‘Can’t say that I do,’ said the Outcast, as usual revolted but fascinated in a horrified way by this bloodthirsty creature with its little beady eyes. ‘I really only think of filling my stomach.’
The ermine shivered from the top of his head to the tip of his tail, the feeling rippling along his white body fur.
‘Oh, yes, filling the stomach’s important, friend’ (he always called the Outcast ‘friend’, probably in order to remind the wolf that he was for talking to, not for eating), ‘but you and I, we are of the tooth and claw. We are born to be killers, to stalk, to hunt, to suck the life from the throats of our prey. It stirs me to a feverpitch of excitement, the thought of the final pounce, the screaming of the dying …’
‘Well, I think we are a little, different in that respect.’
The ermine conceded the argument, seemingly eager (as always) to please.
‘Of course, of course. You are the great wolf, the mighty hunter – not so mighty as the bear, of course, but fairly mighty just the same – you do not need to bother with the passion of killing, the colour of death. For you no prey is too large, or too fearsome. Take me, for instance. Can you imagine me trying to bring down a musk ox?’
The Outcast regarded the narrow fiend with its bright eyes like chips of ice.
‘As a matter of fact, I can and I can’t. I mean, you seem to have the spirit for the job, but you lack the stature, if you know what I mean.’
‘The spirit? Ah, I’ve got that all right, friend. The spirit of the kill is in me. If sheer ferocity and tenaciousness were all that was required of a hunter, I would have left a trail of slaughtered musk oxen from here to the warm south. But alas,’ he sighed, ‘I shall never have the necessary bulk for the task. How I would love to tear the throat out of one of those giants. Imagine the amount of blood! I suppose you can stain whole glaciers with the blood of a musk ox, eh?’
‘I’ve never really thought about it.’
‘Oh, but you should. I would have measured each patch with my length, to see if I could better it the next time. I’ve dragged away their intestines from time to time, once the kill has been made, but I’ve never actually been there when the life is bubbling from a dying musk ox’s mouth. I expect they scream for mercy, don’t they? I like it when they plead for quarter. You know they’re not going to get it – they know they’re not going to get it – but they scream anyway. I suppose it’s an automatic reaction, to yell like that?’
‘I’m not sure … that is, I don’t understand the language, and anyway, musk oxen are usually out of breath when they’re brought down.’
‘Hares scream,’ said the ermine, confidentially.
‘Do they?’
‘Oh, yes, scream like billy-o. They act tough, hares do, until the old fangs pierce the jugular, then you want to hear them yell! I remember one you could hear for miles. Really highpitched. I tried killing the next one I caught the same way, but you know, I never ever did get another scream to match it. Funny really, you would have thought they were much of muchness, hares. They all look the same, don’t they, with those ridiculous back legs, but in fact they’re all different in a subtle way. I’ve made a particular study of the death rattle of hares and the scream varies both in pitch and tone quite dramatically, some of them almost low and hoarse. You wouldn’t think it, would you?’
‘Not all all,’ said the Outcast, wondering what hellish creature had spawned this white devil with its tiny sharp teeth and unhealthy obsessions.
The ermine shook himself free of snow.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I really enjoy our little talks. I learn a lot from you, one way and another. You’re the first wolf I’ve had the pleasure of conversing with and I must say I really admire the shape of your jawline – did I mention that before – so firm.’ The ermine sighed. ‘I could crunch a few heads with a jaw like that, to be sure.’
Then it rolled and lolloped away, over the snow, leaving the Outcast feeling that it was a good thing their sizes were not reversed or he would have been attacked and killed (though not necessarily eaten) long before now. The ermine called back through the darkness, ‘One last question. In the scale, does a musk ox scream from top to bottom, or from bottom to top?’
The Outcast, who had not been devoid of a sense of humour in better times, replied, ‘Depends, which way to rip open its throat, left to right, or right to left.’
‘Oh. I’ll have to think about that one.’
