A Wolf's Wedding

In a forest clearing a wedding was taking place. The groom in a wide-sleeved embroidered robe tied with a wide blue sash and his youngish bride in a tattered dress not unlike that of Cinderella's rags but this one woven, so it was whispered among the congregation, by spiders; indeed it did have a cobwebby look, like those that have been undisturbed in corners for years, which set off the bride's fair, though some would say pale, countenance. She wore no veil but her dun-coloured hair had been coiled in a shimmering net with jewels that winked in the sun. It was said this was to distract from her lack of footwear because the groom had wanted to be the taller of the pair in his court shoes with buckles. This was his day, not the bride's. And everyone gathered there on this day knew that.
The bride, standing next to him, trembled, though not from fright, of what she wasn't sure as she wasn't a child and she had known wolves before, but this wolf somehow seemed more man (an effeminate man to be sure) than wolf. He had insisted on doing the decent thing: marriage first, then dessert. She didn't quite know what to make of this proposal (nor of him) but had rather foolishly accepted and now wished she hadn't, for what if he really, despite appearances, wasn't a wolf but a man? She didn't want that. She had been saved on too many other occasions by grandmothers and woodcutters and passing children; this time she hoped to be eaten.
'Dearly beloved, we are brought here today,' intoned the village vicar brought in for the occasion...And so it began and then continued like any normal marriage service except the bride instead of being kissed was playfully pinched and made to cry big fat tears. Unless these had been forced from eyes, and they had to be the bride's, a wolf's wedding was not recognised.
And cry she did, for not only had she been pinched all over, her feet had (accidentally it must be said) been trodden on. Unaccustomed to such treatment (and confused by it) she wailed and was still sniffling, and hobbling a little, on the short walk to their reception: a canopy of trees under which a banquet table had been set and spread with many dishes: meat and vegetable. The groom, to everyone's surprise's and particularly his bride's, stuck to the vegetarian options: nettle soup and braised wild mushroom steak with vegetables, whilst the bride evaded most of the woodland treats and suddenly finding herself ravenous tucked into meat: pigeon pie and roasted kid, all washed down with blackberry cordial. She ate and drank with such abandon, and with fingers, it was quite a disgusting sight. 'Starved, poor thing' the wedding guests murmured and tried as hard they could not to stare. The groom, however, looked on, down the length of the table, at his bride feasting with a glint in his eye, but whether it was of scorn or of relish nobody could surmise.
It was all a little strange; none of the guests had known what to expect or how to behave as the last wolf wedding in these parts had happened such a long time ago, before some of them were even born. The bride wasn't a local woman (she was more that than girl, trapped as she seemed to be in a girl's body) and the groom was relatively new to the forest. The story was she had got lost and had tapped on the old woodcutter's cottage, which the wolf had lately taken up residence in. He'd escorted her to the nearest village and on the way asked for her hand, because wolves, unlike men, are fast operators in stating their purpose but are slower to secure it, those of the gentleman variety at least and there were a few of those at that time knocking about.
Which again brings us to here: the wedding feast and dessert. The real dessert, baked apples with a cinnamon nut cream, had been eaten – the bride had demolished hers in the same manner as the earlier courses, and the groom genteelly – and the guests had taken to dancing to the Forest Fiddlers. The moment had come for the bride and groom to depart; the bride hopeful about what was to come and the groom glum for, despite saving himself, he wasn't a bit hungry and was unsure how his new wife might react when he failed to fulfil, as he knew he would, her darkest wish.

Picture credit: The Sleeping Beauty Wolf, 1921, Leon Bakst (source: WikiArt).

Written February 2020.