He landed beside me like a chunk of night.
I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the bite of teeth. My ears were ringing with fear, my legs buckled on their own. I could smell him—thick, warm, heavy, with a trace of blood and wet fur. The air around us grew tight, as if his breathing alone were filling the whole pit.
But there was no pain.
At first there was only sound: claws scraping against the ground, a dull thud of chest against the crust, a short, hissed-out groan between his teeth. I carefully opened one eye.
The wolf was standing on all fours. He had landed awkwardly, but kept his balance. Clumps of snow and frozen earth were crumbling from his shoulders. His strong neck was stretched forward, ears pressed back in alert focus. He stood sideways to me—close enough that I could see every strand of his dark fur, but not taking a single step nearer.
He wasn't looking at me.
The wolf raised his head and fixed his gaze on the wall of the pit. His nostrils flared, drinking in the damp smell of earth. Then he slowly walked the circle, checking where it was higher, where it was firmer. His paws stepped carefully, but far more confidently than mine.
I didn't know what to do. My whole being, ovine down to the bone, screamed one thing: hide, lie down, don't breathe. Another part of me—the one that still remembered what it was like to stand on two legs and look down from above—watched in silence.
The wolf stopped where I had already tried to climb. My crooked streaks still marked the wall—dirty, uneven. He lowered his muzzle, sniffed them, then looked up.
The gray sky reflected in his eyes.
He took a step toward me.
I pressed myself harder against the wall, feeling my toe-fingers—no, hooves—slip on the ice. My muscles seized. I even stopped breathing, clenching my teeth.
The wolf came closer still. Now there were no more than a couple of steps between us. I could feel the heat coming off him, feel his broad chest rise and fall.
He lowered his head. His nose touched my neck—a short, sharp contact, like being struck with a cold stone. I flinched and almost collapsed to my knees. Everything inside me shrieked, demanding I run.
But instead of a bite, there was a shove.
A strong shoulder pressed into my side, pushing me toward the wall. Not so much painful as unfamiliar. I staggered, took a step, then another. The wolf seemed to be herding me, not letting me move away.
"Baa?.." slipped out, bewildered.
He answered with a short, annoyed growl. It wasn't the sound of a hunter—it was more like a shepherd hurrying along a stubborn animal.
Realizing that only confused me more.
The wolf stopped right up against the wall, muscles bunching. The fur along his shoulders rose. He sank down a little, bracing his paws in the ground as if preparing to jump, but he didn't. Instead, he nudged me again, bringing me as close to himself as possible.
I stood beside him, side to side. His warmth burned through my fleece like a campfire. My heart was pounding so hard my legs wanted to fold.
Only when he lowered his head even further and pressed his side to the wall did I understand.
He wanted me to climb onto him.
The thought seemed insane. A sheep—on the back of a wolf, in a pit with no way out. Somewhere deep in my mind, something gave a dry little laugh: it's not like things can get much worse.
Carefully, I set my front leg on his shoulder. The fur beneath my hoof was thick, coarse, warm. The wolf tensed, but didn't move away. The second leg followed. I almost hung off him, clutching his hide with my teeth so I wouldn't slip.
The wolf exhaled sharply. A tremor ran through his chest.
Then he moved.
He didn't leap in one bound—he started slowly, heavily hauling himself upward like a huge shadow that had decided to turn into a mountain. His forepaws clung to every projection, claws gouging chunks of earth and ice from the walls. His hind legs pushed us both up.
I could feel him straining with his whole body. Every movement echoed through me as a jolt. Sometimes his paws slipped and we slid back half a step, earth crumbling beneath us, but again and again he braced himself, found purchase, and shoved us higher.
I pressed into him, terrified of letting go. Snow was crumbling from the upper layers, falling onto his back, melting from his heat and then chilling again on my fur.
For a moment I almost stopped being afraid. There was only the rhythm: push, inhale, claw-scrape, heavy breath.
Suddenly there was something firmer than loose snow beneath my forehooves—a root. Instinctively I planted myself on it, hauling my body up. The edge of the pit was so close that the open air hit my face.
The gray sky was no longer a distant round hole. It spread above me as a wide, cold emptiness. I reached forward, catching the rim with my hooves; the snow broke away, but still held me.
Behind me the wolf heaved upward with his shoulder.
I tumbled out.
The snow caught me roughly, but softer than the ground below. I rolled several steps, stuffing cold grains into my ears and mouth. The wind struck my muzzle at once, piercing, smelling of distance and forest.
I lay there breathing with my mouth wide open. Every breath made my lungs burn as if I were inhaling ice instead of air.
Only after a few moments did I remember the wolf.
I crawled right up to the edge. Below, he was trying to climb again. Without me on his back his body was lighter, but the wall seemed even steeper. He jumped, his claws digging into the earth and leaving furrows, but each time he was dragged downward. Snow poured onto him from above, deafening and blinding him.
I could see his legs trembling, could see dark patches spreading along his side—sweat or blood, I didn't know. Every lunge echoed somewhere beneath my ribs.
He could have chosen not to jump. He could have stayed down there alone, waited for me to freeze, and eaten me at his leisure. But he didn't.
The wolf lunged upward once more, hooked his claws over the edge, and for a second his muzzle was very close to mine. His eyes—dark, heavy—met my own.
There was no plea in them. Only exhaustion and stubborn will.
I stood there, hooves digging into the snow, and I knew I could leave. Turn around, take a few steps—and that would be it. I might not even hear him fall.
My heart thudded dully. The wind battered my sides, blowing the last of the warmth from my fleece.
I leaned down. As far as my short neck allowed, I stretched forward and clamped my teeth into the fur at the back of his neck.
It tasted salty with sweat.
The wolf growled—a short, surprised sound—but didn't shake me off. I pulled with all my strength. My hooves slipped, the snow gave way beneath them, but I braced myself again and again. My whole body cramped from the strain.
For a moment I was sure I would fall down with him and we'd trade places. But just then the wolf kicked upward with his back legs, dug in even harder—and the weight in my teeth suddenly grew lighter.
We crashed into the snow together.
I tumbled over from the momentum, almost cracking my head on the ground. The wolf flopped onto his side nearby, legs sprawled. Steam poured from his jaws—thick, heavy. He was breathing as if he'd run across the whole world.
We lay there, our sides almost touching.
For the first time I allowed myself to close my eyes. Not from fear, but from exhaustion. The wind roared in my ears, somewhere far away another wolf was howling, but here, at the edge of the pit, it was strangely peaceful.
After a while the wolf got up. He shook out his fur, shedding the snow, and looked around. His gaze lingered on the horizon—where the gray sky merged with the white field.
Then he looked at me.
That look was nothing like that of a beast picking its prey. More like someone checking: are you coming, or staying?
He snorted, turned, and walked forward, leaving a chain of deep tracks in the snow.
I watched him go. The pit remained behind us—a black, round hole in the white earth. If you took a few steps away, you could almost no longer see it. You could pretend it had never existed, that I had simply found myself here, in the snow.
But when I turned back to it, my heart clenched.
If I left alone, everything would start over: the cold, the fear, the emptiness, the not-knowing. If I followed the wolf—something else would begin. No less frightening, but no longer alone.
I rose to my feet. My hooves sank slightly into the fresh snow. Slowly, feeling that same old sheep's fear stirring awake inside me, I took my first step in his tracks. Then a second.
The wolf didn't look back, but his trail led straight ahead, into the white wilderness.
I followed him.