Grey Lore

by Jean Knight Pace

  Sam should have thought of some polite, yet reasonable excuse, but all he could come up with was, “It’s locked.”

  “Of course, dear, that’s why you must come in through the back door.” And with that she turned and walked back up the path to her house.

  As Sam watched her, he realized she wasn’t crazy or creepy. She was just senile, a lonely old lady with dementia.

  Both of Sam’s grandmothers were dead. His mother’s mother, Grandma Jagerson, the one in the picture—she had died before he was born in a car accident. But his dad’s mom—Granny Calhoun—had been alive until a couple years ago.

  When he was nine or ten, she’d been diagnosed with something—probably Alzheimer’s. And it had been horrible. She’d wandered around telling crazy stories about wolves in her bed to anyone who’d listen. Finally, she had to be put into a home.

  Once there, she’d grown violent—cursing and threatening the nurses so that she had to be restrained—her legs and arms strapped to the nursing home bed. Even then she would writhe around, fighting the bands. Until one day she broke one of her restraints and stabbed her nurse in the wrist with a fork.

  After that his granny was always medicated, never herself again. She’d died just a few weeks later. Sam’s dad said that was probably the best thing that could have happened to her, but Sam knew his father still felt guilty about everything.

  Sam did too. He shook the memory away and watched as Zinnie disappeared behind the trees up the path. He heard the old woman open her front door and watched the cat as it pranced along the path to join her.

  Sam walked back to his trailer.

  His dad was out front, and furious. “What on earth are you doing?” he shouted. “You shouldn’t be by that gate.”

  Sam didn’t know what to say; he didn’t have the energy for arguing. He was feeling worried about the old woman, guilty about his granny, and still confused about his Grandma Jagerson’s picture. “Dad,” he blurted, choosing the last thought and clinging to it. “Dad, I lost her picture. Grandma Jagerson’s. And it had something written on it. It said, ‘To my two beautiful daughters.’ But Mom didn’t have a sister. Right?”

  Sam felt like a little kid when he looked at his dad, waiting for the universe to be explained.

  His dad rubbed his forehead as though trying to push a headache away and said, “Son, you must have misread it or something.”

  “No,” Sam said. “That’s what it said; I read it a billion times.”

  His dad turned to go inside. “You know, your mom had a really good friend in high school. She always used to say she was like a sister. Your grandma used to say that too—called them her two little girls. That’s probably what it was. Where’s the picture? I’ll have a look.”

  “No, Dad. She wrote an inscription to her ‘two beautiful daughters.’” Sam followed his father inside.

  “Are you sure it didn’t say girls?” his dad asked.

  Sam was almost sure. He wished he could find the picture. “Dad, I can’t find the picture. It was right there in the suitcase.”

  “That’s strange,” his dad said. “You must have just set it down somewhere else.”

  Sam could picture it as he’d placed it in the suitcase before they went out for pizza the night before.

  “Don’t worry, son,” his dad said, patting his shoulder. “I’m sure it’ll turn up.”

  Sam wasn’t sure at all. He felt like he was just as nutty as the old woman.

  Chapter 22

  The wolves were here. Nine of them. There were a few picketers by City Hall and several more by the Napper Nature Preserve. But most of the town had lined up outside the gates—protest-sign-free—to see the animals taken from the truck and escorted into The Property by a grumpy guy in khaki’s and the mighty Charles Napper himself.

  There was a local band playing a pitchy version of “Hungry Like the Wolf” and several food vendors selling tamales and burgers. Ella didn’t even know the city of Napper had street vendors.

  As soon as the song ended, some guy stood up at a podium and began a long explanation of the process the wolves had gone through to get to Napper. Ella couldn’t help but listen.

  She was surprised to hear that the wolves had landed in the states nearly a month and a half earlier. They’d started off in New York City and followed a slow route, being subjected to a number of document checks in a number of towns. They’d been blessed by a shaman in Tennessee before continuing into the Midwest. In Indy, they’d undergone a final series of vaccinations and medical checks and then, finally, they had been allowed to make the last leg of their journey.

