Lupus Rex

by John Carter Cash

  Other books by John Carter Cash

  Anchored in Love

  Momma Loves Her Little Son

  Daddy Loves His Little Girl

  House of Cash

  The Cat in the Rhinestone Suit

  Lupus Rex

  John Carter Cash

  First published 2013 by Ravenstone

  an imprint of Rebellion Publishing Ltd,

  Riverside House, Osney Mead,

  Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK

  www.ravenstone.com

  ISBN (epub): 978-1-84997-554-4

  ISBN (mobi): 978-1-84997-555-1

  Copyright © 2013 Cash Productions, LLC.

  Cover art by Douglas Smith

  The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owners.

  To the memory of my father, John R Cash,

  who introduced me to the wonders of nature and

  the limitless mysteries concealed therein.

  A gathering of crows is known as a muster,

  murder, or storytelling.

  Prelude

  The Rumour of Doves

  THERE WAS A buzz on the line.

  That was one reason the doves perched on it. From when they landed until they flew, the buzz filled them as rain does a willow trunk. First tingling their feet, with sharp claws clasped tight to the wire, then up into their bodies and onto the folded tips of their wings, and finally to their heads where it prickled the eager tips of their quills. It felt good.

  Then there was the view. From their lofty perch, they could see the Murder’s Field, from the south to the north, all of the forest beyond, and the smoky purple-green of the distant peaks as well. They watched from here the goings-on below and paid close attention to where the other birds were gathered. If there was a gathering, there was surely food—maybe grain. That was the first thing they looked for: animals feeding.

  On the line they heard news. The wind always brought news to the doves. One would hear and whisper into another’s ear, and likewise that one to another. If Zeno were to ask Tropha, “Where did you hear that?” (which he never did), Tropha would say, “I heard it from my brother.” And if the brother were to ask the next, “Where did you hear that?” (which he never did), that one would say, “I heard it from my cousin.” And if the cousin were asked where he heard it, he would say, “I heard it from . . .” And it would go on until the last of the birds was questioned. He would then reply, “Why, I really don’t remember. I am sure Zeno told me.” But the birds never asked one another anything at all. There was always too much telling going on. Listening and telling.

  And it was on that early fall day, when the first of the stores of grain were being harvested in the field by the man with his machine, and the quail hid and waited for the sun to set low, the time when the man would wipe his brow and drink his cool, brown liquid and go to his house to be fed by his woman, the time when the skunks were sleeping and the captain of the army was seeking the King’s child, Nascus, in the north forest, that Zeno whispered the thing to Tropha. And so one to the other and the other to the next and on down the line until they were all cooing softly and excitedly. The doves sat on the line and felt the buzz and cooed and whispered. Then a silence descended, and they looked out upon the forest. Far away and high in the sky, an ebony dot appeared.

  The doves sat on the line and felt the buzz.

  The dot flattened and took the shape of the crooked end of a broken branch, then shaped to black cutting feathers sifting the air at the ends of furious wings. Another dot appeared behind the winged thing. Crows: the captain of the murder and the middle son of the King. And as the shapes grew closer, the doves flew into formation, the shape of a pyramid—three at the bottom; two, Zeno and Tropha, in the middle; and one at the top. Two birds flew just behind the formation, one above the other. And they flew close to the crows, listening for words on the wind or smells from scavenging so that they’d have more news to spread with what the wind had whispered. But the doves did not fly too close to the General for fear of catching his attention, nor directly behind the crows so as to appear threatening.

  And when the dark birds grew close to the King’s nest, the doves veered away and flew down to the edges of the field and into the brush to find the quail and the rabbits and the badger and the mice and the rat.

  They had news to tell.

  Chapter One

  Proclamations and Gluttonies

  “THE KING IS dead!” cried Jackdaw, flopping his wings in fitful, tumultuous flight. “The time of consideration and, oh, the most fowl grief has come! The King is dead!”

  Jackdaw the crier; Jackdaw the jester. He was always joking, always bringing light to the day, even when the snakes woke in spring and the young needed food and there was none. Jackdaw was always cheerful when he was performing his job as crier, but not today. His wings were tired and his throat was dry. He was used to bellowing out, “The spring is here!” Or “Harvest has begun!” (which he had cried the very day before), or even “There is born a new grandchick to the King!” But never in his life had he been required to broadcast such an announcement. These words caused his beak to ache with the effort of driving the phrases through. The wise and brave Mellori was dead. Life was finished as he had known it.

  And all the animals in and around the field heard his words. The rabbits huddled in fear. The moles and mice paid little heed, hidden away in their dens, but those who did hear only pushed deeper into their burrows.

  Within the tight brush, beyond the border of the field, too thick for a crow to see into, the quail heard the proclamation also. Within his scanty nest, Ysil the quail listened to Jackdaw with waxing interest. When the leaves are gone, we will be seen from above, he thought to himself, looking up through the canopy of green. The thought brought on more fear and he looked nervously about him to the other quail, some within their nests, and some moving around and chattering to one another in excitement.

