Little Wolves

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Copyright © 2012 by Thomas Maltman

  All rights reserved.

  Published by

  Soho Press, Inc.

  853 Broadway

  New York, NY 10003

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Maltman, Thomas James, 1971–

  Little wolves / Thomas Maltman.

  p. cm.

  eISBN: 978-1-61695-191-7

  1. Fathers and sons—Fiction. 2. Murder—Fiction. 3. Spouses of clergy—Fiction. 4. Family secrets—Fiction. 5. Minnesota—Fiction. 6. Psychological fiction. I. Title.

  PS3613.A524L58 2012

  813′.6—dc22 2012022678

  Interior design by Janine Agro, Soho Press, Inc.

  v3.1_r1

  For my parents, Ruby and Doug, who instilled in me a love of places and of the stories those places hold

  And ever and anon the wolf would steal

  The Children and devour but now and then

  Her own brood lost or dead, lent her fierce teat

  To human sucklings …

  —Alfred Lord Tennyson, “The Coming of Arthur”

  Beauty is a terrible and awful thing! It is terrible because it has not been fathomed, and never can be fathomed, for God sets us nothing but riddles. Here the boundaries meet and all contradictions exist side by side.

  —Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

  “We’ve been waiting for you, Judas,” Jesus said. “We couldn’t begin till you came.”

  —Madeleine L’Engle, “Waiting for Judas”

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Book One

  The Wolfling

  The Boy

  Namesake

  Gast

  These Things to Be Done

  Lone Mountain

  Welcome to the Country

  Wergild

  The Cornfield

  Swaddling

  Wolfgirl

  Shards

  Boy from the Stars

  The Grove

  Little Wolves

  Duchess

  Trap

  Rites

  Boys and Guns

  Book Two

  Loup Garou

  The Wilding

  Harvest

  A Good Day’s Work

  Lock-In

  Into the Pit

  Hewhosleeps

  Advent

  Haying Season

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  BOOK ONE

  THE WOLFLING

  She heard him from the mountain, a voice high and thin, breaking the night’s quiet. The cry was such as her own children made when she was gone too long searching for food to bring back to the den. It was the cry of something blind and helpless, a cry of hunger. She heard it and she could do no other thing but go toward it.

  How it came to be alone in the tallgrass is a story for another time. She heard it with her sharp pointed ears and smelled it with her sharp black nose. Her nose told her the truth. It was not a wolf pup but a human baby, alone on a bed of prairie grass under the starry dark. She smelled on the breeze the horses that had come and gone, running hard. They had run away pulling a wagon that scarred deep ruts in the grass.

  Her paws stepped in these ruts, found the gouges the horses had torn from the prairie. She paused, suspicious, and sniffed the ground and raised her nose and sniffed the wind. They had been here, but they were gone, except the baby. In the torn grass she smelled the fear on the horses and in the air she smelled something burning. She knew the ways of the wind and fire out on the prairie. The fire was a breathing thing, ever hungry. The fire would be here soon and find where the baby lay in his nest of grass.

  She could not resist his crying because she was a First Mother who had birthed many children, and there were no others like her in this valley that smelled of smoke and terror. Her children had grown fat and happy until the coming of the Trapper the past moon, the Trapper who had killed her Mate, scattering the others, and then found the den where she had hidden her pups away.

  The cries of the human baby traveled through the night and found her ears and went into her ears and into her blood. The cries opened up places inside her that had not yet gone dry, where milk recently flowed from her nipples to feed her pups and make them strong. It hurt to make milk again.

  The coyote was skinny and mangy, her ribs poking from her pelt, and she needed food for herself, a plump mouse or jackrabbit. Here was this thing wrapped in a white cloth under the night sky. It had fallen from the running horses but the soft grasses had broken the fall. The running horses had not stopped for it. The child might as well have come from the stars themselves. And now it was alone here as she was alone. She did not think what to do, even if the baby bore the same tainted smell as the Trapper. Her body had told her when the milk rinsed out of her. She went toward it, sniffing tentatively at the corner of the cloth, and then touched the baby’s soft skin with her wet black nose. The baby quit crying. It gurgled, shocked.

