Children of the Wolves

by Jessica Starre

  Jelena had heard the story, how the riders recovered his torn and bloody body a long time later when they went looking. The distraught Isolde, blaming herself because Timothy had never awakened and had despaired, had given up her calling and isolated herself from the others, tending her small garden by the little cabin near the northern fence. She asked nothing from the people, though they left gifts of food and clothing for her when they had them to spare. Michael, she knew, encouraged that. He was a good man and didn’t judge others. Sometimes his compassion was mistaken for weakness. Sometimes she made that mistake herself.

  Jelena sighed. She knew that newlyborn and protector shouldn’t share that most intimate of acts, the deepest of emotions, but if she was going to remain unawakened anyway, where was the risk? She would be in no danger of throwing herself to the wolves if she had Michael.

  As if reading her thoughts, the rememberer said, “The law exists to prevent harm to the newlyborn. When Brad and Brette became lovers, they had an emotional fight one day and they both stormed off in anger. Later, Brette experienced her awakening. Unprepared for the reckoning, unprotected, she took leave of her senses. She just stared, eyes wide open and unblinking, day after day, until death took her. Seeing what he had done, Brad hanged himself from a tree just beyond the eastern paddock.”

  Jelena shivered. The rememberer was as skilled a raconteur as the storyteller.

  “That’s awful,” she said. “I hadn’t heard of that.”

  “The Law protects us,” the rememberer said.

  “The Way protects us,” Jelena responded. But even as she said it, she wasn’t sure she believed it. The proscriptions and rules of the people, all set out for her own good, constricted and restricted until sometimes she wanted to flee. Only knowing she couldn’t leave Michael behind prevented it some days.

  The rememberer’s eyes were gentle as he looked at her. “Very often the pain of today passes with the coming of tomorrow,” he said kindly.

  She covered his hand with her own. Very often, she supposed, the pain of today did pass with the coming of tomorrow. But not always. He of all people knew that. “Thank you,” she said, bending forward to kiss his cheek.

  “Child,” he said, and then stopped. She thought he might have been about to give her advice or a platitude but apparently he thought better of it. “Go in the Way,” he said finally.

  “I will,” she said, rising to leave. “Here, I will finish this chore.” She had put the rememberer’s trash in the wash tub, and now she picked it up to bring it to the midden. She felt his eyes on her as she moved to the door and let herself out. She supposed it would not be too long before he put the blankets back up on the windows.

  As she walked along the western fence near the paddock, she saw a sleek gray body twining among the trees. Shading her eyes from the afternoon sun, she watched its elegant movements. She paused, holding her breath, then glanced quickly around; no one was watching. She didn’t want to draw attention to the animal and cause unnecessary, uncalled-for panic. She kept the phantom shape in the corner of her eye as she walked to the midden.

  Dumping the garbage, she set the tub down and moved quietly to the fence. The wolf stood beyond, in the trees, its breath coming in quick pants. His golden eyes fixed on her but Jelena felt no threat. Intrigued, she made no sudden moves but slipped quietly between the rails of the fence. Now no barrier stood between her and the animal.

  The wolf turned and moved through the trees, glancing over its shoulder as if to invite her along. She followed for a few moments, moving deeper among the pines and beeches. Over a rise, the wolf loped off into the trees and disappeared from view.

  Disappointed, Jelena stood staring in the direction where the wolf had headed, hands on her hips as she scanned the trees for any sign of movement. Nothing. As if the wolf hadn’t existed at all. She caught sight of a patch of mud not far from where she stood. She dropped to her knees to examine the patch of mud more closely. It bore the perfect imprint of the wolf’s paw. She spread her fingers and covered the track with her palm. Touching the pawprint made her feel connected to the beautiful creature she had seen. She rocked back on her heels, wishing that the wolf hadn’t disappeared so quickly.

