| |
The Eagle Has Landed
Sunlight seeps through my closed eyelids, casting a red glow. I wake, squinting against the glare of a bright, sunny day pouring through the open curtains, but my breath hangs before me like a puff of smoke. I glance over at a pile of grey ashes, where the fire burnt itself out during the night. I can’t see or hear any movement on the mezzanine. During the previous two nights, the wolf rumbled in his sleep, so I assume I’m alone in this freezing shed.
Stop it. Don’t be maudlin. He might have tiptoed out for a wee, for all you know. I’ve just spotted a steaming pot on the stove, when the front door slowly opens, as though a robber’s trying to avoid squeaking hinges. It turns out to be a booted and coated Curt, limping over the threshold and gently closing the door behind him with barely a sound. He turns and stares straight into my wide open eyes.
“You’re awake,” is his redundant announcement. He looks away as though nervous. “Right, then.”
“Morning,” I offer.
He throws the trousers from the bath cabin onto my lap. “You need to put those on for the ride and walk down.”
“They’re way too long,” I point out, shuffling my hands free of the blanket and holding the massive material up for inspection.
He tosses a piece of rope at me. “Tie it up with that. Alpha will find you some better fitting clothes in the village.”
“Alpha?”
“The wolf pack leader.”
“That’s his name, Alpha?”
“Yes... Now.”
Ah. “So, he wasn’t always called Alpha?”
“No,” he positively growls, the deepening scowl sending out clear warning I’m trespassing. I decide not to push. He turns his back and stirs the pot. “Hot water outside, if you want.”
A quick wash sees me struggling into the oversize trousers, tying the rope twice around my midriff, two foot of material turned down over the top. I’ve never felt more like an old baggage in my life. Well, not recently anyway. I shuffle back into the lodge to be greeted with a rip roaring guffaw from His Wolfness.
“Nice to know you can laugh.” He immediately stops and I wish I hadn’t said it. It was a pleasing sound.
“Breakfast,” he mumbles and slaps a spoonful of something cream and pasty into a bowl on the table.
I sit my ample backside and twelve foot of extra material on a chair, just as a spoon flies past my ear and splats into... whatever this paste is.
“Thank you,” I say, wiping gunk out of my eye. “I assume I’m supposed to eat it, not wear it.”
I catch a brief up turn of lips before he drops the severe mask back into place. After giving the unappetising gunk a good stir, I gingerly try a tiny portion, teetering on the end of the spoon. Lo and behold, it turns out to be very much like porridge, which isn’t my favourite, but it’ll go down in a pinch. A massive wrinkly hand plonks a cup at my left elbow, releasing a distinct whiff of beef broth – although I doubt it’s anything you’d get on a supermarket shelf.
“When you’ve had that, you’re leaving,” Curt announces with a frown, although he gives me a sideways glance as though waiting for me to protest.
“Had enough of me already?” I mumble through a mouthful of porridge.
“Yes.”
Well, that’s brutal.
“No,” he qualifies.
Make your mind up. His shuffling on the spot gets worse when I decline to comment, dropping my spoon in the empty dish instead.
“It’s time for you to go,” he insists. “It’s not safe up here.”
“Who for?” I ask. Yes, I know the correct grammar is ‘For whom?’ but I’m upset here.
“If you’re in the village, the pack can protect you. Better than me, anyway.” He grabs a beaten brown leather jacket, sporting rips in the sleeve that look suspiciously like claw marks, and lobs it at me. “Besides, I like being on my own.”
I used to say that all the time. I was lying too.
“Fine.” After that eloquent response I thrust my feet and dangling trouser legs into boots, before fighting my way into an ancient jacket that swamps me. In this get up I look like a cross between a stray dog and a sumo wrestler.
Curt rinses out my abandoned bowl and carefully places it on a shelf as though dealing with his grandmother’s china. He dons his own coat and woolly hat before thrusting his hands into gloves like he’s picking a fight with them. The door gets flung wide open without a single word leaving his lips. I waddle out into the bitter cold and stand beside the empty cart, waiting for my chauffeur.
