Frost Wolf

by Kathryn Lasky

  “Eating another animal’s stomach is not exactly appealing,” the Whistler said.

  “Perhaps not, but a grass eater’s stomach, like a caribou or a moose, is filled with lichen and moss. It’s nourishing. Look at the size grizzlies grow to. That should be proof enough.”

  “You’re not exactly tiny,” Dearlea said.

  “You see! I’m living proof. I ate what my second Milk Giver told me to eat. So eat these roots.”

  The Whistler got up and went to relieve himself by a rock several paces from the foxes’ lair where they had made camp for the evening. He was about to raise his leg when he noticed that the ice sheathing the rock had been scratched off recently and there were claw marks on its dark surface. Could this be a whispering rock? He tapped the rock with his own claws. Nothing. How hard did one have to tap or claw? He dragged the five toes of his fore-paw across the rock’s surface. There was a scratchy sound and then beneath it a distinct hiss. He felt a delicate vibration through the ice he was standing on. The ice was a conduit! A perfect channel for the sound. How strange! the Whistler thought.

  But a few seconds later something even weirder occurred. The rock the Whistler stood near began to hiss — hiss with no provocation — and beneath his feet he once again felt a vibration. Almost like a whisper. The rock and the earth were whispering to him! Someone was sending a message or replying to what he had scratched.

  The Whistler tried scratching several more times, and each time there was a response. This must be what Tearlach heard, the Whistler thought. But he did not recall a rock near where they had found Tearlach’s body. Had Tearlach’s hearing been so acute that he could pick up the messages directly from the frozen ground, from the conduit of ice? Oh, if only I had the listening skills of that dear old earless wolf, I might be able to tell where these whispers are coming from! thought the Whistler.

  But then he had an idea. Deep in the Whistler’s crooked throat was a hole through which the drafts and winds of his inhalations and his exhalations streamed. Often he would pick up the edges of maverick winds and gusts when he opened his mouth to howl. A curious alchemy occurred between these winds and his own expirations that transformed his croaking voice into beautiful liquid notes that rose in the darkness of the night and seemed to touch the moon. He could close the hole to make higher notes or open it wider and feel the harmonics quavering in the back of his throat and then blooming into the night in a soulful resonance.

  What would happen if he pressed his neck to the ground? He knew exactly where, deep within the channel of his throat. Could he catch the vibrations emanating from the whisper rock? The owls used the stars to navigate and their own hearing to locate the position of prey. A Barn Owl could hear so well that it could detect the heartbeat of a mouse on the ground a hundred feet below. It could contract and expand the muscles of its facial disks to funnel in the sound to its unevenly placed ear slits. The Whistler had a hole in his throat. He could close it and open it. He could very possibly rotate his neck in some way so as to funnel these vibrations to that odd throat of his and perhaps locate the source of a sound.

  “Urskadamus! What are you doing? I thought you came here to relieve yourself.”

  “Shussh!” The Whistler flashed the whites of his eyes.

  Faolan fell silent immediately. After several seconds, the Whistler got up, walked a few feet away, and released a hot stream of urine. He then walked back to where he had lain with his throat pressed to the ground. The snow had melted in the spot. He wagged his tail. He looked proud, almost smug — an expression rarely seen on the face of a gnaw wolf.

  “My dear fellow,” the Whistler began. “You are standing next to a ringing rock — or a whispering rock, as they call them now. And I have just picked up a communication.”

  “You mean a whisper?”

  “Indeed. And I have determined its source.”

  “How did you ever do that?” Faolan looked with wonder at the Whistler.

  “I believe it is essentially the same way owls do it.”

  Faolan nearly jumped with excitement. “I know all about it from Gwynneth. She’s a Masked Owl, which is part of the Barn Owl family. She does this all the time. They tip their ear slit this way and that way and home in on a source.”

  “Well, now I’ve done it. Maybe I’m part owl!”

  Faolan felt a shiver run through his marrow. He shook his head slightly and the guard hairs on his ruff stood rigid.

  “Lochin crossed your bones again?” the Whistler asked.

