I reached the river about a week too late. If I had to guess, I’d say it turned unstable about four days ago, but it would’ve been just as dangerous to cross a few days before that. In any case, I don’t plan on trying to cross without a solid plan. I’m no fool when it comes to strong currents, I’ve seen the shattered canoes further down the river. Even a few bones too. Human ones.
But, if I’m one thing that covers up the other, I’m persistent. To add to that, I like to think I’m a patient man. So, as long as my mind stays working on a plan, I’ve got what I need to get across the river.
Of course, I can’t wait forever. The river’ll just become quicker, and my side of it more dangerous. No doubt they’ll be catching up to me before long. That stunt I pulled back in the gulch bought me some time, but not much. They’re clever devils, and he’s just as persistent as me.
But, I’ve put him behind for now, he’s chosen this place over us. Whatever we had, it’s gone. Gotta carry on and make it out—that’s all I want.
Just need to make it over the river.
Alan put down his weathered journal and studied the river. Portions of it were still layered in ice, but the majority was flowing freely. Free, frozen, and ferocious. Alan knew his options were limited when it came to crossing. The river wouldn’t take his thoughts into consideration, he’d have to find a way to beat it. Many tried canoes or rafts, but no man-made vessel could withstand the force with which the river smashed them against cruel rocks and an unforgiving riverbed. Other than that, there weren’t many options. He’d tried wading through, a long stick jammed into the ground adjacent to stabilize him, but it had almost cost him his life. Waist-high, the river was much more than he or his stick could fight. What’s more, it was frigid and threatened to cause permanent damage even if he did make it. Any sort of serious freeze could mean death in a wilderness so unstable. Alan knew better than to trust his durability.
A guttural croak sounded somewhere above.
Alan looked up, searched a moment, then fixed his eyes on a crow perched on the broken branch of a sage pine. Its feathers were slightly ruffled and it had several spaces between some of its feathers, giving it a disheveled look.
The bird leapt from the branch, glided, and then fluttered to the ground several paces from Alan—close enough to observe him but far enough to guarantee safety.
Its beak had a worn look, as if it had lived a very long time and spent its days pecking at rocks for food. Several white scrapes ran along it, one leading into a thin line across the right side of its face just beneath the eye. That eye was slightly less open, but just as alert as the other.
“Come on,” Alan motioned to his small resting spot. It wasn’t much more than a small clearing in the snow, but it was more comfortable than the cold rocks.
The old crow hesitated—Alan was convinced it was old—before leaping toward him. It twisted its head this way and then that way, spending more time on its wounded eye as if it had to make more of an effort to see him through it.
“You’ve been following me almost as doggedly as he has,” Alan grunted. “Neither of us have tried to kill each other, so—” he picked up one of the berries he’d collected and tossed it forward, “I’d say we’re as close to friends as anything can get on this side of the river.”
The crow pecked at the berry but didn’t swallow, as if it was tasting it to determine whether or not it was edible. After watching Alan for another moment, it swallowed and plucked up the rest.
“See,” Alan smiled, “I can be trusted.”
He stopped, studying the bird as it studied him.
“I suppose I should have asked if I can trust you.”
The crow hopped forward, several feet away now, and fixed him with its slanted eye. They remained motionless, neither blinking nor making a noise.
“Let’s try this,” Alan put down his berries and held his hands steady a moment. He breathed out and then held his breath. He closed his eyes and focused.
Alan’s hands moved rhythmically, first in a sharp movement and then in several soft flowing ones. The first movement crossed his fingers in a jagged arch—opposition. The second movement pulled the fingers apart slowly, now crooked and pivoting around the base of the palm—separation. In the third movement, Alan hinged his two hands together at the thumbs, the rest of his fingers waving gently as he pulled upward before leveling to drift—flight. And then, suddenly, he brought his hands down together, fingers clasping across one another as teeth—consume. Alan slowly pulled the top hand backward, sliding up his arm and then across his chest—death.
The crow had watched patiently, interested but confused. Alan studied it, watching as it again turned its head to the right and then the left.
Alan sighed and relaxed. He picked up another berry and tossed it to the ragged crow.
“If you knew what that meant, I might have had to kill you,” he said in a lower tone. “Thankfully—for both of us—you’re just an ordinary bird.”
The crow eagerly consumed the meager breakfast, pausing to flutter its wings or turn toward a sound in the distance.
