Marta brought a frozen wolf into the house, and in the morning dozens of beasts stood around the house and the village dogs began howling all at once

That morning, when dozens of wolves appeared around my house, the first thing I thought was that I really should have locked the door at night.

It was still dark outside. Thin frost flowers stretched across the windows, while the firewood slowly burned in the stove and the room was filled with the smell of burnt birch bark. I got up from the bed, put on woolen socks, and touched the curtain with my fingertip.

The wolves were standing.

Some were sitting in the snow, some were looking at the wall of the house, but not one came close. They were silent. And this silence turned out to be much more frightening than howling.

The previous evening, I myself had brought one of them into the house.

I was seventy-two years old and all my life I had known that a wild animal could not be trusted. But that evening, when I was returning home with a small bundle of firewood, I heard from the bushes a sound as if someone were clenching his teeth from pain.

“Who are you there?” I asked, gripping the tied branches more tightly in my hands.

In response I heard a low growl.

Behind the bushes lay a huge gray wolf. Its front paw was caught in an old iron trap. The snow around it had been trampled in dozens of places, as if it had been trying to escape for hours. Pieces of ice hung from its fur, and its breathing was so heavy that with every exhalation white vapor covered its face.

I stepped back.

The wolf raised its head and bared its teeth.

“Calm down,” I whispered. “I am not going to kill you.”

I barely recognized my own voice. Fear was stuck in my throat, but I saw something in its eyes. Not anger. Despair.

The iron of the trap had frozen so much that it immediately cut my hands. I took a small lighter from my pocket, put the flame to the metal, and struck it hard several times. At last the mechanism clicked.

The wolf pulled out its paw, tried to stand, and fell into the snow.

“I cannot leave you like this,” I told it.

I brought out an old blanket from the house. My husband’s surname was still written on it, embroidered with red thread years ago. I used that fabric only on special days, but that evening I wrapped it around the wolf and barely dragged it to the barn.

There was a small iron stove there. I warmed some water, put meat beside it, and sat down next to it.

“If you are alive in the morning, I will let you go into the forest,” I told it.

The wolf closed its eyes. On its neck, under the fur, my fingers felt something hard. It seemed to have a thin leather strap, with a small copper plate hanging from it. Only one strange sign could be seen on the plate, which I could not make out.

I got up four times during the night. The fourth time, the wolf was no longer breathing so heavily. At the fifth hour, I heard a strange sound at the barn door.

There were footsteps on the snow.

I went to the window and looked outside. There were already twenty wolves standing in front of the house. Behind them, in the darkness of the forest, many more eyes were shining.

Then the deep howl of the surviving wolf came from the barn. The whole pack tensed at once, while my door handle slowly began to move…

The handle went down once more.

I leaned my back against the door and took a heavy kitchen knife in my hand. My fingers were trembling so much that the knife hit my teeth several times.

The wolves outside were not howling. They were waiting.

“Go away,” I said quietly. “There is nothing here for you.”

In response, three short howls sounded from the barn. The largest wolf standing outside raised its head and answered in the same rhythm.

Then I understood that these were not accidental sounds. They were speaking to one another.

It was becoming seven o’clock in the morning. I tried to call the village by telephone, but only a quiet hiss could be heard on the line. The electricity had gone too. I went to the window and wiped the snow off the glass with my palm.

All the wolves were looking at me.

One slowly moved toward the house, stopped on the first step of the stairs, and dropped something onto the ground. Then it stepped back.

For a long time I did not dare open the door.

At last I lifted the lock. Cold air rushed into the room. A small red knitted mitten lay on the stairs. When I picked it up, I immediately felt that it belonged to a child. A small bird was embroidered with white thread near the thumb.

“Where did you find this?” I asked.

The wolf that stood closest turned its head toward the forest.

I looked toward the village. The houses were barely visible beyond the snow.

At that same moment I heard the sound of horse hooves from far away. An old truck was barely moving along the road. My neighbor, Dato, was at the wheel. He stopped the vehicle by the gate and ran toward me.

“Marta, lock the door!” he shouted at me.

“Why? What happened?”

“They are looking for Nino. She disappeared near the forest yesterday evening.”

The mitten tightened between my fingers.

“Which Nino?”

“The daughter of Eka, the village teacher. She is eight years old. Her father said she ran toward the forest, but in this weather a child would not survive the night.”

A light crackle came from the barn. The surviving wolf was trying to stand.

Dato looked through the window and his face changed.

“You brought this wolf into the house?”

“It was caught in a trap.”

