Alice Borchardt - The Silver Wolf

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THE SILVER WOLF

By

Alice Borchardt

TO

MY BELOVED HUSBAND

CLIFFORD BORCHARDT

"See those fireflies dancing?

That's what I want to do:

dance in the moonlight,

sing to the stars,

jump straight up at the moon."

I did with you.

Chapter One

THE SUN WAS GOING DOWN. THE FIERY CIRCLE shone past the acanthus-crowned columns

of a ruined temple. They cut the incandescent ball into slices of red radiance.Almost night , the girl

thought, then shivered in the chill autumn air blowing through the unglazed casement.

The window was barred—heavily barred. One set running horizontally, the other vertically. The bars

were bolted into the stone walls of the tiny room.

She knew she could close the window. Reach out through the bars. Pull the heavy shutters shut, and seal

them with the iron bolt. But she pushed the idea out of her mind with a sort of blind obstinacy. The sight

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of freedom, even an unattainable freedom, was too sweet to give up.

Not yet, she told herself,only a little longer. Not yet .

The air that raised gooseflesh on her arms was sweet to her nostrils. Oh no, more than sweet. A

speaking thing. Each vagrant increase in flow, each slight change in direction, each passing movement

sent images to the deepest part of her mind.

Somewhere a patch of thyme bloomed. The tiny blue flowers let down their fragrance into the chill

evening air. This delicate scent was mixed with the heavy smell of wet marble and granite. These and

many others stood out against the tapestry of odors given off by the flowers and greenery that cloaked

the ruined palaces and temples of the ancient imperium.

The vast restless spirit of this, the greatest of all empires, seemed at last brought to rest at the soft hand

of the great green mother herself.

Regeane didn't know what she'd expected of the once-proud mistress of the world when she'd come

toRome . Certainly not what she found.

The inhabitants, descendants of a race of conquerors, lived like rats squabbling and polluting the ruins of

an abandoned palace. Oblivious to the evidence of grandeur all around them, they fought viciously among

themselves for what wealth remained. Indeed, little was left of the once-vast river of gold that flowed into

the eternal city. The gold that could be found gilded the palms of papal officials and the altars of the many

churches.

Regeane's mother, desperate to save—as she saw it—her daughter's soul, pawned what few jewels she

had left. The money was sufficient to pay the bribes necessary to obtain a papal audience and finance the

equally expensive papal blessing.

Regeane had gone into the awesome presence, her body drenched in a sweat of terror. If her ailing

mother said the wrong thing to the church's leading prelate, she might find herself being burned or stoned

as a witch. But as she approached the supreme pontiff, she realized just how foolish her fears had been.

The man before her was a ruin. Ready to be taken by age and sorrow. She doubted if he understood

much of anything said to him. Weeping, her mother implored the intercession of God's chief minister on

earth with the Almighty. As the ever-dutiful Regeane knelt, kissed the silken slipper, and felt the withered

hands pressed against her hair she caught a whiff of a scent other than the thick smell of incense and

Greek perfume that pervaded the room: the musty, dry smell of aging flesh and human decay.

God, it was powerful.He is ready to die , she thought.He will go speak on Mother's behalf to God in

person very soon . She knew this blessing, as all other blessings her mother, Gisela, had traveled so far

and squandered so much of her wealth to gain, would do no good.

This was the end. Regeane knew it. She was frightened. If the pope himself could not lift this strange

gesa from her and let her live as a woman, to what earthly power could she turn? More to the point, to

what power could her mother turn?

Gisela was fading as quickly as the only-too-human man on the chair of Peter. Though a comparatively

young woman, she was worn down by the string of fruitless journeys she had taken with Regeane and by

some secret sorrow that seemed to fill her mind and heart with a bottomless wellspring of grief.

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Regeane lied. Her mother believed. And for the first time in many years, Regeane felt the tiny woman

who had traveled so far and borne so many burdens was at peace. Regeane's lie carried Gisela through

till the end.

Three days after the papal audience she had gone to awaken her mother and found Gisela would never

wake again. Not in this world.

Regeane was alone.

She watched with greedy eyes as the sun became a half circle, faded into a glow silhouetting the tall

cypresses of theAppian Way , followed by the deep blue autumn twilight. Then, and only then, did she

turn from the window and wrap herself in an old woolen mantle and return to her pallet bed. With the

exception of the low bed and a small, covered, brown terra-cotta pot in the corner, the room was bare.

Regeane sat on her bed, her shoulders against the stone wall, her legs dangling, head thrown back, eyes

closed. She waited silently for moonrise. The silver disc would be lifting itself above the seven hills now.

Soon, very soon, its journey across the sky would bring it to her window where it would throw a pool of

silver light on the floor. Ignoring the crosshatched black lines of bars, she could drink at that pool.

Allowed once more to breathe, if not to glory, in the air of freedom.