  The driver who had brought the wolves was puffing a little desperately on an e-cig and talking frantically into his cell phone. Apparently, transporting Gevudan wolves for a month and a half was stressful.

  Ella wandered through the crowd. Several kids from her high school were here ignoring her as usual, although Jack’s brother Brant did catch a glance of her and tip his head up in hello. She had to admit that when he wasn’t spouting out football terms at a pep rally, he was actually sort of intriguing—good looking, so tall it kind of made you quiver, and with the exact same eyes that Jack had.

  She nodded back quickly and hurried along until, near a hamburger stand, she saw that kid Sam. For once he wasn’t staring at her. He was digging in his pocket like he was mining gold.

  “Just a minute,” she heard him say to the vendor, “I know I’ve got some more here.” The vendor looked bored and annoyed and suddenly Ella felt really bad.

  “Here,” she said, plunking down a couple dollars. “And I want a cheeseburger too.”

  “It’s okay,” Sam said, recovering a small stack of pennies from his pocket. “I can pay for mine.”

  “No, seriously,” Ella said. “It’s no biggie. It’s like ten cents.”

  Sam didn’t argue, though he looked like he wanted to. “Well, thanks,” he grumbled, looking into her face like she was haunted.

  Ella had to repress the urge to shout, “Boo.” Instead she said, “So where should we eat these. They’re huge.”

  Sam looked pretty pleased about that part and nodded to a bench nearby where two old people were leaving. They raced to it and plunked down. Ella laughed. And then it was awkward.

  Sam was back to his staring, but this time it wasn’t at her. Near the band stood the goth-punk girl, Sarah, though the black dye in her hair was fading and today she was just wearing dark jeans and a red shirt with a simple leather cuff on one wrist—not too crazy. She was also smiling and talking politely to an older woman who seemed to be complaining about a pain in her tooth. It was such a different picture than the crusty, cynical Sarah they saw at school that Ella found herself staring too. A woman who had to be Sarah’s mother came over and Sarah stepped away.

  Ella wasn’t sure if Sarah had seen them looking at her, but slowly she started walking in their direction.

  Ella looked down. Sam kept staring. Sarah Price walked past.

  “You know her?” Ella asked when the girl was gone.

  “Nah,” Sam mumbled, shoving bites of his hamburger into his mouth like he hadn’t eaten all week.

  “Me neither,” Ella said. “She is hard to miss though.” They both smiled and then the awkwardness was gone. “So where’d you move from?”

  “New Mexico,” Sam said.

  “Seriously,” Ella asked. “Why’d you come here?”

  “For the bugs,” Sam said in a deadpan so perfect that it took Ella a minute to process the joke.

  “And so my dad could sell vacuums to rich people,” Sam added.

  “Well, you came to the right place,” Ella said as two designer-clad teenagers walked past with lattes.

  “You need one?” Sam said.

  “A rich person,” Ella said. “Nope. I’ve already got one.”

  “Well then, how about a vacuum?”

  As far as Ella knew Vivi had never vacuumed her perfectly white carpet. “I don’t think so,” Ella said. “M
y aunt doesn’t need make-up or cleaning devices to maintain perfection.”

  “Sounds frugal,” Sam said.

  “I doubt it.”

  “And where are you from,” Sam asked.

  “Indy,” Ella said. And then for reasons she didn’t think through she added, “My mom died.”

  “I know,” Sam said.

  For some reason it kind of stung to hear that people knew, but it felt good too—having it on the table.

  “It’s a small town,” Sam said, seeing her face. “People talk. A tragic tale is their favorite kind. Why do you think we’re all here to stare at these wolves?”

  “Because they’re cool,” she said.

  “And dangerous,” he added.

  “And mysterious,” she finished.

  “Definitely mysterious,” Sam agreed.

  As he said it a man in khaki’s led the obviously-drugged animals from their cages in the truck to the cages at the preserve.

