Hunter's Moon

by Garry Kilworth

  O-ha became alarmed.

  ‘You don’t think they followed you here, do you?’

  ‘Not a chance. They couldn’t follow a … a …’

  ‘An elephant?’ suggest Camio, wanting to be helpful.

  ‘A what? Anyway, humans are useless at tracking without dogs to help them – you know that, reynard. Me? I could have found me easily enough, but those farm boys are blind. They can’t smell a dead rat until it’s ten days old. What’s an elephant?’

  ‘Big animal. Big as a house, and leaves tracks the size of dustbin lids on the ground.’

  ‘I never heard of such a beast,’ said Breaker.

  ‘They come from the Land of the Lions,’ replied Camio.

  ‘What’s a lion?’

  ‘Forget it,’ finished the fox. ‘I’m tired. It’s time we all got some sleep. If you’ve any ideas about trying to reach us during the night, forget it. You’ll drop into the freezing water and in your state, drown very quickly.’

  ‘I couldn’t care less about either of you,’ said Breaker. ‘My pals aren’t here to see me, and neither are my masters. It’s not the kill, it’s the thrill. Spectacle. The show. I couldn’t care less about a pair of tatty-looking reynards with no one to watch me break their backs. You can sleep in peace.’

  ‘Thanks for nothing,’ said Camio, and O-ha felt him snuggle up closer to her, to keep her from the night frost.

  Chapter Eighteen

  In the Beginning, that time which all the canid mythology shared, after the Firstdark, the wolves ruled the forests. They were swift to organise themselves into packs, with leaders called Strongones, and quickly parcelled out areas of land for the separate packs. While the foxes were able to remain in these territories by virtue of their ability to ghost past the packs in singles or small groups, the dogs were driven out on to the unsheltered plains, where the horses grazed in their herds. The dogs, too, found security in forming themselves into packs, but being weaker than wolves were unable to match the grey ones in battle. A resentment built up amongst the dogs, against the wolves who had the choice hunting grounds and kept the dog packs on the move. The dog packs, by necessity, had to become nomadic, fearing the sound of the Howling Master, which was the name given to the wolf of each pack who had the most resonant and far-carrying call, and warned its fellows of any interlopers in the pack’s territory. The Howling Master would position himself on a high rock, where the breeze was strongest, and would keep his nose tuned for any intruders. When dog was scented, the high crooning note would go out over the forests and surrounding plains, and the wolves would gather and storm on any unfortunate dog pack that was trying to wrest a meagre existence from the treeless wastes.

  So, despite the fact that overall there were far more dogs in the world than wolves, the latter had managed to gain supremacy over the former by virtue of their ability to create an organisation, at the heart of which was good communication between wolf packs and a clear understanding of their need to remain on good terms with one other.

  Some time after the Firstdark the dogs, who were now close to starvation, set aside their individual differences and gathered on the great central plains to form a single mighty pack that would sweep the wolves from the forests and into the sea. In hound mythology, this was called The Season Of The Dog, and it was their finest time outside the beginning of their pact with humans. All quarrels and arguments between separate packs were placed aside and Skellion Broadjaw, the leader chosen as king-hound in the coming battle, invented the saying which was to be their watchword during the struggle for supremacy over the wolf packs. The saying went thus: I am against my brother dog, but my brother dog and I are against our cousin wolf. In this way their petty jealousies, their rivalry against each other, could be contained without being dismissed. One of the reasons the wolves had been successful in driving out the dogs was because the wolf packs respected each other’s territory, conducted discussions over their differences in dignity, and recognised a need to regard each other as equals. The dog packs, on the other hand, squabbled continually, called each other unforgivable names, carried out despicable raids on neighbouring packs and generally built up an enmity between the various packs which no amount of negotiation and diplomacy could erase. Skellion Broadjaw realised that the individual feuds between his packs could not be put aside entirely, so a promise of a truce until the wolves were defeated, then a settling of differences between themselves, was the best he could hope for. His recognition of this fact, and the allowance for it in his rallying cry, was a clever move on the part of a dog who knew that their only hope of survival lay in a panhound policy.

