Wilderness of Spring

by Edgar Pangborn

  _Chapter Four_

  In windless calm under the pines, Reuben's dark-dilated eyes could stillfind the furrows where sled-runners had passed, and the half-moons ofdainty hoof prints. Nothing stirred within the vague archway continuallyopening before him. Gradually, tree and rock and snow came to possesssharper lines, stronger shadows; somewhere, a birth of new light--"Ben,"he said, "it's the moon."

  "Where, Ru? I can't find it."

  "Somewhere ahead...."

  Since they came under the shelter of the trees--and that was a long timeago--Reuben had felt no longer the cold kiss of snowflakes. It had beennothing but a flurry, now ended. At a curve in the road he discovered,through a break in the treetops, a grayness brightening. He halted; Benblundered into him, arms slipping clumsily around him as if in need ofsupport. Dull rags of cloud dropped away from the naked radiance. "Itold you, Ben. There she rides." Ben was smiling. "Ben--all's well?... Idid right? We could not have stayed, and thou to be flogged, maybe putin the stocks."

  "The stocks, was it?"

  "Yes, old Anna was yattering about that too when they came home from thesermon, and Grandmother never said her nay."

  "Of course thou'st done right.... They'll search. That snow wasn'tenough to hide anything."

  "No.... We've walked more than an hour--must have done five miles."

  "We can walk another five." Though standing quietly, Ben was breathingtoo fast, his eyes too steadily fixed on the new light in the sky.

  In the woods Ben always had been leader. And there it was Ben's naturalway to send his glance flickering everywhere. Reuben recalled the voiceof Jesse Plum: "No Inj'an'll ever surprise you, Ben. Swoonds, you couldlook at a squirrel while the little bugger jumps from one branch to thenext, and tell me its age and gender, and if she be female whether shegot little 'uns." Jesse had not croaked that in flattery. Wilderness hadbeen near and vital to Jesse; he never made a mock of it, and wascapable of scolding either boy for walking noisily in dead leaves.

  "Ben, do you feel----"

  "All's well. Let's go on."

  Reuben walked on ahead, trying to set an easier pace. Surely, surelythere was no _reason_ why Ben should fall ill....

  In time the forest opened to a park-like region where perhaps in pastseasons the Indians had followed their custom of burning over the land,killing new growth and brush, allowing established trees to expand theirside branches in isolation. Through more than a mile of this theywalked. Ben did not speak.

  The sled-tracks passed abruptly over the edge of a slope. Reuben couldmake out no treetops directly ahead, though a thick cluster of themstood to his left; the part of the slope where the road ran down wouldbe open ground. A ghost of alien sound disturbed him.

  He held out his hand, but Ben either failed to see it or was unwillingthat his brother should go ahead alone; he still followed closely--morequietly though, more careful of his steps--when Reuben reached thebeginning of the slope.

  The thing could not be more than thirty feet away, a living blot of longshadow on the trampled white.

  The slope ran steeply down. At the bottom, a flat expanse to the rightmust be the northern end of a pond or lake, frozen, snow-covered. Thesled-tracks, plain in moon-shadow, skirted that level surface anddisappeared in thicker woods beyond. On Reuben's left, all the way downthe slope and connecting with the farther woods, hemlocks loomed denselyblack, branches bowing to the ground.

  The thing gazed up across the wild turkey between its paws, and Reubenunderstood the sound--crunch of monstrous teeth on frail bone. Ben drewhis knife and pushed in front muttering: "He won't attack, Ru. They'retimid--Jesse alway said...."

  The panther had flattened in alarm and readiness, all motionless but fora quiver at the tip of the tail. Round ears spread back on a skullsmooth and cruel as the head of a snake, and moonlight greenly sparkedfrom eyes arrogant with the majesty of loneliness. Once or twice theangry head dipped as if meaning to snatch up the meat and save it fromthe human threat; the motions were abortive, the beast preferring tofreeze, and watch, and wait.

  Reuben yielded no time to the weakening pain of anticipation. He scoopeda handful of damp snow into a ball, swung on his heel in the fine freemotion that Ben himself had taught him, and let fly.

  The snowball hit the great face on the nose, spattering wonderfully.Unbelieving, Reuben watched a grayish blur shoot away to the blackshelter of the hemlocks, belly to earth.

  A violent tremor of reaction took hold of Reuben; he heard Ben gasp."Ru--Ru--oh, _man_, how he scooned off!" Ben sat down laughinghelplessly in the snow.

  "Ay," said Reuben, shaken and panting and full of pride. "I allow, Mr.Cory, he might travel some little time, Mr. Cory." The tremor wasovercome by the swift joyous action of running down the slope to bringback the remains of the turkey. "See, Ben--he's left us both legs andsome of the back and breast."

  "Poor puss! My own little brother, a man who'd steal from a----"

  "Snow down your backside!" said Reuben, and jumped for him.

