by J. G. Cuff
“HELP ME! Atticus! Kill him!”
Atticus couldn't move. He had already wet himself, and he stood frozen, watching helplessly in horror, as his panicked brother cried out for him. He just couldn't move, no matter how badly he desired to. Tiberius screamed and punched wildly at the wolf's head, but it was no use. The beast was in a mad rage;violently tearing his arm apart. Crimson blood squirted out from the sides of its teeth, soaking Tiberius' shoulder and torso. With a loud growl and one last rip, the wolf finally tore the muscle from the bone completely, and then it stopped, victorious and dropped the flesh and a shred of dark wool to the ground. Tiberius threw up on himself and then fainted; falling backwards and smacking the back of his skull against the hard stone road.
At seeing his brother fall, Atticus' shock suddenly turned to anger; fight or flight, and he yelled out,“Leave him alone!”He ran at the black wolf with his spear tip out in front of him, and shut his eyes tightly; as he collided with the animal and felt his spear connect and sink. The wolf yelped loudly, as the sharp iron tip slipped instantly between its ribs and deep into the left lung. Atticus went crazy, pushing harder into the animal, crying hysterically, wanting it to die. The wolf growled, biting at the shaft, and Atticus let go in fear. The long barb on the end of the spear was stuck inside the wolf's chest. It backed away slowly, breathing heavily and limping, keeping its hideous white eyes on Atticus as it retreated.
Blood trickled down from its side, coating its dark fur and dripping to the stone at its paws. Atticus quickly glanced over at his brother. He was still. The black wolf lowered its head and growled with a gurgling sound, just before it fell on its right side. Its white eyes looking toward Atticus while it snapped its large teeth together with a wet clacking sound. The wolf's panting became quiet and it closed its mouth and eyes. Atticus ran, crying to his fallen brother and rested his head against his chest.
“Please wake-up Tiberius. I'm sorry. It's all my fault, I couldn’t move. I have to get you home...you are bleeding everywhere.” It was bad. The blood had flowed out around his brother's body into a large, dark pool. Atticus remembered the leather pack on his brother's back and he gently worked the single shoulder strap away from his body with his shaking hands. He opened the blood-soaked bag and quickly pulled out the small quilt that his mother had packed along for them. Atticus was no healer, but he knew that he had to stop the bleeding. Taking the quilt in both fists, he tore the corner with his teeth and then pulled it apart until he had four long rags. He then tied the pieces tightly around Tiberius' shoulder, cutting-off some of the flow. Then, with a deep breath, he tried to sit him up. Atticus pulled him by his wrists and lifted him forward into a slump. Tiberius' long hair hung down and his head wobbled while Atticus shook him.
“Tiberius you have to wake up! The sun's going down. Wake up! Open your eyes!
After a minute of no success, Atticus laid him back down and began to panic. He had to try harder. He knelt down beside his brother, turned his head away so as not to look, and then he smacked him hard in the face with his right hand. Tiberius' eyelids fluttered open slowly.
“Tiberius! Stay with me!” Atticus cried, “I'm going to get you home and we'll get help. Come on, you have to get up!” With tears running down his cheeks, Atticus helped him up onto his feet, holding his back steady. Tiberius put his weight onto Atticus' right shoulder and groaned. He was still in shock and the pain had not fully taken him yet. Soon, he would think his arm was on fire.
“We have to tell father about the wolf,” Atticus thought aloud.
“No, Atticus,” Tiberius' protested in a wheezy, labored voice, “We can never speak of this again, not to anyone. Give me your word you'll never tell. We were to never come here. If they find out that I nearly got you killed...they'll skin us both.”
“I won't tell, I promise. What do we say when Father sees your wounds?”
“We were attacked at the streams, that's all. Tell him you scared it off...you saved my life,” he moaned loudly.
Atticus felt awfully guilty. He had watched, as a wolf nearly killed his brother. He could have stabbed it sooner, but he didn't. All he wanted was for them to be at home safe. He would give every bit of strength he had now to make sure that he got them back without any further harm. One small step at a time, they walked between the walls along the stone path, closer and closer toward the darkening tunnel of twisted branches ahead.
BLIND
5
LACK. The moon's light could not reach them through the thick canopy above. The air was chilled. The temperature had dropped with the sun. Blinded by the darkness, they had stumbled for miles, feeling their way along the edges of the trees, while Tiberius agonized and cried out in pain with every step. They had already stopped several times for him to rest, and he had lain out on the ground until Atticus pulled him back to his feet, begging him not to give up.
“Don't stop! I'm going to get us home, I promise. Hold onto me brother and keep moving.” Tiberius had lost so much blood that he was beginning to slip away. To keep him awake, Atticus sang to him through his own sobbing and tears, and he kept telling him of all the things they would do together in the years to come. But the rags that Atticus had tied had all soaked through, and they were coming loose. Warm, red drops now fell steadily from Tiberius' fingertips, leaving a thin, red line of spatter along the stones in the darkness behind them.
