I’m sorry, Torak said in wolf talk – although it was only a tiny part of what he felt.
I know, said Wolf.
And that was that.
The howl ended, and a young female – a beautiful black wolf with eyes like green amber – trotted up to Torak with a rotten fish head in her jaws, and set it before him as a present. He thanked her and they touched noses. Then she and Wolf raced off to play with the cubs.
Once he was sure that Wolf was deep in a game of tag, Torak stuck the fish head in the fork of a birch for Rip and Rek. He’d been careful not to make a fuss of them in front of his pack-brother, and they’d been sulking in a pine tree. Food changed that, and soon they were squabbling over the prize.
It was a hot afternoon and the dead wolf stank, so Torak dragged it into the Forest. Let the ravens peck it undisturbed; and if the lynx returned for its kill, let it feed.
Then he went to find food for himself. After cutting a spear from a hazel tree, he woke up a fire and hardened the tip, then went to try his luck in the water lily lake.
It wasn’t long before he speared a pike. Watched by a clutch of curious wolves, he roasted it and ate all except the tail, which he tied to the reeds as an offering. Then he ate a few handfuls of crunchy watercress and some early cloudberries, which burst on his tongue like honey.
Feeling full for the first time in days, he sat under an alder to mend his clothes. Without needles and thread, this was easy. He simply cut off his leggings at the knee, and as his jerkin was already in shreds, he gave up on it and went bare-chested, using the scraps to make a new headband.
When that was done, he leaned back and did nothing at all.
On the lake, a mallard floated on its side, preening its belly feathers. A pair of teal flipped bottoms-up to feed. An otter taught her cubs to swim, and they paddled furiously, too fluffy to sink.
The ravens were splashing in the shallows, and the cubs were playing hunt-the-cloudberry. In the boggy channels draining the lake, Wolf and three young full-growns were trying unsuccessfully to wade-herd fish.
Torak felt a thrill of pure happiness. Wolves, ravens, otters, trees, rocks, lake: he was at peace with them all. For a moment he felt his world-soul reaching out to the world-soul of every living creature, like threads of golden gossamer floating on the wind. Wolf’s amber gaze sought his, and Torak knew that he felt it too: that everything was just right.
On the other side of the lake, the reeds parted, as if for an unseen presence, and the lead wolf turned his head to watch. Idly, Torak wondered what he saw.
The leader of the pack was a large slate-grey wolf with a white blaze on his chest. Torak admired the way he asserted his leadership firmly but without bluster, never demeaning himself by bullying, and always watching out for his pack. Like Fin-Kedinn, thought Torak with a twinge of longing.
The young wolves were romping about in the shallows. Wolf bounded over to Torak and went down on his forepaws, lashing his tail. Come and play!
Torak pulled off his knife, belt and leggings and jumped in.
After the heat of the afternoon, the water was deliciously cold. Down he swam through spears of sunlight and rippling green weeds. Golden roach flickered past, and blue-black tench. On the underside of a water lily leaf, a bubble hung like a pearl, and he popped it with his finger.
Wolf’s paws flashed by, and Torak yanked his tail. Wolf gave a startled yelp – Torak burst into the sunshine in a glitter of droplets – and they wrestled: Wolf play-growling, Torak shouting with laughter.
He was happy. He could live like this for ever.
Wolf gave a great twisting leap and splashed down on Tall Tailless. His pack-brother slipped under the Wet, then burst out again with his yip-and-yowling laugh.
That prompted the lead female to start a howl, and Wolf joined in. The badness in Tall Tailless had been chased away, the ravens knew their place, and he, Wolf, could be with Tall Tailless and the pack!
The howl ended. Tall Tailless waded out and threw himself down to dry off, and Wolf trotted up the rise to catch the scents.
He smelt many good smells, but to his dismay, he also caught the scent of the Otherness. It was floating on the Big Wet, much closer than before. It was getting bolder.
The ravens picked up the scent, and lifted into the sky.
Wolf watched them go – but decided not to follow. If there was trouble, they would alert the pack. That was what ravens were for.
