Rebirth12 min read
I Woke as the Monster's Wife — The White Wolf and the Soulfruit
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I wake to a wet, warm tongue on my face, and the first sound I make is a soft, helpless sound. Then I open my eyes.
"Hey—stop that!" I say, but it comes out small.
A pair of blue eyes blink at me. A huge muzzle pulls back and shows sharp white teeth. I freeze. The animal is huge. White fur like snow. Ears straight up. Claws like small knives. This is not a dog.
"Who—who are you?" I whisper, though I am not sure who I mean.
The wolf sniffs me again. It makes a low sound that I think is a bark or a question. It nudges my cheek with its wet nose.
I try to remember. I remember my room, my messy test papers, the cool air of my apartment, the buzzing fan. I remember scrolling my phone before sleep. But this—this cave, blood on the floor, bits of meat—this is not my life.
"This is a dream," I tell myself. "This is a bad, very bad dream."
The wolf licks my face again. Its tongue is rough. The licks leave red marks like tiny streaks. I close my eyes and hold still.
"Please don't eat me," I say.
The wolf tilts its head and makes a sound like a small howl. It is not aggressive now. It lies down near me and watches the cave ceiling. It breathes slowly, hot against my hand.
I force my body to move. I crawl back, inch by inch, and look around. Bones. Blood. A pile of dried grass cleared to make a bed. The cave smells like iron and old meat and a strange sweet thing under it all. I have the oddest flash: a fruit with dark purple skin—sacred in a book I was reading.
"This is impossible," I say aloud. "I was reading a novel. I was not supposed to be inside it."
The wolf nudges my hand. I call it "you" like it's a person. "You saved me from the snakes," I whisper. "Are you hungry?"
It gives a soft sound and lays its head on its paws. I find my voice again.
"Okay, I'm staying alive," I tell myself. "I buried my fear. I'll do what the book's girl did. I will survive."
I remember the book. The tribe of white wolves. The snake-people. A bargain: a weak tribe, the Viper clan, offering a human bride to the White Wolf King to buy peace. The main girl—quiet, clumsy—was led away. The wolf king died soon after. The tribe fell. I swallowed hard.
"They didn't get to me," I say. "They can't let that happen again."
The wolf opens its pale blue eyes. For a moment its face looks tired and small, like a boy's. It breathes in and out. I put my hand on its shoulder fur. It shivers.
"He looks hurt," I say. "He really is a king, maybe."
I stand up. I clear the grass into a neat bundle. I make a small bed. I find dry sticks and lay them by the cave opening. I work faster than I feel, because moving keeps the fear from growing.
A wind pushes in. A tall, rough man steps in—an old man with yellowed hair and lines like river tracks on his face. He wears many small bones and shells.
"You who came from the Viper camps," he says in rough words. "You belong to the White Wolf now."
"I—what?" I say. My voice cracks. "I didn't—"
"You agreed," he says. "You are the bargain."
My body didn't agree. My mouth had said words that were not mine. I blink. "This is not my voice."
He watches me like I am a chosen thing. "The bargain was made. The White Wolf is wounded. He needs a mate to calm him."
"I can take care of him," I say. "I can help."
"Help?" He snorts. "You are small. You will only be a burden. But you are ours now."
He walks away. I am left with the wolf and the warm weight of a huge body and a new plan.
The wolf opens one eye and looks at me. I place a hand on its side and find a long ugly scar. The fur there is stained with old blood. The flesh has been pierced and still leaks tired red.
"I will fix you," I say.
I leave the cave and walk to the valley the book told me about. I look for the purple fruit—soulfruit, they called it. My knees cut open on tall grass. My hands find roots and leaves until my fingers clutch a dark round thing.
"It's an anherb fruit," I tell the wolf when I return. "It heals."
He lets me feed him. He takes the fruit gently. The wound ceases to bleed. His breathing calms. I feel a strange happy thrill like when you solve a hard problem. I am proud of myself.
"I don't know your name," I say. "I will call you Cal."
The wolf sighs softly. His eyes roll closed. He is safe for now.
Days pass with small things set on repeat. I fetch wood. I gather fruits. I learn where the snakes hide and what herbs the old woman in the tribe keeps. I keep talking because talking makes the world less large.
"What's your name?" I ask one evening when the fire is small and the stars are cold light.
The wolf licks my hand. A strange sound rises from his throat, like a low word falling into the dark. I lean closer.
