episode FIFTEEN
The Little Girl.
The
little girl strolls along the street, stopping before windows, cupping her
hands around her eyes and leaning against the glass storefronts. Occasionally,
she checks the small pink watch on her wrist, and she smiles. A woman passing
her, in a bright sunny dress, all expanded skirt and tight crenellated waist,
puffed sleeves and high collar, smiles at the little girl, and pauses.
“Where
are your parents, Dear?” the woman asks, pleasantly.
“Oh,
you know, Dada is Dada,” the little girl says, giggling.
The
woman smiles at her, and then tilts her head slightly, beginning to frown. She
is about to say something else when the little girl skips away, trailing a
white-gloved hand along the buildings, her fingers slipping in and out over the
red bricks and green-blue grout. The woman follows the charming little girl,
but only with her gaze, and her frown upends into a smile, as she shakes her
head and continues the other way, the little girl slipping from her mind, a
playful foal. The woman smiles at a very handsome man, who tips his fedora hat
and grins. The woman turns to follow the man with a wistful glance, and she
touches the large mound of curls at her head, wishing she had spritzed herself
with Fer de Lance instead of Moonglow before leaving her cottage.
The
little girl skips across the sidewalk rectangles, always careful to miss the
cracks between the slabs of concrete, to the corner lift and waits for the blue
doors to rise and then slide apart. She puts her head far back, watching for
the lift, and sees it very high above, a dark smudge in the sky. Her very
blonde hair dangles prettily down her back, in cascades of golden curls. She
checks her pink watch and smiles. Glancing down the street, she notices a big
Irish cop strolling in his crisp navy blue greatcoat, brass buttons glinting in
the sunlight, swinging his nightstick from a sausage-thick finger. The beefy
red-faced man is whistling merrily, and the girl catches the tune, Buffalo Girls.
“Aaaaaaand,”
the little girl sings along, “daaaaance by the light of the moooooon!”
“Wonderful
singing voice,” the very handsome man says, approaching and stopping near the
little girl. He lifts his dark blue fedora to the little girl, nodding courtly,
and then places his hands into the pockets of baggy suit pants.
“Thank
you,” the little girl says, and smiles up at the very handsome man.
“Hey,”
he says, “would you like to play a game?”
“Sure,”
the little girl replies, grinning, because she adores games.
“Why
don’t we pretend that I’m your daddy?” the very handsome man says, eyes
twinkling. He rocks back and forth on his dark two-tone shoes. The little girl
notices how tightly the shoes are laced, and wonders how the very handsome man
is able to pull the thick black laces so tightly.
“This
fine policeman strolling toward us is a very good friend of mine,” the very
handsome man says, nodding in the direction of the whistling officer. “Let’s
tell him that I’m taking you on an adventure, and that I’m going to buy you
real ice cream on the platform above.”
“Oh,
I have money,” the little girl says, showing the man the little clasp purse on
her wrist. She is very proud of the pink leather purse, and inside the purse
she has two whole dollars, one a folded green bill, and the remainder in a
variety of coins; two dimes, three nickels, five pennies, and two quarters.
“Your
money is no good here,” the very handsome man laughs, “in this fine
establishment, everything is on the house, for a princess like you. You pick
whatever you like from the menu, and I’m buying. Nothing is too good for my
little girl.”
“Oh,
I’m not a princess,” the little girl giggles. “I like to pretend sometimes, but
I know I’m not. The Shaannii assures me that I had best focus on the facts;
with the Shaannii, it is always the facts, nothing but the facts.”
“Well,
to me,” the very handsome man chuckles, “your proud Daddy, you are the most wonderful
princess to ever don glass slippers!”