  The coyote licked it with her tongue and tasted the salty skin. If she had not been a First Mother, if another of her kind had found this pink bundle in the grass, the story might have been different. She stood over the child and crouched down so that it might reach her nipples and suckle. Yes, it hurt to make milk again. Her milk flowed out of her, emptying her of all she had to give, but her heart was full, as full as the night sky above.

  When the child was done feeding she opened her jaws, clenched the white cloth, and lifted the child from the grass. She carried him away from the smell of burning where the prairie grasses would soon blossom with flames. The child rocked to and fro in his hammock of cloth. She took him in this manner to the place she called home, the mountain from which she had first heard his cries, the mountain where she had been alone for a time, but not any longer.

  Her father had told her many stories, and this was just one, the one that reached furthest back into history, when settlers had gone to war with the Indians, and after the massacre, one child was saved by a feral mother. Her father told stories of a giant who lived inside a mountain, of wolves and lost children and the monsters they later became. The stories he told were the only answer he had for the absence of her mother. Though he never said so outright, they were about a childhood place he would never see again. She did not set them down on paper until after her father died and she herself was six months pregnant, a pastor’s wife, a stranger living in a small town.

  Her hand shook as she wrote the words. She was in the room that was to be the nursery, and it was bare except for a small desk she planned to use as a changing table and the rocking chair where she sat with a spiral notebook spread open on her lap. Aqua-colored light soaked the room from blue curtains drawn across the window.

  Yesterday, one of her students had rung the doorbell while she was down in the basement. She had looked up through a grimy basement window and beheld tennis shoes and the ragged edge of a coat. She saw the legs of this scarecrow figure and nothing more. He rang and rang that bell, and she just stood rooted there. A cold hand touched her shoulder, bidding her to stay. Even the baby she carried inside her was still and waiting. The bell kept ringing in her brain a long time after the figure in the coat went away.

  And now the bells were ringing at church next door, as though this were any other Sunday, but she would not be joining her husband in the sanctuary. As pastor’s wife she did not want to face the congregation after what had happened
. Her husband’s parishioners would greet her and smile. They desperately needed good news, and she was it. How are you? The baby? They would lay hands on her. The child was not hers alone; it belonged to them as well. They would touch her hair as though she had returned from the dead. They would speak once more of angels.

  No. She needed to be alone here. She opened her notebook and began to write, balancing it on one knee. She could hear organ music and recognized the strains of “This Is My Father’s World” as the service began. Quaking voices. Such a gift, this murmur in her blood. The rocking soothed her, as did the words she scratched on the page with a fountain pen, a Montblanc Meiserstruck her father had given her when she graduated from high school.

  Late last night she had seen the coyotes, three of them emerging from the cornfield late after dark. They did not howl at first but entered the cemetery behind the church with a short series of yips and barks, one and then the other, their calls braiding into a chorus, until eventually one howled in a language that was part of the great outer darkness. The coyotes weren’t supposed to be here; they were searching for something. They had come from the lone mountain like a storybook curse and roused the town with their plaintive singing, vanishing by daylight.

  Clara Warren’s hand shook as she marked the words on the page because she knew she was trapped inside of one of her father’s stories, and the only way out was to write it down. She wrote as if her life depended on it, and maybe it did.

  THE BOY

  The day before, Seth Fallon limped toward town under a boiled-blue sky, a dry wind trailing him from the fields. Despite the heat he wore a long, oilcloth coat he’d taken from the mudroom, and inside the coat he had the twelve gauge his father had given him last Christmas, with the promise they would hunt whitetail in the swamp come fall.

