Message of Change
Raising my muzzle to the air I catch the strong scent of grease, metal, humans, and huisdiers. My hackles rising as I crouch next to a sabre-toothed cat, a pack mate, waiting for the signal. Unable to resist my mouth pulls back in what humans call a ‘sneer’, really humans are conceited and hateful, the quietest of growls mixing with the panting and breathing of the others. My ears turn as I hear the roar of the Velus, a Barbary lion and alpha of the pack, in the wild language, unmixed with human taint that invaded when they forced these vertaler collars around our necks.
Shuddering briefly with the pleasure of that wild sound I leap up and race down the ridge we had been waiting upon, a howl leaving my muzzle, filled with the joy of the hunt and a call for my group. A giant Teratorn glides down to my shoulder, his wings ruffling my grey and brown fur as he speaks a message from Velus, a slight croak in his voice, “Botolf, my lieutenant, you are to take the northern quarter for your mates are the fastest and can reach there before any human dares to leave.” A nod of understanding and the Teratorn leaves to inform Velus of my acceptance. A wild glee and hunting rage again enters me as I howl, sadly with the human taint, “We go north!”
The sabre from earlier falls at my right shoulder and a fellow dire wolf, though smaller than I, at my left, the rest my quarter falling behind in a typical vanguard style. Mammoths, aurochs, sabre-toothed, barbourofelis, cave hyenas, homotherium, and others, pound the short, cropped grass that’s tipped with frost. Cries of the hunt, of anger, and of rage, fill the air from all corners.
We race around the city towards the farthest edge, steadily pulling away from the crowd of the pack. The sabre-tooth next to me cries out, his fangs glistening in the late afternoon sunlight, his collar creaking in the cooling air against his hot body. Soon the cries of human terror fill the air around us and a red glaze falls over my amber eyes, my thick, grey, winter fur streaming behind me as we cut off the final route of the humans escape.
A twitch of my ear, a flick of my tail, and my hackles rising spreads my quarter out around me. I race forward with a silent command for my fellow dire and for the sabre to stay behind and guard the exit in the shadows as I go forth, hungry for the blood of humans upon my fangs.
I hear the low growl of a huisdier to my left, a zanzibar leopard with a clean vertaler collar wrapped around its spotted fur. My ears whip about as another sound follows underneath that low growl. Pinpointing it I stare into the shadows behind the zanzibar to see a rich mistress pressed against the wall in fear.
My eyes return to meet with the deep brown eyes of her obvious huisdier. That despicable domestication of that which once was, and still should be, purely wild. In those eyes I can find emotions swirling in their depths. Obviously there’s anger, because hey!, I invaded her, yes her, territory, I find fear, well why shouldn’t she fear? I’m far more powerful than her, and then I find some unnameable emotion. Is it that thing called ‘protective’? Towards whom? That cowering human dressed in frills and a sickly sweet scent?
Unable to hold the question back I speak, my words coming through my vertaler collar, a simple black strip of leather and steel that quivers as my vocal chords shape ideas into being, “What is a proud zanzibar leopard such as you feeling so protective of? This territory? There’s so much better than here.” My deep bass is calming from the earlier blood lust and rage and falling into simple query.
Her response is a rumbling alto, obviously forced through that continuous growl, “I would never expect you to understand. You, who does not understand the gift that the Dutch have given us you Woesteling! You may call us huisdiers, but you have not learned, you have not seen, you have not understood those gifts that the humans gave us!.”
Snarling my vision is again tinged with red, my hackles rising at the insult that a meager human could possibly give us anything, “What ‘gifts’? All they have done that I could consider a gift at all is returning us to life! For giving us enough intelligence to overthrow their overbearing fist. That is all! Even those are flawed though. Our lives are, at most, ten years even for the hardiest of us. Most only live until they are, maybe, six years. I’m a pup of one year and considered to be in my prime! The intelligence they gave us is eroding our own knowledge of our inherent instincts, our very lives!”
As I spoke I noticed her lips pulling back into a vicious snarl. Slowly her brown eyes narrowed at me and when I stopped she could barely speak, “You ignorant little pup. That ‘flawed’ knowledge that is ‘eroding’ our instincts is merely because you yourself are choosing to ignore them, not because of the added knowledge. Our thousands of years of existence cannot be erased in a mere 200. That shortened life span is simply because the older generations had yet to adapt to this new world. Now that they have begun adapting you, who are but a pup, and others likely you will soon begin to far outlive even our ancestors!”
Growling I give my name, as is proper for a fight that was to begin, “I am Botolf. You have angered me and in the name of pack and freedom I shall fight you and then kill your mistress!” Charging forward I swung out a great, grey speckled paw, catching the zanzibar off guard and leaving great, bloody gashes in her left shoulder.
