Brought to you by Winterborn
The Silver Wolf
By Alice Borchardt
TO
MY BELOVED HUSBAND
CLIFFORD BORCHARDT
“See those fireflies dancing? That’s what I want to do:
dance in the moonlight, sing
to the stars, jump straight up at the moon.”
I did with you.
I
The sun was going down. The fiery circle shone past the acanthus-crowned columns of a ruined temple. They cut the incandescent ball into slices of red radiance. Almost night, the girl thought, then shivered in the chill autumn air blowing through the unglazed casement.
The window was barred—heavily barred. One set running horizontally, the other vertically. The bars were bolted into the stone walls of the tiny room.
She knew she could close the window. Reach out through the bars. Pull the heavy shutters shut, and seal them with the iron bolt. But she pushed the idea out of her mind with a sort of blind obstinacy. The sight of freedom, even an unattainable freedom, was too sweet to give up.
Not yet, she told herself, only a little longer. Not yet.
The air that raised gooseflesh on her arms was sweet to her nostrils. Oh no, more than sweet. A speaking thing. Each vagrant increase in flow, each slight change in direction, each passing movement sent images to the deepest part of her mind.
Somewhere a patch of thyme bloomed. The tiny blue flowers let down their fragrance into the chill evening air. This delicate scent was mixed with the heavy smell of wet marble and granite. These and many others stood out against the tapestry of odors given off by the flowers and greenery that cloaked the ruined palaces and temples of the ancient imperium.
The vast restless spirit of this, the greatest of all empires, seemed at last brought to rest at the soft hand of the great green mother herself.
Regeane didn’t know what she’d expected of the once-proud mistress of the world when she’d come to Rome. Certainly not what she found.
The inhabitants, descendants of a race of conquerors, lived like rats squabbling and polluting the ruins of an abandoned palace. Oblivious to the evidence of grandeur all around them, they fought viciously among themselves for what wealth remained. Indeed, little was left of the once-vast river of gold that flowed into the eternal city. The gold that could be found gilded the palms of papal officials and the altars of the many churches.
Regeane’s mother, desperate to save—as she saw it—her daughter’s soul, pawned what few jewels she had left. The money was sufficient to pay the bribes necessary to obtain a papal audience and finance the equally expensive papal blessing.
Regeane had gone into the awesome presence, her body drenched in a sweat of terror. If her ailing mother said the wrong thing to the church’s leading prelate, she might find herself being burned or stoned as a witch. But as she approached the supreme pontiff, she realized just how foolish her fears had been.
The man before her was a ruin. Ready to be taken by age and sorrow. She doubted if he understood much of anything said to him. Weeping, her mother implored the intercession of God’s chief minister on earth with the Almighty. As the ever-dutiful Regeane knelt, kissed the silken slipper, and felt the withered hands pressed against her hair she caught a whiff of a scent other than the thick smell of incense and Greek perfume that pervaded the room: the musty, dry smell of aging flesh and human decay.
God, it was powerful. He is ready to die, she thought. He will go speak on Mother’s behalf to God in person very soon. She knew this blessing, as all other blessings her mother, Gisela, had traveled so far and squandered so much of her wealth to gain, would do no good.
This was the end. Regeane knew it. She was frightened. If the pope himself could not lift this strange gesa from her and let her live as a woman, to what earthly power could she turn? More to the point, to what power could her mother turn?
Gisela was fading as quickly as the only-too-human man on the chair of Peter. Though a comparatively young woman, she was worn down by the string of fruitless journeys she had taken with Regeane and by some secret sorrow that seemed to fill her mind and heart with a bottomless wellspring of grief.
Regeane lied. Her mother believed. And for the first time in many years, Regeane felt the tiny woman who had traveled so far and borne so many burdens was at peace. Regeane’s lie carried Gisela through till the end.
Three days after the papal audience she had gone to awaken her mother and found Gisela would never wake again. Not in this world.
Regeane was alone.
She watched with greedy eyes as the sun became a half circle, faded into a glow silhouetting the tall cypresses of the Appian Way, followed by the deep blue autumn twilight. Then, and only then, did she turn from the window and wrap herself in an old woolen mantle and return to her pallet bed. With the exception of the low bed and a small, covered, brown terra-cotta pot in the corner, the room was bare.
