Timber Wolf

by Caroline Pignat

  My steps falter and I stand in the cold silence, for it occurs to me that whatever is on the other side of those bushes might be watching me and thinking the very same thing.

  CHAPTER 5

  If it hasn’t run yet, then it doesn’t know I’m here. Surprise is the only ammunition I’ve got, truth be told. I try not to think about the possibility that it’s a bigger animal, a hungry animal, one that I can’t outrun. I slip off my mitt and grip the knife’s cold hilt in my sweaty palm.

  This is it. Eat or be eaten.

  My heart is racing and suddenly the pain in my side seems less. Like my body is getting ready for the attack. With a mighty battle cry, I burst through the bushes, face first, into the fur, fangs, and claws. Convinced I’m being mauled by some ferocious beast, I scream and frantically slash the empty air before tripping over my own feet and landing flat on my back. ’Tis only looking up that I realize that ferocious beast of fur and fang is nothing more than a dead rabbit swinging from a sapling. I sit up and glance around the thick woods, for I swear I heard a girl’s scream during the attack.

  I scan the area—nothing. No footprints, no movement in the timbers. I realize two things then. One: I’m well and truly alone. And two: ’twas me screeching. Red-faced, I jump to my feet and brush the snow off my legs. Thank God I’m alone. The last thing I want is for my rescuers to see that wretched display.

  The rabbit dangles on a rope secured to a slender tree. I may not have the battle cry of a hunter, but I know a snare when I see one. Sure enough, the rabbit’s tracks lead to a cache of bait on the ground. I can’t see the hunters’ trail, but they’ll be back to check the trap in the next day or two.

  Dinner ... and a rescue!

  My heart skips like a smooth stone on the water. Things are looking up for me. Using my knife, I cut the thick noose and toss the limp body in the snow.

  Now, how will I let them know where to find me?

  They can’t see the cliff from here and a snowfall will bury my tracks. I glance around and spy a fallen tree. Dragging it beneath the snare, I add two more logs at its tip to form a great arrow pointing toward my camp.

  If it snows, surely they would still see the arrow, and even if they only walked a hundred yards more in that direction, they’ll see my fire or smell my supper. I lick my lips, ready for a good feed.

  Just the thought of cooked meat stokes my energy. My side aches, but my mind is on other things, mainly roasted hare. Back at my shelter, I dig a shallow hole in the snow close enough to the rock wall to protect the fire from the wind, but far enough from my boughs to keep my bed from burning. With the thicker sticks pitched like a tiny house in its center, I break the kindling and shove the twigs just inside. I may not remember my name, but at least I seem to recall how to make a fire. And at the moment, that is more important. Perhaps with a bit of warm food in my belly, the rest of my memories will come. I’ve used my morning’s gleanings, all but two last branches I’ve left leaning on the rock wall behind me—a long thin stick, good for a skewer, and an arm-sized log, my last bit of firewood. I doubt I’ll need it. ’Tis twilight now, but even if the trapper doesn’t check his line tonight, he’ll surely do it tomorrow and not leave it to be scavenged by some wild animal.

  Like me. I smile as I squat by the rabbit, knife poised. But my grin fades as I lift it by its hind leg.

  How do I skin it? Have I ever done this before?

  I place the tip of the knife at its throat, then change my mind and move to the tail.

  Is there more than one way to skin a rabbit?

  Something tickles at the back of my mind, a joke swimming there below the surface. But I don’t fish for the memory. If I remember anything right now, I want it to be how to make my dinner. Something tells me I should slit the underside, up the middle, and peel it off like a little fur glove. Funnily enough, that’s exactly what happens. The fur strips away in nearly one piece but, as it comes free, a mess of rabbit innards spill out. They don’t seem like anything I want to eat, not when there’s fresh rabbit, so I scrape them out and wipe the gory blade in the slush. Soon enough, I’ve got the small carcass skewered and ready to cook. I flourish it with pride, before propping my meaty flag in the snow.

  Imagine the stories they’ll tell about me—the great hunter who survived in the wintry woods alone and injured. How did you manage? they’ll ask. Sure, ’twas no bother at all, I’ll answer, not for a woodsman like meself.

