“You shyster! You beast!” he cried as he bucked Adam off his chest and crept toward the doorway. The wolf seized him at the calf, pinning him to the floor. Adam came around, bit into his ear and pulled, tearing the skin back through his scalp. The tanner screamed as Adam spit the fillet to the floor. The wolf lapped it up, mopping the floor with its tongue, wanting more. As the tanner squirmed, biting the cold air with teeth that chattered in pain and betrayal, Adam rolled him to his back and locked onto his throat. The tanner slapped until his arms weighed down like limbs made of oak, and the wolf returned to bite into his side.
“Beast!” the tanner cried as Adam tightened his bite. “You are the beast.” A snap collapsed the throat, pushing out a spate of blood on his lips as his eyes rolled with liberty, becoming just marbles in an ivory bowl. Adam swallowed and rubbed his neck as the tanner’s stubble slid down his throat, scratching like fiber.
The wolf came up to the head, catching the threads of flesh in its teeth where the ear once hung, and nuzzled in until it exposed the skull at the base of the neck. Adam pet the creature as it sunk its teeth into the body, warping it, shaking it like a mother committing infanticide, and knelt down beside it.
“Chien” Adam, the beast, called the wolf as he stroked it.
~ 32
Fierro turned the key to the trunk and opened the lid, bringing out a rifle rolled in an old sea flag. He unwound the cloth and laid the weapon across his lap, cocked back the firing rod and ejected the munitions. Then he opened the chamber, unfastened the stock, removed the firing pin, and bore out the receiver. Afterwards he ground the head till the iron sights fell out their groves, and inserted a hollowed piece of metal taken from his lathe in place of the barrel. Next he removed the trapping from the butt of the rifle and downgraded the ejecting mechanism to a simple spring and metal sliver that fed the bullet from the top. Fierro packed the cartridges with faux ammunition, then set the bag aside as he prepared another with nets, stakes, rope, a hunting knife, and a second blade for pairing. As he set the weapon into his sack he turned toward his bench, brought back a tool, screwed out the sling swivel and replaced the leather strap with one made of cloth.
Fierro laced up his boots, locked his door, and slipped into the woods before the sun rose over the hills. Lemurs hung their paws from the branches like moss, curling up as Fierro passed their roost, while gnats slapped into his face and buzzed in his ears.
Nothing would be as gratifying as humiliating that boy and the cronies that shielded him. Honor wasn’t birthed, it isn’t a gene begotten by blood. It was earned, bred into man through hard work, leavened with virtue. Fierro thought of the hard times mooring the boats at sea when the sails went flat, of the cannon fire deafening in his ears as the trenches turned into moats of fallen comrades. None of this Luis earned, the little brat.
A speck of sunlight landed in his eyes as the clouds opened. Fierro expected to make his destination by late morning, to set his camp, prepare his traps, and capture his game. All the enmity aside, he found indulgence in the hunt, stalking the wild, living in the spirit of his ancestors who hunted with spear and stone. Everything about it pleased him, from the crisp air to the insulation of the woods, and the fidelity of the forest to yield all its power in its scuffle against man. Nothing was fixed, no politics, no interests, everything being as it appeared.
The captain reached the beck where he laid his equipment, erected a shade hut, and set his snares downstream. Then he took a hatchet and lopped the shoots from a stump, ripped out a patch of fern at the edge of the river, and packed the hollow trunk with green bedding.
Trout punched the air with their bodies and fell back into the foam as water cracked over the rocks. Fierro shaved a branch down to a point, fashioned rope out of dogbane, and bound it to the butt of the sharpened stick. He nicked a few notches the width of his fingers, and set the instrument in his hand. He waited for another fish to flog the open air and threw the stick as shadows darkened the water. The rod sung with a flat whistle and speared through the fish.
Fierro wrapped the string around his wrist and brought it to the shore, cut the rope and with it bound the kill to the rod, then built a tepee and hung the game at the vertex. Next he gathered some dry brush and shaved a brick of magnesium into snippets, then ground flint till the metal clippings sprung with fire. The fish browned as he turned the rotisserie, seasoning it with wild herb. He pulled the paring knife and fig from his sack, split the fruit, squeezed the juices across the fillet, and tossed the bunched skin into his mouth.