The door to the outer room slammed shut.Damnation . The girl on the bed scoured her mind for oaths.

No… curses . Young girl that she was, she was never allowed to speak them, but she could think the

words. And she often did. Oh, how she did when those two were present. There were worse things than

loneliness. Overall, Regeane felt she preferred silence and emptiness to the presence of either her Uncle

Gundabald or Hugo, his son.

"I pissed blood again this morning," Hugo whined. "Are all the whores in this city diseased?"

Gundabald laughed uproariously. "All the ones you pick up seem to be. It's as I told you. Pay a little

extra. Get yourself something young and clean. Or at least young, so all the itching and burning a few

days later are worth it. That last you bought was so old, she had to ply her trade by starlight. What you

save in cunt rent goes out in medicines for crotch rot."

"True enough," Hugo said irritably. "You always seem to do better."

Gundabald sighed. "I'm sick of trying to instruct you. Next time, retain at least a modicum of sobriety

and get a look at her in a good light."

"Christ, it's cold in here," Hugo said angrily. A second later Regeane heard him shouting down the stairs

for the landlord to bring a brazier to warm the room.

"It's no use, my boy," Gundabald told him. "She's left the window open again."

"I can't see how you stand it," Hugo grumbled. "She makes my skin crawl."

Gundabald laughed again. "There's nothing to worry about. Those planks are an inch thick. She can't get

out."

"Has she ever… gotten out, I mean?" Hugo asked with fear in his voice.

"Oh, once or twice, I believe, when she was younger. Much younger. Before I took matters in hand.

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Gisela was too soft. That sister of mine was a fine woman—she always did as she was told—but weak,

my boy, weak. Consider the way she wept over that first husband of hers when the marriage was so

abruptly… terminated."

"She divorced him?" Hugo asked.

"Ah, yes," Gundabald sounded uneasy. "To be sure, she divorced him because we told her to. She had

no choice in the matter. Even then, everyone could see Charles' mother was becoming a power at court.

There were many well-endowed suitors for Gisela's hand. The second was a much better marriage and

made us all wealthy."

"Now all that's gone," Hugo said bitterly. "Between you and Gisela, if our coffers have a miserable

copper in them we're lucky. You wanted to rub shoulders with all the great magnates of the Frankish

realm. To do that, you found out your shoulders had to be covered with velvet and brocade. And, oh

yes, they wanted to be feasted. Worse than a horde of vultures, they swarmed over your household

devouring everything in sight. And like vultures when the carcass was picked clean, they departed in a

cloud of stink and were never seen again."

"Whatever they missed, Gisela laid hands on, squandering it on relics, shrines, blessings, and pilgrimages,

trying to lift the curse from that wretched brat of hers. You told me to get myself something younger. I've

a good mind to pay that cousin of mine a visit… by day of course and—" Hugo screamed. "Father,

you're hurting me!"

Gundabald's reply was a snarl of fury. "You so much as touch that girl and I'll save us both a lot of

trouble and expense. I'll slice off your prick and balls. You'll be the smoothest eunuch between here

andConstantinople . I swear it. She's the one and only asset we have left and she—must—marry. Hear

me!"

Hugo howled again. "Yes, yes, yes. You're breaking my arm. Oh, God. Stop!"

Gundabald must have released him because Hugo's shouting ceased. When he did speak, he sniveled,

"Who would marry that… thing?"

Gundabald laughed. "I can name a dozen right now, who would kill to marry her. The most royal blood

ofFranca flows through her veins. Her father and mother both were cousins of the great king himself."

"And those same ones who'd kill to marry her will run a sword through both you and the girl the moment

they find out what she is."

"I cannot think how I got such a son as you as the fruit of my loins," Gundabald snarled. "But then your

mother was a brainless little twit. Perhaps you take after her."

Despite the sadistic nastiness of Gundabald's voice, Hugo didn't rise to the bait. Most of the people

around Gundabald quickly learned to fear him. Hugo was no exception.

"You liked the way we lived well enough when we were in funds. Vultures, eh! That's the pot calling the

kettle black. You fucked all night, fed all day, and drank with the best of them. Now, you leave things

you don't understand to your elders and betters. Shut up! And send for some food and wine—a lot of

wine. I want my supper, and I want to forget what's behind that door in the next room."

"It was a mistake to bring her here," Hugo said. His voice was high and nervous. "She's worse than

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ever."

"Christ Jesus! God!" Gundabald roared. "Even a dumb animal has the sense to do what it's told. Dolt

with the brains of a cobblestone! Shut up and at least get the wine. My God! I'm dying of thirst."

Marry, she thought listlessly. How could she marry? She didn't believe even a snake like Gundabald

would connive at something so dangerous. Or succeed if he tried. Her mother still had a little land left

inFranca , a few rundown villas. They generated only just enough money to feed and clothe the three of

them. But nothing she was heir to would be enough to attract the attention of any of the great magnates of

the Frankish realm.

