A Wolf in the Dark

by S E Turner

  'Perhaps they did,' said the old man thoughtfully. He lingered a moment, feeling the boy's pain until the medicine man offered a polite cough. 'How do you know they are dead?' Laith's voice was struggling .

  'There was so much noise and people screaming. There was fire and smoke with bits of the castle falling everywhere. No one could survive that. I waited for ages by the door and no one came for me. I tried to open it, but I couldn't get back in.'

  'And the wounds on your body?'

  'The soldier cut my neck. And these ...' He offered his bloodied arms and legs. 'By running into the tunnel walls in the dark.'

  Laith felt the need to bite his bottom lip to stifle his emotion after which he faced the boy. 'You have acted remarkably strong for one so young. Even grown men would have wept and trembled when faced with so much fear. Your parents would be proud of you.'

  'My father always wanted me to show more courage,' said Lyall, sniffing at his runny nose. 'I think I have done as he wished now.'

  Sadness tinged the swollen hut for a moment until Zoraster rejoiced. 'Remember that courage is not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. You have been tested by the gods and have shown tremendous bravery this day.'

  The words sat proud in Lyall's heart as Laith concluded. 'Lyall of Durundal, you will join our clan. We will look after you now.'

  'Thank you, Laith. You are most gracious.' A loud sigh accompanied Lyall's sense of relief. 'And thank you Namir, Zoraster, and Skyrah. You are all very kind.'

  Each one nodded back to him in response.

  The old man continued to scrutinize the new clan member and finally turned to his son. 'Namir, we need to take special care of this boy. He will be in shock for some time. Could he stay with you?'

  Namir studied the frightened lad—cold, alone and terrified. He could only imagine what he must be going through. 'Of course, Father. We must always help those in need.'

  'You speak with compassion and I am pleased with your answer. Skyrah, will you take Lyall to Namir's hut, tend to his wounds, and give him some warmer clothes. He looks like he's going to freeze to death before those wounds fester.'

  Lyall felt the leader's eyes on him, mirrored by the medicine man's gaze as he walked out of their vision with his newfound friends.

  'Are you all right, old friend? That's a terrible shock that you have just had.' Zoraster put a hand on the old man's trembling arm.

  'I will be, Zoraster... I will go and stand by the menhirs for a while and ask the spirits for strength.' Laith's answer was sombre.

  'You know it's him, don't you?'

  'Yes... I know it's him.'

  'You must tell him, Laith. He has a right to know.'

  The leader shook his head despairingly. 'No, not yet. Let the dust settle first. We have all had one too many shocks today. But I will tell him when the time is right. I promise.'

  Chapter Four

  Namir followed his father's instructions and took his haul of fish to the women folk to prepare for the ceremony. Skyrah took Lyall to Namir's hut to bathe his wounds and put the healing unguent of plants on his cuts and bruises. She turned away as he shyly exchanged his sodden ripped pyjama trousers for a simple tunic top. The leaves were left in place to aid recovery on his neck, arms, and legs while his feet were bound with warm sheepskin boots to protect them. Finally, she fitted him with the fleece from a boar and made a soothing moly to relax him.

  'You have been through a terrible ordeal,' she said kindly, putting his mother's shawl over him. 'I am sorry I was so hostile earlier. I feel ashamed now. Please forgive me.'

  'There is nothing to forgive,' he assured her.

  He sipped slowly from the tea, and as he watched her stir the contents of a cauldron hovering over a small fire, a beautiful voice began to sing .

  'The wild wind blows through valleys, my love

  The wild wind blows through the trees

  The wild wind blows o'er the rivers, my love

  But will n'er get close to thee.

  The wild rain storms through the valleys my love

  The wild rain storms through the trees

  The wild rain storms o'er the rivers my love

  But none will get close to thee.'

  Lyall's cup remained poised at his chin as he stared at her open mouthed.

  She caught his frozen expression and looked alarmed. 'Are you all right, Lyall?'

  'Where did you learn that?' his tone was hushed with utter bewilderment.

