the people said there were wolf-wraiths in the woods.
Tales began to spread from town to town, stories of a sighting here, an encounter there. Freshly baked pies snatched from windowsills as they were laid out to cool, stores of grain disappearing, farm animals crying. No two accounts agreed on the appearance of the wraith: some said they were ghost boys, others insisted they were wolf cubs who walked about on their hind legs. Still others—the elders of many winters past—spoke of kobolds and sprites, mischief-makers and thieves. Spidery fingers and beetle-black eyes, the usual suspects.
Goblins.
Despite these differing accounts, there was one detail all the stories had in common: that wherever these wolf-wraiths had been, red poppies bloomed in its wake.
Impossible, claimed the philosophers. It defies natural order.
But it was impossible to discount the evidence.
It began in the barns and stables of the farmers outside town. Doors left open, footprints in the mud and muck, frightened bleating and lowing, the impression of bodies in the hay. The first farmer to see the wraiths had woken before dawn to milk his cow to see two shadows slipping away from the stable. Fearing thieves, he ran after them, but they vanished with the last dregs of starlight, leaving no sign they had ever been there, save a handful of red poppies scattered among the rushes.
From farm to farm, town to town, poppies began springing up in the oddest of places. In a hayloft, wedged between cobblestones, twined about the gables of houses. Each appearance of the flower came with a strange tale of ethereal figures and things that went bump in the night. Locked pantry cupboards with half a season’s worth of cured meats missing. Furniture completely rearranged without sound in utter darkness. A haunting shushing noise, the sound of winter branches rubbing together in the wind.
As the poppies began making appearances farther south and west, more and more descriptions of the wraith began to become similar.
Boys, the consensus ran. Two ghost boys.
It was always two, or so the stories said. One taller, one smaller, one as black as night, the other white as snow. Some claimed they were the spirits of two children murdered by their parents as a sacrifice to ensure a good harvest, others stated they were not human at all, but changelings escaped from the realm of the fey, looking for a home.
As the days grew longer and the nights grew warmer, fewer and fewer poppies appeared. The stories that traveled with the flowers shifted and changed as the landscape turned from rural villages to prosperous cities.
Not dead boys, they said. Alive.
Two children, one older, one younger. Orphans. One with hair as dark as soot, the other with eyes as pale as water. They had the haunted look of the hunted, their faces gaunt, their eyes hollow. No one knew where they came from, for they spoke no tongue the townsfolk understood.
Take them to the abbey, they said. The monks would know.
The learned brothers of the abbey were scholars, philosophers, musicians, and artists from near and far. Indeed, the choirmaster spoke their tongue, and understood the boys had journeyed far in search of safety. But what the choirmaster did not understand was that it was not the language of man he shared with the boys, but the language of music.
Welcome, children, the choirmaster said. Rest, and be welcome, for you are now in God’s hands. The hand of Providence has guided you to our doorstep.
The vlček had followed the wolf-paths in the woods to the monastery, but what he had truly followed was the sound of singing at Sunday services. The boy had no words for melody, harmony, or counterpoint, but he wanted them. In their moments of rest on the run, in the slow breaths before they fell asleep, Mahieu had listened to vlček humming lullabies to himself in the wild. It was the only time he ever heard the wolf-boy use his voice, and Faithful Mahieu decided right then and there that he would learn to play music, so he could speak with his friend.
When the choirmaster asked for the boys’ names, only one answered.
“I am Mahieu,” said the older.
The monk glanced at the younger child. And the boy?
The vlček said nothing, only stared at the choirmaster with his piercing, unsettling, mismatched gaze.
“He . . . he has not yet given it to me,” Mahieu said. The vlček’s eyes warmed, and the smallest hint of a smile softened his face.
Does the child speak?
The boys exchanged glances. “Yes,” said Mahieu. “The language of trees, of birds, of fang and fur.”
But does he speak the language of Man?
Mahieu did not answer.
Then we shall call him Sebastian, the choirmaster said. For our patron saint, and the man who cured Zoe of Rome of being mute. Perhaps the same miracle can be performed for the child.
The vlček bared his teeth.
Later that night, when the monk brought the boys to their new quarters, Mahieu turned to whisper to the wolf-boy in the dark.
“Speak, friend,” he said. “You understand my words and I have heard you use your voice. Why do you not reply in kind?”
It was a long moment before the vlček responded, first pursing his lips and curling his tongue, as though silently rolling sounds and syllables and notes and names around in his mouth. “Sebastian is not my name. And until they call my name and call me home, I shall not reply.”
Mahieu paused. “What is your name?”
The ensuing silence was laden with pain. “I have no name.”
“Then how can anyone call you home?”
The boy did not answer for a long time. “No one has given me a home.”
“The wolf-paths have led you here,” Mahieu said. “If the monastery is not your home and Sebastian is not your name, then what is?”
“The wolf-paths,” the vlček murmured. “My home and my name lie at the end of them. But this is not the end.”
Mahieu was troubled. “What is the end?”
The other boy did not reply for so long, Mahieu thought he had fallen asleep. And then, in a voice so low it was almost as though the vlček had not even spoken:
“I don’t know,” he whispered. “I don’t know.”