  She knew her affinity for the wolves terrified the other tribe members; it had no precedent. She’d realized early on that it was best to hide her interest in the animals, but no one was around to censure her now. She looked around in vain for a glimpse of the lithe gray animal. She thought there was a reason the animals followed so close to the main enclosure, and it was not that they were waiting for a chance to devour the weak and unaware, no matter what the elders and the storyteller — and Michael — said.

  When she heard the wolves howling in the night, it didn’t make her blood run cold as it did the other villagers. She could hear the wolves asking for companionship and shelter, offering protection and love. Had she told the Elders her thoughts they would probably have pronounced the dōm upon her and driven her out, beyond the fence. So she kept her knowledge to herself, hugging it to her heart. She supposed it would be easier if she simply believed the way everyone else did. But she couldn’t force herself to believe just by trying.

  She got to her feet, brushed off her trousers, then slipped back inside the fence. She retrieved the wash tub from where she’d left it near the midden, intending to bring it back to the rememberer’s cabin. She paused as she passed a cluster of trueborns crouched in a circle on the near side of the infirmary. She walked over to the knot of children, moving quietly, but Samuel, Michael’s helper, looked up at her approach. Some surprising, wholly unexpected emotion crossed his face — sullenness or anger? — and then he stepped back so she could see what they were doing.

  The children surrounded a collection of small stones — stones she’d never seen before. She didn’t touch them, just crouched next to the children to look. The stones caught the sunlight, revealing a hidden glow. Her eyes widened as she looked. The stones came in colors — some blue, some pink, others orange or yellow.

  “How beautiful,” she said, resisting the urge to pick them up and hold them in her hands. “Where did you find them?” The children said nothing, looking at each other, discomfort marking their faces.

  “I found them,” Samuel spoke up. And yes, it was surliness that crossed his face, Jelena was shocked to realize. “And I don’t mind showing them to other people. But — but I was the one who found them … ” His voice trailed off and he looked away from her, staring down at his dirty bare feet.

  “And it would be hard for you to give them to the community,” Jelena said gently. She glanced about and saw that the sentries weren’t watching them, and still none of the people were about. Everyone seemed intent to stay in the dining hall where it was more comfortably cool and no work needed to be done, and they could mourn the trader and worry about the wolves.

  Jelena wrestled with her conscience. The rules of the tribe had been drilled into her from the time she was newlyborn. Everything they had, they shared. Everyone and everything belonged to the people, all equally. Except — except that didn’t always seem to be the case, did it? She sighed. She shouldn’t encourage frailty in the trueborns, for they would be the ones to lead the community for all the future. But the sullenness on Samuel’s face alarmed her.

  “I think,” she said, slowly, measuring and weighing the words as she said them, “that it wouldn’t hurt, Samuel, for you to pick one of these stones that you like the best and to — find a keeping place for it. And you and the other trueborns can look at it now and again — although — ” and here she could hardly believe what she was suggesting, “although I think it wouldn’t be terribly wise to show it the adults. Especially the elders.” Then, lest she leave the wrong impression she added hurriedly, “Because they have to look after the whole community, do you see?”

  “Yes,” Samuel said, his eyes wide.

 
; Well, she was glad he did see because she had no idea what she meant. She bent down again and collected the stones in her hand. They reflected obliquely the midday sun and she gasped at the deep blue glow of one of the stones.

  “That’s a sapphire,” she stammered. “These are all sapphires!” The trader had described such gems once, and she recognized these now — not as the exact same gems the trader had traded for, but ones like those he’d told her about.

  Samuel’s eyes grew wider at her words. “What d’you mean?” he asked, abandoning sullenness for anxiety. Jelena was sorry to have worried him.

  “We should ask the others,” Jelena demurred. She knew nothing about stones or gems. It wasn’t her place to know. “Samuel, which one would you like to keep?” Samuel bit his lip and looked down at the stones, his face screwed up with even more intense anxiety. His hand inched forward toward one of the stones Jelena held in her palm. Then he snatched his hand away. Jelena glanced sharply at him. “What is it, Samuel?” she asked.

