by Jack Dann
“Why?” he demanded. “You-all just want to hunt the wolf. You know he ain’t bewitched nothing. That Willow’s in heat. She’ll get over it in a couple days and come on home, same as any . . . I mean, you-all just looking for an excuse.” He looked the wardens over; they were all on their feet, glaring, some with hackles raised. Only old Starfall remained sitting at attention. “You wardens.” he said. “That wolf ain’t no kind of devil. I seen plenty of wolves up north. They’re just a critter, like anything else. No different from a big coyote, ’cept maybe a little smarter. He ain’t done nothing to you. What are you so scared of?”
Starfall spoke, slowly. The humans listened. Presently Delbert translated: “All ill comes from the north. Even the Northmaster has fled from it, with the news that no Masters live there now. Such creatures as this have never been in the valley before, and now they come, following the Northmaster. What will be the end of it? This year there have been many portents. Stock has been lost; wardens have been cursed, some to death. There have been many fall heats. Now the last Master is gone from the north, and the north has come to us. Shall we stand by and let this happen? Can we let our youth be seduced? What then? What when it raids our flocks, like a savage? Shall we forbear, until this house stands empty, no roof to keep out the snow, like the others in the valley? We have our faith to keep. We will protect what we have, until the Masters come again from the sky. You say the devil is only a big savage. Well, we have killed many savages. We will kill this one, too.” She was silent, and sat with dignity, watching the humans. Jake bit his lip, cursed under his breath. The Hawkinses muttered among themselves.
“All right!” Little Earl broke out. “Let’s do it! What the hell?”
Ace sniffed the fall air, fresh and clear after the previous day’s rain. “Right good weather for it,” he commented. There was a general murmur of assent among the men.
“Yeah,” Big John said. “No offense to you, Jake, but I can’t see no reason not to hunt it. The wardens want to. I guess it ain’t done no damage so far, but who knows what it might do? If it’s just a critter like you say, why not?” He, too, looked around, breathed deeply. “It’s a real good day for hunting.” All eyes now turned to Jake.
Jake sighed, shrugged. “Do what you want,” he said. “I don’t reckon it matters much. Plenty more wolves where that one came from.” He shrugged again, turned and went back in the house. Voices rose excitedly behind him.
###
Willow and the wolf had stayed by the kill until morning. Willow was still deeply disturbed by the encounter, and the wolf appeared restless. In the broad light of morning they moved off to the west. In a meadow they browsed desultorily for field mice; the wolf was an adept mouser, but this morning his eye was out, and he missed easy catches. Presently they made love again: the act did not consume her as before, and she realized that her heat was waning. They lay in the sun for some time, but Willow could not rest. Her family’s attitude fretted her. Sometime after noon she urged the wolf protesting to his feet and headed westward again. If they could get well outrange, the tribe might leave them alone. She mused, thought of a den, of young born in the dead of winter, of the wolf’s protection, his skill in hunting. It all seemed unreal.
She found herself impatient with the wolf, who lagged behind, reluctant, panting in the mid-day warmth. After a time she consented to stop and rest again, but she continued nervous, starting at odd sounds. The wolf slept, twitching an ear occasionally. Presently she dozed.
In her sleep she hunted. The scent of a savage came clearly to her nostrils; she was running over the countryside, the air crisp and clear. Behind her the clan was running; she gave tongue and heard them answer, hot and eager, strangely distant. Farther back she heard the Huntsman’s horn blat . . . still the scent. She ran harder, the pack far behind now. She felt fear. . . the horn blatted again, distant, too distant . . .
The horn! Of a sudden she was fully awake, on her feet, listening desperately. Yes, there. The horn, and then a hunt call . . . Bearbait’s voice! How many times she had thrilled to it, followed it in the field! The wolf stood now, listening in the same direction. He looked at her inquiringly. Another hunt call sounded, slightly closer. She shook herself in the early-evening chill. Four or five klicks off. Coming toward them . . . in a flash it was clear. Horrified, she looked at the wolf.
