So, I have several stories on the go at present and one in particular that I want to move forward with but keep getting hung up on my own prejudices about werewolf stories (not serious prejudices, just really, your going to write about wolf packs, study them, they are not the same as packs of domestic dogs (or even part breeds) and alpha dominance theory used by some so called trainers is not how a wolf "alpha" works... )... The story is very simply a take on Red Riding Hood or more accurately Peter and the Wolf .... This is the opening section...
Ten years ago......
‘Run!’
The command landed in the adolescent wolf’s brain with
shattering force, breaking his concentration and making him yelp out loud; at
the sound the rabbit he had been patiently stalking disappeared into the
darkness. Before the warning tone of the
Alpha’s voice fully registered with his mind his oversize paws were carrying
him deeper into the heart of the forest.
The low branches lashed his body as he sped past,
there was no marked pathway but as he twisted and turned between the trees soft
tufts of undercoat snagged on pine needles, leaving an obvious trail. His long gangly limbs gave him the speed, if
not the elegance, of an adult wolf.
He ran blindly, the command was just to run, no
direction had been given. ‘Father,’ he
pushed out the thought into the darkness around him, but there was no
response. The silence frightened him;
where were the rest of his pack? His
heart beat fast in the deep cage of his ribs; his breath came in short pants
through open jaws, the dark pink tongue falling between his teeth.
The sharp crack of gunshot echoed suddenly through the
darkness to his right. Instinctively the
young wolf changed direction; charging away from the sound. His paws scrabbled over the debris of the
forest floor, small stones and twigs digging into the soft pads under
them. He could feel the burn in the
muscles of his hind quarters; he didn’t have the stamina to keep up this pace
for much longer.
A second shot came from behind him, followed swiftly
by a pained howl. The young wolf came to a shuddering stop. Turning towards the sound, his ears forward
facing on his head, hackles rising in a ridge over his shoulders, tail held out
stiffly behind him he let out a deep growl.
Another shot, and this time silence in response. Something in the wolf’s mind seemed to snap,
he recoiled with a whimper, crouching low on the ground and curling in himself
as though in pain.
Frozen in that moment he knew with certainty that his
Father, the Alpha of their pack, was dead.
The mental anguish was numbing, his limbs felt leaden, his body
cold. The only sounds in his world were
the pulsing beat of his heart and the ragged gasping of his breathing.
‘Keep moving.’ The voice in his mind startled
him. The quiet command lacked the power
of the Alpha, the tone was overlaid with an aching sadness.
‘Mother,’ the young wolf acknowledged as he drew
himself up from the ground, his own thoughts choked with emotion.
‘Run my son, run, we are not safe yet,’ the voice was
little more than a whisper. Staggering
slightly he set off though the trees once more, shadows chasing around him in
the darkness.
He didn’t hear the soft metal snick of the catch on
the trap releasing, or feel the bite of the sharp teeth as they closed around his
right forepaw. The first realisation
that something was wrong was when he tumbled forwards, pitching over onto his
right shoulder and rolling into the base of the tree, his spine impacting with
the roughened bark of the tree trunk as the chain attached to the trap pulled
tight from its setting and tugged painfully at his trapped limb.
He thrashed around on the ground in blind panic,
trying to dislodge the trap, to free himself; not only of the metal but of the
pain which now rolled over him in nauseating waves. His eyes rolled in his head as his breath
came in shallow snorting pants. On
autopilot he mindlessly worried at the stout metal chain that bound the trap to
the ground, his razor sharp teeth making no impression.
On the verge of exhaustion his movements stilled. He could smell the blood dripping from his
leg; tentatively he bent his head forward and started to lap gently at the
wound, held in the vice like grip of the trap’s metal bite. He could feel the pulse of the thick liquid
on his tongue, as though his life itself was leaking away from him. Slowly his vision started to blur, his body
shaking as he succumbed to the shock.
The night sounds around him faded away from him until he could only hear
his own whimpers in his head. In the
distance a sharp noise made his ears twitch, a memory tugged at the remnants of
his consciousness as he slipped slowly into the darkness.
*********
The sound of the farm truck slowly approaching down
the dirt track from the forest towards her cottage interrupted the old woman’s
musings as she pruned back the rosebushes that twined into a living archway at
the end of the garden path. Stepping out
of her own property onto the edge of the track she waited for them to reach
her.
“Good morning,” the driver smiled down at her from the
raised seat as he switched off the engine.
“Morning Jack” the woman inclined her head but her
clear grey eyes never left his face. “You’re up and about early today.”
“Well no,” he replied a snort of laughter. “The boys and I are up rather late, made a
night of it out in the forest and a successful night at that.” The woman raised her eyebrow, as much at the
man’s prideful tone as his words, but said nothing.
“Can I tell her dad?” The blond haired young man
sitting in the middle of the truck’s bench seat between his father and another
of the foresters asked, his face splitting into a cold smile, his green eyes
lighting up with the same pride that showed in his father’s face. Jack nodded to his son. “We got them, the wolves, finally we’ve got
them.”
The woman paled slightly at his words. “Did you indeed,” she replied curtly, not
trusting herself to say more for fear her voice would shake.
“My son’s got a damn good eye,” Jack ruffled his son’s
hair. “He took down the big male with a single shot.”
