After sitting awhile to regain some strength—his right front leg elevated to ease the pain—Nashoba lifted his head, filled his lungs with air, closed his eyes, pointed his muzzle up, and made an O of his mouth. Then he howled a long deep wavering wail that lasted a good ten seconds. It rose and fell like a wave rolling across the sea. He was telling his pack of his return.
After a brief pause, Nashoba repeated the call once and once again. Before he was done, there were answering calls, five distinctive howls, each one in harmony with his voice.
His mate, Tonagan, had a higher-pitched call, full of excitement. Then came Garby’s, loud and full of bluster. Nikito sang out too, tentative at first, then stronger as the young wolf asserted himself. Pildown added his voice—sweet and melodic. Finally Debalt, lowest in pack ranking—his short, almost barking howls sounded as if he were knocking on a door, asking to be let inside.
The soft-eared pups were too young to howl, but Nashoba had no doubt they heard his howls and were letting loose with excited squeaks and whines.
He gave a growl of satisfaction and resumed running faster now that he was close to home, paying no attention to his aching foot.
18
Casey’s school day was over at three. The students at the school—there were only eighty-seven—either walked, were picked up in cars, or were taken home by school bus. But the bus did not go as far north as Casey’s house. Instead Casey walked the short distance to the Clarksville General Store, where his mom worked.
The store was a long one-story wooden building with a central doorway. Two handwritten signs could be seen in a window. One read OPEN, the other, HUNTERS WELCOME HERE.
At one end of the building, groceries, meat, and vegetables were sold. An ice-cream counter did well during the summer tourist months. At the opposite end was a liquor store. Between this and the general store was the Clarksville Post Office.
Though the post office was only a small room plus an adjacent hall, it served all North Rickles County. Since there was no delivery north of the post office, people came in for mail, news, and talk.
Next to the post office, which consisted of a large open counter, a cluttered workplace with desk, scales, postal sack racks, cash drawer, and safe, plus stamp drawers, was a wall of postal boxes. You opened your small box door with a brass key. There were also a few tables and chairs, plus a couple of shelves where you could exchange books, mostly paperbacks. Another wall was covered with local notices. There was a sign that read, CLARKSVILLE POST OFFICE—ESTABLISHED 1923.
“Hi, Mom!” Casey called as he approached.
His mother looked up from her desk and smiled. “How’s my teenager?” She was wearing her blue post office shirt, on which she had embroidered Postmaster—Clarksville in red over her heart.
“I’m good.”
“Go find yourself a snack. I know it’s your birthday, but you might as well get some homework done. You’ve got a busy weekend,” she added with another smile.
Casey replied with his own knowing grin.
19
When Nashoba reached the den, the wolves came forward to greet him in ranking order: Tonagan, Garby, Nikito, Pildown, and finally Debalt. They approached with tails respectfully low, then pushed their bodies against him with head and muzzle rubbing, as well as licking. While Garby avoided looking at Nashoba directly, Pildown dropped to the ground and whimpered. Debalt, as always, hung back, unsure he would be welcomed.
The two pups burst from the den. They yipped and yapped as they tumbled clumsily toward their father, tails wagging furiously. Though utterly disrespectful, Nashoba met their welcome with pleasure and no discipline, nuzzled them repeatedly, licked their faces, and nipped their soft ears. They responded by mouthing his jaw—again begging for meat—then plopped down, rolled on their backs, paws up, bellies exposed, all the while squealing with joy.
Tonagan looked on with satisfaction.
The wolves waited expectantly. Nashoba, wanting them to wait on him, took so much time that an impatient Garby burst out, “Well! Did you find anything?”
Nashoba looked at him disdainfully. “Of course,” he said.
“Where? What?” asked Nikito with his usual enthusiasm.
Nashoba said, “A small herd of elk.”
“How many?” demanded Garby.
“How far?” Nikito asked.
