Led to the Slaughter

by Duncan McGeary

  I pray that the snow will stop falling, that the temperature will rise and begin to melt it, and that I will soon see clear blue mountain skies.

  November 17, 1846

  Some of us are starting to think of escape. We didn’t know this until now, but a small party tried to reach the summit yesterday. They floundered in the deep snow and had to turn back. They returned yesterday evening.

  There is talk of another attempt in the next few days. I have decided not to join them, for I promised Father I would take care of the family while he was gone. Yet my spirit goes with them, for I yearn to leave this place, to climb to the top of the pass and descend into California and the future that was promised us.

  November 22, 1846

  The snow has finally stopped falling. I dared to venture outside, found a few loose branches poking out of the sea of white and brought them back, but not before using some of the bigger limbs to push the snow off our roof. Bayliss helped me by lifting me up onto the roof and then clambering up beside me. The roof held, thankfully. We did a sloppy job of clearing it, but it was the best we could do.

  The firewood is damp and doesn’t burn well, continuously sputtering and belching out more smoke than ever. I’m certain that when our rescuers arrive––and surely Father will arrive soon––we will smell as if we are made of smoke. Our undernourished appearance will no doubt only reinforce the illusion. Perhaps it isn’t an illusion at all. Perhaps we are already ghosts who haven’t yet realized we are dead and are haunting the pathetic remains of our last dwelling.

  Bayliss is staying in our cabin now. All propriety has been forgotten in this time of duress. Men and women cohabit without thought. No one has the energy to care, much less do anything inappropriate with our proximity.

  I still feel guilty about kissing Jean first and ignoring Bayliss. It appears I chose wrong. Bayliss is proving to be a rock, while Jean Baptiste Trudeau is nowhere to be seen.

  Today, as we were out foraging, I took Bayliss’s face in my hands and kissed him on the lips. He was stunned, nearly falling into the snow, but he quickly recovered and was soon kissing me back eagerly.

  Since then, we have rarely left each other’s side.

  There are about thirty adults in this encampment, and a nearly equal number of children. The Graves family has joined us in our cabin as well. The Breens and their large brood of children occupy the next cabin over. The Eddy family occupies the third cabin, joined by the Murphy’s. Keseberg and the other Germans have built a lean-to against the side of it. The Donners chose to erect an encampment of tents farther away, near Alder Creek. The single men have been divvied up among all the encampments, though most have chosen to share the tents.

  I have seen no one but my own group for the last five days. Bayliss and I have decided we will venture out and visit the others soon, even if the storms continue. We must find out how they are faring, and whether they doing better than us or are worse off.

  CHAPTER 22

  Personal notes of Jacob Donner, Secretary of the Wolfenrout, November 10, 1846

  The turnout for the Foregathering of the Clans is much lower than my brother George expected, barely enough for our decisions to be considered a consensus. Still, any Wolfen who did not make the journey to this desolate spot cannot complain about the results later.

  My brother is trying to delay calling together the Foregathering for as long as he can. I suppose he still hopes that some of the more moderate Wolfen will arrive. I know this will not happen. The outcome of the Foregathering, when it is finally called, is inevitable. By hunting humans, the Wolfen have already shown how they plan to vote.

  While waiting for the Foregathering, most of the Our Kind have stayed in the wild, not joining us in human form. There isn’t enough human food to share, and we are more efficient hunters in our animal form. There is little game in this wilderness. Most of the herd animals sensed the severity of the coming winter and moved to the lower pastures of the western slopes long before we arrived. Of those few animals left on this side of the mountains, many have already perished.

  Our brethren are growing hungry and impatient. George will not be able to delay the meeting for much longer. Meanwhile, the humans are becoming warier.

  We did not expect that the livestock would be so diminished by the time we reached the meeting place, so it is fortunate that we had the foresight to accompany a wagon train; but none of us could have foreseen how deep the snows would be, and how cold the nights. As hardy as we are, we are forced to huddle together at night to keep warm.

  #

  Discipline is breaking down. Any humans who wander away from the camp are hunted. George has stopped lobbying for his reforms. No one is listening: we’re too hungry to care. Despite my brother’s views, I am glad of this. We need to be free of rules.

  We have forgotten who we are. It is glorious to hunt these humans, to run through the snow and catch them by their legs, to hold them down and bite through their spines, paralyzing them and devouring them while they still live.

  I have hunted every night since we reached these foothills. Last night, I waited with four of my packmates at the end of a well-used trail. The humans are forced to wander out for firewood, sometimes as darkness falls. The sun had just set when we saw a girl walking nervously toward us. While the others circled around behind her, I revealed myself. The girl screamed and ran back down the trail, into the waiting jaws of my friends. I arrived just in time to see the light go out of her eyes as one of my greedy brethren clamped down on her head a little too hard. She was still deliciously warm as we ate her.

  I returned to our tents and cleaned myself off. I didn’t want to antagonize George by openly defying his wishes. I’d heard something interesting earlier that evening from some of our packmates, a piece of news I knew would set him off.

