Midnight's Sun: A Story of Wolves

by Garry Kilworth

  The Outcast stood over the she-wolf. He guessed she was a mega, in about her third or fourth year. Her paws were bleeding where the line was cutting deeply into her flesh.

  ‘Lie still,’ he said, ‘I’ll do what I can.’

  He crouched at her feet and began to nip and nibble at the line between your hindlegs. She watched him, silently. The cord was tough and impossible to gnaw through. He had to nip it sharply, between two teeth, which took time. In fact the whole morning passed by before she could eventually stand on her feet and the last pieces of line fell from her legs. She stared at him for a few moments while getting the feeling back in her limbs, then she turned to leave.

  The Outcast was a little offended.

  ‘Don’t I get some sort of acknowledgement?’

  She turned. Her eyes were wide and deep.

  ‘I was trapped, you set me free. What else is there to say? I know you’ve helped me, and you know it too. I don’t like to be in your debt, but I am.’

  ‘Well, that’s something, I suppose.’

  ‘Did you want a reward? Perhaps you think I ought to give you something? My next kill, for instance?’

  He felt uncomfortable. She was obviously genuinely distressed at not being able to return his kindness. He shook his head.

  ‘No, I just wanted to hear you say something. I mean, you’ve been lying there looking into my face for I don’t know how long, without a word. Which pack are you from?’

  ‘The one that clashes occasionally with yours.’

  He sat on the ice. It was cold on his haunches.

  ‘I don’t have a pack. I’m an outcast.’

  ‘I know. I meant the pack to which you once belonged. I’ve seen your tracks, following behind the timber wolves. What are they doing so far north anyway? Don’t they know this is our country?’

  He was amused by her arrogance.

  ‘Your country?’

  ‘These are our traditional hunting grounds. They are not usually the haunt of timber wolves.’

  ‘We were having hunter trouble in the south. For the last few years they’ve been pushing us further and further north. It was either move or die. I suppose the pack would rather face your hostility than come under the guns. As for myself, I don’t care what happens to any of you.’

  Now she sat down and faced him. This was encouraging.

  ‘Yet you set me free. That valuable time could have been spent in hunting.’

  ‘It was a diversion. I get bored easily.’

  ‘Why were you banished from your pack?’ she asked. ‘Did you commit some terrible crime?’

  He hesitated for a moment and then decided to tell her the truth.

  ‘Yes, I get fits. I black out and have dreams. I’m told during these bouts I shake and convulse, and it’s very frightening to watch me.’

  ‘That doesn’t seem so terrible.’

  He was surprised by her answer.

  ‘Would your pack permit a sick wolf to remain?’

  ‘No, but that doesn’t mean I agree with them. To my mind it depends on what kind of sickness. If it’s something to harm the pups, then of course, the wolf has to go. What’s your name?’

  ‘The Outcast.’

  ‘Your real name.’

  ‘Athaba – it means “endurance”.’

  ‘My name is Ulaala. It’s something to do with the wind, but I don’t think it has a precise meaning.’

  ‘If it did, it would be “the one with wind-coloured coat”,’ he said gallantly, and against all protocol he reached forward with his nose and nuzzled her gently.

  She stood up quickly.

  ‘Time for me to leave. The pack would not like me sitting here talking with one of our rivals.’

  ‘I’m glad you didn’t say “enemies”. I feel we only have one real enemy – the man with the gun. Without him there would be room enough and prey enough for all. Will I see you again?’

  She looked about to deliver a firm denial, but then she faltered.

  ‘I don’t know. Possibly we may run into each other on the trail.’

  Then she turned and began trotting away. When she was a good distance from him, she turned and howled into the wind. He thought he caught the words, but he could not be sure. It sounded like ‘the north ridge’. What did that mean?

  He spent the rest of his waking hours hunting and managed to run down a caribou. Then he lay under the shelter of a rockhang, where the snow was not so deep, and began to think of the past. It was not something he (or any other wolf) normally indulged in, there being little enough time to think of the present and its needs. That evening the aurora lit the sky with its splendour, flickering and shimmering, hanging curtains of light in the heavens. Athaba viewed it disinterestedly. Lights in the sky were commonplace. He was much more concerned with subtle scents and the nuances of shadow and shade.

  The Outcast could hear the Howling Chorus of one of the packs (his own, or hers?) and for the first time in a long while an acute feeling of loneliness came over him. He missed his old friend, Ragisthor, and his wry comments, his cynical remarks.

  ‘I’m getting old,’ he said to himself. ‘My mind’s beginning to walk backwards.’

  He had witnessed, as an undermega, wolves of the pack deteriorating as old age overtook them. They became grey-muzzled, crusty and bad tempered, and were always muttering about the past. Was that happening to him? He ran his tongue around the edge of his mouth. Perhaps he was grizzled too? She (What was her name – Ulaala? – strange word – he could hardly get his tongue around it) must have thought him a grandfather.

