GOLD

The boy who cried wolf

The night sky was dark, with red clouds rolling across it in an angry mob. After every few minutes, the thunderous sound of the clashing clouds shook the small village of Monto Lupa, literally meaning “Village of the Wolf”.

The tall hunter walked in the woods with a strong, confident gait, his bow held at ready, an arrow set across it. The arrowhead was wet with oil, and he held a match in one of his fingers, ready to light the arrowhead at his first sighting of the werewolf.

The full moon was hidden tonight by the clouds, and Kingsley Sherman thanked God for that. He had no hope of killing the creature with the full power and magic of the moon coursing through its veins.

Kingsley took a tentative step forward, and there it was. The first sound - a padded foot stepping over a dry leaf. The match was struck in a second, and holding it near the arrowhead with his teeth, he turned around...

The werewolf was standing in front of him. A ripple of fear went through his body. The creature had crept up on him. How could he not have heard? His eyes moved over the dark black fur, the eyes darkened with lust for human blood.

Kingsley stood his ground firmly, only moving when his hand set fire to the arrow. The small flame was reflected in the blackening iris of the beast. A frown creased the hunter’s forehead. There was no sign of the beast’s anger, or curiosity, or hunger. No raised hackles, no bared fangs. It took a step forward. There was no sound.

Kingsley’s arms slackened on the bow. What if the villagers were wrong? What if it wasn’t the werewolf who had killed Alfreida? The huge head of the werewolf bent, leveling its eyes with the hunter. Kingsley saw his anxious, sweating face reflected clearly in the eyes. He relaxed. No man-eating beast could be this close to a human without any apparent reaction.

The werewolf cocked its neck, looking curiously at Kingsley. He threw the arrowhead first into the soil, so that the burning steel was extinguished by the soil. He touched the long fur on the wolf’s muzzle lightly.

“I will tell them you are still Monta Lupa’s protector.”

Something like a smile bared the werewolf’s fangs. It lunged forward suddenly, its fangs tightening around Kingsley’s throat and sinking into the warm skin, biting until one set of fangs met the other.

No sound had escaped the dead hunter.

The werewolf fed upon Kingsley Sherman, and when it turned away to move deeper into the woods, all that was left of the tall, young hunter was a cloak, covered with blood, a mangled thigh bone, and a heap of guts covered in excretion.

The shadows of the woods enveloped the huge beast as it padded across the ground serenely.

*************

“Eats humans, it does...” Old Bartholomew said sorrowfully. “First Alfrieda, and then Kingsley.”

“He was some hunter, Kingsley... Must have taken some beast to kill him.” Earnshaw, a little pockmarked youth said in an awed voice.

“If it were my brother who’d died out there, I’d hunt the werewolf myself next full moon.” Wilson, a tall, lean young man who could have been handsome except for the aura of slyness on him, glanced at Walter and said in a sarcastic voice. “What about you, Walter?”

Walter Sherman, who had been making patterns in the dust with his finger, looked up.

“Eh, Wilson?”

“I said, Walter, what are you gonna do about the werewolf killing your brother.”

“Sing to it,” Bernard, who was the son of the village’s chief, suggested.

The men, who were sitting around in the yard of Bartholomew, roared with laughter. They were all aware of Walter’s passion for music and poetry.

“I’ve heard music can tame beasts,” Walter said flatly.

“Now why did we not think of singing to it?” Wilson sneered. “I say we send the church choir out to the woods next week, gentlemen!”

Another wave of laughter went up.

“Or perhaps Walter would like to take the challenge himself? We could all just sit here and hear his vocal chords avenge his brother’s murder!” Wilson went on.

“Cut it out, Willy,” Bartholomew said sternly as he watched Walter’s tall, lean form leave the yard, his shoulders hunched. “He lost his only brother three weeks ago.”

“He doesn’t act like it.”

“The Shermans do not grieve in the open,” the old man said.

*************

The silhouette moved so swiftly through the trees that Walter wasn’t sure if he had seen it. Then it was there again, walking through the woods. He frowned slightly and moved quickly towards the woods. What work had any of the villagers in the woods at this time of the night? He stopped in front of a huge oak, narrowing his eyes to look for the silhouette again.

