Rags himself had no such dreams of becoming a chieftain. His only hope was to survive. He thought of this new land as a place to reinvent himself. The longer he had been away from the rout, from the Outermost, the easier it was to retrieve some of his first memories. He had been the youngest of the last litter of his mother, who was quite elderly when she gave birth. All of the litter had died, except for Rags. His mother was not a particularly warm wolf. She was in fact rather vain and hardly paid any attention to him. One day, she announced that she had found a second Milk Giver for him. She was too busy to contend with nursing a young one. “My days of running a whelping den are over!” she had announced, and set off with a handsome black wolf who appeared to be much younger than she. But the second Milk Giver complained about him drinking too much milk and not leaving enough for her own pups. So again he was shoved out of the whelping den.
Rags was not sure when he had first noticed the strange-looking wolf following him. It was a she-wolf, and to call her hideous would not have been an overstatement. She was as ugly as his own mother had been beautiful. Her mangy pelt was thick with burrs, and the fur stuck out every which way, as if caught in a perpetual gale. She was rough to look at from afar, but up close she was worse. She had one eye that skittered about as if it might bounce out of its socket at any moment. And when Rags dared to look more closely, he could see that the other eye was a different color. Nevertheless, she seemed concerned about this motherless pup, and when Rags was cast out by his second Milk Giver, she set about to find him a third. And she did. It was a gray wolf who had been cast out from her clan for giving birth to a malcadh. The malcadh had been taken from her and put on a tummfraw to die as was decreed by wolf law. But the she-wolf’s breasts were still heavy with milk.
“Oh, Sark,” the grieving mother sobbed. “I’ll try. I’ll try.”
“You’ll do fine. I know he’s not yours, but the milk will bind you to each other.”
“I didn’t even get to name her before the Obea took her.”
“That’s sometimes better, dear. But this one you can name. Look. He’s a strong little fellow. What might you call him? Let’s think of a name.”
“Oh, I can’t,” the she-wolf moaned.
“I’ll help you. Now, let’s think. You come from the MacNabs, don’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“There was a wonderful skreeleen down there — oh, it was many years ago — but he told these stories about a wolf, a handsome fellow called Ragmore. I believe he had distinguished himself in a battle where wolves of the Beyond had gone to the northern kingdoms to help the owls. Some time ago. But he was brave and valiant and there’s even a flower up there that blooms on the edges of avalanches that they call Ragbloom in his honor. They used to sing a song about it, but I can’t recall it now.”
“That does sound like a nice name, a lovely story. Ragmore — it’s a very nice name,” the she-wolf said.
Little did any of them realize that the newly named Rags and his third Milk Giver would only have the briefest of time together. For it was just hours after the disreputable-looking but kind wolf had left and Rags, full of milk, nestled against the belly of his third Milk Giver that he heard a scuffling sound outside. A strong odor penetrated the den. Suddenly, a claw sliced through the darkness. His Milk Giver screeched, and Rags leaped from her belly. Blood flew through the air. Rags tore out of the den and slid into a rocky crevice to watch in horror as an animal much larger than his Milk Giver emerged from the den, dragging her body out. Her throat had been slashed, and her dangling head was attached to the rest of her body by only a few bloody tendons.
The murderer caught sight of him. With milk still wet on his muzzle, the pup knew he would now die. He had suckled from his last Milk Giver. But the horrible creature, which he would later learn was a wolverine, looked at him and merely yawned. It was as if Rags was too small, too insignificant to even bother to kill.
Rags, full of milk and full of fear, began running. He ran and ran, fueled by those deep draughts of milk he had been drinking for the better part of a day. He had been fed, and he had been named. Perhaps that was enough. For the next several nights, he hid out in the tiniest dens, lodges, and rock notches he could find, places where nothing as large as that horrible creature could reach. It was spring. The weather was fine. There was no milk, but quite honestly, he had given up on milk and Milk Givers. He quickly learned how to kill the smallest creatures, such as fox kits, when their mums were absent from the dens, or take the eggs from unguarded ground nests of birds like ptarmigan. If he had to, he killed the mothers. Finally, he arrived in the Outermost. Milk was but a dim memory. The fur on his muzzle was now stiff with blood. He vowed never to think of Milk Givers or mothers again.
Sometimes, however, he thought of that disheveled, disreputable-looking wolf. His third Milk Giver had called her either ma’am or Sark, a strange name. Of course, once he got to the Outermost, the vision of her raggedy pelt swirling with burrs did not seem so odd. None of the outclanners were groomed. They always appeared wild and savage, and the stink of blood was high on them since there was scarcely a shallow creek to bathe in and they were so fearful of water.
But, nevertheless, despite her unkempt ways, the Sark had differed in a very significant way from the outclanners. She was kind and spoke the language of wolves so beautifully. The outclanners hardly spoke at all. Words seemed as foreign to them as water was to the Outermost. Rags had never really thought about this until now. Their language was rough, and it was always about the present, never about the past, and they did not have the kinds of minds that could plan for the future. This trek was the perfect example. When Faolan and his followers departed for the Frozen Sea, Heep and his rout could go straight, for they had the course of the bridge to follow. But they were not really that good at anticipating, planning, or strategizing like the wolves of the Beyond with their hunting byrrgises and intricate schemes for bringing down big game like elk and moose.