  Ben caught him fairly and pulled him off his feet, but in the mimicstruggle Ben stiffened suddenly and groaned: "Ru--help me up!" BeforeReuben could do so, Ben was on his feet without help, denying his ownwords: "It's nothing, Ru--I got a little dizzy, nothing more."

  "Ben, if you----"

  "We can't go back.... Hoy, here's a thought! All that turkey blood onthe snow--couldn't we make it seem----"

  "Law you!" Reuben yelped and war-danced. Ben could not be ill, hethought, so long as he was able to produce such a dazzling conception."Ben, a marvelous bloody swindle--why, damme, they'll mumble it inchimney comers till the Devil's blind, and his eyes a'n't sore yet.Think of it!--those poor lost boys!"

  "Small red gobbets."

  "What?"

  "Hast thou forgotten? Thine own tales----"

  "Oh, that. Nay then, behold how bravely they did stand before thebeast--alas, all for nothing, though Benjamin Cory with his good rightarm did--did make varsall sure to pick up the turkey feathers."

  Eagerly Ben joined him in that undertaking. Reuben found and scuffed outthe line of tracks where the gobbler had walked out from under the treesinto calamity. As they viewed the shambles critically in devotedsilence, it seemed to Reuben that there ought to be more blood. Besidethe patch of snow where the stain was largest, Reuben dropped on hisback with outflung arms to leave a tragic imprint. Ben grunted approval,but then spoke with a discouragement that was unlike him: "It'll neverdeceive a woodsman."

  "Oh, Ben, they'll be townfolks that find it. Superstitious too. If ourown trail ends here, what can they think? We must go under the trees,where--where _he_ went."

  "Oh, him!" Ben recovered, laughing again not quite naturally. "He's na'but a spent fart, Ru. He'll travel as you said, and then I picture himclimbing a tree to grieve all day tomorrow about what my little brotherdid to him. 'Snowballs!' he'll say. '_Me_, to be whopped by asnowball--why, bugger me blind, and all the time it was that Reuben Coryno bigger'n a boar's tit!'"

  "You're no Goliar neither, in fact I could whup you handy with my arsetied under my chin. Now drag me, Ben, from here to the trees, along thatline where he ran. That'll make a fine confusion and wipe out your owntracks. Then we'll follow his marks under the trees and smear our owntill they can't tell which from nohow."

  "That's the thing. What a catamount was he! Know what he did? Laid usout like a pair of sticks, he did, your ankle crossed on mine, took bothfeet in his mouth, poor wretch, and for his sins went a-blunderingthrough the woods with a boy dangling on each side."

  "I tell you, Ben, the superstitious will believe madder things thanthat. La, some of the tales Jesse used to tell!"

  "_Miaaow!_" Ben doubled over, laughing far too much. "Why, of course--bythe time the tale is carried back to Springfield he won't be a catamountat all. He'll be taller'n a house, the Old Nick himself with a passel ofdemons. It'll be a--a----" he stopped, watching Reuben blankly, alllaughter spent.

  Reuben said: "It will be a judgment of the Lord." Ben stared,
andnodded, and looked away, searching the northern sky above the hemlocks.

  Following his gaze, Reuben lost himself a while in the wonder of opennight, seeing Cassiopeia released from a last fringe of departing cloud,and the Great Bear slanting toward the North Star. Reuben darkly feltthe absence of some familiar thing, something his own mind ought tosupply and would not. The night was serene, without complicationbeautiful, answering nothing.

  * * * * *

  Ben Cory followed his brother in slowly deepening weariness. The timemust be not far from dawn. The moon rode high and lonely, dimmed by newcloud battalions from the west. Ben groped at the thought of sleep; butReuben, who was wise about everything tonight, might tell him it was notyet time. Ben suffered a passing resentment, that the boy could walk onahead so untiringly, so unconcerned.

  In this more open part of the woods they were not attempting to disguisetheir tracks. Reuben said it was no longer worth it, and Reuben knewbest. Ben tried to step in his brother's prints, nowhere else. Thisseemed a clever thing to do--when he could remember to do it, and forgetthe pain in his knee, and ignore certain soft dark waves that now andthen approached him from nowhere and flowed away independently of anyshadow on the moon.

  Back there under the crowded hemlocks, a very long time ago, it had notappeared necessary after all to search for the panther's prints andfollow them. All the way down that slope, and far beyond it where theland rose again and the hemlocks continued, many patches of snowlessground allowed them to progress without leaving marks. For an hour, ortwo or three hours perhaps, they had worked their way along these areas.Glimpses of the moon held them to a general easterly direction. Inseveral places--Ben recalled this with solemn pride in Reuben'swisdom--Reuben had spread his jacket across a patch of snow too wide tojump, so that they might step on it and leave a vague blur nothing likea footprint, rather like the impress of some animal's body lying down.At the least, their efforts would provide a most confusing trail unlessthe searchers brought dogs; they reassured each other of this from timeto time. Advance by this method had been tormentingly slow, yet after awhile Reuben, who knew everything, announced that they must have coveredanother mile.

