CRO-MAGNON (49 page)

As soon as Leya’s hand left Fel’s ruff he exploded into action, leaping at Mungo’s throat. But as quick as he was, and as drunk as Mungo might be, the hunter was prepared. Swiveling his javelin, he got the bone point in front of Fel, and as the wolf closed the final arm’s length he impaled himself. He yelped, his jaws yawning, but Mungo scuttled backward. Fel’s canines snapped on empty air, and he flopped onto the floor.

Grinning, Mungo yanked the shaft free of the squirming wolf’s ribs and braced for the killing thrust.

“
No!” Without thinking, Leya launched herself inside the spear. Wrapping an arm around the drunken hunter’s waist, she clawed at his eyes with her free hand. “Get up, Fel! Run!”

Mungo smacked her in the head, sending her flying into the side of the tent. In the next instant he turned toward the wounded wolf.

Fel had gained his feet, and as Mungo’s javelin thrust at his belly he lurched aside. Stumbling, he regained his balance and staggered under the flap with Mungo close behind. Leya, struggling to her feet, brushed aside the covering and hurried into the common-room of the longhouse. Fel, his back hunched so that he seemed to tiptoe, was hobbling past the main hearth, with Mungo pursuing in long bounds.

But even gravely wounded, Fel was faster. Threading past a startled Alys, then Nola and the other people emerging from their tents, he hobbled the length of the longhouse and slipped under the flap with Mungo in hot pursuit. Leya, her ears ringing, stumbled after them past bright red splatters. When she reached the opening she found Mungo outside, peering into the darkness.

But there was nothing to see. The wolf had disappeared into the night.

#

Fel hobbled up the slope toward the eastern pass. The hateful man’s spear had penetrated his side and he was leaking. How deep the wound, he did not know. But he sensed it was bad. He did know he needed to put distance between himself and the camp. Humping his back to get more air, he plodded up the steepening grade.

At the crest, he looked back. The two longhouses, diminished by distance, nestled in the ravine. The round yellow thing had gone to its burrow, and he sensed that his gray fur made him invisible in the darkness. But probably the same was true for the man in his dark skins. He pricked his ears but heard no one.

He could see a circle of light cast around the larger longhouse by the torches within. A shadow wavered in front of the entrance, the quality of motion telling him it was Leya. Except for a dim impression of his mother’s teats, the young woman had been his savior for as long as he could remember, and he loved her.

But that was finished now. He sensed that without help he would not survive. He had not gotten on well with the wolves that congregated outside the tall people’s encampment, largely because the leader viewed him as a threat. But in his wounded state, if he could find a wild pack, they would feed him. On the trip from the musclemen’s camp, he had seen no spoor. Probably they were up on the bush land where he had been borne, awaiting the spring migrations.

Where to go? The bush land was too vast and harsh. There was only one place he might find help for himself and for his mistress, who certainly needed it. It would be a long journey, perhaps longer than he could endure. Hunching his backbone higher, he began to hitch down the slope into the next valley.

Time passed in a blur. Night became morning. Morning became evening. Darkness descended again. Still he hobbled forward. He would be unable to hunt until his wound healed. If he could not find something to scavenge, he would run out of strength unless he could finish the journey first. And even if he came across a winterkilled animal, it might have attracted a lion or tiger.

A mishap that would mean a quick death.

The bleeding had stopped during the previous night, but now he had a new concern. Despite the frigid air, he was growing hotter. It was not a good warmth, but the kind that brought lightness to his head and weakness to his limbs.

He came to the place where the tiger had launched its attack. He had hoped to feast on the remains, but there was no sign of the gutted carcass. Probably any remains had been scavenged. Another blow to his survival. Hunching his back into what had become his regular posture, he tiptoed on through the windy darkness.

A day-and-night and half-day later he reached the pass where Leya and her friend Gar—another he had grown to love—had parted with Gar’s companion who had turned back. He sensed that this was where the territory of the musclemen began. He was making progress, but how much longer could he keep going?

