"The Outcasts" (fiction by Actaeon)

[Actaeon]

The Outcasts
Posted June 2, 1996; revised and expanded November 18, 1996
Part One was written in the wee small hours of Sunday the 2nd of June, 1996, in about five hours' straight typing. I hope it doesn't look like it. Part Two and the revisions for Part One were written during a snow-induced power outage, in about three hours. Many thanks to Shard Wulf for alerting me to a plot error, which resulted in this revision and, I think, a better story.
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Part One
Sperry landed face-first in the snow, the chill of the night air only adding to the sting. Behind him, the cabin door slammed shut, cutting off the laughter and the light. He was grateful for that: silence and darkness suited him, especially now.
Rising, he wiped the snow from his face with gloved hands; gloved even in the cabin, which offered scant protection from the Alaskan winter. He started to pull his parka hood over his face, but hesitated: the sub-freezing temperature was a reminder of why he had come to this Territory, and he reveled in it, especially now that he would probably have to stay out here until they sobered up and let him back in.
In retrospect, of course, he'd simply been asking for trouble. Bringing the sled dogs into the cabin was an unusual enough request, but not locking the door behind him was the mistake. Ordinarily, they respected his privacy, but on Saturday nights the mining crew tended to get rowdier than usual, and when drunk they didn't always behave respectfully. One man burst in, seemingly to invite Sperry to join the party, and saw him _in flagrante delicto_ with a malamute. Their tail-to-tail position left little to the imagination.
All three of them, Sperry, dog and witness, had the same shocked expression for a moment, then the intruder burst into an inebriated guffaw and called to his cronies to "come take a look at Sperry." The next thing he knew, the malamute had pulled free (or had he been yanked? Sperry wasn't sure), and he'd had barely enough time to pull his pants up before they flung him out of the cabin.
So here he sat, with the dull noise of the party continuing unabated behind him and only an aurora borealis overhead for company. He smiled. "To hell with them," he grunted, and lay back in the snow, resting his head on folded arms. He closed his eyes for a moment and sighed, then gazed up at his breath as it formed wisps in the moonlight. "To hell with them. I don't have to answer to them. When they sober up, they'll probably forget it ever happened." Sperry wished he believed that.
Sitting up again, Sperry looked around. His eyes were getting used to the dark by now, and ahead of him to the north was Wolf Mountain, 5000 feet above sea level. Maybe I could climb that, he thought, at least a ways. The camp is well above base level anyway. He stood up, brushed the snow from his woolen Levi's, and trudged up the ladder to the meat cache. Taking a few pocketloads of pemmican, he clambered down in his heavy caribou-skin boots and, with a final look at the cabin, he headed north.
Sperry had been a miner in Tanana for several years, then they shipped him west when the Yukon gold started to peter out. Sperry suspected, however, that the crew boss had seen him with the mules and decided he didn't want that kind of riff-raff in the mines. God knows, they all get lonely down here, not seeing their wives and girlfriends and prossies for weeks or months on end. But for Sperry, it wasn't just something to tide him over between lusty lays in the home port: it was his life. He'd worked hard to hide his feelings, but sometimes the temptation proved too great, and it was clear to those who managed to catch him in the act that he actually enjoyed his time with the camp animals.
He'd left camp just after dinner, about 6:30 by his pocket watch. It was already pitch dark: he was on the same latitude as Fairbanks, and in February it was dark or at least twilight for all but a few hours a day. By 8 o'clock he'd climbed out of sight of the cabin; even the flicker of its windows had faded from view. No doubt the party was raging ever on, and his absence was barely noticed. Ahead, Wolf Mountain loomed large. The aurorae were putting on quite a show tonight; Sperry was thankful for the clear skies and mild wind: it would have been deadly to be caught on an exposed mountainside during a snowstorm. As it was, only the cold now interfered with his movements, and he'd spent enough seasons in it that he was inured to its effects.
A ninety-minute walk in sub-freezing temperatures is hard on any man, however, and Sperry soon grew fatigued. He cleared the snow from a rock outcropping and sat, protected by multiple layers of woolen underwear and heavy work denims. Still, the cold stone bit into him, and he was grateful for the rest. The journey would do his spirit good. He was as physically fit as any of the rest of them, and it would give him a touch of pride to say he'd climbed Wolf Mountain, even if only partway.
