Wereduck Read online

  Copyright © 2014, Dave Atkinson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission from the publisher, or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, permission from Access Copyright, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 1900, Toronto, Ontario M5E 1E5.

  Nimbus Publishing Limited

  3731 Mackintosh St, Halifax, NS B3K 5A5

  (902) 455-4286 nimbus.ca

  Printed and bound in Canada

  NB1141

  Author photo: Neal Gillis

  Interior and cover design, and illustrations: Jenn Embree

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Atkinson, Dave, 1978-, author

  Wereduck / Dave Atkinson.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-77108-219-8 (pbk.).—ISBN 978-1-77108-220-4 (html).

  I. Title.

  PS8601.T5528W47 2014jC813’.6C2014-903201-3

  C2014-903202-1

  Nimbus Publishing acknowledges the financial support for its publishing activities from the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) and the Canada Council for the Arts, and from the Province of Nova Scotia through Film & Creative Industries Nova Scotia. We are pleased to work in partnership with Film & Creative Industries Nova Scotia to develop and promote our creative industries for the benefit of all Nova Scotians.

  Erin once said she thought it might be kind of

  fun to be a duck. This book is for her.

  Kate examined the reflection of the full moon on the surface of the lake. She picked out the mountains and craters that give the moon its face—features that make it seem as if our closest neighbour in space is gazing back at us.

  Kate tossed a rock into the water, spoiling the image. Tiny ripples radiated from the spot, eventually lapping against the shore. There, in the shadows of the trees at the lake’s edge, she spotted a duck that had woken at the sound of the splash.

  He lifted his head from under his wing and looked around. He stood up on skinny legs and puffed out his chest. Before stepping into the water, he wiggled his feathered butt.

  Kate smiled. She loved that wiggle.

  Kate unfolded her legs and stretched them before her on the ground. Her feet and toes tingled. Sometime in the last hour, they had fallen asleep.

  The lonely howl of a wolf drifted above the top of the spruce forest. It was joined by another, and another.

  A dozen or more ducks that were beside the lake awoke in a flutter of quacks. They waddled into the cool water and relative safety of the lake. Kate noted they didn’t bother with the formality of butt wiggles.

  The howling jarred Kate from her thoughts. She was awake much later than she’d planned to be. She pulled herself to her feet, stamping them a few times to beat out the pins and needles. She dug her hands into the pockets of her windbreaker and began the short walk around the lake.

  The light of the moon dimly illuminated the cabin where her grandmother and brother slept. Her parents were busy tonight; she wouldn’t see them until morning. Kate passed the campfire pit and saw that the embers had faded to black.

  Kate pushed open the door to the cabin, being careful not to let it squeak on its rusty hinges. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness. Without the light of the moon, the cabin was dark as pitch, but there was no mistaking the pair of yellow eyes staring back at her. Kate stood frozen in the doorway.

  The eyes belonged to a black wolf. Beside it on the ground, lay the motionless body of Kate’s younger brother.

  She took a bold step forward. “Grandma!” hissed Kate. “I thought I told you to save room for me.”

  Kate crawled between her sleeping brother and her furry grandmother. She nudged the boy out of her way like a wolf cub pushing out a competing sibling. Her grandmother let out the long sigh of a contented canine. Kate nuzzled into her thick dark fur.

  “Goodnight,” whispered Kate.

  In a moment, she was asleep.

  Kate’s grandmother, Marge, had the campfire going by the time Kate dragged herself out of bed the next morning. She let the door swing back on its spring and slam as loud as it could, knowing the noise would surely wake her brother.

  “You slept in your jacket again last night,” Marge said, not looking up from her breakfast preparations. “It’s going to be ruined with wrinkles.” She opened a cooler beside her and took out two of packages of bacon. Slices of potato sizzled in a big iron pan suspended atop a bed of glowing coals.

  “It’s nylon,” replied Kate, smoothing the front of her jacket with her hands, “nature’s most forgiving fabric. Is the tea ready?”

