Part XV: Recovery II

Evans was in Mr. Haddock’s room for most of the night, Mr. Hogan leaving with armfuls of sloshing, crimson-filled bowls and bloody bandages and returning with white strips of dressings and warm basins of water.  Evans had handed Isolde off to Mrs. McKeever upon their hasty return so as to get her out of the way while he worked.  Mrs. McKeever wrapped Isolde up in warm blankets, sat her in front of the fire, and drew a bath for her while Isolde dazedly allowed the middle-aged woman to treat her like a small child. 

“Dear, dear.  I dannae if I’ll be able teh clean these,” Mrs. McKeever said as she helped Isolde out of her bloodstained clothes.

“It’s fine,” Isolde said, not really paying attention.  The bath went by within the blink of an eye, and Isolde found herself sitting on her bed, her wet hair hanging loose and a fur blanket over her shoulders.  Mrs. McKeever gave her a cup of hot tea and Isolde mechanically took it from her hands.  The woman hesitated by her bedside.

“I beg pardon, but you nae mind if I sit up with yeh, Miss Marlowe?  Nae to be oversteppin’ me station, but yeh seem in need o’ th’ company.”

Isolde gave the woman a small smile.

              “Oh, please do.”

Mrs. McKeever sank down beside Isolde.

“Yeh best drink yer tea while it’s still warm, Dear.”

Isolde sipped at the hot drink.  She still felt cold and numb inside even when the cup was empty.

“Would yeh like some more, Miss?” Mrs. McKeever asked, moving to get up.

“No.  It’s fine.  Please stay.”

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the wind howling around the lodge and hurried footsteps outside of the room.

              “Miss?”

Isolde blinked out of the fog her mind had settled in.

              “Yes?”

“Will, ehm, Master Haddock be all right?”

 “I don’t—don’t—"

Her throat began to constrict as she felt tears fighting to escape her eyes.  Mrs. McKeever immediately took notice and hugged her as Isolde felt herself losing control yet again.

“There, there, Dear.  It’ll be all right,” Mrs. McKeever murmured. “Master Haddock is in good hands.”

                                                                                      *

Morning dawned with smoky purple clouds on the horizon sluggishly moving on with their burden of snow.  A somber atmosphere had hung over the lodge for the past week.  Evans was the only person who came and went into Haddock’s chambers, obstinately refusing anyone else’s offer of assistance.  He sported permanent dark circles under his eyes from staying up most of the time to change bandages and make sure that his master was resting easy, living off of a continual brew of coffee.  He caught Miss Marlowe trying to sneak into Haddock’s room in the early hours of the morning and angrily sent her away, telling her that he would allow her to see The Master once he was well enough.  Mrs. McKeever kept Miss Marlowe company, having her help her in the kitchen at Evans’s behest to distract and keep her from attempting to see Haddock.  His real reasons for maintaining that Miss Marlowe remain separated were with her in mind.

              When Haddock transformed the morning following Sir Drexel’s execution, he was in a very bad way.  Granted his wounds had looked dreadful in his hairy form, but Evans was used to seeing bloodied animals on hunting trips and when working on his father’s farm as a boy.  Seeing a human with those same injuries had a very different effect on the mind.  Haddock was conscious during the entire carriage ride back to the lodge, blacking out during the scuffle in which Evans and Mr. Hogan carried him up the stairs.  Evans had done his best to stop the bleeding and bind the open wounds while working around a very heavy coat of fur and matted blood and saliva.  Haddock came back to consciousness shortly after returning to human form, while Evans was stitching up a puncture on his throat.  The following howl of startled pain was clearly heard throughout the lodge.  Evans proceeded to quickly send Mr. Hogan to bring up a bottle of the strongest liquor they had in the cellar to calm his patient, making it easier for him to finish up with the stitches.

              After Evans had done all he could, Haddock lapsed into a deathlike sleep punctuated by confused and manic awakenings for the first day.  He ripped open a gash on his side that had taken Evans over an hour and several spools of thread to close up, even longer the second time around.  Later in the afternoon, he started to consciousness long enough to lean over and retch onto the floor before collapsing back on the bed.  Evans had noted with growing worry how much blood was in the vomitus.  Haddock became feverish the next day.  Evans shut himself up in the room with his master for most of the day, continually wiping the sick man’s forehead, endeavoring to get liquids into his body, and changing out blankets that were soiled.  The fever had an even stronger hold on Haddock the third day.  Miss Marlowe kept pleading with him to relieve his long vigil, and Evans continued to rebuff her.  He didn’t want her to see or know about Haddock’s worsening state.

