Young Writers Society

The Earth trembled underneath him as if rattling its final breath before surrendering to the lightning clashes above. He lay upon the rock staring unconsciously at the sky as his naked back arched in agony. A thousand teeth pierced his flesh as he relived events in memory. Bloody chest heaving up and down against its very will, one fleeting thought snagged at his mind: he’d never thought he would go like this. The intense throbbing awakened him to reality, but all he could do was cling to that one thought as if it could keep him from slipping further away into the pain.

Visions of what could have been rushed past him before he was able to savour them. It was as if a monster had taken a hold of his soul and cast his life away into an abyss. There was a single thought precariously attaching him to his former life—his former self.

‘Not this way,’ his beating heart whispered.

In another dimension he felt his whole being cringe and writhe on a wet stone open to the elements above. He felt his dying lips mouth, “No.” Then the darkness descended.

~

It reeked. The stench of salt and rust filled his nostrils, invading his sleep. Or was it awakening Death?

A deep groan echoed in a reverberating stillness. As the sick smell of blood rushed in, the silence was forced to give way to a million senses.

He blinked cautiously and glared at the bright sun hanging in a cloudless sky. What was this? Some kind of trick? Was his desire to live so great that he deceived himself even in death?

His weight shifted underneath him and his muscles ached stiffly as if they had only been sleeping for a long time.

“Ugh,” he muttered, “Where am I?”

~

From behind the brush it stared at this new trespasser. The trespasser did not see it, but it could smell the stench of recently-spilled blood on the rock on which it rested.

The wolf wrinkled its nose hesitantly. The trespasser’s blood had a foreign scent, much too similar to that of a human. Perhaps the trespasser was domestic, a traitor in the eyes of free wolves like himself. Narrowing his yellow eyes to menacing slits, the wolf peered through the brush.

~

His tongue swept his fangs and the hair on his back raised as he sensed an intruder. His body felt as if it did not belong to him. A fearful confusion came upon him until he dared to look down in wonder at the change that had overcome him.

‘It’s only legend,’ logic argued as he gazed at a set of claws attached to a pair of white paws that, extended from hairy legs, ran up to his chest. He took the image in slowly and managed to grip the realisation.

A guttural snarl erupted from his chest. “Werewolves.”

Last night he had wandered too far from the village and the group of hunters that had accompanied him. The memory welled up inside him, but at the same time it seemed from a past life.

He remembered: The sound of leaves crunching beneath his booted feet as his right hand clasped his bow. The weight of the quiver on his shoulder and the sheathed sword rubbing against his side. The utter darkness that enveloped him as he edged forward and great clouds rolling in pouring cascades of rain. A lone howl.

The pound of clawed feet sounding from the woods. The taste of bitter terror as a growling figure slashed out and the waning light of the moon struck the sharp point of the claw before it plunged into him.

He shook his head and allowed the stale scent of blood to remove him from his nightmares. Then he gazed down once again and saw the stains of blood across the rock that he sat on. He felt the scars of lashing claws on his chest.

~

The other wolf sniffed the air and made a decision. It saw the red gashes along the trespasser’s white chest. There had been a fight here last night and this strange wolf had been gravely injured. Furthermore, it did not move from out in the open, but remained on the bloody stone, looking dazed and frightened.

Curling his lip to reveal his sharp fangs, the brown wolf let out a threatening snarl as it deserted its hiding spot and approached the trespasser.

~

In an instant his instincts rang clear and he flattened his ears upon his head and a roar tumbled from between his barred teeth. He tried to stand up on the rock and appear fierce, but his legs refused to obey.

‘To survive the night and die a dog would be truly horrible,’ he thought to himself.

For several lingering moments the two wolves—white and brown—remained in a silent trance.

Finally, the wolf spoke in a firm, rough tone, “What are you?” Its unblinking yellow eyes gleamed suspiciously at him.

“I am near dead,” he replied simply.

Ignoring the trespasser’s plea, the brown wolf snarled, “There is more human than wolf about you. You are not from my pack and I know you do not come from the woods.”

“You are astute,” he said vaguely, avoiding the obvious question in the wolf’s words.

“You are human.”

“Very good, so I am. May I ask how you know?”

“Your repugnant scent. You’ve scared all the prey away with that stench of yours,” huffed the brown wolf.

“Sorry,” he responded weakly. He felt pain in his abdomen and knew that the gashes had started to bleed again.

“You are hurt.”

“Yes…”

“When will you return?” The brown wolf appeared less menacing.

“Pardon?”

“When will you transform?”

The idea had not even dawned on him. He could become human again if only he could live through the wounds. “I don’t know.”

“When did you last turn into a wolf?”

“Last night. I was attacked.”

