‘None of this sounds very appealing,’ said Magitar, ‘to say the least. Can you recommend I talk to some other creature?’
‘Why not try a cat?’ said the Border Collie, clearly relieved to be let off the hook. ‘The cats have more freedom than the dogs. It’s no good speaking with horses or donkeys. They have a worse time than we do. Pigs are killed in their prime. Cows, goats and chickens buy their way into men’s favour by giving them milk and eggs. I take it you would have trouble delivering milk in the right quantities and you would have even more difficulty in producing eggs?’
The wolf nodded, grimly. ‘Eggs would be difficult.’
‘In that case, your best bet is a cat.’
The wolf left the dog and went in search of a tabby. He found one on the edges of a town. The cat seemed less afraid of him than the dog had been, but stood a way off with its escape routes all open.
‘Cat,’ said Magitar, ‘what kind of freedom do you have under men?’
‘Complete,’ said the cat. ‘No other beast, man or otherwise, is my master. I come and go as I please, and I offer no man my absolute allegiance.’
‘This sounds more like it,’ said the wolf, ‘but there must be more to it than that. Men do not feed other creatures for nothing. What do you give them in return for your right to wander at will, without being hunted and slaughtered?’
‘Nothing,’ bragged the cat. ‘We are their equals.’
Still, the wolf was not convinced. He could not see how such a small creature could be regarded as an equal by man, despite it’s renowned courage.
‘I take it you are fed by man?’
‘Correct,’ said the tabby, licking her fur. ’I allow one to feed me.’
‘And you live in this house?’
‘That’s right. I deign to honour him with my presence from time to time, but only when I feel in the mood. Most of the time I go there to sleep.’
‘How did you first come to know this man?’
‘He took me home as a kitten, to play with his young. I got pulled about a bit, of course, and had to undergo certain humiliations, but that’s all part of the initiation ceremony.’
The wolf nodded.
‘The initiation ceremony.’
‘That’s right.’
Magitar then asked, ‘And later, when you matured and were no longer needed to play with the man’s young, what did you do to keep yourself fit?’
‘Well, I was expected to hunt mice and rats of course, in the coal cellar.’
‘And if you refused, or were a poor hunter?’
‘Probably been out on my ear,’ she replied, then hastily added, ‘but of course I wouldn’t have minded that.’
‘No?’
The tabby looked uncomfortable.
‘Well, not much. The only thing is, it’s a hard life being a feral cat.’
‘What’s one of those?’
‘A domestic cat gone wild. You have to forage round waste bins and the food’s disgusting. You have to fight other cats for scraps. I’ve seen ferals and most of them are thin – ribs coming through the fur – that sort of thing.’
‘So,’ said Magitar, ‘you are in fact dependent on man?’
The tabby shook herself.
‘Not entirely dependent. No, I wouldn’t say that. I mean, I hunt my own birds. Oh yes, I hunt my own birds. Robins and sparrows and wrens. They don’t like that, men. They don’t like finding a dead robin on their kitchen floor.’
‘Then you don’t actually eat these birds you hunt?’
‘No need. We get far more tasty food from our mas … from our equals. It’s a partnership you see.’
Magitar nodded.
‘I see.’
And he did see. He saw that cats were really in no better position than the dogs. The only difference was that dogs had accepted their inferior position and cats had fooled themselves into thinking they were independent. It seemed there was no creature amongst men which had an honourable status, which retained some link with the natural world and could boast a certain amount of freedom.
Magitar turned back towards the mountains, but on the way he passed a goshawk sitting on a post. The hawk had leather thongs hanging from its ankles: clearly the trappings of man.
‘What are those strap things, on your legs?’ asked Magitar.
‘These?’ said the hawk, looking down. ‘They’re called jesses. My man uses them to hold me when he doesn’t want me to fly off.’
‘Yet here you are, free,’ said Magitar.
