The Cry of the Wolf

by Melvin Burgess

  ‘If you wet, I’ll say I did it,’ he whispered. Greycub licked his lips in his sleep and began to snore.

  While Greycub recovered his strength, the Tilleys waited anxiously for the Hunter to return. All who knew of the wolves had been on the alert for the killer ever since he had attacked the Tilleys’ barn, but there had been no sign of either him or the wolves. Greycub was the first wolf anyone had seen for months and now the neighbourhood was re-alerted. Every strange face was closely scrutinised, every car that parked in the back ways examined and noted. But the Hunter believed Greycub dead and it never occurred to him that the cub could possibly have gone that far, or could know where the farm was. The Tilleys also hoped to see Silver and Conna again. They almost forced themselves to believe that there were wolves out there somewhere, even though none ever again crossed the fields or left their tracks on the bridleway at night. Greycub, too, waited and hoped. Once again, he was separated from his kind.

  For the first fortnight after his return he stayed indoors, refused to go out and jumped at the slightest noise. Mr Tilley’s voice frightened him badly, because it reminded him of the voice of the man who had come upon him and slaughtered his family. But gradually he calmed down and in the evenings, as he had done in the Hunter’s house, he sat outside and sang. Perhaps he expected Silver to come back. Perhaps it was the hope, the belief that another great and wonderful creature would appear once more and take him back to his own kind. Of course, no such beast came; there were none left.

  After a time the Tilleys began to wonder what to do with their wild guest. Even Ben, who loved the wolf, knew that such an animal was not so much a member of their household as a kind of visitor they were privileged to have, and who would one day leave. His parents were frightened that as he grew up the age-old fear of humankind would come back and turn Greycub savage. By the time he was six months old he was no longer a cub, but a lean young wolf. As yet, there was no sign of fear or anger in him.

  The Tilleys tried to pass Greycub off as a dog among visitors to the farm, but it was clear to anyone that this was a very strange kind of dog indeed. Had Greycub known this he would have been most offended. He looked down on all dogs, although they did their best to be friends with him. Clearly he regarded them as very inferior creatures, lacking in grace, manners and intelligence and with no pride whatsoever.

  If Ben ever thought that a wolf was similar to a dog, he soon realised how crude that idea was. The farm dogs, for instance, once they realised that a person was a friend of the family, would let the stranger take all sorts of liberties. They would roll on their bellies and gurgle and beg for scraps and creep away with their tail between their legs when told, ‘No!’

  Not Greycub. Anyone who tried to pat him on the head or ruffle his ears was shaken off with a quick jerk of the head, although he never snapped – that would be bad manners. He just stalked out of the room full of dignity, or sat down at a good distance with a look that clearly said, ‘Do you mind?’ Even Ben could not take such liberties. And yet it was not that Greycub did not love him. Whenever Ben was upset or hurt, suddenly Greycub’s nose would be in the palm of his hand. And whenever Ben needed him or wanted him he always seemed to know.

  Perhaps the main difference between Greycub and a dog was his pride and his intelligence. This came out very strongly when Mr Tilley tried to make him wear a collar. Mr Tilley thought that since he would one day grow into a very large and possibly dangerous animal, he ought to get used to wearing a collar and a lead and to being tethered. Greycub disagreed.

  Once, and once only, Mr Tilley took him by surprise by slipping on the collar while he was eating, and Greycub spent the rest of the day wandering about trying to peer down his nose to see what unpleasantness was on his neck. Then Mr Tilley clipped a chain onto the collar, and slipped the other end of the chain, a steel loop, over a stake in the yard.

  Greycub tested the chain with his teeth, rattled it a bit, looked at Mr Tilley, then at Ben, who shrugged sympathetically. Then he retired in disgust and sat with his back to Mr Tilley, who dusted his hands at a job well done, and went into the kitchen for a cup of tea.

  This stake and chain had been used by Mr Tilley for his own dogs for years and he never doubted for a second that Greycub would do what all the others had done, and lie down to wait for his release at Mr Tilley’s convenience. A few minutes later, however, sitting with his tea at the kitchen table, he happened to glance out of the window and was treated to the sight of Greycub on his hind legs, easing the steel ring, held firmly between his teeth, over the top of the stake.

