33
Flakes of cold snow fell on Nashoba’s face and brought him back to the world. He heard the flap of wings. It took him some moments to grasp that Merla was standing before him. Hearing more fluttering, he supposed the other ravens had gathered and were looking down at him.
“Is he dying?” he heard one ask.
“Could be,” Merla replied.
“How long will it take?” asked another.
“Don’t know,” said Merla.
Nashoba assumed they were waiting so they could feast on him. Ravens, which lived on dead things, always started with the eyes.
Nashoba squeezed his shut.
Wondering if he would ever awaken, he slept.
34
“Caw!”
A sharp poke in the nose woke Nashoba. Through barely open eyes he became aware that there was early morning light.
“Wolf!” came a cry, and another peck. “Are you alive?”
Nashoba focused and saw Merla standing before him at eye level, her head cocked slightly to one side. She was observing him. In the pure white of the surrounding snow her blackness was absolute, her ebony eyes fierce. She was about to peck Nashoba again, when she saw his eyes were open.
“Ah!” the raven exclaimed. “Not dead!”
“Not yet,” Nashoba rumbled, aware now that his entire body hurt—a misery of pain, stiffness, and weakness.
“But not very alive,” said the raven, bobbing her head.
Nashoba opened his eyes wider but quickly closed them against the glare of the glistening snow. “How long have I been here?” he asked, his eyes slits.
“All night,” said Merla. “Sun’s up. Snow stopped. Blue skies. Might be a fine day. Unless it rains. Don’t you think?”
Nashoba said nothing.
He sensed that he was lying in inches of snow. He did not care. He opened his mouth wide and yawned. He moved his ears, neck, and tail. Finally he tried to move his legs, one at a time, starting from the rear. Everything seemed to work except his right front leg and paw. The pain was extreme from the shoulder down.
For some moments he lay quietly, becoming aware that he was terribly thirsty. Leaning forward, he stuck out his tongue and lapped the snow before him. It was good, but not enough.
Merla watched him with interest. “Do you want me to tell you what happened?” she asked.
“No,” said the wolf.
Ignoring him, the raven said, “A complete bungle.” Once again she bobbed her head in self-agreement.
“I need water,” said the wolf.
“There’s a creek not far. Can you stand?”
Nashoba had to think about it. Then he made the effort the way he always did, by pushing down with his front legs. He rose a few inches, but the pain was so intense, he dropped down quickly.
“Try again,” said the raven.
Resting a moment to let the hurt subside, Nashoba thought about what he might do, could do. Taking a deep breath, he pressed upward with his rear legs, lifting his rump first. Then he shoved down using only his left front leg. Despite the searing pain, he started to rise, managing to get about six inches off the ground, then lost his balance and fell.
“I can’t stand,” he said, and gasped.
“Caw!” cried the raven. “You are a mess!”
Nashoba stayed still for a few long moments, breathing deeply. Telling himself there was no way to avoid pain, that he had to accept it, he made another effort to stand. He fell again.
“Pretty pathetic,” said Merla.
“Haven’t you anything better to say?” Nashoba muttered.
“I always tell the truth.”
“I don’t want to hear it!” cried the wolf.
“Caw!” answered the raven. “Creatures never want the truth about themselves, only others.”
“You are boring,” said Nashoba.
“Wisdom is always boring,” taunted the raven. “That’s why no one listens to it.”
Nashoba said nothing.
Merla remained in place, watching him.
After a while Nashoba said, “I need water.”
“Here,” said the bird. With that, she squatted, spread her wide black wings, and swept snow into the wolf’s face. Startled, Nashoba pulled back, only to realize what the bird had done. There was now a pile of snow before his nose. He stretched out his snout and lapped it up.
Then he said, “And something to eat.”
The raven bobbed her head a third time. “You’re very demanding,” she said.
Nashoba grunted.
“Be right back,” said Merla. “Don’t go anywhere!” With that, she spread her wings and flew away.
Nashoba, wondering at the bird’s sense of humor, had no idea where she was going.
35
The morning’s bright sunlight streamed through the window and woke Casey. For a few moments he remained unmoving, enjoying being in bed. Then he checked his digital clock. It was almost seven. He got up and looked out the window.
Snow covered the ground. On pine branches, sagging gobs of it looked like melting vanilla ice cream. A slight breeze caused snowflakes to rise from the ground and float through the air. Illuminated by the low sun, the snow bits sparkled like tiny diamonds. It was what his mom called “a glitter morning.”
Hearing someone moving around the house, Casey went to the kitchen. His mother was at the counter, having a cup of coffee and some toast with honey. She looked up. “Morning, love.”
“Dad back?”
“You hear him take off?”
“Where’d he have to go?”
“Some transformer problem over by Albers. Stupid snow. Botched the whole network. But look,” she said, gesturing to the window. “A nice day.”
Casey, thinking of the promised time with his new bow and arrow, said, “He going to be back soon?”
She shrugged. “You know. Gets back when he gets back. Then the two of you can work with your bow. Anyway, I have to leave for work. Sorry about your birthday party.” She glanced out a window. “Shouldn’t have canceled.”
