Children of the Wolves

by Jessica Starre

  A shiver went through the crowd as the storyteller continued. “The first born,” he said, and silenced the lute. “Imagine their fear and despair. To open their eyes in their glass wombs and not understand where they were. To have bellies aching with hunger, and no means to fill themselves up. Throats parched and no water to assuage their thirst. Limbs trembling, legs unable to carry them … they had to crawl to daylight. And there they were naked and unprotected. And the wolves … the wolves devoured them.”

  A jangling chord emphasized the collective shout of horror from the audience. Even though they had heard this story a thousand times before, still their eyes went round, their hearts leapt in their throats.

  Jelena gave an unbidden shake of her head, negating the storyteller’s words. This was the part of the story she hated the most. She didn’t believe the wolves had devoured them. She was more willing to believe that other first born had, or that they had died of starvation or exposure to the elements. She knew the wolves with their glowing eyes and their sinuous, lithe bodies would not devour her. Sometimes when she had come close to them, they had loped off, just out of range, whimpering at her, casting backward glances, as if they wanted to befriend her but were afraid. Other times, like today, she felt sure they were inviting her to follow. Someday she would follow, no matter where they might lead her. But she had enough sense to hold her peace; the people would never listen to her.

  The storyteller went on with his story. “The first born had no medicines, and no physicians. They had no one to help them through the trauma of newbirth. Many did not survive but died in their glass wombs. They had no protectors to guide them.” The storyteller paused and shook his head. “Why did the makers make this mistake? Why did they leave their saved souls unprotected and alone?”

  “Why?” someone cried out.

  “You know I would not criticize the makers,” the storyteller said, and smiled his sly smile, and the audience laughed. “But perhaps … just perhaps … the makers did think of that. They did gather medicines and clothes and food for the saved … that would have been the sensible thing to do.”

  “Yes,” someone called from the audience. “Yes.”

  “And the makers … well, perhaps they acted in haste, knowing the Great Disaster was upon them, but they were not fools. If they took the time to gather the people together, to save them in their glass wombs … then surely they also gathered the medicines and the clothes and the food … ”

  “Yes,” the same voice cried exultantly. Jelena felt Michael’s arm tighten about her shoulders. Sometimes the storyteller provoked the excited crowd into a frenzy, the villagers crying, “Why? Why did the makers abandon us?” and tearing their clothes. But tonight the villagers seemed content to murmur “Why?” among themselves.

  “Surely they also gathered the medicines and the clothes and the food,” the storyteller repeated, and strummed his lute, and looked out into the crowd. “Well, then. Where did they put it?”

  Where, indeed?

  • • •

  “So where did they put it?” Jelena teased Michael as they watched the crowd break up. Those who lived in the main hall drifted back toward the porch steps, while those who lived in quarters on the outskirts of the main enclosure near the northeast fence moved more quickly to get home before it grew much darker. The moon rose nearly full, and a wolf howled in the distance.

  Michael opened his mouth as if to respond when a sharp cry sounded near the training area. Jelena glanced at Michael, who had stopped to listen. Another sound came — a whimper of pain.

  Without saying anything to each other, they both redirected their steps to the eastern part of the village. Just beyond the enclosure of the gathering fire, Jelena spotted a small, huddled figure. She raced forward.

  “Lissa?” she said, immediately recognizing the trueborn child.

  The little girl turned a tear-stained face in her direction. “It bit me!” she cried.

  Jelena’s heart froze. She scooped up the little girl in her arms and glanced at Michael.

  “What bit you, honey?” she asked, her stomach clenching.

  “Raccoon,” Lissa said, then wailed, “It was just standing there! I wanted to touch it.”

  Jelena soothed as she picked her way across the courtyard to the infirmary adjacent to the main building. Michael had already headed into the main hall to find the physician.

  She pushed her way into the infirmary and put Lissa gently on the first bed she came to. She found the flint tinderbox and struck a spark to light the nearest lantern, then brought it over to the bed. She wasted no time in getting a cloth and pumping water onto it to wash the girl’s arm.

  A moment later, the physician and Michael entered the room. Michael had a lantern in his hand and proceeded to light the others in the room from it. Then he bent to start the fire in the stove against the wall.

  The physician, tall and gaunt, rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands briskly. “Michael says she was bitten by a raccoon.”

  “Yes,” Jelena said. “She said it was just standing there and she wanted to touch it.” She kept a hand on Lissa’s shoulder as she spoke. The girl was crying, not from pain anymore but from fear.

  The physician nodded and examined the wound, then turned to a wooden cabinet to take a bottle down. He saturated a clean cloth and dabbed at the wound.

  “It was probably rabid,” he said, his voice low and soft. “If it let her get that close.”

  “I know,” Jelena said unhappily. She stroked the girl’s forehead.

  “It is a painful … way,” he said.

  Jelena’s eyes filled with tears. She glanced up as the door banged open again and Lissa’s parents came into the room. Irene rushed forward and grabbed Lissa into her arms, clutching her tightly. Abraham wore a dazed expression on his face. “What happened?” he asked. “Where was Kallie?”

