Wolves of the Beyond: Watch Wolf (3 page)

ON THE CUSP OF SUMMER, WHEN
the earth begins to tilt more steeply toward the sun, there is a day when the sun and the moon hang side by side in the sky. It is on this single day and night when the Litha blossoms in the Beyond. The tiny red roses tip their faces toward the radiant sun and her softly glowing sister, the moon, from which they gather their nourishment.

The Litha blossoms ar
e the deepest red and their thorns are as sharp as wolf fangs. The leaves of the Litha are succulent, with a juice strong enough to make a wolf tipsy. However, to get past the thorns to the spirited grog of the leaves is an uncomfortable task at best. Although the appearance of the roses marks the longest day of the year, it also signals the turn of the earth toward winter, for in the warm days after, the sun will slip below the
horizon a bit earlier and a sliver of daylight will disappear as the shadows of evening advance more quickly. The night the Litha appears is called the eve of Blood and Thorns and there are rowdy celebrations in all the packs of all the clans in the Beyond. None celebrate Litha Eve more exuberantly than the MacHeath clan, often with disastrous conclusions as some wolf gets killed in what was supposed to be a “friendly” wrestling match.

As a gnaw wolf in the MacHeath chieftain’s pack, Edme had made herself scarce on Litha Eve, but now as she entered the encampment, the howls and baying that had scored the air dwindled, and she felt a silence fall in behind her. The wolves of the pack stared in utter dismay as Edme returned with her tail lifted high and her ears shoved forward. A grimace of aggression scored her face as she moved toward the
gadderheal,
the ceremonial cave of the chieftain’s pack. She heard low growling whispers as she drew near.

“What’s she doing, going to the
gadderheal?”

“On Litha Eve?”

“Look at her tail and ears. She certainly learned the dominance postures quickly.”

“Well, by my marrow, I’ll not scrape to her!”

Edme heard the last remark and could only laugh to
herself.
By tomorrow or sooner, you’ll come begging. But I’ll be gone, gone to the Ring as a free runner.

“Free runner” was the term for a gnaw wolf who was born clanless in the wild and left to die by its mother. Free runners were permitted to compete in the
gaddergnaw,
and if they proved themselves, they could be selected for the Watch at the Ring of Sacred Volcanoes. Edme had always felt that Faolan was essentially a free runner because he had not found his way back to the MacDuncan clan until well past his first year. She fully intended to declare herself first to the MacHeath clan as a free runner and then to the Fengo. The
Slaan Leat
was a journey toward truth, a journey tow
ard peace. Well, she had found her truth and her peace, and so had completed her task.

As Edme drew toward the entrance of the
gadderheal,
she saw the chieftain Dunbar MacHeath staggering to his feet with the aid of one of his sublieutenants. A scar ran diagonally down his face from the edge of one eye all the way to his neck, where no fur grew. The exposed skin of the scar was puckered and raw, giving him an especially savage look. Although now, swaying unsteadily and mostly supported by his sublieutenant, the chieftain simply looked ridiculous. His muzzle was thick with his own blood, from his attempts to get at the Litha leaves. He had apparently
succeeded, for he was quite drunk. Edme guessed that he would sober up quickly when she announced the reason for her visit.

“What in the name of the dim world are you doing here, cursed one?” he snarled. “Did they reject you already?”

“It’s not a question of their rejection, but mine.”

“What’s she saying?” The chieftain turned to his lieutenant and then vomited on the ground.

Edme’s hackles rose so high, they made her look larger than she had ever seemed. The beam of green light from her one eye grew more intense, and Dunbar MacHeath and his lieutenant averted their gazes as one might shift one’s eyes during a solar eclipse when the pinpoint needle of the sun becomes blinding.

“Step into the
gadderheal
and call your
raghnaid,
if you please.”

Dunbar MacHeath suddenly stood erect, but
his tail drooped in a half-submissive posture. His lieutenant w
ent around to his hindquarters and flicked his tail as a reminder to Dunbar not to cower. Edme led the way into the
gadderheal.

