NOTE TO ALL READERS!!!! PLEASE READ!

You may have seen this story posted before and wonder why it gets a new thread. The previous story had some parts that broke rules, and I wished to do away with said parts. I post this new thread with a revised and slightly more polished version of Druids, with the permission of mrdjjw, mod. So this is not a repost. This is not stealing someone else's work. This is my work, and hopefully will be one new and old readers of Druids will enjoy.
To all who came here from the last thread: Hi! :) Welcome pack. Enjoy the revisions! I'll post all the parts up till I stopped as quickly as I can.
I may eventually post an audio version of this as well, if it is popular enough.

This story takes some time to get to the sex, and is intended to be first, and foremost, a work of fiction with a plot and storyline. Only secondly is it meant to be smut. :) So if you're looking for a quick want, look elsewhere. There are many very talented writers on this forum to help with that.

If you're looking for a story of love and compassion? Well then keep reading.

Prepare for an onslaught of 80+ Microsoft word pages, and thanks again for taking the time to read it.

[i]-Cheese

This post has been edited by cheeseyness on Jul 8 2009, 12:47 AM

Druids
A Story of Wolf Love
By: Cheese



1. May

Christine had always watched the Druid pack, for as long as she could remember. They came every summer with their slowly growing pups to stay where the weather was warm and safe from Yellowstone’s tourism. It was not that Yellowstone wasn’t a cozy little place for wolves to stay and roam, but the summer months always seemed to attract the couples with squalling children and cameras, or students fresh out of college ready to deface and disturb nature to its core. The pack was one off the smaller, more reclusive ones in the park, and they didn’t exactly like showing off their young to stranger that made odd and unfamiliar calls, despite the offers of candy bars and cheeseburgers. Thus they ventured out of the preserve, into the more dangerous parts of the world, where farmers would shoot to kill for fear of their hens and sheep. She had once seen a bumper sticker that said, “Save 10 sheep, kill a wolf,” and had wondered just how many of the Yellowstone wolves the driver had gunned down. But Christine’s ranch was a haven for the animals when they wanted peace from the world, as it had been when her father had owned it. Before he had died.

He had been the one that taught her the wolves’ numbers. The black one with the white streak down the chest was number 265, and the gray with the kink in the tail was 127, and so on until she had memorized the entire pack. She helped him look up in park records what the new pups were numbered, and recorded them in her own diary, so she wouldn’t forget in summers to come. Secretly, in that diary, she gave them true names next to the numbers she wrote. Number 265 became Midnight, and 127 became Majesty. The pups were always given cute names that she came to regret as the animals grew into their paws and ears. They no longer looked like Cupcakes and Snuggles once their muscular and lean legs carried them with a more respectable air, and their eyes took the wild and stubborn look of their parents.

Her father had died though some years ago, and the ranch was hers now, as well as the inheritance of enough money to get by, and an obscene number of hens, who’s eggs paid to furnish the rest of the farmhouse. Despite the years, she hadn’t changed a thing about the ranch, except to get rid of the pony rides that had once been offered there. She just didn’t have the time or the will, and something about it, without her father there, felt wrong. At first, she’d also been afraid that the wolves would not come without her fathers careful planning and knowledge, but when they arrived that June, she realized she could keep with her father’s customs just fine, as well as adding a few of her own. She stopped looking up their numbers in the Yellowstone directory, and grew wiser about naming them to their personalities. She taught herself when in the year to take the chickens into the barn and keep them there, and how to stay away from the burrows that generations of wolves had used so they wouldn’t smell her and decide to find a new place to sleep. She didn’t tell anyone, but she sometimes waited up at night, unable to sleep, just listening for their calls. At those times it was so easy to remember the way they looked running across the dusty grasses of the ranch, tongues rolling out in happy, carefree manners. Christine was never truly happy, until summer came.

They were late this year though. A sudden and unexpected onslaught of thunderstorms and pouring rain had kept them in the park, and kept the tourists out. At least they were happy, she thought to herself as she traced a fingertip down the windowpane. Her warmth left a thin trail of white mist across the glass, and she watched as it dissolved into nothing, as if it had never even been there. The rain spattered out an SOS on the outside of her door, and there was the steady drip as the water that had managed to slip through a loose ceiling tile fell disappointedly into the sink. Other than those steady little beats, the house was silent. Empty.

It hadn't always been that way though. It had been a long time since her father’s mutt Francie had run through the house, baying at the scent of her wild kin outside. She had died some time before her father, but had been very old for a dog, and had lived a good long life. She remembered well the season when her father had desperately tried to lock Francie inside when the wolves came. She had been in heat, and whimpered and howled and scratched at the door, begging to get a chance at Midnight or Charlie. Christine had felt so bad that she had decided to let her out, if just for a little while. She ran straight into their midst, and Christine had watched in fascination as the males stopped growling their warnings and had approached her, sniffing wildly. Francie had braced herself forward, offering herself to the males, whimpering desperately and licking at their muzzles. Christine stood frozen in the doorway, all her muscles tense, as a large gray male licked at her dog’s hindquarters then leapt up onto her, mounting her swiftly. The male’s mouth opened gently, panting, as his hips thrust forward over and over, while Francie’s body shook in joy. Even at that young age of 18, Christine had felt a burning between her legs at witnessing her dog being mounted by one of the Druids. But before the wolf had gotten himself all the way inside her, Christine’s father had run in, shouting, and the wolves had scattered. Francie made a bound to go after them, but yelped as Christine’s father caught her back legs and pulled her into his arms. He’d stormed back to the house, and locked the door behind him. Christine had always regretted not seeing the scene played out in its entirety, and to the end of her days, a pang of jealousy swelled in her throat when she remembered the look on that males face. By now, she’d felt a man's touch and had experienced human love and sex, but nothing was fonder to her than that day. She knew in her heart that no man could possibly as good as a Druid, but denied the thought whenever it came to her. Strange thoughts, she’d told herself. Not something to dwell on.

She reached up to pull down the shutter and stopped, listening intently. Had she heard something? She pressed her ear and cheek to the wet, cool glass and sucked in a breath of the cold air that hung suspended around the pane. After a moment of hearing nothing but the Morse code of raindrops, she heard, very distant, a high, lilting noise. The call was followed by another, lower song. They floated through the glass to her hopeful ears and she closed her eyes, drinking them in with her mind. She felt her lips twitch, then smile gently. A third rose up, separate from the rest, and the sounds of the others grew dim in her mind, and all she heard now was the one complex and quivering howl. It sounded so lonely, so longing…she knew just what he was saying. It was a musical sound and one that, for no reason she could discern, touched her heart more than the others had. Strange… Christine pressed a palm to the window and felt the cold seep into her pours.

It was summer.

****

2. June


Christine shoved the window open with a low grunt. Rain had made the wooden frame swell, and the window groaned as it haltingly slid open against the protests of the frame. Warm, summer air blasted her hard in the face, smelling of dust, new life, and assorted flowers. She smiled gently and breathed it in, tasted all the different colors of summer on her tongue and in her mind. She only wished she had the sensory abilities of the Druids, and could smell and recognize every member of the pack by their individual scents.

They had shown up just as the rains had begun to stop. Perfect timing for wolves, as usual. It seemed to her they had a biological alarm clock more flawless than any Rolex, and it had told them to get to Christine's ranch at just the right time, even if it was a bit late in the year. She would look outside in the morning through the mist and see flickers of dark movement amidst the swirling white. Muzzles, flicks of narrow paws and bristling tails. They were like magical creatures turned real, emerging from mists of some fairy world only to sink back in and blend into fantasy again. She questioned, frequently, whether they really even existed, or if her longing for them to be there was causing her to see things. Maybe these creatures were just ghosts of things that were not yet to be. She watched intently for that simple sign and confirmation of life out there, that glimmer of hope with wide and desperate eyes. When the mist cleared, they always seemed to be asleep in their burrows, for she never saw them while the rains still decided to fall, on and off. It was frustrating, yet tantalizing somehow. Like they were playing a fantastic game of hide and seek with her, and she was losing.

