An adventurous lamb strayed from the flock to drink at a mountain stream. It happened a wolf had also come there to quench its thirst. Seeing the lamb, the wolf immediately advanced upon the dainty creature. It was too late for the lamb to run. She had been warned about wolves.

But to the lamb’s great surprise, the wolf cleared its throat and began to speak. “I came to sup at the fresh sparkling waters of this stream only to find them fouled and muddied. It seems you are responsible. I regret to inform you the penalty for this offence is death.”

The wolf’s tone was severe and self-important, but its words filled the lamb with hope. This was a wolf who knew and respected the law, she thought, and the law, in this instance, was firmly on her side: she was entirely innocent.

The lamb mounted her defence: “I see you were drinking upstream. As water only flows downhill, it cannot have been I who was to blame.” The wolf looked down at the clear water purling over the rocks and wrinkled its nose with displeasure: the lamb was right.

But the wolf would not let the lamb go. “I know you, don’t I?” it said. “You’re the rascal who went around insulting me and my kind last summer. I never forget a face. And I regret to inform you the punishment for this offence is also death, a more gruesome and terrible death.”

The lamb was dismayed by the new accusation, but was certain of her innocence.

“When did you say this happened?” she asked.

“Why, last summer, of course,” the wolf replied.

“Then it cannot have been me,” said the lamb. “I am barely a month old and have never yet seen a summer.”

The wolf looked down at the vulnerable creature with her tight curls and thin legs and wrinkled its nose with displeasure. “If it was not you, it must have been one of your kin,” it declared. “A brother perhaps? Or your father? Punishment may be visited on the child.”

“But that’s not fair,” the lamb protested.

“Nor were your family’s slanderous remarks,” the wolf retorted. “However, if you were to disavow them, I may grant you mercy.”

“What on earth did they say?” the lamb asked.

“They said wolves were bloodthirsty murderers who killed for fun.”

The lamb gulped. It could have been true. She’d heard something of the sort from her mother. ‘A wolf will as soon eat you as look at you,’ she liked to say. It would feel like a betrayal, but if she wanted to live, the lamb was going to have to disown her mother and all her kin.

Once she’d finished her statement, the lamb turned wearily to go. But the wolf blocked her path. Before she could protest, it seized her in its powerful jaws and broke her neck.

The wolf looked down at the lamb’s tender, quivering body and licked its lips. “I’m hungry now,” it said.

© Richard Parkin, 2020