He was to say, later, that there had been porpoises on either side of his boat, encouraging him, some riding ahead like beacons and some skirling in his wake. But that sounds like fancy to me, though the storymakers have picked it up as part of the way they now tell the tale. Still—how could he have seen porpoises in the dark? I suspect they were only the haverings of a hungry, wounded lad, for he had not had a bit of food or drink with him but only some Fisherman’s Friend drops he carried for a sore throat. They were all that had sustained him on that wild ride.
Nothing, however, sustained the sea dragon. It ran out of steam by noon of the second day, tried once to stove the little Zulu in, and only succeeded in toppling the already loosened mast. The mast crashed into the sea where the dragon was lying on its side, exhausted, its ruined eye staring blindly up into the brilliant, cloudless blue sky. Mast hit hook and hammered it with one blow straight into the beast’s brain. And there the sea dragon died, a hundred nautical miles from land.
By the time Robert had rowed the little boat home, towing the great carcass behind him, it was a day and a half later. A truly impressive feat. He had been aided by some good winds and a fair tide. But he’d had no mast and no sail to take full advantage. It was desperate work. Only about half the creature remained intact; the sea has its own jackals.
The entire town—all who had turned out to talk of his funeral just two days before and more—came out to greet him in their boats. He was a rare hero, the best of Anster, the best of the entire East Neuk.
When Robert finally reached land, his father grabbed his hand and held it, tears running down the old man’s cheeks. His mother took him by the shoulders and shook him until they were both red in the face. And then she saw the scabs on his palms, and pulling up the legs of his trousers, saw the scabs on his legs. At that, she threw her arms around him and hugged him until they were both breathless and worn. But none of them said a word the whole time. The McLeods are not much for conversation.
Reverend Dougal used that ride as the topic for a month of sermons, each one longer than the last. No one slept a wink at the kirk services, for fear of missing a word of the story.
And what was left of the beast, Annie McLeod salted down. It filled seventeen full barrels and one neat little firkin. Sea dragon tastes a bit like herring cooked on an open fire, only slightly sharper. It was so much in demand, she traded most of the barrels for tatties and neaps, enough to keep the McLeods full and hearty for years to come.
As for young Robert, after that ride he’d enough of the sea to last him a lifetime. He moved to St. Andrews and apprenticed to a blacksmith. He made hooks. Lots of hooks. All of good cold iron.
I understand they are quite the best in all of Britain for killing monsters, on land or under the sea.
Wilding
ZENA BOUNCED down the brownstone steps two at a time, her face powdered a light green. It was the latest color and didn’t think she looked particularly good in it, all the girls were wearing it. Her nails were striped the same hue. She had good nails.
“Zen!” her mother called out the window. “Where are you going? Have you finished your homework?”
“Yes, Mom,” Zena said without turning around. “I finished.” Well, almost, she thought.
“And where are you—”
This time Zena turned. “Out!”
“Out where?”
Ever since Mom had separated from her third pairing, she had been overzealous in her questioning. Where are you going? What are you doing? Who’s going with you? Zena hated all the questions, hated the old nicknames. Zen. Princess. Little Bit.
“Just out.”
“Princess, just tell me where. So I won’t have to worry.”
“We’re just going Wilding,” Zena said, begrudging each syllable.
“I wish you wouldn’t. That’s the third time this month. It’s not ... not good. It's dangerous. There have been ... deaths.”
“That’s gus, Mom. As in bo-gus. Ganda. As in propaganda. And you know it.”
“It was on the news.”
Zena made a face but didn’t deign to answer. Everyone knew the news was not to be trusted.
“Don’t forget your collar, then.”
Zena pulled the collar out of her coat pocket and held it up above her head as she went down the last of the steps. She waggled it at the window. That, she thought, should quiet Mom’s nagging. Not that she planned to wear the collar. Collars were for little kids out on their first Wildings. Or for tourist woggers. What did she need with one? She was already sixteen and, as the Pack’s song went:
Sweet sixteen
Powdered green
Out in the park
Well after dark,
Wilding!
