Read The Mammoth Book of Terror Online
Authors: Stephen Jones
The Mammoth Book of Terror (77 page)
Claymore had begun to talk rapidly, warming to a subject dear to him. Now he paused, glanced sideways at me, and shrugged; smiled thinly.
“But all this is common knowledge now,” he said, apologetically. “I must not bore you with this. Another aspect of vanity, eh? In my day it was just coming into acceptance and
I shamelessly feel pride in my own small role in bringing it to light; in bringing it, perhaps a trifle sooner than it would have been. Still too late, of course. Too late against ignorance. I fear
we shall both live to see the day when the last wolf is mangy and cowed in a zoo, when these exhibits are labelled extinct, or the museum equips an expedition to seek the last remaining pack.
Perhaps. Still, they fight for survival. This is the first necessity. On the day a creature ceases to flee or to snarl, then it must die . . .
“But enough of this rambling theory. Theories hold true for all, but I must tell you my own experience.”
I waited. When again he spoke his tone had changed. He still spoke with intensity, but it was a subjective quality now and there was terror lurking restrained in the timbre of his voice . .
.
“There came the day when circumstances forged the links of events – events engraved in the receptive awareness of aroused sensations. There were two separate
disasters, insignificant in themselves but combining to form a sum greater than the parts. The first disaster came when Charles broke through the ice. We had travelled far from the base camp,
skirting the frozen lake, and night came. We stopped to make our camp. I regretted the delay and was impatient to continue for the pack had not killed in several days and they were lean with
hunger. I knew they would press an attack very soon, and hoped to be present. I was standing in the trees, looking in the direction the pack had taken, when I heard Charles cry out. I rushed
back. A segment of the bank had collapsed beneath him and he had crashed through the ice. I saw his head bob in the cold water, one hand gripping the jagged splintered edge. I threw myself flat
to spread my weight and grasped him; managed to haul him from the icy waters. He was gasping and shaking. The instant the air touched his clothing it began to crackle and harden. Fortunately we
had already made the fire and I helped him to strip his clothing off, wrapped him in a blanket and gave him a stiff shot of brandy. For a long time he lay still beside the fire, shivering, his
eyes pressed closed. Finally the chill left him and I saw he was all right. But he had a strange look in his eyes. The first words he spoke were, ‘My rifle . . . I’ve lost my
rifle.’ Well, I assumed he was worried about the loss alone, and offered to replace the weapon when we returned from the field trip, but that was not what troubled him. He had lost his
pack, including the tent, but it was the rifle which distressed him. He said that he would have to return to the cabin – to get his other gun before we continued on. I argued. Fate brought
out my stubbornness, an ally of disaster. But Charles couldn’t conceive of going on without a weapon. I felt greatly frustrated. I knew the wolves would kill soon, and could not bring
myself to miss the opportunity to witness the kill. I refused to go back. He refused, at first, to continue – did not even want to stop the night, but to go back in the darkness. He had
completely changed. It was as if he had lost a vital organ instead of a rifle and all his taciturn confidence had vanished. Objectively, it was more interesting, a strange twist of the
personality of a man who has come to rely on something apart from his own body. But subjectively I could not tolerate it. I could not bear to miss the opportunity ahead. I became angry and
Charles, completely out of character as I’d known him, hung his head sullenly and accepted my abuse. I even, I fear, spoke of cowardice. Even this did not sting him to reply, other than to
mutter, shaking his head, that a man could not stay in the woods without a gun. I carried no weapon, of course. But I saw no danger. I recalled his own assurance that he’d never known
wolves to attack a man. ‘Not a man with a rifle,’ he mumbled. ‘But these wolves don’t know what a rifle is, how can that make a difference?’ I asked. He shrugged.
‘Maybe we might smell different without a weapon,’ he said. He kicked at the ground and swung his head from side to side and behaved like a spoiled child. But I was adamant and, after
a long while, he reluctantly agreed to go on in the morning. Very reluctantly. And even then he continued to mutter about how impossible it was to go on without rifle and tent. I let him ramble
on after he’d agreed; got into my sleeping bag beside the fire. His bag was lost but there were sufficient blankets and my groundsheet and he wrapped up in these. He was still muttering
when I drifted into sleep.
