EPILOGUE

No one could stop the burning of The Den.

It wasn’t due to a lack of hands willing to help.

The ridge wolves wouldn’t allow it.

Half the beasts watched the underground tavern burn, a few always in motion—sniffing back and forth along the outer walls. The others turned outward, ever watching the people of Putäyäl.

None of the canines attacked a villager that night.

Nor did a villager dare raise an arm against any beast bent on killing the supernatural.

Only Mouse found acceptance among his wild ancestors.

Wandering between the wolf line, dwarfing all but the alpha, he plopped down next to the black canine…and howled.

All anyone could do was watch the fire.

An unnatural flame which raged without the fuel to feed it—long into the morning.

By the time the sun cast its warm light upon Putäyäl, the wolves had inspected the smoking pit where the tavern used to be. Combing the ruins one last time, they retreated into the forest. The alpha, last to leave, gave Mouse a warning growl when the dog tried to follow.

Sadly The Den and the loss of Wendell were only a few of the problems now facing the village.

Like so often in places perched in the wild, death comes to claim her tribute.

No livestock could be found in the village. Old Mayson’s offer to assist the people from his tavern storage was no longer an option. He, right along with the rest of the locals, was going to starve if a solution wasn’t found.

That’s when the miracle happened.

A collection was started by Silas O’Brien himself.

Every coin available was contributed for the survival of the people of the community. It wouldn’t replace everything, but no one would starve this winter…or any winter thereafter.

When confronted and asked why he was willing to impart of his means to a people he always called ‘fools’, Silas replied, “You may be fools,…but you’re my fools, and I don’t want harm coming to anyone until I can teach you better!”

The trappers Mailian and Varick, killed by the creature no one could understand, were buried in the village cemetery.

Some folks agreed with what they’d told the locals about Wendell.

Others disagreed.

But most, welllll…most no longer cared.

Fate had spoken her mind when the bodies of the remaining two trappers were discovered.

Fleeing from the scene that night, Manel had been hunted and dispatched by a local pack of wolves.

Not ridge wolves.

Just…wolves.

His coin purse was added to the village funds.

The second brother was found dead in Elsa’s home…among the children.

Jacob, Kale, Shayle and Lyndie were found in the secondary root cellar, where Tim had hidden them.

“He kept screaming ‘run’!” Lyndie sobbed, “Over and over he did, but he knew we were in the root cellar, Elsa. He PUT us there, Elsa—so we couldn’t run!”

Jacob knelt at her side and gave her a hug. Wiping his own tear from his face, “I think he was pretending we ran away, Lyndie—so those men didn’t look for us.”

“But why didn’t he hide with us?” Lyndie cried louder.

“Because,” Kale added, wrapping an arm around Shayle and giving her a hug, “that’s what heroes do. They take care of people, even if they have to get hurt to do it.”

Tim smiled widely at that, then shook his head.

“That’s what people do to defend their families, because they love them.”

Though the boy would most likely walk with a limp for the rest of his life, the knife wound to his leg would heal.

The same could not be said of Ethan, who was found slumped against Elsa’s hearth, Tim’s new spear protruding from his belly.

Cal, the only remaining, and youngest of the trappers, was nursed back to health. When given the means to leave the village, he asked if he could stay, eventually hired by Old Mayson to help rebuild and work at the new tavern.

…which Mason renamed ‘The Wolf’s Den’.

Jan led a party to Sawyers hidden cave, where his accusations were proven to be true. Wendell’s name was cleared of all accusations…and Sawyer was buried in the cemetery—with his family.

The remaning contents of the cave were burned.

Little was spoken of the mägo youth named Wendell.

Putäyäl found itself ever divided at the mention of his name.

The one who had saved the village from an evil no one could explain. Not what it was, nor why it had come to the village in the first place.

Some wondered if it was a sign.

A sign of what happened when the evil acts are covered with lies and other dark deeds, instead of taking responsibility for ones own choices and actions.

Young Wendell had come to Putäyal to find a new life.

Yet this stranger was willing to give his own life so others could be safe.

Including those who hated him.

****

“That was the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen,” Silas mumbled under his breath.

Hunched over and exhausted, his near frozen fingers did their best to hold the reigns.

“How does a fire burn so hot that there isn’t even a bone left to find?”

Bartleby scratched Mouse and Tam in the wagon behind him. “Magic fire would be my guess. But honestly I don’t know…because that fire should have destroyed this also.”

He lifted the snow white cloth from his lap, inspecting it. “How does cloth sit in the middle of a burning inferno and not get consumed, singed, or gain the slightest blemish?”

Silas slowly shook his head, his whole body swaying to the rocking of the wagon over the frozen ground. “They were wrong about him.”

“Who?”

“Wendell.” The old man’s lips clenched and relaxed as he thought about it. “All he did was kindness. And what did we give him in return?”

“Woah, hey there, Silas—you gave Wendell a job and more importantly, a chance. You gave him the opportunity to show you who he was. To prove it by his actions. That’s worth gold to people like him…AND me. Keep that in mind.”

