He went forward a few steps.
Hearing the voice, Nashoba opened his eyes and lifted his snout. His staring eyes, dark and deep, brought Casey to a sudden stop. His dad’s words, I wouldn’t mess with a wolf, popped into his head.
If he’s a wolf, the boy told himself, a wounded wolf, he might be dangerous. He studied Nashoba. “You a wolf?” he called, asking himself as much as Nashoba.
Nashoba’s eyes, giving no hint as to his thoughts, held steady.
What’s he doing? Casey wondered. Is he going to attack me?
Nashoba, keeping his eyes on the boy, told himself, Wait until he’s closer. Wait.
Casey, uncertain what to do, remained in place, heart hammering. “You look in a bad way, fella,” he said.
Nashoba made no response.
Casey went forward two tentative steps. “You’re going to be okay,” he said, trying to sound reassuring. “I’ve got food.” He held it up.
Nashoba, eyes unblinking, remained motionless.
“Is it okay that I help you?” asked Casey, wishing the animal would give some hint as to what he might do. He doesn’t seem dangerous, Casey told himself.
There was no movement from Nashoba.
“Just want to be your friend,” Casey offered.
He took another step forward, even as he prepared to jump back if the wolf did anything threatening.
Nashoba remained still, eyes steady.
Closer now, Casey stretched out his hand—it was trembling slightly—with the sausages.
Nashoba, intent on the boy’s face, told himself to be patient. Wait until he’s nearer, until he’s nearer . . .
Crouching, Casey tossed the meat so it landed in front of Nashoba’s nose.
Though Nashoba understood he was being offered food, he did not look at it. Instead he kept his eyes fixed on the boy, telling himself, He killed Merla.
“Go on, big boy,” Casey urged. “Eat it. It’s good for you.”
The smell of food was too enticing. After a few moments Nashoba reached forward, took the sausage into his mouth, and swallowed it quickly.
“Atta boy!” cried Casey, his tension easing. “Want some water?” He edged nearer. On his knees in the thin snow, he carefully set the bowl down where the sausages had been. He emptied the bottled water into it—even tipped the bowl up slightly. That done, he shuffled back.
Nashoba hesitated, then lapped the water.
“Good, isn’t it, boy?” said Casey. Remaining on his knees, he said, “Still hungry, fella? Thirsty? Should I get some more?”
Nashoba stared, trying to make sense of the human. Was he being kind—like Merla—or was he going to kill him?
Casey took the tube of ointment out of his back pocket and held it up. “If you’d let me put some of this stuff on your paw, big guy, it might help.” He unscrewed the cap and held it up as if the wolf might make sense of it.
When the wolf made no response, Casey, feeling increasingly sure of himself, shuffled forward on his knees. He stretched toward Nashoba’s paw. Nashoba kept his eyes on the human’s face.
Casey squeezed the tube until a thick blob of yellow ointment plopped down onto the wound. He sat back. “Okay?” he asked.
The wolf gave no reaction.
Leaning in, Casey put out his fingers and began to smear it about the wound.
That was when Nashoba lurched forward and bit into Casey’s hand.
“Hey!” Casey cried, and tried to pull back.
Nashoba clamped down tighter.
“Let me go!” cried the frightened boy, unable to pull away. Awkwardly, he tried to get his feet under himself to gain leverage. “You’re hurting me!” he screamed. “Let me go!”
Nashoba had no understanding of what the human was saying. It sounded like pleading. He didn’t care. But as he held on to the human’s hand, he suddenly recalled how his pups had mouthed him when they begged for food and life.
It was as if he, Nashoba, had become young, and this human was old. And when he looked into the boy’s face, he saw fright, the kind of fright he had recently felt.
I can’t kill him, he told himself. And he opened his mouth and let the boy go.
Casey snatched back his hand, cupped it in his other hand, and examined it. His skin was barely broken. He sucked on a spot of blood and looked reproachfully at the animal. “Why’d you do that?” he cried, tears coming from hurt and shock. “I was just trying to help you!”
Nashoba put his head down between his paws but continued to stare at the boy.
Casey’s hurt subsided. “My fault,” he said. “Guess that stuff stung a bit. Sorry. Just trying to help.” He smeared his tears while pushing wet hair away from his face. All the while, he continued to study Nashoba. “You know what?” he said. “You have really sad eyes.”
Clumsily, the boy got to his feet. “Want me to get more food?”
Nashoba made no response.