These interludes, diverting as they were, did not occur often in the Outcast’s life in northern latitudes. Much of the time was spent in the hungry quest for food. There were few leavings from the pack in this land where game was so scarce. The Outcast grew thin, his fur hanging from him like the loose clothes of a human, and his cheeks grew sunken. His eyes seemed to shrink back into his skull and they burned there. Often his head ached or buzzed as if it were full of flies. Once or twice during that winter he had one of his fits and blacked out, to wake cold and stiff in the snows. He had the feeling at such times that there were eyes out there in the darkness, waiting for him to remain where he was, to expire.
From time to time, he caught a glimpse of northern wolves or saw their tracks in the snow. The packs were fewer up here in the north and their hunting circles that much larger. There was no doubt that the timber wolves’ hunting area overlapped that of a neighbour and he had dreams of a clash between the two groups. In this dream Skassi would be fighting to the death with a matched male and his sister beset by two she-wolves, when the Outcast would arrive and tip the balance of victory. He would fall on the largest of the aggressors and save his own pack from annihilation. Their gratitude would leave them with guilty feelings as they turned him out into the dark winter once again (as they would) and their attitude towards him would soften. He would go away again, feeling noble and good, and the pack would gradually turn a blind eye to him as he approached the den (by accident, of course) on the odd occasion.
These were false dreams. These were the dreams of a wolf with a burning head.
Once, he told the ermine the rhyme his father had taught him, but the little creature scoffed at wood that sank and stones that floated.
‘Sounds like a fox riddle,’ he said. ‘I don’t have anything to do with foxes. They’ll convert you, soon as look at you. Mysticism and magic – they’ve got it coming out of their ears. They use tricks like that to get you interested, then they start trying to get you to admit that yooouuu have doubts about death, whether it’s the end or the beginning. I can’t be having any patience with stuff like that. Death is death. The heart melts like snow in heat, the mind trickles away. Simple as that. No more wolf, no more ermine, no more fox if it comes to that. Just because they believe in that waffle, doesn’t mean they’re special. They’re just cowardly fools, who’re afraid of dying. I’m not scared of death. I spit in its eye.’
Ask a question, thought the Outcast, and you get a lecture in return.
Chapter Seven
Near the end of the winter, as the light was creeping back to purple the sky, the Outcast met Skassi on a whale-back ridge. It was an accidental meeting, since the wind was leaden that morning, refusing to carry scents very far and letting them drop to cold ground. It had snowed during the night and there was a light fluffy covering of shinbone depth, which softened the sound of any approach. Consequently, they were not aware of each other until they rounded a boulder, one from either side.
The two wolves both stiffened and then the Outcast instinctively went into the submissive role: head down, ears flat, back arched. Almost immediately he had adopted the pose, he straightened and pricked up his ears, angry with his body for betraying him. Since he was not a member of the pack, he had no need to placate this mega that had caused him so much grief. And he had beaten the other in a one-to-one: even more reason for not humbling himself.
They were both lean from the winter months under their thick coats.
Skassi was the first to speak. His voice had changed from the Outcast’s memory of it.
It sounded softer but firmer. There was more confidence in the tone, less aggressiveness.
‘Is that the wolf Athaba?’
His name! How strange it sounded after all this time. Something fluttered inside him: a kind of hope. It was the use of his name that awakened this sensation, and not the thought that he might be readmitted to the pack. Such a thing was highly improbable, virtually impossible. He did not know whether he even wanted to go back to the pack now. He had been away too long, was used to being a loner, a ‘raven’, an utlah. His mind was set in a certain way now and he would find it difficult to live with other wolves. One became used to one’s own company and doing things in a particular way. The pack would never approve of his lifestyle: he would have to fit in with the others, carry out certain duties, set an example to the young. All that kind of thing was behind him. Out on the white wastes he was his own master, to do with himself as he pleased, not answerable to anyone. Still, it would be good to be asked.
‘I am the Outcast,’ he said, surprised at his own calmness in the situation. ‘Is that the wolf Skassi?’
