Hide and seek

He practised some more outside, under the giant fey-tree. Stripes lay in front of him with his head resting on his paws. Runt sat in the shade and concentrated. It was difficult at first but, gradually, he learned to feel for the dark. The experience was something like wading into a cold pool of water, feeling his body grow numb inch by inch, until the dark lapped at his neck, and then swallowed his head.

Stripes pricked his ears, sat up, and barked. Runt felt the coolness evaporate and the pup wagged his tail in recognition. He took a deep breath and tried again. Stripes whined as his master disappeared. Runt shushed him and felt the coolness evaporate. He tried again. This time, when Stripes barked, he managed to shush him without reappearing. Stripes cocked his head.

“It’s ok, boy, I’m still here.” he whispered, with sweat beading across his forehead from the exertion. Stripes wagged his tail, satisfied, and lay down again. Runt tried to stand and felt the coolness evaporate. He tried again. And again. By degrees he began to master the skill. Runt found he could look around, whisper, and move slowly, without breaking the spell. Looking down, he realised he could see himself, but also through himself. The shock of it caused the coolness to evaporate and his body solidified once more. He tried again. And again. And again.

Runt smiled, but without joy. The scurrying mouse had become a Wolf-ghost. He was ready to hunt.

Stealing wolf skins from the farmhouses became a deadly game of shadow hopping. Stripes remained in the nearby scrub as Runt moved silently, darting from one shadow to the next. It took all his courage to freeze whenever someone passed by, to fight all his instincts screaming at him to run, to stand there and feel that coolness wash over him. But it worked. He was invisible.

At one point, sneaking towards a cottage, a mob of sheep started heading his way. A grumpy farmer followed. Runt froze in the shadows cast by a tall tree nearby. The sheep, somehow knowing, walked straight over his position, yet around him. From above it looked like they walked around a boulder or tree stump rather than a shaded patch of grass. The farmer, less than five yards away, squinted straight at him as he jogged past but simply shook his head in confusion and moved on.

People did see him, though. In flashes. The sunlight broke the spell. A gangly youth, mucking out a pig pen, saw Runt directly as he ran from one patch of shade to another and cried out “Wolf! Wolf!” instinctively. Three other men quickly appeared and Runt, chuckling silently, watched them all tease the boy for the next five minutes about his overactive imagination.

All of them, though, were left scratching their heads later that day when they found the wolf skins were gone, and saw the mark carved on the wall in its place.

Though he didn’t know it then, the seeds of a rumour were already planted and sprouting. With every cottage raided, the rumour grew. Stories of a Wolf-ghost that people saw out the corner of their eye began to spread over the following weeks. It was a vengeful spirit, the people said, come to reclaim the skins of its brothers and sisters. The mark the Wolf-ghost carved on the wall was left as a warning.

Of course, like all good rumours, it mutated as it spread, and soon the Wolf-ghost was being blamed for all manner of ills. A group of hens that stopped laying was an indication of the visiting terror. If the milk went sour, it was a sign. A child taking ill, a missing piglet, a cake that didn’t rise: people saw the Wolf-ghost in places that Runt hadn’t visited and never would.

That was later, though, and it almost didn’t come about. Runt was exposed on the very first day. As luck would have it, the first person that caught him kept it secret.

Stripes sat patiently in the scrub as the afternoon wound down towards dusk. The pile of wolfskins he lay next to was large enough that the dog became a sort of packhorse when they moved between targets. Runt, inside the next cottage, was already rolling up the wolfskin. With the sharp claw of his spear, he scratched a crude mark upon the wall. It was not much more than an inverted triangle with two points emerging from the top, and a few lines inside for eyes and stripes, but it was enough. Runt stood back to admire the wolf’s head carved into the wall. It was then he heard the girl clear her throat.

As always, his first instinct was to run, then to hide. It was only after much more practise that he trained himself to the third instinct, to become a shadow. He disappeared.

“I know you’re there, still,” the girl spoke softly, “I saw you come across the way, in and out of the shadows.”

Runt began slowly edging towards the door concentrating furiously on staying invisible.

“It’s ok. I won’t tell. I’ll say I was asleep. They wouldn’t believe me, anyway. I’m a daydreamer, that’s what they say about me.” She said, and sighed before continuing. “They’d say I had a dream or that I was telling another of my fairy tales.”

The girl sat by a window behind the door. Runt must have literally walked past her. Then he saw how she was sitting and decided to let the coolness evaporate. It wasn’t like she could chase after him.

“Oh, there you are again. I’m Charlotte. What’s your name?”

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“I’d rather not say, if it’s all the same to you. What happened to your leg?”

Charlotte looked down sadly for a moment and sighed again. She sat on a chair, but her leg poked out straight in front of her. It was strapped and splinted.

