Untamable Resolve: The Witheridge Witches

Ch. 2 - Pungent Nervousness

I stand by the old mailbox at the end of our long unpaved driveway. I glanced down at the slim silver watch I wear on my wrist. The time reads 6:55. It is still dark, but as the sun creeps into the horizon, I can see dew glistening off the sparse patches of grass.

My mind is clouded from exhaustion. I worked all throughout the night, canning as much produce from the garden as I could. I prepared enough, easy meals for my grandfather to eat for the next two or three weeks. I labeled my collection of small brown bottles filled with different medical tinctures and left a list pinned to the fridge of precisely what each does and the most effective time for him to take them. It was the most I could do on such short notice.

Luckily, last week, I went scavenging for willow bark. I only stocked up enough for two months' worth, but that will have to be enough. It's the closest thing to aspirin that we can get our hands on. He needs it to help him with the pain in his joints. I didn't have the time to make the willow bark into a tincture, so he will have to chew it. I also scribbled down a list of the very few items we had left to barter for food and what to trade them for on the kitchen table.

At four in the morning, I walked to visit our trusted neighbors, who live a half-mile down the road to the east of our house. They kindly offered to check in on my grandfather daily and to fetch water from the well for him. The ground is always wet by the well, and it is easy to lose your footing. I have always feared sending him for water, as with him being a fall risk, the chances that he could slip are very high, and nobody would be there to help him. I have seen too many older people die like that. Exposure. It is a brutal way to die. Dying is brutal enough as it is.

I shake my head at the thought of it. He will be okay, I keep telling myself.

My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of gravel being kicked off the road by a large black van. As it approaches, I tighten my grip on my well-used blue backpack. As soon as the van reaches me, the driver rolls down the window.

"Are you Josephine Witheridge?"

I nod before the door slides open. I climb into the poorly lit vehicle. I grab onto the middle seat to steady myself while looking for an open spot. I see two more passengers, one sobbing, dark-haired girl and the other blonde who sits quietly. I decide it best to take the seat by the blonde.

"My name is Jo."

Gingerly, she replies that her name is Delia. We sit in silence, as girl after the girl climbs into the van until it is full.

A redhead sits on the other side of me and mumbles, "So now we're their whores too."

The driver shushes us, and the car fills with silence. Her statement unsettles us. Everything was happening so fast, I hadn't gotten a chance to think that far ahead.

All I have with me are two changes of clothes, my comfortable boots, a few herbs, a jacket, and the book full of natural remedies my mother gave me, along with the ring. Something inside of me wouldn't allow me to leave it at home. It reminds me of my mom. My thoughts race back to my grandfather. All I want in this world is for him to be taken care of.

Hours pass, and the familiar landscape I've grown up in changes into uncharted territory. There are more trees. I can feel the coldness seep into the car through the small cracks in the car windows, and the only foliage is evergreen.

GPS was a thing of the past which had crippled us. When the war started people didn't know where to go or how to get out. The wolves have taken away any signs that tell us where we are and replaced them with ones with their language. The letters are utterly foreign to me. I know English, Spanish, French, and a little bit of Latin. My mother forced me to learn the dead language during my summer vacations back when I was in grade school, much to my dismay. She new numerous languages, a polyglot, and felt that I didn't put enough emphasis on studying the world. What she didn't know was that one of my history professors in college and I had spent hundreds of hours discussing the world. From what I could tell, these werewolf letters resemble the cuneiform I saw while working on a research paper in college on the Hammurabi Code. Werewolves' law seems to mimic the Code with its eye-for-an-eye manner. There is no mercy or compassion that I have seen from them either. Pain and death follow them everywhere they go. all while they are relishing in the new world they've created for themselves while we suffer.

We have traveled to another district, away from my home in District 4. I begin to see other buses and vans of various sizes, all going toward one location. We are almost there. I see the outlines of cabins coming nearer and nearer. And then, I see an older female werewolf with a clipboard. She looks matronly and intimidating. Our van stops with a lurch.

"Out, girls," she says in a shrill tone.

"Form 20 to a line."

We all have our luggage in hand, and I look down to avoid her eyes. I don't want to be singled out. I see Delia running over to me. There is a pungent nervous feeling in the air.

"Now, as you all know, you are here to see if any of you are to be chosen as one of our male werewolves' mates. We will be hosting a mating run where you will go-ahead for two hours and prepare for them to find you." The crowd fills with wisps of apprehensive chatter. That was pretty vague information, and we were all pretty confused. "This is something that is commonplace in werewolf society, but we've modified for humans. We'll get through it, and then some of you will get to go home while others will go with your new mates. Now be good girls and go to your assigned cabins. They are organized by last name, and lists will be pinned on the doors to direct you to your rooms. Dinner will be brought to you. I advise you to make sure you are well rested, as it may be a day or two before you get another good night of sleep."

Even though I hate to say it, she's right. It has been a long day of travel, and I am running on fumes. Delia is still right next to me, "My last name is Witheridge, what's yours?" I ask.

Delia responds with a smile. "Wildon."