@mtnsedge said : ❝ don't be afraid. do what i did. ❞
The wolf is carnivore incarnate. At night the wounded, famished howl of the packs gathers in the air, heavy as winter chill. Their song heralds butchery and the lesser creatures stiffen and wake to fear when they must suffer it. Wolves are not solitary animals. A large pack has moved in above the Moccasin River, some forty animals trudging single file down the snow-swept melt water channels. Soon the news will reach the valley and then stories will spill up the mountains in return, of the babies that were stolen from porches, the cannibalized dogs, the slaughtered cattle. Wolves like that, they will take what they want. They come in droves and turn blood blind. They cull entire herds and eat not a single animal. Some of these stories are nothing but tepid folklore, the memory of a memory. Others are prophecies. See, the old people will say, it'll happen again.
Beraiah seizes the wolf up as it circles in the pen. Its pelt shaggy and bleached, it stalks on long legs, claws digging into the gravel. He's got no clue if this male is from that new pack, if it came over the mountain pass and frightens the children. It's large, brawny in the way he's not seen the wolves here. This wolf is different from the others. It looks worse, mutated. In captivity, it started gnawing through its own hide, covering its hinds in sores. Its tail is docked; all it can communicate now is anxiety and aggression. Enforced submission. The wolf does not know this. It keeps circling, snarling at the intruder that circles with it.
Jacob's voice rises behind him like a monster out of a lake and chills the blood in his veins. Beraiah is some fifteen years old now. A man grown by some estimates, though mainly his own. He is old enough. That is all he ever says when asked about age. Old enough. Beraiah is old enough to train, old enough to hunt, old enough to kill, old enough to sacrifice. Like Isaac ushered up the mountain. But there'll come no absolving ram trotting from the bushes to still the jagged dagger. This is not that mountain.
Don't be afraid. That is the only commandment Ber has to obey right now. He is religious in his obedience. He carries more than trust in his commander. He carries faith. He throws himself to the wolves because Jacob told him to, because he believes wholly in the judgment of his betters. He knows he is safe because Jacob would not order him to do something he cannot accomplish. So when he is told to climb into the pen, Ber swings himself over the clattering gate with nothing but his hands in defense.
It goes against the laws of nature. Such is the power of the Father and the gifts he bestows through his Heralds. Every instinct in Ber's young body shivers with certainty at the impossibility of this task. And yet, the young soldier holds out his empty hand to the snarling, slavering wolf, its big head shaking angrily from side to side. He holds it out without so much as a tremor in his fingertips.
"Down." His voice cracks into a throaty bark. He imitates Jacob in this, a juvenile copy of bone-breaking authority. The Herald and the trainers watch on. Restless shuffling from the audience. Dead cold silence from the master of ceremonies. The wolf pulls back its chops into an eerie, needle-point grin and for the first time Ber can see its eyes. The pupils are slits, painfully fixed, each sitting in a white misty iris. It looks blind, focused on nothing. It snarls and whines and the fur on its back stands up into a formidable ridge. It readies to jump, the muscles in its legs tightening like spring coils.
"Down," Ber's voice drops to a guttural growl. It explodes out of his mouth like a gunshot. He gets the word in before the wolf can make up its mind. He snarls back, steps forward. There is nothing to fear. He did nothing wrong. He repeats this mantra to himself like a prayer. The shared glare between wolf and boy does not waver. Neither of them can afford to back down. There is more on the line than pride.
The wolf breaks first. It lowers its head and, all at once, drops flat on its belly. With ears pressed flat against its skull it crawls towards him, whining and whimpering. Ber watches in spellbound fascination, a surge of power all but sweeping him off his feet. It's like a drug in his system, a heady elated feeling. Control over another being. Control, for the first time. He feels his mouth water.
"Good. Roll him." Jacob's next command cracks like a whip. Unhurried, unimpressed. Ber doesn't dare to glance back, lap some trace of approval or praise from his expression. Instead, without thinking, he descends upon the deferential animal and sinks his hands into its pelt. Dogs have stronger jaws, anyway. He pushes the wolf over into a hard roll, presses down on it with his whole weight, a forearm cutting into its maned throat. No resistance. Nothing but abject defeat. Beraiah, fifteen, stares down at the drugged wolf that isn't brave enough to look him in the eye.
Something ill bubbles up inside him, disguised as sweet victory. He can feel it, the onset of a bitter taste, a sickness in the back of his mind. He stares down at the wolf, no more than a beaten dog, and his sense of accomplishment, steady and light, turns into something giddy, something itching and restless. Ber smiles back, dull teeth every part the equal to wolfish fangs. Jacob, merciful, releases them both: "That'll do."
