By Leland Hames
Editor’s Note: This is a continuation of “The Bodark“
Mike heard the howls of wolves echoing through the nearby forest as he stood enjoying the warm afternoon sunshine on the house’s front porch. As a field researcher on wolves and wolf behavior for most of his twenty-odd-year career with The U.S. Forest Service in northern Idaho, he immediately recognized these particular howls. The wolves were calling out a danger warning. This usually meant that something or someone had encroached on the local pack’s territory, and they were unhappy about it. Mike called his son Gregory, who was in the house, to come out and listen. Gregory came shuffling outside and lazily plopped himself onto the nearby bench porch swing in full-bothered,fifteen-year-old fashion, stretching out his long legs and slumping down, his head hanging out over the top of the slatted wood back and starting a slow swing with the heels of his bare feet, sulkily demonstrating his annoyance at being interrupted in whatever was more important that he had been doing inside (Which was probably nothing at all.) The swing’s supporting chains creaked under his weight through each back-and-forth arc, creating a dissonant harmony to the distant howls emanating from the deep summer green of the surrounding forest.
“What’s up, Dad?” Gregory asked, tilting his ear towards the distant sounds while observing the concentrated look on his father’s face.
“Friends of yours?” Mike jokingly asked Gregory
“I mean, we know each other, but I wouldn’t call them friends,” Gregory replied, smirking.
“No, not the wolves, People. Are you expecting friends to come by? The local pack seems to be upset about someone trespassing on their turf. I’m just trying to figure out if there’s a hunter out there, just some folks hiking through, or what. Whatever it is, they’re annoyed by it. “
“Nope. I’m not expecting anybody. It could be a hunter. The wolves sound more concerned than annoyed.” Gregory said, standing and turning towards the sound to get a better listen. Mike could make out different vocalization patterns, but he was nowhere near as fluent as Gregory in all of the subtleties communicated by wolves to each other. This was one area where Gregory far exceeded Mike’s abilities. He had a natural talent for their language that he honed and developed as he accompanied his father in his field studies. There were a dozen local packs in Lemhi County, where they lived that his father kept regular tabs on, and another fifty packs were in northern Idaho, where Mike occasionally visited and took population numbers and environmental notes. Gregory had spent the last eight years accompanying his father to study them. It was Mike’s passion and career, and he was very knowledgeable about all things wolf. Yet, Gregory had repeatedly proved to be an invaluable asset in his studies.
“What do you think it is?” Mike asked, searching the boy’s face as Gregory listened intently to the howls with closed eyes.
“I can’t tell,” Gregory answered. “At first, I thought it was a hunter, but now I think it’s another wolf from a different pack. It’s hard to make out. Either way, it sounds like trouble.”
“Thanks, Gregor. I appreciate the help.”
“Dad, why do you still insist on calling me Gregor when everyone else calls me Greg?”
“Because it’s your name. It’s the name that you came to us with, and I like it. It’s a reminder of your Lithuanian heritage.”
“Nobody calls you Mikolojus,” Gregory grumbled.
“My grandfather did. I started going by Mike because none of my school teachers could pronounce my name when they saw it written, like how our last name went from Miškinus to Miskin. My grandfather, Dominykas, would say it was “Anglicized for your protection” and then laugh at the joke every time. When he first moved to the U.S., he saw a toilet while working in a hotel that had a paper band across the lid that had “Sanitized for your protection.” printed across it, which, not knowing any English, confused him. When someone suggested he anglicize his name to sound more American, he found the similarity of the words entertaining to no end, hence: “Anglicized for your protection.” Anyway, I like the name Gregor. It suits you. It means vigilant protector.”
“Nesvarbu,Tétis,(whatever, Dad)” Gregory responded.
“Sutiko, Sūnus (Agreed, Son),” Mike said, chuckling at Gregory’s switch to the Lithuanian in response.
