Lupus Rex

by John Carter Cash

  Ysil shook with shock. Cormo and Harlequin gasped.

  “What of the quail?” asked Ysil. “Did you see any quail?”

  “Nay, but I did see a lone gray hare moving down the trail at a slow pace. And also a small band of tiny mice, so I know not all were lost.” The finch flew in an arc up and over the three, then in a flash was back where she had been only a second before. “Now we must away! Do your best to keep up with me!”

  With that the tiny bird disappeared. The quail jumped to the wind, their minds still thick with the fog of sleep, and took off after the racing blur that was Flax.

  WHERE WAS HIS burrow? The old gray hare knew it could not be far away. But he could not remember why he had left. Was he looking for food? Had he been alone? His head hurt and he stumbled. His vision blurring, he sat down. Then a bright red filled his sight, and he thought, Maybe I’ll take a little nap, and when I wake I will remember why I left my burrow. And what I was doing on the trail.

  “Yes, yes,” he stammered. “That is what I will do. Sleep. And when I wake all will be back in order.”

  And the hare went to sleep, in the very middle of the trail, with the blood drying on his head and his memory blissfully erased.

  “SULARI!” CRIED CORMO and swerved drastically to alter his flight.

  Ysil saw the hare then, lying still on the trail. The quail landed beside him. Flax was already there.

  “He is asleep,” said the little finch. “Wake up, old hare! You old overgrown rabbit! Wake up! Your den is on fire!” The little finch jumped around the hare quickly, crying out with excited purpose.

  Sulari began to stir. “Hmmm? Fire? Where?”

  Ysil moved in close to the hare, knowing that his eyesight was not that good. “It’s me, Grandfather Hare, Ysil.”

  The old gray hare smiled, focusing in on the face he knew well. “Ysil, my boy, you are back. We were so worried about you! I am so relieved that you’re—” His face froze and the smile was replaced by a look of fear and horror.

  “Oh, no!” cried Sulari. “Now I remember it all! The wolf! And his army! We were all attacked! I—I watched as—I watched as they died. I could not help. I watched as the wolf and coyotes and foxes and other monsters killed so many of the rabbits. And then an enormous fiend burst from the wood. I have never seen its kind before—not quite as big as the wolf, but oh, so horrible. And it killed Cotur Mono! I only ran!” Then he broke off in a fit of crying.

  The birds’ eyes were open in frightful shock. Harlequin moved in close to the old hare and put her wing around his neck. She said nothing, and cried herself. They sat there for a while close to the gray hare and tried to comfort him. But the anguish the quail felt was just as strong as the hare’s.

  Then a voice came from the wood. It was a voice all of them knew.

  “I am glad I returned,” it said, and out stepped Roe. Behind him trod a small group of animals, some seven mice and, in their wake, four rabbits. Then out from the brush stepped eight quail, among them Erdic and Anur. Harlequin flew to them with tears gathering on her feathered face. Her two young brothers took to her sides, one beneath each wing. Ysil saw Sylvil in the group of quail; she moved away from the others and close to Cormo. She looked him in the eyes and some unspoken communication passed between them. She lay at his feet and he sat down beside her and patted her with his wing. There was blood on her shoulder and a cut in her neck. He moved close to her and nestled his head to her side. She smiled at him. “I am glad to see you, Cormo,” she said.

  It was then they all heard the sounds of crows approaching, cawing madly, immediately followed by the howling of coyotes and beasts. It was a chaos of sound that pierced their very hearts with all life’s history of fear and flight. Ysil could liken it only to that of the man’s machine, it was so deafening and maddening. All of them burst for cover and hid. And some flew farther but some found cover closer to the trail. Ysil flew away in a speedy fury and settled in the thorny branches of an Osage orange tree. He was alone, and the fear of the coming army pounded in his chest.

