Casey saw that there was less snow on the ground under the trees than where he stood in the open. Was it possible that the arrow went that far? He scolded himself: I never should have shot the arrow. Where was I wrong? My grip? My fingers? I didn’t hold the arrow the way the book said I should.
He listened intently as if he might hear where the arrow had landed.
“Caw!”
Was that a crow? A raven? Casey scanned the wall of trees. At first he saw nothing. Only after a few moments of searching did he spot something big and black high in a lodgepole pine. He thought it was just a shadow. It took him a few moments to see that it was a bird sitting on a branch, and the bird seemed to be looking right at him. A raven, Casey figured, from the size of it. Smart birds, he told himself. The sight of the raven reminded him of Bowhunter.
Moving slowly so as not to startle the bird, Casey put his arrows on the ground, picked out one of the five, and nocked it on the string. He hefted the bow, took a stance, recalling the right way to hold the arrow in the string this time, and aimed it at the bird.
With a loud “Caw!” the raven leaped into the air, swerved about, and flew deeper into the forest.
Casey lowered his bow. So like my game, he thought. Feeling challenged, he bent over, picked up his arrows, and began to follow the raven, now his target.
40
Merla landed right in front of Nashoba. “Wake up!” she screamed.
Nashoba opened his eyes. “Did you bring more of your awful food?”
“A human is coming this way,” she cried.
“Here?” said a startled Nashoba.
Merla bobbed her head rapidly. “This direction.”
A jolt of panic swept through the wolf. “Is . . . is he coming after me?”
“I have no idea. But he’s coming.”
Nashoba turned his head first one way and then another, but saw no sign of any human. Only when he sniffed did human scent reach him.
“I smell him,” he whispered. Fearful, he looked at Merla. “Is he trying to kill me?”
“He has something in his hands,” answered the bird. “I’m not sure what it is, but I’ve seen it before. I’m pretty sure it can kill.”
Bird and wolf stared at each other.
Nashoba said, “I have one more kill in me.”
“You do not!” cried Merla. “You can’t even move!”
Nashoba made no answer. Instead he fought to gain some sense of his whole body—what would work, what would not.
He pushed down with his rear legs. His rump came up. Knowing he had no choice but to endure the pain, he pushed down with his front paws, stressing the left side.
He stood.
Merla hopped back, bobbing her head with encouragement.
Though he was standing, Nashoba felt miserable. When the forest seemed to spin around him and his body swayed, he closed his eyes. Don’t fall, don’t fall, don’t fall.
He opened his eyes again. To his enormous relief he was still upright.
“Good!” cried Merla. “Stay still. Gather yourself. Gather your strength.”
Nashoba struggled to find enough energy.
Merla asked, “Feel better? Stronger?”
“A little.”
“Now,” said the raven, “try walking. Even a small step will be good. Lead with your left leg. Easy on the right!”
The best Nashoba could do was hop his left leg forward a few inches. Trembling from nose to tail, he wobbled.
“Any movement is better than none!” Merla cried.
The wolf looked at the matted snow where he had been lying. There was blood, urine, and scat. He felt revulsion at himself.
Clenching his teeth, he took another left-leg hop toward Merla—who had jumped out of the way—and hauled the rest of himself along in the same direction. The effort worked. A bit. Moreover, the movement gave him some confidence.
“I can walk,” he said, proud of his small achievement but embarrassed that he should feel so.
“A little,” returned the bird.
“Where should I go?” Even as Nashoba asked the question, he realized he was leaving all decisions to the raven.
“Anywhere, as long as it’s away from that human,” she replied.
“I don’t know how far I can manage.”
“Doesn’t matter!” shrieked Merla. “Wherever you get will be better than here.”
Nashoba took another hop and step forward.
“Fine! Good!” the raven cried. “Keep it up. I’ll go back and try to distract that human.”
“Don’t put yourself in danger.”
“I’m small.”
Nashoba grunted. “There’s an old wolf expression: the smaller you think you are, the bigger you are.”
Merla opened her beak and stuck out her tongue. “Glad you listened.”
She flew off.
Nashoba watched her swoop among the trees until she was lost to view. A good friend, he told himself.
He turned and took another step. How far, he wondered, will I need to go to be safe?
How far could he go?
He glanced upward. Seven ravens were perched on the trees, looking down at him.
They’re still waiting for me to die, Nashoba thought.
41
Casey stood among the trees, searching for the bird. If he could shoot it, he would feel a lot less dumb about the arrow he had lost. Standing there, determined not to mess up a second time, he again made himself try to review all nine points of bow shooting in the archery book.
“Caw! Caw!”
Casey spun about and spotted the raven high in a tree—not where he had expected.
It really was just like the video game.
He took his stand. Nocked an arrow. Set his grip.
The next moment, the bird flew off, but not so far as to be out of sight. “I thought it was smart,” Casey murmured. “Birds in the game are smarter.”
Relaxing his grip, he scooped up his arrows. Then he moved toward the bird, determined to get a shot.