  The road and the sled-tracks were things forgotten. The eastwarddirection was still a certainty: the moon had said so, until it climbedtoo high to be a fair guide. The trees had thinned out, the snow laycontinuous on the ground; Reuben who knew everything said they might aswell walk naturally again, since there was no help for it anyway, and toblur the tracks here would be a waste of effort. Ben had a confusedsense of walking on higher ground where a light wind was blowing.

  Once, back in the darker woods, he had heard the wail of a mountain cat,so thin and far away that hills and hollows must have intervened. Theirfriend, maybe, lamenting at snowballs. Reuben had laughed at it. LaterBen caught another sound, a remote tenor howling, lonely at first butanswered by another and another. Reuben who knew everything had notlaughed at that. Ben thought or imagined that he heard it still.

  No wolves had come.

  Or if they have come, he thought, I can't see them. They slip alongfogfooted behind the larger trees--that tree or that one--maybe. If theyare truly come, my brother Reuben will know and tell me. In time for meto draw my knife. Wolves do understand cold steel, they say....

  "Ru----"

  The boy turned quickly and came back to him. Ben saw his face fade andbrighten; the eyes, improbably large, watched him from a mighty depth.Now that, Ben thought, that is certainly an effect of the newcloud-wrack passing over the moon. How warm it is! he thought--nay, damnthe thing, how cold! Nothing's truly warm since Mother died, therefore Iwas deluded.... "Ru, what's the time?"

  "Can't be far from dawn."

  "How do you know?"

  "I can feel it.... Some kind of shack over there--see it? A hunter'slean-to, that's what it is."

  "Looks more like a beast."

  "Can't you see the poles? Come on--it's not far."

  "Ru, listen!"

  "Yes, I hear them. They're a long way off. Come!"

  "Wait, Ru!" The waves of darkness, each time they advanced on him, wereclimbing higher, toward his eyes. "Listen to me, Reuben, and not to thewolves." Perhaps the next one would go over his head, and he could bequiet. "Listen to me--in my father's house are many mansions."

  "Ben, save thy breath. Lean on me. It's not far."

  * * * * *

  Nothing came in search of them that night. For another hour Reuben heardthe wolves, unable to guess in what region of the secret night they werecrying. The shrill desolation of the noise wavered from every quarter ofthe dark, ceasing at times; then the mind could propose that it hadnever sounded, until it started up afresh, as pain will.

  A flood of intense and soundless fire grew along the lower edge of amass of winter clouds that had gathered and thickened in the latter partof the night. At some time before the kindling of that sullen splendidflame the howling of the wolves was ended.

  Ben had fallen into sleep. When they reached the lean-to he appeared tohave shaken off some of his confusion. He spoke reasonably; he stretchedout on the heap of leaves and long-dead balsam boughs, insisting thatReuben lie down and rest also. Doing so mainly to humor him, Reubenheard his brother mutter something about Roxbury and then grunt in theplaintive way he always did when sleep had taken him.

  When the clouds caught fire Ben still slept, his cheeks raging hot andhis hands restless.

  The lean-to had been shrewdly made, by some hunter looking to his ownwelfare. Heavy poles slanted against the base of a perpendicular banksome seven feet high, with others laid across them horizontally; onthese brush was piled; snow had gathered, making a dense roof. The backwas closed with tougher brush. Near the open end the hunter hadthoughtfully heaped dead sticks so that the next comer need notimmediately search for firewood. The shelter stood near a curve of thebank, the open end facing east and secure from any wind but the mostviolent. The space under the roof, barely enough to allow a large mansome elbow room, was almost warm, and became unmistakably so after theboys had lain there a few minutes. But Ben shivered continually in hisfevered sleep.

  Reuben wrapped his coat around Ben's legs. He dreaded lighting a fire:it seemed to him still that to be discovered by searchers fromSpringfield was a sharper peril than any other. They would do nothingfor Ben's sickness, he thought--flog him and let him die. Reubencollected evergreen branches small enough to hack off with the kitchenknife, and piled them at Ben's sides and over him, to hold in the bodywarmth. This occupied him for half an hour. The sky flamed. It was thethird day of March.

  He found he could study the position with some practicality; he couldweigh the odds for survival, and say: we have a pound or so of smokedham, half a loaf, part of a raw turkey; we are at least ten miles fromSpringfield, and anyway I cannot leave him to search for help. Havingdone this once or twice, he found it unprofitable to toil through thesummary again, yet the emptiness of the morning hour demanded action ofthe mind, if only to hold away a madness of panic.

