Misake and I grew up together. Most people in our village knew everyone else from birth, so we were always close. Everyone was, really, but Misake was different. In a village where hard work was valued more than anything else, she was an intelligent soul. A hard worker like all of us had to be, yes. But more than anybody else, she was a thinker.

When we were little, years before the men were taken away, she and I used to run down to the river and follow it upstream. Though our village rested on grassy flatlands, farther up there were trees. There, we would escape the dreaded sun and find rest in the shade. There were lots more critters there as well, such as birds, frogs, and even deer. We were lucky enough to even spot a horned wolf, though only once.

Most animals are basic things, Misake always said. Instinctual, and concerned only with survival. They store their food, they mark their territories, they fight, and they kill all just to survive. Snakes live a lonesome life that knows only killing, and ants march in little lines, never revolting lest the colony kill them. Misake said that's what separated us from them. They never thought of anything but their own life, and they never felt true joy. That was simple enough for me to understand, but one day, that changed.

The horned wolf, you see, was different. Misake could explain it better than I could, but deep down, we both knew it all the same.

We happened across its territory by pure coincidence one day. From inside a bush, we watched the massive dog mill about. Its black pelt glistened, and its violet eyes shone like some sort of gemstone. We watched it patrol, glancing at the trees and the other animals that wandered by. Though it eyed them, and they watched it, it never once seemed like a monster. The white, spear-like horn that rose from its forehead was always high, and it seemed to carry an aura of dignity, or perhaps even majesty.

Then a human came in. A soldier. It merely stared at him at first. Then he began to speak with a big, loud voice and drew his sword and shield the instant he saw it. Misake says he was probably after its horn. Some say they make good jewelry, while others say that the alchemists use it for their tonics and studies. Regardless, he stood against it, and I saw the look in its eye change from one of honor to one of sadness.

That was just for a second, though. After that, it hardened into something more dangerous, and as the man charged, the wolf lowered its head. It snarled before charging too, catching the soldier in the chest and throwing him backwards. He tried to get up, but the wolf closed in again, this time ramming into his chest with its horn. I didn't think that an animal's horn could pierce an iron chestplate, but I learned otherwise that day.

Misake saw how terrified I'd become, and put a hand on my shoulder. "Don't you worry," she said quietly. "It's not an animal. It's a thinker, like us."

I shook my head, and she knew that I didn't understand.

"The man attacked first. The wolf had no intention of killing until it saw that the man wouldn't give it a choice. It's a thinker, Kanoma, just like you and me. The man just wanted its horn. He was an animal, only caring about himself."

I frowned, still not fully comprehending what she was saying.

"The wolf smelled us, you know," she said. "Wolves have an incredible sense of smell. It knew we were there the whole time, and never bothered to attack us. The man was the real animal, Kanoma, not the wolf."

I knew that animals couldn't be people. And until she said that, I had never thought it possible that a human could be an animal, either. Frankly, I truly didn't believe her until years later, when the armored men came, and we were all left for dead.

Things changed after that. With our greatest providers gone, we all started to take up their burdens and work until our bodies broke. We stopped bothering to enjoy our lives, and started thinking about how we'd get enough food to avoid starvation. When the land began to dry up, and the crops grew weaker, we worked all the harder.

We stopped bothering with jokes, laughter, or stories. We stopped taking the time to make toys, and made more tools to replace the ones that broke. Misake said we were all becoming animals, little by little. I told her we didn't have any other choice. It was different. Maybe we had to work harder and harder to live, but we still knew how to love, and how to appreciate what little we could.

At that, she stopped smiling, and told me that not everyone was as much a thinker as we were.

Through all of it, though, Misake and I were different from everyone else. We really were. We still smiled and laughed when we could, if only at each other. We held onto that joy, and made sure we didn't become animals ourselves.

Then, when she was twelve, she asked me if I had any books. The few her parents owned were technical books on plants and tools, and those that weren't were propaganda for the king. At least, that was how she put it. She wanted something real. She wanted something she could truly immerse herself in.

"Besides," she said, a sad look in her eye. "I've already read mine dozens of times each."

That was yet another thing I never understood. She could read, but my parents never taught me how. Sometimes they read to me, but they never taught me. Nobody taught anyone to read, or much of anything else besides farming. Regardless, I knew that my parents had an old storybook or two. They never made use of it anymore, but there was a time when they read it for me each night.

The Goddess and the Stag was my favorite. I couldn't remember much of it, but I knew that I liked it best when my parents read it, and I thought she might enjoy it too. So I stole it from my house one day and brought it to her, giving it to her on the condition that she read it to me.