  I can’t picture the people but I can picture their admiration well enough. It shines from their eyes and warms me at the core. A deep place inside me hungers for that more than any kind of food.

  I kneel and strike the flint. Its sparks spray and sputter over the fire pit but neither sticks nor twig will catch. By the fourth attempt, the only flaring is my temper.

  Burn, you cursed wood! Or, by God, I swear I’ll smash you to smithereens!

  I strike the flint, again and again, trembling with the effort and the aggravation of it. But the sparks fade as they rain over the house of cold sticks. On the next strike, my hand slips and I gouge my thumb.

  Bloody hell!

  Sitting back on my heels, I suck my throbbing thumb and stare off into the woods. This isn’t working. I’ll have worn through the flint itself before the sticks and twigs catch. I need something to hold the flame longer.

  A few leaves, stragglers from autumn, rustle in the wind. I circle the clearing and pick some from the bottom branches. This will work. It has to. Squatting by the cold fire pit, I stuff the brittle leaves beneath the kindling.

  Holding my breath, I focus on the flint edge as I strike, willing those precious blue sparks to flicker and flare. One catches, burning a red-rimmed hole in one curled leaf, and then another, devouring them in seconds. I pray it will last long enough for the sticks to catch, but as the leaves’ tiny blaze sputters and dies so does my hope. More leaves. I should have used more! Frustrated, I curse and whip the flint at the rock wall. Sparks fly off as it strikes, mocking me with their flares. I drop my head into my arms. I’ll never be able to cook that rabbit now, and I was so close, so close to eating a cooked meal, I could cry.

  My stomach complains, but a faint crackling behind lifts my head and my heart. For there, in the furrow’s nook, the abandoned nest blazes. And I declare to God that I never saw a lovelier sight.

  CHAPTER 6

  ’Tis dark by the time the hare is cooked, but no matter, for I’ve a grand roaring fire, not to mention a fine bit of meat sizzling over it. Smelling it roast, seeing its juices drip and hiss, I’m near drowned by my mouth’s watering. I’ve half a mind to pull it off the fire and eat it still rare, but I make myself wait. Bloody torture, but I know ’twill be worth it. And it is.

  The scorched meat burns my lips, but I can’t stop myself. I don’t remember my last meal—it may well have been two days ago—but I’m tearing into this meat like I haven’t eaten in months. There’s nothing in this world right now but me and it. Or so I think.

  It’s not until I stop to breathe and lean back, greasy-faced, against the rock wall that I see them. A pair of yellow eyes at the edge of the clearing. Watching me.

  Not human, that’s for sure. Their glow makes me think they’re not even of this world. They seem to float three feet from the ground. Not blinking. Not moving. Just staring.

  Skewer still gripped in my hand, I peer past the fire’s glare into the shadows. I can just make out a shaggy, dog-like shape behind those ghostly eyes. ’Tis no ghoul or banshee, but knowing it’s a wild wolf doesn’t make me feel any better.

  For all I’ve forgotten, I remember enough to build a shelter, skin a rabbit, and make a fire. Maybe someone taught it to me. Maybe ’tis my own instinct. Either way, that same voice is telling me now that this wolf means: danger.

  We sit and stare at each other for a while. Neither one making a move.

  How long has it been there watching me? What is it waiting for?

  The flames are dying down and I edge my free hand over to the
last log, unsure if I should use it for the fire or as a club. I glance around the darkened clearing but there is only one pair of eyes. So far. If it’s the fire that’s keeping the wolf at bay, I’d do better to burn this log than wield it. Truth be told, I’d not be able to fight off one of them, much less a whole pack. I add the wood to the embers but it does nothing to ease the chill up my spine as I watch those yellow eyes.

  Is it waiting for me to fall asleep?

  I want to yell but my “battle cry” would likely do more harm than good. A screech like that would make it think I’m weak and terrified and no doubt provoke an attack. And so we sit and stare. Size each other up. But after what seems like ages, I can take the eerie gaze no longer. “What do you want?” my voice splits the silence of the winter night and I bolt to my feet, heart racing.

  The wolf mimics my movements and rises to all fours. If its tail is wagging, I can’t see it. Does a wolf even wag its tail?

  I raise the skewer and what’s left of the rabbit overhead, waving it frantically as I shout. “Go on! Get out of here!”

