Lascivious by Parker Brasch

Transcription

1 Lascivious by Parker Brasch The smell of blood is fresh. It overpowers the woodsy scents of pine and overturned dirt, flooding my nose so suddenly my stomach turns. I m not going to be sick, though. I m far too hungry. The winter has been long and harsh. The last of the snow melted just a few weeks ago, and grass has already begun to spring up, but the rest of the world has been slow to creep forth from their hiding places, safe from the cold. Not everything is safe from the highway, though. I follow the distinct rusty smell to the edge of the woods, where the source of the blood becomes apparent. Someone has hit a deer. Or, more accurately, obliterated one. Pieces are everywhere. Chunks of meat, bone and fur litter at least fifteen yards of road. The front half of the deer appears almost untouched, except for the obvious blankness in the eyes staring at nothing, but the back half is mangled beyond recognition. A truck had clearly hit the deer; no car could have done this damage. Perhaps even a semi or hauler of some sort, to smear the innards so effectively and so far. Creeping slowly closer for a better look, the smell becomes more prominent. Steam rises from the exposed meat, still radiating body heat. The deer has clearly not been dead for long; no birds or other predators have been here before me. My stomach growls again, and I swallow back a whine. I m too hungry to be picky, though. I have to take what I can get or risk starvation. I check the road in both directions, and, hearing nothing, lean in to take a bite. I follow the hawk as quietly as I can, camera raised to capture its majesty at every possible moment. It flits from tree to tree, calling softly, a mournful sound that tugs at my heart. Rather than the dreadful screech of the male hawk, it is the lonesome call of the female looking for her mate.

2 For just a second, she perches on a slim branch, peering into the distance. Slowly, I crouch into position and focus my camera. The sound of the shutter startles her and she lifts off again, and I hope the photo doesn t come out blurry. I watch as the hawk wheels away into the distance, still cawing for her mate. When she is all but a speck in the sky, I turn to trek back through the woods to where I parked my car just off the highway. I come across the wolf by accident. My orienteering isn t the best, and I misjudge how far into the woods I ve gone; when I find the highway again, I m several hundred yards ahead of where I left it. Just ten feet ahead of me is a wolf, and at first I can hardly believe my eyes. Wolves are rare in this area, and to see one around a populated highway in the daytime is next to ridiculous. But then I see the reason why it is here. The fur around its muzzle becomes stained with red as it tears at the remnants of what once was a deer, then roadkill, and is now the wolf s meal. Even while eating from the edge of the road, the wolf is beautiful. Its coat is nearly pure white, striped through with undertones of pale brown, and it seems completely unconcerned with the rest of the world, focused on the task at hand as it is. More carefully than I ve ever done anything in my life, I raise my camera. My hands shake as I attempt to focus the lens and adjust the exposure. I hold my breath as I press the button. The shutter doesn t startle the wolf as it did the hawk, but it still hears the noise. It glances up sharply, ears swivelling until it finds the source of the sound, its eyes settling on me with an unnerving amount of awareness behind the light blue color. Quickly, I wind the camera back up and take another picture. The wolf jerks at the shutter again, muscles tensing as if preparing to fight an attacker, but sensing no ill intent, it blinks at me one more time before turning to bound for the treeline, silent as a ghost. Compelled by no reason I can name, I take off after the wolf. It moves effortlessly through the trees, weaving like a needle through the cloth of the woods, paws just barely rustling the blanket of fallen leaves coating the ground. I crash after it, tripping over twigs and downed branches and generally making a racket, but the wolf doesn t take off at full speed, as if it knows I couldn t possibly harm it with just a camera. It is the sound that catches my attention, but it is the smell that captivates me. All thoughts of the deer are forgotten when the new scents pervade my senses. Treated leather. Menthol cigarettes, faded, clearly from second-hand smoke. Laundry detergent, sports deodorant. Green apple shampoo. Mint toothpaste. A piece of bubblegum, still wrapped, in a jeans pocket. Blood, a scab that keeps getting picked off. Sweat.

