Ragged E-Book

Christopher Irvin

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 327

Beschreibung

The Wind in the Willows meets Fargo, in this gripping tale of murder and revenge in a tight-knit community of woodland animals. In a feral twist on crime fiction, Cal, a mutt with a criminal past, must step back into the world of animal violence to avenge the death of his wife and protect his pups from the inherent darkness of nature. His journey leads him out of the woods and into the dump where he spent his youth, a dump run by Maurice and his ferocious gang of rats, weasels, stoats – murderers all. Cal has to face up to his past to save his children, and protect the woods from the violence on the borders. Meanwhile the woodland community is fraying at the seams as talk of infection and sickness is spreading like wildfire. Anyone could be rabid, and turn violent at a moment's notice. And the local trader, that should be bringing much needed supplies to the community has vanished. With a long winter ahead, and their protector, the great brown bear, asleep on the mountainside, can the town stop their own fears destroying them?

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Praise for Christopher Irvin

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

Like Autumn Leaves Fall Her Tears

Part 1

1

2

3

4

Part 2

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

Part 3

18

19

Acknowledgements

About the Author

PRAISE FOR CHRISTOPHER IRVIN

“Ragged is a vivid fever dream, mixing Roald Dahl, Wes Anderson, Watership Down, and Jim Thompson. As impressive and convincing the world Irvin creates is, the real triumph is how his society of anthropomorphized beasties are more human than human. I wish I wrote this. —PAUL TREMBLAY, author of A Head Full of Ghosts and The Cabin at the End of the World

“Ragged is fast, furious, fun and entirely humane. A joy. If Aesop were time-travelling to the XXIst century, this is what he would be writing.”—FRANCESCO DIMITRI, author of The Book of Hidden Things and Never the Wind

“The story of one dog who must walk a forest path alone. Bloody and extraordinary, Ragged is Watership Down written by Raymond Chandler. An amazing book.”—DAVID QUANTICK, writer of Veep and All My Colours

“At the heart of every crime is an unanswered human longing, and Christopher Irvin knows this well.”—NATHAN BALLINGRUD, author of Wounds and The Strange

“It’s vivid and entertaining—it skilfully treads a balancing act between darkly whimsical and woodland noir. It’s Kenneth Graham meets Raymond Chandler, or Val McDermid meets Beatrix Potter. It’s CSI Brambly Hedge.”—JAMES BROGDEN, author of Hekla’s Children and many more

“Red in tooth and claw, rich in style and wonder, Christopher Irvin’s Ragged reads part Richard Adams and part Nick Cave. I finished it in a single night and, doubtless, will be haunted by its singular world for nights to come.”—J. L. WORRAD, author of Pennyblade

“With its nuanced characterizations and rich setting, Ragged explores what it means to be a father and husband, a hero and a citizen in a world where hysteria reigns. It’s hard not to read Ragged as a welldrawn parable for our age. A complex, dark, and absorbing mystery that recalls the works of Richard Adams and Kathryn Lasky. I won’t soon forget it.”—KIM SAVAGE, author of Beautiful Broken Girls, After the Woods, and In Her Skin

“An uncommonly good writer whose work, if described by a single word, would be, ‘intelligent.’ The second descriptor would be, ‘hugely entertaining.’ Like I say to my friends: You gotta read this guy.”—LES EDGERTON, author of The Bitch, The Rapist, and The Genuine, Imitation, Plastic Kidnapping

“An absorbing tale of mystery and longing and the dark struggles of the human condition, I was completely swept up by this anthropomorphized society.”—DIANE LES BECQUETS, bestselling author of Breaking Wild

“Ragged boldly stakes a claim on literary territory previously mapped by Kenneth Grahame, then rewrites the map with a sophisticated literary cartography that is entirely modern, and entirely Christopher Irvin’s own. It is the work of a novelist entirely in charge of his material, and one with talent to burn. A delightful and original novel.”—MICHAEL ROWE, author of Enter, Night and Wild Fell

“An imaginative spin on the crime fiction genre.”—THE NEW YORK TIMES

“Irvin’s tone is lightning fast, hard-hitting, and leaves the reader breathless and shocked with the sudden and realistic portrayal of violence.”—LITREACTOR

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RAGGED

Print edition ISBN: 9781789097863

E-book edition ISBN: 9781789097870

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First Titan edition: April 2022

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© 2017, 2021.