  Ella had never seen a wolf in real life. Their coats were a little scragglier than she had expected and varying shades—some rusty and brown, others dark gray or silvery. And one seemed to combine all the colors. Their eyes, like their fur, were a gamut of color from amber to steel to chocolate. Yet, there was nothing unkept or imprecise about their eyes. Even with the drug their eyes looked sharp and clear. Oddly, the eyes struck her as their least dog-like quality—less liquid, more stone.

  He’d come to Napper, Indiana, because it was a small nothing town with a bunch of wealthy people. He’d gone to DeWitt, Maine, and Parkhead, New Mexico, for the same reason. He’d done his time, sold a few vacuums, and left before social services or some local church charities noticed them and came knocking at the door. It was far from a perfect life, but they’d always had food to eat and some sort of shelter.

  But this town was different. He couldn’t see it at first, but he could feel it, smell it. There had always been some of his kind in the places they lived, but very few. Here there were many. Here they owned businesses, built parks, sold houses, owned land. Here they ruled.

  He should have known, should have recognized the name of the Alpha. But he had thought it just a coincidence and then he’d gone and plunked them down practically at the Alpha’s back door.

  He’d lain low, trying not to see or be seen. But he could not help but notice the girl—the girl who had now befriended his son. She looked just like her grandmother—a face even Sam had unwittingly recognized.

  And now the wolves were here. He and Sam had to leave. Soon. But for once Sam wasn’t ready. Sam had made a friend. Sam was acing math. Sam had his eye on that black-haired girl.

  He’d torn his son from towns before, but usually Sam had been drifting just as much as he was. Now something had focused in his son, something had settled, something that reminded him of their life before—its sweetness and stability.

  Robert Calhoun stopped sleeping at night, his sheets a tangle of tumbled thought and unmade decisions. He started sleeping in the day, parked in his car under a tree. He didn’t sell anything, had to tap the golden goose. Which didn’t make him sleep any better. He saw the woman, walking stick in hand, cat at her heels. It gave him a breath of relief to know she was there, but only a gasp. She had aged, weakened. For now she was a barrier, but soon even she would crumble.

  And then, as a final blow, he had started to crave meat. Craved it like he hadn’t in years. But he couldn’t eat it, not even a little. If he did, they would smell him; they would know he was here. Alive.

  Ella and Sam had spent the weekend discussing favorite foods, favorite classes, different cities, and how it felt to move a lot. Sam had been all over. Ella had only been in a few big cities, but they’d changed apartments almost as much as Sam had changed towns.

  So now she had a friend. And he wasn’t a dog. That was progress.

  Sunday night, after she’d gotten ready for bed, Ella shut her door, and got down her mother’s jewelry box. On a small slip of paper she wrote, Sam. Reminds me of home.

  She dropped the scrap of paper into the growing pile among her mother’s stones, and then peeled off the wooden bottom of the box and began to sift through the hidden stories. It was a ritual that never lost its appeal, or its sadness.

  She chose a story near the middle, one that had a pencil sketch of a small gray ring drawn to the side.

  Once, in a land turned around and back again, a human queen rose up with skin like flower petals and words like silk.

  She began to mine the mighty Grey, renaming it Silver for the sleek lines and satin tones of the word. She did not mine it for its power, nor for its usefulness, but because of its beauty. It was brought down in cartfuls, and as the mines grew deeper, the queen’s vanity did as well. Some of the metal was fashioned into tools, even weapons, but most was used for the queen’s favorite purpose—adornment. Soon all wealthy humans adopted the trend.

  The wolf-shifters shrank to the far reaches of the kingdom, their needs, rights, and interests no longer acknowledged by the fashionable queen.

  It was not long before the witch’s wood again became a refuge—a place of leaf and branch where those who wished could find rest and restoration. Perhaps the shifters would have hidden ever on the outskirts and in the wood were it not for a small discovery in the southern hills. From deep in the bowels of these insignificant foothills, a small man discovered a new metal—a variety of gold with the blush of a rose.

