The Wolf in the Attic

by Paul Kearney

  Then I hear the ticking of Pa’s watch. And I cannot believe how loud it sounds – louder than the beat of my own heart. That is my life, ticking past.

  It is not much of a life, all things considered, but it is my own, and I am beholden to no-one for it, not anymore.

  I owe the world nothing, and whatever the world gave me it has taken away again. I do not even have shoes to wear, or Pie to hug.

  And that knowledge is suddenly a terrible relief to me. Whatever else happens, I am free.

  ‘No’ I say to the thing in the night. And I wipe my eyes on my sleeve again.

  The eyes sharpen, and an edge creeps into the hemlock voice.

  ‘Do you know who I am, child?’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Then you know that I can give you what you want. It is here for the asking.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be real, whatever it is you think you can give me.’ My voice shakes a little. ‘I won’t take anything from anyone. Not now. And if I die I want to go to heaven, and meet them all again. In the meantime, this is me, here, and it is all I am. And you can’t have it. No-one can.’

  The hand is withdrawn, and the silver eyes stare at me – so cold – like there is an arctic waste blowing behind them.

  ‘I have seen brave strong men who do not have half the heart you possess, girl,’ the thing says. It hunkers down before me, its knees level with its ears.

  ‘And that is what makes you so precious to me. You are a strong soul, full of your mother’s courage. And your father’s failings have only made you stronger. How fine you are.’ He reaches out the white, long-fingered hand once more, and I feel his black nail trace down my cheek, as chill as the point of an icicle. ‘We will let it go at that for now. You have some life yet in front of you; it may be minutes, it may be years. But when you come to the end of it, I shall be watching. I will always be there, for there is something of me in your blood. You will find that to be true, in time. For now, I bid you good luck with the wolf.’

  And he is gone, the after-images of his bright eyes hanging in the air for a second. And my heart is still thumping as loud as Pa’s ticking watch.

  BUT I HAVE my breath back, and though I feel heavy and tired still, the stitch in my side has gone and the suffocating fear has drawn back into its dark hole.

  I can think again. I know I cannot just lie here. They’ll find me, sure as anything.

  I crawl out from under the hedge and straighten up. I have lost my bearings, and I have to look up at the sky and find the Plough, the Pointers, and the North Star just as I was taught. The cloud is thickening now, but it has not yet touched the moon.

  North is where I must go, to the river. After that, I have no other aim in mind, and no idea what to do. But I will not just lie down and wait for them. I will not give up.

  I start to hobble on again – my feet are almost completely numb, and they are covered in mud and the black shine of blood. Just as well they’re numb, I think. I don’t want to look at them too closely.

  There is blood on my face too, and my legs. The hawthorns scratched me good and proper.

  I touch the knife in my pocket. They tried to steal everything from me and make me one of their own. But they shall not have me, not even for Luca.

  I must get to a police station, or at least to a town. Who would have thought that the heart of England could be so huge and empty in the dark?

  I am across the furrows of the ploughed field now, and through another hedge which strips hairs out of my head and covers me in fresh scratches. But it is open pasture after that, and along one side of it there is the sound of running water, a little stream flashing bright under the moon. It must run to the Thames in the north. The slope is downhill, and I follow the stream and get my second wind, jogging along through withered grass that has the frost beginning to sparkle across it like a carpet of crushed glass.

  I stop to look behind me every so often. The lantern has disappeared now, and there is no more hallooing and shouting in the night. Perhaps they have given up. Perhaps I have lost them. I want to believe that, but know it is not real.

  There is a clump of buildings on my right with tall dark trees growing around them, but not a light to be seen. The whole world is asleep. It has turned its back on me. I blink back tears, swallow down the panic. Queenie spoke of a bridge. Perhaps I can find it. I wish I had a map. I wish –

  The wolf howls again, so much closer now. I feel a thrill of absolute terror go through me, as cold as it someone had tipped a glass of water over my head.

  I start running again, as fast as my numb bloody feet can go. I am travelling over an open plain of flat land with lines of hedges running across it, the river lost again.

