But then I realise the boy isn’t following me. I squint back through the leaves of the fallen tree; he’s gone the opposite way and is shuffling along the stone ledge outside the cave mouth, under where the bridge would be if this was my world. Where’s he going? ‘Hey, come this way! Follow me!’ I call back, checking the forest nervously, thinking of those other howls I heard.
But the boy ignores me; he’s stopped shuffling now and is drawing back curtains of creepers, peering beneath them like he’s looking for something. Suddenly, the boy cries out.
My heart lurches. ‘Are you OK?’
He turns to me and he’s smiling, his face all lit up and golden in the strange after-storm light. ‘Cholliemurrum!’ he calls, gesturing excitedly. ‘Look, Cholliemurrum! Look this!’
So I shuffle along the ledge to him and look. Beneath the hanging creepers, there’s a shadowy tower of handprints – all different sizes. The boy is pressing his own palm to each one in turn, a curious concentration in his eye.
‘What’re you doing? Is this what you want to show me?’
He looks earnestly into my eyes. His hand is resting on a print that fits it perfectly, like a piece in a puzzle. ‘Me,’ he says, and he sounds so pleased with himself, I can’t help but smile.
‘Is that your handprint?’
The boy nods. He looks kind of stunned. ‘Me! I member me!’
His memory’s coming back! ‘Brilliant!’ I say, and then I’m so excited I almost wobble off the ledge. If he remembers stuff then maybe he can help me find my way home. I steady myself. ‘That’s brilliant! Who are you then? What’s your name?’
He mumbles something, blinking at me uncertainly.
‘What? Pardon? Say it again.’
This time he says his name big and proud, banging his chest with his fist. But I still can’t quite catch it.
‘Arby?’ I try.
A flash of irritation crosses his face. He says the same word once more, even louder this time.
‘Harby?’ I try again.
The boy bends double, making a puffing sound, like he’s choking, like he can’t breathe. Alarmed, I reach forward to help him even though I’m not sure how.
Then I realise he’s not choking. He’s laughing.
‘Harrrbeeee?’ he says, in a strange squeaky voice. He looks at me sidelong, grinning. ‘Haaarrrbeeeeee!’
I smile. I get it!
‘I CHOLLIEMURRUM,’ I say, making my voice all thick and low and chewy just like his real voice, banging my chest, copying him right back.
‘I Harrbeeee!’ He’s really giggling now.
‘Hi, Harby,’ I say through my own giggles. ‘Pleased to meet you!’
He pauses halfway through a funny puffy laugh, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. ‘… eat you?’ he echoes back.
‘No thanks!’ I laugh, and he laughs again then too.
‘No tanks!’ he chortles, like I’m the best joke ever. And his big snort of laughter makes me giggle even more. My sides start to hurt. I lean on the cool rock, looking out, trying to stop laughing.
Even though the rain has stopped, everywhere’s still dripping. I breathe a big gulp of fresh-washed air, steadying myself; for a moment it’s so quiet I can hear the gurgle of all the little brown rivulets of rainwater trickling down the sheer rock. I peek back at the boy; he peeks at me too and we both erupt into giggles again. I don’t think either of us even knows any more what we’re laughing about. But it doesn’t matter. ‘Come on!’ I say, through my giggles. ‘Let’s get down from here before we fall and break our necks.’
Harby shakes his head, a vague smile still on his lips. ‘Who you, Cholliemurrum?’ he says, peering at me curiously like I’m a specimen in a museum. ‘Why you come here?’
Suddenly I see myself through his eyes. If I think he looks odd, he must think I look a thousand times odder! I mean, I’ve done a whole topic at school on the Stone Age. But he’s never even imagined a somebody like me – I glance down at my bloody knee, my muddy trainers, my raggedy blue T-shirt. ‘Cholliemurrum,’ I murmur in his gravelly voice, and a mad little laugh slips out. I barely recognise myself. ‘Why did I come here?’ I say to the boy. ‘I honestly have no idea.’
He looks utterly confused. ‘No eye deer?’ he echoes, pointing at the painting of the deer just visible through the cave mouth. I giggle, but then I think about all the other wild creatures in the cave paintings and my laugh pops like a bubble.
I look at Harby. He’s suddenly serious; every trace of dancing, twinkling laughter has drained from his eyes, which are staring hard at me.
