Lone Wolf (15 page)

Faolan had ample opportunity to observe the different packs that composed the various clans. One pack seemed about the same as the other. He had no real preference, except he would prefer to avoid one clan. They
seemed the closest to the wolves of the Outermost. The pack leaders of this clan did not confine their abuse to the gnaw wolves, but seemed to fight frequently among themselves. The MacHeaths were especially vicious toward the females, and he did not want to join them.

There was another clan that he noticed was mostly females, led by the only female chieftain he had observed so far. She was a tawny golden-colored wolf of some years. Her name was Namara, as he had learned through the howlings of the
skreeleens
.

The territory Faolan traversed was dominated by the MacAngus clan. It was the MacAngus clan who animated for Faolan the scenes he had observed in the paintings from the Cave Before Time. He had seen members of various MacAngus packs ever since he had arrived on the ridge and because of this he had stayed high near the rimrock that afforded a dense fringe of jagged shadows.

He had quickly learned how to thread his way through the shadows to conceal himself. It didn’t take him long to learn what he thought of as the rhythm of shadows. It was in the mornings and the evenings that the shadows of the sun were the longest. This was convenient because it was midday when the wolves often rested.

In his time haunting the shadows, Faolan felt as if he were straddling two worlds with paws in each. In one world, he was on the edge of a beautiful dream, part of that painted pack on the cave walls, a fleet member of the flowing line of wolves. In the other world, the unpainted one he observed from the spine of the ridge, he was a young gnaw wolf waiting patiently at the far edge of the pack for his turn to eat. It seemed grossly unfair, for he had seen that little wolf run despite his twisted leg, seen it scurry around to block the caribou’s way when it tried to head off in another direction. And yet he had to satisfy himself on mere scraps. But this was the way of the clans.

The season of autumn storms had arrived. On nights when the weather was most miserable he dared to go closer. There were torrential downpours, and when the sky was splintered with thunder and lightning, the wolves would gather in caves and a
skreeleen
would “read the sky fire.”

One evening when thunderbolts fractured the sky, Faolan dared to come closer than he ever had before. The lightning
skreeleen
told a story of a chieftain from the time of the Long Cold who had grown old and toothless with age and lost his hearing, and whose eyesight had dimmed.
In the tradition of old wolves, he had gone out to a remote place to begin the steps of
cleave hwlyn
, the act of separating from his clan, his pack, and finally his own body. He had felt the marvelous sensation of slipping free from his pelt, becoming nothing more than a soft mist. He looked over his shoulder at his pelt glistening in the moonlight. His bones lay silent and cold, and he was bemused to realize how little they mattered to him. He sprang forward with the energy of a pup, leaping for the first rungs in the star ladder to the spirit trail leading to the Cave of Souls at the far point of the Great Wolf constellation.

He had made it halfway up the star ladder when the skies began to rumble. There was a sharp crack. A hot white line flared and the sky split in two. The star ladder shook and the old chieftain felt himself falling…falling…falling. He pawed the air with his claws, trying to cling to the star ladder. But the ladder had disappeared. There were no stars, only the storm-shattered blackness of the night branded with slivers of lightning. The sound was deafening and the world too bright.
How can this be?
thought the old chieftain.
I am deaf already and nearly blind!

When the chieftain looked about, there was not a trace of his old pelt or his bones. He looked down. His paws were not misty, but planted firmly in the mud. He
lifted one and stared in wonder at his paw print in the mud.
I am not old, but young. I am here on earth and not in the Cave of Souls. My time has not come.

And then from the cave where the pack was hunkered down came a chorus of howls in response to the
skreeleen
.

“And that is why,” the pack howled, “our chieftains wear pelts and necklaces of bones in honor of the great chieftain Fengo, who led us from the Long Cold. For that was the reason Fengo lived again.”

Through the bolts of thunder

our history is read.

A threshold between two lands,

the living and the dead.

