by Kyle Tolle
The footsteps belonged to Liova, accompanied by her son and grandson, each of whom held an arm. Liova’s progeny took their seats and she crossed the final distance alone. She spread additional flowers over the coffins before sitting on a bale in between. With a sigh, she closed her eyes and folded her hands. For a moment, only the buzzing of insects broke the silence. When she rose, she motioned for the assembly to do likewise. She took up two golden lilies. “I have the unfortunate duty to announce the passing of the Doolsun’s boys, Dolcium and Hultier. They were taken last night by a wolf. This morning, their father, Hantle, found them. That is something no parent should ever have to endure.” Her voice wavered and she paused to collect herself before going on. “I wish to express condolences, from all of us, to Hantle and Lorenca during this tragic time. We are united, in triumph and in despair.
“In times such as these, we must remember the Mechanisms, which tell us how the world of Iomesel—this beautiful and wondrous home we inhabit—was created through the Cataclysm. The undoing of things past is not the end of all things. We find solace in that truth. All of Founsel will show Mister and Missus Doolsun support. We will recognize the grief they hold and do all we can to show them inclusion and understanding and love in our small community.” She blinked away tears and turned to set a lily first on Dolcium’s coffin then on Hultier’s. Liova walked to the parents, took Hantle and Lorenca by the arms, and led them forward.
Hantle’s composure deteriorated with each step toward the coffins. As long as he had remained seated in his chair, he was convinced the surreality of the day would eventually give way, whereupon he would jerk out of the nightmare. The act of standing led his mind to question that expectation. He was able to recall comforting Lorenca in their home, finding the boys just hours ago, sending the boys to their rooms, and, still earlier, the storm that sent him home early. Dreams were always based on a presupposition that, upon later inspection, one recognized as laughably contrived. His recollection, however, had a chain of events that clearly led from now to then and, crucially, maintained consistency with prior memories. Yes, this was undeniably real: the humidity, the villagers behind him, the names of his sons chiseled into the wood. By the time they stood beside the coffins, Hantle’s breath came in ragged gasps and he held on to his wife for balance.
Lorenca’s eyes were red and puffy, but no tears ran down her face now. She gripped Hantle, one arm on his side, another bracing his chest, and Hantle did not like how their roles had reversed. He closed his eyes and noticed that when she laid her head against his shoulder the contact helped soothe his quivering nerves. Once he was able to maintain his own weight, Lorenca stepped to the coffins. She twice bent and kissed the names carved therein. Hantle followed her lead, then rested his hands on both lids, feeling the loss more than the wood grain.
At Liova’s instruction, a group of four came and shouldered the first casket: the one chiseled with “Dolcium.” Hantle and Lorenca walked behind the bearers, while the elder and her boys followed them; after came the rest of the villagers. The procession continued beyond the cobblestone road and followed a footpath toward the eastern edge of Founsel. A long, forested hill sloped upward, and they walked to its top. Amid the trees, a clearing served as the cemetery. Two piles of dirt at one end indicated their destination. The freshly dug graves sat next to granite pillars that marked the resting place of Hantle’s parents. Lorenca lowered a veil over her solemn features as the bearers lowered Dolcium to rest atop the grave. A pair of ropes ran across the grave opening and were staked into the ground to support the coffin. At Hantle’s side, his hand sought out that of his wife. The bearers returned to the square and, momentarily, Hultier alighted beside his brother.
The wolf sat in a thicket a few yards outside the cemetery. From his shadowy position, he watched the cortege—the prospective meat. He licked his snout and bared his fangs. Where the tooth had been ripped out, he felt the stub of a new one poking through the gum line. The boys and hens had filled his belly, fueling his repair and growth. He idly considered attacking now, while the unsuspecting creatures were distracted. A wind stirred the trees and stabs of sunlight fell onto him, burning his face and blinding his sight. He growled reflexively. The bright orb was the sole reason he did not attack. The pain it brought spurred him to slink away instead. He would rest in deeper, darker corners of the woods until nightfall. Then, he would prowl again.