Regeane sat on her bed, her shoulders against the stone wall, her legs dangling, head thrown back, eyes closed. She waited silently for moonrise. The silver disc would be lifting itself above the seven hills now. Soon, very soon, its journey across the sky would bring it to her window where it would throw a pool of silver light on the floor. Ignoring the crosshatched black lines of bars, she could drink at that pool. Allowed once more to breathe, if not to glory, in the air of freedom.
The door to the outer room slammed shut. Damnation. The girl on the bed scoured her mind for oaths. No . . . curses. Young girl that she was, she was never allowed to speak them, but she could think the words. And she often did. Oh, how she did when those two were present. There were worse things than loneliness. Overall, Regeane felt she preferred silence and emptiness to the presence of either her Uncle Gundabald or Hugo, his son.
“I pissed blood again this morning,” Hugo whined. “Are all the whores in this city diseased?”
Gundabald laughed uproariously. “All the ones you pick up seem to be. It’s as I told you. Pay a little extra. Get yourself something young and clean. Or at least young, so all the itching and burning a few days later are worth it. That last you bought was so old, she had to ply her trade by starlight. What you save in cunt rent goes out in medicines for crotch rot.”
“True enough,” Hugo said irritably. “You always seem to do better.”
Gundabald sighed. “I’m sick of trying to instruct you. Next time, retain at least a modicum of sobriety and get a look at her in a good light.”
“Christ, it’s cold in here,” Hugo said angrily. A second later Regeane heard him shouting down the stairs for the landlord to bring a brazier to warm the room.
“It’s no use, my boy,” Gundabald told him. “She’s left the window open again.”
“I can’t see how you stand it,” Hugo grumbled. “She makes my skin crawl.”
Gundabald laughed again. “There’s nothing to worry about. Those planks are an inch thick. She can’t get out.”
“Has she ever . . . gotten out, I mean?” Hugo asked with fear in his voice.
“Oh, once or twice, I believe, when she was younger. Much younger. Before I took matters in hand. Gisela was too soft. That sister of mine was a fine woman—she always did as she was told—but weak, my boy, weak. Consider the way she wept over that first husband of hers when the marriage was so abruptly . . . terminated.”
“She divorced him?” Hugo asked.
“Ah, yes,” Gundabald sounded uneasy. “To be sure, she divorced him because we told her to. She had no choice in the matter. Even then, everyone could see Charles’ mother was becoming a power at court. There were many well-endowed suitors for Gisela’s hand. The second was a much better marriage and made us all wealthy.”
“Now all that’s gone,” Hugo said bitterly. “Between you and Gisela, if our coffers have a miserable copper in them we’re lucky. You wanted to rub shoulders with all the great magnates of the Frankish realm. To do that, you found out your shoulders had to be covered with velvet and brocade. And, oh yes, they wanted to be feasted. Worse than a horde of vultures, they swarmed over your household devouring everything in sight. And like vultures when the carcass was picked clean, they departed in a cloud of stink and were never seen again.
“Whatever they missed, Gisela laid hands on, squandering it on relics, shrines, blessings, and pilgrimages, trying to lift the curse from that wretched brat of hers. You told me to get myself something younger. I’ve a good mind to pay that cousin of mine a visit . . . by day of course and—” Hugo screamed. “Father, you’re hurting me!”
Gundabald’s reply was a snarl of fury. “You so much as touch that girl and I’ll save us both a lot of trouble and expense. I’ll slice off your prick and balls. You’ll be the smoothest eunuch between here and Constantinople. I swear it. She’s the one and only asset we have left and she—must—marry. Hear me!”
Hugo howled again. “Yes, yes, yes. You’re breaking my arm. Oh, God. Stop!”
Gundabald must have released him because Hugo’s shouting ceased. When he did speak, he sniveled, “Who would marry that . . . thing?”
Gundabald laughed. “I can name a dozen right now, who would kill to marry her. The most royal blood of Franca flows through her veins. Her father and mother both were cousins of the great king himself.”
“And those same ones who’d kill to marry her will run a sword through both you and the girl the moment they find out what she is.”
“I cannot think how I got such a son as you as the fruit of my loins,” Gundabald snarled. “But then your mother was a brainless little twit. Perhaps you take after her.”
