by Leah Swann
You and the wolves must protect her now.
Sheka was surprised to find a lone white sylvan standing in front of the cave one morning, cooing softly. In the shapes of the bird's sounds, Sheka heard the message, ‘I come in peace.’
‘What do you want?’ Sheka snarled. ‘My den is no place for you.’
Amicus did not move. ‘Is the human child alive?’
‘What do you care?’
‘She isn't yours. You know the laws. A human child must be raised by humans.’
‘She is mine. I feed her, I keep her warm. She's my pup now.’
Amicus shifted on his elegant claws. ‘So she is alive. Your pups will be weaned soon; what will you do with her, then? The human child needs real food. You'll need help – I'll bring berries and bread…’
‘Pah!’ spat the wolf. ‘She will learn to hunt at my side, like her brothers and sisters.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Amicus. He moved closer to the wolf, so that he was inside the cave's mouth. ‘But she can't eat only what you eat. She'll die.’ The sylvan's eyes adjusted to the gloom and he saw Irina, her shabby white baby-clothes in shreds, sleeping with the pups. But at least the den was clean: there was no sign of dirt or droppings or old bones, and the earth was packed smooth on the ground. Perhaps Irina was safe for the moment, but surely she couldn't live there for long.
Early the next morning, Amicus saw the tiny, transparent form of a sprite moving over the rocks. He decided to follow it. The sprite flew all the way to the windowsill of a bakery in a nearby village, where it vanished in a puff of coloured mist, leaving Amicus alone on the sill.
‘Eh, look at this, Joe! A bird at the window, as cheeky as you please,’ said the baker's wife. ‘Isn’t it beautiful? Never seen a bird like that.’
The woman's round cheeks were flushed with the effort of baking from the early hours. She came to the windowsill and Amicus didn't move, knowing some humans love nothing better than to see a rare creature up close. He looked into the woman's eyes. She held a few crumbs for him on her palm and he pecked at them obligingly.
‘Eating from my hand! Well I never. What a bird.’ She ran her hand gently over his silky feathers. When she moved back to her work, rolling dough on a floured board, Amicus flew to where some soft buns were cooling on a rack. Perfect food for the little Irina, once it's been pulled apart. He picked one up and flew out of the window.
‘Cheeky thing!’ shouted the baker's wife as Amicus made his way back to Sheka's cave, gripping the awkward shape of the bun firmly in his beak.
Spring arrived, bearing wild-berries and sour-grass and vegetables sprouting in the farmers’ fields. Little Irina learned to crawl to the edge of the cave to feed on the sweet treats from the sylvan – barley bread and raw peas and berries – which were dropped into her tiny mouth budding with new teeth. The Princess had grown strong from Sheka's rich milk, and she could move quickly on all fours. She wrestled and played with the other pups – occasionally getting nipped – and her arms were soon covered in pink scratches.
Amicus had other animals in the forest working with him now; with another bird helping they could carry a tiny pail of fresh water from the river to supplement Sheka's milk. Sometimes field mice and squirrels and sylvans would play with Irina while Sheka and Torg slept. If her wolf-parents stirred, Amicus would shoo them away, squawking and beating his wings.
Spring passed into summer and with it came sweet summer fruits: strawberries and plums, blackberries and raspberries. Amicus continued to fetch bread from the baker's wife with whom he was now great friends. He often brought the baker's wife a gift: a rose plucked from the bush, the reddest, plumpest wild strawberry, and once a ring that the sprite showed him, hanging from an odom twig.
Summer passed into autumn and brought apples and pears and oatcakes. Irina would pull herself up on the rocks, inspired by dreams of standing on two legs. The other wolf pups – now bigger than she – sometimes stood with their paws on the walls beside her, copying her. Any human watching them would have laughed with amazement, but there was no one witnessing Irina's growth except Sheka and Amicus. Sheka sometimes left Irina in the cave with the sylvan while she went hunting for wild goats or rabbits with her pups. Another winter was coming and then they would have to fend for themselves.
‘Soon she must return to the humans,’ said Amicus early one morning, after Sheka and the pups had returned from the hunt.