  The quail had already heard the news before Jackdaw made his announcement. The doves had all descended into the protective thicket as one. Ysil had never seen this before, and it frightened him. Cotur Ada looked up, his eyes opening wide in apprehension, when Tropha the dove descended with a flutter beside them. Ysil watched for his grandfather’s reaction to the dove’s arrival to determine his own (should I fly?), but Cotur Ada smiled to the dove and offered out his ear to hear its whisper. Ysil’s chest swelled with a rush of breath. Each of the doves had gone to an elder quail and whispered into their proffered ears. One dove had settled close to Incanta in her nest. The old quail lay sleepy and limp, her eyes cracking drearily open. Her wings had been broken years before in an escape from a coyote, and she was cared for by all. When the dove whispered his news to the wise old matriarch, her eyes popped wide in shock and she stood up and shook her feathers. The doves all jumped up in one movement, and in a swift flight they were gone, surely to spread the word elsewhere.

  Incanta called out, “A rare and sad day it is! The King is dead!” She had not asked Henic where he had heard the news, nor did she question its validity. The doves were never wrong.

  Cotur Ada had risen from his nest in a flutter and taken to the sky. With the departure of his grandfather, Ysil had become instantly uneasy. Why had he so swiftly departed? Where had he so hurriedly gone?

  Within a matter of moments, the quail became frantic. And though they were by creation cautious and fidgety, frantic was rare.

  “The King is dead!�
� one cried. “A new King will be crowned,” whispered another. “What does this mean to us?” The rites of kingship were little known, and no living quail had witnessed them.

  “The day a new King takes the throne is a dangerous one,” Ysil heard Cotur Mono whisper in the din that came from about the elder’s nest. “It is a dangerous one for the two who are not chosen King, but to us also.”

  “We must let the crows’ worries be theirs and not ours,” said Ensis.

  “We may not have that choice,” replied Cotur Mono.

  When Jackdaw made his announcement, the quail’s nest was still amuck with the uneasiness of the dove’s news. But it wasn’t long until the concern in their heads was overtaken by a nagging of greater import: hunger in the belly. The field was covered in grain. The smell was everywhere. So the news lost its sting and the crying of the gut took precedent. It was the time of harvest, the time to save, not splurge (which came with the green of spring). However, these were uncertain times.

  So the subject of conversation changed. “Perhaps the crows will forget their order,” said one bird. “Even though they always get first pick at the grain, they always leave a good deal for us. This may not be the way with the King dead! They may take it all!”

  There came a murmur of agreement.

  The man had ridden the bellowing giant the day before and had not yet raked with the spinning giant. The grain was spread out all across the field, its fresh smell enticing and delicious in the air.

  From beneath the limber trunk of the hackberry, Ysil watched the first of the quail leave the assumed safety of the nest and scurry in the direction of the beckoning field. Ysil listened to the hop of rabbits’ feet and the scurry of mice passing the brush where he sheltered. It seemed a common hunger was calling the other lesser animals also. Hearing a flutter of wings, he looked up to a branch above. It was Cormo, his friend for life. Cormo was Cotur Mono’s son’s son, and the two had always been side by side, usually nesting together and keeping company most every day. With the courage of hunger urging him on, he jumped on wing to the branch and settled beside Cormo. With little more than a look, they descended in a rush of flight to the edge of the Murder’s Field and stood gazing at the bounty of grain. At first, they only looked. In view of the golden grain spread out before them, the news of the King’s death lessened in consequence.

  The field itself was shaped like a turtle, and though the crows knew it as the Murder’s Field, the quail thought of it as simply ‘the field’. In the direction where the sun rose, it extended the length of twenty great trees, until it narrowed down to a path, which wound down into the valleys below. To the right and in the middle of the field itself was a small stand of oaks. The greatest and tallest of these was the Murder’s Tree, and deepest within the tree, protected by the nests of the others, was the nest of the King. Ysil could see the shapes of many dark birds gathered upon the branches of the Murder’s Tree now, all squawking excitedly to one another. In the direction where the sun set, the field extended another twenty great trees’ lengths. Just past the tree line, within tangles of thorny bushes, he knew the rabbits watched also, finally away from the assumed safety of their dens. At the northwest corner of the field was the tallest and greatest tree of any Ysil knew: a great old fir, its top broken out in some long-ago storm. Within its uppermost branches, bleached nearly white by the rains, snows, and suns of many seasons, were the uninhabited remains of the hawk Elera’s nest.

  Ysil saw a shape move into the field with seeming unconcern for safety. It was Roe the rat. Crows be cursed, he would follow his belly’s call. Roe was always hungry, and a bit fat. And though he never stopped complaining about his hunger, Ysil had few times seen him when he was not eating.

  Mice, badgers, groundhogs, and squirrels gather the grain, and they house it in burrows, but the quail hold equal rights to the stores, for they hold equal space in the field. But it seemed for the while this order had been forgotten. The rule of hunger was taking over now.

  Ysil fidgeted, watching the rat eat. His belly growled.