  'Laith taught it to us,' she answered. 'We all sing it to soothe those in need and ward off evil spirits.'

  'How does Laith know it?' he continued.

  'That I do not know. Perhaps you should ask him when you are better.'

  He couldn't take his eyes off her beautiful face: a graceful long neck that supported a defined jaw, full lips under a straight narrow nose, high cheekbones on a symmetrical face, and huge brown eyes framed by deep dark eyebrows that matched her tumbling waves of ebony hair.

  She retracted a coy gaze as her eyes met his.

  'What is the ceremony tonight?' He struggled to find some words to fill the void, knowing he had made her feel uncomfortable.

  'It is our most sacred custom, Lyall. When a newborn son has witnessed three new moons, he is presented to the gods and we celebrate with the naming ritual.'

  'Naming ritual?' he stammered in a soft, tremulous voice.

  'Wait and see. It is such a wonderful experience.'

  He had heard stories about the savage rituals, so didn't push it any further. Instead, he changed the topic and pointed to a dyed image at the top of her arm. 'Why do you have the tattoo of a hare on your shoulder?'

  'It's a female symbol and represents intuition and regeneration,' she responded proudly. She sat down and offered him a bowl of food. 'It's been said that many years ago, a young disfigured girl sought refuge in the clan. Laith gave her the totem of a hare to protect her. One day, she went away. No one knew why, and she was never seen again. But from that day on, Laith continued to give all females of the clan the symbol of a hare to protect them and tattooed the image onto their arm for added protection.'

  Lyall looked on mesmerised. 'That's a remarkable story. I wonder what became of the little girl?' He sighed heavily. 'My mother showed me the image of the hare in the moon many times.'

  Skyrah looked at him in awe. 'Did she tell you that when the moon is full, you can see the earth hare gazing up at her reflection?'

  'She did. She knew a lot about that kind of thing.' He looked at her and smiled. 'What is Namir's totem tattoo? '

  She smiled back. 'The leopard.'

  A movement at the entrance halted their conversation as Namir entered the hut. Skyrah got up to pour him a mug of fresh nettle tea and handed him a bowl of the tasty broth.

  Lyall immediately noticed the affection in their gaze, the sensitive touch as she brushed past him, the soft welcome in her voice where the years they shared had created a special bond. He had seen the same subtleties between his parents.

  'I hope you are feeling better, Lyall,' he said kindly.

  'Yes, I am, and thank you so much for your hospitality. I hope you don't mind me staying here with you.'

  'Not at all. It is a simple home and sparsely decorated but it is warm and comfortable.'

  'It's just perfect. I consider myself very lucky.'

  It was indeed sparse, and certainly could fit no more than three people in comfortably. An assortment of animal hide cushions served as lounging seats, whilst layers of animal pelts and woven blankets befitted the sleeping arrangements. There were a few wooden stools and a table with a few provisions and utensils on them, but the fire was the focal point which everyone would sit round. A cauldron and a kettle sat continually on the hearth and would be moved outside in the warmer months.

  Lyall looked at Namir's totem tattoo and was fascinated with the meaning. He studied the boy in front of him and wondered how he would have fared in the gripping darkness of the cave. Would Namir have react
ed like a frightened mouse? Would he have cried like a baby and nearly given up? He thought not. Namir was fast and strong like a leopard. He wasn't scared of anything. He had probably grown up with fear around him and conquered it—living outside and surviving off the land, hunting and trapping and making his own spears.

  No, this was a far cry from his own life where he had been closeted and cushioned, given a life of wealth, privilege and security, never knowing until now what true courage meant. If he was to ever return to Durundal as a man and take his place as king, he would have to demonstrate a different kind of strength and overcome his fears.

  He felt the heat of the wound branding into the crease of his neck, defining a mark that would constantly remind him of his failings and how he overcame them. He continued his self-berating and wondered what tattoo he would have been given. The thoughts consumed him while Skyrah and Namir were immersed in conversation.

  With the sounds of his new friends comforting him and the homely warmth of the fire, he felt himself drifting off to sleep. At last it was safe to close his eyes.

