“Why check the perimeter?” she asked, ignoring his cutting remark, deliberately changing the subject.
“Why?” he said, standing. “Because it is my custom, that’s why. And it is my custom because no matter how far we wander, we are never free of the threat of men. Others, beside our kind, knew also of this place, though it was long ago. Why would we, despised and outnumbered as we are, step from the shadows of these old trees into the daylight, if we were not absolutely certain of our solitude?”
“But who would be here?”
“That is what you must continually ask yourself, here or anywhere, day after day after day. Come now; speak less and use your nose. If there is anything of importance to discover, your nose will lead you to it.”
***
Their long inspection of the grounds provided no hint of trespassers. Stepping into the overgrown yard, Abel led his protégé up near to the old house. Across from what had once been a front yard, Erica noted a small enclosure. It was a square wall of large stones piled two to three feet in height. At the center there was a gap large enough for a man to pass through. Within the space, overgrown with weeds and bushes, she noted an upright headstone, its inscription faded with time.
“Keep out of there,” Abel warned, then proceeded to a corner of the yard where there was water pooling at the foot of a gentle slope.
Erica sidled up to the pool and drank. No more than a foot in depth, the pool’s bottom was of arranged stones, allowing the water to collect as needed and drain when in excess. Following its source up the slope to the trees, she realized that the trickling stream had once been the source of water for all the farm.
“There is a spring uphill,” Abel said after his own drink. “With tools I channeled it toward the homestead. It is still, strangely, my favorite drinking place of all my domain. Of everything that was once mine, it is all that has stood the test of time. For that, I suppose, I hold it dear.”
“It is sweet water,” Erica replied, lifting her head. After a moment she felt herself drawn to look again at the small stone graveyard. Of all their solemn and somewhat haunted surroundings, the grave seemed most compelling of all.
Abel glanced briefly at the monument, then gazed silently back at the young wolf. She asked not the question she knew the answer to, and his glaring silence was a sort of confirmation of that most touchy of subjects. If he would not tolerate naggings regarding lesser topics of food and travel plans, he would surely not tolerate questions about her.
Before the house, the old wolf stretched himself out beneath a shade tree. Erica followed suit, feeling and hearing the brittle leaves crunching beneath her weight. She looked at the old structure and tried to imagine it when it was new. Any thought that took her mind from that of food was worth following. The old one watched her closely, as always. Constantly examining, interpreting her posture, he seemed almost to be able to read her mind at every turn. A small portion of her resented his superiority, while a far greater portion of her admired and hoped to glean all that she could from him.
“As to food,” he said at long last, drawing her full attention, “there are two options. We may hunt. Or, we may eat of the family stock. But to meet with them, we will surely be taken in by their concerns along with their company.”
“What concerns?”
“Do you not perceive it?” the old one asked.
“I can’t tell,” she admitted after a pause.
“All is not well with our kin. The unease reaches us all to an extent. Like the feeling of an approaching seasonal change, we exist in the moment but anticipate the small differences.”
“I feel …” Erica said, not knowing how to put it to words. “Restless.”
“That is it,” he confirmed. “That, along with your transitional struggles, keeps you moving when you are weak. It keeps you awake when you want nothing but to sleep, lingering in your mind, just behind the more obvious concerns. And when you do sleep, it follows you there, robbing you of your peace.”
“Ludlow,” she said, grasping to the memory of the days before she underwent the great change. “The cats.”
“Nothing,” Abel corrected. “That confrontation was but a ripple in smooth water. Remember also the men—the ones you longed to rend and destroy, as I destroyed. There is a wave, a renewed persecution, coming toward us all of which they were the very tip. We can sense it, though we cannot see it. That is what shortens your grandfather’s temper. That is why he made no attempt at preventing you from joining me, though, even here, we are not completely without risk.”
“To keep me out of the way, he let me go?”
“Yes. To keep you alive, volatile and reckless as you show signs of being. His choices were few. He could either let you run wild with reckless abandon, or spend your energy elsewhere, learning, removed from the hotbed of Ludlow, where most likely the greatest troubles will strike.”
“What’s coming?” she asked, feeling a fresh nervousness spread through her.
“I can’t surely say,” the old one replied, much to her immediate dissatisfaction. “If we were that gifted and strong of vision, no mortal man would ever prosper in such a world as the one we would dominate. But the suspicion of all of us who have lived long is this: our old enemies have survived.”
“Nothing of this has ever been told to me,” Erica said. She was so suddenly energized that she forgot about her empty stomach. Her muscles began to twitch, and her tail began to flick over the dry leaves on which she lay. “Secrets are Grandpa’s favorite way of putting us off. He and Father and all the uncles do the same.”
“Secrecy has made possible your easy upbringing,” Abel said somewhat more sternly. “To be frustrated, I understand. But you, in your infancy, cannot judge my brother’s actions. I will not allow it in my presence.”
“Tell me,” Erica said, her face alert with expectancy. She was almost on the verge of standing due to the influx of nervous energy rushing through her, like a massive black dog awaiting a ball to be tossed. “Please,” she added. “Tell me.”
