Heep went mad in his fury. He charged the closest wolf, Banja, who had raced over to help Caila. His fangs tore a huge gaping slash in her throat.
The ice tongue was now streaked with red. The other rout wolves had proven no real match for those led in this skirmish by Airmead and Katria. The slink melf had killed eight and driven back the remaining ones. Edme had just delivered a fatal bite to a she-wolf when Banja was attacked. She dashed to Banja’s side, but she knew as soon as she looked that Heep had delivered a mortal blow. Banja’s vital life-pumping artery was ripped open, and blood gurgled from her nose. She tried to speak.
“Don’t speak, Banja,” Edme soothed. “I remember my promise, our promise. Gwynneth and I vowed to take care of Maudie. We will. We will.” She felt a sob swelling in her throat, and her voice cracked as she tried to continue. “I’ll … I’ll raise her as if she were my own — I promise you … I …” Edme could hardly get the words out, she was so wrecked with the shock and the horror of the blood gushing from Banja’s neck. “I’ll never let her forget you. Never ever!”
Banja’s eyes rolled into the back of her head. There were three words she wanted to say. Please, Lupus, she thought. Just these three. “I … trust … you …,” she managed. The three words cracked in her throat like jagged pieces of ice, but they would never melt.
Tears streamed from Edme’s eye. These last words would linger forever in her mind and forever astonish her. “Trust” was the last word anyone had ever expected to hear from Banja when she had been a wolf at the Watch. Giving birth had transformed a once embittered and jealous creature who had never trusted anyone. Edme bent close to the dying wolf’s head, gently lifted Banja’s earflap with her tongue, and whispered, “I know, dear Banja. Gwynneth and I will not fail.” She paused to dash a tear from her eye, then she repeated, “We shall not fail.” But by this time, Banja was gone.
A soft breeze like a whisper blew across the ice, and Edme could feel Banja’s spirit fleeing. She looked down at what was left behind. It’s just a pelt, she thought, a pelt and some bones. Discarded, too heavy to climb the star ladder. “Skaars speed you,” she whispered softly, and the wind seemed to swallow her words.
“IT’S A NICE CLEAR DAY,” GWYNNETH said, blinking into the morning light. “We’ll see them as soon as they round that bend. Zanouche said they wouldn’t be long.”
Gwynneth stood on the bridge and looked toward the ice tongue. Beside her stood Myrr, Maudie, and Abban. Zanouche had reported that when she had swooped in and rescued Abban, the battle was going well. So far no one had been wounded, but they had delivered many wounds to Heep’s rout and at least eight rout wolves, possibly nine, were dead.
“They have no discipline,” sniffed Gwynneth.
“I think I see them! I think I see them,” Myrr said, jumping up and down. They turned their heads to look. The two bears were in the lead, and following in their wake, the heads of the wolves bobbed into focus. Gwynneth squinted. It was hard for her to see quite that far and especially around the rather large heads of the bears. But she thought she spotted Airmead’s bright white head and next to her Katria. They were coming closer. And, yes, there’s Faolan, Edme, Mhairie, Dearlea, and the Whistler, but …
“Where’s Mum?” Maudie’s voice had grown small. “Where is she?”
Gwynneth felt dread clench her gizzard. She extended a wing and patted the little pup. “I’m sure she’ll be coming, dear.” She hated herself, but what else was she supposed to say?
“She’s not there, Gwynneth!” There was a terrible ache in the pup’s voice. They watched as Edme swam furiously ahead.
“Can we go down to meet them?” Myrr asked.
“No, dear, I think it’s best we wait right here,” Gwynneth answered.
“But where’s my mum?” Maudie’s question was broken by a sob. And before Gwynneth could stop her, Maudie raced down the sloping edge that led to the pillar.
Edme saw the pup as soon as she clambered onto the base.
“Where’s my mummy, Auntie Edme?” Maudie asked.
Gwynneth alighted beside her and spread her wing over the pup’s shoulders. She tilted her head and looked at Edme, then shook it slightly as if willing Edme’s next words to be untrue.