Curt slams the door so hard, it shakes in its frame, dislodging a shower of snow from the roof, which promptly dumps over his head. I decide not to laugh, principally because I don’t fancy walking the entire distance to the village. Mr. Happy speed limps to the cart, without giving me so much as a glance. All I get is a thumb pointing over his shoulder, so I do as I’m told and heave my padded bulk onto the cart. He pulls it to the edge of the slope and climbs up front as it begins to slide.
This time the weaving rollercoaster ride is less terrifying and more exhilarating. Being wrapped in so many layers brings a weird sense of safety and cushions me against the wind, whipping past. A short stretch of the mountain is so steep that my backside leaves the cart and rejoins earth with a thump as we plummet.
When we eventually slow to a stop, I pop my head up. We’ve almost reached the bottom of the mountain. Ahead lies a flat stretch of snow and a few gentle slopes leading directly to the village and its winding river.
“Get off,” is his charming command and I roll my bulk out of the cart. Now devoid of its passenger, Curt easily drags the cart onwards, his gaze fixed on the settlement.
There are so many questions I’m longing to ask about the wolf pack, but I trudge along beside him in silence, not willing to brave his thunderous mood.
The village, whilst still distant, fills up with ants scurrying about on the white carpet, more appearing with each passing step. I couldn’t swear to them pointing in our direction, but the arrow head of curiosity definitely swings our way.
Anxiety creeps across my padded skin. I don’t do that well with the people I know, so I don’t relish the idea of a swarm of strangers. Reluctantly, I also admit to my so-called cynical self that I’ve got used to being around Wolfie and find his sudden return to silence disappointing. You would think I’d be used to that by now. If you snapped me in half, you’d find disappointment running through me like a stick of rock.
“Village,” he grunts, out of nowhere.
“I thought you weren’t talking to me anymore,” I reply. “I assume I’ve upset you, somehow.”
“I do better on my own,” he snarls, giving me a sideways glance.
“Me too,” I reply. We’re both lying. Obviously. “Less trouble.”
“Right,” he agrees, wincing.
“I can pull for a while,” I offer. “I’m not totally useless.”
“Nor am I,” he snaps, heaving harder on the cart, reinforcing his point.
“I wasn’t suggesting you were, misery guts.” Remind me not to bother being nice.
The closer we get to the village, the deeper the scowl drives a ridge between his eyes.
“Do you come down much?” I risk a question because the silence is too pregnant with confrontation.
“I come down a few times each season,” he replies, his gaze locked on the shuffling dots, now growing arms and legs. “To trade furs and wood carving for some food, flour for bread.”
“You didn’t give me any bread.” Urgh, I didn’t mean to that sound ungrateful. He’s making me nervous.
“I’d eaten it,” he mutters and snuffles like his encased wolf.
“Are they going to be alright with you bringing me?” I venture.
“I suppose,” isn’t an encouraging response.
It’s not warm down here – snow lays thick on the ground and clouds of breath puff from my lips - but it’s nothing like the arctic temperatures further up the mountain. My humungous padding feels restricting and a tad silly.
We meet up with the river, its surface partially frozen, reeds poking through ice near the bank, but the water races freely beneath, swarming with fish of all sizes and colours. At the far reaches of the settlement, where the river bends, sits a hulking wooden shelter, animals resembling stubby legged cows and very tall pigs freely roaming in a fenced area. That explains where the leather’s coming from, if not the wool.
Children, clearly having the time of their lives, pelt each other with snowballs and slide around on patches of ice. They show little interest in our impending arrival, but the adults scurry to meet us, forming a pack that reminds me of the media at a movie premiere. Clearly Curt isn’t just a trading hermit to these people. Others teeter on chalet roofs or up ladders, stopping to stare at us, their hands full of multicoloured bunting.
