Bark at the Moon
by Nene Adams ©2002 - All rights reserved

In the forest called Malingering Deep, a woman was running for her life.

Harsh panting, legs crashing through the undergrowth, branches whipping across a sweat stung face. Wet leaves to stumble through, fallen logs that crumbled at a clutching hand, devious pitfalls to snare the unwary foot. She stumbled, caught herself, and ran on. Pain under her ribs, hot and sharp, stabbing knives at every breath.

Behind her, the hunters were coming. Yip-yip-yip as their dogs caught the scent of her passage. These men were skilled at tracking prey through Malingering Deep. Beer and bourbon and self-righteous indignation had whipped them into a frenzy. They hated her because she was an outsider. A do-gooding sheriff who had no business in Lingerville, even though it lay within her jurisdiction. Previous sheriffs had left Lingerville alone. The town was small, the people close-knit and hostile. They had their own brand of justice in Lingerville. However, Annalee Crow could not turn a blind eye.

She had made it her business to investigate poaching in Malingering Deep - particularly wolf poaching. Who cared if the wolves were supposed to be protected? These men knew that wolves were indiscriminate killers, beasts of waste and desolation who ought to be exterminated. The purpose of dumb animals was to serve man, and wolf pelts brought good money. If trapping was illegal, then it was federal law at fault, not honest men trying to earn a living.

Arrests of the three most blatant poachers had inflamed matters in Lingerville to the point where Sheriff Annalee Crow was running for her life through Malingering Deep, just ahead of a lynch mob. Murphys, Gunns and Ricketts - the three clans of Lingerville were going to avenge a wrong against their kin, get rid of a nuisance, and have a good time doing it, too. Disposal of the body would not be a problem. Some deer hunter might stumble across her bones in a few decades, somewhere in the midst of the forest.

Eye-watering slap of a branch across her eyes, which momentarily blinded her. She had no weapon, there had been no time. When the trucks had come roaring up her driveway, filled with armed men, Annalee had simply jumped out of the bedroom window. She lived on the edge of Malingering Deep; her first instinct was to try and lose them in the forest. She had not anticipated dogs.

Now Annalee dodged behind a tree trunk, almost luminescent with green fungi, and tried to catch her breath. Her bare feet were numb, her legs coated to mid-shin with wet loam and leaves. She was glad that she could not feel them. Deep, vaguely painful sensations told her that her feet had sustained damage in her wild flight. She shivered uncontrollably in a combination of cold and adrenaline shock. Annalee was wearing a man's undershirt and a pair of cotton panties - her usual sleeping attire, and scant protection against the damp chill of Malingering Deep.

She was also lost.

Malingering Deep was two hundred and seventy miles of old growth forest, which did not include a ridge of foothills that bordered the forest's southern edge, and the fast-moving Tippatoc River in the west. Annalee had no compass, no knife, no tools whatsoever. Even if she managed to evade the men hunting her, her chances of survival were slim. She might die of hypothermia before morning if she could not find shelter, and some kind of warmth.

There were supposed to be people living in Malingering Deep, a family whose members were rarely seen. She could not remember the name, had only seen a pair of them once - stocky muscular man and shy young woman, coming out of the grocery store. The young woman had lagged behind, been hassled by some local toughs. Annalee had stepped in while the girl scurried away without a word. That was a year ago. She tried to think. The family hunted rabbits mostly, deer in season, and sometimes hired out as local guides. If she could find them...

Yip-yip-yip! The baying of dogs made her head snap up. Annalee groped on the ground for something, anything she could use to defend herself. It had been a wet autumn. The only stick that came to hand was rotten. The hounds were yapping shrilly, alerting their masters that the prey was close. She sobbed once, bit her lip until she tasted blood. Annalee was sweating heavily despite her grave-cold flesh. She was going to die. The knowledge made her bowels turn to water.

Death was approaching on booted feet, wading through slick leaves and mud. Death spoke in twanging tones to dogs that shat and pissed in excitement. Death had guns and bullets and rock solid determination. Annalee found herself praying under her breath. She had not believed in God since the age of twelve.

Annalee could feel rough bark under her cheek, smell the wild green odor of the forest around her. She gouged her nails into the soil, trembling, on the verge of tears. Annalee Crow had thought of herself as a brave woman. She had faced her share of dangers. There was a rippling scar on her ribcage that testified to a close call with a drunken, knife-wielding woman in a bar. It had happened in her home town, Brightbrook, about sixty miles east of Lingerville. The woman was her mother. That was Annalee's first act as a sheriff's deputy, and very nearly proved to be her last.

Taking over from Sheriff Muller had been a triumph. Annalee had gone forth to do battle with Lingerville's poachers, believing her armor of badge and gun would be protection enough. She was wrong. Arrogance had brought her to this pass, alone and unarmed and defenseless. Death was coming, and she did not have the strength to flee from it anymore.

