"There are no wolves in Lancashire," Riley told them, "not nowadays at any rate. Time was, Lancashire was full of wolves. The whole of England teemed with wolves. Wolves lived side by side with men, some say outnumbered them ten to one. But men did not care to share their country with wolves. They hunted them, traded their pelts, made hats out of their fur, necklaces and charms from their teeth. Until there came a time when the last wolf in England was tracked down and killed. And that---" Here the storyteller's eyes narrowed to slits, his voice dropped to almost a growl. "That happened right here in Lancashire. In fact..." The grizzled head rose. Eyes glinting golden in the firelight swept the spellbound circle. "In fact it happened over yonder---" He pointed into the darkness. Nine sets of eyes automatically turned although all knew nothing could be seen. "---in the forest surrounding the great hill you can see from the top of the causey-way. That was the last wolf," Riley concluded. "And his name was Farrer."
It was one of Simmon's earliest memories. He could not have been more than three or four at the time. It might well have been the first time he was awake at such an hour. Certainly it was the first time he had joined the campfire circle. He perched in his father's lap, absorbing the story as much by the rumble in Riley's ribcage as the words that fell from the lips above. It sowed the seed, a seed that took years to push through to the forefront of Simmon's mind. But it grew strong and well-rooted. Once apparent, the idea was impossible to dislodge. Simmon considered it before he went to sleep and he woke with it rattling in the void behind his eyes. He enacted it in his dreams; during the day he examined it more methodically, weighing the possibilities, scrutinising possible ways and means. In the end the concept became so huge, so detailed, so inspirational that the boy simply had to share it. And so, one day, ostensibly out of the blue, he announced to his father, "Dad, I want to be a wolf when I grow up."
Riley had a face like a rock ringed in grey moss. He rarely registered surprise, alarm or even happiness. Today he managed the first two simultaneously. He cocked his head to one side, glared at Simmon from under the dark canopy of his right eyebrow.
"What's that you say?"
"When I grow up, I want to be---"
Riley cut him short. "You can't. I told you, there are no wolves---"
"---in Lancashire. Yes, I know. That means I can be the first. Or the first of the new Lancashire wolves."
"What's put this foolishness in your head?"
The instinctive answer was It was you, obviously, but to Simmon's inner ear that sounded like cheek and Riley did not tolerate cheek. So he gave the question some thought. "I think it's always been there," he decided. "I can't remember when it wasn't. And if it's foolishness, why are so many of your stories about wolves?"
That was unexpected. Riley's jaw dropped, revealing large square teeth. "Them's just stories. This---" he indicated with a sweeping gesture the camp, the ragged perimeter of the Delph, the trees above and below, "this is here, this is now. Young lads nowadays don't grow up to be wolves. It's just not..." He seemed lost for words, recovered himself, and declared in tones that brooked no further discussion, "It's out of the question and there's an end to it!"
He turned as if to leave but stopped, stiffened, lifted his chin, and turned back. "You're sure it wasn't one of the others put you up to this? Coster – or that contrary bitch Phoebe?"
"I'm sure," Simmon said.
"Good lad," growled Riley. He placed his heavy palm on Simmon's head, tickled the scalp beneath the thatch, pressed the boy to his flank. "We'll keep this discussion between ourselves, eh lad? Family business, yes?"
"Yes, dad."
Simmon's people were travellers. They were not Roma, not Pavee, and indeed did not travel. Simmon had decided that others – the townsfolk – called his people travellers because that is what they wanted them to do. The law said that travellers were allowed sites and the townsfolk hereabout had granted Simmon's people the Delph to live on, provided they did not build houses and at least gave the impression they could set off on their travels at any time, preferably soon. The Delph was an ancient quarry on the easternmost edge of the town. Before the travellers came it was where townsfolk from the other side of the main road built lean-to garages in which to keep their cars. Further down the hillside – the southern slope – had once been allotments but in the gap between allotments being old-fashioned and then fashionable again the travellers had come and no townsfolk wanted to grow plants or indeed keep cars so near to people who, it was believed, were genetically obliged to steal them. Beyond the allotments was the fifteen-acre stretch of common land called the Platts, which was open to everyone, even the travellers, though woe betide if they tried to pitch camp there. At the foot of the hill was the railway line, with pedestrian level crossings at either end of the Platts, and at the far edge of the Platts was a line of dense woodland, mainly evergreen, behind which skulked the next town, which nobody really mentioned.