Forsake the starry ladder,

the cave of our souls,

Bring pelt and bone together.

The work is not yet done,

heed the call of Fengo

toward the setting sun.

The song of the wolves stirred something deep and mysterious within Faolan. He understood the words of the song, but there was something beyond the simple meaning
that eluded him. When the song ended he had turned to leave. But the wind blew whisperings from the cave toward him. The pack sounded frightened. “Dangerous.” “An enemy’s coming.” “Stranger. Beware.”

What are they scared of?
Faolan wondered.
They are a strong pack. Safe in the cave, heavy with fresh meat.
But he did not stay around to find out.

THE RAINS HAD STOPPED FOR several hours when, after a long trek, Angus MacAngus, the clan chief of the MacAnguses, arrived at the cave where the pack of the western scree had spent the night of the storm. He had come in response to the
skreeleen
’s howling. There were many interpretations that one could bring to the
ceilidh fyre
, or the sky dance of fire, as the wolves called lightning. It was disturbing that the
skreeleen
saw the story of the wolf who did not die, for it usually presaged misfortune.

The chieftain had not worn his ceremonial robes nor his necklace of bones. He did not want to make a fuss. It would alarm the pack unnecessarily if he had appeared in the elaborate garments usually worn in the
gadderheal
. They would think he found the situation so serious that
they would all be summoned for a
gadder
. The
gadderheal
was the ceremonial cave of each clan where the gravest of matters were discussed.

The
skreeleen
came out to greet him. She was a handsome wolf, her silvery pelt glinting darker underneath. She lowered herself immediately to the ground, scraping her belly and grinding the side of her face into the dirt. Her ears were laid flat and her black lips drawn back in a classic gesture of total submission to her clan chief.

“No fire, Aislinn?”

“No, the dance did not cast a spark to the ground.”

There were certain rules that governed conversation between the clan chieftain and the
skreeleen
who interpreted the
ceilidh fyre
. Although the chieftain was of higher rank than the
skreeleen
, he was not permitted to doubt her howled testimony. He was only allowed to ask for concrete signs or evidence that might support the grim possibility that the
ceilidh fyre
suggested. Even though the story of the wolf who fell from the star ladder was ultimately a heroic one, it involved much sadness and death. A fire ignited by a thunderbolt or even just a scorched rock would be considered most dire, a signal of an imminent calamity. The chieftain sniffed, trying to pick up any telltale scent of ash or fire. He widened his circle. The pack watched him carefully. A sudden shift in the wind
brought with it a new scent. Angus MacAngus crinkled his brow and sniffed something.

“Any bears around here?” he asked.

“No, never,” replied a high-ranking wolf. “They never come this far from the river.”

“I don’t understand. I smell bear, but wolf, too. No wolf from here, though.”

“You smell two scents together?” asked the
skreeleen
.

“Yes, oddly mingled.”

“As if they were traveling together? Walking side by side?”

Angus MacAngus stopped in his tracks and peered down at a strange paw print. His hackles rose stiffly, and he shoved his ears forward. So this was the misfortune foretold in the
ceilidh fyre
! The toe pads of the strange paw print were spread widely, splayed. It was the paw print of a wolf with the foaming-mouth disease. The sickness would end in death. But madness preceded the death and if the wolf encountered any other creature and bit it, that animal would go mad and die, too.

The bear scent made sense now. It was a grizzly sick with the disease, who had attacked and infected the wolf. Most likely the grizzly was dead by now, but the wolf prints were fresh. Something must be done.

Angus MacAngus turned and began to howl into the
summer morning, the shadow of the previous night’s moon sailing overhead. Moon rot! An ill omen especially when coupled with the meaning of the
skreeleen
’s howling and the splayed paw print.

Angus knew he must alert the other clans of the danger. He must summon all the packs of the MacAngus clan and those of their neighbors, the MacDuncans, for a
gadderheal
. The word must be spread from the MacAnguses to the MacDuncans, from the MacNamaras to the MacDuffs and even to the loathsome MacHeaths. For this disease could spread faster than any howling. It might already be too late. The pack might be doomed. The clan might be doomed. Indeed, all the wolves of the Beyond could be annihilated.