“Such a paauglė (Teenager),” Mike thought to himself. Gregory seldom used Lithuanian except to make a specific point. He had primarily spoken English since Mike and his wife Sandra had adopted him at the age of five and brought him home from Vilnius, Lithuania. where he had been living in an orphanage after being surrendered by his birth family, who were of a small, persecuted, ethnic minority called the Bodark. Gregor had brought nothing but joy into the Miskin family. Even when, at the age of ten, in a near cougar attack on them, Gregory had revealed to his father that he had the extraordinary ability to turn into a wolf by suddenly changing and attacking the cougar instead, saving both of their lives. It came as a shock to Mike but was also an epiphany. Gregory was afraid his new parents would no longer love him if they knew, but Mike had fallen in love with him all the more because of it. A wolf in the family was a blessing in his eyes. Seeing him grow into the brooding teenager that he now was had been one of the greatest pleasures in Mike’s life so far. He and Sandra had finally formed their own happy pack, and everything was right with the world in their eyes. He now only worried for the day when Gregory would someday finish growing up and want to move away and start a pack of his own. He tried to avoid those thoughts.
“Hey, Dad!” Gregory called from inside the door of the house where he had retreated to. “Do you think it’s okay to let out the dogs? They’re asking to go out.”
“I don’t see why not. They won’t bother anything. I’ll just keep an eye out for them so they stay close,” Mike replied, settling into the porch swing and listening to the last of the distant wolf howls fading away to one or two calls. The nearest pack was one of the larger ones, consisting of twelve to eighteen members, depending on the success of the breeding season. Most packs consisted of only seven to ten wolves. Whatever had disturbed them had now safely passed.
The three dogs came bursting out of the open door, racing across the large lawn, chasing each other, and stopping sporadically to wrestle in the grass. Mike watched them, smiling at their antics. Rascal, their blue heeler, the perpetual beta, loved challenging Maisy, the large, black Akita/chow mix. She was the eldest and clear boss of the group, and even though his challenges always ended with him on his back, legs scrambling for purchase, Maisy’s mouth around his throat holding him down, Rascal still tried. He circled her, barking and challenging her to another wrestling match which even he knew that he would lose.
Nicky, the hound, kept his distance and snapped at Rascal to keep him from excitedly biting at Nicky’s rear legs. As Maisy became annoyed with Rascal, Mike called from the porch, “Get him, Maisy!” Within seconds, she used her massive bulk to knock Rascal to the ground and had her muzzle clamped around his throat. “Every time,” Mike muttered to himself. “But you have to admire his tenacity.” Suddenly, Maisy lifted her head, ears perked up, and she took off for the tree line, barking with Rascal and Nicky close behind. “What’s she after?” Mike asked himself, craning around to look at the direction they had raced off to.
Stepping onto the edge of the property was a large man with his hands held out to show the dogs he meant no harm as they barked and circled him curiously, sniffing. He walked directly towards the front of the house, adjusting his backpack on his shoulders as he neared.
“Hello there! Can I help you?” Mike called out to him. The man raised one hand in greeting and continued walking until he stood at the foot of the porch stairs, the three dogs milling about nearby. “Are you Mr. Miškinus?” The man asked. Mike looked him over from his worn boots to his narrow, stubbled face and head. He looked vaguely familiar, Mike thought to himself.
“Who’s asking?” Mike replied to him, eyes narrowed with suspicion at the tall, muscular figure standing at his steps.
“My name is Andrius,” the man replied with a thick accent. “I am searching for a member of my family, my nephew. His name is Gregor Vilkas. I am led to believing that you may have adopted him as a child, Mr. Miškinus. This information was difficult to find. The orphanage is not so easy to give information about adoptions. I convinced them that it was important to do so.”
“Why would you want to talk to Gregor?” Mike calmly asked the man.
“His family misses him and sent me for to bring him home.”
“He is home,” Mike replied in a flat, even voice.
“Wait right there,” Mike told him as he stood and went to the front door, opening the screen and yelling into the house.