Christopher Irvin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

For George and Frederick

LIKE AUTUMN LEAVES FALL HER TEARS

In the heart of the Woods, Winifred leaned against an ancient maple and pressed a damp kerchief against her eyes, her skin raw from tears shed along the walk. It was late fall and yet the tree clung to most of its leaves, their beautiful reddish-purple hue visible in the pale moonlight. The beauty provided a false sense of hope, an image of permanence that it might last the winter. One by one the leaves would fall as the cold crept along the tree’s limbs. And so too would she.

The breeze picked up, plucking a large leaf from the maple and flinging it against Winifred. She brought her wounded arm up and pressed the leaf against her chest. She felt the infection spreading from the bite with each pulse of her heart, corrupting her blood and tickling her brain.

A hint of wood smoke drifting through the night air tingled Winifred’s nose as she left the tree and approached the nearby General Store. She’d dressed in layers, overly warm for the trek, yet still felt the night’s chill press through her fur. She paused, still clutching the leaf, and took a deep breath to compose herself—which only brought on more tears. The strongest recollections are intertwined with smell, and for Winifred, a dog with a very active nose, each sniff brought a burst of memories, all of which tore at her, and despite being so dear to her heart, felt so far away. Lazy summer strolls with her strong and wonderful mutt of a husband. Watching her two pups grow into their own, too fast. Looking back, there was never a dull moment, never enough time. Winifred dabbed her eyes once more, pocketed the kerchief and willed herself forward into the shop.

The miniature bell above the door remained quiet as Winifred stepped across the threshold. The sparse shelves were dotted with fat, greasy candles that gave off a warm glow undeserving of the near-empty shop. Cal had warned her that the caravan was late with supplies, but she had to get out of the house, had to see for herself. She ran a paw along the nearest barren shelf, her pads coming up thick with dust.

“Winifred!” Duchess, a hedgehog, owner and proprietor of the General Store, looked up from her workspace on the counter at the back of the shop, a wide smile across her face. She removed her apron as she rounded the counter and walked as fast as her short legs would carry her, headed for Winifred, arms wide and welcoming.

“My darling, what brings you in at such a late hour? I was just closing up, but of course I’ll remain open for as long as you need, old friend. I’m afraid I’ve not much to offer, other than conversation, which I hope suits you as it has been much too long and—”

Duchess stopped mid-sentence as she reached Winifred. She leaned in and sniffed the air beneath Winifred’s chin, around her wounded arm that still clutched the maple leaf. Duchess wrinkled her nose and took a step back, concerned, her embrace withdrawn. “You’re not well.”

Winifred took Duchess’s paw, gave it a long, soft squeeze and looked her in the eye. “A stiff cold is all. I wanted to see you. Thought you might have some medicine on hand.”

“Oh dear, oh dear.” Duchess eyed the ground, contemplating the matter, then looked past Winifred, through the door, out at the darkness surrounding them. “Come. Come have a seat in the back. I’ll blow out some of these candles and join you in a moment. I’ve no medicine, but I’ll pour us some strong tea. I’ve been heating a kettle to wash up and head home, but what’s good for a wash is good for a drink. I promise to leaf out the soap. That’s worth at least a little chuckle, no?”

Winifred cracked the smallest of smiles. “Thank you.”

