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Ronald put the shovel aside. He leaned down and scratched the puppy’s head. It wriggled with joy and continued trying to climb his leg.

Ronald took the leash from Angel and unclipped it from the dog’s collar.

‘You want to come with me?’ he said to the dog.

He began walking toward his home. Without looking back at Angel, the dog followed, leaping to keep up with the long strides of its master.

‘Thank you,’ said Ronald Straydeer.

Louis got back in the car. Angel joined him.

‘Told you he’d keep the dog,’ said Louis.

‘Yeah. I think you’re getting soft in your old age.’

‘That may be.’

He reversed down Ronald’s drive.

‘How come we never got a dog?’ said Angel.

‘I don’t need a dog,’ said Louis. ‘I got you.’

‘Right,’ said Angel.

He thought about it for a moment.

‘Hey …’

Isat on the bench by the lake, my daughter by my side. We did not speak.

On an outcrop of land to the east stood a wolf. It watched us as we watched it.

A shadow fell across the bench, and I saw my dead wife reflected in the water. She touched my shoulder, and I felt the warmth of her.

‘It’s time,’ she said. ‘You must decide.’

I heard the sound of a car approaching. I glanced over my shoulder. Parked on the road was a white 1960 Ford Falcon. I had seen pictures of it. It was the first car that my father and mother ever owned outright. A man sat in the driver’s seat, a woman beside him. I could not see their faces, but I knew who they were. I wanted to talk to them. I wanted to tell them that I was sorry. I wanted to say what every child wishes to say to his parents when they are gone and it is too late to say anything at alclass="underline" that I loved them, and had always loved them.

‘Can I talk to them?’ I asked.

‘Only if you go with them,’ said my dead wife. ‘Only if you choose to take the Long Ride.’

I saw the heads of the people in the car turn toward me. I still could not see their faces.

No more pain, I thought. No more pain.

From the hills beyond the lake arose a great howling. I saw the wolf raise its muzzle to the clear blue sky in response to the summoning, and the clamor from the hills grew louder and more joyous, but still it did not move. Its eyes were fixed on me.

No more pain. Let it end.

My daughter reached out and took my hand. She pressed something cold into it. I opened my fingers and saw a dark stone on my palm, smooth on one side, damaged on the other.

My daughter.

But I had another.

‘If you take the Long Ride, I’ll go with you,’ she said. ‘But if you stay, then I’ll stay with you too.’

I stared at the car, trying to see the faces behind the glass. I slowly shook my head. The heads turned from me, and the car pulled away. I watched it until it was gone. When I looked back at the lake, the wolf was still there. It gazed at me for a moment longer, then slipped into the trees, yipping and howling as it went, and the pack called out its welcome.

The stone felt heavy in my hand. It wanted to be thrown. When it was, this world would shatter, and another would take its place. Already I could feel a series of burnings as my wounds began to sing. My dead wife’s hand remained on my shoulder, but its touch was growing colder. She whispered something in my ear – a name, a warning – but I was already struggling to remember it once the final word was spoken. Her reflection in the water began to dim as mine started to come into focus beside it. I tried to hold on tighter to my daughter’s hand.

‘Just a little while longer,’ I said. ‘Just—’

Acknowledgments

First of all, the Family of Love did exist, and much of their history as recounted in this book is true. Whether they ever made it to the New World, I cannot say, but I am grateful to Joseph W. Martin’s Religious Radicals in Tudor England (Hambledon Continuum, 1989) for increasing my small store of knowledge of them. The history of the foliate heads on churches is also true, and The Green Man in Britain by Fran and Geoff Doel (The History Press, 2010), The Green Man by Kathleen Basford (D.S. Brewer, 1998) and A Little Book of the Green Man by Mike Harding (Aurum Press, 1998) proved highly illuminating, and slightly disturbing.

The Oxford Street Shelter, the Portland Help Center, Skip Murphy’s Sober House, and Amistad are all real agencies that provide critically important services to the homeless and the mentally ill in the Portland area. Thanks very much to Karen Murphy and Peter Driscoll of Amistad. Sonia Garcia of Spurwink, and Joe Riley of Skip Murphy’s for permission to mention these organizations by name. If you would like to donate to any of them, or receive more information about their services, you may do so here:

Amistad

www.amistadine.com

PO Box 992

Portland, ME 04101

Oxford Street Shelter

City of Portland

207–761-2072

The Portland Help Center, a Spurwink agency

www.spurwink.org

899 Riverside Street

Portland, ME 04103

Skip Murphy’s Sober Living

www.skipmurphys.com/soberhouse

PO Box 8117

Portland, ME 04104

My thanks, as always, go to Sue Fletcher, Swati Gamble, Kerry Hood, Lucy Hale, Auriol Bishop and all at Hodder & Stoughton; Breda Purdue, Ruth Shern, Siobhan Tierney and all at Hachette Ireland; Emily Bestler, Judith Curr, Megan Reid, David Brown, Louise Burke and the staff at Atria/Emily Bestler Books and Pocket Books; and my agent Darley Anderson and his wonderful team. Clair Lamb and Madeira James do sterling work looking after websites and much, much more. Jennie Ridyard has now become my fellow author as well as my other half in life, but continues to show remarkable forbearance with me, as do our sons, Cameron and Alistair. To you, the reader, thank you for continuing to read these odd little books. Without you, there really wouldn’t be much point to all this.

And hello to Jason Isaacs.

Table of Contents

THE WOLF IN WINTER

Also by John Connolly

Title Page

Dedication

Permissions

I HUNTING

II TRAPPING

III KILLING

IV RETURNING