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The Howling
They ran around the campfire naked, Curt limping fast. I sat and peered up at the stars in my newly gifted, floor length leather coat and pretended I wasn’t the gate crasher at a nudist colony’s bonfire party.
The evening had started with the fully clothed slapping each other on the back and drinking steaming mulled wine, when suddenly trousers went flying and they all exposed themselves to the freeze, right down to bare feet on the snow. I must have looked shocked because Wings, who declined to join the pack, loomed up behind me and helpfully intoned, “This is their Unity Dance, for good luck at the meeting tomorrow.”
And they couldn’t just sit and sing kumbaya? What I said was, “Right.”
“They’re wolves,” Wings continued, as though that explained everything. “How long are you staying?”
The sudden change of topic threw me. “’Til they’re finished, I suppose.”
“I meant, staying in the camp.”
“Oh,” I said, though I knew very well what he meant. “I don’t know.”
“Hmmm.” He leaned towards me like he was about to peck my eye out. “I’m watching you.”
“That’s friendly,” I replied. “Are you the pack’s guard bird?”
“I brought those pups up,” he hissed. “Don’t mess with me.”
“I’ve no intention of messing with you or your pups. And I would appreciate you getting out of my face.”
“Hmmm,” he repeated, before stationing himself on the other side of the fire, from whence he’s been glaring at me all night.
A couple of revolutions into the Unity Dance, all the nudes changed into wolves and adding howling to the occasion, so here I sit, wondering if I’m allowed to head inside or whether that would be a terminal insult to wolf and bird. More from boredom and earache than curiosity, my gaze drops from the stars to the rotating wolves, catching sight of the grey scrag end of Curt beside his equally massive brother. It’s easy to see why both have held the position of Alpha.
Alpha’s lean muscle ripples beneath thick, brown fur and I see what Curt would have been before the injury. On cue, a ripe howl rips from Curt’s mouth, revealing a maw that could remove my entire head in one bite. He’s frighteningly impressive, even wounded, and his brother is plain terrifying.
The most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen nuzzles between them, her shiny black coat reflecting the firelight. Slightly smaller in build than her father and uncle, she’s still the owner of savage teeth and claws that could rip out the throat of any prey. She’s magnificent, but it’s not her sleek athleticism that draws the attention, it’s the soulful look in those dark eyes.
Still, the sight of a shedload of wolves bouncing around a campfire, snapping at one another and yowling, is less exciting than you might think. To be honest, it looks pretty ridiculous to me, but then I’ve spent worse nights. (Usually in some godawful pub with a past boyfriend, pretending to watch the football on a ‘Mega Size’ screen whilst he drinks his bodyweight in beer and hollers, “That was a **!*ing offside ref!”)
Anyway, I’m in danger of freezing to the spot when they all change back and hurriedly retrieve their clothes. A slightly dishevelled Dulcis ushers me inside with the pertinent observation, “You must be chilly.”
“Where are we going nowwww?” I ask, choking on the final word as I’m yanked inside the mansion.
“Time to eat,” she lobs over her shoulder.
Happily discovering the twin sister of Curt’s cabin rocker armchair, I’m settling down in front of the fire to thaw out, when I spot my wolf, sitting on his own in the far corner, clutching an empty cup like a wallflower at the school disco. With his expression oscillating between forlorn and homicidal, I approach the beastie with caution.
“That was interesting,” I begin, staying on neutral ground.
He snaps my head off anyway, figuratively speaking. “I had to join the howling; it’s an insult to the Alpha if I don’t.”
“Why do you always assume I’m attacking you?” I grumble. “I’m trying to be friendly.”
“Don’t need friendly,” he growls, wrinkling his nose to emphasise the point.
You know what? No. I’m not playing ball.
“What a pile of crap,” is my verdict.
“Lovely turn of phrase,” he mutters.
“You keep veering from Horace the Homeless Hermit to Poncy Prince Po-Face. Give it a rest.”
“Hmmm,” is all he lets escape, but he looks shocked.
“Now you sound like Wings,” I observe, “but that’s not surprising, if he brought you up. He thinks I’m going to assassinate you, by the way. Or your brother. One of the two.”
“Alpha would be more of a loss,” he mumbles.
“Now that sounds like self pity. Your niece says he didn’t want you to leave in the first place.”
He stares right at me, eyes narrowing. “You’ve been busy chatting.”
“She cares about you.”
“She’s better off without me.”
“Why do they want you to stay then?”
He looks away. “I’m only staying ‘til the meeting’s done. Wolves are still going missing. I think the bears killed them. Alpha needs my help.”
“You think there’s going to be a fight?”
He slaps his wounded hip. “I won’t be doing much fighting. He says he wants my counsel.”
He shuffles when I settle down beside him. “He says? You don’t believe your brother?”
“If he really needed me, he could have sent someone to get me.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I keep quiet. The silence lengthens until we both spot the heads of wolf pups popping up and down outside the window, as though they’re on a trampoline. Each bounce sends ears and jowls flapping and huge toe beans splaying out. It’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen and giggles break through the heavy atmosphere. Curt even lets a smile crack his miserable face.
“Little monsters,” he mutters, adding, “they’re supposed to change back by now.” A deep sigh racks his frame.
“What?” I prompt, leaning closer.
“How can we truce with the bears whilst they’re still killing wolves?” he whispers, glancing over at his brother, who’s talking with an animated Dulcis.
Those pups have disappeared and I get a twinge of his concern. “Maybe a truce will make it stop,” I offer, aware that I’ve no idea what I’m talking about.
He positively scowls and I lean away from him.
