The Children Of The Mist

by Jenny Brigalow

  Wind blew from the east. Zest could smell the salt of the distant sea caught up in the stronger scents of eucalypt, car fumes, smoke and something chemical that he couldn’t quite place. Beside him a young bitch lifted her muzzle and tasted the air. She too tried to decipher the strange aroma. Pungent and harsh.

  Zest’s stomach rumbled. He was hungry. His last meal with Morven seemed a lifetime ago. Just her name sent him into a spiral of emotional angst. Without the subduing effect of the herbs, the metamorphosis he was experiencing was not just physical. Along with his enhanced physical strength and ultrasensitive nervous system came an emotional state of equal proportion. He felt a burst of anger. She should be here with him. By his side, sharing with him this profound adventure. Why wasn’t she here? And fear followed with heavy footsteps. Because she was ill. A stomach bug? Right. Morven wasn’t sick. She was Becoming. Soon she would be Vampyre. If she survived.

  Afraid of his thoughts he looked for a distraction. Don’t think. Don’t think. Just do. Just be. Wolfman. A soft sound caught his attention. It seemed to have come from the base of a smaller mountain to the west. He froze, listening. And there it was again. And then he knew what the smell was. Cattle dip. The soft sound was the cough of a cow. Beef on the hoof. Dinner. His mouth filled with saliva and his body twitched with sensuous happiness. He made a small growl deep in his chest. Without further ado he leapt down the mountain side. The pack rallied and fell in behind.

  The cattle were cunning. But the pack was more cunning still. Splitting up, they feathered away and carefully encircled the small herd. To Zest’s eyes they all looked like prime eating. The calf was just a few days old, leggy and hungry for mother’s milk. Tender, toothsome and tasty. But something held him back. Some remote sense of his other self insinuated itself into his conscious brain. It was a baby. Brand new and strangely beguiling. Frustrated, but unable to argue with himself, he cast his gaze over the rest of the mob. Seconds later he made up his mind. The steer. Still young. Bigger. Better. Or so he reasoned.

  With a flick of his hand he made known his intention. As he swooped silently into the small glade the dozing herd burst into flight. With a scream of primeval triumph Zest fell upon the beast, stabbing with his knife. Aided and abetted by the pack, the hunt was over in seconds. Zest pulled his long knife from the steer’s neck and stepped back. The steer was dead. Blood pooled around his still body like mercury, silver and glistening in the moonlight. The pack stepped back and looked at Zest as a token of their respect. Moved by their acceptance and generosity he cut a large piece from the huge hindquarter. It smelled rich and ripe. The flesh was warm and thick with blood. It was good to be alive.

  For a couple of hours the pack ate its fill. Sated and content they headed back to their lair. They travelled slowly, fat and full. Back at the den Zest watched, wistful and wanting, as they disappeared into the small caves and holes snug in the steep side of the mountain. While he wished with every fibre of his being that he too could curl up in a jumble of furry limbs and soft pelt, he knew it was impossible. He was too damn big for starters. Besides, he knew the human part of him would not let him rest so easily. There was Morven. She would need him. Of this he was sure.

  Reluctantly he turned for home. It was only as he reached the freeway to the north that he remembered his board. Damn it. He’d have to go back for it tomorrow. It’d be a good excuse to see Morven’s parents, and see how she was going. He travelled in the shelter of the pine forest that stretched for miles along the wide bitumen road. Sometimes he could see the moon through the needled branches, smiling down at him. She flirted and cajoled. Zest felt her power and wondered what it would be like to surrender. It was a fascinating but scary thought, one which he had turned over in his mind often. Sometimes he had nearly given in, nearly driven insane by the forces that battled within. But always, at the last moment, he’d chickened out.

  Before he’d died, his dad had told him that he’d know when the time was right. Back then, when he was just seven, Zest had believed that his parent would be there to guide him. Protect him. But he was alone now. Always alone. How could he be sure when the right time arrived? What was the point, if there was no one there to share it with? He wanted to belong. And up until now, he’d survived on the fringes of humanity. At times it was a life worth living. Especially in the city on his board with his mates. With Morven.

