Wolves of the Beyond: Shadow Wolf (11 page)

THE SARK THOUGHT SHE HAD LIVED
so long that nothing would astonish her, but now she was staggering in her own den with disbelief. She had experienced two astounding revelations in one day. The first was the murder of the
malcadh
, and the second was the appearance in her own den of Faolan’s mother! She connected the scent of the she-wolf almost immediately to the amazing wolf who had jumped the wall of fire. Morag and her second mate had come from the MacDonegal clan far to the northwest.

Only a wolf with the Sark’s exceptional powers of scent detection would have decoded the odors that linked Morag with her long-lost son. It was impossible—at least the Sark believed it to be impossible—that Faolan’s mother would remember the scent of a son born two
years ago. Yet Morag seemed nervous and kept sniffing the place where Faolan had curled up.

“A lot of wolves come to you?” Morag asked, a tinge of suspicion in her voice.

“A few.”

“Do you think you might help her?” Brangwen asked.

“It’s hard to tell. Come over here to the other side of the fire, dear.” The Sark wanted to get Morag away from Faolan’s spot. Her paws shook as she rolled the compresses of borage and shredded birch bark. “Now, I am making you up some compresses that need to soak in the river before you apply them. You can make them yourself when these are finished. Just borage and shredded birch bark. If there isn’t any borage about, use mosses. You needn’t even soak them if you use the mosses.” Her voice was shaking. She hoped they wouldn’t notice, but of course they had never visited before and might think this was her normal way of speaking.

“And if it doesn’t work?” Brangwen pressed.

What am I supposed to say to that?
she thought.
If it doesn’t work, she goes blind. She won’t be able to hunt. She’ll become a burden to her pack, her clan. Their share of the meat will diminish
. It was obvious to the Sark that this she-wolf had been a great hunter. Probably a great
outflanker. She had massive shoulders and powerful back legs. Now, because of her failing eyesight, every step she took was tentative. She seemed even more feeble than she actually was. It was odd with wolves that went blind. They could be perfectly healthy in every other respect, but when their vision began to go, they were forced to engage with their surroundings in an entirely new way. They moved much more slowly, more cautiously. As the world around them faded, they began to withdraw. Their very muscles seemed to contract, and the wolves receded into themselves, occupying an inner landscape until only a brittle shell was left of the wolf that had once existed. It was a kind of living death, a retreat of the body and a contraction of the spirit.

“If it doesn’t work—” The Sark sighed. “These are questions I cannot answer. But if it doesn’t work, perhaps you should consider joining the MacNamara clan. As you have probably heard, they are very tolerant of females who have served well but have become old before their time.”

“But that is so far,” Brangwen said.

Morag remained silent. She did not stir. It was as if she were already far away.

The Sark watched as Morag and Brangwen wound down the narrow, twisting path that led away from her camp. She shoved more moose patties into her kiln and then went back into the cave for the memory jug that contained the scraps of her recollections of Faolan—from the first time she saw the splayed paw print that led to his jump for the sun to his most recent visit. She pressed her muzzle into the throat of the jug and began to whisper.

“On this day, the last of the winter moons, there came to my den the she-wolf Morag, mother of Faolan the
malcadh
, mate now of Brangwen and member of the MacDonegal clan. I fear she might have picked up a trace of her son’s scent. She is a strong wolf, deep of chest, with powerful haunches. I would guess an outflanker, but her days of running the
byrrgis
are over. She suffers from the milk-eye disease and, I fear, will soon be blind. May Lupus watch over her until she climbs the star ladder.”

The Sark walked from her den and looked up, scanning the sky for Gwynneth.

FAOLAN HAD LOST TRACK OF THE
number of trips and the number of bones he had retrieved from the ridge. And yet he was as frustrated as ever. He simply did not understand how the little pup could have met such an unconscionable death. Until things became clearer, Faolan was hesitant to build the
drumlyn
he had planned for the she-pup. He did not want to disturb the bones further by gnawing through that white squall of marks to tell the short story of the pup who died dreamless on the ridge. So each time he found a bone, he dutifully took it to be buried in Thunderheart’s paw. As long as they were within those clawtips, he felt the grizzly would keep them safe.

Shortly after Faolan left the ridge, two other animals of the Beyond began to comb the slope just below the
tummfraw
. Gwynneth hovered annoyingly close above the Sark as the wolf sniffed the rocky terrain.

“Would you give me a bit of space here?! There’s hardly enough air for us to breathe, let alone for me to pick up a scent,” the Sark snapped.

“Sorry!” Gwynneth replied.

“Remember what I told you. You’ve got the eyes. I’ve got the sniffer. You should be flying well above me, trying to spot bones in the runoffs down this slope. I’ll try to pick up a scent.”

