Two Wolves, One Shadow

by Chris Smith

  ***

  The animal’s anguished cry continued repeatedly until he reached the cave. Quite abruptly, the sound triggered his recollection of Burley yelping in pain and that memory sparked recollections of his own suffering as well. At the mouth of the cave the noise stopped. James was filled with dread, convinced that his worst fears were coming true. The hairs on the back of his neck tingled as he contemplated the real possibility that somewhere inside the cavern a werewolf awaited his arrival.

  His fear unable to be contained, James splashed madly at the water in an attempt to paddle away from the entrance to the cavern. His efforts failed against the strength of the current which was sweeping him along. The makeshift craft sped through the mouth of the cave and down into its gullet. Fangs towered above his head as the cave swallowed him whole, just as the dread of his fate was swallowing his soul. Inside the cavern, stalactites hung precariously from the roof. As his vessel moved quickly forward one fell, missing his body by mere centimetres. But James kept as quiet as possible. Using his feet hanging over the end of the scale as a rudder, he steered his craft to shore, bringing it to rest on a bank next to the discarded scale which had been the Shadow’s boat. He climbed out. The first thing he noticed was a wall of black bushes, about ten metres in height, thirty or so metres away. In the middle of the wall was a break, like the entrance to a stockade. The gap provided the only passage into the belly of what lay beyond. James caught a glimpse of the Shadow surreptitiously observing him from the entrance. He was still grasping the light. The dark figure, having realised that James had seen him, slipped into the sanctuary, leaving the boy alone with his fear.

  On the dusty ground James saw the footprints of an animal. He squatted and placed his hand over one of the paws. The print was larger than his expanded hand. Much of the dirt in the area appeared scuffed and scrambled as if a struggled had taken place at this spot. James noticed a small pool of blood at the edge of the disturbance. Not far away more spots of blood lay alongside the animal’s prints. The blood trail led away from the area. James followed the animal’s steps, all the while knowing exactly where they were heading: to the stockade’s entrance. He stopped at the gateway and drew a shallow breath which juddered in his throat. He looked back at his raft and considered if he should hop back on and paddle like crazy away from there. But to where? Having come this far there was no choice. Had there ever been any real choice in this place, he wondered.

  As soon as James crossed the entrance he saw the purpose of the manicured hedge, realising that he had just walked into a maze. It was probably designed to confuse unwelcome guests. The maze’s walls, thick and high, crowded in on him. Adding to his discomfort, the ceiling of the cavern was resting on top of the maze, creating the effect of an animal’s dark warren. James squashed his growing claustrophobia. He searched the ground; the animal’s trail continued for a few feet and then vanished. With no sign of the Shadow or the guiding light he could only guess if he should turn left or right. Both directions offered an equally possible prospect of reaching the middle. From the recesses of his memory James recalled that he’d studied the patterns, myths and ancient art of mazes in one of Mr. Preacher’s lessons. Most of the time, James considered Mr. Preacher’s theoretical lessons quite useless; he wanted to paint, not listen to the man drone on about nothing. But he did remember this lesson and the prescriptive for successfully navigating a maze…‘If you walk through the maze keeping your left hand touching the left wall, by following its course you will always find your way around all the dead ends and arrive at the centre sooner or later,’ Mr. Preacher had said. So, with no other ideas about how to approach it, that’s exactly what James did. With his left hand lightly brushing the tops of the leaves, he turned left and walked.

  Mazes, to James’ knowledge, always had a centre which housed some sort of surprise, good or bad. He hypothesised what might be at this one’s centre. Minos’ Minotaur prison? Trap or treasure? It occurred to him that the Shadow might also be after the centre’s contents. But that didn’t fit. The traitor’s main focus seemed to be stealing from him — firstly, the light from behind his eyes and more recently, his guiding light. He must be up to something else, thought James.

  Stimulated by the thought of the Shadow’s purpose, James’ mind’s eye flashed back to the cell and the exact moment the Shadow stole the guiding light. He remembered how it had hidden against the dark of the black dragon’s scales, springing forth to snare the light. However, James had only ever seen one light. Where was the other one now, the light from his eyes that he’d seen stolen in the mirror? He definitely would have seen the starlight had it also been with the Shadow. Maybe he’d already given it to the King. If that were true, James theorised, the King would most probably have commanded his dark servant to halt James’ progress, to trap him in the darkness and thwart his plans. Yes, James concluded, the Shadow’s plan must have been to steal the guiding light and lead him here. Abandoned in the maze, he’d be easy prey for the werewolf.

