The moon was rising slowly tipping its rays across the surface of the land. The white thread like runnels spun silver cords blanketing the fields. Unusual for this time of year a chilly wind had begun to blow across from the marshlands. It wafted up from the deep, ebbing pits wallowing with the scents of seaweed, fish and the pungent stench of tepid water.
"This ain't right" John thought to himself as he stood silent sentry to his family's farm. He was alone. Not another human soul lived on Drumna hill, just John and his dad and his brother both of whom had gone to the village. His mother had passed away when John was twelve.
Even to this day he could still remember it. The moon had been full that night too. The wind had been strangely chilly and the world had been eerily quiet, on that night almost eight years ago.
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He had woken up, unusual for him since he was such a sound sleeper, he had woken up with an uneasy feeling in his heart. It had been pounding, each pulse resounding, ricocheting against the inner chambers of his heart.
He had been thirsty, parched in fact like he hadn't drunk in days, even though he had followed his routine exactly. He had washed up straight after dinner, he had kissed his parents goodnight, and his brother had ruffled his hair in the fond way only Declan could. Then he had sat beside his bed and said his nightly prayers. His father had brought his glass of water, and he half emptied it before he climbed into bed.
"Goodnight John" his dad had said.
Then for no reason at all he had woken up. He sat up in bed, blinking away his sleep in the darkness. He stretched out his hand to feel his bed cloths, the rough and comforting familiarities, he gently pushed them aside.
Shivering he extracted himself from bed. Why did he suddenly feel so cold, had it not been the middle of spring just this morning?
It is a wonder he had thought, how the dark transforms the world. All around him his old bedroom looked like a stranger's cavern. The deep grained wood that formed the walls looked like tiny dry streams forming map-like patterns on his walls. He ran his hand along them, feeling his way to the door.
Suddenly he had stopped he remembered why he had woken up. He had heard the singular call of a wolf. His blood had run cold in his body and had already drained from his face. He was being watched. With a sudden surge of energy he turned around. No one was there. He pivoted on the spot checking every crevice of his room with frantic eyes.
The fear welling up in him lent him the feral instincts of an animal. Suddenly the swirling darkness parted and he could make out each shape clear and minute. Something in him lead him to the window. He did not know what but some how he had an inexplicable urge to look outside.
He cautiously stepped closer to the curtains, gently parting the only shroud hiding him from that which lay outside.
For a moment there was nothing, just the fields stretching to the edges of the wood. The forest acted like a natural fence, separating the world of man from the world of beasts.
Then, it caught his eyes. Standing at the very border directly across from his window, was the wolf.
The majestic creature stood half in shadow half bathing in the moonlight. The snowy light bounced of his coat, gleaming, like the very light radiated from him. All around it the world looked like it was bathed in snow, snow in the spring.
Despite this the one thing that fixated John's attention were the wolf's eyes. Those eyes burned and flickered like flames in a face as pure as snow. They were not bestial, on the contrary they were solemn, with the far away gaze of a philosopher lining the deep embers. But now, now they gazed into John's eyes. There was no doubt about it. The wolf was there only to tell John something.
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