Keeper of the Wolves (2 page)

The Cruel One’s tiny eyes widened in
astonishment; he turned to see who dared stand between him and his
intended victim. His chin wobbled when he locked eyes with a man in
a long black jerkin, a white cravat, and a dress sword at his side.
A seven-pointed red star had been tattooed on his right cheek; the
Cruel One’s face washed pale when he noticed it.

The Cruel One stuttered something; the
tattooed man answered with a brief statement and a tip of his head
in my direction. The Cruel One shook his head and forced something
louder out of his mouth, but the other man merely pulled a pouch
from inside his jerkin and handed it over. The Cruel One opened it.
His mouth fell open and he pulled out a handful of gold and silver
pieces the likes of which I had seen exchanged near the door of the
tent as the circus workers beckoned spectators into the canvas
walled room.

I yanked on the whip. In his distraction,
the Cruel One lost his grip and the leather slithered across the
ground. He lunged for it, but I was faster. I pulled it through the
metal bars and wrapped it in a tight coil, careful to avoid the
sharp edges of blood-stained glass that were woven through the
fibers.

The Cruel One hit the bars, anger and rage
wafting from him in waves. I ignored him and carefully worked the
ends of the whip from my left hand. The glass had scored my palm
with several deep gashes that bled in thick drops to the sawdust
spread beneath the bars of my cage. One strand was stuck
particularly deep. I gritted my teeth and worked it free from the
back of my hand, then around to the palm where it bit into the base
of my thumb.

The Cruel One continued to yell, his words
now laced with spittle that flew from his fat lips and crooked
teeth. The man in the black jerkin said something in a sharp bark
of command. Two more black-clothed men appeared and herded out the
men, women, and children who lingered in the tent. The first man
said something in a quiet undertone to the Cruel One and attempted
to send him out with the rest. The Cruel One spat in the tattooed
man’s face.

I watched them, distracted from the pain of
my hand. I wondered if the tattooed one would react like a wolf who
had been bit, turning and lashing out with his strength. I hoped he
would show the Cruel One his dominance by taking his life to the
edge like a wolf with another’s throat in his mouth. If the Cruel
One acknowledged the man’s superiority, would he let him go or
finish his pathetic excuse for a life?

I had also seen the way men dealt with such
things. My nights displayed as a circus freak show were tempered by
days of travel and waiting, watching the ways of men as they set up
camp, bartered, and fought. Men often stabbed each other in the
back, waiting until their defenses were down to get in a punch or a
word edged with barbs of steel. Would the tattooed man take the
Cruel One down with a single blow or fillet him with a word that
would chase the blood from his face and cause him to tremble in
fear?

The tattooed man surprised me. He wiped the
spit from his face with two fingers, his gaze never leaving the
Cruel One’s face. The Cruel One’s eyes widened as if he realized he
had made a grave mistake. He stuttered something, then turned and
left with more fear in his eyes than I had ever seen, and the Cruel
One was a very fearful man.

The tent canvas brushed closed behind him.
The last of the spectators were mere memories of sticky fingers and
fear; a breath of relief washed in their wake. The tattooed man
said something quietly. My gaze flickered to his eyes. He looked at
the whip I held forgotten in my hands. I worked the last barb
carefully from the base of my thumb. Blood trickled down my wrist
to join the mess that pooled there. I closed my hand and ignored
the pain that ran through my lacerated palm.

The tattooed man held out his hand. The
gesture was simple, but sent a surge of uncertainty through me. He
wanted the whip, that much was obvious. Had I traded one cruel
keeper for another? I studied his face. It was lined and tanned
with years under the sun. A thin white scar ran from his nose to
his chin, slightly disfiguring his lips. I wondered who had given
him such a mark. A scent of windswept hills and steel belonged to
him, telling of journeys that took him far with only his blade as
his companion.

