The winter settled like iron on the land and he fought his way through windstorm and blizzard, down through the tree line and over the mountains. Where the hill were too high to cross, he sought a way around them. He passed small human settlements, both temporary and permanent, and kept clear of the inhabitants and their dogs.
In the late afternoons, which were just as dark as the nights, he stopped to rest beneath rock outcroppings and in ice hollows. When he had rested for long enough, he continued, using the darkness as a screen to hide him from any hunters who might be foolish enough to brave the cold.
Each time he met a canid, Athaba asked for news of his mate, and each time the answer was the same. No one knew of Ulaala nor any female wolf with six pups.
Finally, he reached the wide belt of land between the wilderness and the city where he believed the hybrid swarms were roaming: those huge packs of mongrel coyote-wolves and dog-coyotes, with a sprinkling of dog-wolves. He had been told that the size of the packs sometimes reached up to sixty or so in number. They lived, and died, raiding the human settlements, scavenging and killing rats and other game. These packs of mottled hue, made up of members whose size and shape varied as much as their colouring, swept through the countryside in hordes, the raggedy bandits of the canid world. They were the swashbucklers of the suburbs, full of bravado and completely lacking in any kind of discipline. Every so often the human population would become annoyed with them and a ‘dog shoot’ would cull their numbers. But they were irrepressible and rose again in just as great a number until the cycle closed once more. They lived the kind of life many domestic dogs and responsible pack wolves envied but were too conventional to follow. Any wolf story-teller worth his or her salt would always have a new tale to tell about the hybrid swarms of the south. Any wolf undermega still young enough to find the idea of a cult group exciting, would entertain the thought that ‘if the worst came to the worst’ there was always the prospect of joining the hybrid swarms.
One of the greatest swarm leaders of all time, who even featured in the songs and chants of conventional pack howls, was Rory Hightail. This magnificent cross between a red setter and a wolf once led his swarm over high mountains and across a sandy desert, losing only seven out of sixty-three of his band. The hunters that had been after them, among them Rory’s mother’s master, turned back after three of their number perished of thirst in a dust bowl. Rory Hightail’s swarm roamed the woods of the north-west for a time, before moving to the outskirts of another city to renew their raiding tactics again. Once more the citizens rose against them and this time Rory’s band forded a river in flood, throwing off their pursuers. For much of his life Rory Hightail was a true swarm leader: bold, audacious, intelligent and full of good humour. He had been known to rescue pups from certain death, snatching them up by their scruffs on the run. His mates (of whom it must be said there were many) would hear no word against him, which said much for his private life. His lieutenants would have flung themselves from high places had he considered such an action necessary.
Rory Hightail, spawned somewhere amongst the trash cans of the suburbs, became a canid legend in his own lifetime. He thwarted humans time and time again, leaving them either frustrated and angry or perplexed, always in some place he was not. He swept across the countryside avoiding the guns with dogside cunning and wolfhalf stealth.
Rory Hightail died of natural causes at the age of sixty seasons and his bones lay somewhere on a platform of rock from which the lights of a city could be seen twinkling in the distance on clear nights. Some said the wind blew round them, not through them, in deference to his respected remains. His memory was held as hallowed by both dog and wolf, one of those rare hybrids who bridged differences between the two, rather than widened them.
Athaba was crossing a stretch of waste ground uneasily, swimming in a river of unfamiliar scents, when he saw a group of canids clustered on and around some rusting vehicles. They were all kinds of breeds, some of them unrecognisable, hidden beneath pointed noses, blunt snouts, motley colourings, ragged coats, sharp eyes, stubby legs. Athaba doubted whether there was anything even approaching a thoroughbred amongst them. They were draped, rather than lying, on their metal beds. They looked like beggars, thieves, ripthroats and ragrunners, but there was a decadence about them, in their indolent poses, which reminded Athaba of his old mentor, Ragisthor. They had the same cynical expressions, the half-amused, almost contemptuous twist to their mouths. Athaba felt that if he were to ask a question of them, they would all yawn, simultaneously, into his face. Surely these were trash-can pirates; buccaneers of the scrapyards; privateers of the waste lots? Was this indeed a hybrid swarm?