Her recovery is swift. Even as she limps off of her left front leg she charges at me, her claws unsheathed, her fangs bared. It becomes a blur. Charge, swipe, leap, snap, grapple, fall, wrestle, scratch, nick, and bite. Minutes later, though it feels like so much longer, I rise, blood coating my grey and black coat. Mine and hers. She was little of a match, barely able to scrape through my winter pelt, but she left an impression, and, now that I can take stock, some scratches that drip steadily, slowly, on the fresh snow. When had the snow started to fall? I don’t know anymore. Shaking my head I turn to pounce on the little human, only to find her running towards the zanzibar and I. Shocked I can only stay still as she falls to her knees and hugs the great, once proud, head. The iron scent cooling on its fur, on her hands, and on her clothes, fills my nose. The little human female’s tears fill my nose with the added scent of salt while her sobs manage to block out the crazed sounds of the battle that had always been a constant background. My mind, locking onto the scene of a human truly mourning for a huisdier. A lowly pet.
Backing away I turn back to the north. Through my quarter pack even as howls, growls, and cries follow my race. All I can really hear is the pounding of my heart, the pounding of my paws, my heavy breathing, and my own overwhelming thoughts that are all jumbled and nonsensical. The cracking as my world slowly tries to shatter. Suddenly I hear a howl. It sounds like mourning. Mourning for what? Why is it following me? Then I realize, even as I collapse in a hollow tree, the snow falling heavily outside, my breath pluming in the air, that it was my howl. A howl of mourning for those that I never thought I would kill. A mourning for my own comfortable world dying.
As night falls I try to run from my own thoughts even as they pursue me. But some never leave. Memories of my old bezitters. Memories of screaming humans as I ripped their throats. The fresh, blood stained, the memory of that little human mistress, crying over a cooling, bleeding, huisdier body. None of them leave me alone. Yet somehow I sleep. A deep sleep, pitted with memories revisiting me even in my sleep. A small redhead young woman running with me as a pup, her hair pulled back in a ponytail even as it tries to escape. Her laughter, pulling my face into the closest I could come to a smile. Tumbling through the grass and water with her small hands always close to my fur. A young man, black haired and serious, but with a boisterous laugh and a small smile, never far behind. Days spent napping in the sun. The young woman curled tight against me, the young man just to the side, a tail sweep away.
Waking I blink my eyes and shake my head of the fuzzy memories that fade as I stand and walk out into the fresh layer of sparkling snow. The occasional track of a deer or some other creature running through it. I shake my body, ridding myself of the last vestiges of sleep and put my nose to the snow, hoping to find a scent for some food. Nine months of no hunting is making the search for the food a little difficult, but not horrible. Soon enough the chase is done and I have breakfast steaming in my mouth. The blood, a sharp, metallic tang in my mouth, the blood ringing my muzzle and my paws.
After I eat I find a river and wash off the blood. Once all of that’s done I race through the forest towards what I roughly recall as being northern Maine. My mind fuzzy and ignoring my thoughts until I hear a scream and I register the normal scents and sounds that are accompanied by a human residence.
Curiously I move cautiously towards the scream, my ears pricked forward, the sound of paws crunching the snow, and the sound of cloth scraping against uneven snow. I come upon the scene undetected, but still myself behind a thick, evergreen, bush, my eyes peering through a small break. What meets my eyes is an obviously mated pair of normal wolves, collared, pushing a small human female against the trunk of a tree. The human female is what, somehow, manages to catch my attention.
Even after the changes that time and change has wrought, I still recognize her. The red hair messily pulled back in that ponytail. I can’t help it, I growl. At that growl the male of the pair twists towards me, his eyes narrowing. Seeing no way out I stand, my size augmented through genetic engineering making my species closer to the old human ideas of a dire wolf.
Stepping around the bush I face the mated pair and growl, no thoughts of using the human language in my mind. All I can remember are sunlight afternoon naps and laughter. My mind focused on the protection of this human I ran away from so many moons ago. The smaller female circles behind me, her breathing harsh, her paws breaking the snow. Her mate stays in front of me, crouched, ready to leap at my throat.
A howl claws up my throat. An intense call for blood bursts from my lips and the fight begins.
It’s a blur. Grey blobs of fur fly at me as I rip, tear, claw, bite, and shake. Blood flies from wounds ripped open. The heat of the fresh steaming in the cold winter air. A sting on my side alerts me to an annoyance. I reach around and rip out the throat of it and hear a call of rage from my other side and I feel a sharp dig into my gut, a fall of blood from the wound. I bark at the nuisance and a spray of blood flies from my mouth, onto the matted fur of the male wolf.
The wolf comes to face me, its eyes livid with anger. Blood bubbles up my throat and I swallow the heat back down. Time slows and I see the bunching leg muscles, the leap, and my paw reaching out to send him flying into a far tree, breaking his neck and spine. Stepping over the female I reach a paw down and rip out his throat, at least giving him a quick death.
Then I collapse and the world turns to black as blood joins foam and turns it pink. The last memory before sound leaves and and I fall into exhaustion is broken snow and a soft voice yelling out, “Botolf! Henrick! Come quickly!”
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When I wake the first thing I notice is the scents and sounds that are invading my ears and nose. I hear laughter, playful growls, calm snoring, gentle breathing, pawing hooves, shifting snow, and voices. I smell sweat, fur, meat, grazing land, straw, and other unnameable scents that I can’t recognize.
