The air was crisp on that fall day and the grass was misty with early morning fog. Twelve-year-old Conan Adlam emerged from a small cottage on a hill, near a little farm. He had only been there for a few weeks with his two sisters; who were walking on the other side of the field.

Though the girls were older, Conan’s mother made him promise to watch out for them while they were in the countryside. Conan had no one else to play with. Despite all the children being sent away to the country until the war was over, young Conan still hadn’t left the farm to find one. He would spend most days exploring the area around the farm, but as he approached the edge of the property, he became increasingly interested in what he could see beyond its borders.

It was a beautiful wooded area, decorated with dying leaves. The lightest breeze blew them down around him. Conan stepped into the brush; the ground was littered with fallen leaves and the sound of birds echoed through the trees. The wind made a soothing sound as it blew its way through the forest. The air was cold and although Conan wore heavier clothing, he still felt the chill bite through his clothes.

He hoped he’d be home in London with his mother before Christmas, where he could enjoy the coal heating rather than the fireplace in the cottage. It would be a wonderful holiday surprise to be there and have his father return from the front lines.

Conan smelt something. It was a strong smell that reminded him of the warm stew his mother often had ready for them during the cold winter months. He missed his family enough that he was now imagining things.

‘How cruel,’ Conan thought.

Still, the smell didn’t dissipate so the thought of him dreaming it up disappeared the closer his feet carried him towards the scent. He shifted and moved around the trees and the bushes. His eyes scanned the area until he saw some white smoke not too far from where he was. Switching his direction slightly, Conan climbed the small hill. He stopped at the emergence of a humble campsite with a little fire, a pot of food cooking over top. A brown liquid bubbled inside and had a very strong smell. Sitting on a log nearby was a woman; her hair was black, the darkest shade he had ever seen. Her skin was much darker than most others he had seen, it had been darkened by long periods in the sun.

The woman glanced up and smiled at him. In front of her was a dead rabbit, almost completely skinned. He saw the woman’s hands covered in the rabbit’s blood, a small knife in one of her hands.

“Good morning, little one,” she greeted.

Conan crept closer to her and looked at the dead rabbit. It reminded him of the elderly couple they were staying with who killed and plucked their own chickens for dinner, or sometimes for the market.

“Good afternoon,” he replied “I could smell your stew from down the hill.”

“Ah, yes,” she said “My rabbit stew. Lunch and dinner for myself if I portioned it all right.”

“It smells delicious,” Conan complimented.

The woman continued her removal of the rabbit pelt and slipped it off the rabbit’s body. Then she used her knife to cut the belly open, gutting the delicate looking creature. Conan looked away, the gore bothered his stomach. Back home in London his mother would bring home the meat from the butcher already cleaned and cut so it didn’t resemble an animal anymore. He left when he saw his elderly host doing the same to the chickens.

She chuckled to herself, seeing him from the corner of her eye. “Life is messy sometimes, little one.”

“It grosses me out,” Conan stated.

“You get use to it,” she replied “If you have to, if you want to survive in this world.”

Conan nodded, but wasn’t sure how to reply. He assumed that she lived out here and had to learn a lot of skills to do so successfully. He didn’t know how much of this he would need to know to survive. After the war, he’d go home and his mother would cook for him. He’d grow up, marry, and he’d have a wife to take care of the house while he went out to work and provided for her and any children they had. Things weren’t the same in the city as they were in the country. His wife may even work part time like his mother did.

“Tell me little one, what is your name?” she asked.

Conan’s attention snapped back and he took a moment to answer. “Conan.”

This seemed to amuse her. “Your name means wolf.”

“Does it?” Conan asked.

The woman chuckled, “My name is Seath, it means wolfish.”

Conan chimed in, bemused, “That’s interesting. How do you know so much about name meanings?”

“I’ve had many, many, years on this earth to study,” she explained.

She ripped the flesh off of the rabbit with her bare hands and threw it in the cooking pot in big chunks. Conan felt his stomach churn a little at the sight and wanted to look away when he heard his sister’s calling for him. He strained to listen to her from a distance and realized she was calling him for lunch. Seath’s attention was drawn to the voices too.

“Who’s that?” she asked.

“My eldest sister, Bridget,” Conan replied.

“You must be living on that farm down the road,” she stated.

“Yes,” he said, stepping back. “I better go.”

“Alright then, I’ll be seeing you, little one.”

Conan gave her a quick wave and hurried down the hill and out of the woods. His sisters were at the edge of the trees and were waiting for him. They looked just like Conan, except they had their mother’s mahogany eyes. Bridget —age fifteen— was the oldest and stood a few inches taller than him. She reached out to him, offering her hand. He grabbed it and was guided back to the house. His second oldest sister, just thirteen, was named Sarah and walked beside them holding her favourite doll to her chest.

When they arrived back at the cottage, the elderly couple invited them inside for lunch. Bridget gave Conan a soft smile as she ushered both he and Sarah in. They closed the little wooden door behind them, washed up, and sat down for a hot lunch.

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