The
little girl frowns. She does not think that glass slippers sound very
comfortable, but she understands his reference. Cinderella lost a slipper
running down the steps at midnight. She glances down at her own pink sandals,
and wishes for heels, but she is still too young to be wearing heels, at least
that is what the Shaannii says. But the very handsome man using the phrase don glass slippers—such an old-fashioned
expression—perhaps this friendly man should not be trusted, not quite
completely, despite being so very handsome. Handsome is as handsome does. The
little girl often imagines having a father, and she enjoys imagining him
looking much like this very handsome man. For now, she will continue his little
game. But she is watching him.
A
low beeping tone sounds, and the blue walls of the lift cube rise from the
concrete, and the lift drops like a rock from the sky, producing a loud
whistling noise.
“Top
of the mornin’,” says the Irish policeman, nearing the lift cube, pushing his
nightstick into the broad belt at his waist. “And how is our young lady, my
pretty little Buffalo gal?”
The
little girl giggles, understanding that the policeman is not calling her a girl
from Buffalo, a city of Old New York, but is merely referring to the lyrics of
the song he has been whistling. She is charmed by the red-faced man, who is
smiling at her with twinkling blue eyes, and she returns his smile, and for
some reason, she feels like taking his big hand, but it is her “play daddy”
that takes her hand.
“My
little lady requires ice cream in the sky, and what can a father do but give
his only daughter exactly what she wants?” the very handsome man says, taking a
step toward the blue lift cube.
“Oh
and fine, and what’s your favorite flavor?” the policeman inquires of the
little girl, crouching down, his elbow blocking the very handsome man. “Meself,
I loves the Rocky Road.”
“I
don’t think I’ve ever had ice cream before,” the little girl says, “so I don’t
have a favorite flavor, not yet, but honestly, Rocky Road doesn’t sound too
pleasant, it sounds rather...earthy.”
The
policeman guffaws loudly. “Oh, but it is not the sound, no, but the taste of Rocky Road; why you have
marshmallows, and chunks of chocolate, and nuts, that’s the thing of it, it’s
the taste,” the policeman says. “The chocolate will provide all the acne you
could ever wish for! Well beyond puberty, that it will!”
The
little girl, smiling at the policeman, really likes him, she likes his white
hair, his crinkled blue eyes, and his big red nose, as well as his big and
gruff voice, and she says, “Then it is Rocky Road for me. Marshmallows sound
nice. And the chocolate, of course. But I don’t know about the acne.”
“Oh,
you won’t have to worry about the acne, not for about seven or so years, I
would think. And what about you, my good man? Is it Rocky Road for you, too,
then?” the policeman says, pushing himself upright with a grunt, smiling at the
very handsome man.
The
little girl looks from the policeman to the very handsome man and back again,
noticing that the policeman’s eyes are not crinkling even though he is still
smiling.
“I’m
more of a sherbet man, myself,” the very handsome man says.
“Sherbet!”
the policeman snorts. “What is it then? Is it ice cream, or is it yogurt? Hard to trust a treat that can’t
make up its own mind. A wee bit Frenchy,
I think.”
The
little girl adores the policeman’s lilting accent, and she giggles.
“Going
on a wee adventure with your...Daddy,
Darlin’?” the policeman says, not looking away from the very handsome man, and
his smile seems to fade.
The
little girl does not pretend to understand all the dynamics of the interchange,
but she knows the lift will depart soon.
“Oh
yes, my Daddy is taking me on an adventure, and he is going to buy me ice cream
on the platform.”
“We
have to hurry,” the very handsome man says, dodging about the policeman, “come
along, Sweetheart.”
They
enter the blue cube and the doors swish shut just behind them. Turning her
head, the little girl catches a final glimpse of the big Irish policeman, and
sees that he is talking into something in his hand.
“Wasn’t
that fun?” the very handsome man says as the lift gives a tiny jolt, rocketing
into the sky.
“Yes,
it was lots of fun,” the little girl says, watching through the clear cube as
the city grows tiny beneath their feet. “I enjoyed the whole interchange, oh so
much. And I liked the Irish policeman, he was wonderful.” She imagines she can
see the Irish policeman, strolling below them, twirling his baton, his white
hair glimmering in the sunlight. She imagines she can see the smiling woman
with the curly hair.