                                                                                                     *

The fever broke on the eighth day after the fight.  Haddock came to with a pounding headache and a body that felt like it had been repeatedly run over by a carriage.  His eyes were gummy and crusted together.  When he lifted a hand to rub them he felt like someone had tied weights to his arm.  He blinked and squinted, his surroundings gradually coming into focus.  Milky light cast a ghostly glow to the maroon, stale-smelling room.  He moved his shaking hand over his face, feeling for any new scars that Sir Drexel might had imparted upon him.  All Haddock’s hand encountered was a week’s worth of stubble and very dry lips.  He tried sitting up and sank back amongst the pillows, groaning through his teeth.  There was a tight pressure pressing his whole torso.  Craning his head down, he saw bandages criss-crossing his abdomen, dark bloodstains having dried through.  He turned his head away from the window and his sore neck began to throb from the slight movement.  Evans was seated in a chair by the bed, chin in hand, sleeping soundly.  His face was ashy and drawn, looking as if he had aged several years.

              Haddock felt like a terrible employer and friend.  He didn’t mean to put Evans through so much stress…  Even when he had told the loyal butler to bring in a real doctor before the fight, the man barked “no, no, no” like an angry parrot.  Haddock would think of some way to repay him for saving his life yet again.  Evans would refuse of course, so he would have to go through Mrs. Evans.  A paid, month-long vacation along the British coast perhaps?

              He needed some fresh air.  Haddock carefully sat up, letting his swimming head adjust before slowly pulling back the bedsheets and swinging his legs over the side of the bed.  He pulled on a pair of pants and some old boots that were shoved at the back of the wardrobe and tried to button up a shirt but found that his fingers were trembling too much.  He gave up and left it unbuttoned.  Haddock snuck out of the room and stiffly walked down the deserted hallway.  It was still early morning, and the lodge was asleep.  He exited through the kitchen, feeling his spirits lift as soon as he opened the door to the outside and felt the clean, cool air hit him. 

He wandered out onto the lodge grounds like a ghost.  He expected he would look like a ghost to anyone he’d run into.  The cold breeze felt good on his aching limbs, numbing them enough so that the pain wasn’t quite so intense.  His brain was fuzzy, and he tasted residual alcohol at the back of his throat.  That would explain the headache.  He stopped to lean against a tree.  Fog hung over the landscape as the sun, still crouched on the horizon, provided a soft yellow light.  Some of the snow had melted leaving patches of pale green grass poking through.

Haddock let out a sigh that smoked out in a vapor cloud.  They had accomplished what they’d set out to do—Sir Drexel was dead and buried.  There would be no more reports of a killer wolf terrorizing the inhabitants of Broadburn every full moon.  He closed his eyes, leaning his full weight against the tree as his legs began to quiver.

A soft, warm hand hesitantly tapped his back.  Haddock turned to see the hand’s possessor, but he already knew who it was.  Miss Marlowe stood next to him, wearing a thin blue jacket and a worried expression.  Her hand still hung in the air.  Her pale eyes were traveling over his body, continually coming back to the dark patch of dried blood that had seeped through the bandages on his chest.  It hadn’t occurred to him that this was the first time she had seen him since the fight.

Haddock, on the other hand, was inexplicably glad to see her out of all people standing there.  He couldn’t define what exactly he felt as he gazed down at her.  All he knew is that he didn’t want that growing little spark in his chest to die.

He acted impulsively.  Lacing his fingers around hers, he drew Miss Marlowe close and kissed her.  She made a surprised noise, but didn’t pull away.  The little spark in Haddock’s chest burst into a blazing bonfire.  They stood, joined for what seemed like an eternity in bliss before the realization of what he had done hit Haddock.  He disengaged and quickly stepped backwards, blushing profusely.

              “I’m so sorry—”

“I’m not.”

              Haddock stared as Miss Marlowe held a hand up to her face to hide her smile and reddening cheeks.

              “W-what I mean is, um, it’s good to see you’re doing better,” she faltered, not meeting his eyes.

