The Mammoth Book of Wolf Men Read online

  Though he feared that names would be forbidden amongst this clan, he asked two lovers who were rutting in the shelter of the wall if they knew of a man called Mironenko. The bitch had a smooth and hairless back, and a dozen full teats hanging from her belly.

  “Listen,” she said.

  Ballard listened, and heard somebody talking in a corner of the ruin. The voice ebbed and flowed. He followed the sound across the roofless interior to where a wolf was standing, surrounded by an attentive audience, an open book in its front paws. At Ballard’s approach one or two of the audience turned their luminous eyes up to him. The reader halted.

  “Ssh!” said one, “the Comrade is reading to us.”

  It was Mironenko who spoke. Ballard slipped into the ring of listeners beside him, as the reader took up the story afresh.

  “And God blessed them, and God said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth . . .”

  Ballard had heard the words before, but tonight they were new.

  “. . . and subdue it: and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air . . .”

  He looked around the circle of listeners as the words described their familiar pattern.

  “. . . and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth.”

  Somewhere near, a beast was crying.

  Scott Bradfield

  THE DREAM OF THE WOLF

  Californian Scott Bradfield divides his time between living in London and on the West Coast of America. After receiving his Ph.D in American Literature at the University of California in Irvine, he taught for five years while his short stories, reviews and essays appeared in a wide variety of magazines and anthologies. His books include The Secret Life of Houses, The History of Luminous Motion, Greetings from Earth and What’s Wrong with America.

  “ ’The Dream of the Wolf originally started out as an actual werewolf story,” explains Bradfield, “but I quickly realized I wasn’t interested in the physical transformation so much as the emotional one. It’s about loneliness, really, and simply the saddest story I could imagine at the time”.

  After its initial appearance in Interzone, the story was reprinted in Omni and a number of other places, including two college textbooks. It was also adapted by Patrick McGrath into an award-winning episode of the American television series The Hidden Room. “I think it’s one of the best things I’ve ever done,” says the author. I think you’ll agree . . .

  Without the dream

  one would have found no occasion

  for a division of the world.

  Nietzsche

  “Last night I dreamed I was Canis lupus tundarum, the Alaskan tundra wolf,” Larry Chambers said, confronted by hot Cream O’ Wheat, one jelly donut, black coffee with sugar. “I was surrounded by a vast white plain and sparse gray patches of vegetation. I loped along at a brisk pace, quickening the hot pulse of my blood. I felt extraordinarily swift, hungry, powerful . . .” Larry gripped his donut; red jelly squirted across his knuckles. “My jaws were enormous, my paws heavy and calloused.” He took a bite, chewed with his mouth open. “My pelt was thick and white and warm. The cold breeze carried aromas of fox, rabbit, caribou, rodent, fowl, mollusc . . .”

  “Caroline!” Sherryl Chambers reached for the damp dish cloth. “Eat over the table, please. Just look at this. You’ve dripped cereal all over your new shoes.”

  Caroline gazed up intently at her father, her chin propped against the table edge. Her fist gripped a grainy spoon.

  “I heard a noise behind me and I turned.” Larry warmed his palms against the white coffee cup. “The mouse hesitated – just for a moment – and then quickly I pounced, pinned him beneath my paw. His eyes were wide with panic, his tiny heart fluttered wildly. His fear blossomed in the air like pollen—”

  “What did you do, Daddy? What did you do to the mouse?”

  Larry observed the clock radio. KRQQ helicopter watch for Monday, March twenty-third, the radio said. An overturned tanker truck has traffic backed up all the way to Civic Center . . .

  “I ate him,” Larry said. The time was eight-fifteen.

  “Caroline. Finish your cereal before it gets cold.”

  “But Daddy’s a wolf again, Mommy. He caught a mouse and he ate it.”

  “I’m practically certain it was the tundarum,” Larry said, and pulled on his sport coat.

  “Please, Caroline. I won’t ask you again.”

  “But I want the rest of Daddy’s donut.”

  “Finish your cereal. Then we’ll discuss Daddy’s donut.”

  “I think I’ll stop by the library again tonight.” Larry got up from the table. His spoon remained gripped by the thickening cereal like a fossil in La Brea.

