Lone Wolf

was not cold, his fur rising on his body. Had any of the outclanner wolves glimpsed him, they would have been shocked. Shocked by his size. Shocked by the ferocity in the brilliant green eyes and frightened by a light beneath the ferocity that they could never have named -- intelligence.
    Faolan considered charging in and busting up the craw in hopes that he might afford the moose a peaceful death. But he knew that, in addition to risking his own life, sooner rather than later this rout of vicious wolves would track her down for their own fiendish delight and perhaps kill her in an even more savage manner. And although he felt he could outrun any of these wolves if they did set upon him, it became clear to Faolan that he wanted nothing to do with them at all. He did not want them to know he existed.
    ***
    So with these thoughts in mind he turned away. As he traveled he remembered those long melodious howls that he had heard outside the winter den of Thunderheart and  wondered if perhaps he had heard wrong. The howls of these outclanner wolves were like shards of bone scratching the night. He could not believe that wolves who had howled that beautiful, wild music could ever be the same as these. They must be different, but perhaps they weren't, and yet what did he know about wolves? He had been raised by a grizzly. Then Faolan was struck by an immutable truth, which was that he had more in common with a grizzly bear than any wolf. Surely there would be grizzlies along the river. Or perhaps he would find a lovely summer den above the banks dotted with glacier lilies and irises.
    The loneliness that had for so long felt like an empty space within him, that emptiness that had made him feel hollow, grew now until it seemed his own body could not contain it. It seeped out of him and began to create an even bigger hollow, a void, a space that was always at his side. A space where Thunderheart would walk next to him were she still there, a silence that would have been filled had she been snorting and huffing as they made their way to hunt or graze, that unmistakable thump of her immense paws making a track next to his. He wondered how nothingness could feel so heavy. How could hollowness be so crushing? Could the wolves of the  Beyond, the ones whose howling he recalled as distant beautiful songs, ever fill this void? He began to evolve a simple plan. He would find the river, the river that led back into the Beyond. And so Faolan continued on his way, dreaming of summer dens and lazy afternoons fishing for salmon. Maybe, he thought, I could even teach little bear cubs how to fish!
    He had been traveling for a few days when he began to notice that the long light was seeping away little by little and night was returning. It was still high summer -- he recognized the thickets of sweet blackberries that grew at this time. But if the endless days were vanishing and night was returning, he knew he must be approaching the border between the Outermost and the Beyond.
    He had yet to reach the river when he saw a yawn of darkness ahead. A cave! It was a big cave, perfect for a large animal like Thunderheart. And yet, oddly enough, Faolan could not detect the scent of any creature. The moon was just rising as Faolan stepped inside, and a spike of pale light pricked the darkness of the cave's interior. In the flickering of the moon's silvery light, Faolan caught the image of a four-legged animal that seemed to be running directly out of the stone wall.
    Above the animal beat the wings of a bird -- a hovering owl. The wall pulsated with life. He could hear the breath of countless creatures. The pounding of hooves, the beating of paws, the stirring of wings. All on the rock of the cave wall.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    ***
    THE BITTERNESS OF THE OBEA

    HOW MANY? HOW MANY HAD IT BEEN? the Obea wondered as she carried this wolf pup in her mouth. This one wouldn't live long. It had been born late in the season, almost midsummer, with just half a hind paw, and it wasn't breathing properly. These late-season pups were rarely normal. The Obea was weary and bitter. She wasn't sure why she felt this way. The winter had been harsh. The earthquake at the cusp of spring had disturbed more than the land; in some strange way the seasons also seemed disrupted. Spring was very late in coming, almost as if it feared to appear amid the aftershocks of the quake. Wildflowers and the moss blossoms that speckled the grasslands seemed to think better of showing