The Dog Master: A Novel of the First Dog

by W. Bruce Cameron

  For a moment he hesitated, struck by a memory of Fia, how angry she was when he first pursued her. Finally he shook himself out of it. “I wanted to speak to you alone.”

  She crossed her arms. “Then speak.”

  “Does it have to be like this? You have avoided me since the end of last summer. Everyone has noticed how you shun me. I do not understand.”

  “I agree you do not understand. Is that what you wanted to say, that I have avoided you?”

  “No.” Silex sighed. “Brach came to me with a disturbing revelation.”

  Denix’s hard gaze grew defiant. “Oh,” she said. “That.”

  “Is it true you approached him and suggested the two of you might…” Silex could not bring himself to finish the thought.

  She watched him fumble with a mocking expression. “He does have a history of such behavior,” she pointed out.

  “Why would you do that?”

  Denix laughed harshly. “Oh Silex. How can you be so ignorant?”

  “Watch what you say to me, Denix,” he warned angrily. “I am not ignorant. I am aware there are no eligible bachelors, but you may not take another woman’s husband to your bed. Wolfen mate for life.”

  “So what is your plan?” Denix asked, abruptly plaintive. “Am I to wait for someone to die in childbirth, or to be eaten by a bear, and then I take the surviving widower, no matter who he is? I am twenty-eight years old! I will soon be too old to have children!”

  “But why Brach?”

  “I told you. He has a history.”

  “He is my best friend,” Silex protested, anguished.

  Denix stared at him. “So the offense is to you, then.”

  Silex drew himself up. “The offense is to the Wolfen,” he answered severely. “It is about adultery.”

  “Brach is your best friend. Which makes the adultery worse.”

  Silex swallowed. “No, of course not.”

  “Well then,” Denix continued in reasonable tones. “What about Tok?”

  “My son?” Silex responded, horrified.

  “Since Cragg married, he is the only single male, and I imagine soon enough he will be ready for a woman’s bed,” Denix said deliberately. “Has that not occurred to you? And he is not married. So you do not have any reason to object.”

  “He is but half your age!”

  “I assure you that if that does not matter to me it will not matter to him.”

  Silex was speechless.

  “Right? So it is settled.”

  “No. Not it is not settled,” Silex fumed.

  Denix turned from him and started to run, so he hastened to keep up. “Denix, we are not finished.”

  “Yes we are, Silex,” Denix said in mocking tones. “It is settled. Settled.”

  * * *

  Lyra was sitting on a rock by the stream, talking to friends, as Mal walked by on the path, and she called to him. He waited stiffly, reading the derision in the girls’ faces as they whispered to each other, but Lyra’s smile was open and welcoming as she approached him.

  “And there you go, ever mysterious, off by yourself,” Lyra told him, her eyes sparkling.

  “I just have something I need to do,” he explained tersely. He could not help it—standing close to her, his feelings roiled, an odd mixture of joy and dread. He saw that Lyra was wearing a leather strap around her neck, and that it was looped through one of the largest of the shiny shells the Blanc Tribe once used for trade, one the size of a child’s palm. She had fashioned a hole in it somehow, though the shells were delicate and easily fragmented. He pictured her working with a rock, patiently scraping until she had worn through it.

  “Let me go with you, Mal.”

  No, that was impossible. He could not bear to be with her—he was a boy, so he could never court her, never marry her. “All is good,” he agreed helplessly.

  Lyra waved at her friends, who waved and then immediately went back to whispering, their hands over their mouths. Mal scowled at them.

  “They laugh that you are wasting your time with the crippled boy,” he said, sounding more curt and unpleasant than he had intended.

  Lyra gave him a puzzled look. “Why would you say such a thing?”

  He turned and began walking, Lyra easily keeping pace. “I have heard many such sentiments my whole life, Lyra. It is not a concern.”

  She touched his arm and it was as if a warm breeze blew through his whole body. “I am sorry. But I promise you, that was not what we were saying when we saw you on the path.”