“Maybe,” Silas replied weakly. He looked up to the sky and groaned. “And here comes the snow. Haven’t even sent out the supply wagons for the village, and…,” he pulled back on the reigns sharply, forcing the wagon to a stop.

The gnome and both hounds jolted in the back.

“Hey!” Bartleby startled, “If you’re hitting rocks, you’re too tired to be driving. Scoot over an let…”

“Shut up, bard.”

“Now that’s just…”

“Bartleby,” Silas snapped, his body going rigid, “eyes up front.”

The gnome peered over the lip of the wagon to find the path complete blocked by more than a dozen ridge wolves. Eyes glued to the wagon, the wall of fur and fangs bellowed out a steady stream of steam, tounges panting.

He swallowed hard. “They hear to eat us?”

Silas shook his head. “Nope.”

“How could you possibly know that, Silas?”

Still keeping his posture still, “Because these horses should be going crazy, but they’re not. My dogs should be growling or barking, but they’re not.”

Thinking about it, Bartleby nodded, “This is scarier.”

“Yup.”

Without warning, Mouse stood up, placing his front paws on the wall of the wagon. Lifting his muzzle into the air, the hound sniffed.

His tail started wagging.

The faint crunching sound of snow pulled their attention to the tree line.

The great alpha wolf emerged among its pack, a large female on either side of the canine.

Mouse gave a single bark and jumped from the wagon. Dashing up the hillside, the ridge hound sniffed the air, made some short snorts and whines, then flipped about and ran back to the wagon. Standing up so as to put his monstrous paws on the side of the wagon, he looked right at the gnome.

WOOF!

Dropping back to all fours, Mouse turned to race back up the hill, then stopped.

He looked back at Bartleby.

WOOF!

Again the turn to go, then stopped to look back.

WOOF!

“Go with him,” Silas said then, turning in his seat.

The gnome choked, “I’m sorry, what?”

Pointing, “That’s body language for ‘follow me’. Whatever is going on over there, Mouse wants you to come see.”

Bartleby looked out over the line of perfectly still and silent ridge wolves and gulped. “You’re joking, right?”

Reaching into his pocket, Silas pulled out his pipe. “From all the chaos and craziness I’ve witnesses over the last few days, I’m absolutely positive that if these puppies wanted us dead, we would be dead. Now, I’m going to have a smoke, while you get your little butt out of my wagon and accompany that smart dog to see what the alpha wants.”

Pulling a small bone from a pouch, he started scraping the inside of his pipe bowl. “Go on—I’ll wait for you.”

Grumbling and huffing, Bartleby climbed up and over the rim of the wagon, and using the wheel as a step stool, got down.

He paused before walking up the hill and pointed at Tam, who let her head rest on the wagon wall. “He’s your kid, so I’m holding you responsible if I get eaten!”

Tam let out a soft whine.

Cautiously and following the tracks made by Mouse, Bartleby worked his way up the ridge to within ten feet of the alpha.

The wolf stood erect and tall—standing more than a head taller than the gnome, even on all four legs.

“You,” Bartleby whispered, “are one intimidating creature of the forest.”

To which the alpha advanced.

“EEP!” Bartleby squealed, falling backwards onto his backside.

“I’d suggest,” Silas yelled up, “showing the opposite of immense and uncontrollable fear.”

“Shut up!”

Legs rigid, the alpha continues to advance slowly, until it stood within inches of the gnome.

It was then the gnome noticed another trail being made in the snow. One nearly six inched out from the wolf…as if something was being…dragged.

“Bartleby,” came a whisper. The throaty sound was strained, forced.

“TGII make me a useful widget, YOU TALK!??”

“It’s…me,” came the whisper again, immediately followed by a ‘WHUMP’ in the snow mound between them. Creating a deep indent in the shape of a humanoid body.

Faint yet rough sounds of wheezing grew louder, and then…

“Silmä Inäkmään.”

…and Wendell faded into view.

There was no hair on his hands, arms, face, or head.

Any exposed skin was blistered, peeling, or stretched taut.

“SILAS!” Bartleby shrieked, “SILAS, IT’S WENDELL…WE NEED BLANKETS!!”

Silas dropped the unlit pipe onto the seat and hopped into the back of the wagon.

Mouse let his body collapse into the snow beside Wendell and softly whined at the charred and shaking body.

“Ohhh, Wendell,” the gnome sobbed, “what were you thinking?” Wiping the tears from his eyes, his hands trembled…”W-what can I do?!?”

“It was the only things I could think of,” Wendell rasped. “I had to make sure the robe was dead.” Yellow puss-filled eyes rolled about without eyelids.

Bartleby couldn’t stop the tears from falling, but he checked his tone, coughing to clear his throat. “How can I help you?” It was so hard to look at the stubs where ears once sat, and the cracked and bleeding joints of his hands and fingers, where his skin no longer had slack to bend, “I’ll do anything you need, Wendell. Just tell me what you need!”

Wendell’s eyes rolled in the gnomes direction. “Hide me,” he wheezed. “Give me a little time.”

Bartleby nodded.

Wendell took a shuttering breath and allowed his eyes to close.

“The robe is dead, but this isn’t over.”