Sunblind

by Michael Griffo

A series of growls heave out of my mouth, and I swipe at the air with a restless paw. My actions hardly scare Luba. In fact, they only make her laugh and send streams of hot, rancid breath in my direction. She’s truly foul, inside and out.

  “You stupid fool!” she cries, her feet descending onto the ground. “Haven’t you learned you cannot defeat me?”

  She starts to walk toward me, but I stand my ground. I will not let her intimidate me. I will not let her curse me again.

  “Haven’t you learned that you will never win?” she says, this time in a voice dripping with contempt. “Haven’t you learned that one day you will die because I decided it should be so?”

  No, I haven’t. And I’m not the only one who has not learned that lesson.

  We’re both surprised when the bullet pierces my skin. The blood that starts to stain my fur is a much darker shade of red than I ever expected. I fall to my side and look up just in time to see Barnaby raise the gun with both his hands and pull the trigger for a second time.

  Chapter 10

  I wish it could always be just the four of us.

  I forgot how wonderful it feels to nuzzle against Daddy’s fur. It’s like stepping into the comfort of a shadow on a hot, summer day, a brief escape from the relentless heat. His fur feels cool against the top of my head, and behind me I can feel my mother’s chest breathing out and in and out and in, a steady rhythm, a message from mother to child that one will always be close to the other. I may not always see her, but I can turn around and she’ll be right there waiting to comfort me, like an easy breath.

  That’s how I feel right now—easy and comforted and protected. We’re a huddled mass, my brother and I in the center with my parents on either side. Looking at us, it’s hard to tell we’re four separate wolves; we look like one large, alpha male, his fur a patchwork of colors. The center is split—one side is red, the other brown, spreading out to the near-black of my father and on the opposite side, the pure white of my mother. Conjoined, one color to the next, our bodies swirl together to create something new, something connected, something that can never be broken.

  But then the world begins to tremble.

  I don’t remember when the shaking started, but I remember being woken up. It felt like the ground underneath me was pushing up, trying to stand like a two-legged creature stretching its body after a long slumber. My parents were already awake, crouched low, their fur no longer flat and smooth, but thick and rigid. Turning from my father to my mother, I can see that they are ready and aware and determined to protect us. They just don’t know what they need to protect us from.

  The earth screams underneath our paws. A deep, sorrowful wail as if it can no longer contain all the pain within its soul, as if it needs to uncage it, thrust it into the world so it can be shared. But the sky above wants no part of the ugliness; it remains a soft blue, the color of the pretty birds that sing in the trees and wake us in the morning. So it falls upon us to carry the weight of the newly freed pain.

  I lurch forward and crash into my father’s shoulder, certain that the only reason I could stumble so violently is because my brother pushed me. Why is he playing games when our parents look so serious? When I turn around I see that he’s not near me; he’s several feet away, pressed so close to my mother he’s almost underneath her belly. No, I lost my balance because the ground I’m standing on has broken apart.

  My father’s snout presses into my side and pushes me back, not away from him, but away from the part of the earth that’s starting to splinter apart, starting to separate into several smaller chunks. The ground suddenly resembles a leaf that’s streaked with veins. And it’s starting to become just as fragile.

  The tip of my father’s wet nose tickles my fur. I concentrate on that wonderful feeling so I can ignore the sounds erupting all around me. I close my eyes, and the noise grows louder, which I can’t believe is possible, and the blackness only serves to strengthen my hearing, so it sounds like the whole world has gone mad with fear. I open my eyes, and it’s clear that things are only getting worse.

  Far below the earth a sound begins. It’s a low growl, the kind that I’ve heard come out of my father’s mouth when a bear or another wolf has threatened our den. As it rises closer to the surface, the sound grows in intensity. Terrified, my brother and I mirror each other and press our shaking bodies closer to our parents. Try as they might there’s no way they can protect us from the ear-splitting scream that rips through the ground and slaughters the air.

