by J. M. Snyder
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UNDER A CONFEDERATE MOON
by
J. M. SNYDER
Amber Quill Press, LLC
http://www.amberquill.com
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Under A Confederate Moon
An Amber Quill Press Book
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or have been used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
Amber Quill Press, LLC
http://www.amberquill.com
http://www.amberheat.com
http://www.amber-allure.com
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.
Copyright © 2007 by J. M. Snyder
ISBN 978-1-60272-075-6
Cover Art © 2007 Trace Edward Zaber
Layout and Formatting
Provided by: Elemental Alchemy
Published in the United States of America
Also by J. M. Snyder
Persistence of Memory
The Powers Of Love
Matching Tats
Dedication
Thanks to Drew, Billy, & Loukie
for their help with this story.
UNDER A CONFEDERATE MOON
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The golden glow of the sunset painted in autumnal hues the thick trees that surrounded the Confederate encampment. On the outskirts of camp, beyond the pitched tents, Private Caleb Chilson leaned against his rifle, one of a handful of pickets posted to ward off the coming night and the threat of a Yankee attack. Since the sun had begun to disappear below the horizon, a faint, familiar ache had blossomed in his lower belly, a cramp not unlike hunger pains, a burning that seemed to grow more desperate with each passing minute. The change was coming over him, responding to the rising moon. He felt it in his bones.
He had another hour, maybe two, before the rifle fell from his hands and he'd lose another good pair of pants to his damn condition. The last time it'd happened, the sutler laughed at the hole torn in the back of his dungarees. "You sure you caught this on a fence, soldier?" he'd sniggered, full of himself. "Or'd you just cut it out for easy access?"
"I'd shoot you for that," Caleb had replied, "if I had the lead to waste. Just give me a new pair, or a kit to mend these."
A particularly hard twist of his gut doubled Caleb over. He clutched at his stomach, closing his eyes against the pain. It was happening now, though the sun wasn't yet completely down; he recognized the symptoms, he could feel his body begin to change. Already his mind roiled with a myriad of scents and wordless images--his heightened hearing categorized each of the soft sounds made by the camp as it settled in for the night, the crackle of firewood as it burned to ash, the scrape of metal utensils on metal bowls, the crunch of footsteps over dead leaves. His altered sense of smell picked out the clean, bland scent of boiling water, the sharp tang of gunpowder, the overpowering man-spore that filled the clearing. Glancing down, he noticed a sudden growth of pale blonde hair on the back of his hand...no. He shook his head to clear it, struggling to hold onto that small part of his mind still human. Not here, not yet, no.
Suddenly a warm hand clapped his back and he staggered forward, almost tripping over the barrel of his gun. "You all right, Cal?"
One of the other pickets--in his current state, Caleb couldn't remember the man's name. Another private, like himself, with a Southern drawl that marked him as a rebel. The stench of his unwashed flesh filled Caleb's animal senses, nauseating him. He struggled for words, and when he finally managed to set them loose, they felt clunky and odd in his mouth. "Sick," he gasped, the pain tearing through him now. He had to get away from this man, this camp, this place. He had to get free.
He took a stumbling step forward and his comrade laughed. "Man, not you, too!" he chuckled. "Must be something in the water here, I swear. Half the camp's out in the woods with the shits."
Numb, Caleb nodded. Yes, the woods. That was where he needed to be. The trees reached out for him, their limbs stretching to claim him as their own. He felt the leaves on his face like cool hands, brushing the blonde hair from his brow, smoothing over his face, as gentle as a mother's caress. Bent double, Caleb hurried into the woods, eager to lose himself in their depths. He stumbled again and fell to the ground, out of sight from the camp. The hands that caught his weight were now paws covered in fur. As he watched, emotionless, his long fingers shrank into his palms as his nails grew into razor-like claws that retracted. His body compacted into itself, his thighs curving, his feet stretching, his toes taking his weight. His bones crunched with a sickening sound, reshaping themselves into the feral wildcat form over which he had no control.
