The two men stood near their cars, speaking in low tones. Dana needed to get closer to hear what they were saying. Before the wolf could stop her, she had crawled along the ditch and beside the vehicles.
The men were arguing.
“I don’t care what it takes!” said the new arrival. He was a Dubliner, with the kind of educated accent Dana considered posh. “Call a meeting, throw a party, whatever. Just create a diversion and get them out of the way!”
“You’re not listening!” Murta said angrily. “They aren’t complete idiots. They won’t leave the site!”
“Look, time’s running out on the European grant. The date is set. August first. It’s up to you to get them out of the damn trees. Can you do it or do we need to find someone else?”
Murta spat on the ground.
“It’s my job. What time are you moving the equipment?”
“Sunset. A bit of darkness always helps. We won’t be working long. With the first line cut, we’ll have won the battle. It’ll knock the fight out of them.” The stranger let out a short laugh. “You can’t put a tree back up when it’s down.”
Murta laughed too, but it sounded more like a cough.
There was a rustle of paper.
“I work for the company, not you,” Murta said coldly.
“Consider it a bonus. There’s a lot of brown envelopes flying around. Might as well grab your share.”
The two were parting when the Dublin man made a startled noise.
“What are you doing with a gun? Are you planning to murder someone?”
Murta coughed up another laugh. “I like to hunt. Gets the blood pumping.”
The other man snorted in agreement. “I love the thrill of the kill myself, but I prefer to do it in court.”
When the cars drove off, Dana waited for a while before climbing out of the ditch. She and the wolf stood alone on the road.
“I’ve got to get back! I’ve got to warn Big Bob and the others!”
To her surprise, the wolf disagreed.
“We cannot turn back.”
“You don’t understand!” Dana said urgently. “If I don’t go back, we’ll lose the woods! We’ll lose the battle!”
The wolf’s tone was grave.
“If you do go back, we may lose the war.”
Dana looked at her, stunned.
“What do you mean?!”
The wolf didn’t answer right away. She stood silent and brooding. A growl rumbled deep in her chest.
“Evil I sensed and evil it is,” she said at last. “Both the human and the thing that feeds on him. I can protect you from the first, but the second …”
The guardian sounded troubled and uncertain; she who had seemed so invincible till now. Dana felt the ground shift beneath her feet. She suddenly remembered the time when she was little and she found her father collapsed on the floor, sobbing violently, a photo of his wife crumpled in his hands. Now, as then, she felt overwhelmed and terrified.
“Courage, dear heart,” the wolf said quietly. “Whatever comes, we shall face it together.”
They resumed their journey, heading westward once more. Though they kept a steady pace, they no longer ran like the wind. Dana noticed that her guardian seemed strangely weighed down, as if by some invisible burden. She wanted to ask what was wrong, but was too afraid. She was already sick with worry. Murta’s betrayal of the eco-warriors plagued her thoughts. Would he succeed in tricking them? There was also the question of what he was doing in the mountains. Who or what was he hunting? A shudder ran through her, and she drew closer to the wolf.
By the time they came in sight of Camaderry’s peak, evening had caught up with them. Dusk brought a haze of gray light. Stars pinned the wisps of cloud. The broad ridge they traversed wound for miles, overlooking the deep valley and the lakes of Glendalough.
As the wolf led them south along the top of the esker, Dana surveyed the landscape with growing unease. She had expected to cross over to Lugduff and continue west to Lugnaquillia.
“Where are we going?” she asked, after a while.
The answer surprised her.
“To the heart of the Vale of the Two Lakes.”
“Glendalough? We can’t go there! It’s always packed. We’ll be seen!”
Her guardian’s voice was firm.
“Glendalough is the destination of all peregrinni who quest in these mountains. That is what you are, little wolf—a wanderer, a pilgrim, one who seeks. In the Vale of the Two Lakes you will find food and rest, and the guidance you need for the next step of your journey.”
Dana’s alarm was peaking. As well as her fear of being recognized, there was something else about Glendalough that niggled at the back of her mind.
“But why—?”