As a child growing up near Malingering Deep, she had come to love the wolves that lived there. Silent, smoky shapes that flickered among the trees like ghosts. Mystery shadows. Their howls had comforted her, those times when she was curled up beneath a tattered quilt waiting for her mother to come home. The raging and stink of whiskey and clumsy slaps were easier to bear, if she thought the wolves were watching. Her mother hated them, as did many people who lived on the edge of the Deep. As did the men who were approaching, Death in baseball caps and dirty jeans. Death eager for an accounting.

Annalee could not fight them all. The best she could hope for was to enrage them enough to make the ending quick.

She took a ragged breath, trying to muster energy. It was hard, so hard with cold shackling her bones, ice creeping into her flesh. When she was twelve years old, her mother had almost beaten her to death in a futile rage against the sumbitch who had fathered Annalee, then abandoned his lover to bear a bastard child alone. The feeling she had then, lying with her face sticking to the floor in a puddle of her own blood, was similar to the weightlessness she felt now. As if her head was a bubble of air, her limbs threatening to float away of their own accord.

Annalee got up, using the tree trunk for support. She was not twelve years old anymore. She was a grown woman, a sheriff, and by God she was going to go down fighting! She would use fists and nails and teeth, keep on living as long as she could, and die when she was good and goddamned ready. Annalee steadied herself against the tree, knowing the dogs would come upon her first. They would have been trained to keep their prey pinned down in one place, not to attack. Men were the real killers in Malingering Deep.

A howl caught her attention. It was deep throated, a long spiraling sound that was picked up by others. A chorus to the moon. She tasted blood on her tongue, realized she had bitten her lip again. Then the hounds started screaming.

Annalee was paralyzed. She clung to the tree, scarcely able to breathe. Her eyes were wide open, registering everything in minute detail, but these details slid across her mind in a bewildering jigsaw of images. A man staggered past her, stream of blood arching from the hole in his neck. He grunted, turned to her, his expression full of horror. Still, she could not move, not even when warmth sprayed across her face. She blinked. Blood looked black in the moonlight.

Another blink. A hound collapsed at her feet. The animal's belly had been ripped open, coils of intestines spilling out of the gash. Other bites had torn patches from its tan coat. The hound quivered, paws paddling the air, and died. Odor of dung and blood. Black in the moonlight. Blink.

She could hear men screaming to each other, double boom-boom of shotguns that shook her like thunder. Snarling throaty sounds. High pitched yelp of an injured dog. Annalee also listened to the pulse that pounded in her temples. Blink. She found herself fascinated by the faint spiral curl in the patch of fungi near her left eye, the texture of bark above and below.

Malingering Deep was silent once more. She felt soft, moist panting against her ankle. Annalee's gaze tracked downward...

And she looked full into the eyes of a wolf.

Black coat standing up in a mane around the wickedly muzzled face. Golden eyes blinking up at her. Tongue licking lips that were stained with blood. The wolf stepped forward delicately, pausing with one paw raised.

Annalee whimpered.

The wolf cocked its head, let out a low whine. Took another step.

Annalee stared in fascination and dread.

Suddenly, another wolf appeared. This one was bigger, dark coat sporting a streak of white on the side of its forehead. It, too, stared at her with golden eyes. The newcomer gruffed at the smaller wolf, who whined again, then ran away. Disappearing into the undergrowth like a ghost, as if it had never been.

Annalee blinked, and the other wolf was gone, too.

Slowly, she forced herself to relax. Forced herself to breathe, not gulp air like a stranded fish. Forced the paralysis back, took control of her mind. Muscle cramps burned in her arms and legs. Annalee stepped out from behind the tree. She already had a good idea of what she would find.

Bodies. A dozen men, plus twice as many hounds. Shotguns in lax hands. Bite wounds on them all. Abruptly, Annalee was reminded of a bumper sticker she had seen on the back of a pickup truck: You can take my gun when you pry my cold dead finger off the trigger. She began to giggle; the giggle turned into a guffaw, which led to a bout of hysterical laughter that left her weeping. Tears rolled down her cheeks, salt taste in her mouth. She sobbed, and did not know why.

After a while, Annalee's hysterics subsided. She stood up, unconsciously rubbing filthy hands across her shirt. Her problems had lessened slightly. She was no longer being hunted by a lynch mob, but she was still lost in Malingering Deep. Dawn was, by her calculation, several hours away. Moonlight filtered down through the forest canopy, but unless she could find a vantage point or climb a tree, she would not be able to see the sun rising in the east. Direction seemed impossible to determine. Annalee was exhausted, freezing, hardly able to think. She could have taken clothing from the bodies, but she could not bring herself to do it.

A cold wet muzzle pushed into the palm of her hand.

Somewhat immunized against surprises, Annalee did not jump, although her leg muscles twitched. She looked down, and saw the smaller wolf again. Annalee thought it was probably female. The wolf's tail did not exactly wag, but it did move ever so slightly in a friendly way.

"Hey," Annalee said quietly. "I thought y'all were done for the night."

