Atom Heart Wolfmother

The icy wind clawed my face as I gazed up at the moon hanging in the sky above, a sullen face amongst the stars, presiding over the night without a hint of enthusiasm. It had been a long journey, but it was soon to be over. The rhythmic clop of the steed upon which I sat was the only sound to be heard, except for the occasional stray bird overhead.

My destination was in sight; a modest stone building sat by the distant road - an inn - a rare refuge on these barren and dusty paths, and beyond it a long line impenetrable woodland blotted out the horizon, eclipsing the land beyond.

It was this forest I'd come for.

But it was dark, and my stomach cried for sustenance, so the inn would be the first stop. My horse plodded on, his tired hooves dutifully striking the ground with constant cadence. The inn growing closer and closer as the horse's effort dragged us ever onwards.

In due time, we came upon the inn. Upon closer view, the inn was far less humble than originally thought. Delicate masonry stacked row on row, fitted with windows on which appeared not a single speck of dirt. To the side, an ample stable, more than space enough for any guests. I steered my horse into the stable and left him there to rest.

I walked up to the wooden door of the inn and was equally impressed; the door was adorned with intricate detailing and attached to it a handle of surprisingly ornate design. Clutching the handle, and with a firm twist, I push open the door. Rays of light greet me, the first I've seen in many hours, and the hum of conversation filled my ears - a welcome respite from the monotony of horse's hooves.

As I stepped inside, the soothing scent of burning firewood filled my nostrils, seeming to imbue my very essence with calm. The inn bustled with rowdy, drinking, laughing patrons. An artisanal mahogany bar lined the back wall, behind it a behemoth of a man stood, seeming to dominate the space around him.

He was about average in height, but in other proportions he exceeded the norm; his broad trunk rose out from behind the bar, his body growing ever broader the further up you looked, ending in two immense shoulder that seemed they could themselves be heavy plate pauldrons. Attached to these were two tree-trunk like arms that barley tapered as they reached the wrists, folded firmly across his jutting chest.

His face was rugged and aged, baring a deep scar from ear to chin, and his groomed brown hair and beard sat uneasy upon his head and face, seeming to clash with his otherwise hardy appearance. His expression was firmly stoic, and his eyes seemed to take in the whole room without the slightest movement.

I approached the bar; the man's gaze met mine, and he seemed to take a moment to scrutinize my features. His features still displaying no hint as to his inner mind, he produced a gruff utterance which seemed to resonate from deep within his core.

'What can I get you fella?'. His accent was thick and seemed uncommon for this region. I gave him a courteous smile, though It didn't seem likely I'd get one back. 'An ale please, and some supper if I'm not too late'. He began to pour the ale, 'Not at all, though it's only stew today'. I nodded, 'That's quite alright'.

He placed the filled tankard on the bar and disappeared through a door in the wall behind him, returning a moment later with a steaming bowl of stew. 'That'll be 3 silver' I handed him the coins and tucked into my stew.

The bartender seemed to examine me another time, and with a slight quizzical inflection, bluntly stated 'You're not from this kingdom'. I chuckled 'Very astute, I'm from the Eastern Kingdoms'. He grunted in acknowledgement, 'What brings you this far? If it's tourism you've chosen an odd destination'.

He was quite right, I wasn't here for leisure. 'I'm here business of sorts, sent by a rather powerful man. In fact, perhaps you might be able to give me some information'. He shrugged rather non-committedly, 'I can try.'

I began to set out my mission, 'I've been sent to confirm on old myth that seems to spread from here to the east. They say in these forests there's a woman, a beautiful woman, a woman of such magnetic allure that any human who lays their eyes upon her is so stricken with awe they find themselves welded in place'.

I smirked, 'Of course they also say she isn't so keen on visitors'.

For a moment the man's expression seemed to flicker, the meaning was ambiguous - was it fear, or incredulity? 'If you enter that forest, you're a dead man' he declared, his voice seeming even sterner than usual, icy even.

It wasn't quite the response I was hoping for, but I was nonplussed, you see there was really no predicament to be solved 'if I return having not complete my task, I am dead. So, it seems I'll have to chance it'.

