Wolf Moon Rising (11 page)

As she heard the bus grind away, she looked into the gath-

ering twilight and saw a world transformed. Drifts as high as

fences buried the familiar landmarks, and snow fl owed between

the trees like a crystalline lake, fl ooding the underbrush and

obscuring all signs of a path. She stood for a moment, wondering

what to do as her toes grew cold in her boots and her breath

came in smoky puff s.

If she did not fl y, she would have to walk all the way around

by way of the road, but if she rose into the air, she would be visible in the bare trees to any car going down the highway. She

sighed and looked into the woods where the snow had smoth-

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ered the trail. Resigned to walking, she trudged down the

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Lara Parker

blacktop, hugging herself, trying to stay warm, favoring a blis-

tering heel. Her hands were cold, her books were heavy, and

even though she was relieved to be off the bus, she still felt a

hard pain beneath her ribs.

Along the edge of the road, huge cedars kept her company,

bowed low under their heavy drapery like shaggy monsters that

dragged their ruffl

ed branches across the snow with a squeaking

sound. No more birds, except as shadows, except as dark silhou-

ettes, not the nightingale or the mockingbird, but crows, crying

out, jeering, as they fl ew into the eve ning sky.

Which one is my soul fl own from me? Which one, if one is, is my
soul?

As she breathed in the smell of winter, the cold air struck

her in the face and icy needles stung the inside of her nose. Th

e

forest was silent, no scampering creature in the dry leaves. Black

trunks climbed out of the white earth, and their branches clawed

the darkening sky where a bright orange moon was nudging the

treetops. She stopped to listen to the stillness, but all she could hear was her ragged breath and her own heart beating. Th

en a

faint breeze rose up and there was a drumming from deep

within the earth; the hesitant wind played minor chords though

the bare limbs. She heard another sound that made her heart

jump.

Th

e bus had ground to a halt again, for she could just make

out the whine of its brakes further down the road where she

knew there was no stop, as there was none between here and the

place a mile on where Highway 31 crossed over. She could hear

boys laughing and swearing. Th

en the bus roared off again, and

hoarse shouts fl oated on the air.

She was sure she could hear them coming down the road in

her direction. She knew she could hold them off with a few hard

phrases, without having to use any spells. But they would be

alone, all four of them, in the failing light, far from town, and

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since they had undoubtedly smoked a little, they might get ideas

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Dark Shadows: Wolf Moon Rising

if they didn’t have them already. A mist settled over her skin and

her throat tightened.

Without thinking, she turned quickly and headed into the

woods. She knew the Collinwood cemetery lay between her and

the sea path. If she could make it as far as the graveyard, perhaps she could hide in one of the crypts. In no time she was fl oundering in the deep snow, scarcely able to pull one foot out before the next sunk in, and she was stumbling through hidden bushes and

obstacles buried under giant mounds of white powder.

She could hear their slurred shouts, coming from several

directions, as they seemed to have separated.

“You see her?”

“Naaah.”

“She gotta be here somewheres.”

Sing- songy now. “Hey, itchy- bitchy- witchy, where’d you go?”

“Here’s some snow she trampled!”

Trying to cover more ground, she pitched forward and fell,

her books scattered, and her arms thrust into a deep drift. One

hand jerked out without its glove, and she struggled to retrieve

it. She gathered up her algebra book and her drawing tablet,

which had fallen open at a watercolor she had done— of David—

with a background of the sea at sunset, pink and orange clouds

near the water. For a moment she thought she might swim into it

and disappear, but she plunged on, her vision beginning to blur.

She heard the voices again—

or was it the cries of the

crows?— and fear shot through her. She leapt up out of one drift

only to cave into another, each lunge more desperate. Th

en she

seemed to be leaving them behind, their voices fading, until

she heard a shout. Th

ey had found her trail.

Panicking, she looked up and saw the moon rising in the

eve ning sky. Snow lay all around her. Where were all her famil-

iars? Sleeping, hidden away, curled in the roots of oaks, small

hearts beating softly, paws tucked, noses twitching. Th

e world

was locked up and silent, and snow sealed all the earth’s warm

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Lara Parker

mouths. Only the trees remained in postures of prayer. Her

throat swelled as she tried not to cry, but loneliness ached in her breast, and her eyes swarmed with tears. In order to be full one

must fi rst be empty.
Oh, empty moon.

She could imagine their hands on her, too strong for her,

pushing her down, and she felt cramping in the pit of her stom-

ach that made her cry out in pain. She could protect herself, but

it would mean a spell, and spells ripped her apart. Not only

that, the magic called up the side she kept hidden, the one they

had tried to blast out of her brain in the hospital. She shivered

and gritted her teeth when she thought of the shock treatments.

If she had to go through that again she would die.

But she could feel the anger boiling though her, and the

forest became a swirling mass of shadows. Perhaps that’s what

they wanted, to make her play her tricks, expose her and hu-

miliate her. Th

e witch they liked to make fun of but had never

seen was bubbling inside her, ready to lash out at the world; the

witch who took no insults, bore no remorse, and killed without

regret.

I call on the powers of darkness, I summon the powers of night.

An uncanny doppelganger— the twin she saw in the mirror.