I can’t quite believe this,
she thought. It was as if the whole world had tilted on its axis. She was leading
the chieftain into his own ceremonial cave. She was commanding him, or so it seemed, on this Litha Eve.

Fewer than a dozen wolves in varying states of inebriation entered the
gadderheal.
They glanced first at Edme, for she suddenly seemed transformed. Yes, it was the same small wolf with the same mangled face, missing one eye. But with her hackles up and her tail raised, she appeared larger. And when they glanced at their chieftain, he seemed somehow slighter. His pelt, prickly with thorns and streaked in his own blood from his assaults on the Litha rose, appeared to have shrunk and to cling to his bones. He had assumed all the postures of dominance, but it seemed a bit of a joke,
as if he were a little pup trying them for the first time. Airmead the Obea slipped into the
gadderheal.
With her pure white pelt unstained by Litha grog, she seemed no more than a scrap of fog blown in on a breeze.

Trying to muster all the dignity he could, Dunbar MacHeath stepped toward Edme. “Why have you returned if the Fengo of the Watch has not rejected you?”

“Why do you jump to the conclusion that the Fengo has rejected me? Is there reason that he should?” Edme let the question hang in the air, which had become quite chilly for Litha Eve.

“No! No, of course not!”

The chieftain does protest too vigorously,
Edme thought. She nodded with just a hint of submission. “I was born a poor
malcadh,
was I not?” She turned to the Obea, whom no one had yet noticed.

Dunbar spoke up now. “Yes, come forth, Airmead. You were the one who took this
malcadh
to the
tummfraw.
Will you not testify to that?”

“I would prefer not to, my lord.”

“It’s not a matter of preference!” Dunbar MacHeath growled and walked up to the Obea stiff-legged, grabbing her by the ruff of her neck and flinging her to the ground.

“No need to abuse the Obea!” Edme rammed the chieftain with her head, throwing him off balance though he was twice her size. “I know my story. I was not born a
malcadh
but a
malcadh
made! Who was it who tore out my eye? You, Dunbar?”

There was a gasp. Never had a wolf challenged a chieftain so blatantly. Edme had head-butted Dunbar MacHeath and, almost worse, addressed him without title, by his first name.

“Who told you this?” Dunbar Ma
cHeath said through clenched teeth. “Who told you?”

“Who told me doesn’t matter. But listen carefully.” The tension in the cave thickened. Edme sensed that she was teetering on a dangerous edge as more wolves, many very drunk, made their way into the
gadderheal.
Some of these wolves were members of the
raghnaid,
the clan court that interpreted the complex laws of the wolves of the Beyond. All of them bore a dusting of snow that mixed with the streaks of blood on their muzzles.
How strange this weather is. Snowing on Litha Eve — unheard of!
thought Edme. It gave her an idea. She would play on the deep superstition that all the wolves harbored,
but in particular the wolves of the MacHeath and the MacDuff clans.

She continued speaking. “Hear what I have to say. This weather is strange, is it not? Perhaps not since the Ice March have wolves been seen with snow on them in this moon.” She nodded toward the wolves who had just entered the cave.

“Very strange,” said a wolf named Blyden. “Weather’s gone a bit
cag mag,
I’d say!”

“Shut up,” barked the chieftain.

Edme nodded at Blyden as if he were the most intelligent wolf in the cave, which he definitely was not. The slender ash-colored wolf was very strong and had savage fangs, always good for a fight or one of the kill squads
known as
slink melfs.
These squads were specifically formed to bring down any animal who endangered the clan.

Edme began to speak again and affected a grave but considered air, as if she were turning something over in her mind. “You don’t suppose the
cag maggish
turn is because of your deceit? I ask you, distinguished members of the
raghnaid,
to ponder how the laws pertaining to
malcadhs
have been broken. Ripping out a pup’s eye so that she might become a member of the Watch! Could you have offended the spirit of that first Fengo who led us out of the Long Cold on the Ice March? Perhaps t
hat explains this turn of weather.”

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 looki
ng at the next Fengo.”

There was a collective gasp followed by a long hush.

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 b
y 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 we
re
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 relie
ved. 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 wh
o 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 w
as going for his eye as he had gone for yours.”