She agreed, and one day in the middle of summer, just as work seemed to be coming to a close, we slipped away and ran up the river to the woods, just like we used to. From beneath the most comfortable tree we could find, she read aloud The Goddess and the Stag, and I listened, leaned against her shoulder. It was a moment of pure joy, just like we used to share.

We managed to do so only twice before her parents caught us trying to slip off. They grabbed her before we could reach the river, and dragged her back to their house. I couldn't see any of what happened, but I heard both her and her parents screaming at one another. Then I heard her scream louder before breaking down into terrible sobs.

Not long after, her father emerged from the house, clutching the book I'd given her. He stared at me with a malice I'd never seen before, and have never seen since.

"Did you give her this?" he hissed, his eyes wide and maddened. Something in them seemed almost terrified, like a snarling cat cornered by a hunter. I was no hunter though. It wasn't me he was scared of.

I nodded slowly, and he turned and walked away. His mother followed, pulling her daughter and snatching me by the wrist as well. The father led us all to the center of town, where the stew that would feed the village that day was brewing.

People turned to look at him as he approached, the rage still etched into his face.

"Everyone, look here, and see what our youth have been reading!" he screamed, holding the book high. "Tales about the Goddess, and of the Stag!"

Everyone went quiet, and some of them looked more afraid than I'd ever seen.

"Did we raise a village of workers just to let our daughters poison their minds with these tales? This kingdom was abandoned by the gods, and we reject them equally! And now our children indulge themselves in their stories?"

My own mother looked at me from the crowd. She looked most terrified of all.

"The next thing you know, these girls will be as twisted as the women in the south. They'll be whores, just like those who worship the goddess now. If our king saw what things they were reading, the lot of us would be hanged on the spot!"

My mom was crying. I don't think she was as disappointed as everyone else was. I think she was just scared of what they would do to me. Misake was crying too. I think she felt the same way.

First, Misake's father threw the book into the fire. I wanted to protest, but I was too frightened, so I watched as the flames consumed it. Then he grabbed his daughter's arm, pulling her toward the fire as well. Her sobs turned to screams once more as he held her hand over the fire, just close enough that her wrist and palm began to burn. After just a moment, he let her go, and her mother grabbed her once again.

Then he turned to me. I tried to break free of his grip, but could not. So instead, I shut my eyes and tried to block off the sound of my mothers screams, as well as my own.

Once it was over, I fell to the ground, still crying and clutching my burned hand. I could still hear him though, frantically proclaiming to the whole village: "Our kingdom serves one god, and that god is the king himself! Let these girls be your example, and let my kindness be remembered! Your king would be far less merciful!"

At last, I managed to sit up, and look at everyone through teary eyes.

Animals.

They were all animals. A father terrified of a king who couldn't even see us. A people too concerned with their survival to care. And my mother, who couldn't make herself step out of line to even save her daughter.

Misake was right. People really could be animals.

* * *

Yesterday, as usual, Misake and I met at the orchard and worked side by side. We didn't smile. We hardly even talked. The company was welcome, and an unspoken appreciation tied us together, but we didn't banter as we used to.

I glanced down at her wrist, then at mine, and recalled everything that happened. Even after that, she refused to stop being my friend. I knew that things had changed, and so had she. But just as always, she was different. We both were. And I loved her for it. So I turned to her, and I did something I'd not done in a long, long time.

I smiled.

She stared at me for a second. Her stare was cold and harsh, and sent a chill down my spine. As I looked into her eyes though, I saw her stare soften just a little. Tears seemed to form in the corners for just a moment, but she blinked. They were gone, and her stare was as cold as it was before.

We finished our work in silence, and began the walk home.

As the sun dipped down, and the shadows began to fall, she pulled me into a small, dark alley between two houses. All of a sudden, her arms were around me, and mine were around her. Her chin rested on my shoulder and I could hear her sniffling. She only hugged me for a second before pulling away and stepping back into the dim evening light.

As she did though, her dark eyes seemed to brighten for just a moment, and she smiled. Once again, it was short-lived, and quickly replaced by a more firm, motherly stare--the one I'd gotten used to seeing.

"I'll come to wake you in the morning if you're not up," she said, as always. "Rest well."

I nodded. "I will. You do the same."

As she turned and began to walk away, I called after her one last time. "Thank you," I said. "For not turning into an animal."

She stopped for a moment, as if thinking about what I said. Then she kept walking. Her shoulders were trembling though, and I could tell she was crying once more.