Trudging down the hill to the next stream, he pawed through the ice and drank deeply. He was losing strength fast and might not last much longer. Withdrawing his snout, he sniffed the breeze for signs of predators and staggered back to the trail. Despite a bellyful of icy water, his body felt as if it was roasting in one of the tall people’s fires. He longed to lie down and curl into a ball, but to stop was to die. Facing east again, he began to slog uphill. He had begun to realize the musclemen’s camp was too far, but there was nothing to do but keep going.

In the next valley, he staggered and fell. Regained his feet and fell again. Sometime later, he awakened under a blanket of snow. He felt snug. Maybe he should just stay here and sleep. A muscleman’s face appeared, Gar’s broad-nosed visage, then faded.

He only dimly realized he had gotten to his feet again. He took a tentative step, staggered and caught himself. Another step . . . another . . .

#

Stooping, Dov thrust his hand through the freezing water under the cutbank. Now that the fast-moving stream was free of ice, visions of grilled trout danced in his mind’s eye. In his nine seasons, he had never tasted anything as good as snow trout. Before his
mut,
Tum, had been taken by a neighboring clan, she used to rub the split halves with thyme and lizard’s-tail pepper. And when Kam took over Dov’s care, she had made the flaky fish even tastier by adding garlic and mustard seed.

The space beneath the bank proved unoccupied, and Dov stood and moved downstream. He would find some fish if it took all afternoon. Even little marinka would suffice, if he could scoop enough.

He was approaching the next cutbank when the low whine threaded the wind. Turning, he scanned the opposite bank of the narrow stream. He saw nothing but snow. He scanned some more.

There! A splash of gray among the rocks lining the channel. It was not moving.

He trotted downstream until he found some rocks in the streambed. Hop-skipping across, he turned back upstream, proceeding cautiously as he approached the spot.

It was too early for the venomous snakes that hibernated most of the year. And a crouching snow leopard would have spots. Still, the need for caution had been drummed into him since he got his first words. What if it was a wounded bear? In this land, careless people did not last long.

As he approached, the gray object resolved first into the pelt of a medium-sized animal and then into a wolf. He eased closer. The animal was full-grown or nearly so, and lay on its side.

As he came closer, Dov noticed that its ruff had an unusual yellow tint. Halting in mid stride, he peered.

He knew that ruff!

It belonged to the tame wolf the Shortface woman, Leya, had found on the tundra and raised from a pup. She had named it Fel. The last he had seen of it, the woman and Gar and Puk had been leaving for the western trail toward Shortface country.

He called, “Fel,” and the animal’s snout lifted and flopped back.

Dov scampered the remaining distance and knelt by the downed animal. He repeated its name. It did not look up again but its tail gave a feeble wag. He reached a hand to its flank. Although his fingers were blue from the icy water of the stream, he could tell that the animal was burning with fever.

“
Fel wait.”

Retracing his steps, he skipped across the stream and started for camp. He needed to find Gar, who had protected Leya and Fel from Caw. But Gar and Puk, and also Caw and Odd, were out on day-hunts. Even with the rhino that Gar and Puk had killed, it behooved them to get more meat to last the clan until the reindeer returned.

Dov tried to think which way Gar and his
brut
had gone this morning—up toward the tundra or down toward the river—then remembered they had left before he was up. He knew that if the resentful Caw returned first and came upon Fel, the young wolf would wind up being served for supper.

He dared not even tell Kam, now his
mut,
because she would consult Bor, who had been too stiff to accompany the others. And he was not sure what Bor would do. Bor was leader, and the clan was short of food.

Dov came to a decision. He would tell Wim. She would know what to do. Picking up his pace, he hurried up the ravine.

