There were gasps and strangled little mewlings, as if a milk pup had been deprived of a teat. For though violence streamed through the MacHeaths’ blood, cowardice was lodged deep in their marrow. Edme stepped closer to the raghnaid members. What a joke they were, compared to the raghnaids of clans such as the MacDuncans, the MacNabs, or the MacAnguses.
“I will go to the Ring of Sacred Volcanoes, but I shall go not as a member of the MacHeath clan — no, I shall go as a free runner. I reject you. I deny you, I refuse and repudiate you as my clan.”
Confusion swam in Dunbar MacHeath’s eyes, his jaw hung open in disbelief, and threads of saliva, stained deep magenta from the Litha grog, fell to the floor of the gadderheal. Edme turned and left before the MacHeath wolves could grasp what she had said. By the time her words sunk in, Edme was gone.
The world swirled with snow. A blizzard! A blizzard on Litha Eve and the beginning of the summer moons!
A clamor broke out in the gadderheal.
“Kill her!” someone howled.
“Tear out her other eye!” said another.
“No, rip out her tongue so she can’t speak!”
Dunbar MacHeath barked the command for silence. He had regained his wits and now assumed a baleful and terrifying demeanor. Every hair in his pelt bristled until he looked twice his normal size.
“Listen to me, wolves of the MacHeath clan. Listen to your chieftain. There will be no killing” — Dunbar paused dramatically and eyed his sublieutenants — “until I say so.” Again he paused. “But when the time comes, there is going to be something worse than death for the traitorous wolf Edme. Far worse than mere murder!”
“What’s worse than murder?”
“We shall watch her carefully.”
The lieutenants exchanged uncertain glances, as if to say, Watching her? That’s worse than killing? For in their small minds, pinched by violence, it was hard to imagine alternatives that did not involve bloodletting.
The chieftain continued, “We shall watch her and find her weakness, and when we do, then the punishment will begin.”
The chieftain shook with fury. He had waited too long for the MacHeaths to have a member of the clan on the Sacred Watch. But why stop there? A new idea began to brew in Dunbar’s quickly sobering brain. The chieftain felt a shiver of excitement pass through the assembled wolves. He waited and let several seconds pass. If there was one talent that Dunbar MacHeath possessed, it was the gift of manipulation. He spoke his next words so quietly that every wolf had to strain to hear them.
“My friends, you might just be looking at the next Fengo.”
There was a collective gasp followed by a long hush.
CHAPTER SIX
THE OBEA SPEAKS
WITHIN THE WHITENESS OF THE swirling blizzard was an even brighter patch at the center of the spinning frenzy of snow. The Obea had followed Edme into the storm. She now began to howl, “Stop, Edme. Stop! It’s me, Airmead!”
The very name split the fury of the storm. Seldom was an Obea’s name spoken out loud, and it was unthinkable that an Obea would refer to herself by her given name. If gnaw wolves were the lowest-ranked wolves in a clan and the objects of physical and verbal abuse, Obeas were wolves of no rank at all. They were barren, and existed in a social purgatory that was beneath the contempt of any wolf in the clan, almost as if the Obeas were invisible. Airmead had heard that in other clans this purgatory was not as harsh, although she-wolves who were pregnant shied away from them as if Obeas could hex their unborn pups.
The time had come for Airmead to explain the dark, dirty secret of the MacHeath clan, whispered about for so many years. Airmead felt as if something deep inside herself had cracked open. And oddly enough, it felt good.
When Edme heard the Obea’s name ring out, she stopped short, spreading her toes wide so she would not sink into the snow, which was piling up fast. Airmead was soon beside her.
“Follow me,” Airmead said. “We’ll dig a snow pit, though I think the blizzard is stopping.”
Dig a snow pit — with the Obea? Edme thought. When in the history of the Beyond had a malcadh and an Obea ever spoken to each other? Share a snow pit with the very wolf whose task was to take malcadhs to their tummfraws to die? It was beyond astonishing to Edme. “What is it?” Edme demanded. “What do you want from me?”