That day, though, there had been no mist in the morning, and she had decided today was the day to force the window open and watch for them with the naked eye. Now that she had achieved the window part, she began to remember how sweet the air outside tasted in the early summer and longed to venture out into the day. It was like drinking nectar from some great yellow flower. Like warm honey. Although she could not smell the wolves amidst all that summer air filling her body, she could feel them somehow. The air was taut, silent. It too was waiting in the apprehension that spelled “Wolves,” and she could feel the tense heaviness in the morning wind, the way it died suddenly to give her a moment of silence, to listen. She shaded her eyes against the sun, still low on the horizon, and scanned the sparse brush and red dirt for the fleeting blurs of motion she’d come to know and love, real or not. For a moment or two, there was nothing. The air, Christine, the whole ranch seemed to hold its breath in anticipation. And then…

Majesty. He was more white than grey now, and was one of the oldest wolves she’d ever seen, but she recognized him the instant she saw him. He had been there when she was eighteen, nearly seven years ago, when she stood in the doorway and watched as Francie had mated. The sway in his back and the thinning hairs across the top of his nose spoke to his age, but he still managed to hold his head and tail with a sense of regal dignity. She sucked in a little excited breath and felt her cheeks glow rosy and hot, as if she was still young and standing in that doorway. Even her small noise was enough to catch the Alpha’s ears, and they swiveled to face the window, followed shortly by his thick square head, mechanical, but very much alive. He focused on her with a pair of cloudy but still very intelligent eyes, nose twitching as he tried to recognize the scent as wolf or otherwise. Christine waited and prayed he would not run. He might have remembered her smell somehow, for he made no move to run and showed no sign of being uneasy. He stood, sturdy, stocky body squared over his legs in a confidant and noble stance. He practically shone white-silver in the sunlight. Christine smiled at him gently and raised two fingers a little from the windowsill in a wave.

“Hey boy,” she whispered.

Majesty snuffled loudly and turned away from her with a flick of his age-worn tail. She was none of his concern, and because she was no threat, it would be ok for the others to come out. Now that the Alpha had scouted out the area, it was safe, and she knew the others would feel that simply by the way he was moving in the space. She bit delicately on her lower lip and watched as more forms rose over a mound of dirt. The slender white nose and paws of Tortuk was the second to arrive. Her green eyes were bright and still puppyish, even though she was now firmly an adult, and she nosed at Majesty questioningly, looking for some reassurance from her mate and leader. He turned and gently gripped her muzzle with his mouth. It meant “I’m in charge here,” and Tortuk seemed to relax considerably. She was small and delicate, like a perfect little princess, and her coat was a gleaming snow white. It wasn’t yellow yet like the coats of older white wolves Christine had seen before, and it seemed perfectly groomed, as if she had her own personal stylist. Christine smiled warmly at the small female but made no move to say hello. She was the skittish one of the group, and scaring her would in turn scare away the pups or cause Majesty to become uneasy.

The pups were a while in coming though. First came Sierra, a stocky gray female with a stubby bent tail where it had been broken and never healed right came up, head low, to sniff and lick at her queen’s feet and muzzle. Cocoa, a young brown female was close at hand but stayed back a little, fearful of doing something wrong and embarrassing herself. Majesties oldest son, Barley, was a deep steel color, and he hung back on his father’s flank, constantly on guard, some of the playful puppy still in him as he stamped the earth with one paw then another. His long purple tongue lolled out, giving him an excited and curious expression. He’d always been so adorable, even as a pup. That was all the adults from last season that she recognized, and while a few more lingered back in the shadows of brush, she’d seen all the ones she really cared about. She wanted to see the newer additions that had just recently, a month or so ago, been born, as the wolves had just arrived. It was the price they paid for showing up so late in the year.

Now, at last, this seasons pups came into view. A small brown one, just like Cocoa, then a deep steel one just like his older brother. They nipped at each other’s ears, rolled on their backs, and leapt at the adult wolves’ tails. Their squeaky little barks warmed Christine’s heart, and she felt her eyes become damp around the edges. It wasn’t that she wanted a child, now or perhaps ever, but there was nothing quite like puppies, and the sight of them warmed her winter-cooled heart. Ears and feet too big for little bodies, droopy little eyes and minute clean white fangs, they rolled and bounded and fell and wiggled. They were utterly irresistible, no matter whom you were, whether or not you were a fan of wolves. A third, a little white one, sauntered coolly up and sat pristinely at her mother’s side before beginning to lick at her paws like some sort of cat. A new little princess, Christine thought to herself and chuckled. Three pups. It was less than usual, but she was happy to see any at all. The Druids were a dwindling pack, and any offspring counted as hope for the future of the group.

Then, a dark movement caught her eye. Behind the group stood one last wolf that, while not a regular to Christine, seemed to tug at her interest. He was lanky, with thin scraggly legs and a tangled mess of fur hung from his neck and sides. His tail seemed tattered and ratty, and didn’t move naturally with the rest of his lean, awkward body. One long streak of faded yellow/white went from under his jaw to under his belly, barely showing up against the black of the rest of his body. One ear was notched, probably from battle years ago, and a patch of black skin on his back haunch showed another angry war scar. His eyes were a deep gold, and they fixed Christine in an intent, calculating stare. She caught her breath as his ragged ears flicked to the front to tremble as he listened for her to make a noise. She stared back into his gaze, transfixed by the intensity of those battle-warn, spiteful eyes. Her mouth opened a little in a small “oh” as he lowered his head and tensed all the muscles down his back.

“Hi…” she managed to breathe silently, unsure what else she could possibly do at a moment like that, under such scrutiny.

The wolf stared a moment longer, then curled back his lips and rumbling growl drifted across the air to her ears, sounding like a far away earthquake in the still and muted air. She blinked, and in that instant he had leapt away, behind the dunes of red dirt and sage. Skittish or just angry, she couldn’t be sure, but she did know that she’d never seen this one before, or any wolf that he might be descended from. She stared after him a few minutes thinking hard and chewing on her lower lip. He did not reappear and soon the other wolves had trotted away, leaving her with the image of a black and shifting shadow with gold eyes lingering in her head.

It looked as if she had four names to give this summer…

****

This post has been edited by cheeseyness on Jul 8 2009, 12:51 AM

That's all I can do for right now folks. Injured hand from hockey is giving me trouble. More soon, perhaps tonight. And yes, sex scenes are forthcoming. Enjoy.

Hey Cheese, hope you feel better soon. we havent givin up on you yet, lol.

Hello Cheesey, I do not know what is different at the new story, where the
difference lies??? :thinking: :thinking: :thinking:

3. July:


They had been here almost a month now, and Christine knew their days together were growing short. The nights were still short, indicating that summer was still in full swing, but the deer would soon move away from their lands, as they always did, leaving the Druids without any food. No food meant no wolves. So she watched them for now, admiring the new wolves she had just met, as well as the old friends, knowing that they would soon be gone. The pups, for instance, had grown so much, even in these few weeks, and each had grown their own personalities to match the names that Christine had taken so much time to think up.

The little brown one was growing much faster than the others, and was developing long, lean legs. The fur on the nape of his neck always stood up in spiky little peaks, giving him a rugged, wild little look, maybe like he had a Mohawk. The little stud, Christine chuckled to herself. He trotted around, head high, thin, but stout nose always catching scents as they passed him on the wind. His energy was obvious, and he broke into fits of joyful bounding every now and again, despite the reproachful looks of his packmates. At the same time, however, he seemed to hold back his true nature when too many others were around, seeming the distant, strong type. More cat than wolf, Christine noted. His name had been fairly easy to pick out. She’d had a boyfriend like that once, with so much energy, but so much composure…plus he too had thought himself “all that.” Frederick, or Freddie, for short, it was. Her boyfriend had met a quick end when she’d caught him with another woman, all mouths and hands. Still, she managed to hold an affection for this little pup.

The grey one was much different than his older brother. Barley was strong, calm, and utterly immovable no matter what was going on around him. He was one of the best hunters in the pack, flawless in speed, style, and composure. Only with him was a kill sure during the hunt. His little brother, however, was the biggest klutz Christine had ever seen in her entire life. He was always falling over his own feet, yelping as he fell on his face. One of his little ears always stood up straight, while the other lay flat and limp against his skull, the perfect representation of his lopsided personality. He was overly energetic, and shook with joy whenever any pack member showed him the slightest attention, though his brother rarely gave him the time of day. He seemed almost embarrassed that they were blood related, and Christine didn’t exactly blame him. The pup, however, was always so ready to please. He crawled on his belly, licked and the muzzles of his father and mother, and whimpered and barked, trying to win any sort of affection he could manage. Christine had originally wanted to call him Steel, for his coat color, but the name didn’t suit him at all. He was far too much of a clown for such a serious name. Instead, she had settled on the comfortable, but quirky name of Teaspoon, or TS, when he grew up a little perhaps. If he grew up, she noted with a smirk.

The little girl was the easiest. She was demure, small, and snippy. She snapped bitterly at her two brothers, and preferred lounging about rather than frolicking like a normal puppy would do. She always ate before her brothers, and refused any sort of babying her mother or father showed her. She was, in fact, the perfect little princess and demanded she be treated as such by everyone. She held herself regally; kept her coat spotlessly white…she was downright royal. Marie was the first name Christine had thought of, and was very true to her personality, after the beheaded French queen. She hoped that this pup would not end up the same way as her namesake, but suspected that maybe she would one day end up a queen, to say the least.

