The story

A dog is barking. It is a damp, harsh and cloudy winter dusk, the ground is cold and wet. The dog rages out, others join him.
"Get lost, you bastard!" bold man's voice is heard from the village in the hollow. Weeping girls response can hardly be heard through gusts of frosty wind.
"Drat that child! Hector, get her!"

The orphan flees up the hill, away from the village. Her breath comes in wheezes, but the dog barking is fading as she runs. She keeps running and does not know where she's heading. Winter wheat gives her legs no grasp and she slips; this field is exactly like all others in the hollow, the night falls, but the girl seems not to be looking where the road leads to - she is running up the hill and away from the village until she slips to the ground covered with snow.

She would lay still, but she is shaking, crying, frightened and cold, very cold; nothing protects her except her torn skirt and burlap blouse. She must get up and walk on, or she will froze to death. She avoids the roads, runs blindly through the dark forest. Dry branches and brambles cut her mud covered feet till she bleeds.

Wolves. She cannot see them but hears the pack howling, gathering around her. She runs for her life. Malicious branch knocks her to the ground and rends her frail skirt in two. Yellow-eyed ghost twinkles between the trees. She runs.

The farm looks inhospitable, impenetrable. It is walled from all sides, dark, evil. Only one window is lit above the door. She bangs at the door, desperately, because dark shadows already started appearing from the forest.

Dry, bitter gib opens the door. Kerosene lamp hardly shows her wizen, furrowed, evil face with pointed nose. Grey disarranged hair blends with her colorless shawl she wears. Without a word and without hurry, the old bag moves the lamp closer to the orphan. She sees disordered hair. Dirty face. "Please, wolves are chasing me! I got lost!" The girl drops to her knees. "Have mercy!" The lamp is lowered, lighting her legs, in rags and covered in mud. The skirt torn almost up to the waist. Frozen hands with dirty fingernails.

The crone unbends, lifts the lamp, the light shows an unrelenting face. She spits almost ritually, as if damning the girl. She bangs the door shut.

The first shadow separated from the edge of the dark wood. It stands in the meadow, a faint outline, with evil yellow eyes. It holds head up and emits a long howl.

The girl batters at the door. "Wolves! Wolves!" Voice overwhelming with fear. Even the windows remain closed. "You brought them here, take them away with you!" A man's voice resonates in the darkness: "Let her in, you crone!"

Wet, dirty, the girl climbs the stairs, following the old gib who remains silent. The girl leaves wet muddy trail at the stairs.

The room is lit with a kerosene lamp with shortly trimmed wick. The girl remains in the center of the room, afraid to move. Slowly, she recognizes big man's figure in the dim light.

The farmer does not hide that her body interests him more than the meat he holds in his hand, but the orphan swallows dryly - she has not eaten for two days. The farmer lifts the meat as if asking a question. The orphan quickly nods. The bone with the meat points at the pool of mud around the girl's feet.

The crone fetches a trough and two wenches are filling it with buckets of water. The farmer remains at the table.

The crone pushes the girl hard: "Don't stand here like you don't like it! Wash yourself!"

The orphan hesitates, turns back to look at the farmer, blushes.

"Will you do it?! Have you never washed before?"

She unwinds the rags off her feet; the skirt falls to the ground almost on its own; the orphan pulls down her blouse; she's pudent.

The crone, despisingly, takes away the girl's skirt and blouse and burns them in a stove. Takes a brush from beneath a bench.

She mercilessly scours the girl in freezing cold water in the trough; the orphan shivers, catches her breath. She desperately hugs her thighs, until the crone forces her head underwater.

The girl's teeth chatter; her skin is bruised; she does not turn back to face the farmer, but the silence behind her tells her that he's looking.

"Don't flaunt here!" the crone shouts and dashes a blouse to the girl. "It is clear why they dispossessed you!"

"Silence, you crone, and fetch the dinner!"

The crook loudly prays, exaggeratedly, even the farmer is not comfortable. The crone even prayed for protection from demons and mischievous people, looking primly at the orphan.

Only the farmer eats meat; the crone has butter on the potatoes, but the orphan is grateful for dry potatoes. If only they gave her a knife - hot potatoes burn her palms.

The blouse too big falls down and girl's naked body appears. The crone smacks and notices nothing, but the farmer's glance is palpable. The orphan coyly lifts the blouse and then her eyes to meet the farmer's. After a while, his iron will overbears her. So be it. She drops the blouse and his gaze almost burns her.

"Cow", the farmer dries the froth off his moustache "give her a bed in the alcove. Everyone goes to bed."

"Feather bed?!" the crone grimaces. "Servants' quartiers!"

"The men would dismember her before dawn. And the women's quartiers are full."

The alcove is cold and dark, only the Moon shines through the window. The door has no lock nor bolt, we hear the crone leave, wishing good night through thin walls.

The orphan lies down onto white bed, whispers a prayer.

The door creaks open slowly, evilly. The farmer wears only a shirt. Silent, only panting, he closes on the girl.

The orphan cannot hide, she draws the bedcovers over her head. All in vain. The covers fly to the floor, men's body bodefully leans over her.

The farmer remains silent, stops. Slowly, without threat, advisedly, he leans and grabs her shoulders. With one tug, her blouse is torn in two.

She fights. Claws at his face, bites him. Wolves' chops surround her. The farmer gnarls, he is stronger, but she is defter and fights for her life. She fights wolves in a snow-covered forest. The alcove is full of white feathers. First blood meets fresh snow. The farmer is livid with rage, girl's blow broke his nose. He charges. Everything fades to black.

Back in the room, the crone dips rags in cold water, the farmer tries to clear his nose and curses. The bleeding slowly stops.

Bound arms prevent the orphan from turning her head, from looking back at the farmer. He holds a dog whip. Beats her. Mercilessly, hard, long time. Across her butt, across her thighs. She screams. Cries. Begs. The farmer keeps beating her. "I'll teach you a lesson how to behave on my farm!" The pain racks her body. The cross on her necklace chafes her neck.

Darkness again. Muffled voices.
"What should I do with her?"
"Take her to the men's quartiers."
She's not been given a blouse, the farmer carries her as a sheep to be slaughtered.
The door to the men's quartiers resembles a gate to Hell. Wolves howl again, along with harsh men's voices.

The orphan is tossed through the door frame, the door bangs shut.
Dawn. Cold and ghastly winter Sun will rise in a moment.

Poorly clad body slips through the farm's gate. The forest is only a few steps away, but the orphan can hardly walk. She is cold, shivering.

No boots, no rags. Blood streaks are freezing on her thighs.
Wolves. Patient, collected, strong. Alert of her presence they lift their heads, as they did many times before.

She stops. Raises her hand and drops the cross torn from her necklace. The orphan begins to walk to the forest. Unbent, knowing, decided and bereft of everything, even her fear, she makes a step. And another, and another.