Robyn Hogan

Leta lay in the early morning dappled shade of the oak forest licking her paws, watching them lengthen, the hair become sleek and slight as her human shape returned. Her tongue, rough and salivary, worked the cream coloured hairs diligently, grooming them into the crevices between her claws. Occasionally, she nipped crossly at the nails or ground her teeth along the bone ridges, frustration drying her mouth, her gums hardening with anxiety.

‘There must be a way to break this spell,’ she groaned, snapped at a gnat, noted the day moon’s slow passage.

‘’Tis too cruel. And risky.’ The old fellow nearby, grey mottling his muzzle, yawned wide, jaws creaking, then closed his eyes, nodding as he napped.

A howl escaped her; a wild, baying sound, twitching the others from their sleep. Red eyes glowered, a belch or two, a fart here and there, flavoured the glade. The venison had been sweet, succulent, even the bones, now lying on the leaf litter, worth chewing. They were wary, though, mindful the stranger-whelp had eaten little. Her belly was probably rumbling with regret. She would learn.

Leta saw only their indolence. And it was anger, not hunger, she felt. Two strides and she was beside old Milo. Smartly, she boxed his ears; ears thick, jagged, near bald with age.

‘Wha-at!’ he snapped, cracking another of the few fangs left in his head. He rolled back, cowering, away from her strong, determined smacks. The others watched Leta, drowsily. She flicked her tail, ears flat against her skull and curled a lip towards them. Mega growled, rose, stiff hair bristling along her aching spine and hips and limped to Milo. She began stroking him, slowly licking comfort along the old dog’s thin lips, soggy eyes, bruised ears.

Curs, Leta thought as she retreated, remembering the chaotic scramble that had been the night’s kill. The hind had run well, the chase long in the damp, dim forest. And the horrid thrill as she’d sorted them out, streaked through the inept pack, clasped the deer’s throat, grounded the galloping animal for them to fall upon, tearing at it thanklessly. Her gorge rose with the memory of the warm, squelching blood. Disgusting. Exhilarating.

Head down, Leta loped to the edge of the group, slung herself down on the rotting leaves. For years she had borne her curse as a solitary animal, lurking in village shadows, until this night, when she had found the forest — and these dubious companions.

‘You’re young yet,’ Mega yelped softly as she finished grooming a snoring Milo and, drawing near, flopped beside Leta. ‘There is a way out.’

Leta lifted her snout, dark nostrils flaring, copper glinting in her eyes. ‘The curse can be broken? There is a way to escape this, this sorcery?’ She rose, circled Mega. ‘If there is a way, Mother Mega, in the name of the moon goddess, why haven’t we taken it?’ Her words ended in a piteous howl.

The pack was alert now, watching her.

They padded back and forth in front of her, eyeing her with sidelong glances. A motley rout, greys and blacks and browns. Leta closed her eyes, settled down, little mewing sorrow sounds spelling her distress. Until she drew her breath in, silencing the whimpers; her belly narrow, taut along her ribs. ‘What breaks this spell?’ she barked.

‘If ye drink the blood of a newborn babe, then ye shall be saved.’

Grunts, soft snarls and haughty yelps filled the glade. ‘Cruel. Unnatural,’ old Milo, awake again, grunted, raising his shaggy head. Fleetingly, Leta glimpsed a gentle grandfather; felt his dilemma as well as her own.

***

‘And where is your slant-eyed slave? You should not be kneading dough so close to your time. Where is she?’

Sarah paused, brushing hair back from her forehead with her arm. ‘She is certainly taking her time,’ she murmured, sprinkling flour onto the board, coating her hands, rolling the dank dough.

‘Time, woman! She went last evening as the moon came up. It might be her night off but this is day. What can she be doing?’

‘She promised to catch me a rabbit.’

‘What?’ Niall stamped his boot, ‘poaching! I bet she’s been arrested!’ He stormed round the room. ‘And I paid good money for her and her costly transport.’

‘I need meat for strength to bear this babe. She said she would not be caught. Could guarantee she would not be caught.’ Hunger pains rattled across Sarah’s stomach and a harsher pain strolled slowly low across her back. ‘She will bring the rabbit.’

‘And at what risk to us? You have bread. Beans.’ He gestured out the window where the crops wound along the valley slope.

