Frost Wolf
Page 11
It did not seem at all simple to Gwynneth. Nevertheless, she took solace in the Sark’s dispassionate explanation. But what was the explanation for the growing madness of the wolves of the Beyond? Gwynneth and the Sark had estimated that fully half the wolves were caught up in the strange cult of Skaars dancing. The sights that Gwynneth had seen as she flew over this territory near the Outermost seeped into her dreams and clung to her feathers like cobwebs. She could not rid herself of them. And the knowledge that the Sark had tried to protect her from — the fact that wolves were eating other wolves — had been revealed to her one night as she flew over a circle where the last Skaars dancer had collapsed. Wolves wild eyed and reckless had melted out of the shadows. They had not even waited for the dancing wolves to die but began dismembering them as they still breathed.
It was all too horrifying for Gwynneth. She had flown into the savage wolves’ faces, batting their paws, and even lost one primary in her attempts. It was not a severe injury. She would molt that feather come spring — if spring ever came. But her fight had proved useless.
She had returned to the Obea tree determined to say nothing, but the Sark smelled them on her. Smelled that Gwynneth had tangled with a wolf-eating wolf.
“Don’t, Gwynneth, don’t!” the Sark had said somberly.
“Don’t what?”
“You know, dear. What they’re doing is unspeakable. But you can’t stop it.” The Sark had squeezed her eyes shut. Her voice broke. “I couldn’t stand to lose you, Gwynneth. Don’t do anything foolish. Now let me see about that feather.”
That had been the end of their discussion. They never spoke of it again.
The clear patch appeared in the thickly clouded night sky, and a few stars gleamed down upon them. Gwynneth spread her wings to take flight.
“Be careful!” the Sark cried out.
Gwynneth spun her head almost entirely around to look over her tail feathers. “Don’t worry, ma’am.”
But the Sark’s words of caution frightened her. It was so unlike the Sark to say good-bye in this fashion. Gwynneth was not fearful for herself but worried about this new, somewhat gentler Sark. It was so uncharacteristic of her to fret about Gwynneth’s safety.
Gwynneth had not flown far when she saw two plumes of snow rising from the ground. They were slightly uneven, like the mismatched wings of a bird. There was only one wolf who ran like this — the gnaw wolf Creakle. If Faolan was the swiftest runner, Creakle was certainly the most beautiful runner in the entire Beyond.
“Gwynneth!”
At the cry, Gwynneth swerved in flight. “What in the name of Glaux,” she muttered, and then saw Tully melt out of a cloud bank.
Creakle had slowed to look up. “Here, land on my back, you two. The snow is awfully deep,” Creakle called.
The two owls alighted on Creakle’s withers. Gwynneth noticed they were very thin, but of course it was supposed to be summer and wolves shed their thick undercoats in the summer moons.
“Creakle!” Gwynneth exclaimed. “I am so happy to see you — see that you are alive. I have wondered how you gnaw wolves are doing.”
“Some better than others. Tearlach died.”
“Oh, no!”
“But the Whistler is, so far, still alive, and rumor has it that he’s with Faolan and Edme at the Blood Watch. That’s where we’re headed. The Blood Watch is in poor shape, and they need all the help they can get.”
“Faolan and Edme are at the Blood Watch!” Gwynneth was shocked. “How could I not know this? I’ve been camped so close with the Sark.”
“Is that where you’ve been?” Tully exclaimed. “The Great Tree sent me to find you. You have been absent, gone, vanished, unaccounted for, missing in action, Gwynneth!” He caught himself. He was picking up Creakle’s penchant for synonyms. “The tree is none too happy. They need you now, they need an owl who knows the Beyond.”
Gwynneth cocked her head. “I’m sorry, but let me tell you what’s happened.”
“Please do,” Tully said somewhat huffily.
“You know about the Skaars dancers, right?”
“How could we not know about them?” Creakle asked.
“And the Prophet?” Gwynneth asked.
Creakle and Tully nodded.
“Do you know what that stupid prophet wears to hide his identify?” Gwynneth asked.