Before Dana could say more, the wolf loped ahead. Nose to the ground, she sniffed her way onto a track that snaked down the steep slope. Then she let out a bark. Dana hurried to catch up. There, hidden halfway down the mountainside, was the entrance to a cave. The wolf crawled in first and Dana followed.
It was snug and dry and sheltered from the wind. Moonlight seeped through the opening. Dried bracken and tufts of fleece littered the ground, perhaps left by a previous occupant, a fox or a hare. Dana swept the debris into a pile in one corner and placed her cloak over it. After a short supper of bread and fruit, she and the wolf settled down together for an early night’s sleep.
But Dana couldn’t sleep. She was restless and unhappy. Something didn’t add up.
“Why do I need help in Glendalough,” she said suddenly, “when I’ve got you?”
She heard the deep sigh in the darkness, felt the warm wolfish breath on her face.
“I will not hide the truth from you. It is a wrong your kind do to their children. This evil that has come to the mountains … I must do what I can to protect you from it.”
Dana’s heart clenched. She sat up.
“What do you mean? What’ll you have to do?”
The wolf sighed again. She, too, got up and nudged Dana to the mouth of the cave. On the ledge outside, they sat together under the lambent eye of the moon.
The wolf’s raspy tongue licked Dana’s forehead.
“Let us sing together, little cub. Let us sing of wonder and catastrophe. Of life and death.”
Raising her head, she started to howl.
It was a primal cry, wild and intoxicating. A rich unending bay that echoed over the mountains and resounded through the glen. Dana was electrified. It was if lightning shot through her veins. The song of her tribe. The cry of her ancestors. She threw back her head and howled too, her throat wide open as the sound poured out like blood. They howled for ages, singing to the night. They sang of hope and courage; of fate and longing; of the joy and horror of life lived in the valley of the shadow of death. When they were finished, a deep peace settled over them.
Back in the cave, Dana felt drained and exhausted, but she still fought off sleep. Her time with the guardian seemed suddenly precious. She leaned against the warm furry back.
“Do you have cubs?”
“I did. Long ago. Proud sons and daughters who roamed these hills. The forests were our haven; but when the great woods were cleared, our days were numbered, as were the days of the Gaelic order. For the trees hid both wolf and rebel.
“Even as your people were laid low, Dana, so too were mine. Humans have always seen us as evil. Your folk tales make us so. Yet we do not prey on men and we rarely fight, even amongst ourselves. We live in clans and we care for our young. Our food is deer, birds, fish, insects, and berries. But we also take the occasional sheep or cow, and that makes us your foe.
“Government acts were passed to oversee the slaughter. Bounties were set. All over the country, we were killed with spears, guns, traps, snares. The last Irish wolf died at Wolf Hill in the North in the late 1700s. The land is bereft of my kind. We are no more of Ireland.”
“Except you,” Dana murmured. “You’re still here.”
Her e
yes were already shut. The wolf’s voice had lulled her beyond all resistance. And even as she drifted into the depths of sleep, the thought sank with her: the one that had nagged at the back of her mind.
The last wolf in Wicklow was killed at Glendalough.
ana woke at dawn to a sense of dread. She didn’t feel like eating, and only nibbled on an apple at the wolf’s insistence. Her guardian was also in a somber mood, and the day itself was oppressive; heavy and muggy, with a hazy sun rising over the mountains. Even the birds, so plentiful in the glen, sang in muted tones.
As the two headed down the hillside, Dana argued once more against going to Glendalough. She pointed out that she was bound to be recognized, while the wolf herself would draw too much attention. When her guardian didn’t respond but continued downward, Dana finally gave up. As it was, she had to concentrate on her footing. The rough track they followed belonged to the feral goats who lived in the glen, and it zigzagged precariously around rock and briar.
Reaching the bottom, they set off on the trail called the Miner’s Road.
Dana started again. “Why can’t we go straight to Lugnaquillia?”
“I am your guardian, little wolf. I do what I must to protect you.”
“I don’t understand! Why won’t you explain?”