“We’re right on our way to feeling better.” Duchess returned the light squeeze and tended the candles while Winifred made her way toward the back. The store was in a sad state. Aside from a few bags of flour lurking along the bottom shelves, it lacked the most basic dry goods. Unlabeled cans were scattered here and there among cooking utensils, a burlap sack with a hole spilling dried beans, and a few other lumps she couldn’t quite make out in the shadows. There was a time when many traders passed through the Woods. They hawked their goods door-to-door willy-nilly whenever they felt like it. The Two Old Cats caravan, Professional and Prompt, had outlasted them all. Their large wagon stuffed the General Store with all manner of goods and wares several times a year. Now that the Two Old Cats were, indeed, literally quite old, there was worry of when their business would end, and who might take over. Duchess had told Winifred in the past that it would be rude to inquire about the two cat sisters (or their trusted moose) about when they might hang up their straps, and so she let it be. Winifred wasn’t the only one wishing someone had gone out on a limb and asked anyway. Late was one thing; never to return, quite another.

Duchess pulled a wooden spoon from a rack and gave it a tap against her paw. “Not a pretty sight, is it? How do you think I feel, staring at the shelves all day, turning away disappointed customers? Those damn cats will be the death of us. You’d think they could pick a summer month to be late. No, of course not. I’ve half a mind to go out and start looking for them myself.”

“I’ll happily join you.”

“Not looking like that you won’t.” The hedgehog pulled two mugs from beneath the counter. She set them before Winifred and disappeared into a back room. Winifred dabbed a paw against her damp forehead. She wondered if she looked worse than when she’d left the house, but there was no mirror in the shop to confirm. The rag knotted around her wrist concealing the wound was still tight. She’d hid the bite from Cal at first, but soon after she arrived home the fever struck and he quickly saw through her white lies. However, she stuck to her story that she’d been bitten on the Woods’ side of the river, even though she knew Cal didn’t believe her. She’d always been good at small fibs, but when it came to serious matters, anxiety got the best of her when put on the spot.

A moment later Duchess returned with a hot kettle in one paw, a cluster of dried tea leaves in the other.

“Watch yourself, now.” Duchess crumbled the leaves over the two mugs (and the counter between) and filled them with hot water.

“Drink up. The longer it lingers, the more bitter it gets.” Duchess took a deep pull. “Like my customers!” she added, making herself chuckle.

Winifred gritted her teeth as she tasted the earthy liquid, closed her eyes as the pain in her arm flared. She never should have gone back into the Fells. Should have told the damn rabbit to go himself, or told the old bear to send another one of his pawns. She’d done enough over the years for him in penance for Cal, hadn’t she? Her agreement to become one of the bear’s informants—his eyes and ears who kept tabs on the landscape surrounding his mount—had kept him off her husband’s back once Cal left his old life in the Fells behind. She’d been able to maintain her role in secret . . . and look where that led you, she thought, feeling a twinge of the usual pang of guilt at hiding something so serious from her husband. Hell, Old Brown should have come down from his mount himself if he was so worried about the spread of infection. And here I am, she thought, bringing it home. Worse, she didn’t even get a good look at the creature that had bitten her, all covered with mud and debris as it was. Too concerned with running from the scent of a nearby posse of vermin out on patrol from the Rubbish Heap to do her job.

“It tastes . . . good,” Winifred said, lowering her mug.

“Don’t lie. It tastes like dirt, ha! Always made me feel good, though. Even when Mother made me choke it down as a youngster. What a brat I was.”

After a quiet moment, Duchess asked, “How is Cal?”

Winifred forced down another gulp of tea, lit up as she thought of her family. “He’s wonderful. Same with the pups. A pair of wild animals, rarely able to sit still.”

“Just like their father, though staying out of trouble, I hope.”

Winifred took another sip of her tea, nodded. “All three of them.”

“I fondly recall those late nights selling food to Cal out of the back of my store. This was before you arrived in town. We were all much younger—especially Cal—and the community found it hard to trust a dog who spent so much time outside of the Woods.”

“Cal’s told me on several occasions how much he appreciated your kindness.”

“He was a good sport. My mother always said, ‘a customer is a customer.’ We welcome all and do our best to remain neutral when it comes to rumor and politics.