“I’ve heard a mask of some sort,” Creakle said.
“Not just some sort. The Prophet wears the helmet and visor of my father.”
There was a long silence.
“What?” Tully squawked.
“Gwyndor’s mask?” Creakle asked.
Gwynneth nodded.
Gwynneth explained how they had found the helmet and visor’s hiding place and how sooner or later the Prophet would come back to it. “So you see, I have to return to the Obea tree and stand watch with the Sark. I had no idea Faolan and Edme were so close. It’s close as the owl flies but not as the wolf runs, and you can bet that no wolves come near that tree. That’s why it’s perfect for concealing something. Can you two continue on to the Blood Watch and tell Faolan and Edme what the Sark and I have discovered?”
“Of course, of course!” Both the owl and the wolf nodded.
“And if the Blood Watch can spare them, perhaps they might come.” Gwynneth hesitated. “I mean, who knows what we’re up against with the Prophet. There is only so much an elderly wolf and one owl can do. And for Glaux’s sake, don’t ever tell the Sark I called her elderly!”
Gwynneth paused. Another thought came to her. “Tully, I’ve introduced the Sark to rodents — rodents as nourishment.”
“Yes, I introduced — or tried to introduce — mice to the Skaars dancers. They were too far gone for it to matter.”
“But not everyone is a Skaars dancer — certainly not yet. You could be of great service. Catch rodents. You know where to look for them.” Gwynneth paused. “You could bring them first to the Blood Watch and then to the wolves at the Ring of Sacred Volcanoes. If the owls want to help, that’s the best thing they could do.”
Then Creakle spoke. “Tully, could you fly back to the Great Tree and get other owls to join you?”
“The search and rescue and the tracking chaws would be perfect for this. Yes. I’ll help. I’ll leave now. I saw a place where there might be voles. I’ll hunt them down for the Blood Watch and then fly east to the Ring and on to Ga’Hoole.”
And so it was decided that Creakle would continue on to the Blood Watch and report to Faolan and Edme what Gwynneth had told them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE BEAR’S DEN
FAOLAN AND EDME HAD JUST come off the Blood Watch when Creakle arrived. What the gnaw wolf told them was astonishing; Edme had to ask him to repeat the entire story.
At the conclusion of his tale, Faolan turned to Edme. “I don’t see that we really have a choice. We can’t let the Sark and Gwynneth face the Prophet alone.”
“No, I don’t think we can. And now Creakle is here, so at least that’s one wolf to cover for us while we’re gone.”
Faolan frowned. “I think we have to go immediately. I hate the idea of the Sark and Gwynneth alone in this situation. I fully believe that this prophet is as dangerous as any foaming-mouth wolf. Look how this dancing has spread — like a disease!”
The wind was with them and they were able to go at a press-paw pace. They had been traveling for a few hours when Faolan perceived a familiar reverberation deep beneath the snow under his splayed paw. That paw was unusually sensitive to anomalies of the ground and could sense when a stream flowed under a thick crust of ice, or a maze of mice runnels coursed beneath a hardpack of snow.
“Stop!” he called out to Edme, who had taken the lead. She turned around.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing really, but … it’s hard to explain. I think — I think there are lava beds beneath these drifts.”
“So?” Edme asked. Faolan had begun to dig in with both claws.
Suddenly, Faolan’s paw struck rock and there was a hollow kah-kah sound.
“You see, I’m right — lava beds!” He was extremely excited.
“Faolan, I’m not following you at all. We’re supposed to be on our way to the Sark and Gwynneth at the Obea tree.”
“No! We have to stop here.” His hackles rose and stood rigidly.
“But why?” Edme implored. “Why must we stop here?”
“I spent my first winter in a lava tunnel, with Thunderheart. It was our winter den. There’s a tunnel beneath us and a way into it not far from here. It’s the entrance to someone’s den. We have to find it.”
Edme tilted her head to one side so her single eye could study her friend. There was an urgency in his eyes that told her this wasn’t simply about Thunderheart. There was something more going on.