  During this time the foxes merely looked on and no doubt hoped that their two major rivals in hunting would wipe each other out.

  At first, the dogs were extremely successful. They swept across the countryside, driving out the smaller wolf packs onto the plains where the horses grazed. The horses were no friends of the wolves, who cut down their numbers by attacking stragglers, foals and sick mares when the chance arose, and welcomed the opportunity of battering down these grey shapes from the forest who tried to escape the flailing hooves. This intervention by the horses was welcomed by the dogs and Skellion Broadjaw was regarded as one of the greatest chiefs of all time.

  The wolves were in a state of panic. Despite a good communications system, they were unable to gather in the right place at the right time. They suffered a terrible defeat at the Place of the Swamps, when they gathered together a mighty pack on the edge of the eastern wetlands. The scouting dog packs in the area had watched the wolves gathering with some dismay, as Skellion Broadjaw and the main army was two days run from that place and the wolves outnumbered them ten to one. They sent a runner to Skellion Broadjaw, and prepared to try to hold off the wolves until the main army arrived. The wolves, aware that they were watched by only a few small dog packs from the ridge above the swamps, set about choosing leaders and organising strategy and tactics, ignoring the presence of the hounds.

  However, about noon on the second day, the dogs noticed there was some confusion below. More wolf packs had arrived and had swelled the numbers to such an extent that they were jostling each other for room on the firm ground. The wolf leaders had thought that with the marshland on three sides of them, then would be protected, flank and rear, and would only need to worry about their front. When the sun reached its peak a dog named Zerfuss trod on a thorn and let out a high-pitched cry of pain. In their excited state, most of the dogs on the ridge misinterpreted his yell as a command to charge, and began running full pelt down the slope towards the wolves. The geography of the landscape ensured that the dogs were channelled into a narrow dip between two spurs and unable to control their speed on the steep slope, they hit the wolves in a solid wedge of bodies, driving the grey ones backwards and to either side. Thousands of wolves found themselves floundering in the mire and sinking to their deaths. Those that remained fought bravely enough, but the psychological advantage was with the dogs who overwhelmed individuals and bore them down, while the wolves attempted a retreat across any firm ground the marshes had to offer.

  It was a great victory for the dogs, and when Skellion Broadjaw arrived, there were celebrations in progress which he felt obliged to endorse. However, he was none too pleased that it had been Zerfuss, a relatively minor chief, who was responsible for the victory, and not himself. He was lavish in his outward praise towards the other dog, but secretly vowed that a settlement would come later, when the wars were over.

  The final great battle was to take place on a promontory north of a wide river. Skellion Broadjaw’s forces outnumbered the wolves this time by almost twenty to one. The evening before the fight was to take place a messenger came from the wolf camp to offer single combat to a warrior of the dogs’ choice. He explained that while the wolves were outnumbered, and would possibly lose the final battle, a great many dogs would die. The wolves had resolved that not one of them would leave the battlefield alive. Each wolf would fight to the d
eath and would take several dogs with him. Shesta, the great wolf warrior-priestess, had therefore offered to fight any dog and the winner of this single combat would carry the day. In this way much bloodshed could be avoided.

  By this time the praise of his troops had gone to the head of Skellion Broadjaw – they called him The Invincible One, the Dogday Warrior of Ten Lives, Hound Magnificent – and his vanity was so swelled that he believed no animal on earth could defeat him.

  He informed the messenger, ‘Tell the bitch I’ll meet her at One Tree Hill, at dawn tomorrow.’