“You don’t happen to know a way across the river, do you? A way other than flight, that is.” Alan leaned back as the bird began to rifle through its disorganized feathers. Its preening was certainly much less graceful and effective than the other birds Alan had seen. “You’re certainly a scraggly creature,” the crow looked up at him, “I speak as one to another,” he added. “It’s been far too long since I’ve shaved or had a bath.” The crow continued its attempts. “I think we’ve both seen a few too many winters. Too many of them too cold.”
Alan turned his attention back to the river. It hadn’t changed its pace or rhythm, frolicking violently as if it were a young bull. As the day progressed Alan knew he would have to come to some decisions regarding his schedule.
I’m estimating two days before he reaches the river. I did my best to cover my tracks on the way down, but he’s far better at his work than I am at mine. This means I need to cross the river within the next forty-eight hours—preferably in half that time.
Of course, I have no new ideas on how to cross. Nothing quick, that is. Since crossing it seems more and more impossible every time I try, I’m wondering if I should travel further down. Maybe there’s a narrower or shallower point, somewhere I can walk across. I’m not daring to hope, but I don’t have many other options. If I don’t find anything further along, it’ll be down to hope and my bare hands.
Alan continued down the river, ears open for the slightest hint of opposition and eyes open for a crossing. The crow followed, flying from pine to pine or occasionally hopping in his footsteps. The further he walked, the more Alan wondered why it followed him. As far as he knew it was an ordinary crow, neutral in the schism between Alan and his brother. It didn’t understand what following him meant, nor why he had to get away from this side of the river. Watching the bird, Alan was relieved it was such a simple creature. Based on appearances the old bird had weathered several storms, no need to add more to its battered shoulders. Alan doubted his brother would see it that way, however. A primal nature like his would forego any sense of pity or sympathy. If he came to the conclusion that the bird had joined with Alan, it’d be no different than if it actually had.
“You know, it’s dangerous to follow me,” Alan said as he walked. “I’ve got some nasty predators on my tail,” he added.
The crow hopped along, pausing to survey a pebble or peck at any object that attracted its anxious eyes.
“If they find you with me, they might have a go at you too.”
Alan turned back to glance at the crow.
“Just thought I’d let you know,” he concluded.
Their conversation changed nothing; Alan walked steadily on and the crow hopped not far behind him. At times it did fly up to the trees on the left, where Alan could no longer see it. When this happened, he often wondered if it had left him, gone to do the things a normal crow does. But it would return in an hour or so, drifting down to the riverside.
“Crossing the river is nothing for you,” Alan commented as he observed several rocks peeping out of the river. So far, this was the safest bridge he’d found, but he wasn’t ready to trust it yet. He put his right foot out cautiously. “You just flap your wings a few times and—” he paused as he applied pressure, “and you’re over.” He was standing, equal pressure on the rock and the shore. He held his breath as he pulled his other foot to the rock. The river was rushing past it, splashing up at times and wetting the surface. Alan knew how slick it was, how lethal a fall could be. But this could be it, this could be the way across. If it was, if he was able to keep his balance, Alan knew he would be safe. He had to risk it.
Alan took another step. His grip wavered slightly and he stretched his hands carefully in the hope of keeping his progress. He shifted his footing and steadied out. Standing motionless, he breathed heavily.
The crow watched from behind, perched comfortably on the shore.
Alan took another step, to a rock slightly higher and less flat. He held his foot against it for a moment, unsure how to move to it without leaping. He studied it, the river spilling over the rock every now and then as if reminding him to be quick. It wouldn’t wait for him.
In a sudden motion—sudden because he knew he wouldn’t move if he waited any longer—Alan lurched forward. The river reached up and sprayed him as he flung himself toward the rock. His chest struck it and his arms wrapped around it as his foot slipped into the river. His fingers tensed, jagged and clinging to the rock as his legs dangled behind him, pulled by the river. He kicked, he fought for anything to put his feet against but touched only the indifferent breath of the icy river.
As his grip began to soften, his finger quickly numbing and becoming useless, Alan clenched his teeth. He knew that once his grip broke, his life would be in the river’s hands. He looked up. He wanted the sky to be the last thing he saw before the river had its way with him.
The sky was almost blue, and a pale orb was all that the sun offered.
Alan’s fingers were torn from the rock and he went under.