‘Well, I’ll go back when I’m ready to. I just needed a bit of space to sit and meditate for a while. Sometimes you’ve got to get away from them, if only for a couple of days.’
‘But you’re free. You need never go back.’
‘Not if I don’t want to, but when you’ve got the choice, well it doesn’t matter, does it? I mean, if I did get desperate, I could fly off the next time he took me out, and never return.’
This sounded much more like it.
‘What does he take you out for, in the first place?’
‘To hunt for him, and for me. He likes to see me stoop on the prey. Gives him some sort of thrill, I don’t know. Then he gives me some of the bird, and take the rest home to eat for himself. I suppose you could say I should get all the bird if I caught it for myself, but the fact is I can’t eat it all in one sitting, and I get some choice meats from him when we get back. Sort of partnership, you might say. I give him something, he gives me something.’
‘Is he kind to you? Does he beat you, like he does his dog sometimes. Or starve you like a cat?’
‘If he did, I wouldn’t stay around would I? No, he knows he’s got to treat me with respect or I’d be off, quick as that.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘I’ve got a place outside in the grounds. Its called a mews. I have my own perch in there. It’s where we first became friends. I was taken there as an eyass, straight out of the nest. We went through the manning – that’s where the waking took place.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Magitar.
‘Well, the falconer keeps you awake for a long period of time, in order to get you to know him. He stays awake too, of course. He offers you food, but only when you go on to his wrist. That’s just to get you used to the feel and smell of him. When it’s all over, you’re friends.’
‘And you have to wear those “jesses”?’
The goshawk looked down.
‘Oh yes, but they’re not uncomfortable. Kind of badge of office really. I meet wild hawks who’re quite jealous. Sometimes I wear bells too, and swivels, and a varvel – all sorts of things – none of them limit me in any way. I mean, it would be pointless to make me wear things that would hamper my flight, wouldn’t it?’
‘I suppose so. What else can you tell me?’
‘What, about our relationship? Not much, really. Oh, yes, when I rake away – that means flying wide – of the falconer, he sometimes uses a lure to get me to come down. It’s usually when we’ve had a disappointing hunt. I get a bit petulant and tend to blame it on him. The lure is a bit of meat, a titbit really, which he whirls around his head on a piece of string. Kind of compensation for not putting out any quarry.’
‘What about when you’re taken from the mews. Don’t you feel like taking to the air straight away?’
‘Sure, but he puts a hood on me until we’re out in the country.’
Magitar nodded his head thoughtfully.
‘Oh, a hood.’
‘Yes, but you needn’t think I don’t like it. It’s kind of comforting, that darkness. Sometimes we go through areas where there are a lot of other humans – not falconers – and then there are the horses stamping and snorting away. I’d rather not see these things. They’re a bit distracting. We’re nervous, highly strung creatures, us hawks. Sudden movements startle us. It’s best for us both that I wear the hood. I’ve got leather hoods and velvet hoods, with little plumes. Quite dramatic in some ways.’
‘Do they ever let you get fat, l
ike they do the cats and dogs sometimes?’
‘Never,’ said the hawk emphatically. ‘If we put on too much weight they put us through what We call enseame treatment, to make us lean again. A fat hawk is no good as a hunter.’
The hawk’s brilliant orange eyes regarded the wolf for a long time as Magitar digested all this information. It certainly seemed as if the raptors had the answer to living with man. They were allowed to hunt in their old ways – indeed that was their job – so the skill never left them. They could leave at any time and never need go back, without causing a hue and cry. They retained their natural diet and were not fattened and made useless on cream chicken. They had a freedom occasionally, when things got on top of them and they wanted space to think.
They had to wear certain things at certain times, of course, but you had to bend a little if you were going to form this kind of relationship with men.
‘It sounds,’ said Magitar, ‘as if hawks and falcons have the answer we wolves have been looking for. I shall go back to Groff and demand that he take the same terms to man on behalf of the wolves.’
‘That’s fine,’ said the tercel on the post, ‘but where are your sails?’
