Lone Wolf

learned the ways of the bears, met her gaze. Engulfed in the deep amber light of Thunderheart's eyes, the wolf understood that he was different. And he knew he was loved, as if he were her own cub.
    He would not be able to nurse much longer, for Thunderheart sensed that her milk was drying up. She was happy that they had been successful with the fish, but knew that she must now teach him to go after the real meat, the red meat. This might be easier than she  had thought, for it was Faolan who had first sensed the mother grizzly and her cubs. He must have picked up their scent. And if so, he had done it faster than she had. A good thing for hunting red meat.
    They both slept through the rising heat of the day and into the late afternoon.
    ***
    Thunderheart thought she smelted the bear coming. But she could not move. Her limbs felt heavy. It was as if she had sunk into cold sleep. This is not winter, she told herself. I must move. My cubs... my cubs. Yet if it is cold sleep it is not mating time. So why should I have scent marked? Why am I so confused? Was there time to scent mark? She could hardly lift her head, let alone rise to her full height and mark the trees near the den. A torrent of blood slashed the perfect blue of the sky as the great male grizzly ripped open the back of her cub to its bone. Thunderheart rose up, roared, and charged the male. She tore at his arm. A deep gash. He screeched in pain and ran off. But was it a mortal injury? She feared not.' He would be back.. .. He would be back....
    ***
    Thunderheart woke up from the horrific dream with a violent shake that spilled the wolf pup from the lap.
    "Urskadamus!" she muttered. Faolan blinked at her in alarm. He pulled back his lips in a grimace of fear, the hackles on the back of his neck rising as he tucked his tail between his hind legs. The grizzly huffed nervously. The time was coming when she knew the males would be feeling the urge for her company. If she could scent mark before she was fertile and before such a male came into her territory, it would be good.
    She knew that wolves scent marked as well. This might truly confuse other bears. She had no inclination to mate. Faolan was her last cub, and she was determined to do the best possible for him. No male was going to harm him or run him off.
    But could he learn to stand up and walk, even run like a bear? He could jump quite high when he wanted a ride on her hump. He could almost reach her shoulder and she knew he could scent mark. He had certainly urinated in the area around the den, but more scent marking was needed; the other special kind that she had sometimes caught wind of when she passed wolf territory.
    This was a practical lesson. Unlike the notion of love which could not be expressed in words, this one could be  spoken, with very clear actions to accompany the words. Faolan's language skills had grown. Thunderheart had heard wolves and owls speak on occasion and at the time thought the words were so different from her own, but they weren't at all. It was merely the tones, the register in which they were uttered that seemed strange. She sometimes thought of it as water. The sound of water in a fast-running brook differs from the clamor of a falls or the trickle of a stream in the dry season. But it was all water. One just had to listen.
    Faolan's voice was shallower, not as deep as her own. Owls' tones varied widely. Some were almost hollow, others more sonorous, and a few screechy. None of the owls' voices were remotely like that of a bear, and yet the words were almost identical. Nevertheless, Faolan was beginning to sound slightly bearish when he spoke. He was acquiring some of the rough, back-of-the-throat sounds that were common to the grizzlies.
    And as soon as they were out of the den, Faolan scampered toward the riverbank. Thunderheart gave him a low snarl and a firm head butt to his flanks that spun Faolan around in the direction that she wanted him to follow. "This way!"
    She swung her head toward a large white pine, then  rose up halfway on her hind legs and began rubbing her back against the tree. There was a harsh scratching sound. She was leaving a scent, but it was not the odor of a female, fertile and receptive to mating. Faolan must leave a scent as well, his own scent.
    Thunderheart stared at him hard. She sensed that Faolan must do this scenting with his hindquarters. She lowered herself now and sprawled on the ground and woofed softly for him to come over as