The Ultimate Werewolf (24 page)

Her eyes changed color with the light. Now, in the firelight, they looked golden, like the eyes of an animal. He looked away, leaning forward to poke at the fire and make it burn brighter.

"Perhaps I'd best leave," she said. He looked up from the fire and she looked away to stare at the flames. She seemed very young just then. The firelight caught on the taut skin over her cheekbones, and she looked strangely beautiful, but not entirely human. As if the bones beneath the skin had a different shape from human bones.

"Where would you go?"

She shrugged, a quick jerk of her bare shoulders beneath the blanket. "I'll live alone. It would be better."

"Why is that?"

She turned to face him again, and her beauty shifted, fleeing with the movement of her head. Her face seemed flat and plain. "You saw the tracks," she said. Then she turned back to the fire.

"The Indians tell of medicine men who turn into animals. Birds. Wolves." He kept his voice low and even, as if he were talking about the weather. "I've heard tell of it. A medicine man puts on a wolf skin, dances like a wolf. And he becomes the wolf." He looked up from the fire to meet her eyes. "They see no harm in it. It's a sign of great power."

"Where my father came from, they tell of people who become wolves." Her voice matched his—soft and steady. He could barely hear her over the crackling of the fire. "They don't need skins. At certain times of the moon, the wolf comes to them and they become the wolf.

It's not something they choose. It comes, whether they will have it or not." She was watching him now, her eyes never wavering. "I take after my father." She wet her lips delicately, like a nervous hound. The melting snow glistened on her hair and cheeks.

"What happened to your father?"

"Killed by a hunter."

"Your mother?"

"Caught in a trap and killed by a trapper who checked his line before dawn. I've been traveling alone since then." She pulled the blanket tighter around her, keeping her eyes on the fire. "You were lonely and I was lonely, too." She shrugged again.

Jem nodded. He rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them.

"I'll go today," she said.

"Sit down and get warm," he said.

"I warned you, Jem. You got more than you bargained for."

"I got what I bargained for," he said. He held out a hand. "Sit down and warm yourself."

She took his hand and sat beside him on the bench. He rubbed her hands to warm her, and put another log on the fire.

▼▼▼

Winter came, and the nights were long. The first snow melted, and the stock grazed in the meadows. When snow fell again, they carried fodder to the cattle. They lived on wild game and Indian corn. On cold clear days, Jem split rails for fences. Nadya helped with the fences. She was surprisingly strong for her size. Together they built a shelter for the milk cow and the calf that Jem hoped she would bear in spring.

The full moon came, and he woke as Nadya left the bed and slipped away in the darkness. He heard the rustle of her clothing, the soft padding of her bare feet on the dirt floor. The wooden door creaked when she pulled it open and cold wind that blew in brought a flurry of snowflakes, dancing in the moonlight. The door creaked again as she pulled it closed behind her. He lay awake in the darkness, listening to the howling of distant wolves. In the morning, she came home.

Each month, Nadya grew restless with the waxing moon. She would leave during the day, telling Jem she was going hunting. She would return late in the afternoon, when the sun was just setting, carrying a freshly killed hare and complaining that game was scarce.

The night before January's full moon, the wolves came closer to the cabin than they ever had beforeniWadya sat at the firaJ, her book in her lap, and listened to their howls. "I'd best check on the stock," Jem said.

"I'll do it," Nadya said quickly, and she pulled on her coat and slipped out the door. Jem stood in the doorway and watched her cross the yard to the cattle shed. Snow was falling gently, the flakes catching the moonlight. Nadya paused, halfway across the yard, listening to something that Jem couldn't hear. She glanced back at him and gestured impatiently. "Close the door, Jem. Stay warm. I'll be back in a moment." She returned in a few minutes, snowflakes melting on her jacket and her hair. Her cheeks were bright and she came to him for warmth. They made love in the big bed that smelled of cedar.

The next morning, when he went out to the cattleshed, he found wolftracks. Only one wolf. A large male, he guessed from the prints. Nadya's footprints had been filled by the falling snow, but the wolf prints were fresh. The animal had lingered after the snow stopped falling. In the shelter of a bush not far from the corral, he found a place where the animal had rested, flattening the grass and leaving a few tufts of white fur caught on twigs.

He said nothing to Nadya. He spent the day splitting rails for the fence, hard physical labor that left him little time to think. That evening, Nadya stood by the cabin door at sunset, staring out into the forest.

"Looking for something?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Just restless."

That night, he woke to the open door, creaking in the wind. The latch had not caught. Jem slipped from bed, shivering in the cold. He dressed quickly, pulling on his trousers, stiff fingers lacing stiff leather boots.

In the moonlight, the split rail fence was a zigzag line of gray on the white snow, like a pencil line on white paper. The Douglas firs were black against the moonlight sky. He found her tracks under the trees and followed. His breath made silver clouds in the moonlight. A hundred yards into the trees, Nadya's pawprints were joined by the prints of a larger wolf. There was a mess of prints where the big male had approached and Nadya had retreated, where he had circled her and then she had circled him. Then the two sets of prints continued, with the male leading and Nadya following.

In the moonlight, the trail was clearly visible. Jem followed. He did not think about following. He tried not to think at all. His mind was cold and clear, like the icicles that hung from the trees, catching the moonlight and shattering it into bright and meaningless patterns. His mind was filled with bright and meaningless patterns.

About a mile from the cabin, the trail veered suddenly to the west. The distance between pawprints changed: the wolves had slowed their pace, stalking toward a dense stand of fir trees. Thirty yards farther on, the distance between pawprints had changed again, marking the place where both wolves had broken into a run.

Not far away, there was sign of deer: hoofprints in the snow, droppings, a flattened area where one animal had lain. Three deer by the look of it. Two had run west and the third had split off, running northwest with both wolves in pursuit.

