The Golem and the Wolf

Decided to work on a little something. Had nothing better to do.

---

Have you ever heard the story of the golem and the wolf?
I don’t suppose you would have. It’s not as well-known as some tales, like Rapunzel, or the tales of King Arthur and his knights. It’s a tale that’s been passed down through the ages, told by few to their children, its meaning understood by fewer. Some saw it as a tale of tragedy and heartbreak, after overcoming immense obstacles. Some saw it as a dose of reality, that things rarely work for anyone, and when they do, it likely won’t be in the way you expected. Not that it was a prophecy or anything. It was just a story, nothing more, nothing less.

Oh, you want me to tell you the story? I don’t see why not. Just sit comfortably, and we’ll begin.

While the origin of the tale is obscure at best, some say it has Semitic roots, due to its age, and that a golem is a main part. Then again, it could have just been any stone figure brought to life – a gargoyle, a demon, the result of sorcery… Regardless, most refer to it as a golem. Now, this golem retained the appearance of a normal human, one that you would pass by and never look at twice. However, it was his inner workings that made him special – his abilities, how he used – or rather, refused to use - them, and what came of this as a result.

Nothing could hurt the golem. Swords, fire, maces, catapults, falls, all he did was brush it off. It was like nothing could even graze him, like nothing even seemed to touch him. His strength was phenomenal – what it would take five oxen to pull, with difficulty, he could flick away without even showing that he had exerted even marginal effort. His true strength has not been documented anywhere, but it is most likely correct to assume his strength was nigh-on boundless. And, given that he was trained in multiple forms of hand-to-hand combat in his time alive, he made quite the formidable opponent.

But, as desirable as these abilities were, they were as much a curse as they were a blessing. People did not respect him, they feared him. They shunned him, taught their children to run away from this ‘monster.’ Exiled in his own country, he wandered the land, just looking to survive. Not that it was hard – nothing seemed to faze him. It was not the cold of a bitter winter morn that pained him, however, but the bitter coldness people showed him. Unable to accept his presence as anything more than a threat, with those wishing to show him kindness looked upon with scorn, the golem moved about the world, alone.

And then, one day, there was a little girl, probably no more than ten. However, she was your typical ‘rash’ child – the kind that ran into things because they could. The ones that defied fear in the name of fun, who could look a tiger in the eyes and still have the gall to stick their tongue out at it. She had no parents – going by her rags, she was likely a street urchin. But, she did not show any hostility towards the golem when he appeared, despite knowing perfectly well who he was. Nobody stopped her – nobody would miss her, according to the crowd, and she would be an excellent example of why not to approach the golem.

But the golem was not a violent being by nature. He could have been – had any other person had those abilities, it was safe to assume things would not likely go according to plan. But, all he wanted was a friend, and now that a grinning child stood before him, he patted her head, silent in his affection. But, despite her grin, he was still a little jumpy. And, when someone shouted – about nothing in particular, he almost seemed to leap back. This had the effect of, well, killing the girl. His hand had caved her skull in, and fractured her neck and spinal cord. His own power had been what killed her – the only person to actually do anything to try and make him feel better, and he had killed her without even knowing immediately.

He realised something, that day – that he belonged with nobody. His life was his own. It was dangerous, and so was her. Destined to forever wander the world, he accepted his lonely fate.

But, that wolf of a girl was never forgotten by him. Her courage, her determination, and her sheer childlike glee – it was like watching a puppy conquer an obstacle. He didn’t compare her with dog – he wanted to honour her.

So he gave her the title of Wolf.

I was like D: when he accidentally killed her. Still though, this was interesting. :O

Wait, when he jumped back he smashed her? Did he make her a wolf or was it just symbolic because she was dead? Is her name "a wolf" or wolf?

Yeah, he smashed her when he leapt back - he was patting her head at the time, and the shock made him crush her. As for her name, that was just me not putting it across right.

I'm still a bit rusty on forming something more than two people beating the living daylights out of each other. I'm still scared the characters I plan on putting into the story might not quite be how I intended them to be. Nevertheless, I started this story, and I'm going to at least try and end it.

Chapter 1 - New Kid On the Block

“Sorry kid. Can’t let you get in without paying the toll.”
“What?! When the hell was this introduced?!”
“Since the big man needed more cash. Now hand over the toll, and we’ll say no more of it.”
Reluctantly, the boy dug a five-pound out form his pocket, and handed it over to the two older students blocking the entrance to the lunch hall. Black Rock High School was hardly the kind of place you wanted to send your children – in fact, most called it the ‘Dumping Ground of Botun,’ for its reputation gained by holding some of the worst students imaginable.

