“Night is falling. It is time to gather the children and call out to the men,” Albi said decisively, ignoring Calli.
No one moved. The women were rendered immobile by the implication of Calli’s question. They glanced among themselves, horror written on their faces. They began to murmur quiet, shocked protests.
“Night,” Alibi insisted again, more forcefully. “Now.”
Renne was not even looking at the council mother. Instead, her gaze was intent to her right, and Calli followed it.
Palloc had left the men’s side and had wandered into the communal area. Drawn by the circle of women, he had approached them and their fire until he caught sight of the person standing in the middle. Renne, the blood still streaming down her chin, her one eye nearly swollen shut. Inhaling sharply, Palloc stood, stunned.
Renne lifted her hands to him, as if willing him to come another five paces and take her in his arms.
“Palloc,” she pleaded, weeping openly. “Palloc.”
Palloc turned away. Not meeting Renne’s eyes, he began walking carefully over to the men’s side of the settlement.
And then the rain came.
The first drop was followed instantly by thousands, a roar of it, the fires sizzling angrily under the assault. The drama of Renne’s injuries was obliterated by the sudden storm.
Nearly as one, the Kindred cheered, because the rain would fill the water holes and the lumbering mammoths would come to drink and wallow, and there would be food for the winter. But all Palloc could think was that somehow, what he was doing was so wrong it had torn open the very sky, a shame bringing a downpour of celestial tears. In his mind he saw himself going to Renne, defying his mother, declaring his love for her. That was what he wanted to do.
But he did not.
* * *
For a wolf, a howl isn’t just enticing—it’s compelling, an imperative as strong as the urge to hunt, to feed. So when the she-wolf and Mate heard the ululating song of their old pack on the wind, the tantalizing cry stretched thin by the miles between them, they reacted by racing toward it, cutting fresh tracks in the shallow snow. They could hear in the howl the joy of a meal just eaten, but it wasn’t the thought of food that drew them. It was the experience of mingling their voices with other wolves that they craved.
Enough time elapsed, as they ran, for the she-wolf to develop an unease. Smoke, the dominant bitch, would not welcome their trespass. For the first time since setting off on her own, the she-wolf was affected by the instinct-deep aversion to invading a larger pack’s territory. They hadn’t just gone for a day-hunt, they had voluntarily separated from the others. They would not be welcomed home—they would be attacked, perhaps even killed.
When the large female slowed, it had no effect on Mate. He was intoxicated, heedless, lusting for the pack. It was as if he had forgotten all that had transpired since the summer.
She slowed further, watching Mate’s retreating back, waiting for him to sense that she was no longer right behind him. Though she could not calculate that her odds of surviving alone, at her age, were slim, her instincts told her she and Mate were a hunting pair and must remain together.
But Mate did not look back.
SEVENTEEN
Fia did not answer Silex when he proffered the glistening marrow, but she did not stay in the dance, either—she marched away, so that he was not at all sure what he should do. Follow her? Return and sit with the men and accept their good-natured jeers?
In the end he trotted after her like a little boy trying to catch up to his mother. Her eyes flashed angrily as he drew up alongside.
“Fia,” he said, his words sounding as rehearsed as they were, “I have known you for a long time. I have always appreciated your spirit, the way you…”
She whirled on him. Her face was flushed, breathtakingly beautiful. Her amazingly smooth skin—he wanted to put his lips to it.
Silex had spent many hours fantasizing about what would happen when he finally unveiled the secret, told this woman of his affections. Some of the more vivid imaginings were clouding his mind as she glared at him now, so close to him he could feel her passions as a heat. “And what,” she hissed, “did you suppose would happen now? That you would mount me? Because you are our leader, our dominant male?” Her contempt hardened her eyes.
“No, of course not.” Silex inhaled, trying to get his thoughts in order.
“Then what do you want from me?”
“I thought … we have always laughed together and I believed you probably knew how I felt about you.”
“But now you are promised to Ovi.”
