The Sight (28 page)

‘What is this Vision though, Tsarr,’ she asked, ‘and this great secret? The Vision that will make all the Lera look up and so trap them.’

Tsarr shook his head, but his eyes were shining brilliantly.

‘That is something nobody knows,’ he answered, ‘not even fortune-tellers like Tsinga.  But there are many who have foretold that it is the secret itself that will really enslave the Lera.  As much as the third power of the Sight.’

‘In the mind of the Man Varg,’ thought Larka gravely, looking back to the clearing once more, ‘then none shall be free.’

‘Tsarr,’ asked Larka suddenly, ‘in the verse, it says we must ‘‘Beware the Betrayer’’.  Who is this Betrayer?’

‘I don’t know, Larka.’

As night settled around them Larka padded off to sleep.  But almost as soon as she sank into dreams, the she-wolf had a nightmare.  Tsarr was before her and he was whispering words that she hardly understood.

‘Your power is great,’ he was saying, in a tempting voice.

‘The legendary Vision of the Man Varg.  It could be yours, Larka, yours.’

But Skart was there too.

‘No,’ screeched Skart, from the shadows, ‘you are Lera, Larka.  Nothing more.  And the Lera must be free, that is their nature.’

But suddenly, in her dream, Tsarr’s jaws were tearing at the eagle’s body.

‘And we must be true to that nature.  To the instincts of the wild wolf.  We must hunt, for truth, for power, for knowledge.  The knowledge must cry through us like a howl.’ Larka woke with a shudder, and from somewhere in the skies she heard a screech.  Skart’s great wings were lifting over the trees as he returned from a hunt.  As he caught sight of a single stunted bush clinging to a snowy ledge on the mountainside, he dipped and settled on the outcrop.

The ground was strewn with feathers and twigs and bits of bone.  Skart ruffled his wings and felt comfort returning.  It made him nervous to be around the wolves and now, high on the cliff-face, hugged by the lofty winds, he felt secure and ready to concentrate on his own thoughts.  But Skart’s proud, wise eyes were huge as he peered out across the mighty forests sweeping below him, and suddenly he turned his head away to the north.

‘Wolfbane,’ he blinked as he peered into the night.  ‘Can it really be true? Must it be like this?’

Skart shook out his feathers.

‘But it’s you I really fear,’ he screeched angrily at the air.

‘The Searchers.  Waiting and watching.  Waiting to feed on us all.  Will you come too, if the promise is fulfilled, will you come to turn nature against itself?’

Suddenly Skart opened his great wings and lifted into the skies once more.  It was many suns before he returned and, for a while, Larka and Tsarr feared he had abandoned them.  But they were sitting together one dull, cold morning when the eagle came plunging towards them.  Larka looked up cheerfully but Skart’s eyes were grave.

‘What’s wrong, Skart?’ growled Tsarr immediately.

‘I have discovered their Gathering Place, Tsarr,’ cried Skart.  ‘The rebels.’

‘What of it.  You know they won’t help us, Skart.’

The eagle folded in his wings and walked straight towards them.

‘It’s in the field of Kosov, Tsarr,’ he said quietly.  Tsarr and Larka looked up immediately.

‘Kosov,’ said Larka in astonishment, and she got up, ‘but isn’t that where the story of Wolfbane’s...’

Skart nodded and Tsarr rose too.

‘Then perhaps these rebels are linked to the legend as well,’ he growled, ‘And Morgra’s power seems to be growing somehow.  Sometimes I even think I can sense her.  If Wolfbane—’

‘Anything could fool the flying scavengers,’ said Skart coldly, ‘yet they are coming too.  I have seen them in the skies.  Their filthy craws snapping at the thought of a free meal, for they all know the story.’

Skart’s voice rang with scorn.

‘But if Morgra somehow plans to fulfil Wolfbane’s promise in the field of Kosov,’ gasped Larka suddenly.  ‘Then there she will try to open the Pathways of Death, too, and summon the Searchers.’

Tsarr growled nervously.

‘No,’ he said suddenly, ‘Morgra cannot make these things happen.  Think of the verse, Larka.  When the blood of the Varg blends with Man in the dew.  How could that come to pass.  We may fear the humans, Larka, but they fear the wolf too.  They hunt us, but Man and wolf have never fought each other at close quarters.’

Tsarr was looking down at the baby.

‘And we know one thing,’ he added.  ‘We do not have to go anywhere near the valley.’