  Kallie was the little girl’s nursemaid, an unawakened woman who seemed so anxious and nervous that one would not expect her to be remiss in looking after her charge.

  The door swung open again and Kallie stood there, flushed and breathless, her hands twisting together. “She slipped out — ” she gasped. “I’ve been looking for her — ”

  Abraham gave her a grim look and turned his back to her. Kallie looked beseechingly at Jelena, who gave her a shaken smile. The physician ignored them as he worked.

  Irene looked at the younger woman with narrowed eyes. “You have done enough,” she snarled and turned her back on the woman. Kallie jammed a fist into her mouth, then turned and fled from the room.

  Jelena made a movement to go after her but Michael shook his head and she stopped. He walked over to her, squeezed her shoulder affectionately, then nodded at the physician and walked with her out of the infirmary.

  “That poor child,” she said.

  “Ay,” Michael said. “What a terrible thing to happen.”

  “The physician says it’s a hard way to die.”

  “Yes,” Michael said. “But he will — help.”

  Jelena nodded and didn’t ask what he meant. “What will happen to Kallie?”

  Michael didn’t answer immediately. The tension knotted in her shoulders. They encountered no one as they walked quietly to their quarters, woven carpets over old wood floors deadening the sound of their passage.

  “It may be that the Council will be asked to judge her for negligence,” he said finally. “But it probably won’t come to that.”

  “Why?” she asked. She didn’t think Irene and Abraham were merciful enough to let the issue drop. They would surely insist the elders take action.

  “Because I think Kallie will do what she … must.”

  “That’s awful,” Jelena said, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Michael shrugged. “She failed in her responsibility,” he said. />
  And she was unawakened, Jelena thought, which meant she didn’t have much to offer the tribe. She shook her head and was silent. What would happen to Kallie? The woman had made a mistake anyone might make, but mistakes came at a very high cost. The unawakened could rarely afford them.

  She turned to Michael, but before she could speak, a knock sounded at the door. Charmaine called out. Her voice was light but Jelena could hear the undercurrent of tension in it.

  Michael stepped out of the room to speak to her. Jelena undressed by the lantern light, folding her clothes neatly and placing them in the chest in her alcove. The lantern light reflected the scars on her arms. She had others on her back and legs. Hundreds of years old and who could tell why she had them? She kept them carefully hidden — even though Michael must have seen them when she was newlyborn — visiting the bathhouse near the river at odd times when other people were not likely to be there, preferring long sleeves on her tunics even in the summer.

  Perhaps the scars held a clue to her pastself. Michael had a few scars on his body, but those he had mostly acquired since becoming head of the riders; she had seen him suffer the injuries. This evidence convinced her that whatever she had been in her pastself, she had not been a literature professor. Maybe she had been someone bad, someone who had been punished with beatings — a thief, a murderer — and the people had banished her and yet somehow she had slipped through and fooled the makers and they had saved her.

  She lay on her pallet for a long time until Michael came in. She waited to hear him call a “goodnight” to her but he did not. After a while she heard the deep even breathing of his sleep. She turned onto her side and waited for morning to come.

  Chapter Five

  Bertha stood at the great iron stove when Michael and Jelena came down for the morning meal, flipping cakes and swearing under her breath. Michael grabbed a trencher and brought it to the stove, his stomach rumbling. Bertha gave him a crooked glance and piled a half dozen cakes on the plate before turning back to the stove.

  Jelena had poured juice into his mug and as he took his place next to her on the bench, he slid her share of cakes onto her trencher. Amy, next to him, handed across the pot of syrup.

  “Who talked Bertha into slaving over a hot stove all morning?” Jelena asked, adding fresh butter and warm syrup to her cakes. “It’s my favorite,” she explained. “But in midsummer, Bertha never — ” Michael touched her hand to get her attention and she broke off, looking up.

  Teresa entered the dining room, a radiant smile on her face. She wore a deep blue hood across her shoulders and carried herself like a queen among peasants. Michael squeezed Jelena’s hand in his. She grabbed her mug and choked juice down. He would have given anything for this not to have happened, not now; and how disloyal to the tribe that thought was.

  Teresa had been newlyborn eighteen months ago. Michael had watched as Jelena had helped her understand the world they lived in now with a kindness and compassion Teresa herself would never possess. It was wrong and unfair, he knew. Cruel, that it had turned out this way.

  Teresa’s protector, Charmaine, stood to one side, beaming proudly at Teresa. She wore the deep purple hood of the protector. How many times had he hoped to stand next to Jelena like that? Although he’d known this was coming — Charmaine had alerted him last night — he still felt overwhelmed by it. He clenched his hands into fists. If only. If only.

  After a moment, applause rang out as everyone in the dining hall rose to their feet and honored Teresa, who stood basking in the sound with tears in her eyes.

  “Michael,” Jelena said under her breath, clapping like the others, a smile plastered on her face. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He knew she meant, Why didn’t you warn me?