  So, at the placed of the single tree, Skellion Broadjaw met his death under the savage teeth of Shesta, the warrior-priestess. She tore him from throat to groin and ate his heart before thousands of dismayed dogs and crooning wolves. The dogs immediately began accusing each other of all manner of failure, and were routed by the triumphant wolves who took advantage of their disarray. Had Skellion Broadjaw seen through this wolf ruse and stuck to his original plan, the dogs would have carried the day, without doubt, but he chose instead to place his advantage aside in favour of a chance at Immortal Legend. Had the dogs managed to rally and see the defeat of their leader in single combat for what it was, merely one death which should not have affected the battle in any way, they would have still defeated the grey hordes. In the end, they were beaten by their own character.

  Skellion Broadjaw’s body was dragged by the wolves into the forest and buried under the roots of an unnamed tree. To this day, when a dog sees a tree, he will piss on its trunk hoping to desecrate Skellion’s monument, wherever it may be. He went down in dog legend as the Dog Whose Bowels Stink of Pride, which is a little harsh for an animal who made only one mistake, though it be the most crucial of all in the war against the wolves.

  These battles had left the wolf population severely depleted, however, and against their better judgement they became allies with the boars of the forest, whose tusks took many a dog life. This was the time when the giant Groff, the agent of the humans, came down from the white peaked mountains to gather allies himself, and pave the way for the humans from the sea-of-chaos. At first he was unable to gather any recruits and made his fabulous beasts from the clouds. He tried to copy known animal forms, but the laws of nature did not allow for perfect imitation and deviant shapes emerged from his modelling hands. When he tried to make a horse, the result was a unicorn. When he tried to copy the eagle, it developed a mammal’s torso and became the griffon. In the end he just gave up imitation and produced one of the most terrifying of false creatures, the fire-breathing dragon. Dog mythology, which differs slightly from wolf and fox mythology, maintained that they were the creatures responsible for driving Groff’s monstrosities into a lake of lava, of which several existed at that time, and when the false creatures emerged from the molten rock, it cooled and solidified, leaving them rigid forms.

  This failure on the part of Groff did not deter the giant from his task of getting the humans into the land. The first real animals he won over were the cats, who saw an easy way of life ahead of them if these tool-handed creatures called men were allowed to establish themselves in the world. They told the agent of men that they would help him, provided they were allowed to retain a certain autonomy once the humans were in the land.

  ‘We will work with man, but not under him,’ said the she-cat Callissimmini. ‘We will live with him and keep house with him, but there will be no question of a master–slave relationship. We own our own selves. Our souls belong to none but Ssassissellissi-the-She. We have nothing but contempt for all other creatures, and that includes you and your clients. I hope we understand one another?’

  Groff accepted this proposal, but when he went to the dogs he told them that the cats had capitulated unconditionally, and the dogs were tricked into complete submission. To this day the dogs maintain they were misled by the cats.

  So under the guidance of cats and dogs, men came up from the ocean of darkness with spears and bows, and systematically began to hunt and kill the wolves and boars. The dogs rejoiced in victory at last, acting as trackers and scouts for the men, and leading them to their deadly enemies. The dogs were even willing to drag the machines of men over the snow when horses could not serve. The horses themselves went down hard. They fought against humans but eventually succumbed and were yoked to the plough and the cart, suffered the indignity of having men on their backs, and finally became as much a part of man’s progress as dogs themselves.

  O-ha and Camio had sat listening to this discourse by the hound that shared their dwelling, with interest. However, they pointed out to Breaker that their own stories of the past, though tinged with a certain amount of similarity, differed from that of dog mythology. In fact, O-ha’s version of how things began was considerably different from Camio’s and the two of them were arguing well into the night about the names of various fox heroes and heroines, and who was responsible for what, and where the winds came from.

  In the end, Camio said, ‘It doesn’t really matter whether this was that, or that was this – what is important are the similarities, not the differences. I know I was born a long way from here – how far is impossible for any of us to guess – yet the same tales of the world’s beginning are told in that place. Yes, there’s a difference of opinion as to names and places, but think of it! How much alike we all are.’

