In the Wolf's Mouth
Read In the Wolf's Mouth Online
Authors: Adam Foulds
IN THE
WOLF’S
MOUTH
ADAM FOULDS
To C.
There may be always a time of innocence.
There is never a place.
Wallace Stevens,
The Auroras of Autumn
Table of Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
Praise for IN THE WOLF’S MOUTH
He leaned forward, swung his shotgun carefully around from his back and raised it so that the stock rested firmly along his jawbone. His stubble rasped against the wood as he adjusted, setting the partridge floating on the two beads. Still there, panting in the heat. He fired. The bird was thrust sideways. It sat heavily, startled, like somebody suddenly shoved out of a chair. The blast rocked in echoes across the valley and knocked up into the air a crow that flew in wide evasive circles, crying out. Angilù thought of the other shepherds in the hills hearing the shot and wondering, frightened maybe. The partridge fluttered one wing as though thinking it might still fly away to safety, but while Angilù walked towards it the movement slowed to a feeble waving and by the time he reached it the bird was still, the clasp of its beak unfastened, its little black eye unblinking in the sun.
He picked up the bird and carried it back up to the ridge where the wind hit him then down the other side to his hut, his tethered mule, the sheep scuttling over stones looking for fresh growth. He sat in the shade of the opening and plucked the bird, the soft beautiful feathers blowing about his feet. When its pimpled flesh was as bare as a naked woman he took his knife and slit below the keel bone then pulled
out the wet handful of innards. Ready to cook. Excellent. The partridge was good luck. Otherwise it would have been more salty cheese and hard bread or snails if he could be bothered to collect them. Or wild herbs. There was a place near here where they grew. He could see it in his mind: the clear light, the slender plants shaking in the wind.
He spatchcocked the bird, cracking open its small ribcage, and cooked it over a fire of quick-burning, sun-bleached stuff. He cut the meat and ate it from the side of his knife. He ate its delicate bones and sucked at the larger ones.
Winter had been a warm time back in the village, among people, with the cold silver rain darkening the earth, feeding it. But it was good to be alone again, up out of all the clamour of talk and obligation, families and rivalries and wrongs. The other shepherds missed home but he was young still and without a wife. There was loneliness, of course, and when he was a boy he’d hated it, feeling himself a prisoner in the hills, expelled from normal life, frightened of the bandits and the business he had to do. Back then he’d arranged stones on the ground near one of the huts to form faces and he’d talked to them, long conversations. He didn’t do that any more but the place remained altered by it. There was a presence there, a charge in the air above the spot, a ghost of himself, perhaps.
As the sun set he watched the shadows pour down behind the hills, filling the valley. Then there were stars. His mule faded into the darkness, the pale sheep also. But the wind was always awake, vibrating over the hard ridges.
The following day, Gino drove his herd near enough in the east for Angilù to hear his singing rise up on the wind. Angilù put his hands to the side of his mouth and sang, ‘Who’s singing over there? Sounds like a sick dog.’ There was a pause, then Gino’s voice drifted back. ‘Who’s that singing up there? You sound like you’ve got toothache in every tooth.’
For a while they sang insults.
‘You know nothing about singing. You’d better go and learn at school in Palermo.’
‘You don’t know how to sing. You need to go to school in Monreale.’
‘When you were born behind a door I thought you were a stillborn dog.’
‘When you were born in the middle of the street there was a terrible stink of shit.’
They sang for a while then Gino was gone.
The day after that at sunset Angilù saw his mule twitch its ears forwards and lift its head. He looked across the valley to see a man approaching on horseback, the horse’s big, jointed shadow moving over the stones in front of them as it snorted and laboured under a big man. One of the field guards. The Prince chose them for their size, in part, and how they would look in his livery. Angilù didn’t have to look; he knew which one it would be before he arrived. He sat still and waited.
Finally, Angilù looked up at the huge silhouette of horse and man right in front of him, the sword hanging from the guard’s hip, the feathers on his hat bending in the wind. The horse shifted sideways a little, finding sockets for its hooves in the ground.
‘This evening,’ the guard said, ‘it would be better to let fate take its course.’
Angilù nodded. ‘They’re making it hard for themselves,’ he said. ‘There’s no moon tonight.’
‘Why should you worry?’
Angilù picked up a small pink pebble and rolled it in his palm. ‘Are they bringing or taking?’