“I told him he could have come to the front like all the other customers, but he worried about hurting my business—as if they had any place else to go!”

Winifred leaned against the counter in an attempt to hide her discomfort, her legs suddenly weak. The fever had returned, coming on strong, worse than before.

“I’m afraid I must return home and get some rest. Thank you very much for the company and tea.”

“Please take care of yourself. I hope to see more of you. Finish your tea on the way home, and tell that husband of yours you must do the shopping when the caravan arrives in order to return the cup.”

“You’re a wonderful friend, Duchess.”

Winfred shivered, her entire body trembling as she wandered toward home. She kept her eyes on the ground, focused on each step as her memories of the night began to fade, her mind shrouded in the darkness of the night.

PART 1

1

Cal sat along the riverbank atop a wind-swept pile of dry, dead leaves. Bare feet at the water’s edge, pea coat buttoned to his chin. The ancestry of his mixed breed had been lost to time, but if you’d been fortunate to be in the company of a variety of the Canis lupus familiaris, you might think his facial features resembled that of a beagle: dusty white from nose to top of skull blending with a reddish-brown along the sides of his face and lower jaw, eyes sharp with a tinge of sadness, and long ears that dangled near his shoulders, that at first glance might cause one to mistake his nature for more playful than it was. Cal would deem himself a proud mutt, but when you’re head of the sole family of dogs to make their home in the Woods, you become the dog; the definition your face, your actions. All in all, it was a mixed bag—especially considering his past. When you grow up with an exiled raccoon with a penchant for poaching for a mentor, life in the Woods is an uphill battle. Cal clutched a makeshift fishing rod loosely in his paws—a slightly gnarled branch with a bit of moss-dyed twine and a rusted hook that he’d discovered, poorly hidden at the base of a nearby birch—and tried to focus on the soft draw of the passing current. It was as close to nothing as he could achieve in such a spot. He tucked his head to his shoulders and hunched over as the wind picked up, his shadow a curled leaf husk in the milky light of the moon. The late autumn air tinged with wood smoke and a crisp chill was enough to make him sniffle. In the twilight, the beauty of the woods around him slipped into darkness: the dogwoods, red oaks, and maples—his favorite— sporting limbs full of crimson and scarlet; groves of hickory and birch clinging to the last of their golden-yellow treasure; the elusive sumac— her favorite—too soon torn of its purple shade, a sight so painfully timed to make him almost chuckle.

But to laugh would be to consider more than the calm of the river. More than the lost beauty of the Woods. More than the bite that brought sickness to his dear Winifred, wife of never-enough years. The lies that he told his two pups when they woke to find their mother missing, Cal hurrying them off to school in the care of curious neighbors. The lies he’d tell them when they came home to find her still missing, Cal’s words empty with false hope, prolonging the inevitable. The lies he’d tell himself at night under the stars, when loneliness takes hold and memories of a desperate search, of discovering her lost in the Fells, snarled lips caked in foam. He will remember so vividly the savagery in her eyes —and work tirelessly to re-convince himself that the mutt he loves is gone—and the violence of their last moment together, pistol impossibly warm through his coat against his fur, claws caked with burial mud, the numbness of the river, his late trek home. If it weren’t for his boys, becoming lost himself might not be such a bad thing. All of this and more drifted through Cal as he watched the hook hover in the shallows, surrounded by fish too eager to run themselves through.

A splash gave him a start. An ancient catfish broke the surface of the river beside Cal’s line, the fading light giving his back a slimy sheen that, combined with his wide-set eyes, gave him a grotesque swamp-creature look: out of place and well past his time. His whiskers like thick ropes grew wide across his upper lip before dipping low, disappearing into the depths. He hadn’t strayed from the river’s elbow in years (the current slow enough to allow him such bobbing pleasure) and unlike other fish, developed a penchant for talking to strangers, thus prolonging his life. For who would catch such a talking fish? Certainly not Cal, nor whomever the catfish first spoke to, nor (and perhaps they were one and the same) whoever gave the catfish the clever idea of calling himself Gil.

