Wolves of the Beyond: Watch Wolf (8 page)

“One last thing, Faolan,” Edme said in a small voice.

“What?”

Edme hesitated. She had vowed that she wouldn’t tell Faolan this, but it felt like a stone too heavy to carry alone.

“What?” Faolan asked again.

Edme sighed. “You know what she said when I didn’t hit the keystone at the proper angle?”

“What?”

“She said, ‘You and your friend Faolan are
moldwarpy
curs.’”

“What? She called us
moldwarps?” Moldwarp
was one of the most disparaging terms a wolf could use.

“Yes. I don’t know what she has a
gainst you except that you’re my friend.”

“Cag maglosc,”
Faolan muttered, and then launched into what sounded to Edme like a string of Old W
olf curse words.

TINY WHITE FLOWERS NO BIGGER
than a pup’s dewclaw bloomed out of the moss that clad the rocks of the Beyond. At night it seemed as if both the earth and the sky blossomed with stars. But the moss-flowers didn’t last. The wind blew in an unseasonable snowstorm, which snuffed the flowers out.

At the Ring, there was incessant talk abou
t the peculiar weather. The elders seemed worried, but Faolan was rather pleased, for the owls followed the She-Winds, and his learning took on a new dimension. He met owls, from Masked Owls to Great Grays, diving into the ember beds.

Although the weather was colder than usual for summer, Faolan rarely went to his and Edme’s den when they were off duty. It was simply too interesting to hang abo
ut
with the owls. Especially when a bird rarely seen in the Beyond arrived. She was a magpie who went by the name of Trader Luce and traveled with her assistant and a bundle of wares the likes of which neither Faolan nor Edme had ever seen.

“Where do they get all those … those …” Faolan grasped for a word to describe the strange objects. “Those things?” he finally blurted out.

“They belonged to the Others,” Gwynneth replied. She noted the blank expression in the two wolves’ eyes and sighed. “It’s very hard to explain what the Others were.”

“They
were,
not
are?”
Edme asked.

“Yes. They’ve been gone for thou
sands upon thousands of years.”

“But what were they when they were?” Faolan asked.

“Well, to begin with, they didn’t have wings,” Gwynneth replied.

“Did they have legs?” Edme asked.

“Only two.”

“What!” Edme and Faolan both shrieked.

“How could they get around on just two legs?” Faola
n asked.

“Obviously not well if they’ve been gone for thousands of years,” Edme replied.

“We only know about them because they left things behind.” Gwynneth paused. “Let me take you down to meet Luce and you can see her ‘merchandise,’ as she calls it.”

“Merchandise?” Faolan and Edme said.

Gwynneth shook her head wearily. “I think it’s a te
rm from the Others. Means ‘stuff.’ Come along, I’ll introduce you. But for Glaux’s sake, don’t barter for anything. Luce would love to get her beak on some of your gnawed bones, I’m sure. You have to understand, for Luce, everything — and I mean
everything
— is merchandise.” Faolan and Edme climbed down from the outcropping. Gwynneth was perched beside the magpie when they arrived.

“Luce, this is Faolan and Edme, new
wolves of the Watch.”

“Oh, my! So pleased to meet you, my dears. Can I interest you in anything?” She looked at them both and then focused on Edme’s missing eye. “Mercy, I have just the thing for you! It’s a false eye. Looks rather like a marble, doesn’t it?”

Marbles, false eyes. Faolan’s and Edme’s heads were spinning.

Trader Luce held up a round white object w
ith a bright blue center. “I only wish my dear granny had
seen this. She was missing an eye like you, Edme. I’d give it to
you for a gnawed bone. Not a femur or anything grand. A little tibia — a mouse’s tibia would do.”

“Stop it, Luce!” Gwynneth interrupted sharply. “You know it’s forbidden for Watch wolves to trade bones.
So get that idea out of your head right now.”

“Sorry. I was just asking. Is that a new policy?”

“It’s not a new policy. It’s been around from ti
me immemorial,” Gwynneth snapped.

“Well, don’t get all huffy about it.” Luce turn
ed away and squawked at her assistant, another magpie. “Dotty, bring those lace doilies over here on the double. Some gad-feathers might be flying in. They always go for that stuff.”

Gadfeathers!
Faolan had heard the word before, but now it stirred a little twinge in his marrow.

“Gadfeathers?” Edme asked. “What are gadfeathers, Gwynneth?”

“They sing!” Faolan said.

“Now, how ever did you know that, Faolan? I’m surprised.”

Faolan looked startled.

“I think I heard one of the Watch wo
lves talking about it.”

