• • •
“Wolves,” Michael announced to the assembled villagers that evening. He didn’t meet Jelena’s gaze. She would never know what it cost him to say what he said. She hadn’t been privy to the council meeting he had so recently endured.
“Our healer Isolde was taken from us by wolves,” Michael said, and the words burned like acid in his throat. He felt almost relieved when Jelena pushed her way out of the crowd gathered in the courtyard and strode into the main hall, slamming the door shut behind her. He didn’t know how he would have responded to a spoken challenge from her.
A few of the villagers watched her go and shifted uneasily from foot to foot. They liked Jelena for all that she was unawakened. She obviously disagreed with the pastor, and whereas they acknowledged the pastor might have his reasons for speaking something less than the truth, what reason would Jelena have for dissenting? Unless she knew something she wasn’t saying?
But as usual their natural distaste for conflict overcame their reservations, as Michael knew would happen, and they came to the consensus that wolves had indeed been the direct cause of Isolde’s death.
“Of course it was the wolves,” Cara said at the evening meal that night, dismissing and stilling the gossip with one sentence. “We had a mild winter last year. They are always out in force following a mild winter.”
That was true, the villagers said to one another … or was it?
So later on, after the dishes had been cleared, the storyteller gathered them together and called for his lute. The helpers lit the gathering fire and the people listened to the tale with rapt attention.
“The first born suffered many trials to show us the Way,” he began. This was a story he told only rarely, so the tribe members leaned close to hear it. “I have sometimes wondered if the makers set these challenges so that the first born would have to prove themselves worthy. For if they had not proven themselves worthy, none of us would be here.”
He stilled the lute and his dark piercing eyes met the reluctant gazes of different tribe members. First Alaric, then Emma, then Samuel. After a long moment he picked another chord on his lute and continued.
“First they had to find food and water, though they were newlyborn, alone and afraid, hardly capable of walking, barely remembering how to speak. They sheltered in the caves at first, huddled together with no protection. They had to find the river with no one to guide them, and forage for food in the forest, with no one to show them how. But these things they did despite their fear.”
Again he stopped and gazed at the assembled villagers, as if to challenge them to dispute his tale.
“But they survived. They found food and water. They remembered how to make clothes and shelter. They emerged from the caves, to live in the light, as the makers intended.” Again the challenging stare, as if someone might contend that the makers had really meant them to stay in the caves. But of course no one believed that, not even Jelena.
“But this world is a hard one. And the first born suffered. They died of yellow fever, shivering to death and vomiting up their guts. They fell ill with malaria and there was nothing they could do to stop the delirium. They died of breakbone fever, their bones and muscles and joints ripped apart. They starved in the bad years when there was not enough food to be found. But some survived. And the world around them battled them as if it questioned their right to exist. The winds came, destroying all. The rains came, flooding the river from its banks. But the first born survived and persevered. And then the animals challenged them. The cougars in the forest, slashing down at them, the snakes ambushing them from the trees. The buffalo destroying crops, and the wild mustangs trampling everything in their way.”
The tribe listened, spellbound, to the trials and tribulations of the first born. The storyteller strummed another chord.
“But that was not the worst. The worst were the wolves, sneaking into the shelters at night, stealing trueborn children from their beds. Hunting anyone foolish enough to go beyond the fence. The wolves are cunning and dangerous,” he said. “And they travel in packs, just waiting for the Wudu-faesten to let down their guard.”
Michael turned away, glad Jelena had already retreated to the kitchen. He knew the storyteller’s tale would have provoked a rash defense of wolves from her. Though he disagreed with the elders and thought the tribe must prepare for war, he didn’t think there was anything wrong with the storyteller telling his story and reassuring the Wudu-faesten that they were not under attack by a human enemy.
He was wrong.
That night, the tribe began killing the wolves.
• • •
Jelena stormed into his quarters at sunrise, her arms full. His first muddled thought was that she was holding a fur cloak and he wondered why she was carrying it around this time of year. Then he saw the blood. He sat up, rubbing a hand over his eyes, propping himself up on his elbows. She dropped the bundle at the foot of his pallet.
“This must stop,” she said, her voice pitched low but he could hear the steel in it. “This is the fifth wolf in three nights.”
He sought to collect his wits, closing his eyes briefly, willing himself to alertness. “The tribe is frightened,” he said.
“The people are afraid of the wrong thing,” Jelena said through her teeth. “Wolves don’t attack humans unprovoked. This must stop. You must tell them the truth.”
“Jelena, we don’t know the truth. We don’t know who — or what — is attacking our tribe. We don’t know what they want or why they’re doing it. What can we tell the tribe? They’ll be frightened and there’s no way to stop it. What would you have me do?”
“I don’t know,” Jelena said. “I’m only the cook’s helper. But you can’t keep lying.”
