Page 1 of Untamed

1 - Puphood

Willa - Seven Years Old

I love my Mama more than anything in this world. More than the sky and the sun and even theMoon. Mama is everything good because she's so good. I'll bet she's even prettier than the Moon. And she's better than honeysuckle and... a new shirt of that soft stuff and the white stuff the Father puts in his black coffee when he's home. Mama let me taste it once.Sucre, is what I read on the bag, once. I didn't like it much, but Mama seems to think it's great.

Mama is nothing like him,theFather.

I watch the leaves fall, drifting slowly down to blanket the forest floor under me. I am waiting for the perfect one. Orange, like the sunset, Mama's favorite color. I haven't found it…yet. I have a pile of good ones, but not theperfectone.

The perfect leaf is either one solid color or at least all orange colors. No brown on it yet. It should still be soft. And, of course, all of the small parts have to match perfectly, both sides.

Mama is all the good things. The Father is all the hard things. I want to give Mama a gift. While the Father is away, I have time to be patient. I can find Mama a gift. When he is here, I have to work, totrain.

'Willa, the weak don't survive in this world. You're just a dumb little female, but you won't be a weak one even if I have to beat it out of you,'he says all the time.

I don't have time to climb trees when the Father is here. I have to practice. Stalking, hunting, defending myself. I sleep outside some nights. I didn't much care for that when I was little. Now, it's not so bad. I know all the animal sounds. Owl, mice, bats, sometimes badger. Once I heard a lot of wolves, and the Father made me stay inside the cabin for three days and nights in a row.

I like the outside much better. A good thing, too, because I am,'practicing for when my wolf comes,'the Father says.

I don't know if I want to have a wolf in me. Mama doesn't have a wolf. She says she did, once, but she died before I was even a pup in Mama's belly. I don't really understand. Sometimes I look at Mama and wonder if she ate her wolf? Or did the wolf go away like the leaves on the ground and just disappear into her skin?

The Father has a wolf. He's asorneryas the feet. I like that word,ornery. Mama told me our best hen is ornery when I asked her why she pecks at me when I just want to pet her.

"Willa! Come inside, sweetheart!"

I leap down from the branches of the tree. My left foot crunches the leaves a little, and I frown at myself. Clumsy.And, I still haven't found the perfect orange leaf, but I will later. When Mama calls me, I don't wait. Mama needs me.

"Willa, what were you doing, Sweetpea?" she greets me with a kiss on my forehead. She says soon I will be taller than she is. I don't much care for that. I look just like the Father, tall and larger-boned than Mama, with stringy yellow hair, brown skin, and eyes the color of maple syrup. Mama says I will be tall and strong like him… and beautiful. I wonder how I am beautiful when my brown face and yellow hair have none of the best colors; the reds and purples and greens and browns of the forest. I am the color of washed-out bark.

Mama loves me, anyway. She doesn't much care for when I say I'm not pretty. She says things we love always look beautiful, just like things we hate are ugly. A secret? I would love to be all dark curls and white skin, like her. She isreallybeautiful, a pretty flower instead of a plain potato like me.

"It's a surprise," I tell her, mysteriously.

Her blue eyes twinkle at me, "oh? Sounds like you have a secret."

I smile proudly, "I do. So I can't tell you."

She laughs. I love Mama's laugh. It's as pretty as the stream I catch trout in. Mama doesn't much care for fish. I only fish when the Father is home. I don't tell Mama how much I love fishing. I'm so good at it.

"Well, it's dinnertime. So, maybe later you can help me darn your clothes?"

I nod. I don't like to sew, but Mama says it's a good time to sit and think about things. Sometimes she tells me stories while we work. I like that.

It's late when I hear him coming. He has heavy paws. I am much quieter, but I don't tell the Father that he's so noisy. It's good to know when he's coming, and he wouldn't like it if I tell him he's not good at something. Big steps. They thud, shaking the earth.

He walks up to the door and pushes it open. I slide out of Mama's bed to the floor, quiet, quiet, quiet as a mouse. Even quieter. Quiet as a dead mouse.

My bare feet stick to the floor when I pad out of the little room in the back of our cabin to the lean-to against the back wall. Dried meat hangs on hooks, the smoky, heavy stench hiding my scent from even my own nose on my own face.

I don't want the Father to catch me out of my bed. I'm supposed to sleep in the loft, but that's where we dry the herbs. Mama and I spent hours and hours hanging the little weeds up there. Now it smells like spices and makes my nose itch. Mama likes to cook. I like to eat.

"Anya," the Father's voice is loud in the dark, a mean sound. Too deep, his wolf growls and rumbles, and it makes my tummy feel bad. I crouch down, small as can be, my chin resting on my knees, my arms wrapped around my legs.

I hear Mama's response, soft and quiet. The sound of a slap makes me hide my face like Mama tells me to.

Don't look, don't listen. If you're scared, go to your trees, Sweetpea.

When the thuds and grunts start, I climb to my feet and run outside, taking a little piece of jerky with me. I don't know how long I'll be outside tonight.

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