Wolven
The Pack
Wrapped snuggly in a thick blanket, I sit curled on the small couch beside the frosted window. I chat with Halin, who has been telling me about a few contacts he's made from The States, regarding the purchase of his paintings. He lounges lazily in one of the table chairs across the room, staring into into space and scratching absently at his stubbly cheek as the conversation dies down. After taking a long gaze out the window at the other cabins nestled into the ice hills, I glance at Hal.
"Any word from the whalers?" I ask him, and he snaps out of his thoughts.
"The team radioed in just this evening, actually, it must have slipped my mind," he sighs.
"And?"
"They're wrapping everything up and getting ready to haul home the kills, they should be back in a day or two." A smile spreads on my face at the thought of seeing father and Rowan again. Summer in the tundra was the busiest time for the whalers and hunters, and it's been a few months since I've seen either of them due to the fact that both men tend to stay out the longest. It would be good to see my family again.
"That's great to hear." Halin nods with a drowsy chuckle, taking a glance at his wrist watch.
"Well, I'm heading in, it's the middle of the night," he says as he stands and stretches, his joints and bones popping audibly. We say goodnight as he dons all of his protective clothing, and Hal retires to his own cabin for the night. Alone now, I clean up the mugs and tea bags as a part of my nightly tidying-up routine before I head to bed. I'm not tired at all, though... With the sound of the howling wind against the window and siding of the cabin, I conteplate going back outside to feel the cold again.
I like the touch of the bitter cold.
Hesitating in mid-reach for my coat, I try to decide between trying to sleep, or just going another night without. Strange insomnia often makes itself comfortable with me,and it seems like tonight was one of those nights. On top of that, I've had an aching unrest within me, lately. It increases in magnitude during the night, and only the cold and ice can bring me any comfort.
Swiping my coat decisively off of the back of a table chair by the stove, I slide into it before grabbing my gloves and stringing up my boots.
A night of watch will do me good, I think to myself as I string a rifle over my shoulder, and strap my hunting knife onto my thigh. The odd feeling I often get in my gut stirs like a living thing when the arctic air fills my lungs gloriously, and I grit my teeth in defiance as I eliminate it. I hate when that catches me off guard.
Pulling thr fur lined hood over my head, I make my way through the flat valley of our village down in the rock and ice, my boots crunching on the snowy path I take.
After finding and talking to a few other village men who are already on watch, I take to the south end of the town to climb the wooden structure up the side of the southern rise. A few feet above even the hills of ice that surround our village, I take the rifle off my back to lean it against the railing of the watch tower before resting against the post myself. Sighing in content, I scan the tundra with sharp eyes for any unwanted visitors.
The sun climbs very slowly from its lowest spot over the horizon as a few hours roll by under my watch. My mind wanders and takes flight when the tundra lies before me, and I'm almost startled out of my listless thoughts when a scent on the frigid wind hits my senses like a shock. The ice-cold air fills my lungs as the gut feeling returns with full force, and an instinctive alarm makes the hairs on the back of my neck raise. Grasping my rifle, I glance at the box that holds the designated radio used for signaling the other village men at their posts. Angered by the potency of this hated gut feeling, I search the icy plains of tundra for the source of the smell.
Which I can almost taste, since the irony smell of blood is very powerful.
A gasp catches in my chest at the sight I lock onto down across the rocky and icy expanse; A figure stumbles and struggles to escape the pack of tundra wolves that follow in their wake.
"Wolves at the southern end," I say clearly into the radio, and then repeat it quickly before throwing the device back into the box, snatching the rifle, and leaping right over the railing. I land steadily from the 5 foot drop, and break into a sprint down the ice-covered rise toward the wolves and their human prey. I can hear their calls, practically smell their thrill from the hunt. The ragged sobs and gasps from the woman runnung from them fill my ears, and I put on hard burst of speed to meet up with her. Before I reach her, horror grips my heart at the blood that covers her clothing and splatters the snow behind her, the gashes that mar her arms that are clutched desperately around a bundle.
And then I notice that she is Inuit, like me. The closest village with Inuit inhabitants lies miles and miles away, I remember as this all gets more and more startling.
I shout to the screaming woman, tell her to run for the town, tell her that I will protect her. I load the rifle with a snarl as feral anger replaces the gut feeling, and I hear the woman collapse onto the snow and ice behind me in a heap of ragged sobs and inaudible Inuit words. I fire a concussive shot at the first approaching wolf, a massive grey male who dodges the bullet with breath-taking agility. With rising alarm, I reload the gun in a flash as other wolves of varying shades flank the leader, and I hold my breath as I take aim at a beast that sprints and snarles beside the lead male. The shot explodes across the tundra, followed by the satisfying sound of the wolf's yelp as it crashes to the ice with gnashing fangs and snarling death-cries. The pack leaps over the fallen wolf, drawing ever closer.
"The babies-" The woman gasps in a heavy accent behind me, "The babies!" Her voice is ragged, pleading, and desperate. I miss another wolf with the ringing shot of the gun, cursing in anger as I fumble to reload and shoot as fast as I possibly can, over and over. I reach the end of the clip as the pack overtakes me, and I prepare to use the gun as a bludgeon when the large leading wolf leaps at me. With a feral cry of anger, I aim the butt of the rifle up in defense. It doesn't make contact, though. The wolf sails over my head in what seems like slow motion, its fur-covered underside stretched in a muscular leap over my head.