  But Zest knew that these small moments of belonging were all he would ever know, while he kept the secret locked up inside. Although he fantasised about the alternative, he managed to suppress many of his wilder dreams. They only filled him with a deep depression that was hard to shake. He tried to keep busy, with school, work and skating. There had seemed little point in dwelling on dreams. Until today.

  Today made everything different. A sign loomed up. Normally Zest would have known it was the right exit by the lights of the petrol station, just off the highway. But tonight he could clearly read the sign. His eyesight was as keen as it would normally be in the day. Home was close.

  Just before the exit, he ducked into a field and headed west. The smell of cattle caught his attention briefly. But he ignored them. He was still full. The thrill of the chase and the glory of the kill reared up into his head. Chemicals burst like fireworks in his brain and he broke into a run. Grouse flew out of the long grass, shrieking in protest and alarm. With lightning precision Zest snatched at the air. His hand fastened around a slender, feathery neck. And then he hesitated. Feathers were tricky to deal with. He wasn’t that hungry. He let the bird go. She fell to the ground like a log and lay still. But he could hear her heart beating like a pneumatic drill in her chest. It was, Zest decided, her lucky day.

  Several minutes later he jogged steadily past the garage, past the office and showroom, to a small caravan parked behind a copse of trees. Zest paused and looked around. All was quiet. He pulled out his key and opened the door. It wasn’t much. But it was home.

  Once inside, he switched on the light and pulled the curtains shut. He headed for the tiny bathroom. He needed a shower. At the bathroom sink he paused and looked at himself in the mirror. He certainly needed a bit of tidying up. His hair was littered with leaves and what looked like bits of hide. Blood smeared his throat and spotted his shirt. The said shirt strained across his back and had split at the sleeve seams, his muscles straining through the gap. The black centres of his green eyes were dilated. Two black moons of darkness. At the base of his neck a pulse beat slowly.

  As he stood beneath the spray, the clean hot water seemed to wash away the werewolf. But he knew it was just an illusion. Away from the influence of the nearly full moon, his body began to slide back toward its normal equilibrium. He’d missed a dose of Wolf’s Bane before. By morning he’d be fine.

  By the time he put on clean clothes he looked pretty much like normal, except he fancied his eyes seemed darker and his body hair thicker. Perhaps it was just in his imagination.

  In the tiny lounge area he grabbed a bottle of water and flicked on the idiot box. But the images danced before his eyes unseen. He couldn’t concentrate. Was Morven still fast asleep in her bed? Was she alright? He picked up his phone and started to dial in her number. Halfway through the digits he stopped. Best not. If he was wrong, he’d look a right bloody idiot. Best let her be. Tomorrow would be soon enough. Hopefully he’d find his board and then casually pop in to say hi.

  Still restless, he switched off the TV and went to bed. He lay awake for hours, filled with anxiety. Filled with hope. Somehow, he couldn’t let go of the possibility that maybe tomorrow would be the right time. Morven would be just fine.

  She had to be.

  Chapter 11

  Morven was scared. More than that. Petrified. Terrified. Horrified. In fact, there was no word to express the emotions that filled her. Her breath came in ragged bursts, and her heart beat in her chest like some kind of desperate caged bird. The air was full of smoke. A scream rent through the small town square. A dreadful sound that unhinged her
completely.

  She stopped in her tracks, frozen with terror. ‘Oh God, let me go,’ she begged. ‘Please, please let me go. It wasn’t me, I swear it wasn’t me.’

  But the two armed men took no notice and dragged her across the cobbled stones of the town square. She stumbled and would have fallen if the men had not jerked viciously on the heavy chains that bound her. Again and again that terrible cry filled the air, anguished, agonised. It touched some place deep within Morven and she felt reason slip away. She went mad, attacking the two men with every atom of her being. In a frenzy, she kicked, gouged and tried to bite. They fought back, tearing her hair out at the roots, ripping what was left of her dress to shreds. Finally one of them lost patience and smashed her across the skull with his sword handle.

  Almost unconscious, Morven was half dragged, half carried toward the waiting crowd. The morbid mob hushed as she neared, and parted. The heat from the fire hit her then, and the smell made her gag. There was little left of the poor creature, consumed and blackened by the pyre. Someone jeered and spat. The spit landed on her bare arm. But she barely noticed, mesmerised by the sight of a tall wooden post buried in a carefully constructed bonfire.