Watching Rip and Rek flying east reminded Torak that he had things to do: he needed to build a shelter and set some snares.
Wolf knew before he did that he was heading into the Forest. Wagging his tail to show that he understood, he bounded off to play with the cubs.
Torak pulled on his leggings and started for the spot by the stream where the beavers were busy. He heard the crack of a tail-slam. Beware! Intruder! But they weren’t really scared, as they knew he would only take the wood which they couldn’t use themselves.
He chose three saplings which they’d gnawed through but hadn’t been able to drag away, because they’d got stuck halfway down. Back at the denning place, he built a lean-to, filling in the sides with branches and bracken. Then he made his way through the Forest, and at the black beach he dismantled his old shelter and wiped out all trace of his presence.
The wound on his chest was painful and hot, so he dressed it with chewed willow bast and bandaged it with buckskin from his jerkin. By the time he’d finished, he was shaking with fatigue. He’d done too much. He must be weaker than he thought. Curling up at the edge of the trees, he fell asleep.
He dreamed of Renn. He felt her presence, but couldn’t see her. He could hear her, though, as plainly as if she stood behind him.
‘Better look after that wound, Torak,’ she said in her wry, gentle way, ‘or it’ll go bad.’
‘I put some willow leaves on it,’ he said.
‘It still hurts, doesn’t it? Remember that healing spring on the north shore? You go up there and bathe it, right now.’
‘If you come too,’ he said, desperate to keep her with him.
‘Maybe,’ she replied, and he heard the smile in her voice. She was getting fainter.
‘Come back!’ he called. ‘Renn, don’t go! I miss you!’
‘Do you?’ She sounded amused. ‘Well, I miss you too.’
He didn’t want her to go. He was frantic to stay in the dream.
Mewing in distress, he woke up.
Clouds covered the sun, and the beach was desolate. Trudging down to the Lake, Torak stared at his name-soul in the water. He saw the mark of the outcast on his forehead; on his chest, the ragged wound from the Soul-Eater tattoo.
For an afternoon, he had been happy on the island. Ravens, beavers, otters, wolves: all had accepted him. But he missed Fin-Kedinn and he missed Renn.
He wondered if he would ever see them again.
TWENTY-SIX
The morning after the hailstorm, Renn stared at the stony little islet where the Lake had thrown them, and wondered how in the name of the Spirit they were going to get off.
The day before, as she’d huddled on the rocks, she’d simply been glad to be alive. Now she gazed about her in dismay.
There were plenty of trees, so at least they had fire and shelter; but she could have circled the whole islet in less time than it takes to skin a squirrel. And squirrels were doubtless what they’d be eating, because there wasn’t room for anything bigger, and all the other islands were too far away to swim to.
She watched Bale walk to the water’s edge, scuffing through the pine-needles festooning the rocks. He’d hardly spoken since they’d woken up.
‘We’ve still got our axes and knives,’ she said. ‘And my quiver and bow.’
‘Just as well,’ he said without turning round. ‘We’ve lost everything else. Food. The beaver-hide capes. Both paddles.’ He couldn’t bring himself to mention the skinboat, which lay between them. Its whalebone spine was intact, but the ribs on the left flank were
smashed, and the seal-hide covering badly ripped.
‘I don’t think we can repair it,’ said Renn.
‘We’ll have to,’ he snapped.
‘There are trees. We could make a dugout.’
He turned on her. ‘Do you know how long that would take? To hollow out a tree? Have you ever made a dugout?’
She hadn’t. The Ravens built their canoes of deer hide and willow, lashed together with spruce root.
‘Neither have I,’ growled Bale. ‘I’m Seal Clan, we take what the Sea Mother gives us. So unless you want to make a raft with a bunch of reeds, we’re repairing my boat!’
Renn didn’t argue. He hadn’t blamed her for the mess they were in, and he could have, because it was her fault.
The worst of it was, she didn’t know if her Magecraft had worked. She only knew that she felt more exhausted than ever before in her life. She’d ignored all the warnings, she’d hurled herself against that overpowering will – and achieved what? As much good as a sparrow flying into a rockface.
