Gus and I started working at Blackroot Timber on the very same day eighteen years ago. On that first day, I saved his leg from getting caught in a choker, and he tackled me out of the way of a tree after I made a bad cut. It was for that reason—maybe the only reason—I called him my friend.
“I thought hunting wolves was illegal.”
“Used to be. Then they started spreading like wildfire. Now they’re ’bout as endangered as house cats.” Gus ripped into a piece of beef jerky. “I got mine back in November. Haven’t used it yet. If you get one, we could make a weekend of it. A little hunting, a little camping, a lot of drinking.”
I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of spending time alone with a drunk, armed Gus, but I didn’t say no. I had never really thought of wolves as a threat. I sometimes saw them in the woods, gliding over the snow like shadows, but as soon as they saw me, they’d bolt in the other direction. I even liked listening to their howls at night. The eeriness of the sound soothed me, like a train whistle or a roll of thunder. But it was different now. They’d taken Maisy from me, from Primrose, and I’d be damned if I’d let them take her, too. “Where do I get one?”
“Moody’s has ’em. Do me a favor and pick me up some Coyote Cologne. The little shits love the stuff. Should work for wolves, too, since they’re basically just big coyotes.” Wolves are nothing like coyotes, I thought, but if Gus wanted to spray himself with coyote piss, who was I to argue?
* * *
I had been assigned a greenhorn to train the second half of the day. He had spent the morning with the fallers, and now it was my job to show him the ropes—or rather, the cables—of yarding logs. When I saw him loping down the hill like a happy, dimwitted animal, I knew it was going to be a long afternoon. “Whoa, buddy! Where’s the fire?”
“Fire?” He looked over his shoulder in case a blaze had crept up behind him.
I sighed, already frustrated. “There’s no fire. Jesus Christ. What’s your name?”
“Weylyn Grey,” he said and handed me a small card. It was white with his name typed in black ink at the top. Underneath, he had handwritten Logger in pencil. I stared at it for a second, baffled, then laughed out loud. “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?”
He smiled confidently and said, “The guys this morning all called me greenhorn. That card is so you don’t have to.”
I gave the kid credit. He had balls. “Okay. Here’s the deal: You pay attention to everything I say. You memorize every word, every breath, every fart. You do that, and I’ll call you by your real name. Deal?”
“Deal. What should I call you?”
“King of the Goddamn Mountain.”
* * *
He wasn’t as dumb as he looked. It only took him two tries to properly set the choker. I didn’t even have to tell him to clear out when the lines were set. When we were at a safe distance, the carriage dragged the first of the logs up the hill and successfully deposited them on the landing. Same with the second load. Weylyn set the next three chokers with mechanical efficiency, like he had been doing it his whole life. He was all business until the logs began their ascent; then he’d take a moment to admire his work as they danced through the air like chimes caught in the wind.
By the end of the day, our crew had twenty-two loads headed to the mill. “Is that good?” Weylyn asked as we made our way up the rugged hill.
“That’s good for a summer day. In winter, we don’t usually count on more than sixteen. You worked hard today. Good job, Weylyn.”
He smiled at the sound of his name.
“But that doesn’t mean you get to slack off now. There’ll be days harder than this one, I promise you that.”
“I’m here to work,” he said, tapping on his hard hat with his fist.
“That’s all it takes. Hard work and not being a dumb-ass.” I pointed to Vince Desoto, who was standing on a pile of felled trees smoking a cigarette. “See anything different ’bout that guy over there?”
Weylyn squinted. “Is he missing an eye?”
“Yep. One day he overloaded the carriage and the cable broke. Got him right in the eye.” Vince noticed us staring and flicked us off.
“Don’t be a dumb-ass,” I repeated and slapped Weylyn on the back. “So, where are you from?”
“Michigan, Oklahoma, Alabama, and Mississippi,” he rattled off without missing a beat.
“That’s a lot of places.”
“Yeah. I’ve moved around a lot. Not always by choice. I’d like to stay here for a while, though. The forests remind me of my home in Michigan.”