  She was staring at him intently, willing him to look into her face, and when he did his heart raced. Her eyes were shining. He remembered kissing the girl with the missing arm, Ema, and ached to take this woman into his arms.

  “Mal, you have a very handsome face,” she told him matter-of-factly. “You remind me very much of your brother.”

  Dog. Mal pulled back from her, and did not care when he saw her momentary hurt and confusion. Then realization dawned on her. “Mal, I did not mean…”

  He was already marching up the path. “I have something to do, Lyra.”

  “Because you resemble your brother does not mean I do not appreciate you. You do know that, Mal.”

  “I need to go and I do not want you to accompany me,” Mal responded icily. Something inside enjoyed punishing her even as he regretted it.

  Lyra stopped walking. “All is good, then, Mal. You are not using adult reason, so I do not want to accompany you, either. But your brother was a man I admired, just as I admire you!” she called to his retreating back.

  Striding away, Mal felt trapped by his decision to be petulant. He wanted to turn around and say something to Lyra, but he had no words to give. She admired him, she said. “I love you, Lyra,” he whispered. “I love you.”

  * * *

  Lyra turned and slowly walked away. Soon she encountered Vinco and Grat on the path, heading in the direction from which she had just come.

  “Good summer, men of the hunt,” she greeted formally, not wanting to talk. They halted, though, so she did, too.

  “They said you were with Mal,” Vinco told her in a tone that sounded almost accusatory.

  Lyra drew herself up. “Yes, that is right.”

  “Where is he now?” Grat inquired, an odd eagerness in his voice.

  She involuntarily glanced over her shoulder in the direction Mal had taken, then looked back at the two men. “What do you want with Mal?”

  “Oh,” Grat informed her with a tight grin, “we have something very important to tell him.”

  Lyra felt a chill. “I am sure he will return soon,” she said quietly, thinking she needed to slip away and warn Mal to be alert.

  “No, we will find him,” Vinco replied. He pushed past her rudely, but Grat stopped and leaned in intimately.

  “I have something important to discuss with you, too,” he whispered. Lyra stared at him, trying to read what was going on with his grin and the wild look in his eyes. His tongue was pressed into the gap where he was missing a front tooth—it looked like a worm in a hole, repulsing her. Then he, too, was gone.

  When they were half a dozen paces away from her, still following Mal’s trail, they broke into a run.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Mal realized he was being tracked. There was a sound to the forest, a different feel, somehow, that let him know something or someone was back there.

  He immediately swung from the path, crossing the stream and wading into the deeper brush.

  He felt that he knew who they were and, as soon as he emerged from the thick undergrowth and into a thin pine forest, he was able to confirm his suspicions. Mal stopped. Grat carried a club and Vinco a spear, but Mal had no weapon, only the fire horn slung from the strap around his neck.

  “Good summer,” Mal called.

  They did not reply.

  Mal waved at them, attempting a careless gesture, but his hands were trembling. He turned as if he had no worries, but began walking as quickly as he could. U
p ahead, a row of bushes pressed against some large rocks. It was not much, but perhaps if he could make his way there, he might find a place to hide.

  He could hear them now. Vinco and Grat were doing what he could not—they were running.

  Just as Mal came to the bushes and was preparing to throw himself into them, something astounding happened: the branches shook and then a Frightened burst from the leaves, his face open in terror. He nearly ran into Mal, and then he was past.

  Taller, larger, and darker, the Frightened was an imposing figure, but like all of his kind, ran from humans. With a whoop, Vinco and Grat took off in pursuit. The Frightened was faster, but lore had it they were easily tired. It had been many years since any Kindred had even seen one, much less killed one. Mal watched the chase enviously, not for the first time wondering what it would feel like to have both legs working in concert in a headlong dash through the woods.

  A small noise attracted his attention. Mal turned to the bushes from which the Frightened had emerged. There was something there. An animal? Mal bent forward, peering into the foliage, gingerly parting it to get a better look.

