by Brian Ference | Chapter 10 - The Change
It was nearly dark. The wolf had been resting in his makeshift den, deep in the heart of Epping Forest. Gnawed bones and discarded antlers littered the surrounding ground. A nearby stream provided a ready supply of water. He had carefully marked all of the surrounding trees with his scent to ward of any intruders.
The wolf had grown larger and more intelligent. So he had both the need and the means to dig out the small hollow where he now made his home. It was a safe spot and difficult to find. It was sheltered by mossy-green rocks and fallen tree trunks from the unpleasant rain and persistent cold. The wolf sat upright, while he used his powerful claws to move away large boulders and stones.
The paws that held the claws had become larger and more dexterous. The due claw was now separated and bending outwards while also growing longer. This allowed the wolf to grasp ahold of the variously-sized rocks and move them with surprising accuracy. With the bare earth exposed, the wolf used his powerful hind legs to dig out enough room for his enlarged shoulders and widened torso. These could fit comfortably inside while concealing his entire body from sight. Not that any animals were foolish enough to come close to the wolf’s den. He remembered when he had taken the territory from a large brown bear that had likely escaped from a nearby bear-baiting pit.
The large predator was covered in battle scars from dozens of fights with vicious Bulldogs, starved until they were ravenous. The bear was strong and confident in his ability to defend his territory. As the wolf approached it, the enormous creature reared up on powerful hind legs. The bear must have weighed over five hundred kilograms and was nearly three meters in height. The wolf snarled his challenge and began to circle the large creature wearily. The bear was unimpressed. There was no scaring him off. This confrontation would be to the death.
As he began his assault, the wolf relied on his superior speed to keep the massive animal off balance. He lunged in to strike at the bear’s legs and stomach with claws and teeth, then dodged away as the massive paw descended in answer. The creature roared as the wolf bloodied it, frustrated that it could not strike the wolf in return. The wolf continued to attack until the enraged animal finally surged forward, falling onto all fours. In a burst of speed, the full bulk of the bear slammed into the wolf and sent him sprawling backwards.
The wolf had barely any time to recover, before the bear’s claws raked across his back and side. The immense animal was too close to evade, so the wolf rose up his hind legs. This gave his front claws the freedom to sink deep into the bear’s shoulders and neck. The bear rose up to his full height again and the two traded blows back and forth, dealing devastating injuries to each other.
The wolf was outmatched, but he refused to give up. Suddenly, the bear’s left leg buckled as the bloody ruin was no longer able to support the immense weight. The huge animal began to fall. In a burst of urgency, the wolf pushed sideways and narrowly avoiding being crushed beneath it. Seeing his chance, the wolf leapt onto the back of the bear and sunk his teeth into the muscular neck as deeply as possible. Blood poured out, but the wolf had not severed the artery. The bear wasn’t finished yet. Massive shoulders tried to roll the wolf off, as huge claws scored deep gashes in the wolf’s flanks. The bear rose from the ground and began thrashing in every direction in an attempt to throw the wolf off. To allow that would mean death for the wolf and he clamped down with all his might, sinking all of his claws into the heavy hide. Gradually, the thrashing slowed. The bear tried to run but was dazed and crashed into the surrounding trees and rocks. Finally, with a groan of anguish, the warrior bear sank to the ground and surrendered to the warm embrace of death.
It had taken many moons for the grievous wounds inflicted by the bear to heal. Unable to hunt, if not for the ready supply of meat that the gigantic carcass provided, the wolf would have surely starved. Once he was healed, the wolf returned to hunting the smaller deer among the trees. Still tender from his scars, the wolf sometimes sought out easier prey and fast became an expert at killing the fat, Suffolk sheep that lived in the small villages lining the outskirts of the forest.
The trick with the black-faced sheep was to approach the nervous animals slowly from downwind—ideally while they were sleeping. The wolf could leap over any small, wooden fences that protected the flock and rush into the fleecy group of them while they were still unaware. It was best to kill a few as quickly as possible and carry one off, before they set to their incessant bleating. Sometimes, the noises would alert a sheepdog which would rush in, barking his challenge to the vastly bigger wolf. The annoying animals were foolish to test the dominance of the wolf. He would quickly dispatch any dogs with a few swipes of his powerful claws, or by pinning the animal down and ripping out its throat. He had learned a painful lesson to flee however, whenever the farmers themselves exited their homes, brandishing a Brunswick percussion rifle or Baker muzzle-loading rifle that the wolf had come to think of as a “fire stick”.