"Any word from the whalers?" I ask him, and he snaps out of his thoughts.
"The team radioed in just this evening, actually, it must have slipped my mind," he sighs.
"And?"
"They're wrapping everything up and getting ready to haul home the kills, they should be back in a day or two." A smile spreads on my face at the thought of seeing father and Rowan again. Summer in the tundra was the busiest time for the whalers and hunters, and it's been a few months since I've seen either of them due to the fact that both men tend to stay out the longest. It would be good to see my family again.
"That's great to hear." Halin nods with a drowsy chuckle, taking a glance at his wrist watch.
"Well, I'm heading in, it's the middle of the night," he says as he stands and stretches, his joints and bones popping audibly. We say goodnight as he dons all of his protective clothing, and Hal retires to his own cabin for the night. Alone now, I clean up the mugs and tea bags as a part of my nightly tidying-up routine before I head to bed. I'm not tired at all, though... With the sound of the howling wind against the window and siding of the cabin, I conteplate going back outside to feel the cold again.
I like the touch of the bitter cold.
Hesitating in mid-reach for my coat, I try to decide between trying to sleep, or just going another night without. Strange insomnia often makes itself comfortable with me,and it seems like tonight was one of those nights. On top of that, I've had an aching unrest within me, lately. It increases in magnitude during the night, and only the cold and ice can bring me any comfort.
Swiping my coat decisively off of the back of a table chair by the stove, I slide into it before grabbing my gloves and stringing up my boots.
A night of watch will do me good, I think to myself as I string a rifle over my shoulder, and strap my hunting knife onto my thigh. The odd feeling I often get in my gut stirs like a living thing when the arctic air fills my lungs gloriously, and I grit my teeth in defiance as I eliminate it. I hate when that catches me off guard.
Pulling thr fur lined hood over my head, I make my way through the flat valley of our village down in the rock and ice, my boots crunching on the snowy path I take.
After finding and talking to a few other village men who are already on watch, I take to the south end of the town to climb the wooden structure up the side of the southern rise. A few feet above even the hills of ice that surround our village, I take the rifle off my back to lean it against the railing of the watch tower before resting against the post myself. Sighing in content, I scan the tundra with sharp eyes for any unwanted visitors.
The sun climbs very slowly from its lowest spot over the horizon as a few hours roll by under my watch. My mind wanders and takes flight when the tundra lies before me, and I'm almost startled out of my listless thoughts when a scent on the frigid wind hits my senses like a shock. The ice-cold air fills my lungs as the gut feeling returns with full force, and an instinctive alarm makes the hairs on the back of my neck raise. Grasping my rifle, I glance at the box that holds the designated radio used for signaling the other village men at their posts. Angered by the potency of this hated gut feeling, I search the icy plains of tundra for the source of the smell.
Which I can almost taste, since the irony smell of blood is very powerful.
A gasp catches in my chest at the sight I lock onto down across the rocky and icy expanse; A figure stumbles and struggles to escape the pack of tundra wolves that follow in their wake.
"Wolves at the southern end," I say clearly into the radio, and then repeat it quickly before throwing the device back into the box, snatching the rifle, and leaping right over the railing. I land steadily from the 5 foot drop, and break into a sprint down the ice-covered rise toward the wolves and their human prey. I can hear their calls, practically smell their thrill from the hunt. The ragged sobs and gasps from the woman runnung from them fill my ears, and I put on hard burst of speed to meet up with her. Before I reach her, horror grips my heart at the blood that covers her clothing and splatters the snow behind her, the gashes that mar her arms that are clutched desperately around a bundle.
And then I notice that she is Inuit, like me. The closest village with Inuit inhabitants lies miles and miles away, I remember as this all gets more and more startling.
I shout to the screaming woman, tell her to run for the town, tell her that I will protect her. I load the rifle with a snarl as feral anger replaces the gut feeling, and I hear the woman collapse onto the snow and ice behind me in a heap of ragged sobs and inaudible Inuit words. I fire a concussive shot at the first approaching wolf, a massive grey male who dodges the bullet with breath-taking agility. With rising alarm, I reload the gun in a flash as other wolves of varying shades flank the leader, and I hold my breath as I take aim at a beast that sprints and snarles beside the lead male. The shot explodes across the tundra, followed by the satisfying sound of the wolf's yelp as it crashes to the ice with gnashing fangs and snarling death-cries. The pack leaps over the fallen wolf, drawing ever closer.
"The babies-" The woman gasps in a heavy accent behind me, "The babies!" Her voice is ragged, pleading, and desperate. I miss another wolf with the ringing shot of the gun, cursing in anger as I fumble to reload and shoot as fast as I possibly can, over and over. I reach the end of the clip as the pack overtakes me, and I prepare to use the gun as a bludgeon when the large leading wolf leaps at me. With a feral cry of anger, I aim the butt of the rifle up in defense. It doesn't make contact, though. The wolf sails over my head in what seems like slow motion, its fur-covered underside stretched in a muscular leap over my head.