The Dog Master: A Novel of the First Dog

  Next was a boy who was supposedly fated to be undefeatable in battle, and his name would be shortened to Vinco. He, too, held up his tiny fists and strutted around. The Kindred all laughed and clapped, no one more so than Calli. It was going to go well. Everyone was so happy.

  And now it was time for the next child to be named: Calli’s son.

  Alibi stood and waited for quiet.

  THIRTY

  Fia’s labor came alarmingly early. The women of the Wolfen rallied around her, building up a fire for warmth and keeping her as comfortable as possible, while Silex sat with his friend Brach and pensively chewed a meal by a much smaller fire.

  Brach had two children, but he intuitively understood there was no sense in telling Silex not to worry. Nothing left a man feeling more inadequate and powerless than when a woman went into labor.

  A cry of pain from where Fia lay turned Silex’s face ashen. He leaped to his feet. Brach stood also, putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Steady. It means the child comes soon.”

  Silex stared at Brach with glassy eyes. “I do not care about anything but Fia. I do not need a child, I need my wife.”

  “Sit, Silex.”

  Nodding, Silex sat back down. At the next cry, and the next, his face flinched.

  Brach felt a rising dread. In his experience, after much waiting, there would be a few shrill cries from the pregnant woman, and then not much longer after that the women would all cheer and the father would be invited to visit the mother and new child. But even after the shouts of pain ceased, the women remained silent, long enough for Brach to throw wood on Silex’s fire twice. Still no baby.

  Silex’s mouth was open in terror, and he looked to the fire without seeing. Several times Brach patted him on the back, but he did not seem to feel the gesture.

  “Silex.”

  It was Ovi. She stood over her brother, her lips trembling. Silex staggered to his feet, dread in his eyes. “No Ovi,” he whispered.

  “You should go see your wife now.”

  “Is the baby—”

  Ovi shook her head, interrupting him. “You should go see your wife now, Silex. Now.”

  * * *

  Albi waited until there was complete silence—it was so like her to let the sense of drama rise, to relish the moment.

  “There is much good in this world,” Albi finally stated. “The reindeer. The elk. The rains that summon our food in winter. The grasses, the seeds, the berries, the sunshine. All of these are their own spirit, but they all work in harmony. They feed us and keep us warm.

  “And then there are the things that array against us. The bear, the wolf, and especially the lion. The cold that descends, the snows that extinguish, the darkness that swallows us at night, the stillness of death. We may not speak of the evil forces behind these.”

  A stir went through the Kindred. She was speaking of them.

  “We, the Kindred, are chosen to be in the middle,” Albi continued obliviously. “We accept the blessings, and we fight the darkness with our fires. We listen to the spirits, who suggest to us when it is time to go to winter quarters, who lead the hunt to prey, who release fragrant smells to guide us to berries and roots. This is why we are Kindred, and all other creeds are animals. Because we pay attention to the signs.”

  All the Kindred were listening rapturously, hanging on Albi’s every word.

  “What we must never do. Never,” Albi stated, looking from man to woman to child, holding up a bony finger, “is ignore the spirits when they communicate a message to us. To do that is to invite disaster and ruin.”

  Several people were nodding.

  “And so it is that a message comes,” Albi intoned. “Not from the good spirits, not of the sunshine and the fruits and the herds of prey, but from the dark. From the cold. From the twisted. A curse we must listen to or we will surely suffer. And it comes to us in the form of a boy. A boy whose leg is a horror. This is his legend. And his formal name is ‘He Who Brings a Curse upon the Kindred with His Leg and Must Be Put to Death for the Good of All of Us.’ Cursed leg. Mal Crus.”

  Calli’s gasp into the silence was so loud it almost sounded like a scream. She wept openly as her son, who no doubt had been anticipating jumping up and raising his arms in triumph like the other children, rose uncertainly to his feet. He stepped forward, as the others had done, and Albi dramatically backed away from him, as if her little grandson brought great danger. Not really understanding what was happening, he turned to face the Kindred, tentatively raising one hand.

