The Wizard's Herbarium: The Wolf Child

Part 37

"Atticus, wait," Colt called, following after Atticus at a light jog. It was as though he were a kid; for each one of Atticus' steps, Colt had to take two, despite them being of similar sizes. Atticus seemed to glide over the ground, his footsteps making no sound.

"You should leave with the others," Atticus said, without turning his head. "The smoke will clog up the air and your lungs with it. That is, if the fire doesn't get you."

"I need to find Kova."

"I don't know why you are asking me. You were the one in charge of him."

"I was hoping that you'd know."

"Well, I don't. The boy will likely die on his own. You might as well accept it and move on."

The casual way Atticus spoke of the loss of human life was like a slap in the face. It shocked him into a stunned silence. Then, a rage bubbled up inside of him. Colt took a breath, his body readying himself, though to strike or shout, Colt wasn't sure. Before Colt could act on what it was he had been about to do, Atticus wheeled around, so fast that he seemed mechanized. A dagger flashed, and a strength that wasn't human threw Colt up against a large cedar.

"I do not have time to waste on humans," Atticus hissed through gritted teeth. "Such selfish creatures you all are. While you pretend to care about the boy, the thing you are really afraid of is feeling your own grief and guilt when you find him dead. If you have a moment, take some time to look around at the world as it burns. Humans can move away from the fire, but plants and animals cannot. Now, stay out of my way!" Atticus raised the dagger and Colt braced himself.

He didn't know what he expected to feel - a knife through the gut like in the movies, perhaps. The pain that shot through his arm made him cry out in surprise. He felt his heart pumping and his body releasing pain-fighting chemicals that made his head feel fuzzy.

Without another word, Atticus was gone, leaving Colt to stare at the knife that stuck out of his arm. Colt grabbed the handle and pulled. Sparks of pain bloomed from the wound as the blade was jerked, the point holding fast into the bark of the cedar tree behind him.

For the first time since he'd met Atticus, Colt was afraid of him. Atticus had threatened harm and had an indifferent attitude towards people, but he'd helped Colt before. Now, Colt realized how much he'd taken Atticus for granted. Maybe it was the dull throb in his side from the injury he sustained in the storm that continued to remind him of the moment of kindness from Atticus. But maybe that's all it had been - a moment. The laws that governed Atticus' conscious were different.

Colt readied himself, adjusting his grip on the knife and taking a deep breath. If he didn't get it in one more shot, Colt feared that he'd just give up and leave himself staked to the tree until he withered away. In one final pull, he yanked hard. The knife came free, falling from his hand and scattered across the ground.

As Colt leaned heavily against the cedar and inspected the cut with shaking hands, he was reminded of a line from a Monty Python movie 'Tis but a scratch!' As blood rushed down his arm, staining his t-shirt and flowing over the fingers of his other hand that held the wound, that's what Colt thought to himself. Tis but a scratch!

The knife had gotten mostly the arm of his shirt, ruining it and making it look like he'd been mauled by some animal. Rather than going straight through the middle of his arm, the knife had grazed flesh, but with how sharp the blade was, it would be a good idea to at least get stitches.

Tis but a scratch!

It made him want to laugh. That phrase should have been applied like some permanent filter to his life for the last year. A surreal year. A dark year. The Dark Ages, maybe. His son died, tis but a scratch; his marriage fell apart, tis but a scratch; he ran away from home like he was a Lost Boy, tis but a scratch!

Maybe this was what it felt like to lose it. Maybe his mind was turning to mush, melting from the fires burning so close now that he could no longer feel himself burning alive. Maybe he should just stay there forever, until the flames ate him up and he didn't have to be a burden to anyone anymore.