  Her mind was strangely blank as they bound her. Even when the torch touched the brush and it burst into flame, her mind was empty. Detached, she watched the people gathered to welcome and witness her destruction. How she hated them. Hated their blind stupidity and ignorance. But then a finger of flame licked tentatively up her foot. Hotter and hotter. And the world became pain. And though she had sworn she wouldn’t, she shrieked. ‘I’m not Vampyre. I’m not Vampyre.’ But then the agony overwhelmed the words. And she opened her mouth in a soundless scream.

  ‘Morven, Morven, wake up!’

  Morven’s eyes snapped open. ‘Mum, don’t let me burn, don’t let me burn!’ she sobbed hysterically.

  ‘Morven, Morven, it’s okay. It’s just a dream. It’s alright. It’s just a dream.’

  And the world came back into focus. Morven clutched her mother tight for a minute and then flopped back on her pillow. It was dark, but light spilled through the open door and Wolverine watched her enigmatically. Still saturated by the terrible intensity of the nightmare, Morven could not speak. Her fingers curled in the soft quilt. She was in her bed. Safe and sound. It was just a dream.

  But then a pain sliced through her abdomen and she let out a small groan and doubled over.

  ‘Morven, what’s the matter?’

  But Morven could not answer, consumed by the intensity of the pain.

  ‘Clifford, come here, something’s wrong.’

  Morven could hear the panic in her mother’s voice. With a concerted effort she lifted her head. ‘It’s alright,’ she whispered, ‘just a bit of period pain.’

  Her mother put a cool hand onto her forehead. ‘Morven, you’re not alright. You’re burning up.’

  For an instant the room went dark as her father rushed through the doorway. He peered down at Morven and then looked at his wife. Morven was not reassured.

  ‘We’d better get her to emergency,’ he said.

  Morven was not impressed. She hated hospitals. Horrid places full of man-made super bugs and sociopaths that serenaded as surgeons. ‘I’m not going to the hospital.’

  Her mother’s eyes narrowed. ‘Oh, yes you are, my girl.’

  Morven scowled and wiped away the irritating beads of sweat that dripped over her eyebrows. ‘No, I’m not.’

  Her father sat carefully on the edge of the bed. ‘Morven, you have to go and get checked out. This is more than just a period. I’m not sure, but I think you may have appendicitis.’

  Morven sniffed furiously. ‘Well, as you’re the doctor, why don’t you just put me on the kitchen table and whip it out then?’

  To her surprise her father grinned. ‘I’d love to. Except you’d sue me if I botched it.’

  Morven was outraged. ‘I would not.’ She wanted to say considerably more but the stabbing, agonising pain rolled over her again. She was helpless to resist as her father leant down and picked her up bodily out of her bed. By the time the lift took them to the basement, she felt too ill to put up any resistance. She could hear voices that she knew must be inside her head. It must be the effects of whatever ailed her. Fear prodded. What was wrong with her? Several possibilities flicked through her head, each worse than the last. Suddenly, appendicitis seemed quite appealing.

  Her father and mother manhandled her as gently and carefully as they could into the back seat of the car.

  ‘We won’t be long,’ said her dad.

  It was true. The hospital was barely 10 minutes away. They made it in under five. Morven was secretly impressed by the kamikaze drive to town. Usually her Dad was like the slowest driver in the world. And, her mother never told him to slow down once. Not even when they went screeching through a very red light. Awesome. Zest would never believe it when she told him.

  At the main entrance to the emergency unit the car came to a screeching stop. Doors opened and a man in pale blue scrubs came out. When he looked in the back seat at her, he turned and motioned for a stretcher. Through the open doors wafted the smell of sickness and decay overlaid by a disinfectant. And blood. Morven could smell it quite distinctly and a vision swirled in her mind. A glass. A beautiful crystal glass sat on a long, polished table. It sparkled in the light of a dozen candelabra, competing with glistening silver cutlery and gleaming silver plates. She could hear laughter and happy fluting voices, melodic and cultured. A pale hand reached out, fingers slender, weighted down with jewellery. Most distinctive was a ring in the shape of a bat. And as the glass was raised, Morven realised it was filled with a brilliant red liquid, thicker than water, lighter than wine. Blood. Bright arterial blood. Ruby red.