“Maudie, dear, your mother …” Her voice broke. She stopped and took a deep breath. “Your mother,” she tried again. “Your mother was a very brave wolf, but she died on the ice tongue.” She paused. “I am so sorry.” Edme nearly bit her own tongue. Her words sounded so weak, so stupid.
Maudie blinked several times. Death was an idea, a notion that was simply too large, too complicated, too unspeakable for her to comprehend. “Oh, no!” Maudie howled. The other wolves had climbed out of the sea with Toby and Burney. They all gathered around the little pup, licking her as she wept the bitterest and saltiest tears ever shed on the Ice Bridge.
“What will I do? What will I do?” she wailed.
Edme crouched down close to her. “Gwynneth and I will take care of you. And Faolan. Faolan and I are now paw fast.”
Gwynneth blinked at this news, but said nothing. It was not as if it was unexpected, really. They all had sensed that Faolan and Edme were linked.
“We will raise you,” Edme continued. “We will comfort you. We will feed you.”
“You have no milk!” Maudie said stubbornly and stomped her foot.
“You were almost weaned, dear,” Gwynneth said.
“No, I wasn’t! Mum still fed me at night. She did! She did!” Maudie turned on Gwynneth. “And what do you know about milk? Owl mums don’t have milk. They feed their babies worms and disgusting stuff. What will I do?” She began to wail again.
“Maudie,” Toby said as he and his brother approached her. “We lost our mum, too.”
“It’s awful,” Burney said. “Just awful.”
“Burney’s right,” Toby said. “There’s nothing worse. B — b — but we’re here and everyone loves us … I … I think almost as much as our mum did.”
“Not almost,” Burney said. “Just as much!”
“We do!” all of the creatures of the brigade chorused.
Maudie began to gulp in between her sobs.
“Listen to me, Maudie,” Edme said gently but firmly. “Here is what you’re going to do.” There was something in the tone of Edme’s voice that made Maudie stop her wailing.
“What?” she said, her voice seething with resentment.
“Tonight when the darkness comes we shall begin the glaffling of the morriah.” The dark, portentous words brought Maudie up short.
“What is that?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“It is our grieving howls for your mother, Banja, a wolf of the Watch and a wolf of great courage. A wolf who was a wonderful mother and most of all a wolf we had learned to trust. Do you understand, dear?”
Maudie nodded slowly. “I think so,” she whispered.
“Each night, beginning tomorrow, we shall wail the morriah, to send her on her way to the star ladder. You know about the star ladder, don’t you?”
“Mum told me it’s where wolves go when they have … have …” She couldn’t finish.
“Yes, that’s it, Maudie. And we shall look for her lochin every night. You know what a lochin is?”
“The spirit mist of my mum.” Maudie gulped. “How will she find her way if there’s no star ladder here?”
All the wolves’ eyes flashed green. Maudie had voiced the dreadful question in all their minds. The star ladder disappeared for the three winter moons and then reappeared with the first spring moon. For wolves of the Beyond, winter was a terrible time to die, for they must wait through the long hard snow moons — that of the First Frost, those of the hunger moons until the Moon of the Cracking Ice, when the first stars in the first rung of the star ladder returned. It was a desolate time in which the spirit was caught in a strange limbo between earth and heaven, between the spot of cleave hwlyn and the Cave of Souls. The homeless spirit was lost and stumbling, not unlike
Beezar the blind wolf. But eventually spring came, and the spirit could ascend.
Now, on the Ice Bridge, betwixt the old world and the new, the only constellation the wolves had seen and recognized was that of Beezar. There had been no trace of the star ladder or Skaarsgard since they could remember. There were new constellations, but they had left the old ones behind them. And if this was so, what would they do for a heaven?
“Faith!” Faolan said, addressing all of their muffled fears. “Don’t you recall that old skreeleen story of the toothless chieftain who had slipped from his pelt and leaped to the first rung of the star ladder? Suddenly, he fell off back to the ground, and became the chieftain from the land of the Long Cold who led the first clan on the Ice March. He came from the Distant Blue, so there must be a star ladder there. We must have faith.”
