Wolf

By Jo Huntly

Wolf and man have never been a great mix, so when Lord Bromleigh returns from Europe with one as a gift for his daughter, he should perhaps have realized that things might not go altogether smoothly.
Simone, a solitary child, used only to the company of a bitter mother, her doting father and a mad old cook, falls for the wolf instantly and immerses herself into his world, the wild world of wolves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jo Huntly
• Release date: Oct 22, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301002610

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WOLF

JO HUNTLY

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Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Jo Huntly

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PROLOGUE

MURDER

Wolf and man would ideally be able to live side by side, did they not both require the same thing: land. The wolf desires to roam the land, man to enclose it. That is why in much of Europe, in the middle of the twentieth century, the wolf is little more than a folk memory. But in other wilder, less populous parts the wolf remains a fact of life. Yet it is not only disputes over land which draws the wolf into the arms of his ancient enemy. Hunger plays its part, so too does fate, and occasionally, the wanton acts of man himself.

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The first time the wolf saw the girl she was dead. He did not come upon her accidentally but was drawn to her by her smell, a mixture of musk and sweetness such as darkly moulding flowers. She was at the foot of an oak, her body naked and exposed. He could see straight away from the angle of her neck to the rest of her body that she had been flung there. He approached her cautiously, extending a paw, and recoiled at once. The fleas had left her. She was with Cold.

There was no wound that he could sense, other than her internal injuries, no marks upon her skin other than the bruising of fingertips about her white neck. Slowly, he traced his muzzle across her limbs, breathing in the heady scent and stopped: here was another smell, the smell of a man. Bringing his snout up to the pale hair that fell in waves about her shoulders he felt a surge inside, a strange sensation he had not known before. He sat up, overcoming a desire to howl, and then, crouching low to where the smell was muskiest, he committed not just her smell to his memory but that of the man too. A man he knew from his smell to be a Blacksmith.

For a long time after that night he thought of nothing but the girl. He remembered the stories of his youth; the stories of the wolves that walked as men, who had, according to legend walked as men amongst men. He had considered them fanciful before but not now. Now they took on shape, now when he closed his eyes he did not dream of other wolves but of her; not as she had been when he had found her but as she might have been. Even when he took a mate and joined himself to her he thought only of the girl in the forest, of her frozen white limbs, her golden hair and heady smell. And afterwards, curled up in a corner of his den, he recalled her killer and brought to mind his smell.

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It was not until the following spring when he was out hunting food for his new family that he suddenly found himself nailed to the floor of the forest by that same smell. The smell that was indelibly imprinted upon his mind. The smell of forged iron and murder. Abandoning then his hunt for food he concentrated on that of the man. It was only later, spitting the bitter grey flesh from his jaws, that he remembered his family: if one was out hunting there would be others, he must return and take them to a place of safety.

As soon as he had his den within his senses he found the smell of man hanging on the air like gunfire, and knew he was too late: knew that Cold had been there before him. Inside, he found his children piled into a heap and his veins ran numb, filled with an ancient ice. Their blood, his blood, splattered the walls and roof of their home and collected in pools on the floor. His mate, her belly ripped open and her skin and head gone, was flung into a corner much as the girl had been.

And so the flight that he had intended for his family was now his own. He drew himself slowly from the floor, backed out of the den, and ran. He ran through the morning mist, racing like a shadow before the sun, up and down, in the trees and out of the trees, across narrow rivers and broad scrub; down and down, up and up. But however hard he ran he saw before him the body of the girl, the body of the Blacksmith and his own murdered family and knew, in his heart, that it was not over.

CHAPTER ONE

Winter brought the heaviest snows the wolf had ever seen, and with it the heaviest hunger he had ever known. The free-roaming flocks and herds had long since been gathered in from the mountains, even the wild game, usually so wary of man, edged closer and closer to the isolated villages lying in the basin of the hills.

He could no longer find the burrowing animals, nor the hibernating animals, and the creatures that came out at night no longer did so. And the fish, fare that could only be considered a snack at the best of times, swam safely and silently beneath their coats of ice. Nothing flew in the air, nothing skated on the ice nor moved in the snow. Even the poorest food of wolves, the meanest roots, lay buried under huge banks of impenetrable white, formed like the thighs of sculptured goddesses.

There was nothing left to do but descend the mountains and search for food where solely it remained; within the realm of man.

He looked down at the sparkling snow and then down along his flanks, which were getting dangerously thin. It would not be an easy journey, many miles of this luminous sea separated him from the nearest village, and much of it was deep enough to bury an ox. He leaned forward slightly, raising his head, and then, opening his throat, he howled. It was a song of desperation, of hunger and longing, a song to break the heart; Fenris at his chains might have sounded much the same.

