Wolf Boy(Darrell Case) They were coming for him again, just like the last time and the time before that. Unaware they were trailing him, he led them to his place of refuge. With seconds to spare, he escaped from the dugout and hid in the undergrowth, watching them. They radioed the others.

Two of them stood on the hill, their eyes searching the surrounding bushes. The others would be here soon. They climbed down into his dugout. He could hear them tearing his home apart, smashing his table and chair. His bed. Tears came to his eyes, listening to the clunking. Then silence. His deer hide bed cover flew through the opening, landing a few feet from the trapdoor. Followed by his deer hide pants and jacket.

They emerged from his hideout. Safely away, one man threw in a lit flare. Smoke billowed from the opening. It soon died down. This home, his only home for the last year gone. The hide that kept him warm at night. Gone.

The murmur of their voices drifted to him. One said something, they laughed. The tall one pulled an item from his backpack. Dynamite. Lighting the fuse, he tossed the stick of dynamite into the entrance to the wolf boy’s home. Hurriedly, they backed off. Seconds later, dirt and debris flew several feet in the air. Tears moistened the boy’s eyes. All that work, the hours of digging, of shoring up, of being so exhausted he couldn’t sleep. The exhilaration of closing out the world. Gone.

He had come to this place a year ago after the winter storms. While building his home, he slept in the woods by day, working on it at night. By the end of the third week, it was ready, or at least he thought it was. He slept in the dugout that first night. At midnight the rain came. What started out as a drip from the roof soon became a torrent. The rain soaked everything and left puddles on the floor.

In the downpour, he built a lean-to. Chopping the lower branches from surrounding fir trees that were mostly dry. Stripping, he covered himself with soft pine needles. The sun woke him the next morning. Overhead, the birds scolded him. He smiled. “Good morning to you, too.” He said, his voice cracking from misuse. He worked around the camp unclothed while his pants and shirt dried.

Later in the day, he repaired the roof on the dugout. He shored the wall with small logs and built a trap door. Several nights later, it rained again. This time, the roof didn’t leak. Now his den was gone. He would start over in some other place.

The sound of the explosion echoed against the distant hills. When the smoke cleared, all it left was a hole in his heart. There was a mixture of loneliness and relief. He had no more attachment to this place. He was free. He could go anywhere. He felt like a dog let loose from his tether. If he survived, he could build another.

Curiously, he crept away to his chosen place in the dense forest. The trees were small enough to be concealed, yet with several escape routes. These men were hunters. They knew how to track game. Yet he was smarter than a deer or bear. He looked at the sky. Rain was coming. Lightning flickered in the west. Dark clouds edged the moon. He glanced at his only light. “Oh, please, not now, not now.” He pleaded, to no avail.

He could hide, but if they found him, the end would be swift. Would it be murder? He lived, but no one knew. No one cared. No one loved him. That was ok. He didn’t need anyone. He had made coverings from the skin of the deer. The pants and shirt with the fur inside kept him warm on the coldest days. Now they, along with his deer skin bed cover, were another’s. But he could make more.

The rain started peppering the dark woods. The moon hid its face behind angry clouds. Most days the night was his friend. Not now. Not tonight. The darkness was his enemy. With night vision, they could spot him. He ate the last of the jerky. There had been more in his den. Gone. Along with the rest of his belongings. He stared into the shadows. Sensing movement to his left, he froze. He waited; his eyes glued to the spot. Lightning flashed. A coon. He watched the animal creep crossed the clearing. The racoon knew what it was to be hunted. He closed his eyes for an instant. Something woke him. The rain had stopped.

The trees closed in on him. The moonlight filtering through the leaves, making it hard to see. He regained his feet. Exhausted, he bent over, his breath coming hard. His heart pounding, he listened. Blood rushed through his veins, roaring in his ears. Cold sweat poured off him in rivers. Terror shot through him. Down the path behind him, limbs cracked, they swept aside brushes.

A bullet sailed over his head, slamming into a tree, ripping a jagged hole in the bark. He ran charging through the night, stumbling, bumbling. What else could he do? If they caught him, they would kill him.

His feet pounded the ground. They were behind him. If he hesitated, they would have him. Before him, the river roared. It fell 50 feet into a small pool at the bottom. Jagged rocks edged it. Only a fool would dive here. Tonight, he was that fool.

Stepping to the edge of a cliff, he watched the water rushing below him. He quieted his breathing. Listening. They had reached where he had been seconds before. The night rumbled with the low tone of their speech. Soon they would figure out his direction. He had a minute, maybe two, before they came. Not enough time to climb down the steep cliff. He heard brush breaking. They would be on him in seconds. He had one chance and one chance only. Running at them, he caught a glance of their startled faces.

“There he is.” One of them yelled. He brought the rifle. Spinning, the Wolf Boy headed for the edge of the cliff. If he hesitated, if he lost his courage, they would kill him. In the next few seconds, he would live or die. He had to clear the jagged rocks and small trees far below on the bank of the river. He leaped. In midair, he felt like a bird in flight. A bright light flashed on his face. Bullets droned past him like a swarm of angry bees. He closed his eyes. If he was going to crash on the rocks, he didn’t want to know. He prayed death would be instantaneousness.

Then he was gone, plummeting into the river. The light chased him down. The water of the river was cold enough to take his breath away. Diving deep Bullets showered around him, searching for a target. Finding none. He touched the bottom, forcing himself to stay under. He let the current carry him away. Kicking his feet propelled him faster. His lungs bursting, he broke the surface, took a quick breath, and dove again to the bottom of the icy river. Catching a glance of his head, they fired. Unhurt, he pushed away from this threat of death. His lungs on fire, he came to the surface.

Out of range, he floated, letting the current carry him along. Cold, miserable, alone, he sobbed. Wolf boy, that’s what they called him. Maybe he was. No mother, no father. One who hunted alone. Someone different from them.

Coming to shore two miles from where he dove in, he stripped, wrang out his pants and shirt. He wished for his deerskin coat, but it was long gone. He could hide, but they would find him. So, he ran. His moccasins helplessly soaked. He put them on to protect him from stones and sticks. Each step took him further and further from the hunters. But there would be others. There were always others who would hunt for the wolf boy. 

---