by Ila Mercer
A loud bang startled Lita. Tipple stood in the doorway, her face screwed up as she gripped her forehead with her hand. She wobbled over to Lita and sat heavily on a crate. ‘Hah. You’re quite the gatherer, I see,’ she slurred, still squinting as she swayed on the seat. She licked her lips as she eyed the mussels.
And Lita’s heart sank.
*
Tipple remained on the crate for the rest of the morning, smoking her pipe and drinking. More than once she muttered, as though musing to herself, ‘I suppose I should get up and feed my pigeons. Oh, but my head,’ and then she would cast a sideways glance at Lita.
After the fourth time, Lita took the hint. ‘Would you like me to feed them?’ She asked, partly through boredom, and partly because she was looking for an excuse to leave Tipple’s company.
‘Oh, would you dear?’ Tipple said, with a sly look in her eye. ‘And if it’s not too much trouble you can send one of them out, too. Here,’ and she pulled a dirty red ribbon from her pocket, ‘you can tie this to its foot.’
‘Are they carrier pigeons?’
Tipple nodded.
‘Where are you sending it?’
‘None of your business,’ Tipple answered, and then laughed as though she had made a joke.
Lita pressed her lips together and took the red ribbon. She turned to go but then realised she had not seen a pigeon aviary near the barn or the yard. ‘Where do I-’
‘Next to the lean-to over there,’ Tipple said with a vague wave toward a ruin behind the hut. ‘Feed is in a barrel beside the cage. Be sure to put the lid back tight. I don’t want rats in it again.’
Lita shuddered at the mention of rats. They were one of the few animals she had never been tempted to change to. In her opinion they looked sneaky and mean.
When Lita came closer to the ruin, she expected to hear pigeons cooing, but did not. Their aviary was no taller than Tipple and barely two paces wide. Inside, ten pigeons huddled on a perch, staring at her with dull, apple-pip eyes. Beetles scurried over the piles of droppings in the bottom of the cage and their water bowl was filthy. No wonder they didn’t coo, Lita thought.
After feeding the pigeons, Lita chose the strongest looking bird, tied the red ribbon around its leg and released it. Up and away it flew, heading towards the Cawkill Ranges and with barely another thought about where it was going, or who would receive the coded message, Lita turned to the task of cleaning the aviary.
Once satisfied the birds had a cleaner home, Lita returned to the yard, but Tipple was nowhere to be found. She returned to the creek for a quick wash, nervously watching the undergrowth for any sign of a wolf, and when she was clean, trooped back to the hut in search of something to eat. All she found however was a sack of old apples. She took one anyway, put it in her pocket, and headed to the pine tree behind the barn. She did not think the old woman would look for her there and it seemed the safest place to read her map.
The bark of the tree was scabby and rough and made little cuts in her skin as she climbed. Brown pine needles lay caught within the green boughs and Lita gathered them up to make a soft nook. It was almost comfortable, and she closed her eyes, imagining what MaKiki might be doing at that very moment. Tanglewood could not be far. She would set up camp for the evening soon. Boil the pot. Cook some oats and maybe some beans she had kept soaking during the day. After dinner, she would finish her carving because of course there was no-one to talk to. No tales that evening. MaKiki sometimes read aloud from one of her books. Though just of late, Lita had started to read to MaKiki, always choosing tales with heroes and villains, magic and misfortune. Hogwash tales, MaKiki usually said with a sniff. Lita didn’t care though, they were exciting, at least. A little lump swelled in her throat and she decided it wasn’t good to think too much. She unfolded her map and studied it again.
When she finally climbed down the tree, a cloud of gnats swarmed above one of the rubbish heaps and then drifted across the yard and down the slope. As Lita observed their descent, Tipple trudged up the bank with a wire pot in her hand. Inside, three fresh water lobsters crawled over each other, gripping the wire cage with their claws.
She dumped the pot on the ground near the remains of Lita’s fire. ‘You did such a fine job this morning; you can cook these up too. I’ve got to check my still. Pots are in the hut.’