  Flax flew straight up. He flew higher and higher until all below was small and quiet. And up in the heights, not far below the billowing, rolling clouds, he hovered in one place and watched. He saw the crows at the head of the army, flying in standard rank. Behind them were the forms of many vociferous animals, howling, yelping, seething, and noisome: the army of the wolf marching to war. And farther up the trail, past where the animals were hidden, he could see the Murder’s Field. Within the field there were many crows, the Murder’s Tree black with their number, their black bodies speckling the ground. Then it came clear to the finch, for he knew that there were far more crows in the field now than ever before. And also in the field and in the trees surrounding he could see the gray bodies of many smaller birds.

  So that’s what they have been up to, he thought. The doves have rumored up an army of crows.

  OPHREI WAS BUSY within the nest of the King. He hopped and fluttered about, pulling out old snakes’ skins, many of which disintegrated into a pale powder. There also were not a few mouse skulls and the occasional mole corpse, which had gone rancid through the summer heat. In the last month of the King’s life he had not left his nest, and in his death spot there were still the stains of his bile and feces. Ophrei had waited too long to clean the nest, but now he must. The new King must have a fresh foundation on which to build. He picked through the parts that were of newer construction, this past spring’s willow boughs and oak branches. Beneath, some of the nest was exceedingly old. Upon these branches rested the nest of the murder’s King, as it had been and always would be. A lower portion was constructed from the limbs of an old chestnut tree, wormy and gnarled. Ophrei knew that there were no more chestnuts alive. The trees had been killed out by an angry wind long before his time. The nest was very old indeed.

  But when the new King was crowned, he would put his own touches on it. So the old rook prepared the nesting area. This would be the day of the crowning. He knew it to be true. The wind had told him so.

  And so Ophrei picked the white matter and black feathers from the nest and let them fall to the ground below. He was so consumed in his work that he had nearly forgotten that upon the field below was the greatest gathering of crows in this area in many years. Only in Miscwa Tabik-kizi were there such gatherings.

  Two doves flew up beside the rook and watched him working in silence. After a few good minutes ignoring their presence, the rook settled his eyes on them.

  “Well?” he said. “What news do you have for me today?”

  But the doves did not answer, and he went back to his work.

  After a few minutes of watching, the doves flew away.

  But the rook knew what their news was, and likewise they knew they did not have to whisper it. The wolf was near. Dangerously near, now. And with him was the rogue prince.

  Ophrei redoubled his efforts. Not much time now to ready the nest for the new King.

  NASCUS WATCHED THE crows around the field with apprehension. The sound of their squawking and cawing was nearly deafening. The number was great now, and there were more arriving. Most of the birds he had never seen. The doves flew between the crows, whispering in the ears of many, relating things to them. There was a rogue prince en route to this field, and that alone was enough to gather a small army of one type or another. However, it was the return of the wolf that had built the legion before him. If a wolf were to take over this field, there might be one to take over their home fields. They were ready to fight, as most crows usually were at any given time.

  The season of the raising of the Widjigo was approaching, and many crows were moving into the face of the cold wind already. None alive remembered the first calling, but the rooks told of its beginnings. The tale was passed down and down. Ophrei had told it to the princes when the three were but chicks.

  The thought of the tale came to Nascus now and he shivered. As he remembered it:

  Once, the birds and animals had been th
e only inhabitants of the land. There was stillness across the fields and waters, unbroken by the sound of man’s machines, their work sounds, and their strange words. The animals had lived in peace then, and all order was as one. But man had come and brought great change. He had taken over the fields and carried death in with him. He had killed off many animals and held no reverence for the order of the kinds. It was then that the crows had established their order. It was at this time that the First Atonement was held in far-off Miscwa Tabik-kizi, which was then only an open field with an oak grove in its middle. The crows had met to list their grievances with men, and many wished to find a way to get rid of them.

  And so the crows had held council with the Wind, and the Wind had told them that man would never be driven out, that man was to stay. The Wind also told the council that should they ever hope to have influence in the world of men, they must continue to hold council every year.

