The Woolly Beast

The Woolly Beast

A short story by

MiCHAEL ASTiN

The boy wriggles into the beast and settles with a coo. Gentle claws rake his hair. He nuzzles his cheek against a woolly knee, suckles his thumb, and twirls musky tufts around a finger as he sinks into sleep.

He and the beast have shared the dank quarters for a questionable span of time. Huddled blindly, in the iron cage, in the pitch-dark cave. The heavy door isn’t locked but the boy and the beast have no desire to leave. Foul odors had faded long ago.

“The outside world is cruel.” The beast whispers in the boy’s mind, claiming, “We’re safe here.” Its baritone thrum differs from the boy’s own subconscious chatter, a frightening enchantment in the beginning of their living arrangement, which soothes the boy now.

His dreams are riddled with hazy, fragmented visions of an aloof mother. Sometimes she tells him whimsical stories. Sometimes she huddles in corners and weeps. Usually, her face flashes terror. His father hauls a tiny sibling in haste. A man whose touch could be as sweet as it was brutal during scenes that flip in a blink. A horse rears up, booming neighs before it clods away, fast as its hooves can drag the heavy cart in its thunderous wake. Dust rises from the ground, thick as fog. Cries echo among trees.

The family had fled their village after an obscured allegation, quickly packing, and departing in the middle of the night. They scattered when violent calamities disrupted the trail.

The stunned boy wandered the forest and tumbled into the brook that washed dirt, blood, and memories away. His mind shut out details of that tragic night, and a life which existed before it. He lost everything but gory fragments he can’t fully piece together.

The glaring sun rose behind the mountain, drawing his eye to the cave. He lumbered through the forest, crept inside, and crawled into the solemn cage. A boulder rolled across the entrance, shutting out the light. A puddle formed beneath him, and spread with his tears. The iron door creaked shut. Arms wrapped around him. He gasped and struggled. Too weak to call out. The beast squeezed him tighter as he squirmed. Its gravelly voice invaded his mind, softly echoing, “Shh—You are safe here.”

The boy worries this cordial imprisonment is some divine punishment, but the woolly companion eases his anxiety.

“You’ve done nothing wrong.” The beast assures him. “I saved you from them.” Over and over again.

“Why would you save me?” The boy asks. “Who are you—where did you come from—where did they go?”

“I’ve always been here. . . just for you,” the beast responds. “They won’t find you here.”

The boy doesn’t understand, or question its claims, but simply surrenders to trust his mysterious friend.

***

Muffled voices shake the boulder. The boy’s eyes flicker open.

Dust rains down. A sharp beam of light projects into the cave. Its scope slowly expands.

The beast snorts in the boy's subconscious. A breathy gust flushes goose-pimples over his skin. He squints searing eyes as a pool of light seeps toward them. Illuminating large gnarled feet. Wide splayed toes, with jagged yellow nails, sprouting from pale flesh covered in sparse brown fur traversing up its gangly legs.

The boy crawls forward. The tip of his nose bumps cold iron slats. He nudges the door. Iron squeals open on rusty hinges. The grating noise bounces throughout the cave.

The beast grunts and rushes out, stepping into the beam of light. Its monstrous frame blazes in an amber halo. It winces and raises an arm to shield its eyes, glinting fright, peering back at the shadow-shrouded cage.

“I’ll keep you safe.” The beast’s shaky voice proclaims.

“Thank you.” The boy says, with an unfamiliar croak in his hollow throat. He hasn’t spoken aloud in ages.

The beast scoops up dirt and fills the hole, blocking the light outside. It shuffles back to the cage and folds the boy into a tight embrace.

The iron door clanks shut.

“I’ll keep you safe.” The beast echoes.

The boy nestles against the beast, listening for those voices that have disappeared—wondering if they were just a dream—until he sinks to sleep again.

***

Moments, or hours, or days later, light floods the cave. The boy winces and surveys his cragged surroundings. The boulder is rolled aside. The beast isn’t there. Distant voices perk the boy’s ears. A stampede of children giggle and screech, gleefully. The boy crawls toward the exit, squinting stung eyes against the brutal sunlight. He pauses, but can’t sense the beast nearby. A wave of panic floods his chest. His heartbeat thrashes behind his ribs and in his ears. He calls out in his mind. “Where are you?”

The beast doesn’t answer. The inner-chamber, where they usually meet, echoes hollow.

Joyful sounds of playful children close in. A rambunctious trio bounce out from the trees.

The boy cowers back into the shadows. He spies upon them while they laugh and chase each other around the clearing. They dart back into the forest, out of sight, heading toward the burbling brook.

The boy follows. He loses sight of them, but his ears keep track of their whereabouts. He prowls through leafy shelter—maintaining a safe distance—until he spies the children prancing barefoot, splashing in shallow water. He sniffs at wafts of their fresh scent. Infected by their laughter, a smile cracks his face. He leans into a tree, snapping a twig beneath his toe.

The children freeze, like fawns caught in the sight of a hunter, gawking in his direction.

“Who’s there?” The tallest calls out. Her pale yellow hair is twisted into plaits that wrap her head like a crown. Bejeweled with tiny white flowers.

“Come out from behind that tree.” The middle child demands. A boy with brassy ringlets blanched by the sun.

The smallest girl with a ratted nest of curls—pale-yellow as the eldest—shyly scuffles behind her guardian, peeking fearfully through the trees.

The boy swallows a thick knot in his throat, and lurches into their view.

Their faces twist, soured by the sight of him.

