Dark bird settled by its form.

Just there, between the rocks.

Little arm, little hand.

Bright little bundle.

Ray of sunlight.

Just where the wolf had been.

Was he dreaming? Mop tried to catch his breath.

No, it was not a dream. The little bundle was squirming. Under the wind, almost the same sound as the wind, was a wailing. A terrible crying. It was the sound of the little bundle. A dark bird hovered over it, spreading its wings, its black and slender beak a needle at the bundle’s tender, wailing mouth.

And the wolf…

Without thinking, without hesitating, Mop scrambled, half jumping, half falling, over the stones to the cliff below. The bird, at his commotion, flapped reluctantly away.

Rushing across the rocks, Mop scooped the bundle into his arms.

Wailing. Shivering.

He opened his tunic, tucked the tiny thing next to his skin. How cold it is.

He held it tight. Who would have left it here?

How long has it been here?

It didn’t matter. He needed to hurry it home.

Arm tucked around the wailing, shivering thing, Mop turned to climb back to the path, but before he could take a step, there was the wolf.

It slunk, growling, out of the stones.

She-wolf. Her pelt hung loose, spine and ribs ridging her fur. She was all hunger—clearly nursing pups, clearly not eating even enough for herself. Hackles raised, she bared her teeth, crouching, snarling.

Mop held the bundle closer and tightened the grip on his staff.

The little bundle was still whimpering. “Shhh…,” he whispered. “Shhh…”

The wolf crouched lower. She was readying herself to attack.

Where could he go? Behind, the ledge gave way to open air. The wolf stood in the way of escape. There was nowhere to run; more, Mop knew he could not outrun a wolf—not now, with his weak knees and a shivering bundle cradled against his chest, not even twenty years ago when his knees were still untroubled. The air shuddered, prickling—Hurry! Hurry!

Again, a wailing. A whimpering. Mop touched the tiny form lightly, but the noise was not coming from what he held in his arms. The wolf flicked her ears. Still growling, she backed away, stepping into the shadows of the boulders. Crouching, she wrapped her mouth around another little whimpering creature, and slunk backward, descending into what Mop saw must be her den.

Not stopping to think, to reconsider, to look again, to wonder about the mewling thing the she-wolf carried in her mouth, not stopping to make sure she was not following, Mop began to run, clambering back up the ledge, and then, still holding tight, running, sliding, slipping, limping down the rocks, the cliffs, the paths over stone and under the pines, hurrying with the cold little bundle, the now-quiet little bundle, the now-still little bundle, until at last he saw his home, the stream, his flocks of sheep, and Nessa—startled, astonished—standing in the meadow tending to the lambs.