Skassi came forward a few paces, his paws crunching now on the patch of brittle snow that always forms on the exposed saddle of a ridge. Then he stopped at a respectable distance, regarding the Outcast. The pack wolf had fared better than the Outcast. His eyes were clear and his coat was in better condition. The Outcast hoped he himself did not appear too thin and scraggy. He wanted Skassi to go away with the impression that he could take care of himself, and had no need of the pack.
‘I would not have recognised your scent, or indeed your coat, except that it would be strange to find another lone timber wolf up here in the high country. You look lean and fit.’
Athaba could not detect any overt hostility in Skassi’s tone, only a strong reserve: the sort of coldness one might use towards the member of a rival pack. Had his arch enemy mellowed a little since they last confronted one another? Perhaps Athaba had caught Skassi offguard, and the mega was having trouble adjusting to an unexpected situation? This was more likely than a reformed Skassi.
‘We hear of you from time to time,’ continued Skassi. ‘The youngsters …’
‘Treat my name with scorn no doubt!’
He had not meant to sound so bitter. A lack of control was starting to seep through. Some of the ancient feelings were beginning to rise up from the dregs now. He wanted to retain the clarity of his initial emotions, but the sludge was starting to bubble, deep down.
Skassi looked surprised. Then an expression crossed his face which made him appear more like the wolf Athaba remembered. When the mega spoke his voice had an undercurrent of contempt.
‘Of course. What did you expect? We can’t allow you to become a hero you know. They’ll all want to go it alone. Nevertheless, you’ve become something of a, shall we say, dark force? Something of a legend in the pack. You roam the hills, solitary, haunting the landscapes as a lone silhouette. The youngsters see you and whisper to each other …’
The Outcast was suddenly amused.
‘You mean the mothers use me to scare the pups? ‘‘If you don’t go to sleep the raven-wolf will come and take you away to eat you.” So they scream to each other, “Watch out, the utlah will get you!” and run from each other.’
‘Perhaps – you know the games. You were a pup once. But you’ve gained a sort of “respectable notoriety” – you are quietly and subversively admired as a survivor. Not many wolves would have lasted as long as you, outside the protection of the pack. I discourage such thinking, of course, it’s not in accordance with our ways. We must think of the good of the pack. However, we could have done with your skills this winter. We’ve had a hard time of it. Some have perished – young and old mostly. A very hard time. This land is cruel and we’ve had one or two brushes with a wolf pack that overlaps our own hunting territory.’ His jaw twisted. ‘You could say that life within the pack is not that much better than your own in these times.’
‘You are headwolf again?’
‘No, I’ve never got back to that exalted position. Not sure it’s what I want these days and nights. Too much responsibility. I’m not the wolf that you knew – the wolf full of ambition. Those were the strong times.’
The Outcast let the wind riffle through his fur.
‘It’s a great pity we could not have had a conversation like this when we were rivals,’ he said, letting another trace of bitterness escape. ‘Perhaps we may have prevented many things from happening which injured us both.’
Skassi shook his head.
‘Athaba, you could not have stayed in the pack, whether I was for or against you. My opinion of you, my fear of you – oh, yes I can admit that now – had nothing to do with you being ostracised. You were beginning to exhibit strange mannerisms. Do you still get fits?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, there you are then. You’re a deviant, Athaba, always have been. My animosity towards you is not without foundation: I don’t waste my time bringing down innocents. I don’t waste my efforts on destroying those who are worthy.’ Skassi’s tone began to enter lofty regions. ‘I don’t hate you now. What would be the point? You’re nothing – an utlah – a ragged piece of skin and bone. The battle between us is over. You are where I always thought you should be: outside the pack. You are a decadent influence on the young. You would have eroded the moral fibre of the group in time, with your mystical air …’
‘I’m not a mystic,’ said the Outcast, his voice full of disgust.