When Liova signaled, the four bearers, two on either side of the neighboring graves, removed the stake at their feet and took the rope in hand. They simultaneously let out lengths of it and both boys descended into the ground. Dolcium was the youngest the village had buried in years. Liova produced two mourning wreaths and gave them to Hantle and Lorenca. Each wreath would serve as a marker, along with the fresh soil, until headstones could be carved. The village elder stepped away from the two; her role was finished.
Using a palm, Hantle drove the wreath into the soil at the head of Hultier’s grave. The ringing of the small bell at its center stopped him after the first strike. He let out a deep exhalation. The sound felt too cheerful to accompany a moment such as this. Though . . . maybe the boys would have liked it: the little metallic send-off. Yes, they would have liked it. He struck the wreath twice more and it supported itself. He made eye contact with his wife and dropped a handful of dirt into the pit. A sudden flare of malice licked at his mind, propelling him to pick up one of the spades nearby. He cast soil in the open grave as a growl built in his throat. Finally, he had a means to expel a portion of the energy that had accumulated in his body. His urge to do something instead of curl up and grieve had asserted itself. The individuals who had dug the holes stepped up to help but Hantle waved them off. This was a task he wanted to himself.
When the graves were filled, Hantle, drenched in sweat, followed the procession to the square. Cooks topped long wooden tables with a selection of meats, fruits, and early-harvest vegetables. Loaves of bread and baked dishes were brought out warm. A round table contained a selection of cordials and sweet wines. Hantle had no stomach for food, and Lorenca only ate a morsel or two; he watched the rest of the villagers, however, put away the spread. Heat bore down out of the cloudless sky and sank deep into Hantle’s black. The discomfort boiled within him until the meal was concluded and he could steal away home with Lorenca while the others cleared the square.
Once inside, Lorenca said, “I feel drained—empty.” She removed her veil and placed it on the kitchen table. “I’m going to lie down in their room.”
She moved for the stairs, but Hantle intercepted her and brought her into an embrace. He whispered, “I love you.” Her voice was thick enough to be incoherent; regardless, he knew what she had said. “I’m heading back out with some others to follow the wolf’s trail. I will find this beast,” he promised.
She looked up at him, the whites of her eyes run through with blood vessels. “I know you will.” Her confidence filled him with hope.
In the square, Hantle joined Rounfil and waited for others to gather. Shortly, they were a group of ten, armed with long muskets, bows and arrows, and axes.
Rounfil wiped dirt and sweat from his forehead. “Hantle. As Liova said, we are all united, in triumph and despair. We’ll do what we can to avenge your pain.”
Hantle said, “I am fortunate to have the help.” He shifted the musket on his shoulder. “Begin near the coop?”
The yard that had contained the coop sat empty. A group must have earlier dismantled it and dragged off the debris. Rounfil returned to the prints he had spotted that morning and tracked them beyond the fence. As they continued into the forest, Hantle loaded and primed his musket, chest thudding with anticipation.
A few dozen yards on, the trail curved to a small pond. “Took a drink,” Rounfil said. Soon thereafter, the tracks disappeared amid brambles and rocky ground. Rounfil turned, face despondent, to Hantle. “I’ve lost it, I’m sorry. This ground won’t hold a trail.”
“Here,” Hantle said. “Le
t me have a go.” He pushed back the thorns with an arm, stepped in, and scoured the ground for any sign of the wolf’s passage. Rounfil was right of course, but Hantle, reluctant to admit losing the tracks, waded into a denser stand of bushes. His motions became frantic, desperate; barbs snagged his skin and clothing. Eventually, he was forced to concede defeat. The trail was gone. He let out a savage shout and fired his musket at a nearby tree. He spun in circles, mind working to find a plan of action.
He nodded to the pond. “We can poison it,” he said. “Its next drink will be its last.”
“Other animals take water here,” Rounfil countered. “Would you kill them all?”
“Yes, if it meant . . .” His shoulders hunched forward as he realized the consequences of this idea. “No, you’re right. We’d just as likely poison a child.”
Rounfil stomped off some of the muck on his boot. “Let’s search elsewhere. There’s a chance it wandered around a bit.”