  But not for long, though. It seemed only too soon he was being woken up again. Bleary eyes opened to a familiar voice and someone gently nudging him.

  'We must go now,' said Namir.

  'Go where?' he replied sleepily, trying to stifle his panic. He vividly remembered that being woken from sleep meant something terrible was going to happen.

  'The Name Giving ritual.'

  Chapter Five

  He must have slept all day, he thought, as he followed Namir and Skyrah out into the moonlight. He stretched out his aching limbs and decided that the walk would be good for him. All around him an excitement buzzed, and he craned his neck to marvel at his new surroundings. The huge circle of standing stones loomed over him, creating a humble temple of enormous power, and between the stones the tribe filtered in with heads burrowed low and hands pressed together summoning the giants to do their work.

  As the sun bowed out gracefully to the huge frost moon, the clan took their places quietly and waited. There was not a sound, not even a quiver.

  A subtle gesture from Zoraster invited the mother to move forward and present her newborn baby to the gods. Laith waited for the pivotal alignment of the celestial orbs.

  The bright full sphere looked as if it would burst when the leader broke the tranquil silence and began the proceedings. 'Comrades, citizens, people of the clan. A new child is born to the Earth Mother Orla and will be welcomed into our community. Her son has witnessed three new moons, the gods and spirits favour him. And now, we welcome the infant with food, love and other offerings of wealth in our stone circles. It is a special time for all of us to renew our own vows with Orla's child as we remember that nature is connected at an unseen level. How animals, birds, plants and rocks all have lessons to teach and messages to share. These messages are instrumental for us to survive; they have been passed down to us from the gods and our forefathers, providing direction, protection, and healing. Citizens, hold your thoughts within these stone circles and pray for this miracle as we feast with the spirits and give this new creation his guide.'

  Lyall watched and listened intently as the clan bowed before Laith in recognition of this ancient ritual. A nudge from Namir instructed Lyall to follow protocol with a bow, and he continued to concentrate on the events.

  As Orla gave her naked child to Laith, he continued. 'Each newborn son is given the spirit of a chosen animal by their parents at birth—this will protect and guide the bearer in this life, the next life and throughout eternity. The spirit guide and totem for this child is the Eagle as it exhibits a great strength, it has established a long life, but above all else it demonstrates freedom. The Eagle will serve its bearer well.'

  The infant was then given to Kal, his father, to hold securely, and it took a while for Lyall to understand what was going on as events took a sinister turn .

  Moonlight silvered the edge of Zoraster's quill as he began to engrave blue dye into the newborn's flesh with a hollowed filed bone. Lyall looked on in horror. 'Where is the brush and paint?' he shouted in his head. 'This can't be real. I must be dreaming again!' He felt the blood drain from his face and was compelled to put his hands over his ears as the child's agonised screams pierced the air and gravitated round the standing stones. The sound was deafening in the silence and cut an octave higher than Orla's wails begging the spirits to give her tiny boy the strength to overcome his pain.

  The clan stood watching, mesmerised. Lyall looked at Namir for guidance, but he too was entranced. Lyall wanted to run in and put an end to it. 'Please stop!' the voice struggled in his head. He had to prevent himself from shouting it out loud to stop the torture. Panic set in and he swallowed the retch. Had all those stories been founded? Did Skyrah neglect to tell him the truth deliberately? He felt the familiar beaded sweat of fear run down his spine and his stomach churn. Rooted to the spot with terror he asked himself: 'Is the child about to be sacrificed?'

  Kal held onto the tiny squirming frame tightly while the bad omens were sent fleeing from the soul as he howled into the sunset.

  'The child is named Arran,' continued Laith. 'The gods have welcomed him.'

  His fears were unfounded as the healing nectar of a plant was administered to the wound and Orla put her shivering baby to her breast for comfort.

  All those tales of sacrificing the first born and drinking their blood were clearly myths. So why did the guards speak of such things? These people were not savages who ripped the hearts out of animals and ate them for added strength. These were humble people living their lives peacefully and with honour. The boy chastised himself for even thinking any one of them was a savage. He stood by one of the enormous stones and looked up to the moon.