The school itself was holding together – just about. Though the rectangular, uniform buildings were all built of solid concrete, the students had not been kind to it. Now, the supposedly-sturdy buildings held cracks and housed graffiti, with barely any attempt made to patch things up on it. Weeds grew wherever they could, whether through cracks in the path of paving slabs, or all throughout the long-dead grass and flowerbeds – well, what remained of them, anyway. The whole area was littered with glass, from windows that were completely broken, smashed, or on the verge of being broken wide open. Very rarely would a window remain intact with less than a few large scratches.

The students weren’t much better than the school they were in. An amassment of delinquents, ruffians and ne’er-do-wells, every kind of hated youth was gathered here. It was like a scene out of a wildlife documentary, with beasts prowling the unforgiving jungle known as Black Rock, surviving by preying on the weaker, and hiding from the stronger. Sometimes, someone challenged someone above them. Most of the time, you found them in the A and E a day later. The school’s hierarchy was set in stone, and unless you had the strength, speed, stamina and skill to fight your way to the top, you weren’t going anywhere.

“Haven’t seen your face around here before.”
“I’m new, that’s why. Thought that’d be fairly obvious.”
“You’ve got some nerve to talk like that to us, you know. We’re here to make sure you pay the toll, and boss man isn’t too concerned about who gets their face mashed in the process.”
“Good to hear. Now piss off, I’m hungry.”
“Watch your mouth, you little weasel!”
One of the doormen swung at the newcomer, but his target didn’t seem fazed by the fact he had just been hit in the side of the face. In fact, he seemed to not even notice that he had been hit at all – instead, he just stood there, his blank green eyes looking over his foe with no discernible emotion.

A bemused look seemed to grow on the doorman’s face as he continually laid into the new student, his barrage of left and right hooks leaving but a fleeting impression on the boy. A cry of frustration rose up from him as he drew his fist back, now aiming squarely for the face. By now, quite the crowd had gathered, to watch this fairly amusing spectacle. Someone fighting wasn’t unusual – it was more the events transpiring. The shorter of the two did not even seem to flinch at being pummelled, and even having a punch land straight on his forehead made him do nothing more than blink.

“My turn, I believe.”
Four words, and the boy leapt into action, a coiled spring only just released – a cork popping from a bottle of champagne, though far more violent. In a practised manner, a kickboxer’s stance was assumed, with his fists raised in a defensive position. He feigned to the side, pretending to strafe, to which he received the response of a fist crashing into the spot he would have been in. Using this momentary window of opportunity, he lunged forwards, putting him in prim position to attack. He was just far enough to get power behind a punch, but the distance was short enough to make sure it hit. And boy, did he hit hard.

The doorman’s eyes widened as a vicious uppercut landed itself in his gut, winding him, and making him stumble back a few paces. The blow had not just had the arm’s power behind it – that was a mistake made by amateurs and the uninitiated. Using a low centre of gravity, his shoulder, and his forward momentum, the blow had proved quite sufficient. However, his foe was still standing, and judging by his wheezed responses, would not relent just yet. And so, a series of hooks were delivered, the lefts short and sharp, the rights slower, but hit like a mule’s kick. These were practised blows, ones with technique – not some street thug’s paltry excuse for a fighting style.

Finally, to debilitate his foe – but not quite knock them out – a push kick was administered to the unfortunate soul’s chest, knocking the breath out of him, possibly along with a few other things. Hitting the ground with an unmistakeable ‘thud,’ the incapacitated brute now lay on the floor, twitching and gasping, but still conscious.
“Watt Johnson, in case you were wondering.”
Without even bothering to turn to face the other doorman, Watt had told him his name, and thus, the entire student body. Word spread fast in a school where nobody could keep their mouth shut, and soon, the vicinity was buzzing with murmurs about the new boy. The kid with the unkempt coal black hair, whose slim and not-at-all burly build betrayed the immense strength he had just displayed. The boy roughly two inches below average height, the one wearing fingerless gloves of brown leather – almost as if he was attempting to cushion his blows.

Dusting off his white shirt, black tie and trousers, Johnson noted the minute splash of red on his left shoe. School shoes did not come cheap, and given that he was the only one in the uniform specified – the one that nobody seemed to enforce – this was quite irksome. He had an image to maintain, and though he had wanted to play the student in the background, his mild bloodlust and sizeable ego had prevented him from just handing over a fiver. Though not quite vainglorious, he freely relished in how people were now talking about him, and how people were beginning to either fear him, or respect him. Using this to his advantage, he turned to the other doorman, and asked “So, do I still have to pay the fine?”
Except the doorman had likely retreated to a safe distance.

Watt took that as a yes.