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Book Ends
Even before the menopause (which is like being boiled alive in frying oil), I was never one for hot weather, but having shivered through the winter and helped plant crops in the chilly spring, a warm, late summer breeze is paradise. Resting on a log, I peer down the mountainside. Soon those ripe fields of crops, wafting in the setting sun, far below, will be harvested and Curt and I will make our way down to join the celebration.
The view’s changing as we move from summer into autumn’s golden palette. Instead of stark, barren trees, a mishmash of tiny wood chalets cover the slopes, stretching all the way from our lodge to the village. When all the bears arrived - a great mass of families trundling after Ursid, tents, pots and pans jangling like orchestra day at infant school - they took one look at the nice warm lodges and decided tents were a thing of the past.
It has worked out well for this ageing odd couple, mind you. Curt and I could return to his lodge and still be part of the mixed pack, but hovering on the edge, which suits us both. Not that we get much peace since the children learned I tell stories and Curt cooks.
He does carpentry, too. My ‘log seat’ is actually a bench with wolf heads carved into the arms and legs, all of which bear more than a passing resemblance to himself. “I like it when you sit on me,” he says, but that’s more information than you need.
Oh, I’ve discovered where all the wool’s coming from: a herd of fat sheep who wandered back to our side of the mountain in the spring. Wings made a show of introducing me and I chatted to Roger the bleating Ram for an hour, before Dulcis took pity and told me sheep are just sheep. I’ve had worse conversations. Apparently, nobody eats them, not even the wolves, which is odd, and probably why they keeping coming back to offer up their coats. I pop over for a quick chat when nobody’s watching, seeing as Roger’s a good listener.
I found out from Anguis that horrible fluorescent yellow dye comes courtesy of liquidised gumwhat eyes, which is exactly the sort of gross idea my imagination would come up with, so I’m still convinced I’ve manifested my own reality. The only difference is, I’ve stopped caring. This is my reality now and I love it.
After a long conversation, which went surprisingly well, it was decided that Alpha would be in charge of the united packs, leaving Dulcis and Adamo to enjoy being young. They spend a lot of time hanging around up here, avoiding her father and provoking Curt, although I suspect they sneak off for a spot of ‘conversation’ in the trees when they think I’m not looking. There’s no sign of a furry new edition to the pack, so I’ve gone temporarily blind.
We lost more than half the snakes before the winter was over, which was terribly hard on Anguis and especially Serpen. Those left have all recovered from the sickness, with the exception of the odd cough. Mama Bear pounces at the first sign of a sniff and the snakes adore her. Serpen insists he’s no longer referred to as king, but old habits die hard and nobody objects when he’s dealt a little respect. Anguis tends to stay in the village, which makes Curt happy. Sometimes I miss his wit, but I understand.
Ursid is still our war general. Rumour has it, news of our mixing reached other packs and they’re not happy about it. Frankly, they can howl and fling insults forever, as long as they don’t come here and cause trouble, but they’re not the only reason Ursid worries. A few eagles returned for a swift visit and were welcomed, but they brought news of another snake enclave far to the north, ruling with an iron fang.
Anguis took a vote amongst his people and they unanimously decided to stay right here. So, for now, we’re all content. Ursid smiles, jollies the children along, roars at Adamo, and stays ready.
A raucous chattering draws my gaze to the lodge roof, where my bucktoothed friend sits, waiting for his next free meal. I swear the little beast has doubled in weight since that first biscuit.
“Curt, Mr G wants his dinner.”
“I’m not feeding that thing,” Curt shouts from inside the lodge. “He’s lucky I’m not cooking him.”
The sun drops lower in the sky, spreading golden fingers over the chalets. I watch the villagers climbing the slopes towards us. It dawns on me that all of them are coming. Even Anguis and Serpen.
“Curt,” I yell.
“What?” he hollers back.
“How much food are you cooking?”
“Loads.”
“We’ll need more.”
He pokes his head out of the window and spots the volume of incoming. “Blast.” He tosses a slice of apple to Mr G before retracting his head. The air fills with the sound of clanging pots and knives on chopping boards.
“Do you need any help?” I yell.
“Only if you want to poison them.”
Mr G’s gleeful chatter sounds like he’s laughing at me as he juggles his fruity treasure.
The swarm of kids arrives first, bouncing around like a herd of manic puppies, which some of them are. I normally field the midget mob, but following Curt’s last remark, I let them stampede the lodge and accost him.
“Oh no, someone save me,” he shrieks, drowning in a wave of laughter. “I’m under attack.”
“Edi,” echoes up the slope from the adults, waving as they wind their way around the chalets.
“You’re still here then,” states Wings with a mock scowl, hurrying past the others in his rush to arrive first. He spends more time at the lodge than the children.
“The great tit’s here,” I holler to Curt. “Hide the bird seed.”
* * *
Enough food to feed an army disappears in minutes as darkness falls and the camp fires blaze. I tuck my legs beneath me, lean back against my log seat and watch the stars twinkle overhead.
“Do you need a blanket?” my love says, snuggling up beside me.
My gaze drops to his. “No. It’s perfect out here tonight.”
There’s a poetic pause for us both to stare up at the heavenlies.
“And I still don’t have mange,” he whispers, gaze unwavering.
I can’t help but smile, but wait a long moment before adding, “You really want to scratch though, don’t you?”
He gives me a slightly greasy kiss and I giggle. “Great meal, Cook. Though it’s stuck in my teeth.”
“I did say I’d make you that teethbrush thing out of gumwhat bristles, but you were very rude.” He kisses my neck, lips brushing the soft skin beneath my ear.
“Don’t you bite me,” I say, running my fingers through his hair. “We’re in public.”
“Not even a nibble?” he jokes, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes, which is rare, these days.
“What’s the matter?” It’s then I notice the book, sat beside him on the log. “What does it say?” I ask the question, but I don’t want to know. Please God, I don’t want to go back.
“I never read it,” he whispers. “You know that.”
“Then what...?”
“Look at the cover. Careful, don’t touch the top.”
I haven’t opened the book in a long time, so I’m shocked when I spot the dark discolouration invading the right corner and a few of the early pages. “What is that?” I mutter.
“Don’t touch it,” he repeats, and the penny drops.
“Is that the mould?” I whisper.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “Do you want to show Anguis?”
“No need. I already know what I should do.”
“Edi...”
The book stares up at me as if daring me to decide.
“I can keep it away from everyone, somewhere safe,” Curt suggests. “There’s no way back without it, not for you.”
No, there isn’t.
My gaze wanders around those warming themselves by the campfire, faces aglow.
A coiled snake sits on each of Ursid’s knees, springing up and down with glee.
Adamo and Dulcis only have eyes for each other.
Alpha debates with Wings and Anguis, drawing in the dirt with a stick.
Serpen rocks a sleeping Sospa in his arms.
I look back at Curt, my sweet wolf, and gently kiss him before rising.
So...
Thank you for travelling with me on my journey, but I’m not coming back to you. I am home now. If you see Krystal, tell her I’m sorry we never truly got to know one another, thank you for the Secret Santa present and to listen to her Nana.
And if a big leather book ever finds you, write your own story.
I turn to the last page and read the final sentence...
I throw the book on the campfire.