Gwynneth looked at him with curiosity, but
continued, “They’ve become somewhat of a novelty. During ancient times in the northern kingdoms, there were
countless gadfeathers. Recently, they’ve begun to come back. But very few have come into the Beyond, and that’s why I was surprised when you said you’d heard of them.”

Faolan said nothing. For the truth was that he was as puzzled as Gwynneth that he knew about gadfeathers and their singing.

Later, back on watch, Faolan stood atop Stormfast’s cairn, peering into a sky draped with stars and the tracery of hot r
ed embers. Would he know a gadfeather song if he heard one? But it was not only gadfeathers he wondered about. Some of his odd thoughts made him grip the keybone of the cairn more tightly than ever. He wanted to spring high into the night, catch the hottest of the drafts, and lift above the embers to the stars, as if they held the sources of the strange wisps of knowledge that came to him.

The night was torn with flames, and the re
d silhouettes of the volcanoes played across the barren landscape of the Ring. The shifting shadows of the night were like a scrim. On the other side, something was waiting for him, if he could only see it. A fate? A destiny only dimly perceived? Faolan sprang high, higher than he’d ever jumped before. The draft was hot, but he did not feel its heat. What he felt was cold, icy cold.
I am in a ring of fire, but I feel ice.

TOBY HEARD THE LOUD SNORES
of his mother and the softer ones of his brother. It seemed to the young cub that his mum and his brother, Burney, spent all their time sleeping. Life was so boring. He wished that nice wolf with one eye were here. But he hadn’t seen her since the day they’d played on the riverbank. She’d taught him a game — hidey bone. He wanted to play it again, but Bu
rney never thought of interesting places to hide the bone. And it was so exciting when the wolf ran with it. She was so fast, but then could skid to a stop and wheel about as quick as a wink. He decided to practice now: At least that would be more fun than sleeping. So he picked up a bone from a caribou his mum had taken down earlier and began running with it.

Run, jump, quick turn, roll and up onto al
l fours, jump
again!
Just as the little cub skidded to a stop, a gray she-wolf with black patches stepped out from behind a boulder.

“I can’t believe it!” Toby cried with glee.

“Can’t believe what, little one?”

“I was just hoping for a wolf to come play with me!”

“Well, how lucky we are, then.” The she-wolf cocked her head to one side and regarded the cub. There was a hard glint in her eyes that stirred a pale shadow of unease in Toby, but he was so bored and eager to play.

“You like to play, don’t you?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, most certainly,” the wolf answered.

“Do you know the game hidey bone?”

“Why, yes. Now, where did a cub like
you learn such a game?”

“From this wonderful wolf.”

“Wonderful, she was? You don’t say.” The wolf grinned.

Toby was feeling a tad uncertain now. “Yes, wonderful. I just can’t remember her name.”

“What’s your name?” the wolf asked.

“I … I …”
I shouldn’t talk to strangers,
Toby thought as his mother’s admonition came back to him
. Fear and dread flooded through him. Every bristle of his fur prickled and stood up rigidly. Just then, four other wolves flashed
out and surrounded him. Before Toby could even cry out, one of the wolves had clamped the cub’s muz
zle and lifted him off his feet.

“Think of this as a new game, dear.” Fretta’s voice threaded into Toby’s ear. He could feel her warm, fetid breath on his face.

“My mum’s going to be mad, reallllly really mad!”
the little cub cried out when the wolves finally released the grip on his muzzle and he could scream. But it did him little good. He already knew that his mum and brother would never hear him. They were too far away by now, asleep on the riverbank.
Will they ever be sorry!
he thought.

At first there had been only one wolf. And she looked nice enough and Toby had remembered how he and his brother, Burney, had played with the one-eyed wolf earlier in the summer. That wolf was much younger and so much fun. This wolf was fun for about one second, and then three others had charged from behind a large boulder. Before he could even squeal, something had clamped down on his muzzle. He’d felt as if he were being lifted up, and the ground was just a blur rushing beneath him.

“All right, back off, Blyden,” Fretta commanded. “You don’t need to clamp his muzzle.”

“She’ll tear off your heads!” Toby shrieked. “That’s easy for a grizzly. She’ll rip out your heart and eat it! No, she’ll just rip it out. She’d never eat such a foul heart.”

Toby was a bright little cub and quite proud of his use of a fine word like “foul.” He was scared, but he kept talking. Sometimes his mom said he talked too much. Burney was quiet, quiet and thoughtful. Toby was thoughtful but, well, noisy and thoughtful. “Would someone kindly answer me?”
Kindly?
he thought. What a poor choice of words with these thuggish wolves.