Atticus could feel his brother weakening. Tiberius leaned onto his shoulder while they limped along, getting heavier and heavier, as his strength declined. Atticus had to literally pull with all of his strength, just to keep his brother's feet from dragging on the ground.
THE DEVIL INSIDE
6
E was bigger than all the others; a 200 pound white nightmare. The soft light of the moon was reflected in his white eyes. He curled his lips back in a growl, puffing warm air out of his wet, black snout; tasting the air around the dead wolf's muzzle.
Man blood.
The abomination that he had become...he owed that to her. She had brought his son back—for a price. Now, they were damned to serve her in an endless hunt. They had searched the realm for unknown years, along with others who had likewise been deceived. They had all found nothing. North to south, they had scoured the northern White Mountains and down the Devil's Spine, into the Void, and back again through the Sorrow Wood. An endless journey—the devil's run. And still, she insisted that it was there, somewhere. That she could feel it hiding. It was as much a part of her as they were; her vile seekers.
She owned their minds; always inside of them, watching through their eyes, no matter how far they ran. Her blood was in his veins, keeping him alive much longer than anything natural should ever have to live. This time, the form she gave him was wrapped in muscles, jagged teeth and claws, and came wholly embedded with an unrelenting hunger; a constant need for warm, torn flesh in his fangs, and the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. The liquid iron fueled their bodies.
She ran them ragged, exhausted beyond mind and muscle, until their paws were torn; driving them to rabid madness. They only ever slept when they could no longer run. They killed viciously every chance they had, to unleash their fetid hatred. She would never let them go; never let them stop until they found it. He knew that now.
The big, white wolf sniffed the rest of the body that was split between the ribs by a long, narrow spear. The two had separated earlier along the ridge. His calls had gone unanswered, and now he knew why. Someone had killed his boy. The black nose made its way around to the shaft of the spear, acquiring the stench of human hands.
Rip him apart.
The wolf's angry howl echoed through the canyon. He had the scent he needed now, and he would catch his prey. He always did.
WHITE NIGHTMARE
7
ACRIFICING their only weapon, he dropped the spear, as he needed both hands to help his brother now. Tiberius was struggling forward on his knees, mumbling nonsense like a man trapped in a fever. Atticus' arms were ti
ring, trying to hold up his brother and urge him forward in the darkness. They could hear the streams ahead, water running over rocks, not far now, another minute or so.
When they had reached the start of the old stone road where they had first found it, Atticus told Tiberius to lie down so that he may drag him by his sweater, slowly through the dense underbrush. Atticus gripped with both hands near the collar and heaved. His back was aching. The boy was exhausted. As strong as he was, he had been pushed to his limit. It broke his heart that he could not just pick him up and carry him home. Tiberius closed his eyes just as they came out from the branches and into the moonlight at the stream's edge. Atticus stopped to rest and saw his brother's face.
“Tiberius! Stay awake! I'll get you home so they can fix you.”
Tiberius reached his left hand up and touched Atticus' cheek. His hand was freezing cold. Any blood that he had left in him had gone to his chest. He tried to speak, but his lips only trembled and his arm dropped back down to his side. He opened his eyes and looked up at Atticus with the eyes of a doe, lying alive on its side with an arrow in its neck. Atticus had never seen that look before; pure agony and fear of death, and it wrenched his heart. He broke down and cried, resting on his knees, rocking his big brother in his arms.
“Please, come back Tiberius...say something. I wish I was bigger, I'd carry you on my shoulders, but I can't. I'm sorry I let him hurt you. I love you so much, please don't leave me now,” Atticus whimpered, looking up toward the stars, begging for help. “Please Father, I beg you, don't take him now... he's my only friend.......please don't take my brother.”
The sound of water rushing beside him drowned out his prayers. Atticus would remember that sound, haunting him, in the back of his mind for the rest of his life. He could see their breath, drifting out from their lips in the silver light, and he shivered to think of how far they still had to go. After a moment, he collected himself and decided that come hell or high water, he was going to deliver his brother home, alive.
They had to cross the streams first and Atticus would have to do all of the work. He moved to kneel behind Tiberius. Atticus sat him up and wrapped his arms around his waist. He took a few deep breaths and then with a loud groan, he lifted and leaned back with of all his strength, taking most of Tiberius' weight onto his legs and chest, and then he began to walk them across the frigid water.
Tiberius tried to step, but his legs were numb. Just as they had made it halfway across, his strength gave out completely and he collapsed. Atticus instantly pulled up hard against the dead weight, but he could not hold on and they both fell forward, splashing into the icy water. Tiberius landed face down into the stream. Atticus screamed and rushed to help him. The freezing water shocked Tiberius as it rushed through his nostrils and into his lungs. He choked hard, facing the bottom of the creek bed, helplessly sucking up water and sand. He did not have the strength to move. Atticus reached down under Tiberius' chest and pulled him up and over onto his back, lifting him by his shirt, just out of the water, enough to rest his head back against Atticus' knees where he choked and
spit-up water. Tiberius opened his eyes and looked up to see the yellow crescent moon above them. It was the last thing he ever saw.
