The Wolf Road

by Beth Lewis

  Didn’t hear the footsteps.

  Didn’t hear Matthews shouting.

  My head was swimming in mud, struggling through pain and a thundering heart, struggling ’gainst death itself. This crazy son bitch was seconds from killing me. Cutting me open and draining me dry.

  Thought I saw my knife, covered in my own blood, fall on the floor. Could a’ been just wishful thinking. Then a wave of hot water crashed over my back, soaked up all that salt, cut off the sting, but didn’t do nothing to clear my head. I didn’t even know where I was no more. I figured it was a dream or I’d wake up in the forest, next to the Mussa River, wet from swimming. This was a desiccation dream. I was dying.

  Matthews gurgled and sputtered something, then fell heavy on the ground right ’neath my head, blood spurting out a gash cross his neck. Weren’t no dreaming that. It weren’t water what rushed over me. Different pair of legs walked around the table. Smell a’ woodland on ’em. Quiet as a wolf on the hunt. I was in the forest. I must a’ been.

  “Morning,” I said, my voice all slur, felt the wet, gravelly earth in my fingers. Don’t know if I even said the word or just thought it. Whatever god there was watching was punishing me something awful. I was gonna die. I was gonna die on that table or by that river, wherever the hell I was. I kept saying it to myself, it’s killing me, it’s killing me, and I can’t do a goddamn thing about it. I opened up my eyes but I didn’t know they’d been closed and I saw Matthews on the floor. Terror cut the tongue out my mouth.

  My head weren’t swimming no more, it was drowning and sputtering and gasping for air. It spun the whole room till I couldn’t hold my eyes open no more. Couldn’t see nothing for certain, couldn’t make no sense of what I was seeing neither.

  Someone was in the room with me. Part a’ me hoped it was Trapper come to take me home. No. Weren’t no chance of that in truth. Must be some Samaritan or someone what hated the reverend. Only figured after a minute that the man was speaking. Words floated ’round above me but didn’t have no meaning to my ears, words like “killing” and “fire and flames.” Sounded right biblical, just like the reverend. The voice was muffled by them drugs and the salt and I couldn’t see nothing but blurred-up legs. Hell, you ever tried picking out a man by just his legs? Ain’t easy, even when you ain’t half-addled by bad water.

  Whoever it was unchained one a’ my hands and one a’ my feet but I didn’t dare move.

  Then he bent over me. I felt his shadow heavy on my back. He kissed me on the top a’ my bloody head and shivers went all down me. Some stranger doing that felt wrong, but there was a softness to it what mushed up my head even more. Time was I’d a’ stripped birch bark with my teeth to get that kindness off my Trapper. Don’t know if it was the pain, the blood, the salt, the smell, or Matthews’s dead eyes staring up at me, but that kiss set my stomach kicking and my whole body shaking.

  Then whoever he was spoke, close to my ear, words what came clear and cold as lake ice. They was of a tone I ain’t never heard, full a’ venom and grit-tooth rage.

  “Think on why I ain’t killin’ you.”

  Then he was up the stairs, footsteps through the homestead, and gone. Tears and crying and blubbering came out a’ me like I was a babe what stubbed its toe. Stayed lying out like that, shaking and fearful, for what felt like forever. There weren’t no creaking up in the homestead, no doors opening or closing, no horse hooves clapping on the dirt. Everything turned quiet as a feather-fall on snow.

  I bent my free arm, tried to push myself up. The cuts ripped, salt burned through the blood and set my teeth hissing. Funny feeling being buck naked in a stranger’s basement, sticky head to toe in his blood. But all that barely touched my head. All’s I could think was who in the hell just let me go? Some crazy fella what just happened to be passing? Someone what knew what Matthews was and what he did and didn’t like it none? Hurt my head just thinking on it. All them words the stranger spoke were fog and smoke in my head ’cept those last few. Think on why I ain’t killin’ you.

  Hell if I knew. Told myself it weren’t worth caring ’bout or dwelling on. You don’t stop to ask a bear why he ain’t chasing you. You don’t go questioning your fortunes or you ain’t going to get none.

  Told myself all that. But that dark place inside me, what held all them things I ain’t supposed to remember, didn’t believe it for one second.