He approached them slowly, anxious not to drive them off, nor to invite attack. In any case, the car hulks worried him. He was extremely distrustful of anything that smelled of human, even if it appeared to have been thrown away.
About twenty lengths from them he stopped. There were about forty or fifty of them. They suddenly lost their idle stances and he saw sinews tighten, muscles appear. Without actually moving from their places, or even changing their positions, they looked alert and ready either for fight or flight.
After regarding Athaba for a long time, one of the creatures climbed to his feet and trotted forward. He stayed at a safe distance but near enough to talk.
‘You a wolf?’ said the speaker, who looked like a squared-off woolly hound of some kind.
‘Something wrong with that?’ asked Athaba.
The dog sat on its haunches and scratched behind its ear with its hind leg.
‘Nothing wrong with it. Just, we don’t see many wolves around here. This is not exactly wolf country. I thought you types needed the forests and the tundra? You won’t find many moose around here – only mouse.’
‘I’m looking for the hybrid swarms. Are you – those over there – are they a hybrid swarm?’
‘Hybrid swarm?’ again a vigorous scratching. ‘You’re a little out there, wolf. So far as I know, the hybrid swarms are way way down south.’
Athaba’s heart sank. ‘Could I walk there?’
‘You’d die trying. I’m talking distance here. How far have you come?’
‘From the northern coast.’
The dog made an appreciative noise and scratched his wire-curly, squared-off jaw.
‘That’s quite a distance, but if I’m not mistaken you need to go ten times that to reach the hybrids, maybe even twenty. I know of a dog who comes from down there – hopped a train – have you ever seen how fast a train moves? Faster than a truck, anyway. You’ve seen a truck?’
‘Yes, I think so. I’ve seen land vehicles.’
‘Well, a truck’s a land vehicle all right, and it can show anything on four legs its rear end in seconds. A train’s faster and my friend was on that train for days. You understand? There’s no way you can walk it, wolf. Say, you got a name?’
Athaba was aware that the rest of the swarm had crept forward a little and their ears were pricked. They did not look particularly dangerous as individuals, but their numbers were worrying. There was one sharp-nosed sleek hound who eyed him with what appeared to be strong hostility. Athaba already felt extremely uncomfortable this close to a human town and these dogs still carried the faint whiff of domesticity about them.
‘Athaba. I’m called Athaba.’
‘My name’s Lucky,’ said the dog, renewing his scratching. ‘I’m mostly-airedale.’
‘You aren’t hybrids?’
Lucky looked round at the others then back again.
‘Us? Naw. We’re feral dogs, is what we are. Ferals are domestics gone wild. We didn’t like the cosy life, or got kicked out for one reason or another, so we act like those hybrids – or maybe they act like us? Anyway, we’re just ferals. Why do you want hybrids especially. You got a grudge? You going to kill someone?’
Athaba sighed.
‘No. I’m looking for my mate and our pups. She was supposed to have come south, to join the hybrid swarms. Now I
don’t know what to do. Who’s the dog looking at me as if he wants a fight?’
Lucky turned and stared, then turned again to face Athaba. He spoke almost in a whisper and it was obvious he did not want to be overheard.
‘The one with the pointy face? That’s Rip. He’s the closest thing we’ve got to a leader around here. He’s mostly-borzoi. They used to hunt wolves you know.’
Athaba kept his eye on the mostly-borzoi.
‘What’s all this mostly stuff?’
Lucky looked at him with a surprised expression and then nodded.
