Chapter 10
Morning crept into the sky and turned the smoke-filled village an eerie color. Those guards more badly injured were home resting, while nearly two dozen still patrolled Founsel’s border. Hantle, weary, along with his companion, walked to the first house attacked by the wolf.
The window to the bedroom sat gaping and silent. Splinters of the frame bent inward, and a chill slid down Hantle’s spine. Hantle and Rounfil inspected the home’s first-floor doors and windows, all of which were barricaded. They banged and shouted to the miracle they hoped waited inside. Silence. The family had effectively barricaded this level of the building, and the group would need tools to enter. The carpenter instead brought a ladder for access to the second story. Hantle lead Rounfil up and into the house through its fractured façade.
The bedroom was a mess of scattered and broken belongings. The roof sagged in areas, indicating the worst damage. Blood coated the floor and spattered the walls. Claw marks gouged into the wooden planks, leaving holes in places. They turned over the entire dwelling in an attempt to find survivors. None living. No remains of the victims. The family was a complete loss to the glutton.
Before descending the ladder, the two gathered a few items for the funeral. Very little had gone undamaged but for a few smaller pieces which were more personal.
Once back on the ground, Rounfil looked to the house. “None will live there again.”
Hantle nodded his head. “Horror haunts more than legend.”
The third family that had completely boarded up their single-level home lived to pry its way out in the morning. Nails and wood squeaked as the parents removed just one barricade from a door. The family, slow and uncertain, entered the smoke-haze morning. They had watched last night, as they could, through cracks in their defenses, but knew very little of what happened.
The father asked two people standing just outside his gate, “What’s the news?” Without making eye contact, they ignored him and moved off. The father could only make out one muffled word: “coward”.
He straightened with indignation and replied. “Well, if so many of you were on watch, what good would I have been?”
No reply, and they moved further away.
The husband walked up his path to the street and looked south, where smoke hung most densely in the air. They wouldn’t understand him, no, but he wouldn’t be embarrassed for thinking of his family’s safety. They’d survived, and that was worth it.
The town made preparations in that early morning for the day’s funeral. Sixteen more people to eulogize, remember, and lay to rest. But not literally; not for all. Remains existed for just four of the victims. The ones brutalized in haste.
As Liova walked to the town square, she thought of the blood shed over the last handful of nights. Yet blood was not remains. Blood was not a person. None would gather the coagulated, the dried, the once-liquid. What counted as the person? Blood kept one alive, yet was not the flesh which was alive. The mind loves to race to the theoretical, the philosophical, the unanswerable, instead of face the bleak, the reality, the unquestionable.
Her son and grandson left her side at the hay bales, then took their seats. Four coffins sat surrounded by many more boxes, all made freshly by the carpenter. One coffin for each body. One box for each of the families who had lost a soul. She counted. Two, four, five, seven, nine, twelve. Twelve families to mourn and support. She walked down the row and laid a hand on each box.
“Trinkets. Tributes. Closure.” Liova turned to the group. “These are for us. To bring us closer to those we now find ourselves without. To sidle right up to the grief. The fog thick before us. To enter, dive within, and pass through. Our Song we find altered on the other side. But the pauses are part of the piece. Disharmony somehow a complement to the harmony. The definer of the harmony.”
Her eyes focused to infinity, above the crowd. She brought her attention back to Founsel’s members, and then scanned the buildings.
“The guard last night saved this town. Those before us, we mourn. Instruments in their own right, they have lead a song that now plays beyond our range of hearing. They saved each individual present here. We’re a different Founsel now, but still one worth defending and keeping and being.”
She lay lilies, a vibrant yellow, along the coffins and boxes. The surviving family members held their mourning wreaths with clenched fists.
“Let us lay these brave comrades to rest, and take rest ourselves. This day is hard won. The Void is not everlasting, as it may seem. We will cry and rage and be sick with grief. But at least we have that honor. This day is hard won.”
She lead the bearers through the forest to the cemetery and each person in the procession spread dirt across the twelve holes. Family members lay their mourning wreaths and lead the group back to the square. All felt emotionally drained but still participated in the mourning meal. There was little discussion as most sat occupied with their thoughts.
After the meal, town members took furniture back inside and carried off dishes for washing. A layer of clouds covered the town as warmth built up. The air sat, motionless and humid. The fear from the night cast shadows across the faces of all.
Those survivors from the guard took advantage of the protection of daylight and slept. Other family members worked to clean the town, but the blood stains never faded completely. Initially quiet and fearful, children later played in the unspoiled parts of town. The young quickly forgot their fear.
Several families spent the afternoon packing home wares and valuables into wagons, preparing to leave. The terror of the night convinced them to flee. Seven families formed a caravan at the southern end of town. The owner of the first wagon had lost his wife last night. He motioned for his children to stay seated as he spoke to others, who had also lost loved ones. “Keeping on the road, we can make good time until nightfall. If we push hard, we may eventually find the caravan that left yesterday.”
A girl from the second wagon wrung her hands. “Let’s go! I am afraid and it will be night before we know it.” She and her siblings were exhausted from crying and packing, and eager to get out of Founsel. Their father was he who died of brain trauma after fighting the wolf.
Goodbyes were said, and last trips were made to homes. The caravan leader climbed onto his wagon and took the reins. Then, the clatter of wooden wheels over cobblestone signaled their movement. From Founsel, for several more hours, dust from the wagon train was visible above treetops.
Those remaining in town understood what drove those in the caravan to leave. Yet they would not leave. Their homes, livelihoods, and community would not be taken by menace of a beast. They spent the rest of the day improving defenses. Just fifteen families left in Founsel gave it a pulse.
Abandoned homes were a source of materials to fortify the rest. Nails driven through planks made spiked boards which were then attached to doors and windows. Fields of nails sat deterring entry. The beast would be given no easy passage this night.
Miles to the southeast, near sunset, the caravan finished replacing a broken wagon wheel. The line again began its crawl forward. The setback cost them distance and time, but they would continue deep into the night, using lantern light and scouts.
Before sunset, that single family had again locked themselves away. Their house sat quiet and still; appearing abandoned. The parents were vindicated by their previous success, and aimed to repeat it tonight. Let others endanger themselves by patrolling, they thought.
Darkness rode the sky from east to west and filled the forest from the roots up. The guards met in the town square after finishing family dinners. Hantle lead the effort to refill lanterns and start bonfires. Later they reloaded and equipped weapons. Scrap wood from the nail boards fueled the fires. The area glowed even more brightly for it. Patrols encircled the city once more; all nineteen guard rested and vigilant.
Children, now too scared to sleep, lay in bed staring with fright at the boarded-up windows. Firelight came in through cracks between boards and played on the ceiling, looking like claw marks.