Nashoba chose to answer Nikito’s question. “Down-valley. About eight miles.”
“Eight?” said Tonagan.
“It will be dark before we reach them,” said Garby.
“The moon will be good enough,” Nashoba replied.
“If the weather holds,” said Garby.
Nashoba ignored the challenge in the young wolf’s remarks. “We’ll go now. Debalt, you stay with the pups.”
Proud to be given an important task, but disappointed not to be included in the hunt, Debalt lowered his head in obedience.
“Garby!” Nashoba commanded.
Garby approached cautiously.
Nashoba lifted his left paw and, in a sign of his authority, touched Garby’s back. “Follow my lead,” the old wolf said.
The young wolf kept his head down but made no response.
Nashoba turned and, despite his fatigue, began to run back the way he had come. Tonagan, as female leader, followed right behind. Garby came next. When the ever-eager Nikito drew too close to him, Garby looked back, showed his teeth, and snarled. Nikito fell back a step.
Hungry and excited, the pack ran in a line. Nashoba had to work hard to keep the lead.
20
Casey dumped his backpack on a chair and went to get a carton of milk from the fridge, as well as a package of small, chocolate-covered doughnuts from the grocery.
“Happy birthday, Case,” called Mr. Pardella, the tall, skinny man with chin whiskers who tended the store’s old-fashioned mechanical register. Everybody knew everybody in Clarksville.
“Thanks.”
“Teenager, huh?”
“Guess.”
“Here comes trouble!”
Casey laughed and returned to the table. When he got there, a man was standing at the post office counter talking to his mother while he mailed a small package. Casey recognized the man as Mr. Souza, an old white-haired guy who had come to retire in the valley from some East Coast city. Casey did not know much about him, except that he was a “birder,” someone who roamed the area looking for birds, taking pictures of them with a huge-lensed camera.
Once, Mr. Souza had come by their house asking permission to cross their land and go into the woods to look for birds. Since receiving an okay, he had often entered the forest from their place.
Casey was opening the doughnut package when he heard his mother say, “It can’t be a wolf, Kim. Must have been a large dog.”
Casey looked up.
“That’s what I thought at first,” said Mr. Souza. “But the paw prints were really big. I should have taken a picture. Back beyond your place, a half mile or so. Couple of weeks ago. I could have sworn they were wolf prints.”
“I doubt it,” Bess said. “Trust me, folks don’t like wolves. Scared of them. If there was one that close, people would talk. Or worse.”
“Well, I’m no expert, that’s for sure,” Mr. Souza said. “Did see lots of Cassin’s finches back there. Grosbeaks, too. Pretty birds. Oh yes, and some ravens.”
Casey’s mother told him the cost of his postage. “With priority mail,” she said, “it should get to Boston in two, three days, latest.”
“Thanks much,” said Mr. Souza. As he passed Casey, he asked, “How’s it going, Case?” but he did not stop.
“Fine.”
Casey wanted to ask him about the paw prints. By the time he got up his nerve to do it and hurried out of the store, Mr. Souza was in his pickup truck and pulling out of the parking lot.
But it had begun to snow.
Casey did not care. Spring snow never lasted long. It might even turn to rain. All he could think was that wol
ves often appeared in his hunting game. It would be cool to see a real one.
21
Snow was falling by the time the wolves came near the clearing. Nashoba, working against his exhaustion, was happy to halt.
“Wait here,” he said. The four other wolves held back while Nashoba crept forward. Shivering, he stood behind a bush and peered out. His paw ached. His heart was beating so loudly, he wondered if the other wolves could hear it.
Ears cocked, eyes wide, nose sniffing, Nashoba studied the open area. The clammy air smelled of hard cold. Tiny snowflakes drifted down slowly, as if reluctant to drop. The ground was already layered with a thin veil of snow, which, in the fading dusk, seemed to glow. All was silent. There was no sign of the raven, or of elk.
