DRUNKEN WOLF

The first thing Blackpine noticed about Silas Vane was the smell. Whiskey. Cheap, bitter whiskey that had soaked so deeply into his clothes that even the cold mountain wind could not strip it away. The second thing they noticed was the way he walked. He stumbled three steps forward. Stopped. Swayed. Then took another crooked step, as though the road beneath his boots had suddenly tilted. By the time he reached the old stone gate marking the entrance to Blackpine, the sun had disappeared behind the mountains. Snow drifted through the evening air. Silas stopped beneath the wooden arch and looked at the village. For several seconds, the drunkenness disappeared from his face. His eyes became clear. Cold. Focused. He stared at the crooked church tower, the rows of wooden houses, the old mill beside the frozen river, and the tavern near the center of the village. Twenty years. He had dreamed about this place for twenty years. In some dreams, he returned carrying a rifle. In others, he arrived with armed men behind him. Sometimes he imagined the villagers recognizing him. Sometimes he imagined setting the entire village on fire. But reality was quieter. Almost disappointingly quiet. Blackpine looked exactly as he remembered it. Only the people had changed. Silas breathed slowly. “Home,” he whispered. A horse cart rattled toward him. The driver glanced down. Silas immediately staggered sideways and nearly fell into a snowbank. “Careful, drunk!” the driver shouted. Silas grabbed the gatepost. “I’m trying.” The driver laughed and continued into the village. Silas waited until the cart was gone. His expression hardened. His fingers tightened around the wooden post. A sharp crack sounded beneath his hand. Silas looked down. The wood had split. He released it. “Not yet.” He reached inside his coat and pulled out a metal flask. He took two long swallows. Then he deliberately allowed his shoulders to droop. His eyes became unfocused. His mouth twisted into the foolish smile of a man who had spent too many years drinking. Only then did Silas Vane enter Blackpine. The drunk had arrived. And nobody knew who he really was. The village square was busy despite the approaching darkness. Children ran through the snow. Farmers packed away their goods. Women hurried home with baskets beneath their arms. Men stood outside the tavern, drinking and arguing. Silas stumbled through the square. Nobody paid much attention to him. Until he walked directly into a barrel. The barrel rolled away. Silas fell backward into the snow. A group of boys burst into laughter. “Look at him!” “The drunk fell!” “Get up!” Silas opened one eye. Five boys stood around him. The oldest couldn’t have been more than twelve. The boy kicked Silas’s boot. “Are you dead?” Silas groaned. “Unfortunately.” The boys laughed. One picked up a snowball. “Catch!” The snowball struck Silas in the face. Silas slowly sat up. Snow covered his hair and beard. He looked at the boy. For a moment, his eyes became dangerously still. Then he smiled. “You’ve got a good arm.” The boy frowned. “That’s all?” Silas shrugged. “I’ve been hit by better.” The boys laughed again. One pointed toward the tavern. “Go sleep in there, drunk!” Silas followed the boy’s finger. His eyes landed on the tavern sign. THE HOWLING WOLF. For half a second, his smile disappeared. Nobody noticed. Except the woman standing across the square. She wore a dark wool coat and carried a leather medical bag. Her brown hair was tied behind her head. She had been watching Silas since he entered the village. Silas looked directly at her. She didn’t look away. Interesting. He lowered his head and staggered toward the tavern. The Howling Wolf was warm and crowded. Silas entered. Conversation briefly stopped. Smoke hung beneath the wooden ceiling. A fire burned in the stone hearth. The bartender looked at Silas’s dirty clothes, tangled hair, and flask. “God help me.” Silas smiled. “I don’t think He’s interested.” Several men laughed. The bartender didn’t. “What do you want?” “A drink.” “You already have one.” Silas examined his flask. “This?” “Yes.” Silas frowned. “That’s empty.” “You just drank from it.” “That explains it.” More laughter filled the room. The bartender sighed. “You got money?” Silas reached into his coat. Several coins appeared in his palm. The bartender’s expression changed. There was more money there than a wandering drunk should possess. Silas noticed. He dropped a few coins onto the counter. “Whiskey.” The bartender poured him a glass. “You staying here?” “If you’ll have me.” “I don’t rent beds to men who piss themselves.” “I don’t piss myself.” “That’s what they all say.” Silas smiled. “Then I’ll sleep outside.” The bartender studied him before pointing toward a table in the corner. “You can sleep there. Don’t cause trouble.” Silas nodded. As he walked toward the table, he noticed an old painting above the fireplace. Three people. A man. A woman. And a teenage boy. Silas stopped. His breathing changed. The boy had dark hair. Sharp eyes. And a small scar beneath his left ear. Silas knew that face. Because it was his own. The bartender noticed him staring. “You know them?” Silas turned. His drunken smile returned. “No.” “That’s the Vane family.” Silas’s fingers tightened around his glass. “Never heard of them.” The bartender laughed. “Everyone here knows them.” He pointed toward the