Faolan watched him for a few moments, then walked towards another group of trees, mumbling under his breath, “Where did that damn dog run off to?”
Cathal kept his mind on the task at hand. After a time, he fell into a comfortable rhythm. Despite the physical exertion required, chopping wood was boring, mindless work. To compensate, his mind often wandered, thinking about trivialities. Was there a daily quota? When were they going to pay him? Could the foreman be trusted?
During his contemplations, he would often look up and wearily gaze into the forest. Wolves were out there somewhere, watching. Waiting. He shook his head and continued on. Several times an hour, he would hear another tree in the distance fall to the ground. At midday, he heard a horn sound off in the distance. Time for lunch.
Looking down at his hands, Cathal could already see blisters forming. He leaned his ax against the birch tree and proceeded to pop a few blisters, wincing as the clear fluid streamed down his hand.
As he wiped his hands on his trousers, he saw movement from the corner of his eye. He quickly glanced to his left and right. Nothing. The foreman then blew the horn a second time.
Cathal picked up his ax and slowly walked back to the main camp, cautiously looking over his shoulder every few moments. He could smell the pine logs of the campfire burning just up ahead. Hiking down the last stretch of trail, he saw Faolan and the rest of the woodcutters just up ahead. Biter ran towards him with a big grin on his furry snout.
“I see you found Biter,” said Cathal.
“Aye. She likes to wander off. Come get some food, before it's all gone.” Faolan pointed to a spit over the campfire.
“Smells good,” noted Cathal. “What are we eating?”
With a mouth full of food, Faolan said, “Reindeer. Always reindeer.”
This brought a few grunts of laughter from the Slavic men. Then one fellow with a raspy voice said, “Not always. Sometimes we eat wolf.”
Cathal gave the man an apprehensive glance. He then cut a few strips of meat from the reindeer and sat down next to Faolan. Hungry beyond measure, he eagerly dug into his plate of food.
“Let me see your hands,” asked Faolan.
Resting the plate of food on his knees, Cathal raised his hands, palms up, revealing multiple blisters and contusions.
“Ah, hell. I forgot to tell you to wrap your hands. That's going to hurt tomorrow.”
“Huh. Not just tomorrow.” Cathal shrugged his shoulders and continued to eat. As he ate, he stole a few glances at the other men, curious as to who he was working with. Most of the men were of Slavic descent, with black or brown hair and angular features. They were dangerous looking men – their arms and faces were crossed with multiple scars and abrasions. The three Turkish men look equally formidable, with piercing eyes and menacing dispositions.
Noticing his curiosity, one of the Slavic men, the one with the raspy voice, said, “You're an Englishman, eh?”
Cathal looked up from his plate. “Irish.”
“Huh. What brings you all this way, Englishman?” said the man with the raspy voice.
Studying the Slavic man, Cathal could see that he had a long red scar across the entire front of his neck. From a noose, perhaps? “I'm just trying to earn enough coin for passage back to Ireland.”
“And why did you leave your country in the first place?” asked the man.
“I'm a doctor, and there was money to be made with all the wars brewing to the south. I worked my way eastward through the Frankish kingdoms, until I found myself in a small town on the southern shores of the Baltic Sea. I waited for two months in that town for passage back to Ireland. During that time, only one Norse captain was going in that direction, and he wanted too much money. I eventually found cheap passage to Birka.”
“Huh,” grunted the man. He coughed and winced, then he reached up and rubbed the front of his neck.
As the foreman stepped out of his cabin and walked towards the campfire, he said, “Never mind Mirko. He doesn't trust Englishmen or Irishmen. Hasn't trusted them since they strung him up for stealing horses. Isn't that right, Mirko?”
The man with the red scar grunted and kept his eyes on his plate.
“Let me see your hands,” ordered Domyan. After Cathal set down his plate and held up his hands, Domyan let out a long whistle. “That's what I like to see! Someone who knows how to work. You should have wrapped your hands.”
“So I hear,” replied Cathal, chagrined.
Domyan approached the spit and tore off a chunk of reindeer meat. Not bothering with a plate or utensils, he looked at the northern woodline as he chewed, making grunting noises every few moments.
