by Russ Colson
“What the hell is that?” Mike asked.
“I’m told it’s a hermetic rune woven into the strand itself, one of thousands, maybe tens of thousands. No human hand could spin this.”
“These Ben and Jerry wannabes are into some heavy stuff.”
“Did I mention the hiker disappearances?”
“Alright.” Mike held up his hands. “I’ll look into it.”
Chen’s smile would have been predatory if his eyes hadn’t sparkled with laughter.
“I’ll need all my expenses comp’d, including a rental car—unless you want me to take the crash van?”
“No, the armored doors and chains would probably give you away.”
“Oh, and Chen.” Mike narrowed his eyes. “This doesn’t mean I forgive you.”
“I understand.” Chen’s expression was somber. “All I want is for you to poke around a little. We don’t have the manpower to go after these guys unless it’s something serious. Don’t cause any trouble, just be a tourist.”
“I know how to blend in.”
Chen couldn’t quite hide his skepticism. “I was able to have my buddy slow down the approval process, but not by much.”
“How long?”
“It’ll be maybe a week before these things get nationwide distribution.”
“Okay, okay. It’s a long drive to Vermont—I’d better get going.” Mike shrugged on his coat and hat, nodding at Chen. “You’ll hear from me in a couple of days, one way or another.”
“Don’t make me regret this, Martinez.” Chen called to Mike’s retreating back. The detective raised a hand in acknowledgement, but he wasn’t really listening.
¤
The rented Hyundai jittered over another series of divots in the gravel path. Once Mike left State Route 114, the roads had gone from bad to worse. Essex County was thinly populated, the occasional pasture and farmhouse fitting neatly into the bucolic splendor of the chill Vermont morning.
A wooden signpost showed a pair of sheep frolicking in a field of clover below the brightly painted legend: “Wild Wool Farm, 1 Mile.” A few minutes later, Mike pulled the abused Hyundai onto the flattened grass of the parking area.
A small barn, its broad side painted with stylized sheep, presided over an expanse of scrubby field. Mike could just make out a larger barn surrounded by a few modest houses far back along the tree line. There were no sheep visible, but he could smell mutton on the wind.
A bell chimed when Mike pushed into the barn’s warm interior. Textiles of a dozen types hung on pegs and racks around the room, all boasting the same eye-catching weave of the piece Chen showed him. Faded sepia-toned pictures of men, women, and sheep shared the walls with antique farm implements.
A woman stood behind the counter. Her straight dark hair framed a slim, tanned face with high cheekbones and pale blue eyes. Mike noticed she wasn’t wearing one of the sweaters.
“Uh, hi, I’m Mike Martinez, from the Boston Herald. I spoke to a Meghan Holda on the phone. I’m sorry this is sort of last minute, but—”
The woman stepped around the counter, gliding over to Mike even as he fumbled for his forged press credentials. “Don’t apologize. I’m Meghan. My brother Orin and I run this place.”
Meghan extended her hand, and Mike’s hackles rose. Her scent was a chorus of fallen leaves and frozen earth, with just a whisper of animal musk.
“I still can’t believe you drove all the way from Boston to interview us. I’ve got to give Orin a call.” Meghan stepped from the room to speak excitedly on the phone.
Mike made a slow circuit of the barn, taking care to stay clear of the sinister clothes. The old pictures were of prize sheep, standard county fair blue-ribbon material except that the men and women standing behind the animals all had the same dark hair and pale eyes as Meghan.
“My great-great-grandmother, I think. Frau Holda. She came from Germany back in the early 1800’s.” Meghan spoke from right behind him. “Orin is coming down from the upper pastures. He’ll be here in a few minutes to give you the tour.”
“Great.” Mike grinned. “Your family has been here for centuries?”
“Oh, longer than that.” Meghan smiled back. “Our great-great-grandfather was Abenaki. His people lived in these hills since before the pyramids were built. Then, in less than fifty years...” Her lips pursed in a thoughtful frown.
Mike offered a sympathetic smile. “Your sweaters are amazing. How do you get the wool so soft?”