“Run!” she cried, anguished for the first time at his inability to understand her speech. “We’ve got to run! We’ve got to lose them!” She shouldered him furiously, then broke for the western edge of the clearing. Looking back, she barked again at the wolf. Suddenly catching her fear, he started toward her, and in a moment they were flying through the covert. A run appeared, and Willow splashed into it. Her hunt training operated in reverse and she doubled back into it again, the wolf after her, and splashed upstream a klick or more before breaking out across a meadow that offered open running.
Behind her she heard the hunt calls again. The wolf quickened his pace, pushed out ahead of her. They darted into a thick covert. Willow floundered briefly in a tangle of thorn, then wrenched herself free and followed the wolf again as he wriggled through a fox run and burst from the other side of the covert. Open meadows stretched some distance; they ran harder, Willow scarcely noticing the smarts where the thorns had slashed her. The horn sounded again; they had lost time in the covert.
At the crest of a hill they paused, panting. The last purple rays were fading ahead of them; overhead the first stars winked, and a vast and ruddy moon loomed on the horizon. Distantly the hunt calls sounded with a new eagerness; the hunters . . . the clan! Her own folk! Her revered Masters, come hunting her! . . . had the fresher scent now, and their voices lifted again and again. A sudden triumphant bugling told her they had found the spot where she and the wolf had lain only a little earlier. Her heart leaped in her breast, and she fled with the wolf close beside, fear and horror and grief driving all but flight from her mind. They skirted another covert, plunged downhill into another run. In an instant she turned downstream, and they splashed on frantically for quite some distance and knew that the first run had delayed them. A few minutes gained . . . on she ran, the wolf beside her still, stretching into a ground-eating lope. The calls behind informed her as the pack cast about up and down the first run, found the scent again, and came on. It was eerie, horrible to flee from the sound she had followed so often. She racked her brain for the tricks that foxes and savages had used to evade the hunt in the past, doubling back, confusing the trail. The wolf had no experience of this form of hunt, and his clumsiness hampered her. Again and again he stopped, faced back growling, obliging her to urge him on. Anger was overcoming his fear: the wardens were outside their territory. How dare they attack him here, in no-wolf’s-land? But they were many, and Willow urged him on. He ran.
The second creek stopped them for less time, and Willow knew from the calls that they were closing the distance. The pack had come too close while they slept. She remembered her nervous urge to move on—if only they had kept moving, farther on, out of warden range, too far to pursue—the breath came quick in her throat now. Uphill, down hollow. The night was a blur. The Huntsman’s horn blatted, less than three klicks behind now. She heard a horse whinny.
A dense hedge of rose ran across the meadow, opposing them. They ran along it, found a low gap, wriggled through, sustaining more scratches as they went. And up the next hill. The moon was well up now, and as she crested the hill she looked back. At the same instant a full-throated bellow gave the view halloo, and the pack was in full cry, the night ringing with fierce gladness. The wolf nipped her angrily, and she fled again with a whine. Down hollow, uphill. The pack poured over the hill behind them. She could distinguish individual voices easily, Bearbait and Fisher, bold Lion’s-meat, clear-voiced Larksong of the Meadows and deep-chested Bull from the Greenwood sib, and there, there—her throat twisted—there the voice of Quailflusher, her uncle who loved her, and of Grabchuck, her little cousin she tumbled about with
as a pup, even they! Her step faltered; a stone turned under her foot. The wolf was ahead of her, lashing up the hill. A massive oak loomed at the top, standing alone, its dead leaves still clinging to the bough casting a deep shadow over the hillside in the moonlight. Beneath it the wolf halted, faced back as Willow came up, rage in his voice as he bayed sudden answer to his persecutors.
“No!” Willow cried. “Don’t stop! Run!” He snarled at her, then threw back his head and let his voice ring defiance. The moon struck through the branches, dappling his immense mane with silver. Willow dithered for a moment, wanting to run, unable to persuade the wolf. She murmured in his ear, sniffed his mane. For a moment he softened; his whiskers brushed her cheek. Then the hunt field came over the last crest. The pack roared down in the hollow; the wolf was all attention again. Willow stood beside him.
