Personal health: tired. But still awake.
When the guard noticed D’Arc striding toward him, he dropped to his front paws and straightened his tail. It was morning again, and the few wolves who were awake stopped in place and watched D’Arc as she approached the mouth of the cave, where Mercy and her human allies slept. D’Arc knew this guard’s name by now. On the rare occasions when he spoke, he called himself Quick. He and his brother, Mag, took turns patrolling the area between the cave and the rest of the camp. By then, thousands of footsteps had trampled the earth and torn out most of the grass. And yet the few feet in front of the cave remained pristine, a testament to the awe that these wolves inspired.
Quick was not about to let anyone disturb the grass without a good reason. D’Arc stopped right at the edge. She wore her sword on a canvas strap, which crisscrossed a shawl fashioned from wool.
Instead of asking what she wanted, Quick arched his spine, bared his teeth, and lifted his tail. Wolf language was like reading a badly written comic book, the Old Man had once told her. Words, images, expressions and movement all worked together. She knew enough to understand that this wolf wanted her to get to the point.
“I was told I could help,” D’Arc said. When Quick refused to acknowledge this, she placed her hand on her chest and added, “For the wolf prince.”
He must have smelled her milk. All the wolves wrinkled their noses when she came close.
Quick scraped his paw on the earth three times, quickly. An older wolf emerged from the darkness of the cave. Carsa, they called her. Patches of bare skin pocked her gray coat. Her gums were the same color as her fur. When her eyes met Quick’s, the younger wolf tipped his head forward twice, puckered his lips, and flicked his ears. Carsa disappeared inside.
They waited. More onlookers from the camp slowed their gait as they passed.
From deep inside the cave, Carsa barked at Quick, the sound echoing. He led D’Arc to the entrance. Before she could go inside, Quick told her to remove her sword. “Weapon safe with me,” he said.
A reasonable request. She released the sword from her shoulder, which suddenly felt cold without it. Then she stepped through the threshold into the warmth and darkness, like sliding inside of a lung. Carsa gave her room to squeeze by. D’Arc’s eyes adjusted, allowing her to make out a rug made of woven hemp covering the stony floor. In the middle of it, the wolf they called Mercy lay propped on her elbow, with her back to the entrance. Her massive tail rose and fell.
Her head rested in Augur’s lap. The human sat with his legs crossed, his hand brushing her head, grooming her. Much like Tristan used to do to D’Arc at the end of a long day, when they would fall asleep watching game shows and baseball.
While Mercy remained still, Augur gave D’Arc a side-eyed glance. His tattoo formed a mask around his face, with the fangs painted around his lips. His leather tunic and pants made him resemble an animal himself, a beast stitched together from other creatures.
The man’s silence encouraged her to get closer. And when she did, she saw on the other side of Mercy’s body a tiny ball of fur, silver and shiny. A rush of blood made D’Arc wobble a bit. She steadied herself and tried to focus on what Quay had told her to do when she arrived. She dropped to her knees, then slid her paws forward and lowered her chin to the floor. A sign of submission to a higher wolf. To greet her, the man leaned over and brushed his cheek on her forehead.
D’Arc edged closer. The pup’s eyes remained closed. His mouth and tongue lapped at Mercy, but she had gone dry. He whimpered, and the tinny sound of it carried words that only D’Arc could hear. He asked her, Why? Why is this happening?
I don’t know, she thought.
Mercy stretched her paw over his tiny body and pulled him closer. Mercy’s brow shifted as her wet eyes rolled toward this strange visitor. Here, she did not resemble the proud warrior queen that all the dogs from Hosanna had come to praise. Instead, she was one of them, an overgrown pup who wanted someone to comfort her.
A low-pitched noise rumbled in Mercy’s throat.
“Do you speak their language?” the man asked.
“Only a little,” D’Arc said.
“She thanks you.”
Mercy looked away.
