The nurse gave him a guarded look, then pointed towards an old woman who was working at the far end of the infirmary. “Ask the völva,” she said simply, then turned back to her duties.
Völva? thought Cathal. He knew of them – a völva was a Norse seeress who had visions of the future and spoke to the gods. Kings and chieftains often called upon their wisdom for guidance in matters of politics and war.
With tentative steps, he walked towards the old woman. As he stepped closer, the völva looked up and scowled. Cathal could only surmise it was because he was a migrant. “I have a man who is injured at the logging camp. I need a needle and thread.”
The old woman turned away and did her best to ignore him. “I'll tell you the same thing I told the last man who bothered me with this nonsense. We're short on medical supplies, and can't afford to hand any out.”
“Can't afford to hand any out? Or can't afford to hand any out to foreigners?” asked Cathal through clenched teeth.
The völva turned towards him with a look of disdain. Her wrinkled face was framed with auburn hair that was more gray then red. She peeled back her lips and said, “The recent wolf attacks have strained our supplies. We only hand out medical provisions in case of an emergency.”
“This is an emergency!” he implored.
The old woman narrowed her eyes and coldly said, “An emergency for you, perhaps. Not for me.”
Cathal simply stood there, dumbfounded. He then spun on his heel, while grumbling several curses under his breath, and stormed out of the infirmary. Unbelievable...just unbelievable, he thought to himself. He stood in front of the building, unsure of what to do, until he saw a fisherman walk down the road. The man was carrying a bucket of fish. Cathal's eyes slightly widened as an idea came to him.
Turning to his left, Cathal ran towards the docks. If he couldn't get a needle and thread from the infirmary, he could at least get a hook and fishing line from the fishermen at the docks! As he approached the shoreline, he slowed down and asked several fishermen for aid.
The fishermen and dockworkers, all Norsemen, looked at him with indifferent eyes, then continued about their business, unconcerned.
Cathal looked around in desperation, when his eyes finally settled upon a familiar face – it was the old fisherman he'd met just yesterday! He was walking towards him and carrying a huge dead fish, slung over his shoulder.
As he trotted up to the man, the old fisherman waved with his free hand. “You get job as woodcutter, yes?” he asked.
Cathal held up his hands, displaying his blistered palms.
“Ah, you should have worn wraps,” said the old man, shaking his head.
“That's what they tell me,” answered Cathal, ruefully shaking his head. “I'm in a bit of a hurry. Do you know where I can get a hook and fishing line?”
The old man stopped in front of Cathal and furrowed his brow. “Yes, back in the boat. Here, hold this.” He hefted the fish off his shoulder and handed it to Cathal, then walked back to the old fishing boat that was tethered to the end of the dock.
With a look of surprise, Cathal staggered under the weight of the fish. The cod must have weighed over eighty pounds! It was a slippery thing, too. He clenched his teeth and tried to engender an air of confidence, when in fact he struggled mightily under his new burden. He impatiently waited, deciding the old fisherman was walking far too slowly for his liking, when the fish suddenly tensed and started to flap back and forth. Eyes widened in surprise, Cathal tried to hold onto the slippery cod as it jumped out of his arms.
Cathal watched in horror, as the giant fish fell from his grasp, bounced off the side of the dock, and landed in the ocean. Gone. With a look of utter dismay, he watched after the dark shadow as it slipped deeper under the lazy waves.
After a few moments, Cathal turned his head and could see the fisherman returning from the boat. The man had a confused look on his face.
As he approached, the fisherman asked, “Where is fish?”
Cathal just stood there, at a loss for words. A half mile to the north, a man was bleeding out, and here he was, trying to come up with a story on how a fish got away from him. He brought up his hand, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose. If the counsel of elders could see me now, he thought. He opened his eyes and finally said, “I'm so sorry.” His gaze then shifted to where the fish fell into the ocean.
“Fish is gone?”
Nodding his head glumly, Cathal said, “Fish is gone.”