“That’s what that damn snake would say,” he snarls.
“Is that his name? Damn Snake?”
“Ambassador Anguis.”
“You don’t like the ambassador?”
“Don’t trust him,” Curt whispers. “Don’t trust any of them. Wasn’t so long ago they terrorised us all.”
I never get to hear him elaborate as the front door opens and a deluge of newly clothed children pours into the room, bounding straight for Curt. I expect him to shrivel up in a foetal position, but he just crosses his arms and gives them the stare. They completely ignore it, with the first arrival leaping onto his lap. A minor growl tells me the landing caused a twinge of hip pain, but Curt wraps his hands around the curly haired toddler and easily sends her skyward, catching her on the downward flight.
“You’ve grown so big, Gudia. I can barely lift you.”
She giggles, insisting, “Again,” but the rest of the group are all clamouring around his feet.
Ok, I wasn’t expecting him to be the pied piper of Wolfington.
“Uncle Curt needs grooming,” announces a female voice.
It’s Dulcis and, by the sly expression on her face, she’s operating deep into mischief mode. Curt looks horrified.
“No, I’m fine,” he insists, shaking his head at her.
“Groom. Groom. Groom,” the toddler swarm chants, getting louder with each rendition.
I glance over at Alpha, who’s clearly amused. Even Wings is smiling, which I find mildly disturbing. Dulcis whips out a pair of lethal looking scissors in her left hand and a metal pronged comb in her right and I lean back in unison with Curt.
“Groom. Groom. Groom,” has reached fever pitch and I feel sorry for him. No wonder he’d rather live up the mountain. As you’ve probably gathered, children aren’t my thing, unless I’m telling stories.
“Quicker you change, quicker we’ll be done,” Dulcis insists, snapping the scissor blades back and forth.
The Curt I met up the mountain would simply march out, but this is someone I don’t yet know. He scowls at his niece, but change he does, whilst still in his clothes. The revelation of a gigantic wolf strangled by a polar necked jumper, limbs poking through long trousers, sends me into a fit of snotty giggles. I don’t think it can get any funnier.
I’m wrong.
A few minutes later, after Dulcis has expertly cut out those nasty knots, dabbed a cream that smells like avocado on his sore patches and combed through his pelt and tail, the children descend and decide he needs fluffing up. A pair of deeply suffering, yellow beady eyes currently peer out from a giant grey puffball and I’m wetting myself laughing. If he could bite my head off, he would.
Dulcis’ sparkling gaze swings to me and my guffaws fade away. “Edi, Uncle says you’re a Teller of Stories?”
The squawking cacophony changes to, “Story. Story. Story,” whilst the wolf takes the opportunity to give himself a good shake. He raises a paw, presumably to indulge in a scratch, spots me looking and slaps it straight back down again.
Wings scowls so hard, his face reminds me of a walnut. Maybe it’s better not to make an enemy of the old bird.
“Perhaps another time,” I venture, glancing at him.
“Don’t worry about Wings,” Alpha announces, clapping him on the back. “He used to tell us stories all the time, when we were pups.”
Curt yips in agreement and sneezes, a tuft of fluffy hair falling into his right eye.
Wings grunts and heaves on his waistcoat.
“Only problem was they were terrible,” Alpha continues. “Like Storpil the cross-eyed gumwhat, who got eaten by a bear.” He points at Curt. “He had nightmares for a week.”
Curt lets rip with a throaty howl and goes cross-eyed.
“The only thing worse than the stories was his lullaby singing. Our father threatened to pluck out his feathers if he didn’t stop.” Alpha glances at his brother and his smile fades away.
Wings clearing his throat punctures the silence. “Let’s see if you can do better,” he says, issuing a challenge via a glacial stare.
I rummage through the drawers of my imagination and exhume a likely candidate for a story.
“I’m not singing a lullaby, but... Once upon a time,” I begin, as the writhing toddler mass settles down to listen with wide open faces. You have to love a child’s capacity for wonder. What a pity it gets crushed beneath the weight of drudgery. Sorry, not bitter much.
“Once upon a time, in the Land of Dragonia, there lived a lonely dragon.”
“What’s a dragon?” they all chorus. Behind them, the grey puffball sits on his haunches, ear fluff poking upwards.
I lean towards them and lower my voice as though sharing a deep, dark secret. “A dragon is a giant flying lizard, as big as a house, with great leathery wings, huge teeth like daggers and breathing great columns of fire.”
“Ooooh,” is the gratifying response from a sea of enthralled faces. Dulcis props herself against Curt.
“The Dragon wasn’t lonely in his mouldy cave. He quite liked the squidgy floor and the strange smell. No, he was lonely because he had to live apart from all the other dragons. Sometimes he caught a glimpse of one as it flew overhead, too high to recognise. None ever visited him here and he hadn’t uttered a word to a single soul for as long as he could remember.
“He had been there, alone, since he was a little dragon, barely able to fly or burp a tiny flame, but now he stood so tall he kept scraping his head on the roof of the cave as he thundered in and out. His fire was so ferocious, he could light a tree on the other side of the river.
“What had he done, I hear you ask, to be sent away to a dark cave, so very far from his family? Was he nasty? Committed a terrible crime? Did he carry a horrible sickness?
“There was just one thing and one alone. One terrible fault that shamed his family and made Dragonia hiss at him with horror.”
Alpha and his guests shuffle closer, eyes locked on me. I even notice Wings, lurking, out of the corner of my eye, unconvincingly pretending disinterest. Curt was right. Word of mouth rules here and, right now, I have them spellbound. It almost feels like home.
“In a world of deep red dragons, he was pale pink.”