The hunting party returned in the early dusk, just after the sun set beyond a fiery horizon. Their search had yielded nothing fruitful, but Hantle was anyway glad to have spent the rest of the day working toward a goal. It was preferable to sitting in despair. His grief had kept a distance, though when he heard the sounds of children playing, it rushed back in and constricted his chest. How fortunate they were to be oblivious of grief or danger.
Back in the square, Rounfil put his arm across Hantle’s shoulders and said, “We covered a lot of ground today. And we’ll keep an eye out for the wolf.”
Eayol added, “Aye, Hantle, we’re beside you in this.”
“Thank you all,” he said. “Lie low tonight and, if it comes prowling, we can take up its tracks in the morning. G’night.”
He left them and brushed a finger against the streetlamp as he passed through the pool of light leaking from its soot-darkened glass shade. His stomach grumbled and, for the first time today, he had an appetite. At their front door, he found a food dish left by one of the neighbors. Without paying much attention to what the dish contained, he scoffed a portion of it down. His thoughts replayed the coffins lowering into the ground. Lorenca was asleep in Hultier’s bed when he entered the bedroom. He pulled back the sheets and curled his body to match hers. Through the window and over Lorenca’s shoulder, he watched the sky’s color fade until he did so himself.
CHAPTER FIVE
WHEN THE NIGHT HAD DEEPENED, the wolf left his day hide and returned to the forests surrounding Founsel. He prowled through the trees and underbrush and, while pausing here or there for a time, watched the homes for signs of activity. Eventually the moon rose, bringing with it, to his frustration, a bright moonlight—waxing full. Not even nighttime was a refuge from the pain that light brought. Certainly the burn of it was less than at midday, but it was the sort of sensation that drew his entire focus. For some hours more, he circled the village, moving from one spot of moon-shade to the next, which helped assuage the pain but did nothing for the resentment and hatred that grew beside it. His stomach contracted with hunger, the pang of which added to his irritation. The boys devoured last night were the most satisfying meal he had yet had. The terror they exuded, as much as their meat, had satisfied in a way the hens had not. Over the course of the day, he had grown to twice his size, and he was now as large as a fully-grown male. In order to grow further, though, he would need more than a child.
Nearby, the wolf spotted movement and weaved through the forest’s edge toward it: a teenage boy exited his house and walked across the backyard. The wolf did not attack quite yet. The boy held his lantern high and peered into the gloom beyond the light, liable to skitter the moment a leaf stirred. No, it was best to wait. As the wolf crept closer, he flicked his tongue and noticed his tooth had regrown entirely. That would be advantageous to the hunt. When his prey approached the outhouse, he set into motion. His tail wagged with excitement, and he hardly noticed the burn of the moonlight. In there, the boy would have no retreat: his quarry would be cornered.
His snout was in the jamb, which prevented the door from shutting. When the boy turned to see why, he snarled and pushed in. This forced the boy into the back panel of the outhouse. The lantern slipped out of his hands and crashed to the seat where its base shattered, releasing all its oil, and the wick toppled over into the fuel. A ball of flame gasped and leapt up. The wolf braced himself, keeping the boy pinned as he flailed at the flames spreading to his robe and searing his skin. His prey cried out with surprise that rose to a frantic, primal scream. Yes! He reveled in the sound—enraptured by the boy’s struggle. An instant later, his instincts took over and his jaws clamped, collapsing the boy’s throat and eating his cry. He backed away from the outhouse, jerking his prey toward the black woods.
Sleep sloughed off Hantle so quickly it left him disoriented. A girl’s wail, carrying from somewhere nearby, pierced the room, going on and on. It brought his heart to pounding. The wolf. He scrambled from the bed, leaving Lorenca there, and dashed to the living room. Here was his chance to confront the beast that had stolen his boys. Would its face still wear their blood? The wail trailed off. In the darkness, he found a boot near the door, balanced to slip it on, but instead fell to the floor. Snippets flashed by of the creature howling, clawing, tearing. What would he do if he came across it? He didn’t bother to search for the boot that had tumbled off; instead, he reached for the second one. His hands quaked and fingers trembled, useless for the task. A man’s shout came next. “The wolf has my boy. To me, all! Help me save my boy!” The voice sounded like Couveim, who lived opposite them and a few houses down. Hantle abandoned the boots, grabbed his musket, which hung above on the transom, and raced outside.