Rising from his brief rest, his heart fluttered at a movement in the corner of his eye. Turning, he saw nothing but white darkness and shadows. His first thought was "bear," and he swore at himself for leaving the .375 H&H back at the cabin. Well, no sense worrying about that now. If I head back to camp, I look like a coward; if I press on, I might be grizzly food by morning. Sperry thought a moment. Bear bait sounds like the safest choice. I _know_ what I face if I go back; if I keep going, I might get lucky.
Sperry climbed up onto the rock and looked carefully around him. He knew bear smell, and didn't find it here. Just the scent of caribou-skin boots, woolen underwear, wolf-lined parkas, and the sweat of a man in fear for his life and not wanting to show it. It was the deepest sweat of all, enough to sound the dinner gong for any predator within noseshot. There was also a strong smell of dog, but Sperry figured that was probably him, and he liked it. He could live with it.
Moving upward from the rock, Sperry continued toward the summit. It was 8:30 now, unless his pocket watch was starting to freeze. Keeping track of time was essential, for he had to pace himself: moving too quickly in this weather could be fatal. A steady, even pace was safest, so despite his apprehension about his unseen shadow, he moved calmly up the slope. The moonlight was good, and would follow him across the north slope all night until morning. By that time he should be headed back for the cabin. Hopefully he would be missed.
The dog smell wafted across his nostrils again, stronger this time, muskier, like the scent of his sweat mixing with the malamute's, and it was a welcome companion to his trek, a reminder of sweeter times, sweeter friends.
Even before he heard the howl, a shiver flew up Sperry's spine, chilling him despite the parka. A second howl replied, from the other side of the slope, and Sperry knew he was not alone. A third howl, a yelp, and a chorus of erratic barking and growling. A flash of light, then dark, and a snapping of twigs. A wolf appeared, big, black and in trouble: half a dozen wolves were following it at a dead run, oblivious to the climber in their midst, veering only at the last moment to pursue their quarry. The black wolf spun around to face its pursuers, digging in with it paws and baring its teeth. All of this was happening less than a hundred yards from Sperry, who stood with mouth agape.
The first of the pursuers caught up to the black wolf and, without breaking stride, bowled it over and continued on. The others did likewise, then they all circled around, alternately taking nips at their victim as it lay cowering in the snow, on its back in a submissive posture, tail tucked protectively over its stomach and genitals. It offered itself up to them, and they eventually grew tired of the game. The first wolf to attack gave one last token nip on the black wolf's hind leg, then trotted away, but not before they'd all delivered their final insult by taking leaks on whatever landmarks appeared handy, marking their territory and very clearly leaving the black wolf out of it.
As Sperry watched, the wolf pack faded into the treeline, seemingly unconcerned that their performance had been witnessed by an outsider. Make that two outsiders: the black wolf crouched in the snow, nursing its wounds, and made no attempt to follow its attackers or give their exodus much regard.
The black wolf looked up from time to time, and appeared to be aware of Sperry's presence, but made no move to suggest either anger or apprehension: it simply acknowledged his presence, but gave no notice of what it thought of him. While the woodsmen liked to spin yarns about the ferocity of wolves, Sperry knew the tales were mainly for the city folk: wolves were more likely to run from him than dine on him. Besides, it was in his nature to consider wolves sensual creatures. Still, his hand rested warily on the pommel of his sheath knife while he gazed at the wolf.
For its part, the wolf continued to quietly lick its injuries, with the occasional and increasingly infrequent glance in Sperry's direction. Sperry's hand drifted away from the handle of the knife, and he decided to sit while he thought this over. He'd seen wolves before, but this was the first time he was able to watch one at length. Still, at a hundred yards away, there was little he could discover in the moonlight. The wolf finished nursing its wounds, and also sat in the snow, watching Sperry watch it. Sperry grinned. "Hello," he said. The wolf remained impassive.
Sperry feared scaring the wolf off, but his legs were killing him, and he needed to find a more comfortable seat. A fallen tree, half-buried in snow, lay about twenty feet away, and a number of trees grew right next to it. He could sit on the log and use a living tree for a backrest.