Even with these new names, Christine felt an empty spot in her heart. While every other wolf had fallen into the pack, the black, loner male was snapped at and picked on by the rest. In the hunt, he always came back bloodied and ragged, and she wasn’t sure why. He was always the last to eat, so his ribs showed through his mangy coat. He kept his head low, growled at the pups, and hated to show and reverence to even Majesty. He was a rogue, and had an obvious problem with authority. And despite all these obvious unique personality traits, she had yet to find a good name for him. Nothing really seemed to fit him, and she knew the name had to be just perfect. Today, she watched out the window as he lay atop a mound of dirt, forlorn. The others had gone out for the hunt, while he had remained behind. She wasn’t sure why exactly they had left him here…they had even taken the pups, for training she supposed. He lay, head resting numbly between his massive, dark-clawed paws, his liquid amber eyes only half open. He seemed elsewhere, as if he wasn’t really aware of the world around him. He didn’t even seem to realize that the pack was not there anymore, eithewr that or he didn’t care. Christine leaned her elbow on the windowsill and stared at the wolf, curious and fascinated by his blank expression. What was going on between those torn, tired ears? What did he think, what did he feel? If only he could speak, the questions she would ask him.

Far away, a wolf, probably Majesty, howled out a message. The black wolf’s ears propped up suddenly on his head, and his muzzle jerked up from the ground. He pushed himself tiredly up to a sitting position and stared fixedly to some mystical point in the night’s sky. Christine looked there as well, but failed to see what the wolf was staring so intently at, if there was anything. Then, without warning, he jerked back his head, and let out one, short, curt, howl. It was more a bark than a real howl, but its sound split the night like some sort of knife, and made Christine jump and shiver with an unknown feeling of fear and admiration. Then, as he listened and no answer came, he slowly tipped his nose skyward and let a long, quavering howl float like a melody into the darkness. It was varied, so complex…and familiar. The third howl. Christine nodded, yes, it had to be. The loneliness was there, just as it had been a month ago, and it inspired that same familiarity it had before. She almost wanted to answer it, and felt a howl of her own swell in her throat. Involuntarily, a soft, low whistling imitation left her. The black wolf turned sharply to stare at her, as if saying, “what’s this?” She blushed deeply, and turned away from the questioning expression in the wolf’s eyes.

“Sorry…” She muttered. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

The wolf stared at her a moment longer before re-focusing on that invisible point in the night and launching another song towards the stars.


Majesty returned after some time had passed. He had no meat with him, nor did any of the other wolves. The pups whimpered, but found there was no food for them tonight, and soon quieted, and went to their den for sleep. Christine watched this with a heavy heart. It was true…the deer were leaving. Soon the wolves would leave as well and the ranch would once again be left in her care. Alone. She turned her attention back to the black wolf, who seemed not to have moved much. He was lying down again, and he blended so perfectly with the night, only his slitted, gold eyes were visible in the darkness. He looked so empty, so lost to the rest of this giant world. Something she understood all too well. She slowly nodded at his lonely figure. She’d get a name for him before they left…It was the least she could do for him.

This post has been edited by cheeseyness on Aug 1 2009, 09:42 PM

Many thanks for continuing. :inlove:

Audio?! NO WAI!

Yes way. I'm doing the very first part in audio, as promised, to see what the response is. Let me know how you like it!
*works on getting it ready for uploading*

ok, lets see if this works...

It seems to work for me!!! ENJOY!
And sorry for poor quality. my recording abilities are limited.

This post has been edited by cheeseyness on Aug 1 2009, 10:36 PM

Attached File ( Number of downloads: 55 )
 druids1.mov

(note: this is where the chapters start to get long!)

4. August:


The leaves were falling. It was foreshadowing of Christine’s least favorite time of the year: the time the Druid wolf pack moved back to the park. She had reduced herself to leaving out chicken meat for the pups and for the leaders, in the hopes they would stay a little longer, but it was no use. The deer were all but gone, and she was just prolonging the inevitable by tempting them with food. They were meant to follow the herds into Yellowstone according to natural laws, and if they didn’t, it could damage their chances of pack survival. She couldn’t put those pups or the pack in jeopardy.

All three pups had grown so fast and so strong. Marie was still the little brat that she’d been when Christine had first met her, but she’d grown into her lot in life. She didn’t look like she was pretending anymore when she stood up tall and regal, and her nips at her brothers were less reprimanding, more like asserting dominance. She was nearly always at her mother’s side, but her paws were already gaining some of the yellow that most white wolves got, which made Tortuk look all the more brilliant for an animal her age. On Marie, it looked somehow less fitting, as id she would have preferred to stay her perfect ivory self. If wolf packs were ever run by mother and daughter teams, however, Christine knew that the two would dominate. She’d seen Marie come back once with blood caked on her muzzle and her teeth bared. She still looked royal, but now she looked dangerous, eager to kill. She could be frightening if she wanted to…she’d make a great leader or mate someday.

Teaspoon was finally getting a hold of his own balance problems. He was still the klutziest pup of the three, and easily the clumsiest of the pack, but Christine had seen him hunt once, and when his life depended on it, he seemed to spring into action and became faster than his sister or brother, nearly keeping up with the adult wolves. Barley had been a quick one too, she remembered, but not as quick as this pup. But whenever he sat, not doing a thing, he would rotate his head, resting his cheek on one side then the other side in a very funny way that never failed to make Christine laugh. He was a clown, and a part of her hoped that the pup would never really outgrow his silly ways. She knew this was wishful thinking, though, and that nature would have other plans for the little wolf.

Freddie had learned a new trick too: the strut, and he never failed to use it. He would saunter past his mother and his sisters with nose held high, tail up. He would trot like a pony from one place to the other rather than in the normal loping gate of a wolf, which made him look like a lap dog at times. But she’d seen him defend his food from his brother before. He’d snap and growl in a high pitched and whiny tone till the whimpering Teaspoon left him alone. He’d tried this once when Majesty approached him, looking hungry or curious. He’d snapped at the older wolf’s paws, letting out tiny yapping barks. The other wolf had barked back and taken a swift snap at the pup, who went skidding with a yelp away from the food to cower in the den. He’d lost his strut for a while after that, but it was back now. Christine maintained affection for him and prayed that the pup had learned his lesson and would not try the trick again. Majesty would be less forgiving next time.

The black wolf had been gone for some time, but she still heard his call every now and again, and thought of him as a distant friend more than a missing pack member. She hoped desperately that he had not fallen on hard times, and that he was just out somewhere, hunting for the rest of the pack. When she heard that call, she suddenly knew his name was Tyr, and it felt like she’d known it all along.

Christine hadn’t seen the pups for a few days now either. At first she had worried that they had been injured or killed during a hunt, or that a nearby farmer had got them for trophy pelts. But the other wolfs were around, so she suspected the young ones were resting up for the big move back to the park. It was a surefire sign that fall was right around the corner, waiting to spring on her and drive the wolves out of her home and heart. She woke every morning filled with dread, praying as she opened her window that they would still be out there, even for just one more day. But it was mid August now. There was little point in putting it off.

She stopped putting out the chicken meat that very night, and afterwards she sat in her room crying softly as she felt the loneliness slipping under the front door and between the cracks in the windowsill.


Christine woke up late that night, cheeks still sticky and salty where the bitter tears had been. It was cold in her small bedroom, and she could hear soft drum beats from outside, tiny and numerous. She stood and went quickly to the now fogged up window, her voice catching in her throat even though her lips repeated over and over “no.” But there was nothing to be done. It was raining outside, a cold and wintry rain. Surely, the wolves would be gone tomorrow. With the cold weather, the pups four months old now, and no food to be had, there was no reason for them to stay. She sighed deeply and pressed her cheek against the glass, letting the condensation on the window partially wash away the salt clinging to her skin and eyelashes. She didn’t cry now, but when she had been younger, every time they had gone, she would cry for days, alone in her room, till her father made her come out.

Her father wasn’t here anymore, so she knew that if she began to cry now, she might never leave her room again. There was a rifle in her closet, and it wasn’t like she hadn’t thought of it before. It seemed most tempting at this time of year, but she always put it out of her mind and year after year the closet stayed shut.


The rain fell all night, and she stayed up, staring out into it with quiet melancholy. She sat at the window, watching the rainfall, and thought she began to see strange shapes in the rain. Just shimmers of moonlight through the water. They moved like fish across her plane of vision, like silver ghosts wandering the earth in search of something. She put her index finger tip to the glass and followed the shining shapes through the condensation of the rainy night, making paths of clarity.

