Geraint’s breath forms clouds in the crisp morning air. He tightens his fur-lined cloak against the cold and pulls on his pack - it’s filled with smoked deer meat and hides, which he’ll exchange for his winter provisions with the local villagers.
In the lighter seasons, he doesn't need much from the village, the forest provides almost everything. It’s his apothecary and his larder. In Spring, greens; through Summer, stone fruit; in Autumn, a bounty of mushrooms and berries; and all year fish and meat, which he preserves in the smoke hut next to his cottage.
Geraint lives near the Luggie Water in a forest clearing. He built his single-room cottage himself, from rough-hewn pine logs and straw thatch. The floor inside is strewn with rushes and dried herbs, giving the air a faint herbal scent which is always mixed with the tang of woodsmoke. Shelves line the walls, crammed with provisions, trophies of the hunt and an old, dented pewter mug he swears makes the ale taste better. It will be nearing dark before he returns to his fireside and his comfortable bed of furs.
His puppy, Dara, scampers between his legs, picking a fight with a pinecone that skids across the frozen earth. Sometimes, when Dara's grey coat blends with the wintry landscape, Geraint sees the wolf blood in him. "Come on, little wolf," he murmurs, gravelly and low - "we've got work to do."
They make their way through the frosted forest, the early winter sun piercing the dense canopy of pine, oak, and hazel. They follow the path of the Luggie Water which today flows quietly under a layer of ice. Geraint had to grab Dara by the ruff at one point to stop him pouncing on a robin and crashing through the ice to the fast- flowing water below.
The robin follows them all the way to the first cottage in the village. Geraint raps the door with his weathered knuckles, and his pup sits uncharacteristically still by his side. The door creaks open, revealing a young mother with tired eyes and five curious children peeking out from behind her skirts.
"Good morning, Eira." Geraint greets the woman warmly and presents his trade goods, but the Gaelic language is still unfamiliar in his mouth. "Meat for warmth and milk?"
Before Eira could answer, one of the older girls blurted out, "Is that a wolf, Hunter?"
"Aye, and a fearsome one," Geraint chuckled as the puppy dropped a pinecone and flopped over for a belly rub. The girl looked to her mother for permission. Eira nodded, and the girl scooped up the delighted puppy and rushed inside to play by the fire.
“Come in and have some warm milk, Geraint,” Eira waves, a bit harried. “Keep that cold out.”
One of the younger boys takes Geraint’s hand. “Where are your gloves, Hunter?”
"Well, that’s why I'm here, I gave ma gloves to a family of mice with no home in this cold. Might your mother have any new ones?"
The bartering has begun and is over just as quickly. New gloves, milk, and cheese exchanged for smoked meat and a fawn hide. As Geraint leaves, Eira catches his arm and speaks under her breath into his ear. “A child was taken near Cumbernauld. There is talk that it was a wolf.”
“Eira, there have always been wolves here. The difference now is that there are people too. Cumbernauld and Kirkintilloch are getting bigger every year. The farmland is spreading into the forest, it’s moving into the wolves’ domain. It was to be expected.” The woman looks stunned, and he tries to reassure her. “In my experience, wolves don’t attack us unless they’re defending themselves.”
For the next few hours, Geraint knocks on each door in the village, exchanging bits of news along with his goods. He ends up with quite the haul: honey, a new knife, oats, and even salt. He’s pleased.
At his last stop, the door swings open before he even knocks. "Geraint, you old badger, get inside and tell me what treasures you have brought from the forest today.” His old friend Eógan, speaking in the old tongue, wraps him in a bear hug and bundles him inside.
The hearth glows warmly, and the inviting aroma of freshly baked bread fills the air.
"I’ve got meat and a few surprises," says Geraint, settling by the fire, Dara already drowsy at his feet. "But first, let's see if your loaves and ale are up to scratch, shall we?" Eógan hands him a tankard, and soon fresh bread and venison strips are heartily enjoyed.
"Does the meat taste more delicious?" Geraint asked with a grin. Apparently, the deer are not mere animals; they are property. They belong to the great Mormaer now, by order of King MacAlpin."
His friend rips into a strip, savouring the flavour. "So, this is the taste of a royal hind, is it? I thought it was a bit special. You’ve outdone yourself, badger," he exclaims exaggeratedly. "Is that why the Mormaer wants to get rid of the wolves, to protect his deer? Did you hear he's offering a reward of 20 pennies for anyone who catches a wolf? You have to take it to him directly; the messengers claim it’s 15 pennies and keep the rest for themselves, the greedy.... you should do it, Geraint."
"What would I do with 20 coins? Buy myself a fancy hat?" Geraint grinned at his friend.
"Aye, to match your new fancy gloves! But I didn’t mean for the money, old man; you need the exercise of a wolf hunt!"
The pair continue their conversation, teasing each other and vaguely discussing politics. Much was shifting in the world beyond these forests. They joke about the news of Vikings: "I’d like to see them sail their big ships up the Luggie Water!"
Their talk turns to the changes brought by King Kevin McAlpine's reign. They say he has united the northern tribes. Certainly, language, trade, and money are changing.
“Our way, our language, is dying out, old badger,” says Eógan an hour later, a little bleary now. “There'll be no forests left and people will be fighting over silver coins and fancy hats before long.”
It is hard to leave the warm fireside and company, but the snow has started, and the sky is already darkening. Geraint and Dara leave their friend and head back onto the track through the trees.
After a time, Geraint hears the sound of hooves pounding the earth and sees a figure approaching on horseback. It is the steward's messenger. With a forced smile, Geraint halts and adopts a casual tone. "Good evening. Out on Mormaer's business?" The messenger pulls the reins, bringing his horse to a halt beside Geraint. "Indeed," the figure replies curtly, eyeing Geraint with a mixture of superiority and suspicion. "The steward's business doesn't wait for daylight."
The messenger looks Geraint up and down. "And what might your profession be, friend?"
"Hunter," Geraint replies evenly, keeping his tone neutral.
The messenger's expression turns shrewd. "And do you have permission to hunt on the steward's land?" His tone is sceptical.
Geraint fights the urge to bristle. How can a forest belong to a man? He thinks to himself.
"But of course, I always respect the ways of the land."
The messenger nods, though scepticism lingers in his eyes. "Very well," he says dismissively. "Just remember, the reward for a wolf’s head is 10 pennies. Best of luck, Hunter." And with that, the messenger spurred his horse onward.
Snow is now blanketing the pine branches, dusting the path in a soft white. Geraint scoops up Dara to tuck her into the warmth of his cloak. But the dog is too restless, whimpering and squirming so much that she slips free and darts away into the trees. With no choice but to follow, Geraint calls out Dara's name into the thickening snow, but the only reply is the rush of the Luggie Water, now well hidden beneath ice and snow.
Then several things happen at once: a wolf's howl nearby, a crack, a crash, and the heart-wrenching cry of his puppy. Desperation clear in his voice, Geraint yells for his companion and runs, relying on more than just his sight as he tears through the forest toward the burn. Through the swirling snow, he glimpses a flash of yellow, stopping him in his tracks, two eyes gleaming in the darkness.
A wolf was watching the scene. "Get away, she-wolf!" Geraint growls. But as he stands, frozen in awe, the she-wolf pads to the water and breaks through the ice with a graceful pounce. She emerges with the pup clutched gently in her jaws, then deposits the shivering bundle onto the snowy bank and begins to lick him clean.
For a moment, Geraint and the she-wolf lock eyes, an unspoken understanding passing between them. Then, with a final glance, the wolf turns and disappears into the night.