Though the path they walked was commonly used by hikers and visitors to Glendalough, it was too early in the morning to meet anyone. The narrow waters of the Glenealo River flowed beside them, meandering over moss-covered stones.
“You called on me to guide and help you. Trust me.”
Dana fell silent as they reached the ruins of the old mining village. The skeletons of the stone houses stood gray and empty. The stream that used to wash the ore cut right through the village. The site had been abandoned for over a century, but the toxic lead still leached into the marshes and lakes beyond. The ruins were overshadowed on both sides by jagged cliffs of scree. The steep slopes of frost-shattered granite seemed to bear down menacingly, devoid of any life or greenery. Dana felt as if she were passing through the Paths of the Dead.
The wolf walked slowly beside her, as if fatigued. The great head hung low to the ground, and the golden eyes were sorrowful. From time to time she let out a deep sigh.
Dana rested her hand on the furred neck and kept it there.
Once they had left the village behind, the wolf picked up her pace. As they approached the Upper Lake the landscape changed. Tall Scots pine bristled on the hillsides; the wide blue lake reflected the sky. Here the valley was rich and green and loud with life. Red squirrels scampered on the spiny branches of the fir trees. Ravens and peregrine circled the cliffs. The air rang with the trills of songbirds from the oakwoods ahead. To the right, overlooking the lake, hung the craggy forehead of the height called the Spink.
Now Dana grew aware of another change, though it was nothing she could see or touch. Everything was suddenly fresh and vibrant, as if a window had been opened in a stuffy room. A still quiet voice whispered in her mind, telling her a story.
The old road she walked had been trod for centuries. Countless pilgrims, refugees, exiles, and outlaws had all passed this way; for every road and path that wove through the mountains converged here, at Gleann Dá Loch, the holy Vale of the Two Lakes.
Monastic City of the western world
Is Glendalough of the Assemblies.
A fabled hermit founded the site in the sixth century A.D. Caoimhín was his name—Kevin—meaning “fairbegotten” or “beautiful born.” The son of a princely line, it was said that he had come over the mountains in the company of an angel. Fleeing the world of men, he chose to live in that green and hidden valley. His bed was a cave on the dark side of the lake where no sun shone for six months of the year. His food was wild berries, herbs, and nuts from the forest. Regardless of the weather, he prayed outdoors, with tiny birds perched on his head and shoulders.
Word of his hermitage spread throughout the country and on into Europe. People came from far and wide to pray with him. First a small community took shape around him, and eventually a monastery rose on the site. By the tenth century, long after its founder had left the world, Glendalough was known throughout Christendom.
As Dana continued toward the Lower Lake, she saw that she and the wolf were no longer alone. Columns of people trod the road alongside them. Overlapping in time and space, they seemed unaware of each other: Gaelic chieftains wrapped in broad woolen cloaks; medieval ladies with rosaries dangling from their waists; barefooted peasants with hungry faces; Victorian matrons in feathered hats; men in the dark suits of the 1950s; modern tourists with their cameras and guidebooks. Many were on foot, some rode on horseback, and still others came in vehicles, from horse-drawn carriages to modern cars and buses. Layers of pilgrims through layers of time.
When Dana stumbled on a stone, layers of hands reached out to steady her.
Slowly she walked beside the wolf, but the feeling of dread had left her. The hope that inspired all pilgrims surged in her veins. Whether young or old, rich or poor, in couples or families or walking alone, traveling on foot or in stylish carriages, even those who had fallen by the wayside, all of these people shared the same destination: the same destiny. The Feast was laid out and all were welcome at the table.
Thus Dana arrived, with her companion guide and the spirits of fellow seekers, at Glendalough of the two lakes and seven churches.
The monastic site stood at the heart of the valley, just beyond the two lakes. Again, Dana gazed through the strata of time. She could see the earliest huts of Kevin’s disciples amid the stone cells and round tower of later construction. Overwhelming these were the contours of the medieval monastery—cathedral, scriptorium, workshops, bakery, monks’ quarters, and visitors’ dormitories. The present-day silhouette dominated the others with its Visitors’ Center, hotel, and souvenir shops catering to the tourists who roamed the ruins.
