Night of the Wolf (14 page)

With trembling hands, he gave the torque to Alix. “Take it to . . . the woman.”

“And say?”

“Say nothing. Nothing need be said. She will understand.”

After she left, he knelt there for a long time, trying to convince himself he hadn’t seen what he’d just seen, and failing that, to explain it away. But in the end, he could do neither. So he rose slowly, thinking his joints were stiffening as he aged, walked to his dwelling, and called for wine. Lots and lots of wine.

As for Imona, the torque was delivered, held out to her with one hand, even as Alix used her other to cover her face with her veil. As she had been instructed, Alix said nothing. Alix, the willow.

Imona did as Cynewolf did. Drank all the wine and beer they would give her. She watched the sunlight come and go. Not tonight, but tomorrow. A day not in the world. Dawn and dusk, not day, not night. Beside the sea, not water, not land. The hinge of the year. A day not belonging properly to either one, ordained time out of mind, to exist and not exist. Most holy night. Sacred night. The door to forever. Imona shivered and, because there was nothing left to do now, idly watched the sun come and go as the wind pushed the clouds from the north.

The wolf was prepared for the cold. His triple thickness of coat repelled water, and the coarse, outer guard hairs wouldn’t support ice even in the coldest, dampest conditions. The wide-splayed paws were self-insulated against the icy ground, and the claws and pads offered good traction even on slick ice. Sheer size gave him an advantage over most of his kind. Few, if any, wolves bulk as large as a human. He did, fully one hundred and eighty pounds. The thick overlay of fat on his muscles—the dynamic energy that fueled his change from man to wolf and back again—also served as insulation against the freezing winter night.

He had some misgivings about leaving Decius in his helpless state. The bear or other wolves might find him. So he cast about in circles, exploring the burned-out farm. He soon found it had been the scene of a savage battle. Many died. A wolf’s nose, even in the bitter cold, found the remains of countless men and beasts.

The villa had not been alone here. Beyond its fields, a village once stood. The only traces of the structures inhabited by small farmers were a few weathered house posts and a rank smell of char and mud. They also left their dead. Mostly gone now, reclaimed by the earth, the dry smell of old bone and rusting iron told the wolf where they lay.

It was dark. The snow fell more and more heavily. Still, the gray wolf continued circling, trying to be sure the woods held no threat to his human charge; and he found nothing.

The wolves would not hunt tonight. The bear? She had only one interest here—the bee tree. Her senses warned her of oncoming cold even more quickly than his. She’d long ago sought her den. She was padded with fat and heavy with the cubs that would be born in the deep winter. The honey tree was in the nature of a bedtime snack.

His last circle took him to the road. Even the bees were quiescent. They had repaired what they could of the damage done by the bear’s depredations. Now they hung deep in the hollow tree, insulated by at least a foot of bark, wood, and sawdust chippings. Each bee clinging to at least three others, they hung in a dark curtain covering their remaining larva and honey-laden comb. They were warm and they sang. Very softly. The wolf paused to listen.

They were content. The queen was alive and uninjured. Most of the larva they would need to replenish the colony had also survived and the remaining honey was more than enough to carry them through the cold months.

Above the bees’ heads, the branches began to clack and clatter as the snow melted then turned to ice in the north wind. They sang also of the tree’s strength, though rotten and lightning blasted. They were assured that it was strong enough to protect them for at least another year.
Sleep now; sleep as the outside world is covered in white death. Sleep.

The wolf drifted on, ignoring the strange lullaby. Here in the cold dark night, he was at home.

Where was Imona? He believed she had been taken across this river. Though he knew little of human doings, he was aware that it marked the boundary of Roman power.

Even to a wolf it made sense for her people to carry her away to a place where she couldn’t be punished for her husband’s actions. But once beyond the river, where had they taken her?

He hurried along the river road. He saw into the blurred, snow-filled darkness better than a human could. He avoided the still-wet puddles that might soak his feet. They wouldn’t bother him much, but having to stop and gnaw away the ice between his toes would slow him up. His stomach gripped at him a bit.

