Hour of the Wolf – Chapter 3

Baxter’s head was aching something fierce when he opened his eyes and found himself staring at unfamiliar beams with dust clinging to old cobwebs, as he felt his whole body throbbing in pain from a dozen and more different locations. None hurt as much as his chest though. Above him, the sun made it through gaps on the thatch and he quietly wondered who still had thatched roofs on their houses in a day and age where gas lamps would light up the streets of London and the iron rails took people across the country. And as drowsiness of sleep slowly filtered out of his mind he realized that, indeed, he had no idea whose roof that was, because he had no idea where he was. A moment was taken to remember the events of the previous night. The monstrous beast in the barn, his missed shot and his foolish charge into the woods in pursuit of it. After that, his memory was more than a little fuzzy. He had found the beast in the woods and tried to shoot it but then he had not, for some reason. And then he was attacked and fell. Or did he fall first and was attacked after? He couldn’t say, but he lifted his hand to touch his aching chest and found the rough feeling of bandages around it.

Strange bed, bandages. He started to piece together what might have happened to him after his fall. But it didn’t make any sense to him still. Who else but Gideon would be searching for him in the woods? And if Gideon had found him, why was he not back at the Golden Hind? As those questions bubbled to the surface, he turned his head and looked around the hut. Despite the thatched roof, the walls were made of stone, very old stone. The type of masonry that he would more often see in ruined country homes and farms around the Welsh countryside. He saw a very old and little rusty musket on the side of the home, and his own pistol laying beside it, but there were also other tools around. Tools of a hunter, like skinning knives and a cleaver, traps and woodcutting axe. A cauldron was hanging in a fireplace, and the fire was out but embers were still burning. Cooking utensils hung on the wooden mantle above the fireplace of cobbled stone with a little bit of mortar in between, and antlers decorated the top of the only doorway in and out. The hut had but two small windows on either side and the wooden shutters, crude as they were, were firmly closed. There was no sign of who the other occupant was, but Baxter could hear something outside; distant thumps, often followed by a dry cracking sound. Some of the louder sounds produced an echo in a way that only dense forest could. Wherever he was, he was nowhere near civilization.

He was hearing the sound of someone breaking firewood for fuel, he reckoned after longer than he cared to admit to figure it out. He tried to get up in the bed, but his slashed and bruised ribcage felt heavy, and his torso did not want to bend. So, he stayed there, laying and watching the ceiling for what felt like an eternity, but perhaps it was closer to half an hour. Then the sound of the axe outside stopped, and in minutes he was hearing footsteps approaching the cabin’s door. The only entrance was fairly close to where his pistol was laying, and Baxter thought about lunging for his gun before the door could open, so he’d have an advantage over whoever was coming. But that was wishful thinking, he would never make it on time and besides, his enemies were beasts, not any man. If someone had brought him there with ill intention, why would they have seen to his wounds? Why go through the trouble of bandaging him? And surely they would remember to tie him down if they meant to keep him prisoner.

The door opened, casting a lot of sunlight inside the cabin and only then Baxter noticed how dim it was with both of the small windows closed. But soon a shadow blocked out most of the small door, and a man entered. He held a large bundle of firewood in his arms, more than Baxter had any hope of carrying, and wore a rolled-up cotton shirt over a simple vest. His dark hair was mostly loose, except for the front, which had been wrapped around his head and loosely tied behind it, and he had a short beard that still hinted at the strong line of his jaw underneath. As he entered, he glanced towards the bed and seeing the Baxter was up, only dipped his head and knelt by the fireplace without saying a sword, to begin piling the firewood into a triangular form. His pants squeezed tight around his thighs as they seemed to bulge out with muscle, and his arms and chest also carried some bulk. Judging by his calloused large hands and how worn out his practical leather boots were, Baxter reckoned he was probably a woodsman, and the simple dwelling he found himself in ought to be his home.

“Well met, uh… Sir… I suppose I ought to thank you for pulling me out of the woods and tending to my wounds, right?” Baxter spoke, trying to sound more confident and calm than he actually felt, feeling for some reason that that was very important.

The woodsman didn’t raise his head from his firewood piling activity, only giving a mild lift of his shoulders and then speaking with a low, grave voice:

“Suppose so.”