“His sullen, fearful mood continued through the next day. The wolves were moving fast and far and, the farther we moved from the extra rifle at the base camp the more frequently he paused
to look back over our trail, his eyes longing to retrace our steps. Still, we advanced. In the afternoon we were able to leave the pack’s spoor and cut at an angle across the predictable
circle, moving over rolling hills with deep snow between the slopes and stark pines on the crest. Evening was approaching. Charles was lagging and I had to urge him on, often walking well ahead of
him; turning to find him gazing backwards; shouting to him, whereupon he would come forward, head down and shoulders hunched. Then sunset struck with golden shafts across the western sky and it was
in this violent glow that we came upon the wolves . . .
“I topped a ridge and saw them like a string of dark slugs advancing across a rippled snowfield. I took my binoculars from their case and focused. Charles came up to stand beside me,
breathing harder than usual. The wolves moved like a single segmented organism, in a perfect twisting line. Then suddenly the line broke up, the pack formed a semi-circle, sitting back on their
lean haunches. Charles grunted and pointed and I turned the glasses along the line indicated, saw a copse of dark trees and, after a few moments, saw the moose.
“He was a huge fellow, completely motionless, facing the pack. He’d not yet shed his antlers and they spread like two giant hands as wide as his great height. His ears were laid
back, his mane erect. The wolves rose and advanced a few paces; settled on their haunches again. The moose moved then. The bell beneath his neck swung as he turned his head. He pawed the ground
with great platter feet. The wolves showed prudence despite their hunger. Their tongues lolled out and their flanks rose and fell. Finally the leader rose and advanced cautiously, turned sideways
to his quarry, testing the moose’s temper and resolve. The moose didn’t wait. He came with a sudden rush, awkward and mighty. The wolf leaped sideways, turning in the air and the pack
spun and scattered. The moose halted, snorted and pawed, and then backed into the trees again. The wolves came silently back and drew together, exactly like a conference, heads lowered, muzzles
close. From time to time one raised his head to gaze at the moose. The moose pawed spurts of snow and did not look worried or reluctant . . . looked as if he would welcome an attack. I watched,
fascinated. This was an important observation. I knew the wolves had not eaten in days and wondered how much hunger was necessary to override caution. A great deal, apparently, for they rose
abruptly and trotted off, shoulders rising and falling in a rhythm uncannily like a human shrug in time of resignation. They crossed the snowfield and vanished from sight. The moose began to
peacefully strip bark from the trees. Charles snorted and went back down the ridge, wondering what I had seen worth seeing and I stood there for some time, watching the moose in the deepening
shadows. The sky had reddened, the tallest trees gathered the last light and darkness fell spreading over the ground. When I could no longer distinguish the moose I turned and started back down the
incline, picking my steps carefully. Not, however, carefully enough.
“And then the second disaster struck . . .”
Claymore winced slightly.
“The definitive disaster,” he said. “I had just settled my weight on my leg when something struck me just above the ankle. It didn’t hurt. I thought the limb of a tree
had somehow fallen on me and there was what seemed a great interval before I heard the solid clang of metal – seemed a great time lapse, although I was still suspended in the midst of falling
when the sound reached my brain and as I dropped into the snow I already knew what had happened – that I had stepped on the pan of a trap. I had fallen on my back, twisting the imprisoned
leg. I sat up, brushing snow from my arms in thoughtless habit, and leaned down to inspect the damage. I still felt no pain, no feeling at all, but the moment I saw the trap I knew I was severely
damaged.
“It was a huge trap made to hold a bear. The vicious jaws had sunk deeply into my leg – so deeply it seemed the toothed edges must nearly meet between torn calf and shattered shin. I
inspected it very calmly; found it was old and rusted and must have lain there for years, forgotten by some long departed trapper. I looked at it from every possible angle, tilting my head this way
and that, and then took the jaws in my hands and tried to open it. I could not budge it. I sat back, wondering what to do – I’d completely forgotten Charles and was undoubtedly in some
form of shock. But then he called from the shadows below, asking what had happened. I felt a sense of relief as I heard his voice and shouted to him. A moment later, in a spray of snow, he was
kneeling beside me.
