Lupus Rex
Page 18
The quail was fleeing these hornets, not attacking. And as the wolf realized this, it came to him that perhaps the quail was not fleeing randomly, and was in fact leading the hornets precisely where he intended.
After the tiny quail raced past, inches above the wolf’s head, it became clear what the bird was doing. It dived headlong into the freshly cut grass, putting the wolf between itself and the attacking hornets.
“Clever little bird. . .” Asmod mumbled. But it was too late to do anything. The hornets were upon him.
NO ONE EVER spoke to the hornets. They would not listen. The hornets kept to themselves and tended to their own and seldom sought anyone out, unless that someone could be eaten. No one approached a hornet. If a hornet came close to one, buzzing and irritated (as hornets always are), one gently backed away. No one spoke to the hornets.
The first memory Ysil had of hornets was when Cotur Ada warned Cormo and him against them. But his grandfather had taken them near the nest, so they would know the hornets’ borders and range. Cotur Ada had flown in close to the pine grove and, from the edge of it, on a cool, late spring day while the hornets were sleeping (they hoped), he had pointed out the nest. It was hanging from a lower branch, arcane and wondrous, the color of birch bark. But when Ysil asked if it was a part of the tree, his grandfather said no, that the hornets made it with their spit.
“Their spit?” said Ysil.
“That’s disgusting,” said Cormo. “You mean they live in a house made of their own spit?”
“That is exactly where they live,” said Cotur Ada. “And they are especially proud of their home. Never touch it. Never even get near it. If you do, they may all come out in a rush and sting you at once. This would kill you. We have a rule with the hornets, one we never break: leave them alone, and they will leave us alone. This is within the order.”
And when Ysil, Harlequin, and Cormo had perched above the hornets’ nest, they heard the buzzing within. But there were no hornets to be seen around the grove.
“I’ll do it,” said Cormo.
“I must be the one,” said Ysil. “Cormo, you and I race all the time.” He looked at Harlequin, not wanting to sound like he was bragging. “Who wins, Cormo?”
Cormo stared back. “You do,” he said.
“Be careful,” said Harlequin.
“There is nothing careful, nor sane for that matter, about what I am going to do, not at all,” said Ysil, and the three shared a brief, nervous laugh.
Ysil flew down upon the branch the nest was welded to and moved carefully and quietly toward it. There were still no hornets to be seen, only the steady buzz from within. He knew this was a dire measure, but he must do something to stop the wolf, even if it meant his own death. Then he did exactly what Ekbeth had suggested. He poked a hole in the nest with his beak, one quick and strong peck, and with all the strength his wings could propel, he flew back in the direction of the field, and he did not look back. Before he cleared the edge of the pine grove, he heard the buzzing din of angry hornets pursuing him.
And so he led the angry mob to the field, and once again, as he flew, there at the tip of his wing, just for an instant, he was sure he had seen another bird flying with him.
THE HORNETS WERE about the wolf like a funnel cloud, and immediately engulfed his body. Asmod howled in pain and began to thrash about, biting and pawing at the angry insects. Those close to him were caught in the cloud also. Tortrix was stung and slithered away fast, dragging one writhing hornet with him, its stinger impaled deeply in the snake’s rust-colored back. And then the wolf was rolling across the ground, smashing hornets beneath him and wailing in agony. The hornets then left the wolf and flew onto a young coyote close by. They covered the coyote in a writhing yellow blanket. The coyote struggled and twisted its body, biting at its hide. And then the hornets were on a nearby fox, leaving the coyote wriggling about in a poisoned daze.
Ysil lay motionless on the field in the midst of this mayhem, hoping that for another moment he would go unnoticed in the chaos. He was exhausted, his eyes nearly swollen shut. Perhaps he would appear a small brown stone in the great field, but alas, his quick breathing would give him away. The wolf stood up and looked around. Ysil knew that if he were to flee, it must be now. So he jumped to the air and flew with all his might.
