The Sight

by David Clement-Davies

  In the sudden blaze of light Larka began to growl. Something was moving at the back of the fiery den. A donkey was standing in the dirt and beginning to shuffle nervously. It was tethered to a pole and as it moved in a circle, the pole turned with it. Again came the sighing sound, and the forge glowed even brighter. Larka noticed that as the pole turned it moved a wooden arm, attached to an object at the base of the forge, that looked like the stomach of a buffalo.

  It was moving in and out now and, as it breathed and gave out the sighing sound, the fire burned hotter and hotter. Larka was amazed as she peered at the bellows and the donkey beyond. She realized that Man had done this, that Man had harnessed this living animal to the fire to give it life. Kar was beginning to growl hungrily as he looked at the donkey, but the fire from the forge made the two wolves frightened and they passed on.

  They were walking down a clear track and both were thankful that the night was so dark. Larka kept sniffing the air nervously, though, for the human scent was strong and made her very uncomfortable. After a while they came to another of the dens, larger than the rest and surrounded by strips of standing wood.

  ‘Food,’ growled Larka.

  Red-brown stains bruised the snow in front of them and set the wolves’ senses reeling. The blood trailed under a wooden fence, and Larka could see no signs of its source.

  ‘Human?’ whispered Kar.

  ‘No,’ answered Larka, licking the ground, ‘I think it’s pig.’

  Only suns before the humans had indeed killed a pig, to celebrate the birth of a child, their holy saviour. They had slaughtered the pig in the manner traditional to Transylvania at this time of the year, cutting its throat in the open outside their dwelling. Very few of the villagers were rich enough to own a pig and this was one of the most important households in the village. They had shared some of the meat with their neighbours and the fat too that sat on the woodcutter’s table.

  But suddenly Larka and Kar heard a noise behind them and turned. Five humans were standing in the path. The friends snarled and sprang away, right through the centre of the village, and as a shout went up the wooden entrances to some of the dens opened and slammed shut immediately. At the end of the village lay an open field, stretching away to a small frozen lake, flanked by trees.

  Larka and Kar paused for a moment, panting furiously, and looked back. An angry crowd of humans had gathered right in the middle of the path. Some were carrying clubs and others branches that flamed with the humans’ burning air, casting a lurid glow on the snow, as they shook their fists angrily at the intruders.

  Suddenly three of their dogs came bounding straight towards the wolves. Kar and Larka leapt across he field with the dogs in frantic pursuit. The lake wasn’t far and the trees offered fairly good cover, but they had forgotten just how tired they were. Kar and Larka began to slow, but as the lead hound drew near Kar dropped his pace further and, with a loud growl, called back to him.

  ‘Keep your distance,’ he snarled, surprising himself with his own ferocity, ‘if you know what’s good for you.’

  The dogs pulled up immediately. The wolves disappeared into the trees and the sounds of the angry villagers were lost again in the snowy night.

  ‘What a noise,’ cried Kar as the branches swept past them, lashing their muzzles.

  ‘I know,’ growled Larka angrily, ‘you’d think we wanted to eat them.’

  Larka was dejected, for somehow the humans’ reaction to the wolves had magnified the sense of self-blame that was growing in her empty belly. They began to slow, but crunched on wearily through the forest. The wind rose around them and Larka shivered. Again she fancied she heard something calling, that voice on the wind. On they went but very soon hunger and cold got the better of them.

  The wolves slumped down helplessly among the trees side by side to give each other what little warmth they could. Their coats where thick with frost, and their panting breaths sent freezing steam curling around their shivering muzzles.

  Larka’s head sank on to her paws and Kar whined wearily.

  ‘Larka, we’ve got to find some food soon.’

  ‘I suppose so, Kar, but perhaps it’s all for the best.’

  ‘Don’t say that, Larka. Don’t you want to survive?’ Larka could hardly answer him.

  ‘I wish Huttser and Palla were here,’ growled Kar. ‘They’d tell us what to do.’

  But as he said it Larka thought mournfully of her parents’ terrible quarrel that night. The image of their fight on the ice was burnt into her brain and their memory brought her little solace. Once more the she-wolf took everything on to herself. What had happened to her pack. Her parents’ anger. All of it.

