by Mark Hockley
AN AUDIENCE WITH THE WOLF
"I hate all of this," Tom said softly, his emotions drained.
Dredger looked at the boy with a detached air. "Evil must be vanquished wherever it is found," he voiced gruffly. "The minions of the Wolf cannot deny the bite of true steel, or the arm that wields it. You would be dead now if that were not so."
"Maybe that would be better," Tom replied, bitterness in his voice.
Before them the headless carcass lay sprawled out on the stone street, thick blood darkening the pavement, and somewhere close by, hidden within the veil of fog, the Ripper's severed head lay torn and discarded.
"Jack is waiting for me," said Tom blandly, his eyes searching the grey mist, "and there's an injured man with him."
"Lead the way," the warrior ordered, his manner formal, but Tom did not move. He hadn't the faintest notion of how to find his friend again. He couldn't even say which direction they should take.
"I know the name of the street they're in, but I'm...not sure how to get there," he admitted, looking up at the warrior, his face conveying the dejection he felt.
"Then follow me," Dredger bid him and moved briskly away, passing by the lifeless form on the ground without a second glance and on into the mist. For one awful moment, Tom believed he would not be able to follow, the idea of walking so close to the bloody remains of the murderer repelling him with such violence that he thought he would be sick.
What if, as he went by, one of the dead man's hands suddenly reached out and grabbed him? What if all of this was just a ruse created from the cruel imagination of the Wolf?
But if he remained there for much longer he would surely lose Dredger in the murky street, and the thought of that was worse still.
So with disgust and a knot of terror in his chest, he ran past the corpse, giving it as wide a berth as possible in the cramped alleyway, and of course, no hand came snaking out to clutch at his ankle; Jack the Ripper was certainly quite dead. But as he ran, dimly perceiving Dredger ahead of him, he heard, or thought that he heard, a muffled sound that chilled him, an icy grip tight around his heart.
He might have been mistaken, he might have imagined it, but it had sounded very much like someone giggling, somewhere in the shadows. And that was not all. It had been the laughter of a girl, or perhaps a woman, trailing away as he ran, distantly familiar to him.
As he raced to catch up with the warrior, dread was his only real companion, a warning of something wicked and twisted, a certain knowledge in him that the horror was only now beginning. It was as though it had already happened, the sense of it so definite, and in his anxious, troubled mind, he wondered if perhaps it really had and he and Dredger were no more than ghosts, playing out the past.
But whatever the truth, for Tom it was all too real. And it would go relentlessly on. Until the bitter end.
Ahead of the lion, a long tunnel ran for an unknown distance. Only the soft thud of his own large paws could be heard in that still-born place. It was a dead territory, mute and solitary.
On and on Mo walked, knowing that somewhere in this sterile domain, the White Wolf was expecting him.
After a timeless period, in which the lion never faltered, moving with purpose, he at last came to a gigantic doorway, carved from a dark amber wood that shone brilliantly, delicate carvings depicting the faces of many men and beasts, some benign, others hideous and malevolent.
Patiently, Mo waited for some sign that he should enter, and after several moments the doors swung open, the peal of a bell heralding his arrival.
Inside, an immense hall became visible, its walls and ceiling white barriers of marble. Upon the floor was a magnificent mosaic portraying a rearing beast above a cowering lamb, created from a multitude of precious stones, their colours vivid. And there, appearing faraway in that vast place, was a throne of gleaming white bone.
From his place there, seated on a supple cushion of human flesh, it still fresh and bloody, the Wolf gave a rueful smile. "Welcome, old one, welcome. Why don't you come in?" Slowly, although not reluctantly, the lion walked forward, pausing just inside the doorway. "Come closer," said the Beast, its tone congenial. "Let me see you."
With his eyes intent upon the Wolf, Mo crossed the great expanse of the hall, passing over the huge mosaic.
"A wonderful work of craftsmanship, don't you think?" the Beast observed as its guest approached, but Mo made no reply, only coming to a silent halt several yards before the throne, undaunted by the glittering gaze that greeted him. "Why not kneel?" asked the Wolf, licking his snout.
At this, the lion smiled. "There will come a time," he said softly, "when you shall kneel." If he had expected a reaction to this, it did not come. The White Wolf appeared unperturbed and simply regarded the other animal with curiosity. "It's all relative," it remarked. "In the end, we all get what we deserve."
"I know what you deserve," Mo stated.
"Yes?" the Beast queried with interest.
"Damnation," the lion spat with utter contempt.
Chuckling with unbridled mirth, the White Wolf nodded emphatically. "Of course, my dear old friend, of course I do. There's no doubt about it. But is there no room in your heart for mercy? For forgiveness?"
Mo glared at the Wolf, but hesitated before answering. "It is not my place to forgive you."
"Always passing the buck, my good friend, that's always been your problem. You must learn to take some responsibility. As I have."
"Yes," Mo retorted sharply. "You are responsible. For corruption and suffering, for hatred and perversion. These are your legacies."