Slowly I manage to blink my eyes open to be greeted with a dimly lit stable like area. Light wood planks make up the walls and an open door leads to what I can hear. Below me I can see that I was laying upon clean straw and near to the door is a pile of fresh meat. I slowly stand and notice a tugging around my ribs. My eyes slide over the the sensation to find white linen wrappings, slightly stained with blood. I huff and ignore it, moving towards the food and clear water sitting next to it.
Once done I slowly, for while I might ignore the injuries I’m not stupid enough to aggravate them, I move out of the stable area and down a dirt packed hall to the light at the end that makes my eyes squint as they adjust. As I enter the area I am greeted by the happy cries of a human somewhere to my left. Turning my head I notice the wild red hair and snort, she certainly hadn’t changed. I walk slowly towards her, my disdain and hatred of humans not diminished. But it was likely that she was the one to have wrapped my wounds, therefore she deserved some sort of respect.
Surrounding her was a herd of aurochs, their horns wickedly sharp and gleaming in the winter sunlight as they grazed. A little farther off the the black haired man, Henrick as I recall, is surrounded by various dozing big and small cats, a book in his hand as he glances up, nods, and returns to his reading. As I reach the herd the girl moves through them so that I need not try odd contortions to get through. Once she reaches me I speak, “I thank you for caring for my injuries, however once they are healed I must return to my duties outside of this place.” Her bright smile dims just a little bit her voice a gentle soprano, “I suppose I can’t argue against that.” Suddenly her smile brightens once more, “You do remember me, right Botolf?”
I huff out a breath, slightly painful in my current state, but no problem. “How could I not remember you, Angelien? After all your Father was my bezitter for some time.”
Her already bright smile somehow manages to brighten even more. “I’m so glad! I was worried that you would have forgotten me what with how you seem to have changed.” I shake my head and walk off towards some other dire wolves, Angelien skipping next to me, humming quietly.
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Weeks then months pass. I’ve grown used to the atmosphere of this place called Het Heiligdom. Sometimes I lay next to Henrick as he reads, I’ve even been learning how to read the human language of ‘English’. Sometimes I run, wrestle, and hunt with some of the others. It means I’ve kept in shape even as my wounds were healing. Most of the time though I’m helping Angelien. The child of my old bezitter. I should be bitter, but I no longer seem to hate humans. On the day I turned two I met many more of the humans that help run Het Heiligdom. That was when I realized that I couldn’t truly hate them any more. I was learning what that zanzibar leopard was trying to say.
Other things have changed as well. Before, in the pack, I was apparently kept undernourished, so since I now have steady and healthy food stream I have grown much larger than most of the dire wolves I have seen in the pack and even some here. At my shoulder I now stand at the height of a bull auroch with full grown horns. Apparently the dires I was bred from had stronger ties to the original genetic mutation that allowed us to be larger than our ancestors.
So I’m laying in the sun, Spring air ruffling my fur, surrounded by others that I once would have called huisdiers, calmer than I have been in months. When my ears swivel to a crash in the direction of the entrance. Near where I woke up months ago. I’m on my feet in moments as my paws pound towards the sound. I recall hearing Angelien and Henrick telling us that they would be coming back today with some new trustworthy people and their revived ones. From the shouts I can now hear I’m pretty sure that we’ve been betrayed. On my next step I can feel myself stretch my legs to their full limit, pulling me far ahead of the rest of the residents of Het Heiligdom.
As I see Angelien’s red hair flying as she runs towards the center, towards safety, I can feel a new desire rise in my barrel chest. My hackles rising and a protective howl of my heart’s home bursts forth. Bursting into the fray my paw sweeps one of the attacking humans away from a stable with a young oribi and its mother. Once more my mind reaches inside and easily rediscovers that bloodlust that’s never too far from the surface as I charge the attackers.
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I stand still, my lungs pulling in great heaving breaths as the last of the attackers leaves Het Heiligdom. As the door shuts behind them I turn to face Angelien and Hendrick and all of the others that had joined the fight. Pulling in a great breath I speak, “As soon as Het Heiligdom is repaired I must leave. My duty is calling to me.”
Angelien’s bright eyes close and then open as she looks into my eyes, “I can’t stop you can I?”
I nod my head in a gentle acquiescence as Hendrick looks at me more determined than I have ever seen him. His voice rings out, a pleasing stream that can calm anybody down, “I am going with you, Botolf.”
I can’t help but smile at that, “I wouldn’t have it any other way, Hendrick.” With Hendrick’s statement many others of Heiligdom state their claim to come with me, as if they somehow know my purpose without speaking. Perhaps they do.
After the week of chaos and laughter that was repairing Het Heiligdom I and my fellows stand at the gate that leads into the bright sunshine. Hendrick is sitting on my back, a réunion kestrel, a friend he raised from its birth, sits on his shoulder. More birds circle the sky above us and a wilder variety of revived and common ones file around us. Facing Angelien I bow and utter a simple sentence, “The world shall change.” She smiles and shooes me away with a laugh. With a smile I comply and turn around. With a howl I race, my pack behind me.