The moon, growing dark, blinked and disappeared behind the gathering snow-clouds. He stepped out slowly and sank, like a sigh, into the waiting whiteness. The long hard work of breaking trail began. It would go on unceasingly throughout this night and at least another before any hope of food could be fulfilled.

He pressed on without pause, seeing no sign of life and hearing no sound other than the North wind howling. The only movement, other than his own, was the shadows of the clouds when the moon caught them, and the snow being blown and gathered into drifts to cover his tracks and deceive his eyes. So alone was he that when dawn came he continued his trek undisturbed through the hours of daylight, and on again into the following night.

When morning came for the second time and still he did not have his destination within his senses, he began to falter.

He lifted his snout higher and higher until the little black tip was almost vertical; nothing. He listened from his ears right down to the silk of his pads; nothing. A bleak wind rising out of the ravine should have brought with it the sounds of a village stirring to life, but instead it brought only more snow. Too weary to be anything other than amazed he dug a shelter and sank down, curling his snout beneath his tail and tucking his pads beneath his flanks to prevent them from freezing over. He slept most of the day with his back to the wind, waking only infrequently to cast a cautionary eye over the wasteland, before closing it again.

The wind dropped as daylight slipped away; time again to make a move.

His pace now was very slow for he was as lean as a greyhound and his tongue, long and pink and panting, hung out to one side, flicking occasionally at the snow.

Progress continued to be painful but finally, as he was about to drop where he stood, the village was within reach. Slowly it rose out of the valley to greet him, stretching numbed fingers, the nails of which shone with tiny pointed lights like diamonds.

With renewed strength he covered the final part of the journey with ease, stopping only when he entered the lowest belt of trees: the last line of cover separating him from the village. He knew he must prepare himself for what could well be his one and only bid for food. He lay low, peering through the trees, turning every nerve-end, every bristle, every fibre of his consciousness toward the village and all that might move within it. He could smell the herd jostling nervously in the paddocks, and he drooled. But such game was far beyond his powers now. A small pig or a lame sheep would be more than enough to tackle; even a hen would be welcome.

His resources gathered, he crouched low and stole down on a belly so empty now that any observer would have thought it strange that a wolf skin should be dragged across the snow in such a way.

He moved in a slow dance, like a black swan, gliding over the snow, soundless and with grace. He moved with one thought in mind, to cease his murdering hunger.

The houses of the men that had glittered at him were bypassed easily. It was as if all that dwelled within were dead, had it not been for the heat radiating from the walls and the occasional snuffling from beyond the bolted windows. These windows, behind which could sometimes be observed the dying embers of a fire, were thick with frost and none could have seen out had they been looking.

The houses of the animals were not so easy, those within were restless and aware of the change in the air, the odour of stealth and the presence of one they most feared. The sound of lowing came from one building and the sick scream of a horse from another, and when he passed the hen-house there came a mad beating of wings.

But the flock was more foolish and so, when he fell on them, trapped so temptingly in the pens, he quickly seized, without ceremony, the nearest, mindless creature he could find and dragged it away as far as hunger and safety would allow.

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The bleating that started up at his lightning plunder was enough to wake the trees from their winter sleep. But the farmers were made of sterner stuff and, after a few curses from bedroom windows, peace was restored.

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Before dawn, his belly gorged, he crept back up into the hills and dug himself in for the day. Through his sleep he heard the angry cries of the men in the farms when at last the discovery was made, and, though he did not see it he heard the flock being counted, and later on, with the fading of the light, he heard it being gathered together and shunted into the barns and stables and back-kitchens for safety.

That night and many after he went without food, hoping to wear down the men with his patience.

But the villagers were not to be deceived. They made no move to return the fold to the pen, nor the herd to the fields.

CHAPTER TWO

The wolf was not the only one to be trapped within the vicinity of the village by the snow. In the heart of the small town, at the inn, was an Englishman similarly held prisoner.

Lord Bromleigh, a member of the fading English gentry, had been travelling through Europe with his wife but was now alone. The trip originally had been her idea. She had been depressed by the long years of the war and needed a change. He had tried to warn her that the Europe she remembered from the thirties was very different to the one they were now planning to visit, but as usual she had not listened and as usual he had eventually fallen in line with her plans.

He himself would have rather waited until their young daughter, a late flowering of the tight bud of her ladyship's womb, could come with them. But she was only six and her ladyship wouldn't wait. However, after only a matter of a few days she had become so disenchanted with what she found: large scale poverty and mud, that she had gathered up her soil-encrusted skirts and flown home.

