Chapter Text
“Run this by me again.” Wilson said with a scroll of papyrus propped up on his knee and a pen. “You have… a curse?”
Woodie was more focused on the crackling fire in front of him. “Yes.”
“That turns you into… a beaver?”
“Yeah.”
“At the full moon?” Wilson looked up for good measure; there was a waxing gibbous that filled the night sky. It was close to being full.
“Yes. But also if I chop too many tees down too quickly.” Woodie sighed and gestured vaguely around him. “It seems this place gave me this curse.”
“So, you didn’t have this ‘curse’ before coming here?”
“No, sir.”
Wilson rubbed at his stubbly chin as he stared down intensely at his notes. “That’s strange. I haven’t heard anything like that before. Willow and I are fine, so…?”
Woodie glanced at Willow, who was asleep at the edge of the fire in a grass roll, hugging Bernie to her chest. He then turned back to Wilson and shrugged.
“And not to mention… your axe.”
Woodie’s eyes shifted to Lucy, who was propped up next to Woodie on a log by the fire he had dragged over. “Yeah.”
Wilson gave his own sigh. “Well, Woodie. I’m really sorry, There’s nothing much we can do about it now except wait it out. I could try to maybe find a cure, but I’m not sure if I’m even able to do that. But you have Willow and I now, so you should be okay when you turn back.”
“I suppose we won’t run out of firewood when I’m chopping all the trees in the vicinity, eh?” Woodie laughed a little, trying to lighten the mood with a joke. However, in the back of his mind, his previous transformation loomed; he was sure he would have died if Wilson and Willow hadn’t found him.
It got a small chuckle out of Wilson, but that was about all.
Wilson asked Woodie a few more questions, but the conversation quickly stalled. Wilson, having finished for the night, stretched and stood up. He put his notes away in Chester, who followed Wilson to the fire and sat in his lap. Wilson gave Chester an absentminded scratch behind his horns as Woodie fiddled nervously with Lucy.
Woodie was the one to finally break the silence. “So, bud, where’d you learn all this medicine, eh? It’s coming in awfully handy.”
Wilson’s face was somewhat hard to read, but he grew somewhat uncomfortable; he shifted in his spot as much as he dared now that Chester was sleeping on his leg. “Oh, you know. I went to school for it, and for other sciences.” He fell silent as he stared off into space, into the looming darkness that stretched out into nothing. “However, I got most of my hands on experience during The Great War.”
That made Woodie stop. He set Lucy down, his attention now on Wilson. “You served in The Great War?”
Wilson gave a small, slight nod. “Yeah.” he said. “As a medic for the United States.” He paused. “I don’t like talking about it much.”
Woodie’s face fell almost immediately. “Sorry.” He said. “Didn’t realize how sensitive it was for you.”
“That’s alright, it’s not a big deal.” Wilson replied. “I was excited to go and went willingly, but bit off more than I could chew.” Another pause. “I’m not sure if sitting on the Nightmare Throne was worse than that.” He visibly shivered; even the ends of his spiky hair seemed to shake.
Another lapse with Wilson no longer shuddering.
Woodie was ready to burst.
Finally, it came out.
“I was almost drafted to fight in that war.”
Wilson blinked in surprise. His rhythmic petting of Chester stopped. “What?”
“See, I lived in Newfoundland before The Constant.” Woodie explained. “We’re a British colony; we went to war when the United Kingdom did, all the way back in 1914.”
“I remember that.” Wilson said. “It was all over the news.”
“However… that’s all I really knew. I lived in a logging camp on and off for a few years, working as a logger… until 1915.”
Wilson reached for a log with his free hand and threw it into the fire. “...What happened?”
Woodie spared another glance at Willow. Even with their talking, she hadn’t moved in her grass roll. Burnie’s fur seemed to glow faintly in the light of the fire. Woodie turned back to Wilson. “You really want to know, eh?”
***
It was a few weeks after the first snowfall just south of St. John’s, Newfoundland. The sun was long gone, covering the camp in a layer of darkness. It was not too unlike the night, years in the future, that Woodie would be telling this tale to Wilson.
Woodie now, a few years younger, was tired, soaked, and sore. He stared into his own fire at the centre of the sleeping quarters, surrounded by dozens of shivering and sleeping men.
However, he is not alone.
Woodie stretched; the sound of his shoulders cracking was nearly deafening in the quiet night. “So, Lucille.” He said. His voice was light, but there were some playful undertones. “How’s your chance, eh?”