‘I crave meat.’ Tears dampened her eyes and his temper turned to concern.

‘Don’t you think I would bring you meat if I could? The forest,’ he sighed, grimaced, ‘takes all our land; we can keep so few animals. I sold the last of the pigeons to buy Leta.’

Sarah nodded, wearily covered the half-made bread, pushed it aside to prove. ‘And she has been worth it, Sarah love. This is the first child you have carried to term. Come, sit down. Her greatest worth is yet to be. They said, at market day, she cleans the infant with her own tongue; ties the cord so smoothly it never slips. No babe she handles bleeds to death in its basket.’ He hugged her close. ‘They say, too, she treats the afterbirth with such magic, magic known only to the Inclusives, that the child always prospers.’

A second later the hut door flung open and Leta, clutching her cream coloured rough-woven cloak close to her chest, the hood tight round her sharp face, dashed in.

‘Sorry, Mistress — and Master too — to be so long away but I had far to go.’ She rushed past them, her teeth ripping slickly into her catch, peeling the skin back, away from the carcase. She tossed the skin aside and, turned from them as she was, they did not see the long eye tooth slit the belly open, remove the innards. Only heard the dull sound of the catch dropped into the pot, the splash of water. ‘Soon you will have your meat.’ She prodded heat into the stove’s firebox until it was burning merrily.

Night was deepening as Sarah went into labour. The contractions were tense but the time, short. So many ungrown babes had eased the path for the first full term one. Round midnight, he slipped into Leta’s waiting hands, hands hairier than most but sensitive and strong, and wailed lustily. Leta bent her head, nose pressed against the infant’s abdomen, and twisted her tongue round the cord, looping it back on itself, knotting it firmly, nipping it free. She laid the howling figure against Sarah’s lolling breast and his cries softened to a nuzzly whimper. The parents looked at each other with pride and gratitude, ignoring Leta, until Sarah’s eyes began closing with weariness.

Then Leta took hold of the infant. Her mouth was so full of saliva she could not speak. The fluid poured onto the infant and she lapped it up, cleaning him. She swirled the downy hair on his head into kiss curls, swabbed mucous from eyes and nose and mouth and ears. Her long tongue swilled beneath armpits, into groins, between buttocks. The tip stretched out the little fingers and her teeth gently cracked off the too-long nails. With long sweeps she cleaned, pressing the ribs into deeper breaths, turning the body back and forth with sure hands. Her job was nearly done, her mouth juices drying, the trembling inside her easing, when her tongue felt the furry pad. She paused, closed her eyes, ran her tongue along the inside of her teeth and poked again, gently, at the infant’s shoulder. She drew back, squinting in the half light. Small, but distinct, the little patch of hair winked back. The juices were suddenly running again and a great, overwhelming tenderness engulfed her.

At full moon the Wise Woman of the valley called to inspect the child, Sebastian. He had settled quickly into a routine, thriving on Sarah’s sweet milk and Leta’s gentle care. She congratulated Sarah on a successful birthing; and on the handsome, healthy addition to their community.

She fumbled a little as she unwrapped the infant; he seemed to fight her with a will stronger then his two weeks. Then she gasped, reeled, the colour draining from her face, before slumping into a chair.

‘What is it?’ Sarah rushed to the crib where Sebastian lay face down grizzling in his nakedness, the patch of brownish hair she had not seen before rippling as his shoulders wriggled. Her finger hovered over it, not daring to touch. Quickly she covered the child, her eyes wide, dark with fear, and clasped him to her.

‘It is an evil sign,’ Wise Woman gasped, her chest heaving, her breathing loud.

‘But he’s my baby. My precious, precious baby.’ She held Sebastian tighter, glaring defiantly at Wise Woman.

The Wise Woman stood, slightly unsteady, worry and confusion dark on her face. She patted Sarah and the baby. ‘I probably do wrong but we cannot survive without strong children growing in the valley. There are so few.’ She sighed deeply, her hands pressed to her chest and stared out the window. ‘And so few workers too.’ She turned back to Sarah. ‘It’s five years now since the last Inclusion. And too many of them were old, useless.’ She reached for her cloak, and, coming to a decision, gathered strength into her shaking body. ‘You are a good woman, Sarah. Your child should, can be saved,’

‘How?’