42
Nashoba took fourteen more hop-steps. The effort exhausted him. His whole body quivered. The agony was great. Worst of all, he was aware that he had gone only a small way.
I can’t go anymore, he told himself, and slumped to the ground. Breathless, he lay in the melting snow. Not knowing what else to do, he reached out and licked his wounded paw.
Hearing a soft pit-pat, pit-pat, he looked around. It had begun to rain, the drops barely reaching him through the trees. From a distance thunder rumbled. When he looked up, he saw that the watching ravens had flown away.
Is that a good sign or a bad one?
From a distance he heard, “Caw!” Where, he wondered, is Merla? Had she managed to lead the human away?
When she came back, he must tell her how grateful he was.
43
Twice, Casey had come in to what he thought would be good shooting range. Both times—at the last moment—the bird had flown in an unexpected direction.
Maybe she’s not so dumb, he told himself, enjoying the hunt, ignoring the steady, light rain. From far off, there was a flash of lightning. Seven seconds later soft thunder came.
Following the raven’s changeable flight path, Casey moved deeper into the forest. Every now and then he paused to check his surroundings. He knew the woods well enough to know where he was.
When the bird eluded him yet again, Casey began to wonder if perhaps the bird was trying to lead him away from something. Probably, he decided, a nest of young ravens. He had a vague memory that they hatched around this time of year. The bird he was following could be their mother.
He would like to see that nest.
“Caw!” The raven reappeared in a different spot.
Dropping all but one arrow, Casey nocked that one on his bowstring, knowing that the raven would fly off when he did. She did, just as he predicted.
Casey thought hard. The bird had gone first in this direction, then that, then that. Now
she had headed another way. In his mind Casey connected all the lines of flight, like a diagram. Where, he asked himself, is the center of all those lines?
Slipping the leftover arrows into his back pocket—like a quiver—Casey remembered a clearing about a quarter of a mile deeper into the woods. He decided that would be a likely place to find the raven’s nest. If he was right, and he went toward it—and if the raven was defending a nest—he’d find her there.
He could get her then.
44
“Why are you just lying here?” Merla screeched into Nashoba’s face. “The human is coming! He’s a lot closer than before.”
“I can’t move anymore.”
“You have to,” cried the raven, pecking the wolf’s nose. “You must!”
Nashoba struggled to gather whatever strength he had left. Pushing himself up on his paws, he took one hop-step forward, only to tumble over. From a distance came a burst of light, and then growling thunder.
“Caw!” screamed Merla, and leaped into the air.
45
Casey saw the raven rise. This time he was ready. He took his position and aimed—took all the proper steps—and released the arrow.
The bowstring hummed. The white arrow flew.
The bird dropped.
Casey’s reaction was astonishment. Had he truly, actually hit the bird? His heart lurched with alarm. For just a second he expected an automated voice to proclaim, Great shot! But there were only two sounds Casey heard: the gentle tip-tapping of rain, and his own pounding heart.
Casey searched the trees, waiting for the bird to reappear.
It did not.
Dismay swept through him. Had he really killed the raven? He never expected to. It wasn’t possible. The idea of it frightened him. It was just a freak shot, he told himself. He had not really aimed, had not really intended to kill her.
He must have missed.
Must have, he hoped.
Casey moved forward slowly, searching the ground. Maybe the bird was just fooling. She might be faking it. Or was just wounded. He kept looking but saw nothing of the bird. He kept going. Then he stopped. He saw her.
The raven lay on the ground on her back, big black wings extended as if in upside-down flight. Her legs were sticking up, talons in a tight curl.
“Oh my God,” Casey whispered. “She’s dead.”
Horrified, he felt his eyes well with tears. He wiped them away, then looked for his arrow but did not see it. He remembered what his book had said, that an arrow could pierce a jug of sand. This was just a bird. It must have gone right through her.
He felt sick.
He looked around, fearful that someone might have seen what he had done. It was then that he saw what appeared to be large dog footprints. There were also bloodstains. Casey’s fright increased. Was the blood from the bird or something else?
He had shot two arrows.
Had he killed two creatures?
He raised his eyes. In the trees above him, seven ravens were staring down at him.
Alarmed, fearful what the birds might do, Casey nocked another arrow to his string.
With a whoosh! the ravens flew off.
Casey went forward, bow and arrow in hand. He looked now this way, then that, ready to shoot until he saw what appeared to be an extremely large dog. It was just lying there.
46
Nashoba heard Merla’s last call but did not understand what it meant. He knew only that she had not yet come back. Where was she? Had she left him? Given up on him?
Whimpering quietly, the wolf lifted his head and sniffed. The scent of a human was strong. Extremely close.
Alarmed, he looked around. A human was standing in the rain, staring right at him.
Trying to summon whatever strength he had, Nashoba waited for the human to draw near.
47
Casey saw the dog move its head, so he knew it was alive. He could also see that tracks led from the animal back to where he had seen blood. The dog must be wounded.
Did I hit the dog with my first arrow?