“Yes, of course,” Gwynneth said. The Sark knew, however, that Gwynneth couldn’t resist hovering and would be back shortly. But the Sark herself was stymied. She felt as if she were trapped in a web of scents. It had been easy to pick up the
malcadh
’s scent. After all, the pup’s mother had been in the Sark’s den for two days and three nights. Faolan had arrived soon after the mother, and he, too, bore the scent of a live pup. But mingled with those three base scents of the pup, the mother, and Faolan were other odors, similar yet distinct, that seemed hopelessly entangled. A moose had passed this way, as had a cougar. But another wolfish scent was buried beneath all that. Possibly from the MacDuncan clan, but then again, it might have been a MacDuff wolf. As to which pack in which clan—that would be even harder to determine
after all these moons. And finally, overlaying all these odors was the fresher scent of Faolan, who had visited this
tummfraw
many times. Curious! All the scents were layered in a vaguely chronological order and yet at the same time scrambled in a manner that made no sense to the Sark. The one thing she knew for certain was that, when Faolan had arrived at her cave, he had borne with him the odor of a live pup, and it was while Faolan was still at the cave that Gwynneth had witnessed the brutal attack. By the time she had landed, the pup was dead and the wolf had vanished.

“I’ve got something! I’ve got something!” Gwynneth swooped down with a tiny rib in her talons. She dropped it in front of the Sark’s paws.

The Sark bent down and nudged it gently with her muzzle. “What you have here, my dear Gwynneth, is the bone of a very young pup, perhaps two days old.”

“Yes, the pup. The
malcadh
!”

“Really, you exceed yourself. Indeed, these surpass my own minor achievements. Although your thinking is not what one would call radiant, you can on occasion be a reflection of light.” The Sark peered into Gwynneth’s jet-black eyes. Masked Owls were among the few species that had black eyes as opposed to yellow or amber-colored ones.

Gwynneth was beginning to feel that this conversation was becoming less than complimentary. She was right. The Sark was slightly miffed that Gwynneth had come up with the first clear evidence of the victim.

“Some creatures,” the Sark continued, “although not brilliant themselves, have a remarkable capacity for simulating it.” When the Sark became miffed, she could become rather intellectually pompous.

“Am I supposed to thank you for telling me that I am not so bright?” Gwynneth replied in even tones.

The Sark was instantly taken aback. “I’m sorry.” Her bad eye began to skitter. “I was unkind. You have brought me a good bone. And look at these marks—an unintelligible blizzard that speaks only of violence and murder and supports what you heard.
Why
we must ask ourselves. Perhaps that is a more important question than this confounding tangle of scents.” The Sark peered down at the bone. “By method of exclusion, we can eliminate Faolan. He was with me in the cave at the time of the murder. So he could not be the culprit. We do know it is a wolf, for you, with your excellent auditory skills, heard the panting. These teeth marks support that it was a wolf and they cut deeply, deeper than a fox’s teeth yet not with the distinctive slashing of a cougar. The scent marks are too scrambled for me to figure out much. So far”—she began
to scratch some lines on the ground—“I can detect five different wolf scents.”

“Five!” Gwynneth found this staggering.

“Yes, five. Some are direct lay-downs, as I call them. Others are indirect, or what we might term remote, scents picked up by association with one of the main players. The pup, of course, is a direct lay-down, as is the Obea’s scent, as well as Faolan’s. But mixed in with these three is at least one other, possibly two. One is a direct lay-down, presumably from the murderer, but the other is indirect, I am fairly sure. The problem is that these two other scents are hopelessly intertwined.”

“So you can’t sort out which is the murderer’s and which is not.”

“Exactly.”

“One could be an accomplice,” Gwynneth offered.

“True! True.” New light twinkled in the Sark’s good eye.

Please don’t call me a conductor of light!
Gwynneth thought.

“I must give the notion of an accomplice, perhaps a remote accomplice, more thought,” said the Sark.

MOST OF THE BEYOND WAS BARREN.
Ice-pruned over thousands of years, the land grew few true forests. The soil, poor and thin, could not support much vegetation. But to the south, near the borders of the Hoolian kingdoms, there were vast expanses of grasslands. It was true, Faolan thought, the grass did sing as the dry southeast wind blew through it. But the singing grass was lost now in the barking and howling of the
gaddergludder
in anticipation of the Gaddergnaw Games. All the packs of all the clans, even if they did not have a gnaw wolf, attended the
gaddergnaw
. There were festivities, howling by the
skreeleens
, lively and sometimes acrimonious debates on various finer points of the
gaddernock
. And this all happened before the competitions even started. The most dramatic moment of the
gaddergnaw
,
almost more exciting in many ways than the announcement of the games winner who would go on to serve in the Watch, was the arrival of the Fengo and the
taigas
from the Ring of Sacred Volcanoes.

