Lupus Rex

by John Carter Cash

  So it was decided that the three would go in search of the young ones. Harlequin wanted to go as well and insisted that it was her responsibility to watch after the chicks, feeling it her lack of attention that had allowed them to escape notice during their departure. Certainly, Monroth and Ysil both would have enjoyed her company, even if it was just to look upon her, but alas, her joining them was denied by Cotur Mono, who insisted no more of the group be disbanded.

  Harlequin looked to the two younger sojourners. “Be careful, you two. I will miss you both.”

  A lump came into Ysil’s throat and he stumbled for something to say in return. Before he could manage a word, Monroth quipped, “Don’t worry, little one. I will be fine, of course. And not to worry a bit about these other two. I will be taking care of them.”

  Ysil nearly spat up the clover he had half digested.

  So as the majority of animals set off for the Vulture Field, three quail returned down the woodland trail and back toward their home in search of the irresponsible small ones.

  Within the darkness of the thick brush surrounding, there were four eyes watching the scene with intense interest. And when the three were a good distance from their separated, there was a slight rustling of limbs and leaf, and two sleek, furry shapes carefully and silently pursued the smaller group.

  THE WIND ALWAYS whistles to a quail’s ear. The sounds of the forest are always beneath the ever-present harmony of whistles. When the wind dies, the birdsong and animal sounds become no more apparent and no louder to the quail, as the wind does not stifle the forest’s noise but enhances it. Nature’s sounds are much like music to the quail, with the wind being the rhythm. In this way, quail need not speak of the sound of an approaching storm or the approach of a predator, or for that matter the arrival of a crow. These things are like a new voice or instrument being added to a song. And though quail are careful and cautious, they often offer their song to the music of nature.

  As they set upon their way, the three joined in song. Perhaps to a man’s ear the song would have seemed an unharmonious chirping with the occasional shrill note added in randomly. But to the quail it was the song of their lives.

  They sang:

  When winter’s rain is hardened cold

  By winds from north and high

  We will not hunger days untold

  Nor weep for bleeding sky

  We’ll eat the finest golden grain

  Among the sanctified

  In that field beyond the darkened door

  Past life’s fast burned light.

  Around our mother’s welc’ming nest

  We’ll gather safe and warm

  Beneath her gentle wings we’ll rest

  Forever free from harm

  In that field beyond the darkened door

  With no future and no past

  In that field beyond the darkened door

  We’ll know the truth at last.

  And though the words of the song were sad, Ysil felt happy as he sang. He couldn’t remember a time when he did not know the words and melody. It was sung in small gatherings and when the covey held full council. It was the Quailsong, and all quail knew it. It was the song of travel and it was the song of home. It was sacred to them, and for another animal to sing it would hold no purpose. The other animals had their own songs.

  But that day as the song died within the beaks there was only a moment of silence. Then there came a mocking murmur from the surrounding brush, and the melody that joined in with the wind was a whispered and vile voice. It was a voice Cotur Ada had heard before and one Monroth knew well (though he did not yet speak such), but Ysil did not. The melody was the same as the Quailsong, but the words were changed, and the harmony it brought was one broken and without amity. The birds, poised for flight, froze when they heard the voices:

  Quailsies reach the darkened door

  For foxes we will bite,

  Quailsies they will fly no more

  In foxes’ teeth so tight.

  With a flurry the bushes burst and out jumped two foxes. In the same moment the quail flew. In a breath’s time, Ysil realized that the foxes had not intended to kill them, at least not yet, but only to scare them. However, at that moment Ysil felt the fear of death, and he forced its power beneath his wings. The quail perched in a shellbark hickory above, leaving the foxes below. The two on the ground burst into triumphant laughter at the quails’ terrified flight.

  “Quailsies need not fear!” cried the larger of the two. “We only wanted to scare you! That we did, eh?”

