Kathryn Kulpa

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Volitation

A girl leaves her snug stone house on the edge of the woods to visit her grandmother. Hurry, her mother tells her, as she packs a basket with bread and wine. Be home before dark. Don’t talk to strangers. Whatever you do, don’t stray from the path.

You’ve heard this story before, haven’t you? All of us have. You hurry along the winding dirt path, wrap your hood closer around you. Dark comes early in these northern lands. In winter, when the lean wolves howl. Wind whistles. Branches shiver. Crows cry, a caution or an invitation.

Don’t stray from the path!

There’s always a warning. A temptation. A wolf to lead you away from your door. A mother should tell you this, if you’re a girl who lives on the edges of things.

But girls in stories never remember what happens to other girls in stories. Always, they tarry. Always, they transgress.

They visit the goblin market. They lean too far over the old abandoned well. They disobey. They come to grief.

All around you, eyes are watching. Yellow eyes. Yellow teeth. The feral grin of the carnivore. Keep all doors locked, when wolves do prowl.

You turn your head. Your quick dark eyes take in everything. You see the cowering mouse, hear the rabbit’s rapid breath. Do you, too, freeze with racing heart? Believe stillness can save you?

A girl on the path. A wolf in the woods. Once you believed you had to be one or the other. But now you feel the prickling under your skin as black feathers push through. Feel bones hollow, arms stretch, unexpectedly strong.

You don’t run from the wolf. Instead, you fly.

Your wings carry you far above the path, the snug stone house, the basket someone was carrying, not so long ago. Perhaps there was wine. Perhaps currant buns, wrapped in a napkin.

You dive, clasp something in your talons, soar away. A napkin ring.

You do like shiny things.

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Banner Art:
Crow and Willow Tree, Kawanabe Kyōsai, November 1887