Lucille rolled her eyes. She threw a small stick into the fire. “Very funny, Woodie.” She said. “They’re shit and you know it.”
Lucille, known as Lucas around these parts, was one of Woodie’s closest friends. He was the only one that knew her secret; logging camps didn’t hire women. But here she was, bundled up in layers of clothing and a recent crew cut, hauling logs with the others.
It was none of his business.
She huffed. “Half the time they’re just goofing off, and trying to get them to work together is a nightmare .”
Whatever playful attitude Woodie felt slowly trickled out, and guilt replaced it. He was a few years her senior; he had higher chances.
“And I don’t know why you guys just don’t call them plots of land. It’s weird, trying to pass it off as a ‘game’.” Lucy pointed out.
Woodie just shrugged, trying to shake off that guilt. “Sometimes you just need something to entertain yourself.”
“I suppose.”
“Besides, you’ll move up in a few years. Maybe even join my chance.” He suggested.
“Maybe.” Lucille said. She seemed somewhat distracted.
“What are you going to do in January, after the cuttin’ phase is done, eh?” Woodie asked, trying to change the subject. Part of him dreaded the answer. He already knew what she was going to say.
Lucille sighed as she hugged her knees closer to her chest. “Oh, I don’t know, Woodie.” She paused. “I know they’re not going to want me back.”
And there it was. It still hit Woodie like a sack of bricks. “You don’t have anything to go back to at home?” He tried.
Lucille gave a half hearted shrug. “Not really. Not what I like, at least.” She grew quiet. “What I do know is… I don’t want to be involved in that war.”
Woodie let out a long breath. “So, you’ve heard about that, eh?”
“Unfortunately, yes. It’s a bit hard to ignore it.” Lucille looked around to the other sleeping men, her eyes wide. None seemed to stir at her conversation with Woodie. She leaned in closer for good measure. “I’ve heard rumours some of the less experienced loggers are going to jump ship if a recruiter comes here. Fighting for the country and all.” She absentmindedly rubbed at her face, a nervous tick of hers. “Pressuring others to do the same.”
That got Woodie’s attention. He sat up more, whatever tiredness he felt gone. “You’re tellin’ me they’re trying to get you to enlist?”
“Yeah.” Lucille gave Woodie a cynical smile; the light reflected in her eyes in a way that made Woodie squirm on the inside. “And you know how well that’ll go when they realize I’m not a man.”
Woodie ran a hand down his face. “Shit.” He said.
“Even if a recruiter doesn’t come here, I go home, and no one finds out… I just don’t want to be a bluebird.” She shook her head. “I’d rather be doing dirty jobs here than caring for the sick, injured, and dying.”
“Still thinkin’ about what happened to Michael, eh?”
Lucille looked away from the fire. It was hard to tell in the low light, but her face still looked ashen. “It’s played over in my mind all day.”
Woodie remembered, too. He had to help carry poor Michael back to camp with a few other men; they had to practically drag him in the snow because his legs had given out. He howled and cried out in pain, blood gushing from where his fingers had one been on his hand. They were now gone.
By the time Woodie found Lucille after that fiasco, also covered in blood, she had fainted.
“I just can’t , Woodie.” She near begged. “I can’t do it.”
Woodie thought. He thought hard. He was so quiet Lucille had to poke him to make sure he hadn’t fallen asleep sitting up.
“I think I have an idea.” Woodie said. “It might be stupid, but I have an idea.”
***
“You put your job on the line, one that was incredibly difficult, one that you had worked hard to rise through the ranks as a full time logger…. To run away? ”
Woodie shrugged. “Yeah.” He said, then added. “Are you goin’ let me finish my story?”
***
This was the most Woodie had stolen, ever, in his life.
He waited on the outskirts of the camp anxiously, sitting on a horse while he held another by the reins. He made two makeshift saddles out of his and Lucille’s old blankets; in a way, they no longer needed them. It wasn’t the best, but would make do.
It was snowing. This was a good sign. He eyed his tracks on the ground; hopefully come morning they’d be covered up.
His hands threatened to go numb.
Maybe this was a bad idea.
It hurt to breathe.
Maybe he could slip back into his cot before anyone notices. Return the horses, give them some extra food for their troubles, never speak of this again--
“Woodie!” Lucille whisper-hissed as she hooked her bag on the back of the horse. She pulled herself onto it and swung her leg over as quickly as quietly as she dared. Her head was covered by a large, furred hood. “Are you ready to go or not?”
Woodie snapped out of his daze. He gave the reins to Lucille, his hand brushing hers; his hands itched for her warmth. “Y-yeah, don’t worry about me.” He said. He checked his own bag. It had some money, a change of clothes, food, a lantern, and a stolen axe.
