The Cry of the Wolf

by Melvin Burgess

  The Hunter had been in range for two days. He had only been waiting for Conna to join them, to get the chance of killing all three together.

  9

  SILVER’S WOUND WAS not so serious as last time but she needed time to rest and recover – time which she did not have. The initial run she made with Greycub took them a mile further north. There she lay down to gather breath. Greycub whined and licked her wound, but there was no time for sympathy. After only a few minutes, Silver picked herself up and forced herself on. Again she was on three legs. The other, though undamaged, put an unbearable pressure on her shattered ribs.

  In this last run Silver gave up any hope of throwing the Hunter off her scent; everything she had done had failed – all her tricks, all her cunning, all the centuries of wolf culture were useless before this man who had wiped out her race. There was little point laying false trails that fooled no one. Instead, she just ran, fast and straight, hoping that some chance would free her again from his attention. Rain, perhaps – but the sky above her was clear and blue, the air still. Only a few thin white clouds scattered at the edges of the afternoon.

  Behind, the Hunter understood her intention and he too pushed on as fast as he was able. Poor Jenny, miserable to her core, kept looking up at him and trying to lick his hand, unable to understand. He gave her no reassurance but cursed her on. He was keen to end his three-year hunt. He did not even bother to take care of Conna’s corpse but buried him in a sack, hoping to be back soon enough to deal with him before the skin was much damaged by decay.

  Silver continued north-west. She avoided villages, except in the dead of night. She followed the beds of streams from time to time, but beyond this she wasted no effort with cunning, but ran and ran. She cut through woodland along a stream in a valley north-west of the village of Liphook and then turned north to avoid Alton. When she hit the river Wey she swam upstream a couple of miles, and then directly north, curving a little to avoid Farnham. All the time she was losing blood and getting weaker. They did not stop to eat; they drank as they swam. There was no plan, only to go as far as they could and then to hide, and to hope.

  The wolves ran into the Basingstoke canal at Crookham Village. For the last time they took to the water and swam westwards. Silver was now at the very end of her strength. Greycub swam forward and back, forward and back, trying to bring her along. But it was obvious she was finished. The cold water, that had refreshed her momentarily when they plunged in, drained away the last of her strength. With difficulty she clambered out and staggered along the banks, heading north. Soon they came to a motorway and here Silver did not pause but cut straight across, putting one last barrier between her and her pursuer. Briefly, horns blared, brakes squealed as the two last wolves crawled across six lanes and up the bank on the other side. They walked along, seeking a place to make their last stand.

  A cluster of old farm buildings, tumbledown and with the roof half off, overlooked the motorway, unused ever since the road had been built. Silver chose a stall close to the door of one of these buildings. There was just one way in; the only window was blocked by a stack of heavy timbers leaning up against it. It was dark. From outside you could not see in, and the Hunter would certainly have to enter before he could see well enough to shoot.

  Cornered with her last pup, her whole pack and race wiped out, only now did Silver consider attacking the man. He would have to enter to kill her. She would see him before he saw her. She was weak, wounded and he was armed and strong. But there was at least a chance she could take him. Once she got in close he would be unable to use his bow and then, armed with her teeth and claws, the advantage would be hers. Silver settled herself down to one side of the entrance, well hidden from anyone outside. Greycub settled down next to her, licking again at her wound, and whining fearfully. For a few hours, the two wolves snatched some sleep.

  Later Greycub went to try and hunt. After a whole hour he came back proudly with a single scrawny old rat, which poor Silver, forgetting herself, swallowed in one bite. Somewhat surprised that his great work should be dealt with so quickly – it was his first kill – Greycub looked so put out that his mother huffed at him, which is a wolf’s laugh. Then she repented as she realised that he had eaten nothing for two days, and thanked him by licking his face. Greycub had to go out after more rats or go hungry. Four hours brought two more, which they shared, and by then he was too tired to hunt. Curling up in his mother’s belly, his nose tucked under her tail, Greycub went to sleep.

