The Princess and the Wolf (The Princess and the Hound)

by Mette Ivie Harrison

  True was surprised when he saw that the rocks seemed to have been moved into a pattern. They were in a large circle, and vines had begun to grow across the top of them, almost like the roof of a human dwelling. It was dark, and True could not see well enough to be sure, but he saw the flash of numerous eyes, and he could smell animals within. Some wolves, but others, as well.

  Why would other animals remain around what seemed to be a wolf pack? Normally, animals ran from predators like wolves. They had natural instincts and if they did not all escape, that did not mean they did not all wish to.

  It made no sense.

  There was a low sound of distress, not quite a squeal, and then the air was filled with the scent of blood. Pig’s blood, True was certain.

  Humans raised pigs for their meat, but when humans killed, there was no question about the sound of slaughter. Even those humans who could speak the language of pigs could not prevent them from calling out one last time in death. And True could not smell any scent of humans here.

  He was far from his pack and it was nearing dawn. True knew he should go, but he wanted one last glimpse of the golden she-wolf. She had been so beautiful, so sleek, so full of power and purpose. There was no hound anywhere near as arresting in features, as strange and familiar at once, as this creature. He had already given up his chase for the lynx for her. What was a little more time?

  He leaned back into one of the larger rocks and pressed against it. It did not budge. And yet there were larger rocks than this in the circle. For them to have been moved would have taken more than a single animal with great strength. It would have taken many animals working in concert. Or humans.

  But there was no scent of humans here, not for a long, long time. No sign of human tracks, no trails leading from human villages to here. If the humans had built this, it was long ago. But it looked like a new creation.

  True began to shiver as the dark fell into the deep before dawn. He should go, but he wanted to see the golden she-wolf again. There was something intoxicating about even the thought of her. Wolves and hounds were not so very different. Might she see him and be intrigued by him, as well? True did not know, but he hoped for it. He hoped for something.

  The circle of rocks was still, and then the flash of gold caught him and he knew that the female wolf was alone.

  True watched her as she curled up on a rock and seemed to sleep. But a few minutes later there was another animal that emerged from the rock circle, a tame hound. It was smaller than any in True’s pack, perhaps half the size, and it had been bred by humans for the pretty ruff of fur around its neck.

  The hound saw the golden she-wolf and stiffened, then moved cautiously to the side. It looked into the forest with longing and its head was turned to the sky. Every inch of its stance suggested that it was ready to howl, that it wished to join a group of its kind and sing together.

  But the golden she-wolf lifted her head and made a short bark of command.

  The small hound crumpled and whined.

  The golden she-wolf lifted a paw in threat and the sound ceased.

  The hound hopped closer to the golden she-wolf and bent over her back. It began to groom the beautiful golden coat and True could see nothing in its stance that suggested either fear or unhappiness now.

  Whatever he had seen before, he must have been mistaken. The tame hound must have become lost in the wood, separated from its human owners, and the wolf had found it and given it a home. It was a kindness, no more than that. If the hound was treated as less than equal, True had seen the same in other hound packs, and within the wolf pack in the desert. There were wolves who were stronger and faster, and others who served them.

  It was only when the sun began to rise that True saw what surprised him. The golden she-wolf changed into a human before his eyes. She was crouched on all fours as the wolf had been, but then she stood and waited for the sun to rise. She wore only her skin, as an animal would, and she showed no sign of cold. When the sun touched her, she began to sing, in every animal language that True knew and others that he could only guess at. The only language he did not hear her sing in was that of humans.

  The small hound seemed to worship her from a distance, but the moment did not last long. As soon as the dawn was fully spread over the sky in delicate pink, the golden woman became a she-wolf once more.

  The blue wolf came out then to stand by her, his flank touching hers.

  He nipped her neck when she tried to move away from him too soon, and the blue wolf snarled at the small hound until it leaped away and slid back inside the rock circle.

  True left when they had disappeared, and he went back to the forest at a run. He did not stop running until he had found scent of the lynx once more. This time, he did not give up. He did not allow the lynx to escape through the river, nor when it climbed atop a cliff. True was no longer worried about his own death as he had been before.

  At last, the lynx lay dead at his feet and True realized he had not taste for it. He dragged the carcass back to his pack and they howled to the moon and danced around him, nipping at him in mock fight. But he moved slowly and he did not howl except in irritation.

  “The chase for the lynx took more from you than you thought,” said Fierce.

  “Yes, that is what is wrong with me,” said True. “I am tired, no more.”

  “Sleep, then. And tomorrow, be part of the pack once more.”

  But in True’s dreams it was not the lynx he chased, nor the lynx whose pelt filled his mouth with blood. It was the golden she-wolf.

  Chapter Three: Hans

  Hans still remembered his parents, though they had given him to the Order when he was only five years old. They had been peasants, but not so poor that they had to give him up to feed themselves. The Order gave a small amount of coin to the families of the children they took in, enough for a few weeks’ worth of food, a token of their appreciation and a recompense for the years they had cared for the children before they came to the Order.

