Amarok

by Angela J. Townsend

  Amarok hurried inside, drying his freezing feet before slipping on the socks and boots. He looked around desperately; an empty gun was nothing more than a club. Suka was still out there somewhere. He could sense the beast nearby, waiting to attack. Amarok knew Weasel Tail would have used his gun to force his way inside, if there had been any shells in it. His stomach clenched. Emma had taken the last of the ammo. He didn’t have time to hike to Weasel Tail’s cache for more. The bear would smell the blood from his wounds and he’d be easy prey. He’d have to move fast. He tossed the useless weapon onto the bed. Emma had risked her life to save his. He didn’t want to die, not now, not after all this. But if that’s what it took to save her, he’d gladly do so.

  35

  Emma awoke slowly, caught up in the disorientation of waking in a strange place. She stared up at a ceiling of bones and hides as her mind struggled to interpret what she saw. Where was she? She rolled onto her side, her body complaining with each movement. Pungent smells swirled around her—dampness, fungus, decay.

  A shroud of ice fog surrounded her like a veil of gauze. The thump of drums and the skirl of chanting swirled from within its murky depths. A swelling fear engulfed her, as her memory came pouring back. The chanting, the cave, all of it flooded her terrified mind. Emma sucked in a frightened gasp, struggling to sit up, paralyzed by the haunting rhythm. She gawked in wide-eyed horror at the source of the terrible sound. A hunched figure, barely discernible, crouched in the icy mist. A smug smile cracked across a brittle face dominated by a huge, jutting forehead above wrinkly eyes. Misshapen, black teeth gleamed in the torchlight, a forked tongue darting between them.

  Emma opened her mouth to scream, but terror strangled her vocal cords. The shaman threw back his head and laughed, shaking a set of rattles, spiraling around her. She clamped her eyes shut, trying to close out the sounds, fighting the burning pain searing her skin. Emma remembered the lost totems. Bitter tears sprang to her eyes. She tried to raise a hand to wipe her face, but every limb felt weighed down by blocks of stone. With an overpowering certainty, she knew what the old man was doing. She’d risked everything to free Amarok and instead, she’d experience the half-life he’d lived for so long. Very soon, she’d be transformed into an animal with a human mind, trapped forever.

  The chanting and rattling intensified, sending shards of pain slicing into her head. The horrible pressure bulged behind her sinuses. Her temperature spiked, yet her body shook with chills. He was trying to make her sick, invade her mind—weaken her spirit. Emma twisted and contorted in agony, feeling her bones soften, her tissues expand. Light exploded behind her eye sockets and she feared they would burst from her head.

  Anger and pain collided inside of her, only to be replaced with cold conviction. She clenched her teeth until her molars ached. Emma knew how to beat him. She’d use one of her worst habits; something she fought constantly, but would now be to her advantage. Emma inhaled deeply and let herself drift away…

  36

  Amarok hurried from the cabin, struggling to get used to the feeling of being vertical. His steps were slow and stilted at first, but his skill and confidence increased with each moment. Amarok’s heart pumped with exhilaration as his soul ascended new heights. He would find Emma, and nothing would get in his way.

  His boots churned up bits of soggy moss and ferns with his slow, lumbering pace. At the foot of the path, the cramps assaulting his calves ceased. He paused to rest, watching angry thunderheads churn from gray to black, fertile with burdensome bellies of rain. He didn’t have much time before the storm blew inland, soaking the land in sheets of freezing precipitation, encapsulating the forest in a cold and impenetrable ice-bound prison. The rivers would rise with the rain, making travel even more treacherous.

  Amarok stumbled along the rocky path to the river. The scent of fermented moss berries, mulch, and cedar flavored the air with a musky tang. Drifts of heavy snow already littered the water’s edge in a ring of white. He glanced at the dock, his clothes damp with perspiration. How could he have forgotten? Emma had taken the kayak. He’d have to hike to Ben’s place north of the river, an impossible feat. An uphill climb across some of the roughest terrain in the area, and he was a century out of practice.