“Edme,” Faolan pleaded. “There could be bears in there and they could be in trouble.”
“How can you tell?”
“I … I feel it in my paw.”
Edme looked down at Faolan’s splayed paw, the one that condemned him to be a malcadh. She knew that his paw sometimes could feel things other wolves’ paws could not. It was not entirely unlike her single eye that sometimes saw more than two eyes could.
A cloud scudded across the moon, temporarily darkening the lonely landscape, and then there was a flash of silver. It was Faolan, leaping in an immense arc to land on what looked like snow. Suddenly, the entire world seemed to erupt in a snarling cacophony. It was as if all the wolves of the Dim World had been unleashed. A splash of blood spurted into the night, then another.
Edme bounded toward the snowdrift where Faolan seemed to have disappeared.
“Great Lupus!” she exclaimed when she found herself not in a drift at all, but at the entrance to a lava cave. A cub was squealing, bleeding from one ear. Two wolves stood cowering by the black lava wall, and a mountainous form could be seen beyond them. The wolves were obviously outclanners. They had the smell of dead wolf upon them and would soon have carried the scent of dead cub as well. Wolves of the Beyond lived in harmony with the bears, much as they lived in harmony with owls. Outclanners lived in harmony with no animals, not even their own.
“Mama! Mama, wake up.” The huge mother bear slept on, but Faolan jumped to attention. He reared up on his hind legs, towering over the outclanners. One of the wolves had a gash across his face. The other trembled in Faolan’s shadow.
Then there was an enormous bellowing yowl.
It’s happening again, Edme thought. Faolan’s muzzle had lengthened into a boxy shape and his claws looked twice their regular size. Faolan flung the wounded outclanner against the wall, killing him instantly. Then, with a quick flick of that strange paw, he ripped open the belly of the other wolf. The wolves were dead in just seconds. Blood pooled on the floor. The cub, a female, whimpered inconsolably. And as peculiar as Edme thought Faolan’s transformation had been, what happened now was even more mystifying. He had seemed to slip back into his old pelt, but only partway. With the lumbering gait of a bear, he approached the cub, making oddly soothing growling sounds. He picked up the cub ever so gently by his mouth, settled into a corner of the cave, and cradled the cub in his two forelegs, just like a mother bear!
Faolan, what are you? Edme thought. What in the name of Lupus, Glaux, or the great bear Ursus are you?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“THE PROPHET SHALL
REWARD YOU!”
“WELCOME TO OUR HUMBLE ABODE!” the Sark said. “Take no offense, but did I smell you coming? It smells like you had a tussle with some wolves and a bear.”
“No offense taken,” Faolan said wearily. Edme had waited for Faolan to offer some explanation, but he remained silent.
“Uh —” Edme began, “we came across a cave with a grizzly and her cub sleeping.”
“False hibernation. I’ve been expecting this to happen, what with this weather,” the Sark answered quickly.
“Yes.” Faolan nodded. But he seemed reluctant to continue.
Edme realized that the less Faolan said, the better. If he had not been aware of his odd transformation at the Skaars circle, he was aware of this one. “There was a bit of a tussle. We had to step in to drive out the outclanners and wake up the mother bear. So here we are.”
Gwynneth stepped forward. “Creakle filled you in?”
“Yes,” Faolan said. “We couldn’t let you try and face off with this cag mag wolf alone. He must be exposed.”
“And even then,” the Sark added, “there is no telling if this will stop the Skaars dancing.”
“You’re right,” Edme said. “But we have to try.”
Faolan turned to the Masked Owl. “This is a terrible insult to your father, Gwynneth. For a wolf to disturb a hero mark, to wear your father’s armor — it’s unimaginable.”
“For an owl to even have a hero mark is so extraordinary!” Edme exclaimed.
“Is it?” Faolan asked.
“Is what?” Gwynneth asked.
“Is it strange for an owl to have a hero mark?”
The Sark, Gwynneth, and Edme looked at Faolan in astonishment.
“Faolan — have you ever once heard of an owl for whom a hero mark was made?”
