by Eric Ellert
She'd wait and ask Rau. It would give her an excuse to drop by. She'd thought of a lot of excuses to knock on his door, but none of them really worked, and the ones she'd tried hadn't worked because he was so rarely home.
A few minutes later, Moren came back in and Mrs. Rochambeau poured the bucket of Gin Moren had brought her into a wine bottle with a funnel and drank the Gin from a tea cup, mixed with birch beer. "I had that imported from the Bahamas. That's real birch beer, the kind they make from birch trees. See?"
She gestured at the projector as if snapping her hand in the air would make it come on. "Shall we?"
The black and white film was old but showed the town looking much as it did today, except it must have been dusk for the dim lighting and on the screen, big-chested werewolves ran about tearing at each other and killing dogs.
Moren hadn't really thought about it before, but there had been a lot of dog statues in the cemetery. Ew.
In the middle of all this, an old style truck pulled up, the kind with a bicycle chain for a drive chain. The driver sat in a cab with strips of metal over the windows. The guy in the back opened the rear doors and pushed a bunch of pigs out. There must have been two dozen. No, not pigs, Moren thought, hogs, big Dorothy-killing things, and worse they had tusks. She saw a show on cable, that said if you left them alone in the woods, they turned back into boar, with tusks that spiraled round into their heads. One day they'd grow right into their brains, but before their tusks did that, they just might hunt you. That's what she'd seen in the woods.
For a moment on screen the werewolves came into view and lined up in rows of four. A man came in and out of the picture, but Moren couldn't make his face out. He made a lot of strange hand gestures and the werewolves listened. The thick, shaggy hair on their chests and the saber fangs made them seem primordial, pre-man, but they followed his hands, moving their heads this way and that as if they understood him.
"Poor silly, little people, aren't they, eh, Cheri?" Ms. Rochambeau asked.
People, Moren thought. People weren't made of such hopeless parts. She had a creepy daydream of Mrs. Rochambeau sitting alone in a forest, with an easel in front of her, painting these monsters into existence and then painting a fenced-in town around them so they could not leave.
Moren took a deep breath and was just about to ask about her mother's painting, but her chest hurt as she thought of another possibility. Maybe Mrs. Rochambeau wasn't a voyeur after all, and maybe mom sat for the portrait. Mrs. Rochambeau in the house, Mom on the lawn, sharing secrets. If that were true, she'd never mention it to anyone.
Moren crossed in front of the projector, her shadow playing against the pictures of the wolf-things on the walls. "Please. Stop it."
"They so wanted to get to space, thought it would solve all their problems and so they agreed to work on the island. Look at them. If you ask me, it was what was in them all along."
"You did this?"
"Non," Mrs. Rochambeau barked. "I have bitten once on this continent, only once." Her hands trembled. She stood, sat back in her chair, then realized it was the wrong one, shuffled back into the living room and chained herself to the leg of her usual chair.
"That makes it ok?"
Mrs. Rochambeau waived Moren out of the way. "You're ruining the picture show, Moren. Where are your manners? And bring the Gin."
When she did, Mrs. Rochambeau grabbed her hand. "You got wet paint on that petty, little hand. Why you have to know everything, child? Why do you have to know when everybody goes so out of their way so you don't have to ever know? It's that *()(*&()&(* television. That's where you learn how to talk like that too."
Moren reached for the Gin and Mrs. Rochambeau smacked her hand away. After a moment, she poured her a week one, mostly birch beer. "Mix it with that or you shall look old before your time, Moren." She clapped her hands.
As if on command, the wolves on screen chased the pigs and ate them, the pigs still kicking as the wolves fought over the choicest bits.
"Wolves, Cheri, generally eat their prey alive. They don't have much of a choice. You see, to kill them would risk injury and an injured-wolf, that's the end of that particular wolf." She smiled and pointed at the screen. "Don't mind me; you're missing the film."
The strange man who managed the monsters stood on the truck, gesturing as if conducting an orchestra, though if they paid him any attention, Moren couldn't tell. The film cut out for a moment, flashing clear, white light, then came back on with different stock as if it had been spliced together. Science types stood in lab coats in a quadrangle outside a cinderblock-style barracks. One of them checked his watch and as the sun set, the view grew dark and they changed.
Their figures grew shimmery and they seemed to step aside themselves and when the shimmery stuff fell to the ground, they were werewolves, tall and lean, their clothes fitting so well. They clapped as if they'd achieved something wonderful but when they stopped clapping, the one who seemed like the leader, pointed at the man in the lab coat and they chased him into the woods behind the barracks-like building. He screamed and pleaded no and screamed, then stopped.
Moren had seen murder on tv, but the real thing wasn't the same; it changed the room, turned some little switch inside her that could never be turned off. She took another sip of birch beer, but there must be something else in it because she felt like her blood was being poisoned. "I don't want to see anymore."
Mrs. Rochambeau turned the film off, making a face at Moren as if she was a weakling. "Now you know why I don't go out anymore. The half of it anyway. Did you see the tall one, the tall wolf?"
"Yes."
"That's the one Rau hunts each night."
"To kill?"