  James continued to follow Mr. Preacher’s advice. His left hand brushed lightly over the leaves of the bushes as he continued to walk deeper into the maze’s belly. Suddenly, a sharp pain caused him to yank his hand away from the hedge’s wall. Scarlet red blood streamed out of a cut in the palm of his hand, as clean as a surgeon’s incision. The cut didn’t appear to be too deep. James slowed the bleeding by pressing the wound firmly against his thigh. In doing so, he noticed that his shirt was torn at the bottom. With his other hand he managed, with a little difficulty, to tear off the loose piece of cloth from his shirt. Wrapping the makeshift bandage tightly around the wound, he tied it off with his teeth then, holding his wounded hand in the cup of his other hand, he turned his attention to examining the hedge for the cause of his injury.

  The inspection didn’t take long. Lying just beneath the leaves, thorns as long as daggers were hiding inside the hedge. The odd tip poked through here and there and James managed to find the one with a tiny trace of blood on it. A cool breeze on his arm told him the thorns had also torn his clothes. The spikes must have brushed against him as he walked through the narrow channels of the maze. His shirtsleeves and jeans had offered some protection but areas of his flesh had been exposed. With a more cautious approach, James continued to steer his way through the maze, this time using only an imaginary hand on the bush to guide his way.

  The maze was huge but James had no idea how far he’d travelled. Distracted by the tenderness of his hand he’d also managed to forget about the werewolf at large. This relief was short-lived, however, with a cluster of howls resounding not far from him rekindling his fear. The beast sounded as though it had suffered an injury, or worse, was being baited for the fun of its torment. James had seen dog fighting once in a TV documentary. What the owners did to their dogs totally repulsed him, the way they cruelly inflamed their animals into frenzy through pain. This sound was exactly the same. One moment the werewolf cried in anguish, then with a flick of a switch it let out the insatiable howl of a brutal wild animal, snarling for blood. The blood curdling cries sent an icy chill of dread through James’ entire nervous system. He shuddered. Without doubt he was in grave danger and needed to find safety fast. He hoped that the maze’s centre would offer him some refuge, since there was no alternative.

  Without further delay James' legs took flight, driven by one deep-seated need - self-preservation! He raced through the maze as fast as he dared, trying to avoid the protruding thorns. Keeping the directions of his teacher in his head, James made his way in and out of the remaining dead ends and found the maze’s centre sooner than he thought. He scanned the circle in front of him. In its middle sat a plain stone table. James moved towards it and saw a long thorn, its tip painted in blood, lying on top of the table. More of the dark sticky liquid ran in small rivers or was splattered across the surface of the table. Stone sculptures of werewolves, dragons, vampires and other creatures of the night adorned the edges of the maze’s heart. On closer inspection, th
e ornamental creatures were committing terrible acts of violence on the stone caricatures of the mirrored corpses James had first seen on entering the shadow underworld. The combined effect of the arena, the sacrificial table and its sculptures was resemblant of an altar to the devil.

  The werewolf howled again, much louder than before. With an icy chill in his heart, James could feel the hot breath of the beast on his neck. He turned. The animal’s snout was inches from his face. James stepped backwards, very slowly. The werewolf attempted to follow but couldn’t; James’ shadow was holding the animal back with a shimmering leash of light. The creature’s eyes had a familiar look, a look that reminded James of Burley.

  ‘Is that you Burley?’ The hairy face of the werewolf and the striking resemblance of its eyes to those of Burley, confused James for a moment.

  The brute, thirsty for his blood, sprang forward snarling. James’ shadow struggled to keep the animal in check. He pulled back hard on the leash. The beast wailed and turned its head in protest. In the shadow’s free hand he held a thorn, similar to the one lying on the table. The dark figure jabbed the thorn into the beast’s flesh. The werewolf yelped, a cry of pure agony, and then thrashed forward towards James, intent on murder. James fell backwards attempting to keep out of its reach, only to feel the sting of a thorn in his back. He moved to his left, putting his hand behind his back and searching for the spot where the spike had entered his flesh. The warmth of sticky blood ran onto his fingers. He could see that blood was also dripping from several wounds in the werewolf. The shadow knew how to bait the animal well. James’ eyes flickered from one to the other, keeping watch on beast and master. The creature looked quite pathetic in its resting state; however, under the skilled provocation of its master, it became the most fearsome thing James had ever encountered.

  Baiting the animal remorselessly, James’ shadow poked, prodded and then restrained the animal, compounding its aggression. The dark figure controlled the animal, letting out just enough leash to reach James if he didn’t take evasive action. James managed to elude its lunges. However, he was pained by more cuts from the hidden thorns in the maze. Without intending to do so, James manoeuvred himself closer to the table where the blood tipped thorn lay dormant on its surface. He picked it up, instantly feeling a surge of confidence flow into his arm. At last he had a real weapon, and with it the chance to defend himself. The werewolf continued to snap and snarl under the insistence of his master who was provoking and then restraining his servant in synchronised movements.