“They expecting you?” I ask, curious. “Having a street party?”
“No idea what’s going on,” he growls, exhibiting more suspicion than curiosity, making me anxious. When his eyes widen and his expression darkens even further, I turn to follow his gaze.
A beanpole of a man strides down the wide central street, his willowy height still dwarfed by massive log and stone chalet style houses, shuttered window arches adorned with wolf carvings. Less a village and more a town, methinks. The bustling crowd readily part at the man’s wafted hand.
Curt rolls to a stop, eyes fixed on the approaching figure, who doesn’t look any happier to see him. I guess he’s the ‘Alpha’ and figure it’s best to keep quiet until I’m spoken to. Stop laughing, I’m trying here.
The man snaps to a halt in front of Curt, greying eyebrows, as caterpillar furry as his head is bald, flapping under the impact of a fierce scowl. He might be teetering on the edge of elderly, but his taut sinews remind me of tough old rope, or a military sergeant major, his worn woollen coat and trousers neatly pressed into sharp creases, as though labouring to uphold standards.
“Al...” he stutters, then changes to “Curtus.” He spits the word out like it tastes bitter, making Wolfie’s name sound like a curse.
“Wings,” Curt responds.
Wings. Seriously? He’s called Wings? That glacial stare rotates to me as he peers down his hooked nose. I want to drop my gaze, but I’m made of sterner stuff and we psyche each other out, eyes narrowing.
“Who are you?” he demands.
Are they all blunt and rude in this world?
“Edi. Er, Edith. Breaker-Smith.”
Shut up. It’s my name. And yes, my nickname through spotty teen years was ‘Breakout.’
His gaze snaps back to Curt, who’s as still as a statue. His hip must be agony standing like that.
“Are you here to cause problems for the meeting?” Wings demands.
Curt’s eyes narrow to a slit. “What meeting? Who’s Alpha got coming here?”
“As I recall,” Wings replies, “you said you were no longer interested in the pack and we should get on without you. So, the answer is ‘None of your business.’”
“Wings...” Curt delivers a sigh sounding more like sorrow than anger, at least to me. That scowling expression softens too. “There wasn’t a choice, as you well know.”
The old man humphs with gusto and turns back to me. “What sort of changer are you?”
“She’s not,” Curt replies in my stead. I hate it when men do that. “She’s just human.”
Wings’ huge eyebrows shoot up. “She doesn’t change at all?”
“No. She’s a teller of stories.”
“Really?” says Wings, sounding a million miles from impressed. “How useful.”
That gets my back up. I get enough of this crap from Krystal.
“What sort of changer are you?” I ask, rather loudly. More like a bellow really.
“Bird,” Curt answers, whilst Wings leans backwards, away from the trumpeting human.
“Let me guess,” I continue, at a slightly reduced volume. “A vulture?”
Curt delivers a belly laugh, until the look on the birdman’s face chokes him.
“I,” Wings announces with great pride, “am an eagle.”
Ok, like you, I’m impressed.
“Wings,” Curt interjects, pulling our attention back to the bunting. “Why the decorations?”
Those eyebrows lower and flutter in the breeze as Wings considers how to answer. Even I get this isn’t going to be good.
“It’s for the arrival of the bear delegation.”
Curt snorts and pads on the spot like he’s about to welcome back his wolf. But the vulture isn’t finished.
“... And the snake ambassador.”
“Both,” Curt splutters. “Both of them here?”
I swear I can see his canines lengthen.
Wings steps forward and clasps both of Curt’s shoulders. “Son, listen to me,” he pleads, all that stiff formality draining away. “Listen to what your brother has to say before storming back up the mountain. Please? He needs you.”
Curt shrugs free of the embrace. “Your Alpha hasn’t needed me for a long time.”
“Wings, who is it?”