“Jelena,” he said and then hesitated. He shouldn’t share the privileged conversation with her, but the rumors had been circulating since Rodrigo was newlyborn, so of course she would have heard. Finally, he plunged ahead. “You know we hope that Rodrigo will awaken and become our warrior chief. When he does so, he will be able to lead us against our enemies. But before then — we’re not prepared for war.”
Jelena studied him for a long moment, her face calm and detached. He hated how detached she seemed.
“If you want him to awaken and lead you then you need to take better care of his protection,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Teresa and Rodrigo have been lovers for at least a month.”
“Teresa?” Michael echoed. “Rodrigo?” He swore softly and fell back among the pillows on his pallet.
“If the legends are true, when a protector and a newlyborn become partners, the newlyborn may never awaken.”
Michael knew the stories. He had often wondered if his romantic love for Jelena, although never consummated, had somehow even so poisoned her, dooming her to remain unawakened. The fear and dread of that result had always prevented him from speaking, even as the long years passed.
“How do you know this?” he asked, hoping she merely repeated an unfounded rumor.
“I saw them.”
“You saw them?”
“I did. And the rememberer says — ”
“I know what has happened in the past.” Now he wondered if Teresa and Rodrigo’s passion would destroy the tribe’s future.
“Then by all that’s good, Michael! You have to do more than hope for the best.”
“I know, Jelena,” he said softly.
“And tell your people to stop killing my wolves!”
The door slammed behind her. He could hear the echoes reverberate through the meeting hall. Jelena faulted him for not acting quickly enough. So full of energy and movement herself, her patience and watchfulness had been hard earned, at great cost. She couldn’t understand that other people naturally needed to think and reflect before acting.
He lay with his arms crossed behind his head, considering her words. His people. He wondered when they had become his people, no longer our people. My wolves, she had called them. That was most interesting. When had they become her wolves? He pondered the ceiling and wondered what he was going to do next.
• • •
Later that morning, Bertha told him that Jelena had gotten permission to move into Isolde’s now-empty cabin in the remote northwestern corner of the village. She’d moved out of her sleeping room off the kitchen to make room for a group of trueborn being started in the kitchen.
“She’s bringing her things there now,” Bertha finished, giving him a meaningful glance. He supposed she was encouraging him to find Jelena there, where they might have a private conversation. But he didn’t know what to say to Jelena anymore.
In the following weeks, Michael found the hall empty without her, even though he knew she could be found in the kitchen during the day, without fail. But somehow it seemed as if she were just visiting. He told himself he was feeling the way a parent would when the child declared itself ready to stand on its own two feet.
She doesn’t need me anymore, and I’m just melancholy, he thought and tried not to admit that he had always hoped, even expected, that one day they would be partners. He had always believed she would awaken and find her calling, and their callings would be compatible and then he would be able to do the things he had always sternly resisted: take her in his arms, kiss her hard on the lips, undress her slowly and make love with her until they cried out their completion. They would possess each other in a way few others ever achieved.
They would touch each other not only with their bodies but their minds, hearts, spirits. Letting go the watchfulness to partake of unfettered passion, not bounded by duties and proscriptions.
But it looked as if he had been wrong. There she was, peeling carrots in the kitchen and here he was telling people about the Way, without any meaningful connection. They might have been strangers for their impersonal greetings when they unexpectedly encountered one another in the hall. One would think he had not spent seven years at her side, dreaming of being more than her protector.
His recompense was that sometimes she consented to take a mug of ale at table with him and ask how things were going. It didn’t seem adequate.
She had done that after meal today, but the silence had grown between them, not companionable, and she’d gotten to her feet again, quickly, and cleared the used dishes.
Now he sat in the council room listening to the elders talk. He wished — no. No more wishing, no more longing. Planning and action. That was the useful way.
A soft knock sounded at the door and Danielle entered the room. She gave Michael a shy smile, but her face hardened as she caught Cara’s gaze. Tightening her jaw, she lowered herself a trifle awkwardly to the bench along the wall, her belly swollen and ungainly.
“We asked Danielle here today to discuss her situation,” Archibald said.
“We would like for your child to have a father,” Cara said. “Although all the people will be the child’s family.”
“I have no wish to partner with the father of my child,” Danielle said, crossing her arms over her chest. In other circumstances, her defiance would have been dealt with severely, but no elder would dare risk the health and well-being of a trueborn child by punishing its mother.
“We have discussed the matter at length,” Cara said, indicating the other elders with a graceful movement of her hand. “And we are willing to accept that the trader was the father of your child.”
Danielle lifted a brow at that. “And?”
“And you may pick your partner. But we would very much like you to partner with someone.”
Michael knew — as Danielle surely did — that this request could not be ignored. Danielle glanced at Michael and shifted uneasily on the bench.
“Who do you have in mind?” she asked.
Cara folded her hands in front of her. “Joe or Alaric would be acceptable, if they would agree. Michael?”
He’d expected that. Now that Jelena had passed from his protection and Teresa had become Rodrigo’s protector, he was a logical choice.