As for her relationship to Charles—a king beginning already to be called the great—it was a rather

distant connection to his mother. The dear lady, Bertrada, had never even for one moment

acknowledged Regeane's existence. In fact, one of the things that endeared Bertrada to King Pepin the

Short was that she was followed by a whole tribe of relations. They approached the court ready to swing

their swords for church and king, not to mention their odd wagonload of loot that somehow didn't

manage to fall into the king's treasury.

Regeane was very much lost in the crowd. She had nothing to offer. She was poor, a woman, and not

beautiful. She didn't think there would be many takers for her hand in marriage. Yet if Gundabald could

find some poor mope to swindle, she had no doubt he would auction her off without the slightest

compunction and then leave her to her fate. She just didn't think he would find anyone. Besides,

Gundabald had, as they said, a hot throat and a cold prick. He wanted to cool the one and heat the other

as frequently as possible. To indulge himself he needed what little money came in from her estates. He

would certainly sell her, but not cheaply. It remained to be seen if he could get his price. At the moment,

she couldn't bring herself to care much one way or the other.

When the papal blessing proved fruitless, the thread of hope that had drawn her across the Alps and

sustained her in the difficult journey toRome … failed.

Gisela's death had been the final blow. She had been Regeane's only protection against a world that

would destroy her in an instant if it so much as guessed her secret—and against the worst excesses of

Gundabald's greed. She had been Regeane's only confidante and companion. Regeane had no other

friends, no other loves. She was now abandoned and utterly alone.

Dry-eyed, Regeane followed her mother's body to the grave. She was overcome by a despair so black,

it seemed to turn that bright day into bitter night.

Now a faint silver shadow appeared against the blackness of the floor.

There is nothing left but moonlight, Regeane thought.Drink it, drown in it. She will never reproach

me. I will never see her tears again or suffer because of them. Whatever may become of me, I am

alone .

She stood, stripped off her dress and shift, and turned toward the silver haze.

The gust from the window was icy, but pleasure wouldn't exist without the sharp bite of pain. Even the

brief flash of orgasm is too intense to be absolutely pleasurable. The cold caress was seduction, the quick

cruel touch that precedes pleasure.

Regeane went forward boldly, knowing that in a moment she would be warm. Naked, she stepped into

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the silver haze.

The wolf stood there.

Regeane was, as wolves go, a large wolf. She had the same weight as the girl, over a hundred pounds.

She was much stronger than in her human state—lean, quick, and powerful. Her coat was smooth and

thick. The pelt glowed silver as it caught the moonlight on its long guard hairs.

The wolf's heart overflowed with joy and gratitude. Regeane would never have admitted it in her human

state, but she loved the wolf and, papal blessing or not, she would never let the wolf go.

From the bottom of her heart, she reveled in the change. Sometimes, while in her human state, she

wondered who was wiser, she or the wolf. The wolf knew. Growing more beautiful and stronger year

after year, the wolf waited for Regeane to be ready to receive her teaching and understand it.

The silver wolf lifted herself on her hind legs and, placing her forepaws on the window sill, peered out.

She saw not just with eyes as these maimed humans did, but with sensitive ears and nose.

The world humans saw was like a fresco—dimensionless as a picture painted on a wall. To be believed

in by the wolf, a thing had to have not only image, but smell, texture, and taste.

Ah God… how beautiful. The world was filled with wonder.

The rain must have come in the evening. The wolf could smell the damp, black earth under the green

verdure as well as mud churned up by horses' hooves in a nearby lane.

The woman hadn't noticed it. She'd spent the day in grief-stricken reverie. For this she earned a brief

flash of contempt from the wolf. But the wolf was too much a creature of the present to dwell on what

was past. She was grateful for each moment. And this was a fine one.

Usually inRome , the scent of man overpowered everything else. That effluvia of stale perspiration, raw

sewage floating in theTiber , the stench of human excrement which, even by comparison to that of other

animals, is utterly vile. All these filled the air and pressed in around her. Overlaying them were the musty

omnipresent evidence of human dwellings: stale wood-smoke, damp timber, and stone.

But not tonight. The sharp wind blew from the open fields beyond the city, redolent of dry grass and the

sweetness of wild herbs growing on the hillsides near the sea.

Sometimes the fragrant breath from the Campagna carried the clean barnyard smells of pig and cattle,

and faintly, the enticing musk of deer.

The night below was alive with movement. The cats that made their homes among the ruins sang their

ancient songs of anger and passion among forgotten monuments. Here and there the slinking shape of a

stray dog met her eye; occasionally, even furtive human movement. Thieves and footpads haunted the

district, ready to prey on the unwary.