Lita found the pot still caked with the remains of Tipple’s last dinner and bounded down the slope to the stream. Grabbing a handful of coarse river sand, she started scouring the muck.
She had not forgotten about the footprint. Her eyes flitted, scanning the bank, penetrating the shadowy foliage but the only movement came from gnats swarming down the stream and settling under an arched tree. All the while, the forest rustled and creaked with insect song. Nearby something scratched through the leaf litter but it was not the sort of sound made by a wolf.
Nothing was amiss and yet she still felt uneasy. Despite the fact that sunlight shimmered innocently on the water, there was an air of expectancy, as though a storm was gathering. Lita scraped away the last flecks of muck and rose from her haunches.
Mid-chirrup, the crickets fell silent. A bird twittered: its call shrill and rapid.
The hair on the back of her Lita’s neck prickled and she had the sudden sensation that something watched her. She looked for the birds. They were gathered on a high branch, their eyes focused on a single point across the stream. Her eyes followed theirs and met those of the intruder.
In dense thicket, yellow eyes gleamed - the eyes of a wolf. It snarled with a low rumble as though gravel stirred deep in its gut. It bunched its haunches and the muscles across its scrawny shoulders tensed.
Lita’s throat tightened. The pot clattered from her hands and she bolted up the hill. She could neither scream nor call out, her voice silenced by terror. When she reached Tipple’s hut, she slammed the door and pit her weight against the rough wood. It was only when the pounding in her ears abated that she glanced out the grimy window. There was no evidence of the wolf, but Tipple shambled across the yard.
‘Wolf, wolf,’ Lita yelled, rapping on the glass.
For a moment, the old woman seemed puzzled, until it dawned on her what Lita was saying. Her eyes flashed, and her body tensed. Losing her gin-shamble, she strode to the barn, reappearing with a long knife and a pitchfork but the wolf did not show itself, and eventually Tipple called for Lita to come out.
‘Where’d you see it?’ Tipple asked.
‘At the stream, in the bushes.’
‘You’re sure you saw a wolf?’
Lita nodded.
‘It can smell Trubbles. Might be best if you don’t go down the stream on your own no more.’ Her eyes fell on the cage filled with the lobsters. ‘So, where’s my cooking pot?’
Lita said nothing but glanced towards the stream.
‘Suppose I’ll have to get it. You wait here.’
Lita chewed her nails and continued to scan the yard.
When Tipple returned with the pot, she held it out to Lita. ‘Well, don’t stand about,’ she carped. ‘The water won’t heat itself.’
*
It was dark beyond the fire, and silent, apart from the soft crackle of wood and chitin. When first lit, the fire had sizzled and popped sending her aquiver with each small flare-up. Her anxious ears had heard a hundred wolves that evening, stalking them from the undergrowth. After a while, she had worn herself into a state of resigned calm. She gazed at the orange carcases of the lobsters as the flames slowly consumed them. Every so often Tipple slurped her gin.
At the start of their meal, the old woman had pressed Lita for news about the towns through which she and MaKiki had passed, but her answers seemed to dissatisfy Tipple and she kept asking Lita things she didn’t know. She wasn’t trying to be difficult; it was just that she didn’t know how much they were paying for gin barrels in Yawmouth, whether they’d caught Mad-Dog Miley yet, or whether there was a toll on Senna Fontel’s Highway.
Again, Lita’s thoughts
turned to MaKiki. She added up the time it would take MaKiki to complete all her tasks. As she had said, she could be back on the third afternoon, unless the rains set in. Lita glanced at the sky pleased to find few clouds gathered there. It would not be long until moonrise too, she realised. Before the Changing, she had been aware of the phases, but paid them no heed. Now her body was attuned to the rhythms of the sky as intimately as the rhythms of her body. She got up from her crate and bade Tipple goodnight but, before she could leave, the old woman said, ‘Just one thing, before you go. I need you to hold the lamp for me while I decant my still.’
‘I’m very tired. Will it take long?’ she said, as the first hint of moonlight slipped over the hills and set her body tingling. She yawned and stretched her arms.
‘A moment is all I need.’
Clouds drifted across the hills, hiding the rising moon as Lita followed Tipple to a small lean-to behind the hut.
