The Weight of Wool

Trigger Warning:

This story contains depictions of violence, animal death, familial loss, brief mentions of child death, mild gore, and themes of prejudice driven by religious and societal propaganda.When you hear the word wolf, what comes to mind?

The tales of cunning, deceit, aggression, and manipulation? Do the words evil, fear, lie, alone, or death surface in your thoughts? Do you picture the bloodied fangs of a wild, merciless predator glinting under foggy moonlit skies—stalking the edges of the village, waiting for you to stray into the darkness so it can sink its teeth into your flesh, your cries drowned by the hungry howls echoing deeper into the forest?

This same image has been passed down for generations, staining the word wolf and stripping it of any trace of innocence or loyalty it might once have held. Though passed from village to village, stretching from the hills to the mountains, its origins lie in the propaganda crafted by the hunting-dominated village of Aesop.

We became the scapegoats for every misfortune and sin that plagued them, hunted to near extinction—not just in Aesop, but everywhere. Stories like Little Red Riding Hood are retold, exaggerated, and warped to fit a narrative of fear and crude moral lessons, all the while securing hunters above all others as the heroes of each tale.

The true account of the story, as wolves know it, is this:

A girl in red was sent into the forest to deliver supplies to her ill grandmother but became hopelessly lost after straying from the path. A wolf passing by found the girl weeping in a bed of flowers, the daylight slipping quickly into night—an unfamiliar darkness that would frighten any child.

The wolf hesitated, knowing the risks of approaching a villager, but saw no sign of search parties, no sign of rescue. Carefully, he revealed himself, ensuring his movements were calm and slow. He nuzzled gently against her side, wiped her aching tears with his tail, and helped her pick a bouquet from the flowers surrounding them to comfort her. He stayed with her as they waited for a search party, his ears swiveling at every sound, his gaze darting toward each snap of a branch, ready to flee should another villager from Aesop arrive to help the girl. Still, no one came.

As the last traces of light faded from the sky, he realized he couldn’t wait any longer. With her small hand grasping the fur at the back of his neck, he guided her toward her grandmother’s cottage as she described it to him. There weren’t many cottages deep in the forest, so it narrowed the search significantly.

What the wolf didn’t know was that the cottage had been turned into a newly established hunters’ post. When the hunters caught sight of the wolf and the girl, they misunderstood the scene—or perhaps acted out of pure bloodlust—and unleashed a blaze of bullets. The wolf fell before he could draw a pleading breath. In the chaos, the girl was struck as well, her life ending in the same violent flurry that claimed my brother’s.

The grandmother, still inside the cottage, had died an hour before the girl in red arrived with the wolf. With her needed supplies delayed, her frail age and illness had overtaken her. To conceal the unspeakable brutality inflicted on the girl, the head hunter ordered his men to slit the wolf’s stomach open and stuff both the grandmother and the girl inside, crudely stitching it shut. He then commanded the hunters to dress the wolf in a tattered lace gown and bonnet from the grandmother’s wardrobe before dragging his body back to the village. There, they displayed him in the center of Aesop as a grotesque trophy, strung up with ropes around his wrists and tied to two wooden poles, his paws hovering above the ground.

To instill further fear of wolves and ensure no child would ever trust one again, all were brought to see the display. His body became a spectacle while the head hunter twisted the story into one of cunning trickery and caution. They claimed the wolf had fooled the girl into revealing where her grandmother lived, the wolf used this information to devour the grandmother, disguise himself in her gown, and ambush the girl. They then cut open the wolf once more, letting both the girl’s and grandmother’s lifeless bodies spill out onto the ground.

Little Red Riding Hood became a tale of the bravery shown by Aesop’s hunters, while my brother—who risked his life coming out of hiding to dry a weeping girl’s tears—was remembered only as a monster to be feared. His body was never returned to the forest, where I and those who loved him could mourn him with the dignity his kind heart deserved. Instead, it was reduced to a coat, a symbol of status among the head hunters, worn by the man who took not just his life but the life of the child he tried to save.

My father and mother were the first to join my brother on the shoulders of hunters, killed in their desperate attempt to reclaim what remained of their eldest son. My brothers, my sisters, my neighbors—all those I once knew, those I grew used to passing by—now hang around the shoulders of their killers. There is not a single villager in Aesop who doesn’t bear the fur of a wolf draped over their shoulders.

And now, in an ironic twist of fate, I find myself clinging to the wool of a sheep as my only chance of survival.

It doesn’t matter what I tell you next; my words will always be filtered through your preconceptions. I will never truly be seen as the hero; I will forever be cast as nothing more than a villain. I do not expect your sympathy, nor your trust, and least of all, your understanding. I ask only that you listen—not as a lesson, not as a fable, but as a life. Even if it is the life of a monster, condemned to know only sin.

Running from the hunters during one of their raiding parties, I fled through fallen trees and thorned bushes, their pursuit relentless. Yet despite the searing pain of pushing well beyond my limits, I refused to surrender.

It was there, in a small clearing, that I stumbled upon the body of a sheep lying still in the center. I recognized them as one of the flock from a mile away, likely having wandered off and succumbed to the poisoned berries scattered among the bushes surrounding the clearing.

I had tried to make peace with them before, hoping to gain their trust and potentially even their friendship. I brought them berries I found while scavenging, laying low to the ground in submissive positions to show I meant no harm. But each attempt was met with cries to the shepherd to chase me away.