  Silver lay awake, her ears cocked to the front of the stall, and waited.

  *

  A day later the Hunter arrived.

  She knew instantly. He made no noise, but she caught the smell of him and his dog. Immediately she took Greycub between her paws, and tensed herself, ready to launch herself the second he came within reach. It was unheard of for a wolf to attack a human being, but this man had lost his right to live. She prepared to kill.

  The Hunter was in no hurry now that he had his prey cornered. He knew very well that she would not leave Greycub, and that he had all the time in the world to plot his kill. Now that the wolves were only metres away, poor little Jenny was in fits, flattening herself on the ground, begging and pleading but obedient. He tied her up away from the entrance and swore her to silence, while he checked the lie of the land.

  He noted the big timbers leaning up against the side that blocked off the only other exit, and peered in among them. The heavy beams were crammed up right against the window, leaving only a narrow space – there was no way she could sneak out the back.

  The Hunter came back and sat on the ground next to Jenny to think. She licked his hand and gazed at him, but he pushed her thoughtlessly away as he plotted the kill. He did not dare go straight in the front way. It is not wise to come up upon a wounded mother, cornered with her pup, and he did not want to endanger himself.

  Leaving Jenny at the front, and staying well back so the wolf did not know he was moving, the Hunter creeped round behind, back to the window. He took from inside his coat a small hand gun. Just below the embankment, the motorway traffic roared past, thick and furious. Normally he would not dare use a gun, because of the noise it made, but here no one would hear anything.

  Holding the gun at arm’s length before him, the Hunter began to squeeze his way in among the timbers, sliding his body, breathing in, squashing himself silently up until, through narrow cracks, he could see inside.

  Now the wolf, instead of being in the dark was palely silhouetted in the light coming in the front of the stall. The Hunter could see her ears pricked, pointing forward, her eyes fixed on the point where Jenny was hidden. He saw her shift on her haunches, saw how tense she was and he knew she had his death on her mind. It gave him a cold feeling to think that after so many years he had become the prey. But it was clear the wolf did not know where he was; he had the advantage.

  The Hunter pushed still closer, holding the gun before him like the head of a snake nearer and silently nearer to the cracks in the window. He was wedged so tightly he had to breathe out, push himself deeper, breathe in, breathe again and push, snaking his way into the wood pile, taking his air in small sips, moving slowly, slowly, making no noise – until at last he was able to hold his gun at the edge of the hidden window. He meant to shoot the wolf in the back of her head.

  Down below on the carriageway a convoy of heavy lorries thundered past. The ground shivered under him and the surrounding timbers rattled slightly. The wolf still focused straight ahead. The Hunter had to stand on tiptoe so he could see the part of the wolf’s head he wanted. He took aim, and fired.

  The shot echoed and shuddered all around the stall and cracked in his ears. He had to blink and when he looked up he thought for a second he had missed, for the wolf was almost in the same position. But now her head was down, fallen onto her paws, and her ears relaxed. Blood began to gather in the hair around her neck. The cub silently nosed his mother’s dead head, before casting a furious look into the crevice
where the predator hid. Then he fled out of the building. The Hunter turned his gun on him but the crack was too small, the metal barrel clicked uselessly on the wood.

  The Hunter began to squeeze backwards as fast as he could out of the crevice. He could not move his gun hand or even turn his head, and he had to feel his way with his feet. Then, to his horror there was a noise and a low growl – behind him. He was so surprised he let out a thin scream and tried to turn round, but he was still wedged in too tightly. He was trapped and blind. A feeling of panic surged through him. He wanted to pant but was squeezed so tight he was unable to do even that. The only thing to do was to back further out towards the noise. He squeezed back little by little and at last he was able to turn his head and see what beast had come upon him, helpless, his gun trapped on the other side of his body.

  It was Greycub. He was standing in the opening, his teeth bared, growling at the killer.

  The Hunter laughed with relief. The cub was far too small to do him any harm.