A wolf wanted more meat than a human customarily ate. He craved something better than the bread and cheese he’d just eaten, but he could put off a hunt for several days if he had to.

However, he was growing discouraged. He’d been traveling through wilderness for several days and it had been close to a week since he’d found the last traces of her in the mountain fastness. He had no proof she was here.

The temperature was dropping rapidly. He no longer splashed through the puddles when he was inattentive. Ice was forming fast on everything in the forest, including the road. He was a very disgruntled wolf and almost ready to turn back, feed, and, if possible, reach the lean-to and sleep, when the smell of wood smoke drifted to his nostrils.

He increased his pace and, when he passed the next bend in the river, saw the faint lights of a settlement ahead, only a few buildings clustered around a landing for a rope-propelled ferry. The ferry was up on the shore, already half-buried in icy mud and snow. The few squalid huts that comprised the settlement were battened down, tightly shuttered against the blizzard outside.

The wolf paused, baffled. What now?

He looked at the river. It rolled black, its oily gleam misted by the thick flurries of snow steadily dappling its surface.

The wolf sat.
Damn!
This from the man who shared the wolf’s brain. Then he looked up.

The low, rolling overcast was flurried with snow and sleet clouds. The encampment across the river advertised itself by the red glow its fires cast against the boiling clouds.

The wolf rose and trotted through the screen of brush cloaking the banks. Some bushes were still green and the torn leaves and broken twigs gave off an overpowering fragrance. Bay? No. The canine sense of smell is twenty times more powerful than is the human’s. The wolf was capable of making fine distinctions no mere man could begin to sort out.

His nose touched a berry. Blue, it had the essence of blueness, nestled among leaves shiny, dark green. His tongue swept out. The berry tasted of blue, green, and gray. Powdery blue, almost violet; green the leaves’ sharp fragrance, half incense, half cold bite and sweet bay. And then the gray, creeping like cool mist flowing from the heights into mountain valleys as the last sun blazes against the peaks, painting them with an almost unbearably beautiful golden light.

His nose found another berry and another and another. The man would have been trembling in terror. He, the man, might have fled. But the wolf looked into the other world and let it claim him. To the beast, to the wolf, tomorrow and yesterday are illusions. Now is all that exists: now and the taste of berries on the tongue.

He was in a garden, visiting in the magic moments between dawn and sunrise. Or was it the pale twilight between sunset and night? Even the wolf couldn’t tell. Usually he could. Sunrise and sunset have a different fragrance. But not here where the air was drenched with the perfume of the berry bushes.

The cold was gone, replaced by a comfortable coolness. The river was gone, replaced by a narrow brook hardly deep enough to cover his paws. But beautiful, reflecting, as it did, the blue-violet and faint rose of an opalescent sky.

He had been given many maps when he was born. One of the heavens telling him how each day, month, and year wore away. Another of the mountains and the secrets of the seasons. Trails and all but invisible paths that could be followed in sun and starlight, rain and snow; ways to lead him to all he needed in life and, yes, in death. He had never been granted a map of this place; yet he took the gift it offered and so perhaps bound himself forever.

He pushed through the living green standing firm against snow, ice, sleet, and death, and drifted down a shallow, grassy slope through the creek, his careful wolf feet raising not a splash, and climbed another shallow slope until wind-driven snow and sleet slashed him across the face. And he found himself looking down from a bluff on the other side of the river at an encampment crowning the hill. The oppidum just across the river from the ferry landing.

VIII

The wolf was untroubled by the snow, wind, or cold. This was because the wolf is, par excellence, a bad-weather animal. His feet will not freeze because his body can lower their temperature almost to the level of frozen snow without impairing either activity or circulation. Maeniel didn’t know this, but he felt no discomfort on even the coldest surface.

The undercoat of a wolf is a sort of insulating fleece. The outer guard hairs shed moisture from rain or snow and, as all circumpolar peoples know, it will not become coated by frost. He was, in fact, quite comfortable even in a semiblizzard like this.