"One doesn't hunt to be friendly. Rau thinks if he kills him, the people in the town can go back to bein' people like they were."
"And he's wrong?"
"They don't want to go back to being people like they were; they want to be werewolves like the king of wolves is."
Moren backed away. "And you?"
"It's too late for the Nords on the island. They are forsaken and will be forgotten." Mrs. Rochambeau smiled, had a drink of Gin and covered the chain on her leg with her rolled-down stocking, which she rolled partway up. "Come here, please." She put the stringed-key around Moren's neck. "The mines leak out silver since they flooded the valley for the reservoir," Mrs. Rochambeau said. "Werewolves can't abide the water, wont' even cross it in a boat, lest they're starving. By the way, darling, those mashed potatoes? They were the kind that came in a package, frozen, not the kind you put water into, were they?"
"No. Sure. I promise."
"Cause if they were, I'll be dead in twenty minutes or so, just a burning puddle on the floor. If I'm lucky and I don't linger." Mrs. Rochambeau unchained herself, went to the table, poured ketchup all over the potatoes and ate them as if Moren wasn't there. "That's a good girl, know enough not to disturb a person when they're eating. Now give us a kiss, and leave."
Moren trembled as she crossed the room, but when Mrs. Rochambeau hugged her, she knew she wasn't bad, though it wasn't evening.
"Mrs. Rochambeau?
"Yes, child."
"My mom died."
"Now who told you that?"
Moren told her about school.
"Forgot to tell you, besides bein' werewolves, they're inveterate liars, pretty much no good at this point. Your mother's not dead, I doubt she's fine, but she's not dead."
"How do you know?"
"I can tell by looking at Rau. He'd know."
"Who is he, is he a--"
"--Werewolf, no. You might call him the mayor of the town."
"We have a mayor," Moren said.
"Then call him a Baron, but if he leaves, the town goes. Old Rau, wastes all his time trying to get that wolf, but the government's getting tired of waiting. If he doesn't kill him soon, they're going to flood this place. All they have to do is turn off the pumps in the dam and up she goes, or is it down? Funny, those dumb
wolves in town will get backed up to hallowed ground. The cemetery is one of the places they fear to go, and when the water hits 'em, they'll just melt, burn and melt, screaming and baying and gnashing at each other's legs." She giggled unpleasantly. "Not like I didn't try to tell 'em. But that Rau ain't from around here, ain't from anyplace at all around here in any way."
Moren knew Mrs. Rochambeau was lying. She'd kill 'em all if she could. She pictured her with a big broom, pushing them into the water, cackling and cursing between sips of gin. She hid here in the eye of the storm because she was the storm, the thin chain a little joke she played on herself. But she was trapped, too nuts to flee. She wanted an empty valley full of trees she could wander like a ghost, pretending she was in darkly medieval France.
"Can I have the film? Faudron won't believe me."
Mrs. Rochambeau thought about it for a long time before she spoke. "If you don't tell Rau."
"Why not?"
"His brother will kill him. He's the tougher of the two. His brother's the king of the wolves of men. But Rau can't find him. He gets that film he'll figure it out pretty good. It's not all that complicated if you think about it correctly. And if he learns where you got that film, he's apt to use that spear on me. And don't tell me he's not capable of it, you have not seen me in the evenings."
"Why's he want to kill his brother?"
"Why, Moren, it's what he was born to do. And when he does it." She shook her head as if Moren was exasperating. "You think you know everything. I doubt they'll let him go home."
"I don't like when you talk like that. And where's mom?"
"Back in the Back Beyond."
"What's that mean?" Moren asked.
"Let your sister take care of it."
"I'm grown up now," Moren said.
"That's the problem. Stop thinkin' you are and you might have a chance to grow up but I'm lecturing you; I'm sorry. And remember, keep your sprinkler on, you'll be fine."
Moren smiled. "You give that advice often?"
"No, Moren, you're about the only one I talk to."
Moren got outside. Mrs. Rochambeau never said goodbye, so Moren had stopped bothering. She had been right about the rain; it was constant, cold, ruining the lawns. She ought to tell Faudron, or better yet, they ought to get in the car and go, but she had to be careful. There was a plan, rules. Two, three days, whatever, then they'd drive as far as a full tank of gas would get them. Besides, she could never bring herself to discuss the fact with Faudron, the fact that their parents might be like the people in the film. Mrs. Rochambeau had been right; whatever they turned into had been inside them already, the curse just brought it out.
She got to her door, but wanted the painting. It shouldn't be rotting in a rotting garage. She thought to take it, but went back and knocked on Mrs. Rochambeau's door instead.
"What is it?" Mrs. Rochambeau asked through the peep- hole, something in her voice sounded as if they hadn't spoken in weeks.
"I want to see my mother."
Mrs. Rochambeau frowned. "You think you're so clever, don't you," she growled. "Come close and look in my eyes."
Moren had to bend down low to look straight in. Mrs. Rochambeau's eyes had no blacks in them.
"Keep looking," she whispered through the door.
At first Moren saw nothing, then her skin felt cold and she looked around and she was standing in a forest, but the plants were wrong, as if from another era. She smelled smoke and followed the scent down a shallow hill.