  To Ysil’s amazement Monroth responded to the two by name. “Drac and Puk, you did not scare me! I will stab a sharpened beak in your eyes should your teeth get close!”

  Cotur Ada looked to Monroth. “We do not speak to furred red ones, chick; this you know. They are troublesome and cunning. We should fly far now, out of reach. Come, young ones.”

  But Monroth reacted as if he had not heard the elder. “I will come down there and pierce your bellies with my talons! I have sharpened them, and they are as fearful as an eagle’s!”

  The two below laughed heartily. “And you, birdie, should come down. We mean you no harm and have no intention to fight. We eat micies, yes, but no quail. Foxes eat fishes and bugs, but no quail. Quail are too pretty and foxes like to look at them. We only joke with you. Foxes want to be friends . . .”

  “Do not listen to them, chicks,” said Cotur Ada. “You can never trust a fox. They will act as friends until you are close, then when you show them your back, the fox will turn and eat you. A fox will think of only one thing when its belly is empty.”

  “Monroth, don’t talk to them! They can’t be trusted,” said Ysil.

  “Oh, you both are so out of the times. These are trustworthy foxes. I spoke to Drac and Puk last moon. We scavenged late in the back field, and they were there. Tried to scare us, but didn’t try to hurt us. I talked to Drac for a long time. As a matter of fact, I like him.”

  “He is a killer of animals, and were he the sweetest of all foxes, he could not turn against his nature. That is his order. You must follow your own.”

  To Ysil, his grandfather’s words were those of wisdom, but Monroth only laughed and called down to the foxes, “I will come down now and show these old ones we’re respectable to each other! What say, boys?” And before the wise elder could protest, Monroth flew down and with a flurry settled on Drac’s back. “Let’s go for a ride, Drac! Like we did midsummer!” The two ran around the clearing like childhood playmates, laughing as they went.

  “This is not safe,” called Cotur Ada. “Do not go near the sharp teeth!”

  “Fly quick,” called Ysil. “He will bite you!”

  Monroth paid them no heed and continued his ride. He hooted and whistled as the fox ran around the clearing. Then the fox took off out of the clearing and disappeared into the overgrowth, a thick tangle of mountain laurel and lobelia. For a few minutes there was no sign of them but for a continued rustling of the bushes. Ysil began to feel certain that the fox had turned on Monroth and eaten him. Puk, the older of the two, had stayed within the clearing and continued to laugh. He began again his mocking song. Ysil noticed that Cotur Ada did not even look at the fox but kept his eyes focused on the spot where Monroth and Drac had disappeared. After what seemed much too long, the fox came dancing back into the clearing and still perched on his back, like some miniature winged horseman, was the young adventuresome quail.

  “Ha-ha,” cried Monroth. “Every quail needs a fox to ride! Maybe this is the way it is meant to be!”

  “Monroth,” commanded Cotur Ada—and this time there was something passionately consuming about his tone, “get off that fox now and come back up here.”

  The young quail looked up to the elder and seemed to hear him for the first time. “Oh, all right,” relented Monroth. “You’re no fun at all, old bird.” And with that he flew from the fox’s back and up into the tree. He landed on the branch beside Cotur Ada and looked at Ysil, who
eyed him incredulously. “What?” he asked. “What’s the worry? I told you, I have known these foxes for a while. They are harmless.”

  “As I said, chick, there is no safe relationship between quail and fox,” said Cotur Ada. “Pray you learn this easily before the harder way. When I was but a few moons older than you, Monroth, a fox killed my father.” This he said with hushed tones. Then the wise quail looked down to the foxes. “What do you want, tricksters? Why are you here?”

  It was Puk that answered. “We only watch as so many animals go by and wonder: What could all the animals be traveling together for, and in such haste? And Drac says, ‘Must be the crows sent them moving.’ And I says to meself: What could the crows be sending the animals away for? And then I remembers! Me old father tell me when I’s a pup ’bout the way of the crows, how when the King dies, them big black birds make all the other animals leave so as they have the field all to theirselves. And then it hits me: The King is dead! The old King Crow is gone! And there’s much to do now, if you’re a fox. Much to do.”