  Earlier that morning he had taken the shotgun into the shop, clasped it in a vice, and sawed off precisely seven inches. Then he sanded down the bore, oiled the barrel, shined it with a rag, and leaned the gun against the door, so he could tidy what mess he had made, discarding the sawn barrel in the trash and sweeping steel scrapings from the concrete floor. He hung the saw back on its hook, folded the cloth in a neat square, and stored it with the gun oil in a metal cabinet. When he left everything was in its place, just as his father had raised him to do.

  Barely a scratch of rain had fallen in two months the Saturday afternoon he set out for town. A summer of drought baked the crop in the furrows, leaving whole rows sere and stunted, so that the wind gnawed at what remained and lifted a fine scrim of topsoil from the fields and flung it against the outbuildings. He walked with this wind under a sun that was a cinder in a vacant sky, the gun cool against his ribs.

  The farthest he had ever traveled from this valley was across the state border to Sioux Falls. This was the only home he had ever known. The town of Lone Mountain perched along terraced streets overlooking the surrounding valley, a half mile wide and thickly wooded on either side. For aeons the Minnesota River had been at work eating through topsoil toward the earth’s core, carving out this place from vast prairie farmlands stretching hundreds of miles all around.

  The valley had been a place of both shadow and shelter for generations of Indians—the Cheyenne, the Fox and Sauk, the Dakotas—all who came to hide from the winter winds on the prairie. Only the ghosts of the Indians remained, but these were potent ghosts with no love for the Germans who had stolen their land following a summer of war a hundred years before, and when a little girl drowned in the river, the old-timers crossed themselves and thought of the brown hands that surely pulled her under. They later said such a ghost moved in the boy, an angry spirit urging him on. Such darkness could not have come from one of their own.

  They had lived here for generations after traveling across the Atlantic but still felt like sojourners. When the hail came, when the river bucked and broke its banks, when the children lay awake in the late hours fevered and coughing—they knew this place belonged to the devil, had always belonged to him. Prince of the broken world, broken now more than ever with the last family farms going under. The Torvicks. The Kantors. Jerry Kroger and his tribe of daughters. All gone.

  And now this wickedness.

  The boy stopped at the parsonage first, where the pastor and his wife Clara lived next to the church. Clara was his substitute English teacher at Lone Mountain High. Her husband was off visiting a homebound couple when the boy rang the bell. Alone down in the basement, Clara wasn’t able to explain later to authorities why she didn’t answer the door.

  Next, he went down the main drag, moving toward a downtown that bustled with weekend traffic, so many people parked outside the pool hall and Jurgen’s Corner Grocery. No one later remembered seeing him on the sidewalk or could recall phoning the sheriff, Will Gunderson. It might just have been that Will was driving past at that very moment and what he saw—a school-age boy hunched into a coat in the fullness of Indian summer—troubled him. Will was a survivor of two tours in Vietnam, a decorated veteran, and he was a known hard-ass who had taken the boy into custody several times before this day.

  He pulled over beside Seth Fallon and rolled down his window to say something. What passed between them is a mystery. Seth flung open his coat and brought out the gun. No one remembered seeing Seth come down the sidewalk, but that shotgun blast echoed all over Lone Mountain.

  NAMESAKE

  He came home from driving a seed truck to find his farmyard swimming with lights from four or five squad cars parked out on his lawn. His Christian name was also Seth, like his son, but most in town still called him Grizz from his days playing nose tackle for the Lone Mountain Braves. Grizz felt as sapped as the yellow leaves clinging to the trees out in the yard, and he wanted nothing more than a Steak-umm sandwich on rye bread, to wash it down with Seagram’s and Seven and sleep until the ache in his back woke him. As soon as he saw those lights, he knew it was something to do with Seth. The cars had decals from Brown and Lyon Counties, sheriffs and deputies from miles around. Dark was just beginning to spread long shadows through the yard and surrounding fields where a couple of the deputies fanned out, their Maglites carving trails through the blond corn.