The rip of fabric filled the air as his coccyx lengthened and grew into a short, thick tail. As the last vestiges of his humanity fell away, Caleb moaned, then reared back and let out a flashing cry that tore through the quiet of the growing night. He shook his head, his cap falling aside as twin tufted ears pushed it off. Wiry blonde hair, as shaggy as the uncut mop of waves that covered his scalp, erupted along his body, covering him in a thick, tawny pelt.
One long stretch and the buttons on his shirt popped open. The belt around his waist hung heavy on his now feline hips, but a good roll in the bushes relieved him of its weight. He kicked the pants aside, then wrestled with the shirt, nipping at the sleeves with long fangs that bit into the fabric until it hung in shreds around his forepaws. Unsatisfied, he cried out again, a raspy mew, and backed up, trying to get out from under the material encasing him.
A sudden shot ripped through the air. The bullet passed overhead and Caleb froze, all senses alert. He smelled cloying smoke and a piercing man-scent he recognized all too well--fear. From the direction he had come, he heard humans scrambling to their posts. Someone called out, "Jack, did you hit it?"
"Goddamn bobcat," someone else muttered.
They mean me, Caleb thought, bemused.
"What the hell are we doing out here in these damn woods anyway?"
The first voice spoke up a second time. "Shoot it again, Jack. Can't hurt."
"Gimme your gun," Jack replied, "if you want me to fire. I only got a handful of shot left."
A low growl filled the woods, raising the hair on Caleb's haunches. Then he realized the noise came from himself. With one last gnaw at the sleeve of his shirt, he gave up. Stretching the feline body that had replaced his clumsy human form, he darted through the low underbrush and raced into the forest.
* * * *
The scent of man enveloped him. Each tree he sniffed, each branch, each bush, carried the smell of humans and their artillery. Dried blood and disease mingled with the smell, painful scents Caleb didn't like. The shirt on his back only confused his senses, but once the camp was behind him, he took a moment to wiggle out of the torn material. He sniffed it, curious, then left it among the leaves as he hurried away, the growl still tickling the back of his throat. The sound warned anything away from his vicinity, and helped keep his mind off his churning stomach, or the bloodlust that filled his veins.
On four padded feet, Caleb crept through the forest as silently as a house cat stalking its prey. He hunted half-heartedly, not quite ready to sate his appetite and call it a night. At some point he scared up a large hare, coming onto it from downwind, but the creature caught his scent moments before he pounced, and darted just beyond his powerful jaws to disappear into a hole too narrow and deep to dig in
for long. Abandoning the prey, Caleb kept moving, always keeping the men and their smoke-filled camp at his back. He heard no more gunshots, and felt no urgency to hurry through the night.
Around him, the woods were alive in a way the human in him would never see. Small rodents raced over the forest floor, skittering through the moss and lichen, raising whiffs of fresh meat in their wake. Occasionally one would catch Caleb's attention and he'd give chase, toying with the frightened mouse until it disappeared into a crevice of tree roots too small for his paw to fit through. He caught a couple, nothing large, and let each one go after playing a bit. He wanted something bigger, something worth the effort of a kill. Something--
Off in the distance, in the direction he was heading, he heard a gunshot. He stopped, ears trained on the sound, his whole body rigid and tense. Men. The word was anathema to him in his current state. He waited for another sound, a second shot maybe, or raucous laughter in the night, but nothing seemed to follow. The tip of his tail twitched, waiting.
Then a volley of shots rang out, three, maybe four, all at once. Caleb dropped into a crouch and heard a wounded yelp cry out, a primal sound that tugged at his instinct. Another cat, he knew--a large one, by the sound of it. That damned growl of his started up again, and he sniffed the air, trying to smell powder or blood, but nothing came to him on the wind.