Because of the requirement to be always travel-ready Simmon's people lived in vans. Not caravans, because they were neither Roma nor Pavee, but proper vans, motor-vans such as Dormobiles and camionettes and old yellow GPO telephone vans. Bailey lived in the aluminium-sided camionette with his wife Phoebe and their twin sons Tawney and Bray. Coster had the GPO van, which was a small van, really an ordinary car with a box on the back, with Pallas and Tennan and little Petrey. The Dormobile was just for Simmon and his dad Riley, which didn't seem fair when you considered how many bodies Coster had to cram into the yellow box on the back of an old Ford car, but was nonetheless right and proper because Simmon's dad Riley was the leader, the senior member, the fount of all knowledge, loosely related to all, closely related to none. Coster and Bailey, for instance, were first cousins, their wives sisters. The four of them were always quarrelling over something or other, the children always fighting. Only Riley could smooth the waters with the grown-ups. Simmon, unwittingly, performed a similar role with the young ones. Instead of squaring up to one another, the junior Costers and Baileys came together as one to bully Simmon. He didn't mind, really. It was life as he had always known it.
What had become of Simmon's mother was never discussed. "She left" was the likely answer if ever the question arose, or the more enigmatic "She couldn't settle to our ways." Simmon drew his own conclusions. He decided his mother must have been very beautiful or else Riley would never have chosen her, and that she was the love of Riley's life because, obviously, he had not replaced her. The females remaining in the camp – Phoebe and Pallas and Pallas's daughter Tennan, who was virtually grown and was old enough to remember Simmon's mother – they had not approved. Simmon knew this from the occasional low comment as he passed, such as "bitch's whelp" and "bloody mongrel." To be fair, Tennan had not made either comment; she just stared at him from under her bushy black eyebrows. Simmon thought he would take Tennan as his other half when the time came. She wasn't bad looking, he told himself, in a dark, hairy sort of way. As he grew older and picked up hints about such things, he tried to imagine coupling with Tennan, but didn't let that put him off.
During the daytime – and most nights – the three men were out of camp, collecting scrap and, as they called it, "moving stuff on". One day Simmon knew he would join the communal trade. With him, three would become four, and it would remain four when Riley and Bailey and Coster passed, as they surely would, because the team would then be Simmon and Tawney and Bray and young Petrey. Naturally, Simmon saw himself as the camp leader, a status that would pass down to him from Riley and then on to any male offspring he might have with Tennan by means he preferred not to think about. That, he believed, was the way of the travelling folk.
Quite how all this tallied with his plan of becoming a wolf when he grew up was hard for him to fathom. He had hoped for Riley's guidance but that door had been firmly closed. Still, there was time, and time in his experience tended to unravel most mysteries. So Simmon spent his days keeping out of the way of the Costers and the Baileys if confined to camp and keeping out of the way of other boys, town boys, if allowed to wander further afield.
This last injunction came about because Simmon had once spoken to other boys, boys from the town he had encountered on the Platts one summery day when he was eight or nine years old. He had not spoken first; he had no interest in town boys. It was they who started it.
"Hey up, bollock face!"
Simmon looked around him. Saw no one else they could have been addressing.
"Yer – you!" the boy with the blue zipper jacket called out. "Come over here!"
They were standing on a wedge of hardstanding where the townsfolk had decided they needed a bench. These boys clearly didn't need a bench. They preferred to stand with their hands in their pockets and sniffing a lot. Being a well-brought up youngster, Simmon joined them.
"What's your name then?" the blue boy asked.
Simmon told him. "Simmon."
Blue Boy made an unpleasant face. "That's not a name. You mean Simon."
"No..."
"Happen he's Yorkshire," the other boy joined in, the boy with ginger fuzz instead of hair. "They pronounce it Simmon in Yorkshire."
"Are you Yorkshire then, Simmon?"
"What's Yorkshire?" Simmon asked.
The blue boy laughed so hard he had to take his hands out of his pockets to knock the snot drop from the end of his nose.