“Oh, did you live near a forest?”
“No, I lived in one.”
Before I could ask him what he meant, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of fur through the trees. “Did you see that?”
“See what?”
I stopped to get a better look, but all I saw was trees and brush. “Never mind.”
As we followed the skyline the rest of the way up the hill, I could swear I heard the faint padding of paws on the snow.
38
MARY PENLORE
When I was young, my mom read me fairy tales. One in particular stuck out in my mind, “The Death of the Good King.” He was beloved by all his subjects, and he left behind three daughters: Farwynna, Fionella, and Fahn. They grieved for nine straight days, and on the tenth, they were visited by the ghost of their father.
“Oh, good and just king, our father!” Farwynna, the eldest, cried. “I have done nothing but mourn for you for ten days! My garden is wilted because I do not tend to it. Wise king, what, pray tell, should I do?”
The good king held his eldest’s hand and said, “Fairest Farwynna, do not mourn for me, for I am with you in your garden. I am the buds on the flowers and the fruit on the trees. I am the roots that bring it water and the sun that gives it life. I am your garden.”
Farwynna’s tears stopped running. “Thank you, Father!” she said and went outside to tend to her plants.
Next, Fionella, the middle child, spoke up. “Oh, good and just king, our father! I, too, have mourned for ten straight days, and I do not have the stomach to eat a single crumb. I miss the breads and meats that lay in our pantry, but I cannot eat out of love for you. Wise king, what, pray tell, should I do?”
“Fairest Fionella, do not mourn for me, for I am in the foods that fill your belly. I am the flour in the bread and the blood in the meat. I am the yeast that causes the dough to rise and the heat that cooks it. I am your food.”
Fionella kissed the good king on the cheek. “Thank you, Father!” And she ran off to the pantry.
Finally, the good king’s youngest and indisputable favorite, Fahn, hesitantly approached her father. “Oh, good and just king, my father. I have mourned for as many days as my sisters, but I fear I will mourn for many more. I do not have a garden to tend to, and I do not have the same love for bread as Fionella. Serving you and the kingdom was my only love. Wise king, what, pray tell, should I do?”
The good king pulled his daughter close to him. “Fairest Fahn, if you must continue to mourn, do it not for me.”
“Then who shall I mourn, good king?”
“Mourn for the kingdom. For I have no sons.”
It was then I’d ask my mom, “Why is he sad he doesn’t have a son?”
“Because he can’t leave the kingdom to his daughters. If he had a son, he’d know the kingdom was in good hands, but since he doesn’t, he’s worried a bad king will take over,” she’d reply patiently and pull my blanket over me.
“Poor king…,” I’d mumble before wandering into a dream.
Amarok had no sons. His three pups were all female, so there was no one to pass his throne to, no one to carry on his name, so to speak. The kingdom mourned for him, and we mourned for the kingdom.
It was Widow who found the blood. She had gone off on her own to find him and caught his scent. For days, Widow led the funeral procession through the woods, wind picking up the hairs on her face like the f
lutter of black netting. The other wolves howled for their friend in minor keys, their voices shaky and flat. Widow was silent. She would need to find a new alpha, but until then, she had to lead.
I tried to talk to Weylyn about Widow but was met with the same polite indifference that he’d shown the night I’d told him about Amarok’s death. It was strange to me that someone who’d spent the better part of his childhood with wolves wasn’t more curious about the ones that practically roamed his backyard. Granted, that was a long time ago. He’d been living among people for almost twenty years now. When I met him, he was more wolf than man, and now he was more man than wolf. Maybe I had imposed a little of my own nostalgia for that time on him. If so, it was unfair of me to expect his undivided attention every time I uttered the word wolf.
And yet, it didn’t feel right that my life with the wolves and my life with Weylyn were kept separate. I wanted to show him my world just as he had shown me his many years ago. “Hey, Weylyn,” I said.
Weylyn looked up from his crossword puzzle. “Yeah?”