The torpedo train growled its way uptown and Zena stood, legs wide apart, disdaining the handgrips. Hangers are for tourist woggers, she thought, watching as a pair of high-heeled out-of-towners clutched the overhead straps so tightly their hands turned white from blood loss.
The numbers flashed by—72, 85, 96. She bent her knees and straightened just in time for the torp to jar to a stop and disgorge its passengers. The woggers, hand-combing their dye jobs, got off, too. Zena refused to look at them but guessed they were going where she was going—to the Entrance.
Central Park’s walls were now seventeen feet high and topped with electronic mesh. There were only two entrances, built when Wilding became legal. The Westside Entrance was for going in. The Fifty-ninth Eastside was for going out.
As she came up the steps into the pearly evening light, Zena blinked. First Church was gleaming white and the incised letters on its facade were the only reminder of its religious past. The banners now hanging from its door proclaimed WILD WOOD CENTRAL, and the fluttering wolf and tiger flags, symbols of extinct mammals, gave a fair indication of the wind. Right now wind meant little to her, but once she was Wilding, she would know every nuance of it.
Zena sniffed the air. Good wind meant good tracking. If she went predator. She smiled in anticipation.
Behind her she could hear the tip-tops of wogger high heels. The woggers were giggling, a little scared. Well, Zena thought, they should be a little scared. Wilding is a pure New York sport. No mushy woggers need apply.
She stepped quickly up the marble steps and entered the mammoth hall.
PRINT HERE, sang out the first display. Zena put her hand on the screen and it read her quickly. She knew she didn’t have to weary. Her record was dear—no drugs, no drags. And her mom kept her creddies high enough. Not like some kids who got turned back everywhere, even off the torp trains. And the third time, a dark black line got printed across their palms. A month’s worth of indelible ink. Indelis meant a month full of no: no vids, no torp trains, no boo-ti-ques for clothes. And no Wilding. How, Zena wondered, could they stand it?
Nick was waiting by the Wild Wood Central outdoor. He was talking to Marnie and a good-looking dark-haired guy who Marnie was leaning against familiarly.
“Whizzard!” Nick called out when he saw Zena, and she almost blushed under the green powder. Just the one word, said with appreciation, but otherwise he didn’t blink a lash. Zena liked that about Nick. There was something coolish, something even statue about him. And something dangerous, too, even outside the park, outside of Wilding. It was why they were seeing each other, though even after three months, Zena had never, would never, bring him home to meet her mother.
That dangerousness. Zena had it, too.
She went over and started to apologize for being late, saw the shuttered look in Nick’s eyes, and changed her apology into an amusing story about her mom instead. She remembered Nick had once said, Apologies are for woggers and kids.
From her leaning position, Marnie introduced the dark-haired guy as Lazlo. He had dark eyes, too, the rims slightly yellow, which gave him a disquieting appearance. He grunted a hello.
Zena nodded. To do more would have been uncoolish.
“like the mean green,” Marnie said. "Loo
ks coolish on you, foolish on me.”
"Na-na,” Zena answered, which was what she was supposed to answer. And, actually, she did think Marnie looked good in the green.
“Then let’s go Wilding,” Marnie said, putting on her collar.
Nick sniffed disdainfully, but he turned toward the door.
The four of them walked out through the tunnel, Marnie and Lazlo holding hands, even though Zena knew he was a just-met. She and Marnie knew everything about one another, had since preschool. Still, that was just like Marnie, overeager in everything.
Nick walked along in his low, slow, almost boneless way that made Zena want to sigh out loud, but she didn’t. Soundless, she strode along by his side, their shoulders almost—but not quite—touching. The small bit of air between them crackled with a hot intensity.
As they passed through the first set of rays, a dull yellow light bathed their faces. Zena felt the first shudder go through her body but she worked to control it. In front of her, Lazlo’s whole frame seemed to shake.