Whatever happened to the Sark? Rags thought wistfully now of the strange she-wolf. She was a nice creature, despite her hideous appearance. Then he thought of his first Milk Giver, who was so beautiful but whose milk might as well have been poison. Was there any hope for one like himself? Rags wondered. Any hope at all? Perhaps in this new land, this nameless land, there could be.
SO THE WOLVES OF THE BEYOND and the bear cubs, along with the owl and the two eagles, did abide as Abban had counseled. Old Tooth guided them from floe to floe. The Whistler, Caila, Mhairie, and Dearlea soon were making short leaps. But Faolan, Edme, and Banja, all veterans of the Watch, would take the floes two or three at a time. In scraps of moonlight, their shadows reflected on the unusually calm waters of the sea, which appeared almost glassy. Faolan, arcing high into the air on his leaps, saw the constellation of Beezar mirrored on the water’s surface. The star Kilyric blazed in the stumbling paw. I must name the others, Faolan thought. The other stars in Beezar’s foot and those of the new constellation of the Narwhale. For he realized in the instant between leaping and landing that to be a namer of things was as important as being a navigator, a star wolf. They were going to a world that was new to his friends but old to him. And there must be names. Old Wolf was a lovely language, but the old needed the new in order to truly come alive. It was through words that things became real. Language could draw minds into a compact with reality.
At the very same moment that Faolan was thinking about words, so was another wolf. Dearlea was surprised at her own capacity to leap. She couldn’t take the ice floes two at a time like Faolan, and for the ones that spanned a greater distance, she swam and was often gently nudged along by Old Tooth or one of the pearl whales, who watched over them with all the vigilance and concern of mums on their pups’ first ventures out of the whelping den.
The narwhales were fairly silent, but these pearl whales made a great number of noises as they traveled. There might be a rush of clicks followed by a resounding clang reminiscent of a Rogue smit
h’s hammer striking metal and then a series of whistles. And although Dearlea did not understand their language and the whales could not speak to her, she felt as if they were communicating. She was wrapped in their songs and wondered if whales also had skreeleens. Sometimes she could almost grasp the meaning of their clicks. She even sensed that the other animals in their brigade felt the sea creatures’ songs as well. Sometimes the narwhales bellowed low, lovely phrases into the night, as if they were cheering when one of the wolves would make a daring leap or one where their reflections shimmered on the still dark waters of the sea. Dearlea was determined to remember every moment of their adventure abroad on the breaking ice of the Frozen Sea.
I’ll tell you a story you might never believe
It happened one night on a vast frozen sea
Where the water meets ice
In a gentle wind’s lee
We jumped in the darkness
Beneath sparkling stars
From floe to floe we leaped
Guided by tusks of the nars.
Sometimes we would swim
And then I would hear
The songs of the pearl whales
As they began to appear
I did not know a word that they said
But the melody did wind
Through my head.
Their songs seemed to tell
Something deeply true
It matters not your kind
You can be born anew
The wolf that never leaped
The pup that never swam
Can dare what they never
Dreamed on the land!
These creatures from the deep
Gave courage we never knew
But every song they sang
We felt it so true.
Though their songs were made of words
We did not ever know
They gave us the gall grot
To leap from floe to floe.
ANY TEMPTATION TO GET BACK to the bridge diminished one night as they settled on a floe when the moon was exceptionally bright. They were startled to see long shadows sliding across the bridge.
“It’s Heep!” Caila had shrieked. “That tail! That cursed tail!”
Indeed, the immense shadow of a wolf’s tail swept across the bright moonlit ice of the bridge. And so they stayed out for another several nights and made good progress. Zanouche and Eelon assured them that Heep’s rout had encountered several very tough pressure ridges and was now quite far behind. But their time on the open sea was growing short as the distance between the floes had increased and the ice floes began to shrink.
“Faolan,” Edme said one morning as they rose from a floe that was barely large enough for the two of them.
“I know. I know. We have to get back to the bridge,” he responded quickly.
Edme was relieved that she did not have to say anything more. The moment the decision was made, Old Tooth appeared. He seemed to sense exactly what had to be done. He began to swim through a new lead that had formed just before the dawn. The floes were small, unable to support more than a single wolf at a time, but the passage provided the most direct route back to the bridge. They all had one thought in their minds — to outpace, outdistance, to get as far as they could from Heep. He could not follow their trail, for their tracks had vanished from the bridge a half moon before.
But Faolan knew that no matter what, Heep was a survivor. The madness in his marrow, his taste for revenge, was what nourished him. Zanouche had disclosed the wild rants she had witnessed from Heep on the crest of the pressure ridge.
“When I think of it now, it still gives me tremors,” Zanouche said.
“What did he say exactly?”
“Exactly?”
