Midnight's Sun: A Story of Wolves

by Garry Kilworth

  ‘So, we have Judra before us and must decide on her fate.’

  Judra was then allowed to plead her case but it was a pathetic defence: simply a stream of chatter about how the twilight played tricks with her eyes and that she was sorry she had caused such distress, and she certainly hadn’t intended to corrupt the pup. Koska was simply the first wolf she had met after her ‘experience’ in the dawn light. She just had to tell someone. It would not happen again. Judra announced that she realised now how wrong she had been in even thinking she saw what she had said she had seen. In her heart she knew that there were no such things as spirits of the forest and had been on double-sentry that night, was tired and dispirited by the time the dawn arrived, and her mind was not itself …’

  Her speech went on in like vein until it trickled to a stop. The megas put their heads together and an air of gravity pervaded the whole scene. Athaba’s heart was pounding in his chest as he imagined himself in the same position as Judra. The whole experience was very frightening for a young pup. He could feel Koska still trembling beside him, knowing she had had a narrow escape. Had his sister been a yearling, she would probably have been castigated alongside Judra for being the recipient of such tales.

  The megas came up with the verdict: guilty but with mitigating circumstances. Judra had remained to perform a second duty as sentry that night because her relief had been ill. She had not vacated her post and had consequently entered a period of mental exhaustion. This state of mind had brought on ‘visions’ which she should have ignored as unbelievable and ridiculous. Her crime was that she allowed herself to be seduced by the daydreams created by a strange light.

  She was sentenced to be reduced from flankwolf to tailwolf and informed that she was fortunate to have escaped banishment.

  Athaba was still shaking when he went to his bed.

  Now that the pack was together and tight again, Athaba felt he needed to be wary of Skassi once more. The cinnamon-coated undermega showed little interest in him, however, and Athaba began to think that his mother’s words had been right: perhaps Skassi had matured over the summer and no longer needed to prove himself? Also, although Skassi ignored Athaba, the yearling seemed to find great sport in the company of Koska. Since it was not mating time, it was nothing to do with pairing. It seemed they liked each other and were often seen together. Athaba found it strange that Skassi should treat one pup with contempt, yet find another acceptable company. He had previously believed that the undermega despised all wolves younger than himself, but it seemed it was a personality problem, just between the two of them. When Athaba mentioned Skassi to his sister one time, asking her why it was that Skassi did not like him, she told him he was imagining things, that Skassi was a popular wolf and well liked, and consequently had no need to make enemies.

  ‘But he was going to kill me once,’ said Athaba.

  Koska snorted. ‘Don’t be silly. He was probably playing with you. We were very young then, don’t forget.’

  His sister would not accept that the yearling had any animosity towards members of his own pack. This left Athaba in some doubt himself, and since Skassi had not even thrown him a single hostile glance now they were in each other’s company again, he felt perhaps the others were right.

  After an evening of story-telling, when Aksishem had related some of the history and mythology of the Old Ways, Athaba mentioned Skassi’s enmity to his father. The older wolf just shook his head.

  ‘I can’t fight your battles for you and I can’t get inside Skassi’s head to find out why he dislikes you so much. You’ll just have to weather it yourself. The only way I can help you, Athaba, is to teach you how to defend and attack …’ and they proceeded to have the rough and tumble that was normal between a parent and his pup but which did little to help solve Athaba’s problems.

  The next day three wolves went out hunting after a caribou. They tracked it across open country, keeping pace with the beast until they felt it was time to attack. The first wolf to go in was Athaba’s father. The story of the outcome was told by another member of the hunting party as the pack was gathered in a depression, out of the wind, later in the day.

  ‘It was this way,’ said the she-wolf, Urkati. ‘Since Meshiska was not with us, Aksishem naturally assumed the lead and gave instructions. He suggested we should follow the caribou, down to the tree line if necessary, but to wait until it was exhausted before we attacked.

  ‘This seemed sensible to us all and we deerwalked behind the prey, stopping when it stopped, and generally keeping pace with it, though not closing the gap. Occasionally, it turned its head to bellow something at us, but you know what caribou insults sound like – hollow and empty – anyway, we didn’t heed it, thinking it was just trying to distract us.