Baxter was a bit astonished by his laconic manners, and he found himself more than a little flustered by the unexpected lack of civility. He reminded himself to be patient, after all, a man like that likely didn’t spend much of his time around people, and a lifetime spent mostly in the silent company of trees and beasts probably had made him a little rough around the edges. Baxter cleared his throat, reckoning it was his own fault for being too roundabout with his gratefulness.

“I just meant to say ‘thank you’,” he concluded.

“Should’ve said it, then”

He couldn’t see his own cheeks but if the feeling of burning on them was any indication, he would reckon himself red as a cherry right about that moment. Even pushing through the pain, he raised himself from the bed to sit down, shaking his head a bit more vigorously than he meant to.

“I… Let me start anew…”

“ ‘Cause you did so great first time ‘round, eh?”

Baxter's mouth opened and a series of syllables did slip from it, but they trampled on each other and failed to fall into formation to conjure the semblance of a word, let alone a sample, and after hearing the routing mess that poured from his own mouth, he just shut up. He looked perplexed at the man who that whole time had not lifted his head or reacted in much of any way to his presence and attempts at showing gratitude. He had known people who weren’t graceful in offering their thanks when aid was lent and some that weren’t good in asking for help either. But that was the first time he had to deal with someone who was difficult when gratitude was being so freely and easily offered. If walking away indignantly was in the cards, young master Payne might have done just that, but it was evident that he wouldn’t make two steps out of bed before collapsing out of weakness or pain.

But as his eyes lingered indignantly on the uncouth man stocking his fuel by the fireplace, he was visited by a very similar feeling that he experienced at the sight of the innkeeper’s son at the Golden Hind, but far stronger in how it quickly caused a warm tingle down his body, and especially below his waist. Baxter had to turn his head away to avert the gaze as if otherwise his eyes would not veer from those strong arms.

“Must you be so difficult all the time?”

“No, it’s entirely voluntary,” he responded, beating his hands from the dust of fresh-cut wood and using his teeth to pull a splinter from his thumb.

As he spat it and stood, Baxter couldn’t help but marvel at his size. It was clear now that he stood that he had a bit of a gut and there was a softness to his chest, but that only made Baxter’s heart race faster, for reasons unknown to him, but which felt deeply rooted. His mind imagined what lay under the shirt and vest, and how it likely glistened with sweat under the lattice pattern of light and shadow cast by the forest canopy on him when he worked.

Baxter found himself lifting his knees slightly to try and hide the consequences of such thoughts from showing through the sheets. He had not thought much about it, but now that his attention had gone further down, he realized he was left without pants, wearing only his undergarments. And his distraction with his own body was enough to pull his mind away from the man’s manners, or lack thereof, and in the moment of lingering silence, he finally spoke first:

“You must be thirsty.”

For some reason, that first struck Baxter as an accusation, although the tone didn’t indicate such. His mouth did feel a little dry, so he nodded. The man moved to take a small dented metal mug and walk outside. Baxter heard the sound of something being dunked in water before he emerged with the cup full to the brim, and dripping on the floor, his shirt and pants. Baxter took it, and at the first contact of fresh water with his lips, he realized just how thirsty he was. He drank it all, in large gulps, barely giving himself any time to swallow before taking in the next, and exhaled in enjoyment after.

“Thank you. I needed it,” Baxter said, handing back the mug.

“Not so hard, is it?”

“What isn’t?”

“Saying ‘thank you’.”

Baxter felt a surge of embarrassment and mild rage rising from his chest before his sharp hunter eyes caught the slightest hint of a curl on the edge of the man’s lips. And he huffed realizing that he was being teased that whole time.

“You’re… Pulling my leg.”

“Aye.”

“That’s hardly the way to treat a guest,” Baxter chided, not too sincerely.

“Perhaps. But it's amusing.”

Baxter furrowed his brow and tried to judge if he was being mocked or friendly jousted, and he couldn’t make a decision, but the ridiculousness of the situation caused him to laugh, and the man laughed with him, along with a gruff and short but seemingly heartfelt snort.

“I’m Baxter Payne.”

“Baxter…” His host and rescuer pondered on that name for a moment before he offered his, “Calhoun.”

“Just Calhoun?”

“Do you need more than that? I don’t.”