  Before he fell asleep, Camio asked O-ha in a tired voice, ‘What happened to your Groff?’

  She replied, ‘As a reward for his services, the humans built him a palace of ice, with many chambers and tunnels, on the peak of their highest mountain. Thousands of icicles decorated the spires and domes, the towers and buttresses, the bridges between high walkways, which sparkled in the light. There were soft carpets of snow upon the floors and a fast, cold stream ran through the Great Chamber at the centre of the palace. The archway over the tall gate was studded with diamond-ice from the heart of a winter land, and beneath this ran secret passages to all points of the mountain-top. Finally, the great edifice was clothed in cloud, so that no other creature could see the giant’s home and covet it for itself.

  ‘For a while it was thought that Groff lived there in blissful solitude, but as new generations of men came along he was forgotten. Since he was fashioned of nothing but men’s belief, and they ceased to believe in him, he gradually disappeared. Perhaps he could have shown himself, and reawoken men’s minds to his presence, but he chose not to and he went the way of the mists and vapours of the marshland – he was blown gently into oblivion. His ice palace is somewhere beneath the weight of many winters, but occasionally his spirit walks abroad, as the minds of men waver, and his footprints can be seen in the high snows.’

  Camio nodded, satisfied.

  ‘More or less what happened to our Agarth.’

  With that he fell asleep and O-ha followed his example not long afterwards.

  She dreamed. She dreamed she was in a bright place and struggling to walk. Suddenly, black bars fell across the ground. They were like the iron rods of a cage at the zoo, once described to her by Camio. Then she was …

  Chapter Nineteen

  O-ha felt like a ripe, autumn plum, ready to split down the middle: there was a warm, mellowness in her spirit. She had not told Camio that she was pregnant but her condition was now obvious to both him and the hound. The dog fox had said nothing, waiting for her to open the subject. The problem was, she felt insecure once more, and wanted no one around at the birth. If she could have crept away and had the cubs, raised them in secret, then she would have done. Since the death of her first litter, she trusted no one, not even the father of the cubs. It was not a feeling she liked, and she hated herself for harbouring such disloyal misgivings towards her present mate, but she could not help herself.

  She watched the Brent geese getting ready to fly back to the land where they spent their summers, far in the north. Their exodus would begin in a few days. They waddled around, calling to one another, preparing themselves mentally for the long flight ahea
d which would be bound to cost a few lives. Once again, she wondered why they bothered, but could come up with nothing more satisfactory than a restlessness of spirit. O-ha did not deny that she felt a similar sort of itch to fly off into the sunset, but she had not the courage, nor of course, the physical equipment necessary. She could walk though. There was nothing stopping her becoming a rangfar. Nothing except … except that she would have to go out into the unknown and leave her homeland behind. It was a good dream, but the birds obviously had something more, some psychological advantage over her.

  Just the same, she realised it was time to leave the marshes and go back to the town. The hunters and fishermen would soon be swarming over the marshland. She said to Camio, ‘We must leave this place soon.’

  ‘I understand,’ he replied. He was obviously waiting for something further from her, but she turned away from him. She was thinking of A-ho – of his gentle passion for her, of his sacrifice – and at that moment it did not seem right that Camio was the father of her cubs. It seemed unfair – a word practical foxes like her rarely used – that her former mate should be robbed of his right to immortality through his young. He had died without seeing or knowing his cubs, and they had not lived to carry his line forward.

  When A-ho had died, she had tried to make a song for him, to sing to the wind. It had been impossible at the time for various reasons. Now she felt able to compose something. It took a great deal of mental energy, that left her feeling limp and exhausted each night, but eventually her creation was completed. One evening when Camio was out hunting, and the hound (who had clung tenaciously to life, and was now growing stronger on the left-overs of the foxes – not that he was grateful, or that they expected any gratitude) was fast asleep, she sang her song for A-ho.