  ‘So, we went across marsh and over rise, just tagging along behind, occasionally stepping into a loping run when the caribou attempted to break from us. It kept shaking its head and stamping and we guessed something was bothering it – warble flies, we think.

  ‘Eventually, the caribou stopped by some water and hung its head, scraping the ground with one hoof. That’s when Aksishem cried, ‘NOW!’ and ran forward to head the attack. I was right behind at first, but a hare leapt up in front of me and stole my mind …’

  There were murmurs of understanding from the rest of the pack. This was an unfortunate occurrence, but they did not question Urkati’s phrase since it was not rare for a hunter to be surprised by another creature, a bird whirring up from behind a tuft, or a hare starting. When such a thing happened, of course the creature took the hunter’s attention with it – stole his or her mind – and it was always a few moments, usually precious, irrecoverable moments, before the wolf could get it back again.

  ‘Consequently,’ continued the shoulderwolf, ‘I lost ground. Kossiti was behind me and being distracted I got in his path too.

  ‘The result of all this was that Aksishem reached the caribou seconds before we did and leaped for its throat. The prey turned at the last minute, almost by accident I think, and Aksishem drove himself straight on to the beast’s antlers. He didn’t stand a chance. I won’t go into a gory account of his wounds, except to say that after the caribou had shaken him off he only managed to drag himself three body lengths before collapsing and dying.’

  Urkati turned towards where Meshiska sat.

  ‘I’m sorry Meshiska. We could do nothing. Killed in the course of the hunt. It could happen to any wolf and certainly Aksishem did not discredit himself. There was no stupidity involved and the plan was a good one. It was unfortunate, that’s all.’

  ‘And the caribou?’ asked Meshiska, softly.

  The other hunter, the flankwolf Kossiti, answered for both of them.

  ‘A caribou that has killed is not going to be taken easily. This one was almost crazy with warble flies. When it ran, we did not follow. To abandon it was for the good of the pack.’

  This, too, was good judgement. A mad beast is not an easy prey and had they known how badly affected the caribou really was, they might never have followed it across country in the first place.

  Throughout the meeting, consisting of a loose circle of megas, with undermegas further back and behind, Athaba and his sister were huddled together under a small rock overhang. They heard the words but did not look at each other. Koska pretended she was watching the Howling Sentry, posted up on the rise to keep watch. They could see the wolf’s silhouette against the light night sky.

  At first, Athaba was stunned, and could not believe what he was hearing. His father – the one who used to let him roll all over him, grabbing his ruff, chewing his ear, biting his tail – could not be dead. It wasn’t possible. This morning Aksishem had played with a fir cone, showing Athaba how to growl it into submission, then, with a savage shaking of the head, toss it high in the air. The night before, Aksishem had told him and his sister historical stories about the beginning of the time of wolves and Firstdark, when dogs, foxes and wolves were closer than cousins. He had to
ld them of the hybrid swarms, to the south, where wolves mated with feral dogs to produce a creature that was something in between the two. How these hybrid swarms ranged over the lower lands stealing and killing and generally giving both the feral dogs and wolves a bad name. How they were considered to be the outlaws of the canid family.

  His father had told them this just a short time ago. How could that same father be cold and stiff, his soul gone to the Far Forests where their ancestors roamed in packs of great number? No, it wasn’t possible. Aksishem would come back, stroll into the camp, his tongue lolling out and that funny look on his face which said, ‘Tricked you, young ‘uns. Thought I was dead? What, your old wolfer, dead? Just shows, you’ll believe anything at your age.’

  But he did not stroll into camp, nor did he slip back in, or come bounding in. He was somewhere out in the night, his heart turned to ice and his fur stiff and brittle. His eyes had glazed and whitened and his great chest was now like a frozen lump of wood. If you body-slammed him now, he would roll over with a sound like a hollow log He was gone to a place Athaba could not follow, where the fir trees were taller and thicker and the sun shone all the time. Athaba’s body began to ache for the return of his father.