“Oh.  Um, thank you…?”

              He directed his gaze to the ground, feeling very hot for someone standing in wintry weather with a shirt hanging loose.  His mind was still fixated on that kiss.  Miss Marlowe sniffed and Haddock quickly brought his eyes up.  She looked like she was on the verge of tears.

              “I’m fine, I’m fine,” she said, wiping her eyes.  “I’m just—I thought you wouldn’t—”

She threw her arms around Haddock, giving him a tight hug.  He bit his lip as she put pressure on his stitches but refrained from making any noises.  He brought his arms up to return the hug as she continued to sniff.  She mumbled something into his chest.

              “What?”

Looking up at him with watery blue eyes, she smiled.

“I’m happy you’re alive.”

              Haddock couldn’t help but grin too.  He wiped the tears from Miss Marlowe’s eyes.

“I’d offer you a handkerchief if, well, I had one, but I didn’t really think it would be necessary for this outing.”

              Miss Marlowe emitted a choking laugh as she clung onto Haddock’s hand.

“We, we should probably head back to the lodge.  Evans had a fit when he woke up and saw you missing.  Everyone is looking for you.  I though you would have wanted to escape the lodge, knowing you.”

              “Oh, well all right,” Haddock said with a sigh.  They struck out over the snow-patched plains towards the lodge as the sun’s beams pricked through the treetops, Miss Marlowe helping to hold Haddock up as the surge of energy that had propelled him outdoors began to ebb.

              “Miss Marlowe.”

“Yes?”

              “When it’s just the two of us, I wouldn’t mind it if you addressed me as Malcolm.”

“Of course,” she replied.  There was a smile in her voice. “And you can just call me Isolde.”

Part XIV: Execution

Dusk settled on the moors snow packed, bringing with it a low-hanging thick fog and an icy chill.  Isolde paced at the edge of the forest, rubbing her fingers up and down the barrel of the shotgun she held.  She and Mr. Haddock had agreed to meet there as the sun sank in the West to go over some last-minute instructions and to bait the trap for Sir Drexel.  She was eager to put a silver bullet into Sir Drexel’s skull after their previous encounter, so much so, so that she had been shaking with adrenaline while journeying to the meeting place.  She was still struggling to control the twitching in her fingers.  She let out a breath of anxious air that puffed into a miniature cloud.  Turning on her heel in the snow, she almost walked into Mr. Haddock.  He looked at her, then the shotgun she had instinctively pointed at his heart.  He smiled.

              “At least that part was drilled into you.”

Isolde lowered the gun and poked him in the chest with a frozen finger.

“I could have shot you!”

“I was just checking to see if you were on your toes.  It seems as if I needn’t have worried about that,” Mr. Haddock explained, still wryly smiling at her.  Isolde couldn’t believe him.  He was acting like they were going for a pheasant hunt, not getting ready to kill a murderer.

              “How can you be so blasé about this?  I’ve been pins and needles all day, and now I can’t stop my hands from shaking—”

              “Would you like me to call Evans over to take your—?”

“NO.  I can do this.”

I want to do this.  She shifted her feet in the snow, the wetness already beginning to creep through the leather as she ducked her head.  Mr. Haddock had been looking at her with a curious expression on his face.  The sky was taking on a hazy purple and orange hue as the sun slowly retreated behind the treetops.  Haddock was taking note of this keenly.  He started to shrug out of his heavy jacket, causing Isolde to raise her eyebrows.

“Mr. Haddock, it’s freezing out!  What are you—?”

“I’ll be changing soon, so I won’t be needing this,” he said as he folded the long coat over his arm.  He held it out to her. “I figured you could put it to better use.”

              “O-oh.  Thank you,” Isolde said, taking the coat proffered to her.  Mr. Haddock helped her to slip it on.  She could have put the coat on just fine on her own, Mr. Haddock knew that too, but she kept her mouth shut, silently reveling in the chivalrous act.  The coat was a few sizes too big, making her feel like she was a young girl again running around the house in her father’s long coat.

              “It’s a little big,” she remarked.

“But it’s warm?”

              “Ehm, yes.”