  Grizz stayed in the cab of his semi, watching it all from far away, his radio tuned to Lone Mountain’s only station, KLKR, where long-dead country singers like Patsy Cline crooned above the stir of static. Lights were on in the outbuildings, both the barn and the machinery shed, and his house blazed in the falling dark. He didn’t know how long he stayed in his seat, but eventually he felt eyes on him and saw a man waving from the porch. Grizz climbed out of the cab, his legs stiff from sitting all day, and limped across the lawn to greet him. The waving hand belonged to Steve Krieger, who had cut back to part-time in the sheriff’s office, a semi-retirement. Grizz had known Steve since they were boys. Their families went way back to the founding of town, tributaries of bad blood branching between them over generations, and he didn’t care to find the man out on his porch, leaning against the banister.

  “What’d he do now?” he said. From the very beginning it had been hard raising Seth alone, without a mother. Grizz was sure this new trouble had to do with drugs. It explained everything, the boy’s moody behavior, his frequent absences and trouble in school. The last time he found pot in Seth’s sock drawer he’d called the head sheriff, Will Gunderson, hoping to put a scare into Seth before it got more serious. When he saw all those squad cars on his lawn he figured Seth had gotten mixed up with dealers, Mexicans and the like, rumored to be planting marijuana in the thickly wooded river valleys and ravines, the very worst trouble he imagined a boy could find out here.

  “You’d better come inside,” Steve told him in a thick voice. Steve still had black hair in his sixties and his mustache glistened with oil. He looked like he hadn’t aged a day in the decades Grizz had known him.

  From upstairs rumbled the sound of boots on hardwood where a few men tromped through Seth’s room. It sounded like the house was coming apart,
as if these men were set to rip right through the plaster, looking for Seth.

  “Go ahead and tell me.” Grizz intended to stay standing, wanting to be at eye level when Steve said what he had to say.

  “Seth shot Will Gunderson in the face,” Steve said flatly.

  “What?” Grizz braced himself against the table. “No,” he said, but it was a muted protest. His mouth had gone dry and wouldn’t form the words.

  “Will didn’t die right away. I want you to know that.”

  “Jesus.” Grizz had grown up with Will; they had played on the same nine-man football team. When he hadn’t known what else to do with his son, Will was the one he called. Their boys were the same age, both troubled.

  Steve’s ruddy face flushed a deeper red, as though the news were bleeding inside him. He kept his rheumy eyes fixed on Grizz. “The slug tore away his jaw; blew out the window. By the time people reached him Will had drowned in his own blood, and Seth was gone.”

  Steve spoke in a monotone, even though the dead man he described was married to his own oldest daughter, because everyone in this place was tangled by blood in one way or the other. Grizz saw he laid stock in such gory detail and that he was angry and wanted to paint a full picture of the horror and so hurt him with it. Steve’s heavy fists, hanging at his belt, clenched and unclenched. He looked to be measuring him now, watching his face to see what he knew.

  Then Grizz did sit down because his body gave him no choice. He didn’t question any of this or think to ask for a warrant. Another parent might have doubted, but he knew Seth was capable of such a thing and had in fact done it. A gap opened up inside him where the air whistled thin and tight in his lungs. “Where is Seth?” he asked when he found his voice.

  “We were hoping you might tell us,” Steve said. “When did you last see him? Did anything seem unusual this morning?”

  Grizz shook his head, explaining he’d left before dawn. He hadn’t spoken to his son in two days, not since Seth overturned a table in his biology lab, shattering a twenty-five-gallon aquarium filled with channel cats, bullheads, and crawdads. Seth was suspended for it, and the principal had promised to send Grizz a bill for the aquarium and dead fish, a bill he knew the Fallons couldn’t afford. This morning when he left to drive a seed truck for the co-op, Grizz had seen a light on under his boy’s door and wondered why Seth was awake so early or if he had even slept. He had paused at the door but had not gone inside, fearing another fight.