“Quite
an adventure,” the very handsome man says.
“This
gives me a very odd feeling,” the little girl says, “my tummy is funny.”
“Don’t
be afraid,” the very handsome man says, giving her hand a comforting squeeze.
“Oh,
no, but I’m not afraid, I understand how the lift works, but I’ve never ridden
it before, and seeing the city get small makes me wonder if I’m getting big.”
“You
are a very strange little girl,” the very handsome man says.
“I
hope I’m not strange,” the little girl says. Looking up, she watches as the
platform appears far above, seeming to grow larger and larger, looking like a
steel island in the sky. She glances at her pink wristwatch. “Right on time!”
“Yes,”
the very handsome man chuckles, “right on time!”
The
lift fits perfectly into a cube shape at the bottom of the platform, and almost
immediately the doors slide open. They walk into a busy food court where almost
every kind of food is distributed by smiling attendants in a ring of clean
outlets.
“What’s
your name, Sweetheart?” the very handsome man says, leading the girl toward the
ice cream parlor.
“My
name is Manda. What is your name?” the little girl says.
“Amanda.
Nice to meet you, Amanda. My name is...Charlie. But you call me Daddy, for the
adventure, okay?”
“Manda,”
the little girl corrects him, “and your name is Charlie, but Daddy, for the
adventure.”
“Fine,
Amanda. Daddy. We got that straight. Let’s keep it straight, okay.”
She
frowns and checks her pink wristwatch. She is still right on time.
Only
one person is in line before them and the very handsome man waves his hand
before the menu, causing the projected menu to scroll through hundreds of
flavors.
“So,
what is it, Rocky Road, as our flat-footed friend suggests, or something more...exotic?”
The
little girl scans the flashing menu, oh so many delicious-sounding flavors.
“What
about your sherbet?” the little girl says.
“We
can eat from the same cone,” the very handsome man says, squeezing her hand.
She
winces, as he has compressed her fingers, too hard.
“Unsanitary,”
the little girl says. “Germs. No, I think I will go ahead and try Rocky Road,
as planned.”
The
very handsome man snorts. “As planned. Fine. Rocky Road, it is.”
The
person in front of them departs, hefting a crystal glass of foamy beige something,
and the smiling attendant turns to them and says: “Welcome to A Million Plus One Flavors, what can I
get for you two happy people?”
The
girl likes the blue glassiness of the attendant, and she likes how you can just
see through the young man, who is obviously represented by a happy, nondescript
avatar. She understands that the real worker is probably somewhere far below,
wearing a headset while playing games at a home terminal, and probably looks
completely different from this generic representation.
“Two
scoops of Rocky Road, the real stuff, in a waffle cone, and one avocado
sherbet, on a stick,” the very handsome says.
“Ten
credits, please,” the attendant says, almost immediately.
“Ten
credits for ice cream, the shame of it,” the very handsome man says, finally
releasing the little girl’s hand to retrieve a bulging billfold from a pocket
within his suit coat.
“Avocado?
Isn’t that a strange flavor for sherbet?” the little girl wonders.
“There’s
nothing strange about it,” the very handsome man snaps. Then he smiles. “Avocado
is a fruit, you know, just like tomato, or mango, or strawberries.”
“Technically,”
the little girl says, “strawberries are not berries.”
“Had
to get the know-it-all,” the very handsome man mutters, not acknowledging the
little girl.
The
little girl watches as he flips through a variety of cards; as the cards flick
by she registers the various names, James Thuggard, Ronald Beasley, Thomas
Finches, until he comes to Charles Weingart, which he selects and waves over
the blue disk on the counter, then promptly returns the card to his wallet and
tucks it back into his jacket. The disk pings quietly and the door near the
disk swooshes open, the order displayed on crystal pedestals.