“Well, I reckon not. I just didn’t want to disrespect you by using your first name and…”

“It's my name, why would it be disrespectful?”

“Never you mind. Calhoun will do.”

“It will have to.”

Baxter rolled his eyes impatiently and tried to get up from the bed, only to wince in pain and move to rest his back against the headboard. And then with a look around the cabin, he noticed what he should have noticed long before. This was the only bed in the dwelling. Despite how boorish Calhoun had been, the fact that he had given out his only bed to tend to someone wasn’t lost on Baxter. The young man decided that he could deal with the fact that Calhoun's manners needed much tuning, even if it grated him, considering all that had happened.

“I’m staying at the Golden Hind. Do you know it?”

“Aye, everyone around here does.”

“My master is staying there too. Master Gideon Payne… If you could send word that I’m alive and well, I’m sure he will send for me and reward you for your efforts in rescuing me.”

“Will he, now?”

Baxter paused, not wanting to make any empty promises that Gideon might not keep. But he could not see his master not showing some gratitude in the form of currency for someone who saved him from certain death in the wilderness. What he’d do with Baxter though, that was another matter entirely. He was sure he had some harsh punishment coming his way for his foolishness. And much deserved it would be too, but that didn’t make him wince less at the thought.

“I’m sure he will.”

“You don’t look eager to see him.”

“Ah… For a man of the woods without much social tact, you are quite apt at reading people, aren’t you?”

“Nay, just you. It might surprise you to learn you don’t hide it well, Baxter Payne.”

“Please, just Baxter.”

“Oh, here I thought it was rude to use just one’s first name.”

Baxter was once again flustered by how Calhoun turned his words against him. He might be lacking manners, but it was clear he was quick of wit, and Baxter was sure he was intelligent too, at least in what came to the affairs of a woodsman.

“Never short for an answer, are you?”

“Suits us fine, since you don’t seem to run out of questions.”

“Fine, will you send word to the Hind or not?”

“Aye, I will. But it shall have to wait until the morrow or the day after. I shall not go into town beforehand.”

“What? No, no, that won’t do. Gideon will think I’m dead.”

“Then it shall be a pleasant surprise to learn you're not. Besides, in a couple of days, you shall be able to make the trip on your own.”

“And until then, will I stay here?”

“Seems that way.”

“Much as I appreciate your hospitality, I must refuse it.”

“Don’t see how you're gonna do that.”

“I can’t stay here! And what about you? There’s only one bed.”

“Only one of us is bedridden, aye? Won’t be my first time sleeping on a hard floor. Not even the first time this week.”

Baxter sighed and shrugged. He pushed himself against the pain so that his feet left the bed and Calhoun only looked at him with a mild frown of disapproval. And then the young man tried to stand up and found with a sharp pain that his swollen ankle wasn’t proper to stand on. He wobbled, placing a hand on the side of the fireplace for balance and lifting his leg, but then he felt himself losing balance and about to fall forth. And that was when Calhoun's strong arms captured him, stopping his face from being abruptly acquainted with the floorboards and instead it ended up buried into the middle of that large torso, which was both soft and hard at once. The smell of Calhoun’s sweat was not unpleasant as it invaded Baxter’s nostrils, and he found himself shuddering as the man shifted his grip to loop it under his legs and place him on the bed. Carrying him like a bride for a distance of no more than a couple of steps before laying him down.

But at that moment, the contrast between them couldn’t be more evident. Baxter was scrawny and small, with barely any hair on his body, despite being nineteen summers. And those that were there were barely visible as his light blond hair was basically silver below the neck. His undergarments only covered him from waist to knee, and the bandages gave some modesty, though not much, to his flat and smooth chest. There was some vague athleticism on his physique, out of carrying heavy things across difficult terrain for his master and paternal figure. And while he had started to grow stubble, it was barely visible and sparse.

Calhoun, however, had dark blond hairs across his arms and peeking from the drawstring collar of his shirt. Up close, Baxter could tell that he was younger than he looked at a glance. Still older than him no doubt, but younger than Gideon and the innkeeper and while it was hard to say for sure with a man so serious and with such wisdom in his eyes, he would’ve placed him in his early thirties. And beyond the smell of sweat clinging to his clothes, he smelled like the forest; earthy scents with piney notes and something else, deeper and darker, that Baxter couldn’t place.