  There is a wide track, rutted and full of frozen puddles, and my feet follow it without any more thought. Perhaps someone, somewhere in this empty place is awake, and will open a door for me and then shut it against the night. Perhaps –

  I hear a snarling behind me and I twist to look, but then something smashes into my back and I am knocked to the ground, sprawled across the track.

  I lie dazed for a second, but then catch my wits and roll onto my hands and knees – it is right there with me, the wolf, and I can smell it and feel its heat.

  Its jaws fasten on the collar of my coat and it half-lifts me off the ground like a terrier shaking a rat, and its hot slobber runs down my neck. I twist in my coat, and see a bright, raging eye and try and get my elbow at it, but the thing is moving too fast. It drops me, and then clamps its jaws around my ankle and I scream out at the pain and the crushing vice-grip of the teeth. Then it begins to drag me up the path, and the stones tear at the back of my legs. I kick my bare heel into its face. Nothing works; it is not going to let go.

  It is over. I am going to die here, tonight. The wolf will have me, in the end.

  But not without a fight.

  I reach into my coat pocket for the little penknife – at least I might be able to hurt it first – and instead my hand comes out with a ragged twig, and there is something shining upon it.

  The wolf opens its jaws and snarls at me, the black lips drawn back from its teeth. Its eyes are as yellow as lemons and full of hate and triumph.

  This is Job, white-muzzled, grey-backed. The older wolf, the man who murdered my father.

  My terror flits away, and in its place there is that boiling rage, the same which made me stab Queenie. I hobble to my feet, staggering like some drunk chucked out of the Jericho.

  ‘Come on then – are you afraid? What are you waiting for you rotten, filthy old man. Come and get me!’ And I bare my own teeth at it like I am an animal too.

  The wolf springs, maw agape.

  I thrust out my hand, and my knuckles are ripped open by the thing’s teeth as my fingers plunge into its hot mouth. It knocks me on my back, but I thrust my arm out stiff, and my hand goes deeper, fighting the twist of the tongue. The jaws are trying to snap my hand off, but half my arm is down the wolf’s throat now, and in that hand is the twig from my coat pocket with its pearl-bright berries.

  It is a mistletoe sprig. The sudden knowledge of that floods me with defiance and hope, like some remembered dream.

  If what Luca told me about it is not true, then I know I will be dead in a few seconds.

  The wolf chokes, and shakes his head until I think my arm is going to break. It rolls off me but I follow it, hugging the great head with my free arm and jamming the mistletoe as deep down its gullet as the fingers of the other can force it. I have never felt such hatred for anyone or anything in my life before. I am snarling like the wolf itself as I hang on, and the animal’s teeth saw into my upper arm like knives, shredding my coat and the flesh beneath. But I will not give up or give in.

  The wolf gives a horrible choking squeal and the paws scratch at me and the hind legs come up and kick me in the stomach.

  I fall free of it, gagging, my right arm covered in blood and slime above the elbow. But the mistletoe is still in the wolf’s blac
k throat.

  The beast yowls as though it is being burned, and thrashes around in agony. It beats its head on the ground and claws at its ears with its forepaws.

  If I did not know who this was and what he had done, I think I would pity it. It looks as though it is burning up from the inside – gouts of hot breath billow out of the jaws like steam from a whistling kettle.

  And it changes. The fur shortens even as I watch. The paws splay out into black-nailed fingers. The long muzzle snaps in with a crack of bone. There is a naked old man writhing on the track now with blood trickling out of his mouth, and he is clawing feebly at his bearded face.

  I watch him die. It is a terrible thing, but I do not look away for a second. I did this, and I have to see it out to the end.

  Our eyes meet, and there is no more hatred in his, just a wild fear. He reaches out a hand towards me, but I stand motionless with blood trickling steadily off my fingers.

  ‘The Devil will come for you now,’ I say quietly to Job. I look up at the black and silver sky.

  ‘He is not far away. I have spoken to him already tonight.’