  The wolf takes a small step forward and a rumble travels its throat, erupting through its black lips.

  Wonderful. I’ve gone and angered it now.

  With its next step toward me, I launch the skewer, rabbit and all, like a spear. Maybe it’ll pierce its side, slow it down, make it think twice about attacking me. But the rabbit carcass weighs down the tip and the great hunter’s launch is more of a little boy’s lob, landing just in front of the wolf. He looks down, noses the rabbit skeleton, and looks back at me.

  “Whisht! Go!” I yell, hoping the panic in my voice is mistaken for threat. “Go on!”

  The wolf places a thick paw on the skewer and pulls the rabbit free, breaking the thick stick like it was mere straw. The crack of it makes my stomach lurch, for I daresay my own bones would snap just as easily between those great jaws. Then, rabbit in its maw, it glances at me one last time before disappearing into the night.

  I slump, soggy-legged, against the rock face and slide down it, landing in a heap by the fire. I can’t stop shaking. From fear. From shock. From excitement. I don’t know if the wolf will be back, or what I’ll do if it is. But I know one thing for sure: I can’t wait to go home when my rescuers come for me tomorrow. I fought off a wolf, probably a whole pack of them, with my bare hands—oh, what a tale I’ve got to tell!

  CHAPTER 7

  “Wake up, shognosh.” The voice cuts into my wolf dreams, and I open my eyes, to find myself lying against the rock face, squinting at the person standing before me in the early morning light.

  Rescued! My heart swells, but before I can speak to this stranger, who looks no older than me, his black eyes narrow. His clothes are different from mine, deerskin, I think, with fringed and beaded mittens, leather leggings, and boots. From under a gray fur hat, his black hair hangs long, like a girl’s, on either side of his face, but the slingshot sticking out of his woven belt and the arrows in the quiver on his back, not to mention the look in his eye, make me think I’d best keep my mouth shut.

  “Who are you?” he asks.

  I shrug. “I was hoping you’d be able to tell me that.”

  He tilts his head. “Where are you from?”

  “I don’t know.” I rub my bruised forehead. “I think I had some kind of accident and I don’t remember anything.”

  He glances around at my near-dead fire. “Where is the rabbit?”

  I have an answer for this one, but the way he’s carrying on makes me think he won’t like it. Instead, I stall, trying to wake up enough to think straight.

  “Rabbit?” I ask, innocently.

  “Yes,” he leans forward and grabs my chin with his thick hide mitten. “The one from my trap. Its grease is all over your lying face.”

  “I ate it,” I say, slapping his hand away and rising to meet him. He’s no bigger than me. I’m not afraid of him. “I found it and I ate it.”

  His dark eyes narrow as his jaw clenches. I wonder if he’s going to hit me. Instead, he stoops and picks up the bloodied rabbit skin that lies where I left it, shaking his head at the botched skinning job, no doubt. He shoves the peeled pelt in front of me accusingly. “I’ll tell you who you are, scavenger. A wasteful thief who steals from the true hunters.”

  “You aren’t here to rescue me, are you?” I say, though I know his answer well enough.

  He sneers at my dismal fire and limp bough bedding before giving me the once-over. “You need saving, but it won’t be by me.” He turns to leave.

  “Who are you?” I call, for as much as I dislike the dark-haired boy, I don’t want him to leave. Surely he can help me find my way home. “At least tell me where I am.”

  He marches to the clearing’s edge. “I am Mahingan Wawatie. And you are on my family’s hunting grounds.” And before I can utter a reply, he vanishes with nothing but his footprints to prove he’d been there at all.

  I’m fuming, so I am. It takes me most of the morning to calm down as I stomp around, muttering to myself. “You think I want to be stuck in your dumb forest?” I take my anger out on the trees, snapping branches and sticks until the pain in my side stops me from doing any more.

  “‘My family’s hunting grounds.’” I snort. “Who does he think he is, the bloody landlord?” I dump the wood beside my dying fire. Add a few sticks to keep it going a little longer. A part of me wonders if I should have followed him. But surely someone will come for me soon and I can get the hell out of here. “You’re not the only trapper,” I shout to the thick woods, “and you’re not even a good one!”

  I toss another branch at the fire and stare up at the trail of smoke. Someone is coming for me. They have to be.