  Calli had been focused on the council meeting, but Albi had outsmarted her and made her move at the naming.

  “Mal,” Calli choked, struggling to break from the crowd and rushing to her son. She went down on one knee. “Your name is Mal. It is a good name,” she told him, her voice hoarse. She stood, lifting him, facing her tribe with hot eyes, holding him so that he could not see their cold faces, their revulsion. “My son,” she said more firmly, speaking to everyone before her. “Mal. My son is named Mal.”

  * * *

  The circle of women parted for Silex as he made his way to Fia’s side. No one would look him directly in the eyes. He knelt by his wife, grabbing her hand, which seemed clammy and cold. Her eyes were focused on nothing, her lips pulled back, her breathing in short gasps. And everywhere was blood, a huge dark stain on the animal hides on which she lay.

  “Fia…,” Silex choked. She did not register his presence. He glanced wildly at the women. “Why is there so much blood? Is there supposed to be so much blood?” His heart was pounding, his head filled with the wild thought that he was being punished for violating his father’s deathbed wish.

  No. He could not lose her. Could not live without her. The women were soundless. “Fia!” Silex shouted.

  Fia blinked. Her eyes swam in her head, finding him. She licked her lips. “Silex,” she whispered. Then she wheezed, arching her back, gripping his hand in hers. It was as if some animal held her in its jaws and was clamping down, and it went on and on, robbing her of breath. Her eyes rolled up, showing white.

  “Oh no. No Fia,” Silex moaned. He wiped away his tears. “Please, my love. Please no.”

  After a time, Fia’s vision cleared. She focused on her husband. “Silex,” she whispered. “Promise me.”

  “Please, Fia,” Silex begged. “You cannot leave me. Please.”

  “Listen to me,” Fia replied. For just a moment her fire was back, her eyes gaining sharp focus. Silex bent down to listen.

  “Promise me you will marry Ovi. Raise Cragg and Tok as your own. Have another child, a girl, and name her Fia. Promise me this, Silex.”

  Silex could not speak. Sobs wracked his body. He shook his head. This could not be happening. He could not lose her!

  “Silex,” Fia murmured. And then another pain hit her and her body went rigid, her tongue falling loosely from her mouth. Silex watched in horror as she suffered.

  “Can you not do something?” he yelled at the women. Their reaction was to take a fearful step back, retreating from him when he needed them to help.

  Thankfully that was the last pain. Fia’s breathing changed, its pace rising and falling, as her hand went slack in his. He called her name, but she did not look at him. Her eyes, half lidded, stared at nothing.

  When her breathing stopped, Silex felt strangled, and his ears were filled with a strange, harsh sound, so loud it blotted out all else, every sensation.

  It was him, he realized numbly. The noise came from him.

  He was screaming.

  Year Nineteen

  The mother-wolf twitched in her sleep, then awoke when she sensed her lone pup sniffing her dry teats. The cub still nuzzled her, but no longer sought milk.

  The mother-wolf’s front legs had stopped working, and strong pains gripped her insides. An instinct as old as her species told her that she was dying. The determination that had kept her alive despite her injuries was loosening its grip. There was nothing more she could do for her offspr
ing.

  Her cub whimpered, a lonely sound she often made when the man was out of the cave. The mother-wolf was right there, but it was the man that the pup craved more than anything.

  The mother-wolf was content that she was not leaving her cub alone, that the man was caring for her. And then when she heard the familiar sound of the man’s feet hitting the cave floor and her pup fled her side to greet him, yipping in excitement, she felt a happiness rising up within her. She remembered chasing an elk long ago, loping with her siblings, and what she experienced then was what she felt now, the sheer joy of being wolf.

  The man put his hand on her fur. For a moment, her thoughts escaped into a confused dream, and she thought it was her mate’s head, lying across her neck in the den as they waited for her pups to arrive. When he stroked her, it was her own mother’s tongue, cleaning her when she was herself just a pup. Then she remembered another human, and her affection for him when he gave her food.