  “Sure, honey. And pick up some milk on the way home, will you? Try and remember.”

  “I will,” Larry said, “I’ll try,” recalling the brilliant white ice, the warm easy taste of the blood.

  “And here – bend over.” Sherryl moistened the tip of a napkin with her lips. “There’s jelly all over your face.”

  “It’s the blood, Daddy. It’s the mouse’s blood.”

  “Thanks,” Larry said, and went into the living-room.

  Caroline watched the kitchen door swing shut. After a few moments she heard the front door open and close.

  “Daddy forgot to kiss me goodbye,” she said.

  Sherryl spilled pots and pans into the sink. “Daddy’s a little preoccupied this morning, dear.”

  Caroline thought for a moment. The bitten jelly donut sat in the middle of the table like a promise.

  “Daddy ate a mouse,” she said finally, and made a proud little flourish in the air with her spoon.

  Canis lupus youngi, canis lupus crassodon, canis niger rufus, Larry thought, and boarded the RTD at Beverly and Fairfax. The wolf, he thought. The wolf of the dream, the wolf of the world. He showed the driver his pass. Wolves in Utah, Northern Mexico, Baffin Island, even Hollywood. Wolves secretly everywhere, Larry thought, and moved down the crowded aisle. Elderly women jostled fitfully in their seats like birds on a wire.

  “Larry! Hey – Spaceman!”

  Andrew Prytowsky waved his Wall Street Journal. “Sit here.” He removed his briefcase from the window seat and placed it in his lap. “Rest that frazzled brain of yours. You may need it later.”

  “Thanks,” Larry said, squeezed into the vacant seat and recalled an exotic afternoon nap. Canis lupus chanco, Tibetan spring, crepuscular hour. His pack downed a goat. Blood spattered the gray dust like droplets of quivering mercury.

  “That’s earnings, Larry. That’s reliable income. That’s retirement security, a summer cottage, a sporty new car.” Andrew shook the American Exchange Index at him, as if reproving an unhousebroken puppy. “Fifteen points in two weeks, just like I promised. Did you hear me? Fifteen points. Consolidated Plastics Ink. Plastic bullets, the weapon of the future. Cheap, easy to manufacture, minimal production overhead. You could have cut yourself a piece of that, Larry. I certainly gave you every opportunity. But then my word’s not good enough for you, is it? You’ve already got your savings account, your fixed interest, your automatic teller, your free promotional albums. You’ve got yourself a coffin – that’s what you’ve got. Fixed interest is going to bury you. Listen to me, pal. I can help. Let’s talk tax-free municipal bonds for just one second—”

  Larry sighed and gazed out the smudged window. Outside the Natural History Museum sidewalk vendors sold hot dogs, lemonade and pretzels while behind them ancient bones surfaced occasionally from the bubbling tar pit.

  “– in the long run we’re not just talking safety. We’re talking variable income and easy liquidity.” Prytowsky slapped Larry’s chest with the rolled up newspaper. “Get with it, Spaceman. What are you, now? Late thirties, early forties? You want to spend the rest of your life with your head in the clouds? Or do you want to come back down to earth and enjoy a little of the good life? Your little girl – Carol, Karen, whatever. She may be four
or five now, pal, but college is tomorrow. Tomorrow, Spaceman. And you want your little girl to go to college, don’t you? Well, don’t you? Of course you do! Of course!”

  The traffic light turned green, the RTD’s clutch connected with a sudden sledgehammer sound. Oily gray smoke swirled outside the window.

  “And what about that devilish little wife of yours? Take it from me, Spaceman. A woman’s eye is always looking out for those greener pastures. It’s not their fault, Spaceman – it’s just their nature . . . Hey, Larry.” The rolled up newspaper jabbed Larry’s side. “You even listening to me or what?”

  “Sure,” Larry said, and the bus entered Beverly Hills. Exorbitant hood ornaments flashed in the sun like grails. “Easy liquidity, interest variations. I’ll think about it. I really will. It’s just I have a lot on my mind right now, that’s all. I mean, I’ll get back to you on all this, I really will.” Canis lupus arabs, pallipes, baileyi, nubilis, monstrabilis, he thought. The wolves of the dream, the wolves of the world.