  “No, nothing. Nothing at all. But this is really valuable!”

  “Do you think we should go have a look?” the Whistler asked.

  Faolan hesitated a minute. He had not told the Whistler what he and Edme suspected — that the paw prints in the dance circles they had found were not exclusively outclanner wolves. “Yes, I think we should. But first we have to continue toward the Blood Watch.”

  The Whistler seemed to hesitate.

  “What is it?” Faolan asked.

  “The source is coming from close to the Blood Watch.”

  “What?”

  “Not exactly right from it, but it’s in the direction we would travel.”

  “Then we have to be careful because … Well, obviously from the circle we have seen so far, these tracks are outclanners — remember. Outclanners who must have slipped through the Blood Watch.”

  “All of the tracks, Faolan?” the Whistler asked.

  Faolan looked into those intelligent green eyes. So the Whistler knew about the clan wolf tracks as well.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  RABBIT-EAR MOSS

  SHE SHOULD TAKE IT AS A SIGN, Gwynneth thought, an indication that she was doing the right thing. The sign was a thermal — a draft of warm air that made flying effortless. Without having to stir a feather, she could soar on the billowing air. She shut her eyes and felt herself lift almost magically. Good Glaux, it was great to be a bird! Not just a bird but an owl! She couldn’t remember the last time there had been such a draft. The only thermals to be found generally were over the Ring of Sacred Volcanoes. But Gwynneth was nowhere near the Ring now.

  The winds were definitely favoring Gwynneth’s search for the place where her father had died, the place with a hero mark. Her father, Gwyndor, had always been close to the wolves. He had understood them as no other owl did, and he had passed his passion for the wolves and their traditions on to her. In terms of the sparse company she kept, Gwynneth, like her father, preferred that of wolves to owls. And she realized that if she was going to find her father’s helmet and visor, it was a wolf’s sniffer that she needed. Not just any sniffer — but the renowned nose of the Sark of the Slough.

  The Sark was Gwynneth’s closest friend in the Beyond. Gwynneth had often wondered how the old she-wolf was faring since the herds had vanished. It was so much easier for owls. They required less sustenance and the prey that owls sought was small — rodents, and the occasional snake. Small creatures that did not migrate or demand such immense expenditures of energy to hunt as the big ones of the meat trails. One could always depend on finding a vole or two in the burrows beneath nut trees, and there were myriads of such trees, from chestnut to walnut, in Silverveil. So, although Gwynneth usually brought the Sark coals in her coal bucket, this time she had layered wet moss over the coals and then wrapped three voles from her stash in more moss to carry them west toward the Slough and the Sark’s encampment.

  There was a thick cloud cover over the Slough, but she was pleased when she plunged through it to see a tendril of smoke coming up from the Sark’s kiln. Good, she thought. She’s not out of fuel yet.

  The Sark caught Gwynneth’s scent as she circled high above. The scent of a Masked Owl laced through with the smell of embers, moss, and very savory voles! Her mouth watered in anticipation. For although she generally avoided rodents, starvation was preferable to the thought of one more tern egg. She had discovered that the tern eggs were not really rotten at all, or at least not in the sens
e of being spoiled. It was simply their natural flavor. The tern’s flavor matched its character, which was, in the Sark’s opinion, the most annoying of any bird on earth. Flying weasels, she called them. Sharp beaked, skittish, and ridiculously territorial, terns darted down and tried to stab anything that set foot on what they considered their ground. Well, the Sark had taught them a lesson years ago. She had leaped right up and whacked them back. After a few dead terns, the rest left her in peace and avoided the Sark’s encampment.

  Gwynneth lighted down.

  “Well, where in the name of Glaux, to use an owl phrase, have you been?”

  “Silverveil, ma’am. It was impossible to tend a forge here.”

  Owls often addressed the Sark as “ma’am.” Gwynneth was not sure when this practice began. Perhaps it was her father, Gwyndor, who started with this form of address, for he had an immense respect for the Sark and had frequently complained of the wolves’ treatment of her. Gwyndor abhorred that they often referred to her as a witch. So he had told Gwynneth it was particularly important to call the Sark “ma’am” when any wolves were around. “That’ll show ’em the proper respect!” he would often say.