Faolan’s eyes grew dim, as if he were reaching far back in his memory. “No, no. I suppose you’re right.” But he did not sound very convinced.
So the three wolves and the owl drew up a plan. Gwynneth would continue her night flights to scout for the Prophet as well as any game in the area. During the day she would rest, and Edme and Faolan would strike out on scouting expeditions.
The Skaars dancing circles were spreading, but there still hadn’t been any sign of the Prophet. However, they soon picked up increasing talk of his arrival. Faolan and Edme no longer attempted to break up the circles. It seemed quite useless. But if outclanner wolves were hanging around, they chased them off. And when they found small game, such as snow hares, and at one point a beaver, they brought it to the starving dancers. The oddest thing was that the Skaars dancers never seemed to be that hungry. Faolan and Edme wondered if the dancers’ stomachs had shrunk, for they would often vomit up the meat.
“I don’t think it’s their stomachs,” Edme said one day when they had found a rare ptarmigan and brought it to a circle.
“What is it, then?”
“I think it’s their minds. Something’s happened to their minds.”
“No, no good wolves!” said a voice from behind them. Faolan and Edme wheeled around to find the speaker, a pathetic-looking gray male of indeterminate age. This wolf was so thin, it was hard to look at him. He seemed to have but a single tooth in his mouth and they could see every rib through his thin pelt.
“You think we are hungry, but we are not. You think we are thin, but we are fat in our souls. You look at me and say, ‘Oh, poor creature.’ But you are seeing my flesh, blood, and fur, not my soul. When the Prophet comes he will, as he promised, bring the star ladder right here to where I stand.” The other dancing wolves had stopped dancing to press around him.
Edme was tempted to yell at the gray wolf, to tell him that he was a perversion, an insult to everything valued by honorable wolves, an insult to the Great Chain, even. But she steeled herself and held her tongue. The important thing was to find out if there was a chance of catching the Prophet. “And when do you think the Prophet might come?” Edme asked mildly.
“Very soon.”
Just then, a relatively plump mouse trotted by. Faolan slammed down his paw on it, killing it instantly.
“Now, here, one of you should eat. You, sir,” he said, shoving the mouse toward the gray wolf who had begun the conversation with them. But the wolf shrank back and so did the others.
“Oh, no!” He spoke vehemently. “The Prophet must not find us fat or our souls will not be ready for the ladder. Lea
ve it instead as an offering for the Prophet.”
As he approached, Edme and Faolan could hear a scraping sound as if his bones were rubbing against each other inside his pelt.
Faolan and Edme stared in astonishment.
“But surely the Prophet doesn’t eat? He must want to be prepared for when Skaarsgard comes with the ladder.”
There were soft huffs from the other wolves. The gray wolf turned to them and shook his head. “Be gentle with our friends. They do not understand yet.”
“What don’t we understand?” Faolan asked.
“This food, this dead mouse, will be transformed and become spirit food in the presence of the Prophet. It will feed his soul and thus all of our souls. It will feed him so he might complete his work on earth.”
“And where should we leave it?” Edme asked calmly, as though this wolf’s explanation was the most sensible thing in the world. Faolan shot her a glance as if she had gone cag mag.
“There by that rock. It’s a whispering rock. It will be safe there and we shall send out the message. He will come. He always does.”
Faolan and Edme exchanged glances. This was their chance to see the Prophet, to lure him out and stop the dancing. They could only hope the mouse was tempting enough. If it could bait the Prophet, it might be worth it.
So Faolan and Edme set the dead mouse on the rock, then watched while a white wolf nearly as thin as the one they had been speaking with came and began to scratch out a message with his claws.
“Thank you,” the Skaars dancers said before resuming their dance. “The Prophet shall reward you.”
The dancers were weak now. As one began to collapse, another called out, “Oh, his soul is becoming more radiant! Oh, his spirit stirs so beautifully!”
“How soon will the Prophet come?” Edme asked the wolf with whom they had been speaking.
“The Prophet is to the south, we believe. The wind is from the north … so …” He was so depleted he couldn’t finish the thought.