Spiral Path (Night Calls Series Book 3) (45 page)

I stopped tugging on my dress. His tone would have warned me
that something was wrong, even if he hadn’t used my full name. A bear? I
waited, silent, for him to call, all the while carefully unhooking my clothes.

There was a thunk as his ax bit into wood, and the sound of
something heavy falling. The grunt surprised me — had he tried to break the
wolf’s fall? I crept toward the clearing.

“Papa —” Before the word was out I froze, as motionless as a
stone. The sweet smell of blood tickled my nose, and something queasy began
churning in the depths of my stomach. Somewhere off in the distance was the
sound of a beautiful birdsong, one I’d never heard before. Blood and song — it
was almost more than I could bear without weeping.

He looked up from the twisted carcass before him, his face
set and gray. “I told you to wait.” No anger; his very lack of emotion
frightened me.

“I . . . I heard you, like you needed help,”
I started, not sure if I should keep walking or hold my ground.

He made an abrupt gesture that drew me to his side. We both
stared down at the torn and bloody lump of flesh and black fur, slashed by dog
and steel.

It was a man. At least I thought it was . . .
it certainly wasn’t a wolf. But it was hairier than any man I’d ever seen, even
the palms and soles of the feet; and the teeth seemed wrong. I was sure I’d
never seen him before. For a moment I felt faint — how could my father have made
such a mistake?
It was a full moon last
night, you could see for miles —

Then I understood, and I started to tremble. I’d heard tales
about wolves who really weren’t wolves. . . .

I felt my father reach for me, his hands tightening on my
arms as he pulled me away from the thing. “This goes no further, girl. Not to
your mother, and certainly not to your brothers — not even Dolph.”

“But —” I started.

“We don’t know whom we can trust, child. Do you see? I know
someone was bitten last night — maybe more than one — but we’ll never be able to
find out quickly if we announce it. He might even run, like this fellow did,
and plague some other community.” Papa broke off then and turned from me,
surveying the bloody scene. I kept my face turned toward the sunrise; the
werewolf looked too much like a man, and that worried me. Finally Papa fumbled
in his pocket and pulled out his pipe. Sitting down on a fallen log, he worked
his flint several times before the tobacco caught fire.

We shared a long silence while the wind picked up and the
sun crept through the undergrowth. I sat down beside him, grateful that we were
upwind of the thing, and waited while he did his thinking. A man. That bloody
mess had once been a man. Grandsir had died quietly in his bed — no blood, no
pain that I could see. A man shouldn’t die in a field far from home with an ash
spear through his heart. . . . Shivering, grateful summer was
not yet gone, I finally grew brave enough to ask a question.

“Would . . . would the church be able to
help?”

Papa didn’t answer at first, only chewed his pipe stem.
After a while he said, “No, Allie. Exorcism’s no good for werewolves. There are
things both old and new that can help, though . . . .” He
reached for my collar and tugged on the chain around my neck. I wore the metal
cross of Momma’s god, a tiny silver thing, the most valuable possession I
owned. “Good. Keep it with you always, even when you sleep. Now, I need you to
go get me something. Garlic. Enough to fill a hole, oh, this big.” He
demonstrated, making a circle with his arms. “Be quick, now, and remember — this
goes no further.”

Nodding, I practically flew to my mother’s garden. I didn’t
know much about werewolves, but I did know you had to do special things when
you buried them — or they didn’t
stay
buried. Fortunately garlic masters night things; it both controls them and
keeps them at bay. Momma devotes an entire plot to the stuff. I rooted busily
in the rows, pulling up handfuls of bulbs and scooping them into my apron.
Folks outside might’ve thought that night creatures were only bogey stories,
but back here in the hills we knew better.

As I turned to start back to the clearing, I heard Momma
calling me. “I’m still helping Papa!” I hollered, not stopping to hear her
question. There was no way to get back to him fast enough. I sure hoped he knew
how to keep the werewolf from rising again at sunset. The thought of the
walking dead froze my heart.

