Werewolves in the city…?
On the train the men and women thumbed their phones, lost in their internal worlds, some with headphones and some without. The actor stood near the entrance, leaning his back on the door, one leg folded behind him. He was here to watch and learn — you must spend many days on the train watching people and learning, to become intimate with these people before you can begin imitating them on screen, the director had said to him that morning.
He got down from the train, went over to the nearest burger joint to get something to eat. Back in the station he ate his fries as he scanned the TV screens for the next available train. It was then he saw her, the woman in leopard-print leggings with dangling claws for ear rings. She stopped just before him as she hitched up the braided loop that was dragging the dog carrier behind her. In it a puppy was resting on a luxurious pillow, half awake, his eyelids heavy as if drugged. The actor was shoving fries into his mouth when she turned toward him, her pupils dark and bleary as if in distress. His lips puckered inquiringly. Her gaze lingered as if she was about to say something to him, but at the last minute decided against it. She took the dog carrier into her arms as she headed down the stairs, one of her bags tumbling down from her arms as she did. The actor followed her as if on a leash himself, picking the bag for her. At the foot of the stairs she seized the bag from him, mumbled something like thank you, and was on her way.
The actor who had until then getting into trains indiscriminately, observing men and women at random decided to make this woman the locus of his attention. Those sad eyes, they must have a harrowing tale, he told himself, getting into the train with her. She sat near the window and looked out unblinking as the houses rushed past, all the while nipping at the tails of her white cashmere sweater.
When she got down few stops later he followed her from a distance. She went to the parking lot adjacent to the station and waited for him to approach, her fingers poised on the door’s handle. He was forthcoming with his side of the story — an actor on a journey to learn mannerisms and perhaps internal lives of people on the trains. She shook his hand and said she liked his gait, the nonchalance of it, and his lower lip which was a little bit fatter like it was pinched and released. She motioned for him to sit in the car.
They drove for a while and spoke about other things like traffic and the song on the radio. But this was idle talk, they both knew it. On the freeway she opened the window and whipped out the golden-brown hair, one hand on the window and the other steering. He was familiar with the road she was taking — it led to the coastal town with a lesser known secluded national park. He had gone there with his friends, bushwalking, stumbling on some of the most exotic and remote pathways known to them. There was no mobile reception down there, only a forest ranger and his makeshift campsite. Funny things happened down there — locals avoided staying late at night, always returning to the town before the moon came out. It was said the moon turned people into werewolves. When he had gone there during college, his friends had managed to secure guns — for protection, they argued.
Once in the national park she veered the car from the main track, diving through a soft wall landing into a profusion of leaves and branches. Overhead, the crows rose at once, cawing and dallying there as if in protest for entering what looked like a circle of tall trees with neatly pruned branches. She parked in the clearing and got out, pulling the dog carrier out and letting the puppy out who had become fairly energised, leaping out as he disappeared into the bushes. She held his hand and led him into the trees where they were plunged into darkness all at once, as if a switch was turned off. Her grip was not too tight but he sensed it didn’t matter now — he had known it all along and willed for this to happen, never admitting to himself entirely.
She said he won’t remember any of this when he turned into a werewolf. It was going to be sharp, the delineation between the human-self and werewolf-self, but a phantom umbilicus connected them both… She wept as she spoke, but resolute somehow. It was as though she knew him and sought to summon that past.
When the gunshot went off, he heard the whoop of the bullet that passed between him and the tree he was leaning on, hitting her in the neck. Blood dribbled out as she flopped to the ground, her limbs all twisted like a marionette whose strings had been cut off. The forest ranger, a tall man with sturdy boots shuffled out of the shrubs, dusting his jacket as he did. The scuffed knees, the water bottle, the loaf of bread — they all indicated to his hiding there for a long time. He kicked her body with the heel of his boot, turned her over as he poked her with the sharp end of his rifle.
Later, with a cup of steaming coffee in his hand, the forest ranger told the actor he must wait for the next tourist bus to come in the morning — that was the only ride he was going to get to the city. But the actor hesitated, unconvinced until he realised there was no mobile reception in the national park. They slept on bunk beds, the forest ranger in the top with his rifle to a side, and the actor in the bottom, defenceless except for that beaming courage that prevailed despite the events of the day.