  He saw Springfield consumed like Deerfield by flame from heaven, thensaw himself in the bleak honesty of morning as a foolish child forcreating such an image: Springfield wasn't to blame. If he dared leaveBen and go back there, he might dodge the powers represented byGrandmother Cory and find help. But he could not leave Ben to retrace ajourney of ten miles. Wolves hunted sometimes by daylight; wolves andIndians. They could find Ben sick and sleeping.

  Ben shook in a chill; his tossing pushed away some of the cover. Reubenrestored it and lay close against him to give what warmth he could untilthe shivering passed. Panting, with some faint shine of sweat on hisforehead, Ben said: "Right of the meeting-house--yes, I see it."

  Reuben tried then, long and earnestly, to pray in the manner of hischildhood, repeating familiar words aloud, since Ben was too far lost insleep and sickness to be disturbed. During the act of supplication, somememory nagged. Something demoralizing, to be refused,
but at last itsharpened into focus in spite of him. His mother had prayed: "Deliver usfrom evil ..." her clear voice completing the words, twice, three timesperhaps in that reddened doorway until she received the answer, theblow, itself a completion which God had allowed. To Reuben the sound ofhis own voice became alien, then contemptible, a disgusting whine. Ahuman being ought never to sound like that. Why should God listen tosuch a squeak?

  In the abrupt silence the words of that question swelled to vastimportance. They were not right. The question was not the right one.

  Change it. Shorten it.

  Why should God listen?...

  The question was still not the right one.

  Reuben crawled out into cold sunless light. He searched the east. Thesun was present, a hazed white blur just visible in the overcast. Newsnowflakes were already drifting, far apart, without a wind.

  Why God?...

  That was not merely the sun but something of the mind, old, vaguelyevil, dying, dissolving not quite as a dream dissolves but with theillogic and inconsequence of a dream.

  Reuben said aloud: "Why?..."

  _The judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether._

  The snow would thicken, covering all things. It increased as he watched,the white ball fading, blotted out at last in the gray and whitemorning. The cold was not severe. No wind was blowing.

  Reuben said: "I do not believe it."

  He crept back into the shelter to hold his brother in his arms.

  * * * * *

  Late in the morning Ben woke in a remission of the fever, knowing Reubenwas not far away. To the complex interesting lines above him--evidentlya roof--he said experimentally: "I must have been sick."

  "Lie quiet!" The power of Reuben's hand on his chest startled him, thesodden ache of his own muscles dismayed him. "We can't go on today, Ben.It's snowing heavy. I mean to light a fire--with all the snow they'llnever see the smoke, if they come this way at all."

  "They?--oh." Ben doubtfully remembered. It would not do for Reuben toguess how puzzled he was; craftily he asked: "How far you think we camefrom Hatfield?"

  "Hatfield?"

  "How stupid I am!" The unintended words drawled out of his mouth andfloated away. "Meant Deerfield. My leg...." Reuben (who knew everything)helped him shove down his breeches, then allowed him to sit up and lookat the splinter-wound, a yellowish scabby island in a puddle of pink. Hewished to study it, but Reuben was already pulling up the mustyrepellent garment and urging him back on the pile of sweet-smellingleaves. "Suppose that's what made me sick?"

  "Maybe."

  "Suppose I ought to be bled?"

  "I daren't, Ben. I don't know how a physician does it. I might cut wrongand not be able to stop the flow."

  "I'll do well enough."

  "Yes, but you must eat, or you'll weaken."

  Ben considered this. He was hungry, yes, but wasn't some difficultyconnected with the idea of eating? Meanwhile someone, apparentlyhimself, was burdened with a bladder about to burst. "Must go outside."

  "Watch out!" Reuben somewhere sounded frightened or angry. "You'll fetchdown the roof if you try to stand."

  That was sensible, Ben observed--of course he would, and then they'dhave all the trouble of building it over. He located Reuben kneeling ina whiteness outside, ready to help him in spite of his stupidity, andcrawled to him. Improbably, the boy transformed himself into a pillarunder Ben's right arm, a curve of warm iron around Ben's middle--onlyReuben who knew everything could have thought of that.

  Out here in the blind white morning, Ben was distressed by inability tointerpret what he saw. The swirling pallor might conceal a thousandsignificant shapes. He simply must not urinate on what might easily turnout to be Grandmother Cory's doorstep. He asked with care: "Here?"

  "Anywhere. Hurry! You must get back under cover."

  "That's right," said Ben humbly, suffering a panic dread that hisbladder would never let go; it did, with relief like an end of pain. Butstill the gray and white was all a whirling bewilderment. He knew thesentinel monsters to be trees; nothing or everything might be stirringjust beyond reach of his vision in these enormous distances. "Where isthe way where light dwelleth?"

  "What?"

  "Which way is Roxbury?"

