It was the
wolves that woke her.
At some
indeterminate point between sleep and waking she became conscious of a
sound. It insinuated itself subtly and
delicately first into her ears, and then her mind, becoming part of her dreams:
a sound she had never heard before, composed of multiple high-pitched
cries. She visualized these in her head
as intertwining silver threads, weaving in and out of the darkness as if it
were a backing of black velvet: each strand clear and shimmering and pure. They reminded her of birdsong or
whale-music. But birds and whales are
solitary singers: this was a whole chorus of ethereal voices raised, not in
perfect harmony, but in a kind of counterpoint.
One voice would begin, soft and low, rising to a thin quaver; then the
rest would join in. Trying drowsily to
analyze what she was hearing, Chantal moved at last from fragmented
semi-consciousness into full waking awareness.
Wolves – it’s a
wolf pack!
She had never
heard wolves howl in the wild, only in movies where the sound effect used was a
single long wail like a lonely dog’s. Never
had she imagined anything like this. The
sound was beautiful, but also unearthly.
She had heard of things that could make one’s hair stand on end; as she
listened, she swore she could actually feel the fine hairs on her arms and the
nape of her neck pricking up. It must be
her imagination though, for the odd sensation extended even to where she had no
hair, on her cheeks and the backs of her hands and along her spine. She alternately shivered as though cold, and
then flushed as if with a fever. Opening
her eyes, she saw the moon at the window: full, round, tinged with gold; a
“hunter’s moon”.
Springing out of
bed, she went to the window and opened it, letting in the chill night air. She breathed it in, in deep hungry
gulps. But she still felt sweaty and
flushed. She tore off her pants and tee
shirt and tossed them aside. Now the
night breeze blew upon her entire body, and her hot prickling skin responded to
its icy caress as if to a physical touch.
A brief giddiness made her reel and clutch at the windowsill for
support. Chantal looked down at her
hands resting on the sill.
But they were no
longer hands.
They had become
two grey-brown furred limbs ended in broad, clawed pads. It was the fur that
made her feel so hot, she realized. Her
tongue lolled, panting, from her mouth, its soft length spilling over teeth and
jaws that now had a different shape…
With
understanding came not fear, but relief and joy. She was not feverish after all, nor was she
in any kind of danger. This was obviously
just a dream. She would wake from it
soon, as she did from every dream, and then everything would be all right. But now the wolf-voices called again, and the
dream-body she wore yearned for the freedom of the outdoors, for the cool
scent-laden air and the exhilaration of running through the forest. She glimpsed indistinct, shadowy shapes
flitting through the blackness under the trees, and eyes like glimmering stars
turned towards her in invitation.
In one light
easy motion, Chantal sprang out of the window and into the night.
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