The Ashpaw, Part One

Chapter 1

Fern

Everyone knew to stay inside on the night of the full moon.

It was a simple rule to follow, especially when one was a child who was sent to bed after supper every night anyway.

And a simple rule to forget, when one was always too deep in sleep to hear the howls echoing from across the river once a month. Howls that would cause fathers to tighten their grips on their axes and mothers to hold their babes a little closer to their breasts.

And so Fern, at the tender age of ten, had not realized what night it was when she decided to go into the woods after dark.

All she knew was that her mother and father were fighting.

She tried to ignore them at first, humming to herself as she reorganized her collection of acorns, dried flowers, and lost buttons on her shelf.

Fern hummed louder to drown out the slurred yelling, the plates shattering, and the furniture scraping against the floor.

But when something banged loudly against her door, followed by shouts of money and drink, she realized humming wouldn’t be enough. And so, she slowly got out of bed, found her shawl, and slipped out of the window.

It was summer, the grass soft beneath her bare feet as she ran towards the barricade that surrounded the village.

There was a log that had loosened from its post and could be pushed back to make room for a small child like Fern to squeeze her way through, and she was glad no one had thought to fix it yet.

She then made her way towards the river, towards her favorite spot in the world: Dragonstooth Keep.

It wasn’t really a “keep” but a large, hollow camphor tree with an opening that reminded her of a dragon’s mouth. Or at least, what she imagined a dragon’s mouth to look like.

Whenever they had the time, she and her best friend Netia would be there, lost in their own little worlds of fantasy, acting out grand stories of pretend. Netia would be the princess, whereas Fern would play the heroine. And the next day, they’d switch.

But when Netia couldn’t get away from home and Fern was on her own, she liked to decorate the space.

She had taken broken things from around the house and her village—a shattered plate, a chair with a missing leg, or whatever no one else felt was worth fixing, and brought it there to mend in her own way.

Fern was not thinking of princesses or mending as she ran, though. Nor did she stop to question why it was so easy to navigate the darkness, the moonlight much brighter than she’d ever seen.

She also didn’t notice the dark drops on the ground leading towards the tree, dismissing the wetness on the soles of her feet as dew.

But she could not ignore the heaving mass of gray fur that took up the middle of her space, bleeding on the mat she had woven herself from straw.

Fern froze as their eyes met, and the wolfkin snapped once with a growl, saliva dripping from its great maw.

She closed her eyes, heart leaping all the way to her throat as she waited for death, finally realizing what she’d done. Which rule she’d broken.

But death didn’t come.

Instead, the great beast, perhaps having decided she was barely a meal, whined softly, its head falling to rest on its paws.

A cold sweat broke across her skin as she remained immobilized by fear, trying to decide what to do.

If she ran, would it chase?

Were there more waiting in the deeper woods?

When the wolfkin moved slightly, the moon illuminated the bite marks along its side.

She stepped closer, next noticing how small it was. Fern’s neighbor had a dog that she’d always thought might be part wolf itself due to its size, but this one was hardly larger than a goat.

Perhaps… perhaps it was young.

The wolfkin had given up its defensive snapping and snarling now, and closed its eyes, as though it wished to be left alone and succumb to its injuries in peace.

But if it was just a pup…

Wolfkin or not, she didn’t want it to die. Even if it was dangerous.

She found the small wooden bowl she’d nicked from the tavern her parents owned, and tiptoed down to the river, alert and checking for glowing eyes in the dense brush.

Finding none, she filled it with cool, clean water, and then made her way back quickly to the tree.

“Are you thirsty?” she asked.

The wolfkin chuffed, like it couldn’t be bothered to drink at a time like this, so she moved to its side instead, inspecting the wounds.

There were many teeth marks, but none appeared too deep.

She’d seen the work wolfkin could do, having once come across the remains of a deer the morning after a full moon, so this little pup actually got off quite easy, by the looks of it.

Although she imagined it probably still hurt, and if the bleeding didn’t stop…

Fern was no healer, but her mother had recently talked her through how to dress a wound when she’d sliced her palm peeling potatoes.

But did she have any dressing? Fern looked around, now seeing the disarray the wolfkin had caused since entering, and rifled through the upturned items until she found the old chemise she’d left there in case she could ever find a use for the fabric.

