They tell us to stay away.
Stay away from those trees squatted black on the borders of our cold meadowlands, they say. Keep the wagons away, the dark wooden wagons breathing garish paint. Away from the crooked branches that beckon to that which is wild and has been caged. They tell us those trees have driven men mad, made beasts of them, they tell us those trees watched from the edges of things when we were but the shadow of desire, and will still watch long after our grandchildren have forgotten our names.
But our wolf has died, and we must have another.
I'm sharpening my ax to cut firewood when the dwarf tells me. Grinding the nicks and notches, disappearing them with a rough stone in my left hand. I don't say anything to the little man with the twisted right leg. I swing, testing, bringing home the head on an oak log. It splits, spitting chips. He flinches, and I rest the ax on my shoulder, kicking the pieces with a black-booted foot. This has happened before, many times before, and will happen many times again. There will always be wood to split, there will always be carts to lift, boxes to be broken open, cages to be tended and carefully mended. But that's not why I'm here, nor what my ax was made for. That's not how I earn my keep. I rest my ax on my shoulder, and listen carefully to what the dwarf tells me.
Our wolf has died, he says, and we must have another.
They sicken, our animals, breathing small air in their slatted cages. The bears, the elephants, the monitor lizards and lions. They thin out in ways that don't lend themselves easily to words. They pale, wheezing when they should bellow. Eyes dull when they should snap fire. Whispering when they should snarl.
We all know that this is the way of things, we the keepers, the trappers and the showmen. The animals sicken and die, or they escape. Even our best cages sometimes prove inadequate, even our greatest skill sometimes falls short. Some things are simply too exotic, too feral and untamed to weather the eyes of men. Some things simply will not suffer their exhibition.
I caught our wolf, tracked and netted him in the lands outside the menagerie, the common commerce of the common man, in the places of cool shadows and webbed branches. He has escaped before, twice, bending his cage with that unexpected strength, coy until full realization, docile until his tenders grew careless. It is the animal's way--we do not blame them. Patiently I have always tracked him down. Back to those trees, those dark bushes, the forests of webbed branches and watchful shadows. I track and I net him, and bring him back to his cage. I know he does not blame me; he knows it is my way.
But this time others found him, snared and trapped him, and it was not their way to cage. Their way was not with cold iron bars and thick locks. Their way was the torch and the club, the ax and the skinning knife.
Common man: these villagers who stare distrustfully at our boxes, our crates, our cages with animals staring distrustfully back. They sniff and tell us that they know the way of the beast: that it is barbarous and not for our eyes to see. Nature red in tooth and claw, man bright with torch and ax. They tell us that it is far safer to simply kill, to skin and immolate, safer than this business with the cages. But we know better--us keepers, us trappers, us showmen. We know better because the villagers are here to watch, to bear witness, and they've come to see our show.
For the finale, we must have a wolf.
They tell me stay away from those crooked branches, the twisted pillars and webbed canopies. Their eyes are wide, lips trembling. Their quivering fingers stab towards those trees squatted black on the borders of their cold meadowlands. Men have gone mad, they say, men have become as beasts. They spit at my feet, make a hand-sign against the evil eye. It changes nothing. I take my net and my ax, my rope and my traps. They do not understand wolves as I do. I am a hunter and a tracker, a woodsman. I will find a wolf, I will trap him, I will bind him. I will bring him back, and cage him, and we will show him to these villagers. These common men with their thin-cut coins and pursed lips. Because that is our nature. I walk from the covered wagons, the campfires, the company of groomers and feeders and cagers and showmen. This is what I do, and this is my purpose. I am a woodsman. I set out for the Forest.