He shook his head, 'There's no chance involved, you've been sent to die'. He looked me dead in the eyes, the fear in his eyes brought my heart to a standstill. 'That woman, the Wolfmother they call her, she owns that forest, and she's made it very clear we're not welcome'. He shuddered, 'I don't envy you, but if you're adamant on this, feel free to take Charles along with you, he's looking to do much the same, and though I doubt he'll be of much help, at least you won't die alone'.

He nodded to a ragged man in the corner. I placed another silver coin on the bar, 'I'm very much grateful for the information, though I must say I had wished it be more reassuring'. He extended his hand and we exchanged a firm handshake, 'I don't fancy your chances' he said, a gloomy tone to his utterance, 'but if you make it back out that forest, stop by. I'd like to hear the tale'. He stopped a moment, 'Might even buy you a drink' and for once a smile appeared on his face.

The man in the corner sat alone, his emaciated frame barely noticeable in the recesses of the tavern. His head hung down, his vision ingulfed in the fascination that was his knees, and his features shrouded by a luxurious royal purple hood which granted him an aura of powerful royalty, while the deep gashes in the fabric which exposed his aged skin granted him the essence of a pauper.

Approaching the man, I felt unsure of how to proceed. He seemed disassociated to his surroundings, his mind seemed to be watching itself with glee, as if it were a tourist visiting itself. Hesitant of how to proceed, I approach none the less. Acting as certain as I was able, I began to attempt to gather the man's attention.

'Excuse me, are you Charles?"

The man remained unstirred, a puppet held still by unseen strings, owned by a puppeteer retired. Sat there, motionless, a fine impression of a lifeless cadaver. As if following his lead, I stood there, staring at the bizarre man in front of me. Gathering my own senses, I begin to form another sentence.

A movement imperceptible, its speed enough to snap bone, the man head moved to meet mine as his features slide into view. His features gaunt, his eyes sunken into his skull, the bones of his cheek so uncovered in flesh as to seem as sharp as steel. His head was unnaturally hairless, placing his ghastly features on full view.

Unblinking, his eyes burn caverns in my own. A demented grin begins to spread from the corner of each lip, exposing the rotted cavern of his mouth. 'Not many people come to talk to Ol' Charles Lennox', his maniacal smile unbroken as he spoke. 'What can I do you for stranger?'.

I take a seat in front of the man, 'I'm here to find out about the Wolfmother, I've been led to believe you've taken something of an interest in the legend'. The man's grin grew ever wilder as he struggled to contain a cackle, 'Ain't no legend stranger, those forests are hers, and she doesn't like visitors'.

He stopped for a moment and seemed to study my face, his eyes like two spotlights on my skull. 'Course, I don't suppose that's gonna stop us is it?'. Another person seems convinced by these tales; a week ago this seemed another fool's errand.

I shook my head, 'No, it seems not'. My face seemed to betray my thoughts; 'You don't seem so keen', his words had an edge of derision - why did this man seem so keen to do something so stupid? 'I guess my sense of self-preservation is greater than my curiosity', I retorted.

This seemed to amuse the man; he erupted with laughter, almost howling with mirth. Barely able to breathe through the laughter, never mind speak, he none the less tried. 'Seems to problem be a common problem', he said.

I stared at him quizzically, 'If you don't mind me asking, why exactly do you want to find this Wolfmother'. His face filled with glee. 'Oh, I don't mind at all, in fact, I'm glad you asked'. He took a drink as he composed his answer; with a gleam of theatrics in his tone he began.

'The Wolfmother is a special sight, an unholy wonder of the world, and I've seen most unholy wonders out there; I've eaten the flesh of the Gaumpa fruit, drank elixirs made by the most skilled Chaos Mages, and so on. It seems to me like this the next best step'.

The answer made me gawk, 'You're going to risk death in search of a cheap thrill?'. The man's expression dropped, his face little more than a void against the backdrop of the tavern; for a moment he stared into the distance, vacant and unmoving, and then, just like that, he smiled again and shrugged.

This man hardly seemed the most competent ally, but if this being was half as dangerous as people seemed to think, then going alone seemed a foolish path. I shared my thoughts with the Charles, 'If we're going to survive such a meeting, it would seem a good idea to go together'.