‘My – sails?’ asked Magitar.
‘Yes,’ replied the hawk, taking to the air, ‘your wings! Where are your wings, to circle, to stoop with, to fall on the quarry? Where are your wings which enable us to do all those things in which man finds his excitement? How will you get up into the sky, where he can watch you check and drop and kill without his vision being hampered by trees or rocks? Your sails, you son of the trail, you earthbound fourlegged, wingless wolf. Your saaaiiiiiiilsss!’
And then the goshawk was gone, riding the thermals and climbing in spirals up to the sun.
Magitar sighed and turned his head towards the distant white peaks of his homeland.
He knew when he was beaten.
He settled his heart to looking forward, to the Lastlight, when the reckoning would come.
PART THREE
The Birth of New Songs
Chapter Ten
It was her time. He arose one night to find her scent in the air. They had been lying in close-together depressions in the snow and her patch was empty. She was standing not far away, on a slight rise, looking down to where he now stood. Trembling a little, he walked stiffly towards her trying to shake the cold out of his limbs as he did so.
Halfway there he stopped, for her stance seemed hostile. It seemed she had changed overnight into a wolf he did not know. Her physical appearance was the same but her whole demeanour, her bearing, her poise, seemed passionately intent. There was another she-wolf under that recognisable fur. It was as if she were bridling a savagery not previously shown him, holding in check a fierce side to her nature, one she had not previously revealed. It seemed not to come from within but from earth around her, beneath her. He did not know whether he would be torn to pieces or received by her. He was at that moment afraid of her, the way she stared at him. He could tell by those eyes that she was in control, while all knowledge had gone from him. His confidence ebbed and flowed by the moment. At the same time, he was sexually aroused almost to the point of desperation. He could not decide whether to advance or retreat.
While he stood there, undecided, she took a few paces upwind. Then she turned, and looked again.
She wanted him to follow her!
He moved forward now, surer of himself, his feelings becoming increasingly more fervid by the second. He inhaled. The smell of her earth was pungent, biting sharply into his sensitive nostrils. He followed that scent to a hollow in the rocks, out of the wind. A burning sensation travelled to every part of his body, along his limbs, even to the tip of his tail. He could taste its hotness in his mouth. A white-hot flame sprang from beneath his body.
The earth opened for him and his fire flared into her, touching the centre of her being. He knew he had scorched her, for she lifted her head and tried to swallow the moon. His tongue turned to flame, his eyes were scorched, his nostrils were seared, his mind raged out of control. The midnight sun locked with the earth. It engulfed the earth, and the earth too burned with the moment.
When they were able to look into each other’s eyes, he knew they had no more natural secrets to hide, and he was happy.
Athaba, time-ravaged as an ancient rockface, did not fully understand why the she-wolf Ulaala had chosen him as a mate. He knew what he was: an outcast of a pack which no longer existed. Apart from his general appearance, there was also the question of his behaviour towards her.
She had been out on the icefields and had caught her prey, dragging it down to the foothill. He came across her as she was feeding. Going up to her, he shoulder-slammed her roughly out of the way and snatched a choice’ piece of meat, treating her like he would a coyote. She was bowled over, tumbling in the snow. There was no thought behind the action. It was done instinctively: a survival mechanism. Then, as he chewed, he realised what he had done.
‘I didn’t mean …’ he began appalled with himself.
He had been out of company for so long he could not stop himself, in unguarded moments; from such actions. It was true there were only the two of them and they could dive in together, grabbing at the meat, without getting in one another’s way and causing annoyance. It was not as if there was supposed to be any kind of feeding manners at a carcass: the idea was to fill your belly as quickly as possible. In a pack situation, there would be an order of priority, of course, with the seniors snatching their chunks of meat, before the juniors were allowed in. Sometimes there were arguments between those of near equal rank.
