Wolf's Religion

"Wolf's Religion" explores themes of grief, loss, and spirituality. Content warning: death (no violence).

The pews sit empty, save for the first one on the left, towards the cross. Words come from this pew, as he recites a prayer private to him and his god.

He hears a noise behind him, and quickly finishes his service. Then, he stands and turns, in welcome.

In front of him, farther down the rows and rows of benches, sit two brown eyes above a gray-and-chestnut snout.

Taken aback, he crosses himself. The two characters stand still. He takes a deep breath, shakily, and then he greets her.

“Good evening.”

The voice echoes in the empty hall, bouncing off the carved wooden panels. It frightens her, and she puts her head down, fur rising. Stained glass glitters with the light of the streetlamps. 

He observes her more closely, squinting at her in the shadows. Her body is strong but lean. Too lean. He sees her teats outlined by the light. Patches decorate her form. He does his best to avoid matching her gaze.

Something is missing.

“Mother Wolf, where are your pups?”

And although he knows she doesn’t understand him, he can almost sense her fear, her hesitation, her sadness. 

He kneels down on the tile, centered between the front pews, head down, keeping his eyes open for once. Just in case.

He begins.

“Bless those who mourn, Eternal God…”

Her claws make a pleasant sound against the tiled floors as she approaches. He keeps his head down.

“…with the comfort of your love that they may face each new day…”

The pad-scratch, pad-scratch sound grows louder.

“…with hope and the certainty that nothing can destroy the good that has been given…”

She continues forward.

“…May their memories become joyful, their days enriched…”

The smell of her coat, so sweet, so musk.

“…with friendship, and their lives encircled by…”

He stops, his breath quickening.

Slowly, he raises his head. His eyes flicker to hers, but quickly down. Her nose is almost to his.

She sits, her coarse fur splayed against the cold tile. He steals a glance in her direction. Her ears prick back, listening, waiting. He takes this as an invitation to finish.

“…and their lives encircled by your love. Amen.”

The resounding silence is deafening. She licks her lips, once, her eyes unyielding. Sweat drips down his brow. He can feel the heat of her body. He stares at the tile, pretending to admire its pattern, waiting for her to make a move on him. Or leave. He silently prays it’s the latter.

Instead, she lies all the way down, her head resting on the floor. With her eyes no longer locked on him, he takes the opportunity to really observe her. 

Her pelt is matted and thin, and now that he’s taken a better look, he can see the faint outline of her ribs. Scars long faded decorate her nose, and dried blood encrusts her jaw. He looks towards the doors, but still, there is no sign of any other life.

It is priest and wolf. Wolf and priest.

And he knows that it’s wrong, but still, he can’t help but reach a wrinkled hand out tenderly towards her. Her eyes remain closed, and she does not move as he delicately places his hand on her body.

He feels her slow breathing. Too slow.

His hand continues to rest on her as she sleeps, and the only indication that time is passing is the disappearance of the moon from a nearby window. 

He could not count the times that he had been with someone as they passed. He could not recall every last rite, every death rattle breath, every grave.

But this… this was different. Her body lay on the floor she should not belong to, a beauty to her raggedness. She did not shake or quiver or cry out for mercy. At one moment, she was there. The next, she was still. The only similarity between her and the others was that there was no point in a cry for help or to beg for life. Sometimes, it is too late.

Somehow, despite his beliefs, he felt alone.

It was unfair, he decided. Unfair of nature to give this being an ending so sad, so tragic. Unfair that she die with him and not her own kind. Unfair of the cold white tile to be so stark against her gray-brown fur. Unfair that it be him, and him alone to have known her.

And yet…

Better for her to not die alone, he imagined. Better for her to go peacefully and quietly into the night than to die with fear. 

And maybe, just maybe, she would find her young ones out there. 

For now, though, it would have to be his duty to bury her body. It would have to be him grieving her, a creature he had never known and would never know. He would be the one relaying her story, a presumed story, to the world.

And he hoped someone would someday do the same for him.