The weather was getting colder again and Tsarr and Jarla were growing worried, for the human seemed to be sickening.  Then one night Larka was coming back towards the clearing, while Jarla had gone hunting, when she overheard Skart and Tsarr talking together in the darkness.  She slunk down among the branches to listen.

‘To touch the powers so young,’ Skart was whispering gravely.  ‘And what happened to her with the hare.  I don’t know yet what it means.’

‘But you’re sure we can trust her?’ growled Tsarr. Perhaps Morgra will reach her.  Turn her.’

Larka’s ears began to quiver, but she felt strangely confused.  Could she really trust these creatures herself?

‘We must trust her,’ said Skart.  ‘We have no choice.  Think of the family the legend speaks of, Tsarr.  The elements have touched them already.’

‘And because of it her brother is dead,’ growled Tsarr, ‘taken by the ice.  Most probably her poor parents too.  What family is left? There are other families going to join these rebels.  Perhaps there lies the true hope.’

Larka began to tremble.

‘Tsarr,’ Skart whispered, ‘if the rebels are in Kosov and Morgra discovers them, if she somehow opens the pathways, then Larka is the only one whose power is strong enough to seal them again.  To call the Searchers back.’

‘And if Morgra does summon the Searchers,’ growled Tsarr angrily, ‘and sends them out to do her bidding, what hope will there be for any of us?’

‘If that ever happens,’ said Skart gravely, ‘then Larka must go on her greatest journey.  Then Larka must travel to the realms of the dead.’

Larka lifted her head in horror.  She slunk away in the night and as she lay down to rest there was an agonizing pain in her tail.  Again terrible dreams came to haunt her as she slept, and when she woke she was still exhausted.  She felt bitterly lonely, and all day she kept thinking of Huttser and Palla.  She longed to talk to them and ask them what she should do.  But another thought opened in her mind.  The others had died.  Perhaps Huttser and Palla had gone too.  Had not Larka been somehow responsible for the curse? Had she somehow killed her own parents?

It was twilight and Larka was lying in the snow by the rock when she looked up cheerlessly to see Skart flying towards her.  The eagle noticed immediately how sullen she was.

‘What’s wrong, Larka?’

Larka looked at him resentfully as she thought of what he had said the night before about the realms of the dead.

‘My family, Skart.  There has been so much death.’

The eagle settled and strutted towards her, but Larka had laid her muzzle on the ground.

‘You blame yourself, Larka, don’t you?’ said Skart, looking closely at her.

‘No, I don’t,’ growled Larka.

‘Liar,’ screeched the bird.

‘I .  ..  I’

‘Larka,’ cried Skart, ‘if you don’t tell me truly what you are thinking and feeling then how can I ever help you?’

‘It is all my fault, Skart, that I lost them,’ cried Larka with sudden anguish.  ‘If I’d never been born the legend would have been forgotten.  There would be no child.  No curse.’

The pain was welling up within inside Larka and, for a moment, the she-wolf could hardly breathe.

‘Go on, Larka,’ whispered Skart kindly.  As the eagle watched Larka he shook his head sadly.

‘Perhaps I have been thoughtless, Larka,’ he said.  ‘Perhaps I haven’t given you enough time.’

‘Time,’ muttered Larka.

‘To grieve.’

‘Oh, Skart,’ sobbed Larka suddenly, ‘it’s been so terrible.  Do you know what it is to be lonely? To be so lonely you can’t breathe? And there was nothing I could do.  Nothing at all.  I’m to blame for it all.  I’m worthless.’

‘No,’ cried Skart frantically, ‘don’t ever say that.’ Larka’s sobs seemed to subside a little.

‘You are not to blame, Larka,’ said Skart sternly.  ‘Was it you who hid the truth about Morgra? No.  Was it you that killed a pup, even by mistake? You were not even born when this began.’

‘Then why do I feel so terrible, Skart, now I’m no longer just a cub?’

‘Don’t children pick up thoughts and feelings from grown-ups,’ whispered Skart, ‘and blame themselves for things far beyond their control?’

‘Yes,’ sniffed Larka miserably, ‘I suppose they do.’

‘There,’ whispered Skart, ‘you’re feeling a little better now.’

It was true.  Larka was feeling better.

‘Don’t hold things inside too much,’ said Skart, ‘for feelings can hurt us too, Larka.  Just as much as rocks or hunting pits.  I sometimes think they can kill us.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Larka in surprise.

‘Your friend Brassa.  That secret she kept from the pack for so long.  I believe that was the real reason that lump grew in her belly, Larka, not Morgra’s curse.’

