Twilight of the Wolves (9 page)

Sao turned and faced it. Short, only reaching Sao’s nipple, and slight with a furry tail wrapped round its waist, immense wings packed tightly against its shoulderblades, and thick padded paws like a leopard for feet, though its short fur covering its body was gold. Its dark mouth hung open, fangs visible, its black ears long and pointed, triangular, but its eyes appeared black all the way through. Drinking his beer, Sao cleared his throat and said he had never seen someone like it before.

I am not a someone. Shall we sit, it said pointing to the far corner.

Sao followed and sat across from it.

I am Xhal, it touched his chin, its fingers disproportionately long, I am Ariel.

What is Ariel?

Xhal’s expression remained flat, I am. My people are Ariel.

There are more like you.

Are there more like you?

I am sorry. I did not mean. I have never seen one such as you.

And I you. What are you?

I am a man.

But you are not—Xhal raised a long clawed finger—I smell it in you. You are not.

I am Sao.

Who you are is incidental but what you are is curious.

I could say the same for you.

But you do not because I am a myth but you are real.

I do not understand.

What are you?

Sao drank from his beer and Xhal gestured to the bar and two more beers arrived. Xhal’s was amber and Sao’s was black. They drank but Xhal did not blink or look away from Sao.

Sao cleared his throat, Why are you a myth?

Ariel no longer treat with humans.

Why?

Xhal barked, a low gravelly noise that shook through Sao, Humans have lost their brains. All they think is war and killing. They burn down the world and the wolves grow weak. Do you know where trees come from?

Trees.

Another bark and then laughter, like chimes blown in the wind, You are afraid.

I was a man but now I do not know. I was touched by a wolf.

Why!

Startled, Sao blinked and stared. Xhal’s expression, difficult to read, its mouth open, brow heavy on its abyss eyes. Moments drifted past, tense and confused. Xhal reached across the table and touched Sao’s cheek, cool against the mark’s heat, then pulled its finger back, put it in its mouth.

You are nothing and nowhere.

Sao bit his lip and watched his hands, What will happen to me?

You will transform. You are already. One day, perhaps soon, you will be a demon. The marks will change you. They change you already. Why did it touch you?

I tried to save her life.

Who!?

A wolf.

Xhal closed its eyes tight, its human features tightened, nose curled. Opening its eyes, its voice quiet, I am sorry. It is not easy
to be human.

Can I stop it?

No. Your human heart will die inside you and you will be a wolf.

I stopped eating meat.

Did it help?

Yes.

Xhal frowned or smiled and motes drifted from its mouth.

Why would it do this to me?

Do you know the history of your people? Of humans?

Sao shook his head.

Xhal swallowed the rest of its beer, I am sorry. I must go but I will see you again. I know your scent. Remember mine. I will help if I can. Goodbye.

Dumbstruck, Sao followed Xhal with his eyes out the tavern and into the mist.

There were three: the wolf, the little girl, and the mother. The mother’s mask was the mirror of the Ministru’s likeness and she chased the child over the stage, shouting and beating her. The mother took the clothes from the girl and left her naked and alone at downstage. The mother turned her back and the wolf came with a bird that it dropped for the girl to eat. The girl cried and the wolf told her to wait. It returned with fire and cooked the bird for the girl and nudged her to eat. It brought her water and let her suckle from its teats. The girl stood and jumped, stronger than before. Thanking the wolf, she returned to her home, bold, headhigh, shoulders back. At the door she demanded entry but the mother demanded payment. The girl refused and the mother shrugged and opened the door. Inside, the girl walked with pride and purpose. The scene dissolved and when it returned the girl was in a cage within her home. The mother slept and kicked the cage when the girl’s tears woke her. When the mother left, the wolf came and stole food from the mother and gave it to the girl,
stole water from the mother and gave it to the girl. The play continued back and forth, the mother taking and the wolf giving until the mother caught the wolf, ripped off its head, and mounted it on the wall, wearing its skin.

Sao’s eyes wet with tears and his voice strong, cheering for more as the actresses removed their masks and left the stage. Wandering through the maze of bodies and the thick haze, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

We seen you before, many times. Come wiv us, aye? We’re off vor a drink.

