Cecily

by Linda McMullen

I face the wolf on the bridge on my way to my grandmother’s house. Or anywhere at all. I carry an enticing basket, and I’m wearing what the patriarchs deem asking-for-it-red.

If I’ve met the wolf, it’s my fault.

He loiters on the left side, as if casually, perhaps waiting for someone. But his narrowed lupine eyes betray vigilance. His gaze is ravenous.

He wants to swallow me whole.

With wolves – should you try to make yourself look as large as possible, or are you supposed to play dead?

Should I, a most unladylike young lady, fight?

So many rules to remember, as a young woman moving through the world. Usually, just: Don’t.

The important thing is the stiletto in my pocket.

Don’t be aggressive. You’ll attract attention.

I grip the hilt tightly, free it from the resplendent scarlet folds of my cloak… just in case… looking, I hope, as though I’m fumbling for loose coins.

Don’t look distracted. You’ll attract attention.

I move my basket from my hand to the crook of my elbow. A pitiable shield, but far better than nothing.

Don’t seem defensive. You’ll attract attention.

I start across the bridge. The wolf’s gaze never wavers. Let him stare. I can look back. I don’t shy from that look in his eyes, but I don’t hold it, either. My journey is not done.

And then he leaps.

He is on me in an instant, pawing at my clothes, raking my tender flesh. I liberate my knife and stab at the beast; he howls. He slashes at my legs, intent on taking me off my feet, anxious to put me on my back. Instead, I force the basket between us, grip my knife tightly –then plunge the blade into his shoulder. Rage fuels him now, but generations of righteous wrath smolder in me…

On and on it goes – we feint, we clash, one strikes and the other bays in pain…

He forces my legs apart…

Salivating…

I slam my foot against his instep, push myself away. I straighten. We stand for a moment, panting, eyeing one another. I suddenly feel the screaming pain of a deep laceration on my thigh. He, too, is bleeding in several places.

I can’t win.

But neither can he.

“I’m calling it a draw.” I declare. “You go your way, and I’ll go mine.”

He doesn’t offer the courtesy of a response, but he drops his chin sharply in a gesture I understand as a nod.

Warily – with my knife still pointed at him – I circle to my right. He circles too, maintaining the distance between us. Finally, I reach the apogee of my orbit. I hold his gaze. I step away, slowly; he mirrors me. I reach the far side of the bridge… back into something massive – and I scream!

It’s an outdoorsman.

He gestures to the wolf. “Do you want me to take care of him for you?”

I don’t bother to answer him.

On, on, to my grandmother’s house.