‘As some kind of punishment?’ asked Larka in horror.

‘No,’ whispered the bird, ‘but perhaps because she kept something hidden too long in her heart.’

Larka was startled at the idea, and the thought that the curse might not have been chasing them, after all, cheered her immensely.  But only for a while.

‘They’re still dead,’ she growled.

‘Larka,’ said Skart, ruffling his wings, ‘when the sun burns and heats the waters of the land, what happens to them?’

Larka shook her muzzle sadly.

‘I don’t know, Skart.’

‘The waters go into the heavens to form the clouds, Larka.  But then return as rain to swell the lakes and the seas and the rivers, so the Lera may drink and continue.’

Larka blinked at Skart and she didn’t understand what he was telling her.

‘Many believe that life is like that too, Larka.  That the force which lives in all cannot be made or unmade, but only turned from one form into another.’

Larka was so startled by the idea that for a moment she felt as if a great veil had been lifted from her mind.

‘But, Larka,’ said Skart suddenly, ‘perhaps your parents aren’t dead at all.  Why don’t you use your powers, use them to find out if Huttser and Palla are alive? Send your senses into the present.’

Larka had looked up as Skart spoke of ‘her’ powers.  She had never really thought of the powers of the Sight as hers before.  Larka got up and padded over to the stream, and as she did so, she felt a new determination.  A still pool had formed in a neck of large rocks where Larka had looked into the water before and she lay down and peered into the river.  Larka closed her eyes and concentrated.  As soon as she opened them again Larka cried out joyfully as she looked down at the swirling vortex.

‘Kar,’ she gasped, springing to her feet.

There were Kar’s proud ears and long, kind muzzle looking back at her in the water.  But as Larka’s breath disturbed the surface the image broke immediately.  There was her own face once more, quivering in the pool, staring at nothing but herself.

‘No,’ moaned Larka, dropping her head.  ‘I saw Kar die myself.’

‘Then you have seen the past again,’ whispered Skart sadly.

Yet there had been something about Kar’s face, something that left a nagging doubt in Larka’s mind.  The anguish of losing that face again gripped Larka, and suddenly her tail stung her.

‘Pain,’ she whispered bitterly.  ‘Is that what the Sight really teaches?’

Larka lay down and began to whimper as she licked her tail.  This time when Skart spoke to Larka he was no longer so understanding.

‘Larka,’ he snapped, ‘is this the spirit of the untamed wolf? Perhaps you’re right about yourself, Larka.  Perhaps you could have done more.’

Larka began to growl and Skart was pleased for he had meant to rouse her.  But as she lay there, and Skart could see the physical pain that was afflicting her, he decided that she was ready for another lesson.

‘Larka,’ he said, ‘in the ancient beliefs they say the Sight itself can bring the power to heal.’

‘How?’ she asked, lifting her battered tail hopefully.

‘The body is a natural healer, Larka, if you trust it and let it do its work.  But it’s said that the power of the Sight can move energies around the body too, to help the process.  But there is one thing alone that will make it work.’

‘What is that, Skart?’

‘We must believe it,’ whispered Skart.

Larka stared back at the eagle with eyes full of doubt.

‘And there is another part of us we must always protect too, as important as the physical body.’

‘What?’

‘The mind.’

Larka looked up.

‘Skart,’ she growled suddenly, waving her tail, ‘then tell me more of the birds and the delta.  Of the freedom and wonder of the air.’

Skart fluttered his wings approvingly.  The eagle spoke now of the autumn and the spring when the seasons hunted the birds from their own lands and brought them thronging from every corner of the world to the edges of the blue river.  Of other lands where the birds migrated too, China and Mongolia and a land on the very roof of the world, where the humans robed themselves in orange and yellow as they walked through the endless snows, a distant, mysterious country that Men call Tibet.

As Skart talked, Larka felt what a heavy, earth-bound thing she really was.  She longed to travel on and on with Skart, eating up the earth with her eyes, taking in all as she flew.  But even as the wings of her thought brought her back to the great delta, where a myriad of birds set up a clamour of voices as loud as starlight, Larka saw something else, a picture painted by her own frightened imagination.  A grey wolf was moving through the watery rushes.  Quietly, stealthily, creeping towards the birds.

That evening they saw the humans.  Far enough away from the clearing for them to be safe, but close enough, too, for the animals to feel the thunder of their horses’ hooves through the cold earth.  They were galloping south, galloping to war.