D’Arc reached out her paws, making sure to do it slowly. Mercy got to her feet, leaving the pup squirming beneath her. The wolf leaned toward the child, licked him a few times, then nudged him toward D’Arc. A chill passed between mother and son, and the pup shivered and cried out.
I want to go back to the boat, D’Arc heard him say. She scooped him from the floor and lifted him to her chest. He would not suckle and instead twisted his mouth away from her, screaming. No! he said in her mind. Not until you promise to take me to the boat.
The boat is not home, she thought. There is more to the world.
So much more, she remembered. The Old Man was right. So many other things that could hurt you, things you could never imagine until they’re sticking out of a wound in your side.
Who’s the Old Man? the pup asked.
The question opened too many doors. D’Arc could not begin to answer, so the pup repeated himself in a series of annoyed barks. The human and the wolf tilted their heads at the same time.
“He’s feisty,” D’Arc assured them.
Go away if you’re not taking me to the boat, the little one said.
“Here,” D’Arc said, finally connecting with the pup’s mouth. He began to suckle, but also bit hard. She yanked him away for a second to show him he could not do that and then reattached him before he could say anything else. His muscles softened. He relaxed in her arms. She lowered to the ground and sprawled out, allowing him to nestle into her warmth.
Can we leave now? she heard the baby say. D’Arc responded with a gentle “Shhhh,” and then nudged him along to the next nipple.
“He likes you,” the man said.
“Can’t tell yet,” D’Arc replied.
Mercy leaned over and gave the pup two long licks on his back. D’Arc resisted the urge to swat her away. She had long since accepted that this moment would be tainted. Might as well let the wolf who stole her child show some affection. Besides, D’Arc had already studied the layout of the camp. Even if she managed to snatch the pup away, she would never reach the nearest river to wash away her scent. The old human towns, long since reclaimed by the forest, would hide her for only so long. And fleeing inland would lead her into the Mudfoot’s former territory, the Damnable. “The young ones die there,” Quay had told her. “Nothing comes out the same.”
The hopelessness of it all sunk into her heart. Maybe there was nothing she could do except say goodbye.
No! the baby squealed in her mind. You can’t!
With the pup still barking at her, D’Arc asked, “What will you name him?”
“We cannot say yet,” the man said. “A season must pass.”
A long stare from Mercy explained everything. Only after nursing would the wolves have the audacity to give this child a name. Anything before that would invite the Damnable to take him away, as it did all the others.
An argument began outside the cave. It quickly escalated to barking and growling. Another wolf barged in, a female, shoving her way past Carsa. D’Arc recognized her as Urna, the omega of the Mudfoot. With a scrawny frame and thinning fur that fell out in patches, this wolf was no match for Carsa. The old warrior let her go anyway, no doubt as a courtesy to Mercy. Urna, for her part, did not seem smart enough to realize that. She leaned into her hind legs, lowered her snout, and gritted her teeth.
Mercy gave her a quick bark. No, it meant. Friend.
Tell that ugly dog to be quiet, the pup said.
Urna would not listen. She gave several warning barks while batting her paws on the ground. The human must have noticed what bothered her. He pinched the edge of D’Arc’s shawl. D’Arc could not resist him
without disturbing the pup. The human lifted the cloth, revealing the wounds on her side. Mercy yipped when she saw it.
“It’s not the disease,” D’Arc said. “It’s not the Damnable.”
The man nodded to Carsa, who appeared alongside D’Arc faster than she could blink.
“Thank you for your help,” the man said coldly.
Again, Mercy did not need to say anything. An icy stare got her point across. D’Arc forced herself to pluck the baby from her chest. The pup screamed. Mercy scooped the pup into her arms and returned to the same position in which D’Arc had found her.
Another wolf arrived at the mouth of the cave. D’Arc was outnumbered. She needed to retreat. Because her son needed her to live.