“I was climbing a tree when I slipped and fell and now it’s broken. There was a bird’s nest up there. I wanted to see what colour the eggs were. Now I won’t find out,” She said, frowning as she grumped, “they’ll be hatched and gone before it’s healed. You can take that, by the way.” She said, indicating to the wolfskin rolled up under his arm, “I won’t tell. I think it’s disgusting. Such a waste.”

Runt moved to the door.

“Your hair,” Charlotte said, tilting her head, “it’s so curly and long. It’s great! But you should tuck it behind your ears so people can see your face.”

Runt flinched and pulled back as she reached out to him.

“No,” he said flatly, “it’s hiding something that you wouldn’t like.”

Charlotte looked at him quizzically but Runt didn’t notice. He was already staring outside, looking for the next shadow to disappear in.

“Can’t you stay for a bit?” Charlotte asked, “I’m so bored and lonely. The others won’t be back for ages.”

Runt shook his head, then paused. He reached into his pouch and handed her a few of the forbidden fruits.

“Have you tried these? They’re from the Deep Wilds. The best thing you’ve ever tasted, I bet.”

Charlotte’s eyes widened and she took them eagerly.

“I’ve heard about these!” She said, beaming. “But how did you get them?”

Runt just shrugged in reply.

“You go out there? Into the Deeps? How do you survive? There’s so many dangerous creatures in the forest.” she asked, looking at him in wonder.

“It’s not like you think. I mean, sure, it’s still risky. You do need to be careful. These fruit, in particular. Remember to look up if you decide to go out there. The drop-bears hide up the fey-trees, but they’re slow. They won’t chase you. Just remember to look up, and if you spot one, you can scare it off with rocks. Or you just find another fey-tree. That’s what I do.”

Charlotte hung off every word, fascinated. Runt continued.

“Mostly you just need to learn how to behave around the animals. Stand still. Keep your distance. Don’t bother them and mostly they leave you alone. The animals are not killers. Not like they told you.”

“They’re not? You mean they lied about it?”

“I’m sorry. I think they might have lied to us about a lot of things.”

“I knew it!” said the girl, pumping the air with her fist. She looked down at her leg, frowned, then looked longingly out the window.

“As soon as it’s better,” she said, staring into the Wilds, “as soon as it’s fixed I’m going out there. Would you take me? Could you –“ and she turned to find Runt had vanished.

“Hmpf. Boys are so annoying.” She muttered, and rolled her eyes.

Runt felt guilty urging Stripes to move faster. They had travelled many miles that day, but dusk was approaching, and time was running out. Runt desperately wanted to see the sunset from the treetops near the road again. The wolf skins were bundled up in such a great number that there was barely room for Runt to fit on his dog’s shoulders. They pushed on.

The sky was just beginning to bleed red as they entered the next clearing. Runt jumped off his dog and raced up the fey-tree. Puffing and panting, he finally reached the canopy and looked out towards the mountain they called the Dragon’s head. Runt’s heart sank. The sun was still in the sky, but barely a sliver of it was visible from this angle. He looked across jealously to see that the very next fey-tree, several hundred yards away, was soaking up the last rays of sunset. Beyond that, the swarm of harpies approached.

Runt watched as they landed, hooting and hollering. He watched as the treetops in the light of sunset once again turned an amazing shade of ruby red. He watched as the fey-trees within the light burst forth with their clouds of pollen. The tree he sat in, out of the light, remained dormant but Runt swore he could feel the tree trembling in anticipation.

The harpies began circling skyward in the updraft. Several of them made a beeline for Runt’s tree. It was only as they crashed into the tree, as tiny clouds of pollen on their fur puffed over the leaves and flowers, that this tree erupted. He heard the harpies laugh and sing as they ascended once more. Runt traced their flight to the next trees along the loop, and the next, and the next, until the skies darkened, and they shrank from view.

Runt clambered back down and rubbed Stripes under the chin.

“Maybe tomorrow night, hey boy?” he laughed, and they started walking together towards the road and the great fey-tree that lay beyond.

He heard them first. Before he saw. Runt and Stripes were halfway to the next fey-tree, one of the “sunset fey-trees” as he started calling them, when it happened. Scrub crashed. Rocks tumbled. Gravel-rattling curses echoed across the Wilds. He saw the sickly yellow glow of eyes. Pairs of them, in a long line, snaking back towards the quarry. The gorgons.

For a few panicked moments he thought they were headed directly for him and prepared to flee. Then he remembered. He and Stripes crept slowly towards the fey-tree and watched with fascination and dread as they began tearing into it. The boy and his pup crouched at the edge of the clearing like that for some time. Runt became increasingly anxious and angry about it. It seemed like such a senseless waste of tree. What could they possibly be doing with it in their underground lair? He considered stalking them, disappearing into the shadows and following them deep under the mountains, but the risk of Stripes becoming lost, or captured, or worse, was too great.

Runt heard a rustle in the treetops above. He saw a flash of fur and the blur of wings as a creature sailed back towards the great fey-tree.

“Someone else,” Runt decided grimly, “might be able to answer my questions.”