Chapter Forty-Three – The Noose Around His Neck
The battlefield was quiet now. Everyone he'd ever known, his pack, his father, they were all dead. He must have slept by his father's side for hours, because the sun was up now, its harsh light cruel and unforgiving.
Wolves bowed to the Moon. But her sibling, the sun, had never been an enemy. The snow glinted like a sea of fireflies, the bodies of fallen wolves breaking its surface here and there. Would they all decay in the light of day before another night fell?
He should bury them. Theodore trembled as he returned to his human shape. Without his fur, he felt as good as naked, shivering even as the warm sun rays pelted his back.
"Alpha of Whiteflame," someone called to him.
He raised his eyes to see the wolf ghost with branches growing out of its head standing several feet away. Its bark was dark against the vast white expanse. But which one was it? The one who had fooled him before? Or the other who had taught him how to protect the wolves' souls before they were taken away?
Horror rose inside him when he realized that he hadn't had the time to reach the longhouse where his mother and the cubs were.
Ignoring the strange tree, he turned on his heel. Maybe he wasn't too late. He had allowed himself to be overcome by grief and now—
"Don't run, Alpha of Whiteflame," the ghost warned.
Theodore stopped. He could hear the flapping of tattered clothes in the wind, close behind him. Ghosts could move silently, faster than anyone else. Had his pack even stood a chance? Why had the Moon allowed this massacre?
Hard twig-like fingers curled around his shoulder.
"Your work is only beginning."
The smell of blood rose from the ground. But Theodore didn't mind it. Not like he minded the smell of rot coming from the ghost standing behind him now.
"You destroyed my pack," he said in a toneless voice, which, for a moment, he didn't recognize as his own.
"Is that so? What's that on your hands, Alpha of Whiteflame?"
Theodore opened his palms wide. His knees wavered. They were covered in blood. There was so much blood on them, thick and dark.
And they were… not quite his hands. He didn't recall having hands this big and strong.
Wind blew stronger. Through his fanned out fingers, he watched in horror as the ground below changed. The bodies of the fallen wolves disappeared, turned to ash and dust.
He was pulled back violently and his hands shot up to his neck instinctively.
Around which he could feel a strong braided rope, hard as steel.
"You must perform the Embercasting, Alpha of Whiteflame," the tree whispered in his ear. "No more dallying."
The day was almost gone. A bluish evening was closing in. And not far from where he stood, the pyre of Embercasting rose, dark and ominous against the sky in the midst of Whiteflame's ruins.
***
Jack remembered just in time that he needed to cover his ears to protect himself from Skarg's little mermaid song. With his hands covering them, he turned his head only to see Vince falling to the ground. "Oh, great," he mumbled under his breath. Hopefully, it was the kind of sleep that didn't last very long. Like an afternoon nap.
Skarg was moving his mouth still, which meant that he hadn't yet finished his song. Jack could tell that a large presence was hovering right behind him, but he didn't have the guts to turn. Yep, his bravery could only last so long.
"Oh, come on, come on," he grunted, squeezing his eyes shut.
The pestilent forest smelled like decaying corpses. It was everywhere now, and it all boiled down to whether Skarg's song would work or not. They were really playing this one by ear, and, as the only seer in the group, he was supposed to have seen it coming. Some clairvoyant he made. If anything happened to Vee—
Something wrapped around his neck, startling him. Quick, quick, he needed to do something.
Not that he could. He was getting pulled through the air and slowly strangled, which was a bad way to go, even though Jack didn't have that many other ways to die to compare it to.
He clawed at the branches curling around his neck like vines. A little workout routine wouldn't have killed him if he'd started like twenty years ago or so. It was just like the health magazines said. Daily exercise would add years to your life, provided that you weren't a lazy bum.
How could he still think of idiotic things like that while he was getting ready to kick the bucket? Maybe because he wasn't really that ready, so he still had precious seconds to waste—
What the heck was going on now? The squeezing stopped, and the only reason Jack was still hanging there, his feet helplessly swinging back and forth like a cartoon character trying to walk through the air was that the branches strangling him had frozen in that particularly nasty position.
"Skarg," he yelled, when he realized that his skeleton friend was no longer singing. "Do you think you can get me down?"
"I'm trying," Skarg yelled back, his voice traveling as if from a distant place.
"Tell me I'm not really, really high in the air. I don't like heights, and these strange trees seem to know it," Jack shouted.
"I'm afraid you are really high in the air," Skarg replied, just as faintly as before. "Can you hang in there while I'm trying to get to you?"
"Hanging in here is about the only thing I can do right now except pissing my pants."
"Don't piss your pants," Skarg advised. "I don't have any clothes that will fit you."
"Figure of speech, my dear innocent friend. Figure of speech. Wait, do you see Vince?"
"Yes, he's over there."
"I'll take your word for it since I can't exactly look anywhere else but straight ahead."
Ahead. Jack could see far above the crowns of the dead trees. And beyond. And he could tell that something wasn't right. A tall, dark swirl of ash rose in the distance. He didn't know what it was, but he knew that he didn't like it and that was about everything he needed to know.