‘Guard, you must guard the crib, the cot, the bed, at each new moon for sixteen years.’

‘And then?’

‘Then, it is said, the child will be free of the curse.’

Sharp breaths of relief rasped through Sarah and she held Sebastian closer still, almost smothering him in her bosom. ‘We will protect him. He will be safe.’

‘It must be you who hides him from the light. No other must know your secret. Not even Niall. And not the slave. Never the slave.’

‘We will be selling her on soon and new moon is her night off anyway.’

Sixteen years, Leta thought, standing forgotten against the far wall, and I was fifteen at the Inclusion. She fingered the little patch of creamy fur behind her ear. So near to being free. So near. Bitterness and self-pity swamped over her in a tide of sweat.

***

‘What if the babe, the babe we slay to rid us of the curse, were a werewolf like us?’

She had their attention now as she had not had since the kill.

Those who lived permanently in the forest, men and women hermits, had eaten nothing but acorns and berries for a month. Leta had barked them into some semblance of a team before rounding up a juicy young buck. She had earned their gratitude and respect.

‘There is a werewolf cub?’

‘Ah!’ old Milo growled, ‘the prophecy has begun.’ He stretched his neck out, authority resting in the angle he held his head. ‘It is said a werewolf the colour of early milk will lead us back from the brink of extinction. And many cubs will come to her; join her pack.’ He rested his jaw on his paws, hopes and dreams flickering across his eyes.

‘It seems our time has come.’ Mother Mega lurched to her feet and began grooming Leta’s jaw, her cheeks. ‘Trees have been marching across the agricultural fields for decades now; there are huge forests ready for our species again.’ Leta licked back at the coarse grey hair on Mega, enjoying the warmth of a companionship she had not tasted since the Inclusion and her capture. Her senses relaxed.

‘You must bring the babe.’

Leta leapt to her feet, springing away from the old she-wolf, a harsh growl in her throat.

Mega was not deterred. ‘You could always eat him and rid yourself of your wretched spell; doom us all to being nothing but vagrants dwelling in a forest, too old to even hunt properly. And, in doing so,’ her watery eyes stared into Leta’s clear amber ones, ‘you would ensure the babe never realises his potential. Nor you, yours.’

‘Potential?’ Leta whipped her tail, already shortening; angry.

‘That of being part of our race renewal.’ Wise Mega smiled, baring worn and jagged teeth. ‘One moon soon,’ she coaxed, ‘expose the babe.’

‘No. He is too young. And, in a little over a month, I shall be on-sold I know not where.’ A lump rose in her throat at the thought of leaving Sebastian. Their bodies were changing rapidly now; it was time to return to her owners. Leta rose impatiently. ‘And I loathe this life,’ she shouted.

‘’Tis freer than your other,’ Mega snapped, before adding, in a quieter tone, ‘you could live in the forest permanently.’ The older woman laid a gentle hand on Leta’s arm. ‘The idea of change grows; the idea takes roots and grows. Soon, if you stay, the wild pleasures will begin to warm your heart.’

‘Never mine!’ Leta spun away, jogging through the forest, the tears running, stinging, down her cheeks.

***

The night was hot and humid. As Leta hurried past the open window she could hear the baby fretting in his crib. She glanced over her shoulder to where Sarah and Niall continued to pick their beans, he insisting she must stay and work if the slave would not. Impulsively, Leta leant in and lifted Sebastian into her arms. Time was running out for her — she could feel her feet changing, claws scratching in her clogs — but she thought to settle him, ease the muslin wrap round him. As she did so, the pale light of the new moon slid over the tree tops and touched them. Sebastian squirmed and she, fearful the parents would hear, clutched him closely, whispering softly. But he continued to wriggle, becoming stronger, more difficult to hold, the wrap falling away. As well, her clothes were stretching and tearing, her shape changing, hair flowing over her.

A quick, furtive look then Leta’s strong jaws clamped instinctively onto Sebastian’s smooth-haired scruff. He looked up, trusting and bright eyed. She felt his thrill of excitement, responding to hers, before he relaxed, curled, tawny tail tucked between his legs. Carrying him, she dodged through the valley shadows and safely into the forest.

***