Half of his body had already been consumed by the cold, but his other half wasn’t ready for it. It bit him, tore at his skin, and seeped into his brain. He shut his eyes as the cold river clawed at them. Then he felt the riverbed. His knees were first to touch, one scraping against small stones and sticks and the other connecting with a stubborn chunk of rock. Logs, rocks, and ice—all seemed to be clambering in line to strike him. Alan began to spin, his body at the complete whim of the current.
Finally, in an instant that sent a violent shock through his body and stole whatever breath he had been preserving, Alan’s back connected with a large stone. He was pinned there by the current, his head now above water but his limbs still dangling helplessly in the current. He looked to the side, toward whichever shore was closest. Despite the slowness the cold was inspiring, Alan caught sight of a beach—a shallow area littered with sticks and smaller stones. Using what little strength he had, he lurched himself to the side, arms spread forward. The rest was up to hope.
His head went under and his fingers were open, searching for anything to take hold of. He clawed at loose pebbles, pushed against the riverbed with his feet, and felt sticks and stones stab his stomach and chest. Finally, his left hand brushed against a long smooth cylinder—a log. He tensed and caught it, moving his other hand to it as quickly as he could. With both hands on it, he began to climb.
His head came up and Alan was pulling himself ashore. His vision was blurred and the only thing he could hear was his chattering teeth, blurred by the water filling his ears. He stumbled, dropping to the shallow water and crawling forward.
The crow sat patiently on a nearby rock, tilting its head as Alan pulled himself further from the river.
Alan fell to the snow, rolling onto his back before ending his efforts. He stared upward as he breathed in frigid air that pricked and tore his lungs. He stopped suddenly, his breathing becoming difficult and slow. It kept him awake, kept him from slipping into a sleep he might never have woken from. Alan rolled, every piece of his body shaking and quivering. He tried to remain calm as he forced breath out and dragged it in. It took effort, violent effort, but Alan gradually eased himself back to a steady breathing rate.
Again, his eyes became heavy, and he was tempted to shut them. He shook himself and began to move, rubbing his arms and chest or kicking—anything to keep him from frozen dreams.
“Haw!”
Alan shifted, seeing the crow perched on its stone and looking down.
“H-help,” Alan muttered without thinking.
The bird turned its head and fixed him with its slanted eye before moving to preen its chest.
Alan continued his massage, his hands twitching as he tried to warm himself. He fought to keep his mind from numbing, above all things he had to keep his mind active. He retraced his steps, focused on memories and important truths—things that would keep him thinking.
He was interrupted by a sudden prick in his arm. He pulled his head up and saw the crow sitting beside him nibbling on something. After a moment, warmth began to trickle down his arm. He looked to it and saw a trail of thick blood.
“You,” Alan looked from the blood to the bird.
The crow twisted its head and clapped its beak once.
Alan reached up and touched the warm blood with his other hand, spreading it and letting it warm him. He shut his eyes, the gentle heat easing his shaking limbs.
The crow moved again, pecking his other arm. It pecked twice, and a slow trickle of blood soon bubbled out. Alan put his other hand to it and accepted the bird’s gift as it swallowed what it had pulled from him.
The day was ending. The pale sun was growing closer to the distant mountains, several birds were making their last rounds before chirping “goodnight” to one another and returning to their nests. Alan had to consider what he would do for the night. More than anything, he wanted a fire. But he didn’t know if he could risk it. His brother would be able to smell it for sure, not to mention the trail of smoke that would serve as a direct beacon to his location. But he needed a way to warm himself, the crow had stopped pecking him and he could only lose so much blood.
Alan forced himself up and began walking down the river, picking up any leaves or tree debris he could find. He stuffed them under his clothes, sealing the openings after they were filled. It didn’t offer much heat, but the simple trick would be better than nothing. He then looked for a sheltered crevice he could crawl into. What he found wasn’t much more than a crack in the rock wall facing the river. He hollowed the snow out of it and packed it near as a shield from any wind that might set in. Once he was shoved tightly inside, Alan looked out at the river.
Water swept over the rocks, stripping away anything that dared cling to them. In the dark, with the moon just beginning to rise, the river glistened like a wet serpent. It was far more dangerous but just as indifferent toward his life.
I slept very little last night. I haven’t quite thawed since falling in the river, although my friend’s efforts did help some. I feel much less than I did before sleeping. I know it’s the cold, I’m lucky I woke up at all. My companion had a part in that as well: he came around and started cawing and croaking, not obnoxiously but loud enough that I woke. He hasn’t done much since, other than watch me and dig about for scraps of food.
