Lone Wolf

blue night.
    In the Cave Before Time, Faolan had seen that time spiraled back into an unimaginable mist with no beginning and no perceivable end. Now, scanning the starry path to Ursulana, he began to realize that the earth on which he was standing was simply another star in what might be an infinity as vast as time. In all that time, in all the stars, Thunderheart and I came together for one moment in this never-ending cycle. There are other stars, other universes, and so much time, and yet...
    Cycling, cycling forever
    bear, wolf, caribou.
    When had it all started, where will it end?
    We are all part of one, from such simple beginnings and yet all so different.
    Yet one.
    One and again,
    Thunderheart eternal
    now and forever!

CHAPTER TWENTY
    ***
    AN OWL LISTENS

    GWYNNETH, A MASKED OWL , TURNED the tongs in the fire. This was her third attempt to make a metal replica of a willow leaf. There was not a willow leaf, nor a willow tree, anywhere in the Beyond. And it was not the kind of item for which there was much of a demand. Rogue smiths mostly set their hammer and tongs to making practical articles -- pots, kettles, battle claws, and various weapons. But there had been a decline in the need for weapons since the end of the War of the Ember. Her late father, Gwyndor, who had died as a result of wounds in that war, had been a highly regarded smith specializing in double-action battle claws. Gwynneth had a more artistic turn of mind and had learned much of her craft from her auntie. Not her real auntie, but a Snowy Owl who refused to use her talents for military purposes,  and devoted herself almost entirely to artistic endeavors. It would have perhaps served the Snowy well to have made a few claws to keep around her forge, for she had been murdered by Nyra, the vicious leader of an empire of hellish owls known as the Pure Ones.
    Gwynneth would have taken over her auntie's old forge in the ruins of a walled garden, but it felt odd to her after the Snowy had been killed. Almost as if the Snowy was looking over Gwynneth's shoulders every time she took up the tongs.
    Rogue smiths were known for their solitary ways. They liked living apart. On occasion they came to the Ring of the Sacred Volcanoes to barter for coals from the volcanoes. And if a forest fire broke out, Rogue smiths might set up temporary forges on its fringes. But for the most part, they sought out desolate places. It was unusual for Rogue smiths to have mates, or children for that matter. Gwynneth never knew her mother, but her father had had a close relationship with the Snowy and would leave his daughter with her for great stretches of time.
    And Gwynneth had grown to love them both, although each was very different. When her father worried about her "going all artsy on him," he would take her to the Beyond. Over the years, Gwyndor had developed a  very close relationship with wolves. He had learned their ways and, most important, his ear had grown finely attuned to their howling. He had come to realize that his daughter, Gwynneth, had an even sharper ear for wolf songs and had decided to teach her all he knew. She was an apt pupil. She knew the pitch of every skreeleen, the lead howler. But the skreeleen varied depending on the situation. Whereas Gwyndor could only pick out the gist of the message, Gwynneth could decipher much more. She was close to fluent in the songs of the wolves.
    Gwynneth was in the midst of her third attempt at the willow leaf when she heard the eerily beautiful howling. She withdrew the tongs immediately and set them on the stone rest.
    The song went straight to her gizzard. It was a song of grief, yet also one of acceptance, being sung by no skreeleen she had ever heard.
    Gwynneth damped the fire in her forge and put her tools away. She fought an urge just to toss the tools into a heap, for she was nearly desperate to find the source of this song. But such behavior was unthinkable. Her father and auntie had taught her that a smith is only as good as her tools. Rusty tools led to rusty skills and rusty skills made for skart, which was an owl obscenity that covered  many things, including inferior products made by poor smiths.
    But it did not take Gwynneth long to tidy up, and perched now on the stone rest where her tongs had been, she spread her wings to take advantage of the warm drafts coming up from the smoldering coals in the forge. On these crisp autumn nights, having a boost for takeoff from a thermal draft was