In the Wolf's Mouth Read online

  IN THE

  WOLF’S

  MOUTH

  ADAM FOULDS

  Dedication

  To C.

  Epigraph

  There may be always a time of innocence.

  There is never a place.

  Wallace Stevens, The Auroras of Autumn

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue: The Shepherd 1926

  Part One: North Africa 1942

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  Part Two: Sicily

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  About the Author

  Praise for IN THE WOLF’S MOUTH

  By the same author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  The Shepherd

  1926

  He leaned forward, swung his shotgun carefully around from his back and raised it so that the stock rested firmly along his jawbone. His stubble rasped against the wood as he adjusted, setting the partridge floating on the two beads. Still there, panting in the heat. He fired. The bird was thrust sideways. It sat heavily, startled, like somebody suddenly shoved out of a chair. The blast rocked in echoes across the valley and knocked up into the air a crow that flew in wide evasive circles, crying out. Angilù thought of the other shepherds in the hills hearing the shot and wondering, frightened maybe. The partridge fluttered one wing as though thinking it might still fly away to safety, but while Angilù walked towards it the movement slowed to a feeble waving and by the time he reached it the bird was still, the clasp of its beak unfastened, its little black eye unblinking in the sun.

  He picked up the bird and carried it back up to the ridge where the wind hit him then down the other side to his hut, his tethered mule, the sheep scuttling over stones looking for fresh growth. He sat in the shade of the opening and plucked the bird, the soft beautiful feathers blowing about his feet. When its pimpled flesh was as bare as a naked woman he took his knife and slit below the keel bone then pulled out the wet handful of innards. Ready to cook. Excellent. The partridge was good luck. Otherwise it would have been more salty cheese and hard bread or snails if he could be bothered to collect them. Or wild herbs. There was a place near here where they grew. He could see it in his mind: the clear light, the slender plants shaking in the wind.

  He spatchcocked the bird, cracking open its small ribcage, and cooked it over a fire of quick-burning, sun-bleached stuff. He cut the meat and ate it from the side of his knife. He ate its delicate bones and sucked at the larger ones.

  Winter had been a warm time back in the village, among people, with the cold silver rain darkening the earth, feeding it. But it was good to be alone again, up out of all the clamour of talk and obligation, families and rivalries and wrongs. The other shepherds missed home but he was young still and without a wife. There was loneliness, of course, and when he was a boy he’d hated it, feeling himself a prisoner in the hills, expelled from normal life, frightened of the bandits and the business he had to do. Back then he’d arranged stones on the ground near one of the huts to form faces and he’d talked to them, long conversations. He didn’t do that any more but the place remained altered by it. There was a presence there, a charge in the air above the spot, a ghost of himself, perhaps.

  As the sun set he watched the shadows pour down behind the hills, filling the valley. Then there were stars. His mule faded into the darkness, the pale sheep also. But the wind was always awake, vibrating over the hard ridges.

  The following day, Gino drove his herd near enough in the east for Angilù to hear his singing rise up on the wind. Angilù put his hands to the side of his mouth and sang, ‘Who’s singing over there? Sounds like a sick dog.’ There was a pause, then Gino’s voice drifted back. ‘Who’s that singing up there? You sound like you’ve got toothache in every tooth.’

  For a while they sang insults.

  ‘You know nothing about singing. You’d better go and learn at school in Palermo.’

  ‘You don’t know how to sing. You need to go to school in Monreale.’

  ‘When you were born behind a door I thought you were a stillborn dog.’

  ‘When you were born in the middle of the street there was a terrible stink of shit.’

  They sang for a while then Gino was gone.

  The day after that at sunset Angilù saw his mule twitch its ears forwards and lift its head. He looked across the valley to see a man approaching on horseback, the horse’s big, jointed shadow moving over the stones in front of them as it snorted and laboured under a big man. One of the field guards. The Prince chose them for their size, in part, and how they would look in his livery. Angilù didn’t have to look; he knew which one it would be before he arrived. He sat still and waited.

  Finally, Angilù looked up at the huge silhouette of horse and man right in front of him, the sword hanging from the guard’s hip, the feathers on his hat bending in the wind. The horse shifted sideways a little, finding sockets for its hooves in the ground.

  ‘This evening,’ the guard said, ‘it would be better to let fate take its course.’

  Angilù nodded. ‘They’re making it hard for themselves,’ he said. ‘There’s no moon tonight.’

  ‘Why should you worry?’

  Angilù picked up a small pink pebble and rolled it in his palm. ‘Are they bringing or taking?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  Angilù didn’t say anything.

  The guard said. ‘They’re taking.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘You’ve got a lot of questions.’

  Angilù looked up at the horse’s solid flank as it stepped back a pace. He could feel the guard staring down at the top of his head. The guard was smoking a cigarette now, an expensive one, sweet and fragrant.