“Yes, I know that is what my father wished, but he did not care what was inside me.”
“So? Why does that matter to me? It is decided.”
“Fia,” Silex pleaded. “Are you saying you have never felt anything for me?”
Her hot eyes lost some of their fury at his plaintive question. “You never said anything,” she finally answered.
“My father forbade it.”
“Forbade what?”
“For me to tell you how I felt, that I have loved only you since we were children. That I think of no one else, nothing else, but you, always you, eternally and forever you. That I cannot stand the thought of any other man with you, that I need you. I love you.”
She stared at him. Moments went by, Silex in agony. “Fia?” he finally asked timidly.
She lunged for him and kissed him desperately, nearly knocking him down. Silex’s legs went weak, his head dizzy. They were both panting, grasping at each other, and then she pushed him away. “No!”
“Fia…”
“I cannot be this person. You tell me you love me, but you marry her!”
“I will not.”
She shook her head. “Oh no, you tell me that now because you want me to copulate with you, but you will marry Ovi, and you know it. It is what your father wanted, it is what the Wolfen want. Everyone agrees.”
“I do not love Ovi.”
“That does not seem to matter.”
“What do you feel, Fia? Are you saying you do not feel the same way?”
“Why are you doing this?” she yelled at him.
“Kiss me again.”
“No, Silex! I will never kiss you again!”
* * *
“Silex.”
Duro’s voice was a hoarse whisper. Silex had just relieved himself in the snow, well away from the others, and was standing and staring off in the distance, thinking of kissing Fia, when he heard his name.
He turned slowly, knowing what he would see: a spear, pointed at his stomach. Duro was grinning fiercely down at Silex.
“You see? I do think,” Duro mocked.
Silex assessed the larger man, who was holding the spear out with his arms extended and locked, ready to absorb the shock of a lunge. It was, Silex reflected, the perfect position to ram someone through if you were running straight at him. Perhaps not so good if you were standing flat-footed.
“You should have submitted,” Duro taunted, his eyes gleaming in triumph.
In a quick move, Silex reached up with his left hand and grabbed the shaft and yanked on it. Duro stumbled forward and Silex punched him hard in the face with his right hand, three quick jabs. Gasping, Duro let go of the spear and raised his arms to ward off more blows. Silex stepped back and turned the weapon around, raising it in a throwing position.
Duro’s mouth was open. He seemed stunned at the turn of events. Now he had no move at all—at this range the spear would surely kill him. He stared at Silex, blood running from his nose. Silex was not even breathing hard.
For Silex the conundrum could not be more difficult. If he did not finish this now, Duro would come at him again and again, challenging him because he was obsessed with Ovi. Yet Silex could not just hand her over: Fia was right, Silex and Ovi had been commanded to marry by their father. Duro probably would not even accept Ovi if Silex gave her up—in his mind, he needed to lead the Wolfen, and only th
en could lay claim to the woman he desired. The irony made Silex ache: passionate, beautiful Fia wanted him. She would not admit it in so many words, but Silex knew it. Fia had kissed him, why were they fighting over Ovi?
Silex thought of the she-wolf with the hand-shaped marking above her eyes. So young, but she had left her pack. Driven off, Silex had concluded, by the dominant bitch. She stared Silex in the face. A message in that for me, Silex’s father had suggested. But the old man was dead, and still the she-wolf met Silex’s eyes. Perhaps the message was for Silex.
Duro was now lowering his head in submission, mimicking a defeated wolf, surrendering. For now. Next time his spear would be better positioned.
His spear.
“Duro.”
The other man raised his eyes.
“No spear. The dominant wolf rarely kills the challenger. It would weaken the pack.” Silex threw the spear with all his strength into the trees, then showed Duro his empty hands. “No weapons.”
The other man’s jaw was still slack, noncomprehension in his eyes. Silex sighed at the stupidity. Then he punched Duro’s open mouth with his right hand, splitting the larger man’s lip.
There. Now Duro understood.
