Midnight's Sun: A Story of Wolves

by Garry Kilworth

  The wolves showed themselves, and began to circle the prey. Athaba, the gentle Athaba, was somewhere else now. Inside his skin was the hunting Athaba who had scented the kill. His brain was bone-white light, with blood red. The air came out of his nostrils in short tight breaths. His body was primed, every neuron charged. Scent, sound, sight, touch, all alert to a fine hair’s end, finely quivering. Every subtle change was noted instantly, judged, muscle adjustments made to shadow-thin precision. Ice-keen, thorn sharp. Athaba the hunter-killer.

  Even as he began circumnavigating the quarry, Athaba sensed their restlessness was due to more than the presence of the wolves. Of course, predators like himself disturbed them and put them on the defensive, but they had been alert and edgy when the hunting party arrived. There was something else bothering them, some other animal in the vicinity which had the musk oxen nervously stamping at the ground. Athaba lifted his nose and tried for a scent.

  As he was doing so, the herd suddenly broke and the animals began to stampede across the plain. Athaba, in the act of cutting off any retreat, had not quite closed the surrounding circle. He jumped desperately for a passing bull, struck the creature’s shoulder, failed to get a grip and somersaulted over the top to land on his feet again. Itakru and Skassi had singled out a another single quarry and were harassing it, but failed to bring it down.

  ‘Follow close!’ cried Itakru, and set off in pursuit, though he was not running flat out by any means. The wolves were faster than the musk oxen but needed to conserve strength for the kill.

  The muskies disappeared over the gentle ridge and the wolves followed after, only to discover another creature on the far side, a fisher that had just landed a catch from the plain’s river. It was a brown bear, the largest of all bears, and it had already been disturbed by the musk oxen. It stood on its hindlegs and faced the oncoming wolves.

  Athaba had seen brown bears from a distance, but at such close quarters this giant beast looked as formidable and impassable as a high rock face with claws and teeth. When it reared and stood tall, it seemed to block out the whole sky. Its shadow covered the land. It spread its great arms as if to enfold the whole hunting party and crush them into a single ball of pulp. Its long claws slashed at the air. Its eyes reflected its fury. Athaba was too stunned by the sheer size of the bear to be afraid.

  Athaba knew that ferocious as brown bears could be, they were normally mild mannered and easy to avoid. This one, however, was in Skassi’s path, who in his zeal seemed incapable of stopping or finding a way around the beast. He charged ahead, regardless of the danger. When the bear made a move across, Skassi leapt like a salmon, up and sideways, his athletic muscled body twisting to reach the bear’s throat.

  The bear was of course incensed at this unjustified attack. She had been quietly gathering together a fish and vegetable meal when surprised first by a thundering group of dense-skulled muskies, followed by several uncivil snarling wolves. She felt she was entitled to be up on her hind legs in protest, defending her catch. Then to be attacked! Not good. Not good at all.

  She let out a roar of rage in her own language, as Skassi’s teeth skimmed her throat fur, and with surprising speed and agility for her bulk gripped the wolf around the chest with her great arms. Holding him captive with one arm, she raked Skassi down his flank with her right claws as he tried to bite her face. He screamed and struggled, now realising how great was his danger. Athaba guessed that until then Skassi had been working on instinct, attacking blindly the thing that was between him and his quarry and not thinking about the consequences. His eyes had been ‘full of blood’ as they say. Now he knew he was in terrible straits and wanted to be out of them quickly.

  Athaba, Itakru and the terrified youngest wolf ran in to harry her legs, snarling and snapping, while the experienced Rennedati ran behind to divert her. They played head-dart tactics, trying to make her let go of their pack-member. She refused. Now that her blood was up, she was going to see gore. She began to crush the wolf in her arms. Her jaw twisted sideways with the effort. Athaba heard one of Skassi’s ribs go, as loud as the cracking of pack ice, and the bear’s victim howled pitifully.