  "That's east," said Reuben, and jerked his head. "Don't think about itnow. Come back under cover. Damnation, Ben, help me a little! You know Ican't lift you if you fall."

  Ben walked with extreme care, and then crawled, back on the pile ofleaves. Darkness approached and slid away. Reuben was shaking hisshoulder, urging him to eat something. "What? What is it?"

  "Some of the ham I stole--don't you remember?"

  "Yes. But.... How much have we?"

  "A plenty. See--all this. And the turkey too--I'll cook that when I havea fire going."

  "Oh yes, the turkey.... Ru----"

  "I ate all I wanted while you were sleeping."

  He would lie of course, Ben thought. But with a face changeable assunlight on a wind-rippled pond, Reuben had never been a good liar. Benlifted a heavy arm to turn that face into the wan daylight. "You--did?"

  "I swear to you, Ben, we have enough for several days, and I ate all Ineeded an hour ago."

  Ben struggled over the mouthfuls. The meat lay heavy in him, threateningnausea; that passed. He accepted a final wave of darkness--not truedarkness, simply a voluntary closing of the eyes. Certainly notunconsciousness, because he could feel Reuben wrapping some cloth aroundhis legs. He wondered what it was, the curiosity not powerful enough toraise his ponderous eyelids. Later he heard Reuben speak--close to hisear maybe; surely not far away, or the words could not have reached himwith that sweetness and clarity: "_Intreat me not to leave thee, or toreturn from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; andwhere thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thyGod my God: where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried:the Lord do so to me, and more also, if ought but death part thee andme._"

  * * * * *

  The wolves came that night, not with howling but in silence.

  Through the afternoon, under the long patient drive of snow, Reuben hadgone out after more dead wood whenever Ben seemed quiet in his sleep. Hehad struggled with Ben's tinderbox to the edge of despair, and won aflame at last, the fire then leaping bravely and settling to steadinessunder the endless slanting white, the smoke pushed away from the openingof the lean-to by a faint breeze out of the west. When he had gatheredall the firewood he could find without going beyond reach of Ben'svoice, Reuben used the stolen kitchen knife to hack off a green ashsapling and trim it to a six-foot spear. He was wearing Ben's knife nowat his belt, but was unwilling to employ it in such labor--besides, thetedious task of trimming and whittling disposed of much time when therewas nothing else to do and he knew it might be dangerous to think. Allafternoon he heard only the crackle of his fire, the sustained mildhiss of the snow, and the small sounds of Ben's troubled slumber. Hismind heard the wolves, knowing they would come.

  The hunter-builder had chosen this location cleverly. Thick brambles anda looping confusion of wild grape covered the high bank above thelean-to; a beast could squirm through it, no doubt, but probably wouldnot try, and surely would not jump down from it so long as someonetended a fire below. This fair security in the rear left only ahalf-circle of territory that needed watching. At the western end ofthat little arc, where the lean-to itself shut off his view if he sat bythe opening, Reuben laid ready a stack of dead wood mixed with evergreenbranches. It would be a moment's work to carry a brand to that pile,sending it up in a fine blaze to guard the blind spot. The wolves wouldnot like that.

  This was his last act of preparation before evening came on. He knew ofevening as a gradual failing of the light, a growth of shadows in thecontinual drift of snowflakes, a shift from gray to black. At one timeit had been afternoon; then afternoon resembling evening. Then night.Reuben became ears and eyes.

&n
bsp; He could never hear their feet when they came, but all night he mustlisten for any change in Ben's breathing or any call from him, such asound as might be smothered by fire noises or the small narcoticmonotone of the snow. He sought to imitate Ben's way of lookingeverywhere, never allowing his gaze to become frozen in a stare. Ifsomething seemed to move out yonder, as happened many times deceivinglyafter darkness beyond the fire had grown complete, he must flick aglance at it, look away, return, and so assure himself that it wasnothing, maybe a leap of fire-shadow, a harmless swaying of a branch ofthe giant spruce that stood twenty yards away.

  He knew the truth of it, and with relief because it ended the sour agonyof anticipation, when twin emeralds to the left of the spruce blinked onand off and shone again nearer. Two other pairs of jewels flashed intolife, one to the right, the third directly below the tower of the tree."I know you," he called. "I know you for what you are."

  He stood up to look beyond the lean-to. A fourth pair of hunting lightshad been approaching the blind spot, and halted at sight of him. Reubendrew forth a burning stick. He walked slowly, with care for the flame,and touched it to the dead wood and pine needles. The lights in the snowdid not retire; they watched, curious and cold. In the sudden radiancethey acquired a gray body, taut, startled at the new flame but not yetin retreat and visible to Reuben in sharp detail. A bitch wolf carryingyoung, her belly not much distended but seeming so because of thegauntness of her ribs and a wiry thinness of long flanks.

