Wereduck

by Dave Atkinson

  The two men led Bobby along the line of doors toward the motel office. He continued to shed tears like a baby while keeping a careful eye for any sign of John or his sister.

  “Mummy’s sure going…to b–be…mad when she…h–hears about this,” he gasped between sobs.

  “I’ll give you this, kid. You put on a good show,” said Dirk. “Connors, are you sure this isn’t some local kid? You don’t recognize him at all?”

  The motel manager stopped and took a good look at Bobby. “These kids all look the same to me,” he said. “We get so many people coming in and out, I hardly remember faces. Still,” he said folding his arms, “he looks a bit familiar.”

  “Yes?” prompted Dirk.

  “Y’ain’t one of them religious folks with the camp out by that little lake, are ya?” He snapped his fingers a few times, trying to jog his memory. “What’s yer daddy’s name?”

  Bobby’s heart raced. Drawing attention to his family was the last thing he needed. He looked at the ground. “I don’t…know what you’re t–talking about. This…is my daddy,” he said, pointing at Dirk.

  A small movement behind the backs of the men caught Bobby’s attention. A hand snuck around the corner at the far end of the motel. It flashed an unmistakable thumbs-up sign.

  “Y’know,” said Bobby, wiping away his tears. “Maybe I’m wrong.” He took a good look at Dirk. “Oh, silly me. I am wrong. You’re not my daddy. Bye!”

  Bobby dashed off before Dirk or Connors could say a word. As he raced around the corner of the building, John and Kate grabbed him and pulled him into the woods.

  “That was awesome!” yelled John as he dodged between spruce trees.

  “Daddy!” mimicked Bobby, squealing with laughter. “You should have seen his face!”

  “You are both morons,” said Kate between breaths. Her face beamed, in spite of herself. “Especially you,” she gasped, punching John in the arm.

  “Damn it!” yelled Marcus. The scorching handle of the teakettle stung the flesh of his palm. He threw it to the ground, its steaming contents spilling out onto the grass.

  “I should have warned you,” said Marge, walking around the corner of the cabin with an armload of firewood. “The kettle gets a bit hot.”

  Marcus waved his hand in the air.

  “I could have seriously burned myself,” he said.

  Marge put down the wood and picked up the kettle. She gave it a shake. “There’s a bit left in here. Still want some?”

  Marcus gaped at the older woman as she held the hot metal in her hand. She grinned.

  “I must have thick skin. Care for a cup?”

  “Sure,” he replied, holding out his mug. “Lisa and Brian still asleep?”

  “I don’t expect them up for hours,” she replied, pouring the last few drops of tea into Marcus’s cup. “You certainly didn’t sleep long.”

  “I’ve never been able to sleep during the day. Funny problem for a nocturnal animal, wouldn’t you say?”

  Marge nodded.

  Marcus had barely taken his first sip when the phone in his pocket began to ring. He put down his mug and fished it out.

  “Yeah,” he answered. “Oh, hi. Where are you?”

  He listened a moment. “What?” he sputtered into the phone. He seemed agitated. He turned his body away from the fire before speaking again, this time more quietly. “Did they know who you were?”

  Another pause. “Well, that’s a relief,” he looked over his shoulder at Marge. “Look, this really isn’t the best time. I’ll talk to you later. Right. Bye.”

  He turned off his phone and slipped it back into his pocket.

  “Friend of yours?” asked Marge.

  Marcus took a sip of tea. “An old acquaintance.”

  Marge began stacking firewood. “Quite a coincidence, you running into Lisa and Brian last night,” she said.

  “Quite,” said Marcus.

  “What are the chances of two sets of werewolves finding each other in the backwoods of Charlotte County like that?”

  “Couldn’t say,” said Marcus. “But, if you figure we all came here looking for the same thing—a quiet spot away from people—it’s not so hard to believe.”

  “I suppose,” said Marge. “How long did you say you were planning on staying around here?”

  “I didn’t,” said Marcus, his grey eyes unblinking.