Cathal noticed that the woodcutters seemed restless around the foreman. They quietly ate their lunch as Domyan paced around the campfire.
“You.” Domyan pointed at one of the Turkish men.
The man slowly looked up with more than a little apprehension in his eyes.
“I want you at the northeastern edge of camp, where the alder trees are. We just got an order for alder wood.”
Nodding slowly, the Turkish man set his eyes on his plate.
Domyan looked at the man for a moment, as if deciding to say something else. He then grunted and threw his handful of reindeer meet into the campfire. With measured steps, he walked back to his cabin and slammed the door shut behind him.
With a crinkled brow, Cathal looked at Faolan, who kept his head down and offered a single warning glance. Don't ask.
After lunch, the men retrieved their axes and returned to work. Cathal struggled to keep up with Faolan, who was walking with purpose. Biter trotted alongside him, seemingly unconcerned.
“What was that all about?” asked Cathal.
Faolan raised his eyebrows and let out a sharp exhale. “Domyan can tell when one of his loggers isn't pulling his weight. He puts them on the northern edge of camp, where all the wolf attacks have been taking place. That's why he placed you up north – you're new, and you need to prove yourself. If you work hard for a few weeks, he'll probably relocate you to another area. At least that's what he did for me.”
“What did the Turkish man do?”
Shaking his head, Faolan said, “I have no idea. He works on the other side of camp. But it's no secret that Domyan favors his Slavs. Not one Slav has worked on the northern edge of camp in months.”
“When was the last wolf attack?”
Faolan unconsciously peered into the woodline. He spoke in a low, conspiratorial tone, barely audible. “Last week the wolves brought down a Turkish man just to the northeast – the same place Domyan ordered that man to cut down the alder trees.” Then, he pointed to the left, and in a louder voice, he said, “I'm stationed over there, to the west. Do you remember where those birch trees are?”
Cathal nodded.
“Good. If you see any trouble, just yell out a warning and run towards the south. They're not paying you to be brave.” He then turned to his left, and walked down a narrow trail, with Biter following happily behind him.
Cathal watched after him for a moment, then continued northward. As he walked, he mulled over his current prospects. He was convinced that staying as a logger would eventually get him killed. This was a job for desperate men, not a respectable doctor. He couldn't get a job working the copper mines, the infirmary, or the docks, simply because he was Irish. There was a chance he could get a job as a reindeer herder, but that job was just as dangerous as being a woodcutter. He shook his head in agitation. He knew this assignment was going to be dangerous, but not this dangerous.
Up ahead, he could see the cluster of birch trees he was working on. To the left were the half-dozen logs he had already cut down, neatly pruned of branches and stacked in an orderly pile. With a heavy sigh, he hefted his two-handed ax and started chopping. After three swings of the ax, he stopped and let out a sharp laugh. He was so caught up in tales of wolves, that he forgot to grab some rags to wrap his hands with. Cursing himself for a fool, he continued to chop awa
y at the birch trees.
Several hours later, the sun was still hanging high in the sky. It was June, and the sun didn't set until late in the evening. What time did they finish work?
Cathal looked down at his hands and snorted. The palms of his hands were raw and bleeding, with the first few layers of skin peeled off. After work, he would need to go to the market and pick up a poultice for his wounds. A mixture of myrrh and calendula flower should do the trick, he surmised.
Cathal suddenly looked up from his hands, startled. What was that? A sound...off in the distance. Was someone yelling? He turned his head slightly to the left and right, trying to get a bearing on the faint noise.
There it was again! Someone yelling, coming closer. He gripped his ax in both hands and stood with his back against a cluster of trees, furtively scanning the woodline. As he stood there apprehensively, he remembered Faolan's words: They're not paying you to be brave. A part of him wanted to break and run to the south, but he stood his ground, despite his misgivings.
He then saw movement in the woods up ahead. Peering closer, he could see the Turkish man running towards him, flailing his arms, screaming. Cathal took a tentative step backward. He then saw what the man was running from – three wolves, panting and smiling, enjoying the chase.
