Hounding - Stephen Jock

 HOUNDING 

Stephen Jock

Chapter one

 Everything ahead is blanketed in white snow; 

it drifts and drapes over the stillness of the forest. It is an unbroken experience, there is a wagon passing along the old trails. The wheels creak and throw slushed mud in the wake behind it. There is nearly two hours of sunlight left in the sky. The man and woman in the front are watching the road ahead, she is talking, and he is watching the horses. They have been away for a long spell this trip. The last few winters had been difficult, though they make do. This season is little different. They were able to gather some pelts to sell and to make things from. Perhaps this would turn out better than most years for them. 

She is saying some to him, it is a soft murmur of talking, everything is garbled and slushed by the falling snow. She says something about, “this damnable cold…”, amongst other things that are lost before her voice is muffled by the growing snowfall and blended into the graveled crunching of the wagon. 

He replies with stifled grunting, and a small smile. 

Behind then, inside the closed wagon, behind the noises, is a baby. A small thing, little more than the size of a small rabbit. He is rocked asleep with every shake and bump in the world around him. He snores as he falls deeper into his dreams. 

The forest is beautiful, a few small things dart by on the ground, some move above them, rustling along in the branches and freeing the coating of snow to fall below. Some of the trail ahead is veiled, partly by broken twigs and snow. The wagon passed ahead unfazed. 

This peace continues, until a howl is carried on the wind. The man reacts quickly, faster than the woman beside him does, he snaps the reigns and urges the horses on. All the while 

surveying the forest. It was close by. The woman, startled, turns to him and asked, “What was that? Just now?” 

He replied, without looking to her, “Wolves.” 

Under the trees, one by one they appear, quick and silent. They are following in pursuit from off on the left side. Twenty or so of them, fast and organized, covering the ground between the wagon in mere moments. In every second they came closer, and closer. A flash of color catches the man’s eye. Deep in the tree line, there is a lone wolf. Large, large even at the distance between them, as well as red, almost the color of boiled blood, crimson, darkened and deep. It is watching them. He snaps the reigns again; his hands are shaking. The lone wolf moves after them, a blur amongst the frosted backdrop of foliage. 

The man yelled, “Rifle!” and the woman beside him, dived inside the wagon. She grabs a weapon, begins loading it, and takes aim. The wheels of the wagon and the back flap are the only noticeable noises. After a moment she has a bead drawn, she fired the rifle. The air is filled with the sound of rolling thunder echoing outwards, followed by a yelp as something falls to the ground. The baby wakes up and begins crying. Reloading the weapon, her shaking hands cause her to drop some of the ammunition, 

she grunts a curse. 

The red wolf reappears beside the wagon then. The man begins to shout something, it is lost in his throat. The wolf slams into the wheels with a sickened crunch. Wood twists and snaps apart as the wheels shatter into a shower of pieces, some the size of glass splinters. Some pieces mix in with the muddied snow. The wagon careens to the side, causing the connecting tongue to snap apart. 

The horses freed from the wagon, charge ahead, froth and saliva dripping from their mouths, sprinting off into the growing night. They disappear away from the madness of the wolves and fade off into the distance. 

Everything tumbles, over and over, till the wagon comes to a sickening stop at the last lurch. The wolves also stop, they simply watch the wreckage. In the falling snow they appear as statues, frozen, waiting. Almost expectant of something yet to happen. 

There is blood everywhere. Many pieces of the wreckage are blotted in red and grime. A shuffling in the mess is audible as wood is moved aside. The man is alive, there are several pieces of wood stabbing clear through one of his legs, as well as a gash across the side of his face. “Madeline!”, he yelled. 

Inside the wreckage of the back section of the wagon, there is movement. The woman is groaning, she is bruised and torn up with scratches over her body, but she is alive, the baby can now be heard crying in her arms. She had cushioned him against her body. He cries at the cold breeze that is caressing him. 

Outside the mess is the red wolf, watching the mass of broken wood and metal. The man begins to scream at it, “Go away!” 

It begins to walk towards him. He throws whatever he can at the wolf. Debris and hunks of wood, anything to slow it down. Nothing deters it, nor slows it. It is no use. 

The wolf does not stop, it just keeps moving forward, towards the man. Then, it dashed at him. With a lunge, it tears out his throat. There was no time for him to react. Blood erupts in spurts, he makes gargled sounds, then he falls to the ground dead. 

The woman peeking out of the mess sees everything and screams. Again, the sound of thunder fills the area, it echoes and rumbles amongst the trees. Smoke drifts from the end of the 

rifle in her arms, she had set the baby down in the pile of furs and grabbed it. There is no helpless yelp as before. 

The red wolf, unfazed, turns to face her, she can see steam rising from its breathe. She can see and just faintly smell the blood that is dripping out of the beasts maw. She looks back at the child inside the wagon, trying not to cry. Instead, she makes an unsteady smile at her baby. 

With no more hesitation, it is too late. The red wolf is upon her. She makes a disgusting sound as her throat is torn out. She falls to the ground, tears rolling down her face and into the snow. Inside the wagon’s remains, the baby is still crying. 