  I twisted myself up my knees, felt like a hawk what broke its wing, not being able to move my hand none. I shook all over though I couldn’t figure if it was from pain and fear or being naked this close to winter.

  The chain around my hand was held with naught but a steel clip, and I quick set myself rest of the way free. The dirt floor was turning to bloody mud what squeezed warm ’tween my toes like I was stepping on summer moss. Then I saw something what made me turn around and kick dead Matthews in the gut.

  The wall at the foot a’ the table was a mirror. That crazy bastard wanted to watch himself killing in the name of his god. Like just doing it weren’t enough, he had to see his hand raise that knife and slice me up. Could see my own slicing in that mirror and my back, red with all kinds a’ blood and lumps a’ salt, was a cut-up mess. I kicked him again for good measure.

  Every time I moved the salt stung deeper, sucking out my water like it was trying to cure pork. I thought about putting my clothes back on and getting shot of that place quick as flies off dung but I didn’t much fancy scrubbing Matthews’s blood out a’ my shirts for a week. There weren’t no well in the basement, so I picked up my knife. I knew somewhere deep that the stranger weren’t there no more, weren’t hiding in the closet. Weren’t no sense in killing me upstairs ’stead a’ downstairs.

  I realized then, holding my knife, how bad my hands were shaking. I felt the tremble through all my bones and heard the flutter in my breathing. I didn’t hear nothing in the homestead. Nothing outside, save a cow lowing in the pen.

  Came out the basement into a corridor the other side a’ the eating table. Naked, bleeding and stinging up something fierce, I went quick to the cooking place, looking for that water for rinsing. Pot of cold chili sat on the stove. Time was I would a’ eaten it to spite him, but my appetite was sucked out a’ me by the salt.

  I wandered about in my skin, an angry stinging in my back in need a’ soothing. Didn’t see no tub for bathing and figured Matthews must have a well or stream ’round back to get water that cold.

  One of the best things ’bout living close to the wild is you get to walk out your door in whatever you want and ain’t nobody around to say nothing. I was sure thankful for that when I walked out Matthews’s front door naked and painted red. Didn’t see no fella hightailing it across the plains, didn’t see no tracks neither but I didn’t care to look too hard.

  It was getting close to sundown and I wanted a shot of the homestead afore dark. I’d much rather be sleeping in the dirt of the forest than spending a second more’n I had to in that godless hole. No telling what demons might get woken by all that blood.

  I went around back and saw a clutch of cattle cozying up for the night. Cattle trough is good for a bath as any tub. Big steel thing, longer and wider’n me and waist-deep standing, sat on the other side of the gate. I climbed over, flinching like a kid walking barefoot on gravel, leaving bloody smears all over the railings.

  I lowered myself into that cold water and didn’t even try to quiet my screaming. A skittish cow bucked and hid herself on the other side a’ the herd but I didn’t pay it no mind. My back burned and goddamn I wish I’d killed Matthews myself.

  All gentle-like I ran my shaking fingers up my arms, trying to fight the hurt. I washed off the blood and salt, cleaned up the cuts. The stinging eased slow and I ducked my head under to get the blood out my hair. I couldn’t right tell you the last time I had a bath. Didn’t much like ’em, seemed to take too long when I could a’ been setting traps or chopping wood. Quick rinse in the river once a fortnight was all I needed, though I confess I did take a few minute
s more in that trough than was strictly necessary. When I got out, dripping and shivering, the water was red and I said my apologies to the cattle.

  “Though it is most your rancher’s blood,” I said after thinking ’bout it for a second, “and he done killed a whole lot of you in his time. Drink him up and piss him out.”

  Felt fresh blood trickling down my back, mixing up with the water, as I went back into the homestead. I found that crazy fucker’s bedroom and tore up one a’ his soft linen sheets. Made rough bandages and had a hell of a time getting them to fix. Ever tried to wrap up your back with trembling hands? It’s a crapshoot. Once I got them to stay, the pain eased up and I weren’t worried no more ’bout getting blood all in my coats. Left that room red as the basement and didn’t give two shits ’bout it.

  I got my clothes and a few cans out the basement, quick saw boot prints in the red mud, making circles ’round the table and I didn’t fancy staying down there with them and dead Matthews any longer’n I had to. Found a backpack and filled it with them cans, few carrots and a bunch a’ them nice silver spoons. Found myself a tinder box gathering dust and let out a whoop a’ joy. It had one of them nice metal rods with a flat striker, few bits a’ wool and a fat strip a’ wax paper. All kinds a’ useful. I know stealing is one of them human rules you don’t break, but then so is murdering and Matthews was fixing to break that first.