In the transparent streaks her finger made, she could see the wolves. They looked frantic, like they were on the hunt. But so late at night? What deer or rabbit would have ventured onto her land? She watched the flashes of damp and matted fur as they turned left and right, sharp and decisive. She made out Barley, head low and eyes fixed on some other point she couldn’t see. She saw Majesty, his gate slower than the others due to age, but still strong as he raced behind his oldest son towards whatever they chased. She looked hard, and could make out a few other shapes, but nothing enough to decide who it was, or what they were doing. She stared at them, wondering but afraid to go to the door and check, worried she would ruin the hunt.

She could hear snarling, barking, and then yelping. Not in pain, but in the way wolves did when they brought something down. She tried in vain to peer around the outside of the house to see what it was they had managed, but could not make out anything, not even blurry movement. She put her ear against the window, listening to the barking, growling, and tearing of what may have been skin. She smiled…maybe they’d stay now.

She put her eyes back to front, and was caught off guard by what she saw. Through the foggy window she could see a shape, just the faint silver outline caused by the falling rain. It was still, but she could almost feel it breathe, somewhere deep in her chest, and she breathed with it. The blurry gleam of gold shone through as well, like a single star of deep orange-yellow. Christine stared at it, fixated. She heard the deep, hoarse howl as he tipped his head back then brought it down again, the gold flashing once again into view. Tyr, she said in her own mind. Tyr. Tyr. Tyr. She silently repeated it over and over again, looking into that single point of light against the blackness of the night and his form. What are you, Tyr?

What are you?


She woke up the next morning to find that it had stopped raining. She was still leaning against the window sill, arms crossed below her head, and she didn’t remember at what point in the night she had fallen asleep/ She wasn’t sure how long she had slept in either, but the sun was already high in the sky and casting a thin bright glow over the damp ground outside. The sky was blue except for a few stray clouds floating lazily above the ranch, and everything looked green, like it was spring all over again. But it was almost fall, she reminded herself, feeling her spirits sink. They sunk even further when she realized that he had not yet seen any sign of the wolves.

She sat upright sharply, and her eyes grew wide and desperate, searching the land outside. There was no sign of the Druids.

She stood slowly and turned towards her bedroom door. It seemed like she moved in slow motion as she made her way to the front of the house and opened the door. The world smelled new and musty, like freshly tilled earth, and the bright light blinded her for a moment. She held her hand in front of her eyes and took a deep breath in, tasting the wet world. So many smells that usually came with summer or spring, but there was a distinct absence of the dingy must of the wolf pack or the pup-filled den. She sighed, and dropped her hand, eyes adjusting to the lighting.

They were gone.

It was then she saw the carcass of the deer. It was mostly eaten or mangled beyond recognition, but Christine could still tell it was a deer. The legs, minus one, were splayed out to all sides to expose the lack of flesh across the chest and stomach. The entrails were mostly gone, but little bits remained, flung haphazardly around the body. He neck was exposed, gashed open with flashes of red and white exposed where the throat and spine had been chewed by hungry wolf teeth. The two-pronged antlers stuck into the ground, light brown and white like whale bones. The head was mostly fleshless, and the ears were missing, but the eyes were wide open, cloudy black like obsidian against the clay colored earth.

Christine didn’t feel sick looking at this, but she did feel a pang of pity. Poor thing, she thought. Was probably looking for shelter and stumbled right into the den. The wolves would have attacked the animal at first out of self-defense, but would have relished the hunt after they recognized it as prey. They would have taken it down, torn it up, and eaten all they could. But they also would have moved, feeling threatened by a perceived attack on the den. They were gone.

Christine wiped at her eyes, and ordered herself not to cry. It was for the best, she told herself, and it was meant to happen eventually. Why not now? She had work to do anyway. The smell of blood tended to upset the hens, even if they were in the barn. So she’d need a shovel and a tarp to move the deer out of her yard, maybe…

Christine took a step off the porch and instantly found herself falling forward. She flailed in the air with her hands as she toppled towards the ground, and then let out a sharp cry of pain as she felt the sting of the strong teeth that were now sunk deep into the back of her ankle.

****

Christine fell hard against the ground, her cry dying on her lips as all her air rushed out of her. She felt light headed, sick to her stomach even, and she felt for a moment or two that she was unable to get any air into her lungs. It was like her chest refused to expand, and it took a while for her to realize that she had just had the wind knocked out of her. Suddenly, the air rushed back, and with it came all her senses, in a flood of confusion, surprise and pain.

She jerked her leg up towards her, reaching for the place on her ankle that was now smeared red with deep crimson liquid and had several small holes where teeth had been. They had hit her tendon, and the pain was absolutely maddening. She howled and put all the pressure she could manage on the wound, trying to get it to stop bleeding. But even then, in her pain and confusion, she still had the time to hear the low growl and snap of angry fearful jaws. Her eyes, which were blurry from the flood of involuntary tears, shot to the porch and tried to focus on the shape that was twitching and shuffling its way back under the porch where it had been before. Through the fog of salty moisture, she managed to make out a glaring yellow point, and that was all it took.

Tyr.

Christine sat up, still holding her ankle tight to reduce the bleeding, but now fascinated by the animal under her deck. She wasn’t afraid of him, as he seemed to be retreating rather than attacking now. Tyr was lying there, mostly invisible to her, in the shadows of the porch, growling softly but menacingly. She quickly put things together and realized that she had stepped off the porch, startled him, and he had lashed out, feeling threatened. Her yell might have startled him too, which was most likely why he had shuffled his way back into the darkness. But this brought on a whole other list of problems, the first of which was him being here, and the rest of the pack being elsewhere. And that just lead to a whole other long list of whys, and hows. It was never-ending.

Then Christine asked herself a question which, she realized, she had wondered about the night before. One bright yellow gleam? Only one?

Very carefully, she inched closer to the snarling animal, squinting and wiping her eyes with her free hand to see what she could. He growled a little louder, and she stopped where she was, unwilling to tax his patience further. Everything slowly came into focus, and she stared at the hiding animal, suddenly unable to catch her breath.

Tyr was still wet, but not from the night’s rain. It was sweat; she could smell it now that she thought about it, in all its pungent odor. His torn up ears lay flat on either side of his thick head, rather than pinned back in an aggressive gesture, and his one eye was wide, crazed by fear. The other eye was not. Not to say that it wasn’t scared looking or wide. It just no longer was. At all. She could see the place where it normally would have been, but there was no eye there now. Instead, there was a mound of red and angry flesh that looked like it might have gone through a meat grinder. The area at the top of his muzzle and around his cheek was stained a dark purple brown from the blood that had been slowing and maybe still was flowing. There were scratch marks around the wound, probably where he had kicked and pawed at it from the pain, trying to make it better. But most shocking, was that the area moved, rising and falling, as if it was a living creature and it was breathing.

While the deer carcass had not made Christine sick, this did, and she drew back, disgusted and suddenly sick to her stomach. She could see it all in her mind now, the fleeing deer lashing out with its small but piercing back hooves, and Tyr at the back, making sure the animal didn’t double back on itself. The deer, trying one last time to defend itself, and Tyr, making a final blow to bring the beast down. She’d heard of other farmers’ dogs getting kicked in the face by deer, but she’d never seen it happen to a wolf before.

All this also meant that she knew why he was here rather than with the pack. He had been losing blood all night, and the wound was probably infected. Wolves could tell when their injuries were bad, usually not right away, but after a moment of living with it. They tended not to fight it. Christine remembered how she’d found Francie one day, hiding under the porch and unwilling to come out. She’d called her father over and complained that the dog wouldn’t come out and play with her. Her father had looked a long while under the porch and had talked to the dog a while in a low and loving voice, before pulling his head back and addressing his daughter.

“Leave her alone,” he’d said uneasily, shooing her away from the front of the house. “She wants to be alone for this. Dogs go off alone at times like this in their lives. Best to give her the privacy she needs.”

The next morning, Francie lay dead under the porch.

Christine looked down at Tyr where he lay growling, and maybe even shaking a little, and she felt a pang of desperation in the back of her throat, tears coming to her eyes again. But not from pain this time. From sadness, from grief.

“Oh Tyr,” she said softly, shaking her head. “Oh Tyr…”

At her words, Tyr seemed to quiet a little. His ears flicked forward and his lips uncurled to cover his blood marked teeth. His growling dulled to a muffled rumble inside his chest as he watched her, probably curious to what she’d do next, now that she hadn’t shown herself to be a threat.

Christine wasn’t really sure what she was going to do, but she knew that she was not about to let Tyr die there under the porch. Not when she could stop it.


The two sat facing each other for another hour, contemplating one another and their current situation. The wolf had fixed his one good eye on the woman, and stared unblinkingly at her, waiting and listening. It was also possible that he’d given up at that point and was waiting for her to attack, knowing that he was to weak to fight back or escape. But she didn’t attack, and she frankly had very little idea of what to do. She knew that her father would have called the police or animal control by now, but there was a major problem with this: Tyr was badly injured, and he had bitten someone now. Surely, they’d just put him down, or shoot him to ease the pain of his passing. And that was not what she wanted.