  Itakru jumped for her right shoulder, but she managed to ward him off with a sweep of her great paw while still keeping a grip on Skassi. The shoulderwolf had however wriggled down a little. Athaba tried for a leg bite and was marginally successful. Then he was kicked backwards, head over heels, on to the soft moss. He was on his feet instantly but somewhat shaken. The power behind that limb had been tremendous and it had been nothing more than a flick which had sent him flying. Surely Skassi was lost? How could creatures like themselves deal with such strength?

  Another rib cracked, louder than before.

  Skassi had gone limp now, his eyes rolling into white. Athaba could see the pain in his expression. Although Skassi had bullied him in the past, he felt nothing but compassion for his rival. He could feel Skassi’s agony just by looking at him. If they did not get him away from the bear soon, Skassi would suffer serious internal damage and there would be no saving him.

  The fifth wolf, Rennedati, was now behind the bear and she leapt to grip its ear for a second. The brown creature let out another great roar, this time of pain, and swung sideways, sending Rennedati flying through the air. She landed on her rump, but was immediately on her feet. Athaba guessed what was going through her mind. Got to keep out of the way of those arms! The bear, having dropped Skassi at last, was soon after her, running on all fours. Rennedati was away like a cat, her hindlegs reaching so far between her forelegs she was knocking herself under her chin with her shins. Athaba could see by her skidding over-reactions that Rennedati was desperate to keep clear of the claws. She darted, she twisted, she leapt and turned. She made more telemarks on that tundra than a hare with a fox on its tail. Twice the great claws lashed out, and twice they skimmed Rennedati’s hind quarters by a fraction. She was the oldest wolf among the hunting party, but at that moment an undermega would have had difficulty in matching her acrobatics.

  The youngest wolf was watching his superior with wide frightened eyes and Athaba could hear the yearling whispering under his breath, but whether it was encouragement to Rennedati or a prayer to some ancestor to intervene and save them all from destruction was not clear.

  Athaba joined Itakru in trying to divert the attention of the she-bear from Rennedati. They raced around the beast, snapping and snarling at it, yet trying to remain out of range of its claws. Athaba went in too close, racing across between the bear and the retreating Rennedati. Even as he was carrying out the action he knew he had misjudged it. A huge paw swung out and lifted him off his feet.

  He never felt the rock that his head struck. He simply gave himself up to blackness.

  Chapter Five

  When Athaba opened his eyes, the land was covered in a light fall of snow. He tried to lift his head but at first the pain was so sharp he felt it was wiser to remain still, lying flat on his side. It began to get dark around him and the whiteness less hurtful on his eyes. From his right ear, down the side of his eye, and on to his jaws, was a matted stiffness of hair. He knew this to be dried blood and extended his tongue carefully to lick away at the clotted material. He did not want to return to camp with an exposed wound which would concern the other wolves of the pack.

  As the time passed his body began to chill and he knew he would have to move if he was to survive. He climbed unsteadily to his feet and tottered to a stream, a thin sliver of water, not far away. There he dipped his head in the freezing beck. He lapped some of the water, filling his empty belly with cold liquid. Finding a space between two rocks, he settled down to rest again. Dizziness overcame him and he slipped away for a while into the twilight world he had previously inhabited.

  The daylight hours were short. One night stretched into another. He found the strength to hunt small creatures on the wide tundra: lemmings that had begun to burrow beneath the snow. Frequently, he had to lie on his side as a feeling of giddy sickness
overtook him which did not suit his normal eating habits, that of feast or famine. It was not Athaba’s nature to have a bit here and a bit there, with pieces of grass or herbs from under the snow in between. Yet, that was the way in which he was having to conduct his meals. It brought home to him how sick he was.

  On the next day he began to recover properly. The wound on his head had stopped seeping every time he moved and he managed to mouth-spear some grayling from the stream. Once he had eaten the fish he surveyed the landscape, intending to set out in search of the pack.

  It was a murky day, with poor light, and the darkness touched upon both sides of noon. Athaba went forth, retracing his movements of a few days previously. When he reached the place where the dens were supposed to be, he found them empty, however. There was a strong smell of humans around and he guessed the pack had moved because of the presence of man. He attempted to follow the trail which had almost gone cold. Once again he collapsed but came to as the light was fading. He felt strange, a little dreamy and not fully himself, but still he decided he was strong enough, physically, to continue.