  Gwynneth continued, “I didn’t feel it right to try to compete for game here with the wolves.” She paused. “Not that I bring down caribou or any big meat. But I did bring you some vole. Sorry. I know wolves don’t particularly care for rodents.”

  “Believe me, after tern eggs!”

  “Oh, dear, it’s come to that?”

  “It certainly has — at least for me.”

  “You look well.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I never look well, not even presentable. But those voles smell great.”

  “I wrapped them in rabbit-ear moss and set them on the coals. I brought you some coals as well.”

  “That was very kind of you.”

  “Eat them slowly. They’re rich, you know, because they feed on nuts. I wouldn’t want to upset your stomach.”

  “After the insults of the tern eggs, nothing can offend my stomach.” The Sark pawed at the moss wrapping and uncovered a vole that was a bit scorched. She sniffed. “It’s a haunting aroma, really.”

  “It’s the rabbit-ear moss. It smells that way when it’s wet.” Heedless of Gwynneth’s warning to eat slowly, the Sark devoured the little rodent in a matter of seconds.

  “I take it your visit is not entirely a relief effort,” she commented with the last bite.

  Gwynneth was immediately embarrassed. She should have known it was not simply the Sark’s sense of smell that was keen. The Sark’s other instincts were honed to a sharpness beyond the ordinary. There was no use evading. The Sark would never let herself be played for a fool.

  “You’re right, b … bu … but —”

  “Out with it, Gwynneth. I’ve known you a long time and your father, Gwyndor, even longer.”

  “It’s about Da,” Gwynneth blurted out. “I know. I know. You looked for his body when you heard about his death but …” the owl said apologetically.

  The Sark sighed deeply. “We, my dear. Remember I took you out with me. And what did we find?”

  “Nothing.” Gwynneth cast her eyes down and shifted from one foot to the other nervously.

  “So what makes you think we’d find him now?”

  “Well, just possibly there’s a hero mark someplace for him. A hero mark with his helmet and visor.”

  “Have you gone cag mag? Since when do owls have hero marks?”

  “I know … I know it sounds crazy.”

  “So why are you saying this?”

  “A scroom …” Gwynneth said hesitantly.

  “Oh, great Lupus above!” The Sark almost exploded. Her skittish eye went into paroxysms and seemed to bulge out and twirl as if it had a life of its own. And though there was no wind, her pelt seemed to be hosting its own private typhoon. Her fur clattered with the sound of icicles hanging from her withers and chest. “Really, Gwynneth, you know my feelings about scrooms, mist, whatever. It’s no more than a bunch of caribou scat! I don’t believe in them — the supernatural, whoo, whoo!” she intoned in a falsely spooky voice.

  “Don’t be like that!” Gwynneth’s plumage suddenly flattened as she wilfed in despair. The Sark was shocked by her reaction.

  “Like what?”

  “You’re mocking me.”

  “But I don’t believe in scrooms.”

  “It doesn’t matter to me what you believe.” Gwynneth cocked her head and looked at the Sark with her deep black eyes. “It’s what I believe. You should have the decency to hear me out.” She paused. “Please, ma’am.”

  For one of the few times in her life, the Sark felt something akin to remorse. She admired this owl. She admired Gwynneth for smithing art in her forge instead of weapons. Gwynneth had always been a keen student of the ways of wolves and had mastered their language, which, although not entirely different from that of owls, was tricky enough. This, too, was commendable. Gwynneth knew their stories, their histories, and their laws. And perhaps most admirable of all, Gwynneth had befriended the malcadh Faolan when he was still a lone wolf. If not for Gwynneth, Faolan might never have found his way to the MacDuncans and ultimately the Watch, where he was quickly proving himself to be a wolf of extraordinary talents. She deserved better than to be mocked.

  “All right. I beg your pardon. Tell me about this scroom.”

  “It was Auntie,” Gwynneth replied softly and began her story of how the vaporous mist had hung in the trees and told her of an unsettled spirit — of her father, Gwyndor.