  His head jerked up. Suddenly, suddenly he realised he was not even a father. Not just that. He wanted to be a father. He wanted pups. He wanted a mate.

  His head went back down on to his paws.

  What chance was there of that? He was the Outcast, a raven-wolf. Where would he find another wolf, a she-wolf, like himself? They all belonged to packs. There must be female utlahs but the possibility of finding one out on the snowy wastes was, well, very remote to say the least. He knew which female he wanted. The light grey one, with the ears that were more rounded than his own, and a shorter muzzle, and shorter legs. But he would be killed by her pack if he ever tried coaxing her away. It was an impossiblee dream.

  He was destined to live his life out, in the high country, where the massive snouts of glaciers pushed slowly across the land, gathering moraine as they went. The moving land, that was never still, creaking and groaning as if it were trapped and forever trying to escape. Here, in the ice kingdom with its blue light and sculptured snow, he would end his days alone.

  That night the blizzard began which lasted two days. He stayed hunched under the rockhang, thankful that he had eaten just before the storm broke and would not starve if it blew into several days. The wind had lost its reason and was screaming in every direction, blowing drifts against obstacles one minute and removing them the next. This was the ultimate loneliness of the high country of the north. Everything went crazy up here from time to time, and the wind was no exception. There was no malice in it. It had simply gone temporarily insane.

  When the white air had cleared and a bluelit day came, he trotted out on to the unmarked surface of the snow, printing his spoor on the crisp upper layer. He could smell his old pack, not a great distance away, upwind. That umbilical cord tugged on him again, and he began to follow in their wake, eventually sighting them. There were small gusts of wind still, kicking up snow spume and spraying his coat where it remained for a time. One wolf turned to face him, probably by instinct. It stared at him for a moment, then recognising him as the Outcast, whirled and joined the other members of the pack. They were closely bunched, not strung out, as if they were expecting an attack or something. The Outcast wondered if a rival pack was in the area and there might be trouble. He himself sensed danger of some kind, but having sniffed the air several times, and cocked an ear in every direction, he could not locate the direction of the potential peril.

  The pack
continued up a gravel mound that rose sharply from the flat icefield, the gravel showing through the snow in one or two places like dark stretch marks. One of them, probably the headwolf, reached the highest point and turned its head south, testing for danger.

  The Outcast waited at the foot the hill. The pack began to descend the steep slope, some of them sliding on their rumps. The Outcast moved back, to let them down, and waited some distance away. The youngsters were in the middle of the flankwolves: one of them took a tumble on the way and almost bowled over a shoulderwolf who snapped at its tail, playfully.

  It was when they were halfway down that the unexpected occurred.

  The Outcast heard the roaring, but could not understand where it was coming from. It seemed to be everywhere and nowhere. It was deafening, filling the heavens. Then a dark shadow passed over him. He looked up to see a black bulbous shape, like a giant swollen dragonfly, sweeping low across the landscape. The wind from its whirling wings raised snow flurries along its route. It grew in size until it filled the sky. The wind ripped and tore at his coat, driving against his eyeballs. He sucked air and tried to get his head out of the blast.

  The dragonfly swooped upwards and did a half-circle above the pack, its tail swinging round, buzzing loudly. The Outcast half-crouched, fear almost making him defecate on the spot. He sensed that something terrible was about to happen. He wanted to run, hide, but there was nowhere to go. The landscape had no cover. There were no large rocks and no deep depressions.

  The pack, too, was in a state of terror. They began to bunch, running into each other in their fright. One youngster was just sitting, bewildered, looking up at the monstrous shape now hovering above his head. An older female was trying to dig down, into the hard snow. The Outcast could see there was no escape for them. They were all exposed on the ridge, stark against the whiteness. He had difficulty in filling his lungs. He wanted to shout warnings, scatter, scatter! He wanted to help them, but he knew they were lost. There was nothing he could do.

  A mega had broken from the knot of panicking wolves and was coming down the slope, his forelegs long, his hindlegs short. Once he rolled, and then was up again, quickly. The Outcast could see his eyes, wide and white. The Outcast willed him to move faster, outrun the wind from the whirling wings. There was a dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak sound below the roaring in the sky. Pockmarks followed the running wolf. An invisible bird chased him, caught him, ran along his spine. It left bloody footprints. The wounded creature twisted sideways, almost folding in the middle, and slid the rest of the way to the bottom of the slope. The broken body landed sprawling some distance away from where the Outcast was crouched.