He sensed movement, right behind the oak afore which he stood, and he stepped forward cautiously, circling around the trunk to the side he guessed the person had his back to, and before the other person could turn around, he had his fingers around his throat.

“Who is this?” He asked in a low voice, squeezing his fingers lightly to show the opponent he was, despite his lean body, quite strong.

“You - complete oaf... Let me be!”

It was a girl.

Leaving her throat, he turned her around and gasped, his heart sinking into his stomach. It was Rosalie, her thick black braid slung over one shoulder, the dark outlining her delicately featured, beautiful, pale face.

“Oh God... I apologize, Madame, I thought you were...”

“The werewolf?” By now she had regained her posture and a neatly trimmed eyebrow was raised mockingly.

“Well... yes.” Walter shrugged. “But everyone seems like a werewolf these days.”

“Except you.” She stepped forward, enjoying his discomposure. “You’re Walter Sherman, right?”

“Right,” He swallowed, trying to look away from her dark, seductive black eyes discreetly.

“And what do you think my Uncle would do if he knew you tried to strangle me in the woods?”

“The same he’d do if he knew you were lurking in the woods alone at night.” Walter said. “Why are you here?”

“Maybe I was waiting for a certain poet to cross by, because I’ve been very curious about him ever since I saw him.”

“You’ve been seeing me for all seventeen years of your life.” He pointed out.

“No, I only looked at you before. I saw you at your brother’s funeral, Walter, and I was surprised at how handsome you’ve become.”

He laughed.

“You’re good with words, Raven Wing.” His fingers touched her raven black hair. She bent her slender white neck slightly, enjoying the name he’d given her.

“Even though words are your job, o Poet of Monta Lupa.” She raised on her tiptoe, her small red lips pressing briefly against his cheek.

“Good bye, Walter.”

She walked away, the gloom engulfing her like the sepal of a flower.

“Good bye, Raven Wing,” Walter said softly, a small smile fluttering across his lips.

***************

Two days were left to the full moon, and there was an excitement among the village men, as they polished their bows and practised archery, this time prepared to stay in the woods and lure the wolf to themselves and, then kill it together.

Walter walked through the square, his attention held totally by the bundle of parchment in his hand, chewing the quill he held in the other.

“Look at that, Rosie!” a girl’s giggling voice to his right made him look up. A group of the girls from the village’s richer families stood around Old Bathsheba the fortune teller, who was tossing dices onto the pattern she’d drawn in the dust. Amongst the girls stood Rosalie in a dress of shimmering blue, looking like a nightingale among the robust, giggling girls.

For a second, Walter shifted his gaze to the girl standing next to her, the one whose voice had broken his attention. He saw that it was Irene Manders, a cousin of Wilson. Irene nudged Rosalie, who saw Walter looking at her and blushed furiously. Folding the parchment around the quill, he stuffed it into his pocket and walked towards her.

“Raven Wing,” His deep, husky voice set the girls giggling again, and one pushed Rosalie forward. “Care for a walk?”

She gave him a smile that crinkled the corners of her dark eyes and nodded shyly. They walked together on the path that led out of the village, pausing when they reached a crumbling wall.

Rosalie sat down on it, one hand on Walter’s arm for support.

“Do you think they’ll be able to kill the werewolf on this full moon?”

“I can’t say. But I hope they do. I really hope so. That beast is one living thing I’d never hesitate to hurt.”

“It’s powerful, isn’t it?”

There was an awe and pride in her voice that made him turn to her. “You sound as if you find the monster impressive.”

“Power is always impressive.” She replied. Sensing his growing displeasure at the topic, she asked in a more jovial tone.

“Do you think it would eat me?”

“No, even a monster couldn’t bear to take the village’s most beautiful adornment away.” He gave her a half smile.

“That’s all I am to you, Walter Sherman? An adornment?” She asked, pouting slightly.

His arm snaked around her shoulder, leaning in towards her.

“No. You’re my heart’s most beautiful adornment, too.”

“Oh? Since when? Last week?” She laughed.

“Since I saw you. That was in school, about ten years ago.” He smiled at her.

“You flatter me, Walter.”

“You deserve it.” He gave her a one armed hug, pressing his cheek into her hair.