It came to her then, and as flawed as the plan was, she had the feeling it would work. After her father’s death, the doctor had given her sleeping pills, real strong ones too. If she could get Tyr to eat one or two, he’d be out cold, and she could retrieve him from under the porch! After that she could…yes, and what after that, huh? Again, she was at a loss of an answer. Call animal control and lie about the bite? No. They’d still put him down.

She’d have to take care of him, maybe with some help from her friends, and hope for the best. What help? She asked herself. And what friends? It wasn’t much, but it was better than the alternative, and there were no other feasible options she could think of.

Tyr watched her lazily out of his good eye, still rumbling his throat in the warning growl, but making no other move. He looked tired, worn out, and the matted fur was getting thicker with sweat all the while. He was breathing hard, his long tongue rolling to the side of his mouth, which opened wide with every intake of breath, then closed some with every exhale. The earth below his head was red, and a very small puddle lie drying in the dust where the blood had fallen She knew she would have to work quickly if this were all going to work.

“Stay here, ok?” she asked the wolf. Tyr blinked at her and made no move to disobey.

She went into the house and found her first aid kit before she did anything else. She poured some rubbing alcohol on her wound, wincing at the burn, and wrapped a gauze bandage clumsily around the injured ankle. Then, she found the sleeping pills and went to the fridge. She still had a plate of raw chicken she had intended to give to the Druid pack, but now it could all go to one wolf. She pulled out three sleeping pills and ground them onto the meat. If Tyr needed more, she could slaughter another chicken and use that, but she figured this would be enough.

She returned to the porch, and yet again Tyr pulled back his lips and snapped angrily at her as she stepped onto the ground, though now she walked farther away from his location. She knelt and slid the plate forward, just under the edge of the porch. Tyr stopped growling and his ears shot forward, nose trembling. Even near death, Tyr was still hungry. He looked from Christine to the plate, then back again, suspicious. Then he crawled forward, slowly, hesitantly, and sniffed the plate again. He looked up at Christine once more, Eye narrowed, ready to attempt to attack or run if need be.

“Eat up boy,” Christine urged, backing away to give him more space. “Come on, it’s good.”

Tyr looked at her for a while longer, and then with great abandon, tore into the raw chicken as if he had never eaten before in his life. Christine smiled. So far, so good.

****

Tyr snored peacefully, head between his paws, just barely under the shade of the porch. His head was on its side, his ears flopped to the ground, with a look if indignant peace upon his face. It had taken him long enough; Christine noted to herself, touching the back of her neck, which was now beginning to feel like it was sunburned. She had waited, watching, as the wolf shook his head hard, confused at what this overpowering feeling was, fought it with growls, then gave in and dropped heavily to sleep. She had waited a little longer too, just to make sure he was well asleep, but she now prayed, looking at the way he slept without even twitching a muscle, that she had not given him enough to kill him.

She approached him with caution, afraid that he’d wake and take out her hand or arm if she even made a sound. If she made a sound? How on earth was she supposed to carry him then? She sighed and reached out a hand to the wolf's paw. She touched it quickly, and then pulled away in case he was ready to bite her. But Tyr didn’t move, and Christine felt a tingle of satisfaction along the back of her neck at the idea that she had finally touched a wolf! But she told herself to be calm and just do what she had originally intended to do. There were important things at hand.

Slowly, delicately, Christine slipped her arm slowly beneath the sleeping wolf, watching his head all the while for any sign of wakeful activity. However he didn’t even flinch. Christine let out a long low sigh of relief and slipped the other arm under, and heaved upwards with all her strength. Tyr didn’t move. She tried again, straining harder to pull up under the wolf’s ribs, and this time she succeeded in raising his upper half awkwardly off the dirt ground.

This left her with a problem. While she could probably drag the wolf all the way to the barn, it would take a very long time, and there was no telling when he’d wake up. She needed a cart, something to drag him on. She suddenly remembered the tarp she was going to get for the deer carcass before this all happened. Surely, that would be a perfect means of it! She gently laid Tyr down again and dashed to the barn.

She found the tarp easily, but found yet another problem. The chickens. She’d put them all in the barn coop when the wolves arrived, and they were still there. She’d have to shoo them into the outside coop in a hurry! She opened the side door into the coop and then opened the inside door so the chickens could come out. They all ran at once, like they had been waiting to make a jail break and had been planning on it for some time now. At first they made towards the front entrance, but the ones in front stopped short, seeming flustered, and turned tail towards the entrance to the outdoor coop.

“Yeah,” Christine muttered, doing her best to shoo them all through the door. “Smell wolf out there don’t you? Yeah, you better be scared. Go on! Get!”

At last, the chickens were all in the outdoor coop, leaving the indoor one a perfect empty holding cell for a live wolf. They were all squawking now in alarm, and Christine guessed that they could see Tyr now as well as see him. Again, she reminded herself to work fast, and that she didn’t have much time.

She laid the tarp on the ground and tucked the edge under Tyr’s body, then gently rolled him over onto it, careful to position his paws so that they wouldn’t get hurt in the process. Then, grunting and straining she pulled the wolf into the barn and into the wire mesh coop. She collapsed, exhausted, next to the body, relieved that she had managed it without the wolf waking up, and with time to spare. She turned to look at the injury now, to see what the real damage was.

The injury still seemed to breathe as the wolf snored, but it looked to have stopped bleeding. However, it was swollen and red, and bits of fur around the edges of it looked dyed a deep brown from the blood. She touched his head and ears and felt the hot wet black fur, saturated with sweat. She ran her hand back over the wolf’s head between his ears and down his neck, fascinated by the wiry texture of his coat. With her index finger she traced the white streak along his chest, then all the little scars across his head and shoulders. She gently patted the spot where his shoulders met his neck and smiled down at the sleeping beast, just as she had done to Francie as a kid.

“Good boy,” she whispered to him. “Good boy Tyr. You’ll be better soon, so rest.”

She wanted to kiss his neck, buy her face in his side and cry for hours at the fact that at long last she was sitting beside a wolf, stroking his neck as if he was her pet. It had been a dream, ever since the first day she’d seen them in a yard, and she’d made up a name for one, secretly. She had a new secret now: Tyr. She wanted to hug him close like the family dog, have him as a best friend. She knew, though, that he was a wild animal. Still, she could at least enjoy this moment. She ran her hand down his back, across his boney, weary spine and massaged the areas between his shoulders. She let her hand follow his back down to his tail, till it met the tiny wispy few white hairs on at the very tip. He was so elegant, so sleek. Made for running and made for power.

Then his tail moved.

Christine looked up slowly to find that the wolf had raised his head and was now looking at her curiously. He blinked his good eye at her once, then it seemed like time froze. His eye slowly seemed to take in everything that was happening around him, and it grew hard, bitter. The two figures were still, the tension mounting between them. Then at last, as if in slow motion, the two began to move. Tyr was to his feet in an instant, while Christine was still leaping towards the door, frantically searching for the handle even as she scrambled clumsily out of her sitting position. Tyr leapt at her, barking and snarling, but the pills were still affecting him some, and he missed his mark. With a yelp and a crash, the wolf went headlong into the wire mesh, and then bounced back with a flop onto the dirt floor of the barn. Christine dived through the door while he was still recovering, and fumbled to try to get the door closed and locked. Tyr shook his head hard and leapt again with his full force into the door. Just in time, Christine bolted the lock and fell back, watching as the very large body of the wolf slammed into the door, scratching and snarling.

She found she couldn’t breathe, and bent forward onto the ground, panting. The sound of Tyr’s complaints and outrage at being trapped faded into the background as she remembered how to make her lungs work. She looked up and silently watched the wolf, still fighting the locked door with bared teeth, wide golden eye, and claws scraping the latch. He didn’t seem frightened or sad. He was angry. She swallowed hard.

“Sorry boy,” she panted out. “It has to be done.”

There was still more to be done though. She eyed the angry sore where the wolf’s eye should be and realized, very suddenly, how much of a challenge giving the animal medical care was going to me. He was awake now, and probably wouldn’t fall for the same mistake twice, and what was more he was angry with her, ready to strike if he had the opportunity.

She wondered what she’d gotten herself into.

****

Another page without any useful information. Christine closed the Internet window on her computer screen and sighed heavily. She’d been at it nearly an hour, with very little useful information on how to deal with a seriously injured wolf. She’d found a little about their anatomy, and a little about where to call if you needed help with one, but that was all pretty useless without any words on what to do to treat an injury of this sort! She couldn’t call. They’d put Tyr down, either for his bad condition or for that still very painful bite on her ankle. She took a deep breath, and opened another Internet search to see if this new series of words to magically gain her the knowledge she was searching for.

