Episode One - Will Walksaway

The Werewolf of Portland

Or

What’s One Little Werewolf in a City of Wolves?

©2018

JD Chandler

Inspired by Werewolf of Paris by Guy Endore

Illustrations by Caitlin McMorris

To my great-grandmother, Josephine Buchman Stayner, who understood the value of a story.

Chapter One:

Man Into Wolf

a.       Will Walksaway

Will Walksaway heard voices in the forest. The spirit of the trees mocked him. “You are no man,” they said. Will lowered his eyes at their taunts; he scuffed his feet on the rocky trail. The ghosts of his ancestors flitted from tree to tree. Staying undercover, they couldn’t be seen, but they were unmistakably there. So many dead; a whole nation of them. Will could feel their hunger for vengeance gnawing, just like the craving for whiskey gnawed at him.

Will kicked a rock in his path; half-buried it held its ground and he stumbled, nearly falling on his face. He could hear the voices of his ancestors now, rising above the taunts of the trees. “Avenge us,” they demanded, “Avenge us!”

The words rained on him from the forest, pelting him with their hard tones, just like the little boys in the last town had pelted him with rocks. Will caught his balance and raised his arms to protect his head. “Avenge us,” his ancestors called. “You are no man,” the trees taunted.

A long howl raised the hairs on Will’s neck and quieted the voices in the woods. The silence made him stop in his tracks. He peered into the darkness under the trees, wiped tears from his eyes and looked again. A wolf, he thought.

Nearly forty years ago Will’s mother named him Wolf. The sisters at the boarding school changed it to Will, but decades after her death his mother still called him Wolf. His eyes probed the darkness looking for his namesake.

The voices in the trees stayed quiet. Will began to hum an ancient song of protection; to fill the silence and to help him keep his courage. His eyes adjusted, but he could still see nothing in the dense shadows under the trees.

Suddenly it was there. A hundred yards down the trail the magnificent beast stopped and turned its golden eyes toward Will. The wolf’s red tongue lolled against gleaming teeth in a canine grin. Will stood motionless on the trail, frozen.

In the darkness its shoulders seemed as tall as Will’s own. The crouching shape filled the trail as it watched. Will’s mouth went dry and he swallowed the ancient tune that buzzed in his throat.

The clouds parted and an obese, amber moon peeked through. Cold moonlight illuminated the massive beast; watery light showed Will the dark face and silver-tipped fur. The animal’s smile grew, its eyes danced with amusement at the puny man.

The great head lifted as the wolf howled at the moon again. The sound cut deep into Will’s soul, keeping him frozen in place. The swollen moon glided behind a cloud as the wild song ended. The animal stared at Will, then turned away from the petrified man and bounded into the trees. With a faint rustle of underbrush it was gone.

Will swallowed heavily, his dry throat scratching, his parched tongue scraping against his pallet. Once again he began to hum the ancient song of protection, but his voice was whispery and far away.  He stuck his hand into the pocket of his rough pants; the coarse fabric chafed his wrist. Clumsy fingers found the smooth edge of the coin in his pocket. The unyielding metal represented days of sweaty labor. Will’s skin itched and burned at the memory of the hard, hot work that had produced the dollar he held.

Whiskey, Will thought, stumbling forward on the trail toward the soft yellow light of the little town that lay ahead.

+

The pulsating call of the wolf raised the little hairs at the back of Caleb Power’s neck. He shivered and drank the shot of whiskey that sat on the bar in front of him. The burning liquid sent another kind of shiver through his body.

“That was close,” Ben Deaver’s voice sounded spooked. He drained his own shot of whiskey, “Let me borrow your shotgun, Jackson.”

The bartended wiped dirty fingers on his stained apron. “What you want it for, Ben?” he asked, his thick lips hung open after the question.

“I’m gonna kill that wolf before it gets any more of my sheep,” Deaver said motioning for a refill.

Jackson filled Deaver’s glass and turned toward Caleb.

“Reverend?” Jackson asked.

Caleb nodded and Jackson refilled his glass. The bartender set down the brown bottle and reached for the shotgun beneath the bar.