  Only four; probably no others. They ranged in small groups likefamilies, Jesse Plum used to say. The tales of large wolf packs, Jesseinsisted, were travelers' fancies. A few of the young sometimes remainedwith the old ones until full-grown, then drifted away to start familiesof their own. "Be you ever confronted by 'em," said Jesse once, "they'llbe few, boys, and no great peril unless they can get behind you in thedark. True, they can kill you and eat you, but they do doubt it, theyunderstand cold steel and they be full of fear, the way all creaturesfear man, and so do I." Well, in the complex story that grew from thatopening, Jesse had been assailed by ten wolves who were not wolves;after he climbed seventy feet to the top of a beech, the great dog wolfleader had scrambled up after him, snapping at his heels but unable toreach them so long as Jesse remembered to make certain signs in the air.All that had been perfectly understood as a fireside fantasy, designedto send the children off to the black garret in a good mood. Here,Reuben told himself, he faced only four common wolves, angry with thelong winter hunger but afraid of the fire. The gummy spruce branch inhis hand still sputtered hotly. He flung it at the somber eyes. Thebitch wolf casually dodged the brand. He saw the gray evil of her glideaway to join the three others in deeper obscurity.

  He sat on his heels near the opening of the lean-to, the green ash spearlying under his right hand, and listened for Ben's breathing. That soundreached him at last, seeming untroubled; then he could watch withgreater assurance. If anything pushed through the brambles and dry brushat the top of the bank, he would hear it and be ready.

  The eyes shifted, winked, vanished to reappear in silence. He found nomore than four pairs at any time. If they became three or two, thatmight mean fresh danger. They remained, for a long time, four.

  Reuben wondered when the snowfall had ceased. He remembered noticingthat it was thinning when the eyes first appeared. Now it was over, theair clean and mild, a weak wind still sending the smoke away from theplace where Ben lay sleeping. Reuben glanced upward in search of starsand found a few. Maybe--though not for hours yet, he thought--the moonwould return, and shine on a smooth silver blank where yesterday hisfeet and Ben's had scrawled a trail.

  He began to feel acquainted with those eyes. "You over on the left," hecalled--"you're Snotnose. You under the spruce, you're Trundletail, andyour mother is Doxy Tumble." For a while he amused and warmed himself byhurling snowballs at them.

  They slunk away, not far. The unconcern of their withdrawal conveyed thearrogance of contempt. They could wait.

  Reuben's amusement died like the breaking of a weapon in his hand. Hethought: _What do they know?_ He stood as tall as he could, waving thegreen spear, and shouted at them: "I know you! Dirty dogs! Offal! I spiton you!" He fought back a desire to rush out in pursuit of them, withBen's knife and the green spear.

  That would be mad. They would understand his smallness, his singleness,and close in, tear him apart, move on to the shelter where Ben layhelpless and sleeping.... Reuben carried more wood to the other fire,then forced himself to squat once more patiently on his heels, and keepcount of the pairs of eyes. Four. He could wait, too. How long?

  Eternal hours. Like those that must have already passed since the wolvescame. Or had they been there forever?

  Why, of course they had. The breed was immortal. They had never been farfrom Deerfield. They owned the wilderness before ever Christians came toit. They howled in Rome, when Reuben Cory was not. Meeting the greenancient stare from the dark, Reuben felt his face stiffly smiling. Hethought: It's true, true--there was a time when I was not. Something newbegan--something--the name of it I, Reuben Cory. Well, this I may haveknown, but until now I did never believe it.... He shivered, andalthough there was cool pleasure in it he drove away the consolation ofphilosophy because anything that dimmed alertness was dangerous. Hecould wait.

  In a reasonable world, one slept for a part of each revolution of thebeautiful sun. Reuben thought back in search of the last time he hadslept--Springfield, before Jesse was found in the snow. Danger hid inthis reflection also, the danger of self-pity. He put an end to it: _Iwill not sleep._

  It came to him that if one is hungry enough, any creature not downrightpoisonous is meat. Suppose, somehow----?

  He could not go out against them, away from the fires. Either they wouldrush him all four together, or they would run away--good meat lost. Butsuppose, somehow, one of them might be tempted to come alone--say theold gray bitch who had already tried a sneak approach. How?

  Wisdom lurked in her, a cold flame behind a long gray face. Reubenthought of her as their leader. He discovered that he hated her, in aswelling ecstasy not extended to her slinking companions. The thought ofkilling her, at first a random flicker like a further warning ofmadness, became a purpose, a source of power, a wildness deserving abetter name than lunacy because of its very absurdity. For ten minutesor perhaps an hour Reuben hovered apart from his mind and watched thethought grow. A boy does not kill a grown wolf with a little stick.

  And yet the point was sharp. The ash would bend like a bow but neverbreak. His hand and eye were true, true as Ben's.

