WOLVERINE
By Natalie Au

A gentle breeze blew in from the east, beyond the Spynetip Mountains, from a wasteland of marsh and bog. The breeze turned its weightless head to behold its pursuer. The silver wolf of Darius was gaining. All at once, the two were level and the hound pounced, it’s canine teeth latching onto the gust’s throat. As the last spluttering breath ripped from the messenger’s body, it sent out a warning cry,
Evil seepeth from between the gates of hell…beware…
The wolf snarled. His meal had been filling, but tasteless. He longed for something new, something outside of the range that his master allowed. Blood. Human blood and the delicate taste of their flesh.
The moon was waning, and with one last howl, the rebel wolf raced into the great Hunter’s Forest where he could find some rest. But alas, as he padded quickly through the wood, he didn’t notice the glinting arrow of a midnight hunter.

“…’Twas a marvellous beast, I tell thee,” the young man said, gesturing frantically to emphasise his point, “A lush silver coat that would have made a fine mantle, I thought, so I aimed my bolt and shot it. And would you believe it, just as I stepped forward to inspect my fallen prey, the moon hid its bright face and the wolf turned into a man!”
The keeper of the inn, a stout middle-aged woman with greying hair laughed.
“Oh, thou art always full of wild tales, Fredrick, dear,” she chortled. Her daughter fifteen summers old and of an age to be handfasted, presented a completely different reaction.
“Thou shot a man and then left him there to rot? How could thee!” she screamed at Fredrick. The man flushed.
“Annabel, I—”
“Thou art without a doubt the most selfish, disgusting—”
“ANNABEL!” her mother called, cutting her words short, “Don’t thee dare insult mine customers like that!” She threw a basket at Annabel, which she caught easily.
“Go and fetch some herbs from the forest. Christa, thou shall go with her. Be back before nightfall or there shall be trouble.”
Annabel yanked her coat on and stormed off in a huff, followed by Christa, her friend and a fellow waitress at the inn. She stubbornly ignored Fredrick’s gaze. Selfish brute, destroyer of nature…and her own mother wished her to be handfasted with him!
“Dost thou think that was wise, calling Master Fredrick names? His father be the mayor after all.”
“I care not if his father were the king of Gaia. He left a poor man out in the woods to perish. Not only be that cruel and insulting to the spirit, but the body can also be used by necromancers.” She turned to Christa as they reached the forest edge and handed her the basket.
“Christa, canst thou do me a favour? Thee shall go and gather the herbs and I shall go and seek the body.” Christa looked horrified.
“But, Annabel! Thou cannot just wander off like that! What if thou art not back by nightfall? What shall I tell thine mother? She dost not know of thine house in the woods.”
“Tell her I be staying at thine house tonight if need be. Happy collecting,” Annabel cried, running off into the forest alone.
It wasn’t long before she found the body, and a pulse along with it.
She was surprised, but relieved that the life hadn’t fled from the man. An arrow had punctured his shoulder, fortunately missing anything vital, but it was only a matter of time before the man died of blood loss.
She bent down and struggled to pick up the dead weight, but finally managed and staggered to her house, a modest dwelling completely crafted by her own hands, as was the furniture inside. Setting her patient on the bed, she then hurried about, fetching her dagger.
She cut the arrow in two near the clumsy fletching and quickly yanked the bolt through, glad that the man was unconscious.
Concentrating, she dipped into her magical pool, remembering the lessons that she had been taught by her mysterious mentor, the Lady of the Woods.
Concentrate and feel the power coursing into your fingertips, then shape it according to your desire…
And so she shaped it, like a teardrop from the eye of the water goddess herself, letting the deep, soulful blue of her magic leak into the flesh, soaking in and healing.
Thou hath learnt thine lessons well, my daughter, a voice whispered in her mind.
Lady! Annabel responded in recognition, What brings thee here?
Thine patient. Be careful with who thee should trust.
What dost thou mean, Lady? Annabel asked. Too late, for the voice had faded and the man was waking up.
“Where am I?” he mumbled groggily.
“In Hunter’s Forest east of Fair Valley. What be thine name?”
The man struggled to remember.
“Jonathan…I think. I can’t really remember…”
“Did thou knock thine head before I found thee with an arrow in thine shoulder?”
“I might have done.”
“Well, Jonathan. I be Annabel. Thou art welcome to stay here for as long as thou wisheth. I must head home in the morning. My friend has delivered my excuse to my mother, but she shall be getting worried.”
She moved to open the curtains to let in some moonlight, for it was well past nightfall by now.
“This window has a marvellous view of the full moon. Today be one moon cycle away from Beltane.”
The words full moon triggered something in the man’s memory, and he quickly grabbed her delicate wrist in his big hands, his red hair glinting and the candlelight casting dancing shadows on his handsome face. Annabel instantly felt attracted to him, though she knew it was silly for she had only just met him.
“Please,” the man, —adolescent, really—, said, “Don’t open the curtain. I be afraid that I might hurt thee in the presence of the full moon. I do not wish to repay thine kindness in such a way.”
“Alright, I won’t open the curtains,” Annabel replied, blushing slightly.
Jonathan realised that he was still holding her wrist and dropped it quickly, smiling in a coy fashion that was most fetching.
Over a conjured up dinner, proper introductions were made and soon, the two of them were chatting like old friends.
Annabel had never talked so much to anyone in her life, for others had always misunderstood her, but Jonathan was not only understanding, he cared.
But alas, what Annabel didn’t know, was that she had already fallen into the hands of evil. An evil that no one, not even the possessor of this evil could control. For Jonathan had mismatched eyes, the first sign of the Evil Eye.