"What's Yorkshire? Did you hear that, Cookie? Bollock face here dun't know what Yorkshire is!"
Fuzz-head Cookie wasn't laughing. "I don't reckon he is Yorkshire, Smig. I reckon he's one o' that Delph lot. I reckon he's a gyppo."
Gyppo was a term Simmon was familiar with. Riley had warned him once, "Don't let anyone call you a gyppo, son. It's not a nice word and it's not the proper word and anyroad---"
"I'm not a gyppo," Simmon said. "Gyppo's not a nice word, not proper."
"Pikey then," Cookie sneered. "Raggetty-arsed bollock-faced thieving bloody pikey!" He sniggered. His friend bared his teeth and hooted. Simmon felt his face redden. He felt the bones of his spine flex, his hips brace. Hot blood pounded in his head---
---and the next thing he knew he was in bed in the Dormobile with all the curtains drawn even though it was nowhere near nightfall. And through the steel sides of the van he could hear his father and the others telling whoppers to the police. "Haven't seen him for days, officer." "Don't live here anymore, does he?" And, "His bitch of a mother took him with her when she ran off."
And when eventually Simmon was allowed out in the daylight once more it was on the strict proviso that he had nothing whatsoever to do with other boys. If he saw town boys coming he must run the other way. Hide if need be. Shout for help if he must. Under no circumstances, no matter what other boys said about travellers or Simmon's personal appearance or behaviour, was he to square up to them. "You understand me, boy?" Riley demanded. "Yes, dad," Simmon murmured. And he meant it, safe in the knowledge that he wouldn't be a boy for ever and if, when he was grown and head man in the camp, any outsider called him gyppo or pikey he would tear his bloody ears off.
He still ventured onto the Platts but only when other youngsters were in school, getting their heads filled with what Riley called 'nonsense stuff'. On such days the majority of local adults were either working or shopping. Sometimes there were very thin and very ragged men and women found on the Platts, drinking or sticking needles in themselves. Sometimes there were venturesome older folk taking dogs for walks. On the whole Simmon preferred the drunks and the needle-stickers. At least they didn't bark their heads off and try to yank their walkers off their feet when they caught wind of Simmon.
It was at this period that he took to visiting the woods that lay between his town and the next. He liked the shade in summer and the shelter in winter. He tried to distinguish between the trees, between the tall silvery ones and the ones with trunks so thick he could barely get his arms around them. Some, he noticed, shed their leaves in winter, others didn't. He would have liked to discuss this with Riley, who would surely know the tree names, but he held back, fearful that if Riley knew what Simmon was up to he would put a stop to it. Yet there came a day when he simply had to tell Riley what he had come across in the woods on the far side of the Platts.
"Dad..."
"Aye?"
"I saw a wolf. In the woods. You know, across the Platts."
"What the---?" Riley was incredulous. "You're making it up!"
"I'm not."
"How many times do I have to bloody tell you, lad? There are no---"
"There are now, dad. Well, one anyroad. I seen him."
In fact he had spoken to him – the wolf – though that was something he didn't feel the need to share with his father. Perhaps if the wolf had replied...
Slowly, repeatedly, he explained what had happened. It was less than an hour ago and, this being a fine autumn afternoon, there was plenty of light to see by, even in the darkest part of the wood. Simmon had sensed he had company. This pleased him. He often came across squirrels and other such creatures. He had become such a regular feature of the woods himself that the small woodland animals no longer bolted at his approach. This, though, was different. Simmon immediately formed the impression that something was watching him which did not itself wish to be seen. He caught a scent, a thick yeasty smell like Bailey after a hard day on the scrap, with overtones of leaf mould. He heard it breathe; short, sharp panting breaths like a dog wanting water. He was sure this wasn't a dog, he told Riley, because dogs always went mad in Simmon's presence. "I wasn't feared," he told Riley, "and I'm sure he wasn't neither. We were both ... I dunno ... curious, I suppose." So Simmon had taken a step in the direction of the breathing. Just one step, then pause and wait, not wanting to scare the other off. Another step – same procedure – then another. Then the other stepped out suddenly from behind a scratty bush with red twigs and yellow leaves.