“You need to hear the truth.”
“I know the truth. I know what they did to me. I know that you never took me to that tummfraw.”
“In all the time that I have been the MacHeath Obea, I have never taken any wolf pup to a tummfraw.”
“What? Never?” Edme was astounded.
“Never!”
Almost as soon as they had settled into the snow pit, the blizzard ceased and the sun began to shine. By the time Airmead finished her story, large patches of bare ground had appeared from under the melting snow. “So you see, it’s a paradox that the most depraved of all the clans has never produced an actual malcadh. It’s as if their spirits have been deformed rather than their bodies. In a manner, that is much worse than any physical flaw.” The Obea heaved a great sigh and shut her eyes tightly, as if she could not bear to say what was coming next. “When I found out I was barren, I was relieved. I didn’t want to pass on the bad blood of the clan.”
“But look at the MacNamara clan,” said Edme. “They’ve produced fine wolves and they were founded by MacHeaths.”
“Yes, almost a thousand years ago. The first Namara was a MacHeath wolf named Hordweard. Even to this day, some she-wolves of the MacHeath clan find their way to the MacNamara clan. The name Hordweard, of course, is cursed within our clan.”
“It’s not my clan anymore,” Edme said stubbornly. “Anyway, I never heard the name Hordweard.”
“Well, it’s a forbidden word. But it’s odd about things like that; the more forbidden, the more attractive they become. Throughout the centuries, there’s been a secret Hordweard Society within the MacHeath clan. Sometimes it dies out for generations, but then it reappears and a few she-wolves strong of spirit leave and seek the MacNamara clan.”
By this time, their snow pit had become a puddle. “Isn’t this weather odd?” said Airmead. “It was very clever of you to play on the clan’s superstitions about such things. It might divert their anger for a while.”
“You mean about my rejection of the clan.”
“Yes. All they’ve ever wanted is representation at the Watch, you know.”
“I didn’t want to tell them who told me about my eye.”
“They’ll find out. They always do.”
“What will they do if they find out what you told me?” Edme asked.
“It won’t matter.”
“Why not?”
“I’ll be gone.” Airmead hesitated but then continued, “I think I’m one of the last members of the Hordweard Society. And I plan to seek out the MacNamara clan. I’ve had it with the MacHeaths. It took me a while to get my courage up to leave, because if they find out, they’ll set a byrrgis on me and kill me. Tear me apart.”
“Were there other members before you?”
“One.”
“Who was it?” Edme asked.
Airmead’s eyes were such a green that they were clear, almost translucent. She looked at Edme, and her jaw began to tremble.
“Who?” Edme pressed.
“Your mother, Edme.”
Edme felt a dizzying nausea swirl up within her. She shut her eyes.
Airmead continued, “Your mother’s name was Akira. She left when they tore your eye out.”
“Did she make it to the MacNamara clan?”
Airmead’s head dropped and she shook it sadly. “She was brave, Edme. Oh, my, she was brave. That scar that runs across the chieftain’s face down to his neck?”
Edme nodded.
“That was what she did to him. She was going for his eye as he had gone for yours.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
TATTERS
FAOLAN GASPED. “YOUR MOTHER
gave Dunbar MacHeath his scar?” Edme nodded at him. They had met up again near the marsh where they’d seen the frost-covered spiderweb. Faolan was dizzy with what Edme had told him. The false tummfraw. Her maiming. Her mother’s courage and Edme’s own courage in rejecting her clan.
“There was one more thing I forgot to tell you,” Edme said.
More! Faolan thought. What more could there be?
“I never realized how truly superstitious the MacHeaths are. But when it started to snow, I took a chance because they were all pretty tipsy on Litha juice and I thought it might play to my advantage. I wanted them confused.”
“So what did you do?”
“I commented on the strange weather for this moon. I said not since the Ice March out of the Long Cold had there been snow in this moon.”
Faolan tipped his head to one side. “You did?” An odd light seemed to glimmer deep within his eyes. He rubbed his splayed paw into the ground.
“Yes. Do you think that was wrong?” Edme asked, suddenly nervous.