I was very thankful to find that my journal had survived and is still usable. If I make it across the river, I should like to have a record of what happened on this side. I hope this will be the last entry, but I still haven’t found a way to cross. If I haven’t found a way to cross by the end of the day…
I won’t let him take me, I’ll think of something. I’m still just as clever as he is.
Alan glanced over his shoulder to scan the ridge behind. All along the river, it snaked near the narrow beach. It wasn’t very tall—it would offer no protection from his pursuants—but it would require a more cautious descent.
He looked back to the riverside, taking a steady pace and watching for any sort of crossing. His pace was stilted, his body still somewhat jarred from the winter river. Time was running out, and Alan was realizing more and more how grim the situation was becoming. Incredibly outnumbered and with no weapons to defend himself, Alan doubted he would last long. He’d been more optimistic in his journal, but couldn’t deny the truth as it was creeping up on him.
“Haw!”
Alan glanced forward and to the side. The old crow was perched on the ridge, overlooking the pitiful death march.
“You’ll soon have plenty to eat,” he murmured. “He usually leaves a few scraps for the forest.”
The crow either didn’t respond or didn’t hear him. It hopped along the ridge, betraying its age and wear with stabilizing flutters or an occasional stumble.
As he walked, Alan began to contemplate some way to compromise. Unless a miracle presented itself, he wouldn’t cross the river. And if he didn’t cross the river, he wouldn’t live past nightfall. It was uncommon for his brother to consider a peaceful option—almost heretical. Once he had marked his prey, there was no alternative to bloodshed. But Alan had to hope that something had changed, that his brother had. Deep down, he knew that if anything had changed it wasn’t positive. Alan had accepted long ago that his brother had given himself over to the beast. Once a certain level of commitment was reached, it was hard to gain any ground over it. Alan knew this. But he also knew it wasn’t completely impossible to revert.
“Little chance of that,” he grunted to himself.
His time was better spent looking for a sharp stick and some good throwing stones. Not that these would keep him alive. They just might stretch his life out a little longer, however. A thought came to Alan, one that made him feel courageous and hopeless at the same time. If his death was certain, he decided he wanted to die crossing the river. He wouldn’t be caught, consumed, or tortured—he wanted his last ounces of strength to be spent reaching for the opposite shore.
As if to join his contemplation, the crow glided down and landed abruptly on a nearby stone. It eyed him cautiously, its weathered wings tucked to its sides.
“What do you think,” Alan studied the bird, noting how sage its wounded eye made it look. “Think I should jump in and have it over with?”
The crow clipped its beak once but was much less decisive than Alan.
“I’ll be going out on my own terms,” he continued. “I won’t be chewed to rags.”
Alan continued then, walking a little nearer to the river. If there was a way to cross it, he wouldn’t find it near the ridge.
He didn’t need something foolproof, just something he could place enough hope in to convince him to try again. He knew that was all it would take, one more try.
The river ignored his careful calculations and continued to sweep over rocks and logs, carrying whatever debris had fallen into it.
After searching for an hour and finding nothing other than several stones in the middle of the river, Alan took a seat near the frozen beach.
“Stones are too far out,” he muttered to the crow. “I’d have to swim to reach them. We both know I can’t do that.”
The crow nudged its head into the snow, sorting through it with its beak while it searched for something edible.
“I’d think there’d be more food in the woods than out here,” Alan commented, “especially during winter.”
The crow paid little attention and kept burrowing. Moments after sticking its head in, it popped up and ruffled its feathers. It glanced about it, and then repeated the endeavor.
“Don’t crows usually travel together?” Alan asked, lowering his brows at the peculiar old bird. He’d never seen one crow without several more close behind, and felt it was strange that this one should be. “Perhaps you’re a bit of an outcast too,” he concluded.
The crow soon gave up and skipped over to Alan. It was near, not within arm’s reach, but close enough to suggest the two were comfortable with one another. Alan studied it, noticing the marks on its beak and the loose patches on its greasy black coat.
“Bet there’s a story to those,” he nodded. “Fought off a bear, no doubt.” He chuckled, but then added somewhat more seriously, “or a brother, maybe.”
The crow cocked its head and then began picking at its feathers.