The first time he had been hit by one of the small lead balls, he had been feasting on several sheep in an enclosed field. He was gorging himself on their blood and innards, and so had missed the approach of the accursed farmer in the midnight darkness. The burning pain had hit the wolf, almost simultaneously as the flash of fire and terrifying smell of smoke registered to his senses. He had yelped loudly and instantly abandoned his kill to flee for the protection of the trees. Loud bangs had followed him on his flight and another of the terrible balls had grazed his ear as he leaped the final outer fence. The fire-ball had lodged itself deeply in the wolf’s shoulder. Pulling the vile object out with his claws proved even more painful than when it struck him. He had licked the wound constantly and now knew to be more watchful, he avoided man more carefully. Eventually, the lack of game in the forest and the returning hunger, drove the wolf to enter the villages again.
by Brian Ference | Chapter 1 - The Wolf Pup
Despite the general calm of the country air and the purposeful seclusion of her art studio, Sage Holdsworth was having a difficult time focusing on her latest composition. It wasn’t caused by the faint, tangy fragrance of the Hookah smoke which was wafting slowly upwards to the high wooden beams. Nor was the distraction coming from the plush, inviting pillows of the Chesterfield sofa where Lady Helena was seductively lying—as she was wont to do. Nor was it the dull throb of Sage’s lingering migraine. Amazingly, it wasn’t even the subject of the work itself that was causing the issue. No, the subject was more than fine, perfect and beautiful and distracting in its own way. The problem preventing her from continuing her painting was the soft, persistent whine coming from behind the heavy-oak door to the kitchen.
Sage put down her mahogany palette and sable brushes. They were extensions of her own hands and encrusted from heavy use, but still the finest that money could buy. Looking over at Lady Helena’s relaxed form, she was struck with a moment of envy. With generous curves and glowing skin that was delicate and firm, despite a life that would invite an onslaught of wrinkles from a normal woman. The woman’s right hand seemed to point to her revealing bust line, while her left hand was thrown casually above her beautiful and regal face. Her heavy–lidded lashes revealed fiery and mischievous eyes which were set above full, pink lips that were currently pursed in a slight smirk.
Sage shook off the feeling of inadequacy that came from comparing her own short, brown hair and plain face to that of her friend. She shot her an imploring look. “Helena, please, do something about the pup’s crying. I’m trying to concentrate.”
“Why should it be my job? It’s your silly sense of charity that took that ridiculous pup in.” Lady Helena sat up slowly and casually tossed back her long, obsidian-silk hair. “You must know that someday, that wolf cub will grow up into the beast that its mother was.”
Sage tried to ignore the flash of blood, as the image of the giant grey wolf rushed back into her mind. During one of her nightly gatherings in Epping Forest, she was astounded to come across the animal—which was thought to have been hunted to extinction in England well over two centuries ago. She was at a loss to explain what her eyes saw. Perhaps it had escaped from a zoo.
Sage timidly approached the wolf mother, already dead from starvation and caught in the fox trap that had cruelly ended the animal’s life. Somehow, the grey wolf pup had been spared and the tiny creature sat crying next to the motionless form of his mother. Perhaps the mother had continued to suckle the only mildly-injured wolf pup, even as she starved. It was a tragic loss, as the majestic animals no longer roamed the mighty forests and were even quite rare to see in captivity. Luckily, that evening she hadn’t been alone but had taken along Dorian Gray for the first time.
Upon seeing the animals, wonderful kind-hearted Dorian had forgotten all about his trepidation of tramping through the damp forest at night. He had reluctantly agreed
to help search for herbs that Sage needed for her paints. She would only allow paints that she mixed herself to touch her prized brushes and expensive canvases. The herbs were necessary to bring out the brilliant colors that distinguished her lifelike and compelling style. They gave the images a certain power—and they had other uses as well.