  This man presented the queen with a delicate ring formed from the rose-colored gold. The substance did not tarnish or deteriorate in the air as silver did; and its scarcity made the queen grow hungry.

  Within months, a series of mines was excavated and erected. The silver jewelry was cast off by the human socialites, and the shifters could return in relative safety to their homes and lands in the head city.

  But many did not.

  Instead, they harbored a silent fury at the way in which the most basic concerns of their kind had been ignored and discarded on the altar of the queen’s couture.

  It was not long after the discovery of the southern rose gold that the monthly killings began. Soon, none could venture outside the city on the night of the fullest moon unless he wanted to vanish into a pile of clean, white bone.

  Ella shuddered. The stories her mother had been telling her for her whole life were connected to each other, sparse pieces to a dense whole. Her mother had been writing something that was part fairy tale, part wolf lore, part origin story—one of those everything-you-didn’t-know-about-the-myth-you-already-knew stories. Mr. Witten would love it.

  Chapter 23

  Sam stood in front of the iron fence with the four padlocks, wondering how he could go in and check on Zinnie. His dad had started watching the news in the evenings and it was disconcerting—every national channel covering the Silver Shootings, while all the local channels were talking about the wolves. Sam wasn’t even sure Zinnie knew about the wild wolves that now wandered The Property with her.

  Just as he was imagining them un-drugged, the orange tabby pranced into his view, her striped tail high in the sky. Zinnie followed, leaning on her staff and looking perfectly unafraid of wolves or any other troubles that might befall her in the wood. “Hello Sammy,” she said without looking at him.

  “I was just thinking about you,” he said, staring through the bars.

  “Well, of course,” she said.

  Sam stared at the old woman for just a beat before saying, “There are wolves in the wood, Zinnie; you should be careful.”

  “Oh, those old pups can’t hurt me. As long as my house stands, nothing in this wood can. Besides,” she said, with a grin much too wide for such an old woman. “I can control the weather. And wolves don’t like rain.”

  Sam opened his mouth to say something and then stopped. He knew that arguing with a person who had dementia would be useless.

  For a minute, he wondered if he should tell his father about Zinnie. She was putting herself at considerable risk, wandering around wit
h wolves loose on The Property. Thinking of his father made him think of the picture of his grandmother. He stared at the cat. She seemed to stare back—a dare.

  “Zinnie,” he said, pausing. “Did that cat bring a picture to your house? She was sleeping on it and then it was gone.” He knew he sounded like a total loon.

  Zinnie laughed. “One thing I’m sure of is that the picture is not here, but there.”

  “There?” It was like talking to the Mad Hatter in Alice in Wonderland.

  “At your house, dear boy.”

  “No, it’s not in the house; I’ve looked everywhere.”

  “That’s unlikely,” the old woman said. “You’ve looked where you think it might be. That’s obviously not where it is.”

  “Obviously,” Sam muttered.

  “Try looking in a spot it oughtn’t be,” she said. “That’s usually how lost things get found.”

  The orange tabby scampered in front of Sam.

  “Ah, little Gabby has an idea. She often goes where she oughtn’t and sees more than most humans.”

  “I noticed,” Sam mumbled.

  “She should be able to help,” the woman replied cheerfully.

  Gabby pranced through the gate like she actually had some idea what the old woman had said. Which was ridiculous.

  David Witten was printing off homework assignments for the retelling of Beauty and the Beast, and thinking about wolves. The day Napper’s wolves had arrived, Witten had stood near the edge of the crowd in a carefully chosen spot so he could see the place on The Property where the temporary cages were situated. The old beggar had been in a similar location, digging through his cart of cans and muttering, then sniffing, then muttering some more. When he’d finally looked up, Witten had held out several dollar bills, but the old man had ignored them, staring, fixated, on the wolves. He sniffed. They sniffed.

  Witten had stepped away from the homeless man and watched the veterinarian carefully release the animals from their shackles and bed them down. One of the creatures had caught his eye, and for a long moment, he had held its gaze.