  “Still having those nutty dreams of yours, Spaceman? Your wife told my wife. You dream you’re a dog or something?”

  “A wolf. Canis lupus. It’s not even the same sub-species as a dog.”

  “Oh.” Andrew discarded his newspaper under his seat. “Sure.”

  “Wolves are far more intelligent than any dog. They’re fiercer hunters, loyaler mates. Their social organization alone—”

  “Yeah – right, Spaceman. I stand corrected. I’ll bet in your dreams you really raise hell with those stupid dogs – hey, Larry, old pal?” Andrew said, and disboarded with his briefcase at Westwood Boulevard.

  As the bus approached 27th Avenue Larry moved back through the crowd of passengers who stood and sat about with newspapers, magazines and detached expressions as they vacantly chewed Certs, peanuts from a bag, impassive bubble gum, like a herd of grazing buffalo while the wolf, the wolf of Larry’s mind, roamed casually among them, searching out the weak, the sickly, the injured, the ones who always betrayed themselves with brief and anxious glances – the elderly woman with the aluminum walker, the gawky adolescent with the bad complexion and crooked teeth. Wolves in Tibet, Montana, South America, Micronesia, Larry thought, disembarked at 25th Avenue and entered Tower Tyre and Rubber Company. He showed his pass to the security guard, then rode the humming elevator to the twelfth floor. When Larry stepped into the foyer the secretaries, gathered around the receptionist’s desk, exchanged quick significant glances like secret memoranda. Larry heard them giggling as he disappeared into the maze of high white partitions that organized office cubicles like discrete cells in an ant farm.

  Larry entered his office.

  “Ready for Monday?” Marty Cabrillo asked.

  Larry hung his coat on the rack, turned.

  The Marketing Supervisor stood in front of Larry’s aluminum bookshelf, gazing aimlessly at the spines of large gray Acco-Grip binders. “Frankly,” Marty said, “I’d rather be in Shasta. How was your weekend?”

  “Fine, just fine,” Larry said, sat down at his desk and opened the top desk-drawer.

  “I thought I’d drop by and see if the Orange County sales figures were in yet. Didn’t mean to barge in, you know.”

  “Certainly. Help yourself.” Larry gestured equivocally with his right hand, rummaged in the desk drawer with his left.

  “Ed Conklin called from Costa Mesa and said he still hasn’t received the Goodyear flyers. I told him no problem – you’d get right back to him. All right?”

  “Right.” Larry slammed shut one drawer and pulled open another. “No problem. Here we are . . .” He removed a large faded green hardcover book. One of the book’s corners was bloated with dogeared pages. Larry wiped off dust and bits of paper against his trousers. The Wolves of North America: Part I, Classification of Wolves.

  Marty propped one hand casually in his pocket. “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way or anything, Larry . . . I mean, I’m not trying to pull rank on you or anything. But maybe you could try being just a little bit more careful around here the next few weeks or so. Think of it as a friendly warning, okay?”

  Larry looked up from his book.

  “It’s not me, Larry.” Marty placed his hand emphatically over his heart. “You know me, right? But district managers are starting to complain. Late orders, unitemized bills, stuff like that. Harmless stuff, really. Nothing I couldn’t cover for you. But the guys upstairs aren’t so patient – that’s all I’m trying to say. I’m just trying to say it’s my job, too. All right?”

  Finally Larry located the tundarum’s sub-species guide. Type locality: Point Barrow, Alaska. Type Specimen: No. 16748, probably female, skull only, US National Museum; collected by Lt. P.H. Ray . . .

  “But for God’s sake don’t take any of this personal or anything. It’s not really serious. Everybody has their off-days – it’s just the way things go. People get, well, distracted.”

  “I knew it.” Larry pointed at the page. “Just what I thought. Look – tundarum is ‘closely allied to pambisileus’. Exactly as I suspected. The dentition was a dead giveaway.”

