Sleepy Fox Hollow nothing

@Anselm

River’s mind was blank, emptied of thought and emotion. Her attention was lost – somewhere inward, buried, absent in her eyes. More machine than wolf, she descended towards the hollow with all the brain activity of a newborn: blind, deaf, and dumb.

Nothing was familiar, and nothing mattered.

She stopped suddenly, nose twitching against the frigid wind. Something stirred in her gaze as she turned her head in the direction of the nearby border.

Mahler.

The marl wolf felt the earth shift beneath her. Her vision realigned, bringing a clarity to the surroundings that had not previously existed. This was the last place she had seen him, and it still smelled of him – his scent was recent and strong. River was frozen on the spot as her inner cogs clicked and whirred to life. She was unable to make a decision – to either move on or seek him out – and it was impossible to tell how long she stood there, waiting for the answer to come to her.

Anselm followed his nose. His nose was a poor leader; it brought him across the marshes towards the border, where he was convinced he was stalking the scent of a pine marten. (He wasn't).

He didn't see River, perfectly disguised in robes of tawny earth and riverbed sand. He was so absorbed in his poor performance that he waltzed right by the transfixed wolf, nose to the ground and tail wagging uncontrollably.

Though the boy didn’t see River, she certainly saw him. She remained as a statue, tracking his movements with her eyes until she was sure he would finally notice her…

But he walked right on by.

A more cognizant River would have been offended, her head forced back in utter bewilderment. It would have been an ultimate affront to her vanity. He was lucky that he reminded her of someone; her thoughts turned to her own sons, who would have been just a little older than him by now.

She swallowed the hard lump in her throat. Hey, you, she said in a bid for his attention. Is Mahler around?

River was very beautiful and Anselm would have been the first to say so -- but the Tachyon was strong in this boy, who came by his oblivious nature honestly. Being very concentrated on the matter of hand (for pine martens were of great danger to their caches), Anselm sailed right on by until a Hey you burst from the bush.

Anselm yipped in surprise and whirled, eyes wide as he turned where the sound had come from. He saw plain as day a wolf staring back at him, which burned him with shame. The hard glint of tungsten in her gaze set him on edge. If she hadn't spoken of Mahler, Anselm might have turned and run. His fur was bladed into precipitous edges and his heart hammered deafeningly in his ears. Maybe. Who is asking? He thought of what Mahler or Wylla might do in this moment. Certainly they would not stand there terrified like a startled doe.

With a yip and a twist, the startled boy turned to face her – his youthfully tousled coat transforming into the readied tines of a porcupine. River slow-blinked and gave him the long, unfeeling gaze of a grizzled parking lot attendant.



Name’s River. Me and Mahler go way back. She reclined, perhaps in the hopes of easing his clear and present suffering. I don’t need to see him. Just tell me: is he doing okay?

Anselm realized this woman was different than the other strangers he'd met. He wrongly assumed everyone out there was nice - after all, that's what his experience had been so far. Everyone tried to help him. But this lady...

She seemed cold. Cold the way he thought the stream could be when he fell into it. He could not bring himself to meet that parking-lot-attendant scowl, because it rivaled Wylla's and --

Wait a minute.

His eyes narrowed. What did she mean she and Mahler went way back? A breath of his mother's territoriality woke in him, but not about land. Were you his girlfriend? He blurted, feeling that possessiveness of his father coil around him. He forgot she'd asked him if Mahler was okay, but he wouldn't have answered anyway since she was now trying to usurp his mother's place in his own got-dang home.

River had the wherewithal not to look surprised by the question. She looked him up and down, studying the grey of his coat and the warm, melting amber of his perturbed stare. Clear in her memory despite the long-passing of time, she remembered the pregnant cyclops, and she wondered.

No, she answered, as much as the ghost of her former self would have loved to mess with him. But if I had been Mahler’s girlfriend, my mother probably would have torn off his dick as a dowry. A faint smirk softened one corner of her mouth. Sorry, no sordid history here. He’s just my uncle.

Anselm pinned River with his very best Wylla-stare. It did not amount to much, on account he was not a jaded creature by nature and he had twice the amount of eyeballs his mother did. It turned out, the measure of ‘menacing’ increased twofold with the absence of a single eye. 

Either way, his shoulders didn’t tense for long - especially not as he realized River was a relative and not some random side-ho of his father’s. He wasn’t even phased by the mention of his dad’s genitalia in that context - in his opinion, it was validly deserved. Oh. He breathed through his nose, dissipating the last of his tension. I’m his son! You don’t look like you’d be his niece. Read: you’re a lot prettier than ole Mahler. Do you want me to call for him?

The adolescent-near-manhood attempted to dole out his most weighted stare, and River was not polite enough to pretend that it was working on her. She stared back at him, almost amused, waiting for the eventual exhale and loosening of his stance. It did not take long.

Mahler’s son. Interesting.

Well, unfortunately, I’m not his niece by blood. He and my father were brothers by choice. And Mahler helped raised me when my father died. She shook her head when offered to see the old man. No, let him be. I just like to know he’s still around. Besides, he’s ancient. I’d never forgive myself if that old wolf slipped and broke a hip on his way to see me. I’ll run into him sometime.

Her tail wagged a little to show her pseudo-cousin a bit of goodwill. So what’s your name, son of Mahler?

Relative, not relative - Anselm's mind did the equivalent of mental gymnastics as he went from suspected girlfriend, to cousin, to.. not cousin, but family friend? It was all much for Anslem, who so far in his life had only seen Mahler as a relatively reclusive man. Mahler had friends? How come Anselm had never heard of them?

The concept of his father having a life -- particularly before the existence of his own -- caused a stir of unrest in the boy.

I'm Anselm. He responded, counting backwards. He is not old!! He is seven. And he said -- Suddenly Anselm fell quiet with a frown, realizing now that four was a much smaller number than seven, and oh...

Anselm, to his credit, was righteously protective over his father’s status as an old timer, despite being a bit dense about it. River’s silverlight eyes twinkled with a knowing smirk as she scrutinized the boy’s crunched up expression. She found it amusing to see him realize in real time that his father had “been around the block” more than a few times. Tilting her head after he had fallen silent in thought, she harassed him further. Well, what did he say? Her voice was deadpan. I hope you won’t be too surprised when he starts needing you to chew his food up for him soon.

This barbing did not sit well with Anselm. He enjoyed River less now -- particularly since she'd managed to somehow broach his only sore topic.

He exhaled through his nose in a huff. A glint of Wylla's proud stare reflected in his yellow eyes, which now set upon River in distrust. He said if he was lucky, he'd have another four. Anselm was not a boy to lie, so he answered forwardly.

But just because he was not a liar did not mean he was kind. Why are you poking at my papa? Are you jealous yours isn't still around? This was a total guess on Anselm's part, a stab in the dark intended to thrust the barbs back in River's splintery court.

His banter fell way after time, for River was too skilled a wordsmith to counter for long. Sensing his resources depleted, Anselm skulked to the heart of Paleo and nursed his verbal wounds.