But Athaba’s action had been deliberately provocative. He had gone in hard and aggressively, banged her aside in a manner which was designed to intimidate, to make her think twice the next time before she ate the best bits. She was supposed to be wary of him. A coyote must be taught its place at the feeding.
But she was not a coyote. She was Ulaala. He had no right to treat her that way, especially since it had been her kill.
He tried to explain to her.
‘You see, when you’re battling against other scavengers, you’ve got to get to the meat first, or it’s all gone. I mean, normally there’s just a few scraps left on the bone, and the ravens and coyotes were so quick … I’d have starved if I hadn’t asserted myself, showed a bit of aggression. You see?’
‘I think so,’ she said, a little coldly.
‘No, you don’t really, and I can’t blame you. A little pushing and shoving is all in the game, but I smashed you out of the way. I’ll try not to let it happen again.’
Her voice became a bit warmer.
‘If you do, you’ll get some back.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ he said, relieved.
He was afraid he was going to lose her, before they had even started their life together. Why was she doing this in the first place? She was such a handsome animal she could surely have any male in her pack? Instead, she had asked a scruffy outlaw to become her mate and undergo the hazardous business of starting a new pack. It did not make a lot of sense. There had to be something more, something he was missing.
To make up for his mistake at the carcass, he took her to the huts where the humans lived, to ensure they had a good feed before beginning the long trek south-east. At the bins she was understandably nervous, and when a man came out of a shack and saw them, she almost bolted. The human stood, stock still, and stared at them through the eye-covers they all wore up in the cold high country.
‘Pretend you haven’t seen him,’ muttered Athaba, crunching away on something he had found in the bin. ‘He’s just as scared of us as we are of him.’
‘I don’t believe that,’ said Ulaala.
‘It’s true. You walk straight towards him and he’ll turn and run to the nearest hut. It’s happened before. They’re only dangerous when they’re carrying weapons. Believe me.’
‘If you say so.’
The man held his ground, watching them all
the time they ate. It was as if he were fascinated by the sight: something Athaba had always wondered about. I mean, what was so interesting about an animal eating? Nothing, so far as he knew. These humans had worms in their brains. They were all mad.
There was a movement from behind a bin and a head appeared. It was the ermine. The snaky little creature emerged and flowed over to them. Its bright little eyes were never still. Its nose twitched continually.
‘Hello, brother,’ said the ermine in its own language.
‘I’m not your brother,’ Athaba replied.
‘Who’s the local?’ asked the ermine, ignoring the attempted put-down. ‘You teamed up with another wolf? What’s his name?’
‘Her name. She’s my new mate.’ It was difficult to keep the pride out of his voice.
That much was lost on the ermine though.
‘Oh? Her pack kick her out, did they?’
‘Not so far as I know,’ said Athaba stiffly, and then in Canidae to Ulaala. ‘This is an ermine I befriended some time ago. It’s a bloodthirsty little beast.’
Athaba then explained to the ermine he and Ulaala were heading for the south.
‘Crunch a few eyeballs for me,’ said the ermine, by way of a farewell, then he waddled over to the bins and began gnawing at some unrecognisable piece of frozen swill.
‘What’s the matter with him?’ called the ermine, as Athaba and Ulaala were leaving. The wolf looked back and saw that he was indicating the human, still standing with a frozen stance some distance away. ‘Got ice in his veins, has he?’
‘You know what they’re like,’ replied Athaba.
He and Ulaala soon left the compound behind and were trotting over ridges and down gentle slopes, still snow-covered despite the season they had entered. Athaba felt toned. Inside, he was full of strength, full of vigour. His eyes scanned the landscape for possible dangers. His nose was alert for unusual odours. His ears keen. He loved to be travelling, feeling land move beneath his pads, his sinews stretching, his muscles rolling.
There was a fresh wind at their backs, travelling in the same direction. Perhaps it was because it was behind them that they failed to pick up the scent of the wolves in front.
Midnight's Sun: A Story of Wolves Page 13