Slowly, Sperry moved into a crouching position and edged toward the tree, making sure not to stare directly at the wolf. At this movement, the wolf rose and trotted a short distance away. Sperry was relieved to see that it moved without apparent injury. Reaching the tree, Sperry sat and observed the wolf, who, it turned out, had kept the same distance between them at all times. Neither retreating nor approaching, it had maintained the balance.
Relaxing in his new "chair," Sperry leaned back against the tree trunk and reached for a strip of moose jerky. From another pocket, he took a candle and a double-handled metal cup. He set the candle on the log, then made a makeshift stand out of some twigs so he could suspend the cup above it. He lit the candle, filled the cup with snow, and brewed himself some hot water. The wolf sat motionless, head cocked slightly, as if curious about this strange trespasser and its strange trappings. When the water boiled, Sperry added coffee grounds from a metal tin. Stirring them around with the blade of his knife, he watched as the wolf took a step forward, sniffing the air. What would a wolf see in coffee? Sperry wondered.
Hmmm: maybe it's the jerky. He pulled out another strip and waved it slowly in front of him. The wolf's eyes fixed on it, followed its movements. The wolf champed its jaws. Even a hundred yards away, it knew jerky meant meat. Gently, Sperry tossed the strip of jerky so it landed upright in the snow, about thirty feet from Sperry's feet. The wolf saw it land, and champed its jaws again. Sperry could hear the teeth clack together.
The coffee was ready, so Sperry extinguished the candle and took a sip. He winced, grimaced, and shuddered: perfect. It would keep him up all night. However, he wanted to entice the wolf closer, so he needed to pretend to be asleep. Leaning further back against the tree trunk, Sperry pulled down the hood of his parka until his eyes were barely visible, then sipped quietly while he watched for signs of movement. When he finished the coffee, he put his hands in his pockets to keep warm.
Sperry felt something touch his foot, and he lifted his head. The wolf had disappeared and Sperry could tell from the shadows that he had been asleep for over an hour. "Damn," he said, "so much for the coffee," and then started to get up. Looking down through the tunnel vision of his parka hood, he saw the black wolf at his feet, sniffing at his caribou-skin boots, and he jumped up onto the log. The wolf jumped an even greater distance backwards, and the two stared at each other for a long moment.
"Did you like the jerky?" Sperry whispered at last. The wolf perked its ears up non-committally. The jerky was gone, however, and there were paw prints in the snow where it had stood.
The wolf seemed to realize it was in a superior position, having effectively treed the intruder, and sat on its haunches. Sperry noticed, as those like him are wont to notice, that the wolf was a male. Sperry twitched his lips with a slight squeaking noise, while several fantasies ran through his mind. Forget it, mister, he'd as likely bite it off as do anything pleasant with it. Still, I can't help the thought. "Can I, fella?" The wolf remained non-committal.
Gently and with soothing tones, Sperry descended from the log to return to a seated position. The wolf, whom Sperry decided to name Ishmael, stood his ground without comment. Sperry settled down and sighed wistfully, admiring the animal. "If only...." Sperry was still hungry, but he hesitated to bring out another piece of jerky or pemmican: Ishmael might take it right out of his fingers, and maybe his fingers right along with it. He smiled. "Then I'll just let him."
He broke a piece of jerky in two, and held one half in his mouth while offering the other to Ishmael at the end of an extended hand. It was clear the wolf wanted the meat, but while it was okay to take it from the snow ten feet away from this person, taking it off the end of its foreleg could be a little risky. Still, he was a wolf, and wolves take what they want. Sperry blinked, and that was all it took: with one step and one snap of his jaws, the meat belonged to the wolf.
Sperry checked his fingers to make sure they were still there, then smiled and joined Ishmael in a meal of moose. Sperry's pocket watch told him it was 11:30, and even on a Saturday night, he would have been in bed by midnight. It would take at least that long to set up a makeshift camp, and without shelter for the night, frostbite could get him, and he would return to camp a broken man--literally.
Sperry looked at the tree he was sitting on and noticed that several branches from it would make good supports for a tent frame. While Ishmael watched intently, Sperry broke them off and lashed them into a triangle overhead, into which he could lace other branches to form a mesh. Smaller branches from the living trees would make an insulating bed in the snow, which he cleared away as much as possible, although it was still several feet thick and the best he could do was clear it down to the hardpack. The goal was not to insulate him from the cold, but to insulate the snow from his body heat: were it to melt, he could wake up sleeping in a puddle, which might by then have re-frozen solid around him. That would be bad.