“Whatever the case, you seem like a tough old bird.” Alan sighed and began to rise. “That makes two of us I suppose. I won’t sit here and let him take me,” he looked from the bird to the river, “although something will be taking me before the day’s done.”
Another hour passed, and Alan had found nothing that made the river look even slightly more crossable. The riverbed had seemed to vanish, sinking further below the farther down the river he went. Stones and logs disappeared as well, either carried away or buried at the bottom. Alan grew somewhat anxious but knew he couldn’t turn back. The river behind was no less hazardous than this portion, his only hope was that something would eventually show up—that something would change.
Alan continued, growing more anxious as the day pressed on. The river only continued to widen, the opposite shore stretching further and further from him. Occasionally he glanced backward. The stretch of snow-covered beach behind began to look more promising every time he did, as if it offered more hope than what was in front of him. But it couldn’t, he’d walked it and knew there was just as much of hope of making it behind him as there was at whatever spot he was in now. But maybe—just maybe—the horizon held a narrowing in the river. So he kept pressing on, becoming colder and less optimistic with each groggy footstep.
Alan’s eyes drifted away from the river. He put his eyes on the heartless beach ahead rather than the shore opposite him. Walking forward became his only objective. It wouldn’t save him from the predator behind, but he would die a little further down the beach. At least he would have tried, and that was slowly becoming his best comfort.
The day passed its midpoint and shifted into a lazy descent. The sky turned gray and any creatures able to endure the harsh winter slowly faded into their nests or crevices. Even the old crow seemed to decide it was time for him to find a place to rest. He croaked once or twice before taking to the sky, several mangy feathers drifting down in his wake. Alan wondered if it knew what was coming. Animals sometimes had a sense for these things. He supposed it was for the best, seeing as he was just as likely to be killed if he stuck around when the time came.
Eventually, Alan found himself staring at the opposite shore, standing near the water in grim contemplation. The night had almost set in, and he knew it was now or never. If he waited much longer, he could pass out or be set upon without warning. Both of these would result in the confrontation he’d hoped to avoid. Better to drown than face his brother and lose.
He put one foot in the water.
Cold fingers began to climb, taking over his foot in moments and clawing up his leg. Alan breathed slowly, heavily, as he put his other foot in. He was committed now, and wouldn’t be turning back. He was knee-deep when a rustling overheard distracted him.
“Haw!” the old crow cawed as it burst from the forest.
Alan turned, watching as it beat the air with its battered wings. It was frantic, and kept cawing as it drifted down near him. It finally landed, wobbling on a nearby stone as it continued to screech. Once it had regained its balance, it began beating the stone with its beak.
Alan knew what was happening. He turned from the crow and looked behind, studying the beach he had traversed.
In the distance, descending the white ridge, the predator had arrived. Alan watched as the pack preceded him—wolves, with dark gray coats and hungry eyes. Their tongues hung loosely to the side as they reached the beach. They had been on the hunt for days and were eager to meet their quary. They stopped for a moment as the alpha descended.
He was a large wolf, muscle and grit rippling across his body as he eased down the ridge. He was dark, like them, but had several patches of gray that distinguished him and gave him a bearish nature. His teeth were revealed, his lips permanently drawn back. His eyes were searching, yet awaiting the instruction of his rider.
There, atop the alpha, sat Alan’s brother—the true alpha. Bent to match the flow of his mount, his body twisted seamlessly, muscles and bones rippling in rhythm. Fingers, long and with jagged knobs toward their ends, gripped the wolf and reminded it who its master was. He was thin-looking, but Alan knew better than to trust appearances. He had strength enough to challenge any of the wolves, even the brutish creature he rode. Like them, he had hair covering his body, not so thickly but in a sickening way that exposed he was still human—or had been at one time. As they reached the bottom of the ridge, he sat up and looked forward, his face coming into view. It was less animal, but still contained the softness of fur and a wild look in his disproportionately large eyes. His ears were beginning to point backwards, gray fur layering their backside. His lips, the bumps toward the front, revealed the teeth that were beginning to grow and sharpen. He was a true beast, none could say any different.
After taking him in, Alan quickly returned his focus to the river. He sloshed forward, his legs becoming slower as a cruel numbness set in. He pushed himself forward, hearing the yipping of the wolves and the muffled thunder of their padded feet against the snow. The crow continued to caw and was flapping its wings anxiously now.
