The Wicked Wolverine

by Alestar

The small boy does not have a name this day. He had, yesterday, but that was his childhood name, and now he is to be not a child but a man-- and when he returns to his village to the north tomorrow, he will recieve a man's name. The small boy wanders through the forest, kicking stones and sticks in his path, trying out the sound of different possible names.

"Mighty Bear," he says thoughtfully. "Moose Brother. Grey Wolf."

By the time he has selected a campsite and is preparing the rabbit he caught earlier over the fire, the sky is red with sunset and he has decided on his favorite name. "Eagle Warrior." He likes birds. He likes how they fly.

The boy lays back against the ground, chewing on the bit of cooked rabbit and looking up at the darkening sky, and he thinks about how they will cheer Eagle Warrior in the village, and how all other tribes will fear him, and the village elders will honor him, and women will want to be his mate.

Lost in these fantasies, the boy does not notice the sweep and crouch of a figure on opposite of the firelight, helping itself to the remainder of the rabbit. Not that it would have done any good if he had noticed. Better to daydream while one can.

The fire crackles especially high, and the boy looks up. Face sliding slack. Whipcrack of a grin from across the flame.

"Boo."

The boy lunges for his spear, and suddenly the figure is towering over him, and the spear lies shattered in the boy's smarting hand.

"You were sayin'?"

The boy backpedals a few feet until his back connects against the base of a tree. His eyes dart from side to side, cataloguing exits-- but the creature of instinct that he is tells him that none would mean escape. He stills, and looks up at the big man-- who looks down at him, then smirks and returns to the far side of the campfire and retrieves the rabbit.

The boy watches the big man eat, pulling in light, shallow breaths so as to make himself less noticeable. Notes the slight hum of a growl. The glint of firelight off of unbound hair. After a few moments, he says quietly, "I know who you are."

The big man doesn't look up, grunts disintrestedly. "Yeah?"

The boy's voice strengthens slightly with the certainty of his grandfather's stories, but not much. "Yes. Long ago, the people of my village were plagued by a forest-spirit, who cast magic on all the dogs of the land so that they dug up all the crops. The people would have starved if brother Sparrow had not made noise to chase the spirit away. And. You are him."

The big man swallows the last bite of rabbit and looks up with a snort. "The sparrow or the spirit? Or the dog?"

The boy clears his small voice and sits straighter. "The spirit."

"Uh huh. You believe that story?"

He nods his head tremulously. The big man settles back and regards the boy for a silent moment.

"Ya like stories, huh, kid?"

Nods his head again.

"I got a story for ya."

Just to be safe. Nods again. The big man smirks, then leans back on his hands. The boy notices how his voice is soft and laughing and scary, all at the same time.

*

There once lived a lone wolverine in the forest, without any friends or family. He spent his days hunting and eating and sleeping and wandering. One day, in his wandering, he came across a large boulder on a hill. Bored, he bounded around the rock, taunting it.

"Try and catch me if you can, rock. You can't catch me, no one can catch me. I'm the best."

Much to the wolverine's suprise, then, the rock began to roll toward him slowly, gaining speed as it moved down the hill-- and though the wolverine ran and ran from it, the great stone overtook him. It rolled right on top of him, trapping him underneath. He howled and howled and howled, but none could hear him beneath the rock.

The sky, though, looked down and saw what had happened, and took pity on the wolverine. The clouds broiled and threw down a great bolt of lightning, splintering the rock into a thousand pieces. The wolverine was free, but the force of the blast had rended his coat off of him, and now it lay about him, tattered and torn-- and the wolverine was without the identity of covering.

For many days after that, he wandered around dazed and disoriented, his skins dragging along behind him-- until he came across a kindly frog. The frog saw that he had lost his coat, and she offered to sew it back together for him. Despite her good intentions, though, the frog had never before seen a wolverine, and did not know the proper way of a wolverine's skin-- and the coat that she made for him was ill-fitting.