  The fire beyond the lean-to was dying down. This had happenedbefore--how many times? Marching over to refresh it, Reuben found hecould not remember. No moon yet, therefore dawn must be remote in thefuture. He stood with his spear on the unimpeded ground between the twofires, considering, brooding.

  The passion of hatred held something of love or at least a sultry need,a hunger not of the belly. He studied the pairs of eyes--four--wonderingwhich pair might be hers. He fell to muttering, aiming at the gray bitchwolf every foulness of indecent words he could recall. Words only,unrelieving, lacking the thrust and achievement of a spear. New wordsstartled him: "Such meat should help him...."

  He had not the strength to do any harm with a thrown spear; he wouldonly lose the weapon. Sometimes the very power of a stronger adversarycan be made to work for you. If you know how. If you dare.

  Reuben knew he was not mad. Within the passion was a coldness to matchher own; shrewdness; wicked planning with all the treachery of a wolfand the bravery. No time now to think of courage or fear. Endless timeto know the unbearable need for an act of love.

  Reuben sank to his heels on this open ground, the lean-to at his back,fires not great to the left and the right of him, between him and thewolves only an expanse of flame-lit snow. He dropped the green ash spearin that white so that the sharp end was covered. His hand curling midwayon the shaft owned a separate life, refusing to suffer from the harshcoldness. Gr
adually he allowed his head to droop, lift feebly and droopagain, while his upturned eyes, perhaps not plain to the enemy,maintained alertness. Seeing all. Clever as Ben's.

  The beasts were cruelly wise, Jesse Plum used to say. Out of thicketsand moon-shadows they watched men's ways, as dogs did. Unlike dogs theywatched only for signs of weakness, and this from no motives but hungerand savagery--except, said Jesse, those wolves which were not wolves.

  He must be not reckless but wise and cold as they. He must be ready alsoto recognize the need for retreat. Supposing they all four cametogether, then he must jump to life quickly, scare them with noise andbustling and renewal of the fires. But supposing, when this interminableordeal of crouching, waiting and feigning weakness came to an end,supposing it ever did--supposing his feet had not grown numb and frozento betray him--supposing the old gray bitch should advance alone, whileBen lay sleeping and the Great Bear slanted toward the North Star----

  She was coming.

  He would not believe it for a while. Slowly he explained to himselfthat one of them must have crept out into the open a long time ago, assome trick of the firelight deceived him into calling it another shadow.Then he knew this was not so. She was coming to him. With all his hearthe accepted it.

  He lowered his head once more, and in that moment witnessed the briefbelly-to-earth advance, the freezing down to watch him again across amuch smaller distance. This could only be the one he hated, no other.She was coming to him. The others remained a shifting of eyes beyond theclear ground--afraid of him, mere offal, mere dogs as she was not--orelse they were holding back because they knew her reasons and his own.

  He knew that if he were to jump to his feet and dodge back behind thefire, she would not rush, not yet. No gambler, she would slide away andwait for the certainty, wait till dawn or beyond dawn or beyond the nextdawn. He could not do it. It might be wiser, safer; might almost be aduty to Ben that he should retreat to comparative safety, now, while hehad time. His body would not do it. His body would only wait like abowstring, clutching the spear, controlling that deceitful droop of hishead until the approaching moment when one of them--a half-starved alienbeast or a boy who must remember the doorway of a reddened room where heclung sickly to a bedpost and did nothing--one of them would diequickly.

  Was she only a wolf? Some wolves, Jesse said----

  Was it possible--he was up on his feet in the surging act ofmadness--was it possible she could hate and love him in the same way?

  He could not understand.

  His mind must have flown away, missing the interval, the second ofdecision. But she was here. She was down. It was over.

  She had screamed once, he thought, like a human thing; his ears heldsomething of the strangled cry. More of the moment returned, her flaringmouth receiving the point in mid-air, her own driven weight spitting herupon it. It could not have happened.

  It had happened, and she was down, and it was over, and he couldremember his own backward staggering at the impact while all of himtightened down on that center of existence where his hands grasped thegreen ash spear. There followed some wave of elastic power in his legs,and all the force was then flowing the other way until it was over.

  Simple butchery remained. He must follow with the spear her agonizedwrithing, hating no longer. No danger. Her failing paws threshed andtore at the shaft of the death she had swallowed. Her blood fumed outaround it from a pierced lung.

  It was all over.

  * * * * *

  "Thursday night we came away--remember? That was the night you fellsick, and was burning and tossing all day Friday. Saturday you wasbetter, but once or twice you didn't know me. It was the Friday nightwhen the wolves came."

  "Are they still about? Nay, they can't be on so fair a morning. I feelwashed clean, Ru. Weak, but--oh, I could do anything."

  "Weaker than you know. It'll pass. I saw the wolves last on Saturday.They scented something, I think, and drifted away."

  "It's all so still under the sun, and warm--what? I thought this wasSaturday."

