James opened his eyes. He had seen it all. He had witnessed that incredible battle of spirits.
A wild animal, long thought by people to be a merciless killer, had just risked his life for him. The old man’s eyes filled with tears, not of pain or despair, but of awe and gratitude. He couldn’t lift his hand to stroke his savior, but he looked at him, and in that gaze was everything he could not say in words.
And the wolf, it seemed, understood everything. He lay down again, resting his large head on his paws, and closed his eyes, though his ears remained alert. Meanwhile, in the small town of Pine Hollow, the annual Founder’s Day festival was beginning.
Since morning, smoke from barbecues filled the air, the scent of apple pies spread. Women in festive aprons moved from house to house. The men gathered by the old oak in the town square, discussing the latest news.
But George, James’s neighbor, wasn’t in the mood for celebration. Since early morning, an unease had gnawed at him. He hadn’t seen James for more than a day.
Usually, in good weather, Mary would wheel him out onto the porch, and the old man would sit there for hours, watching the street. George always came by to exchange a few words. James responded with difficulty, but his eyes always lit up with joy from conversation.
But today, the porch was empty. George approached their house; the door was ajar. He knocked.
Silence. He pushed the door and entered. The house was neat, too neat, lifelessly clean.
On the table stood a pitcher of milk and a chunk of cornbread. Mary sat on the bench, staring at a single point. Her expression was strange, detached, yet tense.
“Hello, Mary,” said George. “Where’s James? Haven’t seen him around.” Mary slowly turned her head.
Her face looked like a mask. “He’s dead,” she replied dully. “Passed in the night.”
“May God rest his soul.” George’s heart sank. “Dead? When? Why didn’t you tell anyone? Someone could have helped.
He should be buried properly.” “I already did,” she replied with the same flat tone, not blinking. “I buried him behind the garden.
Didn’t want to trouble anyone on a holiday. He lived quietly, and he left quietly. No need to disturb anyone.”
George was stunned. There was something wrong, something false in her words and her terrifying calm. To bury her husband behind the garden like a dog, without a pastor or people—James, who was respected by the entire town—it was unthinkable.
“Are you out of your mind, Mary?” He frowned. “Behind the garden? Show me the grave.” “There’s nothing to see,” she snapped, and for the first time, her voice carried sharpness.
“I said I buried him, and that’s that. Go celebrate, George, and leave me to my grief.” She turned away, making it clear the conversation was over.
George stepped outside, a cold dread creeping through him from a terrible suspicion. He walked around the house and looked behind the garden; the earth was untouched, no sign of a fresh grave. Then he remembered: last evening, as dusk was falling, he saw Mary wheeling a cart toward the forest.
He had wondered why she was going there so late but hadn’t thought much of it. Now all the pieces of the puzzle fell into a horrifying picture. She hadn’t buried him.
She had wheeled him alive into the forest, to certain death. The thought made his hair stand on end. He ran to the men still gathered by the oak.
“Men, something’s wrong,” he shouted, barely catching his breath. “James is gone. Mary says he died, says she buried him behind the garden, but she’s lying.
I saw her take him into the forest last night, alive, in a cart.” The men fell silent. Their cheerful faces turned serious.
They exchanged glances. Everyone knew Mary’s harsh and bitter temper. Everyone knew how she treated her sick husband, and all realized that George’s words might be horribly true.
“Into the forest?” repeated Samuel, the burly mechanic. “Alone? An old, sick man?” “Yes,” confirmed George.
“She left him there to be eaten by wolves. We must find him. He might still be alive.”
The festive mood in Pine Hollow vanished. In place of songs and laughter, a heavy silence settled over the town. Without a word, the men began returning to their homes for rifles, axes, and ropes.
They weren’t going to a celebration; they were setting out on a rescue. To find the man who might still be saved from a terrible fate. The forest greeted the search party with uneasy silence.
About a dozen men, led by George, moved in a line, carefully examining every thicket, every hollow. They called out, “James! Uncle James, answer us!”
But only the echo answered them, hollow and distant between the ancient pine trunks. George walked in front, his heart pounding with every step. He blamed himself for not stopping Mary yesterday, not asking where she was going.
Now, every lost minute could be fatal. They followed an old logging road, the same one George believed Mary had taken with her grim burden. The cart’s tracks were faint in the dry soil, but his experience could spot them.
“This way,” he said, pointing. “She went deep into the forest, to Devil’s Ravine.” The men exchanged grim looks.
The place was wild and untouched. Wolves, of whom the town told terrifying tales, ruled here like rightful kings. The chances of finding James alive were growing slim.
They had searched the forest for over two hours, tension mounting. Someone began whispering that it was hopeless, that if James had been there, even his bones were gone. But George pressed on, refusing to believe that James, who had taught him to set snares and read tracks, a man who seemed part of the forest itself, would die so dishonorably.
Suddenly, one of the men, a young fellow named Ethan, stopped and raised his hand. “Quiet, do you hear that?” Everyone froze and listened. Through the rustling leaves came a strange sound, a low, drawn-out growl.