The Children Of The Mist (7 page)

Shelley shook her head. ‘What?'

‘That music. The harp.'

Shelley stilled and strained her ears, but could hear nothing. ‘No, I can't hear any music. You're just over-tired. What you need is a jolly good sleep.' She passed Morven the Panadol and a glass of water, pulled up the bedclothes and popped the wheat bag into place. ‘Sleep tight, love.'

Morven managed a tiny smile, a mere ghost of her normal toothy grins. ‘Night, Mum. I'm sorry to cause such a fuss.'

‘Don't be silly. It's a big deal. We'll go out and celebrate tomorrow.'

But Morven was already asleep. Shelley looked at her perfect features, her slender limbs, the heavy skein of black hair. Sadness suffused her as she realised that the lively little imp of childhood was fading. Her Morven was almost grown. While she sorrowed for the lost little girl, she was proud of the young woman. Her Morven. She switched the light out and slipped quietly out the room.

Both men looked up questioningly.

Shelley hastened to reassure them. ‘She's fine. Fast asleep.'

Clifford rallied. ‘Zest, where are my manners? Would you like another drink, or something to eat?'

Zest shook his head. ‘No. Thank you. I really should be off.'

‘Zest, it's getting late,' said Shelley, ‘would you like to stay on the sofa for the night?'

But Zest was already up. ‘No, really, I'm good.'

Clifford reached for his car keys. ‘Zest, I'll run you home. There are no more trains.'

Zest was silent and then shook his head. He picked up his skateboard. ‘Thanks all the same, but I'll find my own way. It's a fine night.'

Shelley glanced out over the balcony. The moon was as round and silver as a coin. Moonbeams danced and dappled on the surface of the river. It was a night made for magic. ‘It must be a full moon,' she said.

‘Tomorrow,' said Zest.

Clifford opened up the lift. ‘Zest, it's really no trouble to give you a lift. It's the least we can do.'

Shelley realised that her husband was also unhappy about letting Morven's friend out into the night all alone.

But Zest stepped into the lift. ‘It's sweet, Clifford. Tell Morven to text me when she's better.'

The doors closed. The room seemed strangely empty. Shelley realised she was exhausted. ‘I'll just check on Morven,' she said.

Clifford nodded. ‘I'll get you a drink.'

Shelley smiled back over her shoulder. ‘Better make it a double.' Tiptoeing down the corridor she opened the door to Morven's room and blessed the well-made door that made no sound. It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. But all was well. Morven lay exactly as she had left her.

Back on the balcony Clifford waited, a tall glass of gin and tonic perched on the small table. Grateful, she sat down and took a long cool sip.

‘Is she alright?'

Shelley smiled at her husband. ‘Sure. It's just her period. You know how she is, very sensitive; it was bound to hit her hard. Still, I know she'll be pleased, she's been worrying over it for years.'

Clifford took a sip of his beer. ‘Poor little love.'

‘It's hard to believe she's so grown up. It only seems like yesterday when — ‘ Shelley stopped, unwilling to pursue that particular conversation.

‘Zest thinks she's pretty grown up,' grinned Clifford.

Shelley laughed, relieved by his tact and the safe subject. ‘Much good it's doing him. I don't think it's occurred to Morven that he's got a thing for her.'

Clifford grunted. ‘Probably just as well.'

They were both silent. The moonlit landscape spread before them in ghostly splendour. Bats fluttered in among the treetops and an owl hooted softly. The water lapped gently on the river bank and moths fluttered frantically around the lamplights. Shelley sighed and settled back into her chair. She thought of Morven, so pale and sick in her bed. ‘Clifford,' she said softly, ‘we did do the right thing, didn't we?'

Her husband reached out and gently squeezed her hand. ‘Of course we did, Shelley.'

It was the answer she had expected. It was the same one that he gave every time. It was certainly the response that she wanted to hear. But deep down, in a secret part of her soul, she was never, ever, quite sure.

Zest paused at the road. He took in a deep breath of night air. Filled as he was with nervous energy he found it hard to think. To make a decision. What he ought to do was head for the nearby freeway and hitch a lift. But the moon smiled her silvery smile, and the shadows danced and beckoned at his feet. Around him the world was alive. Not filled with the hustle and bustle of men, but with the fulsome richness of the animal kingdom. He could hear the pitter-patter of tiny possum feet above, and the soft pad of a cat behind. An owl winged softly by and a rat swam in the river. His nose was assaulted by a catalogue of intriguing scents. It was hard to think.

