Lupus Rex

by John Carter Cash

  MONROTH WALKED WITH Drac and Puk through the thicket to the spot where they had left the others sleeping. When they reached the thicket, they found it empty.

  Monroth stammered. This could mean only one thing: the others had found him out. He quivered, suddenly feeling more alone than ever before. He gave an awkward smile to the foxes.

  Drac gaped back at Monroth. He showed his teeth. “Well, well,” he said. “It seems it’s only the three of us now.”

  At this Monroth trembled.

  OPHREI SAT IN the midst of the tree and listened to the call of the geese. They were talking of the weather to the north, how there was a storm coming. The geese above were considering taking shelter early. They would take cover in cattails beside a pond or river and let the storm pass. Ophrei cursed the coming storm. But he felt that any storm of snow, rain, or wind was not the one to be concerned with. And though dark was still many hours away, he was sleepy and dazing. The sun was hot, and even though the day’s warmth was not near its full, he felt within his bones the chill of winter as if the snow had already fallen.

  The words and melody of the quail would not leave his mind. They played over and over in his head, and his heart was beating like a woodpecker’s hammering beak.

  At that moment a dove flew into the tree and settled down on the branch next to him. It fluttered to him and moved its beak nigh to the rook’s ear. When he ceased his whisper, he flew away.

  Ophrei sat and considered what the dove had told him and all it meant.

  Nascus flew into the tree and landed next to Ophrei.

  “Ophrei,” said the prince, “shall I bring you some grain? Can I offer you any solace for this worry you wear upon your face?”

  “The solace I seek will come with the sleep of death, my King in waiting,” said Ophrei.

  “Why do you speak in such dark tones? Surely the General has a plan in place for capturing and returning my brother?”

  “The General’s plans are in place, yes. And were these days as those before, I am certain that capturing the renegade would not be hard.” Ophrei looked off and considered. “There is a storm coming, and the animals of the field may not make it back before its arrival. They may also encounter another storm . . .”

  “Sage, you speak in riddles,” said Nascus. “What is bothering you beyond the treachery of my brother?”

  “My King, we must prepare,” said the old rook with sudden resolve. “I will speak now a tale. Take from it what you may.”

  The rook closed his eyes and ruffled out his feathers. There was a gust of wind, and after that all fell deadly still.

  “Once there was a small tree at the edge of a great, deep forest. And within the tree was a hollowed-out place. Within the hollow was a robin’s nest. The old mother robin raised many chicks in the nest and took a great pleasure in it. She kept care of her children and grandchildren and loved them with a true heart. There came a day when the leaves were golden and the wind so still that she sat at the base of the tree and watched her babes playing and searching for worms and grubs. She was weakened and tired and fell to sleep below the branches. She dreamed that the earth gave up its bounty and worms were crawling out from everywhere. She and her brood harvested every worm that crawled out and filled their bellies. She slept on and on, her dream so sweet and full of bounty. While she slept, there came a migration of eagles and they descended upon her babes and took them all, not leaving one. She awoke to find herself alone. Within the nest was one last egg, but she had been so consumed with her other children she had not sat upon it. When she went to warm it she found the chick within dead. She sat in the tree all winter and did not eat. Come spring, a man cut down the tree and burned it. Her body and that of her dead chick he burned also.”

  Ophrei hopped down and pecked at his nest. He removed a strip of bark and replaced it with another. He flicked out a spiderweb and settled in.

  Nascus ogled the old rook. “You speak of our tree, that a dark time is upon us. This I can gather from your tale. But who are the eagles? There are no eagles in this place.”

  “Nascus, we have been asleep for too long,” said Ophrei. “We are fattened and the lesser animals abounding are fattened likewise. We have seen these days as a golden harvest, as our due reward in life. But we have not prepared for what must come. We have been but dreaming.” He settled uncomfortably into his nest, his voice lowered to a whisper.

  Nascus watched him thoughtfully.

  “A day is upon us,” he went on, “that few have dreaded. We have been too secure in our lives.”

  “What do you speak of?” asked Nascus. “What day are you meaning? Surely my brother and his forces can be defeated.”

  “Your brother, I am afraid, is but a small part of the evil,” said the rook. “He is on his way back to us even now. If it were but he and his band, we would prepare for the battle and go to the task. But there is a much greater threat. Your brother now flies above an army much greater than any he could muster alone. I am afraid his small band is to be counted among one much greater. The doves have told me. The old quail was no fool. The wolf is returning.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The True Order

  DRAC, MONROTH, AND Puk set out after the quail, the birds’ scent still fresh in the air. They went on for a distance. Then Drac stopped and turned to Monroth.

  “Was this quest you were on with the others your own, quail?” he asked. “Was the old bird your grandfather?”

  “No, he was not,” said Monroth.

  “Then why do we pursue the birds?” asked Drac. “Let us instead keep a pace away and wait on the trail for their return. Perhaps they have lost their trust in you, eh? Maybe one of them saw us a-feastin’ on those mice you took us to, eh?”