“I want to show you something.”
* * *
Weylyn moved through the forest with such ease that I sometimes forgot I was the one leading us. While I glanced down at my feet to make sure I didn’t trip, Weylyn peered up at the chandeliers of ice-covered spruce needles that sparkled like crystals. Occasionally, he would reach up and run his fingers across them as if they were glass chimes that needed to be played. As he did, loose snow would shake free from the boughs above, hissing gently as it caught the wind that whipped down from the mountain.
“I can’t wait to see this place in the summer,” Weylyn said over the crunching of our boots in the snow. “We could go hiking and fishing, or we could pitch a tent and camp out somewhere.”
“Since when do you need a tent?”
“Oh, it’s not for me.”
I tried to picture myself sleeping in a tent while Weylyn slept outside my nylon door, but I couldn’t. Instead, I imagined the two of us curled up in the same sleeping bag under a spray of stars. “I’d rather sleep outside,” I said.
By the way Weylyn looked at me then, you’d think he’d read my mind. I could feel my skin grow hot beneath my parka and quickly looked away. “We don’t have a tent, anyway,” I added tersely, but I could still feel Weylyn’s eyes on me.
“Outside it is, Mary Jane,” he said. I could hear the smile in his voice.
We walked for another twenty minutes or so before we saw the Nomad pack about a hundred yards away on the bank of a frozen creek. Weylyn stopped dead in his tracks. “Is that your pack?”
“Yes! Come closer. I want to introduce you.” I grabbed his hand and led him to the edge of a rocky outcrop that overlooked the ravine where the wolves were resting. “This,” I said, proudly, “is the Nomad pack.”
Weylyn’s reaction was not what I’d hoped it would be. He looked uneasy the way most people would if you dragged them into the woods to look at wolves. But Weylyn wasn’t most people. Weylyn was a wolf, or at least, he used to be. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said, although it was painfully obvious he was trying to spare my feelings. “I’m just … surprised.”
“Sorry, I should have said something.”
“No, it’s fine. I just never thought I’d be this close to a pack again.”
“I thought you missed being around them,” I said, gesturing to the wolves.
“I do. I think about them every day. But I like my new life, too, you know. I have a job. I have a home. And I get to see you every day.”
I felt like a total idiot. I’d made Weylyn hike an hour in the snow just to try to re-create some childhood fantasy I had of him, when all he wanted to do was hang out with me in our tiny cabin and play cards. “You mean you aren’t bored?”
Weylyn laughed a little too loudly, causing some of the wolves to turn their heads in our direction. “Look around, Mary. How could I be bored in all of this?” He scanned the towering tree-trimmed peaks before his gaze settled on me softly like silt. “And like I said. I have you.”
I blushed, flattered to be considered in the same category as forests and mountains. “How about we head back and make some hot chocolate?” I said.
Weylyn nodded, but before we could turn to leave, something caught his attention. I looked down into the ravine and saw Widow watching us intently. I turned back to Weylyn, who met her gaze with his own sharp silver stare, and the two of them studied each other cautiously for several moments before Weylyn broke the trance. “Let’s go,” he said abruptly, and we followed our own footprints back the way we came.
39
DUANE FORDHAM
I stopped at Moody’s after work and was helped by a man behind the gun counter who introduced himself as Moose. He was like a white trash Frankenstein’s monster: huge and badly constructed with arms of different lengths and a large forehead that looked like it was built for ramming males of the same species. “Ellen’s Moose?” I asked.
“How do you know Ellen?” he returned suspiciously.
“Oh, I shop at her store sometimes,” I said, as blasé as I could, considering my heartsickness.
He smiled, apparently sufficiently convinced I wasn’t screwing his fiancée. “What can I help you with?”
“I need a hunting permit. For wolves.”
“No problem, man,” he said and retrieved paperwork from behind his counter. “Just need to see your ID.” I handed him my driver’s license and started filling out the paperwork. He pointed to a taxidermy wolf head mounted on the wall, his eyes twinkling with pride. “That one’s mine.” I looked up at the wolf, its lips pulled back into a snarl, white teeth gleaming in the fluorescent light.