Hantle rounded Couveim’s house and saw the outhouse completely engulfed in flames. No people though. Couveim must have gone into the woods after Trissol. When he approached, a layer of clouds obscured the moon, leaving only flickering flames to illuminate gouges in the yard where the boy had clawed against his captor. Rounfil joined his side a moment later, musket in hand and threadbare robe tied at the waist.
“You see them?” Hantle asked.
Rounfil shook his head. “Not yet.”
Another call from Couveim emanated from the woods, and Hantle drove after it. Rocks and thorns jabbed into his bare feet. Commotion behind told him reinforcements were following. A branch whipped into his eye. Fuck. Hopefully one of them had a lantern. Why hadn’t he grabbed one? Too eager to fight the damn thing and not thinking, that’s why.
Listening for sound from man or beast, he stiffened his grip on the musket. An anxious heart pulsed in his chest. It was impossible to bring his boys back, but killing this wolf would ease the terror that gripped Lorenca and give him a degree of control over things. The moon reappeared and cast a chill dappled light whereby he and Rounfil could see enough to scour the ground for some indication of where they had gone, though it was difficult to make anything out.
A musket reported, followed by a scuffle and scream, quickly silenced. Hantle forged ahead toward its source. Presently, he came across a trail of crushed undergrowth and overturned litter. It led on a dozen yards before fanning out to a wide circle of trampled brush. Dark patches spattered the leaves and soil. He crouched to the largest patch and touched it, noting its warmth and the tack between his fingers—fresh-spilt blood. The moonlight winked out and he was suddenly aware of the silence. He whispered, “Rounfil?”
“Just over here.” A branch broke beneath his boot, seeming louder than a musket shot.
“Did you see a trail leading off from here?”
“No, but I got a piece of cloth. Probably from one of their shirts. Can’t see anything else without the moon.”
“Come on, where are they with the light?” He threw a look behind. It was hard to tell how far off the others were. “If they don’t hurry up we’ll lose it. It’s too damn fast.”
“Right? I’m guessing it’s carrying or dragging both of them along, but there’s no sight of it now.” Rounfil sounded in
awe of the thing.
Hantle swallowed. “Unless it’s waiting to ambush us.” Would he even know if the thing lurked beside them, readying to pounce? The inky darkness gave way as a handful of people followed the trail to them. He shot a glance to his surroundings. No pupils glowing back, at least. Relieved to have his vision once more, he stood and spoke to the newcomers. “Watch the blood, there’s a lot of it. We tracked the creature here so far, but we’ll make better time now with the light.”
Pirram, face still covered in sawdust, held aloft a torch. “Either of you get a look at it?”
Hantle frowned. “No, it was deep in the trees before I got out the house.”
“And he beat me there, so . . .” Rounfil shook his head.
Hantle wasted no more time. He moved to the edge of the trampled circle where he discovered a few dribbles of blood leading away, but they ended abruptly. “All right, group up and spread out. Find the trail.”
Several minutes later, a howl split the air. Hantle stopped in his tracks and spun his head around. Where was it? There! Its form scarcely lit by the moon. When the call stopped, the animal loped off and Hantle could have sworn something hung from its jaws. He called over his shoulder for Rounfil, pointing to the beast, but then his stomach dropped. It had disappeared again. “Follow me!” He sprinted forward, holding his musket with both hands. Rocks and sticks jabbing into his feet made him grimace, but he did not slow down. His eyes had not again left the location where he had spotted the wolf because he was afraid that blinking would cause the spot to meld into the indiscriminate woodland. Tears were streaming down his cheeks by the time he arrived. Others trailed behind him, leaving him without a light for the moment. He rubbed at his eyes and searched in what he thought was the same way the beast had gone. Everything looked like a clue. Had that branch been there before the wolf passed by? Was this pile of leaves scattered or not? What if the ground was too thick with litter to leave a print?
