Page 2 of The Ashpaw: Part One

Wolfkin or not, she didn’t want it to die. Even if it was dangerous.

She found the small wooden bowl she’d nicked from the tavern her parents owned, and tiptoed down to the river, alert and checking for glowing eyes in the dense brush.

Finding none, she filled it with cool, clean water, and then made her way back quickly to the tree.

“Are you thirsty?” she asked.

The wolfkin chuffed, like it couldn’t be bothered to drink at a time like this, so she moved to its side instead, inspecting the wounds.

There were many teeth marks, but none appeared too deep. She’d seen the work wolfkin could do, having once come across the remains of a deer the morning after a full moon, so this little pup actually got off quite easy, by the looks of it. Although she imagined it probably still hurt, and if the bleeding didn’t stop…

Fern was no healer, but her mother had recently talked her through how to dress a wound when she’d sliced her palm peeling potatoes.

But did she have any dressing? Fern looked around, now seeing the disarray the wolfkin had caused since entering, and rifled through the upturned items until she found the old chemise she’d left there in case she could ever find a use for the fabric.

“Please don’t bite me,” she whispered, inching her way closer to the small beast. Slowly, she tried to press on the wound, earning herself a growl. Fern jumped back an inch, and then clicked her tongue in reprimand. “I-I’m trying to help you, you silly beast.”

The wolfkin blinked, chuffed again, and then went quiet, letting her get to work.

“Hold still,” she muttered, though her own hands were trembling. “You’ll only make it hurt more.”

She kept the pressure there the way her mother had taught her, counting under her breath. When she finally lifted the cloth, the bleeding had slowed to a sluggish seep, and the tightness in her chest lessened.

She rinsed the blood off its matted fur with the water she had collected, nodding to herself as she looked at the wounds more carefully, wondering what else she could do before wrapping them.

Then the memory found her, an outing she’d once taken with the schoolteacher, where she’d pointed out which plants could be used to soothe a sting or settle a stomach. Fern had not cared much at the time, being more interested in collecting smooth stones in the shallows of the river. But now, she scrambled back outside, moonlight silvering the grass as she searched for the carpet of pink and purple that grew along the sandy parts of the riverbank.

There.

She gathered a handful of creeping thyme and then hurried back to the tree hollow.

Using the smooth bottom of another, smaller wooden bowl, she crushed the leaves and blossoms into a wet, dark mash, adding a little river water until it made a paste. It smelled sharp and earthy.

“I don’t know if this will work,” she admitted as she knelt beside the wolfkin again. “But I’m trying my best. So if you bite me after, I’ll be very cross.”

The wolfkin merely opened one dark blue eye.

Taking that as permission, Fern dabbed the paste carefully over each bite mark. Its fur was damp and hot beneath her fingers, the skin twitching painfully around the wounds. The animal flinched but did not snap, only huffing through its nose.

“That’s right,” she whispered. “Be brave.”

She tore the rest of the chemise into long strips and wound them around its middle as tightly as she dared, awkwardly looping the fabric beneath its belly and knotting it over its back. The bandages looked crooked and lumpy, but they held.

At last she shrugged off her shawl and draped it over the wolfkin’s shoulders.

“Much better,” she said, sitting back on her heels.

The creature looked ridiculous, reminding her of when she’d tried to dress a stray cat in her old swaddling clothes to play house, but its breathing began to even.

Fern pushed extra straw into a thicker bed beneath it, then sat cross-legged beside its head, her hand reaching out.

Slowly, shaking, she began to pet it.

The fur was thick and coarse, coated in a musky oil which coated her palms as she calmed it, humming a lullaby her mother sometimes sang to her.

It didn’t take long for her own eyelids to feel heavy, and with a yawn, she curled up beside the wolfkin, its breath warm and steady against her belly as she drifted off to sleep.

She woke to howling.