Wereworld : rise of the wolf

The gathering storm 2

Drew was pulled back from his thoughts by the rapid rat-tat-tat of the rain on the windowpanes, making it seem as though the glass might shatter at any moment. Picking up another log, he threw it into the fireplace to join the others. The flames leapt high, the fire burning hungrily now, spitting, hissing and popping. Drew walked across to the huge bay window. Over the storm he could hear his sheep bleating, wailing with worry. Should he go outdoors to check on them? Surely they’d be safe in the paddock? The moon, full and bloated in the night sky, broke through the storm clouds, casting an eerie light over the farmyard.

Drew suddenly felt the fever take him anew, like never before. A wave of dizziness washed over him, as the blood rushed from his head. He grasped the heavy curtain with a trembling hand, knuckles white as he gripped the fabric to stop himself falling. His breathing rasped in his chest, laboured and shallow, as rivulets of sweat rolled down his face and into his eyes. Drew wiped his forearm across his face and his sleeve came away sodden, clinging to his flesh. What kind of illness could have this effect on him?

He fixed his eyes on the moon, trying to focus, trying to clear his head of the painful sensations that now assaulted his body. His skin crawled, a fevered itch spreading its way over every inch of his flesh like wildfire. Nausea assailed him, his chest heaving, his lunchtime meal threatening to make a break from his stomach. The world turned round Drew, spinning on the bright white axis of the moon. Focus on the moon.

Focus on the moon.

His body seemed to calm, the pains passing as quickly as they had come. His flesh cooled, the sickness past. What was happening to him? Outside the rain was subsiding, gentle now and almost tranquil. The sheep had quietened, suddenly calmed. Drew released his grip from the curtains, putting his hand to his clammy throat and massaging it softly. The peace he felt was unnatural, unnerving.

Rising from her chair, his mother rushed over, ‘Are you all right, Drew?’

‘Not really,’ he replied. ‘I feel ill. I think it’s the sheep being in distress. I’m picking up on it, and there’s nothing I can do.’

His mother chewed her lip, her brow creased as she stroked his cheek.

‘Ma,’ asked Drew, taking a deep ragged breath. ‘What’s wrong with me?’

‘Nothing, my love. Nothing at all.’

Her face looked so sad, Drew thought, the frown that framed her face ageing her before his very eyes.

He smiled.

‘I know there’s something you’re not telling me, Ma,’ he said, then, as she started to protest, ‘Please don’t deny it. I’ve seen you and Pa. There’s something you’re keeping from me. I know I’m right, but hear me out. I need to say this. I just want you to know that I trust you. Whatever it is, whatever you and Pa are worried about, I know you’ll do the right thing. I just hope, whatever it is, there’s something I can do to fix it.’

He was surprised to see tears stream down his mother’s cheeks at his words, rolling freely as she smiled and sobbed.

‘Oh, Drew,’ she said, her voice breathless. ‘Always so thoughtful, so understanding. You don’t know what that means to me. Please believe me when I tell you that no parents ever loved their child as much as we love you.’

Drew was slightly taken aback and with a sadness in his heart doubted she genuinely spoke on behalf of his father.

‘I wish I could be strong like Trent, and let Pa see that I’m worth something more. Are there two twins more different in all of Lyssia?’ He smiled weakly. ‘But I never meant to upset you, Ma,’ he said. ‘Really, I didn’t!’

His mother laughed at his words, hugging him. ‘I know you didn’t, you silly boy, I know you didn’t.’ She squeezed him tight. The storm outside seemed to stop, fading away for the moment. The rumbling of thunder had gone, even the rain had subsided. The world seemed silent.

‘Don’t try to be like Trent,’ she added quietly. ‘There will come a time when your pa and I need to tell you more. But you do need to know … that you’re not like your brother.’

Drew’s eyes queried the strange statement, although the full understanding of her words was totally beyond his reach and comprehension. Just then the kettle began to whistle on the stove in the kitchen, low and slow at first before building towards a crescendo. The hairs on the back of Drew’s neck stood on end. His mother wasn’t finished.

‘You are different.’

He wanted to know more, to ask her what she meant, but as he opened his mouth the small panes of glass that made up the bay window suddenly shattered in a hail of flying glass as the frame buckled and exploded into the room.