When we reach the large reed basket where we customarily leave our clothing, we undress. Always before at this point, I’ve had to stay clothed. It makes no sense to hunt naked if you’ll be remaining in human form, but those who Change find it more freeing to strip down to our true selves before embracing our animal selves. My leather shirt, pants and boots smell strange to my already expanding senses as I place them in the basket with the others, then reach for my Spirit Wolf.
The Change is easier every time. I embrace the heat building within me, letting my skin and bones run like melting wax, feeling them take a new shape and stiffen into place. An exhilaration I know I’ll always feel no matter how many times I Change fills me as my senses expand to the fullest.
When I finish Changing, I turn to look at my wolf family. My father, as alpha of our family unit, stalks forward and sniffs me, hackles raised and fangs bared. It’s just ritual, but I feel a small thrill of fear because he towers over me, radiating dominance.
I cower, whining, tail lowered between my legs and head bowed. Rolling over, I expose my throat and belly to him in submission. Immediately my father wags his tail, his jaws gaping open in a wolfy grin, his tongue lolling. Dancing back, he allows me to rise. My mother, in her role as alpha mate, nips me lightly to show me my place; my brother and sister stare me down. Appeased at my submission, they all trot off in search of prey. I follow at a respectful distance.
Each time I Change, I’m just as amazed by what my senses perceive as I was that first time. Scents have…shape, color, dimensions of pungency, and meaning that humans cannot detect. My father pauses casually, marking a tree as his territory. The scent claws at my nose, demanding my attention, filling my brain with warning, pride, fear and many other messages that have no translation for the human brain. To one side, I scent the faded spoor of an old boar that passed this way moons before; to the other side, the faint trace of a female rabbit who recently birthed young. And over there, the droppings of a squirrel, recent but with a trail leading straight up a tree where we cannot follow.
These and many, many more scents crowd our noses as we lope single file through the trees. Each must be sifted, considered and responded to or discarded instantly, our body language speaking eloquently. We search as one, looking for the perfect prey sign.
Sounds, too, have added depth and meaning. I can detect a beetle clicking its mandibles, catch the thudding of wings above me as birds shift from branch to branch, hear the soft footfalls of my Pack as we drift through the underbrush like a tracery of smoke.
My sight is increased a thousandfold as far as movement is concerned, though the range of colors I can see narrows. The slightest movement by the smallest creature catches my eye, but my animal brain immediately sifts and dismisses all but that which I seek, the sign of worthy prey.
I feel the wind ruffling my fur and feel the heartbeat of the earth itself through my paws. I sense the vibration of tiny, terrified hearts in their burrows and nests as we pass by, our heads lowered, questing.
Time flows differently in this form, too. It slips past me like water, loaded more with experience, less with emotion. I no longer place undue importance on it, the way man does.
My father leads us toward the north river, to a place where an old beaver dam still partially obstructs the water flow, creating a quiet, deep eddy. The sound of the river burbling away from the dam fills the air. I filter it down to a hum in the back of my mind, my ears swiveling to catch the slightest sound.
A stone’s throw from the river, we scent it: the spoor of a female moose and her calf. They crossed this path on the way to the river just moments ago. Instinctively, we go into full stalking mode: ears forward, tails raised, fanning out behind my father. I dart to follow Swift Blaze, who angles to the left, hoping to loop around the pond and catch the moose from behind.
The loud snort of the moose comes moments later as she glimpses my father, and then she comes into view. She crashs around in the water as she fights to protect her calf against our onslaught. The calf screams, its cry sounding eerily like a child’s, as my mother slashes at it before bounding away just out of reach of its mother’s hooves.
I know they’re waiting for me to finish it as we come closer still. This will be my first kill; they will not take it from me. It’s the whole purpose for this hunt, which normally would take place after dark, but because of the Questing celebration, had to be moved up.