He laughed, 'Nobody survives the Wolfmother stranger, but I'll take you up on the offer'. He let out a most drawn-out yawn 'Best to wait 'till the morning though'. He finished his drink and stood up, 'Nice to meet you fella, looking forward to our little journey', he gripped my hand in a rather unexpected and tight handshake, before ambling towards a door and promptly disappearing into the corridor beyond.

It was late, and the long journey had left me exhausted. I rented a room in the inn and was directed towards the same door Charles has left through. I opened it, walked through the corridor, and found the room in which I would be staying. The room was modest in size, but not to its detriment. In fact, it offered a rather cosy habitat in which to rest. Laying upon the bed, I soon found myself drifting into a deep slumber.

I awoke to find myself in unusual territory; the bed in which I lay was gone, in its place a cradle of mud and leaves. Around me a barricade of dark and twisted bark reaching up towards the home of those divine. The sun was a mere spectre beyond the thick blanket of leaves above, toiling in its aim to give life to the soil. The forest lay in a most unsettling lull.

Rising to my feet, I attempt to orientate myself with my surroundings, only to find every possible field of vision filled with a hall of trees stretching far into the horizon. I tried to walk in a random direction, stumbling over root and twig.

Ahead, a screech of pain, a howl of agony. I turned around and run, finding in myself no desire to face the horror that must be taking place. The roots wrapped around my feet and brought me to the ground as the ceaseless screams pierced my ears and wormed into my brain, a parasite in my thoughts that ate at my sanity and hope.

Louder, the voice grew, closer it comes, faster my heart began to beat. I struggled to my feet and trudged away from the sounds, only to find myself outpaced. The screams were upon me, yet in some twisted metamorphosis, the screams turn to laughter. Something cold constricted my leg, a snake in the darkness. Falling to the ground I wriggled to face my captor, finding in my view a decrepit man, coated in blood, flesh torn to residual shreds. Locking eyes with the man, he smirked.

'Some doors shouldn't be opened, stranger'.

Jolted from my sleep, I found myself in a cold sweat; the mud gone, the warm bed back to embracing my being. Light streamed in through a gap in the curtains and illuminated the room. I rose from the bed, my heart still beating rapidly within my chest.

Trying to put the vision of the night behind me, I set about preparing myself for the task ahead. With haste I washed and dressed, collected together my equipment, and headed to towards he main room of the inn. I sat with Charles for a quick breakfast, and we soon headed on our way.

We began our walk towards the opening of the forest, the morning air was brisk, and the grass was coated in a thick layer of dew. Charles ragged clothing exposed him to the elements, yet he seemed unbothered by the bleak weather. I had covered myself in suitable attire, yet found my teeth chattering against the cold.

On we marched in silence, and after a short while reached the cusp of the forest. Charles came to a halt and turned his face towards mine. He smiled, 'Are you ready?'. I tried my best to mirror his enthusiasm, but mustered at best a worried grimace, 'I suppose so'. 'Good', he replied curtly, and onwards we trekked into the forest.

The canopy of leaves above filtered out much of what little warmth the sun had gifted the Earth below, bringing an even darker, frigid ambience to the woods. As we travelled further and further into the forest, the trees grew to dominate the landscape, and the fewer rays of light dared to venture into the forest.

As the forest grew darker, my heart grew less and less at ease, however looking at Charles, he retained, as always, his most cheery disposition. I eyed him quizzically, wondering how such a man is formed. I decided to break the silence; 'You haven't told me much about yourself, what's your story?'.

He stared on ahead, 'I don't suppose I have', he chirped, 'but I've not many secrets worth keeping.'. He ran his hand over his hood, 'Do you recognise this colour?' he inquired. I shook my head. 'This is the colour of royalty, believe it or not'.

I raised my eyes, 'Oh?'. It must have been evident that I did not, as he let out a chortle at my response. 'Oh yes, but I must admit, I haven't seen the kingdom from whence I came in quite some time, didn't see much point in sticking around.'