‘What?’ I say.
Holding my gaze, he grabs my wrist, tight like an eagle claw.
‘Oi!’ I say, squirming to take my hand away.
But he ignores me. ‘I know why you come here, Cholliemurrum,’ he whispers, tickly close in my ear.
‘Why?’ I blink at him.
He presses my palm to the handprint wall, right on top of the smallest, freshest handprint of them all.
‘You come help me find my sister!’ says Harby triumphantly, letting go of my hand.
I peel my palm away and gaze at the tiny handprint; something twangs, painful and hollow, deep down inside me.
‘Mothga,’ I murmur.
Then suddenly my heart flurries. ‘Mothga!’ I grab Harby’s wrist, tight like he grabbed mine. ‘Mothga! Yes! Harby, I think you’re right! I think I do know where your sister is.’ My words come tumbling out, all in a rush.
Harby cocks his head on one side, screws up his eyes, like he hasn’t understood.
‘Mothga,’ I say. ‘In there.’ I point at the cave depths.
He stares at me, eyebrows raised in stunned surprise. ‘Mothga?’ he says, shaking his head slowly. ‘In wolf kayff?’
‘Yes. Mothga in wolf cave. I think I heard her, earlier on, before you saved me.’ I rub my sore shoulder. ‘Before the wolf came. I’m sure I heard a baby crying, way back in the cave.
‘Come,’ I say, beckoning Harby to join me. And this time he does follow me as I shuffle back along the ledge, through the net of branches, right up to the mouth of Deadman’s Cave. I take a deep breath, then, acting so much braver than I feel, I put one hand on the damp stone wall and step back into the dripping dark.
DEN
I edge forward through the dark, using the wall to guide me.
I can hear the shuffle of Harby’s bare feet on the stony floor behind me. I make out the dim shadow of the dead wolf’s body lying slumped in the dark. I sidestep to avoid it, holding my breath and trying not to think about the bloody fur, the sound of the spear snapping as the wolf rolled on to it.
I listen for the mewling cry. Nothing. Just the cave drip-drip-dripping and our own soft breath. A flicker of doubt. Did I really hear a baby? Mr Pasco’s voice creeps into my imaginings: ‘… somewhat prone to flights of fancy …’
‘Shut up, Mr Pasco,’ I hiss.
‘Shudda. Misdda. Passka,’ whispers Harby from behind me. Solemnly, like these are words in a spell.
I smile, my fear melting a little. ‘Shudda. Misdda. Passka,’ I say in agreement.
I lead us further and further back into the cave, beyond any daylight, into the deepest dark. Listening hard. Then the pad-pad of Harby’s footsteps behind me stops. I stop too.
‘Cholliemurrum?’ he says. ‘Where Mothga?’
And just at that moment I hear it. The tiniest furthest softest squeak. Harby hears it too. We grab each other.
‘Mothga?’ I whisper.
Harby says nothing but he walks on ahead of me now. We shuffle forward until it feels like we’re right in the heart of the cliff. The air is colder here and tastes metallic, like snow. My eyes are finally getting accustomed to the dark and I can make out the dim shapes of stalactites hanging like black icicles from the cave roof.
A little burst of whimpering, slightly louder. We freeze to listen. Echoes make it sound like lots of babies. For a second I let myself imagine that deep in this cave, Dara might b
e waiting with Mothga too. The noise fades as fast as it came.
‘Come,’ says Harby; he’s moving quicker now. I can almost taste his hope and urgency in the darkness. I get a little shiver of excitement spiced with fear.
The roof gets lower and we have to hunch over; then we’re crawling, squeezing ourselves along what feels like a tunnel. The air is thin, like there’s not quite enough of it. I try not to think about all the rock pressing down around me; I concentrate on how badly my knee stings on the gritty floor and the throbbing in my shoulder. Then, I might be imagining it, but up ahead of us, it seems slightly lighter.
At last we wriggle out of the tunnel into another cave, a cavern more like. I look around in amazement. Does anyone back home even know that this is here? Its walls gleam dark blue in the thin light, wet like whaleskin. I look up. It’s as tall as a house. Way up high there’s a small round hole in the roof and through it I can see a circle of sky. A shaft of thin sunshine falls like a spotlight on to Harby, who’s kneeling on the ground, looking at something. And there, in the circle of sunlight, I see … not a baby … but a huddle of puppies.
