Thomas Whitaker had been trudging through the ancient oaks of the New Forest for hours. He cherished these solitary walks the hush of the trees, the scent of pine, the crisp country air, the chorus of skylarks. All was calm until a sudden, sharp snap of branches cracked behind him.
He spun and froze. From behind the copse, wolves emerged one after another, at least eight of the grey shadows slipping silently over the fallen leaves, drawing nearer. At first he thought they might simply be passing through, but then he saw they were heading straight for him.
A chill seized his chest. Thomas lunged for the nearest oak. His rucksack slipped from his shoulders, landing in the underbrush, and he clutched the bark, pulling himself upward, his hands trembling with the effort.
The wolves encircled the tree, their low growls melding into a dreadful chorus. One brute leapt, seized his boot with its teeth and tugged it toward the ground. Thomas let out a shout, wrenching free, though he barely kept his balance. His heart hammered as if it might burst through his ribs.
He knew he could not hold out long. His mobile lay in the fallen pack, and help was miles away.
Then, from the depths of the forest, a sound rose that made the hair on his arms stand on end. A deep, resonant rumblenot a wolf’s howl, but something heavier, lower, as if the very earth had opened its mouth.
The wolves tensed, ears pricking, muscles coiling. In the next heartbeat a massive shape stepped out from the shadows of the trees.
A bear emerged onto the clearing.
It moved slowly, deliberately, each footfall reverberating like a drumbeat in Thomass chest. The beast stopped a few strides from the pack and let out a roar so powerful that the leaves shivered and birds fled from the branches.
The wolves shivered. One tucked its tail, another backed away, and within seconds the entire pack vanished into the thicket as if it had never been there.
The bear remained alone. He lifted his massive head, glanced upwarddirectly at Thomas. The look was weighty, not angry. For a few heartbeats they simply stared at each other. Then the animal turned, padded softly back into the woods, melting among the trunks.
Thomas, still perched on the branch of the oak, could not move. He had been spared from death only because another predator had intervened.
When the terror began to ebb, he slipped down, gathered his rucksack, and stared after the bears retreat.
Thank you, he whispered.
The forest held its breath. Only the wind rattled the branches, and somewhere far off an owl hooted a mournful note.
From that day on Thomas returned to the New Forest often, leaving a slice of crusty bread and a drizzle of honey on the clearing. Whenever the mist rolled low over the ground, it seemed as though warm, intelligent eyes watched him from behind the trees.
Perhaps it was merely coincidence. Or perhaps, in that ancient wood, something truly kept watch over him.