  Marge laid aside the bacon and poured Kate a cup of tea. She placed it in her hands and planted a kiss on her forehead. “Happy birthday.”

  “Don’t remind me,” said Kate.

  “You sound like you’re turning thirty, not thirteen,” laughed Marge. “It’s not every day a girl becomes a wolf.”

  Kate took a sip from her steaming cup. She looked straight ahead.

  “Unless,” continued Marge, “that’s a problem?”

  “Are you sure there’s no opt-out clause on this whole werewolf thing?” asked Kate. “I can think of better things to do with my time than running around the forest every month howling my head off.”

  Her grandmother smiled. “Such as?”

  Kate looked away.

  “You know as well as I do how it works, Katie dear,” said Marge. “Our family has been wolves as far back as anyone can remember. I think you may come to like it.”

  Kate grabbed the flipper and poked at the potatoes. She pushed them aside in the pan to make room for the bacon.

  “Why wolves?” asked Kate. “There’s a reason why the angry mobs in the movies are always trying to kill werewolves—people hate us.”

  Marge smiled. “You have a better suggestion?”

  Kate blushed. “Well,” she began, “I always thought, maybe, it might be kind of fun to be a duck.”

  “A duck?”

  “Yeah, why not?” said Kate. “Wouldn’t it be cool? I mean, ducks, right? Fly, swim, waddle—they do everything! And they have this quiet dignity.”

  “Ducks,” said Marge flatly, “have quiet dignity?” She raised her eyebrows.

  “Tons!” exclaimed Kate. “And they do that butt-wiggle thing.” Just as she jumped up to give her rear a little shake, the door to the cabin swung open. Her eleven-year-old brother stood watching with devilish delight.

  “Katie Wereduck,” Bobby announced. “You can wiggle that butt all you like. When that moon comes up tonight, you’re going to be a wolf.”

  Kate grimaced. She folded her arms and plunked back down on her stump.

  “You have no idea how lucky you are!” said Bobby. “Some of us have to wait a whole fourteen months, two weeks, and three days to turn into a wolf!”

  “Some of us think there’s more to life than chasing rabbits.”

  “Like wiggling your butt?” said her brother.

  “That’s enough butt-wiggling talk from the both of you,” said Marge, slapping an empty plastic jug into Bobby’s hands. “Go contemplate your inner wolf down by the spring while you fetch us some water.”

  He grabbed the jug. “Gladly, Grandma. Ah-wooooo!”

  “Fleabag,” muttered Kate as her brother tromped toward the woods.

  “Ah-wooooo, Bobby!” came a new voice.

  Kate and Bobby’s dad, Brian, bounded up from the forest. His hair was a wild tangle of twigs and dirt. The
ir mum, Lisa, similarly disheveled, followed a few steps behind, tucking in a stray corner of her shirt.

  “Ah-wooooo, Dad!” yelled Bobby, nearly hopping into his father’s arms. “How was it? Did you chase rabbits? Did you find any deer? How far’d you go?”

  “Hold on there, cub,” said Brian, giving his son a hug. “We can talk when you get back with your grandma’s water. Hurry up, we’re going to have a couple of new werewolves join us for breakfast.”

  “Are you serious? Other wolves?” asked Bobby. His eyes bulged.

  “Serious,” said his mother, Lisa. “You can meet them in a few minutes.”

  Bobby dashed into the woods.

  “What a night,” said Lisa, collapsing on one of the stumps surrounding the fire. “I was going to throw myself on my bunk and sleep all day—until I thought of your potatoes, Mum. Is there tea?”

  “There’s always tea,” said Marge. She poured a cup for Lisa and another for Brian.

  “Thanks, Marge,” he said.

  “What’s this about other wolves?” asked Kate. “I thought we were the only werewolves around here.”

  “So did I,” said Brian. “Surprise, surprise.” He blew on his tea and took a sip.