The first forms appeared in the moonlight, lunging up the slope. The wolf filled his lungs and roared, a sound that seemed to stop the night. The leading wardens stumbled; the ones behind fell over them. For a moment there was confusion as the pack sorted itself out not ten meters from them, halted by the wolf’s rage. Two or three voices took up the cry again, to be silenced by another bellow from the wolf. He took a pace forward, and another. Some of the wardens fell back, leaving one clearly in the fore. Bearbait, Willow saw. The knowledge seemed meaningless. The wolf took another step, and charged with a roar. Bearbait charged quickly to meet him, and they crashed together, their jaws seeking purchase. A moment the pack wavered; then with a cry Bull plunged forward to lock his teeth in the wolf’s flank, then Fisher, and the pack fell on the wolf.
With a wild cry, Willow plunged into the melee, throwing her kinsmen aside, her jaws slashing at whomever stood in her way. Her vision turned red; she smelled only rage and pain. Beneath the heaving bodies she sought and found the familiar smell of the wolf, mixed now with blood. Jaws closed on her, slashed her flank. A voice cried, “Willow!” With berserk fury she flung her kinsmen aside, penetrating to the bottom, to the wolf. Someone had his teeth in the wolf’s throat. Willow slashed at the attacker’s head, sank her teeth in his shoulder, sought a grip on his throat. Someone else slashed her hind leg. She gripped loose skin and shook with all her strength.
Of a sudden the noise was less. A horn sounded near at hand. A lash fell suddenly, stinging across her and her opponent alike. With a yelp he released his hold on the wolf and jumped away. For a moment she was dragged. Then she let go and stood. The wolf lay still. She stepped, sniffed at him. His throat was torn open, his blood soaked the hillside from a hundred gashes. She stood over him and turned to face the pack. The Masters were there on Their horses, whipping in. The Huntsman sat His horse three meters off, whip in hand, watching her. She looked at her kinfolk milling in confusion. A dam broke within. She threw back her head and cried out grief without words, older than her race, greater than the world. The hunters were still. The wardens sat rapt; the Masters, even the horses stock-still as she wept. She did not stop, could not stop. For endless time her voice rose, sound beyond song.
At last she sank down, the death-song dying out in sobs. She licked the wolf’s head, his mane, tasting his blood, her breath breaking in little sobs still. There was movement at a distance: dimly she understood that the hunt was drawing off, riders and wardens going off slowly down the hill. Her grief welled up again and burst forth in a new cry. The others were leaving. Her voice cried death to all the valley. She cared not. She grieved. Presently she was alone.
All night she wept, her voice ringing out again and again as grief warred with exhaustion. In the small hours she sank down at last, not into sleep but into a stunned, spent apathy. She lay with her head on the wolf’s, knowing nothing.
Much later she became aware of motion. She lifted her head slowly. The night had waned. Faint light spread from the east, showing an unfamiliar Master a short distance away. He crouched, looking at her. She growled feebly. He murmured softly, then whined in a manner remarkably like the wolf’s. She stared at Him blankly. He moved again, extended a hand in her direction. There was only death in her nostrils. Her head sank again. The wolf was dead. His corpse was stiff beneath her. The Master was a little closer, still murmuring, making wolf-sounds. She did not know Him. A horse stamped nearby. She did not care.
The hand was in front of her nose now; involuntarily she sniffed. She did not know Him. Softly the Master crooned to her. He touched the wolf’s shoulder. She growled, without spirit. The wolf was dead. She would not leave him.
The Master touched her; with a quick movement she caught His cuff in her teeth. He was still, talking to her in a soft voice. He did not speak warden. She understood a little of His talk now, but it meant nothing. She let go of His cuff. He stroked her head, speaking softly. She lay still.
The strange Master rose slowly. “Willow,” he said. “Willow.”
She looked up without lifting her head.
“Come, Willow,” He said, in Master-talk. “We got to go now.”
“I will not leave him.” She spoke for the first time, not caring if He understood her.
“I know,” He said. “We’ll bring him. Come.”
She rose slowly, looked at the Master. “Who are You?”
