Wolf ghost

Runt woke to the sounds of his pup splashing in the shallows of the lake. He rolled over and squinted in the morning light to see Stripes catching frogs. His stomach rumbled, too, but frogs were not on the menu. Runt sat up and felt the tickle of fur against his neck. The memories of the night flooded back as he felt the fur skin over his shoulders. While he slept the harpies had fashioned a clasp out of bark and yarn to fasten the cloak together.

He stood up and, looking around, found his spear lying up against the fey-tree. His shadow against the tree looked different. Runt slowly reached his hand above and felt his head. Two pointed ears poked up. The head of the wolf made a hood that covered most of his mop of hair and, from behind, Runt looked something like a wolf walking on two legs.

His spear, too, had been renovated in his sleep. Runt picked up the stick and stared closely at the tip. He saw a long, hooked claw embedded in the end of the wood, wrapped with more of the yarn to hold it securely. Runt tested it for strength and gasped as the claw left a long scratch across his hand.

“Strong and sharp,” he marvelled, and looked up the tree for fruit.

The harpies were nowhere to be seen. Runt filled his pouch with fruit after eating a few of them. Trial and error had taught him how many could be safely eaten before their sleep-inducing effects became too great. Still, he leaned up against the trunk in the fork of a branch while he ate, occasionally wiping the juice away that dribbled down his chin, and listened to the forest. The sounds were more familiar to him now and less intrusive. Trees whispered, birds sang, insects chirped, and the noisy quiet was sometimes broken by the crash and tumble of a large creature like a hopper moving to a new patch of food.

There was another sound, though, new and harsh: a kind of grating rumble that rose and fell like a mammoth snoring with a mouthful of pebbles. The noise, Runt realised, came from right beside his head. He turned to feel the trunk and marvelled how the wood vibrated in time to the sound.

“Do trees snore?” Runt wondered, and then saw one of the tiny holes bored into the bark just above his hand. Could the sound have something to do with the little glowing grubs dotted up the trunk? He looked into the hole but, in the light of day, he saw nothing but dark.

There were other holes in the trunk, though. Runt’s curiosity got the better of him and he crept towards one of the hollows. Poking his head inside, he saw harpies nestled in every nook and cranny of the carved-out interior. The sound of hundreds of tiny creatures gently snoring echoed through the air.

Runt wriggled inside and gently lowered himself to the floor. Beams of light cut through the hollows, here and there, giving a little natural light. Most of the light in the room, though, came from the large, shallow cauldron rising from the floor that still glowed with its ever-changing eerie glimmer. Runt found himself drawn to it. He called it a cauldron, but it was more like a large, round table where the tabletop was shaped into a wide, shallow bowl.

Looking underneath, he saw that the cauldron was carved out of the tree itself and still attached to the floor by a single, central leg. There were also rows of shelves carved into this column of wood with large seed pods lining the shelves like wooden jars. Runt recognised the pods from a type of tree found out in the Wilds. The entire base of the chamber was clearly designed for catching the pollen, or stardust as the harpies knew it, while allowing room to walk around the edge.

Runt leaned over and stared into the glittering contents of the cauldron. The colours shifted and swirled constantly. He watched intently and marvelled at how one area of the pollen could be a bright yellow at one moment, but then, over time, slowly morph to blue, then green, while a patch nearby could be cycling through different colours, at a different speed.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” a voice croaked nearby.

Runt exhaled sharply and realised he had been holding his breath the whole time. And how long had that been? He could have sat there for a minute or an hour. Time vanished while looking into that eerie cauldron of stardust.

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The teacher sat across the other side with eyes shimmering in the reflected glow.

“I thought you were all asleep. I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t be in here.”

“No, you shouldn’t.” The teacher said firmly. “Not on your own. The stardust is beautiful but, like many beautiful things, it can also be dangerous. Do not come in here without a guide. And, yes, I should be asleep. But there is so much to do, and my time draws near. Ancient, I am. Old and weak. And yet, it is left to me to look over these harpies, and the trees, and the creatures of the forest. It is left to me to…” the teacher’s voice trailed away helplessly.

“I want to help,” Runt blurted out, “if I can, that is. You called me a demon but I’m not like them. I want to make things right, only,” he paused for a second, and sighed, “I’m just so small.”

The teacher chuckled. “Not to harpies, you aren’t. A giant among us, with a wolfskin cloak and a drop-bear spear. You could be a formidable ally or,” it stopped, frowning, “or you could be the end of us all. Only the mother knows.”

The teacher hobbled around, sat near Runt, and shushed him when the boy tried to speak. The harpy reached into its pouch and withdrew a handful of pollen and motioned Runt to turn around. He felt the tiny hands ruffle the wolfskin and, now and then, a whiff of the glittering powder puffed in a cloud in front of his face.

“Demon, do you listen?” the teacher asked him. Runt nodded and the teacher continued.

“Harpy magic is mysterious and fickle. It can raise mountains and summon hurricanes, it can make flowers bloom and rivers run, it can make birds sing and wolves kill. It can also do none of these things. Do you understand?”

“Uhhh… not really?”

“Good. Harpy magic takes long years of study and longer years of practise. I am older than the hills but younger than a hatchling tadpole. One day you may understand but, for now, all you need to know is how.”

“How?” Runt murmured, “How what?”

“How to become a Wolf-ghost. Harpy magic can do many things. To hide, and stay hidden, is one of them. With the help of my harpy magic you could become invisible. It is one of the first skills we teach the young harpies for their protection. I have treated your wolfskin with a special mixture of the stardust. In the shadows, with the correct thinking, you can now become invisible. But it takes strength of mind. Will you try?”

Runt nodded. The teacher tugged at his cloak and turned him around. The harpy looked deep into his eyes and continued.

“You must quiet your mind. You must become one with the dark, with the shadow. You must think of yourself as a shadow, no longer a boy, but a patch of dark on dark. A shadow does not breathe, does not move, does not think. Your mind must be empty like the darkness is empty. Will you try?”

Runt nodded and shut his eyes.

“No!” The teacher whispered harshly. “Eyes open. The shadow must lay over you, not sit inside of you.”

Runt stared at the shadows on his skin and frowned. What would it feel like to be a shadow? It didn’t make sense. He could feel the teacher’s impatience growing as he sat there trying to imagine being a shadow.

“You need to concentrate, but not like that.” the teacher scolded. “Stop thinking about being a shadow and be one. You are good at hiding, yes? Becoming a Wolf-ghost is like hiding in plain sight.”

Runt nodded again and took a deep breath. “Scurrying mouse, I’m a scurrying mouse,” he thought, and then, “No. I’m the shadow of a scurrying mouse. I’m less than that. I’m nothing. I’m dead. Or, at least, I might as well be. No one noticed I left the city because no one knew I existed. Nobody misses me, or even remembers me, because I was never there. Not really. I’m nobody. I am no one.”

His mind drifted back to the kennels and, suddenly, he was there again. Tyron raged inside the office, throwing furniture, yelling insults, punching walls with his ham-sized fists. Runt crouched in the dark outside wishing, more than anything, to simply disappear. To be gone. To have never existed.

A small cough brought him back. The teacher sat, wide-eyed and thoughtful.

“Did… did it work?” Runt asked sheepishly.

“A formidable ally,” the teacher whispered, “or the end of us all. Only the mother knows.”