‘She stays with me,’ said Sheka.
‘Your pups are weaned. She cannot be a wolf-child all her life.’
‘I don't trust humans.’
‘She will go to the right people.’
‘She’s not going to any people. She stays with me,’ snarled Sheka, baring her teeth.
After this, Sheka kept Irina close by her side. She was a suspicious creature and she thought Amicus might try to take her away. Although Irina ran on all fours she slowed the other wolves down; and Sheka often carried her on her own back or lifted Irina with her teeth onto the back of her sturdiest pup, Durrell. Amicus was never far away, flying from branch to branch, always keeping watch.
Chapter Seven
A True Wolf
Irina loved to be next to Sheka, and when they slept in a pile she liked nothing more than snuggling into the warm folds of her fur. The great, fierce strength in the wolf-mother's body made her feel safe. Sheka's ferocious protectiveness needed no explanation: Irina felt it in her heart and bones. She loved the wolf like any child loves her mother.
One of Irina's favourite games was to pretend she was a wolf-mother, carrying leftover food to be buried outside and pushing the new pups with her face as Sheka pushed them with her nose, leading them to get up, to play, to go to the river to wash.
As she grew older, she began to join the wolves on the hunt. When they licked one another's faces and howled, Irina's human voice merged with the melodious howls of the wolves.
In the last litter of pups there was born a runt, a tiny wolf called Asta. She was so small she could run no faster than Irina. Sheka often carried the small wolf and threw her in the path of danger – near to where humans or other animals could catch her, or into the river where she had to scramble and splash to get out. Several times Sheka took Asta to the darkest part of the forest and left her there to find her own way home.
‘Asta is the weakest,’ Sheka would say. ‘She must be clever to survive.’
‘I am like Asta,’ Irina said. ‘Leave me, too.’
‘You are not a wolf.’
Irina looked down at herself, examining her hairless legs and arms. ‘I want to be a wolf, like you,’ she said, butting her head into Sheka's side. ‘Let me try.’
That night, Sheka told Amicus he could follow Irina, but not show himself. Reluctantly – but understanding the need for Irina's survival instincts to be sharpened – Amicus agreed.
Taking care to keep out of sight, the sylvan followed as Sheka carried Irina on her back for some way to the north, then across the river. She dropped the girl under some bushes. Sheka licked her sadly and bounded away, believing her human pup might not survive the night.
Irina stared into the dark, searching for the familiar pale gleam of Amicus in the shadows. When she could not see him, she drew her knees in under her chin and shivered with fear. For the first time in her short life, she was alone.
Like Asta, she thought. I have to find my way home.
She rolled onto her hands and knees and crawled forward, sniffing the ground. There was a trace of Sheka there, and she followed the scent till she came to the river where the smell disappeared.
The rushing water, barely lit by the stars above, looked dark and frightening. Irina let out a howl and hurled herself in, gasping at the cold current. Kicking out her legs and arms, she found her feet could touch the bottom. She waded through the water and climbed up the bank on the other side, her teeth chattering.
Don't stop, she thought. Find Sheka.
On her hands and knees she sniffed all over for Sheka a
nd finally caught the she-wolf's scent. She crawled onwards, Amicus still flying far above, until the sun rose and Sheka's smell again grew faint.
To Amicus's horror, a flock of flesh-eating Eikkidor birds had noticed the slow-moving creature on the forest floor and were following her.
When the sun was high in the sky, too tired to howl or even cry, Irina collapsed under a tree. She had lost the scent completely. Her knees and palms were cut and bruised. I must get up, she thought. She tried but fell backward in a faint.
The Eikkidor birds circled lower, their dark green wings pulsing, their beaks curved and golden and sharp. Irina's legs trembled and the Eikkidors waited, hovering. They liked their prey to be deathly still before they attacked. Irina's legs stopped trembling and she breathed so lightly that her back barely moved. The Eikkidors watched.
Amicus ran up and down the branch of the tree, chirruping and loosening dry leaves which tumbled over Irina; but she did not stir.