The
little girl giggles, because the cone with the bulging ice cream looks
wonderful.
The
very handsome man takes the order and bows courtly to the little girl, offering
her the cone.
“Your
Ladyship,” he says, bowing as if presenting a crown to a princess.
The
little girl seizes the cone and immediately begins to lick the ice cream. Oh,
but the policeman was correct, this Rocky Road is wonderful, chocolatey, and
there are the marshmallows, jutting out of the ice cream, and chunks of
chocolate.
“What,
no thank you?” the handsome man says
in mock outrage.
“Thank
you, so much, it’s wonderful,” the little girl says.
“Shall
we take our treats up to the observation deck, M’Lady Amanda?” the very
handsome man says, taking her hand and leading her away from the food court. He
leads her toward the small cube lift.
“Let’s
take the crystal escalator,” the little girl says. “But you know, I have told
you twice, my name is Manda, not Uh-manda.”
The
man sighs but adjusts their course. He allows her to step onto the first crystal
step, but does not release his hold on her hand. He steps up close behind her.
The escalator lifts them, cutting through the floor of the food court. It is as
if they are levitating, rising through the air.
They
pass through three floors where people both get on and off the escalator, there
are shopping booths, lounges, as well as departure platforms for various
destinations, there is taxi traffic, and hotel rooms for rent, and soon they
rise into a magnificent sky, for the moment free of clouds so that the land is
visible, spread out like a patchwork quilt beneath them.
“Isn’t
this lovely?” the very handsome man says, leading the little girl to the wall
of the crystal cube.
In
bad weather, or very windy conditions, the top of the crystal cube seals,
making the observation deck a sort of terrarium in the sky, but on a nice day
like this, the ten-foot walls end in open sky.
“Someone
who fell from this height,” the very handsome man says, thoughtfully, “well,
there just wouldn’t be much left, would there?”
“That’s
why the walls are so high,” the little girl says, “to keep people from
falling.”
“Or
jumping,” the very handsome man says. “But people do find a way, don’t they?”
“They
do?” the little girl says.
“Oh
yes, all the time,” the very handsome man says. “Some people jump, because they
are just not happy in this world. And others are thrown because they make
people unhappy.”
“What’s
up with people?” the little girl says, thoughtfully, staring at the world
through the crystal walls.
“What’s
down with people?” the very handsome
man says, chuckling.
The
little girl does not reply, but stares out at the great distances, enjoying her
ice cream. She enjoys working the marshmallows and nuts with her teeth, slowly
extracting the bits. Rocky Road is her favorite ice cream flavor, she decides.
“Let’s
sit down over here,” the very handsome man says, drawing the girl to a corner
bench made of crystal. “Looks like we have the whole deck to ourselves. Isn’t
this cozy?”
“I
think about people, all the time,” the little girl says. “I can’t really make
up my mind about them. They should be happy, and yet most people are not
happy.”
“We’re
happy,” the very handsome man says, “you and I, me and you, we and us. That’s
what matters. You like the ice cream, and I like you.”
“Where’s
your sherbet?” the little girl says.
“Guess
I wasn’t very hungry,” the very handsome man says, “for sherbet.”
“Well,
you’re not getting any of my Rocky Road,” the little girl says, continuing to
lick her ice cream.
“That’s
not very nice of you,” the very handsome man says.
“I
already explained about the germs,” the little girl says, lowering her
eyebrows.
“The
germs, yes,” the man says. “But you know, married people don’t worry so much
about germs, married people, and families, fathers and daughters?”
“You
realize we are not actually related,” the little girl says, “that was all for
the adventure.”
“The
adventure’s not over, is it?” the man says, placing an arm about the girl’s shoulders.
“You are still my princess, and I am still your Daddy. Don’t you love your
Daddy?”
The
little girl glances at him. Then she really looks at him. Something has
changed. His nostrils are twitching, and his pupils are very large, and one
side of his mouth is twitching. He seems to be breathing much louder.