  On the way he came across some blood on the snow which might have belonged to a wolf. He also found a kill which had been abandoned. There was very little meat on it. Another wolf had been there. He saw some hairs on the snow which might have come from his own coat, had he not been sure that it was his first time in the area. He broke some old bones which the ravens had not yet found and sucked the marrow from their hollows.

  Towards morning he had one of his dizzy spells and flopped at the base of a pine to rest. Then he smelled the smoke from the nearby fire, which normally he would have scented earlier had he not been ill, and crawled closer to see that there were humans, three of them. They were huddled around a small smouldering pile of logs, breathing heavily inside their coverings. Athaba realised they were all asleep. There was also a small lean-to, under which was a fourth prone body. The pelts that they slept in smelled of grease and fat. Athaba could not see guns but knew they would be around somewhere, probably inside the sleeping furs being kept warm and ready to shoot. Athaba was happy that he could smell no huskies, nor could he see a sled of any sort. Obviously the men had set out before the snow started. They appeared to be on foot, but it was known to wolves that hunters were often dropped and picked up by machines. Some of these machines came from the air, some across country leaving twin tracks in the snow.

  Athaba sniffed, looked around, and spied some burned meat at the edge of the fire ashes. He began to salivate. The odour of the meat made his stomach churn. Climbing to his feet he stepped out and entered the men’s camp. He padded softly between the sleepers, knowing he could be away in an instant. Just as he was lowering his head to snatch up the meat, he heard a small movement from the lean-to. Looking across, a pair of grey eyes met his. For a moment the two creatures, wolf and man, were locked and lost in one another.

  Then Athaba grabbed the hunk of meat and darted out of the camp while the human was struggling inside his sleeping furs. Athaba guessed that the hunter was trying to get at his gun, but when he looked back the man had a small black box in his hands and was aiming this at the young wolf instead.

  What? A new weapon? Athaba did not intend waiting around to find out. He sought a place amongst some trees where the wind was broken and diverted. There he tore at the meat, filling his belly. It tasted strange but good. He wished there were more of it.

  Within a short time he was back on the trail of his pack. At first the air was smoky with windblown snow that swirled up into the murky skies, but by noon it had cleared a little. The pack was heading north again, into the oncoming winter. He followed.

  At one point a gyr falcon came dropping out of the heavens and snatched a rock ptarmigan from the ground not far in front of the wolf. Athaba watched the bird climb with its prey in its talons, then it turned, no doubt heading for a high place. He lost it quickly, amongst the greyness above.

  It seemed to grow colder by the minute. The long hours of summer had gone, the whistling swans had flown south again leaving the greenish waters of the tundra lakes to freeze over. Snowy owls had ceased to gather and now hunted singly, patrolling the silent skies, on the watch for small birds. Athaba could also smell lynx on the wind and kept his nose keen for stronger scents of creatures with black tufted ears and side-whiskers. These narrow-eyed cats would not attack a fully grown wolf but could be formidable if surprised.

  Athaba came to a shallow valley and there below him was a wolf pup playing with a piece of stiff hide. It was taking the frozen patch of leather and skimming it across some thin ice, watching it spin as it slid along. Then the youngster would race after it, catch it in its jaws, and repeat the exercise.

  Athaba called.

  ‘Navista!’

  The pup looked up, seemed startled, then ran away. Athaba followed it, into another narrow valley. There he could see the pack gathered. Navista had run into camp ahead of him, shouting that he had seen an ancestor come back from the dead. There were one or two alarmed looks and some of the youngsters were up on their paws ready for flight, but Ragisthor called for calm.

  He came out to meet Athaba.

  ‘Well, well, sapling. We thought you dead.’

  ‘No, I survived. I was unconscious for a while.’

  The older wolf appeared a little perturbed.