But at that moment, an owl swooped down with talons outstretched and started raking the wolves. Two of the wolves leaped up, taking swats at the owl, who quickly backed off. The wolves picked up Toby and streaked away.

They were transporting the cub by the scruff of his neck now. He hung down, his hind legs barely skimming the ground. He couldn’t see the wolf carrying him, but four others ran alongside them.
I was just trying to have fun.
It was at that moment that he saw his own blood.

“Hey, I’m bleeding! You made me bleed.”

“Shut him up! It was hard enough getting down here with the wind against us. I swear his yapping is slowing us down as much as the wind.”

The she-wolf’s jaws clamped down on Toby’s muzzle. Everything within him turned dark with terror. He had
to fight back somehow. They were bigger and stronger, but he had to do something even though he was scared. If he couldn’t fight back with muscle, he would with words. He wriggled his muzzle free. “It’s not just my
mum who’s going to get you. It’s all the bears of the Beyond!”

“Precisely!” one wolf answered him.

Unbelievably, the wolves began to laugh.

Toby growled. “You think it’s funny. It’s not going to be funny, you poop balls!”

Toby was becoming more frightened by the m
inute. He had kept his eye on the sun as it sank toward the horizon and now his stomach clenched as they descended into a deep ravine that took a sudden plunge into a narrow pit. The wolf who had been carrying him dropped him in the middle of the pit and then scurried back to join the others, who stood on the embankment a fair distance off, watching with malicious anticipation.
What’s going on here?
Toby thought, and then from a crack in the stone walls, a wolf staggered out. Frothy bubbles dribbled from his jaws.

Urskadamus!
Toby thought.
A wolf with the foaming-mouth disease! They brought me to a wolf with the foaming-mouth disease!

He knew there was no hope now. He would die a maddened cub in the most painful death imaginable. It would go on for days. His muscles would lock, his eyes would roll up in his head. His fur would get so hot, it would steam. He knew all about this disease. One of the first things grizzlies taught their cubs was never, ever, to go near a foaming-mouth animal — no matter what. Even if the sick animal were a grizzly, even if it were his own mother — she wouldn’t recognize him and, in her madness, would only want to attack. What could he do? What could he do?

“Have a pleasant stay in the Pit,” snarled one of his cubnappers.

“Shut your muzzle, Donaidh,” snapped the largest of the wolves, who appeared to be their leader. He was a savage-looking creature with a horrible scar running down his face all the way to his neck. “I do the talking.” The scarred wolf turned toward Toby and said in a dangerously soft voice, “What’s your name, cubby?”

Cubby?
The sound of the endearing word his mother often used when she nursed him made Toby want to puke. Toby remained silent. The scar-face wolf took a step toward him. “Your name?” His voice dropped and acquired an even more frightening edge.

“If he doesn’t tell us his name, how will we —”

The scarred wolf wheeled around and bit the wolf Donaidh on his rump. “Shut up!”

But it was too late. Donaidh had given Toby an idea.

“Again and for the last time, what is your name?” the scarred wolf roared.

Toby replied in a quiet voice, “I don’t have a name.”

The she-wolf crept up to the scarred wolf. In a whisper, the she-wolf said, “I think we have to call him something. Old Cags can’t keep much in his head, but you know how he is about names.”

“We’ll make up one. That should suffice,” the gray wolf suggested.

“But he’s a cub and not a pup. It could be confusing for Cags.”

They actually bring pups to this pit!
Toby thought. Who were these wolves? His mum had said that the wolves of the Ring were the best wolves of the Beyond, that forever and ever, they shared kills with bears, respected one another, and lived in peace. The wolves of the Ring were the wisest of all the wolves in the Beyond, and that is why his mum had decided to live near the Ring. But these were not good wolves!

Toby watched as the wolves conferred. They cast glances his way and then toward the foaming-mouth wolf. Toby had upset their plans by not giving them his name.
It seemed like a small thing. All he had done was refuse to speak. The talkative cub — indeed, his mother often scolded him for talking too much — had found richness in silence. The wind shifted and blew the words of the wolves closer, right into his ear. He tilted his head a bit more so he could hear better. Perhaps Great Ursus was looking out for him.

“But if we don’t know his name, how do we let the news out that a cub has been stolen by the wolves of the Ring?” one wolf asked.

Stupid!
Toby thought. Didn’t they think his mum would miss him? Were these wolves so foul that they couldn’t imagine how a mum would feel if her cub vanished?

“Let’s make up a name — say Ian.”

“Ian is a wolf name!” the scarred wolf snapped.

“Well, we don’t know any bear names,” the she-wolf said.

“Why don’t you go ask him, Fretta. Just say, ‘
All right, could you give us another name to call you for now?’
”

“I’ll try.”

