1
The Gray Wolf
By Michael E. Shea
Jon's back ached. Frost had come early this year and the ground broke like stone. Jon had spent eight seasons breaking this ground to plant spring's crops and every year it got harder. Sweat beaded on his brow and he felt his cotton shirt stick to his skin under his coat. Jon took off his soft-brimmed hat and wiped his forehead. He examined the hat as he let his breath return.
The hat had kept the burning sun and beating rain off his head for as long as Jon owned the farm. He wore it every day. It had been a gift given to him on the day he married Alasandra but he could not remember who gave it to him. Jon put it back on his head and pushed the tiller deep into the stubborn earth.
Daven ran over the hill and down the cart path leading to their small cobblestone house. The boy had only left a short while ago and he held no sack with the bread and cheese his mother had told him to buy. Jon furrowed his brow. The boy continued to run and soon the wind carried his cry to his father's ears.
"Papa! A carriage is coming! Two horses!"
Jon's furrowed brow remained. Surely the boy meant a cart from a neighboring farm. No carriage made it out this far.
"It's from the city! A soldier drives it!"
Jon felt ice water flow over him. He turned to the house.
"Sandra! Get the musket out of the pantry!"
Jon saw his wife's face appear at one foggy window. Jon gestured wildly at her.
"Get it!"
They were too late. As Daven reached Jon, the black carriage already approached. A single figure sat on the bench, guiding the two brown horses down Jon's path. The black hardwood of the carriage seemed to absorb