  Knotting his fists, Amarok kicked a rock into the middle of the river. It would take him a full day or longer to get there, and there was no guarantee the trapper would be home. A skilled bush pilot, Ben transported hunters and tourists around remote areas of the Alaskan frontier. Weasel Tail had known Ben’s schedule. He’d wait, lurking in the brush until Ben left, and while the trapper was gone, Weasel Tail would raid his traps. Amarok suddenly remembered a beat-up canoe stored in a southern cache. It would be only a short hike, but repairs would take half a day.

  A motor whined in the distance, breaking his concentration. The drone grew louder and stronger. Upriver, the outline of Ben’s boat came into view. Amarok waved his hands to get the man’s attention. He watched as the vessel drew near and he spotted the trapper’s face. Ben appeared ashen, his lips pressed tight. He slowed and idled to the dock, watching Amarok with suspicious eyes.

  “Thank God—Ben! You have to take me to the dark valley before it’s too late.”

  Ben lifted his chin, and squinted. “Do I know you?”

  “Please, just listen to me. I need a ride downriver. It’s not far. My friend went there and she needs me—please!”

  The trapper’s mouth opened, and then sadness rushed into his eyes. “I took her there several hours ago. I’m sorry, but she didn’t come back.”

  Amarok closed his eyes, willing the horrible words to evaporate from his mind. He opened them slowly, feeling as if he’d just swallowed a blade.

  “I’m sorry,” Ben said. “I told her I’d wait an hour and I waited almost two. If she wasn’t back by then, she’s not coming back.” He lowered his dark eyes. “I didn’t want to leave her, but I couldn’t risk staying. I’m sorry, son, but she had to know going in she wouldn’t stand much of a chance against what lives there.” The native’s eyes strayed to the totems circling Amarok’s neck and he smiled sadly, as if his suspicions had been confirmed. “You’re brother wolf, aren’t you? It was you she was trying to save.”

  Amarok’s knees buckled. He couldn’t be too late. It was his job to protect her. The girl he loved couldn’t have died giving him a chance at life. Emotions flooded him, choking him with despair.

  Ben cleared his throat. “You know the history of that place as well as I do. No one lasts long there.”

  “But you don’t know for sure what happened to her? Not for sure?” Amarok begged, clinging to any shred of hope he could find.

  “No. I assumed, when she didn’t return, she’d ended up like all the others. No sane person would set foot in the place. It’s too dangerous.”

  “I have to know, either way. Will you give me a ride?”

  The trapper held up his hand. “Look, we’ve already lost one soul. I’m not going to endanger another person. Don’t throw your life away, boy. Don’t make her sacrifice for nothing.”

  “But I might be able to save her! If you’re not willing to take me, at least let me borrow your boat!”

  The man hesitated.

  “Ben, please!”

  The man nodded. “All right. I warned you, but I suppose there’s nobody who knows the dangers better than you. It’s your life. Get in.”

  They traveled downstream, the calm water rippling out from the bow to lap at the nearby banks. The passive section of the river merged with an angry branch and the route stretching before them became a rushing torrent, clogged with snags and dangerous logjams. Amarok clutched the side of the boat and frowned. Over the last century, the river had changed drastically. He thought of Emma and his heart twisted. He would’ve never sent Emma if he’d known how dangerous it was. He gazed into the belly of the river, remembering the plentiful trout it once provided, how they would burst to the surface on his line, the sizzle of their tender flesh in his m
other’s frying pan. The memory of the succulent smell of fried fish and pepper permeating the once-cozy cabin caused his stomach to grumble with hunger.

  The river branched, and Ben chose the left fork. The color of the water intensified, the aqua blue hue deepening and changing until it turned an ugly brown, heavy with silt. The swells grew taller and deeper in the agitated water. Each wave crested in froths of white claws, scraping at the sides of the boat.

  A bird shrieked overhead. Amarok spotted the owl flying low, gliding silently on the winds. With three powerful upstrokes, it sailed across the sky, disappearing into the trees ahead. He breathed a heavy sigh, thankful for his uncle’s presence. Over the years, he’d only traveled here a few times as a wolf, and his human perception was so different, it could well have been a different place. Now everything appeared darker, more lifeless. Even the wind seemed absent, and it struck him how heavy the feeling of death hung over the land.