“Our sheep are an heirloom breed from the Black Forest, different than the Merino or Suffolk you see around the rest of the state. Their wool crimps closer together than other breeds. The exact processes are proprietary, of course.”
Mike nodded and pretended to take notes on his pad, though all he really did was write “witchcraft” and underline it three times. The door chimed as a man strode into the room. He had the same dark complexion and corpse pale eyes as Meghan.
“Mr. Martinez, I’m Orin. It’s a real pleasure.”
It was all Mike could do not to growl and back away. The man radiated understated threat, but Mike was on a job. He didn’t want to go back to cheap food and lonely nights in the crash van. He forced his hand into Orin’s icy grip, and tried not to flinch.
“We don’t get many out-of-towners in the Northeast Kingdom once winter comes. It’ll be dark in a couple of hours. So unless you want to spend the night here, we should get started soon.”
“Sure.” Mike nodded, although spending the night on the farm was exactly what he had in mind.
¤
“We like to say that Wild Wool combines an immigrant work ethic with native respect for the land.” Orin swung the flatbed truck into the field. They’d spent the last twenty minutes or so working their way up a narrow switchback road. Mike had been making small-talk for most of the ride, trying to worm out Orin’s secrets without seeming too interested.
“Ah, here they are.” Orin smiled like a proud father as a herd of piebald sheep crested a nearby rise. He turned off the truck and they stepped out, the sheep practically falling over themselves to crowd around the two men.
“Friendly, aren’t they?” Mike was buffeted by warm, wooly bodies, which was strange. Animals usually hated him.
“We treat them well.” Orin scratched one of the churning herd. They were unsheared, dirty white wool striated with whorls of brown and black. One sheep raised its head from the pack to observe Mike, its pupils dark hourglass slashes across yellow sclera. Mike didn’t know much about sheep, but was reasonably sure that these weren’t normal representatives of the species.
Something heavy struck Mike from behind, knocking him to his hands and knees. He was back on his feet in an instant, fingers crooked and teeth bared.
The wolf stirred in Mike’s mind. Snarling, it hurled itself against the cage of his will. Mike’s vision sharpened, bringing his attacker into sharp focus. He found himself face-to-face with a very angry looking llama.
The wolf pushed at the bars, but couldn’t burst free. Its strength waned with the moon—barely a crescent, now. Mike let out a deep, startled breath and forced the cage shut.
“Klaus! Leave him alone!” Orin waved at the furious llama. Mike ran his tongue over his teeth. The fangs were gone. Good.
“I’m so sorry. He’s normally not like that. Are you all right?” Orin brushed dirt from Mike’s coat.
“Hey, no problem, it’ll go great in my story.” Mike smiled—Klaus was probably the first normal thing he’d seen since coming to the farm.
Orin gave a sharp whistle and the llama clomped away, sneaking occasional dirty glances back at Mike. “Dogs make the animals anxious. The sheep look up to Klaus. They follow him around, and he scares off coyotes better than any sheepdog.”
They drove the truck down to the central barn. Inside the massive building the air hung heavy with the reek of wet wool and boiling dye. Orin led Mike through the pens, along the shearing floor, and past the motorized spindles, stopping to point out par
ts of the line or introduce Mike to the dark-haired, cold-eyed men and women overseeing the various operations.
They moved towards the dye vats near the ventilator. The ammonia reek was almost overpowering. The wolf whined in its cage, pacing back and forth. Mike ignored its complaints, wading into the stink with a grim expression. He counted his steps. If he wanted to get a good idea of the barn’s layout he needed to be thorough, even if being thorough sucked.
“...and we use an old family trick for the spinning and dying, but just because we do things the same way our ancestors did doesn’t mean we’re not safety conscious. With all this wool and flammable chemicals around, we’ve got to be careful.” Orin’s voice drifted through stench thick enough to hide the smell of rotting cadavers. Mike peered through watery eyes at the stone wall beyond the dye tanks and did some mental arithmetic.
Orin lead a grateful Mike away from the vats. They stepped out of the barn and into the chill half-light of November dusk. “Let us give you something to take home. You know, a memento.”
