The Miller and the Wolf by Charlie Byers

And when the baker had plastered his feet, the wolf ran to the miller. "Miller," said he, "strew me some white meal over my paws." But the miller refused, thinking the wolf must be meaning harm to someone. "If you don't do it," cried the wolf, "I'll eat you up!" And the miller was afraid and did as he was told. And that just shows what men are.

–The Wolf and the Seven Young Kids. Grimms’ Fairy Tales.

Once upon a time, a miller hid behind a chair. It was not a large chair, but neither was the miller a large man. He seemed to be mostly knees and knuckles, with bewildered eyes that were quick to squeeze shut at signs of trouble. Behind the knobby spindles of his chair, he could almost disappear.

“Shoo!” he shouted. If the bee would only fly back out the way it came, they could both consider their business finished. But instead, the creature buzzed a menacing loop in the air. It settled on the slowly-turning axle of the grinding wheel, which carried it momentarily out of sight. The miller trembled, dreading the moment when the axle would turn its full rotation and the bee would again face him. But the wheel turned, bee-less, and the moment passed. The bumblebee, it seemed, had come to its senses.

At length, the miller stood and dusted himself off. He regretted shouting. He was not, by his nature, a combative man. But he did hold the bee responsible for the unusual mess that he had to clean up: scrambling away from it, he had scattered flour all across the floor. His wooden cup lay in a puddle. He expected Miss Marigold soon, and it wouldn’t do to have the shop in such a state when she came to call. No, he decided, sweeping up: he was not prone to outbursts. But every man had his limits.

By midday, the miller had swept, oiled, tidied, and even groomed. He and his mill looked their very best. Miss Marigold, he was sure, would approve. When the knock came at the door, he was ready, standing by the window in a mottled beam of sun. The door creaked open.

“Is that you, Miss Marigold?”

But it was not Miss Marigold. Instead, in the door stood a wolf. The miller’s knees wobbled and he found himself leaping backward into his chair.

“Miller!” growled the wolf. For all his fear, the miller was also curious, for the wolf’s voice was as soft as a mother goat’s.

“W-w-wolf?” He stammered. “Sir?” It seemed best to be polite.

The wolf padded forward and held its massive front paw in front of the miller’s eyes. “Strew me some white meal over my paws.”

The miller looked at the paw. It was wrapped around with what looked like dough.

“Is that… biscuit dough?”

The wolf growled at him.

“And what happened to your voice?”

The wolf’s eyes narrowed to two yellow slashes above its snout. The miller imagined how, exactly, the wolf might kill him. Would it hurt terribly, he wondered? He’d seen a wolf kill a young rabbit, once, and it didn’t look quite so bad. A squeak and a snap, and it was over.

His heart thudded woodenly against his ribs. But the wolf finally rolled its eyes and settled back.

“If you must know,” it explained, “I am trying to gobble up the seven little kids that live in the mother goat’s cottage in the forest.”

The miller stared on.

“Well,” the wolf continued, affronted, “and the kids wouldn’t let me into the cottage.”

“Of course not,” said the miller, “you are a wolf.”

“Ah!” said the wolf, “But I have a plan. First, I came and knocked at the door. ‘Little kids, little kids,’ said I, ‘let me in. For it is your dear mother, and I have brought something from the forest for each of you to eat.’”

The miller swallowed a dry lump in his throat. “And… did they let you in?” He asked.

“Alas, they did not,” said the wolf, “They said ‘You are not our mother. Our mother has a soft voice, and your voice is rough.’ And so I went and ate a lump of chalk.”

The miller frowned, puzzled. “How would that work?”

“Silence!” said the wolf. The miller had to admit, its voice was indeed soft. For a wolf, at least.

“Very well,” said the miller, “but how did you come to have dough on your paws?”

“I am getting to that,” the wolf snarled. It glanced out through the shutters at the rippling leaves. Perhaps listening for some sound the miller’s ears could not hear. “I went to the cottage and knocked again. And again, I said ‘Little kids, little kids, let me in!’ This time, they asked me to put my paw beneath the door. When I did, they said ‘ah, you are not our mother. For our mother’s foot is white as snow, and yours is rough and black. You are the wolf.’ And so I went to the baker and had him cover my paws with dough.”