"Try to wake him up," he told Skarg.
"It might not be easy. We should have warned him."
"Yeah, duh. No use crying over spilled milk."
"Spilled milk? Ah, figure of speech. You have many of them. I'll get Vince, and then we'll get you down."
"Take your time, but not like a lot of time. I think my undershirt pulled out of my pants, and I feel a little chilly around the waist."
"I'll be as fast as I can," Skarg promised.
***
Vince started as something pricked his cheek. His head was wrapped in cotton, and someone was determined to get him to wake up.
When he blinked, a strange apparition hovered close.
"What on earth--" He started and pushed the apparition away.
"I'm Skarg! Jack needs us."
Vince rolled on one side and shook his head. His vision was swimming, and getting to his feet required a feat of strength that he wasn't sure he was capable of.
Skarg came to support his weight, which only made him more nervous, because the wolf skeleton was a sack of bones and not much else.
"Sorry about my song and all," Skarg said. "Jack took me by surprise, and I had to sing."
"You managed to put the forest to sleep." Vince took a moment to get his bearings and look around. "How long will they be asleep?"
"I don't know."
"How did you manage to wake me up?"
"I bit your cheek. And your ear. And I pulled at all your fingers as hard as I could."
Vince flexed his fingers for good measure. It looked like Skarg wasn't particularly strong, which was fortunate under the circumstances. But his cheek – now that the wolf had said it – and his ear hurt.
"Don't worry. There's no blood. You have thick skin. I think you might be a wolf," Skarg said with admiration.
Vince was starting to believe in that being the truth more and more. How else could he resist a bite from another wolf, even if that one was young and pretty much only a skeleton?
"Where is Jack?"
"He's a bit far," Skarg replied.
"How far? We should hurry."
Even though his body felt like heavy-duty machinery had crushed all his bones, Vince tried to take a step.
"Not far that way. That way," Skarg said, pointing a twig of an arm above their heads.
Vince was about to scold the kid for trying to be funny. But as he followed the direction of Skarg's arm, he noticed two feet treading on air slowly.
"Jack," he shouted, "what are you doing up there?"
"Eh, you know, just chilling. Like seriously. It's getting pretty chilly up here, and I think my spine is slowly turning into a string of ice cubes instead of vertebrae."
As much as he felt relieved to hear Jack joking as usual, Vince knew that there was no time for him to waste. Taking Skarg underneath his arm, he began circling the thick trunk of the tree on top of which Jack seemed to be.
"How can I help you if you hold me like this?" Skarg asked curiously.
"You stay here," Vince said, dropping the skeleton. "I need to go after Jack. If you notice the forest moving again, just shout loud enough for us to hear you."
He flexed his hands and focused. If he was a wolf, as Skarg suspected, he needed to develop the right equipment for climbing the tree and fast. Could wolves climb trees? Well, maybe normal wolves couldn't, but seeing how Theodore had climbed the façade of a building to reach Danny's apartment at the top of the building he lived in, that meant that werewolves were a different breed.
His focus seemed to yield results. His hands grew claws and covered themselves with fur.
"You truly are a wolf," Skarg exclaimed. "Go on, get Jack. Time is short, and if I start singing again, you and Jack might fall."
The young wolf turned ghost turned skeleton was right. Vince put his whole strength into it as he rushed up the bark, sinking his strong claws into it.
***
"Did I kill them? All of them?" Theodore felt his mouth go dry, the taste of ash hanging in the back of his throat.
Everything that had happened then was now a fresh memory. He remembered. And he had been the one to condemn his pack to destruction.
"For a higher purpose," the sly voice guiding him toward the pyre whispered. "A new reign will begin. And you will be the king. The alpha."
Theodore struggled. The pain of such knowledge weighed him down, but there was still a part of him that protested against the alluring murmur of the tree behind him.
"How many years have passed?" he asked. For so long, he hadn't recalled a thing about how the day of Embercasting, the last one, had come and gone.
"They have been dead for centuries. You must join them now."
Theodore frowned. He patted himself down. The wolf he'd been so long ago was gone. He was no longer a child. A child who had murdered his entire pack. And this tree, the wisdom tree, like the one in the prophecy, now offered him absolution.
His mind struggled like a trapped animal inside his skull. The suffering blooming in his chest made it impossible to think. To see his father again, only to have as his last memory of him, his battered body, his closed eyes, his fur matted with blood.
All because of him. He must've lost his mind and gone on a rampage. But how had he had enough strength to take down an entire pack?
"What happened?" He stopped, forcing his guide to stop as well.
"You saw what happened. Your pack tainted the ritual of the Embercasting by using the wrong flint."
Theodore frowned. He had seen everything again, after being transported by a trick of fate to his own self as a child from many centuries ago, if what this wisdom tree was saying was true. And the wrong flint? There had been no flint. Or was it because that he'd insisted so much on trying the one he had stolen—
"Come." The wisdom tree stopped pushing him and brushed past him to start dragging him by the noose around his neck. "You must join your pack. It is the only way to save their souls so they can live again."