“Are
you feeling well?” she says.
“Feel
great,” he says, patting her shoulder, “I just so enjoy spending time with you,
my daughter. Why don’t you sit on my lap?”
“That
won’t be necessary,” she says, turning her gaze to her ice cream, but not
licking it.
“Now
come on,” he says, sweeping an arm beneath her thighs, lifting her, “you have
your ice cream, you love it. There’s nothing wrong with a father enjoying a
little girl on his lap.”
“But
you’re not really my father,” she says, squirming to get off his lap.
“Stop.
It.”
She
went still. He had a hand clamped on the back of her neck. It hurt.
“See
those walls,” the man said, speaking quickly, “they’re not really that tall. A
tall man, like me, can easily throw something over the top. Just sit still.”
He
smoothed a hand over her skirt, straightening the pink folds.
“You
are hurting my neck,” the little girl said.
“No,
I’m not. You, moving, that’s what’s hurting your neck, little girl,” the man
said. He placed his hat beside them on the bench. “Just sit still.”
“I
think that perhaps you are not really a nice man,” the little girl said,
sitting very still, but he did not relinquish the grip on the back of her neck.
“You
have no idea,” he said, rubbing his cheek down alongside her face. “Don’t you
know that little girls are not supposed to go out alone?”
He
sounded like a character in a fairytale. The Big Bad Wolf.
“Yes,
I know that,” the little girl said, tears filling her eyes. “I was being
naughty. I snuck away.”
“And
now they wonder where you could have gone,” the man whispered. “They will know.
Soon enough. After.”
“You
are a bad man,” she said.
“That’s
what they say,” he answered, and he began to move a hand down her leg to the
edge of her skirt.
“Stop,”
she said, and he stopped. She climbed off his lap and looked at him. He sat
frozen, one hand up as if gripping her neck, the other arm stretched out, the
hand curled back, as if seeking.
“What’s
happening?” the man said, but his speech was garbled, as if he could not fully
move his lips and tongue.
“Please,
do not speak,” the little girl said. She closed her eyes and they flicked
about, moving beneath the lids, as if she were dreaming. “The Shaannii says
there is no hope for someone like you. What you are doing, you have done, and
will do again. You have done terrible things. And you will do terrible things.”
“Sorry,”
the man whimpered, completely still, tears leaking out of his eyes.
“I
am sorry,” the little girl said, opening her eyes. “What you have done to
others, so let it be done to you, so let it be written, so let it be done.”
The
man, not looking very handsome, slammed against the crystal wall of the
observation deck, his legs sticking straight out, his eyes bulging in horror,
as he slowly slid with his back against the crystal wall, up, up, and he began
to scream, but he kept moving, as if lifted by an unseen escalator, up and up
until he reached the top of the wall, and then he went over, and now screamed
with all his being as he fell. She heard him screaming for a long time, until
she could not hear the screams any longer. But the little girl was certain he
would scream until the very end, in about ten seconds.
She
looked sadly at the man’s dark blue fedora hat. It matched his suit so well.
She turned and walked across the observation deck as people began appearing,
rushing from lifts and stairwells and the escalator, rushing, rushing to see
what might yet be seen, pressing their hands against the crystal walls. The
little girl noticed that the ceiling had closed and now the observation deck
was a sealed terrarium in the sky, and all the people were the little animals
in the crystal box. Yes, the people were much more like animals than people.
The
little girl walked around the circular restaurant to the far side of the
observation deck, and walked directly to the lone woman who stood at the prow
of the platform, looking out at the approaching clouds.
“Right
on time,” the little girl said, checking her pink wristwatch.
“Hello,”
the young woman said, turning from her view, smiling at the little girl, but
wiping at her eyes. It seemed that she had been crying, just moments before.
“I’m
Manda,” the little girl said.
The
young woman paused, and then said, softly, “I’m Sandy,” and she ceremoniously
shook the little girl’s proffered hand.