Suddenly the wolf looked scared. “Then you are a new werewolf? There hasn’t been a new victim in years! You are very unlucky indeed.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. He was growing tired of the wolf that made obvious statements and did not seem in a rush to save him from bleeding to death right in front of it. He referred to the wolf as “it,” for he still considered himself human and therefore above this animal.

“You must follow me if you can,” insisted the wolf.

“I can’t.”

“Then you must wait for me to return. If I do not come back by nightfall you will have to call for me. Although I hope it does not come to that because your howl may reach the attention of the pack in the forest.”

“The werewolves that attacked me?”

“Exactly,” nodded the other wolf before it dashed off in the direction of a far off hill.

The sun was setting, flecking the sky with deep pinks and oranges when the brown wolf returned. It panted and dropped to the ground, exhausted. Another wolf had arrived with it.

It was snowy white speckled with black on its narrow sides and upon its pointed muzzle. Its blue eyes looked at him and he became calm and knew that he would survive another day.

“This is him then?” inquired the new white wolf. It was female, he could tell by the soft growl of her voice. Over the day he had come to the epiphany that every man-turned wolf had to arrive at: There was little difference between the brown wolf and him. In fact, he had to depend on the wolf because he would die in the wild without help.

“That is the werewolf,” the brown wolf told her tiredly.

“Werewolf.” The word fell on his tongue like a curse. He had been condemned to a miserable existence.

As if reading his thoughts, the she-wolf said to him in a quiet voice, “Do not give up hope now when you have a choice.”

Opening his eyes and lifting his head that he had been resting on the rock, he asked, “What choice? I did not ask for this! Everyone in my village must think I am dead.”

“There are others like you,” she stated in a tone that dripped of disgust and deep loath.

He eyed her mockingly. “Yes, let me join my own—the Ones who damned me.”

The white wolf gave him a look of disapprobation. “Many have chosen to live in the forest with the demons that stole their lives away.”

“Well, I shall not!” he spat, his dark wolf eyes glowing as the dying light of the sun reflected from them.

“Go to sleep,” she said. “When you wake your mind will see things clearer.”

His body had been calling for slumber all day, but he had been resisting it. Even as the new white wolf stood by and tried to clean his wounds, he fell into a deep sleep.

The next morning he awoke early and felt refreshed. He felt stronger and his joints did not ache as much. For the first time in his wolf body—his prison—he stood up and stretched, his muscles rippling. Looking around, he saw no signs of the others. He shivered slightly, wondering if they had left him.

Only a few minutes later the two wolves came out from behind the brush. The she-wolf carried a carcass in her mouth and as she approached she deposited it on the rock.

“Eat.”

He ate, tearing at the flesh, not questioning where it had come from or thinking about how if he had been human he would have made a fire and roasted it. New instincts merged with this new body and he accepted it. Perhaps he even relished the raw power he felt flowing through his veins.

After choking down the last gulp, he turned to his companions. “What do they call you?”

The brown wolf gave him a comical look and appeared to nearly chuckle. “Ah, you humans have names, don’t you?”

“Well, of course,” he answered rather dumbly.

The other wolf sniffed. “We recognise each other by scent, but for now you may call me Streke. You may call her Erow,” he said, pointing his black nose toward the she-wolf.

“As a human they called me Darthonian…”

“Darthonian?” the wolves guffawed, their fangs hanging out as if laughing. “No dignified mouse would bear that name.”

“Eh…” he mumbled sheepishly.

Streke was about to make another rude comment when Erow suggested, “Dart?”

“But is he quick enough for that name?” Streke proposed wryly.

“I was a great hunter in my village,” Darthonian defended himself.

“You are a wolf now. As a wolf, you must prove that you have ability before making such claims.”

There was a short silence and Erow interrupted, “Have you decided yet?”

“Decided what?”

“If you will join them.” She said ‘them’ with a look that made Dart taste venom in his mouth.

He felt anger rage within him and he could barely keep the desire to snap at her contained inside him. “Why would I want to go with those that destroyed me life?”

Streke gave his packmate an incomprehensible look. She returned it.

“Where will you go if you do not go to the forest?”

“With you…”

The two shared another furtive glance.

“What?”

“No werewolf has even ventured to join a pure-wolf pack. I have never heard of such a thing,” the white wolf stated.

“Why not?”

“Werewolves are corrupt. They breed to consume and bring ruin. Werewolves hate our kind and we ourselves abhor the smell of humans. You must not forget that you are still part man and soon you will return to that form.”

“When? How long must I wait?”

Erow looked at him as if he were daft. “The next full moon.”

“That’s a month from now!”

“Exactly.” Streke said loudly. He nudged his head between the two white wolves, for in the heated discussion they had gotten much too close.

“Let me join your pack,” Dart insisted with a tone of desperation.