They could not use the steep, swift trail Little Fur had taken with Graysong because of the litter bearing the bodies of the two dead wolves. Crow flew part of the way with them, before flying ahead to let Tillet and the ferrets know they were safe and on their way home. But it was too late for Little Fur and the others to get back to the wilderness in time for the weaving, so Little Fur meant to hold her own small ceremony at the fjord.
As they traveled, it snowed lightly but constantly, though the wind seemed to have spent all of its vicious force. Little Fur hardly noticed, since her mind was full of memories of her journey with Graysong. So much had happened since she’d freed him from the zoo that she had hardly noticed how much she had come to admire the tough old wolf. It saddened her that she would never see him again.
Yet she was consoled by her certainty that Graysong’s spirit was serene. Had he not saved the earth spirit from the danger that had been born in the keep, just as Sjoerven had foretold? Had he not saved his son from what he might have become? She had only to see how tenderly his muzzle rested beside his son’s to know that both wolves were at peace.
She thought about her own father, whose name the wolves had spoken, unaware that she had not heard it before. Ardent. Ardent, who had held back the sea and opened the earth for an unborn Little Fur and her mother. Ardent, to whom a wolf king had sworn a blood oath.
On the last day of the journey to the fjord, Little Fur found herself thinking again of the final moments of the wolves’ lives. She said to Ginger, “Graysong said there was something he knew, something that Balidor needed to know. I wonder what it was, for he never lied.”
“I think it was only that Balidor was wrong about saving the earth spirit by killing humans,” Ginger answered. “Or maybe that he was wrong about being able to work magic if he stole your spirit.”
By the time they arrived at the fjord, the moon had risen and was shedding a silvery radiance that made the snow glisten.
“What are you thinking about?” Ginger asked.
“I was thinking that somewhere under the ice is the place where a wizard imprisoned my mother and father, and I don’t really know why.”
“You could ask the fjord spirit to look in her mirror,” said Gazrak, who had come to sniff suspiciously at the ice.
“I could,” said Little Fur.
Little Fur went ahead with Ginger and Gazrak as new wolves took over pulling the pallet bearing their kings down to the level of the ice. Gem was on her shoulder and under her hair, but her beak popped out occasionally.
“How do you get her icefulness to come out?” asked Gazrak, sniffing curiously at the ice.
“You must walk on the ice,” Nightwhisper said, coming to stand with them. He gave a sigh, rather like someone about to take up a burden he knows will be heavy and tiresome. Then he walked onto the ice, lifted his head and howled.
At first, there was a loud crack, and then a cavalcade of smaller snaps. The ice broke open and Sjoerven rose.
“What do you want of me, Wolf?” she asked. Her eyes went from Nightwhisper to the rest of the pack along the bank and to Little Fur and her companions.
Then she saw the pallet upon which the two dead wolves lay.
“Graysong.” Her voice was a shriek of wind over a desolate plain in the darkest hour of night. Her violet gaze shifted to Balidor. “Both of them? But how?”
In answer, Little Fur came and held out the mirror. It was a heavy, beautiful thing, and she could feel the pattern in the silver handle. Even as the fjord spirit reached out to take it, Little Fur opened her mouth to say that Graysong’s life had brought the mirror. Then she remembered that this strange, cold creature had tried to save her father—had brought him out of the devouring sea and held him in her arms as he died. Sjoerven took the mirror, but she did not look into it. Her eyes went back to the dead wolves.
“We would give them to the sea, as was the old way,” Nightwhisper said. “If you will permit it.”
“I will take the true king but not the false,” Sjoerven said. Snow began to fall at that moment, as if her coldness had summoned it.
“You must take both or none,” Nightwhisper said. “They cannot be separated.”
“Then none,” said the fjord spirit, and she sank beneath the black water.
“What will happen now?” Gazrak asked.
“It is midwinter night,” Little Fur said. “It is time to prepare for the Great Weaving, though I suppose it cannot be so very great when there is only one to weave.”
Gem stirred on her shoulder but did not speak. The tiny owl had not spoken since she had bidden Gazrak to offer poison to Graysong.
The two Wolf Kings were left on their pallet as the wolf pack brought enough black rock for a fire to be lit. Watching the flames lick the darkness, Little Fur thought of Tillet and all those who would be in her wilderness now, lighting another fire in the clearing before the seven Old Ones. The fire was dangerous, but its wild power was needed for the weaving.