“Good.  Now, make sure to stay downwind so Drexel can’t smell you, and stay in the shadows.  I’ll try to lure him out into the open so you can get a clear shot.”  Lowering his voice, Mr. Haddock placed a hand on the shotgun. “I loaded this with five silver bullets so you’ll have five attempts…not that you’ll necessarily get past one since after you fire the gun once, Drexel will know what’s happening and make off.  Take your time when lining up your sights, and please, please don’t miss and shoot me.”

              “I would never—!”

Mr. Haddock was smiling teasingly again.

              “You’re insufferable, Mr. Haddock.”

He cocked his head.

              “So you’ve told me on numerous occasions”—he shivered—“I best be off.  Good luck, Miss Marlowe.”

              Mr. Haddock disappeared into the darkening woods, the crunching of his boots on the snow echoing and then blending in with the wind and rattling branches.  Isolde took a deep breath and thrust the shotgun under her arm to wipe her sweaty hands.  She said a quick, silent prayer and positioned herself to wait for Mr. Haddock to drive Drexel out onto the barren moors.

                                                                                      *

Haddock travelled a distance into the woods then stopped to wait for the full moon to work her magic.  He shivered.  A shirt, vest, and pants were no match for the icy temperatures of a late autumn evening.  The sun quickly fell behind the horizon, pulling her soft fingertips of warmth with her as a wind from the moors blew through the forest, rattling branches and tossing pine cones to the ground.  Haddock didn’t have to look up to see the round, yellow orb of the moon rising.  He felt it touch his skin, peeling away human flesh like burning paper until he was on all fours, covered in brown silky fur.  His clothes lay about the area.  He made a mental note to have Miss Marlowe or Evans gather them up.  If he made it through the night.  Now you stop that.  He shook his shaggy coat and sniffed the biting air.  No sign of Sir Drexel yet.  He loped through the woods, keeping an alert eye out for any sign of another wolf, ears twitching at the slightest sound that wasn’t made by the wind.  Haddock slowed down as he came up to the spot where Miss Marlowe was.

              He alerted her to his presence with a few soft whines.  She turned around to see him trotting up to her side, hands tightly gripping the shotgun.  Good girl.  Miss Marlowe smiled upon recognizing him and held out a hand as he brought his head up to her cold fingers.

              “That was fast,” she said as she scratched behind his ears.  Haddock nudged her hand with his nose in reply.  He could smell the anxiety radiating off of her.  Stay calm.  Stay alert.  You’ll do fine.  He wagged his tail at Miss Marlowe before bounding off onto the moors.

                                                                                      *

Two extremely long hours passed, and still there was no sign of Sir Drexel’s sandy pelt.  Haddock had pranced out under the moonlight on the sparkling snowy plains, practically inviting Sir Drexel to fight him.  However, it seemed as if Sir Drexel had made other plans for the night.  With a twinge of guilt, Haddock realized that Miss Marlowe must be freezing right about now.  He decided that they might as well give up the hunt for the night and return to the warm confines of the lodge where they could thaw out and think up another plan.  He’d apologize for keeping her out so late once he had the power of speech back.  He began to head in Miss Marlowe’s direction.  A snarl caused him to freeze, his hackles automatically raising as the blood began to pump faster.  He stiffly made an about-face and saw…nothing.  Haddock growled softly in irritation.  He could have sworn—

              A heavy force plowed into him from behind, heavy jaws latching around his neck as he was wrenched to the ground in an explosion of snow.  He should have known that Sir Drexel would set up an ambush of his own.  The sandy-coated wolf bit down harder into Haddock’s neck, snarling as he endeavored to rip his wind pipe open.  Haddock smashed his head against Drexel’s.  The other yelped and released his grip enough for Haddock to twist out from his precarious position.  Haddock skittered a good distance away from Drexel and pulled back his lips to bare his fangs at him, a low rumble coming from his throat.  Drexel shot a long pink tongue out of his mouth, licking his bloody jaws with a mocking look in his eyes.  The horsewhip scar was a dark mark against his light coat, scabbing right across the bridge of his nose.  He was massive in size when compared to Haddock.  This wasn’t going to be an easy fight.  And he still had to draw Drexel back towards the woods where Miss Marlowe was waiting... 