“Go!” Alan shouted to it, his teeth fully clenched in order to fight the pain slipping up his body.
The crow took to the sky, circling as it continued to screech and squawk as if driving him onward.
The beasts were behind him now, gathering, barking and snarling as he waded further into the river. He was beginning to feel the current and knew that—without anything to support himself—he would soon be swept away. As cruel a death it would be, Alan knew it would be much more merciful than the death he’d receive if his brother reached him.
A howl split the sky—not from a wolf, but from the beast atop one. Alan stopped, he had to. That long and mournful cry had to be heeded. The rider spoke, its voice guttural but human.
“Come,” it said, deep and raspy yet sly and sweet. “Don’t let the river take such a specimen.”
Alan was breathing hard, the cold setting in and threatening to overthrow him.
“Better to die with family than with a cold, heartless serpent.”
“I’ll take the serpent,” Alan replied coldly, stepping forward more confidently but no less painfully.
“You’re a harsh one, brother,” the seductive tongue whispered, “this side isn’t so bad, is it?”
Alan didn’t answer, he didn’t need to. He’d walked both shores long enough to have formed a solid opinion on each. What waited on the other side was worth the risk, his brother’s side was worth dying to escape.
The current tugged at him, pulling one foot to the side as he took a step. He wobbled but didn’t fall.
“Careful!” his brother chuckled. “The river is not so thoughtful as I.”
“I know what you’d do if I turned back!” Alan shouted, angry that he’d almost slipped. The more he heard his brother, the more desperately he wanted to make it across.
“Do you know?” Alan could almost see his lips part in a wicked smile. “What would I do, brother?”
“Kill me,” Alan muttered, “and feed me to your brood.”
“Ah!” the creature made a guttural scoff in the back of its throat. “You misjudge me! Killing you means nothing to me, if that was all I wanted I’d leave you to the river.”
“Fine then,” the water had reached the bottom of Alan’s ribcage, “what do you want then?”He grimaced as the river reached further up his body.
“I want to bring you back with me,” was the conclusion.
“What, so I can give up, like you did?”
“So you can accept, like I did,” his brother corrected. “So you can see that this,” he paused, and Alan imagined him sweeping his arms over his pack of hunters, “this is what we are meant to be, Alan.”
Hearing his name made Alan stop. The way it twisted out of his brother’s mouth and snaked through the air disgusted him. If he hadn’t already been half-frozen, a shiver would have raced up his spine.
“You are thinking about it,” his brother continued. “I can see it, I can see those careful eyes of yours.”
“I’m not,” Alan protested, “I’m thinking about you.”
“Me?” his brother scoffed and snickered, “how thoughtful!”
“What you used to be, brother,” Alan added.
A wretched silence set in. The crow stopped croaking and the wolves were silent. Even the river seemed to slow.
“You used to be kind and gentle,” Alan continued. “We used to play by the river—the other side of the river.”
“That’s long past!” his brother snarled. “Long past and buried at the bottom of the river! No words can bring it up!”
“But it can be,” Alan said firmly. He had a moment of hesitation before turning to face his brother. Alan saw him seated on his wolf, his teeth bared and his eyes wild with fury. “Look at me, brother. Look at me!” Alan put his hands to his face. “I’m flesh, not fur. I’ve changed, what makes you think you can’t?”
“Because I don’t want to!” he barked in response. “What I am now is better than what I was.”
“Every day you grow more base,” Alan shook his head, gesturing to the wolves surrounding his brother. “You grow like them, animals whose only thought is what they will kill next.”
“Every day I grow stronger!” his brother shouted, “like this one!” he took hold of the head of his mount. The wolf, though fierce in its own right, knew not to shake his grip. “I am stronger than these, brother. I command them!”
“So what?!” Alan shouted. His brother stopped, a look of confused anger crossing him. “No one is proud of your achievement, brother. No one is watching you at all! Your strength does nothing—nothing at all, for you or anyone else!”
“I don’t need the approval of—”
“Not approval!” Alan cut in, “but you do want or need something! That’s why you’re hunting me, you need me!”
“I do not need you!” the creature shouted back, his fingers twisting the wolf’s fur.
“Then why do you pursue me?” Alan asked, his courage and sudden determination allowing him to ignore the cold for a moment. “Why not let me leave?”
His brother was silent a moment. One of the wolves let out an impatient snarl—it was quickly silenced by a short bark from the alpha.
