by Asta Bowen
Suddenly, the old wolf’s pace quickened. Ears forward, eyes narrow, his nose dropped to the ground and didn’t come up again. He began to run. Now it was Marta’s turn, and she took up the scent: it was of a young doe, medium size, with an odd tinge to its leavings. Marta trotted out ahead and began to pick up speed.
Marta was strong on the hunt. Where Calef was solid and Oldtooth shrewd, she was fast, with endurance to spare. Her eyes glowed gold as she led into the sun, and silver lights flickered in her black fur. Fine-boned and lean, the weight of pregnancy slowed her now, but nothing stopped her. She loved the chase.
Where the scent was strong, Marta sprinted; where it grew faint, she slowed. Oldtooth dropped to the rear and loped behind Calef at a steady rate. The scent of food filled their noses, and blood began to sing in their ears. Hearts pounded, tongues panted, and a tingle started at the base of their teeth. Marta led them out of the meadow and across the road—this time, no one stopped to listen—and into a draw west of the new den.
In the underbrush, Marta slowed. Her padded feet fell silently through the kinnikinnick, over fallen timber, and around stumps. Up the hill the scent grew stronger and fresher, but the wolves neither howled nor whined their excitement. A young doe could run, and fast; silence was essential for surprise.
Suddenly a flash caught Marta’s eye: the whitetail. Startled, Marta stepped hard on a branch, which gave way with a snap. Up jerked the deer’s head, and she spun around and saw the wolves: three sets of teeth and tongue panting toward her on a run. Tail high, with a spray of pellets the deer bounded away.
The surprise lost, Marta tore through the trees. Crushing branches and breaking brush, she squeezed the heat from her muscles for a full sprint, testing the deer. Had the doe won that race, Marta would have stopped, signaling an end to the chase and saving the pack’s energy for easier prey. But the deer lagged, and the wolves gained on her.
When Marta was almost at the doe’s tail, she lunged. It was a takedown move, aimed for the side of the belly, but could be deadly either way. An error here, and the wolf could catch a flying hoof in her face, taking out an eye or even precious teeth. But the timing was right, and Marta’s jaws met flesh. A bite, a twist, and the hide tore open.
The deer did not stop, racing now against the loss of her own blood. From the side Marta lunged again, missed and fell back. Normally she would have made the strike, but the weight in her belly cost her the span of a tooth. Before Marta could catch her breath for another try, Calef soared over her back, landing square in the path of the deer. She reared up, spinning away, but there was Oldtooth: paws forward, head lowered, staring her down with huge eyes. Cornered, the deer twisted back again, but Calef twisted with her. He spun in midair, jaws wide, and connected with her throat. For an instant, the shadow of his enormous head fell across her neck. Then a sinking bite, a crush, and the deer fell. The chase was done.
Calef and Marta tore into the animal, with Oldtooth close behind. The meat was lean and healthy, except for a milky place in the gut that smelled like the tinge in her droppings. Avoiding that place, ripping hide and gulping flesh, the pack fed until they could eat no more. Then they rested, cleaning themselves as ravens circled in on the remains.
Oldtooth blinked. That was three days ago. There would be no more such hunts now that Calef was gone. Without Calef, their hunting team was down to two; with the new litter of pups, their numbers were up to five. As long as the babies were too young to be left alone, both adults could not hunt at once, and the team went from two to one. That one, because of Oldtooth’s condition, had to be Marta. Unfortunately, it was also Marta who carried the milk to nurse the babies. The burden of the pack’s survival fell on her narrow black shoulders.
Oldtooth did his arithmetic. He measured himself and Marta against the deer they would need every week to survive. He measured the pups beginning to toddle about inside the den, and pictured them in autumn: one would survive. With luck, good weather, and easy hunting, two might make it—but not three. Not without Calef. It just didn’t add up.
Three
A Baby’s Cry
Fortunately for the wolves, winter ended kindly that year. The first rains were generous, rushing down the creeks to water the great basin of Pleasant Valley. The edges of Dahl Lake sparkled as it filled and spread toward the aspen grove. New meadow grasses wiggled up through the old, and the deer of Pleasant Valley gave birth to more fawns than usual. The herd grazed everywhere, even in the meadow near the wolf den.