Why did he kill that woman? The actor wanted to know. To this, the forest ranger said the place was teeming with them, the werewolves. He had seen her when she turned, he had seen her when she killed with her bare hands. He pointed to the binoculars as he spoke — the man who was posted to this unit before him was killed by these wolves. The werewolves were pests that needed culling, some of whom were even spilling into the city. They had to be contained here in the park and be taken care of, like they did with all the other pests. His job was to stay inconspicuous as he reduced the pack of wolves into a tiny fraction of what it was before he was posted here. These creatures, they were unintelligent, but they procreated rapidly, the forest ranger said, as he turned to his side, his long, slender hand brandishing the faded photo of himself in an enclosure coated with blood, slaughtered wolves strewn like shawls on the mantelpiece behind him.
In the middle of the night the actor woke to the sound of howls all around the campsite. It was as if the creatures were calling the moon to submit to their demands, an improbable state of affairs. He looked through the hole in the window frame — ten or more wolves were making the rounds, their velvet paws silent in their tread, their furry backs arched as they descended into the compound, one by one. They dipped their muzzles in the grass seeking the scent, sniffing audibly as they reached closer to the window. The actor threw the window open and the wolves filed past one another, sitting down, as if called to attention.
The click of the rifle raised the skin on his back. The actor turned around and saw the forest ranger had aimed the rifle straight at the actor. You are one of them, he squawked but the actor was fast, pinching the guttering candle’s wick as he shuffled in the dark. A shot was fired and the bullet ricocheted inside the small space of that room. The forest ranger had made his way to the light switch, now flicking it on. He aimed it easily now — another shot was fired and this time the actor succumbed to it, his legs bucking under him as he fell like a sack, thumping his head on the bunk bed’s leg as he did. The wolves were making a racquet outside, clawing at the rails of the window, and biting whatever side of the wood their open jaws landed on, a cascade of heads shuddering violently, their rage smouldering… The forest ranger now aimed his rifle at the window, a hint of smile forming at the corner of his lips. But the forest ranger had made an error. The actor was only doing what came naturally to him — acting. A shadow rose from behind and it dragged the actor with it, who ran for the door, throwing it open, letting into the small room a flurry of velvet paws, furry backs, and a miscellany of diabolical wrath…
When the moon climbed into the sky his skin sloughed, first in small scraggly bits as he struggled to peel. Underneath, the hairy bits of muscle were rising to the surface as if in a pond the murk bloomed after rain. Sails of darkened clouds rushed past the moon as his skin now slithered to the ground, and he rose like a heap of muscle and bones, hair bristling all over. His eyes reddened and dilated, lips distended, and the crown of his head narrowed preparing him for the run.
The actor, or rather the werewolf, ran through the medley of fallen branches, dried leaves, strewn bones and skulls from other nights. He jumped on the back of a lamb that was resting, his full weight securing the poor thing to ground as he shredded it to bits in no time. He was ravenous as always, finishing his food before the lamb’s blood cooled and turned sticky, generously matting on his paws. This is when he heard the mewling, a soft cry not far from where he was. He crouched as he went past the slanted branches of trees, his muzzle conspicuously bloodied from dipping into the lamb’s interiors scouring for his favourite bits.
The cub was all alone, cowering with his head and legs all folded, shivering in the cold. The werewolf approached with caution, his tongue searching inside his mouth for the last dregs of his dinner. He went around the trees nearby, sniffing for a scent, and when he was satisfied he came back and slept next to the cub, pulling him into his embrace, feeding his warmth to the little one. Initially the cub was hesitant but he grew more comfortable — the mewling stopped, and a soft snore issued out of that frail little thing.
The werewolf craned his neck upwards to get a better glimpse of the moon. He sensed the sun about to peek up from its nightly slumber, splashing deep hues of red in the horizon, like a child shining a torch from under his blanket. It wasn’t entirely true what she had said to him — the actor was gradually able to recall his past life, a life in which he was with her and they had the cub…
Be Open Says;
Everyone can contribute to this Open Poem!
