The Grey

The Grey

Resembling a surly teenager, poised to unleash its unreasonable fury, the leaden clouds hang low in the pewter sky. It isn’t long before it makes good on this threat with a temper tantrum any two-year old would be proud of. Complete with a rain of crocodile tears, a wind howling like a banshee and the thunder of doors slamming.

Cerise is driving through this miserable weather because her grandmother, who she has never met, had written, asking her to come and “finally grow into who she’s supposed to be.” Whatever that means. She can’t ask her grandmother, because she died soon after writing that letter. Grandmother had left her a cottage, somewhere up here in the mountains. Cerice’s mother can’t or won’t say what her grandmother had meant, and her father had left one night but never came back. Cerise’s mother claimed he had been in an accident but wouldn’t tell her more, had hidden her grief in hard work and silence.

Cerise's father had been full of laughter, mischief and fairy tales. He'd pull her up into his lap and tell her fanciful stories and legends of people who’d change into animals whenever necessary. He’d tell her of magical potions and incantations. He’d laugh when they’d make the bed and tell her that there are little people who look after her when she sleeps, who make sure her dreams are pleasant. Then he’d wink and show her how to make hospital corners to make her mother happy and keep the little people warm while they wait for her to come back.

Her mother, a sober, no-nonsense woman, believing in frugality, taking pride in honest work and the value of planning for the future, would smile and shake her head. Then remind both that there was still work to be done.

The cold wind and lashing rain batter the tiny car, daring Cerise to stay on the dark, water-logged mountain lane. Hunched over the wheel, squinting into the gloom, Cerise curses the fact that her phone does not work this far from anywhere. And of course, this being the cheapest car she could rent, it comes without navigation.

The furious storm whips the giant trees, transforming the already dark forest into a grim, hungry beast. Surely, the name of a nearby village will show on a road sign. There must be people around here, somewhere.

There! Wasn’t that a road sign? Was she supposed to turn right or left? Sod it! Right it is.

Thunk!

Under normal circumstances, running her car into a ditch and breaking an axle would send panic through her bowels. But with the wind shaking the tiny vehicle and the rain pounding relentlessly on the thin metal roof, the sound is no more significant than the snick of a door closing. Of course, the fact that this door closes on the possibility of a warm meal and a warm bed gives birth to a whole new vocabulary.

Royally pissed and in keeping with her dark red hair, Cerise pounds the steering wheel, shouts invectives at the universe and glares at the wretched darkness. Don’t cry!! Damn it, don’t cry! But then what? She can sit here and feel sorry for herself. Maybe by morning, maybe next week, someone will come by to help her get out of the ditch. Or she can get out of the car and walk to the nearest village. Surely, that can’t be that far, can it?

Putting deed to thought, she slings her satchel over her shoulder, reaches behind the driver’s seat, into the pitiful storage space, fiddles with the suitcase and finds her cute red rain jacket.

She opens the door and steps into a foot of water.

Cursing the miserable weather, the fact that her oh, so cute booties are not water repellent, let alone waterproof, and her equally cute jacket is equally useless, she sets off. Fighting the gusts with each step, she makes slow progress up the hill and through the dense forest, but progress it is.

Is that a clearing to her left? Is it a path? Maybe, though overgrown and neglected, it smells like home. Though she had thought her grandmother would have taken better care of her yard.

Is that the cottage? It must look better in daylight she assumes as she stumbles up the concrete step and knocks.

Now that her body is no longer struggling forward, it can devote all its energy to quivering, rocking, shivering and trembling. She tries to control her arms, legs and teeth, but is too tired and cold to put up much of a fight. Adding a puddle to the already rain-soaked step, Cerise slumps down. Her body rattles against the rough wooden door. With a groan it gives way under her weight.

Cerise gasps and tumbles backward into the small one-room home. Dripping, shaking, hugging herself, she stands and looks around. By the light of lightning bolts, she sees a sparsely furnished cabin. A hearth, a bed, a large rocking chair, a small table with two chairs. A rudimentary kitchen with an old-fashioned hand pump and a cabinet holding a few pieces of crockery. From nails near the bed hang coveralls and flannels shirts.

It takes eight matches and five tries before she is able to light the kerosine lamp on the table. It takes longer to light the logs and kindling that are waiting to be lit. She strips out of her sopping wet clothes, draping them carefully over the straight-backed chairs near the table. Apologizing to the empty room, she takes one of the large flannel shirts and finally wraps herself in an old quilt that hangs over the back of the rocking chair. Then she curls up near the now blazing fire.

And promptly falls asleep.

Cerise doesn’t wake when the door opens, though her body shivers against the sudden draft and huddles closer into the quilt. She doesn’t stir when large boots walk around her. Or when strong arms lift her and tuck her into the bed. She sighs and snuggles deeper under the warm blanket.

Wolf had been hunting, found shelter and waited out the worst of the storm or he would have been home hours ago. This cabin is so far off the radar, there are no trails, at least not any that humans can find. He’s been on his own for so many years and only makes the occasional trek to the village when he needs supplies he can’t gather or make himself.

He stokes up the fire and inspects her clothes. If this is all she has, how will she stay warm with winter so close? He digs through her bag.

Cerise Silver. Scarlet Silver’s granddaughter. Scarlet, the local healer and midwife, tolerated because of her skills, despite her heritage, had been expecting her. He shakes his head in wonder, looks back toward the bed. Just a mop of auburn hair is visible above the covers.