  So the fox had come to the same conclusion he had. “Yes, I suppose that must be why.” And when he spoke his agreement aloud, he realized were it true, his life from now on would be forever changed. Once the others told the covey of his betrayal, he would be cast out. Once they told the others . . . Then the thought came to him: What if Ysil, Cormo, and Harlequin never made it back to the field? What if he were to turn them over to the foxes and beg them kill them? The thought made him even colder inside. He could almost imagine doing such a thing to Ysil and Cormo. What benefit were they, anyway? But to Harlequin? She must surely hold some use to him still. And besides, he desired her as mate. If she had not been the one to observe his sedition, could he convince her that he was only protecting her by turning Ysil and Cormo over to the foxes? Possibly he could, yes. Then another thought occurred to Monroth: What if the others never came back from their mission to the hawk?

  “Yes,” said Monroth. “Let’s stay on the trail and wait for their return.” He needed time to think over his choices.

  GOMOR PANTED AND ran, hopping fast to keep up with the quail in the trees above. Why am I here? he thought. Since the quail had fled the brush, leaving Monroth and the foxes behind, he had been asking himself this same question over and over. He knew that the journey they were on was dangerous, and since danger was all a rabbit knew anyway, at least this was normal. But why seek out more? Most rabbits’ lives were short and ended painfully. He had always accepted this; still, he wanted to enjoy the life he had. He lived for his friends—that was true—and would protect them if needed. Still, this was not his fight. If the hawk were to return to the field, it could only mean the loss of numerous rabbits to its talons. Yet he understood the wisdom Cotur Ada had lent them and the importance of following his dying command. The command of a grandfather was always to be followed, even if death were sure from its following. He steadied his resolve and ran on, the quail high above looking down to him regularly to see if he was still below.

  Ysil landed in a great maple and looked down to Gomor. “Let’s rest for a bit,” he called, then flew down beside his good-natured companion. “We should be far enough away now that we can at least slow. But we must stay ahead. I’m not certain that Monroth will pursue us, but he likely
will. He may also take it as a chance to be done with this quest. Gomor, I believe his treachery is long-lived, past and future.”

  Harlequin and Cormo flew down. Ysil quieted. When Harlequin lit next to him, Gomor felt a rush of peace move through him.

  She smiled at him. “Quite a run, Gomor. Never thought you would keep up.”

  “Me neither,” said Ysil. “But we really had no choice. We don’t know if Monroth and the foxes are just at our tail.”

  “It is a sad thing to be running from a friend, but the saddest thing I feel,” said Harlequin, “is the realization that if he has betrayed the mice, he may betray us just as easily. He may have already done as much.” She stared down to the dry earth at her feet.

  Gomor knew she was sad. The place she had in her heart for Monroth was now empty. “Certainly he has not betrayed us,” he said. “He has little regard for mice, but he would not betray his own kind.”

  “How can we be certain, Gomor?” asked Cormo. “In some ways, the mice are our kind.”

  Gomor was silent. Harlequin continued to look down.

  “We can’t be certain he has not,” said Ysil.

  They continued on at a quick pace but stayed on the ground. They followed the trail in the direction from where the sun rises. The day wore on and a cool wind came. With it, rolling clouds and a chill. They kept pace with the wind as best they could, at times flying, at times running. They were tired but kept going, the command of Cotur Ada driving them.

  At three-quarter sun, they crested the top of a small rise and suddenly were astounded by the view of the Great River below. They had made a good distance in a short time. It meandered through the valley, snaking its way from one direction to another, then made a vast loop in its turnings, creating a great peninsula of land. They could see the trail going down through the trees and winding to the muddy edge of the water.

  “The river,” said Ysil. “I have heard speak of it all my life but never seen it.”

  “None of us have,” said Cormo.

  “None of our families have,” said Harlequin.

  “Perhaps Cotur Ada,” said Ysil.

  “Yes, perhaps,” said Harlequin.

  “But why?” asked Gomor. “It is so close.”

  Immediately, all eyes were upon him. With that stare, the answer came abruptly. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, yes, of course.”

  They all looked at the river. “The hawk,” he said.

  IT WASN’T THAT the land about was without quail, rabbits, or other lesser animals; rather, it was just the opposite: there was a good number. But the animals here were of a different temperament and attitude than the animals of the field. These were the deep woods and the dangers were greater. Animals were much more careful here, and the few curious eyes they saw peeking from behind the brush or trees above did not venture out in investigation; and they did not slow to pursue any watchers. They had their purpose, and they went on.

  They pressed on as the wind continued to blow, and to the direction from whence it came they saw that a great cloud darkened the sky.

  “There is coming a storm,” said Cormo.

  “Yes, certainly,” said Ysil. “But it is a great distance off. We should keep going. We cannot falter when our goal is this close.”

  No one answered him, but neither did anyone stop. Ahead was a rise, and at the top of the hill was a grove of pine trees. The trail down to the river must surely be beyond. They moved into the pines, eager to find the pinecones the trees promised. They were getting hungry. But the view between the tree trunks stopped their hunger. There beyond was a precipice and a great drop. The grove was at the top of a cliff, and at the bottom of the cliff was the river. They gazed out over the land beyond it. On the far bank was a dense wood. But it was not the view of the river that commanded their attention; it was what lay beyond it. Past the churning water and beyond the wood were many men’s houses, some tall and some short. There were great towers with smoke rising from them. Beyond the hawk’s realm was the realm of man.