  But one crow would not hear the Wind and insisted that man could be driven out. So the crow, whose name was Widjigo, had begged the Wind to take him in and to feed him in breath to man. The Wind had finally allowed Widjigo in and had consumed him. But when the Wind had fed him to the men, the men had only blown him out. So Widjigo had become saddened and taken to the quiet places, where men never did go.

  But then one man had taken his family to the wild parts, to where Widjigo was dwelling, and made his home there. And one night, while the family slept, Widjigo settled into the man’s chest. And in his dreams, Widjigo whispered to him, deep into his hunger. When the man woke, he was enormously hungry. Madness overtook him, as if starving, and he went into the room of his wife and two children and slaughtered them like animals and ate them. It was in this way Widjigo the crow turned its anger into man’s insanity and hunger for his own.

  And Widjigo stayed in the wild places and spoke to the lonely and the lost, and some took on its anger and hungered for their own and ate.

  But the council knew Widjigo would not drive man out. Though they meet still, every year, near a great burial site for men, which was once only the clearing with the oak grove. They hold a council with the Wind, so that men should be driven out of the world.

  It was only there, at Miscwa Tabik-kizi for the Atonement, that so many crows gathered in one place at the same time. Now the gathering in the field below was rivaling that number.

  And Nascus knew that the birds gathered here looked to him to lead them, that they were all here to strengthen the field’s army and to fight the approaching danger. They were also here to further ensure that the King would be chosen today, that the darkness would be overcome and the new leader crowned. The army around him was gathered to help him fight this evil. He felt a brave pride rise inside. At the same time, he felt the coldest fear he had ever felt, for he knew that the number of crows and doves, though many, would never equal the strength of the wolf’s army.

  Ophrei flew down to him and settled at his side.

  “The new King will be crowned today,” he said. “This I know to be the truth.” The old rook seemed at ease. Certainly, this somewhat calmed Nascus’s heart.

  “Rook,” asked Nascus, “is this King to be me?”

  The rook jumped. “Certainly it will be you,” he exclaimed. “Of who else could the wind be speaking?”

  “My brother, perhaps. Or . . .”

  The rook wobbled and a wind shifted his feathers. “The wind would not tell me such a thing if it were not to be you,” said the old rook. “This is surely true.” He seemed resolved.

  But Nascus was uneasy, and for some reason he could not get Widjigo’s hatred of men out of his head. He feared that the army coming now was in many ways like man—certain, prideful, and purposeful to its own cause. He wondered if the wind had always known Widjigo’s cause to be futile, and if, when it had taken the crow into itself, it knew of the madness it would bring. As the thought came to him, it tugged at his insides, conceiving another question: Was the wind to be trusted?

  TORTRIX PEERED AROUND Asmod’s great bulk of a head with the cooling breeze in his face. It would not be long until he took his winter’s sleep. He must eat again soon. He was losing energy. Although copperheads needn’t eat often, he had not fed since they left their home cave. In fact, he had scarcely left Asmod’s neck. He watched the other animals and snakes feast on all they chanced upon, from the voles to the fully grown squirrels; the food was everywhere. A few had gorged and were paying dearly, their bodies swollen and cumbersome; they had been left behind. Tortrix had not wanted to be in the least bit encumbered by having his belly full, for a full snake was a lazy snake, and he must be forever watchful of the predators around him. Though they all were professing their loyalty to Asmod, Tortrix knew that they would, any of them, turn on the great wolf if they felt they would gain for themselves. He watched them always, forever on guard. But he could not go into the battle without something to eat. He had just not chanced upon the right-size meal. Too big and he would be slowed down, too little and he would not get enough energy from the food to ensure his readiness for battle.

  Asmod whispered under his breath to the snake. His loyal friend did so only occasionally, as it was scarcely needed for them to talk at all. They communicated without speaking.

  “There are more than a few quail and mice in the bush ahead,” whispered Asmod. “I can smell them. I need not eat again before battle. I know you are hungry. I will stop and let you go on ahead. Go to the brush on the trail’s edge and take the small bird within.”

