| |
A Wolf So Grim And Mangy
What the bleeding, bloody hell! He’s a wolf.
He turned into a wolf.
A WOLF.
And he’s huge – for a wolf – towering over me. What big teeth he has. All the better to eat me with. I find a jagged rock and brandish it for all I’m worth, still screaming at a pitch that hurts dogs’ hearing. I hope.
Wolfie scowls, stray bits of white eyebrow flapping up and down, beady yellow eyes staring down his snout. A thin droplet of water drips off his huge, shiny, black nose and he lets rip with a snotty sneeze. The body spasm must have jarred his hip because he howls in lament. My scream reaches the level of a pneumatic drill and even my own eyes water.
He pads towards me, howling, and I cut loose with the rock, hurling it straight at his face. It bounces off that nose and he shakes his head, growling. Granted it was a girly throw, but I’m petrified.
As swiftly as I faced the wolf, Curt reappears in a sudden reverse transformation. He’s grabbing his left thigh and nose, hollering, and still stark bollock naked.
“Stop screaming. What’s wrong with you, woman?” he forces out through gritted teeth and sharp intakes of breath. “What’s your problem? It’s cold and fur’s warmer. For snake’s sake, stop screaming!”
The shriek dies in my throat. “You stay back.”
He puffs with annoyance. “If I wanted to kill you, I could have left you outside, wandering about til you froze solid. What are you scared of woman?”
Ooh, I don’t know. Let me think.
“Stop calling me woman. My name’s Edi and you turned into a really big dog.”
His lip rises into a snarl, just like his mangy counterpart.
“I’m a wolf, you idiot, not a dog.”
“You’re also dangling in the wind,” I point out. “Put something on.”
“I’ll be changing back to my wolf,” he replies, by way of denial, “if you’re done smacking me on the nose. That hurt, by the way, you ungrateful baggage. You should change too.”
“Are you some sort of wizard or mange?” I stutter, keeping my gaze firmly up.
“That’s mage, thank you,” he growls. “I don’t have mange.”
I feel my right eyebrow rise involuntarily.
“I’ve a few bald bits,” he whines. “It’s dry skin. I don’t scratch them.”
Clearly, I’ve hit a sore patch.
“And I’m not a wizard. No such thing as magic,” he states, crossing his arms to strengthen his point.
I wish he’d use his hands to cover something else.
“You’ve not seen many change?” he asks, shifting about, trying to ease the strain on his hip.
My mouth opens before the reply passes through my brain. “I’ve never seen anyone change.”
“Never?” he repeats, eyes wide open in a state of shock. “Never? Not once? No-one?”
“No-one at all. Ever.”
I can see the wheels grinding behind his eyes.
“Then you don’t change yourself, into anything?”
“Nope. Where I come from, nobody does that changing thing.” I waft a hand to illustrate the ‘thing.’ No idea why.
“Not into anything at all?”
He’s like a dog with a bone, or a wolf with a gumwhat.
“No,” I insist, a shrill tone lurking on the edge of my voice.
“You’re only human. Only human?”
“I’m not only anything. I’m Edi and I’m plenty on my own, thank you.” A fine sentiment. Unfortunately, I haven’t believed a word of it since I was ten and ran into the first batch of bullies.
Curt snorts and looks away, not meeting my eyes, and there’s a tinge of pink in his cheeks. His face, I mean. Forget I said that.
“Well,” he ventures, poking in the dirt with his big toe, “unless you want to freeze, get over it. I’m changing back to wolf and lying on those blankets over there. I’m warmer when I change, so you can cover yourself up and, er, lay against my back. If you want.”
“You won’t bite me?”
“Why would I bite you?” he replies.
“I don’t want to turn into a wolf.”
“I’ll have you know, it’s an honour being a wolf. And anyway, you have to be born one. If I bit you, all you’d get is a hole in your bum.”
“Great. That’s reassuring,” I mumble.
“Look, I won’t bite you or mess about,” he says, shuffling. “Just mind my leg. And don’t scream; it hurts my ears.”
With that thrilling invitation, he gives the fire a good poke, strategically placing a hand to prevent singeing, then changes again. Without my own terror and shrieking shredding my nerves, I get a good look at him this time, noticing that the change seems to make his leg pain flare up.
Cute he ain’t, equally feral lupine as he is human. Bald patches look sore and scarred, as though the hair’s been wrenched out at the roots. Knotted fur could do with a trim and his entire pelt needs a good wash and a gallon of conditioner for problem hair. He also reeks of wet dog, but hey...
Yellow eyes glance at me where I sit frozen to the spot, and look away again. He growls, softly, takes a couple of licks at his sore hip and limps over to the edge of the pile of blankets. After a deep rumbling sigh, he rolls onto his side, indulges one quick scratch of his genitals and grasps a blanket with his teeth, pulling it over himself before lying still, his back towards the only human.
Right. How long am I going to sit here?
I ask myself the question after my back begins to ache. I’m in a cave, a storm rages outside and I’m freezing. And there’s no TV. My chattering teeth are getting on my own nerves when Wolfie’s head pops up, gives me a baleful stare and lets loose a bass howl. He might as well have said, ‘get over here, you twit.’
I’ve no idea why I feel the need to get up and tiptoe over. It’s not as though I’m going to surprise him. I park my ample backside on the far edge of the blankets, clutching my knees to my chest. When a huge yawn and a gurgle from digesting gumwhat make a bid for freedom, I creep beneath a corner of the blanket, cover my shivering body and face the opposite wall. I’m still wrapped in damp anorak and jeans, but the blanket helps a little.
There’s a low rumble from behind me and the blanket rustles as a smelly wolf shimmies backwards. A marvellous warmth sweeps through my body from the crown of my head to my block of ice toes. He wasn’t kidding about being warm; it’s like sleeping next to a full length hot water bottle. I doubt that’s normal for a wolf, so it must be something to do with being a shapeshifter. As the tail drapes over my feet, I fight the uncontrollable urge to roll over and clasp the furry heat to my chest. I stay where I am, forcing questions about possible mange mites out of my warming mind.
One psychosomatic scratch later, tired muscles relax, shivering ceases and feeling returns to my extremities. Eyelids slam closed like the shutters on a shop window.
That’s all I... zzzzz.