“Virg,” Nick whispered to her, meaning it was Lazlo’s first time out Wilding.
Zena was surprised. “True?” she asked.
"He’s from O-Hi,” Nick said. Then, almost as an afterthought, added, “My cousin.”
“O-Hi?” Zena said, smothering both the surprise in her voice and the desire to giggle. Neither would have been coolish. She hadn’t known Nick had any cousins, let alone from O-Hi—the boons, the breads of America. No one left O-Hi except as a tourist. And woggers just didn’t look like Lazlo. Nick must have dressed him, must have lent him clothes, must have cut his hair in its fine duo-bop, one side long to the shoulder, one side shaved dean. Zena wondered if Marnie knew Lazlo was from O-Hi. Or if she cared. Maybe, Zena thought suddenly, maybe I don’t know Marnie as well as I thought I did.
They passed the second set of rays; the light was blood red. She felt the beginnings of the change. It was not exactly unpleasant, either. Something to do, she remembered from the Wilding brochures she had read back when she was a kid, with manipulating the basic DNA for a couple of hours. She’d never really understood that sort of thing. She was suddenly reminded of the first time she’d come to Wild Wood Central, with a bunch of her girlfriends. Not coolish, of course, just giggly girls. None of them had stayed past dark and none had been greatly changed that time. Just a bit of hair, a bit of fang. Only Ginger had gotten a tail. But then she was the only one who’d hit puberty early; it ran in Ginger’s family. Zena and her friends had all gone screaming through the park as fast as they could, and they’d all been wearing collars. Collars made the transition back to human easy, needing no effort on their parts, no will.
Zena reached into the pocket of her coat, fingering the leather collar there. She had plenty of will without it. Plenty of won’t, too! she thought, feeling a bubble of amusement rise inside. Will/won’t. Will/won’t. The sound bumped about in her head.
When they passed the third rays, the deep green ones, which made her green face powder sparkle and spread in a mask, Zena laughed out loud. Green rays always seemed to tickle her. Her laugh was high, uncontrolled. Marnie was laughing as well, chittering almost. The green rays took her that way, too. But the boys both gave deep, dark grunts. Lazlo sounded just like Nick.
The brown rays caught them all in the middle of changing and—too late—Zena thought about the collar again. Marnie was wearing hers, and Lazlo his. When she turned to check on Nick, all she saw was a flash of yellow teeth and yellow eyes. For some reason, that so frightened her, she skittered collarless through the tunnel ahead of them all and was gone, Wilding.
The park was a dark, trembling, mysterious green; a pulsating, moist jungle where leaves large as platters reached out with their bitter, prickly auricles. Monkshood and stagbush, sticklewort and sumac stung Zena’s legs as she ran twisting and turning along the pathways, heading toward the open meadow and the fading light, her new tail curled up over her back.
She thought she heard her name being called, but when she turned her head to call back, the only sounds out of her mouth were the pipings and chitterings of a beast. Still, the collar had been in her pocket, and the clothes, molded into monkey skin, remained close enough to her to lend her some human memories. Not as strong as if she had been collared, but strong enough.
She forced herself to stop running, forced herself back to a kind of calm. She could feel her human instincts fighting with her monkey memories. The monkey self—not predator but prey—screamed, Hide! Run! Hide! The human self reminded her that it was all a game, all in fun.
She trotted toward the meadow, safe in the knowledge that the creepier animals favored the moist, dark tunnel-like passages under the heavy canopy of leaves.
However, by the time she got to the meadow, scampering the last hundred yards on all fours, the daylight was nearly gone. It was, after all, past seven. Maybe even close to eight. It was difficult to tell time in the park.
There was one slim whitish tree at the edge of the meadow. Birch, her human self named it. She climbed it quickly, monkey fingers lending her speed and agility. Near the top, where the tree got bendy, she stopped to scan the meadow. It was aboil with creatures, some partly human, some purely beast. Occasionally one would leap high above the long grass, screeching. It was unclear from the sound whether it was a scream of fear or laughter.