The multifarious images threw Dana into confusion. She didn’t want to enter modern Glendalough, as there was too great a chance she might be seen; but nor did she want to step into the past, for she sensed the wolf’s doom waited there.
The wolf spoke softly.
“Stand beside the earliest crossroads and ask of the old paths, where is the way to good?”
“I’m afraid.” Dana’s voice trembled. “Not for me, but for you.”
“Be of good courage, a fhaol bhig. Whether great or small, each of us has a part to play. Let me do what is right.”
Dana threw her arms around the wolf’s neck.
“No! You can’t! Please don’t! If I’d known you’d be in danger, I’d never’ve asked for your help!”
The wild breath of the wolf warmed her face. The rough tongue rasped her forehead. But though Dana clung to the wolf with all her might, the guardian was stronger. She broke from Dana’s embrace.
“I will not tell you to turn away. Be ready to face all that comes to you in life—whether good or ill. Who’s afraid of death? Not I!”
The wolf threw back her head to howl; one long last howl to echo over hill and glen.
As if in response came the winding horn of the tantivy: the cry of the hunt at full gallop.
And after the horn came the clamor of the wolfhounds, baying for blood.
At first Dana wasn’t sure what she was seeing. Murta’s jeep was suddenly driving furiously toward them, bumping over the rough trail. At the wheel, his face glared red with rage. Then Dana’s sight wavered. Now she saw the horsemen with fitted jackets and tall black boots, swords at their waists and firearms in their hands. Running alongside them were shabbier men, carrying boar spears and pikes. Was that Murta in the lead, whipping his steed into a frenzy? Back in his jeep, he drew it up with a jolt. Clambering out, he gripped his rifle in both hands. Red bloodshot eyes settled on Dana.
What was going on?
Now Murta raised the gun to his shoulder, and Dana knew in that moment that he meant to kill her.
“Run for your life!” the wolf b
arked at Dana. “Up the hill! Into the trees! Run!”
Mind reeling, heart pounding, Dana scrabbled up the ridge into the shelter of the woods. The silver nails in her shoes gave her speed and agility. She didn’t turn or look back until she heard the shot. Something was wrong. The sound came from a different direction! Surprised, she stopped. That was when she realized the wolf wasn’t with her. Overwhelmed with fear, she hurried back. From the cover of the trees, she could see the road. Utterly disoriented, she spied a figure who looked exactly like her, racing toward the monastery.
And standing on the road below was Murta. Reloading his gun.
Dana’s sight blurred again. Now she saw it was the wolf who ran, with hounds and horsemen close behind.
It was a noble and splendid run. A silver-gray flash against the dark greenery. Legs high to paw the air. Eyes glowing gold. A cry for freedom. A cry for the wild. The last run of the last wolf of Wicklow.
“No,” Dana whispered, not wanting to believe what she saw.
The hounds raced ahead to drive the wolf back. Back toward the lead hunter.
Murta shouldered his rifle.
“NO!” Dana cried.
The shot rang through the mountains. The wolf somersaulted in the air.
Then fell to the ground, dead.
And Dana, who was a daughter of the wolf, let out a death-cry as she too fell to the earth.
ana lay on the ground, convulsed with weeping. She didn’t think about Murta or whether he might be near. She was beyond caring. It was a while before she noticed the change. She was shivering uncontrollably, at first with shock but then also with the cold. Something soft and wet drifted around her. Snow! In the middle of summer? She sat up, dazed. The valley was bathed in an icy-blue light. The oak trees stood bare, their branches forked like antlers. The mountainsides were cloaked with snow. The faint tracery of small animals, hares and birds, inscribed the ground. A winter’s sun shone palely.
She jumped to her feet and ran out of the wood. There was no sign of the hunters, nor of Murta and his jeep. The road itself was gone, and so too the monastic site and all its layers. The deep vale was still and lonely. Sheets of ice rimed the lakes. A raven cawed overhead. The only evidence of life was a camp fire on the shore of the Upper Lake, near a little stone house shaped like a beehive.
The Light-Bearer's Daughter Page 13
