Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except some random extras; everything else is Marvel's only.
8. 1913, December
Don Juan; Lord Byron; Canto VIII, st. 5 (1823)
The sky was bright blue and the sun shone as if it were August; but despite it, the Earth was covered in a thick snow blanket hardened by the briskly cold air. Animals took advantage of the weather reprieve and left their dens searching for the little food the winter allowed. Foxes and lonely wolves treaded lightly over the virgin snow, searching for camouflaged rabbits and burrowed mice, the predators' trails so discreet they could have been overlooked by distracted eyes.
Wrapped in mismatched animal pelts, a human being forged ahead, leaving behind unnatural tracks in the snow, which even the most distracted eyes would have spotted immediately. Usually, the hunter would have tried to blend in with the surrounding atmosphere. It was not only something he enjoyed and which brought him some peace of mind, it was also an already innate habit as an efficient hunter.
He stopped for a moment, hungry, thirsty and tired, and squatted. He got hold of a piece of snow and bit it, swallowing the frozen water. He had grown used to the cold winters, since he often escaped from an angry Pa into an angry weather, when he was a kid. Eating snow might help killing the thirst, might help tricking his hungry stomach, but it would also make him cold. He got up and re-started his slow march. Moving would warm him up, he knew. But he needed to eat, too. He needed to hunt something in these darned woods, which seemed absolutely empty.
The light was disappearing, at the end of another short day, when the hunter finally gave it up and stopped. He chose a tree and sat against it, after covering the snow with branches and pine leaves, to act as an insulator against the cold. The one thing he felt like doing was closing his eyes, going to sleep and not worry about one single thing left. He was so tired and… empty. He had never felt this empty in his entire life.
"I beg you with all my heart…"
Why?
"I've made a terrible mistake."
Why?
"Will you find him?"
Why…
Six years. He had lived six years under Mister Howlett's rule and not once did the old man mention the bastard kid. The murderer. The thief. And not even he could have dreamed of how far that same thief would go.
James Howlett. Why? He had two blasted names. The men in town had given him a stupid new name, Wolverine. That was three names. Three! Why did he have to go and steal his name? Why call himself Logan? Why!
He punched the snow. There were tears trickling quietly down his scarred face which he wasn't noticing, so focused was he on the burning pain inside him. He was Logan, not the runt. There was only one Logan, and that was him. Not anyone else. He was the real thing!
Images from the fight, back in Coalville, returned to haunt him, once more. How those claws… "Man punch you? Then man have claws," the Indian had said. And it did have claws. Dammit, he wasn't even human! He was nothing but an animal. An animal who had not only killed is Pa, it had also killed Rose. Though she had deserved it, the bitch. Teach her to run off with a good for nothing thief. A thief who had ruined his life, again and again.
"I gotta see if little James remembers how I was the one who killed his Poppa! And you two got th'blame!"
At least that had hurt him, even if it couldn't hurt him not even a fraction of what he had hurt because of the stupid runt. But it had hurt him, and well done, it was. He wished he had indeed been the one to kill Soft John. Stupid Soft John. And stupid Mistress Elizabeth, too. He hoped the stupid James believed him, when he had told him they had taken the blame for murdering Soft John and Crazy Elizabeth. He wished the whole world believed he really was to blame and hunted him down till he was as dead as everyone else in that blasted family.
He sniffed and bit his lower lip. All except Mister Howlett. He was a decent man.
"I beg you with all my heart…"
Why had Mister Howlett done this to him? He had become an excellent foreman. The old man had not had one single thing to complain about him in at least one year. And even before that, it had all been a couple little things of no consequence. Mister Howlett could trust him to keep each and every business he had up and running. He knew how to keep the miners and all the other workers in line; he knew about all the needed papers to ship the goods and for whom; he knew about… everything. Why did he want James back? Why? When he was there, to do anything he might need. WHY!
"Please… There's not much time."
The young man took out a knife and slid the blade across his left arm, drawing several bloody lines.
He knew why. Because he needed an heir. And he was just the Howletts' dog. Once James would have arrived, he'd have been the new master and the one to report to. The one to obey without a moment's hesitation. The one to uphold and respect.
The blade cut deeper. He wouldn't have done it.
"I promise, sir."
He stuck the knife in the snow. If Mister Howlett had told him to obey James as promptly as if he were the old man himself, he would have had to do it. The young man buried his face in his hands and felt the hot tears. Oh, Lord; he would have had to bow to little Master James for the rest of his life, if Mister Howlett had told him to. Bow to the murderer who had killed his Pa and Rose. The thief who had stolen Rose from him. Who had stolen his own name. The one person he truly, more than anything, wanted to kill. No, more than kill: to humiliate. To destroy the thief's life as surely as he had destroyed his own life, that night he had killed his Pa.
The growl didn't surprise him.
The hunter remained as immobile as before, face still buried in his cold hands. He could sense the animal circling him, making up its mind. But it was winter, the season of hunger and recklessness. He felt the warmth of the animal's breath on his wrist, sniffing the blood in his cuts. He opened his brown eyes and fought to keep his breathing subdued, in spite of the danger. His instinct told him to wait… wait… a bit more…
The wolf moved away. Circled him a couple more times. Immobilised itself.
He couldn't sense the wolf's movements anymore, but he knew – his instinct told him so – that he must be ready. The fast, silent movement of the wolf's paws being lifted off the snow placed his body entirely under the command of his instincts. His left arm moved quickly to hit the wolf under its jaw. The animal had been surprised and the moment it took him to react doomed it. The hunter's strong hand had already found its neck and clamped down like a trap of steel, pinning the animal on its back. At the same time, the right hand which had lagged behind to recover the blade stuck on the snow came down swiftly, allowing the hunter to slice open the animal's jugular.
The wolf struggled weakly under him, the blood gushing out… dark, thick, hot and strongly scented. The hunter vacillated for a moment at the sight, his stomach grumbling in expectancy. As instinct once more took over, he lowered his head and tasted it. The animal's rough winter fur, now wet and sticky, petted his face harshly and he sat up again, breathless.