  “I haven’t figured you out yet, Marcus, but I don’t believe you are what you seem,” said Marge. She sat down across the fire from him.

  “No,” he said, blowing on his tea. “But few of us are, Grandmother Wolf.”

  “One, two, three!” yelled Bobby as he leapt from a rocky ledge above the lake. The wind whistled through his ears and hair as he swung out on a rope tied to an overhanging branch. He flew toward the surface of the water before his momentum picked back up and swung him high over the centre of the lake. He released the rope and fell, laughing and splashing into the clear blue water.

  “Did you see me?” he sputtered as he breached the surface. “Did you see me?”

  “Yes, but we saw you the first hundred times, too,” said Kate absently without looking up from her book. She lay stretched out on a blanket, her head resting on her backpack. John sat close by, breaking pieces from his sandwich and tossing them to a noisy flock of birds.

  Kate’s eyes drifted from her book to John. He was trying to feed a group of ducks, but a bunch of hungry gulls was beating them to the prize. Each time a chunk of bread landed within reach of a duck, an obnoxious gull dashed at it, gobbling it down in one gulp.

  “C’mon, duckies. You’ve got to work harder than that,” said John.

  “Ducks are too cool to make a scene over a chunk of bread,” said Kate. “The gulls look stupid splashing around like that.”

  “One, two, three!” came Bobby’s voice from across the lake.

  Splash!

  “Did you see me?” sputtered Bobby.

  “Bobby illustrates my point exactly,” said Kate.

  John sniffed a laugh through his nose. He tore off another chunk of his sandwich and threw it to the birds.

  Kate pretended to turn her attention to her book, Just Ducky: Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Our Web-Footed Friends. Really, she was holding a lingering glance at John, who was conveniently distracted by the birds.

  She had to admit it: he was cute.

  Just be cool, thought Kate. She searched for something interesting in her book to talk about.

  “Did you know some species of duck mate for life?” she blurted.

  That was dumb.

  “Really?” said John, genuinely interested. “I was just thinking that duck and that duck seemed to be a thing,” he said, pointing in turn to a mottled-brown female and a green-headed male. “Before I started throwing bread, they seemed to be doing couple things: swimming together, bobbing for food. But then, this chick came in,” he pointed to a second female, larger than the first, “and the guy was like, ‘whoa, who is this?’”

  “The poor duck,” said Kate, watching the smaller female swim at the edges of the group. “She looks lonely.”

  John looked at Kate. Their eyes met. He’s not looking away, she thought. She bit at her lower lip.

  “Guys!” Bobby announced as he waded through the water toward them. The group of ducks and gulls broke apart.

  “Hey, Bobby.” said John, turning away from Kate. “Did you know some ducks mate for life?”

  “Huh,” said Bobby, unimpressed. “Did you know wolves eat ducks?”

  Kate grumbled and turned back to her book.

  “What? It’s true,” said Bobby. “If you were a duck and I was a wolf, I’d have no choice but to eat you. I wouldn’t even have to apologize. It would be my nature.”

  Bobby howled and lunged at a pair of ducks who h
ad strayed too close.

  “That’s bull,” said John.

  Bobby stopped splashing.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Some werewolves make a big deal of the crazy urges we feel. That we yearn to take down a deer, or can’t stop ourselves from chasing rabbits.” He threw another chunk of sandwich. “Bull.”

  “Really?” asked Kate. She put her book aside and sat up.

  “Really,” said John. “When I’m a wolf, I’m still me. With fur.”

  Bobby furrowed his brow. “But, I kind of want to chase rabbits and stuff.”

  “Then chase rabbits!” said John. “But don’t blame it on being a wolf. Sounds to me like you just like chasing rabbits.” He smirked. “Hurray, a hobby! Go find a rabbit to chase. You’ll love it.”

  John plunked beside Kate and smiled at her. A tiny flock of ducks took off in her stomach. She leaned her shoulder into his.