Was it a real part of her, something alive and vital? Or was her

other self— nothing at all but an imaginary spirit dredged up by

her damaged mind?

Th

e boys were closer and she could hear the tramping sounds

of their boots; in minutes they would fi nd her. Bile fl owed into

her mouth at the thought of what they might do, and the lump

in her throat was like a stone she could not swallow. Th

ey would

do more than humiliate her. When the four of them got hold of

her, they would hurt her in a way she would never forget. How

dare they torture her! Th

ey were the evil ones, not her. She was

panting and sweating, hot tears running down her cheeks. She

bit her lip and tasted blood.

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Th

en her books slipped out of her arms, and when she leaned

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down to pick them up, she saw her fi rst sign, not the wood rat

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itself, but only its tiny footprints strung out across a fl at space like a bead necklace in the snow and leading the way into the

graveyard.

She looked up and sighed with relief to see her own raven

on the branch of a bare- limbed hickory. He was black as India

ink, fl uff ed and motionless, until he cocked his head and looked

down at her with his red eye. She watched him for a moment,

then started running, sinking in again and again, struggling to

fi nd footing under the snow, and dreading what she knew would

come, was sure to come, as she searched the spaces between the

trees.

She stopped and waited while the forest held its breath. Th

en,

where there had been nothing, there was a slinking shape, the

whisper of a coyote. Th

e familiar shadow was weaving through

the trees, head down, tail lowered, and the limber canine shape

she recognized. Th

e animal was panting, her rib cage moving

in and out, paws curled under, ears fl at, slanted ruby eyes, nose

a piece of coal, and teeth glistening behind a red tongue hang-

ing like a fl ame. Th

ere was one, and behind her, several more,

barely visible in the gray light, but she could see their ears lift in greeting and their long tails sway.

Once again she heard the boys’ shouts, and the coyotes tilted

their heads; their panting stopped. Already she could see the

bright blood splashed on the snow; hear the growls and gnashing

teeth, the uncomprehending, panicked cries. If it snowed again

that night, the boys would be buried, not found for days, or

weeks. She could imagine the
Collinsport Gazette
, with its garish headlines: Wild Creature Attacks Local Boys in the Woods

Near the Collinwood Estate. More trouble for David’s family.

Th

e police coming to investigate. Suspicion, rejection, and even

greater isolation.

Th

e command was on her lips. If she lit the fl ame, she would

lose herself.

Th

en, far off , she heard the roar of David’s snowmobile and

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she almost wept in relief. She could hear it approaching the

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cemetery, a high whine that came and went in the cold air, and

she began to run again in the direction of the sound. But it was

still far away and she stumbled blindly in a circle, not knowing

which way to go.

Th

ere ahead was the back of the cemetery surrounded by a

tall fence of iron lances, and hoping the boys could not climb it,

she took a chance and sailed like a leaf in among the tomb-

stones. She listened for the sound of the snowmobile but heard

instead the howl of a wolf echoing through the forest. Th

e sound,

desolate and mournful, made her body crawl with tremors.

What was it? Th

ere were no wolves anymore— only her coyotes.

Something fl uttered through the trees, and again she went

rigid with fear: there was the silhouette of a cape fl ung out against the snow, a dark wing that moved through the graves. Closer

now, she heard the howl of the wolf again, a wolf she did not

know, a wolf she had never seen in her forest, its cry like the

sobbing of ghosts.

Th

e snowmobile’s whine pierced the air, and she scrambled

up and ran toward the sound. Calling out, “David! David!” she

could see the ski coming down the road, spraying snow in a

great fl ume behind, its engine revving, and then she glimpsed it

through the gravestones just beyond the front gate. Running,

she cried again, “David!” but the roar blotted out her voice, and

she reached the road just in time to see the sled disappear in a

cloud of snow. She heard the motor cough, then clatter, as it

died away in the distance.

She was choking on her tears as she staggered back through

the markers, searching for a place to hide. One statue seemed to

off er shelter, a marble angel that rose above a grave, and she

crouched down in the snow against the folds of its robe. When

she curled in closer, she thought she felt the ground beneath her

heave and the angel reach around her in a gentle embrace. She

sighed and leaned back in the comforting arms, letting the tears

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fl ow, fi nding safety on a stone breast.

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Her mouth grew sticky with a terrible thirst, and she

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cupped some snow in her hand and pressed it to her lips.

Sucking the ice into her throat, she blinked when she noticed a

small pool of melted ice that mirrored the sky. She leaned over to

drink from it, and gasped when she saw refl ected there a woman

with yellow hair and turquoise eyes that blazed with fury. At

fi rst she thought it was her mother, but then she knew it was not.

It was the secret in the glass— her own image looking up at her.

Her breathing grew ragged, and she backed away and turned

to where she could see one of her feral friends poised on a snow-

covered rock, ears pricked, nose quivering. And coming through

the graves were the boys, laughing and fl oundering in the drifts, oblivious and obviously stoned, falling into fl at areas where they cursed and threw smashed snowballs at one another like the

dull and foolish children that they were. But they were nearly

men as well, intent on their purpose, and their eyes were wild.

Th

e fl ame rose up within her, this time more like a sword,

razor- edged and glowing, and her scalp crawled as it squirmed