painting. “Elias Vane and his wife, Anna. Their son disappeared twenty years ago.” Silas took a slow drink. “Bad luck.” “Bad family.” The bartender lowered his voice. “People said they were involved with wolves.” Silas looked at him. “Wolves?” “That’s what they said.” “And you believed them?” The bartender shrugged. “Doesn’t matter what I believe.” Silas looked back at the painting. For a moment, the tavern disappeared. He saw fire. Snow. His father’s face. His mother’s hand. And heard a voice screaming through the flames. “RUN, ELIAS!” Silas blinked. The memory vanished. He finished his drink. “Twenty years,” he whispered. The bartender frowned. “What?” Silas smiled. “Terrible weather.” The bartender shook his head. “Get some sleep, drunk.” Silas sat down. He closed his eyes. But he didn’t sleep. The woman from the square eventually approached his table. “Are you injured?” Silas opened one eye. “No.” “You have blood on your sleeve.” Silas looked down. A dark stain marked his left cuff. He smiled. “Not mine.” Her expression tightened. “Whose is it?” Silas looked at her. For one brief moment, the drunken act disappeared. His eyes were perfectly clear. The woman noticed. Then he blinked and became the drunk again. “I don’t remember.” “My name is Clara Bell.” Silas raised his glass. “Congratulations.” She almost smiled. “What’s yours?” “Silas.” “Silas what?” “Just Silas.” “Everyone has a surname.” “Not everyone.” Clara glanced at the painting. Then back at him. “You’re new here.” “Very observant.” “I’ve lived here my entire life.” “Then you’re the opposite.” Her eyebrows rose. “What does that mean?” “You’ve seen the same things for too long.” Silas stood. He moved too quickly. Clara instinctively reached out to steady him. Silas caught her wrist. His grip was strong. Much stronger than it should have been. Clara looked at his hand. Then into his eyes. Something about him frightened her. Something she couldn’t explain. Silas released her. “Sorry.” Clara rubbed her wrist. “You’re stronger than you look.” Silas smiled. “Whiskey.” “That isn’t how whiskey works.” “Must be a special brand.” He walked away. Clara watched him carefully. For the first time, she wondered whether the village drunk was pretending. Several hours later, Blackpine fell silent. The tavern emptied. The lamps were extinguished one by one. Silas remained at his table. His head rested against the wall. His bottle sat beside him. Anyone looking through the window would have believed he was asleep. He wasn’t. His eyes opened. The drunken sway vanished. Silas stood straight. His movements became controlled and precise. He walked toward the door. Before leaving, he looked at the painting again. At the boy he had been. At Elias Vane. Silas reached beneath his shirt and pulled out a small silver pendant. A wolf’s head had been carved into it. He touched it with his thumb. “I’m sorry, Mama.” His voice was barely a whisper. “I took too long.” He put the pendant away. Then he stepped into the night. Snow covered Blackpine. Silas walked past the church. Past the old mill. Past houses whose occupants had forgotten his name. Eventually, he reached the cemetery. He stopped beside a small stone wall. A grave lay beneath the snow. Silas brushed away the white layer. ANNA VANE. His mother’s grave. There was no grave for his father. No grave for Elias. Because Blackpine believed Elias Vane had died twenty years ago. Silas crouched beside the stone. “I came back.” The wind moved through the cemetery. Then came a howl. Silas slowly lifted his head. The sound had come from the northern forest. Long. Deep. Almost human. Another howl answered from farther up the mountain. Silas stood. He smelled something on the wind. Blood. Fresh blood. His expression changed. Someone was in the forest. Someone was hurt. Or someone was hunting. Footsteps sounded behind him. Silas turned. A tall man stood at the end of the cemetery path. Black coat. Silver hair. Cold eyes. Lightning flashed across the mountains. Silas recognized him immediately. Viktor Rask. Twenty years had changed the man. But not his eyes. Silas remembered those eyes. He remembered Viktor standing outside his burning home. He remembered his mother screaming. He remembered Viktor giving the order. Kill the boy. Silas’s hand slowly curled into a fist. Viktor studied him. Then smiled. “Good evening.” Silas lowered his head. He stumbled. The drunk returned. “Evening...” Viktor approached. “You’re new.” Silas nodded. “Just arrived.” “What’s your name?” “Silas.” Viktor studied him. “Silas what?” Silas took out his flask. “Does it matter?” Viktor smiled. “No.” He walked past him. After several steps, he stopped and glanced back. For the briefest moment, uncertainty crossed his face. Then he continued toward the village. Silas watched him disappear. His drunken smile faded. “You don’t recognize me.” He looked toward the forest. “Good.” A howl echoed through the trees. This time, Silas didn’t flinch. “Let them laugh.” He touched the silver wolf pendant beneath his shirt. “Let them think I’m weak.” The wind moved through his coat. Something moved among the trees. Silas stared into the darkness. His eyes hardened. “Because when they finally learn who I am...” He smiled. “...it will already be too late.” Deep inside the northern forest, something growled. And for the first time in twenty years, the wolf had come home.