And then she stopped thinking human thoughts at all, surrendering entirely to the Wilding. Smells assaulted her—the sharp tang of leaves, the mustier trunk smell, a sweet larva scent. Her long fingers tore at the bark, uncovering a scramble of beetles. She plucked them up, crammed them into her mouth, tasting the gingery snap of the shells.
A howl beneath the tree made her shiver. She stared down into a black mouth filled with yellow teeth.
“Hunger! Hunger!” howled the mouth.
She scrambled higher up into the tree, which began to shake dangerously and bend with her weight. Above, a pale, thin moon was rising. She reached one hand up, tried to pluck the moon as if it were a piece of fruit, using her tail for balance. When her fingers dosed on nothing, she chittered unhappily. By her third attempt she was tired of the game and, seeing no danger lingering at the tree’s base, climbed down.
The meadow grass was high, and tickled as she ran. Near her, others were scampering, but none reeked of predator and she moved rapidly alongside them, all heading in one direction—toward the smell of water.
The water was in a murky stream. Reaching it, she bent over and drank directly, lapping and sipping in equal measure. The water was cold and sour with urine. She spit it out and looked up. On the other side of the stream was a small copse of trees.
Trees! sang out her monkey mind.
However, she would not wade through the water. Finding a series of rocks, she jumped eagerly stone-to-stone-to-stone. When she got to the other side, she shook her hands and feet vigorously, then gave her tail a shake as well. She did not like the feel of the water. When she was dry enough, she headed for the trees.
At the foot of one tree was a body, human, but crumpled as if it were a pile of old clothes. Green face paint mixed with blood. She touched the leg, then the shoulder, and whimpered. A name came to her. Marnie? Then it faded. She touched the unfamiliar face. It was still warm, blood still flowing. Somewhere in the back part of her mind, the human part, she knew she should be doing something. But what seemed muddled and far away. She sat by the side of the body, shivering uncontrollably, will-less.
Suddenly there was a deep, low growl behind her and she leaped up, all unthinking, and headed toward the tree. Something caught her tail and pulled. She screamed, high, piercing. And then knifing through her mind, sharp and keen, was a human thought. Fight. She turned and kicked out at whatever had hold of her.
All she could see was a dark face with a wide hole for a mouth, and staring blue eyes. Then the creature was on top of her and all her kicking did not seem to be able to stop it at all.
The black face was so close she coul
d smell its breath, hot and carnal. With one final human effort, she reached up to scratch the face and was startled became it did not feel at all like flesh. Mask, her human mind said, and then all her human senses flooded back. The park was suddenly less close, less alive. Sounds once so dear were muddied. Smells faded. But she knew what to do about her attacker. She ripped the mask from his face.
He blinked his blue eyes in surprise, his pale face splotchy with anger. For a moment he was stunned, watching her change beneath him, no longer a monkey, now a strong girl. A strong, screaming girl. She kicked again, straight up.
This time he was the one to scream.
It was all the screaming, not her kicking, that saved her. Suddenly there were a half-dozen men in camouflage around her. Men—not animals. She could scarcely understand where they’d come from. But they grabbed her attacker and carried him off. Only two of them stayed with her until the ambulance arrived.
"I don’t get it,” Zena said when at last she could sit up in the hospital bed. She ached everywhere, but she was alive.
“Without your collar,” the man by her bedside said, “it’s almost impossible to flash back to being human. You’d normally have had to wait out the entire five hours of Wilding. No shortcuts back.”
“I know that,” Zena said. It came out sharper than she meant, so she added, “I know you, too. You were one of my ... rescuers.”
He nodded. “You were lucky. Usually only the dead flash back that fast.”
“So that’s what happened to that...”
“Her name was Sandra Maharish.”
“Oh.”
“She’d been foolish enough to leave off her collar, too. Only she hadn’t the will you have, the will to flash and fight. It’s what saved you.”