“Be right back,” said Casey, and he started to run.
52
Nashoba lay quietly. I am old, he thought. I can’t kill.
53
Home again, Casey rummaged in the fridge. This time he found bacon, a couple of hamburger patties, three pizza slices wrapped in aluminum foil, and another bottle of water.
He raced back to Nashoba. Once there, he dumped all the food in front of the animal, then stood in front of him while Nashoba devoured everything. He offered more water, too, which Nashoba drank.
“You want more?” Casey asked. Not getting any more answers than before, he said. “I’ll get some.” He turned toward home. As he stepped from among the trees, he saw his father’s truck in the driveway.
54
Nashoba tried to make sense of all that had happened: Why had the human fed him? He had never heard of such a thing. Was it because he was young? Would the human come back? Would he bring more food? Or would he, this time, kill him? Was this human really the one who killed Merla? No, he couldn’t be. He was kind.
Then who killed the raven?
He didn’t know.
He wished he understood humans.
What Nashoba did know was that with all the food he had eaten, his strength was returning. Even his paw hurt less.
Working to stand up, he was much more successful. No longer shaky, or dizzy, he took a few tentative steps. Though there was still pain, he could tolerate it better. He could walk.
Nashoba wished he had not told Tonagan to run off. She would tell the pack what he had said about the human, and they would move away fast. He would never be able to catch up with her or his wolves again.
He stood quietly, gathering strength. The rain was starting to taper off. Mist drifted through the trees. I can move, Nashoba told himself. Even so, he didn’t. He was trying to decide if he should wait for the human to come back. Maybe he, like Merla, could be a friend.
55
When Casey walked into the house, his dad greeted him. “Hey there. Have a good walk?”
“Guess what, Dad?”
“What’s that?”
“I found that wolf.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The one Mr. Souza talked about. It’s true!” As fast as he could, he told his dad what had happened.
When he was done, Casey said, “You don’t believe me, do you? Look.” He held out his hand. The teeth marks were still visible.
“Looks to me like you lost two arrows, maybe shot a raven—which was dumb as well as lucky—and you came too close to a hurt animal. And he bit you. You’re lucky he didn’t break your hand.”
“It’s a wolf, Dad. I’m sure it is.”
“Can you show me?”
“Sure.”
“Let’s go.”
They left the house. The rain had stopped. In its place, gray mist moved through the air. Casey turned toward the woods, but his dad was heading for the garage.
“Where you going?” Casey called.
“A hurt dog—which you say is a wolf—I’m getting
my gun.”
“Dad, you don’t need it! He won’t hurt you. He’s nice.”
“I’m sorry. The kindest thing you can do is to put a wounded dog out of its misery.”
“Dad . . . !”
“Let me be the judge. Case, you haven’t been very wise, have you? Okay, you’re a teenager, but come on, you’ve acted like a little kid.” He saw his father enter the garage.
“Dad,” he called, “I may have killed a raven, but I saved that wolf!”
As he waited for his father, he looked around and saw the arrow he had first shot. It was there, exposed by melting snow. A wave of relief washed through Casey. He had not shot the wolf.
His dad returned with his .223 rifle.
“Dad, look! I found that arrow. It never reached the woods. It wasn’t me who got the wolf.”
“Fine,” said his father. “Show me the dog.”
Reluctantly, Casey led the way into the woods. His father, rifle in hand, walked by his side. They trudged silently through trees. The air was cloudy, shrouding everything, taking away all forms. It was as if the world had begun to change shape, to melt. When Casey glanced back, he could no longer see where he had come from. He paused, checked to find his bearings, walked on, and found the clearing
Nashoba was not there.
“He was right here,” Casey insisted.
“You sure this is the spot?” his dad asked.
“He was. Look, paw prints. And over here: blood.”
“Okay. Then where is he?”
Casey, relieved, said, “I have no idea.”
“Where’s the raven?”
“Over there.”
They walked some fifteen more yards, when Casey spied an arrow. He ran and picked it up. There was blood on it. But there was no raven.
He looked up at his dad. “Maybe I only wounded it,” he said, holding up the arrow.
“You sure you weren’t just playing your game?”
“They were real, Dad!” cried Casey.
“Well, whatever,” said his dad. “Let’s go home.”
Casey followed his father, trying to make sense of what had happened.
56
“Want to set up a target?” his father asked as they approached the house. “Start practicing with the bow?”
“Just need to check something,” said Casey.
