Fenrir’s Story
Man-wolf sank his teeth into the bird’s flesh, ripping muscles and tendons from the bone. The crisped skin crackled as Man-wolf slurped down the bite in one gulp, fat dripping down his chin. He hardly chewed as he devoured his prey, grabbing the second turkey leg as he inhaled the last piece of meat from the first.
Feasting. This, this was the only thing Man-wolf understood in a world turned upside down.
This den was all wrong. It smelled of metal and crushed flowers and far, far too many people. Worse, they were in a wooden building with wooden chairs and tables and a fire burning inside. A fire! And the she-people wore those . . . skirts? . . . skirts right next to it! It was like they were begging to go up in flames. His pack mates would have been horrified.
As Man-wolf stared at the people in the room, he could tell they were horrified too, just at the wrong things. A she-people gasped as his fingers tore into the turkey breast and brought it to his lips. This from a she-people with a hat as big as a buck’s antlers—antlers made easy targets for Man-wolf to grab and drag to the ground as his brothers killed their prey. She clearly took issue with Man-wolf not using those fork and knife things. He took issue with her lack of self-preservation from both fire and predators. Who would live longer, Man-wolf wondered.
“Easy there, big guy, no need to eat like you haven’t seen food in a month,” said a he-people while baring his teeth. Enoch said it was called a “smile” and was meant to be friendly. Man-wolf wasn’t so sure.
“You might want something to drink with that. I’ll trade you this beer for a wing,” the he-people said, reaching for Man-wolf’s food.
Man-wolf snarled and spread his hands into claws—all people seemed to recognize that when he bared his teeth, it was not friendly. Man-wolf wasn’t about to accept alpha behavior from a skinny pup he could tear limb from limb, and Man-wolf certainly wasn’t going to drink something that stank like deer piss. The he-people backed away, tripping over chairs and squealing.
A burly he-people in fancy clothes—Enoch—arrived at the table, frowning at the would-be thief.
“Honestly, man, what did you expect would happen? Any reprobate who reaches for a stranger’s food deserves what he gets, especially when that stranger is twice your size and clearly craves no company.”
“As for you, Fenrir,” Enoch said quietly as he sat down and placed a large mug in front of Man-wolf, “could you at least try to use the fork and knife like we practiced?”
Man-wolf had only understood about half of what Enoch had said, so Man-wolf ignored him. As for the cup—ah, apple cider. That was more like it.
Fenrir, Enoch had called Man-wolf. Fenrir Ulfsson was what other people would call him. Enoch said it meant wild-living-wolf-son. It was true enough, except Fenrir didn’t think he was going to live in the wild anymore. Enoch said they were going to a place with lots of people called Gearhaven. Fenrir still didn’t understand what a gear was, but Enoch said haven meant a safe den. And Fenrir needed one of those.
Fenrir fiercely missed his old den, but without his wolf pack, it wasn’t safe or warm enough to stay in alone. Fenrir didn’t remember anything from before his wolf pack, but he must have come from people — he may feel wolf, but he looked people. After he-people had killed Fenrir’s pack, and after Fenrir killed those he-people, he could no longer catch big prey on his own. No other wolf-pack would have accepted Fenrir, so as he began to starve in the bitter winter, he had started venturing to the people-dens to steal food. They got mad about that and tried to put chains on Fenrir. Just as Fenrir was about to bite their faces off, Enoch came along, said many words Fenrir didn’t understand, and passed them some metal and paper, and suddenly everyone backed away. Enoch gave Fenrir a bag of food and motioned for Fenrir to follow him. So Fenrir did. Four moons later, he understood enough language and wore enough clothes (though not as much as Enoch preferred) that Enoch decided it was time to go to Gearhaven.
Once Fenrir was done eating, Enoch loaded their bags into an open-topped carriage. It smelled funny. Instead of wood and leather, it smelled like metal and rubber and other sharp, unnatural scents. And there was no place to harness animals to pull it.
“Where are horses?” Fenrir asked, confused.
Enoch gave Fenrir a flat look. “I was tired of the horses shying away all the time because they could tell you were planning to eat them.” This was true. “So I sent a rider ahead to get Guildmaster Harvey to send us an auto-carriage—no horses needed! Hop in. And don’t spook at the noise like some wolf pup.”
Fenrir was skeptical of the horseless carriage, but the people world was full of strange things. He hated it when Enoch talked as if Fenrir was a pup, so he forced himself to stay still, even when he thought the gunshot sounds from the carriage would rip his ears off. Fenrir flinched as the horseless carriage moved, gripping the door as he stared at the ground moving beneath him.
The dirt road turned into a stone one, and soon the carriage moved faster than galloping horses. Fenrir was impressed. If it weren’t for all the noise, this would be excellent for hunting caribou.
The sun had not moved far in the sky when they saw more carriages—both horseless and with horses—along the road. Eventually they crested a hill and the city of Gearhaven came into view. Fenrir’s jaw dropped.
Enoch had told Fenrir thousands upon thousands of people lived here—many packs all in one small territory—but Fenrir hadn’t believed him. How could so many live so close without tearing many throats out? Enoch conceded that did happen quite a lot.