“After the little bird!” screamed Asmod. “Bring him to me!”
But Ysil did not look back. He was nearly at the edge of the field now. Safety was only a few feet away. Closer... Closer...
Then with a red blur before him, he was brought to the ground. He felt the teeth tight in his side, and beneath that spot he felt and heard the tight snap and crunch of a rib bone breaking. He looked around frantically to see who his captor was and saw the smiling eyes of Drac—and a swift movement to his left was Puk. Puk had something in his mouth also: the struggling form of Harlequin.
“Bring them to me!” bellowed Asmod from the center of the field.
CORMO AND HARLEQUIN had followed just behind the swarm and taken to the edge of the field. They watched in wonder as the hornets overwhelmed the huge wolf. They had seen the wolf’s struggles and saw their friend take flight toward them. No sooner had Ysil jumped than a great thrashing occurred in the brush behind them. They both flushed quickly, but Harlequin had not been fast enough. Cormo looked back to see her taken to the ground by the familiar form of the scoundrel fox, Puk by name.
And with fear in his heart and tears in his eyes, Cormo had taken high into the air and flown away fast, the terror of his own death propelling him forward, close at his tail feathers.
He had flown only a short distance before he realized what he was doing: fleeing and leaving his friends to die. With a fresh resolve he came down and landed within the high branches of a sycamore. He looked back to the field. There at its edge were the shapes of two red foxes, and within their jaws were the twisting and thrashing forms of two little gray birds.
NO SOONER HAD the hornets come than they were gone, the cloud moving with its raging purpose back in the direction from where it had come, a bit smaller now than upon its arrival.
Asmod was lying on his side, stung all over. Still, he was crazed with wrath. He heard laughter from above and looked up. Sintus was just above him, circling low with five other crows. “So, the tiniest of the enemies has caused the great wolf the most pain!” said Sintus.
“I am in need of a truce, as certainly we do need each other!” said Asmod. His face was beginning to swell, as was the back of his neck and his posterior. Tortrix gingerly slithered back to his side, the tip of his tail stretched to twice its normal size, an enormous hornet stinger protruding from it.
Drac and Puk were to the wolf now, and they laid Ysil and Harlequin down, holding them firmly with their paws. Ysil’s side throbbed in agony. Harlequin was awake but seemed in shock. Ysil looked to her but she did not look back, though her eyes were wide open. They were both trembling all over.
“You cursed little birds,” Asmod said. “You will die long, painful deaths for this.” He looked up and forced his puffy body to stand. “Hear me! Hear me, all who are in hiding about the field! I know you are all there! I can smell every one of you. Let the deaths of these two be a warning memory to you, lest we kill you all as you sleep in the night or gather during the day! I am the King of this field!” And he looked at Sintus. “Beside Sintus I will rule!” Tortrix looked up to the wolf and tongued the air.
CIRCLING ABOVE, THE new King Crow heard the words of the wolf and wondered. Certainly, Asmod could not be trusted—not ever, but he was injured now. Perhaps this attack by the hornets had stirred an awareness of his need to keep allegiance with the crows. Surely the wolf was in need now. Sintus made his decision and flew down beside the wolf. “I am glad you have come to clear mind, wolf. Too bad it took the stings of a thousand hornets and the betrayal of a mere quail to bring you to your senses.”
“Oh, yes,” said Asmod. “My senses are quite awake. In fact, I never lost them.”
AS YSIL WATCHED Sintus die, he felt all hope die with him. Within the crow’s order there had always been a place for the quail, rabbits, and other lower animals, and though he remembered what Cormo had heard from his perch above the trail, that being Sintus’s agreeing to the deaths of all quail, with the crows, at least there was some hope. Within the order of the wolf, there was none at all. The remainder of the crows gathered about and bowed low and professed Asmod the only King, of the field and also the Murder’s Tree.