The tattooed man shuffled his weight
slightly as though being under such close surveillance was not a
common occurrence. I remembered that humans barely looked at each
other for more than brief glimpses. Any I stared at for a long
period of time became uncomfortable and left me with a minor
victory and a few moments of peace. The tattooed man merely waited,
his hand still out and his eyes on the whip. I wondered if he knew
of wolves and the challenge of meeting a stare. Either he was
taking a guess by carefully avoiding my gaze, or he was careful in
all of his dealings with animals and men. I doubted such a man left
much to luck.

I told myself I had no need for the whip.
The weapon would be useless in the confines of the cage, and I had
never used such an instrument to inflict pain on others. But I
couldn’t bring myself to give it up. Holding the worn leather in my
hand gave the first hint of belief that I could change the path my
life had taken. I had no doubt the Cruel One would beat me
senseless in order to take it back, but for now my victory had been
hard won. The blood that trailed down my chest and back echoed the
feeling.

The tattooed man spoke again quietly, his
meaningless words said in a tone I could tell was meant to inspire
trust; but after all I had seen, I trusted no one. I closed my
right hand carefully around the coils. The man’s gaze tightened,
but he tipped his head forward in acceptance. He lifted his voice
and four men entered. They were dressed the same as the first man,
but without the red star on their right cheek.

The tattooed man spoke quiet commands and
the others followed without question. He picked up the thick burlap
cloth the Cruel One used to cover the cages, met my eyes and spoke
again, then threw it over the cage. The other men pulled it down so
that the light of the flickering torches showed only vaguely
through the thick covering that smelled of dust and mildew. The
cage was lifted by the bars that stuck out at each corner for that
purpose.

My heart thundered in my chest at the sound
of the canvas sliding past the burlap cloth, then cool night air
rushed through the bars beneath my feet. A shiver ran along my skin
used to the thick coat of brown, gray, and black fur that normally
kept me warm. I knotted the blanket around my waist, but the
tattered cloth did little to protect me from the chill.

The cage was lifted higher and metal grated
on wood as it was set in the back of a wagon. An animal snorted. I
glanced toward the front of the cage, but my sight was impaired by
the cloth. The Cruel One used oxen to pull his wagons, but the
sound and the stomp of a hoof that followed belonged to something
lighter.

A horse whinnied and let out a snort. A whip
cracked and the wagon started forward with a jolt. I grabbed the
bars to keep from falling over. An answering pain ran from my
damaged palm and I growled quietly under my breath. I crouched in
the center of the cage and tried to ignore the way my heart pounded
as the sounds and smells of the circus were left behind.

Chapter 2

The rumble of the wagon wheels across the
grassy square where the circus had been set up shifted to the
harsher sound of wood on dry dirt and rocks. The horses pulling the
wagon stepped quickly in a cadence very different from the
dragging, slow trod of the oxen. The snorts and hoof beats of
similar animals sounded around me. I wondered what destination
would require such an escort. I tried to fall into the cool
acceptance of the wolf, but the human heart pounding in my chest
filled with fear and uncertainty.

Scents drifted beneath the burlap sack
covering the cage. Faint smells of baked bread like the stuff the
circus workers often ate tangled with the scent of wax candles,
wood shavings, the sharp tang of iron, sweet honey, and a myriad of
plants potted in soil that smelled old and dry compared to the rich
forest loam I longed for.

Many scents I had never smelled before vied
with them, sharp, tangy odors mixing with bitter, foul stenches
that made my lips curl back in distaste. The reek of thousands of
people living in close proximity to each other combined with the
dust and refuse of endless streets and abandoned alleyways created
a cloud of overwhelming stench; I wondered how the animals that
pulled the wagon could stand it.

The stones that made up the road we traveled
were closer together and made for a smoother ride as we progressed
into the city. The air grew cleaner and the scent of night flowers
and grass chased away the fog of odor. The wagon halted and a few
words were spoken. I recognized the tattooed man’s voice. Another
man answered, then a quiet groan of metal on metal followed.

The wagon rolled forward again; the hoof
beats and sounds of the wagon wheels echoed back as though we rode
through a tunnel, then they lightened again and a breeze of fresh,
crisp air curled under the covering. I closed my eyes at the scent
of evergreens.