Her knowledge of herbs was of no help to the wolf mother. She was already gone as Dorian nonetheless, set his powerful arms to unhinging the fox trap. The hinge of the trap cracked and it broke, scoring a nasty gash across his hand—which he nobly ignored. Dorian had gently lifted the lifeless form of the mother free. He had insisted on digging a hole to bury the she-wolf beneath the soft forest floor himself. He had been so concerned for the small wolf pup and hugged it to his chest as the two walked through the trees and back to her studio. He patiently allowing the tiny animal to lick the blood that was freely flowing from the gash on his hand. At the sight of it he simply laughed merrily, amused at the apparent hunger the pup showed in response to the warm blood. Sage had almost warned him then, but instead seized on the adoring look in his endless blue eyes and offered to raise the pup herself. Turning it over to a zoo or conservatory seemed cruel. The animal could very well be the last of its kind and Sage hoped to one day release it back into the forest when it reached adulthood. She tenderly treated the uneven wounds that the jagged teeth of the fox trap had caused to the small grey paw. Sage dressed the injury with some dry bandages, staunching the surprisingly large flow of deep, red blood and treated it with an extract of coal tar. She would ensure that the wound healed properly and nurse the animal back
to full health. That way, Dorian could visit as often as he liked and the two of them could play with the little whelp together for hours on end—and that suited her just fine.
With a sigh, Sage dragged herself away from the easel and walked towards the kitchen. As the bulky door swung open, the wolf pup ran out and went tumbling in a ball of fluff. It was still unsure of itself in this new environment and adorably sniffed around before retreating to the protection her legs offered. Unable to help herself, Sage giggled and scooped him up while planting a kiss on the soft, furry head. In that moment her migraine cleared and she hugged the animal and whispered to him. “Being adorable is another thing you share with him. That and also being grey. So, that is what I will call you, little Dorian Grey.”
After finding a few bloody scraps of rabbit meat in the ice box, which the small wolf eagerly scarfed down, she changed the bandages on the injured paw. There was still a small amount of blood, slowly seeping out from the deep cuts on the tiny paw. She dabbed these and then re-bandaged the wound gingerly. Then she picked the small animal back up and exited the kitchen, depositing him in a shabby old dog bed by the roaring, red fireplace. This way he would be within eyesight but safely away from her antique easel. Hopefully the fresh meat and warmth from the hearth would soon sooth the trying animal to sleep and prevent him from getting into any more trouble.
As she returned to her paint-smattered palette and darkened brushes, she placed the bloody bandages near her materials. Her aesthetic gaze took in how much more vibrant the crisp colors were on the changed bandage. She fancied how much closer she could get the current mixture
on her palette to the color of Dorian’s lips, if she only mixed in a few drops of the red blood. On a whim, she swirled her brush in the bloody bandage, and mixed it with the colors on her palette, before using the brush to apply it to the canvas. She stubbornly ignored the nagging sensation at the back of her mind that attempted to disrupt her creativity with annoying warnings. As she finished applying the new paint mixture, she noticed Lady Helena was no longer spread out in her feline pose, but was now admiring the canvas with a seriousness and focus that she had rarely observed from the socialite.
Lady Helena leaned forward to inspect the canvas. “This is your finest work, Sage. Easily the best that I have ever seen. You really must exhibit this at Colnaghi’s gallery! Or, we can open a new one together, like I’ve been begging you to do for years now. Just imagine, our own darling gallery set along Dover Street or by the Berkeley Square gardens. I’ll front the money if that’s what it takes, art like this must be appreciated!”
Since they had first met, Lady Helena had been trying to convince Sage that the two should open up an art gallery and go into business together. Sage appreciated her friendship and that Lady Helena had taken her under her wing, but she couldn’t help but feel it was at least partly done because it was so fashionable to be friends with a well-known artist. She often felt paraded around like some trained monkey at the various social events organized by Lady Helena, but was too shy to risk losing her friendship by complaining about it. She didn’t mind having her work publicly praised by her friend, even if Lady Helena managed to somehow take credit for most of it. She always had been an overbearing person, as her husband knew well. Lady
Helena all but ran her husband’s flourishing trading company. She was the true mind behind the intricate business deals, the complicated purchase decisions, establishing trade routes, and managing contacts. Her husband was remanded to a figurehead, who merely signed the contracts that put in front of him and provided any financial backing that was needed. It allowed Lady Helena to be very free with her spending, including her famously generous support for the arts.
Sage scowled. “Not this one.” She formed her face into that stubborn look, which Lady Helena knew meant she might as well give up the argument now—for Sage would never change her mind.
“Are you sure? My dear, have you lost your mind entirely? This would elevate your fame to a level of international renown. I don’t understand you artist types, so quick to create a masterpiece, then you go and hide it away under a mattress. If you won’t display it, at least let me purchase it from you. Name your price, I’ll pay say…a considerable sum for it.”
