the man leisurely walking closer.

The gray sky darkened, tinged with red. His limbs were hot, burning, and distant. His own cries felt distant now. A plea choked in his throat as the man stood feet away, watching the wolves tear at him.

His eyes reflected yellow, calm.

Clodoald felt heavy and tired. His eyelids sank as darkness and cold wrapped around him. He focused on the man’s grim expression and the silver clasp that held his cloak around his shoulders—the stag’s antlers.

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