Then, in that curious way that birds have of moving as one creature, the Eikkidors swooped.
Amicus issued a whistle so ear-splitting that Irina was roused from her faint. She sat up suddenly, shocked to find herself surrounded by masses of dark green feathers pitching this way and that way; yellow legs and claws, fetid breath pouring from open beaks.
Shrieking, she beat them away and the birds flew up, cawing loudly. The Eikkidors settled on the branches of the trees and waited once more. Irina looked up at them, her heart pounding.
‘Killing birds,’ she said to herself. What did Sheka say about the killing birds? Don't stay still. Keep moving.
A branch jutted out of the tree beside her, as though to help. Irina pulled herself up, looking around hopefully for any sign of Amicus. Above the trees the dazzling sun seemed to beckon her, calling in its cracked, golden voice:
‘This way, this way.’
So Irina followed the sun, dazed and exhausted. The sun was her friend, she decided, even though its hot rays burned her through the branches overhead. It was better to walk upright so she didn't hurt her knees. By and by she found some wild mint; she grabbed and ate handful after handful. Never had mint tasted so delicious, so fresh and pure and nourishing. She kept an eye on the Eikkidors, still following her. After eating the mint she walked faster and suddenly before dusk, the flock lifted like a storm cloud and flew off into the sky.
Hours later, when at last she found the cave, Durrell bounded out to greet her with a joyous yelp, followed by Sheka.
‘Wolf, true wolf,’ said Sheka, licking Irina all over with her rough tongue and lifting her onto Durrell's back so the young wolf could carry her inside. Casting a backward glance over her haunches, Sheka caught sight of Amicus in the odom tree.
‘You helped her,’ the she-wolf accused.
Amicus was able to reply in all honesty, ‘I never showed myself to her once.’
Chapter Eight
William the Farmer
‘The nights are so cold, dear Amicus, when I go out with Durrell,’ grunted Irina one morning. ‘I wish I could grow fur.’
The bird nuzzled her ear lovingly before taking off to the village where the baker lived, flying in and out of the roof-holes of the huts. Eventually he found what he was looking for: a little woollen nightdress. He plucked several feathers from his tail to leave in exchange: sylvan feathers were prized as quills and decorations, and could be sold for good money at the market. He carried the nightdress back in his beak. It flapped behind him like a tail as he flew away from the village and over the forest. In the distance Amicus could see the city and the domes of Ragnor Castle glistening like dewdrops, and wondered if Irina would ever return.
When he laid the garment at Irina's feet, she stared at it in amazement.
‘Like fur,’ she heard the bird coo. ‘To cover your skin.’
That night Irina was glad of the strange ‘fur’, although it was itchy at first. Even with Amicus pecking at her and clacking his instructions, it had taken Irina a while to work out how she was to wear her fur. Eventually she learned how to put her hands through the long sleeves and her head through the neck-hole instead of the other way round – and it was worth it.
As she wrapped her arms around Durrell's neck, she felt warm and comfortable. The stars gleamed above them as they rushed into the forest. For Irina, night was a colourless form of day – she had spent so much of her life awake at night she could see almost as well as a wolf.
‘Look,’ she whispered. ‘Rabbit tracks.’
She jumped off to let Durrell hunt the rabbit; he disappeared into the bushes, snuffling and breaking twigs in his haste. Irina scurried up the trunk of a tree to feast on nuts. The shells were round and hard and she cracked them with her teeth. If she was careful, the three-sided nuts – shaped like crow's claws – would not break but fall sweet and soft onto her tongue. She was gnawing her way through her seventh nut when she heard Durrell yelp. Irina jumped to the ground, hurrying towards the dark bushes. She made a small grunt and Durrell's answering yelp came through the air, clear and desperate.
Running on all fours Irina reached the river and found Durrell tangled in an old fishing net, scrabbling furiously. Irina made a noise which meant ‘Stop!’ and knelt beside him. His front paws were ensnared in cords too thick to bite through.