  Hans did not recall being hungry or cold as a young child. The hut they had lived in had been well-cared for by his father, the thatch on the roof replaced yearly. His mother had tended a garden that brought bountiful vegetables to the table through the summer and even into the long winters.

  It was his own dream that had brought him to the Order. He had seen animals gone mad, attacking humans. He knew he was meant to stop them. He had seen the Order, as well, and knew he was meant to be part of it.

  He had woken, lucid and unafraid. He tried to explain to his parents clearly, in a child’s words, but with the understanding in his heart.

  They did not believe him at first, of course. They told him that it was something to think about, and put off the journey. It was not until the evil tapir came into the village that they realized the truth of his dream, and the import of it.

  It was just after the first snow, when animals sometimes came into the village in search of food. But Hans knew that the tapir was coming before it was seen. It was not a dream, not quite. He had not seen the tapir in his mind, but he had felt the change in the air. It had been sour and tangy, like rotting meat, and he had felt very tired.

  His mother thought that he was coming down with an illness and told him to stay in his bed. She brought him peppermint tea with honey in it and steaming rags to compress on his chest. “Won’t you take the tea?” she asked, lifting the cup to his mouth.

  He put his lips tightly together and turned away from her.

  “It will make you feel better,” she promised.

  But the scent of the honey made him feel a black cloud over his head, as if he could hear nothing else but the hum of the bees that had produced the honey.

  They told him later, in the Order, that it was often that way, for the ones coming into the scent. It would take years before he could scent with a full stomach.

  His mother lifted his head.

  He thrashed at her, and the tea spilled.

  “Now look at that. You’ve ruin
ed it. A perfectly good cup of tea. Shame on you, Hans.” His mother had been genuinely sad, looking down at the tea dampening on his bed sheets. They were not so wealthy as to be able to waste their food.

  She sighed. “I’ll get you more, if you like.”

  “No, Mother,” he said. “Just water, please.”

  She brought him water, and he tried to understand what the feeling in his bones was, the heaviness, the fear.

  He slept, and all he could remember from his dreams was that something was coming, and that it was dangerous.

  His mother told him it was only the illness, and that it would pass.

  She thought the morning of the tapir’s appearance that it was all as she expected, for he woke feeling well again. The darkness was not gone, but it had shrunk into a tiny pinprick and he knew exactly where to find it. He got out of his bed, put on his clothes and boots, and headed for the door.

  “Out for a walk?” said his mother. “A good idea. I’ll come with you, if you don’t mind. I haven’t been out of the house for days, just the same as you.”

  He hardly noticed her walking beside him, though she chattered on about a friend in the village who had just had a baby, and his father’s hopes that he would be asked to help build the lord’s new stables, for he was good with his hands, and very strong.

  Hans thought of nothing but the place where he should go to find the olde tapir, and deal with it at last. He saw it clearly in his mind’s eye and led his mother onward. It was close to the stream that led into the forest. Many villagers gathered there in the mornings, to get their water for the day.

  But when he arrived, the tapir was not there. He was bewildered, and faltered.

  “Feeling ill again? I shouldn’t have let you come so far,” said his mother. She went to bend over the stream and pressed the cool cloth first to her neck and then to his own. Though it was icy, both of them were wet with the exertion.

  There was a sound like a baby’s cry.

  “Must be a mockingbird,” said Hans’s mother. But she crouched closer to him and put an arm on his shoulder.

  He ducked away from her and before she could catch him, the tapir had come out of the forest with blood on its face, charging toward Hans.

  “Hans!” she screamed.

  He did not move. He stared into the tapir’s eyes. He could see a strange darkness there.

  He had brought a knife from his mother’s kitchen.

  He held it out and let the tapir run into it, headfirst.

  Blood spurted and the tapir struggled against him.

  Hans could feel the strong muscles of the animal. It was nearly as tall as his father and likely weighed twice as much as him. Ten times more than Hans himself.

  If he had not put the knife into just the right place—

  But he had been aiming for the center of the darkness, in the tapir’s right eye, and once that was cut out, it died.

  His hands were wet and warm and sticky. He could feel the anger in the tapir, even after its eyes had closed. It had not been an animal like any other he had seen. Could his mother not tell that?

  She was crying and scolding him for what he had done. She was telling him he had been foolish, he should listen to her, he should be more careful.

  She should have been praising him.

  The tapir was wild, but it was more than that. Its heart had been full of emotions that even Hans did not understand. Roiling anger, dark terror, vengefulness. It had had murderous, evil intent, which animals should not have. It had not been merely hungry or crazed with pain. It had wanted to bring death and bring horror to all around it.

  Hans’s shoulders ached as he pulled the knife free of the tapir. The knife had been turned aside by the tapir’s ribs, the steel broken, and yet he had still been able to get at its heart.

