by Rick Hautala
At the edge of the forest, he halted. Dropping down onto his belly, he stared in wonder at Old One, who sat cross-legged on the ground in front of his wigwam, and the strange-looking thing that sat beside him. This new creature was the one making the click-click-click sound. After watching them in silence, Brother Wolf guessed that this must be a Human Being, the creature Old One had created so there would be someone who could enjoy his creation as much as he did.
In form, the Human Being looked exactly like Old One, only much smaller. Brother Wolf guessed that he would barely measure up to Old One’s knee when they both stood. The creature’s skin was the color of red clay and as polished as a smooth stone found on a riverbed. Whereas Old One’s hair was white, the Human Being had long, sleek, black hair that reminded Brother Wolf of what his own coat once looked like before it turned gray and wiry. The longer Brother Wolf watched this Human Being, the stronger his spite became until, before very long, he began to think how wonderful, how absolutely exhilarating it would be to feel his sharp claws and teeth tear and shred that smooth, red skin. But Brother Wolf knew he could never destroy Old One’s prized creation because Old One could see into his heart and would know that he had done it.
“Don’t hide out there in the forest like a culprit,” Old One called out. “Come and join me and Redman.”
Brother Wolf stood up slowly and, puffing out his chest proudly, strode into the circle of Old One’s campsite. All the while, Redman sat hunched over, rapidly striking one piece of stone against another. Small sparks flew to the ground with each click, making Brother Wolf shy away.
“Is his magic as powerful as yours, Old One, that he can create stars to sprinkle in the sky?” he asked.
“Watch,” Old One said, nodding.
Before long, one bright spark dropped into the small nest of dried leaves underneath the rock. Leaning forward and puffing his cheeks in and out, Redman blew on it gently until a tongue of flame leaped into the air.
Brother Wolf watched in amazement as the flames rose higher. Here, indeed, was a wonder! Old One had taught this creature how to bring down to earth the fire that lights the sky. Brother Wolf’s heart grew sour with envy as he looked from the fire to Old One and said, “Why do you do this? You never taught me how to make fire.”
“You are afraid of fire, as any sensible creature should be,” Old One replied after taking a long puff on his pipe. Redman sprinkled more dried leaves onto his fire, then gently placed small twigs in a wigwam shape over the blaze.
Brother Wolf’s heart twisted with jealousy. “I have also heard from my brother animals that you have taught Redman how to carve rocks into sharp points and fasten them to sticks that fly silently through the air and kill,” he said. “Why do you do these things for him and not for me, who was your friend long before this Human Being was created.
Old One leaned back on one elbow, looked up at the scarlet glow of the sunset, and solemnly shook his head.
“Your senses are keen, Brother Wolf, and your muscles are strong,” he replied. “Your claws are sharper than any arrowhead, and your teeth cut deeper. You have no need for any other weapons.”
“But I am curious, Old One,” Brother Wolf said, suspiciously eying Redman and his fire, which now blazed high into the sky. “Why do you teach him these things?”
“Just look at him. He is naked and weak, and he needs all the help I can give him,” Old One said with a trace of sadness in his voice. He drew long on his pipe and blew out smoke until it filled the sky, covering the dark red of the sunset.
“Who is to say that I, too, do not need protection,” Brother Wolf said, his voice barely above a low growl. Green jealousy filled his heart and glowed in his eyes. His strong shoulders tensed as he looked at Redman whose long, black hair was as sleek as Brother Wolf’s own fur once was.
“In the wintertime, I too am cold,” Brother Wolf continued. “If I did not fear fire, I would love to bask in its warmth in my den. And there are many creatures who want to kill me...some for my flesh, and some for my fur. True, my senses are keen, and I am a swift runner. My claws and teeth are strong and sharp, but have you considered that I might also need more protection?”
Old One laughed so loud the trees around his campsite swayed and almost toppled to the ground. The water in the river rippled and rose high upon the riverbank. Trembling, Brother Wolf flattened himself to the ground, prepared to feel the crushing weight of Old One’s anger fall upon him.
“Who—?” Old One shouted between rising gales of laughter. “Who in the world do you need protection from, Brother Wolf?”
“From Little Brother, for one,” Brother Wolf said, still trembling with the fear of Old One’s wrath. “Every five years, he and his children come out of the caves and feed on me and my children.”
“This may be more your fault than mine,” Old One said. His eyes glowed brighter than the sunset as he leaned forward and glared at Brother Wolf.
“Be content with what you have,” Old One said, “for I have given you much, and I will give you nothing more.”
Cowering, Brother Wolf backed away from Old One’s campsite and, without another word, disappeared into the night-drenched forest.
2
“There he is. That is a Human Being sitting there beside the fire.”
“Fire...feel hot.”
“His name is Redman. He is what you were supposed to look like, Little Brother, until Old One decided to punish you and send you deep underground.”
“He look...strong.”
“But not as strong as you, Little Brother,” Brother Wolf said. “No half as strong as you!”
Brother Wolf snorted with anticipation as he glared at Redman, then swung his gaze over to Little Brother, who crouched beside him at the edge of the forest. Brother Wolf could smell the fresh blood of a recent kill still dripping from Little Brother’s mouth onto his chest and arms.