His heart was beating wildly, his blood rushing exhilarating through his entire body, warming him until he felt like he was boiling, and the steam inside him expanding and burning his lungs in a victorious crescendo of both pain and pleasure. He felt as if he was about to burst, the moment he pulled his head back and let all that steam out of him, in a howl that blackened everything around him.
The hunter opened his eyes, breathless. What had just happened? The steam inside him was already condensing again. The howl that ripped through him was better enjoyed, this time. And it was with complete conscience of what he was doing that he brought forth a third and fourth one, until he felt some degree of… wholeness. Some kind of wholeness he had never yet felt and it was so pleasurably in its strangeness.
He looked down to the wolf. He needed to start a fire and cook that meat, which was bound to be tough. He licked his lips and found them still covered in blood. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, enchanted with the thorough scent of the blood. His body seemed to tingle in expectancy and… and… he didn't know what. All he knew was that he had never felt so… what? Alive?
He bent down and licked the cooling blood. It had the taste of life and death, he thought briefly. But the thought was quickly overcome by his pressing hunger. The knife cut the wound wide and he dove in, biting muscles and veins. However, as much as the blood proved the most exquisite delicacy he had ever dreamed of existing, his teeth refused to chew on such tough, raw meat.
The young man got up, frustrated, licking his lips. He used the snow to wash his hands from the blood and then searched his pockets for matches. He had seven left. Ten minutes later, he had a fire crackling in front of him and the wolf was being cut apart. The hunter soon discovered that both the heart and the liver offered particularly tasty treats which, if cut in thin slices, were easily chewed on even if raw.
This, he found himself thinking, was what he ought to do to little James. Slit his throat, cut him up, and eat his heart and his liver raw. He laughed at the joke, but then bit his lip. He had promised to hunt James to the ends of the earth. Hunt. Not necessarily bring him back alive. He grinned. Because he would never, ever put himself in a position where he'd have to bow down to the treacherous runt.
Nevertheless, he wasn't about to put his life as Mister Howlett's foreman on hold because of the stupid thief. No, to hell with the boy. Even if he deserved being alive while he ate his heart, over stealing his name. He wasn't putting his life on hold any longer. He had already spent an entire summer and fall away from the Estate. Only the Lord knew what might have happened, and how much he was surely needed.
As much as he hated it, he was going to lie to Mister Howlett. He was going to say James was dead. Just as dead as Rose, and Pa, and Master John. With any luck, the dumb boy would once more forget about where he came from. And if he did, then he would never again have to worry with the possibility of his return.
The young man sighed, satisfied with his meal and his decision, but above all with the prospect of finally going back to his life. Because he had a good life next to Mister Howlett, and he was not going to let James destroy it. Not ever again.
The sun hadn't yet risen and the young man treaded carefully through the snow. He was very much unfit to be seen, but it was early. He had time to stop by his cabin and fix himself. However, as he passed by the stables, he felt something was wrong. He couldn't tell what it was, all he knew was that something didn't… smell right, for as strange as that idea might be. It smelled like… like something was amiss. He felt foolish as he sniffed the air. No, it wasn't a smell; it was a missing smell. Still unsure of what that meant, he hurried to the stables.
Nothing. He ran through the place, but no living animal remained. All the horses had been taken away. The young man punched a wooden beam. He knew it! He knew something bad would happen if he stayed away for too long. If James hadn't gone so far away and hidden his tracks so well, none of this would have happened! Whatever this was; whatever had led to the disappearance of every horse.
Urgency ruling his actions, he entered his lodging. It was as cold inside as outside, so he didn't waste time starting a fire. He grabbed a bucket and scooped up a good amount of snow which he placed over the stove, to melt. But since he wasn't about to sit down and wait for the snow to melt, he scooped up another bucket of snow and scrubbed himself clean with it. By the time the water reached a pleasant temperature, the young man had already washed himself with soap and it was only a matter of turning over the metal bucket in a quick shower.
Shaved and hair cut short, the young man sighed in relief at seeing himself back in his foreman clothes. He could recognize himself as Logan, now. The true and only Logan. He smiled at the expectation of falling back into his everyday routine. It had been much too long and he missed it terribly. But not just yet. First he had to find out what was wrong, fix it and then severely punish all those who were at fault. No one was going to steal his life again, like James had.
He left his cabin by the stables and went straight for the house. During winter, there were very few workers around; it was mostly the few house servants and the stable hands, so he didn't find odd the eerie quietness, especially because the sun wasn't up yet. But when he entered the kitchen, he immediately sensed something was wrong. Mrs Anselen was clad in black and sitting at a table, with Donegal speaking to her in low tones.
The young man's heart missed a beat, but his mind refused to bring forth a likely explanation. Especially as Donegal got up, frowning in a half-threatening stance, and the cook crossed herself, eyes opened wide to give way for fresh tears.
Without a word he left the kitchen. He gave big strides, the sense of urgency ever stronger, and soon found himself climbing the stairs to the West wing, the only one that Mister Howlett had opened on his return, after Master John's death. He opened the twin doors onto Mister Howlett's room and found it empty. His heart froze for a moment, but his mind refused the explanation that rose unbidden. He returned to the ground floor and entered the office.
His heart faltered and his very breathing ceased. Two men in dark suits sat disrespectfully on two of the best armchairs in the room, their black hats thrown carelessly on the polished coffee table. They turned to him, surprised and quickly sat upright.
"Well… I take it you're the missing overseer, 'Logan', isn't it? Better known in the area as 'Dog', is that correct?"
He looked to the side, to the flimsy excuse of a man who had just spoken. He was wearing a black suit and had a pair of unstable glasses perched at the tip of his young crooked nose.
"Who are you?" And then looking at the two other men. "You! Get yer filthy asses off those chairs. Mister Howlett allows fer no one ta sit there but guests of honour."
"Ahem." The frail creature seemed a bit unsure of what to say when he caught the attention of those suddenly bloodshot eyes. "Would you care to take a seat, Mr Logan. Th…"
"I care ta hear ya spit whatever business ya have and then kick ya out o' Mister Howlett's property, 's what I care. So start talkin'!"
As the man took two steps back from the towering blond in front of him, the other two were already up and placing their hands securely at their waists.
"I suggest you let Mister Orkney do his job, Logan, if that's what you call yourself nowadays. And before you open your mouth again, I'm Detective Hertford and this is my assistant, Mr Kerry. Mister Orkney there is Mister Howlett's new lawyer."