  “They are planning to attack the Reed cabin,” I informed him. “Keseberg thinks that if the Reeds and Stanton are killed, the others will be at our mercy.”

  “I warned him,” George growled. He’d been staring morosely into the fire when I found him, but now he arose and began to Turn. He rarely shifts these days, as if to proclaim his allegiance with the humans. Many of our brethren consider him a human-lover, a turncoat. Defending the Reeds would only reinforce this belief, but I could not regret bearing the news, for upon hearing it, he was roused to action at last.

  The ancient bloodlust rose in me, and it was all I could do not to extend my fangs. My brother can be a formidable creature when stirred to fight, when he forgets to think like a human and lets himself be Wolfen. As George Turned in front of me, I fought not to do the same. One of us needed to stay human in order to negotiate, I reasoned; yet I could see from my brother’s bristling fur and slavering fangs that there would be no peaceful resolution this night. There was going to be a fight.

  I felt the call of the pack. I closed my eyes and continued to resist the urge to Turn. My leader was about to fight for his supremacy. My human side was worried, of course: for my brother, and about the political position I had taken. But the Wolfen inside me wanted this confrontation to happen. At last, all would be resolved.

  #

  Keseberg and his followers can always be found loitering around the Murphy cabin. The humans cower inside at night while outside, the howls of Wolfen fill the air. Our Kind saw us approaching and began to gather round. Within moments, the clearing was filled with Wolfen. Everyone had been expecting this confrontation.

  Keseberg had been sitting on a log, gnawing on a human leg bone. When he saw us, he threw down the meat and began tearing off his clothing. He can Turn in an instant, it seems, which never fails to amaze me, as it always takes me several minutes to complete the transformation. The scars that cover Keseberg’s back and chest become thicker and longer in his wolf form, and he has a long, jagged mark running down between his eyes and onto his snout. His red hair is stringy and sparse, as if it has been torn away in fights, but that only shows the wiry muscles beneath his skin.
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  My brother, in contrast, has thick, black fur, and appears unmarked by violence. His eyes are a deep yellow instead of the usual red of Our Kind. He looks plump and pampered. I tried to remember his last fight and couldn’t.

  I stayed in human form in case there was to be a ceremonial challenge, but neither of them was in the mood for formalities.

  Standing in the middle of the clearing, George waited for Keseberg to finish changing. Keseberg snarled at him, and the foam from his muzzle splattered across the trampled snow.

  Until that moment, I’m not sure that I understood my brother might be killed. Had I thought he would change his mind when he saw he was outnumbered? Had I expected him to concede? I felt deep regret about what was going to happen––and a secret guilt. But that regret and shame were buried under my bloodlust.

  Keseberg was now fully wolf.

  Every Wolfen had Turned by then, all of them wishing they could join the fight. I feared that the violence would spread, that the two factions would tear into each other no matter who won the duel.

  The combatants went to opposite sides of the clearing. This time, no one bothered to proclaim their allegiance by lining up beside them; we simply crowded around them, friend and foe mixed together. Silence fell as we stared at the two rivals.

  Keseberg made the first move. He charged at George, who deftly moved to one side, letting the bigger wolf go past. They were both so fast that it took a few moments for most of us to realize the fight had started. George snapped at Keseberg as he passed, barely missing his haunch, but Keseberg was already turning to charge again. Again, my brother dodged out of the way and just missed catching him in passing.

  It appeared they were equals in speed.

  There was a gasp of awe from the other Wolfen. Truly, the two strongest of Our Kind were before us.

  Then the combatants tired of their cat-and-mouse game of charge and dodge. They rose up and grappled with each other, using their front paws to both defend and attack, almost as if they were human boxers. Keseberg made his first mistake, getting too close while trying to snap at his enemy’s neck, and was caught by the swipe of a claw: another scar to add to his collection. He howled for the first time, not from pain, but from rage. Every human within hearing distance must have frozen in fear. It even sent a chill down my spine.

  They retreated to either side of the clearing. My brother was unmarked but panting heavily. Keseberg was bleeding from the nose but appeared even more vigorous than before. I’m certain that to him, such a wound was only a reminder that he was in a fight.

  They took turns attacking, though they were both slowing down.

  Then my brother called on reserves of energy he’d been hoarding. He initiated most of the attacks, and each time, he seemed to get closer to landing a killing blow. He ripped tufts of fur from Keseberg, but he himself remained untouched.

  I was beginning to fear that he would wear himself out, and that Keseberg was waiting for that to happen, when George broke off and retreated. He sat on his haunches, as if daring Keseberg to attack him.

  To my surprise, Keseberg also sat, and they stared at each other.

  Everyone was silent and still.

  Then, as one, they rose and charged, meeting in the middle of the clearing with a great clash of tooth and claw. Their movements were so fast and frenzied, it was impossible to tell one from the other.

  Then the flurry of movement ceased, and the scene before us became a frozen tableau. George was pinned to the ground; Keseberg had bitten into his shoulder. Slowly, inexorably, he closed his jaws. I heard bones snapping, and my brother made a small, pained sound. Then Keseberg shook him violently, nearly ripping his front leg off, and abruptly let go.

