They kill the wolves
I wake up to the distant fumes of formaldehyde. The rough wooden floor scratches my bare feet as I patter into Granny’s room. She hugs me, letting me sink into the fragrance of sage and thyme. The white, sterile lights cut through the ancient walls of our tiny house. The Renovation Project is underway, as the teachers explained at school. “Forlorn walls bear the imprint of our ancestors’ reckless behaviour. They threaten the integrity of our restored, spotless nation. Thus, for the purposes of public safety, they will be eradicated systematically.” What happens to the inhabitants of such walls is a question I cannot ask Miss Adams and do not dare ask my grandma, as she tucks me into her shawl made of wolf fur, protecting me from the bursts of light.
Granny muffles the mechanical clang from the outside with her murmur. She retells the story of Romulus. “In the Lupercal cave surrounded by a tenebrous forest, Romulus was reared by a she-wolf.” There was no one to tell him to stay away from wild animals. I wish I met a wolf. “A myriad of struggles begat an emperor. Yet, sharpened by many battles, Romulus emerged victorious and founded the glorious city of Rome.” There was no one to warn him of the futility of battle. I wonder if there is still space left in the world for a city to be built as the shadows return to our haven and the furious light outside the window recedes. The Renovators came for somebody else that night.
Teachers never liked Granny’s words. Today, Miss Adams taught us poetry and we lined up to present our short poems about the Novel World.
“There must be a light in the graveyard of fights…” I hesitated, struggling to remember which words were permitted in the Novel Language.
“A graveyard? What do you mean?” Miss Adams stared at me blankly.
“I mean, an unpleasant place.”
“Good children do not know such words. Who taught you this word, dear?” There was a distinct menace hiding behind her curled lips. Miss Adams taught us that words harbour unregulated power, so the language should be novelized to avoid the development of harmful attitudes. Even though Granny disliked Miss Adams, I knew my teacher was right about the danger my words posed, so I couldn’t allow myself to speak.
“I… I’m sorry, I don’t feel well.”
No one tried to stop me as I bolted away from school. There was no need to. They could already envision the Renovators’ light erupting at our house the next night.
“Unpleasant…” I kept twisting this word in my head. Graveyard is tragic, not “unpleasant.” Why didn’t they teach us about tragedy? Why did they teach us not to recognize the things we see and feel, but came up with no way to get rid of the seeing and feeling? Miss Adams said the Renovators had established peace everywhere, yet I was never allowed to cross the forest surrounding our village to see that world of everlasting prosperity for myself.
I reeled towards the forest, barely aware of my steps or my tears. On the edge of the forest, I saw a remnant of a beast. A wolf, unwounded yet defeated. The mud on his shaggy fur weighed him down. His subdued muzzle was far less threatening than Miss Adams’s smirk. Instead of a growl, a painstaking howl tore apart his throat. Formaldehyde. Both of us could smell it, but only I managed to hide behind a wild rose bush. The Renovators in their fluorescent overalls loomed over the clearing. Mechanical clang. A copper army surged from their pistols and tore into the wolf’s chest. His blood splattered on the sage leaves and rose petals. I was taught many words, novel and ancient, to explain the expansion into the forest, the need to civilize and bring prosperity to nature, the oath to establish peace even in the most secluded places, yet… I did not know a word for this.
“What do they do with the wolves, Granny?” I choke on the question trying to catch my breath. All my teachers’ and Granny’s words hurl around in my head. Not a single one fits. Granny stops her voice from trembling as she enunciates the sentence. “They kill the wolves.” Kill. Short and lurid. It fits. “They kill people too, darling. You shall forsake this place.” She puts a box of matches in a battered backpack. “The forest is tenebrous at night. You know how to start a fire.” She slips in a long kitchen knife. “There are wolves in the forest. You know what happens to wolves.” She presses the backpack into my hands. “There is no home in the forest. You know houses are built from wood, right?” I breathe in her fragrance for the last time. Now I will be the one foraging for sage and thyme. “Leave through the window. They will be coming for you.”