Police? Lawyers? No… this was all wrong.
"What're ya doin' here? Where's Mister Howlett? Has someone…"
"Ahem!" Feeling safer from his new position at the desk, the lawyer decided it was time he took control of the matters. "If you'll be so kind as to sit down, Mister Logan, I'll be able to answer all your doubts."
Suspicious and uncomfortable, the young man placed himself behind one of the armchairs, controlling the positions the police officers were taking. This looked bad. Very bad.
"First of all, it's my sad duty to inform you, that Mister James Edward Howlett has passed away three weeks ago." The world went black for a moment and the young man felt his knees lose strength. "He has written a very interesting last will which I am here to implement. As such, only two persons are named: Mister Howlett's grandson, James Howlett, and you, Logan, who has…"
He was having difficulty understanding what was going on. His knees were trembling. Mister Howlett was… No. It couldn't be; not Mist… He sat down on the armchair. No… He had just lost everything again. Because of stupid James! He should have stayed in the Estate, next to Mister Howlett, all the time. Now… Now what? It was gone. The life he had so carefully put togeth…
"Unfortunately…" The eyes of the hunter flashed at the word, his mind suddenly back to where it should have always been: making sure that Mister Howlett's wishes were followed in detail. "As willing as the Government is in keeping its requested part by assuring that neither lands nor financial assets are to be touched by others than the missing James Howlett or yourself, as trusted overseer of the family; there are some…"
"What's in it fer ya?" Think quickly, he told himself; listen carefully and patiently and understand as much as possible.
"Ah, yes… Well, the National Bank of Canada will manage all of Mister Howlett's financial assets, and uphold a certain percentage for payment of this service. Once the missing heir is recognized by law, he will be able to produce the changes he deems necessary to the current situation."
"The heir, James… or me." A slight movement of indignation reminded him of his place. He was just the Howletts' dog. He could not step that line, even if Mister Howlett wasn't there to have him flogged. "Under Master James's orders, naturally."
Orkney looked him up and down, as if looking over a horse.
"I suppose I should give you this, before the gentlemen take you away, 'Mister Logan'."
The young man ripped the letter off the lawyer's hand but didn't even look at it. His eyes were already on the Law. And he could clearly see their guns ready to be put to good use.
My dear boy,
These last months of my life have been heavy with your absence. The men sense my impending demise and celebrate it beforehand, as the heartless animals they are. Yet, you, my boy, you would have put an end to such disrespect; and would never even think of burdening my last moments with the disgust of these animals' behaviour.
You have served me well and loyally. Looking back, after all these years, I have come to believe, in my heart, that your presence in that unfortunate event which took my son from me derived solely from the orders you were bound to obey from your father. You had no other master than that treacherous fool, and thus you followed him.
You followed his orders then, as you have followed mine since: with utmost diligence and respect. I acquit you, therefore, of any crime. But the Law, my boy, must never be forgotten; and we, nay, you must never forget it.
Recall that, for reasons I shall take to my grave, I allowed your lie to be taken as truth, that the Irish girl and my grandson James had been the ones behind the murder of my son and his wife. But now, that I long for his return, the truth must be brought to light. Therefore, I have summoned the detectives in charge of the case, at the time, and have disclosed to them the name of the true murderer: Thomas Logan. But for you, my boy, and for your innocence have I vowed vigorously and I trust no officer will dare lift a hand against you.
Nevertheless, I beseech you to take great care: promptly admonish any voice that attempts to imply your culpability in the matter, and do so with as little violence as your nature may permit. Ever since you alighted in my care, have I fought to suppress the violent animal instincts you possess; and it was with great pride I've seen you learn to control such whims that would have dragged you to the bottom of man's society. Rebuke, then, any slanderer voice with the control I have taught you. And fear not, as I have done all that was in my reach. You are a free man, despite bound to my family by your loyalty, and shall remain so.
But I digress. I trust you have found my grandson James and that, as you read this, he stands at your side. To you, then, do I entrust the biggest task I have never entrusted to anyone. But I have faith in you, boy, for I know I've taught you well.
My grandson must be little better than an animal like yourself, after so many years amidst them, and to you I entrust him. Guide him into becoming a man. I have been very clear in my will that, for three years after my grandson's return, you shall be his one and only tutor. You shall help him in everything he needs, explain to him how everything works. Do it sensibly, for I have sensed you capable of very sensitive tasks, and do not apply him the punishments I've applied to the lowest stations unless he proves himself driven by the basest animal instincts.
After those three years, which I believe are enough for you to accomplish this task, you shall return to your position as the overseer of my Estate, my grandson's Estate, and then shall you obey my grandson in everything he commands you.
I hoped I could have seen the both of you yet, before my untimely demise.
But now, as my last hour approaches repulsively, I bequest of you this last task I'll ever entrust you with: do not allow this empire I have fought for so dearly to disappear. I trust you, my boy, more than I've ever trusted any other man. My own son never accepted my guidance with the wholeheartedness you did, and I have absolute faith you shall, in time, rise above your kind and succeed in guiding my grandson into upholding and enlarging all that I have left him.
Ever your master,
John Edward James Howlett
He read the letter over and over again, engraving every word into his mind, searching for the right thing to do and yet unable to make any sense of the future.
"Well, that's enough of it." Blinking, he looked up at the detective. "I don't know what that letter says, but you should know that Mister Howlett has finally cleared the mess around the murder of his family."
He frowned but didn't say anything. The detective grinned.
"You are arrested as the accomplice of Thomas Logan in the murders of Edward Kenneth, John Howlett and Elizabeth Howlett." The young man froze. It was as if he was caught in a nightmare and things were spiralling down into Hell. "As well as for being directly implicated in the disappearance, and possible murder, of James Howlett and Rose."
"I have done all that was in my reach."
"Don't look so struck. I don't know what else you were expecting. True, Mister Howlett had a great deal of power… but unfortunately for you, the old buzzard is dead; and there's no heir to take you under his wing either."
"No officer will dare lift a hand against you."
"So, you are coming in and you're going to pay for your crimes. And it's about time, too!"