He’d been busy while I was gone. I made sure not to look too
close. The head was separate from the body, and Papa carefully stuffed some
garlic in its mouth. He’d cut a piece from the ash copse, too, and driven it
through the chest. Then we started to gather firewood.

oOo

It takes a long time to burn a body. We covered half our
faces with scarves and stayed the course, but I will remember that smell until
I die. The sun rose high above us, and still the fire raged on. I tended it
carefully, watching for stray cinders, while Papa cut several thick branches
from the ash copse. By the time the reeking blaze had dwindled into coals, Papa
had peeled and sharpened three good stakes. The sight made me shiver, so I
concentrated on locating the wolf-man’s ashes.

Werewolves burn clean — there wasn’t a single chip of bone
left. That surprised me, since the fire hadn’t been
that
hot, but Papa had left to get something, so I kept silent.
Before long he returned with a wooden bucket and a shovel.

We took every speck of those wolf ashes to the crossroads by
Faxon’s farm. I carried the rest of the garlic in my apron and dragged the
stakes. Papa dug a real deep hole right down in the center of the road. He set
the entire bucket inside it, and had me dump the garlic on top. It was a shame
to see that fine bucket, garlic spilling down its sides into the dirt, because
I knew Papa was going to bury it, too.

“Only ash slat bucket I ever made, child. No better use for
it,” he remarked, as if reading my mind. After smoothing some dirt over it, we
laid stones on top, and finally packed the rest of the dirt down tight, so the
road looked clean once more. Papa took the stakes from me, and we started for
the house.

For once I appreciated those special looks Papa and Momma
could exchange, because Momma never asked to see the wolf skin, and she didn’t
scold when I forgot the onions. Dolph and Josh asked, of course — Dolph told me
he wanted to buy it from Papa for that girl he’s sparking — but Papa told them it
was too tore up to save, and they believed it. I don’t think I ever heard Papa
lie before or since that night. He did make the older boys scrub with sundew
again, and stood over them to see they did it right. Him and me, too, though I
never even touched the werewolf.

We were ready for supper when one of the neighbors stopped
by. Papa went outside to talk, and was shaking his head when he came back into
the kitchen.

“Eldon?” Momma said, and her voice quivered, as if she
didn’t really want him to answer.

“Faxon’s little girl died,” he said quietly, sitting down at
our big chestnut table.

My mother gasped and put her hand to her breast. “The poor
man! Both wife and child gone before the year’s old.”

That’s when I almost messed up everything.

“It was a blessing.” Like always, I was muttering; and like
always, Momma heard me.

“Alfreda, whatever do you mean?” Momma was both sharp and
astonished. I saw the intense look Papa was giving me and tore through my head
for something to say.

“Isn’t that what you always say, Momma? That God loves us;
and that when bad things happen, there’s a reason for it, even if we don’t know
it?” I feared it was awkward, but she seemed to accept my twisted reasoning.
She was silent several moments before she told me not to say it in front of
little Ben and Joe. Then the only sound was of Dolph drinking still another
glass of water.

I didn’t eat much . . . all I could taste was
iron and ashes.

The month of Fruit wore into Vintage, and nothing
happened.

But I could hear them.

Late at night the wind brought their voices to me, shrieking
a nameless agony. What did it feel like to be slowly descending into madness,
into terror? I had no proof that there was anything to fear, for no one else
mentioned the strange calling of the wind. Deep inside I held my breath, while
on the surface the harvest occupied every waking hour. Hay was followed by
corn, and finally wheat, rye, barley, and oats. For an entire moon we did nothing
but cut and stack grain. Last of all we sowed fallow fields with winter wheat.

Papa must’ve told some of the men about the body, the few he
was sure of, because it seemed as if someone was stopping by every evening, “on
rounds,” as they would say. Momma knew things without being told; she started
getting edgy and was upset whenever little Ben and Joe strayed too far from the
house. Her fears were foolish, and Papa told her so . . . although
I don’t think he told her
why
. After
all, it’s at night when werewolves prowl. But that didn’t help Momma.

Then the nights of the full moon came, and Andersson’s baby
disappeared, and everybody knew.

Momma was hysterical. I didn’t get to see the tracks until
the next afternoon; she wouldn’t let any of us out of her sight. But we knew
more than anyone else, because they came to talk it over in our kitchen.