“Are you crazy? The whole pack came here because of it!”

“If Nino is in the forest, perhaps they know where she is.”

Dato shook his head.

“Do not trust wolves.”

“I cannot always trust people either.”

At these words Dato looked away. His jacket smelled strongly of wet leather, and he had a fresh scratch on his right hand.

The wolves slowly moved toward the forest. The one that had brought the red mitten looked back several times.

After entering the barn, I checked the surviving animal. It could barely stand, but its eyes were clear and alert. The copper plate was still hanging from its neck. Now I could see the engraved sign better: two crossed lines and a small circle below.

I had seen this sign somewhere before.

Among my old things.

After my husband’s death, I moved most of his things to the attic. In one box there was the work notebook of my son, Lasha, a forest ranger. Lasha had died in the forest twelve years earlier. Officially, it was called an accident. But in his final days he kept saying that someone was setting traps in the forest.

Exactly the same sign was on the cover of the notebook.

The wolf suddenly caught the edge of the blanket in its teeth and pulled toward the door.

“What do you want?” I asked.

It stopped at the door, then looked toward the forest.

Dato called from outside:

“Marta, do not go outside! I just heard a gunshot from the forest!”

The wolf immediately raised its head.

There really was a gunshot in the distance.

The pack began howling all at once. And I understood that Nino’s disappearance was no longer a simple accident. I had to go up to the attic, find the old notebook, and understand what that sign meant before the second shot came from the forest…

As I climbed to the attic, the third step cracked under my foot, but I did not turn back. Dato was calling to me from below, while the wolf stood at the barn door and could barely place its frozen paw on the floor.

“Marta, can you hear me? I will call the police!”

“First I have to find the notebook!”

The attic smelled of dust and dried mint. The cold light entering through the window made the old furniture look blue. I moved the boxes one by one and finally found Lasha’s wooden box. A small boat carved by me was pictured on the lid.

The notebook was inside.

I opened the cover. On the first pages there were sketches of trees, rivers, and animals. Then the sign appeared. Lasha’s notes said that it was the old sign of poachers. A group set traps in the forest, killed animals, and sent the meat to the city.

The last entry was dated twelve years earlier.

“If I do not return, look for the iron trap that has two lines and a circle. Everything will remain on it.”

My hands froze.

I found a small pocket in the last page of the notebook. Inside lay a folded paper and a rusty key. Only one sentence was written on the paper: “The wolf sees everything, and approaches a person only when there is no choice left.”

Dato’s voice came from below:

“Marta, open the door! You are not alone, I am here!”

From the window I saw him standing by the house. Behind him, at the edge of the forest, a second man appeared. He wore a black hat and held a rifle.

The wolf growled from the barn.

I went downstairs and held Lasha’s notebook out in front of me.

“Dato, do you recognize this sign?”

The color disappeared from his face.

“Where did you get it?”

“It belonged to my son. You have seen it too, haven’t you?”

“Marta, now is not the time for this.”

“Where is Nino?”

Dato fell silent.

The unknown man standing outside raised his rifle. The wolves tensed, but they did not move toward me. They were looking at that man.

Suddenly the surviving wolf scratched the barn wall with its paw. A small hole appeared below the wall, near the ground. Something red could be seen inside.

I knelt and put my hand inside. I pulled out the second mitten. Then a small child’s bag, wet with snow and muddy.

Inside the bag lay a card bearing Nino’s name.

Dato lowered his eyes.

“Where is the child?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You are lying.”

He took a step back.

The wolf suddenly bared its teeth and pressed the copper plate hanging from its neck against the wall. A small hollow appeared behind the plate. A transparent, waterproof tube fell out of it.

Inside was a folded photograph.

In the photograph Lasha stood at the edge of the forest, and beside him were young Dato and the unknown man. On the back, written in Lasha’s hand, were the words: “They know where the traps are. If something happens to me, this photograph will prove it.”

Dato took a step back.

“This photograph is fake.”

“Then why are you afraid?”

He could not answer me.

At that moment the sound of a police car was heard near the house. Dato took a telephone from his pocket, but the telephone rang. He answered it, and after several seconds his face changed completely.

“What happened?” I asked.

He looked toward me.

“They found Nino.”

My breath caught with hope.

“Where is she?”

Dato slowly lowered the receiver.

“By the old tunnel of the river. She is alive, but says that she saw another child there.”

Then I heard a very weak, muffled cry from behind the barn. The police car was still far away. Dato looked at the man with the rifle and quietly said to him:

“Now it will no longer be possible to hide everything…”