Carve Me Open / r.l. + s.b. /

Out of the Black

"there's always a home for you here in my heart.
I'll leave a light on."
-via Ben Maxfield

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Fields of Walter's Ash, July 1977

The Wolf was calm that night in July, hair billowing in the summer breeze and teeth bared, not in warning or aggression, rather an ugly and twisted smile.

It had never smiled before – ever. It was always angsty and raging, stuck within the walls it's pathetic human had built.

"It's for my own good," it warned. "People will be safer this way," it reasoned.

But the Wolf didn't care for reason. It didn't care for the human's whining and crying all night either. No, it did not want that. It wanted to be free – in the trees. Here it was – now – in grass. The wildflowers bloomed – they smelled like dirt. The Wolf liked dirt. It came from the earth, her skin. They were long and stringy in its claws, heavy with dead from being plucked. But it liked them. Like earth's freckles, the wildflowers. Freckles that smell like dirt.

It liked the dirt. It wallowed in the mud, happy to feel the coolness of her on its fur. Earth. It loved the earth – the trees, the leaves, and the wildflowers. The birds were annoying, much like its human. Always twittering about this or that; the food or the rain, they chirped about. About their young or their mate. About this or that – the wolf did not care, for it did not chirp. It howled.

It only howled about what mattered – the moon. The moon and its stars. Earth's eye. If it hid under the tree, the eye could not see him. A game! It would peek through leaves and dance on wind, and find it! Eye could always find – it was good at looking. The Wolf was good at looking, too.

It could see the Eye in water and on the skin of the earth. Blue. The eye was blue that night, like the eye of the mouse. It blinked at it, and it blinked back. Small, it was. Small and fuzzy. It squeaked, but not like birds. It squeaked a song that the Wolf sometimes liked. It danced; it danced in circles around the Wolf's feet, and it danced back. The Wolf liked the mouse. It was small – small to squash, but too fast. Made for good chase. It wanted to chase.

It started running and running as fast as it could, mud squelching through its paws – but it liked it. It liked the Eye on its fur. Liked the wind on its nose. Liked it all. Mouse was too fast, hid in the trees. Too dark, it needed the Eye to see.

The presence of its own distracted it. Ah. The little cub. Dark and wild. It howled at him, but it spoke another tongue. Worried about the mouse not coming back. It always did. The Wolf did not worry. Mouse always returned.

Not all mice were this way. Skittish and frightened most were. Always disappeared and never returned. Cowards, mice were. Conniving, mice were. Liars, mice were. Scavengers, mice were. Only out for themselves, they were. Foolish and reckless and always hungry. Nibble at the trees. The mouse must be afraid of dying; it cries when the Wolf squeezes it in its claws. Little mouse was always afraid. The Wolf did not fear death, and it did not fear mouse. Mouse feared it, though, and the Wolf liked this.

Little cub. Wasn't so little really. Had padded feet, soft against her skin, they were. The Wolf liked the little cub. It did not fear it. Instead, it ran with the Wolf like brethren. Yes, the Wolf liked this little cub and its padded feet. It smelled like rain, even when the Eye was in the sky, and it was loyal and stubborn. It did not listen to the stag and it nipped the cowardly mouse, but it followed the Wolf.

So, it ran with little cub. Ran in the wind, under the Eye, and within the wildflowers with its crooked, yellow teeth bared in a twisted smile.

The human ranted and raved about affection, so it remembered. Was this the mate it was so infatuated with?