There was a time when the people of my village were safe. It was a long time in the past but the old ones spoke of it. It was hard to believe there had been a time when the wolf had not ruled my people. Since I was but a child, I had heard the stories of life before the wolf had come. They were like fairy tales in my village, told and retold but rarely believed.
But, alas, the wolf had come. And the stories of life before he came became just stories, told often and told well but hard to believe for those of us who had been born after the wolf arrived. The wolf ruled the village with an iron fist and there was no way a story could change that.
I was born on the third day of the sixth month during the 20th year of the wolf's reign over our village. It was said my mother screamed out in horror when she was told I was a girl. I was her first baby and she knew what that meant. The wolf ran the village and the wolf made the rules we lived by. And one of his first rules was if the first child of a village couple was a girl child, that girl child became his property on her 18th birthday.
The wolf was not just a wolf. If he was, perhaps the village men would have risen up and struck him down. But even if they had tried, it would have been hopeless. The wolf was more of a cross between a wolf and a man but he had the strength, it seemed, of a hundred men. No one ever spoke of trying to overpower the wolf or put an end to his reign over the village. It was said to even think those thoughts would bring about your instant death.
I had known since I was old enough to walk what my fate would be. No one knew exactly what happened to the women sent to the wolf but it had been decreed long before and no one was about to stop sending the first born girl children to the wolf.
He lived in a very large, very dark castle on the top of the hill that overlooked the village. Day and night, it was impossible to ignore it as it stood its solitary vigil over us all. I continued to live as any child would as I was not going to let the castle on the hill rob me of my entire life. So I grew up a carefree girl, filled with very little in the way of dreams for my fate had been foretold.
The day of my 18th birthday started like almost every other day of my life except this one I was awakened by the sad sound of my mother crying. I quickly got out of my bed and went to her, trying to comfort her. I put my arms tightly around her and held her close. But none of my words and none of my touches could stop her tears. She knew this was the last day she would ever see me.
He would come for me at noon. He always came for the girl at noon. And over time, a ritual had developed. If he had decried it or if it had become something to soften the loss, the taking of the girl had become somewhat of a festival.
The women of the village arrived at our home shortly after sunrise. The morning was spent preparing me. I was bathed and perfumed and a gown that was specially made for the occasion lain out and prepared. It was cut from the finest silk, in glaringly bright white. The neckline was low, cutting across the tops of my breasts, and adorned with hand-embroidered red roses. A crown of red roses, strewn together with white silk ribbons, was made to rest on top of my head.
My long brown curls were washed and brushed until they shined. The curls were tight and bounced prettily against my shoulders, which the dress left provocatively bare.