“I can talk all the trout on the river into jumping onto that hook, but if you’re not going to put in the effort to bait it anymore, I’ll just go back to sleep, thank you very much.” Gil’s wide lips sucked at the night air in soft wet smacks. If it weren’t for the odd speech (and horrendously gummy accent), one might think he was making love to the night.

“It’s cold for me to be up here, you know. I can feel it in the back of my throat.” He stretched his mouth open, displaying his cavernous gullet as if Cal could somehow see his uncanny sense of temperature. “See? I’m going to catch a chill thanks to you.”

“I thought that’s what whiskers were for—keeping you warm.” Cal felt a slight tug on the line and gently raised the rod in response, teasing the hook around whatever lurked below. The last fish he’d pulled in had somehow shot off the line and gotten lost in the dark. The three fish he’d stashed in the wood cooler he’d found alongside the old rod—two trout and a black crappie—were enough, and the longer he sat, the less energy he had to fight for another.

“My whiskers are teasing the bottom, telling my lips they’d be much warmer nestled in the mud.”

“The decisions you face, Gil.”

“Hey! My impulsive nature demands I entertain those who happen by this lovely spot on the river. It’s the poor saps like you who abuse my gifts.”

“I wasn’t planning to stay. You’re the one who pointed me to the fishing gear that had been left behind.”

“We haven’t seen each other in years! You’re blaming me for wanting to catch up with an old friend? You have children! I had bet you the Woods would burn down in some horrible accident caused by one of those match-tossing badger boys, and I’d die a slow painful death while the river boiled my insides before I heard those words. Doesn’t everyone want to talk about their kids? I actually want to listen! Your mate Roderick has twenty-six bunnies fighting each other for scraps of lettuce or whatever the hell they eat. I can’t tell one from another, and I sometimes doze off halfway through, but I sure as mud float here while he’s trying to remember them all. You’ve sat there for an hour and we’ve barely covered the weather! I should have saved pointing out the fishing gear for when the youngsters returned and given them a good scolding. At least they would have been entertaining.”

“Rod’s not my mate. You pointed out the fishing gear to me because you wanted someone to clean up after the rabbits. If you’d waited they would have ignored you, and the next time I came around I’d get a long, sad story about how your feelings were hurt, and how rabbits are nothing but a blight on the river.”

“You’re putting words in my mouth.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. Well, all right, they still leave a mess behind and never clean up after themselves despite my pleas. Let me tell you, the lack of respect around here with the kids these days . . .”

Gil’s monologue-turned-rant hit Cal like a nostalgic brick to the head, dislodging buried memories of lazy afternoons spent along the riverside—after he’d set traps and sent off the Rubbish Heap gang with bundles of hides and other contraband to be smuggled—a time he’d prefer stay forgotten after spending so much time and effort distancing himself from his previous life. But the days were a warm reminder of why he found himself at the river after wandering aimlessly for hours, and why, despite their differences, it was comforting to sit beside an old, often annoying, friend, especially when they are delighted to see you.

Now, dogs are known for their superior awareness, even the laziest of breeds—their ability to detect, track, and sense change is second to none, especially amongst the denizens of the crowded wood. This is especially true for Cal given his beagle-mutt inheritance. Despite his usually keen awareness, Cal didn’t hear the bear coming. He froze with great terror, dropping his gnarled rod into the river with a start at the sight of the bear dashing into the river, sending water crashing in all directions as he snatched ol’ Gil between his massive jaws.

Old Brown stood to his full monstrous height, lifting Gil high into the air, locked between his sharp teeth. Patches of missing fur and old scars that crisscrossed the elder bear’s body were on full display as Gil flailed wildly, head and tail flapping against the bear’s head. His mouth popped open again and again, but no sound came out, as if he’d regressed to mere catfish out of fear. Old Brown let out a harsh grunt, turned his head to the side and gave Gil a hard shake that brought instant submission. In the silence that followed, Cal feared the worst.