“It’s okay,” he said, thinking of the bow.
She stood up. “Hungry? Some muffins left. Help yourself. I’ll be back no later than two thirty. Want to come with me, or stay?”
Casey shrugged. “I’ll stay.”
“No saying when Dad will get back.”
“I don’t mind being alone.”
“Okay. I’ll get dressed.”
Casey went to his computer, clicked on Bowhunter, and began the game. Good practice, he told himself.
36
Nashoba’s pain so blotted away his sense of time, he had no idea how long the raven was gone. When she finally reappeared, it seemed to him as if she had only just left.
Holding something in her beak, she walked up to Nashoba and dropped her offering in front of him. “Food,” she announced.
The wolf sniffed. It was revolting. “What is it?” he asked, nose wrinkling.
“Rabbit.”
Nashoba sniffed again. “It’s rotten,” he said with disgust.
“What do you care?” squawked the raven. “When was the last time you ate? It’s food, wolf.”
“Where did it come from?”
“Considering your situation, you’re particular. If you must know, it’s something I cached.”
“How long ago?”
“Never mind when. It’s what I’m offering. And you want food.”
Nashoba, who liked his meat as fresh as possible, felt offended. He looked away. As moments passed, despite the body ache, he could not ignore the hunger pangs. Stretching out his head, trying to keep from gagging, he took the food into his mouth. His impulse was to spit it out, but he swallowed it down. It tasted as bad as it smelled.
“Was that good?” asked the raven.
“Awful,” said the wolf.
“Then you don’t want me to fetch you anything else?”
It took a moment for the wolf to say, “Something better?”
/> “Probably not,” squawked the raven.
“Then why are you offering?” asked Nashoba.
The raven fluffed out her feathers. “Do you know what would happen if I didn’t bring you food?”
“Nothing,” said the wolf.
“Nothing?” screamed the bird. “You’d die.”
“Why should you care?”
The raven pulled back her head and stared at Nashoba. Then she nodded vigorously. “Let me tell you something, wolf,” she cried. “You are a stupid, helpless creature! You are incapable of taking care of yourself. You are exactly what that young wolf from your pack said: old and useless.”
Humiliated, Nashoba said nothing.
“And don’t tell me you’re merely hurt,” added the bird. “You are not just old—you’re stuffed with vanity and pride.” She bobbed her head again in agreement with herself.
“And you are a conceited bully,” the wolf muttered.
“I have a lot to be conceited about,” the raven threw back. “I’m healthy, smart, and I, at least, am capable of taking care of myself. I intend to live forever.”
Nashoba, truly baffled, said, “Why are you helping me?”
“Because I’m old too, you fool! Older than you. Most ravens live to be thirteen. I’m twelve. Do you think anyone young would understand you? Do you think young ones care about old ones? Or would take pity on us? Caw!” Merla hopped right up to Nashoba’s nose and gave him a small peck. “If this old bird doesn’t take care of you,” she clacked, “no one will!”
Merla backed away and ruffled her shaggy neck feathers. “Besides, I led you into this. I should have known better. From the moment I saw you, you were a limping, bedraggled, and starving old beast. Caw! There’s nothing more foolish than when one fool helps another fool. Pitiful!” She bobbed her head. “I speak for myself, of course. And you.”
Nashoba shut his eyes.
“My point, exactly,” said the bird. “You hear the truth, and all you can do is shut me out.”
“Leave me alone,” said Nashoba.
“No! I may eat you when you’re dead, but I won’t kill you. Raven’s honor! ”
“Horrible!” Nashoba cried.
“Doesn’t make it less true,” Merla said. “Do you have pups?”
“Yes.”
“How old?”
“They’re mouthing me for real food.”
“Want some advice?”
“No.”
“Take care of them. Let them grow old. Old enough to remember when they ignored their old father.”
The wolf made no reply.
“How many years were you leader of your pack?”
“Six.”
“What happened to the old leader?”
“She died.”
“How?”
“It was far north of here. She was going after some cattle. A human killed her.”
Merla stared at him. “I suppose I need to tell you, we’re not that far from humans right now.”
Unease filled Nashoba. “Do you know where they live?”
The raven looked up and around, then pointed with her beak. “In that direction.”
“Will they come here?”
“Not likely.” The raven bobbed her head. “I’ll get you something more to eat.” She stretched her wings, gave a loud caw!, and flew off.
Nashoba watched her go, trying to make sense of what the bird had said. “She is the fool,” he said aloud.
All the same, Merla’s mention of humans added to his wretchedness. He felt abandoned.
The wolf lay quietly for a few moments then decided he must try again to get up. If he could just make his way back to the den . . . He’d let Garby be pack leader. He’d take Debalt’s position—at the bottom. At least he would be part of a pack.
Taking a deep breath, Nashoba began to rise as before, by shoving up his rump. Then, using all his remaining strength, his whole body trembling, Nashoba rose on his left front leg. Briefly—a little longer than before—he remained standing until his body began to shake. Dizziness came. The next moment he tumbled sideways onto his bad shoulder. The pain exploded.
