The Storyteller

My scent betrayed me with every step I took. I was still covered in blood and tainted everything I touched.

I’m not safe. I have to get off the trail, but where do I run?

I could hear the dogs in the distance. In a crazed frenzy, I grabbed as many loose branches as I could and tried to cover my tracks, but it only made the situation worse. I was out of time. With my pulse warning me of my fleeting minutes, I left the trail and ran deep into the forest.

Trees, the size of giants, immediately slowed my progress... not that it mattered. Every trunk I grazed and every twig I stepped on was marked giving away my position. Unfortunately, I had no choice but to keep pressing ahead.

I weaved and backtracked my way through the maze until I was deeper into the forest than I had ever been. Far in the distance, I could hear the cries of the bloodhounds. I paused. The silence fell over me with a cold dose of reality, “I made this mess and now I was going to pay.”

They were gaining on me. They couldn’t be more than a mile away--and then a second howl sounded to my right and then another. Make that less than half a mile.

Damn this blood. I was skin deep in evidence. What I needed was a miracle. Just then, thunder cracked in the sky illuminating the space around me. I was in the middle of a clearing.

Part of me wanted to lie down and surrender but another, the more cunning side of me held onto the slightest sliver of hope that I could overcome the consequences of my overactive imagination.

The soft pitter-patter of water danced on the fallen leaves. I collapsed to my knees and whispered my thanks as a crack of thunder sliced through the air. A sheet of rain immediately followed.

I’m saved. The evidence washed away leaving behind the shell of a broken boy.

I was all but dancing with joy when suddenly I was thrown to the ground with torturous pains coursing throughout my body. I bit my fist stifling the rising scream. The appearance of the silvery orb filled the black sky with light yielding a promise of pain.

The poison surged through my veins taking my sanity and lacing it with strychnine. I wanted to scream. I wanted to howl, but instead I fell to the ground in silent, writhing pain begging death to come and save me. As my body broke and reformed, moments of clarity flashed through my head reminding me of the events that led to my demise.

The moon shone brightly in the clear night sky. Crickets chirped beneath the protection of the tall grasses that swayed in the breeze. Fireflies danced in the nearby woods creating art with their radiant glow.

Not even the beauty of nature mattered at this point—not when the real pleasures of life were just over the hill. In the distance, I listened to the laughter and music of an existence far superior to the life of a shepherd boy.

As I lounged in the meadow, I couldn’t help but imagine how wonderful my life would be if I had been born into wealth. In my world, I would have hundreds of servants and wear the finest clothing, imported of course, and have women who adored me. Men would envy my wealth and the mere mention of my name would render the bravest man powerless.

Without warning, gunfire filled the night taking me out of my fantasy. I crawled to the edge of the hill in hopes of some type of entertainment only to freeze as a woman’s laughter altered my imagination. Looking past the buildings, I spotted a man and woman alongside the saloon slip behind a haystack. Their “passion” quickly replaced my visions of wealth with envy.

Enough was enough.

That evening, I devised an ingenious plan that would change my life forever. The next night I would slip away from my post and slither my way into the middle of the herd. With the silver blade from my boot, I would slit a sheep’s neck. The following night, I waited until evening when most of the townsfolk were at the saloon.

Everything went as planned. I looked at the poor dumb beast and then pierced its throat without a second thought. I was mesmerized by the amount of blood that spilled onto the ground. For a moment, I questioned the validity of my plan. However, as the wind picked up, the stench of rust and metal slapped me in the face reawakening me to my mission.

I ran.

Halfway to the village, I remembered the knife clutched in my hand and threw it into the woods and then continued towards town.

“Wolf,” I yelled, as I stood in the middle of the street. “Wolf!”

The music in the tavern died. The couple from the previous night came out from behind the haystack, their clothes in disarray. Men smoking imported cigars and a few others with Winchesters tucked under their arms surrounded me.

“What did you say boy?”

This was my moment. I trembled with fear and then collapsed.

“Wolf,” I said, barely above a whisper.

The few women who ventured outside squealed and ran back into the saloon. The men with guns mounted their horses and rode away towards the meadow.

“Bring him inside,” someone said. I hid my smile as I was taken into the saloon.

After several helpings of food and some spirits to calm my nerves, I told the townsfolk about my adventure with the wolf.

“...And the beast’s teeth were like daggers thirsty for my blood. If I hadn’t raised the alarm I know I would’ve been the next victim.”

Soon after, the men returned.