Remembering her manners, D’Arc lowered her head in submission. The human leaned over her and pressed his chin onto her forehead to remind her of her place here. D’Arc walked out with Carsa at her side. When she passed Urna, the omega sneezed. D’Arc could not tell if she did it on purpose. On her way to the entrance of the cave, she came face to face with the Junpaw, the female wolf who entered the cave the day before. She must have seen D’Arc enter and immediately ran to the cave to ask what was going on. Her two pups cowered behind her, scared but still feigning anger. D’Arc hurried past them.
From inside the cave, the pup continued to call for her. Where are you going? Where are you?
February 6
WEATHER: Overcast.
Entered the cave today to help nurse the newborn male. Mercy and Augur thanked me for my service.
Quay will not shut up about how honored I should feel to have been so close to the wolf prince.
In the afternoon, the word went out from the Mudfoot: the Confederacy of wolves is holding a ken-ra, and Mercy will leave for it tomorrow. She is bringing the child, along with her closest advisors. Everyone thinks that she is planning to work out a peace agreement. Quay thinks that Mercy will ask the other packs to surrender. Or to join her.
They leave at first light.
Personal health: No sleep tonight.
D’Arc waited for a thick bank of clouds to seal in the moon before making her move. With her sword strapped on, unsheathed, she slinked through the camp, past the snoring wolves, each pack forming a low pyramid as they huddled around their leaders and dozed off for the night. A few of them stirred and yawned. At least two—the most hardened hunters, she imagined—awakened after their nostrils detected a disturbance in the air. But because D’Arc headed for the latrine, they paid her no attention, grateful that she did not relieve herself in front of everyone, as so many of the wild animals did here.
The Junpaw clan slept at the edge of the camp, circling a dead tree stump. Their leader—a male—was old and weak, barely hanging on to power. Many of the wolves still clung to the ones who led them through the early years of the war. She could imagine this old Junpaw concocting a plan to resurrect his pack through the Mudfoot. If they could only prove themselves worthy—or at least useful—then whatever mistakes he had made over the last few years would be forgotten.
The mother wolf slept with her two pups still clamped to her chest. They must have fallen asleep trying to salvage whatever remained from her session with the wolf prince. D’Arc tried not to dwell on the possibility that the pack coerced this female to serve the Mudfoot. Maybe the Junpaw had offered her as a gift. In the seconds that followed, D’Arc would have to flush out all pity, all remorse. Everything depended on it.
On all four limbs, she pressed the blade of the sword to the wolf’s neck so that the coldness of it could seep into the skin. As the wolf’s eyes opened, D’Arc clamped the muzzle shut with her hand.
“Shhhhh,” she said. A gust of wind covered the noise. One of the pups squirmed.
The Junpaw snorted in disbelief. Then she blinked a few times, more slowly, as the awful truth of her predicament became clear.
“Tomorrow, Mercy and her circle go to meet the council,” D’Arc said. “They are bringing a wet nurse. That’s you.”
The Junpaw nodded.
“Not anymore,” D’Arc said. “You’re sick. Don’t want to infect the wolf prince. Got it?”
“Who are you?” the Junpaw asked, teeth clenched.
“I don’t know.” It slipped from D’Arc’s mouth. She couldn’t help it.
“You are the Opa’s pet dog,” the Junpaw said. “You think you can—”
D’Arc silenced her by pressing the blade harder into the skin. The Junpaw whimpered.
“If one of your children wakes up,” D’Arc said, “the last thing they’ll see is my sword.”
The Junpaw’s eye rolled in its socket, searching for anyone who could help. But they were all dreaming. A male sleeping right next to her twitched a little before nestling into a more comfortable position.
“If you go to the ken-ra, your children won’t be here when you return,” D’Arc added. “Stay here with them, and you all get to live.”
She decided to sneak away before this mask she wore fell off. She let go of the wolf’s muzzle. The mouth opened, ready to speak, but then shut again.
D’Arc slipped behind the wolves of the Hachi pack. As the Junpaw disappeared from view, the mother wolf pulled her two pups closer.
February 7
WEATHER: Freezing rain. Miserable.