Her ears pricked forward and netted what her eyes could not see—the suade thump of a barn owl's

wings in flight, the high, thin cries of bats swooping, darting, foraging for insects in the chill night air.

The rush and whisper of the hunters and the hunted, silent until the end. The agonized death cry of a bird,

taken in sleep on the nest by a marauding cat, rent the air. The chopped-off shriek of a rabbit dying in the

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talons of an owl followed.

Those and many others were woven together by her wolf senses into a rich fabric that was unending

variety and everlasting delight.

The silver wolf dropped her forepaws to the floor with a soft, nearly inaudible cry of longing. Then her

lips drew back from her teeth in a snarl at the sound of voices in the other room.

Hugo and Gundabald were eating. The wolf's belly rumbled with hunger at the smell of roast meat. She

was hungry and thirsty, longing for clean water and food.

The woman warned her night side to rein in her desires. She would get nothing.

The wolf replied. They were both gone—the woman from her prison, the wolf from her cage. The wolf

stood beside a clear mountain lake. The full moon glowed silver in the water. All around the lake, black

trees were silhouetted against mountains glittering white with unending snow.

The memory faded. The wolf and woman found themselves staring at the locked door.

The wolf and woman both understood imprisonment. Regeane had spent most of her life behind locked

doors. She'd long ago learned the punishing futility of assaults on oak and iron. She ignored what she

couldn't change and bided her time.

They were speaking of her.

"Did you hear that?" Hugo asked fearfully. Hugo's ears were better than Gundabald's. He must have

heard her soft cry of protest.

"No," Gundabald mumbled through a mouthful of food. "I didn't and you didn't either. You only imagined

you did. She seldom makes any noise. That's one thing we can be grateful for. At least she doesn't spend

her nights howling as a real wolf would."

"We shouldn't have brought her here," Hugo moaned.

"Must you start that again?" Gundabald sighed wearily.

"It's true," Hugo replied with drunken insistence. "The founders of this city were suckled at the tits of a

mother wolf. Once they called themselves sons of the wolf. Ever since I found out about her I've often

thought of that story. A real wolf couldn't raise human children, but a creature like her…"

Gundabald laughed raucously. "A fairy tale made up by some strumpet to explain a clutch of bastard

brats. She wouldn't be the first or won't be the last to spin a wild story to cover her own… debauchery."

"You won't listen to anything," Hugo said petulantly. "She's gotten worse since we came here. Even

while her own mother was dying she…"

The silver wolf's lips drew back. Her teeth gleamed in the moonlight like ivory knives. Even in the wolf's

heart, Hugo's words rankled.

Pointless the smoldering anger. Pointless the brief, sad rebellion. The door stood between her and her

tormentors. The barred window between the magnificent creature and freedom.

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She began to pace as any caged beast will, obeying the wordless command: Stay strong. Stay healthy.

Stay alert. Fear not, your time will come.

Chapter Two

MAENIEL WAS A WORRIER. TODAY HE HAD A LOT OF worries as he stood on the half-ruined

gallery once intended for the delight of a Roman governor.

He envied the man, who had probably stood here once, taking the air and complacently surveying his

broad domains. Today, among other things, Maeniel worried about the hay. It didn't seem to be ripening

as fast as it should. And they needed that hay to carry them through the long, cold winter. Still, he sighed;

the man had been too powerful to worry about hay. He'd probably had other concerns, possibly even

more troubling than Maeniel's. Say, for instance, politics inRome .

"Politics inRome ," he muttered.

Gavin, the captain of his guard, sat dozing on a bench, his back against a mural of Perseus slaying

Medusa. The gorgon's head in the hero's hand glared at him. This didn't worry Gavin. Nothing worried

Gavin. He opened one eye and repeated, "What about politics inRome ?"

"I was just thinking that even though the Roman governor didn't worry about the hay as I do, he

probably worried about politics inRome ."

Gavin opened both eyes. "Let me get this straight. You left off worrying about the hay to worry about

what a long-dead Roman worried about?"

"Yes," Maeniel said.

"Thank you for clarifying that." Gavin closed his eyes. "Now if you don't mind, I'll go back to sleep."

"It doesn't seem to be ripening as quickly as usual," Maeniel persisted.

"The hay, or politics inRome ?" Gavin asked.

"The hay." Maeniel bit his lip.

Gavin sighed deeply, opened both eyes, and looked out over the surrounding countryside.

The land lay drowsing in the warm gold of the afternoon sun, a picture of tranquil, bucolic beauty. Three

prosperous villages lay scattered along the mountainside surrounded by tilled fields, their deep green just

beginning to bear the first tinge of autumn's rich red, brown, and gold.

Higher up against the face of the mountains were scattered flocks of sheep, goats, and cattle, fattening in

the high summer pasture. Beyond them, snowcapped peaks floated in delicate ethereal beauty against the

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Alice Borchardt - The Silver Wolf

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