Son of the Féinne
by Robert Harrell
Bang!
I
jump and spin. An old junker exits the intersection. Just a car backfiring. I
breathe a sigh of relief. Jack Rabbit Trail gives me the willies, especially at
night. I still use it; it’s the shortest route home.
Low
in the sky, the waning gibbous moon creates patches of lambent effulgence that
alternate with grotesque blocks of murky obscurity in an expressionistic
juxtaposition of light and dark, unrelieved by any streetlights. Surrounded by
shades of grey, I’m on the set of Nosferatu.
A faded-blue
two-story house with a porch running the length of the front stands empty.
Everyone says it’s haunted. According to local legend, Tony Mancuso spent a
night in the house on a dare when he was a teenager. The next morning, they
found him on the front porch, wrapped in a sheet, cowering and whimpering. He’s
never been right in the head since and wanders the streets admonishing everyone
to repent before the devil steals their soul.
Tonight,
shutters on creaking hinges bang against the sides of the house. The windows
and door hide in shadow. Two glowing red eyes stare at me through the window at
the end of the house. They dim, slide to the right, and disappear. I turn my
head. The taillights of a sedan recede into the distance on Dry Lake Road. A
reflection in the distorted glass.
On
the other side of the street, a squeak and a thump betray Old Man Grimes on the
porch in his rocking chair, protecting his apple trees from the young
hooligans, as he calls them, who want to steal and eat the fruit. No one wants
his apples. He only thinks they do. So far, he hasn’t killed anyone with his
double-barreled shotgun. I’m amazed.
The
evening breeze carries the bark of a dog from the next street over and skitters
dead leaves down the street. I step on one simply to hear the dry crackle and
crunch of the leaf crumbling to dust beneath my sneaker. Goosebumps rise on my
arms from the cool breeze. At least, I tell myself it’s the breeze.
The
houses along the street are dark. No porch lights offer a welcome. Thin strips
of light outline the drawn shades in the windows but fail to penetrate the
gloom. The street creeps me out.
A loud,
deep-pitched ‘bu-bubu-booh’ announces the presence of an owl. I shiver. Some
Native American tribes considered owls harbingers of doom, incarnations of the
god of death. Death was the owls’ bridge. The owl glides past me on silent
wings, its golden eyes shining. My gaze follows its flight to the end of the
street.
At
the end of the street live the Karhew twins, two of the nastiest guys in town.
Everyone steers clear of the whole family. Their front yard provides a final
resting place for car parts, the rusting hulks of an Edsel, a Dauphine, and a
Gremlin, and enough tires to open a store.
My
path leads into Mockingbird Lane before I reach the Karhew house. With any
luck, I’ll make the turn and be on my way before anyone notices I’m there.
No
such luck.
Urs
and Medve saunter toward me. The grins on their faces promise nothing but
trouble. So do the lengths of steel pipe in their hands.
I
know their routine. Everyone knows, but no one can prove anything.
If
they catch me, they’ll drag me to their house and ‘have some fun’ with me.
They’ll testify I came on their property, trespassed. In this town, they’ll get
away with it.
Before
they come too close, I turn and run. My backpack slips to the ground as I race
for the only house on the street that offers refuge, the MacCormac place.
The
Karhew brothers’ voices grow louder.
“Aw,
don’t you want to play?”
“Come
on, you know you want what we have.”
The
menace in their words spurs me on.
I’m
not going to make it.
Out
of nowhere, something huge lands between me and the twins. I pause in my flight
to stare. Stupid, but I gawk anyway.
The
beast is bigger than I am. Intense, glowing green eyes transfix me for an
instant. Transfix and dismiss. I’m no threat. I reek with fear. Warm breath and
a not unpleasant odor wash across my face as the gigantic wolf turns with a growl
to face Urs and Medve.
This
is my chance, and I’m not about to waste it. I turn and run. I don’t glance
back.
The
twins shout in a language I don’t understand.
A
fearsome snarl shakes the fabric of my world. Its bass rumble vibrates through
my body and brain. The click of teeth snapping together carries over the sound
of my panting.
More
shouts and rapid footsteps recede toward the Karhew house.
I
keep running.
I’m
almost to the MacCormacs’ porch.
I’m
on the porch.
I
pound at the door.
“Help!
Help! Please, somebody, open the door!”
The
porch light goes on. The door opens, and Granny MacCormac squints at me through
the screen door. “Hello? Who’s there? Jeremy! What’s the matter, boy?”
Without
waiting for an invitation, I wrench the door open and spring inside, bumping
into the old woman. I catch her before she falls, latch the screen door, slam
the wooden door shut, and lock the deadbolt. Not that this will prevent the
monster from coming in.
