Wolves of the Beyond: Shadow Wolf
Read Wolves of the Beyond: Shadow Wolf Online
Authors: Kathryn Lasky
WOLVES OF THE BEYOND
SHADOW WOLF
SCHOLASTIC PRESS / NEW YORK
For Mary Alice Kier and Anna Cottle—
The Fengos of my Watch
K.L.
IT WAS THE SMELL OF GRASS—
late summer grass, clover water, and bitterroot with a faint trace of ash. The vivid scents flowed through Faolan like a river, stirring lost memories.
This is my pack, the Pack of the Eastern Scree. This is my clan, the clan of the MacDuncans
. Each smell seemed to reassure Faolan that at last he was home.
A pack wolf’s scent varied slightly depending upon the season or what the wolf had eaten. But beneath these small differences was an elemental scent, the essence of them all. In his sleep, Faolan was wrapped safe and secure in a blanket of these familiar and longed-for smells. He was bound tight by the scent of the clan.
And yet Faolan was not in a pack den surrounded by the warm, moist breathing of slumbering wolves. He was
alone. As a gnaw wolf, he was banished to sleep on the edges of the pack’s territory. He must find whatever shelter he could. The rest of the pack had divided itself between two roomy dens they had excavated the previous summer on the Crooked Back Ridge, far from Faolan. But their scent lingered.
Faolan quivered. There were tiny cracks in his sleep through which horrors darker than this moonless night slid. The blackness suddenly was scored with flames.
Wake up! Wake up!
he shouted in his dream. But this was no dream; it was a memory. Even though he was asleep, Faolan could feel half a dozen packs from several clans hard on him, determined to run him into flames all because of his splayed paw. He could feel the heat of the flames as he leaped the wall of fire and jumped for the sun. Faolan thumped his paw on the ground he had dug for a den, and it was the noise and the small rain of dirt sifting down from the roof that finally woke him.
He rose up as far as he could in the tight confines of the hole. It was only in the darkest of the dark, on nights when the moon disappeared, that these terrors found their form. At those times, wolves seldom howled and it seemed to Faolan that the silence left spaces through which fear could slip.
He sniffed the air. There was not a trace of smoke or fire, only the lovely redolence of the pack’s scent wafting through the dark.
My nose tells me I am home, I belong, this is my kin, my clan, and yet…
There was an ache deep inside Faolan that no scent could touch.
THERE WAS A TIME IN EARLY
autumn when the moon cut the night like the thin curve of a caribou antler. It was at this time that the herds began to move south, first the cows with their calves and then the males. The wolves would track the beginnings of this great migration to seek out any old females or weak youngsters, but the hunting code of the clans forbade the killing of healthy calves. And the real hunting did not begin until the males came.
On this morning as the sun broke on the horizon, a howl curled into the air. It was the summoning howl of Greer, the she-wolf
skreeleen
of the MacDuncan River Pack. But it was not for caribou, it was for moose. The tracks of a bull moose had been discovered near the river. Scouts had been sent out to find the trail, and while
they were gone, a
byrrgis
, the hunting formation, was gathering.
Bull moose could be unpredictable and, despite their staggering bulk, quite nimble. Therefore, it required a good-size
byrrgis
to bring them down. It was dangerous work, especially at this time of year, the moose mating season. Even Faolan’s second milk mother, a grizzly bear, gave moose a wide margin during the time of the Caribou Moon. Faolan tried to keep calm as the packs gathered and waited for the scouts’ return. He could hear the din of the
gaddergludder
, the pack rally that preceded the hunt of big game like moose. He felt a rush deep in his chest and pawed the ground.
This was his chance at last, he thought. He would hunt with the pack and he would get it right. There were so many rules and customs. The wolves had special words for so many things—pack words, clan words—and Faolan had been a packless, clanless wolf for the first year of his life. Because of his strangely splayed paw, he had been declared at birth a
malcadh
, a cursed pup. According to the rigid codes that governed the wolf clans of the Beyond, all
malcadhs
were cast out, taken by the Obea of a clan to be left to die or be devoured by other predators. The parents of the
malcadh
were also banished from the clan’s
territory and forbidden ever to mate with each other again. In this way, the bloodlines of the packs were kept healthy. In the very rare event a
malcadh
survived, he could return to the clan but only as a gnaw wolf, the lowest-ranking wolf of all.
