What is this wolf doing? the Whistler thought.
There was a silver streak, like a low-flying comet in the twilight.
It took the Whistler a moment to figure out that the streak was Faolan hurling through the air. There was a large smack and an expulsion of breath, followed by a high whinnying screech. Faolan was straddling the shoulders of the buck, who reared into the air. The buck took off like a bolt, but Faolan clung, with the Whistler following.
It was absolutely the strangest thing the Whistler had ever seen. He had been there when Faolan vaulted over the wall of fire set up to trap him. The Whistler knew how the descriptions were soon exaggerated, and it was not long before Faolan was said to have jumped for the sun. But there was no exaggeration needed for what the Whistler was witnessing here. Faolan was actually riding a buck lichen eater, blood flying in their wake.
The blood was the buck’s. Faolan had sunk his long fangs into the buck’s neck and pierced the life-giving artery. His claws were embedded so deeply in one shoulder that the buck’s muscles were torn. The lichen eater began to stumble, then soon crumpled to the ground. The buck’s stomach was heaving, and his chest worked to draw every breath. The Whistler came up, and both he and Faolan sank to their knees, laying their heads close to the dying buck’s and peering into his eyes, searching for that last guttering of light. The death ritual of lochinvyrr was not code, nor law engraved on any bone. It was an urge that flowed stronger than hunger through a wolf, a need to let the dying animal know that the life it gave was valued.
For several seconds, Faolan and the Whistler were silent, their thoughts focused on the beauty of this animal’s grace and spirit. You are worthy, your life is worthy, your meat will sustain us. There was a moment just before the last beat of the animal’s heart when a light flickered deep in its eyes, as if an agreement had come to pass. A second later, the buck died.
Thin, frayed clouds floated low over the darkening horizon like cobwebs clinging to the day. Faolan and the Whistler ate for a long time, until the moon began to rise in the eastern sky, and then, with heavy bellies, they turned toward the Pack of the Blue Rock.
Faolan was supposed to follow behind the Whistler, but they soon fell into a companionable trot shoulder to shoulder. It seemed natural to Faolan, and he had hardly been aware of it until the Whistler spoke.
“I was there when you jumped the wall of fire.” The words came like a wind rising up from the depths of a deep canyon. “I was one of the wolves who chased you there. And now you are the one who has given me my first decent food in weeks.” He paused. “Thank you.”
There was a long silence. This was the first wolf who had admitted to being a part of the byrrgis that had tried to drive Faolan to his death when they thought he had the foaming-mouth disease. He didn’t think that any of them had felt guilty about mistaking him for a foaming-mouth wolf. What had disturbed them was that Faolan had not died. Instead, he had jumped the wall of fire meant to catch him, jumping for the sun and challenging the order of the Great Chain. This was considered a blasphemous act, not to be spoken of again but consigned to the silence of a carved bone. To talk about it casually, or “off the bone” as the Whistler was doing, was not acceptable.
“You’d better not talk about it,” Faolan said.
The Whistler shrugged and then, with a strange chuckle that sounded like a rattling wind, said, “I don’t exactly speak, now, do I? Would you consider this a voice?”
Well, Faolan thought, they are words, even if they sound odd. “Can I ask you about the gaddergnaw?”
“I know very little. There hasn’t been one since I’ve been with the Blue Rock Pack.” The Whistler paused. “However, they do say that during the competition, they treat the gnaw wolves with great respect. No cuffing, no muzzle bites. None of that nonsense.”
“And after the gaddergnaw?”
“Well, I’m afraid, for all but the one wolf selected, it’s life as usual.”
Life as usual! These were bitter, bitter words. Faolan simply had to be selected, and yet he already felt far behind.
“Have you started the practice yet?”
“Oh, yes, one of the gadderlords, the wolves who run the competition, came and prepared me for the type of bones we shall be asked to carve.”
“What type is that?”
“The usual. More inscriptions of the Great Chain—no surprise there! And then, a bone of our own making.”
“What do you mean?”