But he was aware his other self wouldn’t be so fortunate. So he set out for the encampment he saw ahead of him. The wolf wanted to run, go find Imona, and—if she was here—change and carry her away. The man told him not to be a fool. As a human he would die before morning without the protection of clothing and shelter.

No, he’d best think a bit about how to accomplish his objective. First, find Imona! She might not be here. If he hadn’t found the path opened by the blueberries, he might have turned around and given up. But then again, probably not. More than likely he would have tried to swim the river and killed himself.

As he entered the human encampment, he found he could move about quite freely. His gray coat made him difficult to see in the blowing snow, and those humans sharp-eyed enough to spot him took him for a large dog.

At first, he was a bit furtive, slipping from shadow to shadow, but he quickly realized this only made the humans suspicious. So long as he trotted along, head down, tongue lolling and looking harmless, he was ignored. No one would believe a wolf would wander among humans so casually and without fear.

Not bad so far,
he thought until he reached the gates of the oppidum, the settlement that crowned the high mound itself.

A tall palisade with heavy, iron-spiked wooden gates surrounded it. They were closed. On either side of the gates, torches flared in iron baskets, giving three armed and formidable-looking guards a good view.

He sat down in the darkness where he could not be seen to consider matters. Was she there? He couldn’t tell. The number and variety of odors generated by humans, their livestock, hide tents, and cooked food was almost overpowering to his animal senses.

But just then a hard gust of wind whipped the snow into swirls of white, forcing the gate guards to turn their backs to protect their faces from the icy blast, almost extinguishing the torches hanging from the gateposts.

Yes, there it was. Her perfume. Her living body. A warm, memory-laden scent belonging only to her. She was here. This wasn’t something left behind like a footprint in damp soil or a bit of hair or fur caught on the wicked projections of a holly bush. This was the message imparted to the air by a living, breathing being whose heart beat, lungs filled and emptied, and mind thought and dreamed beyond the cold night, the wooden gates, and the palisade that shut him out.

He felt a deeper sense of relief than he’d expected. He hadn’t realized how fearful he’d been, or allowed himself to comprehend how much sorrow it would have caused him if she’d simply disappeared from his life and he’d never seen her again. How big a place she’d made for herself in his heart.

To the naïve human and the innocent wolf in him, everything seemed simple. He would pass the gate, greet her, and she would come with him. He was certain he could manage the pack and care for her at the same time. He could hide her not only from her own people, but the Romans if necessary. Now, how to get past that gate?

At that moment, he heard the hissing sound of wagon wheels, creaking and groaning, compacting the new snow underfoot. The shadowy shape of a large wagon drawn by mules emerged from the darkness and pulled up to the gate.

One of the guards looked up at the driver. “What is it?”

“Salt fish.”

The guard shook his head. “Salt fish? Leave it out here. Go in the linch gate.” He pointed to a smaller door in the big gate.

“What, are you a fool? You’ll be a damn fool if the lord of this place catches you leaving a wagonload of food where it can be stolen. Leave six barrels of salt fish here and that rabble down there—” He pointed to the scattering of fires burning on the hill behind him. “If they get wind of the fact that there’s food here for the taking, there won’t be a scraping of salt on the barrel bottoms by dawn.”

The guard sighed in a very loud and windy way. “I can remember when that wasn’t so.”

“Yes, so can I,” the driver replied, “but it’s true now, so open the gates before I freeze my balls off. I’ve been keeping company with this stinking fish so long, my hide smells like bilge water and even my piss reeks. I want some beer, a warm bed, and, if possible, a woman who doesn’t mind the smell of fish.”

The wolf saw what he considered his opportunity and drifted toward the wagon, sliding under it just as one of the guards began to swing the big gate back.

But the wolf reckoned without a cur already crouched under the wagon. He was taken aback by his first sight of the creature. It was small, white, liberally sprinkled with livercolored spots, short coated, and shivering violently. It began to yap loudly as the wolf stuck his nose under the wagon.

