Frost Wolf

by Kathryn Lasky

  “I would be dead if it weren’t for all of you,” the Whistler replied. “You saved me. The Blood Watch is a good place for an old gnaw wolf.”

  “They need everybody, no matter their rank,” Faolan said. “There’s no time for abuse.”

  “Abuse is an indulgence if we are to survive,” Edme said acidly. Faolan looked at her with surprise. Edme, generally sweet and optimistic, had become somewhat of a cynic.

  “I’ll miss you, Whistler,” Dearlea said, stepping forward with her tail tucked firmly between her legs and her ears laid flat. Her sister was soon beside her and both began to grovel on the ground in the standard submission rituals.

  “Mhairie, Dearlea! For Lupus’ sake!” the Whistler exclaimed. “Didn’t you just hear Edme? There’s no time for such nonsense.”

  “Who knows what makes sense anymore,” Mhairie said, twisting her face up so she could speak.

  “Dearlea, Mhairie.” Faolan spoke gently but firmly. “Get up now. Give the Whistler a proper good-bye and we’ll be off.” Faolan went up to nuzzle the Whistler’s ruff, and his sisters followed.

  “That’s more like it,” Edme muttered.

  The Whistler watched as the wolves headed east. The night closed in on them, and the strange lights began to bob in the twilight on the horizon. He could see the silhouettes of other wolves beginning to form circles for their relentless dance of death. He was tired of it all — wolves begging Skaarsgard to come fetch them, the wolf eaters, the desperate howlings of confused skreeleens. He had endured abuse all his life, and yet for some reason, he had never given up hope that someday he might distinguish himself and be selected for the Watch at the Ring of Sacred Volcanoes.

  A full lifetime of abuse had never caused him to give up hope. How ironic it was that now, in the midst of a famine, he had never been happier. Yes, he was hungry like everyone else, but he was treated better since he arrived at the Blood Watch than ever before. Tamsen had once abused him, and now seemed to regard him with a new light in her eyes. She had appointed him second skreeleen, which never would have happened back in the old days in Blue Rock territory. Despite the hole deep in his throat, everyone knew that the Whistler’s howling was melodious and possessed exquisite clarity and power. His alert calls could be heard all the way down the line.

  And he was honest. When all the rest of the skreeleens were howling about the peculiar lights, making up stories as they went, he refused. When Tamsen pressed, he had told her there were no stories for these lights. “They have no history,” he’d said. “And there is no way to interpret them as with the sky fire of summer storms. It would be dishonest for me to howl in complete ignorance.”

  Tamsen respected him for that. “You must do what you feel is right, Whistler,” she’d said.

  Had a distinguished outflanker ever spoken to a gnaw wolf in this way, the Whistler wondered. No. And this gave hope to the gnaw wolf with the twisted throat.

  The Whistler was a lieutenant now, and there was even talk of making him captain. It was miraculous really, when one thought of it. As long as he showed up for his watch, howled his share of alerts, and joined in a skirmish when required, the rest of the Watch officers were pleased. Not once since he arrived had he been head-butted, nipped, or rolled, as gnaw wolves were usually treated. The ranking system of the Blood Watch was based on merit and not dependent on ancient notions of superiority of blood lineage that had very little to do with accomplishment. Order and respect were maintained purely through a wolf’s ability to execute the task at hand. Some wolves couldn’t stand it and seemed to silently break down, as Caila must have, going by-lang to join the Skaars dancers.

  Sometimes there was a slight indication that a wolf of the Watch was on the brink of going by-lang, certain physical signs. A wolf’s pelt is made up of two coats — an undercoat and an overcoat. The undercoat is composed of very short fur and keeps a wolf warm. The wolves grow thick undercoats in the fall for winter and begin to shed them in the spring or early summer. Most of the wolves had kept their thick coats through this summer in response to the prolonged cold. But the wolves who were about to go by-lang began to shed rapidly. Because they grew colder and could not keep any heat in their bodies, they grew hungrier as well.