And at that moment, cradled in his arms and smelling the alchemy of his scent, something happened. Something inside him clicked like the tumblers on a loose lock when the key hits them just in the right position, and everything finally falls into place. He had the overwhelming realization of something that had always lingered there just below the surface and that he often pushed down hard whenever it tried to emerge. He wanted to kiss that man, he wanted those arms around him, and he wanted more than that. He wanted so much more than just that. As he was placed on the bed, over the sheets, there was very little room for Baxter to hide the sight of his erection, and he was a bit too stunned by the potency of his feelings to properly think of how to even do it for a few seconds. But Calhoun was either oblivious to the sight or, more likely, pretended to be, not to embarrass the other young man further.

“Listen,” Calhoun said, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “If you are that troubled by the thought of your master worrying about you for two days, I’ll go to town today and give word that you are well.”

“You will?”

“Under the condition you stay here and rest until you can stand on that leg proper,” Calhoun said in a tone that admitted no negotiation, “aye?”

“Aye,” Baxter nodded.

It was the best he thought he could get from the man, and he really didn’t have much option but to trust him. He grunted then and moved to one of his windows, tossing the shutter open to look into the sky.

“Not noon yet. I need to leave soon if I am to make it there and back ‘fore sundown…” Calhoun thought out loud, reaching towards the musket.

But instead of grabbing the gun, he took a large board that was next to it and placed it more visibly beside the door, and closer to the bed.

“If I don’t make it here before sundown, I want you to hop on your good leg, and bar the windows and doors, you hear me? Don’t take the bar off until morning.”

Baxter raised his brow in suspicion, but then he touched his chest where he felt the sharpest pain. Where, he was pretty sure, the creature had slashed at him before he fell. He didn’t ask why he ought to bar the door. Strangely, Calhoun looked a bit uncomfortable watching Baxter touch the wound, but he just dipped his head once and then turned towards the door, throwing it open and pausing for a moment.

“Oh, right…” He walked and reached for a cupboard above his workbench, pulling out a clay jar and two strips of dried meat, which he handed to Baxter. “Ought to eat, too.”

“What… Is this?”

“Venison jerky. Better than it looks.”

The injured lad nodded and then Calhoun was finally out of the door, closing it behind him as his heavy footsteps disappeared into the woods, leaving Baxter alone with his thoughts and two strips of dried meat. He took a large bite of one and began chewing slowly. It was not bad, but it had a powerful gamey flavour, even more than regular venison. Baxter would normally express some doubt about the ability of two thin strips of meat to hold him off for the day, but the truth was, he was full before he got to the end of the second one. And in no small part because he had to eat them so slowly and chew on the hard meat, that his jaw began to tire halfway through the second.

He thought he would struggle to pass the time being bedridden without a book in a strange cabin. But his body was exhausted, and with a full stomach and hearing only the forest birds chirping and the branches rustling in the distance, soon his lids were growing heavy and he settled down for a midday nap. A luxury he could ill-afford on any other day, as Gideon had a personal crusade against anything that he deemed to be ‘lazy’ behaviour, a category that certainly included any sleep not done strictly in one’s bed at night time.

He drifted in and out of sleep a few times, and during the times when he was awake for an extended period, he found himself thinking of Calhoun and wondering exactly what had transpired after his fall. Did he lay there for hours, unconscious, until he was brought to the cabin? Did Calhoun find him only in the morning? If he was laying there for hours, how did the beast not find its way down to such easy prey to finish what it started and feast on his flesh? He reckoned he could try to ask a few of those questions to his saviour, but he doubted the laconic man would have much to say in response.

And then some of his thoughts went into Calhoun’s body and the scent of his musky smell. And before he knew it, his hand was moving down towards his breeches, and he caressed the pulsing form of his cock through the fabric, picturing the moment when Calhoun had carried him onto the bed, but in his mind, he climbed onto it after him and pressed that large body over his, almost smothering him, but letting all that heat transfer between them and… And then he wasn’t sure what would happen next. But he pictured that beard scratching his neck, and his collarbone, and his own mouth on the man’s chest. And as he did, he pushed himself off his undergarments to begin stroking himself, hard and fast.