Despite the sadistic nastiness of Gundabald’s voice, Hugo didn’t rise to the bait. Most of the people around Gundabald quickly learned to fear him. Hugo was no exception.
“You liked the way we lived well enough when we were in funds. Vultures, eh! That’s the pot calling the kettle black. You fucked all night, fed all day, and drank with the best of them. Now, you leave things you don’t understand to your elders and betters. Shut up! And send for some food and wine—a lot of wine. I want my supper, and I want to forget what’s behind that door in the next room.”
“It was a mistake to bring her here,” Hugo said. His voice was high and nervous. “She’s worse than ever.”
“Christ Jesus! God!” Gundabald roared. “Even a dumb animal has the sense to do what it’s told. Dolt with the brains of a cobblestone! Shut up and at least get the wine. My God! I’m dying of thirst.”
Marry, she thought listlessly. How could she many? She didn’t believe even a snake like Gundabald would connive at something so dangerous. Or succeed if he tried. Her mother still had a little land left in Franca, a few rundown villas. They generated only just enough money to feed and clothe the three of them. But nothing she was heir to would be enough to attract the attention of any of the great magnates of the Frankish realm.
As for her relationship to Charles—a king beginning already to be called the great—it was a rather distant connection to his mother. The dear lady, Bertrada, had never even for one moment acknowledged Regeane’s existence. In fact, one of the things that endeared Bertrada to King Pepin the Short was that she was followed by a whole tribe of relations. They approached the court ready to swing their swords for church and king, not to mention their odd wagonload of loot that somehow didn’t manage to fall into the king’s treasury.
Regeane was very much lost in the crowd. She had nothing to offer. She was poor, a woman, and not beautiful. She didn’t think there would be many takers for her hand in marriage. Yet if Gundabald could find some poor mope to swindle, she had no doubt he would auction her off without the slightest compunction and then leave her to her fate. She just didn’t think he would find anyone. Besides, Gundabald had, as they said, a hot throat and a cold prick. He wanted to cool the one and heat the other as frequently as possible. To indulge himself he needed what little money came in from her estates. He would certainly sell her, but not cheaply. It remained to be seen if he could get his price. At the moment, she couldn’t bring herself to care much one way or the other.
When the papal blessing proved fruitless, the thread of hope that had drawn her across the Alps and sustained her in the difficult journey to Rome . . . failed.
Gisela’s death had been the final blow. She had been Regeane’s only protection against a world that would destroy her in an instant if it so much as guessed her secret—and against the worst excesses of Gundabald’s greed. She had been Regeane’s only confidante and companion. Regeane had no other friends, no other loves. She was now abandoned and utterly alone.
Dry-eyed, Regeane followed her mother’s body to the grave. She was overcome by a despair so black, it seemed to turn that bright day into bitter night.
Now a faint silver shadow appeared against the blackness of the floor.
There is nothing left but moonlight, Regeane thought. Drink it, drown in it. She will never reproach me. I will never see her tears again or suffer because of them. Whatever may become of me, I am alone.
She stood, stripped off her dress and shift, and turned toward the silver haze.
The gust from the window was icy, but pleasure wouldn’t exist without the sharp bite of pain. Even the brief flash of orgasm is too intense to be absolutely pleasurable. The cold caress was seduction, the quick cruel touch that precedes pleasure.
Regeane went forward boldly, knowing that in a moment she would be warm. Naked, she stepped into the silver haze.
The wolf stood there.
Regeane was, as wolves go, a large wolf. She had the same weight as the girl, over a hundred pounds. She was much stronger than in her human state—lean, quick, and powerful. Her coat was smooth and thick. The pelt glowed silver as it caught the moonlight on its long guard hairs.
The wolf’s heart overflowed with joy and gratitude. Regeane would never have admitted it in her human state, but she loved the wolf and, papal blessing or not, she would never let the wolf go.
From the bottom of her heart, she reveled in the change. Sometimes, while in her human state, she wondered who was wiser, she or the wolf. The wolf knew. Growing more beautiful and stronger year after year, the wolf waited for Regeane to be ready to receive her teaching and understand it.
The silver wolf lifted herself on her hind legs and, placing her forepaws on the window sill, peered out. She saw not just with eyes as these maimed humans did, but with sensitive ears and nose.