  Louder and louder and louder the howling grows, each extended note destroying another part of the ground around us. There’s a crackle to my left, and I see a small rip burrow through the dirt as easily as a beaver tunneling through mud. Before I can catch my breath the land next to me is turned into three islands that seconds ago were one flat plain. A boom to my right announces a fallen tree; a whimper behind me alerts me as to my brother’s location; the soul-scalding cries from other animals remind me that my family isn’t alone in this horror. It’s not just our world that’s being destroyed by some unseen phantom, some cruel bully, but there aren’t enough of us to fight back. We’re powerless to stop him until he grows tired of his game.

  I recognize my mother’s howl, but in the confusion surrounding me I can’t find her. She was right behind me with my brother, but now there are only rocks and dust clouds where they stood. Looking up into my father’s eyes, I can see that he’s scouring the land, but he can’t find them either; there’s no recognition in his eyes, no hope, only panic. He bares his fangs, and the howl that he releases is louder, stronger, commanding my mother to respond, defying the world around him to keep them separated. Silent, he waits for her reply, but none comes.

  He lifts his paws impatiently from the ground, his body jutting forward as if he’s preparing to run, but he has no idea where to go; there’s nothing around us but chaos. My ear is pressed against his side, and I can feel his heart beating wildly. I try to tune out all the other sounds so all I can hear is the life thumping within his chest, because I know amidst the savage destruction taking place around me, if that sound continues, I’ll be safe. Keep beating, keep beating!

  I lose the connection for a few seconds, but only because my father howls again so ferociously that his body jostles mine and we separate. Despite the command in his voice, my mother doesn’t return his cry. I push my paws into the dirt, secure my footing, and once again feel my father’s fur connecting with mine, but the link doesn’t last very long. The ground shakes under my feet, briefly, but so violently that it sends me crashing into the jagged rocks and the uprooted earth. I’m dazed, my vision blurs, and the sounds begin to fade. Everything seems to be coming to an end. And then there’s silence.

  The explosions and clatter and roars linger only as memories, a reminder that peace can and always will be interrupted. By the world below, by an unseen bully, and even by a father.

  A sound emerges from my father’s throat. It’s a horrifying wail I’ve only heard once before, when another wolf, who used to be in our pack, found the bodies of his children ripped open, lying motionless near the banks of the river. By the time I shake the stones off of me, rid myself of the debris that’s collected on my body and stand up, my father is silent once again and merely staring off into the distance. I look at him, and I’m desperate for him to look at me and nuzzle his snout against my cheek so I’ll know that everything’s okay, but he doesn’t move; he doesn’t glance at me. His eyes are soft and wet and unmoving, focused on some image in the distance. I turn to see what he’s staring at and immediately wish that I could block out the vision, erase it from my mind, but I can’t. This is my reality.

  About a hundred yards away, on a separate piece of broken land, my mother is lying on the ground, not moving, her body twisted unnaturally. Next to her, my brother keeps trying to stand up, but each attempt ends with him falling back onto the ground. The bloodstain on his forehead is growing larger, spreading across his head and down the front of his face, cover
ing his eyes. So eager the blood is to travel; so anxious it is to have its freedom.

  After a few seconds, a few minutes maybe, I’m not sure, his shaking legs give out, and he collapses onto my mother. She doesn’t move when his body hits hers; she merely acts as a cushion. But by the way my brother’s body folds into my mother’s soft fur and by the way he closes his eyes, slowly and surely, I can tell that he’s grateful that she has not left him.

  Desperate to escape the terror closing in on me, I lean into my father, and I feel that the beating of his heart has slowed down; it’s normal, familiar. But that’s the only thing familiar to me right now; the rest of the world around me is wearing a disguise. It’s foreign to me. And about to change yet again.

  Grumbling loudly, the stones and dirt and ground under and all around me tremble once more; they’re not yet done with their attack. My legs wobble as I search for steady footing, and just as I find my balance, my father falls forward and his head pushes into me, toppling me over and sending me careening toward an opening in the earth. Clutching the dirt, I dig my nails in deep, determined to stop myself from rolling. Just as my hind paws reach the edge, the shaking stops, and the earth’s movement subsides.