A cylindrical urn with copper pipes stood in the corner. It gleamed, newly polished, evidence that Tipple knew how to care for things that truly mattered to her. And, Lita noted, the floor had been swept, the rafters were clear of cobwebs and several large barrels were stacked neatly in a corner next to an anvil and forge. Above the forge, set out in a neat row, hung hammers of various sizes. A bud of understanding unfurled in Lita’s mind. Tipple could have helped them – she needn’t have sent MaKiki away for she had everything they needed right here.
The old woman turned a little tap at the base of the urn and a stream of fluid gushed into the neck of her bottle.
‘You have an anvil and forge,’ Lita said, accusingly.
‘So?’ Tipple replied. ‘Hold the lamp higher.’
‘You could have helped MaKiki.’
‘I did help her.’
Lita felt the anger rise in her throat. ‘No. You sent her away.’
Tipple turned to face Lita. ‘And how much would she’ve paid me then? How do you think you make your living when you live in the wilds? I’d like to see you try.’
‘But you tricked us.’
‘I was enterprising. There’s a difference. Hold the lamp higher, I said.’
Lita had a mind to smash the lamp to the ground but that would have been childish. Instead she set it on the ground and turned around to leave, but as she did so, a dark shadow stirred beyond the border of light. Instantly the hair on the back of her neck prickled and her heart began to race. She strained her eyes, but the shadow stilled.
‘Tipple.’
‘For glory sake, can’t you follow one simple instruction!’
The shadow bunched. ‘The wolf. I think it’s back.’ Lita pressed her back against the splintery wall of the lean-to.
Tipple turned. ‘Where?’ She fumbled for a stick that leaned against the wall.
‘There.’ Lita pointed into the yard.
Crouched, ready to leap, the wolf stared at them. It drew back its lips, revealing two sets of yellow fangs in bleached gums. A low growl rumbled from its throat and Lita shivered with the sound. She had never been so close to a wolf. They usually shied away from folk but there was something desperate about this creature. The fur on its neck was patchy with mange and its ribs heaved like corrugated bellows.
Tipple waved the stick at the wolf. ‘Gorn. Get away.’
The wolf’s hackles rose and then it sprang, knocking Tipple to the ground. Lita squealed and tripped over the lantern. The flame sputtered but revived again. With the oddly angled light and stirred dust, the two struggling bodies appeared to blend. Arms, shanks, legs, hands, paws, head and snout all rolled into a single terrible creature. For a moment, the wrestling slowed, and Lita saw that Tipple had jammed her stick between the wolf’s jaws. Its snout was a mere whisker from Tipple’s scrawny throat. Lita realised she had to do something.
She glanced around for something to throw at the wolf. Scanning the yard, she spied a large plank leaning against a rusted wheel and decided it would have to do.
Moonlight fell on her as she bolted across the yard, and the blood rushed in her ears. She sensed the beginning of a Change and hoped Tipple wouldn’t notice. When its full force hit her, she bowed low, gagging into the dirt. Whether she wanted it or not, the Changing could not be stopped and, instead of resisting it, she focused her thoughts, racking her memory for a creature that might defeat a wolf. And then she knew. She called an image into being - something strong, fearless, more than a match for a starving wolf. A swarm of light flew about her, reconfiguring and shaping the essence within, causing her to swell until she was three times her usual height and width. Her legs became as thick as tree trunks, towering over the pile of rubbish and her body rippled with the gathering of sinew and muscle. Fur sprouted from her back and torso and spread like a grassfire until it covered her skin.
The ground shook as her forelegs struck the earth and with a speed that belied her size, she struck the wolf, grabbing his loose scruff between her fangs. With a thunderous roar, she raked her claws against his sides and tossed him high into the air. The wolf fell with a thud. He did not stir and his bellowed ribs were as still as old bones.
It was over so quick. One moment she had been a terrified child, quaking in her boots and the next a bear with power to tear and strike with ten times the strength of any man. She’d never changed into such a powerful animal before, one with claws that could rip a body in half with a single strike, teeth that could snap bones as though they were twigs and a hide so tough, that almost nothing could slash it. It gave her a queer feeling – because it was both thrilling and unsettling to own such power.