  I got out that homestead just as night was falling. I’d been in them walls half a day but my life had changed so much in them few hours. Lyon weren’t just after Kreagar; she had me in her sights and she was closing in. Them words, Think on why I ain’t killing you, swirled ’round in my head, mixing up with pictures a’ Lyon and Matthews and Kreagar, confusing me and putting cold fear in my chest the whole walk to the forest. Soon as I got in them trees the swirling stopped. Smell a’ mulch and bark and pine and dirt filled me up and calmed me down. I was in the wild and there weren’t no way Lyon or Kreagar or no one else was going to find me again.

  For a month, I didn’t see hide nor hair of any other person. My life in them days leading to winter was walking, hunting, sleeping, walking. To tell the truth I was getting sick a’ walking. The snow was crawling down from the mountains in fat drifts and some mornings I woke up with a dusting a’ white around me. I kept the reverend’s cuts clean when I could, last thing I needed was my blood going rotten, but the sticky itching was burning up my back something awful and I weren’t nowhere close to a doctor. Not that I put much stock in their potions and tonics. Trapper said doctors were crooks ready to fleece you for a cup of whisky. He said they made you sicker so they could keep you coming back lining their pockets with coin. But when Trapper cut his hand and it went all yellow and wet and puffed up like a mushroom ’bout to spore, he was crying and whining like a weakling child. He was begging for the doctor to cure him and at the same time roaring at me for taking him to town in the first place.

  Sickness makes babes and bastards of us all. I had no intention of letting my back go bad but it was headed that way. You can cut off a sickly hand, or least cut out the bad meat, but you can’t be cutting off your arms and back. I figured I had to stop all the walking and make myself a proper situation.

  I knew where the road was but weren’t going close to it for fear a’ Lyon and her hawk eyes spotting me. But I stuck close enough to it, thinking that if my back did get bad, I could risk being found by a kindly soul.

  From the road I went a mile or two west and came out the thick woods next to a pretty lake, water still as a pigeon full a’ shot. Trees around were good hazel and alder and elder, even a big ol’ oak reaching his branches south to the sun. He told me where I was at, made sure I kept my heading true. ’Round the lake I spied a stand of lush firs and bit farther, a whole damn field of ferns. Trees was full of scrabbling and chattering critters and I spotted nigh on ten rabbit runs without even proper looking.

  I went to the edge a’ the lake and what I saw near took my breath away. The water was clear as glass, like it weren’t really there. The shale and rocks ’neath it were white and caught every bit a’ light the sun could throw on ’em. Near the middle, the water got dark and I guessed that’s where it got deep. I didn’t see no fishes in the shallows nor nothing what would say there was fish in there anywhere. On the far side a crag of rocks stood twice-me high and dribbled fresh water into the lake so soft the ripples didn’t make it all the way over to me. It was a perfect circle, this lake.

  The air ’round there was warm too, when I breathed there weren’t no smoke and my skin didn’t go goosey when I took my coat off. No wonder them woods was full of birdsong and scratchings, I must a’ hit one of them hot spots Trapper was always rambling about.

  “Them’s where you want to be, girl,” he’d say. “Never winter in them crater lakes. You could live the life of Riley all year-round. Heat off them Ruski bombs stays warm for a hundred years.”

  I never asked who Riley was, but he sounded like one of them freeloading types. Didn’t matter though, I found myself standing on the shores of a goddamn paradise and I said to myself, Elka, this is where you got to stay for a spell and fix yourself up. You got water, you got food, and you got heat ’neath your feet.

  BeeCee had taken some big hits in the Damn Stupid a’ course, and this place was one a’ them what people talked about. The trees were huge but I could tell they weren’t old, like whatever bomb was sitting in that lake was making the water rich so’s everything grew up super quick. I didn’t care none for the bomb, it couldn’t do nothing to me now, but it made the brush thick and green and ripe for hunting.