  ‘Everywhere I go, I seem to bring disaster with me, Kar,’ she growled miserably. ‘Tomorrow you must set off on your own.’

  ‘Stop it. I’ve told you once already, Larka, and I won’t say it again...’

  But Larka couldn’t hear Kar any longer. As she fell asleep, the nightmare descended. It had visited Larka before and it always reminded her of how she had gazed into the brackish trough at the castle and seen things she could not even affect. She was standing by the icy pool in the moonlight, looking down in horror through the water at her dead brother drifting through the river, his sodden fur mingling with the strangling weeds. She was calling to Fell and then floating with him through the murk, but all that answered her was the endless tug and sway of the river. Then, suddenly, in the water, Larka saw other faces too. There were Khaz and Kipcha, and poor Bran, their muzzles lifting sadly towards her through the reeds.

  ‘Life,’ they called through the gloomy water, ‘life has betrayed us.’

  Larka stirred. This time the dream was changing, the pain of the nightmare dwindling on the rapid flow of shifting visions. Now Larka was standing by a rock and there was Fell, nodding back at her, the handsome black wolf as strong and bold as he had ever been, and in front of him on the rock lay the body of a small roe deer.

  ‘For you, sister,’ whispered the dream, ‘for you. Have faith, Larka. There is always hope.’

  As Larka scented the phantom meat, her tired jaws began to dribble. She opened her mouth and bit deep, drinking in the succulent juices, quenching her ravening hunger, basking in the wonderful smell that was surrounding her and filling her with life.

  Larka woke with a shudder, but her belly was as empty as ever. Yet the smell was still there. Larka wrestled with her longing, half wanting to close her eyes again and abandon herself to the wonderful fantasy. But suddenly the she-wolf’s eyes were open wide, and staring in amazement. The smell was real. In the snow right in front of her, lay a huge chunk of fresh pig.

  ‘It’s all right, Larka,’ said Kar calmly behind her. ‘It’s for you.’

  ‘But how?’ Larka gasped, gazing at the delicious meat.

  ‘I stole it from the human dens while you were sleeping,’ shrugged Kar, waving his tail proudly. ‘Scavenged it. I’m just sorry I couldn’t carry more back.’

  ‘Sorry! But you took a fearful risk, Kar.’

  ‘Not really. They had all gone, well, nearly all of them anyway.’

  ‘Nearly all?’

  ‘That’s the odd bit, Larka. As I was coming back with the meat there were three of them standing there, watching me. It was that old Dragga we saw pulling that wood down the slope and his mate. Their cub was with them too. But they didn’t do anything at all. Not run or shout or shake their paws angrily. They just stood there, watching. They seemed to want to learn something.’

  Larka’s ears quivered and she wondered, but her hunger soon got the better of her. She paused for an instant, touched by a vague embarrassment at being fed by her friend. But as the fresh smell of the pig wafted up her reservations vanished, and the she-wolf threw herself ravenously on her unexpected breakfast.

  ‘There, Larka,’ Kar growled happily as he watched her tear at the pig, ‘we will survive.’

  They slept again, and this time Larka had no more nightmares. When she woke, she
felt a little stronger and her belly was no longer aching. For a time at least Kar had saved both their lives. But Larka kept thinking about the humans and she suddenly wondered if perhaps she had something to be grateful to them for. As she dozed and thought about the three humans watching Kar she fancied she saw a face, looking down at her from the trees with those strange yellow-black eyes. But it didn’t frighten her now.

  ‘See,’ it seemed to say kindly, ‘you are coming closer.’

  But when Larka woke a second time she was immediately unnerved. There was a new scent on the breeze and, as she looked about her, she saw that a strange mist was settling around them. It seemed to come from nowhere and it already hung heavy around the base of the trees.

  ‘Kar. Wake up.’

  Kar growled as he opened his eyes. He had caught the scent too and the eerie mist was getting thicker and thicker. It reminded Larka of her visions in the water.

  ‘Morgra,’ whispered Larka.