Sao nodded and she offered her hand which he took.

Aye, you’re a regular burner, love! She pulled him close to her. Widemouthed with a bald head and midnight skin, he watched her hips sway while she walked and felt the sweat forming on her palms from the heat of his skin. He smelt her, the sweat, the essence that blossomed deep inside her.

The room was dark and thick with people and the troupe crowded round him, laughing, shouting, singing, and drinking. Drunk, Sao’s vision clouded but her, Ava, beside him grew softer with each moment. She leaned into him, her head on his shoulder, her feet between his knees. He rubbed them, the coarse soles, hard and cracked. She murmured into his ear and sighed her pleasure, and he massaged from foot to thigh until his hand was between her legs and the women cheered him on, laughing, calling his name, and Ava’s wetness covering his hand, he bit her neck and his heart beat black and his body burned from within, and she moaned and yelped and then slumped into the pillows, her eyelids fluttering. He leaned over her but hands were on him, two or five or ten, pulling him away, pulling him into them, and they took him away into the night, where limbs and bodies and tongues and everything was wet but his neck hurt and his back was weak and he could do no more but they pawed at him and then pawed one another but told him to watch and so he did
until they took him in their mouths again and rode him away into the blackness of his fading human heart, the fragmented moon shining beneath his eyelids.

For weeks he dove into them. Day after day, he watched them perform with tears in his eyes and laughter in his lungs. Night after night, they consumed him and he gave himself to their possession. Week after week, the drums and horns sounded, more soldiers sent south or east, and with the men went the dirigibles, opulent and destructive.

But that’s the whole point, Sao! See how we’re treated out here? Maybe you don’t or maybe you don’t understand, you being a foreigner. I understand what they say about how Vulpe is better than everywhere else but that doesn’t make it good or righteous or justice. There are millions of people who live here. Can you even believe that number? Not only one million, but double, triple, maybe quadruple that. You know how many people live in those inner five circles? Less than one hundred. Less than bloody one hundred! I’m an actor so I’m not so great with numbers but that’s not right. And yeah yeah, we vote but even that’s misleading! It’s a cipher that we spread to the other nations to take their best and brightest away. That’s where all our industry comes from, truthfully, and many of those great minds go to the ninth square where they’re given whatever’s asked for, whether it be corpses, children, demons, or the eyes of a soldier who escaped a wolf. They ask, they receive. But the vote, it’s not what people think. For one thing, you can’t vote if you can’t read. Know how many people in the outer three squares can read? Look at it like this, How many people are in this tavern? Fifty, give or take, aye? If this is a model for the outer squares, then my pinky can read. And if this is a model for the entire city, inner and outers included, then I can read, and maybe not even that much. Might be more that only half of me can read, or only my left arm
can read. In truth, most of those who can read are the merchants. Even half the troupe can’t read so it’s no use even writing anything down, which is why the show’s different every time, in case you wondered. We memorise, we improvise, we rewrite and reimagine every scenario, every scene, every character, and so nothing is the same and everything changes. A constant revolution! It’s what makes art strong, what makes it last, why it matters so much, and probably why it does what it does to you. We love it. We really do. Before you came here this life was different, but, now, with you watching us…I don’t know how the others feel but it makes me want to be that much better. I want to be perfect if only in your eyes. Oh, don’t look at me like that or I’ll suck you off right here. Hard already! Oh, you really are always ready to go but don’t tease me with that, I’m trying to make a point. Art is meant to reflect life and this process of art, this constant reimagining and recreating should be the political process. Make it a constant shifting landscape, like a desert rather than a mountain. With a mountain many get left at the bottom and many die on the way to the top. Not only is it not fair but it’s criminal! Oh, but you’re persistent. Okay, but only because I want you to listen, and I’ll only give you a hand because I need to keep talking. Auntie! Two more, aye? Oh, he won’t mind. There’s nothing we could do to shock them here anymore. But you look at a place like Luca with its nebulous power vacuum, lawless, structureless, and, not only does it work, it’s the most important city in the world! Aye, it’s smaller than Valencia and Volant and Volix, smaller than a hundred other cities, but it’s the center of the world, truthfully. It’s where all ideas begin and disseminate. It is the breeding ground of civilisation, and it’s because of that unlimited freedom! No governance, no laws, only people living, trading, creating. Every market, even Valencia’s, has this sense of magic, of wonder, of attainable impossibility, and Luca is only the market. It is timeless—Oh! Well, feel better, aye? Oh! Look at you, don’t be
ashamed. What are friends for if not to ease one another’s suffering?