  ‘So it seems. Yet, you were definitely reported as dead. The bear chased away the rest of the hunter-warriors, leaving you and Skassi behind. Apparently, Skassi’s ribs were hurting too much for him to be able to take flight instantly. When he had recovered enough to make good his escape, he found you lying – dead – not far away.’

  Athaba nodded.

  ‘Not dead, Ragisthor, as you can see.’

  Now the warmth returned to Ragisthor’s eyes.

  ‘Skassi will be disappointed,’ he murmured. ‘Welcome home, little shrub. It’s good to see you. I grieved, I mourned, and here you are, standing as strong as a willow wand in the spring. What are you trying to do? Thaw an ice-hard heart? One can’t afford these feelings of affection. They lead to one’s downfall, eventually.’

  Athaba gave him a gentle shoulder-slam.

  ‘You didn’t grieve for me?’

  ‘I swear. I was in a state of grey collapse. The light had gone out of the sky and a cold wind had entered my world.’

  Athaba said, ‘That was just the winter coming on.’

  Ragisthor looked around him.

  ‘Really? I hadn’t noticed. I thought it was the absence of my friend that had robbed the world of light and warmth. It just goes to show one can’t trust one’s emotions. The winter? Well, well.’

  ‘You’re an old fake, Ragisthor. Still, I missed you.’

  This time Ragisthor was serious.

  ‘I missed you too. It would not have done to show it, of course. I have my reputation to consider. The hardened cynic.’ His expression became lighter. ‘Now, step alongside me, and we’ll walk into camp together. They’re a little worried by you, of course, coming back from the dead. But we’ll show them there’s nothing to fear from our old undermega Athaba. There’s not much news to tell. We moved, of course, as you found out. Skassi has been impossible, utterly impossible, since he attacked the bear. It’s my guess that Itakru wasn’t sure whether to report it as a foolish, not to say, stupid confrontation, or as an act of courage and audacity. He chose the latter because it enhanced his own subsequent actions. To lead an unnecessary attack on a bear does not do much for one’s reputation, even given that one is making the best of a bad situation. So Skassi come out a hero.

  ‘You’ll have to lick goodbye to your thoughts of becoming hunter-warrior headwolf one day, unless of course something happens to Skassi. I think he’s got it nearly cornered. You, my little friend, have got a little climb ahead of you, to get back your status. It is all very heroic to be wounded and manage to crawl back to the pack on the day, but you have been gone some time. You have gathered some foreignness about you, w
hich will need to be seen as nothing more than the residue of your convalescence.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Athaba, as they neared the others. He could see the wolves of his own pack, eyeing him warily, as if he were a stranger trying to intrude, or was bringing bad odours from the outside world back into the camp.

  Ragisthor turned to glance at him.

  ‘There’s something different about you, sapling. It might be that you have grown in spirit, but you have something about you which was not there before. You would do well to hide it.’ His voice grew louder. ‘Look at this. Our Athaba, come home to us. It seems it takes more than a bear to kill one of us, eh? Here he is, fit and well, after his long convalescence out on the tundra.’

  Urkati came forward, sniffing the air.

  ‘You have the smell of man about you,’ she said.

  Athaba shook his head.

  ‘Not man, his meat. I stole some from his campfire. I was weak and hungry and it was a last resort.’

  ‘I see. And you’re fit now? You were reported dead.’

  Athaba looked across to where Skassi was standing.

  ‘An understandable error,’ he said, ‘the report was almost true. Somehow I managed to retain my strength.’

  There was still a hardness in Urkati’s eyes.

  ‘But you have been gone some twenty-three days …’

  Inside, Athaba felt the alarm go through his torso and limbs, though he tried to keep it from his face. Twenty-three days! He had thought he had been away for four, or five days at the most. Twenty-three days! Something was wrong inside his head. Either his giddy spells stretched over days, instead of a single day, or he was losing days in his memory. Whichever it was, he needed to keep such a thing secret. The pack did not like wolves with strange heads. His brother had been killed because of such strangeness.

  ‘Well,’ said Urkati, after a staring-out during which Athaba’s mind screamed to be released, ‘we’ll see. You say you’ve spent all that time recovering?’