  He wanted to do something – he did not know what – but there seemed nothing he could do that was acceptable. He could have run, yelling and shouting his grief, out into the night, but he knew this would have shocked and astonished the megas with its inappropriateness. Punishment would have followed swiftly. His mother might have understood, but she would hardly tolerate ill-advised behaviour which might be regarded as disrespectful towards Aksishem. There were dirges to help the bereaved, solemn laments to show that they mourned the passing of his father.

  These did not seem enough, and besides, in this pack even the undermegas were not permitted to join the Howling Circle. Athaba was not allowed to do anything but sit and watch. He did so with a heavy and resentful heart. He wanted to show his grief. It was his father, after all, and he knew he was going to miss him a great deal.

  The pack megas gathered together and began the funeral songs, mourning the parting of the hunter. There was no formal body position for such a ceremony: wolves could lie, sit or stand, as they wished. There were, however, set repertoires depending on the status of the deceased and the general regard for that wolf. Aksishem was considered a good-great hunter-warrior, which was one down from the pinnacle of achievement, a great-great hunter-warrior, and of course better than a good-good hunter warrior. Then there was his prowess as a breeding wolf, a secret held by Meshiska who had (naturally) passed it on to each and every wolf in the pack, so that all knew it but none spoke openly of it. Finally, there was his disposition and general sociability to take into account: by no means unimportant in a group of creatures which depend on cooperation for survival. There were other smaller aspects: his ability as a Howling Sentry, his efforts at group teaching, his mock ferocity in establishing his position as a headwolf. There was the strength of his jaws, the breadth of his shoulders, the length of his stride. To this was added the power of his nose, which even amongst wolves was enviably strong. It was said that Aksishem could smell a deer-mouse at a distance of three days.

  All these points were considered, discussed and generally appraised, before a repertoire of appropriate funeral songs was chosen.

  The singing went on throughout the night.

  In the dark-light hours, Athaba retraced the steps of the hunt across country. It was a dangerous thing to do for a pup. If he were to be attacked by a hostile animal, he would not stand a chance. But he was determined to settle something in his mind and the thought of being chased by some stronger beast was pushed to the back of his thoughts. He crossed freezing streams and still patches of icy water. He travelled across the eerily lit tundra, feeling the soft mosses between his pads and the permafrost. He skipped over lichen-covered rocks. The skies swirled in a turmoil of wispy clouds above him.

  Once, a great bird circled around him, descending in slow revolutions, until it was directly above him. He did not heed it, except for a quick turn of the head, a glance. Then he continued his journey through the willow scrub. A few months previously he might have had cause to worry, but Athaba did not think the eagle would swoop on him now. He had grown considerably. A second later the flier obviously came to the same conclusion and wheeled away to the south, where it had been heading in the first place. The creature was apparently not in its normal territory and birds, too, feel insecure out of their usual habitat.

  Athaba travelled through a thousand odours but always keeping the scent of his father in his nostrils.

  Finally, he came upon the carcass and knelt down beside it. The poor body was broken and the pelt torn and punctured. Aksishem’s head lay to one side and Athaba could see the eye sockets were empty. He guessed the ravens had been there, cleaning up after the pack. Athaba felt an unreasonable anger towards the ravens who normally ate any carrion left by the pack. Ravens had a special relationship with the wolves and it seemed quite wrong that they should mutilate Aksishem’s remains. However, Athaba knew that the pack megas would not agree with him. Once the wolf’s spirit had departed from him, the skin and bone left behind was nothing more or less than the dead bark on a rotten log, or withered grass, or a pine cone floating on a river. It was one of those things that was once something else, something with a use, and now it had been shuffled off and was no longer that thing.

  Athaba gripped his father’s body by the hind leg and dragged it towards a bog. He wanted his father’s corpse out of the way of scavengers. He was doing something at last and the pain of his grief became bearable.