The world humans saw was like a fresco—dimensionless as a picture painted on a wall. To be believed in by the wolf, a thing had to have not only image, but smell, texture, and taste.
Ah God . . . how beautiful. The world was filled with wonder.
The rain must have come in the evening. The wolf could smell the damp, black earth under the green verdure as well as mud churned up by horses’ hooves in a nearby lane.
The woman hadn’t noticed it. She’d spent the day in grief-stricken reverie. For this she earned a brief flash of contempt from the wolf. But the wolf was too much a creature of the present to dwell on what was past. She was grateful for each moment. And this was a fine one.
Usually in Rome, the scent of man overpowered everything else. That effluvia of stale perspiration, raw sewage floating in the Tiber, the stench of human excrement which, even by comparison to that of other animals, is utterly vile. All these filled the air and pressed in around her. Overlaying them were the musty omnipresent evidence of human dwellings: stale wood-smoke, damp timber, and stone.
But not tonight. The sharp wind blew from the open fields beyond the city, redolent of dry grass and the sweetness of wild herbs growing on the hillsides near the sea.
Sometimes the fragrant breath from the Campagna carried the clean barnyard smells of pig and cattle, and faintly, the enticing musk of deer.
The night below was alive with movement. The cats that made their homes among the ruins sang their ancient songs of anger and passion among forgotten monuments. Here and there the slinking shape of a stray dog met her eye; occasionally, even furtive human movement. Thieves and footpads haunted the district, ready to prey on the unwary.
Her ears pricked forward and netted what her eyes could not see—the suade thump of a barn owl’s wings in flight, the high, thin cries of bats swooping, darting, foraging for insects in the chill night air.
The rush and whisper of the hunters and the hunted, silent until the end. The agonized death cry of a bird, taken in sleep on the nest by a marauding cat, rent the air. The chopped-off shriek of a rabbit dying in the talons of an owl followed.
Those and many others were woven together by her wolf senses into a rich fabric that was unending variety and everlasting delight.
The silver wolf dropped her forepaws to the floor with a soft, nearly inaudible cry of longing. Then her lips drew back from her teeth in a snarl at the sound of voices in the other room.
Hugo and Gundabald were eating. The wolf’s belly rumbled with hunger at the smell of roast meat. She was hungry and thirsty, longing for clean water and food.
The woman warned her night side to rein in her desires. She would get nothing.
The wolf replied. They were both gone—the woman from her prison, the wolf from her cage. The wolf stood beside a clear mountain lake. The full moon glowed silver in the water. All around the lake, black trees were silhouetted against mountains glittering white with unending snow.
The memory faded. The wolf and woman found themselves staring at the locked door.
The wolf and woman both understood imprisonment. Regeane had spent most of her life behind locked doors. She’d long ago learned the punishing futility of assaults on oak and iron. She ignored what she couldn’t change and bided her time.
They were speaking of her.
“Did you hear that?” Hugo asked fearfully. Hugo’s ears were better than Gundabald’s. He must have heard her soft cry of protest.
“No,” Gundabald mumbled through a mouthful of food. “I didn’t and you didn’t either. You only imagined you did. She seldom makes any noise. That’s one thing we can be grateful for. At least she doesn’t spend her nights howling as a real wolf would.”
“We shouldn’t have brought her here,” Hugo moaned.
“Must you start that again?” Gundabald sighed wearily.
“It’s true,” Hugo replied with drunken insistence. “The founders of this city were suckled at the tits of a mother wolf. Once they called themselves sons of the wolf. Ever since I found out about her I’ve often thought of that story. A real wolf couldn’t raise human children, but a creature like her . . .”
Gundabald laughed raucously. “A fairy tale made up by some strumpet to explain a clutch of bastard brats. She wouldn’t be the first or won’t be the last to spin a wild story to cover her own . . . debauchery.”
“You won’t listen to anything,” Hugo said petulantly. “She’s gotten worse since we came here. Even while her own mother was dying she . . .”
The silver wolf’s lips drew back. Her teeth gleamed in the moonlight like ivory knives. Even in the wolf’s heart, Hugo’s words rankled.
Pointless the smoldering anger. Pointless the brief, sad rebellion. The door stood between her and her tormentors. The barred window between the magnificent creature and freedom.