Nashoba stole a quick look behind. The other wolves were watching him carefully. Tonagan’s eyes were worried. Garby’s were sullen. Nikito and Pildown stood patiently a few steps to the rear, their breath puffy and white.
Nashoba looked up. He could see no stars.
The old wolf turned back to the clearing, trying to decide what to do. Where is that stupid raven? Should I wait for her? Should I try to find the elk on my own? They could be miles away by now, and this snow will make hunting much harder.
22
“I was hoping we were done with snow,” Casey’s mom said as she headed north and home not long after five. She drove slowly, hands gripping the wheel. “Shouldn’t have taken off the snow tires.”
“Probably turn to rain,” said Casey, barely looking up from his archery book. On his head he wore the camping head lamp he’d retrieved from the glove compartment. The lamp cast a circle of light on the page so he could read.
“How about calling your dad to see if it’s snowing where he is?” his mom said. “We’re still in cell-phone range.” She took one hand off the steering wheel, quickly grabbed her purse from below, and flipped it toward Casey.
Casey rummaged through the purse, pulled out his mom’s cell phone, and brought up his father’s name. The phone rang ten times.
Finally his father’s voice: “Hey there, teenager!”
Beaming, Casey said, “Hi. Where are you?”
“Still in Philbeck. More complicated than I thought. Just finishing up.”
“Guess what?”
“What?”
“It’s snowing.”
“You’re kidding! Raining here.”
Casey turned toward his mom. “He’s just finishing. No snow. Just rain.”
She said, “Ask him when he’ll be home.”
“Mom wants to know—”
“You’re breaking up!”
“When will you be home?” Casey said in a louder voice.
“Can’t h—” The phone went dead.
“We’re out of range.” Casey put the phone back into his mom’s purse.
“I do wish they’d put a cell tower up here. Be so much easier if we had service.” She put on the car’s headlights.
“I guess,” said Casey, returning to his book.
His mom drove on, concentrating on the road. The wipers swished back and forth in a rhythmic beat. Casey glanced up. The driving snow looked like arrows coming right at them.
23
Nashoba took another quick glance back at his wolves. It was a mistake. He was sure they sensed his uncertainty. Mockery showed on Garby’s face. Tonagan shifted uneasily.
“Caw!”
Coming from right overhead, the sound took Nashoba by surprise. Merla was perched on a tree branch, her blackness a hole in the falling snow, her beady eyes bright. Whether she had just landed—or had been there all along, watching him—Nashoba did not know.
“You are slow,” said the bird.
“We’re here, aren’t we?” Nashoba snarled.
The raven cocked her head to one side. “I’ve decided you’re actually twelve years old.”
Nashoba felt deep hatred for the bird. How dare she talk to him this way? In front of the pack! Had they heard? It took all his willpower to stay. “Where are the elk?” he demanded.
Merla leaned forward, opened her beak, and stuck out her black tongue: a silent laugh.
“Tell me!” cried Nashoba.
“Are you truly ready?” the bird asked.
“I’ve a good mind to eat you,” hissed the wolf.
“Feathers and all?”
“Even your bill.”
“Thanks! I’ll remember that. But are you ready, wolf?”
“Of course!” he cried, not daring to look back to see what the pack was making of this exchange.
“A quarter mile on, now,” said the raven. “It should be quite easy for you all. If you do it right.”
To Nashoba, the way she said “if” felt like a jab of her beak. “Just lead the way!” the wolf said with exasperation.
Merla fluffed her neck feathers, extended her wings, gave a Caw!, and leaped into the air.
Nashoba looked back. “Follow me!” he said to the wolves.
“As you follow a bird,” Garby sneered.
Nashoba, pretending he had not heard, hurried after the raven. The other wolves fell in line, gray shadows in the milky white air.