Fenrir looked over at Enoch, who smirked (he knew better than to show Fenrir his teeth) and kept driving. Meanwhile, Fenrir tried to process everything he saw.
Gearhaven sprawled next to a sparkling lake dotted with boats. He saw tiny people moving around. Everything in this place was enormous! Buildings as tall as cliffs rose into the sky. They appeared to be built of stone and brick, which made far more sense with all the fire they liked to use. Tall fingers poked out the top of some buildings, spewing white smoke.
A smooth metal cloud with a boat attached to the bottom floated through the air, resting near the top of one of the tallest buildings. Fenrir could make out ant-people coming off and on the thing. He had as much intention of letting his feet float off the ground in one of those things as he did of drinking that deer-piss these people were so fond of.
A whistle pierced behind them and Fenrir leaped on his seat, fingers clawed to defend himself. He gaped, horrified as a giant metal centipede on wheels gained on them. It belched white smoke from its head and was big enough to swallow them and their carriage whole!
Enoch laughed like a madman. “Don’t fret, Fenrir. It’s not here to get us. It’s called a train, and it can’t move from those tracks,” he shouted over the noise, pointing. “As long as you stay away from those rail lines, it can’t hurt you.”
Fenrir glared at the tracks suspiciously. A creature that couldn’t choose where to go? Odd. Sitting cautiously, he observed the iron centipede. Some of the many boxes along its body had windows. People sat calmly. Smiling. Chatting. A couple pups even scampered around in one. So it carried people instead of eating them. These people still put far too much trust in such dangerous-looking machines.
As they entered the city, the marvels shrunk but proved no less shocking. Why did some people have creatures that looked like metal skeletons walking next to them, while others, dressed in rags, sat despondently near corners? Bells and whistles and puffs of steam were ever present. With so much smoke in the air, Fenrir was surprised to see little soot. Those fire-less lights Fenrir had seen in some buildings lined the very streets. Along with bread and garbage and fruit and sweat and more of those unnatural scents, Fenrir kept smelling an odd, burnt leather scent. Strange.
Overwhelmed, Fenrir wanted nothing more than to shut his eyes and ears against all the chaos. But he couldn’t leave himself vulnerable, and this was clearly a very, very dangerous place.
So Fenrir hunched and gripped his seat so hard he punctured holes in the leather, trying to look everywhere at once. Fortunately, just as Fenrir was about to snap, Enoch turned the horseless carriage into a quiet courtyard and stopped the vehicle. He jumped out of the carriage and rushed to open the nearest door, calling, “In here!”
Fenrir leapt into the room, ready to tear apart anything moving. It was a teeny room with a bunch of coats, with barely space to stand.
“Would you like me to close the door?” Enoch asked.
“Yes,” Fenrir grunted.
Enoch nodded. “Come out when you are ready.”
As the door shut, Fenrir pressed his arms to the sides of the closet, relishing the dark and quiet washing over him. Eventually his trembling limbs stilled. What kind of lunatics lived like this?
When Fenrir finally stepped out of the closet, he tried to put his thoughts into words Enoch could understand.
“I want leave here. I hate here.”
Enoch put a hand up on Fenrir’s massive shoulder. “You mean you want to go right back into that noise?”
Fenrir flinched at the thought. He didn’t know if he could face all that again.
“Tell you what,” Enoch said. “Let’s go into my den where it is nice and quiet, and you can stay safe in there for a few days. The next time you come out, we’ll do it at night when the city sleeps.”
Fenrir grunted, which Enoch seemed to take as an agreement, and followed Enoch into a corridor. The gray brick reminded Fenrir of his old den, but soon opened up into wood-paneled rooms with carpets that felt soft on Fenrir’s feet. They passed through several rooms, finally coming into one lit with those fire-less lights, full of wood furniture, and occupied by several large men armed with guns and knives. They were speaking to a fancy-dressed man and woman. A mate-pair, Fenrir guessed.
Enoch cleared his throat to grab the group’s attention. “Guildmaster Harvey, I would like to present Fenrir Ulfsson.”
“Ah-ha!” Harvey laughed, rubbing his hands together and strolling over for a handshake. “I’ve heard so many fascinating things about you!”
Fenrir didn’t know the word fascinating, but he did know this man was no alpha. He had uncalloused hands and moved like a pup. And his eyes had the look of the pack runt who contributed little to the hunt, yet tried to get the best portions anyway. Fenrir prepared to challenge him immediately, but Harvey’s mate walked up. Under her pressed-flower scent there was something . . . important. She raised her eyebrows as Fenrir silently reassessed the room—the scents, the stances, the facial expressions and shared looks.
Fenrir looked back at the woman. “He is not alpha. You are alpha.”
Her face split into a predatory, canine grin. “You see what others do not, Mr. Ulfsson.”
Fenrir bowed into his submissive pose. For now. It was odd that the physically weakest in the room led this pack, and Fenrir wanted to know how. If she proved too weak, Fenrir could always challenge her later, when he better understood the rhythms of this strange world.
“Welcome to our pack, Fenrir,” the alpha said, spreading her hands out to the room at large. “Welcome to Gearhaven.”