Once the shelter was complete, he crawled inside on top of the boughs, resting his back against the fallen tree. On the far side of the tree, he had lit a fire, for warmth and to keep animals at bay. At first Sperry was alone in the tent, but soon Ishmael overcame his nervousness about the fire and gingerly crept into the shelter with him. Sperry lifted an ungloved hand, which the wolf investigated, then licked. Sperry sighed and made a place for Ishmael next to him. Still wary of humans, however, the wolf seemed content to spend the night in the warmth of the fire, but not too close to Sperry: at his feet was as close as Ishmael wanted to sleep. The heat from the fire reflected off the inside of the shelter and bathed them with a flickering nightlight. Not the same as aurorae borealis, but equally comforting.
Sometime in the night, Sperry rolled over and found his path blocked by Ishmael, who had nestled up to Sperry's chest after the fire had died down. Startled but delighted, Sperry looked into the wolf's eyes; Ishmael returned the gaze casually, then curled up and went back to sleep. Sperry closed his eyes and wrapped an arm around Ishmael's chest, cradling the wolf's body into his own and burying his face into Ishmael's neck, inhaling his scent.
Sperry's nose detected something else, and an explanation for the wolf's behavior. A thin, tattered rope encircled Ishmael's throat. At first, Sperry thought someone had tried to hang the animal, but the rope was too thin for that. It was barely thck enough to collar a cat, but that seemed to have been the intent: this wolf had belonged to someone, evidently someone who did not take his responsibility seriously. Feeling under the collar proved difficult: no allowance had been made for Ishmael's growth, and the rope was so tight two gloved fingers would not fit beneath it. In the light of the fire, Sperry could see the scar, a narrow red band encircling the wolf's neck. Ishmael whined slightly at Sperry's touch, and started to move away a little. Sperry swore and reached for his knife. Freed of the constriction, the animal coughed once, then sighed exhaustedly and resumed its slumber while Sperry smoothed the fur back into place.
As Ishmael dozed, Sperry took a moment to examine the makeshift collar. A small circle of bone, perhaps a name tag, hung from it, but if it held any writing it was too faint to be read in the firelight. Sperry coiled the collar into his pocket and curled up around Ishmael again, careful to avoid the scar.
For warmth of both spirit and body, Sperry nestled spoons-fashion with his partner, wrapping his belly around the wolf's back and gently pulling Ishmael into him. Ishmael merely wriggled a little, and raised his head until his forehead pressed against Sperry's chin. Sperry pressed back, cradling an arm around the animal's shoulder. When his companion did not seem to object to this intimacy, Sperry quietly took off his glove and moved his hand down Ishmael's belly until the edge of it rested in the fold of skin above the tip of his sheath.
With his eyes closed, Sperry let his hand remain in this position for a minute or two, slowly caressing Ishmael's stomach. The wolf inhaled deeply and stretched its legs before curling back up, effectively pinning Sperry's hand in place amidst the warmth of his legs and belly. Sperry nuzzled Ishmael's neck with his lips and nose, feeling the soft hairs against the side of his face.
Sperry edged a finger across the opening to the wolf's sheath, delighting in the moisture there, then worked his way slowly back along the sheath itself, until finally resting his fingers against Ishmael's testes. The wolf sighed, and Sperry echoed the sentiment, his fingertips gently massaging the growing (growing? Oh, sweet Jesus) bulge of Ishmael's sheath. As Sperry drifted off to sleep, he nestled deeper into Ishmael's neck and mused at how wonderful he would smell in the morning. "God," he whispered, "if you choose to take me now, I will be content."
A cold nose in his ear roused Sperry from a peaceful dream. Ishmael was sitting up beside him. The moon had dropped almost to the horizon; it was after 7 a.m. and still dark. It was time to go home, and with that thought, Sperry was struck by a wave of melancholy. He couldn't bear to leave Ishmael behind, although he knew Ishmael was in little danger of finding food and, eventually, would join or form a pack of his own. He also knew the sled dogs were trained to alert the miners to the presence of wolves and bears, and Ishmael would probably attack the sled dogs anyway. There would be a conflict if he brought the wolf back to camp.