The woman swallowed quickly as bile rose in her throat
at his words. As casually as she could
she asked, “You said wolves, you got more than one?”
“Oh yes, we got the pair of them, the bitch was canny
but we got her in the end.”
“Were taking them to the village square, dad says we
should show everyone.” The woman’s right
hand curled into a fist at the young man’s cheerful declaration, desperately
she fought down her anger and smiled as best she could.
“Of course, you have to show the people that the big
bad wolves are dead,” her voice sounded cold and insincere to her own ears, but
none of the foresters noticed, to caught up in their own achievements.
“Oh yes, they’ll be free drinks in this for us no
doubt,” Jack laughed as he turned over the engine again and pulled away. As the vehicle passed the woman’s eyes filled
with tears, lying on the open truck bed were the broken bloodied bodies of two
adult wolves.
As soon as the truck was out of sight the old woman
fled back to the cottage, snatching a small cloth bag from the back of the
kitchen door and slinging it over her shoulder as she bustled through the
property and straight out of the open back door and across the lawn. She slowed a little after she moved through
the wooden gate set in the dry stone wall, her eyes scanning the edge of the
forest not fifty yards away.
“Where are you?” still moving she whispered the words,
her eyes glazed over as though she wasn’t looking immediately in front of her
but rather deep into the dark shadows of the trees. With a sudden jerk of her head she picked up
speed and ran forwards, angling slightly to her left, her eyes still unfocused.
Slowing down occasionally and searching the forest
with those unseeing eyes she kept moving ever forwards, deeper and deeper into
the forest. She stumbled over the uneven
ground, clambering over fallen tree trunks, but always moving forwards towards
the direction in which she stared.
By the time she started to slow she was breathing
heavily, the exertion of her run catching up with her, reminding her that she
was no longer as young as she once was.
Turning slowly in a circle she scanned the ground in
front of her until, with a dozen swift steps she darted forwards and fell to
her knees, beside the body of a young man, who lay, naked, on his side, curled
into a ball against the base of the tree.
Slowly the old woman reached forwards towards him,
stroking her hand over the tangle of dark brown hair and down his neck, pausing
as she felt for a pulse. She slowly
released the breath that she hadn’t realised she’d been holding as she felt the
blood pump beneath her fingers, faint, but racing through the vein.
“Hey, can you hear me?” she shook the young man’s
shoulder gently as she spoke. The young
man responded with an involuntary shudder as he tried to curl more tightly into
himself at her touch. “Stefan, listen to
me.” The woman spoke more firmly taking hold of his shoulder again and shaking
lightly. At the sound of his own name
the young man’s head snapped up, his eyes opening and meeting those of the old
woman. Very slowly he began to uncurl
his body, stretching out as though he were testing his limbs. He shivered violently, even as thin sheen of
sweat broke out over his body, a low whimpering sound coming from his mouth.
“We need to get moving,” the woman encouraged, running
her hand down towards his hand. With a
piercing scream the Stefan’s eyes rolled backwards and he went limp. It was then that the woman noticed the trap;
its metal jaw snapped tightly shut around the tender flesh of his lower arm,
just above his wrist. A weak trickle of
blood ran over the loose brown hairs that were trapped between its teeth,
dripping onto the forest floor.
The old woman
carefully took hold of the trap, lowering it, with Stefan’s wrist still
entrapped, base down to the floor. With
her other hand she lifted a large stone from the ground before swiftly bring it
down onto one end of the trap. The
vicious metal mouth sprang open. Stefan’s scream sounded more like the howl of
a suffering animal.
When the noise died away tears ran down his face,
causing silver trails through the dirt smeared across his cheeks. Slowly, supporting his injured arm, the old
woman coaxed him to his knees. From the
cloth bag she produced a square of material which she swiftly fashioned into a
makeshift sling.
“I daren’t wrap your wrist,” she muttered staring down
at the trap. Her eyes suddenly snapped up to meet Stefan’s, “whatever you do,
don’t change form,” she warned. “They take their folklore seriously round here,
they might laugh away the children’s stories of werewolves hunting these woods,
but those teeth are tipped with silver.
Shifting won’t speed your recovery, but it could well kill you if the
silver gets into your veins.”
Removing her own jacket and bundling him into it the
woman carefully lifted Stefan to his feet.
“We need to get moving,” she gently wrapped her arm around his narrow
shoulders and propelled him forwards.
“My parents?” he asked weakly after they’d gone no
more than a hundred yards. Despite the
question, when the old woman met his eyes there was no hope in them.
“I’m sorry,” she replied shaking her head, her grip
around him tightening as she gave him the answer he already knew. “Let’s go sort that arm out.” Tears formed in her eyes as she felt his
shoulders shake under the protective curve of her arm.
*****************
“What now?” Stefan asked sleepily, the mild sedative
she’d given him whilst she cleaned up the jagged wound on his wrist had not
knocked him out completely.
“Now, you rest, you recover.”
Stefan closed his eyes and sighed deeply, “and then?”
he whispered before the combination of the medication and the trauma of his
ordeal overtook him and he slept.
“Then,” the woman replied softly as she rose from
where she had been perched on the side of the bed, “we find you a pack and you
move forwards, you live.”
***************