  Job gargles blood. His eyes stay fixed on me, until they freeze in place. Then he slumps back, rolling onto his side.

  That much is done, at least.

  I nudge the body with my bare toe and it is like prodding a raw pork loin. He is dead meat now, no more.

  ‘That’s for Pa,’ I whisper.

  Job killed my father; now I have killed Luca’s.

  I killed someone. The enormity of that is too much to take in right now. I have committed the greatest of all sins, and yet I feel no sorrow or remorse. Can I ever be forgiven?

  I cannot bring myself to think on it.

  THERE IS NOTHING for it but to go on. I turn back towards the north and the cloud darkening the night’s horizon. I am too spent and sore to run – I can barely hobble. My ankle is swelling up where Job bit it, and my right shoulder feels twisted and torn; that hand is so slimed with filth that I wipe it on the grass and don’t care to look at it any more closely.

  But I keep going. One hundred yards. It feels like a mile.

  I peer behind me, and see the body lying white and still on the path behind. Even skinchangers can’t come back from the dead.

  Two hundred yards. Three hundred.

  I haven’t gone much farther when I hear a sound that freezes my blood once again. The other wolf. It sets up an awful tearing howl that is utterly different from all I have heard before. It is grief and fury mixed, and it rises up almost to a scream.

  I do not look back. Luca has found his father, and in a few minutes he will find me, and it will all be over. No matter what he feels for me, he is one of them. He is the enemy, and I have hurt him worse than I ever knew I could.

  My ankle buckles and I go to my knees, the breath sobbing in and out of my mouth. I cannot go on. It hurts too much. I do not even have it in me to crawl.

  Half the sky has darkened with black cloud now. It is pouring out of the north like a carpet, and ragged outliers of it are passing over the moon. When that happens the world becomes blue-dark and hidden.

  But when the moon comes out from behind those tattered sails of cloud the world lights up in silver-grey. Back and forth the light goes, and the wind is quickening. There is a weather-change in the air.

  I do not want to look back and see the eyes of the wolf coming up the track. I stare north instead, and see a bright sparkle of running water come and go in the fitful moonlight. I was so close. Not that it would have done me much good. I can’t swim, and the thought of how cold that river must be…

  I almost laugh at my own stupidity.

  The devil takes the hindmost, Pa always said. Well, he was right. I just wish it did not have to be Luca. He is the only friend I think I have ever had.

  At last I turn, still on my knees. He is here.

  The great black wolf is only yards away, padding soundlessly towards me. Its eyes are bright as mirrors under the moon, and it walks in a cloud of its own breath.

  ‘I’m sorry Luca,’ I say to it. ‘He was going to kill me. He killed my Pa. Queenie lied to you. It wasn’t the Roadmen, it was Job. He murdered my father, and Queenie told him to do it.’

  The tears course down my face. I can’t help it. I look up at the sky, and wonder what time it is. I take out Pa’s watch and click it open. It is after three.

  I realize something, a forgotten fact from another world.

  ‘This is my birthday. I am twelve today.’

  I look at Ma’s face in the lid of the watch, clear now in the bright moonlight. She is beautiful. I knew she would be. I know her dear face, now that I see it for the first time in so long. And the memories the photograph sends soaring quite take my breath away. The tears blind me.

  The watch is ticking away my life, as it ticked away those of my parents. I close it and hold it close to my heart.

  I will be with you soon.

  The wolf is almost on me now. It moves as slow and careful as though it is stalking a deer, instead of a lame little girl.

  ‘Don’t make it hurt too much.’ I whisper.

  21

  KNEELING, THIS WOLF’S muzzle is level with my eyes. It is beautiful and fearsome beyond anything I have ever imagined out of the pages of a book. Larger than the wolf-Job, its fur shining black as sin.

  Queenie was right; Luca is a wondrous thing, one of many marvels that most people in the world cannot even guess at.

  I find myself wishing I could tell Jack about all this. There is a Devil after all; I have met him. So there must be a God, too, and that knowledge is incredibly comforting. It does not all end here. I think it would comfort Jack too. I think he wanted to believe in something even more than I did.

