“Stay by the den,” Rudas would growl before a hunt. “You are too small to run with us.” “The deer will trample you,” Pilkas would add, not unkindly, but with a sigh.

Mažius looked up, his small sides heaving. “The old badger told me,” he whispered. “This sapling’s roots reach deep, deeper than the sickness. If it lives, it will filter the ground. In one year, the Stream of Clear Water will be pure again.”

In a deep, whispering forest, there lived three wolf brothers. The eldest, Rudas, was swift and fierce. The middle, Pilkas, was clever and strong. The youngest, Mažius, was so small and quiet that the elders often forgot he was there.

Rudas laughed, a dry, rasping sound. “One year? We will be dead in one week.”