My brother and I streak into the river behind the moose and her calf. He hurtles in to nip at the moose’s hindquarters as a distraction while the rest of my family assail her from the front and sides. Racing toward the unsuspecting calf cowering in her shadow, I rip out its throat before it can call out. It collapses in the water like a broken doll. The blood explodes across my tongue. I taste life, terror, and so many more ancient things in that moment, my first wolf-kill moment.
My heart surges, triumph singing in my veins, heady and wild.
Pain!
It lances through me suddenly, immediately dulled for now by the adrenaline pounding through me. I become aware that the blood in the water is mine as well as that of the moose and her calf. A flying hoof must have caught me when the moose fled my brother’s attack. She’s out of the water now, bellowing her outrage as my family give chase. I know, with wolf knowing, that we could probably take her down too, but we only kill what we must and avoid unnecessary risks. This hunt is about ritual more than hunger.
I clamber out of the river, dragging the calf’s carcass with me. Setting it down at the river’s edge, I shake myself all over, water and blood flying from my coat in all directions. I’m beginning to feel the pain blossoming as the adrenaline fades. My left hindquarter is bleeding. The water, fortunately, cushioned it against the full weight of the blow—adult moose are massive, often weighing as much as several men, so the power of one kick could easily cripple or kill me.
My tongue investigates, finding a long slash going from my hip down my left leg; not too deep, luckily. My Pack crowds around me and my dead calf, sniffing my left hindquarter, whimpering their concern. Even though the slash isn’t deep, it can still kill if it gets infected. I’ll need to get to a healer quickly.
Normally, right after a first kill, the Pack allows the one newly Changed to eat the liver of the animal he or she brought down in acknowledgment of his or her success and prowess. It’s thought to add to one’s Spirit Animal life force to eat the newly killed prey’s vital organs. But not this time. My father once again takes the lead and my mother follows after, but I am next this time, limping as quickly as I can after them. Swift Blaze and Moon Song guard my flank, carrying the dead calf in their jaws between them.
The scents I enjoyed on the trail still reach my nostrils, but they’re muted behind the overwhelming odor of my own blood. I taste the tang of real fear for the first time. Each step is agony now, my strength quickly ebbing. But I press on doggedly, hearing my own heartbeat thundering in my ears.
At last, as the sun begins to fade into the west, we reach the outskirts of the Village. In our urgency, we forgo stopping at the basket to collect our clothes first. Changing back into human form together, my family crowds around me protectively. They eye the slash from my waist down my thigh, exclaiming in hushed tones. I’m trying to be brave, but weakness overtakes me and and I sink down to the ground.
My father calls, “Fiery Grace! Come!” She hurries over, all pretense of obliviousness gone now.
“Spirit forbid!” she cries, glimpsing the red flash of blood.
Father orders, “Go get Miklos!” and she runs, her twin braids bouncing, bounding out of sight like a young deer among the huts.
My mother and Swift Blaze ease me over to our family hut, Moon Song pushing the door flap aside so I can enter.
“Gently now, set him down gently,” my father cautions as they lay me down onto my bed furs. Still, I can’t help but hiss at the pain.
Moon Song hurries to build a fire in the center of the hut. Mother, looking
worried, lights beeswax candles all around us. Father stands over me, holding my hand.
The door flap snaps back moments later. Miklos ducks in.
“Getting into trouble as usual, I see, Spark,” he rumbles in the Common Tongue, not unkindly. Seeming to tower over everything and everyone more than usual in this enclosed space, he comes to my bedside. He smells pleasantly of pipe smoke and old books, I note, my wolf-senses still lingering.
“I hear you brought down a moose calf. Seems its mother left you a nasty parting gift,” he murmurs as he inspects my wound. My family looks on in concern behind him. Appearing satisfied, he straightens.
“The wound is shallow, though long. It should heal quickly and well, God be thanked.”
“Praise the Spirit Over All!” my father says gratefully. “Thank you for coming so swiftly, Miklos. We are in your debt.”
“Nonsense,” Miklos protests good-naturedly, taking several items from the leather bag gaping open near his feet. “God gave me the gift of healing so that I might help others. One does not owe a tool for doing what it was made to do. One thanks the maker.”