  ‘Hoy!’ shouted Mr Tilley – too late. Just as he ran out of the house, Greycub ran out of the yard, the chain rattling behind him. When he came back later that night, neither collar nor chain was to be seen, and Mr Tilley never saw them again for five years, when he found both, very well rusted by now, at the bottom of a pond three miles away from the farmhouse.

  After that the mere sight of a collar or the rattle of a chain sent Greycub hurtling off as fast as his legs could go. Mr Tilley made dark noises about obedience and ‘problems later on …’ but for the time being, Greycub wore no collar and no chain.

  About the same time, Greycub seemed to stop noticing that Mr Tilley existed at all. Evidently that sort of behaviour put him beneath contempt, on a level slightly below the farm dogs; a kind of cat or a goat with no manners, who happened to walk on two legs.

  Things remained like this for some time, in a stalemate, but it couldn’t stay that way for long. Mr Tilley kept muttering threats about ‘taking that damn animal in hand’. In the end he got the excuse he needed when Greycub fell out badly with Mrs Tilley.

  For some time a big pile of cushions on the living room floor had been Greycub’s bed, and every evening after dinner he rested on this before going out on his own for a run. Soon however, he began to take less and less food from the Tilleys, preferring to catch his own in the farm fields and outhouses. He ate a lot of mice, which pleased Mr Tilley, and some rabbits, which was a good thing too. The problem arose when he started to bring them home to finish off. Mrs Tilley noticed this one evening when watching television. She happened to look up and there was Greycub chewing a rabbit’s head on the cushions.

  ‘You beast!’ she cried, jumping up and snatching it from him before hurling it dramatically out of the window.

  Greycub was most offended. He looked at her in surprise as if to say, ‘How would you like it if I snatched your dinner off you in such a rude, unpleasant way?’ Mrs Tilley did not take the point, however, and from that night on, Greycub insisted on bringing his rabbits home and eating them on the cushions. It was a matter of pride with him. It was equally a matter of pride with Mrs Tilley. She now removed the cushions. Greycub ate the rabbits’ heads on the sofa. She locked him out. He waited until next morning to eat his dinner.

  This could not go on, it was costing a fortune in cleaning bills. Whatever else you could say about Greycub’s manners, he certainly knew how to spread his dinner around.

  Mr Tilley, who fancied himself as something of an expert with dog training, pounced on the occasion. It was time to take Greycub ‘in hand’.

  Mr Tilley favoured the firm but kind approach. He considered it necessary that the trainee dog should know who was master, and respect the master’s wishes. The dog should not be so much afraid of his master, as in awe of him. A good dog, Mr Tilley considered, regarded it as his aim in life to please the master, and would be deeply ashamed, humiliated in fact, at the idea of so far letting him down as to displease him. For the purposes of the training, Mr Tilley was to be master.

  They began with the simple business of ‘coming when called’.

  The basic trouble with this was that Greycub took not the slightest notice. Mr Tilley tried walking off a few metres and then calling the cub, holding out a piece of biscuit in his hand. Greycub checked with Ben; but Ben had been told to keep quiet, and without any encouraging noises from him, Greycub just sat, regarding the biscuit grave
ly, and Mr Tilley not at all. After several minutes of encouragingly calling, ‘Come on, boy – here, come on!’ and whistling bravely, Mr Tilley stood up.

  ‘He’s not very hungry perhaps,’ he muttered.

  ‘Go and get it, go on, Greycub,’ said Ben, and Greycub promptly trotted over, took the biscuit and trotted back to Ben’s side.

  ‘Must be one of those one-man dogs you hear about,’ growled Mr Tilley.

  It was much easier getting Greycub to come when Ben called. The difficulty was getting him to wait while Ben walked away. In fact, Mr Tilley had to hold him by the fur on the back of his head – he still wore no collar – and Greycub tended to run to Ben not when he was called, but when he was let go, which indicated it was nothing to do with the call at all.

  Mr Tilley found all this very discouraging. ‘He’s got to be properly trained, there’s no two ways about it,’ he said darkly.

