Chapter 2
It was morning before Hantle woke to find he’d fallen asleep on his wife’s shoulder. They each leaned against and supported the other. Her feet were up on the couch and her breath was deep. He had more to drink than expected. With a nudge from his arm, she awoke. A gentle cough left her as she moved her feet to the floor.
Lorenca looked at her husband through a few strands of hair. “Are the boys back?” She quickly moved the hair behind her shoulders.
“I’m not sure.”
The mother raced from the living room, up the stairs, and to the boys’ bedroom. “They aren’t here,” she shouted to Hantle. As she returned to the staircase, she rubbed sleep and worry from her eyes.
Hantle stood below and beckoned her with his arms. Lorenca plodded down the stairs, speechless, and walked straight into his chest. He wrapped his arms around her and stroked her head. “I’ll look for them.”
His gaze lingered as he took a step back toward the door. Her green eyes were most gorgeous in the morning. As he sat on a stool, his hand trailed down her arm. Leather creaked when he laced his boots. Then he was out the door, down the footpath, and into the street. The morning sun was just above the eastern trees. Back on the hook next to the door, his lantern still hung; it had burnt out in the night.
Hantle sneezed a few times due to the sunlight and scared two nearby birds into the air. The father continued on to a house belonging to his drinking pal, Rounfil. Three heavy knocks fell on the door.
It creaked open to reveal a man wearing a ragged robe. “What is it, Hantle?”
“Our boys are still missing. Will you help look?”
“Yeah, yeah. Lemme get my boots.” Rounfil laced up on the porch in the cool air. His robe matched the dirty yellow of his hair. With boots on, he stood up. “Ready, Hantle.”
Hantle lead Rounfil over to the meadow. The two had worked together for years logging the woods around Founsel. Their work routine lead them past this very meadow on a daily basis. The area looked no different from any other day, Hantle thought, but for the fog that now lay about.
“My boys were playing here last night, as always,” Hantle said. “Except they never came home. I looked about in the dark, but we can comb the surroundings better now in the light.”
Rounfil swayed as he stood. “Too much beer last night, and this sun ain’t helping.” Hantle knew well his queasy look. “But we’ll get to looking.”
Dew fell from the grass as they made a pass through the field. Wildflowers stood brightly in sun, concealing nothing. The two then ventured into the woods, spreading out to cover more ground. Branches cracked under their boots and bird calls came from far off.
Near a stream that flowed through the trees down to the cove, Rounfil found a shoe. He shouted for Hantle, who picked it up softly. The laces had come undone and loose. A footprint next to the boot was the only other sign in the mud. Hantle recognized the shoe as that of his youngest boy, Dolcium, and felt both relief and anxiety. Next, they followed the river down to the cove. Other prints along the water belonged only to raccoon and deer.
Several miles and hours later, the pair entered the meadow once more, heading to town. Here they split up again, to weave through the houses and check the yards.
Hantle had just stepped over a low hedge when a call cut through the air, followed by a loud whistle. He ran toward the sound and caught sight of Rounfil, waving his hand while standing behind a house across the street from the meadow. Rounfil stood several paces away from a coop. The front mesh was ripped out and chicken carcasses lay scattered in the coop and around the lawn. A lone, escaped chicken was near the house, pecking along the fence.
Blood lay thick on the grass, and the warm air stifled Hantle. Stained feathers drifted in a breeze and others stuck in the shredded wire mesh. The attack had been brutal. A drop of liquid, dark in color, caught the father’s eyes as it fell through the air. Maroon and thick, it joined a puddle on the ground. Was a chicken carcass dripping blood? Hantle’s gaze drew upward. The faces of his boys rested at the apex of the roof. Another drop glistened with sunlight before he screamed in horror. Only his sons’ heads and wet spines sat there. He followed the rivulets of blood down from the shingles and noticed intestines spilled on the ground.
Hantle could only choke on his surprise. Rounfil backed up into the fence and turned to heave over it. After wiping the sick from his lips, Rounfil detected bloody prints leading from the coop, over the fence, and into the woods beyond. He dropped down to study the tracks.
“Wolf,” he said.
The boys would not be back for another hot meal.