  Reacting instinctively to the animal’s next attack, James thrust the point of the thorn into the beast’s flesh. The anguish in the scream which followed should have shocked James, but it didn’t; something else rocked him far more than the cry of pain. James’ eyes connected with those of the animal. They looked pleadingly at each other, both wanting the other to stop. In that moment James didn’t see a werewolf, he saw Burley’s bright eyes peering back at him. The shock caused James to jerk and the tip of the thorn broke off. James threw the broken weapon on the floor. The animal lowered its head to lick its wound, then lifting its sorrowful eyes its gaze seeming to bathe him in understanding and forgiveness.

  The moment broke as yet another yelp sprang violently from the twisted jaws of the werewolf; James’ shadow had stabbed his weapon into the beast flesh once, then twice. Responding to the provocation, the werewolf once again let loose its rage at James. Driven backwards by the snarling beast James fell over his feet and felt the sting of yet another thorn in his back. Angry himself now, James retrieved the thorn and, holding his arm outstretched prodded the weapon forward in attack. Its tip quivered in front of the animals face. Again the animal’s blue eyes connected with his. James’ fear dissolved and instead he began to fill with a growing sense of sympathy for the beast. He shook his head in an attempt to force out the compassion. The animal was wild and, given the chance, would devour him with sorrow.

  ‘Go on, kill it, stab it in the heart. Kill or be killed!’ screamed the shadow.

  If the animal has to die, then so be it, James thought. In any case, he’d be doing the beast a favour by putting an end to its suffering. The dark figure pulled hard on the leash. Choking under the restraint, the animal strained forward, its head held back. The beast’s chest was laid open for James to administer the fatal hit. James’ shadow had set the kill up for him perfectly. Now is the time to put this to an end to this, he thought. But those eyes, so sad, so desperate. Why does it have to be like this? A little of his resolve melted.

  ‘You weak fool. Don’t you understand yet…it’s kill or be killed? If you let him, he’ll feast on your flesh, devour your soul. I’m giving you one last chance to kill it first. Look, it’s wounded. Even you can’t mess this up. Use the thorn. Kill it…kill it…kill it’

  With the words echoing, he felt compelled to act. James thrust the thorn at the animal in a token gesture of an attack. The point penetrated deep into the werewolf’s thigh. The beast hardly flinched. Its sheer strength and resilience were just amazing. Refusing to back away, the animal jerked aggressively at the rope, hoping to escape. James’ shadow laughed and waved his blood coated thorn to attract James’ attention.

  ‘Not like that. Like this…’

  James’ shadow plunged the spike half way into the animal’s flesh. The werewolf cried, turned its head pleadingly towards his master and then jumped forward in another violent attack. James slipped behind the altar for protection. The dark figure let the leash out a little more. A few more prods encouraged the beast up onto the sacrificial table.

  ‘I told you, kill or be killed, isn’t that the way my boy? Kill or be killed.’ For a moment, James thought Grandpa was talking to him. The voice sounded like him, but it came from the Shadow.

  ‘Kill it.’ He stabbed the animal again, causing the werewolf’s blood to splatter onto the table’s surface.

  Watching the animal suffer was dreadful and, combined with the urging from the Shadow to execute it, made James’ head reel in confusion. To make matters worse, he was concerned that the beast might break free or be let loose. James reasoned that it was far better to put an end to the beast’s misery now than let this carry on a moment longer. The werewolf sensed the change in James’ attitude. It snarled and howled its blood-curdling cry. James’ shadow pulled the leash taught, presenting the beast’s throat for him. The execution was easy. James walked forward, forcing his feelings of fear of the beast and fear of what he was about to do, down into his gut. Once again he noticed the remarkable resemblance of the creature to Burley Blake, But James refused to think of the other boy. He thrust his dagger straight into the beast’s throat as the shadow yanked sharply on the leash.

  ‘Didn’t really think I’d let you do it…did you?’ The shadow seemed very pleased with himself. Smiling with apparent deep satisfaction he added, ‘Kill this poor defenceless creature, you monster.’

  James’ head dropped. The shadow was right, but James didn’t understand how he’d become such a monster. Aren’t I the victim? He asked himself. Deep down he knew, though, that the way he’d treated Burley and the werewolf was no better than the way the spineless pack had treated him. He must be a monster, even if his actions were under the provocation of the Shadow.

  The dark figure baited the beast again until it was primed, ready to resume the attacks. In a moment of madness James rushed forward and slashed at the leash with his thorn. The contact broke the leash and the light recoiled before snapping back into the Shadow’s grasp. The werewolf was free.