His neck and face flush hot.

The brass-haired boy plants himself in front of his distressed companions, furrowing his brow and puffing up his chest. He growls fiercely, “Who are you?”

The wild boy gawks at the children. His tongue is tied in a knot that won’t go down.

The triad study him with impatient scowls.

He peers down at his own filthy clothes, tattered and shredding at their hems, shrunken to his notably grown body. The lace of his tunic is just a dangling thread. His limbs, once stout, are now long and gangly. Sprouting dark woolly hairs that weren’t there before. His nails, yellow and jagged. His hands and feet are twice the size he remembers seeing them being. Nearly presenting as an adult, but he is just a boy. How had he not felt such drastic changes in his own body? He puzzles.

“What’s your name?” The tall girl asks.

The boy shrugs and responds. “I don’t know.” His voice cracks, tottering over the deep crevice between child and manhood.

“You don’t know?” the brass-haired boy scoffs.

The smallest girl cautiously steps out from behind her brazen shield.

The eldest child asks, “You don’t have a name?” Her face softens with skepticism.

“Maybe.” The boy responds. “I can’t remember.”

The children hold silent counsel amongst each other, exchanging subliminal messages—psychic whispers the boy cannot detect—then they look back upon him.

“I am Magda,” the eldest says. She points at the brass-haired boy, “That is Claric”—and then the youngest—“and this is Sersha.” She pats the small girl’s curly nest.

“Would you like to play with us?” Claric asks.

The wild boy’s eyes spark and he nods enthusiastically, accepting their invitation.

“What should we call you?” Claric slowly traipses a wide arc around the group, eyeing the boy.

“Scraps!” Sersha shouts.

“Like our old mu. . .” Magda queries, biting back her words. “What do you think of Scraps?” She smirks.

“I like it.” The boy replies, gleefully.

The children giggle, insidiously.

Ignoring the jest he’s not privy to, the boy joins their game of chase, and they disperse into the forest trailing laughter that bounces about the trees.

“Over here, Scraps!” Cleric calls.

“No—over here!” Sersha shouts.

***

The children play for hours—chasing, laughing, and tumbling over the forest floor—until grey clouds blanket the sun and darken the sky.

A drop of rain splats Scraps’ cheek and trickles off his chin.

A distant rumble shakes the ground and sky.

The group halt where they stand.

“We should get home.” Magda exclaims, and turns to Scraps. “Where do you live? You’re not from our village—are you?” Her energy shifts cold, like the air ushering in the coming storm.

He does not answer.

A white flash ignites the sky—chased by its booming companion.

“Do you live here—in the forest?” Sersha puzzles.

He remains silent, instinctively.

Magda’s eyes narrow, and she tilts her head.

Claric folds his arms across his chest, bites his lip, and lifts the edge of a brow.

Scraps’ skin crawls with static.

“Oh!” Magda blurts. “You’re that boy”—she throws burst eyes at her siblings and wags a finger at him.

Sersha whimpers and darts behind Claric.

“You’re that beast who murdered a boy!” Magda charges. “They say your whole family was slaughtered in this forest”—she wings her arms around her younger siblings—“You’re alive?”

“I’m—“ The boy chokes on a swig of air.

Claric scoops up a gnarled twig and waves it like a sword. “Stay back, Monster!” he hollers.

The sky strobes bright-white, and booms, as clouds release pelting spears of water.

“I did not. . . I, I wouldn’t,” the boy yells.

The drenched children cower.

“Git back.” Claric hollers. His voice drowns in the downpour. “Stay away from us!”

The siblings back away.

The feral boy’s body roils with confusion and rage. Static air lifts every hair on his body and a husky growl rises up from the depths of his belly. His fists clench and his brows furrow. Breaths heave his chest. He shakes his head wildly. Possessed. He transforms into his beastly companion.

Flashes of terror strike the children’s faces. Like his family. They shriek and race away. Fast as their bare feet can move. Like hooves pounding the ground.

The boy stomps forward, poised like a predator, ready to chase.

“Stop!” The beast shouts in the boy’s head, “come back.” Its voice barely cuts through the pelting rain and boiling rapids clamouring the boy’s veins.

“Where have you been?” The boy roars back in his thoughts.

“I’m always right here.” The beast responds with its soothing thrum.

The boy’s cumbersome feet plod through the drenched forest. He lumbers over the spongy soil. Mud squishes between his toes. The sky flashes and booms, chasing him all the way home. Tears merge with the water ravining down his face.

He stomps into the cave and collapses in the cold iron cage. He folds his knees to his chest, and bows his face, sobbing. Water and tears flow down gangly legs and puddle from his beastly toes. His breathless chest aches as his heart pounds his ribs.

The lightning and thunder grow distant outside, but the downpour persists.

The boy scans the cave through blurry eyes. “Where are you?” He searches the inner-chamber of his mind.

Shadows rustle. The boulder rolls over the entrance. The cave is dark again.

“I’m here.” The beast responds.

The boy hides his face in his knees. His sobs echo off dank walls.

Arms squeeze. A comfort against the cold.

The boy leans in, nuzzling his nose in woolly flesh, he inhales a familiar musk, and presses his ear against prickly skin, listening for the soothing lullaby of a beating heart.

Gentle claws rake his hair.

“I’ll keep you safe.” The beast's telepathic whisper assures him.

A finger swipes the wetness from his cheeks.

He curls into a ball, suckles his thumb, and twirls a tuft around his finger. Cooing, as he drifts to sleep.

The End.