The Wolves in their Eyes

In readiness

In the height of the storm clouds, far up in the sky, the Wild Hunt is preparing to ride out.  The phantom horses with their savage, black eyes are pacing back and forth, willing the chase to begin and the demon hounds shriek and howl. 

The hunt master saddles up his horse, ready to lead the hideous train.  He’s Woden, he’s Cain.  He’s the Devil himself.  Other horses and huntsmen gather and the hunt grows, setting off in one sudden, savage movement.

The Wild Hunt commences across the sky. A stampede of the feral, restless dead.

*

The girl looks at herself in the mirror and she smiles at her reflection, satisfied at what she sees.  She’s had a bath and washed and straightened her hair.  Her skin glows with youth and body lotion.

For about three days, she’s been considering what she’s going to wear for this first big night out with her mates and she’s opted at last for the red dress from Top Shop. Looking now, she’s a little worried it might be a bit short in length and too low at the cleavage.  But what the hell, she thinks.  She’s beautiful, she’ll be in a crowd. The worst that can happen is some older girl will suck her teeth at her because she’s jealous.

Her bedroom wallpaper stands out garishly in the glass and the teddy bears and balloons’ pattern mocks her.  She’s seventeen, for God’s sake, and it’s time her mum redecorated her room.  A girl who can meet her mates in a wine bar in town and then go on to a club is way past cuddly toys on her walls.

She’s wondering what to wear on her feet and at the last minute, goes for the high heeled, silver sandals she’s saved up for over the last couple of weeks.  She steals some heel pads from her sister’s drawers, certain the sandals will hurt later, and takes one last look in the mirror as she artfully messes her hair up and then pouts.

The action lifts her dress up slightly, revealing the tiny butterfly tattoo on the inner thigh of her left leg.  She straightens the broken-in-two heart necklace her Nan bought her and walks out of her bedroom.

“Be careful love”, her mum shouts after her as she leaves the house, but the girl thinks that’s just fairy tales and fairy tales are for children.

*

In other streets, in other houses, the wolves are getting ready too.  They’re kissing their mothers and their children, about to go out on the town.  Shutting their front doors, the wolves pat their dogs and scratch the dogs’ heads in farewell; prompting the question, how can a wolf own a dog – a creature far less wild than it is?

*

On the streets, in the sky

Through the roar and howl of the wind, the Wild Hunt progresses. The horses and hounds and the men who own them rush and cavort, unseen now in the air.  Perceptible only if you peer into clouds, looking deep into their grey mass to the movement beyond.

The Wild Hunt brings chaos and war.  There is devilment in its galloping.  Lawlessness in its path.

*

The beautiful girls and beautiful boys step out in the dark. The streets are early autumn dry and misty light pools under lamp posts.

The girl isn’t totally sure which end of the high street the wine bar is on, but she walks with purpose up it to its far end.  She takes her chances.

Even at this relatively early hour of seven o’clock, she meets many pavement weavers and shop-front singers.  She’s both intimidated and in awe of them - these people, looking more or less her age, but with no inhibitions. She’s hoping she can lose hers tonight, intending to drink and dance and cackle with laughter until she gets home without really remembering how she got there.  That’s her plan for the night and she’s going to stick to it.

*

At the bus stop, the wolves are gathering. They bristle and preen, looking each other up and down with intimidating admiration.

Evening suits their colours. They blend with the silvers and other metallics of the town at night. They mark their territory; while above them, the skyline of the high street is austere.  It shows no pity.

*

Sinners

In the sky, the Wild Huntsmen are pursuing. They ride hard and true, their hounds at their heels. They blow their horns and the hounds look up with their saucer eyes.

The hounds and the huntsmen sniff the air; their quarry is near. They couldn’t stop if they wanted to because if they did, they’d crumble back to the dust they were formed from.

*

In the wine bar, the light is low and the wood is mellow. There’s a cool vibe about the place, the girl thinks.  It feels what sophisticated should feel like and this pleases her. 

She stands at the bar next to one of her mates, both of them with their legs crossed, one foot in front of the other to show off their shoes and make their legs look longer. They’re talking earnestly, exaggerating their facial expressions, just in case anyone has noticed them.

When they finally get served, the girl pauses for a second before deciding what to order, but she settles finally on a pint of shandy. The girl buys her own drink, as does her mate and once she’s holding it, she realises how big and unwieldy the glass is, how small her hand.

A wolf has noticed her and he winks at another wolf. They slink past her and one of them touches her bare shoulders.  She feels embarrassed and then flattered.

The wolves’ eyes, as they look at her, are Jack Daniels’ amber; shifting to the icy no colour of vodka on the rocks, when they see her smiling back at them.

*

Predator and prey

The Wild Hunt is gathering pace. The men are whooping and whistling the hounds.  They are shadows in the rain storm, galloping faster and faster.

The hounds have smelt blood – a thin, red trail on the wind – and now they can only follow it in pursuit of their defined purpose.

*

On the dance floor, the girl shimmies in the strobe lighting. Her movement is too slow, too soft for the harshness of the strobes’ pinpoint focus and after-glare. She was originally dancing with her mates, but after a couple more pints of shandy, she’s on her own.  Uninhibited, happy for once to be the centre of attention.  And looking at the men looking at her, she wonders if she’s loved.

The wolves are circling her, eager tongues slapping their teeth, their noses seeking out her scent.  Her pupils have become huge, as theirs shrink to cruel slits.  The lights from the optics on the bar shine a crazy, dangerous violet.

*

Meat

The Wild Hunt is the bringer of catastrophe. It presages war, plague, or at best the death of the one who witnessed it.

*

The girl has had enough.  The dance floor has begun to spin and she’s lost her mates. There seems only one thing for it and that’s to head home. She’s not sure what time it is, but she giggles to herself when thoughts of glass slippers and carriages returning to pumpkins at midnight, cross her mind.

Her silver sandals hurt her, as she knew they would and she takes them off, slinging them over her shoulder as she half walks, half hobbles up the uneven pavement of the high street.

The wolves work as a pack and intercept her by the skip outside the chicken takeaway.  She feels a kind of wild electricity behind her eyes - a fizz - when she sees what’s coming.

The pack functions as one beast, but each wolf carries out its role. They pounce and attack, pounce and attack. They snap and snarl. They howl at the moon.

When it’s finished, the girl is on the ground, lying on her side by the skip.  Before she blacks out, she feels the wetness between her legs and thinks of the tattoo at the top of her thigh, wondering whether butterflies can bleed.

*

Sleep

The Wild Hunt is relentless, but for the people unlucky enough to encounter it, expect to be taken away to the underworld.  Or to fall asleep in its wake and your spirit to be snatched from you so it can join the cavalcade.

*

The eyes of the wolves glint amber again, the blood lust has left them. The girl on the ground is broken meat now, a child only. An older man walks past and notices her.  “Drunken bitch”, he says under his breath.

The wolves zip up their trousers and lick their lips. They’re yawning and they’re thinking of home and bed.  The hunt has tired them and it’s been a long night.

*