Drexel leapt at him with his jaws flung wide open.  They clashed in a tangle of deadly opposing forces.  Haddock ripped a good-sized chunk of fur from the other’s tawny coat as Drexel raked Haddock’s sides with his claws, both too absorbed in maiming the other to care about reacting to the pain.  A leg jutted out in front of Haddock and he grabbed it with his teeth, hurling Drexel onto his side.  The stunned, bigger wolf emitted a surprised yelp.  Haddock bit down on the other’s neck, but his jaws were too small to fit.  Drexel rolled, smashing his full weight into Haddock whose head was caught between the snow and the burly werewolf’s body.  He kicked and scratched as Drexel pressed harder to keep his head pinned.  He laid a blow to Drexel’s head with a hind leg and wriggled out of the werewolf’s control. 

Bright red, fresh blood speckled the tousled surface of the snow as the two werewolves eyed each other from a distance, panting out quick, foggy breaths of air.  Haddock’s injury from the duel was beginning to ache, but he couldn’t afford to dwell on that now.  His neck throbbed with new wounds as something wet and warm oozed down his shoulder.  Drexel didn’t even look like he was at all fazed by his injuries; in fact, he looked like he was enjoying himself immensely.  The bigger werewolf took a step.  Haddock bolted away in the direction of the woods.  If he could just get close enough, Miss Marlowe would get a nice clear shot at the beast and they could be finished with this whole fight.

Drexel’s pounding galloping sounded close on his heels, accompanied by a whirring growl.  Haddock crested a white hill and saw the tops of the trees in the distance, obscured by a fogbank that was slowly rolling over and pouring into the moors.  Just a little closer…  He still couldn’t see or smell Miss Marlowe, and he was silently glad for that.  She had listened to him and hidden herself so that Drexel was unaware of her presence and role in the grand scheme of things.  Haddock suddenly realized that Drexel’s panting was louder.  He looked to the side and saw the other keeping pace with, and beginning to outrun him.  Apparently the tawny werewolf was not only bigger, but faster.  Haddock was still trying to work out the logic in that when Drexel veered towards him headfirst, butting him in the side.  He yelped and felt a fuzziness shoot through his limbs.  The duel injury.  Pretending that his enemy had hurt him more than a mere jolt of pain, Haddock crumpled to the ground, watching the tawny werewolf move in to attack, confidence exuding from his every gesture.  Haddock jumped up and sank his fangs into the other’s neck when Drexel came at him mid-spring.  The full weight of the momentum brought them both to the ground in a shower of snow powder, but Haddock still maintained his grip.  He squeezed his jaws closer, trying to break the skin and get to the muscle where he could do some real damage.  Drexel’s squirming wasn’t helping.  Drexel tried rolling again, but instead sent the two of them tumbling down an icy hillside.  They fell apart at the base of the hill, scrambling to their feet.  Blood streaked the hillside and dappled the ground around them.  There was a slight rasp in Haddock’s breathing.  His limbs shook from the adrenaline and exertion.  He was pleased to see that Drexel was looking equally spent.  Through the mist, he could see the brute’s sides heaving, and he had a good amount of claw marks and gashes on his hide to show that Haddock had been able to get some decent blows in there.

Drexel’s golden eyes were glowing with ire.  He was no longer playing.  He began to circle Haddock stiffly, hackles raised and ears pressed flat against his large skull.  Haddock did likewise, looking for any weak spot that the other might have, or a way to draw him closer to Miss Marlowe’s hiding place.  They leapt at each other at the same time, brown fur slamming tawny as they continued their fight.  This time, Drexel didn’t hold anything back.  He was more calculating and less haphazard with his slashes and bites, continually coming back to Haddock’s dueling wound and throat.

During their last clash, Drexel had been overconfident and sloppy, mainly due to the fact that he had been inebriated prior to transforming and attempted to go on another moonlit rampage.  Haddock had easily bested him.  He had been hoping that Drexel, knowing that his enemy was incapacitated and unable to interfere with his killings, would to the same thing again.  The tawny wolf’s analytical use of his strength and size had proven to Haddock right away that he would have to be just as cunning and quick this time around.

A heavy paw swatted Haddock in the head, sending him stumbling sideways.  His vision blurred from the blow and the additional blood loss; the ground beneath them was sparkling with more red than white.  Drexel was circling again, closing in.  Haddock lurched drunkenly towards the visible treetops amidst the fog at a gallop.  He wouldn’t be able to hold out fighting Drexel for much longer.  Please, please be ready, Isolde.

