Stavanger Bay little memories, marching on

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Szymon returned home from a fruitless hunting trip feeling defeated and overwrought; the only ungulates he’d been able to come across had been hale and eager to repel the salt-white wolf with horns and hooves. Footsore and weary, he plodded past the protective ring of black rocks — and immediately came to attention at the ear-piercing shriek that had his ears flashing forward upon his narrow skull. He quickened his pace to find Isengrim zipping through the snow like the Energizer Bunny — if the Energizer Bunny had access to methamphetamines. Shortly after the boy came to a stop, his tongue lolling from his mouth as he panted, Szymon made his approach. “What’ve you got there, Grim?” he asked, wondering if his son would answer verbally or merely begin attacking his legs. Puppies were weird — and Szymon couldn’t figure out how or when they became actual wolves.

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