Faolan had not died. He had been saved, rescued from the river by a grizzly bear, Thunderheart. For almost a year that he and the grizzly, his second Milk Giver, had stayed together. Then at the end of winter, she had died in the earthquake. Through the spring and most of the summer, Faolan had lived as a lone wolf. But less than a moon cycle ago, driven by loneliness, he had returned to the wolves. “Returned”—an odd word, for he had never lived long enough with the wolves to truly belong. And now, every minute of every day, he was reminded of that fact. Even the young pups in the pack constantly made fun of him. “Say ‘caribou,’ Faolan!” they would demand. Then when he said it, they yipped gleefully. “Sounds like a bear! Doesn’t he?” They could tease him all they wanted because he was a gnaw wolf.
Lord Bhreac, leader of the Eastern Scree Pack, was approaching with his lieutenants. Quickly, Faolan tried to assume the posture of submission that was required whenever a pack member approached, particularly
high-ranking wolves such as the pack lord. Before his belly had touched the ground, Faolan felt a sharp blow to his flank.
Not quick enough
, he thought.
It was Flint, a lieutenant, who had hit him and sent him sprawling. Flint was now coming back for a muzzle grab, one of the most humiliating and painful chops that could be delivered to a gnaw wolf.
“Don’t waste your energy, Flint,” Bhreac barked. “Let him be. You need your strength for the
byrrgis
.”
What about me?
Faolan thought.
Don’t I need my strength as well?
He consoled himself with the thought that he would no longer be invisible when they saw him run in the
byrrgis
.
Bhreac paused and turned to look back at Faolan to make sure that he was following with his tail tucked between his legs in the slouching posture of a low-ranking wolf. “And remember. The bones will be big so we’ll see how well you have learned your gnawing!”
Yes, the gnawing, but what about hunting?
Faolan wondered. He could do so much more than simply gnaw a bone from which higher-ranking wolves had already stripped the meat. They would see what he could do on this
byrrgis
. They would see him run. The females of the pack were said to be the fastest runners, faster than males.
But they’re not as fast as I am
, Faolan thought. And what
wolf could walk on its hind legs? Thunderheart had taught him to do that. They hadn’t seen it yet. Faolan wasn’t sure if this peculiar talent would be necessary in a
byrrgis
, but if so—well, that would stop the other wolves in their tracks!
It was a fact that gnaw wolves were objects of general abuse. Marked by deformity, they became living symbols of the threat of bad blood, and it was as if the clan was somehow cleansing itself of taint through maltreatment of the gnaw wolves. Much was required of these gnaw wolves beyond serving as scapegoats. They were expected to learn to gnaw bones with a proficiency and delicacy that no ordinary wolf could match, keeping the chronicles of the wolf packs and clans of the Beyond on the bones they carved.
As he was being led away by Lord Bhreac, Faolan caught sight of a she-wolf full-bellied with pup.
“She’s rather late in the season to be with a pup, is she not, Flint?” commented Bhreac.
“Indeed. And so often those wolves who carry late give birth too early. Let’s hope she doesn’t go
by-lang
with fear that it’s a cursed one.”
Faolan lagged a bit behind and turned to look at the
she-wolf. There was a nervous light in her eyes, and he saw another she-wolf with two pups diverge from her path to give the expectant mother a wide margin. One of the pups started to veer back, but his mother gave him a sharp cuff and growled, “Get away from her!”
Faolan’s heart went out to the she-wolf. He hoped she hadn’t heard, but he could tell from the way her head drooped that she had. It would be a wonder if she did not go
by-lang
.
A cursed one, they called the unborn pup,
Faolan thought.
As I was. As I am! A
malcadh. Had his first Milk Giver gone
by-lang
? Had she run off into the deep away to keep him safe from the laws of the clan?