The wind whispered over the pine-needles, and she seemed to catch a ripple of mocking laughter. How Seshru must be sneering at her!
Bale knelt by his skinboat, stroking its flank as if it were a faithful old dog in need of reassurance.
‘Bale,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’
He shrugged. ‘It was to help Torak. It was worth it.’
I hope so, thought Renn.
Bale stood up and squared his shoulders. ‘Right. I’ll make a start on the repairs.’
She nodded. ‘I’ll build a shelter. And find us something to eat.’
It took them four long days to mend the boat.
Bale had to cut down an ash tree to make the new ribs. Thinning them with an axe would have been impossible, so he had to make an adze, and as there wasn’t any flint, he had to fashion one from a lump of granite, chipping and pecking it with a rock. When the ribs were finally shaped, he had to steam them and bend them to fit the hull, then smooth any rough edges which might have pierced the seal hide.
To patch the hide, he and Renn pooled every scrap they could spare: his fish-skin jerkin, her salmonskin tinder pouch, and – with regret – her sealskin bow case. It was barely enough, but when Bale tried to increase their supply by trapping fish, what he caught was too horrifying to use.
Luckily, he still had his repair kit of bone needles and seal-gullet thread, but sewing the stiff hide was painfully slow. ‘No, no, you do double seams,’ he scolded her, ‘and don’t pierce the outside, it’ll leak.’ He was much better at it, so she left him to it. But even with his bone thimble, his fingers were raw by the time he’d finished.
While he worked on the boat, Renn built a shelter, tying bundles of reeds with cords of twisted sedge, and lashing these to a bent willow frame. She gathered burdock, mussels and water lily roots to eat – after mistakenly digging up iris, which tasted disgusting.
She also straightened her arrows and shot a goldeneye duck as it flew in to land. That gave much-needed meat, and she used the skin to make a new tinder pouch, and the feathers for fletching. She sneaked a gobbet of fat to oil her bow, although it made her feel guilty, as Bale needed every morsel to waterproof the boat.
For that they heated a paste of pine-blood, charcoal and duck fat in a birch-bark pail and daubed it on the hull with sticks wrapped in bark. Renn liked the smell of pine, but Bale wrinkled his nose. ‘If only we had seal blubber,’ he muttered.
‘Surely it’s ready now,’ she said when they’d finished. She hadn’t dreamt of Torak since the storm, but the memory was with her constantly.
‘Tomorrow,’ said Bale.
Her heart sank. ‘Another day?’
‘If we don’t let it dry completely, we’ll sink.’
‘But – ’
‘Renn. I know what I’m talking about. We’ll set off in the morning.’
She blew out a long breath. ‘It’s been so long. Anything could have happened to Torak.’
‘I know,’ said Bale. ‘I do know.’
To work off her frustration, Renn went hunting.
Maybe it was the offerings she’d made to the Lake, or maybe it was the pair of ravens she saw overhead, but her luck was good. Another duck, this time a goosander. She cooked it the way her father had taught her long ago: rolling it in mud and burying it in the embers, then cracking it open to get at the juicy meat.
After they’d eaten, Bale sat on the pine-needles, smoothing one of the new ash paddles with horsetail stems, while Renn set the goosander’s innards on the blade of the other paddle and tipped it into the Lake as an offering. It was a warm, still evening, and frogs were piping in the reeds.
From the west came the howling of wolves.
Bale lifted his head. ‘There they are again.’
Now and then, they’d heard them; but although Renn thought she recognized Wolf’s howl, she couldn’t make out Torak’s. She felt a stab of worry. How could Torak be without Wolf?
The ravens were back, flying high and turning their heads from side to side to look down at her. She wondered if they were a good sign to set against all the bad ones.
‘You’re very quiet,’ said Bale.
She turned to speak – then froze.
‘What is it?’ said Bale.
‘The first morning, after the storm, you walked from those pine-needles where you are now, down to the water’s edge.’
‘So?’
‘It wasn’t far. It only took you about three paces to get to the water. Try it now.’
Puzzled, he did as she asked. Then he did it again, to make sure. He stared at her. ‘Five paces. The Lake. It’s sinking, just like the Otters said.’ His face turned grim. ‘Seshru.’