As he took the fish off of the broil a sharp snap echoed from downstream, followed by a transitory scream. Fierro took his sack and pulled out a net, hunting knife, and other equipment to set on a log, then ate his supper and washed everything used for his meal in the stream. Then he went off into the woods till the sound of the stream began to taper, and started setting his trap. He climbed a tree and set up a pulley with dropped rope, dug out a shallow pit, and staked the net into the soil. Then he covered the contraption with scrub and primed the trap with a counterweight.
Fierro returned to his camp and packed his belongings, then headed downstream where the snare was set. A jack rabbit lay at the end of the line, its body’s lower half floating on the edge of river. He cut the game free and stuck it in the sack.
Fierro took the hare to the trap and laid it out on the net. He opened the artery at the neck, compressed the chest till the heart relinquished a few hardy spurts, and went back to his sack. He took out the rifle and smashed it against a boulder until a not a single piece could be redeemed. Then Fierro crept under the vegetation, lathered his skin in mud to abate his scent, and waited till the evening when the sun sat low again on the western sky.
~ 33
Hagar’s thrashing in bed woke Miss Jansen. She lit a oil lamp, donned her slippers, and took the cudgel off her night stand. She paced to the door, pressing her ear against it, then pushed the door open with the butt of the baton.
She stepped out with the lantern raised and the cudgel armed. Shadows slipped in and out of the light as Miss Jansen listened to the midnight wind whose voice was darkness. Hagar stirred and thwacked the air with groans. When the nurse reached him he was clammy, a corpse harboring a soul. Winds cavorted in the curtains above his bed.
She went to close the window and saw Cyril leaning against a wall across the way, tipping a flask into his mouth. Terror flew through her as she stumbled back into the bed and toppled over Hagar. The giant huffed in pain as the nurse overturned the bedpan, messing the sheets and soiling the rug, and ran back into her room where she sat curled on the floor with her cudgel primed.
A young nurse ran into the room and sank to her side, massaging her shoulders as her voice dissipated like teardrops in the sea. Miss Jansen sat staring at the doorway, waiting to see that man again, mesmerized till the young nurse brought her hand down and pried the weapon away.
“It’s alright, Miss Jansen” the young nurse said as she moved the hair from her face and dabbed a moist sponge across her forehead. “Go home. It’s alright. Rest. I came back for my scrubs when I heard the commotion. I saw you already set out the medication. I’ll dose him and clean the mess. Take the night.” Miss Jansen raised her eyes to the nurse then turned back to the doorway.
“He was out there” Miss Jansen said. “Watching. I saw him. Just right there. Through the window.” The nurse looked over her shoulder, then back to Miss Jansen. Straightened out her apron and went to the window. She pulled back the curtains as moonlight pierced the glass, pooling over Hagar’s face, and dropped them again, releasing the giant back into the shadows.
“No one is there” the young nurse replied. “Now go. You won’t be any good to us, or Hagar, if you aren’t rested.” The young nurse put the wand back in Miss Jansen’s hand. “Take it if it’ll make you sleep better” and raised her to her feet.
Poor old thing, the young nurse thought as she turned back toward the window. Who was there?
~ 34
A boar woke Fierro at the witching hour, kicking and blaring like a hellion under a crucifix. Fierro checked the restraints on his trap, fastening his knots with water, causing them to swell, and walked over to his catch. The woodland animals hid in their crooks, watching from afar as the pig bucked and twisted like di on a roulette wheel. Fierro flicked the line leading to the pulley, watching it twitch like spider web, and unsheathed his knife. The hogs eyes swirled about, clogged with fear and rage, as the captain’s shadows grew on it.
Fierro knelt by its side, set the blade on the ground, and placed his fingers on the net. He bent his head and offered a hunter’s benediction, then took up his knife, ruled the creature by its tusk, and stuck the beast, fouling the heart till the head hung back in the net.