  ‘You are a silly, silly boy James,’ said the dark figure. With the guiding light firmly in his grip and without another word, the Shadow slipped out into the haven of the maze.

  The werewolf leapt down from the table. James waved the thorn in front of him and prepared himself for the inevitable attack. Inside, he felt his blood pumping with the dread of being ripped limb from limb by the werewolf as it descended upon him. The stupidity of his action was overwhelmin
g in its consequence. The thorn trembled in his hands as the fear took hold. The animal stepped a little closer, its hackles raised, saliva dripping from its mouth and steam billowing from its snout. It snarled, turning James’ limbs to jelly. But, inexplicably, instead of attacking, the animal took a tentative step away. James studied the creature for a moment before realising, It’s as afraid of me as I am of it.

  James unexpectedly felt a deep sorrow for the torment that he and the Shadow had subjected this animal to. He lowered his dagger. He opened his hand. The thorn fell to the floor. Heralded with each thunderous beat of his heart, time stopped in anticipation of his fate. Confused by James’ actions, the beast limped forward, snarled and then retreated backwards. The beast’s eyes, compelling in their attraction, spoke to him, pleading for his help. James understood the beast’s pain. The animal’s front leg flinched and it lowered its head, drawing attention to the wound James had inflicted. Impaled in its thigh was the broken tip of the thorn, protruding from the flesh. The animal licked its wound.

  Holding himself together, James moved forward, carefully placing each step as though walking on squeaky floorboards, desperately trying not to startle the beast. The werewolf snarled as he drew closer. Sensing danger, James stopped. He held his hands out wide so the beast could see them and understand that he meant him no harm.

  ‘Ssshh, it’s okay,’ James whispered. He took another step closer, all the while soothing the beast with his voice and looking deep into those mesmerising eyes. ‘Sssh, it’s okay, everything is going to be okay.’

  The werewolf’s aggression subsided. James paused. The beast was within reach. He was now totally committed; there was no possibility of recovery should the animal attack. But it didn’t. The werewolf made no movement at all. With his eyes locked onto Burley’s gaze framed in the furry face of the werewolf, James carefully moved his hands towards the broken thorn. The beast growled. James stopped for a moment and then very slowly continued. He took hold of the thorn. The werewolf winced. James braced himself in expectation of retaliation but it didn’t come. He pulled on the thorn smoothly, staring unblinking into the beast’s eyes as he did so. The fearsome face turned into a blur as he concentrated on the eyes. The beast’s deep pained-filled eyes were captivating as James watched them change with the removal of the thorn. The pain was replaced by relief and gratitude, but James could also see loneliness and helplessness reflected in its eyes, and it made him wonder. James threw the bloody tip behind him into the bush.

  Burley Blake and the werewolf had merged more than ever into one. The beast, if you could call it that now, jumped about like a playful puppy. The contrast was hard to comprehend. Moment ago the beast’s aggression had filled James’ soul with fear. Now the animal howled with joy, prancing about as he tugged at the sleeve of James’ shirt. He wants me to follow him, James realised.

  Checking behind regularly to make sure he hadn’t lost the boy, the beast led and James followed. They weaved purposely through the maze. He’s helping me, showing me the way out, James twigged. He was buoyed by the thought that he’d learnt something new. Up until this point, he hadn’t believed it possible to feel compassion or kindness to such a monstrous creature but right now it was as if they were old friends…best friends.

  Eventually they emerged out of the maze, the monster and James, friends and allies. The beast led him to a stone staircase that ran up a cliff of rocks. They clambered through tunnels and made their way up through what James assumed were the empty dungeons belonging to the palace above. He wondered what or who had resided in their many compartments. With his legs aching from the steep assent, they emerged out of a pothole on to the top of the mountain.

  There in front of James was the magnificent glass building shaped like the dome of St Paul’s cathedral, rising from the ground in its splendour. Ill-fitting panels of glass splinters, joined together haphazardly, made up the creation of this huge construction. There were gaps everywhere between the panes, and the shape of the splinters reminded James of the slivers of glass and cracks he’d seen in his eyes. He remembered the shock of discovering that this was how the Shadow had stolen his light, from between the cracks.

  Stained in various depths of black, each sliver played a part in creating one huge picture draped over the entire dome. It was like looking at parts of a black and white photo taken of his infamous painting. James could make out large parts of Pete’s rotting face. He saw most of the creatures he had created: the scorpion bees, demons, dragons and werewolves, and the maggots spilling from Pete’s mouth. In the middle of the maggot swarm was a door. He knew this door would be the final one he would walk through; he knew the end of the road laid beyond it. One way or another, it was all going to end inside this palace.

  Chapter Twelve: The House of Demons