Faolan crouched down directly in front of Maudie. “The star ladder will be there. If not tonight, another night.”
“But will she be all right?” Maudie tipped her head up. “If the stars are so few?”
“Yes, of course,” Edme said as Gwynneth stroked Maudie’s pelt with the downiest part of her wing.
“But if the star ladder comes back — maybe she could fall off it like the old chieftain did? Maybe?”
“I don’t think so,” Edme replied. “We must howl to help her mount that star ladder. When your mum was a wolf of the Watch, she was a brilliant jumper, really one of the best. On her Watch, she did the most spectacular leaps to guard the volcanoes. So beautiful and effortless.”
“She was as graceful as an owl when she was airborne,” Gwynneth said.
“Really?” Maudie asked.
“Really!” the entire brigade of creatures chorused.
Later that morning, the battle-weary creatures sought out snow snugs to rest just for a while. Maudie fell instantly asleep alongside Myrr, who was tucked in between Faolan and Edme. Gwynneth perched on a small ice outcropping and kept an eye on the pups. Caila, too, slept nearby with Abban pressed next to her. Mhairie and Dearlea together stood the watch.
BY THAT EVENING, THE MOON had thickened into what the wolves called a true moon claw. Beezar was rising and so was the Narwhale. The brigade had traveled only a short distance that day, as they were exhausted from the clash with the rout the previous night. They had reached the place where the bridge forked and had gathered to begin the morriah. No one wanted to say anything, but it was hard not to forget that there were still nine, possibly ten, outclanners somewhere behind them. It was a distraction during a ceremony that was supposed to be one of deep reflection on Banja’s life and her spirit journey on the star ladder.
Maudie stood between Edme and Gwynneth. “How does the ceremony start?” she asked. At just that moment, a note swooped into the night. It blossomed, sustained and beautiful, above them in the sky like a constellation composed of music rather than stars. It seemed to sparkle in the deep blue dome that hung over the Ice Bridge. There was only one throat that could have issued that note — the Whistler’s. This was the summoning call that began every morriah.
Then a more delicate, fragile strain was heard. Dearlea threw back her head and howled the first verse:
Oh, Banja, brave Watch wolf and mother
The ladder waits for you beyond the dawn
In the west in a night to come
You will find the first rung
Oh, Skaarsgard, may you help her
Climb this ladder to the star trail
Stay beside her, and guide her
To the Cave where souls rest
Oh, Banja, your pup is safe
She is cherished. We keep her dear
She will not wander,
By our marrow we’ll protect her
And keep her near
Never forsake her
Let no one break her,
Or ever take her.
Your precious gift —
To her we shall be true
And bring her to the Distant Blue.
As Dearlea concluded, they remained still for a long time, many looking down at their paws, weeping quiet tears. But the Whistler looked at Dearlea. He was mesmerized by not just the loveliness of her voice, but the words she had summoned from some place deep within her. She was a poet and true skreeleen.
He felt an unfamiliar twitch in his marrow. It was not simply a profound admiration, but something more.
Could this be love? he wondered. For an instant, he wondered who could love a wolf with a twisted throat, but then he remembered that his throat had grown whole during the Great Mending. Still, he had been a gnaw wolf and she had been raised in the Carreg Gaer of the MacDuncan clan. There was a world of difference between them. The Whistler knew he should not be thinking of such things at this time. He should be thinking of poor Banja and her orphaned pup, Maudie. He noticed now that while the others had kept their eyes down, Maudie’s were fastened on the sky above.
“What’s that, Edme?” the pup asked.
“What’s what, dear?” Edme looked up and caught the flutter of gold that had caught Maudie’s attention. “Oh my goodness, it’s Bells.”
“Bells?” the Whistler said.
Bells alighted on the ice. Her wings cast a shadow several times larger than their actual size.
“My sorrows, little one,” she addressed Maudie. “From one who has lived fourteen winters, your mother’s early death seems so shocking.”