  “Surely, you have guessed correctly. The King is dead,” said Cotur Ada. “Now, go on your way and let me and these two continue our journey.”

  “Oh, joy of a lifetime! The King is dead!” Puk ran in circles around the tree the quail were perched in. “Did you hear that, Drac? Most certainly I was right! The King is dead! The time of the fox is coming soon, for certain!”

  Ysil looked to Cotur Ada. “What does he mean?” he asked.

  “I am afraid he is hoping the day is near when the foxes may go to the field and pillage the mice nests,” answered Cotur Ada. “The King Crow kept them safe. But there will be the same wisdom and protection from the next King. He is forgetting that.”

  And Drac joined Puk in his celebration, hopping and bouncing around the tree. Ysil, at Cotur Ada’s side, with Monroth also looking on, watched the dangerous animals below with a grotesque fascination.

  It was not long before the foxes gave up their celebration and ran off to the deeper woods. When they did leave, the quail waited a good ten minutes before flying down to the trail.

  Cotur Ada had chastened Monroth for his irresponsible behavior while in the hickory tree, and once they were on the ground it did not stop. And even though Monroth eventually conceded and told the old bird that his word was wise and admitted he had been foolish, Ysil believed that Monroth really did not mean it. He thought there was a message to be found in his cousin quail’s eye. It was a look of prideful knowledge, as if his mind were made up no matter what his tongue professed. Ysil knew that Monroth wanted to be friends with the foxes, the old bird be damned.

  The trail widened and the quail, without thinking about it, moved to the edges of the brush, out of view of the clear sky. From the open sky death did often descend.

  The old bird went on admonishing Monroth as they walked, then he set his eyes on both of the young quail with fiercesome warning. “But even the foxes aside,” said Cotur Ada, “the truly foolish thing would be to show yourselves to the crows while in their Reckoning. They will not play with you and use you to their needs, as the wily red ones do. You both need to be full aware of the danger of our mission. The crows will open your hot bodies and share your blood. Then they will leave your feathers to blow in the wind, your bones to dry in the sun. I pray we find the young ones before we reach the field, for if the crows have found them, they are already dead.”

  Ysil shook involuntarily at the elder’s words, the imagery quite effective. Monroth betrayed nothing, his countenance unfazed.

  The path came into a dale where Ysil had played many times. They were not far from the nest now, dangerously close to the field. Then they heard it. The cawing screeches of the murder. The jagged cacophony of sound cut through the forest and left Ysil trembling. He had never heard this before, though many times he had heard various murder songs. Sometimes they cawed for no evident reason at all, but today the song was a chaotic melody of screeches, notes, and words. None of the crows’ cries were understandable. And even with their cawing as loud as it was, there was no sense to be made of it.

  “We must get a quick look at the field from the thickness of the hemlock above, only a quick look to see if the little ones are there,” said the old quail, “then we must take to the undergrowth and remain within no matter what we see or hear.”

  The birds flew to the top of the hemlock and from there could barely see the field. Scattered all across their distant home were many small black spots. More crows gathered in one spot than Ysil had ever seen. From what they could discern at such a distance there were no quail within the field, alive or dead, and Ysil was relieved. Then they flew to the forest floor once again, and peeking into every bush and beneath each stump, made their way along the trail, occasionally calling a low trill for the immature and unwise birds.

  Chapter Three

  The Reckoning

  The King is dead!

  We must ahead

  The words be read

  By magic head.

  The King is gone

  We join in song

  The King is gone

  We loved him long!