  “I thought I heard extra howls last night,” said Marge. “From the south. The other side of the river.”

  “Yeah, that’s where we found them,” nodded Lisa. “Or found each other, I guess. We chased each others’ howls for a while before finally meeting.”

  “And what are they like? Are they nice?” asked Kate.

  “Well, they’re nice wolves,” said Brian. “So, they like chasing rabbits and running around and howling. We only met them as people when the sun came up. They were just stopping at their own camp before joining us. They should be right behind us.”

  “How many are there?” asked Kate.

  “Two,” said Brian. “A father and son.”

  There was a rustle from the woods as Bobby returned. Climbing the hill with him were two extra figures.

  “Speak of the werewolf…” said Brian.

  Kate sat pinned to her stump as they approached. Bobby chatted a mile a minute, skipping sideways to keep up with the newcomers.

  “So, oh my gosh, I totally can’t believe you’re werewolves, too. Dad said we were the only ones around here.”

  “We’re pretty new to the area,” said the father: a dark-haired man with grey eyes.

  Kate assessed the son. He was maybe fifteen. He had his dad’s eyes, but had rusty brown hair that looked about a month overdue for a cut.

  Not exactly cute, thought Kate. But not not-cute, either.

  “I’m sorry,” announced the father politely as he approached the fire. “We haven’t met everyone yet. I’m Marcus,” he shook Marge’s and Kate’s hands. “This is my son, John.”

  “Hey,” said the boy. He reached out to shake hands with Kate. His grey eyes looked briefly into her brown.

  “Hi,” she said. She held his glance for just a moment then looked at the ground. Okay, maybe a little cute, she thought.

  Two days earlier, a newsroom in New York City

  Dirk Bragg ransacked his desk, grabbing seemingly random objects and stuffing them into a duffel bag: Six pads of paper. A pair of socks. A telescopic camera lens. Half a pastrami sandwich.

  He looked a mess. He wore a rumpled, tan dress shirt tucked sloppily into a pair of khaki pants—themselves fifteen years past their fashion expiry date. His face was unshaven. His messy hair was vaguely parted to the left.

  “Where are you off to in such a hurry?” came a woman’s voice from across the newsroom. Dirk looked up and saw his editor, Sandra, pouring herself a cup of coffee.

  “Canada,” grunted Dirk, throwing a box of pencils into his bag. “New Brunswick.”

  “Canada?” she asked. “What would you want to go there for?”

  Dirk stuffed what looked like a six-week-old banana into his bag. “I’ve got a solid lead on the werewolf story.”

  His editor laughed.

  “I mean it, Sandra. This is the real deal. I’ve found them. No question.”

  “The real deal,” she scoffed. “Just like your story about monkeys hypnotizing the Supreme Court?”

  “I still think you need to take that story seriously,” said Dirk. “If you look at the court’s recent track record for cases involving banana subsidies in South America—”

  “Dirk, Dirk, Dirk. Save it,” she said before settling into her desk. She took a drink of coffee. “This isn’t The New York Times, this is Really Real News. You could write about Elvis eating Sasquatch sandwiches for all I care.”

  Her eyes widened. She grabbed a pencil.

  “I like that,” she said, scribbling down the idea while it was fresh. “Sasquatch sandwiches….”

  “You might not care about the truth, but I do,” interrupted Dirk. “Werewolves are real. They always have been. And they live in Canada.”

  “I humour you, Dirk, because you always make deadline and you generally spell English words correctly,” said Sandra. “Why, pray tell, do the werewolves live in Canada?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe they like plaid shirts and ice hockey.” He threw a jumbo box of dental floss into his bag. “All I know is that they’re there, and I’m going to put them on the front page.”

  Dirk stuffed a few more items into his bag: a tube of toothpaste. A stapler. He moved a few items around to make room for a framed photo of the Loch Ness Monster. “You think I need the picture of Nessie?” he asked. “I’m running out of space.”