  ‘Let’s say,’ the guard said, ‘that if it didn’t happen the landlord wouldn’t be happy.’

  ‘I see,’ Angilù said and let the pebble drop onto the ground. ‘I see.’

  The guard took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his hair with his forearm. ‘You think too much up here. You worry. It’s all arranged anyway. You’ll be found in the morning.’

  ‘Holy Mother.’

  ‘It’s best for your reputation if they tie you.’

  ‘But why? They haven’t done that before. Why do they need to do that? Jesus Christ.’

  ‘What did I say about thinking? Maybe someone is worried that maybe somebody in the municipality is taking an interest. Things aren’t like they were. It’s best.’

  ‘Best,’ Angilù repeated.

  ‘That’s all,’ the guard said. He flicked down the butt of his cigarette. It landed on the ground in front of Angilù as light and precise in its sudden stillness as a cricket. Angilù wondered if the guard was watching to see if he would reach across and pick it up.

  The guard twisted his horse’s reins and rode away down the hill, the horse resisting the gradient at first with stiff, straightened front legs. It took a long time for him to cross the valley, ride up the opposite slope and finally sink down behind it.

  Darkness. The sky crowded on all sides with the countless bright stars of a moonless night. The wind sucked noisily at the fire. Angilù had nothing to do but wait.

  When he finally heard them approaching he stood up to meet them. Different footsteps around him but he couldn’t count how many of them there were. They spread out in different directions. Angilù saw in his mind spiders scattering from a lifted stone. They could see him perfectly clearly, as he intended, a man appearing in gusts of flame light as he stood by the fire. He wanted to show himself willing straightaway. The shape of one man approached directly and Angilù turned his back so as not to see the face, not to know. The man said nothing as he took hold of Angilù’s wrists and started tying them. He had the sweet, acrid aroma of red wine on his breath. They would all have had a good meal in somebody’s house in Sant’Attilio before travelling up. The man bent down to tie A
ngilù’s ankles then thought better of it.

  ‘Lie on your back and put your feet in the air.’

  Angilù did as he was told. As the man spent a minute fastening the rope around his legs, Angilù felt a surprising pleasure at the intimacy of the contact with this stranger. He felt cared for. It was the same careful, practical touch his mother had when she cut his hair.

  When he was tied the man turned and walked away.

  ‘Hey!’ Angilù shouted after him. ‘Hey! Put me in the hut!’ But the man didn’t turn back and Angilù had to crawl like a caterpillar past the heat of the fire to get into the safe darkness of his shelter. Beyond its walls he could hear shouting, the snapping of whips, the bleating and scrambling of sheep driven away in the dark.

  The men were busy for a while but eventually it was done and there was quiet, just the wind and the remaining sheep, spooked, rattling the stones. And suddenly his mule brayed into the emptiness, loud and angry. The dumb beast. He lay on his side so as not to lie on his hands and looked out at the diminishing flames and white ashes of the fire as they were torn away towards the stars. He relaxed slowly, slowly fell asleep past sudden painful jerks of his trussed legs.

  He awoke before dawn and stretched the cramps out of his legs and arms then lay still and watched the cold red spill of light across the hills. As the sun climbed he smelled the dew on the ground as it burned away, the vegetation of his hut as it heated. He was thirsty but he couldn’t think how to get the stopper from the skin of water without it emptying everywhere. Perhaps he could drink the whole thing. Also he wanted to piss, but what could he do? He flipped himself over and squirmed and kicked towards the waterskin. Then he twisted upright so that it was behind him and within reach of his hands. His fingertips found the stopper, grasped it and pulled. He moved it by millimetres, with great concentration. When finally it suddenly came loose he had to spin around on the floor as quickly as he could, push his lips up against the weight of spilling water and fix his mouth over the hole. He lay there like a suckling infant, swallowing away as his stomach expanded with the cool darkness of the water. He detached himself, the water flowing over his face again, and crawled away. His hair was wet now, coarse and heavy with dust. He made his way over to the doorway and sat upright waiting to be discovered.

  Angilù squinted out over the hills. No one. Nothing. He stared into the blue and pink distances and looked for figures. Nothing. The world was only just creeping awake. His mule quivered its flanks to shake off the first flies. Angilù really needed to pee now and there was no way to get his hands round to the front of his body. He could try lying back with his knife under him but surely someone would come soon. He kicked himself back into the shade of his hut, found a dry area the spilled water hadn’t soaked and lay still.

  He woke up with one image roaring in his mind – a stream exploding over a rock. There was no choice now. He wrestled his knife out of his belt, gripped it with the blade upright against the rope and lay back over it. He rocked from side to side, crushing his fingers, feeling the blade bite into the rope, its tip sting against his back. He pushed with his heels so all his weight came down on it, and when it was almost through he rolled onto his face and pulled his arms apart as hard as he could. After three exertions his arms flew apart and he used them to drag himself out of the hut. He fell on his side, pulled open his trousers and let himself go in a long, loud stream that rolled over the ground as thick as a sheet of glass.