In a movement fluid from decades of practice, Old Brown clutched Gil between his claws removed him from his mouth and plopped down into the river, the displaced water rippling out against the banks, teasing Cal’s feet. He held Gil inches from his face, the two staring at each other for what felt to Cal like an eternity, before the bear’s lips parted to reveal a massive grin, and a deep laugh rumbled from his belly.

“I did it,” he said, mid-chuckle. “The oldest pair this side of the mountain, face to face. I’ve been hearing rumors that you’ve been boasting of plans to outlive me. Calling it quite the accomplishment for a fish. Thought I’d come down and see for myself. Maybe get lucky and settle the issue at hand.”

Old Brown briefly turned his attention to Cal, giving him a wink. “Rare to find you out this way these days. You can relax, I’m not going to eat it . . . although,” he said, returning to the catfish. “Winter is tickling the top of the mountain, and I am in no shape for a cold slumber. Skin and bones will just not do, and a nice fatty fish would buy me a few days.”

He tilted the fish back and forth, giving each of his captive’s wide-spread eyes an extended moment of petrifying horror. As Old Brown slowly lowered Gil back into the river, Cal couldn’t think of a time he’d seen an animal take such pleasure in the torture of another, and though he’d brushed it off, it made part of him deeply worried. He clenched his jaw, willing himself to stay in place as his muscles tensed, ready for action. His fear turned to anger at his inability to have sensed the bear coming. Animals lived and died by their nose and ears. Distractions were just that, no matter how serious. There was no excuse to get caught flat-footed, ever—a lesson all dogs instinctively learn.

When Gil’s gills passed below the surface, his mouth split open to a sickening width, as if he’d torn something within in an attempt to leap up and devour the bear’s face, but instead formed an unnatural bugle to channel a nauseating scream. It was a sound reminiscent of a sheep bleating, frozen on one earsplitting note, mixed with a rabbit’s strangled death-wail, when its neck fails to break and it’s partially eaten alive. A sound so awful it made Cal whimper and pull his droopy ears tight.

Old Brown ripped Gil back out of the water, holding him in place with one paw and clamping his mouth shut with the other. He bared his teeth, and reared his head back—and sneezed, spraying the catfish with thick mucus.

“If you ever do that again, I will tear off those whiskers, stuff them down that hell-hole you call a mouth, and leave you to suffocate in a tree while birds pluck out your eyes!” He roared at Gil, turned, and launched him upstream, sending the catfish soaring, fins outstretched, whiskers waggling behind. However, given Gil’s awkward size, slimy skin and less-than-aerodynamic build, the aim was slightly off and Gil landed with a wet thud on the bank, half-bouncing, half-rolling back into the river. He disappeared without a peep below the surface.

“He’ll be fine,” Old Brown said, dismissing the poor throw. He dunked his paws in the river, rubbing the catfish filth from his palms before massaging his throwing shoulder. “These joints on the other hand. Remind me to warm up next time.”

The movement of a cardinal caught Cal’s attention as it flittered overhead, dancing between trees. He glanced up to find the moon had risen, and it was well past time he ventured home. The possibility of his boys, hungry and waiting for him to return, weighed heavily on his heart as the guilt continued to pile atop his shoulders. At least there would be dinner—the fish their first full meal in days. The thinnest of silver linings, if such things could be found during the worst of times.

Old Brown exhaled a heavy sigh. “Where were we?”

“I was just leaving.” Cal stood, brushing bits of crushed leaves from his coat.

“Why not stay a moment and chat? I was never much for timing, and since I caught you out this way, it’s the least you could do. A dog who can’t pick up on an old bear must have a lot on his mind.”

Cal shivered as the wind kicked up against his legs, and he made to stuff his paws inside his coat pockets. Old Brown grew tense in response, rising slightly out of the water.