A few more searches without any luck, and she sat back in her chair, exhausted and empty handed. There was only one thing she could think of, and she doubted it would be very useful. With a heavy heart, she typed in “Dog injuries home treatment.” She found much what she had expected. Sites explaining the symptoms to look out for, with an order to deliver the animal to a vet if it appeared to be serious. Most addressed small breeds of dogs, and none that were out for blood. So really, nothing that talked about her particular circumstances. Just as she was about to close the window, she spotted a URL that looked somewhat different than the others.

“Farm Dog Remedies?” she mused over the title. What had she got to lose? She opened the window, crossing her fingers.

It had everything.

It showed diagrams of how to clean wounds, how to restrain the dog so it didn’t squirm away or injure anyone, and most important of all, it had instructions on how to properly suture a wound. At the top of the page was a large red warning that said “The creator of this website encourages all dog owners to take their pet to a vet rather than trying to treat them at home. Avoid the risks.” Well, she was neither a dog owner, and there was far greater risk in calling a vet. So on both accounts, this warning did not apply to her! Christine chuckled to herself as she pressed the print button.

Once she had collected the pages, she found herself with another problem. She needed Tyr to be asleep again, and she doubted he’d eat the chicken after what had happened last time. Still, she didn’t know what else to try.

Christine got the very last few scraps of frozen chicken she had been saving for her own dinner that night. She ground up one extra sleeping pill this time, to give her a little extra time to work, and pored steak sauce over the raw chicken to mask the possible smell. She wondered if she was overestimating the animal, but decided that this was definitely a time for “better safe than sorry.” This done, she grabbed the pages with the medical instructions on them, as well as a first aid and sewing kit, and set out for the barn, resolved to help Tyr whether he liked it or not.

When she arrived, she could easily tell that Tyr was under the ‘not’ category. He was standing, head low towards the ground, and breathing heavily. His tongue moved in and out of his gaping mouth labouredly as he moved from one end of the coop to the other, and then back again in a slow pattern. His eye was wide, confused, but ever vigilant, and his nose was always twitching, probably smelling those now gone chickens, Christine guessed. His paws moved clumsily though, tiredly, and his body language dictated that he was straining to keep up his laps from one end of the coop to the other. She could hear him breathing, a low sort of growl mixed with his breath, and every few steps he would let out a snuffled bark between his breaths, hoarse as if he’d been doing it for some time now already.

Christine swallowed hard as he caught sight of her and spun to face her. He dropped his head even lower and his teeth came together in a snarl. He let out a very low growl, widened his paws to give himself a more solid stance, and then charged, barking towards her briefly before pulling to a halt right before the wire mesh and retreating in slow steps. He looked like he was challenging her, daring her to come any closer. But he looked so tired, so beat up. He was far less threatening now that he was in a cage, but she still stayed back and waited till his charges became somewhat less aggravated before approaching.

“Hey boy,” she whispered, walking very slowly. Tyr responded with a growl and a retreating step. “Easy now,” she murmured holding up her free hand to show that is was empty, then holding up the other hand with the plate of chicken. “See what I’ve got for you?”

Try’s ears moved hesitantly forward as he caught a whiff of the meat in her hand. His teeth stayed bared, but he stopped retreating as she approached. He looked so skinny to her, all of a sudden, the way he stood, panting, watching the plate in her hand rather than the possible threat of an approaching human.

“See? Just getting you dinner,” she said with an easy smile. “Just trying to help, Tyr.”

Tyr didn’t respond to his chosen name, but he seemed to calm a little, apparently forgetting the result of the previous dinner he had been given. He took a step towards her and raised his head a little from its formerly defensive position. She, in turn, knelt and slid the plate towards him under the door of the coop. Once the plate left her hand, Tyr seemed to remember that she was a possible danger, and his ears pinned themselves back and he lunged with a snap at her retreating hand. She jerked it away just in time and watched as Tyr ravenously gulped down the raw meat then licked the plate completely clean of steak sauce. Part one was finished. Now, all she had to do was wait for the pills to take effect.

The effects of the previous dose seemed to have not worn off yet, because half an hour later, Tyr slumped heavily over to one side and slept, the steady rise and fall of his chest the only indicator that he was alive. Christine gave it only an extra minute, by her watch, before she went inside the coop to begin her work. She didn’t have much time.

As quickly as she could, she spread out the contents of the sewing and the first aid kit on the floor, then laid out the pages from the printout in an order where she could easily read down the list of what to do step by step. She pulled on the pair of rubber gloves that she’d found in the back closet and knelt beside the sleeping wolf, very nervous of what she was about to do and if he would wake up! She’d never been a very good tailor, unlike her father, and given an injection or anything even similar! This was going to be a challenge.

She mustered up as much courage as she could, and poured out a small amount of alcohol on a gauze pad before dabbing it daintily ad the mount of purple red flesh where Tyr’s eye once was. The muscles around it shivered and twitched, but much to her relief, Tyr did not stir. She dabbed more generously now, adding more alcohol every time, changing gauze when one became to red with dirt and blood. Bits of skin and fur came away, even small rocks. She kept at this, picking at the wound with a tweezers as well, until the wound became light red, wet, and clean as she could get it. She poured a little of the rubbing alcohol over the wound, just for good measure, and moved on to the next tool.

This was her least looked forward to part of the job. Biting her lower lip, she carefully threaded the needle with a thin white thread and tied a firm, large knot in the end. She sat, poised over the wolf’s body, and for a while she couldn’t make herself move. She’d always hated getting shots, and she suspected that stitches couldn’t feel much better. Still, she calmed herself, stilled her shaking hand, and forced herself to bring the point of the sewing needle to the skin right beside the angry open wound. With the feeling of nausea rising in her stomach, she did as the paper said and forced the needle down into the wolf’s skin, right beside the bridge of his nose. She swallowed hard, keeping herself from vomiting, and watched to see if the wolf could feel it. He flinched briefly, and then was still again. Thank god for those sleeping pills.

Christine pulled the thread through the small hole she had made, hating the way it slipped across the wolf’s skin, until it was taut and the knot was caught at the end. Following the instructions, she stitched down and across over and over again, slowly pulling tight each time, and the wound gradually began to close. Like a mouth, getting the sustenance it needed, the red went away, to reveal dark gray skin contrasted sharply in white sewing thread. She continued until there was only a white seam where the bloody mass had been, then tied it off and bit the thread to end the string. She sat back to admire her work for a moment, and found that she had been sweating very hard, and that her hands were cramped and shaking slightly from the effort involved in the procedure. It was sloppy looking, and she knew it, but it didn’t honestly look too bad, and she’d finished it before the great wolf had even begun to wake up!

She stood up, gathered her things back into her arms, and looked down at the sleeping, Tyr with relieved eyes. He looked so much better, and although she’d need to sanitize the wound many times over the course of the next few weeks, it was a very good start. She filled the empty plate with water and laid it down next to the wolf, and pushed a little hay into the coop for him to sleep on. Before she left, she took a moment to reach down and place her hand lovingly between the animal’s ears. She scratched gently there, looking into the wolf’s sleeping face.

“That’s better, right Tyr?” she whispered.

Tyr made a happy noise in his sleep, and his body seemed to relax considerable as she rubbed the backs of his ears. She sighed, relaxing a little herself, and left the pen, locking it behind her. It would be a while till he was better, and she couldn’t be sure she’d even done the right thing, but she’d done it. She’d closed Tyr’s wounds, and now all she had to do was get him food, water, everything a normal wolf needed.

As she took stock of all these things, she heard Tyr begin to stir from sleep, and she smiled. The sun beamed in through the gap in the barn door, and the smell of wildflowers from somewhere far off drifted to her nose. Maybe fall wasn’t quite here after all.

****

This post has been edited by cheeseyness on Aug 1 2009, 11:16 PM

5. September:


The leaves were mostly gone now from the few scraggly trees that dotted the landscape of the ranch. They lay in piles of crackly brown at he base of the trunks, nestled between the exposed tentacle-like roots, reaching ever outward. The wind was cold now, and it blew between the cracks in her door and at the base of her window. In the morning, the air tasted like frost sometimes, and Christine found she needed to wrap herself tightly in blankets if she had any hope of coaxing herself out of bed. Winter felt like it always came early, trying to get a jump on autumn when it wasn’t even in full swing yet. The seasons always felt a little off, like everything came early. Everything but summer, Christine noted to herself. Summer, ever since school, had always felt like it would never come.


