kerfuffle

Before Littlewood could respond, there was a turn in the air’s ^countenance.  The rancid unsanitary smell of the wolf blew in.  Looking up, he could still see nothing.  But he could hear its dragging huffs.  As the Captain scanned frantically for the creature’s whereabouts, Stinson felt a deepening shadow behind him, draping his body, and a hot and putrid breath on his neck.  There was an aversion to move for fear he would be spotted, a ludicrous assumption that the wolf could not see him standing there in the middle of the pathway; Littlewood soon saw the nearing umbra and cut the priest’s stuck aversion to ribbons.  ‘Move!’ he roared.

Stinson turned and saw that the wolf was indeed behind him, striding forward slowly, as though confident it could have them at any pace, at strolling pace, sashaying even. 

Stinson mustered strength and hastened again, got a cheap gallop going, and he followed Littlewood into the fog.  Round Two.  The angel-faced one had barely made it through Round One.  How would he manage this?  These were impossible feats.  As they raced through the foggy plains, Stinson     said a prayer:

Lord forgive me for my thoughts

But not all of those thoughts

Oh Lord forgive those other thoughts

The fog – a slow, sleepy miasma – began to dissipate as they ran, as though it couldn’t handle the bombardment of bodies, and Littlewood could now make out the sunflowers ahead of him as he ran, head to a sky which was dusky now yet the sun was no closer to setting than they were closer to their companions.  And the case.  The case.  With the gun.  The gun.  Could he get to it in time?

He looked back to check on Stinson who was trailing miserably.  He could see the wolf too each time he turned.  It was moving back and forth, back and forth.  As though playing a game.  He thought about that day his father called round and informed him about these priests who were looking to hire the boat, and he thought about the journey they had taken together, and the people they had met, and the events they had all witnessed, and why he even bothered at all.

He kept running.

And running.

Sometimes looking back.

But always running.

When Littlewood reached the sunflowers, the tallest ones of them all, he heard a yelp behind him and a bit of a kerfuffle.  He was used to kerfuffles.  He turned to see Stinson swinging like a clock dial in the air, his right leg trapped in the wolf’s jaws.

He postponed his shock – he was used to snapping into action at moments of unexpected crisis – and headed back towards the violence.  He didn’t know what he could do.  He had no weapon.  He was helpless against this beast.  His instinct was only to return and do something to help his friend. 

The wolf slapped Stinson’s limp body down on the ground, and stepped back for a moment to consider which part of the body to maul next.  Blood dripped lazy from its teeth, as blood tended to drip.