  ‘It isn’t as though he’s bad,’ pointed out Ben. This in general was true. Greycub respected other people’s space and needs. Only in the matter of his own space was he particular, such as the wearing of collars and whether or not he was allowed to eat his own dinner on his own bed.

  This carried no weight with Mr Tilley, who pointed out that he wasn’t allowed to get his dinner all over his bed, so why should Greycub?

  They spent the rest of the afternoon teaching the wolf to walk to heel. This was easy. Ben walked along and Greycub followed him. He didn’t even need a lead. It was not so easy when Mr Tilley’s were the heels involved, however. Greycub tended to wander off to one side or the other. He did not really seem to appear to be aware that they were going anywhere in particular and suddenly discovered that there were a great many things, like daisies and dandelions or even fairly boring patches of grass, that were a great deal more interesting than Mr Tilley’s heels. Of course, with a lead, it was different. Mr Tilley could drag him along behind easily enough, but this, as he rather petulantly pointed out, was not the point.

  ‘He’s supposed to follow me,’ he complained.

  They had similar trouble with fetching the stick and giving it back. Greycub didn’t mind giving the stick back. The thing was you had to give it to him first and then take it off him before he dropped it. As for chasing after it, he didn’t see the point. Mr Tilley got quite exhausted going to and fro with that stick. Even Ben couldn’t make Greycub see what he was supposed to do. He just sat there wagging his tail excitedly, while Mr Tilley danced about waving the stick in the air. When he threw it, they all watched it sail away through the air, and then Greycub turned back to see what this amusing man would do next.

  Mr Tilley, chastened by the experience, decided not to humiliate himself further, and they went home. There was no more talk of training.

  There was still the matter of the rabbits’ heads to be sorted out. It was clear to Ben, if not to Greycub, that his mother was going to be a harder nut to crack than his father. Those heads were making quite a mess.

  Mrs Tilley decided to try and ignore it, and hoped that would satisfy honour. It did not. Greycub continued to eat the heads and began to growl rather louder than necessary when he chewed them, as if to drive the point home. Mrs Tilley looked straight ahead and only twitched slightly. But at last she broke.

  ‘I can’t stand it!’ she shouted. ‘I won’t – my covers the whole place stinks and it’s filthy!’ And she rushed out of the room very upset.

  Greycub looked mildly about him as if unaware of what the fuss was about. Mr Tilley looked dark. Ben went to sit by Greycub. He did not know what to do.

  ‘Oh, Greycub,’ he said. ‘You can’t keep doing it. Won’t you please just eat them outside?’

  Greycub got up, picked up the rabbit’s head and walked into the kitchen. He scratched at the back door, which Mrs Tilley opened, and then dropped the head into the rubbish before coming back and lying quietly, with only a trace of smugness, on his cushions, while Mrs Tilley watched open-jawed from the kitchen doorway.

  No one would say that Greycub knew exactly what the world ‘please’ meant, but something in Ben’s tone indicated to him that he was not being told but being asked. And that made the difference. Ben soon found that if you wanted Greycub to do anything, you had to ask him nicely.

  Greycub grew up fast. He reached his full height at the end of a year and began to put on muscle rapidly. He was a big wolf, taller than either his mother or father and his coat was a shimmering field of silver flecked with gold. He was a handsome animal by any standards and Ben soon grew tired of fending off questions about his breed.

  As he grew, his wolfish nature became stronger. He would have less and less to do with dogs and was becoming short-tempered in dealing with them. He showed no signs of temper with Ben but soon, to Mr and Mrs Tilley’s alarm, he began to show his temper with them and any other people, especially when Ben was not around. About the same time, Greycub took to leaving the farm on journeys of his own, at first just for a few hours, but then for whole days at a time. Mr Tilley worried about the sheep, Ben worried about the roads; but Silver had taught Greycub well and he knew enough to avoid all of these.

  One night, sixteen months after Greycub had turned up at the farm, Ben took him out for a run up the bridleway before going to bed. He stood and watched as the animal roamed up and down sniffing. It was sad how often Greycub paused and waited with his ears cocked at some noise at the end of the garden. Ben guessed what he was listening for, and wondered for the hundredth time if he would ever hear it. Now, Greycub whined and came back to Ben. He rubbed the back of his head against the boy’s legs and ran a little way up the road. There he stood, with his back to him, looking at him over his shoulder, crying a little.