  He gave her another angry look, the anxiety gone, replaced by a coating of sullenness that coarsened his features. “No,” he said. “It isn’t right for me to take it. Everything we have, all that we receive, we share with everyone,” he recited fiercely and glared at her.

  She thought with astonishment, He believes I tried to set a trap for him. But why would he believe that? She wanted to tell him that she wouldn’t test him like that, but she looked at his closed face, doubted she could get through to him, and sighed again.

  “Very good,” she said, just as if she had been testing him. “Very good, Samuel, that’s exactly how a future leader of the tribe should decide.”

  Still, she would have felt a lot better about the future of the tribe if he had grabbed one of the stones, hightailed it into the forest, and found a very good hiding place for it.

  “Come on,” she said. “Let’s show the others.” Samuel nodded. The anger on his face had been replaced with resignation. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he followed her across the compound to the main hall. The other trueborn children didn’t accompany them but scattered to various duties and occupations. She wished she hadn’t come upon them; she wished she’d kept walking.

  Jelena ushered Samuel into the dining hall. Spotting a group of adults still comfortably ensconced at one of the tables, she walked over and said, “Samuel has made an interesting find for us.” She rolled the stones gently onto the table. The storyteller, lazily regaling stories of his escapades to his table companions, stopped speaking at her action. The adults nearest her glanced at the stones with expressions of polite interest, but the stonecutter leapt to his feet, grabbed a couple of the stones and said, “Those are precious stones, my boy! Where on earth did you find them?”

  Samuel didn’t quite understand what the older man meant, but at length the stonecutter reminded them that his pastself had been a jeweler and that he had cut gemstones just like this to display their beauty. In the world that had gone before, stones such as these were worth as much as all the pigs they owned, he contended. Wide-eyed, Samuel stammered out the location of the sapphire field, in one of the caves that dotted the area, and one he most assuredly should not have been exploring on his own. But no one thought to chastise him for the lapse.

  The adults handed the stones around the table, examining them, staring quizzically at them, then turning to the stonecutter for further explanation.

  “An hour or two with these stones,” he crooned, “and I could create a masterpiece that would dazzle the eye and take your breath away. If I had the right tools. I would need the right tools. I could get the right tools,” he assured himself. Then his shoulders slumped and he plucked at his beard. “But who understands the value of gems?” he muttered to himself. “Who takes them in trade?”

  Rufus looked across the table at him. “The ones who have what is sufficient,” he pointed out quietly. “The ones who have abundant livestock and fertile fields and plenty of drinking water; stout trueborns and newlyborns with talents beyond which we can reckon.”

  Jelena straightened as Rufus spoke. If Samuel’s gift truly could be used for the betterment of the people, then he would be much appreciated for his contributions, even if he hadn’t found his calling yet.

  “Yes,” the stonecutter grunted, acknowledging the wisdom of Rufus’s words. “You mean the Sithans and the Trinitarians.” He plucked his beard more vigorously. “Worth a man’s life to trade with the Sithans,” he said.

  Jelena smiled faintly. “Why not store them for a while?” she asked. To take precipitate action might not be best for the people. They needed to consider what this meant and how it would affect them. They needed to discuss among themselves what they wanted. But before she could make this point, she heard the stump of elder Cara behind her. Everyone in the dining hall fell quiet as the old woman strode forward, her cane thumping the ground as she moved.

  Teresa followed, simpering, in her wake. The cold calculating malice of Teresa chilled Jelena and she was no more reassured by the acquisitive gleam she saw in the elder’s eye. She knew that her sensible suggestions would never be heard. If the Cara had access to something that the Sithans did not, her prestige would rise considerably among the tribes. And Cara, the leader of the people, had only one thing left to covet, and that was status.