The Wolf growled and moved restlessly on the tender cushion beneath its haunches. "Empty words. Just like your promises. You think that you know so much, half-one, but what can a half-one know? Only half of it." Suddenly the Beast screamed with laughter, the sound of it causing Mo to flinch. "Indeed," the Wolf continued, "half, and that's all you know, one half of the story. You only ever see your side. That's your trouble, no sense of balance. It seems to me that you should take a good long look at yourself, deep into your bitter soul. In your beclouded eyes, I am the defiler. But what of you? What have you become? Perhaps I should put you out of your misery."
"Why don't you try?" the lion roared, head moving from side to side in a gesture of defiance, his golden mane flowing.
But the Beast only shook its head, a pitiful look upon its sly face. "If only I could, I surely would," it said, mockery mingling with some other, more ambiguous sentiment. "If it could be done, I would oblige you, out of the compassion I feel for one so misguided. But my hands are tied, so to speak. Even I must play by the rules."
Mo glowered at the Wolf. "You are a coward!" he called with anger, "you speak of rules, but when have you ever respected any of those made at the first dawn? You disgust me. And I will see you dead and cast back into the darkness. There is no hope for the likes of you."
For a brief moment, the Wolf's eyes flared with some dark emotion that betrayed its true feelings toward its adversary, an utter bestial hatred. But then as quickly as it had come, it was gone and the White Wolf was smiling amicably. "Dear one," it appealed as if indulging a child, "you are misguided you know, don't you see that? You should take care. I've watched you mixing with the wrong crowd and asked myself time and again why you put yourself through it. They are all so ungrateful for your efforts. They don't appreciate you, just as they don't appreciate me, so why not make a fresh start? I know we could be friends again and I could offer you so much, so many treasures. All yours for the asking, if only you would come over to my way of thinking. After all, aren't we more alike than you would admit? Blood-brothers? Kith and kin? We don’t have to be on opposite sides. I never wanted it that way."
The lion roared again and everything around them seemed to tremble with the fury of the sound. "Let us end it now," Mo breathed and the White Wolf's face became stern and hard, his muscular frame tensing as it leant forward on its throne.
"You will perish," it proclaimed wi
th certainty, "but not until the time is right. Right for me and mine, right for you and yours. You shall die, a long, slow death and you will scream for mercy. You will beg me for your life. You will do anything so that I should spare you from the torments I have devised. You are mine, old friend. Just wait and see, be patient. It will come sooner than you think."
And then, as if a pebble had disturbed a reflection cast upon a lake, the face of the Beast began to ripple and fade, everything that had been there passing away.
Mo, a badger once more, now stood alone in a ruined city, where great monoliths of stone towered all about him, testaments to a dead world, destroyed by some potent and terrible force, and amongst the rubble of torn buildings, weeping children lay, writhing in agony, their eyes pleading for help and perhaps for something more than that, something greater.
As Mo looked upon them, he suspected that he knew what it was.
They wanted forgiveness.
What black dream had the Wolf sent him now? What dreadful vision was this, where children suffered so? As he contemplated this, one tiny child, gaunt and filthy, skin charred and blackened, sunken eyes imploring, called out to him through tears of pain. "I'm sorry," it sobbed desperately, "please believe me, I'm sorry."
The badger felt useless and lost. There was nothing he could do.
Another child, hairless and disfigured, began to crawl with difficulty toward him, picking its way through the devastation, dragging itself painfully nearer and Mo could hardly bear to watch it. He just wanted to close his eyes and shut it all out.
My God, this should not be.
He couldn't even say if it were a boy or a girl.
"This way," instructed Dredger, his long legs taking him through the dank streets at a good speed. At his heels Tom jogged to keep up, wishing the man would slow down a little.
"But how can you know where they are?" he questioned, panting, out of breath.
Paying no heed to the boy's doubtful tone, the warrior merely grunted. Then, after a pause, he said. "Your friend and I have a new relationship. You can be sure that I will find him."
Hearing this, Tom knew it was pointless to question the man further on the matter, so he decided to save what little breath he had and to concentrate on staying as close to Dredger as he could. He was acutely aware that the warrior had dangerous fires smouldering within him, that could burst into violent flame at any moment, but he was also an ally, who had helped them on numerous occasions, and Tom was determined that they would not be separated from him again.
As they hurried on through the thick fog, his mind began to dwell upon all that had happened to him, the need to understand it all becoming more and more urgent. But the only thing that really struck him was the way in which he had come to accept the bizarre events he had witnessed, since somehow slipping from his own world into these magical, yet deadly lands. He had almost become accustomed to the games the White Wolf played with them, and though it seemed a strange observation, Tom had come to believe that in many respects this world was clearer and easier to define than his own. For in the place that he had been born and educated, everything was indistinct, troubles passing over people like shadows, subtle, sometimes intangible, but always dark, and always felt. He had heard of wars and murders, abuse and deceptions, all committed by Mankind against their fellows and it had confused him, for there was no evil Beast who could be blamed, there was no White Wolf who could be held responsible. But now, in this cruel, fantastic place, he had discovered that there was an answer, or at least part of an answer, to why those terrible things were happening. He had come to the conclusion that both this world and his own were linked in a chain and that each kingdom, each link in the chain, although separate, was yet a part of the next and he felt sure that he, Jack, Mo and Dredger were fast approaching a resolution that would explain the purpose of those myriad world’s existence. He was still uncertain about what that might be, but he knew in his heart that there was nothing more important. Tom smiled grimly as he followed the warrior, surprised at the way his mind worked, the thoughts and ideas he now entertained.