“Thank you,” Maudie said softly. She was almost afraid to breathe for fear she might blow the beautiful creature away. Maudie crouched down so she could see her more closely. “I never thought anything so tiny could speak,” Maudie said.
“You learn a lot in fourteen years, even though our waking hours are short — summer short, as we say.”
“You are lovely. What are those spots on your back?”
“The marks of the woolly bear caterpillar that I once was.”
“Oh,” Maudie said simply.
“I am here to guide you — all of you. We must begin tonight, for spring is here and summer will follow and the Ice Bridge becomes dangerous. We must take the north fork, the one where you, Edme, and you, Faolan, first found me. Do you have enough strength? I know the day has been long and hard and sad.”
“But you are so tiny,” Maudie said. “If you have enough strength, surely we do. We are so much bigger.” Her eyes opened wide, and all the wolves looked at her in wonder. The simple words that she had spoken to the golden moth had inspired them and sent a pulse through their hearts that quickened their marrow. The animals rose together.
“We must follow the north fork,” Bells repeated. “It’s the safest way.”
The brigade was more than pleased to hear this, because in addition to their worries about Heep and his remaining rout, there was another concern — that of cracking ice. As Dumpette had warned them, with spring, small pieces of the bridge had begun to break off. The breaks were augured by an eerie creaking sound, which scarred the days and seemed to lessen as night came on. But this night, they had heard more than a few, and then splashes as the pieces of ice fell off. Gwynneth, with her superior hearing, was able to sense these creaks almost before they began far down in the ice. To the others, they sounded like creaks, plain and simple. But for Gwynneth, some were rasps, some groans, and sometimes she would report that the ice was “complaining” and guide them around the source of the complaint.
The brigade was getting closer after all these moons, closer to the Distant Blue. Bells flew just above Maudie’s head, and every now and then, Maudie would look up and catch sight of the fluttering gold creature. Sometimes in a buffeting gust, a bit of gold powder would drift down and sprinkle the ice, and once the gold fell on the tip of Maud’s nose.
“What’s this?” Maudie asked.
“Don’t worry,” Bells said. “Just a bit of dust from my wing scales.”
“Can you still fly?”
“Oh, yes, but by the time we get to the bridge’s end, my wings will be bare. Some consider it g
ood luck to be dusted by moth wing scales.”
“I hope so,” Maudie said, although on this day, lucky was the last thing she felt.
The golden moth flickering in the night became a guide for Gwynneth. Like a tiny glowing lantern, Bells offered a bright beacon for her to follow. But on the second night of their travels, Gwynneth became aware of a strange new phenomenon. Owls, particularly Masked Owls, who were members of the Barn Owl family, were renowned for their superior hearing. With unevenly placed ear slits, one slightly higher than the other, an owl like Gwynneth could capture the smallest sounds. And by expanding or contracting the muscles of her facial disk, she could actually guide these sounds directly into her ears, scooping them up from the night. It was possible for Masked Owls to detect the heartbeat of a mouse on a forest floor far below or the sound of lemmings scratching nests beneath the ice. But now Gwynneth realized she was able to hear a sound many times smaller than even the heart of the tiniest mouse. She was hearing the wing beats of this minuscule moth who was half the weight of a dry leaf.
Gwynneth was delighted. For it seemed that as her eyesight had dwindled, her hearing had sharpened. That was how she picked up the sounds of the cracking ice, and now she could hear snow melting! That would have seemed impossible three moons ago. Still, Gwynneth was glad that her eyesight had not deteriorated any further. She was not entirely blind, thank Glaux! With her newly sharpened hearing, she was navigating better than she had ever hoped.
For five nights, the wolves traveled hard, resting for only the shortest periods of time. During the day, the Distant Blue had become more distinct. The eagles flew out on regular surveillance flights to scour the bridge for any sign of Heep and the remnants of his rout, but so far they had seen none. It was possible that the Ice Bridge had become so soft that the rout could quickly dig itself in and hide at the first sign of the eagles. It was unnerving to see no sign of them.