‘Oh!’ I whisper.
‘Not Mothga,’ he says glumly.
‘Not Mothga,’ I agree, kneeling down next to him. ‘Sorry, Harby.’
Harby sighs and together we look at the bundle of tiny creatures.
The pups are so young their eyes are still closed. I try to count them as they squirm over each other. I think there are six but they’re such a wriggly tangle of heads and tails and paws that it’s hard to count. One pup has clambered to the top of the pile and is scrabbling about on everyone else’s heads. Beneath her, as if in protest, another pup shifts and she slides backwards off the heap in slow motion. Harby and me both laugh at the same time. With one finger I gently stroke the pup’s fluffy head. She opens her tiny mouth towards my hand and makes little sucking noises.
A terrible realisation hits me, deep in my belly. These aren’t just pups. These are wolf pups.
‘Oh no,’ I say with dread. ‘Where’s their mum?’
Harby looks at me, his black eyes blank.
And I know straight away these are the dead wolf’s puppies. The wolf wasn’t a he; she was a she. She only attacked me because I was near her den. She attacked me to protect her little pups. It was self-defence.
Gently, gently I scoop up the tumbled wolf pup and snuggle her close. I can feel her heartbeat flickering in my hands.
‘I’m so so sorry,’ I say in her tiny soft ear.
The pup squirms in my hand, blind and deaf and helpless. Newborn. She reminds me of Dara when he was crying in the hospital, his tummy exposed and his tiny feet pushing and kicking against the air. My eyes fill with tears.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I whisper. ‘We didn’t know.’
We’ve killed the wolf pups’ mum. And without her these pups will die. The tears roll down my cheeks.
My pup is asleep, all snuggled into my neck. Maybe Dara might’ve stopped crying and just cuddled up and gone to sleep in my arms … if I’d held him close like this. With my baby finger, I stroke the perfect softness at the base of the pup’s ears. I breathe her warm smell. I don’t want to leave her; I want to keep her forever and love her and look after her; I want to fix the mess we’ve made of her family.
The other pups are quiet now. Harby has drawn a circle around them with his broken spear and they seem to like it because they’ve all gone to sleep.
‘Make safe,’ I say quietly, stroking the soft head of the wolf pup.
Harby looks at me. ‘Come!’ He nods towards the tunnel.
I give my wolf pup a little kiss and lay her carefully in the circle, back with her brothers and sisters. The warmth of her cools on my shoulder. She wriggles sleepily into her family, finding her comfy spot, until they’re all one joined-up bundle. I stare transfixed at the huddle of pups and I imagine my own family all cuddling up together too.
Harby tugs my arm. ‘Come, Cholliemurrum, come!’ I can hear the impatience in his voice.
But I can’t leave. Not just yet. I run my finger gently across my pup’s sleepy little head.
Letting go of my arm, Harby limps back to the start of the tunnel; he puffs out a sigh, then he drops to his knees and disappears. I turn away from the pups, my heart heavy, and start to follow him.
A sudden shower of stone and sand from the tunnel opening. Harby comes rushing back in, feet first.
‘GO! GO! GO!’ he shouts.
He rush-hobbles towards me, eyes wide and wild.
‘GO, Cholliemurrum!’ He grabs my arm and drags me back towards the wall of the cavern. Jamming his spear between his teeth, he leaps up the wall, grabbing on to a ledge with both hands, feet scrabbling for purchase. Making for the round opening high above us, he hauls himself on to the narrow ledge and yells down at me.
‘What? Why?’ I say, searching for a handhold on the slippery rock face.
‘WUVVVV!’ he answers, his mouth full of spear, his eyes full of panic. ‘WUVVVVVV!’
‘What?’ I call up to him. ‘I don’t understand!’
He stops climbing and takes the spear from his teeth for a second. ‘Wolf!’ he says. ‘GO!’
Then I remember; wolves aren’t solitary, are they? They’re pack animals. And just at that moment I hear it too: the echoing scurry of wolf claws and wolf voices in the tunnel. The rest of the wolf pack is coming.
PACK
Adrenalin surges through my body. There’s no time to think.
I scrabble to find a foothold, a handhold, but the rock is too smooth, too slippy.