As the month passed, Annabel spent more and more time in her little house in the woods. A deep, shy love had begun to blossom between her and Jonathan, who, because he had nowhere to go had taken up her offer to live in the house.
As they lay on the grass outside the house (some distance apart from one another), star gazing, Annabel announced that she would be taking the First Ordeal, a ritual in which she would prove that she was worthy of the status Sorceress.
“Why that’s wonderful, Belle,” Jonathan murmured, “May I come and watch?”
“It be for magi only,” Annabel replied. She paused. “Thou dost really want to go?”
“Of course. My favourite witch shalt be formally acknowledged as a Sorceress. How could I not want to go?”
Annabel’s eyes were suddenly besieged with tears. She flung her arms around Jonathan who responded instantly, wrapping his own arms around her waist, holding her close. Then abruptly, all timidity was lost as their lips met in a discharge of fiery passion. No words could have described the intense desire burning through them like white-hot flames, melding together in the moments of their union.

With the sun dawned the new day, and as they breakfasted at the small table in the house, Annabel gave Jonathan some shocking news.
“There was a full moon last night, Jonathan, and thou did not transform, even though thou wast fully exposed to the light.”
“How—?” Jonathan began, not sure if he should believe her words.
“Thee believed that thou would not change last night, because in thine eyes, there was no full moon. But in reality, there was. I simply shielded it from thine eyes and thou managed to control it. You’ve tamed the wolf in you, Jonathan!”
Jonathan was speechless for a moment, then he leaped to his feet, lifted Annabel up and twirled her around, near-breaking several plates in the process.
“Thou art a wonder, Belle!” Jonathan declared joyfully, “Let us celebrate by going to town and spending the day there. It be Beltane and there be festivities all over the place.”
“I can’t. I must prepare for the Ordeal. Tonight, my love. The festivities continue till dawn.”
Then she kissed him gently on the lips and departed out the door, finding a quiet grove in which to meditate, as custom required.

“Step forward, Annabel MacFinn,” called the voices of the five magi sitting at the points of the pentacle. Annabel sat down in the centre.
“Thou hast chosen to take the First Ordeal at the young age of fifteen summers. Dost thou know what thou art required to do?”
Annabel nodded. The five nodded back.
“Then let us begin,” they said as one, clapping their hands together once.
Her task was simple: to craft a black hilted dagger infused with magic with metal, wood and leather from the earth, made in fire and cooled in water, dried in air and created with the Gift, magic from the spirit.
Fire, she knew from previous experiences, was easy enough to conjure, and just as easy to wield, but this time was different. The fire was too hot and she obtained a burn, which she promptly ignored for the sake of finishing this task. The water was hot also, to her embarrassment, and she had to cool it before plunging the blade in to cool. The wind that she conjured up almost blew her away, it was so strong, but the worst was still to come.
Driven close to tears by her ill fortune, for she was sure that she had done everything she was supposed to according the Lady’s instructions, she began weaving a complex spell to infuse the blade with power, setting it apart from other magic less knives with the white-handle.
Her smile of triumph as she held up the beautifully finished dagger turned to one of agony as she was torn apart spiritually, limb by limb. She convulsed violently and the magi, instead of coming forward to help her, retreated and disappeared. Annabel knew what they were thinking.
If the Great Mother, Gaia wanted to take this child, they had no right to stop her. As she slipped further and further towards death, Annabel’s gaze fell on a large silver wolf, half hidden in the bushes. A wolf with mismatched eyes. She reached out to him, calling to him.
I love you…
And with these final parting words, she was separated from her earthly anchor and drifted gently into the Otherworld.

Jonathan padded forward, nudging Annabel’s still body with his nose. Focussing, he transformed back into a man, tears of grief coursing down his cheeks in torrents. Here lay the woman who had saved his life, the woman that had helped him control his mutation, the woman who he loved.
Even in death, she looked like an angel, her hair spread around her like a glossy black halo, her eyelids closed over eyes of brilliant green, luscious lips which he longed to kiss once more. Even in death.
“Annabel…Annabel…” he murmured, holding her lukewarm body to his chest, cradling her like a child.
Gently, he laid her down, his mind made up, his expression resolute.
He lay down next to her, embracing her and reached for the dagger. With a determined thrust, he shattered his heart a second time, the organ that had already been broken once in her passing.
I’m coming, my love…

Until this day, the Inn of the Silver Wolf tells the tale of a love that ran beyond death, while in the Hunter’s Forest, a great stone engraved with runes read:

“Here be the resting place of Annabel MacFinn and Jonathan the Lycanthrope. Death be no obstacle for true love.”

The End