He had wanted to go with her, being as sick of everything he saw as she, but her mood was not of the best, having managed to convince herself that the trip had been his idea and therefore all his fault. He would follow later when she had cooled down a bit.

Whilst in Trieste he had heard that Slovenia was noted for its hunting, and so, after waving his wife off, he hired a truck and headed for the hills. He had never been a hunter before but as a man he was keen on the trappings of the hunt; and as a lord it was almost to be expected of him.

The particular region he chose was famous for its bear hunting. If he was going to do it he might as well do it properly: start at the top. He could see it now, returning with his trophy, her ladyship would be amazed, it would be something for her to show off. 'You've seen the bear of course, Bromleigh shot while on a hunting trip. Yes, it is rather large, I believe it broke some sort of record.' In pride of place, in his study above his desk, the brown beady eyes staring down at him: his master. 'Oh, yes, the bear,' he would say casually, puffing upon the cigar he did not in reality smoke. 'Brought it down in Slovenia. Big fellow.'

He was headed for the capital but hadn't counted on the severity of the Balkan winter and so was forced to stop short of his destination. It was just as well, he discovered, upon booking into the inn; for the first thing he was told, while flashing his permit and a rather oversized bear gun, was that it was the wrong time of year for bear hunting. Bears hibernate in winter, he was informed by an amused innkeeper.

Of course! Basic schoolboy knowledge that - but then of course it was a long time since he had been at school. He decided to turn around as soon as the snow allowed and follow his wife home. Besides, how would he get a thing like a dead bear through customs?

Sitting at a small table, staring out at the foothills and willing the snow to melt, he was aware of his meal of goat stew settling greasily in his stomach, and sending shock waves through his chest. At the point where he was about to take himself off in search of some antacids, one of the local farmers came in dragging a set of traps behind him. After ordering a drink at the bar he sat himself down near the fire and proceeded to clean his instruments. Lord Bromleigh, interested as to what he might need such equipment for, approached the barman.

'What are the traps for? I thought hunting was out?' His command of the language was not very good, but using a mixture of broken Serbo-Croat and pidgin English he was able to communicate on a basic level.

'One of his sheep has been stolen. The work of wolves.'

'Wolves?'

'Yes. Wolves. From the mountains. The hills are full of them, they seldom come down except in extreme conditions.' His attention caught, he threw down the cloth with which he had been polishing the glasses and leaned his elbows on the bar. 'I remember my grandfather telling me of one time when a whole pack marched into town in broad daylight. Marched straight in, took what they wanted, and marched out again.' He straightened up again as another local approached the bar. 'Starvation will do that to a wolf. But not to worry, this is probably a loner.'

'A loner?'

'A lone wolf,' he explained, meeting the customers order. 'without a pack. It's even harder for them to find food in weather like this, at least a pack has some chance.'

'One wolf wouldn't do much harm would it?'

'Well, this time it didn't, but sometimes they go crazy - you know, like a fox in a henhouse - killing everything in sight. If you're a farmer you can't afford to take any chances.'

'What about bears?' asked his lordship, hopefully.

'Bears never come down, they don't go hungry. If there's nothing else left they'll eat the wolves.' The innkeeper turned away, smiling. Lord Bromleigh went back to his seat.

'Wolves.' The very word passed over the tongue and blown through the lips was enough to conjure up pictures of mystery and gloom. Wolves, Lord Bromleigh repeated to himself, and the breath that passed over his lips was the wind howling through primal forests.

For the next few days he followed with interest the behaviour of the village. They were all farmers and so took the threat of a wolf raid very seriously. It was possible that the first attack had been by a scout and that the pack was gathering in the hills. As a result of this belief the fold was locked away every night; every available space was crammed with a sheep or a goat: one had to be very careful where one walked. The streets became deserted at dusk. Traps were set everywhere.

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A week to the day after he had first heard mention of the raid he forgot all about bears and was thinking only about wolves.

Standing in front of his bedroom window he scoured the street below for some sign of life. There was none. He looked up at the mountains and wondered what, if anything, moved amidst them; what could scale those ivory heights and descend again, unscathed and unseen? He was filled with a passionate romanticism at the thought of a grey form trespassing downward and stealing upward again, red lipped and satiated. Catching sight of his reflection in the glass, he saw his eyes were bright and moist and his face flushed; he must take a grip of himself, he was getting carried away, a thing his wife accused him often of doing and which for her sake he was trying to curb. It was a simple enough