Patrick felt as though he had found a briefcase full of money and begun to buy everything he had ever wanted, just to discover that it belonged to an angry mob boss.
He thought about Rachel. He couldn’t be sure that this was an isolated case. Whether it was by Patrick or Mr. Vincent didn’t matter; the fact was, someone else could get hurt if this all continued the way it was going. He didn’t know what he would do if it happened to be her. He needed answers.
The realization came to him suddenly that tonight he needed to venture into the woods. He wasn’t sure exactly why, but he knew it had to happen. Energized by newly found purpose, he waited on his bed until around midnight when he was certain that everyone was fast asleep. Then he slipped downstairs and outside.
*****
It took a little longer to change than it had the previous night, probably because there was no pressing need to hurry, Patrick supposed. But after half a minute or so he felt the familiar hot-and-cold sensation wash over him and soon the transformation was complete. It seemed to become more fluid and natural each time.
Patrick stood for a moment, not sure exactly what his goal was tonight. It was certainly not to mess around and chase opossums, he knew that much. There were odd things going on and something had to be done about it, even if he didn’t know what that might be. But whatever he had to do, it would certainly take place in the woods where it all started.
He remembered Dave’s lamp and realized that he hadn’t been to the tree in quite a while. It held a significant place in his mind, so he decided it would be a good place to start. He trotted deeper into the woods.
He wasn’t certain of the exact location of the tree, but knew that he would pick up its scent very easily when he drew near. And he was right; after about a minute of walking, from out of the thick sea of moss and dirt and animal dung drifted that sickly old smell, that color that was beyond imagining in his human form. He followed the path through the trees and soon found it.
Light clouds covered the moon and the tree was barely visible, but he could sense and picture it clearly enough; the thick, curving trunk and the gnarled and twisted branches, the ancient smell that had paralyzed him with terror. It was as if he could see it with something other than sight or even smell; the image in his mind was almost as clear as though he were looking at it by the light of day.
He thought it odd that Dave didn’t know about this tree, despite it being very obviously of the type that he had taken an interest in and from which he had fashioned the lamp. Apparently in all his years in Hillward he had just never bothered to take a stroll through these woods?
Patrick sat down on his haunches (something which he realized he had never attempted until now, though it came naturally anyway) and simply took in the smell of the thing for several minutes. He tried to come up with a theory as to why any of this was happening or what it could all mean, but got nowhere.
When he was considering breaking his mental gaze and exploring the rest of the woods, something feathery fluttered from some other tree and landed in front of him on a leafless branch.
He didn’t need any light to know that it was a crow—in fact, the crow, as he had come to know it—and that it was now looking directly at him, completely still, as if it were expecting some action from him. The same crow that had watched him as he walked home from school back before the magical days of Rachel, that he had seen on the edge of the woods on that first terrifying night, the very same crow that had struck him with the most intense fear he may ever know on the night that he learned to fear nothing at all. It had returned to him again, and again it watched him expectantly. As if it wanted something…
Maybe it does want something…
The idea formed slowly in his mind, like different paints tipping over onto a canvas, spilling and spreading and coming together into some blurry shape. The crow wanted something. It had wanted something all along. That was why it was here—why he was here—and finding whatever it wanted just might give him the answer he was looking for.
He caught the scent of the little animal—the oddly sharp quality of its dust, the grime in its feathers, the stink of decay clinging to its beak and talons. As with the tree, in his mind’s eye he could see it clearly, and its black, beady eyes regarded him with a quiet intensity.
All right, he thought both to the bird and to himself, I’ll do it.
Whatever it is, I’ll find it.
Chapter 11
She woke up the next morning feely oddly giddy.
Rachel had always been the “early to rise” type, and when her eyes slid open a little after seven thirty the memory of last night stole the rest of the sleep right out of her. She stretched and got out of bed, feeling like this must be a particularly bright, bright and sunshiny day. It turned out she was right, for when she opened her blue curtains golden light spilled into the room. The sun glinted off the ruby eyes of the dragon on the sill, as it did every morning. His slithery hands clutched at the glass ball propped up in front of him, which refracted a splash of rainbow colors upon the wood underneath.
A paper Viggo Mortensen watched over her as she sat down at her desk and clicked on her computer. The old black beast gave a great whir and a low grumble and the screen flicked to life. The usual sound of a jet engine taking off resonated in the room, and Rachel gave a sigh and thought about how she could use an upgrade, as she did every morning. Also as per ritual, she then glanced at the jar on the shelf to the left of her desk. Beside a long and elegant dragon adorned with plated armor and atop a stone with the word “Gaia” painted on its front, was an animal-shaped glass jar that she was quite certain her father had acquired when he was only a child. It had originally held peanut butter, though the animal resembled something like a bear or a hamster, which was quite confusing. It was half full of quarters and tightly-folded bills, though she was certain she was nowhere close to her goal.
Maybe Dad will meet me halfway for my birthday, she thought.