24
It was almost six and rapidly growing dark when Casey and his mother drove up their dirt driveway. The still-falling snow was two inches deep on their road. The SUV had no trouble getting through, though it lurched once to the right. Casey’s mom, muttering, “Have to fill in that rut,” made an instant adjustment. They were never in danger.
When they reached the house, she turned the car around. Casey jumped out and yanked up the garage door. A light went on automatically. A neat garage, its walls were hung with the family’s skis, ski and fishing poles, snowshoes, a toboggan, and even a plow that could be mounted on the SUV. At the far end was a gun locker with two padlocks.
Casey’s mom backed the SUV into the garage so the front end was pointing toward the road—a winter practice.
“I don’t mind winter snow,” Bess said, getting out of the car as Casey pulled down the door. “Expect it. But spring snow—that’s Old Lady Nature making fun of us.” She headed for the front door of the house.
“Spring snow is stupid,” Casey agreed. He stopped to scoop up a snowball, and threw it at his mother’s back, hitting her squarely.
“Thanks!” She laughed. “Hope your dad doesn’t have any trouble. I forget: Did he take off his snow tires?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Good.”
Once inside, Casey dropped his backpack in the mudroom. As his mother adjusted the house heat, she said, “I’ll get dinner going.”
“What are we having?”
“Your fave: roast chicken, fried potatoes, grilled carrots, and raspberry jam cake with vanilla icing. Thirteen candles,” she added. “Plus one to grow on.”
Casey made a thumbs-up sign then headed for his room and his computer game. In moments the arrow was aimed at the jungle, and he was waiting for animals to appear, ready to shoot them. He remembered the words in the archery book: an arrow can be lethal when shot from a bow.
I’m good, Casey told himself. So good.
25
Merla fluttered ahead, black wings flapping as she sprang—barely flying—from tree to tree. The light was growing dimmer, the snow still falling, but Nashoba never lost sight of her.
He noticed that seven other ravens were coming along, keeping to either side, like escorts. No squawks or calls, just the soft flutter of their wings. The pack wolves, equally hushed, stayed a few steps behind Nashoba.
The old wolf halted. From directly ahead, the musty smell of elk had reached him. The other wolves had also caught the scent. They stood by Nashoba’s flanks, their breathing rapid with excitement, their whimpering sharp with hunger.
Merla landed on a branch directly in front of Nashoba. “Now do you smell them?” she asked, her voice low, full of scorn.
“Of course,” Nashoba muttered.
“I’ve kept my part of t
he bargain,” said the bird. “Now you need to keep yours. Make sure you leave enough for us.”
Before Nashoba could reply, the raven flew up and disappeared. With a whisper of wings, the other ravens followed. The wolf wondered if they would stay near to watch the attack.
He looked around at his wolves. “Wait here,” he said. “I need to see the elk.”
“You didn’t investigate them before, did you?” said Garby. “You’re just taking orders from a bird.”
Nashoba, ignoring the remark, trotted forward a few yards. Between the spot where he now stood and where the elk were was a thicket of oak brush and mountain shrub. There were aspen trees too, their slender trunks little more than rods of white in the clotted gloom. The air was streaked with bits of silent, sifting snow.
The old wolf listened intently. Now and again, the elk mewed, squealed, or made muted grunts and soft barks. Nashoba had no doubt they were grazing.
Knowing that elk had a keen sense of smell, he lifted his nose to get the direction of the wind. There was no movement. That was good. With luck, the elk would not smell them.
Lowering his body into a crouch, Nashoba inched forward.
The thicket was some twenty feet deep. Ground snow was sparse. Beneath the snow lay a thick brown matting of last fall’s dead leaves, allowing Nashoba to step forward without a sound.
As he worked his careful way, he stepped on a small branch. It snapped. The old wolf froze, fearful that the elk had heard. When there was no reaction, he continued to creep forward.
Nearing the far side of the grove, he moved still slower and then stopped altogether. Only then did Nashoba realize that he had hunted this spot recently, but without success. This was where he had seen that white-haired human.