  What he found was a female Frightened and two youngsters. The female’s chest was heaving, and her children, both of them under the age of ten, hid behind her, peering at Mal in terror.

  The woman held a rock, and she raised it, shaking it at Mal in a clear threat.

  “No,” Mal whispered. “I will not hurt you.”

  The Frightened did not speak the Language, and she did not appear to comprehend. Mal pantomimed holding his hand over his mouth. Quiet.

  The woman seemed to understand. Mal held up his empty hands, then cautiously backed away from the family of Frighteneds.

  As quickly as he could, Mal headed back toward the Kindred.

  He was not quick enough.

  * * *

  Grat and Vinco caught up with him in a clearing. They were panting, making enough noise that Mal had plenty of time to hide, but there really was no place to go at that point—the trees were too far ahead, and there were no boulders, nor even tall grasses, just thin, sandy soil with a little scrub growth clinging to it.

  Mal turned to face the danger.

  Vinco was breathing hoarsely and looked ready to collapse, but Grat seemed filled with a dark energy. He was grinning at Mal, and his eyes held an unmistakable bloodlust. He had failed to kill a Frightened, but the pursuit had put him in the mood to destroy, to annihilate.

  This was not going to be another beating, Mal realized.

  This was to be a killing.

  Vinco was there to watch. He hung back, letting Grat take the lead. Mal glanced at him and Vinco, his childhood friend, would not meet his eyes.

  Grat’s face held a feral grin—when he attacked, it would be in a frenzy. Without a club, there was nothing Mal could do but try to dodge. His leg allowed no retreat.

  “Fire boy,” Grat spat, his face full of sneering repugnance. He glanced at Vinco, who gave a confirming nod. Mal was not of the hunt. There was no prohibition against fighting.

  As if to validate Grat’s statement, Mal raised the fire horn and blew into the wide end, stoking smoke and glow. Grat ignored this: he was looking at the spot on the side of Mal’s head where his heavy cudgel would strike the first blow. Grat was a stalker, experienced with using the club with deadly effect. He stepped forward, lifting his weapon, while Mal drew in a huge breath as if getting ready to scream.

  Mal drove himself off his good leg, closing the distance to Grat in an instant. Grat blinked in surprise, unable to swing his club with Mal right up against his chest. Mal put the small end of the horn into his mouth and blew into it with all his might.

  The embers exploded out of the horn and directly into Grat’s face. With a cry, he dropped his club and swatted at his face. His eyes were full of grit and live coals spilled down inside his tunic, searing his flesh. Grat fell to the dirt, rolling and yelling in rage. Vinco jumped on him and tried to pat out the smoking cinders in Grat’s hair.

  By the time Grat had stripped his clothes and shoved his face into the stream to rinse the ashes out of his eyes, Mal was gone.

  * * *

  When Calli saw Mal burst into camp she raised a hand to her mouth. She had never seen her son look so terrified. “Mother!” he called, as if he were still a little boy. Panting, he ran to her, and she reached out to hold him.

  “Mother,” he gasped, breaking from her embrace. “Grat means to kill me.”

  “He…” She tried to make sense of this. “Did you have a fight?”

  “Not a fight. Listen to me. He was stalking me. He and Vinco. With a club. He tried to hit me with it. He wanted it to be a fatal blow!” Mal sketchily explained what had just occurred, and Calli paled.

  “What am I to do, Mother?” Mal implored.

  Calli felt weak with fear. She reached for her son’s hand. “Come with me,” she said, trying to sound confident. She turned and walked him toward the women’s side of camp, pulling insistently when he hesitated. “It is the only place, Mal,” she insisted. “Come.”

  Reluctantly, Mal stepped over the line, following his mother into female territory. Almost immediately, Albi was there, glowering at them. “What are you doing? What is he doing? He cannot be here,” she snarled.

  “He is a boy, remember? A mother may bring her boy to our side.”

  Albi scowled, but stepped aside when Calli pushed past her.

  Calli directed her son to hide among some large rocks. Other than Albi, they had drawn no attention, and Calli could think of no reason to change that. “Just stay here,” Calli directed.