  Ysil felt a great chill within his heart. This was where he had been commanded to go, and he had followed Cotur Ada’s direction. The dying words of his greatly loved grandfather were as law. But within him every ounce of his being told him he must turn back; he must return to his home and huddle beneath the brush and pray for the best. He thought of Harlequin and her broken heart, he thought of Gomor and his willingness to journey with them on a quest of which he was a part only in friendship. And he thought of the hawk, somewhere below. The hawk who could take their lives even before they delivered Cotur Ada’s message.

  Ysil looked around. All his friends’ eyes were on him. He knew what they were thinking: they were as afraid as he was, but no one said a word. Ysil mindfully trudged down the trail without eating from a single pinecone. The others followed.

  THE COURSE WOUND its way down the precipice through hollows and clefts until it flattened out along the banks of the river, and then into a small clearing. The clearing was still and quiet. It was too quiet, in fact. There were no sounds of birds, which was strange. There came the hum of one of man’s loathsome beasts. The thought of what it could be made Ysil tremble. He had seen the man’s machine cutting the field, its giant blades turning with terrible power. That creature had been noisy and angry, but the contraption he heard now must be much larger, for its growl remained vociferous, though, undeniably, far, far away. To make such a great noise, it must be a fearsome creature, for sure. And he could see what he took to be a fog billowing into the sky from the direction of the sound, and wondered why man would make a machine that would breathe fog to block the view of the sky.

  They continued on, the sound of the river surrounding them until finally it was before them, a great tumult of driving force, wide and immense. They all turned and looked one to the other.

  “Should we wait until almost dark to fly across the river?” asked Cormo.

  “I feel we should go now,” said Ysil. “The hawk is likely out hunting. Perhaps we should be near his nest when he returns.”

  Then all eyes went to Gomor. He could not fly. He could not swim.

  “Well, I guess this is as far as I go,” said Gomor. The relief was evident in his voice.

  “I’ll just wait in that brush over there until you come back,” said the rabbit.

  “I hate to leave you, friend, but I don’t think we should wait,” said Ysil. “We need to find his nest before he returns. Then we can sneak in and hide beneath. Even if he is already there, perhaps we can call up to him before he sees us. If we speak Cotur Ada’s name, hopefully he will listen. We have to believe what Cotur Ada said. If we can’t find his nest, at least we can find shelter there before the day wears on too far.”

  Harlequin turned to Gomor. “You know I will be missing you,” she said.

  The rabbit laid his long ears to the sides of his head and looked down, dragging his back foot through the dirt.

  “I will gather some food,” said Gomor, being as cheery as possible. “If you return before dark, we can all eat before sleep. That is my prayer, that you return before dark.”

  “It is my prayer that we return at all,” said Cormo, staring blankly across the river.

  With that they gave Gomor their good-byes and with a great flurry took off as one across the thick brown water.

  Gomor watched his friends’ flight and saw them descend into a raspberry thicket and disappear. It was as if they had never been there at all.

  Immediately Gomor felt the chill of loneliness set in. He felt exposed and isolated. He looked around for the closest shelter in this strange place. He saw a stand of water dock, crowfoots, and forked rushes near the river. Glancing up and around to make sure the sky was clear of danger, he moved toward it. He remembered his promise to find food and wondered if there would be some there within the coppice, maybe even some morels or quillwort. There were also mosses that could be delicious. Then there was a sudden rush of wind, and Gomor, on instinct, darted toward the soggy undergro
wth.

  BENEATH THE RASPBERRY bush the ground was wet. This was a place where the river seeped into the soil. The three quail landed in the muck with a splat. Then they saw the white shards all around them. At first Ysil thought they were sticks, bleached by the sun. Then he realized they were bones; the bones of rabbits, mice, moles, small birds—quail. He looked down at his body and to the faces and bodies of the other birds, all covered with mud.

  Cormo laughed, not yet noticing the bones. “Well, if the hawk sees us now, he’ll think we’re little brown grouse, not quail.”

  With a quiver Ysil raised his eyes to the canopy above. High in the very tree above the raspberry bush was the form of a great nest. “The hawk’s nest is right over us,” he whispered fearfully. Cormo started, his eyes going white and wide.

  The other two saw the nest and chilled. There was no rustling within the nest, and Ysil felt for sure it was empty—for the time. They waited quietly for a while, and then set to cleaning the mud from their bodies. Beneath the bush they preened their feathers as best they could. Ysil removed Cotur Ada’s feather and shook the caking earth from it. Then he returned it to his breast.

  “Let’s move down the bank of the river for a space,” said Harlequin. “There seems to be a path there with a thicket beside it. Let’s stay hidden in the thicket. And for the sake of all order, let’s watch that nest closely.”

  “Yes, I agree,” said Ysil.

  They moved along the path, keeping within the dense foliage wherever they could, forever mindful of the trees overhead and listening carefully for the sound of wings. The woods here were even quieter than those across the river, if that was possible.