He breaks the seal of a small pottery jar. A pungent odor wafts out, making me wrinkle my nose in distaste.
Seeing my reaction, Miklos chuckles. “Unpleasant to the senses, but beneficial to the body,” he assures me. “God made everything with a special purpose. The chokecherry berry wards off hungry animals with its bitter taste and scent, but combined with certain other ingredients, it becomes a very effective poultice. Lie still now, please.” Moon Song, who kneels beside my bed, takes my hand in hers and squeezes it gently.
Dipping a gleaming white bone spoon into the jar, he takes up some of the ointment and spreads it gently onto my wound, whispering words in a language I’ve never heard before. I gasp when the cool mixture touches my torn skin, but gentle warmth soon begins to radiate everywhere it touches.
Miklos chants louder: “Dei grafe fideo e talos neum…” His tone is one of reverent prayer. In addition to the feeling of heat, there’s also a feeling of faint pressure: a prickling feeling, running along my wound’s path.
Miklos kneels, eyes closed, his hands just above my skin, hovering. The pain in my leg begins to ebb. His words melt into a song, one of praise and thanksgiving from his intonation: “Tes aluto grateus u lasimon savos dei…”
At last, he quiets and opens his eyes, hands falling to his sides. Getting to his feet, he meets my gaze. “You’re going to be all right, Spark.” He touches my forehead and sniffs in satisfaction.
Turning, he addresses my family. “The ointment will keep out infection, but you’ll need to reapply it at sunrise and sunset.”
He beckons to my mother, who approaches shyly, having never spoken to the Outsider before.
“Use these to help keep the wound clean.” Removing a reed bag with clean corn cob casings inside, he shows her how to drape them over the ointment and secure them with sinew strings. Handing her the pottery jar and bone spoon, he mimes how to spread the ointment correctly. “Just a thin layer, like this, at sunrise and sunset, and your son will be well.”
“I am beyond grateful, Healer Miklos, for the gift of my son’s healing,” my mother murmurs humbly, bowing low. “I know you said we don’t owe you anything, but I, too, have been given a gift by the Creator, and gifts are meant to be shared. I will begin work on a new tunic and leggings for you” she takes up a long, slim branch and holds it briefly against his leg and along his arm, marking their lengths in the branch with a knife “so you are as nobly arrayed on the outside as you are on the inside.”
Miklos returns her bow. “You are indeed one of the most gifted artisans in the Village. I shall look forward to your kind gift, Sun on Leaves.”
She blushes, looking pleased.
Turning back to me, he warns, “I’d like you to stay off that leg as much as possible until tomorrow afternoon”—he reads the disappointment flitting across my face and winks—“but someone can carry you to and from the celebration tonight.”
“Thank you, Healer Miklos. For everything.” I don’t know what else to say.
“You’ve been a faithful friend to Little Squirrel since we first arrived here, Spark. It is I who should thank you.” He squeezes my shoulder briefly.
“Friendship is its own reward, and I’m proud to be her friend.”
“She would say the same. I’ll look in on you tomorrow morning,” he advises me, and leaves the hut.
“Are you in a lot of pain, little brother?” Moon Song asks, still kneeling beside my bed.
“None, actually,” I reply, and it’s true. “The ointment must have something in it to relieve pain.”
“Do you need anything, my son?” Mother asks solicitously, hovering over me, wringing her hands.
“I’m thirsty.” Not truly, but her eyes brighten, glad to help in some way, when she helps me sit up and drink.
Before long, we hear the drums begin a throbbing beat from the center of the Village. The Questing Celebration has begun.
“Let’s go celebrate your friend’s Quest, little brother,” Swift Blaze says. Carefully, as if I might break, he picks me up and carries me toward the sound, the rest of my family following.
Chapter 10: Wilde
I’m not one to dwell on the past or blame it for my present. But if you’re going to understand what drew me to Jaereth and the other slaves, you need to understand where I came from.
Shortly after I was born, my mother left me on the doorstep of the orphan’s home for boys in our town. Father Daven found me lying in a filthy blanket with a note that read only, “James Wilde”. ‘Wilde’ had been my mother’s surname.