And then, many more days did the wolverine travel, still without a proper sense of himself-- being draped in improper carvings-- until again he happened upon another creature, a fieldmouse, who had a much better idea of how a wolverine ought to be hung. She took his coat from him and reformed it, so that it fit much better, and the wolverine was not quite so distraught and much more himself. The wolverine was very grateful, and he promised to bring her a pawful of corn, should he pass that way again.

The wolverine then resumed his wandering-- not wounded and lost, as before, but in the usual, inevitable way of wolverines. He wandered for many days until he came to a cave, wherein lived a great moutain cat. The wolverine--who had gone quite a long time without feeding-- watched the mountain cat, asleep in the cave, and thought to himsef, "Dinnertime."

The cat stirred then, and roared, seeing the wolverine in his lair. The wolverine thought for a moment and then smiled, stepping forward.

"Is that you, my brother?" he asked.

The cat scowled suspiciously at the wolverine. "I never heard before that I had a brother."

"Come, brother-- I have been looking for you for many years. You were lost when you were a child and went out hunting rabbit, and it was only the other day that I heard from a beaver where you were, and I have come to find you and bring you home." The wolverine said this with such a sincere and earnest voice, that the cat could not help but believe him. The wolverine continued, "Are you not fond of rabbit? I am. And I know a place where they are so plentiful that the ground is quite hidden. Why, look for yourself. That hillside, there, is covered with them." He pointed then to a very far away hill.

"I can't see that far," said the cat, squinting. "You must have incredible eyes. You must see all manner of wonderful things-- I can only see the things which are right very near to me."

The wolverine nodded understandingly. "I was the same way, brother, until a medicine woman rubbed rabbit's blood in my eyes. If you would like to go and kill a rabbit, I will do just as she did-- and then we will live together as brothers who see all the wonderful things the world has to offer. Together."

The cat thought that he would like that very much, so he left to go kill a rabbit-- and he returned not much later, with the dead rabbit daggling from his mouth. "Alright," said the wolverine, taking the rabbit, "Now lie down on your back, rest your head here." The cat did so, and the wolverine petted his head.

"I am ready now," said the wolverine after a bit. "Just at first you will find that the blood stings your eyes, but you must be careful not to move, or the blood will run out and it will have to be done all over again." The cat said he would not move-- but the moment the blood touched his eyes, he sprang up with a roar.

"You mustn't mind a little pain," the wolverine admonished. "It will soon be all over, and then we will be the same and see the same things. Isn't that what you want?"

The cat hesitated, and then nodded. He sank back down onto the ground, and lay perfectly still as the wolverine dripped blood into his eyes.

Then, as the cat lay in agony-- blinded, waiting for the sudden rush of vision-- the wolverine took a sharp knife and plunged it deep into the cat's heart, killing him. He took off the cat's skin and hung it in the cave that was now his, and ate the cat's flesh.

He also ate that rabbit.

The big man sits cross-legged across from the boy, the orange flick of the campfire spearing into his gaze, making it dance. The sky is dark, and even the croak and timbre of the nighttime forest chorus seems like sudden silence.

"What do you think about that, boy?"

The boy released his pent-up breath. "I . . I think that the wolverine was very wicked."

The big man laughs at that. "Maybe so, kid. Maybe not." He rises to his haunches. "Time to get goin'."

The boy climbs to his own feet, and asks-- going for suprised, and not hopeful-- "You are leaving?"

The big man shakes his head, once, short. "We're leaving."

"But my . . my tribe--"

"Don't worry about them anymore. Walk ahead."

The boy hiccups once-- then takes a deep breath, straightens his back, and walks past the big man into the dark forest, leaving his broken spear on the ground beside the campfire.

*

They walked south for two and a half hours in silence, and the boy's death was just one more death, and afterwards the mountain cat stood over his small, crushed body and said,

"Wicked. Yeah."

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