The water in the kettle over the fire is starting to sing. The girl stirs, wiggles and rubs her nose. He quickly turns around, suppressing a grin. She’s like a puppy. But she didn’t follow him home. He can’t keep her.

He leaves the cabin before she wakes up.

Even though the miserable night has retreated, day is reluctant to take its rightful place. Somber, rain-filled clouds are eager to fill the void. The angry wind still howls around corners, whistles through the trees, rattles loose windowpanes and tugs at the door.

Slowly Cerise wakes to the assault of the storm and the grumble of her stomach. She can’t remember crawling into the bed. Didn’t she sit down near the fire? How…? Carefully she lowers the covers and peeks over the edge.

The cabin is empty, but the fire has been stoked up, there is water warming. Frantically she searches for modern conveniences, even a chamber pot would be welcome. Outside? She groans. Wrapping her almost dry jacket around herself, slipping into her still damp booties, she goes outside. No outhouse. Where then?

She shrugs. Anywhere.

Back inside she washes herself with a lick and a promise and drinks a cup or two of warm water to stave off hunger pains. Her mission today is to find her car, a tow truck, and her grandmother’s house. And food. Yes, food would be nice.

After cleaning up and hopefully leaving the cabin the way she found it, she braves the weather. Where is the path she followed last night? She came from - there, didn’t she? Yes. But where is the path? There was one. She’s positive.

The roiling clouds chasing each other, tumbling over and over, are preparing for their next fight. She pushes against the ever-colder wind. It’s not long before the cabin is out of sight, lost in the murk under the low hanging branches, behind a hillock. And not long before Cerise is lost, as well. There is no path, no road. Just the wind, icy, bone-chilling and the never ending drear of the half-light under the dense trees.

So many trees.

Tired, despondent, and miserable, she droops against a tree and lets herself slide down. Heedless of the wet ground, she wraps her arms around her knees and hangs her head. She’s cold, wet, and hungry but most of all, inexplicably, she really wants to shed her clothes. They feel too tight, as if they keep her from taking a full breath. Her skin itches. Her muscles cramp. Her bones ache. The pungent, sweet, natural smell of the forest, of the decaying leaves and small animals, the cacophony of raindrops, insects scurrying, birds shifting in their nests is almost overwhelming.

What’s wrong with her!? A high-pitched whine escapes.

Rustling, twigs snap under footsteps.

Startled, she looks up.

The man is big, a giant. His sable brown hair is sleek and long, his beard is full, his eyes a startling blue. He’s wearing a flannel shirt and overalls. Sturdy boots. Wordlessly he holds out his hand. She shrinks back.

“Temperature is dropping. You’ll freeze. Come.” His voice is gravelly, as if a stranger to being used.

“Who are you?

His grin is mostly hidden behind his beard. “You slept in my bed, last night. Now, come. We don’t want to get any wetter or colder.”

Cerise scrambles to her feet. “I’m sorry I crashed your place. I think I got lost.” He nods and leads the way.

While he has his back turns, she strips out of her wet clothes and wears his flannel shirt, again.

“What’s your name?”

“They call me Wolf.”

“Why?”

“Because they say I’m wild like a wolf.”

She frowns and stares at him. “That’s unkind. Besides if you were a wolf, you’d have eaten me by now." She stops, gasps. “Are you going to kill me.”

He shakes his head and brings her a bowl of oatmeal. "No. Eat."

When she’s eaten her fill, she apologizes again. “I got lost. I’m on my way to my grandmother’s house. Scarlet Silver, do you know her? Anyway, it’s just outside of a village here on the mountain. I have the address. Do you know it? Can you tell me how to get there? I accidentally ran my car into a ditch. Might have broken something. All I ever do is make a mess of things” She finally stops talking and sighs, gets up to wash their bowls.

“What you’re looking for is on the other side of the mountain. Snow will have covered the passage by morning.”

“Oh, no! When will the passage be clear again?”

“Spring.”

Stunned, speechless she stares at him. Stoically, he gets up, lifts a trap door in the floor and retrieves root vegetables and herbs. Pulls out a stock pot, fills it with water from the pump and hangs the pot over the fire.

“Chop the vegetables and add them to the pot. I’ll be back.”

She is waiting for him, when just after dusk he come back with a rabbit he caught and killed. Cerise watches closely how he skins the rabbit and sections the pieces and shows her how to get the last of the meat and fat off the hide. “Ten more and you’ll have boots.” He then adds the meat to the stew which will simmer all night over the low fire.

“It’s late. I’ll sleep on the floor. No argument.” He says when she starts to protest.

Wolf makes sure she’s tucked deep under the covers before he turns down the lamp. He lets a shudder run through him before he gets down on all fours. He turns in a circle three times and curls up near the warmth of the hearth, tucking his long dark snout between his hind legs, wrapping his thick, mostly white tail around himself.

He dozes. With a human in the house there is never a deep sleep.

Or so he thinks.

As the storm quiets and the rain silently turns into snow, he slowly wakes up in the cool dark cabin. A smaller warm body is curled up against his belly. His large snout is resting on her head. His paw is draped over her chest. He admires the sleek sliver-tipped mahogany of her pelt, notices how her body is tentatively morphing, as if it is just learning how to shift. As if her body is just now recognizing its strengths and skills.

His heart speeds when he sees the delicate turn of her snout, the paler hue of her soft belly. He takes a sniff of her unique scent. Wolf huffs softly with pleasure and when she snuggles into him, he pulls her closer.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow is soon enough to start her lessons. For her to learn who and what she is. For her to become whole.

Suddenly, winter doesn’t look as dark anymore.