Phases

I

Derrick didn’t sleep much.  Not because he was unable to, his body simply didn’t require more than a couple of hours at a time.  Some nights he didn’t sleep at all.  Last night had been sleepless.  Tonight would be as well. 

He grunted as he swung the axe, splitting the short log down the middle.  Gathering the halves, he set them back on the stump.  The axe came down again, quartering the log.  Tossing the pieces on the smallest of the three piles, Derrick glanced at the sky.  A narrow line of deep red-orange was visible just above the treetops.  Night had crept up on him.  He quartered a final log, tossed the pieces on the pile, and walked over to his shed. 

The shed was small, but well built, much like the house, which stood several yards beyond it.  Derrick stepped inside, not bothering with the lights.  He hung the axe on its pegs next to the window and tossed his gloves on the workbench beneath it.  Leaving the shed, he walked slowly toward the house.

Derrick’s home was at the end of a two-mile long, intentionally overgrown, unlikely-looking private driveway, which was at the end of a meandering dirt road.  The nearest town, Gillespie, was over an hour away.



The land had been in Derrick’s family for generations.  Most of it was untouched, except for the immediate area.  The trees which once stood nearby were used to build the house, and later the shed.

Derrick climbed the steps, pausing on the porch to remove his shoes.  Going inside, he stopped for a glass of ice water and then went on to his bedroom.  He did not turn on any lights, as his eyes had already adjusted to the darkness.  Sitting on the edge of the bed, he took off his clothes and placed them neatly beside him.

He went back to the kitchen to refill his glass and proceeded to the living room.  Derrick drank the rest of his water and then, placing the glass on the mantle, he sat cross-legged on the bearskin rug, his back to the fireplace, naked.  He stared out the window, unmoving, in the dark.



The wolf raced through the forest, teeth bared, ears pressed flat against his skull, nearly invisible in the inky shadows of the trees.  He was sleek and black and menacing, this wolf.  The moonlight rippled on his coat, gleaming as he passed from shadow to shadow.  His golden eyes seemed to glow, magnifying and projecting his intensity.  He was on the hunt, and he was closing in.

He was larger and faster than the other wolves in the forest; he’d proven his superiority by killing, maiming, or chasing off all who challenged him and several who hadn’t.  This forest was his and his alone.

The deer dodged left and right, attempting to evade its pursuer, but the wolf continued to pace it, slowly catching up.  When he was close enough, he snapped at the deer’s hind legs, slowing it further.  Its eyes rolled with panic.  The wolf was nearly close enough to bring it down, when the deer, mad with fear, kicked at its pursuer’s face.

The hunter dodged the deadly hooves and lunged ahead, sinking his teeth into his prey’s neck.  Powerful jaws clamped down, severing arteries and crushing the animal’s windpipe.  The pair fell to the ground, tumbling over one another, coming to rest, finally, with the wolf astride the dying animal, still gripping its mangled throat.  He held on a few moments longer to be certain and opened his bloody jaws.  The deer hit the ground with a muffled thud.  Pointing his gore-soaked muzzle skyward, the wolf howled his victory to the full moon above.



The sunlight streaming through the living room window woke Derrick the next morning.  He lay sprawled across the bearskin rug.  He’d slept after all, though he didn’t feel rested.  He dragged himself to his feet and stumbled to the bathroom, pulling a towel from the closet on the way.

The shower helped a bit, as did the coffee.  He’d gotten dressed and was pulling on his boots when the sound of an approaching vehicle caught his attention. 

Probably Oz, he thought, but just in case…  Derrick pulled the shotgun from under his bed.  He walked into the living room, staying back far enough from the windows that he wouldn’t be seen, and peered out at the driveway.

A cloud of dust followed a battered blue Ford F-150 up the driveway.  Derrick put the safety back on the shotgun and stepped out onto the porch.  He leaned the shotgun against the house and waited patiently as the vehicle approached.

The truck was nearly as old as its owner, and every bit as weather-beaten.  Coated in dust yet remarkably rust free, it creaked and groaned its way up to the porch.  The Deep Purple tune coming from the cab stopped abruptly when the driver killed the engine.  A hand reached out of the open driver’s side window, pulling up on the outside handle – the inner handle had fallen off years before – and Oz MacKaye stepped out into the midmorning sunlight.

His long black hair was pulled into a ponytail reaching halfway down his back.  Dark grey eyes looked out from a deeply lined, tanned, smiling face.  A narrow scar ran down his chin from his lower lip.

“Jesus, Derrick, don’t you know the sound of my truck by now?  Keep the damn shotgun in the house!”

“Good morning to you too, Oz.”

“Aaah, you’re no damn fun.  I don’t know why I put up with you,” Oz said, still grinning.  “What ya got planned for today, Derrick?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“On what sort of backbreaking work you have in mind,” Derrick replied.

“Man, what’s with you today?”

“Rough night.  Sorry, Oz.”

“Forget it.  Anyway, this ‘backbreaking work’ of mine…  I need some help taking down a few trees.”