The man swore mentally. The wolf snarled. A more intelligent animal would have been silenced, but the wolf reckoned without the power of stupidity. The small animal simply yipped faster and more loudly.

“What’s that?” the guard asked.

“Stray dog, I think,” the driver said. “The little one’s mine.”

The guard picked up a clod of ice and mud. He hurled it at the wolf. It caught him painfully in the ribs. The wolf squealed.

“Get out of here! Go!” the guard shouted.

The angry wolf lunged toward him.

The guard carried the rectangular Celtic shield, a wood frame reinforced with hide. As the wolf closed, the man brought the edge of the heavy shield down hard across his back and shoulder.

The wolf gave vent to a sound more like a scream of pain than a cry of anger, then scuttled crabwise back into the snowy darkness.

By the time he brought himself under control, the cart was inside and the gate closed and barred again.

The pain in his neck and shoulder receded from excruciating to bearable, but it was a long time before he could put his foot on the ground again. And longer before he was able to walk without a limp.

At length, he managed to free his mind of anger, frustration, and pain, by then convinced that nothing about dealing with these mad human creatures was ever as easy as it seemed on the surface.

Deep in every canid’s heart lurks a con artist. He stood in the darkness and strained his ears, listening to the conversation of the guards.

Somehow they’d managed to erect a lean-to near the gate. As it grew later and colder, fewer travelers interrupted their drinking.

The snowfall had grown heavier as the night wore on. The flakes, which had started as a fine powder, were now so thick it was difficult to see more than twenty feet in any direction. True, the wind—a vicious blast earlier in the evening—had dropped, but as it did, the snow sifted straight down, flakes the wolf could hear tinkling faintly as they began to wrap the earth and every structure standing near the oppidum in a thick blanket of white. The wolf sidled toward the guard hut until he was close enough to see the three huddled inside.

The eldest, a bearded giant, was already unconscious. He was leaning against the wall, snoring. The other two sat at the table. One slept, head in his arms; the other, a rangy, ginger-haired one, was the problem. He was still awake and in a truculent mood. The wolf eased closer to the door.

“Get out of here!” the redhead snarled, and began looking around for a missile.

The wolf went down on his belly, whined, and produced what he hoped was a submissive canine grin.

“Bastard! You tried to bite me. Now that I kicked your ass, you want to be friends.”

The wolf whimpered softly and eased forward on his stomach, tail wagging.

“Now you wanna be my buddy. Real sweetheart.” The guard’s speech was slurred, but slowly a nasty grin spread over his face. He refilled his wine cup. “Come here.” He beckoned the wolf with one hand as he lifted the cup with the other.

The wolf’s muzzle was just inside the guards’ hut. The wolf calculated the probable effect of a full cup of wine being dashed into his vulnerable eyes and tender nose. Not good. But he was sober and Ginger Hair was not. Nor was the wolf a human distracted by sleight of hand. Still, Ginger Hair was fast and almost got him.

The wine was in the air, coming, but instead of hitting a wolf’s eyes, it splashed on human legs. Ginger Hair found himself looking at a man’s face: a strong man’s face, but with eyes exactly like those of what he’d mistaken for a stray dog.

It was his last sight for a time because, a second later, Maeniel’s fist connected with the side of his jaw.

The other two in the guard hut not only didn’t wake, but only one of them stirred. The one sitting at the table grunted, moved, and then went back to sleep. The other, resting against the wall, simply continued snoring.

Maeniel took Ginger Hair’s tunic, leggings, and mantle, charitably leaving him with undershirt, shoes, and stockings.

He paused for a moment to make sure Ginger Hair was still breathing; he’d been unhappy about his killing earlier in the day. Then he went out. The palisade presented no problem. He was able to vault it quickly and began his search for Imona.