It had been two and a half weeks since she had donned the part of interim vet, and things were going surprisingly well for her. By some grace of god, Tyr had not pulled out his stitches. He scratched at them sometimes, but he couldn’t bite at them, so they stayed in, letting the wound heal properly. Every other day, Christine slipped Tyr a few sleeping pills, only a few so that she could dab some rubbing alcohol onto the area to keep out infection. There had been no sign of unusual swelling or redness, and the dead flesh that she had pulled away with tweezers had not spread to the remaining skin, which looked healthy. Tyr was forever to be short one eye, but he didn’t seem all that phased by it.

He was slowly becoming accustomed to Christine’s presence, and no longer growled when she entered. He knew that she always brought food, and had never connected the ideas of sudden sleep and the food she brought, so he always seemed eager when she entered. He did still nip at her hand and snarl though whenever she slipped the plate under the door, but Christine had learned this habit and had never again been caught by his strong bite. Her ankle was healing nicely, but she had a row on one side of small white spots, scars, where the teeth had cut into her. She felt more like wearing it proudly, however, as it proved her contact with wolves, and made a wonderful story at bars. Not that she ever went to bars, but if she had, by god it would have made some story!

She had been given some strange looks by the butcher in town whenever she went in to ask for the poorer cuts of beef. He would ask her, every day she came, what it was she wanted, and her answer was always the same:

“Something in bulk,” she would say with a smile. “Doesn’t matter about the quality. Just bulk.”

As it was his job to get the customer what they wanted, the butcher never asked where all the shoulder and rump cuts ended up going, but Christine could tell that he was curious. He was a thin man with a kind face but with very tired eyes. She got the feeling he never saw anything of real interest in his shop, and that her mysterious purchases might be a nice change of scenery for him.

She did occasionally buy stew cuts of beef in a small amount. She could use them to treat Tyr if she so felt, but she could also use them herself, and she knew well she’d been neglecting her own diet in favor of Tyr’s. Stew was a wonderful change from the usual chicken and eggs she got from her father’s inheritance, and she experimented with the different spices she had in the house, till it was thick, salty, and full of pieces of beef and potato. The wolf as well seemed even hungrier when he was swallowing down the small scraps of meat meant for humans.

Once, the butcher put down the end part of a leg bone, sawed off half way up. It still had bits of fat and cartilage sticking to the sides, and the marrow was still pink on the inside. She looked down at the addition as the butcher wrapped it up in brown paper and handed it across the counter to her along with the stew meat and a shoulder cut. Then, she looked back at him, puzzled. He shrugged at her and smiled.

“Hey, I figure you’re either eating nothing but stew or you got one hungry dog back where you live,” he said jovially. “Either way, this will be a help. A good stew bone, or a good chew toy.”

“One or the other,” she said back with a grin, unwilling to divulge which it was. “Thanks.”

He didn’t seem bothered by the fact that she didn’t specify if it was stew or chew toy, and he wished her a good day. She left feeling happy, but still unsure whether or not to stew the bone for herself. After all, it did look like a good stew bone, and a bit of marrow in her broth would be pleasant. Then again…

Christine went t the barn when she got back. Tyr leapt up from where he was lying and bounded toward her, barking hungrily. She opened the latch to the coop, and quickly tossed in the bone before shutting and latching it again. Tyr was already on it before it even hit the ground. He sprang at it, missed, but turned sharply in the air to snap at it again, and this time he succeeded in bringing his prey down. He sniffed it, licked at it, and then settled down and pulled the one to him with one paw, crunching at the joint with his larger back teeth. His eye rolled ceiling-wards with a look of bliss spreading over his face and posture. Christine smiled and knelt, watching his tail pass back and forth over the dirt floor, making a clean spot.

“You damned wolf,” she said loving, “You’re going to eat me out of all the food I have. Soon I’ll give you all my chickens and then where will I be?”

Tyr didn’t respond, and continued to munch away on his new toy. Christine stood up and dusted off her knees before turning back towards the house. She had stew to make.


****

A few days later, it was time to remove Tyr’s stitches. Her printout said to give them two to three weeks, and it had now been three weeks. Three weeks of drugging the wolf to clean out the coop or his wound, of snatching back her hand to avoid a bite. Three weeks of watching him pace the coop uncomfortably, as if he’d never seen such a small space in his life, and three weeks of praying each day that the wolf would not pull out his stitches and erase all the hard work she had done. Today was the end of those three weeks, and it was time to eliminate at least the last part of that agenda.

She used bits of her stew meat to drug the wolf with the same dosage she’d originally given him. She waited till he passed into dream and entered the chicken coop with a pair of kitchen scissors in hand. She carefully cut through the yellowing thread and pulled each bit out slowly, again disliking the resistance it had as it passed through his muscle and skin. It left a series of twelve small holes in the skin that barely bled, and a wrinkled indent in the skin between them. It was still fragile looking, but it seemed to have healed considerably, and would probably be alright. No infection, no unusual redness or swelling. It seemed she’d actually done it! She’d successfully healed Tyr! She knew it had to have been luck, but who cared?

He looked happier at least. His appearance had improved too. His coat was no longer sweaty and matted with dirt, and his body language had grown more confident as he had regained his strength. Even lying there, asleep, he looked more fearsome, more majestic. His ragged ears and mangy coat were still there, but they seemed less ragged, less dingy today. Maybe she could help with the coat part too!

She had a comb in her pocket, a little one meant for human hair only, but she figured it would do. She pulled it out and began with quick little strokes across the top of his head and down the back of his neck, being careful to miss Tyr’s recent scar. She could see bits of dirt, loose hair, and even the occasional tick or flea caught in the bristles of the comb, and the tangles in his coat slowly began to lessen, till the comb passed cleanly through the fur of his neck, heat, and throat. He shone now, and looked like some sort of wolf from a Disney movie, one that was made for dog shows rather than wilderness hunting. She moved on to his shoulder and back, again with short sharp strokes to get out the tangles. All the while, she watched him closely, even as she moved to his belly and inner legs, to make sure that he wasn’t beginning to wake up.

She was playing with the small bit of white on his chest when she abruptly noticed that she was hitting something solid by the wolf’s body. She turned to find that she had run her hand directly into his sheathed member. She jerked her hand back and dropped the comb, disgusted and surprised that she had not noticed. She told herself that dog owners did this all the time, and that horse owners even had to clean down there, up inside the horse’s sheath. She’d even had to do it once when she'd worked as a stable-hand; there was nothing to be disgusted by. Still, somewhere in her stomach she felt a small lump form, uncomfortable and shifting, making her feel a little queasy. What would Tyr think of all this? Tyr didn’t seem to have stirred, however, and he barely even moved, almost imperceptibly. Once, his hips rocked only very slightly forward, then back, and he was still. Christine swallowed sharply, and tried to look at the recent event in a joking light.

“Sorry boy,” she murmured with a short laugh and another pat on his head. “Didn’t mean to lead you on. I somehow don’t think I’m your type, what with the lack of tail and fur.”

But she wondered now if that was really the only difference, that perhaps if she had a long bristly tail like Tyr, a longer nose, and a fur covered body, would she suddenly become interesting to a wolf? Was that all it took? She told herself to stop thinking about it. She was not a wolf, and thinking about a wolf in that manner was…well, she didn’t know what it was. But whatever it was, she needed to stop it. Tyr needed care, not a mate or an owner or whatever she was. She finished brushing his tail quickly, using less care and feeling deeply uncomfortable the whole time.

Tyr began to move and Christine quickly got to her feet an exited the coop. She put the comb down by the cage, as she couldn’t possibly use it on her own hair now, and turned to watch Tyr revive himself, feeling somehow as if she had violated him in his sleep. It wasn’t at all a nice feeling, and it was a sort of guilt she wasn’t exactly used to. Still, she insisted to herself that it was nothing, and that she should be over it by now.

Tyr made a groaning noise and pushed himself up on his two front paws. His back two still seemed to be asleep, and he dragged himself forward a few steps before they finally came to life and raised his rear to its normal height. He shook himself from nose to tail, shaking off the sleep that had come over him so mystically yet again, and put of all Christine’s careful positioning of his fur to nothing. Still, Christine couldn’t help but admire him, as he looked cleaner there, more healthy. It just looked right. Well, minus the chicken wire of course.

Tyr finally noticed that she was there and turned his head to look at her. He didn’t bark, and he didn’t growl at her. He just stared out of his one good eye in all it’s piercing, calculating gold. Christine found she could not look away, as if the wolf was searching through a part of her she couldn’t quite name. Hopefully, slowly, she walked towards the coop, and Tyr didn’t back away. She knelt and put her palm up against the wire, watching Tyr for his reaction. Tyr pinned his ears back but didn’t make any sound. After a moment of the two standing there absolutely still, Tyr made his slow way over to her, and keeping her fixed in his gaze, put his nose to the wire in the same place her hand was. Christine could feel hot air on her palm and fingers as the wolf’s nostrils flared, taking in and analyzing her scent. He pulled away sharply after a moment, still never taking his eye off her, and the two stood on opposite sides of the fence, studying the other, as if they had both reached some sort of understanding. At last, Tyr pulled his head away from her and began pacing the front of the coop as he had been doing before. Christine too looked away, and the moment passed.