  “Dear me!” came a voice they both knew well from behind. “What noise was that? Perhaps a bear about to rise up from the ground?” It was Gomor, the rabbit. He hopped over to his two friends, his floppy ears bouncing in time with his hops. “I am hungry, too,” he said. “But keep it down. You don’t want to wake the skunks!”

  “Hello, Gomor,” said Ysil. “What do you think? Perhaps we should eat while we can, eh? Do you think the crows will break order and take all of the grain?”

  “I don’t know about any of that, but I am starved. I am going to eat.” And with that the rabbit hopped off toward the feasting rat.

  “Surely there remains order in the tree,” said Cormo, though not too hopefully. “But still, we should take advantage of this chance while we still have it.” They both fluttered out into the field and began to peck.

  Then, even with Jackdaw flying around the field, still delivering his cheerless report, the animals began to come out from everywhere—the mice, the squirrels, then the rabbits, and finally more quail. Roe lowered his head as he fed, his eyes closed. Then with a rush, Jackdaw flew at Roe, barely passing above the rat’s head.

  “Warning!” sounded the crier.

  As Jackdaw passed above, Roe made no sign of concern. He only chewed and chewed.

  Ysil ate also. He looked up to see the field full of every animal he knew. But for the old, all of the quail were there, and the rabbits were all steadfastly chewing. Ysil could not remember a time when he had seen all the rabbit family in the same place at the same time, except in their den. Sylvil the quail was even walking the border of the field nervously. For her to be out in the open was rare, and Ysil knew there was no way she would venture into the middle of the field.

  Not one of them looked at the other, perhaps knowing that in doing so they would have to hold one another accountable for their anxious feast. Food may be eaten when it is there, but first, the dens are to be filled. And then food may be eaten only after the crows had their fill. This was the order. And since quail did not fill the dens, they were the last to receive their portion.

  Ysil saw that Harlequin was with her brothers, Anur and Erdic, eating. She was so dainty and thoughtful with each peck. Then she turned her head toward him and he quickly looked away. It was then that Monroth strutted by, and when Ysil noticed him, so did Harlequin. Monroth made no reservations about looking her right in the eye and waved a wing in greeting. Ysil flushed. Harlequin raised her wing to him in return, then went back to what she was doing. When Ysil looked back to Monroth, the larger quail was smiling at him with a look that said, She’s mine, and you know it.

  Monroth had been hatched the same season as Cormo and Ysil. He was proud and growing more so all the time. He kept his gaze tight in place, the two quail eye to eye. Finally, Ysil lowered his head and returned to his chewing.

  “You must all stop your peckings and munchings right now!” came a voice from the left, from the direction of the rabbits’ dens. “We must store away before we feast. You all know the law. There must be order!” It was Sulari, the old gray hare. Behind him walked the ample form of Rompus the badger. Cotor Mono, the leader of the quail, landed beside the old hare in a flurry. Sulari was hopping quickly toward the center of the field. He seldom hopped at all, and to see him move with such speed was rare indeed. He was nervous and a bit angry. All eyes turned his way and chewing ceased.

  “We are under decree from King Crow. We must follow order!” This time it was Rompus who spoke. The hair around his head and on his back was as white as that under his belly.

  “We must eat while we can,” came a defiant voice. It was Monroth. Showing off for Harlequin, thought Ysil. “If the crows break order they will all be on the field today and the grain will be gone.”

  “There will be no break in order,” said Cotur Mono. He eyed Monroth and sized up the younger quail. “The order has long been established, and the death of the King is within this or
der. We must all do as the law decrees, set aside our fears and follow the ancient ways. We are never to tie together if we break this chain. Things are as decreed for good reason. Monroth, you are young and full of energy. If only you were as wise as you are eager.”

  Monroth lowered his head in embarrassment.

  “I will eat as I always eat,” said the golden rat. He lowered his head. Neither quail, hare, nor badger responded, knowing it would be no use to try to change the scavenger’s mind.

  All around the field the animals listened and considered, although Erdic and Anur rolled about the grain and laughed, showing not the least concern.

  Jackdaw disappeared back into the Murder’s Tree, leaving the air above in foretelling stillness. Moments after, with a great whooshing, the Murder’s Tree exploded with black winged shapes. The crows descended on the field. Many of the other birds, mice, and rabbits ran for cover, but a good few held fast. Ysil and Cormo both froze in apprehension, too afraid to fly, lest they draw specific attention to themselves. Monroth also froze, and if the look in his eye was of any sign, it was fear that held him and not bravery. A cold chill came to Ysil’s heart, and he could feel the wind from the beating of the crow’s wings. The gray hare Sulari stood on his hind legs and pitched his ears to the sky as the huge form of Fragit, the crow General, crashed down directly in front of him. The rest of the murder followed, all landing to form a rough circle around the hare, quail, and badger. Ysil, Cormo, and Monroth huddled in closer to the elders. There were also a number of other quail and rabbits within the crows’ boundary. Harlequin was there. The lesser animals all fidgeted and hopped nervously about, looking to one another and the crows.