“They only got one,” the Sheriff said, “but it’s a nasty mess. You better stay here at the saloon, boy. My men will herd the sheep tonight.”

I did it. My plan worked.

That night, I slept in a real bed with starch white sheets. A servant drew my bath and left a bottle of whiskey on the bedside table. For hours, I soaked in the hot water congratulating myself for a story well told. By morning, however, the novelty wore off and I was cast out into the street. Once again, I was nothing more than ordinary shepherd boy.

Several days later, I sat alone in the meadow watching the sheep graze beneath a blanket of stars. All I could think about was the life I should be living. After all, I was infinitely cleverer than anyone in town. Seriously, if I were rich, I would wear clothes made from the finest silk and adorn my fingers with large jewels. I would fill my stomach with exotic foods from all over the world and own all the land in the state of Texas.

As it was, I was not wealthy and sitting there doing nothing about it was stupid. I knew what needed to be done.

Hours later, I ended up in the saloon with the townsfolk listening to every word I said, “There were three... no, four wolves. They each dragged away a sheep.”

“Oh you brave boy. How did you escape?” asked a particularly attractive painted lady.

“It was close, but while the wolves were distracted, I slipped into the tall grasses and sounded my horn. The noise scared them off.”

Several of the women lounging near me kissed me on the cheek. The Sheriff shook my hand and congratulated me for being so brave. I was a renewed hero.

That night, I dined with men who wore pressed black coats and polished boots. Women threw themselves at me and fed me until I was full. I slept in a room reserved for the privileged. The euphoria intoxicated my senses and fulfilled my wildest dreams.

In the morning, however, everything changed and my talented storytelling turned traitor. At the sound of my alarm, a group of hunters ventured into the forest in search of the wolves with no evidence that any beast was in the area. What they found instead, and what was now sitting on the table in front of me, was my knife covered in sheep’s blood.

I had to think fast. Nothing but my talent for storytelling would save me now. I twisted my words, manipulated my tale, and humbly maneuvered my way out of a hanging. Unfortunately, now I would never know fame nor find my fortune in the world. No one would ever believe a word I said again.

Damn! I was so close. For a moment, I had it all. The power was mine for the taking, but now all I was to these people was a rich man’s joke. I fell asleep that night to the thoughts of self-loathing and pity. I awoke, soon after, to the bleating cry of my herd.

Wolves.

Real wolves invaded my hillside. I crawled out from behind the looking rock and ran towards the town.

“Wolves,” I screamed.

I waited for a second and then yelled again, “Wolves,” but no one came outside.

No one came when the beast threw me to the ground. No one came when my screams tore from the gash in my throat. No one came, as I lie dying in a pool of my own blood.

The next morning, I awoke in the middle of the meadow. I was alive, but my body ached and my mouth felt like cotton. All I could remember was the hot, sticky breath of the wolf and my fruitless screams before I blacked out. A chill ran across my skin--I could still hear the screaming.

“Get the Sheriff,” someone yelled. It was then that I noticed the small group of men on the edge of the cliff.

What were they staring at? My heart began to race. Don’t look... Don’t look... Don’t look, I thought, but I had to know.

Slowly, I opened my eyes. The herd fanned out around me like a morbid parasol. Not a single beastly soul survived. And what’s worse? I sat, dumbfounded, in the middle of the herd covered in blood and wool. I awoke from the shock and ran towards the woods when the first shotgun fired into the air.

Finally, the moon slipped back underneath the security of the clouds. The fire beneath my skin subsided. The transformation was complete. I sat in the clearing, listening with new ears. The rain pounded against my body and rolled off my slick new fur. I waited for the hunters. Even without my bloody trail to guide them, they would find me.

As I sat there awaiting the hunter’s arrival, I realized that I was trapped. What I hadn’t seen with my human eyes as I entered the clearing was the steep cliff overlooking the ocean. I had nowhere to run. Even as I waited, I could smell my pursuers odor fused with the woodsy scent of the rain. They were closing in and this time I couldn’t warn the hunters of the threat that awaited them... because I am the threat.

I am the wolf.

THE END

Bio: Ms. Flicek is an accomplished student at Full Sail University working towards a BFA in Creative Writing and a BS in Game Art. Her passion for visual storytelling led to the development of a new comic script called The Mysterious Life of Detective Hyde.

E-mail: Tarah Flicek

Comment on this story in the Aphelion Forum

Return to Aphelion's Index page.