It was a wolf right enough. Simmon saw it in its entirety, all in the same instant. He saw the silvered pelt, like frost on a fallen treetrunk, the line of darker, denser fur running down the back and between the ears. He saw the eyes – how could he not, given they were virtually level with his own? He thought they were blue but might have been misled by the shadows of the treetops. What he could not mistake was the frankness with which it looked at him. No fear, no threat – this was equal regarding equal. And they were very much equal, in length and height at least, the wolf being evidently much heavier than Simmon. They stood with their faces perhaps three feet apart. Simmon could happily have stayed there all day and night. The wolf seemed in no hurry to leave. Then Simmon went and spoiled the moment. He had to ask. He asked the wolf, "Is your name Farrer?" Stupid, stupid question! Of course he wasn't Farrer. Farrer was dead long since. What this wolf was, though, was the first wolf in Lancashire since the death of Farrer. And he, Simmon, had found him. Wolf and boy left at once, in opposite directions, the wolf deeper into the woods, Simmon legging it across the Platts burning with the news---
--- that Riley seemed loath to hear. "It was a dog," the old man insisted. "It had to be."
"It wasn't a dog," Simmon said. "I know dogs."
"You can't know all dogs. There's hundreds and hundreds of different breeds. This dog was obviously one you hadn't come across before."
"I hadn't come across a wolf before," Simmon said, "till I looked this one in the eye just now."
This troubled Riley. "In the eye, you say?" Simmon nodded enthusiastically. Riley said, "Bugger," with no enthusiasm whatsoever. He strode into the middle of the camp and called "Bailey! Coster!" And when they stuck grizzled heads out of their respective vans Riley told them, "Get your coats. Looks like we've got visitors."
It dawned on Simmon that he was not invited to join the menfolk. This struck him as unfair. It was he who had encountered the newcomer, after all. He knew exactly where the encounter had taken place. But Riley told him, "You're not coming with us, lad. I'm leaving you in charge here. You hear that?" This was to the females, tending sulkily to their men. "The lad's authority is same as mine. You cheek him and you and me will have a falling out."
With that Riley strode out of the Delph, the cousins scampering to catch up. The women and the young ones drifted back to their vans, but not before Pallas growled at Simmon: "You're not boss o' me, mongrel brat, and never will be." Simmon said nothing. He had always been afraid of Coster's woman, ever since he had accidentally seen her chewing on a skinned rabbitty thing that seemed to him to be still alive. He had told his father, who pronounced it 'careless' on Pallas's part, but took matters no further. Simmon hoped that Tennan had not inherited her mother's carelessness – or her sharp tongue. He cast a glance at Tennan now, sitting across the campfire from him with a look of dull resentment in her eyes and her mouth hanging open. The last was certainly careless but the lolling pink tongue was definitely not sharp.
After perhaps half an hour Tennan decided she had had enough of sitting and gawping and joined her mother in the back of the GPO van. With nothing specific to focus his mind on, Simmon let himself begin to wonder. He wondered if Riley and the others had found the wolf in the woods yet. Only if the wolf wants to be found, he decided, and the thought made him chuckle. "What you laughing at?" a harsh female voice demanded. It could have been either Pallas or her sister Phoebe. Both had voices like cracked plates. He was careful now to hold his silence. His imagination, though, he let run. He pictured Riley and the wolf sat opposite one another across a campfire not dissimilar to the one that was reddening his cheeks here in the Delph. He imagined them talking, discussing serious matters. Words or wolfish, he wondered? In his head it didn't seem to matter. Bailey and Coster kept trying to chip in, which disturbed the wolf and riled Riley. Simmon pictured Riley turning on the surly brothers-in-law. The wolf, meanwhile, backed away from the fire – not retreating, more withdrawing. The firelight caught the curve of his eyeballs, which glittered like starshine in a midnight pond. So many stars glimmering ... No, Simmon realised, so many eyes. The wolf was not alone. He too had brought supporters. They were lurking under the trees, waiting their chance to---
He snapped awake. Riley stomped past him, knee barging Simmon's shoulder. Riley was not content. "Bloody fools!" he groused. "We could have made an arrangement, no unpleasantness necessary. But, oh no---" Behind him, Coster whinged: "They were taking the what's-it, Row. They allus meant to take us on." Behind Coster, Bailey had a hand pressed flat to his left ear. Simmon sniffed blood, then saw it, running down Bailey's arm in its torn sleeve. He was about to ask "What happened?" but the look in Bailey's eye made him change the question to "How is it my fault? I wasn't even there!"