He packed away the netting and fastened the hog to a branch by its hind legs. Fierro blood let the swine, then opened the gut, plumbed the heart out, and fetched the remaining bits until the bones lay in a fleshy cradle. He pickled the organs to mask their scent, then buried them in mud and packed the top layer with cayenne and vinegar. Afterwards, the captain took cheesecloth and basted the insides with salt and sugar. Taking a paring blade, he hemmed the fur from the meat and set the pelt aside. He basked the game in balsamic and pepper, oiled the inside of the pelt, then sutured the hide back over the carcass.
The hunt was finished. He anchored his spoil higher up the branch, wove his net with leaves to fashion a blanket, and laid in the brush to stargaze. The stars reminded him of the seas, and the winds the waves. He missed the redundancy of the sea life, from the supper calls to the waking bell, the men’s squabbles and sour draft, to the cadences they sang and the rites they’d send off their dead to the bottom of the sea by.
Then his mind turned to Luis. Damn that child. Who was he to mettle in the affairs of men? The forest is a harsh and unforgiving demon that chews men and spits them back out in a wad of tears. Degenerate.
And how dare he entertain the idea of wooing Gabrielle. The foolish boy was out of his league. No two opposites could be further apart, not the sea flats from the clouds, or peace from war.
The day she would be his is the day heaven and hell unite, Fierro swore.
~ 35
The beast stepped back into the castle with Chien at his heels. Blood drained from his lips, leaving a trail of wine drops. The ghosts of his servants followed him, pulling at his soul, measuring it to tailor a robe of thorns for their king. Chien spun at his feet as the beast walked to his throne and rent the curtains behind the stage. He bunched the linen and set them at the foot, then coiled up in them with the wolf lying at his side. Warmth crept back into his body like leeches spitting blood back into the wound. An hour passed when he opened his eyes to the grandfather clock across the hall. Its wooden tongue licked away seconds, swinging a spade that dug into time, when the beast closed his eyes again.
Adam, the grandfather clock said. Feed. Bell. Crown. Ting. The beast turned on his side and the clock echoed again. Worth. Adam. Worth. Cogs. The beast rose, carrying the wool on his shoulders until he stood before the ticker. He pressed his hand against the face until the hands broke, and threw it to Chien.
“Feed!” the beast snarled. Chien ran its nose over the pieces, pulling the scent of oil and cherry heartwood into its snout, then turned back from its master to the bedding.
“My lord?” Schubert called. “Is that you, sire?” The beast dropped the curtain and ran behind the pillar. The cook came out tossing yeast caked hands in a dirty rag. Chien rose from the bed with a low growl and stepped down the stairs. Schubert dropped the hand towel and ran back into the kitchen. The beast charged after the cook as Schubert slammed the kitchen door and set the drop lock bar. The beast rammed the door, wound back and charged again until the plank opened to a fisher of light.
“No!” Schubert screamed as he armed himself with a skillet. “Leave! Go away!” The beast crammed his face into the opening and Schubert dropped the cookware, bringing his hands to his cheeks. “My liege?” he sighed.
The frame rattled as Schubert lifted the drop bar and pushed the door out, finding his king as bare as a drunken sailor. The beast stepped in as Schubert took a towel from the pot rack and offered it. The beast dropped the rag. The cook bent down to retrieve it and met the wolf’s eyes as he rose. Its muzzle vibrated and its teeth chattered in hunger.
The beast rushed Schubert, shoving him over the chopping block and sending sparks across the floor as the saucepan slid into the fire. Schubert anchored his hand beneath the beast’s jaw, holding his neck free of its teeth. He reached for the rolling pin and clubbed the beast across the temple, then turned to his stomach and found a clever. The chef rose to his feet as the beast staggered to stand upright. The wolf circled around, cutting off his passage to outside the kitchen. Schubert slammed his elbow into the window, shattering the ice off the lock, and brought it half open. He climbed the preparation board and flung headlong into the snow. The beast hopped up the table and found the cook shuffling in the snow for the knife. Then Schubert stood and ran across the yard on a limb made lame in the fall.