He traced Ava’s wide nose and thick lips and jaw, down her neck and to her clavicle, This is my favorite part of you. I could stare at it forever. He bit it soft, grazing his teeth against her skin.

Since I seen you, I wondered, aye, wondered wha brings you back over and over. But noving comes to me, aye? We’re not so good as vat like but still you come.

I do not understand the words but I enjoy watching you. The signs and the symbols, the, um—what is the word?—illusion constructed by the movements. You are a man on stage or you are a monster but then with only the removal of a lacquered mask you become this beautiful creature once more. It is remarkable to me. I had never seen or heard of anything like it before.

They say you’re from nowhere like. Is it true? You just wander out the forest one day like.

It is true. I was somewhere and then raised deep in the forest south of here. I came here, to Vulpe, with nothing, not even clothing. I met a man who taught me language, though, and gave me a place to stay. He was kind and he loved me.

Wha happened?

I left.

Why?

I needed to understand. To understand where I am and what this place is. Why I do not know anything and what I have missed. Every day I discover and learn. I see and hear so many things and my Limpa improves. One day soon I may even follow the words of your performances. For now it is like a dance but I love dance and the words are the song for they have a music to them. But you speak too fast and the tricks of this language are lost on me still.

Still young yet, plenty ov time to learn.

How old do you think I am?

Eight or ten.

Ng, I’m eight.

I’m twelve, almost older, if you believe.

You are very beautiful.

Vanks, love. It won’t last, vough. Noving does.

Not even humanity.

Wha you mean like?

I met an Ariel a few weeks ago.

Aye? Some shit, wha’s it like? Wha it say? Always wanted to meet someving like that, someving straight out of mum’s tales, aye? Stories ov old days fore humans like. Loved it as a kid, aye, and sometimes wish life would go vat way again. Demons and gods like, used to dream even ov becoming someving immortal like that, aye? Wha would I be if I was a demon like or even one like Goddess ov Deav? All stories, aye, but come from somewhere like.

He told me I will soon no longer be me.

Wha’ll you be ven?

A demon. Do not look at me like that, please. I cannot take it. Every day I try to forget that I will no longer be human. Listen, please. I met a wolf and she cursed me. I tried to save her life but failed. She thanked me and touched me here and here. It will change me. It has. Soon I will not be.

Vis a joke, aye?

No.

For feck’s sake like.

What is the matter?

Just get off ov me, aye? Get up and out. I can’t do vis like. You can’t just say shit like vat and spect me to sit and stay beside you like it’s normal or some shit. It’s not. You lied to me, fooled me. A demon. By Deav. Go. Get out of here.

But

Out! Go!

He found a child gasping in a narrow alley outside the market and lifted her head to drink water. She coughed and the water sputtered and dribbled down her chin and neck. Shaking her slightly, he whispered to her telling her to stay awake, to come back.

The slums closed around him. Families packed in to rooms too small, dormitories stacked on top of one another, the bodies crammed, the rooms crowded. Children ran through the muck of the streets, the cobblestones worn away to sand and dirt. At every room he dropped a loaf of bread.

The drums far away, the dirigible overhead, he brought clean water and bread to the children beneath the bridge. Dirty and starved, their skin tight against their tiny birdish bones, they watched him with oversized eyes. They called him MoonStar but some pronounced it like Monster.

In the cracks of the city, he came to the eyeless child and washed her face, cleaned the wounds on her feet and knees. Bread in her hands and a new tunic to cover her ragged body. Walking through the slums, he massaged the legs of those who fell from exhaustion, brought them wood and food and water. Speaking to them day after day, warming against their smiles, showing them the words written in ink or etched on the walls or painted across the signs.