Wolf
remained very still, staring up, holding his black fighting stick in both
hands, parallel to the ground. The great serpent had just threatened to devour
him.
The
serpent’s great head drew very close. It came down slowly, until its nose was
inches away from his face. Only moments after their life-and-death struggle,
and now here it was, the great serpent threatened to go back on its word and
eat him, after everything, after all their oaths of friendship.
“Do
you think I’m joking?” the serpent hissed.
“You
do have a strange sense of humor,” Wolf said.
“You
should see your face,” the serpent hissed, and released a bellow of air in what
must pass for laughter. “Come on, admit it, Wolf, you were worried.”
“Maybe...concerned,”
Wolf said, allowing himself a grin. Still, his hands did not shift on the black
shillelagh.
“Concerned,” the serpent hissed. “I’m
surprised you did not soil yourself.”
“I
actually might have done that earlier, during our wrestling match,” Wolf said.
“No,
I do not think so,” the serpent hissed. “You are a stern man, strong and brave.
I could not depart, not yet, because I wanted to give you one last gift.”
Wolf
lifted his eyebrows.
The
serpent opened its great jaws, producing its monstrous fangs, longer than his
arms. On each fang was what appeared to be a ring of leather.
Wolf
snapped his black stick up under his arm and reached for one of the leather
strips. With a few tugs he was able to pull down one of the leather bands, and he
carefully removed it without touching the tip of the fang, and without pause he
did the same to the other band.
He
glanced at the two bands. They were gloves, fingerless gloves. Wolf chuckled.
The gloves appeared to be MMA gloves. He pulled them on over his fingers. They
came down well below his wrists, fitting perfectly like gauntlets, and were
made of the same scaly leather as the breeches and boots.
“I
was not joking, however, about how delicious you appear to me,” the serpent
hissed.
“Thank
you,” Wolf said, choosing to interpret that as a compliment, flexing his fists
in his new gloves. Big flexing horns covered all his knuckles. These gloves
would not only protect his hands, but deliver devastating damage at any blow,
and aside from all that, they just felt cool.
“Fare
thee well, Pugilist Wolf,” the serpent hissed, and then it swung its hooded and
horned head away and was off moving through the grasses, like a freight train
seeming to take forever.
Wolf
lifted his pack and opened the flap; he dug just a moment, extricating a bottle
of wine.
“I
could use a drink,” he said, prying the cork out of the bottle with his thumbs.
He took a sip and nodded his head. Not bad, not bad at all. He took a longer
swig, and then replaced the cork. He belched. He slipped the bottle back into
the pack and snatched the hooded traveling cloak from the ground.
He
set out walking downhill, and after a few moments, he noticed the growing
chill. Evening seemed to be coming on. He slipped into his cloak and pulled the
hood up over his head. In all the recent excitement, his cigar had gone out. He
squeezed the tip and it once again burst into flame. He sucked the cigar until
it billowed smoke, and then set out walking again, slipping the pack onto one
shoulder, prodding the ground before him with his black walking stick. All in
all, he didn’t feel bad. Truthfully, he felt rather excited. He chuckled. Ah
come on, whom was he kidding, this was like being a kid again, on Christmas
morning. He wanted to scream!
He
wouldn’t be going back to that job. He wouldn’t be worrying about his bills, or
his credit debt. Forget GMOs, high fructose corn syrup, car insurance, diet sodas
with zero calories, lying media, flu shots, and Wi-Fi hotspots. You can keep
your traffic tickets, political ads, popup adware, and online pornography. No,
this was a world of vivid colors, and giant serpents, and he was alive; he had
survived the crashing Armageddon of one world, and he felt more than equipped
to handle anything, and so he might as well push forward and discover what this
new world had to offer.