And so the call went out, summoning the chieftains from the three nearest clans to a meeting in the MacAngus
gadderheal
. In the feeble trickle of moonlight, the chieftains made an eerie sight. Their own bodies seemed to have dissolved into wraithlike apparitions. Bedecked with headdresses and necklaces of gnawed bones, their shoulders were draped in cloaks from the pelts of animals, the ceremonial regalia required for meetings in the
gadderheal
.
A low ground fog obscured their legs so the wolf chieftains appeared to float across the landscape, their motion accompanied by the clinking of the gnawed bones.

Once inside the MacAngus
gadderheal
they paid obeisance to Angus MacAngus, lowering themselves until their bellies were flat against the ground. Although they were chieftains, tradition required that when called to the
gadderheal
of another chieftain, the visitor must acknowledge that clan’s supremacy. Duncan MacDuncan, the eldest of the chieftains, began to lower himself painfully on arthritic legs.

“Enough, Duncan,” Angus said softly. He then quickly turned to the others. “I have summoned you here because last night our
skreeleen
howled the
gwalyds
of the first Fengo.”

Tension sizzled in the cave beneath the crackling of the flames in the fire pit.

Angus MacAngus huffed and continued, “And this morning I discovered a splayed paw print in the shadow of moon rot.”

Loud gasps were followed by mutterings. “Terrible…terrible.”

“It has been so long since the foaming-mouth disease came here.”

“Not long enough,” Duncan MacDuncan growled. “And we are far from any colliers or Rogue smiths,” he added, staring into the fire pit. The wolves, unlike the owls of Ga’Hoole, had no skills with fire. The only fires they used were in their
gadderheals
. They bartered kill shares of meat for coals from Rogue smiths and colliers. There was, however, one other use for the coals in their pits, and that was to kill any animal afflicted with the foaming-mouth disease by driving it into the flames of a large fire trap. The first time they had used this strategy it had been easier to make the fire, for the diseased wolf had staggered into the region of the Sacred Volcanoes where hot coals and embers were plentiful. But now they were a vast distance from any such resource.

“There is always the Sark of the Slough,” Duffin MacDuff said quietly.

A chill seemed to pass through the air at the mention of the strange wolf.

“A last resort,” Drummond MacNab whispered.

“Is there any choice?” Angus McAngus asked.

“Falling star ladders, moon rot, doom, and the Sark of the Slough,” MacDuncan muttered in his leathery voice. “I’d say not. No choice. No choice at all.”

THE WOLVES OF THE BEYOND, always concerned with order, believed that the system of rank and position that prevailed on earth corresponded to a superior one of the heavens. To disregard, upset, or affront this ranking could breed chaos in the world of wolves. There was a design to all set by Lupus, the heavenly spirit who glittered in the constellation of the Great Wolf. Lupus had set the design, and it must be followed.

The gnaw-bone necklaces that the wolf chieftains wore were not simply a symbol of their office, but a symbol of the Great Chain that linked the wolves to the heavens and reflected everything—soil, water, rock, air, and fire. The wolves divided living things into two classes: wolves and other animals. But within the classes there were other links in the chain extending down from Lupus.
This Great Chain was first described in the
gwalyds
of the early gnaw-bones, in descending order:

Lupus

Star wolves (the spirits of dead wolves who have traveled to the Cave of Souls)

Air

Ceilidh fyre
(lightning)

Chieftains (clan leaders)

Lords (pack leaders)

Skreeleens

Byrrgis
leaders

Captains

Lieutenants

Sublieutenants

Corporals

Packers

Gnaw wolves

Unranked Obeas

Owls

Other four-legged animals

Other birds, excepting owls

Plants

Earth Fire

Water

Rock

Soil