“Please don’t bite me,” she whispered, inching her way closer to the small beast. Slowly, she tried to press on the wound, earning herself a growl. Fern jumped back an inch, and then clicked her tongue in reprimand. “I-I’m trying to help you, you silly beast.”

The wolfkin blinked, chuffed again, and then went quiet, letting her get to work.

“Hold still,” she muttered, though her own hands were trembling. “You’ll only make it hurt more.”

She kept the pressure there the way her mother had taught her, counting under her breath. When she finally lifted the cloth, the bleeding had slowed to a sluggish seep, and the tightness in her chest lessened.

She rinsed the blood off its matted fur with the water she had collected, nodding to herself as she looked at the wounds more carefully, wondering what else she could do before wrapping them.

Then the memory found her, an outing she’d once taken with the schoolteacher, where she’d pointed out which plants could be used to soothe a sting or settle a stomach.

Fern had not cared much at the time, being more interested in collecting smooth stones in the shallows of the river.

But now, she scrambled back outside, moonlight silvering the grass as she searched for the carpet of pink and purple that grew along the sandy parts of the riverbank.

There.

She gathered a handful of creeping thyme and then hurried back to the tree hollow.

Using the smooth bottom of another, smaller wooden bowl, she crushed the leaves and blossoms into a wet, dark mash, adding a little river water until it made a paste. It smelled sharp and earthy.

“I don’t know if this will work,” she admitted as she knelt beside the wolfkin again. “But I’m trying my best. So if you bite me after, I’ll be very cross.”

The wolfkin merely opened one dark blue eye.

Taking that as permission, Fern dabbed the paste carefully over each bite mark. Its fur was damp and hot beneath her fingers, the skin twitching painfully around the wounds. The animal flinched but did not snap, only huffing through its nose.

“That’s right,” she whispered. “Be brave.”

She tore the rest of the chemise into long strips and wound them around its middle as tightly as she dared, awkwardly looping the fabric beneath its belly and knotting it over its back. The bandages looked crooked and lumpy, but they held.

At last she shrugged off her shawl and draped it over the wolfkin’s shoulders.

“Much better,” she said, sitting back on her heels.

The creature looked ridiculous, reminding her of when she’d tried to dress a stray cat in her old swaddling clothes to play house, but its breathing began to even.

Fern pushed extra straw into a thicker bed beneath it, then sat cross-legged beside its head, her hand reaching out.

Slowly, shaking, she began to pet it.

The fur was thick and coarse, coated in a musky oil which coated her palms as she calmed it, humming a lullaby her mother sometimes sang to her.

It didn’t take long for her own eyelids to feel heavy, and with a yawn, she curled up beside the wolfkin, its breath warm and steady against her belly as she drifted off to sleep.

She woke to howling.

Heart racing, she sat up, scrambling backwards against the trunk.

Friends? Foes? Either way, she could very likely be dinner…

The wolfkin pup stood, legs trembling for a moment before it shook off the shawl, the blood on the dressing already dried.

It padded over to Fern, and she swallowed. “It would be very rude to eat me after I helped you.”

The wolfkin snorted, then nudged her face with its nose, sniffing her and giving her cheek a cursory lick.

She giggled despite the danger lurking outside. “That tickles!”

When another howl broke the silence, the wolfkin looked up, ears straight and tail wagging.

Friends, then.

“Well, off with you. I’m sure your clan is worried sick.”

The wolfkin moved to leave, and then turned back, whining and looking at Fern like it still wanted something, or wasn’t ready to say goodbye quite yet.

But then when she reached out to give it one last pat on the head, it snapped, nipping her on the finger.

“Ouch!” she cried, bringing it back to cradle into her chest. It had broken the skin, blood pooling from the bite and running down her wrist.

The wolfkin stepped forward, and Fern tried to scoot away, but it merely licked the blood clean, gave her one last look, and then bolted out of the tree.

Fern held her breath, praying to the gods that it wasn’t about to bring its clan here. As though it hadn’t just tasted her to be sure she’d be delicious.

But one minute turned into five, which turned into twenty, and Fern looked down at her finger, still throbbing. She dipped it in the leftover paste, wrapped it up with the scrap of fabric she had left, and then, when the sky began to turn to blue with dawn, she made her way back home.