  The relief I feel at not falling into the black abyss only inches away is fleeting and soon replaced with terror. The parts of my father’s body that are visible, his back legs and his head, are twitching; the rest is covered by a massive tree, its thick roots swaying in the breeze like fingers, wiggling and stretching and trying to grab hold of something, anything that feels right and secure and recognizable. Looking around at this unknown landscape, I feel like the roots of this fallen tree, except that I know I’ll never see anything that looks familiar again.

  I rush to my father’s side. He doesn’t see me right away, and so his expression is unguarded. Pain and terror and anguish flit about the surface of his face. When he sees me staring at him, he immediately tries to hide the truth and replace it with the kindness I’ve always known. Stupidly I push my paws against the tree, thinking I can somehow lift it, as if my small, insignificant body could challenge something so majestic. My paws fail, so I lean into the trunk with my forehead. My father’s eyes beam with pride; it doesn’t matter that I’ll never succeed; it matters that I tried. It matters that my instinct is to protect my family, to protect my blood no matter what the odds, no matter what the chances are of winning.

  A few seconds after he dies, I feel his spirit move through me like a gentle rush of wind, and whatever pain I was feeling has disappeared, whatever wounds I might have suffered instantly heal. Even after his death my father is still protecting me, still showing me, by example, how to live.

  Looking beyond the cracks in the earth, over at my brother lying on top of my mother’s unmoving body, I know that I will protect him the way my father protected me. I can see his tiny stomach moving slightly with each tired breath, so I know he’s not dead. He’s hurt and frightened and confused, but he’s still alive. Which means there’s still a chance I can save him.

  My eyes flick open, but see only darkness. It takes a few seconds for the dream to slip from my mind, not disappear entirely, but make room for reality to take over. Shadows form, enough for me to see two pairs of feet standing in front of me. When the voices follow, I shut my eyes tight. I don’t need to see in order to know exactly who’s speaking.

  “This is what killed my father!”

  The flicker of triumph in Barnaby’s voice is quickly overpowered by his rage. When he kicks me hard in the stomach, I have to smother my cry to keep it buried in my throat so he thinks that I’m dead.

  “Go get the others so you can revel in your victory!”

  He doesn’t immediately respond to Luba’s order.

  “Show them how a son’s vengeance is undaunted!” she tempts.

  Cocky and proud, he takes the bait.

  “Stay with this thing, Luba!” Barnaby demands. “I’ll come back with Louis, and we’ll drag it to the center of town for everyone to see!”

  Barnaby’s footsteps pound jubilantly into the ground as he races back to town. His joy can be felt in each stride. He’s killed the killer; he’s avenged his father’s death. At least that’s what he thinks.

  “Get up.”

  Luba’s voice is like fire. Soft with a slight crackle, but within the depths of her sound there lies urgency, as if the fire can erupt, become wild and out of control in an instant. Despite the dull pain that’s begun to take over my entire body, I try to obey her command.

  On the third attempt, I’m able to roll over onto my stomach, so I’m no longer on my side, but it’s even harder to push myself into an upright position. My front paws seem to be collecting most of my strength, so I push into the dirt with them, but my back legs shake uncontrollably when I try to stand, and I fall back onto the ground. The next time I try, my belly gets a few more inches off the ground, but the result is the same: my back legs are too weak, and I can’t fully support myself, so once again I fall.

  Craning my neck to the right I see why I’m having so much trouble. The second bullet from Barnaby’s gun hit me right over my hind leg. There’s no way I’ll be able to stand; there’s no way I’ll be able to escape to safety before Barnaby returns. Without lifting my head, I look up and see Luba standing over me. She’s smiling, because she’s come to the same conclusion.

  “Are you deaf as well as stupid?” she asks. “I said get up!”

  You think I want to lie here until my brother comes back?! You think I want to make it easy for them?!

  “That’s exactly what I think,” Luba says, her voice filled with pure disgust.

