Read Online The Wolves of Andover by Kathleen Kent - Free Book Online

hardly a corporeal being as she lay shivering beneath piles of quilts, her bones loose and untethered beneath her skin, like sticks inside a bleached linen bag. She had been laid on a cot close to the hearth, and through every meal, through every task done within the house, the Allens listened to the old woman mumbling in fear or to her shallow, whispery singing:
     
What comes at night, with scalding breath,
With teeth that bite and claws that tear,
With cunning eyes and fur doth wear;
It is not wolf, but man, and brings a maiden’s death.
     
    And as the old woman died, she had caught hold of Martha’s wrist and, motioning her closer, said through laboring, gaping lips, “Young woman… be ye ’ware of untrue prophets that come in the cloth of the lamb… for they be wolves… and wolves be footmen to the Beast….” When Martha raised her head again, the aunt had passed beyond, her eyes still open and fixed on the lintel above the door.
    A swift movement of shadows at the outermost rim of the forest, like water over rocks, caught her attention and she poised, motionless, gripping the sill with cramping fingers. She could see no definable figures in the yard, only bands of greater and lesser darkness. She listened for something beyond the gentle rustling of branches above the roof but could hear nothing moving across the damp earth.
    A sudden, bleating scream was cut off by a ripping noise, like cloth being torn from a loom. Then, the dull snapping sound of the trap coming down brought an enveloping silence. The scream had come from the lamb, she was certain, and yet an unreasoning, terror-filled image assaulted her that William, restless and curious, had crept out undetected from the house. With a hammering fear she ran to the door and, flinging it open, realized she had left it unbolted. She stumbled off the steps into the yard, not thinking if the trap had been sprung too soon, or too late, leaving the wolves free and blood-lusting, thinking only of what might be trapped inside the pen.
    Nearing the barn, she heard a low, throaty growl. The soundwas close, but she could see nothing between herself and the woven structure, which in that moment appeared as insubstantial as tatting lace. There were noises of a weakening struggle, a high-pitched whistling squeal which could as easily have come from a small child as from an injured lamb, and then more tearing sounds. The dark was absolute, as though black curtains had been hung within, and she took another two steps forward, straining to see through the slats. She could hear breathing then on the other side of the slender barrier, the cautious, overlengthy intake and exhalation of air, like muffled twin bellows, accompanying the wet and urgent sounds of feeding.
    “Move away,” Thomas said tensely, appearing out of the darkness. She heard him curse and call to John for more fire for the firing pan; the fuse on the flint had gone out.
    The illumination from John’s open lantern now flooded and filled a good two-thirds of the pen, but she could no longer hear or see the wolves in the shifting wall of shadows that clung to the back of the enclosure. She cautiously pressed herself against one side of the cage, her fingers encircling the coarsely woven slats. As she pressed one eye to an opening, she felt, rather than saw, the rush of heavy form and energy.
    In an instant, Martha was eye to eye with the great wolf as it stood on its hind legs, its scabrous, working jaws on a level with her chin, its pelt yellow from the wavering light. The wolf’s hackles were raised in a great bristling collar about its ears, and as the steam from its mouth spackled her face, she could feel the other, smaller wolf catching hold of her skirt, jerking her body hard and holding her against the shattering wall of the pen. She heard sharp, cracking sounds and felt the wood weakening beneath herfingers. The wood cut sharply into one side of her face, drawing blood, but for every effort to free