I pushed him further, 'Why not?'. A deep gloom came over his face, 'I was a younger brother, wasn't in line for the throne, wasn't trusted to do much around the kingdom'. He hung his head, 'Sometimes it's best to know when you're not wanted'. Again, his expression shifted back towards his ordinary glee 'Of course there's far more interesting things outside of those walls'.

We had marched deep into the forest. The tree line was dense, encasing us in a tomb of bark and leaf. The sun barely dripped through onto the forest floor. The forest was still; the forest was dead.

The trek became more and more difficult as the ground below became knotted with roots. We stumbled onwards and onwards into the heart of the forest, searching for the Wolfmother. Charles lead the way, seeming to have an intimate knowledge of the forest. 'Where exactly are we going?' I asked.

'There's a clearing deep in this forest where she tends to reside', he replied, 'They say there was one person to survive a meeting with the Wolfmother, these trees are marked with their path'. I shot him a wide-eyed glance, 'Do you know who it is?'. He shrugged, 'No idea, in fact I wouldn't even reckon its true, these marks help us, but I doubt they got a chance to make use of them'.

A piercing howl sang through the trees, stopping us dead in our tracks. We were close. Creeping through the trees, abating our breath, we stalked the sound. Through the treeline, a clearing. An Eden was before us, the trees giving way to flower, roots giving way to fruiting bush, and through the middle ran a deep blue spring.

The natural beauty before us was meek in the shadow of the what else existed in the clearing; a meeting of horror and allure, a woman sat feasting on a fresh carcass, accompanied by four wolves with sleek grey coats. The wolves paused their feast, sniffing the air, before turning their vision upon the trees behind which we hid.

The woman stood and caught our gaze; her full figure on view, we stood in awe, the authenticity of the legends not understated. Her features were striking, her eyes a contrast of a bright, mesmerising charm and a deep, primal hatred. Her hair was long and unkempt, her nails untrimmed, and her flesh covered in reds from crimson to burgundy.

Her wolves growled and whined, each beastly sense scrutinising its next meal. Each nose delighting in our scent, each eye sizing our frames, and soon I did suspect each claw would be tearing through our meat and sinew.

My heart ran a record pace, my feet however idled in the soil below. A surge of euphoria ran through my body, mixing and weaving with the intense flood of dread. I stood, my eyes affixed upon her, my mind blank bar the etched, undying image of the Wolfmother.

Charle's advanced calmly upon the scene, stopping in the clearing before dropping to his knees and flinging his arms to form a crucifixion in the air. The Wolfmother pointed at the man who kneeled before them, and the wolves set upon his emaciated frame. His blissful, agonised screams gouged scars upon my mind, flesh and blood and organ misted the air as limb upon limb was ripped from his body.

From behind me a rustle, tearing past me a broad figure armed with a mighty rifle. A blinding flash and a deafening roar, the man fired into the air. I cupped my ears and doubled over as my balance failed me. I glimpsed up to see the wolves and their leader cowering and pawing at their ears.

I was granted a mere moment to regain my senses before the man pulled me to my feet and dragged me back through the forest. Struggling to navigate the dense roots in my disoriented state, I stumbled and tripped as the man dragged me onwards and onwards.

We moved as fast as our feet could take us, moving past tree and root, rushing towards the embrace of safety. I imagined the scene continuing behind us, wolf and woman carving bloodied flesh from bone, a vivid horror playing out in my mind.

Clearing the tree line, we bolted for the comfort of the tavern. Reaching the door, the man tore it open, shoved me in, and slammed the door shut behind us before bolting the door. The inn was empty, its silence a far cry from the bustle of that once filled its walls.

The man turned and glared at me, lowering his hood, I saw a face I recognised. The gruff face from before, I realised my rescuer was the owner of this very establishment. 'You're a lucky bastard to have survived that' he said, 'Now tell me, did you get what you came for, or will you seek out death again like many a fool before you?'.

I stood in silence, still processing the events that had unfolded in the past hour. He walked over to the bar and poured two drinks. 'If I were you I'd rest here and leave in the morning, this once I won't even charge you for the room'. He offered me a drink, and taking a seat by the bar, I took hold of the refreshment and focused on stilling my shaking hands.

