Friday, July 20, 2012

Wolf stories

Awoooooo! Hmm. Yes. Moving on.

At the very edge of the pastures and forests belonging to our village there is an old hill, once a mountain, called Preluca. Even today, if one has hay there, they must remain there until the hay-making is done. A family went on such a task, taking their two cows with them; they were done on the third day before noon, so the youngest, a lad of fifteen, decided to stay with animals until sundown.
Midday came with unbearable heat, such as he had never felt, so he took shelter in the woods. He sat next to the oldest cow and fell asleep. He awoke some time later to gentle sounds of maiden’s laughter and singing. The woods were deadly still – no birds chirping, to flies buzzing, no wind rustling; so he himself sat very still and awaited for the fayes, for that is what the maidens were, to take their dancing elsewhere. He dared not even open his eyes, for he knew that such devilish creatures will steal the sight of any man who dares look upon them as they dance. Later, much later, when the sun was nearing the horizon and faint roosters’ calls could be heard, did life return to the forest; he took to his home and lay bedridden for six weeks.

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