Could be Yanks, the still-human part of his mind whispered. Sensing an unprecedented opportunity, Caleb sat down on his haunches and licked one forepaw as he mulled over his options. Race ahead, get shot like the other cat. Or, no, sneak in and sneak out, but learn enough of the enemy camp to bring back to his commanding officer in the morning. Major Pennock would want to know how he came about the information, but if they ambushed the Yanks, would it matter how he knew?
With a decisive flick of his tail, Caleb leapt away. On strong legs, with sure strides, he ran through the forest, dodging undergrowth, vaulting over fallen logs and large stones, climbing low trees to jump from their quivering branches when it suited him. The wind raced him, whipping around his ears and flaring his nostrils. His fangs were bared to the night, allowing him to catch the faintest of odors. Before long he found the scent of man again, and gun smoke, and blood.
He skidded to a halt. Like a knife, the blood pierced his mind and stirred his senses. Nosing around, he found a drop of dark lifeblood on a deadfall, still warm. His tongue licked out, and the taste of copper filled his mouth. A heavy scent like wet fur clung to the wood. Picking his way carefully over the rotten limbs, Caleb climbed the deadfall and, on the other side of the forest floor, found another bright patch of blood, a clump of fur clinging stubbornly to the edges of a paw print. Another bobcat, just as he'd thought. Wounded.
With his animal senses, Caleb could easily discern the cat's path through the woods--here the grass bent in a certain direction, there a few branches were snapped as if pointing the way. Caleb padded on, cautious. Every now and then he paused to sniff around. The trail led to a thicket of tall grass, tamped down in the center. As Caleb approached, he heard a low growl issue from the grass in warning.
He sat back. Cocked his head to one side. Ventured another step and received a breathy hiss as a reward. In the darkness he could see two golden cat's eyes staring back at him. A guttural male voice spoke in his mind. ::Another step and you die.::
Caleb sat back again, then lay down, forepaws stretched out to hold the grass out of his way. He saw a bobcat, yes, much larger than himself, with thick russet tufts at the tips of its ears and red markings along its jaw, reminiscent of a human beard. It took a moment for Caleb's mind to recall the words he wanted to say, but as the cat had addressed him in man-speak, he'd do the same. ::You're wounded.::
::There's fight in me yet.:: The older bobcat growled deep in his throat. ::Come closer and you'll see for yourself.::
Caleb didn't know what to do. He'd met other cats on his monthly travels, but none spoke to him in anything more than standard feline body language. A menacing growl, an irritated whip of the tail, a flattening of the ears to ward him off. But these thoughts in his mind, this voice so unfeline that seemed to emanate from this cat, could it mean...? ::You're like me,:: he suggested. At the impatient flick of the other cat's ear, he added, ::You're human.::
The growl stopped abruptly. Those large eyes narrowed, the slitted pupils dilating. ::Sometimes.::
Caleb dared to inch closer, crawling on his belly. He only got a few shuffling steps before the growl kicked in again. ::Watch it,:: the other said.
