Ekaterina Sedia - Running with the Pack

Old habit. The wolf is silent when it hunts.

According to the fossil record, dire wolves hunted in packs to the exclusion of good sense, leaping into the tar pits by the dozens until every last one of them was drowned.

“Live together, die together, I guess,” sighed Alice, cleaning dirt off her chisel. “I mean, what could possibly drive an animal into the tar pits, once you saw what happened to the others? They couldn’t all be stupid.”

Velia blew a layer of dust off the skull at her feet and wondered about that first wolf, the first one who had retreated from the edge of the tar. She wondered how it got desperate enough to turn to humans just to find some pack to live among.

That was the dire wolf that had fathered them all. The true wolf had always been separate; had been always alone.

When Velia can stand on her two feet, she washes the blood off in the river, then pulls on her waxy coat and walks back the way she came.

She scuffs gently over her footsteps on her way, so that no one might find the tracks and disturb the dead.

She leaves that night. She doesn’t ask where Mark was going. Doesn’t dare.

(When the dire wolf bites down, it holds on. That’s what it’s made to do.)

Some have said I’m crazy. Well, lots have said that about me, actually.

I run an all-night bookstore. An all-night feminist bookstore.

Take back the night, we’d demanded in all those demonstrations and marches. This is my way of doing just that, claiming the night as my own. I’m making a safe place for women to go to at night, a reason besides the bars for going out—and someplace to stop on the way home from them.

Not that I don’t allow men in the store. Their money’s just as good as anyone else’s, so long as they’re respectful, and I certainly need that money to stay open.

And, sure, I get a lot of riffraff coming through, but I’m not the kind of woman to let that stop me. And anyway, the cops know to keep an eye on the place. The new guy especially, Albert, likes to come in every now and then, and I let him take a used mystery novel for free. His taste is for police procedurals, and I never can figure out, if he’s dealing with the stuff all day long, why he wants to read about it on his time off, but maybe he’s looking for tips and pointers. I just hope he realizes reading is no excuse for experience, especially in his line of work.

One night in mid-summer it was hot as hell and I had the doors open. Around 2:30 am—late at night or early in the morning depending on your perspective. I was standing on the porch having a cigarette, since I don’t allow smoking inside the store. Too much of a fire hazard, what with all those old dry books.

The moon was full and fat and sort of orange as it perched above the sports bar across the street, looking as if it were a basketball teetering on the rim of the hoop. I felt a powerful urge within me to jump up and slam dunk the moon right over into tomorrow, and right as I’m thinking about that metaphor a large dog climbed up the steps and walked into the store, just as casual as can be.

I looked around the street for the owner, but no one was in sight. I stubbed out my cig, and followed the dog inside. She was sitting in front of the cash register, as if waiting for me. I walked around the counter, wondering what to do. Call the cops? Or was it the fire department who handles pets, or only the ones stuck in trees and stuff?

The pooch turned to face me, just siting there, waiting. She wanted something from me, I was certain, but I had no idea what. A doggie treat? She seemed to expect me to recognize her.

I didn’t know whose dog she was, and had never seen her around town. She wasn’t wearing a collar. But something made me trust the beast.

“Come here, girl,” I said, bending down. She eagerly came towards me, and licked my face and sniffed my crotch as I ruffled the scruff of her neck and stroked her back. “Didn’t you read the sign on the door? No Dogs Allowed. ”

I didn’t really mind. I like dogs, a lot in fact. I just don’t want them in my store. I was losing some customers by not allowing dogs—people out walking their dogs used to stop in and browse when I welcomed pets. But one night a man came in with a doberman and the damned creature lifted his leg on two shelves full of hardcovers. Couple hundred dollars worth of damage, and I didn’t even find out until after they’d left the store. Not even an apology. After that, the sign went up on the door. I figure I’m saving money in the long run, and who knows, maybe before I was losing customers who were afraid of dogs, who now felt welcome.

She barked twice, as if to get my attention, and then began to howl. I clapped my hands over my ears and stood up.

“Quiet there, you’ll wake the dead with that racket!” I stared down at the beast. “I should change the sign to read: No Dogs Aloud , but you couldn’t read it anyway.”

She shook her head, as if to disagree.

“If you could read it, then why’d you come in?”

She disappeared into the back of the store. Had she come here to get a book to read? I wondered if I should follow her, wondering what damage she might be doing to the stock back there, but just as I was about to set off after her she reappeared. She had a book in her jaws, which she placed at my feet. I picked it up and wiped the slobber off on my jeans. Women who run with the wolves.

I looked down at her, and her lips pulled back, revealing her large sharp teeth. She was grinning.

I felt like I was in an X-Files episode or some horror movie. She’d run with the wolves, and now was one. I wondered if she were one of my customers. Instinctively I wanted to reach out and pat the top of her head, comfort her by saying “It’s all right,” but I didn’t think it was appropriate.

Instead, I put the book down on the counter and looked out the still-open door at the dark night. “Kansas,” I said, “I’ve a feeling this isn’t Toto anymore.”

The wolf and I sat on the front steps as I smoked another cig and tried to think of what to do. Or at least, what to do next.

At first I kept trying to think of ways to cure her, since I’d fallen into the kinds of thinking that assumed that was why she had come to me. But as I looked at her, sitting next to me, I got to wondering more. Was there anything wrong with her being a werewolf? Maybe she’d come to me because I knew her, or because she knew I’d understand. I had no idea how it had happened, whether she’d wanted it or not. She didn’t seem in any distress or anything, so why fix something that wasn’t broken.

Although with canines, one did have them fixed as a preventative measure . . .

I watched the smoke drift upwards. There was just a tiny sliver of moon peeking over the edge of the building, like the slivers of moon on my fingernails. I looked over at Wolf. Would she turn back into a woman as soon as that sliver disappeared? But no—just because we no longer saw the moon didn’t mean it had set. Not yet.

I wondered about clothes. Would she have any when she changed?

I couldn’t help wondering how long it had been since I’d seen a live naked woman. Not that I don’t practice what I preach. It had just been a long time is all. I tried to remember exactly how long and gave up before I became depressed.

I tried to imagine what it would be like if it was me instead of her who’d wound up as a werewolf. And as I tried to figure out how I’d feel, I realized how much I’d changed.

I’d grown older.

I’d become such a goody two shoes. I no longer went to rallies, ACT UP meetings, no longer did any civil disobedience of any sort. I didn’t have the time, struggling to keep the bookstore open and alive.