He hurried to his room and turned on his computer. Bowhunter came on, filling the screen with its jungle scene: green vines, immense flowers, tall grasses, and dangling snakes. He waited for half an hour. No wolf appeared. No raven.
Where, Casey wondered, did the raven and wolf go?
He heard his dad call, “Case? We going to practice?”
Casey turned off the computer and went out. It was the last time he looked at that game.
57
Nashoba walked slowly among the damp trees, up and out of the valley. Though limping, he moved steadily into higher country, away from the human. His thick fur kept him from feeling the rain or the mist.
When he was far above, he paused and looked back. A white cloud lay cupped in the valley below, hiding it from view. Where Nashoba stood, there was still snow, but it was melting. In the bare spots, yellow snow lilies had sprung up, as if the rays of the sun had come not from above but from below.
As Nashoba remained in place, a swarm of smells swept up from the valley. There was the scent of rain and the scent of growing grasses, budding bushes, new mushrooms, and decaying wood. He sniffed the scent of a foul porcupine plodding about somewhere. He noted the fragrance of pinecones being nibbled by a black squirrel in a high lodgepole pine.
He heard mice moving underground. He heard a black bear lumbering among the trees announcing he had awoken from a long winter’s rest. He heard the sound of running water. A rising breeze caused the sap-thin trees to creak and crack, as if chilly limbs were stretching.
When he looked up into the clear mountain sky, he saw flitting chickadees, a pair of gray pigeons, and a fat and furry bumblebee. Canada geese were flying in a V formation toward the north, a welcome sign that spring was coming.
Highest of all, a flight of eight ravens—their great black wings beating slowly—flew by. Nashoba stared. Was Merla there? He lifted his head and howled, once, twice, three times. No answer came.
The birds vanished.
Remembering what the raven had said—Wise creatures live by questions—Nashoba asked first, Where shall I go?
He could almost hear Merla saying, You have already come to where you shall go.
But what shall I be?
What you already are, an old wolf.
A question? An answer?
Nashoba went on, limping, but alive.
AVI is the author of more than seventy books for children and young adults, including the 2003 Newbery Medal winner, Crispin: The Cross of Lead, and most recently Catch You Later, Traitor. He has won two Newbery Honors and many other awards for his fiction. He lives with his wife in Clark, Colorado. Visit him at Avi-Writer.com.
BRIAN FLOCA has illustrated Avi’s popular Poppy series as well as Avi’s graphic novel City of Light, City of Dark. Brian’s own books include Locomotive, winner of the Caldecott Medal and a New York Times Best Illustrated Children’s Book; Moonshot: The Flight of Apollo 11; and Lightship. You can visit him online at brianfloca.com.
A RICHARD JACKSON BOOK
ATHENEUM BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS
SIMON & SCHUSTER | NEW YORK
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OTHER SHORT NOVELS BY AVI
The Barn
Blue Heron
The Christmas Rat
Hard Gold: The Colorado Gold Rush of 1859
Iron Thunder: The Battle Between the Monitor & the Merimac
Night Journeys
A Place Called Ugly
The Secret School
Something Upstairs
Sometimes I Think I Hear My Name
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ATHENEUM BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS | An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division | 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020 | www.SimonandSchuster.com | This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. | Text copyright © 2015 by Avi | Illustrations copyright © 2015 by Brian Floca | Text material from Archery: Steps to Success, Third Edition by Kathleen M. Haywood and Catherine F. Lewis, and Archery Fundamentals by Douglas Engh, reprinted with permission from Human Kinetics, Inc. | All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. | ATHENEUM BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc. | Atheneum logo is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc. | For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or
[email protected]. | The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com. | The illustrations for this book are rendered in pencil. | The text for this book is set in Chaparral Pro. | Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data | Avi, 1937– | Old wolf / Avi ; illustrated by Brian Floca. — First edition. | pages cm | “A Rich
ard Jackson book.” | Summary: “A wolf and bird must fight the starving time and find food, while a human boy learns to hunt.”—Provided by publisher. | ISBN 978-1-4424-9921-8 (hardcover) | ISBN 978-1-4424-9924-9 (eBook) | 1. Wolves—Juvenile fiction. [1. Wolves—Fiction. 2. Ravens—Fiction. 3. Friendship—Fiction. 4. Hunting—Fiction.] I. Floca, Brian, illustrator. II. Title. | PZ10.3.A965Ol 2015 | [Fic]—dc23 | 2014003381
Avi, Old Wolf
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