::You're hurt.:: Caleb crept another few inches, his forepaw reaching out tentatively. The smell of blood came off the other bobcat in waves, rich and thick. Cocking his head to the side, he could see a dark patch of matted fur on the bobcat's rear left haunch. ::Let me look--::
::Stay back!::
The heavy paw swung out of nowhere, cuffing him aside. Caleb rolled beneath the swipe, but there were no claws in it, not yet. Coming to rest on his belly, Caleb now faced the other cat's side, in a better position to scrutinize the wound. ::Let me take a look,:: he tried again, daring to move nearer. The growl started again, warning him, so he hurried to explain, ::I'm infantry. Trust me. I've seen the field surgeon work--::
::And I've seen General Grant,:: his unwilling companion grumbled. ::Doesn't mean I can run the damn army. Get.::
But Caleb was already stretched out along the grass, nosing the wound. It smelled painful, but not too deep. ::I'm Caleb,:: he offered, nipping gently at the torn flesh. The bobcat growled louder now, his claws splayed and digging in the ground, but Caleb could smell the bullet, could almost taste it. ::You're lucky this isn't grapeshot. I think it's just a minié ball.::
One large paw touched his side, claws unsheathed but held in check, a promise that one wrong move could end his life. Ignoring it, Caleb licked at the wound and tugged at the matted hair until blood ran freely again. With slow, measured movements, he cleaned the area, using his tongue to locate the bullet. One quick bite and it was out. The claws extended, cutting into him, but disappeared when he spat out the lead. ::There.::
For a moment their eyes locked, each gauging the other. Just when Caleb was sure the other bobcat would run off, he was surprised to hear a muted, ::Thank you.::
Caleb blinked and ducked his head. ::'Twas nothing. You'd do the same--::
::Don't be so sure.::
Awkwardly, the bobcat twisted his nimble body around to lick at the wound. Caleb watched for a moment, perturbed that nothing more had been said. Did this other bobcat come in contact so often with his own kind that he could easily brush Caleb aside? If so, it must be nice. The night was young, the moon full, and the last thing Caleb wanted was to return to his camp and take up his soldier's post. The thought of chasing the shadows with a companion excited him in a way he didn't realize he'd missed. Didn't this other cat feel that need, too?
Standing on all four legs, he approached the grooming bobcat. Taking a chance, he rubbed his head along the underside of the other bobcat's chin, a dangerous gesture that mingled his scent with the other's own. When the bobcat didn't attack, Caleb bent to attend to the wound. ::Let me.::
The reply was instantaneous. ::I don't need your help--::
::I didn't ask if you did.::
With a huff, the bobcat sank back to the ground, then rolled onto his side, forepaws stretched out in a forlorn gesture. As Caleb concentrated on cleaning the wound, the other cat sighed again. ::What is it you want?::
::I've never met another like us,:: Caleb admitted. He wanted companionship, was that too much to ask? A few hours with a fellow werecat, a few hours away from the war? ::I'm a soldier--::
::So you said.::
Each reply was succinct, curt. Apparently the only way Caleb would get a response from this fellow was to ask outright. ::What about you?::
No response. He tried again. ::You do have a name, I assume? If you want me to guess--::
::I want you to shut up.::
Caleb returned to the wound
, licking the fur and the skin until the flow of blood seemed to thin. Twice his companion growled, a deep sound that could almost have been mistaken for a purr, but his extended claws raked the ground and his foot sat pressed against Caleb's lower belly, keeping him back. He turned to wipe the blood and hair from his nostrils into the grass, and was just about to say the hell with it and move on when the other cat growled, ::Brance.::
::Sorry?::
With considerable effort, the bobcat raised his head. Their eyes met again, and something unspoken passed between them, something preternatural and unreal. Something older than instinct itself. ::Brance,:: the other said again. ::My name is Brance.::
Caleb nodded. ::Will you be all right?::
He suspected he knew the answer to that. But when there was none, he crept closer, into the intimate space beside Brance's underbelly. He dared to press his nose into the soft, downy fur just beneath the larger cat's forepaw. He waited, tensed, for a rebuttal that never came.
When he realized Brance wouldn't push him away, Caleb eased his body alongside the other cat's. Curling his paws beneath his head, he hrmphed low, ruffling Brance's fur. The heat from his companion drove back the cool night.
Brance raised one paw, then set it heavily onto the top of Caleb's head. His claws came out, but just slightly, just enough to let Caleb know he could hurt him if he wanted to. With something akin to affection, he muttered, ::You're a real pain in the ass, you know that?::
Caleb settled in closer, happy for the company.
* * * *
It had been ten years ago, on a small farm in the western part of Virginia, that Caleb became other. Twelve at the time, armed with his pa's shotgun and a pouch full of lead pellets, he sat with his back against the barn, the chicken coop ahead in his sights. A full moon hung over the land, expectant, casting a silvery gloom over the empty farmyard. Caleb's parents were asleep; his ma didn't like him out here with the gun, but his pa trusted him, said it'd make him a man.