The old fisherman laughed, slapped Cathal on the shoulder and said, “You make worse fisherman than you do woodcutter, yes?”
Cathal cracked a smile, despite himself. “I'm so sorry,” he repeated.
“Ah, you owe me a fish, then. Deal?” he said, as he pressed the fishing hook and line into Cathal's hands.
“Deal. I'll pay you back tomorrow, I promise.” Cathal then turned around and ran back towards the logging camp.
As he ran past the logging camp, Cathal could see Domyan once again look up from the campfire, studying him with mild curiosity.
“You're wasting your time,” growled the foreman, with an expressionless look on his face.
Cathal ignored him and hurried onward. A few moments later, he slowed to a jog as he saw the woodcutters gathered around the Turk. Several of the men had taken initiative and constructed a stretcher out of the branches of the birch trees.
Faolan looked up and said, “Did you get what you needed?”
Holding up the hook and line, Cathal nodded. He didn't say anything for a few moments, as he was still trying to catch his breath. Finally, as he stood beside the Turk with the broken leg, he said, “How is he holding up?”
“As well as could be expected, I suppose,” said Faolan. He then gestured to a pile of soggy birch bark. “Will that do?”
After a brief glance, Cathal nodded his head and said, “That will do. Thank you.” He then looked at the hook and line in his hand. He would need to remove the barb from the hook before he could use it as a needle. “Does anyone have a hammer?”
The gathered Slavs and Turks looked at each other, shaking their heads.
With a heavy sigh, Cathal started to look on the ground for anything he could use. Finally, he saw a hand-sized rock and picked it up. He then knelt down and straightened out the hook with his fingers. With the rock in his right hand and the hook in his left, he held the hook against the ground and tapped at the barb with the rock. After a few minutes of pounding, the barb was mostly gone. It wasn't pretty, but it would have to do.
Cathal's skill as a doctor was evident, as he expertly worked on the man's open wound. Stitching the Turk's wound shut took less than a half hour. He then took the soggy birch bark and carefully formed it around the man's broken leg.
“It will take a few hours for the cast to dry. We shouldn't move him until then.”
The woodcutters looked at each other with concern. Finally, Faolan said, “It will be dark in a few hours, and we're exposed out here on the northern edge of camp. The wolves will approach at dusk. Staying out here will put us all in danger.”
Nodding his head, Cathal pursed his lips and thought for a moment, then said, “Okay. Let's put him on the stretcher. We'll take it slow.”
Despite their slow progress, it only took a half hour to carry the Turk back to the campsite, where Domyan was impatiently waiting. The foreman stood up and walked over to the wounded Turk and spat on the ground.
“I told you that you were wasting your time,” he said, leering at Cathal. “Everyone who's survived a wolf attack out here, soon dies from the frothing disease. He'll be dead within a week or two.” The foreman then walked around the gathering of woodcutters, looking each one in the eye. “For the last two hours, I haven't heard any trees falling. I haven't heard anyone working. I suppose you all think you're getting a full-day's pay for a half-day's work?” He stopped and leaned in towards one logger's face and screamed, “IS THAT WHAT YOU THINK?”
The man stepped back an
d stammered, “N-no foreman.”
“What was that?” asked Domyan in a mocking tone, cupping his hand behind his ear.
“No foreman,” the logger repeated.
“YOU'RE DAMN RIGHT!” Domyan yelled, with his spittle flying at the man's face. He stepped back and pointed at the group. “You all want to work half a day? Then you get half-a-day's wage. Except for you.” He moved his finger and pointed at Cathal. “You get nothing. Pull that shit again and you're fired.”
Cathal clenched his jaw and kept his gaze focused on the ground before him. What else could he do? Something else bothered him. Earlier on, the foreman seemed pleased that Cathal was helping the injured Turk, but now Domyan was screaming at him for doing the same thing. It seemed as if the foreman wasn't in control of his emotions, and under the present circumstances, that was a very dangerous thing, indeed.