  “It happened last night,” Michael said. “You were asleep when I came in.” He knew it was the cowardly way out. He could have warned her, and he hadn’t; a night of gnawing on her own heart wouldn’t have made this morning any easier to face. Michael had known that. But still he felt uneasy about not waking her and telling her the news; he had kept it from her, like a child from whom the truth must be hidden, and Jelena was no child.

  The tumult died down as Charmaine led Teresa to a chair at the head of the table. Teresa didn’t eat — fasting was required and besides, she would have been much too nervous to force anything down. Charmaine stood behind her, one hand resting lightly on her shoulder.

  “Congratulations, Teresa,” Jelena said, and reached out to clasp the other woman’s hand. The other table companions joined in. Soon it was time to clear the table and head to meeting. Jelena smiled and smiled and claimed she was as excited as the rest of them. She smiled and smiled and it made Michael’s heart ache.

  • • •

  The sun shone bright and hot as the villagers hurried to the meeting hall, which at least offered shelter from the blazing rays. Michael slowed his pace to keep from getting too far ahead of Jelena, whose every reluctant step showed her distaste for what had happened. They walked silently as the villagers buzzed and chattered and gossiped around them.

  “I plan to petition the elders to release you,” Jelena said to Michael.

  The breath left his body like she’d thrust a knife through his belly. He turned to her, putting a hand out so she would stop.

  “Please, Jelena, this isn’t the time,” he said.

  She looked up at him, her dark brown eyes bright with unshed tears. “When is the time, Michael? This is so foolish. The tribe needs you free. The demands on you grow each day. You are the center, and I’m a distraction, and that makes the tribe uneasy and unhappy. You could never have dreamed seven years ago that you would play the role for so long, on and on, day and night without cease.”

  “Jelena,” he said, his voice low. “Listen to me. You know it’s a great honor to me to be your protector. We don’t know that you’re unawakened. The seer has never had a clear reading.”

  “The seer is a big fraud,” Jelena said.

  Michael grinned at her. “As it happens, I agree.” Then his smile disappeared and he said, “But if there is anything I can say to turn you away from this path — ”

  “Michael — ”

  “Jelena,” he said gently. “Don’t do this. I have work to perform and this upsets me.”

  “Dammit!” She yanked her hand through her hair, forgetting it was pulled into a knot. It tumbled across her shoulders and she gave a little shout of frustration. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Apparently I can’t do anything right. I distract you by needing your protection. I distract you when I say I don’t need it anymore.” She made a small growl in the back of her throat.

  He squeezed her shoulder. “It will be okay, little one.” He nodded toward the meeting hall. “Come, I can’t be too late!”

  He moved down the path, felt rewarded when she hurried to catch up, ducking under his arm as he opened the door for her, taking her place at the altar, facing the audience. The people filled the hall; some had to stand at the back. Several of the unawakened attended; they could be identified by the wistfulness in their eyes. The awakened wore looks of anticipation or nostalgia; recent newlyborn looked a little bewildered.

  Michael handed his quiver and bow to Samuel, the young helper who had discovered the sapphire fields. Michael adjusted his vestments and waited a moment for the villagers to quiet down. Then he stepped forward, lifted his arms and said, “Today is a special day. It is a most solemn occasion and truly most joyful.” He extended a hand and said, “Teresa. Charmaine, her protector. Please come forward to the altar.”

  Moving with stately slow steps, Teresa and Charmaine, arms linked, hoods drawn over their heads, walked up the center aisle. As they made their way from the rear, Viktor began playing a haunting melody on his reed flute. The two women mounted the steps to the platform on which the altar stood.

  Michael waited a few hear
tbeats until Viktor finished the hymn. As the last note died away, Michael stepped forward and embraced Charmaine. He gently folded her hood back.

  “Charmaine the Protector, sworn to serve the tribe and the newlyborn, do you say that your charge has awakened to her pastself?”

  “I do.” Charmaine’s alto voice was low and steady. Michael beamed at her, then reached forward and untied the hood from her shoulders. “Charmaine, you have served the tribe well and faithfully these past two years, giving up a life of your own until your charge was ready to reckon with her pastself.” He folded the hood into a small neat square then opened the chest near the far wall and placed the hood inside. He closed the lid gently, almost reverently. With the same solemn grace, he returned to the front of the platform — stage, he thought — and grasped both of Charmaine’s hands in his.

  “You have served the people well and truly,” he said to her and then looked out over the audience, watching as they affirmed with their nods. “You are hereby released from your duty,” Michael said. Her eyes shone with pride and not a little relief. “We thank you for your dedication and the love you have shown the tribe and your charge.”

  Grasping Charmaine’s shoulders, Michael turned her to face the crowd as they clapped for her, acknowledging nearly two years on unceasing service to the community.

  “Go in peace,” Michael said. And she did, according to the tradition, which he had begun when he became the pastor a few years before. She stepped down off the platform and moved slowly down the aisle, then continued out the door without pause.

  As she left the building, the rememberer entered. The audience seemed to sigh as one at the sight of the huddled ancient figure moving slowly down the aisle. Samuel went to the old man’s side and helped him ascend the steps to the platform and the altar. The old man stood at Michael’s right hand.