  The other sign was a cloudiness in their eyes. Although a wolf’s night vision is not as good as an owl’s, they can see quite well in complete darkness. At the very back of their eyes is a tiny mirrorlike membrane. The Old Wolf word for it, which had persisted, was scathan. In wolves about to go by-lang, the scathan became fogged and could no longer reflect light. Wolves also have another membrane that slips over the front of their eyes, like a second eyelid, to protect the eye from dust or debris. This eyelid often ceased to work, so that some wolves began to stumble about like Beezar, the blind wolf constellation. It was a sad thing when it happened.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  BACK AT THE RING

  “WE HAD HEARD OF THIS INSANE dancing,” the Fengo said. “But I couldn’t believe it was true. And you are telling me that Liam MacDuncan was leading it?” He swiveled his head around and stared darkly at the shamed wolf. “Are the clans truly diminished by half?”

  “Perhaps even more than half,” Edme said. “Creakle has reported that he is possibly the last of the MacDuffs.”

  “Creakle, the MacDuff gnaw wolf, the last of his kind?”

  “We had to bring back this little pup,” Faolan said. The pup was eating a vole that had been brought in just before they arrived. He had taken readily to rodents on their journey to the Watch.

  “He’s a bit of a miracle, I would say,” the Fengo whispered to himself.

  “He’s learned to eat mice — owl food. I think it saved him.”

  “It’s saved us!” the Fengo said.

  “How do you mean?”

  “The owls — the Rogue colliers, the Rogue smiths have been bringing us rats and what have you. But one owl in particular has been quite helpful.”

  “Who might that be?” Gwynneth asked.

  “A Snowy Owl — Tully is his name.”

  So, she thought, Tully came through.

  As the other wolves left, Finbar motioned for Edme and Faolan to come closer. Mhairie and Dearlea lingered.

  “Sisters, wait outside for a moment. I know all this is difficult for you,” the Fengo said.

  Mhairie stepped forward. She glanced briefly at Dearlea, who nodded and seemed to encourage her to speak. “Sir,” she began hesitantly. “As you have been told, our second Milk Giver has rejected us. Our clan is in such disorder that we cannot, we do not, want to return to it.”

  “Of course not. What would you think of joining the MacNamara clan?”

  “The MacNamaras!” The sisters’ green eyes flickered with excitement.

  “Yes. But I have many things to consider, so be patient for now.”

  “Of course, of course.” The sisters nodded.

  When they left, the Fengo turned to Faolan and Edme. “I would never have sent them back to the MacDuncans.”

  “Thank you,” Faolan said. “Without Caila, Mhairie and Dearlea will not have much status with the MacDuncans, not these days. And they are both smart. Mhairie is an outflanker and Dearlea was training to be a skreeleen. But you need a mother, a high-ranking one, to ensure these things.” Faolan paused. “But, sir, there is something else about my sisters.”

  “What is that, Faolan?”

  “Whether they join the MacNamara clan or not, I need to take them to the drumlyn I built for our mother, Morag. I need to show them her bones on the end of the Broken Talon Point.”

  The Fengo looked up, his eyes bright. “That is a wonderful idea and you’ve certainly earned the privilege. I think you should leave immediately. There seems to be a blessed pause between blizzards. We’ve had some luck of late with snow hares, and there are of course several more voles. Speak to Jasper. There should be enough food to give you a bit of energy for the trek.”

  Faolan turned to leave, but the Fengo called to
him. “And by the way, Faolan, tell your sisters that yes, they should go to the Namara and ask to become members of the clan. It makes such good sense. After all, it is the clan your mother, Morag, joined at the end of her life and it’s not too far beyond Broken Talon Point, where her bones rest.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be very happy.”

  As soon as Faolan had left the gadderheal, the Fengo swung his head toward Edme.

  “Edme, you have not inquired about Winks.”

  “I … I … am afraid to.”

  “Yes, I thought you might be. My dear, she died a few nights after you left.”

  “Yes, I felt it.” Edme’s muzzle quivered. “At least it was before the Caribou Moon, and the star ladder was still shining. The star wolf could point the way for her.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Finbar paused. “I was with her when she died, Edme. She passed with such dignity, such composure. Never begging for Skaarsgard like these fool wolves. She just slipped away. I could almost feel her soul glide from her pelt, her paw slip into that of Skaarsgard.”