  I did a quick bit of scouting and I found me a spot close to the crag, ’tween a stand of hazel and alder. Golden rule of outdoor living is go where the goods are, don’t be traipsing around bringing it all to you. That wastes everyone’s time and ain’t many things I hate more’n wasting time. In that spot I had me running water, trees for shelter, and brush for comfort. I figured I had a few hours afore sundown so I dumped the reverend’s pack and pulled out my knife. I found two trees just longer’n me apart, each with branches growing out the trunk about waist height. Perfect setup, that were.

  I found a hazel trunk fat as my arm and, with my knife and a rock, chopped it down to use as my crossbeam. Set that up ’tween the trees, nestled nice and tight in the crooks of them branches. I kept my head on making me a little hut so’s I didn’t think much on my back and that sticky burning. Every time I hefted a bundle of branches, the cuts on my arms opened up fresh and sent aching through me. Could a’ screamed every time if I weren’t so damn determined to get this shelter built. Once I put my thoughts to it, ain’t no amount of suffering or sorrow going to stop me from getting a roof above me afore nightfall.

  I stacked up skinny branches along the beam like a deer’s rib bones after boiling. All white and smooth and a hand’s thickness apart. Nice and close to keep me warm. I covered the whole thing in ferns and bracken and leaf litter, didn’t pay no mind to ticks and spiders, they don’t bother me if I don’t bother them. Maybe I’m using their home as roofing but they get a warm sleep and I don’t get rained on. Win-win and when you’re eking out a life in the forests you make the most a’ them little victories.

  Found some nice dry tinder and a flint rock and set me a spark. Set that close to the entrance of my hut and built it up right nice into a crackling little blaze.

  Night fell quick but the moon came out smiling and turned that lake into a mirror. It lit up my glade and I sat ’neath my roof, watching glow bugs dancing on the other side of the water. I ate some canned deer, care of the good reverend, and settled myself down. Something right serene about it, and to tell the truth, I ain’t slept better’n that night in a long while.

  Soon as sunup woke me, I set a dozen snares and decided it would be a fine time to bathe my back. Trapper hated bathing. Said it made him smell too human and told the animals right where he was. I recall only one time he came back to our little home not stinking of sweat and dried bl
ood. Said he did it to smell more human and fit in with them other animals. I didn’t pay no mind to what he was saying back then, he often times talked in riddles but now I think back on it, knowing he’s a murdering son bitch, them words weren’t no riddle, they was instructions.

  I stopped counting the weeks I stayed by that lake. There was magic in that water and my back healed up quick, leaving naught more’n thin scars crossing my skin. I did some exploring in them woods and found the edge a’ the warm. A small clearing ’tween the lake and the road was crisscrossed in tracks what looked human. One time I heard voices what I didn’t recognize as Kreagar or Lyon, but whoever they was they never came close. I never saw no one and I sure didn’t go looking.

  Most days my snares caught a rabbit and I ate fancy. One day I checked my squirrel poles and found me a pigeon hanging by the foot, flapping about and squawking. He’d near ripped off that foot by the time I found him and I tell you, he wouldn’t have lasted a day out in the wild, hopping about. I did him a kindness.

  He was a bit small and the only good eating on a small bird like that is the breast. Trapper taught me a trick when I was eight for getting in and getting out quicker’n a fox after your chickens. First I broke the poor devil’s neck, nice and quick-like so the meat didn’t have no time to tense up with fear. Couple a’ twists and a few sharp tugs and I had his head and wings on the grass in a neat pile. No point being messy. Killing can be clean and neat if you don’t put no fury in it.

  Pigeons are clever birds, see, no matter what the town folk say, and they keep seeds and nuts and whatever they been eating that day stored up in their necks for tougher times. This guy had a couple plump acorns and I figured I ain’t letting these go to waste. Acorns is good eating if you cook ’em up right. I put them in my pocket and dug both my thumbs deep in the bird’s neck. I’d always loved this part when I was a babe, feeling how the bird’s put together, all that fresh, bright blood telling me there’s goodness to be had. Hell, it was like touching God and seeing His thoughts when He decided on the design. Fact that it was so easy told me we was meant to be doing it. Even my young’un hands had enough strength to pull apart breast and back and turn that pigeon inside out. I opened it up like a juicy orange. Scraped out them guts and set ’em close and neat ’side the wings, then just peeled them breasts away in one clean chunk. Dark, purple, heart-shaped goodness it was, still warm and ready for roasting.