  Marty fumbled for a cigarette from his shirt pocket, a Bic lighter from his slacks. “Well,” he said, and took a long drag from his Kool. Then, after a moment, “You know, Larry, Beatrice and I have always been interested in this ecology stuff ourselves. You should visit our cabin in Shasta sometime. There’s nothing like it – clean air, trees, privacy. We even joined the Sierra Club last year . . . But look, I could talk about this stuff all day, but we’ve both got to get back to work, right?” Marty paused outside the cubicle. “We’ll get together and talk about it over lunch sometime, okay? And maybe you could drop the sales figures by my office later? Before noon, maybe?”

  That night Larry returned home after the dinner dishes had been washed. He glanced into Caroline’s room. She was asleep. Stuffed wolves, cubs, and an incongruous unicorn lay toppled around her on the bed like dominoes. He found Sherryl in the master-bedroom, applying Insta-Curls to her hair and balancing a black rectangular apparatus in her lap.

  Larry sat on the edge of the bed, glimpsed himself in the vanity mirror. He had forgotten to shave that morning. His eyes were dark, sunken, feral. (The lone wolf lopes across an empty plain. Late afternoon, clear blue sky. The pale crescent moon appears on the horizon like a spectre. Other wolves howl in the distance.)

  Larry turned to his wife. “I went all the way out to the UCLA Research Library, then found out the school’s between quarters. The library closed at five.”

  “That’s too bad, dear. Would you plug that in for me?”

  Sherryl pulled a plastic cap over her head. Two coiled black wires attached the cap to the black rectangular box. Larry connected the plug to the wall-socket and the black box began to hum. Gradually the plastic cap inflated. “Larry, I wish I knew how to phrase this a bit more delicately, but it’s been on my mind a lot lately.” Sherryl turned the page of a K-Mart Sweepstakes Sale brochure. “You may not believe this, Larry, but there are actually people in this world who like to talk about some things besides wolves every once in a blue moon.”

  Larry turned again to his reflection. He had forgotten to finish Cabrillo’s sales figures. Tomorrow, he assured himself. First thing.

  “I remember when we had decent conversations. We went out occasionally. We went to movies, or even dancing. Do you remember the last time we went out together – I mean, just out of the house? It was that horrid PTA meeting last fall, with that dreadful woman – the hunchback with the butterfly glasses, you remember? Something about a rummage sale and new tether poles? Do you know how long ago that was? And frankly, Larry, I wouldn’t call that much of a night out.”

  Larry ran his hand lightly along the smooth edge of the humming black box. “Look, honey. I know I get a little out of hand sometimes . . . I know that. Especially lately.” He placed his hand on his forehead. A soft pressure seemed to be increasing inside his skull, like an inflating plastic cap. “I’ve been forge
tful . . . and I realize I must seem a little nutty at times . . . ” The wolves, he thought, trying to strengthen himself. The call of the pack, the track of the moon, the hot quick pulse of the blood. But the wolves abruptly seemed very far away. “I know you don’t understand. I don’t really understand . . . But these aren’t just dreams. When I’m a wolf, I’m real. The places I see, the feelings I feel – they’re real. As real as I am now talking to you. As real as this bed.” He grasped the king-size silk comforter. “I’m not making all this up . . . And I’ll try to be a little more thoughtful. We’ll go out to dinner this weekend, I promise. But try putting up with me a little longer. Give me a little credit, that’s all . . .”

  Sherryl glanced up. She took the humming black box from his hand.

  “Did you say something, hon?” She patted the plastic cap. “Hold on and I’ll be finished in a minute.” She turned another page of the brochure. Then, with a heavy red felt marker, she circled the sale price of Handi-Wipes.

  Larry walked into the bathroom and brushed his gleaming white teeth.

  “Last night I dreamed of the Pleistocene.”

  “Where is that, Daddy?”

  “It’s not a place, honey. It’s a time. A long time ago.”

  “You mean dinosaurs, Daddy? Did you dream you were a dinosaur?”

  “No, darling. The dinosaurs were all gone by then. I was canis dirus, I think. I’ll check on it. The tundra was far colder and more desolate than before. The sky was filled with this weird, reddish glow I’ve never seen before, like the atmosphere of some alien planet. Ice was everywhere. Three of us remained in the pack. My mate had died the previous night beneath a shelf of ice while the rest of us huddled around to keep her warm. Dominant, I led the others across the white ice, my tail slightly erect. We were terribly cold, tired, hungry . . .”