Author’s Note: not my usual style or tone. I wrote this for a friend going through something hard, because sometimes we need love and whimsy.

Njerden and the Wolf

  Njerden the Gnome lived in a cozy cabin tucked away among the high-cliff fjords of his island. He woke up alone and made dandelion tea, walked through the forest alone and gathered herbs and mushrooms, came home alone and made the mushrooms into soup for dinner. But try as he might to portion his meal just right, he always made too much soup for just himself. And there was no one to share it with. Njerden would eat until he could eat no more, with half a pot and an empty chair across the table as his only companions.

  Night after night. Day in and day out.

  He painted alone, carved wooden figures alone, sat watching the sunrise and sunset. Alone.

  Then one day, when Njerden was out searching for tasty morels after a storm, he came upon a wolf pup washed up on shore.

  Poor thing must be dead, he thought, but as he approached, the wolf stirred. She rose, shook herself, and caught his scent. Her great head turned his way, towering over him.   

  Upon seeing Njerden, the wolf let out a growl, and Njerden—fearing for his tiny Gnomish life—ran to his cottage and hid. He sat in his armchair, his blankets pulled up to his chin, watching the bolted door. Nothing happened. No wolf smashing down the door. Not even a howl. Had he truly escaped?

  Before long, Njerden’s belly began to rumble, and he realized he had not eaten anything since breakfast. Perhaps a soup was just what he needed to take his mind off of his perilous afternoon. So, he built a fire and began to cook.

  Before long, there came a snuffling and a scratching at the door. The wolf had returned. Fear clutched Njerden’s heart. He eyed the sword he kept on the wall, wondering if he had the courage to use it. But instead of a growl this time, he heard a pitiful whine from beyond the door. Njerden turned from the sword and looked down at his soup, finding he had again made too much for just one little Gnome.

  The whining continued, growing more pitiful. Njerden’s belly rumbled along with it, and he imagined the hunger of the poor wolfling. She was all alone, no pack and no den. She whined again, and he could stand it no longer.

  Njerden gathered his courage, opened the door, and thrust his spare bowl of soup out into the night.

  “Oh, please do not eat me!” he cried, squeezing his eyes shut.

  His hands trembled. The soup splashed.

  Hot breath puffed against his face, raising every hair on Njerden’s little body. His throat filled with a scream.

  But it never came. Instead, a heavy lapping sound opened his eyes, and he found the wolf licking soup from the bowl with a gentle tongue. She finished every drop and licked the bowl clean, then licked Njerden smack on the nose.

  Instead of a scream, laughter came bubbling out of him. The wolf licked him again and lay down beside the doorway. Her eyes fluttered in the light of his cottage, then closed.

  She was all alone, just like him. And she liked mushroom soup.

  “I will be your pack,” he told the wolf, patting her head. “And my island will be ours.”

  From that day forth, Njerden the Gnome was never alone, and he never had a single drop of soup to spare.  

Paul R Monarch

Written for a friend in 2019