She turned to go back into the house and heard a low howl come from the coop where Tyr was pacing. She felt her heart tighten in her chest as she painfully remembered how wild Tyr was, and of the new problem facing her. Soon she’d have a very healthy wolf on her hands, and it would be too cold to keep the chickens outside. Not to mention, Tyr couldn’t stay in the barn, locked up like that forever, it just didn’t feel right to her. What was she going to do? Christine covered half of her face with her hand, and neglected to answer Tyr’s call, though everything in her heart was dying to. She went back into the house, listening as the low howls continued to echo from the barn.

****

Christine sat outside of Tyr’s coop, looking in and brooding over her current situation. The wolf was asleep, naturally this time, without the help of her drugs, and he snored softly in an easy peaceful rhythm. His scar had gotten even better, and now it seemed to pulse a little when he changed the gaze of his good eye, as if his body was still telling the missing eye what to do even though it was gone. She watched his eyelids shift as his good eye moved, and the bad one pretended to, and his legs kicked a little as if he was running. Christine hoped that he was dreaming.

It had rained badly the night before, and she’d arrived in the yard to find a mass of very soggy chickens in the outdoor coop. With them all wet like that, and the roof of the henhouse a leaky mess, the chickens wouldn’t lay. And if they didn’t lay, she didn’t make any money. Sure, her father had paid off the ranch long ago back when they’d had horses, but there were still so many bills that needed paying. The sky was gray again today, and it didn’t show any sign of burning off. Those hens needed to go inside, and not tomorrow or the next day. Today. They needed to go to the inside coop today.

But there was still the matter of the now sleeping Tyr, who might be or might not be ready to go out on his own. After all, he was pack less, blind on one side of his face, and still fairly shaky from the tough time of healing he’d had during the past weeks. There was no way of telling if he could even last on his own? Could he hunt? Could he manage even that?

Well, that was something she’d be able to test at least.

Sacrificing yet another chicken, Christine went out and rounded up a quick looking bird, snatched it up, and went back into the barn. She opened the door and tossed the squawking hen into the coop, its feather coming lose and floating down and it flapped in vain to stay aloft. About the time the bird hit the ground, Christine saw Tyr’s nose begin to move. His head jerked up, all sign of sleep gone, and he focused on the bird. The hen too had noticed another presence in the coop and had gone still, looking at the wolf with wide frightened eyes. Tyr rose silently, his eye locked onto the heavily breathing chicken, his head still as the rest of his body tensed and un-tensed. There was a moment of perfect stillness, and then Tyr sprang forward, snapping and barking.

He went wide to the left of the bird and crashed hard into the wire mesh. The chicken fluttered out of the way, making terrified and frantic noises. Christine blinked, surprised at Tyr’s so obvious of a miss. He was just now righting himself, shaking his head as if to shake away the impact. He spun and again fixed the bird in his sights. He sprang yet again, and again put himself hard into the wires. The chicken, free yet again, fluttered wide.

Christine sat, overwhelmed, as she realized what exactly all this meant. Tyr had one eye. Only one. Every time he jumped, he went to the left of where the target was, and Christine knew well that the eye was the cause of this. She stared, heartbroken, at the wolf and shook her head slowly.

“Damn it Tyr,” she muttered. “You can’t see, can you?” With one eye, his depth perception would be completely gone, making him unable to hunt, and unable to direct himself properly as he moved. He’s probably run into trees if he was going fast enough and wasn’t careful. There was no way he’d be able to go out into the wild now, or any time soon.

“Damn it Tyr,” she said again, feeling a painful tightness in her throat.

There was a loud and angry cry from the cage. She looked up to find that Tyr had at last cornered and caught the chicken. He had the motionless bird in his jaws and was shaking it, growling like a puppy. A fleck of warm red blood hit Christine on the cheek, and she quickly wiped it away. It had taken him that long to catch a flightless bird in an enclosed space?

Yes. Tyr was definitely going to be around for a while.

****

Tyr sagged to one side and fell hard, raising a small cloud of dust from the barn floor where he landed. Christine let out a long low sigh and went into the coop. He was building up a tolerance to the sleeping pills, and it had taken him longer than ever before to fall asleep. This meant she had less time, but enough. Barely enough in all likely-hood, but enough.

After performing the tarp trick again and dragging the sleeping wolf out into the evening light, Christine went inside and grabbed Francie’s old collar and leash from where it was still hanging over her kitchen counter: a memorial to a lost friend. It looked big enough to go around Tyr’s neck, and she found to her relief that she was right. She fastened the collar around the wolf’s thickly furred neck, clicking it onto the last notch, just barely. She attached the pink leash to the post of the front porch, figuring it was at least an area Tyr was familiar with and still smelled himself on. She left the wolf there on the tarp them to go tend to her chickens.

They were at first very reluctant to go into the coop, as it smelled of weeks of wolf, but they eventually filed in. She eyed the birds with bitter eyes as she shut the door of the coop and turned to go.

“You’re all luckier than you know that I didn’t feed you to him,” she hissed at them as she left.

She saw Tyr shifting into waking even as she approached. He was making low rumbling noises and shifting uneasily from one front paw to the other. He stood then, and looked about him confused at his new surroundings. He made a move to bound away, but found himself attached to the porch! Rather than strain at the leash like a dog would have done, Tyr spun, head facing where the leash was tied and began barking and growling, shaking his entire body as he tried to back out of the collar. There was no luck at this, and he began pawing furiously at the rope before trying to chew it in half. Both times, he ended up still attached to the porch. Christine watched all this sadly. It just didn’t seem right.

“I’m sorry boy,” she whispered.

Tyr looked up and spotted her, his eye wide and angry. He ran at her, snarling and barking as if he knew she was the one who had done this to him. The leash caught him long before he reached her, and he yelped in surprise and pain as the leash jerked him backwards onto the ground. He was up again in a flash, straining to attack his captor again, with the same result. Christine walked to within a few feet of the leash radius and sat down, staring at Tyr unafraid and very sorry. The wolf fought a while longer and then seemed to calm down.

The two looked at each other much like they had the day a few weeks before in the barn. They sized each other up, curious but weary. Then, this time, Tyr made the first move. He walked calmly towards her nose down, and eye trained on her face. Christine too sat forward and slowly reached out her hand. Tyr strained out his neck and sniffed her hand, watching the girl for any sign of trouble. Again, Christine felt the warm breath of the wolf on her palm and wrist, and she didn’t feel afraid.

With little warning, Tyr opened his mouth and tried to place it over her fingers. Christine jerked her hand back, but she realized suddenly that it wasn’t a threatening gesture. The bite had not been hard, and it had been more of a way of communication. Christine suddenly understood. She reached swiftly back out and grasped Tyr’s nose firmly in her hand. The wolf jumped and made a move to pull back, but Christine held tight to the wolf’s nose. Tyr struggled a moment longer, then stood still, looking into Christine’s face questioningly.

“No no,” Christine said with a small smile. “You’re not the boss of me. Other way around.” She shook the wolf’s muzzle a little to emphasize her point. “Got it?”

She let go and Tyr stood very still, looking at her and barely breathing. Then, slowly and gently, he lowered himself to the ground and began to lick at his muzzle and whimper like a puppy. It was as if he knew how beneath her he really was. By the looks of it, he’d performed this act many times before. Christine stared at the begging wolf, surprised at how easy it had been. Did she dare?

Christine slowly reached out a hand, and holding her breath, rested her hand on the wolf’s head, right between his ears. Tyr didn’t move to bite her or protest, and she let out the breath she’d been holding in a long sigh. It looked like this way of working with Tyr would be tolerable after all. She rubbed her hand back and forth, and the wolf’s tail moved briskly across the ground in a happy gesture.

“Good boy,” she whispered, and smiled as Tyr continued to wag his tail.

****

Manythanks for continuition, I give you a 10 and :flowers: :flowers: :flowers:

This is a very good story. Kisses to you.
Celina

Thank you both! I hope you all are enjoying th audio bit. Let me know if it is something I should do again for the other parts!

I am currently editing the next part a little. Doesn't need much, but it's still pretty brutal. I'll include a disclaimer.

Glad to see the Druids(revised). Thank You ... wish I could get the audio version, but no credits :( Will keeps tabs on the revised for up-dates and eventually the ending.

Thank You cheeseyness .... Hugs and licks