Pre-cum dripped from the tip of his cock and down into his hands and it had been ages since the last time he had time to touch himself like that. He and Gideon often shared a room and he would never dare to do such a thing in front of the man that was basically his father. Opportunities were rare, and this seemed like one if he ever saw it. But as his cock twitched and he stroked himself harder, picturing Calhoun’s mouth on its way down towards his member, he heard a snap of a branch outside and immediately stopped.

It was still daytime, though he reckoned it was late afternoon. He listened for any further sounds, like footsteps or Calhoun’s voice, but there was nothing. Just the sound of the woods as it had been all day. He swallowed dry, picturing the beast that lurked in the woods, and wondered if it was strictly nocturnal. So far its habits had been so, but he couldn’t be sure.

He got up, with some effort, limping on one leg and moving towards the workbench, to grab his pistol, and carefully he verified if it was loaded. It was, he decided with a sigh of relief, as he wasn’t sure where Calhoun might stock powder and shot in case he needed to reload. He should have some though, given the musket by the door. With the pistol in hand, Baxter limped back to the bed and tucked himself back into his pants, frustrated, but now too scared of what might be lurking outside the cabin.

It was still daylight outside though, so he didn’t bar the door, but he did close the window Calhoun had left open, for whatever protection that could offer. And sitting by himself in the forest, for the first time in many years, he felt truly alone and scared.

And then, the night fell. It was hard to notice at first, but the sun filtering through the cabin began to dim, and by the time Baxter realized that, he also realized he’d have little time to make himself a source of light if he didn’t want to sit alone in pitch-black darkness. Calhoun thought he could return before nightfall, had something gone wrong? Had the beast got to him?

That wasn’t useful. With great effort, Baxter knelt by the fireplace and used the iron stoker to turn around the ash, hoping for live embers. At first, it seemed as if all of them had burned out during the day, but he found some, and gathered them together in the middle of the fireplace, placing a few logs over them and taking a few wood scraps and putting them in between. Some blowing with his mouth, and then with the bellows hanging by the side, and soon the flames were roaring. By that time, darkness on the outside was complete, and the day birds had been replaced by cicadas, crickets and avians of a more nocturnal persuasion. Baxter barred the doors and windows and sat on the bed, knowing fully well that if the beast tracked his scent there, it was strong enough to break through the door and withstand the single shot in his gun.

He clutched the pistol tightly with both hands and while he didn’t believe in prayers, he considered offering one to whatever entity might be listening, if any, that Calhoun returned soon. He knew the things that lurked in the dark, and he would much rather have the strong lad by his side if any came through that door.

Time passed slowly when one was bored, but even slower when one was terrified, and Baxter couldn’t say how long he sat there, only by firelight, before he heard steps coming from the outside. Slowly and carefully, his imagination for the worse was too stoked to clearly know whether it was human or beast that lurked. But the steps came towards the cabin, that he was sure. He waited, and then he heard a knock on the door.

Beasts didn’t knock, he reckoned, so he stood and walked towards it, but he still stayed on the edge of the door, sprained ankle in the air, as he asked:

“Who’s there?”

“Calhoun,” the familiar voice said, seemingly unbothered by Baxter’s caution.

He pulled off the bar and limped back so that the door would open. Calhoun had his eyes open wide and his breath was altered, but Baxter thought he ought to have rushed through the dark woods. He expected to see the man holding a lantern or torch, but as he entered and closed the door behind himself, Baxter found the absence of a source of light too weird not to take notice.

“You barred the doors, you did well. Listen, I think something might be prowling around…” Calhoun said as he knelt to put two more logs in the fire. “I’ll go take a look, but don’t worry about me. Just stay inside, alright? I’ll be back in a spell.”

“Wait, wait…” Baxter reached to lean on the taller man’s shoulder before he left. “Did you speak with Gideon?”

“I left a message with Oliver, he will relay it.”

“Oliver?”

“Oh… Grover. Oliver Grover.”

“Ah…” Baxter thought of the Grover patriarch that tended to the Golden Hind and nodded. “That should work… But still, you can’t go out now.”

“Trust me, it’s fine…”

“No, no… You haven’t seen what’s out there. If I told you, you wouldn’t believe but it’s no mere wolf, Calhoun. Just… Stay indoors with me, please.

“I really can’t… Everything will be well, just go lay down.”