"You are a free man and shall remain so."
"You'll be lucky if you're confined to the gallows instead of being hanged."
"I have faith in you, boy, for I know I've taught you well."
"Get up, 'Dog'."
He didn't think. The man in front of him looked like a flimsy girl, compared to the many miners and field workers he had fought in his life. The moment he heard that name he had tried so hard to erase, he got off the chair and caught the detective by his neck, which then cracked audibly in the stunned silence of the office.
The assistant got out his gun immediately, but the blond man charged against him protected by the body of the dead detective, pinning the younger officer against the floor, shooting blindly in his panic. The young man needed nothing more than to reach out a hand and break the other man's neck, just like he'd done to his partner. He got up to the sight of the lawyer, shivering under Mister Howlett's desk.
"Get outta there, ya worthless worm. Ya ain't fit ta be nowhere near Mister Howlett's properties."
Suddenly, he realised the soft steps of someone approaching. He quickly reached for the gun the detective assistant still held in his death clutch and placed himself near the door, checking in a moment for the amount of bullets he could still count on. He focused on the steps with all his heart. He could almost see the corridor and where the man – yes, it sounded right to be a man – was stepping, very carefully towards his death. When he figured the man was in a good position, he opened the door and aimed.
Donegal froze, his face suddenly pale, and the young man pulled the trigger. Twice. He approached the soon to be corpse. Donegal's green eyes were unnaturally wide, blood trickling down his chin.
"I knew" he coughed weakly, a tear starting to tumble down the roughed face, "you were… a… murd… mu…"
The young man closed his fists hard. He was no murderer. The only folks he had ever killed were little better than animals and it had always been with Mister Howlett's blessing. What he was was a hunter; hunting all the despicable creatures who dared step in Mister Howlett's way. Or in his own, doing Mister Howlett's service. A frightened movement from behind woke him from his momentaneous reverie.
"Ah, Mister Orkney! I had almost forgotten all 'bout ya." The man seemed about to die of sheer fright, having glued himself to the wall after leaving the office. "Hey, where are my manners? I'm afraid Mister Howlett does not approve of drinking before the businesses are finished; but would you care to have a sit while we talk?"
Too frightened to do anything else, the lawyer trembled back into the office.
"Pardon the mess, will you? But here, sit." Settling down an armchair facing the desk, its back to the dead bodies in the middle of the room, the young man pulled the lawyer by an arm until he was sitting comfortably. "Now, then. Let's start by the beginning. Mister Howlett's will."
Swallowing hard, he mustered some courage and managed to state without stuttering:
"As I've stated, before, the entire heritage falls upon his grandson, James, and subsequent descendants." It sounded as if keeping talking would keep him alive and unharmed. "However, in the first three years, James Howlett will not be allowed to take active decisions, although he may use the power of veto. Through those years, the task of effectively managing all the Estate falls on you, as well as the responsibility of teaching the heir to manage the several businesses under Howlett's name."
He had felt a little giddy when he had sat at Mister Howlett's desk, but he was there on his stead, so he deserved it. He was the protector of everything Mister Howlett had stood for. And as for James, he wasn't returning. Even because if 'James' was alive, the truth was that he didn't exist anymore, since the little thief had in all likelihood decided to once more forget where he come from and just stick to a name that didn't belong to him; his name, Logan. The young man felt his throat vibrate in a soft growl that distracted him for a moment.
"Well, obviously, the heir is still missing. What does the will gotta… I mean, what does the will have to say on that?"
"Oh, yes. You are to oversee that the estate is well-managed and, at the same time, maintain constant efforts in his search until he can be found whether alive or dead. Naturally, the Bank would be privy to these search efforts." The lawyer swallowed and adjusted the glasses on the tip of his crooked nose. "However, should the heir be found dead, meaning that a well-identified corpse must be brought forward, all the money will become property of the National Bank, as well as the lands. In such a case, you will remain as the overseer of the entire Estate. It's clearly stated that in no case are these lands where the Manor stands to suffer any modification and that you, and your subsequent descendants, shall be free to make your living in it."
The young man smiled. He knew he could trust Mister Howlett. He was the top man after him, and he'd always be that top man. Always. These lands, now that James was as good as dead… living only as that sloppy seconds 'Logan'… these lands were his to live in, and to work in, and to… They were his!
He glanced at the fidgeting man in front of him. He could feel fear oozing from the flimsy creature and it excited him. It felt as if he was in the middle of a hunt, blood simmering pleasurably with the thrill of it. He licked his lips instinctively, remembering the sweetness of the wolf blood. He wondered what this twerp's blood would taste like.
"That sounds right enough. Now, if I'm the overseer, what have you done with the horses? Last time I checked there were over one hundred animals and there ain't not even one in the stables, now."
"Huh… I… Y-you… you must understand… You are an accomplice in the Howlett murder, a few years ago. You…"
"No, I'm not. Mister Howlett has cleared me of every accusation."
The scent of fear intensified and the young man frowned. In his entire life he had never noticed how fear released a scent of its own. He had been used to folks having slightly different scents, but that was because of different hygiene habits: how often they didn't wash themselves, the type of food they ate without washing their mouths afterwards, the scent of different perfumes the women used. But fear… and such a provocative scent, too.
"I'm afraid… I… Mister Howlett's allegations have cleared you of the committing of the deeds but… you were an accomplice of the murderer. Mister Howlett was… was led to believe you would not suffer any prosecution from your involvement but… you are, by law, barred from usufructing of any privileges stated in the will until you have been brought to law and served the sentence as it will be determined." A sudden after thought, perhaps dictated by his intense fear, had the lawyer gushing in earnest sympathy: "I'm terribly sorry, Mister Logan. You must believe me when I say it was a terrible thing to mislead an old, respectful man such as Mister Howlett, and to… to…"
His imagination having come to a dead end, the lawyer returned to a pale silence, under the blond's unrelenting gaze.
"Do not allow this empire I have fought for so dearly to disappear."
"You haven't told me what has been done with the horses, yet."
"The… The Bank, since it will be managing the Howlett properties, has decided it will be more cost-efficient to deliver the animals to another horse breeding company. Naturally, with the arrival of the heir, all the horses will be returned at his will."