‘I can’t!’ I scream. ‘I can’t!’
I’m frantic, clawing at the rock. Harby’s yelling down at me from his ledge. The wolf pups wake up and yelp like crazy.
I try running and jumping at the wall but again and again my hands and feet slip back off the rock face. I’ve climbed a hundred trees before but this … this is totally different.
‘Cholliemurrum!’ Harby stretches his arm down towards me but there’s no way I can reach it.
‘Help me!’ I shout.
I hear the scuffle and clamour of the wolf pack coming along the tunnel.
‘Fassssst!’ hisses Harby, the spear still clasped in his teeth. He’s pointing down, showing me his handhold.
I grab on and haul myself up, clenching my teeth at the pain that burns in my shoulder. My foot finds the tiniest toehold, my toes clench with everything I’ve got.
‘Where next?’ I yell, eyes and hands searching for the next handhold.
‘Fassst, Cholliemurrum!!’ He leans out dangerously from the ledge to show me.
I reach for it, inch higher, but I’m not quick enough. The wolves are nearly here. I can hear their scrabbling feet, their guttural growls, their panting breath.
‘Look me!’ shouts Harby. ‘Fast! Fast!’
I look up. He’s extending his arm down to me, shaking his hand like he wants me to take it.
‘I can’t! I just can’t!’ I’m glued to the spot; I don’t dare move.
There’s a soft thud behind me as the first wolf jumps into the cavern.
I hear the clicking sound of claws on stone. I see the fear on Harby’s face. The wolf is running at me and I’m not high enough, not at all.
‘Jump, Cholliemurrum!’
My eyes lock on to Harby’s. I let go of the rock and I jump and I reach and I grasp his outstretched hand. He grabs my wrist. My feet swing out and the wolf leaps up. Reflexively I bring my knees up and they bash painfully into the wall. In a frenzy of snarls, the wolf leaps again.
But Harby’s got me; locking my eyes with his, he yells as he heaves me up on to his ledge. The wolf snaps the air and falls back to the cave floor. I lie on my stomach on the narrow ledge. Harby prods me with his foot to get up but I must be in shock because I can’t seem to make my limbs move. I peep over the edge: below, the wolf gives up on me and just stands there watching. The rest of the pack has swarmed into the cavern. They nip and scuffle and
play-fight. One or two of them sniff at the mewling pups.
‘We go, Cholliemurrum,’ says Harby, and he helps me stand.
Wordlessly, he guides me upwards. The going gets easier up here and he seems to know exactly where to put his hands and feet. At last we crawl out through the opening and into the calm of the sunny afternoon air.
Harby takes his spear from his mouth, coughing. We roll away from the hole and lie, panting, on the rain-damp moss. Each breath hurts; each heartbeat hurts.
Beneath us, down in the cavern, the wolf howls; the sound spirals and loops out of the darkness, a howl so mournful I feel goose pimples rise across my whole body. Then the wolf falls silent. Utterly silent. Like he’s listening.
Somewhere down there another wolf howls. Then a third howl wraps itself around the others, then another and another. Just below us, a wolf pup howls for the very first time, his thin warble mingling with the song of the pack. The first wolf howls again, leading them all. Then, as gradually as the wolves’ song rose, it slowly fades away. The wolf pup’s voice is the last, like he hasn’t yet learned when the song’s finished.
‘Oooop,’ he says, then he too falls silent.
Cautiously, still breathing hard, we lean over the edge of the opening and look back into the den. It is full of wolves. None of them look at us; they’re all too busy with each other. They’ve formed a circle around the pups and they’re leaning in, nuzzling and licking the little ones. One of the adult wolves lies down next to the pups and gathers them towards her with her muzzle. Two pups start to feed greedily. Another female lies down and feeds the other pups nearest her. It’s amazing; the pups are so little but they just know what to do. One by one the wolves lie down together, paws and ears and tails and bellies and backs and muzzles all mingled until the floor of the den is carpeted with grey fur.
Only one wolf stands alone, on the edge of the pack. He’s huge, his fur is dark, one of his ears is torn. That was the wolf who leaped at me, I’m sure of it! He sniffs the air and looks back towards the tunnel, back towards Deadman’s Cave and the mother wolf we killed.
The Wild Way Home Page 7