                                                                                      *

Isolde sat shivering in a snowbank in the middle of the night wondering what on earth had induced her to agree to Mr. Haddock’s idiotic plan in the first place.  Oh.  Right.  I volunteered.  Her shoes were wet and soggy and the thick coat that Mr. Haddock had given her worked at keeping the cold at bay for the first half hour, but she was beginning to think that it hadn’t been intended for keeping one warm at freezing temperatures for long periods of time.  Nevertheless, she waited patiently for her friend to return and let her know that it was time for them to give up and return to the nice, warm manor.  She had been fantasizing about sinking into a piping hot bath and sipping some ginger tea afterwards when a series of angry snarls burst into her thoughts.  The hair on her already gooseflesh arms bristled even further.  Her waiting was about to pay off.

              Quietly and smoothly, Isolde edged out of the woods at a crouch, taking care to keep the shotgun held above the wet snow and holding a handful of the longcoat so that she wouldn’t trip and ruin everything by falling out into the open.  She kept to the backs of tall snowbanks, downwind as Mr. Haddock had instructed, popping her head up for a few seconds at a time to make sure she was headed in the right direction.  She probably didn’t have to make such frequent visual confirmations; the increasingly louder growls and snarls told her she was getting closer.  She felt like the heartbeat pounding in her ears was making enough noise to set Sir Drexel off to her position.  She sat on her haunches behind a small hillock, clenching and unclenching her hands to get the feeling back into her fingers while the shotgun rested on her lap.  She would only have one shot.  She grabbed the gun and poked her head out again.  Drexel-Wolf had Haddock-Wolf pinned on his back, his massive jaws clamped around Haddock-Wolf’s throat as the latter struggled to push his attacker away.  An alarming amount of blood caked the lighter wolf’s muzzle and the darker wolf’s neck, pooling onto the snow.  Isolde’s fear for Mr. Haddock’s life caused her hands to shake and a sudden flush of warmth to suffuse her chest.  The fear she had been harboring towards Sir Drexel began to transmute, twisting into a red-hot anger that made her feel more alert and sure of herself.

              She burst out from her hiding place and leveled the shotgun with both hands at Drexel-Wolf’s head.  His ears flicked forward as he heard her movements and his head popped up.  Isolde wanted him to see his killer.  She pulled the trigger.

              A crimson flower exploded right in the middle of Drexel-Wolf’s head, the realization of his fate frozen in his golden eyes.  The werewolf’s body dropped to the ground as blood poured out of its blown-out skull.  Isolde released the breath she had been holding and ran to where Haddock-Wolf lay.  She crouched next to him as the werewolf whined and looked up at her.  Her hand trembled as she stroked his head.  There was so much blood.  Isolde wheeled around, shotgun aimed when she heard crunching behind her, half expecting a flunky of Sir Drexel to be running up with a weapon at the ready to avenge his fallen leader.  She instead saw the faithful Evans, his mouth drawn into a thin line and face blanched despite the cold.  Mr. Hogan the Driver was close on his heels, carrying an armful of what looked to be blankets.

              “What are you doing here?” Isolde heard herself say as Evans sank down beside her to assess his master’s wounds.  His fingers danced over the werewolf’s brown hide.

“Master Haddock expected he would need immediate medical attention if he survived the fight.  There’s a carriage in the woods.  You can wait there while we—”

              “No.”

“If you insist,” Evans replied, not caring about the interruption.

Mr. Hogan spread the large blanket on the ground next to Haddock-Wolf and he and Evans carefully moved the werewolf onto it.  They puffed and grunted as they carried the werewolf into the woods, Isolde walking by Mr. Hogan’s side where Haddock-Wolf could still see her.  She felt like she was in a daze.  She jumped when she saw a rider in the woods trotting in the other direction.

              “Mr. Evans—!”

“He’s with us, Miss Marlowe,” Evans quickly said.  “He’ll be taking care of Sir Drexel’s remains.”

Isolde saw the rider stop by a dark mound on the snowy misty moors, dismount, and retrieve a shovel from the side of his saddle.  The blade of the man’s shovel flashed in the moonlight as he chipped away at the icy ground, excavating a deep grave for the body of Drexel-Wolf.