"Calhoun," I say, tasting it. "Calhoun Richardson." It fits his wide paws. It fits the book's king.
He sits up, and the moon paints his fur silver. He nudges a small, hard metal strip from my pocket—my phone's metal charm, cracked in my hands. It sparkles under the fire. I laugh.
"You keep stealing my things," I say. "You are silly."
He snorts softly and makes a sound like a laugh. I am not alone.
The tribe around us is rough. The old woman, the healer, Edith Sherman, sees me on the path. "You found the anherb fruit," she says. "You are clever."
"Please, Edith," I beg. "Can you help Calhoun more? He is my mate. He is hurt."
Edith studies me. "Your kind lives in bargain and fear," she says. "The Vipers gave you. You must learn our rules." She does not say "no." Her eyes are tired.
One day, a group of wolf youths drag a heavy bundle of meat past us. One of them—Hailey Jackson—calls out and laughs when they see me.
"She married the mad white wolf king," Hailey says. "She will be dead before winter."
I feel my face burn. I feel small. But Calhoun steps forward. He does not change into his human shape much anymore; he still looks like the great white wolf. He stands so tall his shoulders block the sun. He growls a low, warning growl. The boys stop. Hailey looks at the wolf and then at me.
"We will eat," Hailey says. "We will survive."
I say nothing. Inside, my spine straightens.
I take care of Calhoun. I tidy his wounds. I press cold leaves and the anherb pulp to hard places. He sleeps and sometimes dreams. Once, while he is asleep, I talk to him like to a man.
"Can you hear me?" I whisper.
He stirs and opens one eye. The blue is like glass. He leans his heavy head against my shoulder and makes a small contented noise like a child.
"He trusts me," I tell myself. "I am his home now."
Weeks go by. The white fur becomes cleaner. His step grows stronger. He is still wild, but when I call, he comes. When danger alarms the valley, he answers with his own low bell.
The bigger danger is inside the tribe. The elder who made the bargain is proud in the dark. Cedric Heinrich walks like a man who owns the sun. He wears a necklace of carved bone and has a voice that turns people small. He smiles at me like he has paid for me with his gold.
"You are lucky," he says once when I bring soup to the council. "You got a white wolf king. He will keep the valley safe."
He is a small cruel in his smile. I keep my eyes down. The book had said these bargains destroy many. I collect facts in my head like a squirrel collects nuts: Cedric trades for safety, but he keeps the best goods for himself. The Vipers were treated as numbers.
I begin to gather more than herbs. I gather proof.
"Can you do one thing for me?" I ask Edith one day.
"What?" she says.
"I need to speak at the festival," I say. "The harvest meeting. I have something to tell."
Edith looks at me. "You are small, Jadyn. You will be laughed at."
"I will not be laughed at," I say.
She shrugs. "You will need a voice."
I build a truth around me over a week. I talk to Hailey when he comes to bone the goats. I help the others with food. I listen to their small stories and collect the way their eyes narrow when Cedric speaks. I pick up a torn piece of his ledger—where he marked goods and goods traded in secret. I hide it in my pocket.
"Why do you keep talking about this?" Hailey asks one night as we sit by the small fire.
"Because someone should," I say. "Because we are living on their lies."
He laughs. "You are brave."
"I'm scared," I say. "I am terrified. But I have to try."
The day of the seasonal council arrives. The tribe gathers in the circle by the oldest stone. People from other clans come too. Calhoun walks beside me, head low, but his presence makes the small children hush. The snake clan sends three who look like coiled sun. The harvest is thin, and the wind is cold.
I climb the stone.
"Listen," I say in a voice that trembles but holds. "I have something to show."
A murmur. Cedric moves like a king to the center, smiling. "What can you show us? A story? A dream?"
I take out the ledger scrap. I hold it up so the light catches the marks. "This is the proof," I say. "Cedric traded our women and our food to the Viper clan for false promises. Look at these marks."
"You're lying!" Cedric says quickly. "You're a fool. You were a Viper woman. You speak for your own folk."
"It is true," I say. "He marked goods—my neighbor's goats, the woven cloth, the seeds. He set the price for a human life. He used our fear to sell us."
Cedric's smile falters. He steps forward. "You have no proof. This is—this is a trick. Who taught you to read these marks?"
"Hailey," I say.
"Hailey?" Cedric barks. He turns to the youth. "Is this true?"
Hailey stands and stares. "It is true," Hailey says slowly. "I saw the marks. He took the best goods for himself."
