Storytelling for Week 3: Of Mothers and Sons

Author's Note:  What I did with this story was I wrote it in drabbles, in 100-word snippets, in different point of views.  Two of them are from Aible's POV and two of them are in Wolf-Mother's POV. The story I used is The Wolf Mother of Saint Aible, the story of an infant who is abandoned in the woods before being adopted by a wolf. The boy spends a few years with the wolf and her cubs, but he is soon chanced upon by a hunter who scoops him up, "rescuing" him, and bring the boy home to his wife - the wolf and her cubs (who are mostly grown) chase after the rider, but can't quite catch him.  The boy, named Aible, grows up to become a holy man.  One day, he hears hunting dogs barking and runs outside - and immediately recognizes his now old wolf mother as the dogs' prey.  She recognizes him, too, and runs into his arms.

Of Mothers and Sons

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Wolf-Mother

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The moment the hunter scoops up her fur-less son, Wolf-Mother feels rage spreading through chest like winter ice – unforgiving, deadly.

Mama! Aible cries, screaming and reaching over the hunter’s shoulder.

She stretches her long body over the earth – praying to Wolf Moon for speed and endurance.  For if she and her sons could take down the mighty stags of the forest, surely this horse and its wicked rider would be easy enough to pull to ground.

But then one of her wolf sons begins to slow. And then the others.  And then herself.

And then her fur-less cub is gone.

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Aible

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Aible dreams of the woods sometimes. 

He dreams of sunlight dappling the forest floor and fresh flowers beginning to bud.

He dreams of the wolves he called elder brother, big brother, small brother, and young brother.  He dreams of playing their games and learning bird songs.

He dreams of cuddling into warmth and softness, of whispering mama with a low growl as an answer.  He dreams of big golden eyes and long fangs that always offered protection and the rare rebuke.

Aible dreams of the woods sometimes – and, when he wakes up, wishes only to return there.  To return home.

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“What did you say, sir?” asks a priest.

“Nothing,” Aible says, turning away pointedly to stare out of the window.  The people around him were harder to deal with than usual today – Aible’s patience was already nearing its end despite the earliness of the day.

Aible turns and walks down to the gardens – the only place in the town that made any sense to him.  The birds would often come to see him, to laugh at his stories and give him encouragements.

He knows it frightens some when they find him talking in the language of animals – he doesn’t care. 

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Wolf-Mother

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It is only because of her old age that she didn’t hear the hounds before they were nearly upon her.  She snarls viciously at the dogs, and runs – she twists and winds her way through the forest, but she’s cut off.

Then a crow screams, Head for the town – there is someone there who will protect you.

She doesn’t know why she listens, but she does.  And it’s not until she is near, when she sees a man much like the others, that she feels her heart sing.  Her fur-less cub falls to his knees and opens his arms wide.

This is who I pictured as Wolf-Mother. [x]

Bibliography:

The Book of Saints and Friendly Beasts by Abbie Farwell Brown (1900).