“That’s not—”
“Please.” Meghan was behind him. Mike hadn’t heard her approach. She pressed a folded sweater into his hands. “Consider it a bribe for a good review.”
Mike forced a smile. “Thanks.”
He started up the Hyundai. Looking into the rearview mirror, he felt as if he had narrowly escaped something terrible.
All Mike’s instincts told him to just keep driving, but he had to go back. Not only did he desperately need the money, there was something more. He needed to feel like there was some good in what happened to him, that all the sleepless nights, the loneliness, the fear—that it was all worth something. He needed to convince himself that he wasn’t a monster, that he was still the man he had been before Gold Point.
With a sigh, Mike pulled the Hyundai off the road, driving into the brush so it wouldn’t be seen by passing cars. One thing he didn’t need was the sweater. It made him feel good to roll down the window and toss the damn thing into the woods.
The tour had only left him with more questions, although nothing a little breaking and entering couldn’t solve.
¤
The night was dark and cloudless, the waning crescent moon hooded in heavy-lidded shadow. The wolf stirred impatiently as Mike played out some chain in his mind, letting the beast see. He would need its keen senses in the night ahead—hopefully that was all he’d need.
The forest was quiet, normal night noises replaced by an almost reverent hush. Even the wolf could hear nothing save the gentle creaking of trees in the wind. Mike crept towards the field. The main barn loomed ahead, a silent monolith rising from a sea of shadow. He slipped from the tree line, head cocked and nostrils flared, testing the wind for danger. The houses were dark and quiet.
Mike walked around the barn, comparing the number of steps to his earlier count and coming up with about a dozen more. The door had a simple latch, and it was only a moment’s work to gain entrance.
The smells of the day were still present, although the reek of the bubbling vats was now overpowered by the musky scent of sheep. Mike found himself salivating at the closeness of so much easy prey.
Mike took a deep, calming breath. He was a man, and men didn’t chase down sheep. They didn’t close sharp jaws upon their prey’s throat, feeling the arterial pulse as warm blood washed over their tongue. They didn’t work their muzzles deep into their prey’s viscera, gulping down steaming organs. They didn’t lift their bloody heads to the sky and howl their joy to the darkening night. He shook his head. Men didn’t do such things.
Mike edged along the walkway, careful not to disturb the sleeping herd. He picked out Klaus’s shaggy form. The llama snorted fitfully, but didn’t wake. Mike was almost past the pens when a dim light shone from ahead.
The sharp smell of manure stung his sinuses as he crawled behind a plastic water trough. The light drew closer, the distorted shadows of pens and barrels crawling across the walls. Strange, he couldn’t see the shadows of the sheep, or whoever was holding the light.
Mike peeked around the edge of the trough. Meghan Holda moved along the walkway, lantern held high, free hand trailing across the heads of the sleeping sheep.
“Aena taena tethera fethera pitt. Aayther layther overa covera ditt.” Her soft singsong seemed to echo from every direction. A massive yawn forced its way up Mike’s throat. He clamped his jaw tight, eyes watering as he swallowed the noise. Meghan did not appear to notice, continuing her tuneless chant as she moved down the aisle.
Mike’s eyes grew heavy and his head lolled to the ground. The dirt wasn’t too uncomfortable. He’d certainly slept on worse. A snarling yelp echoed in Mike’s mind, jerking him awake. What the hell had just happened?
It was some sort of spell, although it couldn’t have been directed at him. He wanted to leave, but still didn’t have anything solid to take back to Chen.
Mike crept past the pens, skirting rusting spinning machines and cooling vats. He’d counted more steps outside the barn than in it. Apparently, there were some places he hadn’t seen on the tour.
The wall behind the vats was old stone, painted to match the wood and steel interior. He felt along its surface until his questing fingers tripped a latch and part of the wall swung open on silent hinges.
Mike stepped forward and stumbled. There was a soft clunk of metal striking wood. He looked down at a small trapdoor, and knelt to pull gently on the metal ring. Smells of sweat, fear, and ice wafted from below. Mike sighed. He’d have to go down.