  "This is Monday, Ben. Yesterday was the Sabbath. I hadn't thought ofthat till now, when you began asking me about the time. It was yesterdayyour fever broke for good. These three days have been a hundred years.I've had much time to think, when there was nothing else I coulddo--mind the fire, gather more wood, then either think or go mad, butI've not gone mad. I have not prayed, Ben, since before dawn on theFriday morning."

  "I don't know what I should say about that. Father said, just before hedied--did you hear?--said that God is far away."

  "And Mother's last prayer was not answered. She prayed, 'Deliver us fromevil.' And mine have never been answered."

  "But we can't know that."

  "I can't say that I know anything, anything at all, except that I'm herewith you, and the air has turned warm, and the Bay Path road must besomewhere a mile or so over yonder, and tomorrow we shall try forRoxbury."

  "And that thou hast killed a wolf.... Ru, if I didn't see that carcassunder my nose----"

  "I never lied to you. Oh--tales for your fancy now and then."

  "I know that. What did you do with the hide?"

  "Flung it out to the cannibals. The entrails too, and the head. Theywere delighted."

  "Puh! What's this part I'm eating now and enjoying so?"

  "Have you swallowed it, Mr. Cory?"

  "I have, and you needn't try to make me puke."

  "A puppy. She was carrying young--six. I had one whole, when you wasstill in the fever."

  "Ow-ooh!"

  "Oh, ay, your ears'll turn furry any day now. I say, Ben, when we'redirty-rich and famous, let's keep a few wolves on hand--you know, so tohave roasted pups for guests of distinction."

  "Now you sound like yourself."

  "Do I?... Ben, I--something happened that night, Friday night."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I don't know whether I can tell it.... When I dragged the carcass tothe fire I was crying like a fool, I don't know why. Sat there cryingwith her bloody head on my knees, some-way I couldn't make it seem shewas only a piece of meat. Later I could, later it didn't matter. Andthen--well...."

  "What is it, Ru?"

  "I found my britches were wet. Nay, not what you think, and not herblood neither, though that's dried all over 'em and I declare we bothsmell like the Devil's own. Remember you told me how some time soon,whenever it happened, I'd be spending the seed?"

  "Oh--of course."

  "Ben, I didn't know it when it happened. It must have been the momentwhen I was killing her. I didn't know it could happen that way."

  "I didn't neither."

  "Is something wrong with me?"

  "No, no."

  "You see, I already knew how it feels. I did confess to you aboutthat--long ago, remember? That was the time when you told me, about thechange, and the seed."

  "Yes. Well, they say it's a sin to bring it on, but I think it must bevenial, Ru, for Jesse said once that every man's vessels are alway inneed of it. The dreams don't help. Nothing's wrong with you."

  "But why didn't I know it when it happened?"

  "Oh, the excitement--why, you must have been white-hot, to stand up to awolf with nothing but a little stick. I didn't know it could happen thatway, but I think it's not so strange."

  "Jesse Plum.... Why did Father never speak of those things?"

  "I don't know, Ru."

  "Did he to you?"

  "No, he never.... Look: I remember I spent once, merely from lifting abig rock. And--oh, tree-climbing, things like that. So you see--anywaythere's nothing wrong with you, brother, nothing."

  "Do you have those dreams much, Ben?"

  "Not too often. You?"

  "Oh, they...."

  "You will. You'll be dreaming about girls, and----"

  "I ... You'll be strong enough to go on tomorrow, Ben. One thing: weneedn't fret now about anyone following from Springfield. That snow willhave covered everything. I hope they found the turkey
blood before itbegan a-falling. We can go slowly, rest as soon as we come to anotherfair shelter. This morning might be the start of another thaw, even anearly spring--only look at the tears of that spruce, how they fall inthe sun! We'll find more food some-way, now that you're well. There mustbe towns between here and Roxbury, where we could work for a few meals,a few nights' rest."

  "Why, sure, we'll make it.... What happened to your jacket?"

  "My--oh, the wolf."

  "But the wolf did not reach you, brother."

  "I dragged her."

  "And so got your jacket torn and muddy on the inside? But I found itwrapped around my legs yesterday when I woke with a clear head, and youslipped it away, but I knew. Last night when it turned a little colderyou put it around me again, thinking I was asleep, and I was silent,wishing to speak but too stupid."

  "No need. You'd have done the same. Don't speak of it now."

  "Very well. But----"

  "Thou owest me nothing. I've been forced to think of these things--somany hours, Ben, when I--nay, but how could there be any owing orstanding beholden between thee and me?"

  "I think I owe thee everything."

  "No! Pray understand, Ben. It's not a thing to be measured--why, it'snot a thing at all, but--oh, like a region one travels through, an areaof light."

  "Love, a region?"

  "What else? Can you own it or give it or take it? It came to me, Ben,that we only dwell in it, as in the sun, or this morning air."

  PART TWO