  Namir spotted the thoughtful lad. 'Are you mesmerised?'

  'I am, Namir, I really am.'

  'It's a wonderful experience, isn't it, Lyall?' trilled Skyrah, descending excitedly on the two boys.

  'I really wasn't expecting that, I must admit.'

  'This ritual ensures strength and courage for the boy,' she clarified. 'The parents know their son will be strong with its animal totem engraved into his skin.'

  'Perhaps I should have had one when I was born.' Lyall's smile was thin.

  'You are already strong, Lyall. You are the son of a king with king's blood.'

  'I didn't feel very strong in the tunnel.' He hung his head in shame.

  'We all fear the unknown, my friend,' said Namir wrapping an arm around the lad's shoulder. 'Fear is in all of us, and you have nothing to feel ashamed about. You are stronger than you give yourself credit for. Remember what Zoraster said—you overcame your fears.'

  'I know, I must remember that. Thank you, Namir.'

  'Come, tell us about life in a castle. We know nothing of that,' urged Skyrah changing the subject .

  'Well, it's very different to here,' he began, strangely lifted. 'Here, you live side by side with nature where you have no walls or boundaries. Life in a castle is the opposite.'

  'How?' she asked.

  'Think of endless stone walls rising to the skies and beyond. Where turrets touch the clouds, and a creaking wooden drawbridge echoes with the sound of a thousand footsteps. Imagine a fortress full of rich tapestries and fine furniture, where each room has a roaring fire to keep out the chill. A vast space is on the lower floors where all the food is brought in and cooked to perfection. And below that, a winding staircase creeps down into the vaults underground, where all manner of castle needs are stored like wine, beer and armoury.'

  Namir and Skyrah opened their eyes wider with each description.

  'I had a guard that took me out for archery practice, I had a governess who taught me how to read and write, and I had a maid who would make sure I didn't miss my archery or my lessons.'

  'I can hardly imagine a life like that,' said Namir.

  'What about your freedom?' asked Skyrah.

  'Freedom?' Lyall raised an eyebrow.


  'Yes, to run free. To get up with the rising sun, to sleep when the sun goes down, to gain knowledge from the land.'

  'What you don't have, you don't miss.' He lowered his brow again.

  'And now that it's all gone, do you miss it? '

  'I'm not sure, Namir. It's a strange feeling, but I feel that this is my home now.'

  'I hope you don't change your mind,' said Namir. 'We will do everything we can to make your life easier for you, won't we, Skyrah?'

  'Of course, we will, we all will, we are a gentle, peaceful clan. Laith has made sure of that.'

  He had been convalescing for a few weeks now, the wounds on his legs and arms were healing, and he wasn't waking up in the early hours quite so often now, much to the relief of Namir. Though whenever he woke up with his night terrors, he sat up, saw Namir, and that put him at ease. He didn't feel alone or vulnerable, he didn't feel scared anymore, he didn't feel the need for protection—until the day he crossed Suma and Targ.

  Winter was just round the corner, and that meant shorter days and more time in the camp, fixing utensils, mending worn huts, forging weapons and practising skills. Namir was an expert with a spear, as were the other boys. They could hit a target at any distance, it seemed. Lyall had watched them sitting for hours, chatting with boyish humour, stripping their lances, polishing the shaft, and then letting the sharpened metal head glide through the air to its intended destination. He wanted to make a bow so he could sit with them cleaning the rack, searing his arrow tips, and keep on with his target practice in these long drawn out winter months.

  This day, he had ventured further away to the edge of the forest. Most of the leaves had fallen now, all but a few remaining stragglers were hanging on to the branch that fed them. By chance, a good strong branch had fallen from a mahogany tree, This would make a fine bow, he thought. He had cut the wood to shape, seared it carefully, and was now creating the arch. By slowly bending the timber using vessels of water tied at each end of the bow, the frame would bend naturally.