“Imagine it,” Brother Wolf whispered to the creature beside him. “You should be enjoying the warmth of that fire instead of crouching out here in the cold darkness with me.”
“Imagine... No imagine,” Little Brother said, shaking his head. “Hungry.”
“Redman is under your power,” Brother Wolf said with a tensed and taunting voice. “Old One made all of creation—except for me—for you to devour.”
“Yes...hungry... Now!”
“But—”
Deep in his heart, Brother Wolf knew that he wanted Little Brother to kill Redman, but something also told him that Old One could see clearly into his heart and would know that he had put Little Brother up to the deed. Finally, he admitted to himself that he could not withstand the wrath of Old One, so he said, “But we must leave now. Redman has weapons that will kill us before either you or I could get near him.”
“Hungry!” Little Brother said with a sniffing growl that filled the night.
“No!” Brother Wolf said sternly. “You must leave the Human Being alone. He was made in Old One’s image, and we cannot hurt him.”
“Not hurt... Eat!” Little Brother said.
Brother Wolf bared his teeth and let loose a wild bark that startled Little Brother, who scuttled off into the darkness, squealing. Brother Wolf contentedly watched him disappear into the night shadows, unaware that the sounds he had made had alerted the Human Being, who now stood up and was watching Brother Wolf with an arrow notched on his bowstring. Redman steadily pulled the arrow back to his ear and took aim. When Brother Wolf turned and saw this, his heart went cold.
“No, don’t kill me, Redman,” he said. “I am here to protect you. Little Brother wanted to kill and eat you, but I have driven him off.”
“You lie,” said Redman. “You are jealous of me. I saw it today at Old One’s campsite, and I see your envy even now, glowing bright green in your eyes.”
“No. That is not true,” Brother Wolf said.
“How can I trust you when you have such a lean, hungry look in your eyes?” Redman said just before releasing the bow
string. In one instant, there came the slick whistle of feathers slicing the air; in the next, the stone-tipped arrow pierced Brother Wolf’s left eye and buried nearly half of the arrow shaft deep inside his brain. Without a sound, Brother Wolf dropped to the ground, dead.
3
“You may come out of the shadows,” Old One called out late that night when a stirring of brush awoke him. He crawled out of his wigwam and sat by the door, straining to see in the lingering glow of his campfire.
“Come and speak to me, Redman,” Old One said more sternly. Although he could see into the Human Being’s heart, he could only see imperfectly. He knew that Redman was trembling with fear in the dark, but he didn’t know why.
There was another, louder rustle of brush, and something silvery slipped out of the forest and into the clearing of Old One’s campsite. For a moment, Old One was startled. The earth trembled beneath him as he stirred, unable to believe the testimony of his own eyes.
“Is it you, Brother Wolf?” he asked.
Filling his lungs with the night air, he blew a gust of breath onto his fire, making the flames roar back to life. In the sudden glare of light, he saw what had deceived him. Redman stood there with the bloody skin of Brother Wolf draped over his shoulders. Brother Wolf’s lower jaw had been removed, and his face leered sightlessly at Old One from the top of Redman’s head.
“This was not a wise thing to do,” Old One said, realizing immediately what Redman had done. “I gave you gifts so you could protect yourself. Brother Wolf was never your enemy.”
“He came to my campsite. He sneaked up on me in the dark,” Redman said. “When I saw him, he lied to me and said he had saved me from Little Brother, who wanted to eat my flesh.”
Old One sighed heavily and shook his head.
“Come to me, Redman,” Old One said, as he eased himself back into a sitting position. “One thing about you that still amazes me is that I cannot see as clearly into your heart as I can into the hearts of all the others of my creation. I don’t always know what you think and feel.” He sighed heavily. “Perhaps it is because we are so alike, you and I.”
Redman was silent as he stood at the edge of the firelight, watching Old One cautiously as he patted the ground beside him, beckoning Redman to come and sit.
“Or perhaps I cannot see clearly into your heart because I am old and tired,” Old One said sadly. “Come and sit here with me. Now that you have Brother Wolf’s skin, you have taken on his powers and abilities. You are Shaman.”
Old One sighed so deeply a moist wind blew over the land. Rain-laden clouds gathered in the night sky.
“I had hoped that my gifts would also make you kind and wise, but I see now that I was wrong. Suspicion, not compassion, appears to be the stronger force in the heart of a Human Being.”
He leaned forward and, smudging his forefinger with ashes from his fire, he beckoned again to Redman, who lowered his gaze as he approached and sat cross-legged on the ground in front of Old One. He wrapped the heavy gray wolf pelt tightly around him as though he feared Old One would take it from him.
“This bothers me that I can’t see clearly into your heart, Redman,” he said as he poked his forefinger first into one of Redman’s ears, then into the other. “Among my gifts, I gave you the gift of speech, but from this day forward, you and your children will no longer be able to speak with your brothers, the animals. You will hear them, but you will not understand what they say. And this is because you did not believe what Brother Wolf said to you when he spoke the truth.”
As he said this, tears for his lost friend spilled from Old One’s eyes and carved a new river into the land.