  ‘Larka,’ said Kar suddenly, ‘this isn’t mist!’

  Now the wolves could smell it. It was the smell from the forge and, as the smoke got thicker and thicker, their eyes began to sting. They could feel heat on their fur.

  ‘Fire!’ cried Larka. ‘Run, Kar, run for your life.’

  Their eyes were smarting as they leapt away, hardly able to see where they were going at all, and suddenly a wall of flame rose in front of them. The wolves shrunk down in terror, snarling, and whimpering. The trees were flaming, sparks flying in the darkness, a crackling fury filling their ears. They both felt it blasting against them like a wind, and the force of its heat was a physical power, pushing them back. The snow on the ground and on the branches had melted, and the blaze sent out a spitting steam that hissed and wheezed about them.

  The thin boughs were wet with the winter and the forest would never have caught, but for the ingenuity of man. For other humans had seen Kar stealing the pig and, full of fear and hatred, fed by the strange tale of the theft of a baby, they had crept after him with the intention of smoking out the wolves. They had piled branches and kindling kept dry in their homes against the trees with their clever hands and, working till the early hours, painted the boughs with tar and pitch and set light to the winter. The fire had caught and now it was so hot that it might have melted stone.

  ‘Kar,’ cried Larka desperately through the smoke. ‘Where are you, Kar?’

  The wolves couldn’t see one another, but suddenly Kar yelped. A spark had leapt on to his coat and, as the burning ember seared into his skin, he sprang sideways. A wall of flame jumped up around him. Larka could only watch in horror. She did not know how to fight Man’s fire. She did not know how to fight a curse or a legend.

  Kar swung left and right, snarling and snapping, his muzzle illuminated by a halo of flame and his eyes burning with pain as he searched desperately for a way out. But Larka could not reach her friend. The wall of heat kept forcing her back.

  ‘Larka, get away.’

  ‘No, Kar.’

  ‘You must, Larka,’ snarled Kar, coughing terribly. ‘This has proved one thing at least. Yours is the family. We have all been touched by the elements now. Go, Larka. You must survive, for all of us now. For life itself.’

  The flames engulfed him. Larka felt a terrible burning too. Her own tail was on fire. It flared like a torch behind her and, blinded by pain and smoke, suddenly quivering with fear and driven back by the terrible heat, Larka sprang away.

  But the flames were catching quickly now, and as Larka ran she too found herself trapped by the fire. She had leapt through a blazing bush into a small clearing and now she was completely encircled by flame.

  ‘Man,’ she cried, ‘Man’s fire.’

  Larka felt a terrible fury as she thought of the humans. They had killed Khaz and her dearest friend. They had blighted her life as much as Morgra’s curse and, at last, they had come for her too. If only she could escape, Larka swore bitterly, she would find one and kill it for all they had done to the wolves. But as Larka realized escape was impossible she knew that she was lost. The flames were getting higher and higher but there was no way out. Poor, foolish Kar. In his dying moments he had thought that all that had happened had somehow proved that theirs was the family to fight the evil. But Kar was wrong. ‘Now they are all dead,’ thought Larka, ‘and how can the dead ever fight anything?’

  ‘Help me,’ she growled in anguish, as the pain in her tail gripped her like a vice. ‘Is there nothing to help me? Oh Mother, Father, why did you leave me?’

  But all that came to Larka was the sound of the crackling flames. In that moment, she no longer cared. Like Kipcha at the rapids she felt a strange lightness come over her, the lightness of despair. At least with her death it would all end; the curse, the legend, everything. It was Larka who had caused it all, caused so much suffering, and now the she- wolf would pay the price. Larka wanted to walk straight into the flames. She dropped her muzzle bitterly and stepped forward.

  Suddenly, in the broiling heat, Larka felt a great gust of air and a shape swooped over her head.

  ‘Quickly,’ it cried, ‘this way!’

  Larka looked up and saw a bird above her and something stirred in her memory, but she hardly had time to take in the sight as the bird swooped for the trees. Its huge wings beat the branches, sending up a flurry of sparks that made it look as though it was on fire too, but Larka saw a small opening where the fire was less intense as the creature fought the flames. Larka dived through the gap after the bird and it hovered above her, beating down the blaze as she went. There was a path ahead and she ran blindly now, but hope surging in her heart.