  His mother took him home, away from the body, and asked him what he had done. He tried to explain to her as well as he could. The dream. The feeling. The illness. And then the tapir itself.

  She shook her head, and muttered to herself. She did not bring him tea or anything else.

  When his father came home that evening, he went to see the tapir for himself. He slaughtered it and dragged home the pieces, intending to salt them for winter use.

  Hans told him that they were tainted, that the meat would kill him.

  But his father ate it anyway, only a small amount, so perhaps he believed Hans a little. He was sick for nearly three weeks, and after that his father began to believe that Hans’ spoke true about the evil tapir, and perhaps about the Order, as well.

  That winter, four more animals attacked the village, and each time, Hans was able to warn about them, and people were saved. Hans thought his parents would be proud of him and brag about his skills. But they grew more and more quiet with him, and they never mentioned what he had done around others. They were afraid of him, he realized.

  In the spring, his parents took him to the Order, walking the four days to the southern mountains, following Hans’ careful directions. They had wrapped up all his clothes and Hans knew they intended to leave him there.

  Before they entered through the small gate, his mother kissed him goodbye. His father patted him on the shoulder and told him to be a good boy. They promised they would return and visit him, but they never did. Hans did not expect it, not even from the first day.

  The Order taught Hans to expand on his “scent,” so that he could tell when an animal was much farther away. It taught him how to ensure that such an animal never became a danger to humans, to hunt only in the forest, in the wilderness or other wastes, and to seek out animals with only a hint of taint in them.

  It also taught Hans what these animals were.

  “We call them ‘Olde,’ for they are what animals were, millennia ago, when humans and animals were no different,” said Sieg, Hans’ tutor.

  “Animals changed, as humans did?” asked Hans.

  “They did. They became more tame. Even those who live in the forest developed in concert with humans. They became less dangerous.”

  “But wouldn’t that make them more likely to die?” asked Hans.

  “There is an unstated promise between animals and humans that there is a balance of life. Humans will never hunt one species exclusively. They will not cut forests so far that there is no place for the animals of the forests to live and breed. They will leave the young to grow and mature and to bear a second generation. And they will not kill for pleasure alone.”

  “And do the animals have a promise, as well?”

  “The animals promise that they will not attack humans in their villages, and that they will give up their lives when the magic calls upon them.”

  “But the tapir I saw—it broke the promise.”

  Sieg nodded. “As humans break their promises, at times. But there are others whose task it is to deal with the humans. The Order is to deal with animals who disturb the balance.”

  Hans thought of the tapir again. Its eyes had been full of fire, its hooves like weapons. He had seen horses passing by the village, but the tapir had thinner legs and looked more like a goat. Still, the sight of it gone wild made him shiver, even in retrospect.

  “What causes the animals to become like this?” asked Hans.

  “Sometimes they are born to destruction,” said Sieg. “Other times, it is the work of the ancient animals who have lived long past their own time, and now seek to turn back to the past.”

  “Back to when you were a child?” Hans found it difficult to imagine a past beyond then. Sieg was heavily bearded and his hair was all white. His face was weathered and he was strong enough to slam his wooden cane into the wall when Hans was not paying attention. But it must have been more than fifty years since Sieg was a boy like Hans himself.

  “Even before that time. When I was a child, there was a human king far from here in the west. He lived badly and broke the rules. But he learned his lesson and since then there have been fewer humans who stir up the animals to anger. But still
the Olde Wolf does his work.”

  “Perhaps the Olde Wolf will learn his lesson like the human king,” said Hans. “And the other animals who follow him, if we teach them.”

  “Animals do not learn lessons so well as humans,” said Sieg. “And the human king was young. He had not practiced his evil for so long as the Olde Wolf.”

  “Is it magic, then? What the Olde Wolf does to the other animals, like the tapir?”

  Sieg shook his head. “I would not call it magic. Magic is what makes animals and humans alike. It is what draws us together, in the forest or in the village. But this is something different.”

  “What, then?” asked Hans.

  “The Olde Darkness. It is the basest part of all animals and humans, to refuse to live in harmony, to wish to kill all others unlike yourself,” said Sieg.

  “But how does he do it?”

  “That does not matter to us,” said Sieg. “It is only the effects that matter. When he touches an animal and it goes dark, then we must kill it. If there are other Olde animals like him, I do not know. There may be, though I hope there are not.”

  “Why not just kill him?” asked Hans.

  “Ah, yes. Well, we would do that if we could. But those of the Order who have sought him out personally have never returned.”

  Hans found this difficult to believe. “All of them?” What good was the Order, then?

  “All of them. My own brother went, when he was but a little older than you are now, at fifteen,” said Sieg. “He was my twin, exactly like me in every way. I knew the moment that he died.”

  “And so you have given up?” asked Hans. “You only treat the animals you see, not the one behind them all who causes them to go Olde?”

  Sieg shook his head gravely. “Of course not. Every year, there are several who leave from this Order. I cannot say for other Orders, elsewhere in the world and the olde animals they fight against.