Panting, Nashoba lay where he had fallen. He was waiting, but what he was waiting for, he had no idea. Maybe the raven is right, he thought. Maybe Garby is right. Maybe I am a fool. Maybe it would be better if I died.
The old wolf closed his eyes. The darkness was light enough.
37
Shielding his eyes against the glare of the melting snow, Casey watched his mother drive out of the garage and go carefully down the dirt road. When he lifted a hand to wave good-bye, she gave two beeps of her horn. The next moment she was out of sight.
Casey stooped over, grabbed two fistfuls of snow, squeezed them into a ball, and threw it at nothing in particular. Then he returned to the house, leaving the garage door open for his mother’s return.
Inside, he turned back to Bowhunter, only to tell himself he did not have to play a game. He could use his real bow. It was right there by the side of his bed.
Casey picked it up and admired the fine wood again, its lovely curves, its sweet balance. Smiling, he recalled what he had read in that book, how powerful a bow and arrow could be. How powerful he could be.
He took up his bowstringer—a long, thick cord with leather pockets at either end. As he had practiced with his dad, he looped the larger leather pocket over one bow tip, and then fitted the second pocket on the other end. Holding the bow in the middle with this left hand, putting his foot down on the bow stringer, he pulled up. The action bent the bow enough for him use his free hand to fit the bowstring itself on the two bow tips.
Once he had checked that the string was properly attached, he lowered the bow. The bowstringer slipped off, but the real bowstring remained, taut and strong. He plucked it. It made a lovely twang. The bow was ready. He was ready.
He nocked an arrow on the string. He was about to give a pull, when the words about safety his parents had spoken came into his head. He needed to go outside.
Bow in one hand, arrows in the other, Casey stood in front of his house and tried to recall all nine steps he was supposed to take for every shot.
Impatient to try, he could remember only three of the steps. One: take the proper stance. Two: nock the arrow. Seven: aim.
What would he shoot at? He looked around. He decided that the garage would be the best target. It was big, and the door was open. He would shoot the arrow inside so he would be able to find it.
He selected one, dropping the others to the ground. After nocking his arrow, Casey took a wide stance, pulled back the arrow and string, used his right eye to aim, and released the arrow. Twang!
Instead of going straight, the arrow flew wildly high, hit the garage roof at an angle, caromed off, and kept going, disappearing among the trees beyond.
Casey stood stock-still, astonished that the shot had gone so crazily. His parents would be upset if he lost that arrow. He was upset.
Not wanting to lose the arrow, he set off through the snow in the direction he was sure the arrow had flown—toward the trees.
In one hand, he clutched the bow. In the other, he held the remaining arrows.
38
Nashoba awoke, uncertain where he was. His whole body ached. He was terribly stiff. His paw and shoulder hurt. The urine stench was strong. He was, he realized with dismay, lying in his own puddle.
He looked about with bleary eyes, but the surroundings seemed unfamiliar. Where was Tonagan? The pups? The other wolves? Only gradually did he recall all that had happened.
Where was the raven? Would she come back? He worried that she was insulted. He should not have argued with her. Yes, a raven was an unusual friend for a wolf, but she was a friend nonetheless. Now she was the only one he had. She, at least, was helping him.
He shut his eyes and dozed. He dreamed he was young and running through the forest, Tonagan by his side. The pups were scrambling to keep up. The other wolves in the pack trotted behind him, ta
ils wagging. Then the dream changed, and the pups were mouthing his muzzle, the young begging for life.
“Caw!”
Nashoba blinked his eyes open to see Merla holding a dead mouse in her beak. She hopped forward.
“How old is that?” Nashoba asked.
The raven dropped the shriveled carcass. “What difference does it make? It’s food. And it’s younger than you.” Using her beak, she pushed the dead mouse closer to the wolf. He sniffed, hesitant.
“It’ll keep you alive,” the raven coaxed.
Nashoba braced himself and then, nauseating as it was, ate the mouse.
“Do you think,” asked Merla, “any of your pack will return for you?”
“I told them to leave me alone.”
Merla cocked her head. “Do you want to know another raven saying?”
“No.”
“Caw! The bigger you think you are, the smaller you are.”
“You tire me,” said the old wolf.
“Actually,” said Merla, “I’m saving you. Let me see what else I can find.” She flew off.
Nashoba, feeling great urgency to get away, to get back to his pack, once again tried to move, but failed. He wondered if he would ever move again, if he would spend the rest of his life—a shortened life, surely—listening to the raven tell him what an old and useless creature he was.
39
Casey could not find the arrow. He looked back, trying to retrace in his mind the path the arrow had taken from the garage roof. He tried to think it through like a geometry problem. What was the angle of its flight? Its vectors.
He looked up. The sky was clouding over. The air was warmer and smelled of rain. He marveled at how changeable spring weather could be.
He walked to the right, and then to the left, recalling that expression he had heard: finding a needle in a haystack. In this case, it was a white arrow in a melting snowfield.
The Setons’ open land extended some thirty yards beyond their house. After that stood trees marking the boundary to the national forest. It went on for miles, reaching into higher country.