Silently, Derrick cursed his luck.  He really didn’t feel up to playing lumberjack today.  To Oz he said, “Sure.  Let me close up the house.  Do I need to grab anything?”



“Nah, I’ve got chainsaws, axes, guns, food, beer…  Everything a workin’ man needs.  Lock up and let’s go.  Bring your shotgun if it’ll make ya feel better.”

“Right.  I’ll be back in a second.”

After closing up the house, Derrick headed down the steps and opened the Ford’s door.  While doing so, he noticed, not far behind his house, a large group of birds circling over the treetops.

Oz, climbing into the cab, followed the direction of his friend’s stare.

“Yeah, I saw ‘em, too,” Oz said.  “Something’s getting restless out there.  Wolves, or maybe bears.  You might wanna watch it.  That’s not too far from here, ya know?” 

Derrick said nothing as he shut the door.



Derrick and Oz worked all day, taking only an hour for lunch.  At the end of the day, twelve trees were down, and four were stripped of their branches.  They’d have to finish tomorrow.  Oz told Derrick he could handle the rest himself if Derrick was busy, but Derrick insisted on coming.  There was nothing going on, he told Oz, that couldn’t wait another day.

“Okay then, I’ll come by around the same time tomorrow,” Oz said as they pulled up in front of Derrick’s house.  “Remember what I said about the wolves,” he added as Derrick climbed out. 

“Sure thing, Dad,” Derrick replied with a grin, “I’ll be careful.”

“Right.  See you tomorrow.”



Derrick stood on the porch, watching the truck in the fading light.  The moon would rise soon.  It was time to get ready.  Derrick turned and stepped through the doorway into the dark house.



Ozwald MacKaye often wondered about his friend Derrick.  He was a great guy, and always willing to help out, but  he was also very odd.  He rarely stayed out after sunset.  He didn’t answer the phone after dark.  He lived way out here in the middle of nowhere, a good half hour past Oz’s place, at the end of that damn dirt road with the almost invisible driveway.  He seemed totally fearless, and confident almost to the point of arrogance.

Oz had known Derrick almost six years, after meeting him on one of Derrick’s rare trips into Gillespie.  Oz didn’t remember the details, but he’d liked Derrick from the start, though he’d seemed rather distant.  At somewhere around six feet four, two hundred twenty-five pounds, Derrick wasn’t easy to miss.  He was also one of the hairiest men Oz had ever seen.  He had a thick, close-cut beard and long, jet black hair reaching several inches past his shoulders. 

Oz was quite surprised to learn that Derrick lived out at the end of what was once Highway 20, now known locally as Culver Road.  He didn’t know there were any houses past the old Bowman place, which had been abandoned for years.  He was even more shocked when Derrick told him he’d lived there most of his life.  Oz couldn’t imagine not hearing about or seeing Derrick before then.

Derrick and Oz became close friends, dropping in on each other at any given time, as long as it was before sunset.  That was Derrick’s rule:  No contact from sunset to sunrise, for any reason.  He never offered an explanation, but that in itself was not surprising; that was just Derrick.  Oz’s thoughts shifted to other things, food and a very hot shower topping the list, as he turned off the road and into his own driveway.



The black wolf slipped through the darkness, searching for prey.  He was hungry, but not starving like last night.  His nostrils twitched, testing the air.  He picked up the scent of fear, and an underlying foulness that repulsed him even as it aroused his curiosity.  A rustling in the undergrowth just ahead drew his attention; his ears lifted in response, and he trotted forward. 

Curiosity was not something he normally acknowledged.  He was primarily concerned with whether or not something was edible, and if it was not edible, was it a threat?  If it was non-edible and non-threatening, he generally disregarded it.

The rustling and scrabbling grew louder and more frantic as the wolf approached.  His shadow reached the bushes just ahead of its owner.  Whatever was in there was definitely the source of the scents he’d picked up; the foul odor was almost overwhelming, but the wolf could finally identify what kind of creature it was.  He pawed at the bushes, then lay down to get a look at the terrified animal.

A small red fox crouched beneath the shrub, quaking.  Its breath came in short bursts.  Heat radiated from it, as well as the strange odor.  The fox, realizing it was being watched, stood up, lowering its head, and growled a warning deep in its throat.  Its ears flattened, and its lips drew back, baring its fangs.  The wolf pulled back, golden eyes widening in surprise.  He was not used to being attacked or threatened, especially by something half his size.  There was still that unwholesome aura about the fox, though.  The wolf decided to leave it alone, and moved on.  He would hunt elsewhere tonight.



Several hours later, the wolf passed the fox’s hideout on his way back.  The fox was gone, but the foulness remained.  That was too bad.  He’d had an unsuccessful hunt, and had to feed on last night’s kill.  Had the fox still been there, he might have taken his chances against whatever afflicted it.  Perhaps he’d have better luck tomorrow night.  The moon had set, and the sky was lightening.  It was time to rest.