  CHAPTER 8

  The days drag on and, despite my signal fire, neither my father nor any rescuer appears. Though my side seems to be healing slowly, I’m in no shape to venture too far on my own. Daylight hours are spent gathering firewood, melting snow for drinking water, and following a few animal tracks. I figure if I can’t find the animal that makes these trails, maybe they’ll at least lead me to what that animal is eating. Sure enough, one spoor leads me to a gooseberry bush where a few forgotten berries still dangle, and another takes me to a cache of acorns. If it’s good enough for the animals, ’tis good enough for me. Roasted, the nuts aren’t half bad. Mind you, they aren’t half enough, either, and my stomach sulks and grumbles the rest of the day.

  There’s been no sight of Mahingan, but I’ve seen his tracks, too. Coming back to spy on me. Let him. Sure, what do I care? Yesterday, I followed his footprints through the gorge to a lake about a mile away. A puddle of pink slush by the shore told me he’d had a kill. Fish, by the look of it. I still can’t figure out how he got them out with that thick ice capping the lake like a lid on a pot. But if he can do it, I daresay I will. And a bigger fish, at that.

  I’m kept busy enough trying to find wood and food in daylight hours, but ’tis the long nights that are getting to me. I’ve spent them whittling a spear. Tonight, I carved a wolf paw print in the soft leather next to my belt buckle, as a reminder. I’d hate to lose that story. Next to it, I etch another small line. Scratches that tell me I’ve been here far too long. This one makes seven. A whole week.

  Why aren’t they coming for me? ’Tis in the dark that doubt whispers loudest. Maybe they aren’t looking for me. Maybe they don’t want me back.

  Though my injuries are getting better, my mind is in a fog. I pocket the knife and bang my head with my fist, trying to jar the memories loose. If only I could remember something ... something about how I got here, about where I’m from. I wouldn’t need to wait for some blasted rescue party. If I knew where I was or who I was, sure, I could get up and walk out of here myself. But my memories lie at the bottom of my mind, like the trout in the frozen lake, and, try as I might—and I’ve tried all these long, dark hours—I can think of no way to fish them out.

  The wolf has come the past three nights. It usually sits not a hundr
ed yards away, just watching. I wonder what it’s waiting for. Maybe it’s looking at me, wondering the very same thing. A few nights ago, heart hammering in my chest, I just started talking to it. Partly out of nerves. I thought that the sound of my voice might keep it at bay and, strangely enough, it did. After my rambling yarn about an amazing and courageous boy who survives a great adventure in the wild, the wolf simply stood and disappeared into the silent woods. It has come the next night and the next, each time sitting a bit closer and closer. I tell myself it’s coming to hear my stories so that I don’t have to think about the truth of it. ’Tis easier to handle its eerie gaze when I think ’tis my tales and not my tail that it’s hungering after.

  But there is no sign of it tonight and that’s all the more unsettling. As much as those yellow eyes unnerve me, at least they tell me where it is. Better the devil you see than the one you don’t. I put my belt on and scan the black strip of the woods’ silhouette, blind to whatever hides in its depths. Has the wolf gone to rally the pack? It’s seen me grow weaker with hunger these past few days. Easy prey. Maybe tonight is the night. I shiver and huddle into my bed of boughs, trying not to think about the growling in my empty stomach or what might be growling in the woods.

  CHAPTER 9

  Hours later, in the heavy darkness, an unfamiliar sound behind me rips me from sleep. In an instant, I’m awake, eyes wide, staring through the black at the rock wall before me.

  There it is again.

  Even over my blood drumming, I hear the faint squeak and crunch of feet upon snow. What my eyes can’t tell me, my gut already knows.

  ’Tis the wolf. Coming for me.

  It’s done watching. Tonight the wolf is making its move. And so must I. My mind scurries in a panic, like a mouse in a box, twitching from one dead end to another. Knife? Buried in the pocket beneath me. I couldn’t get it out in time. Spear? Left on the other side of the fire. Even if I could roll and grab it before the wolf lunges, what good would it do? The image of the wolf snapping my rabbit skewer flashes before me— surely, it would do the same with my spear. Or my bones. Run? Where? I’m trapped between wolf and wall.