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A shriek ran through the silent night. Charles’ head snapped towards the sound, hand grabbing his shotgun out of a habit.
Running alone since early teenage years would do that to a man. Sharpening his instincts of survival, making him jolt awake from the sound of a feather falling. Paranoia was his everyday. It certainly didn't help being a man of mixed race - both of those being looked down upon by white folk.
Another shriek rang through the pine trees. This one less animalistic and in no way human. More like a disgusting gargling imitating a howl.
Taima was whinnying in uncharacteristic panic next to him. Shaking her mane and nervously stepping from leg to leg, ready to run. Something was wrong; very wrong.
Charles stood, whatever it was, it was a threat to them both. It was far too close for him to be able to reassure himself that one night's sleep would not kill him and his horse. Starting a ride now was also out of question, since clopping of the hooves would surely make him a desirable and easy target.
He needed to get this dealt with quietly.
Crouching, he made his way through the undergrowth and through the trees, following the, now repeating, howling.
As he got closer, his whole body shivered, hair on the back of his neck standing up - he never got like this. Always remained stoic through fear; he was rarely afraid anymore. He felt as if the air around him shifted, warning him, telling him he stepped into a foreign, unwelcome territory.
He tried to brush off the feeling, but still gripped the shotgun tighter and continued his way, tracking the broken branches that seemed to have been broken with enough strength to crush a human skull.
And then he saw it, amongst the forest shadows. A beast easily twice his size, with eyes shining in the moonlight. Its paws were the size of his head, the head the size of his torso, sandy blonde fur stained in dark red fluid, mouth agape making unholy sounds. His body stopped working, betraying him, unwilling to move. Nausea settled in his stomach, dinner raising in his throat. His lungs squeezed into themselves, blocking him from taking more than sips of breath.
He had never seen anything like it, hadn't known it was even possible. But he knew what it was - a werewolf. His mother had told him stories of such creatures stalking the night. It wasn't from their mythology, she had said, it wasn't natural for it to be here, but the white men brought it with them from across the sea. Since then such creatures have occupied this land, killing livestock, killing villagers. But there were only a few of them. “If you ever see one,” she would have said, “run before it sees you; run and pray for your life, for if it notices you, you're a dead man.”
Charles always thought of it as just a folklore, a fairytale to make the children not run too far into the woods. But here it was, right in front of him. Howling, roaring, shrieking, saliva mixed with blood running from its snout in ugly streams and spits.
It didn't notice him yet. A beast of such power should have noticed him before he’d noticed it, but that wasn't the case. It just kept making noises, kept shuffling around, trying to do … - he didn't know what.
He needed to run. But his body wouldn't move.
Trying to calm himself and trying to get his lungs to take deep breaths was like trying to breathe under water. When he finally got his legs to work, he, as if the powers above were laughing at him, stepped on a branch and a quiet sound of it breaking was all too loud amongst the pines.
Eyes snapped at him.
It was too late.
The creature's attention was on him, lake sea blue eyes fixated on him; and for what seemed like hours, they stared at each other. When in a heartbeat, the beast gave out a roar and bolted towards him.
Charles closed his eyes, hands shielding his face, gun falling to the ground. There was no way a weapon could do him any good in this situation. His arms wouldn't do him any good either, but they seemed to move by themselves, desperately trying to protect the body before the expected income.
But nothing happened. The beast snarled, he could feel its spit hitting his forearms and warm breath stinking of dead animals tickling his skin. But nothing more. He looked over his arms. The beast was just three feet away now. Its limbs stretching towards him, its eyes wide, yellow teeth showing. It tried to reach him with its paws, with its mouth, but all it did was reach towards him, thrashing around.
Charles stared, confused, terrified.
After a few moments the beast seized its thrashing, breathing heavily, seemingly tired itself out. It let out a whine. A small, broken sound of a hurting animal. Charles let his hand down, now more confident that the wolf can't hurt him, to fully take in the beast. Its sandy blonde fur shone as the moon caressed it, its teeth were sharper than any dagger he had seen, its shone a deep sea blue colour. He saw now that the beast’s form was off. It stood as if its weight wasn’t fully balanced. Charles looked down and squinted, on the dark ground, hidden in the beast’s shadow was a bear trap and in it the beast’s leg. It was trapped.
The wolf whined again. In pain, Charles noted.
He should get away, he should listen to his mother - he had always respected her and trusted her words - but the beast was hurt and Charles has always been a fool.
So he stepped closer.
The beast growled and bared its teeth. Its eyes sharp, warning him to not get any closer; showing that it is too dangerous to play with.
