I was surprised when the Spirit of Christmas Past allowed us to see life as the beggar children knew it. After all, Belle and I had requested that we be shown the past Christmases of our servants, and although these children seemed familiar, I wasn't sure they worked for us.
The hovel was miserable. It consisted of four thin walls, a dirt floor, and a roof with a hole in it. A woman dressed in rags sat crying as she rocked a baby. Her husband walked through the hole in the wall that served as a door.
"Dearest…" he began.
"It's the best thing that could have happened to her." The woman gently kissed the baby's face. "I thought of leaving her with a rich family, someone who would be able to feed her and take her to a doctor before this illness claimed her young life. At least now she is free of her suffering."
The man wrapped his arm around the woman's shoulders, gazing helplessly at the lifeless form in her arms.
"I failed to protect my family," he remarked softly. "It's a man's duty to provide and protect, and I failed." He sighed dejectedly as his wife began sobbing anew. "What are we going to tell the children?"
The woman stroked the baby's face. "We will weave a garland of roses for you every spring. It hurts so terribly that I can barely breathe, but I give thanks that you will not know the life of hardship that has befallen your brother and sister."
A violent fit of coughing overcame the woman, and she spat blood. Her husband could do no more than give her a look of pity.
"Do not worry, my love," the woman told her baby. "I will be there soon to look after you myself."
The twins walked through the nonexistent door.
"How is she?" the girl asked.
The father put his calloused hand on his daughter's shoulder. "I'm sorry. I'm afraid the baby has received the finest Christmas gift of all, for she has entered into eternal happiness. I know it hurts, but maybe it's better this way. At least we'll get to hold her one last time."
The mother began singing softly:
"Silent night,
Silent night.
All is calm. All is bright.
Into love's embrace, take my young child.
Precious infant, so tender and mild,
Rest in heavenly peace.
Rest in heavenly peace."
"It's a bit chilly in here," the boy stated. "I'll go get some firewood."
"I'll help," the girl offered, following him outside.
Each had made a crude axe, which they used for chopping down trees. If caught removing wood from the royal forest, the penalty would have been death, but the family's hovel was so cold that to obey the law would have meant certain death as the night grew colder.
"I hate him!" the boy exclaimed, sinking his axe into a tree. "We grieve the loss of our baby sister in a miserable hovel while Prince Adam sits in his warm castle and selfishly demands more gifts he doesn't need or appreciate in the first place!"
"Leave the prince out of this, Loup!" his sister scolded. "A baby born to nobility can die just as easily as one born to peasants!"
"If he hadn't increased security, we could have gotten her some medicine from the castle!"
"If he hadn't done this! If you hadn't done that! How many times do I have to tell you?! It doesn't matter who's to blame! It won't change anything! Besides, after Adam dies and you get executed for regicide, will the world's problems be solved?!"
They chopped wood silently for a few minutes, both lost in their own thoughts.
Seeing a star in the evening sky, the boy looked up and made a wish. "Louve is right. Nothing ever changes. Problems are never solved. I know that, but I still wish just one time, Prince Adam would understand how it feels to be thrown to the wolves, and I wish I may be there to see it happen."
Louve crossed her arms. "Loup Desbois! That's a terrible thing to wish on our prince!"
"The little beast has it coming!" He sighed. "Can't I just wish that he gets beat up a little?"
"No!" She took her brother's hand. "My wish is that he would become a good prince, and the two of you would be able to work something out."
There was a hideous, mournful sound in the distance that I recognized all too well. However, it didn't seem to faze the beggar children in the slightest. They simply finished collecting wood and returned home.
"Shall I tell you a story?" their father offered.
"Why do wolves howl?" Louve queried.
"Rallying cry, mostly. They summon the pack together for hunts and warn rivals to keep away unless they wish to fight, but there is a legend."
He took both children on his lap and began a tale about how in the early days of time, First People taught First Dogs to hunt. One dog loved it more than all others, and she vowed that if she ever whelped, she would teach her puppies to appreciate the splendor of the woodlands as much as she did.
However, just before she gave birth to her first litter, she was gored by a bison. She knew she would bleed to death before First People had the chance to help her, but the Spirit of the Woodlands took pity on her.
"You have respected my forest and hunted only what you needed," the spirit told her, "so I will grant you a wish."
"Let my puppies be born before my death so they too can fall under the enchantment of the forest," the dog pleaded.
"So be it!"
The Spirit of the Woodlands turned the puppies into the world's First Wolves, but as their mother lay dying, she saw a vision of her descendants. The actions of a few would ruin the reputations of all. They would be hunted out of fear and ignorance. Rabies would inspire the idea of humans turning into wolves, and farmers would sacrifice the balance of the entire ecosystem for the sake of their livestock. Rumors would grow stronger than truth, and wolves would be despised and mercilessly persecuted until the day of their extinction, after which they still would not be vindicated.
The dog was deeply grieved at the knowledge of what would happen because of her love for the woodlands, and with her final exhalation, her very soul screamed its torment to the world. The sound was so melancholy that it seemed to bore through the bones of all who heard it.
"And that, my children," concluded the beggar, "was the very first wolf howl, so whenever you hear wolves making that sound, know that they lament the curse that has befallen their entire species, a curse that has plagued them since their origin, but will remain even after their demise."