  Morven sat up. ‘I’m thirsty,’ she said.

  ‘No fluids,’ said the blue scrubs.

  Hands lifted her carefully and laid her on a trolley. Above were white plaster squares of ceiling, and rows of strip lights. How many lights? She got to four but the trolley took off. Even number though. Could be a good omen. Seconds later her trolley stopped in a small bay. The scrubs came in and checked her pulse. Her mother appeared and held her hand.

  The scrubs lifted her pyjama top and examined her stomach. He prodded her side. ‘Does that hurt?’

  Morven sat bolt upright. ‘Of course it hurts, you piece of pig shit.’

  She heard her mother gasp. ‘Morven, there’s no excuse for rudeness.’

  Morven tended to disagree, but buttoned up her lips. Still, if that moron invaded her privacy again she’d be seriously upset and take a large bite out of him. If she could just have a drink she’d feel better. Her throat was parched. And, to add insult to injury, she had a toothache.

  ‘Morven, we’re going to get an ultrasound now,’ said the scrubs.

  Morven nodded, but she barely took in what he said. In the distance the harp played, and someone sang in a sweet soprano voice. Around her a forest whispered and leaves rustled. In the dense canopy the raven took to the night sky and called out a warning. She stopped, and listened. For a moment she could hear nothing untoward but then her sharp ears heard stealthy footsteps. A soft cough. And the creak of leather. Someone was in the woods. She breathed deeply and caught the whiff of smoke. Fear sprang into her heart as she spun around and took off for home. A voice rang out. And she knew she must be swift. The sounds were louder now, shouts and yells and excited laughter. Faster she ran, through thickets, streams and brambles. But when she looked over her shoulder, she could still see the flickering torch flames. With a snarl of rage, she pushed on. Home. Sanctuary.

  ‘Morven, Morven, can you hear me?’

  Morven opened her eyes and looked into her mother’s. ‘Of course I can hear you, Mum, I’m not deaf.’

  Her mother smiled. ‘I’m sorry, you’ve been a bit out of it. They gave you a shot of morphine and it knocked you out cold.’

  Morven felt a flash of panic. She was no longer in the
emergency department. She was in a corridor. Ahead was a door, its glass windows smoky. How had that happened? ‘Where am I?’ she demanded.

  Her Mum frowned anxiously down at her. ‘You’re at theatre. I can’t go with you any further.’

  Morven shook her head slowly. ‘But I thought I was going to have an ultrasound.’

  ‘You did, but you passed out. It’s your appendix. It’s pretty angry.’

  Morven scowled. ‘Me too.’

  A nurse with a ridiculous paper hat covered in nauseating kittens cleared her throat purposefully. ‘I’m sorry, but we have to go.’

  Before Morven could muster a protest, the doors buzzed open and her mother’s anxious face disappeared from view. The clean cool room inside was just like something out of Grey’s Anatomy. The same couldn’t be said for the surgeon, unfortunately. No McDreamy or McSteamy to soften the blow. Morven thought her surgeon looked like a turtle. All skinny neck, wrinkles and baggy eyes. A definite candidate for mercy killing. The anaesthetist was a woman with pale blue eyes and sallow skin. Her whole demeanour was one of resigned boredom. Behind her mask, she yawned.

  Morven glared up at her. ‘Not keeping you awake I hope?’

  She blinked. ‘I’m going to put you to sleep now, Morven. Just count to 10 for me.’

  Morven felt a wave of relief. Now they were talking her language. This she could do. But, it’d better be a perfect 10, for luck. Something cold ran into her hand. ‘One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine…what came after nine for God’s sake…nine, nine, nine…mustn’t stop on an uneven number. Morven struggled wildly to find the next number as she finally slipped away. Fear filled her. Something bad was going to happen. She tried to wake up. It was like swimming beneath a thick crust of ice. No matter how hard she banged on the surface, she couldn’t break through. And then — darkness.