literature

Interlude of the wolf

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Literature Text

The hunter fled across the beach and the hunt chased him.

The hunter was a tall man whose face was hidden by the subtle shade of the moonless sky. The hunt was a female. She had no name (few wolves do), only memory. Memories that spanned the dark blue expanse of the sky, and the shapeless glow of the moon. Circles and shapes were not known among animals, they recognised it only with a sense of raw, inbred instinct. And when the moon was full, some of them (the unfortunate ones) would come out of the thick line of pine trees and howl. They did not know that the queer stretching of the flesh of the body was called 'pain', they associated it only with the suffering that came with a war and flooded their senses and made them sick while hunting for food.

But it was still a good suffering. It was good pain. It numbed them with a cover over the strongest part of the senselessness - if senselessness could be covered - and then their strong paws would recede into the flesh of their muscles, changing into sleek, weak limbs that humans called 'legs'. Then, all memory would disappear, only to be replaced with odd images and scents, all of which were alien to them and their world and their woods.

That evening, she had anticipated the change and had come out to howl. Howling was akin to the ringing of an alarm-bell in her pack, and soon, she hoped, others like her would come out of their dull hiding places under the dark, shady rocks. The other, unfortunate ones whose turn it was to 'change'. It was then that she had spotted the hunter and his long dark pipe that shone in the misty moonlight. Perched upon the pillars of dense darkness, he was waiting, his small, weak eyes glowed with a sheen that her tiny fore-brain failed to comprehend.

But not a leaf stirred in the darkness. Unlike the calm, windless evening, she grew restless. She was alone, with the thick undergrowth of the forest and the deep fields of rock overhead. Tonight, she would be alone.

Then, the moon was covered by a menacing cloud, and darkness fell over the gloomy woods. As she rushed down the steep, rough rocks, she heard the clashing of waves against the shingles and the breath of the ocean -  the chilly, lonely air that was beginning to cut through her unprotected, hairless skin. Thus, she knew, change has begun.

The pain came soon after and she lost control of her very paws. With large, gleaming eyes, she saw the hunter bend over her - his own eyes wide with something she thought she knew. Surprise. It sounded new and strange in her head that reeled with the effect of the pain - and yet, in some undiscovered, new-born corner of it, it sounded right and known. To wolves, sounds had no meaning except the howls, the noise of the elks' restless hooves and the plain, gentle murmur of the earth beneath the feet of the pale hunters. Humans, whispered the strange, nascent mind. With that word came hundreds of fleeting images - of tall flashing lights brighter than the stars; and moving boxes that rolled and stank of a cheap, burning stench; thousands of pale, hairless beings walking on their frail hind-legs, covered in skin of their prey. They were thoughts from another world, another time - ones she was not supposed to know, but knew nevertheless. They were fragments from her wolfish dreams - from the nights she changed.

The hunter paused. He looked for words or actions. In the small, wide eyes of his gaunt face, she saw what she was becoming. The hairy coat pulled back over her muzzle and eyes and she let out a knowing howl, only to feel her body be stretched straight from the blunt, edgeless pain. Her sharp canines seemed to recede in her skull from an invisible hit of intense impact, resulting in small, harmless stubs that were useless to rip through the flesh of animals and enemies alike. The hunter screamed and she saw the truth reflected back in his iris. She, too, was like him. She too was a pale and hairless thing that walked on its hind-legs and preyed on other animals to consume them. The long dark pipe with a shining surface -a gun, she knew the way she had known what he was and what she had changed into - fell from his hand with a sharp clank.

But, disarmed he was not.

He touched her face. He touched his own. He wondered if it was a bad, de-constructed nightmare.Then he touched her again - over her face and through the mass of long hair at the edge of her skull, down the hills of smooth, hairless flesh of her chest. She did not know the meaning of the mild tingling of her skin, the muffled din of a thousand waves in her ears. She coupled with her mate when she was in heat and gave him the scent. It was a mechanical, unthinking deed. What she felt now was not a mechanical - if unthinking - need.

The images of the past moon came stronger, in flashes. She knew the meaning of the bright lights and the tall, artificial pillars of stone and sand with openings. She knew they were called houses and buildings. She knew this the way a cub would know its mother and latched on to her udders of milk. She knew they were called homes by some but not all, and not all houses were homes. She recalled the face of a pale human male who said his name was 'Josh'. She recalled the aroma of weeds and grass; a frothy, cold liquid that smelled of fruit and induced trances; and whispered utterances of the word love. She remembered the turning of bodies between the sheets and droplets of sweat, passive moans and a ravishing hunger. She remembered how to love and to lose and then to forget. Then, she learned the meaning of tears and pain, and a queer sort of joy - not the physical abrasions of the hunt but the gentler, repressed thudding of the heart against one's breast - and gave away as her heart sank deep in the salty sea-sickness of her tears.

The hunter - the man - bent on his knees. He looked into her eyes and mounted her. She heard her screams echo against the labyrinth of rocks and waves; she pushed him back and tore upon him. Her teeth were glistening pearls in the flash-light the hunter had brought with him, but failed to leave a threatening gash on his skin. Her reduced nails snapped as she scratched at his iron rod. He pushed her away and grabbed the gun. Then, he advanced towards her. She waited as she stood, naked and unarmed, for the roar of the lifeless of object in his hands and the fiery heat it would spew through its nostrils. Many a times before, she had seen it fire upon her brothers of the pack. A cruel and unfair instrument for disaster.

She did not remember when the fiery poison struck her, but she remembered the strong pain that flowed through the blood-lets in her vain. She did not remember how she did it, but she clutched at the hunter's foot as she fell among the rocks of the beach - sharpened and perfected by nature to be strangest natural predators. As they fell, there was no need to remember any more, as memory and life left her frail human body as it collided against the unforgiving rocks. The wolf in her rose in its final moments and relished the strong scent of warm human blood. The hunter was dead, and so was she.

Then, all was quiet.

The waves would return them to the shores - man and beast together - and the hunters of fish with wooden rods and woven nets would find them, resting in eternal peace, all signs of struggles swept clean by the unseen hand of death- or rigor mortis. They looked like pale, waxen statues - the predator and the prey. Yet no one would know, no one would be able to tell the predator from the prey. They praised his grit and courage, and defiled her flesh to dry her skin in the sunny beach. Someday, it would form a noose around a pretty girl's fair throat, or a shawl for the shoulders of royalty. Yet, no one would know the boy named Josh who waited for the one he had loved one summer's night, and was promised to be loved in return.


















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An inverted take on the Grimm folk-tale of the 'Red riding hood'. Not really happy with what turned out. I wanted to show how a wolf embodies nature and men are the ones who violate. I'll probably rewrite the ending.

A Christmas gift for the amazing story-teller :iconarabascan:

EDIT : Rewritten the last para.
© 2012 - 2024 Aurasio
Comments6
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weekendhunters's avatar
I have to say, I was expecting the usual "werewolf and hunter" story, but the more I read it, the more I found it to be a rather nice twist on the classic theme.

It's a pretty cool story, and I like the downer ending.