Of course, there was already a conflict, and nothing was to be gained by ignoring it. Most likely, he would be set adrift from this mining camp as well, and would find work someplace else. He would drift from camp to camp, up and down the Yukon, running one step ahead of his reputation, until his secret was inevitably discovered and his exodus encouraged once again. And through it all, he would have no one to count on but himself.
And...Ishmael.
Sperry looked down at the wolf. "You're coming home with me, my friend." Ishmael gazed up intently at Sperry. He might not have understood the words, but the sentiment spoke volumes. Sperry dropped to his knees and hugged Ishmael firmly around the shoulders. Ishmael broke free of the grasp, then planted his forepaws against Sperry's chest and shoved him to the ground, bending over him and panting in his face. Sperry grasped the wolf's head in both hands and gave it a friendly shake. "Yes, you're coming home."
Naturally, the sled dogs were the first to notice. They let out one hell of a racket, as though the Confederates had not only defeated the Union troops, but had also decided to sack the Yukon. Ishmael growled back at them, but a firm yank on the rawhide Sperry had turned into a shoulder harness let him know that wasn't going to work. The sled dogs were all tied to their stakes, anyway, as was traditional procedure, so there was little risk of a fight as long as Sperry was able to hold the wolf back.
The other miners emerged from the cabin, armed to the teeth, only to see Sperry leading a big, black wolf by a leather strap. Their first reaction was, of course, to shoot the animal, but somehow Sperry's facial expression in the first light of dawn gave them pause. Sperry led the wolf straight to the man who had booted him out the night before and said in his firmest, most hangover-piercing voice, "This wolf is my responsibility, and none o' yer damn business. Harm him, and you'll answer to me."
"You gonna fuck 'im?"
Sperry leaned into the man's face. "Why don't you get down here and ask him yourself?" There was no response. "No? Then shut up and get out of my way. It's cold enough to freeze the...smile...off a big, black wolf." Sperry winked at them and, with Ishmael in tow, pushed his way through the crowd and into the warmth of the cabin. He had some serious packing to do.
Part Two
Sperry drank his coffee slowly, letting the heat filter into his toes and fingers. Saloon coffee wasn't known for its taste or quality, but it was hot, cheap, and plentiful, which suited Sperry's moods. The drawback was that it kept him awake at night; after a long day in the mines, sleep was a welcome event.
Ishmael slept at Sperry's feet, despite the objections of the bartender. "He doesn't bite," Sperry had said, then, to prove it, he'd pointed at the barkeep and said, "Bite!" Ishmael yawned and went to sleep. Sperry had taught him that. He smiled, and the bartender took care of another patron.
"What's his name?" asked a grizzled miner in the seat opposite him.
"Ishmael," replied Sperry. "He doesn't bite." He always said that; it saved time, because everyone asked.
Except the miner. "I know. I had a wolf pup just like that once. Black as coal at midnight. Sweet little thing."
"What was his name?"
The miner shook his head. "He never had a name. I stopped naming them after...I didn't have him long enough. But you don't want to hear my story."
Sperry noticed the man was drinking whiskey, and was on at least his fourth shot. "Sure I do."
The man set his whiskey down with a shaking hand, and his eyes grew distant. "A wolf pack came by and he ran off to join them. At least that's what the tracks said. I followed those little pawprints for hours. Then the snow just stole him away."
Sperry stared at the bar. "Well, if he's with his own kind, he should be okay."
The miner shook his head again. "No. He's probably strangled by now." He took another shot of whiskey and banged the empty glass on the bar, signaling for another.
Sperry put his coffee down and looked at the man in earnest. "Why?"
"He grew like a weed, and I couldn't get him collars fast enough. When he left, all he had on him was a piece of rope. He'd've reached the limit in a few months, and I don't think he'd've been able to claw it off." He started to bring the next glass to his lips, but Sperry stopped him with a hand on the man's arm. The man looked at Sperry's hand, then back at his face.
"When was this?" Sperry asked. "How long ago?"
"Next week it'll be fifteen months."
Sperry reached into his coat pocket, took out the collar he'd saved from a year ago, and laid it on the bar. The glass fell from the man's fingers and spilled onto the floor. Gingerly, his eyes now on Ishmael, he picked up the collar and with trembling fingers he traced out the barely-visible engraving on the tag. "By the grace of God," the man whispered. "By the grace of God."
Ishmael looked up and wagged his tail.