She was sitting in the dark, wrapped in her heavy mantle, when the lamp wick guttered out. She hadn’t either the energy or the courage to brave the icy room and relight it. Instead, she lay in a half doze, burdened with both emotional despair and physical misery. The temperature inside matched the blizzard outside and ice was beginning to form on the walls.

All that remained of the hearth fire were red, glowing splotches. They brightened and darkened as the wind sucked at the air in the room.

At first, even the sounds on the street didn’t arouse her. It was only when she heard
his
voice whispering her name that she got to her feet and scrambled to the slats forming the window: one nailed to the inside, one on the opposite side to the outside. This created as solid a set of bars as he’d ever seen. Only one little problem, though: they were rotten.

His big fist tore one loose on the bottom. Then he smacked the one on the other side and it flopped back. He saw Imona’s face peering at him from the darkened room. He reached in and she took his hand.

She pressed it against her cheek and he felt a warm wetness. For a moment, he wondered at it because the snow had ceased blowing and was falling straight down, and then he realized she was crying.

“I thought no one remembered, no one cared. But you came, you remembered and cared. I do so love you.” Her cheek and then her lips were like velvet and silk against his big, hard fingers.

He was a man. He blinked into the darkness of the snowcovered street. True, he was wearing the gate guard’s tunic, leggings, and mantle, but he was barefooted. His toes were already freezing and every exposed inch of skin on his body was cold.

“Come,” he said, tightening his hand on hers. “Come away. ‘Love’ is . . . love is something you crave. I can’t understand it well, but if it’s always falling asleep with a full stomach, staying warm at night, or finding sheltered, safe, cool spots to rest by day, I can lead you to all of these things. I’ll hunt and kill for you. I’ll carry you far from any of your own kind who want to harm you, and I will defend you against any who threaten you. Come with me, Imona. Come . . . be free. Forget these strange, contentious humans. Come. It will only take me a moment to break a few more of these bars. I know a place where I can take you. It’s warm there. Come with me now!”

He pulled her hand past the broken slats. “Come! I’m afraid we may not have long. I had to hit the man at the gate and take his clothes to get here. He or one of his drunken brothers may raise an alarm.”

He pulled her hand free of his and drew back. He could see only the outline of her face. Her eyes were shadowed hollows.

She saw his profile.
Gods, he’s young,
she thought.
Whatever he is, he’s young. What have I ahead of me in his wild home? Every morning it’s a little harder to rise. Each time I have a session with comb and mirror, I find more gray hairs.
“No,” she whispered softly. “No.”

“Why no?”

His voice was so loud in the deserted street that she was afraid for him. “Sssh! They will raise an alarm and find you.”

His arm groped through the window to try to catch hers again.

She took his hand, laced their fingers together, and pressed them against her forehead. “Hush, for the life of you, my love, my very dear. Please be quiet. I will come, only . . . only not tonight.”

“No?” His voice was lowered again. “Why not?”

“Because . . .” She groped for an explanation, some excuse. “There’s something I need to do before I go. Something that must be done. By me. Tomorrow.”

Nearby, a man’s voice shouted.

A torch flared.

“Wolves! Outlaws!”

His hand was gone and Imona saw the wolf shape where he’d been kneeling only a moment before.

Quickly, she pushed the barring slats closed. Then he was gone and the moment was past; Imona understood she had chosen, and what she had chosen.

Outside, the small settlement echoed with the hue and cry of what she was sure was a vain pursuit. She added tinder to the few live coals on the hearth. They flared. She set the last wood on the fire. It warmed the room and filled it with flickering, yellow light.

She sat staring into the flames for what seemed a long time, feeling a strange peace. Then she sought her pallet bed and, still staring into the flames, she slept, without dreaming of life or death. Only of the mountains and how they soared, lifting clean, knife-edged snowfields against a deep blue sky.

The first few moments for the wolf were busy ones. A javelin landed and went several inches into the mud where he had been standing only a moment before. For a terrible few seconds, he rolled, trapped in the tunic and mantle, and then he was free and running through the icy slush between the houses.