“Impressive,” I said despite being a little disgusted. Moose had clearly just killed that animal for shits and giggles.
“Got her right in the heart,” he crowed.
I nodded politely and continued writing. What Ellen saw in this guy I had no idea, but I doubt it was the wolf head that did it.
I got home and went to check on Rosie. It had been a few days since the attack, and she still wasn’t eating much. I had been leaving her hay because I kept the barn locked when I was gone and she couldn’t graze. She had barely touched it. I could even feel her ribs through her coat, something I would have never been able to do before. “Don’t worry, girl,” I cooed and ran my fingers through her hair. “I’m gonna make this right.”
* * *
I agreed to go hunting with Gus on the condition that he let me have the first shot. “No problem, man,” Gus said, smoke jetting from his nostrils. We were sitting in the back of my flatbed on our cigarette break. I didn’t smoke, but Gus smoked enough for the both of us. “I’ll tell you what: I’ll give you the first two.”
“Thanks, man,” I said.
Gus nodded and flicked ash over the side of the truck. “You got a score to settle. I’ll help you in any way I can even if that means killin’ the fucker with my bare hands!” He mimed breaking the wolf’s neck, whimpered like a dog, and laughed.
I shook my head. Gus could be a real prick sometimes.
Then something caught his attention over my shoulder. “What’re you lookin’ at, greenhorn?”
I turned to see Weylyn standing there, awkwardly holding an unlit cigarette between his thumb and index finger. One of the guys must have given it to him because he clearly had no clue what to do with it. “Nothing. You talking about wolves?” he asked, taking a few steps forward.
“Yeah. What about it?” Gus snapped.
“Gus, shut up,” I said, then turned back to Weylyn. “You need a light?”
Weylyn glanced down at the cigarette pinched between his forefingers. “Oh. No, thank you. I don’t smoke.”
“Do you drink?”
“On occasion.”
“I’m asking ’cause me and the crew are going out for beers at Cutters after work. You’re welcome to join.”
I could hear Gus open his
mouth to protest, so I continued before he had the chance to speak. “We’re going straight there once we wrap for the day. You in?”
“Yeah. That would be great,” he said, pleased.
“Great. See you later, then.”
“See you. Oh, and here … you’ll probably get more use out of this than I will,” Weylyn said as he handed his unused cigarette to Gus. Then, just before leaving, he added, “You know, wolves are really gentle animals if you get to know them. And I wouldn’t try to kill one with your bare hands unless you’re prepared to lose both of them.”
As Weylyn walked away, I stifled a laugh. “Oh, you think that’s funny, do you?” Gus said, tossing the cigarette in the dirt. “Why’d you invite that little piece of shit?”
“Because the crew’s going out, and he’s on the crew. What’s your problem with him, anyway?”
“I dunno, man. He just pisses me off. Like how he’s smiling all the goddamn day. Fuck the wolves. I’ll use my bare hands to slap that stupid grin off his face.”
I didn’t bother responding. When Gus started on one of his rants, it was best to just let him talk until he got bored of listening to himself. Plus, I knew we were never going to see eye to eye on the whole Weylyn thing. I thought he was an all right kid, a little peculiar maybe, but he was a hard worker and a fast learner. As his boss, that was all I could ask for.
While Gus continued to list all the ways Weylyn had offended his masculine sensibilities, I noticed something moving in the brush fifty feet away and leaned in to get a better look.
“Hey, man,” Gus said. “Are you even listening?”
“Sorry, it’s just … I thought I saw something moving over there.” My ax was leaning against the back window of the cab. I grabbed it.
Gus’s eyes widened. “You think it’s a wolf?”
“It’s something,” I said, swinging my legs off the tailgate. “You coming?”
Gus, of course, chickenshit that he is, didn’t move. “I don’t have my gun.” So much for killing a wolf with his bare hands, I thought.
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