Chapter 4
“Half-a-day's wages...my hairy Irish ass,” spat Faolan. “We all worked an hour shy of a full day. This is an outrage.”
Several of the Slavs around the campfire shot him a warning glance.
It was Mirko, the man with the red scar around his neck, who said, “Be careful what you say, Irishman. The foreman hears everything. But then again, what do I care?” He then reached for the bottle of mead that was being passed around the campfire, and refilled his cup.
Cathal watched the man through the hazy smoke of the campfire. It was late at night, and the stars shown brightly overhead. Only a handful of men remained awake – the rest had retired for the evening. The Turkish man with the broken leg was reclining on a large log, softly snoring by the fire.
Closing his eyes, Cathal listened to the sound of burning firewood as it cracked and popped. He could hear snoring and the occasional slosh of mead, as a bottle was passed between workers. His eyes then suddenly opened as he heard the cabin door open behind him.
“Cathal. Get in here,” barked the foreman.
With an apprehensive glance towards Faolan, Cathal rose to his feet and walked towards the cabin. What could the foreman possibly want at this hour? He slowly opened the door and stepped inside the cabin. The first thing he saw was an absolutely striking young woman in platinum blonde hair, sitting on a chair at the far end of the room. His heart skipped a beat as their eyes met. Was this Domyan's sister?
“Close the damn door,” ordered Domyan.
Cathal reached out his hand and closed the door gently behind him. When he turned back around, he was momentarily startled when the foreman flicked a coin at him. He reflexively caught it with his other hand and looked at it – a silver coin!
“That's for today's work,” said the foreman. He was leaning back in his chair with his bare feet propped up on the desk.
With more than a little trepidation, Cathal tried not to wince as he looked at the foreman's yellow, jagged toenails. “But I thought-”
“Never mind all that,” interrupted Domyan. “Just keeping the workers on their toes, you understand. Don't tell the others. I don't want them to think that I've gone soft.” He reached forward to grab a bottle of mead that was sitting on the desk. He then took a deep swig and let out a long sigh. Then, as if he'd just remembered something, he lifted his hand and gestured towards the young woman. “Have you met my sister, Danika?”
Nervously clasping his hands behind his back, Cathal said, “I have not. My name is-”
“I know who you are, Irishman,” she said with a hint of amusement in her voice. “You're the doctor who has dreams of becoming a woodcutter.”
Cathal was more than a bit annoyed at being cut off for the second time. In Ireland, he held a station of high repute. He offered her a weak smile and said, “I was simply trying to help.” As he stood there uncomfortably in front of the foreman, he tried to conceal his curious demeanor. The woman was absolutely striking, with long blond hair framing her pale, angular face. Her eyelids and lips were tattooed black...such a strange look!
Danika leaned forward in her chair, canted her head and gave him a seductive grin, her black lips framing perfect white teeth. “You realize that you have just prolonged that poor man's suffering – instead of a quick death, he will now suffer excruciating pain and die slowly from the frothing disease.”
“I'm sorry. I did not know.” Despite himself, Cathal could not help but stare at the woman. It was obvious that she shared similar facial features to her brother, but the fact that Domyan's hair was black and her hair nearly white was such a strange contrast. He had never seen that color of hair on a Slavic woman.
She snorted and gave him a bored look, twirling the end of a lock of her hair with the crook of her forefinger. “I imagine you're trying to figure how I got my peculiar hair? My father was a handsome, blonde Swede. He happened to be the man who raped my mother while his war party was raiding our lands. Do you want to hear the amusing part? My mother still talks fondly of him, saying he was a much better lover than-”
“That's enough!” yelled Domyan, as he sat up and slammed his fist on the desk. “She said no such thing.”
Danika pouted at her brother. She then stood up and walked slowly towards Cathal. She put her arms around his neck and looked into his eyes, enjoying his discomfort. Outside, a wolf's howl pierced through the night. She looked over her shoulder, out the window on the far end of the cabin. “Oh, look. The moon's out.” She then gave him a dazzling smile. “Do you know what that means?”