‘Oh, I see what you mean. Mostly-terrier, mostly-poodle, mostly-alsatian? – well, you see, we’re not pedigrees, nowhere near. We’re mongrels, a mixture of every dog under the stars. We’re downtown trash, conceived, if the truth must out, in some dirty alley or backstreet by two passing strangers, one of which just happens to be on heat at the time. A quick no-introductions mating, probably between two mongrels who couldn’t trace their ancestory back past their parents, if that far. Only, you got to have a few illusions, see, so we look at each other and say, “You got a lot of borzoi in you, right?” and the dog in question usually answers, “Oh, that? Yeah. My grandfather was a pure bred,” or some such lie. Makes us feel like aristocracy, see? Everyone needs posh ancestors. No one likes to think he comes from the trash cans.’
Lucky’s voice suddenly increased in volume, probably for the benefit of the other dogs.
‘There ain’t no such thing as a mongrel round here. Everybody’s got a history in them. Mine’s terrier history and I’ll fight anyone who says different.’
The rest of the ferals crept forward then, all except Rip, and began nervously sniffing around Athaba, who remained rigid and uncomfortable. He was not used to a bunch of scruffs going over him like he was one of their own. Somehow, however, he knew that he had to endure this treatment by these suburban hounds if he was going to get anywhere with them.
One of the females said her name was Pippa.
‘Why don’t you stick with us for a while?’ she said, ‘and we’ll help you look for your family.’
Lucky said, ‘Yeah, join up with us for a while. We’ll put the word out around the streets, see if we can come up with anything. In the meantime, a few names – this here’s Daniel, he’s a cross between a retriever and a spaniel, which must have been some mating, but we don’t mention it because he gets huffy. This here’s …’ and so the names came at him, but Athaba knew he would never remember them all. His head was in a whirl over the certainty that he had made a mistake in coming south. It was impossible that Tolga had confused hybrids with ferals, and that Ulaala was running with one of these dog packs. There were some big dogs but a wolf could not get lost amongst them, or even mistaken for a husky or alsatian. Humans in these parts would know a wolf when they saw it. Such a discovery would raise a hue and cry amongst the men and hunting parties would be all over the area.
The mostly-borzoi spoke.
‘Maybe you’ve forgotten, Lucky, but there’s a shoot due about now. You want to drag this wolf into a shoot? We know how things go, but he would be dead within minutes.’
What was this, thought Athaba, the dog Rip worrying about his position as leader? Perhaps he was worried that Athaba would take over his exalted status? The narrow bloodshot eyes of the mostly-borzoi regarded Athaba from a distance and it was difficult to read the intention behind them.
‘He’s right,’ said Athaba. ‘I don’t like towns. I don’t know anything about them. Even just standing here makes me nervous. I’ll get back to the wilderness, where I belong.’
The mostly-airedale looked disappointed. It seemed he had taken to Athaba. Lucky seemed to accept him without bothering about the differences between them. He was one of those rare creatures who made friends within seconds of a meeting.
‘Run with us just once then, wolf. You’ll never get another chance to run with a swarm. Come on, what do you say? Never mind old Rip over there. The shoot’s not due for a few days yet.’
‘What is this shoot?’
‘When the townspeople get together and come out here with guns to cull the swarm. They never get many of us. Some poor loafers, often travellers just passing through.’
‘Me if I’m not careful,’ said Athaba.
The mostly-borzoi nodded slowly.
Lucky pleaded.
‘Just one run?’
Athaba gave way to foolishness.
‘Let’s go then,’ he said, realising he was being very stupid, but wanting to get something out of his system. He had been on the trail for so long it was good to agree to something which was both irresponsible and exciting.
The pack gathered at a corner and when all the dogs were out of the yard, Rip yelled, ‘Let’s go,’ and the swarm of ferals swept along the empty road, swirling with small whirlwind snows. There were few buildings this far out of town and these were mostly shut tight. They were not human habitations but places where goods and machinery were stored.