  “How lovely,” Edme replied.

  “Now, there was a wolf of the order!” Finbar tipped his head and shut his eyes. The words “a wolf of the order” Constituted the highest compliment one could pay a wolf of the Beyond. A wolf of the order lived with effortless grace within the sanctity of the Great Chain that linked the wolves to all the elements in the universe between heaven and earth.

  “And, Edme.” Finbar’s voice quickened.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “She spoke of you as she left.”

  “She did, sir?”

  “She did indeed. She said that she loved you, Edme. She loved you like a mother loves a daughter.”

  From the top of her cairn, Edme saw Faolan and his sisters approaching. “I can’t leave my post right now. Can you come up?”

  “Yes,” Mhairie called.

  The three wolves scrambled up to where Edme was perched.

  “We just want to say good-bye.” Dearlea tipped up her head.

  “I won’t be gone long,” Faolan said. “The Fengo has given his approval for my sisters to join the MacNamara clan.”

  “You take care, Faolan,” Edme said.

  “I will, and you, too. Don’t let Banja get you down. You know she’s just a cranky old thing. Likes to make trouble.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that,” Edme said almost dismissively. “I can take care of Banja.”

  This was a new Edme, Faolan thought. Along with that new slight tinge of cynicism came confidence.

  They nuzzled each other’s ruffs. Then Edme turned to Mhairie and Dearlea. “You be good to Faolan. He’s my best friend in the whole Beyond.”

  “He’s our brother!” both girls said at once.

  Faolan’s eyes filled with tears. Mhairie came over and nudged him playfully. “You know, I wonder who was born first. Because if I’m the oldest, I think I get to be the boss, don’t you?”

  “Well, I think we’ll never know,” said Dearlea. “And I’m not sure it matters because, Mhairie, you were just plain born bossy, no matter if you were first, second, or third.”

  Faolan turned to Edme. “I understand that you, too, are here only for a few nights.”

  “Oh, you heard about that?”

  “Yes, Twist told me that Finbar wants you to lead a small group to bring in any starving wolves to the Ring. Thanks to the owls, there are enough rodents to feed them — at least for now.”

  “Yes, at least for now,” Edme repeated, her voice subdued.

  Faolan immediately wished he could take back his words, for they conjured up too many dreadful questions about the future, about their futures. He was almost afraid to look into Edme’s eye, which saw so much. Could she see the fate in store for them?

  Edme put a paw on his shoulder. “Try not to worry too much, old friend,” she said softly. She turned and then sprang into the first of a series of scanning jumps. When she was at the peak of her jump, she howled to the three wolves below her.

  “Good-bye! Good-bye, dear friends!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  THE MUSK OX

  FAOLAN AND HIS TWO SISTERS traveled in a companionable silence for three days. As the sun sank behind the horizon, casting a green glow over the land, Dearlea stopped abruptly. “What are those four sticks?” Ahead of them four sticks of exactly the same size appeared to have been deliberately planted in the snow.

  “They aren’t sticks! They’re legs!” Faolan said. “Musk ox legs!”

  The three wolves bounded forward. They quickly realized that the musk ox, an elderly female, had been caught in an avalanche. Had she been younger, the herd would have helped to dig her out. But because she was ailing and slowing their travel, they had apparently abandoned her. It was not cruel on their part at all. The musk ox would endure more pain attempting to keep up with the herd than falling into a frozen sleep. For the three wolves, it was an unbelievable piece of luck. Not only would there be enough meat for the three of them, but there was enough to feed the entire Carreg Gaer of the MacNamara clan. So they would at least arrive with some good news.

  Digging down to the body was hard work, and it was even harder to tear through the thick, coarse mat of guard hairs and the soft underfur to get to the meat. The musk ox had apparently died only a short time earlier, because her blood was not yet cold and her meat was still soft.

  Faolan cautioned his sisters to eat slowly. “It can’t be good to eat this much meat when we have been hungry so long and living on small creatures.”