There, her mother and two others sat in front of a campfire. If she wasn't dressed as an Indian, she was trying her hardest, and when she looked up she gestured Moren towards her. Moren tiptoed on the icy ground, grabbing hold of branches to keep from slipping and when she drew closer, her mother leaned forward, the smile gone form her face. "You're not my Moren." She looked at her companions. They leaned into the light, Rau and her dad across from the fire. They didn't recognize her, either.
"Go back," Rau said. "You're knocking things out of order. What the hell do they think they're doing back there?"
Moren leaned over the fire and touched him. He had to recognize her. "I just came from back there."
He turned to her mother. "Tell her to go back. Tell her to go back right now before it's too late."
Moren felt a pain and closed her eyes. When she looked up she was standing in the barn, leaning down, staring at the painting, but the painting was just the first in a series, and they showed all the things she'd just seen but the paint was old and cracked.
Chapter 8
Faudron held her hands up to the window, almost tempted to turn the light on and press them against the warm light bulb until she saw the red outline of her bones, but there might be something there, the beginnings of a paw or something. Two days, Splinter had said. Would it happen, if it happened and would it happen quickly and what of Moren? Would she hunt her through the forest of the moon or worst had Splinter lied; would Moren hunt her? Moren had been here a few weeks; she ought to know better than Faudron. When they'd walked through the cemetery, Moren hadn't noticed that behind the familiar names on the backs of too many of the tombstones were etched the names of their children, all more or less Moren's age. She almost picked up her cellphone again. She'd toyed with it compulsively all night. Big, bing, bing, your call cannot be completed as dialed was all she got and each time she'd hung up, the landline downstairs rang. She'd run downstairs and picked up the receiver each time only to get staticy air and a machine hang up. She could try driving into town and trying the exchange, they actually had a local exchange, Bill's Phone Company of the Hollow Hills, or something like that, but that'd be Mrs. C's department and Moren wouldn't risk it without Rau and it would be too much of a risk for him. Mrs. C. and the Mayor were smarter than Rau gave them credit for. They were going to watch the two wolves tear each other apart, literally, thinking they'd be in a nice position when the town was their's. As if anyone would want it, but maybe the struggle was so great because the rewards were so small.
***
She slept and woke up about four; it must have been four because George Noory was saying goodnight, twice. Moren's radio was on in the other room tuned to the same station. Faudron heard something and went to the window.
Rau pulled up to the lawn on that little horse.
Faudron's bed was next to the window. She slid the window partway up and laid her chin on the windowsill. She smiled and waived, which was silly since he wasn't looking this way but it had made her feel better, then she tapped on the window.
She thought he'd heard her because he got off the horse and looked in her general direction, but then fell to one knee, a broken-off spear sticking out of his side, blood barely visible against his black armor, but red as it ran down the lawn and into the reservoir.
Faudron wanted to hurry down to help him, and automatically tried to dial the cell phone, lost her temper at the bing, bing, bing, your call cannot be completed as dialed and tossed it into the hallway. Faudron tried to pull the window up but it wouldn't open more then eight inches. She smacked her knuckles against it again and again.
Rau paused for a second; he must have heard her, but instead of looking over, he grabbed the horse by its mane and pulled himself up, made it to his front door and disappeared inside. The horse trembled by the door for a moment then ran to the barn, slipping on the muddy lawn.
Faudron went into the hall, picked up the phone and squeezed it so hard, the numbers beeped and beeped, scratching out ringtone after ringtone, louder and louder until it found the Star Trek theme ring dad had given her with the phone and she'd gotten rid of.
"Shut up," Moren said from the other room.
"He's bleeding," Faudron whispered. She hadn't really believed Rau hunted each night and didn't know what to do. Was there a doctor within a thousand miles that had ever seen a wound like that? Mom would have been in the Lincoln, Moren with her, tearing down the road, if she'd watched that.
She went back into her room, hopp
ed onto the bed and pressed her face to the glass. "Where's the ambulance, come on, come on." How could he live out here with no way to contact the outside world?
Nothing stirred but that ugly horse sticking its head out of the barn.
"Moren?" But she didn't come. Didn't she care about anybody but herself?
Faudron ran into the hallway and down the stairs, hitting the landing in two long jumps. When she got outside, Moren had already slipped out her window and was skidding on the lawn as if it was made of snow.
"Why don't you listen to me?" Faudron whispered.
"You didn't actually say stay in your room, lock the door and call the police. You never actually said that."
Faudron laughed then froze as a wolf ran from the tree line, crossed the road and ran onto Rau's lawn. "Back, Back, back," Faudron shouted as she grabbed Moren by the wrist and pulled her against their house. They got down low as the werewolf circled behind Rau's house. Its wet fur smelled as if it had rolled around in spoor. It had noticed them, not even bothering to stop, as if its legs could chase them down no matter how far they went.
Faudron pushed Moren back towards the basement storm-cellar door and stood, hoping to cross the lawn and get to the front door while it was still trying to paw around the basement window, but before she took two steps, Moren was in front of her, hopping over the little river that separated their lawns. Faudron whispered, "Get back here."