“He winced as he saw the wound; bent over my leg and inspected the trap. His hands moved slowly at first but gradually his face darkened and he began to jerk and haul violently. His
efforts twisted my leg and the first tingling of pain advanced past my knee. I clamped my teeth shut and watched him without protest, with complete confidence in his experience and ability. But
then his face changed again, he cursed and squatted back. He looked sick. His forehead was glistening with sweat. He told me in slow, thoughtful tones that the release mechanism had become jammed
or broken during the long untended time and that he wasn’t able to open the jaws. He repeated the last several times . . . ‘Can’t open it, won’t open, can’t get it to
open . . .’ Then he cursed some more. I still felt no real panic. It seemed impossible that I was hopelessly trapped as long as I had a companion with me. I asked what we should do, quite
calmly, I believe. Charles didn’t answer. He wiped the back of his hand across his brow and leaned over the trap again, digging in the snow until he found the chain. He followed the chain,
lifting it from the snow foot by foot, like some clanking serpent with a frozen spine; found the end secured to a large tree, encircling the bole and fastened with a stout padlock. I watched as he
took the chain in both hands and hauled on it, bracing one boot against the tree and winding the links around his wrists. His shoulders heaved beneath his heavy mackinaw. Sounds came brittle on the
cold air. His heel scraped the bark, he grunted and snorted, the chain rattled. At last he gave up the effort and bent to the padlock, inspecting it carefully, turning it over in his hands. His
breath hung about his face like a halo. He straightened and rubbed the back of his neck, then came clumping back to where I sat. He moved behind me without a word and began fumbling with my pack;
eased it from my shoulders and laid it open, searching for a tool. But there was none. Whatever we had possessed which might have proved effective had been lost through the ice. Presently he
returned to the tree. He seemed to have difficulty crossing the deep snow and paused, breathing deeply, before drawing his hand axe. It was a short-handled affair, the blade flat backed, and he
struck the padlock several times with it. It clanked dull but distinct and did no good at all. From his posture, the way his shoulders sloped and his head hung, I got the impression he hadn’t
expected the blows to be effective – had tried them for mere formality. Once more he returned to me. He knelt, cleared the snow away and struck the spring and release mechanism several sharp
ringing blows. The axe rebounded and the lock refused to yield. Flakes of rust splintered from the steel and bright marks scored the metal but it would not break. Charles shook his head. The pain
was increasing now. He reversed the axe and attempted to use the handle as a prying bar, but could get no leverage between the tightly clamped teeth. After a moment he chopped the axe into the
earth in a gesture of frustration; grasped the jaws in his hands again and pulled. I leaned forward to help. Together we applied all our strength. But that trap was fashioned to hold a bear. We
could not budge it.
“‘It’s no use,’ he said.
“I looked searchingly at him.
“His face clouded with anger, he scowled at me. ‘Well? What do you expect? It’s no use, I tell you!’ He gestured at the trap. ‘The big brown bears can’t open
these, what can I do? Eh? What can I do? Sometimes when a bear is caught like this they escape. You know how this is, eh? They escape by gnawing their foot off. That’s how. The big bear chews
his own paw through, so what do you expect me to do?’ I said nothing. Gradually his anger lessened. He glanced towards the tree. ‘I might chop the tree down,’ he said, but even as
he spoke we both knew it was impossible. He had only the hand axe, the tree was large, even if it were possible it would take far too long. ‘Even then, you would still be trapped. I would
have to carry you, dragging the trap and chain. Or build a litter and haul you behind me. If one had a rifle, the spring could be shot apart, of course. But one does not have the rifle.’ He
looked sharply at me as he said this. Despite the growing pain, I felt indignant at this reproach; said, ‘That’s right. We haven’t the rifle. So what shall we do?’ He
didn’t answer for a while. Then he shrugged. ‘I will need tools. The hacksaw, the crowbar. Also the first aid kit. The spare first aid kit . . .’ He nodded to me, to himself.
‘Yes, that will be necessary, your leg must be treated before you can be moved.’
“‘But those things are at the cabin,’ I said.