No, that would have been impossible. The dog was too far from his house, too deep among the trees. His arrow could never reach here. But he had hit the raven, hadn’t he? And he hadn’t expected that. Maybe this dog had been closer to the house, been struck, and dragged itself here.
Did he shoot both creatures?
Moving cautiously, Casey drew closer. He had been taught that wounded animals could and would defend themselves furiously. And the ground was slippery.
He put his bow and three arrows on the ground but held on to one arrow—daggerlike—thinking he might need it to defend himself. Moving a little closer, he looked into the animal’s face.
“What happened to you, fella?” he asked, speaking in a low, soft voice. “You hurt?”
Nashoba raised his large head and gazed at Casey.
He’s alive, all right, thought Casey. Maybe I can help him.
As Casey looked back, the dog’s golden eyes seemed fierce—but maybe it was just pain he saw.
“You’re badly hurt, aren’t you, boy,” Casey said. “What happened? Did . . . I shoot you? Like that raven?”
Nashoba held his gaze.
“If I did,” said Casey, “I’m sorry. . . . I didn’t mean to do it. Want me to help you?”
Keeping his eyes fixed on the human, Nashoba lowered his head to the ground. His muscles tensed.
Casey saw the bloody paw. He stared. It didn’t seem like an arrow wound. But was that why the dog was here?
“I didn’t do that, did I, big guy? Did you step in a trap? Someone else get you?” he asked. “You hurting?”
Nashoba, unblinking, measured the human’s nearness.
Casey wiped rainwater from his face. “Do you want some food?” he said. “Some water to drink?”
The thought occurred to him that the dog might have a collar with tags that would identify an owner.
He moved a few steps closer.
Nashoba bared his teeth and growled. Casey halted, stepped back. “That’s okay, fella. I understand.”
For a few moments Casey stared at the dog, trying to decide what to do.
“Okay,” he said. “I know I shouldn’t have killed that raven. But I can help you, buddy. Stay here,” he said, as if giving a command. “Stay! I’ll get you some food and water. Stay!”
Snatching up his bow and arrows, he ran back toward his house.
48
Nashoba was confused. What had just happened? What was the human doing? Why had he run off? Would he come back? Would the human kill him then? Had he killed Merla?
The wolf thought of trying to move, but it was nothing more than a thought. He resigned himself to waiting to learn what the human did next. Besides, he wanted to save every bit of his remaining strength. I can defend myself, thought Nashoba. I can.
49
It was raining gently but steadily as Casey rushed into his house, through the hall, and into the kitchen. He left the bow and arrows on the kitchen table, then pulled open the fridge door, saw a package of sausages, and yanked it out. He also grabbed a plastic bottle of water and a shallow bowl from a cupboard. From the kitchen he went to the bathroom and opened the cabinet over the sink, scanned the cabinet, and pulled out a tube of ointment, something his mother put on his small cuts and bruises. Hands full, pockets stuffed, telling himself he’d need to clean up his muddy footsteps when he got back, he ran outside. Next second he rushed back to the kitchen. A note pad and pencil were stuck to the fridge door with a magnet. He scribbled:
Walking in forest. Back soon. C
Outside again he raced for the trees. Rain was falling more heavily. The snow was melting.
Just as Casey reached the trees, he was struck with a completely new thought: What if that dog is the wolf Mr. Souza saw?
Excited, he ran forward.
50
“Nashoba!”
Startled to hear his name, the wolf looked around, hoping to see Merla. It w
as Tonagan. In her mouth was a hunk of raw meat. She dropped it right in front of Nashoba’s mouth. He said nothing, just grabbed it and bolted it down.
“Where did you get it?” he asked when he was done.
“We caught some of the elk.”
Not wishing to ask more, Nashoba said, “What are you doing here?”
“I said I’d come back, didn’t I?”
“You mustn’t stay,” said Nashoba. “You need to get away fast!”
“Why?”
“There’s a human coming. He just found me. I think he’s coming back so he can kill me. He may have already killed my friend.”
“What friend?”
“A raven.”
“There’s a dead one back among the trees.”
“A raven? Dead?”
Tonagan nodded.
Nashoba said, “It must have been that human. . . . Can’t you smell him?”
“Yes . . . but . . .”
“Tonagan, he’ll kill you, too. You have to get away fast! The pups need you.”
The two wolves gazed at each other. “Go!” Nashoba cried. “Fast as you can!”
Tonagan turned, halted, looked back, whispered “Good-bye,” and ran off.
Nashoba watched her bounding away among the trees. He stared for a long time, until he could no longer see her.
As Nashoba lay there, he began to feel new energy from the food he’d just eaten. That human killed Merla, he thought. Then he told himself, I have one more kill in me.
Hoping it was true, he closed his eyes and waited.
51
Holding tightly to the sausage, water, and bowl, Casey burst into the clearing. The dog—or was it a wolf?—was lying perfectly still, eyes closed.
The boy halted. He’s dead, he thought, I’m too late, only to see the animal’s sides heave. “Good boy!” he said. “You’re breathing.”