  “Oh, wolf. You have been such a good mother to your pup,” the man murmured. “You are so brave. We will miss you so much.” The man leaned in closer, and she peered at him blearily. It was the way, with some humans, to stare into a wolf’s eyes.

  “You were willing to do battle with a lion, to save your pups. My own mother…” The man’s voice broke, and the pup nuzzled him. “My own mother has sacrificed for me, as well. She is the reason we have meat to eat. At great risk to herself, she has given me food all summer. She feeds me, I feed you, and you have fed your little girl-wolf. We are family, the three of us, and I will protect your pup. I do not know how I will survive the winter, but if I do, your wolf-child will survive as well. I may regret it when she is old enough to do me harm, but I somehow doubt it. You accepted me; I believe she will do the same.

  “Regardless, I will do it for her, and I will do it for you, because I feel a kinship toward you. You see, we are very much the same.” The man stroked her head and she closed her eyes again.

  “Very much the same, with bad legs. We are both cripples. See? I was born this way, and if not for my mother, I would have died long ago.”

  The mother-wolf felt the strong emotion in the words, and, her eyes closed, settled back into a gentle dream. She had never felt so at peace. Her pain was gone, now. She would lick the man’s hand if she could, but her tongue was unresponsive and her vision gone dim. They were her pack, her pup and the man, and she felt them running beside her, full of elation for the hunt.

  They were chasing an elk across alien ground, where the land was permanently frozen in winter. As the horizon unexpectantly dropped away, the mother-wolf did not break off her pursuit. Instead, she followed the elk calf to the place where the dazzling ice met the sky, and floated over the edge, soaring through the air, young and alive and free.

  PRESENT DAY

  The sommelier serving the American professor and his companions was unable to keep the annoyance off his face as he was waved over to their table. James Morby pointed to the empty bottle and with a dismissive, crass gesture indicated they wanted another bottle of Château Siaurac. Morby’s friend Bernard Beauchamp, observing their server’s stiff acquiescence, smiled knowingly.

  “What is so funny, Bernard?” Morby wanted to know.

  “Our sommelier believes you should not have any more wine because you are too drunk and too American.”

  “Ah. Well, because I am the former I will insist I am not the latter.”

  Both men gave the mild joke more laughter than it deserved. The graduate student, Jean Claude, joined in, but he wasn’t drinking, and his mirth was expressed as something closer to a polite chuckle. “He does not know that you are celebrating, Professor,” he noted a tad obsequiously.

  Morby regarded the younger man. In the classroom Morby was famous for reading the expressions of his students, and his hazel-colored eyes now brightened despite the dulling impact of the alcohol. “I take it you have a question for me, Jean Claude?” he asked suggestively.

  Jean Claude blushed, but, getting an approving nod from Beauchamp, plunged ahead. “Yes. It’s about the wolf. The first dog, you said, but it isn’t a dog, not really,” Jean Claude stated awkwardly.

  “You saw the collar,” Beauchamp chided gently. “What is the conclusion you draw from that?”

  Jean Claude seemed ready to apologize.

  “No no no, let the young man speak, Bernard. Please. Yes, Jean Claude, as you say. A wolf. Un loup. Yet did you know that every dog alive today has a little wolf DNA? Not just huskies, who often look like wolves, but pugs, corgis, poodles? Chihuahuas—they sometimes act like they still are wolves, and they are fundamentally correct, down deep in the double helix.”

  They paused to watch the steward present the bottle, the cork, and go through the rest of the ritual. Morby played the part with serious concentration, but his performance did not seem to redeem his reputation.

  “Oui, yes, I understand this, Professor Morby, but that happened over thousands of years. What you propose is that one day,” Jean Claude snapped his fingers, “a wolf decides to obey man, becomes a dog. Like that.”

  Morby and Beauchamp exchanged glances. “Saltation,” Beauchamp offered with a sly grin.

  Morby smiled back. “Indeed. A man with the gloriously absurd name Étienne Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire penned the theory that a species might evolve in giant steps. You’ve read Saint-Hilaire, Jean Claude?”