“I’ll lead the way.” Woodie said. “Stay behind me.”
Lucille didn’t argue with that; even in the dark, Woodie still knew these parts decently well. She just gave a slight nod and held onto the reins as tightly as she could.
Woodie spared one last glance at the logging camp, at warmth, at light, at a safe place to stay the night. He then turned around and snapped the reins, leading the horse away as quietly as he could.
He held his breath. A few seconds passed. Thirty. A full minute. Woodie could still hear Lucille’s breathing and her set of footsteps behind him. No one was coming for them.
He sped up, attempting to stick to the already worn dirt path that lead to the logging camp. The full moon loomed overhead, giving some light.
It wasn’t enough.
The cold wind battered his face and made his eyes water. He still heard Lucille behind him; neither dared to speak.
He sped up.
Trees, littered with stumps, dotted the landscape, shrouded in darkness.
The next part happened in a blur.
Woodie slowed down to try to light the lantern he brought; he thought he was far enough away from the camp he could get away with it. The light was blinding, searing into his eyes.
Before he could call for Lucille, asking if she was okay, floating eyes appeared in the darkness, reflecting in the light. A large wolf followed those eyes. Woodie sucked in a painful breath as his horse saw the eyes, too. It let out a whinny and bucked back, sending Woodie and his things sprawling back in the snow.
He had the breath knocked out of him, and his clothes instantly soaked from the fall. As soon as the lantern hit the ground, the snow snuffed the light.
Lucille screamed out his name, but it felt far away.
His horse let out a terrified whinny and sped off into the night, leaving Woodie behind. Lucille’s horse sped off after it, ignoring Lucille’s screams and begging. The wolf let out a bone-chilling howl and chased after them until the darkness swallowed them whole. More wolves followed, more than he had ever seen in his life.
Woodie was alone.
***
“I have no idea how I actually got here, bud. One minute, I was trudgin’ through snow, ready to pass out… and then I woke up here. With Lucy.” Woodie put a hand on Lucy’s handle.
Curiosity and confusion bubbled up inside Wilson. “You’re saying… you never actually took Maxwell’s Door to The Constant?” The name felt like acid on his tongue. “Or at least… don’t remember?” He barely remembered his entrance to The Constant, himself. How could there be another way into The Constant?
Woodie shrugged. “Dunno. Could be possible. I don’t know why there’d be a random door in the middle of Newfoundland’s wilderness. They’re not exactly natural objects back home, eh?”
“I wonder, however you got here, if that gave you your curse? Which is why you only have it?”
“Maybe.”
Wilson gave an annoyed huff. “This isn’t getting us anywhere, is it?”
“No, sir.”
“I guess we can keep an eye out for anything if we come across another Door.” Wilson suggested, but didn’t know how helpful that would be.
Woodie just shrugged.
“Either way,” Woodie continued, changing the subject, “looking back on it now, tryin’ to flee was… not the smartest idea.” He said. “I’d hate to think if anything bad happened to Lucille.” The wolf’s fangs in the light of his lantern were burned into his mind.
Wilson’s gaze flicked from Woodie, to Lucy, and back again. He blinked, seemingly confused. Woodie looked completely serious. You know she’s probably your axe, right? Is that even possible ? Wilson thought, but didn’t dare utter out loud. However…
“Maybe it wasn’t the best idea at the time,” Wilson started, “but I think you did luck out.”
Woodie blinked. “What?”
“I didn’t hear about this until I got back from the war.” Wilson said. “But there was a small volunteer regiment sent from Newfoundland to France in 1916.” He paused. The next words were heavy. “...Most of them were killed.” Another pause. “I’m sorry.”
It was hard reading Woodie’s face. It went from shock, to anguish, to cold acceptance. Something seemed to lift from his shoulders, but he still seemed weighed down. “...Thanks.” Woodie said, staring down at his hands in his lap. “For letting me know.”
“You’re welcome.”
More silence followed. Wilson busied himself with trying to push Chester off his lap as gently as possible without waking him up. He went over to his other chest and pulled out his own grass roll. Woodie mulled over his thoughts in silence.
Was it better being in The Constant? Wilson wasn’t so sure.
“...I’m going to sleep.” Wilson finally said, trying to ignore his runaway thoughts. “Are you…?”
“Nah, you sleep.” Woodie said, waving Wilson off. “I’ll keep watch for the night.
“Besides, I’d like to enjoy the night one last time.”