  The story has a power all to itself, he once said.

  But what if the story is true.

  The wolf is growling, low in its chest. It is truly something, to not be afraid at this moment, my last on earth.

  It pads forward, panting. I close my eyes.

  So close I can feel the prickle of its fur.

  And it stops there.

  The wolf is huge and warm and dark, and I feel the heat of its breath on my face. It does not move.

  ‘Luca,’ I say, my voice all broken and hoarse, and I cannot seem to help myself, but plunge my hand into the thick coarse coat, the glorious darkness of it.

  The beast shudders at my touch. Then it lowers its head, and the great snout nuzzles my neck, and licks at the blood there. It gives a whine, like that of a family dog.

  I burst into tears, and hug the wolf, my bleeding arms barely able to encircle the massive neck.

  ‘Luca, I’m so sorry,’ I sob. And the great wolf stands there and takes my weight as I lean into it, and I hear its heartbeat deep in its chest and the warmth of it, and I feel like I could stay like that for ever.

  IT STARTS TO rain. I feel it cold on my nape. The wind is getting up and rushing through the hedges and moaning over the open fields.

  I hear something different below it, another noise on the track behind me. The wolf is looking at it. I turn around, recognizing the sound even as I do.

  Hoofbeats, an unshod horse trotting down the track.

  And I see him towering there.

  The pale horse slows to a walk, and it throws up its head and gives a thundering whicker, tossing its mane like a wave. Upon it sits a thing of majesty, a broad-chested man daubed in red clay with the antlers of a great stag rising up out of his hair, and the light of the stars in his eyes. He and the pale horse seem immense, tall as a tree, and as they step forward, so the wolf in my arms sets its ears back and snarls.

  And the man on the horse speaks, a deep voice with a lilt to it like music.

  ‘Leave her be, skinchanger. It is not for you that I am here.’

  The horse comes to a halt beside me, and lowers its muzzle. For a second it is on my cheek, bristle and velvet-soft. The man looks down at me and smiles.

  ‘Gabriel,’
I say. And I want to bow my head, but I cannot take my eyes from his face. The wolf backs away growling, and my arm falls from its neck.

  Other, faint noses in the night, growing louder. Voices. The rest of Luca’s folk are finally catching up with us.

  ‘Go back to your people,’ Gabriel orders the wolf. ‘Tell the witch she has failed.’

  ‘No!’ I shout, finding my voice again. ‘He’s my friend. He wasn’t going to hurt me. Luca, don’t leave me.’

  The wolf stands there, teeth bared, a sing-song snarl rumbling out of it. The pale horse stamps its hoof and becomes restive.

  ‘Your place is not with them, child,’ Gabriel says. ‘It never was.’

  I look at the wolf. It stands there, teeth half-bared, the growl rumbling in its chest. I want to hug it again, the way I once would have hugged Pie – or different – but the same. I don’t know. But I know I cannot bear to see the beast that is Luca leave me. I glare up at the majestic figure, and meet the star-cold eyes.

  ‘I don’t care. He forgave me, don’t you understand? I killed his father and he forgave me for it – I know he did. I won’t leave him. He’s –’ I choke. ‘He’s all I have now.’

  Gabriel frowns, and for a moment his face looks terrible, frightening, like the statue of an old god.

  ‘There can be no splitting of such loyalties. I will allow this friend of yours to choose, here and now. His own people. Or you.’ He looks at the wolf. ‘Skinchanger, I offer you this choice only once. There is no time, and no way to go back once the thing is done.

  ‘You stay with her, and you shall have my friendship. You go back to your own people, and you must let them know that they are to leave her be, now and forever. If they harm her or dog her footsteps, then I will unleash my brothers of the hunt upon them, and I will harry them day and night across the whole length of the kingdom.’

  The wolf stands there, blinking. Finally it walks back up to me and pushes its nose into my chest.

  Gabriel nods. ‘Very well.’