Sun and Moon, Ice and Snow - Jessica Day George [12]
He lowered his voice even further. “Can’t you see it?”
She shook her head, still confused.
“Maybe its mother was a dog, though I doubt it, but if so, then its father certainly wasn’t.”
The puppy let go of the girl’s thumb, turning its head, with its eyes still shut tight, toward Hans Peter. It growled, really more of a high-pitched squeak, and batted at his hand with a paw.
“Oh.” The lass saw it now too. Hans Peter was right: maybe one of the little pup’s parents had been a dog, but it was doubtful. By the look of things, it was a full-blooded wolf.
The girl looked at her brother, then over at the table where her mother and their neighbor were deep in conversation. She picked the wolf pup up and stood. Everyone turned to look at her. Her mother was annoyed at being disturbed. Rolf Simonson gave her a merry wink. Hans Peter made a concerned noise and rose to his feet as well.
She cleared her throat. “Neighbor Simonson, if you don’t mind, I shall call the pup ‘Rollo,’ in your honor.”
He raised his mug of ale in salute. “To young Rollo, my namesake!”
Frida snorted, and Hans Peter opened his mouth as though he would say something. The lass gave them both defiant looks and turned away.
“I’m going to cut up that old leather glove that doesn’t have a mate,” she announced. “He’ll need to be fed right away.”
Which is how the youngest daughter of Jarl Oskarson came to possess a wolf for a pet, and the stories of her way with animals grew as quickly as Rollo did.
Chapter 6
As dearly as the young lass loved to talk to animals, she had always felt, deep inside, that one day it would bring her trouble. That that day didn’t come until deep in the harsh winter months of her seventeenth year was the only consolation.
By then Rollo was a strapping young animal: deep chested, long legged, and covered in soft thick fur. He was mostly gray, with a white underbelly that he showed only to the lass, and occasionally Hans Peter, if he was desperate for a good scratch. Across the top of his head and shoulders were striking black markings.
“Look at him,” Hans Peter said, standing by the chopping block to watch the wolf.
Rollo was casually lounging on the edge of the yard, near a tuft of dry grass that stuck up out of the snow. There was a family of mice living in the grass, as Rollo knew quite well. Despite his mistress’s scoldings, he was determined to catch at least one of them. After all, they were on his property.
“Rollo,” the lass said warningly. She was sitting on the woodpile, reading a letter from their sister Katla, who lived by the sea with her fisherman husband.
Clumsily refolding the letter with her mittened fingers, the lass pocketed it and shrugged deeper into her old patched parka. “Brr. I wish that Mother would finish with the candles.”
“Why do you sneeze when she’s making candles?”
“It’s the things she puts in them.” Her nose wrinkled. “The herbs and dried flowers. I wish she would just make plain ones.”
She caught sight of Rollo and half rose. “Oh, he’s going after one! Naughty!” She pointed at Rollo, whose lounging had acquired a certain tension. One black-tipped ear was pointing upward.
A plump gray mouse had emerged from the base of the tuft of grass and was testing the air with a quivering nose. Rollo maintained his position. The mouse skittered forward an inch. Rollo didn’t blink. The mouse paused, sniffed the air, and then scuttled right over Rollo’s left front paw. He didn’t flinch.
When the fat little mouse was half a pace from Rollo, the wolf leaped into the air and came down with both front paws on the mouse. Tongue lolling, he dropped down and poked his paws with his black nose, sniffing his catch.
While Hans Peter laughed and slapped his thighs, the tenderhearted lass hurried over to her pet. “Now, Rollo, that’s enough,” she scolded. “You’ve scared the poor thing. Let it go.”
Rollo gave his mistress a pleading look.
“Don’t you try that with me, wolfling,” she said in her most withering