“Chien!” Adam barked. The wolf pulled away from the kitchen and sped out the door. The beast turned back to the window. The cook was near the gate when Chien entered the yard. Schubert dragged his crippled limb like a broken prosthetic and Chien leaped across the snow in hurdles. The wolf caught him just outside the arch as the winds carried a shrill cry back inside.
The beast ran from the kitchen and entered the court where Schubert’s body laid; it rested like a piece of meat cut from a dull blade. Chien disappeared into the woods and the beast followed. Hunger rose from his gut into his blood and merged like sin with his soul.
Death pressed from his fingertips as he touched the leaves and split the branches, finding nests empty. The beast forged around the forest, digging back holes and pulling old moss beds from the dents beneath the roots, starving and stranded for meat.
Then an odor hit him, stronger than cumin. He passed between the trees and came upon a camp. Dry brush smoldered in the fire and a hog carcass swung from the tree. Then the beast saw it was he stepped forward, a man beside the fire.
There slept Fierro.
~ 36
When the sun mounted the hilltop, like a flag raised on the mass, the forest opened again with lizards skirting about patches of moss and insects bumbling through the air. A bout of cold wind came through the trees and splashed Fierro's face. After he dressed his boot and consigned his tools with their sacks he looked about the camp, taking pride in the compass of his work, when he saw the spindle of intestines dug up and messed across the ground. The captain let down his sack and dropped to his knee.
What kind of creature did this? He found tracks around his equipment and followed them to where he bunked. It looped around his bed, making several passes, and stepped away. He lifted the leaves with a knife and, judging by the way the clay was brushed, saw human footprints clouded in fur. He dropped his other knee and took a sample of the mud, finding a thread of hair hanging off the end. He wiped the blade on his pants and stepped in the tracks around the camp.
Its gait was the width of a man’s. Fierro stepped around his bed, following in its pattern, toes turned inward, facing the bed as it circled. He stopped. Nothing stalks prey this way.
After he examined the area he moved to the pit where organs spread across the floor like dissected worm. He took his knife and lifted the flesh, finding fissures in the tissue similar to the grid of human teeth. Nothing computed, not the footprints, nor the indents left from the teeth, or the way it stalked his camp and most specifically, him. Fierro kicked the remaining botch into the hole and followed the tracks into the woods.
Fierro kept his knife on point. This creature mystified the man who thought himself a guru over nature. He went until the tracks fizzled out. As Fierro turned to leave he found the last memento. A bloody hand print hung on a piece of bark pulling. The lines blurred in the same brushing sweeps, a palm
plagued in fur.
Fierro pried the bark off with his knife and opened his satchel. Then he stopped. Fierro stared at it. What if? He bent down, took a rock from the ground, and hammered the evidence with the butt till the collage of blood and fur crumbled into chips, then threw the stone. He looked down at the piece of obliterated bark.
Nothing can substantiate Luis’ claim.
~ 37
Gabrielle hung onto Fierro's arm, like a boat docked to the pier at the forecast of a storm, as Luis approached with a badger pelt sewn across his vestment. The captain lifted his drink, rolling the olive around the bowl, and watched Luis blunder his way through a group of ladies. It’s baffling, Fierro thought, a woman’s allegiance turns like the tides of the sea.
“Tally-ho” Luis said. He bowed to Fierro, then took Gabrielle’s hand and kissed her wrist, contending his eyes with Fierro. “Madam.” Luis turned his eyes to her and laid a second kiss.
“What have you there?” Fierro asked, tapping the stole crossing his chest. Luis opened his mouth to speak but Fierro continued. “Small game is good sport for the youth. I personally endorse this program for our young.” Luis hammered his fingers into fists as his face grew pink, and nostrils flared like dilated pupils.
“The mayor, my uncle, thinks I have all the makings of a great hunter. Of course this is just small game. I wouldn’t flaunt want to flaunt at your ball. Remember, captain, he is a man of good rapport. Like my uncle” Luis said as he turned back to Gabrielle, “refined taste runs in our blood. May I, Mademoiselle?” He offered his arm and Gabrielle took leave from Fierro as the two entered the court.
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