“Okay,” Jackson said, “But you’re leaving me unprotected, you know.” He checked the shotgun’s load and set it on the bar in front of Deaver.

“Marshal Tate keeps things pretty peaceful,” Ben said, “This ain’t the frontier no more.”

“I guess so,” Jackson said, doubt in his voice, “Just bring it back quick.”

“Can you quote me a verse of scripture, Reverend,” Ben asked, “To sorta bless my hunt?”

Caleb raised his glass as if for a toast. Ben raised his in return.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” Caleb’s well-trained voice took on a stentorian quality, “I shall fear no evil.”

Caleb downed his whiskey.

“Amen,” Jackson and Deaver said together.

Ben downed his whiskey and picked up the shotgun, heading for the door.

“I shall fear no evil,” Caleb repeated under his breath.

+

Will crouched in the shadows by the side of the road. The moon was behind the clouds, but his eyes were well adjusted to the dark. The window of the saloon cast a warm yellow light, bisected by the dark cross of the window panes, onto the ground outside. The saloon stood at the top of a slight rise. Its light illuminated a rough street leading down to the landing on the river. Scattered buildings loomed like black shadows against the muddy sky.

The door of the saloon opened, spilling a wider puddle of light into the gloomy street. A man stood with a shotgun silhouetted in the door, before closing it and walking past the bush where Will hid. After he passed, Will stood up. Pulling the dollar from his pocket, he examined it in the reflected light. The coin’s eagle gleamed in the golden glow. Will grinned at the powerful bird.

Whiskey, he thought, walking toward the saloon door.

+

Caleb contemplated his empty whiskey glass. Another drink? he wondered. He couldn’t remember exactly how many he had already, but he could feel them wrapped tightly around him like a warm cocoon. Better let the Lord decide, Caleb thought.

He took a small leather bible from the pocket of his black jacket. He opened the book by touch and without looking stabbed his finger down on the page.

“Leviticus 13:46,” Caleb read to himself, “All the days when the plague shall be on him he shall be defiled; he is unclean: he shall dwell alone; without the camp shall his habitation be.”

Caleb shuddered.

If that doesn’t call for a drink, nothing does, he thought.

“What’d you get, Reverend?” Jackson asked, his dull eyes shining with curiosity.

“Another whiskey, Charlie,” Caleb said, “That’s what I got.”

Jackson poured another shot for Rev. Powers. The Reverend motioned for him to make it a double and he did. The door opened as the bartender set down the bottle.

The man who stood in the doorway was a stranger. Not very big, but probably wiry under the ill-fitting farmhand clothes. His hands are awful dark, Jackson thought.

The stranger took off his hat, releasing a black cascade of hair that frothed around his shoulders. Caleb, turning around on his stool to see what Jackson was gawking at, thought for a moment it was a woman in the door. Just an Indian, Caleb thought with a smile, turning back toward his double whiskey.

The Indian walked up to the bar and laid a silver dollar down. Jackson’s coarse features wavered between greed for the dollar and disgust for the Indian. Caleb turned from the magnetic depths of his whiskey to watch the bartender.

“Whiskey,” said the Indian.

“Git, redskin,” Jackson hissed, “No whiskey for you.”

The Indian gazed at the hostile bartender with sad eyes. After a few seconds the dark skinned man lowered his gaze and turned from the bar. A small smile curled Caleb’s lips.

“You a Christian, boy?” Caleb asked.

The Indian darted a glance at the white man. Will saw his pointed silver beard and black silk tie. He saw the small leather bible still open on the bar.

“Yes, Reverend,” the Indian said, once more lowering his eyes.

Caleb’s smile grew wider.

“Give this boy a drink, Charlie,” Rev. Powers said. To the Indian he added, “You’ll be a good boy, won’t you, son?”

“You know I’m not gonna give him a drink, Reverend,” Charlie Jackson said, “Marshal Tate would run me out a town, if he didn’t lock me up for sellin’ to a redskin.” Jackson’s lip quivered with obstinance.