Chapter 3
Every few strides, the Turkish man would turn around and wildly swing his ax, trying to keep the wolves at bay. The wolves would deftly leap to the side, avoiding his clumsy attacks, and continue pursuit.
Though his instincts begged him to flee, Cathal instead broke into a run towards the man. He could see the Turk's eyes were wide with terror, pleading for help.
In a coordinated movement, one of the wolves attacked the man's left side. As the Turk swung his ax in defense, another wolf sneaked up to his right side and sunk its teeth into the man's leg. Cathal could hear the snap of bone as the Turk fell forward and skidded to a stop, his arms and legs flailing in a cloud of dirt and leaves.
The wolves started to swarm on the man, biting and pulling. Their ears then stood erect, as Cathal let out a bloodcurdling scream and lunged at the closest predator.
Startled at the new arrival, the wolves deftly scampered away a few paces, then turned around. Deciding the odds were still in their favor, the savage animals crept forward as Cathal forcefully swung his ax in a menacing arc.
“Ya! Ya!” he screamed, as he swung his ax before him.
The wolves nimbly kept out of range as they circled around to a flanking position, heads low to the ground and growling. Seeing an easy opportunity, one of the wolves turned its attention back to the Turk. The wolf lunged at the man and received a kick to the snout for its efforts.
As the wolf let out a sharp cry and jumped back, Cathal saw an opening and swung his ax at the nearest wolf. The blade sunk into its neck with a satisfying thud. To his horror, Cathal saw another wolf lunge at his left side, as he tried desperately to pull his ax free from the twitching carcass.
At the last second, Cathal let go of the ax and held up his arms, shielding his face. Expecting to be barreled over by the wolf's charge, he was surprised to hear a yelp, as the wolf was knocked out of the air mid-leap by Biter! The wolfhound, easily fifty pounds heavier, pounced on the wolf and closed its jaws around its neck, snapping it cleanly. The two remaining wolves quickly turned around and tore into the woods, cutting their losses.
Cathal put his hands on his knees to steady himself. After a few heavy breaths, he stood up and retrieved his ax. He then walked over to Biter and patted her on the head. “Good girl,” he whispered.
The Turkish man was holding his leg, screaming. The man's thigh bone was snapped in two, and was sticking out of his leg by several inches. The rest of his leg bent backwards at an unnatural angle.
Gripping his ax, Cathal once again scanned the treeline, ready for another attack. He then saw a shadow move in the far distance, close to where the wolves had fled. Squinting his eyes, he saw the shadow glide between the trees. It seemed to peer back at him with intelligent eyes, then vanished.
That was no wolf, was all he could think.
After a few tentative moments, Cathal heard something crash through the woods behind him. Spinning around, he saw Faolan and several other men running towards him. With a sigh of relief, he dropped his ax and knelt down beside the Turk and started to tend to the man's wounds.
“What happened?” asked Faolan. His head swiveled around, scanning the woods around him. He was breathing heavily and perspiring, his eyes wide.
“What do you think happened?” retorted Cathal, grimacing as he tried unsuccessfully to jam the Turk's leg bone back into place. Blood spurted onto his face and chest in rhythmic pulses, as the doctor tried to stabilize his patient.
The Turk was screaming, trying to push Cathal away.
“Grab his arms and legs!” ordered Cathal, as he held up his hands, shielding himself from the Turk's ineffectual blows.
Faolan quickly grabbed the Turk's arms, while the two Slavic men each grabbed a leg. The Turk was now gasping and crying, looking to the sky for a savior that wasn't there. His body then hung slack, as he fell into unconsciousness.
Cathal looked up and addressed the man who was holding the Turk's left leg. “Gently pull on his leg so I can fit the bone back in place. Quickly, before he wakes up.”
The woodcutter gritted his teeth and turned his head away as he pulled back, sickened by the unnatural give in the man's leg. He gasped and clenched his eyes shut, then said, “Hurry.”