It reminded him of himself in some twisted sense. Reminded him of his anger and sorrow; of his reluctance with people. Even when just a boy, he was alone, aside from his mother. He had a habit of staying isolated. His father tried his best to be there for him, to be beside him, to help him interact with other boys, but Charles seemed to have a talent in disappointing him. He kept being ‘too emotional’ and ‘too soft’ for a man and ‘too cold’ and ‘too stupid’ to know how to make friends. And when Charles tried fixing himself, shaping this softness and coldness into courage and warmth, he failed somewhere, took a wrong turn, and instead of bravery and pleasantness there was anger. Anger at the world, anger at himself.
“I can see that you’re hurt,” Charles said as calmly as he could, bringing his hands up, palms facing the beast, in sign of harmlessness, “I can help if you’ll let me.”
The beast stilled, confused, considering. Its snarling didn’t stop as it titled its head. Charles took another half-a-step closer, and the beast launched towards him.
The bear trap allowed it little room to move, stopping it only short of two feet from Charles.
They were face to face now. Blue eyes lost in the dark brown one and verses via. A man and a beast staring at each other, testing each other, studying each other.
A wind howled through, moving the sand brown fur and dark black hair with it. Suddenly all was calm. No-one moved. The beast has stopped its rioting; instead just staring, drawing away, settling on the ground.
Charles stepped forward with a careful light step. “Let's get you out of this,” he nudged his head ever so slightly towards the bloodied trap and carefully extended his hands towards it.
The wolf seemed to have given up on fighting. It lay there, examining the man's every move.
With careful hands, Charles started loosening the trap.
The wolf howled in pain as its leg was now free, bleeding and the glister of bones seen in the night. Charles removed his bandana and tightened a knot around the wound. “Here,” he sighed.
The beast, as if awakened from a peaceful slumber, jumped towards him, roared, bared its dagger-sharp teeth, and then, as if nothing ever happened, disappeared in the night.
Charles was left alone, in the dark forest night. His lungs finally filled fully with air, his body finally relaxed. When his legs allowed him, he retreated to his camp, giving Taima a reassuring pat on the neck, an apple for her bravery, and went to lay on his bedroll. The sleep wouldn’t have him, he knew, as every time he closed his eyes, he could see the sea blue ones staring back at him.
He did that. He really met a beast and helped it. and he survived. He sure was a fool.
___
The town was lively this time of the day. Right after lunch, on a sunny summer day. If Charles had any choice, he would’ve avoided it, but his supply bag contained mostly dust now and Taima had started chewing his hair instead of apples. Shopping had to be done any day now. He guessed today was as good as any.
He did his business in the grocery store, buying only necessities - he had no money to spare or use on extravagance - and headed towards Taima, wishing to get out of people’s stares as soon as possible. The interactions had set his nerves on fire and he was beyond exhausted already.
The spotted mare greeted him as he approached, a smart girl as she was, she knew his stash of treats seemed to grow larger when he came from shopping. Charles smiled and reached in his bag for an apple.
“A hungry horse you got there, almost bit my ass when I came too close,” he heard a voice, thick and southern, say behind him. As he turned, he was greeted with a man, his face hidden under the brim of his hat, only a large grin seen spreading across his face.
Charles forced out a polite chuckle in return, unsure of the situation he found himself in. He really hoped for just a quiet and quick trip to the town. He wasn't in the mood for trouble with a white man.
“Here, you can’t treat a fine horse as her with just an apple,” the stranger said, searching for something in his satchel, and held it out in his hand as he found it. A single mint.
Charles looked at him, confused, and then smiled, relaxing. A stranger offered him a mint for Taima. And the lady that she was, she was already pushing past him, leaning for the treat.
The stranger laughed as the mare ate the mint out of his hand. With the other, he went to pat her, “yer a good girl, ain’tcha.”
Charles just watched, smiling at the exchange.
As Taima retreated, satisfied with her meal, the stranger retreated and mounted his own horse - a liver chestnut Hungarian Halfbred.
“Take this, she seems to like them enough,” the stranger said, offering a paper wrap containing, what seemed, about a dozen of mints, down to him. “Make sure she gets them when she’s not trying to bite people’s asses,” the stranger added with a soft chuckle.
“I’ll try, but it seems that's just in her nature,” Charles smiled and accepted the gift.
“Thank you.”
The stranger grinned, “ain’t nothing compared with what you did for me.”
Charles furrowed his brows in confusion. As he looked at the stranger, wanting to ask what he meant by that, he stopped in his tracks. From this angle, looking at the stranger sitting on a horse from below, his face was free of any coverage. He had a few years on Charles, a soft stubble covered his chin, sandy blond hair hugged his sides. The stranger kept his grin and looked him dead in the eyes.
The sea blue eyes.
Before Charles could say anything, the stranger turned and rode off, leaving him staring at an empty space.
What a fool Charles was indeed.