In a desperate act of survival, I skinned the sheep with a single claw, tracing the line of fat and wool to separate it from the carcass. They were already dead, unable to feel pain. I took no pleasure in the task—it felt cruel, and as sacrilegious as they describe me ( perhaps there is some truth to the tales entailing wolves )—but to waste the sacrifice of all those had fallen so that I might live would have been crueler still.

I considered burying what remained of the carcass, but to do so would deprive food to those who still roamed the forest, a precious commodity scarce to come by. I dragged what remained of the body into the bushes, easily spotted with the nose of a predator but just as easily missed by the eyes of a villager after only one thing— death to the last wolf in Aesop. With only seconds to spare before the hunters found me, I disguised myself in the wool, tucked my tail between my legs, and lowered myself to appear smaller.

“O’er ‘ere! B’me, b’ys!” a hunter shouted behind me, their voice warped and slurred—the villagers’ language has always sounded strange to me, like twisted barks and growls strung together into nonsense. Though there’s no time to decipher it, I don’t need to understand their words to know their intent.

They stepped toward me, letting out a frustrated sigh before slinging their rifle over their back. Rough hands moved onto my—no, the sheep’s—wool.

“I tol’ tha’ b’y t’keep an eye on th’m damn sheep. Leo, w’lk ‘em back t’the flock an’ then rej’n us. W’r n’t r’turnin’ h’me ‘til th’beast’s bl’d fl’ws l’ke a cr’k!”

With that, another hunter stepped forward, slinging their rifle behind them as well. With both hands free, they grabbed hold of me and began escorting me to the shepherd’s fields.

“G’w’n, eat grass ‘r wha’ever it is y’ sheep do while w’ scare th’m wolves ‘way fr’m ya.”

They gave me a final shove toward the rest of the flock before turning back toward the forest. Under the close watch of the shepherd, any attempt to return to the trees would be met with swift intervention.

I spent nearly a week never speaking a word—for if I did, I would surely be recognized for who I truly was. I ate nothing but bitter grass, staying as close to the edge of the flock as I could without drawing attention to myself. Surrounded by company, yet more alone than I had ever been before. By myself, I could mutter my thoughts aloud. Here, even the smallest slip of my muzzle carried the risk of exposing my teeth.

But despite all my efforts to blend in and plan my escape, my disguise had started to quickly decay. The winter chill had slowed the process, but the stench of rot was unmistakable. Strands of wool slipped away, leaving gaps exposed.

A group of sheep gathered around me, their wide eyes brimming with fear and suspicion. They encircled me, inching closer, their frightened bleats echoing in my ears like the cries of ghosts. My heart pounded as I tried to plead my case. Before I could let out a single bark, the shepherd stepped forward.

His shadow loomed over me, a wall of judgment blotting out the light. His eyes narrowed, sharp with grim recognition, and his hand moved slowly toward the rifle slung across his back. Panic clawed at my chest as my heart thundered louder and louder, drowning out even their bleats.

This was it. After everything—the running, the hiding, the sacrifices—I would end just like the rest of them. A monster in their eyes. A coat on their shoulders.

The cold metal glinted as he raised the weapon, the barrel pointing squarely at me. The crack of the rifle shattered the air. Pain seared through me, sharp and fleeting, before fading into cold silence.

I fell to the earth, the last sight before I closed my eyes my brother’s pelt draped over his shoulders, swaying gently in the wind.

Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

Once upon a time, in the noble pursuit of cleansing the land of sin, a brave group of hunters set out to track the last wolf that roamed the forest of Aesop. This wolf, cunning and deceitful beyond measure, sought to corrupt and destroy all that which was holy and sacred.

Under the careless watch of a lowly shepherd, the wolf crept into the Village’s fields one moonless night. Unnoticed and unchecked, he stole away a defenseless sheep, dragging it deep into the shadows of the forest where none could hear it’s pleading cries. There, with his ravenous teeth, he tore the sheep’s flesh apart and draped its wool over his monstrous body. Disguised in the skin of the innocent, the wolf slinked back into the flock, blending in beneath the shepherd’s blind gaze.

Every night, the wolf took another victim, feasting on the flock while mocking their supposed safety. His cunning knew no bounds, and his disguise allowed him to spread fear and destruction while the shepherd failed to see what was right before his eyes.

But the hunters, ever vigilant and wise, noticed something amiss. They saw the wolf’s bloodstained nose, his unnatural eyes gleaming with malice, his pointed ears twitching at the sound of their approach, and his sharp, sinful teeth hiding behind a façade of wool.

When the hunters confronted him, the wolf revealed his true form, lunging at them in a final act of defiance. Yet the hunters, swift and righteous, struck him down with a single, decisive blow, ending his reign of terror and cleansing the forest of his wickedness.

The shepherd, humiliated and disgraced, was warned to be more vigilant or face the consequences of his incompetence.

Notice:

The Church will be holding a celebratory feast to honor the brave hunters who have eradicated the wolves and cleansed our land of the sins they have inflicted upon us.

But a new threat rises: foxes. These cunning, vile creatures are no strangers to deceit and destruction. Their treachery is already whispered of across Aesop—theft from flocks, trickery of farmers, even poisoning wells with their schemes. They are twice as sinful as the wolves and twice as cunning, their guile posing an even greater danger to our flocks and families.

Only the hunters stand between us and the spread of this new evil. Join the hunters’ party to help secure our safety, root out this new plague, and ensure that Aesop remains free from their wickedness. The time to act is now. Protect our flock. Protect our future.