When the whirring calmed to a mad-scientist-lab hum about two minutes later and the desktop finally came into view with minimal background-chug, she did some brief web surfing. She checked her email and updated her podcast feed (happy to find a new episode of AVMA Animal Tracks available for download), but all the while she couldn’t seem to keep her mind off of last night’s dinner. While her files were downloading she thought about just how much fun it had been. She was so happy that Patrick had agreed to come over for dinner, and she didn’t think it could have possibly turned out better. They had laughed, he had liked the food, he had liked her dad, and they had watched a movie they both loved… She had even shown him her special chest.
She looked over to the chest at the foot of her bed and experienced an odd little flurry in her stomach as she recalled the image of the two of them kneeling there, admiring the craftsmanship closely. She had never shown it to someone so eagerly… At least not since her grandmother had visited back when the chest was still so new. Or at the old house when she grabbed her mother’s hand and pulled her up the stairs and into the room to show her the wonderful present her daddy had made her for her birthday. But that was so long ago now.
Rachel set her computer to hibernate (a task itself which would require several minutes to execute) and left the low hum of her room.
Still in her pajamas, she padded across the empty kitchen. She poured herself a bowl of Frosted Mini Wheats and sat down at the table in the same seat she had occupied during last night’s dinner. She looked to the seat where Patrick had been and tried her best to recall their whole conversation in detail.
When her bowl was half empty she heard her father lumbering down the hall. He walked into the kitchen groggily and shirtless, as usual making a beeline for the fridge.
“Hey, sweetie,” he said with a weak voice, opening the door with a squeak and pulling out a huge jug of orange juice. He unscrewed the cap and took a hearty swig. Rachel’s father had always been an enormous
fan of orange juice, and it was with great effort and regularity that she had to dissuade him from downing a few quarts of the stuff before work in lieu of a proper breakfast.
“Eat some cereal too,” she said, taking a bite of her Mini Wheats as if to demonstrate. It was her favorite kind, but it always got soggy after about four seconds.
“You’re not my mom,” he mumbled playfully. He burped and screwed the cap back on, but then proceeded to close the fridge and bring the jug with him over to the table.
The illusion of Patrick was squished as her father plopped into the chair, and the recalled conversation went with it. Her father looked at her, slumped backward in the chair and grasping the orange juice on his lap in a way that reminded her of a teenager.
Rachel took another bite of the mushy stuff, and when she looked back up she saw that a large and decidedly suggestive smile was spreading across her father’s face.
“So…” he said, looking at her expectantly, his voice low and gravelly, “you enjoy dinner last night?”
“I already told you, I did.” She didn’t like where this was going, but it wasn’t like she hadn’t expected it.
“I know, I know,” he said, unscrewing the cap absentmindedly. “But I guess I was wondering if you just liked dinner, or if you like… like liked it?”
He drew the jug to his mouth and Rachel reached over and tipped it an inch higher than he had intended. Orange juice spilled down his front and he yanked the jug away from his mouth, leaning forward and trying to swallow what had made it into his mouth without spewing it onto the table. Rachel dropped her spoon and laughed at him, and when he finally got it down clean he laughed too. When their giggles died down he reached for the roll of paper towels that was sitting on the other side of the table. He tore off a few squares and wiped himself off.
“Aw man, you know I refuse to shower on Saturdays!”
“Yeah, I do know,” Rachel said dryly, waving her hand in front of her face in a “pee-yew” motion.
Her father wadded up the used towels and tossed them over to the small trash can, where they bounced off the rim and landed on the floor.
“Now, you didn’t answer my question,” he said, turning back to her. When Rachel shot a glare at him he quickly screwed the lid back on the jug and scooted it away. Then he leaned back and crossed his arms, bringing one bare foot up to rest on the opposite knee.
Rachel sighed and closed her eyes for a moment. Then she returned to her cereal.
“We’re just friends, Dad,” she said with a smile, knowing that her words were meaningless. “Although I do commend you for keeping the embarrassment to a minimum last night.”
He smiled his big smile and his cheeks pushed his eyes into little slits.
“Yeah, you get one freebee,” he said. “Not so sure about next time, though.”
“I’ll have to check the paper that day for a fifty-percent-less embarrassment coupon.”
“You’ll only find those in Sunday’s paper.” He chuckled to himself and reached again for the orange juice.
Rachel took another bite and glanced over to the couch. In her mind’s eye she could see the two of them sitting there, smiling and laughing.
Chapter 12
Patrick asked himself simply, What could a wolf do for a crow? In other words, what skill or feature did a wolf possess that in certain situations might give it an advantage over a crow? There were many answers: sheer size, brute strength, sharp teeth coupled with a strong jaw, a thick, warm coat… But the answer he was looking for was an obvious one.
The sense of smell.
Patrick had read once that birds generally didn’t have a very good sense of smell or taste. Their hearing was alright, and their sense of touch was surprisingly good for an animal with scaly feet and so little flesh, but their true skill was in their eyesight. They could spot food and other birds and predators with incredible precision, and even see into the infrared spectrum, comprehending colors that humans can’t even see. But somehow hanging around the same old trees and eating the same boring fruit and nuts for so many years left smell low on their priority list.