“At least three,” said my friend Idelia’s father, accepting
Papa’s offer of spiced wine.

“I think it’s four,” my father responded, shaking his head
slightly. “And we all know who one of them is.”

No one spoke for several moments. I couldn’t believe
it — Andersson’s baby dead, and no one had anything to say? Papa saw the look on
my face, but he didn’t tell me to get back up the stairs. Josh and the babies
were already up there, and Dolph was hiding in the stillroom behind the
kitchen. Everyone who had gone on that hunt was afraid . . . afraid
of what others were thinking.

“His father is bringing him over,” Papa continued. “He’s a
frail lad, not made for such evil. They found him out by the well this morning,
trying to slake his thirst. But no blood on him. He didn’t kill the baby; the
others are stronger-willed than he.”

“Do you think he can tell us anything, Eldon?” someone
asked.

Papa chewed on his pipe for a time, and finally shrugged.
“I’ve heard they remember little beyond the transformation. But he may know
something. Now — a skinny boy he may be, but he’ll grow. So, what are we to do?”

By the time there was a knock at the door, the werewolf’s
fate had been decided. I had been so surprised to see little Tate and his
father coming up the road that I almost missed what happened next.

They’d made a seat for him by the fire, and they had him sit
down. He was practically in tears, poor Tate, and not making a lot of sense. His
father looked so pale, so old, I didn’t know which one I felt for most.

“We aren’t going to kill you, lad,” my father said softly,
and then Tate started crying. “The old Gustusson place has a barn; still solid,
the doors sound. It will be your home three nights a moon. Down by the big
water, off Cantev Way, they’ve had a werewolf some fifteen years. Has a wife
and family. But they lock him up tight when need be, and so we shall with you.
But we need your help, Tate. What can you tell us about last night?”

I almost fell off my stair, I leaned forward so far. But
Papa’s fears were right — Tate remembered almost nothing. “Tired,” he kept
saying. “I was so tired, but I couldn’t stop running, none of us could. And the
thirst, the terrible thirst. . . . ” He looked thirsty as he said it, and my father
gave him a wooden cup full of water. Tate downed it without looking at it — he
still stared at the men, as if afraid they would change their minds.

They didn’t. Several of them escorted him to the barn where
he would spend the night, and I knew a few would guard. The folks of Sun-Return
would heed the lesson of Cantev Way. Tate was craving living flesh, fighting a
thirst that would not die . . . a thirst blood could not
satisfy.

I didn’t creep downstairs until after Papa showed the last
of them out. “Now what?” I asked quietly. After all, next to Papa, I knew more
about taking care of problem werewolves than anyone else in town.

“Nothing,” came my mother’s brisk voice as she brought in a
basket of vegetables. Her gaze settled on the lone cup among the emptied mugs
of wine. Without comment she picked it up and threw it into the fireplace. “You
leave werewolves to your father. I want you to keep a tight eye on Joe and Ben,
day and night, and keep everyone inside all you can. We must seal the house
against them, and the barn, too — they’ll go after stock when decent folks are
abed.”

Papa had a thoughtful look in his eyes, but he said only,
“I’ll get mustard seed for the windows and doorways. We’ll need garlic boughs
as well. Help your mother, Allie.” And then he turned and went out to the barn.

Everyone in town was home by moonrise, I suppose, although
first Dolph and the others his age went to the barn dance held by that couple
wedded in the spring. No one wanted to be, well . . . uncounted . . .
between sunset and moonrise. I went to bed in the tiny upstairs room with a
feeling of apprehension. The old oak tree scratching the side of the house
sounded like claws at the door, and the wind seemed to carry voices to me,
speaking words in a language I did not know.

I could hear them.

Others might say it was a pack of real wolves, but real
wolves never sounded so desperate, not in the fat month of Vintage. The
werewolves were out, I was sure, their number lessened but their strength
untouched. After all, Tate was a child, barely Josh’s age, and no loss to their
pack. Though a sick wolf Tate’s size could be dangerous . . . . Still, a werewolf can
beguile, it is said, and that is the true danger.