“A story bone. That, I think, will be the most difficult. When we all traveled to the west country to perform the mourning ceremonies for the great chieftain of the MacDuncan clan, they had us practice on some bones. We carved grieving bones for Duncan MacDuncan, and the lords came around and told us what was good and what wasn’t in our carving.”
Faolan couldn’t help but think how far behind he must be without the benefit of this early training.
“And then there is a byrrgis in which we are not sweepers.” The Whistler nodded at Faolan. “You’ll do well.”
Faolan dropped his head. “I hope so,” he mumbled.
“I know so. You’re built for it.”
They came up on the pack’s encampment, and there was no time to talk further.
The camp was beneath an immense ledge of blue rock veined with white quartz and glistening with tiny bright crystals. Faolan had taken up his proper position behind the Whistler and had shifted the bone of shame from under his chin to his mouth. It would not do for any of the pack to know that the two gnaw wolves had passed the time chatting amiably.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” the Whistler whispered to Faolan, and nodded at the rock.
But Faolan couldn’t answer with the bone in his mouth.
He wondered about the rock. It looked as if the stars had tumbled from the sky and rooted in the stone. A handsome black male came out from behind it and gave a gruff greeting to the Whistler and a harsh cuff to Faolan’s ear. Faolan didn’t mind, but it seemed so odd that, moments before, he had been enjoying the easy companionship of another wolf, and now he was once more an object of abuse.
“Lachlana and Tamsen are waiting, over there.” The black wolf nodded toward the overhang of the blue rock. Faolan could see other wolves pressing through the shadows and felt their narrowed eyes clamp down on him. Their curiosity was unnerving. Before, he was the freakish wolf who had jumped for the sun, and he was now the shamed wolf who had cracked the byrrgis.
Off to one side, the Whistler watched the other wolves. He could tell they were amazed by Faolan’s size and his vigor, for even when Faolan was groveling in the dirt, he did not look like a gnaw wolf. His coat was too sleek; there was nothing raggedy about him. They were utterly baffled.
“I’ve never seen such a gnaw wolf,” one young male said with a tinge of envy in his voice.
The Whistler wondered what the other wolves might think if they knew that, just hours before, Faolan had ridden a buck to death. The Whistler worried about this strange young gnaw wolf. He’s outside anything they’ve ever imagined!
And although Faolan immediately sank to his belly and began the crawl of humiliation toward the two outflankers, a shadow of dignity clung to him.
Faolan caught only a glimpse of the two outflankers before he began crawling, but he saw that they were powerful wolves with almost identical creamy-hued pelts. He judged them to be sisters. When he reached their paws, he stopped and dropped the bone of shame. The slightly smaller wolf picked up the bone quickly, but not before giving Faolan a sharp bite to the nose. Then her sister presented him with a fresh bone, a fragment of an antler. This was the contrition bone he was to carve. But first the pack leader came forward to read the bone of shame. The two outflankers took several steps back.
Standing directly over Faolan’s head, Dain began to read in a deep, sonorous voice, “As recorded by the gnaw wolf, Heep, of the River Pack of the MacDuncan clan…”
Faolan could not help but flinch as he heard Heep’s name spoken. I’d
better get used to this, he thought. I’m going to have to hear it again and again!
“On the morning after the fifteenth night of the Caribou Moon, a byrrgis was assembled on the Burn in pursuit of a bull moose….”
By the fifth “humble” in Heep’s story, Faolan thought he detected a snicker among the assembled wolves. This momentarily heartened Faolan, but not for long.
“He was really bad, wasn’t he, Mum?” he heard a little pup say.
“Indeed!” his mum replied.
Faolan pressed his tail more tightly between his legs and shut his eyes. Why had he been such a fool? Duncan MacDuncan’s words once again echoed in his ear. You have no sense.
I’m big but I’m stupid, Faolan thought. Why did I ever try to do that—stand up like a grizzly? It struck him that even Thunderheart might have been appalled by his behavior; she might have thought he had misused what she taught him. The very idea was intolerable. How many wolves could offend not one but two species of animals? he thought. He had never felt so disgraced in his life.
When Dain had finished reading, a silence followed that would have seemed awkward had it not been interrupted by a very young pup who burst out, “Mum, why did the wolf carve the word ‘humble’ so many times?” This earned the poor pup a solid thwack, and he took off squealing.