“Sandra! We have a visitor! There’s a Vilkas at the door. He’s come looking for Gregor. Could you ask him to come out here?” Mike could hear Sandra calling up to Gregory in his room. Mike returned to stand on the left side of the porch where he had been sitting before. A minute later, Gregory came stomping down the stairs and stood just inside the screen door to the house. He looked at Mike questioningly, and Mike gently gestured for him to come out. “We thought that one of you would probably show up someday,” he said, looking at Andrius. “You might say we have been prepared for it.”
Andrius stepped onto the stairs, up a couple of steps, and then extended his hand towards Gregory, who now stood outside on the porch just in front of the screen door, staring at the man with a severe expression.
“Gregor, this man says that he is your uncle and that he has been looking for you. Do you know him?”
“Sveiki, Gregor,” Andrius said, extending his hand further out towards Gregory. Instead of shaking it, Gregory merely leaned forward and sniffed the back of it. Returning upright, he turned to Mike and said, “He is from my old family, my father’s brother.” Gregory stepped towards Mike and stood just behind his left shoulder close to the door.
“See, I told you. I am of his family,” Andrius said, looking arrogantly at Mike, his chin proudly raised as if in challenge.
“What do you want?” Gregory asked from behind his father.
“I have spent long time looking for you and traveling far, so to bring you home to your family, Sūnėnas,” Andrius said to Gregory, with a large smile that did not quite reach his eyes
“I am home. This is my family, Dėdė,” retorted Gregory, with a dangerous-sounding coarseness in his voice.
“No, to your real family. Home to the pack.”
“The family that left me behind, alone in an orphanage?” Gregory questioned back, making no attempt to hide the disdain in his voice.
“An unfortunate thing, yes. We had no choice. We were being hunted. We wanted you to be safe. We had to leave you.”
“You chose to leave me. A true pack doesn’t leave a cub behind. They would sooner die. This is my pack now,” Gregory snarled at the man. Mike felt a sense of pride in the boy well up inside him. The boy was positively fearless. At ten in the face of a mountain lion, now at fifteen in the face of this menacing figure standing at the stairs to their home. What he had said was true; a wolf pack would never abandon its own. Not the elderly, the young, or the injured. The pack was a fully functioning machine where every part was crucial and valuable. A pack of wolves could change entire ecosystems. The course of rivers. Together as one, they performed nature’s will and brought about balance. The pack was everything.
Andrius stepped backward down the two steps he had taken when he heard Sandra’s voice, off to his right and behind him, having come around the house from the back door, saying, “I think that you should leave now.”
Andrius replied over his shoulder,” I have come far, and I will say when it is time for me to go.”
Gregor will return with me to the pack, where he will be among his own kind. He is a true Bodark like me. He is a born wolf. He must come home. You can do nothing to stop this. I am the -how do you say- “Alpha” here. You will all do as I say.” Andrius’s eyes turned wolf-gold, and he curled his upper lip to display his long canines. Mike stared at him unimpressed as he heard a low, rumbling growl from Gregory behind him. Andrius flexed his muscles, posturing at Mike, who was a much shorter and less muscular man compared to Andrius’s sizeable bulk.”I will do as I choose. The boy will come,” Andrius said.
“Andrius, with all due respect, you don’t understand as much as you think you do. For instance, your little pack is not indicative of proper wolves or even true Bodark. I’ve done extensive research on the Bodark after learning what Gregor could do so that I could better understand. I’m not quite sure how you are able to pass along the gene for lycanthropy to your children; I can only presume that two true Bodark somewhere far back in your ancestry had cubs, which somehow led to your pack. You are neįprasti(unusual). You see, true Bodark are made, not born. It is a choice to become the wolf.
I was surprised to find that the process is remarkably straight-forward. First, one must know the proper incantation, also called a zagovór. My having a wife who works in library sciences was helpful with that one. There are many incantations that have been written down over the years, but only one true zagovór. This was discovered in a very old and rare book. One must possess a copper-bladed knife. I know several knife makers, so that’s very easy. Then, one must find a very special kind of tree. Which, as you can see, we have no shortage of here,” Mike said, gesturing towards the surrounding forest.