  Jean Claude nodded to assert that he had. Morby could see in his eyes that he had not. But this wasn’t class and he wasn’t here to skewer the young man, so Morby spoke as if confirming something Jean Claude had said. “Exactly. From the Latin saltus, meaning ‘leap.’ Saltation. Darwin, of course, ultimately won out against this idea that perhaps a hippo might give birth to a modern day pig, and so on,” Morby continued. “We now know that evolution is an excruciatingly gradual process, n’est-ce pas? So consider this dog, who is, admittedly, nothing but a rather large wolf with a red collar. Could it be saltation at work? Saint-Hilaire’s last laugh? One day a wolf, the next day a dog? I think not. Even today, after thousands of years of encountering humans all over the planet, when we have literally killed off the hostile and aggressive ones, wolves do not easily become pets. They see us all the time, but there’s never been a documented case of a wolf running up to a human and requesting amnesty from the wild. No, adopting a wolf puppy requires a unique set of circumstances for it to grow into a family pet—often the adoption fails to blossom into anything beyond an uneasy acceptance. So something must have happened, some sort of acclimatization, socialization, for our wolf to wind up with the red collar. Evolution cannot be hurried, cannot be rushed.”

  “What? What could have happened?”

  “Well, Jean Claude. I have pondered that for a long time.” Morby reached for the wine bottle, oblivious to the spasm of distaste on the sommelier’s face, who hurried over and wrestled the thing away before Morby could commit the gauche act of pouring his own refill. Morby surrendered with a bemused smile. “How did it happen,” Morby said softly. He held his glass up to the candle, watching a dancing ruby flare across the bowl. “I try to imagine humans and wolves out on the steppes, competing for the same food, the wolves only discouraged from hunting us by our spears—and if there were enough wolves, or if they were hungry enough, I don’t think spears would do the job. It’s hard to imagine a friendship developing—why would either species be interested? There would be no immediate benefit evident to either one. Food was scarce, would a human really feed a random passing wolf? Were we handing out meals to bears, lions, foxes? How long would we do such a thing before we, ourselves, were eaten?” Morby took a sip of wine. “Part of me thinks it was a sort of saltation, that at least in evolutionary terms, it happened in the blink of an eye. I can’t imagine any other way. But honestly? I have no idea. No idea at all.”

  BOOK

  TWO

  THIRTY-ONE

  Year Seven

  The day after the naming, the women’s council came together slowly
after the first meal, the women drifting in reluctantly. This might be necessary, but it would not be pleasant. They sat and spoke in uncharacteristically quiet tones. Albi’s naming of Mal Crus was forcing them to face an issue they would have ultimately preferred not to address.

  This is the reason, Albi thought with satisfaction as she glanced from one grim expression to another, that there is a council mother. The women of the Kindred required a strong leader, a stone point at the tip of their spear when they needed it. Was it not true that nearly every important decision was made by the council mother and endorsed by the women, and not the other way around? They dithered. They could talk a subject to death. They hated finality.

  Albi had been wrong about the cripple. Some, perhaps even most, of the Kindred viewed the little boy with repugnance, but others seemed charmed by his cheerful personality. Instead of a mounting disgust, there was a steadily building approval, and Albi’s vitriol against the curse was, with each passing day, less effective.

  But she had certainly changed everything, had she not? After this day, Albi knew, there would never again be a challenge to her authority.

  He Who Brings a Curse upon the Kindred with His Leg and Must Be Put to Death for the Good of All of Us. Not much anyone could do, not with a formal name like that laid upon the child. Albi doubted there would even be a debate.

  She was strong enough to do it herself, she knew. She would only ask that Calli be restrained. The women might lack the nerve to drag the boy down to the stream, beat him with a rock, and hold his face under water, but they would cling to Calli and suppress her screams long enough for Albi to get the job done.

  Everyone was here except Calli—perhaps she lacked the nerve, or maybe she and the boy were running, which was even better. Let them be found by the Valley Cohort—Albi would argue that they had been taken by the dark spirits once the curse had been chased out into the open.