  “Well, at least it’s warm,” Mhairie said as she bent her head over the steaming pile of meat. This gave Faolan an idea. He knew they were not far from Broken Talon Point and the coast of the Bittersea. But the wind coming off that water sounded different from what he remembered. It sounded like wind driven across a frozen sea. There was absolutely no shelter on Broken Talon Point, and the warmth they had gained from nourishing themselves would drain out of them faster than they could imagine. If they could keep warm, the food in their stomach would fuel them for longer. Faolan peered at the huge cavity of the musk ox stomach from which they had dragged her entrails.

  “We should sleep here,” he said, looking at his sisters.

  “What do you mean by here, exactly?” Mhairie asked suspiciously.

  “I mean right here.” He nodded at the ripped abdomen of the musk ox. “It’s as big as a small whelping den. We can fit easily and we’ll be warm.”

  Dearlea and Mhairie looked at each other, then Dearlea spoke. “One thing, Faolan.” She turned to look at her sister.

  “It’s not a bad idea, Dearlea,” Mhairie replied.

  “No, it’s a good idea,” Dearlea said.

  “Well, then, what is it?” Mhairie pressed.

  “There is nothing noble in eating an animal that’s already dead. So even though we didn’t kill this musk ox, we need to perform lochinvyrr, for she will have given us both nourishment and shelter.”

  Lochinvyrr was the ritual that wolves followed when they brought down an animal. As the animal was dying, they would gaze into its eyes. Prey and predator would lock gazes as if something were being agreed upon between the two. It was a demonstration of respect in which the predator acknowledged the life it was taking. The wolf would sink into a submissive posture as if to acknowledge the greatness of the gift the dying animal was giving, while with great dignity the dying animal seemed to say, Yes, I am valuable. My meat will sustain you.

  The musk ox’s eyes were glazed with ice and she stared dumbly into the night that now sparkled with stars, but still the three wolves gathered round her and began to lick the ice from her dead eyes. Soon enough the starry roof of the night was reflected in the musk ox’s eyes, and Faolan, Dearlea, and Mhairie bent down on their knees while grinding the sides of their heads into the snow. They fixed the ox in their gaze and performed the ancient ritual of lochinvyrr. When it was complete, they crawled into the bloody cavity of her abdomen and slept.
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  When they woke several hours later, the copper disk of the sun was trembling on the horizon.

  “Still hungry?” Faolan asked.

  “No, not really. I ate my fill last night,” Mhairie replied.

  Faolan had not yet told his sisters about the drumlyn he had built for their mother. He had not found the right words.

  The sisters knew that their mother had spent her last days with the MacNamara clan. But that was all they knew, really. They weren’t aware that after she had been driven from the MacDuncan clan and her two healthy pups taken to be raised by Caila, she had found a new mate in the MacDonegal clan, where she’d had a brilliant career as an outflanker. Morag had led a worthy life and Faolan had been determined to honor it in the only way he knew how — by building a drumlyn.

  For a wolf like Faolan, it was instinct to gnaw a bone not just for meat, but to incise it with beautiful carving. The instinct was imprinted on his very marrow. The first time he had ever carved a bone was long before he had even joined a clan. He had been a lone wolf and brought down a caribou by himself. The caribou was a worthy opponent — old, weak, but very clever — and so Faolan had honored her with a drumlyn made of her bones. He had dragged her body more than a league and fought off ravens the whole way in order to place her bones near the river on a high bank where they could remain undisturbed. He had found the same sort of place for the bones of his mother. It was close to the tip of Broken Talon Point, and he had planned to head there first and then on to the MacNamara clan with his sisters. But now that they had found the musk ox, he knew they must go first to the Namara, the clan chieftain, and tell her where to find the meat.

  “I had planned to take you first to the drumlyn of our mother.”

  “Drumlyn?” Mhairie asked.

  Then Dearlea spoke up. “Is that one of your Old Wolf words, Faolan?” The sisters were used to Faolan blurting out Old Wolf words and even bearish expressions.

  “I suppose so. I used it before I had ever heard the word ‘cairn,’ which is what wolves call a bone mound.”