The man took a swig of his drink, while I stared into the frothing liquid before me, still processing the events that had unfolded. The man eyed me, a clear curiosity in his eyes, or was it pity? 'If you're able, could you tell me what it was like?' he asked. I looked up, and recalling the day, I regaled to him the tale.

'I can't believe it' I said, 'It's true, as soon as I laid eyes upon her I was rooted in my space. Never have I been closer to death, and never before have I been so unable to fight it'. A shiver ran along my body. 'Charle's, he...'. I gulped, struggling to sound the words in my head, 'I watched him die, I did nothing. Worse still, he did nothing, seeming not to accept death, but to appreciate it, to desire it'.

I stood and faced the man, 'I'm sorry, I think I ought to sleep'. He nodded, seeming to have no words to offer in comfort. I slinked off to the comfort of the room in hope of rest, and after a short walk, crashed upon the bed and closed my eyes, trying my best to blot out the visions of blood and death and violence that had etched themselves onto my mind.

Many turns and many hours later, I lulled my brain into a mimic of rest.

Yet soon I awoke, again twisted treelines covered my vision; the sun was blocked by a smothering blanket of leaves. I could feel my heart beating heavier with each sight - this can't be happening again! I ran and ran through root and leaf, trying my best to escape the forest, only to stop dead in my tracks at the sight I saw before me.

A bloodied face, skin hanging from eyelid and cheek, but none the less a face I recognised. It was Charle's. He smiled, seeming to try his best to offer a twisted happiness despite the horror of his state. 'You know you can't resist' he mocked. From behind him, thick, red, matted fur, the sculpted face of a wild human, then a howl of hunger, and upon me set the gnashing jaws of a beastly pack.

I jolted from my slumber.

What was that? No, it can't be real! Is such beauty possible? I'll never forgot that face, I've got to see it again! Forsake the comfort of these linens sheet, the warmth of these stone walls, the safety of these wooden doors. I'll tears these doors open and... there! The treeline of the forest! I'll run, and I'll run, and I'll see that face again. Follow the marks, the man left them there for us to find. For us to find that beauty blind. Blind of the consequences, they matter not. Marked tree and marked tree, one, two, three, and on and on. And finally, there! The clearing I'd seen before, the clear water, the bloodied grass, the bloodied bones, the bloodied fur, the face of wonder! I'll sink to me knees! I wont resist this, I can't resist this! A joyful howl, then another three, I've never felt such glory! I've never felt such pain! I've never seen my innards but now I have, flesh and blood and bone teared from my body. Green turns to red turns to black and I sink, sink into the grass, sink into the pleasure,

I catch a glimpse of the world before me, before it bleeds to grey, a bloodied skull lies before me, smiling, gleaming. Did I not see myself in that dream, in the dreams of those before me?

I should have.

Writers Notes

The collection of short stories, 'I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream' by writer Harlan Ellison contained with each story a short exposition of Ellison's reasoning behind each novel. I've always liked that; the idea of offering a more candid glimpse into the mind of the author to anyone willing to read. To this end I'm writing a few paragraphs or so just to explain what I was thinking when I wrote this story.

This story is something of an allegory - admittedly one perhaps quite contrived - for addiction. When I started writing this I had been reading about the Opioid epidemic in the US and in particular I had been reading first hand experiences of Heroin usage, with emphasis on IV usage. As is perhaps to be expected many of these accounts detailed the users spiral into ruinous dependency.

I had also just read Brave New World and found it to put into writing many thoughts I had myself thought; I do truly believe that human suffering is fundamental to art, and I would actually take it a step further and say that suffering is fundamental to morality. To this end I look to take inspiration from misery, however morbid that may sound.

This is however the first piece of fiction writing I've wrote in about two years, having abandoned any literary ambitions after my GCSE studies in place of STEM subjects and now a Computer Science degree; I'm only now realising that I did actually have the passion for writing. Because of this two-year lull I expect this probably not a polished piece, but it seemed to have worked out be a pleasant reintroduction, and if nothing else it was enjoyable to write again.

Feel free to tear into this, I don't expect the internet to be a kind place, and criticism is always useful if you can put your emotions aside. Hopefully this will be one in a series of many pieces of writing, and this won't be a dead-end foray into the literary world. We'll see I suppose.