White Wolf

We were two warm bodies, heat dulling in a cold diorama. A hurricane of grey snow prevailed around us, its icy fingertips persistent in its cruel attempt. My eyes fluttered before the veil of obscurity that seemed to demolish up the landscape from the skeletal, thistle trees of the forest and then above me to the juniper foliage. The girl wriggles beside me. Viridian eyes just visible through the mist. She has an infantile face, a veil of red hair like unreliable flames and an abundance of ornamental scars that adorn each cheek. There is something scarlet dripping from her mouth. Blood I think. The same vivacious pigment smeared on either hand that rests beside the remains of the rabbit. I feel a slight sense of malaise fill me as I notice the mangled body, its intestines strung across the moss in a mess like the turbulent emotions prevailing inside me. She always eats them when she’s nervous.

My sister turned to me, face elevated with the expression of disquiet, accentuated by her fingers that draw savage markings through the dried ochre entailing her inner arm. The unchanged expression embellishing her face only the night before. I remember the sounds of our tribe, the swirls of wreathed fire sticks that moved sensuously, a facet of beauty warped into tame tendrils as we danced in the hollowed spaces of night. The schemes of fires and song a caveat to the curious beast that manifested among the wild lupin and pine trees. But it was never them we should have feared. It was never them.

There’s a cacophony of howling wind like the crooning of wolves, I hear the slicing of air, unendurably loud like the sounds of falling cities tumbling to stone. It is the distinctive ‘hush’, ‘hush’ sound of needle sharp blades on the Republican helicopters. They must have seen us. The sound provides me enough incentive to stand. I cannot let them catch us.

It’s been a week since the first wave arrived, huge objects emerging against the immensity of Prussian blue that descended upon my tribe in the same animalistic way a jaguar hunts its prey. I saw my home scatter before me, my tribe fleeing into the network of trees as the Republic began to ensnare us. I thought at first it was death they wanted. But I was wrong.

Submersion. That single, pestilential thought had led to the oppression of my tribe. They wanted to bend us, to mould and twist us into their regime, as if we were as easily pliable as clay. I shudder at the notion of having my identity shredded that way. The prospect seems in retrospect more abysmal then death. I remember standing there and ascertaining a touch of madness in the proceedings. It is not in my instinct to run, my totem after all is the white wolf—the symbol of valour. But I have a sister to protect. Sometimes bloodlines come before tribe.

‘We need to keep moving’ I tug on my sister’s hand, unfurling her from her foetal position. Once again we run from the Republic. Hearts thumping in the solidity of our ribcages like frightened rabbits, the very mist a gauzy fabric, draping the silhouettes of trees in diaphanous folds, blinding us. Wolves, bears and beasts of the forest move beside us, their coats rough and flecked in snow.

As we run I feel the churning of wind, the currents dragging at me like pitiless waves holding an infant. I see them, their silhouettes dark and shaped like the underbelly of great monsters as they descend over us, filling the sky with apprehension. Their bodies blocking out the only rays of light. Without it, my last wits have somehow crawled from my cavity and instead replaced itself with an emissary of trepidation. The feeling doesn’t settle well with me.

Before us I seem to make out the frail, edges of a frozen pond. Although the surface is sheer ice, cracks spread out over it like the mapping of veins. I don’t think, I just jump. For an instant everything is dark and unformed and then the cold kisses me. I can feel the water like silk, so glacial that I seem to lose all sensation of my body. Down in the depths we wait for the water to relinquish its shaking. We wait for the sounds of nothingness.

It takes a while but gradually silence has enveloped us. Our first inhale is unpleasant, the feeling is as salient as razors against my elongated throat. Our bodies shiver under the abuse of cold as our fingers dig for support, dragging our fatigued frames onto firm ground again. I look up, my eyes appraising the enchanted metropolitan twilight, whose light throws our shadows westward. ‘They’ll come back for us.’ I say, my words intercepted with unsolicited chattering.

‘Ash,’ my sister’s voice trembles delicately ‘do you think the others are ok?’

I look at my sister, discerning the shift in her that somehow had earlier eluded me. Her lips usually possess one of those rare smiles that seem to promise of a ceaseless conviction. A conviction to appraise the whole world in all its malevolence and yet still glimpse the vision of splendour beneath.

She is no longer smiling. Her expression is infected by something unseen. But I can feel it circulating around her. The whispers of fear.

I want nothing more than to lie to her, to see her expression light up in that familiar smile, but I can’t. Instead I shake my head. Somehow the absence of words seem more haunting.

We manoeuvre in obscure circles like the feeble outlines of ellipses. The process is filled with uneasiness, our bodies migrating restlessly as each conscientious hour lingers, almost mimicking the weight of years. It takes us only several hours to get back. As we emerge into our home, the air seems to vanquish inside me, like some greater force has sucked the breath from my lungs in an unsparing kiss. Tendrils of smoke etch the air in a painting of vivid melancholia and underneath, rising in gentle wisps was the unsolicited, pungent smell of death and the mark of man. Everything else is etched by rims of fire.

My tribe stand, the remaining numbers interwoven by hands and grief. My sister’s hands clutch my pinkie, seeking comfort, her innocent eyes reflect something I wish to erase from cognizance. I lift her into my arms, the way my mother once held me, a gentle gesture of soothing security. Our faces turn to the feeble dusk, the pale light briefing the harsh domains of fires and smoulders that nibble insatiably upon the remnants of my home. When the sun forms, appraising us with romantic affection, we shall move again. The thought doesn’t trouble me as once such a burden could.

Because just like the wolf pack, we don’t run alone.

We run together.