This, Patrick supposed, was where he came in.
He might have been wrong, but whatever he needed to find (or do), it had to be in the woods. The crow seemed to belong there, and it never tried to lead him anywhere else. In fact, it had appeared to coax him inside on multiple occasions. He wouldn’t even have entered the woods on that first night if it hadn’t been for the mystery of the crow and its odd persistence.
So the next obvious question arose.
Then what, exactly, am I looking for?
He didn’t have even the slightest clue as to what it could be, so he did the only thing he could think to do; he began to smell everything.
For a while he simply scoured the breadth of the woods looking for odd smells, in the way he had done it previously for entertainment, though with a bit more focus and determination. He crossed over countless skunk and opossum trails, came upon the their pungent droppings, traced the scents of squirrels up into trees until they disappeared out of nose’s reach, occasionally gleaned the dust from other crows, sniffled around in just about every type of grass and weed he could find and stole a couple quick whiffs off any rock that happened to catch his fancy, all the while looking for something inconsistent, something foreign. After that proved fruitless, he moved on to meticulously combing small areas. He sifted through every smell he could pick up on, not moving on to the next patch of ground until he could identify every single one. He discovered many new smells this way, and he found himself learning to isolate the different scents more efficiently with each passing hour. Squirrel tracks suddenly became identifiable as being left by individual specimens, leaves of the same type began to smell very different depending on how much time had passed since they had fallen from the tree, and animals that must have been dead for seasons revealed themselves from under the rich dirt itself. (He found the skeletal remains of a skunk under a bush that were quite intriguing.) The more he explored this new world, the larger and more complex and amazing it became. He felt as though he were in a new house, opening door after door and finding that each one led to three more, and the rooms kept going and going forever, far beyond the depth and size originally thought possible by viewing the structure from the outside.
At one point he caught a scent that made his heartbeat quicken and he followed it eagerly, but soon discovered it to be the familiar scent of wolf, and assumed it was simply the same trail that Mr. Vincent had left a few nights previous. When the general position and stale quality of this trail all but proved this theory correct, he went on searching tree by tree, rock by rock.
As the night grew old Patrick found himself on an edge of the woods he hadn’t been to before. On the southwestern side, the one furthest from both his house and the school, the woods were separated by a creek bed. He could see bits of water glittering with moonlight, but the inconsistency and stillness of the reflections suggested that the stream was probably still, mostly comprised of mud. The trees ended on both sides of the creek and the ground sloped down to it at about a forty-degree angle, maybe thirty feet before it flattened out. Apart from the leafless and unfriendly-looking bushes growing stubbornly out of the slope, it didn’t look as if there would be much traction were he to slide down. He knew there must be a safer way down, but he decided to follow the trails he was on, saving the creek for later.
When the sun began to rise and the cracks of starry sky between the trees turned to blue, Patrick retired from his search for the day. He hadn’t noticed how physically exhausted he was until he realized what time it must be, and when he approached the edge of the yard he felt an ache developing in his shoulders (or his canine equivalent).
The night hadn’t revealed any answers, but there was one remarkable thing about it: Patrick had come to its end fully alert, with a clear state of mind. It was the first time he could actually remember retir
ing; the world hadn’t turned blurry and vague and he hadn’t simply awoken in his bed with no memory of the last hour or so. Even the night he had followed Mr. Vincent into the woods had ended thusly; he had a hazy recollection of walking in the general direction of his house, but even that was lost in the jumbled and exasperated mess that was his brain. He supposed that on this night his clarity of mind had been due to his complete focus and emotional stability, as for some reason emotions seemed to play a very big part in the whole thing. Maybe the constant remorse and fear in Mr. Vincent’s life was what caused him to lose control so frequently (if those were indeed what he was feeling; Patrick could not yet rule out that there was more to the story than he knew).
It could have also had something to do with experience, he thought. Maybe the longer he remained in the form of a wolf the more he would be able to control the ebb and flow of his consciousness.
This night was also the first time he ever needed to consciously change back into his human form, but before he could even realize that he didn’t know how to do it, it was happening. The usual feelings came back, only in reverse, and after just a few seconds his paws were hands and feet again. He stood up and jogged swiftly across the yard, brushing dirt from his palms and marveling at the fact that his clothes were mysteriously present once more.
His parents wouldn’t be up for a few more hours, but he decided not to take any risks and got inside and upstairs with all the care and ease he could muster. When he finally shrugged out of his clothes and into his blankets, sleep came easily.
*****
The weekend went by in a flash.
Patrick slept very late that Friday. He wanted more than anything to continue exploring the woods, but somehow he didn’t dare to enter them during the day, even in his human form. Perhaps his secret was so profound that he didn’t even want to risk being associated with the place. After eating cold leftovers from breakfast he decided to pass the time by finally decorating his room. He pulled a few boxes from the top shelf of his closet and from them produced all of his posters (the majority of which were from The Lord of the Rings), action figures from various video games, and the rest of the books he hadn’t gotten around to putting on his bookshelf yet.