Well, why not? He wasn’t going to have Jelena. Why not partner with Danielle and raise a trueborn child for the tribe? The tribe would appreciate him. He could train Charmaine as his replacement as head of the riders and spend his time on his duties as the pastor and with being a father. It would suit him.
“Let Danielle reflect on her choices for a time,” he said. “I would accept the responsibility but I know Joe or Alaric would be equally pleased.”
Danielle gave him another shy smile. He knew she preferred him to the others, if only because she knew him better. She took her leave, squeezing his shoulder in thanks as she passed by his place, shutting the door quietly behind her.
“Well, that is fine, then,” Archibald said.
It seemed to Michael to be the least pressing matter, but he wasn’t an elder, so he waited patiently for a chance to ask again what they planned to do against the threat that harried them.
“What if Rodrigo is not our warrior chief? What if he does not awaken in time?” he demanded when the opportunity arose.
Cara eyed Archibald and said calmly, “Some among us say we should give up these lands and re-settle elsewhere.”
“What? Where? What of all the years of work we have given to this land?”
“We can find fruitful land elsewhere,” Archibald said.
Abandon the protection of the trees? Michael sucked a breath in. “What of the unborn in the caves?” he asked. “You would abandon the saved that the makers left in our care?”
Cara slanted a glance at Archibald. “We have not reached that level of desperation yet,” she said.
“The unborn are our future,” Michael objected.
“The trueborn are our future,” Cara said flatly.
Michael leaned back in his seat. The trueborn were important to the tribe, but the unborn, waiting to be newlyborn — they couldn’t be abandoned so callously.
Since the death of the trader, Michael had begun to doubt the wisdom of the elders. For the first time, he now thought they were wrong.
• • •
The night was clear — another full moon. Michael sighed and breathed in the night air. The last time he’d stood out here like this, Jelena had been upset about her seventh anniversary. The night breeze was cooler now. Beyond that, little had changed as he looked out across the courtyard. Everything had changed.
The sentry standing guard, a little more nervous now, a little more alert to wolves, raised a hand to acknowledge his presence. Perhaps Jelena was right and he should tell the tribe what he thought was the truth. But his was a peaceable tribe. They could swing a sword and shoot a bow but they weren’t warriors. They wouldn’t survive battles — wars.
A sharp howl pierced the night air. The sentry closest to him said something to his partner and made a move to investigate.
“I’ll take care of it,” Michael said, waving the sentry off, glad of the distraction. He lifted the iron lantern from its bracket. “You stay here.”
The howl sounded as if it had come from the compost pile, so he headed in that direction. He unsheathed his dagger and kept the lantern aloft as he moved forward. Despite Jelena’s affection for the creatures, he didn’t trust them and would rather scare them off with the light and loud walking than unexpectedly encounter one in the dark.
“By all that’s good!”
“Jelena,” he whispered.
“Hold the light there,” she said, just as if she’d been expecting him. “I’ve almost got it.”
“What?” He looked at her, saw the wolf pup she held, one hand clamped securely around its muzzle, the other working the spring on a mechanical sa
w-toothed trap.
“Dammit. Doesn’t the mechanic have anything better to do?” she said through gritted teeth. “Bring that light a little closer.”
He lowered the lantern, then hissed through his teeth. “Jelena, you’re bleeding. Did the wolf — ”
“No, the trap. Sharp as broken glass. Put your thumb there.”
“Where?”
“On that latch. Yes, that’s it. I was trying to do that with my elbow but it’s a little hard to manage that way. Here we go.” The trap opened and she gathered the wolf pup in her arms. Michael got to his feet, letting the trap snap shut.
“Jelena, what are you doing?”
“I’m taking care of this pup. She can’t be released like this. She may have a broken leg.”
Michael opened his mouth to protest — surely she didn’t plan to nurse the wolf pup back to health — but she’d already taken off at a swift pace, the bundle of fur squirming in her arms. He followed her to Isolde’s cabin, lighting the dirt path with the lantern.
Once inside the cabin, she moved quickly and competently to treat the injured animal. She sacrificed the hem of a tunic and found some short lengths of wood to splint the wolf’s leg. Michael, a feeling of unwilling admiration affecting his better judgment, helped hold the wolf as she worked. She created a nest in a corner, emptying her clothing chest and tucking the remains of the tunic in as bedding. She placed the wolf inside and set a dish of water near it. She fed it leftover cheese and bread from the cupboard, straight from her hands as if there were no fear in her. After it had eaten, the wolf curled into a ball, closing its eyes and tucking its muzzle into its tail.
“I’m just going to let her heal, then send her on her way,” Jelena promised, running her hand over the animal’s fur. He knew that despite the fact that she had a comfortable pallet up in the loft she would sleep down here, curled up next to the wolf. She looked up at him, a pleading expression in her eyes. “Please don’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t.”
“Thank you, Michael. Good night.” Already she turned back to the wolf.
Children of the Wolves Page 13