  In the distant south was a pinnacle which commanded a view of the whole territory. In all their history only one wolf had stood on the top of the tall rock tower. Wolf legend had it that when Groff led the armies of men out of the sea-of-chaos and began the slaughter of the wolves, an undermega called Lograna made a mighty leap from the ground and caught a cloud by its tail. The cloud rose into the air with the undermega still clinging on by its determined teeth. As the cloud was floating over the for now known as Howler’s Rock, the wolf let go her hold and dropped on to the high peak. From this magnificent vantage point Lograna was able to act as the Howling Sentry for the whole wolf population of her part of the world, warning all the packs in the forests, mountains and flatlands of the north-west, while in other areas, especially beyond the seas, wolves were being slaughtered to the last pup.

  Every victory of this kind has some cost, however, and the tragedy of Lograna was her own self-sacrifice. Although she had managed to attain the place where only eagles had dared, she was unable to descend. Once the danger was past, the young she-wolf died of hunger and thirst upon the rock. Her bones were still up there. They howled with triumph every time the wind blew.

  Athaba turned his father’s body to face the direction of Howler’s Rock and then, as the carcass sank in the dark bog, crooned to the guardian of that holy place to watch over the soul of Aksishem and see that it reached the Far Forest.

  When he finally gave up the howling, Athaba turned from the muskeg swamp to find that two pack members, sent out after the pup by Meshiska when he was found to be missing, had witnessed this strange rite. They took Athaba back with them and reported to the rest of the megas. They spoke contemptuously of gnatwinged magic and goatsucker mysticism.

  Meshiska was ordered to absent herself from the trial. Athaba was taken before the megas and given a thorough ‘staring-out’ by each of the adults in turn. Unlike Koska’s involvement with the deviant Judra, Athaba was being accused of directly initiating a mystical rite, something far more serious than Judra’s crime of ‘story-telling’. The pup was in fact on trial for his life. They told him they could look into his heart and see if there were any weaknesses there, which might be harmful to the pack in the future.

  Inside, faced by those terrible accusative eyes, Athaba quaked in fear. Now he regretted his actions but it was far too late for
that: now that those grey eyes looked right down into his spirit, searching for corrosion of the soul. Terrified as he was he had the sense to know that he had to stare back, unblinking, and think thoughts of purity. He had to fill his own eyes with such innocence that his accusers would be impressed by his confidence in himself. His thoughts went out to the tundra, the flatlands where the wildfowl filled the air and lakes, and the stunted alder grew. He thought of the white and yellow flowers that populated the air with their seeds, and the star mosses, the grasses and the braided streams. His head was empty of everything except beautiful scenery. Not once did he blink or look down, or make any movement that might be construed as a sign of a guilty conscience.

  Finally, the staring-out was over and the questioning began.

  ‘We have to consider the good of the pack, of which your mother is the present headwolf,’ stated Urkati. ‘We have no wish to intimidate you, pup, but there may come a time when others are relying on you. If you are given to daydreaming or any of that mystical stuff, you may be inattentive at a crucial time and cost us lives. Now, why did you return to your father’s corpse?’

  Athaba was terrified and now thoroughly regretted his attempt at thwarting his grief. He lied.

  ‘I didn’t believe my father was dead. I wanted to be sure.’

  Since Urkati was the one who reported the accident she looked a little shocked and offended.

  ‘Are you trying to say that you didn’t believe me? When I gave my report before the whole pack? Are you telling me,’ her voice rose in anger, ‘that you, a pup, considered I might be a liar!’

  ‘No, not that. I thought – I was hoping that you might have been mistaken, that perhaps he was not quite dead …’

  Now Ragisthor, the wolf with a twist of humour, gave voice. He was lying with his paws crossed, towards the back of the group and he tilted his head as he spoke.

  ‘I don’t think you quite understand the nature of death, my little sapling. To be dead means to be lifeless. There is a distinct lack of movement discernible in the creature that once bounded through the forests and across the tundra. This absence of any motion, activity, excitement, agitation or progress of any sort, extends right through the breast to the very heart itself. Nothing beats, palpitates or pulses. In short, one cannot be “not quite dead” – one is either dead, or not dead. Understand me, little shrub?’