"I trust you, my boy, more than I've ever trusted any other man."
"What else has the Bank decided?"
"The apple-orchard will be overlooked as the Bank doesn't see it likely to produce note-worthy incomes. The mines… the current foremen will continue their job and the Bank will keep a percentage of the profits while ascertaining the rest is safeguarded until the return of the heir." He swallowed hard, but as the young man continued staring at him, expecting to hear more, he continued. "As for the house… since it is empty, the Bank will collect all the valuables, whether materially or emotionally, – namely jewellery, paintings, photos, furniture made of precious woods, … - all that is deemed valuable to safe keep."
"So… What you're saying is that they're going to rob everything Mister Howlett has brought together."
"Oh, no no no no… It's only to safe keep! Who knows who would come to the house and rob it, while it stood empty of living souls, awaiting the return of the heir."
The young man stood. There was a point to that logic. Even if it was all wrong. The house would not be empty and unguarded because he would be there. But he wasn't going to. The police would come after him and then, yes, the house would be abandoned. Think.
"My own son never accepted my guidance with the wholeheartedness you did, and I have absolute faith you shall, in time, rise above your kind and succeed in upholding and enlarging all that I have left."
"What if the heir never returns? Or if he turns out to be dead? What then?"
"The Bank will have whole sovereignty over all the properties to do as it sees fit. All but this property, which has been determined to suffer no modification unless under Master James Howlett's or your rule."
"I trust you, my boy, more than I've ever trusted any other man."
But what was the best way out of all this mess? What?
"I want a copy of all the legalities." Never forget the law and always understand all that is being said in a legal paper. Details are of the utmost importance. He remembered well those lessons. "Including the will. I want to know where the money is at and in what account. You did say that Master James and me were the only ones with access to that account, right?"
The lawyer nodded a surprised affirmative but didn't move. The young man grabbed him by the collar.
"Ya better start givin' me what I want, ya worthless piece o' dirt, or I'm gonna make ya do it the hard way. Clear?"
Without loosing time nodding, the man searched for his fat black bag and started fishing documents out of it.
"A copy of the will… a letter by Howlett addressed to Master James… A copy of the contract of the Saskatchewan Horse Breeding Company… A copy of the contract where the National Bank of Canada accepts the terms of Mister Howlett's will… And here… the… the papers identifying the two individuals named in the will as having legal powers, one over all the heirloom, the other over the kept valuables and the financial assets if capable of proving their use under the determinations of the will."
The young man got hold of the papers with a thrill.
"I have faith in you, boy, for I know I've taught you well."
"You have."
"Huh?" The lawyer looked at him, confused, but he ignored the worm.
"Is this everything?"
"Yes."
He bit his lower lip to suppress a smile of pure happiness; then he turned to the puny little man and put together his most business like expression, as if dealing with the envoys of the companies with which Mister Howlett did businesses.
"Thank you, Mister Orkney, for all your helpfulness. Would you like to have a drink now?" The man trembled fearfully as the tall man stood behind him, a friendly hand over his shoulder guiding him gently towards the door. "No? Well, ever a wise decision, in Mister Howlett's eyes. Personally, I dislike going off with my throat dry. But it was your choice… I shall see you off, now."
And without much ado, he grabbed the man's head and twisted it around.
"Well, then, that does it. Now, ta fix this mess."
The sun had already risen by then, without him realising it, and there was plenty of light when he sat down to peruse all those papers. It was hard work, but Mister Howlett had often made him read the strangest, most annoying and ridiculous things for the sake of his education. Poetry had been the one thing he had despised the most, although some verses or poems had struck him as interesting. He had enjoyed some novels and short stories, though. Psalms and their likes from the Bible were both difficult and annoying; but truly complex had been the legal stuff he often had to read and then explain in detail as to the meanings of every deceitfully crooked sentence.
Everything seemed to be as the lawyer had said, indeed. And thus, even if Mister Howlett had generously left him so much in his will, the Bank and the police had fixed it as to keep it all away from his grasp. He laid his head on the desk, eyes closed. He felt vindicated by Mister Howlett, but whatever satisfaction stemmed from it, was promptly disembowelled by the treachery of James, robbing his life, his name; and the treachery of everyone else, robbing him of this second life he'd built for himself. Tears of frustration trickled slowly down his face.
He was tired. Eyes closed, he could smell the dead bodies, their scents changing and intensifying. He could smell the wood, right next to his nose, and the leather of the lawyer's bag on the papers he was using as a pillow. He could hear the cracking wood in the house and even a very faint trickling he couldn't place. He opened his eyes and focused on the rhythmic of the very light tapping. Now very quick, now coming to a sudden halt, now a nervous hurry. A mouse. He stood perfectly still. That was a mouse he was listening to. But how could he … ?
Wagons and horses. Voices. The young man approached the window furtively, trying to remain hidden from the people approaching. There were two Mounties ahead of the group, a bunch of men, and even some women and kids, waving about hoes, spades, rakes, clubs, shotguns. Some had torches. A growl formed in his throat. Did they intend to hunt and kill him and then burn the house? Beastly creatures, they all were. Animals deserving of the whip… deserving death.
He'd show them just who the hunter was, there.
The cold wind whipped him mercilessly, leading occasional snowflakes to attack his face. Slowly, he dragged himself through the woods towards the village. One of his legs had been shot and hurt painfully; and both his chest and back throbbed terribly. But he carried on. Away from the Howlett's house.
They were all dead.
He wasn't sure how he'd done it. He had just stopped thinking straight and everything had gone red all around him and, when nothing moved and he halted himself… everything was still red. Only then it wasn't his eyes that were seeing red, it was the whole… place that was literally covered in red. The snow covered gardens, the bodies cut and, some, even shredded. All was covered in dark red. As if an animal had attacked and…
But right now, that wasn't important. Even as he remembered the deep set marks of claws on most folks… four large, deep slashes sometimes accompanied by a fifth shallow one.
"Claws," he remembered the old Indian saying. "Man punch you? Then man have claws."
If he had been the one attacking and killing those people then he had… He once more gazed at his hands, and once more they seemed the same as always. No claws. He shook his head and hurried on.
