Chasing Rabbits
Navarre stretched out on the king size bed that L had thoughtfully provided him. He'd slept the day away once again--but it had been a rainy, stormy day anyway. He yawned, enjoying, despite himself, the feel of his muscles, the power in his rested limbs as he arched his back, flexed his massive paws. For a moment he gave in to the pleasure of it, before reality smacked him again. As it always did. That he was not a wolf, but a man in a wolf’s skin. Stuck, perhaps forever. Stuck in Margate, perhaps forever. Never to see home again.
Isabeau.
Bitterness poured through him, coupled with the usual confusion. Should I accept myself as I am? That I will remain here until I die?
No. He can’t, he mustn’t, ever.
But it was hard. Very very hard. How much easier would his life be if he could just accept his current state? That would be giving up hope.
He could not do that. Not yet.
Sliding off the bed, he padded his way out of his room, and into the kitchen. There were no signs of L, or even Jack. The gurgling water from his fountain greeted him. He took a long drink, grateful once more for L’s awkward thoughtfulness. Though, in his heart, he knew L was more intrigued by the creation of the never-ending water fountain for him, not by its purpose. Still, without L, Navarre would be more lost than he was.
After taking care of his private needs, he returned to the kitchen and nosed open the refrigerator. A cold steak sat on a plate. He needed to find the footbox again–this was his last steak. He wished Jack was around–he’d not yet mastered the microwave to heat his food up. Clumsy paws. After wolfing it down, he took another drink, and glanced out the window. The rain had stopped, and darkness had at last fallen.
Navarre left the house without alerting L. There was no need–the boy, who had become somewhat of a hermit, did not wonder where Navarre went every night, never asked. Navarre knew, though, that the boy was aware of his comings and goings–often in the morning, a sticky bun was left for him, or even a hot bowl of tea to warm himself. Always, the perfect temperature, though the times Navarre returned varied.
Perhaps L was thoughtful, after all, in his own strange way.
Navarre paused at the end of the driveway, close to the bushes that lined it. Raindrops glistened on the leaves, dampening his fur. He knew not to expose himself to people, and it was still twilight–not quite dark enough yet. Every night, he had to make the decision–left, or right? Left into the city, or right, into the suburbs, toward the beach? He looked up into the star-filled sky. A clear night despite a day full of rain–the beach perhaps then. Odds were it would be more deserted than usual.
He turned right.
Keeping to the shadows, Navarre broke into a light trot, taking care to avoid being seen. Thus far, he’d escaped notice by anyone in Margate other than those who were stuck here as he was. It amused him, and often confounded him, that few people actually saw him. A time or two he’d managed to frighten unsuspecting passerby out of their wits, but he’d made care to disappear quickly so as not to further their trauma. He did try to avoid that, though. The last thing he needed was to find himself at the wrong end of a firearm, or the quarry of a massive hunt. Usually, he was simply mistaken for an overlarge, shaggy dog, as if these English were incapable of comprehending that he was, indeed, a wolf in a country in which they’d been driven brutally into extinction.
Tonight’s path took him a direction he’d not traveled in some time. A circular route to the beach, ambling more towards where Dora and her family lived. He skirted past puddles–he didn’t want to appear at her house muddy. That would never do.
It’d been some time since he’d seen the child. He missed her, but feared too her protector...perhaps not feared, but on many levels Xellos confused Navarre. Navarre knew that Xellos was far more intelligent than he–he was, after all, a Guardian, just a soldier. An officer to be certain–he could read, after all–but the longer that Navarre stayed in Margate, was around people like Xellos, like Iago, L...even little Dora...the more ignorant and base he felt. He was not educated. He could read, do minor sums, but spoke no other languages except the morse code, knew very little about the world outside his own, and now Margate, knew the things he saw on the television were often beyond his comprehension. He was trying to learn, but it was difficult. He wasn’t sure if it was the wolf in him, or just his own lack of high intelligence, but it was difficult.
And Xellos–his thoughts always drifted back to him. The questions he challenged Navarre with–Navarre still didn’t understand if Xellos thought he should accept who he was, or fight it. And he didn’t want to ask. Not really. He was, though, trying to make his own peace with himself. But not accept it. Never.
Navarre’s mind continued to ramble on, as his feet continued on their path. After awhile, true darkness had fallen, and the night and its sounds cloaked him. The steak sat hard in his belly, which still gnawed at him with hunger. His ears pricked at the sound of scurrying feet, and for a brief instant, wolf instinct took over. Rabbit. He jerked himself back, trying to quell that part of him. He was not a beast. No. But the hunger gnawed within him again, and the rabbit moved. He followed, finding the rabbit headed swiftly toward Dora’s house.
He broke into a run.