Silex stepped in and swung again, catching Duro’s eye. Then Duro hit back solidly, a rib shot, and the man’s strength was breathtaking, knocking Silex back. No, the blows needed to be on Silex’s face, they had to leave a visible mark for all to see and be convinced. Silex stepped closer, feinting, and Duro came through with a swinging punch that could have been ducked. Instead, Silex took a glancing hit on the cheek, feeling the skin tear. He raised his hand, smearing the blood. Good.
Energized now, Duro lunged. Silex dodged and then was caught full in the face. He staggered back, shocked by the pain. Enough.
Silex lowered his head. “The victory is yours.”
Duro looked doubtful and suspicious. Silex held up his open hands—he did not want to be hit again. “You may marry my sister. I renounce my claim to her.”
Duro dropped his fists, a delighted grin on his bloody lips. “I will mate with Ovi,” he declared wonderingly.
“Yes. All is good.”
Now that the fight was over, the pain was stinging Silex’s face. He wanted to go splash cold water on himself.
“And the Wolfen. I am to lead the Wolfen,” Duro reminded him. “We will no longer have to follow the orders of a boy.”
Silex inhaled carefully. This one would not be as easy as giving up Ovi. “Often in the wolf pack, mating pairs will split off on their own to raise their own family,” he ventured finally.
Duro shrugged. “Yes, but the subject is that I am to lead the Wolfen now that I have defeated you.”
Silex wondered how well the Wolfen would manage with this idiot running things. “What I mean,” Silex continued patiently, “is that if you are to lead the Wolfen, I would choose to leave. And perhaps others will come with me.”
“I will allow that,” Duro grunted. “And you can take others. But not Ovi.”
“No, not Ovi,” Silex agreed impatiently.
Duro grinned at him. “She will bear strong children. She is shapely and has fine breasts.”
Year Nineteen
A sudden change in the airflow roused the mother-wolf from a deep sleep. For the first time in many, many days, the smell of outside was coming in from the front of the cave, the entrance she had used when she entered the den. She inhaled, locating the scent of the stream nearby, of summer grasses, wet soil, small animals. Things she had not smelled this sharply in a long time.
When her pups left the cave through the hole, she knew it. There was an increase in their smell as each individual pup stood directly in the incoming breeze, and then an abrupt lessening as they squeezed outside. She felt their absence.
It was the time of life when wolf puppies liked to romp and play. Normally, a mother and her mate would watch over them and keep them from straying, but even when her instincts dug at her, the mother-wolf did not try to move. She thought briefly of her mate, and then about the man.
She slept for some time and then awoke with a jolt. The air coming in from the front of the cave carried a new scent.
Lion.
EIGHTEEN
Year One
What saved the large she-wolf from being abandoned by Mate was a shift in the wind.
Mate was far enough away from her that his scent was beginning to dissipate, so that she understood he was never coming back. But then the breeze changed, the current’s new direction bringing with it the electrifying scent of blood, particularly strong above the dead smell of snow. The tantalizing odor stirred her hunger and she turned her nose to it.
She felt Mate streaking toward her before she smelled him, her inner senses alert to the approach of a male wolf. They touched noses and circled each other when he arrived, wagging their tails, excitement rising inside them over this wonderful aroma. Reindeer blood.
They tracked it and knew they were stalking a living animal. They could also smell the herd, now, but could sense that it was farther away. An injured reindeer had been abandoned by the rest.
There was no fear, and very little consciousness, in the large female ungulate when they found her. They circled warily, because though she lay on her side, the stink of man was on her, and there was something unusual, smelling of wood and stone, sticking up at the sky from her rib cage, as if she had grown a tree branch out of her body.
The reindeer did not register their approach. Her eyes were milky and her breathing came in short pants. Her blood stained the snow as it leaked from the rent in her skin. Mate carefully sniffed at her, made afraid by the stick-thing, but the she-wolf was less timid, almost dizzy from the aromatic wound in the reindeer’s side.