Faolan nodded.
Zanouche sighed. “He said, I’ll get her back. I’ll get him back, and when I do — Lupus, when I do — I’ll kill her before that pup’s eyes. That will show him.”
There was a long silence after Zanouche had finished.
“We care about you, Faolan,” Eelon said. He swung his magnificent white head around. The gaze from his small, hard eyes seemed to penetrate deep into Faolan’s marrow. “We care about all of you,” he repeated.
“We always found you wolves fascinating, but we are shy birds. Fierce but shy. However, over these moons, we have felt a bond grow between us,” Zanouche added.
“Yes indeed — a bond,” Edme echoed. “That’s so true.”
“We had often flown over the Outermost. We’ve seen this yellow wolf. Heep is like a disease.”
“He’s dreadful enough! I’ll tell you that,” Edme barked. Heep had a well of hatred in him that was as venomous as the poison of the foaming-mouth disease.
Faolan turned to her. “Try not to be anxious, Edme. By my star calculations, I think we shall be nearing the end of the bridge soon. We cannot be that far from the Distant Blue.”
She didn’t want Faolan to be consumed with worry about her. He had others to care about. More important things to worry about. Edme gave a soft chuckle to distract him.
“Do you suppose that when we get nearer, we can stop calling it the Distant Blue? Perhaps we could call it the Near Blue.”
“Maybe we’ll have to come up with a completely new name.”
“I suppose that would be practical, but I rather like the sound of the Distant Blue. It’s a bit poetic, don’t you think?”
“It is,” he agreed.
“Does the meaning always have to match the reality of a thing?”
“I’m not sure.” Faolan tipped his head to one side and thought. He had supposed if the meaning and the reality of a thing were always identical, matched up precisely, it might not allow for poetry, for the music of language. The skreeleens told stories, legends that they had certainly embellished over the years, yet the truth of them seemed to shine through.
Almost as soon as they stepped onto the bridge, they knew something had changed in the texture of the ice.
Ice rot! The words exploded in both Faolan’s and Edme’s brains as the surface crumbled wetly under their paws. On the river in the Beyond, they had experienced this as the time of the spring moons drew closer, when they were winter thin and dared to look for fish. But there it was not so frightening. The river was not nearly as deep as the Frozen Sea, and the shores not too distant. If they did break through, they could clamber out onto a nearby bank. The ice holes they fished were never far from shore at that time of year.
The moon that brought the unstable ice had been called the Moon of the Cracking Ice. It was a time that was always welcomed in the Beyond with great joy, for it signaled the end of the hunger moons. There were festivals to celebrate the return of the herds. It meant that the byrrgises would start forming up to follow the meat trail.
The Cracking Ice Moon was the very first of the spring moons. The second was the Moon of the Singing Grass and the third was the Moon of the New Antlers. But it had been more than two years since they had seen any of those moons, felt the slightest warm breeze riffle their pelts. They had instead entered a cycle of endless hunger moons.
The irony of their situation on this Ice Bridge struck them. For so many years, they had yearned for spring, and now it might be their destruction. If the bridge collapsed and the ice floes shrank to the size of small ice boulders, what would they do? There was no recourse. They were still hundreds of leagues from the shores of the Distant Blue.
Spring at last! What a cruel joke it was. For here, spring signaled doom.
“You don’t know,” Banja said as she came up to them. “There could be another freeze.”
The Whistler was beside her. He was pawing the surface ice. “A paw’s length down it seems quite solid,” he said. “I say we keep going as fast and as steadily as we can.”
“Will the pups be able to keep up?” Edme asked.
“I can carry Maudie,” Banja said. “She’s such a tiny thing.”
Toby and Burney suddenly appeared. “We’re big,” Tob
y said. “Look how big we’ve grown.” He stood up and pumped his forepaws into the air. “It’s nothing for us to carry pups on our backs, or by our mouths. The same way our mother carried us.”
Faolan’s marrow suddenly stirred. He remembered so clearly his first spring. Thunderheart had often grabbed him by the nape of his neck with her mouth and carried him about. His feet would dangle just above the ground. When he had grown a bit bigger, he had begun riding on her shoulders. It had given him a wonderful view of the world.
“Yes, we can do this. We’ll proceed at press-paw speed,” Faolan said.
“We’ll cut our sleep by half,” Edme spoke up for the first time. They looked at her, somewhat surprised.
“You really think so, Edme? You think we can do that?”
“Yes. As long as food is not halved, we’ll have the energy. There are lemmings, and the puffins keep bringing us capelin.”
“And the cod, my God, the cod!” Abban burst out.
“What is he talking about?” Dearlea asked.
The pup scampered off to the base of one of the ice pillars. They watched as one of the pearl whales swam up to where the pup stood and slapped a large speckled gray-green fish at his feet. The fish was so large that Abban could hardly handle it by himself, and the Whistler ran out to meet him. “I’ll help with that, Abban. What a fine pup you are!”
The fish tasted very different from the small ones that the puffins brought them. Not as salty but much meatier, with firmer flesh.