"You are wrong," Theodore said. "Where are Jack and Vince?"
It could only be his imagination, but the wisdom tree jolted. "Who are these people? I have never heard of them."
"They came here with me."
"Outsiders. How long will you continue to taint these lands with your bad decisions, Alpha of Whiteflame? Stop thinking of them."
"They aren't here by accident. There was a prophecy… written in stone…" Theodore touched his forehead gingerly. Why were his thoughts so difficult to follow?
"You murdered your pack. What else do you need to know?"
Theodore shivered. Of course. He couldn't think because his mind was overridden by pain. And he should repent and cry tears of blood for what he had done.
So why was his heart still unconvinced? Even as his chest squeezed tightly, he experienced that pain as a faraway sensation, not entirely his to own.
"You make no sense," he said in a sharp voice. "I wasn't the one who murdered them--"
The tree's arm shot to his forehead, a sharp pain stopping his train of thought.
What was he thinking right now? It seemed to be important, but Theodore was struggling down a foggy path now. Left and right, there was nothing to see.
"Come along, Alpha of Whiteflame," he heard a voice.
Had he heard it before? His entire life was a mystery. He couldn't recall anything, whether from fifteen years ago, or fifteen days, or even five minutes.
"Who are you?"
"Going through the veil can do such a thing to you. You don't remember much, but you came here to join your pack."
"The pack, forgotten yet alive," Theodore murmured. "Where are they?"
"They are waiting for you. Quick, you must light the pyre of Embercasting."
Ah, now he remembered. That was their annual ritual for chasing the evil away from their lands. And this year, he'd help light the pyre. His father had even given him the flint.
"Your parents and your pack are proud of you," the voice said. A tall dark tree emerged from the fog in front of him. "They are all ready to celebrate you as their new alpha."
"New alpha? Wait, my father--"
"Your father is well. But he is old and wishes to pass on the responsibility of the pack to you. Aren't you looking forward to honoring his legacy?"
Theodore walked forward like through a dream. Ahead lay the pyre as he remembered it from his childhood. A thin dark wisp of smoke rose from its top.
"Is the pyre already lit?" He still couldn't recall much, but his memories of prior Embercasting rituals were somewhere in his mind. Like sensations, glimpses of the past skittered over his memories. Warmth, laughter, his pack getting ready for a feast.
"Where is everyone? And why is there so much fog?" The Embercasting usually took place on a clear day, when the snow was so bright it could hurt your eyes if you weren't careful.
"They are here, but you just can't see them yet. Come, Theodore. Everyone is waiting for you."
"Are you the wisdom tree?" Why was he remembering something about a wisdom tree? It seemed such an odd detail to recall before others that were far more important.
"Why yes, of course. You were lost, Theodore, lost for a long time, and now you must return to your pack."
The fog was starting to clear. Theodore stepped into the circle. Slowly, faces he knew so well emerged from the haze.
They were his pack. They stood in a circle around the pyre, their eyes cold, their clothes burned.
Theodore staggered. "What is going on? Why are you--"
A push from behind made him stumble. He regained his equilibrium, but now the faces of his loved ones were close, much closer than before.
"Murderer," he heard a whisper.
"Murdered," another echo reached him.
He staggered backward, the weight of his memories crushing him down.
He had been the one responsible for the demise of his pack. Now he knew the truth. Now he remembered the past.
"I'm at your mercy," he mumbled.
He had destroyed his pack. They wanted their revenge. And he'd come here, beyond the veil, to let them have it.
The noose he now recalled having around his neck tightened. His back was flush against the pyre, tiny pricks from the twigs digging into his back.
"I am ready," he said in a voice that wasn't his own.
Voices swirled in his head, some asking him not to, while others accused.
As a child, Theodore couldn't recall many times when he'd cried. And he wouldn't cry now. He deserved his fate.
He was being pulled upward now, the noose so tight that it cut off his air. But he was also being pulled down, and when he looked, he saw his mother's beloved face.
She looked stricken with grief, and her mouth moved, but no sounds came out. She didn't look like the others; her face was luminous like the Moon's.
Theodore felt something else – a heavy object, in his pocket. He was still wearing the same clothes. But what could be in his pocket that hung so heavily?
"Die, Alpha, you and your whole pack. Die so we can live," the wisdom tree said, stepping in front of him, with a flint in his hand.
That wasn't the wisdom tree. Theodore tensed, the muscles in his neck tight like cords. A howl emerged from him, the howl of a true wolf.
"The truth doesn't matter. You'll die now," the tree continued.
No, not a tree at all. A weathered skeleton on which branches had grown and died. The skeleton of a wolf.
"Theodore, throw it now!" His mother's voice reached him, distorted like a radio wave with glitches.
But he knew what she meant. He reached into his pocket and, as the fire bloomed at his feet, he threw the round thing at the skeleton.
Glitter sparked and burned in tones of pink and blue. The skeleton wolf cried out, clutching what it could call its face.
Wait a moment. Glitter?
TBC