Again He seemed to understand. He spoke His name, unpronounceable Master-talk. Then He said, “Them other wardens call me Northmaster, and Wolfmaster. They say I brought the wolf.” She stared at Him. Wolfmaster. Northmaster. He knelt beside her, ran His hand over the dead wolf’s fur. “Come on. We’ll bury him, we two.”
Bury him. The thought wakened a longing for ritual in her heart. They would bury him. Ritual. She stepped aside; the Wolfmaster gathered up her lover and walked heavily to the pony. It shied from the smell, afraid both of death and wolf, but steadied at His word. He draped the wolf behind the saddle, lashed it in place, mounted. She followed Him.
###
Snow was drifted before the door of the stone house. Jake heard John Hawkins stamping it from his feet beneath the overhang before he knocked. He opened, and Hawkins stepped inside quickly, a breath of cold around him.
“You O.K., Jake?”
“No problem, John. Plenty of firewood. Plenty of meat froze. Just thaw it out by the fire there when we need it.” He smiled. Hawkins looked uneasy.
“Well, we worried a little, ’count of the storm. Knowing you was over here alone and all. You sure you don’t want to come back over to the big house?”
“No, that’s O.K., John. I’m used to being alone. We’re O.K. here. I don’t reckon them wardens want to see me too much. And I know they don’t want to see Willow. ’Specially now.” He grinned faintly.
“How’s that?” Big John looked about for the warden.
“There.” Jake pointed with his chin to the fireplace. Willow lay in a mound of sheepskin, only her head showing. “Look there.” He walked over, hunkered by her and rubbed her forehead. John peered over his shoulder. “Look.” Jake pulled the sheepskins aside. Two puppies nestled among the wool, close by Willow’s side.
“Be damned,” Big John said. “Be damned.”
Just a couple of nights ago.”
“I didn’t, I mean, I didn’t know if it’d work out,” Big John said. “Wolf and a warden, I mean, never heard of . . . didn’t know if she’d have them all right. Look all right, don’t they?”
“Yeah.” Jake thumped Willow’s ribs lightly, pulled the sheepskins back over them. “Don’t know what they’ll look like.”
“Be damned,” Big John said again.
“We’ll be all right,” Jake said.
A Few Kindred Spirits
by John Christopher
Veteran English author John Christopher sold his first story in 1949, and quickly established himself as one of the most accomplished of the post-war generation of SF writers. His best-known book is probably the critically acclaimed disaster novel The Death of Grass, released in the United States as No Blade of Grass, and subsequently made into a movie of the same name. His other novel
s include The Year of the Comet, The Long Winter, The White Mountains, The City of Gold and Lead, and The Little People.
In the unsettling story that follows, he gives a wry but disquieting new twist to that old expression, “a gay dog.”
* * *
In the animal creation, as in the human, there are spheres whose existence remain unsuspected until chance lifts a corner of the veil. One of these, as far as I was concerned, was the world of the homosexual dog. I only became aware of it when Shlobber came into my life.
Shlobber, of course, was a classic textbook case for deviation. Absentee father (admittedly a norm amongst dogs) and most decidedly possessive and domineering mother. She was black-and-white, terrier-type, with a mixture of collie and spaniel and more elusive extras, and Shlobber was a child of her one and only litter. The intention was to get rid of all the pups to suitable homes, and this was, in fact, achieved. Shlobber, however, having proved over-boisterous for one of the children in the billet we found him, was brought back with apologies. Only as a transient, we thought, but somehow he stayed. Mother went away to be spayed, returned with joy to find her golden-haired son still on the scene, and launched into that career of aggressive, chivvying affection which determined and characterized their relationship. Hour after hour, day after day, she snapped and barked at him, and roughly bowled him over. And he, for his part, was, somewhat resentfully, devoted to her.
His perversity emerged later, and was first apparent when the bitch further up the lane came in season. She was, to human view, an ugly mustard-coloured ill-kempt creature, but as far as dogs were concerned clearly of surpassing attraction. They came, it seemed, from the remotest corners of the island, stampeding through our garden on the way. Shlobber, larger at eighteen months than his mother, romped with her on the lawn, indifferent to all this. So I was not particularly surprised, a few weeks later, when I found him out on his own and making overtures to a male boxer.