He put his board down and hopped on. Better get to the freeway. He was late for his Wolf's Bane. Just as he pushed off with the ball of his foot, he heard it. He froze. Waited. And there it was again. The long, mournful cry of the dingo. A lonely male. Like me, Zest thought. He could still feel the rapid beat of Morven's heart close to his own. He could remember the scent of her hair. And his fear still threaded through his veins. He had thought she was dying. The residue of his grief seemed to swell his loneliness. Then, somewhere to the north, there came an answering call. And another, and another.

The thought of returning to the cold comfort of his empty caravan suddenly seemed too much. He could not bear to be alone this night. He knew he should be sensible. Be good. But he was sick of being good. Responsible. Reasonable. Righteous.

The dingoes came together in chorus and Zest felt his blood rise. Missing his Wolf's Bane dose for one night wouldn't kill him. He grinned. Couldn't vouch for anyone else though. He left his board and headed north. Running. With each loping stride he felt his inhibitions slipping away. The sound of his pounding feet echoed off the walls of the town houses. Dogs barked. And he barked back. Finally he slipped through a garden and into the edge of the forest.

In the shadows of the moon-soaked trees he lifted his head and let out a howl. A sound filled with all the sorrow and loneliness of his kind. The pack answered and he headed up the stony, steep incline. Halfway up the pack met him. They greeted him with small yips of excitement. The dominant male jumped up and placed his paws upon Zest's chest. The golden dog gently placed his jaws around Zest's throat. With all the required protocol dealt with, the pack relaxed. A couple of half-grown pups sidled up to him, laughing and panting with self-conscious embarrassment. Zest pretended not to see them until they were almost at his feet. With a loud ‘Hah!' he made a sudden leap at them. It was all the excuse the pair needed. They took off into bush; Zest, laughing, followed.

Unwary birds scattered in their path, screeching and scalding their displeasure. Wallaby's bounded away, zigzagging frantically through the heavy scrub. Their scent lingered in the breeze but Zest took no notice, too involved in his game of tag. Filled with ecstatic joy he ran and jumped and rolled and climbed. Faster and faster. Higher and higher. He bayed at the moon and bade her welcome. In his broad chest his heart beat slower and slower. Chemicals, long suppressed, began to ooze into his blood. His senses tingled and sizzled with anticipation. Muscles swelled and stretched. Numbed parts of his brain began to waken. Seeing, smelling, feeling, wanting, questing. Zest exalted in his power and tried not to think too much. With too much thought came a madness. The thing was just to be. To be all that he was. To be…werewolf. Like his father's father. But unlike them, he was alive. So
very goddamn alive. More alive than even the most dynamic human ever born. Released from a long sleep, his hunger for life was insatiable. All consuming. Insanely delicious. Like the best moment ever dipped in chocolate and served on a golden skate board.

The game lasted all the way to the top of the mountain. The half-grown dogs were puffed and needed a moment. Not even winded, Zest took stock of the geography. At its peak the mountain was flat. As if a great slice had been cut off the top with a giant blade. A few trees huddled together in the centre and huge rocks were casually strewn around, as if they had been caste down by giant hands. The pack halted and milled around, travelling slowly around the mountain top. As they moved, each dog wandered close to Zest, brushing softly up against his legs. It made him belong. Made him one of the pack. Wanted and welcome.

Wind blew from the east. Zest could smell the salt of the distant sea caught up in the stronger scents of eucalypt, car fumes, smoke and something chemical that he couldn't quite place. Beside him a young bitch lifted her muzzle and tasted the air. She too tried to decipher the strange aroma. Pungent and harsh.

Zest's stomach rumbled. He was hungry. His last meal with Morven seemed a lifetime ago. Just her name sent him into a spiral of emotional angst. Without the subduing effect of the herbs, the metamorphosis he was experiencing was not just physical. Along with his enhanced physical strength and ultrasensitive nervous system came an emotional state of equal proportion. He felt a burst of anger. She should be here with him. By his side, sharing with him this profound adventure. Why wasn't she here? And fear followed with heavy footsteps. Because she was ill. A stomach bug? Right. Morven wasn't sick. She was Becoming. Soon she would be Vampyre. If she survived.