The important thing was to reach the Mountie outpost in the village and kill the one man that had stayed behind. The important thing was to get rid of all and everyone that would try to destroy his life; take away his lands, that Mister Howlett had given him.
The sun was high but invisible by the dark snowy clouds when he finally reached the end of the wood. The village was just there for the taking. He felt the rage of before swallowing him. They were the ones that would strip him of everything he owned, everything that rightfully belonged to him. The roar echoed comfortably next to his ears, deafening any thought. Despite the aching leg, despite the burning chest and back, he straightened up and marched directly to the Mountie outpost.
At that moment, the young man had a mission, and nothing could get in his way. Not even gasps or screams, women and children running into hiding spots with a view to the showdown they knew inevitable.
When he reached the outpost, the Mountie was out with his gunshot aiming at him. The young man's face was distorted in a horrified gaze. The gaze of a prey holding on to its last defence. The hunter noticed that some teenager boys and older men who hadn't gone up the hill were approaching, most followed by curious children who had escaped their mothers' safety clutches. His heart beat did not flare, even though his blood simmered in his veins, sending waves of pleasure coursing through his body.
He didn't register what the Mountie was telling him. His entire senses were mapping in his mind the location of each animal that composed the herd around him. His instinct singled out the weaker ones and the stronger ones. He narrowed his eyes imperceptibly. And charged.
He had meant to grab the young Mountie by the neck, breaking it, but the blood splashed all around his hand and he didn't think about it anymore. He just grabbed the gun and quickly jumped away of the hotspot, shooting two blind rounds. The yelling, both of fear and of men rallying one another, filled the clear air as he searched for cover behind the outpost building.
The gunshot was empty, but he could still use it as a club, when the folks tried to surround him. He held on to the weapon and looked at it. For the first time, he saw his nails had turned dark. Dark and pointy. They didn't even look like… no, those weren't nails at all, they were… they looked like animal claws. His nails had just turned to claws. Like an animal. Like Jam…
Footsteps. Frightened but decisive, softened by the snow. They were coming, a group from each side, and he had nowhere to go but… up. He once more looked at the claws, his situation forcing him over the shock. They seemed strong. He jumped and clung to the wooden wall thanks to his claws. He grinned as he quickly pulled himself up. He had hardly reached safety when the two groups turned the corners. He almost laughed at how smart he was, and how dead they were.
The men searched for clues in the snow, and, as they looked up the lodge, realising he must have somehow climbed it, they saw their prey falling, roaring like a wild animal. Even the few shots which rang clearly through the air never got the chance of hitting their target, so completely had those men been surprised.
Following an instinct that still surprised him, but which he embraced wholeheartedly, he sniffed the air. There were more people waiting for him. He couldn't take them all, hurt as he was, so he needed the element of surprise. Disperse them. That's what he needed. Divide them into small groups so that he could take them out one by one.
He looked around and focused on the nearest house. Calling forth all his energy, he set out on a mad race, despite the still hurting leg, cheered by the yelling and shooting of all those who saw his sprint. It ended through a suddenly broken window. There was no one in that room, but it wasn't the same as saying the house was empty. Nevertheless, there was no time: everyone had seen him go in, now he needed to go out unseen. He ran through the room and into the kitchen. He could hear angry and desperate voices closing in. Backtracking into another room, he found himself face to face with a woman holding a pair of scissors against him.
One hand knocked the improvised weapon away, claws cutting through the shaking hands that had held them; the other hand slapped the woman hard enough to make her lose consciousness, claws shredding her frightened face. Once she was down, he saw the next obstacle: two little kids squatting under the table, holding on to one another; their eyes closed shut by fear. This obstacle was hardly in his way, though, so he just opened the window and went through it, squatting amidst the evergreen hedge that had been planted on the backyard.
He saw no one, as he looked around, although there were already folks entering the house he'd left. He leaped over the hedge and ran for the houses lining the main street. He entered the first without incident, even as his pursuers reached the backyard of the previous house.
Silently, he reminded himself. Now was the time to take out his enemies one by one.
The first house was empty. He needed to go over to the next one, but it was too light outside, despite the heavy cloud cover. He was cursing his bad luck, as he spied the going ons and abouts of folks outside. The men were ushering every woman and kid inside the Mountie outpost. Good, he thought. Less trouble keeping him from his real target: the men. Who he could see had organised in groups of two. He could see three groups, and most of the men were nothing but kids.
He grinned, his adrenalin levels sending waves of pleasure from toes to the tip of his hair. He was going to wait, now. Wait…
The men made a quite thorough search and the groups were always backing one another. He could smell their fear. Especially when they had kicked in the door of the house he was hiding in. He felt a hunger he had never felt before and he let it all lose: he fell over the men and didn't just tear them apart. He bit and tasted their blood and flesh as if they were nothing more than wolves.
Once he was done, he felt elated, free. He waltzed out of the house into the dark day and howled his victory for the whole world to hear: He was the true and only Logan! He was the real thing. James… that so-called 'Logan'… he was a poor copy of him who would never, ever reach this potential. He was L…
He doubled up in pain and felt the cold snow model itself to his face. He moaned, surprised, trying to understand what had happened.
"is he dead"
He could hear the voices, the footsteps approaching.
"stay back all of you"
"shoot him again… just…"
"There ain't no need." He heard the disgusted voice of… He opened his eyes in disbelief. Ethel? "He's good as dead. Gonna bleed 'imself away like a rabid dog, now. Sick…"
She spat on the snow, just next to his nose. Ethel? She was so close he could smell her. She had a strong, fearless scent. And he could smell the oil of the shotgun, too. With one last dieing effort – for he knew she had nailed him and that everything he did now was a last dieing effort – he raised himself and grabbed the shotgun. She gasped and took a step back, but her scent was still fearless.
"Ethel, Ethel, Ethel…" He pulled himself up with the help of the weapon, but since the woman didn't let go of it, he soon placed a bloody hand over her shoulder for extra support. She was pale but not fearful, as his bloodshot eyes locked with hers. His heart beat painfully. "I wouldn't… have killed ya, ya know."
For a moment, he figured she was even prettier than Rose, with her rustic simplicity, her proud stubbornness; her strength, her daring, carefree spirit.
