The Wolf and the Woodsman

by Ava Reid

Just as we don’t expect rhyme or reason from our gods. They’re fickle and stubborn and heedless and indulgent, like us. The only difference is that they burn whole forests to the ground in their rage, and drink entire rivers dry in their thirst. In their joy, flowers bloom; in their grief, early winter frost edges in. The gods have gifted us a small fragment of that power, and in turn we inherited their vices.

But how did a perfect being create something as imperfect as humans, so prone to caprice and cruelty? And why does a perfect being demand blood from little boys?

All that talk of quiet obedience is for their benefit, not yours. They don’t have to go to the effort of striking you down if you’re already on your knees.”

Creation can only exist alongside destruction, peace alongside pain. Wherever there is life, I will also be.’

“Would you let me destroy you, then?” “It would be just as well,” Gáspár says miserably. “I should be struck dead, for wanting you the way I do.”

“What would you have me do?” he asks. “You have already ruined me.”