A ripple. People start to talk. Voices rise. Cedric's eyes sharpen. He laughs a dry laugh. "You poor children," he says. "Of course you will turn and blame me when your harvest is short."
I shove the ledger into the firelight. "You sold us. You sent our daughters. You made bargains that cost lives."
"She lies!" Cedric says suddenly loud. "She is a Viper defect, telling tales to stir the tribes."
"Silence!" Edith says sharply. "Let her speak."
The crowd hushes as if a wind passed. I let my hands shake. I breathe and tell everything I had gathered—the ledger, the stolen goats, the hidden sacks. I tell of the time Cedric made the Viper bargain and kept the best cloth. I tell how he told old women to be quiet when a sister left with the traders.
Cedric is quiet as a hunted thing now. His chest heaves. His eyes flit to the others as if seeking friends. His pride cracks.
"You accuse me," he says low. "You accuse me of betraying the tribe. I did what had to be done. I bartered our surplus for the safety of all. Who will stand against me?"
"You did not save us," a woman calls. "You saved your seat."
"Who else has proof?" Cedric says.
A man steps forward—Marcel Benton—one of the hunters Cedric had called friend. "I saw the sacks on his back," Marcel says. "I saw him take the cloth to the Vipers' camp and come back with empty hands."
There is a rustle like dry leaves. People look at Cedric with new eyes. His face tries to hold the old mask of control, but it's slipping.
"Do you deny it?" I ask, voice steady.
He does not answer. His hands tremble.
"Do you deny it?" I repeat.
He snaps. "You—who are you to judge me?" His face turns bright with anger. "You were a bargain. You were given away. You are nothing."
A whisper runs through the crowd. "He called her nothing."
"Stop!" Edith's voice cracks. She points to the ledger hidden in my hand. "He lied to everyone. He kept the best. He sold the people cheap."
Cedric's reaction changes. First he is cold pride. Then a flash of shock when people's faces turn. Then denial: "This is false. They want my seat." Then anger. Then a cracking like a bad branch. He claws at the ground with his toes. "You will pay!" he says.
"Pay with what?" I ask.
He pulls a small knife. He raises it as if to cut the ledger. For a heartbeat the crowd holds breath. Children stare. Elders shake.
"Stop!" Calhoun's growl splits the air. The wolf steps forward, not violent but mighty. He stands between Cedric and me like a living wall. Cedric pauses as if the wolf were a rising storm.
"You dare—" Cedric gasps. "You have a beast as your shield."
Calhoun bares teeth—huge and white. His hair rises. He smells like earth and thunder. The villagers back away from the wolf. Cedric lowers his knife, but his face is red and hot.
"You will be judged," an elder says. "We will speak now."
A trial is called on the stone. People come to stand. I will not describe every word; I will name the crucial motions and the pain.
Cedric tries to spin lies, to call me a Viper spy. He tries to call witnesses he had once bought. One of them, Lea Winter, looks at him and then at us and cries quietly. "I helped him move goods," she says. "He gave me a share and told me to keep quiet. I am sorry."
The mood shifts. Cedric feels it like a fever. He stumbles between denial and anger. "They conspired!" he says loudly. "They want to tear the council down!"
"Is it true?" the elder asks simply.
The ledger is read aloud. Names are spoken. Proof is linked. Cedric's hands go white. He tries to take control, to bow his head and cry for pity, but the tribe will not fall for his show now.
People call for punishment. "Shame him," one says. "Take his carved bone and burn it." "Let him sit on the rock of shame until the moon rises," another adds. "Let him beg the ones he sold for forgiveness."
Cedric's face goes through a terrible change. First the small smile, then the blink of shock when the ledger is shown, then loud denial, then wild bargaining. "No! No, no. You can't do this. I meant only to protect the tribe," he shouts. "I asked for help! Without me, we would have starved!"
"You betrayed us," an old woman says. "You betrayed the young, the old, the seeds we needed."
He slips on his own words. His chest shakes. He tries to speak, but the crowd's voice covers him. They chant the names of those he traded. Their sound is not kind.
"Do you beg for mercy?" someone calls.
He drops to his knees. The knife clinks against the stone. He grips at the dirt. "Please," he whispers. "I thought—"
"You thought of your seat," I say. My voice is quiet but the circle hears it. "You thought of your wealth."
"I... I'm sorry," he says, and for the first time his voice is small and raw like a child. "I didn't know."