“No, no, not at all.”
But as Edme looked at Faolan, it seemed as if he had withdrawn to some distant, unreachable place. Something within Faolan stirred like the tatters of a long-forgotten dream.
“But what will the Fengo say?” Edme asked.
“About what?” Faolan blinked. He snapped back to his old self, as if he had just taken a wander and then slipped into his own pelt once again.
“Will he reject me because I am not a true gnaw wolf?”
“But you won — you proved yourself at the gaddergnaw. You are as true as any gnaw wolf, Edme.”
“Perhaps he will think that accepting me will encourage others to maim pups.”
“Never!” Faolan was shocked. “No clan is as savage as the MacHeaths. Don’t say it. Do not even think it. Now come on; we have to get on our way.”
Edme felt that she should have asked Faolan more about his tummfraw, but what seemed almost more important to Faolan was the return to the place where Thunderheart had first found him. Edme was sure the drumlyn Faolan had built to Thunderheart was beautiful, for no wolf carved bones as magnificently as Faolan did. She supposed her own mother’s bones were long gone. It would have been nice, though, to make such a drumlyn for Akira.
Akira. She said the name softly in her head. It was a lovely sound and kept running through Edme’s mind as the two wolves made their way toward the Ring of Sacred Volcanoes.
They had been traveling east, skirting the far edges of a territory in which the MacHeaths often hunted during the summer. Faolan was about to comment on how odd it was to see snow on the ground, when suddenly they came across a snow patch streaked with blood. Both wolves stopped, their hackles raised, their eyes narrowed to slits of green. A breeze caught the scent of slaughter and pushed it toward them.
Wolf blood! Edme felt a sudden chill in her marrow. Great Lupus, let it not be her, she prayed. Airmead’s words coursed through her. If they find out, they’ll set a byrrgis on me and kill me. Tear me apart.
“What has happened here?” Faolan said. It was a gruesome scene, with wolf parts scattered all over.
“Ingliss,” Edme said.
“What?” Faolan asked.
“Ingliss and Kyran. I recognize their pelts.” She was relieved that Airmead wasn’t one of the dead wolves, but this seemed wrong, terribly wrong, even though she had loathed the sniping taunts of the young she-wolves.
“But why?”
“They are the ones who told me that I was made a malcadh. Dunbar MacHeath must have found out.” She took a deep breath and then softly continued, “They always do. But this … why this? Why not the Pit?”
“The Pit?” Faolan asked. “What is the Pit?”
“Never mind,” Edme replied grimly.
The two wolves gave a wide margin to the bloodied patch of snow and tried not to look at the scattered pieces of what had been silly young she-wolves whose worst crime was teasing and taunting. With each step Edme took, she felt reassured in her decision to reject her clan. At the same time, she felt she was taking a step closer toward her mother, Akira. She knew now that she came from a brave she-wolf, and this to her was as meaningful as discovering a tummfraw. Her journey had been exactly what the Fengo predicted — a journey toward truth, understanding, and reconciliation with her fate. Edme felt blessed to have had such a mother. Mum, she thought. I found a mum!
As Faolan and Edme walked on in silence, the snow patches appeared with less frequency. The weather evened out and started to feel as it normally did in the Moon of the Shedding Antlers, though they found fewer antlers. It was as if the migratory herds were not returning in the great numbers they usually did. The thought gave Faolan pause. Had he seen this sparseness of antlers before? There was a haunting familiarity in the scarcity. But how could this be? It was only the third summer he had ever known — only the third Moon of the Shedding Antlers he had ever experienced. Once again something rustled in Faolan, like a distant wind blowing tatters of memory from an ancient place.
He turned to Edme. “When you were in the gadderheal of the MacHeaths, you mentioned the Long Cold and the Ice March and it … it …”
“Disturbed them, I think.”
It disturbs me as well, Faolan thought.