  Chapter Four

  Later that evening, the storyteller collected his lute from his apprentice — all of his apprentices seemed to be young, blue-eyed, blonde girls, but no one ever held that against him — and found a comfortable spot in the courtyard where he began strumming under the silvery stars. Though the night was warm, a slight breeze made sitting and listening reasonably comfortable and the people set aside their occupations to listen to him.

  The kitchen helpers placed smudge pots around the courtyard to keep the insects down and stood by, tending to them while listening. Bertha tapped a barrel of ale and villagers filled their mugs, the cool refreshment a fitting accompaniment to the entertainment. The whole village — more than one hundred in all — gathered in the courtyard as the storyteller fingered his lute and began singing a few old songs.

  Jelena shook her head when a helper held out a mug to her. When she felt this upset and out of sorts, ale was not what she needed to regain her composure. Michael stood near, just a step to the right of her and while it might appear he was watching the storyteller, she knew he kept a careful eye on her.

  Viktor gave her a vague nod before sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of the storyteller and closing his eyes to listen to the music the storyteller made, so different from his own, yet capturing the same sense of loss and longing.

  The storyteller intoned the words mournfully. The lute echoed quietly in the night. The villagers turned to the storyteller as they always did and said in wondering voices, “What does it mean?” and the storyteller smiled and said, “It is a spiritual song,” and so they turned to Michael and asked, “What does it mean?” And he spoke to them of the Way and of fate and how each person had to choose the path that would save his soul. At this the unawakened moved uncomfortably in their spots and looked away from the other tribe members; how could they have souls if they had no pastself, no memory? How could they choose when they were not chosen? They were nothing, less than nothing. They may have been saved but they were doomed. What could the makers have intended?

  After a moment, Michael gestured to the storyteller to continue, and the old man changed chords and began to tell the Beginning.

  “And when the makers saw that the Great Disaster was at hand, they gathered up people of every kind — men and women of all ages and sizes, shapes and races; physicians and artists, farmers and fishmongers. But they saved wisely. They did not to gather up people who disobeyed the laws of community. People who would steal from the community. People who would raise a hand to one another — ” Here, as usual, gasps rose from the gathered gro
up; they could not really believe that such a world had ever existed.

  The storyteller lowered his voice to a thrilling tone: “People who would murder one another in the streets!” Someone in the back of the crowd gasped. It was like a good ghost story. Scary and shivery and yet not quite real. They could not conceive of such a world where murderers walked freely among the people.

  The storyteller strummed his lute and continued. “They gathered up these people and saved them. Stored them away in their glass wombs so that when they would be newlyborn, they could remake the world. Now, I am not one to criticize the makers,” the storyteller said slyly and the crowd stifled a giggle, “but they seem to have been a little haphazard in the end, scattering their glass wombs across seventy nations, and forgetting to ensure that every nation had what it needed — a gardener and a midwife, a teacher and a storyteller. Instead, the makers gave some tribes many artists and no farmers, and these tribes worshiped pure form and color and did not know how to feed themselves. And some tribes received only warriors and metalsmiths, and these tribes were warlike and perished gloriously in battle. And so it went. Until the Wudu-faesten arose newlyborn and they were pleased to be blessed with only loving, compassionate, and peaceable members who lived in harmony with one another and shared all that they had so none should lack.” Here he strummed a tune, bowing his head. “And the Wudu-faesten flourished, secure in the protection of the forest.”

  This was the story of their origins. There was more to it, of course, and sometimes the storyteller told some parts and other times he told other parts. They waited breathlessly to hear what part he would tell tonight.

  The storyteller lifted his head and they caught their collective breath. He fingered the lute for a long, agonizing moment and then he said, “The makers — I never criticize them, as you know,” he said, his aged face crinkling with a smile as he said so. “The makers were generous in their gathering. In their saving. We would not be here if they had not saved us. But the makers … the makers forgot … they forgot that we would need food and shelter and knowledge. They forgot we would not have tools and trained animals. They gathered us into glass wombs … but when we were newlyborn, we were naked and alone, unprotected and afraid.”