Phoebe was at Bailey's side now, wanting to look at his wound. "It's not so bad," she told him. "And it's not like it could spoil your looks." Simmon thought that harsh but true. "Now what?" Pallas planted herself directly in front of Riley, made herself immovable, unavoidable. "We tried it your way," she sneered, "and look what happened."
"It weren't Riley's fault," Coster said.
"Whose fault was it then?" Pallas snapped back. "He's the leader, isn't he?"
In truth, Simmon thought, Riley didn't look much of a leader right now. His head was down, his shoulders loose. The old man rallied himself with a shudder. "You want a fight, is that it, Pallas?" He spat the question. She did not flinch. Thus the decision was made. "Fair enough," Riley declared. "Get the young ones. We'll need them all."
Simmon naturally assumed all included him. He scrambled to his feet, only to be told---
"Not you, lad."
"But ... dad!"
"I said---"
"I'm same age as Tawney and Bray, more or less, and older than Petrey. More important than that, I'm your son!"
"Aye," Riley sighed. "But you take after your mother. I'm sorry for it, but..."
Phoebe finished the sentence for him, gloating: "You're not up to the job, crossbred brat. You've not got it in you."
Simmon was furious, appalled, betrayed. He kicked out at Phoebe. Missed. "See what I mean?" she jeered.
Simmon reeled, trying to find Riley in the darkness, but Riley was gone. They were all gone, even the young ones. He was alone, abandoned. He felt like releasing his hurt in a long anguished yell. He considered retreating to the Dormobile and locking the door. He considered running off in the opposite direction, into town. After all, if he didn't belong here... if he wasn't wanted... Instead he grabbed a handful of earth and ash from the hearth, rubbed it into his face and hair, and set off after the others.
He didn't take the direct route from the Delph to the Platts. Instead he went down into the old allotments and cut across the slope. He might make up time that way and wouldn't run straight into the others if they paused for some reason. He took the path known as Causey-foot and came out onto the rim of one of the great grass bowls that had rendered the Platts unsuitable for development. Above, to the north, he heard an odd, thrumming sound. He crouched down, waited, breathless---
---and watched as the wolf pack broke across the line where night sky and tall grass met. White, they were, in the moonlight, white fringed with silver. His heart leapt at the sight. He very nearly stood and cheered. It wasn't thought that held him back. From the instant he saw them he had not a thought in his head. He now operated on a level beneath thought. Instinct, adrenaline, passion, it could have been any or all of these. His body moved of its own volition. He saw his feet pounding, his arms bent, jabbing the air. He chased helter-skelter after the pack, truly oblivious.
The pack was heading for the woods. Of course they were. They were fleeing from Riley and the others. Simmon felt a twinge of disappointment. He had always assumed wolves were staunch – courageous in an animal sort of a way. He slowed slightly. Then the other wolf pack broke from the cover of the trees. He saw the great silver wolf, the dominant male, charging into the fray. Recognised the blueness about his eyes. There were two full packs of wolves in Lancashire! It was incredible. Stupefying ... The boy fell to his knees, overwhelmed.
The packs met head-on. Teeth sought necks. The two dominant males fastened on one another, the smaller females snapping at the heels of their enemies. Smaller still, a couple of cubs ran round in circles, yapping encouragement. Blood flew – Simmon could not tell from which side of the battle. He saw a male overturned, other males pounce on the exposed belly. A female lost an eye to an opponent's dew-claw; she fought on one-eyed, fuelled by a delirium of death. One of the pack leaders had managed to get the other's muzzle in his jaws. He bit with all his force. The other howled – almost a shriek. He broke free, jack-knifed his entire body, and bolted into the trees. The others backed away from one another, growling, snarling, hissing. The battle was over. The pack from the woods had been bested. Simmon lurched to his feet and staggered toward the battleground---
---as the victorious leader rocked back on his hind legs, which straightened with a loud crack, rose upright, the bones of his spine twisting and locking, stretched his neck, expanded his shoulders, turned to face the oncoming boy.
