Wereworld : rise of the wolf

The gathering storm

The axe hovered briefly in the air, poised for the drop, its blade glinting in the lantern light. With a thunderclap and a simultaneous flash of lightning, it flew down, cracking the log in two. Drew returned the axe back to its bracket on the barn wall, picked up all the firewood from the floor and, taking the lamp from the beam over his head, he set off back to the farmhouse through the sleeting rain.

Once his father and Trent had left, the day had been up there with some of the most miserable Drew had ever experienced. The storm had been relentless, windowpanes rattling and shutters clapping as rain and wind battered the farm remorselessly. The yard was a quagmire of mud and water, great dirty pools clogging the ground underfoot. He could hear sheep bleating from their shelter beyond the barn, where he’d moved the flock earlier in the day.

Hoping that his bad luck with the animals had been put behind him, Drew had been disappointed to find the hex still firmly over his head. The sheep had proved skittish and unpredictable, almost impossible to herd when he took to the field. A week earlier the flock had come to him when he called, happily gathering around him. Seven days on they were different animals, the arrival of this invisible predator leaving them edgy and out of sorts. After trying to coax and cajole them to fresh pastures nearer the farmhouse for an hour, he had eventually turned to shouting to scare them into obeying his commands, something he’d never needed to do before. All the while he’d watched over his shoulder for any clues as to what was out there. By now there was no doubt in his mind that, whatever it was, it was something to be afraid of.

A day alone with his thoughts had not been the best remedy for Drew’s mood, which was darker than ever. Whatever had upset the sheep had also proceeded to play havoc with Drew, leaving him sick and fevered, and unable to eat his supper earlier. Elbowing open the front door, he stumbled into the hall, shaking the wet cloak from his shoulders and hopping about on one foot then the other, kicking off his boots. Barefoot and shivering, he trotted into the living room where his mother sat knitting in the armchair by the dying embers of the fire. He tipped his armful of kindling and wood into the scuttle on the hearth with a noisy clatter, placing a couple of pieces on to the coals of the fire. Crouched on his haunches, Drew remained at his mother’s feet, hands held out towards the fire.

‘How are you feeling, son?’ asked his mother, putting down the needles and bundle of wool. She leaned forward, stroking his damp hair affectionately. She laid the back of her hand against his forehead, checking his temperature. He knew it was up.

‘Not too bad, Ma,’ he lied, fighting back the cramps that rolled and shot through his belly. He looked up at the mantelpiece. Below his father’s Wolfshead blade was a brass carriage clock. It was almost half past ten in the evening, well beyond the time that his father and Trent would normally be home. He had to assume that they had fallen foul of the weather.

Standing and stretching, he managed to smile as best he could to his mother. ‘Do you fancy a brew, Ma?’ he asked, making for the kitchen. A hot drink seemed to be the only thing he could keep down at the moment.

‘That would be lovely,’ she called after him. Filling the kettle with water he placed it over the big old stove. Whereas his brother clearly followed in his father’s footsteps, Drew took after his mother, sharing her peaceful demeanour and easy-going nature. He always figured his mother must have been wasted in her youth as a scullery maid in Highcliff serving the king; her sharp mind and quick wit could have made her a great scholar if the opportunity had been there for her.

Leaving the kettle on the stove, Drew wandered back into the sitting room, settling cross-legged on the rug by the fire.

‘Still not hungry?’ his mother asked, concerned again.

‘No, can’t eat anything, Ma. Sorry,’ he replied, aware that his mother had spent hours preparing the roast dinner for the evening meal earlier. Unable to eat, he had lain in his bunk in his bedroom, leaving his mother downstairs to eat her meal alone. The table still remained set, the cutlery for Pa and Trent laid out, plus his own.

‘There’s no need to apologize, my dear,’ said his mother. ‘I know how it is when you feel ill.’ She looked intently at him, as if reading his thoughts. ‘And I hope nothing else is troubling you.’ She put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. ‘I know you didn’t mean to lose that sheep.’

Drew nodded. It was true he’d been worried about that, but now something else was disturbing him. He’d attempted during the day to unravel what had been going on with his parents’ heated arguments but his mother had proved adept at dodging his subtle lines of questioning. Although she’d provided no answers she had, however, revealed some clues.

To his relief, it didn’t appear to be his fault. He knew his father was annoyed at the loss of a prize-winning ram, but his mother had made it clear in no uncertain terms that he had done nothing wrong, and he believed her. She would sooner stay silent than tell a lie to either of her boys. Nor was it something that stemmed from a disagreement between his parents. Whatever it was, the clues suggested that it had something to do with the flock’s strange behaviour, but that was all he could work out. With his father dismissing his theories earlier, Drew was surprised to find out that he also thought something was wrong.