In the days after the pups’ birth and Calef’s death, Marta scarcely left the den. On his own, Oldtooth did the only kind of hunting he could, snatching every rabbit, mouse, mole, and vole in his path and making short work of one fawn left untended by its mother. One day he even stalked a badger, but all he got for his pains was a badger bite. Not all animals are easy victims, even for a wolf, and when Oldtooth slunk back to the den, he turned to hide the notch in his fur.
Marta did not notice his slinking, and she did not notice the notch. Despite the gifts of food Oldtooth presented at the door of the den, despite the signs of an easy spring, despite her three new pups, Marta suffered the loss of her mate.
Her eyes and fur seemed flat, and she carried her tail low. Nursing took all her energy; she did not hunt and she did not play. Before, the simplest acts of waking up, chewing a stick, or even grooming could turn into a game on a moment’s notice. But since Calef’s death, neither Oldtooth nor Marta had worn a play face or whined a play whine.
The burden of survival fell to Marta, and for now, it fell heavily. The first task, nursing the pups, occupied her entirely. For several weeks she did not hunt, living on whatever Oldtooth could bring her. She did not leave the pups except to drink—making short trips to the creek—and to relieve herself. There was one exception. Every night, just as Calef had done on his last hunt, Marta slipped from the den after sundown. Leaving Oldtooth on guard, she put her nose to the ground and followed her mate’s last trail, returning night after night to the same place: the ridge top above the den.
At the crest of the hill she stopped, sniffed the air, and whined softly, swishing her tail in the dusk. The wind blew darkness into her black fur, and the steep angles of her face faded into the night. Sometimes her whine grew louder, filling her throat like a groan, and she would lift her great nose to the sky, blinking as the whine became a howl. Sometimes high, sometimes low; sometimes soft, sometimes loud; she sang the ache in her belly and the hollow in her chest. She sang the hungry song, the lonesome song, the lost song, and the song that only she and Calef knew.
Her howls echoed to the south, making the sheep look up from their beds. They echoed to the north, rolling down tops of trees and fading over the meadow. Sometimes a trickle of sound reached all the way into the den, where three sightless pups huddled on the clay and whimpered to each other, not knowing why. When Marta returned, they tumbled over one another in a rush to her warmth.
One morning when the babies were a few weeks old, Marta was awakened by a tiny cry. She nuzzled at her belly and found only the two larger pups curled there. Sula, the black female and smallest of the three, was missing. Once their eyes opened, the pups had begun to explore the den, so Marta sniffed expectantly for the little one. But Sula was not exploring; she had dragged herself off to the edge of the den, where there was nothing but cold and clay. Marta made a long reach with her head, bared her front teeth, and grasped Sula by the skin of the neck, drawing her daughter close. Something was wrong.
Marta sniffed intently at the pup, front to back. The little one was trembling and cold, but her tiny nose was hot. Her breath came short and dry at the mouth, and she was dry at the rear too. All three babies were still scruffy and rat-tailed, but where her brother and sister, Rann and Annie, were round, she was flat.
Sula’s problem was simple but deadly: she was starving. Her brother and sister were quicker to nurse and stronger to suck, and when Marta’s milk ran out—as it too often did—Sula was the one who
went hungry.
In the blackness, Marta’s ears went forward. The hair went up on her neck, and she nosed Rann and Annie roughly away. Ignoring their squeals, she pushed Sula to the front, the fullest teat, and nudged the pup’s dry nose toward it. Then Marta waited. Sula blinked, sniffing weakly about her, not realizing where she was. Her little head wobbled when she finally smelled milk, but she didn’t open her mouth. Marta pressed out a droplet and guided Sula to it.
When her lips touched milk, Sula finally opened her mouth and closed it around the nipple. Marta felt a slight pull. Sula swallowed a few drops and stopped. Marta whined, touching Sula’s cheek with her nose, and the infant sucked again, stronger this time. When she swallowed again, Rann and Annie wiggled closer for their share, but Marta gave the softest of warnings—not a growl, but a coarse breath from deep in her throat—and the two backed away. Sula nursed fitfully, and by the time Marta felt her milk finally begin to flow, Rann and Annie had fallen asleep in the warmth of her lower belly. After a time, Sula’s sucking slowed and then stopped. Marta heard the tiniest of sighs and felt the infant’s mouth slide from her nipple. Sula, too, was asleep.