The miller sighed. Try as he might, he could not stop his teeth from chattering at the sight of the wolf’s long, gleaming fangs. His knuckles ached where they squeezed the spindles of his chair.

“And here we are,” the wolf concluded.

“I see,” said the miller.

“Well?”

The miller hung his head. Great sacks of meal and flour filled the shelves of his little shop. The wolf huffed impatiently, its great, dough-covered paws waiting for him. To do as it asked was the simplest thing. The prudent thing. It would be a moment’s work. Miss Marigold would be along shortly, and he shuddered to think she should arrive before he’d sent the wolf on its way.

But the miller hesitated, for before his mind’s eye stood also the seven little kids, still safe in their cottage. And their poor mother! What a scene would await her if the wolf should fulfill its scheme.

And the miller felt a stirring, somewhere deep within himself. An unfamiliar stirring, which seemed to want for something. To want to stop him, in fact, even as he reached for the sack of meal. The miller realized with a shock that the feeling was courage.

He gulped terrified breaths, his extremities tingling. But at last, he turned to the wolf, gathered up all he could of the unfamiliar feeling, and whispered “no.” He said it so softly the wolf didn’t seem to notice at all, and he had to say “no” again.

The second time, the wolf did hear him. It bared its teeth and stared coldly back. “Then I’ll eat you up!” it said.

The miller shrank. “W-will it be quick?” he stuttered.

“No,” retorted the wolf. “It will be horrible. It will be slow and ghastly, and all the village will shudder to hear your cries. I shall open your belly and–”

“Enough!” squeaked the miller. “I beg you, wolf, say no more! I will do as you ask.”

And the wolf shook its head, for such was the way of men. When the wolf’s paws were white with flour, it gave the miller a final snarl, then turned and strode out of the shop.

The miller walked to his window and peered out into the forest. “Oh, what have I done?” he groaned. “Those seven poor kids will be gobbled up, and I have nothing to say for myself. I was a coward, and I have doomed them all. May God in Heaven have mercy upon me.” And he fell into a deep despair.

So pitiful was he that when Miss Marigold did arrive, he traded her flour for grain and a few morsels of food without so much as a comment on the weather (which was fine, if a little chilly for the season.) If truth be told, Miss Marigold found him rude. She made no assumptions as to his intentions, but until that day, she had always found him pleasant. She bade him good-day and left him alone with his thoughts.

Alone in his shop, the miller saw stretching behind him all the pettiness of his life. Every humiliation he had borne and every challenge he had declined. For he saw that he was a coward, and that whatever gift of courage had been bestowed upon him by his creator, he had squandered it. And for what? For a squeaking mill and a few sacks of flour, and for the safety of his own miserable neck. The seven poor kids, he was certain, were meeting their doom at that very moment.

He latched the door behind himself and walked to the edge of the stream. The miller fell to his bony knees to pray God’s mercy, and to beseech Him for the courage to do what was right from that day forth. He clasped his hands and bowed his head. But before his prayer could leave his lips, he turned, for from past the hill came the most horrible groaning and clattering he had ever heard. A moment later, from over the hill came the wolf, or something like it.

The sight was ghastly to behold. Its fur was matted with blood, which stood out darkly against pale flesh that showed through gaps in its fur. It groaned as it walked, its long tongue lolling from its jaws. Its belly dragged nearly on the ground, distended by shapes like heavy stones within. Across its paunch ran a long, red cut, sealed with a tidy line of stitches.

The monster groaned in pain. When it reached the well, it howled “what is this I feel inside me, knocking hard against my bones? How should such a thing betide me! I thought it was kids, but now it seems stones.” It bent down to drink, but tumbled into the well, where it drowned miserably.

Over the hill, at last, came the seven kids, rejoicing. Behind them strode the mother goat, her white wool sodden black with blood. In one hand she held her shears, and in the other, a long, sharp needle.

"The wolf is dead, the wolf is dead!" the kids cried, and taking hands, they danced all around the hilltop. The mother goat rejoiced as well. But when, at last, her eyes fell upon the miller, there was no mercy to be found in them. And the miller knew his days were over. For such was the way of cowards, and of mothers, and of deep, black wells.

Charlie Byers prefers dark roasts and clacky keyboards. He lives in Spokane, Washington with his wife, children, and cats.