"Yeah, well. I guess I can't say the same, can I? Specially since ya's already good as dead and ya can't do nuthin' el…"
She looked down to see his clawed hand perched over her belly. There was a shiver of fear, this time; but then he had already delved his hand in and pulled it out with pieces of organs spilling out. Fear disappeared as she gasped in shock. She slowly fell to her knees, her eyes tearing up between mute gasps.
"Now," he insisted, "ain't ya sorry ya pulled the trigger?"
He looked away from the tears that ran down her shocked face. She might not have succumbed to fear, but those yonder had. Those blasted bitches who were yelling and torn between running back into their little hide-hole or rushing forwards to finish what brave Ethel had started.
One woman had a shotgun and aimed at him, but she was trembling frightfully. One last dieing effort, he told himself. He was not going to die at the feet of those stupid frails that didn't even have a tenth part of Ethel's guts. Roaring he stumbled towards the women. He was hurting badly and couldn't move fast, but the scared empty-headed hens couldn't have shot him if he had stood two inches from the nuzzle.
He killed them one by one. The last ones had been cowering in fear over their children and he had hesitated. He was getting light-headed.
"Why, I ask you, has a child seen your face and remained alive to inform the law that an ugly faced blond 'Indian' had killed his parents and set his house on fire. Why!"
One terrified little boy had tried to charged him and he had just clamped his claws through the brat's skull.
"Such blundering carelessness, boy… I'll make certain that you will never again forget the seriousness of the consequences of such negligence, do you understand me?"
"Yes, sir."
His voice was drowned by the desperate screams of women and children as he methodically went about the slaughter, starting by the bigger ones, who presented the most danger.
Finally, his strength failed him. He looked around him and felt sick at the sight of so much blood, so many dead, shredded bodies, so much… His senses had abandoned him.
"He's good as dead. Gonna bleed 'imself away like a rabid dog, now."
Ethel was right. He was bleeding to death.
But he didn't want to. Not here. Not like this. With a last effort – and he promised his body which was begging for resting it would be the last – with a last effort, he dragged himself out. Away. His body ached so badly, it felt as if he had been dragged to and fro over barbed wire. But no… it was only snow. White, and cold, and burning through his skin like...
There was a woman praying, not far off. He could hear it clearly, even if her voice was smothered by distance. It was a strange prayer but it was so familiar… so…
He crawled towards it, although one of his legs refused to obey him.
There was safety in that prayer. There was a sense of impending danger, too. But that was OK. He was a big boy, now. Big and strong. No one could hurt him.
He moaned in pain as his head banged against something. Whimpering, he tried to move to the side and keep on crawling, his mind screaming with the pain he refused to acknowledge.
He'd be safe if he could just…
His entire body shivered; cold, hurt, burnt and humiliated.
Cold, because he was lying down in the snow, naked from the waist up, under a crispy blue early morning sky.
Hurt, because he was receiving ten cat lashes for laziness and attempting to skip his lessons.
Burning, because the welts and cuts were being rubbed with salt for motivation.
Humiliated, because he was sitting on a chair in the kitchen, in face of maids and working men going about their duties, while still naked from the waist up and his bruised back still coated in burning salt for all to see.
"He, that being often reproved hardeneth his neck," he wrote, while reading the words out loud, for the fiftieth time, "shall suddenly be destroyed, and that without remedy."
"Mister Howlett, sir," his voice rang strongly despite the hurt that still haunted him like burning irons, and having knocked a second time he dared to enter his master's office. "I have finished writing the proverb, sir."
He never even spared the trodden boy a glance, simply asking if he had written the verse in perfect handwriting throughout the one hundred copies. He was hungry for proving himself undeserving of another punishment.
"I did, sir." And yet fear that he may be called a liar and earn him what he wanted to avoid had him grumble a humble "I… believe I did, sir. I mean, I tried as hard as I can…"
Uncertainly he took three steps forward and stopped. His leg hurt so much he almost didn't retrace his steps back to the door.
"May I approach and show it to you, sir?"
Finally, the old man looked up.
"Ah! An unexpected show of good manners from a so far unrepentant scoundrel. Surely," he added sullenly, "I've been far too kind to you. But now that you have finally understood the full pain that entails the consequences of your actions, I trust our lessons will advance at a much quicker pace."
He tried to nod, but found his neck stiff from the cold. He wished he would be allowed to go near the fire, which blazed enticingly from a far, far away wall. Instead, though, he tried to walk to the little working desk Mister Howlett had set up for him near the window. A blizzard raged outside, and it seemed to have frozen the very furniture. But he dared not displease his master. He bravely marched forward… on and on… his throbbing leg causing him to limp a little… a bit further… it seemed he would never reach it, when he somehow tripped and fell.
His body screamed in his mind and he couldn't help moaning. For a minute he fancied he was out in the terrible blizzard, which was flogging his naked back anew with a cat of barbed wire.
"Today, we shall discuss something more interesting to your boyish tastes." Mister Howlett's authoritative voice called him from far, ignoring the boy's excruciating pain and commandeering all his attention. "The greatest failure in Britain's History, boy, is this country south of us, the United States of America. Through lax mastery and lack of judgement was it lost to the Crown. The man behind the colony's victory… do you know his name?"
He struggled to state the name, but his teeth clattered and his limbs were so numb he could hardly feel the blizzard, embracing him through the closed window.
"That is correct. Washington. So unexpected was his victory and so high has the country raised since those days, that many poets have taken up his name a par with those of classic warriors of great value. Here, read this piece aloud."
And such they are-and such they will be found:
Not so Leonidas and Washington,
Their every battle-field is holy ground
Which breathes of nations saved, not worlds undone.
How sweetly on the ear such echoes sound!
While the mere victor's may appal or stun
The servile and the vain, such names will be
A watchword till the future shall be free.
He could not make his way through the mangled wording, but Mister Howlett guided him with a steady hand and he found himself capable of understanding that the poem considered Washington to be a saviour of worlds, not their destroyer. That a man might earn a victory, but only names such as Washington's echoed a future of freedom.