Marta laid her nose on her paws. Eyes wide and ears pricked, she listened to the breathing of her young. The time had come. When they wakened, she would hunt.
Four
Last in Line
Marta had not had to hunt alone, not for anything more than beaver, since meeting up with Calef. Alone was how she had learned to hunt, back in the north; that time was dim now, far in the past, though it had been little more than a year since she lost her birth pack. Marta drew a long breath. Those were not the good old days. Not at all.
She watched Sula sleeping and lapped at the moisture that began to trickle, finally, from under the pup’s tail. Marta had been last in her litter too—but she had had six brothers and sisters, not two. The year she was born there was plenty of wild game, and the pack had plenty of adults to feed her nursing mother. Still, with seven noses scrambling for a teat, when the milk was gone, it was gone. Marta had never been as thin as Sula—but never as plump as Rann or Annie, either.
From the time Marta was born, she was forced to the outside, the back, the end of the line and beyond. When the pups left the den, she was the last one out. When the pack moved for the first time, she was barked back and had to follow at a distance. When she finally caught up at the rendezvous site, she watched from the edge of the clearing as her brothers and sisters licked at the mouths of their elders. Her mouth watered when the adults heaved up the meat they had carried back from the kill site in their bellies.
When Marta couldn’t hold back any longer, she moved in. Braving snarls and snaps, she darted after scraps missed by the others. She picked up bones her siblings dropped, and ran away to chew them clean. But if she tried to whine or lick for her own food, most of the adults turned their muzzles away. A few growled outright. As time went on, Marta discovered one pack member—an older female with eyes like Oldtooth’s—who would give what she had. But by the time Marta could get near, there was not much to be given.
Now, years later, Marta’s own daughter was struggling for life, not because Sula was an outcast but because one of the pack’s hunters had been killed. Though Oldtooth tried, he could not bring back enough meat to feed Marta and the new pups, not to mention himself. Half a hunter could not feed a whole pack; his arithmetic held true.
When Annie wakened from her nap, she wriggled in and began to nurse. Marta did not stop her this time, but nudged Sula too. The black eyes did not open, and Marta nudged harder, heart pumping—and the pup blinked awake. With another touch from her mother’s nose, she parted her tiny jaws and fastened them to the nipple.
Rann, the plumpest of the three, skipped mealtime to inspect the new order of things in the den. He toddled a few steps from Marta’s thin hindquarters and sniffed at Sula as she drank. The tip of his black tail waved in the darkness, and he moved on toward Marta’s head. There he received an affectionate lick, which became a thorough cleaning. With a few swats at Marta’s nose and cheeks, Rann tried to turn the bath to playtime, but his mother ignored the bats from his puppy paws. As soon as he was clean, she sent him off with a gentle push to his backside.
There would be no playtime today, because the time had come for Marta to hunt. Sula was alert now, but her breathing came short and shallow. The others would be fine for a few hours; Annie had finished nursing and was already trading puppy snarls and neck attacks with Rann. As for Sula—if Marta was gone too long, the pup might die. But if Marta did not go now, she would certainly die. The milk was gone, and the ache in Marta’s belly had begun to chafe at her ribs. Marta gently pushed the pup from her belly. Giving Sula a long look and a short, earnest lick, she ducked out through the den tunnel.
Outside, Marta blinked at the brightness of the day. Oldtooth had been listening, chin on paws, to Rann and Annie playing inside, and looked up in surprise when Marta stepped over the pair of squirrels he had laid at the den entrance. Then he saw the reason: for the first time since the pups were born, she was wearing the hunting face.
Hunger showed in the hollows under her eyes, and her narrow form seemed even narrower. Her coat looked shaggy, more gray than black, but her eyes burned bright as sulphur. Oldtooth rose to his feet. In Marta’s face he saw the promise of food and licked her whiskers with a graceful sweep. Then the two stood, nose to nose, and sang a hunting song. Now the sole alpha of their small pack, Marta held her head high, sweeping her tail in broad strokes as Calef had always done.