“Keep those paws where I can see ’em. I can smell gunpowder on you. Since when did you become so careless?” He ran a finger along the left side of his jaw, calling attention to two lines of pale skin gouged through his dark coat, one leading to the ragged edge of his ear. “These scars—I spend too much time alone on the mountain to harbor a grudge. That’s the sort of ill will that festers, poisoning beyond reason when bottled for long. I forgive, but I don’t forget. I have more than a few of these thanks to you and those varmints. Sneaking cowards, the lot of them.”

Cal’s paw brushed against the pistol in his right pocket. He considered it for a moment before withdrawing, hanging a digit in the corner of the pocket. Far enough away to acknowledge the bear’s warning, but close enough to pull, given their history. When Cal was a wee pup, he’d gotten lost in the Fells, separated from his parents. After wandering for days he was found by Maurice, a mangy raccoon who headed the Rubbish Heap gang, a band of rough-and-tumble vermin. To the dismay of many rodents, Maurice raised Cal as his own, giving him power over the rank and file. As Cal grew older, he eventually moved to the Woods, keeping his business with the Fells secret while becoming part of the community.

“I left the Rubbish Heap behind long ago,” Cal said, scratching an itch underneath his chin with his other paw. “No doubt you know that. It was a means: nothing more, nothing less.”

“Oh, your rift with Maurice and his boys was the talk of ages. Every squirrel, possum, and rat for miles came to tell me about Cal the honorable family dog, fighting back against the scavengers and smugglers. A knife in the back makes for furious gossip.”

“I simply walked away.”

“Nothing in the Woods is simple. If the blaze hadn’t been such a distraction, your situation would be quite different, no?”

“A distraction?” Images of the fire burned through Cal’s mind in a wave of unbridled rage. He felt the ghost of searing heat against his back, the smell of his own flesh cooking in the choking smoke. In the old schoolhouse, a hot coal had spit from the fireplace into a stack of papers at the back of the room. Before anyone could react, the entryway was engulfed in flame, trapping half the children inside, cut off from their classmates and teacher. Cal had been on his way home after a long day when he caught a whiff of the smoke and came running. Parents and bystanders looked on in horror as the fire licked around the outside of the building. The scared faces inside reminded Cal of his own when he was young and separated from his parents, lost in the Fells with only his reflection in the river for company. Cal’s instincts kicked in and he threw himself through a window to create an escape. He shooed two deer and a squirrel out who could walk on their own, and carried a pair of otters, siblings, who had temporarily succumbed to the smoke. Outside, parents threw dirt on his back and patted out his blackened fur to squelch the fire. Moments later, the roof collapsed, burying the school while the teacher took a headcount. Cal made it through the tense aftermath until all were accounted for, and promptly passed out.

“You—” Cal began, but turned away, clenching his teeth to cut himself off. The threats the bear had made to Gil were not empty, and to accuse Old Brown of cowardice, of abandoning the Woods— his Woods—at its darkest hour, would be to invite a grave reply. “Got yourself a pretty wife and a couple of pups for the effort,” said Old Brown, continuing to prod.

Cal swallowed hard at the mention of Winifred, closing his eyes to fight off tears. He thought of the gun in his pocket, crusted with dirt, paw flexed at pocket’s edge, curious if it would fire and pack enough punch to bring the bear down. The longer he took the bear’s jabs, the more he felt the urge to stoke the fire.

“And you sit above us all in that cave and judge while we suffer. Why do you even bother to stretch your legs?”

Old Brown grunted and turned over onto his stomach, crawling toward the riverbank, his shoulders and head above the surface.

“This mountain is my home. These woods, my family. A band of weasels and stoats tearing the throat out of a defenseless deer and smuggling her remains down-river for sale doesn’t concern me like it used to. Sure, I’d cull the pack when the gangs overstepped, but we’re all savages at heart. A field mouse will sink its teeth into your flesh when it’s cornered and starved.