The wolf once again turned his puffy head high and howled in victory. The others joined in. And as the yelps and howls of the predators died out, the cry of victory turned into a defiant screech. It came from above, a sound that spoke deep within Ysil’s heart. It was a sound that brought new fear, but for some reason, also hope. Ysil looked to the left and saw the shape of the wolverine move into the field. The darkly furred monster was looking up into the sky; he shook his head and turned quickly away. As the wolverine disappeared into the dark woods from where it had come, the screech continued, becoming louder each second, the whole of the field growing deathly quiet. Ysil looked up, and there, high in the sky, were the forms of birds. The shapes grew larger as they descended with great speed. The first bird was much larger than the other shapes behind it: brown, with the tips of his wings gray and bearing white highlights across. And it was a bird he knew.
“Pitrin,” he heard in a whisper. It was Harlequin. “It is Pitrin, returned at last.”
Chapter Nineteen
The Final Battle
DAY’S LIGHT WAS fading and dark would soon come, relentless and unavoidable. All eyes, those within the field and those around it, were upon the sky. Now the shapes of the birds were clear upon the gray backdrop of racing cloud. It was the great hawk returned, and behind him was the one-eyed prince of the crows: the chosen Nascus. And the wind blew straight down from the heavens and dropped them with a fury.
So concerned were they with the descending birds, none of the predators heard the approaching attack from the forest. Out of four corners of the field burst four groups of animals. One, from the direction of the cold wind, was the remainder of the deer, led by Oda, the widow, injured but racing into battle. Flying at her side was the tiny form of Flax, scarcely larger than a hornet himself. From the direction of the setting sun came an army of turkeys with Butry in lead. From the direction of the rising sun charged the remainder of the squirrels and a pack of badgers. Within this number was Risa the woodchuck, racing ahead of the others with fangs bared. And from the direction of the warm wind came the greatest gathering of raccoons ever assembled, and all sprinted toward the wolf and his band at once.
The predators panicked, surrounded from all sides and from above. They all packed in together, huddled up against Asmod.
The wolf screamed, “In rank! Prepare for battle!” Tortrix wrapped around the wolf’s neck in protection and for safety.
Drac and Puk loosened their paws from Ysil and Harlequin. The quail burst free, taking fast to wing. Ysil was in great pain, but he paid it no mind. The two birds flew tight together, straight over the top of the turkeys, which ran, hopped, and flew into battle.
The two small birds flew straight to their hiding place and watched in anticipation. There was a rustle beside them and up looked Cormo, a great relief in his eyes.
Before them, the deer were upon the predators, crashing in with their hooves and antlers, some of them wounded. Fueled by the hope of victory and revenge, they fought even stronger than before. A coyote’s skull was cracked, his head dashed upon the sharp end of a hoof. Puk ran. He raced for what he thought was a break in the pounding hooves, but just as he broke past two attacking deer, Oda was upon him. She beat him to death with her flogging legs. Drac tried to flee, only to be attacked by three raccoons at once, who tore his throat apart, singing their joyous song as they did so. A familiar coon looked Drac in the eye as he died. “We fight only when cornered, eh?” said the masked animal.
The turkeys flew upon Asmod all at once, and he thrashed and fought, tearing them up with his sharp teeth. Butry, the tom, was killed by the wolf with one quick shake of its head, the monstrous jaws clenched about his frail neck. Then the raccoons were also upon him. One of them ripped the snake from about his neck with its sharp teeth, the copperhead falling to the ground. Asmod was upon the raccoons, tearing and biting them, and one after the other he was killing them. They screamed and barked, their blood flying into the air. Still they attacked him, one after another, and with each he would dispatch, Asmod was pounced upon by another. But the wolf would not go down, and he was killing the assailants as fast as they came at him.
Asmod reared up on his hind legs to wail a victory cry to frighten those attacking. The tastes of raccoon’s and turkey’s blood were strong in his mouth. The wolf heard only one beat of a wing, and he did not have time to register what it might be before the hawk was upon him. With deft purpose and aim, Pitrin jabbed his beak into the wolf’s head and plucked out his remaining eye. The wolf’s howl of victory became one of agony. Pitrin did not even slow, but swallowed the eye down and banked sharply to return for the kill.
