“No one took pity on you. When you were born, no one loved you.
You were thrown out in an open field. Then I passed by and saw you squirming in your own blood. I wouldn’t let you die.”
[Ezekiel 16:5-6] 

CHAPTER ONE
The mountain woman slipped past the valley farms. A creature of the wild accustomed to solitary life, she was skilled at being invisible. Her rough, bronzed skin made her look ancient, but her strength was evident as she rapidly hiked up the mountain. The harsh conditions of the northland had robbed her youth. Her attire showed no femininity --- a heavy, knee-length, sheepskin cloak, tunic and trousers with her trouser legs gathered below her knees by woolen cloths that wrapped around her lower legs to her laced-up, animal-skin ankle boots.

Her expedition had proved unproductive. It had been several long days of relentless searching during the daylight hours with little sleep at night. The cold had hit hard. It felt like winter was here to stay. After several nights on the cold ground, she was anxious to warm herself beside the fire in her cozy, little log cabin high atop the mountain.

Tired, frustrated, and discouraged, she scolded herself for not starting back sooner. That was one of her faults, if you could call it a fault --- stubborn, headstrong, and determined. It was so hard to give up on something once she had put her mind to it. Her persistent meandering had caused her to lose track of time.

The search for a healing plant that could only be harvested after the autumn moon had taken her far from her home. Never giving up, she continued searching on her return trip. The sun had now traveled across the sky and was sinking fast. Her intention was to reach her cabin by nightfall, but darkness had come quickly, too quickly.

Now in familiar territory where most every part of this mountain and animal life were familiar she became uneasy. In the dark moonless night an eerie quietness pervaded. She had traveled this trail many times, but now as she climbed, she heard no sound from the nocturnal creatures usually active at this time of night. At first, she thought that her anxiety was because of the dark night, but her gut feeling warned of impending danger.

Then, suddenly without warning, she heard an unfamiliar sound. She froze. It sounded like a faint cry. Nei, it was more like a weak mewling sound, different from any she had ever heard before. She could not quite identify it. Squatting, she picked up part of the forest floor and put it to her nose. It held the scent of wolf. With acute awareness, she closed her eyes and concentrated. There it was again. A weak, soft cry came from farther up the ridge.

Unable to see much in the dark, she cunningly moved with catlike dexterity. Cautiously, she crept up the dark path following the musky odor of the wolf. Without warning, a low rumbling growl came from above her. It was at the edge of the embankment. Then, the dark was illuminated by the glow of night-lights common in the cold north.

Partly hidden under the dark shadows of the tall pine trees a lone wolf stood on the crag staring down at her. A dark object between his wide front paws moved. Still alive, it had to be the source of the cry. She had obviously arrived at the moment of kill. Her interference incensed the creature’s already threatening nature. Saliva dripped from yellowed fangs below his quivering black snarl as a rumbling growl emanated from deep within his throat. His demon eyes penetrated her senses. Too close and unable to move for fear of attack, she glared back into those piercing eyes willing her mind to reject the fear screaming within her.

While locked in a transfixed stare, she stealthily selected a round stone from a waist belted bag under her cloak and slipped it into the leather pouch of her sling. Her target was close, too close, but she had no choice.

At this moment she had to defend herself. In a flash, the sling whirled. In that split second, the wolf was taken aback --- just enough time for the weapon to be effective. A high-pitched hum filled the tense silence as she swung the sling at lightning speed. The stone flew on target between the demon eyes. In mid flight, the wolf’s dead weight dropped to the ground before her. Straddling the body, she grabbed a fistful of fur, lifted the limp head in one hand, and slit his throat with the other. A swift back and forth swipe across the dead animal’s hair cleaned the sharp steel blade before she slipped her knife back into its leather sheath.

At the rock-ledge, a pungent odor exuded from a cloth sack. She spread the sticky cloth open. Stunned and amazed, the woman stared, dumbfounded. There lay a newly born baby in its bloody afterbirth. Then instantly she was shocked back into reality. The infant was alive, but barely. With careful haste, the bloody cloth around the infant was peeled off, and with a clean portion of the outer sack she wiped most of the sticky mucus off the weak, little, shivering infant. It was a girl.

Gently she placed the baby against her warm chest and tied her securely with a long woolen shawl under her cloak. Wary of the wolf’s pack and the intoxicating smell of blood that was now all over herself and the infant, she cautiously, but hurriedly, returned to the path and continued the climb up the mountain. Tight against the woman’s warm body, the infant gradually stopped quivering. Was she relaxing or was her life fading away? The fear of that last thought sent a chill through the woman. She had to get warm liquid into this baby soon, or it would surely die.

After climbing the final rise, the thick growth of the piney-woods opened up to a grassy plateau. There across a small clearing jutting out from the rise beyond was her log cabin. The majority of the building was dug into the hillside blending into the mountain setting. If one did not look closely, they would never see it. Its sod roof of meadow grasses and faded wild flowers merged as one with the meadow and the hill behind it.

A howling in the distance told her that the pack had caught the blood scent. The wolves were now in rapid pursuit. The animalistic howls sounded near as she hurried across the clearing to safety.

An earsplitting thunder exploded as a bolt of blinding light from the sky struck the ground in front of her. Thrown off her feet onto her back she sat on the ground in stunned silence. The star lit, clear night showed no sign of clouds. A wide swath of ground in front of her was charred. Thórr’s anger frightened and confused her.

The yapping wolves jolted her back to the approaching danger. She reached for the latch and quickly stooped through the low entrance, stepping down into the safety of her cabin. The door was bolted with a weighty log fit tightly within iron brackets on each side of the door. She threw her cloak off, hurriedly untied the sash holding the infant, and laid her among the blankets on the corner box bed.

With the door bolted, the other opening was through the smoke hole in the middle of the roof. Below the smoke vent, she laid a loose pile of kindling in the fire pit. Then she reached up to get a basket of dried juniper bark from the shelf on the wall. With a hand full of the shredded, fibrous, juniper bark, she made a little nest on the rock ledge surrounding the fire pit.

From the leather sack hanging from her waist belt she took out her fire starting kit --- a C-shaped fire-steel, flint stone, and a piece of charred touchwood∗. With her fingers protected within the C-shaped tool, she struck the steel onto the flint stone that she held next to the charred touchwood. The short, choppy strokes immediately produced sparks that flew up from the flint stone onto the charred touchwood. As soon as the edge of the touchwood turned red, she dropped the char into the nest of shredded bark and frantically blew to feed oxygen into the ember. Her blow was too strong and the little puff of smoke that had appeared died.

The howling was coming closer --- fast. Shutting out fear, she told herself that she must be more patient. For the second time, she struck the flint stone with the fire-steel. Again and again, the stone was struck with short chopping strokes until the touchwood was fully red. Then she tilted it into the nest. This time the woman blew gently. The burning char produced a tiny flame within the dried bark. With the sound of the approaching wolves thundering in her brain, the woman delicately placed the burning nest under the loosely built kindling. As the flame grew into a small fire, more kindling was added. Eventually, she added some small dried firewood. Finally, to intensify the heat, she bellowed oxygen into the flame. The fire quickly grew stronger, larger, and hotter.

The wolves had reached the cabin and were frantically scratching at the bottom of the door. At least six, she figured, or it could even be as many as eight or nine. They surrounded the cabin. Afraid that they would soon be on the roof, she grabbed the torch from its holder by the door and held the tip to the fire. The thumps pounding on the roof told her that the wolves had sniffed out the vent and were going to enter through the roof.