A feeling of longing so strong and crushing
welled up in my chest that I could barely breathe. I clenched my
fists tight in an effort to remain still. I couldn’t see past the
canvas, but the need to watch the trees sway with the night wind
and see the stars caught amidst their silvery boughs felt stronger
than the need to breathe or drink or eat.

Blood dripped from my torn hand, but I
didn’t feel the pain. A sense of panic at being confined in the
cage battered against my thoughts; the same overwhelming urgency to
seek open spaces far away from the cold metal had pounded through
my veins the instant I awoke and found myself captive, but I could
barely push it down now with the scents of freedom so close at
hand.

A brief rise of hope whispered through my
mind that perhaps the Cruel One was tired of me and I was to be set
free. That thought was quickly tempered by the memory of silver and
gold and the look of hatred in the Cruel One’s eyes. He wanted to
kill me; that much was certain. He wanted to prove that he could
take more from me than just my freedom or my eyes. Was I still
under his control, or had my fate fallen into another’s hands?

The wagon rolled to a stop. The sound of
many voices followed. Leather slid along leather, chains were
unfastened, and the horses’ hoof beats faded as they were led away.
The tattooed man spoke and the cage slid back. I fought to keep my
balance in the middle.

A shudder ran through my skin followed by an
intense ache down the deep lacerations along my back and chest. I
wondered if I was getting sick. I had fallen ill once after an
intense bout of the Cruel One’s lashings. The chill that ran across
my body was hauntingly familiar. I gritted my teeth and pushed the
feeling aside. The human tendency to worry about things that could
not be changed was hard to keep at bay.

Footsteps surrounded the cage and the front
lifted as we ascended an incline, forcing me to grab the bars to
keep from sliding back. My blood coated the iron rods, making them
sticky and dark. The cage leveled out and the sound of footsteps
rebounded and echoed, multiplying until I could no longer count how
many walked around me.

I watched the ground beneath the bars of my
cage, flat stone so smooth it reflected back the dark metal bars
and the flickering of torches to each side. The scent of cold stone
walked over by hundreds of people touched my nose, but it was mixed
with a crisp, clean smell as though the stones were in a constant
state of being washed. Voices flowed around me, strings of words
that made no sense to my weary mind.

Those carrying the cage turned, walked a few
steps, then turned again until my sense of direction was completely
confused. The sounds of the multitude of people fell away and I
heard only the few footsteps of those carrying me. When it felt
like we would go on like this forever, the sound of metal on metal
creaked slightly and the footsteps softened as though the men
walked across grass or soft sand.

The ground beneath the bars showed red in
color, and when the cage was set down, the softness of the fibers
surprised me. Several men let out a breath of relief. I did the
same. Regardless of where I had ended, holding still was far better
than being carried without any clue as to the destination.

The tattooed man spoke and the covering over
the cage was removed. I cringed against the sudden surge of bright
light after the darkness of the burlap. A fire roared in an alcove
near the wall, its light giving warmth to the stands of wax candles
that glowed happily in each corner. Above, flat panes of reflective
stone sent the light back down to the ground so that no shadow
could hide.

A tall ceiling and four walls surrounded the
area, creating a feeling of being inside yet another cage. High
windows lined one wall, but moonlight barely brushed the edge of
the window sills. The effect was stifling and frustrating. My
longing for the forest was to be yet another wasted human
emotion.

A voice spoke and my heart gave a strange
sideways thump. I turned to meet the sky blue eyes of the girl from
the tent. Her gray hair covering and robes had been replaced with a
simple green headband and a dress of dark green fabric that flowed
in waves to her slippered feet. Her golden hair fell to her waist
in gentle curls as though grateful to no longer be bound and hidden
from the world. Her skin looked soft and pale as if she didn’t see
the sun as often as she should. When she spoke, her lips captivated
my attention, red and blushing as though colored by the juice of
dark berries. I wished I could touch those lips and see if the
color was real.