  The dragonfly, its eyes glinting, hurtled down towards the rest of the pack and began spitting viciously. Heavy rain began to flatten the snows in and around the pack. The Outcast watched as spattering in the middle of the pack, saw youngsters running, somersaulting, belly-flopping on the ground. Sometimes their momentum carried them on without legs. They slid gracefully across ice patches leaving red streaks on the white. The flankwolves moved in, as if they thought they could protect the yearlings, and they too were killed in the spray. One managed to break free of the group, ran; than sank to its knees slowly. Finally, it just keeled over and was still.

  – dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak-dak – barely audible above the sound of the sky machine. This was the storm that fell upon the pack, the metal raindrops showered upon them.

  The pack lay broken and bloody all over the slope. The air machine had made only a single pass. Every wolf, struck down, inside a minute. The blood of the first one to be hit had not had time to stain the snow before the last one to be brought down jerked and convulsed in the throes of death. Nothing moved except for one youngster, crawling downhill using only his front paws, dragging his mangled hindquarters through the snow. The Outcast could smell the pain and fear on the yearling. He felt a need to go and lick this youngster, offer a few words of comfort, but still his legs would not move. The yearling gave a pathetic whine. Its movements became slower and slower. Its head sank to the snow. The cries coming from its throat ceased. Eventually even this last drop of life amongst the pack had drained away.

  The engine of the machine raised the snow in clouds as it went in low over the corpses. The Outcast found himself shaking, staring and shaking, and he knew if he did not move soon he would have a fit.

  The great bulbous shape turned in a wide circle. It was coming back, its eyes shining with blankness, its needle mouth ready to spit metal all over the snowscape once again. It was greedy for more death. Its appetite was insatiable. Not one, not several, but all. It wanted every wolf that ever cast a shadow. It lapped the air with its whirling blades, drinking the slaughter. It tongued the wind, savouring the massacre.

  The black machine curved down towards him, not like a hawk stoops in a straight dipping arc, but peeling away to one side. It was dark, with a tiny elongated mouth, like the proboscis of a mosquito. Its smooth shiny eyes rippled with lunatic light.

  The Outcast’s heart began to race. His legs moved at last and he ran, sightless and witless, away from the carnage towards a cliff edge. He heard some small sounds behind him, pucking the snow and ice. He knew that an invisible bird was tripping after him, its tiny feet eager to dance daintily along his spine.

  Then he was flying through the air. The ground had gone from beneath him. There was a white world of rushing ice, whirlwind snow, spinning about his head. He turned several times, then landed in a deep drift, was buried in it. The sounds of the world became muffled and there was a kind of comforting darkness around him, though mind-numbing panic still surged through his veins. His brain was blind in his skull with the terror that possessed him.

  Chapter Eight

  The Outcast lay for a long time, shivering in his pit of snow. His ears were so finely tuned to the sounds of the world that he could hear a nearby glacier calving its icebergs. He was not cold. His heart was numb with fear inside, but his flesh succumbed to fits of shaking. He could hear the wind above him, whispering over the hole he had made. At any moment he expected that monster to blacken the sky above the hole and start spitting at him.

  It never returned.

  When the Outcast finally summoned the courage to leave his hiding place, he found he had to dig a tunnel and crawl along it for quite a distance. As he emerged from the opening, he looked back to see the cliff, the edge of which he had leapt over in his panic. It wa
s very high. The drop was frightening and he considered himself to be lucky to be alive. If the snow had not been so deep, or he had hit a rock projection, he would certainly have broken his back.

  He circumnavigated the cliff, finding a path up one side, to reach the top again. It took a little courage to make his way towards the slope where he had left the bodies, but he wanted to be sure all were dead.

  His own spoor had gone. A strong wind had rearranged the surface snow. He had been in his pit on the far side of the cliff for a long time and the wind had since scoured the surface.

  The Outcast continued his journey to the slope.

  When he reached the spot where most of the wolves had died, he found it empty. There was nothing there. It was as if he had dreamed the whole thing.

  The hunters had taken the carcasses away with them. Sometimes they skinned their quarry on the spot, but presumably there were too many for that this time. They had taken the whole pack somewhere up in the sky. There were humans that lived in the clouds and humans that lived on the ground. There were hunters and non-hunters amongst both types. Those humans in the huts, who barked at the wolves and showed their teeth sometimes, were non-hunters. The ground hunters were sometimes men from the south with guns that could kill at a very long distance, but more often they were northern men who actually lived in or close to the snows. These two types smelled differently.

  The northern men had the smell of the tundra or woods about them and they moved in on their quarry like wolves. They would shoot a wolf, but they tracked mostly caribou. They fished the lakes and sea and called to wolves in a language which sounded almost like real speech.

  The men who came up from the south only barked. They wore a variety of false smells, most of them sweet and sickly, and you could scent them coming from a day away. The only way a southern hunter could kill a wolf was to come on it suddenly in a fast ground machine. It happened, but quite rarely.