Calhoun seemed to grow increasingly uneasy as Baxter leaned on him, but the smaller man wasn’t so keen on being left alone. Even less so with the idea of his saviour being gutted by the strange beast prowling the Briarwold.

“Calhoun, please… Listen, this thing, it’s different than anything you have ever seen, it's…”

And then Baxter moved his hand down across his shoulder and Calhoun winced in pain. Baxter removed his hand immediately, but an awful gut feeling started to rise in his belly. He noted where exactly the pain had started, and looked at Calhoun with some confusion.

“Why do you want to go out there, in the dark, so badly?”

“I just want to make sure you are… That we are safe. It’s nothing.”

Baxter had not survived his long as Gideon's apprentice by being gullible. Some creatures had guile, and some had guise. The more fearsome of all had both. He reached down deliberately to the spot he touched before and poked at it with his hand.

“Ouch! What are you…”

Right on the shoulder blade. One of the two spots Gideon had shot the creature. Baxter’s spine went cold with fear and Calhoun's eyes met his. And in that moment he knew what the man was. And Calhoun knew that he knew.

Baxter tried to reach for his pistol, to lift it for a point-blank shot into Calhoun’s stomach, but his wrist was captured and the gun pointed away. Baxter tried to fight him, but he was so strong. Stronger even than his size would suggest. Calhoun pushed him a couple of steps back, always keeping the gun away until Baxter felt himself pressed against the back wall.

“You! You are the beast!”

“You don’t know,” Calhoun said with effort in his voice.

He wasn’t struggling to hold Baxter against the wall. There was something else he was fighting. And then he tightened his grip on Baxter’s wrist, and as his hand opened in pain, he grabbed the gun and yanked it out of reach. Baxter tried to lunge for it, but Calhoun placed a hand on his chest and with one hand pushed him against the wall while keeping the pistol away.

“Release me, beast!”

“Stop this… You don’t know, Baxter.”

“But I do! I know you’re the beast! You tried to kill me! Gideon shot you and you tried to kill me.”

“I tried to save you!” Calhoun roared.

And silence fell onto the cabin at that admission. Baxter knew it, of course, but now that it had been said out loud, it had become much more real. The smaller man swallowed dry and looked at Calhoun. He ought to be terrified. And he felt fear, yes, but he felt also something else. That large hand on his chest, how it kept him there, but was otherwise gentle with pressure. Those eyes, deep with wisdom. His scent. His presence. He was a beast, a devourer, so why had he not devoured Baxter yet? What else was hiding beneath his skin?

“W-why?” Baxter asked finally.

Calhoun didn’t answer, his breathing was coming in short bursts and he was starting to sweat, despite the night not being that cold. He was fighting something. The beast, perhaps? Calhoun looked like a man right now, so maybe he was one? Maybe he and the beast co-inhabited that body? His question lingered in the air because Calhoun was many miles away, fighting something unseen. And moved by instinct, or perhaps desperation as he stared at the final moments of his life, Baxter pushed his head forward and sealed his lips onto Calhoun’s mouth.

The kiss was awkward and clumsy, and the best he could do, but he opened his lips and pushed his tongue forward and the man was paralyzed, not flinching away and not giving into it, for far too long. And then his breath stabilized, his eyes closed and he opened his mouth. The hand on Baxter’s chest relaxed. And the pistol was simply dropped, clattering on the floor. Baxter felt a hand on his waist, holding his weight to give his healthy leg a break, as the large chest pressed against his, and something else, soft but quickly hardening, pressed against his stomach.

And then, there was a howl outside. Not nearly as far as Baxter would be comfortable with. And there was something malicious. Almost like a challenge, in that howl. And Calhoun broke from the kiss, stepping back from Baxter and his short, shallow breaths returned. He roared again, in a voice deeper than normal.

“Bar the door. Open it for no one but me…”

And with those words, Calhoun opened the door, taking off his vest on the way out and dashing into the night, leaving a terrified, confused and aroused Baxter to limp towards it and bar it. 

And as the fireplace crackled, he still heard the wind outside, but no more birds or cicadas. Only silence, broken by Calhoun’s voice screaming first in wailing pain, and then inhuman growling. And then heavily padded feet dashing away into the dark night.

And Baxter was once again alone, and even more terrified.