  “Now forget the hero mark part, but what’s this about a helmet and visor?”

  “Wherever my da’s helm and visor were … were when he died, they have been moved.” She paused and spoke the single word clearly and with emphasis: “Disturbed.” She knew that the Sark would understand the significance of this single word in connection with a forged article, particularly a helmet and visor made by a Rogue smith.

  The Sark grew very still and shut her eyes tightly. The helm and visor of an owl — a Guardian Owl — on the head and body of a wolf. She had noted the details of that mask and helm, but would there be enough in the jugs to stir up an older memory?

  “Come with me,” the Sark ordered and began walking toward her cave.

  Gwynneth followed. The fire that the Sark usually kept, by which many a she-wolf had rested after being driven from a clan for birthing a malcadh, had dwindled. They walked past it. The Sark was leading Gwynneth to the darker recesses of the cave. On the walls, jugs and pots of all shapes and sizes rested on ledges or were suspended on cords of caribou sinew. “Wait here,” the Sark said suddenly.

  It was pitch-black, but absolute darkness never bothered an owl. Gwynneth could see as clearly as if it were broad daylight. The Sark must have realized this, for she deliberately turned her back to block Gwynneth’s view. Gwynneth heard a slight clink as the Sark set a clay jug on the floor and then what sounded like a deep inhalation, as if the Sark were taking a huge breath. But the Masked Owl did not smell anything, and that is where she and the Sark parted ways.

  For as she pressed her muzzle into the long neck of the jug, the Sark had entered a landscape of scents. Fired in her own kiln, glazed with the slips and clays from the streambeds of the Beyond, the Sark’s memory jugs were filled with impressions, memories, and descriptions of scents. Memory was sacred to the Sark, a hallowed power of the brain fed by tributaries of scent. And now she felt as if she were caught in a mad river of crosscurrents and eddies, rapids, whirlpools, and surges.

  She pulled down another jug, then another. Gwynneth could hear the deep inhalations growing more shallow. The owl could even hear the acceleration of the Sark’s heartbeat.

  Through the scented landscapes flashed a light — The glint, the glint! The metallic shimmer. But the smell … that lovely smell. How often Gwyndor perched near my kiln with the fragance of rabbit-ear moss still in his head feathers. The light of the flames from my kiln on that he
lm — but it was all so different from when the wolf that jiggered about. That fool dancing wolf.

  “Ma’am! Ma’am!” Gwynneth was hovering just over the Sark’s face, fanning her with her broad wings. “Are you all right!”

  “Rabbit-ear moss!” The Sark’s eyes flew open.

  “Are you all right? You fainted or something.”

  “It’s the ‘or something,’ my dear!” The Sark staggered to her feet and seemed none the worse for wear. She gaped at the array of jugs.

  “You kept shouting about rabbit-ear moss.”

  “Yes, of course. That was the trigger, don’t you see?”

  Gwynneth shook her head in bewilderment.

  “You brought the voles in that rabbit-ear moss. It was scorched, so I didn’t quite recognize it, but then — why, yes, the flanges!”

  “Flanges? What in the world are you talking about?”

  “The glint came off the visor, and I recollected it in my memory jug. The flanges! I was such a fool. How could I have missed it?”

  “Missed what, ma’am?”

  “You know the special trim that your father, Gwyndor, made where the visor slid down from the helmet — it was a rather signature design of his. But it was so long since I’ve seen it, and I hate to make excuses, but I was absolutely nauseous from some tern eggs…. I didn’t recognize the helmet as Gwyndor’s!”

  “Yes, he did make lovely flanges — they were like a flat rim and allowed the visor to slide up and down on the helmet with a flick of the head. But I still don’t understand.”

  “Don’t owls often pack their helmets with rabbit-ear moss for cushioning?”

  “Yes, it’s quite a common practice.”

  “But not with this wolf — he didn’t know, nor did he need the cushioning. Fur’s as good as moss, most likely.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I saw your father’s helm, Gwynneth! But not on an owl — on a wolf!”