“Here, here!” Dain snarled. “We are assembled to witness the rituals of contrition, to right the wrongs given to outflankers.” He turned his glare on Faolan. “Continue, gnaw wolf.”
Faolan arched his back as high as possible, tucked his tail between his legs, then advanced toward the two outflankers. When this was completed, he sank to his knees and flattened his belly to the ground, then twisted his neck. Finally, he rolled on his back and presented his belly to the two outflankers. While in this position, he began to confess his error.
“I, Faolan, gnaw wolf of the Pack of the Eastern Scree, am guilty of the actions gnawed on the bone of shame by Heep. I swear by my marrow that the truth has been carved, and I am prepared to make amends by carving this bone presented to me by the estimable Lachlana and Tamsen, distinguished outflankers of the Pack of the Blue Rock.”
Adair had explained to Faolan that he must carve his contrition bone with the Great Chain, and, at the precise point where his conduct had offended the order, make his mark—that of the spiraling lines of his footpad.
Faolan had been carving the Great Chain from the very first day he had joined the wolves of the Beyond. At first, gnaw wolves were expected to render a simple version of the Great Chain, but as they advanced, they learned that the chain was much more intricate, with myriads of links between classes. Because of his proficiency in gnawing, Faolan had been told to do more complicated versions of the Great Chain. He wondered if these wolves knew he was already up to the fourth order. If not, he could do the simplified version that would make for easier and quicker work.
But just at that moment, he heard the first note of a howl, a perfect note that swooped up into the night. He turned his head and was amazed to see that the sound had issued from the twisted throat of the Whistler. It rose in the darkness like a beautiful night-blooming flower. The others joined in, for they had spotted the mist of Duncan MacDuncan, and this could be the last night they would be able to see it before the Moon of the First Snow arrived and the constellation of the Great Wolf slipped away until spring.
Faolan turned his head from the bone. The old chieftain had reached the top of the star ladder. His twisted beard was neatly braided once more and he seemed to be peering right down at Faolan. I must carve the whole chain as I know it, he thought.
There would be no shortcuts. He studied the antler, licked it several times to become familiar with its surface, and then began to inscribe the Great Chain.
“Look at the sun he carves,” someone whispered. “You almost feel the heat!”
“It’s frightening—too real,” said another.
Faolan tried to close his ears, but he could not help but hear a third wolf say in a quavering voice, “Could he be from the Dim World?”
Faolan had meant only to carve the bone as best he could. But it seemed that no matter how hard he tried, he never got things right. But he wouldn’t stop trying; he couldn’t. He would leave for the Pack of the Fire Grass at dawn.
CHAPTER NINE
THE MIST OF MACDUNCAN
BY NOW, FAOLAN KNEW THE RITUALS of contrition flawlessly. It didn’t bother him anymore to hear the story that Heep had carved recited aloud. In a short course of time, he had left behind three bones of contrition, carved so exquisitely that many wolves began to fear he was an agent from the Dim World. But it ceased to bother Faolan. Let them think what they would, for no matter what they said or how they looked at his bones, he was determined to carve as well as he could. The wolves of the Watch were said to be the finest carvers in the Beyond. And it was them he wanted to impress. If they were true artists, they would not view his work with superstition.
Faolan could not get out of his mind the beautiful note the Whistler had sung when Duncan MacDuncan’s lochin reached the top of the star ladder. But why, Faolan wondered, did he seem to feel that the mist of MacDuncan still lingered even though it could no longer be seen? It was as if there was a scent trail Duncan MacDuncan was following through the stars, and it led straight to Faolan. It made no sense, but Faolan felt the mist of MacDuncan hovering just above him.
All of these thoughts were streaming through Faolan’s mind when he mounted a ridge and caught sight of a wolf. Lael! The Obea of the MacDuncan clan. Faolan’s breath caught in his throat. There was only one reason why she would come so far from Carreg Gaer. A malcadh must have been born into the River Pack, Heep’s pack.