  I’m about to respond when I’m gripped with an even stronger fear of being captured and killed and put on display so all of Weeping Water can witness the death of their serial killer, the wolf that at dawn will transform back into the girl they all thought they knew. What’s even more frightening is that Luba can speak to me telepathically. She and I are connected the same way I’m connected to Jess. That can’t be! That can’t be right! But somehow it is.

  “Fool, I created you!” Luba hisses. “I can hear your words, I can hear your thoughts, and if I choose, you can hear mine.”

  She looks at me like an outraged teacher, furious that her student is turning into a disappointment.

  “I will tell you for the last time to get up!” she cries, her silent voice echoing in my brain. “It wasn’t a silver bullet. It’s knocked your breath from you, but not your life.”

  She’s right. Looking back at my leg, I don’t see any more blood seeping from the wound. The bullet might have struck me, it might be causing me intense pain, but it doesn’t have the power to kill me.

  With renewed purpose and an increasing sense of urgency, I push into the ground once more, and, although it’s a struggle, I finally heave myself into a standing position. I can’t hold the position for very long though before my back legs begin to shake. As I lean forward, relying on my front legs to take the brunt of my weight, I feel a sensation on my hind leg, like pricks, tiny needles jutting into my skin. Wincing, I whip my head around and am once again amazed by the ungodly sight.

  Luba is saving my life.

  She is arched forward. Her long, straggly black hair hangs limp in the air and shields her face from my view, and even though I can’t see her mouth move, I can hear her voice. She’s speaking out loud now, but the words are hard to decipher, because the words are coming quickly and the sound is like a growl, born from the center of her throat, not latched to her heart or her mind, but from some borrowed place.

  While she speaks her hands hover over my leg, her long, bony fingers undulating and retracting as if pushing and pulling energy into my body. At least I found the source of the prickly sensation, but what is she saying? And why in the world is she helping me?

  My silent questions are interrupted when I see her body start to levitate off the ground. I’ve seen Jess perform this trick before, but when she does it it’s a graceful move
, a gift, a golden spray of light floating effortlessly. Luba’s different. Her body is being pulled up off the ground almost against its will by some darker force; her feet are flexed downward as if her toes are desperately trying to make contact with a surface that isn’t made of air. All she’s wearing are black slippers and a long, gray-tinged white dress, so I can see the blue veins in the tops of her feet and her ankles press against the thin veneer of her flesh. Her body seems to be fighting against this profane movement. Or maybe the action is just exhausting her.

  I can hear some words now because she’s speaking more slowly, not because she wants to, I don’t think, but because she’s gasping for breath. Stars, three, undo, beseech. Other words surround them, drip from her lips, fall onto the gash on my skin, but I can’t make them out. It doesn’t matter, because suddenly I can’t hear anything except my own howl.

  The prickling on my flesh is replaced with intense pain, as if Luba’s hands are no longer inches above my body, but burrowing deep within me, fiddling around my insides to find the bullet my brother shot into my body and rip it out of me. Instead of moving quickly, her hands loiter where they shouldn’t be, linger inside of me, and I can feel Luba’s poison.

  “GET! OUT!!”

  I don’t know if my cry causes Luba to relinquish her hold on me, or if my thrashing body makes it harder to hold me, or if she simply finished her task, but finally the pain is gone. Completely. I look behind me and see that the wound is healed. There is no gaping hole; it’s as if I had never been assaulted. And Luba looks as if she never had the strength to levitate.

  She staggers slightly, so I only see a glimpse of her face, and she’s ghostly pale. The only color is coming from the shadows in the folds of her wrinkles. For someone with such immense power, she looks like she’s going to faint.

  Despite her obvious frailty, once she sees me glowering at her, her entire façade changes. Her back stiffens, her body becomes grounded, she raises her left arm toward me, and her eyes take on that sinister combination of revenge and impish glee I’ve grown accustomed to. Her thumb and pinky touch, so only three fingers are pointed at me as her lips part to form an eerie smile.