“Then he can have mine,” Caleb said, lifting the small glass from the bar and offering the amber liquid to the silent man. The Indian eyed the whiskey hungrily.

“If you give that to him, Reverend,” Jackson said, “You won’t never get another drop in here.”

“Sorry, son,” Caleb said and downed the double shot, slamming the empty glass onto the bar. The Indian watched as the whiskey disappeared.

“Git, redskin,” Jackson barked, wishing he hadn’t lent his shotgun to Ben Deaver.

The Indian lowered his eyes and wished himself invisible. He couldn’t tell if it worked, so he walked the few steps to the door.

“Just a minute, son,” Caleb called.

The reverend lifted the silver dollar off the bar and tossed it to the Indian, ignoring Jackson’s hostile glare.

“The Lord will provide,” Caleb said as the Indian caught the coin and slipped out the door.

“Last call,” Jackson said, filling Caleb’s glass one more time. He began to clean the saloon up, gathering the spittoons.

+

Will walked to the edge of the river, his eyes filled with tears. His fingers clutched the useless dollar. He wanted to fling it across the river. The powerful looking bird had not been powerful enough to get whiskey. Will watched the river with wet eyes. He didn’t know what to do or where to go, so he stood there for a while.

“Pssst…” a low hiss came from a clump of bushes.

Will turned warily, he didn’t like to disturb uncle snake unexpectedly. The snake-like face of Charlie Jackson hovered from the shadows.

“Redskin,” Jackson whispered, “You still want whiskey?”

Will offered him the dollar. Jackson picked it from between the Indian’s fingers and passed a jug. Will grabbed the smooth, glassy vessel. It sloshed about half full.

“Go ahead,” Jackson said.

Will plucked the cork from the jug’s neck and raised it to his lips. Thick liquid oozed over his tongue. The liquid had no burn like whiskey, only a rancid taste and a grainy texture. Will swallowed and felt the liquid rebound from his stomach.

Charlie Jackson hooted with laughter as Will retched, gushing the contents of his stomach down the front of his body to the ground. Reeking of vomit, Will wiped his lips and sniffed the jug; recoiling from its stench.

“I knew you redskins couldn’t handle your liquor,” Jackson howled, “That’s the finest spittoon liquor on the Willamette, right there.”

Jackson bent forward and slapped his knee with a guffaw. Will moved the stinking jug away from his face.

“Give me whiskey,” Will couldn’t conceal the threat in his voice.

Jackson stood up, his eyes hard.

“Git, Redskin,” Jackson growled, “Or maybe you need a lesson on what it means to live in a white man’s world.”

Without whiskey to dissolve the world he couldn’t live in, Will was overcome by despair. It was despair that propelled his hand, still holding the jug, toward Jackson’s head, but it was the rage of a man whose world has been pulled from beneath his feet and twisted out of shape that gave it force. A look of surprise passed through Jackson’s eyes. Blood gushed from his nose and he collapsed with a cracked skull. Will dropped the jug near the lifeless body and turned toward the shining river.

Two shotgun blasts echoed from the surrounding hills. Will turned, a look of bliss in his eyes, toward the sound.

+

Ben Deaver’s eyes darted toward the brush on his right. Could have sworn I saw movement, he thought. The amber moon peeked through the clouds. It’s bloody light made shadows flee in all directions. Ben turned the shotgun back toward the trail, his finger on the trigger.

“You’re not gettin’ any more a my sheep, Mr. Lobo,” Deaver said.

Gory moonlight hit gleaming yellow eyes and the wolf was there right in front of Ben. He jerked the shotgun as the beast leaped, jagged fangs shining.

The first blast must have torn the animal to pieces, but surely the second barrel did. Before the great wolf died it tore Ben Deaver’s throat from his body. As it died the wolf’s soul exhaled and floated into the muddy night.

The ancestors of Will Walksaway stepped out from the shadows of the forest. “Avenge us!” they cried. The spirit of the wolf heard their cry. Guided by the ancestors’ voices the wolf spirit settled into Will Walksaway’s heart and slept.