Faolan was upwind of the Obea, so she could not catch his scent. He crouched low in a ditch, peeking above the fringe of winter grass. The only scent he could detect was that of the newborn pup the Obea carried by the scruff of its neck. It must have been the pup of the mother he had seen just before the gaddergludder.
The Obea’s sterility seemed to have affected even her urine and other scent marks. Faolan imagined that the Obeas must be bereft not only of scent and offspring but of feelings as well. Lael might as well have been carrying a clod of dirt. And even from where he crouched, he could see that her eyes were strange. They were green like the eyes of all the wolves of the Beyond, but absent of any light whatsoever—as cold and as distant as the stars. He thought of the winter stars that the wolves called the muted constellations, which appeared in the blizzard-wrapped nights of the hunger moons.
From his vantage point, he could not see any obvious deformity in the pup. He assumed that this pup’s only fault was to have been born too early, for this moon was not the birthing time for wolves. Early pups, although not precisely malcadhs, were abandoned because they were deemed too hard to care for. More often than not, they had unseen flaws within and would soon die.
Lael climbed a very steep incline to the highest part of the ridge. She kept her pace steady. The tiny creature dangled from her muzzle, and Faolan could see its hind feet kicking weakly. When Lael reached the top, she put the pup down. Smack in the middle of an owl flight path! Faolan knew it was a route to the volcanoes, where Gwynneth gathered coals. But it was also a moose trail.
“How thoughtful!” Faolan muttered. If the owls didn’t get the pup, the moose surely would. It made him shudder to think of that pup squashed under giant hooves. He hoped it would be over shortly. But he could not help wondering how long the little pup would be left mewling into the vast nothingness, how lonely it must feel.
Faolan’s own recollections of abandonment were vague. He knew only what Thunderheart had told him, what she had surmised. That he had been left on the big river’s edge during the time of the Moon of the Cracking Ice, and the fragment of ice on which he had been placed tore loose. He would have died had he not snagged on Thunderheart’s foot. He had gone from cold and nothingness to warmth and milk and that huge booming heart. His fear of th
e nothingness was only faintly remembered, but he would wish it on no living creature. And yet he knew the death of a pup was a small price to pay for the health of the clan. It must be done. It was the most sacred of all the laws in the gaddernock.
He continued to watch the scene from the ridge. The Obea had set the pup down not just on top of the neighboring ridge but on a flat piece of table rock that looked as if it had been placed there for exactly this purpose. The perfect tummfraw! Then, without giving a backward glance, the Obea turned and headed down the path she had come.
Faolan was filled with an agonizing mixture of anxiety and curiosity. Did the little pup wonder what had happened to the milk scent of its mum? What was it feeling right now? Was it cold? A chill wind had blown up. Could he rescue this pup, as Thunderheart had done for him? But that was impossible for he had no milk, and it was most certainly against the codes of the wolves of the Beyond for another wolf to interfere with a malcadh.
When the Obea had dissolved into the gathering mist of twilight, Faolan could stand it no longer and began to move out of the ditch and make his way to the tummfraw. When he was almost to the top, he could hear sporadic soft whimpers from the pup. The last part of his climb seemed endless. Every step he took felt like a betrayal of the most sacred codes of wolves. But he only wanted to look.
No, this is a lie. A voice seemed to fill his head. You want to give comfort. By his marrow, it felt as if the mist of MacDuncan had followed him right to the top of this ridge. He looked across the starry indigo dome of the night sky. There was not a sign of the Great Wolf constellation, nor the star ladder, nor the Cave of Souls. Then why do I feel him?
Faolan took one more step. There was the pup, tinier than he could have imagined. She was a tawny drop of gold and perfectly formed. He had never seen anything so perfect. But so tiny that every time her heart beat, it shook her entire body. How tempted he was to lick her, to give her a momentary bit of warmth before she died. He could tell she would not live long. The first snowflakes of the season began to fall. Perhaps she would be buried under them and fall into a frozen sleep. They said it was a good way to pass from life. Yes, he wished for a blanket of heavy snow. Perhaps it would camouflage her from the owls or the prowling land animals such as bobcats and cougars. And it was doubtful that moose would take this path if the snow was deep.