All self-awareness left him as the scent of rabbit filled his nostrils. His eyes picked it out of the darkness, its keen terrified screech stroked his instincts. It was only him, his hunger, his quarry. All else was forgotten as he increased his speed.
The rabbit darted through a fence and into a garden–he followed, leaping over the fence...and straight into an open bin. Shock ripped through him as his right shoulder wrenched, as his heavy body sank into the stinking mire. The rabbit had escaped, now forgotten as Navarre fought to dislodge himself from the sticky, cloying mess. Pain seared through his shoulder, making him panic. He couldn't get out! What hell had he fallen into? Stale fruit, rotten vegetables, coffee grounds, banana peels, shreds of things he did not want to identify clung to his mouth, his fur, his feet.
He churned desperately, gritting his teeth against the fire ripping through him, his feet slipping. At last he was able to clamber over the side. He fell flat on his face, tumbling into a heap onto the lawn, but out of the madness at last.
He lay still to try and catch his breath. He grimaced against the rippling pain. After a moment, he clawed at his face, desperate to get the goo and muck and old eggs off. He rubbed his face in the damp grass. It did not help. The stench rose from him in waves.
A door slammed open.
“Who’s out there, then? Hey, you!”
“Dad, what is it– Shit! A wolf!”
“Watch your mouth. There’s no such things as wolves here." The man paused. "Shit. Get my shotgun!”
"But we don't have--"
"Under the bed!"
"But where did it come from?"
"Just get it!"
Navarre whirled on the man, snarling.
“Holy hell,” the man said, staring at him. For a long moment, neither dropped their gaze. Then the boy appeared, a firearm held gingerly in his hand. "It is a wolf."
“Told you.”
“Shut up, son. Give me the gun.”
Navarre did not wait. Fighting not to black out against the pain, he bounded toward the man and his son, making them scream as they scrambled back into their house. Clearly neither knew how to use their firearm. Navarre veered sharply, wincing at the wrenching turn, but ignored it and catapulted himself over the fence, praying he would not land in another hell pit.
This time he was lucky. He did not look back, racing across that yard, and over the fence, and into the next. He lost count how many yards he raced through, until at last he picked up Dora’s scent. Only then did he slow down, hobbling up to the pain in his shoulder. Only when he’d nosed his way into her garden did he stop. He fell into a heap next to a blue shed, exhaustion taking over the adrenalin that had taken him this far.
What a fool. A blasted, blasted fool. He would rest, then go by the beach, and wash himself in the ocean before making his way home. He reeked. Positively reeked. He would have to see Dora another evening. He shifted, whining softly at the stab of pain in his shoulder, then lay his head down. Yes, he would rest awhile, then go. No one would see him behind the blue shed.
But they might smell him.
Isabeau.
Bitterness poured through him, coupled with the usual confusion. Should I accept myself as I am? That I will remain here until I die?
No. He can’t, he mustn’t, ever.
But it was hard. Very very hard. How much easier would his life be if he could just accept his current state? That would be giving up hope.
He could not do that. Not yet.
Sliding off the bed, he padded his way out of his room, and into the kitchen. There were no signs of L, or even Jack. The gurgling water from his fountain greeted him. He took a long drink, grateful once more for L’s awkward thoughtfulness. Though, in his heart, he knew L was more intrigued by the creation of the never-ending water fountain for him, not by its purpose. Still, without L, Navarre would be more lost than he was.
After taking care of his private needs, he returned to the kitchen and nosed open the refrigerator. A cold steak sat on a plate. He needed to find the footbox again–this was his last steak. He wished Jack was around–he’d not yet mastered the microwave to heat his food up. Clumsy paws. After wolfing it down, he took another drink, and glanced out the window. The rain had stopped, and darkness had at last fallen.
Navarre left the house without alerting L. There was no need–the boy, who had become somewhat of a hermit, did not wonder where Navarre went every night, never asked. Navarre knew, though, that the boy was aware of his comings and goings–often in the morning, a sticky bun was left for him, or even a hot bowl of tea to warm himself. Always, the perfect temperature, though the times Navarre returned varied.
Perhaps L was thoughtful, after all, in his own strange way.
Navarre paused at the end of the driveway, close to the bushes that lined it. Raindrops glistened on the leaves, dampening his fur. He knew not to expose himself to people, and it was still twilight–not quite dark enough yet. Every night, he had to make the decision–left, or right? Left into the city, or right, into the suburbs, toward the beach? He looked up into the star-filled sky. A clear night despite a day full of rain–the beach perhaps then. Odds were it would be more deserted than usual.
He turned right.