  A tinge of melancholy came over him. He remembered his father’s excitement about this unexplored frontier, so untouched by human hands, and he wondered how they’d missed the desolate quality of the region. The land had fooled his parents into trusting it. Even his native mother, who’d always been so perceptive, hadn’t recognized what deadly, devious secrets the land held. It had killed her, and then cradled her and her husband in death, roots twisting into their graves to forever hold them prisoner in its rotting, forsaken soil.

  A fogbank shrouded the shoulders of the land like a widow’s shawl. A mile downriver the haze lifted, and Amarok spotted the sad cabin perched on the rise, and the dilapidated crosses marking the graves. He choked down the lump rising in his throat, feeling as if his gut had been shoveled out with a rusty spade. All the terrible sorrow he’d endured so long ago washed over him anew. His eyes swept across the cold and lonesome graves, the crooked and weather-beaten crosses. So many memories lay buried in the soil with them.

  Ben cut the engine and coasted close to shore. Waves slapped the hull, rocking the boat violently. Amarok braced himself and jumped out onto the sandbank.

  He glanced over his shoulder at Ben. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  The trapper nodded. “Try not to be too long.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Amarok hurried into the brush, fighting through a maze of alder bushes and overgrown trees. The once-tiny saplings lining the path in his youth now towered toward the sky. Their shadow created a dark and dismal canopy over the lonely trail. Blades of brown grass poked up from snow-encrusted tussocks. Amarok broke through the brush and stood at the front door of the cabin. He’d known every nail, every notch in each hand-hewn log in the structure—now just a dust-covered artifact of dreams destroyed, a family ruined.

  He gripped the cold doorknob, closed his eyes, and dropped his hand quickly. He had no time to lament, no time for painful memories. He had to find Emma. Amarok passed the lonely graves with a stab of regret and ducked into the trees.

  He wove a shortcut through the tangled undergrowth. The sun poked from behind the clouds, shooting narrow shafts across the earth as if guiding him. Its pale rays shimmered off skiffs of snow jacketing the gray foliage. The sun faded and darkness crept in like a living thing, sucking the life from the land, shrouding it in breathless silence. The quiet rang in Amarok’s ears. Inching forward, his eyes shifted back and forth, ears straining to pick up any threatening sound. He skirted the top of the rise, stepping from tree to tree to keep his outline obscured. Carefully, he worked past the base of the mountain and into a stand of trees beyond.

  Huddled between two giant pines, the shaman’s hut squatted, just as he remembered it. A depressing, dilapidated shack, with smoke billowing from a crude hole cut in the ceiling. The scent of sage and cooked lichens set his instincts on edge. He’d smelled the pungent mixture, boiling in a pot for days, during his transformation. Amarok crept forward, one careful step at a time, as soundless as the fog. He leaned his ear against the door, listening. Nothing. He steeled himself, grabbed the wooden handle and burst inside.

  Amarok swept a quick glance around the interior of the smoky hut, on the lookout for the shaman crouching in the shadows. The walls, blackened by centuries’ worth of wood smoke, barely kept the weather out. Packed earth made up a dirt floor, and the circular hole in the thatched roof provided ventilation. All of this was, of course, for his victims. The shaman neither needed shelter or comfort for his immortal shell, but he needed to keep the unfortunate humans alive long enough to complete the transformation. When he was finished, they had nature’s protection of fur or feathers and no longer required the meager shelter offered by the ramshackle dwelling.

  Amarok’s eyes burned from the thick haze of acrid smoke and cooked herbs. Nothing was discernible in the smog. As his eyes struggled to adjust, he saw a cast iron pot hanging over the open firepit, boiling the hateful mixture he remembered so well. He advanced and turned the pot over with a savage kick, extinguishing the flames below. Deeper in the dwelling, he spotted wooden masks and spears carved of bone cluttering the filthy walls. A woolly animal shivered on the floor, near the fire.

  Amarok’s mouth fell open. NO!