  The sound of wheels on gravel drew their attention to the camp’s driveway. A beat-up yellow station wagon pulled in and parked beside the cabin. A dark-haired woman in cutoff shorts and a grey tank top emerged from the driver’s seat. She pulled a pair of oversized sunglasses from her face and scanned the camp. She spotted the group by the lake and gave a friendly wave.

  “Katie! Bobby! Hi!” she shouted. She walked toward them.

  “Aunt Bea!” replied Bobby. He ran toward her and wrapped her in a dripping-wet hug.

  “Who,” whispered John with big lusty eyes, “is that?”

  Kate’s eyes narrowed. Her heart fell to her stomach. She waved to her carefree, intelligent, and beautiful aunt.

  “It’s my Aunt Beatrice,” said Kate. “Aunt Bea.”

  “Wow,” gasped John.

  Kate felt like a small brown duck swimming around the edge of a pond.

  Laughter drifted like smoke above the campfire. Empty plates, dirty with the crumbs from Kate’s birthday cake, lay scattered about.

  “Fabulous cake, Mum,” said Bea. She licked the last bit of frosting from her fork. “How you manage to bake a cake like that over the coals of a fire, I’ll never know.”

  Marge winked. “Slather enough icing on anything and it’ll taste all right.”

  “Hear! Hear!” said Brian.

  The sky was clear. The moon was rising. Everyone was in a fabulous mood. Everyone except for Kate. She tried to join in the excitement, but she felt none of it. Just the dull ache of a girl watching the boy she likes fawn over someone else.

  John sat next to Bea. He peppered her with questions. He laughed too hard at her jokes. The fact that Aunt Bea was oblivious to John’s gushing only seemed to egg him on.

  Kate looked at the meagre pile of gifts that sat beside her. Her family had a rule about birthday presents: they had to be homemade. This saved them from making needless trips to town, with the side-benefit being gifts that were more personal, more thoughtful.

  Her mother had bound pages together into a small book and written in it some of her own favourite poems.

  Her dad had attempted to knit her a scarf. “It’s not quite done,” he said sheepishly as she unwrapped the tangle of red wool.

  “I love it, Dad. Thanks.”

  He brightened. “I’ll finish it before it gets cold this fall. I promise.”

  Bobby’s present looked like a stack of pine cones held together by sap.

  “It’s modern art,” he announced.

  Her grandmother gave her a card made from heavy, cream-coloured paper. Inside, she’d sketched a duck tucked into a nest of reeds. Beneath the picture read the caption Quiet Dignity.

  Kate looked up at her grandmother and smiled.

  “So, are you ready for tonight, or what?” asked Bea, pulling Kate back from her thoughts.

  “I guess,” Kate shrugged.

  “You better be. I drove two whole days to be here for your first wolf night,” she said. “Where are we going to do this?” she asked, looking at Brian.

  “About a ten-minute hike up that way,” he said, pointing north. “There’s a small clearing on a bit of a hill with a full view of the southern sky. A nice spot to see the moon.”

  “Sounds perfect,” said Bea. She beamed at Kate. “This is going to be a blast.”

  Kate smiled. She really wanted it to be. A big part of her wanted to be excited about being a wolf, to feel like she belonged.

  “Oh, John,” she said, remembering something. “Were you going to tell your dad about that Dirt Bag guy?”

  John shot her an urgent look that could only mean shut up. Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

  Marcus nearly spit out his tea. “What?” he said, looking at John. “Dirt Bag? Are you sure?”

  John nodded.

  Marcus cursed beneath his breath. “And were you planning to tell me?”

  “I didn’t…think,” began John sheepishly.

  “Who’s Dirt Bag?” interrupted Lisa.

  “Dirk Bragg,” explained Marcus. His face was grim. “A reporter with a trashy tabloid called Really Real News.”

  “Do you think he’s here because of us?” asked Lisa.

  “Well, he’s their self-appointed werewolf reporter, so, good guess,” said Marcus.

  “I don’t think we need to worry about him,” said Kate, trying to sound casual. “He was leaving town. He said the locals here put him on a wild goose chase about werewolves.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear,” said Marcus, still seeming uneasy. “How did you hear that?”