***
“It was far simpler to avoid them in the old days,” Abel said. He had given Erica a very vague summary of the problems of old. Because she cared nothing for the history of their persecutors, the old one moved quickly to the action involved. “It took many years for them to assemble the numbers on these shores to attack us. Mostly they acted as bothersome pests, interrupting the routes of our supply lines coming up from the cities, the logging roads, and the rivers we sent the logs floating down to the mills and the coastal towns, whichever offered the highest bid.”
“So it was guerilla warfare?” Erica said.
“Indeed. By horseback they could most quickly move about, but even so, all the advantages of speed and cunning were overwhelmingly ours. They rarely attacked our towns and farms, because, as they learned the hard way, there was no way of escape quick enough to avoid obliteration.”
“How could they even have a chance against you?”
“They had numbers in the old world. By the time they came here, the personal firearm was developing into a worthwhile weapon. From a distance they couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn, but in time, as always, accuracy and power increased. Now, they have such weapons as I cannot imagine. So my brother tells me.”
“And night vision,” Erica said.
“Cheats,” Abel grumbled. His large tail slapped the ground with force. “Weak bodies and arrogant minds.”
“So the men,” Erica said eagerly. “What of them?”
“We dealt accordingly with them for as long as we could stand. Because there were other men logging the countryside, their battles were not always clear. If they attempted to ambush a train of logs, they would be fired back on by the men responsible for those valuable shipments. So the battles were confusing and spread out widely. Sometimes months would pass between each. But,” he said, his tone deepening, his eyes flaring, “when my father was killed, everything changed.”
Erica did not then
venture to ask any questions. She watched the old one, noting the restrained rage at work within him.
“Then,” Abel proceeded slowly, “we went on the offensive … a most harsh retort, which they had long deserved and avoided only because of my father’s mercy. We raided their camps by night, hindering their supplies, killing them on sight whenever possible. By then their numbers had decreased, as Father had predicted they soon would. He had hoped, all through his lifetime, to simply outlast them. Almost, Father,” Abel muttered, as if for a moment no longer addressing Erica.
“You killed them all?”
“Every combatant we could track and sniff we dealt death to. Through half a winter we stained the snow with their blood. The last holdouts, which were the most highly skilled, we used to lead us to their Grand Master, a pompous old worm who gave orders from safe distances from the majority of fighting. How I enjoyed the terror on his face when at last we found him. How I enjoyed watching him squirm, knowing his reign was over. How I enjoyed looking upon his lifeblood spilled on the snow. And how I enjoyed presenting his head for all of the pack to see.”
“His head?” Erica said. Her jaws were trembling, her teeth clicking lightly together. “You took the coward’s head for a prize?”
“I did,” the old one said, his face showing the closest a wolf’s face can get to a smile. “Our family, and all the families, looked on him in his weakness and felt great relief. After centuries of worry, after crossing an ocean and making a new life and still being pursued, at last we had peace. The Americans were oblivious of us, all but the small pockets of native tribes, the ones my brother reached out to in good will. The western world slipped into the First World War, but we, at long last, were at ease.”
“Then how could they come back?” Erica asked.
“I do not know every detail of what goes on beyond my territory,” Abel said. “I only know when it, and myself, becomes disturbed.”
“Then who is stirring up the trouble now? You said ‘old enemies?’”
“My bones tell me that it is so, though my eyes see no one. My instincts tell me. Our forefathers tell me. And they are telling you, calling you out from your childhood, waking the warrior, driving you out from comfort to the barrens to learn hunger, learn skill, and to thrive.”
Erica said nothing. The tingling sensation rippling up and down her spine told her that his words were true—truer than anything she’d ever learned before.
“Mercy,” Abel said, “is something the Snows have always had in equal portion to their savageness. It is the atmosphere in which you’ve been raised. My father was a great man, wise and kind. He was an even greater wolf, until the day he absorbed too many shells in defense of me, a foolish brawler, as you yourself might be, without hard discipline. Mercy killed him, as he rightfully should have let me die in my foolishness. Then, my brother’s mercy stopped him from stamping out every drop of blood ever tied to our enemies.”
Abel turned his head and gazed long at the small graveyard. “Weakness,” he muttered, “is very near to mercy.” From then on the malice in his voice increased with each word. “It dooms the gentle and the kind, leaving the world an ever harder place. I despise it with all of my being, all of my strength.”
“I hate it too,” Erica said cautiously.
“Yes,” he said, turning back to face her. By his prickling crest and shivering fur, he appeared almost on the verge of an attack. “So you have been removed from your home and placed in my care. Look at me,” he said, slowly rising to his feet. “I am the result of the total refusal to compromise with the ways of men. The world would call me an outlaw if they knew of my existence. They would hunt me to the far corners of the earth, as they do the common wolves, and every other beast of status. Out of fear and arrogance, they would blot out my existence.”
“Yes,” Erica said, rising to her own feet, standing opposed to the raging elder. His fury stirred her fury. His strength aroused her strength. “Or they would capture and dissect you.”