Faolan and the Whistler had just been trotting over to the bone piles to select their bones for the first event, when Mhairie stepped out from behind one of the mounds.

“There are some awfully good femurs over there in that stack.” She nodded toward a mound that was not nearly as high as the others. “I know the pile looks picked over, but it hasn’t been.” Neither Faolan nor the Whistler nor any of the other gnaw wolves could get used to the new deference and respect shown to them by the other wolves. But it was only temporary. Once the games finished, it was life as usual for the gnaw wolves not selected. Faolan simply could not imagine going on forever as a gnaw wolf. But he had no way of gauging his chances. He might have skills that were valued by the wolves of the Watch, but there were so many rumors swirling about him. He had challenged the order, and now he heard whispers about his “profane” carving of the Great Bear constellation. Heep had been effective in getting the word out about that. Faolan was
glad he had not changed his design, but he had no idea if his odd and beautiful carving would hurt or help his bid for the Watch.

“Let’s get over there before anybody else does!” The Whistler trotted off, with Faolan behind him.

“Can you wait up a moment, Faolan?” Mhairie asked.

“Uh, sure.”

“I…I…” Mhairie stammered. “I just wanted to wish you luck in the contests. And you know I’m sure you’ll do wonderfully in the
byrrgis
. You can run full out. You get to run in the sublieutenant positions—as a packer or a line wolf. But sometimes packers bump up against the captains. It takes a great deal of experience not to. Happens all the time. So don’t worry about it.”

“When it does happen, it’s not a violation of the
byrrgnock
, I suppose.” It was not a question. Faolan said this in a flat voice.

“No, why would it be?”

“Of course not. There aren’t gnaw wolves running in these positions in normal
byrrgises
. Why waste abuse on some wolf who isn’t a gnaw wolf?”

“I don’t think you understand what I am saying, Faolan. You won’t be punished if it does happen.”

“I understand perfectly. I won’t be abused this time because this is a special
byrrgis
. But if I fail to be selected and return to pack life, the rules of the game change back.”

“I suppose so,” Mhairie said. She seemed suddenly nervous.

“Did you have something else to say, Mhairie?”

“I do.” She paused and looked directly into his eyes. “Faolan, there are some rumors going around the encampment.”

“What kind of rumors?”

“About a bone you carved at a practice session around the time of the Moon of the Cracking Ice. Some say it was…” Her eyes shifted down to the ground.

“Profane?”

“Yes.” She swung her eyes toward him again. Her hackles raised and seemed to quiver.

“I carved a constellation. I carved the Great Wolf only from the point of view of my second Milk Giver.”

“The grizzly?”

“Yes. She was the first one who told me about the star pictures. She and the others of her kind call it the Great Bear.”

Mhairie cocked her head. “That’s very interesting.”

“Yes, Mhairie, it is interesting, but it’s not profane.”

“Not in the least,” Mhairie agreed. “But still be careful.”

A passel of young pups went tumbling by, chasing one another.

“Time out! Time out!” one pure-white pup said, skidding to a halt. “I don’t want to play tag anymore. Let’s play go-to-the-Sark.”

Mhairie turned to the pups. “That’s a stupid game,” she muttered, and began to walk away.

But Faolan was riveted. The white pup was obviously the boss of this gang. She turned to a brindled pup whose pale brown fur had patches of gray and black. “You’ll be the Sark.”

“But I’m a male.”

“It doesn’t matter,” the white pup snapped.

“You be the Obea,” she said, turning to another pup whose fur was the color of a storm cloud.

“They stink,” whined the pup.

“No, that’s the problem. They don’t stink at all. They have no scent. Now quit complaining. It’s just a play. And, Bryan,” she said to another wolf, who was also white and most likely her brother. “You be the
malcadh
. You can
tuck your back leg behind you and walk on three like we’ve been practicing.”

“Sure,” said the white pup in a voice of resignation, as if he was used to being bossed by this older sibling.

“And I am the mother.” She immediately threw herself onto the ground and began to sob. “Don’t take my pup!” More sobs. “This is my last litter. I promise I shall have no more. Leave me my last daughter!”

“I’m not a daughter,” the white pup complained. “I’m a son.”

“For the play, you’re a daughter. Now just shut your muzzle.”

Then the pup playing the Obea spoke sternly, “I must take this
malcadh
to the
tummfraw
. You need to go to the Sark and begin the forgetting. She will brew you a potion.” The pup playing the mother swung her head toward the brindled pup and whispered loudly, “Start mixing up a potion!”

“I don’t have anything to mix. There aren’t any herbs or grass or leaves or even birch bark.”