  ‘What is it, boy?’ asked Ben. He called Greycub to him, but for the first time the wolf did not obey. He turned and sat watching his friend with a curious expression.

  Ben had an empty feeling in his stomach.

  ‘What’s wrong, Grey?’ he asked. Greycub thumped his tail and shook himself. He walked up to Ben and again rubbed his head on his leg, before walking off again and sitting.

  ‘Come inside, Greycub,’ said Ben. Neither of them moved. He walked up to him and held his great head in his arms.

  ‘You’re going to go, aren’t you?’ he said. Greycub whined and pawed at his jacket, and licked at Ben’s wet face.

  ‘You wouldn’t lick me if you knew what I’d done,’ said Ben in a choked voice.

  In a minute Ben went on, ‘I know you’re not really mine. You were just waiting here. But I did want you to stay.’

  Greycub stood on his hind legs with his paws on Ben’s shoulders and licked his face. If he could he would have told Ben that there was no other family, no other person for him – just the longing for his own kind that was taking him away. But of course he could say none of this. He jumped back down. Ben rubbed his ears and said goodbye. Greycub huffed, licked his hand once and ran lightly up the bridleway for a few metres, before he cut off through the hedge and disappeared. Ben never saw him again.

  12

  GREYCUB DID NOT stay in Surrey, although he knew that this was his ancestral home. Perhaps Silver had communicated to him that the wolves had left that area. Instead he went north, cutting directly through London on his way. He travelled at night, keeping to the small roads except very late when there was no traffic. A taxi driver, who had just dropped off a fare near Crystal Palace saw him jump over the park fence, and thought to himself that people who wanted a big dog like that should look after it properly. A man with no home saw him in a little street east of the Elephant and Castle and called him over to share some bread, but Greycub ignored him, too. He crossed the river at Westminster Bridge at three in the morning, and was beyond Swiss Cottage by dawn. He slept under the foundations of an old house that day. The next night he was clear of the city and began searching seriously with his nose.

  Of Greycub’s search there is not enough time to tell here. It carried him right round the country, up to Scotland, wh
ere he lingered, liking the wilderness. He even investigated some of the islands off the west coast, swimming out to see if any wolves still lived on those remote places, but of course finding none. He came back down across the border after eighteen months and headed into Cumbria. Then he went through the English and Welsh counties one by one.

  Of course he found wolves in the zoos, and sniffed these foreign animals through the bars. Possibly he would have settled with them had he been able to get in, but that was no more possible than it was for them to get out, and anyway the English wolves, with their pale silver and blond coats, had been separated for so long from the continental wolves that they were really a different breed, and he wanted his own. He hung around them for a few nights, and then continued his search.

  It took two years before Greycub realised that there truly were no more wolves. He went down to Sussex last of all. He found the house on the Downs where he had been weaned – and that other house where the Hunter kept him. But the Hunter had gone. A few months had been enough to convince him there were no more wolves to be had. He believed Greycub had died on the M3 that night, and his body removed. He had only taken his house on the Downs to be among his prey, and now he had no more prey he moved on. Greycub passed down into the very garden where he had taken his runs with Jenny; but that was long ago and the scents were long washed away. He sniffed around the garden, found as usual nothing, and continued away up the lanes on his fruitless hunt.

  One of the last places Greycub visited before he gave up was High Pond Farm. He walked down the bridleway, sniffing old familiar smells of Ben and Mr and Mrs Tilley. This was a place of good memories. When he came to the farm itself, Greycub stopped outside the yard and sniffed the air. He had avoided humans completely in the past two years. Now, because he knew these were friendly, he paused. But Greycub was a wild wolf now, no longer a cub. Those two years had made it impossible for him to live in a house and he was unable to bear a human hand on his head. The dogs barked; Greycub snorted and ran off into a field that once held cabbages. Now it was planted with a bright-yellow crop of rape. The wolf ran low across the ground that no longer held the marks of his kind, shaking the pollen until he emerged, yellow-dusted, on the other side into the woodland where, unknown to him, his pack had been finally destroyed.