Toby’s mind raced as he saw the she-wolf Fretta trotting toward him. “Listen, you little —” She stopped herself. “I mean, listen, dearie.” Never had a term of affection seemed more forced. “Cubby,” she continued. The
endearment dropped like sharp rocks from her mouth. “I suppose not telling your name is an old bear custom.”

Brilliant!
thought Toby. This idiot she-wolf had given him his best idea yet. He nodded.

“Can you tell me why?”

He tipped his head to one side thoughtfully, as if he were ruminating over a long, revered bear tradition.

Fretta looked at him inquisitively.

“It’s unlucky.”

“For you or me?” she asked.

Toby shrugged and gave an innocent
I don’t know
look.
The joys of silence,
he thought.

“Well,” Fretta continued, “we have to call you something. Could you help us out?”

He looked at her blankly.

“Give us a name, a sort of bearish name.”

A bearish name!
He thought a moment. He knew there was an opportunity here if he could just think of it. What if he didn’t give a bearish name? What if he gave a very nonbearish name. Toby loved words, loved putting together odd-sounding parts of words. He and his brother, Burney, often made up nonsense just for fun. He was better at it than Burney. And how would
these stupid wolves know what was bearish or not?
Ish … ish,
he thought.
Ish
is funny-sounding.
It could be stuck on another odd sound.
Odd! I love that word!
he thought.
It’s much better than weird or queer.

“Listen,” the scarred wolf said. “I don’t want to waste any more time on this name thing. The trip already took half a day longer than we thought it would. The word will be out as soon as the mother starts yowling and thumping. We need time to prepare for —” But this time Toby cut Dunbar off.

“Call me Ishodd.”

A sudden silence fell upon them. Dunbar snapped his jaws shut. The wolves seemed stunned.

What have I said?
Toby wondered.

“Ishodd!” Fretta’s green eyes nearly sprung from her head. “Why, that’s a very … uh … wolfish-sounding — Old Wolf.”

“Oh, really!” Toby opened his eyes wide. It was purely accidental, but he had to play along. He could tell that Fretta was greatly disturbed. “What does it mean in wolf?”
he asked.

“I can’t tell,” she replied. Her legs were stiff and she’d shoved back in alarm. Fear seemed to radiate from her pelt.

“Unlucky, I guess,” Toby replied quietly.

Fretta backed slowly away.

He watched her as she returned to the three other wolves. All their hackles had risen and their ears lay back flat against their heads. They turned to look at him, terror in their eyes.
What have I done?
Toby thought.
Can I get out of here? Will they let me go?

In that same moment, it began to snow. The wolves looked up at the sky. “This is a bad business,” said one wolf. “Remember what Edme said?”

“She’s a fool,” the leader growled.

Edme!
That was the name of the wolf he had first played with. The one-eyed wolf had been so different from his attackers.

“But it is strange, my lord,” Fretta said. “It snowed on Litha Eve and again now. Look, the sun is shining brightly and yet it snows.” Her voice dropped. “The weather has gone
cag mag,
and the bear cub’s name is Ishodd!” She stole a furtive glance at the foaming-mouth wolf weaving on his feet in the distance.

The scarred wolf looked up nervously at the sky.

Dunbar MacHeath came down from the safety of the embankment to grab Toby by the ear and drag him closer
to the foaming-mouth wolf. When he released Toby, Dunbar streaked back up the embankment.

Toby immediately shut his eyes. The foaming-mouth wolf was the most frightening thing he had ever seen. His eyes were red, streaked with yellow. The gums of his diseased mouth were green, and Toby could smell the terrible stench of them.

“Old Cags, this is Macoon. Macoon, meet Old Cags! I’m sure you’ll be friends. If you survive, Macoon.”

“Macoon!” Toby’s eyes flew open. “My name is not Macoon. It’s Ishodd. Ish-odd!” He said it slowly, enjoying each syllable as all the wolves, including Old Cags, began to tremble.

Dunbar MacHeath let out a viscious snarl. “Say that again and I’ll bite your ear off.” But Toby didn’t listen. He streaked across the pit and squashed himself into a crack in the rock walls.

Toby stayed inside this crack while the st
eep shadows of midday fell directly into the pit and then lengthened as the afternoon grew into night.

When the four wolves who had captured him left, Toby had heard them still muttering about his name. “Can you believe it? Ishodd. Of all the names!”

“What bad luck!”

“And now with this strange weather.”

Why were they worried? His mum had told him that wolves were a very superstitious lot, not at all like bears. Had he stumbled across some sort of curse word or cursed name by accident? And why was it so important that the foaming-mouth wolf know his name?