Asmod screamed, jumping about wildly.
Pitrin bore down upon the great wolf, his talons outstretched, his red beak open in attack. The wolf thrashed madly about, biting at the air, yelping and howling. But when the hawk was nearly upon him, Tortrix burst like a bolt into the air. Pitrin banked sharply to avoid the deadly fangs of the snake. There came another beat of wings and, suddenly, Strix the owl took the snake in midflight; he flew far and high with the snake, who would not return living to the earth.
By this time dusk was upon the field, and with the dying light Ysil saw the great bleeding and blind wolf burst from the middle of battle and race in the direction of the falling sun. Asmod, the last wolf, blinded and wounded, disappeared with a rustle into the forest, none in pursuit. Pitrin flew in a tight arc around the foray, quickly returning to where the wolf had been, but found the beast had disappeared.
Still the battle raged, but not for long. The predators became aware that their leader was no longer in the field and began to flee: limping, howling, barking, and seething. Across the field were the bodies of the dead. As the sounds of battle died, and the moans of the injured calmed or ended, twilight fell. The clouds billowed across the gray sky, and the light of day was swallowed by a whole and complete darkness. Ysil heard no screams of victory, just the milling of deer and raccoons, and of course the tearing of the vultures. The wind quieted and all grew still.
As Ysil, Cormo, and Harlequin settled into the inevitable sleep of quail, Ysil heard from upon high, as if from an approaching dream, the lone screech of Pitrin, returned to the nest of his birth.
Chapter Twenty
The Claims of the Brother
WITH THE DAWN came a drenching rain, and the water rinsed the field, cleansing and purifying. Blood of both predator and prey, bird and innocent, washed down into the thirsty earth. And with the rain came the promise of fall, days ever colder and longer nights.
Ysil and Harlequin woke to the sound of the falling rain, and for the hours it fell they did not move but lay there within the brush and talked quietly among themselves. Finally the light of the sun folded across the field, and there returned to collect the bounty of the dead those whose right is so.
“Is it really over?” asked Harlequin.
“Certainly it must be,” said Cormo. “The wolf surely died in the night.”
“I feel positive also that it is over,” said Ysil.
But the three sat at the edge of the field, still within the brush, and w
atched as the vultures tended to the dead.
Nascus, the new King Crow, descended upon the field and talked with the vultures, with Ekbeth and the others. And all was still except for the sound of the vultures’ feeding. At the edge of the field Ysil saw the movement of mice and also a small quail.
“It’s Sylvil,” said Harlequin. “For her to be out, she must sense all is safe.”
And with so many of the lesser animals feeding, the quail made up their minds to join them, and they stepped from the brush.
Cormo went first, approaching Sylvil carefully. Cormo picked through what was there, Sylvil looking up at him shyly as he drew close. Ysil and Harlequin moved together near them, and Roe was there, munching at a rattlesnake body. Harlequin looked at him disgustedly. He smiled back a crimson grin in response. The warmth of the early fall day arrived, and the sun shone upon the field, a thick steam rising from it. And so the quail meandered about the edge of the field, picking the drying grain.
Ysil ate the grain. There arose a breeze, and though it was slight, it pressed persistently into his face. There came to his ear a whistle within the wind. He closed his eyes, listening carefully. A melody unfolded from the blowing, a rising and falling cadence, not unlike the dance of the raccoons. But the song was urgent, determined. All around Ysil the sounds of feeding disappeared, and for that moment all was erased; the loss was gone, the pain in his side forgotten. The melody surrounded him, swallowed him, and demanded his attention. It was then it became clear there was a word within the song, a word not spoken but whistled through the leaves of the trees and the cut blades of grass, and he listened, trying to determine the speaking. The word was of two tones, one higher and the second low, repeating over and over.