3 But not fear. I hardly recognize the way my stomach clenches now for what it is. I m not hungry anymore, at least not for this afternoon s roadkill. The shudder starts at the base of my spine, almost imperceptible, but I feel it there, the slow burn starting just beneath my skin. Not good. Not here, not now. I need to get away from the highway. The human follows. I m not sure what to think about that. Thinking is hard. Everything s jumbled. All I can feel is the dirt beneath me, all I can see is the woods ahead, all I can hear is the cracking of branches behind me. Everything else but the heat fades away. Between one blink of the eye and the next, I lose the wolf. It s there, just ahead of me, and then it s not. Unbidden, panic creeps up my throat, and I run faster, crashing through the brush to where I last saw the wolf. There s nothing, not even pawprints in the dirt to point me in the right direction, and I think perhaps I might truly have been following a ghost. Then I hear the howl. One long, low, melancholy note. Like the beginning or the end of a sad love song. Like the call of the hawk. I trip over my feet in my effort to follow the sound, and round a bend of trees to find a dilapidated shack of some sort nestled between two pines. It s clearly very old, almost falling apart; the roof sags, the walls lean, and the door hangs open a few inches, unable to properly close. The howl is coming from inside, and it drops off into silence with every step closer I take. The heat overtakes me. Even in the cool darkness of the shed, I burn up, my thoughts catching fire like old theatre reel and running into nothingness. The keening begins at the back of my throat and I grit my teeth against it, but the heat is too much, melting every part of me like wax, and my mouth falls open to release the sound. I forget about it almost immediately. The heat has begun to reshape me, to mold me into something else, and - Sensations snap back into existence. Thoughts, feelings, emotions, everything that had been muted before but was now back at full volume. It s overwhelming, and I flinch against it at first, waking to the world again slowly. The sound of the door creaking reverberates in my head. My hearing isn t as sharp as it was, and neither is my sense of smell, but I can still hear the snapping of wood and footsteps fast approaching, catch the faint whiff of sweat carried on the wind. I have approximately ten seconds to get my bearings.

4 The moment I reach the shabby building, I throw the door open. I expect to see the wolf lying inside, perhaps injured from the tone of its howl, but what I see is nothing of the sort. There is a man inside. The first thing I register is his naked torso, then the flex of his arms as he buttons up a pair of jeans. His feet are bare. He clears his throat, and my gaze snaps up to his face. Pale hair. Light blue eyes. By some instinct I can t name, I lift my camera once more and take a picture. He opens his mouth, and the words that come out are husky, his voice low and deep and mournful. Like the wolf s howl. Do you know what you ve done? Standing just beyond the door, backlit by the glow of the moon, is the spark to the fire, the embers cooling at the base of my spine. He lowers the camera. I see his eyes are hazel, his nose splashed with freckles and his hair a deep auburn. His eyebrows pinch at my words, and he shakes his head. The moonlight catches on the sharp line of his jaw, and I glance away quickly. I must explain before - You ve broken the curse. If possible, he looks even more confused, but he isn t looking at me like I m crazy. That s good, at least. I don t need to be thrown in the mental hospital after finally being freed. Right. A curse. Of course it would have to magic. I guess I should apologize to Gran - Look, I cut in, though I could have listened to his voice for all the time I ve been cursed, three times over. it s a long story, but I was cursed to roam the woods as a monster until someone found me appealing again. I thought I would never return to my human skin again - I have to give the witch credit, she was clever - but you re here - He frowns. Clever? Why? I can t help the smile that stretches my mouth. She said no woman would ever break my curse.

5 The photo of the hawk developed perfectly clear, after all. The other photos turned out blurry, the subject unclear, but that was fine. I didn t need physical evidence of something I would never forget. I came across the wolf by accident. Loving the man was anything but.