Golden eyes bored into her own, trying to deliver a message that Annalee did not understand. She did react, however, when the wolf - apparently growing impatient with her stupidity - nipped her with sharp white teeth.

"Ow!" Annalee examined the bruise on her wrist. "What did you do that for?"

The wolf walked away, paused, and deliberately looked back at her. Annalee gaped. The wolf sighed, went back, and nipped her again, this time on the ankle.

"Okay, I think I get it. No more biting, if you please." Annalee followed the wolf through Malingering Deep. The animal always stayed ahead, but was careful not to leave her two-legged companion too far behind. When Annalee faltered, the wolf came to her side, applying more encouraging nips. In spite of the pain, Annalee grew to love the black wolf. There was intelligence in those golden eyes. Intelligence and something she could have sworn was affection.

She fell once or twice, sprawling on the ground, not sure if she could get up again. The wolf licked her face, tugged her hair, nosed her ear until she was on her feet. Drag-assing forward, too tired to avoid brambles that scratched her arms and neck. Too exhausted to pay attention to where she was going. If the wolf had not alerted her with an impatient bark, Annalee would have knocked herself unconscious on a low hanging tree limb. Many dangers were avoided this way.

Without the wolf's persistent ministrations, Annalee was sure she would have died.

After what seemed hours, the trees began to thin. Annalee saw the outline of her house rearing against a dawn-lightening sky. Joy lent strength to her faltering stride. She stumbled towards her home, and stopped. The wolf was waiting at the edge of forest; it was clear that she had no intention of going further.

Annalee did not know what to say. The wolves had saved her life twice in one night. This wolf, in particular. No expression of gratitude seemed enough. Finally, she raised a hand, as if in benediction, and said, "Thank you."

The wolf threw back her head and howled. The sound was answered by other wolves singing from the depths of Malingering Deep. Annalee howled, too; her voice mingled with the chorus, a sustained note that wavered until she was out of breath. When she opened her eyes, the female wolf was gone.

In the morning, Sheriff Annalee Crow led a party into Malingering Deep to recover the bodies - an even dozen Murphys, Gunns and Ricketts. Her deputies were shocked, but knew better than to break silence. Officially, the men's cause of death was deemed accidental - a hunting trip gone fatally awry. Too much beer, not enough common sense. It was a common story.

Despite Annalee's efforts, rumors flew through the communities surrounding the forest. Whispers of witches, ogres, man-eating monsters, even werewolves. Bible sales skyrocketed, as did visits to the local root doctor for magical protection against evil, because superstition is as strong as religion in some parts of the south. The remaining poachers in Lingerville, remembering their lost kinsmen, decided to stay out of the forest for good.

Annalee missed the black female wolf with an intensity she found surprising. In dreams, she felt dense fur beneath her fingertips, saw golden eyes watching her. Affection. Love. She began to worry about her state of mind.

One day in spring, Annalee was walking to the grocery store in Brightbrook when she spotted a stocky muscular man across the street. He had a streak of white in his dark hair, just to one side of his forehead. He was accompanied by a shy young woman, whose mane of coarse black hair was held back from her face with a rubber band.

Annalee stared, stunned.

The young woman looked over her shoulder at the stunned sheriff, her golden eyes unblinking. The man continued on his way, heading towards Malingering Deep with uninterrupted strides.

"Hey!" Annalee called, jerked out of her reverie at the thought of never seeing the young woman again. "Hey," she said more softly when she had caught up, "what's your name?"

"Lunella." The reply was diffident, but the golden eyes flashed, peering at her through a fringe of hair.

Invitation? Something more than simple friendliness? Annalee could not tell. She was seized by an overwhelming desire to walk with this young woman, this Lunella. Talk to her. Run with her through the forest. Howl together. Annalee felt almost giddy. She had read a book long ago that stated: wolves mate for life.

Oh, yes, Annalee thought, staring mesmerized into golden eyes. She could read the message now. The day that Annalee had saved Lunella from those toughs, she had been chosen. A mate for life. Part of the pack. The wolves had saved her from the Murphys, Gunns and Ricketts because of Lunella. She might appear human now, but Lunella was a wolf on the inside. Loyal, protective of her mate, patiently waiting for poor dumb Annalee to get a clue.

Love at first bite. Hell, my bruises are barely healed. It doesn't matter. I want to be with her. Goddamn! I wonder if we'll have to live in the Deep with her family. I don't care. Lunella, Lunella... where have you been all my life?

Annalee cleared her throat. She was not sure how wolf mating rituals were supposed to go, but she would figure it out. One step at the time. "Um, how do you like your steak?" she asked.

"Extra rare," Lunella replied, grinning to show white teeth that looked slightly too long for her mouth. Her golden eyes sent another message: It's about damned time, Annalee Crow.

Never mind. Annalee would definitely figure it out. She had time.

And if anybody don't like it, they can eat shit and bark at the moon.

THE END

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