Afraid of his thoughts he looked for a distraction. Don't think. Don't think. Just do. Just be. Wolfman. A soft sound caught his attention. It seemed to have come from the base of a smaller mountain to the west. He froze, listening. And there it was again. And then he knew what the smell was. Cattle dip. The soft sound was the cough of a cow. Beef on the hoof. Dinner. His mouth filled with saliva and his body twitched with sensuous happiness. He made a small growl deep in his chest. Without further ado he leapt down the mountain side. The pack rallied and fell in behind.

The cattle were cunning. But the pack was more cunning still. Splitting up, they feathered away and carefully encircled the small herd. To Zest's eyes they all looked like prime eating. The calf was just a few days old, leggy and hungry for mother's milk. Tender, toothsome and tasty. But something held him back. Some remote sense of his other self insinuated itself into his conscious brain. It was a baby. Brand new and strangely beguiling. Frustrated, but unable to argue with himself, he cast his gaze over the rest of the mob. Seconds later he made up his mind. The steer. Still young. Bigger. Better. Or so he reasoned.

With a flick of his hand he made known his intention. As he swooped silently into the small glade the dozing herd burst into flight. With a scream of primeval triumph Zest fell upon the beast, stabbing with his knife. Aided and abetted by the pack, the hunt was over in seconds. Zest pulled his long knife from the steer's neck and stepped back. The steer was dead. Blood pooled around his still body like mercury, silver and glistening in the moonlight. The pack stepped back and looked at Zest as a token of their respect. Moved by their acceptance and generosity he cut a large piece from the huge hindquarter. It smelled rich and ripe. The flesh was warm and thick with blood. It was good to be alive.

For a couple of hours the pack ate its fill. Sated and content they headed back to their lair. They travelled slowly, fat and full. Back at the den Zest watched, wistful and
wanting, as they disappeared into the small caves and holes snug in the steep side of the mountain. While he wished with every fibre of his being that he too could curl up in a jumble of furry limbs and soft pelt, he knew it was impossible. He was too damn big for starters. Besides, he knew the human part of him would not let him rest so easily. There was Morven. She would need him. Of this he was sure.

Reluctantly he turned for home. It was only as he reached the freeway to the north that he remembered his board. Damn it. He'd have to go back for it tomorrow. It'd be a good excuse to see Morven's parents, and see how she was going. He travelled in the shelter of the pine forest that stretched for miles along the wide bitumen road. Sometimes he could see the moon through the needled branches, smiling down at him. She flirted and cajoled. Zest felt her power and wondered what it would be like to surrender. It was a fascinating but scary thought, one which he had turned over in his mind often. Sometimes he had nearly given in, nearly driven insane by the forces that battled within. But always, at the last moment, he'd chickened out.

Before he'd died, his dad had told him that he'd know when the time was right. Back then, when he was just seven, Zest had believed that his parent would be there to guide him. Protect him. But he was alone now. Always alone. How could he be sure when the right time arrived? What was the point, if there was no one there to share it with? He wanted to belong. And up until now, he'd survived on the fringes of humanity. At times it was a life worth living. Especially in the city on his board with his mates. With Morven.

But Zest knew that these small moments of belonging were all he would ever know, while he kept the secret locked up inside. Although he fantasised about the alternative, he managed to suppress many of his wilder dreams. They only filled him with a deep depression that was hard to shake. He tried to keep busy, with school, work and skating. There had seemed little point in dwelling on dreams. Until today.

Today made everything different. A sign loomed up. Normally Zest would have known it was the right exit by the lights of the petrol station, just off the highway. But tonight he could clearly read the sign. His eyesight was as keen as it would normally be in the day. Home was close.

Just before the exit, he ducked into a field and headed west. The smell of cattle caught his attention briefly. But he ignored them. He was still full. The thrill of the chase and the glory of the kill reared up into his head. Chemicals burst like fireworks in his brain and he broke into a run. Grouse flew out of the long grass, shrieking in protest and alarm. With lightning precision Zest snatched at the air. His hand fastened around a slender, feathery neck. And then he hesitated. Feathers were tricky to deal with. He wasn't that hungry. He let the bird go. She fell to the ground like a log and lay still. But he could hear her heart beating like a pneumatic drill in her chest. It was, Zest decided, her lucky day.