The dogs swerved round a garage and Athaba saw a creased human face at a window, but they were soon past and the gas station fell away into the hazy windswept snowscape. He admitted to himself he liked the excitement of the run. It was not like hunting with the wolves. That was an orderly affair, well organised. On a caribou or musk-ox hunt he knew exactly what his role was at any given time. They might follow a herd or single for three or four days, stopping when the quarry stopped, but always remaining within reach of the prey. These were wearing-down tactics. Or they might attack at once, if they caught the herd by surprise. Or the move would be a pincer attack, or flushing strategy, or any number of well-tried ways of ensuring a kill. In every wolf’s head was a series of field moves which had been drummed into him or her from birth. The possibility for error was minimal, the danger almost non-existent. Hunting was about survival, not about bravado. Each wolf, from his given position, knew exactly what was expected of him. Only unforeseen circumstances, like the time they met the bear, provided any deviation from the norm. The only real excitement came from being switched from, say, flankwolf to shoulderwolf when another member of the hunting party was injured. Or when one plan was obviously failing and a back-up was suddenly brought into play.
Running with the dogs was completely different. For a start, a wolf hunting party usually consisted of about five or six. The feral dogs numbered something like fifty. It was a heady experience, sweeping through the outskirts of a town amongst a swarm of excited ferals. It was as if they were an irresistible force, looking for an immovable object to smash aside. The windswept snow whistled past his ears, the ground whisked by under his paws, and he knew that any human seeing them would be frightened out of its wits. There was a feeling of power, of getting his own back on the humans. These dogs were taking the fight into human territory, not waiting for men to come out looking for them. They were rash, brash robber-dogs. They were the marauders of the streets. Admittedly, they were only knocking over trash cans, but it was the style in which they did it which was exciting. They ran devil-may-care on the edge of the wind, bowling over any loose upright object that got in their way. Cats went into their high-leg-stance-fur-on-end-spitting pose, hissing, ‘Le guet-aspens!’ as they were surprised by this motley band of reckless tearaways. Athaba loved it when he saw a feline preening itself on a gatepost, only to transform itself suddenly from a soft furry bundle into a stark-furred thorny demon. Domestic dogs froze in their tracks or ran for cover, yelling, ‘Clear the streets, clear the streets, the wild ones are coming!’ Town birds took their wings, squawking, ‘Die hunden hunderterlei kommen …’ A tame rabbit in a hutch drummed the plywood wall with his hind legs, screaming, ‘Papao! Papao!’ It was a truly exhilarating experience.
Rip, the leader, then led them through the courtyard of a roadside restaurant, and as if it had been planned, swept around the back to get to the trash cans. Metal bins went flying across the yard, spilling their contents on to the frozen ground. Dogs grabbed what they could, mostly beef
bones and chicken carcasses. Some of the smaller dogs, like Pippa, paused long enough to lap up sloppy waste. There was a yelping from the humans inside the building as the dogs busied themselves amongst the garbage, running off in all directions once they had something in their mouths. Athaba was petrified by the noise and commotion, wondering which way to dash, regretting his rash decision to join these mad creatures on their run.
Suddenly a screen door went crashing back on its hinges and a man appeared in the doorway.
He had a shotgun in his hands.
There was a double explosion, twin flames leapt from the barrels of the gun.
A dog went somersaulting through the air, torn almost in half by the heavy-gauge shot. It hit the snow in a mess of broken bones and bloody flesh. The back legs twitched.
The rest of the dogs began leaving the scene immediately. Athaba was caught at the rear of the swarm and had the mass before him, blocking his exit. The man was staring at him now with round eyes, and Athaba knew that the human could see a wolf amongst the ferals. He started his run, but had to pass the man who was now fumbling with his weapon. The shotgun was raised, the barrels pointing at Athaba. The wolf heard the clicking sound as the man pulled the triggers, over and over again, following his flight with the muzzles. The weapon was unloaded, but the man was so obviously electrified by the presence of a wolf he was reacting without thinking.
The swarm made the edge of the wilderness without further incident and Athaba was ready to keep on running. He paused only to catch his wind.
Midnight's Sun: A Story of Wolves Page 28