They were within a day’s run to the region of the Ring of Sacred Volcanoes. In spite of their excitement, they decided not to push on. They had heard that the most spectacular time to arrive at the Ring was near twilight when the volcanoes often erupted, painting the fiery swathes of flame and plumes of ash against the purpling sky. So they found a mountain cat’s abandoned den and settled in for the night. There was no moon, but the stars were rising and seemed brighter than ever. An icy drizzle began to fall. Again they shook their heads in wonder at the oddities of the season. But they were too tired to speculate on the whimsies of nature and soon were fast asleep.
It was as though he were moving through a landscape that was neither earth nor sky. Deeper and deeper, Faolan traveled into a misty place where the seasons of the moons fell away. I feel as though I am wading through the shoals of time, Faolan thought. His pelt felt loose on his shoulders, his bones insubstantial. And yet he seemed to sense a twinkling in his marrow. I am nothing and I am all. He trotted on through the banks of rising mist. In the distance, he spied a trail through the vapor made by a very old wolf, an “ancient,” as the first wolves of the Beyond were called. The ancient was nearly toothless, and Faolan could see that his once bright green eyes had turned milky with age. He must be almost blind, Faolan thought, and yet the wolf looked down at the trail as if searching for something. Hoofprints. He’s looking for elk! Faolan knew that the old wolf was bothered by the same questions Faolan had wondered over — why this scarcity of antlers? The elk had not returned. Why? Where had they gone? The old wolf’s knees began to buckle beneath him. And it came to Faolan that the wolf had come to this remote place to begin the steps of cleave hwlyn, the act of separating from his clan, his pack, and finally his own body. He is dying, Faolan thought. His life had been fully lived, and now his time had come. Faolan watched as the stars began to break out, his marrow quivering as he saw the first rung of the star ladder that led to the Cave of Souls. I will see him slip his pelt and climb the star ladder. Should I be watching? Dying was a private act and yet … it all looked so familiar!
But Faolan did not see the old wolf climb the star ladder. He woke up just as the last star of the night was dissolving into the gray of the dawn. He sensed he had dreamed a wonderful dream tinged with sadness, but he could remember nothing about it. Not a shred. He felt a certain peacefulness, a comfort. He looked over at Edme, who was still sleeping, and sensed that she was dreaming, too, perhaps of her mother, Akira.
PART TWO
THE RING
CHAPTER EIGHT
VIEW FROM A RIDGE
AS FAOLAN AND EDME MADE THEIR way east toward the Ring of Sacred Volcanoes, they noticed an increasing number of owls flying up from the Hool
ian kingdoms to the south. At least, Faolan thought, something is moving in the right direction this moon.
“Faolan, if we climb up this ridge, I think we might get a glimpse of the volcanoes.”
“Let’s go!” Faolan said. And the two wolves began to scramble up the steep slope.
When they arrived at the top of the ridge, they could see the cones of the five volcanoes in the distance. A dim rose-colored glow could be spotted over two of the volcanoes. “We’re too far away to see the flames,” Edme said. “But, of course, I only have one eye.”
“I’ve got two but can’t see any flames. But when we get closer at twilight, I bet we’ll see them.”
“There are other ridges ahead. I can see them clearly from here,” Edme yipped.
Faolan had diverted his gaze and was looking straight down. Directly below them he had spotted the river. “Tine smyorfin,” he whispered.
“Huh?” Edme looked at Faolan, whose eyes were trained on the river. “What’s that you said? Sounds like Old Wolf.”
“What are you talking about?” Faolan asked.
“That expression, tine something.”
“I said ‘by my marrow,’” Faolan answered.
“No, you didn’t,” Edme insisted. “You whispered something that sounded very much like Old Wolf. I may just have one eye, but I do have two ears, Faolan.”
“Well, I was looking down there. See the river.”
The water was no longer amber but green, green as a wolf’s eyes. But what was more interesting was the scene. In a shallow part of the river, there were two wolves and a large grizzly feeding off the carcass of what appeared to be a moose. The grizzly’s cubs were frolicking on the river-banks. At a short but respectful distance away, ten or so other wolves waited their turn. Periodically, the bear left to regurgitate large chunks of steaming meat for her cubs.