The first thing I saw was his track.
Deep pawprints, rough along the edges, darker than the snow, as if someone had poured night into them. Between each print there was a distance my short legs were in no way prepared for. I had to take two steps for every one of his, sometimes making little hops to cross the white gaps.
The wolf walked ahead and didn't look back even once.
The wind blew into our backs, ruffled his thick fur, and lifted fine snowdrift off the field. It rubbed against my legs, packed into the clumps of fleece on my belly, but I stubbornly kept putting one hoof in front of the other. The pit stayed behind us—a small dark dot in the white desert—and with every step it grew smaller, until it vanished altogether.
The snow around us was almost flat. Now and then we passed frozen hummocks, a few thin trunks—trees that had forgotten to grow. In the distance, right under the sky, a band of forest darkened, but it was far away. All the space between us and the forest was empty, like a clean sheet of paper.
Each of my steps left its own crooked, hesitant letter on that sheet.
The farther we went, the more I felt the fatigue. My body was light compared to his, but it wasn't used to a journey like this. In the pit all I had to do was stand there, shiver, and try not to freeze. Here, movement was required of me. My muscles ached, my breathing grew heavy, steam burst from my mouth in thick, ragged clouds.
I tried to match his rhythm. To count his steps. Paw — paw — paw — a pause when he slowed slightly to skirt a hollow in the snow or a buried drift. In those brief pauses I almost caught up to him, but as soon as I drew near, he would widen the distance again, as if an invisible rope kept pulling him forward.
At times it felt like I was following a shadow, not a living creature.
The snow seemed endless. The wind shifted and struck from the side. My cheeks went numb with ice, my ears lost all feeling. I lowered my head, trying to hide my face in my own fleece. The smell of my coat—warm, animal, faintly sour—blended with the smell of the wolf's trail: iron, smoke, damp hide.
I caught myself walking exactly in his prints, placing my hooves into the deepest ones. There the snow was already packed down, and my legs didn't sink as much. A tiny bit of warmth lingered in those hollows—barely noticeable, but still, a remnant of his body.
It made the way easier.
I had no idea how much time had passed. In this white field it was hard to judge hours: the sun wasn't visible, the sky stayed flat, the same as before. Only the wind would sometimes calm, then rise again.
At some point I raised my head and noticed a dark blot ahead. Not like the forest, which still hung on the horizon, but closer—a tight knot of shadow. The wolf slowed his pace. I could see his shoulders tense, his ears press back.
It was a clump of bushes. A few low, tangled shrubs, almost entirely buried in snow. Beneath them yawned a half-dark hollow—damp, with the snow kicked out.
The wolf stopped at the entrance and turned his head toward me.
I froze a few steps away. My heart thudded faster. A new smell came from him—not only his own fur, but also earth, rotting leaves, old snow. There, under the bushes, was shelter.
He didn't growl and didn't wag his tail. He just stood and watched.
I came closer and cautiously sniffed the opening. The air inside was warmer than outside. The cold wind barely reached in. Snowflakes fell across the top, not daring to crawl under.
The wolf squeezed through the narrow gap first. He had to lower his head; his shoulders brushed the branches, sending snow cascading off his coat. Inside he turned and lay down, leaving a space for me.
I froze on the threshold.
Every ovine instinct I had screamed that this was a trap: the predator lures the prey into a den where it has no chance to run. But another voice, quiet and stubborn, reminded me: if I stayed outside, by morning the snow would swell over me, and neither the wolf nor anyone else would have to make an effort.
I drew my head in and wriggled under the branches.
Under the bushes it was unexpectedly roomy. The earth—dark, damp—showed through in places beneath a thin film of snow. Interwoven branches formed walls around us on almost all sides, leaving only a narrow slit at the entrance where the winter light seeped in.
The wolf's scent was stronger here. Warm, heavy, almost tangible. He lay by the far wall, curled up but not fully; his muscles were still tense, his eyes still open.
I settled closer to the entrance, carefully sinking to my knees. The ground was hard, but warm compared to the snow. I felt exhaustion flooding my body—a heavy, sweet wave.
For a while we just stayed silent. I listened to him breathing—slow, even, deeper than mine. Sometimes he shifted a little and his fur whispered against the branches.
Outside, the wind was howling harder. The bushes creaked, baring twigs, but the shelter held. The light at the entrance dimmed—most likely, the clouds had swallowed the sky completely.
Sleep crept up on me just as quietly as the wolf had at the edge of the pit.
I dreamed only of sounds: the creak of snow, a distant ringing—as if somewhere far away, beyond the forest, someone was ringing a small bell, calling someone in the opposite direction from where we were. From below, from the earth itself, came a dull pounding of hooves that made the roots tremble.
I shuddered and opened my eyes.
The wolf was still there. But now he was asleep. His head rested on his paws, his eyelids lowered. Only the tip of his tail twitched now and then from some wolfish dream.
The den was filled with the rhythm of his breathing.
Carefully, I shifted my gaze to the entrance. The gap had grown lighter—the snow beyond it had stopped flying in a solid wall and turned to lazy, scattered flakes.
Somewhere very far away, beyond the field, the same ringing sounded again. This time clearer, longer.
I listened.
The sound came again—rhythmic, with pauses. Bells. That's how they jingle when they drive a flock. Or when someone calls their own back home.
I didn't know where that knowledge came from. It simply was there, like the knowledge that you can't outrun a wolf's teeth.
My heart began to beat faster.
I watched the sleeping wolf for a while longer—his heavy sides, his outstretched paws. Then I slowly rose. The ground shifted under my hooves, but he didn't wake.
I slipped outside, as quietly as I could.
The field had changed. The snow was smoother, the wind had dropped, the air had become denser, quieter. In the distance, to our left, a thin gray plume of smoke curled above the horizon. A bit closer to it, across the white expanse, ran a dark, slightly winding line—a fence.
And the sound. That same sound. Bells, overlapping each other, and voices.
There were other sheep there. And people.
I stood at the edge of our small shelter, staring that way, and felt something heavy and obscure stir inside me: expectation, maybe, or fear, or a strange hope that somewhere out there was a place where someone knew what to do with me.
Behind me the earth rustled softly.
I turned. The wolf was already standing in the opening, blocking half the sky with his body. He, too, was looking toward the smoke, and there was no curiosity or joy in his gaze. Only tension.
He angled his head toward me slightly, as if asking:
Is that where you want to go?
I didn't yet know the answer.