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The wolves were pacing outside the door.


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The wolves persisted and were not long alone. At sunset Jack and Jill heard the chittering whine of a fox. And still, at the door, the wolves. He rubbed his ankle and winced when he touched his fingers to his forehead. Jill watched him do this. We still owe thirty gold pieces on it.

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That night they had a fire which did not make the animals go away but did warm the shack up. Jack and Jill opened the bottle of cider and each took sips. Jack and Jill fell asleep to the sounds of the animals scratching and clawing at the walls in chorus.


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Jack rubbed his ankle and Jill watched. Jack sat back so that the firelight touched only part of his face. He brought the bottle to his lips but instead of drinking, he secretly poured the cider into the pile of straw next to him a little at a time. Jill watched him drink and the fire made her eyes glint like pieces of metal. When the bottle was empty Jack tossed it toward the fire. It landed at the edge, its base buried in the coals. Jack settled back, looking for all the world like a village drunkard content at the end of his night. Jill watched Jack for quite a long time, and Jack did not move.

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Outside the animals had found each other, and were fighting. Jill rose and carefully walked to where she had set the knife. She tested the edge with her thumb and crept quietly toward her brother, her pinafore making the slightest rustle, barely audible above the scrabbling and shrieking outside. Jack lay curled up next to the fire. Jill crept up behind his rounded back. The hot glass scorched through her dress and sizzled next to the skin of her arm. Jill shrieked and the knife clattered to the floor. There was a spider on your throat, I meant to kill it before it bit you!

Jack scrambled to his feet. Jill picked up the knife in her other hand. She circled Jack darting here and there, slicing and weaving as Jack swung the bottle with his smoking hand. Jill finally slashed Jack across the forearm and he dropped the bottle. Jill pointed the knife at Jack and backed him up toward the door.

Roz Ray is a working writer, born and raised in Seattle.

By Louisa May Alcott

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Jill Johnson - I Can't Help It (Hank Williams)

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