They demand he return what he stole. He cannot. He has already traded things away. The elders decide his punishment: stripped of ceremonial bone, denied the right to sit at council for the next three harvests, he must carry the last year's seed to the fields and work them alone, and he must stand in the circle and tell each family he sold what he gave to the Vipers and ask their forgiveness.
He bows his head and tries to make a show of acceptance, but when the crowd begins to jeer, when children point and spit on the ground, when women call the names of the daughters he sold, his composure collapses.
First his pride fractures into shock. "This is cruelty," he says. Then denial: "You read lies! You took things!" Then bargaining: "I will give my hides! My meat!" Then shame as people laugh and shake their heads. Finally, collapse: he bends forward with a noise that is part sob and part cough.
He begs. He begs in public. He begs in the mud and the dust. The crowd does not join him. Some call him a coward. Some spit in his direction. Some turn their backs.
Calhoun steps beside me and nudges my shoulder with his cold nose. His eyes are steady. "You did not have to do this alone," he says later in a small voice, though it is not a human voice, and I understand him as if he had spoken the words in clear language.
"Thank you," I tell him. "Thank you for being here."
After the punishment, the tribe begins a slow work of repair. Cedric is left with less than before. He wants to go to the Vipers and beg them. He wants to find the women he sold. He is forced to face what he did.
I watch him beg in the square. His face is an open wound of shame. People who once called him friend look away. He holds his carved bone in hand and drops it in the dirt. A small girl takes a stick and breaks it in two. The sound of snapping is like the sound of a life cut.
He bows, crying. He is not put to death; no one wanted blood. But his public fall is savage. The moment the crowd turns, he has lost everything that fed his cruelty—audience, praise, respect.
"Why did you do it?" I ask once when he stumbles by the fire at dawn.
He looks at me and says nothing. The next time I see him he is working the fields, bent and slow.
Life in the valley changes. People speak more quietly. The Vipers are watched. And I—"wife" in a bargain no longer, but a woman who stood to tell truth—am treated differently. Some are kind. Some still whisper.
Calhoun heals all the faster. The anherb fruit and the herbs and the care help. He is still wolf, but sometimes at sunset he lies curled near me like a child, and I put my head on his white flank and hum to myself. He wakes and sometimes presses a heavy paw against my back like an offering.
"Do you know why I call you Calhoun?" I ask one night.
He nudges me as if to say, "No."
"Because you are calm," I say. "You are home."
He makes a small sound—maybe a laugh.
Days pass in small joys. I learn how to make fire from flint without the long labor, using the metal charm I found. I fit into the rhythms of the valley. I help Edith in the small hut and learn which herb stops bleeding and which herb makes the throat calm.
We are safe. The men who once mocked me now hand me meat without words. The children climb on Calhoun's back and call him "Big White." He tolerates them and lets them ride his wide shoulders.
One day, while I sit washing by the stream, I see my face in the clear water. The woman is almost beautiful—the lines of city life gone, the wild in her eyes. I laugh aloud and splash water at Calhoun, who pounces and sops. We play like two children.
"Do you miss home?" he asks in his way.
"Sometimes," I say. "But the world I had is far and thin now. I have pages of a book, and sometimes I remember the last line I read. But right now I have you, and a cave, and a fire."
He leans his head on my lap and stays there. I stroke his fur. He closes his eyes.
At night, sometimes, I dream the old novel's end: the wolf king dies, the tribes fall. I wake shaking and go to him, and he is there, warm and alive. I whisper, "We will change the page."
He nudges my hand.
A new wind came after the public punishment. The valley seems to breathe slower. The people plan, they share seeds, they watch the borders. I keep my anherb fruits in a small leather wrap and hide the ledger in the rock near the cave. It is not a trophy. It is a file against the small cruelties that can become bad laws if no one speaks.
And Calhoun? He heals. He hunts and brings meat. He sits in the sun and lets the children brush his fur. He looks at me each morning with the same strange depth in his blue eyes, as if learning a language with his stare.
One evening, beneath a sky the color of old glass, I lean against his big side and whisper, "You are not a monster to me."
He licks my cheek.
The world is wild. I am small. But I have a wolf and a strong heart. I learned to take small chances. I learned to gather proof and speak loud. I learned that the worst men can be stopped when many decide to look.
That night, I tuck the leather wrap under my pillow and listen as Calhoun breathes. A far-off howl answers the moon, and my hands find his paw in the dark.
"I will protect you," I tell him.
He answers with a low sound that feels like the beginning of a home.
The End
— Thank you for reading —