The ending of “The Company of Wolves” by Carter.

    Close-read the ending of “The Company of Wolves” by Carter. Annotate the passage. Comment on significant details. Notice that this is a long passage and you won’t be able to discuss all of it. Focus on particulars that grab your attention as especially significant. Consider the way the familiar story of the Red Riding Hood has been altered to reflect Carter’s unique agenda. What is the author trying to convey to the reader in this ending? How does she manage to succeed? (Remember that in close reading we need to be attentive to patterns, repetitions, the use of figurative language such as imagery, symbols, metaphors, personifications, similes, as well as the use of other important phrasing that connects with the theme of the story.) Now a great howling rose up all around them, near, very near, as close as the kitchen garden, the howling of a multitude of wolves; she knew the worst wolves are hairy on the inside and she shivered, in spite of the scarlet shawl she pulled more closely round herself as if it could protect her although it was as red as the blood she must spill. Who has come to sing us carols, she said. Those are the voices of my brothers, darling; I love the company of wolves. Look out of the window and you'll see them. Snow half-caked the lattice and she opened it to look into the garden. It was a white night of moon and snow; the blizzard whirled round the gaunt, grey beasts who squatted on their haunches among the rows of winter cabbage, pointing their sharp snouts to the moon and howling as if their hearts would break. Ten wolves; twenty wolves--so many wolves she could not count them, howling in concert as if demented or deranged. Their eyes reflected the light from the kitchen and shone like a hundred candles. It is very cold, poor things, she said; no wonder they howl so. She closed the window on the wolves' threnody and took off her scarlet shawl, the colour of poppies, the colour of sacrifices, the colour of her menses, and, since her fear did her no good, she ceased to be afraid. What shall I do with my shawl? Throw it on the fire, dear one. You won't need it again. She bundled up her shawl and threw it on the blaze, which instantly consumed it. Then she drew her blouse over her head; her small breasts gleamed as if the snow had invaded the room. What shall I do with my blouse? Into the fire with it, too, my pet. The thin muslin went flaring up the chimney like a magic bird and now off came her skirt, her woollen stockings, her shoes, and on to the fire they went, too, and were gone for good. The firelight shone through the edges of her skin; now she was clothed only in her untouched integument of flesh. This dazzling, naked she combed out her hair with her fingers; her hair looked white as the snow outside. Then went directly to the man with red eyes in whose unkempt mane the lice moved; she stood up on tiptoe and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. What big arms you have. All the better to hug you with. Every wolf in the world now howled a prothalamion outside the window as she freely gave the kiss she owed him. What big teeth you have! She saw how his jaw began to slaver and the room was full of the clamour of the forest's Liebestod but the wise child never flinched, even when he answered: All the better to eat you with. The girl burst out laughing; she knew she was nobody's meat. She laughed at him full in the face, she ripped off his shirt for him and flung it into the fire, in the fiery wake of her own discarded clothing. The flames danced like dead souls on Walpurgisnacht and the old bones under the bed set up a terrible clattering but she did not pay them any heed. Carnivore incarnate, only immaculate flesh appeases him. She will lay his fearful head on her lap and she will pick out the lice from his pelt and perhaps she will put the lice into her mouth and eat them, as he will bid her, as she would do in a savage marriage ceremony. The blizzard will die down. The blizzard died down, leaving the mountains as randomly covered with snow as if a blind woman had thrown a sheet over them, the upper branches of the forest pines limed, creaking, swollen with the fall. Snowlight, moonlight, a confusion of paw-prints. All silent, all still. Midnight; and the clock strikes. It is Christmas Day, the werewolves' birthday, the door of the solstice stands wide open; let them all sink through. See! sweet and sound she sleeps in granny's bed, between the paws of the tender wolf. (Carter 79-81)