Taking a step back, Cathal crinkled his brow and said, “Moon?”
At that moment, they could hear low growls and barks coming from outside. Urgent shouts from the loggers rang out, causing Domyan to jump to his feet. “Another attack!”
“W-What? What's happening?” stammered Cathal.
Domyan grabbed a pair of axes that were propped against the wall and threw one to Cathal. “Another damned wolf attack. Come on!” He marched over to the door and opened it, only to be greeted by two wolves staring at him with hateful eyes. As one of the wolves lunged at him, Domyan quickly slammed the door shut with a grunt. The door buckled from the impact of the wolf's charge, but held firm. He clenched his jaw and looked at his sister. He then reached for the door latch.
“No!” yelled Danika, lunging forward and putting her hands on his arm. “It's too late now. There's nothing we can do.” She quickly ran to the cabin's only window and closed the wooden shutters. She then slid the latch shut, locking it tight.
The three stood helplessly as they listened to the commotion outside. Snarls and yelps from the wolves were drowned out by the anguished screams of the loggers. Their sleeping quarters were a series of crude structures and tents that provided little protection.
The grim sound of battle rang out, as what could only be the sound of dozens of wolves running through the logging camp, snapping and yipping at the unfortunate Slavs and Turks.
Domyan grabbed an old horn from the top of his desk and ran to the door. He set his foot a few inches in front of the door frame and steeled his nerves. With an apprehensive glance towards his sister, he brought the horn to his lips, opened the door a few inches and let out a loud blare, which rang out into the night.
Once again, a wolf charged the door, causing it to bend inward and nearly snap in protest. The animal's muzzle slipped through the crack of the door, snapping and growling as Domyan struggled to close it shut. “Help me!” he yelled.
Cathal charged forward and rammed the door with his shoulder, causing it to slam against the wolf's open snout. The animal yelped and pulled back, allowing them to close and lock the door.
Through labored breaths, Domyan said, “That should do it. The guardsmen in town should be here any minute.”
Danika stood with her back against the wall, her eyes wide in dismay. “No. They'll all be slaughtered.”
“There's no help for it now,” said Domyan.
In the far distance, they could hear the braying of another horn.
“They've heard us!” said Domyan, a triumphant look on his face.
&nbs
p; Just then, someone banged on the outside of the door, screaming to let him in. The three inside the cabin cast worried glances at each other, as they could hear the snarls of wolves just outside the door, as well. Within seconds, the banging on the door stopped.
The shouts and screams from the men outside continued on for several minutes. All the while, the blaring of horns could be heard approaching the logging camp.
“This is nonsense. I must know what's going on!” said Domyan through clenched teeth.
“No!” shouted Danika.
The foreman would not be swayed. He grabbed the latch and carefully opened the door, just an inch, and peered through the crack. What he saw caused him to narrow his eyes and clench his jaw. There was a man-like thing, silhouetted by the tall flames of the campfire. The creature was hunched over, leering at him. Dozens of wolves were running about, and the ones that weren't running were feasting upon flayed and bloody carcasses.
At that moment, the guardsmen sounded their horns once again, as arrows started to whistle through the darkness. The creature in front of the campfire let out a hateful snarl, stooped down and tore off into the woods on all fours.
Domyan slammed the door shut and took a step backward.
A few moments later, it was all over. “You can come out,” said a voice from just outside the door.
“About time,” mumbled Domyan, as he opened the battered front door.
Cathal stepped forward, and his jaw went slack. What he saw was complete pandemonium. The lumber camp was a battlefield of twisted, bloody bodies. Over a dozen wolves lie dead around the perimeter of the campfire. Some of the wolves had arrows sticking out of their tough hides, while others had horrific gaping wounds from axes and swords.
A few terribly injured men were crawling on the ground, dragging their broken bodies towards the light of the campfire, begging for help. Garbled screams could be heard at the far end of the encampment.
Shadow of the Werewolf Page 3