“I can see that you understand none of this,” Mike said continuing, “After performing the incantation under the light of the full moon, the copper knife is thrust into the trunk of the sacred tree, and after that, things just sort of happen on their own, And pretty quickly, I might add. Your insulated little wolf pack not only doesn’t seem to understand the behavior of true wolves, but you don’t even understand what makes a true Bodark. Mike’s eyes turned from blue to the bright gold of a wolf’s as he calmly stated this fact. Andrius did not see this change as he turned, hearing a deep growl behind him. He turned to see their dog Maisy, with teeth bared and coal black fur, bristled, staring up at him. Sandra quietly said, “Maisy, heel.” The dog immediately dropped her fur and sat obediently at Sandra’s left side, still staring at Andrius. Andrius laughed and said
“Ant Savo kiemo šuva ir vilko Nebijo”
“My grandfather often used that phrase. ‘In his own yard, the dog is not scared even of the wolf’,” Mike said as his golden eyes met Andrius’s own in a hard, cold stare. “Unfortunately for you, your pride and ignorance are once again showing to be your fatal flaws.”
“A couple of things before you go.” Mike began to say.
“I will not return home without the boy,” Andrius spat, interrupting him.
“You got half of that right,” Mike replied before continuing.
“I also want you to understand something important because most people have it wrong: the ‘Alpha’ of a wolfpack has nothing to do with size, strength, or even aggression. You are not the Alpha here. The Alphas are the eldest male and female life-mated pair of the pack. Specifically, the mother and the father of the entire pack usually. Of these, the female holds the most power as the pack unquestioningly serves her will.”
“Oh, and those couple of things which I tried to tell you, although perhaps now a bit late:
First, Maisy isn’t afraid of anything—least of all wolves. She lives among them. She helped raise one. Gregor is her pup in her mind.
Secondly, and most importantly, that wasn’t Maisy growling at you.”
Andrius spun and looked at Maisy, still sitting quietly beside Sandra, and his eyes moved up to Sandra’s face to meet her flashing gold eyes and long, bared canines.
“Run” was all she said.
Andrius paused as if to make another threat or perhaps laugh, but neither reached his throat before his screams did, nor could he change form before he was viciously set upon by three large and savage wolves all at once and from all sides. His last thought was that he should have run.
Mike finished digging a grave beneath a massive and ancient oak tree in the heart of the forest before placing Andrius (or what was left of him), whom he had labored to drag out there, into the hole and then began to slowly fill it in one shovelful of dirt at a time. It was a sacred place to be laid to rest. The moonlight shone through the canopy high above, glinting off the two copper knives jutting from the tree trunk. His work completed, Mike leaned the shovel against the tree, removed his clothes and boots, and changed into his more comfortable, four-footed form. Raising his head, Mike let loose a long howl into the night. Sandra and Gregory quickly joined him, and the three dogs followed close behind. They all set out for a run through the dark forest, moonlight reflecting off their smooth and shining fur. The night was young. The pack gathered together and was on the move. Nothing could separate them or stand against them. The pack was everything.
Leland Hames is the writing alias of Paul Cook, a 55-year-old former songwriter and performing/touring/recording musician fronting the band “The Bottletones.” Originally from Southern Illinois, he now resides in Chicago, IL. His life performing was sidelined by a massive and nearly fatal ischemic stroke in 2022, leaving him paralyzed on his left side and in a wheelchair. He continues with his voracious reading habits as he physically recovers and has turned his creative drive into writing short fiction after being encouraged to do so by his wife, and his best friend and co-songwriter/bandmate. He is a parent to two children (15&12), 3dogs, a cat, and a fat, lazy bearded dragon. He strives to write fiction that both kids and adults can enjoy. (He is currently working on a YA novella.) He spends his days as the facilities manager for a busy and well-known Chicago live music venue and the rest of his time reading or creating fiction.