When the watching crowd scatters, deciding en masse they’ve all got better things to do, the sudden space reveals a man, marching towards us, who can only be Curt’s brother. He looks younger, slightly taller, with grey flecked, darker hair cut neatly short, but the facial features are almost identical, as are the bulging muscles. But there’s no limp. Definitely no limp.
Curt dips his head with respect as the man looms up. “Alpha. I know you weren’t expecting me. I’m only here to bring this lost woman to safety.”
That makes me sound like quivering wreckage. I’m about to protest when the Alpha launches himself at Curt, heaving him inside his impressive biceps and crushing his bones in a huge hug.
“Al...” the big guy starts – just like Wings. “Er, Brother. I’m so happy you’re here.”
Curt’s strangulated voice wheezes, “I only saw you in the Fall.”
“Have you heard the news?” Alpha continues, not easing his panicked grip. “That’s why you’ve come back to help me?”
“No,” Wings interjects. “He came to deliver her.”
Alpha follows Wings’ nod to me, before yanking Curt back by the shoulders, so he can bellow into his face. “But you’re staying?” Curt shuffles as best as he’s able within that vice like grip. “Brother, you’re staying, right?”
“No,” Curt squeaks and the Alpha’s face darkens.
Frankly, I don’t relish being dumped here, knowing nobody, so I venture, “I’m sure he can stay for a while.”
A trio of faces stare at me, noticing I’m still breathing.
“And you are?” Alpha demands, peering down his imperious nose. Sorry, too many noses. I don’t have a fetish.
“Edith. You can call me Edi. Curt found me lost up the mountain.”
“Curt found... What were you doing up there?” he asks me, face clouding with suspicion.
Curt launches into the longest sentence I’ve ever heard him say, words dribbling out like verbal diarrhoea. “She’s from another world where they’re not changers she arrived by using the book just like the Chosen Saviour only she clearly isn’t of course but I couldn’t leave her up there as there were packs of bears around and the storm we had to shelter in the cave I thought she’d be safer here.” Only the need to breathe forces him to halt.
I know I’m going to regret this, but I ask, “Just as a matter of interest; why are you sure I’m not the Chosen Saviour? Not that I’m up for the job, by the way.”
“Because our Saviour is prophesied to be young and beautiful, with long, sun blond hair to her waist and even her nails sparkle,” says Wings, with an air of relish.
That sounds suspiciously like Krystal. Oops. I don’t say anything. They’re better off with old, haggard, grey haired me. There’s no way she’d allow her nails to get chipped saving anybody.
“All the same,” I insist, “I did get here through a weird book and I’ve no idea how to get home.”
“I see. A book?”
Alpha glances at his brother, who shrugs. “That’s what she told me. Pooft and she was here.”
Thanks for the vote of confidence.
“I am the pack Alpha. You may call me Alpha.”
That snotty nosed attitude annoys me, so I ask, “Don’t you have a real name?”
He crosses his arms, reminding me more and more of his brother.
“I do, but everyone calls me Alpha.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m the Alpha.”
“I think I’m leaving now,” Curt announces. “She’s all yours.”
Alpha laughs with the family trademark snort. “You’re not leaving. You’re too curious to learn what’s going on.”
“Nonsense... What is going on?” Curt asks, proving his brother’s point. “Have the missing returned? Why are bears and snakes coming here?”
“Because my own father wants to sell me to a bear,” announces a silky female voice with an annoying edge of teenage whine.
The owner turns out to be one of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen. She can’t be more than seventeen, but her skin is clear, her body slim, with wide hazel eyes and a smile that would melt an iceberg, all wrapped up in a body tight, black leather tunic, suede trousers and a high necked, ribbed, green woollen sweater. With swathes of wavy black hair cascading over her shoulders, she looks like a catwalk fashion model. I hate her.
“For the last time, I’m not selling you to anyone,” Alpha sighs.
“Hello, Uncle Curt,” she yelps and leaps into his arms.
She calls him Curt too?
“Dulcis,” he replies, the insipid smile of the doting plastered across his face.
Have I mentioned, I hate her?