To Little Fur’s surprise, as the night deepened, creatures began to come—wolves and clouded leopards, silver hares and snow birds—all bearing offerings of food. Then came creatures of the past ages: cave dwarfs and gnomes with white mantles of fur, selkies and a small giant, a snow pixie and three weary pine dryads. There were many other sorts of creatures, too, that Little Fur had never seen in the wilderness.
The last to come was the silver fox, No-One. Little Fur greeted her warmly, wondering how all who had come knew it was safe without ever being told.
As the moon set, everyone gathered in a circle about the fire, and the creatures of the last age began to sing, accompanied by the sounds the beasts and birds made. It was not a song they sang, but something much wilder—a great whirl of sound that fetched embers from the fire and cast them up into the darkness. The wind caught the music of their voices and added its own voice. It was quite a different weaving from that which was shaped by the wilderness, because here it was full of ice and snow and bare stone. But the power of its summoning was just as strong.
After a long time, Little Fur felt the dreams come. She caught and wove those snagged by her voice into dreams of ice and snow. She bound them into the journey she had made from the wilderness to the ice fields. She wove in Graysong and Balidor, and her love for Ginger and for the wilderness and for the seven Old Ones. She felt others weaving dreams that reflected their own lives, and gradually all of the dreams were joined into a great tapestry.
Then, as a ruddy glow appeared at the horizon, they all sang the weaving into the waiting earth spirit.
Little Fur suddenly sat down, too tired even to stand.
Luckily there was almost nothing to do, for the food that had been brought was already laid out on the snow. Everyone helped themselves to whatever they liked, then they came back to the fire, or sat away from it if the heat was a bother. Once or twice Little Fur saw wolves glance over to the pallet where their two kings lay dusted in snow. She found herself doing the same, wondering whether it would be best to build a cairn of stones to cover them, for there was no possibility of digging a hole in the frozen earth to bury them.
Ginger brought her some cloudberries, and she ate them slowly, grimacing with startled pleasure at their tart deliciousness. Almost all of the creatures of other ages came to speak with her, for none of them had seen her before and they were curious. To her amusement, she found herself telling them of the midwinter weaving that was held in the wilderness as avidly as Crow might have done.
As the day wore on, creatures and beasts began to depart. Even No-One went, though Little Fur had invited her to accompany them down to the crossroads. The fox promised to visit the wilderness in the spring, despite Gem’s ominous-sounding insistence that No-One would “learn to love Sorrow” there. Little Fur had been too relieved to hear the owlet speak again to scold her. Only later did she realize what Gem had really been saying.
By nightfall, only Little Fur, Ginger, Gazrak, Gem and the wolves remained by the fjord.
They were all very weary and slept for several hours. The wolves lay on the snow in a great furry pile, with Little Fur and Ginger warm in their midst, though Gazrak muttered that he could hardly close his eyes for all the snoring.
“Wake,” said a soft voice.
Even in her sleep, Little Fur realized it was Gem’s beak tickling her ear. She sat up carefully and climbed out from among the wolves.
“What is it?” she asked Gem.
“She,” Gem hooted softly. “She comes.”
Little Fur and Gem watched as Sjoerven rose from the ice water a third time, her eyes the palest lilac and her hair floating rather than dragging in the black water. She looked at the bodies of Graysong and Balidor for a long time. It seemed to Little Fur that there was a tenderness in her regard.
“Greetings, Sjoerven of the ice,” Little Fur said.
The spirit looked at her. “Greetings, Little Fur of the wilderness. Thank you for the mirror.”
“You saw what happened?”
The fjord spirit nodded with grief in her eyes. “I did not understand. I will take them both…. Perhaps I was at fault. If I had not been angry at Balidor, I would have served him better.”
“Why did you give him the mirror?” Little Fur asked.
“Graysong told it. I bade the mirror show Balidor what he wanted to see. I knew that he would not ask to see the truth, and so I knew that his seeings would be incomplete. But I did not know what would come of it.” She looked at Graysong with longing and regret. “They live such short lives, the beasts of this age, and no matter how you love them, they cannot stay even if they wish it.” She sighed.