The
serpent had mentioned something about a human dwelling below, and that’s what
he set off for, enjoying his fantasy Cuban cigar and the pleasant evening
stroll. He noticed a moon peeking over the edge of the tall mountains on his
left. It looked huge, perhaps twice the size of the normal moon he was used to
seeing. As he strolled, puffing on his cigar, he twirled the black shillelagh,
and man, but that felt good, something completely normal to his hand, as if it
were part of him. It felt too light for such a strong piece of wood, and it
felt alive.
No,
at least for the time being, Stacey and his world and all his problems were
gone. In this new place, for however long he should be alive, in the now he was
Wolf. He picked up his pace into a loping jog, hefting his stick in his left
hand, his right hand steadying the pack above his hip. He glanced at the moon
again, which was almost free of the mountain range, and it was truly an awesome
spectacle, bloated and glowing a dim blue. Something caught his eyes from over
on the right side of the far valley where a more rugged set of peaks rose high
in the air, and he blinked, for it appeared to be another moon, this one tinged
with green, and perhaps a eighth the size of the blue moon (probably half or
less the size of his moon, in that
destroyed world), and it was moving in the opposite direction; he supposed,
some time tonight the two moons would meet in the sky, and one would eclipse
the other. Two moons? Wasn’t that pressing things a little too far? Still, he
had to remember, there were worlds with more than one moon, why shouldn’t this
be one?
He
loped a little faster as full night came on. For now, it was enough to head
downhill. But even with two moons in the sky, he doubted he would be able to
find his way safely in the dark. He gave himself another half hour to find the
human dwelling. If he didn’t find the place, he’d have to make camp out here,
and hopefully there were sufficient supplies inside his pack, as he had not
really explored its contents as yet.
A
sound above the breeze brought him to an abrupt halt. There was no
misinterpreting that song of the night, it was a very loud wolf howl, and it
carried on long and loud, sounding like the wind singing. The howl began low
and mournful, and then rose piercing and sad, yet very beautiful. Wolf had never
actually heard a real wolf howl, in the real world (or what passed for it). He
had only heard the song of the wild in movies. But out here, in the wild, the
song brought gooseflesh to his neck and shoulders, and he actually felt his
scalp rise up as if in terror. But he felt no fear, none whatsoever.
He
threw back his own head and howled into the night, putting all of himself into
that howl, ripping free every pain and worry of the last couple of days, and he
howled with his soul, tears leaking from his eyes, offering up the torment of
losing a world, offering up the terror of birth into a new world. Then, spent,
he stood, listening, puffing on his cigar.
If
he expected the wolf to answer him, he was disappointed, because all was
silent, save for the chorus of crickets that came alive, first like a string
quartet, and then like a full symphony. But Wolf’s disappointment was only
short lived, because a great shape emerged through the trees and loped across
the meadows. It was the largest dog-like beast he had ever hoped to see, far
larger than a Great Dane or St. Bernard.
It
was a wolf, a white wolf, perhaps the size of a pony. And it was loping
directly toward him.
Wolf
stood with his black shillelagh in his left hand, waiting, until the great wolf
came and sat on its haunches, ten feet away.
“Don’t
worry,” it said, in a deep, friendly voice. “I’m not another test. Boreallis
sent me. I am to be your guide, and protector. And I hope, ultimately, to be
your friend.”
“I
am Wolf,” Wolf the man said.
“I
know. I am Wolf, as well,” Wolf the wolf said. “I enjoyed your howl.”
“Thank
you. I enjoyed your howl, as well,” Wolf the man said.
“Grab
onto my ruff, and run alongside me, and I will guide your feet to safe places
of treading,” Wolf the wolf said.
And
they ran, into the night, into the wild, Wolf and Wolf.
© Copyright 2016 Douglas Christian Larsen. Vestigial Surreality. All Rights Reserved by the Author, Douglas Christian Larsen. No part of this serial fiction may be reproduced (except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews) or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the publisher, Wolftales UNlimited, but please feel free to share the story with anyone, only not for sale or resale. This work is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental (wink, wink).
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