Keeping to the shadows, Navarre broke into a light trot, taking care to avoid being seen. Thus far, he’d escaped notice by anyone in Margate other than those who were stuck here as he was. It amused him, and often confounded him, that few people actually saw him. A time or two he’d managed to frighten unsuspecting passerby out of their wits, but he’d made care to disappear quickly so as not to further their trauma. He did try to avoid that, though. The last thing he needed was to find himself at the wrong end of a firearm, or the quarry of a massive hunt. Usually, he was simply mistaken for an overlarge, shaggy dog, as if these English were incapable of comprehending that he was, indeed, a wolf in a country in which they’d been driven brutally into extinction.
Tonight’s path took him a direction he’d not traveled in some time. A circular route to the beach, ambling more towards where Dora and her family lived. He skirted past puddles–he didn’t want to appear at her house muddy. That would never do.
It’d been some time since he’d seen the child. He missed her, but feared too her protector...perhaps not feared, but on many levels Xellos confused Navarre. Navarre knew that Xellos was far more intelligent than he–he was, after all, a Guardian, just a soldier. An officer to be certain–he could read, after all–but the longer that Navarre stayed in Margate, was around people like Xellos, like Iago, L...even little Dora...the more ignorant and base he felt. He was not educated. He could read, do minor sums, but spoke no other languages except the morse code, knew very little about the world outside his own, and now Margate, knew the things he saw on the television were often beyond his comprehension. He was trying to learn, but it was difficult. He wasn’t sure if it was the wolf in him, or just his own lack of high intelligence, but it was difficult.
And Xellos–his thoughts always drifted back to him. The questions he challenged Navarre with–Navarre still didn’t understand if Xellos thought he should accept who he was, or fight it. And he didn’t want to ask. Not really. He was, though, trying to make his own peace with himself. But not accept it. Never.
Navarre’s mind continued to ramble on, as his feet continued on their path. After awhile, true darkness had fallen, and the night and its sounds cloaked him. The steak sat hard in his belly, which still gnawed at him with hunger. His ears pricked at the sound of scurrying feet, and for a brief instant, wolf instinct took over. Rabbit. He jerked himself back, trying to quell that part of him. He was not a beast. No. But the hunger gnawed within him again, and the rabbit moved. He followed, finding the rabbit headed swiftly toward Dora’s house.
He broke into a run.
All self-awareness left him as the scent of rabbit filled his nostrils. His eyes picked it out of the darkness, its keen terrified screech stroked his instincts. It was only him, his hunger, his quarry. All else was forgotten as he increased his speed.
The rabbit darted through a fence and into a garden–he followed, leaping over the fence...and straight into an open bin. Shock ripped through him as his right shoulder wrenched, as his heavy body sank into the stinking mire. The rabbit had escaped, now forgotten as Navarre fought to dislodge himself from the sticky, cloying mess. Pain seared through his shoulder, making him panic. He couldn't get out! What hell had he fallen into? Stale fruit, rotten vegetables, coffee grounds, banana peels, shreds of things he did not want to identify clung to his mouth, his fur, his feet.
He churned desperately, gritting his teeth against the fire ripping through him, his feet slipping. At last he was able to clamber over the side. He fell flat on his face, tumbling into a heap onto the lawn, but out of the madness at last.
He lay still to try and catch his breath. He grimaced against the rippling pain. After a moment, he clawed at his face, desperate to get the goo and muck and old eggs off. He rubbed his face in the damp grass. It did not help. The stench rose from him in waves.
A door slammed open.
“Who’s out there, then? Hey, you!”
“Dad, what is it– Shit! A wolf!”
“Watch your mouth. There’s no such things as wolves here." The man paused. "Shit. Get my shotgun!”
"But we don't have--"
"Under the bed!"
"But where did it come from?"
"Just get it!"
Navarre whirled on the man, snarling.
“Holy hell,” the man said, staring at him. For a long moment, neither dropped their gaze. Then the boy appeared, a firearm held gingerly in his hand. "It is a wolf."
“Told you.”
“Shut up, son. Give me the gun.”
Navarre did not wait. Fighting not to black out against the pain, he bounded toward the man and his son, making them scream as they scrambled back into their house. Clearly neither knew how to use their firearm. Navarre veered sharply, wincing at the wrenching turn, but ignored it and catapulted himself over the fence, praying he would not land in another hell pit.
This time he was lucky. He did not look back, racing across that yard, and over the fence, and into the next. He lost count how many yards he raced through, until at last he picked up Dora’s scent. Only then did he slow down, hobbling up to the pain in his shoulder. Only when he’d nosed his way into her garden did he stop. He fell into a heap next to a blue shed, exhaustion taking over the adrenalin that had taken him this far.
What a fool. A blasted, blasted fool. He would rest, then go by the beach, and wash himself in the ocean before making his way home. He reeked. Positively reeked. He would have to see Dora another evening. He shifted, whining softly at the stab of pain in his shoulder, then lay his head down. Yes, he would rest awhile, then go. No one would see him behind the blue shed.
But they might smell him.