  George lay on the ground, stunned, then tried to get up on his good front leg. He could barely stand, much less fight.

  “Stop!” I cried.

  Both wolves turned and regarded me.

  “I beg of you, Keseberg, for all I have done for you, let him live!”

  They both began to change back into human form.

  “Stay out of this, Jacob!” my brother shouted as soon as he was capable of speaking.

  Keseberg smiled. “For all you have done?” he echoed. “I suppose I owe you that. After all, if it wasn’t for you, we’d be having a nice civilized Foregathering instead of solving things the Old Way.”

  “What’s he talking about, Jacob?”

  “Didn’t you ever suspect, George?” Keseberg asked. “Your brother has been working against you the whole time.” He turned to me. “What was it you did? Made sure that the invitations to the Foregathering reached only certain regions in time? I never would have thought of it, myself.”

  “Is this true?” George shrank before my eyes, diminished, an old man.

  I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t look him in the eye.

  “Of course it’s true!” Keseberg shouted in triumph. “Jacob has figured out human ways better than you have, George. He’s learned how to conceal and connive better than most men.”

  I couldn’t deny it. I’d never thought of what I was doing as particularly human, but now that it had been said out loud, I realized Keseberg was right. I’d wanted to return to the Old Ways, to become fully wolf––and in order to do so, I’d become more devious than the humans I hated.

  “I’ll let you live, George,” Keseberg said, “if you surrender to me. If you agree that by the Old Ways, a new leader has been chosen. Do you yield?”

  George was looking at the ground. When he looked up, it was at me, not Keseberg. “I yield,” he said softly.

  It was over. The crowd surged forward; some of our brethren carried George away, while most stayed and celebrated with Keseberg.

  George refuses to speak to me.

  #

  The Foregathering of the Clans was held, but it was a mere formality. The vote was a foregone conclusion.

  We met high in the mountains, in a ravine near the summit. All of us were in wolf form. The wind cut through our thick fur. Our breath came out in little clouds of fog that floated above us, caught the wind, and joined the clouds.

  Every color and size of Wolfen was represented. It was magnificent to see so many of us in one place, though there were hundreds instead of the thousands we had expected. The distance and the weather proved to be too much for many of our brethren. Still, it was a sight I shall never forget. Wolfen are so rare and spread out, I am sometimes tempted to believe that my pack is the only one in the whole world.

  George did not even bother to attend. Keseberg was triumphant, and the leaders of the other clans showed him deference.

  The vote was nearly unanimous. Wolfen are now allowed to create as many of Our Kind as we wish, and to hunt as we see fit. The rules suggested by the last Foregathering of the Clans have been abrogated instead of strengthened.

  The results are the exact opposite of what my brother hoped for. Perhaps George is right and it will lead to disaster. In the meantime, I feel free to be myself for the first time in my life. I will hunt to my heart’s content, and if, in the end, I am hunted down and killed in turn, I will not complain.

  The clans have dispersed. Most of us escaped these mountains before the next storm arrived––which was fortunate, for otherwise, they might never have left. Some of us stayed, to our regret. It is not only the humans who are starving now.

  CHAPTER 23

  Diary of Virginia Reed, November 25, 1846

  Another storm has descended. The second group has returned, defeated, after nearly reaching the summit.

  It sometimes seems as if this storm has always existed and will always exist, and that we will be trapped in our sorry state throughout all eternity. Hell is not a fiery place, I now know: hell is wet and cold and dark.

  I informed my mother of my intention to seek help from the other cabins. She nodded, understanding that there was no other choice.

  Bayliss went with me, though I could tell he was reluctant. He isn’t the beautiful boy I remem
ber. His dark hair has begun to fall out in patches and his high cheekbones are sharp points below his sunken eyes. I have no doubt that I look equally terrible.

  I have come to appreciate Bayliss and his steady demeanor. Once, I thought him gloomy and pessimistic, but reality has done much to confirm his appraisal of life. I can no longer argue that he is wrong about the way things are in this world.

  I took his hand as soon as we walked away from our cabin and only let go when we reached the next cabin over.

  We almost got lost, though that seems impossible, as our destination was such a short distance away. But the snow was blinding, and we had our eyes closed much of the time as we trudged through it. I was light enough to walk on top of the thin crust of ice beneath the latest layer of snow, but Bayliss broke through with every step, sinking up to his waist. Occasionally, I too broke through and was forced to crawl back up onto the crust and try to tread ever so lightly. It was exhausting, and I can only imagine how it must have fatigued Bayliss, yet he didn’t complain, and he didn’t ask to turn back.

  We visited the other cabins, one by one. This was not as easy as it sounds, though they are within a few hundred yards of each other. I’d hoped the others would have more food than us, but if they do, they refuse to share. I choose to believe that no one is holding back, but if the others truly are hiding food, they are being disciplined about consuming it. Everyone looks hungry. Everyone looks equally miserable.

  The exceptions are Keseberg and the men who hang around his lean-to next to the Murphy cabin. They seem strangely vigorous. Some of the single men look wild, almost feral. They eyed me in a way that made me feel uncomfortable.