  Tortrix’s tongue slithered out of his mouth and took the wind in, and yes, he did smell the animals ahead. A good few of them. “Thank you, my friend,” he said to Asmod and dropped his slithery body to the ground.

  When Asmod stopped, the animals behind him halted also, each of them watching his every move. The crows above flew back a bit and landed behind the wolf. Sintus approached him.

  “The snake will feed now. When he finishes, we move on,” said Asmod.

  “We are nearly at the field,” complained Sintus. “We are within earshot. We dare not pause for long. The birds are quiet. Surely they know we are about to attack. They will be perched all about the field. Perhaps they will give it up without a fight. They could never hope to stand against such an army.”

  Asmod smiled. “Alas, I do feel we will have something of a fight in taking it over. I can feel the rise of hot blood in my ears. Always does my blood heat before combat.”

  Sintus huffed. “Yes, I admit you are correct. But any war is acceptable to take the field as our own. As long as it is my brother’s blood you smell.”

  “Certainly it is,” said Asmod. And the great wolf did not speak another word, just turned and sat down upon his haunches. The birds and animals watched the two prospective Kings, each one with their own questions, but none spoke.

  Tortrix slithered on. He smelled bird, certainly a nice, plump quail. A fine meal. He moved silently through the foliage along the edge of the trail. As he neared the brush, he saw the shade of the bird’s feathers almost perfectly blended with the browns, reds, and yellows of the brush and leaves. Tortrix tasted fear on his tongue. It was its fear that gave the prey away—it was always that way. The delicious little thing trembled, its meager breath raising and lowering its form spastically.

  The snake crept close. His hunger grew as he prepared to strike. Within his head, the poison pressed down from overfilling sacs into his fangs, which began to seep with anticipation.

  HARLEQUIN HAD JUMPED when the other quail did but had not flown far. She had been so startled that she had made it only to the edge of the trail. There was a thick brush there that looked concealing at the time. It was only when she had settled into the thick leaves that she had realized her mistake. She was too close to the trail. But as soon as she perceived her error, she heard the footsteps of the approaching army. If she flushed now, she would undoubtedly be seen. And if she flew, perhaps the other quail and mice would run or fly. They might all be killed.

  And so
she did not move, her head beneath her wing.

  And then the approaching animals stopped. She heard the sound of their paws cease and the settling of the crows. She had not chanced a look. There was the din of a deep voice, dark and certain, followed by another, whispering slight and breathy. Then the sound of a crow, a voice she had heard before, that of one of the princes. The rest of the animals were quiet. But for her fearful breathing, she sat still as death.

  Then things happened very quickly.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Ysil’s Flight

  WHEN THE QUAIL and the rabbits and the rest of the band heard the coming of the predators, Ysil reacted on instinct. He had taken to the air first, his wings aflutter. All around him animals had run and the quail had scattered. He had been beside Harlequin when they were standing on the ground, but now she was not with him. Within the shelter of the Osage orange, Ysil quavered in anticipation. Where had she flown? He tried to remember. Had she taken refuge in another bush? He did not think so. Someone had flown near him, but he was certain it was Erdic, her brother. He struggled to remember. Then he closed his eyes and focused on the moment of chaos. Some of the birds had merely flown a short distance, and he prayed she had not been one of them.

  But she had not flown far. He was sure.

  He must go to her! He must find her. But how? There were so many predators around, and with the first flight of a quail, all might fly. It was their way. He closed his eyes tighter and listened to the wind. It blew its whistling tones, a chaos of many melodies. It offered no suggestions.

  “Oh, Cotur Ada,” he said out loud. “But that you were here to guide me!”

  “I am always with you,” came the voice of his grandfather from just next to him.

  Startled, Ysil opened his eyes to look. There was no one there. He chilled. It was his grandfather’s voice, certainly. But he was alone in the bush. Then he felt the brush of wings next to his and the flush of a movement. He looked, but there was still no one there.