Shifting his gaze to the south, Cathal could see Domyan slowly walking up the trail towards him. Shaking his head, he then looked down and set his mind to the task at hand. He clenched the Turk's thigh with his right hand, while pushing the bone back into place with his other hand.
After the bone popped into place, the Turk's eyes shot open and he let out a gasping scream; it was an eerie scream that had no breath behind it. He then fell back into unconsciousness.
With a deep breath, Cathal wiped his hands on his tunic, then motioned for the men to gently set down the Turk's arms and legs. “We'll need to construct a splint or a cast,” he said in a quiet voice. Then, looking at the pile of birch logs, he added, “Take your axes and scrape off as much bark from those birch logs as you can.”
“Why?” asked Faolan.
“It's an old trick I picked up a while ago. We'll soak the birch bark in water, until it gets soggy. Then we'll form the wet bark around the Turk's leg. As it hardens, it will form into a cast. It's as good as a splint – better, in my estimation.”
Faolan and the two other loggers started to dutifully cut thin strips of bark off the birch logs.
“I also need someone to run to the infirmary and fetch a needle and thread. I need to sew the wound on his leg before we put on the cast.”
By this time, Domyan was standing next to the unconscious body of the Turk. The foreman was chewing on a short twig and had a bored look in his eyes. Casting his gaze to the north, he said, “Just another day at the logging camp, eh?” He let out a low chuckle, then pointed at one of the woodcutters. “You. Run to the infirmary and get a needle and thread.” He then knelt down, rested his arms on his knee, and said, “He's going to make it, then?”
“He should make it. Provided the wound doesn't get infected.”
Nodding his head in an unconcerned manner, Domyan said, “Know of anyone else who needs a job?” He then laughed and slapped Cathal on the back. “Just kidding. You did a good job here. Didn't realize that I was getting a doctor as well as a woodcutter when I hired you.”
“Well, you can thank the Norsemen – they don't hire outsiders.”
Domyan stood up and spat the twig out of his mouth. “Thank you, Norsemen,” he said to no one in particular, softly chuckling to himself. He then said, “Let me know if you need anything else.” He then walked back to camp, hands clasped behind him, whistling an old Slavic tune as he went.
When the foreman was out of sight, Cathal shot a gla
nce towards Faolan and said, “He seems in an unusually good mood.”
Faolan shrugged his shoulders and said, “Domyan's mood runs hot or cold. You never know what you're going to get.”
About a half hour passed before the logger finally returned from the infirmary. He had a forlorn look in his eyes as he said, “The völva who works at the infirmary refuses to hand out medical supplies.”
“What?” barked Cathal. “Why not?”
The Slavic man looked troubled. Finally, he scratched at his neck and said, “They don't like to waste medical supplies on foreigners.”
Cathal looked at the man in disbelief. He then gritted his teeth and said, “We'll see about that!” Breaking into a run, he raced southward, towards Birka.
In a matter of minutes, Cathal ran past the logging camp, where Domyan was sitting by the campfire. The foreman raised his eyebrows as the doctor ran past him, not even slowing down to acknowledge his presence. Domyan then snorted, as he watched the doctor run into the distance.
Damned Northerners, thought Cathal, as he raced towards town. He was starting to perspire heavily under the hot sun. He slowed his pace to a jog as he reached the outer edge of town. A few of the villagers looked at him with mild curiosity as he hurried past.
He slowed to a walk as the infirmary finally came into sight. Taking deep breaths, he tried to steady himself before he opened the door. Angry accusations wouldn't help him acquire the medical supplies he needed, he reminded himself.
The infirmary was a longhouse set on the northeastern edge of town. Shutters were propped open, letting out the acrid smell of diseased and dying men. As Cathal opened the door, the smell of septic miasma nearly overwhelmed him. It was a stark contrast to the crisp air of the logging camp.
Stepping inside, he noticed several rows of cots that lined the length of the longhouse. Nurses were busily walking about, administering to sick patients. The patients were all Norsemen, Cathal noted. Steeling his resolve, he walked towards one of the nurses and said, “I have a man who's suffered a broken leg at the logging camp. I need supplies.”
Shadow of the Werewolf Page 2