  John and Kate looked at each other. Their minds raced to find a way to tell the story without mentioning that they’d broken into his motel room.

  “He was at the table next to us at the diner,” sputtered John. “We heard him talking on his cell phone. He left town in his truck after that.”

  “That’s not how it happened,” said Bobby. “I thought you guys said you heard him when you were in his—”

  Kate clamped a hand over Bobby’s mouth. “Yeah, Bobby’s a bit confused because he was in the bathroom when we heard him,” said Kate. She looked her brother in the eye. “Right, Bobby?”

  Bobby mumbled something under her hand. She removed it.

  “Right,” he said. “Bathroom.”

  “Even so,” said Lisa, “I don’t want to take any chances tonight.”

  “Me neither,” said Brian looking at his watch. “We’ll have to have a good look around the woods tonight before we head to the clearing. The last thing we need is a reporter snooping around.”

  “But he said he was going home,” argued Kate.

  “Better to be safe. And we’ll have to keep quiet tonight in the woods. One howl each, to transform, but after that, we’d better keep our voices down.”

  “No howling?” asked Bobby. He looked dejected.

  “You’re not even a wolf yet, Bobby. What’s the problem?” asked Kate.

  He shrugged. “I like the howling.”

  “You won’t miss it,” said Marge. “You need to stay in the cabin tonight.”

  “But Grandma!”

  “No buts,” she said.

  Bobby deflated.

  Kate looked at Marcus. He wore a serious face. And he was staring at her father.

  “Brian,” he said. “What would you do if you ran across Dirt Bag tonight in the woods?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Brian. “Probably duck behind a bush and hope he hadn’t seen me. And start packing. There’s no way we can stay if he knows we’re here.”

  Marcus shook his head. “I’ve done that too many times,” he said.

  “What else could you do?” asked Bea. “He puts us in his paper and someone is going to believe him. The more people who believe, the less likely we’ll be able to live in any sort of peace.”

  “I think I’d sleep a lot easier at night if he wasn’t around
to tell anyone about me,” said Marcus. The whole group went silent.

  “What are you suggesting?” asked Lisa.

  “I’m not suggesting anything,” said Marcus. He stood up and dumped the dregs of his tea into the fire. “I’d just like some of that peace Bea was talking about.”

  He turned and walked away.

  The sound of breaking glass echoed through the old, empty house. A hand reached through the newly broken windowpane in the door and felt around blindly for the deadbolt. When it found what it was searching for it snapped open the lock.

  Bits of broken glass crunched beneath Dirk’s feet as he walked into the house. He looked around. Dusty strips of floral wallpaper hung in the hallway. An old wooden table, its top stained with a mixture of age and whatever had been dripping from the ceiling, was the only piece of furniture in the kitchen.

  Dirk stood in the middle of the kitchen and turned slowly around. A thick layer of dust covered the checkered linoleum floor. The refrigerator’s rounded corners—which must have, decades ago, given it a futuristic look—screamed 1950s décor. Dirk approached a calendar on the wall. The date on the page locked the entire house in April of 1983. This place had been empty a long time.

  “Perfect,” said Dirk, dropping his bag in the corner.

  The old house was just what he needed. He’d been looking for an empty spot to set up in: a house whose owners had long abandoned this part of the country in search of jobs further west. When he’d spotted the moss-covered rooftop peeking through the trees along the road as he drove around the area, it seemed too good to be true. But it was clear now that no one had set foot in the house for years. That, and it was only about a kilometre from the werewolves’ camp.

  He rummaged through the house for supplies. In a drawer in the old parlour he discovered most of an old candle. He stuck the butt-end into an empty bottle he’d found in one of the bedrooms and lit the wick. He placed it on the kitchen table; its warm flickering light filled the growing darkness of the room.

  Dirk sat on the wooden crate that he’d dragged into the kitchen to use as a chair and began to peel a banana. Through the window over the sink, he could see the sun hanging low in the sky.