Turning a corner they went along a dismal back alley, drains emitting a foul odour of decay and for a moment the mist lifted revealing a white plaque upon the wall. Gin Street.
"This isn't..." he started, bemused that there should be a name on the sign at all, only to have Dredger put up a hand and cut him short.
"Over there," the man told him sternly, pointing toward a gloomy doorway.
Tom peered into the coiling mist and could not make out what the man had seen, but as he drew nearer, the stark reality of it bit deep into his mind. There, in the shadows, Jack and the doctor both lay slumped against a wall. But Tom felt no joy at having found them again, for neither had stirred as he and Dredger approached. And on the ground beside Jack, a small knife had been discarded, the blade smeared with blood.
Standing there in the foggy gloom, his heart empty, despair once more weighing upon him, Tom tried to tell himself that everything was all right. But one glance at Dredger's grim face told him things were very bad indeed.
Then Dr. Watson groaned, low and stifled, but at least it was evidence that he still lived. Crouching down beside the man, the warrior quickly examined him with deft skill, but Tom's thoughts were with his friend and he went to kneel beside the motionless boy.
"Jack," he said urgently, "it's me, Tom, I made it back."
At first there was no response, but just as Tom was about to speak again, Jack turned slightly, his face pale, eyes fluttering open. "I made it go away," he said, his voice feeble, barely to be heard, and Tom wanted to hug his friend, his relief so great, almost ignoring the blood that soaked Jack's shirt.
"What happened?" he asked with concern, checking himself and through tired, watery eyes Jack managed to look at his friend and smile.
"It's nothing…I can take it," he said with feigned courage.
Dredger, who had attended to the doctor, now moved over to Jack, his expression calm and businesslike. "Do not attempt to move," he ordered, assessing the boy's injury.
Jack tried to smile again but could only manage a grimace. "Is Mo here too?" he asked with difficulty.
"For the moment let us concern ourselves with your wound," Dredger told him and Jack gave a frail nod, allowing the man to unbutton his shirt to reveal a bloody incision in his stomach; to Tom's untrained eyes it looked to be frighteningly deep, and judging by the way the blood was pumping from the wound, it was as serious as he feared.
"Quickly," Dredger directed, turning to Tom, "rip a thick piece of material from your clothing."
"How long?" Tom questioned, taking hold of his jumper.
"Just a thick piece," charged the man, his impatient tone having its effect upon Tom.
Tearing at his clothing in a frenzy, he produced a fair-sized length of material and held it out to the warrior.
"Now," said Dredger, "place it in the boy's mouth."
"Wh...what!?" Tom stuttered, "but I thought it was to stop the blood?"
Dredger eyed him with a dour expression. "There is no time for that, it is almost too late as it is. If you want to save your friend, do as I say!" Tom obeyed, placing the cloth into Jack's mouth. "Bite down hard!" the warrior instructed and Tom watched as the boy clenched his teeth upon the makeshift gag, his eyes wavering, showing white, unconsciousness threatening to claim him.
Withdrawing a little to allow Dredger more room to work, Tom saw the man kneel and lower his hands toward Jack's wound, and though a hundred questions ran through his head, matched by as many doubts, he realised that it was much too late for words. He could only look on, helpless and hope that the warrior knew what he was doing.
Dredger brought his hands together upon the bloody hole gauged in Jack's stomach and it seemed to Tom that the pressure was only causing more blood to emerge, facilitating death's approach. Glancing at the face of his friend, he saw Jack's eyes widen as pain assaulted him, Dredger's fingers exploring the ugly gash, penetra
ting his flesh and Tom knew that if it were not for the cloth the other boy bit down upon with such determination, he would surely be screaming.
Blood covered the warrior's hands now, but still he exerted pressure, delving into the wound. Jack's eyes filled with tears as an agony, unlike anything he would have believed possible, surged through him. He cried out, the sound muffled by the wad of material in his mouth, but the man did not stop.
His face lined with deep concentration, tiny droplets of sweat running down across his brow, Dredger spoke three words. "Heal thy wound."
And as Tom gazed down at the hands of the warrior a miraculous thing occurred. From his fingers a faint glow began to emanate, as if a golden thread, delicate as a spider's web, was being woven from within Dredger's own skin, passing out from him into Jack's wound to reconcile the severed flesh, binding it together, the laceration disappearing with startling speed.
Tom watched in disbelief. But even though he felt astonishment and wonder at what he was witnessing, he only had to look at Jack to see the intense pain he was still enduring while the healing was in progress, to understand that this was no simple exercise. And this was reinforced when he glanced at the warrior, a tremendous weariness and strain etched upon Dredger's features. He realised then that this magic did not come without a price to be paid.
The warrior removed his hands from the boy's stomach with a grunt, the sound of someone almost spent and Tom saw that all that remained of the terrible wound was a long, jagged scar, still faintly glowing with a golden hue.