‘You say, but then you can’t see yourself in the same light that I see you standing. You, with your airy-fairy ways, full of your own self-importance, full of secrets, whispering with wolves like Ragisthor, trying to undermine the structure of the pack, corrupting the young with your false stories. You’re a destructive element, Athaba, I recognised that from the start. You hated me because I stood for the old values, for convention, something you saw fit to laugh at, to despise.’
‘That just isn’t true,’ cried the Outcast. ‘None of that is true.’
Skassi’s voice fell to a condescending tone.
‘Athaba, you were always destined to be a loner, to end up this way. Can’t you see? You’re too independent, always have been. You’re not a pack animal. In other circumstances these might be admirable traits, but not in a wolf pack. Wolves have to look to the good of the pack. The fact that you have survived out here, for so long on your own, points to an aspect of your character which is out of place in a pack. Any decent wolf, with real pack feelings, would have died of loneliness by now. He would not have been able to help it. A proper wolf needs his pack around him. You’re not normal, you’re a loner. You should have been born a fox.’
‘That’s not true either,’ said the Outcast. ‘I am a sociable creature. It wasn’t me that was wrong, it was the pack. It’s too tight, too inflexible.’
The Outcast was aghast at the insults that were being heaped on his head – a fox – but the proper words to defend himself just wouldn’t come. He had been too long outside the pack and his use of language had deserted him. He wished at that moment he was as eloquent as Ragisthor, so that he could put Skassi in his place with solid argument, indisputable logic. All he could do was deny the charges, which was a weak way to counter such accusations. The worst of it was that Skassi actually believed these things he was saying – the mega had convinced himself that the old Athaba had been a destroyer of moral values, without any respect for convention.
‘I’m innocent …’ he blustered, but Skassi came in again, ignoring his protest.
‘You expect the pack to suit you, fit around you, rather than the other way?’
The Outcast hunched his shoulders.
‘You see,’ said Skassi, ‘you are an individual. The world must bend to Athaba, not Athaba bend to the world. As I said, under certain conditions you might be an asset to a pack, but they would have to be very abnormal circumstances. A time of open warfare – something like that.’
The Outcast sa
w no way to counter Skassi.
‘You’ll never understand me,’ he said, turning away, ‘and I certainly don’t understand you. What I mean is, there must be packs who would accept me for what I am, fits or not. There must be packs where the thinking is less narrow and any talent I have to offer – or any wolf has to offer – is recognised and used … yes, for the good of all. Your pack, well, in your pack wolves are pushed into responsibilities that are not suited to their personalities, their character, their natural skills. Instead of finding an opening which fits the wolf’s form, you squeeze the wolf out of shape to push him into the wrong hole.’
He had said his piece at last.
He turned away and walked the length of the ridge, feeling Skassi’s eyes still on him. Then he heard the other wolf call, ‘Good hunting Athaba,’ but he did not acknowledge the compliment. He did not want Skassi to know how strongly those words affected him and his voice would be sure to give him away.
They tore the heart out of him.
Not long after this encounter, the Outcast met another wolf, only this time the meeting was between two canids who did not know each other.
The Outcast was trotting over an icefield when the scent of wolf came to him faintly on the wind. He stopped and listened and could hear sounds of distress coming from the near distance. Since he was moving in that direction, he continued his journey, and eventually sighted a wolf lying on its side on the ice. By her scent, she was a female, and she appeared to be struggling with something.
Moving in warily, the Outcast called to her.
‘Are you in trouble?’
Her head went back, and she whimpered.
He moved in closer, until he could see that her paws were entangled. He went close and smelled. It was an old fishing line. The Outcast had often witnessed humans using these lines, pulling fish through holes in the ice, and occasionally they left the tangled sections which had been cut away, lying around on the icefields. These were virtually invisible on the white surface and extremely dangerous to a running wolf; dangerous to any creature, especially birds. If you did get caught up in one of these nets of fine twine, they seemed to tighten with your struggles, rather than loosen. The cord cut into your legs until it disappeared beneath your fur and it was difficult to get your teeth to it.
Midnight's Sun: A Story of Wolves Page 10