#

Gar could hardly believe how quickly Fel had improved. Close to death when Dov found him, the wolf responded quickly to food, drink, warmth, and Wim’s ministrations, based partly on her own knowledge and partly on what she had learned from Leya.

After she reamed the wound with honey and packed it with sphagnum saturated with cattail goo and root of periwinkle left over from Leya’s recuperation, it ceased festering. The wolf’s fever responded to dogwood-and-willow tea added to meat broth.

In two days he was up and about, though wobbly. In two more, the wound closed. After another two, Wim deemed him fit to travel, although she cautioned Gar to strike a leisurely pace the first few days.

Gar had already decided that Fel would not have left Leya unless something bad had happened. He needed to find out what, and he needed to bring Fel, with his super sense of smell, in case Leya was stranded somewhere in the wilds. Also, he knew that if he left Fel behind, Caw would try to demonstrate his supremacy by killing the wolf.

So, on a cold and windy day, the two of them prepared to make the return trip to the Shortface camp, assuming the tribe had not yet moved to their spring camp near the reindeer foaling grounds. Gar noticed Puk packing some of the meat-and-berry mix that Leya had called
pem
into his kit bag.

“
Go hunt?”

“
Not.” Puk sat to strap on his mukluks. “With you.”

Gar shook his head. “They need you,
Brut.
Team with Bor.”

Puk looked up, his yellow wolftail bobbing behind the collar of his form-fitting tunic, the only one in camp.

“
What if Shortfaces make trouble?”

Gar sniffed. “They be many. Two clansmen no better than one.”

“
Might kill Gar.”

“
Not think so unless I kill first,” Gar said, using gestures to express the convoluted thought.

Puk frowned. “Shortface woman no longer in our life. Why go?”

Wim, who had come up behind her two sons with Fel at her side, said, “He must.”

Gar nodded.

“
Ah,” Puk said, watching Caw and Odd depart camp to try their luck. “That different.”

“
Gar right,” Wim said. “Others would say Puk shirk hunt.”

“
But Gar and me kill rhino.”

Wim shook her head. “Memories be short.”

“
Caw jealous. Want outhunt us.” Puk indicated the departing hunters. “That why he and Odd go tundra each day.”

“
More reason Puk make good show,” Wim said. “Gar have Fel. Puk go with Bor.”

“
No trust Caw. Or Odd if with him.” Puk’s gaze followed the two hunters as they climbed the ravine, spears and clubs balanced in their hands. “Caw hate Gar.”

“
No worry,” Gar said. “Caw go tundra. Gar walk trail west.”

#

Leya lay motionless while Mungo pounded away, his sinewy forearms clamping her in a rigid embrace. As had become her custom, she forced her mind away, letting it range over her quandary. Remorse still filled her over Fel dying because of her resistance to Mungo’s demands. Fearing the hunter would harm Brann in another of his rages, she had moved to his tent in the smaller longhouse for the duration of her stay with the tribe. At least, she and Alys would be leaving in a half-moon, she thought. She had asked Ronan not to include Mungo in her escort to the Tribe of the Great Plain, and he had agreed.

Mungo arched onto his knees so that their bodies did not touch except for his rigid member thrusting in and out. He tried to catch Leya’s eye but she looked away. She wished he would at least enter her in the more natural way, from the rear. In addition to the increased humiliation of him staring at her, she had to endure the stench of decaying meat impacted in his teeth, as Mungo was not one to floss. At least they were both dressed, she thought, having merely pushed aside their garments in the chill night air. She felt overheated, but refused to open her furs and expose herself further.

An exhalation of foul air took away her breath. Turning her head, she studied Brann reclining alongside on his small sleeping-skin in the argal suit she had made for him. He was awake, his broad little face wide-eyed inside the fox-fur hood. Perhaps he sensed his mother’s distress, for he was rolling his head and waving his arms. Leya had wanted to leave him with Alys at night, but Mungo had insisted on her bringing him to his tent inside the smaller longhouse, to assure her obeisance.