  ‘Follow me,’ cried the bird.

  The she-wolf was still consumed with fear and pain as she fled through the wood, and hope gave way to something else as Larka realized that she had escaped. Hate rang through her mind as she left Kar behind her, and although she was no longer on fire, her tail was smarting furiously. On the bird led her. They came to a stream that snaked out of the mountains and was so fast that it had not frozen in the cold. Next to it was an almond tree by a great mossed rock, and suddenly the bird dived and settled on top of the rock.

  ‘There,’ it cried with relief. ‘Now you are safe again.’

  As it closed its great wings Larka saw that its feathers were a beigy brown where it hadn’t been singed, speckled with black and grey and thrown around it like a robe. The strange bird fluffed them up on its thin, long body as it looked back at Larka and shifted to and fro on its huge talons. Most extraordinary of all to Larka were the bird’s piercing eyes. Two points of jet-black set in little pools of pure yellow. Larka thought suddenly of Wolfbane, but she knew now she had seen those eyes before.

  This was not the only thing Larka had seen before. She growled as her gaze took in the stream and she saw it lying there, beneath the water. Just as she had seen it in her first vision, there glinting brilliantly in the frosty sunlight, lay a fleece of gold.

  As Larka’s eyes opened wider and wider she heard a stifled moan, too, from a clearing just ahead. She turned from the bird and, prowling forward, gasped as she saw the little creature in front of her. It was fast asleep. A human baby, no bigger than a young cub.

  The human cub was lying on the frosted ground, next to the mouth of a wide, sunken earth den. It was totally unaware of the she-wolf and though she was still far off, Larka’s jaws began to slaver and she remembered what she had sworn among the flames.

  ‘You don’t want to eat it, do you?’ said the bird suddenly from the rock. ‘You may want revenge, but I really don’t believe the humans taste very good. Not like the stoat or the roe deer, eh?’

  The bird blinked slowly, as Larka turned back to it, as though it was just about to fall asleep. But there was a strength and a pride in those eyes too, and something sharp with intelligence, that Larka liked immediately. She noticed the bird’s beak now, as it spoke to her, yellow and hooked forward like a claw.

  ‘What are you?’ Larka asked angrily. ‘
Are you a flying scavenger?’

  The creature opened his wings immediately and beat the air furiously.

  ‘How dare you,’ he screeched. ‘I am Putnar and one of the noblest of the great birds. Flying scavenger, my beak.’

  Larka prowled back around the rock towards him, but as she came around behind him the bird did something extraordinary. Its whole head swivelled round on its body, ninety degrees, so that it was still facing her. The bird’s strange, blinking eyes were smiling.

  ‘Doesn’t the Sight teach us that it is just as useful in life,’ he shrugged, as he saw Larka’s surprise, ‘to look backwards as well as forwards? Now, tell me your name.’

  As soon as the bird spoke of the Sight recognition stirred in Larka’s mind. The eagle cocked its head and seemed to be looking intently at Larka’s forehead, as though searching for something.

  ‘My name is Larka,’ growled the she-wolf quietly, ‘and you’re Skart, the Steppe eagle, aren’t you? Tsarr’s Helper.’

  The eagle nodded slowly.

  ‘You are learning quickly, Larka. That is good. But now we are here to teach you even more.’

  ‘Teach me?’

  ‘How to use the Sight. How to fight Morgra. That’s what you came for isn’t it?’

  Larka blushed in surprise. ‘I... I didn’t come here, did I?’ she said in a daze. ‘I mean. You brought me here. Though I saw this place before, Skart. I saw it in the water.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Skart, ‘and it is strange indeed that you have already touched the second power. But then you and the child. You already have a connection, Larka.’

  Larka shivered.

  ‘It’s all like a dream,’ she whispered mournfully. ‘A nightmare that began when Morgra cursed us.’

  ‘And do not dreams tell us truths and secrets of the world,’ said Skart in an odd voice, ‘before we recognize things with our waking thoughts?’