"You had to come, didn't you, Simmon? You just bloody had to."
"Dad...?"
On the periphery of his vision the others were standing, straightening. It was not a transformation – he could not begin to rationalise what he was seeing – it was more a different way of being what they always were. He saw Bailey with his damaged ear – a wolf's ear with a bite ripped out of it. He saw Tennan missing an eye but showing no reaction to the loss. She was naked, they all were. They didn't need clothes because they were hairy, incredibly so below the waist. Do wolves have waists, he wondered. Do these ... whatever they are ... have tails? He could not bring himself to look. Instead he asked, "How do you do that? How do you turn yourselves into---"
Riley sighed. "We don't turn ourselves into anything, lad. We are what we are. Wolves who over the centuries have learned how to pass for men." Adding, before Phoebe or Pallas could take offence, "And women ... after a fashion."
"Why haven't you shown me?" Simmon whined. "Especially after I told you---"
Riley could not look him in the eye. His massive shoulders, Simmon noticed, were shaking. He did not think it was the night air. Someone, Coster or Bailey, called out to him, not in a particularly hostile tone: "It's your mother, Simmon. She just wasn't one of us."
Simmon kept his hot gaze fixed on his father. "So what does that make me?"
Again, one of the others had to answer for Riley. It was Phoebe, creeping forward. "It makes you a mongrel. It makes you a problem." Pallas followed her sister. "You'll have to deal with him now, Riley. Can't put it off no longer." Now the sisters together, in unison, arms linked, drooling glee: "He'll blab. It's in his nature."
Riley reeled. "I – I – I..." The single sound, over and over, like a sob.
Coster stepped forward, seemingly bigger and stronger than before. "Leave it with us, old feller. You go start the vans. Time we moved on, eh?"
Thus, in a matter of moments, authority passed. Riley lowered his great head in submission, shambled off into the night without a word or a backward glance. Coster bore down on Simmon. "Don't make a fuss, lad. I'll do it quick as I can. There's no ill will---"
Pallas chipped in, couldn't help herself. She bared her teeth and jeered. "Not like when we did for your bitch of a---"
---and with that Simmon found himself adrift in a blood-red fog. His muscles tensed, bulked, threatened to burst. His hamstrings contracted, forcing him into a crouch. He heard something tear. Clothes, skin, tendon? He didn't know and he didn't care. His jaw cracked. His head shot forward. Every bone in his face ached. He relished the pain, revelled in the sound and sensation of transformation. He put all his strength – so much strength suddenly – into his legs. Threw his arms out to his sides, elbows angled in. Spread his fingers – spread them so much further than he thought possible. Curled his finger ends. Snarled. And pounced.
By dawn there really were no wolves left in Lancashire. And no trace that there had been wolves at any point since the death of Farrer, five hundred years before. The rain took care of the blood – this was Lancashire, after all – but what became of the bodies and the body-parts was a mystery. Perhaps the wolves from the woods came and removed them, disposing of them in whatever ways wolves do, before leaving the district forever. Wolves are organised animals and organised animals dispose of their dead rather than put ideas in the heads of more feral predators.
Soon word spread that the travellers had left the Delph. Enquiries and experimental forays showed that this was not quite the case. One remained, a young one, a relatively civilised one, who had taken up residence in a rusty old van dating back to the time when, unbelievably, the General Post Office had dealt in telephones. The emboldened spoke to him and received polite replies. The others had gone – gone for good – but he had chosen to remain, which was considered a favourable sign by the townsfolk. He was not one of the Roma or Pavee or whatever those travellers had been. He was just a loner, an eccentric, a bit of a character.
Soon the cars returned to the Delph. The allotments were dug over and rented out to aspirant urban farmers. The allotment holders and the motorists paid Simmon a small wage to look after their property. He made an excellent watchdog. Miscreants were chased off, sometimes given a beating, which was fine with the law-abiding. Younger trespassers tended to get a toothy grin and a warning: "Watch out now, young 'un. I bite, you know." A warning from Simmon came to be regarded as a rite of passage for the boys of the town.
And meantime Simmon kept himself to himself and waited. There had to be others like him, he reasoned, somewhere in the world if not in Lancashire. Sooner or later, he never doubted, they would be in touch.