She began to pace as any caged beast will, obeying the wordless command: Stay strong. Stay healthy. Stay alert. Fear not, your time will come.
II
Maeniel was a worrier. Today he had a lot of worries as he stood on the half-ruined gallery once intended for the delight of a Roman governor.
He envied the man, who had probably stood here once, taking the air and complacently surveying his broad domains. Today, among other things, Maeniel worried about the hay. It didn’t seem to be ripening as fast as it should. And they needed that hay to carry them through the long, cold winter. Still, he sighed; the man had been too powerful to worry about hay. He’d probably had other concerns, possibly even more troubling than Maeniel’s. Say, for instance, politics in Rome.
“Politics in Rome,” he muttered.
Gavin, the captain of his guard, sat dozing on a bench, his back against a mural of Perseus slaying Medusa. The gorgon’s head in the hero’s hand glared at him. This didn’t worry Gavin. Nothing worried Gavin. He opened one eye and repeated, “What about politics in Rome?”
“I was just thinking that even though the Roman governor didn’t worry about the hay as I do, he probably worried about politics in Rome.”
Gavin opened both eyes. “Let me get this straight. You left off worrying about the hay to worry about what a long-dead Roman worried about?”
“Yes,” Maeniel said.
“Thank you for clarifying that.” Gavin closed his eyes. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ll go back to sleep.”
“It doesn’t seem to be ripening as quickly as usual,” Maeniel persisted.
“The hay, or politics in Rome?” Gavin asked.
“The hay.” Maeniel bit his lip.
Gavin sighed deeply, opened both eyes, and looked out over the surrounding countryside.
The land lay drowsing in the warm gold of the afternoon sun, a picture of tranquil, bucolic beauty. Three prosperous villages lay scattered along the mountainside surrounded by tilled fields, their deep green just beginning to bear the first tinge of autumn’s rich red, brown, and gold.
Higher up against the face of the mountains were scattered flocks of sheep, goats, and cattle, fattening in the high summer pasture. Beyond them, snowcapped peaks floated in delicate ethereal beauty against the sky.
“The hay,” Gavin said, “seems to me to be ripening much as it always has ever since we came here.”
“Do you really think so?” Maeniel asked hopefully.
“Yes,” Gavin replied, closing his eyes again.
Maeniel shook his head. “Still, I hear from Clotilde that it’s going to be a bad winter. She says the fleeces of the sheep have grown twice as thick as is usual and—”
“No,” Gavin said firmly. “I won’t listen anymore. Every year at this time it’s the hay. Then, when that’s in, the question will be, is it enough to carry us through the winter? Or should you send to the lowlands to buy more, to ensure the survival of our stock? Then, you will fret yourself about wood. Have we enough? Suppose a really bad storm comes and the snow is too deep for us to venture out to cut more? So we must cut more now, stacking it ever higher and higher until we must sleep in the snow because the wood fills all of the houses.
“In between, you will be venturing out in blizzards to visit every cow, sow, ewe, and nanny goat with a pain. To hold her hoof until she delivers. If one sneezes, you hear it in your sleep and come wake me up to commiserate with you. Hold the lantern up, Gavin. Ply your axe with a will, Gavin. Pull, Gavin. Push, Gavin. Take your men and fall on those brigands, Gavin. I know they are not on my land, but I like it not that they raided so close, Gavin.
“Now it is the worries of deceased Romans, and politics that concern us not at all in our mountains. At first I wondered when Rieulf, old and ill, placed his demesne in your hands. But after the first winter I understood the wisdom of the old man’s choice. He definitely knew how to pick the right man for the job.”
Maeniel listened meekly to Gavin’s tirade. They were old friends. He heard it several times a year when Gavin grew frustrated with him.
“I wish,” Gavin wound down, “that you would find something else to worry about besides hay or the sheep, goats, wood, and snowstorms. At least it would be a change for me to listen to.” His voice trailed off as he sniffed the air. “Fresh baked bread,” he whispered. “I forgot it’s Matrona’s baking day.” His body floated from the bench. He seemed pulled along by the enticing odor, his nose sniffing the air.