“Thank you for telling me about my mother and father,” Little Fur said. “I never knew anything about them before.”
“I can look into my mirror and tell you more, if you desire it.”
Little Fur thought and felt the world around her—the earth, the ice, the air and the living beings. Then she shook her head.
For the first time, the fjord spirit smiled. “You are wise, Little Fur. Now see how Sjoerven honors kings.”
There was a crack and a loud gnashing of the ice sheet as it broke. The wolves woke and leaped up in alarm. Soon they all stood along the shore gazing at the jagged path that had been opened in the ice that covered the fjord. Floating on it was the pallet upon which lay Graysong and Balidor. Sjoerven reached out and drew it after her. Above her in the sky hung a massive shimmering curtain of blues and greens.
When the pallet was out of sight and the brilliant curtains of light in the sky had vanished, Little Fur, Ginger, Gazrak and Gem bade the wolves farewell and set off for the lowlands.
Three days later, they could see the human high houses rising up in the distance, and the mountains behind were turning to clouds. Little Fur’s mind rushed toward the city and the wilderness. She thought of the black dog and Sorrow. How she longed to walk among the Old Ones and feel their spirits about her. And what fun it would be to tell Brownie of all the new creatures she had met at the weaving. And what of Sly? Had she given up her idea of releasing Danger from the zoo?
“You did not ask the fjord spirit what happened to your mother,” Ginger said, interrupting the giddy tumble of her thoughts.
Little Fur stroked the elf cloak, clasped the green stone about her neck, and her spirit grew quiet. She shrugged and said, rather shyly, “Perhaps it is not necessary to know everything all at once.”
Ginger said nothing, but he purred.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book was written over hundreds of cups of coffee and croissants and to some incredible French music in the Francouzsy Palacinky Restaurace in Prague. The staff was wonderful at the delicate balancing act of looking after me and leaving me alone. I would like to thank Jan and Adelaide, without whose artistic companionship I could never have brought Little Fur to these pages. Thanks also to Janet and Marina, to Nan, and to Ken, Jiri and Peter, for countless random acts of help, guidance and inspiration. And a special, sincere thanks to Mallory Loehr, whose editing teaches me to be a better writer.
LITTLE FUR’S TRIALS AND
TRIUMPHS CONTINUE IN
Book 4: A Riddle of Green
COMING SOON!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Isobelle Carmody began the first of her highly acclaimed Obernewtyn Chronicles while she was still in high school, and worked on it while completing a bachelor of arts and then a journalism cadetship. The series and her short stories have established her at the forefront of fantasy writing in Australia.
She has written many award-winning short stories and books for young people. The Gathering was a joint winner of the 1993 CBC Book of the Year Award and the 1994 Children’s Peace Literature Award. Billy Thunder and the Night Gate (published as Night Gate in the United States) was short-listed for the Patricia Wrightson Prize for Children’s Literature in the 2001 NSW Premier’s Literary Awards.
Isobelle divides her time between her homes in Australia and the Czech Republic.
BOOKS BY ISOBELLE CARMODY
Little Fur
The Legend Begins
A Fox Called Sorrow
A Mystery of Wolves
A Riddle of Green (2009)
The Gateway Trilogy
Night Gate
Winter Door
The Firecat (2010)
The Obernewtyn Chronicles
Obernewtyn
The Farseekers
Ashling
The Keeping Place
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2007 by Isobelle Carmody
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in Australia as
The Legend of Little Fur, Book 3, A Mystery of Wolves by Viking, an imprint of Penguin Books Australia, Camberwell, in 2007.
Random House and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
www.randomhouse.com/kids
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at www.randomhouse.com/teachers
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Carmody, Isobelle.
A mystery of wolves / Isobelle Carmody.—1st American ed.
p. cm.—(Little Fur; bk. 3)
SUMMARY: When Little Fur’s feline friend Ginger goes missing, the tiny, half-elf, half-troll healer undertakes an adventure that sets her on a collision course with a secret order of wolves.
[1. Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. 2. Elves—Fiction. 3. Ecology—Fiction. 4. Animals—Fiction. 5. Magic—Fiction. 6. Fantasy.] I. Title.
PZ7.C2176My 2008 [Fic]—dc22 2007010922
eISBN: 978-0-375-84989-3
v3.0
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