Wolves of the Beyond 02 - Shadow Wolf

down and tucked the malcadh ’s bones in so they nestled close to Thunderheart. He then turned north and headed back toward the Eastern Scree. The gaddergnaw gathering on the western slopes of Crooked Back Ridge would have disbanded by now and the packs gone back to their own camps. The fog had thickened, but Faolan knew his way and found it comforting to be wrapped in the vaporous ground mist. Insulated, protected in his downy pelt still thick with winter fur, hewas alone with his thoughts and indulged in his dreams of Thunderheart and the pup climbing the star ladder together. In Faolan’s waking dreams, the pup never fell off the ladder and never ever tried to scramble back down to earth.

CHAPTER TWENTY
T HE S ARK’S V ISITOR
    THE SARK THOUGHT SHE HAD LIVED so long that nothing would astonish her, but now she was staggering in her own den with disbelief. She had experienced two astounding revelations in one day. The first was the murder of the malcadh , and the second was the appearance in her own den of Faolan’s mother! She connected the scent of the she-wolf almost immediately to the amazing wolf who had jumped the wall of fire. Morag and her second mate had come from the MacDonegal clan far to the northwest.
    Only a wolf with the Sark’s exceptional powers of scent detection would have decoded the odors that linked Morag with her long-lost son. It was impossible—at least the Sark believed it to be impossible—that Faolan’s mother would remember the scent of a son born twoyears ago. Yet Morag seemed nervous and kept sniffing the place where Faolan had curled up.
    “A lot of wolves come to you?” Morag asked, a tinge of suspicion in her voice.
    “A few.”
    “Do you think you might help her?” Brangwen asked.
    “It’s hard to tell. Come over here to the other side of the fire, dear.” The Sark wanted to get Morag away from Faolan’s spot. Her paws shook as she rolled the compresses of borage and shredded birch bark. “Now, I am making you up some compresses that need to soak in the river before you apply them. You can make them yourself when these are finished. Just borage and shredded birch bark. If there isn’t any borage about, use mosses. You needn’t even soak them if you use the mosses.” Her voice was shaking. She hoped they wouldn’t notice, but of course they had never visited before and might think this was her normal way of speaking.
    “And if it doesn’t work?” Brangwen pressed.
    What am I supposed to say to that? she thought. If it doesn’t work, she goes blind. She won’t be able to hunt. She’ll become a burden to her pack, her clan. Their share of the meat will diminish . It was obvious to the Sark that this she-wolf had been a great hunter. Probably a greatoutflanker. She had massive shoulders and powerful back legs. Now, because of her failing eyesight, every step she took was tentative. She seemed even more feeble than she actually was. It was odd with wolves that went blind. They could be perfectly healthy in every other respect, but when their vision began to go, they were forced to engage with their surroundings in an entirely new way. They moved much more slowly, more cautiously. As the world around them faded, they began to withdraw. Their very muscles seemed to contract, and the wolves receded into themselves, occupying an inner landscape until only a brittle shell was left of the wolf that had once existed. It was a kind of living death, a retreat of the body and a contraction of the spirit.
    “If it doesn’t work—” The Sark sighed. “These are questions I cannot answer. But if it doesn’t work, perhaps you should consider joining the MacNamara clan. As you have probably heard, they are very tolerant of females who have served well but have become old before their time.”
    “But that is so far,” Brangwen said.
    Morag remained silent. She did not stir. It was as if she were already far away.
     
    The Sark watched as Morag and Brangwen wound down the narrow, twisting path that led away from her camp. She shoved more moose patties into her kiln and then went back into the cave for the memory jug that contained the scraps of her recollections of Faolan—from the first time she saw the splayed paw print that led to his jump for the sun to his most recent visit. She pressed her muzzle into the throat of the jug and began to whisper.
    “On this day, the last of the winter moons, there came to my den the she-wolf Morag, mother of Faolan the malcadh