“You have not changed,” his brother decided, “your skin is different, brother, but underneath you are the same beast as I.”
“No,” Alan shook his head, “I am different now.”
“You are not so different,” his brother let a wry grin onto his face. “You still want to drift on dirt-stained feather, circling a corpse.” He paused and then added, “you still need me to.”
Memories, distorted images of his life crept into Alan’s mind. He shook them off, refusing to believe that the same creature waited inside.
“Ah!” his brother’s tongue peeked out from his teeth, “it is still there!” He ran his fingers through the matted fur of his mount. “We must bring it out, eh?” He then turned to the pack, “bring it out!”
Alan turned, charging forward again into the river.
“With tooth and claw, bring it out!”
The crow began croaking again, urgently swooping lower as the wolves began to bark and howl. Alan heard them enter the river and felt fear begin to take him. He pushed frantically forward, the current growing stronger and more violent as he did.
Suddenly, he felt the jagged teeth of a wolf at his shoulder. Alan went under, the predator holding tightly as they tumbled and rolled in the current. He couldn’t see and could hardly feel, but Alan clawed and beat at the animal clamped to his shoulder. He entered a haze, a fit of violent thrashing and desperate flailing that did very little to free him. He and the wolf collided with stones and logs, once again battering his body until he could hardly fight the wolf any more than he could swim against the river. But the wolf's grip was broken after striking its head against a boulder. Alan was sent sprawling and found himself colliding with a shore. His face was pulled through the mud as another set of teeth latched onto him, pulling him away from the river as others joined in. He fought his new captors, desperately trying to push them off him, but the wolves were too many and too persistent.
Before long, the wolves had dragged him into shallow water where he lay numb and defeated. He could hardly focus, but was oriented enough to see his brother approaching on his mount. He was speaking in his soft yet brutal tongue, but Alan couldn’t make him out. The only thing he could understand was the constant croaking and cawing of the crow overhead. Even now, after the fight was decided and he had given up, it seemed to be egging Alan on.
As his sense returned, still dulled and half what they usually were, Alan saw his brother dismount. He approached, his form and gait much less than human.
“The river would not take you,” he breathed as the wolves gathered. “You are left now with me.”
Alan tried to shake his head.
“Come, brother,” he knelt down beside him, low enough that Alan could smell his rank breath. “Take up what you were, show me you still have it.”
At that moment, the old crow dove and—much like an arrow—struck his brother’s shoulder. Its beak burrowed as his brother howled, its talons scraping at his bare chest as he began to snarl.
His brother placed one hand over the crow and ripped it off him. He held it firmly, staring hatefully at it as croaks and caws continued to stream out.
“You are weak!” he grimaced at Alan, “to need the protection of old crows!”
He threw the bird down, its noise stopped as it met the unforgiving beach.
Alan waited, hoping for some low croak or flutter to reveal the old bird was alive. But he heard nothing.
“Are you ready now, brother?”
Alan began breathing heavily. Tears—hateful tears—began to well and blur his vision.
“Perhaps you are too weak,” his brother rose and took a step back. “Perhaps the best I can do is give my wolves your body.” The wolves began to snarl and bark. “Offer you mercy.”
Alan clenched his teeth and began to push himself into the river. The cold embrace slowly swept over his shoulders as he crawled.
“Flee!” his brother sneered, “be the coward you have chosen to be! My wolves will have your defender to fight over.”
Alan faded into the river and all was silent for a moment. The wolves began to move toward the defeated crow and the creature watched the current, hoping to see Alan drift back up. The wolves nipped at one another, fighting over who would get to gnaw on the ragged bird.
Before any had so much as licked the crow, the water began to move.
The creature had moved to his mount but paused and studied the surface as it began to stir. The other wolves stopped as well.
Two shapes began to rise, tall and arching like mountains on a distant horizon. They were black, water rippling off an oily surface. They were bent, like two long elbows. But then they straightened, rising out of the water and stretching wide enough to bridge the river. They were wings, great black fearsome wings. Their feathers were wretched and frayed, now soaked and stringy. Gradually, the rest of the creature began to emerge. A hunched back with the same strung-out feathers, a long neck coated in matted black fuzz, a gnarled head at the end of the bony neck. Its beak stretched outward and curled at the end, presenting a cruel and violent composure. Its eyes were blacker than night, and it was as still as death. But it was moving. Slowly it waded toward the shore, its eyes fixed on the pack of wolves beginning to form a tighter circle around their leader. The current brushed against the vulture’s body as it lifted itself with slow steady steps.