The orphan’s home for boys, I learned when I grew old enough to understand such things, is supposed to be run by a senior priest. But it’s always pawned off on a lesser priest who is either unpopular within the priesthood but from a good family or one who, for whatever reason, has shown himself unfit for higher stations.
In the case of Father Daven, he was a drunkard who frequently flew into a rage when in his cups. Unfortunately for us, that was most of the time. Just as unfortunately, Father Daven hated children almost as much as he hated being sober.
Growing up with an abusive drunkard, you learn early on the fine arts of avoidance and hyper-vigilance. I was small for my age at seven, and could easily fit into a tiny cupboard or behind a curtain, not moving for hours. I also became very good at ghosting around, carefully approaching doorways to see, without being seen, who might be in the next room and what condition they were in. If Father Daven’s face was red or his eyes appeared glassy, I could be gone to ground before anyone suspected I’d been there.
Unfortunately, these abilities help but little when someone who enjoys hurting others singles you out as his favorite rage toy. I think Father Daven sensed that I was the most vulnerable of the boys at the orphan’s home and liked the feeling of power he got, towering over me and shoving me up against the nearest wall. I still clearly remember the last time he caught me: I was so afraid he’d kill me this time, and no one would even care.
He crushed me hard against the wall, his rolls of fat smothering the air right out of my lungs. The room around us went dim and began to spin. Father Daven’s breath came in gulping gasps, unspeakably foul, but I knew better than to show my disgust. I could only fight to breathe, praying it would all be over soon.
From a distance, it seemed, I heard him slur out, his red face leering into mine, “Stupid, ugly James Wilde! You’re the mos’ worthless creature I’ve ever seen. No wonder no one ever chooses you. You’re all knees an’ elbows, with your big horse nose an’ your big horse teeth!”
He guffawed, and spittle flew into my face. My mouth was open to suck in any air it could; I tried not to gag as I tasted his rancid saliva. As I often did in these moments, I wondered, Does God exist? Why does he hate me so? I hated Father Daven, and I wanted to hate God too, for putting me daily at his mercy.
“Born of a common whore,
you were. An’ more worthless than one. A creature of sin, whelped in lust an’ filth. If I thought I could get away with it, I’d drown you like an unwanted puppy in the cistern out back. Not even God‘d miss a misbegotten runt like you. You should never a’ been born.”
Just as I was about to lose consciousness, he shifted his weight and dragged my nearly-limp form with him down the hallway to where his riding crop waited. I glimpsed the other boys watching, recognizing the pitying eyes of my only friend, Josu, as I flew by. But Josu’s look gave me a dribble of strength.
I’ll never know if Father Daven enjoyed looking at our nakedness when he pulled our pants down and whipped our bottoms and thighs with a riding crop, or whether our cries of pain and our terrified tears excited him. I don’t want to know. I just know that hurting us—hurting me, especially—brought an ugly rictus of a grin to his face and lightened his fat, faltering step for hours afterward.
Father Daven grabbed his riding crop in one hand, yanking my pants down with the other, his evil grin already blooming under his wine-soaked black beard. He rained blows down on my buttocks, punctuating each strike with venomous grunts of “Whoreson!” or “Homely goat!” or “Unwanted, lazy runt!”
I was still thinking of Josu’s gaze, the way his dark eyes reached out and held me sheltered in a place where Father Daven couldn’t reach or hurt either of us. I realized in that moment that maybe God did exist: inside of Josu, and inside of me. He existed wherever hearts loved instead of hated, or helped others instead of hurting them.
In that moment, with the blows falling fast and the pain rolling through me, I saw a way I could be free.
I’d fallen to my knees and hung my head. But I raised it then and looked up at Father Daven. I felt my spirit flair within me as I stared proudly up into his mean, glassy little pig-eyes. I was not what he had called me. I was no longer afraid. He could, and probably would, kill my body, but he could never touch my spirit.
Gambit of the Gods Page 11