Maeniel placed one big hand on Gavin’s shoulder and pushed him back down on the bench. “Matrona has a lot of work to do on baking day. She becomes very irritable. Remember the time I had to rescue you? She was trying to push you feet first into one of the ovens. You had both feet braced against the wall on either side of the door. You were screaming at the top of your lungs, and if I hadn’t—”
“You didn’t have to rescue me,” Gavin denied hotly. “It’s just that I’m a gentleman and didn’t want to hurt her.”
“To be sure,” Maeniel soothed, “to be sure. Besides you were right . . . I mean about the worry business.”
“You’re giving it up?” Gavin asked.
“No,” Maeniel said. “I have a new one.” He handed Gavin a letter.
Gavin gave it a cursory glance; then realizing its importance, he began to read more slowly.
“Not politics in Rome,” Maeniel said. “Politics in Franca. The woman comes recommended by Charles, the great Charlemagne himself. I had better marry her.”
“I wouldn’t,” Gavin said handing him back the letter. “I’d tell the great Charles to go fly his hawks or chase Saxons, whatever the hell a king does. Forget marrying. When some royal cousin comes here, lock your gates, sharpen your sword, and wish them Godspeed over the pass into the valley. I’m betting you’ll never hear any more about her.”
“I can’t take that bet,” Maeniel said quietly. “The stakes are too high.”
“No, they aren’t,” Gavin insisted. “You’re sitting in an impregnable fortress. This rock has never fallen to assault, not even in the time of the Romans.”
“And if Charles ever seriously decides to dig me out,” Maeniel said flatly, “he can. Why do you think I send Charles’ court a hefty sum of silver? Every year a nice present of gold and jewels is sent to the court in time for Christmas. I keep the roads clear of thieves and bandits, don’t overcharge the merchants traveling through the pass. In between I keep my fingers crossed. So far he’s left me alone.
“But no more. The reckoning has come, and in a form I can’t really quarrel with. He’s offering me a marriage with a woman of the royal house. I dare not refuse. The letter says she is young, comely, and—”
“The letter,” Gavin broke in, “does give every pertinent fact about the lady: her birth, her lineage, yes, every fact, but one. What’s wrong with her?”
“What could be wrong with her?” Maeniel asked.
Gavin stared out glumly over the village. “Now who’s the optimist? Aside from dire poverty, I can think of a few things. Promiscuity, drunkenness, insanity, dishonesty, stupidity, leprosy, cruelty, and greed. Any and all of the above. In addition, she’ll probably turn out to be a humpbacked dwarf with only one tooth remaining in her head and halfwitted in the bargain.”
“Sometimes I think it was a mistake for your father to send you to school. It stimulated your imagination no end,” Maeniel said.
“I know,” Gavin agreed. “I told him that every day until it was a question of what would wear out first—his arm, his belt, or my backside. As it was, you and I both ended up trying to run away to seek our fortune. Well, we found it, and now you must marry this . . . creature to keep it.”
“It’s a small sacrifice,” Maeniel answered.
“Let’s hope,” Gavin said.
“If she’s a humpbacked dwarf, she may have a pleasant personality. If she’s insane, I’ll see she’s cared for. Drunken, dried out at intervals; promiscuous, persuaded to be discreet. Cruelty and greed can both be restrained. And even leprosy, God help me, can be treated. At this altitude the sick either recover quickly or die.”
“That’s it,” Gavin said. “Look on the bright side. She may not survive the first winter.”
“Or she may be as the letter says: young, comely, and amiable. Poverty might be her only real fault.”
“No,” Gavin said. “If that were the only problem, they’d never be offering her to such as you. A down-at-the-heels Irish mercenary. If it hadn’t been for Rieulf, we’d still be earning our bread selling our swords hither and yon. As it was, you did him a service and he began to love you. You were lucky . . .”
“That’s true.” Maeniel looked out over the valley again, still somewhat preoccupied by the hay. “What do you think, Gavin? Should we get some of it now and—”
A loud yell erupted from the direction of the kitchen.
Maeniel turned. Gavin was gone. The lure of fresh-baked bread had proved too much for his captain to resist.
Gavin on a horse, sword in hand, might be the terror of every brigand in the mountains, but when he fought Matrona, he invariably lost.
Maeniel decided to go rescue him. Leaving the hay and the future to take care of themselves, he started off in the direction of the commotion in the kitchen.
...
renee2010