  The sun was well past its highest point. They had forgotten him. Angilù shouted as loudly as he could, separating each syllable, ‘Motherfuckers!’

  He crawled back inside his wet, disordered hut and took the knife to cut the rope at his ankles. His arms were weak. His fingers trembled inaccurately. He saw that the dirt floor was churned, marked with the tracks of his struggle. He pushed the stopper back into the flaccid skin and picked it up. He collected his gun and left to ride his sombre, patient mule back to the estate to report the stolen sheep to the man who had ordered the theft.

  Climbing onto his mule, he felt a hot fluttering pain in the small of his back. He checked with his fingertips: fine wet lines where his knife had cut him. He kicked the beast forwards, patting its strong neck as it collected itself under his weight and lunged.

  Sant’Attilio appeared by stages, sliding behind slopes, emerging at other angles. From one ridge, Angilù saw the landlord’s separate house, close to the palace, its outer walls and olive trees. From another, the whole of Sant’Attilio was disclosed – cubes of flaking yellow and grey, red roofs, the white church tower, the empty stripe of the roadway, the palace large on its outskirts. Everything he knew was down there, every name, every person, every secret.

  He rode straight to the landlord’s house to do it quickly and get it over with. He got down from his mule at the gate and led it by the bridle between the hissing silver leaves of his beloved olive trees. He walked up to the front door and pulled the bell. He heard the sound of shaken brass pass through the house and frightened himself by imagining the landlord’s presence moving in response through the interior darkness and no way of knowing how close he was, shifting closer and closer. The door opened. The landlord, smoking, looked down at him from the step then out over the top of his head. A clean white shirt and braces. Angilù thought of the dust in his hair, the dirt on his clothes, his shirt plastered to the small of his back with stiff dried blood. Best for your reputation.

  Angilù began, ‘Sir, last night …’

  Cirò Albanese seemed bored. He raised a languid upturned palm and curled his fingers to summon the story he already knew out of Angilù.

  ‘Last night,’ Angilù began again. ‘Bandits. The sheep. They took most of my sheep.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘I don’t …’ Angilù didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t say, I didn’t count them because I thought they’d tell you. He said, ‘I didn’t count.’

  ‘You didn’t count.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Mother of God. All right. You go straight back up. Don’t talk to anyone in the village. You understand me? I’ll let the Prince know next time I see him.’ The landlord leaned backwards and closed the door.

  Angilù wanted to go and see his mother, to wash, to eat, to be comforted, to get a new saint for the string around his neck because he was worried that the one he had on was losing power. But he’d been told. He climbed back onto his mule and kicked its belly with his heels, kicked again and again until it bounced up into a trot and carried him up and away, the heavy pull of his unvisited home dragging at his back. It carried him up to many days of heat and silence, the noon sun pressing the colours flat to the ground, nights of stars and the sharp points of the returning moon. He drove the remaining sheep on with a whirling whip and they stumbled before him, nervous, thick-skulled, reeking. When he paused they stopped where they were, haggard, and stared down at their own shadows as if wanting to crawl into them. Angilù drove them on past his place of faces in the ground. He looked across and felt a surge of communication from them. He couldn’t say what it was they were telling him. The impulse was dark, opaque, but it was commanding. It felt as though they recognised him and what it was had something to do with his shame, trussed up and helpless, forgotten by the world. He should … what? He touched the weakening saint on his collarbone and said a prayer.

  Finally they reached a hollow full of prickly pears and the sheep hurried towards them, their tatty rumps swaying as they ran. This was now the far west of the estate, the dangerous edge. Bandits here were not the friends of friends. They would be stealing to sell or even eat. He would have to sleep lightly in the day and try to keep watch at night, his gun close at hand.

  He was up there for days before anything happened, more days than it would take for him to be seen and word to spread so he was past his fear when they came, having assumed that no one cared. He’d even started sleeping at night for hours at a time, a decision he made collecting snails one day. He detached their light bodies from a rock, dropped them into his bag, then lay down in the shade and drifted into sleep. When he awoke he found his little prisoners crawling out again in laborious escape. Their long grey feet fully extended, their tiny eyes circling on their stalks, they strived forwards as quickly as they could. He laughed as he picked them up again, unsuckering them from the stones, and kept on laughing, finding it hilarious, and that laughter rinsed right through him, made him careless and light-hearted. He laughed at the thought of himself up in the hills, picturing the top of his head from above as God might see it and whatever, fuck it, whatever would happen would happen. He wiped tears from his cheeks.