  37

  A strange sound broke into Emma’s head; an ancient crackle, reminding her of crinkly old paper. She couldn’t quite make out the words, but she continued to shut it out, as well as the unsettling chanting. Whatever she was doing seemed to be working. The burning pain searing her skin had faded. She relaxed, letting herself drift farther and farther away.

  Emma ignored the shaman’s angry call echoing in some distant place in her mind, filled with rage and hatred, demanding she come back. She drifted to a spot inside of herself that no one could penetrate. This was the place she loved to visit the most, a field filled with daisies behind Grandmother’s cottage. She sat with the loving old woman, who had died when she was ten. They laughed and picked flowers, tucking them into each other’s hair. Every once in a while, the shaman’s angry chant broke through, and she’d look at the vision of her grandmother and smile. Emma forgot all her worries in the woman’s soothing gaze.

  An itching sensation tickled her nose and arms. Fur brushed against her skin and she sneezed. Somehow, her allergies had broken through into her dream world. Her grandmother smiled and handed her a cup of Earl Gray and a homemade gingersnap. Emma savored the cookie’s delicate flavor and sipped her tea, feeling at peace. The scent of animal dander intruded on the serene moment, growing stronger. Her eyes burned, but still she focused on her grandmother’s kind face and held her cup out for more tea. She lifted it to her lips, picking out a long strand of fur before taking a sip.

  38

  Amarok examined the lump of fur resting near the fire. He tiptoed around it, fearing a trap. He viewed it from every available angle before he could finally put a name to the nondescript ball of fluff—a coyote. Small for one of its kind, it was either very young or dwarfed somehow. The creature lifted its head, and then laid it down again, closing its eyes. Amarok’s breath hitched in his throat as he crept closer. Could it be? The coyote lifted its head again and let out a soft whine. The animal blinked, showing a flash of blue—an extraordinarily rare eye color for a coyote. But they happened to be the same color as Emma’s, and its reddish fur matched the shade of her hair. If he touched it, would it be the same silky texture as hers? His throat went dry. He took another step closer, not wanting to believe. The thing fixed pleading eyes on him and whimpered.

  Amarok fell to his knees. “Emma, is that you?”

  The creature whined again.

  “Don’t try to move, it’s okay. We’ll find your totem. I’ll fix this, I promise!”

  Amarok reached to stroke the coyote, which whined again, this time more pleading, insistent. Amarok choked back tears, leaning closer. The creature suddenly sprang to its feet, growling. Amarok took a step back, then another, as the creature lowered its head. Its eyes filled with rage. Amarok bolted for the door, his unsteady legs slowing him down. He could
hear the creature closing in behind him, and then he could hear nothing as the creature sprang into the air.

  As he reached the door, the coyote hit him, knocking him flat and driving the air from his lungs, snapping at the back of his neck, its white tongue slithering out like some albino snake as it bit him, hard, on the shoulder. Blood sprayed, and Amarok could feel it coursing down his arm. The creature’s muzzle pulled back from its dagger-like teeth as it leaped again. Amarok caught it in both arms, driving him backward. He slammed it to the ground, smashing its small head into the hard-packed dirt. Rewarded with a sickening crunch, Amarok watched as it started to dissolve in his hands, twisting and squirming until it sank into the ground in a heap of hide and bones. Amarok’s heart raced. He should have known the coyote was a trap. As a small child, he’d listened while his mother told him tales of tricky coyotes by campfire light, drawing symbols in the ashes, warning him to beware.

  Amarok bolted from the hut, scanning the area as he ran. He had to find her. But where? His eyes locked on the gaping maw of the cavern in the mountain.

  39

  Emma smiled at her grandmother through watering eyes. The tickle started far back in her nose, and she slapped a hand to her mouth just in time to catch the explosive sneeze. The old woman handed her a pink hankie, and Emma dabbed at her tearing eyes. Her grandmother smiled, looking down at Emma’s lap. Emma realized there was a cat curled up there. She grinned and picked it up, cradling the feline in her arms, despite the price she knew she’d pay. It was Mittens, the long-haired Persian, a treasured companion from her childhood. The cat had always made her sneeze, but she’d loved it and would brave the unpleasant allergic reaction for the sake of an old friend.