Call of the Wild

Call of the Wild

There is a famous saying: Do unto others, as you would have done unto you. Jake always thought that ‘others’ meant other people. But he recently learnt just how wrong he was…

The drive up to the cabin was long and uneventful. It was Jim’s yearly trip up to the woods for some R&R and some last-minute hunting. Kaitlyn constantly voiced her dislike of this little ‘hobby’. She said it was distasteful and disrespectful. He never could understand her hippie, tree-hugger attitude. She was borderline obsessive about treating all living things with respect and care.  He had often asked why she was so obsessive but she never answered. She would just say that she felt it important, life and death important. Jim would just shake his head and chuckle.

The dirt road was a mess after the last rain of the season. If it was not for his 4x4 he would not have been able to navigate the road. The wheels often would spin in place trying to get purchase on the muddy pathway. The air smelt crisp and clean. Kaitlyn often said it smelt ‘green’. Jim would chuckle at this and ask her what does ‘green’ smell like. Her reply was simply “Like green. Like Motherly Love. What more do you want?” Kaitlyn had a very weird way of speaking and referring to things. She often referred to nature as a living and breathing thing, often referring to her as a mother.

He skidded to a sickeningly halt a few paces from the cabin. He gasped at the sight. The sun filtered through the trees casting an almost enchanting green hue over the roof and the front porch. It looked almost like a gem stone. It seemed to almost glow in an unearthly shimmer. He shook his head. Kaitlyn and her fanciful attitude is getting to him. There was a flutter of birds as he opened the door of the truck and jumped out. His booted feet gave way beneath him as he slipped on the oil-slick surface. He yelped as he impacted on the soft and muddy earth. The fluttering birds seem to be giggling mockingly as they flew past him. He glared at with humiliated fire at the passing birds. He knew that they could not be laughing at him, so why did he feel so embarrassed? Why did he feel like the whole forest was looking at him and silently laughing out loud at his misfortune?

He picked himself out of the mud puddle and tried to wipe off most of the sticky brown ick. After giving it up as a bad job he moved to the rear of the truck and began to unload his gear for the weekend. He slung his rifle bag over his shoulder and, with rucksack over the opposite shoulder, he walked (carefully) towards the front door of the cabin. He mounted the steps, hearing the ancient floor boards groan and whine with every step he made as he ascended. He unlocked the door and turned the round, brass nob. The door held fast. He pushed against it but the door pushed back. He began to tug and pull at it before shouldering the door. It gave way and swung inward with a sudden screech, making Jim stumble inside, spilling his rucksack and rifle off his back and tumbling to the floor followed by his fumbling form. He swore as he rubbed his head and bruised ego. He lifted himself to his feet and grimaced at his recent misfortune. It was as if he was unwelcomed. In fact, he felt that the air hung heavy with judgement and disapproval.

He frowned at his own silliness, but something nagged at him. Was it really all that silly? He felt a sudden cold, as if somebody had suddenly put on the aircon and a wash of cold air flowed over him. He shivered and turned to the door. When had he closed that? He couldn’t remember. He shrugged and hauled his luggage to the bedroom. He dumped his bag onto the bed and lay his rifle down carefully. He looked at the brown leather bag and smiled. “Tomorrow old friend…tomorrow.” He said to himself before leaving the room and headed for the small kitchen to prepare dinner for himself. While the food was slowly cooking he poured a glass of whisky and started a fire. He slumped into the large sofa and put his feet up. This is the life. A roaring fire, a glass of whisky, not a soul for miles. The only thing that could have made this better is if Kaitlyn was here too. He took a long drag from the golden elixir and placed it on the coffee table beside him and closed his eyes.

The cold midnight air smacked him in the face as he ran. Branches tore at his face and limbs. Sharp rocks and sticks dug into his feet and hands…hands? Dew-soaked leaves slapped his cheeks as he ran past. The full moon bathed the forest, and him, in its ethereal-white glow. He felt his lungs burn from exhaustion. He had to stop. He needed to stop. Just for a while. Just to catch his breath. He slumped against a lichen-laden tree stump. It smelt mouldy and moist with rot and fungus. It teemed with all manners of crawling insects. He could hear them crawl and slither and worm their way through the rotten wood. Hear?

He started at the sound a breaking branch. Something was out there. Something was after him. Hunting him. He leapt over the stump and ran deeper into the unyielding darkness. The inky blackness wrapped around his over-exerted body like a black velvet cloak. The moon speared down its pale beams to push back the encroaching darkness. He ran. He ran as if the hounds of hell were after him. He glanced over his shoulder to try catch a glimpse of his pursuer but all he was rewarded with was more inky blackness. He ran. He ran faster than his four legs could carry him. Four?

He finally stopped at a clean, babbling brook. The crystal-clear water mirrored the moon and reflected her beauty back up at her. He lowered his maw and lapped at the crystal cool water. The refreshing fluid soothed his sand-dry throat and the cool touch doused the fire in his lungs. He opened his eyes and growled at the beast staring back at him. A dark formidable wolf growled back at him. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and his back curve as he bared his teeth at the beast. The beast mimicked his movements as if it reflected him. But that could not be possible. He was not a beast. He was a man, not a…wolf.

He stared at the reflection in the silver-mirror of the water. He reached up with a paw to his muzzle and ran his claws through his thick matted black fur. His golden yellow eyes glowed in the darkness. How could this be possible? How did this happen? He must be dreaming. He lowered his head once more to the water and looked in awe at what he had become. His ears pricked as he heard a rustle of leaves and a flurry of night birds. He jolted around and faced the imposing wall of darkness. He growled and the hairs on his back stood on end as the darkness thinned and parted as if the black velvet curtain were pulled aside. Out stepped the figure that had been pursuing him. Following him. Hunting him. The figure stepped out into the pale milky witness of the moon. As the figure raised its gun to its face he followed it up. Up to the face of this dread hunter. Up into the face of... A shot rang through the darkened forest and echoed through the valley. The loud crack of thunder was followed by the lonely sound of silence. Crimson water stained the crystal waters of the tranquil stream as smoke rose from the barrel of the rifle. He lay there bleeding out. He felt the fire of the bullet that had sliced through his fur, skin and flesh leaving a gaping hole in its wake. He knew he was dying and all he could think about was his litter back at his den that would go hungry that night. He thought about his mate and his pups who would never see him again.

With these thoughts racing through his mind, he was vaguely aware of the figure crouching down beside him. He cringed as he felt the hunter’s hand run over his blood-caked fur. He winced as he felt a sharp jab as the razor-sharp blade sliced into his neck ending his life. But not before he saw the face of his murderer. The face of…Jim…

Jim screamed as he fell off the sofa and onto the hard-oak floor with a thud. The glass of whisky shattered beside him spilling the last remnants of golden elixir. He got up and felt his body and neck. No fur. No paws. No blood. He spun around the cabin in search for the hunter but all he found was the roaring fire that bathed him in a warm red glow and the smell of steak and beans cooking in the kitchen. A dream. It was all a dream. But it felt so real. He laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. But something nagged at the deep recesses of his mind. Some dark vestige of a hidden horror gnawed at him like a famished wolf chewing on a meatless bone. He shook his head and walked to the bedroom. That will teach him to drink before bed. Behind him, unnoticed by him, was a trail of muddy pawprints morphing into that of a man following him as he steps into the bedroom and closed the door behind him. The moon washed its pale white witness through the window and the wind chuckled softly before flitting off to some unknown purpose.