“Karhew
twins … monster … giant wolf.”
My
breath comes in gasps.
“Calm
down, boy. You’re safe. Nothing’s going to hurt you.”
“But
that, that beast outside. Call the police.” Why does my cell phone have to be
inside the backpack now lying in the middle of the street?
There’s
scratching at the door. Sniffing and snuffling. The creature followed me.
Boards creak as the thing makes its way the length of the porch, sniffing at
each window.
I’m
trembling. What if the brute decides to crash through a window? Granny
MacCormac seems unperturbed. “Don’t worry, boy. Everything’s all right.”
Moments
later, a scratching sound comes at the kitchen door. Whines. A wolf’s bark.
Granny
MacCormac strides toward the kitchen door. On her way, she picks up a stack of
cloth from the table.
I
race behind her and grab her arm. “What are you doing? That thing will tear you
apart! Call the police!”
She
turns and smiles. She pats my arm. “Everything will be all right. You’ll see.
Trust me.”
Granny
MacCormac pulls loose from my grip. Her strength surprises me.
At
the door, she pauses. “Get away from the door! Back off now!”
To my
shock, the whining becomes softer, as if the creature is backing away.
The
old woman flicks the backyard light on and opens the kitchen door.
I
can’t let her go outside to face the monster alone. I try to squeeze past her,
but she elbows me in the stomach.
“Sorry,
Jeremy. I’m safe enough with my own.”
I
scratch my head. What does she mean?
Granny
MacCormac throws the cloths in her hand — her grandson’s sweatshirt and
sweatpants — at the beast. She puts her hands on her hips. “Thaddeus Tadgh
MacCormac the Third! Pull yourself together this minute and put some clothes on!
You have a guest.”
Glowing
green eyes blink. The slavering creature sits down and curls into itself. The
elongated snout recedes and broadens. Long, pointed ears shorten and round,
sliding to either side of the diamond-shaped face. The eyes cease glowing but
retain their intense green color. Powerful shoulders and the thick chest
broaden. The waist and hips slim. Hind legs straighten and lengthen. Front legs
thicken.
The
sound of cracking bones, rending sinews, and popping joints pierces the night
air.
The
front paws become hands that provide strategic cover for certain body parts.
The rear paws elongate into size 14 human feet. Red-and-gold fur thins to become
reddish-gold hair on the head, arms, legs, and groin of the school’s star water
polo player.
“Trey!”
The word slips out before I can stop myself.
My
friend’s embarrassed smile reveals a set of even, white teeth where curved
fangs and razor-edged incisors stood seconds ago. “Um, Jeremy, do you mind
looking away for a moment? You, too, Gran.”
I
turn and stumble against something. I glance down. My backpack. Where did my
backpack come from? Did the wolf — Trey — fetch it? I choke back a snort at the image of a monstrous
red-, gold-, and cream-colored wolf carrying my neon green backpack with manga
figures in its teeth.
Trey’s
grandmother turns to me with an expression of concern. “Are you all right, boy?
I’m sure you’re experiencing a bit of a shock.”
That’s
an understatement. “I–I’m fine. Or I will be as soon as my heart stops trying
to escape from my chest.”
Granny
MacCormac emits a breathy cackle at my side. From behind me comes Trey’s
throaty bass, tinged with the wolf’s rumble.
Trey
drops his hand onto my shoulder and squeezes reassurance to me.
I
flinch. I can’t help myself.
He
drapes his arm across my back as he takes his place to my left, opposite his
grandmother. He gives me a brief one-armed hug.
I
return the hug. “That was fast.”
Trey grins.
“I’ve had to become a bit of a quick-change artist. Otherwise, I might find
myself in some rather embarrassing situations.”
“Let
me guess, transforming from a ravening giant wolf into a naked teenager at
Barry’s Burger Barn during the Friday night rush presents some slight potential
for discomposure. For everyone.” I can’t believe I’m so calm about my friend
being a mythological beast.
Trey
snickers. “I wasn’t ravening. I was angry at the Karhew twins.”
Granny MacCormac chuckles again. “I’ll make some hot cocoa. Then you and Trey can talk. You deserve an explanation.”
~~~~~~~~~~
Language acquisition, travel, theology, history, legends: these disparate interests inform Robert Harrell’s writing. His work has grown from a chapter book for German students to include historical time travel, paranormal, fantasy, and more. He offers them in the belief that stories can change lives.
Robert has two websites: https://robertlharrell.com for general writing and https://compellinginput.net for second language acquisition materials.
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Here concludes Guest Author Week! I hope you enjoyed it. Feel free to drop me a comment if you found an author that connected with you, or if you’d like to see me do this again in the future.
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