“Outsiders concern me, Cal. Disease concerns me. And you possess the ripe stink of both. It’s in your fur, your coat, your red eyes. The Woods has banished its own for less.”

Old Brown burst from the river, paws outstretched for Cal, who was tense and ready this time, yet Old Brown’s reach was too long and he snatched Cal by his coat as he tried to back away, popping a button loose, wrenching him to the river’s edge, face-to-face. As Old Brown pulled him in, Cal ripped the pistol from his pocket, pulled back the hammer and pressed it into the side of the bear’s skull. The rivals snarled, bared their sharp teeth with clenched jaws.

“Confident you could pull the trigger before I gnaw your face, Cal?” said Old Brown, pushing his forehead down against Cal’s brow.

“I’m willing to chance it.”

“It wouldn’t look good—me in the river and you on the bank with half a face for the wife and kids to find. Horrifying picture, isn’t it? Or would Maurice and his crew discover you first and make you disappear? A father abandoning his post.”

Cal pressed the barrel against the bear’s skull with renewed vigor at the mention of neglecting his kids.

“That’s the spirit.” With his free paw, Old Brown patted the earth beside Cal, groping around until a thick finger bumped into the wooden cooler. He knocked the container over, spilling the fish into the leaves. One by one he brought the fish to his mouth, leaves and all passing down his gullet. The first two he swallowed whole. The last, and largest, he tore into, flicking fish guts against Cal’s chest as he severed the front half, letting the tail drop into the water, disappearing with a small splash.

Cal pushed off Old Brown the instant he felt the bear’s grasp relax. Old Brown bellowed, his deep laughter echoing in the night as he slipped back into the river. Pistol pointed at the ground, paw flexed around the grip, Cal watched as Old Brown took his time, slowly trudging upstream and out onto the opposite side of the river where he shook, wringing water from his thick coat in all directions. He sauntered off into the woods, not once looking back.

2

Cal chewed on his tongue, listening to the bare tree limbs rattle in the wind. He stared after Old Brown, cursed him and his slow meander, and imagined the nub of his tail taunting him like a wagging finger with each step. A last laugh knowing there was little chance (especially given Cal’s long distance from home) that Cal would snap, jump into the cold water with reckless abandon, and make the crossing to pursue him. But the exchange was only in his mind—the night playing a trick on his eyes, and when he blinked, the specter of Old Brown vanished into the dark.

“Serves you right for letting him get under your skin,” Cal muttered out loud to himself, pawing the frayed threads where the bear’s grip had torn a button from his favorite coat. As he contemplated the night, it struck him that Old Brown, like himself, knew more than he was letting on, and it was possible he might have been looking for Cal all along, making Gil a convenient distraction. The thought gave Cal a headache, mixed signals of fear and aggression washing over his brain. He stretched his neck skyward and howled, loud and long at the night, until his throat burned and his voice went hoarse.

“Damn you, Old Brown!” Cal snapped his arm out straight, and squeezed the trigger twice, wincing as each deafening blast rattled his body. The two rounds zipped aimless across the river into the woods, silent as to their final destination. Dropping to his knees, Cal slammed the pistol against the riverbank. The act jarred his numb fingers, and he whipped the weapon away in frustration. The trigger guard snagged his finger, sending the gun skittering over a series of thick tree roots, plunging it into a wild evergreen shrub. Cal took after the gun on all fours, calling himself a number of colorful, terrible things, and threatening, if he did not find the gun, to eat a bird-berry pie, a feat which would provide six days of immeasurable agony, followed by a total loss of bodily function and a most embarrassing death. Cal dug deep, the bush’s dry foliage scratching at his face as he blindly floundered. Finally, after a pair of rotting fish heads, a red-and-white plaid kerchief (which he shook out and pocketed), and a rabbit-sized shoe (confirming once again that the entire species was an inconsiderate mess) he found what he was looking for. And before he could give it another thought, threw the pistol end-over-end into the river. The barrel caught the surface with a plunk, the weightier half dragging the gun below.