  ‘You – you’re next,’ he told the cub. ‘You’re the last one.’ The cub did not move at his voice. The Hunter frowned. It was as if the young beast knew his gun was trapped behind him and he could not fire. This annoyed the Hunter, and he tried to scare Greycub off.

  ‘Hah!’ he shouted suddenly. The cub jumped but to his surprise did not run. Instead, he growled louder and then jumped up and caught the Hunter with his teeth in the soft flesh on the side of his leg and tugged as hard as he could.

  ‘Hi – get off, get off.’ The Hunter kicked and screamed, but the young wolf only bit deeper and growled louder.

  ‘Jenny – damn you, come here!’ the Hunter screamed; but the terrier was still tied up in front of the building, and all she could do was bark furiously. The Hunter tried to force his way out and free his hand but his own panting breath was wedging him more firmly in. The blood flowed and the cub bit again. The Hunter had to shuffle forward against those tiny sharp teeth – it felt as if there were a thousand of them – and at last he found a widening in the passage and swung his hand round. Instantly Greycub let go and ran off round the corner and out of sight. The Hunter dropped to his knee and clutched his wound.

  ‘Little swine. I’ll kill you …’ he growled. Jenny was barking madly from the other side of the stall. ‘What good’s barking, you idiot?’ he yelled. He bent round to try and see the wound.

  It was not deep, though Greycub had done all the damage he could. But it was still the worst wound that the Hunter had ever suffered from an animal, and he swore Greycub would not escape.

  The wolfcub clambered down the slope of the cutting onto the motorway and turned east, just because he and Silver had been travelling west when they had been ambushed. Sticking to the hard shoulder, and ignoring the cars hurtling past at such violent speeds, he ran hard for the first few miles. Then he settled down to a steady trot, not so fast as to wear himself out, but as fast as he could bear. He did not think he could escape. If a great creature like Silver was unable to shake the Hunter off, how could an animal like himself even dream of it? He kept up his steady run, mile after mile. It did seem to him that the stink of all the cars zooming past might help to disguise his scent. He did not know or understand that it was Jenny rather than the Hunter who followed him, and he was not old enough or wise enough to work out that on the hard shoulder, where few cars drove, his scent would be untouched.

  The Hunter wasted no time on the older wolf before he began his hunt for the cub. He was keen to kill again. His leg, still sore from Greycub’s attack, reminded him that he owed this particular wolf a lesson. And of course, this was the very last wolf in all England. This was the one he wanted above all.

  He walked quickly, nervous lest this most important prey of all might get killed on the big road. He quickly found the point where Greycub had moved off the grass and onto the tarmac and the hard shoulder of the M3.

  Now the Hunter had a problem. It was illegal to walk on the motorway. On his own he might pretend his car had broken down, but with a dog the first police car that passed would surely stop him. The Hunter marked down where the cub had joined the road and then left the scene and made his way back to his home as fast as he could to return the next evening with his own car. He left it on the hard shoulder below the scene of the killing. Now he could pretend he had broken down, and no one would see Jenny in the dark.

  He had no doubt he would catch and kill the wolfcub. Greycub was so young, he knew so little. Of course, the Hunter could see nothing on the hard tarmac and had to rely on Jenny’s sharp nose, but Jenny had never let him down yet. Tonight she was overexcited. It had been a mistake letting her mother that cub. It never occurred to the Hunter for even a second that his dog would betray him and lead him astray from the scent. He was her master. He had trained her, he believed absolutely in her. She would jump to her death at his command because she was his.

  He began to walk up the road in the direction the tracks had led, encouraging Jenny to pick up the scent. She wagged her tail and sniffed and snuffled up and down the grass by the side of the tarmac. For a second it seemed that she had the scent. But then she stopped and fawned, wagged her tail, whined.

  ‘Get on with it!’ he cried. She whined again and ran up and down the grass by the hard shoulder. She seemed unable to go further.