“That they have tried, and failed!” he roared, his sides heaving, rumbling like a furnace. “Do not present the arguments of my brother, here, on my homeland.”
The young wolf lowered her head and began creeping back. Marveling at his fervor, at the same time she began to fear the depths of his rage. Control was quickly leaving him, and she, the only antagonist for miles, could easily become his next victim.
“That’s it,” Abel seethed, stalking toward her. “Cower. Slink. Crawl back as all worms do. This will be you one day. This is what you will become. Homeless, hated, feared. The humans that would destroy you will use only one word, as if they, speaking from such lofty heights, are so vastly superior: Animal.”
Erica lay completely flat beneath him now. She dared not speak, or even raise her eyes.
“Is that what you are?” he asked. “An animal? A worthless creature, reviled and banished to the wilds? Is that the life you desire?”
“Yes,” she whispered, still averting her eyes. She feared to answer him as much as she feared not to answer. Either option seemed equally dangerous.
“Then,” the old one said, pacing about her cowering figure, “let us start you on your next journey.”
For a moment Erica began to raise her head, hoping the worst of his temper fit had passed. But then, without as much as a growl of warning to prepare her, she felt the jaws of the old brute clamp down on the back of her neck with shocking force.
~10~
The rite of passage was swift and terrible. Lasting no more than a minute or two, they were by far the most agonizing, helpless, and terrifying moments of her life.
Naturally she had tried to resist and defend, but as magnificent as her new body was, she soon discovered how outmatched she was against the great elder. She could hardly begin to defend his strikes before he was attacking her at another point. Snapping and snarling, try and struggle as she may, she could inflict no damage in return, and soon, all the fight went out of her. All she could do, it seemed, was endure the torture.
“Spare yourself the effort,” Abel said, standing over her quivering body after systematically brutalizing her, almost to the point of death. “Remain still until I return. Focus your mind through the pain, for if you allow yourself to slide back into your weaker human form, you will certainly die.”
Opening her eyes in response to the sound of his steps moving away from her, Erica saw the blurry image of the old one moving off into the heavier timber. She raised her head just barely from the bloodied ground, then instantly relaxed again. The pain was too great. Her nerves and muscles could not function close to properly. To move even slightly felt like an impossible feat. Even to cry only caused more discomfort.
Tucking her chin slowly to her chest, her forelegs came into view. Stinging wounds she could feel everywhere, but the worst of her pain seemed to be coming from her forelegs. Blinking, seeing them now through glossed, weeping eyes, she understood why. Both were broken. The bone of her right leg protruded jaggedly through the dark fur above her paw. Both paws appeared crushed. The sight of her disfigurement made her feel sicker than she already did.
She breathed in deeply, accepting the level of pain it brought on in exchange for the fresh air. Why she asked herself, trying to hold completely still. What have I done but obey?
***
Nearly an hour passed, though Erica had no concept of time. Blinking her eyes, she slipped in and out of consciousness until she heard the sound of heavy steps approaching. The scent of fresh blood other than her own suddenly filled her head. Lifting her chin from the earth, she found it easier to move than on her prior attempt. She saw the old Snow approaching slowly. In his jaws he carried the leg of a cow. A few yards from her nose he dropped it to the ground.
“Eat,” he said flatly. “It will hasten your recovery.”
The desire for food was nothing now. The longing to be rid of the crippling ache racking her entire body was all she could think of. She pulled herself up onto her belly
and looked down at her forelegs and paws. They were improved already, though still ugly to look at. Stretching them forward, with difficulty she managed to drag herself toward the fresh meat, salivating and whining with every inch of progress. Abel watched her only for a moment. Then he turned and proceeded off from the direction he had come. Erica wondered, just as her nose reached the still warm leg, if this gift was his idea of an apology, or some strange peace offering. She said nothing.
Abel returned quickly the second time. The young wolf ceased eating as he approached. He carried this time an ugly contraption of rusted steel. Dropping it with a clank, he lowered himself to his belly across from her.
“A trap?” she ventured cautiously.
“It is,” he replied. “In the old days they were placed by the hundreds in these woods. From what I’ve heard, they were used by the tens of thousands against the common wolves of the west. A most cruel tactic thought up by men. It disables the victim, slowing it, allowing men to kill with more ease. Smell it. Take its odor and plant the memory of it deeply in your mind. The recognition of it will serve you well.”
Slowly, Erica crawled closer to the ugly mechanism. With her nose inches from its jagged and rusty edges, she brought its scent deep into her head. Even if she hadn’t known what it was or seen it for what it was, she detested the harsh, bitter smell of it.
“Now,” Abel said, “you will recognize it always. Through rain and snow you will be able to identify this tool of cowards. And if ever you do make a mistake or are too distracted to detect it, your legs, stronger now at the broken places, will better withstand such a device.”
Erica looked down at her forelegs and then back to the rusty trap. She could flex her paws now, but still the bones above ached and throbbed. “Have you ever been caught in one?” she asked softly, still wary of him after his brutal outburst.
Seasons of Wither (The Great North Woods Pack Book 3) Page 10