The Wolf

I.

Never have I sought to write my story in a diary such as I am doing now, but I find my current situation and its circumstances too queer to leave unwritten. It is my hope that the Lord will forgive any possible vanity expressed through or as a result of this narrative.

I feel it is firstly necessary to recount my own circumstances predating the subject of the story which I am about to begin, in some attempt to provide a context. I find no details from my youth particularly necessary to include, aside from that of my name and my residence. My name is Ezekiel Albert Martin, and I have lived in New England in the village of Ruth since the time of my birth until prior to the previous autumn season. I may also note that my profession has been that of a farmer for the last dozen years, preceded by that of a hunter, both for food and for financial gain.

Some eleven months it has been now since my eviction from the town. Although it was not my wish to leave the community, though I must admit I scarcely miss it by now, the townspeople saw fit to label and treat me as a heathen after a number of quarrels between Father Horace and I over scripture. I must say, a number of his sermons quite disturbed me, and so I had thought it just to speak my opinion on the matter to him. He would not hear of it, and upon further attempts to seek conversation regarding his questionable interpretations of the good book, he only became more unwilling to hear my grievances. My attempts at conversation had not been meant to vex him, but he saw them as such. Thus, he found it most convenient to taint my reputation among the town in multiple sermons I was not present for. I do admit being absent from church on two occasions, though it was certainly not because I lack respect for the sabbath, as Father Horace would have you believe. In truth, I was plagued by a rather foul and persistent illness that kept me confined to my bedchamber for nearly three weeks. Had it killed me, I suspect he would have been satisfied to say a word at my burial. I survived, of course, but my name among the community did not fare as well as my health in the end. Upon my departure, I was not forced from my place along the streets by the hands of my neighbors, but more their utter disdain for my presence. I was as bitter as them by the time I began building a new cabin beyond the borders of town.

I do not speak falsely when proclaiming these rumors that they concocted a mere excuse for my riddance, as I am devout as any Protestant. My purpose in speaking of my faith so prominently is not to boast, but is rather in defense of myself against the accusations that have befallen me. I mean to make it quite clear that my distance from the town was created not from my alleged lack of faith, but solely from my conflicts with Father Horace.

As I have said, nearly eleven months have passed since I moved to the small parcel of land beyond Ruth that is now my farm. Having provided my history with the town and its inhabitants, it surely would be of no surprise that I had not been expecting a visitor the day before last.

Autumn's approach had made the day noticeably cold and gusty, which had served to remind me of the impending winter that would follow. I was splitting wood at the block when Joseph Brout, a farmer from town approached my residence astride his brown nag. I scarcely noticed him until he had made his way to the bottom of the hill west of my cottage, when a short holler came in my direction. He was the first of Father Horace's flock that I had seen since the previous harvest, and he looked skinny and haggard, contrary to my memory of him. His tangled brown hair was long and shaggy, and his face hosted a short but thick beard that managed to conceal all of his gaunt features except for the bridge of his nose and his eyes, which looked sunken and grey.

I knew not whether to greet him with hospitality or suspicion, for I wasn't sure of the motive behind his unannounced visit. I had never quarreled with the man, and in fact had found him quite a fine fellow when I still lived in the community, though now I didn't fully know if I was looking upon the same man as I had known then. A year is long enough for a man to change, after all.