Patiently, Irina set to work with her nimble fingers untangling the net, all the while singing a song the robins had taught her to calm him. It was almost dawn by the time she had freed him.
‘There,’ she said, as Durrell drew his paws clear of the net and backed away. She lifted her head and sniffed. Although her sense of smell was nowhere near as keen as a wolf's, she could detect the distinctive scent of a human, the hairless skin emitting a salty fragrance unlike the more familiar smell of fur.
Turning her head, Irina spied a man carrying a sack. These humans, Amicus had told her, were farmers gathering firewood or odom acorns to fatten their pigs. She hid from them as Durrell did, keeping as still as a log in the shadows.
‘Quickly,’ she said to Durrell. She climbed onto his back and the two of them raced back into the forest.
Hearing the crackle of twigs, the farmer glanced in their direction and saw the girl on the young wolf's back. He rubbed his eyes with amazement. The pair disappeared into the trees.
No, no, William, that cannot be, the farmer told himself. It's early and your mind's playing tricks on you.
William knew the she-wolf, Sheka, and her mate, Torg. When he went out hunting before dawn, he'd sometimes spear a wild goat or pig and see two pairs of midnight eyes glowering amidst the trees, no doubt angry with him for stealing their quarry. He guessed the young wolf was one of their pups. But the girl? No, he can't have seen a human child riding the wolf.
He hurried home and told his wife Octavia, who brewed him tea to help him clear his head. That night the poor farmer was haunted by a mighty she-wolf in his dreams. Her brilliant eyes seemed to burn into him and her face changed into that of a beautiful queen and back again. Her cheeks thickened with fur, her nose and mouth stretched out and become a muzzle, and her teeth lengthened into fangs…
Chapter Nine
The Bear
Emerging from her hut one clear morning, Raizel found her vegetable garden was wild and overgrown, as though years had passed. Incredulous, the wise-woman, who seemed even more wizened and white-haired than before, knelt by a pumpkin vine as thick as her arm and green with life, weighted down with the husks of withered pumpkins. Raizel pulled them off and made a pile. Thoughtfully, she rubbed the vine and a new pumpkin sprouted, swelling in its ribbed, orange husk till it was big enough to harvest. Yes, she could still do it.
Then, curious to see if she could do something new, Raizel turned and rubbed the earth with the tips of her fingers. Her fingertips tingled with heat. Several minutes passed.
No, thought Raizel. Nothing new has come out of all this suffering.
She shifted from kneeling to crouching and brushed the dirt from her knees. Some
thing caught her eye; the earth began to turn over and spill itself and a small green frond poked forth. Raizel smiled. The frond grew at an extraordinary rate, seeming to pump itself out of the ground, until it was as big as the other vine. Half a dozen pumpkins emerged from its green flesh, first as buds, then round and golden from their green packets.
Full of joy, Raizel raised her arms and opened her mouth to call her pigeons and ravens and sylvans; but no matter how she tried, no sound would come.
I see, she thought. I have developed a new power. But my body is weak and my lips are wordless.
Irina and Durrell were curled up together sleeping when they felt the ground beneath them tremble. Irina looked out of the cave and saw the air was pale and silvery. Dawn was coming, but Sheka and Torg and the rest of the pack had not returned from the hunt. What was making the earth rumble? She shook Durrell awake and the pair ran to the den's opening to look out.
Not far away was a huge brown bear. The bear looked tired and starving. He had smelled milk and little animals and he knew at last he could fill his painfully empty belly. He staggered towards the mouth of the den, paw over paw, his massive head swinging, his mouth open and drooling.
Durrell ran out of the cave snarling and lifting his lips into a horrifying red grimace. He growled at Irina: ‘I’ll protect the pups. You must run!’
‘No, I want to stay!’
‘You can't help. You have no teeth, and no claws.’
With a tremendous bellow, the bear sprang forward. Durrell leapt to his hind legs and grazed the bear's coat with his sharp claws, then sank his teeth into the bear's neck. The bear reared backward with a howl of pain. Irina had never seen Durrell like this. His eyes were glazed as though ice had formed over them, and his teeth were smeared with blood.