CHRYSALIS
Fall, 1972
1
“You know, from this far away, if you squint your eyes, doesn’t it sorta look like an ant hill?” Stan Walters said.
He and his older brother, Chet, were lying back on their elbows on a grassy slope, watching the Maine state highway construction crew at work. Both boys had heard plenty about the project to straighten out Route 25 south of their home town of Thornton. Day after day, their father complained about how many extra miles the detour added to his commute to work in Portland. In the distance, bulldozers, dump trucks, and men moved through billowing clouds of yellow dust that rose like sulfurous smoke into the heat-hazed July sky. All sound was lost in the distance except for the blaring beep-beep-beep of the backing-up warning buzzers as the heavy equipment carved away the hillside.
Stan’s eyes darted back and forth as he tried desperately to keep track of all the activity. “Look at everything they’ve dug up. I’ll bet I could find some really neat rocks for my collection down there.”
“You know what I think?” Chet said lazily as he slid a spear of grass between his two front teeth and smiled. “I think you’ve got rocks in your head!” He waited a second, then swatted Stan on the shoulder. “Just kidding. But you know what really pisses me off is how they’re ruining Watchick Hill. Damn! There ain’t gonna be nothing left of it by the time those assholes are through.”
Stan smiled at his older brother’s use of profanity. Chet had just turned thirteen, and he took every opportunity to swear like a pirate whenever there weren’t any adults around. Chet’s swearing in front of him made Stan feel older, accepted—well, at least a little bit.
“I know, but look up there. See all those holes in the hillside?” Stan said excitedly. “There’s gotta be more than twenty holes up there where they’ve been blasting. I think they might have opened up into a whole bunch of tunnels or something. I can just imagine the different kinds of rocks they’re turning up—”
“Yeah, and I can just imagine the reaming we’re both gonna get if we’re not home in time for supper,” Chet said. He hoisted himself to his feet, brushed off his butt, and started down the grassy slope to the road where Stan had left his bicycle. “And if you don’t get your sorry ass moving, I’m gonna take your bike and ride it home.”
“The hell you are!” Stan yelled as he leaped up and started running.
The race was on.
Chet had a good head start, and even though Stan knew it was hopeless, he ran full tilt down the hillside, his arms pumping madly as he chugged through tall, summer grass that whipped at his legs, threatening to trip him up. He watched in frustration as Chet easily outdistanced him. Once he was beside the bicycle, Chet turned and crossed his arms triumphantly over his chest while he waited until Stan was no more than ten feet from him. Then he picked up the bike by the handlebars, spun around on his heel, and started running. After a few quick steps, he vaulted onto the seat and started pedaling furiously. Derisive laughter curled like a scarf over his shoulder as he sped away.
“Come on, Chet!” Stan shouted. “That’s not fair!”
His breath came into his lungs hot and hard as he cupped his hands on his knees and leaned forward, expecting at any second to puke his guts out. Sweat poured down the sides of his face and stung his eyes. His lower lip was trembling as he watched his brother easily put distance between them. For several pounding heartbeats, he watched helplessly, waiting for Chet to turn around and come back, but he rounded the curve and disappeared out of sight without a backward glance.
“Fuck you, you bastard,” Stan muttered, shaking a clenched fist at the empty road. It was safe to swear—Chet was too far away to hear him, anyway. But he wasn’t about to start crying.
No way!
Crying was for babies!
2
After a quick supper of a hamburger, French fries, and green beans—and a brief tussle with Chet for taking his bike—Stan went up to his bedroom. He got his flashlight and the burlap bag he used to collect rocks from his closet and ran back downstairs. As he raced out the front door, he shouted over his shoulder to his mother that he was going outside to play.
“Where are you off to?” she asked.
“Just out,” he replied, letting the screen door slam shut behind him.
He was halfway down the walk
way to where Chet had left his bike when his mother leaned out the front door and called to him, “Just make sure you’re home before dark!”
Pretending he hadn’t heard her, Stan slipped the flashlight into his hip pocket, wrapped the burlap bag around his handlebars, and started pedaling furiously down Elm Street. He had only one goal in mind; he had to get out to the construction site and check it out now that the highway workers were gone for the day. This was probably his best chance to find some new rocks for his collection.
His feet were a blur as he sped around the curves and up and down the gentle slopes of Route 25. The closer he got to the construction site, the more his excitement rose. It felt like a bubbling gush of cool water inside his chest. In spite of the cool evening air washing over his face, the exertion made him break out in a sweat. When he saw the flashing yellow warning lights up ahead, he squeezed the hand brakes, coming to a skidding stop just before the road changed from asphalt to hard-packed dirt. He swung off his bike and walked it along the stretch of stripped highway.
The hillside was strangely quiet in the gathering gloom of evening. White barricades with flashing yellow warning lights lined the strip of gravel the workers had laid down for the road base. Along both edges of a long, deep trench were round, black metal balls. The wicks at the top flickered with fat orange flames that gave of thick curls of sooty smoke. The yellow dust had settled, skimming everything with a hazy coat that reminded Stan of the scum of pine pollen that floated on Little Sebago Lake when he went swimming in early summer.