The two wolves fed ravenously and hurriedly—if they had so easily tracked the blood trail, there were other predators who might do the same. But they turned from the kill with full bellies, sated and replenished. They would not need to eat for several days, now.
The scent of man on the stick connected the she-wolf back to other memories of food and man, particularly the one man whose face fascinated her so. The next morning, when the wolves uncurled themselves from sleep and stretched, yawning contentedly, the she-wolf led Mate off in the direction from which that one man’s scent had last drifted on the air. For reasons she did not fully grasp, she wanted to see him again.
* * *
There was always a thaw three-quarters into their sojourns at the Kindred’s winter encampments, a break in the weather. Often a few reindeer might wander close from wherever they had been wintering, the females sometimes heavy with pregnancy, or sometimes the thick mud around the watering holes would encumber a mammoth, making the dangerous giant easier to take down.
With a good chance for fresh meat and the temperatures warm enough for the snows to retreat from the communal area, the Kindred held their annual wedding ceremony. This year was special: Urs the hunt master was getting married, as was Palloc the spear master. The women tried to be equally excited about the three other weddings to take place the same night, but Bellu, with her beauty, and Urs, the tall, handsome hunt master, was all they could talk about.
The night of the ceremony, Calli watched sourly as Bellu fussed with the laying of the fire in the center of the camp. As fire maker, it was always her job to prepare for the weddings, but because it was her own wedding, she was laying in each piece of wood with extreme care. It is only a fire! Just throw the wood in and light it! Calli wanted to shout. In the end, though, she said nothing at all.
That was her way, now. Say nothing. Endure.
Coco was excited for the wedding. She dragged her daughter down to a deep watering hole and bathed her until Calli’s lips were blue and she was shaking violently, and then mother and daughter stood by their home fire and let the delicious warmth dry them off. Coco could not stop smiling—Calli tried smiling back, but her effort was tepid.
She did not know how she was going to get
through this.
Night came. The fire was lit. The men settled down on their side of it, laughing and pushing at the grooms. Urs, as hunt master, might have been spared such frivolity, except that Bellu’s brothers kept shoving him and chortling.
On the other side of the fire, the women sat primly, in a much more organized semicircle. Where the men were boisterous, the women were solemn, and more than one wife caught her husband’s eye and gave him a firm, disapprobative frown. A lot of men’s grins vanished over such a stern glance.
Darkness settled firmly over the Kindred—this was the one night of the year where they stayed up well past sunset.
Sopho stood, bringing a hush.
Sopho was the oldest living member of the Kindred, so ancient that a hand, open and clenched repeatedly ten times, would not flash enough fingers to account for all her summers. She was of the generation of Albi’s mother, and bore the scars of long life: all but one of her daughters had died in childbirth. All of her children were dead. Her grandson, Valid, was married and had had one child stillborn and another lost to disease. Her granddaughter Tay was apprenticed to Sopho as healer to the Kindred—it was Tay who ministered to Hardy’s wounds, at Sopho’s direction.
Hardy was here tonight, his misshapen face making everyone uncomfortable.
Sopho’s bearing was stiff with formality. “The Kindred were born on the same day as the first sun. She is our mother,” Sopho pronounced in a surprisingly strong voice. She pointed toward the east. “As with the sun, our birth was red with blood. And then the sun went from weak to strong, from lying on the ground to standing tall.” Sopho pointed dramatically straight overhead. “But, just as we have the lion and the bear, the hyena and the wolf, the sun, too, has enemies who lurk in shadow. Every day there is a bloody battle.” Sopho pointed to the west. “The sun fights for us to live, and many times her life ends with her blood smeared across the horizon. Later, in the dark, we often see her blood scattered in tiny droplets, each gleaming with the light that was once hers. Many nights, her full skeleton is visible, or a fragment of it, as white and mottled as any elk bone in the grass. But she leaves us a daughter, who is born of the earth, rising up strong and hot in the morning.” Sopho pointed to the east.