  THE CROW SONG’S words of celebration were cast within the screeching chorus that ruled the field. Some sang this over and over, but many more were merely making noise. The crows made their great gathering known to any who might come near, the tumult of their cawing and screeching so loud as to still even the songs of the mockingbirds and the jays, who kept a good distance. None but Ophrei and Fragit even knew what the Reckoning would entail, but there was enough knowledge to spread rumored suspicion. The field’s grain had been cleared by the man’s machine, and the birds knew the man would not likely venture this far from his home again until the spring, so they cawed in unabated excitement. A crow seldom tries not to be heard, for that matter. A crow always draws attention to itself. That is its way.

  Jackdaw was back to his eager and excitably happy self again and was hopping around the field, leading the song. The King was dead, and the time for the new one to be chosen had come. This was the Reckoning.

  But not all in the field were jovial. The King’s three sons were somber and still, each keeping to their own group of followers and family. The three crows’ reasons for worry were some the same, but also different.

  Nascus, the second-born, had loved the old crow and cried into the wind all the way back to the field. He was afraid of the Reckoning, as all his brothers were, but at the same time knew it must be done. He had known this all his life and accepted it as the order long ago.

  On becoming King, Nascus would take the crown and rule—should the Reckoning choose him. The year before, a raging coyote had attacked his mother in the night, its mouth full of foam, its eyes bleeding red. The animal had been driven away, but not before it had taken the life of his gentle mother. Today, Nascus felt the consuming sadness of an orphan, as if the whole of himself had been cut into pieces. He had loved both his parents deeply.

  Milus stood in the middle of a small group who held allegiance to him. He was the largest of the three brothers, and the youngest. He was silent and downcast. Milus had always been thoughtful and distant. Nascus watched his brother, and his sadness deepened even more. He knew his younger brother had always dreamed of leaving the field, of beginning a new life. Milus could be given the crown to the Murder’s Tree that very day, but his heart was not one of a King and held no dream of becoming one. He loved the wind and the rain, the jagged view of the moon through a white poplar’s branches. But though Milus often considered leaving and had even voiced this on occasion to Nascus, he seldom left the field, nor went far from his mother, Edith.

  Of the three brothers, Sintus had the dominant group of followers, and they congregated around him. Nascus watched them whisper to him. “You are the wisest!” they were saying, and, “Today you will take your rightful nest!” Sintus was silent and thoughtful, and Nascus knew his brother considered it his destiny to be chosen. He had said so many times to Nasc
us, and it was no secret to anyone. When the brothers had gathered over their father’s lifeless form, Sintus had professed no faith in the Reckoning or in its outcome. The middle brother examined his older sibling’s cool and devious eyes that fall afternoon. Today Sintus seemed so certain of himself, his band of followers whispering and cawing in his ear their support. He looked up and caught Nascus’s eyes upon him and glared back in disdain and contempt. You were born of folly and will die a fool’s death, his eyes said.

  The largest group of crows held allegiance to General Fragit, which is to say all the rest of the crows, numbering fifty-nine. Within the group was the Guard, twelve crows, strong and mature, dedicated to his command to death. Beyond these there were no formations to his army, or at least none visible, but the ranks were well known. The General answered to no one on the field now that the King was dead, but he did have an equal. That equal was the rook Ophrei.

  Ophrei was the listener, the sorcerer. He heard the whispers of the wind, and at night, while the rest of the crows slept, he spoke to the ghosts. Ophrei was enormously old, older, in fact, than the King would have been had he still lived. No bird remembered a time when Ophrei did not hold council with the King daily. He was the commanding sage and the instructor. Only he knew the way of the Reckoning. This was the order of the crows, that this cousin bird control the ceremony. A crow may hold spoken or unspoken loyalty to animals of other kinds, but a rook held allegiance to none, not even their own. The only fidelity the rook held to was to the wind, and to the order.

  When Ophrei stepped out of the circle and moved toward its middle, heading to the center of the field, the singing and cawing descended quickly to a rustling quiet. He hopped and flapped his way slowly until he was encircled by the murder.