The white wolf burst out from the thick brush of the stone road and into the stream, it charged toward them with a loud splashing. Atticus looked up to see the beast's head, and in reaction, he let go of his brother, stepping backwards, he tripped and fell onto a sharp rock beneath the surface. His tail bone cracked and he cried out in pain.
The wolf went straight for Tiberius who was lying on his back with his head underwater. Atticus watched in horror as the wolf bit down over Tiberius' throat. With a sickening snarl and a quick pull, the wolf completely tore the throat out from his neck. Flesh and veins dangled from its mouth, dripping blood into the fast water. It looked up at Atticus with its big, white eyes, and then went straight back to tearing the boy in the river apart. He would kill the little one next. With no way to save him now, Atticus stood, soaking wet from head to toe, and ran across the streams. If he could find the forest path, it would lead him home. Into the dark woods he ran panicked, blindly crashing through the branches. Dark clouds were drifting high overhead. The moon was leaving him, and with it, the light.
The wolf watched him; its wide muzzle dripping with a pink mix of cold water and blood. It was too dark for man's eyes in the forest. No matter how fast the child ran, he would never escape the wolf's senses. He saw everything, even in the pitch black.
Atticus breathed hard. His lungs burned like hell, and his whole body was shaking so that he could not see straight, or hold his teeth from chattering. He pushed on running as the terrain allowed, stumbling over logs and branches, scraping his hands and face with every fall, and then his leg muscles began to cramp and seize with pain.
Exhaustion and cold had finally won. Atticus tripped and fell to the forest floor, and this time, he stayed down. He slowly turned himself onto his side to keep off of the aching tail bone. Lying shocked and frightened in the darkness, breathing heavily through his chattering teeth, Atticus prayed that he had run far enough to be hidden.
Back at the streams, the wolf with the pink-stained face sniffed carefully along the tree line and soon found his mark. The fresh scent was easy to follow, just like the trail of blood, spattered for miles along the stone path. After a short run through the woods, he caught site of a moving shadow and he lowered his head, staring into the branches, with his ears cocked and tuning. The clouds were parting, and he saw the boy.
In there.
Atticus saw nothing. He only heard a snarl from the darkness behind him. It was all he needed to get back up. He ran forward in terror with everything he had, but his legs twisted in pain and his body shook in a violent, cold shiver. He heard the wolf crashing through the branches behind him, and he knew it was all over. The heavy wolf slammed into the back of his legs and Atticus fell forward, thrashing and kicking in a crazed effort to survive. As he hit the ground, he nearly crashed into the side of Rebel's leg with the wolf right on top of his back.
The scabbard was rusted, but the blade it bore was clean and razor-sharp. Gleaming in the moonlight, held with two hands, the steel flew down and hammered into the wolf's neck, severing its spine, killing it instantly. Atticus felt an instant wave of warm blood wash over his backside and his legs.
“Atticus!?”
Darius quickly pulled the dead animal off of his son and picked up the broken boy. He held him close to his breast and searched the darkness for more danger. He had heard his son's cries. The glass oil lantern had gone out when he dropped it to the ground to grab his sword. Darius had been calling their names for over an hour, searching the woods, but they could not hear him over the loud streams between them. Darius was frantic.
“Are you alright? Where is your brother?”
Atticus pointed toward the streams with a blank look on his face. And then he fell apart, crying hysterically.
REKINDLED
8
15 years later...
TTICUS SLOANE sat in his rocking chair by a warm fire, watching his five-year-old son Marcus sift through an old wooden chest full of books that Darius and Aunna had just left for him after their weekly visit. It was early afternoon in late spring. Green sprouts had begun to rise through the wet ground in the fields, and the hard ice was receding from the lakes and ponds of the Sparrow Vale.
The boy looked exactly like Atticus. His mother Alina had died in childbirth and Atticus had been left to raise him on his own. She had been his first and only love. At 25, Atticus was now a devoted and loving father. The two of them lived in a small stone house,an hour's ride west of the Sloane family farm where he grew up. The house had been given to them by Alina's father, back when they first married. He had owned the seven-acre plot and decided that it would make a perfect wedding gift. After Alina passed away, her parents blamed Atticus and they refused to see the boy. That was fine with him; they were str
ange people anyway. Atticus owned the land now.
Their closest neighbor was a successful rancher who traded in all sorts of breeds and he spent much of his time traveling, trading for and buying horses to sell back at his ranch. Atticus had been working for the man since he settled into being a father. His childhood fear of horses had long gone and he was glad to have found good work right next door. Until that year, Marcus had been staying with Darius and Aunna most days of the week, while Atticus worked the ranch. But now, Marcus was old enough to follow his father to work, feed the chickens and keep himself busy playing outside in plain sight where Atticus could keep a close eye on. He was a very protective father.