  Sandra hid her grin behind her coffee cup. She took a sip. “Oh, definitely,” she said. “I never leave home without mine.”

  Marcus dominated conversation over breakfast. Kate’s family sat in rapt attention. Marcus and John seemed to have lived their entire lives on the move.

  “We would have stayed in Scotland forever,” laughed Marcus. “That’s where we’re from…our people anyway. But there hasn’t been a wolf in that country for three hundred years. Not that you’d know it by the fear and hatred of the people. One camper reported hearing us howling in the woods, and within a day, the papers were filled with letters to the editor demanding government action to protect the children.” He leaned back. “I don’t know about you, Brian, but I don’t crave the flesh of children whether I’m wolf or human.”

  “Can’t say that I do either,” replied Brian. “But that doesn’t erase centuries of fear. Irrational as it is, people are terrified of wolves. Always have been, probably always will be.”

  “Exactly,” said Marcus. “And I fear an angry mob of wolf-haters more than they fear me. Our stay in Scotland was shorter than I had hoped.”

  “We’ve only moved a few times,” said Lisa. “This place, we’ve lived here—what—maybe seven, eight years now?”

  Brian nodded.

  “You’re lucky,” said Marcus.

  “Luck, and a low profile,” said Brian. “We barely dared howl the first four or five summers we were here. Maybe we’ve become careless lately. You didn’t seem to have much trouble finding us.”

  Marcus stared at him a moment with a blank expression. “Not too much, no.”

  “How did you know we weren’t, you know, just regular wolves?” asked Brian.

  Marcus shrugged. “There aren’t any wolves around, far as I know. I mean, not for hundreds of years. I was pretty sure it was a safe bet you were like us.”

  Brian nodded.

  “Have you met many other werewolves?” asked Lisa.

  “Not many,” said Marcus. “I don’t think there are many of us left in the world. The few we have met don’t even trust other werewolves. We’ve been asked to move along a couple of times. They were afraid too many of us in one spot would make people suspicious.”

  “I only ever met one other werewolf in my whole
life before today,” said Brian with a smirk, “and I married her.”

  Marcus smiled, but his eyes looked sad. “You were lucky. John’s mum wasn’t a wolf. It made things…” he searched for a word, “difficult.”

  “Where is she now?” asked Lisa.

  Marcus looked at his hands. His demeanor darkened. “There was a fire,” he said. “She didn’t make it.”

  “Oh, how awful,” said Lisa quickly. She touched her mouth.

  “This was years ago,” said Marcus, looking up into Lisa’s eyes. “John doesn’t even remember her.”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Brian.

  “Y’know,” said Marcus with a short, bitter laugh, “she wasn’t exactly thrilled when she found out the hairy truth about me.” He glanced at his son. “It’s been hard, just John and me, but it’s been good, too…. I didn’t know if he’d be a werewolf until his first full moon at thirteen.” He sipped his tea. “But he heard the call. Not that he seems to care. Spends most full-moon nights curled up sleeping.”

  The group turned to look at John who was absently chewing a mouthful of bacon, oblivious to the conversation around him. He looked up. “What?” he said between bites.

  Kate rolled her eyes and turned back to Marcus. “Does it happen like that for everyone? The call, I mean?” she asked.

  “Seems to,” replied Marcus. “Some wolves have a lot of funny theories and superstitions about where we come from, but that much seems to stay the same. We’re all deaf to the call of the full moon until we’re thirteen. They all describe it the same way: a low howl from the moon. Hear it, answer it, and you are a wolf.”

  “What if you don’t answer it?” asked Kate.

  Marcus shrugged. “I’ve never come across a werewolf who hasn’t. It’s a powerful call. When you hear it, you’ll know what I mean.”

  “But what if you don’t?” said Kate. “What if you hear it, but just…don’t answer?”

  Marcus stared at her a moment. “Why don’t you try it out tonight, birthday girl, and we’ll know the answer?”

  An uncomfortable silence hung over the group.