“Just mix up some dirt and stones. It’s all make-believe.” She turned to another pup. “Now when the
malcadh
survives and comes back to the clan, you can
start kicking him and nipping his ear. But you know, just pretend.”

Faolan watched all of this mesmerized.
Just pretend! This is my life! They are playacting with my life.
He was about to say something, but he didn’t know what. Surely a gnaw wolf could not reprimand young pups.

Mhairie stepped from behind a rock. “This isn’t the time for make-believe,” she said sternly.

“Why not?” challenged the white pup. “Just because you’re bigger and you say so?”

“No,” Mhairie said quietly. “Because this is a gnaw wolf.” She nodded at Faolan. “And his life is real, not make-believe. There is no just-pretending when he is bitten and kicked.”

The pups all grew very still. Then the white one stepped forward. “You’re absolutely the hugest wolf I’ve ever seen! And you’re the gnaw wolf who jumped for the sun, aren’t you? They said you disturbed the order.”

“I didn’t jump for the sun. I jumped for my life.” Faolan stood straighter, squared his shoulders, and lifted his tail just a bit. In the evening light, he was bright and silvery, and the pups once again fell silent, for they had never seen a young wolf with such noble bearing. And to think he was a gnaw wolf!

Suddenly, a howl peeled through the air. It was Alastrine,
skreeleen
of the MacDuncan Carreg Gaer. Soon, other
skreeleens
joined in. Barks and yips from all the clans scored the air.

“They’re coming! They’re coming! The Fengo Finbar and the
taigas
are coming!”

“Come on,” Mhairie said. “I know a good place to watch from.”

Faolan followed Mhairie as she scrambled up an escarpment. Soon, another wolf joined them. “This is my sister Dearlea,” Mhairie said, looking over her shoulder as they made their way up the steep slope. Dearlea was a deep brown that perhaps had once been lighter, like her sister’s tawny gold, but despite their difference in color, there was a strong resemblance.

“Oh, look!” Dearlea exclaimed as they reached the top. There was a long line of wolves wending their way down a narrow defile.

“Can you hear the
tinulaba
?” Mhairie asked.

“What?” said Faolan.

Mhairie and Dearlea looked at each other in dismay.

“You don’t know what the
tinulaba
is?” Dearlea asked.

“No.”

“The
tinulaba
is the clinking sound tailbones make when they jingle-jangle against one another softly. That’s what the word means—‘chimes of the bones.’ The wolves of the Watch make their necklaces out of those small little bones from the tails of animals.”

“They wear necklaces? I thought only the clan chieftains and members of the
raghnaid
wore them.”

“No, wolves of the Watch can wear them, too. But theirs are made out of just the tailbones. They gnaw them.”

“They gnaw designs into tailbones?” Faolan was astonished. Tailbones were among the smallest.

“Yes, you’ll learn how to do it when—” Mhairie stopped herself. “I mean
if
you are selected for the Watch. The
taigas
will teach you.”

All the barking and howling stopped. A silence descended over the land as the wind rose from the direction of the Watch wolves’ procession and carried with it the
tinulaba
. The
tinulaba
was not merely a sound but truly music, chimes that went straight to Faolan’s marrow and stirred him deeply.

As the Watch wolves slowed on the steepest part of the defile, he could observe them more carefully. They were large, muscular animals. It was often said that a
malcadh
’s deformity could become a source of strength.
Even from a distance, the Watch exuded a power and confidence that Faolan had never seen before.

Of all the wolves, the Fengo was the most elaborately bedecked in bone necklaces. He even had tiny fragments of bone braided into his beard. Mhairie and Dearlea began to whisper.

“There’s Jasper,” Dearlea said, pointing her muzzle toward a dark brown wolf.

“That’s Briar, isn’t it?” Mhairie said.

“The red wolf with the bad eye?” Dearlea asked.

“Yes. There are two red wolves, and I always get them mixed up because they both have bad eyes,” Mhairie said.

Faolan wondered how they knew so much. They seemed to be able to identify every wolf and his or her particular deformity while the wolves were still a fair distance away.

“And they are sister and brother. That makes it harder,” Dearlea replied.

“Sister and brother?” Faolan could not hide his surprise.

“Yes, very unusual. Two
malcadhs
in one litter.”

“That must have been nice for them…I mean the pups.” Faolan detested the word
malcadh
. “I mean they had company.”

“Not so nice for the mother.” Dearlea sighed. “Imagine
two of her litter born
malcadhs
. And who knows; maybe she only had two pups that year.”

“But they both survived and returned to the clan,” Mhairie said. “Imagine that!”

Yes
, thought Faolan.
Imagine that!
He looked at the two sister wolves who stood beside him. They were so lucky to have been born whole and perfect and to be sisters. And though he would never wish his life on another, wouldn’t it have been easier to have a brother or sister with him on that
tummfraw
?