Then she was off.
Five
Marta Hunts Alone
This hunt had to be fast and sure. The sun already shone high above the east hills, and before it slanted far to the west, Marta would have to be back at the den with meat in her belly. Energized by Oldtooth’s salute and the pang under her ribs, she headed toward the road.
Midday was not the best time for hunting. Deer liked to bed down during the bright hours, coming out early or late. But this was Pleasant Valley; the animals were everywhere, and Marta would find one. Five lives depended on it.
Seeing nothing in the meadow, Marta turned and trotted down the road. This was one rule of wolf travel: never go the hard way if there’s an easy one. She ran with purpose, stepping around the cow piles that, though dry, still rankled her nose. Other scents that rose from the clay made her move quickly along the road: oil and metal. Metal and oil, the smell of humans.
Marta had barely begun to pant when the first hint of food hit her nostrils. She took a long drink of the smell as Oldtooth always did, but all she could tell was that the tracks were fresh. She dropped her head to follow them, but jerked it back up at a puff of air from the trees.
The scent said there was a large, warm animal on the hillside. Deer or elk, young or old, it was food and it was close. Marta sniffed the air casually. She made no sound as she slipped off the road and into the barrow pit. Like a sculpture she froze there, pointed uphill: ears forward, legs rigid, only the tiny muscles around her nose trembling. The air was full of new ferns, lichen, kinnikinnick sprouts, rotting logs—but only one scent mattered. Food. The message spread from her nose to her lungs, pumping blood to her muscles and out to the roots of her guard hairs. The black mane around her neck stood out straighter. Her teeth tingled.
Suddenly the air overhead broke with a blast of sound, and Marta dropped. The grass was too short for cover, so she flattened herself in the ditch and cringed against the roar of an engine. As the mud seeped through her thin fur, an airplane appeared, buzzing the hillside. Marta eased deeper into the chill, waiting for the noise of the plane to fade. When she stood again, she could not tell if the animal she had scented was still there.
Marta shook off the cold and crept into the trees. Her casual air was gone, and the fearful triangle of her eyes and nose focused on one thing. Directly ahead, in a shallow between two fir trees, were two tips of velvet. Buck velvet. Not five lengths away, a whitetail deer was down for
a midday rest. Marta had never chanced this close to sleeping prey. She took a step, feeling the downhill flow of air that was keeping her wolf scent away from him.
Marta inched closer, and his ears did not flicker. Finding bare soil, the most silent footing, she stepped carefully around each twig and leaf. She placed one footpad to the earth, and then the other. Pad, earth. Pad, earth. The antler tips did not move. Marta moved on instinct: breathe deep. No scent. Move swiftly. No sound. Fill lungs and prepare to kill. If her body was drained from nursing, her instinct was not.
Two lengths away from the antlers, she lunged. With a thrust from her haunches, she flew teeth first over the rise, aiming at an unseen spot under the tips of velvet. When she closed her mouth, it was filled with blood. But she had hit the shoulder instead of the neck, and the buck jerked awake, punching a velvet spike into her side. Marta flinched, but the new antler was still soft, and did not hurt her. She bit harder, tearing his hide open. More blood. The buck speared her again. She let go, gave desperate aim at the windpipe, and bit. The buck stiffened, then slumped.
Now Marta tore back the hide, gulping neck meat, veins, and tendons in one mouthful. Next she opened the belly, taking the first strips of summer fat. Soon she was bathed in blood. It soaked her jaws and paws, and flecked her black coat as she took organ from muscle and muscle from bone. She savored the softest parts first, leaving less to spoil, and paused only to listen, catch her breath, or swallow a string of intestine. As she ate, a lone raven appeared and circled overhead, landing on a high branch and clucking over the kill.
Before long Marta’s stomach, shrunken from weeks of small meals, began to protest. She could hold no more. When the pups were older, she could put more in her belly, since it would only be full while she carried the meat back to them. For now, her system still had to turn it into milk. Marta’s gulps slowed, then stopped. She sniffed the length of the carcass, licking at the rich blood. Then she went to work on her fur, cleaning her face, paws, and the body of her coat.