She turned to Tipple, whose eyes were closed. Cuts on her torso, face and arms welled with blood. Lita moved closer and put her snout near Tipple’s nose. She still breathed. Lita gave Tipple’s wounds a nudge and a sniff but there was nothing she could do. She turned to the wolf. It had not moved, and she ambled over to see if it was truly dead. She felt a small thrill again knowing that it was her power that had saved them.
But all self-congratulation vanished when she rolled the wolf’s carcass over. How had she missed seeing it? There, amongst the scrawn and mange of its underbelly, were six dangling teats. A nursing mama.
It was not a lone wolf at all. It had been a mama, with pups waiting for her return, and she, in her unthinking savagery, had robbed those pups of their mama. Suddenly she wished she could be a girl again. She hated her power, hated what it had done. She could have swatted the wolf, sent it skulking back into the woods, but instead she had killed it. As if its life was of no importance. That wolf had reason to attack them: it had been a mama and probably so close to starvation that she had no milk in her teats for the pups. What would happen to her pups now? Would they know how to fend for themselves once they realised their mama was not returning to the den?
Lita lifted her snout into the air, tasting for a trace of their pup scent, but they were - no doubt - far away from Tipple’s hut, secreted in some cave on a hillside. She circled the clearing, lifting her head high, breathing in the heady and competing fragrances. It was a futile gesture and yet it was all she could think to do. Apart from that, staying busy kept her thoughts from settling. It removed her from the horror of what she had done.
As the moon descended, she could feel the slow ache of the Change draining from her body. And with it, went any chance of finding the pups. Once again, she wished she had more control over the Change, that she had the skill or the knowledge to hold onto it, or let it go at will. There was a terrible tightness in her throat – and a sickening in the pit of her stomach. She, of all folk, understood how precious a mama was. She knew the hollow ache of a mama’s absence. Even when you’d never met your mama.
The fur and muscle of her vast form dissolved, as if eaten from the inside out. She sniffed the air; her senses dulled. She could no longer smell the hive brimming with honey, nor the scent of ripening blackberries further up the creek. The air chilled her skin and she shivered. It was dark too. She was, once again, just a weakling girl alone i
n the night.
Lita returned to the lean-to, picked up the lamp, and used it to illuminate Tipple who was still lying in the dirt. The bleeding had slowed, and Lita cleaned the wounds with gin. Then she wound bands of fabric tightly around Tipple’s deepest cuts though a small part of her thought she should leave the old woman to bleed. Lita still boiled with anger every time she thought about Tipple’s deceit.
After she had finished tending Tipple’s wounds, Lita tried to move the old woman, but it was no use. She had run out of strength. She rolled onto her haunches and put her head between her folded arms. I’ll rest my eyes for a moment, she thought, and that was the last conscious thought to pass through her mind until morning.
*
She woke to a sharp jab in her ribs. For a moment, all she could think of was the cold. Through the course of the night it had stolen all feeling in her feet, legs and arms. And then as her wits returned, she recalled the events of the previous evening: the attack, the Changing, the feeling of shame when she realised the consequence of her actions. She lifted herself onto one elbow and was greeted with a snarl.
‘Don’t move.’ Tipple clenched her teeth and pressed the tip of a long dagger into Lita’s ribs. ‘I could shred you to ribbons in the blink of an eye. You’re gonna answer some questions, and if I think you’re lying…’ Her lip curled into a sneer. ‘You’re a Beast, aren’t you?’
Lita’s mouth turned dry. ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I’m not.’ She realised that her answer could mean the difference between life and death, that Tipple’s fingers twitched eagerly, waiting for any hint of threat.
‘The truth and don’t get smart. I saw what you did.’
‘I’m no Beast,’ Lita said with authority, and yet the words became tainted the moment she said them. A Beast? Tipples words were not: Are you like a Beast? She was accusing Lita of being a Beast. How could she say such a thing? The question had altered something for Lita.
‘Then what are you?’