Rot was preferable to nothing.
The Wolf whimpered from his churning stomach and swallowed his retch. He blew snuffles through his nose, lying on his side, hiding in the trees from the men working the fields.
But he wasn’t so deep in the woods he’d miss the sunrise. Blinking slowly, he pulled himself up and shook his head to stay awake.
He never liked to fall asleep before daybreak.
The chaos of his memories tore him apart while he slept. Joyous times in his life as a man intertwined with the misery of being trapped in the body of a wolf. He never knew whether to relax in sweet dreams or force himself awake from a nightmare.
He would be a boy again learning to forage with his grandfather; then he dug amongst the stench and compost, desperate for something to eat. He would be a youth cooking for their guests while the Bard told stories; then a pack of wolves bared their teeth and growled at him when he came near. He would be a young man traveling with a caravan of nomads; then he fled men raising their rifles to shoot at him, terror making his limbs nimble.
Dawn was breathtaking in the past week.
The morning colors were always the most vivid in the peak of spring. Those precious minutes of watching the darkness dissipate into shades of pink, orange, and amber violet gave him the only peace the Wolf would know that day.
Only after the sun came up would he allow himself to sleep. The torment of his dreams caused him less anguish under a bright sky.
The sequence of dreams always ended with his grandfather, and he came to him as the Wolf. The old man looked at him with sorrow, while the Wolf was always angry when they met. He was also ashamed for being such a fool, but he still felt betrayed by his grandfather.
If the Bard hadn’t propelled into those dreams, he would have left the girl behind in No Man’s Land.
“Why?” the Wolf asked, always the same question every night.
“Just follow your heart,” the Bard replied. “And you’ll be all right.”
“How can I do that when I don’t have it with me?”
“Your heart’s always a part of you.”
His grandfather never elaborated and the Wolf would awaken to his throbbing hollow space. His limbs ached as if he’d been running for hours, and there was often a rank taste in the back of his mouth.
Whenever Ella Bandita came to mind, he pushed the image away. Thinking about her made the vile course through his veins, and reminded the Wolf that he couldn’t change his predicament.
Every night he howled to the moon, and every morning his first instinct was to stand on two legs. But he could never keep his balance and dropped four paws to the ground.
His lupine form remained a stranger to him.
He didn’t like his fur. Being unable to touch his skin frustrated him. He felt his potential for strength, but didn’t know how to use it.
Subtle noises distracted him and his sense of smell was torture. Knowing prey was around him always and being unable to hunt it down nearly drove him to madness on some days. He had speed, yet still couldn’t catch the smaller animals.
His instincts were both natural and bizarre, and the Wolf was left to scavenge in the compost piles to stay alive. He was amazed he could keep the refuse down. The thought of being this wretched creature for the rest of his live filled him with despair.
He thought about the village all the time, the Bard’s cabin a haven now beyond his reach.
The Wolf often fell asleep hoping the agony of his dreams would kill him. But he always came to in the late afternoon, and his waking hours were much like those before had been.
On this morning, the Wolf gazed into the rising sun as long as he could keep his eyes open, pleading for anything to change.
He fell into the blackness of sleep without dreams, waking up to heavy limbs and a reluctance to move.
He knew something was different when he opened his eyes and yawned. He had a sense of wellbeing that had been missing for a long time.
Finally, his fluttering ears brought him to the recognition of music.
Somebody was playing a fiddle nearby.