The pack of wolves remain motionless throughout all of this. There is no reaction betrayed from them. Snow keeps falling callously around them, covering their fur as they watch the scene unfold. 

The red wolf, soundless and graceful, makes little noise as it enters the wreckage. All the sound that remains is the falling snow, and the rising steam of the dead. The wolf, if it ever was a wolf, emerges from inside the wagon. It is now a man, with blood red skin and solid black eyes. He is carrying the baby, wrapped in an animal pelt, who is silent in the frosted air around them. He carries the babe into the forest, passing the wolves that only stare at their passing. He stops only once to turn and look for a moment at the sky, looking for someone who is in a way never there. 

After he does this, and the moment passes, he continues on his way. Fading from view into the sea of falling snow. 

And Cynthia wakes up. 

She is shivering. Raising a hand to her forehead, she brushes her hair back, and tries to get her breathing under control. Just a nightmare, that’s all it was. All it ever is. The room is icy cold despite it being midsummer already. Some nights are like this, odd and cold. Rubbing her arms, she finds them covered in a thick layer of goosebumps. Goosepimples, grandma called them. Pulling the sheets closer around her, she could almost swear her breathe was visible in the dim moonlight leaking into the room. After a while she is able to calm down and relaxes. She watched dust mites float in the moonbeam, till they vanished in the dark of the room. It was only a dream. She gets up and drapes herself in a coat, left hanging by her bedroom door. She slides her feet into her slippers, still calm but with a chill now. She then makes her way downstairs, closing the bedroom door behind her. 

Cynthia enters her kitchen and briefly digs in the cabinets, pulling out an older looking kettle, and fills it most of the way with water. Then she sets it on the stove’s burner, turns the dial to start the gas, and uses a match to light the fire below the pot. After some thought she grabs the carton of milk from the fridge as well. She was introduced to adding it into her tea recently. It made her feel fancy and British. Her parents would have thought it was strange and wrong. They had always been sort of boring, never willing to try too many new things. Instead, they spent most of their free time talking about the oddest things and ideas. She had always known who was to blame for introducing them to silly things, and the thought makes her smile at the memory. It’s been a few years now, the memories of them still haunt her. But in a nice, near pleasant way now. At the very least it doesn’t hurt the same way. She tries not to dwell on the thought for long, trying instead to let her mind wander. 

The kettle whistles for attention, a steady stream of steam begins to rise from the end of the pot. She grabs a packet from the cabinet and dips it into the boiling water, it disturbs the pile 

of bubbles at the bottom. After a few minutes the tea is ready, she pours some into a cup, adds a splash of milk into it, she holds it in her hands, letting it warm her up before drinking some. She shuts the gas off for the burner, watching the flame die out to be sure it is out. 

To the garden then, before she forgets again. Slipping on the sandals by the back door, she exits the rear of the building, and crosses the yard to the greenhouse. She flips the cover on a small box, installed outside of the building, inside the box she turns the switch to the on position. The small glass building is brought alive with florescent light, pushing out the broken moonlight into the yard. 

Steam slinks upwards from the cup in her hands, and outwards into the early morning air. The inside of the building is growing closer to what she envisioned as a child, a mass of colors and wandering plant things. She sets the cup down on the small workbench and puts on her special gloves, covered in tiny lilies. Now to check on the babies. The garden had become her pride and joy years ago, most of it was things her parents had gotten her. A wide assortment of things, most of which sidle around the building. The walls are covered in grey-white trellises, draped in vines creeping along them, most she honestly does not remember the names of. Some of them she just renamed to have a name for. Silly titles as descriptors, but she knows which ones she’ll be talking about all the same. 

The floor is left more or so to it’s own devices once she plants something new. Her mountainside hill, Lance had called it. She separated a few sections to leave room for cultivating new things, the side projects as they were. On a normal day she would spend about thirty to forty minutes here, cutting old leaves and stems, checking the soil for moisture with a neat tool she had gotten as a gift, or removing aphids. Neem oil, best thing invented besides water and fire. 

Today, unlike most days however, she spends nearly two hours. Perks of waking up too early she’ll tell Lance later. Most of the time is spent talking to her growing field, rambling about her hopes and dreams, as well as sharing some secrets. And some time is spent fiddling with her new watering system, a makeshift thing with a timer. She had a devil of a time setting it up, once she got it working however, everything was easier. It is set up to go off every night and as long as the line stays clean and free, there should not be any other problems. All of this helps her get past the nightmare, such a bad dream, all of that blood; and that poor baby boy… 

Even though it was a dream, the whole thing bothered her. She shivers off a chill and nurses her now warm tea. Being in the greenhouse always helps, being in her nest would do that. She finishes up gardening for the morning and puts her gloves away in their drawer, as well as her shears. She misplaced them before and swore, never again. She drinks the remainder of her tea and heads back inside the house. 

Turning off the backlight, she slips her sandals by the back door, next to the slippers. Then she makes her way upstairs to start getting ready for the rest of the day. 

A short time later, across the town, she makes her way to her office. She turns on the lights for the building, then she pulls out her chair at her desk. Grumbling at the medium sized pile, she sighs and begins going through the invoices and memos, left behind by the night manager. Digging in her heels, she starts the workday.