"Why?" Demanded the patient teacher, but the boy's numbness kept him from speaking his mind. In truth, there was nothing to be spoken of, within his mind, since it was beginning to be assaulted by the deadening embrace of the burning blizzard and he could hardly listen to his old master's anger across the thickening greyness. "No, no, no, you stupid child! It was because Washington was a true victor! He was a man capable of both seeing past the Crown's incompetence and of applying a strong ruling hand that brought the brutes across those lands under his yoke, all eager to do his bidding!"
He closed his burning eyes. He couldn't feel anything: not cold, not hurt, not burning or humiliation. But from the darkness, the lesson continued:
Only the man who knows and accepts himself, and yet risks everything to raise himself even beyond… the man who dares go further… the man who controls his mind and his body with such certainty that no soul dares disobey him but rather strives to follow his lead… that man alone deserves the name of victor.
Many such men have marked their name in history books, so read. Read that you may understand, if you can, what turns a man into a true victor…
such as Washington…
such as me…
Men that no one can bring down…
men that are above everything and everyone…
learn from them, boy
learn from
me
you shall only stand tall within your station
if you learn to act like us
if you learn to be a
victor
not him
The first thing that struck him was the unknown voice.
thought so at first
Then he realised he was cold, not frozen cold, but just cold.
Yeah… I can see what ya mean: size and hair look like a dead match
Finally, it dawned on him he hadn't died yet; and that those voices… it was someone… no, it was two men talking about him. He figured he must be very close to dieing, and maybe that was why he couldn't feel any pain. Just the cold…
"But there ain't a single scar on 'is face, much less three big ones."
Those words shook the last numbness that was encroaching on his thoughts and he opened his eyes.
"Hey, there, fellow, relax… There's no danger fer now. The murderer has left the area and ya're one o' the few lucky t'be alive." He simply blinked at the young man in front of him, unable to think. Why weren't they shooting him? Why had they said… he had no scars? Was that what they had just said? Had he heard them right?
"Oldenburg, here! The blanket ya asked for."
The Mountie… they were both Mounties in front of him… they helped him to sit up, brushing off the snow that had covered him overnight. Night… He looked around. It was morning. The last thing he remembered… it wasn't night yet, in the last memory he had.
"Take it easy, now. Ya're lucky the snow covered ya up like that and protected ya from the night wind. Hell, ya're lucky ya survived the night, an'that's the end of it!"
He remained still as the man placed the blanket over his back, but he wasn't sure of what was happening. He had been shot in the gut… Ethel had… He looked down to see his clothes dyed in blood, but surely there was the mark of a shotgun shot in his shirt. And just as surely, his skin was as clear of wounds as a baby's. He took a hand to his face. He rubbed it thoroughly, searching for the marks which were always there, haunting him. But there was nothing. His face felt as smooth… as free of blemish… as his belly.
"Come now… Think ya can get yerself ta the church? There's where all the survivors are bein' taken."
"Church?" Amidst all the strangeness, he was relieved he still recognised his voice. "There was survivors? I…"
"Kids, mostly," the Mountie shook his head, gloomily, "and a few women who fainted and were buried under… under the dead."
He noticed for the first time that both Mounties were very young, and soon discovered why: they didn't have the stomach to handle all the blood and gore. Their duty was to go about searching for any run-away survivor. He grinned.
"C'mon now, sir. We'll help ya ta get in there. We'll have ya warmed up in no time."
Grinning, he let the two youths help him up; then he looked around himself. He was in the cemetery, on the low life end… the patch reserved for the folks who had no money to pay for a decent burial. The minister, though, was a kind soul who paid of his own pocket a tombstone for those lost souls. It was a poor quality stone, and always badly crafted, but at least it sported a name and a date of death. As he started walking, stiffly because his legs were partially numb, he spotted Mill Smith's tomb. He walked over gingerly to it.
Ethel's pa. The miller had got himself so drunk, he'd fallen over the grindstone and grinned himself to death. That had been more or less three years before. He had been to the burial, although almost no one else had had the decency to drop by. Of course, Mill Smith wasn't much decent himself, so it wasn't likely he'd take a grudge against the village folks. He remembered seeing the green-eyed Ethel spitting on her old man's cask and cursing at the priest's gentle reproof. Ethel… She was no plaything for any boy, then. She worked at Coxcomb's bar, and had no qualms about breaking the head of the man who dared lay a finger on her.
He growled. That had been probably why she had thought she could have taken him. Had she known… had he ever told her how much better, how much bigger he was. All the men in that place were animals. And he was above all of them. Maybe then she would have known better than to shoot him like that.
But he had never gone about to talk to the girl. Just watched her from afar. Oh well, and he shrugged carelessly, it made no nevermind, now.
The Mounties weren't in much of a hurry, and willingly respected their survivor's whim. He grinned. They were afraid of going back to the gore. He could smell it so clearly on them. But he wasn't interested in going to the church, anyway.
He wanted to leave this place.
"So, uh… hum… This Smith, he's a friend o'yours?"
He looked at the boy for a moment and then ignored him. It struck him that he wasn't much older than those Mounties. They were probably eighteen or nineteen and he was… He frowned. He remembered Mister Howlett claiming he was twelve, back when he became his legal guardian, but he knew that was wrong. He must've been about fourteen or fifteen, then. That had been six years ago, which meant he was now… twenty or twenty-one.
It hit him! He was not a boy, like those two Mounties. He was a man. Twenty-one was the age when he'd be free of any legal guardianship and become his own man.
He was a free man!
"Sir, we should go back, now. Sir?" Oldenburg. This one was older and seemed readier to face his fears, too. "Ya got a name, by the way?"
He looked away from them and strolled about. He searched through the tombstones until he found the one he wanted.
There were two names on it. The last one read 'Thomas Logan – 1908'. That was his name. He once more felt about his face. He was the only Logan left… but if he gave that name anywhere, he'd be hunted down like a dog for the bloodbath in the village. He growled, disgusted with the irony. The only real Logan left, and he couldn't even use that name.
"Sir?" Oldenburg seemed to be finding something odd. Well, wasn't it about time, too? "What's your name?"
The first name in the stone stated "Abigail Kredall – 1900".
"Kred…" He hesitated. He couldn't use that name either. "Victor." That much he had chosen. "Victor… Creed."
And it was done. He turned to the two young Mounties.
"Not that it's gonna do ya much good, knowin' my name…"