  “Where are you going?” Mal asked, panic in his voice.

  “I am going to talk to Urs.”

  * * *

  Urs came out of the men’s side with an impatient look on his face. “I know you are preparing for the hunt,” Calli told him, “but I need to speak with you, Urs. Privately. It is urgent.”

  With a curt nod, he followed her down the path until they were alone. Calli bluntly described what was happening, and Urs’s frown deepened.

  “I am sure your son exaggerates,” he soothed.

  “I am sure he tells the truth,” Calli retorted.

  “Calli,” Urs said in exasperation, “this has nothing to do with the hunt.”

  “If Mal were a member of the hunt … No, Urs, just listen to me. If he were a member of the hunt, Grat would not be allowed to hurt him.”

  “That can never happen.”

  “Do you not remember that when we were starving, it was Mal who found food for the Kindred?”

  Urs shook his head. “It was fish.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “It was not meat, Calli. Finding a pile of frozen fish in a cave does not make a man a hunter.”

  “Then make him tool master! I have seen his work and it is clearly superior to many.”

  “Calli. Tool master was something Hardy declared for himself. There has not been such a thing before or since.”

  “But there could be! As tool master he would be a man. He would not have to go on the hunt with you, but he would be protected. Can you see how this will fix this? Can you see how this will save my son?”

  He shook his head again. “They are saying I am a bad hunt master,” Urs advised gravely. “They say that I allow a curse to remain with us even as our food supply dwindles.”

  “You know there is no curse.”

  “I know only that our hunts have been poor, that the weather has been evil, and that there is open talk that perhaps I am not the man to lead the hunt.”

  “And that is more important than my child’s life?” Calli demanded angrily.

  Urs’s expression hardened. “If you want protection for your son, you need to speak to his father. That is the person who rightfully protects children from harm. A father is allowed to intercede and to prevent any action by Grat.”

  “Palloc,” Calli spat contemptuously. “He will not help.” />
  “It is not my business, what happens between and man and a wife,” Urs observed, “but I believe you should go to your husband and apologize for whatever you have done and beg him to take you back. Perhaps then he will speak on Mal’s behalf.”

  “Palloc will not do that because he believes Mal is your son,” Calli hissed.

  She hated him then for the look of revulsion on his face. How could she ever have loved this man, who felt such contempt for her boy?

  “That is ridiculous,” Urs said scornfully. “He obviously is not.”

  “Well of course he is not,” Calli snapped. “But Dog was, Urs. Dog was.”

  * * *

  When she returned to camp, something had changed. Several women were gathered at the communal fire, though there was nothing cooking. They averted their eyes when she approached, as if ashamed to look at her.

  Trying to quell her panic, Calli hurried to the women’s side. When she arrived, she saw Grat and Vinco standing at the boundary, lingering there. Grat held a club in his man’s hand. He looked wild, his hair wet, his beard burned away in spots that were erupting into blisters on his face. Vinco poked Grat and nodded in her direction, and Grat turned and fixed her with cold eyes.

  “We need to speak to Mal Crus,” Grat announced imperiously. “Get him.”

  Calli ignored the chill that went up her spine. “I do not know where he is.”

  “Yes you do. He was seen entering the women’s side,” Grat replied.

  “Lots of women saw him,” Vinco volunteered.

  Calli stared at them. “What are you two doing? Do you really intend to try to slaughter a member of the Kindred? Do you really suppose you will not be punished?” she asked softly.

  Vinco dropped his eyes, but Grat’s expression was hard and unmoved. “Get Mal Crus,” he repeated.

  “I will not.” Calli moved to step past him and Grat seized her by the arm.

  “Get him or I will get him myself.”

  “I am a married woman. You must never touch me.”

  For a moment it appeared he was going to strike her—she saw it in his face, his eyes. Then he wavered, releasing her arm. Calli restrained herself from rubbing the sore spot that remained. She turned and marched away, feeling sick to her stomach.