Jem saw a splash of blood in the snow. A little farther on, another splash. He could imagine the big wolf tearing at the deer's flanks, ripping at its belly. He tried to imagine another wolf, a smaller wolf, doing the same—but the image of Nadya's face kept intruding.

More blood and a great confusion of tracks where the deer had tried to stand its ground, wheeling to face one wolf while the other harried it from behind. Then the deer had run again, leaving bloody hoofprints in the snow.

In a clearing, the animal had fallen. Jem stopped at the edge of the clearing, within the shelter of the trees. The wolves had caught his scent and had stopped feeding. The belly of the deer had been ripped open: blood steamed in the cold air.

The two wolves stood by the carcass of the deer, watching him with golden eyes: a big white dog wolf and a pale gray bitch. The bitch was large, almost as big as the male. Her head and muzzle were splashed with fresh blood.

Jem held his rifle ready, watching the two of them. He was not thinking clearly. He kept remembering a trapper who had found his Indian wife in bed with another man.

The male lowered his head and growled, his ruff bristling. Jem felt the trigger against his finger before he realized that he had lifted the rifle. He was aiming at the big male. The bitch—he could not think of her as Nadya—whimpered low in her throat, a complex sound that seemed close to human speech. She glanced at the male and then back at Jem. She barked once, a high yelp, then whimpered again.

She approached Jem slowly, casting frequent glances back at the male wolf. Jem shifted his aim so that the rifle pointed at her. She approached steadily, making a series of yips and whimpers low in her throat. As she moved, he followed her with the rifle. But he did not shoot. His finger was frozen on the trigger; his mind was locked on an image: Nadya, running to him across the yard.

When she was a few feet away, he lowered the rifle and squatted in

the snow. She came to him and rubbed her muzzle against his hand, leaving a streak of blood on his skin. He ran his hand over her head and down her body. Her fur was warm and thick and he could feel hard muscle beneath. "Nadya," he said to her, and she whimpered low in her throat.

After a moment, she left him and returned to the carcass. The male was feeding again, though his eyes were still on Jem. Nadya stood by the carcass, watching Jem. At last, Jem turned away and retraced his steps to the cabin.

At the cabin, he wrapped himself in a blanket and sat by the fire. The trapper who had found his wife in bed with another man had fired three shots over their heads and then taken to drinking. On the third night of heavy drinking, Jem had sat with him and listened to him rant. "I couldn't kill her," he had said. "Couldn't do it. When I'm gone, she gets lonely. She needs someone to take care of her. And sometimes I'm gone." He tossed back another hit of whiskey. "Can't argue with that."

Jem fell asleep by the fire and woke to the splash of water from the kettle into a basin. Just outside the door, Nadya was washing her hands and face in warm water from the kettle on the stove. The water in the basin was tinged with red.

He went to her, took her in his arms, and looked down at her. The pale early morning sunlight shone full on her face. She always looked healthy the day after a full moon—strong and fit. Wild nights agreed with her.

He did not want to think of that. "This is real," he said to her. "Right now, standing in the sunshine with you. This is real." He could feel the beating of her heart against his skin, the warmth of her body against his. The night was gone, and he let it go.

A month passed and the winter's snow began to melt. The full moon came. He lay in bed when she went out, ignoring the soft rustling of her clothing, the creak of the door. That night, he lay awake, listening for the howling of wolves.

On a morning when the breeze carried the warmth of spring, she told him that she was with child. He had been splitting rails for the fence and he still held the broad axe in his hand. He felt the smooth shaft against his palm and tried to find comfort in it. This is real. But his hand seemed barely a part of him; the axe seemed far away. She looked up at him, her head held high, her face set in an expression that he could not read. He took the axe and struck the chopping block, so that the blade stuck firmly into the wood.

"I was thinking I might go hunting," he said. "We need fresh meat." He looked out over her head, unwilling to meet her eyes.

"We've got meat enough," she said.

"No." His voice was flat. "I'll go."

He took his rifle and his powder bag and extra shot. Nadya asked him not to go, but he did not hear her. He walked away without looking back.

He had seen wolf sign by the stream that ran from their spring: tracks in the moist soil where the snow had melted; a matted place in the grass where a wolf had bedded down.

He found wolf tracks in the mud half a mile from the cabin. The ground was soft with moisture from the melted snow, and he followed the trail into the forest. Under the trees, where patches of snow lingered in the shade, he found pawprints in the snow. The animal was heading for the ridge to the east of the valley.

From the fir branches overhead, jays scolded him. A flicker of movement made him start—a covey of quail scattered in the underbrush. The ground sloped upward, climbing to the ridge. He followed a game trail —worn by deer and elk. The soil here was dry and packed; he found no more pawprints. Once he found a tuft of white fur caught on a twig by the trail, evidence that the wolf had passed this way once—but that could have been weeks ago. The trees thinned out—the soil was rocky and only a few tough trees had managed to find a place to take root.

Halfway up the ridge, he became convinced that he had lost the trail. He stopped and thought about retracing his steps. Beside the trail was a boulder, and he sat on the sun-warmed rock, looking down over the valley. Far below, he could see a thin line of smoke rising from the cabin. His cattle were grazing in the meadow. The split rail fence was a line of gray against the new green grass. He could see Nadya clearing the underbrush from the plot of land that she had designated as her kitchen garden. As he watched, she straightened up and stretched, a graceful natural movement. She pushed her hat back on her head and looked out at the grazing cattle.

Sitting in the sun, Jem began to relax. The anger that had come to him when she told him of the child slipped away. He watched her return to work. He could see the sun flash on the blade of the grubbing hoe as she lifted it to chop at a stubborn bush. He would be a father, he thought. That was real.