  Perhaps the roar of the traffic was frightening her, he thought, or else the stink of all those passing cars had drowned the wolfcub’s scent. That must be it; the cub had run on the carriageway itself, and passing cars had drowned the scent. It occurred to him that maybe those same cars had killed the cub. All he could do was walk along until Jenny found the point where Greycub left the road – if he ever had.

  After four miles in one direction the Hunter decided the cub must have gone the other way. He walked back and began again in the opposite direction. After another four miles he wondered if the cub hadn’t crossed to the other side, and began to worry that a car might get Greycub before he did. He crossed the motorway at the next bridge and returned to try on the other side.

  Jenny found nothing. She grinned madly and jumped up and down, fawned and cried.

  ‘What’s wrong, girl?’ The Hunter frowned. ‘We’ll get him – don’t worry,’ he said. He did not want her anxiety at failure to get in the way of her skills.

  The next night the Hunter returned and covered ten miles on either side of the point where the tracks had gone onto the road, but still he found nothing. The next day he tried walking thirty miles up the road in the direction the tracks had gone in when they went onto the road. By the time he had covered that distance on each side of the road in both directions, he knew he had lost.

  The cub must have been hit by a car. Bitterly he realised that he had missed his chance to kill this last of its kind. The ignorant driver who must have heaped the cub into his boot probably thought he had hit a stray mongrel. There was no other explanation.

  The hunt was over.

  10

  GREYCUB RAN UP the motorway for three miles. Then some instinct made him turn south.

  It was instinct perhaps that told him that his home, the place where his ancestors had lived for generations, was to the south – that sent his flat, wide puppy-paws flapping and padding up and down for hours along roads, over fields, to find his way back. It was instinct that told him he was still too young to survive on his own. He did not even try to find food. He stopped at puddles and streams to drink. And all the time, south, south. He crossed rivers and roads, nearly causing an accident more than once. He ran blindly and directly, without a pause. He was running for his life.

  But it could not have been just instinct that led him to one particular corner of Surrey. Greycub had no knowledge of where he was heading, although he knew he had a goal. He had no memory of his very early life, before the Breeder, but somehow he had fixed in him a sense of home, of safety. It was a place Silver could never have turned to. She had grown up in the wild and for her all humans were enemies. In the end, th
at failure to adapt had cost her her life. But Greycub, who had lived with people, had no such inhibitions.

  Long after his paws were raw and bleeding, he continued to run. On the morning of the third day he padded almost blind with fatigue along the small road that led to High Pond Farm and through a gate that he could not remember, right up into the farmyard. Then, he sat down and waited.

  Unfortunately for Greycub there was no one there at the time. Ben was up in his room doing his homework and both his mother and father were out. It was not until John Tilley came back an hour later on the tractor that he saw a strange little dog sitting in the middle of the yard. He thought how odd it was that it did not move. It just turned its head to look at him, rather shakily. The poor little thing seemed dead beat. He got off the tractor and went down to have a closer look. Then he noticed the smoky blue eyes, only just beginning to turn amber. It was not until he had it in his hands that he remembered the strange grey silver and pale gold coat, and saw that the pup was just exactly the right age.

  ‘It’s that damn cub – he’s found his way back – Ben!’ he shouted and ran to the house with his find.

  11

  GREYCUB’S MARATHON – IT was an astounding journey for such a small cub, with no food and no rest – had won him his safety, but he was in a trauma of shock, exhaustion and hunger when John Tilley found him in the farmyard. After a meal of minced meat in warm milk he fell straight to sleep and carried on sleeping for the whole day and the following night. He did not even wake up when Mr Tilley dressed his raw paws with antiseptic. He jerked a little in his sleep as the stinging liquid was dabbed on and he cried, but never woke up.

  He spent the night in Ben’s room. He was not allowed in the bed as Mrs Tilley was worried he would wet it, or worse, and Ben had to promise to keep him in a basket on the floor. As soon as his parents had said goodnight he lifted the sleeping wolfcub out and snuggled him in the warm next to him.