“I can’t, this painting is not for sale or for display.”
Lady Helena sat down on the sofa and crossed her long, smooth legs slowly, fixing Sage with a momentarily brooding glare. It lasted only for a few seconds before she was laughing in glittering tones. “Why ever not?”
“You’ll tease me, but it’s just too important to me. I’ve put too much of who I am into it.”
by Brian Ference | Prologue
James approached the crumbling, stone wall of the vast country estate. He’d have to move quickly, to avoid detection from the other men moving through the dense woods nearby. His short, stocky figure was capable of small bursts of speed, but his legs were more used to the deck of a ship, than tearing among the thorny shrubs and tangled tree roots of the forest floor. Timing his move, he vaulted the wall and sprinted across the open ground and into the waiting cover of the trees. He sank down behind a hawthorn bush that provided some concealment, while he caught his heaving breath and listened intently. There was almost no sound at all. Strange, this area should be teaming with quail and other animals. Why were there so many men in the forest? Ah, they must be beaters for a hunting party nearby. The beaters were likely in search of the fat, speckled quail that would be hiding among the dense undergrowth and in the surrounding fields.
James was hunting for a very different form of prey. He checked the five-shot, Webley revolver in his coat, making sure it was fully loaded. It was an inexpensive sidearm, but it had served him well over the years. The last time he had faced his quarry, it had escaped unscathed. That was a mistake he would correct today—or die trying.
The men had moved off towards the fields, so James quietly advanced to the edge of the trees to get a closer look at the light-brown country house. The architecture was in the Palladian style, with symmetrical pillars in the front and circular arches over the large windows. There were multiple wings attached to the central house, and they too were adorned with pediments and porticos.
He was about ten meters away, but with the low fog on the ground, it was difficult to see clearly. As he stood behind a thick oak tree, he leaned outward and peered into the windows of the building. The first and second proved empty and he quickly moved on. The third seemed to contain a large gathering of some sort, with all sorts of people moving about inside, but his target could not be seen there. At the last window on the side of the house, he was shocked to see the very face he had been searching for—looking right back and directly at him. He leaped backwards and turned sideways to conceal his broad shoulders. He desperately hoped that he hadn’t been seen. Maybe the eyes were simply looking out at the trees. No, that was foolish, he had been spotted. But perhaps he could draw his prey to him instead. Risking another glance around the tree, he saw that the face had disappeared from the window. If he was discovered, he would do whatever was required to find a way to spring his trap, even if it cost him everything. Failing that, he would wait for another opportunity to take his revenge.
He had been away at a distant port when the letter came, bearing news that would change his life forever. From that moment, James had vowed vengeance and had thought of little else. He had been hunting for years now, with only one encounter with his prey before. That time he had lost his nerve. But now he would finally finish it. A little patience would cost him nothing and would be well worth the wait, to end that particular life.
After several minutes with no alarm being sounded, he retreated gradually and moved deeper into the forest to wait. Nearly a quarter-hour of time passed. Then, he snapped his head up abruptly, as a faint scraping sound announced the approach of someone else nearby. James cocked the hammer of his revolver and pointed it in the direction he had taken back from house. Minutes passed in deafening silence as his heart thudded rapidly in his chest. There was no one there.
The attack came from his side instead of the front. James was completely unprepared by the sheer force of whatever hit him and knocked him sideways and onto the ground. He only had a sense of a large dark shape as it continued the attack, falling upon him. Desperately, James brought his revolver to bear and fired a shot in the center of the enormous shape. A sound of pure fury exploded from the thing, as a massive, clawed hand raked a fire of agony and blood across his outstretched arm and sent the revolver smashing through the dense brush. James tried to rise to his feet, but more burning pain blossomed in his chest and stomach and the terrible strength of the creature forced him down, crushing the breath from his lungs. He saw sharp canines and the hairy muzzle of a wolf as it slammed into his face and neck. He could only scream in surprise and disbelief as the foul-smelling animal ripped into his body and the life leaked out from him. His last fading thoughts were of his terrible failure and the unjustness of the world. This impossible creature had inexplicably killed him and prevented him from taking his revenge. He would never have the satisfaction, of ending the life of the man whose face he had seen, staring back at him through the country house window.