‘Does it matter?’
Angilù didn’t say anything.
The guard said. ‘They’re taking.’
‘How many?’
‘You’ve got a lot of questions.’
Angilù looked up at the horse’s solid flank as it stepped back a pace. He could feel the guard staring down at the top of his head. The guard was smoking a cigarette now, an expensive one, sweet and fragrant.
‘Let’s say,’ the guard said, ‘that if it didn’t happen the landlord wouldn’t be happy.’
‘I see,’ Angilù said and let the pebble drop onto the ground. ‘I see.’
The guard took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his hair with his forearm. ‘You think too much up here. You worry. It’s all arranged anyway. You’ll be found in the morning.’
‘Holy Mother.’
‘It’s best for your reputation if they tie you.’
‘But why? They haven’t done that before. Why do they need to do that? Jesus Christ.’
‘What did I say about thinking? Maybe someone is worried that maybe somebody in the municipality is taking an interest. Things aren’t like they were. It’s best.’
‘Best,’ Angilù repeated.
‘That’s all,’ the guard said. He flicked down the butt of his cigarette. It landed on the ground in front of Angilù as light and precise in its sudden stillness as a cricket. Angilù wondered if the guard was watching to see if he would reach across and pick it up.
The guard twisted his horse’s reins and rode away down the hill, the horse resisting the gradient at first with stiff, straightened front legs. It took a long time for him to cross the valley, ride up the opposite slope and finally sink down behind it.
Darkness. The sky crowded on all sides with the countless bright stars of a moonless night. The wind sucked noisily at the fire. Angilù had nothing to do but wait.
When he finally heard them approaching he stood up to meet them. Different footsteps around him but he couldn’t count how many of them there were. They spread out in different directions. Angilù saw in his mind spiders scattering from a lifted stone. They could see him perfectly clearly, as he intended, a man appearing in gusts of flame light as he stood by the fire. He wanted to show himself willing straightaway. The shape of one man approached directly and Angilù turned his back so as not to see the face, not to know. The man said nothing as he took hold of Angilù’s wrists and started tying them. He had the sweet, acrid aroma of red wine on his breath. They would all have had a good meal in somebody’s house in Sant’Attilio before travelling up. The man bent down to tie Angilù’s ankles then thought better of it.
‘Lie on your back and put your feet in the air.’
Angilù did as he was told. As the man spent a minute fastening the rope around his legs, Angilù felt a surprising pleasure at the intimacy of the contact with this stranger. He felt cared for. It was the same careful, practical touch his mother had when she cut his hair.
When he was tied the man turned and walked away.
‘Hey!’ Angilù shouted after him. ‘Hey! Put me in the hut!’ But the man didn’t turn back and Angilù had to crawl like a caterpillar past the heat of the fire to get into the safe darkness of his shelter. Beyond its walls he could hear shouting, the snapping of whips, the bleating and scrambling of sheep driven away in the dark.
The men were busy for a while but eventually it was done and there was quiet, just the wind and the remaining sheep, spooked, rattling the stones. And suddenly his mule brayed into the emptiness, loud and angry. The dumb beast. He lay on his side so as not to lie on his hands and looked out at the diminishing flames and white ashes of the fire as they were torn away towards the stars. He relaxed slowly, slowly fell asleep past sudden painful jerks of his trussed legs.
He awoke before dawn and stretched the cramps out of his legs and arms then lay still and watched the cold red spill of light across the hills. As the sun climbed he smelled the dew on the ground as it burned away, the vegetation of his hut as it heated. He was thirsty but he couldn’t think how to get the stopper from the skin of water without it emptying everywhere. Perhaps he could drink the whole thing.
Also he wanted to piss, but what could he do? He flipped himself over and squirmed and kicked towards the waterskin. Then he twisted upright so that it was behind him and within reach of his hands. His fingertips found the stopper, grasped it and pulled. He moved it by millimetres, with great concentration. When finally it suddenly came loose he had to spin around on the floor as quickly as he could, push his lips up against the weight of spilling water and fix his mouth over the hole. He lay there like a suckling infant, swallowing away as his stomach expanded with the cool darkness of the water. He detached himself, the water flowing over his face again, and crawled away. His hair was wet now, coarse and heavy with dust. He made his way over to the doorway and sat upright waiting to be discovered.