“You—” the brother sputtered, “you still have it!”
The vulture, wings still spread hauntingly wide, tilted its head slightly to see him better. The great eye taunted the creature, making it want to run or plead for its life. But, though his mount took a step backward, he didn’t move.
The vulture was silent, watching the creature atop his wolf. The rest of the wolves were indecisive on whether to whimper or snarl, run or fight. Their leader was giving no command, so one took the initiative. It leaped up, straight for the neck of the horrid bird. With ease, the vulture swayed to the side and the wolf landed below. In a movement so sudden that it stopped the other wolves from following, the vulture closed its beak around the wolf’s upper body.
The wolf snarled and whimpered, kicking and shifting its neck to try and free itself. The vulture held it securely, its eyes pinned on the creature. It was waiting for something.
The creature shook its head and bared its teeth in defiance.
“Go on then!” he shouted.
The vulture waited a moment longer, as if it was giving him a final chance. When the creature refused to act, the vulture flicked its head lightly and released its grip. With a squeal, the wolf landed on the frozen beach. It hobbled up and limped over to the others, who eyed its impairment hungrily.
“Even with—” the creature gestured to the vulture’s fearsome wingspan, “even with all of this, you are too weak to accept what you are!”
The vulture gazed down at it. The challenge had been set, and the creature waited impatiently. Its teeth were bared and it was poised on his mount, ready to pounce or strike back.
But the vulture did not attack. It did not shred them with its jagged talons or crush the wolves with its cruel beak. Instead, it shifted its gaze to the crow on the beach. It moved one talon forward and—with such gentility that the beasts quieted a moment—scooped up the mangled old bird.
It then spread its wings, issuing forth a great rush of wind and a muffled clap of sound. Poised, it lingered for a moment, giving the creature one last glare.
The creature was about to speak, to attempt a final jeer, but the vulture lowered its head till it was nearly face-to-face with it. Opening its beak, the vulture unleashed a horrid shriek, one that shook even the alpha wolf and sent the others yelping and running. The creature remained, violently clutching his mount so it wouldn’t flee.
Once its harrowing cry was ended, the vulture closed its beak and withdrew slowly. It then lifted its wings and leaped into the air. The river quaked and the creature covered its face as gusts of stale wind tore from the vulture’s wings. It rose, higher and higher, crow still clutched gently in its talons. Once it was well above the trees, it turned and wheeled over the river, drifting past the beach and the woods beyond.
The creature, alone apart from its mount, watched the great bird disappear into the night. It hesitated a moment, its elongated hand still clutching the wolf’s fur. It grunted, breathed a bestial command, and the two turned and vanished into the forest.
The sun hadn’t yet made it over the horizon, but its coming was being proclaimed. Early rays and a golden haze were creeping across the forest. Atop a great tree, the largest and most sturdy of all, a massive vulture was perched. Its wings were tucked to the side and its head was pulled close in a restful position. Beside it, on the branch its talons clutched, was a regular-sized crow. It was horribly abused, one wing damaged beyond repair and the other crooked and missing several feathers. One eye was slanted, a white scar stretched from its beak and traveling underneath the eye. It was a frazzled old creature, half-alive but alive nonetheless. As it began to move, slowly at first and without much noise, the crow began its cawing and croaking. It wasn’t as bold or resounding as it had been, but it was no less persistent.
The vulture crooked its head and looked down at the old crow.
“Haw!” the smaller bird croaked, hopping closer. It wobbled slightly, its balance still offset by its battered appendages. The vulture’s beak came down and corrected the crow, supporting it as it found its footing.
“Haw!” the crow repeated as it perched beside the vulture.
The vulture let out a slow croak, guttural and much more harrowing than the crow’s. But the crow heard nothing dangerous in the larger bird’s voice. It clucked a short response and then gazed out at the wide forest.
The vulture fixed its eyes on the sun as it began to rise. The golden orb was soft and comforting, a warm embrace after the frozen river. It began to preen itself, carefully and gently moving through its dark feathers. Gradually it became clear, and—satisfied with its appearance—pulled itself closer to rest. The crow did the same and the two perched peacefully, drifting into sleep as the sun rose above them.
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