The Wolf of Wolverhampton

A story by Suzi Rowley, aged 11

Suzi Rowley

So many people loved visiting the wolves this summer, one of whom was 11 year old Suzi Rowley. Suzi a pupil at St Peter's Collegiate School in the city has taken inspiration from the wolves trail and written the following story. We hope you enjoy it as much as we did.

Amber eyes opened, and blinked in surprise: what was this place? It was like a faded memory, but new to him as well. Blinding street lights shone down on him, and the creature rose to his paws. This couldn’t be the place where he fell asleep… could it? He looked down and the mighty creature spotted a puddle, where droplets of rain tickled the surface, and there within it, his reflection. A wolf. His heart skipped a beat, as memory crept back…

Memory could be kind, but it chose to be cruel. It taunted the wolf with pictures of endless fields, and lush green forests, in the times it was good to be a wolf. It showed him trickling rivers and sweet-tasting deer. But then the memories turned bitter: the people of the boundaries came and sliced stone weapons into the trees, and made their dwellings, and their tons, then cites, until the wolves had nowhere to hide. The wise wolf watched how man fought, and realised there was no reason behind these battles except land where wolves once roamed so freely. He saddened at the thought of blood-stained grass and stone where he and his kind had once danced.

As memory faded, realisation struck the wolf. Things could be changed, but many were denied. The world was vast, and faced many problems, and now he saw them. The lone wolf saw men staggering out of buildings that smelt strong and sharp, and the men roared with laughter as they wobbled their way past him. Confused by man’s strange actions, the wolf walked away, until he caught sight of a cold, hungry man who lay under his coat.

"Shouldn’t man of fixed this? Doesn’t he have a dwelling?" Echoed the wolf’s thoughts.

Suddenly, the lone man’s brown eyes widened and filled with terror. He howled in his strange man language, but other men laughed and passed him without a care. What was the matter with the lone man? Was it possible he could see the wolf? There was no other reason, as far as the wolf could see. Then, the wolf knew the connection: they were both alone, unloved. And as tears brimmed in the wolf’s eyes, the lone man struggled to his feet and scampered down the streets. There were good things around, the wolf had to admit, such as spicy smells of mouth-watering food. But lush green grass had been replaced with stony streets, littered by strangely coloured papers and roaring vehicles that polluted the air with a disturbing gas.

The elderly wolf braved onwards, towards a rush of men and women who were making their way to a large gloomy building. A woman praised a young child who was dressed in robes of white. For a minute he paused, gazing at the child, envying what she had: love, friendship, care. Then he turned and travelled forth, his senses leading him in front of the large stone building. Delight filled his gaze, as his eyes locked on the bars trapping the last thing from his time: a large stone pillar, lightly carved. Like a newly born puppy watching a butterfly, the majestic grey animal bounded up to the only thing he recognised.

Something about the patterned pillar told the wolf it was the oldest thing in the city: instinctively he slipped through the gate to it, he had to be there. The sharp gaze of the wolf spun, and his eyes locked on beautiful statues of his kind. A statue of a handsome male wolf named Rainbow sat, watching the distance wisely. Why he was so still, the lone wolf had yet to find out. He admired the way the statue could pose so still and gazed further until he spotted another, that wept poppies, named The Fallen. His fur was drenched with names of the dead, and yet still he waited. The statue looked ready and the wolf knew what he had to do.

The spirit lifted his head and watched the glaring stars halt. He opened his mouth as he might to breathe and sang to the moon. As his voice pleaded a song replied: Rainbow’s voice, before a wailing joined, The Fallen was crying his sadness aloud. And then a shriek blasted in the air, Hope rejoiced to hear his howl, and one by one the wolves allowed their voices to cut through the wind. The wise wolf slipped out the bars, and the importance died away from the pillar. Spirits started slipping out of bushes and bounding down pathways, until no less than thirty were lined behind him: the lone wolf was no longer alone. And as the sprits slipped down the roads and away from the busy city, the wise wolf gazed back at the stone pillar. He bowed his head in respect to his old friend, before leaving it to run after his new pack, and left Wolverhampton with the most special secret of all.

Further information

To find out more contact Wolves in Wolves Project Manager, Jagtar Singh:
Telephone: 01902 550357 | Email:

Posted on 15 November 2017