Renn nodded. ‘She’s getting stronger.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
‘Uff!’ barked Wolf, warning Torak not to go any further. But Torak couldn’t turn back now, and Wolf couldn’t come with him.
Torak cast him a reassuring glance and pressed on through the reed-bed, jumping from tussock to tussock. The sun was low, but with luck, he would reach the healing spring before dusk.
He couldn’t wait till morning. The wound on his chest was burning, and had begun oozing yellow pus. The Soul-Eaters were reasserting their power.
‘Uff!’ barked Wolf from the edge of the trees.
Go back! Torak said in wolf talk. Through the reeds he saw Wolf running in circles, whining.
The rockface was as he remembered: steep, yet oddly enticing, with its waterfall misting the ferns. It was surprisingly easy to climb, with convenient footholds and bushes; but he was soon soaked in spray.
‘Uff!’
Glancing down, Torak saw with a pang that Wolf was coming after him. But the rockface was too much for him. He leapt – clawed granite – and fell back with a yelp. It didn’t help that Rip and Rek alighted on a ledge and laughed at him.
Go back! Torak told him. I’m at the Den in the Light! He hated not being able to explain that he would be back soon; but in wolf talk there is no future.
When he looked again, Wolf was gone.
Tiring now, Torak climbed on. He passed the creatures he’d seen before, hammer-etched into the rock. He was too close to glimpse more than fragments – an elk’s sloping nose, a snake’s forked tongue – but he caught their wet clay smell, and made sure not to touch.
At last he heaved himself over the top.
Except it wasn’t the top, but a rocky hollow where part of the cliff had fallen away.
Before him lay a pool of luminous green, as bright as beech leaves with the sun shining through. Around it, purple orchids and black crowberries flourished in green clay: the same clay he’d seen on the faces of the Otters. As with the rockface, stone guardians thronged the encircling boulders. Stone elk raised antlered heads; stone waterbirds flew across stone skies, or plunged after stone pike who swam forever out of reach.
Torak couldn’t see the spring itself, but he heard its echo and felt its power. It felt neither good nor e
vil; it had existed long before either.
He was only too well aware that he didn’t know the proper rites, and he sensed the Hidden People watching. Bowing to the pool, he offered what he’d brought with him: the wing of a woodgrouse wrapped in burdock leaves, which he buried under a rock, in case Rip and Rek came back.
Then he knelt, cupped water in his hands, and bathed his chest, asking the spring to heal him. The water was icy. He welcomed its clean, sharp bite on his burning flesh.
Tentatively, he drank. The water tasted flinty. So did the crowberries, which bore an odd greyish bloom.
He thought about smearing some of the green clay on his chest, but decided not to risk it. He’d only seen that clay on the Otters and on the posts among the reeds. It belonged to the Lake. He was of the Forest. It wouldn’t feel right.
Rip lit down beside him with a loud ‘rap rap rap’! – and he jumped. ‘Rap rap rap’! croaked Rek, thudding down beside Rip and fluffing up her feathers in alarm. In the last rays of the sun, the spray on their wings glittered scarlet, like drops of blood.
‘What’s the matter?’ said Torak. ‘Do you want some berries?’
To his surprise, they refused to eat, and pecked angrily at the crowberry bushes, scattering twigs. Torak shooed them away before they could do much damage.
In the world below, an elk bellowed, and the wolves started their evening howl.
Torak yawned. His chest went blessedly numb, and an irresistible languor was stealing through him. He curled up in the ferns and shut his eyes.
Moon and stars whirled above him, trailing silver fire across a dark-blue sky. He felt giddy and tired, so tired.
He heard the hiss and spit of embers; the spring gurgling a song which had no end. Then another voice joined in, murmuring words he couldn’t understand. It sounded like Renn.
It was Renn.
She sat with her back to him, tending the fire. In the gloom he made out her pale arms and her long, loose hair.
To make sure she was real, he put out a clumsy hand and grasped her wrist.
Her bones were light and small. Yes, real.
Chronicles of Ancient Darkness Page 74