***************

It was night of the full moon. He lay on the thatched roof of the cottage, watching the barn owls flapping around, wondering as he listened to the noise in the village square who they’d see in the coffin in front of the pews tomorrow morning.

Walter heard the footsteps in the cobbled street below and stiffened. Who could it be? Leaning over the edge of the roof, he saw a figure moving swiftly towards the woods. Jumping off the roof lightly, he started following it.

And then, with a shock of recognition running through his body, he saw the hair, black as a raven’s wing.

***************

The silhouette moved quickly, the full moon throwing its shadow amongst the trees. It stopped every now and then to listen, head tilted, before moving again in a light-footed manner, like a hunter who moves silently before the kill. The sound was light - a low grunt - but the figure stiffened, stopping and stepping closer to a tree.

There was the sound again - a low purring - closer this time. The figure pressed itself against the tree trunk, the eyes swiveling from side to side. The werewolf came out from behind the tree, lowering its huge black head onto the lean shoulder, another low purr escaping the beast as it nudged the human’s face.

“Who are you?” The voice was fearful yet awed, as the beast pressed itself against the person, lust evident in its eyes. The black pair of eyes met the grey ones, and recognition clapped like a bolt of thunder across the human’s face. The silhouette jumped away, stumbling into the trees with a strangled cry.

“You!” Disbelief was etched across the features of the face as the person turned and began to run towards the village. The wolf sat back on its haunches, looking after the human with deep, dark eyes like pits of a gloomy hell.

*************

“I know who the werewolf is!” Walter’s shout made every head in the square turn to him.

“Who, lad?” Bartholomew asked, going forward to hold him.

“Rosalie.” Pain was evident on his face as he choked out the word.

“No.” Wilson snapped.

“Look for her! She isn’t here, because she’s there,” Walter said in a low voice.

“Because I called her there,” Wilson said sharply, looking quickly at the chief for a reaction.

Walter’s head whipped up.

“What do you mean?”

“She - she’s a good friend. We - we meet in the woods...” Wilson’s voice quivered as his eyes met Rosalie’s uncle’s, but then he said in a strong voice. “She’s no werewolf, I know her.”

“When did she ask you to come to the woods?” Walter asked, it was evident from his face that the question hurt him deeply.

“About a week ago.”

Maybe I was waiting for a certain poet to cross by, because I’ve been very curious about him ever since I saw him.

Betrayal. His heart flared with anger such that he had seldom felt.

“She lures men to her.” His voice was guttural with anger. “She told me she was waiting for me.”

“She’s a werewolf...”

“Rosalie’s a werewolf...”

The words were echoed around the square. No one said a word in her favor. Suddenly there was no doubt.

The arrowheads were ablaze and set when Rosalie emerged from the woods, her face sweaty and her eyes wide with fear, like a doe caught in a trap.

“Walter! I won’t -”

Flames soared through the air, sinking into her small body. Walter remembered her light weight in his arms, her deep smile, her dark eyes... how could she have betrayed him? As Rosalie crumpled to the ground, the mass of the villagers turned away slowly. At last, the werewolf was dead, but there were no celebratory cheers, no claps. There would be no dancing in the village square tonight. Rosalie, the most beautiful girl in the village, the Chief’s niece, the beloved of half the youth of the village was dead.

Behind him, Walter heard the sobbing as Irene and the other young girls crowded around the corpse of the dead girl.

*************

As soon as the gloom of the woods engulfed him, he sat down on the ground covered with dead leaves, relieved laughter racking his lean body. She was dead. It had been close but she was dead. He had thought she wouldn’t run. He had been sure she was ready to be his mate. She loved power. What greater power was there for her, other than him, the rogue wolf of Monta Lupa?

But she had been trapping him. The thought of her and Wilson meeting under the shadows of these very oaks in the nights made his skin bristle with anger. She had been playing a game with him, but he had been the better player.

“Checkmate.” His voice was a growl as he stood up and began to move deeper into the woods, finally ready to leave Monta Lupa forever.

Slowly, the silhouette of Walter Sherman melted into a huge mass of muscle and black fur, a blood-red tongue licking the huge feline fangs, the steadily darkening grey eyes bloodshot with bloodlust.

The rogue wolf had started its search for a new village.... A new mate.