Cold sweat prickled the back of his neck as he lowered himself. He paused, waiting for a shout that meant he’d been spotted. A few seconds passed with no noise, and Mike climbed the rest of the way down.
He was in a long stone hallway lit with candles in brass sconces. The walls were carved with scenes of a winter hunt. Hounds and hunters beat leafless bushes, driving their prey into the thick drifts. A fair woman and dark-haired man stood side by side, horns to their lips, bows in their hands. Mike ran his fingers along the walls as walked, feeling the terror and longing in every rough groove.
The hall opened into a large chamber. A circle of manacles dangled from the ceiling, holding about a dozen emaciated men and women around the roaring fire at the room’s center. Waving shadows stretched along the floor and walls. By each trembling shadow sat a cold-eyed man or woman bearing a spindle.
Mike watched in horror as the nearest leaned over and sunk his hands into the shadow on the wall. The weaver—Orin, Mike could see now—pulled forth a mass of shadow stuff, and hooked the end of it on the spindle. He began to pull the shadow into thin thread, rolling it around the spinning bob with practiced skill. The others bent to their work, unraveling the shadows of the prisoners, one thread at time.
The captives moaned and struggled, eyes flashing in the firelight. One caught sight of Mike in the doorway. His cracked lips worked silently. Mike shook his head, willing the man to stay quiet.
“Help us.” Gasped words snaked through the chorus of lament. Orin looked at the speaker, then followed his imploring gaze to Mike.
There was nowhere to hide.
He sprinted back down the hall, leaping to grab the upper rungs of the ladder. Shouts and the sound of running footsteps echoed from the stone walls. Mike pulled himself onto the barn floor and slammed the trap door down. He could hear commotion at the base of the ladder. They were coming up.
Mike looked around, seeing nothing but partially drained dye vats. He drove his shoulder into metal drum. It didn’t move. Mike gritted his teeth, letting the wolf slip its leash a little bit. His muscles pulsed with electricity, a low growl reverberated in his chest, and the vat lurched forward. It ground across the floor, covering about a quarter of the door before fetching up against the iron ring. The door thumped against the bottom of the vat. They were trapped, for now.
The lights came on, flickering sodium bulbs dyeing the milling sheep a putrescent orange. Meghan was still in the barn.
&n
bsp; Mike sprinted down the walkway. The sheep stood in neat rows, watching him pass, hourglass pupils flickering in the wan light. Only Klaus moved, pawing at the ground as he tried to push through the herd.
The doorway yawned ahead, the darkness beyond a promise of safety. Mike was almost there when Meghan stepped from the shadows.
“Why did you come back?” Frost rimed the air as she spoke. Meghan clutched Mike’s arm as he shoved past. The limb went numb and bloodless. Mike yelped and pulled away, Meghan’s fingers leaving icy imprints on his jacket. Then he was out into the night, running through the forest.
Branches whipped him as he dodged past trees. The wolf yipped and jumped in the recesses of his conscious mind. It would be so easy to slip the leash, to course through the night, another shadow in the darkness. They’d never catch him.
Yes, he would get away, and it would be just as before. Mike would wake naked and covered in blood again, not knowing what he had done or where he had been. Whenever he let the monster loose, it never came back on its own. He didn’t have a choice when the full moon shone, but he had one now.
Horns echoed in the distance, a strange keening that rose and fell like wind whistling through cracks in an old window. There came a raucous clatter—metal against metal, the screeching of birds, the baying of hounds, voices raised in hungry cadence. It was cold now. Very cold.
Mike fumbled out his cell phone and dialed Chen. He could hear his pursuers, crashing through the bushes behind and to his left. Damn, they were fast. He slid down a low embankment.
“Mike?” Chen’s voice stuttered as wind crackled in the receiver.
“Things just got real, I’m being chased through the woods by Native American-witch-ghost-shadow-Germans. Don’t know what they are—but they’re pissed.”
“Dammit Mike, I told you not to—”
“Hey, I’m the one who’s running from them. Just get up here, they’re—”