The Junpaw clan issued a series of howls first thing in the morning. Three of their own went missing in the night. A female and her two pups. The Junpaws sent their best trackers to follow her scent, but it looks like she simply abandoned the camp, the first to do so, as far as anyone knows.
The human Augur approached me at midday. He inspected my wounds to make sure I’m not sick. Then he asked me to join Mercy and her inner circle as wet nurse as they march to the ken-ra. I accepted. Augur told me to be at the cave at first light tomorrow. Long journey ahead.
Quay burst into tears as soon as Augur walked away. She told me that she knew I was special. She wished she could come with me.
The entire camp sings well into the night. They make up new lyrics as they go, all about Mercy the Merciful and the peace she promises. True, lasting peace.
Personal health: I feel strong. Rested. Ready.
I am a beacon of light. Guiding the other ships home.
Chapter 11
Absolute Bearing
The senior staff filed into the narrow wardroom of the Vesuvius. It was one of the few chambers on the ship that one could describe as cozy, with wood panels on the walls, a bookshelf of maritime volumes, and a painting of the airship flying toward the sunrise. The chef had prepared a bean soup with an insect puree, flavored and spiced so that the humans would mistake it for crab meat. Falkirk rose to greet the officers as they arrived, each wearing freshly pressed aquamarine jumpsuits. They took their assigned places in order of seniority. Ruiz pulled out the chair to the right of the captain; O’Neill was to the left. Bulan and Unoka filled the remaining seats. An empty spot remained for the lead security officer—a cat named Limbo—who had excused himself to oversee a training session with the new marines on board.
With everyone seated, Falkirk asked Unoka to give the invocation. The pilot interlaced his long fingers at his chin and cleared his throat, making his Adam’s apple bob. He thanked God for the food and for bringing them together. “May the Prophet Michael watch over us,” he concluded. As soon as he finished, Bulan’s hairy arm shot out and grabbed her spoon. While she slurped the soup, the others unfolded their napkins.
An oppressive silence took hold, interrupted only by the sound of the utensils scraping the porcelain. Falkirk let it go. He figured that any attempt to make small talk would only add to the tension. At dinner the night before—soon after setting out from Liberty One Tower—they had a lively discussion about everything from the expedited repair schedule to the rumors of wolf attacks at the edge of the city. When Unoka claimed the controls
handled differently after losing an engine, O’Neill groaned. “Oh no, are we gonna hear another story about piloting during the war?” she asked.
“Don’t tempt me,” Unoka said.
Ruiz piled on by impersonating Unoka’s Nigerian accent: “I flew a Soviet-made cargo plane with only one engine . . .”
“Through a hurricane!” Bulan added.
“Through two hurricanes!” Ruiz continued. “I had to get out and push!”
“It’s all true,” Unoka said. “Let me tell you the story again.”
“No,” they had said in unison.
No such banter this time. Amid the awkward silence, Bulan abandoned her spoon and lifted the bowl to her lips to drink the last few drops. When she finished, she wiped her mouth with her wrist and moved on to the insect dip. Her long arm hair absently brushed against Unoka, but he ignored it.
Falkirk did not want this dinner to end on a bad note, so he asked O’Neill to open the liquor cabinet. She pulled out a bottle of whiskey, along with five glasses that she slid in front of her colleagues. “I figured we should, while we still could,” Falkirk said. He pulled the stopper out of the bottle.
“Sir,” Ruiz said. “Before we do that, I wanted to ask you about the course correction you made today.”
Falkirk did not react. He continued filling the glasses until only Ruiz’s remained empty. The first officer held on to his as he awaited a response.
“What would you like to know?” Falkirk asked. “Besides what I have already told you?”
“We expected to track the Mudfoot on this mission. Instead we’re flying over Mournful territory. There haven’t been any reports of trouble there since the peace talks began.”
Again, Falkirk tried not to react. Ruiz played a tricky game here. As first officer, his primary assignment was to execute the captain’s commands, and never to criticize them in front of the others. With these innocuous questions, he toed that line, though barely. Falkirk would have to play along.
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